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“Comfy…” Taesan murmured, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim yellow light of Leehan’s room. It wasn’t his childhood bedroom, but it felt like one—soft around the edges, quiet in a familiar sort of way. Like a space someone ran back to only when the world felt too loud.
The room was simple to the point of being bare. Not minimalist by choice, just untouched. A place that existed in pauses rather than in a life lived fully inside it. It made sense the more Taesan thought about it. Leehan was never really home—holidays were spent staying over in cousins houses, birthdays passed in dorms, summers in rooms that always felt empty. And when he did return, it was usually a day before he left again. No time to decorate. No time to claim the room as something that belonged to him.
It was strange to be brought here, to be shown this side of Leehan that nobody else ever seemed to see. He felt like he was stepping into a chapter no one had opened in years.
“Yeah, I guess. Never really had… time for this room, you know?” Leehan said as he set his bags down. His voice softened, almost shy, like he was admitting something he rarely let out. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking over the shelves, the desk, the untouched posters rolled up in the corner—things he bought with the intention to hang but never did.
Taesan’s eyes landed on the aquarium. “No way. You have an aquarium here?” he asked, pointing at the tank nestled by the window. The soft hum of the filter filled the silence, a small, constant breath in the otherwise still room.
Leehan lit up—just barely, but it was enough. A tiny smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, warm enough to thaw something tight in Taesan’s chest.
“Yeah, I do… I ask Mingyu-hyung to feed them and clean the tank when I’m not here,” he exhaled, stepping closer to the glass. He tapped it gently, the fish scattering then returning as if drawn to him. “My parents never really let me have one in my real childhood home…”
His voice trailed off. Soft. A little fragile.
Taesan watched him—really watched him. The way Leehan’s shoulders relaxed for once, how he allowed himself to say things he’d normally swallow. This wasn’t the Leehan who laughed too loudly in the dorms or nagged him over unwashed dishes. This was the version of him that existed quietly, away from everyone’s expectations. Someone who still longed for things he never got to have. Someone who carried childhood disappointments in silence.
Taesan took a breath, letting the warmth of the room settle onto his skin. He felt honored, somehow. Like being here meant something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to name.
“I didn’t know you liked fish that much,” he said, softer now.
Leehan shrugged, almost embarrassed. “I like things that don’t leave.”
The words slipped out—gentle, honest, unguarded, and they hung in the air between them like something too delicate to touch, too revealing to point out.
Taesan didn’t comment. He just nodded, a small, understanding hum leaving his throat, like he was saying me too without needing to speak.
Then a knock followed by a muffled voice—probably Mingyu’s, “Lights off in a few, buddy and… buddy’s roommate?”
Then a soft thwack echoed through the door, followed by Mingyu’s dramatic yelp—“Ow— don’t smack me!”
Leehan let out the kind of laugh that sounded like he was trying not to make it obvious he was laughing at his own hyungs. “That’s Minghao-hyung,” he whispered, shaking his head as if this was something that happened weekly.
Taesan couldn’t help but smile, small, barely there, but real. There was something strangely comforting about the noise—the muffled banter, the familiar domesticity, the feeling of being included in something warm and lived-in. Like a house that had its own heartbeat.
Leehan walked over to the door and yelled back, “Okay, hyung! We’ll sleep soon!”
Mingyu immediately replied, “You always say that—” followed by another smack and an annoyed “Ah— Okay, now that hurt!” that sounded more like a pout than actual protest.
Their footsteps faded away down the hall, still bickering like a couple who forgot they weren’t alone in someone else’s house.
Leehan just sighed in that fond, exhausted way people reserve for family they love too much to stay irritated at. The room settled into a quiet hum after that—not silence, but something softer. The sound of the aquarium filter. The creak of the old floor under their socks. The thick hush of a winter night settling around a room that wasn’t his, but didn’t feel unwelcoming.
“Your cousins are… something,” Taesan said, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.
“They’re idiots,” Leehan replied, sitting beside him.
It felt easy, somehow—the warmth of the lamp between them, the faint blue glow of the fish tank reflecting on the walls. Taesan noticed his shoulders loosening without his permission, as though some invisible weight he carried into the room decided it was safe to slip off for a moment.
He looked at the aquarium again, watching the fish move slow and careless, like the world wasn’t heavy at all. “You really wanted one as a kid?” Taesan asked quietly, his voice fading at the end.
Leehan shrugged, but his eyes softened. “Yeah. I used to beg for one every Christmas. I’d leave brochures on the fridge door.” A small laugh. “My parents said I wouldn’t take care of it. Joke’s on them, though. This thing has lived longer than half my plants.”
Taesan huffed out a laugh. It felt good. It felt unfamiliar. “That’s kind of sad,” he said, but there was no sharpness in it. Just honesty.
“Yeah,” Leehan admitted, “but I guess I learned to make my own… little spaces. Even if they’re temporary.”
Taesan understood that too well—the ache of temporary spaces. The feeling of being a visitor in the story you’re supposed to belong to. He looked around the room again, the unpacked bags, the messy desk, the posters that looked like they were placed there because the walls needed something, not because someone wanted them there. The aquarium glowing like a heartbeat in the corner. “You let me into this space,” Taesan said quietly, “even if it’s temporary.”
Leehan turned to him, eyebrows raised just a little, the realization landing slowly. “Yeah,” he said, softer this time, “I did.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t heavy—it was held, like something fragile placed in two hands.
“Hold on.” Leehan said suddenly, walking toward the wall with the kind of tired resignation that only someone who’s spent every Christmas dealing with Kim Mingyu and Xu Minghao could ever understand.
He pressed his palm flat against the wallpapered surface, faux brick, peeling at the corners, then knocked once, twice, sharp and warning. “Don’t listen to our conversation.”
A beat.
Then Mingyu’s voice came through, muffled but obnoxiously bright, “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Taesan raised an eyebrow, trying not to smile.
Just when the silence returned, Minghao called out sweetly, “Go to sleep, Donghyun-ah!”
Leehan pinched the bridge of his nose like he suddenly aged ten years. “They always think affectionate nicknames solve everything,” he muttered, turning around and trudging back to where Taesan sat on the edge of the spare bed.
“Do you see what I deal with every Christmas?” he whispered, leaning in as though confessing a crime, his breath still uneven from mild humiliation. There was something earnest, soft in his laugh—a fondness buried under layers of annual suffering.
Taesan let the laugh slip from him before he could stop it. It felt warm, unfamiliar, like a blanket being placed over shoulders he didn’t know were cold. “You like it,” he teased, eyes flicking toward the wall where Mingyu and Minghao were probably trying—and failing—not to press their ears against it.
“I tolerate it,” Leehan corrected dramatically, throwing himself onto his bed. “There’s a difference.”
Taesan watched him, the way his limbs sprawled in all directions, the way he breathed like he was finally home. It was strange—Taesan didn’t even belong to this house, didn’t know half the memories seeping into the walls, yet something about being here felt… less lonely.
Maybe it was because Leehan wasn’t pretending with him. Maybe it was because the cousins on the other side of the wall weren’t pretending either. Maybe it was because of the laughter, the teasing, the chaos—it was all so alive that he couldn’t help feeling swept into it, like a guest walking into a movie he’d watched from a distance but never starred in.
Leehan adjusted the blankets on Taesan’s bed, almost absentmindedly—like he was used to taking care of people without realizing he was doing it. “Sorry,” he said quietly after a moment, “if this is a lot. My family… we’re not subtle. Or calm. Or normal.”
Taesan shook his head. “It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” A pause, softer this time. “It’s… nice.”
Leehan stopped moving. Really stopped—like the word had caught him off guard. “Nice?” he repeated, stunned.
Taesan gave a small nod, glancing around the room again—the unpainted walls, the aquarium humming in the corner, the cluttered desk, the warmth the space didn’t even try to hide. “Feels real,” he murmured, as if afraid the moment might shatter if he spoke too loudly. “Feels… lived in.”
Leehan’s mouth curved into the smallest, most disbelieving smile. Then, shyly, he scratched the back of his neck. “Well… then I guess that’s good.”
The beats between them softened. The house outside quieted—kitchen lights off, footsteps fading, someone turning off the TV down the hall. Mingyu and Minghao’s low bickering dissolved into whispers, then nothing at all.
Taesan sank a little further into the bed, letting the quiet settle over him without crushing him. For once, emptiness didn’t feel like a void. Not here. Not next to someone who kept letting him in.
Leehan slid under his own blanket, facing Taesan across the small space that separated their beds. “If they knock again,” he whispered, “we’re pretending to be asleep.”
“Even if they ask something important?”
“They won’t,” Leehan deadpanned. “They’ll ask stupid things like, ‘Do you think the fish are cold?’”
Taesan huffed a laugh, the sound dissolving into something soft and honest. Something grateful.
Night settled into the room like a blanket someone forgot to shake out—heavy in the corners, soft around the edges. Taesan sat at the foot of the bed, scrolling through his phone one last time, brightness dimmed, thumb moving on autopilot. Leehan was somewhere near the dresser, brushing his teeth with the bathroom door half open, humming something off-key that was definitely not the song playing earlier. It was domestic in a way that neither of them acknowledged yet—too natural for two people who weren’t sure what category they were supposed to fall into. The overhead light was off. Only the small lamp on the nightstand glowed, warm and soft, painting everything in colors that made the room feel safer than it had any right to be. Their bags were already shoved somewhere near the door, thick sweaters threatened to spill out, the smell of fabric softener still clinging to them.
When Leehan finally climbed into bed, the mattress dipped on Taesan’s side, a small shift that somehow made the room feel even quieter. They weren’t touching, but they were close enough that the warmth moved between them like a shared secret. Taesan put his phone down, face-first, then exhaled, long and careful.
Taesan lay on his back, and Leehan lay on his side facing him, though he pretended not to. He kept fixing the blanket, smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t matter, clearing his throat at nothing. Taesan caught the movement from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t say anything.
It was Leehan who broke first. “Hey…” he whispered, voice softer than before, hesitant in a way he rarely ever was.
Taesan turned his head slightly, brows raised just a little. “What?”
Leehan blinked slowly, like he was trying to decide what version of himself he wanted to present. The casual friend? The teasing roommate? The boy who looked at Taesan just a little too long sometimes?
He settled for something in between. “Can I ask something weird?”
Taesan’s chest tightened for reasons he couldn’t name. “Go ahead.”
Leehan swallowed, sitting up a little, propping himself against the headboard as if the question needed support. “Tell me more about Han Dongmin,” he said, voice quieter now, steadier. “Not Taesan.”
Taesan blinked. Once. Twice. “You mean… me?” he asked, the words coming out with a half-laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “My high school persona before you renamed me?”
Leehan nodded, eyes soft. “Yeah. That one.” He said it like a request. Like something holy he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. The room felt even smaller, warmer, like the question itself had drawn the distance between them closer.
Taesan looked at the ceiling, feeling the shape of the name Dongmin settle over him like a memory he wasn’t sure he wanted to revisit—yet he didn’t hate that Leehan wanted to know. In the dark, with only the soft hum of the aquarium filter, the name felt heavier, fuller, like it hadn’t been spoken in years. Maybe it hadn’t—not in a room where someone genuinely wanted to listen.
“Okay… what do you want to know?”
“Everything.” Leehan said, quiet but certain, the kind of certainty that made Taesan’s chest tighten.
“Everything?” Taesan asked, tone soft, fragile.
“Yeah.” Leehan nodded, the light from the hallway barely reaching the bed, shaping only the silhouette of him—knees slightly drawn, arms over the blanket, face turned toward Taesan like nothing else mattered.
Taesan swallowed, feeling the lump climb. The blanket suddenly felt too warm, the air too thin. “Well… Dongmin…” his voice wavered a bit, “he’s not everyone’s favorite, you know?”
Leehan stayed still, listening—not interrupting, not urging, just quietly present. It made Taesan’s heart ache.
“He’s not really… a people person,” Taesan continued, eyes tracing the shadows dancing on the ceiling. “People looked down on him. People thought he was some loser and—well, you know the part where he got adopted by two friends—Jaehyun and Sungho—but… otherwise…” he exhaled, “they were all he had.”
The words hung there, heavy in the dim light.
“They weren’t just friends,” Taesan added after a moment, voice softer than before. “They… made him feel like he wasn’t invisible. Like he wasn’t some ghost sitting in the back of a classroom. They didn’t treat him like… like he was breakable.”
His fingers pressed into the sheets, grounding himself. “But Dongmin… he wasn’t easy to take care of.” A humorless laugh slipped through his teeth. “He shut people out. He was angry all the time but didn’t know who to blame—himself, the world, everything in between. You know when someone’s trying so hard to be okay that it just makes things worse? That was him. Always pretending. Always… trying.”
Leehan’s hand shifted slightly on the blanket—not touching Taesan, but near enough that Taesan could feel the warmth of another person. That silent proximity made something in his chest loosen.
“People liked to assume things about him,” Taesan continued, quieter now. “That he was too cold. Too quiet. Too weird. But… he was just tired. So fucking tired.” He swallowed again, the memory scraping. “And no one even tried to understand him except those two.”
Taesan finally turned his head to look at Leehan, eyes adjusting in the dark. “So yeah… Dongmin wasn’t everyone’s favorite. But he tried. God, he tried so hard to be someone worth keeping.”
The room felt smaller then—like the weight of the truth was closing in around them, soft and suffocating.
Leehan breathed out slowly, eyes gentle. “And Taesan?” he asked softly, almost whispering. “Is he easier on himself than Dongmin was?”
Taesan blinked, something like a bitter smile appearing, fading just as quickly. “No,” Taesan said honestly, the word landing soft but definitive in the dark. “Not really.”
He exhaled, slow, like something inside him was settling into place and hurting at the same time. The room felt impossibly still—Leehan beside him, lying on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other close enough to Taesan’s that they could touch if either of them moved even an inch. The aquarium hummed quietly, little bubbles breaking the silence every few seconds. It didn’t help. If anything, it made the stillness feel louder.
“But I think…” Taesan murmured, eyes drifting up again to the ceiling, “…Taesan’s learning.” His voice wavered just a little, enough for Leehan to hear but not enough to embarrass himself. He lets out a deep breath, chest rising and falling with something he couldn’t quite name. “He’s still grieving, trying to get in touch with his emotions more, trying to get out of therapy too, probably.” He huffed a small laugh at himself, the kind that barely counted as humor.
Leehan let out something close to a laugh—except it wasn’t, not really. It sounded too fragile, too careful, like he was trying to keep the moment from cracking open. But he didn’t interrupt him. He didn’t breathe too loudly. He just listened. And Taesan—Taesan rarely talked like this, rarely opened his chest and handed someone the pieces. So when the words came, Leehan treated them like something sacred.
“But importantly,” Taesan continued, voice lowering, softening, “I think he’s trying to live in the moment more.”
For a second, the quiet settled again. Not uncomfortable this time—just heavy, honest, shared. He shifted a little, the mattress dipping beneath him, and when he turned his head, he found Leehan already looking at him—not with pity, not with curiosity, but with something steady and warm, something that felt like the first light after too many months of winter.
“Then,” Leehan whispered, almost afraid to break whatever this was, “I’m glad I get to meet both of you. Dongmin… and Taesan.”
Taesan swallowed, throat tight. “Yeah,” he breathed out, softer than a confession, “me too.”
The moment shattered like thin glass—Mingyu’s screech cutting straight through the softness that had settled over the room.
Taesan blinked up at the ceiling, the words he’d just spoken still echoing faintly between them, delicate and raw.
“Ow— stop hitting me!” Mingyu yelped, loud enough to rattle the thin Christmas lights taped to Leehan’s wall.
“Then stop being annoying!” Minghao barked back, exasperated but fond, the tone of a man who had reached his limit twenty minutes ago. A thud. Then another. Then the sound of Mingyu whining dramatically, something about self-defense and boundaries, followed by Minghao telling him that if he didn’t shut up, he’d sleep on the floor.
Taesan let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Not quite a laugh—just air, pushed out as if the universe refused to let him sink too far into the sincerity of a moment.
Leehan groaned, dragging a hand over his face, “I swear, every year.”
Taesan turned to look at him, hair falling slightly over his forehead, the remnants of vulnerability still lingering in his eyes. “Are they always like this?”
“Always,” Leehan nodded, defeated. “They flirt, then fight, then flirt, then fight… and then complain that we’re the exhausting ones.”
Another muffled argument echoed through the wall—Mingyu insisting he did not scream like that, followed by Minghao telling him to shut up before he wakes the whole house. A pillow slammed into something, or someone.
Leehan sighed toward the ceiling like a man begging for patience. But then he looked back at Taesan—really looked—and suddenly the noise outside the room didn’t matter. The chaos was background static; the real moment was here, between them, between the sheets still warm from shared quiet.
A final thump echoed from the other room—Mingyu yelling, “Stop hitting me, I’m delicate!”—and Minghao replying, “You’re six-foot, you’ll be fine.”
Leehan snorted, burying his face briefly into his pillow before lifting it again, smiling in resignation. “Sorry they ruined the mood.”
“They didn’t,” Taesan said quietly, eyes steady on him. “If anything… it makes it feel more real.”
For a moment—just a moment—the noisy world outside their door softened into something warm, something living, something that made Taesan feel like maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was.
“Hey, Taesan?” His voice was soft—so soft it barely crossed the space between their beds, but it was enough to pull Taesan’s gaze away from the ceiling and toward the vague shape of Leehan in the half-dark. They weren’t touching, but it felt like they were sharing something heavier than the blankets drawn up to their chests. Something unspoken, warm, almost fragile.
“Yeah?” Taesan answered, barely above a whisper.
Leehan shifted, turning on his side to face him, the dim light from the hallway cutting a faint gold line across his cheek. He looked strangely young like that—hopeful, almost reverent. “Thank you for trusting me.”
The words hung there, simple and devastating. Taesan didn’t say anything. He just laid there, hands folded over his chest, as if steadying himself. His heart felt like it was being held too tightly by something he couldn’t name. Trust wasn’t something he gave easily; it was something he lost too often, something he learned to keep behind ribs like locked drawers.
“…It’s not easy,” Taesan admitted after a long breath, voice low, almost ashamed. “You know that, right?”
“I know.” Leehan nodded, so quick and gentle it felt like he’d been waiting for the chance to say it. “That’s why I’m thanking you.”
Taesan swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud silence could be. How it amplified every thought he didn’t want to hear. How it felt different now—not empty, not suffocating, but full. Full of the warmth coming from the boy who chose to stay, who kept choosing him, even without knowing all the broken parts.
“It’s weird,” Taesan murmured, staring at the ceiling again because looking at Leehan made something inside him shake. “You ask me things no one asks. You listen to things no one listens to. And I don’t feel… weird about it.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Leehan’s voice was steady, but there was something hopeful underneath, something he didn’t want to push too far.
“Yeah,” Taesan breathed, “it is.”
A beat. The kind that felt like a heartbeat between two people, syncing for a second before pulling apart again.
Leehan shifted a little closer—not enough to touch, not enough to make anything obvious, but enough for Taesan to feel the presence, the warmth, the intent.
“You don’t owe me everything at once,” Leehan said softly. “I’m just… here. Even if it takes months. Even if it takes years.”
Taesan’s chest tightened, but not in the devastating way. It was more like something unfolding. Something thawing.
“You make it sound easy,” he whispered.
Leehan smiled, even if Taesan couldn’t see it. “It’s not. But it’s worth it.”
Taesan let himself really breathe—slowly, deeply, as if something finally loosened its grip on him. “…Thank you,” he murmured, voice almost breaking on the edges from the weight of meaning behind it. “For staying. For… wanting to know me. Even the parts that aren’t easy.”
Leehan let out a gentle exhale, the kind that sounded like relief. “Dongmin or Taesan—it doesn’t matter. It’s still you. And I want to know all of it.”
Silence settled again, but this time it was soft. Warm. A blanket instead of a cage. Leehan reached over without thinking, the way he always did when the room felt too wide and the night felt too loud. His hand slid around Taesan’s waist—not possessive, not claiming, just familiar. Just the way they did it when the world needed to shrink a little so they could finally breathe inside it.
Taesan didn’t flinch; he never did with Leehan. Instead, he let the warmth settle at the curve of his waist, let himself melt into the quiet gravity between them. It wasn’t romantic, not exactly. It wasn’t platonic, either. It was whatever word fit the space after trust was handed over like a fragile thing.
The mattress shifted slightly beneath them as Leehan pulled him a little closer—not enough to startle, just enough to say I’m here without using words. The lamp on the bedside table hummed softly, throwing a muted gold across the room, catching the corners of their faces, the edges of their breaths.
Leehan rested his chin lightly on Taesan’s shoulder, the way he always did when he didn’t know how to put something into a sentence. Taesan stayed still, letting the silence breathe between them for a moment. His heart didn’t race, but it felt full—like someone had poured warm water into a cup that had been cold for too long.
“Goodnight, Taesan,” Leehan whispered.
Taesan stared at him for a second longer than necessary, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“Goodnight, Leehan.”