Chapter Text
Chapter One, Part One: Where It All Began
The rehearsal room was almost dark when Sangwon finally stopped dancing. Only the mirrored wall still held the ghost of movement. The faint reflection of a boy breathing too hard, shoulders rising and falling like he was trying to outpace something inside his chest.
Music had stopped minutes ago, but the rhythm remained in his body, trapped in his muscles.He pressed his palms against his eyes.He had always believed exhaustion could silence thoughts. Tonight, it didn’t.
“Still here?”
The voice came softly from the doorway. Sangwon lowered his hands and turned.
Anxin stood there, half-hidden by shadow, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. The hallway light behind him formed a quiet outline around his figure, like he didn’t quite belong to the room yet.
“I thought everyone left,” Sangwon said.
“They did.” Anxin stepped inside, closing the door carefully so it wouldn’t click. “You didn’t.”
There was no accusation in his voice. Just observation.Sangwon gave a small smile that didn’t stay long. “I needed to practice.”
Anxin nodded once, like he understood something deeper than the words themselves.The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, like the air before rain.
Anxin crossed the room slowly, sneakers whispering against the floor. He set a bottle of water down beside Sangwon without saying anything.
“You’ll get sick if you keep doing that,” he said after a moment.Sangwon stared at the bottle but didn’t pick it up.
“What?” Anxin asked.
“Nothing.”
But the word sounded fragile.
Anxin leaned against the mirror beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He didn’t look at Sangwon directly, just at their reflections.
“You’ve been quiet all week,” Anxin said.
Sangwon let out a slow breath. “Have I?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.The practice room felt too large for just two people. Every small movement echoed.
“You were perfect today,” Anxin continued. “The center part.”
Sangwon laughed once, barely audible. “Perfect.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it to make you feel better.”
Sangwon finally picked up the water bottle, twisting the cap open just to have something to do with his hands.The truth was simple and unbearable: perfection didn’t feel like success anymore. It felt like something fragile he had to carry without dropping.
“I keep thinking,” Sangwon said slowly, “that I’m going to mess everything up.”
Anxin didn’t react immediately.Sangwon went on, voice thinner now.
“Like everyone is looking at me, expecting me to deserve this. And one day they’ll realize I don’t.”
The words seemed to hang in the air long after he finished speaking.Anxin’s reflection shifted slightly in the mirror. Then he turned his head.
“You know,” Anxin said quietly, “I thought the same thing during the finale.”
Sangwon blinked.
“You?” he asked.
Anxin smiled faintly, but it looked more like remembering pain than happiness.
“I couldn’t breathe when they called the last names. My heart was beating so loudly I thought the microphone would pick it up.” He looked down at his hands. “I thought if I debuted, I’d spend every day trying to prove it wasn’t a mistake.”
Sangwon didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he let it go.The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead.
“But then,” Anxin continued, “the first time we practiced together… I didn’t feel scared anymore.”
“Why?” Sangwon asked.
Anxin hesitated.Because the truth mattered.
“Because you looked scared too.”
Sangwon turned toward him fully now.Anxin’s voice grew softer, but steadier.
“You were the first person I saw who wanted this as much as I did… but was still afraid of losing it.”
The words didn’t comfort Sangwon immediately. They hurt first, like pressing on a bruise.But then something inside him loosened.
“I thought I had to be strong all the time,” Sangwon admitted.
“You are strong.”
“I mean… not letting anyone see it.”
Anxin shook his head.
“That sounds lonely.”
It was.
The loneliness of expectation.
The loneliness of being seen as steady when you felt anything but.
Sangwon sat down on the floor, back against the mirror. After a moment, Anxin sat beside him.Their shoulders touched this time. Neither moved away. The room smelled faintly like dust, sweat, and the citrus cleaner the staff used every night.
“I used to watch your trainee videos,” Anxin said suddenly.
Sangwon groaned. “Please don’t.”
“They made me want to work harder.”
“That’s worse.”
Anxin laughed softly, a sound that warmed the cold edges of the room.
“You always looked like you knew where you were going.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
The honesty in Anxin’s voice made Sangwon’s chest ache.Time passed quietly. Neither of them checked the clock. Outside, the building had settled into night silence.
“Do you ever wish,” Sangwon said, “that things would slow down?”
Anxin considered the question.
“No,” he said finally. “But I wish we could remember everything.”
Sangwon looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
Anxin’s fingers traced invisible patterns on the floor.
“Someday this will all feel far away,” he said. “These rooms. Practicing until morning. Being unknown.” His voice softened. “I don’t want to forget how it feels now.”
Sangwon swallowed.
“What does it feel like?” he asked.
Anxin turned toward him.
“Like standing on the edge of something huge,” he said. “And being terrified… but happy you’re not standing there alone.”
The words settled deep inside Sangwon, somewhere he hadn’t realized was empty.For the first time that day, maybe that week, his breathing felt natural.
Unforced.
“You’re really good with words,” Sangwon murmured.
Anxin shrugged.
“I just say what I feel.”
“That’s harder than dancing.”
“Not for you.”
Sangwon smiled. A real one this time. Their reflections in the mirror looked different now, not lighter, exactly, but steadier. Two people instead of two separate worries.
After a while, Sangwon spoke again.
“Stay a little longer?”
Anxin nodded immediately.
“Okay.”
They sat there without talking. Comfort didn’t arrive all at once. It grew slowly, like warmth returning to cold hands. Sangwon realized something then, something simple but powerful. The pressure hadn’t disappeared. The expectations were still there. Tomorrow would still be difficult. But the fear didn’t feel endless anymore.Because it had been spoken aloud. Because someone had listened. Because someone understood.
Beside him, Anxin leaned his head back against the mirror, eyes half-closed.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“You too.”
“In a minute.”
Sangwon looked at him, noticing details he usually missed, the faint shadows under Anxin’s eyes, the small crease between his brows when he was tired, the quiet determination that never left his expression.
A thought crossed Sangwon’s mind, sudden and clear: We’re going to survive this.
Not alone.
Together.
The practice room lights flickered slightly. Neither of them moved. And for the first time since debut preparations began, Sangwon allowed himself to rest, not his body, but the part of his heart that had been bracing for failure.