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Kangmin is made of glass. 

It’s difficult to explain how it feels like he will shatter with each misplaced word. How he wants to cry and scream and be held all at the same time. How at times like now he looks in the mirror and sees a stranger. 

He clutches the porcelain sink, lays a hand over the cold glass mirror. He looks… different. He feels different. All decked out in fancy stage outfits and thick stage makeup and a plastic box of a stage personality. The disconnect used to knock the wind out of him. Now, after a long year, it feels as natural as the breath in his lungs. 

He wonders. This is him. This is who he always wanted to be, from the time he was ten and watched a music program for the first time. So why does he feel so empty?

“Kangmin! Be on standby!” his in-ear demands. Kangmin runs a finger down his cheek, nice and gentle. It comes away coated in makeup, like an extra layer of skin. He slams the bathroom door behind him, jogs to catch up with the others. 

“Cheers to the end of an era!”

Dongheon pours him soda in a shot glass. They all raise their glasses, clink them together. Their manager grills meat. Minchan and Hoyoung talk about performances. Yeonho and Yongseung bicker over something trivial. Gyehyeon’s busy downing his shot. 

It’s odd, coming off stage, makeup washed off, clothes changed, the incredible rush of adrenaline gone. Hoyoung, seated next to him, makes him a wrap of meat and rice and cabbage and puts it in Kangmin’s mouth. It’s times like this where the disconnect is all the more obvious. On one hand, he’s happy everything’s going well. One the other…

“Ey, Kangminnie,” Gyehyeon elbows him lightly, “You okay?”

Mouth still full of food, Kangmin shakes his head like a wet puppy, gives him a big thumbs up.

“‘M good,” 

He’s not gonna lie—he’s exhausted. So exhausted that even with so much food in front of him, all Kangmin wants to do is sleep. Knowing everyone sitting here, they’d be more than happy to let him. He could fall asleep on Hoyoung’s shoulder, and Hoyoung would shush anyone talking too loud and Dongheon would sling him over his back and carry him back to the dorms. But imagining that feels so… juvenile. Like all he really is is just a child, deadweight on Dongheon’s back. So he drowns a glass of water and blinks back sleep. 

“C’mon, you had the biggest crush on Park Yena when we were training,”

“I did not ,” Yongseung hisses, pushes Yeonho’s shoulder with a little too much force, followed by a violent head shake and a shot glass slammed onto the table. Oh. He must be drunk. 

“Deny it all you want,” Yeonho shrugs with a shit-eating grin, face flushed with alcohol, “You can’t rewrite history,”

Hoyoung’s red as the dwaenjangjjiggae he spoons into his mouth. Gyehyeon wordlessly grills meat. Dongheon’s chatting with a manager, lays a hand on Yeonho’s shoulder to keep him from further provoking a decidedly drunk Yongseung. 

“What about you, hyung?” Yeonho prods, now that Yongseung’s preoccupied with retrieving meat from the grill, “Have you ever had a crush?”

Dongheon rolls his eyes, turns away from the manager. 

“Of course I have,” he retorts, reaching across the table to pour himself another shot of soju. Kangmin’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier by the second, so much that even the smell of cooking meat can’t keep him awake. 

“Who?”

Dongheon’s got a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s disconnected. He raises the shotglass to his lips, downs it in a gulp. 

“Doesn’t matter. You don’t know ‘em anyways,” 

“C’mon, hyung, just give us a name,”

Kangmin leans his head on Hoyoung’s shoulder, lets his eyes flutter shut. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but Hoyoung stiffens just for a second. Just for a night, he reasons, he’ll be a kid again. 

There is one good thing about school. Even if it means late nights in practice rooms and studying until letters wiggle and move off the paper and colorful spots appear in Kangmin’s vision. 

“Kangminnie!” 

It’s him. This boy, who seems so… so far removed from the monotony of school uniforms and pencils to paper. He’s got a head of messy black hair, big eyes that sparkle like all the stars, and a shirt buttoned all wrong. It’s him, him alone, out of all the big-name idols and actors and hopefuls that stands out like a splash of color in a monotonous world. 

Song Hyeongjun, the boy with a beautiful smile and big shoes to fill. He glows, even under fluorescent hallway lights. 

“Rooftop?” Hyeongjun asks. Kangmin nods, perhaps over-eagerly, but Hyeongjun only laughs, slings an arm around his shoulder and leads him up the stairs. 

This is their little secret. Their worlds collide, if not for these stolen breaks on the school rooftop, where the wind ruffles their hair and their fingers brush just enough to make Kangmin’s ears flush. 

Hyeongjun takes in deep gulps of air, like a beached fish. Kangmin takes him in: the bones connecting his cheek to his jaw, the curry stain on his white uniform shirt, the color of his hastily-applied blush, a fervish shade of pink dusted over his nose and cheekbones. 

“You’re staring,” Hyeongjun teases with a good-natured smile, one that makes his eyes and nose scrunch, “Am I really that pretty?”

Kangmin’s eyes widen. He shakes his head violently, looks away. Oh God. Was he really that obvious?

“I-it’s not that you’re not,” This sounds like a confession. It’s not supposed to be a confession, “It’s just…!”

Hyeongjun chuckles, such a pleasantly quirky sound that makes Kangmin fall apart. 

“I’m just teasing you, ‘Minnie,” 

Kangmin’s ears flush. What is it about Hyeongjun that makes him a stuttering, hot mess?

“Very funny,” Kangmin sounds more pouty than indignant but he doesn’t mind.

Hyeongjun tilts his head, purses his lips, rather like a curious cat. 

“Well? What’s up nowadays?” Hyeongjun’s eyes sparkle, burn with the light of a falling star. Kangmin nearly reels from the startling intensity. 

“Uh, nothing much,” Kangmin’s hand finds the back of his neck. Suddenly, Hyeongjun’s worn white sneakers are extremely interesting, “Just…just wrapping up comeback promotions,” 

Hyeongjun nods sagely. Whenever Kangmin sees him here, in his sloppy uniform with messy makeup and tousled hair, he can’t help but think he seems rather… removed. Like he’s too good for desks and papers and textbooks, like he’s meant for the stage, his stage, shining spotlights and thunderous applause. 

“Same. It’s a little empty, isn’t it,” Hyeongjun tosses a candy wrapper from his shirt pocket over the railing, watches it float to unforgiving asphalt, “Y’know, do you ever wish—”

He leans heavily against the railing, tilts his head up towards the sky, like he’s taking in all the sunlight. Far away, far away, far away, like he is a fish in a tank and all Kangmin can do is press his nose against the glass and look. 

The bell rings. Does Hyeongjun wish for the same things as Kangmin does?

The practice rooms are quiet. 

It’s the dead of night, a couple days after the end of an era. Everyone else is at the dorms. Kangmin should be at the dorms. But he finds himself here, in this cursed room of bloody heels and spilled water bottles, speakers nice and quiet, instead. 

If Kangmin cut himself open, reached through the cracks of his glass shell, he’s pretty sure he’d find sweat and mirrors. 

He lifts an arm. His reflection lifts one too. They’d filmed a video like this, a couple months ago, before survival shows and rooftop talks with Hyeongjun. He remembers staring at the finished product with awe. Now though, his reflection seems like nothing more than an accusation, a pointed finger, a nasty comment. 

Kangmin lays a hand on polished glass. He’s met by the cold bite of the surface. At this moment, his eyes sparkle with something between insecurity and insanity. It scares Kangmin more than he’d like to admit, like he’ll drown into pools of uncertainty and skin and bones, crumble beneath the floorboards, decompose. 

His lips part. No sound escapes. He wonders, for one sordid second, what it’d feel like to curse out loud. As a kid, it was his parents who forbid profanities, saying it was unbecoming of him. As a teenager, it was the trainers and agency staff, who’d glare daggers at the more foul-mouthed trainees, like keeping up their squeaky clean image behind the scenes would change something. But now, here, there’s nothing stopping him, technically. 

“Fuck,”

It’s childish, really, to think he’s never cursed outside the confines of his mind. The word feels like lead on his tongue. He doesn’t not like it, but at the same time, it feels so wrong.

Kangmin finds an iPad resting in a corner. He sighs, queues Photo, and lets his body move on its own. That moment, that private perfect moment, is his to keep. But what is he supposed to do with it?

Dongheon’s awake when Kangmin trudges through the front door. He stares blank-eyed at the television, but turns his head and nods to acknowledge Kangmin’s presence. 

“You’re back late,” His smile is soft, fond, “What were you even doing?”

Kangmin shrugs noncommittally, before he buckles under the weight of his own silence. 

“Just practicing,” 

It feels like he’s done something wrong, when really he’s done quite the opposite. 

Dongheon nods, before going back to face the screen. On screen, a man, presumably the male lead, grabs a sobbing woman’s hand. She turns to face him, eyes wet and shiny.

“Hyung?” Even to his ears, Kangmin’s voice sounds tinny. He takes a deep breath. Dongheon looks at him with that soft smile, the kind of smile that’s meant for when Kangmin’s back is turned. 

Who is your crush? Why do you care so deeply about me? When’s our next comeback?

Words catch in the back of his throat, like splinters of glass digging into soft skin. He yawns, shakes his head.

“‘S nothing,” Kangmin lies, “Goodnight.”

He turns on his heel, slams his bedroom door behind him, before Dongheon can say anything. 

There was a trainee, once. He couldn’t take it all, the weight of perfection on his shoulders. So, as he practiced till he collapsed, he punched the mirror, with such a great force glass shattered and splintered, shards burying into his knuckles. 

He was “released” the next day, the subject of so many rumors by those he had called friends. At the time, as he watched construction men replace the mirror, Kangmin didn’t get it, didn’t get the pressure and anxiety and helplessness, bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin. Now… 

He still can’t say he does, at least not completely. But a part of him, a different part of him than the child of barely fifteen of that practice room and saw blood pooling at puked at the sight of so much blood on the practice room floor, at shiny shards glimmering, feels for him, in an odd way that is not quite pity and not quite empathy. 

Kangmin wonders, with a shiver down his spine, what it would be like to punch a mirror. He tilts his head, watches his reflection tilt with it. He walks away. 

When Kangmin comes back to school on Monday, Hyeongjun has red hair. It’s pretty, he thinks privately, the way the light shines and catches on flyaway strands. His shirt is clean, buttoned up right, and his makeup is done correctly, though pink lipgloss runs down his chin. 

“Kangminnie!” While Hyeongjun isn’t the only person to call him that, it feels most special from his lips. When Kangmin asked why once, when spring was just thawing and their cheeks were a rosy red from cold, Hyeongjun just shrugged. 

“Minhee is Mini,” he sighed, pulling a lollipop out of his mouth, “And Seongmin’s Min. So you get to be Kangminnie,” 

It’s completely practical, but still makes Kangmin’s heart throb. 

“Hyung,” They hadn’t agreed to meet yet. Hyeongjun is already back in the swing of things, that restless rookie rhythm: debut, promotions, photoshoots, shows, one-week break, comeback, repeat, while Kangmin rests. His hair is still black.

“I was hoping I’d see you here,” Hyeongjun grips the railing, catches himself as he leans back, “I missed you,”

His smile is like slipping into sunlight, like a dandelion sprouting through cracks in asphalt. 

“Me too,” 

Those two words don’t say nearly enough. They don’t say your hair is pretty like that or I think about you all the time or even a you look tired as hell. Me too, me too. Kangmin hates it. 

“How is comeback stuff going?” is what he settles for, a safe question that doesn’t say anything Kangmin wants to. Hyeongjun hums. His face looks pretty, haloed by sunlight. 

“It’s going,” Hyeongjun sighs, “It’s just… different, y’know? From debut,”

Because the only times Hyeongjun’s had on stage were that stupid survival show, a failed debut, and a successful one. Because Kangmin’s had a debut, three comebacks, another stupid suvival show, and another comeback. Because Hyeongjun is older and wiser but Kangmin’s technically his sunbae. Kangmin understands but he doesn’t. 

“Y’know, even when we were getting ready for Cloud 9, it felt a little…unreal. I mean, debut was so hectic! Both times! But now… now it’s more mellow. Like, we know each other’s working styles. We know how this is gonna go. It’s kind of nice,”

Kangmin nods, finds himself staring at shimmery pink lipgloss dripping down Hyeongjun’s chin. He should say something. He doesn’t. 

“Debut wasn’t my favorite,” Kangmin admits, rubbing the back of his neck, “We all were so… nervous. We didn’t know what was going on, or what was going to happen. We just… worked. But then—”

The bell rings. Hyeongjun stares at him quizzically, like waiting for an end to Kangmin’s sentence. But Kangmin shuts his mouth, eyes still trained on dripping lipgloss, shakes his head. They walk away wordlessly. Hyeongjun locks the door behind him, gives Kangmin a little halfhearted smile and waves as he walks in the opposite direction. 

There’s something Kangmin likes about dramas: the predictability. It’s comforting, knowing that whatever comes next, there will always be a rosy ending for the starry-eyed lovers. Dongheon likes them too, though whether for the same reason or something completely different Kangmin cannot say. 

He’s not sure what they’re watching right now, but it seems to follow the same standard formula. Here’s a young man running through the rain to comfort a lady in a pretty yellow sundress crying at an empty bus stop. 

Dongheon stares at the screen with an odd softness, fuzzy edges. The moment feels a tad too tender to break, but Kangmin musters his courage. 

“At dinner a while ago,” Kangmin hugs the couch cushion closer to himself, “Who is your crush?”

Dongheon blinks, once, twice, as the man kisses the girl passionately in the rain. 

“You don’t know him. It doesn't matter,”

But it does. 

“But it does! I—”

Dongheon holds a finger to his lips, points at the screen. Kangmin grumbles, mashes his face into the cushion before watching the stupid drama. 

Later that night, Kangmin imagines what would happen if he was that girl, if that person kissed him like that. They’d look at each other with nothing short of pure, amazing love in their eyes, two whole, beautiful, unbroken people, and say…

Who is he kidding? Kangmin rolls over, pulls the blanket closer around himself, and tries to sleep. 

Kangmin’s pretty sure the only reason his parents let him audition was because they thought he wouldn’t make it. He’d become disillusioned by the TV life of shining lights, give up and come back home and start studying for the police exam like the good boy he’d always been. But he didn’t, and he did. He didn’t come home, and he did make it. Eight months through the training system, hectic debut preparations, signed contracts and the start of high school. A music show gig, a survival show, magazine shoots. He’s made it. 

He stares at his reflection in the salon mirror, hair newly dyed an ugly intermediate shade between gray and purple. He hates it. There’s nothing he can do. 

“I am a rubber band,” Hyeongjun pops a cherry lollipop out of his mouth, examines shiny red candy, “That doesn’t make sense, does it?"

Kangmin shakes his head. 

“See, this is me,” he holds up his left pointer finger, “The Song Hyeongjun you know and love,”

He holds up his right finger. 

“This is me, too,” he explains, “But the other me. Like, when I’m on camera, y’know?”

Kangmin nods, slowly. This makes sense. 

“And between them is also me. I guess I just kind of see myself as a rubber band, like. It’s… kind of exhausting, being two people, y’know?”

No, Kangmin doesn’t know. But he wants to know. He wants to be someone greater than the glass shell he traps himself in. He wants to be someone Hyeongjun can tell everything to. He wants…

“Don’t lie,” Hyeongjun sighs, “It’s whatever,”

But his eyes, a turbulent ocean, stir ever so slightly. He’s hurt. Kangmin hates it. But the bell rings and everything is whatever, whether he likes it or not. 

Summer break comes faster than anyone expected, and a comeback rolls around with it. Kangmin goes through the routine again and again with Dongheon’s spartan training. He sings in the recording booth till his voice goes hoarse. He cuts his meals in half and is met every cursed morning with grayish-purplish hair, that ugly ugly shade everyone said suited him perfectly. He hates it. He loves it. 

Kangmin doesn’t have a phone. He wonders who he’d call. His parents? Old friends? Hyeongjun? Whenever he gets a turn with the phone they all share, and Kangmin dials a familiar number, words stick in the back of his throat like shards of glass in soft skin. He’s so happy. He’s so afraid. 

“Hello?” his mother’s voice says on the other end of the line, “Kangmin?”

His hands tremble. Kangmin hangs up before he can even try. 

They treat him like an idiot. Something is off, clear as day, but no one will tell him what it is. Dongheon and Hoyoung stop talking. There’s no explanation, it just happens. 

Kangmin doesn’t ask. And maybe that’s for the better, because for the most part, life resumes as normal, save for what happens behind closed doors when they think he’s asleep. 

Kangmin wonders, as makeup artists doll him up for the music video shoot, where Verivery’s Kangmin ends and Yoo Kangmin begins, or is it the other way around? In this lit mirror, he sees someone in between. Someone who looks cool and confident, someone he could find on TV, but is weak in the knees and like cracked glass, poised to shatter. This time, he’s dressed in a crisp pinstripe suit, the kind his parents promised they’d buy him after graduation. This time…

Yeonho appears with a phone on a selfie stick, a perfect camera smile. 

“And here’s Kangnaeng-ie! Say hi to Verrers, Kangmin,” 

Kangmin forces a smile, waves rather sheepishly. 

“It’s our first day on set! Let’s hope things go well,” Yeonho clears his throat, puts on his faux-reporter face, “Kangmin-ssi, how are you feeling?”

Smile , he reminds himself. He’s practiced for this. He’s in his element. 

(Even though it feels like he could cry. The makeup artists wouldn’t like that, though, especially not after they’d worked so hard on making him look perfect.)

“I’m feeling great today, Reporter Ju,” he says rather diplomatically, “Yeonho hyung, how ‘bout you give Verrers a spoiler?"

He does some obscure dance move from their choreo while Kangmin holds a shaky camera. Gyehyeon, who’s getting his hair done, snorts slightly. 

Right. Why does any of that stuff from before matter?

They’re at a concert venue, a name Kangmin will forget in three or so hours. Yeonho’s gone to get water bottles, while Dongheon’s getting his makeup fixed and Kangmin just wants to wander, do anything to stave off his pre-performance nerves. A year and a half and nothing’s gotten easier. 

He reads names off waiting room doors, all haphazardly out of order. After Verivery he passes by ONF, Rocket Punch, Weeekly, Victon. He pretends to be wandering aimlessly, but in truth, he has a purpose. 

And then—ah. At the end of the hall, next to the bathroom. Cravity, in big block letters. Kangmin checks his reflection on the cheap plastic mirror hung on the bathroom door. The waiting room door’s open a crack, but just as he’s about to open it, he hears a voice. 

“We’ve done this exact same script, like five times already,” a deeply annoyed masculine voice sighs, “You’ve literally just got to replace the name of the concert,”

“I know, I know, I know, I’m sorry ,” 

Hyeongjun’s voice cracks on the last syllable. 

“Ugh, whatever, we’re running out of time to submit this,” the first voice grumbles, “Minhee, you’re not saying anything for this, right? Take over Hyeongjun’s lines,”

Kangmin takes a step back. Hyeongjun steps out the door. 

“I’m sorry!,” Kangmin’s voice trembles, cracks “I just wanted to say…” 

Their eyes meet. Hyeongjun’s eyes are big and wet and dead. 

His shoulder brushes Kangmin as he walks away with his head down, without so much as a hello. 

“Hoyoung hyung?” Kangmin asks one night while they’re washing dishes together. Hoyoung washes them. Kangmin dries them and puts them away, “Have you ever had a crush on someone?”

Hoyoung goes quiet, sighs. 

“Of course I have,” It’s a little hard to hear him over the rush of flowing water, the sticky humidity, “Why?”

He hands Kangmin a white bowl. Kangmin dries it rather half-heartedly, stands on tiptoe to reach a high shelf. 

“Well…what was it like?” 

Hoyoung stops. Water runs like a nosebleed. He stares at the far wall, where there’s a framed photo of all seven of them right after their debut stage. Dongheon’s in the center, holding a cake with frosting smeared on his nose. 

His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. 

“I thought about him all the time. He made me feel warm,” 

Hoyoung hands him the last bowl, shuts the water off. The steam is still sticky, but it’s quiet now, at least. 

“I thought we could do it,” His voice is so raw, it makes something inside Kangmin crack, “But he liked someone else,”

Hoyoung shakes his head, looks away from that picture. They don’t talk about it later. 

More and more Kangmin finds himself circling back to the boy in the practice room, bloodied knuckles leaving red stains on a white shirt, shards of glass around him. Kangmin had screamed back then, watched with dead eyes as the boy’s parents put their arms around his shoulders and walked him out the door with soft footsteps. 

Kangmin finds himself alone in the practice room again. The mirrors that surround him, floorboards long since scrubbed clean, feel like a mockery. Music blares, but he’s not paying attention. 

His reflection seems like someone else. This not-quite-man but not-quite-boy doesn’t have cracks festering beneath his skin. No, he is whole and unbroken, with clean hands and heart. It’s odd. Kangmin hates it. 

He turns the speakers down. It is quiet. The quiet deafens his ears. He shakes his head. 

He feels so close to breaking. 

“I can’t believe I’m starting my second semester of senior year,”

Hyeongjun leans against the railing of the school rooftop, stares into a sunset. His face is haloed in shades of yellows and orange by an exploding sunset. He’s gorgeous, gorgeous, but there’s no way Kangmin would tell him that to his face. 

“You’re really going to be an adult soon,” Maybe Hyeongjun doesn’t notice the way Kangmin’s gaze lingers on his face a little too long, cherry-red hair to alabaster skin to big, beautiful eyes to his tiny button nose to his thin, pink lips parted to make way for a bitter laugh. Or maybe he does, he’s just too serious to tease Kangmin right now. 

“Isn’t that crazy?” His eyes droop, not like he’s sad but more incredibly tired. Crashingly, achingly tired, tinted blue with fear, “Honestly, I’m kind of scared,”

Now it’s Kangmin’s turn to laugh, a sound like shattering glass, one that makes his eyes soften around the edges and his whole face smile. 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. The only thing that changes is that you can stay out late and drink,”

At least, that’s what Hoyoung and Dongheon said. 

Hyeongjun continues staring at mazes of buildings and streets. Sometimes, it’s like this: Kangmin has Hyeongjun right next to him, but Hyeongjun isn’t really there. He’s staring blank-eyed to a place Kangmin will never be able to reach, remembering things Kangmin isn’t privy to. Is it his current bandmates? His former bandmates? His family? His friends? Kangmin? 

“It’s not like that,” Hyeongjun mumbles, motioning vaguely with his hands, “You don’t—it’s just that—”

A younger, more immature Kangmin would jump to defend himself. But this Kangmin, present-day Kangmin, waits for Hyeongjun to make him understand. 

“It’s just,” Hyeongjun sighs, long and loud, leans forward on the railing. Blank eyes that see everything and nothing, “Everyone likes me because… because I’m this cute kid, y’know? So it’s just what if… when I’m an adult… I’m sounding stupid now, aren’t I?”

Eyes. His eyes meet Kangmin’s and they are no longer empty. They are a turbulent sea Kangmin may never be able to navigate. Hyeongjun is sinking under violent waves, mountains he convinces himself are molehills. There are words like a lifeline engraved in Kangmin’s heart, but they catch in his throat and choke him. 

A silence lapses between them. Hyeongjun almost looks away. 

“It’s not stupid,” 

Kangmin’s voice sounds tinny and small, like a petulant child, the kind of person he’s okay being on-camera or around his members, but not around Hyeongjun. Never around Hyeongjun. 

“I—It’s just that I get it,” Kangmin’s not sure why he’s trying to explain himself. He’s not sure why Hyeongjun is smiling or why words want to flow out of his mouth like blood from an open wound now, but he’s drunk on liquid confidence, “I like that the other members take care of me, I really do, it’s just that sometimes… sometimes it feels like…”

Words stop. Time stops. Kangmin stops. Hyeongjun is looking at him, with that empty expression that is both space and the sea. 

When Kangmin sees Hyeongjun, he sees stars. Constellations of fear and doubt and anxiety, but also of strength and confidence and an incredible, incredible something Kangmin just can’t put his finger on. He sparkles, shines, burns . 

What does Hyeongjun see when he looks at Kangmin? The cheeky kid brother that is Verivery’s Kangmin, or the adult Yoo Kangmin so desperately aches to become, or the strange in-between version of himself that is neither adult nor child and exists only where Kangmin of Verivery ends and Yoo Kangmin begins?

“I get it,” Hyeongjun whispers. His voice is soft with awe, his smile so incredibly sad, “I get it,”

If this was a movie, the scene would fade to black. But this is real life, and they settle into a silence that both seems like too much and too little. 

Hyeongjun turns around. Does he notice how Kangmin’s gaze lingers a little longer on his lips, or how his sad, puzzled smile makes Kangmin’s heart squeeze?

Hyeongjun’s staring at him. His cherry-red hair catches slivers of wind. Maybe he does notice. Maybe he doesn’t. Kangmin wants to spill everything like water on the kitchen counter, but he both has too many words and not enough, or words that are perfect for later, for what they usually are, but not for now, when everything is so deadly serious and Hyeongjun is looking at him . 

At… Kangmin. The same way Dongheon stares at the wall with that same half-smile in the dark when he thinks no one is looking. The same way Kangmin imagines he looks at Hyeongjun. Hyeongjun is looking at him, really looking, not the playful half-glances over shoulders, but…

“Kiss me,” Hyeongjun whispers, soft as the wind that whistles around them. His eyes glitter with that specific something Kangmin has no words for, “Please,”

Oh. Oh. Is this really happening? Kangmin’s hands tremble. Practiced words from half-guilty daydreams escape him. 

“Okay,” It’s a pathetic answer, but all Kangmin can muster. 

Their lips lock. They are doing everything wrong, out of order, but it feels so right. Hyeongjun tastes of mint gum and smells of powdered milk. Hands—where do his hands go? Is Kangmin supposed to close his eyes, or stare at how much longer Hyeongjun’s eyelashes are up close? Is he even doing this right?

Hyeongjun stops. They pull away. Kangmin’s face is hot. Hyeongjun…

His eyes sparkle, burn. Oh. Maybe Hyeongjun is also broken. 

Before Kangmin goes back to class, although the bell has rung and the teacher is getting ready, Kangmin heads to the bathroom, which is blessedly empty. Kangmin takes a couple of minutes in the bathroom to examine his reflection. These are the lips Hyeongjun kissed. These are the lips he kissed Hyeongjun with. 

He taps a finger to his lips. It comes away slightly sticky from thinly applied lip gloss. Hyeongjun kissed Kangmin. Kangmin kissed him back. 

He pinches his arm. Oh. Oh . 

That really happened. 

“Hyung?” Kangmin’s not sure why it’s Dongheon he needs to talk to about this. Though Hoyoung’s visiting his sister and Yongseung’s off grocery shopping, Yeonho and Minchan and the manager are home. But it does, because this is Dongheon he’s talking about, and as much as he’s freaking annoying sometimes, Kangmin needs him. 

“Minnie? What’s up?” Dongheon pauses an old performance video, sits up on his bed. Kangmin’s taller than him right now. He’ll save that tidbit for later. 

Kangmin swallows, swallows his fear, his pride. 

“I—”

It’s not enough. Words choke in the back of his throat. What if Dongheon is disappointed? What if he yells about Kangmin not being careful? What if…?

But he’s looking at Kangmin even now, eyes gentle and soft and loving, like his love is unconditional. He looks at Kangmin the same way Kangmin’s parents look at him on the rare days they can see each other. The knot in his stomach slowly unravels as he takes a deep breath. 

“I kissed a boy,”

Kangmin screws his eyes shut so he can’t see Dongheon. There’s no whiplash. It’s like holding his breath before the music begins to play. Time is suspended. 

“I…I really like him. And I—,”

Kangmin hates how his eyes begin to water. He hates how he sounds like a little kid crying to his mommy. He hates how white-knuckle terrified he is. Dongheon’s not like that. Dongheon wouldn’t turn his back on Kangmin like that. Dongheon… 

Arms wrap around Kangmin. Kangmin shatters. 

“I don’t know what to do, hyung, I just like him so much and I… I…I just don’t know, ” 

Kangmin stops talking. Dongheon doesn’t let go. 

They stay here, arms around each other, snot and tears mixing on Kangmin’s face. He cries, sobs , until tears stop flowing, until his short breaths turn to little hiccups. Dongheon doesn't let go. 

“Talk to him. That’s the fastest way to fix things,” 

Dongheon’s hands are gentle as he dabs away snot and tears from Kangmin’s face. Kangmin’s slightly breathless from explaining everything, but Dongheon’s eyes are still soft, warm, familiar. Kangmin’s lip trembles, but he doesn’t cry. 

“Okay, hyung,” he says, “Okay,”

Dongheon smiles, and oddly enough, Kangmin finds himself smiling too. Maybe he’s a little broken. Maybe that’s okay. 

They just keep missing each other. That’s what happens when you’re both busy idols in the middle of comeback promotions. Kangmin waits on the rooftop, talks to air, tries to remember the sensation of lips on his. He wonders if Hyeongjun does that too, waits for a familiar voice and a shock of hair between gray and lilac. 

Shattered things can mend. Like when Kangmin presses his ear to the door one night and hears Dongheon and Hoyoung talking again, really talking, not just for errands or appearances. And although Dongheon still looks to Hoyoung for approval whenever he slaps his shoulder, hesitates when his touch lingers more than a few seconds, everything is fine. Like the practice room mirror. The trainee was gone, but never forgotten. 

The mirror is fixed, has been for a long time. Bloodied knuckles turned to silver scars and he is happier now, a long-time trainee explains. 

Maybe this shattering is all for the best. 

“Kangmin, go find Dongheon,” Yongseung’s voice is even but his eyebrows are furrowed. Minchan’s biting a nail, and Hoyoung slaps his hand. 

Kangmin sighs, shakes his head, but obliges. 

The hallways are bustling with activity, girls in skirts, men in straps, familiar faces. None of them, unfortunately, are Dongheon. One of the Golden Child members waves to him. He waves back. 

He wanders the hallways. Clearly, he isn’t visiting anyone. There’s a line longer than the Great Wall Of China for the bathroom, so Kangmin doesn’t bother checking there. Where could Dongheon have gone?

He bumps into someone, unfortunately, quite literally. 

“Sorry about that!” an unfamiliar voice apologies, “I didn’t see you there,”

Kangmin blinks once, twice. The stranger, whose nametag reads NCT’s DOYOUNG, offers him a hand. 

Oh shoot. He takes the hand, dusts off his pants. Doyoung has soft eyes and black hair and a spiky rose gold ring on one finger. Kangmin bows the full 90 degrees. 

“I’m so sorry!” he blurts, “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I am so, so sorry,”

Doyoung winces, shakes his head. 

“Don’t apologize. It’s fine,” 

Kangmin feels his face flush. 

“You’re from Verivery? That’s Dongheon hyung’s group, right?

Oh yeah. Dongheon. Who he’s looking for. Kangmin blinks once, twice, nods perhaps a tad over-eagerly. 

“Ah, yes!” His hands are clammy. Hopefully Doyoung doesn’t see that, “If you don’t mind me asking…”

“I don’t,” Doyoung cuts in, motioning for Kangmin to continue. The ring glinting on his finger sparkles prettily in the fluorescent hallway lights. 

“... how do you know Dongheon hyung? And have you seen him?”

“We trained together for what, a year or so?”  Doyoung shrugs, “And nope. We kind of lost contact. Are you looking for him?”

Kangmin nods, right as the loudspeakers blare Verivery, please be on standby. Minchan, slightly breathless, runs out shouting. 

“We found him!” he near screams, “C’mon, we’re going to be late,”

Kangmin’s whisked away before he has the chance to thank Doyoung. 

“And tonight’s winners are… NCT U, with Make A Wish!” 

A tall boy with blue hair claps politely as a short-haired girl hands a man with round sparkly eyes and hair a similarly intermediately lilac as Kangmin’s a trophy. The speech is background noise as Kangmin bounces on his toes, tries to find Hoyoung in the crowd. They’ve since gotten separated, and not being able to see him makes his palms sweat. 

He wades through swathes of people, people he doesn't recognize save for a red-haired Hyeongjun, who is whispering to the tall boy next to him. He spares Kangmin a quick wave, which Kangmin reciprocates, before he jogs up to Dongheon, who’s watching Taeyong give his speech with undisguised raptor, the same way he watches dramas. 

Kangmin tilts his head, listens. 

“...and I’m so thankful to the agency staff, makeup artists, choreographers, producers…”

Yeah, this speech is nothing to write home about. Why’s Dongheon so interested then?

Kangmin follows his line of sight. He’s staring at Taeyong’s hands. As he lifts the trophy towards the sky, a thin rose-gold band glitters under the spotlights. 

Oh. Kangmin takes a tentative step back, only for Hoyoung to catch him. 

“Kangmin! We were looking for you!” he huffs. But Kangmin’s still staring at the ring glinting on Taeyong’s hand, at the way Dongheon stares at the way Doyoung casually drapes a hand around his shoulders with undisguised pain. He looks away. He looks at Hoyoung. 

Hoyoung’s eyes sparkle with unshed tears he blinks away once he realizes Kangmin is watching him. He offers him a small smile, a pat on the shoulder, as confetti cascades down in rose gold, glittering like that ring.

It’s a little different, after the shattering. When Kangmin sees himself in the mirror, he no longer sees a stranger. It is him, whole and unabashedly broken. 

He’ll tell the rest of them soon enough. Next time they’re all together at the dinner table, he’ll spill his story. They’ll look at him all soft and quiet, and life will resume as normal. 

Kangmin grips the porcelain bowl of the sink, tries on a smile for a change. It’s different, less in-your-face than his camera grin, but it’s nice. 

Kangmin makes a call to his mother once they get back to the dorms. It’s eleven in the evening, and Kangmin bites a nail as he listens to the phone ring and ring and ring. 

“Hello?” His mother’s voice is tired, “Kangminnie?”

Kangmin gulps. It’s now or never. He’s brave enough, strong enough to do this. 

“Mama?” A smile finds its way to his lips, “Hi, Mama,”

There’s a pause on the other side of the line. 

“What are you doing up so late? You’re not going to get any taller at this rate,”

His mother laughs a little. Kangmin presses the phone closer to his ear. 

“Still, it’s nice hearing your voice,” 

Kangmin doesn’t speak. 

“Let’s have dinner, when you’re not busy,”

Words still freeze in Kangmin’s throat. I love you. I miss you. Me too. 

But instead he smiles, nods though she can’t see it. 

“Sure,” he says, “How does next Saturday sound?”

The next time he meets Hyeongjun is in the hallway of a music show. It’s not Show Champion, so frankly, he doesn’t care. 

He’s with a tall boy, with bronzed skin and a rainbow streak of hair. They’re about to pass by each other when their eyes meet, their hands brush, Kangmin’s face flushes. 

“Ah! Kangminnie!” His smile is slightly out of whack, almost sheepish. To the boy he’s walking with, he says, “I’ll be right back, Taeyoung-ie. Get me a soda, while you’re at it,”

Taeyoung grumbles, walks away, doesn’t give Kangmin a second glance. Hyeongjun pulls at his fingers, tries to look natural .

“Uh… hello,” Hyeongjun stares at the ground. Kangmin rubs the back of his neck, “it’s been a while,”

“Ah, yeah,” Kangmin’s response is weak. His voice withers in his throat

The fastest way to figure this out is just to talk to him. 

“Can we talk?” Kangmin blurts. Hyeongjun, a tad red-faced (maybe it’s his makeup), nods, lets Kangmin take a hold of his wrist and lead him off to a quiet closet a staff member had shown him last comeback.

“What’s up?” Hyeongjun’s voice drips with faux confidence. He looks anywhere but Kangmin. 

Kangmin’s voice is shaky. His palms are sweaty. Yet he knows it’s now or never.

Hyeongjun takes a seat atop a stage prop, some kind of fancy box. Looking him in the eyes is difficult, especially when he’s so unabashedly… Hyeongjun. This big-eyed, beautiful boy, whose lips Kangmin has kissed and whose laugh makes every stitch in Kangmin’s side fall apart.

“Why did you kiss me?”

The question has no preamble, no afterword. Best to keep things like this the only way Kangmin knows how to: simple, straightforward. 

Hyeongjun covers his face with a hand, makes a strangled noise with his throat. It’s odd, seeing Hyeongjun with the same vulnerable expression he made after he kissed him. 

Kiss, kiss, kiss. The word feels as heavy and awkward as a curse on his tongue. His ears flush with the sudden realization of what he’s just said. 

“Well…” This is odd. It’s always Hyeongjun making Kangmin fumble, with his gentle pokes and prods. Seeing Hyeongjun all red in the face… 

Hyeongjun looks up, constellations in his eyes. Kangmin finds himself face-to-face with the unknown. He grips the handle of some staff, an old dusty stage prop from who knows when, to steel his nerves. 

“I like you, Kangminnie,” 

The commotion of everyone getting ready for the broadcast, dress rehearsals, sound checks, echoes outside the doors. Inside this hidden closet, though, things are silent as the school rooftop.

Hyeongjun freezes, covers his mouth with a hand, gestures wildly to thin air before picking each word, nice and careful, like he’s never done before. 

“I just… Kangminnie, I…” he finally blurts, biting a trembling lower lip. 

Hyeongjun fidgets with his hands, skin and joints and knuckles. His voice is soft as a starsong, like the tide coming in. 

“I’m so broken,”

Hyeongjun drowns, stretches, snaps . Kangmin doesn’t look away. His smile softens. He reaches for Hyeongjun’s hand, and when Hyeongjun doesn’t flinch, rubs a circle in his palm, the same way Yeonho does “for good luck” before stages.

“So am I,” he whispers, “So am I,”

Hyeongjun lifts his head. Hyeongjun’s eyes sparkle, shine, burn. Tears well up from the overflow of his being. He faces the ceiling so tears don’t roll down his cheeks. When he turns to face Kangmin again, his expression hardens, like concrete setting. It’s not anger, rather solidification. Within these ten, twenty seconds, Hyeongjun’s made up his mind. 

“Kiss me,” And even if it was less of a command and more of a question, Kangmin wouldn’t have hesitated. 

Their lips lock. The second time is different than the first time. Hyeongjun is stretched, snapped. Kangmin is shattered. But they’ve been glued back together in gold, brighter and better. 

They pull away. This time, there is no bell that rings, there are no school uniforms, just faces dusted with makeup and stage outfits and each other. Their eyes meet. Hyeongjun reaches for Kangmin’s hand. 

Their fingers twine. Maybe they’ll be okay.

They meet again after promotions on the school rooftop. Hyeongjun’s hair is a soft brown. Nothing’s changed. Everything’s changed. Their fingertips brush. Hyeongjun turns cherry-red. 

“We should probably, y’know, talk,” Kangmin says, clearing his throat, “About… that,”

Hyeongjun rubs the back of his neck, nods. 

“Is there, like, some kind of fancy asking-out process?” Hyeongjun coughs, “‘Cuz I don’t have anything fancy ready,”

Kangmin leans against the railing. 

“I think mostly they go together. Like, the confession and the asking out,”

Hyeongjun sighs. 

“Well, I’ve already messed that up, then,” Hyeongjun’s smile straddles between guilty and cheerful. He digs a yellow lollipop out of his blazer pocket. “To be honest, I… didn’t think I could ever ask you out,”

Kangmin stops. What?

“Why? You’re… you’re Song Hyeongjun, ”

Hyeongjun smiles into a cold blue sky. 

“See, that’s why,” His smile is sad, though no longer unattainably far. They meet Kangmin’s, and Kangmin lets himself walk on water, “You’re… you’re just so Kangmin. A tad out of reach,”

Kangmin sucks in a breath. Oh. Oh. 

“I mean, I’m just plain ol’ Song Hyeongjun while you’re…”

Hyeongjun’s smile falls. 

“Y’know,” Kangmin chooses his words carefully. The sky is beautiful, how it reflects in Hyeongjun’s irises, “I think I rather like ‘plain ol’ Hyeongjun,’”

And Hyeongjun laughs, wipes a tear off his alabaster cheek. 

“I like you too. Whether you’re Verivery’s Kangmin, Yoo Kangmin, or just Kangminnie,” 

And Kangmin smiles too. 

“So does this mean we’re boyfriends now?”

Hyeongjun’s ready to kiss him on the spot. 

“Only if you want to be,”

And yes, yes, Kangmin wants to. 

“Can you kiss me now?”

Hyeongjun laughs at the urgency in Kangmin's request as he pulls Kangmin closer. 

And the third kiss is just as magical as the first. Their fingers twine together. And maybe Hyeongjun’s just as broken as Kangmin. 

And maybe that is love.  

Kangmin’s nearly ready to go, with his coat all zipped up and his shoes (mostly) on. He hops on one foot to try and slide his heel into the back, just as Yeonho comes out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth. 

“Huh? Where are you going, all dressed up like that?”

Kangmin shrugs, adjusts his scarf in the mudroom mirror. His makeup’s done pretty okay, though the tips of his ears are still red. Worst case scenario, he’ll blame it on the cold. 

He takes a second to scan the room. Gyehyeon flips through TV channels in the living room, while Yongseung reads something incredibly dull next to him. Minchan and Dongheon sit at the kitchen table as Minchan tries to teach Dongheon some video game with lots of explosions, judging by the sound effects. Hoyoung wanders out of his bedroom, leans over Dongheon’s shoulder to see what he’s doing. 

Kangmin’s heart swells. 

“Going on a date,” 

“Date? With who?” Minchan, looking up from the game, asks. 

“Oh, y’know,” Kangmin’s face turns red, and not because of the heat. Six pairs of eyes turn to him because they do not, indeed, know, “With my… boyfriend,”

The word is new on his tongue, but without the weight of curses. It’s light and airy, as bubbly and lighthearted as the kiss Hyeongjun planted on his lips two days back. 

Yeonho chokes on toothpaste. 

“You have a boyfriend?!” Hoyoung near screeches, “Since when?”

“Couple of days ago?” 

“And you didn’t think to tell any of us? ”

Kangmin checks the clock. He’s going to be late. 

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” he promises, as he opens the door. Hoyoung’s arms are crossed. Dongheon rolls his eyes. 

He leaves the house with light steps, a light heart. 

Yeah. Maybe things really will be okay. 

Hyeongjun lays his head on Kangmin’s shoulders. Their fingers lock. His eyes slowly drift closed. 

They sit like this, cross-legged on the floor of the Starship practice room. He wonders if this mirror has a story, one like Jellyfish’s. Sometimes, Hyeongjun’s bandmates come in, open the door and stare wide-eyed. Hyeongjun whines and pouts and chases them out, and they laugh about it together. 

He examines their reflections in the mirror. They are so broken. They are so beautiful. 

And maybe, just maybe, they were born for this. They were born for shattering and splintering and healing, broken pieces of glass glued back together in beautiful, beautiful gold. 

Hyeongjun presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. Kangmin giggles like a schoolgirl. They’re figuring things out, together. Their love isn’t perfect, but what is? 

Kangmin stares at his face in the mirror. It is him, fully and unabashedly broken. Next to him is Hyeongjun, gorgeous and mended and his. 

They’ll be okay. They’ll all be okay, in the end.