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James leaned back in the swivel chair, humming a song that didn't have a melody yet. He looked like a doll, his skin shiny and his eyelids dusted with a subtle silver shimmer. Beside him, Keonho was already finished, his own makeup stripped back to a natural, clean look that made him look like he’d just woken up from the best sleep of his life. The studio was a chaotic pattern of clicking cameras, humming air conditioners, and the frantic whispers of stylists adjusting the drape of oversized blazers.
Keonho didn't look at the snacks, and he didn't look at James. His gaze was anchored to the chair three slots down, where Seonghyeon sat perfectly still. The makeup artist was working with a level of surgical precision, using a fine brush to blend a soft, peach-toned shadow across Seonghyeon’s lids. It was an unfair look. The way the studio lights caught the bridge of his nose and the slight, unconscious part of his lips. Every time Seonghyeon blinked, the iridescent dust on his lashes fluttered, making him look less like a teammate and more like a piece of art specifically designed to be admired from a distance.
Keonho felt a familiar, dizzying pull in his chest, the kind that made him forget how to breathe for a few seconds. It wasn't just that Seonghyeon was handsome; it was the delicate, almost ethereal quality of his features today. The makeup artist had leaned into a soft, dewier look, emphasizing the plushness of his lips and the sweeping curve of his lashes. There was something undeniably feminine about the grace of his profile, a sort of elegance that bordered on the otherworldly. To Keonho, he looked less like a boy group member and more like a secret girl group member, a level of prettiness that felt almost fragile, yet commanded every single ounce of Keonho's attention.
He watched as Seonghyeon tilted his head back, exposing the pale, slender line of his throat. The light caught the shimmering highlight on his cheekbones, making his skin look like polished pearl. Keonho’s pulse quickened. It was a dangerous kind of beauty, the kind that made you want to reach out and touch it just to see if it was real. He didn't care that they were in a room full of staff; all he could see was the way Seonghyeon's eyes looked hooded and dreamy, veiled by a soft haze of peach and gold that made him look devastatingly pretty.
The spell was momentarily broken when the lead makeup artist sighed and stepped away, announcing a thirty-minute lunch break for the makeup team. The room shifted into a low energy hum as the stylists began tidying up their kits. In that sudden lapse of supervision, Keonho moved. He didn't walk; he glided, closing the gap between them before Seonghyeon could even register that he was no longer alone in his chair.
With a hand wrapped firmly but gently around Seonghyeon’s wrist, Keonho steered him away from the bright lights and toward the narrow corridor leading to the restrooms. Seonghyeon stumbled slightly, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.
"Keonho? What are you doing? I'm not even finished with the setting spray," he whispered, though he didn't pull his arm away. The air between them was already thick, charged with a tension that had been building since the first brush touched Seonghyeon's skin.
Once inside the bathroom, the door clicked shut with a heavy, final sound that dampened the noise of the studio. Keonho didn't waste a second, pressing Seonghyeon back against the cool tiles of the wall. The contrast was stark–the clinical white of the bathroom against the lush, high-fashion glow of Seonghyeon's face.
"You're too pretty today," Keonho murmured, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a hunger he had been suppressing for the last two hours. "It’s actually distracting. I can’t even think straight."
Seonghyeon let out a small, flustered huff, his hands coming up to rest tentatively on Keonho’s chest. "We have the shoot in ten minutes," he muttered half-heartedly, though his body was leaning in, betraying his words. "If we're late, the director will-" He was cut off as Keonho tilted his head and pressed his lips firmly against the side of Seonghyeon’s neck. A sharp, stifled moan escaped Seonghyeon’s throat, his fingers curling into the fabric of Keonho's shirt. He knew the risk; he knew the makeup artist would see the redness and the marks, and that concealer could only do so much against a bruise of this nature. But as Keonho’s teeth grazed his skin, the thought of the photoshoot felt very far away.
Keonho shifted his weight, his hand sliding from the wall to cup the back of Seonghyeon’s head, pulling him closer to deepen the contact. He was focused entirely on the soft, yielding skin of Seonghyeon's neck, savoring the way the other boy trembled beneath him. The aural landscape of the bathroom, the distant drip of a faucet, the hum of the ventilation, faded into the background, replaced by the synchronized rhythm of their breathing. For Keonho, this wasn't just a momentary impulse; it was a necessity, a way to claim a piece of that ethereal beauty for himself before the cameras took it all.
Seonghyeon’s head tilted back, exposing his throat even further to the onslaught of kisses. He was acutely aware of the clock ticking in the other room, the staff returning from their meal, the looming expectation of perfection. Yet, as Keonho’s lips moved higher toward the sensitive spot just below his ear, the panic of being caught disappeared with a rush of warmth. He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, deciding that a few stubborn marks were a small price to pay for the way Keonho was looking at him right now.
Keonho pulled back just an inch, his gaze sweeping over Seonghyeon’s face with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. Up close, the "girl-pretty" quality was even more pronounced; the soft peach shadow and the glossy sheen of his lips made him look almost delicate, like a piece of fine porcelain that Keonho wanted to protect and break all at once. He looked so fragile, yet the way he was clinging to Keonho suggested a desperate, shared hunger. Keonho’s thumb brushed over Seonghyeon's lower lip, smudging the perfect application of gloss, but he didn't care about the precision of the makeup anymore.
"You're going to be a nightmare to touch up," Keonho whispered, a small, triumphant smile playing on his lips as he looked at the darkening flush on Seonghyeon's neck.
Keonho didn’t let the distance last. He stepped back in, his body flushing against Seonghyeon's with a sudden, possessive urgency. He caught Seonghyeon’s waist, lifting him slightly off the floor so that their eyes were level, and crashed his lips against the same spot on the neck he had just claimed. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a deep, lingering press of heat, a slow suction that pulled a shaky, high pitched sound from the back of Seonghyeon’s throat. Seonghyeon’s arms wound tightly around Keonho’s shoulders, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Keonho's neck, pulling him closer as if he wanted to merge into the white tile wall behind them. For a few frantic seconds, the photoshoot and the looming threat of the stylists didn't exist. There was only the taste of expensive lip gloss and the frantic beat of two hearts colliding.
Eventually, the sudden silence of the hallway reminded them that their sanctuary was temporary. Keonho slowly released him, his breathing heavy, and steered Seonghyeon toward the wide mirror over the sinks. As the bright fluorescent lights flickered on, the damage became visible. There, stark against the pale, polished skin of his throat, was a deep, blossoming plum colored mark.
"Shit," Keonho muttered, pressing his thumb against the side of Seonghyeon's neck, almost as if he could push the color back into the skin. "That's darker than I meant."
Seonghyeon twisted away from the mirror, swatting at Keonho’s hand with a flustered, half-amused expression. "Of course it is. You were trying to swallow me whole five minutes ago." He looked back at his reflection, his eyes widening as he realized the sheer visibility of the hickey.
"Seonghyeon! Keonho! Where did you two vanish to?" Martin’s voice echoed through the corridor, booming and impatient. "The director is already complaining about the lighting setup. Get your asses out here, we start in thirty minutes!"
The sound of Martin's voice acted like a bucket of ice water thrown over them. The hazy, romantic bubble of the bathroom popped instantly, replaced by the cold, clinical reality of their industry. Seonghyeon froze, his gaze snapping back to the mirror. The plum colored mark seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, an accusing blot of ink on a pristine canvas. He looked at the door, then back at the mark, and a genuine flash of panic crossed his face.
"Shit," Seonghyeon breathed, the word barely a whisper as he leaned closer to the mirror. If the stylists saw this, the questions would start. If the director saw it, the wardrobe changes would take twice as long. If the fans saw it in a high definition WKorea spread, it would be a wildfire of theories and rumors that neither of them was prepared to manage today.
The panic began as a cold prickle at the base of his spine. He tried to rub the mark with his fingers, a desperate, futile attempt to massage the blood back into place, but the skin only grew redder, more inflamed. He looked at Keonho, his eyes wide and shimmering with a sudden, frantic energy.
"Keonho, you bastard! I can't believe you actually just did that to me!" Seonghyeon hissed, though the insult lacked any real venom. He glared at Keonho, his eyes shimmering with a mix of irritation and lingering affection, while his hand remained clamped over the mark as if he could physically hold the evidence in place. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You did this on purpose because you knew I couldn't say no!"
Keonho didn't look particularly repentant. In fact, he looked smug. He leaned back against the sink, crossing his arms as he watched Seonghyeon struggle with his own reflection. "I didn't *do* it," Keonho countered with a lazy, lopsided grin. "You were the one pulling me closer. You're the one who didn't tell me to stop. If anything, this is a joint venture." He reached out, his fingers grazing the edge of Seonghyeon's jaw, his gaze softening as he took in the flushed state of the other boy's face. The "ethereal" makeup was still largely intact, save for the slight smudge on the lips, making the contrast of the angry red mark on his neck look even more scandalous.
"Help me," Seonghyeon pleaded, his voice a frantic whisper as he leaned over the sink. He turned the faucet on full blast, the water splashing violently against the porcelain, and began scrubbing at his neck with a damp paper towel. He hoped, perhaps delusionally, that the mark was just a surface level blush that could be washed away like a stray smudge of eyeliner. But the more he scrubbed, the more the skin flared into an irritated, angry crimson. He looked like he’d been stung by a swarm of bees in a very specific, very intentional pattern.
Keonho watched him from the doorway, his expression shifting from smugness to something more predatory and possessive. He didn't move to help immediately; instead, he let his gaze linger on the way Seonghyeon’s shoulders shook with desperation. "Since you're so pretty today, I suppose I could be a gentleman and help you hide the evidence," Keonho murmured. He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating tone that made Seonghyeon’s breath hitch. "But honestly? I kind of like it. I think it would be a shame if the whole world didn't know you belonged to me today."
The way he said it, the sheer, territorial weight of the words, sent a shiver down Seonghyeon's spine. It was the kind of statement that promised a very long, very regrettable night once the cameras stopped clicking, a promise that Keonho intended to collect on. Seonghyeon opened his mouth to retort, to tell him to stop being so dramatic, but Keonho was already turning on his heel. "Stay here. Don't touch it anymore or you'll actually bleed. I'll be back."
Seonghyeon waited in the oppressive silence of the bathroom, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He stared at his reflection, wondering if he could possibly pivot the photoshoot into a 'high collar' concept if all else failed. Then, the door swung open. Keonho didn't just return with a touch up kit; he marched back in clutching three massive, industrial sized bottles of full coverage concealer, looking like he had raided the entire supply closet of the makeup department.
"You look like you’ve robbed a bank," Seonghyeon remarked, though he didn't move away as Keonho stepped back into his personal space. He looked at the array of heavy duty foundations and color correcting creams with a mixture of relief and skepticism. "Where did you even get these? Did you just rob the lead artist's kit?"
"I may have 'borrowed' a few bottles while the staff were distracted by the caterers," Keonho replied, his voice humming with a playful, mischievous energy. He didn't hand the bottles over; instead, he stepped behind Seonghyeon, his chest brushing against the other boy's shoulder blades. He uncapped a green tinted color corrector, the heavy cream designed to neutralize redness. With a level of focus that bordered on the obsessive, Keonho began to dab the product onto the plum colored mark using his ring finger.
The green cream felt cool and thick against the heat of the mark, a stark contrast to the searing pressure of Keonho's lips from moments before. Seonghyeon leaned his head to the side, trying to give Keonho better access, though his eyes remained glued to the mirror. He watched the surreal transformation: the deep, bruised purple of the hickey being slowly masked by a layer of minty green paste. He looked like a strange, half finished sculpture, a secret hidden beneath a layer of chemical corrective.
"Stop moving," Keonho murmured, his breath warm against the shell of Seonghyeon's ear. He wasn't just applying the corrector; he was lingering, his fingers tracing the line of Seonghyeon's jaw with a slow, deliberateness that made the other boy’s knees feel weak. The urgency of the photoshoot was still there, a ticking clock in the back of their minds, but Keonho seemed determined to stretch out the intimacy of the moment. He worked the green cream into the skin with a gentle, circular motion, his touch light yet possessive.
"You're barely even blending it," Seonghyeon whispered, glancing at the mirror where a distinct, mint colored smudge sat atop his throat like a smudge of wet paint. "If you just leave the corrector on, the photographer is going to think I’m turning into a swamp monster."
Keonho chuckled, the sound vibrating against Seonghyeon’s back. "Patience. The magic is in the layering." He reached for a high coverage concealer that matched Seonghyeon’s pale skin perfectly, dabbing it over the green base with a precision that suggested he’d spent the last few minutes studying the exact topography of the mark he'd created. He blended the cream with a slow, rhythmic pressure, his thumb sweeping across the sensitive skin of the neck in a way that felt far too much like a caress. The friction sent a fresh wave of heat through Seonghyeon, who had to grip the edge of the porcelain sink to keep from swaying.
"Almost there," Keonho murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to echo in the small space. He wasn't just blending the makeup anymore; he was savoring the proximity, his chest pressing firmly into Seonghyeon's back, grounding him. He applied a final, dusting layer of translucent powder with a borrowed puff, patting it down with a rhythmic, soothing precision that finally muted the tell tale glow of the bruise. The mark was gone, vanished beneath a layer of professional grade camouflage.
Seonghyeon leaned back, his eyes scanning the mirror. The skin looked flawless again, though perhaps a bit too matte in that one specific spot. "I think we're safe," he whispered, his voice still sounding a bit breathless. "But if the lighting is too harsh, or if the photographer asks for a close up of my profile, I'm blaming you entirely."
"Blame me all you want, as long as you keep looking at me like that," Keonho replied, his voice humming with a low, satisfied resonance. He stepped back, finally granting Seonghyeon some breathing room, though the air between them still felt ionized, thick with the residue of their stolen minutes.
Just as Seonghyeon turned to leave, Keonho’s hand shot out, hooking around his waist and yanking him backward. The momentum slammed Seonghyeon’s back against Keonho’s chest once more, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed down to the scent of expensive cologne and the heat of Keonho’s breath against his cheek. Keonho leaned in, his lips hovering a fraction of an inch from Seonghyeon’s ear, preparing to reclaim the territory he had just meticulously covered in concealer.
"Wait, just one more-" Keonho pouted.
But Seonghyeon was faster. With a sudden, playful burst of energy, he planted both palms against Keonho’s chest and shoved him backward. It wasn't a hard push, but it was enough to break the spell and send Keonho stumbling a step toward the sinks. Seonghyeon let out a bright, genuine laugh, the sound echoing off the tiles, as he darted toward the door. "In your dreams!" he called back over his shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eye. He didn't wait for a response, slipping out into the hallway with a triumphant skip in his step, leaving Keonho standing in the bathroom with a look of stunned, hungry admiration.
"There you guys are!" Martin’s voice cut through the silence of the hallway like a siren, his face a picture of exaggerated relief. "What took you so long? I was about to start a search party, or at least report you as missing to the manager." He stepped forward, his eyes darting between the two of them with a suspicious, squinting intensity. Martin had a sixth sense for group dynamics, he could tell when someone had missed a dance step from across the room, and he could certainly tell when the air between two members was vibrating with a secret.
But before anyone could offer an excuse or a clumsy explanation, the heavy double doors of the studio swung open. A production assistant marched in, her clipboard practically a weapon, barking orders that silenced the hallway. "CORTIS! All five of you, on set. Now! The lighting is peaking, and we are losing the mood."
The transition from the sterile silence of the bathroom to the blinding glare of the studio lights was jarring. As they ever so slightly scrambled into their first formation, the group’s natural chemistry took over, but there was an added, electric layer to the atmosphere. Keonho, in particular, seemed to have an insatiable need to be in Seonghyeon’s orbit. During the group shots, while the photographer shouted directions about "effortless elegance" and "strong silhouettes," Keonho consistently defied the boundaries of the choreography.
Every time they shifted positions, Keonho found a way to bridge the gap. Whether it was a casual sling of an arm over Seonghyeon’s shoulders that looked like brotherhood to the staff but felt like a claim to Seonghyeon, or a subtle, playful poke in the small of his back during a transition, Keonho was relentless. Each touch was a silent reminder of the secret they were carrying beneath the layers of concealer. Seonghyeon would jump slightly at the contact, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second. A reaction the photographer mistook for "dynamic energy" and captured in a series of rapid fire clicks.
"Perfect! That's the one!" the photographer cheered, oblivious to the fact that Seonghyeon was currently trying to maintain a cool, aloof expression while Keonho’s fingers were grazing the very spot where the hickey lay hidden. Seonghyeon could feel the heat radiating from Keonho’s palm, a warm brand that made it nearly impossible to focus on the camera. He played the part of the ethereal idol, tilting his chin and gazing into the distance, but his internal monologue was a frantic loop of *stop touching me* and *don't stop touching me.*
Juhoon and Martin, meanwhile, were treating the shoot like a playground, leaning into each other with loud laughter that filled the gaps between the photographer's directions.
"Hold on, let's pivot," the director announced, his voice cutting through the laughter. He stepped into the center of the set, his eyes scanning the group with a calculating gaze. "The chemistry is great, but I want some intimacy. Let's break this into two sets. James, Martin, Juhoon-you three get over here and give me something loud."
Keonho’s heart skipped. He didn't move, his gaze locked on the director, waiting for the other half of the equation.
"And Keonho, Seonghyeon you two stay here," the director continued, gesturing for them to remain in the center of the frame. "Just the two of you. Give me something soft, something that feels like a quiet conversation. I want the kind of friendship that looks like a lifelong bond, an effortless trust. Just be brothers, be best friends, be two people who know exactly what the other is thinking without saying a word."
The request was simple, professional, and entirely devoid of suspicion. To the staff, Keonho and Seonghyeon were simply the "visual pair" of the group, two boys whose friendship was a well documented, wholesome pillar of CORTIS. There was no hint of scandal in the director's eyes, only a desire for a specific aesthetic.
Keonho didn't need to be told twice. As the other three members migrated to the other side of the studio, he stepped closer to Seonghyeon, his movements fluid and unhurried. He didn't rush into something illicit; instead, he played into the "best friend" narrative with a precision that was almost cruel. He reached out, his hand settling naturally on the nape of Seonghyeon's neck, his thumb brushing the jawline just above the concealed mark. It looked, to any observer, like a gesture of pure, platonic affection.
Seonghyeon leaned into the touch, his eyes softening. The tension from the bathroom hadn't vanished; it had simply evolved into something sustainable for the camera. He let his shoulder rest against Keonho’s, his gaze drifting toward the lens with a dreamy, half lidded quality that the photographer absolutely loved. They looked like a painting of youth and loyalty, two friends sharing a private, silent understanding. The photoshoot flowed with a seamless, organic rhythm, the air of the studio humming with a productive, positive energy.
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The silence of the dorm felt heavy and sweet, a stark contrast to the sterile, high frequency noise of the studio. The high fashion blazers had been discarded in a heap, replaced by oversized cotton t shirts and the kind of comfort that only comes from knowing the cameras are finally off. In the dim, amber glow of their shared bedroom, the world narrowed down to the size of a single mattress.
Keonho slid across the sheets with a clumsy, desperate sort of hunger, his limbs tangling with Seonghyeon’s as he burrowed into his side. He was a human anchor, heavy and warm, molding himself against Seonghyeon’s ribs as if he were trying to merge their shadows into one. "I've been starving for four hours," Keonho murmured, his voice a muffled whine against Seonghyeon’s shoulder. He nudged his head upward, his eyes wide and shimmering with a clingy, puppy like devotion, begging for a shred of attention that didn't involve a director's cue.
Seonghyeon let out a soft giggle, the sound vibrating through his chest. He raised his hands, palms pressing against Keonho’s shoulders in a gesture that was meant to be a push, but lacked any real conviction. "You're so needy," he whispered, his fingers subconsciously curling into the fabric of Keonho's shirt. "Go to your own side, you giant baby." There was no effort in the push, only a playful invitation. He didn't want the space; he wanted the weight of Keonho pressing him into the mattress, erasing the lingering exhaustion of the day.
Keonho didn't budge. Instead, he surged upward, capturing Seonghyeon’s face in his hands. This time, there was no urgency to mark or claim. He began to pepper Seonghyeon's face with a flurry of soft, fluttering kisses, small, delicate presses of heat against his eyelids, the tip of his nose, the corners of his mouth. It was a slow, meticulous mapping of his features, leaving trails of warmth that felt like a whispered confession.
As he moved his lips toward Seonghyeon’s jaw, Keonho’s gaze dropped. Even in the dim, amber haze of the room, he could see the ghost of the mark he'd left earlier. The concealer had been rubbed away by the friction of their clothes and the long ride home, leaving a faint, bruised shadow on the pale skin of his neck. Looking at it now, without the pressure of the shoot, the mark didn't feel like a scandal at all. He pressed a lingering, tender kiss directly over the bruise, his lips molding to the skin in a way that was an apology and a promise all at once.
Seonghyeon sighed, his eyes fluttering shut as he finally stopped pretending to fight. He draped an arm over Keonho's neck, pulling him down until their foreheads rested together. The high energy of the WKorea set had finally evaporated, leaving behind a quiet, domestic peace.
"You're a menace," Seonghyeon whispered, his voice thick with sleep and affection. Keonho didn't answer with words, only a soft, contented hum as he tucked his face into the crook of Seonghyeon's neck, finally satisfied now that he had the only view that mattered.
The next morning arrived not with an alarm, but with the persistent, rhythmic poking of Keonho’s index finger against Seonghyeon’s cheek. He was awake and far too energetic for a Tuesday, lounging over Seonghyeon like a golden retriever that had just discovered the concept of a tennis ball. He didn't say a word, instead opting to hum a distorted version of their latest title track into the hollow of Seonghyeon's shoulder, his voice vibrating through the mattress and shaking Seonghyeon from his deep, velvet slumber.
"Stop," Seonghyeon groaned, though he didn't actually move. He liked the weight of Keonho’s arm draped across his waist, a heavy, warm anchor that kept him grounded in the softness of the bed. He shifted slightly, blinking his eyes open to find Keonho staring at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. It was a look that didn't belong on a billboard or in a magazine spread; it was too raw, too honest, and far too focused on the way Seonghyeon’s hair was currently a chaotic nest of blonde strands across the pillow.
"You're even prettier when you're grumpy," Keonho whispered, his voice still husky with sleep. He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the tip of Seonghyeon's nose, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He began to trace the line of Seonghyeon’s cheekbone with his thumb, his touch light and reverent, as if he were memorizing every curve and contour of the other boy's face. In the quiet of the room, away from the demands of the industry, the air felt thick with a gentle, domestic warmth that made the previous day's frantic secrecy feel like a lifetime ago.
Seonghyeon let out a soft, contented sigh, finally relaxing completely into the mattress. He reached up, tangling his fingers in the short hairs at the nape of Keonho’s neck and pulling him down for a proper, slow kiss that tasted of mint and lingering sleep. They lingered there for a long time, suspended in a bubble of quiet affection, ignoring the distant sound of James and Martin shouting about missing toast in the kitchen.
Eventually, the reality of their schedule began to seep back in. Keonho reluctantly pulled away, though he didn't let go of Seonghyeon's hand, their fingers interlaced tightly against the white sheets. He looked down at the faint, fading mark on Seonghyeon's neck, now barely a whisper of a bruise, and smiled. It was a secret they had carried through the flashes of a hundred cameras, a hidden truth that only they shared.