Archive of Our Own

“Okay everyone! Dino-ssi, can you do the slate for us?”

Jeonghan glanced up at the familiar voice and immediately found Chan among the scattered chaos of the set. The youngest was doubled over laughing, caught between Soonyoung and Seokmin as the three of them continued reliving whatever ridiculous joke had happened during the last game. Even from a distance, Chan's laughter carried across the campsite, bright and unrestrained in a way that made everyone around him smile despite themselves.

Before any of the staff could call for him again, Seungcheol appeared.

Seungcheol walked over with that look of exhausted authority he always wore whenever the members started acting up. The expression had become so familiar over the years that Jeonghan could recognize it from across a crowded room—a mixture of patience, resignation, and the quiet certainty that he would somehow end up dealing with whatever chaos had erupted.

He reached out and pinched Chan's side, earning an immediate, indignant yelp.

"Hyung!"

Chan jerked away as if he'd been grievously wounded, clutching his side while glaring dramatically. The performance lasted less than a second before he turned and sprinted off, laughing.

Seungcheol chased after him for all of three seconds.

"Yah, Lee Chan!"

His voice carried more exasperation than actual threat. By the time he stopped, Chan was already halfway across the yard, cackling as the others cheered him on. Seungcheol stood there for a moment, shaking his head.

The corners of his mouth twitched.

He tried to suppress it but obviously failed.

The smile slipped through anyway.

The sight should have felt ordinary.

It is ordinary.

Jeonghan had seen this exact scene play out in a hundred different ways over the years. Seungcheol pretending to discipline the younger members. The younger members pretending to fear him — well, they actually fear him.

The inevitable collapse of authority the second someone made a joke or pulled a face. It was one of those rhythms that had remained constant no matter how much everything else changed.

The years had passed. They had grown older. Responsibilities had multiplied, schedules had become heavier, and life had carried each of them through more highs and lows than any of them could have predicted when they were younger.

But moments like this stayed the same.

Seungcheol stayed the same.

Or at least, parts of him did.

The way his eyes crinkled when he was trying not to laugh. The way his shoulders relaxed whenever he forgot, even briefly, that he was supposed to be the responsible one. The fondness that slipped through every attempt at annoyance whenever he looked at the members.

Jeonghan knew all of it by heart.

Maybe that was why it hurt.

Because familiarity was supposed to make things easier. Repetition was supposed to dull the impact. After seeing someone every day for years, after sharing enough memories to fill several lifetimes, moments like these shouldn't have affected him anymore.

And yet they did.

Without warning, without permission, something in his chest tightened.

It was ridiculous, honestly.

One smile.

One fleeting expression.

One ordinary moment that would be forgotten by everyone else before the day was over.

But Jeonghan found himself watching anyway, his gaze lingering longer than it should have. He hated how instinctive it was. Hated how some part of him still tracked Seungcheol's movements before he even realized he was doing it.

After all these years, after everything that had changed between them and around them, Seungcheol could still undo him with something as simple as a smile.

And perhaps the worst part is that Jeonghan isn't sure he would ever learn how to stop letting him.

“You're staring hard again.”

Jeonghan almost flinched.

The words caught him off guard, pulling him out of his thoughts so abruptly that his grip tightened around the railing beside him. When he turned, he found Wonwoo standing there with the sort of expression that immediately told him he hadn't been nearly as subtle as he'd thought. A faint smile lingered at the corner of Wonwoo's mouth, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. In one hand were two cans of soda, and he extended one without comment.

Jeonghan accepted it automatically. The aluminum was cold against his palm, moisture gathering along the surface and dampening his fingers.

“Again?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

Wonwoo's smile widened slightly.

“Don't act like you don't know what I mean.”

There was no accusation in his voice. If anything, he sounded tired, as though they had both had variations of this conversation too many times before. The amusement faded after a moment, replaced by something softer.

“It's been years, Han.”

Jeonghan looked away before the words could linger.

His gaze drifted back toward the campsite, settling almost immediately on the source of the problem. Chan had finally given up resisting and was making his way back toward the filming area, shoulders slumped in exaggerated defeat. Seungcheol followed close behind, still talking to him. Whatever lecture he was attempting to deliver couldn't have been very effective; even from a distance, Jeonghan could see the smile threatening to break across his face.

The scene was so familiar that it felt like it belonged to another lifetime. He had watched countless versions of it over the years, from cramped practice rooms and backstage hallways to hotel lobbies and filming locations scattered across different countries. Seungcheol had always carried the same mixture of responsibility and affection whenever he dealt with the younger members. He complained, scolded, threatened consequences he rarely enforced, and then inevitably gave in the moment someone made him laugh.

Most people would have looked at the interaction and thought nothing of it.

Jeonghan wished he could do the same.

Instead, every small gesture seemed to lodge itself somewhere beneath his ribs. It wasn't even the important moments that got to him anymore. Those would have been easier to justify. What unsettled him were the ordinary things—the expressions he had seen a thousand times, the habits he could predict without thinking, the pieces of Seungcheol that had remained unchanged despite the passing years.

“Wons,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the distant figures, “it's better this way, okay?”

The words came out more gently than he intended.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Wonwoo leaned against the railing beside him and followed his line of sight. He didn't need to ask what Jeonghan meant. There were very few people left who understood him well enough to hear everything hidden inside a single sentence, and Wonwoo had always been one of them.

The silence stretched comfortably between them, but Jeonghan could feel the weight of it all the same. He knew what Wonwoo was thinking. More importantly, he knew that Wonwoo knew exactly why he kept looking away whenever conversations like this came up.

Eventually, Wonwoo let out a quiet sigh.

“Maybe it is,” he said. “But every time you say that, it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself.”

Jeonghan laughed softly, though there wasn't much humor in it.

“That's because you're reading too much into things.”

“Am I?”

The question was simple, but it landed harder than Jeonghan expected.

He didn't answer.

Across the campsite, Seungcheol threw an arm around Chan's shoulders and steered him toward the others despite the younger man's immediate protests. The resulting argument lasted all of three seconds before both of them started laughing.

Jeonghan felt his chest tighten.

The reaction was so familiar now that he barely acknowledged it. Some disappointments eventually became habits. Some feelings settled so deeply into a person that they stopped feeling sharp and instead became part of the landscape, always present even when ignored.

Maybe that was why he had learned to call it "better."

Not because it was easy. Not because it didn't hurt.

But because some things are easier to carry when nobody tried to change them.

The can remained unopened in Jeonghan's hand.

Condensation gathered along the aluminum, cool against his skin. He turned it slowly between his fingers, listening to the familiar chaos unfolding around him. The air was filled with overlapping voices, laughter, and the rustle of movement as everyone waited for the official end.

“Three, two, one—CUT! Thank you so much!”

The cheer that followed was immediate.

It erupted from every direction at once, loud enough to echo against the mountains surrounding them. Several members threw their arms into the air in celebration. Others groaned dramatically as if they had just survived some impossible hardship instead of a filming schedule.

Members stretched and complained dramatically about the cold. Staff members began moving equipment. Someone was already asking about dinner.

The final shoot is finally over.

The last night of filming for Nana Tour had officially wrapped.

Their first schedule as a complete group.

The thought should have made him happier than it did.

He had spent years waiting for this moment.

All of them had.

For years, complete had been a distant future they were all waiting for. One by one, the members had disappeared into military service until the group felt strangely hollow despite everyone's efforts to keep moving forward. There had always been someone missing. A voice absent from the practice room. An empty chair at dinner.

Sometimes it had been obvious.

Other times it had appeared in smaller ways.

A joke that didn't land quite the same without the person who usually finished it. A conversation interrupted by the sudden realization that someone wasn't there to contribute anymore. The strange instinct to turn toward a familiar face only to remember they were hundreds of kilometers away serving out their enlistment.

They adapted because they had to.

They always did.

But adaptation wasn't the same thing as being whole.

Now everyone is back.

Chan had been discharged.

The group is whole again.

The emptiness that had lingered around them for years had finally disappeared. Looking around now, Jeonghan could see all thirteen members scattered across the campsite, talking over one another as if they hadn't spent the last few years counting down to this exact moment.

They are loud.

Annoying.

Comforting.

Complete.

And somehow, standing in the middle of all the laughter and noise, Jeonghan felt more alone than he had in a very long time.

The realization settled heavily in his chest.

He hated himself a little for it.

Because this should have been enough.

This should have been one of those moments he looked back on years later with uncomplicated fondness. One of those memories that remained untouched by regret.

Instead, there was an ache beneath everything.

A quiet sadness he couldn't seem to shake.

Switzerland.

Of all places.

Officially, it had been coincidence.

A funny one, according to the members.

Both he and Seungcheol had mentioned Switzerland as a dream destination years ago during separate interviews. Na PD had laughed about it when the trip was announced.

Everyone else found it amusing.

Jeonghan had laughed too.

What else was he supposed to do?

It had been easier to laugh than explain why his stomach had twisted the moment he heard it.

Easier than admitting that some places carried meaning they were never supposed to.

Still, there had been moments throughout the trip that felt cruel in ways no one intended.

The mountains.

The quiet train rides.

The endless stretches of scenery that seemed made for memories.

Everything about Switzerland felt impossibly beautiful.

The kind of beauty that demanded to be shared.

The kind that made people instinctively turn toward someone beside them just to say, "Look."

And every time it happened, Jeonghan found himself thinking of all the versions of himself that had existed over the years.

The younger version who would have loved this trip.

The version who would have sat beside Seungcheol on every train ride and pretended not to notice when their shoulders brushed.

The version who still believed that wanting something badly enough might somehow make it possible.

And memories were dangerous things.

Especially when most of his favorite ones had Seungcheol in them.

The past two years had only made it worse.

While the others served after he came out of the military, while Joshua stayed a little bit longer in America and Jun and Minghao went back and forth to China to do their own schedules, he and Seungcheol had remained behind together in South Korea ,carrying schedules, interviews, variety appearances, performances. They spent so much time side by side that sometimes Jeonghan almost forgot he was supposed to be protecting himself.

It had felt frighteningly similar to before.

Before adulthood became complicated.

Before everyone grew busier.

Before Jeonghan learned the difference between being loved and being chosen.

The lesson hadn't come all at once.

There had never been some dramatic realization.

Just years of understanding things he wished he didn't.

Years of recognizing the shape of his own feelings and quietly accepting that they had nowhere to go.

They worked together.

Ate together.

Stayed after schedules talking about things that didn't matter.

There had been evenings when they sat in silence so comfortably that Jeonghan could almost pretend.

Almost.

That had always been the cruelest part.

Not hope.

Hope is easy to kill.

Reality does that eventually.

Time does that.

Life does that.

It was the moments that felt real.

The moments that arrived so naturally that he forgot they belonged to everyone, not just him.

The moments when Seungcheol looked at him and smiled.

When they exchanged a glance and immediately understood each other.

When conversation flowed effortlessly between them after a long day.

Nothing extraordinary.

Nothing unique.

Just enough to make him forget.

Because Seungcheol loves him.

Jeonghan had never doubted that.

Not once.

The certainty of it was almost painful.

Seungcheol cared about him deeply. Trusted him. Relied on him. Loved him in all the ways that counted.

The problem is that Seungcheol loves all twelve of them.

That’s who he is.

Seungcheol's heart had always been large enough to hold everyone.

He worried about all of them.

Protected all of them.

Stayed up late listening to their problems, celebrated their victories, carried their burdens whenever he could.

His love is generous.

Limitless.

And no matter how desperately Jeonghan wished otherwise, there had never been anything that belonged only to him.

Not in the way he wanted.

Not in the way that mattered.

Maybe that is why he could finally feel it ending.

Not the love itself.

He isn't sure that would ever disappear completely.

After so many years, it had become woven into the fabric of who he is. Trying to remove it felt as impossible as trying to erase a piece of his own history.

But the fight.

The part of him that kept reaching for something impossible.

The part that still looked at Seungcheol and wondered.

The part that secretly searched for signs that had never existed.

It is an exhausting and lonely fight.

Carrying feelings that have nowhere to go.

Holding onto possibilities that never become real.

Pretending acceptance while secretly wishing for more.

Year after year after year.

Like a wound that had finally accepted it wasn't going to heal the way it wanted.

Not because it had stopped hurting.

But because eventually even pain grows tired.

Eventually, there comes a point where survival begins to look less like healing and more like surrender.

Jeonghan wasn't sure when he had reached that point.

Only that he could feel it now, standing beneath the cold Swiss night sky while laughter echoed around him.

“Hyung.”

A nudge against his shoulder pulled him back.

Seungkwan was looking up at him.

“Let's share the tent, okay?” he said. “Seokmin hyung wants to play PlayStation with Mingyu hyung and Wonwoo hyung.”

Jeonghan blinked.

For a second, he hadn't even realized everyone was already moving.

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He smiled.

The expression came easily enough.

Years of practice.

Seungkwan didn't look convinced. His gaze lingered longer than necessary, studying Jeonghan with the same quiet concern Wonwoo had worn earlier.

It is funny, in a way.

For someone who spent so much of his life reading people, Jeonghan had never been particularly successful at hiding from those who knew him best.

“Hyung,” Seungkwan asked carefully, “is everything okay?”

For a brief moment, Jeonghan considered telling the truth.

Not all of it.

Just enough.

Enough to explain why his chest felt heavy despite the perfect trip.

Enough to explain why every beautiful memory from Switzerland seemed accompanied by a strange sense of grief.

Enough to explain that sometimes letting go felt a lot like mourning someone who is still standing right in front of you.

But when he looked past Seungkwan's shoulder, he saw Seungcheol laughing at something Mingyu had said, head thrown back beneath the glow of the campsite lights.

The sight struck him with such familiar affection that it almost made him smile.

Almost.

“Of course,” Jeonghan said softly.

The lie came out gentler than expected.

He reached up and ruffled Seungkwan's hair.

“I'm just out of energy. Don't worry about me.”

Seungkwan continued staring for another second.

Then he nodded.

The same nod Wonwoo had given him earlier.

Not in disbelief or in agreement but a nod of understanding.

Which somehow felt worse.

As the others gathered their things and headed toward the tents, Jeonghan remained where he was for a moment longer, the unopened can of soda still cold in his hand.

The mountains surrounding them had already disappeared into darkness.

Only the campsite lights remained.

Ahead of him, Seungcheol turned to call for the members, his voice carrying effortlessly through the night as everyone answered back.

A complete group.

Exactly as it should be.

Jeonghan watched them go and found himself smiling at last.

It was small.

The kind of smile people wore when they finally accepted something they could never change.

Then he looked away first and followed the others into the light.

******

Jeonghan volunteered to wash the dishes despite winning almost every game that night.

Nobody questioned it.

After years together, the members had long since accepted that Jeonghan's behavior only seemed random to people who didn't know him. If he wanted to spend thirty minutes scrubbing dishes in the cold instead of collecting the rewards and enjoy the perks and benefits of his victories he had rightfully won, nobody was going to stop him.

At least, nobody except Jihoon.

The sink had been set up near the edge of the campsite, away from most of the noise. The night air is colder now, carrying the scent of damp grass and the sweetness of melting chocolate from wherever Joshua is making s'mores.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The steady rush of running water filled the silence as Jeonghan rinsed bowls and passed them over. Jihoon dried them one by one before stacking them neatly beside him.

Outside, the campsite remained alive with quiet activity.

Some members had already disappeared into the tents.

Others are still gathered around the PlayStation, arguing loudly enough that even from here Jeonghan could hear Mingyu's protests whenever he lost.

It felt peaceful.

Almost enough to quiet his thoughts.

"Why are you avoiding Seungcheol?"

The bowl nearly slipped from Jeonghan's hands.

For a second, the world seemed to pause around him.

The water continued running.

Someone laughed in the distance.

And Jihoon waited.

"Uji..." Jeonghan forced out a laugh. "What are you talking about?"

Jihoon didn't even look up from the plate he was drying.

"Relax. I'm just asking."

His voice remained casual, almost absentminded.

Which somehow made it worse.

"As someone who treats every game like a matter of life and death, this is one of the rare times I've seen you volunteer for extra work instead of collecting your prize."

Jihoon finally glanced at him.

"Or hanging out with Seungcheol."

Jeonghan hated how quickly his eyes moved.

Instinct.

Pure instinct.

Before he could stop himself, his gaze drifted back toward the campsite.

Toward Seungcheol.

The distance between them wasn't great, but it was enough that the details blurred together unless he focused. Seungcheol is sitting near the fire with his phone pressed against his ear, one elbow resting casually against his knee as he listened to whoever is on the other end of the call. The flames cast shifting shadows across his face, while the glow from the screen illuminated it just enough for Jeonghan to make out his expression.

And there it is.

A smile.

Not the polite smile Seungcheol used during interviews when he was listening attentively. Not the practiced smile that appeared whenever cameras were pointed in his direction. This one is different. It arrived without thought or effort, softening his features in a way that always made him look younger than he was. The warmth in it reached all the way to his eyes, brightening them as he listened to something being said.

Whoever is on the other end of that call is making him happy.

The realization settled over Jeonghan with the familiar inevitability of a bruise being pressed.

It shouldn't have hurt.

Not anymore.

He had known for a long time now. Long enough that the knowledge should have lost its edge. Long enough that he should have learned how to look at moments like this without feeling something twist inside him. There was nothing surprising about it. Nothing unexpected.

And yet the ache arrived anyway, quiet and unwelcome as it settled beneath his ribs.

It wasn't sharp the way it had been years ago. Back then, pain had come with confusion and hope tangled together so tightly that he could never separate them. Now it is simply familiar. A feeling he recognized immediately the same way someone recognizes an old scar.

Something he had learned to carry.

Something that still hurt despite everything.

He was so focused on looking away before the feeling could deepen that he failed to notice Jihoon watching him from across the room.

Failed to notice the way Jihoon's expression shifted.

The way understanding slowly crossed his face.

Until—

"Ah."

The sound was quiet.

Almost thoughtful.

And somehow that made it worse.

Jeonghan immediately tore his gaze away from the campsite.

"That's not—"

"It is."

Jihoon set down the towel he had been holding.

The faucet continued running between them, water splashing steadily into the sink. Neither of them moved to turn it off. The sound filled the silence that followed, creating a strange barrier around the conversation neither of them seemed eager to continue.

For a brief moment, Jeonghan considered denying it.

Again.

The same way he always had.

The same way he had for years.

The excuses came easily by now. He could dismiss it as exhaustion. Nostalgia. Sentimentality brought on by the trip ending. He had spent so long constructing explanations that sometimes he almost believed them himself.

But he is tired.

Tired in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of carrying the same feelings in circles.

And Jihoon had never been someone he could lie to successfully anyway.

Maybe it is because Jihoon paid attention to things most people overlooked. Maybe it was because they had spent too many years together. Whatever the reason, Jihoon had always seen through him with alarming ease.

The silence stretched and neither of them spoke.

Eventually, Jihoon reached forward and shut off the faucet.

The sudden absence of sound felt startling.

Without the rush of water filling the room, there was nowhere left for either of them to hide.

"Jeonghan."

His voice softened.

The sharp certainty from earlier faded, leaving behind something gentler.

"Whatever decision you make..."

Jeonghan looked up.

Jihoon is already smiling.

It is small.

Careful.

A smile that didn't quite succeed in hiding the sadness beneath it.

"I know you'll put the team first."

Of course he would.

There was never really another option.

Both of them knew that.

Jeonghan had always put the members first. Long before anyone asked him to. Long before it became expected.

He had done it before himself.

Before his own happiness.

Before almost everything else.

At some point it had stopped feeling like sacrifice.

Sacrifice implied choice.

What he felt now is closer to instinct.

Something woven so deeply into him that he wasn't sure where it ended and where he began.

The members came first.

They always had.

"But," Jihoon continued, lifting a hand and tapping two fingers lightly against the center of Jeonghan's chest, "for once, I wish you'd listen to what this wants."

Jeonghan's breath caught.

The gesture itself was small.

The words were simple.

But they landed harder than anything else Jihoon could have said.

Because they came from Jihoon.

Because Jihoon rarely said things he didn't mean.

Because beneath all the exhaustion and acceptance and years of trying to move forward, there was still a small, selfish part of Jeonghan that had wanted someone to say exactly that.

Just once.

To tell him he didn't always have to be responsible.

That he didn't always have to be the one who let go first.

His vision blurred suddenly.

He blinked hard and rubbed at his eyes before the tears could fully gather.

"Thank you, Uji."

The words came out rougher than intended.

Jihoon sighed.

It was such a quiet sound, but it carried more emotion than it should have.

Years of friendship.

Years of watching.

Years of understanding things neither of them had ever said aloud.

"I already know what you've decided."

Jeonghan froze.

The words settled heavily between them.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

Jihoon laughed softly.

Not because anything is funny.

Because sometimes there isn't anything else to do when the truth had already arrived.

"I know you."

The smile remained on his face, but now Jeonghan could hear the slight tremble beneath it.

The grief.

The resignation.

The sadness of someone who understood exactly how a story is going to end even while wishing it wouldn't.

"I think I've known your answer for a long time."

Neither of them said what that answer is.

Neither needed to.

It had existed between them for years, unspoken but understood.

Jihoon lowered his gaze briefly before looking back up again.

"But I don't think I'll ever be ready when that day actually comes."

Jeonghan felt his throat tighten.

Because suddenly he understood.

Jihoon isn't talking about Seungcheol.

At least, not entirely.

He is talking about everything that would come after.

The distance Jeonghan would create once he finally committed to moving on.

The careful boundaries he would build around himself.

The parts of his heart he would quietly bury and never allow back into the light.

He is talking about the version of their friendship that would inevitably change, no matter how gently Jeonghan tried to preserve it.

And most of all, he is talking about loss.

Not the kind people mourn openly.

Not the kind that receives a name or a farewell.

The quieter kind.

The kind that belongs to nobody and yet somehow touches everyone.

The kind that arrives when a person chooses to let go of something they have carried for so long that nobody remembers who they were before it.

The kind that leaves everything looking exactly the same from the outside while changing everything underneath.

And sitting there beneath the harsh kitchen lights, with Jihoon looking at him as though he could already see the future unfolding, Jeonghan realized that his decision would not only hurt him.

It would hurt the people who love him too.

Perhaps that is the cruelest part of all.

Jeonghan opened his mouth.

Then—

"JEONGHAN HYUNG! WOOZI HYUNG!"

Seokmin's voice shattered the moment completely.

Both of them startled.

"The s'mores are melting!"

A beat.

Then another.

And suddenly Jihoon laughed.

A real laugh this time.

Jeonghan found himself laughing too.

The tension cracked just enough to let them breathe again.

Outside, Seokmin was already waving frantically at them like the fate of the world depended on marshmallows.

Jihoon shook his head.

"Only Seokmin would interrupt an emotional conversation for dessert."

Jeonghan smiled.

This one felt genuine.

"That's why we love him."

For a brief moment, the heaviness lifted.

Not gone.

Just lighter.

Enough for him to follow Jihoon back toward the others.

*****

Jeonghan rolled onto his side for what felt like the hundredth time.

Beside him, Seungkwan is already asleep, his soft snores barely audible beneath the occasional rustle of the tent fabric. Outside, the campsite had long since gone quiet.

After Seokmin and Mingyu had completely annihilated the remaining s'mores and Joshua had declared everyone sugar-drunk, the members had finally surrendered to exhaustion one by one.

Everyone except him.

Sleep felt impossible.

Jeonghan stared at the ceiling of the tent for another minute before giving up entirely.

With careful movements, he reached for his jacket.

The last thing he wanted was to wake Seungkwan.

The younger member had spent the entire evening watching him with those concerned eyes.

Jeonghan isn't sure he had the energy to reassure him again.

Slowly, he crawled out of the tent.

The cold air hit him immediately and then he looked up.

His breath caught.

The Swiss sky stretched endlessly above him, dark and impossibly clear. Thousands of stars glittered overhead, untouched by city lights. For a moment, all he could do was stare.

It is beautiful.

The kind of beauty that made people feel small.

The kind that reminded you the world would continue long after your heart stopped hurting.

A faint smile found its way onto his face.

Then someone cleared their throat.

Jeonghan nearly jumped.

His heart stumbled painfully when he turned.

Seungcheol stood a few feet away.

An oversized hoodie swallowed his frame, his hands tucked into the front pocket as he watched Jeonghan with a familiar smile.

"Can't sleep, Jeonghannie?"

The nickname alone was enough to make something ache.

Jeonghan simply nodded.

Some habits never changed.

Without another word, they drifted toward the patch of grass near the outdoor kitchen and sat down.

Easy.

Natural.

As if thirteen years had trained their bodies to find each other automatically.

Seungcheol disappeared inside for a moment before returning with two cans of beer.

He handed one over and their fingers brushed.

Neither acknowledged it.

For a while, they sat in silence.

The stars above.

The quiet campsite around them.

The cold beer in their hands.

Jeonghan found himself glancing sideways.

Again.

And again.

Memorizing.

The curve of Seungcheol's nose.

The faint shadows beneath his eyes.

The familiar shape of his smile.

The face of the person he had loved for more than a decade.

The face he had spent years trying to forget and years longer trying not to love.

"You know," Seungcheol suddenly complained, breaking the silence, "you didn't pick me for a single game today."

Jeonghan blinked.

Then laughed.

A real laugh.

"I almost lost because of you."

"Please."

"You abandoned me."

"I was protecting the peace."

"The peace?"

Jeonghan nodded solemnly.

"If I picked you, the kids would've complained all night about how unfair it was."

"Fair point."

"They would've accused us of cheating."

"We probably would've cheated."

That made both of them laugh.

The sound disappeared into the night. Then, without warning, he dropped backward onto the grass.

The movement was so sudden and so typically Seungcheol that Jeonghan found himself smiling before he even realized it.

For a moment, Seungcheol simply lay there with his hands folded over his stomach, staring up at the night sky. Then he lifted one arm and patted the empty patch of grass beside him in silent invitation.

Jeonghan didn't think about it.

If he had, he might have hesitated.

Instead, he lowered himself onto the ground beside him with the ease that came from years of familiarity. The motion felt natural, automatic, like slipping into an old habit his body remembered better than his mind.

Their shoulders nearly touched.

Not quite.

Just close enough for Jeonghan to be aware of it.

Close enough that he could feel Seungcheol's presence beside him without needing to look.

Above them, the stars stretched endlessly across the Swiss sky.

The darkness seemed larger here somehow, untouched by city lights and crowded streets. Thousands of stars scattered across the horizon, bright enough to make the world feel impossibly small beneath them.

Jeonghan couldn't remember the last time he had looked at the sky for this long.

There had always been schedules to rush to, interviews to prepare for, planes to catch, people waiting for them somewhere else.

Tonight felt different.

For once, there is nowhere they needed to be.

Nothing demanding their attention.

Just the quiet hum of distant conversation from the campsite and the vastness of the night above them.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn't awkward.

It never had been.

One of the things Jeonghan had always loved most about Seungcheol was how easy silence could be between them. There was never pressure to fill it. Never a need to search for the right thing to say.

Sometimes simply existing beside each other was enough.

Then—

"Do you remember when we were trainees?"

The question brought a smile to Jeonghan's face immediately.

Of course he remembered.

How could he not?

Those years had been exhausting in every possible way. They had been young, broke, uncertain, and constantly terrified of failure. Every day had felt like a test they weren't sure they were going to pass.

The practice rooms had been too small.

The schedules had been relentless.

The future had seemed impossibly far away.

There had been moments when all of them were too tired to think and too stubborn to quit.

Those years had been terrible.

And somehow, precious.

Not because they were easy.

Not because Jeonghan would ever want to relive them.

But because they had survived them together.

Every memory from that period was tied to the people who stood beside him now. Every hardship had become meaningful simply because they had endured it as a group.

"The Melona room."

Seungcheol groaned loudly.

"Oh God."

The immediate horror in his voice made Jeonghan laugh.

"You loved teaching me how to Dougie."

"Can we not talk about that?"

The embarrassment on Seungcheol's face only made it worse.

"You were very passionate."

"I was embarrassing."

"You still are."

Seungcheol nudged his shoulder.

The contact was light.

Barely anything.

Just enough to make Jeonghan's breath catch for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to relax.

He smiled anyway.

The warmth lingered longer than it should have.

Not because of the touch itself.

Because of everything attached to it.

Years of familiarity.

Years of friendship.

Years spent existing within each other's orbit so naturally that neither of them questioned it anymore.

Some habits became permanent.

Some people did too.

For a while, they simply stared upward again.

The laughter faded.

The conversation settled into something quieter.

More reflective.

"We've lived so many lives already, huh?"

The words settled softly between them.

Jeonghan didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the stars.

At the endless stretch of sky above them.

At the years that seemed to exist somewhere between those distant lights.

At all the versions of themselves that no longer existed.

The teenagers who had entered the company with impossible dreams and no guarantees.

The trainees who had slept in cramped rooms and practiced until their bodies gave out.

The rookies who had been terrified nobody would listen to their music.

The young men who had slowly learned how to carry success without letting it consume them.

Each version of themselves had disappeared eventually.

Replaced by someone new.

Someone older.

Someone changed.

And yet somehow, beneath all of it, they were still here.

Still together.

"We have."

His voice came out quieter than intended.

The answer felt too small for everything it contained.

Too small for thirteen years.

Too small for all the memories pressed between them.

Neither spoke again for a while.

The silence returned naturally, wrapping itself around them like a familiar blanket.

Eventually, Jeonghan closed his eyes.

He could feel the moment approaching like the slow certainty of a season changing.

Something inevitable.

Something that had been coming for a long time.

He could feel the ending.

Not of them.

Never that.

Some relationships survived every version of life thrown at them, and theirs is one of them. No matter what happened, no matter how much time passed, Jeonghan knows they would always find their way back to each other.

They would always have each other.

But this is the end of something else.

The end of the secret he had carried for so many years that he could barely remember who he had been before it.

The end of the weight he had mistaken for hope.

The end of all the quiet wondering and impossible imagining.

And maybe, finally, the end of this love.

Or at least the version of it that had spent years asking for more than Seungcheol could ever give.

The thought should have devastated him.

Instead, lying beneath the stars with Seungcheol beside him, it felt strangely peaceful.

Like setting down something heavy after carrying it for far too long.

Like saying goodbye to a dream that had once meant everything.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

The question slipped out so quietly that for a moment Jeonghan wondered if the wind might carry it away before Seungcheol heard.

But Seungcheol turned toward him immediately with the same attention he had always given him.

"You still have secrets I don't know?"

Jeonghan laughed.

The sound came out softer than intended.

The irony nearly broke him.

If only you knew.

If only you knew how many nights I've spent trying to bury this.

If only you knew that the biggest secret I've ever kept is lying right here beside you.

If only you knew that every version of this conversation has existed inside my head for years.

"There was this guy."

His voice sounded calm and steady even though on the inside his heart is pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

Every instinct told him to stop.

To laugh and change the subject.

To retreat before he crossed a line he could never uncross.

Instead, he kept going.

"He used to wear blue and orange shirts all the time."

Beside him, Seungcheol grew very still before letting out an awkward chuckle.

"Are you describing yourself?"

Jeonghan smiled and continued.

"He carried wired earphones everywhere."

The image appeared so clearly in his mind that it almost hurt.

The tangled cords.

The oversized shirts.

The awkward teenager who always seemed more comfortable observing than participating.

Jeonghan smiled faintly to himself.

"He was shy."

The word felt inadequate.

Shy didn't begin to cover it.

He had been painfully shy.

The kind of shy that made him linger at the edges of conversations.

The kind that preferred listening over speaking.

The kind that hid behind other people because being seen felt terrifying.

Back then, confidence had belonged to other people.

Not him.

Not the boy who constantly doubted himself.

Not the boy who wondered every day whether he was enough.

Then one day he met twelve boys chasing the same impossible dream.

Twelve strangers who somehow became family.

Twelve people who changed the shape of his entire life.

And among them was one person who never seemed to doubt him.

Not even when Jeonghan doubted himself.

And somehow, surrounded by those people, he found courage.

Enough courage to debut.

Enough courage to survive.

Enough courage to become the person he was now.

"He also met his first love during that time."

The silence beside him deepened.

So did the ache in his chest.

Because even now, after all these years, saying it felt dangerous.

Jeonghan kept looking at the stars.

Because if he looked at Seungcheol, he wouldn't be able to finish.

The night sky blurred softly above him.

Countless lights stretched across the darkness.

Beautiful.

Distant.

Untouchable.

Much like the future he had spent years imagining.

"He remembers being terrified before a test once."

His throat tightened.

The memory arrived with startling clarity.

The anxiety.

The fear of disappointing everyone.

The certainty that failure was waiting for him.

Back then, every obstacle had felt enormous.

Every mistake had felt permanent.

And then—

"And this person looked at him and said, 'Do you think I'll let you fail?'"

For a moment, the years disappeared.

Jeonghan could hear it exactly as he remembered.

The confidence.

The certainty.

The unwavering belief.

The words had stayed with him for more than thirteen years.

Not because they were romantic.

Not because they were extraordinary.

But because they were Seungcheol.

Because that is who he had always been.

The person who carried everyone even when nobody asked him to.

The person who stayed awake worrying about other people.

The person who quietly took responsibility for burdens that weren't his.

The person who stood between the people he loved and every hardship he could reach first.

The person who refused to let people fall.

The person who stayed.

No matter how exhausted he was.

No matter how much it cost him.

No matter how often he should have chosen himself instead.

"That sentence never left him."

His voice cracked slightly.

"Because he never did."

The tears were coming now.

Slowly.

Unstoppably.

"Through every crisis."

He swallowed hard.

Memories flooded through him faster than he could stop them.

Practice rooms.

Hospital visits.

Late-night conversations.

Moments nobody else remembered.

Moments he remembered too well.

"Every fight."

Another breath.

"Every hiatus."

His vision blurred.

"He never let him fail."

Even when Jeonghan wanted to give up.

Even when he hated himself.

Even when he felt broken.

Seungcheol had always been there.

Maybe not perfectly.

Maybe not in every way Jeonghan secretly wished for.

But he had been there.

Always.

The stars dissolved into streaks of light.

Jeonghan smiled anyway.

"This person is so important to him."

The words felt painfully insufficient.

How could he possibly explain thirteen years?

How could he explain what it felt like to build an entire life alongside someone?

To watch them grow.

To fail together.

To succeed together.

To become adults together.

To wake up one day and realize your heart had quietly chosen them somewhere along the way.

His chest hurt.

A deep ache that seemed to settle beneath every breath.

"He knows he is important to him too."

The truth tasted bittersweet.

"And because of that..."

He paused.

Because this was the hardest part.

"...he can't let his feelings ruin everything."

The tears finally slipped free.

"He loves him so much."

The confession disappeared into the night.

No drama.

No fanfare.

Just truth.

"He is grateful he got to spend thirteen years beside him."

Silence followed.

Not the comfortable silence they had shared countless times over the years, but something heavier. Something that seemed to settle between them and stretch endlessly beneath the stars.

Jeonghan became acutely aware of everything.

The cold air against his skin.

The frantic beating of his own heart.

Beside him, Seungcheol hadn't moved.

Neither had he.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

"That person loved him too."

Jeonghan stopped breathing.

The words didn't register immediately.

For one impossible second, his mind simply refused to process them.

They hung suspended in the air between them, unreal and weightless.

As though he had imagined them.

As though exhaustion and heartbreak and thirteen years of buried feelings had finally merged together and created a hallucination cruel enough to sound exactly like hope.

His chest tightened.

The world seemed to narrow around a single sentence.

That person loved him too.

Slowly, almost afraid of what he might find, Jeonghan turned his head.

Seungcheol is still staring at the sky.

He hadn't looked at him.

Hadn't broken the spell by meeting his eyes.

His gaze remained fixed on the stars overhead, but even in the darkness Jeonghan could see the faint shine gathering there.

His eyes glistened.

For a moment, neither of them acknowledged it.

"The Melona room gave us a lot."

Seungcheol's voice sounded distant and soft.

Like someone speaking more to himself than to another person.

Like someone reaching backward through years of memories and trying to find the right words among them.

"But the best thing that came out of that time..."

A shaky laugh escaped him.

It was small and fragile and unlike anything Jeonghan had heard from him before.

"...was meeting that shy teenager with the softest voice I'd ever heard."

Something inside Jeonghan shattered.

Not violently.

Not the way heartbreak had shattered him all those years ago.

Not with pain sharp enough to leave him breathless.

This felt different.

Quieter.

Almost gentle.

Like glass finally cracking after carrying pressure for too long.

Because it didn't hurt.

Not really.

Or perhaps it did, but not in the way he had expected.

For years he had imagined countless versions of this moment.

Confessions.

Rejections.

Near misses.

Possibilities.

Entire futures that existed only inside his own head.

He had spent so much time wondering.

Wondering whether he had imagined certain looks.

Wondering whether some moments had meant more than he allowed himself to believe.

Wondering if there had ever been a version of reality where things could have been different.

Every unanswered question had followed him.

Every uncertainty.

Every possibility.

They had lived inside him for years.

Growing heavier.

Growing sharper.

Becoming ghosts he could never quite escape.

And suddenly they were gone.

Not because they had been answered the way he wanted.

Because they had finally been answered at all.

All the what-ifs that had haunted him for years now had names.

All the whys.

All the maybes.

All the possibilities.

They dissolved beneath the weight of certainty.

The truth settled quietly into the empty spaces they left behind.

Seungcheol loved him.

Had loved him.

The realization washed over him with a strange sense of peace.

Not romantic certainty.

Not the triumphant ending his younger self would have prayed for.

Something far more complicated than that.

Something infinitely sadder.

Because now he understood.

Now he could finally see the shape of it.

The affection.

The devotion.

The years spent choosing each other over and over again.

The way they had built entire lives side by side.

The way Seungcheol had stayed.

The way he had always stayed.

Love had never been absent.

That had never been the problem.

The tragedy was that love alone had never been enough.

A tear slipped free before Jeonghan could stop it.

He didn't wipe it away.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

The stars blurred above him.

The world felt impossibly quiet.

Seungcheol loved him.

Had loved him.

Maybe always would.

Not in the way Jeonghan once desperately wanted.

Not in the way that could rewrite history.

Not in the way that would change what came next.

But the love had been real.

And somehow that knowledge was both a gift and a wound.

Because some loves never become less meaningful simply because they cannot become something else.

Some people remain the most important person in your life while never truly belonging to you.

And some loves arrive at the wrong time, take root anyway, and stay there forever.

Not growing.

Not disappearing.

Simply existing.

Becoming part of the foundation of who you are.

Jeonghan had spent years mourning a future that never happened.

Lying beneath the Swiss sky beside the person he loved most, he realized the future had never been the point.

The love itself had been real.

The friendship had been real.

The years had been real.

And perhaps that was why letting go felt less like losing something and more like finally setting it down.

Painful.

Necessary.

And long overdue.

Beside him, Seungcheol remained silent.

Neither of them looked at each other.

They didn't need to.

Some truths were too large for eye contact.

Too fragile for acknowledgment.

So they lay beneath the stars together, separated by only a few inches and an entire lifetime of things neither of them had known how to say, while the night carried their words away into the darkness.

"It was hard being leader."

Seungcheol's voice broke.

"Still is."

A tear slipped down the side of his face.

"So many responsibilities."

Another.

"So many people depending on us."

Jeonghan nodded.

He understood.

More than anyone.

"We got used to putting ourselves last."

A painful smile tugged at Jeonghan's lips.

Yes.

They did.

And maybe that was the tragedy.

Not that they didn't love each other.

But that they learned how not to choose themselves long before they learned what love was.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Jeonghan sat up and Seungcheol followed.

And when their eyes met, thirteen years of unspoken words passed between them.

Jeonghan opened his arms and Seungcheol moved instantly.

The hug nearly knocked the breath out of him.

Desperate.

Tight.

Years compressed into a single embrace.

Jeonghan buried his face in Seungcheol's shoulder.

For the first time, he let himself mourn.

Not the loss of Seungcheol.

But the loss of what could have been.

A gentle kiss landed against the top of his head.

The kind Seungcheol had always given him.

The kind that suddenly meant everything.

Eventually they pulled apart.

Right then, Seungcheol's phone lit up.

The sudden glow cut through the darkness between them, bright enough to draw both of their attention. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The screen illuminated Seungcheol's face in pale light, softening the shadows cast by the fire and revealing every small shift in his expression.

And then the smile appeared immediately.

It wasn't something he put on consciously.

It arrived before he could stop it.

Before he could think about it.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes scanned whatever message had appeared on the screen and how naturally happiness settled across his features.

Jeonghan had spent years learning the language of Seungcheol's expressions.

He knew the smile Seungcheol wore when he was trying to reassure someone.

The smile he used during interviews.

The smile he offered fans.

The tired smile that appeared after long schedules.

The smile he wore when he was pretending everything was fine.

This isn't any of those.

This is the kind of smile that happened when nobody is watching.

The kind that slipped through defenses.

Small.

Unconscious.

Beautiful.

For years, Jeonghan thought a moment like this would destroy him.

He thought seeing evidence of someone else would feel like losing.

Like confirmation of every fear he had spent years trying to ignore.

Instead, all he felt is relief.

Relief so overwhelming it nearly made him laugh.

Because the happiness on Seungcheol's face isn't complicated.

It isn't uncertain.

There is no hesitation in it.

No confusion.

No wondering.

Just joy.

Pure and effortless.

The kind Jeonghan had always wanted for him.

The kind he had spent years hoping Seungcheol would find, even when the selfish part of him wished the source of it could have been different.

His chest still hurt.

He suspected it always would.

But the pain felt different now.

Softer.

Less like heartbreak and more like acceptance.

Like finally reaching the end of a road he had been walking for far too long.

"You love them, don't you?"

The question came out quietly.

There is no accusation in it.

No bitterness.

Only curiosity.

Only affection.

Seungcheol looked down at the screen again.

For a brief moment, his expression softened even further.

Then he turned toward Jeonghan.

And nodded.

No hesitation.

No attempt to hide it.

Just simple honesty.

The sight should have hurt but instead, something inside Jeonghan finally settled.

The honesty somehow made him smile wider.

Because after years of uncertainty, after years of wondering and imagining and hoping and grieving, the truth felt unexpectedly gentle.

This is real.

This is something tangible.

Something he could finally stop fighting.

Something he could finally accept.

"I'm glad."

His voice trembled.

He hated that it did.

But he couldn't bring himself to care.

Not anymore.

Because the words were genuine.

Completely and painfully genuine.

For so long, he had been afraid that acceptance would feel like defeat.

That letting go would feel like surrendering something precious.

Instead, it felt strangely peaceful.

Like opening his hand after years of keeping it clenched shut.

Like finally allowing himself to stop carrying a weight nobody else could see.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

This time he didn't wipe it away.

"I can see how happy they make you."

His gaze drifted back toward the phone still resting in Seungcheol's hand.

Toward the smile that refused to leave his face.

Toward the future that no longer had anything to do with him.

And somehow, for the first time, that was okay.

Because if there is one thing Jeonghan had learned from loving Seungcheol, it is that his happiness had never been something Jeonghan could separate from his own.

Even now.

Even like this.

Seeing that smile felt worth the ache.

Worth every unanswered question.

Worth every year he had spent learning how to let go.

The person Seungcheol loves isn't him.

That truth would always sting a little.

But the person Seungcheol loves makes him smile like that.

Makes his eyes shine.

Makes him look lighter somehow, as though a burden Jeonghan hadn't realized he was carrying had finally been lifted.

And if love meant wanting the best for someone, even when it breaks your own heart, then perhaps this is the purest form of it Jeonghan had ever known.

So he smiled through the tears gathering in his eyes and let himself mean every word.

"I'm glad."

This time, he isn't saying it for Seungcheol.

He is saying it for himself.

Because after all these years, he finally is.

Seungcheol's eyes filled again.

"I loved you."

The words came out broken and raw.

"I did."

Jeonghan nodded.

"I know."

"I just..."

Seungcheol looked away.

"I couldn't choose love when so many people depended on me."

Jeonghan laughed softly through his tears.

"I know."

Because he would have made the same choice.

Because he had made the same choice.

For years.

"I was one of the people depending on you too."

That finally broke whatever remained of Seungcheol's composure.

Jeonghan stepped closer and gently cupped his face and carefully pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Soft.

Brief.

A goodbye.

"We're free now, Cheol."

The words felt lighter than he expected.

"We don't have to carry this anymore."

Another tear slid down his face.

This time he wiped it away immediately.

"Let's be happy."

For a second, Seungcheol simply stared.

Then slowly—

He smiled.

A real smile.

The kind Jeonghan had fallen in love with all those years ago.

Under a sky full of Swiss stars, two hearts finally reached each other.

Only to let each other go.

And somehow, that made the love feel more complete instead of less.

"I should sleep."

Jeonghan stepped back.

"See you tomorrow, Cheol."

"See you tomorrow."

This time, neither of them looked back.

Jeonghan returned to the tent.

The campsite was silent.

Everyone asleep.

Everyone dreaming.

Before climbing inside, he pulled out his phone.

Opened a conversation.

And typed a single message.

I'm ready to inform management.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

For years, he had postponed this decision.

For years, he had waited for the right time.

For years, he had carried everyone else's happiness before his own.

Not anymore.

The message sent with a soft tap.

Jeonghan looked up at the stars one final time.

Then smiled.

Not because his heart no longer hurt.

But because for the first time in a very long while, it finally felt free.

And that was enough.

The next morning, Switzerland would wake to thirteen members of Seventeen.

But tonight, as Jeonghan crawled back into the tent and closed his eyes, he left behind the version of himself who had spent thirteen years waiting for an impossible future.

At last, he is ready to walk toward his own.