Archive of Our Own

Keeho gets dumped on a Sunday morning–left alone in broad daylight, in a coffee shop that he had once called his favorite.

He isn’t so sure he can say that anymore. Not when his boyfriend makes a show out of it, slamming his hands on the table and turning all heads in the room.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Keeho,” his boyfriend–or ex now, he guesses–says, before storming out.

The sweet girl behind the counter hides a gasp into her hand–showing off pretty nails that Keeho had always complimented–and whispers to her co-workers. Keeho recognizes some of the other regulars around them–the student with all of the colorful keychains on their backpack, and the businessman with the perfect posture. Nobody bothers to hide that they’re staring.

Though Keeho doubts his frequent visits to this shop have ever left an impression on anyone here, it sure does feel like they all know who he is now. A fucking asshole, huh?

Keeho is still for a long time. There’s two cups of coffee in front of him, going lukewarm by the second, and a breakfast pastry that he had bought to share. But the guy couldn’t have lasted another meal with him, apparently.

Whatever. Not that Keeho would have wanted to, anyway. He knew this was coming from the moment they sat down. The food was mostly for theatrics, setting up the scene.

But if Keeho is already here, he might as well look like he belongs. Like he had meant to be broken up with, or whatever. He’d rather be caught dead than look uncool.

So Keeho takes a long sip of his coffee. Pulls out his leatherbound journal, tugs at the strings marking the page he had last left on. Then he tilts his head downwards, plugs in both of his earbuds, and hits play.

Keeho has always loved the art of making playlists. He takes time listening to the beginnings and ends of each song to make sure they flow into each other. He picks out the cover art from his gallery, people and places and things he loves most.

Most days, he can pretend that the music isn't about anyone. That his heartbreak isn't worn on his sleeve, spelled out so openly through song. Other days, he knows it’s so achingly obvious that he thinks the shame could kill him first.

Keeho removes his playlists from his profile, though he still keeps them public. It is wishful thinking that there might be anyone out there who cared enough to look.

play

───●───

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The week passes by like any other.

Keeho drowns himself in his rehearsals, goes to the gym, and spends nights with his roommate Intak. He calls his siblings to talk about anything and everything else. He invites Jongseob and Shota out to dinner, because nothing makes him feel more like himself than spoiling his dongsaengs.

When Shota inevitably asks about his boyfriend–because of course he does, of course he thinks it's what Keeho would want to talk about–Keeho breezes through the answer.

He's good. Visiting his family right now, Keeho says, and redirects the conversation back to Shota's upcoming showcase. To sell the act, Keeho puts more meat onto his plate, in hopes that he spends more time eating than wondering why Keeho has nothing more to say.

Jongseob seems to spare him a glance from beneath his fringe, but it’s hard to tell. He's been growing his hair out more recently. Better for Keeho, because he knows that it's hiding Jongseob’s watchful eyes, and any of his smart judgment. Keeho encourages Jongseob to talk about the songs he's been working on, to replace any thoughts with half-written melodies.

It's not until the end of the night–when Keeho lingers much too long outside of Shota and Jongseob’s apartment, not letting either of them go–that Jongseob asks him directly.

“Are you okay, hyung?”

Keeho hesitates. But he keeps his footing, steadying himself by wrapping himself around Shota.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he tries, knowing it’s futile.

Jongseob doesn’t budge. “No offense, but you're not exactly subtle.”

Keeho immediately opens his mouth in protest–in what world is that not offensive?

But to his surprise, it’s Shota that cuts him off first. “You’ve been clingier than usual today, hyung.”

The words catch Keeho so off guard that he falters. Thinks about how his exes used to say something like that, too. Physically attached at the hip, yet somehow emotionally worlds away.

Keeho pouts, hiding his burning face into Shota’s neck. “What, I can’t give love to my favorite person in the world?”

Shota makes a high-pitched, whining noise in response. Keeho holds onto him tighter.

Jongseob looks between them with disgust. “Stop, that’s my favorite person."

"I'm telling Taeyang."

Jongseob's eyes widen, brows disappearing into his bangs, before holding up his pointer finger in warning. Don't you dare. Keeho sticks out his tongue and pretends to lick his finger.

"You're so gross," Jongseob says, immediately pulling back. “But you know you can tell us, right? If anything is worrying you.”

At first instinct, Keeho wants to scowl. Who is this kid to tell his hyung what to do?

But he takes another good look at Jongseob–eyes full of quiet, attentive concern. Eyes that have always seen right through him, the same way he'd be able to read a character to filth from the opening page of a book.

And all of Keeho's stupid, ugly, petty thoughts are immediately swallowed back into his throat, and replaced with something lighter.

Too much affection threatens to spill out of Keeho at once. He gets it out in one of the only ways he knows how–by aggressively pulling Jongseob in under his arm, and squeezing Shota tight under his other, until they all become one single entity.

“Ow,” Jongseob says, as Keeho sighs in contentment.

“You're just too good for your age.”

“We aren't that much younger than you–”

“My babies,” Keeho says, ignoring him. “I’m gonna keep you.”

It’s not what he intends to say. And it's objectively true that neither of them are much younger, and that they have never been further away from the kids that Keeho knew when they first met. That they are his friends, truly, and people that he is allowed to rely on—if only he would let himself.

But he hopes that this sentiment is already heard loud and clear, as Shota beams back at him, and Jongseob lets out a groan. Thank you, for everything.

Intak has been fussing over his outfit for the past fifteen minutes, coming in and out of his room with either an entirely different shirt, or a slightly different accessory, or a strand of hair on the opposite side of his head. Always too much of a perfectionist for his own good.

Keeho has watched the entire thing from the same position on the couch. He tries his best to provide critical advice (no, the crop is weird with those jeans or ayeee, I would eat you up). It’s easy, because as much as teases Intak, he can acknowledge with confidence that he makes everything look effortlessly good. It's just who Intak is.

Keeho is such a good friend that he even successfully resists the urge to remind Intak this is Taeyang they’re talking about. Taeyang is not someone that Keeho would dress up for, let alone pay this much attention to detail for. But Intak looks at Taeyang like he is the sun personified, or something even more. Of course he wants to look good—wants to be perfect. It warms Keeho's heart to see him trying this much.

When Intak has finally satisfied himself, smiling from ear-to-ear, Keeho gets the urge to pinch his cheek. So that’s what he does.

“Hyung,” Intak says, nearly whining. It only makes him cuter. Keeho openly coos at him.

"You look amazing," Keeho says, and he means it. "He's going to love you."

Intak smiles, still bashful and awful at taking compliments, no matter how much Keeho or Taeyang shower him in praise.

Then Intak asks, innocent and well-meaning, if he's going out with his boyfriend tonight.

The mention of him feels like something sharpened, driven into his chest. Keeho exhales it out, dropping his hands from Intak’s cheek, and responds like it's nothing new.

“Nah, we broke up.”

And he doesn't realize it until this moment–that this is the first time that he’s said it out loud. But he figures this is for the better. Figures that he should treat it as something simple, like ripping off a band-aid. Except, the band-aid is something he had carelessly placed over a gaping, still bleeding wound, and is not something so easy to gloss over.

Except, because it’s Intak, he reacts like Keeho had been shot right in front of him.

“What? What the hell?” Intak says, nearly choking on air. “Since when?”

Keeho shrugs. “Since last week.”

Intak blinks rapidly, like he’s reassessing everything he knows. His eyes have never been wider. Then, within the next second, Intak is curled into his side, gripping onto his arm.

“Are you… okay?”

Keeho shrugs, again, and hopes that he's coming across as nonchalant instead of whatever feeling is currently consuming him whole.

“Could be better,” he says honestly. It helps to relieve some of the ache in his chest. Then, because Intak deserves more of an explanation– “But I'm alright. It was mutual. I knew it was coming.”

Intak makes a sympathetic noise. It sounds so much like a wounded puppy that Keeho curses himself for even bringing it up–curses his ex for indirectly causing any pain to Intak. On instinct, Keeho lets his hand travel up to the back of Intak’s neck, pulling him closer into his chest.

“I’m sorry, hyung,” Intak says, simple but overwhelmingly sincere. Keeho only shakes his head.

“It’s okay.”

Their apartment goes quiet for a moment, rare between the two of them. Keeho closes his eyes, tries to release the tightness in his chest. He keeps his focus on running his fingers through Intak’s hair. Constant and steady, pulling at the ends, the way he knows he likes.

Inevitably, Intak breaks the silence, because he's never been one to leave the air empty.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with me to see Taeyang?” he asks, voice quiet with uncertainty as he mumbles into Keeho's shirt.

No, not today. Another ex used to say that Keeho went out too much, anyway. Never took anything seriously. Always lost somewhere up in the clouds, far away from anything that mattered.

“I’m sure,” Keeho says. It must not be very convincing, because Intak doesn't relent.

“I could stay back with you," he insists. "I’ve already seen his show, anyway. We could just stay in and watch a movie tonight–”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Keeho cuts him off, before softening his voice. “You know Taeyang wants you to be there. It’s his first show in his hometown.”

“But he would understand if you needed company. He knows that you would do the same thing for either of us.”

I would, Keeho thinks. But maybe that's why all of his past relationships have failed. He’s always been someone who overextended themselves without thinking, without limit. Maybe he spread himself too thin.

Keeho shakes his head, a little more aggressively. “I’ll be fine, Intak.” Then, to try and get Intak to stop looking at him like he's half a second away from breaking, he resorts to humor. “I'm a big boy, you know? Already at the big twenty-five. I can take care of myself.”

Intak doesn't look entirely assured of this. Keeho doesn't know if he should be offended, or touched that he cares so much.

In the beat of silence, they both take a look around at the state of their living room–unopened mail and advertisements stacked on the counter, empty takeout boxes overflowing the trash, someone's socks on the edge of the couch they're curled into–and they burst into laughter at the same time.

“Hey, this is you too,” Keeho says, giggling despite everything. “You baby.”

“Sorry,” Intak says, nuzzling further into Keeho's neck. Keeho feels Intak's smile against his skin.

He closes his eyes, lets himself settle into the warmth of having another body close to his own. He remembers, not for the first time, how he only feels complete when somebody else is promised to his side.

For a fleeting moment, he considers being selfish and taking back his words. Asking Intak to stay with him for the night. Maybe forever, if he could.

But there is a reality that exists outside of him and Intak, and Keeho knows that he'll have to come face-to-face with it sooner than later. Still, he finds himself trying to prolong the inevitable.

“I know you're going to tell Taeyang,” he starts, and softens as Intak makes another whining noise into his neck. Guilty. “That's fine. I’d appreciate it if you did for me. But… could you please not tell Jiung?”

At this, Intak is overwhelmingly quiet.

“Please?” Keeho pushes again.

Intak still doesn’t respond. He pulls back from Keeho to meet his gaze in full. Hesitance is written all over his face, spelled in downturned eyes and a tight frown.

Then, quietly, like he's the one who's being left out– “Why wouldn’t you want to tell hyung?”

And it's the hurt in his voice that betrays Keeho’s resolve. It serves as a reminder that Intak and Jiung share something that has held longer than Keeho has ever known love to be possible. Not telling Jiung would hurt Intak as much as it would have had he not told him at all.

In this moment, Keeho wants nothing more than to tell him why–what is it that makes Jiung so different–but there are at least a hundred reasons that Keeho could not begin to explain for himself. A hundred more reasons that he would be exposing his heart, which already feels so transparently vulnerable and squishy on his sleeve.

Keeho takes in Intak's sweet, innocent eyes, and decides that he doesn't need to carry any of his bullshit.

He settles on, “I’m just not ready to tell everyone.”

It’s at least a fraction of the truth. Intak gives in, though not without reluctance in his voice. “Okay, hyung. I won't tell him," he says quietly, sealing a promise. "But you know he’s going to find out sooner or later.”

I know, Keeho thinks, and that all-too familiar ache within his chest returns.

Because deep down, Keeho already knows—Jiung has always known how to see transparently through him.

rewind

─●─────

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Keeho stands on stage, places himself fully into the shoes of someone else, and still his eyes are always drawn first to Jiung.

He never intends for this—he should be making a conscious effort to not do this, actually. He's meant to be playing a character, after all, and this character does not know, nor do they care about who one Jiung is.

But somehow, in a sea of unfamiliar faces, Keeho learns that his gaze always finds him. Sue him for still being a rookie level actor, after all.

Not that it's hard to miss Jiung, with his freshly bleached white hair, and cotton candy streaks like he had flicked a paintbrush through it himself. He balances a bouquet on top of his thighs, just as big and bright and colorful as his head. Any other person would carefully tuck these flowers in the space underneath their seat. But Jiung treats everything he touches with care, like they're all made of something delicate, living things. And so he is committed to holding onto these flowers, from the moment he carefully picks them out from the shop, up until the moment backstage that he hands it over to Keeho—and trusts that Keeho will care for them the same.

Jiung sits next to Shota—his designated position at all of Keeho's shows, as a personal translator when the story moves a little too fast. Next to them is Jongseob, who keeps the pamphlet firmly between his hands, and always takes it as a keepsake. Then Taeyang and Intak, who might as well be in each other's laps—but still, their eyes never leave the stage for a second.

It's all of his favorite people, and they know how to make their presence known. Of course he would know how to find them in a crowd, no matter how much his audience has grown over time.

If Keeho was honest, maybe he could admit to the truth. That every time Keeho looks for Jiung, he knows that it's because Jiung is always looking right back. That Jiung sees through every role that he plays, and finds only Keeho at the core.

Maybe that's the feeling he so desperately craves. To still be known, no matter who he is for the day.

Because Jiung has known him since he first landed in this country, and since he was nothing more than a nameless face in the industry, in a sea of others who shared the same dream.

Because Jiung was the person who helped him rehearse for his very first audition, and each one thereafter. When his Korean still felt unfamiliar, jagged edges on his tongue, Jiung was the person who offered to help smooth them out—who somehow understood his intention, every time, and knew how to piece together the broken pieces of his language.

And even after he had already failed and the rejection letters started piling up in his inbox, Jiung was the person who picked him off his feet, and convinced him to try again.

"I don't know. I just don't think I'm good enough for this," Keeho had said, laughing to the point of hysterics. There's only so many times that you can be told we've decided to offer the role to someone else, before it starts translating to you're not good enough for anything. "Maybe I should just give up and go home—"

"No."

Jiung's tone is suddenly solid ice, and Keeho freezes, words suspended in mid-air. When he looks up, Jiung isn't even looking at him. He's staring pointedly at his hands, clasped into fists between them.

Keeho draws back. He isn't sure what kind of reaction he had expected, really. Maybe something like Shota or Intak's sympathetic smile, or a self-deprecating joke to make him feel more human, like Taeyang would have offered.

But Jiung looks genuinely mad, and Keeho thinks—not for the first time—that Jiung is never someone that he can easily predict.

"What?"

"No," Jiung says again. He shakes his head, just as firmly. "You can't give up. I'm not letting you."

The stubbornness in his tone is familiar, sounds too much like Keeho's own voice echoing in his head. But coming from Jiung, it only irks him further.

"Why not?" Keeho argues, feels heat start to boil within his stomach as Jiung's frown deepens. "What do you mean you're not letting me?"

"I'm not. You didn't come this far just to throw it all away after, what? A couple of rejections?"

"A couple?" Keeho mocks, and can't help himself when his voice turns sour. "What would you know? Why don't you get rejected by everything you've ever wanted and tell me how it feels?"

Keeho knows that it's cruel coming out of his own mouth. And to his sick satisfaction, it lands exactly how he wanted, because Jiung freezes.

The silence that falls over them is suffocating, filling his lungs. It feels like a lifetime stretches out in between, before Jiung dares to speak up again.

"I don't want you to give up," he starts, heat fading into a quieter resolve, sincerity overflowing in waves. "Because it shouldn't be only me that gets to hear you sing. The world deserves to hear your voice."

Oh, Keeho thinks, and suddenly feels dizzy. It gives Jiung the opportunity to continue, push further into his bubble, before Keeho can say anything back.

"So just try again one more time. Please?" Jiung lowers his voice to a begging whisper, nearly breaking, and Keeho feels a familiar ache in his heart. "Not because I'm asking. But because I think you owe it to yourself."

There's a lot more that Keeho could say, sliding off the tip of his tongue–you don't know how it feels to not be wanted, you don't know how exhausted I am, I'm so sorry–but everything dissolves into thin air upon seeing Jiung's pleading gaze. 

And Jiung doesn't say it out loud, but Keeho hears it every time. Sincerity that Keeho has never quite allowed himself to fully indulge in, but implants into his memory.

You deserve better, Keeho.

It's too musky in this club, the music is ass, and there's nothing else Keeho can do but keep dancing.

In truth, Keeho wants nothing more than to settle in at home, soak in a bubble bath and let the water drown out any of the thoughts in his head. But the reality is that in a career that forces you to put your name out there, the afterparties are transparently written into his job duties.

So Keeho lets himself be strung along the flow of bodies in the room. He recognizes some faces among his cast members, talks to others he's never seen before in his life, but has to pretend like he knows them or risk getting blacklisted.

It's all show business, Keeho thinks, as he kisses his boyfriend in the middle of the crowd. You wanted this, when said boyfriend forcefully detaches himself from his side to find someone else—someone who has garnered more of an audience than Keeho.

Keeho keeps dancing until his head starts pounding louder than the music, and he realizes he can no longer stand up straight.

When he ends up in the corner of the bar, he tells himself that it's only because Jiung always knows how to find the quietest place in every room. It's not because the white noise in his head turns down, whenever he sees him.

"Look at you," Keeho says, sliding into the empty stool next to Jiung. "Life of the party."

Jiung doesn't look surprised to see him. He only narrows his eyes, lips quirking slightly upwards. It's a knowing smirk that Keeho is all too familiar with—made unfairly handsome in the dim lighting.

"I don't know," Jiung says, a glint in his eye. "I think I've been having more fun than you."

"Oh, you've been watching me?"

Jiung raises an eyebrow, leans in closer. As if anyone could hear anything with the music blaring in their ears–as if anyone cared at all about the two of them huddled together in the corner of the bar.

Still, Jiung whispers in a breath just over Keeho's ear, like it's their secret to keep.

“Can I be honest with you?”

The words are anything but warm, tickling at his skin and making him shiver. Keeho tries to ignore the weight of them, the sudden heat from where their shoulders brush together–focusing instead on playing a more familiar game.

“What, so you’re not always honest with me?”

“What–” Jiung lets out a heavy sigh. “Says the guy who lies every other breath just for fun.”

“I’ve never lied in my life,” Keeho lies. He's rewarded with Jiung's glare, and breaks into a grin. “It keeps things spicy, doesn’t it?”

Jiung shakes his head, but he’s not looking at Keeho anymore. He’s looking at Keeho’s boyfriend across the room, who is decidedly not looking at them back. Lost in the heat of the crowd, bathed in flashing fluorescent lights, worlds away from Keeho.

The mood in the air shifts. The music drags on, suddenly pounding again in his ears. Keeho’s smile falls, hands gripping tighter around his drink.

Eventually, Jiung turns back to meet his gaze, heavy through the darkness.

“Keeho,” he starts quietly. “Seriously. Can I be honest with you?”

And Keeho thinks he knows where this is going. It's telltale in the way Jiung’s tone is so careful, controlled, like he's treading fragile glass. Like he knows that if he says something wrong, it'll set Keeho off. It probably will, knowing Jiung.

Despite everything, his curiosity gets the better of him. Maybe because there is a twisted part of him that just wants to be right. Keeho nods. “Of course.”

Jiung spares a glance towards Keeho’s boyfriend. “I don’t think I like him,” he says, and all Keeho hears is, ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!

Keeho swallows back something hot in his throat, forcing his tone to stay level. “I don't think you’ve liked any of my boyfriends, actually,” he says, raising an eyebrow. "Jealous, maybe? Is there something else you’ve been wanting to tell me?”

“Fuck you,” Jiung says in answer. He keeps talking before Keeho can throw in a predictable you wish. “I promise I’ve tried. But it's not like any of them have been particularly nice to me either.”

It's not that Keeho doesn't know this to be true. There's a handful of faces that come to mind, of people who he remembers shitting on Jiung before they had even met. Keeho had broken up with them the next day without question.

Still, the thought prickles like needles at his skin. “You've barely even given this guy a chance. What's wrong with him this time?”

Jiung is unaffected by the rise in his voice. “I'm just saying. This is supposed to be your debut, your night–”

“It is my night," Keeho says, snippy. That's why his boyfriend is here. That's why all his friends are here, though Keeho doesn't know where they've run off to, either. That's why Jiung is here, when Keeho knows that Jiung would rather spend his time anywhere else.

“Yeah. Exactly. So…”

“So?”

“So why are you hanging out with me?”

Keeho stares at him, dumbfounded. Jiung blinks back expectantly.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Keeho finally says, voice coming out in a hiss. “Haven't you considered that I like hanging out with you? You know I don't even like these clubs like that.”

"I know you don't," Jiung says, frustratingly straightforward. "So why hasn't he come to check up on you at all?"

"I don't need to be checked up on. I'm not a baby."

They are both well aware that this does not answer the question. Jiung looks at him for a long time, and Keeho can practically hear how Jiung walks through every possible scenario in his head. What can I say right now, that will make him hurt the least?

He seems to settle on this. "I just don't want you to get hurt again, Keeho."

The words come achingly soft. Sweet and considerate from anyone else, maybe. But when it comes from Jiung–who keeps looking at him with this deepset frown, the one he reserves for wounded puppies and broken hearts and Keeho who invites pity–it lands only as an accusation. A swift blow to his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

"Why do you always assume that I'm going to get hurt?" The regret seeps in almost immediately, but it doesn't stop himself from spilling. "You think I'm not smart enough to take care of myself?"

Jiung goes still. "You know that's not what I said—"

"Thanks, but I don't need you to look after me."

Keeho doesn't let him finish, too much fire thrumming through his veins. If he stays any longer, he'll make himself sick with the acidity on his tongue.

So without looking back, he throws himself back into the surge of the dance floor, until the lights are nearly blinding again. Anything to ignore the weight of Jiung's eyes, boring into the back of his skull.

Because, the thing is–Keeho knows that he and Jiung run perpendicular to each other.

Keeho runs too hot, spits out every emotion in fear that it'll burn him alive if he doesn't. Jiung is stone cold, bottles up everything and swallows it back, until it's become so diluted that it doesn't mean anything anymore.

And yet, despite their differences–or maybe, because of their differences–Keeho knows that nobody understands him more than Jiung.

Because when they're both too stubborn to admit that they're wrong, Keeho knows that it stems from a lifetime of always being made into something small, always being told to diminish their own light in favor of someone else. When they're upset to the point that their words no longer make any sense—it's because they both care, too much, and there's still too much that needs to be said. So they keep talking desperately, in hopes that at least something will come out right.

So when Jiung reads him so easily, like he's nothing more than an open book under his fingertips, it frustrates Keeho to no end.

Stupid fucking Jiung, Keeho thinks as he finally finds his boyfriend. He doesn't care as he grabs a fistful of his shirt, and kisses him in front of everyone. He wishes that it made him feel any better.

When Keeho stumbles through his apartment door hours later, boyfriend nowhere to be found, he nearly collapses onto the floor in exhaustion.

He barely makes it to his bedroom, before stopping to stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The stage make-up that he had spent hours fine-tuning looks set in place, if not slightly smeared in the corners with sweat. He thinks he still looks perfect, and feels anything but.

He knows he can't look at the mirror for too long. The longer he stays here, the more he'll be able to pick apart all the flaws in the person that stares back at him. Still, in the dead of the night, when time seems to be a distant reality, Keeho always finds himself looking. Like he's curious to see who will be looking back.

The light from his phone screen–overwhelming when his eyes have been forced open for far too long–is what finally snaps him back to reality.

ah so good looking jiung

did you get home safe?

Simple, straightforward, without room for argument. It almost makes him pissed off all over again, because why is Jiung acting like nothing had happened? Why is Jiung always so good at pretending that things can ever just be normal between them?

Anger starts to boil within him. Driven by nothing but heat, he finds himself pressing the call button. Not that he expects Jiung to answer, because surely he's already fast asleep, takes care of himself and gets rest like a real human being—

"Keeho," he says. It comes in a breath, with so much relief that it crashes into Keeho like a wave, pulling him under. "Are you okay?"

And just like that, Keeho's resolve falls apart.

He stumbles out of the bathroom, and knocks his head into the nearest wall. The alcohol suddenly feels so heavy in his stomach, dragging him down with it. And as he sinks against the wall, he catches a glimpse of something changed in the familiar picture of his apartment.

Jiung's congratulatory flowers. The flowers he had abandoned in the back seat of Taeyang's car. Intak must have taken them home, and placed them perfectly in the center of their kitchen counter. Clumsy hands, but always careful when it mattered—always when Jiung entrusts him with anything, and nothing like how Keeho had carelessly left them behind.

He only now notices the bundle of delicate baby's breath and roses, blooming pretty in pink. Keeho's favorite.

"Yeah. I'm okay." he says, and tries to ignore how broken he sounds. "I just got back. Thank you, for asking. And–" he falters, closing his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, at the same time that Jiung apologizes, too.

They don't talk about it again. But Keeho still feels the weight of Jiung's lingering gaze, every time, no matter who he's with. It's inevitable, a residual poison that never leaves his system, no matter how he tries to flush it out.

Because Keeho knows that his heart is addicted to the feeling of being wanted. Searching constantly for something that makes him feel like he belongs, in a country that he knows he never will. It’s why he stays so long with people that he knows will never last, because at least in some fleeting moment, they make him feel like he is theirs.

And deep down, Keeho knows that there isn’t anything that could hurt him more than rejection, from the person that he wants to be loved by the most.

play

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⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

When Keeho wakes up, it's to the harsh glare of the evening sun through the window. In this moment, Keeho realizes that he is almost never home at this time of day, for good reason. The light nearly blinds him before he turns over and buries his face back into his pillow.

Great. He somehow slept through the entirety of this day.

“Fuck,” he says to nobody. Is he seriously acting like this, over an ex that never cared about him in the first place? This is so pathetic. There's nothing that makes him feel worse than being pathetic.

When Keeho checks his phone, he's hit with another wave of panic upon seeing the notifications. Things that he'll need to take care of for work. A stupid meme from Yechan back home, who he misses more than anything. And then, from the person closest to his heart, another string of messages that only make his whole being ache more.

cutie patootie

steph

steph

why didn't you tell us .·°՞(っ-ᯅ-ς)՞°·.

And then Keeho feels even more like shit, because how could he think that he could go about hiding this forever? How could he ever place this burden onto Shota, who somehow still only sees him as someone that is kind?

In his panic, he quickly types out a message to Taeyang–why would you tell Shota? do you want to die????

Taeyang doesn’t respond. He’s never been the best at messaging. But minutes later, his phone is ringing with a call from stupid whore.

“Fuck you,” is the first thing that Taeyang says when he answers. Keeho winces as he turns down the volume in his ear. "Why would you tell Intak and not me?"

At that, there's a faint whining noise from the background. It sounds a lot like Intak. A perfect scapegoat.

“I don't know what you're talking about," he says quickly. "Is that Intak? Why aren't you paying attention to him?"

“Keeho.”

A loaded warning. He breaks immediately.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Keeho starts spilling out. “I promise I was going to tell you. I was just…”

Embarrassed? Afraid to fall apart in front of anyone other than himself? So backed up on apologies, he wouldn't know where to start?

Taeyang fills in the empty space for him.

“I know, Keeho,” he says, voice suddenly quieter. Like he's approaching a small, frightened animal, with his hands drawn back. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“...You're not?”

Keeho hears the insecurity in his own voice, and becomes immediately flooded with shame. But Taeyang, despite everything, is nothing but gentle.

“Of course not," Taeyang says, and Keeho's body starts to tremble in on himself, falling into the comfort of his voice. "You know I'm just worried about you."

“Okay, but. You're disappointed.”

“Sure. Not as much as you are in yourself, though.”

“Gee, thanks.” It draws a laugh out of him. Self-pitying, but still a laugh. "But did you really have to tell Shota, though? I swear I was going to…"

"Just like you were going to tell me?"

Keeho winces. Does everyone only expect the lowest from him? Has he always been so terrible to his friends, let alone to the person who's always held him at his worst?

"Hang on," Taeyang says suddenly, then pulls away from the phone. The background noise comes in static waves, presumably as he talks to whoever backstage. Right, because Taeyang is supposed to be playing a show tonight. Because Taeyang has a life that does not revolve around Keeho, and conveniently, Keeho only calls him when he knows that Taeyang doesn't have time—

Taeyang's voice returns. "Hey, baby," he says, soft and placating, like he had somehow reached through the phone and soothed all of his inner thoughts. It only makes Keeho's heart ache more. "Look, I have to get ready for our stage in—ten minutes. But I'm seeing you as soon as we get back. Okay?"

"… Okay," Keeho mumbles back.

"And please reply to Shota. He's been spamming me because he's worried, too—I'm coming, okay? Fuck off! You guys can't do anything without me–"

With that, the line goes silent. Keeho lets out a laugh a beat too late. Then, because he didn't get the chance, he texts stupid whore that he loves him.

Then Keeho goes back to his messages with Shota. Why didn't Keeho tell them–a question that he knows he can't answer for himself. Still, he has to try. It takes everything in him to respond, but he knows that it'll only hurt the longer he puts it off.

keeho

I’m fineee don't worry I just didn’t want to bother you guys

You know men ain’t shit anyway

Surprisingly, Shota sees his message immediately. As if he had been waiting all day for Keeho to respond. The thought only tugs more at his heart strings.

cutie patootie

i want to fight

ᕦ⁠(⁠ò⁠_⁠ó⁠ˇ⁠)⁠ᕤ

keeho

Awwww baby

You don't have to do that 🥺

cutie patootie

but i want to

beat him up

anyone that hurts steph should die

Keeho lets out a laugh. He's not sure what he did to deserve this.

keeho

You're so cute but we can't condone violence 😭😭😭

cutie patootie

but jongseobie said it would be ok

because it's for u (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

keeho

I love you guys 😭😭

Ok maybe next time 🥺❤️

There's a pause. Keeho watches with watery eyes as Shota types, then stops, then starts again.

cutie patootie

hyung

will you promise that you will tell me next time

if you're hurting

im sad if you are sad

keeho

I promise baby

I swear on my life to you

Pls don't worry about me

Keeho sends the message, and purposely exits out of his chat with Shota. If he stays any longer, he'll send something begging for Shota to come over, as if he hasn't already been enough of a burden.

So Keeho is left alone, staring at his wallpaper. He only now realizes that it's still a picture of him and his ex. It doesn't take long for him to scroll through his camera roll and find another decent picture, this one of Shota and Jongseob—something he took when neither of them were looking. 

In the back of his mind, he thinks about how people have said he takes good care of his dongsaengs. Really, it's the opposite–it's his dongsaengs who give him that push to do anything at all. Who is he, if he doesn't have other people?

And then, when there's nothing left to distract him, he stares up at the nothingness of his ceiling. His mind wanders, unhelpfully reminds him that these walls are white and sterile, so different from the warm and lived-in home back in Canada. Tells him that he doesn't belong here.

In the silence, the sinking feeling in his chest only grows deeper, until it weighs down every part of his body. He wonders how long he can stay rooted in his bed like this. Not because he wants to, but because the thought of doing anything else feels so all consuming.

Maybe this is why everyone ends up leaving.

He suddenly hates the sound of his own thoughts, deafening in self-hatred and pity. With his eyes still closed, he searches around under his pillow for his headphones.

And if he cries, it isn't for himself, nor for anyone else. It's only because the music tells him to.

Keeho couldn't say how long he lets time pass like this. All he knows is that by the time he remembers to check his phone again, there's another dozen notifications from Shota, and a singular missed call and text from—

ah so good looking jiung

let me in

Keeho frowns, blinking at the message. At first, he thinks he's still lost in his dreams. But the ache in his neck feels a little too familiar, too grounded, as does the heavy weight in his chest. And then the sheer wave of panic sets in, because why the fuck is Jiung here.

Two things come to mind at once.

One, Keeho knows that Intak is the single most loyal human being on this planet. He is a keeper of promises. He made a promise not to tell Jiung, and he wouldn’t have betrayed his word so easily.

But then Keeho remembers that now Taeyang knows. Taeyang, who always does the exact opposite of what Keeho tells him to do, because he thinks he’s always right.

He usually is, though Keeho would never admit it.

The second thing–there is a reason why Keeho had specifically made this request to Intak in the first place. That is, Jiung is the absolute last person that he wants to see right now.

keeho

What

It’s Friday night

I’m not home

ah so good looking jiung

your location is on dumbass

Fuck. Keeho buries his face further into his hands. He lets out a groan so loud, it might be audible from where Jiung is standing outside, because his phone vibrates again.

ah so good looking jiung

let me in

Keeho stares at the message, hoping that it'll magically go away. It doesn't. A beat passes, then Jiung is typing again.

ah so good looking jiung

please

Alright. Fine, since Jiung asked nicely. And Keeho knows that it's a lost cause, but he still puts on a facade, just for the sake of it.

keeho

I heard you the first time

But no I don't want to get out of bed

ah so good looking jiung

ok fine what's your door code

keeho

No I don't want you to murder me in my sleep

ah so good looking jiung

why would I do that

I would want you to be awake for all of it

Jiung keeps typing, and Keeho starts spamming question marks, his most recent emojis–anything to buy him time as he gets himself out of bed, and rushes to wash away his tear-stained cheeks.

He doesn't know how long he makes Jiung wait. Surely enough time for Jiung to stop spamming his phone, but his phone is still vibrating when he decides that he's presentable enough to traverse the short walk to the entrance of his building.

All he knows is that when he does finally make it down, Jiung looks surprised to see him–as if he wasn't the one who decided to show up here unannounced.

“You actually came,” Jiung says, blinking.

Keeho raises an eyebrow. “You thought I was just gonna leave you here?”

Jiung’s lack of an answer is answer enough. Keeho is once again offended at the assumption, but figures maybe he deserves it.

Against everything, Jiung looks good. He’s dressed casually–as casual as a guy can get with a wardrobe that's equivalent to a crayon box. At least, he looks more put together than Keeho feels.

Keeho blinks at Jiung expectantly. They stare at each other. Finally, Jiung clears his throat and says– “Is that my hoodie?”

Fuck, again. Keeho had accidentally worried too much about covering up his swollen eyes with makeup, that he had totally forgotten to change out of this stupid, ugly crayon hoodie.

It’s a hoodie that Keeho was supposed to return, a long time ago when Jiung had left it draped over their couch. He had taken it off early into the night–blamed the heat on Keeho and Intak’s shitty fans instead of just admitting that he was having a good time. When he said his goodbyes hours later, there was still a warm, rosy glow to his cheeks. Keeho remembers it too well. Tries not to think about it as much as he does.

“No,” Keeho lies, crossing his arms as if he could hide it now. Jiung doesn't believe him, if the raised eyebrow is anything to go by. God, this life could not get any worse. “Whatever, man. What are you doing here?”

Jiung pauses, like he's considering if pushing is worth the effort. It's not, by the way he shrugs. Then he says, “Hanging out.”

Keeho blinks. “What? Couldn’t you text me first, like a normal person? Like, hey, are you free tonight–”

“You wouldn’t have said yes.”

Within the next second, Jiung is shoving him aside as he starts heading up the stairs to Keeho’s apartment, a plastic grocery bag in tow. Keeho only knows to follow, mouth hanging slightly open like a fish the entire way up.

Once inside, Jiung crosses the apartment like it’s his own, and drops his bag onto the kitchen counter. Keeho is again stunned into silence, watching uselessly as Jiung starts to rummage through the fridge. He hums in approval, like he’s taking inventory in his head. Then he makes a familiar face, probably realizing that there's more cheap alcohol in here than anything substantial.

Jiung starts nagging him, again. It feels a little too normal. A little too domestic, his heart unhelpfully supplies.

It's only a matter of time before Jiung's nonchalance starts to claw at him. So Keeho asks again. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing what we have.” Jiung pops his head out from the fridge to frown at him. “You guys don’t even have any leftover rice? What have you been eating?”

Nothing but junk and tears and himself alive, that's what.

“What's it to you?” Keeho bites back.

“Nothing, I guess.” Jiung shrugs. “I just wanted to make you fried rice.”

“You wanted to make me fried rice.”

“Yeah. It's easy to eat over the week,” says Jiung, like it's obvious. “And I brought stuff to make jjigae, because I know you and Intak don’t have any other food here. But I thought you guys would at least have rice.”

For someone who usually has so much to say, Jiung doesn’t elaborate–just starts taking the pots from the cupboard and laying his ingredients out on the counter.

Keeho blinks, singling out the containers of instant rice. “You thought, but you still brought this?”

“I had my doubts.”

The corner of Jiung’s lips turn up in amusement. It’s a familiar sight, familiar dance between the two of them, but the timing is all wrong. Keeho trails two steps back, watching as Jiung acts like it’s just another evening. Pretending like Keeho’s cheeks aren't still swollen and puffy, despite his best efforts to cover up.

Nothing makes Keeho more frustrated than feeling like he’s left behind. And it feels almost inevitable when he bursts out–

“Why are you doing this?”

There’s a heavy pause. The tension seems to weigh both of them down, suspended in time.

“I told you,” Jiung says finally, a little more aggressively. “I'm hanging out.”

This does awful things to his heart, because he wishes there was a world where this could be true. Where Jiung would come over and hang out and insist on making him food, just because he wants to.

But Keeho knows better than to entertain such fantasies–knows that he can't, for the sake of keeping up the walls he's built around his heart. He's already tiptoed close enough to the edge, always just another breath away from falling in too deep, and he doesn't have to imagine how it feels to bare the brunt of the cold, hard ground.

The reality is that Jiung wouldn't be here if he didn't know. And the fact that he knows, and still doesn't want to say it out loud only rubs salt deeper into his open wounds.

So Keeho calls out bullshit, and Jiung falters.

“I know why you're here,” Keeho says. “I'm not stupid.”

“I never said that–”

“Was it Taeyang who told you?” The silence is enough of a response. Keeho’s fingers tighten, digging into his palm. “So, what, you came here because you pity me? Because you think I'm pathetic, and still can’t take care of myself? You want to tell me, I told you so? Because you always know so much better than me, right?”

The words taste like pure vitriol on his tongue, a physical manifestation of all these ugly parts he’s tried so hard to keep hidden within, spilling out in tidal waves.

Jiung, steady and unwavering as the moon, takes all of it without a word. The fact that his calm demeanor is so opposite to Keeho’s fire only pushes him further into the water, withering him down until it feels like there is nothing left standing.

“Because you don’t have to rub it in my face, you know,” Keeho finishes quietly, defeated. “I’m a fucking idiot, for ever thinking he would be different. I already know that.”

Only the kitchen counter stands between them, but Keeho suddenly feels like he’s oceans away from reality. He finds he can't meet Jiung’s eyes anymore–not when Jiung keeps staring at him so intently, so carefully, like he's a ticking time bomb that he can't figure out.

More silence hangs in the air. Keeho waits. When Jiung speaks again, his voice comes in a whisper, barely there.

“Keeho,” he says. “Is that really what you think I would say?”

In Jiung’s voice, Keeho hears a reflection of his own insecurities. Of someone who is far too often misunderstood, no matter how careful they try to be with their words. A kind of hurt that leaves you questioning whether you should be speaking up at all.

It isn't fair to blow up like this. Not in front of Jiung, who molds himself into something smaller, to make space for Keeho and his presence, always overwhelming and loud and too much. It isn't fair at all, and it makes Keeho feel like shriveling back into himself.

“No,” Keeho lets out, and watches as Jiung’s shoulders deflate. He tries to soften his voice. “No, of course not. But, honestly, I don't really know what anyone thinks of me anymore.”

It's such a miserable admission that Keeho almost starts laughing. He thinks that Jiung would start laughing, too, if they were under any different circumstances.

But there isn't any trace of judgment in Jiung's gaze. Neither in his touch, when he reaches out to graze Keeho’s hand, ever so gently. Keeho stills as Jiung slowly, more confidently takes his fingers in his own.

In the back of his mind, Keeho drowns himself in self-pity. Because if Jiung is the person who reaches out to him, when he would otherwise shy away from anyone else–it must mean that Keeho has never looked worse, seemingly unreachable.

Still, he falls into the feeling of Jiung holding him so tightly, and into the comfort of Jiung's voice.

“I’ll tell you what I really think.”

“Ah, I don't want to hear this–”

“No,” Jiung says, with so much force it shocks them both. “Just–listen to me for once, okay?”

Keeho, stunned into silence, can only nod in return.

“Okay.” Jiung starts slowly, eyes focused on their intertwined hands. “I didn’t come here to make fun of you, Keeho. I don't pity you, or think you're pathetic in any way, no matter how you feel about what happened. I just think that you’re human.”

Jiung’s fingers trace over his skin. A physical reminder that he is–underneath it all. It's embarrassing, how much one single touch is somehow enough to both break him, and hold him together.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking about yourself right now–it’s just not true.”

“The only reason I came here–” Jiung lets out a grounding breath. “Is because I know it's been hard for you, and I want to be here.” He finally lifts his gaze, so heavy and all knowing with something that makes Keeho shrivel into himself. “With you. Is that okay? Because if it’s not, you can tell me right now. I’ll leave.”

It's the last two words that sets something alight within his brain, synapses firing at Keeho to say something. Why is it that when he needs his words the most, nothing comes out?

Jiung starts to draw back, loosening his hold on Keeho's fingers, and Keeho startles back to reality. Chases after him, grasping at any of the loose threads that spool at their feet, like they are his only lifeline.

"Please don't go," he lets out, stupid and desperate, and feels like he's revealing to the world that he's drowning.

But Jiung only watches patiently as Keeho takes grip of his fingers. Sees how Keeho holds onto him like Jiung is the single thing keeping him afloat.

Keeho knows that this is a dangerous game to play. If it were anyone else, Keeho knows that this would only drive them further away. That his touch is always too much, searing and burning too hot for anyone to get closer.

But Jiung only pulls their intertwined hands closer to his heart, and says, "Okay."

A wave of relief washes over him. "Okay,” he repeats slowly, if not only to reassure himself, and feels a heaviness lift off both of their shoulders. "I'm so sorry for blowing up at you.”

“...You have nothing to apologize for.”

And Keeho opens his mouth, because there are plenty of things he has to apologize for.

To Shota and Jongseob, for lying outright to them, because he didn’t want to admit to his own faults in front of his dongsaengs. To Intak, for being a shitty roommate and for all the nights he's crawled into his bed, because he couldn't bear going to sleep alone with his own thoughts. To Taeyang, for having to witness every time he's fallen apart, over people that were never worth the tears.

To Jiung, for being too afraid to reach out to anyone else on his own, that Jiung has to physically push back his stubbornness and force himself into Keeho's apartment. For holding him with so much patience even now—like Keeho is still deserving of care, despite everything ugly that he has done.

“Okay,” Keeho says again. He leaves it at that.

Surely, Jiung already knows his true feelings.

rewind

●──────

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The first time that Keeho met Jiung, he had thought that Jiung was the coolest person ever.

How could he think anything different, when Intak was the person who introduced him? With stars in his eyes, Intak had described him as the most passionate hyung in the studio. Someone who had a dream from the very beginning, calculated the exact stride he would have to take to get there, and diligently made it come true.

Then, Jiung opens his pretty mouth, and starts nagging him.

It doesn't take more than a few conversations for Keeho to learn that Jiung is, in fact, not the dictionary definition of cool. Actually, he might be the lamest person ever. He's insanely good at dancing, yes, but his other hobbies include journaling, fishing, and reading self-help books. He even fucking meditates. Who has time for all of that?

But on top of everything that Keeho learns is this–Jiung is someone who he wants to keep in his life.

The realization hits in full force, when Keeho is too sleepy for his own good. At least, that's the explanation he affords, when he finds himself standing outside of Jiung's door again.

It's not his fault, when his own place is located multiple train transfers away from the studio, and Jiung is only a few blocks away. It's not his fault, when Jiung never outright denies him—though he does pretend to sigh, and complain that he has to share his dinner. Keeho never asked why Jiung had always made extra servings.

The nook in Jiung's couch has already turned Keeho-shaped, from the way he had nearly collapsed into it. Their rehearsal had gone over too long, and Keeho feels a bone deep tiredness that only reveals itself after practicing too much, and still not enough. In the comfort of Jiung's home, he can't come up with any reason as to why he would leave.

Jiung has picked up yet another language lately, in music. Keeho had asked why the sudden interest. Jiung had only shrugged, answered casually in such a way that Keeho knows it isn't casual at all. There's just no other song that can express how I feel. So I'll make my own.

Keeho watches now as Jiung works in low lighting—whether it's because he's used to this or because he has tired company, Keeho isn't sure. The room paints his features in a soft purple glow, so ambient that almost makes Keeho wonder if he's dreaming.

"Hey, Kyo." The nickname slips out easily, a telltale sign that it's way past normal time for Jiung, too. Keeho looks up half-dazed from his phone, heartbeat picking up as he registers this. "Could you listen to this for me?"

Keeho blinks. Jiung has never asked for him to listen to his works in progress, before. Has only ever showed him the finished product, after it goes through hundreds of rounds of editing. After fine tuning from both Jongseob and Intak, whose ears have been specifically trained for this purpose.

To share a work in progress is to trust someone with a piece of your soul, unfiltered and unpolished. It's something that Jiung, who is more careful about maintaining perfection in his art than anyone that Keeho knows, rarely offers to anyone else.

But here he is, holding out his headphones expectantly. He's worn them for so long that parts of his hair—freshly dyed back to black—have gone soft and flat against his head. Cute.

"Okay," Keeho says, and nearly falls over himself as he stumbles into the chair next to Jiung's. Takes the headphones, and slips them over his own ears.

Keeho closes his eyes, and lets himself indulge in Jiung's world. The instrumental starts slow, barely there, almost dreamlike and whimsy. It makes him feel lighter, nostalgic for something he hadn't even known existed. Then the synth starts to pick up, bursting with color, and Jiung's featherlight voice flows in one ear and out the other.

"Okaaay," Keeho drags out the word in excitement, nodding along and opening his mouth in awe. He's shameless, letting the grin spread across his face as he stares at Jiung. "Ayeee, wait, I like that!"

He's met with a snort. "What's wrong with you?"

Keeho catches the hint of a smile, eyes crinkling up in the corners, before he looks away.

Jiung doesn't quite meet his gaze as Keeho keeps dancing along to the song, picking up in the chorus. And by the time the song comes to an end, Jiung has propped up both feet on his chair, head cradled into his knees. As if there was any way for him to hide within his own home. As if Keeho could ever look away.

"You sure it's okay?" Jiung asks quietly, still folding into himself.

"Are you kidding me?" Keeho starts, genuinely dumbfounded. Then he softens his voice, because he needs Jiung to know this to be true. That he means this. "You're amazing."

Keeho flushes him with praise, notices how the tip of his ears have colored red. And he means every word of it, because the song feels so much like Jiung–and in this moment, feels like everything that Keeho loves about him.

Oh, Keeho thinks, the realization blooming in his chest, as Jiung smiles shy back at him.

It's silly, it's stupid, and it makes him more giddy than he's ever known.

Keeho finds himself lying awake too late at night, looking to the stars and letting himself indulge in lovesick, romantic fantasy. He plays through scenarios in his head, written in love songs and told through flower language–thinks constantly about what it would be like to confess to Jiung, of all people.

He dreams of how to set up the scene for so long, that he never quite gets to imagining how the ending might play out. Never quite considers that when you open up your heart in any capacity, you leave your flesh and bones at its most vulnerable.

Keeho had sworn that this was the perfect night.

He's already tucked Shota into his own bed, and pretended not to notice when Jongseob crawled in next to him. That's fine. Keeho will take the couch for a night.

Taeyang and Intak have already retreated into Intak's room, and Keeho knows that he won't see either of them until the morning. Maybe not until the day after.

And Jiung, for whatever reason, is still here with him.

Keeho lays sprawled on the couch, legs and arms dangling off the sides, while Jiung sits perfectly comfortable on the floor next to him. Jiung hasn't made any effort to leave at all, actually, and Keeho pretends that he isn't clinging on to this. Pretends that he isn’t thinking about how this must be the moment, between just the two of them, where he finally unveils his heart to the moon and confesses.

He doesn't know how late it is into the night. But he does know that he hopes it never ends. Talking about everything and nothing–the kids that Jiung is teaching at his studio, and the terrible, money-hungry grown adults at Keeho's. How much they miss their little brothers, how they're scared that nothing ever lasts and their passions might fade before they've even begun to properly take flight.

Keeho's mind drifts to the stars back home, and Jiung listens so intently that Keeho starts to believe that maybe Jiung is able to see it through his eyes, too. Maybe Jiung is thinking about boarding the next plane to Toronto himself, with Keeho's hand in his own.

And with every passing second, Keeho swears that Jiung draws closer.

Keeho racks his brain, but cannot come up with any reasonable explanation for why Jiung needs to be this close. It's quiet enough that their voices could carry even with a low whisper. Yet Jiung stays.

Jiung, who would otherwise run if anyone else got in too close. Jiung, who stays so close in proximity that if he even leaned back just a little more, or if Keeho tilted his head just slightly, their lips might brush by accident.

At least, that's the best he can come up with, scrambling for excuses as to why they're so close together.

It's an accident, when Keeho makes him laugh so hard at something ridiculous, he throws his head back and it falls against his arm, contact drawing sparks on skin.

It's an accident, when Keeho’s fingers land on the edges of his jawline, gently tilting his neck.

It's an accident, when he feels Jiung's breath stutter against his own, and he stills.

“Keeho,” he says quietly, warm against his lips. “What are you doing?”

If it were anyone else, he thinks he might have already closed the distance hours ago, and this suspended moment in time would have already passed.

But this isn't anyone else. This is Jiung, whose heavy, lidded gaze sets fire to Keeho's body. Who makes him feel like if he doesn't get this right, it might consume every part of him whole.

Keeho swallows back the hesitance lodged in his throat, and speaks in a low whisper into his mouth.

“Kissing you, I think.”

Silence hangs in the air, so thick that Keeho knows Jiung can hear the way his heart thunders in his chest. So loud, it must be impossible to ignore, which means that Jiung has to know how he feels.

Then Jiung's eyes flicker downwards, and his mouth parts open ever so slightly. An invitation, it has to be. Keeho falls in like gravity, like it's inevitable, and maybe it always has been–

“Why?” Jiung asks, as Keeho narrowly misses the corner of his lips.

“I–” Keeho stumbles on himself, landing dizzily. “I wanted to…”

“You’re drunk, Keeho. You don't know what you want.”

Keeho knows for a fact that he is not drunk. He suddenly wishes that he was, because maybe it would have helped to soften the blow of Jiung’s words. But Keeho is sober enough, and suddenly so achingly aware of how Jiung turns away, that he would have understood cold rejection from body language alone.

Keeho's mouth runs dry, an unbearable shame rising to every part of his being, and he tries to ignore the sudden stinging in his eyes. He can't cry. Not now, not in front of Jiung.

“Sorry, let's just–” he sputters and turns away, giggling too loud and out of place, like he's trying to convince Jiung that maybe he really has had too many drinks. Really, he's trying to convince himself. “You’re right, I don't know what I'm saying.”

There's a faraway look in Jiung's eyes that Keeho isn't sure how to place. It makes him nervous, burns at his skin, and so he forces himself to look anywhere else. He starts spilling out more apologies, as if they're lodged within his lungs and he'll suffocate with them if he doesn't.

Sorry, I didn’t mean it. Sorry, that I fell too much, too fast. Sorry for fooling myself into believing that someone like you, could like me too.

“Let's just forget this ever happened." It's the only thing that he can manage out loud. He tries to pretend that it doesn’t come out in broken pieces.

Jiung doesn’t say anything. Keeho isn’t sure that he heard him. Or that he’s even still breathing, before finally–

“Yeah," Jiung lets out. "Let’s just forget about it.”

Keeho thinks that neither of them will. Keeho is well aware that both of them have a terrible habit of clinging onto every word they've ever said. But eventually, the clouds drift over the night air above them, blocking the moonlight shining through the window. The scene fades into darkness.

play

────●──

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Jiung does make a simple jjigae, and his go-to fried rice. It’s very good, but he doesn't stop nagging that it would have been much better with leftover rice. Keeho doesn’t know the first thing about cooking, but nags back just for the sake of it.

They linger at his kitchen counter for a bit, empty bowls forgotten between them. Keeho thinks that it must be their cue to call it a night, when Jiung suddenly says that he’s still hungry. But apparently Keeho and Intak’s selection of ramyeon is shit, and before he knows it, he’s out of the apartment—still only dressed in his pajama pants and Jiung’s hoodie.

The bitter cold of the night air settles in immediately. But Jiung stays attached to his side, pulling him along by his sleeve, like the two of them wouldn’t fit on the sidewalk otherwise. Stays close, like he’s afraid that Keeho would run off if he didn’t.

He tries not to dwell on the fact that Jiung could let go, if he wanted to. Keeho would have followed him anyway, anywhere, a moth drawn to the warmth of a flame.

“Why do you walk so damn fast all the time,” Keeho mutters, struggling to keep his breath. Strung along his trail like this, he can’t see Jiung’s expression, but he knows that he’s rolling his eyes.

”It’s not my fault you never go running with me.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I don’t like to willingly torture myself, unlike somebody here—”

Jiung stops walking so abruptly, Keeho almost knocks right into his body. Then Jiung gives him a look—one that Keeho recognizes as really?–before he says, “What, you want a piggy back ride or something?”

“Ew, no,” Keeho says immediately. “I’m gonna stop talking.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The words are cocky and grating in his ears, but there isn’t a trace of annoyance in Jiung’s smile. Only a certain kind of fondness, that Keeho can't help but indulge himself in.

They don't talk about it as they pass the nearest convenience store, and then another one, and another one. They don't talk about it as they cut through a familiar alley, one that they both know takes them to the riverfront.

It’s nice to follow in somebody else’s lead, Keeho realizes. To put your trust into someone who knows what’s best for you, even if you don't know it yourself.

When they reach their unspoken destination, Jiung picks out two bowls of ramyeon, pays for them, and fills up both of them without asking. Then they find a space to sit underneath the overpass, scattered in between groups of friends and couples and people somewhere in between. Conversations that will drown out the noise in his head.

The wind picks up by the river. Keeho is overdue for a haircut, and feels loose strands flop around in the air. If it looks silly, Jiung doesn't say anything. Just listens to Keeho run through every topic in his brain that doesn't involve revealing his emotions to the night.

Eventually, the chatter around them dies down, as more people start to make their way back home. Their ramyeon bowls are emptied. Keeho keeps talking about nothing, for fear that this is where their night ends, too. But Jiung only collects both of their bowls, ties up the plastic bag and lets it rest at their feet, before asking Keeho if he's been working on any of his own songs lately. It's more than enough to get Keeho out of his brain—to focus more on melodies and lyrics that he's already poured his soul into.

But eventually–inevitably, when it's barely just the two of them now, and Keeho’s fingers start to shake with cold–Jiung does ask.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Keeho’s first instinct is no, absolutely not, thank you.

But there’s something about the way that Jiung gazes at him, concern evident even through the darkness. Something about the atmosphere of the night, of the feeling that maybe everything that they say will be swept away with the wind–that makes Keeho second guess.

Maybe it's time to be honest. Maybe he owes this much to Jiung.

“He called me an asshole,” Keeho says out loud.

And saying it now feels so ridiculous, he almost starts laughing. But there aren't any traces of judgment in Jiung's expression. Just a small, upwards curl in his lips.

“Yeah. He would know a thing or two about that.”

Keeho rolls his eyes, but his smile grows. “Okay, but you wanna know why he said that?”

“Mm.”

“Because I found out he had been cheating on me. The entire time. Or maybe since, like, day three. I don't know.”

He sneaks a glance over at Jiung, who doesn't seem to react to this information at all. Like he had been expecting this to happen. Like he's already run through every possible route in his head, and this was the inevitable conclusion. This alone forces another humorless laugh out of him, the admission pouring out with it.

“So I got back at him. I made a group chat with all of his exes.” Keeho splays out his fingers, like he’s counting. “Made a timeline. Got some of the nastiest things he’s ever said… then I sent it to the other person he’s seeing right now. Who is also on our cast, by the way. Our other actors, and to all of his friends that I knew. Just for fun. They can decide to do whatever they want with that information.”

It is the equivalent of a death sentence in his industry. Just as he had thought, saying it out loud only makes him feel worse. It only feels like poison, escaping from his throat and contaminating the air around them.

Jiung stares for a long time, unmoving, as if waiting for the toxins to seep into his body. Finally, “Holy shit, Keeho.”

Keeho gives a self-pitying laugh. “Yeah. Asshole behavior, I guess.”

“You're not an asshole.”

The words come fast and simple. Fact of the matter. Keeho shakes his head, opening his mouth to protest, but Jiung beats him to it.

“You can do shitty things,” Jiung starts, then waves a threatening finger in front of Keeho's mouth, cutting off his I told you so. “Not that what you did was shitty. He deserved that.” He gives a pointed side eye to Keeho, who pulls his mouth into a tight line. “But that doesn't automatically mean that you're a shitty person."

"Doesn't it?" Keeho blurts out. Jiung only tilts his head in response. "It's not like you would have done that. You would have just dumped him, talked shit to Taeyang, and then let it go. Instead of trying to ruin his life and making it everyone else's problem."

Jiung pauses. "Do you really think that's true?" 

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be? You're a good person."

"And you're not?"

In truth, Keeho doesn't know how to answer this, so he doesn't. Jiung fills in the gaps for him.

"I don't think it matters if we're good people or not," he says quietly. "We can't possibly know what we would or wouldn't have done. We aren't the people we are when we're hurting."

It comes earnest, in that particular way that Jiung is earnest about everything. Jiung, who forces his way past ivy thorns, and sees the good in everyone–sees good in him, where Keeho knows it isn't deserved.

“Okay, well." Keeho gives a shaky laugh, struggling to find balance. He wishes he had anything else to do with his hands, so out of place, besides poisoning everything that he touches. "It feels like I'm always hurting. So what does that say about me?”

He comes up with an easy answer in his head. It means I’m the problem. It means that he attracts trouble, attaches himself onto people that he knows will only end up hurting him.

It's everything that he's already heard before, spoken in abstraction and a careful tone by the very man next to him. Yet tonight, Jiung denies him.

"It's not your fault that you wanted to trust in someone.” That you wanted to love someone, he doesn't need to say. "I think that makes you brave, really. More than I could ever be."

The words come in an honest breath. Like this is a thought he's beared a hundred times before, but it's the first time he's let it out to the world. Keeho blinks, struggling to catch up, too exhausted to fight back. He only watches as Jiung keeps his gaze forward, as if the sky could hold all the answers he's looking for.

Keeho thinks about how often he has wished for this same sky to swallow him whole—to make him forget about how small and insignificant he is, in the expanse of the universe. But through Jiung's eyes, the colors of the night sky aren't as dark as he remembers. Maybe it isn't so daunting, to be only a speck of stardust. Maybe it's still light. Maybe it's a privilege to be anything within the deep azure above them.

The air turns into another delicate thing between them. For two people who talk so much otherwise, they've learned how to let quiet fill in the empty space. 

“For the record,” Jiung starts suddenly, mouth quirking in a way that Keeho knows he's about to say some shit. “I never liked him.”

Keeho snorts. He had thought Jiung might manage to get through this night without saying it once. He's almost grateful to be proven wrong.

“Oh, shut up. You told me already."

“I know." Annoying. "I just wanted you to know.”

Keeho laughs, real this time, but mostly at himself. “I should have known too,” he says, quieter than intended. His fingers tighten where they’re wrapped around his knees. Clings onto something for fear that he might fall apart if he doesn’t. “I should have broken up with him a long ass time ago. All that time wasted…”

“You don't have to put it like that.”

Keeho blinks, before pulling back to study Jiung's expression. It's faraway, unreadable, like he's already drifted elsewhere.

“What do you mean?”

“I don't think it's ever a waste of time when you're with someone. You know?” Jiung says towards the sky, as if speaking to the stars themselves. He does that, sometimes—talks like he's journaling out loud, like he is sure that someone out there in the universe must be listening. Keeho follows his gaze out into the horizon again, wishing desperately to find whoever that might be. “Because you take something from every person you meet. Even if you realize that it hurts, and you have to bury that something. You still take from it, and you grow into something more.”

"...And what exactly are you suggesting that I have learned from my exes?”

“That you have shitty taste in men.”

Keeho lets out a huff. “Yeah,” he says, meaning to laugh along, but it only comes out uneven and broken. “I guess I do.”

And it's in this moment, underneath the light of the stars, that Keeho realizes just how long he's known Jiung. That Jiung has seen Keeho fall stupidly for too many different people, only to find his heart left broken and bruised, over and over again. That Jiung has seen through each of Keeho's mistakes, his vices and flaws and everything he's scared to admit out loud, and he is still here—still thinks of Keeho as someone worth listening to. Still looks at Keeho, the same way he looks out to the stars in wonder and curiosity.

The wind picks up again, or maybe it's just that Keeho becomes more aware of their surroundings in the silence that follows. It becomes bitingly cold, so much so that Keeho loses grip of all of his senses. He doesn't even realize that his tears have started to fall, until he tastes salt on his lips.

Instinctively, Keeho draws closer into Jiung’s orbit. His head rests against Jiung’s shoulder, warmth blooming from his chest for just a moment, before he realizes what he's doing. Before he remembers that this isn't something that he can have.

Keeho immediately withdraws back into himself, like the touch had sparked their skin upon contact. “Sorry, I didn't mean–”

Jiung's fingers land on his wrist–the motion so searing and unfamiliar that Keeho feels his words caught in his throat. Pulls Keeho back down to Earth, ever so gently.

“It's alright,” Jiung murmurs, barely a breath. “I don't mind. Not–” he trails off, stumbling before his words land more firmly. “Not if it's you.”

Oh.

“You–you can. It's cold. Here.” Jiung raises his arm. He looks away, his ears turning red by the second. Cute, Keeho’s stupid brain supplies. “Come on, before I change my mind.”

And maybe it's foolish of him, to let himself fall twice. But Keeho knows that his heart craves intimacy like it is air. When he falls into Jiung's arms, lets the warmth of another person embrace him in full, it feels like finally remembering what it is to breathe again.

If Jiung notices that he's crying, he doesn't say anything. Just holds him closer, until their bodies mold together in the night. Keeho closes his eyes, and leans into Jiung’s shoulder like it's a safety net.

In reality, Keeho knows that he doesn't need anyone to take care of him. But maybe, it isn't so bad to have someone to catch him unfailingly.

Keeho isn't sure how much time passes like this. He focuses instead on steadying his breathing, the noise in his head, until all he feels is Jiung’s body against his own.

When Jiung speaks again, it's in a low rumble against his own chest.

“Kyo,” he starts quietly, and Keeho’s eyes flutter back open. “D’you wanna know what I’ve learned from you?”

In truth, Keeho had never considered this to be a possibility. That someone like Jiung could learn anything from him. He almost thinks that this cruel world is setting him up to take the brunt of another joke–before he remembers that the world isn’t watching him, for once. Here, it is only him and Jiung, and the stars that exist to guide them both.

Keeho hums, asking what?–and Jiung doesn't hesitate in his answer.

“That it's okay to let people in.”

Jiung's voice come so featherlight that his words immediately fade into the wind. But Keeho hears him so clear, pressed closed together like this, that his voice reverberates within his head, over and over. And when he pulls back, he finds that Jiung is already staring at him, eyes soft and unguarded in a way that he never is.

Is this how you let people in, too? Keeho wants to ask, but finds himself too afraid of the answer.

“Only sometimes, though,” Keeho says quietly, and Jiung laughs, a pretty breath.

“Yeah. Only sometimes.”

Keeho wonders how others would see them. He puts himself in the shoes of anyone who wanders the river trail below them. If it were Keeho, he would be writing the story in his head.

Two boys in their twenties, who first sat together with a pointed distance between them, using their ramyeon cups as a buffer. Two boys gradually drawing closer into each other, subtle movements where they think the other doesn’t notice. Until one opens up, and the other falls so helplessly into his arms, it makes you wonder just how long he's been dreaming of this.

rewind

──●────

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

“You're staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Taeyang says, because of course he knows. He’d know it even if his eyes were closed, even if he wasn’t in the same room. “You're literally sitting in between a hot guy's legs, and you're staring at someone else.”

"I don't like him like that anymore."

"That's not even remotely close to what I said at all."

Taeyang raises an eyebrow, and Keeho grows so flustered, he sinks further down into Taeyang's lap, as if he could be swallowed whole. He decides that here, in between Taeyang's legs, wouldn't be the worst way to die. No wonder someone is always buried into his lap.

Just an hour before, the six of them had stumbled into the noraebang. It's a tiny room, but it's all that they need. Keeho had been the first to grab the microphone, though he had squabbled over it with Taeyang. Then they had all been singing at the top of their lungs, matching Jiung and Intak’s boundless energy seamlessly. They got Jongseob off his phone and on his feet, drawn Shota out of his shell. All of them pressed so close together, belting into one microphone, like there was nowhere else for their voices to go.

Now the music has slowed down, in time with the steady beating of their hearts. Jongseob is back to some game on his phone, singing along under his breath, and Shota is quietly watching him over his shoulder. On the other side, Intak has attached himself to Shota's arm, seemingly knocked out. And in the corner of the room, Taeyang and Keeho sit cradled into each other.

Keeho doesn't think that his staring, or whatever, is anything out of the ordinary. Everyone is naturally drawn to Jiung, too.

Because when Jiung sings, it feels like the world makes itself quiet to listen. Or maybe it’s just that Keeho tunes out everything else in the world, because it doesn’t feel like anything else is worth hearing.

Keeho recognizes the song upon the first note. It's a song that he adores, and sticks onto each of his night-time drive playlists. He knows that they've listened to it together before in Jiung's car, when Keeho had taken over the stereo without asking. Jiung always lets him, anyway. Keeho hadn't realized until now that Jiung had been listening, enough to know the flow of the lyrics so intimately like this.

Keeho must be thinking so loud that Taeyang becomes overwhelmed with everything in his head, too, because he leans down to whisper in his ear. So close like this, it's impossible to ignore his words, even though Keeho tries.

"You could always tell him, you know," Taeyang says quietly. "Instead of sitting here and staring at him like a creep."

"I'm not a creep," Keeho says, immediately flustered. He's aware that it's overly defensive, all of his walls carefully built up around them. But with the comforting protection of the music, he lets them fall, whispers back only for Taeyang to listen. “He doesn't like me like that. I've already–” he falters, feels like his heart has already been exposed on his sleeve. “He already knows how I feel.”

“That was years ago, Keeho.”

“And? Why the hell would I ask just to get my heart broken again?”

It comes out sharper than he wanted, and Keeho immediately withdraws into himself, feeling guilty. But Taeyang barely reacts, keeping his hand steady through his hair.

“Because that was years ago,” he says again, then flicks his forehead as if he could drill this into Keeho's brain. “And you're the one who told him to forget that it ever happened. So why are you still hung up over it?"

"I'm not hung up over it. I—" Keeho stumbles over himself, defeated. He'll argue with anyone else, but it's a losing battle when it comes to Taeyang.

"You know people change. Feelings change. Everything changes.”

I wish, Keeho thinks. Because if that were true, then maybe Keeho would have been able to move past this by now. He could have taken that rejection, swallowed it down with all the other times that he's cried over a boy, and then moved the fuck on with his life instead of letting his heart constantly ache for something he can't have.

"You know he was scared, too."

Taeyang doesn't elaborate, and Keeho doesn't ask.

The song comes to an end, airy vocals fading out with the instrumental, as so does their conversation. And before Keeho can even think to look away, Jiung's eyes find him first. As if he knew that Keeho would be watching. 

Even through the darkness, Keeho can see the quiet concern in Jiung's gaze. You okay?

Keeho gives a small smile back. It betrays everything that he's feeling, but he thinks it's convincing enough. He's an actor, after all. I'm okay.

Jiung nods back. Then he holds out the microphone towards Keeho. Offers the opportunity for Keeho to sing. Wants for Keeho to be heard, in the way that he knows best to express himself.

There's a gentle pressure on his head, as Taeyang gently lifts him up out of his lap. Like Taeyang already knows his heart has gone, and where it will take him.

And Keeho knows that he can't keep doing this. That he needs to distance himself, before this feeling in his chest only grows deeper, constricting his lungs until it's impossible to breathe. How much of his life can he spend, secretly longing after someone that's already denied him? To keep imagining that it is Jiung's body, in the arms of anyone else?

But Keeho is not a good person, and especially not to himself. He is selfish, and wants all the things he knows he cannot have. And in these moments where Jiung stares at him, like he's seeing through him, Keeho foolishly lets himself believe that there is a happy ending for people like him.

Sometimes all that's left for him to do is sing, so that's what he does. He sings, and trusts that the song will guide him through it all. There's no way for him to know how it will end unless he commits to the beginning.

play

─────●─

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

By the time they make it back to his apartment, the lingering heat from the ramyeon has long faded. Keeho buries his fingers, already numb again, into the pocket of his hoodie. Jiung stands with his hands folded in front of him, awkward and lanky and so incredibly Jiung that it makes Keeho's heart ache just a bit more.

It's obvious that they are both stalling. Keeho can’t quite figure out why, but he keeps talking to fill up the space between them.

“Thanks for letting me borrow your hoodie,” he says.

“I didn’t let you,” Jiung says, without any real malice. “You took it from me.”

“Yeah, well.”

Keeho barely starts shrugging it off, sleeve pulled only halfway up his arm, before Jiung interrupts him.

“You spilled ramyeon,” he says, and Keeho blinks in confusion as he looks down. If there are any stains on the hoodie, it’s too dark to see. Still, Jiung pushes back. “Wash it first.”

“So bossy,” Keeho says, and gives in upon Jiung’s small smile. “Fine.”

A lingering silence stands in between them. Keeho lets out a long exhale, sees his own breath escape into the air. The longer they wait, the colder it'll be for Jiung's walk back home.

The alternative, of course…

Keeho has never been afraid to ask to take a stranger home–let alone to offer a friend a place to stay, if they needed. The problem is that Jiung is neither of these to him. The problem is that Jiung is something infinitely more.

“You're gonna miss the last train,” Keeho says finally.

Jiung nods, avoiding his gaze. “I know, I know. I just…”

“What, can't get enough of me?”

It's meant to be a joke, really. But when Jiung responds immediately, in a tone so assured, Keeho realizes that there's something else that has been lingering on Jiung's tongue for this night.

“No,” Jiung says, like he means it. Then– “I need to tell you something.”

Keeho stills, feels his heart stutter in his chest. He hums, if only just to show that he's listening, because he suddenly feels incapable of saying anything else.

Jiung says, “I lied to you.”

Keeho blinks. If it wasn’t so out of the blue, maybe Keeho would have laughed. Ha, gotcha! Who’s lying now? But all that comes out of his mouth is–

“What?”

“Taeyang didn't tell me what happened,” Jiung admits. "I asked him, but he refused to tell me anything. He said that Intak made him promise.”

Taeyang, Keeho thinks. Only the second most loyal person in this world.

Keeho feels his world shift on its axis, heart dropping to his stomach. “But if it wasn't Taeyang who told you–” he stops, trying and failing to piece it together. “Then how did you know…?”

It's quiet for a moment. Jiung falters, and pulls his mouth into a tight line. But the weight of the words must be too much to hold back, because they come spilling out in one breath.

“I pay attention to you,” he says finally, before immediately averting his gaze. Then, even more quietly under his breath– “I, um. I follow your Spotify, you know.”

Oh. “You do?”

“Of course I do,” Jiung says hastily, like he's offended that Keeho would think otherwise. “Did you forget that you're the one who took my phone from my hands and followed yourself? Right after you shit on my music taste?”

Despite everything, Keeho lets out a watery laugh. Yeah, that’s exactly what he would do.

“But I don’t understand what that means.”

“You–ah. You have this playlist that you always listen to…”

Immediately, the title image of the playlist comes to mind. It’s blurry, but unmistakably ink engraved into skin. A sword and its shadow–precise lines drawn in the style of cybersigilism, like the tattoo splayed across Jiung's back. The one that too often keeps Keeho sleepless at night, and that he's only able to indulge within his dreams.

It's embarrassing. It's a playlist that was so transparently made for one person only–even if Keeho struggles to admit to this out loud. It shouldn't come as a surprise that the one person it was meant for, has already seen right through it.

Because it is Jiung, who has a stupid fondness for 2010’s radio songs that led to Keeho shitting on his music taste. It is Jiung, who holds a crazy amount of diligence in learning Keeho’s native language, and knows how to pick apart song lyrics and how it makes him feel, even when Keeho couldn't explain it himself. It is Jiung, who knows how to crawl deep underneath his skin, no matter how Keeho tries to push him out.

Keeho is so stunned that he forgets to speak. The silence must drag on for too long, because Jiung starts stuttering and fumbling with his own hands.

“I just–I noticed that you've been listening to it a lot,” he says, and Keeho knows already that his heart has been bared. “The last time you did that was when you didn't pass that audition last month." The casual reminder stings at Keeho's heart—hurts even more knowing that it lives in Jiung's memory, too. "And the time before that, when your last ex…” Jiung trails off, like saying the name puts a sour taste in his mouth.

But Jiung doesn’t need to continue. Keeho already knows, because he remembers those nights vividly. Nights that he wished his bedsheets would swallow him whole–nights where he realized he would never be enough, and the only thing that still made him feel human was the music in his ears.

Songs that tell a story. Sometimes of a boy just like him, and other times of someone who exists in an entirely different universe. Another story that he could borrow for just a moment, if not just to fill somebody else's shoes and escape from his own.

Songs that start quietly, with melodies that are barely there, and crooning lyrics of a love that steadily grows. The instrumental builds up slowly, until it pushes past full force and crashes down into itself. Self-destruction from the inside out.

It is foolish of Keeho to think that music exists for him alone. It is foolish of Keeho to think that he ever could have hidden from anyone.

“I didn't know you paid so much attention to me," Keeho lets out finally, and hates the way it comes out so fragile and unsteady. But Jiung doesn't waver.

“Of course I pay attention to you," he says quietly. "But it's not like it was hard to notice.”

Keeho's arms tighten around his hoodie, as if he could still hide any part of himself. "...What are you saying?"

Jiung narrows his eyes, like the simplicity of the question bothers him. Like the answer is just as simple.

“Your love for music is the first thing that anyone should notice about you."

The world seems to come to a standstill. Keeho struggles to fit the notes together, and what it all means.

Then, as if Jiung realizes he might never get a chance to say any of this again— "You always notice. When Shota feels like the world is moving too fast. When Intak is frustrated that nobody respects him. When Jongseob forgets to take care of himself, or Taeyang gets too shy with all the attention on him. You know how to take care of them."

"I think you think too much of me," Keeho says weakly, looking down. Because Jiung is only talking about someone faraway, a character who he's only ever dreamed of being, and nothing like who he's been lately. "I don't do any of those things–"

He's cut off immediately by Jiung's sharp voice, raised at the edges.

"Yes, you do. Maybe because it comes so naturally to you, you don't even realize that you're doing it," Jiung says, insistent, talking so fast that Keeho can no longer keep up. "If you do all of this so easily for others, why would you think that it’s impossible for someone else to do the same thing for you?”

In between the lines, Keeho finds the question with crystal clarity. Why would you think that it's impossible for someone to love you back?

And Keeho knows what it's like to have all eyes in the room focused on you—has become addicted to how it makes him feel seen, like he's something worthy of drawing attention, worthy of making strangers stop and listen.

But none of it compares to the way that Jiung's gaze pierces through him now. Maybe because Jiung has already broken through the cracks in his shell, and sees a person beyond surface level. And at the core of it all, he sees a person that can be loved, inside and out, despite everything.

The city is silent around them, waiting with bated breath, and Keeho realizes that there isn't anyone else watching who could write his story. It's up to him to decide how he wants it to be told.

“Jiung," he starts, heart hammering within his chest. "Why did you come here?"

Jiung finally falters. Opens and closes his mouth. Then he stops and shakes his head to himself, before lowering his voice to something without edge. Something like bare honesty.

Because at the end of it all is this— “You always deserved better, Keeho.”

Maybe, Keeho thinks. But still not enough to deserve you.

But here, underneath the stage lights of the moon and the stars, Keeho wonders if maybe he had been wrong—if maybe there is no such thing as not being enough for anyone else. Maybe you only need to be enough to trust in yourself, to brave that first step forward into somebody else's orbit.

So when Keeho pulls on Jiung's wrist, he decides that this is the ending he's always dreamed of. It doesn't matter if he falls. He decides that this is worth taking that chance again for.

“If that’s what you think,” he starts slowly. “Then would you stay here with me tonight?"

Something flickers in Jiung's eyes, uncertainty and hesitance. It makes Keeho remember that something about this scares Jiung too, more than anything. And as much as Keeho wants to take everything back, Keeho forces himself to keep his gaze open, in hopes that Jiung will be able to see transparently through to his heart.

Jiung dives forward, and Keeho realizes that love is nothing more than bravery. That love is the kind of free-fall you take, when you let someone in and trust them to catch you in full.

Keeho and Jiung isn't something that happens, just like that.

It takes another season. More late nights than he can count, long walks and conversations and overthinking on both of their parts. Still, it all feels a touch different now. It means that things that they were already familiar with have become painted anew, watercolors mixing together and spreading unseen colors on the page.

Because now, Keeho knows that every brush of their hands is purposeful. When Keeho accidentally leans in closer and instinctively draws away, Jiung knows to pull him back. Knows that there is no reason to be afraid of his touch anymore–it's just how Keeho loves.

Now, when Jiung comes to Keeho's show with a fresh bundle of handpicked flowers, Keeho knows that it's because Jiung still struggles to put his feelings into words. Instead, he hopes that the blushing rosebuds will do the talking for him.

So when the curtain rises, Keeho sings with clarity, and finds solace in knowing that his heart will reach at least one person by the end of the song. It's just his luck that this one person happens to be the loudest person in the room.

And as Keeho finds him in his growing audience, surrounded by his favorite people, he thinks that maybe it's okay if he doesn't get to sing for the whole world. Maybe it's enough to sing for the people who choose to listen, and who choose to stay.

"Caught you staring at me again today," Jiung says. Cocky and annoying, betraying the gentleness of his hands.

Keeho knows this to be true. He scoffs anyway. He would be rolling his eyes too, if Jiung's hands weren't delicately wiping away at the glitter around them, and holding him in place.

"You would have had to be staring at me to know that."

"You were literally on stage, right in front of my face. Where else was I supposed to be looking?"

"Excuse me, no one said you had to come–"

Jiung moves immediately to his lips, shutting him up before he can bite back. Keeho exhales, lets himself go still underneath Jiung's touch.

The truth is, Keeho is lying. He has never explicitly said that Jiung has to come to his shows. Still, Jiung knows him anyway–knows that he shines the most when he's on stage, and wants to see him at his brightest. It's the same reason Keeho drops everything to attend his showcases, too.

Eventually, the warmth of Jiung's touch leaves him, cleansing wipes tossed aside. "Okay," he says, voice softer than it's been all night. "All done."

When Keeho instinctively opens his eyes, he finds that Jiung is closer than he had known. His breath stutters, brain finally registering the scene before him–sitting with his back to the mirror and Jiung straddled between his legs.

Keeho blinks rapidly, suddenly shy having his bare face exposed so closely like this. Suddenly too aware of the way Jiung studies him in the low lighting, fingertips atop his thighs.

"Caught you staring," Keeho blurts out, stupid as always, as his heart threatens to burst from his chest.

And still, Jiung smiles at him like he's the prettiest, most radiant thing he's ever seen.

"Yeah," is all Jiung says, before closing the distance between their lips.

It's a slow dance at first, with Jiung taking the lead and Keeho letting himself be pulled every which way. Keeho always indulges in this feeling–when he's still riding the high from the post-show adrenaline, and his body is too lightweight to care.

Then Jiung tilts his head, swipes his tongue across his mouth. Just one simple ask for more, and Keeho loses all semblance of thought. He melts into the kiss, into Jiung's hand on the back of his neck, and the other pressing more deeply into his inner thigh.

When Keeho pulls back, gasping for air, Jiung only chases after him. Jiung is relentless, doesn't let him breathe as he swallows his bottom lip in between his own.

"Fuck," Keeho lets out in a useless moan, and Jiung only laughs into him. Evil, a terrible reminder of the smiling devil tattooed on the inside of his mouth.

It's dangerous, Keeho knows, to be wanted by Jiung. It's going to ruin him permanently, if he keeps this up. Keeho doesn't give a damn.

In one second, Jiung peers up at him, blinking innocently from under long lashes. In another, Keeho picks both of their bodies up as one, and travels the small distance to his bed.

Keeho shrugs off the t-shirt that he had put on just moments before, when Jiung had offered to help him remove his stage makeup. A useless thing, anyway, he thinks as Jiung's hands land on his chest for support. Also useless, he thinks as he pulls Jiung's own shirt off and tosses it somewhere on the floor.

When Jiung collapses back onto his mattress, eyes unfocused and unguarded, bare skin on full display, Keeho studies him like he is artwork. He's become unashamed in this—no longer wants to deny himself the privilege of looking at Jiung, if given the chance.

Keeho starts with the moon engraved into his chest and moves to his ribcage, as if his fingers could untangle the flora to reveal the untouched skin underneath. He thinks that he could spend lifetimes, kissing along the flowering trail of his tattoos, until his mouth memorizes every fine line.

He lets his fingers trail down the path of butterflies, landing delicately on the waistband of his pants. He feels more than he hears the hitch in Jiung's breath, body shuddering underneath the touch like it burns. The noise goes straight to Keeho's groin, makes him dizzy with heat. It's instinctive when he rolls his hips down, chasing that sweet feeling–

"Keeho."

Within a breath, the air shifts, and Keeho is grounded back into reality. He lifts himself up, separating their bare skin before his hand travels the distance to the side of Jiung's cheek.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Are you okay? Should I stop—"

"No." Jiung cuts him off, the assurance in his voice betraying the red on his cheeks, and the delicate frown written across his features. "I'm sorry, I just…" he trails off, fingers landing on top of Keeho's own, like he needs to know that they're still there. "Are you sure about this?"

Jiung looks up then, and Keeho feels his breath stutter at his gaze. It takes him back to that night, on the floor of his and Intak's new apartment so long ago, when Jiung had turned away from him. It is a distant memory now, but that ache had permanently settled in his chest, still unravels itself on his darkest nights.

It's different now, though. Keeho has learned to recognize this flicker in his eyes not as rejection, but something more akin to hesitance. A reminder that Jiung is only as afraid of this as he is.

But Keeho isn't afraid of baring his heart anymore. He caresses the side of Jiung's face with a gentle hand, wants to soothe away every lingering trace of doubt, and asks–

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Jiung avoids his gaze, and audibly swallows. The words must be sticky in his throat, but Keeho has already heard them. Maybe because Keeho has already molded his body to fit against Jiung's own, aligned himself to hear Jiung's heart without the need to say anything out loud.

I'm afraid that you're not thinking straight, that you're going to wake up and regret this. I'm afraid that there will be someone else that's better for you, someone who shines as much as you do. I'm afraid that I don't deserve you.

Keeho pulls back. He has heard enough. He digs his hands down his waist until they've landed firmly around Jiung's body. Then, in one fluid motion, Keeho lifts both of them up at once.

"What the hell are you doing—yah!"

Jiung yelps in surprise, hands gripping onto Keeho's shoulder in fear of his life, as Keeho forces him up and onto his lap.

It hasn't taken Keeho long to learn that this is one of Jiung's favorite ways to be held—cradled into Keeho's body. His head tucked in between his bare shoulders and neck, able to avoid the weight of his gaze. Keeho makes it impossible for him to escape, hands tight around his smaller frame, and fingers trailing the ink on his back.

When Keeho holds him like this, Jiung can bury his face into his skin. He only seems to make himself smaller, testing the laws of the natural world and seeing if it's possible to melt into an embrace.

“You're always so wrong about everything," Keeho says then, leaning up to nip at Jiung's ear, and delights in the high-pitched giggle that he draws. Cute, he thinks, as Jiung buries himself further into his shoulder in embarrassment. "Do you ever get tired of that?”

"What are you saying?" Jiung grumbles. Keeho can feel the warmth of his smile spread against his skin.

"I'm saying," Keeho starts, and forgets to finish the thought when Jiung's fingers land on his own neck, drawing him closer. He lets out a hopeless gasp, before drawing his breath and steadying himself. "I'm saying, if you really paid attention to me, then you would already know. I've never wanted anything more."

And Keeho's voice turns softer as he tucks Jiung's head against his own, whispering into the crown of his hair. "But I need to know that you want this, too."

It feels like a lifetime before Jiung answers, but Keeho has learned that for some people, silence speaks louder than words. With Jiung, it only means that he's taking his time, searching for the perfect way to explain the intricate trailings of his heart.

Keeho realized that he is willing to wait forever, if that's what he needs.

Eventually, Jiung does pull back. He keeps his hands on Keeho's shoulders, as if to steady himself. When he meets his gaze again, eyes set in determination, Keeho feels a catch in his breath.

"I do," Jiung finally answers. Then, in an even quieter breath— "I want you so much that it scares me."

"Okay," Keeho says, feels himself shaking with the crash of relief. He leans in and knocks their foreheads together, trusting in Jiung to steady him. "Okay. So maybe we can both be brave."

Keeho hovers just over his lips, and watches as Jiung's eyes flutter shut. Feels the way Jiung grips onto him so tight, like he's afraid that Keeho might disappear if he doesn't.

And then Keeho collapses in, sinking back down onto the mattress, and onto Jiung. He is still uncertain of many things, but what he knows is this. He wants to kiss Jiung until his phantom touch lingers, for long after he leaves. He wants to be sure that Jiung will always know this to be true.

It's always been you, Jiung. I deserve you.

replay?

──────●

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

A long while later, Keeho invites Jiung to his favorite coffee shop.

“I'm so sorry I'm late,” Keeho rambles as he slips into the seat opposite Jiung. “I was with Shota, and he wanted to show me that he made us characters in this game, and then I didn't want to go because he was so cute about it–”

Jiung cuts him off, reaching across the table and finding Keeho's hand with ease. Intertwines their fingers, and gives Keeho something to ground himself on.

“That's okay,” he says, lips quirked up. “Let me guess. Were our characters fighting again?”

“Yes! So then I really couldn't leave until I made sure that we made up! And he gave me the ugliest outfit, so I couldn't not fix it. Ugh, let me show you…”

Keeho keeps running his mouth until he's out of breath. Jiung takes the moment to push his iced tea–unsweetened and decaffeinated, because he's boring like that–towards Keeho. A reminder to stay hydrated, before he goes back to his dehydrating Americano that Jiung had already ordered for him.

They stay in the cafe like this, taking slow sips of their drinks, as if time stopped passing them by the moment they settled in together.

When the sun makes its way across the sky, painting their world in soft orange, Keeho asks if Jiung wants to catch the sunset. Jiung smiles shy, like he's peeking out from behind the clouds. Of course I do, who do you think I am?

Their own two feet take them to a park nearby the café, back at the riverfront. Jiung rolls out the picnic blanket underneath their favorite tree–high above the trail, perfect for people watching–and they sit down amongst the fallen autumn leaves.

And Jiung holds his hand like it's something precious, like he's something wonderful and made of nature itself. Like Keeho is something to be proud of having.

“I have something I want to show you,” Jiung says, cheeks colored pink. “Do you have your earbuds?”

"Of course I do. Who do you think I am?"

They plug in Keeho’s wired earbuds into opposite ears, forcing their shoulders closer together. Keeho doesn't think twice before leaning in, his head cradled into Jiung's neck. This time, it isn’t an accident when Jiung tilts his head downwards, and places a kiss to the crest of his head, just because he can.

Then Jiung hits play, and the music fills his soul, something entirely unfamiliar.

Keeho blinks, staring wide-eyed at Jiung. "You haven't shown this to me before, right?"

Jiung shakes his head. "No, not yet. I…" he trails off, bites at his lip. Shy. Cute, Keeho's heart sings. "I wanted to keep this one a surprise. For you."

"Oh." The butterflies erupt in his chest, and Keeho can't help his smile as he sinks into Jiung's embrace, soft and in love. He starts spilling out in sweet nothings. "Aw, Jiungie. How long have you kept this from me? I swear I've been next to you every time you're in the studio. Was it when you got me distracted on my knees—"

"Could you stop talking for once? You're missing all my hard work!"

"Oop."

Keeho puffs out his cheeks, pouting. It never fails to make Jiung laugh, music to his ears.

And Jiung is still grinning as he presses a finger to his lips. It's much too soft to be a threat, but Keeho shuts himself up anyway.

"Just listen, okay?" he says, laced with so much affection that Keeho swims in it.

I love you, Keeho. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t have to. And everything that you are.

With that, Jiung rewinds and hits play. Keeho lets himself fall into this dream hopelessly, headfirst.