Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yeosang woke up to the sound of laughter echoing faintly down the hallway. It wasn’t loud, just muffled giggles and the clatter of mugs being moved across the counter, but it hit his ears like static. He blinked up at the ceiling, vision slow to clear, a faint pressure already blooming behind his eyes like a warning.

The clock read 7:12 a.m. Too early for this much noise.

He moved slowly, deliberately, folding back the comforter with careful fingers. The air in his room was still, muted. His sanctuary. He hesitated before opening the door, letting it creak just slightly on its hinges.

Voices filtered in from the kitchen. San’s cackle. Wooyoung’s dramatic gasps. Yunho humming over it all. Yeosang wrapped his cardigan tighter around himself and stepped into the hallway.

The light was too bright. Seonghwa had opened the curtains all the way, and the golden morning sun poured across the floor in thick, sharp beams. It was beautiful, probably. Yeosang squinted against it.

The kitchen was alive. San was perched on the counter, swinging his legs and narrating some story about a cat and a spray bottle, while Seonghwa made toast at warp speed. Mingi sat at the table yawning into his tea. Someone’s music played from a phone speaker, upbeat, bouncy, too fast .

Yeosang crossed the threshold quietly. No one noticed. He reached for the cupboard. The clink of mugs made his shoulders twitch.

“You’re up early,” Yunho said from behind him, voice bright and full of sun. “You’re off today, right?”

Yeosang nodded. “I am.”

“You okay?” Yunho asked, already walking past. Yeosang nodded again. That seemed to satisfy him.

He poured hot water into his cup too quickly. The splash burned his fingers. No one saw.

San jumped off the counter, nearly colliding with Wooyoung, who was dancing. Yeosang stepped back too fast, bumped into the fridge, and barely managed not to spill his tea.

“Sorry, sorry,” Wooyoung grinned, spinning dramatically out of the way. “Didn’t see you there, Sangie!”

He forced a thin smile. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t. The sound of the toast popping made him flinch. 

He left the kitchen a minute later, tea untouched, cup shaking faintly in his hands. The hallway was quieter, but not by much. Someone’s alarm was going off in one of the bedrooms. Hongjoong’s, probably, set to some instrumental loop that repeated like a broken music box.

Back in his room, he shut the door and locked it. Just for now.

He exhaled, pressed his back to the door, and tried to ignore the way the walls felt like they were moving in slow, rhythmic pulses. His cardigan felt too tight. The collar was too scratchy. He yanked it off, dropped it on the floor, and paced the room once, twice, again.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even upset. It was just loud. Too much. Too soon.

Yeosang sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor. His tea sat cooling in his lap. His phone buzzed once with a group message. He didn’t check it.

By 9:30 a.m., the house had thinned out.

San had left first, throwing on his hoodie backwards and still managing to blow everyone a kiss on the way out. Yunho followed, polished and smiling, his laugh echoing from the bathroom as Wooyoung shouted something about missing socks. Mingi wandered off to the sunniest patch of couch with his laptop, mumbling about edits and deadlines. Even Seonghwa, soft and precise as always, slipped into the hallway with a “Call me if anything weird happens,” and a glance that barely registered Yeosang tucked in the corner of the dining room.

Now, it was quiet. The kind of quiet that sat behind your ribs. Hollow and loud.

Yeosang stood in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, staring at the half-steeped tea he still hadn’t touched. The overhead light buzzed faintly. The fridge made a low hum. The ticking clock, once gentle background noise, now sounded like a countdown.

He cleaned his cup. Rinsed it too long. Scrubbed the inside like there was something he could erase.

The house was warm, sunlight spilling across the floor in gold stripes, but it didn’t feel warm. It felt bright. Too exposed.

He tried the living room next. The couch was soft. He curled into one end of it with a blanket tucked around his legs. His book was on the coffee table. He picked it up, opened to a random page, and stared at the same sentence for ten minutes. His eyes moved, but the words didn’t land.

His foot jiggled against the cushion. His fingers tapped the same rhythm against his knee. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He tried the TV. Kept the volume low. Cartoons, he thought. Something easy, but the colors flicked too quickly. The sound was too sharp, too flat, too everything . He turned it off.

He tried silence again. That was worse. His body wouldn’t settle. His skin itched like static. His sweatshirt clung wrong to his arms. He yanked it off, tossed it aside, and immediately felt too cold. He put it back on. Off. On again.

No one was texting. Or maybe they were. He didn’t want to check.

He picked up the house remote, just to do something, and found it heavier than usual in his hand. The couch seemed to move underneath him, or maybe his vision was swimming, just a little. Not enough to worry about. Not yet.

He stood up. Walked to the fridge. Opened it. Closed it. Walked back.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

His mouth tasted like metal.

He wasn’t in danger. He wasn’t sad. He just wanted the world to stop moving. Or maybe he wanted to disappear into the parts of it that didn’t. He couldn’t tell the difference today.

Eventually, he curled into the farthest end of the couch again. Hood up. Blanket over his legs. One hand holding the book like he might read it. The other pressed against his thigh, trying to ground himself.

It was only 11 o’clock. He didn’t know how he was going to make it to the end of the day.

Yeosang didn’t remember falling asleep. Or maybe he hadn’t. He’d been in and out for hours, drifting somewhere between numb and weightless, blinking at the ceiling as sunlight shifted across the walls. He thought about getting up more than once. Thought about eating. Showering. Speaking.

He didn’t do any of it.

The sound of the front door swinging open snapped him upright, though only slightly, and the rhythm of the day roared back to life around him.

The front door creaked open with San’s usual entrance: one sock half-off, hoodie stained with something dog-shaped, phone in one hand and a croissant in the other. He was talking before he even shut the door. “You should’ve seen her, guys this tiny husky mix sat on my foot and refused to move. I think I’m adopted now.”

“Again?” Yunho called from the hallway. “That’s the third time this month.”

Jongho stepped through the back door moments later, boots heavy, shirt sticking slightly to his back with the weight of the day. He grunted a greeting to no one in particular, rubbing his shoulder with one hand.

Yeosang hadn’t moved from the couch. Blanket still pulled across his legs, book still open to the same page. He wasn’t reading. He was staring at the text like it might eventually rearrange itself into something that made sense.

Someone laughed in the kitchen. A pan clattered. San yelled, “Who used the last of the chili oil and didn’t replace it?!”

Yeosang blinked slowly. The light from the window had shifted. It cut across his face in a jagged line now, making one eye water slightly. He didn’t move.

Wooyoung finally burst through the door a few minutes later, arms full of grocery bags and attitude. “I am starving and also underappreciated for going to three different stores to find Mingi’s weird tea—”

“Not weird,” Mingi said from the hallway.

“— rare ,” Wooyoung corrected with a wink.

Yeosang’s fingers curled tighter around the book. The spine creaked. He didn’t notice.

Jongho passed behind the couch and lightly patted Yeosang’s shoulder in greeting. Just once. He didn’t see the way Yeosang flinched at the contact. No one did.

In the kitchen, dinner took shape like it always did. Yunho and Seonghwa tag-teamed the stove, San chopped vegetables with flair and zero accuracy, Mingi hummed as he set the table, Wooyoung danced between them like a spark.

“Yeosang, you want rice or noodles?” someone called out. He didn’t answer.

“Yeosang?”

“Rice,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. Flat. No one caught the delay.

They gathered around the table, plates full, chairs dragging.

Yeosang sat on the edge. Small, hunched, head slightly bowed. He took one bite of rice, then set his chopsticks down. His hands trembled just faintly. He pressed them against his thighs.

Wooyoung threw an arm around his shoulder playfully, pulling him close. “You good? You’ve been kinda ghosty today.”

Yeosang tried to smile. He really tried. “Just tired,” he said.

Wooyoung ruffled his hair and moved on, distracted by San pouring soy sauce all over his tofu. “ San! That was for everyone!”

They laughed. The conversation picked up again. Yeosang stayed silent. Mingi asked a question across the table. Yeosang didn’t catch it. He blinked up, too slowly, eyes unfocused.

Hongjoong, now seated beside him, glanced over. “Yeosang?”

He turned his head. Their eyes met. Hongjoong’s smile faltered, just a flicker. There was something wrong in Yeosang’s face. Too pale. Too still.

“Hey,” Hongjoong said softly. “Do you feel okay?”

Yeosang opened his mouth, then closed it. The fork slipped from his hand and hit the plate with a sharp clink. Everyone paused.

“Yeosang?” Seonghwa asked.

He looked up again, and this time, his face cracked, not fully, but enough. His jaw trembled. His eyes were too wide.

“I’m okay,” he said, but it came out wrong. Mechanical. Rehearsed. Not okay at all.

San slowly pushed his chair back. “Hey… you sure?”

Yeosang stood up. Too fast. The room tilted slightly beneath his feet. He grabbed the back of the chair and steadied himself, breath catching on the inhale.

“I just need to lie down.”

His voice was quiet. Before anyone could say more, he slipped into the living room, curled up into the corner of the couch like he had earlier, back to them. Blanket over his shoulders.

Back at the table, no one moved right away.

“…He didn’t eat,” Mingi murmured, eyes wide.

“And he hasn’t really said anything since this morning,” San added, worry creeping into his tone.

Wooyoung frowned. “I thought he was just tired.”

Hongjoong pushed away from the table first.

“I’m gonna check on him.”

Hongjoong crossed the living room slowly. Yeosang was curled into the corner of the couch like he'd grown there. One blanket slung over his shoulders, another balled in his lap. From the kitchen, the faint hum of conversation still trickled in, but here—it was quiet.

Not peaceful quiet. The heavy kind. He crouched beside the couch, close but not too close. “Hey,” he said gently, “you want company?”

Yeosang didn’t answer. His eyes were open, but they didn’t move to meet Hongjoong’s.

“Yeosang?”

A flicker. His throat bobbed like he was swallowing something down, but his hands stayed fisted in the fabric of the blanket. Hongjoong reached out, hovering a hand just above his knee and Yeosang flinched.

No more noise. Please, no more light. No more motion. No more “are you okay?”

His muscles were coiled so tightly he couldn’t tell where the pain started. His skin hurt. His spine buzzed. His chest, God, his chest felt caged, like he couldn’t expand it fully. He was drowning, slowly.

Someone, Hongjoong, was speaking. Too gently. Too kindly. The words scraped against the last fragile thread holding him up.

He wanted to say, Go away. He wanted to say, Please don’t leave.

All that came out was: “I can’t.”

It wasn’t clear what he meant, but Hongjoong understood anyway. Hongjoong straightened slightly and turned toward the kitchen. “Hwa?” he called softly.

Footsteps padded over almost immediately. Seonghwa took one look at Yeosang and knelt beside Hongjoong, his hand going instinctively to Yeosang’s shoulder, but it didn’t land. He paused.

“Don’t touch him yet,” Hongjoong murmured. “He’s… I think he’s mid-overload.”

From the kitchen, “What’s wrong?” Wooyoung’s voice, sharp with concern.

Seonghwa turned. “Come here. Slowly.”

He came to the edge of the living room with his heart already racing. Yeosang looked like a ghost version of himself, skin pale, eyes too wide, body shaking so minutely it could be missed if you weren’t watching.

Wooyoung was watching. He always watched Yeosang. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the couch. “Hey, angel,” he said, voice shaking. “Hey, it’s just me. It’s Woo.”

Still no response. “I didn’t know it was this bad,” he whispered, glancing at Hongjoong. “Why didn’t he say anything?”

Yeosang blinked slowly. A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another and another. His breath hitched, fast, too fast. The room swam. Voices came like echoes underwater. Touches were too much. Even the air felt like noise.

Why can’t I stop this? Why didn’t they see me? Why didn’t I say something?

Because they were laughing. Because he didn’t want to ruin it. Because he didn’t know how.

The blanket in his lap twisted in his fists. His shoulders trembled. His jaw locked. His chest hurt. Tight, tight, tight .

“Too much,” he choked. “It’s too loud.”

“Okay, okay. It’s okay,” Seonghwa whispered. “We’re going to turn everything down, alright? Just look at me. Breathe with me.”

He made eye contact with Hongjoong. “Turn the lights down.”

“Already on it,” Hongjoong said, jogging toward the hallway dimmer.

Seonghwa continued, softer still. “You’re safe. Right here. No one’s going to ask anything of you. You don’t have to talk. Just keep breathing.”

Yeosang didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His eyes were open, but unfocused. Fixed somewhere past Seonghwa’s shoulder like he wasn’t fully there. His chest rose, shallow and quick, but uneven, like each breath got stuck halfway up his throat. His fingers trembled in his lap.

Then he blinked. Once. Slowly, but it wasn’t like blinking to clear his vision. It was like blinking to wake up from something he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into.

“Yeosang?” Hongjoong’s voice joined, soft from behind the couch. “You’re okay. You’re right here.”

Yeosang turned his head a fraction of an inch toward the sound and then stopped again. His jaw tightened, lips pressed into a thin line. His shoulders curled inward like a collapsing wave.

Wooyoung lowered himself to the floor at Yeosang’s feet, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay, baby. I see you. You don’t have to do anything. Just look at me if you can.”

Yeosang’s breathing stuttered. His hands moved, barely. One slipped from the blanket and hovered like he didn’t know where it was supposed to go. His eyes flicked toward the couch cushion. Past it. Back again. Then came the words. Cracked.

“I feel like I’m floating.”

Everyone stilled. Hongjoong stepped closer, but not too close. “Floating how?”

Yeosang didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed like it hurt just to form words. “Like I’m not… inside me.”

Wooyoung covered his own mouth with one hand. “Oh, sweetheart—”

“I can hear you,” Yeosang continued, voice distant, “but it’s like everything’s underwater. My head feels…” He trailed off. His hand twitched against his chest. “Too loud. It’s so loud in here.”

Seonghwa gently reached forward and placed a palm just against Yeosang’s forearm. “Can I touch you here? Just to help ground you?”

A beat. Then the tiniest nod. The touch landed light as breath, solid. Present.

“We’re right here,” Seonghwa said. “You’re not alone in it.”

Yunho had crouched near the edge of the couch by now, quietly placing a warm mug of water on the table, not expecting him to drink it. Just something simple. Something familiar. Mingi set down a weighted blanket nearby. Jongho sat cross-legged near his feet, anchoring the room with sheer presence.

No one demanded anything. No one asked questions he couldn’t answer. They just waited. Waited as Yeosang’s hands slowly unclenched from the fabric, as his breathing deepened, still shaky, still not right, but trying. Waited as his eyes blinked more normally, less like survival instinct and more like choice.

He choked on a breath. One of those stuttery, collapsing inhales that signaled a sob trying to push through.

“Yeosang…” Wooyoung’s voice broke, already scooting closer. “It’s okay. You can let go.”

That’s when he did. The mask slipped all at once. A whimper escaped, then a sob. His body tipped sideways, instinctively, falling into Seonghwa’s arms like a wave giving in to the shore.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to be like this,” he gasped. “I didn’t want anyone to worry. I thought if I stayed quiet—”

Seonghwa shushed him softly, rocking them both just a little. “You’re allowed to break down. You’re allowed to be loud in your own way.”

“It wasn’t your job to hold all of this alone,” Jongho added, voice low.

“You should’ve told me,” Wooyoung whispered, burying his face into Yeosang’s shoulder. “You don’t ever have to deal with this by yourself.”

Yeosang cried harder, but it wasn’t panic anymore. It was release. It was finally being heard.

Time moved differently after that. No one spoke unless they had to. No one moved unless it was to get closer.

Yeosang was half-curled on the couch, head tucked into Seonghwa’s chest, the weight of Wooyoung wrapped around his back like a second blanket. One of his hands was clutched gently in Jongho’s, the other resting palm-up beside him, where Yunho traced light shapes with a fingertip. Circles, hearts, a moon.

Mingi had brought the weighted blanket over, finally laying it across Yeosang’s legs like a shield. It felt grounding. Like gravity remembered him again.

The lights were low. The room had quieted to a hush. The kind you only hear when the world finally understands it’s time to be soft.

Yeosang wasn’t crying anymore, but his breathing still caught occasionally, like his body was trying to remember what calm felt like.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible.

Hongjoong was seated on the floor near his head, legs folded, arms across his knees. “Don’t be,” he said immediately. “Not for this. Not for anything.”

Yeosang blinked slowly. “I should’ve said something. I just didn’t know how. I didn’t want to interrupt. Everything was so happy this morning.”

“And you were suffering quietly in the middle of it,” Mingi said softly, from the armchair. “That’s not peace, Yeosang. That’s self-erasure.”

That made him flinch. “I didn’t mean it harsh,” Mingi added quickly. “But I’ve been there. Smiling because it’s easier than explaining the ache.”

Seonghwa’s arms tightened slightly. “We’re not upset at you. We’re upset that you felt you had to hold that alone.”

Yeosang’s voice cracked. “I thought I could ride it out. I thought if I just stayed quiet…”

“But you’re not a ghost,” Wooyoung whispered into his shoulder. “You don’t have to vanish to keep the peace.”

“I didn’t want to be too much,” Yeosang murmured.

“You’re not,” Jongho said, firm but gentle. “You never are. Even when you feel like you're fraying at the edges, you’re still allowed to be seen . ”

Silence fell again, but this time, it was warm. Yeosang shifted a little, body looser now. His head slipped down from Seonghwa’s chest and landed half in Wooyoung’s lap. Wooyoung froze like he’d just been gifted the world.

Yeosang’s eyes were half-lidded. “Tired.”

“You should sleep,” Seonghwa whispered, brushing hair back from his forehead. “We’ve got you.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be,” Yunho said, immediately. “We’re not going anywhere.”

So they stayed. No one made him move. No one asked him to go to his room. They just slowly adjusted around him, like planets orbiting their sun, letting him take up space in the center of everything.

San curled on the floor by the couch, back pressed lightly to Yeosang’s leg. Mingi sat nearby reading quietly, humming under his breath, something steady and low. Jongho leaned against the couch, shoulder brushing Wooyoung’s. Yunho and Hongjoong moved into the kitchen to clean up what was left of dinner, murmuring softly, making sure to keep it quiet.

The world kept turning, but gently now. For him.

By the time the clock hit 9 o’clock, Yeosang was asleep. His breathing even. His hands still held.

Wooyoung sat upright as a statue, not daring to move. Seonghwa reached for a pillow and eased it under Yeosang’s head. “Let him sleep here tonight.”

“Of course,” Hongjoong said. “This whole couch is his now.”

“I don’t want to disturb him,” Wooyoung whispered.

“Then don’t,” Yunho said with a soft smile. “Just stay.”

They did. They dimmed the lights even more. Someone turned on white noise. A few migrated to the floor, others to the opposite couch. No one went far. No one said “goodnight.”

Instead, they whispered things like:

“I’ll sit first shift.”
“I’ll wake you if he stirs.”
“Hand me that blanket?”
“Don’t forget the heating pad for his feet.” 

Little things. Quiet love. Yeosang didn’t hear any of it, but somehow, even in sleep, he looked lighter. Less haunted. More here.

Chapter Text

The front door creaked open at 1:42a.m., and Wooyoung stumbled inside like a glitching NPC halfway through a dramatic cutscene.

He dropped his bag by the shoe rack with zero ceremony, flung off his sneakers in two lazy kicks that sent one spinning into the wall, and stood frozen in place, blinking slowly at the hallway ahead. He could hear the heaters humming low, the fridge murmuring from the kitchen, a quiet cough from some other room.

He should’ve gone straight to bed, but something in him, maybe habit, maybe guilt, dragged his aching body toward the kitchen.

His hoodie clung to his back like he’d been sweating through it for hours. His head felt floaty, too light and too heavy at the same time. Every movement buzzed at the edges. He rubbed at his temples and leaned against the counter like it owed him money.

The light above the stove was on. It didn’t help.

He grabbed a glass and poured water with shaking hands. The sound of it hitting the cup felt too loud. He took a sip. The cold hit his teeth wrong. His throat stung like it had been scraped raw.

He sniffled, winced, and blinked at the faucet like it had personally betrayed him. “No. Nope. Don’t even start. You’re fine,” he muttered, aiming for confidence and landing somewhere near congested denial.

A cough hit him mid-step on the way out. Sharp and sudden, it bent him forward, and for a moment, just a breath too long and he couldn’t straighten back up. His knees buckled. His body swayed and suddenly, arms were under him.

“Whoa—Wooyoung?” Yunho’s voice, low and urgent.

Wooyoung’s breath hitched as he leaned fully into him, too dizzy to fight. “M’fine,” he slurred.

“You’re not,” Yunho snapped, one hand steadying his waist, the other checking his forehead. “Jesus, Woo. You’re burning up.”

“Maybe you’re just freezing?” Wooyoung offered, trying for a smirk and coming out with a grimace.

“Right,” Yunho muttered, already hauling him upright. “Classic symptom of not-being-sick. Spontaneous collapse.”

“I just tripped over the air. It’s been a long day.”

“You’re literally sweating through your clothes.”

“I’m glowing. There’s a difference.”

“You’re glowing like a malfunctioning toaster.”

“Stylish.”

Yunho shot him a flat look as he shifted his arm more firmly around Wooyoung’s waist. “Stylish people don’t almost pass out in their own hallway.”

“ One time.”

“Don’t make me carry you,” Yunho warned.

Wooyoung’s legs gave another shaky twitch. “…Okay,” he muttered, voice tinny and small. “Maybe just… assist. Gently.”

Yunho snorted. “Yeah. Let’s get you to the couch, Your Majesty.”

They shuffled slowly into the living room. Wooyoung’s head lolled against Yunho’s shoulder, breath coming in uneven little huffs, each one warmer than the last. His hoodie clung to him. His knees trembled every few steps.

He felt like a storm cloud in a body. Thick, heavy, about to burst and still, as Yunho helped him collapse onto the couch and pulled a blanket over him, Wooyoung managed a breathy, smug, “So... is this how I die?”

Yunho just rolled his eyes and grabbed the thermometer.

The couch swallowed Wooyoung like it had been waiting all night to catch him. He flopped onto it with a groan, immediately twisting into the corner and pulling the blanket up over his ears, leaving just a tuft of sweaty hair and the edge of his scrunched-up hoodie visible.

Yunho crouched beside him, hands on his knees, watching with that I’m both concerned and seconds away from scolding you face.

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” he asked, voice low.

Wooyoung peeked out with one eye. “Because I didn’t want to be sick.”

“That’s not how illness works, Woo.”

He sniffled. “Have you met my immune system? I thought we had a deal.”

Yunho sighed and stood, rummaging for the thermometer. “Yeah, well, it just filed for bankruptcy.”

“Rude.”

“Mutiny.”

“Betrayal.”

“Shut up , ” Yunho said, but he was smiling, just barely.

He found the thermometer in the bathroom cabinet and returned with a glass of cold water, a pack of fever meds, and a damp towel draped over his shoulder. When he sat beside Wooyoung again, the younger had already twisted himself into a blanket burrito and was blinking dramatically up at the ceiling like a suffering Disney princess.

“I’ve been forsaken,” he whispered hoarsely.

“You’re mildly feverish.”

“Death is near.”

“You’re literally horizontal on a heated couch.”

Wooyoung rolled onto his side, pressing his cheek to Yunho’s thigh like it was a cool pillow. “Sing at my funeral.”

Yunho chuckled, threading his fingers lightly through Wooyoung’s damp hair. “Fine. But only off-key.”

“That’s homophobic.”

“That’s reality.”

The thermometer beeped a second later. “101.8,” Yunho muttered, holding it up.

Wooyoung grunted. “See? Terminal.”

“You need water, medicine, and a nap.”

“I need someone to write my will.”

“You’re not dying.”

Wooyoung sniffled pitifully. “Tell my succulents I love them.”

Yunho pressed the cool towel to his forehead. “I’m telling your succulents that you neglected them for a week and they’ll be relieved.”

Wooyoung swatted weakly at his thigh. “You’re so mean to me when I’m vulnerable.”

Yunho just smiled and replaced the towel. They stayed like that for a while. Sft and quiet, the clock ticking faintly in the background. Yunho stroked his hair without thinking. Wooyoung hummed something low in his throat, half-asleep already.

Then there were creaking floorboards from down the hall.

Yunho looked up. “Uh-oh.”

The kitchen light flicked on. A moment later, Seonghwa appeared, bleary-eyed, in a hoodie twice his size and mismatched socks. He squinted toward the living room.

“Is someone dying?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

“YES,” Wooyoung croaked, dramatically flopping his arm off the couch.

Seonghwa blinked. “Oh no. Fever?”

Yunho nodded. “Caught him before he collapsed in the hallway.”

“I tripped over nothing,” Wooyoung added.

“He was dripping sweat and barely upright.”

“I am elegant even in illness.”

“You were glossy , at best.”

Seonghwa snorted and walked over, reaching down to press the back of his hand against Wooyoung’s cheek.

“Mm. You’re hot.”

“Finally someone notices,” Wooyoung murmured, eyes fluttering closed.

Seonghwa rolled his eyes but smiled. “I’ll make tea. Ginger or honey lemon?”

“Yes,” Wooyoung said dramatically.

Seonghwa disappeared into the kitchen. The kettle clicked on. Yunho adjusted the blanket again and shifted Wooyoung more comfortably against the cushions. His eyelids were fluttering now, the sick exhaustion pulling him under.

“I’m not sleeping,” Wooyoung mumbled.

Yunho raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I’m conserving energy.”

“For what?”

“In case I need to… dramatically collapse again.”

Yunho snorted. “Cool. I’ll pencil that into the schedule.”

Just as he leaned back another voice, softer, sleepy. “What’s going on?”

Yeosang had appeared in the hallway, hair a mess, hoodie sleeves too long. He looked half-ghost and all curiosity.

“Wooyoung’s sick,” Yunho explained. “Caught it on his way in.”

Yeosang padded closer. “Really sick or ‘he’s fine but dramatic’ sick?”

Wooyoung coughed violently and made a sad squeaking sound. Yeosang nodded. “Okay. Real sick.”

Seonghwa reappeared with a steaming mug of tea. “Do we have the forehead patches?”

“In the freezer,” Yeosang said, already turning toward the bathroom. “I’ll grab ‘em.”

Yunho blinked after him. “Did you just volunteer?”

Yeosang shrugged. “It’s 2am. Nothing is real.”

As he left, Wooyoung cracked open one eye and whispered, “They love me.”

Yunho sighed fondly. “Yes, Woo. We love you.”

“Even though I’m gross and contagious?”

“Especially then. Now shut up and drink this.”

He held the mug to Wooyoung’s lips as he sipped obediently.

“I’m gonna need everyone to fuss over me later,” Wooyoung said sleepily. “I deserve, like… full attention. Room service. Petting.”

“I’m sure the moment the others wake up, they’ll fall over themselves.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m preparing you.”

The lights dimmed again and Wooyoung drifted. Yunho stayed beside him, still gently brushing his fingers through tangled hair.

A few minutes later, Yeosang returned and carefully pressed the forehead patch to his skin. Seonghwa draped a second blanket over his legs. No one spoke.

Until, just as Wooyoung slipped toward sleep, he whispered, not loud, but fragile. “…You’re not leaving, right?”

Yunho paused. “No,” he said softly. “We’re not leaving.”

Wooyoung’s hand shifted under the blanket. Yunho caught it in his own and this time, Wooyoung didn’t say anything else. 

The world was a soft blur when Wooyoung blinked awake. He was warm. Not just fever-warm, but blanket-warm, human-warm. Someone was curled behind him, one arm loosely draped over his waist, breath steady against his neck. Another weight, lighter, rested across his legs. A foot, probably. Or Mingi. Honestly, anything felt possible.

The light leaking in from the window was early-morning gold, soft and hazy. The living room smelled faintly of lemon tea, clean laundry, and warmth. He blinked slowly, head still swimming a little. Everything felt floaty. His skin was damp with fever sweat, but his heart felt full.

Then he croaked, voice ragged and far too dramatic for 7:00 a.m., “Who’s gonna cuddle me now? I’m cold and pathetic and might perish if someone doesn’t love me immediately.”

There was a long pause. Then a sigh from above him. “You’re already being cuddled, Woo.”

Wooyoung tilted his head slightly and caught sight of Seonghwa’s face, soft, sleepy, and incredibly unimpressed.

“You were the one who threw your leg over me in your sleep.”

Wooyoung narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like fake news.”

Seonghwa huffed and pressed the back of his hand gently to Wooyoung’s forehead. “Still warm. Not as bad as last night, though.”

“I’m still dying,” Wooyoung muttered.

“You’re getting better,” came Yeosang’s voice from somewhere near his knees.

Wooyoung blinked and spotted him seated cross-legged on the floor, hoodie pulled over his head, holding a small bowl of cut fruit.

“Did you—did you bring me melon?”

Yeosang deadpanned, “It’s the least offensive fruit I could find.”

“…That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“I would believe that.”

He sniffled, dramatically lifting his arms. “Okay. I need someone to reposition me like a princess now. My spine hurts.”

“Are you trying to be spoiled or are you actually hurting?” Seonghwa asked, already helping him sit up anyway.

“Can’t it be both?”

Yeosang stood and helped adjust the blanket around his shoulders. “You’re like one of those decorative pets that pretends to be helpless for treats.”

“And it’s working,” Wooyoung said smugly as he was handed the bowl of fruit.

Mingi wandered in from the hallway, hair sticking in five directions, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I smell melon and theatrics,” he mumbled.

“Perfect timing,” Seonghwa said. “Your turn for snuggle duty.”

Mingi blinked blearily at the couch, then at Wooyoung. “Wooyoung’s sick?”

“Tragically,” Wooyoung whispered, mouth full of melon.

Mingi flopped onto the couch beside him without protest. “I’ll allow it, but only because you look like someone boiled you.”

Over the next thirty minutes, the house slowly came to life. Jongho padded through to grab a protein shake and waved sleepily. San peeked in, yawned, and promised to pick up more cough drops on his way back. Hongjoong never appeared, he’d gone to bed late and had to work early. Yunho left a sticky note on the fridge with a little heart and the words: “Text me if he gets worse.”

Not everyone was around, but enough of them were and for Wooyoung, that was everything.

By 8:15, Seonghwa checked his forehead again and shook his head. “Still too warm. You should sleep in a real bed.”

Wooyoung pouted. “But I have my support squad right here.”

“You’re sweaty and damp and sinking into the couch cushions.”

“Sounds like your problem.”

“Bed. Now.”

“Carry me.”

Yeosang rolled his eyes and walked away.

Eventually, with minimal drama and a few squeaks of protest, Wooyoung was shepherded to his bedroom. The lights were dimmed, the windows cracked for fresh air, and a fresh blanket was pulled from the dryer just for him.

As Seonghwa helped him settle in, Wooyoung suddenly grabbed his wrist. “Don’t go.”

Seonghwa paused. His voice was quiet now. The vulnerability from the night before, tucked behind all the drama, had crept back in.

“…Just for a little,” Wooyoung added. “I don’t wanna wake up alone.”

Seonghwa’s expression softened. “You never do.”

He kicked off his slippers and slid onto the edge of the bed. Wooyoung curled into him almost immediately, arm draped around his waist, face pressed into his side.

Seonghwa gently wiped at his forehead, checking the patch. “You’re gonna feel better soon, okay?”

“I know,” Wooyoung whispered. “Just… not yet.”

He fell asleep again within ten minutes. This time, it was deeper. By the time Seonghwa checked his temperature again, it had finally dropped.

The first thing Wooyoung noticed when he woke up was that his fever had eased. The second was that Seonghwa was still beside him, curled slightly with a book in one hand, fingers absently brushing his hair.

Wooyoung blinked slowly, groggy but content. “You’re still here.”

Seonghwa looked down, smiling softly. “I said I would be.”

Wooyoung yawned and nuzzled closer. “I’m not sweaty anymore.”

“High praise,” Seonghwa teased. “Your fever finally broke. You still look like a raccoon, though.”

“Rude,” Wooyoung muttered into his side.

Seonghwa laughed and gently pried himself up. “I’m gonna grab you tea.”

“Noooo,” Wooyoung whined, tightening his grip. “You’ll vanish.”

“I’ll be gone for two minutes .”

“That's enough time to be replaced.”

Seonghwa leaned down, pressed a kiss to his hair. “You’re irreplaceable. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He padded down the hall in socks, stretching his arms over his head as he reached the kitchen. Inside, Yunho and Mingi were sitting at the table with matching mugs. Jongho was digging through the pantry, and Yeosang had his head resting on the table, eyes barely open.

“Morning again,” Seonghwa greeted, grabbing the kettle.

“Is he alive?” Mingi asked.

“More than alive. Fever’s down. Drama level’s holding steady.”

“That’s just baseline Wooyoung,” Yeosang muttered into the table.

“Did he demand a parade yet?” Yunho asked, sipping his coffee.

“Not yet, but he—”

“SEONGHWAAAAAA!”

Everyone paused.

“DON’T LEAVE ME—IT’S LONELY—THE AIR’S TOO QUIET—I NEED HUMAN TOUCH—”

Jongho blinked. “That was fast.”

Yeosang sighed. “Rotation time, I guess.”

Seonghwa turned around slowly, a tea bag still dangling from his hand. “I was literally gone for sixty seconds.”

“I’ll go,” Mingi offered, already standing and stretching.

“Good luck,” Yunho grinned.

“He’s clingy.”

“I’m stronger.”

“Wear socks. He grabs ankles.”

Mingi wandered off toward the hallway. A beat passed.

“ MINGIIIIII! ” came Wooyoung’s delighted squeal. “ MY SAVIOR! MY WARM GIANT! ”

Laughter erupted in the kitchen. Seonghwa smiled to himself and finally poured the tea, content.

Chapter Text

The blade slipped faster than Jongho could catch it.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just one of those weird moments where the weight of a crate shifted at the wrong time, and the box cutter he’d been using to slice through packaging caught the edge and jumped forward, straight into his forearm.

It wasn’t deep. He knew that right away. It stung, and the blood started quick, but it was clean, no tear, no embedded blade, no weird angles.

Still. Not nothing. Jongho cursed under his breath and stepped back from the pile. One of the guys on the loading crew glanced over.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Jongho said quickly. “Just need to wrap it.”

He ducked into the break room, found a half-used roll of gauze in the emergency drawer and a clean towel from the cleaning supplies. The sink had cold water. He rinsed the blood off the best he could, wrapped the arm tight, and taped it with what he had. It wasn’t pretty, but it held. 

He clocked out early. Told his boss he’d overworked his wrist. Not a full lie.

He drove home with the windows down, left hand gripping the steering wheel while his right arm rested across his thigh. Every bump in the road sent a dull ache through his forearm, but he ignored it.

He was used to this kind of thing. Tools slipped. Accidents happened. You cleaned up and moved on. No need to make it dramatic.

The house was warm when he walked in. It smelled like popcorn and something herbal, probably Seonghwa’s tea. Laughter drifted from the living room.

“Hey, I’m home,” he called out, not even raising his voice much.

“Jongho!” Mingi called from the couch. “We’re watching a train crash doc—wait—”

A beat.

“IS THAT BLOOD?!”

Jongho blinked. He looked down. The makeshift bandage had shifted. A reddish stain was spreading down his forearm, darker in the middle, still damp. It looked bad. Way worse than it was.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, a little. I was gonna rinse it properly—”

“OH MY GOD,” Wooyoung screeched, appearing from around the corner like a cartoon character. “ARE YOU OKAY?”

“I'm—”

“Why is your arm red?” San yelled. “Why is your shirt red?!”

“It’s just a cut,” Jongho said.

“You’re bleeding,” Yeosang snapped, standing from the couch. “What part of ‘just’ are you referring to—”

“I’m gonna fix it,” Jongho tried again.

“Oh no you’re not,” Seonghwa said sharply. He was across the kitchen before Jongho could take another step.

“Guys, seriously—”

“Sit down,” Seonghwa ordered, already pulling a chair out.

Jongho hesitated.

“Sit.”

He sat.

San ran past him yelling something about alcohol wipes. Wooyoung hovered so close he was practically kneeling in Jongho’s lap. Mingi reappeared with the actual first aid kit like he’d performed a summoning ritual. Yunho went to grab water and towels. Hongjoong entered last, immediately assessing the room like a war medic.

“What happened?” he asked, voice cool.

“Box cutter fell.”

“Deep?”

“No.”

“Pain?”

“Not really.”

“Can we still overreact?” Wooyoung asked, already unwrapping sterile gauze.

“Please don’t,” Jongho said.

They ignored him.

Seonghwa removed the makeshift bandage first, slow and careful, lips pressed into a tight line. When he saw the actual cut, he hissed.

“This is deep,” he muttered.

“It’s really not,” Jongho replied. “It just looks bad.”

“That’s how bleeding works,” Yeosang shot back.

San returned with gloves. “Nobody touch him without these!”

“We’re not in a surgery room,” Yunho said, smiling nervously.

“We are now,” San replied, slapping gloves on both hands.

Mingi crouched beside the chair. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” Jongho admitted.

“Good,” Mingi said, grabbing a bottle of antiseptic. “Means you’ll remember to tell us next time.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“You’re bleeding out of your body,” Wooyoung said dramatically. “That kind of matters.”

“Still not dying,” Jongho mumbled.

“Let us do this,” Seonghwa said. “No sarcasm, no deflection. Just sit.”

Jongho exhaled through his nose and nodded. “Alright.”

They cleaned the wound slowly. Seonghwa steady, Hongjoong directing quietly, San holding his shoulder so he wouldn’t flinch (he didn’t), and Wooyoung narrating every step like they were livestreaming it.

When they wrapped it properly with gauze and real tape, it looked more professional. Jongho glanced down at it once. Neat. Secure. Actually kind of comforting. He hadn’t realized how warm the blood had gotten under the rag.

Everyone lingered when they were done. No one moved away right away.

Jongho looked around. “...You all good?”

“Are you good?” Yunho asked back.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t give us that,” Yeosang said. “You didn’t even think to text.”

“There wasn’t time,” Jongho shrugged.

“There was time when you bandaged yourself with a dish rag,” Wooyoung pointed out.

“I figured I’d clean it at home.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone,” Mingi said quietly. “You just… dealt with it.”

Jongho paused. He looked around at them. Six worried faces, one half-irritated Yeosang who was clearly scared under the sarcasm, and Hongjoong with his arms crossed but eyes soft.

“I’ve done worse,” he admitted.

“That’s not the flex you think it is,” Seonghwa said.

“I didn’t think it was serious.”

“It doesn’t have to be serious for us to care,” Hongjoong said, stepping forward.

“I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

“You live here,” Mingi said. “You’re allowed to interrupt things.”

“I guess.”

“And anyway,” San grinned. “You’re kinda fun to panic over.”

Wooyoung laughed. “Honestly? 10 out of 10 drama. You didn’t even flinch. It was terrifying.”

“Maybe next time I’ll scream a little for effect,” Jongho said dryly.

They all laughed and the tension broke.

They cleaned up together. Mingi grabbing towels, Yunho tossing wrappers, San sweeping the floor like it had been personally attacked. Seonghwa made tea without asking. Yeosang disappeared and returned with ice cream. Wooyoung just plopped in Jongho’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jongho didn’t push him off.

Later, when they were curled on the couch, Jongho’s arm freshly bandaged and resting in his lap, Wooyoung nudged him with his knee.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“You gonna tell us next time?”

Jongho looked over. He thought for a second. “Yeah. I think I will.”

“Good.”

They sat quietly for a moment. Then Jongho said, “It was kind of nice.”

“Us freaking out?”

“Yeah. I’m not used to being doted on.”

Wooyoung grinned. “Careful. We’ll make it a habit.”

Seonghwa leaned in and kissed his hair. “You’re allowed to be taken care of.”

Hongjoong added quietly from behind, “Even when you think you don’t need it.”

Jongho didn’t say anything else, but he leaned back. Let them fuss. Let them love him. He would never have to worry about anything at this rate.

Chapter Text

The loop had been playing for forty-two minutes.

Hongjoong didn’t know that. He wasn’t counting. Not anymore. He’d stopped watching the time hours ago, maybe yesterday. Everything blurred into a low hum of chords and synths, layered just wrong enough to be wrong, but not enough to tell him why.

He squinted at the waveform again, zoomed in until it pixelated, as if staring hard enough would make it fix itself. The cursor blinked. His eyelid twitched. 

“Almost,” he whispered, the word fraying at the edges.

He shifted in his chair, bones aching. His back protested with a sharp twinge, but he ignored it. He reached for the coffee mug beside his keyboard, lifted it. Empty, again.

He blinked down at it. The ceramic felt heavy. He couldn’t remember how many cups he’d had. Or when. Or if he’d actually eaten between them.

The headache crawling up his neck didn’t feel like caffeine withdrawal, though. It felt like everything else.

There were texts on his phone. He knew that without looking. Seonghwa’s name probably filled half the notification screen.

“Have you eaten?”
“Please take a nap.”
“You’ve been in the studio since yesterday, Joong.”
“At least open the door so I can check on you.”

He hadn’t answered. Couldn’t. Every second he wasn’t working felt like a second lost . The song was so close. It was in his bones now, haunting him, looping in his sleep. If he could just catch it, pull it out whole, it would be worth it.

Just one more hour. He clicked play again. Loop. Reverb. Adjust. Play. Loop.

His eyes burned. His chest felt tight. His fingers were starting to lose their grip on the mouse. Still, he kept going.

His body gave him warnings, little ones. Cold fingers. Numb lips. His hands trembling slightly when he tried to type. 

Once, he stood to grab another notebook, and his knees almost buckled. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard, dizzy. He told himself it was just low blood sugar. Or dehydration. Or tension.

“I’ll drink water after I finish the bridge,” he mumbled, barely aware he’d spoken aloud.

By the time the sun rose, Hongjoong hadn’t moved in nearly 2 hours. He was hunched forward, eyes half-lidded, head nodding slightly in time with the music. Sweat clung to the back of his neck despite the chill in the room.

He tried to sit up straighter, but the room spun. His hand missed the keyboard and landed on the edge of the desk with a soft thud. He stared at it. It looked far away. Not attached to him.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then, all at once the world tilted.

A soft exhale. His eyes slipped shut and his body folded sideways, like a puppet whose strings had snapped. He hit the ground with a quiet, sickening thump .

The music kept playing.

The hallway smelled like cinnamon and hospital-grade vitamin tablets. San balanced a takeout tray of fresh-brewed coffee in one hand and a little pharmacy bag of supplements in the other, whistling softly as he padded up to Hongjoong’s studio door. 

It was just past 10a.m. and Seonghwa had asked him to check in. Not that it took much asking.

“He’s been up for three days straight, I swear. If I go over he’ll shut the door in my face. Can you try? He listens to you more when you pout.”

San had grinned and promised to drop by first thing. So here he was. Armed with his sunshine smile, a cappuccino, and a stubborn belief that all Hongjoong needed was food, a five-minute stretch, and a nap.

He knocked gently. “Hyung? I brought bribes.”

No answer. He knocked again, louder. “Joong? I know you’re in there. This coffee is still hot and so is my disappointment in you.”

Still silence. Something inside him tugged. He tried the doorknob. Unlocked. That was the first red flag.

Hongjoong always locked the studio door when he was working. He had ranted about interruptions more than once. San pushed it open slowly, peeking his head inside with a teasing grin half-formed on his face.

“Joong, I swear if you’ve got your headphones on and you’re ignoring me—”

He froze. The coffee tray slipped from his hand, hit the floor with a wet smack , followed by the soft crinkle of the pill bag bursting open.

His chest clenched. Crumpled on the floor, facedown beside the desk, limbs limp and unmoving, was Hongjoong.

“Hongjoong?!”

San dropped to his knees so fast it scraped his shin. He reached out, hands shaking, fingers skimming the back of Hongjoong’s shoulder. Cold. Too cold.

“Joong, wake up. Please—” He turned him over gently, trying not to panic, but his hands were trembling too hard to be useful. “Hyung, hey—hey, no, no no no—”

Hongjoong’s face was pale, lips dry, skin clammy. San slapped his cheeks lightly. “Hongjoong. Hongjoong, please.”

No response. No flutter of lashes. No annoyed grunt. Nothing.

Something inside him snapped . He fumbled for his phone, dialing with numb fingers. It rang once. Twice. 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I—my boyfriend—he’s not—he’s not waking up—he’s not breathing right, I think—please, I don’t know—he’s pale and cold and he’s not waking up, please—”

His voice cracked somewhere between a sob and a scream. The operator asked for an address. He gave it through gasping breaths, eyes never leaving Hongjoong’s still face.

“Help is on the way,” she said gently. “Stay on the line. Can you check his breathing? Is his chest moving?”

San leaned in, counting seconds. “It’s shallow—he’s—he’s breathing but it’s so faint—”

“You’re doing great,” she said. “Stay with him. Talk to him.”

He dropped the phone onto speaker mode and cupped Hongjoong’s face, voice breaking.

“You’re okay, joongie. You’re gonna be okay. Just—stay with me, okay? I brought you coffee. I brought the stupid vitamins. We were gonna take a break.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. Until they were falling too fast to catch.

The ambulance arrived five minutes later. San barely registered the blur of uniforms, the stretcher, the rapid medical talk over his head. Someone asked if he was family. He nodded before they even finished the question.

When they loaded Hongjoong into the back, San climbed in without asking. He held his hand the whole way to the hospital.

They wheeled Hongjoong away before the ambulance had even stopped moving. San didn’t even have time to say goodbye, not that he would’ve heard it. His head lolled, motionless on the gurney, as the EMTs shouted vitals and symptoms through the double doors of the ER.

San stumbled after them, only to be gently blocked at the threshold.  “Sir, we need you to wait out here. The doctors will update you soon.”

Then he was alone.  A nurse approached, holding a clipboard. “Are you the emergency contact?”

San blinked at her. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, glassy. He hadn’t realized he was shaking until he reached out to take the forms and they fluttered in his grip.

“We just need a few things—ID, medical history if possible, allergies, insurance—”

He looked down at the page. The words blurred immediately. Too many lines. Too many boxes. He couldn’t breathe.

“I—I can’t—” he whispered, pushing the clipboard back at her with trembling hands. “I—I have to call someone. I can’t—please—”

She nodded gently. “Go ahead. Sit over there if you need to.”

He backed into a waiting room chair like it might break beneath him, phone clutched in his fist. Then, with shaking fingers, he hit Seonghwa’s contact.

“San?” came Seonghwa’s voice, calm and clear. San broke immediately.

“Hyung—he—I didn’t know what to do, he was on the floor and he wouldn’t wake up and I—I called the ambulance but he looked so gone, and they—they just took him, and I can’t fill the form—I don’t know what to do—”

“Where are you?” Seonghwa’s voice snapped into focus instantly. “Which section?”

“General. The main ER. They just took him back—I don’t know anything, I’m just—I can’t—”

“I’m coming.”

“Hyung—”

“I’m coming right now. I’ll be there in five. Stay where you are.”

The line went dead.

Seonghwa sprinted. He left a half-charted pediatric file on a desk and took the elevator like a man possessed, bursting out of the doors two floors down in a blur of scrubs and panic. His badge flipped backwards on his chest. He didn’t fix it.

When he spotted San curled in on himself in the corner chair, arms wrapped tight around his stomach like he was holding himself together, barely, he didn’t hesitate.

He dropped to his knees in front of him and pulled him in. San crumpled into him instantly, sobbing into the crook of his neck.

“I tried, hyung—I swear I tried, I was just bringing him coffee, and he was already down, and—”

“I know. I know, you did everything right,” Seonghwa whispered, holding the back of his head like a lifeline. “You helped him, San. You helped him.”

“I couldn’t wake him up.”

“You didn’t need to. You got help. That’s all that matters now.”

It took a few more minutes before San could even sit up. Seonghwa kept a hand on his shoulder as he took the clipboard from the nurse and started filling it out wordlessly. Name, DOB, medications, allergies, emergency contact. All the things Hongjoong never wanted to deal with and shouldn't have had to alone.

He scribbled fast, jaw clenched tight. “He’s been like this for days,” Seonghwa muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone. “I knew. I knew he wasn’t sleeping. I should’ve gone over. I should’ve dragged him out of that studio.”

San leaned into his side, still sniffling. “He wouldn’t have listened to anyone.”

“He would’ve listened to me if I tried hard enough.” His voice cracked just slightly. “I waited too long.”

“You didn’t. You’re here now.”

They both stared at the hallway beyond the ER door. The silence pressed in.

“I hate waiting,” San whispered.

Seonghwa wrapped his arm around him tighter. “We’ll wait together.”

Then he pulled out his phone, fingers moving fast as he tapped into the group chat.

Hwa: Emergency. Hongjoong’s in the hospital. He collapsed. Come as soon as you can.

He tucked his phone away and rested his cheek against San’s head. They stayed like that, two hearts held tightly together in the middle of white walls, sharp light, and endless waiting.

The waiting room door burst open twenty-five minutes later.

Seonghwa looked up just in time to see Yunho speed-walking in, still in scrubs from his shift at the clinic, jacket half-zipped, hair windswept like he’d sprinted from the train. Yeosang followed behind him, button-down wrinkled, bag slung over his shoulder. Mingi and Jongho appeared next, slightly out of breath, Jongho’s name tag from the shop still clipped to his shirt.

Then, finally, Wooyoung. He’d left work early the moment he saw Seonghwa’s message. Still in his fancy clothes and makeup, sneakers untied, eyes wide and panicked as he searched the room.

“Where is he?” he asked, barely a whisper.

“They’re still with him,” Seonghwa said gently, standing to meet them. “We haven’t heard anything else yet.”

Wooyoung sat down hard in the nearest chair. “Why didn’t I check in earlier?”

“Don’t,” Seonghwa said, voice soft but firm. “We all thought he was okay.”

None of them spoke for a moment. Then Mingi mumbled, “He always looks tired. We stopped asking.”

“He’s Hongjoong, ” Yeosang said quietly, “He always finds a way to keep going. We just… didn’t think he’d break like this.”

It felt like a lifetime before the door finally opened again. A woman in navy scrubs stepped out. “Family for Kim Hongjoong?”

All six of them stood at once. The nurse smiled. “He’s stable. Mild dehydration, stress-induced fatigue, and dangerously low blood sugar. He’s awake now. Still weak, but responsive.”

San let out a breath so shaky it nearly turned into a sob. 

“You can go in. Keep it calm. He’s still recovering.”

The room was dim, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound at first. Hongjoong laid in the hospital bed, IV drip in one arm, skin pale but warmer now. His hair was messy, lips chapped, dark circles under his eyes like bruises.

He looked up as they entered and managed a small, tired smile. “Hey.”

“Don’t do that again , ” Wooyoung said immediately, eyes welling.

“Good to see you too,” Hongjoong rasped.

San hovered near the door, half behind Seonghwa, hands twisted in the hem of his hoodie. He hadn’t said a word. Hongjoong noticed first.

He tilted his head. “San-ah?”

San blinked fast, then stepped forward like his legs didn’t trust him yet.

“I—I tried to bring you coffee. I didn’t know it was that bad, I didn’t know—”

“You found me,” Hongjoong interrupted softly. “You helped me. Thank you.”

San let out a shaky breath and finally moved to the side of the bed, hand brushing over the blanket.

“I’m sorry,” Hongjoong added. “To all of you.”

“Don’t be,” Seonghwa said, sitting beside him and smoothing the blanket higher. “But you have to stop doing this to yourself. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

“I didn’t want to slow down.”

“You almost stopped,” Yeosang said, voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Hongjoong looked away. “I just wanted the song to be good enough.”

“It already was,” Yunho said.

“And if it wasn’t,” Jongho added, “you still deserved to rest.”

Wooyoung leaned against the bedrail, knuckles brushing Hongjoong’s wrist. “From now on, if you even think about skipping a meal, I’m tackling you.”

“And we’re all watching your sleep schedule like hawks,” Mingi said. “Full-on group surveillance.”

“We’ll be so annoying,” Jongho grinned. “You’ll beg us to stop.”

A tired chuckle slipped from Hongjoong’s lips. “You’re already halfway there.”

They sat with him, quietly, gently. Fingers brushing over his hand, heads leaned against the bed, laughter tangled with unspoken I’m-sorrys and I-love-yous and thank-you-for-staying.

Eventually, the nurse returned. “He’s cleared to go once the IV finishes. Just needs rest, proper meals, and a few days of taking it easy.”

“Don’t worry,” Seonghwa said, standing and stretching. “We’re going to baby him until he cries for mercy.”

“Absolutely no independence allowed,” Wooyoung added, puffing his chest.

“No studio access without a chaperone,” San said, almost smiling.

Hongjoong groaned and covered his face with his hands. “I already regret waking up.”

“You’ll regret more if you skip dinner again,” Seonghwa warned.

Hongjoong peeked through his fingers. “You’re all unbearable.”

“And you’re loved,” Yeosang said simply.

Hongjoong didn’t argue when they brought the wheelchair around. Didn’t argue when Seonghwa draped his coat over him like a blanket, or when Yunho walked backward to keep talking to him the whole way to the car, or when Wooyoung buckled him in like a toddler. He didn’t even argue when San climbed into the back seat just to hold his hand.

He was too tired and, if he was honest, maybe a little grateful.

They brought him home like he was made of glass. Shoes off. Blanket on. Water, warm and waiting. Pillow fluffed. Jongho made him sit on the couch instead of the bed, claiming it was “family supervision space.”

“You get the throne,” Yeosang declared, placing a cushion behind his back. “But only if you stay put.”

Seonghwa brought soup. Real soup. With herbs and dumplings and actual care in every bite. Mingi spoon-fed him the first few, just to be annoying, but when Hongjoong didn’t protest, he didn’t stop.

“You’re allowed to be tired, hyung,” Mingi said, quiet.

“I know.”

“You’re allowed to be taken care of, too.”

“…That one’s harder.”

“Yeah,” Mingi smiled. “But we’ll keep reminding you.”

By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, they’d migrated. Hongjoong was still on the couch, now surrounded by limbs and pillows and quiet breathing.

Wooyoung was draped across his lap like a cat. San had wormed behind him to be the human heating pad. Jongho sat at his feet, head against his knee, while Yeosang dozed on the floor with Mingi beside him. Yunho sat in the armchair, nodding off mid-book. Seonghwa was curled beside Hongjoong, arm looped around his waist, heart pressed to his side like a second pulse.

It wasn’t organized. It wasn’t intentional. It just happened. Like gravity.

Hongjoong blinked slowly at the ceiling, hand carding gently through Wooyoung’s hair. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered into the quiet.

A hum came from somewhere near his ribs.

“You do,” Seonghwa murmured, barely awake. “Always have.”

The room was soft. The air was warm. Hongjoong let his eyes fall shut.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa always woke up first.

He liked the quiet. The stillness before the house remembered how to be loud. He moved quietly, slippers across wood floors, kettle boiling, a soft hum in his throat. He liked having something to do.

By the time the others started waking, San half-stumbling into the bathroom, Yeosang cracking open the fridge to judge the chaos inside, Seonghwa had already done a load of laundry, wiped the counters, and prepped breakfast for anyone who might forget to feed themselves.

This wasn’t new. He’d always been this way. Always the first to step in, to fix, to make sure nobody felt the way he did growing up, forgotten unless useful.

However, lately, it had started to wear thin.

The week had been relentless. The hospital was understaffed, the kids were sicker than usual, and one of his regulars, a quiet seven-year-old girl recovering from surgery, had relapsed. Seonghwa stayed two hours past his shift that day and again the next.

At home, no one was doing anything wrong, but everything still felt like too much. The dishes piled up faster. The group chat was full of requests:

Where’s the allergy medicine? Did we pay the internet bill? Can someone grab rice?

No one asked him directly, but the assumption was always there. Seonghwa will know. Seonghwa always knows.

He told himself it was fine. That they meant well. That this was just a rough week.

Then Thursday night, he walked in after work, dropped his bag by the door, and saw a stack of unfolded towels sitting on the couch. It was nobody’s fault, but he stood there staring at them for a full minute, heart racing, hands cold, brain screaming don’t cry over towels .

He folded them. Every single one. Silently.

Friday morning came with back-to-back texts from Yunho asking about bank numbers, and Mingi asking if anyone had watered the porch plants. Wooyoung wandered in while Seonghwa was chopping vegetables and said, “Hey, do we have any ginger? My throat’s doing that thing again.”

“I’ll check,” Seonghwa murmured, not lifting his eyes from the cutting board.

Saturday was supposed to be a rest day. He didn’t sleep in. He couldn’t. His body refused. He cleaned the bathroom at 7:00 a.m. just to keep his hands busy.

The others drifted around him like usual, asking casual questions about groceries, chores, dinner plans,but it felt like water rising above his head. Every word was noise. Every glance felt like pressure.

By the afternoon, he was prepping meals for the week ahead just to feel useful. The kitchen smelled like garlic and exhaustion. He hadn’t eaten anything all day except the end of a cucumber.

It started when Yeosang walked in.

“The rice bag is ripped,” he said, crouching by the pantry. “There’s a trail of it in the hall. Did someone spill—?”

“I’ll clean it,” Seonghwa said, too quickly.

“You don’t have to. I just—”

“I said I’ll do it.”

Yeosang stood slowly, brows pulling together. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

His hand was clenched tight around a wooden spoon. His shoulders were too stiff. His eyes were glassy and distant.

Mingi walked in next, frowning. “Hey do we have anything we can substitute for yogurt? I forgot to get some.”

Seonghwa turned, startled. “What?”

“Yogurt,” Mingi said carefully. “I thought we needed it for—”

“Why is that my job?” Seonghwa asked, voice clipped.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Mingi said, blinking. “I was just—”

“I didn’t say I would do it. Why does everyone keep asking me about everything? I’m not—I can’t—”

His breathing hitched. He turned away, then turned back again, then stepped forward like he meant to do something, then froze, arms half-raised, expression confused and frantic.

Wooyoung had just stepped in, talking fast. “Guys, what’s going on, I heard a—wait—Seonghwa?”

“I can’t do this,” Seonghwa said, all at once. “I can’t—I can’t keep up. I haven’t slept properly in days, and I’m folding towels at midnight, and I forgot to call my mom back, and I’m so tired, and everyone just keeps asking, and asking, and I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore—”

He moved again, hands reaching for a pot, then pulling back. “I’m making lunch for tomorrow like it matters, like I even care, like if I stop doing it, the world’s gonna fall apart, and I know it won’t, I know that, I know—”

His voice cracked. He took a step back, then another, then stumbled into the counter. His breathing came faster now, shallow and tight.

San came in at that moment. “What’s going—”

“Stop asking me what’s going on!” Seonghwa shouted.

Everyone froze. San’s mouth dropped open. Wooyoung took an actual step back. Mingi’s hands dropped to his sides.

Seonghwa’s voice rose, high and frantic. “I’m trying! I’m trying so hard! And no one sees it! You all just look at me like I’ll have the answer, like I’m fine, but I’m not, I’m not—I don’t even know how to stop anymore!”

He clutched at his chest. “My head won’t stop—everything’s loud, and I can’t think, and I’m trying to just breathe but it feels like my body forgot how—”

His knees gave. Mingi moved forward, but Seonghwa flinched violently. “Don’t touch me—don’t—just don’t—”

He slid down to the floor, one hand bracing the ground like it might disappear. His other hand trembled in front of his face like he didn’t recognize it.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

He was crying now. Full, shaking sobs. His chest heaved. His head dropped forward. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell—I just—I didn’t know who else to be anymore.”

That’s when Hongjoong entered. He’d been pulled in by Jongho, who’d heard yelling from the hallway.

When he saw Seonghwa on the floor, red-faced, gasping, fists clenched in his hoodie, his breath caught. He hadn’t seen him like this in years, but his body remembered exactly what to do.

He crouched down slowly, hands open, voice quiet. “Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa didn’t respond. His eyes darted between the floor and the ceiling and his knees.

“Hey,” Hongjoong said again. “I’m here. Look at me.”

Nothing. So Hongjoong moved closer and reached out slowly, gently taking Seonghwa’s hand in both of his. Seonghwa didn’t pull away, but he didn’t hold back either. His fingers just stayed limp, twitching slightly.

“You don’t have to talk,” Hongjoong said. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He moved closer again, kneeling fully, and carefully pulled Seonghwa into his arms. This time, Seonghwa didn’t fight it. He collapsed into the hold like his body finally gave up pretending.

Hongjoong kept one hand steady between his shoulder blades and the other curled behind his head. He didn’t rock him. Didn’t shush him. Just held him.

“Just breathe,” he whispered. “Don’t think. Just let me hold you.”

He stayed like that. The minutes passed. Seonghwa’s gasps turned into stuttering breaths. His hands twitched once, twice, then clutched Hongjoong’s hoodie and held tight.

“I’ve got you,” Hongjoong said. “You’re not doing anything else tonight. Not a single thing.”

Then he turned his head to the others still standing in stunned silence. “Everyone out,” he said calmly. “Give us space.”

No one argued. They cleared out quietly. Even Yeosang. Even San, wide-eyed and silent.

When the room was empty, Hongjoong looked down. “Let me take you to bed.”

Seonghwa didn’t respond. So Hongjoong moved. He slid his arms under Seonghwa’s back and legs and, in one slow, careful motion, lifted him off the ground.

Seonghwa didn’t even flinch. He just let himself be held.

“I’ve got you,” Hongjoong said again, softer now. “You don’t have to do anything unless I say so. You’re done. We’ll take care of everything else.”

He carried him down the hall like something precious. When they reached his room, he laid him down gently, pulled the blanket over his chest, and brushed the hair from his face.

Seonghwa’s eyes were still damp, but they weren’t frantic anymore. Just tired. Hongjoong sat beside him on the bed and leaned in to kiss his forehead.

“You don’t have to be the strong one tonight.”

Seonghwa swallowed hard. “I didn’t know how to ask,” he whispered.

“I know,” Hongjoong replied. “You don’t have to. We’d drop everything for you. Just say the word.”

Seonghwa blinked up at him. “I hate being the one that needs it.”

“I know,” Hongjoong said again, and ran his fingers gently through his hair. “But that doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. And we love you like this, too.”

Seonghwa closed his eyes. His chest trembled again, but softer this time. He didn’t fight the tears. He let them come, quiet and slow.

Hongjoong didn’t move. He just stayed, curled beside him, a steady presence through the storm finally breaking.

That night Seonghwa let himself be loved and nothing fell apart when he woke up again.

Chapter Text

San had been excited all day. It wasn’t anything extravagant. Just a horror movie night with Mingi, but he’d planned it with so much care that it might as well have been a full anniversary dinner.

He’d picked the movie two days ago after hours of scrolling and reading reviews. A perfect blend of scary and stupid, just enough for them to scream and laugh into each other’s arms. He bought Mingi’s favorite snacks, popped real butter popcorn in the microwave, and even fluffed the throw pillows on the couch into the perfect nest. 

His hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and his bangs kept falling in his eyes as he arranged the bowls. The apartment lights were dimmed, only the glow of the screen and a few candles flickering in the cozy living room.

Mingi was supposed to be home by eight. At eight-fifteen, San checked the group chat to see if he’d messaged anyone else. Nothing.

At eight-thirty, he sent a little: “are you almost home? everything’s ready :)”

No reply. He sank back into the couch, resting his chin on his knees. The popcorn had cooled, the soda had gone flat, and the silence in the apartment was louder than the movie trailers on screen.

By nine, San had dozed off. The next thing he knew, his neck ached and the screen had gone dark. He blinked groggily and sat up, heart sinking as he realized the popcorn bowls were still untouched.

He rubbed his eyes and grabbed his phone. One new message. Time-stamped 8:42 PM.

Mingi: “rough day. went to wooyoung’s bar to unwind. love you.”

No emoji. No “sorry.” No “next time.” Just casual, like it hadn’t even crossed his mind what he was missing at home.

San stared at the screen, breath caught in his chest. He sat there a while, phone pressed to his palm and the sting behind his eyes growing sharper by the second. Then, quietly, he started picking up. He dumped the popcorn into the trash, rinsed the glasses, and folded the blankets. His movements were robotic. Mechanical.

He didn’t text back. He didn’t cry. He didn’t let it show. He just packed everything away like the night had never existed.

It wasn’t Mingi’s fault , he told himself. He had a rough day. He needed time. He just forgot. It wasn’t like he meant to leave San alone. Right?

The thing was, San had needed this night too. Not just for fun. He needed the feeling of being wanted, of being prioritized even if it was for something as small as a horror movie on a Friday night. 

He needed Mingi. Instead, he was alone and Mingi was somewhere else, laughing at Wooyoung’s bar, not thinking of him.

San quietly turned off the lights and walked into his room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He didn’t even bother changing. Just curled up in bed, hoodie still on, blanket pulled to his chin.

The ache in his chest felt too familiar. It was the same ache he used to feel when friends made plans without telling him, when he’d wait at cafés only to realize no one was coming. That little voice that whispered, you’re always the backup plan. You’re not enough.

San rolled onto his side and curled tighter.

He forgot you.

No. He would never.

Then why didn’t he come home?

A shaky breath slipped from his lips. He didn’t cry, but the pain lingered, sharp, hollow, and quiet, as he fell into a restless sleep, alone.

The morning light filtered in far too early for San’s liking, but he was already awake by the time it crept through the blinds. He hadn’t slept well, if at all. His chest still felt tight, his thoughts tangled, like they hadn’t stopped spinning since the night before.

When he finally emerged from his room, he looked fine. That was the goal. Just fine. Hair tousled in a way that could pass for casual, a hoodie that wasn’t the same as yesterday, and a soft “morning” mumbled to whoever was in the kitchen. He didn’t even glance at who it was until he heard the voice reply.

“Morning,” Mingi said gently.

San’s gaze flicked up. Mingi was sitting at the table, nursing a cup of coffee. He looked tired, but not hungover. Just worn. Still warm, somehow, like a comfort San wasn’t ready to let himself lean into.

“Hey,” Mingi tried again when San opened the fridge and pretended to search for something.

San hummed in return. His fingers curled around a carton of juice and he poured it slowly into a cup. No eye contact. No words. 

Mingi stood up, scratching the back of his neck. “About last night…” San tensed.

“I’m sorry,” Mingi continued, stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to bail on you like that. I just… had a rough day and needed to get out of my head. I didn’t think. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

San’s fingers tightened around the glass, but he nodded once. “It’s fine,” he said flatly. Not angry. Not warm. Just dull.

Mingi frowned. “Are you sure?”

San finally looked up and met his eyes. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t, but Mingi let it go.

They stood there in awkward silence until San excused himself and drifted into the living room where a few others were starting to gather. Someone had a movie queued up, and the lights were dimmed like they always were for group time. The couch was already partially full, but there was space next to Jongho, and San quietly slid into it, tucking himself into the corner like he could disappear.

Minutes later, Mingi came in. His eyes searched the room, landed on San, and with a hopeful smile, he started walking over to the open spot beside him. San stood before he got there.

“Hey, I’m gonna grab a water,” he muttered to Jongho, brushing past Mingi without so much as a glance.

Mingi’s smile faltered. He stood awkwardly in place for a beat too long, then silently shifted toward Wooyoung and took the empty space beside him instead. No one said anything, but Wooyoung gave Mingi a small, understanding pat on the knee. Mingi didn’t even look up.

The movie played, something action-packed and loud, but San barely processed it. His mind was busy replaying the image of Mingi at Wooyoung’s bar, surrounded by laughter that wasn’t his. San hadn’t meant to be petty, but the ache in his chest wouldn’t let him play pretend.

He didn’t want to cry and he didn’t want to yell, but he also couldn’t sit beside Mingi like nothing happened. So he kept his distance. Not obvious enough to make a scene. Just far enough to protect himself from another night like that.

Halfway through the movie, someone paused it for a bathroom break. The room scattered with movement. Stretching, chatting, snack refills. San slipped out quietly and padded toward the kitchen, rubbing his temples.

He stood at the sink, sipping water slowly, trying to shake the tightness in his chest. Then he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw Mingi. San's stomach dropped.

“Hey,” Mingi said, his voice quieter than usual. “Can we talk?”

San set the cup down without looking at him. “Is this really the time?”

“You’ve been avoiding me since this morning.”

San shrugged. “You’ve been fine without me.”

Mingi blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

San finally turned, crossing his arms. “Nothing.”

“San,” Mingi said, stepping forward, his tone gentle but edged with frustration. “Please don’t do this.”

San’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to feel this way, but Mingi standing there, looking so concerned, just made it worse.

“I said it’s nothing,” San repeated, already brushing past him.

Mingi didn’t move. “You’re acting like I did something unforgivable,” he said, not angry, just tired. “It was one night.”

San stopped cold. “One night?” he echoed, eyes narrowing.

Mingi’s face fell. “That’s not what I—”

“No, say it again,” San snapped. “Just one night, right? Just one little date. Who cares if I sat alone for hours waiting for you. It was just one night.”

Mingi’s breath hitched. “That’s not fair—”

San’s voice rose. “You ditched me to go laugh with someone else. You didn’t even call.”

“I texted—”

“An hour late,” San cut in, fury rising in his throat. “After everything was cold. After I fell asleep waiting.”

Mingi reached for him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” San said, stepping back. “And now you want to pretend like I’m the one overreacting.”

“I never said that,” Mingi replied quickly.

“But you think it,” San said, voice low and sharp. “You think I’m too much.”

“No,” Mingi said, eyes wide. “That’s not—”

“Then why is it always so easy for you to choose anything else over me?”

The words slipped out before San could stop them and the silence that followed cracked something open.

Mingi stared at San like he’d been slapped. The words were still hanging in the air, heavy and unforgiving. 

San’s chest was rising fast, breath shaking as his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes were glossy with unshed tears, but he wasn’t going to break, not yet. Not until he said what he needed to.

Mingi opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked stunned, like the connection had finally hit too late and too hard.

San huffed a bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“San…” Mingi tried, voice barely a whisper. “You’re taking this too far.”

The dam cracked.

“Too far?” San hissed, stepping forward, fury igniting like a spark to gasoline. “You think I’m taking it too far? You ditched me with no warning, didn’t come home, didn’t check in , and I waited , Mingi. I set everything up. I lit the stupid candles. I made your favorite popcorn. I picked the movie we talked about for days.”

His voice trembled now, volume rising with each word. “And you just, what? Decided I wasn’t worth it that night?”

Mingi flinched. “That’s not fair—”

“You left me wondering what I did wrong!”

“San—”

“I thought you were hurt! Or mad! I didn’t know if you were even coming home and when you finally texted, it was just ‘rough day, went to Wooyoung’s’? That’s it?! No call? No I’m sorry?”

“I didn’t mean to make it a big deal,” Mingi snapped, his own defenses flaring now. “It wasn’t about you. I had a shitty day and I didn’t want to talk—”

“You didn’t want to talk to me! ” San shouted, chest heaving. “You wanted to laugh with Wooyoung instead. Not the one who was waiting for you! Do you even realize how that felt?!”

Mingi stepped back a little. “I just needed to clear my head, okay? Why are you making this about you? Not everything revolves around you!”

San went still. The air dropped ten degrees.

Mingi knew the second the words left his mouth that he’d messed up. Badly.

San’s expression shattered. He blinked once. Twice. Then he laughed, once, sharp and humorless. “Wow.”

“San, I didn’t mean—”

“No. No, it’s fine. You’ve made your point.”

Before Mingi could stop him, San’s hand reached behind him, grabbing the first object his fingers touched, a ceramic plate left to dry on the counter. It slipped easily into his grip.

“San—”

He hurled it. The crash was deafening, glass exploding across the kitchen tile in a violent, heartbreaking echo.

“I’m sorry I’m not worth your attention!” San screamed, voice breaking. “I’m sorry I planned something and thought maybe, just maybe, I was enough this time!”

His chest was heaving, fists shaking at his sides, tears streaming freely now as he glared at Mingi through the blur. “If you hate being with me so much, just say it!”

Mingi’s mouth opened, but the words didn’t come. He was frozen, shocked into silence, wide-eyed and breathless.

That was the scene the others walked into. The sound of the crash had summoned half the house, all stumbling into the kitchen in various states of confusion and concern. Jongho got there first, eyes darting from the shattered plate to San’s trembling frame to Mingi’s stunned face.

“San?” he asked, cautious, stepping forward.

San didn’t move. He was crying so hard now it looked like it hurt. His breathing came in panicked gasps, hands twitching like they didn’t know where to go. He was unraveling.

Seonghwa gently took hold of his arms. “Hey. San. Come with me.”

San didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. He let Seonghwa lead him out, tears still falling in silent rivers.

Mingi stood like a ghost. Frozen in the middle of it all.

Hongjoong stepped up next, glancing at the broken pieces, then at Mingi. “What’s going on?” he asked gently.

“I—” Mingi’s voice cracked. He looked at everyone helplessly. “I messed up.”

He remained frozen in the kitchen doorway, eyes still locked on the broken plate. His hands trembled at his sides, and he didn’t move even when Jongho quietly came up to him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” Jongho said softly. “Let’s go sit down.”

Mingi followed like a ghost.

The living room was dim, the only light coming from the TV’s paused screen and the glow of a nearby lamp. San was curled up on the couch, eyes red and glassy, barely looking up as Seonghwa adjusted the blanket around him and sat beside him, rubbing small circles into his back. Wooyoung had perched on the armrest, knees pulled up to his chest, watching the room with a tight-lipped frown.

Hongjoong stood nearby, arms crossed, scanning both San and Mingi in silence. The room held its breath.

“Okay,” Hongjoong said finally, his voice calm but firm. “Someone needs to talk.”

No one answered. San buried his face deeper into Seonghwa’s shoulder. Mingi opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“I’m gonna ask again,” Hongjoong said, stepping closer. “What happened?”

“He doesn’t love me,” San said suddenly, voice small but sharp enough to cut through the silence. He still didn’t look up.

Mingi jolted. “What—why would you think that?”

“You left,” San whispered. “You didn’t even come home.”

“I told you why,” Mingi said, eyes wide. “San, I had a terrible day. I wasn’t thinking. I just needed time.”

“And you went to Wooyoung.”

Hongjoong looked over at Wooyoung instinctively. Wooyoung raised his hands. “Don’t look at me, I just handed him a drink and let him vent.”

San finally lifted his head. “You said I was being dramatic.”

“I know,” Mingi said, immediately regretful. “That was stupid. I was overwhelmed too, and I said something I shouldn’t have. But San—you never told me you were waiting for me. I didn’t even know.”

San sniffled. “I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

“Okay,” Hongjoong said, stepping between them. “Pause. You both need to take a breath. This—this isn’t how you fix it.”

He crouched down in front of the couch and gestured between them. “San. Tell him what you felt. Clearly.”

San hesitated, then spoke in a tremble. “I was excited. I made popcorn. I picked the movie. I lit the candles you like. And then you didn’t show up. You picked someone else, Mingi. And then you said it wasn’t a big deal. That I was being dramatic. And all I could think was—why wasn’t I enough to make you want to come home?”

Mingi looked like he’d been slapped. His eyes watered instantly. “San… I’m so sorry.”

“Now you,” Hongjoong said, turning to Mingi. “Talk.”

Mingi stepped forward, kneeling on the floor so he could see San properly. “I should have told you. I didn’t mean to make you feel abandoned. That wasn’t what I was thinking. I didn’t want to come home in a bad mood and ruin your night, and I figured… I don’t know, I thought I was doing the right thing by just staying out of the way. And then when you were mad I panicked. I said the worst possible thing.”

San looked down, his hands wringing the edge of the blanket.

“You two are stupid in love,” Wooyoung muttered from the corner. “Can we please cut the drama and cuddle already?”

Jongho gave him a light shove, but even he was smiling now.

Hongjoong reached for their hands. “Okay. You’ve said your pieces. Now look at each other.”

San hesitated, then peeked up. Mingi was already watching him.

“Hold hands.”

San sighed and let Mingi take his hand, fingers lacing gently.

“Now apologize. And mean it.”

“I’m sorry,” Mingi said first, pulling San’s hand to his lips. “For not coming home. For not telling you. For saying what I did. I never wanted to hurt you.”

San’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry too. For assuming the worst. For yelling. For… the plate.”

They both laughed a little, a fragile sound but real.

“I love you,” Mingi whispered.

San nodded, finally cracking a teary smile. “I love you too.”

Just like that, the storm passed. Mingi reached up and tugged San into his arms. San fell into him without hesitation, burying his face in Mingi’s neck. Mingi wrapped his arms around him and stood up, lifting San like he weighed nothing. “Mine,” he said softly.

San clung tighter. “Yours.”

“You two are gross,” Wooyoung groaned, but there was no heat in it.

“Gross and back together,” Hongjoong said with a grin. “Movie’s still paused, you know.”

They all drifted back to the couch, the tension finally gone. Mingi sat with San curled up in his lap, stroking his hair gently while San hummed in contentment.

The movie resumed, laughter trickled back into the house, and with San safe in his arms, Mingi promised himself he’d never let miscommunication come between them like that again.

Chapter Text

Yunho had always loved evenings like this. The soft hum of the house, the way the kitchen light cast warm shadows across the counters, the bubbling of stew on the stove. It was all comfort. 

He stirred the pot with one hand, balancing the lid in the other, his socked feet moving rhythmically across the floor as he leaned over to check the simmer. The whole kitchen smelled like garlic and ginger.

Somewhere down the hall, someone had music playing. Low bass thumped against the walls, barely noticeable beneath the steady noise of boiling water and the faint rustle of movement from the living room. Mingi had been sprawled on the couch earlier, scrolling through his phone. Yeosang had vanished upstairs an hour ago, presumably to read. Seonghwa was, last Yunho checked, folding laundry in the hallway while muttering to himself about how no one turned their socks the right way out.

It was peaceful. Which, naturally, meant something was about to go wrong.

Yunho had just lifted the spoon to his lips when he heard it. Quick footsteps, followed by a door flying open, and then—

“Yunh—!”

The warning didn’t come fast enough. A blur of limbs and energy came crashing into the kitchen. Mingi.

Yunho turned instinctively toward the sound, but it was too late. Mingi’s arm collided hard with Yunho’s chest, knocking him back. He stumbled, his feet scrambling to stay upright, and his right shoulder slammed into the sharp corner of the doorway with a dull, unforgiving thud .

“Shit!” Mingi gasped, immediately steadying Yunho by the arms. “Hyung! Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

Yunho let out a hiss between his teeth, clenching his jaw as the pain bloomed hot beneath his skin. It radiated from the point of impact, right under the muscle near his shoulder blade, deep and immediate.

He blinked through it, nodded, and offered a half-breathless laugh. “I’m fine. I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I didn’t see you there. I thought you were still in your room!”

“It’s okay, really.” He straightened slowly, careful not to move the shoulder too much. “It just surprised me.”

Mingi hovered uncertainly, eyes darting toward the doorframe like he could somehow rewind time and stop himself from running. “I hit you really hard, though...”

“It’s fine,” Yunho said again, this time softer, more dismissive. He didn’t want Mingi spiraling into guilt over something that probably wasn’t even serious. “I’ve walked into way worse.”

The younger still looked unsure, but eventually nodded. “Okay... but if something hurts just let me know.”

Yunho smiled, reassuring. “I will.”

As Mingi slowly retreated to fetch a drink, Yunho turned back to the stove, his smile fading the second Mingi looked away.

He rolled his shoulder subtly, testing the movement. A flash of pain lit up his back again, not unbearable, but sharp, layered beneath his usual tolerance. His hand trembled slightly as he replaced the spoon on the counter.

Okay. Maybe it was worse than he let on, but it wasn’t that bad. Not worth worrying anyone over. He could deal with a bruise. It’d fade in a few days. 

He adjusted his stance, leaning more on his left side, and returned to the task at hand. The stew still needed seasoning. He still had things to do.

By the time the others started filtering into the kitchen one by one, driven by the scent of dinner, Yunho was already back in his rhythm. Smiling. Talking. Carrying serving bowls with practiced ease.

He avoided using his right arm too much, passing it off as laziness. No one noticed. Or at least, no one said anything.

The table was full, everyone in their usual spots, laughter spilling over chopsticks and bowls of stew. Yunho sat with a soft smile on his face, letting the sound of his friends fill the space around him like warm sunlight. He answered when spoken to, laughed when things were funny, passed plates and picked out mushrooms for Yeosang like always. To anyone watching, he looked perfectly fine.

Underneath the table, his right hand stayed curled gently in his lap. He moved his shoulder as little as possible. Each jostle, each accidental bump as someone leaned past him, sent dull pulses of pain down his back. Nothing sharp, nothing screaming, but constant. Heavy. Like a warning he kept choosing to ignore.

Still, he stayed until the end, eating slowly, letting his body relax into the familiarity of everyone’s presence. It helped, in a way. Distraction was something he’d always been good at using against discomfort.

After dinner, he gathered a few dishes and carried them to the sink one-handed while Mingi and Jongho bickered over who had to do cleanup. He offered to help, halfheartedly, just to keep appearances, and was easily waved off. He smiled, thanked them, and slipped out of the kitchen.

Instead of heading to the living room where some of the others were putting on a movie, he turned into the hallway and ducked into the bathroom, clicking the door shut quietly behind him.

The mirror greeted him with soft lighting and the faint fog of steam from earlier showers. Yunho stepped in front of it and slowly peeled his t-shirt off over his head, gritting his teeth as the movement stretched his injured shoulder.

The second he turned sideways and looked back over his shoulder, he froze. 

“…Ah.” It was worse than he thought.

The bruise had bloomed dark and fast. Deep purples and angry reds were already blotching his skin from just below his collarbone to the back of his shoulder blade. The outline of the doorframe’s impact was clearly defined along the edge. It looked like someone had painted a thundercloud beneath his skin.

He pressed his fingers gently to the skin surrounding the bruise, just a test, just to check. A low hiss escaped through his teeth. The area was tender. Warm. The kind of warm that hinted at swelling.

Still, Yunho blinked, breathed, and pulled his shirt back on with slow, practiced movements. His face stayed even. Calm. Not exactly numb, but resigned.

It hurt. It was clearly a little more than he first assumed, but it wasn’t like he’d dislocated it. It wasn’t broken. No bones poking out. No blood. No reason to cause a fuss.

Just a bruise. A big one, sure, but bruises healed. They always did.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a few more seconds, watching the subtle tension in his own jaw. Then he blinked again, softer this time, and gave himself a crooked little smile.

“You’re fine,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath.

He wasn’t lying. Not really. He would be fine. Just needed to give it time. So he stepped out of the bathroom, pulled the door shut behind him, and rejoined the others like nothing had happened.

The movie had already started by the time Yunho made it to the living room.

Hongjoong was sprawled on the floor with a bowl of popcorn between his knees, Wooyoung had claimed the best blanket, and San was dramatically lounging on the arm of the couch, half-watching and half-narrating every scene under his breath.

Yeosang, always sharp, glanced up as Yunho stepped in. “You alright?”

“Bathroom,” Yunho answered simply, flashing a smile. “All yours now.”

Yeosang nodded and scooted aside to make room on the couch. Yunho sank down slowly, careful with the angle of his right shoulder. No one noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

The lights were low. A soft lamp in the corner cast golden light across the room, shadows dancing against pillows and fuzzy socks. Someone had lit a candle on the windowsill that smelled like vanilla. It all felt nice. It made it easier to sit still, to pretend everything was normal.

They watched the movie for a while like that, quiet and together. Yunho stayed mostly still, one hand resting across his stomach, his other arm tucked safely out of the way. He was starting to think maybe he’d get through the night without anyone asking questions.

Then someone paused the movie. “I need a snack,” Wooyoung announced, standing and stretching. “Anyone else?”

San hopped up with him, followed by Hongjoong grumbling something about hydration. Yeosang followed close behind, talking about tea. One by one, the others stood, leaving the room behind in a parade of bathroom breaks and food runs.

Only Jongho remained. Yunho gave him a glance, and Jongho shrugged.

“I already have snacks,” he said, munching from a small bag of chips.

The room was suddenly quiet, just the rustle of the chip bag and the soft hum of the paused movie. Yunho exhaled, letting his shoulders relax a little.

“You’ve been holding yourself weird all night,” Jongho said, not looking at him.

Yunho blinked. “What?”

“Your shoulder. You’ve been babying it since dinner.”

“I haven’t,” Yunho said a little too quickly. Then added, “It’s nothing. Just a little sore.”

“Want me to help loosen it up?” Jongho offered casually, setting his chips aside. “I’m getting pretty good at massages.”

Yunho chuckled nervously. “You don’t have to—”

“C’mon,” Jongho said, already shifting to kneel on the couch behind him. “I’ll be gentle. Just enough to help it loosen.”

Yunho opened his mouth to refuse again, but Jongho’s hands were already on his shoulders. Warm palms, steady pressure.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. Jongho’s touch was careful, thumbs pressing gently into the tense muscles along Yunho’s upper back. It almost felt nice. Just firm enough to release some of the stiffness, until he got too close to the bruise.

Yunho flinched sharply, letting out an involuntary yelp and jerking away from the touch. Pain flared hot and fast through his shoulder.

Jongho pulled his hands back immediately. “Whoa—what did I do? Did I hurt you?”

“No—no, I just—” Yunho turned around, breath caught in his throat. His eyes were wide, his hand instinctively cradling his shoulder.

Jongho wasn’t buying it. “What happened?”

Yunho hesitated. His usual reflex to wave it off rose to the surface, but it felt hollow now. Pointless.

“…Mingi bumped into me earlier,” he admitted quietly. “I got knocked into the wall. Just caught it at a weird angle.”

Jongho’s brows knit together. “When was this?”

“While I was cooking earlier. It wasn’t his fault. It just… hurt more than I expected.”

“Yunho.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” he insisted quickly, reading the look in Jongho’s eyes. “I’ve had bruises before. I thought it’d go away.”

“Did you even look at it?”

Yunho nodded. “In the bathroom earlier. It’s… not great.”

Jongho exhaled hard. “You should’ve said something.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

Jongho stood up, already heading for the hallway. “Well, it’s officially a thing now. Stay there.”

Yunho stayed put, staring down at his lap. He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. Hadn’t planned to tell anyone at all, but the massage, just that brief pressure, made it impossible to hide. Now, with Jongho fetching the others he knew what came next.

The secret was out, rather quickly he might add.

Yunho heard Jongho’s footsteps echo down the hallway, filled with the kind of urgency that left no room for pretense. The living room, once dim and quiet, suddenly felt too exposed. Every second that passed dug the pit in Yunho’s stomach a little deeper.

He rubbed the heel of his hand gently over his shoulder, as if that would somehow undo the bruise he knew had already been seen. The throbbing hadn’t eased since the massage; if anything, it had intensified. The pressure from Jongho’s thumbs earlier had flared something deeper, something that now pulsed with every breath he took.

Still, he sat there. Waiting. He could’ve left. Slipped away to his room and pretended to fall asleep, but he didn’t. Maybe a part of him was tired of pretending it didn’t hurt.

A few minutes later, Jongho returned with the first aid kit under one arm and Seonghwa in tow.

Yunho exhaled through his nose, trying to soften the spike of anxiety in his chest. Seonghwa’s eyes landed on him instantly, gaze sharp and assessing as always.

“What happened?” Seonghwa asked, setting the kit down on the coffee table and coming closer.

“I…” Yunho glanced at Jongho, then back at Seonghwa. “I hurt my shoulder earlier. When Mingi ran into me. I hit the doorway.”

Seonghwa knelt in front of him, his hands gentle as he reached toward Yunho’s arm. “Can I look?”

Yunho nodded slowly and started to lift the hem of his shirt. His hands hesitated halfway, but then he tugged it off over his head with quiet effort, jaw tightening as the fabric pulled across his bruised shoulder.

The second the shirt was off, Seonghwa inhaled sharply. “Oh, Yunho…” Even Jongho winced from where he stood.

The bruise had spread further since Yunho last looked. It curled around the slope of his shoulder and down the top of his arm now, darkening into deep violet and blue. Swollen in places. Angrier-looking than it had been an hour ago. Like it had decided, definitively, this isn’t going away on its own.

Yunho sat still, muscles tense, eyes trained on the floor. Seonghwa didn’t speak for a moment. He reached for a clean cloth and dampened it with cold water from the nearby bottle, his movements slow and careful.

“You’ve been moving around like this before dinner?” he asked softly, dabbing around the edges of the bruise.

“I didn’t think it’d get this bad.”

“Did it hurt the whole time?”

“...Yeah.”

Seonghwa paused, cloth hovering midair. Then he resumed, this time dabbing even more gently. “You should’ve told someone.”

“I didn’t want to make anyone worry,” Yunho murmured.

“That’s not your call to make when it’s your body,” Seonghwa said, voice even but firm.

From the hallway, quiet footsteps padded closer. Mingi appeared in the doorway, looking confused at first, until his eyes landed on Yunho’s shoulder. He froze.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “That was… from earlier?”

Yunho turned his head to look at him, his expression soft but sure. “It’s not your fault.”

Mingi stepped into the room, guilt written all over his face. “I ran into you so hard. I wasn’t even watching where I was going—”

“And I should’ve said something,” Yunho cut in. “It just didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. I thought it would go away.”

Seonghwa leaned back slightly and began gently applying a layer of ointment with the tips of his fingers. Yunho’s breath hitched once but didn’t protest.

Mingi sat down nearby, watching the process with downturned eyes. “Does it still hurt a lot?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Yunho admitted. “But it helps having people take care of it.”

The words slipped out before he really thought about them, but he didn’t regret them. It was the truth.

Jongho, still standing to the side, gave a small scoff and crossed his arms. “You’re a giant puppy, hyung. You love the attention.”

Yunho chuckled softly. “Maybe.”

Seonghwa gave him a look, but his eyes were warm. “Well, maybe let us help before it gets this bad next time.”

“I will,” Yunho said.

Once the ointment was done, Seonghwa peeled back a padded bandage from the kit and pressed it gently across the center of the bruise. Yunho hissed quietly, but didn’t flinch.

“That’ll keep it from swelling more overnight,” Seonghwa murmured. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll check it again. If it’s worse, you’re going to urgent care.”

Yunho didn’t argue. He just nodded. He felt lighter, somehow. The pain was still there, and the bruise was still awful, but the weight of hiding it had lifted. That, more than anything, brought relief.

When Seonghwa was done, he sat back on his heels and smiled at Yunho with soft pride. “All patched up.”

Jongho ruffled Yunho’s hair with a grin. “Next time, don’t be stubborn. Let us help before it turns into a whole production.”

Yunho leaned back against the couch, smiling now for real. “I’ll try.”

The energy in the room shifted, subtle, but undeniable. The frantic buzz of concern softened into something quieter. Something warm.

Yunho leaned back into the couch, his bare shoulder still stinging beneath the ointment but no longer feeling so heavy. The ache was there, yes, but it wasn’t alone anymore. It was buffered by gentle voices, the quiet rustle of blankets, and the weight of knowing he was cared for.

Seonghwa stood first, brushing off his knees. “I’ll grab you some water and pain meds.”

“I’ll come with,” Mingi said, standing quickly as if needing to be useful.

Once they disappeared into the kitchen, Jongho turned and flopped onto the couch beside Yunho with a long exhale, draping a blanket across both their laps like it was second nature.

“You know,” Jongho said, nudging Yunho’s good side with his elbow, “you’re allowed to admit when something hurts.”

Yunho smiled sheepishly. “I know. I just didn’t want it to become a thing.”

“It became a thing because you didn’t say anything,” Jongho pointed out.

“I know,” Yunho repeated, a little softer this time. “I guess I didn’t want to feel like a burden.”

Jongho turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “You. A burden? Hyung, you’re literally the opposite. You carry everyone’s weight.”

Yunho looked away, his voice quiet. “Sometimes I think if I’m not the strong one, I don’t really know what else to be.”

Jongho was quiet for a moment. Then, “You don’t have to always be the strong one to be valuable.”

Before Yunho could reply, Mingi and Seonghwa returned with a glass of water and a small dose of over-the-counter painkillers. Yunho took both without complaint, and Seonghwa ruffled his hair affectionately.

“You’re on couch rest,” Seonghwa said, voice mock-serious. “Doctor’s orders.”

“And mandatory cuddles,” Mingi added, plopping down on Yunho’s other side and immediately leaning his head on his good shoulder.

Yunho let out a small, amused breath. “You guys are really milking this.”

“We’re making up for the affection you should’ve gotten earlier,” Mingi mumbled. “Now take it.”

Yunho let himself lean back again, sinking further into the cushions. His injured shoulder was carefully avoided, but his other side was crowded in the best way. Jongho had tossed an arm across his lap lazily. Mingi’s warmth was pressed to his side. And Seonghwa, now curled up at the edge of the couch with his legs tucked under him, watched with that fond, knowing look he always seemed to wear around Yunho.

“Are you doing okay now?” Seonghwa asked gently.

Yunho nodded. “Yeah. Better.”

The movie resumed in the background, the sound low, more atmosphere than entertainment. The others filtered back in gradually. Yeosang with a fresh cup of tea, Hongjoong dragging Wooyoung by the wrist and muttering about missing half the plot. San entered last, squinting at Yunho as he settled onto the floor.

“Wait. Why are you shirtless and surrounded by everyone?”

“He bruised his shoulder,” Jongho explained without looking up.

San’s brows lifted. “You didn’t tell us you were hurt?”

“I didn’t think it was bad,” Yunho said.

San rolled his eyes, but his tone stayed light. “You know we’d rather deal with a false alarm than find out you’re falling apart, right?”

“I’m aware now.”

Seonghwa nodded approvingly. “Growth.”

Laughter bubbled softly through the group, light and easy.

Yunho relaxed deeper into the cushions, the sting in his shoulder now dulled by the medicine and the comfort surrounding him. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been. How much he’d pushed himself to stay upright, to keep smiling, to make sure no one else noticed.

Now that he wasn’t holding all that weight alone, it felt almost ridiculous that he ever tried.

As the movie played on and the warmth of the blanket and the others lulled him into stillness, Yunho’s eyelids began to droop. He didn’t fight it. He let his head tilt to the side, resting gently against Mingi’s.

A hand, Seonghwa’s, reached across and brushed his hair back softly. “Get some rest,” he murmured. “We’ve got you.”

Yunho didn’t need to answer. The trust was already there, settled between them in the quiet space of home.

Chapter Text

It started like any other lazy day off.

The house was quiet in the coziest way. The kind that came with pajama pants at noon and mismatched slippers padding across hardwood floors. A pot of coffee gurgled in the kitchen. San was humming off-key to a playlist that was way too energetic for 10 a.m. Blankets were dragged across the floor like sleepy ghosts. The air smelled faintly of citrus cleaning spray and leftover dumplings.

Mingi was sprawled upside down on the couch, one leg hooked over the backrest as he typed lazily on his phone. Wooyoung sat on the floor beside him, fiddling with the sleeves of a hoodie that definitely wasn't his—Yunho’s, judging by the “sunshine club” iron-on patch. San was perched on the arm of the couch, sipping something out of a mug that said “Good Vibes Save Lives.”

Yeosang had claimed the far end of the dining table, noise-canceling headphones on, flipping through a photography book with the intensity of someone judging every composition like it personally offended him. Jongho was in the kitchen, scrubbing a pan with quiet concentration, lips twitching upward every so often when Mingi’s commentary got extra weird.

Yunho, fresh from the shower, wandered in with damp hair and no real agenda other than wrapping himself around whoever looked the most huggable. He found Seonghwa first. Or he tried to.

“—have you seen the lemon-scented wipes? Not the off-brand ones, the real kind, the one with the textured side that’s good for—”

Seonghwa zoomed past him like a meteor on a mission, hair half clipped up, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wearing an apron like it was armor. His hands were full of folded towels, his eyes darting between the hallway and the now-damp rag in his other hand. He looked like a possessed man.

“Seonghwa?” Yunho called after him. “Are you… good?”

“Where’s the vacuum hose extension? Does anyone know if we have any fresh guest towels that don’t have bleach stains?”

The room stilled slightly. Even Mingi lifted his head. Wooyoung tilted his head like a curious cat. San frowned into his mug.

“…Why would we need guest towels? Also when did we get guest towels?” Wooyoung asked, nose scrunched.

Seonghwa didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Yeosang, who had just lifted one headphone in mild concern. “You didn’t move the diffuser in the guest room, did you? I put the vanilla one in there for a reason, not the lavender—lavender makes my mom sneeze—”

“Wait,” Yeosang interrupted, blinking. “Your mom?”

That got everyone’s attention.

Seonghwa froze for half a second, just long enough for the panic in his eyes to flicker, but then he shook his head like he could will the conversation into submission and disappeared into the laundry room.

“…What just happened?” Mingi muttered.

“I think he’s malfunctioning,” San whispered.

Finally, from around the corner came a familiar voice. Calm and slightly resigned.

“Everyone,” Hongjoong called, stepping into the doorway with the same energy as someone announcing a hurricane, “Seonghwa’s parents are visiting. Today.”

Silence. Then—

“WHAT?!” Wooyoung and San yelled in unison, while Yunho just choked on his juice.

“What time?” Jongho asked, already wiping his hands on a dish towel like he was ready to build an entire new house if needed.

Hongjoong exhaled and glanced at the time on his phone. “Soonish. Like... two hours? Maybe three if traffic is bad but we should assume two.”

Yeosang calmly stood up, took one look at the general chaos, and said, “We’re going to need more than two.”

“Why didn’t Seonghwa say anything?” Yunho asked, already turning in place like he might be able to spot him by instinct.

“Because he was too busy entering the fifth dimension over the state of the spice rack,” Hongjoong muttered, already walking. “He hasn’t seen his parents since college, but they call every now and then. So he’s taking things a bit strict.”

They found Seonghwa in the hallway linen closet.

Specifically, inside it. Like, half his torso buried in the shelves, muttering to himself about "why the hell does no one fold the fitted sheets properly, it’s like you’re all chaotic neutral embodied" and then pulling a comforter out only to put it right back in again.

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong tried, voice gentle.

“Can’t talk. Towels are wrong. Everything is wrong. My mom will think we don’t moisturize the baseboards.”

“That’s not—okay, hold on—”

“We don’t even have lemon water!” Seonghwa groaned, backing out of the closet like a stressed crab. His hair was frizzing from humidity, a pen was tucked behind one ear, and there was a Post-It note stuck to his elbow. “Do you know what she said the last time she visited someone’s house and they didn’t offer lemon water? ‘That tells you everything you need to know.’ Joong. Everything. ”

“Oh no, he’s quoting her,” San whispered behind them, like that somehow made it more dangerous.

Hongjoong stepped closer, placing both hands gently on Seonghwa’s arms to still them. “Hey. Breathe.”

“I am breathing,” Seonghwa snapped, but it was thin and watery and clearly not the truth.

“No, you’re vibrating like a hummingbird on espresso.”

Seonghwa’s mouth opened like he might argue and then it trembled just slightly.

“I just want her to be proud of me,” he whispered. “Of us. I want her to walk in and think, ‘wow, look at this beautiful, perfect house with my beautiful, perfect son who is definitely not dating seven other grown men and living like a sitcom.’”

There was a beat of silence.

“Okay,” Wooyoung said brightly. “So, step one: hide all evidence of the polycule.”

“WOOYOUNG—”

“Just kidding! Kind of. Maybe.”

“Listen to me,” Hongjoong said firmly, steering Seonghwa to sit on the edge of the hall bench. “You are not doing this alone. You do not have to carry this entire house on your own spine like a stress-laden turtle. We are going to help. Got it?”

“I don’t want to make anyone feel like they have to,” Seonghwa mumbled, eyes darting.

“Too late, we’re already guilt-trapped,” Mingi called from down the hall, thumbing through a candle basket. “Also, when did we get six different kinds of linen spray?”

Seonghwa groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “Because I need options.”

“You have us,” Jongho said simply, tugging Seonghwa up by the hand. “That’s all the options you need.”

Thus began: Operation Impress-the-Parents. It was chaos, naturally.

Yeosang took command of aesthetics and immediately started fluffing couch pillows with the ruthlessness of a military commander. “Someone trim the plants. The entry ficus looks judgmental.”

Yunho and San tag-teamed the bathroom, blasting music and scrubbing everything from tile grout to toothbrush holders while dancing like backup singers. San narrated each step like it was a cleaning infomercial.

Wooyoung declared himself “Director of Vibe” and ran through the house with a Bluetooth speaker and a basket of emergency ambiance items (candles, crystals, tiny folded towels). “No one touch the diffuser setting or I will cry.”

Mingi gathered all the scattered notebooks and water glasses and created a small shrine of productivity on the coffee table with neatly stacked books and fake reading glasses “just in case she judges artistic integrity.”

Jongho fixed the closet door hinge that had been squeaking for a week. Then he fixed two lightbulbs, a sticking drawer, and re-hung the art in the guest room that had been crooked since last month.

Meanwhile, Hongjoong stayed near Seonghwa.

He didn’t hover, but he stayed . Every time Seonghwa’s breathing got shallow or he started muttering under his breath about floorboards or lemon water again, Hongjoong would touch his shoulder or hand him a damp cloth or say gently, “Deep breath. It’s gonna be okay.”

Every single time, Seonghwa would nod like a little boy trying very hard to be brave.

It took just over an hour for the house to transform from “eight boys live here” to “a charming adult residence with great lighting and zero emotional chaos.”

The couch had been vacuumed. Candles were strategically lit, but not overpowering. Yeosang tested each scent like a sommelier. The kitchen counter was wiped down three times, and someone had even managed to un-crust the toaster tray. It was Mingi; he did it out of love, and also mild fear.

Seonghwa stood in the center of the hallway, towel in hand, blinking like he’d just emerged from a dream.

“…Okay,” he whispered. “I think we’re good. I think if no one breathes or touches anything, we’re good.”

“We are good,” Hongjoong corrected gently, brushing invisible lint from Seonghwa’s shoulder. “You did great.”

Seonghwa turned to him, a little dazed. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“I think your mom’s going to cry when she sees how beautiful the house is. And your dad’s going to ask to fix something just to feel useful.”

That earned a tiny laugh. “He’s going to inspect something. I just know it.”

“I already made sure the guest bathroom faucet doesn’t squeak,” Jongho said from the hallway, holding a screwdriver like a knight with his sword. “He can’t have that one.”

There was a collective exhale. A few high-fives. Yeosang was even midway through turning down the playlist volume when—

Ding-dong.

The entire house froze. 

Wooyoung made a sound like a tea kettle. San grabbed the nearest cushion and shrieked into it. “It’s happening!”

“Oh my god,” Seonghwa whispered, eyes wide. “Oh no. Oh no . I’m not ready. I can’t—I need to change—are my sleeves too short? Why are my hands sweating? I should have made lemon water—”

“Hey,” Hongjoong said quickly, stepping in front of him, steady hands on Seonghwa’s arms again. “You’re okay. Just breathe with me.”

“I can’t breathe with you,” Seonghwa hissed. “I have to open the door with my actual parents standing on the other side of it and if the first thing they see is me looking like a maniac with humid panic hair—”

“Then they’ll see the real you,” Hongjoong said, smiling softly. “And they’ll be lucky for it.” Seonghwa blinked, chest still heaving.

Behind them, the rest of the group slowly started backing toward the living room, like a flock of very respectful ducks giving the two space.

“We’ll sit down,” Yunho said gently, nudging San and Mingi along. “We’ve got your back . ”

Yeosang paused before following, leaning in just slightly to say, “If she doesn’t like the pillow layout, I have a backup plan.”

Wooyoung, ever dramatic, reached out and touched Seonghwa’s elbow. “If she says one rude thing, I will fake an allergic reaction and throw myself into the backyard.”

“Please don’t,” Seonghwa muttered.

“No promises.”

Jongho gave his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. “Go show her you built something real.”

Just like that, the hallway cleared, and it was just him and Hongjoong again. Seonghwa looked at the front door like it was a beast with glowing eyes. He took one shaky step toward it, then another. His hand hovered over the doorknob.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

“I know,” Hongjoong said, sliding his hand into his. “But I’m gonna be right next to you.”

That did it. Seonghwa closed his eyes, breathed once, and opened the door.

Seonghwa’s mother stepped in first, blinking against the shift from outdoor light to indoor warmth. She was elegant in the way only mothers of grown children seem to be. Floral scarf knotted perfectly, lipstick softly smudged from tea sips on the road. She clutched a bouquet of carnations and baby’s breath in one hand and immediately scanned the entryway like a detective with a heart of gold.

Her eyes twitched slightly to the left. “Those shoes by the wall,” she said, not unkindly, “someone’s got wide feet. Are those yours?”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to answer, but Hongjoong beat him to it, smiling gently. “Those are mine, actually. Sorry, I kicked them off after groceries and forgot.”

“Ah,” she said with a soft nod. “Well. At least they’re tidy.” She turned back to Seonghwa. “You didn’t grow out of that, did you? Always keeping your shoes pointed toward the door like soldiers.”

Seonghwa gave a soft, nervous laugh. His hands, which had been balled at his sides, trembled faintly and Hongjoong, without a word, reached down and took one. Just held it. Seonghwa didn’t look at him, but his fingers curled tighter.

His father stepped in behind her, nodding at Hongjoong and offering Seonghwa a small smile, less warm, maybe, but not distant. Just quiet. Observing. The kind of dad who says little and notices everything.

“Oh, this is lovely,” his mom continued, now walking further into the entryway. “Clean, but not sterile. Lived in, but not messy. Smells like… is that vanilla and cedar?”

“Diffuser,” Seonghwa murmured, trying not to fidget.

“Ahhh,” she said, turning slowly. “Much better than those plug-in things. Those always give me headaches. This is nice.”

The three of them moved further into the house, the hallway leading toward the living room like the slow build of a string quartet. Every step they took seemed to echo a little louder, even though no one was saying anything especially heavy.

“Is this art original?” she asked, pausing in front of a print near the bookshelf. “I’ve seen something similar at a gallery once…”

“Yeosang picked it,” Hongjoong offered. “He has an eye for balance.”

Seonghwa’s mom turned to look at him again, eyes sharp in that way that only mothers have.

“Yeosang,” she repeated. “One of the housemates?”

Seonghwa nodded, throat dry. “Yeah. They’re, um… they’re all here, actually. In the living room.”

Her eyes softened. “Well then, let’s meet them.”

They entered the living room like royalty stepping into court. Which, really, made the scene they walked into all the more hilarious.

Wooyoung was half-sprawled across Mingi’s lap, dramatically fanning himself with a throw pillow. Mingi looked like he had braced for impact about ten seconds ago. Yeosang sat perfectly upright in the corner of the sectional, legs crossed, posture like a statue, eyes scanning the scene like he was calculating chess moves.

Jongho stood with arms folded near the wall like he was on emotional security detail. Yunho and San had clearly been mid-pose. San with one foot tucked under him on the arm of the couch and Yunho perched beside him, both still holding mugs of tea and blinking like someone had pressed pause on the movie of their lives.

Every single one of them straightened at once.

“Hi!” Wooyoung said brightly, far too loudly. “You must be Seonghwa’s mom and dad. Wow, your genes are working overtime, because damn—” Mingi covered his mouth.

Seonghwa made a sound like his soul had briefly left his body. Hongjoong tried very hard not to laugh. Seonghwa’s mother blinked, and then let out a light, surprisingly genuine chuckle.

“Oh, he’s dramatic,” she said knowingly. “I like him.”

“I knew I’d pass inspection,” Wooyoung whispered triumphantly into Mingi’s shoulder.

“Everyone,” Seonghwa said, voice slightly high-pitched, “these are my parents. Mom, Dad… this is Hongjoong, Yeosang, Mingi, Wooyoung, Jongho, Yunho, and San.”

Each of them gave their own little wave or nod or awkward salute. Yeosang stood and gave a short, polite bow. Jongho offered a firm handshake. San somehow tripped over his own foot trying to stand up and played it off as a stretch.

Seonghwa’s mom scanned the group slowly, eyes sharp but not unkind. 

“Quite a houseful,” she murmured.

“It’s a handful,” Seonghwa said at the same time.

His mom’s mouth twitched. “Well. Let’s sit down then, shall we? I want to know who keeps this house from falling apart when you’re at work,” she said, already lowering herself onto the nearest cushion.

Seonghwa’s heart slammed against his ribs, but Hongjoong never let go of his hand.

His mom sat perched on the couch with perfect posture, hands folded delicately in her lap like she was about to judge a baking competition. His father had taken the armchair, legs crossed, saying very little but scanning the room like he was assessing structural integrity.

Seonghwa sat at the very edge of the cushion beside Hongjoong, posture stiff, knees clenched together like he was trying to physically hold himself in place. Hongjoong still had his hand, steady and grounding, but Seonghwa’s knuckles were white.

The others were scattered strategically across the room. Too many bodies for too little space. Too many dynamics for one conversation.

Yunho, to his credit, tried to break the tension first. “So! Uh. We’re all off work today. Pretty rare. Usually someone’s running out the door or buried in spreadsheets or fur or manuscript edits—”

“Fur?” Seonghwa’s mom interrupted gently.

“San works at an animal shelter,” Seonghwa said quickly, like a lifeline. “He’s always covered in fur. We’ve just sort of accepted it as a lifestyle.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “You always were a tidy one. Can’t imagine it’s easy sharing space with seven others.”

There was a pause. Seonghwa laughed, brittle. “I manage.”

Across the room, San mouthed I’m so sorry and attempted to subtly brush cat hair off his jeans.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung, sweet, oblivious, and very much incapable of subtlety, leaned over Mingi’s shoulder, practically whispering into his ear. “This is worse than the time we tried to host brunch and Yeosang’s banana bread set off the smoke alarm.”

“I told you to turn the oven down,” Yeosang muttered from the corner.

“You told me to ‘trust the heat.’”

“That sounds like me,” Yeosang admitted.

Seonghwa’s mother tilted her head, curious. “So you all live here, full time? It’s not just a shared lease?”

“Yes,” Seonghwa said quickly. “We do. It’s… like a co-op. Everyone has a role.”

“We do chores,” Jongho offered stoically.

“And we cook together,” Yunho added, eyes too bright, like maybe if he kept smiling hard enough, none of them would implode.

“Oh! Last week, San made this spicy tofu dish that made Mingi cry in a good way,” Wooyoung chimed in brightly, “and then Yeosang accidentally fed Hongjoong expired kimchi—”

“Anyway!” Seonghwa cut in sharply, voice too high. “We’re very functional. As a household. Everyone contributes.”

His mother looked at him a long moment. “I see,” she said simply. “That’s good. You always did like having things orderly.”

There was a silence that felt like it cracked open and echoed through Seonghwa’s chest. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples. He couldn’t tell, he never could, if her voice held pride or quiet disappointment. He didn’t know if she saw his carefully curated life and thought, Yes, my son is thriving , or He’s surrounded himself with chaos to make up for something.

His father finally spoke. Just three words. “Looks… well-kept.”

Seonghwa didn’t breathe.

Mingi tried to fill the space with something, “We try to keep the space warm and communal. Like… emotionally safe. Seonghwa’s kind of the glue.”

That was too close. Seonghwa coughed. Loudly. “Mingi, didn’t you need to check on the, uh… the… muffins?”

Mingi blinked. “We didn’t make muffins.”

“You were going to,” Seonghwa hissed under his breath.

“Oh. Right. I’ll—yes. Muffins.” He stood up and practically moonwalked out of the room.

Wooyoung stared after him, utterly betrayed. “He took the chaos energy with him.” Yeosang kicked him gently in the ankle.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa’s mom said suddenly, turning toward him. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Oh,” Hongjoong said, calm smile in place. “Just listening.”

“You two are still…?” She gestured lightly between him and Seonghwa.

Oh, God. The air felt thinner. Seonghwa tried to answer, but nothing came out.

Hongjoong, still holding his hand, squeezed once, just enough to be felt, not seen.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Still.”

She smiled politely. “I always thought you balanced him well. You’re the calm to his… fussiness.”

“Hey,” Seonghwa muttered weakly.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she replied with a chuckle. “It means you care.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

He didn’t know how to say, Yes, but I care for all of them . That he cooked with San, cried on Yunho, danced with Wooyoung, argued with Yeosang about dish towels, laid on Mingi’s lap when the world got too loud, and trusted Jongho to hold the things he couldn’t say out loud. That they were all his home.

Instead, he smiled while his mother looked around again. “Well. It’s certainly a house full of character.”

“We’re a house full of love,” San blurted out from the couch. Seonghwa’s soul left his body. 

“Like… character and love,” San added quickly, noticing Seonghwa’s shift. “Love in a general… philosophical… community-sense.”

Yunho smacked him with a pillow. Seonghwa didn’t know how they were still alive.

His mom tilted her head. “That’s nice,” she said eventually. “It’s good that you’re surrounded by such… expressive people.”

Hongjoong leaned in just slightly and whispered, “You’re doing fine.”

The thing was, maybe he was. Maybe it was messy. Maybe it wasn’t going how he planned, but no one was pretending. No one was hiding, except maybe the muffins. The house was alive and loud and confusing, but it was also full of people who loved him.

When he looked up, when he caught Mingi sneaking back into the room with a mug of tea for him, and Wooyoung silently offering his entire body as a human shield, and Jongho watching his mom like a quiet, stern guard dog, he realized something else:

They weren’t just his to protect. They were also protecting him.

“I’m just going to freshen up,” Seonghwa’s mom said lightly, rising from the couch. “That drive took it out of me.”

She smoothed her blouse as she stood, eyes flicking politely over the room again, like she was mentally cataloguing the throw pillow placements one last time.

His father stood too, slow and quiet as always. “I’ll come with you,” he said simply, offering her his arm, not out of necessity, but routine. 

They disappeared down the hallway, their footsteps soft on the floorboards, the door to the guest room clicking closed behind them.

The silence that followed was deafening. Seonghwa stood in the middle of the room, posture still stiff, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Then, like someone unplugged him, he just deflated. His shoulders sank. His head dropped. He let out a long, low breath that trembled halfway through.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. That was… exhausting.”

“You think?” Wooyoung asked, not unkindly, stretching his legs across Mingi’s lap. “I thought Mingi was gonna start biting his nails again.”

“I was,” Mingi said.

Yunho leaned forward slightly from where he sat cross-legged on the floor. “Hey, Hwa… not to be rude or anything, but… you were kind of being a little weird.”

Seonghwa looked up, startled. “What?”

“Not bad-weird,” San jumped in quickly, waving his hands. “Just, like… you kept cutting people off. And talking super fast. And you full-body twitched when Wooyoung mentioned love.”

“I always full-body twitch when Wooyoung talks about love.”

“Fair, but this time it was different . ”

Seonghwa looked down. Picked at the hem of his shirt. Silence stretched thin.

“…She doesn’t know,” he whispered. Everyone blinked.

“Who doesn’t know what?” Jongho asked quietly, already halfway piecing it together.

“My mom,” Seonghwa said, louder this time. “She doesn’t… she doesn’t know about all of us.”

A long beat of stunned silence.

Yeosang, from the corner, set down his tea and spoke with a soft blink. “She thinks it’s just you and Hongjoong?”

Seonghwa nodded.

“And the rest of us are just… housemates?” Yunho added slowly.

Another nod.

“Wait,” Wooyoung said, sitting up straighter, “ that’s why you kept looking like you were getting stabbed when one of us got too specific about the bath bombs?"

Seonghwa groaned and pressed both palms into his face. “Yes . I didn’t want her to think we were having candlelit group bubble baths and calling it bonding.”

“You literally do that,” Yeosang said flatly.

“That’s not the point!”

The room went quiet again. This time, softer.

“I didn’t know how to tell her,” Seonghwa said, voice breaking just slightly at the edges. “She already thinks my life is… untraditional. I’m a male nurse in a woman dominated field with seven roommates. I've got fairy lights in my room, and I collect tea tins, for god’s sake. She loves me, but she’s old-school. She still calls anyone under 30 ‘the youth’ like we’re a separate species. Please just for right now try to tone it down. Just be careful with what you say and let me handle it if she gets too much. And please…. Don’t be mad at me. I never wanted this to get like this.”

“No one’s mad,” Yunho said gently.

Seonghwa’s head snapped up. “What?”

“We’re not mad,” Mingi repeated. “I mean… confused, yeah. A little surprised. But not mad.”

“Why would we be angry?” San asked, scooting closer. “We know how important your family is to you.”

“It’s not just that,” Seonghwa said quietly. “It’s that I’m afraid… if I tell her the truth, she’ll see it as lesser . Like I couldn’t have a ‘real’ relationship. That I settled for chaos instead of a traditional life with one person and a yard and… whatever else she imagined for me.”

He rubbed his hands over his face again. “She already has to explain to people that her oldest son lives with seven men and has no kids. What happens when she finds out I’m in love with all of you?”

Wooyoung leaned his head against San’s shoulder, voice softer now. “You don’t have to justify it to us, Hwa.”

“You don’t have to justify it at all,” Jongho added.

Yeosang looked at him, calm and focused. “You’re allowed to be scared and you’re allowed to take your time.”

Hongjoong, who hadn’t said anything yet, finally spoke, his voice low, warm, steady. The anchor in the storm.

“I’ll say it,” he said, fingers brushing Seonghwa’s again. “I’m hurt that she doesn’t know, but I’m not hurt by you. I know you’re not ashamed of us. You’re just scared to lose her.”

That landed like a punch to the gut. The good kind. The honest kind.

Seonghwa swallowed hard, throat thick. “I don’t know how she’ll react,” he whispered. “She’s never said anything bad about queer people, but she’s also never really talked about it. She knows I’m bi. She was fine with that. But the idea of loving seven people at once ? That might be too much.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Yunho said gently. “No matter what,” Mingi added.

“And if she doesn’t understand?” Wooyoung said with a shrug. “Then we’ll all just have to keep winning her over with muffins.”

“Wait,” Yeosang frowned. “Did Mingi actually bake muffins?”

“No,” Mingi said. “I microwaved a granola bar.”

“Tragic,” Jongho muttered.

Seonghwa laughed then, unexpected, short, watery.   “God, I love you all so much it hurts.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Hongjoong said, resting his forehead gently against Seonghwa’s. 

Footsteps grew closer and everyone looked up at once. Seonghwa’s mother stepped back into the living room, cardigan draped over her shoulders now, lips pursed thoughtfully like she’d just mentally reorganized the entire bookshelf by height.

Her eyes scanned the space again. “That towel bar in the bathroom is crooked,” she said lightly, like a passing observation. “And the hallway baseboard is chipped. Just so you know.”

Seonghwa didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll fix it,” he said, standing a little straighter. “I meant to do that yesterday, actually. And the towel bar—I’ll tighten the bracket. I think it came loose last week.”

His voice was too quick. Too polished. Mask: fully on. Like everything that just happened was a fluke and nothing was going to change.

Hongjoong, sitting beside him, noticed the shift instantly. The way Seonghwa’s hands curled into fists on his knees. The way his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

His mother nodded. “It’s nothing serious. I just noticed. The rest of the house is very well maintained and clean. It’s clear you take pride in it.”

Seonghwa nodded. “Of course. I want it to feel homey.”

Just then, Seonghwa’s father reappeared. Quiet as ever. He crossed the room and sank back into the armchair with a small nod to the others, not saying anything but somehow commanding presence all the same.

Then his mother turned her attention to the group. “So,” she said, folding her hands in her lap again. “I’m curious—how does this all work, exactly?”

The silence was immediate. San choked slightly on his tea. Yunho blinked rapidly like he was buffering. Wooyoung, bless him, sat on his hands to stop from waving them around while Yeosang froze mid-sip, cup paused in midair like a statue.

“What do you mean?” Jongho asked carefully.

“Just… the living arrangement,” she replied, her tone casual but sharp. “You all live together, you all work different jobs. How do you manage chores? Groceries? Do you have… designated spaces? Or do you share everything?”

“Oh!” Yunho jumped in, grateful for a safe question. “We’ve got a chore board in the hallway—color coded, mostly respected. Unless someone forgets, and then it becomes a passive-aggressive sitcom until we talk it out.”

“Groceries are group-based,” Yeosang added coolly. “We rotate who shops. Seonghwa usually makes the list.”

“San cooks randomly. Mingi forgets he’s boiling tea. I dance while vacuuming,” Wooyoung said cheerfully.

Her eyes crinkled. “I can imagine.”

The boys laughed. Soft, awkward. Tension diffused. For a moment, it felt normal again.

Then she tilted her head. “And bedrooms? Do you each have your own, or are there shared rooms?”

Seonghwa stiffened beside Hongjoong. Before anyone else could speak, Hongjoong gently answered, “We all have our own rooms, however occasionally they might be shared.”

“Oh,” she said, voice neutral. “Well, I suppose it makes sense in a group setting. More efficient.”

More efficient. Seonghwa smiled through it, but his knuckles were white on his knees again. 

Hongjoong glanced at him once, then turned back to her, voice still smooth and easy. Like he was just making conversation over coffee.

“If I may ask,” he said, eyes on her with soft curiosity, “how do you feel about… non-traditional households?”

There was a pause. The room tightened around the question like a rubber band.

Seonghwa’s heart dropped into his stomach. His head whipped toward Hongjoong so fast his neck cracked. “ What are you doing? ” he mouthed behind his teeth.

Hongjoong didn’t look at him. Just waited. His tone was gentle. Not accusing. Not challenging. Just open.

Her eyes narrowed faintly, brows creasing in thought. “You mean roommates? Or…”

“Or,” Hongjoong said softly, “living in ways that fall outside the standard couple-in-a-house model. You know. People loving differently. Sharing space. Emotion.”

She hesitated. Her mouth twitched.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I suppose people can live however they like. But in my opinion, real relationships take commitment. Stability. If things are too fluid, too… shared, it can get messy. People get hurt.” 

She offered a small, apologetic smile. “It’s just not how I was raised.”

Seonghwa felt his body go cold. His hands trembled in his lap. He stared at the floor like it might open and swallow him whole.

Every word felt like a stone dropped down a well. Not hateful, but not safe, either. Not for them. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

Seonghwa stood up so fast the blanket fell off his lap. “I—excuse me,” he muttered, voice too high and tight.

He didn’t wait for anyone to respond. He was already gone. Out of the living room, down the hall, through the kitchen. The front door clicked shut behind him.

He made it to the porch before his legs gave out. The second he sat on the step, the mask shattered.

His hands flew to his face, fingers trembling against skin gone cold. The pressure behind his eyes burst like a dam, and he hunched forward with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, more like a gasp. A desperate attempt to hold himself together while every cell in his body screamed you’ve failed her.

The porch light flickered gently above him. Somewhere in the distance, a car rolled past. He barely heard it.

“She thinks I’m a stranger,” he whispered into his palms. “I let her think I’m someone I’m not, and she liked that person. ”

His breath caught again. “She wouldn’t have smiled like that if she knew.”

The door behind him creaked. He didn’t look up, but the footsteps were quiet. Familiar. 

A warm hand rested between his shoulder blades.

“I’m not going to tell you it’s okay,” Hongjoong said softly, sinking down beside him. “Because I know it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

Seonghwa didn’t move. Hongjoong waited. When Seonghwa finally turned his head, eyes rimmed red, lashes wet, Hongjoong didn’t flinch. He just reached up and brushed a thumb beneath Seonghwa’s cheekbone, gentle as sunlight.

“She’s not a bad person,” Seonghwa said hoarsely. “She’s just… strict . Traditional. I grew up with rules instead of reasons.”

He blinked hard, and the words started to fall out like they’d been locked up for years.

“She taught me how to set the table before I could spell my name. I had to iron my own school uniform by the time I was ten. If my socks didn’t match, she said it was a reflection on how much effort I put into life.”

Hongjoong stayed quiet. Let him pour.

“I used to rehearse how to answer the phone in case it was an adult calling. I couldn’t go to bed unless my books were stacked by height and my teeth were flossed twice . She meant well, I think. She just… she didn’t raise me to be soft. Or complicated. Or queer. Or this. ”

He looked down at his hands. “If I tell her about the relationship… she won’t yell. She’ll just go quiet. That cold, disappointed quiet. And then she’ll stop calling. Stop visiting. And my dad—he won’t say anything. He’ll just… follow her out the door. Because that’s what he always does.”

A silence settled between them, but it wasn’t empty. Hongjoong leaned in. Gently pressed his shoulder to Seonghwa’s.

“I hate that you grew up in a house that made you scared to be soft,” he said. “You are the kindest, most careful person I know. And you built this life. Not out of defiance. Not to prove a point. You built it because it made you feel safe. Because it was real. Because it was yours.”

Seonghwa’s lip trembled. “And she’ll hate it.”

“Maybe,” Hongjoong said honestly. “Or maybe she’ll need time. And space. Maybe she’ll never fully understand. But that doesn’t mean you are wrong. Or broken. Or shameful.”

He turned his face to Seonghwa’s, voice quiet.

“If she walks away… she walks away. But you will still be loved. We’re not going anywhere. You’ll still have us. And more than that… you’ll still have you.”

Seonghwa broke then.  He let himself fall sideways, into Hongjoong’s chest, arms curling up like he was trying to make himself small. Hongjoong wrapped around him like armor. Held him with both arms, hand carding gently through his hair, rocking just slightly in place.

“I’m so tired of being good,” Seonghwa whispered. “So tired of trying to be what she wants.”

“You don’t have to be good,” Hongjoong murmured. “You just have to be you . That’s always been more than enough.”

The house was too quiet when they stepped back inside.

Not silent, there were still sounds. The hum of the fridge, the low murmur of voices from the living room, but it wasn’t alive. Not like it usually was.

No laughter. No music. No Wooyoung fake-crying about snack shortages. No Yeosang sighing at San for trying to cook with “vibes instead of measurements.”

The house felt stiff.

As Seonghwa and Hongjoong rounded the corner, he saw why.

Everyone was seated, just like before, but differently now. Mingi and Wooyoung sat side-by-side on the couch, backs straighter than usual. San had his hands folded in his lap, staring at them like he was waiting for judgment. Yeosang, usually elegant and at ease, looked tense. Yunho, normally the warmest one in the room, was fiddling with a coaster, his knee bouncing. Even Jongho, quiet and strong, sat with his shoulders tight, like he was holding something in.

It hit Seonghwa like a gut punch. They weren’t themselves because he’d told them not to be.

“Be careful.” “Don’t say too much.” “Let me handle it.”

They were trying to protect him by shrinking themselves and it hurt.

So before Hongjoong could guide him to the couch, before he could sit or take another breath or change his mind, he spoke.

His voice was soft. Barely there. “…Mom.”

His mother, seated with her hands delicately folded in her lap, looked up. Seonghwa’s feet rooted to the floor. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Hongjoong moved behind him without a word. Sat down on the couch just behind Seonghwa and reached out, fingers brushing his. He didn’t pull or pressure. Just offered. Seonghwa took it. Clung to it.

He tried again. “…There’s something I haven’t told you.”

A pause. His mother’s brows knit faintly. “Okay.”

Seonghwa took a breath. A deep one this time and when he exhaled, he looked up and met her eyes. His hand squeezed Hongjoong’s.

“These boys… these people I live with—” he gestured around the room, hand trembling slightly, “—they’re not just housemates. And Hongjoong’s not just my boyfriend.”

He looked at each of them, one by one.

Yunho, eyes wide and glistening. Wooyoung, who mouthed you got this. Yeosang, who didn’t move but nodded, once, solid. Mingi, who gave him the tiniest smile. San, who looked like he might burst into tears for him and Jongho, whose steady gaze didn’t waver.

“I love them. All of them.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything he’d ever heard.

“They’re not just my housemates, they’re my partners,” Seonghwa went on, voice shaking but growing. “They’re my family. My home. I love differently than you were taught to understand. But it’s real. It’s not a phase or an escape or something I settled for. It’s who I am. And I know I should’ve told you sooner. I was afraid—I’m still afraid.”

He looked down. “Because I didn’t want to disappoint you. And if you decide you don’t want to come back… if you decide I’m not the son you wanted, then—”

“I never said that,” she interrupted, her voice calm but sharp.

“I know,” he whispered. “But you didn’t have to.”

His mother’s face didn’t move, but something in her eyes flickered. Shifted. She looked at him and for a moment, the silence wasn’t tension anymore.

It was weight. It was truth . It was Seonghwa, finally standing in his whole self, trembling, yes, but not hiding. He didn’t let go of Hongjoong’s hand. 

For a long, trembling moment, no one said a word.

Seonghwa’s confession still hung in the air, fragile and raw like mist before a storm. His chest rose and fell like he was bracing for impact. Hongjoong’s hand never left his.

His mother’s expression was unreadable. Her hands were still folded in her lap. Her eyes didn’t widen or narrow. She didn’t flinch. She simply sat there, regarding him, quiet and still, like she was watching him from across a very large room.

When she finally spoke, her voice was careful. Polished. The same voice she’d used when explaining etiquette to him as a child.

“…I will always love you, Seonghwa.”

His eyes snapped up. 

“But—” 

His heart sank.

“—that doesn’t mean I’ll understand this. Or that I can talk about it at work. Or with my friends. I was raised with… a very different picture in mind. One that doesn’t include multiple partners. Or shared households. Or—”

She stopped. Let out a slow, tight breath.

“It’s not something I would have chosen for you. If I’m being honest.”

Seonghwa’s throat closed. He tried to swallow around it. He was already folding in on himself again, blinking rapidly to keep from breaking, when suddenly his father spoke.

It was the first time he’d spoken since the hallway. He shifted forward in his chair and looked at Seonghwa directly.

“Let me ask you something.”

Seonghwa froze. “Okay.”

“Do you love them?”

The question was simple. Not unkind. Just clear.

Seonghwa nodded, instantly. “Yes. I do.”

His father’s eyes swept the room. “And do they love you?”

He didn’t need to wait for an answer because around the room, heads nodded. Mingi. Yunho. Wooyoung. Jongho. Yeosang. San. All of them.

No hesitation. No performance. Just love.

The man nodded once. As if that was that. “Then I don’t see the issue,” he said simply.

Seonghwa blinked. “What?”

His father leaned back. “Love isn’t a set thing. The world’s full of rules and traditions and expectations, but most of those were made up by people who didn’t know how to bend. If you’re happy, and you’re loved, and you’re safe… then there’s no reason to debate it.”

He looked over at his wife, gently. “Is there?”

She looked down. Her eyes were glossy, though she didn’t shed a tear.

“I don’t agree with the arrangement,” she said quietly. “I don’t… understand it. And I probably won’t. But—” she looked at Seonghwa again, and this time something had softened— “that doesn’t mean I would ever walk out. Or disown you. You’re my son. Nothing could change that.”

Seonghwa’s lips parted, trembling.

“We’ll be here,” she finished, voice catching for the first time. “Even if I don’t say it right. Even if it takes time. We’ll be here.”

T broke him. His breath hitched, eyes blurring, and before he could stop himself, he sobbed once, sharp and keening, like something had been ripped free.

His mother stood instantly. She was across the room in two steps, arms around him, folding him into a hug that was both familiar and new. A mother’s hug. The kind she hadn’t given him in years, not like this, not fully.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here, my sweet boy.”

Then his father was there too. One arm around both of them. Quiet strength. Seonghwa held them like he was afraid they’d disappear.

When they pulled back, his mother smoothing his hair and his father clapping his shoulder,  he turned and collapsed into Hongjoong. Not from weakness, but relief.

He melted into him, face pressed into Hongjoong’s neck, arms wound around his waist, clinging like a lifeline. Hongjoong held him tight. No words. Just presence. Just love.

The warmth hadn’t quite settled before his mother spoke again. Her lipstick had smudged a little against his cheek from the hug, but she didn’t seem to notice or didn’t mind.

“We were planning to stay a bit longer,” she said, brushing nonexistent lint from his shoulder, “but there’s been a last-minute change at the clinic.”

She glanced toward her husband, who gave a quiet nod. “They need me back tomorrow morning. Emergency staff shift.”

Seonghwa’s heart jumped a little, but she squeezed his hand quickly.

“Not because of this,” she said gently, reading his face. “Not because of what you said. I mean it—we will visit again.”

He searched her expression for even a hint of a lie and found none.

“Next time,” she continued, voice softening, “I’ll be more prepared. I’ll have questions. I’ll listen better. And I’ll try to bring a better attitude with me.”

Seonghwa blinked, barely breathing. “You meant what you said?” he asked, voice quiet.

“I meant it,” she replied. “I’m not promising I’ll understand overnight. But I’ll keep showing up.”

He nodded slowly, throat tight. “That’s all I could ever ask.”

She gave him one more look, half fond, half stern, and then turned to the rest of the group. The boys straightened like schoolkids facing the principal.

Her gaze moved from one face to another, eyes sharper than her tone.

“You lot,” she said.

Wooyoung made a tiny squeak.

“Look after my son.”

San’s head bobbed immediately. “Yes ma’am.”

“Of course,” Yunho added.

Yeosang gave the most sincere nod she’d probably ever received from anyone with an undercut. “Always.”

“We will,” Mingi said, voice surprisingly strong.

She looked at Hongjoong last. “Especially you.”

Hongjoong met her eyes with a nod. “You don’t even have to ask.”

Her face softened, just a little. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said.

Seonghwa’s father gave them a quiet wave, offering his own sort of goodbye. Not loud. Not showy. Just full of warmth. He looked at Seonghwa again before turning, his expression calm and just a little proud.

“I like your home,” he said simply. It meant more than it seemed to.

The door closed behind them with a soft click. No slamming. No tension. Just a quiet, steady departure.

“Well that went way better than it could’ve,” Wooyoung offered brightly.

“She didn’t bite me,” San added.

“She almost hugged you , ” Yunho said, wide-eyed.

“That was insane,” Mingi whispered. “Like, I thought she’d just… ice-walk out of here and never come back.”

“She said she’s coming again,” Seonghwa murmured. “She wants to.”

“Do you believe her?” Jongho asked.

Seonghwa turned, looking at all of them. At the people who had tried so hard to behave. To be perfect. To wait for him.

Now that they could breathe again, he could see it: their love. Their care. Their hope .

He smiled.  “I do.”