Archive of Our Own

The digital clock above the mirrored wall blinked 11:47 p.m..

The red numbers the only real color left in a room that had gone gray with exhaustion. Outside, Seoul kept moving — car horns bleeding faintly through the glass, the hum of the city too far below to matter. In here, the only sound was the tick of the wall clock and the occasional creak of the floor settling.

The practice room was almost empty.

Everyone else had already left. Seonghyeon had peeled off first, muttering something about his knee and disappearing before the door had even finished closing behind him. Juhoon and Keonho had gone not long after, still bickering about whose turn it was to buy dinner, their voices trailing off down the hallway until the building swallowed them whole.

Martin was still on the floor, back against the mirror, knees drawn up, a notebook balanced on one thigh. The overhead speakers had gone silent nearly twenty minutes ago. He hadn't moved to turn them back on. He hadn't moved much at all.

He stared at the same page he'd been staring at for the better part of an hour.

He hadn't written a single new word.

The pen sat loosely in his fingers, more prop than tool at this point, and every so often he'd press the tip to the paper like he meant to write something — and then stop. The blank space under the half-finished first line felt less like an absence of ideas and more like a mirror of something he didn't want to look at directly.

The door opened.

Martin looked up on reflex, some old habit of a hundred late nights where you learned to notice who was coming and going.

James stood in the doorway, two bottles of water in one hand, looking — infuriatingly — like a person who had slept recently, showered recently, existed as a person who took care of himself. He had that easy, loose-shouldered posture he always fell into after a long day, like exhaustion simply rolled off him instead of soaking in.

"You're still here?"

Martin closed the notebook, feeling suddenly exposed even though James hadn't asked to see it.

"So are you."

"I came back for my phone." James held it up, phone screen dark, like offering evidence in a trial no one was running.

Martin nodded slowly. "Congratulations."

James laughed — quiet, low, the kind of laugh that lived mostly in his chest — and crossed the room, footsteps soft against the practice floor. He didn't sit far away. He never really did, even when he tried to make it look accidental.

"You haven't gone home."

"Neither have you."

"I told you. Phone."

"Convenient excuse."

"Maybe." James dropped down beside him, leaving exactly enough space between their shoulders that it could be read as casual, and exactly little enough that it wasn't.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Rain had started sometime in the last hour — Martin hadn't noticed when — and it tapped lightly against the tall windows along the far wall, streaking the reflected practice-room lights into long smears of gold and white.

James glanced sideways at the notebook still in Martin's lap.

"What are you writing?"

"Nothing."

"You've been staring at that page for twenty minutes."

Martin frowned, feeling caught. "Were you watching me?"

"I was looking for my phone."

"You found it five minutes ago."

A pause. James tipped his head back against the mirror, considering, then let out a breath that was almost a laugh at his own expense.

"Okay. Maybe I was watching you."

Martin looked away fast, jaw tight against the smile trying to break loose. "You're weird."

"That's not news."

James held out the second water bottle, unopened, condensation already beading along the plastic. Martin took it, fingers brushing James's for exactly as long as it took to transfer the bottle and not one second more.

"Thanks."

"You say that like it costs you something."

"Maybe it does."

Another silence settled between them — but this one didn't feel like the awkward, empty kind from earlier. This one had weight to it, warmth, like the room had exhaled.

James let his head fall sideways, studying Martin's profile in the mirror across from them instead of looking at him directly, which somehow made it easier to say what came next.

"You know you don't have to stay until midnight every night."

"I know."

"You don't have to be perfect."

Martin's fingers tightened slightly around the water bottle, plastic crackling faintly under the pressure. "Easy for you to say."

James turned his head properly now. "Why?"

"Because you're good. Actually good. You don't have to fight for it."

"So are you."

"You don't have to say that just because you feel like you're supposed to."

"I know I don't have to." James's voice dropped, losing its usual teasing edge. "I'm saying it because it's true."

Martin finally looked at him. James wasn't smiling anymore. His expression had gone quiet and serious in a way that felt almost unfamiliar on him, like watching someone take off a costume they usually wore so well you forgot it was one.

"You're good, Martin."

Something in Martin's chest pulled tight, a small and sudden ache he didn't have a name for yet.

"Thanks," he said again, softer this time, and meant it differently than the first time.

James nodded, seeming satisfied, like he'd delivered something he needed to deliver. Then, after a beat, he pushed himself to his feet.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"Home."

Martin raised an eyebrow. "Are you ordering me around now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired, you're tired, and tomorrow we're both going to regret staying here this late." James held a hand down toward him, palm open.

Martin looked at the empty room — the mirrors, the dark corners, the notebook full of nothing — and then up at James's outstretched hand.

"Fine."

He let himself be pulled up. Their palms stayed pressed together maybe half a second longer than necessary before James let go and turned toward the door.

Halfway there, Martin realized his notebook was still on the floor.

"Wait —"

He jogged back, snatched it up, and hurried after James, who was watching him from the doorway with an expression somewhere between fondness and exasperation.

"You'd lose your head if it wasn't attached to you."

"Very funny."

"I try."

They stepped out into the hallway together. The overhead lights had been dimmed for the night, the building settled into that particular hush that only exists after everyone reasonable has already gone home. Their footsteps echoed faintly against the tile.

Martin walked beside James without saying much of anything, but their shoulders brushed once, accidentally, on a turn toward the elevators.

Neither of them moved away.

It happened again a few steps later — less accidental this time, though neither would have admitted that under oath.

Still, neither of them moved away.

James glanced sideways. Martin caught him doing it.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I know."

Martin smiled despite himself, ducking his head so James wouldn't see quite how wide it went.

For some reason, neither of them seemed in any hurry to reach the elevator, even though it was right there, even though it was late, even though tomorrow would come whether they were ready for it or not.

And neither of them noticed that, for the first time all night, Martin wasn't thinking about the blank page in his notebook anymore.

He was thinking about James — the particular quiet of his voice when he'd said *you're good, Martin*, the warmth of his palm, the way rain looked caught in the reflection of his eyes.

He carried that thought all the way home, through the elevator ride where they stood a little too close, through the quiet goodnight at the corner where their paths finally split, through the walk up to his own apartment where he sat on the edge of his bed for a long time before finally opening the notebook again.

He still didn't write anything.

But for the first time in weeks, the blank page didn't feel like failure. It felt like waiting for something.

---

The next morning, Martin arrived at the studio seven minutes early.

He told himself it had nothing to do with James. It was simply better to arrive early — fewer people in the changing room, more time to stretch, less chance of getting stuck behind Juhoon hogging the only mirror with good lighting. That was all. That was the entire reason.

He dropped his bag by the wall and started stretching, working slowly through his shoulders, his back, trying to loosen muscles that had been tight since the night before — though whether that was from dance or from lying awake replaying a conversation, he wasn't ready to examine.

The door opened.

Martin glanced up on instinct.

James walked in carrying two coffees, hair still damp from a shower, looking entirely too pleased with himself for seven-fifty in the morning.

"You're early."

"So are you."

James crossed the room and held one of the cups out to him. Martin stared at it like it might be a trick.

"What's this?"

"Coffee."

"I can see that."

"You looked tired yesterday." James said it simply, like it wasn't a big deal, like he hadn't gone out of his way to remember, to order, to carry two cups across the city instead of one.

Martin took it slowly. "You remembered how I take it?"

James shrugged, but there was something a little too careful in the gesture, like he was working hard to make it look effortless. "It's coffee. Not exactly difficult to remember."

Martin looked down at the cup. His name was written across the side in James's blocky, slightly impatient handwriting.

He smiled before he could stop himself. "You wrote my name."

"Obviously."

"You could've just handed it to me. You know which one is mine."

"I could have."

"But you wrote my name anyway."

James's mouth curved, something warm and a little shy flickering behind the usual teasing. "You're overthinking it."

"I am not."

"You definitely are."

Before Martin could argue further, the door swung open again and the room filled fast — Seonghyeon complaining loudly about the elevator being out, Juhoon trailing behind him mid-argument about breakfast, Keonho weaving through both of them with headphones already in. The quiet moment dissolved into noise, footsteps, someone's playlist blasting from a phone speaker.

But Martin kept the coffee cup even after it was empty, tucked it into the side pocket of his bag instead of throwing it away, and told himself that meant nothing either.

---

Practice was harder than usual.

Their instructor made them repeat the same eight-count over and over, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind her glasses.

"From the beginning."

They started.

"Again."

They started again.

"Again."

By the fifth repetition, Martin's legs burned and his breath had gone ragged, sweat sliding down the back of his neck despite the air conditioning working overtime. He missed a step on the turn — just slightly, just enough.

"Sorry."

"Reset," the instructor said flatly, and they reset.

This time, James missed the exact same step. Martin looked over, startled, and James gave him the smallest shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. *We're even.*

Martin almost laughed out loud in the middle of formation, had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it in.

The next attempt went perfectly. All five of them landed the final pose in sync, breathing hard, and their instructor finally nodded and waved a hand toward the water station like a small mercy granted.

Everyone collapsed in different directions around the room. Martin sat against the far wall, chest heaving, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back. James dropped down beside him a moment later, tossing a towel into his lap.

"You survived."

"Barely."

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time."

James laughed, wiping his own face with the end of his shirt, collarbone visible for a second before he tugged the fabric back down. Martin looked away, at the ceiling, at anything else.

They sat in silence for a while, catching their breath, the room slowly emptying out around them as the others drifted toward the vending machines down the hall.

Then James spoke, quieter now. "Can I ask you something?"

Martin glanced over. "Sure."

"Why were you writing last night? Really."

Martin hesitated, tracing a line in the sweat on the floor with the toe of his shoe. "Just lyrics."

"About what?"

"Nothing."

James smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "You always say nothing."

"Because it's usually nothing."

"Then why do you look like it's something, every time I ask?"

Martin didn't have an answer for that. He looked down at his hands instead, turning the towel over between his fingers.

James didn't push. He leaned his head back against the wall, giving Martin room to breathe.

"You don't have to tell me," he said, gentler now.

Martin exhaled slowly. "It's about being afraid."

James turned his head, watching him properly now. "Afraid of what?"

"Of not being good enough. Of everyone finding out I'm just — pretending to be fine."

James was quiet for a long moment, longer than Martin expected. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost all of its usual lightness.

"I think everyone feels that. More than you'd think."

"Do you?"

"Sometimes." A pause. "Especially me, actually."

Martin looked at him, genuinely surprised. "You? You always look like you know exactly what you're doing."

"That's the performance." James laughed, short and a little rueful. "I'm terrified most of the time. I just got good at hiding it before you did."

Martin's mouth curved despite himself. "That's strangely comforting."

"Glad my suffering helps somebody."

Martin laughed — a real laugh this time, surprised out of him, the sound bouncing faintly off the mirrored walls. James's whole face changed when he heard it, something soft and pleased breaking through.

"There it is again."

"What?"

"That laugh."

Martin shook his head, cheeks warming. "You're obsessed with it."

"Maybe."

The word slipped out before James seemed to fully mean to say it, hanging there in the space between them. Martin went still. James looked away first, jaw tightening slightly, like he was already regretting it.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. The room felt suddenly, impossibly quiet, the kind of quiet that has its own gravity.

Finally, Martin asked, barely above a whisper, "Maybe?"

James rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting Martin's eyes. "I mean — I like hearing you laugh. That's all. It's a good sound."

Martin's heart did something complicated in his chest. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Another silence. This one was different from every silence that had come before it — charged, uncertain, both of them very aware of how close their shoulders were, how easy it would be to close the last few inches between them.

Then, from across the room: "Are you two coming or what?" Keonho's voice, distant and oblivious, cutting through the moment like scissors through thread.

James was on his feet almost instantly. "Yeah! Coming!"

Martin stood too, a beat slower, legs still a little unsteady — though he couldn't have said whether that was from practice or something else entirely.

As they crossed the room toward the others, their hands brushed once, lightly, at their sides.

This time, neither of them pretended not to notice.

And for the rest of the day — through lunch, through vocal practice, through the long ride home in the van with Seonghyeon's playlist blaring too loud — Martin couldn't stop thinking about one single word.

Maybe.

---

The next few days passed strangely — nothing had changed on the surface, and yet somehow everything had shifted a few degrees underneath it.

James still teased Martin mercilessly during practice, still stole bites off his plate at meals without asking, still bumped his shoulder against Martin's in the hallway like it was the most natural thing in the world. Martin still complained loudly every time, still swatted his hand away from his food, still rolled his eyes hard enough to strain something.

But now there was something humming beneath all of it. A question neither of them had asked out loud yet, sitting quietly in every glance that lasted half a second too long.

One evening, after a particularly grueling vocal session, Martin left the building to find James already outside, leaning against the wall near the studio's side entrance, hands in his pockets, watching the street.

"You're waiting for someone?"

James turned. "You."

Martin stopped walking. "Me?"

"I thought we could walk home together. It's not raining tonight, for once." James pushed off the wall, falling into step beside him without waiting for an actual answer, like he already knew what it would be.

Martin let himself smile. "Okay."

They walked through streets that had gone quiet with early evening, past shuttered shopfronts and the warm glow of a convenience store on the corner, talking about everything — the new choreography, Seonghyeon's terrible taste in variety shows, whether Juhoon was ever going to admit he couldn't actually cook — except the one thing that seemed to hover just behind every sentence.

At the corner near the convenience store, James stopped walking.

"Martin."

"Yeah?"

James looked at him — really looked, the streetlight catching the side of his face, his expression unusually open.

For one long second, Martin thought he was finally going to say it, whatever *it* was. His pulse picked up, waiting.

Instead, James's mouth curved into something smaller, safer. "Nothing."

Martin let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, half relief and half disappointment. "You're impossible."

"I know."

But they were both smiling as they kept walking, shoulders brushing every few steps, and the almost-confession trailed quietly behind them the whole way home, patient, unhurried, waiting for its moment.

---

Martin noticed it during lunch, in the cafeteria on the third floor where the light always came in too bright through the west windows.

James was laughing with one of the trainees from another team — head tipped back, easy and unguarded, the same laugh he sometimes aimed at Martin across a practice room. It shouldn't have bothered him. It was nothing. James was like that with everyone; that was simply who he was, warm and open and generous with his attention.

It bothered him anyway.

He looked down at his tray, pushing rice around with his chopsticks without actually eating any of it.

"You okay?" Keonho asked, dropping into the seat across from him, tray clattering slightly.

"Fine."

"You're staring."

"I wasn't."

Keonho raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, glancing briefly over his shoulder toward whatever — or whoever — Martin had been staring at. Martin immediately became very interested in his food.

Across the room, James glanced over, catching Martin's eye by accident. Their gazes held for half a second too long before Martin looked away first, jaw tight.

Later, after lunch, James caught up with him in the hallway, falling into step beside him with none of his usual ease.

"Did I do something?"

"No."

"You're avoiding me."

"I'm not."

"You are. You've barely looked at me all day."

Martin stopped walking, turning to face him. "Why do you even care?"

James blinked, looking genuinely thrown by the question. "Because you're my friend."

The word landed wrong. It shouldn't have — it was true, it was the safest, most accurate word available — but it hurt anyway, a small sharp thing lodging somewhere under Martin's ribs.

He nodded, jaw tight. "Right."

He walked away before James could say anything else, before his face could give away more than he wanted it to.

James stood there in the empty hallway, watching him go, something uneasy settling in his chest.

For the first time, he found himself wondering whether friend had ever been the right word at all — or whether he'd just been too afraid to reach for the one that actually fit.

---

The rain started halfway through evening rehearsal, sudden and heavy, drumming against the studio's high windows until it drowned out the music entirely. By the time they finished, the streets outside had gone slick and silver, streetlights smearing across wet pavement.

Martin stood just inside the entrance, staring out at it with his bag held uselessly against his chest.

"I forgot my umbrella."

James, beside him, already had his open. "Then you're coming with me."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know." He said it simply, already stepping out into the rain, umbrella tilted back toward Martin in clear invitation.

Martin hesitated only a second before ducking under it with him.

The umbrella was small — too small, really, built for one person walking alone — and their shoulders pressed together immediately, rain misting in at the edges despite James's best efforts to keep it tilted over both of them.

"You're getting wet," Martin said, glancing at the damp line spreading across the sleeve of James's jacket.

"So are you."

"You're holding it too far over me."

James glanced sideways, something soft flickering across his face. "Maybe I don't mind."

Martin looked at him properly then — really looked, rain falling in sheets just past the umbrella's edge, streetlights turning every drop briefly gold before it hit the ground. For once there were no cameras trained on them, no staff hovering nearby with schedules and timelines, no fans waiting at the gate. Just the two of them, and the rain, and the narrow dry space between.

James said quietly, "I like this."

Martin's voice came out barely above the sound of the rain. "Me too."

Neither of them said out loud what this actually meant — whether it was the rain, or the walk, or simply the fact of standing close enough to share warmth on a cold night — but they both understood it anyway, and that understanding walked home with them the whole way, unspoken and enormous.

---

Someone posted a photo from that day's practice session — nothing official, just a fan-taken shot through the studio's glass wall, grainy and slightly blurred. It showed James and Martin sitting side by side during a break, heads tilted toward each other, mid-conversation.

Nothing unusual, on the surface.

Except the comments noticed everything.

Look at how they're leaning in.

James isn't even looking at the camera, he's looking at Martin.

The way Martin's smiling omg

Martin scrolled through far more of them than he should have, thumb moving on autopilot, each comment landing somewhere he didn't want it to. He finally closed the app and set his phone face-down on the table, chest tight.

James noticed, dropping into the seat beside him during their next break. "Don't read them."

"I wasn't."

"You were. I can tell by your face."

Martin sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "What if people notice?"

James sat back slightly. "Notice what?"

Martin couldn't quite make himself say it directly. He stared at the table instead, throat tight.

James waited, patient, not pushing.

Finally, barely audible: "Us."

Something shifted in James's expression — careful, guarded in a way Martin hadn't seen from him before.

"There isn't an us," James said, and his voice was gentle, almost apologetic, like he knew exactly how the words would land even as he said them.

Martin looked down at his hands. "Right."

The word cost more than either of them expected.

James regretted it almost the instant it left his mouth — watched Martin's shoulders curl inward, watched something close off behind his eyes — because the truth, the actual truth sitting underneath the careful denial, was that he wanted there to be an us. Badly. He just didn't know yet how to say so without breaking something neither of them had named.

---

They argued for the first time over something that should have been small.

James wanted Martin to rest — an actual day off, no extra vocal drills, no staying behind after everyone else had gone home. Martin wanted to keep practicing, convinced one more run-through would fix the thing that wasn't broken to begin with.

"You don't have to prove anything," James said, frustration edging into his voice for the first time Martin could remember.

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me!"

Martin went quiet, jaw working, arms crossed tight over his chest like he could hold himself together through sheer pressure alone.

James's frustration drained out of him almost as fast as it had risen, replaced by something closer to worry.

Finally, quietly, Martin said, "I'm scared that if I stop pushing, I'll fall behind. That everyone will realize I was never actually good enough to keep up."

James stared at him. "You think I'll leave you behind?"

"No—"

"You do. I can hear it."

Martin looked away, throat tight.

James stepped closer, close enough that Martin had to either look at him or very deliberately not. "I wouldn't. I couldn't."

Martin's eyes went glassy despite his best effort to blink it back. "You can't promise that. Things change. People change."

James's voice dropped, losing every trace of its earlier heat. "Maybe I can't promise everything. I don't know what happens five years from now, ten years from now. Nobody does."

He paused, close enough now that Martin could feel the warmth coming off him.

"But I can promise I'm not leaving tonight. And I'm not leaving tomorrow either."

Martin finally looked at him, something in his chest cracking open just slightly.

Neither of them said anything else. The argument ended without either side conceding a single point on paper — but somehow, standing there in the quiet aftermath, they understood each other better than they had an hour before.

---

It happened after midnight. Again. The same practice room, the same low hum of the overhead lights, the same rain-streaked windows as though the universe kept resetting the scene until they finally got it right.

Martin sat on the floor, back against the mirror, notebook closed beside him this time — no pretense of writing tonight.

James sat down next to him, close enough that their knees nearly touched.

"You know what I realized?" James asked.

"What?"

"We keep ending up here. Same room, same time, practically every week."

Martin huffed a small laugh. "Maybe we're just bad at going home."

"Maybe."

James looked at him — and this time, he didn't look away first. His expression had none of its usual armor, none of the easy deflection he wore like a second skin.

"I like you."

Martin froze completely, breath catching somewhere in his chest.

James kept going before he could lose his nerve. "Not just as a friend. I've been trying to tell myself it was something smaller than this for weeks, and it isn't. It's not smaller. It's — a lot, actually."

Silence stretched between them, thick and enormous.

Martin stared at him, heart pounding so loudly he was half convinced James could hear it. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed — a nervous, disbelieving sound.

"You took forever."

James blinked. "What?"

"I've been waiting. For weeks. I thought I was imagining it."

"You knew?"

"Not completely. I hoped." Martin's mouth curved into something soft and a little shy. "I really hoped."

James let out a breath that was half laugh, half relief. "So — what now?"

Martin's smile widened, all the earlier ache dissolving into something warmer. "Now you kiss me, maybe, instead of just saying maybe at everything."

James huffed a laugh — and then, slowly, like he wanted to give Martin every chance to pull back and none of them came, he leaned in and did exactly that.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't like the movies, no swelling music, no rain against the window even though there had been earlier. It was just quiet and a little uncertain and warm, James's hand coming up to rest lightly against Martin's jaw like he wasn't entirely sure he was allowed, Martin's fingers curling into the front of his shirt like he was afraid this might disappear if he let go.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads still close, Martin was smiling too hard to speak properly.

"I like you too," he finally managed. "In case that wasn't obvious."

James laughed, resting his forehead fully against Martin's now. "It's obvious now."

For once, there was no almost left hanging in the air between them.

They had finally said it. Finally done something about it. And the practice room, midnight-quiet and rain-streaked, felt for the first time like exactly where they were supposed to be.

---

Dating didn't immediately change anything, not on the outside. They still practiced the same brutal hours. They still argued over nothing — whose turn it was to grab water, whether James's harmony actually worked in the bridge or just sounded like it did in his head. Martin still swatted James's hand away every time he reached for food off his plate, though he'd stopped meaning it quite as much.

But underneath the sameness, tiny differences had crept in everywhere.

A hand brushing another's on purpose now instead of by accident. A quiet smile thrown across a crowded room that meant something only the two of them understood. Messages sent late at night, after schedules ended and everyone else had gone quiet.

Did you eat?

Go to sleep, it's late.

Good luck tomorrow. You'll do fine.

Martin quickly discovered that James was, somehow, terrible at romantic texting — his messages blunt and practical even when clearly meant to be sweet, like he hadn't quite worked out the difference between caring for someone and mothering them. James discovered, just as quickly, that Martin pretended not to like the messages at all while reading each one three times before responding.

One night, close to one in the morning, James sent a simple: Goodnight.

Martin, staring at his ceiling, typed back: That's it?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Goodnight, favorite person.

Martin stared at the screen for a long moment, feeling his face heat despite being entirely alone in his room. Then he buried his face in his pillow, phone still lit up beside him, and let himself smile like an idiot in the dark where no one could see.

---

Keeping the relationship private turned out to be harder than either of them expected. There were always people around — staff adjusting schedules, other members drifting in and out of shared spaces, cameras appearing at the least convenient moments for behind-the-scenes content nobody had asked for. There was rarely a version of the day where they could simply exist as themselves without calculation.

One quiet evening, tucked into the far corner of the practice room during a break, Martin asked, "Do you regret it?"

James glanced over. "Us?"

Martin nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Never," James said, no hesitation at all, the answer arriving before Martin had even finished bracing for it.

He reached over and took Martin's hand, lacing their fingers together where the angle of the room hid it from the door.

"I'd rather have something real that we have to protect carefully," James said, "than something fake that everyone gets to see."

Martin squeezed his hand. "That's cheesy."

"I know."

"Very cheesy."

"You like it."

Martin's mouth twitched despite himself. "Maybe."

James laughed, leaning his head briefly against Martin's shoulder. "You stole my word."

"I did," Martin agreed. "I'm keeping it."

---

Their schedule became exhausting in a way that crept up slowly and then all at once. Rehearsals stretched later into the night. Interviews filled mornings that used to belong to sleep. Between the two, there was barely room to breathe, let alone rest.

Martin, predictably, was the one who suffered for it most — pushing through soreness, skipping meals to fit in extra practice, running on less sleep than any of them should have been running on.

James noticed, because James always noticed.

"You need rest."

"So do you."

"I'm serious, Martin."

"So am I."

James exhaled hard, frustration and worry tangled together. "I hate watching you push yourself like this. It scares me."

Martin looked over at him, something in his expression softening slightly at the honesty in James's voice. "I hate disappointing people. It's — it's always been like that for me."

"You're not disappointing anyone."

"What if I am? What if I'm the reason we don't land the routine, or the notes come out flat, or —"

"Then we'll figure it out together," James said firmly, cutting through the spiral before it could gain more momentum. "You don't carry that alone. Not anymore."

Martin closed his eyes, and for a moment simply let himself lean into James's shoulder, the exhaustion in his body finally allowed to show. Neither of them said anything else for a long while.

Sometimes reassurance didn't need more words than that.

---

The rumor appeared online without warning, the way these things always seemed to — a handful of screenshots, a compilation of glances stitched together with dramatic music, speculation spreading faster than either of them could track it.

At first, they almost laughed about it, sitting together in the dorm's small kitchen scrolling through the same posts.

Then the comments started turning cruel, and the laughter stopped.

Martin went quiet somewhere in the middle of reading, his thumb slowing, his shoulders drawing in.

James found him later that night, sitting alone on the balcony despite the cold.

"Hey."

Martin didn't answer right away.

James sat down beside him anyway. "Look at me."

Martin did, eventually, eyes red-rimmed in the porch light.

"We knew this could happen eventually," James said gently.

"I know."

"Are you scared?"

"Yes." The word came out small, honest in a way Martin rarely allowed himself to be.

James nodded slowly. "Me too."

Martin looked at him, something in his chest loosening slightly at not having to carry the fear alone. "What do we do?"

James took his hand, thumb tracing slow circles over his knuckles. "We keep going. Same as always. Just — together, this time. All the way through it."

---

For a while afterward, they avoided being alone together — not because either of them wanted to, but because fear made cowards of them both for a stretch of weeks neither was proud of. Every glance felt like evidence. Every accidental touch felt like a risk they weren't sure they were allowed to take anymore.

The distance hurt more than either of them had expected it to.

Martin missed him constantly — the easy warmth, the terrible jokes, the quiet comfort of simply existing in the same space. James felt the absence just as sharply, the dorm feeling colder somehow even though nothing physical had changed.

One night, well past midnight, James finally knocked on Martin's door.

"Can we talk?"

Martin opened it, looking tired in a way that had nothing to do with rehearsal. "Yeah."

James stood in the doorway a moment before speaking. "I don't want fear to decide what happens to us. I'd rather face whatever comes than lose this because we were too scared to hold onto it."

Martin's eyes softened, something in his chest finally easing after weeks of held tension. "Neither do I."

They talked until the sky outside began to lighten, working through weeks of unspoken worry in careful, halting sentences. Nothing was magically fixed by morning. But when the sun finally rose, they were sitting beside each other again, shoulders touching, the distance closed at last.

That, for now, was enough.

---

Their biggest performance yet arrived faster than either of them felt ready for. Backstage, the air buzzed with a nervous energy that infected everyone — Seonghyeon pacing in tight circles, Juhoon running through lyrics under his breath for the fifth time, Keonho unusually silent as he retied his shoelaces for no reason at all.

Martin's hands were shaking as he adjusted his in-ear monitor.

James noticed, of course. "You okay?"

"No."

"Good."

Martin stared at him, startled out of his spiral for a second. "What?"

"If you're nervous, it means you care. It means this actually matters to you." James's mouth curved into something reassuring. "That's not a bad thing."

Martin let out a shaky laugh. "You're strange."

"Probably."

The stage lights came on, blinding and enormous, the roar of the crowd swallowing every remaining scrap of nerves the instant the music started. For three minutes, there was no fear, no rumors, no unanswered questions waiting backstage. Just the music, the choreography drilled into muscle memory, and the steady, grounding awareness of James somewhere just beside him in formation.

When the final note faded and the lights dimmed for the transition, Martin turned instinctively toward James.

James was already looking back at him, grinning, chest heaving from the performance.

They had made it through. Together.

---

Martin found the letter inside his bag almost by accident, tucked between his notebook and a spare pair of socks. There was no name on the outside, just a plain fold of paper.

He opened it backstage, between soundcheck and the actual show, sitting alone in the corner of the dressing room.

It was from James.

I don't know where we'll be years from now. I don't know what our lives will look like once all of this — the schedules, the stage, the noise — eventually quiets down. But I know that meeting you changed mine, completely, in a way I don't think I'll ever be able to properly explain. Whatever happens, I hope you remember that.

Martin read it twice, throat tight by the second pass. Then he got up and found James in the hallway, checking his in-ears.

"You wrote this?"

James turned, saw the letter in his hand, and went a little pink. "Yeah."

Martin didn't say anything else. He just hugged him — hard, sudden, the letter crushed slightly between them.

James froze for half a second, clearly not expecting it, before wrapping his arms around him properly, one hand coming up to rest against the back of Martin's head.

"Was it — was it okay?" James asked, a little uncertain, against his shoulder.

Martin laughed wetly against his neck. "It was terrible."

"You're crying."

"I hate you."

"You definitely don't."

"No," Martin admitted, pulling back just enough to look at him, eyes bright. "I really don't."

---

Success brought its own kind of trouble. Schedules pulled them in different directions more and more — one overseas trip becoming two, then three, weeks stretching between the moments they actually got to see each other properly instead of in passing, exhausted, surrounded by staff.

Martin started to wonder, quietly and with a fear he didn't voice, whether the distance might eventually become permanent — not through any decision either of them made, but simply through absence wearing a groove deep enough to become a canyon.

James felt it too, the ache of it sharpening every time a video call ended too soon or a flight got delayed and shaved another evening off the little time they had.

When they finally reunited — a rare overlapping night off, both of them back in the same city for the first time in what felt like forever — neither of them said much at first. Martin opened the door to his apartment and James was simply standing there, bag still over his shoulder, like he'd come straight from the airport without stopping.

They stood there a moment, just looking at each other.

Then Martin whispered, "I missed you," voice cracking slightly on the last word.

"I missed you more," James said, already crossing the threshold, already reaching for him.

"You can't prove that."

"I don't have to." James's hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing gently along his cheekbone. "I can just show you instead."

He kissed him then — slow at first, careful, like he was relearning something he'd been forced to go too long without. Martin's hands fisted in the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, the bag slipping from James's shoulder to the floor forgotten.

The door swung shut behind them.

What followed was quiet and unhurried — weeks of distance dissolving into something tender and slow, both of them careful with each other in a way that had nothing to do with fragility and everything to do with how much they'd missed this, missed each other, missed simply being allowed to be close without calculation or fear. There was warmth, and low laughter caught between kisses, and murmured names, and the particular kind of closeness that only exists when two people have spent too long apart and are finally, finally allowed to stop holding back.

Afterward, they lay tangled together in the quiet dark, Martin's head resting against James's chest, James's fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along his shoulder.

"Don't leave again," Martin murmured, half-asleep already.

"I have to. Schedule." James pressed a kiss into his hair. "But I'll come back. Every time. As many times as it takes."

The distance, in the end, hadn't broken them. If anything, it had only shown them — clearly, undeniably — exactly how much they mattered to each other.

---

They sat together on the rooftop after a late practice, the city stretching out beneath them in a wash of lights, cool night air settling comfortably around their shoulders.

"What do you want?" James asked, tipping his head back against the railing. "For the future, I mean."

"For the future?"

"Yeah."

Martin thought about it seriously, turning the question over instead of brushing it off the way he might have once. "I want to keep performing. For as long as I can, honestly. It's the one thing that's never stopped feeling like me, even on the hardest days."

James nodded slowly. "And?"

Martin glanced sideways at him, something soft and a little nervous in his expression. "And maybe — I want you there. Wherever there ends up being."

James's mouth curved. "Maybe?"

Martin laughed, nudging his shoulder. "Fine. Definitely. I want you there, definitely."

James looked back out at the city, something quietly content settling over his features. "Then that's my future too."

---

Eventually, a decision had to be made, one they'd both been circling for months without quite landing on. They could keep hiding indefinitely, careful and quiet forever. Or they could accept, slowly, that people might eventually find out regardless of how careful they were — and decide, together, how they wanted to face that when it came.

Neither option was easy. Martin was terrified of what exposure might cost them — the group, the fans, everything they'd built. James was terrified too, in his own quieter way, though he tried not to show it as plainly.

But they made a promise to each other that night, sitting on the edge of Martin's bed with their hands loosely linked between them.

They wouldn't make decisions about this alone anymore. Whatever came next — rumors, questions, the eventual reckoning neither of them could avoid forever — they would face it together, as a unit, instead of two people separately bracing for impact.

Martin held out his hand. "No running. Not from this. Not from anything."

James took it, lacing their fingers together properly. "No running."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

---

Years later, the practice room looked almost exactly the same — the same mirrors, slightly more worn at the edges now. The same floor, scuffed in all the familiar places. The same soft hum from the overhead lights, steady and unchanging even as everything else around them had changed enormously.

Martin sat against the wall, older now, a little more settled in himself, though the notebook balanced on his knee was a comfortingly familiar sight.

James walked through the door, and for a moment it was so much like that very first night that Martin almost laughed out loud.

"You're still here?"

Martin smiled. "So are you."

James laughed, dropping down beside him with the ease of a thousand nights spent exactly like this. "Some things never change."

Martin looked at him, warmth spreading slow and easy through his chest. "Do you remember the first night?"

"The coffee?"

"The rain."

"The notebook you wouldn't let me see."

"The almost-confession that took you three separate tries to actually finish."

James huffed, mock-offended. "I remember everything, thank you."

Martin looked around the quiet, empty room. "Do you ever wonder what would've happened if you'd never come back for your phone that night?"

James considered it, genuinely, before answering. "Then I'd have invented another excuse. I was fairly determined, in hindsight."

Martin laughed. "You're impossible."

"I know."

Their shoulders touched, just like they had years ago, the same small point of contact that had once meant so much uncertainty and now simply meant home. But this time, neither of them was afraid of what it meant.

---

The clock on the wall showed 11:47 p.m.

Again.

Martin looked at it and let out a soft laugh. "That's weird."

James glanced up. "What?"

"The time."

He smiled, something quietly amazed in his expression. "Full circle."

James nodded, settling more comfortably against the mirror beside him. They sat quietly for a moment, the room holding the same particular hush it always had at this hour.

Then Martin reached into his bag and pulled out his old notebook — worn at the corners now, pages soft with age — and opened it to a page near the very front.

The entry from that first night was still there. The unfinished lyrics. The fear, carefully unspoken between the lines. The uncertainty of a version of himself who hadn't yet known what was coming.

James leaned over, reading it properly for the first time. "You never finished it."

Martin smiled. "I did, actually. Eventually."

He turned the page. The final line, added much later than the rest, read simply:

When the lights go quiet, I'll still be here.

James read it slowly, then looked up at him. "You wrote that about me?"

Martin's smile turned soft, a little shy even after all this time. "Maybe."

James laughed, shaking his head. "You really love that word."

"Maybe."

James reached over and took his hand, threading their fingers together the way he had a hundred times before and would a hundred times again.

Outside, the city kept glowing, indifferent and enormous. Inside, the practice room stayed quiet — but this time, the quiet didn't feel lonely. It felt like the exact opposite of lonely, actually. It felt like everything finally settling into the place it was always supposed to be.

They stayed there together long after midnight came and went.

And when the clock finally changed, marking the start of another ordinary, extraordinary day —

neither of them left.

⁠✧