Chapter Text
the first thing martin noticed about james wasn’t his face.
it was the way he carried himself.
it was late autumn in 2020, one of those evenings where the practice rooms were beginning to empty out, the hallways smelling faintly of sweat, instant coffee and the rubber soles of dance shoes. martin wasn’t supposed to be there that late. he was younger than most of the trainees still practising, and one of the staff had already reminded him twice that he’d miss the last shuttle if he didn’t leave.
he’d nodded both times.
he hadn’t left.
instead, he’d wandered the corridors with a bottle of water in one hand, stopping outside a practice room because he could hear music through the door.
the choreography was clean.
painfully clean.
through the narrow window in the door he could see seven older trainees running the same thirty seconds over and over again.
one of them kept laughing.
not because he was messing up.
because someone else was.
martin frowned.
who laughs after doing the same choreography for the fifteenth time?
he looked closer.
the trainee laughing caught sight of himself in the mirror, pulled the stupidest face imaginable, immediately broke his own composure and doubled over.
the rest of the room groaned.
“james,” somebody sighed.
“what?”
“stop looking at yourself.”
“i wasn’t.”
“you literally were.”
“i was checking my angle.”
“your angle is ugly.”
“…okay, that’s just rude.”
martin smiled before he even realised he was smiling.
—
that became a habit.
not talking.
watching.
their schedules barely overlapped, but every now and then martin would pass that same practice room and catch glimpses of trainee a rehearsing.
sometimes james looked impossibly cool.
sometimes he was lying flat on the floor after practice, refusing to move.
sometimes he’d disappear into one of the producer rooms with a laptop tucked under his arm.
sometimes he looked exhausted enough that martin wondered why he kept going.
he always came back the next day.
—
their first conversation happened entirely by accident.
martin had been trying to carry far too many things at once.
headphones.
a hoodie.
three notebooks.
a protein shake.
his trainee card.
all of it hit the floor.
“nice.”
martin looked up.
james was standing over him.
“…thanks?”
“i wasn’t complimenting you.”
“i know.”
there was a pause.
then james crouched without another word and started picking up notebooks.
one of them had fallen open.
inside were pages and pages of unfinished lyrics.
james didn’t read them.
he closed the notebook immediately.
“here.”
“…thanks.”
“you should probably carry less.”
“…i thought i could.”
“clearly.”
martin laughed.
james looked at him for a second.
“…what?”
“nothing.”
“why are you laughing?”
“i thought you’d be meaner.”
“…who says i’m not?”
then he walked away.
martin stood in the hallway holding his notebooks.
he wasn’t sure why.
but he had a feeling that conversation wasn’t going to be the last.
—
it wasn’t.
after that, they started greeting each other whenever their paths crossed.
then those greetings became conversations.
then conversations became shared meal breaks whenever their schedules somehow lined up.
then one day, without either of them noticing exactly when it happened, sitting together became normal.
“you’re tall.”
“…thank you?”
“i wasn’t complimenting you.”
“…you used my joke.”
“i know.”
—
2021 blurred into 2022.
the building changed.
people came.
people left.
dreams grew larger.
then disappeared overnight.
martin still remembered the day everything fell apart.
everyone had heard the rumours before anyone confirmed them.
people whispered in hallways.
staff looked unusually tense.
doors stayed closed.
trainees avoided asking questions because nobody wanted the answer.
james stopped smiling as much.
he still practised.
still produced.
still worked.
but something about him became quieter.
martin never asked.
he figured if james wanted to tell him, he would.
one evening he found him alone in one of the smaller studios.
there wasn’t any music playing.
just silence.
“…you okay?”
james shrugged.
“…i don’t know.”
that was the first honest answer martin had ever heard from him.
he sat beside him.
they stayed there for almost forty minutes.
they barely spoke.
sometimes friendship looked like conversation.
sometimes it looked like choosing not to leave.
—
months later.
“i got moved.”
martin blinked.
“what?”
“new project.”
“…good project?”
“…i think.”
“then congratulations.”
“…thanks.”
“…”
“…”
“you’re overthinking.”
“…yeah.”
“you always do.”
“…yeah.”
martin nudged his shoulder.
“you’ll be okay.”
for a second—
just a second—
james looked like he believed him.
—
the years kept moving.
practice rooms turned into recording studios.
late-night convenience store runs became post-recording convenience store runs.
they celebrated birthdays with convenience-store cake because nobody had time to organise anything better.
martin learned that james liked working in complete silence.
james learned martin couldn’t function without talking through every idea in his head.
“do you ever stop thinking out loud?”
“no.”
“…i noticed.”
“does it annoy you?”
“…sometimes.”
“…”
“…”
“…you’re smiling.”
“…am i?”
“yes.”
“…don’t tell anyone.”
—
by the time cortis was announced, they had known each other for years.
they didn’t hug.
they didn’t scream.
they just looked at each other across the practice room after the lineup had been confirmed.
james raised an eyebrow.
martin grinned.
“…guess we’re stuck together.”
“…unfortunately.”
“…wow.”
“…”
“…”
“…i’m kidding.”
“i know.”
he did know.
—
debut year disappeared frighteningly fast.
showcases.
music shows.
recordings.
dance practice.
fansigns.
producing until three in the morning.
sleeping in vans.
eating whenever someone remembered.
somehow, in the middle of all of it, martin forgot to examine something he’d been carrying around for years.
because there was never time.
because there was always another rehearsal.
another comeback meeting.
another flight.
another schedule.
it was easier to tell himself that whatever this feeling was…
could wait.
—
“world tour.”
keonho stared at the announcement email like it might disappear.
“…we’re actually doing it.”
“don’t cry,” seonghyeon said.
“i’m not crying.”
“you’re literally crying.”
“shut up.”
juhoon quietly slid a tissue across the table.
keonho accepted it with dignity.
“…thank you.”
martin laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.
james looked up from his laptop.
“…what?”
“nothing.”
“…why are you all looking at me?”
“we’re not.”
“…you’re terrible liars.”
—
the first show in incheon felt unreal.
the venue glowed long before the lights went down.
backstage was organised chaos.
stylists running in every direction.
managers checking microphones.
someone yelling that five minutes actually meant two.
martin bounced lightly on the balls of his feet.
his heart hammered against his ribs.
james stood beside him rolling his shoulders.
“…nervous?”
“a little.”
“…you?”
martin smiled.
“i think i’m too excited to be nervous.”
james huffed a quiet laugh.
“that sounds like you.”
then the lights went out.
the screams began.
and for two and a half hours the rest of the world ceased to exist.
—
afterwards, everything blurred together.
encore.
bows.
photos.
thank-you speeches.
backstage hugs.
staff congratulating them.
the adrenaline refused to leave martin’s body.
everyone talked over everyone else in the van.
keonho insisted he had made eye contact with the same fan six separate times.
“that’s impossible.”
“it’s not!”
“it literally is.”
“why?”
“because there were like fifteen thousand people.”
“…maybe she moved.”
“…”
“…”
“…you know what, sure.”
—
it wasn’t until they reached the hotel that martin noticed something strange.
james wasn’t joining in.
normally he would’ve had at least three sarcastic comments by now.
instead…
his phone buzzed.
he glanced down.
smiled.
typed.
locked it.
then looked up as though nothing had happened.
martin frowned.
—
it kept happening.
during breakfast.
buzz.
small smile.
reply.
lock phone.
during rehearsal.
same thing.
waiting for the lift.
same thing.
by the third day—
everyone had noticed.
“…okay.”
keonho leaned dramatically across the lounge.
“who are you texting?”
james didn’t even look up.
“nobody.”
“that’s a lie.”
“it’s literally somebody.”
“…”
“…fair point.”
“spill.”
“there’s nothing to spill.”
seonghyeon folded his arms.
“you’re smiling at your phone.”
“…people smile.”
“not like that.”
“…what does that even mean?”
juhoon looked up from the snack he’d been eating.
“he has a point.”
“thank you.”
“you do smile differently.”
“…traitors.”
martin forced himself to laugh.
“come on, just tell us.”
james rubbed the back of his neck.
“…i met someone after the seoul show.”
silence.
“…”
“…”
“…”
keonho gasped so dramatically that even the manager looked over.
“bro has rizz.”
“i do not.”
“bro has game.”
“i literally don’t.”
“you got approached?”
“kind of.”
“kind of?”
“she asked for a photo.”
“okay.”
“then we talked.”
“okay.”
“then… we exchanged numbers.”
the room exploded.
“no way!”
“our james?”
“that’s crazy.”
“i’m proud of you.”
“i’m not dating her!”
nobody listened.
martin laughed when everyone else laughed.
he bumped james lightly with his shoulder.
“look at you.”
“stop.”
“mr popular.”
“please stop.”
inside, something heavy settled quietly beneath his ribs.
he couldn’t even name it.
he didn’t want to.
—
the flight to busan was short.
too short.
because the entire time martin’s mind kept circling the same conversation.
she asked for his number.
he gave it to her.
they’re texting.
he smiled.
he smiled.
he smiled.
“…martin?”
he blinked.
“huh?”
juhoon pointed towards the boarding gate.
“they’re calling us.”
“…right.”
—
their manager handed out room keys at check-in.
“same arrangement as discussed.”
keonho caught his card first.
“yes! i’m with juhoon"
seonghyeon side eyes him.
"i'm literally with you aswell,"
"well you're stinky so i don't care," keonho snaps with a playful scowl.
"shut the fuck up if you really want to do this look at your bed in the dorm-"
juhoon looks between james and martin and says,
“which means…”
martin looked down.
room 1812.
james stepped beside him.
held up an identical keycard.
“…guess we’re together.”
martin’s stomach dropped.
“…yeah.”
“…problem?”
“…no.”
absolutely.
—
the room wasn’t particularly big.
two beds.
one sofa.
floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lights of busan.
their suitcases landed with matching thuds.
james stretched.
“i’m showering first.”
“okay.”
“don’t steal my charger.”
“…i’ve literally never done that.”
“yet.”
martin rolled his eyes.
“go shower.”
the bathroom door clicked shut.
a second later the water started running.
martin sat on the edge of his bed.
the room suddenly felt much quieter than it had all day.
he stared at the city outside.
cars drifted like tiny streams of light beneath them.
his thoughts, unfortunately, refused to stay outside.
six years.
six years of friendship.
of late-night studio sessions.
airport coffees.
inside jokes nobody else understood.
shared headphones.
birthday cakes eaten with plastic forks in practice rooms.
and somehow…
somewhere…
without him noticing…
his feelings had stopped fitting into the neat little box labelled friendship.
he’d never opened that box.
never examined it.
never allowed himself to.
there hadn’t been time.
because feelings were inconvenient.
because debut was coming.
because survival came first.
because there was always another rehearsal.
another deadline.
another comeback.
another tour.
and now—
now james was smiling at somebody else.
martin laughed quietly to himself.
“nice timing.”
the shower turned off.
martin rubbed both hands over his face before the bathroom door opened.
james stepped out wearing an oversized black t-shirt and grey sweatpants, towel draped around his neck, hair still damp enough that droplets slid lazily down the back of his neck.
“your turn.”
“yeah.”
martin grabbed his clothes.
their shoulders brushed as they passed one another.
completely ordinary.
the sort of thing that had happened hundreds of times over the years.
it still made his chest tighten.
—
the shower didn’t help.
if anything, standing under hot water only gave his thoughts more room to echo.
you’re overthinking.
he always smiles.
he smiles at everyone.
it’s just texting.
he said it’s not like that.
then why does it bother you?
martin closed his eyes.
because i think i already know the answer.
he stayed under the water until it began to cool.
eventually, he dried off, changed into an old hoodie and stepped back into the room.
the television was on.
muted.
city lights reflected against the windows.
james was sitting cross-legged on his bed.
his phone rested loosely in one hand.
it buzzed.
he looked down.
his expression softened.
the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile so small most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it.
then he typed a reply.
martin stood frozen beside the bathroom door for just a second too long.
something inside him sank.
quietly.
he wasn’t sure whether it was jealousy.
fear.
regret.
or simply the awful realisation that after six years…
he might finally be running out of time.