Chapter Text
Wonwoo was running.
He just cut class.
He never cuts class. Not even when he’s sick. Not even when he forgot to submit a paper he pulled an all-nighter for. But today—today was different.
Today, he had to go.
Not just for the sake of it. Not out of impulse. Not even because someone told him to.
He had to be there.
He had to be present.
No matter what the results were. No matter if it was a yes or no or worse—silence.
Because this wasn’t about the outcome.
This was about showing up.
For him.
Wonwoo’s lungs screamed for air, his legs now aching from the sprint, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Not until he got there.
His chest heaved when he finally reached the building—
And god, it was packed.
A crowd had gathered like vultures. Some with clipboards, some holding bottled water and fanning themselves. Others were lined up, pacing, humming, stretching, praying.
It was an audition.
Of course it was.
Wonwoo hated crowds.
Despised noise, heat, the way strangers brushed too close.
God knows how many years he spent avoiding shit like this.
But none of that mattered now.
Because he was here.
And he had to find him.
No name.
No face in the crowd stood out.
Just a quiet panic rising in his throat, cutting through the breathlessness as his eyes scanned, searched—
Where are you, Soonyoung?
And there he was.
In the farthest corner of the chaos, half-shadowed by a concrete column, Soonyoung stood like he didn’t belong there. Hugging his bag tight to his chest like it was the only thing anchoring him. One hand clutching a crinkled piece of paper with a number on it—creased and damp with sweat.
His forehead glistened.
His eyes—distant. Fixed on something invisible. Lost in thought, or maybe lost altogether.
“Soonyoung,” Wonwoo called out, breath still catching in his throat.
And then—
Their eyes met.
The nothingness in Soonyoung’s eyes flickered.
Turned into a twinkle.
And then—glass.
Wonwoo swore he saw him jolt, like the sound of his name hit too hard, too suddenly.
“Wonwoo…”
It was barely a whisper.
The next thing Wonwoo saw—was water.
Tears, spilling down Soonyoung’s cheeks, slow at first and then all at once. His eyes puffed and raw, his breath hitching, chest caving in like it couldn’t hold it anymore.
Alarmed, Wonwoo moved.
Fast.
He crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, not caring about the people he brushed past.
And that’s when Soonyoung started sobbing.
Ugly, uncontrollable sobs.
The kind that made people turn and stare.
The kind that didn’t care about timing or place or pride.
Wonwoo reached out. Arms moving on instinct. About to pull him in, about to say “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay.”
Almost. Almost—
And then—
Wonwoo woke up.
Gasped.
Not to noise. Not to sobs.
To silence.
No crowd.
No sweat.
No crumpled number in Soonyoung’s hand.
Just the thrum of the fan, spinning lazily in the dark.
Just his room.
Just his bed.
Just him.
Panting like he ran a mile, but there was nowhere to go now.
His chest hurt in that annoying, quiet way. Not sharp. Just… empty.
He’s not in high school anymore.
He’s not a kid.
He doesn’t cut class. He files taxes. Goes to meetings. Orders takeout and lets it go cold.
He’s a grown man now.
And he is—
Alone.
No Soonyoung.
Not even a trace of him in the air.
Just a silly, useless dream.
Like a prank his subconscious thought would be hilarious.
No Soonyoung, crying in a crowd.
No Soonyoung, whispering his name.
No Soonyoung, reaching back.
Wonwoo wiped his face.
He didn’t even notice he’d been crying too.
Wonwoo opened his eyes and blinked.
He was in a crowd.
No—scratch that. He was engulfed in a raging sea of bodies, voices, and lights. Everyone around him pulsed with something primal—obsession? Passion? Definitely cult-level energy. That was the only explanation for the rabid way they clutched their banners, screamed their lungs out, and practically vibrated from head to toe.
In his hand was a crumpled ticket.
One he didn’t even remember buying.
He looked down at it, then up again. That’s when it hit him.
He was at a concert.
Front row. Barricade.
What the fuck.
Before he could piece together the logistics of how he ended up there, the lights dimmed. A voice boomed through the stadium speakers like a divine decree.
“Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters… prepare yourselves.”
The crowd exploded. Screams turned feral. Someone next to him burst into tears.
Wonwoo flinched. He looked around like he didn’t even belong there—like someone accidentally teleported a confused bystander into the middle of an apocalypse-level fan war.
Then—
The music hit.
A single spotlight shot down onto the stage. Smoke rose, thick and dramatic. And through it, a figure slowly rose from a platform beneath the stage floor, backlit like a fucking god.
He wore black—tight, unapologetic, custom-made. His hair was tousled perfectly, like the aftermath of sin. One hand held a mic, the other shoved in his pocket. He smirked before even singing a note, because he knew.
He knew the world was already his.
The crowd lost it. People collapsed. A guy somewhere screamed, “STEP ON ME!”
And Wonwoo—
He gasped.
Soonyoung?
No.
Scratch that.
It’s Hoshi.
That’s who this was. That’s who owned this night.
Cool didn’t even begin to cover it.
Wonwoo was at a concert. A fucking concert. Loud. Sweaty. Insane.
The kind where people scream until their throats bleed. Where basslines punch your ribcage and the lights blind you in colors that don’t exist in nature. Where the man at the center—Hoshi—radiated like a nuclear deity, shirt half unbuttoned, jawline catching strobe lights like he was sculpted to ruin lives.
It was chaos. A glorious, intoxicating chaos.
But something—
Something inside Wonwoo ached.
A weird, crawling, suffocating hurt. The kind that started in your bones, bypassed the brain, and set fire to your chest before you could even name it. His body was in full revolt, sobbing before his mind caught up.
And then—
The tears came.
Not the poetic kind.
Not a single emo streak down his cheek.
No.
Fucking heavy-rain, windshield-wiper tears. Like a dam cracked open behind his eyes and said fuck you.
He shook. Trembled. Looked like he was short-circuiting, like a puppet with strings cut and no one to catch him.
All around him, people were losing their minds to the beat—
And there he was. Crumbling.
It didn’t match. It didn’t fucking match.
The lights flashed.
The synths screamed.
Hoshi danced like he was immortal.
And Wonwoo was just—breaking.
Because this pain?
It wasn’t the regular kind.
It was the kind of pain that comes when you lose someone you loved—deeply, stupidly, irrevocably.
The kind that was so fucking close, just a few inches away—
But you couldn’t reach.
You shouldn’t.
The kind that doesn’t stab. It lingers. It bleeds you out. Slow.
He looked at Hoshi.
Felt the music in his skull.
Felt the hurt rip through him like an uninvited scream.
He sobbed. Gasped. Couldn’t even hide it.
He was ruining under neon lights,
While the world around him danced like everything was fine.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Everything outside was alive.
But inside?
Wonwoo was fucking dead.
And Wonwoo wasn’t hallucinating.
This wasn’t some tragic fever dream cooked up by his emotional instability and the industrial-grade smoke machines.
No.
He was still mid-crisis—eyes soaked, chest ripped open, brain static—but something shifted in the air.
And he felt it.
The weight.
The shift.
The presence.
He looked up—
And there.
Hoshi.
The Hoshi.
Pop god. Dance apocalypse. Sex personified with jawline sharp enough to assassinate.
He was right there.
Right. Fucking. There.
On his side of the barricade.
The lights chased his silhouette like they were in love with him too. He was moving, prowling across the stage like he owned every heartbeat in the crowd.
But then—he paused.
Head tilted.
Slight. Curious. Dangerous.
Like something caught his attention.
Like a glitch in his system.
Like a fucking… recognition.
And Wonwoo—
He knew.
He knew.
Their eyes met.
Not the fake, “Oh my god he looked my way” type that fans scream about while clutching blurry phone videos.
No.
This was real.
Locked in. Tiger to river.
Hoshi’s gaze—sharp, golden, untouchable—landed directly into Wonwoo’s soul-soggy, red-rimmed, silently-screaming fucking eyes.
And he didn’t look away.
He didn’t dance off.
He didn’t wink and move.
He stared.
Even tilted his head a bit like—
‘Wait… do I know you?’
Or maybe just—
‘Who the hell cries like that to a song about grinding in the back of a club?’
It didn’t matter.
Because for that one brutal, suspended breath of a moment—
It was just them.
And Wonwoo felt everything.
Everything he lost.
Everything he still wanted.
Everything he swore he’d buried.
All of it.
Just from one fucking look.
But the pain—
It was still there.
No drop. No relief.
No sweet fuck-you crescendo to ride out on.
Just raw, relentless ache clawing through his ribs,
Lodging itself behind his eyes,
Ripping holes in his breath.
He couldn’t scream.
Couldn’t even think.
His body was glitching.
His mind was static.
And his heart?
His heart was on the floor somewhere, stomped on by bass drops and memories.
He blinked once—
And everything stuttered.
The lights smeared.
The sound warped.
Hoshi blurred into abstraction.
And then—
Black.
Cut.
Black turns soft.
Like silk instead of shadow.
Like a memory cradled in the palms.
Like an old tape—grainy, sun-drenched, loud in the edges.
Back to the summer days that smelled like dusty electric fans, cheap ice pops, and freedom.
A sunlit living room.
A room too small.
A plastic fan oscillating like it had somewhere better to be.
A very young Soonyoung.
Wide-eyed. Barefoot. Shirt too big. Hair sticking up like he’d fought a pillow and lost.
Soonyoung, all knees and ambition, clutching the karaoke mic like it was a Grammy.
And god—he was beaming.
That kind of blinding, unfiltered joy you can only get when you haven’t been told the world is cruel yet.
“I’m gonna be a star!” he declared—
For the tenth time that day. Maybe the hundredth that month.
He said it with the same ferocity Naruto had when screaming about Hokage,
But with more hip thrusts and accidental jazz hands.
“ONE DAY,” he shouted, dramatic finger in the air, breathless from doing the Running Man for no reason,
“I’m gonna be on stage. For real. Like—booom! Lights! Fans! World tour, bitch!”
He didn’t say “bitch” right. Laughed when it slipped out like a cartoon villain.
But he meant it.
Every syllable.
“Everywhere will know my name. ‘SOONYOUNG!’” he yelled, throwing his arms up like the ceiling would echo it back.
“Or maybe… HOSHI,” he added, eyes sparkling like he’d just discovered glitter.
“That sounds cooler, right? Hoshi. Star.”
Wonwoo sat cross-legged on the couch, a half-melted ice pop dripping down his hand,
just nodding like he was front row to the birth of a legend.
“Yeah,” he said, quiet. Certain.
“It fits you.”
Small, quiet, soft-eyed Wonwoo.
Watching.
Listening.
Nodding.
Adoring.
Supporting.
Falling.
He didn’t need to say much.
Didn’t need to match Soonyoung’s fire.
He was just—
there.
Always.
Clapping too hard after every routine.
Cheering with a shy grin when Soonyoung hit that high note (or tried to).
Memorizing every lyric not for himself—but so he could mouth along while Soonyoung sang.
“You’re gonna cry when I win my first award,” he said, eyes on the ceiling, voice already full of the future.
Wonwoo licked his ice pop. “Not unless the speech sucks.”
Soonyoung laughed so hard he choked.
Then he spun dramatically. Slipped a little on the tile. Regained balance with flair.
“You’ll come to my concerts, right?” Soonyoung asked—out of nowhere, midsentence, midwiggle, sweat on his nose from too much bedroom choreography. His tone dropped into something quieter. Realer. Serious.
“Like… my every concert, Wonu. Even the boring ones. Even if I suck.”
Wonwoo didn’t even blink.
“Only if you give me free tickets.”
Soonyoung gasped like he’d been personally betrayed. “Duh?! Of course!”
“Then I’ll be there.”
Just like that.
Simple. Sealed.
No fireworks. No dramatic music.
Just a promise—casual as a shrug, solid as stone.
And Soonyoung—
Grinned so wide his ears might’ve given up and detached.
Like the happiest boy in the world.
Like someone had handed him the galaxy in a paper cup.
Like being believed in was the greatest feeling on earth.
Then he pointed the mic at Wonwoo’s chest.
“Okay, but if I’m a star, then what are you?”
Wonwoo blinked. Didn’t expect the question.
Took a second. Shrugged.
“I’ll be the one watching.”
“That’s boring,” Soonyoung teased, flopping next to him, legs sprawled out like a starfish.
“But fine. You can be my number one fan. Front row, always.”
He held out a pinky.
Wonwoo hooked his own around it without saying a word.
And that was it.
Their first promise.
Their first stage.
A mic that didn’t work unless you smacked it twice.
A future that hadn’t broken their hearts yet.
And the fan kept spinning.
And the afternoon kept glowing.
And in that room—time didn’t move.
It just stayed there,
sweet and stupid,
exactly where they left it.
First audition.
Wonwoo was there. Backpack, water bottle, extra snacks, bandaids—like they were headed to war instead of some stuffy audition room in the city.
Soonyoung bounced the whole train ride. His leg never stopped shaking. His voice never stopped humming.
He had that look in his eyes—like firecrackers barely held in.
He was ready.
Weeks of busted knees, cracked knuckles, lost sleep. Practice until the neighbors threatened to report him for repeated thudding past midnight.
Wonwoo had watched it all.
He knew.
Knew this was it.
Knew there was no way they’d say no.
200%.
But they did.
Not cruelly.
Not with a laugh.
Just with polite smiles and a “thank you for coming” that didn’t land right.
Soonyoung didn’t cry at first.
Soonyoung didn’t break on the train ride home.
He cracked his knuckles, stared out the window like the buildings had answers.
He held it like a broken plate—delicately, like maybe if he didn’t move too fast it wouldn’t shatter.
Said “It’s fine” with the same tone people say “It’s just a scratch” while bleeding out.
It wasn’t until they got to his room, floor still littered with sticky notes and half-folded lyric sheets, that the silence finally gave out.
But later, in his room, floor still scuffed from dance shoes, it cracked.
Quiet at first.
Then worse.
Snot, hiccups, the whole ugly thing.
He curled in on himself like a burnt matchstick, voice muffled into his pillow:
“I really thought—” he choked.
Stopped.
Swallowed.
Tried again.
“I really thought this was it, Wonuyah…”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
It was written in the slump of his shoulders.
In the way his voice cracked on “thought.”
Wonwoo didn’t say it would all be okay.
Didn’t go on some fake motivational tangent.
He just dropped his bag, stepped over a pair of socks, and pulled Soonyoung into his arms like that was the only thing he’d been born to do.
It wasn’t a grand gesture.
Wasn’t even fucking movie-worthy.
Just arms and warmth and that steady breath Wonwoo had learned to keep for moments like this.
Soonyoung sobbed like the world was ending.
Like something he couldn’t name had been stolen.
Like maybe if he cried hard enough, the rejection would dissolve.
And Wonwoo held him.
One hand on the nape of his neck.
The other fisted in the back of his shirt.
Said nothing.
Except—
“I know.”
That was it.
Just—‘I know.’
And fuck, that was enough.
And he stayed.
Stayed through the silence that followed,
through the sniffles slowing,
through the way Soonyoung’s fingers gripped the back of his shirt like if he let go he’d fall through the mattress.
They lay there, backs pressed to the soft beat of each other’s breathing.
One dream cracked but not dead.
Two hearts holding it between them like a secret.
And when Soonyoung finally fell asleep, cheeks still wet—
Wonwoo stayed awake just a little longer.
Just to make sure he was still breathing okay.
Just to tuck the blanket higher.
Just to be there.
Because even if the universe said no to Soonyoung—
Wonwoo never would.
And in the quiet—
He made another promise.
I’ll be here. Even if no one else is.
Even if they don’t see you.
Even if they never say yes.
I’ll still be here.
Front row.
Always.
The next audition came with a breeze of maybe.
Maybe this is the one.
Maybe this time, the universe won’t be an asshole.
Soonyoung had leveled up.
Sharper moves, cleaner tone, more grit in his gut.
He wasn’t just dreaming anymore—he was ready.
There was buzz. A name passed quietly in a shortlist, a friend of a friend whispering “They’re watching him now.”
He was almost there.
And Wonwoo?
Of course he came.
He always did.
Still the backpack. Still the snacks.
Still the quiet heartbeat that kept Soonyoung tethered.
But halfway there—
in a train car packed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers and stale air and the kind of tension that only 8 a.m. and unrealized dreams can give—
Wonwoo’s body betrayed him.
Short-circuited.
First, it was a wobble. A misstep.
Then the train swayed, and the world tilted.
Like gravity decided it had a sick sense of humor.
The world tilted like a cruel joke.
And suddenly, his knees folded and the concrete was all too close.
Soonyoung’s heart fell faster than Wonwoo’s body.
He was there in a breath.
Hands gripping under Wonwoo’s arms, voice cracked open.
“Wonu—?”
Panic. Sharp. Barefaced. Raw.
People shifted. Stared.
Someone muttered “Shit, is he okay?”
Another offered water but no one really moved.
Wonwoo was pale. Too pale.
Sweat beading at his temples like fevered glass.
Eyes unfocused, blinking like the world was buffering.
Voice trembling.
“Hey. Hey. Hey. Stay with me.”
Wonwoo’s skin burned.
Forehead slick.
Words slurred.
“I’m fine,” Wonwoo mumbled. Whispered like a lie.
Except it came out sideways.
“Go. You’ll be late, Soonyoung—”
Like his mouth wasn’t sure how to shape lies anymore.
“I’ll—be fine. Don’t—miss it—”
But Soonyoung was already dialing.
Already waving off the idea.
Already choosing.
The audition be damned.
Because yeah, that audition was today.
Yeah, the company rep was supposedly watching.
Yeah, it could’ve been it.
But this—
this fragile boy who once said “I’ll come to every concert if the tickets are free”
—he was right here, breaking down in Soonyoung’s arms.
And Soonyoung couldn’t walk away from that.
He didn’t even try.
Didn’t make some poetic scene about it.
Didn’t storm off dramatically.
He just—
got in the cab with Wonwoo.
Sat beside him in the ER.
Held his hand through the IV.
Used his hoodie—threadbare, overwashed, sleeves stretched—to wipe the sweat dripping down Wonwoo’s neck, temple, lip.
Did it gently, almost rhythmically. Like a prayer.
Like this was a ritual they’d done a thousand times.
No camera.
No spotlight.
No glittery debut stage.
Just:
Plastic chairs.
Antiseptic.
Quiet.
A nurse with tired eyes and a clipboard saying “he’ll be fine, just needs rest.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Wonwoo stirred like a dead phone rebooting. One eye opened. Groggy. Heavy-lidded.
“Did you go?” he whispered, voice frayed.
He blinked slow. “How… how was the audition? I’m sure they’ll choose you. Your routine was—was insane, Soonyoung. You’re insane.”
There was a pause.
Too short. Too sharp. Like a jump cut.
“I went,” Soonyoung said. A lie. Smooth as spit on pavement.
“But I wasn’t chosen.”
Another lie. And god, it tasted bitter in his mouth.
Like old pennies. Like failure dressed in fake fabric.
Wonwoo blinked again.
Slow.
Processing.
Then—he smiled. This tiny, dumb, stubborn thing of a smile. The kind you save for best friends and birthday candles.
“It’s okay. We’ll find another one. You’ll get it next time. For sure.”
He sounded so certain. Like faith incarnate. Like he’d seen the future and it wore Soonyoung’s dance shoes.
Soonyoung nodded too fast.
Way too fast.
Too eager. Too unbelievable.
Wonwoo’s brows furrowed, even half-awake.
“Soonyoung.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You didn’t go, did you?”
A whisper.
A stab.
A truth clawing its way out.
“Soonyoung?”
Soft. Sad. Sharp enough to shatter.
Soonyoung froze.
Jaw clenched.
Like someone caught mid-fall.
Silence fell again.
But this time, it wasn’t quiet.
It rang like a fucking alarm.
Wonwoo didn’t say ‘why’.
He didn’t scream ‘you should’ve gone’.
Didn’t cry ‘you idiot.’
He just looked at him—like he always had—with all the love in the world,
and all the ache for Soonyoung didn’t know where to put.
Somewhere else, maybe some other kid danced his heart out.
Maybe they got picked.
Maybe they’re on their way to fame,
the kind Soonyoung always screamed about having.
But Soonyoung didn’t think about it.
Didn’t scroll for updates.
Didn’t check the time.
Didn’t think about it.
Didn’t need to.
Because sometimes your dream is a boy—half-conscious, half-burning alive with fever—calling your name with cracked lips.
And you don’t miss it—
You catch it.
You stay.
They had just reached the legal drinking age. Barely. The kind of barely that made buying a six-pack feel like a rebellious act, even though the cashier didn’t even blink.
It was at someone’s shitty apartment. Someone’s older brother’s hand-me-down couch. A playlist of 2000s hits no one would admit they loved, and a half-warm six-pack sitting like a prize in the middle of a ring of friends who were all definitely too loud, too eager, and definitely tipsy enough to make this night something no one would live down.
And of course—spin the bottle.
God. Spin the fucking bottle.
The rules were dumb. Spin it twice. Whoever two that bottle points to—closet time.
“Closet time” sounded innocent. Funny. Just a few minutes of cramped silence. Or a quick laugh. Or a dare. Or something not quite a confession, but not quite nothing either.
The bottle spun.
Wonwoo sat back, arms crossed, already regretting coming. Soonyoung was laughing beside him, tipsy off one beer and the taste of his own giddy nerves.
The bottle stopped.
Pointed at Wonwoo.
One more spin.
And then… Soonyoung.
Oh fuck.
The cheers were immediate.
Explosive.
Merciless.
“YESSSSS.”
“FINALLY.”
“GET IN THERE.”
The worst part was Soonyoung’s face. That stupid smirk. That spark in his eyes.
But something—
Something underneath that smirk said: please don’t say no.
Wonwoo didn’t. Couldn’t.
They stumbled into the closet, the door slammed shut behind them, and suddenly—
Dark.
Hot.
Dusty.
Silent.
Shoulders bumping. Breaths tangling.
The space was tiny. Like broomstick-and-old-boxes tiny.
They both leaned back against opposite walls, but their knees still touched.
Barely. But there.
Wonwoo cleared his throat. “I think your knee’s attacking me.”
Soonyoung chuckled, low. “Maybe your knee started it.”
They laughed.
But then it faded.
And the air shifted.
There was a beat.
Then two.
Wonwoo’s eyes adjusted.
He could see the outline of Soonyoung’s jaw.
The curve of his lips.
Too close.
God, why did it feel so different tonight?
They’ve shared beds. Shared dreams. Shared tears.
But this?
This wasn’t sharing.
This was—pulling.
Gravity, maybe.
Or something way crueler.
Soonyoung’s voice came quiet.
“Your heart’s beating really fast.”
Wonwoo tried to laugh. Failed.
“Yours too.”
They both looked down at their own chests like the sound was embarrassing.
It was deafening.
Soonyoung looked up. Met his eyes.
“…Have we always been like this?”
Wonwoo whispered back.
“I don’t think so.”
And then Soonyoung leaned in.
Just a bit.
Wonwoo didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
There was a single inch left between them.
And neither of them dared to cross it.
Until—
Soonyoung did.
Soft. Barely there.
A press of Soonyoung’s lips like a question.
Wonwoo kissed back like an answer.
It was clumsy.
Not the kind of kiss you see in movies with slow-mo rain and orchestral swell.
It was teeth bumping, the angle too sharp, the breath caught in the back of their throats like they didn’t know how to exhale now that they’d done it.
Wonwoo’s nose squished against Soonyoung’s cheek, and they both let out this half-laugh, half-moan sound like fuck, what are we doing—
But also don’t stop.
Soonyoung’s hand slid from Wonwoo’s neck into his hair, fingers threading through the strands like he’d been dying to touch them forever but just never let himself.
Wonwoo gasped into his mouth.
A real, involuntary gasp—like something unlocked inside him.
Soonyoung pulled him closer.
No room to breathe, no space between them.
Just heat.
Hands.
Hunger.
Wonwoo kissed like he had something to prove.
Or maybe something to confess.
Like every press of his lips said I’ve felt this for years and didn’t know it was allowed.
Soonyoung kissed like he already knew.
Kissed like he’d been waiting.
There was a soft grunt when Soonyoung accidentally hit his elbow on the side of the closet.
“Fucking—sorry—” he muttered against Wonwoo’s mouth, breathless.
Wonwoo just smirked, voice rough.
“Don’t stop.”
So Soonyoung didn’t.
Tongues met.
Hips bumped.
A low, desperate sound left Soonyoung’s throat, and it made Wonwoo shiver.
It was mouths exploring, aching, clashing, fitting.
The kind of kiss that felt like it shouldn’t be happening but also like it was always going to happen.
The kind of kiss that steals all your firsts, even the ones you thought you gave away.
The kind of kiss that ruins you for everyone else.
They pulled back just enough to breathe, their foreheads pressed together.
Soonyoung’s lips were red, parted, swollen.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
Wonwoo nodded, still breathless.
“Yeah.”
Then their mouths met again.
Because what the fuck else were they supposed to do?
Somewhere outside, people were counting.
Some joke.
Some game.
But in here—
it wasn’t a game anymore.
It was them.
Finally.
Wonwoo—gentle, careful, trying not to ruin the moment but needing to know—murmured,
“You good for tomorrow?”
The audition.
The big one.
The maybe-chance.
Soonyoung blinked.
Right. That.
The future he’d been breaking himself for.
Training and starving and bleeding and failing for.
The dream he screamed to the sky as a kid, fists clenched like Naruto swearing he’d be Hokage.
But now—
his heart was thudding against his ribs like it didn’t give a single shit about center stage.
Not tonight.
Not in this closet.
Not with Wonwoo’s lips still wet from kissing his.
He nodded.
Too fast.
Too automatic.
But yeah.
“I’m ready,” he said.
What he didn’t say—
what echoed in his mind, loud as a drumbeat:
But if I had to choose between the stage and you—
I wouldn’t even flinch.
And that scared him.
A little.
Maybe more than a little.
Because dreams were supposed to be everything.
But right now, with his forehead pressed to Wonwoo’s and the world outside muffled and forgettable,
Soonyoung wasn’t thinking about stages.
Or lights.
Or panels.
Or choreo.
He was thinking about how close their mouths still were.
How Wonwoo was looking at him like maybe he’d been waiting too.
How in the fuck did they not kiss sooner?
He swallowed.
Didn’t say any of it.
Because he didn’t need to.
Not when his heart was beating this loud.
The audition day came.
The sun wasn’t even up when they got there.
That specific kind of cold morning where the world feels like it hasn’t had coffee yet.
Everything groggy.
Breath like ghosts.
Hope like static clinging to their jackets.
Wonwoo sat in the audience this time.
By design.
No pacing backstage. No cheering from the wings.
Just a seat. Just him.
Safe, still, breathing.
Soonyoung made sure of that.
“Sit. Watch. Don’t fucking faint this time,” Soonyoung had said, ruffling his hair with fingers that definitely lingered.
Wonwoo rolled his eyes but smiled anyway.
But now—
now Soonyoung was center stage.
The lights felt different today.
Too warm.
Too harsh.
Or maybe it was just that everything still smelled like last night.
His lips still tingled.
His chest still echoed with Wonwoo’s breath.
Every beat of the music pulled memories instead of muscle.
And there—
in the audience—
sat the boy who had kissed him like a secret they’d been guarding their whole lives.
Fuck.
Soonyoung wasn’t off his game.
But he wasn’t on it, either.
It was like dancing underwater.
Like performing with a heartbeat in his mouth.
He still hit every step.
Still moved like music lived in his bones.
Still gave them the best goddamn version of himself—
just with a piece of him left in a closet the night before.
And then—
the silence.
The judges murmured. Scribbled.
Looked up. Looked away. Looked bored.
“No,” they said.
Not cruel. Not even mean.
Just—flat.
Like they hadn’t just been handed a boy who bled dreams out of his knees.
Like they hadn’t seen the fire, the ache, the everything.
Soonyoung just stood there.
Let the words settle like dust.
Didn’t flinch.
But from the audience, Wonwoo saw it—the smallest crack in the corner of his mouth.
The slight drop in his shoulders.
Like losing a star from your sky.
He didn’t cry.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t crack—at least not where anyone could see.
Not the judges.
Not the stagehands.
Not even Wonwoo.
Not yet.
Because Soonyoung had already mastered the art of quiet collapse.
A choreography of composure.
He just—bowed.
Low. Precise. Perfect posture. Like that “no” didn’t chip something inside.
Like he wasn’t swallowing the kind of grief that doesn’t show up until later—
in bathrooms, in buses, in borrowed beds.
His face was blank in that way only someone who knows pain learns.
The expression of someone who’s been told no enough times to turn it into white noise.
Another failed attempt. Another not today.
He could add it to the collection.
And still—
he smiled.
Not the real kind.
The other one.
The kind made of duty.
Of ‘don’t make them uncomfortable’.
Of ‘don’t give them the satisfaction’.
He walked off the stage.
Steady feet.
Chin up.
Shoulders back.
The collapse?
That could wait.
He was good at waiting.
Wonwoo didn’t wait.
Didn’t breathe, really.
He stood like it wasn’t a choice—like gravity forgot to hold him down the second the word “no” was said.
His body moved before he could think—before he could even feel the full weight of the rejection.
Out of the seat.
Out of the room.
Out of the everything.
He ran.
He ran.
Because he knew.
Of course he knew.
He’s always been the one who knew.
He knew where Soonyoung would be.
Soonyoung, somewhere, crying with his whole chest.
Ugly and honest and loud.
And Wonwoo knew what words to say— if he had to say anything or not at all.
Wonwoo knew how to hold him.
That’s how it always went.
Soonyoung crashes.
Wonwoo catches.
Always.
But when he found him—
No.
No no no.
This wasn’t the script.
This wasn’t how it goes.
Soonyoung was there, yes.
Same hallway. Same shitty bench near the fire exit.
But there was no storm.
No sobs.
No curled fists punching air.
No “I just wanted this so bad, Wonuyah.”
No “Maybe I’m not good enough.”
Nothing.
Just Soonyoung.
Sitting.
With his bag still on his shoulder like he never made it all the way down.
Hands limp on his thighs.
Eyes pointed at the floor.
And a smile—
God, that fucking smile—pulled on his face like string on a puppet.
Like someone told him, “Look okay.”
And he said, “Okay.”
And that was it.
Wonwoo dropped to his knees.
Didn’t care about the floor.
Didn’t care about anything.
“Soonyoung,” he breathed.
He touched his face, cold from the aircon, not even a flinch.
“Soonyoung—hey. Come on. Say something. Anything.”
Silence.
Even his breathing felt… faint.
Like he’d folded into himself.
Like the dream finally broke and when the pieces fell, Soonyoung forgot how to bleed.
Wonwoo grabbed his hand.
It didn’t squeeze back.
It always squeezed back.
He laughed.
Sharp. Wet.
Like it hurt coming out.
And that was worse, somehow.
Because this wasn’t indifference.
This wasn’t giving up.
It wasn’t acceptance either.
It was a level of composure so unnaturally calm, it felt foreign.
Like Soonyoung had gone through a door in himself that even Wonwoo didn’t know existed.
A new layer.
A new level unlocked.
And Wonwoo didn’t have the fucking map.
So he sat beside him. Quiet.
Because maybe this wasn’t his time to fix.
Maybe it was just his time to stay.
And that’s what he did.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t hold.
He just stayed—next to this newer version of Soonyoung, the one still holding on… just not the way he used to.
They didn’t plan it.
They never do.
It was one of those fake sleepovers again. Blankets strewn. Console controllers dead. A half-eaten bag of chips somewhere on the floor.
Their bodies weren’t strangers anymore.
Not after the weeks of pretend game nights and “sleepovers” where mouths moved more than the board game pieces ever did.
Where fingers traced skin not because they were trying to win anything, but because they wanted to remember everything.
Now they were pressed together on Wonwoo’s too-small bed. Mouths still swollen. Legs tangled like they’d been doing this for years. Like they weren’t both losing their minds about what was next.
“Should we just…” Soonyoung’s voice was a whisper. A grin trying to be serious.
Wonwoo sucked in a breath. “Yeah. I mean—if you want.”
Neither of them were good at this.
There was no slow jazz, no sexy lighting. Just a laptop somewhere still open on pause, a bag of gummy bears under the bed, and their nerves crawling all over the sheets.
Soonyoung kissed him first.
A little too fast. Teeth bumped.
“Sorry,” he laughed. “Do-over?”
Wonwoo rolled his eyes, heart thudding.
“Yeah. But like… slower.”
“Got it. Slow-mo version.”
It wasn’t elegant.
It was elbows knocking and knees bruising and both of them groaning when Soonyoung’s head hit the wall too hard during one enthusiastic shift.
There was a moment when they just lay there, tangled, breathless, laughing into each other’s necks.
“I feel like a confused octopus,” Soonyoung muttered.
“Soonie, I watched, like, seven Reddit threads for this.”
“No way—me too. But I went the, uh… visual route.”
“Porn?”
“High quality. Cinematic. I swear there was a plot.”
Wonwoo snorted, then turned quiet. “Just… okay. Before we go further…”
Soonyoung paused, watching him.
“I don’t think I can… be the one who…”
“Receive?” Soonyoung finished, gently.
Wonwoo nodded. “I tried imagining it. I just… can’t.”
Soonyoung shrugged, no judgment. “That’s fine. I can. I mean—I’m down. I’ve done weirder stretches in dance class.”
“Okay, I love you but don’t ruin this by comparing it to dance warmups.”
“I’m just saying I’m flexible!”
And that was that.
They fumbled.
There was too much lube. Then not enough. Someone’s leg cramped. They had to pause because Soonyoung couldn’t stop giggling at the way Wonwoo said “condom” like it was a forbidden spell.
But when it started—
when their bodies finally figured out how—
everything slowed.
Wonwoo took his time.
He was careful, even when his hands were shaking. Even when he was red to his ears. He kept asking, “This okay?” and Soonyoung kept nodding, breathy and messy and so fucking there.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it didn’t need to be.
There was a moment—brief, dumb, holy—when Soonyoung whispered, “You’re shaking,”
and Wonwoo said, “I don’t want to hurt you,”
and Soonyoung pulled him closer and mumbled, “You won’t. I trust you, Wonuyah.”
That did something to Wonwoo.
Something deep. Final.
Like something locked inside him clicked open.
He moved slow at first.
Testing, learning, guided by breath and soft gasps and the way Soonyoung gripped the sheets.
Then faster, once it felt right.
And god—it felt right.
But what undid Wonwoo wasn’t the rhythm.
It wasn’t the movement or even the heat.
It was Soonyoung.
Soonyoung, underneath him—flushed and open, wet lips parted in some half-sigh, half-curse.
Eyes fluttering.
Not fully shut, not fully open.
Like he was somewhere in between awake and dreaming.
His hair was a mess. His neck was red.
His fingers were clutching the sheets like they were the only thing keeping him from floating off the bed.
And he was so—fucking beautiful.
Wonwoo didn’t even know people could look like that.
Didn’t know Soonyoung could look like that.
He watched his chest rise and fall, watched a drop of sweat run down the curve of his collarbone, watched how his thighs tensed just before he gasped—
And that gasp—burned.
Straight through him.
Right to his core.
Etched.
Like it branded itself on his fucking spine.
Soonyoung. Red. Open. Needy. Trusting. Loud without being loud.
Giving and taking all at once.
It wasn’t porn. It wasn’t a daydream.
It was real.
And it would haunt Wonwoo.
Forever.
He knew it.
In his bones. In his cock.
In the way he’d never be able to look at Soonyoung the same again.
He’d relive this later, too.
In a cold shower.
On some train ride home.
In the back of some quiet classroom or between chapters of a book he wouldn’t finish.
He’d have to excuse himself.
To breathe.
To deal with the phantom heat between his legs and the tightness in his chest that was less about lust and more about fuck, I’m really in love.
By the time they finished—sweaty, sticky, limbs everywhere—
Soonyoung was a flushed mess of a boy curled up against him.
Wonwoo brushed the hair off his forehead.
“You okay?”
Soonyoung hummed, eyes half-lidded. “That was…”
“Terrible?”
“Amazing.” He grinned. “Can’t wait for round two when we recover.”
Wonwoo kissed his shoulder. “We need better prep.”
“And less chips in the bed.”
They both laughed. The kind of laugh that fills a room like steam.
And in the middle of that mess—
In the middle of hearts pounding like someone hit play on a song too loud—
Soonyoung whispered.
Didn’t even mean to.
Didn’t think.
He just turned his face into Wonwoo’s shoulder and said it like it was air:
“I’ve never felt safer than I do with you.”
The words didn’t echo.
They didn’t need to.
They dropped heavy. Like an anchor.
Like a promise.
Like a secret that had waited years to be said out loud.
Wonwoo didn’t reply.
He couldn’t.
His throat was clogged. Not with words. Not with emotion.
With knowing.
So he just held Soonyoung tighter.
Fingers splayed over his spine.
Chest pressed to chest, like if he got close enough he could stitch the space between them shut forever.
That was the reply.
Not a line.
Not a confession.
But everything.
All the unspoken shit—wrapped in the way he pulled Soonyoung in like he was something holy.
The room stopped feeling like four walls.
It felt like a heartbeat.
A fucking cathedral built out of sheets and skin and them.
And that night, in the half-silence of the afterglow, they didn’t say love.
But god.
It was there.
It was loud.
Time did that cruel thing it always does.
It passed.
And now they were in their twenties—
Not quite boys, not yet men, and definitely too deep into their lives to pretend shit still didn’t hurt.
University swallowed their days.
Student loans, part-time jobs, long nights, cheap coffee.
But the ache in Soonyoung’s chest was never academic.
He was a star. He knew he was.
But stars don’t shine underground.
And no one was digging.
The world hadn’t found him.
The world, it seemed, didn’t care.
Then came the agency. Sleek branding. Empty promises. Men in overpriced suits with too-smooth smiles.
They told him he had “the look.”
They told him he was “ready.”
They told him he just had to want it enough.
The price wasn’t written down anywhere.
Just implied—in the long stares. The closed-door meetings. The way someone’s hand lingered too long on his back, just above the belt loop.
Stardom was a currency.
And Soonyoung wasn’t willing to pay with skin and body.
So he walked.
Head down.
Stomach flipping.
Pride bruised.
Again.
Another fuck-you from the universe.
Another “almost.”
Another waste of hope.
He didn’t go home that night.
He wandered.
Phone dead.
Wallet light.
Shoes scuffed.
Eyes numb.
When he finally got to Wonwoo’s apartment, he didn’t knock. Just leaned against the door until gravity felt unbearable.
Wonwoo opened it.
No words.
He just looked at Soonyoung—really looked.
Saw the crater behind the eyes.
Saw the unlit match.
And still—Soonyoung tried to smile.
“Guess I’m still not famous, huh?”
A joke.
Barely.
Wonwoo didn’t laugh.
Didn’t offer comfort.
Just… stepped aside and let him in.
Because he knew.
And he also knew—this was different.
This wasn’t just another failure.
This was a near-burn.
A too-close-to-the-flame.
A moment Soonyoung wouldn’t talk about, ever.
But would live inside forever.
That one day still lived in the walls of their shared apartment. Not loudly. Not obviously. But like dust in sunlight—quiet, suspended, impossible to catch.
It was a Thursday now. Or maybe a Friday. Who cares. The calendar wasn’t the point. What mattered was this: the kettle clicked, rice was warm, kimchi was cold, and Soonyoung was humming something under his breath that might’ve been a forgotten jingle or maybe just nonsense.
Wonwoo sat at the kitchen table, legs crossed, dressed in the same button-up shirt he’d worn three pay cycles ago on casual Friday. His eyes scanned nothing. Because some days, nothing was easier than memories.
Their life was fine. Soft, even. A slice of normal so domesticated it practically came with a potted plant and matching mugs. They kissed before work. Fought over laundry. Laughed in the middle of brushing teeth. Made grocery lists with doodles. Held hands in the car even when the drive was only four minutes long.
And yet—
Wonwoo still couldn’t forgive himself for that one fucking fever.
That one cursed trip to the clinic. The way his body chose that goddamn morning to collapse like it owed the world something.
Because Soonyoung had a chance.
A real one.
He’d prepped all night. Practiced until he sweat through his dreams. It was different that time. You could feel it. That thin string of the universe finally tugging the right way.
And what did Soonyoung do?
He wiped Wonwoo’s vomit off the floor and said, “I’ll go next time.”
Next time never came.
Wonwoo never said sorry. Not really. He tried once. Voice trembling, lips half-parted over a bowl of instant ramen. But Soonyoung kissed his forehead and said, “Don’t.” And that was that.
But it wasn’t.
Because late at night, when Soonyoung’s arm draped over his shoulders and sleep softened the air between them, Wonwoo’s brain played the what-ifs. Spun them like vinyl. Again. And again.
What if I wasn’t sick.
What if I just told him to go.
What if that was the only real shot.
What if I killed it.
“You didn’t,” Soonyoung would say, like a reflex, like an exhale, like he could read the guilt off Wonwoo’s pores.
But even if Soonyoung forgave him—
Wonwoo couldn’t.
Because love is cruel like that. Soft hands, sharp teeth.
And because this beautiful, warm life they had now—
This “we made it” kind of quiet—
Always, always, came with a shadow.
And Wonwoo swore that shadow wore tap shoes and danced in his chest.
Sometimes it happened after Soonyoung fell asleep on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes like even dreams were too bright to look at.
Sometimes it happened mid-breath, mid-sentence, in the middle of a laugh that crumpled too quickly.
But it always happened.
The crying.
Some nights, the crying is quiet. Almost elegant. Like grief dressed itself up just to slip into bed beside them.
Other nights, it’s a storm.
A stifled sob into the crook of his own arm. A shake in the mattress. A sound Soonyoung tries to swallow because he’s trying, god, he’s still trying to be okay. He always tries.
And Wonwoo—he watched.
Eyes wide open in the dark, chest pressed against Soonyoung’s back, breathing in time with him like it would anchor him.
But Soonyoung still drifted.
“Haven’t I given enough?”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a confession. A surrender. A goddamn eulogy.
And Wonwoo died every time.
He never told Soonyoung about the scream stuck in his throat.
The one that begged the universe to rewind.
To let him not be sick that day.
To give Soonyoung one moment. Just one fucking moment where he could be the star. Not someone who fell in love with Wonwoo too hard, too soon, too much.
But the universe is a bitch.
And love, sometimes, is cruel in the way it chooses you.
So Wonwoo stayed.
Because what else was there to do?
He couldn’t give Soonyoung a stage.
Couldn’t give him a debut.
But he could give him warm hands to hold when the nights got mean.
He could be the quiet beside his ache. The arms that never let go, even when the lights dimmed and no one clapped.
Sometimes that’s what love becomes.
Not grand.
Not loud.
But bleeding. Constant. There.
“Maybe I should stop now… right, Wonu?”
Like giving up wasn’t a tragedy anymore.
Like dreams expired quietly when no one looked.
Like his life hadn’t been built on chasing stages he never reached.
Wonwoo didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Because if he did—if he even breathed wrong—it might be the thing that breaks them.
His throat burned.
His eyes didn’t water—no. They flooded. Salt on his tongue, shame in his gut.
Because he was the reason.
Because he was the fork in the road Soonyoung never meant to take.
Because Soonyoung should’ve been rehearsing encores. Signing autographs. Lighting up screens and stages.
Not this.
Not a dim apartment. Not a mattress with back pain and bills. Not crying into thrifted pillows at 2:47 a.m. with a partner who was never supposed to be his anchor and his prison.
Wonwoo wanted to scream.
He wanted to tear the walls down, crawl out of his skin, beg the world to take his lungs, his kidneys, his fucking soul if it meant Soonyoung could start again.
Instead, he said nothing.
Because what do you say to the love of your life when he’s asking for permission to stop being who he was always meant to become?
“Maybe I should stop now…”
Like he hadn’t already bled out trying.
Like he hadn’t already died a hundred quiet deaths behind closed doors.
Wonwoo stayed.
Because he didn’t know how to do anything else.
But for the first time, it didn’t feel like love.
It felt like a crime.
It was raining.
Of course it was fucking raining.
The kind that doesn’t pour—but needles.
Sharp, mean, disrespectful drizzle, soaking into their collars like the day wanted to make sure they felt it in their bones.
Soonyoung stood like a ghost on the sidewalk, drenched and not moving. His expression not blank—but cracked. Shattered porcelain, still holding its shape out of habit. Not strength.
The producer’s voice still echoed, venom in its simplicity:
“You should consider other options. You’re not 18 anymore. This industry doesn’t wait. What are you even thinking?”
And then, just like that—Soonyoung’s last chance had a closed door.
One that clicked so loud in Wonwoo’s head, it drowned out the sound of thunder.
Wonwoo didn’t remember lunging.
Didn’t remember shouting.
Just a hot, uncontrollable anger in his throat—rising fast, white and loud.
But before his fist could connect with that bastard’s jaw, someone grabbed him. Security, maybe. Or someone else in the waiting room. Doesn’t matter. The moment snapped in half.
They were escorted—no, thrown—outside. Like trash. Like a joke.
They stood in silence.
Soonyoung didn’t speak.
Didn’t shake.
Didn’t cry.
He just… stood.
Like everything inside him had gone quiet. Like the hope had finally run out. Like the lights behind his eyes dimmed.
And Wonwoo, standing next to him—soaked, furious, useless—could do nothing but stare at his shoes.
The silence was unbearable.
Then, Soonyoung laughed. Low. Empty. Not even a sound, just a shape of it.
“You know what’s funny?” he said, not looking at Wonwoo. “I used to think people like that just didn’t get it. That they couldn’t see potential. But now…”
He shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
Like it didn’t matter that he was bleeding out in real time.
“…maybe they’re right.”
And fuck. That hurt more than anything.
More than the slam of the door.
More than the years of auditions.
More than watching Soonyoung cry in his sleep.
That sentence—casual, defeated, detached—was the bullet to the chest.
Wonwoo turned, grabbed him by the arms, shook him just enough to make him look up.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispered. “Don’t you dare agree with them.”
Soonyoung didn’t flinch.
He just smiled.
A tired, wet, ugly smile.
“I’m not agreeing,” he murmured. “I’m just… listening.”
And that’s when Wonwoo broke.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
But something inside cracked. And this time, there was no fixing it.
“I’m tired of being told I’m almost,” Soonyoung said. “Tired of hearing that I have heart, but not the presence. The passion, but not the right timing. The story, but not the spark. I’ve burned myself trying to be a fucking spark.”
Wonwoo opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Because what could he say?
That Soonyoung was the spark? That the world was wrong?
Soonyoung already knew that.
“I gave them everything,” Soonyoung said, voice breaking just a little. “Even the pieces I should’ve kept for myself… for you.”
That was when Wonwoo reached for him.
Not to comfort. Not to save. Just to touch. Just to remind himself that Soonyoung was still warm, still here, still his.
And for the first time in a long time, Soonyoung didn’t lean in.
Didn’t pull away either.
Just stood.
Soaked and quiet.
“I don’t think I want to try anymore,” he said. “I think I’m done, Wonuyah.”
The way he said it—
Like someone saying they’re going to bed.
Like someone choosing silence after years of screaming.
And somewhere in the wreckage of that moment,
Wonwoo found himself praying to a god he didn’t know if he believe in:
Please don’t take the light out of him.
Take the dream if you have to—but leave the light.
Because this version of Soonyoung—the quiet one, the one who didn’t fight back, the one who didn’t cry anymore—was infinitely more terrifying than every breakdown that came before.
They were back at the apartment. Lights off. Shoes still on. The wet from the rain leaving small ghost marks on the floor.
Neither of them had spoken the entire ride home.
Soonyoung dropped his bag by the door like it didn’t matter. Like it never mattered. And it didn’t, not anymore. He moved like someone underwater—slow, tired, like breath had become a burden.
Wonwoo stood there. Waiting for him to say something.
Anything.
And then, Soonyoung turned around.
Voice low. Even.
Too calm.
“I’m sorry.”
Wonwoo blinked. “For what?”
“I’m sorry I dragged you through all of this. For years.”
There it was. That cold sting.
“I’m sorry I made you believe it would happen. That it was just a matter of time. That I was almost there.”
“Soonyoung—”
“I’m sorry I burned so fucking long for a dream I was never gonna reach. That I spent nights practicing in the other room when I could’ve been with you. That I gave the best parts of me to stages that never clapped back.”
“Soonyoung, stop—”
“I should’ve just given up earlier. Given myself to you. All of me. From the start.”
Wonwoo’s voice came out sharper than he meant. “Don’t.”
“I was selfish—”
“Don’t you dare say that again.”
It cracked in the air. Sharp. Desperate. More plea than threat.
But Soonyoung didn’t flinch. He just looked at him, eyes bloodshot and tired.
“I should’ve chosen you.”
“You did.” Wonwoo’s voice broke. “You always fucking did. That day—you chose me over everything.”
Soonyoung’s smile was small, cruel in its sadness. “I’m saying sorry, because I don’t know how much of me is left anymore. And that’s what you ended up with. Not a star. Not a flame. Just this.”
He tapped his own chest. Empty, hollow.
“Just this version of me. That’s all you get.”
Wonwoo walked over. Didn’t stop until they were inches apart.
And with all the wreckage inside him, with all the breaking parts, he said, “Then I’ll take it.”
“I don’t deserve this love, Wonwoo.”
“Shut up.”
“I dunno anymore, Wonwoo…” he said again, softer. “I feel like shit. I feel so unworthy. I don’t think I even deserve you anymore. I’m nothing—”
“I said shut the fuck up!”
Wonwoo’s voice cracked. Loud, raw, shaking with rage—but not the kind that scared you. The kind that meant please, please don’t talk like that again.
His hands were trembling.
“You don’t get to decide that,” he snapped, stepping forward, eyes wild with grief. “You don’t get to tell me what I should feel. You don’t get to call yourself ‘nothing’ when I fucking love you like this. Like this, Kwon Soonyoung. Not some version of you that made it big. Not some polished, stage-lit fantasy. You. Even if you’re a mess. Even if you’re fucking tired. Even if you’re angry, and bitter, and empty, and cruel.”
He was crying now, and he hated that. Hated how real it made it all feel.
“You think I stayed because I pitied you?” Wonwoo’s voice broke, and his lip quivered before he bit it down. “You think I wake up next to you every morning just for some potential you think you failed to reach?”
Soonyoung’s silence was answer enough.
Wonwoo grabbed his wrist. Held it. Pressed it to his own chest, like he could make him feel it.
“Then what the fuck do you think this is? This beating? This goddamn ache inside me every time I hear you say that shit about yourself like you’re disposable? Like you’re a fucking burden?”
Soonyoung’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Wonwoo leaned in. Forehead to forehead. Their breaths shaky, uneven.
“I’d burn with you. I’d rot with you. I’d die with you if that’s what it takes. But don’t you ever fucking tell me again that you’re not worthy. Because I decide that. Me. Not the producers. Not the world. Not the whole fucking universe, Soonyoung. Me.”
He swallowed hard. “And I choose you. And I will keep choosing you. Over and over again. Every fucking time.”
And for the first time in a long, long while—
Soonyoung finally cried.
Not into a pillow. Not into his palms. Not in secret.
He cried into Wonwoo’s chest. Loud, breaking, open.
And Wonwoo held him like something holy. Like something wrecked and divine and worth loving anyway.
Wonwoo didn’t know he could love this much, not until now.
Not until the moment his heart started aching in ways no anatomy book could explain.
Not until the moment he found himself—
barefoot, breathless—
running across a world he didn’t recognize,
like he had woken up in the middle of someone else’s dream.
Or worse—
like he had slipped out of the only one that mattered.
The ground didn’t feel like ground. It felt like memory.
Like all the places they’ve ever kissed.
Every corner of their apartment.
Every bench they waited on for auditions.
Every shitty dance studio Soonyoung bled in.
Every night they curled together after another no, another try again, another maybe.
He was running through it.
All of it.
Like his body was trying to get back to something.
Like he knew he was being taken.
And then it stopped.
All of it.
Like someone hit pause on the entire goddamn universe.
He stood there, panting, blinking in the slow glow of that floating thing.
That orb.
That fucked-up little light that wasn’t light at all.
It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t kind.
It was truth.
Cruel. Blunt. Final.
“You are the reason,” it said,
in the voice that sounded like every fear he’s ever buried.
“The reason he couldn’t become who he was meant to be.”
And there was nothing more shattering.
Not death. Not heartbreak.
Nothing more devastating than being told you were the thing keeping the person you love the most from becoming who they were meant to be.
Wonwoo didn’t cry.
He couldn’t.
Tears would be too soft for this.
He shook his head. “No. No. I was with him. I was for him. I—I carried his dream like it was mine too. I loved him through every goddamn no.”
“And that was the problem,” the light answered.
“You loved him too much. And he loved you more. Enough to stop. Enough to settle.”
“Don’t say that—”
“Enough to choose you.”
Wonwoo staggered.
Because he remembered.
All the times Soonyoung said no to something because Wonwoo had a fever.
Or Wonwoo had an anxiety spiral.
Or Wonwoo just needed him there that night.
Soonyoung chose him.
And now, that was the crime.
“There is a way,” the light said.
“One way he gets everything.”
Wonwoo looked up. Hopeful. Hope was stupid.
“You disappear.
Like you never existed.
No first meeting.
No kisses behind closed doors.
No laughs in bed.
No slow sex under trembling hands.
No ramen dates. No shared apartments.
No I love you’s whispered into collars.”
“Stop,” Wonwoo begged.
But it kept going.
“Just… gone.
And he rises.
Just like he was
—his knees hit the memory-ground like apology.
Not the kind you say.
The kind you bleed.
His palms scraped something invisible, something that wasn’t dirt but felt like history.
Like all the small soft moments that would be gone.
That had to be gone.
Their first kiss—deleted.
The day they moved in—undone.
Soonyoung in the kitchen, singing something ‘off my face’ to Wonwoo while stirring ramen—erased.
Soonyoung on the floor after a rejection, curled in on himself while Wonwoo held him like a prayer—lost.
Their laughter.
Their fights.
The smell of Soonyoung’s shampoo on his pillow.
The way they fit without thinking.
All of it—
gone,
like someone wiping fingerprints off a window.
Like a ghost deciding it never had the right to haunt.
And Soonyoung would never know.
Would never remember.
There’d be no hollow space in his chest.
No name that almost surfaced when he closed his eyes.
He’d just go on.
Shining.
Unburdened.
Whole.
But not with him.
Not with Wonwoo.
The orb didn’t press him for a decision.
It didn’t need to.
Loving someone sometimes means burning yourself out just to make sure they’re warm.
Even if they never know where the heat came from.
Wonwoo loved Soonyoung like it was religion.
No holy book, no temple, no god ever taught him how—
he just did.
Like breathing, like blinking, like aching.
He loved him past reason, past ego, past anything that resembled self-preservation.
The kind of love that didn’t ask for anything back.
The kind that existed just to make sure he’s okay.
He learned how to make Soonyoung’s favorite meals.
Not because he wanted praise.
Because he knew that dream-chasing tasted better with something warm after a long day.
He kept track of audition dates, knew when not to ask questions,
when to speak,
when to just hold.
He memorized the shifts in Soonyoung’s voice.
He could tell when he was pretending.
When he was just being strong for him.
When he wanted to cry but didn’t.
And every time, Wonwoo wanted to carry it instead.
If he could take the weight, the rejection, the exhaustion—Wonwoo would.
If he could rip the stars from the sky and staple them to Soonyoung’s chest, Wonwoo would.
If he could offer up his own damn spine so Soonyoung could stand taller at castings,
Wonwoo’s would.
He loved him in ways he never even told Soonyoung about.
Private little devotions.
Tiny sacred things.
Wonwoo’s love for Soonyoung wasn’t the type people wrote in sonnets. It was worse.
It was consuming.
He didn’t love Soonyoung like a boyfriend.
He loved him like a home he would die defending.
He loved him like prayer, like a confession, like atonement.
It was loving Soonyoung even when Soonyoung hated himself.
It was watching Soonyoung crumple after rejection #49 and still calling him a star.
It was memorizing the shape of his back on nights he faced the wall and whispered, “I’m sorry for not being enough.”
It was fighting everyone who told Soonyoung to quit—including Soonyoung himself.
It was staying up all night to sew a dance costume because the agency didn’t give them one.
It was selling his old camera gear just so Soonyoung could afford another week of training.
It was walking out of a hospital early—IV still in his arm—just to make it to Soonyoung’s fucking showcase.
It was bleeding out quietly so Soonyoung wouldn’t stop mid-performance to check if he was okay.
It was every version of him—tired, anxious, aching—still finding a way to be soft when Soonyoung came home broken.
It was choosing Soonyoung’s heartbeat over his own.
Every time.
Every fucking time.
The kind of love that rewired his instincts.
He didn’t think “what do I want?”
He thought, “what does Soonyoung need?”
And if the answer was less of him,
if it was none of him at all,
then Wonwoo would go.
Even if it meant erasing himself from the only person he’s ever belonged to.
Even if it meant Soonyoung waking up every day without him, without knowing what he once had, what once held him through the nights he wanted to disappear.
Because if this—this quiet, ordinary version of love—was the reason Soonyoung never reached the sky,
then Wonwoo would drag himself out of the frame,
cut himself out of every picture,
burn the tapes,
delete the messages,
let the universe rearrange itself like he was never in it.
Then black
Then thunder.
The kind that doesn’t crack—
the kind that swallows.
Then—
lights.
So loud they burned behind his eyes.
So blinding, he forgot his own name for a second.
He was in the crowd now. A familiar, chaotic one.
Not part of it.
Just in it.
Like dust in the sunbeam.
Like noise between lyrics.
And on the stage—
There he was.
Soonyoung.
No.
Not him.
Not his.
It’s Hoshi.
Because Soonyoung was a boy who broke shoelaces from dancing too hard in the kitchen.
Who read horoscopes aloud and laughed when they got it wrong.
Who whispered apologies into Wonwoo’s neck even in sleep.
Who believed in the kind of forever that doesn’t survive in the daylight.
But Hoshi—
Hoshi was a god.
And gods don’t look back.
Hoshi had poise.
Presence.
A voice that didn’t tremble anymore.
A smile sharpened by years of saying thank you instead of help me.
He belonged to everyone now.
Every fan. Every stage light. Every screen pixel.
A thousand hands reaching out—not one of them his.
This Soonyoung has everything now.
Maybe he never cried at night.
Maybe he never knew what it meant to be too old.
Maybe he never had to apologize for chasing the sun.
Because the weight had been taken.
Transferred.
To the boy in the shadows.
To the ghost in the crowd.
To Wonwoo—
who now remembered exactly what he’d done.
And still,
still,
for one fleeting, devastating second—
they met eyes.
Not with memory.
Not with longing.
But with something colder.
Recognition twisted.
Like a shadow cast too long.
A sliver.
A pang.
Something primal.
Like a scar remembering the blade.
Tiger to river.
And Wonwoo—
he stood there, spine folding, heart caving in.
Because this was Soonyoung’s dream.
This blinding cathedral of noise and applause.
It was magnificent.
It was merciless.
He felt the crowd move.
It didn’t carry him.
It discarded him.
Step by step.
Inches to feet to miles.
Until he was back at the edge.
Back where the light didn’t reach.
Back where he belonged.
And as he stood,
drenched in the echoes of a song that used to be his lullaby,
Wonwoo understood.
He wasn’t the muse.
He wasn’t even the memory.
He was the cost.
The forgotten currency.
The one thing Soonyoung had to give up to gain everything.
The world had rewritten their story.
And edited Wonwoo out.
Wonwoo realized he said yes.
To that cursed deal.
To vanishing.
To making space.
Soonyoung was free.
Soonyoung was whole.
Soonyoung was Hoshi now.
And Wonwoo—
Was the breath no one hears.
The sob that doesn’t make it past the throat.
The name that never makes it into the credits.
Wonwoo indeed had said yes.
And no one mourned it but him.