Archive of Our Own ^beta

—

It starts the night before.

They’re alone in their room, lights off except for the low blue glow from the hallway. The kind of quiet that feels too loud. The kind that makes everything worse.

Ni-ki’s pacing — arms crossed, jaw tight, breath sharp through his nose.

Sunghoon’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching him like he’s a storm he’s already tired of weathering.

“You never listen,” Ni-ki snaps, spinning on his heel. “You think just because you’re older you always get to be right—”
“I never said that,” Sunghoon mutters, low and even.
“You don’t have to. You act like it.”
Ni-ki steps closer now — too close. His voice is sharper, louder. He’s trying to provoke something.

“Maybe if you got your head out of your ass once in a while, you’d actually realize how full of shit you sound.”
Sunghoon’s jaw tightens.

He says nothing. Just stares at the floor, the tension in his shoulders rising like a tide.

Ni-ki scoffs — and shoves him.

It’s not hard enough to hurt, but it’s enough to make Sunghoon’s head snap up.

“You done?” he says, voice low and cold.
Ni-ki smiles — mean and tired.

“Yeah. Whatever. Not like you care anyway.”
Then he grabs his phone off the desk and walks out, barefoot and pissed, the door slamming behind him.

Sunghoon just sits there in the dark, jaw clenched, staring at the empty space he left behind.

The next day is hell.

Sunghoon drags himself from schedule to schedule, every second of it done on autopilot. He gets through hair, makeup, cameras in his face, fans screaming his name — all of it with this cold, sharp pressure sitting behind his ribs.

Because Ni-ki hasn’t texted back.

Not once.

He checks after every shoot. Every break. Every damn bathroom run.

Nothing.

He tries calling once, then again a few hours later. Both go to voicemail. No read receipts. No call backs.

The last message he sent was nearly ten hours ago:

We’re not ending it like that. Call me.
Still unread.

Sunghoon tosses his phone down in the van sometime around hour nine, breathing through his nose so he doesn’t slam it instead. Jungwon says something from the front seat, and Sunghoon nods automatically, not hearing a word of it.

Because all he can think about is Ni-ki’s face last night — that look in his eyes. The way he pushed him, the way he walked out like it didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t mean anything.

And now he’s ignoring him.

Completely.

By the time they’re driving back to the dorm, Sunghoon’s not just pissed anymore — he’s insulted. Tired. Running on the kind of quiet anger that simmers too long without an outlet.

He stares out the window the whole ride home, jaw set.

If Ni-ki wants to act like he doesn’t care, then fine.

But he better be ready for what’s waiting on the other side of the door.

It’s well past 9 p.m. when Sunghoon gets home.

He’s exhausted, but the second he steps into the dorm and sees the living room — sees Ni-ki — any trace of fatigue burns clean out of him.

Ni-ki’s on the couch in just a t-shirt and boxers — his shirt, unmistakably — stretched out like he hasn’t done anything wrong, laughing with Heeseung and Jungwon like the entire day didn’t happen. Like last night didn’t happen.

Sunghoon stops in the entryway, jaw already tightening.

Ni-ki hasn’t looked up yet.

“Ni-ki.”
His voice is flat — cold enough to silence the room.

Ni-ki glances over and freezes, caught mid-laugh.

They lock eyes.

Sunghoon doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at him for a beat too long — long enough for everyone to feel the shift in the air.

Then:

“Get dressed.”
Ni-ki’s brows furrow. “What?”

“Go put some clothes on.”
The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Ni-ki stares at him, clearly annoyed now. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Seriously,” Sunghoon says, still cold. “You don’t walk around in just boxers when you’ve spent the whole day ignoring someone you live with.”
That lands. Heeseung’s eyes flick away. Jungwon looks down at the remote in his hand like it suddenly became fascinating.

Ni-ki shifts in place, clearly getting defensive now. “It’s just boxers. You act like I’m naked.”

Sunghoon’s mouth pulls into a humorless smile.

“You don’t usually walk around like that,” he says, voice quieter now. “Not unless you’re looking for attention.”
Ni-ki’s face goes red — instant, flushed up to his ears. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Sunghoon shrugs, too casually.

“Figure it out.”
Ni-ki jumps up from the couch, clearly about to argue — but he’s already flushed, already embarrassed, and too aware of the two members still sitting there frozen like they don’t want to exist in this moment.

“You’re unbelievable,” Ni-ki hisses under his breath, storming toward him. “That’s the first thing you say to me?”
“You didn’t answer my texts all day,” Sunghoon snaps. “What the hell else was I supposed to say?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just walks down the hall, not even bothering to check if Ni-ki follows.

The door barely clicks shut before Ni-ki rounds on him.

“You seriously had to say that in front of them?”
His voice is sharp — not yelling, but close. Still red in the face, still breathing hard like he hasn’t decided if he’s more pissed or mortified.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer.

He walks straight past him, pulls open the top drawer of Ni-ki’s dresser, and grabs the first pair of pajama shorts he sees. Drops them on the bed.

Ni-ki blinks, caught off guard.

“What—are you seriously—?”
Sunghoon doesn’t give him the chance to finish.

He picks the shorts back up, turns around, and steps right into Ni-ki’s space.

“Since you can’t manage to put on actual clothes without being told,” he mutters, voice low and clipped, “I’ll do it for you.”
He crouches down and grabs a pair of socks from the basket on the floor. Ni-ki just stands there, stunned — not used to being handled like this, not when he’s the one who was mad, not when he walked out.

Sunghoon kneels, not looking at him, and tugs the shorts up over his thighs with deliberate movements. He doesn't ask, doesn’t wait, just works around him like Ni-ki’s made of paper.

Ni-ki flinches when Sunghoon's fingers brush his knee.

“Stop,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “Don’t—”
But Sunghoon’s already grabbing one of his ankles, guiding it up so he can slide a sock on.

“Hold still,” he mutters.
Ni-ki swats at his shoulder, voice sharper now. “I said stop—!”

Sunghoon finally looks up, still crouched at his feet, eyes flat.

“You can’t ignore me all day, act like nothing happened, and then get pissed when someone finally calls you out.”
Ni-ki’s breathing shakes — eyes glassy now, bottom lip tight between his teeth. Still standing there in half a pout, half a breakdown.

He shoves Sunghoon’s shoulder again — harder this time.

“It’s not fair,” he says, voice breaking outright. “You don’t get to treat me like this.”
Sunghoon sighs through his nose. Stands up slowly. Doesn’t say anything right away.

Just looks at him — tired, unimpressed, chest rising and falling like he’s counting down from ten in his head.

Ni-ki wipes at his cheek roughly, eyes shining, shoulders tight.

“You’re such a dick sometimes,” he mutters. “You act like I don’t feel things too.”
Sunghoon’s arms cross.

“Then maybe act like it,” he snaps back. “You blew up on me, stormed off, and ignored me all day. What exactly was I supposed to feel? Grateful?”
Ni-ki laughs — bitter, too loud for how small he’s trying to feel.

“Yeah? And what, you think dressing me like a toddler’s gonna fix it?”
Sunghoon’s jaw flexes. “No. I think maybe if I handled you the way you act, we’d have less of a problem.”

Ni-ki flinches. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’m tired of playing guessing games with someone who throws a tantrum and shuts down every time something doesn’t go his way.”
The words hit like a slap.

Ni-ki just stares at him, mouth slightly open, like he can’t believe he actually said that.

And then his face crumples all at once.

“I’m not a fucking tantrum, Sunghoon,” he chokes. “I was hurt.”
Sunghoon hesitates — too late.

Ni-ki takes a shaky step back, breath catching in his throat. “But sure. Keep talking to me like I’m some dramatic kid that you have to fix, that’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”

“Ni-ki—”
“No,” he cuts in, voice high, panicked now. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. You don’t get to say that and act like I’m the one ruining everything.”
His hands shake as he wipes his eyes again, clumsy, frustrated, furious.

Sunghoon steps forward instinctively, but Ni-ki jerks away from his touch.

“Don’t.”
It’s quiet now. Too quiet. The kind that settles between two people when one of them just crossed the line.

Sunghoon breathes out hard — once — and finally seems to realize he went too far.

But the damage is already sitting heavy in the room, pressing down on both of them like wet concrete.

Ni-ki’s still trembling.

He looks furious — eyes red, chest heaving, hands clenched like he’s holding back from shoving Sunghoon again, maybe hitting him for real this time. His whole body’s rigid with everything he hasn’t said, with everything Sunghoon just yanked out of him too hard and too fast.

“You think I like feeling like this?” he snaps. “You think I wanted to ignore you all day?”
Sunghoon says nothing.

“I didn’t even know what to say, Sunghoon. You made me feel like—like I was too much, like everything I do is annoying to you.”
His voice is cracking again. Breaking open word by word.

“I hated how I felt after last night. I didn’t even want to be around the others but I didn’t want to be alone, either, and you—you just left.”
Sunghoon’s brows pull tight. “You walked out first.”

“Because I didn’t want to cry in front of you!” Ni-ki snaps, and that’s it — the dam breaks.
He sucks in a sharp breath, wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of the shirt — Sunghoon’s shirt — and it only makes it worse. Like wearing it is suddenly the most humiliating thing in the world.

He’s backed himself into the far wall now, face turned away like he can’t bear to let Sunghoon see him unravel.

“You make me feel so stupid sometimes,” he says, barely a whisper now. “Like I’m always the one doing too much.”
Sunghoon’s face shifts, expression softening — still stunned silent, but visibly pained now, like he feels every word.

And Ni-ki, even through the tears, even in the middle of that mess of anger and shame and heartbreak — he looks up.

Something in his chest twists. Shatters.

And then — without thinking — he steps forward.

Not because the anger’s gone. Not because he’s forgiven him.

But because Sunghoon is the only place he knows to go when he’s falling apart.

He walks into Sunghoon’s space fast — shoulders tense, steps unsteady — and grabs at the front of his shirt like he’s anchoring himself to it.

His voice is thick, close to sobbing now.

“I don’t know how to make it better,” he mumbles, head ducking down. “But I don’t wanna fight anymore.”
Sunghoon’s arms come up slowly — cautiously — and fold around him.

It’s not perfect. It’s not fixed.

But Ni-ki lets himself fold into him anyway.

And Sunghoon, finally, pulls him in like he means it this time.

Ni-ki’s fists are balled up in the front of Sunghoon’s shirt, face buried against his chest, shoulders trembling like he’s holding back a full sob.

Sunghoon exhales slowly, like the weight of it all is finally sinking in.

And he hates it.

He hates that it got this far. Hates that he let his pride run until Ni-ki broke open in his hands.

He slides a hand up to the back of Ni-ki’s neck — firm, grounding — the same way he always does when he wants him to listen.

“Hey,” he says, low against his ear. “Don’t cry.”
Ni-ki shakes his head, sniffling harder, not looking up.

“I’m serious,” Sunghoon says again, more gently this time, fingers threading through his hair. “You don’t have to cry over this.”
But Ni-ki pulls in a shaky breath and finally speaks, voice thick and wrecked.

“I don’t want to,” he says. “But you—” he swallows hard. “You made me feel like I didn’t matter.”
That lands heavy.

Sunghoon presses his lips together. His hand doesn’t stop moving — slow, steady against the back of Ni-ki’s neck like he’s trying to soothe a fever.

“You do,” he says after a long beat. “Even when I’m mad. Even when you’re being a pain in the ass.”
Ni-ki huffs a laugh — wet and choked — and squeezes his fists tighter into Sunghoon’s shirt.

“You’re still mean,” he mumbles.
“Yeah,” Sunghoon sighs. “But I don’t like seeing you cry.”
Another beat of quiet. Ni-ki sniffles again.

“Then stop making me cry,” he mutters, barely audible.
Sunghoon smiles — just barely — and leans his cheek against the top of Ni-ki’s head.

“Deal.”

Sunghoon keeps an arm around him as he steps back toward the bed, slow and quiet, like moving too fast might spook him.

He sinks down onto the mattress without letting go — just pulls Ni-ki with him by the hand fisted in his shirt, guiding him until they’re both lying back.

Ni-ki doesn’t resist. He’s still crying, small sniffles now, face damp and scrunched as he curls in beside him, legs tucking up. He keeps one hand clutched in the fabric of Sunghoon’s shirt like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go.

Sunghoon shifts them until Ni-ki’s half on top of him, one leg over his, head tucked against his chest.

“Relax,” he murmurs, fingers stroking through Ni-ki’s hair again. “You’re okay.”
But Ni-ki just presses in closer, nose against his collarbone, tears still soaking through the cotton.

“You’re such an asshole,” he mumbles into his chest.
Sunghoon huffs softly, tilting his chin to rest against the crown of Ni-ki’s head.

“I know.”
A long silence settles between them. Not awkward — just heavy with everything they haven’t said, with everything they’re too tired to fight about anymore.

Sunghoon runs a hand slowly down Ni-ki’s back, then back up again.

“You don’t have to be so strong all the time, you know,” he says after a moment. “Not with me.”
Ni-ki hiccups softly, a shaky exhale following it. “I wasn’t trying to be strong,” he whispers. “I just didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Sunghoon’s hand stills.

“I’ve already seen you like this,” he says. “And I’m still here.”
Ni-ki doesn’t respond — just clings tighter, breath hitching again.

Sunghoon tightens his hold too, finally bringing the blanket up around them with his free hand, settling it over Ni-ki’s bare legs.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “just talk to me.”
Ni-ki nods against him, barely.

“Okay.”
Another pause.

“But you’re still an asshole,” he adds, voice small and stuffy.
Sunghoon snorts. “Yeah. But I’m your asshole.”

That gets a tiny, reluctant laugh from Ni-ki — muffled against his chest, but real.

And Sunghoon lets his eyes close, just a little, arm curling tighter around him.

The room is still now.

Dim light filters in from the hallway, just enough to catch the soft rise and fall of the blanket over them. Ni-ki’s finally stopped crying — his breathing’s slower, more even, though his lashes are still damp, and his face stays pressed stubbornly to Sunghoon’s chest like he’s not quite ready to look at him yet.

Sunghoon doesn’t mind.

He keeps his hand in Ni-ki’s hair, carding through it gently, nails scratching the way he knows calms him down. His other arm rests low around Ni-ki’s waist, drawing slow circles with his thumb against bare skin just above the waistband of the pajama shorts he forced him into earlier.

He leans in after a moment — just a little — and presses a kiss to Ni-ki’s temple. Another one to the side of his forehead. Then one right at his hairline.

No teasing. No smirk. Just quiet affection, like punctuation marks on a feeling he doesn’t know how to explain.

“You tired?” he murmurs.
Ni-ki hums a tiny sound that might be yes, might be no, might just be him not wanting to talk yet.

Sunghoon kisses his hair again anyway.

“You can sleep,” he says, voice low and close. “I’ve got you.”
And he means it.

Even after everything — the yelling, the crying, the bruised pride and ugly moments — he’s still here. Still holding him like it’s instinct. Like letting go isn’t even an option.

Ni-ki shifts just a little — pulls the blanket higher, nudges closer like he’s trying to burrow right under Sunghoon’s ribs — and exhales slow, like something in him is finally unwinding.

Sunghoon just holds him tighter.

Not to fix it. Not to apologize for everything left unsaid.

Just because he can.

And right now, that’s enough.