Chapter Text
The roar of the crowd was a living, breathing entity, a deafening wave of sound and vibrating bass that rattled the metal scaffolding beneath their boots. Even as the mechanical lift lowered them beneath the stage, the sheer volume of the arena followed them, bleeding through the floorboards and echoing down the cavernous, concrete corridors of the stadium. The air was thick with the scent of pyrotechnics, hairspray, and the heavy sweat of exhaustion.
Jung Wooyoung didn’t wait for the platform to fully settle. The second his boots hit the solid ground of the backstage area, he was moving. His chest heaved with the lingering, oxygen-deprived exhaustion of a relentless two-hour set, his damp hair sticking stubbornly to his forehead, but his strides were purposeful. Lethal. He was already working blindly at his waist, his fingers tugging aggressively at the heavy metal clip of his microphone pack, desperate to shed the weight of the performance.
He unlooped the molded in-ear monitors, letting the plastic dangle against his collarbones, craving the relative quiet. He walked fast, ducking under a stray lighting cable and weaving seamlessly through the chaotic labyrinth of the backstage area. He dodged a stylist holding out a towel, ignored the stage manager calling out a "good job," and slipped past a towering rack of heavily sequined stage outfits. He kept his head down, his jaw clenched so tightly that a sharp ache radiated up to his temples.
He needed to get to the dressing room. He needed to put a locked door between himself and the stage. More importantly, he needed to put distance between himself and the heavy, rapid footsteps that were currently pounding against the linoleum floor, tracking him through the crowd of staff members.
Wooyoung knew exactly who was following him. The rhythmic, determined thud of those boots was burned into his muscle memory, just like the heat of the body they belonged to. But he didn't slow down. He took a sharp right turn down a narrower, more dimly lit hallway, the pulsing neon of the exit signs casting long, frantic shadows against the cinderblock walls.
"What the fuck was that?"
The voice cut through the ambient backstage chatter like a whip. It wasn't spoken through a microphone, nor was it the polished, bright tone reserved for the cameras. It was raw, breathless, and laced with an unmistakable, dangerous edge of frustration.
Wooyoung didn't break his stride. He merely adjusted his grip on his damp towel, his boots continuing to carry him further down the corridor.
It was Choi San.
Of course it was San. Even without turning around, Wooyoung could picture him perfectly. San was likely trailing just a few feet behind, his chest rising and falling just as heavily, his dark, sharp eyes burning a hole right between Wooyoung's shoulder blades. San’s stage makeup would be slightly smudged from the intense choreography, his heavily embellished, dark velvet stage jacket catching the flickering fluorescent lights of the hallway, a striking contrast to the absolute thundercloud of his expression.
"What?" Wooyoung threw the single word over his shoulder, his voice remarkably steady despite the violent hammering of his heart against his ribs. He kept his pace brisk, his eyes fixed on the metal door at the end of the hall.
"Don't 'what' me," San snapped, his footsteps quickening, closing the gap between them. The heat radiating off his body was suddenly close enough to singe the hairs on the back of Wooyoung's neck. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, Wooyoung."
Wooyoung scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. He tilted his chin up, plastering on a picture-perfect mask of utter indifference. "It was nothing."
Before Wooyoung could take another step, a hand clamped down on his bicep. The grip was firm, uncompromising, and painfully familiar. The forward momentum was abruptly halted, spinning Wooyoung around faster than he had intended.
"Nothing?" San demanded.
This time, they were stopped. The chase was over.
San stepped into his space, forcing Wooyoung’s back against the cool, painted cinderblock wall of the corridor. The physical reality of San was suddenly overwhelming, the scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, the erratic, angry rhythm of his breathing, and the dark, stormy look in his eyes that held absolutely nothing glamorous. The heavy, suffocating tension that had been brewing, fermenting, and poisoning the air between them for the past month suddenly condensed into this tiny, narrow space.
"How the hell was that nothing?" San stepped closer, crowding him in, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper so the staff members passing by the intersection of the hallway wouldn't catch the conversation. "You were literally clinging to him for half the performance. I was watching you from the other side of the stage. You had your arms wrapped around his neck during the entire bridge!"
Wooyoung felt a twisted, ugly sense of satisfaction flare in his chest. It was a bitter victory over the icy wall of professionalism and boundaries San had been hiding behind lately. He maintained his nonchalant expression, leaning back against the wall with a lazy elegance that he knew would drive the older boy insane.
"So what?" Wooyoung challenged, his tone dripping with forced boredom. He pushed off the wall just an inch, leaning into San’s space so they were practically chest-to-chest. "It's called fanservice, San. You know how it works. The crowd loves it when we interact. Are you jealous or something?"
San’s jaw worked, a muscle ticking violently in his cheek. He looked like he was fighting a brutal war inside his own head, caught right on the bloody frontlines between the conservative, careful image he was so desperately trying to maintain, and the raw, unpolished, agonizing reality of whatever this was between them. They were standing so close that Wooyoung could see the way San's dark eyes darted down to his lips, lingering there for a fraction of a second before snapping back up, furious and utterly desperate.
"Yes," San hissed. The word tore out of his throat like a physical confession, like a dam finally breaking under impossible pressure. He reached out, his hands hovering for a split second before he slammed his palms flat against the concrete wall on either side of Wooyoung's head, trapping him in place. "Yes, I'm jealous. Of course I'm jealous. Why wouldn't I be jealous over you?"
The confession hung in the humid, electric air between them, heavy and dangerous. For a moment, just a fleeting second, Wooyoung’s carefully constructed armor cracked. He felt his breath hitch, his eyes widening slightly at the sheer vulnerability, the raw possessiveness burning in San’s gaze. It was the absolute truth, unfiltered, beautiful, and exactly what Wooyoung had been starving to hear for weeks. It was the San he knew, the San who belonged to him behind closed doors.
But then, the memory crashed over him. This one stupid video. The words echoed in Wooyoung's mind, acting like a bucket of ice water over the sudden warmth blooming in his chest.
Wooyoung’s expression hardened instantly. The smugness vanished, replaced by a deep, defensive, and biting anger.
"Why wouldn't you be jealous?" Wooyoung repeated, his voice dangerously low, laced with a venom that made San physically flinch. He brought his hands up, pressing them flat against San’s chest. He didn't push him away violently, but he applied enough pressure to establish a cold, undeniable physical barrier between them. "I don't know, San. Maybe because we aren't a couple?"
San froze, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes widened slightly as the words struck him, the color draining from his face. "Wooyoung—"
"No," Wooyoung snapped, his voice trembling slightly with the sheer force of his suppressed emotions. He hated how his voice shook, hated how much this still hurt. "Don't. What exactly is your problem? What do you want from me? We’re just friends, remember? You were the one who made sure everyone knew there was nothing else going on."
San opened his mouth, a desperate, conflicted look crossing his features, a plea dancing on his tongue, but no words managed to make it past his lips. The silence stretched between them, thick and agonizing, filled only by the distant, muffled thumping of the arena crew dismantling the stage.
"You said it yourself," Wooyoung whispered, the fiery anger suddenly draining out of him, leaving behind something cold, hollow, and terribly lonely. He ducked under San's arm, slipping out of the cage of his arms, and gave the older boy one last, unreadable look. "So now you have exactly what you wanted."
***
The silence of the dorm was suffocating. After the deafening roar of thirty thousand screaming fans and the chaotic, adrenaline-fueled shouting of the backstage crew, the quiet of the apartment felt heavy, almost oppressive.
Wooyoung slipped his shoes off in the entryway, barely registering the neat row of Hongjoong’s boots lined up against the wall. The leader was likely still at the company building, barricaded in his studio, which meant Wooyoung had the apartment entirely to himself. Usually, he hated the quiet. He was a creature of noise and motion, thriving on the chaotic energy of a crowded room. But tonight, he was grateful for the isolation. He didn't have the energy to paste on a bright smile or brush off questions about why he looked like he was about to shatter into a million jagged pieces.
He walked straight to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a soft, final click.
Without bothering to turn on the main overhead light, he made his way to the attached bathroom, illuminated only by the harsh, fluorescent glow above the sink. He leaned heavily against the marble counter, bracing his hands on either side of the basin, and finally looked at his reflection.
His eyes were slightly bloodshot, the heavy stage makeup smudged around the edges, making him look bruised and hollowed out. He reached for a cotton pad and a bottle of makeup remover, pouring the liquid with hands that were still visibly trembling.
The phantom sensation of San’s palms slamming against the cinderblock wall beside his head still buzzed beneath his skin. But worse than the ghost of the touch was the smell. He could still smell San’s cologne, a rich, dark scent of sandalwood and something distinctly spicy, clinging to his own clothes from where they had been pressed chest-to-chest.
But as Wooyoung breathed in, a bitter realization settled over him: the scent wasn't just on his jacket. It was in the air. It was woven into the heavy curtains of his bedroom, baked into the fibers of the rug, and permanently attached to the spare pillow on his bed. San didn't officially live here; he lived halfway across the city in the other dorm. Yet, San had spent so many nights sneaking into this exact room, curling his body around Wooyoung’s, that his presence was permanently etched into the very atmosphere of the space.
Why wouldn't I be jealous over you?
San’s desperate, furious confession echoed in the cramped bathroom, bouncing off the tiles. Wooyoung scrubbed at his dark eyeliner violently, his chest tightening until it physically ached.
It was so incredibly unfair.
For years, they had operated in this unspoken, beautifully tragic gray area. They weren't a couple. Not officially. There had never been a tearful confession, no late-night conversations about defining their relationship, no promise rings hidden on chains around their necks, even though they had tones of matching things. But they were everything else. They were tangled limbs under hotel covers at three in the morning. They were soft, breathless kisses stolen in the blind spots of security cameras. They were bruised lips, intertwined fingers, and a profound, bone-deep dependency that went so far beyond brotherhood it was almost laughable. They did everything a married couple did behind closed doors.
And yet, they never named it.
Wooyoung had never struggled with who he was. He had known for a long time that he liked guys; it had never been a world-shattering crisis for him, just a simple fact of his existence. He was comfortable in his own skin and fiercely unapologetic about his heart.
But he also knew San. Beneath the demonic performer who tore up the stage, Choi San was deeply cautious. He came from a more conservative background, and when it came to his own feelings, he treated them like a ticking time bomb. San hadn't even come to terms with it himself. Whenever the line between them blurred too much, whenever the reality of what they were doing threatened to surface, San would panic. He would deflect, change the subject, or literally walk out of the room, choosing instead to live in a state of willful denial.
And Wooyoung? Wooyoung had let him.
It was a silent, universally understood rule between them: San didn't want to define it. The mere thought of putting a name to what they were—of acknowledging the heavy, terrifying reality of their situation—overwhelmed the older boy to the point of suffocation. That was the real reason those three words were never spoken aloud. Wooyoung had swallowed his own confessions countless times because he knew San simply wasn't ready, and the most agonizing part was the uncertainty of whether he ever would be. Sometimes, in the darkest, quietest hours of the night, a toxic doubt would creep into Wooyoung's mind. He would stare at the ceiling and wonder if San actually felt the same profound love, or if this was just a convenient physical need—a comfortable, desperate habit built over years of proximity. Everything they shared felt so impossibly deep, but the crushing reality remained: their relationship might stay nameless forever, simply because San refused to be brave enough to claim it.
For years, they had been trapped in this exhausting cycle, pretending everything was perfectly fine. They played the convenient roles of best friends who simply reaped the physical benefits of their closeness, behaving exactly like a devoted couple in private while remaining completely untethered in reality. And as the years bled into one another, Wooyoung had simply gotten used to it. Trapped in this indefinite limbo for so long, he had become irrevocably addicted to San, believing this was the only real relationship he would ever be allowed to build with him. He had wanted to claim San. God, he wanted to call San his boyfriend more than anything in the world. He wanted to force the issue, to sit San down and make him say the words out loud. But he never did. He had swallowed his own desires, biting his tongue every single time the question burned in his throat, because he was absolutely terrified. He knew how fragile San's acceptance of this was, and he lived in constant, paralyzing fear that if he pushed too hard, if he demanded a label that San wasn't ready for, San would bolt. He would lose him entirely. So, Wooyoung had settled for the shadows. He had accepted the unspoken half-measures, convinced that having pieces of San in the dark was better than not having him at all. But now, standing in the cold, painful aftermath of everything that had happened between them over the past few weeks, the illusion was finally shattering. Wooyoung realized, with a soul-crushing clarity, that it shouldn't be like this. Surviving on crumbs in the shadows wasn't enough anymore, and it was slowly killing him.
His mind cruelly draged him back to that sterile, brightly lit studio two weeks ago.
It was the shoot for Episode Zero of their new YouTube channel. They had sat side-by-side at a sleek white table, clipboards in front of them, playfully brainstorming pledges for reaching their goal of 500,000 views. Wooyoung had been leaning into it, feeling brave, feeling safe in the bubble they usually occupied. He had smiled, looking over at San, and casually suggested they get a second matching tattoo. He had even pushed it a step further, joking that they should film the whole process, from sketching the designs to officially asking their parents for permission.
But the moment the words asking our parents left his mouth, Wooyoung had seen the unmistakable, terrifying flash of panic in San's eyes. San had immediately stiffened, shutting the idea down with a nervous, strained laugh. Don't say things like that, he had muttered, deflecting rapidly.
Wooyoung should have known then. But nothing could have prepared him for what happened after the cut.
San had turned slightly, looking directly into the rolling camera. His posture was casually relaxed, his voice ringing with a terrifying, devastating finality. "Anyway, while I have the chance, let me just say this here. We're not dating."
Wooyoung remembered freezing at first, thank God the camera wasn’t focused on his face. Then he started laughing hard, making sure that it don’t look uncomfortable. It was just a sentence, And it was true, nothing else.
But San hadn't stopped there. He had doubled down, driving the nail directly into the coffin. "We're just really good friends...”
Standing in the cold glow of the bathroom lights, the memory was a physical ache, a sharp blade twisting relentlessly right under his ribs. Wooyoung’s free hand dropped to his side, his trembling fingers brushing against his right thigh. Beneath the heavy, sweat-dampened fabric of his stage pants lay the Amicus ad aras tattoo.
Friends to the very end.
When they had gotten it, sitting side-by-side in that sterile tattoo parlor, their hands tightly interlocked while the needle buzzed, it was supposed to be a permanent mark of their unbreakable bond. A solemn promise that no matter what happened, they belonged to each other, a secret written in ink and blood.
But right now, pressing his fingertips against the thick denim over the spot, it felt like a brand. It was a mocking, permanent reminder of his own agonizing foolishness. A sudden, violent wave of nausea washed over him, accompanied by a desperate, irrational urge to claw at his own skin. He wanted to strip off his pants and rake his fingernails over the ink until it bled. He wanted to take something sharp, a razor, a needle, anything he could find in the bathroom cabinets, and dig the words right out of his thigh. He wanted to physically scrape away the permanent proof of his devotion so he wouldn't have to carry the heavy, suffocating weight of San's cowardice on his body for the rest of his life. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have permanently marked his own flesh for a boy who couldn't even look into a camera and admit they were something more than a PR-approved friendship?
”Friends my ass” he whispered to himself.
A ragged breath tore through Wooyoung’s throat, pulling him back to the harsh reality of the fluorescent-lit bathroom. His reflection stared back at him, pale, exhausted, and utterly defeated. With a sudden burst of frantic, angry energy, he grabbed the makeup wipe and scrubbed at his face, no longer caring about being gentle. He rubbed at the dark eyeliner and the heavy foundation until his skin was flushed and raw, stinging in protest against the harsh friction. He threw the stained cotton pad into the trash can with unnecessary force, gripping the edges of the sink until his knuckles turned stark white.
He needed to wash it all off. He needed to wash away the concert, the sweat, the backstage hallway, and the lingering ghost of San’s touch.
Stripping off his stage clothes with jerky, uncoordinated movements, Wooyoung left the expensive garments in a crumpled heap on the floor. He stepped into the glass shower enclosure and wrenched the handle, turning the dial all the way up. The water blasted out, scalding hot, beating down on his tense shoulders and sliding down his back. It stung his skin, turning it a bright, angry red, but the physical discomfort was a welcome distraction from the hollow, aching void in his chest. He leaned his forehead against the wet, cold tiles, letting the steam rise around him in thick, suffocating clouds.
As the hot water cascaded over him, Wooyoung closed his eyes, and San’s furious, jealous face from the hallway flashed behind his eyelids. Why wouldn't I be jealous over you?
The sheer audacity of it made a bitter, humorless laugh bubble up in Wooyoung’s throat, echoing strangely in the small space. If they were just friends, Wooyoung had decided weeks ago, then he was going to act exactly like it. He was petty. He knew that about himself; it was an ugly flaw he usually tried to keep in check, but when he was deeply hurt, he lashed out. If San wanted boundaries, Wooyoung was going to build heavily fortified, impenetrable walls. He had stopped reaching for San in the makeup chairs. He had stopped seeking him out in the practice room. And, most effectively, he had started directing all his natural, tactile affection elsewhere, draping himself over the other members and laughing loudly at their jokes.
It was a test, and San had failed it spectacularly tonight.
San’s jealousy had been entirely predictable, yet entirely maddening. San wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He wanted the fierce, unwavering devotion of a lover, the total exclusivity of a boyfriend, but only the public commitment of a roommate. He wanted the right to possess Wooyoung without ever having to face the reality of what that meant about himself.
"You don't get to do that," Wooyoung whispered to the empty, steam-filled shower, the sound of the rushing water barely drowning out the violent crack in his voice. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his wet palms flat against the tiles.
He stayed under the spray until the water began to run lukewarm, scrubbing at his skin with a loofah until it was entirely devoid of any residual stage grime. But more than anything, he was trying desperately to scrub the phantom sensation of San’s hands off his arms.
Finally shutting off the water, Wooyoung stepped out onto the bathmat, shivering slightly as the cooler air of the bathroom hit his damp skin. He reached for a towel, dragging it roughly through his wet hair, and threw on an oversized, worn-out t-shirt and loose gray sweatpants. The adrenaline that had sustained him through the concert and the fight had completely crashed, leaving behind a bone-deep, paralyzing exhaustion. His limbs felt like lead, heavy and uncooperative.
He opened the bathroom door, intending to collapse onto his mattress and sleep for fourteen hours straight. But the second he stepped into his bedroom, his breath caught in his throat.
The scent of sandalwood hit him like a physical blow.
It wasn't just a faint trace anymore; it felt thick, overwhelming, and everywhere. The steam from the bathroom had somehow amplified the scent, dragging it out of the fibers of the rug and the heavy curtains. It clung to the sheets of his bed, permanently attached to the spare pillow where San used to bury his face in the early hours of the morning. The air in the room was suddenly too thin, saturated with the ghost of a relationship that didn't officially exist.
A fresh, violent wave of nausea rolled through his stomach, making him gag dryly. The bed, the pillows, the very walls of his bedroom felt like a suffocating trap, perfectly tailored to drown him in memories of everything he couldn't have. He couldn't breathe here. If he lay down in that bed, surrounded by the smell of the boy who had just broken his heart, he would absolutely lose his mind.
Dropping the damp towel onto the floor, Wooyoung turned on his heel. He didn't bother turning on a single light. He fled the bedroom, padding barefoot down the short hallway and stepping out into the dark, silent, and wonderfully empty expanse of the living room, desperate to find a space that didn't belong to Choi San.
***
Wooyoung didn't remember falling asleep. His exhaustion must have simply pulled him under the moment his body hit the cushions of the living room sofa, dragging him into a shallow, restless state of unconsciousness.
He was pulled back to reality hours later by a sudden, grounding warmth.
It settled over him gently, the heavy, comforting weight of a thick fleece blanket being draped over his shivering shoulders. Wooyoung was a naturally light sleeper, his senses always somewhat alert even in the dark, and the subtle shift in the air was enough to make his heavy eyelids flutter open.
Through the dim, bluish light of the streetlamps filtering in through the balcony blinds, he could make out the glowing green digits on the kitchen microwave. 3:14 AM.
A shadow moved beside the couch. Wooyoung blinked, his vision slowly adjusting, to find Hongjoong standing over him. The older boy was still in his studio clothes, an oversized hoodie and a beanie, his hand hovering over the edge of the blanket he had just carefully tucked around Wooyoung.
"Sorry," Hongjoong whispered, his voice raspy from exhaustion. He pulled his hand back, shoving it into his pocket. "I didn't mean to wake you."
Wooyoung shifted slightly, pulling the fleece tighter around his neck. His throat felt dry and scratchy. "It's fine. You just get back?"
Capitain nodded, running a hand over his face. He looked down at Wooyoung, his sharp eyes taking in the younger boy's curled-up posture, the swollen red tint around his eyes, and the sheer wrongness of him sleeping on the cramped living room sofa when his perfectly comfortable bed was just down the hall.
"What are you doing out here, Young-ah?" Boy asked, keeping his voice carefully low.
Wooyoung looked away, staring at the coffee table. He could lie. He could say the AC in his room was broken, or that he had just sat down for a minute and passed out. But this was Hongjoong. As the leader, he saw everything, even the things the rest of them desperately tried to hide.
Hongjoong had never been the overly affectionate type. He wasn't the kind of person to pull you into a dramatic, tearful hug or demand that you spill your deepest, darkest secrets. But he was a profound, silent pillar of support. He was a meticulous listener. Also he was his roommate so he knows him well. Wooyoung had always appreciated that about him, especially tonight. Wooyoung was hanging onto his composure by a single, frayed thread, preferring to swallow his grief and process the bitter heartbreak internally. If Hongjoong pushed too hard, Wooyoung knew he would completely fall apart, and he was too tired to cry anymore.
"My room," Wooyoung finally mumbled, his voice sounding incredibly small in the quiet apartment. He didn't look up. "I couldn't sleep in there tonight."
Hongjoong didn't ask why. He simply let out a quiet sigh, sinking down onto the edge of the coffee table so he was at eye level with Wooyoung. He rested his elbows on his knees, his expression unreadable but incredibly soft. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots. The tension radiating off Wooyoung and San during the concert had been thick enough to cut with a knife, and Hongjoong knew exactly what Wooyoung meant by that.
"San?" Hongjoong asked softly.
Wooyoung just gave a single, jerky nod. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the sudden, pathetic sting of tears to go away. "I can't... I just can't breathe in there right now, Hyung."
A comfortable, understanding silence stretched between them, accompanied only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Hongjoong didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't tell Wooyoung that things would magically get better in the morning, or that San didn't mean it, because they both knew San was a complicated, stubborn idiot who had dug his own grave.
"He's a fool, you know," Hongjoong said simply, the quiet statement carrying the heavy weight of an absolute truth. "I love him as much as I love you but he’s still a stubborn, cowardly fool."
A tiny, bitter smile tugged at the corner of Wooyoung's mouth. Hearing someone else validate his anger felt like a cool balm on a burning wound. "Yeah. He is."
"You don't have to carry it all by yourself," Hongjoong added, his tone entirely casual, though the intent behind it was fiercely protective. "You know that, right?"
"I know," Wooyoung whispered. He opened his eyes, looking at his leader with a deep, silent gratitude. He didn't need to explain the YouTube video, the tattoo, or the screaming match in the hallway. Hongjoong understood enough.
He patted Wooyoung's blanket-covered knee gently, then stood up, his joints popping slightly in the quiet room. "You should probably go sleep in a real bed. Your back is going to kill you tomorrow, and we have a morning schedule. You can take my bed if you want. I can sleep out here."
Wooyoung shook his head, burying his face deeper into the fleece blanket. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the stale air of the living room, but it was incredibly grounding. It was safe.
"No, it's okay," Wooyoung murmured, letting his eyes slide shut as the exhaustion finally pulled him back under. "I think I'll just sleep here tonight."
"Alright," Hongjoong replied softly. He reached over, turning off the small lamp in the corner, plunging the room back into a comfortable darkness. "Goodnight, Wooyoung."
”Joongie, wait.” He said before the older boy left the room.
„Yeah?”
”I know you love me more”
Hongjoong froze halfway to the hallway. A soft, genuine huff of laughter escaped his lips, cutting through the heavy silence of the apartment. Hearing that faint, bratty spark in Wooyoung’s voice, even when he was so clearly shattered, was the biggest relief Hongjoong had felt all night.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder with a fond, exhausted smile that Wooyoung could barely make out in the dark.
"Don't push your luck, brat," Hongjoong shot back, his voice dropping into a low, affectionate whisper. "But yeah. Tonight, I definitely do. Go to sleep."
With a final, comforting shake of his head, the older boy disappeared down the hall, leaving Wooyoung to finally drift off with a slightly lighter heart.
"Night, Hyung."
Wooyoung let out a long, shaky breath. The ache in his chest hadn't disappeared, it would likely stay there for a very long time, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but as he curled tighter into the blanket, the oppressive weight of it finally felt just a little bit lighter.