Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun had barely stretched over the skyline, casting warm light through the half-closed blinds of their cramped but cozy apartment. A blanket hung haphazardly on the couch, a pizza box sat on the kitchen counter, and faint music filtered through a speaker that Josh forgot to turn off last night.

Josh Santos, already up in a loose tank top and shorts, was yelling into his phone, propped up precariously on a stack of manga volumes.

“GOOD MORNING, MA TROPAAAA!” he hollered, doing a little finger heart into the camera. “We woke up today, and that’s a win, mga beh! Even if Ken looks like he regrets all his life choices.”

From the other end of the couch, Ken Suson didn’t even look up. Wrapped in a hoodie, phone tilted toward his face, earbuds tucked in. A gory anime fight reflected in his glasses.

“Ken!” Josh whined like a child, angling the camera toward his best friend. “Say hi to the live, pogi. Give them what they want.”

Ken blinked slowly. One earbud came off. “You’re so loud,” he said, deadpan. Then, quieter, “...Hi.”

The comment section exploded:

KEN SAID HI OMGGGGG

he’s alive???

silent pogi supremacy 💀

Josh grinned, victorious. “See? That’s called consent, people. And friendship. And manipulation. All in one. You’re welcome.”

Ken rolled his eyes and tucked his earbud back in. Josh went on rambling to his viewers, transitioning into some dance moves while holding a spoon like a mic. He ended up stepping on the pizza box and nearly slipping.

“Bro,” Ken mumbled, eyes still on his screen. “I just cleaned the floor.”

“You wiped it with a sock you were still wearing,” Josh shot back, breathless but smiling.

The morning rolled on like that. Messy and loud on one end, quiet and consistent on the other. Josh talked to strangers like they were lifelong friends. Ken let the world blur as long as the Wi-Fi held. And despite their differences, they moved around each other with instinctive ease, refilling the water jug, tossing keys, fighting over the last cheese stick in the fridge like it was a war crime.

It was just another day. A Tuesday, maybe. Or Wednesday. They didn’t keep track much anymore.

But Josh glanced at Ken from across the room, watching how the sunlight hit his lashes, how focused he looked on whatever was playing.

“Hey,” Josh said suddenly. “Let’s dance again.”

Ken paused his show. Turned to him slowly. “Now?”

“No,” Josh said, grabbing his phone again. “I mean like… audition. Like the old days. Just us two.”

Ken looked at him a moment longer, eyes unreadable. Then he shrugged. “Okay.”

Josh blinked. “Okay? That’s it?”

“Yeah.” Ken sipped from his iced coffee. “Let’s do it.”

That was the moment. A small, stupid Tuesday decision made between a chaotic stream and a paused anime. The moment everything quietly shifted. They just didn’t know it yet.

—

Josh woke up to the smell of cold ramen and the sight of a hoodie-draped figure curled up on the floor.

It was almost noon, but their apartment wasn’t the kind of place that judged you for that. The sun peeked through the blinds like it was just checking in, not fully committed. The floor was littered with socks, receipts, and one lonely sneaker Josh couldn’t remember owning. Somewhere between sleep and survival, the place had turned into a home.

Across the room, Ken sat hunched over his phone, hood up, eyes glued to whatever anime he was binging this week. He had the same posture as a kid trying to avoid doing homework, which technically, fit the vibe. Josh let out a soft laugh under his breath.

The silence was comforting, familiar. The kind of quiet that only existed between people who knew each other too well to fill the air with unnecessary talk.

He shuffled to the sink, pretending the dishes needed doing. In reality, he was trying not to think about it again but of course, he thought about it anyway.

College. That goddamn mess.

He and Ken didn’t even last two full semesters. One day they were cramming for midterms, the next, they were on a bus to a dance competition three provinces away, high on adrenaline and ₱5,000 prize money. Back then, everything felt possible. Viral videos, followers, performance gigs. Who needed a degree when your TikTok was blowing up?

They failed most of their classes. Josh didn’t even read the final grades. He already knew. And then, one quiet night in the kitchen, no yelling, no drama, Ken said, “You know this is your fault, right?”

Not accusing. Not angry. Just… stating a fact. The same way he might say the rice cooker was broken or the Wi-Fi was down.

Josh didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. He was the one who dragged Ken into it all. The battles. The rehearsals. The belief that talent and charisma were enough to build a future. That energy alone could keep them going.

The scolding from their parents came quick and brutal. Ken’s mom grounded him from “everything including breathing.” Josh’s mom cried in the family group chat and sent him daily Bible verses like a countdown to divine intervention.

Still, Ken stayed. Even when Josh had nothing solid to offer, Ken didn’t leave.

Josh glanced over at him now, head tilted slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, lips twitching at some anime scene. The same hoodie from their first YouTube upload clung to him like a second skin. And despite everything, he was still here.

“You hungry?” Josh called out, already halfway to the fridge.

Ken didn’t look up. “Tocino?”

Josh grinned. “You got it, my prince.”

This was their life. An apartment that looked like a failed studio set, meals at inconsistent hours, responsibilities conveniently ignored. No degrees. No long-term plans. Just songs, streams, dancing when they felt like it, and the comfort of not being alone in their failure.

Losers by choice. But losers together. And for now, that was enough.

—

The apartment looked like a war zone, and Josh decided this was the perfect time to start recording.

“Okay, mga beh,” he announced to his phone camera, spinning in a slow pan of their disaster. “Welcome to the battlefield. Today’s enemies: clutter, dust, and this suspicious sock that’s been under the table since Valentine’s.”

From behind him, Ken groaned. “Don’t show that.”

“Too late,” Josh grinned. “It’s practically part of the furniture now.”

He propped his phone up on a stack of books, tilted just right to get a wide shot. Ken was already moving around in the background, hoodie sleeves pushed up, quietly gathering stray bottles and game controllers like a reluctant ghost of responsibility.

Josh, meanwhile, narrated everything like he was on a chaotic game show.

“On my left, the living legend, Ken ‘Silent Mode’ Suson, armed with a walis tambo and the power of judgmental silence. And here I am, your favorite host-slash-victim, ready to bleach the soul out of this bathroom.”

He zoomed in on his own reflection in the mirror, hair a mess, shirt stained with ramen broth, grin absolutely feral.

For the next hour, they moved around the apartment in semi-synchronized disorder. Josh sang along to every K-pop track he played, switching from dancing with the broom to dramatically wiping windows. Ken said nothing the entire time but subtly corrected everything Josh missed. He re-folded the towels, re-aligned the dish rack, re-wiped the already wiped table with a faint sigh that screamed, “I live with a gremlin.”

“You’re doing great, babe,” Josh called from the bathroom, holding up an empty bottle of disinfectant like a trophy. “This is the content they want.”

Ken raised a brow from behind the couch. “This is why they think I’m your handler.”

Josh just laughed.

By the time noon hit, the apartment looked… livable. At least, they could see the floor. A small miracle.

Josh flopped onto the couch, sweaty but satisfied, phone still recording. “I think we earned lunch,” he declared.

He shuffled into the kitchen with Ken trailing behind him. This part needed no words. It was routine. Josh pulled out leftover meat from the fridge while Ken washed the rice. They didn’t need to ask what to do. Josh was always the main cook, Ken the reliable sous chef. They danced around each other in the cramped space, passing knives and plates without looking, nudging with hips when someone was blocking a drawer.

“Don’t cut it too small,” Josh said, glancing at Ken’s chopping board.

Ken gave him a look. “You said that last time, and then complained they were too chunky.”

“Well, this time I’ll complain less.”

“You won’t.”

“Shhhh, you love me anyway.”

Ken rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Just kept slicing.

Rice cooker clicked on. The smell of garlic hit the pan. Josh started humming a tune they used to dance to in high school, and somewhere behind him, Ken hummed along.

The phone was still recording from the counter, catching the mess, the laughter, the sizzling garlic. No fancy lighting. No makeup. Just two guys in mismatched pajamas cooking lunch in a clean-ish apartment.

And maybe, Josh thought, as he plated the food and Ken handed him the last of the cut-up vegetables, this was the real content. No trending dances. No filters. Just… them.

Lunch was a quiet victory. Josh and Ken sat cross-legged on the floor, plates balanced on a shared stool turned into a makeshift table. The fan hummed lazily in the corner, rustling the hem of a towel draped over a chair. Outside, the city buzzed in faint, distant tones. Inside, it was just the clink of utensils and the sizzle of oil still lingering in the air.

Josh stabbed a piece of tocino with his fork and leaned back against the couch, grinning. “Tell me this isn’t the best version you’ve ever tasted.”

Ken chewed slowly, eyes flicking up. “You say that every time.”

“And am I wrong?”

Ken shrugged, which in Ken-language meant no, you’re not. Josh took it as a win.

He watched his best friend pick out the carrots from the mixed vegetables, pushing them aside with silent judgment.

“You’re so weird,” Josh muttered, smiling into his rice.

Ken just said, “You burnt the garlic.”

Josh dramatically clutched his chest. “Betrayal. After all we’ve been through.”

They fell into silence again, comfortable, like a song playing between verses. Josh poked around his plate, gaze drifting to the ceiling, before the memory hit him without warning.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Do you remember that comp in Laguna? Yung sa gym na may tumutulong aircon?”

Ken glanced at him, surprised, then let out a short, amused exhale. “Yeah. The one where the mic kept cutting out during the host’s intro.”

Josh laughed, food forgotten. “Exactly! And we thought we were gonna lose because the floor was slippery and you slipped during the chorus.”

Ken rolled his eyes. “You dropped me during the lift.”

“You were heavy!”

“You panicked!”

“You screamed like a goat!”

Ken cracked a smile, the kind that barely curled his lips but reached his eyes. Josh watched that smile longer than he meant to, something fond and aching blooming in his chest. “We still won,” Ken said eventually, tone softer now.

“Yeah,” Josh murmured. “Somehow, we always did.”

They went quiet again. This time, a little heavier.

Josh looked down at his plate, pushing rice around with his spoon. “Do you think… we messed up?”

Ken didn’t answer right away. He was still chewing, still thinking. “You mean with school?” he asked, finally.

Josh nodded. “Everything, I guess. Dropping out. Chasing stupid stuff. Doing all of this.”

Ken set his plate down and leaned back, arms resting loosely on his knees. “It wasn’t stupid.”

Josh glanced up.

“We were happy,” Ken said. “Maybe still are.”

Josh wanted to believe that. He really did. But lately, every quiet moment was filled with questions he didn’t know how to answer. They weren’t broke, exactly, but they weren’t thriving either. Just drifting. Making content. Existing in their bubble. It was enough until it wasn’t.

Still, he didn’t say that. Not yet.

So instead, he bumped Ken’s arm with his shoulder. “You were still a pain to choreograph with.”

Ken smirked. “You always added unnecessary body rolls.”

“They’re called style,” Josh huffed. “And they got us second place at the last event.”

Ken paused. “...I thought we won third.”

Josh blinked. “...Oh. Right.”

They stared at each other then laughed. Loud and open and stupid.

Josh leaned his head on Ken’s shoulder, still chuckling. “Losers by choice,” he murmured.

Ken didn’t move away. “Best kind.”

—

The apartment was quiet again, the kind of quiet that only showed up after laughter had wrung itself out.

Dishes were done, the lights were dimmed, and Ken had already claimed the couch, curled into his usual half-fetal position with a pillow squished between his arms. His breathing had evened out; he was out cold, hoodie strings tangled in his fingers, phone clutched loosely in one hand.

Josh sat on the floor by the window, cradling his laptop with headphones on, lit only by the soft glow of the screen and the neon blue from Ken’s forgotten game controller.

He should’ve been editing a vlog. That was the plan. Cut together the mess of footage they shot while cleaning earlier, slow-mos of flour spills, the two of them dancing around the mop like idiots, Ken’s unimpressed stare every time Josh sang off-key. It was content gold.

But instead, he’d fallen down a rabbit hole.

Old videos.

Their channel from five years ago, when they still wore matching black hoodies and shot dance covers in public parks, in gymnasiums, in rooftop parking lots. The thumbnails were chaotic. Ken was always trying to look serious; Josh was always caught mid-smirk. The comments were still there, people saying they were “underrated,” that their chemistry was unreal, that they should audition for something bigger.

Josh didn’t realize he’d clicked play until he saw their younger selves on-screen, fresher, leaner, burning with that kind of restless, reckless energy.

He remembered that day. They had taken a van with the rest of their crew to Bulacan, skipped an exam to make it on time. Ken was quiet the whole ride, headphones in. But once the music started, he transformed. Sharp. Fluid. Focused.

Josh had always been louder, more attention-grabbing. But Ken was the one they always ended up watching.

Josh took off his headphones slowly. The apartment felt even quieter now. He glanced over at the couch.

Ken had shifted in his sleep, one arm dangling off the side, fingers twitching slightly, maybe dreaming. Josh watched him longer than he meant to.

He didn’t know when the fear started. Maybe it had always been there. Hiding behind the jokes and filters and late-night editing.

Ken was talented. Really talented. And Josh had been the one to pull him out of that shell, drag him onto stages, make him seen. But lately, it felt like Ken didn’t need pulling anymore. He was growing into something else, someone else. Still familiar, still his best friend, but changing.

And Josh? He wasn’t sure he was changing with him. He hated how bitter that thought felt in his mouth.

Gently, he closed the laptop and set it aside. Crawled over to the couch, careful not to wake Ken. He sat on the floor again, this time next to him, his back against the frame, head tilted just enough to rest beside Ken’s arm.

“I’m not scared of you leaving,” he whispered, barely audible. “I just don’t know who I am when you’re not here.”

Ken shifted slightly, murmured something incomprehensible in his sleep.

Josh smiled. A little broken. A little tired. “You’ll probably never hear that. Which is probably for the best.”

He stayed there for a while, watching the moonlight spill across their cluttered apartment, listening to Ken breathe.

In this moment, they were still together. Still in sync, even in silence.

But Josh felt the future creeping in, soft and cold, like a draft through a cracked window.

—

The next morning, Josh woke up to sunlight slapping him across the face and Ken already on the couch, legs tucked beneath him, cereal bowl in hand, eyes locked on his phone.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Josh croaked as he sat up, hair flattened on one side, face still creased with pillow lines.

Ken grunted in response. Crunch. Crunch. Typical.

Josh dragged himself to the kitchen, muttering to himself about how mornings were a social construct and coffee was the only form of love he trusted. As the kettle boiled, he looked around at the still-slightly-clean apartment and smiled, proud of yesterday’s progress. Proud of them.

Maybe things were fine.

He poured the coffee, added a little too much creamer—Ken’s influence—and walked over to flop onto the couch beside him.

“What are you watching?” he asked, already leaning into Ken’s space.

“Nothing.”

Josh peeked. “That’s a rehearsal clip.”

Ken didn’t argue. Just adjusted the brightness like it would make the screen less suspicious.

Josh watched for a few seconds. The video wasn’t new, it was from one of their group’s last rehearsals before everything started slowing down. Ken looked… focused. Better than Josh remembered. His lines were sharper. His moves were confident, smooth. He looked like he belonged on a bigger stage.

Josh sat back. Tried to keep his voice casual. “You miss it?”

Ken shrugged. “A bit.”

Josh hated that shrug. It always meant more than it looked.

He took a sip of coffee. “We could do something again. Just us, maybe.”

Ken looked at him, one brow raised. “Like a cover?”

“Yeah. Or… I don’t know. Something big. Audition, maybe. Show people we’ve still got it.”

Ken didn’t answer right away.

And Josh, suddenly panicking at the silence, filled it fast. “Not like serious serious. I mean, just for fun. We can record it. Post it. Maybe livestream the practice, people love watching me suffer.”

Ken’s eyes softened just a little. “You always suffer because you don’t warm up.”

Josh gasped. “I warm up emotionally.”

Ken snorted. That sound—God, Josh lived for it.

He grinned, pushing his shoulder lightly against Ken’s. “So? We’re doing it?”

Ken finally nodded. “Sure.”

Relief hit Josh hard and fast. Like maybe, for now, things could stay the same.

So he spent the rest of that morning diving into playlists, dragging Ken into the black hole of YouTube suggestions. He played old choreo videos, some half-forgotten battle clips, even one where Josh’s pants nearly fell mid-spin, he screamed at the memory, Ken quietly wheezed.

They laughed. Ate leftovers. Argued about which K-pop group had the best footwork. Rehearsed a few steps in mismatched socks on their dusty living room floor.

Josh threw his whole body into it, not because he wanted to go viral again, but because he wanted this, Ken beside him, things simple, silly, familiar.

And if he danced a little too hard, cracked a few too many jokes, held onto the idea just a bit too tightly—

Well. He wasn’t ready to be the one left behind.

—

The cleaning vlog had been up for just two hours, and it was already his second most-viewed upload of the month. Josh sat curled up on the beanbag chair, hoodie draped halfway off one shoulder, a bowl of popcorn in his lap, not because he was watching anything, but because snacks were his emotional support while he refreshed the comments section every thirty seconds.

The thumbnail he chose? A freeze-frame of Ken holding a mop like a sword and Josh dramatically lying on the floor, tongue out, like he’d been slain in a mop duel. Captioned: “WE CLEANED OUR APARTMENT AND NEARLY DIED 💀 (domestic chaos alert)”.

He cackled every time he scrolled past it. He scrolled through the live chat replay, snorting as usernames poured in like a flood:

✨babyken_stan: “KEN CUTTING VEGGIES IS MY LOVE LANGUAGE 😭💘”

🌈joshtronaut: “Josh talking to the mop like it’s a mic had me screaming.”

🍜kanekensoba: “the way ken just sighs in silence every time josh starts singing 😭😭😭 true soulmate behavior”

🌻ghostphobic: “u can tell they’ve lived together too long. they’re like old married chaos.”

Josh beamed, teeth and all. “That’s right,” he muttered under his breath. “Old married chaos. Emphasis on chaos.”

He leaned back and rewound a few seconds of the video, Ken walking past the camera, flicking a rag at Josh’s head with the faintest eye-roll. The audience LOVED that part. Said it looked “scripted but too natural to be fake.” Said they should “start a mini-series or a podcast.” Said Ken should show his face more. Said Ken should—

Josh blinked. Paused. More and more of the comments were about Ken. How lowkey funny he was. How attractive. How "mysterious but soft.” Someone even timestamped a clip where Ken silently shook his head while Josh danced with the vacuum. It had over 500 likes.

Josh huffed. “Unbelievable. I’m the clown. He’s the cool one. Classic.”

“Because you are the clown,” came Ken’s voice from the hallway.

Josh jumped. “You’re supposed to walk with footsteps!”

Ken shrugged, a towel around his neck, hair damp from a quick shower. He glanced at Josh’s screen. “You’re watching your own video again?”

“I call it engagement analysis,” Josh replied, tossing popcorn at him. Ken caught it mid-air without looking. Of course.

Ken started heading to his room, but paused halfway. “Nice video,” he said casually. “You cut it together well.”

Josh looked up. “You watched it?”

Ken nodded once. “I liked the part where you said I was the ‘ghost of judgment.’ Accurate.”

Josh grinned, warmth blooming in his chest. “You are the ghost of judgment. I’ve been haunted for years.”

Ken disappeared into his room with a faint snort.

Josh sat in the quiet for a beat longer, letting the last moment settle. But as he turned back to the screen, his smile wavered just a little.

More comments.

🎧neutraltwilight: “Ken’s got main character energy and doesn’t even try???”

🎥solsticebaby: “He should solo vlog. I’d watch hours of Ken doing literally anything lol”

Josh closed the laptop a little harder than necessary. “Main character energy, huh?” he mumbled.

He stared at the screen for a second more, then looked toward Ken’s closed door. He told himself it was fine. They were a duo. A pair. A team.

He just had to remind people. Maybe even remind Ken.

Tomorrow, he’d bring up the audition idea again. Make it big this time. Real. Loud. Them. Because if he kept moving, if they kept moving together, maybe things wouldn’t change.

Not yet.

—

The living room had been transformed into a low-budget dance studio. The coffee table was shoved against the wall, the rug rolled into a corner, and their bluetooth speaker—duct-taped and barely hanging on—blasted the chorus of a song they hadn’t danced to in years.

“Okay, five, six, seven—OW—Josh!”

“I said bend your knees!” Josh yelled, laughing through the pain as Ken glared at him from the floor. He had accidentally collided with a chair leg after a miscalculated spin.

Ken groaned, rubbing his hip. “Your timing is trash.”

“My spirit is committed!”

Ken didn’t respond, just sighed and stood up, shaking out his arms like he was warming up for war. His focus snapped back in, jaw set, eyes narrowed. That shift always got to Josh, how Ken could go from sleepy sloth to deadly dancer in seconds.

They restarted the routine. Josh tried to keep up, matching Ken’s rhythm, his energy, the intensity in every beat drop. But by the fourth run-through, Josh was winded. Ken wasn’t.

“You good?” Ken asked, handing him a water bottle.

“Great,” Josh wheezed. “Just dramatically dying. It’s part of the process.”

Ken didn’t laugh. He looked at Josh a little too long, towel slung over his neck, sweat clinging to his temples.

Josh threw a towel at his face. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fragile.”

“You’re stubborn.”

Josh shrugged, flopping onto the floor. “Yeah, well. I want us to nail this. Like before.”

Ken looked down at him, unreadable.

“Back then,” Josh added, “we were on fire. We made people look.”

“You still do,” Ken murmured.

Josh blinked. “What?”

Ken turned away too quickly. “Nothing.”

Josh sat there for a moment longer, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with dancing.

Later that night, Josh didn’t mean to spy. He had just gotten up for water. But as he passed by the hallway, he caught the faint sound of music, muted, steady beats coming from Ken’s room. His door was cracked slightly open. Josh paused.

Inside, Ken was rehearsing. Alone. And he was flawless.

Josh stayed in the shadows, heart suddenly caught in his throat. Ken’s movements were smooth, sharp, mesmerizing. Not just someone practicing. Someone meant to be doing this. Someone made for the stage.

He didn’t laugh like they usually did when Josh was around. Didn’t play up for the camera. He was in his world—calm, serious, beautiful. Josh felt something twist in his chest.

This was what others saw in Ken. The main character energy. The grace. The control. The kind of star quality Josh always pretended he had, just louder, messier, funnier.

And then it hit him. It wasn’t just jealousy. Not just fear.

It was that Ken could leave and he might not come back. Because Ken was outgrowing this apartment, this version of their life. Of them.

And Josh didn’t know how to function without him. Not just because Ken was his partner. Not because they danced in sync. But because…

“I’m in love with you,” Josh whispered to no one. Not even to himself, really.

He stayed there, quiet, watching Ken finish the routine with a final sharp turn. It was beautiful.

Painfully so.

Josh stepped away from the doorway, heartbeat thudding in his ears.

If Ken was a storm moving forward, then Josh had to figure out whether he could keep up or finally admit he was standing still, hoping Ken wouldn’t notice how much he mattered.

—

It was almost midnight when Josh finally turned off the lights in the living room. The only glow came from the aquarium screensaver on their TV and the soft blinking of his charging phone. Ken had gone to bed nearly an hour ago after their brief cool-down stretch. Said he was tired. Said he had early plans with some of their old groupmates.

Josh had nodded, smiled even. Said, “Okay, cool. I’ll just edit the vlog.”

He hadn’t touched it since Ken closed his door.

Now, he sat on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest, hoodie sleeves halfway covering his hands. The room felt… too big. The silence, too loud.

He stared at the empty space where Ken had stood earlier. Right where he’d done that final spin in the hallway, eyes focused on nothing and everything.

Josh ran a hand through his hair, restless.

He used to think this apartment was too small for two grown men. They used to joke about bumping into each other in the kitchen like it was a sitcom, always clashing elbows, knocking over spice jars, tripping over laundry. It used to be loud. Always full.

But lately, it felt like Ken was taking up less space. Quietly pulling himself inward. Or maybe… Josh was just afraid to admit he noticed.

He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes.

Their college days flashed in his mind, cutting classes to rehearse, staying up until 3 a.m. watching dance covers, convincing Ken to dye his hair once (it turned out green), eating cup noodles by the window, dreaming about making it.

And then… failing. Dropping out. Getting scolded by both sets of parents like they were kids again.

Ken hadn’t yelled. He never did.

He had just looked at Josh, disappointed in the way that hurt more than any screaming could. Said, “We could’ve done this better. You dragged me into this.”

Josh had laughed it off at the time. Pretended it was fine. That they’d figure it out.

But sometimes, when Ken got quiet like this—when he spent more time on his own, when he smiled a little less, when he danced alone, Josh wondered if Ken had finally outgrown him.

And maybe that was fair.

Josh was loud. Clingy. Careless with time, reckless with chances. All he ever really had was energy and charm—and both were fading now that Ken was starting to shine.

A lump sat heavy in his throat. It wasn’t just about dancing. It wasn’t even just about being left behind.

It was that everything in his life, every memory, every stupid inside joke, every version of his future, had Ken in it.

And now, Josh didn’t know how to rewrite any of that. He pressed his knuckles into his eyes, hard.

He wanted to go to Ken’s room. Knock. Say something. Anything. But what would he even say?

"Hey. Can you slow down? Just until I figure out how to breathe without you."

No. He couldn’t say that.

So instead, he stayed on the couch, watching fake fish swim in slow, lazy circles across the TV screen. Wondering how long it would take for the apartment to feel empty.

Or worse, how long it had already been.

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like garlic and soy sauce by the time Ken stepped out of his room, half-awake and blinking into the kitchen light. 

Josh was already up, spatula in hand, dancing along to the rhythm of the sizzling pan. “And the chef returns,” he greeted dramatically. “Please, sir, come rate my sad little tocilog.”

Ken scratched the back of his neck and walked over to the sink to wash his face. “It’s 8 a.m.”

“I know. I’ve been up since seven. Had to emotionally process my life through cooking.”

“You just mean you’re hungry.”

“Both can be true.”

Josh plated the food, two servings, of course, and slid Ken’s to the table without waiting for a response. He was wearing his favorite blue hoodie again, sleeves pushed up, the corners of his mouth already twitching like he was trying too hard not to be too much.

Ken sat down silently. Took a bite. Nodded.

Josh grinned. “That good, huh? Yeah, I added a little soy sauce magic. I call it ‘desperation.’”

Ken lifted an eyebrow but kept eating. Josh watched him, fingers drumming on his own plate. His mind buzzed with everything unsaid from last night, but he pushed it down, again. He couldn’t risk ruining breakfast too.

Then his phone buzzed. Loud. Then again. Then again. He reached for it, unlocking the screen and blinked at the chaos flooding in.

Twitter. Instagram. TikTok. Mentions. Tags. Edits. Reels. Comments. All the same trend.

“Whoa.”

Ken looked up, mouth full. “What?”

Josh turned his phone to show him. “We’re being summoned.”

On screen, a split-shot TikTok played. One side: fans doing a dance trend to a remix of Chris Brown’s “Under the Influence.” The other: a low-quality clip from one of their old dance battles. The caption read:

✨ “We need Josh & Ken to do THIS!! It’s giving 2019 supremacy. 🥵🔥 #joshandken comeback WHEN?!” ✨

Below it, comments exploded:

🕺 "If they don’t bring back the duo energy for this trend, I’m suing."

🎤 "Ken’s footwork + Josh’s chaos = ICONIC. DO IT."

🎬 "C’mon now, give the people what they want ."

Josh scrolled through more tags. There were dozens of them now. Some of their old followers, some new ones, hyping up the idea like it was already happening.

Ken leaned in, squinting. “We haven’t even danced together in weeks.”

Josh nodded slowly, lips pursed. Then he smirked. “Well,” he said, voice light, masking everything he felt beneath the smile, “guess we don’t really have a choice now.”

Ken stared at him for a long second.

Josh kept the grin on, because if he let it drop, even for a second, Ken might see how hard he was holding on.

Then Ken looked down at his plate again. “I’m free after lunch.”

Josh blinked. “Wait, really?”

Ken shrugged. “They’re right. It’s kind of our thing.”

Josh let out a breathy laugh, relief mixing with surprise. “Alright then,” he said, tapping his phone like it was a lifeline. “Let’s give the people what they want.”

But what he wanted, he still didn’t have the words for.

Not yet.

—

Josh set up the tripod like he always did, chaotically, with one hand holding his phone and the other adjusting the light stand that absolutely refused to behave. He muttered curses under his breath as he adjusted the angle, glancing at the viewfinder to make sure it framed just right.

Behind him, Ken was stretching in his usual slow, precise way. Like he had all the time in the world. Like his body wasn’t about to defy gravity in thirty seconds.

“Yo,” Josh called out to the camera, switching on his streaming voice. “What’s up, chaos crew! Welcome back to another episode of ‘Josh Pretends to Know What He’s Doing.’ Today, we’re dragging the elusive, mythical KenSuson.exe out of his lair to make him dance again.”

Ken didn’t look up. Just shook his head, lips twitching slightly.

Josh zoomed in on him with the phone and whispered to the mic, “Watch closely, this is the rare warm-up of the Silent Alpha. He moves only when summoned by dance or me.”

Ken finally glanced over. “You done?”

“Never.”

But when Josh turned the camera off for a second, he let it hang by his side. Quietly, he watched Ken sink into a deep stretch, arms out, muscles shifting beneath his black shirt. There was something steady about Ken. Something Josh had always relied on without realizing.

Even now, with everything changing, Ken was still moving with quiet purpose—like nothing rattled him.

Josh wished he could say the same for himself. He swallowed down the ache and cleared his throat. “Alright, superstar. You ready to embarrass me in front of the internet again?”

Ken looked up, one brow raised. “Always.”

The song started.

A deep, sultry beat that had gone viral in dozens of TikToks. But none of them looked like this. Josh and Ken, facing the mirror wall they’d temporarily stuck to their living room. The LED strip behind them lit the floor in a warm red hue, bouncing off their sneakers.

Josh popped the first move a little too early.

“Too soon,” Ken murmured, not even looking at him.

“I know, I felt it,” Josh groaned, laughing at himself. “That was, like, an eager puppy move.”

They restarted. This time, it was smoother. They hit the intro nod together, arms moving in sync, the beat catching under their skin like it used to. Ken’s body flowed like water, calculated, cool. Josh added flair, looseness, something messy but magnetic.

Halfway through the chorus, Josh messed up again. “Shit, wait, sorry! I thought we were going clockwise—”

“You always go counterclockwise.”

“Because I’m left-handed!”

“You’re not.”

“Emotionally, I am!”

Ken snorted, the rarest sound. Josh laughed too, breathless now. It felt good. Familiar. They took a breather, both leaning on their knees. Then they locked eyes.

For a moment, neither said anything. The apartment was filled with the bass of the backing track on loop, and the blinking red of the recording light. But everything else felt still. Josh’s heart thudded too loudly.

Ken didn’t break eye contact. And Josh… he didn’t want to look away. He could’ve joked. Could’ve made it light. But his mouth opened and nothing came out.

Ken finally turned to restart the music, casual as ever. But Josh stood there, chest too full.

Because dancing with Ken again, it wasn’t just muscle memory.

It was everything he missed. Everything he was afraid to lose.

—

Josh added the final caption—something cheeky, something catchy.

"They said 'bring it back,' so we did. 💃🕺#JoshAndKen #TrendComeback #UnderTheInfluenceDance"

He clicked post, locked his phone, and dramatically flopped backward on the couch like he just saved the world. “Done,” he announced.

Ken, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, just hummed. He was scrolling through his phone, cheeks still a little flushed from dancing.

Josh stretched, grabbing a nearby pillow to hug against his chest. “We still got it, you know. Like... fire. Sauce. Historic levels of drip.”

Ken didn’t even look up. “You flinched mid-spin.”

Josh narrowed his eyes. “Emotionally, I spun.”

“Sure.”

He would’ve thrown the pillow, but Ken was sipping water and the man had perfect reflexes. Unfair.

For a while, they just stayed like that, bodies relaxing into familiar silence, hearts still a little out of rhythm.

Then Josh’s phone dinged. Once. Twice. Then nonstop.

His screen lit up in bursts of notification previews:

1k+ comments on your post

“JoshAndKen” is trending in your area

Your video has 102,300 views

“You guys are legendary, don’t EVER separate.”

Josh blinked. “What,” he said, sitting up and unlocking his screen.

Ken turned to look at him just as Josh let out a choked, shocked sound. “What,” Ken repeated.

Josh turned the screen so Ken could see. Their video, barely twenty minutes old, already had over 150k views. The comment section was blowing up in real time.

“THEY’RE BACK. THE KINGS ARE BACKKKKK!!!”

“I didn’t realize how much I missed them until now 🥺”

“KEN WITH THAT FOOTWORK, HELLO??? 🔥🔥🔥”

“Josh hasn’t changed 😭 still chaotic and fine af.”

“Petition to bring them to Showtime, ASAP.”

Josh slowly lowered the phone, eyes wide. “Dude. We’re blowing up again.”

Ken exhaled, low and calm. “Kinda forgot how fast the internet moves.”

Josh didn’t respond right away. He was still scrolling. Not just at the numbers, but the energy, their energy. Old fans resurfacing. New people discovering them. Edits, duets, reposts. There was already one fancam of Ken set to a The Weeknd song. Josh had to blink that one away.

A lump settled in his throat again, the same one from last night. People loved them. Together. What happens when it’s not like that anymore?

He threw the pillow up and caught it on the way down, playing it cool. “I mean, I’m just saying. We were always ahead of our time.”

Ken cracked a smile, small but real. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Josh leaned back again, letting the moment hang in the air. Because this felt like before. Like nothing was about to change.

And maybe, just maybe, if they kept dancing… they wouldn’t have to say goodbye.

—

Their living room was a mess of tangled cords, a ring light propped against a plant, and two half-finished bowls of instant ramen on the coffee table.

But neither Josh nor Ken cared. They were live. And their TikTok stream was blowing up faster than their post ever did.

Josh had the phone propped up on a little stand in front of them, and they sat side by side on the couch—close, like always, legs touching, shoulders occasionally bumping.

Josh was scrolling through the live comments with the practiced eye of a veteran internet clown. “Okay, okay, hold up—‘ Josh blink twice if Ken forced you to dance again.’ Ma’am , I started the trend. Respect me.”

Ken, sipping from his water bottle, muttered, “That’s debatable.”

Josh turned to him with the most exaggerated offended gasp. “Excuse me? I am the heart of this operation.”

Ken didn’t even flinch. “You’re the noise.”

Josh turned back to the screen. “See what I deal with?”

The comments rolled in fast:

“This is exactly why y’all feel married.”

“KEN TALK MORE PLS.”

“Can you guys do a dare?”

“DARE TIME DARE TIMEEEE 🔥🔥🔥”

“Kiss or slap challenge!!! 😳😳😳”

Josh laughed, scanning. “Okay, here we go. ‘Ken, truth or dare.’ Ooh. You're gonna fold on cam, my guy?”

Ken raised an eyebrow. “Dare.”

Josh grinned wide. “Y’all heard that. Dare. Let’s see… someone type one that’s not gonna get us banned—ah, here: ‘Ken, whisper something in Josh’s ear and don’t let him react.’”

“Oh,” Josh said faintly, suddenly not grinning.

Ken glanced at the screen. “That’s a weird one.”

“That’s a dangerous one,” Josh muttered.

But the comments were exploding with “DO IT,” and “KEN DON’T BE BORING,” and “HE’S ALREADY BLUSHING.”

Josh wasn’t blushing. Okay, he was a little.

Ken leaned forward to glance at the phone, then leaned back with a shrug. “Fine.”

Josh turned to say something, probably “you don’t have to”—but Ken was already moving. Closer. Too close.

His lips near Josh’s ear, breath warm and steady. One hand resting casually on the couch behind Josh’s back, trapping him in. Josh froze, heart hammering. Then Ken whispered something. Soft. Low.

And when he leaned away again, Josh was staring straight ahead like he’d just forgotten how to function.

The chat exploded .

“WHAT DID HE SAY???”

“JOSH YOU’RE RED OH MY GOD”

“KEN LOOKS TOO CALM WTF”

“REVEAL THE SECRET OR ELSE 😭😭😭”

Josh covered his mouth, eyes wide. “Nope. Nope. Y’all are not getting that information. That’s classified. This stream is now a government asset.”

Ken, beside him, was fighting a smirk. His ears were red. The tip of his nose, too. Josh noticed.

The realization did not help. “You did that on purpose,” he muttered.

Ken shrugged. “You dared me.”

Josh let out a dramatic wheeze and sank deeper into the couch. “I hate you.”

Ken glanced sideways. “No, you don’t.”

Josh peeked at him, still red. Ken didn’t meet his gaze this time. Neither of them said a word after that. The stream kept rolling. But something between them had shifted. And both of them felt it.

Josh was still reeling. One second he was hosting a silly live, the next, Ken leaned in, said something that might’ve cracked his chest open, and pulled back like it was nothing.

Cool as ever. Too cool.

Meanwhile, Josh was fighting for his life on camera.

The comments weren’t helping.

“SHOW US THE EAR WHISPER FOOTAGE 😭”

“JOSH’S FACE = EXPOSED”

“KEN IS TOO SMOOTH, I’M LOSING IT”

“It’s always the quiet ones omg.”

“Is anyone else SHIPPING THEM FOR REAL???”

Josh let out a strangled laugh, hands flying in the air. “Alright, alright, y’all need to calm down before this becomes a full-blown fanfic.”

Ken snorted, finally taking his phone to scroll through the comments himself. Josh peeked at him. Still unreadable. Still annoyingly, infuriatingly perfect.

Josh groaned and dropped his head to Ken’s shoulder dramatically. “You ruined me. You ruined me live. My street cred? Gone.”

“You had street cred?” Ken asked dryly.

“You’re evil,” Josh said into his shirt.

Ken shrugged slightly, careful not to move Josh off his shoulder. “Maybe.”

The comments blew up again.

“STOP THIS IS TOO CUTE”

“JOSH. ON. HIS. SHOULDER. I’m gonna cry.”

“They’re literally boyfriends idc what anyone says.”

“Y’all better not say goodnight without clarifying what Ken said or I’m reporting this live 😡”

Josh lifted his head, face still warm. “Y’all really nosy. And emotionally unstable. Which is fair. But also—boundaries?”

Ken chuckled. “They’re invested.”

“Well, I’m invested in not combusting on camera, so let’s wrap this up.”

But he didn’t end the live. Not yet.

He looked at the screen again, saw all the hearts flooding, the comments, the usernames he remembered from old streams. People who stuck with them. People who missed them.

He looked at Ken, sitting comfortably beside him, scrolling like it was nothing. And Josh’s chest squeezed. “I’m glad we danced again,” he said, voice softer.

Ken looked up at him. Nodded once. “Yeah. Me too.”

And that was it. Josh ended the live.

The screen went black. And the moment crashed in.

—

The room was too quiet now. No chat flooding his brain. No music. No distractions. Ken had gone to shower. Josh sat on the edge of the couch, the soft whir of the ceiling fan barely filling the space.

He rubbed his hands together, fidgety. It wouldn’t stop replaying in his head.

Ken’s breath on his skin. His voice, steady, low. Not even a whisper. Almost like a confession. But the words were too soft. Or maybe Josh didn’t want to believe he heard it right.

“You always look happiest when you’re dancing with me.”

That’s what it sounded like. That’s what it felt like.

But Josh couldn’t be sure. Not really. Ken didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh afterward. He didn’t clarify. Josh groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

Why did his heart feel so loud now?

He paced the room, grabbed his phone, scrolled aimlessly, then locked it again. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about Ken that way before.

He had.

Moments quick, unspoken things. Glances that lingered. Silences that felt warm, not empty. The way Ken always showed up. The way Josh always wanted him to. But they’d always danced around it. Teased. Deflected.

Now?

Now it felt different. And Josh didn’t know what scared him more, that maybe Ken didn’t mean anything by it… or that maybe he did.

The clock on the microwave blinked 11:57 PM. Josh had showered. Dried his hair. Brushed his teeth. Changed into an oversized shirt that once belonged to Ken, maybe still did, but he’d sort of claimed it by now.

And yet… he still hadn’t turned the lights off.

He lay on his bed, legs tangled in a blanket, arms folded under his head. The apartment had gone quiet, save for the occasional honk from outside and the soft hum of Ken’s fan through the wall.

And his thoughts? Louder than ever.

That whisper. That stupid dare.

It should’ve been a joke, right? Like, something easy, “You smell like soy sauce” or “I’m stealing the last ice cream.” Not—

“You always look happiest when you’re dancing with me.”

Not that.

Josh stared up at the ceiling like it would answer him. Had Ken really said that? Did he mean it? Why say it now, of all times? When things felt like they were balancing on a string. When their videos were blowing up again. When it felt too good, and Josh knew from experience, too good doesn’t last.

He turned to his side, curled slightly into himself. Ken was always steady. Quiet. Honest in that subtle, unshakable way. If he said something, he meant it.

Josh knew that. He’d always known that.

Maybe that’s what scared him the most. Because if Ken meant it… what did that mean for them?

They were just best friends. That was the deal. Ride or die, partners in crime, two sides of the same chaotic coin. No lines. No labels. Just them.

Josh had never dared think beyond it too deeply. Until now.

Now it sat in his chest, a quiet ache. Not because it hurt. But because it mattered.

He sat up in bed and looked toward the door. Ken’s room was just across the hall. The faint strip of light under the door told Josh he was still awake.

He could knock. He could ask. He could say, “Hey. What did you mean?”

But his legs didn’t move. And his heart wouldn’t slow down. So he lay back down. Pulled the blanket to his chin. And whispered to the dark, “Please don’t leave me.”

The walls didn’t answer.

But somewhere in the silence, his own heart did.

—

The next morning, Josh came out of his room still half wrapped in his blanket, hair a storm of curls and pillow dents, eyes squinting at the brightness filtering through the curtains. He shuffled into the kitchen like a tragic ghost who hadn't emotionally recovered from yesterday's livestream.

Because, well, he hadn't.

Ken was already there, of course. Awake, dressed in his usual black hoodie and loose joggers, hair still damp from his shower. He was leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands like it was holy.

Josh didn’t say anything at first. Just poured himself some coffee and tried very hard not to think about the whisper, the flush on Ken’s ears, and the way Ken looked at him after.

But the silence didn’t help. It only made him think more.

He leaned against the counter across from Ken, sipping his coffee, quietly dying. And then it happened. 

Josh looked up. And Ken was already looking at him.

Not just glancing. Looking. Like he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to. Or maybe something he liked seeing.

Josh froze mid-sip. Ken didn’t look away. Didn’t even flinch.

And Josh’s face exploded into full-blown tomato red. “What—what?” he choked out, slamming his cup down a little too hard. “Why’re you looking at me like that?!”

Ken’s lips twitched into a barely-there smirk. “Can’t I?”

“No?” Josh said, flailing with both hands like a malfunctioning wiper blade. “Not like you were staring, dude. Like anime protagonist-level staring.”

Ken took another calm sip of coffee, unfazed. “Just checking if you’re still alive. You looked like your soul left your body after last night’s live.”

Josh groaned. “It did, okay? You whispered things and then acted like nothing happened.”

Ken tilted his head, mock-innocent. “What did I whisper again?”

Josh pointed a spoon at him. “You know what you said.”

Ken shrugged. But his smirk softened into something gentler, his eyes lingering just a bit longer than they should. Then he said, lightly, “You blush too easily.”

Josh nearly combusted on the spot. “I don’t—you’re just—stop looking at me like that!”

Ken leaned in just a touch over the counter, smug. “Like what?”

Josh squeaked. "Like you mean it!"

Ken didn’t answer right away. But his smile said enough.

Josh turned away, fanned his face with his hand, muttered under his breath, “I hate mornings. I need to reset the world.”

Ken chuckled behind him. “Next time I’ll bring a mirror. So you can see how cute you look.”

Josh nearly tripped on the rug.

Josh bolted to his room the second he finished his coffee, muttering something about checking edits but really, he just needed a solid 10 minutes to scream internally and curl up under his blanket. And maybe text someone who wouldn’t gaslight him with smug stares and teasing smiles.

Josh : emergency. your brother is being illegal again.

Justin: 👀 Is this about Ken? Did he finally shirtless-hug you in the morning?

Josh : NO. WORSE. He stared at me and SAID I BLUSH TOO EASILY

who says that with their whole chest

in the morning

while sipping coffee like a menace???

Justin : 😭😭😭

this is so real of you

but also… Josh…

he’s flirting.

Josh : what if he’s just being Ken

and I’m delulu

what if I fall first

what if I already did

what if I’m STUPID

Justin : babe you tripped and fell years ago

he’s just catching you slowly

Josh buried his face into his pillow, groaning so loudly the neighbors probably felt it. Of course Justin was right. He usually was, especially when it came to this. The problem wasn’t Ken being nice or teasing.

It was that Josh wanted it to mean something. Desperately. And that made everything feel dangerous.

That same day, they cleared out the living room like always, folding chairs stacked in the corner, rug rolled aside, couch pushed against the wall. The speakers were on. The trending audio of that Chris Brown song played on repeat.

The choreography wasn’t hard, but it required coordination, closeness, and, unfortunately, eye contact.

Josh was doomed. Ken, on the other hand, looked like he’d just walked off a dance show. Crisp tank top. Sweats low on his hips. Hair falling into his eyes.

“Again,” Ken said, reaching for the remote. “You’re behind on the drop.”

“Sorry,” Josh muttered, shaking out his limbs. “Hard to focus when someone’s breathing.”

Ken raised a brow. “You want me to stop breathing?”

“I’m just saying!” Josh whined. “You’re too—you!”

Ken smirked and took position. “Let’s go again.”

They danced. Smooth steps, sharp hits, synchronized moves that made Josh's heart beat even faster—not from cardio. But every time Ken moved close, every time they spun around each other, Josh felt it.

The heat. The gravity. And Ken, unfazed as usual, glanced at him during the beat drop with a grin like he knew.

Josh missed the next step and spun too far. He ended up bumping into the couch and collapsing into it dramatically. “I’m gonna die.”

Ken didn’t even laugh this time. He just walked over, leaned a hand on the couch, and said quietly, “You okay?”

Josh looked up, heart thudding. “Fine,” he whispered.

Ken offered him a hand. Josh took it, let himself be pulled up, and tried not to think about how warm Ken’s hand was or how long he held on before letting go.

They finally got a clean take, fifth try, maybe sixth. Josh wasn’t sure anymore; he’d blacked out halfway through from sheer emotional fatigue and Ken-induced vertigo.

But the video looked good. Really good.

Ken checked the angles. Josh added text overlays and a few flashy transitions. By the time they were done, the sun had shifted across the living room, spilling warm light on their floor like it was congratulating them.

Josh collapsed on the couch again. “So… we posting this?”

Ken tossed him a bottle of water. “You tell me. You’re the master of captions.”

Josh squinted at the screen, his finger hovering over the “Post” button on TikTok. The preview looped, Ken spinning in, Josh matching the beat drop, the moment they hit that final move side by side, both of them slightly out of breath, smiling, glowing.

They looked good together. Like always.

Josh typed:

dance challenge complete 

do we pass? #fyp #kenandjosh #dancechallenge #chrisbrowntrend

He hesitated. Then posted. “Done,” he announced, tossing his phone aside like it suddenly burned. “It’s out there. We’re officially back on the feed.”

Ken plopped beside him, arm brushing Josh’s for no good reason other than physics being evil. “Are you nervous?”

“Nope. Totally calm,” Josh lied through his teeth. “Why would I be nervous?”

Ken didn’t answer. He just smirked and started scrolling through his phone.

Josh tried to ignore the buzz. Tried. Failed. Within minutes, the notifications were piling in.

@_angelbbyyy: not me watching this 7 times in a row 😭🔥🔥🔥

@kenjosh4life: STOPPP THEY’RE GLOWING 😭 is this love??? is this CRUSHING??

@urfavduo: i need them to hold hands and drop an album. or a wedding invite idk

@fanacc_234: the way they look at each other like 😳👀💘 HELP

Josh felt heat crawl up his neck again. “Okay… people are dramatic.”

Ken, still casually scrolling, said, “They’re not wrong.”

Josh blinked. “Huh?”

Ken clicked his phone off, leaned back, and gave Josh a sideways glance, one part teasing, one part unreadable. “We do look good together.”

Josh’s heart tap-danced into his ribs. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Ken shrugged, fighting a smile. “Little bit.”

Before Josh could scream into the nearest pillow, his phone buzzed again. Another comment popped up on their video.

@justinartbabiee: ok but is no one gonna talk about how ken STARES at josh like he hung the stars in the sky

Josh threw the pillow at his phone and face-planted into the couch. Ken, behind him, laughed. Quiet and low.

Josh, muffled into the cushions, groaned, “I’m gonna block your brother.”

Ken replied smoothly, “Too late. He’s already rooting for us.”

—

The apartment was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the TV and the faint city lights peeking through the window blinds. Josh was curled up on the couch, one leg tucked under him, hoodie sleeves covering his hands as he watched the screen with glassy eyes.

The movie was old, something he’d seen before, something heartbreakingly familiar. One of those tragic romance films where everything felt soft until it didn’t. Where someone always died. And Josh, being Josh, always cried.

He thought he was going to watch alone. He planned to watch alone.

But then Ken walked in, fresh out of the shower, hair slightly damp, wearing a worn-out shirt and gray sweatpants. He glanced at the screen, tilted his head. “Is this the one where the guy gets hit by a bus?”

Josh blinked. “Yes. Why?”

Ken grabbed a throw pillow, dropped it next to Josh, and sat down without another word.

Josh stared at him. “Wait. You’re watching this? Willingly ?”

Ken shrugged, eyes on the screen. “I can sit through a little heartbreak.”

Josh’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You hate this stuff.”

“You yell at the TV,” Ken replied, unfazed. “It’s entertaining.”

Josh groaned. “Oh my god.”

But his heart was doing something dumb again, fluttering like a secondhand anime protagonist. Because Ken wasn’t even pretending to scroll on his phone. He was actually watching. Reacting. Scoffing softly at cheesy lines. Making a face when the main lead coughed blood for the first time.

And Josh couldn’t help stealing glances. Ken’s face in the TV glow looked softer. Calm. But every now and then, his brows would furrow at a particularly painful scene. His jaw would clench when the characters got too close to saying “I love you” but never did.

It was kind of…adorable.

The couch wasn’t even that wide, and their arms kept brushing. Once, when Josh shifted his leg, his knee bumped Ken’s. Neither of them moved away.

Josh tried to focus on the movie. Really. But it was hard when the person who never cared for love stories was suddenly there, watching quietly, occasionally glancing at him during emotional scenes like he was trying to see how Josh was feeling.

And then came that scene. The one where the dying character confesses everything with a smile, even as tears stream down their face.

Josh was fully wrecked, eyes watery, hugging the pillow to his chest. And Ken? Ken just reached out and wordlessly handed him a tissue.

Josh blinked at it. Then at Ken. “You knew I’d cry,” he said, half accusing, half shy.

Ken didn’t look away. “Of course.”

Josh swallowed. “You really hate this genre.”

Ken leaned back, arm resting along the back of the couch, dangerously close, warm and casual. “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “But I don’t mind it with you.”

Josh’s breath caught.

The TV kept playing, but he barely heard it now.

Ken was still watching the screen, but his fingers twitched just slightly, like he wanted to do something more. Like maybe, if Josh leaned just a little closer—

Josh didn’t move. He was scared he might ruin it. So instead, he just whispered, “Thanks for staying.”

And Ken, still watching the screen, replied quietly, “Always.”

The apartment was silent. Too silent.

Josh lay in bed, eyes wide open, phone resting on his chest, untouched for the last hour. The movie had ended long ago. Ken had stood, stretched, yawned, and quietly mumbled something about turning in for the night. Josh had nodded, pretending he was sleepy too.

But now it was almost 1 a.m., and the only thing Josh could hear was the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and his own spiraling thoughts.

He rolled to his side, pulling the blanket higher over his shoulders. His chest still felt tight. Not from the movie. Not entirely, anyway.

He'd cried, sure. But it wasn’t just the fictional heartbreak. It was Ken. Sitting next to him. Watching the film. Knowing the exact moment he’d cry. Offering him tissues. Staying. Without teasing. Without complaining. Without a single eye roll.

And that moment, when Ken had said, “But I don’t mind it with you.”

Josh’s hand went to his chest. Pressed down like he could hold everything in place. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what it meant when someone looked at you like that. When someone leaned close and didn’t pull away. When someone noticed your crying before you even felt the tear.

But it was Ken. His Ken. The Ken who had been with him since high school. Through dance battles, failed college attempts, all-nighters editing videos, endless road trips to nowhere, and every version of Josh there ever was.

And now, he didn’t know how to be without him.

Josh blinked up at the ceiling. His throat felt tight again. He realized then that it wasn’t just about the movie, or the TikTok dares, or even the way Ken’s fingers always brushed his when they danced.

It was this quiet. The kind that only existed when Ken wasn’t in the room. And he hated it. He missed him even though he was just down the hall. He wanted to laugh at that. Maybe cry again. Instead, Josh unlocked his phone and opened his chat with Justin.

Josh : tell me to shut up

Justin : why what did he do now

Josh : nothing

that’s the problem

he sat next to me and did nothing

and i still feel like i’m about to burst into confetti

Justin : josh.

that man watched a romance movie with you

you’ve been trying to get him to do that since 2020

Josh : i know i know

it was so domestic i almost died

Justin : did he lean in

Josh : HE RESTED HIS ARM BEHIND ME

and said “i don’t mind it with you”

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN JUSTIN

Justin: that you’re in love

and he is too

and you’re both dumb

Josh stared at the screen for a long time. Then whispered to no one, “Yeah. I think I am.”

He closed his eyes. And for the first time in weeks, even without Ken in the room, he fell asleep smiling.

Chapter Text

Josh woke up feeling like a balloon stretched too tight. He stretched under the blanket, blinking against the morning light filtering in through the kitchen window. The smell of garlic and butter wafted into the bedroom, warm and homey, and it hit him: Ken was already awake.

Josh dragged himself out of bed, hair a mess, hoodie half falling off his shoulder, and shuffled barefoot toward the kitchen.

Ken was there, in his usual silent rhythm, cooking like it was part of his morning routine, barefoot and quiet in their tiny kitchen, an apron slung on carelessly over his oversized shirt. The rice cooker hummed beside him. Eggs sizzled in the pan. Garlic fried in oil, golden and popping.

Josh leaned on the doorway, watching him. His heart squeezed again. He remembered last night. The tissue. The line: “I don’t mind it with you.” The way they almost touched. The way he slept smiling.

Josh didn’t know what to do with himself now.

Ken turned slightly, catching sight of him. “You’re up.”

Josh rubbed his eyes. “You’re cooking again? I was supposed to do breakfast today.”

“You said that last week,” Ken replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And the week before that.”

“Okay, ouch,” Josh mumbled, lips quirking. “You wound me so early.”

Ken handed him a bowl of sliced tomatoes. “You can help. Unless you want to be decorative.”

Josh took the bowl, grateful for something to do. He set it on the table and hovered close—too close maybe—but Ken didn’t say anything.

Josh cleared his throat. “Last night, uh…”

Ken glanced at him briefly, then back to the eggs. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t hate the movie?”

Ken shrugged. “It was okay.”

Josh raised a brow. “You cried, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You totally cried.”

Ken scoffed. “That was allergies.”

Josh smirked, leaning into the kitchen counter, now braver. “From the emotions.”

Ken rolled his eyes. “From the pillow, dumbass.”

Josh laughed, light and easy, but inside he was flailing.

He watched as Ken plated the food, placing garlic rice, sunny-side up eggs, and longganisa neatly side by side like it was second nature. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable—but it buzzed. Like there were words sitting at the edge of everything.

Josh wanted to say thank you. He wanted to say you didn’t have to sit through that movie, but you did. He wanted to say I think I like you more than I should.

But instead, he poured water into their glasses and said, “You still remember to cut the tomatoes just the way I like.”

Ken gave him a quick, unreadable look. “Of course I do,” he said simply.

And Josh’s heart nearly gave out over tomatoes.

Later that afternoon, they went live on TikTok again. It was supposed to be casual. A short stream. Answer a few questions. Say hi. Smile. Leave.

They were sitting side by side on the couch, phones propped up on their makeshift tripod (a ring light duct-taped to a lamp stand), their fans immediately flooding in with hearts and comments.

Josh grinned at the screen. “What’s up, everyone! Yes, yes, we do look good today, thank you very much.”

Ken, sipping on iced coffee, just shook his head.

Josh nudged him. “Say hi, Ken.”

Ken waved, deadpan. “Hi, Ken.”

Josh groaned. “You’re fired.”

Ken shrugged. “You can’t afford me.”

The comments exploded.

@fangirlhysteria: STOP THEY’RE ALREADY BICKERING

@kenandjosh4ever: they cooked breakfast together don’t lie we saw the tomato pic

@emowaffle: josh looks at ken like he’s the sun omg 😭😭😭

@chaotic_duo_stan: DARE TIME DARE TIME DARE TIME 👀👀👀👀👀

Josh blinked. “Wait what—no—guys—"

Too late.

@lovelocal_23: DARE: Ken, whisper something that will make Josh blush. 😳😳😳😳😳

Ken slowly set his coffee down. Looked at Josh.

Josh froze. “Don’t you dare—”

Ken leaned in. Voice low. Soft. Only for Josh’s ears. He said something. Josh flushed instantly. Red. Full-body shutdown. His mouth opened. No sound came out.

The comments went feral.

@crimsonblushhh: HE’S RED HE’S RED HE’S RED

@iknowwhatyouwhispered: what did he SAYYYYY

@vibewrecker: JOSH IS FLUSTERED I REPEAT—FLUSTERED

Ken leaned back, smug. Calm. Dangerous.

Josh was still short-circuiting. “What—what the hell, man?!”

Ken looked at the camera. “He asked for it.”

“I did not—!” Josh buried his face in his hands. “This is cyberbullying.”

Ken raised a brow, whispering, “You’re still red.”

“Shut up!”

The fans were living for it. Josh was dying inside. And somewhere in that chaotic swirl of hearts and laughter, Josh’s heart whispered what his lips couldn’t: I want you to whisper to me like that forever.

The phone screen dimmed as the live ended. Hearts stopped floating. Comments stopped flashing. The chaotic energy dissolved into stillness.

Josh leaned back on the couch, face still burning, eyes wide in post-flustered silence. He could feel the ghost of Ken’s breath on his ear, like it hadn’t happened just seconds ago. Like it was still happening.

He covered his face with both hands, muffled a dramatic groan. “I can’t believe you did that.”

Ken didn’t respond immediately. He was busy sipping the last of his iced coffee like he hadn’t just publicly broken Josh’s emotional firewall with three whispered words.

Josh peeked through his fingers. “You’re really not gonna explain?”

Ken shrugged. “It was part of the dare.”

“Yeah, but—” Josh flopped sideways on the couch. “You whispered something . And I need to know , Ken. Because I’ve replayed it in my head like, fifteen times already, and it’s driving me insane.”

Ken glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Why?”

Josh blinked. “Because—because you know how I get! You can’t just whisper and leave me on edge like some unfinished anime arc!”

Ken smirked slightly. “You’re that desperate?”

Josh sat up, jabbing a finger in his direction. “I am not desperate. I am... curious. Deeply. Emotionally. Fatally curious.”

Ken chuckled, actually chuckled, the sound low and rare and absolutely not helping Josh’s situation. He set his coffee down, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

Josh’s breath hitched.

Ken looked at him, not teasing this time. Just... looking. Steady and sure.

“Fine,” he said. “I said... ‘You’re cute when you’re trying not to fall in love with me.’”

The room felt too small. Too quiet. Too bright. Too everything. Josh couldn’t breathe. He stared at Ken. Waiting for the punchline. Waiting for the smirk. Waiting for him to laugh and say just kidding.

It never came. Ken leaned back again, calm as ever. “You asked.”

Josh swallowed. “You—Ken—what the hell.”

“You blushed so hard I thought your soul was leaving your body.”

“I thought it was,” Josh whispered.

Ken tilted his head, gaze still soft. “You okay?”

Josh laughed weakly. “No. No, I’m not. Because—because you can’t just say that, man. You can’t. That’s illegal. And—"

“You don’t believe it?”

Josh opened his mouth. Closed it. The real answer? Yes. He did believe it. He’d been believing it for a while now.

But saying that out loud? That was terrifying. Josh ran a hand through his hair, heart thudding. “I just... I didn’t think you noticed.”

Ken’s voice was gentler now. “Josh. I’ve always noticed.”

Josh looked up and this time, he didn’t look away.

He should have.

He wanted to.

But Ken’s words—“I’ve always noticed”—hung too heavy in the air, thick with meaning Josh wasn’t sure he could survive.

His heart was thundering. His palms were sweating. His throat? Dry. Like he’d swallowed a desert whole. He opened his mouth, ready to say something—anything—to touch that truth floating between them.

But the words never made it. Instead, something inside him recoiled. Shrunk. He wasn’t ready.

Not yet. So, he did what Josh Santos did best. He laughed. Too loud. Too sudden. Too obviously fake. “Wow,” he said, standing up like his legs hadn’t gone numb. “Okay. That’s... that’s a line. That’s a good one. Maybe you should be the vlogger now.”

Ken looked up at him, unmoving. Expression unreadable again, lips drawn in a quiet line.

Josh busied himself with cleaning up the streaming mess, grabbing the ring light, wrapping cords that didn’t need wrapping. “Anyway,” he continued, tone forced-casual, “I was thinking... maybe we should try auditioning again.”

Ken blinked. “What?”

Josh shrugged, pretending the knot in his stomach didn’t tighten. “You know. For that dance competition. The one that’s coming up next month? They’re opening a duo category again. I saw it earlier while doomscrolling.”

He kept talking. Filling the air with nonsense. Because silence meant thinking. And thinking meant feeling. “We could film something new,” he said, stacking their phones together. “Not just a TikTok cover. Maybe a real choreo this time. Something we make from scratch, like the old days. You know, before we dropped out and ruined our GPAs and got disowned by your mom.”

Ken didn’t say anything for a while. Josh risked a glance at him. Ken was still watching him, head slightly tilted, like he was seeing too much.

Josh’s hands stilled. Ken finally stood and walked over, his steps slow, measured.

“Josh,” he said, voice quiet but firm, “you don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Josh’s breath hitched, panic fluttering behind his ribs. “I know,” he said. “But can we—can we just not talk about it right now?”

Ken paused. Then gave the faintest nod. “Okay.”

Josh exhaled in silent relief. He reached for their little whiteboard near the fridge and scribbled:

Audition: August 20

Josh & Ken – Let’s do this properly.

Ken looked over his shoulder. “That’s a month away.”

Josh grinned, almost convincing. “Plenty of time to make magic.”

Ken didn’t smile, but he nodded again. “Then let’s make something worth remembering.”

Josh tried to hold onto that.

To this, the task, the goal, the distraction.

Because if he let himself linger too long on the other thing… He might say what he’s not ready to say.

Like I’m scared I’m being left behind.

Like What if you go and I stay and you never come back the same?

Like I think I love you, but I don’t even love myself yet.

So instead, he held the marker like a sword and declared, “Tomorrow, we rehearse. I’m making playlists. We’re bringing the A-game. No TikTok lives until we get our form back.”

Ken raised a brow. “You’re serious about this?”

Josh met his gaze and, for a moment, let the bravado slip, just a little. “I need something to be serious about.”

And Ken, soft-eyed, simply said, “Then let’s take it seriously.”

The apartment was dark. Ken had gone to bed early, headphones on, curled up with his latest manga. Josh sat on the kitchen floor, back against the fridge, phone glowing dimly in his hands.

The call connected with a sleepy groan on the other end.

“Bro, it’s almost midnight,” Justin grumbled. “Someone better be dying.”

“I might be.”

“Josh.”

“I’m kidding. Kind of.” Josh paused. “You busy?”

“Now I am. What’s going on?”

Josh exhaled, scratching at a loose thread on his shorts. “Ken said something earlier. On live.”

“Oh?”

Josh hesitated. “He whispered something like... ‘You’re cute when you’re trying not to fall in love with me.’”

Silence.

“...Damn,” Justin said at last. “That’s smooth.”

Josh groaned and smacked his forehead against the fridge. “Why did he say that? What was I supposed to do with that?!”

“Maybe... talk to him?”

“I can’t, Jah,” Josh whispered. “I—I’m not ready for that.”

“You like him, though.”

Josh squeezed his eyes shut. “I know.”

“Then why are you running from it?”

“Because I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I dropped out. I messed up our grades. I make videos for people to laugh at me. I dance to trends. I talk too much. I act like I’m okay when I’m not. And Ken, he’s getting scouted. He’s got plans now. Goals. A real future.”

Justin was quiet again, then said gently, “That doesn’t mean he’s leaving you, Josh.”

“I don’t know how to be without him,” Josh said, voice cracking. “I’m scared he’ll outgrow me.”

A pause. Then, “You know what I think?” Justin said. “I think you’ve always known he wouldn’t leave you. But maybe this time... you’re scared because you know you’d let him go. Even if it breaks you.”

Josh covered his face, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes. “Jah,” he murmured. “That’s not helping.”

“I know,” Justin said, soft. “But maybe it’s time you stop asking what Ken’s going to do and start figuring out what you want.”

Josh stayed there on the floor, in the quiet, long after the call ended.

—

The morning light streamed in through their apartment windows, dust catching gold in the air. Josh stood in front of the living room mirror they’d leaned against the wall years ago. It was cracked in one corner, but it had always been theirs, their practice mirror, their witness to every step, every stumble, every win.

Ken joined him, tying his hair up into a small ponytail. He looked focused, calm. Josh, on the other hand, was buzzing, half from nerves, half from the ache in his chest still lingering from last night.

“Wanna warm up with the old routine?” Ken asked.

Josh gave a little smile. “Only if you don’t laugh when I mess up.”

Ken smirked. “I will laugh.”

Josh rolled his eyes. “I hate you.”

But they started anyway, music low from a speaker, steps instinctual, muscle memory kicking in. The routine was familiar, rough around the edges, but their bodies knew how to move together.

Like breathing. Like second nature.

At one point, Josh stumbled on a turn and crashed into Ken. They nearly toppled over, laughing, Josh’s hands on Ken’s chest, Ken’s arms steadying him by the waist.

For a second, they stayed like that. Breathing. Close. Then Josh pulled back, laughing too loudly again. “Okay! Reset! We’re out of sync.”

Ken raised a brow but didn’t argue. He hit replay on the track. They danced again. This time, Josh let himself get lost in it.

In the way their steps mirrored each other. In the way Ken moved, sharp and fluid and quietly beautiful. And just before the end of the song, there was a lift, a step they hadn’t done in years. Josh hesitated.

Ken noticed. “Trust me,” he said.

Josh nodded. Breathed in. Then moved.

Ken caught him, like always. Held him steady. Brought him back down.

And when they landed, Josh looked up at him, sweat on his brow, heartbeat thudding, and saw it again in Ken’s eyes.

That thing. That waiting. Josh looked away first this time.

But his chest whispered, Not yet. But maybe soon.

—

Josh’s camera sat propped on their bookshelf, angled just wide enough to catch the living room space turned makeshift studio. He checked the frame one last time before hitting record.

“Okay,” he said into the lens, clapping his hands together. “So we haven’t done this in a while, but... welcome back to chaos! Today’s episode: Josh and Ken try to remember how knees work.”

Ken, already stretching in the background, muttered, “I regret everything.”

Josh grinned. “Too late. You signed the imaginary contract. You’re stuck with me.”

The video rolled for over an hour, through warm-ups, old-school routines, and a new choreography draft Josh had started piecing together the night before. There were bumps, of course. Josh messed up footwork and cursed under his breath. Ken called him out with a lazy smirk. At one point, they both collapsed laughing when Josh slid too far and knocked over their standing fan.

But what the video captured in between the laughter was... something else.

A lingering look when Ken caught Josh mid-stumble. The way Josh’s eyes softened every time Ken nailed a move. The little grin Ken fought down when Josh danced too hard, too dramatically, just to make him laugh.

Josh didn’t notice any of it, at least not while editing. He cut together the fun parts, left in some bloopers for charm, added lo-fi background music, and uploaded it by late afternoon with a title that read:

“JOSH & KEN: Relearning Dance (and How to Not Fall Flat on Our Faces)”

He didn’t expect much. Maybe the usual few thousand views, some teasing in the comments, fans asking about his hoodie or Ken’s playlist.

But what he got instead was…

💬 @minsoyeon__: “the way ken looks at josh??? this is a romcom and i want SEASON 2”

💬 @joshken4ever: “someone slowmo the part where josh falls and ken just— catches him like a kdrama ML 😭😭”

💬 @chaoticduo_edits: “me: not shipping real ppl me after this video: 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️”

💬 @replayreplayreplay: “timestamp 6:42. josh smiles at ken like he hung the damn moon.”

💬 @notjoshfan (🤡): “ken looks like he’s in love and josh looks like he doesn’t realize he’s already fallen.”

Josh read them all. On the couch. In the dark. Ken, still in the shower. And suddenly... he couldn’t breathe. Because they saw it. They saw what he hadn’t been ready to admit to himself.

What he was still running from. What he felt every time Ken reached out and Josh flinched back, afraid of breaking something neither of them dared name.

He locked his phone and set it on the table, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in a long while, Josh didn’t feel like the loud, chaotic one holding everything together. He just felt... exposed.

And maybe a little bit scared.

The lights were off, save for the faint glow from the kitchen and the blinking blue LED on Josh’s camera. He sat cross-legged on the floor of their bedroom, hoodie over his head, hair still damp from a rushed shower. The room was quiet, Ken had gone out for a walk, said he needed air. Josh didn’t ask why.

He didn’t press record right away.

Instead, he just... stared at the lens. At the way his reflection stared back through the screen, tired, unguarded, all the shine stripped off. Then, finally, he hit record.

“Hey,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t for YouTube. Not for TikTok. Not even for some secret Patreon tier. This is just... me. Trying to get it out.”

He exhaled, long and shaky. Rested his chin on his hand.

“You ever feel like the person you were supposed to become got lost somewhere? Like... I had dreams, you know? I really did. We were gonna dance. We were gonna perform all over. Make people smile. I really thought that’d be enough.”

He gave a small laugh, eyes glassy. “And then it wasn’t. Or I wasn’t. And I dragged Ken with me. We failed. We dropped out. I became a loud mess on the internet and he stayed steady. He never blamed me, not really. But I saw it in his eyes. I still see it.”

Josh leaned back, voice getting quieter. “I keep thinking if I’m loud enough, if I keep dancing, keep smiling, then maybe people won’t see how scared I am. But Ken sees it. He’s always seen through me. He notices the parts I want to hide.”

His voice cracked at the edges. “I think I’m in love with him.”

Silence.

“I don’t know when it happened. Maybe when we first met. Maybe when we almost failed our finals ‘cause we skipped for a dance battle. Or maybe the first time he stayed quiet when I was having a breakdown and just sat beside me ‘til I fell asleep.”

Josh swallowed hard. “But I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t have a plan. I’m not ready. I feel like a half-finished version of someone who used to have it all figured out. And he... he’s going. He’s moving forward. And I’m still here, spinning.”

The corners of his mouth trembled. “What if he outgrows me?”

Josh closed his eyes. Breathed in slowly. Then opened them again. “I want to tell him. I really do. But if I say it and he leaves, I don’t think I’d survive that.”

He reached forward and stopped the recording. Didn’t even watch it back. He just saved the file in a private folder, named it “not yet.mp4,” and shut the laptop.

The room stayed quiet. The camera light blinked once more. Then it disappeared.

—

The morning sun painted soft gold across the floor of their living room, but Josh felt anything but warm.

He was already setting up the speaker, cueing their playlist, stretching his arms dramatically like he hadn’t just confessed to his camera the night before that he was unraveling from the inside out.

“You ready?” Josh asked with forced energy, bouncing a little on his toes.

Ken raised a brow, sipping from his mug. “You’re up early.”

“Trying to be productive,” Josh said, flashing him a smile that felt stiff around the edges. “We’ve got like, what, a week before the next round of that dance challenge ends? Gotta ride the algorithm, bro.”

Ken gave a nod, but his eyes didn’t leave Josh’s face. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Yup.” Too quick.

“Didn’t hear you come to bed.”

Josh shrugged. “Just had trouble sleeping. Watched a few interviews. Listened to a podcast. You know. The usual insomnia spiral.”

Ken said nothing, just set his mug down and joined him on the mat.

They started with warm-ups. Familiar moves. Simple stretches. Their bodies moved in sync like they always had—but Josh’s rhythm was off. Just barely. A beat too early here. A step too sharp there. He caught himself hesitating every time their hands brushed, flinching at the closeness he’d always leaned into before.

Ken noticed. “Hey,” he said, mid-count. “You’re dancing weird.”

Josh froze. “I’m not dancing weird.”

“You’re tensing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re not breathing.”

“I am breathing, Ken. I’m literally talking right now—”

“Josh.”

Josh exhaled, loud and annoyed, stepping back to grab his water bottle and sip too fast. “I’m just distracted, okay? My head’s all over the place. It’s not a big deal.”

Ken crossed his arms. “Then talk to me.”

Josh stayed silent.

Ken’s voice softened. “You can’t keep hiding behind routines and ring lights.”

Josh clenched the bottle in his hand. He wanted to say I’m fine. He wanted to laugh, to change the subject, to do anything but stand there and unravel again.

Instead, he muttered, “I’m just tired.”

“Of what?”

Josh looked up. His voice barely came out. “Of not knowing where I’m going.”

Ken stepped closer, but Josh moved past him, rewinding the track. “Let’s just run it again, okay? I’ll get it this time.”

Ken didn’t push. He just nodded slowly and took his place beside him.

The music started. The beat kicked in. And Josh danced. Harder than he needed to. Sharper than the choreo required.

But every move was a way to hold himself together. Every step, a desperate attempt to keep the ache from spilling out of him.

And Ken, he danced beside him, quiet, steady. Watching. Waiting.

Because he knew: Josh wasn’t just dancing.

He was pleading .

Don’t look too close.

Don’t ask yet.

Don’t leave me behind.

—

Josh lay flat on the couch, the choreo still echoing in his limbs. His hoodie was pulled up over his head like a shield, one arm hanging off the side as his phone hovered inches from his face.

He wasn’t crying. Just... sweating from the soul. Emotionally.

The dance had left him more tired than he’d expected. Not physically but emotionally. He hadn’t danced like that in months, not with Ken that close, not with his own thoughts crawling over every move like static in his brain.

So, like a true millennial emotional avoider, Josh did what he knew best, he opened TikTok. Notifications flooded his screen, likes, reposts, fan tags. Their last video had blown up. Over 80k views in less than 24 hours. The comment section was chaos. The duets? Even more so.

But what made him pause were the fan edits.

🎬 @joshken_loops: “the way they look at each other... don’t tell me they’re just friends.”

🎧 Edit song: Until I Found You by Stephen Sanchez

📍 Slowmo of Josh laughing mid-spin while Ken steadied him by the waist.

Josh blinked. Scrolled.

🎬 @multistancenoona: “when one is the storm and the other the calm 🥹”

🎧 Song: Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls

📍 Crossfades of Ken watching Josh from behind the camera, smiling.

🎬 @kenjosh.is.real: “this is love and i will not be taking arguments”

🎧 Song: You’re in Love by Taylor Swift

📍 Clip of them practicing in sync, ending on Ken’s soft look at Josh, looped.

Josh watched in silence. Watched himself on screen, smiling, laughing, bumping into Ken and pretending it was all a joke. But the camera didn’t lie. His eyes didn’t lie.

“God,” he muttered, sinking deeper into the couch, heart in his throat. “I’m so screwed.”

His thumb hovered over a duet request. He didn’t post one. He hovered over a comment reply. He typed out “LMAO y’all are too much 😭” and then deleted it.

Because they weren’t wrong. They saw it.

They saw everything he was trying so hard to keep buried. The way he looked at Ken. The way he froze when their fingers brushed. The way his laugh changed depending on how close Ken was standing.

He opened his camera app. His reflection stared back with tired eyes, flushed cheeks, that same knot in his throat.

He whispered into the silence, like it might echo back some clarity, “Is it really that obvious?”

The silence didn’t answer. But the comments had.

💬 “Your heart’s showing, Josh.”

💬 “You’re in love with your best friend.”

💬 “When are you gonna tell him?”

Josh locked his phone. Not today. Maybe not ever.

But the truth was pounding louder than the bass from any dance track he’d choreographed and for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he could dance around it anymore.

—

Three days before the audition.

Their small apartment had transformed into a rehearsal warzone meaning cushions stacked against the wall, coffee table shoved aside, water bottles sweating on the kitchen counter. The mirror they propped up from Ken’s old closet door was foggy with heat and movement.

Josh stood in front of it, shirt damp, chest rising and falling. Ken was behind him, stretching his arms overhead.

“From the top?” Ken asked, voice calm. Focused.

Josh nodded. “Yeah. Let’s clean that transition in the second chorus.”

Music blared again, bass heavy, their custom mix of a Chris Brown medley with sharp cuts and dramatic tempo changes. They'd been working on this routine for weeks. Every beat was precision. Every move required chemistry.

But Josh…He was off today.

He was always half a second too slow or too sharp, and the frustration was bleeding into his posture. He missed a slide, stumbled out of a spin, and swore under his breath.

Ken noticed. Of course, he did.

“Breathe,” Ken said mid-step, not unkindly. “You’re rushing the groove.”

“I know I’m rushing,” Josh snapped before catching himself. He sighed and rubbed his face. “Sorry. I'm just tired.”

Ken stepped closer, a towel in one hand. “Tired or nervous?”

Josh snatched the towel, wiping his neck, avoiding eye contact. “What’s there to be nervous about? We’ve done this a million times.

Ken didn’t press. He just restarted the music.

This time, they nailed the intro. Their bodies moved like water, fluid, sharp, in sync like they were born from the same rhythm. The chemistry was electric. Their steps met in perfect timing. When Ken caught Josh in a lift and helped him land, they locked eyes for a heartbeat longer than the beat required.

Josh’s breath caught. Ken smirked slightly, then spun away for the next count. Josh missed his cue entirely.

They stopped. The music continued. “You alright?” Ken asked again, panting lightly.

Josh forced a laugh. “I’m just being dramatic. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Ken tilted his head, unconvinced.

Josh shook out his limbs, backing toward the water bottles. “Can we run the bridge again? I keep losing the rhythm on that elbow-twist-slide part.”

Ken didn’t say it, but his gaze lingered long enough for Josh to feel seen. Too seen.

Later that night, after their fifth run-through and a messy dinner of takeout and protein shakes, they sprawled across the floor, backs against the couch. The fan buzzed softly. Ken was reviewing the video from rehearsal on his phone.

Josh leaned in, watching their bodies on-screen. “Damn,” he muttered. “We look good.”

Ken hummed. “You looked distracted.”

Josh chuckled dryly. “Maybe I was.”

Ken didn’t respond right away. He just looked at Josh. Not the video. Not the screen. But Josh.

And for a second, Josh wondered if Ken knew everything, the late-night confessional, the scrolling edits, the way his heart slammed against his ribs every time they got too close.

Then Ken quietly said, “Whatever it is that’s eating at you… I hope you’ll let me help.”

Josh smiled, tight and tired. “Let’s kill the audition first. Then maybe I’ll let you shrink me.”

Ken scoffed. “I’d be the worst therapist.”

Josh nudged his shoulder. “But probably the best dance partner I’ve ever had.”

That made Ken smile. “Probably?”

Josh smirked back. “Definitely.”

And for a moment, the air between them stilled. Heavy with unspoken things. Until Josh stood, clapping once. “Alright! One more run before bed. Let’s go, Suson!”

Ken rolled his eyes but stood, stretching out his arms. They returned to their mark. And danced—

Like it might be the last time they ever got to do this. Together.

—

The city was already buzzing when they stepped out of the cab.

Josh adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and squinted up at the towering building ahead—mirrored glass reflecting the sharp morning sun, the massive banner over the entrance reading: “Next Pulse: National Talent Show — Metro Auditions Today”

A line was already forming. Dancers in sweats and matching jackets stretched on the steps. Singers rehearsed harmonies. Josh felt the pulse of it all in his bones—chaotic, electric, and a little suffocating.

Ken was calm beside him. Like always. “You good?” he asked.

Josh laughed through the nerves. “Define good.”

Ken smirked. “Breathing, not throwing up.”

“Then yeah. Barely.”

They walked toward registration. Josh fidgeted the whole time, spinning his phone, checking their audio track for the third time, tapping his foot. Ken, meanwhile, leaned casually against the wall, sipping from a giant bottle of water like he was waiting for a bus.

“You ever get nervous?” Josh asked suddenly.

Ken shrugged. “Only when I think you might fall during a spin.”

Josh narrowed his eyes. “Rude.”

Ken just grinned.

They were called into the holding area twenty minutes later. The space buzzed with fluorescent lights and nerves. Josh bounced on his heels, doing a quiet vocal warm-up out of habit, even though he wasn’t singing. Ken stood still, eyes closed, breathing deep. He always did that before a performance, like he was grounding himself.

Then, the door creaked open. “Team 28. Santos and Suson. You’re up.”

Josh’s throat went dry. Ken gave him a small nod. “Let’s do this.”

Inside the audition room, the space was big—polished wood floors, black walls, a judging panel seated at the front with clipboards and unimpressed expressions. Cameras were set up in the corners. Stage lights cast sharp shadows on the floor.

Their names were called.

Josh stepped forward, flashing a grin that felt half-genuine. “Hi! I’m Josh Santos, and this is Ken Suson. We’re dancing a mash-up piece we choreographed ourselves.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” one of the judges said without looking up.

The music started and just like that, the nerves melted away.

Their bodies moved like magnets, pull-push, swing-twist, drop-catch. Josh hit every beat with flare, and Ken grounded it with precision. They were fluid chaos and control, passion and restraint. Each transition was seamless. Each contact sparked.

When Josh spun and landed in Ken’s catch, the room watched. When their final step echoed against the floor and they hit their ending pose—back-to-back, breathless—the silence was thick.

Then, applause. Polite, but real.

One judge leaned forward. “That was clean. Tight musicality, and you two have chemistry. Are you a performance duo outside of this?”

Josh opened his mouth.

Ken beat him to it. “We live together. Been dancing together since high school.”

Another judge nodded. “That explains it. Very natural synchronicity. We’ll be in touch.”

They bowed, said thank you, and walked out.

The moment the door shut behind them, Josh screamed into his hands. “OH MY GOD, WE DID IT. WE ACTUALLY DID IT.”

Ken smiled, calm as ever, but the light in his eyes gave him away. “We did good.”

Josh shoved him lightly. “You smiled back there. I saw that. You were feeling it.”

“I was focused.”

“You smiled like a proud parent. You were vibing.”

Ken shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Let’s just wait for the callback before you plan our Grammy speech.”

Josh grinned. But underneath the excitement, the truth twisted in his chest.

Because what if this wasn’t their callback? What if it was Ken’s? What if this audition wasn’t the start of their next chapter but the start of letting go?

Chapter Text

They didn’t go home right away.

Instead, they ended up in a ramen place three blocks from the audition venue, one of those small, wood-paneled joints with fogged-up windows and the scent of miso and grilled pork hanging in the air. The kind of place you go to when the world feels too loud and you just want something hot in your hands and someone familiar across from you.

Josh slumped into the booth first, arms sprawled over the table. “My legs are gonna file a resignation letter.”

Ken sat across from him, sliding off his jacket. “You always complain after dancing. Every single time.”

“Yeah, but this one’s legit pain. I saw my life flash before my eyes during that second chorus.”

Ken didn’t answer, just reached over and flicked Josh’s forehead, sharp and soft all at once.

“Hey!”

“Stop being dramatic and order your food.”

Josh pouted exaggeratedly, flipping through the menu like he hadn’t already memorized it.

While waiting for the food, they scrolled through clips Josh had sneakily asked someone to record during their performance. The angles were shaky, but it didn’t matter. The rawness made it real.

Josh stared at the screen, watching them, the way they moved, the way they looked at each other. It was everything he ever wanted to be: unafraid, alive, side by side with Ken.

“Can’t believe we actually did it,” he murmured, resting his chin on his hand.

Ken looked up from his water. “I can.”

Josh’s eyes flicked toward him.

Ken added, “You were great, by the way. Like really on it today.”

The compliment hit him square in the chest. Josh tried to cover it with a laugh. “Well, when I’m dancing with the best, gotta level up, y’know?”

Ken rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched like he was holding back a smile.

Their food arrived, steaming bowls of ramen, gyoza on the side, and two large iced teas that clinked softly as they dug in. Josh took a loud, satisfied slurp, earning a mildly annoyed look from Ken.

“This,” Josh said, between bites, “is the real win. Food after a good performance.”

Ken nodded. “And a long nap after.”

Josh paused, chopsticks mid-air. “You’re not really gonna sleep when we get home, are you?”

Ken shrugged, casual. “You’ll be editing the vlog or screaming on TikTok anyway.”

“Rude. But accurate.”

A soft lull passed between them, the quiet kind that came with full bellies and soft lighting. Outside, the city kept moving. But here, time felt suspended. Like the universe knew Josh wasn’t ready to move on from this day yet.

He watched Ken laugh at something dumb he said, eyes crinkling, fingers pushing back a stray strand of hair. Don’t forget this, Josh told himself. This version of him. This moment. This feeling.

Because he knew somewhere deep in his gut that change was coming. And fast.

But tonight, Ken was still here. Still across the table. Still laughing with him like the world outside didn’t matter.

Josh raised his glass. “To us,” he said.

Ken blinked at him. “What’s this? A drama line?”

“Shut up and cheer me.”

Ken chuckled, clinked their glasses. “To us,” he echoed.

And Josh smiled. Because even if tomorrow brought something different—

Even if the callback didn’t include him—

He had this. Tonight. Ken. Laughter. Ramen.

And the echo of their synchronized footsteps still playing in his chest.

—

It was late when it happened.

The lights in the apartment were dim, only the soft glow of Josh’s monitor reflecting off his face as he edited their rehearsal clips. Headphones hung loose around his neck, half-forgotten. Outside, traffic hummed in the distance.

Then Ken’s phone buzzed. Josh wasn’t paying much attention at first, until he caught a shift in Ken’s voice from the other room. Polite. Serious. A little too quiet.

Josh turned the volume on his laptop down. He couldn’t hear everything but something told him this wasn’t just some casual group chat.

Then he heard it. Clearly.

“I’m honored. Thank you. But… if it’s just me, then I can’t accept.”

Josh froze.

“No, we’ve always been a team. It’s not right if he’s not part of it.”

A pause.

Ken’s voice again. Calm. Committed. “I wouldn’t even be here without him.”

Josh’s heart clenched. A twist of something too messy to name. Pride? Maybe.

But mostly… guilt. And hurt.

He quickly looked away, staring back at his screen but the footage felt like a cruel echo now. Their movements. Their rhythm. Their thing.

Was he… the reason Ken wasn’t saying yes to his shot?

The call ended. Josh heard soft footsteps approach the living room.

He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. 

“Hey,” Ken said, voice casual, almost too casual. “You still up?”

Josh nodded, eyes locked on the screen.

Ken hovered by the couch, hands in his pockets. “You good?”

Josh forced a grin over his shoulder. “Yeah. Just editing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Ken stayed quiet for a moment. Then moved toward the kitchen, grabbing water like nothing happened. Josh tried to breathe normally. But his chest was tight.

Why didn’t you just say yes?

Why didn’t you take it?

He knew why. He knew Ken, loyal to the bone, steady like gravity. But he couldn’t stop the voice in his head that whispered: He deserves this and I’m the reason he’s hesitating.

He couldn’t say it out loud, not yet. So instead, he called out with a too-bright tone, “So… auditions were crazy, huh?”

Ken glanced over his shoulder, sipping from his glass. “Yeah. Still feels surreal.”

Josh smiled weakly. “We looked good, though.”

Ken grinned. “We always do.”

Their eyes held for a second too long and Josh had to look away before the guilt swallowed him whole. Because Ken didn’t know what that kind of loyalty felt like on the receiving end.

Didn’t know how heavy it was to be someone’s reason and someone’s anchor.

And Josh didn’t know if he was proud of that… Or completely undone by it.

—

It started like nothing.

Josh was in the kitchen reheating leftovers, aimlessly stirring rice in the pan. Ken was at the table on his phone, tapping something into their shared schedule. A silence hung between them, not comfortable this time. Stale.

Josh hadn’t said anything since he overheard the call. For two days now, it has been festering. He tried to ignore it. To move on. He couldn’t.

So when Ken casually said, “There’s another round of callbacks next week, they said if I change my mind, there’s a slot still open—”

Josh slammed the spatula down.

Ken blinked. “What was that?”

“You, not taking it.”

Ken furrowed his brows. “We already talked about this—”

“No,” Josh said, turning, voice tight. “You talked. I pretended to be okay.”

Ken stood slowly. “Josh—”

“You were scouted, Ken. That was your moment.”

“I told you—”

“And I’m telling you it’s not fair!”

Ken went still. Josh’s voice cracked. “You’re holding yourself back. For me. And that’s not loyalty. That’s sabotage.”

Ken’s eyes darkened. “You think I see you as an obstacle?”

“I think you think you need me to be happy.” Josh’s voice trembled, heat rising. “And maybe you do. Maybe I need you too. But that doesn’t mean you have to tie yourself down.”

“I chose not to take it because—”

“Because of what, Ken?” Josh barked. “Because we’re a duo? That’s just an excuse. You were ready for this. You were meant for this.”

Ken stepped forward, jaw clenched. “I didn’t take it because I don’t want to leave you behind.”

Josh’s fists clenched. “Then let me be the one to break it.”

Ken froze. Josh breathed hard through his nose, voice low and trembling. “You’re not staying because you want to. You’re staying because you think I’ll fall apart if you go.”

“That’s not true—”

“Yes, it is!” Josh nearly shouted, stepping closer. “You think I don’t see it? You’re always looking at me like I’m this fragile thing you’ve gotta protect. But Ken, I’m not a dream. You are.”

Ken’s face twisted. “Don’t do this.”

“I have to,” Josh whispered. “Because if you turn this down again, you’ll regret it. Not today, maybe not tomorrow but someday. And I don’t want to be the face in your memory that stopped you from flying.”

Ken’s voice was a soft crack. “You’re not stopping me. I just... I don’t want to do this without you.”

Josh smiled bitterly. “You already can.”

Ken looked like he was breaking apart in real time. “But what about you?”

Josh paused. Then shrugged, barely holding the shake in his breath. “I’ll figure it out. Like I always do.”

“Josh—”

“No.” He stepped forward and gently cupped the back of Ken’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. “Go. Do it. Not for me. Not for us. For you.”

Ken closed his eyes, fighting tears. “What if I lose you along the way?”

Josh gave a trembling smile. “You won’t. I’ll still be here. Just maybe not in the spotlight with you. But cheering, always cheering.”

Silence. Then Ken pulled Josh into a hug so tight it almost hurt. Josh buried his face in Ken’s shoulder and held on like he never wanted to let go.

Because maybe he didn’t. But he would.

If it meant Ken could shine.

—

The ring light bathed the living room in soft white. Josh adjusted the tripod, gave a quick hair flip, and hit “Go Live.” The screen lit up instantly, hearts and comments pouring in.

“JOSH IS LIVEEE 😭💖”

“Where’s Ken?? 👀”

“You guys are glowing?? WHAT’S THE TEA??”

Josh flashed his signature grin. Wide. Bright. Almost convincing.

“Heyyy fam! What’s up, what’s good, what’s for dinner?!” he said, full of chaotic energy. “Look who’s with me—”

He turned the camera, revealing Ken sitting beside him on the couch, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, a small but present smile on his face.

Josh nudged his shoulder. “Say hi to the people.”

Ken waved. “Hey.”

“KENNNNN 😭😭”

“HE’S SHY AGAIN 😭❤️”

“WE MISSED Y’ALL!”

“DID YOU FIGHT AGAIN LMAO”

Josh laughed a little too quickly. “Nah, nah, we good. We just have... some big news to drop.”

Ken glanced sideways, but said nothing. Josh took a deep breath, kept smiling. “So, this might come as a shock, but... our very own Ken Suson got scouted by the producers from the talent show we auditioned for.”

“WHAATTT???”

“SCOUTED?!??”

“KEN STOP BEING HUMBLE PLS YOU ATE THAT PERFORMANCE”

Josh laughed, pointing dramatically at Ken. “Right?! Like, he went off. You guys saw the clips. My guy danced like he was possessed by Chris Brown’s ghost, even though Chris Brown’s still alive, but y’know what I mean.”

Ken chuckled softly under his breath, gaze still low. Josh kept going. “So yeah, our boy’s gonna be flying solo soon. Training, performing, probably breaking hearts.”

“OMG KEN SOLO??? 😭”

“PROUD IS AN UNDERSTATEMENT 😭🫶🏼”

“BUT WHAT ABOUT JOSH 😭”

Josh saw that one. And paused. Just for a breath. Then he pushed through it.

He grinned again, softer this time. “What about me? I’m gonna be his number one fan, duh. I’ll be that annoying guy in the comment section like ‘drop the fancam’ and ‘he was mine first.’”

Ken finally looked at him. Quiet. Grateful. But not saying a word. Josh read the comments again.

“This is so bittersweet 😭”

“Josh is pretending to be okay and I’m SOBBING”

“We love your friendship sm 😭💔”

He laughed. “Guys, stop. I’m fine. I’m so proud of him, seriously. He deserves this. He’s been working his ass off for years. And it’s about time the world saw him the way I do.”

That caught Ken. He turned sharply toward Josh, eyes softening. Josh didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d break. Instead, he addressed the camera with one last smile. “So yeah. That’s the tea. Ken’s levelling up, and I’m cheering from the sidelines. As always.”

He turned to Ken with a wink. “Anything you wanna say to your fans before they start calling you an idol?”

Ken looked at him for a moment, like he wanted to say a hundred things. Instead, he murmured, “Thanks. For everything.”

Josh nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Always.”

Then he ended the live with one final wave, signing off with, “Catch you guys soon. Be kind, drink water, and root for my best friend, or else I’ll block you.”

The live ended. Silence filled the room. And for the first time that night, Josh let his smile drop.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did Ken. They just sat there, side by side.

Still together. But already beginning to drift apart.

—

The knock came soft at first. Then again. A little firmer.

“Josh?” Ken’s voice was muffled through the wood. “Can we talk?”

Josh didn’t move. He stayed curled up on his bed, blanket pulled high, the glow of his phone screen casting shadows across his face. His AirPods played an old video on loop.

“Josh & Ken — 2022 Dance Challenge!! 🕺💥 #bestduo”

The younger versions of them filled the screen, laughing, stumbling, moving in perfect sync. Ken had tripped at the end, and Josh had pulled him back in with a grin, wrapping an arm around his shoulder like it was second nature.

Josh sniffled quietly. Another knock.

“I just... I know you’re mad,” Ken’s voice said gently. “Or maybe hurt. But I didn’t mean… I didn’t want it to feel like I was leaving you behind.”

Josh turned the volume up slightly. The laugh in the video echoed in his ears, his laugh, from a simpler time.

His fingers trembled as he swiped to the next video.

“Q&A: We’re Not Dating (but people think we are 👀)”

In it, they sat shoulder to shoulder on their old couch. Ken, barely trying to contain his smirk. Josh, being dramatic as ever, yelling into a wooden spoon like it was a mic.

“You guys keep shipping us!” Josh had yelled to the camera. “I mean, can’t two bestfriends vibe without falling in love?”

Past-Ken had rolled his eyes, smiled at him. Quietly. Meaningfully.

Josh hit pause. This time, the tears came fast.

He covered his face with his hands, chest tight, heart splintering under the weight of almosts and what-ifs. Of watching the only constant in his life take a step forward without him.

Another knock. Slower now. “Josh... please.”

He wanted to answer. But if he opened the door, he might not be able to let Ken go again.

So instead, he sank lower into the blanket, curled around the ache, and pressed play one more time.

On a memory that still had both of them in the frame.

—

Sunlight spilled through the open windows of their shared apartment, golden and too soft for a day that felt like this. Josh zipped the last duffel bag shut with a dramatic flourish. “Okay, boom! Packed. Secured. Organized like a Virgo. Where’s my gold star?”

Ken stood by the door, silent for a second before murmuring, “You’re not a Virgo.”

Josh huffed, tossing a folded hoodie into Ken’s arms. “Shut up. I could be if I wanted to.”

Ken caught it with a quiet laugh, but his eyes didn’t match it. They lingered on Josh, scanning the buzz of energy that didn’t feel like energy at all, it felt like performance.

Josh moved like someone racing a clock, jumping between drawers and closets, triple-checking everything. “Don’t forget your charger. And your ankle brace, you never use it but bring it anyway. Oh! Your portable speaker’s still under the bed.”

Ken didn’t move. “Josh—”

“You’ll need it!” Josh cut in, too quickly, pulling out the speaker with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “And hey, should I label your boxes? Or no? Too dramatic?”

“Josh,” Ken said again, voice softer. “Can we just... sit for a second?”

Josh blinked. “Huh?”

“Stop. Just... sit with me.”

Josh’s smile twitched. Then he turned away with a forced laugh. “I can’t. You’ll miss your bus if I don’t finish stuffing your life into duffels.”

Ken stepped closer. “You’re doing too much.”

“Am I?” Josh asked brightly, still not looking at him. “I mean, hello? Stage assistant of the year right here. Maybe I should get scouted.”

Ken placed a hand on Josh’s arm. Finally, Josh stopped moving.

“I know you’re hurting,” Ken whispered. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Josh stared ahead, jaw tight, voice too even. “You think I’m pretending?”

Ken didn’t reply.

Josh turned to him slowly, letting the smile drop just a bit. “Of course I’m hurting,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not proud of you.”

Ken’s gaze softened, voice raw. “Then talk to me. Just for real. Once.”

Josh looked up at him and for a moment, the wall nearly cracked. But then, he pulled in a breath, steadied himself. “No,” he said gently. “Because if I talk... I’ll beg you to stay.”

Ken’s throat bobbed, his hand still on Josh’s arm.

“And if I do that,” Josh continued, “I’d be the reason you missed your chance. And I can’t do that to you. Not again.”

Ken closed his eyes. So Josh smiled. Bright and broken.

“Let me help you pack,” he said, picking up the last hoodie and folding it perfectly. “Let me be excited. Let me be that best friend.”

Ken took the hoodie from his hands and held it to his chest. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

Josh was already taping the final box shut with shaking hands. Because if this was goodbye, he was going to make sure Ken remembered it as a celebration—not a heartbreak.

—

The apartment was too quiet. Josh stood by the window, arms folded over his chest, watching as Ken’s rideshare disappeared down the street. He didn’t wave. Didn’t cry. Didn’t move.

He just watched. Even when the car was long gone. Even when the silence pressed against his skin like fog.

Earlier that morning, he’d helped zip up the final bag. He’d joked about Ken finally living in a building with an elevator. He'd even filmed a short, shaky goodbye clip, his voice still loud, still bright.

“Our Ken is off to chase the dream, y’all! Don’t forget the little people when you’re famous, okay?!”

Ken had only smiled, still quiet, still lingering like he wanted to say something more. But Josh didn’t let him. He didn’t let himself.

The front door had shut with a soft click. And now Josh stood in the stillness of that choice.

He turned back to the living room. Everything looked untouched, like time had held its breath. Ken’s slippers still by the couch. An open pack of gum on the table. A hoodie draped over the back of a chair.

Josh crossed the room slowly. Sat on the couch. And stared at the dent in the cushion where Ken had been sitting the night before. He ran a hand over it, then pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them.

The tears came fast this time, no performance, no camera, no reason to hold back.

Just him. Just the ache.

He reached for the TV remote, fumbling through apps until he landed on their saved playlist: “Us being dumb (but cute)”

He pressed play. And their laughter filled the room again. Old dances. Challenges. Cooking fails. Ken shoving a pancake into his mouth. Josh yelling off-screen about burnt eggs. Ken’s smile. Josh’s laugh. Their chaos.

It all played like a life that hadn’t been paused yet.

And Josh curled into the hoodie Ken left behind on purpose. Buried himself in it. Let the scent and sound of Ken wrap around him. He didn’t post anything that day.

Didn’t stream. Didn’t tweet. Just stayed right there, under a blanket of memories, wondering what to do with the silence of being alone for the first time in forever.

Josh didn’t realize his phone was vibrating until it lit up his lap.

Justin 🧃 calling...

He stared at the screen for a second. His thumb hovered. The video of him and Ken laughing on a beach last summer was still playing in the background, just out of focus.

He sniffled once, wiped at his face, and answered. “Hey,” his voice cracked.

“Hi,” Justin said softly. “You okay?”

Josh let out something between a laugh and a breath. “No.”

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just... full. “I figured,” Justin said. “Ken left?”

“About an hour ago.” Josh curled his knees tighter to his chest. “Didn’t even cry. Not until now.”

“I saw your live this morning,” Justin said. “You were trying so hard.”

Josh didn’t answer. His silence said enough.

Justin sighed gently. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I know what Ken means to you.”

Josh’s throat tightened. “I’m just his best friend.”

“Are you?”

That landed like a gut punch. Josh didn’t reply.

“I’m not pushing,” Justin added, softer now. “I’m just... I know what it’s like to have someone be your anchor, then wake up one day and they’re just... gone.”

Josh blinked back fresh tears. “It’s like the walls are still here, but the house isn’t home anymore.”

Justin made a soft sound of understanding. “Exactly like that.”

Josh leaned his head against the couch. “I helped him pack. I smiled the whole time. I cracked jokes. Told him he’d look hot on stage.”

“You meant that part though.”

“I meant all of it,” Josh whispered. “That’s the thing. I’m so proud of him. I just... I didn’t realize how much of my world was built around him staying.”

Silence again. Then, “So what now?” Justin asked gently.

Josh wiped at his cheeks with his sleeve. “I don’t know. The apartment’s quiet. Feels like someone hit pause.”

“You wanna come over? Play a stupid game, eat chips, maybe cry into a pillow shaped like an anime boy?”

Josh snorted. “You still have that thing?”

“I named him Katsu. He listens better than my last situationship.”

Josh gave a wobbly laugh, heart aching a little less. “I might come by later,” he said quietly. “I just... I think I need to sit in this a little first.”

Justin didn’t argue. “Okay. Just don’t disappear. Please.”

“I won’t.” A pause. “Thanks, Jah.”

“Anytime, Josh. Always.”

The call ended, but the warmth stayed. Josh looked around the room again. Same couch. Same blanket. Same playlist looping quietly.

And for the first time that day, the silence didn’t feel like it was crushing him. Just holding space.

—

Ken lay on a new bed in a new room that smelled like detergent and dust. The lights were off, save for the soft glow of a phone screen hovering over his chest. Muffled laughter echoed down the hallway, his new groupmates still wide awake, bonding over ramen and memes. He’d smiled at them earlier. He’d tried.

Now he was here, alone in a boxy little room with white walls and no warmth. His suitcase was still half-zipped on the floor. The hoodie he usually wore around the apartment was folded on the desk chair. It smelled like home.

Ken opened his gallery and scrolled through it slowly.

A clip of Josh yelling during a dance rehearsal. A photo of their burnt grilled cheese. A video of Josh live-streaming a horror game, shrieking while Ken sat behind him on the couch, entirely unbothered.

His chest tightened.

He tapped the last video they ever filmed in the apartment, Josh pretending to interview him with a spoon, narrating Ken’s “celebrity packing process.” Ken had said barely five words. Josh had made it funny anyway.

“Ladies and gentlemen, he folds like a psychopath. No rolling. Just violence and denim. We love him anyway.”

Ken smiled, then let it fade.

Josh’s eyes in that clip had sparkled like always. But now, in memory, they looked a little too glassy. A little too bright. He sighed, locking his phone, and stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling.

This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? The stage. The spotlight. A shot at something real.

But he hadn’t expected the cost to feel like this. He reached for his charger, plugged the phone in, and paused, hovering over Josh’s name in his messages.

No new text. Not since the live. He hesitated... then typed. Made it. Room’s okay. Group’s loud.

Then erased it. Typed again. I miss the apartment.

Deleted that too. After a long silence, he finally settled on: You home safe?

He stared at it. Sent. No reply.

Ken turned over in bed and pulled Josh’s hoodie to his chest. He wasn’t used to the quiet being so loud. He wasn’t used to missing someone like this. He thought of Josh’s face as the door closed behind him, smiling, steady, brave.

And just for a moment, Ken wished he had said one more thing before he left.

Something honest. Something that mattered.

—

Josh was still curled on the couch when the notification lit up his screen.

Ken 🐢: You home safe?

Just three words. But Josh stared at them like they were a loaded question.

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t even pick up the phone.

Instead, he blinked at the screen, chest tight, as if replying would make it all real. As if saying “yes” would be admitting he was still here, while Ken was already gone.

He sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. He wiped at his face, eyes tired, cheeks dry, heart still raw. He reached for his phone. Tapped the screen.

The message glowed softly in the dark room. He opened the chat. Typed: Yeah. Everything’s quiet.

Paused. Erased it. Typed again: Yeah. Home’s not the same.

Deleted that too.

His fingers hovered. He could feel the weight of Ken’s hoodie behind him, draped over the back of the couch like it was still his spot.

Josh inhaled sharply. Then typed: Yeah. I’m okay

He stared at it. Backspaced “okay.” Typed: Yeah. I’m home.

He hit send. Simple. Bare. Safe. Too safe.

He dropped the phone on the cushion beside him and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His heart pounded with things he hadn’t said.

Don’t forget about me.

It’s weird without you.

I hate how quiet it is.

I wish I asked you to stay.

I think… I think I love you.

None of it made it to the screen. None of it even made it to his mouth. He ran both hands through his hair, tugged at the roots, trying to will the ache away. But it stayed. Still, when his phone buzzed again, another message from Ken, Josh didn’t check it right away.

He just sat there. In the dark. In the silence. With everything unsaid echoing louder than words ever could.

He glanced over, expecting something simple.

Ken 🐢: That’s good. I left the extra batteries in the drawer under the TV. And the charger for your camera. You always forget that. Also, don’t let the rice cooker sit in water again. I’m serious.

Josh exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, half a laugh, half a sob caught in his chest. Of course. Of course Ken would worry about something like that.

But it was the second message, right after it, that made Josh freeze.

Ken 🐢: I’m glad you’re still there. Even if I’m not.

No emojis. No edits. Just raw and real and vulnerable. Josh stared at it, throat tight, heart thudding so loudly he could hear it over the hum of the fridge.

His fingers hovered again. He didn’t know how to answer that. So, again, he didn’t.

He turned the screen off and curled back into the couch, Ken’s hoodie pulled tight around him.

—

Three days passed. Josh busied himself with short videos, cooking alone, rewatching old dance clips. The apartment stayed clean, almost too clean, because cleaning filled the time Ken used to take up.

He hadn’t responded much to Ken’s texts, just one-liners, heart reacts, little things to say I saw it without I’m ready to talk.

But then one night, near midnight, the screen lit up again.

Incoming Video Call – Ken 🐢

Josh stared at it for the first three rings. Then answered. Ken’s face appeared in dim lighting, his hair wet, probably just out of the shower, lips parted like he’d been chewing on what to say the whole day.

“Hey,” Ken said quietly.

Josh propped the phone against a pillow and sat cross-legged in bed. “Hey.”

Ken looked around his new room off-camera. “It’s weird not hearing your chaos.”

Josh cracked a dry smile. “I yelled at the rice cooker earlier. Just to feel something.”

That earned the smallest smirk from Ken, but the silence that followed felt heavier.

“Been busy?” Josh asked, already knowing.

Ken nodded. “Rehearsals all day. Choreo’s intense. People here are insanely good.”

“You’re better.”

Ken blinked. “You didn’t even see it yet.”

“I don’t have to.” Josh’s voice cracked, so he coughed to cover it. “You’ve always been the best.”

The compliment sat awkwardly between them, like it meant something more. Like Josh had always known.

“Josh…” Ken leaned a little closer to the screen. “You okay?”

Josh shrugged. “Trying.”

“Because I—”

“Ken.” Josh stopped him gently, but firmly. “Don’t. Please. If we talk about it… I won’t be able to stop.”

Ken’s gaze flickered, hurt, but he nodded. “Okay.”

“I’m proud of you,” Josh added, softer. “Even if it sucks not having you here.”

Ken stared for a beat too long. “I miss it. I miss you.”

Josh looked away, blinking quickly. “We’ll see each other soon.”

Ken nodded again. “Yeah. Soon.”

Neither of them hung up. They just… stayed there. Breathing. Watching each other across the distance.

Because even through a screen, silence between them was still full of meaning.

—

The apartment was too quiet. Josh stood in the middle of the living room, the same one he and Ken used to clutter with open pizza boxes, laundry baskets, and tangled wires. Now, it was spotless. Too spotless. His socks slid over the waxed floor, the way they used to when Ken would scold him mid-spin.

He was wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, Ken’s actually, and sweat clung to the back of his neck as he stared at the phone screen propped against a stack of books.

He hit record. Music flooded the room.

It was the trend that fans kept tagging them in. The Chris Brown track with fast footwork and a smooth pop-lock finish. Josh knew the beat, knew the moves, knew exactly how they used to sync.

But this time, he danced solo. His arms moved slower than usual at first. A beat late. His steps didn’t land as sharp. He shook his head, exhaled hard, and started again.

Take two. Then three.

By the fourth take, sweat dripped from his jawline and his chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. But he kept going. He had to. The rhythm had to come back. He needed it too.

This was all he had now.

By the seventh take, something shifted. His body stopped thinking and just felt. His eyes closed in places, his fingers cut sharper through the air, his steps landed like thunder on the wooden floor. He poured it all in, the frustration, the ache, the love he couldn’t say out loud. It pulsed through his limbs like the bassline itself.

When the music ended, he didn’t stop immediately. He stood there, panting, tears stinging his eyes without falling. He let the silence return. Then walked over to the phone. Hit stop.

The video was messy. Raw. A little off-beat in places. But it was honest.

Josh sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the clip. And without thinking too hard about it, he typed a caption:

“First one without you. Still feels like you’re here.”

He didn’t tag Ken. Didn’t need to. Because he knew Ken would find it. And maybe feel it, too.

Josh sat still after hitting post, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. The apartment was quiet again—too quiet, like the music had never been there at all.

His phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then it wouldn’t stop.

Comments. DMs. Mentions. His clip was spreading fast, already clipping past a thousand likes and shares. Fans were reacting with fire emojis, gifs, tags, and long paragraphs that tried to say what the hell are you feeling, Josh, because we feel it too.

He read a few aloud under his breath:

“Josh, you’re glowing and breaking at the same time 😭”

“Bro, where’s Ken? This hits different without him.”

“This is the saddest dance I’ve ever felt proud of.”

Josh gave a soft laugh, hoarse and dry.

One comment caught his eye:

“I know this wasn’t about choreography. This was a goodbye.”

His thumb hovered over the screen. He didn’t like or reply. Just stared. Because maybe… it was.

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. The adrenaline had faded, and what was left was exhaustion, creeping in like fog.

That’s when his phone buzzed again. Not a comment. A message.

Justin 🎨: Bro. That was beautiful. Are you okay?

Josh exhaled sharply through his nose. Justin didn’t say much when things got serious. But he always knew when to reach out.

I’m okay, Josh typed. Just needed to move. Ya know.

A pause. Then,

Justin 🎨 It looked like more than movement. He’s gonna see that. And feel it.

Josh rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of Ken’s hoodie. Smiled faintly.

Yeah. That was the point, I think.

I just don’t know what comes next.

Justin 🎨

Then maybe… just keep dancing until you figure it out.

That’s what you do best, right?

Josh didn’t reply right away. He just stared at that message, then looked around the empty apartment.

Then he whispered, “Yeah. That’s what we do best.”

He didn’t know if Ken would message. Or call. Or even like the post. But for the first time since Ken left, Josh felt like he could breathe again. Even if the silence still hurt.

Chapter Text

Josh sat on the floor of their— his —living room again, hoodie sleeves pushed up, ring light glowing a little too bright. His phone rested against the edge of the coffee table, angled just enough to catch him from the chest up.

“Alright, alright,” he said, trying to read the comment flood while sipping from his iced coffee. “Y’all are nosy today. I’m seeing the same question over and over.”

He squinted. “‘Do you miss him?’”

Josh laughed. It came out tight, almost too forced.

“Who, Ken?” He tried to smirk. “Nah. I’m finally free. I don’t gotta fight over rice cooker privileges or argue about who left socks on the couch. Feels like… peace.”

The chat exploded.

😭😭😭

“NOT THE SOCKS AGAIN”

“we know you’re lying josh”

“don’t joke like that 😭”

“HE’S YOUR PEACE, BRO. STOP LYING.”

Josh opened his mouth to say something else, to dodge, to joke again, but his gaze landed on a sudden new comment that popped up, pinned by TikTok’s auto-highlight.

Ken 🐢: got a break today. only an hour tho. figured i’d spend it here.

Josh froze. The chat lost it instantly.

“KEN IS HEREEE”

“MY PARENTS ARE WATCHING STOP FLIRTING ONLINE”

“josh are you breathing??”

“YOU LIED. HE’S YOUR PEACE. HE’S HERE.”

Josh couldn’t hide his reaction this time. His cheeks flushed, and his posture straightened like someone had just thrown ice water at his face. He stared at the screen, lips parted.

“…Dude,” he muttered.

Another comment from Ken followed, casual as ever:

Ken 🐢: also, the socks were yours. i have proof.

Josh laughed this time for real. It cracked out of him like a balloon finally bursting. He covered his mouth with one hand, hiding the stupid grin that bloomed across his face.

“Okay, okay,” Josh said, trying to reel himself back. “Ladies, gents, and beautiful people of the internet… my ex-roommate is here to roast me publicly.”

The chat was wild now. But Josh only looked at that one comment. That one name.

“…And yeah,” he added quietly, speaking through the noise, almost to himself. “I miss him.”

His voice was soft. Honest. “I miss you, Ken.”

The screen flashed with hearts and comments. But for a second, it felt like it was just the two of them again, him and Ken. Across cities, across screens.

Still finding ways to be in each other’s lives.

The live had ended ten minutes ago.

Josh was still on the floor, legs stretched out, his phone resting on his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling. The glow of the ring light was off now, leaving the apartment in the low hum of early evening. Outside, a siren passed. Inside, nothing moved.

His phone buzzed.

Ken 🐢 sent a voice message.

Josh sat up slowly. His heart thudded, fingers hovering over the screen for a few seconds before pressing play. Ken’s voice came through, a little grainy from background noise, like he was walking outside.

“Hey.” A soft exhale. “So… I saw the live. I wasn’t planning to comment. Just wanted to see you, I guess. Like before.”

Josh leaned back against the couch, chewing on his thumb, trying not to feel everything at once.

“You looked… good. Still annoying as hell. But good.”

There was a pause, the kind that made Josh imagine Ken rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was unsure of his words.

“You really miss me?”

Josh closed his eyes.

“I miss you too. All the time, actually. I was gonna tell you before I left, but you were already… I don’t know. Letting me go, maybe.”

A soft laugh, almost nervous.

“I still sleep on one side of the bed. Like you’re still there on the other. My new roommate snores like a chainsaw. I hate him.”

Josh smiled, biting his lower lip.

“I saved our dance videos. All of them. Sometimes I watch the bloopers instead of rehearsals. You were always the loud one. You filled up the room. Without you, it’s… ”

Another pause.

“…quiet. Too quiet.”

Josh stared at the screen, tears quietly slipping down the side of his face. Ken’s voice returned, low and sure now.

“If you still want to dance… if you ever want to try again. Not just for the fans. Or the trends. Just us, like always.”

“I’ll be there. Just say when.”

The message ended. Josh didn’t play it once. He played it four times. Then saved it in a locked folder. Then curled up in the hoodie he still hadn’t washed. And finally let himself cry, not because he was left behind. But because he wasn’t really alone after all. 

Josh didn’t think. Didn’t draft. Didn’t rehearse. He just pressed the mic button, stared at his feet, and started talking.

“Hey. It’s me. Obviously.”

His voice trembled, just a bit. But he didn’t stop.

“I wasn’t letting you go. I was scared you’d finally see the kind of mess I am without you. That I’d hold you back. I mean…”

“You’re Ken. You’ve always been good at everything you do, even if you pretend like you’re not. You have this way of being quiet but still being the strongest person in the room. I’ve always admired that.”

Josh paused, licking his lips, swallowing hard.

“When you said you missed me, I think I stopped breathing for like, a full minute. I wanted to scream it back at you a hundred times. But I didn’t want to sound desperate.”

He let out a short, shaky laugh.

“Screw it. I am desperate. I miss you so much, Ken. I miss your quiet. Your judgmental glances when I eat cereal with water because we’re out of milk. I miss hearing you humming some anime intro at 2 a.m. while brushing your teeth.”

Josh wiped a tear with the edge of his sleeve. “You made everything better. Even when everything sucked.” Another pause. Then softer: “And yeah. I want to dance with you again. Just us. No brands, no filters. No pretending like it doesn’t mean more.”

He drew in a breath. “So say when? Nah.”

“I’ll say it. How about… soon? Just say where.”

He hovered over the send button. Then hit it. No takebacks. No second thoughts. He set the phone down beside him. The silence returned but this time, it was different. Like the pause between one song and the next.

Josh leaned back, closing his eyes. Waiting for the reply that might just change everything.

—

Ken stood by the window of his dorm room, barely lit by the soft glow of the hallway light. Outside, the city buzzed like it always did but it all felt far away. His phone was still warm in his hand.

Josh’s voice echoed in his earbuds.

“You made everything better. Even when everything sucked.”

Ken closed his eyes. Paused. Then rewound. He listened again.

Not just to the words, but to the breath behind them. The little trembles. The long silences. The way Josh’s laugh broke into something like a sob halfway through. The raw, unfiltered honesty of it all, it clung to Ken’s chest like a weight and a lifeline all at once.

He didn’t know what he expected from Josh. Maybe a joke. Maybe nothing at all. But not… this.

Not all of him.

He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, eyes still shut. The message ended again. He didn’t play it a third time.

He saved it. Then stared at the screen. And then, finally, he opened his contacts, clicked on Josh’s name, and hit call.

It rang once. Twice. And then—

“Ken?” Josh’s voice came through, small, like he didn’t believe it.

Ken swallowed. “Yeah. It’s me.”

There was a beat. Then Josh’s quiet inhale, like he was holding his breath.

Ken smiled, soft, unseen. “You said soon,” Ken said. “I say now.”

“I don’t care where.”

“Just… can I see you?”

The silence this time was warm.

And when Josh answered, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t chaotic. It was everything.

“Yeah. Come home.”

—

Josh barely slept.

He’d tried. God, he really tried. But his body was wired, his thoughts a blur of everything he wanted to say, and everything he was scared Ken might say instead.

The apartment felt too big. Too quiet. Even with his favorite playlist looping in the background, it didn’t drown out the sound of waiting.

He kept checking the time. 6:57 a.m. Ken said early. Josh paced in front of the door, barefoot in sweats and a hoodie that may or may not have been Ken’s once. The sleeves were a little long. He didn’t care. It smelled like him. Still.

He fixed the couch pillows three times. Took the trash out. Opened the fridge, closed it, opened it again. No reason. Just nerves. And then there was a knock. Josh froze. His breath caught, and for a second, he thought he imagined it.

But there it was again. Softer. Familiar.

Josh nearly tripped over himself to reach the door, fingers fumbling with the lock before he finally swung it open. And there he was.

Ken.

Black hoodie, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly messy from the wind, eyes tired—but unmistakably him. The same calm presence that used to balance out all of Josh’s chaos. For a full heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Ken smiled, small but warm. “Hey.”

Josh’s throat tightened. “Hey.”

He stepped aside. Ken walked in. Dropped his bag by the door. And then, silence. Heavy with everything left unsaid.

Josh shifted his weight, looking anywhere but directly at him. “I… wasn’t sure if you meant it. Last night.”

Ken tilted his head. “You think I’d call if I didn’t?”

Josh let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe to scold me. For crying on live.”

“Didn't need to. You scolded yourself enough.” Ken’s voice softened. “You wore my hoodie.”

Josh blushed, tugging the sleeves down. “It’s comfy.”

Ken smiled again. “I know.”

Another beat. And then Josh looked up. “I missed you.”

Ken’s eyes met his, steady. “I missed us .”

Josh took a breath, like something in his chest had finally unlocked. “Then stay.”

Ken stepped closer. Close enough that their shoulders brushed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Josh nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

And for the first time in weeks, the apartment felt whole again.

The smell of garlic and butter filled the apartment.

Josh stood by the stove, flipping the last piece of toasted bread in the pan. His eyes flicked to the side, where Ken was seated at the counter, sleeves rolled up, peeling a mango like it was the most important task in the world.

It was quiet but not the same quiet as the days Ken was gone. This was the good kind. The kind that sat between them like an unspoken promise.

Josh plated the last slice and set it on the table. Ken looked up and gave a small, grateful nod.

“Breakfast of champions,” Josh said with a grin, gesturing to the plate of garlic rice, fried eggs, and longganisa. “Okay, maybe more like breakfast of two clowns with matching hoodies.”

Ken chuckled. “Hey, I changed my hoodie.”

“You still matched me emotionally,” Josh teased, sliding into the seat beside him.

They ate quietly for a few minutes, forks clinking against plates, juice glasses half-full. Josh kept stealing glances at Ken. Not out of habit, out of relief. He was here. They were here.

Halfway through his second bite, Ken spoke. “We should record this.”

Josh blinked. “Record what? Our breakfast mukbang? What, you suddenly miss TikTok fame?”

Ken shrugged, unfazed. “Not fame. Just… them. Our people. The ones who rooted for us. They probably thought we broke up.”

Josh blinked fast. “We weren’t dating.”

Ken looked at him, steady. “No. But they felt it. Even when we didn’t say it.”

Josh stared at him for a beat too long. “You really want to go live?”

Ken reached for his phone and shrugged again. “Only if you do.”

Josh felt his heart stutter but before he could overthink, he found himself nodding. “…Okay. Let’s do it.”

They set the phone up on the counter, the morning light soft behind them. Josh did the countdown, Ken hit the button.

And suddenly, they were live.

Comments poured in immediately.

@fanboilives: IS THIS REAL??? THEY’RE TOGETHER AGAIN AHHHHH

@chaosxorder: JOSH IS BLUSHING I REPEAT HE IS BLUSHING

@kenwiththemoves: I KNEW THEY COULDN’T LAST A WEEK WITHOUT EACH OTHER

@breakfastclub: THIS IS WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE I’M CRYING

Josh laughed, trying to hide behind his juice glass. “Okay, okay, calm down. We’re just… having breakfast.”

Ken looked into the camera. “Just?”

Josh coughed. “Fine. A reunion breakfast.”

More hearts. More chaos. Josh smiled, cheeks burning. He looked at Ken, who was sipping juice like none of this fazed him and yet, there was a small smile tugging at his lips, too.

They read the comments aloud, laughing, teasing each other again. The world felt loud and soft at once.

And for the first time in a while, Josh didn’t feel lost. He just felt home.

The live had ended twenty minutes ago, but the buzz still lingered in Josh’s chest. The apartment was warm again. Not from the sun outside but from the way Ken’s laugh stayed in the air, from the scent of breakfast, from the sound of his slippers on the floor.

Josh sat on the couch, knees tucked up, a throw pillow hugged to his chest. Ken had gone quiet again, half scrolling through his phone, half watching Josh from across the room.

They hadn’t spoken much since the live ended. Not really. Josh didn’t know where to start. So he didn’t. At least not right away.

Ken sat beside him, closer than earlier, and Josh glanced his way. “You good?”

Ken nodded. “Are you?”

Josh gave a half-shrug. “I think so. Kind of.”

Silence. Josh looked down at the pillow in his arms, then muttered, “It felt good. That live. Laughing again with you.”

Ken tilted his head. “We’ve always laughed.”

“Yeah, but…” Josh swallowed. “I think I was starting to forget how that felt. Without it being forced. Without me pretending.”

Ken’s brows furrowed gently. “You weren’t pretending, Josh.”

“I was,” Josh admitted softly. “At least to myself. Trying to act like I was okay. Like you leaving didn’t mess with me.”

Ken didn’t speak. He just listened.

Josh smiled, a little sad. “You’ve always been this thing I didn’t know I needed until you weren’t there. And I hated that. I hated needing anyone.”

Ken’s voice came quiet. “It’s okay to need someone.”

Josh shook his head slowly. “Not for me. Not when I don’t even know who I am yet. Not when I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life. You're out there doing something. Going somewhere. And I’m just… making breakfast and posting videos.”

Ken’s eyes didn’t waver. “You think that makes you less?”

Josh looked away. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Then, softer, “I think I just didn’t want you to leave me behind.”

Ken was quiet for a long beat. Then he said, “I didn’t leave you, Josh. I took an opportunity you told me to take. And I hated that it meant walking away from here.”

Josh turned to him slowly.

Ken’s voice stayed steady, even if his eyes shimmered. “But I never walked away from you .”

And just like that, Josh couldn’t stop the tears from brimming. He sniffled and hid half his face in the pillow. “You make it really hard to stay mad, you know that?”

Ken gave a quiet smile. “You make it really easy to stay.”

Josh let out a soft, wet laugh. “I’m still figuring it out. Life, I mean.”

“I know,” Ken said. “I’ll wait.”

And Josh leaned his head gently on Ken’s shoulder. No more words. Just warmth. Just presence. Just the feeling of finally being seen and not being left behind.

The TV cast a muted blue glow over the apartment, the anime they picked playing with subtitles on.

Josh had let Ken choose, of course. Something with action and powers and a stoic main character with trauma—which made perfect sense, honestly. Josh wasn’t paying much attention. Not to the plot, anyway.

He was curled up on one side of the couch, legs stretched out, blanket draped messily over them both. Ken sat close, shoulders touching, his eyes locked on the screen. The rise and fall of his breathing was calm, almost lulling.

Josh glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He looked so normal. Like he hadn’t been away. Like tomorrow didn’t mean goodbyes again.

And Josh hated that. He hated the countdown ticking in his head, the way it made everything ache just a little.

Ken reached for the chips on the table, offered some to Josh without looking. Josh took a few. Then, without thinking, leaned in slightly, resting his head against Ken’s arm. Ken didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away. In fact, he shifted just enough to make it more comfortable. Josh let his eyes flutter shut for a second. “This is nice,” he murmured.

Ken hummed in agreement. “Like old times.”

Josh smiled faintly. “Yeah. Just minus the part where I have to beg you to stop spoiling episodes.”

“I never spoiled anything.”

“You always spoiled everything.”

Ken chuckled, and the sound vibrated against Josh’s temple. He didn’t lift his head.

For a while, the anime played on. And Josh just stayed there. He didn’t want to fall asleep, even though his body begged for it. If he slept, he might wake up and Ken would already be gone again. Packed up. Off to practice. Or a flight. Or something that didn’t include this.

So he stayed awake. And held on. He glanced up once more. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

Ken was quiet. “Early,” he finally said. “Before six.”

Josh nodded. Tried not to let it show how hard that hit. “Wake me up?” he asked.

Ken turned to him, brows raised slightly.

Josh looked at the screen, pretending it was nothing. “Just for a minute. Before you go.”

Ken’s voice was low. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

Josh nodded again. And after a pause, Ken gently rested his hand over Josh’s, where it lay against the blanket.

Josh didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. Because for now, in this blue-lit apartment, under the weight of a goodbye not yet said, they sat in quiet closeness. And that was enough.

For now.

It was still dark when Josh felt a hand gently press against his shoulder.

“Josh,” Ken whispered, voice low and careful, “wake up.”

Josh stirred, eyes squinting open. The room was tinted in shades of gray and blue, only a faint sliver of early morning light sneaking past the window curtains. The clock on the bedside table read 5:46 AM.

Too early for anything but goodbyes.

Josh blinked, body heavy, warmth clinging to him from the blanket wrapped tight. He hadn't meant to fall asleep in bed alone, but Ken must’ve carried or guided him here after the couch. He didn’t remember it. He just remembered leaning into him. Then nothing.

But Ken was here now, crouched beside the bed, bag already slung over one shoulder.

Josh pushed himself up slowly, blanket falling to his waist. His voice was rough with sleep. “You’re really going.”

Ken gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

Josh looked at him, hair a little messy, jacket zipped halfway, eyes tired but steady. He looked ready. But he didn’t look happy about it.

And that made it worse somehow.

“I packed the snacks and the vitamins,” Josh murmured, rubbing his eyes. “I put them in the front pocket of your bag so you don’t forget.”

Ken smiled faintly. “Thanks. I saw them.”

Josh didn’t say you’re welcome . He didn’t say I’ll miss you , either. He just looked at him, trying to memorize this version of Ken. Close, here, real.

“You should go,” Josh said softly, eyes dropping to the blanket.

Ken didn’t move right away. Then, “I don’t want to.”

Josh swallowed hard. Silence stretched again. Then Ken leaned in a little closer, reaching to fix the strand of hair on Josh’s forehead. His fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary.

“I’ll text you when I land,” he said.

Josh nodded, eyes still fixed on the space between them. And Ken stood. He turned, walking slowly toward the door.

Josh’s heart pounded, like it was trying to beat back the seconds. “Ken.”

Ken paused, hand on the knob.

Josh looked at him then, eyes tired but open, vulnerable. “Just don’t… don’t forget me. Out there.”

Ken’s gaze softened. “I couldn’t, even if I tried.”

And with that, he was gone.

The door clicked shut gently behind him. Josh sat there in silence, blanket pooled in his lap, breath held in his throat.

Outside, the city was waking up. But inside, Josh was still in the quiet Ken left behind.

—

The apartment felt colder that morning. Not in temperature but in presence.

Josh stood in the middle of the kitchen, the sound of the electric kettle filling the room as it heated. He’d set out two mugs by habit, his favorite black one, and the white one with the cracked handle that Ken always insisted wasn’t broken, just loved. Josh stared at it. Then slowly reached forward and put it back in the cupboard. 

Only one mug today.

He poured hot water into his cup and stirred his coffee in silence. No music. No humming. No stupid TikTok audio on loop. Just the soft clink of his spoon hitting ceramic.

Back in the living room, the blanket from last night was still draped over the couch.

Josh sat, sipping his coffee slowly, eyes half-lidded, the TV remote untouched beside him. His phone buzzed once, notification from TikTok. A few fans commenting on the live replay they posted last night.

He opened it without thinking.

“You two are inseparable! 🥺 Can’t wait for more content!!”

“Where’s Ken? Hope we get another cooking vlog soon!”

“You guys are literally the definition of ride or die.”

Josh forced a smile. He wanted to reply. Really. But his fingers hovered, and then backed away.

Instead, he opened the video drafts folder on his phone. There were dozens of clips, laughing, dancing, bloopers, Ken making weird faces at the camera while Josh cooked. Ken catching him off-guard and zooming in when Josh wasn’t wearing his contacts yet. Josh grumbling but smiling.

He played one.

Ken’s voice came through, “Oi! Say something nice about me.”

Josh’s voice: “ Fine. You’re tolerable when you're asleep.”

Laughter. Lots of it. Josh chuckled softly under his breath. But it came out brittle.

He pressed pause. Set the phone down.

Leaning back on the couch, Josh closed his eyes and whispered to the silence, “I hate this.”

He hated the quiet. Hated the stillness. Hated how much he missed Ken and it hadn’t even been six hours yet.

His hand found the pillow Ken always hugged when they napped on the couch. He pulled it close “I don’t know what to do without you, you idiot.”

No answer. Just the kettle clicking off in the kitchen. And somewhere in the city, Ken on his way to someplace bigger, brighter. Without him. Josh sat there a little longer. Then wiped his eyes and stood up.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, walking back toward the kitchen. “We move.”

Even if it hurt. Even if the apartment echoed too much now. Even if his heart felt a little quieter without Ken in the room.

Because if there was one thing Josh knew, this wasn’t the end of their story.

Just an intermission.

The camera blinked red. Recording.

Josh stepped back, staring at the lens like it was a mirror he wasn’t sure how to face today. He was already wearing his apron, black with a stain on the side he didn’t bother to hide. His hair was pushed up messily, and his expression tried for bright.

Tried.

“Hey guys,” he started, voice a little rough, “it’s your boy Josh, back again in the kitchen, solo edition. Sigh. Yeah.”

He paused, tongue pressing to his cheek before flashing a quick grin. “This is weird without Ken making weird faces at me behind the camera. But, you know… man’s off doing superstar things now. So I figured I’d cook one of his faves today. Adobong manok. Classic, right?”

He moved to the counter, where ingredients were already laid out: chicken thighs, vinegar, soy sauce, garlic, peppercorn, bay leaves, onions, a splash of Sprite, Josh’s own little twist.

He pointed to the chicken with a wooden spoon. “I already cleaned these, don’t come for me in the comments. I’m not that chaotic. Today.”

As he started sautéing garlic and onions, the sizzling sound filled the apartment. For a second, it felt normal. Like Ken would suddenly yell, “ Don’t burn it!” from the couch .

But no voice came. Josh stirred the pan, lips pressed tight.

“So, uh…” he spoke again, forcing a light tone. “Ken always says I make my adobo too sweet. But he still eats it all, sooo... I win.”

He glanced at the camera and gave a half-laugh. “Missin’ him a little today. But it’s fine. I mean he deserves to be out there. Shine and stuff.”

Josh added the soy sauce and vinegar, carefully avoiding eye contact with the lens.

The steam rose, warm and sharp. It smelled like home.

“Anyway,” he said, softer now, “if he was here, he’d tell me to put more bay leaves. ‘You’re not making menudo, Josh,’ ” he mimicked, grinning faintly. “‘You’re making adobo. Learn the difference.’”

The smile faded just slightly. Josh plated the food quietly.

Then, finally facing the camera again, he said, “Let’s eat.”

Cut to the next clip, Josh sitting at the dining table, one plate, one fork. He took a bite, then chewed thoughtfully.

“Not bad,” he mumbled. “Still sweet, though. He’d say it’s ‘too romantic.’ Whatever that means.”

A pause.

Then he looked into the lens, gentle, real.

“Wherever you are, Ken, hope you’re eating something good too.” He raised his fork slightly, like a toast, and smiled. “Cheers, partner.”

Fade out.

Josh tapped the screen, uploading the vlog to their shared channel: “ADOBONG MANOK SOLO VLOG (Ken, if you’re seeing this, come home 😤)”

He tossed his phone aside after hitting “post,” flopped face-first on the couch, and let out a long groan into the pillow.

“Done,” he muttered. “Let the clowning begin.”

And boy, did it.

Twenty minutes later, the phone buzzed nonstop.

Josh sat up, scrolling through the notifications.

“WHY IS THIS SAD??? 😭”

“You okay, Josh? The silence is LOUD.”

“The way he kept talking about Ken like he’s an ex LMAO 💀”

“Not him raising a fork like a toast 😭 he misses his man fr.”

“Y’all better not break up, we didn’t sign up for a K-drama.”

“THE SWEET ADOBO = SWEET FEELINGS CONFIRMED.”

“Ken, blink twice if you’re watching from the dorm.”

Josh chuckled, snorted, then blinked too fast.

“Y’all are insane,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing under his nose.

But one comment stuck out.

“You talk about Ken like he’s your home.”

Josh didn’t even know how to reply to that. So he didn’t. He just hearted it.

And sat there quietly for a while, letting the screen dim in his hands.

—

“1 New Message”

It was almost midnight when it came. Josh was lying on the couch, a rewatch of One Piece playing in the background, though his eyes had long glazed over.

His phone buzzed once. He flipped it lazily, expecting another meme from Justin or some late-night TikTok tag.

But it was from Ken.

"Saw the vlog. That adobo looked like it missed me too lol."

Josh bit down a grin. His chest ached a little, stupid and sweet. Before he could reply, another one came in.

"Also… I’d eat the whole thing anyway. You know that."

Then a third, "Thanks for making it. I miss you too."

Josh covered his mouth with his hand, eyes stinging before he could even stop them.

He typed slowly. "Shut up and fly back here so I can burn the next one with you."

The reply was almost instant.

"Deal. But I’m cooking the rice."

Josh laughed. He stared at Ken’s last message, thumb hovering over the screen. The apartment was dim, the glow from the TV casting soft shadows. His adobo plate still sat on the table, barely touched since dinner. He swallowed, heart beating fast and unsure.

Then he typed, “Can I call you?”

Ken was typing immediately.

“ Yeah. Call me.”

Josh didn’t hesitate. The phone rang twice before it picked up. No “hello.” Just, “You okay?”

Ken’s voice was soft, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

Josh tried to laugh, but it cracked. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

A pause. “Adobo was good,” Ken said, filling the space like he always did when Josh didn’t know how to speak. “Too sweet though.”

Josh sniffed, wiping at his face. “Yeah, well. Some people like their food with a little heartbreak.”

Ken chuckled under his breath. “Is that what it was? Tasted like regret.”

Josh smiled faintly, voice quiet now. “Tasted like missing you.”

Another pause. This one longer. A breath on the other side of the line.

“Josh…”

“I know, okay? I know you didn’t mean to leave me behind.” He shifted on the couch, lying on his side, facing the ceiling. “And I’m really proud of you. Like sickeningly proud. Gross levels. But also…”

Josh’s voice trailed, then returned with a whisper, “I just don’t know who I am without you.”

Silence. Then Ken answered, slow and steady.

“You’re still you. Loud, chaotic, makes-better-adobo-than-he-thinks Josh.” A pause. “You just forget that sometimes. Because I let you lean on me too much.”

Josh swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

“I don’t want to lose us,” he whispered.

“You won’t,” Ken promised. “We’re not just a duo on camera, remember?”

Josh smiled, eyes wet. “No?”

“We’re a duo off-cam, off-stage, off-world if we have to be.”

That finally pulled a shaky laugh out of Josh. “Corny.”

“You love it .”

“I do.”

Ken was quiet for a beat. Then, “I can’t stay long on the phone. But… can you sleep with the line open? Just for tonight?”

Josh’s throat tightened again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

He placed the phone beside his pillow, the soft sound of Ken’s breathing comforting him through the static.

And for the first time in days, Josh fell asleep not to silence but to the sound of someone still choosing to stay, even from miles away.

Josh woke to the quiet buzz of sunlight cutting through the curtains, soft and golden. His first blink was slow, eyes dry, his mouth dry too. His head still pressed to his pillow, a blanket tangled around his legs. For a second, he didn’t move. Just lay there, listening.

Then he heard it. The faint, soft sound of breathing. He turned his head slightly and there it was. His phone screen, dimmed but still lit. The call timer was still going.

7 hours, 32 minutes, and 12 seconds.

Josh’s chest squeezed. He brought the phone closer to his ear, careful not to make noise. Ken was still breathing steadily on the other side. Not snoring. Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.

He didn’t hang up. Josh smiled, warm and fragile. He closed his eyes again, letting the tears prick but not fall. His voice was only a whisper, barely there. “Still here,” he murmured. “You’re still here.”

For a while, he stayed like that. Phone against his ear, forehead pressed to the pillow, breathing syncing with Ken’s even if they were miles apart.

Then suddenly, a sleepy voice. “Josh?”

Josh froze, startled. “Y-Yeah?”

Ken yawned faintly on the other end. “You’re awake early…”

Josh chuckled quietly, rubbing his eyes. “Didn’t want to miss hearing you snore.”

“I wasn’t snoring.”

“You were breathing emotionally.”

Ken laughed, a groggy, soft laugh that made Josh’s stomach do flips.

“Thanks for staying,” Josh whispered.

“Thanks for letting me,” Ken answered. Then: “I’ll call again tonight.”

Josh didn’t say anything right away, but he nodded into the phone.

“I’d like that.”

They didn’t say goodbye. They just stayed on for another few minutes, even after Josh got up and stretched. Ken listened to the sound of cabinets opening, water boiling. Josh pretended everything felt normal again because, just for that moment, it almost did.

—

It was a vulnerable, honest turning point in Josh’s life—the moment he stops trying to chase an identity through noise and finally lets himself feel through silence. Writing becomes the first thing he does not for content or applause, but for himself. And maybe, for Ken too.

It started with a blank page.

Josh sat at the kitchen table, his coffee slowly cooling in front of him. His phone buzzed nearby with the usual barrage of notifications, new trends, reposts of their old dance videos, fan edits, one even calling them the “Ultimate Love Team (but like, slow burn version).”

But he didn’t check them. Not today.

Today, he opened a document titled: “Things I Never Got to Say”

He stared at the cursor, blinking. Mocking. Waiting. And then he typed.

I dropped out of college because I kept chasing something I couldn’t name. I said it was passion. People said it was immature. Maybe it was both.

I pulled someone else down with me. And somehow, he never made me feel like I ruined him. That was probably the worst part. That he stayed. That he smiled through it. That even when I was at my worst, he danced beside me like I still knew where I was going.

Josh paused, sucking in a breath as his chest tightened. He glanced at the couch, their usual filming spot. Empty. Then the floor, still had Ken’s old slippers by the edge.

We used to dream together. Now he’s out there doing it. Living it. And I’m here, trying to figure out if I still deserve to be part of his story. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this. Not for an audience. Not for views. Just for me. And maybe for you, Ken. In case you ever read this someday.

In case you ever wonder how it felt to be the one left behind, even if I was the one who made us fall in the first place. I’m proud of you. But I miss us. And I don’t know if I’ll ever shine like you do. But I want to find out. I want to find out who I am when the music stops.

He sat back, eyes glassy, and breathed out. This wasn’t for likes. It wasn’t for laughs. It was the first time he was honest, fully and painfully, with himself. He didn’t know if he’d ever finish the book. Or if he’d let anyone read it.

But the page was no longer blank and that felt like a beginning.

Chapter Text

Josh keeps writing in secret not for content, not for anyone else but as a quiet rebellion against his own doubts. A private journey. One he doesn’t post about. Not even on TikTok. Not even to Justin.

Only the blinking cursor knows. Josh called the folder “Misc Docs” and buried it three layers deep into his laptop.

Even the filename was boring: final_notes_3.docx

No one would click on that. Not unless they were actively looking for sadness. Every day, after his morning coffee and silent phone check for any message from Ken, Josh would open the file and type.

Some entries were raw and aching, written like journal entries with no structure: I still check your slippers by the door like they might move by themselves.

I laughed alone today. It felt weird. Like I was stealing joy.

Some pages were mini-essays about life as a dropout, the kind of stuff people didn’t say out loud:

People treat you like you’re lazy when you drop out. Like you didn’t try hard enough. But I tried. I tried dancing until my bones hurt. I tried chasing a spark that never lit into a flame. And when it didn’t work out, no one asked how I was. They just said, “Told you so.”

And some… were just about Ken.

You said my adobo was too sweet. But you still ate it. Like you always do when I cook. Like it’s not about the food at all. You didn’t say ‘I miss you’ on the phone. But you let me listen to you breathe for seven hours. I think that counts.

Josh wrote like he danced, imperfect, instinctive, all heart. It felt good. Private. Sacred.

Some days, it poured out of him like a confession. Other days, he just stared at the screen, hands hovering over the keyboard. But he always came back.

Not because he thought it would fix him. But because it made him feel like he wasn’t stuck anymore. Like he was building something, one word at a time. And slowly, the document grew.

From scattered entries to pieces that began connecting, threads of regret, hope, identity, loyalty, and love. All told from the voice of someone still figuring it out.

Josh didn’t know if he’d ever finish it. He didn’t know if anyone would ever read it. But he kept writing anyway. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

—

Josh burned the garlic again.

He groaned dramatically, fanning the smoke away with a dish towel while the vent rattled noisily above him. “This is why Ken should never leave me alone in the kitchen. I’m literally a health hazard.”

He paused, staring at the ruined pan. Then he laughed.

“Okay, okay. That one’s going in the bloopers reel.”

He wiped his hands, then carefully set up his tripod again. He hadn’t posted much recently—only a few TikTok snippets, and a quick “life update” vlog where he basically said, “I’m figuring stuff out. Be patient with me.”

But today, he recorded something else. Not a dance. Not a prank. Not even a cover.

Just… him.

Chopping onions. Rambling about craving sinigang. Talking about the book he wasn’t writing (“not yet,” he winked at the camera, lying through his teeth). Smiling when he mentioned Ken, slipping up and calling the apartment “ours” instead of “mine.”

And it felt right. Because for once, he wasn’t trying to be a personality. He was just being Josh.

That night, the call came in exactly at 9:37 p.m. It always did. He didn’t even wait for it to ring twice before answering.

Ken’s face filled the screen, tired but glowing under the soft light of the apartment.

“Hey,” Josh grinned, flopping onto the couch.

“Hey.” Ken smiled. “Garlic again?”

Josh feigned offense. “Excuse you, it was experimental browning.”

Ken chuckled. “Smelled it through the screen.”

They talked about nothing and everything. Ken shared a story about a groupmate missing a cue during rehearsals and ending up doing the wrong formation, Josh was dying laughing. Josh showed him the blooper from earlier, and Ken nearly dropped his phone from laughing too hard.

At some point, the camera angle shifted, and Josh was lying down, half-asleep, still listening. “Tomorrow, I might try writing again,” he mumbled.

Ken’s voice was soft. “You should. You’ve got things worth saying.”

Josh swallowed. “I just wish I figured it out earlier.”

Ken didn’t hesitate. “I’m glad you’re figuring it out now.”

Silence hung for a moment. The kind that felt full. Then Ken whispered, “Proud of you, Josh.”

Josh blinked at the screen. His throat felt tight. “…I’m proud of you too,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Ken smiled. The kind of smile that said everything without needing more words.

They didn’t hang up. Josh fell asleep with the phone still on the pillow beside him, screen dim but not off.

When morning light crept into the room, Ken was still there, breathing gently on the other end, already dressed for the day. Josh blinked blearily, smiled sleepily, and whispered a hoarse, “Good morning.”

Ken just nodded with a grin. “Still here.”

And for now, that was all Josh needed to try again.

—

Josh quietly but bravely completes a full chapter. Not for clout. Not for praise. But for healing. For growth. For the boy who used to dance without knowing where he was going and the man who’s learning it’s okay to still be lost sometimes.

The day was unusually quiet. No TikTok lives. No stove fires. No vlog retakes. Just Josh, seated cross-legged on the floor beside the low coffee table, fingers hovering above his laptop keyboard.

The blinking cursor waited, just like it always did. But this time, Josh wasn’t scared of it. He took a breath and started typing.

Chapter One

When we dropped out, people stopped asking us what we wanted to be. It’s like the dream expired the second we said goodbye to the classroom.

But the truth is, I still don’t know the answer. I’ve wanted to be everything. A dancer. A content creator. A best friend someone could be proud of.

I’ve wanted to be seen. To matter. To be someone’s favorite part of the day. And somewhere along the way, I forgot how to want something for myself.

This is for the ones who still don’t know. Who are still figuring it out. For the ones who dropped out—of school, of expectations, of the lives planned for them.

This is not a success story.

This is just… a real one.

Josh exhaled slowly, his heart pounding like he’d just finished a full dance routine. He reread it. Once. Twice. Then smiled. It was raw. Messy. Imperfect. But it was him. He clicked save. Chapter One: Complete.

He didn’t post about it. He didn’t mention it in his next vlog. Not even to Justin.

But that night, as he curled up under his blanket, laptop closed beside him, he whispered into the dark, “I finished something today.”

And the echo of that small victory sat warm in his chest.

He opened his phone, scrolling past DMs and comments until he found one that mattered most. A message thread from Ken. He didn’t type anything. Just stared for a second at Ken’s last message:

“You’re stronger than you think.”

Josh smiled to himself, pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he'll write more.

And maybe someday he’d tell the world.

—

“Okay, guys, listen, if this doesn’t look like adobo, mind your business. It’s my interpretation,” Josh grinned at his phone, swiping sweat off his brow with his apron. “Some chefs cry. I scream. Same vibe.”

The chat blew up with laughing emojis and “JOSH STOP” comments. The sizzling pan and the clatter of utensils filled the background as Josh juggled between stirring and narrating.

“I already cooked rice earlier, yes, it’s actual rice, not the microwave kind. We’re growing.” He shot a wink at the camera. “Lunch is for two, even if it’s just me. I’m manifesting company.”

Just as he grabbed a plate to start plating, the door behind him opened with a soft click. Josh paused, confused. “Wait—did I lock—”

“Smells like something got burned,” a familiar voice said.

Josh froze. No freaking way. The comments instantly lost their minds:

IS THAT KEN??

KENS BACK OHMYGOD

JOSH YOU MANIFESTED TOO HARD 😭

KISS HIM RN OR I’LL UNFOLLOW

I SCREAMED LIKE I LIVE HERE

Ken stepped into frame, a travel bag slung on his shoulder, messy from the road but smiling with his whole face. “I knocked earlier, but you were ranting about garlic like it owed you money.”

Josh’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Then,  “You—! What the hell!?”

He darted off-camera, tackled Ken in a hug so sudden the phone nearly fell off its stand. The stream caught them in blurry chaos, Josh smacking Ken’s arm repeatedly as he kept laughing, overwhelmed by a dozen emotions that didn’t have names.

“You’re supposed to tell me!” Josh said, breathless. “You can’t just walk in like it’s normal—”

“It is normal,” Ken replied simply. “I live here.”

Josh stared at him.

Ken raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you didn’t make extra just in case.”

Josh blinked, then slowly turned to the counter where two full plates of food sat waiting. “…Shut up,” he muttered, flustered. “It’s called portion control.”

“Sure,” Ken smirked, grabbing a fork.

The comments were now full-on chaos:

YOU GUYS. I’M CRYING.

HE CAME HOME???

KEN NEVER LEFT, LET’S BE REAL.

THEY’RE SO IN LOVE I CAN’T BREATHE

Josh looked at the screen and grinned, cheeks flushed. “Alright, alright, today’s vlog is now called ‘The Return of the Prodigal Roommate.’ I’m kicking him out after lunch though.”

“You wish,” Ken said between bites.

And as they sat down on the floor together, knees bumping and food steaming between them, Josh couldn’t stop the quiet glow inside his chest.

He had cooked for two. Always did. Because deep down, some part of him never stopped believing Ken would come back. And here he was.

The live ended an hour ago. Plates were rinsed, comments replied to, and Josh finally had a moment to sit back on the couch, barefoot and full, a warm blanket over his legs and Ken beside him, scrolling on his phone.

The silence between them was easy. Familiar. Josh glanced at his laptop on the low table. Its lid was still closed, but his mind wandered to the file inside. Chapter One. Completed. Sitting there like it meant something.

He swallowed. “Hey,” he said, lightly tapping Ken’s knee with his toes. “You know how you used to say I never finish anything?”

Ken looked over. “I said you rarely finish anything. You always start big. Dream big. But sometimes you scare yourself into pausing.”

Josh scoffed, rolling his eyes but the corner of his mouth curved upward. “Right, right. Very supportive.”

Ken shrugged. “Just honest.”

Josh picked at a loose thread on the blanket, then, quietly, “I finished something.”

Ken turned, eyes sharpening a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Josh nodded. “A chapter. Just one. But it’s… a lot. Like, not a fun fanfic or a sassy rant or anything. It’s real stuff. About… me. Us. Dreams. Failing. Wanting to do better. Wanting to just be.”

Ken didn’t say anything at first. He just watched Josh, serious and soft at the same time.

Josh avoided his eyes. “I’m not ready to show it yet.”

“That’s okay,” Ken said instantly.

Josh bit his lip. “But… if I ever finish the whole thing. Like, a real book. I’ll give you a copy. Personal one.”

Ken leaned back, his head tilting slightly. “With an autograph?”

Josh snorted. “Obviously. First edition. Signed with permanent marker. Maybe glitter ink. Maybe I’ll even draw your face on the dedication page. Ugly, of course.”

Ken grinned, eyes twinkling. “Then I’ll frame it.”

“Don’t you dare,” Josh muttered, but his smile was blooming fast now, untamed and sincere. “I’m serious though. I want you to have the first copy.”

“Then I’ll wait for it,” Ken said, simple and sure.

And in the quiet that followed, Josh let himself feel it, that tether between them. That steadiness. That gentle pressure of someone believing he could do something big, even when he didn’t believe it yet.

He wasn’t ready to share his words.

But he was ready to write them for Ken. For himself. For the version of him that danced without fear.

And that was more than enough.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Josh said, already flipping through the streaming menu. “We rewatch White Chicks. For, like, the twelfth time.”

Ken raised a brow. “You know half the script by heart.”

“That’s why it’s perfect. Low stakes, high chaos, peak comedy.” Josh grinned, leaning into the couch cushion with a dramatic sigh. “Plus, you always laugh at the bathroom scene like it’s the first time.”

“I do not.”

“You do. You shake. You wheeze. It’s your villain origin story.”

Ken chuckled, kicking Josh’s foot lightly. “Fine. But only if we order something sweet later.”

Josh beamed. “Deal. You get us drinks. I’ll start the masterpiece.”

By the time the movie hit its third ridiculous moment, they were both sunk into the couch like warm laundry, sharing a bowl of popcorn and snorting through their noses at every over-the-top gag. Josh sprawled across the cushions, legs tucked up. Ken sat beside him, socked feet propped on the coffee table, hood up like it was a cozy ritual.

Halfway through, Josh leaned his head on Ken’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything. Ken didn’t move.

Josh didn’t know what this was, or what it meant yet. But it felt like safety. Like how things had always been, and how they could still be. Even if Ken had to leave again tomorrow. Even if things were shifting.

They could still have this. He yawned and mumbled, “We’re totally gonna quote this movie at our funerals.”

Ken laughed softly. “We’ll be buried with the DVD.”

Josh smiled against his hoodie. “Promise?”

Ken nudged him gently. “Promise.”

The credits rolled. The popcorn bowl was empty. And the apartment, for that moment, was filled with nothing but the sound of breathing and two hearts that weren’t brave enough yet to speak the things they were starting to understand.

“Let’s watch Your Name,” Josh said suddenly, eyes scanning the titles like it was just another whim.

Ken blinked at him from the other side of the couch. “You’re kidding, right?”

Josh shrugged, flopping back on the couch. “What? It’s romantic. A little twisty. You like anime.”

Ken raised a brow. “Josh. You sobbed the last time we watched that. You couldn’t speak for twenty minutes.”

“That’s dramatic,” Josh muttered.

Ken leaned over and ruffled his hair. “You are dramatic.”

“I’m fine,” Josh insisted, flicking to the movie and pressing play before Ken could protest. “I just… wanna watch something pretty.”

And he did. But more than that, he wanted more minutes. More moments. More reasons for Ken to stay a little longer before morning came and everything moved forward again without him.

So they watched. Josh curled into the blanket again, this time closer to Ken. Their shoulders are touching. Their feet tangled. The light from the screen flickered across their faces as the movie unfolded, beautiful, tragic, unforgettable.

When the final scene came, Josh sniffed once. Then again. “Don’t say it,” he whispered, voice already watery.

Ken didn’t. Josh held it in for as long as he could. But the silence after the ending credits rolled broke something loose. His face crumpled. And then he was crying.

Ugly, hiccuping sobs into the sleeves of his hoodie. His eyes are red, cheeks blotchy, voice muffled and cracking. “I told myself I wasn’t gonna—damn it—why do they always—why do they do this?”

Ken didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease, not really. Instead, he shifted closer, wrapped one arm around Josh’s shoulder, and gently pulled him in. His other hand brushed Josh’s bangs away from his damp face, careful and slow.

Then softly, like it wasn’t even a question, he kissed the tip of Josh’s nose. Josh froze. His breath hitched. His whole body went still, save for the shaking in his shoulders and the tears still clinging to his lashes.

He blinked up at Ken, face flushing deep red. “What was… that?”

Ken smiled at him, gentle, a little shy, but with a glint of teasing in his eyes. “Told you you’d cry.”

Josh’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. Nothing came out.

Ken leaned back slightly, still close but giving him space. “I wasn’t teasing,” he said. “Not really.”

Josh’s heart thundered. He clutched the blanket tighter, still staring at him, still burning, still trying to figure out what this meant. But even as his mind scrambled, a small part of him, somewhere deep and certain, whispered:

You knew this was coming. You wanted it too.  

Josh didn’t speak. His cheeks were burning. His heart wouldn’t slow down. He stared at Ken, wide-eyed and stunned, like he’d just stepped into a different version of his life and didn’t know which way was forward anymore.

Ken didn’t move either. He just sat there, close enough that Josh could still feel the warmth of that kiss on his nose. His expression was unreadable, still smiling faintly, but quieter now. His eyes steady, waiting.

Josh turned his head slightly, half-hiding behind the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

They didn’t say anything.

Somewhere in the distance, a car honked. The world went on. But in that little apartment, time felt like it had stopped.

Josh’s breath was shaky, his tears finally slowing. He wiped them away roughly, but didn’t break the silence.

Ken didn’t push.

Eventually, Josh shifted, just barely, letting his head drop lightly onto Ken’s shoulder. A small gesture. An answer, maybe. Or a question.

Ken let out a breath. Then leaned his cheek gently against Josh’s hair. They stayed like that.

Still. Quiet. A fragile truce wrapped in warmth and confusion and all the things neither of them could say yet.

Josh didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Didn’t know what Ken’s leaving again would feel like now, after this. Didn’t know if he was ready for what this moment meant.

But he knew he didn’t want it to end. So he let it linger, just a little longer.

Until sleep pulled him under, still tucked into the space between everything they used to be… and whatever they were slowly becoming.

Josh woke up slowly.

The soft light of morning peeked through the curtains, casting a muted golden glow across the living room. The TV had long since turned off. The apartment was silent, peaceful, like it was holding its breath.

Josh blinked the sleep from his eyes and realized two things: One, his head was still resting on Ken’s shoulder. Two, Ken hadn’t moved all night.

They were still in the same position, his cheek against Josh’s hair, one arm lightly draped behind him on the couch. The blanket had slipped, pooling over their laps. The warmth between them hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled into something heavier, deeper.

Josh didn’t move right away. He just watched the morning light dance on the floor and tried to calm the strange thudding of his heart.

Last night still echoed in his chest, Ken’s kiss, that look in his eyes, the silence that stretched too long.

He still didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know what he wanted to mean. But… he didn’t regret it.

The quiet was broken hours later, slowly, reluctantly, as Ken moved through the apartment, gathering his things. His bag sat by the door. His hoodie was already on. His cap hung loosely from his fingers.

Josh stood by the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching in silence. There were no jokes this time. No loud TikTok live. No teasing. Just the occasional shuffle of feet and the faint creak of zippers.

“Your bus leaves in thirty, right?” Josh finally said, his voice soft, strained.

Ken nodded. “Yeah.”

Josh cleared his throat, pretending to rearrange something on the table. “I packed you snacks.”

Ken looked at him. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Silence again. Ken sighed. “Josh, about last night—”

Josh shook his head quickly, cutting him off. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“I want to.”

Josh’s voice cracked slightly as he whispered, “But I’m not ready to hear it.”

Ken’s brows pulled together, hurt flickering across his face. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he walked over and gently took Josh’s hand, giving it a small squeeze. “Then I’ll wait.”

Josh looked down at their hands, throat tight. “Why do you always say things that make me wanna cry?”

Ken smiled sadly. “Because you always cry.”

That pulled a laugh out of Josh, soft, watery, but real.

“I’ll call you,” Ken said, stepping back. “Every night.”

Josh nodded. “And I’ll text. Or send stupid videos. Or rants about life.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Then, without another word, Ken reached out and wrapped him in a hug, tight, warm, lingering. Josh let himself melt into it. Let himself hold on for a few seconds longer than necessary. Then he let go.

Ken picked up his bag, opened the door, and before stepping out, turned back one last time. Josh didn’t say goodbye. He just smiled. “See you.”

Ken smiled back. “See you.”

And then the door closed behind him. The apartment was too quiet again.

Josh stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the couch like it still held something invisible. The blanket from last night remained crumpled on the cushions, like a memory frozen in fabric. He hadn’t touched it.

He sat down slowly, letting the silence wrap around him like static.

He thought he would cry but no tears came this time. Just a tightness in his chest, a lingering warmth on his skin where Ken had hugged him goodbye.

Instead, Josh pulled his laptop closer and opened his document. The blinking cursor on the screen was somehow more comforting than silence. It was something he could control. A place where he could be honest, even if it scared him.

The title still read: “Halfway There: A Dropout’s Attempt to Make Sense of the Mess”

He hadn’t touched it since the night Ken kissed his nose.

But now, his fingers moved. He started typing. Not perfectly. Not quickly. But with a kind of raw, uncertain honesty he hadn’t let himself express aloud:

Some days, I feel like I’m nothing more than background noise in someone else’s highlight reel. Like I’m meant to cheer from the sidelines, crack a joke, keep the energy up while people I love go on to do greater things.

But today, I’m tired of hiding in the echo. I want to make something of mine.

This isn’t a success story. Not yet. Maybe never. But it’s real.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

He paused, reading it over. Then added another line: I miss him already.

Josh saved the file, heart racing for no real reason. He didn’t send it. Didn’t upload anything yet. But he let it live.

Later that afternoon, he sat down to film another vlog. Nothing dramatic, just him cooking again, humming half-heartedly as he chopped garlic and burned the first batch of onions.

He didn’t mention Ken. But his smile was softer. His eyes lingered a little too long on the second plate he still prepared out of habit. And somewhere near the end, without thinking, he said, “I’ll save this for later. Just in case someone shows up.”

Then winked at the camera. A little forced. But not empty. He uploaded it later with the caption: We keep moving. Slowly. But we move.

—

Josh didn’t expect anything that day.

He was half-asleep on the couch, a YouTube video playing at low volume, when the doorbell rang. It startled him upright, nearly knocking over the glass of water balanced on the armrest.

With a groan, he padded to the door, dragging his blanket along like a reluctant child. When he opened it, no one was there, just a small box sitting quietly on the doormat, plain brown tape across the top and Josh’s name scribbled in familiar handwriting.

Ken’s handwriting.

Josh blinked. He brought it inside, placed it gently on the table, and stared at it for a full minute before opening it.

Inside was a small bundle of wrapped snacks from a convenience store in Ken’s area. A folded hoodie that still smelled faintly like Ken’s fabric softener. A flash drive labeled “Watch Me, Loser 💀” And a note, handwritten on lined notebook paper: 

You always save me food. So here’s me returning the favor. The flash drive has the new choreography draft. Thought you might like to learn it with me on call, sometime. Miss the chaos. Miss you more than I should probably admit. Don’t forget to eat properly. — Ken*

Josh set the note down carefully, his fingers trembling slightly. His cheeks were burning by the time he reached for the flash drive, clutching the hoodie close like it could somehow fill the space Ken left behind.

That night, Josh sat in bed with the hoodie still on, legs curled up beneath his blanket, laptop in front of him. The video call rang once before Ken answered. The screen lit up with Ken’s face, messy-haired, yawning, but undeniably there.

Josh smiled before he could stop himself.

“Hey,” Ken greeted softly.

“You look like you just woke up,” Josh teased.

“I did. I napped so I could stay up for this,” Ken said. “And you look like you cried again.”

Josh scoffed, “It was sweat. Emotional sweat. I was chopping onions for beefsteak.”

Ken laughed. “Right. Sure. Blame the onions.”

They didn’t talk about anything too serious. Ken asked about the vlog. Josh bragged about views. They joked, rolled eyes, and made fun of each other’s typos in the chat box when they ran out of things to say out loud.

But when the clock struck past midnight, their voices softened. The quiet came like it always did, and neither of them wanted to hang up just yet.

“I got your package,” Josh said quietly.

Ken looked at the screen, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Did you like it?”

Josh held up the note and nodded. “I’ve read it three times.”

“Only three?”

Josh laughed, eyes a little glassy. “Fine. Four.”

Ken leaned his chin on his hand, watching him through the screen. “Did it make you feel less alone?”

Josh swallowed hard. “Yeah. It did.”

They didn’t say anything for a moment. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

Then Ken whispered, “Good. Because you’re not.”

And though neither of them said goodnight for another ten minutes, both of them fell asleep that night with easier hearts. Still aching, still unsure, but less lonely.

—

The sun had barely risen when Josh stirred awake, still tangled in his blanket, Ken’s hoodie half slipping off his shoulder. The laptop lay beside him on the bed, the video call long ended, but the faint smile lingered on his lips.

He blinked at the morning light bleeding softly through the curtains. For a few seconds, he just stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence that didn’t feel so empty anymore.

Then, slowly, he reached for his laptop. The familiar chime greeted him, and there it was again: His messy document. His half-finished thoughts. His attempt to make sense of the way the world had spun too fast, too far.

But this time, he didn’t feel like a fraud staring at a blank screen. This time, he knew exactly where to begin. Josh scrolled down and created a new chapter. He paused. Then typed:

Start where it hurts. That’s what they say. So here I am. Writing not from the finish line, but from the middle of the mess. From the quiet mornings where your best friend isn’t there to steal the blanket. From the moments where the apartment is full of your laughter echoing in memory instead of in real time. I used to think the world would give me a sign. Some magical spark to say “This is it. This is where you’re meant to be.” But sometimes, it’s just you. Waking up. Choosing to try. And sometimes, that’s enough. Ken once told me I was enough, even when I was falling apart. So maybe this book is for him. For the version of me who’s learning to believe it, too.

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, sniffling once, then let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He kept writing. Not fast. Not perfect. But honest.

And for the first time in a long time, hopeful.

—

The sun climbed higher, painting golden light across the kitchen. Josh would get up soon, he’d cook, maybe even go live again. But for now, he stayed in bed, hoodie wrapped around him like an anchor, and wrote his truth one word at a time.

Josh sat cross-legged on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands as he stared at his phone. The doc he’d been working on all morning was saved, tucked safely in his drive, titled simply: "Halfway to Somewhere."

It still felt too raw, too personal but someone had to read it. Someone who wouldn’t laugh. Someone who wouldn’t judge.

He scrolled through his chat list.

Justin 🐼

Josh chewed on his lip. 

Hey, u up?

The reply was almost instant.

Always. Wassup? Don’t tell me Ken said something again—

No lol. I actually wanted to send you something.

I’ve been writing. Like, really writing. A book. Kinda.

There was a pause. Then, WAIT WHAT. Josh Santos? Writing a book???

Josh groaned, but a smile tugged at his lips.

Shut up. Just read the draft I’m sending you. Be honest. But not mean. I’m fragile.

He attached the doc and hit send before he could chicken out. His heart was pounding like he just danced for three minutes straight.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then Justin’s reply came. 

Josh. This is beautiful.

Like, stupidly good. It feels like you.

I actually teared up reading chapter two. Don’t tell Ken.

Josh blinked at the screen.

You really think it’s okay?

Justin 🐼: More than okay. You better finish this, idiot. The world deserves to hear it.

Josh sank into the couch, grinning through blurry eyes. Maybe this could be real after all.

That night, after vlogging a chaotic cooking attempt (which ended in a mildly burnt garlic rice), Josh was sprawled across his bed, fingers scrolling through TikTok comments when his phone rang.

Ken 💢 Calling…

Josh answered with a yawn. “Hey, superstar.”

Ken’s voice was warm. “Hey. You sound tired.”

“I burned rice today. That takes a toll on a man.”

Ken chuckled. “I saw the comments. You still have fans defending your cooking skills. Blind loyalty.”

Josh rolled his eyes, smiling. “You didn’t call just to roast me, did you?”

There was a small pause. “Justin told me about the book,” Ken said softly.

Josh sat up straighter. “He what—?! I told him not to—”

“I’m glad he did,” Ken interrupted. “Because I would've been pissed if I was the last to know.”

Josh fiddled with his blanket. “It’s not ready.”

“I don’t care,” Ken said. “I want my copy.”

“You’ll get it when it’s done.”

“Signed.”

Josh snorted. “Obviously. Limited edition. Gold pen, glitter stickers.”

Ken’s voice dropped a note quieter. “I’m proud of you, Josh.”

Josh’s breath caught. He swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

They didn’t talk about it further. They didn’t have to. Ken started rambling about rehearsals, Josh listened with eyes closed, and the call faded into sleepy silence. But before hanging up, Ken whispered, “Save me the first copy, okay?”

Josh whispered back, “Always.”

Chapter Text

Josh decided to step into Ken’s world now, a role reversal that lets him see both how far Ken has come, and how much of his heart still belongs to this boy who never stopped believing in him.

He had barely stepped off the train before anxiety started tightening in his chest. His hoodie was too warm, his backpack too heavy, and his fingers wouldn’t stop playing with the zipper. But he held the phone in his hand like a lifeline, eyes scanning the crowd. Then, there.

Ken, in a black cap and joggers, mask down and smile wide, waving one hand over his head. Josh let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and walked faster.

“You came,” Ken said, eyes crinkling.

“You invited me,” Josh shot back, but his voice came out smaller than he meant it to.

Ken’s arms were warm when they wrapped around him. Familiar. Steady. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Josh didn’t say it aloud, but the feeling was mutual.

Ken’s shared dorm-style apartment was modest, neat, and full of things Josh didn’t recognize—training shoes in the hallway, a row of trophies by the TV stand, protein bars stacked like bricks on the kitchen counter. He glanced at the little table near the window where a framed photo sat.

It was one of their old dance competitions. Ken and Josh grinning in sweat-drenched hoodies, their arms slung around each other. Josh swallowed.

Ken noticed. “You didn’t think I’d left that back at home, you know.”

Before he could reply, three figures burst in through the door.

“Yo! You must be Josh!”

“You’re real? Ken wasn’t just romanticizing?”

“He said you’d come with a camera and a weird hoodie!”

Josh blinked as the three strangers, well, strangers with very attractive faces, crowded around him like he was a lost kitten in a boyband movie.

“Uh, yeah, hi—”

“I’m Maverick. He’s Joshuel. Stell’s the loud one.”

“Hi!” Stell grinned brightly, poking Ken’s arm. “So this is the infamous Josh? The one who made Ken cry over sinigang?”

“Stell!” Ken groaned, pushing him back with a laugh.

Josh flushed deeply. “That wasn’t—okay, maybe a little.”

Maverick whistled. “No wonder Ken never shuts up about you.”

Joshuel added, “You’ve got a strong fanbase here, y’know.”

Josh blinked. “I do?”

Ken nodded, looking both proud and sheepish. “They’ve seen the TikToks.”

“You guys are chaotic,” Stell added, “but like, domestic couple chaotic.”

Josh bit back a smile. “We’re not—”

“You’re blushing,” Stell sang.

Ken smirked but said nothing.

Josh buried his face in his hands. “I should’ve stayed home.”

Later that night, after a casual takeout dinner and a chaotic group game of Mobile Legends, Ken and Josh ended up alone on the balcony, city lights glittering beneath them.

“You okay?” Ken asked quietly, his shoulder brushing Josh’s.

Josh nodded. “Yeah. Just weird seeing it all, y’know? This life. Your dream.”

“Our dream,” Ken corrected. “Still is.”

Josh hesitated. “I don’t know what mine looks like yet.”

Ken looked at him for a long moment. Then said gently, “Maybe it looks like writing books. Maybe like filming chaotic vlogs. Or maybe it’s just… showing up.”

Josh smiled. “You sound like a motivational anime character.”

Ken bumped their shoulders again. “I have range.”

The silence that followed was warm, filled with everything unsaid.

And when Ken leaned just a little closer, their hands brushing, Josh didn’t move away.

The dorm quieted by midnight. The soft hum of the city buzzed faintly beyond the walls. Josh lay on his side on the extra mattress Ken had dragged out, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. But the faint sound of Ken’s breathing from the bed above kept him grounded.

He thought Ken had fallen asleep until a whisper broke the stillness. “You still awake?”

Josh blinked. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence, then Ken shifted, peeking down from the top bunk, hair tousled and eyes shadowed in the dark.

“Want to come up?”

Josh hesitated only a second before tossing off his blanket and climbing up like they were teenagers again, sneaking snacks and watching horror films on school nights. He settled beside Ken, their shoulders brushing.

Ken was warm. Familiar. His presence felt like gravity, like home.

Josh stared at the ceiling again, this time beside the boy he’d known most of his life, and the boy he might have been falling in love with for just as long. “I’m proud of you,” he said softly.

“I know,” Ken replied. “But it means more when I hear it.”

Josh smiled. Then, quieter: “Sorry I cried in front of your friends.”

Ken chuckled. “They thought it was endearing. Stell said it looked like a K-drama scene.”

Josh rolled his eyes, but the laughter in Ken’s voice eased his heart.

“I miss this,” Josh murmured. “Us. You.”

Ken turned to face him. “Me too.”

They lay like that for a while, silence folding over them. Josh felt Ken’s hand brush his, fingers grazing knuckles like a question. Josh didn’t pull away. He didn’t speak either. But his hand curled slightly, just enough to answer.

The next morning came too soon. Josh woke to the scent of brewed coffee and the sound of Maverick beatboxing in the living room while Stell and Joshuel practiced moves in sync. Josh stumbled out, still groggy and hoodie-clad.

“You’re just in time!” Stell beamed. “We’re filming today. Group dance collab. You in?”

Josh raised an eyebrow. “You guys serious?”

Joshuel nodded. “Ken already said you’d do it.”

Josh’s eyes narrowed toward the kitchen. “Did he now?”

Ken popped his head out, holding a pan of fried eggs. “Good morning! They needed someone handsome and unhinged. You fit both.”

Josh squinted. “This is payback for the burnt garlic.”

Ken grinned. “A little.”

They set up in the rooftop garden of the dorm, city skyline behind them and tripod balanced by water bottles. Stell briefed everyone while Josh rehearsed the footwork with Ken in the corner.

“You remember this part?” Ken asked, walking backward as Josh mirrored him.

“I’m literally the one who taught it to you in high school.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t forget it,” Ken teased, nudging his arm.

Josh scoffed, then missed a step. Ken laughed.

Josh glared. “Shut up.”

When the camera rolled, it was like slipping back into rhythm. Their bodies moved in tandem, Josh’s wild energy, Ken’s focused grace. Maverick brought power, Stell sparkled with style, and Joshuel tied it all with cool, effortless flow.

It was loud. It was chaotic. It was alive.

When the music ended, cheers erupted, and so did the comment section.

“THE OG DUO IS BACK”

“Why does Ken look at Josh like that 😭”

“Josh was born to dance. He glows.”

“JOKEN NATION STAND UP!!!”

Josh panted, grinning and red-faced as he checked the comments. Ken came up behind him, resting a hand lightly on Josh’s back. “Still got it.”

Josh glanced at him, breathless. “You think?”

Ken nodded, smiling. “More than ever.”

And Josh, flushed and exhilarated, let that warmth soak in. Because here, in the beat, in the sweat, and in Ken’s gaze, he wasn’t lost.

He was just beginning again.

They slipped away when the crowd of groupmates got distracted reviewing the footage.

Josh found a quieter spot by the stairwell, part of the building still bathed in golden light. He sat on the cool metal steps, wiping sweat from his neck with his hoodie sleeve. Ken followed, holding two bottles of water.

“You looked like you were gonna pass out,” Ken said, handing one over.

Josh took it with a grunt, popping the cap and downing half in one go. “No thanks to Stell’s nonstop energy.”

Ken sat beside him. Close. Always close. There was silence between them. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just… still.

Josh tapped the bottle against his thigh. “It’s been a while since we danced with a crowd like that.”

“Yeah,” Ken said. “It felt good though, didn’t it?”

Josh nodded slowly. “Yeah. I missed it.”

He looked over at Ken, who had his head tipped back, eyes closed, catching the breeze. He looked calm. Peaceful. Happy. Josh’s chest ached a little. “Your friends are cool,” he murmured.

Ken smiled without opening his eyes. “They like you.”

Josh chuckled. “They teased us like we’re a couple.”

That made Ken open one eye. “Would it be so bad?”

Josh’s breath caught. “What?”

Ken looked straight at him this time. Unflinching. “If people thought that?”

Josh blinked, trying to play it off with a scoff. “Psh. I mean, we basically live together on the internet.”

Ken hummed, gaze lingering for just a second too long.

Josh shifted his weight, his heart drumming against his ribs. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Josh glanced at him, flustered. “That thing. Looking at me like you mean it.”

Ken leaned in, just a bit, teasing but sincere. “Maybe I do.”

Josh’s throat tightened. He wanted to laugh, to joke, to hide, but he just stared, eyes wide, lips parting with no sound.

And Ken just smiled, brushing his knuckles lightly against Josh’s. Not asking. Just staying.

Later, after everyone had eaten and Stell dragged Maverick into another mini cover for their Instagram, Josh curled into the guest bed with a pillow under his arm and his heart in disarray.

His phone buzzed, a new notification.

@stellsynergy posted a reel: “OG Duo comeback 🕺💥🔥”

They were tagged. Again. He scrolled through the comments.

“KEN LOOKED AT JOSH LIKE HE WAS SUNSHINE PLS 😭”

“Don’t tell me they’re not in love.”

“Josh glowed when he danced beside Ken again”

“This is NOT friendship anymore. I'm invested.”

Josh bit the inside of his cheek. They didn’t know half of it. Did they know how fast his heart raced when Ken handed him water? How hard it was not to melt when Ken teased him softly? How warm it felt… when their fingers barely touched?

Josh buried his face in the pillow. “I’m so screwed.”

He wasn’t just in love with his best friend. He was in love with the way Ken looked at him after a performance. With the quiet moments between the chaos. With every version of Ken he had ever met.

And maybe… just maybe… Ken was starting to feel the same. Josh let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet. But tonight, he’d let himself hold onto the maybe.

And tomorrow, he’d dance beside him again.

They never planned it. The rooftop sleepovers started back in high school, the first time they danced too long and missed the last jeepney. They’d spread out jackets, snack wrappers, and cold drinks under the open sky and fall asleep mid-conversation. It became their unspoken ritual, whenever life got loud, they’d climb up and let the stars do the talking.

Tonight was no different.

The shoot wrapped up late, and the group filtered out one by one. Ken pulled out an old blanket, the same one they used for shoots back in college. Josh grabbed a pillow he “borrowed” from Ken’s room.

They lay side by side, shoulders brushing.

Josh stared up at the sky, arms folded behind his head. The city lights didn’t drown out the stars completely. A few sparkled defiantly overhead, like they wanted to be seen.

“Still tired?” Ken asked, voice soft beside him.

Josh shrugged. “More like… heavy.”

“Your legs?”

“My brain.”

Ken didn’t respond right away. Josh felt his head turn slightly, felt the weight of that gaze even without looking.

Josh sighed, eyes still fixed above. “Everything’s changing again. It feels like we’re always chasing something. A dream, a project, an answer. And just when I think I’ve caught it…” He trailed off.

Ken didn’t press. So Josh added, quieter, “I just miss how simple it used to be.”

Ken lay still. But his fingers inched closer. Josh didn’t look down, but he felt them, just a faint brush of pinky against pinky. Like a grounding wire to keep him from floating away.

“Some things are still simple,” Ken said, finally.

“Like what?”

“Like this,” he replied. “You and me. Here.”

Josh swallowed hard. He turned his head, finally meeting Ken’s eyes in the dim rooftop light.

Ken smiled at him, gentle, easy, fond.

Josh wanted to say a lot of things. He wanted to ask if Ken ever thought of them like that. If he remembered the way he looked at Josh earlier, like the world slowed down just for them.

Instead, he whispered, “Thank you for staying tonight.”

Ken shrugged like it was obvious. “It’s our thing.”

Josh rolled to his side, watching him. “Do you think we’ll always have this? Even if… you know, we end up in different places, with different people, doing different things?”

Ken looked at him like he was ridiculous. “Why wouldn’t we?”

Josh didn’t answer right away. He didn’t trust his voice not to shake. Instead, he reached over and poked Ken’s forehead. “You sound so sure of everything.”

Ken caught his hand and held it there, fingers curling over Josh’s gently. Not letting go. “I’m only sure about some things,” he said.

Josh couldn’t ask what those were. Not tonight. But he didn’t pull his hand away.

And when the breeze cooled and the quiet settled deep, Josh let his eyes drift shut to the sound of Ken’s breathing beside him.

The stars watched silently and the city, for once, seemed to pause.

The suitcase rolled quietly behind him, its wheels clicking softly against the tile of the building’s lobby. Josh hated goodbyes. He always had. They felt too final, too heavy, like shutting a door you might never get to open again.

He tried not to let it show on his face, but his fingers gripped the handle too tightly, knuckles pale.

Stell pouted dramatically from the couch, arms crossed. “You’re really going?”

“I’ve been really going since last night,” Josh replied with a forced laugh.

“You could stay one more day,” Maverick chimed in, lounging upside down on the beanbag, one sock half-off. “Come to rehearsals. Watch me nearly die doing that spin Ken taught me.”

“Again,” Josh teased faintly, eyes flicking toward Ken as he came out from the hallway, holding a brown paper bag.

Ken walked up to him without a word and placed the bag in his arms. “Snacks. And your favorite drink.”

Josh looked down. “Is that the banana milk I—”

Ken nodded, a tiny smile forming. “I saw it at the corner store and thought… why not?”

Josh chuckled softly, cradling the bag like it was something delicate. Maybe it was. Maybe it held more than just food. Maybe it held all the unsaid things they didn’t know how to voice.

The others gave their last teases and goodbyes, Stell pulling him into a hug that lingered a bit too long, Maverick slipping a folded note in his hoodie pocket “for when you're sad or bored.” Even Joshuel, quiet and kind, gave him a soft pat on the shoulder.

And then it was just Ken, walking him to the building’s entrance where the cab waited outside, engine humming.

Josh stood still, reluctant to step forward.

“I’ll be home soon,” Ken said. “I promise.”

Josh looked up, eyes searching his. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I don’t,” Ken replied. “Not to you.”

The ache in Josh’s chest tugged harder. He nodded, swallowing past it, then suddenly pulled Ken into a hug. It was fast, but tight. A heartbeat pressed against a heartbeat.

When they parted, Josh avoided his eyes. “Tell me when you’re free for a call. I’ll update you on the book.”

Ken smirked. “I better get the first signed copy.”

“You will,” Josh replied, voice low. “Maybe with a letter.”

Ken’s expression softened, and he nodded.

Josh stepped out, into the sunlit morning, the cool air biting just enough to remind him he was awake. The driver helped him with the suitcase. He slid into the back seat, gripping the paper bag like an anchor.

As the car pulled away from the curb, he glanced back.

Ken stood at the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching him go. Josh didn’t wave. Couldn’t. Because it wasn’t goodbye. But it still hurts like one.

The door clicked open with a soft metallic sound, echoing louder than he expected in the empty apartment. Josh stepped inside.

The familiar scent hit him first, cooked garlic clinging faintly to the air, old detergent from their shared laundry basket, the soft vanilla undertone of the air freshener Ken liked. Nothing had changed. Not really.

And yet, it all felt… quieter.

He dropped his bag by the door, toeing off his sneakers with a sigh. His eyes scanned the room automatically, a blanket tossed over the couch arm, two mismatched mugs on the sink that he didn’t wash before he left, a half-used bag of chips on the counter with Ken’s name scribbled on it in Sharpie. A smirk tugged at Josh’s lips at that.

But then it faded, and the silence wrapped around his chest again. He went to the fridge and slipped the banana milk inside, untouched. He couldn’t drink it yet.

Not without him.

Josh wandered into the living room and plopped onto the couch, curling into it like muscle memory. He reached for the throw pillow Ken always hogged, hugged it tight, and exhaled.

The ache hadn’t gone away.

He picked up his phone, staring at the wallpaper, an old selfie, Ken photobombing him in the background with two peace signs and a wide grin. Josh opened his messages.

Still no unread bubble from Ken.

He knew he shouldn’t feel bitter. Ken was busy. Ken was living their dream and yet… the quiet made him ache.

Josh stood up and moved to his desk, brushing aside old notebooks and tangled charging cables. He powered on his laptop, opened the document titled “What If I Never Knew What I Wanted?” and stared at the blinking cursor.

Then, slowly, his fingers moved.

They say home is a place. Four walls and a door. But I think home is something softer than that. It’s a voice you know by heart. A hoodie left on your side of the couch. A song playing through thin walls at 2AM. It’s knowing someone’s light switches on the second they see you. I came home today. To silence, yes. But also to a memory and for the first time, I didn’t feel lost.

Josh leaned back, blinking away the sudden sting in his eyes. He smiled, just barely, then reached for his phone again. A message popped up.

Ken: “You home safe?”

Josh’s heart jumped.

Josh: Yeah. Missed you the second I walked in.

Ken was typing. Paused. Typing again.

Ken: Me too. I’ll call tonight?

Josh grinned to himself and replied simply: Always.

He turned back to the laptop, added a new line.

“Even in the quiet, I still hear your laugh. Maybe that’s what home really is.”

It was past midnight when Josh’s screen lit up.

Incoming call: Ken 🧍🏽‍♂️💢

Josh took a second before answering. He wasn’t sure why his heart beat like it did, like Ken was already here again. When the camera clicked on, there he was, hair tousled from rehearsal, still in a hoodie with the group’s logo, eyes tired but warm.

“Hey,” Ken greeted, voice low.

Josh smiled, a little too wide. “Wow. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

Ken scoffed. “Says the guy with eyebags as deep as my regret over trying durian.”

Josh snorted. “That was one time.”

“One traumatic time.”

They both laughed. Josh leaned back into the couch, one arm behind his head. His phone rested against a pillow propped on his knees, the glow of the screen softening the lines of his face.

Ken looked around on his end. “You cleaned?”

“I mean… kinda.” Josh glanced behind him. “I just shoved everything off-cam.”

Ken smirked. “Classic.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. The kind that didn’t beg to be filled.

Josh broke it with a soft exhale. “I wrote something.”

Ken’s eyes perked. “You gonna read it to me?”

Josh immediately waved his hands. “No. No way. I mean, no. It’s just… rough. Like, first-draft-what-am-I-even-saying rough.”

Ken raised a brow. “Josh.”

Josh fidgeted, then pulled up the file on his screen. He cleared his throat. “Okay. But I’m gonna pretend I didn’t write this. Let’s say… someone else did. Like, a really emotionally constipated guy. Total loser.”

Ken smirked but said nothing, waiting.

Josh began, voice shaky at first, then steadier as he went on.

“He used to think dreams had to be loud. That you had to be seen, always dancing at the center of the stage. But lately, he’s been thinking… maybe dreams are quiet, too. Maybe they’re found in the way someone always comes back. Maybe the person who stays, even from a distance, is the dream. And maybe, just maybe, that person is the one thing he wants to write about forever.”

Josh clicked out of the screen before Ken could say anything. “So, yeah. That was dumb. Forget it.”

There was silence. Then, “…It wasn’t dumb.”

Josh glanced back at the screen. Ken was staring at him again, not smiling this time, just looking. Serious. Gentle. Josh cracked a nervous laugh. “You’re just saying that because you’re in a boy group now and trained to say nice things.”

Ken’s mouth quirked. “No. I’m saying it because I liked it. Because it sounded like you.”

Josh froze. “What if I told you it was?”

“I’d say… I already knew.”

Josh looked down, breath catching in his throat. Then Ken added, “And I’d ask you to read the next part when it’s ready.”

Josh blinked fast, cheeks flushed. “I’ll think about it.”

Ken smiled softly. “Okay.”

They kept the call going, talking about rehearsal bloopers, how Maverick accidentally kicked a water bottle mid-spin, how Stell slipped and blamed the floor.

Eventually, they just sat in silence, watching each other. Then Josh yawned, burying his face into his pillow. “I’ll let you sleep.”

Ken shook his head. “Let’s sleep like this. Just until one of us dozes off.”

Josh blinked. “Like… stay on call?”

Ken shrugged. “Why not? I’m home, aren’t I?”

Josh’s chest swelled with something warm. He nodded, curling into the couch with his phone still propped up. The soft sound of Ken’s breath on the other side of the screen was oddly comforting. Grounding.

He fell asleep like that, with the screen still glowing faintly, and Ken's voice still echoing in his head, “I’m home, aren’t I?”

Josh woke up to a faint buzz and the cool glow of his phone screen still open from the night before. Ken’s call had already ended, replaced with a message.

Ken 🧍🏽‍♂️💢: “You looked peaceful. Didn’t want to wake you. Hope you slept okay. I’ll call again later. Promise.”

Josh stared at it for a long time, smiling despite the way his heart tugged. He rolled off the couch, hair a mess, hoodie twisted awkwardly around him. After brushing his teeth and making a lazy cup of coffee, he opened his inbox.

There it was.

A new message from Ken. Subject: “This made me think of you.” Inside, a video clip. Josh clicked play. It was a stage rehearsal, the same dance they used to do back in the day, except sharper, tighter, and glowing under professional lights. The camera moved with the group’s motion, and there, front and center, was Ken.

He looked focused, powerful, completely in his element. And then he spun, paused, and shot a look directly at the camera, at him, it felt like. That smirk. That little tilt of his head.

The gesture they used to do in their TikTok covers, a salute, followed by a wink. Josh’s breath hitched.

At the end of the video, Ken turned to the side and said something to one of his groupmates. It was muffled, but Josh caught it.

“He’d laugh at that spin. I used to miss that step.”

“Who?” the guy beside him asked.

Ken’s smile softened. “Josh.”

Josh hit pause. He covered his mouth, trying to press down the way his chest felt too full all of a sudden. All the longing, the unspoken words, the memories, they bloomed inside him like a storm held in a glass jar.

He didn’t expect the second file attached: a photo.

It was Ken, mid-rehearsal, hair messy with sweat, flashing a peace sign. But he was wearing the same hoodie Josh had given him before he left, the worn-out dark grey with the words “Stay weird.” still embroidered at the hem. Josh zoomed in on it.

Ken hadn’t said anything about it. But he wore it. On a dance he’d once given up because he refused to do it without Josh. Now, he was doing it. And still, somehow, Josh was there. In the small details. In the spin they choreographed. In the hoodie. In the smile.

Josh sat back down at his desk, blinking hard as he opened his manuscript. He started typing.

"He was never mine to begin with. Not officially. Not out loud. But maybe that's what made him stay in my pages. Maybe that's why every version of him I write still smiles like that, like I was the reason behind it, even if no one knew but me."

His cursor blinked at him. Josh hit save.

And finally, he replied to Ken: “That hoodie looks better on you now. But I’m taking it back someday.”

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Ken 🧍🏽‍♂️💢: “Not if I write my name on it first.”

Josh laughed quietly, holding his phone to his chest. Even from miles away, Ken knew exactly how to make him feel close again.

—

A week later, Josh had never been good at grand gestures. But he was good at mess. At memories. At piecing together feelings that didn’t always know how to fit. So he started small.

He cleared out the corner of their shared shelf, the one where Ken used to keep his unopened manga and a little Funko Pop of Gojo Satoru that Josh accidentally broke once. He dusted it. Then, in its place, he put the folded hoodie Ken borrowed from him before. Beside it, he propped up a photo he printed at the shop down the street, one of their earliest TikTok thumbnails, when they still danced in worn-out sneakers and mismatched outfits.

He added one more thing: a small sealed envelope. Tucked carefully beneath the photo, half-hidden like a whisper waiting to be heard. Inside was a single page. Handwritten. Not typed.

Ken,

If you're reading this, it means you're finally home. Or you snuck in early again just to get cereal and leave your shoes everywhere. Either way… I wanted you to find this first. I don’t know where I’m going yet. I don’t have fancy lights or backup dancers or a schedule filled with flights. But I’m starting to figure it out. Slowly. And every sentence I write, every second I film, I think of how it started, with you beside me. With you making everything feel like it could be something real. So here’s the first chapter of something. Maybe a book. Maybe more.

P.S. You still owe me one dance cover when you're back. No excuses. Not even fame.

– Josh.

He folded it up again before he could regret any of it.

Later that afternoon, he cooked Ken’s favorite, chicken adobo, extra garlicky, with just the right amount of vinegar kick that made Josh wince and Ken smile. He packed it in a container and sealed it.

Then, with a bit of leftover wrapping paper and an absurd amount of tape, he bundled everything, the photo, the letter, the hoodie, and the food, into a box and dropped it off with a courier that same night.

No label. Just:

For: Ken 🧍🏽‍♂️💢

From: You know who. Don’t cry.

Ken didn’t say anything about it when they talked over the phone. But Josh knew when he opened instagram two days later and saw Ken’s new post.

Just a photo of him holding the hoodie close, grinning like a fool, then the handwritten letter sitting on a desk. And in the background, the instrumental of a familiar dance they choreographed together played. The caption says: “Okay. One dance cover. Then I’m stealing this hoodie officially.”

Josh covered his face. God, he was in deep. And maybe Ken was, too.

—

Josh didn’t usually get nervous posting online. But today, his hands hovered over the “upload” button longer than usual. The screen split in two, on the left, his half of the duet: a worn-out hoodie (Ken’s), the soft glow of the kitchen light behind him, and a perfectly practiced smile that still didn’t quite reach his eyes. On the right, Ken’s side: a sleek studio, polished floors, and him in black joggers and a loose gray tee, hair damp, breath steady.

Together, they danced.

Not just to the beat of the Chris Brown track that fans had been tagging them in for weeks but to something deeper, something only the two of them could feel. Every hit, every glide, every sharp step and gentle sway matched with uncanny precision. It was muscle memory. It was history.

It was them. The caption was simple:

“One cover. Same rhythm. 🎧 #LongDistanceButInStep”

And within minutes, the comments exploded.

 @justinarts: “OKAY POWER DUO NEVER DIED.”

🔥 @stellstarrr: “I got goosebumps. You two always kill it. COME BACK HOME KEN 😭”

 @foryou_jkz: “You telling me they practiced this SEPARATELY and still hit every beat?”

👀 @marvsworld: “This is love. I don’t care what y’all say.”

Josh sat back on the floor of their apartment—his apartment now—and let the comments blur into the background. The music still played faintly from his speakers. His chest felt too full and too empty at the same time.

Then a new notification popped up.

@ken.ssn: "One more cover. But together next time?"

Josh grinned. He didn’t reply right away., “Guess I better start stretching again.”

And then, just as he was about to close his phone, he looked at it, a little too soft, a little too raw, and mumbled: “Don’t stay too long, Ken.”

—

The world outside was quiet. It was past midnight, but Josh didn’t feel tired. Not when his chest was still warm from Ken’s comment. Not when the sound of laughter from the TikTok live replayed in his mind. Not when the ghost of a dance step still tingled in his bones.

He sat on the bed, legs crossed, laptop resting on his thighs, the screen casting a soft bluish hue across his face. A cup of cold coffee sat untouched beside him.

The document had been open for almost twenty minutes. The cursor blinked at the bottom of Chapter 6, the one he swore he’d rewrite someday. The one where everything still sounded too heavy, too desperate, too much like goodbye.

But now? Now he scrolled past it, creating a brand-new page.

And for the first time in weeks, Josh began typing without stopping. Without holding back.

There are days I wake up and wonder if I’m already behind. If everyone else already figured out what their lives are supposed to be, and I just missed the memo while learning dance routines in our living room. But then I remember this: I wasn’t alone. There was someone beside me. Always.

He didn’t just dance with me. He carried the weight I didn’t know I was dragging. He fought with me, laughed with me, told me when I was wrong, and made sure I still believed in something, when all I could see was failure. This isn’t just a story of what we lost when we dropped out. It's a story of what we found. Of how the road didn’t vanish, it just changed. And maybe… maybe it’s okay if I don’t know the whole map yet. Because I still hear his voice at the end of every day. Still feel his beat in every step. Still hope he’s listening. This is for you, Ken.

Chapter Seven: “Let the Light In.”

Josh sat back, heart pounding harder than it had any right to at 2:17 a.m. He didn’t know if Ken would ever read this chapter. But for the first time, he wanted him to.

He wanted him to know that even if they were apart, even if the world pulled them in different directions, Ken would always have a place in every page Josh wrote. He hit “Save” and whispered to no one, “One day, I’ll let you read it all.”

Then he closed the laptop, rolled over onto the bed, and fell asleep with a smile ghosting his lips and Ken’s name in his chest like a prayer.

—

Sunlight crept gently through the curtains, painting the apartment in warm gold. Josh stirred awake with the faint memory of a dream he couldn’t quite hold on to, only that it felt peaceful, and Ken was in it.

His laptop was still by the bed, and for once, he didn’t feel intimidated by the blinking cursor. No. This time, he reached for it with intention. There was something new in his mind. A next step. A dream he thought he wasn’t allowed to have.

Self-publishing.

Josh sat up, heart already racing with nerves and a bit of coffee-less adrenaline. He opened a tab and started searching, platforms, guides, free tools, indie author forums. It was overwhelming but… not impossible.

He scribbled notes on a nearby pad: Format manuscript. Ask his friend Paulo for proofreading. Look for cover design ideas.  Maybe ask Justin for feedback. Save one copy for Ken.

He underlined the last part twice.

Josh knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Hell, he barely knew where to begin. But writing the book had saved him from drowning in self-doubt. And if he could turn that into something real, something other people might read, then maybe he wasn’t so lost after all.

Halfway through scribbling a rough outline for a preface, his phone lit up.

Ken: Morning. You up?

Josh smiled, thumbs already typing back.

Since forever. Working on something. I’ll show you soon. Promise.

There was a pause.

Ken: Save me the first copy. With a cheesy autograph.

Josh bit his lip. Typed slowly. You’ll get it. With all the messy words I’m too scared to say out loud. Someday soon.

Ken didn’t reply immediately. But when the typing bubble returned, it said:

Ken: Then I’ll wait. Just don’t make me wait too long.

Josh tucked the notebook under his arm and stood. Today, he would write like the world was listening. And maybe, just maybe, like Ken already was.

Chapter Text

Another week has passed, Josh never imagined that publishing a book could feel so personal. So terrifying.

It wasn't the deadlines, there were none, just his own nervous pacing. It wasn’t even the editing, although reading his own words again made his stomach twist and his heart hurt in a way nothing else ever did. It was the fact that every line, every metaphor, every pause between sentences… felt like a page torn straight from his chest.

And now, he was trying to share it with the world.

He sat at the kitchen counter, laptop open beside a steaming cup of instant coffee. He had just finished formatting Chapter Nine. His phone played soft music in the background, one of the playlists he and Ken used to rehearse to. The one that had their song somewhere buried in it, on purpose.

Sticky notes were scattered everywhere. Some with plot beats. Some with real-life memories. Some with words he wanted to say to Ken but didn’t know how. A few notes had hearts on them, accidentally drawn when his mind drifted.

Josh stared at the draft’s title: “Almost, Always, Us.” And below it, the dedication:

For the boy who never left my side, even when the world did. You danced with my chaos and never let me fall. This is for you, Ken. I hope it finds you like your voice always found me.

He read it twice. Then again, tears welled in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall. Instead, he pressed “Save” and opened the self-publishing site he bookmarked days ago. He hadn’t told Ken he was this far along. Part of him wanted to wait until he could hand him the finished book with shaky hands and too many emotions bottled inside.

But for now, he uploaded the first draft to the platform under a private setting, untouched by eyes but his own.

He started working on a temporary cover, something simple. Black and white. A silhouette of two boys on a rooftop, one with headphones, the other mid-dance.

He sent a message to Justin after:

I’m doing it.

It’s not perfect. But it’s mine.

I’ll let you read soon. And Ken too. When I’m brave enough.

Justin replied almost instantly.

Justin 🎭: You’ve always been brave. Even when you didn’t feel it. Ken’s gonna be proud. We all are.

Josh wiped at his eyes and let out a quiet laugh.

He looked around their apartment, still too quiet without Ken’s quiet presence, his sock trail on the floor, his soft footsteps at night. But in this silence, something new had bloomed.

Josh was building something. Something real and he was almost ready to share it.

—

Two weeks later, the apartment was dark, save for the blue light of Josh’s laptop screen. The digital clock blinked at 3:12 AM. The coffee in his mug had long gone cold.

Josh sat cross-legged on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, glasses slipping down his nose. He hadn’t moved in hours, save for the soft clack of keys, backspace, type, pause, repeat. And now… there was nothing left to type.

Just a blinking cursor after the last sentence.

And when he turned around, the person he was always running from… was no longer a shadow but the only light he wanted to keep chasing.

Josh read it once. Twice. Then again, mouth slightly open, chest rising with shallow breaths. His fingers trembled. He didn’t cry, not right away. But he did feel everything all at once. Pride. Relief. Fear. A strange, soft ache like he’d carved his heart out and shaped it into pages.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s done,” he whispered to no one. “I did it.” He didn’t even know if he meant the book or the courage.

On instinct, he reached for his phone. Opened his messages. He hovered over Ken’s name, thumb hesitating. But instead of texting, he took a photo: his laptop screen, showing the last line. He added a caption.

Saved. Every part of it. I’ll give you your copy soon, just like I promised. And yeah… it’s got the cheesy autograph.

He didn’t send it yet. Not tonight.

He closed his laptop gently, stood up, and walked to the small cabinet in the hallway, the one Ken built when they moved in. Carefully, he tucked the printed manuscript inside a manila envelope, sealed it, and labeled it in a messy, crooked Sharpie: “For Ken. (Don’t open unless I’m there. Or unless you really, really miss me.)”

Then, with one last deep breath, he whispered to the envelope, “…Thank you. For being worth writing about.”

Josh turned off the lights, heart full in the quiet and for the first time in a long time, he slept soundly.

—

Josh heard the jingle of keys before the door opened with a quiet creak a few days later. Ken stepped in wearing a black hoodie, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little longer than before. He looked tired but he smiled the moment his eyes met Josh’s from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Ken said softly, like the word was a secret.

Josh blinked, spatula still in hand. “Hey. You didn’t tell me you were coming home today.”

Ken dropped the bag with a soft thud, moving to him with casual ease, as if he never left. “Wanted to surprise you,” he said, hugging him from behind with his chin on Josh’s shoulder. “Did I?”

Josh nodded, heart thumping, leaning into the contact. “You did.”

They ate lunch quietly after that, chicken adobo, reheated, but Ken still said it tasted perfect. Josh laughed when Ken stole the last piece without asking. It felt like home again.

When the dishes were done, and the late sun started casting golden light across the couch, Josh said, “Wait here.”

Ken raised an eyebrow but obeyed, sinking into the couch and pulling a pillow to his chest.

Josh returned with a sealed manila envelope. “I… I finished it.”

Ken’s brows knit. “The book?”

Josh nodded, then held it out. “This is your copy. You can open it now, if you want. I mean, you don’t have to. But… I said I’d give it to you first.”

Ken took it with careful hands, like it might break. He slid the paper out slowly. Flipping through the printed pages, he caught the title first.

“Almost, Always, Us.”

His eyes dropped to the dedication. He read it once, lips parted, then again, this time whispering under his breath. Josh watched him tense slightly, then smile. A crooked, soft smile that reached his eyes. “You really wrote all this?”

Josh nodded. “Every line.”

Ken flipped to the first chapter, but Josh reached out, gently placing a hand on his wrist.

“Wait,” Josh said, breath hitching. “Can I… Can I be there when you finish it? I think I’ll need someone to hold my hand by the last page.”

Ken stared at him for a long time. Then, with quiet conviction, he said, “I’ll read it with you. A chapter a night. If you’ll let me.”

Josh let out a shaky laugh. “You’ll fall asleep.”

“Then read it to me,” Ken said, smiling. “Like a bedtime story.”

Josh flushed red but nodded, biting back the emotion rising in his throat. “Okay.”

Ken leaned in, thumb brushing the corner of Josh’s eye. “I’m proud of you, Josh.”

Josh looked down. “It’s scary.”

“I know,” Ken whispered. “But you turned that fear into something beautiful.”

Josh didn’t reply, just leaned forward and tucked his head into Ken’s shoulder. They stayed like that a while, with the sun dipping low behind them, and the only sound in the apartment was the soft turning of a page.

The lights were dim, warm and golden from the small lamp on Josh’s side table. Rain tapped lightly against the window, steady and comforting. The air smelled faintly of the lavender candle Ken lit earlier, the one he said helped him sleep.

Josh sat cross-legged on his bed, manuscript on his lap, glasses perched on his nose. Ken was lying beside him, one arm folded under his head, the other loosely draped over a pillow.

“You sure you’re not gonna fall asleep halfway?” Josh teased, nudging him with his foot.

Ken chuckled. “No promises. But your voice might keep me awake.”

Josh rolled his eyes, cheeks warming. “You’re such a liar.”

Ken just smiled. “Go on, writer-boy.”

Josh cleared his throat and opened to the first chapter.

“There are two kinds of dreams, the ones that keep you awake at night, and the ones you’re too scared to chase during the day. This story is about both. But mostly… it’s about someone who made dreaming feel a little less scary.”

His voice was soft, steady, and he tried not to fumble. He could feel Ken’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up. He just read.

Sometimes Ken asked questions. Sometimes he hummed in agreement or let out a quiet laugh at a line that was clearly inspired by their chaotic kitchen days or old dance rehearsals. Josh didn’t mind—it made the words feel alive.

Halfway through the chapter, Ken shifted closer, head now resting against Josh’s shoulder. Josh’s breath caught, but he kept reading.

“We didn’t plan for any of this. Not the way we met. Not the way we failed school. Not the way we made people laugh online. And definitely not the way he became the only constant in a life full of paused starts and unfinished sentences.”

Ken whispered, “That part’s me, isn’t it?”

Josh hesitated. “Yeah.”

Ken’s voice lowered, warm and teasing. “Figured. I’m pretty unforgettable.”

Josh snorted. “Shut up and let me read.”

Ken just smiled and rested his forehead gently against Josh’s arm.

By the time he finished the first chapter, Ken was still awake. Silent. But Josh could feel his breathing shift, slow and steady. Grounded.

He marked the page and whispered, “Chapter two tomorrow?”

Ken nodded, not moving. “Yeah. But only if you still want me beside you when we reach the last.”

Josh looked at him, really looked. His heart was loud in his chest, but his voice came out quiet. “I do.”

Ken tilted his head up slightly, gaze meeting Josh’s.

“Then it’s a deal,” he whispered.

And Josh smiled, pressing his forehead to Ken’s for a heartbeat before turning off the light.

The soft click of the lamp switch echoed in the stillness the night that followed. Josh sat on his bed, the worn manuscript in his lap. The edges were starting to curl, and his sticky notes had multiplied. Ken padded into the room with two mugs of chamomile tea, setting one on Josh’s side table without a word.

“You don’t have to do this every night,” Josh murmured, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Ken raised an eyebrow as he slid under the sheets. “And miss the next chapter? Please. I’m invested now.”

Josh smirked but didn’t argue. He opened Chapter Two. This one, this one was harder.

Ken leaned closer this time, chin resting lightly on Josh’s shoulder as he began.

“There are moments I hate being seen. Not by the camera. That part’s easy. I can be loud and funny and full of things to distract you from the silence I carry. But when someone really sees me—flaws and fears and all—I panic. Because if they see everything… they might leave.”

Josh paused, his throat tight. He could feel Ken shift slightly but didn’t dare look. Instead, he kept reading.

“There’s one person who’s always looked. Always stayed. Even when I dragged him into the mess I made of our college life. Even when I pulled him into dance rehearsals instead of classes. Even when I got jealous of his shine. He never left. Not once.”

Josh’s voice trembled at the end. Silence wrapped around them.

Ken’s fingers brushed lightly against the back of Josh’s hand resting on the page. “I didn’t stay out of obligation, Josh.”

Josh finally looked at him. Ken was serious, soft in that way he rarely showed.

“I stayed,” he continued, “because I wanted to. Because it was never your mess alone. We dreamed the same dream, remember? We just… tripped a few times along the way.”

Josh looked down at the page, swallowing thickly. “It feels like you’re chasing it now. Without me.”

Ken’s hand squeezed his. “No. I’m carrying both of us. Until you’re ready to chase again, too.”

Josh closed the manuscript slowly. “That was only half the chapter.”

“I’ll wait,” Ken said gently. “Besides, you already gave me the best part.”

Josh didn’t speak. He just leaned into him, forehead pressed to Ken’s shoulder.

They didn’t turn off the light right away. They just sat there, close, still, heartbeats loud in the quiet. The tea went cold. The chapter unfinished.

But for the first time, Josh wasn’t scared of being seen. He was learning that maybe… being seen by Ken wasn’t a threat.

Maybe it was a shelter.

—

The next morning came, Josh stood by the departure gate, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, watching as Ken adjusted the strap of his carry-on. The same soft, worn envelope peeked from the front pouch, his manuscript, now dog-eared and thumbed through.

“I still think you could’ve stayed longer,” Josh said, voice soft but steady.

Ken smiled faintly. “I think you just wanted me to cry during the sad chapter.”

Josh huffed a laugh, eyes stinging. “Maybe.”

There was a moment of silence, warm despite the low hum of the airport noise around them. Josh looked up at Ken. The under-eye circles from late-night calls. The glint of pride in his gaze when he read lines out loud like they meant something. Like Josh meant something.

“You’ll keep reading, right?” Josh asked, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.

Ken raised the manuscript slightly in his hand. “One chapter a night. With you on the other end of the call. Non-negotiable.”

Josh looked away for a second, hiding the emotion that cracked through his smirk. “You’re just scared I’ll cry alone again.”

“I’m scared you won’t tell me if you do.”

Josh looked back, chin tilted up a little now. “I will. I’ll tell you everything this time.”

Ken softened. He stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Josh’s shoulders, pulling him close, not tightly, just enough. Enough for Josh to breathe him in, to hold him for a moment longer.

They pulled away slowly. “I’ll keep a copy with me,” Ken said, lifting the manuscript. “So it feels like I’m taking part of you with me.”

Josh blinked fast, forcing a grin. “Don’t bend the corners. I mean it.”

“Okay, okay,” Ken chuckled, starting to walk backwards toward the boarding gate. “Talk to you tonight?”

Josh nodded, hands still stuffed into his hoodie pocket. “Yeah. Tonight.”

Ken turned, walking away.

And Josh watched, heart tight, but not breaking. Because this time, he had a promise. This time, he had a manuscript waiting to be read together.

And this time… He wasn’t going to be afraid of the next chapter.

—

Josh sat cross-legged on the couch, the soft glow of his desk lamp casting warm shadows on the pages of the manuscript he held. His laptop was propped in front of him, Ken’s face filling half the screen, earbuds tucked in. He looked tired but soft. The kind of soft Josh had only started to notice when they’d begun saying good night more than see you later.

Josh cleared his throat dramatically. “Okay. Chapter Three. But this time, I’m reading it, not just you skimming while eating instant noodles.”

Ken smirked, slurping from said noodles. “I like to multitask. Go on, author-nim.”

Josh rolled his eyes but bit back a smile. He opened the copy of his own and started reading, his voice a little shy, then stronger with every word. It was a rough chapter. Not in writing, but in memory. The one where he talked about the day they both dropped out. The yelling, the guilt, the silent rides home. Ken had read it before, but never like this, never in Josh’s voice.

By the time Josh paused for a breath, he noticed Ken wasn’t slurping anymore. Just… staring. Softly. Quietly.

“You okay?” Josh asked, glancing at the camera, blinking fast.

Ken nodded. “It’s just… hearing you say it. It hits different.”

Josh lowered the paper, shrugging. “You lived it with me.”

“I didn’t know you remembered all that,” Ken whispered.

“I remember everything,” Josh replied. “Even when I pretend I don’t.”

Ken leaned back, silence stretching, comfortable and heavy. “You write like it still hurts.”

Josh’s laugh was dry. “Because it does. But it’s easier now. With you… listening.”

Ken smiled. “I always will.”

Just then, Josh’s door creaked open behind him. Josh whipped around. “Wha—hold on, was that—”

The screen glitched slightly, and then— “Surprise.”

Josh spun to his feet as Ken walked into the room, still holding his phone in one hand, smirking like the bastard he was.

“Are you—You were just on my screen!”

“Scheduled flight change. I thought it’d be better if I heard Chapter Four in person,” Ken said, dropping his bag and opening his arms.

Josh launched into him, nearly knocking the wind out of his best friend. “Stupid,” he muttered against his shoulder, tearing up without shame. “You should’ve warned me.”

Ken chuckled, holding him tighter. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you this red.”

Josh sniffed. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Josh’s heart pounded. His arms stayed locked around Ken. And softly, almost like a secret, he whispered,

“Yeah. I really do.”

Josh’s manuscript sat between them on the bed, its pages gently curling at the corners like it had been waiting for this night too.

Ken leaned against the headboard, legs stretched out, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He had his arm behind Josh, close but not quite touching. Josh sat cross-legged beside him, holding the first few printed pages with both hands, thumbs trembling slightly.

“You sure?” Josh asked, not looking at him.

Ken nodded, voice quiet. “I want to hear it from you.”

Josh hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat and began to read again. His voice, steady but raw, filled the quiet room.

It wasn’t just a story, it was their story. Of small-town beginnings. Of nights under blinking streetlights, shoes scuffed from practicing the same routine for hours. Of shared failures. Of laughter over cheap meals and tears swallowed in the dark. And in between the lines, there were so many things Josh never said out loud, his fears, his self-doubt, the guilt he carried for dragging Ken down, and the gratitude he never knew how to express.

Ken listened in silence, his hand slowly finding its way to rest gently on Josh’s knee. A quiet anchor.

When Josh finally reached the last line of the chapter, he stopped. He couldn’t keep reading. His throat tightened. Ken took the papers from his hands and set them aside carefully. Then, without a word, he leaned closer and gently rested his forehead against Josh’s.

Josh closed his eyes. His breath trembled. “It’s not done yet.”

Ken nodded, whispering back, “Then we’ll finish it together.”

They didn’t need to say more. The lights stayed dim. The manuscript lay quietly between them, the pages catching the soft golden glow from Josh’s bedside lamp, unfinished, but alive. Just like them.

Josh’s heart thudded inside his chest, unruly. He hadn’t dared to look at Ken while reading, not really. But now, he couldn’t help it.

Ken’s eyes were still on him. Warm, proud, and searching.

Slowly, Ken leaned in, close enough that Josh could feel his breath, smell the hint of his shampoo. His hand found Josh’s cheek, tentative and gentle. There was no pressure, just the unspoken question lingering between them.

Josh’s eyes widened. His breath hitched.

And then, panic slammed into him like a tidal wave. “No—wait—Ken, I…” Josh jerked back and pushed him, not hard, but enough that Ken stumbled slightly, catching himself on the mattress. His hand recoiled as if burned.

“I—I can’t,” Josh stammered, eyes glossing over. “Not yet.”

Ken blinked. “Josh…”

“I’m not ready,” Josh said, voice cracking. “Like the book. I’m still… writing it. Still figuring out how this ends. I need to be sure. Of myself. Of everything.”

Ken sat still, breathing quietly through his nose. Then he nodded slowly, eyes softening with understanding. He leaned back against the headboard, giving Josh space.

“I’m sorry,” Josh mumbled, guilt sinking in.

“Don’t be.” Ken’s voice was calm. Unshaken. “You’ve always taken your time. And I’ve always waited. This… won’t be any different.”

Josh looked up at him, eyes rimmed red. “You’ll wait?”

Ken smiled, faint but real. “For you? As long as it takes.”

And in that quiet night, no kiss was shared, no confession finalized. But something deeper settled between them. A promise. A breath held just a little longer. A bond neither fame nor fear could break.

Josh curled into the covers, turned away but not apart. Ken stayed beside him, reading through the manuscript again, quietly turning pages like each word brought him closer to the heart of the boy he’d always known.

Outside, the city continued to hum. But inside the room, they stayed still. Waiting. Growing. Together.

—

Josh woke first, blurry-eyed and heavy-limbed. The morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting soft streaks across the ceiling. For a few moments, he just lay there. Listening to the stillness.

Then he felt it. Ken, still beside him. Not too close. But not far, either.

Ken had fallen asleep sitting upright, Josh’s printed manuscript splayed over his lap, some pages drooping over his thigh. His glasses were askew, hair slightly messy, lips parted in sleep. He looked peaceful. Familiar.

Too familiar.

Josh’s chest ached, not in the painful kind of way, but the weighty, complicated one. He carefully sat up and pulled the manuscript from Ken’s lap, placing it gently on the desk nearby. He left a quiet note on the first page, “Thank you for waiting.”

He padded softly to the kitchen, needing the ritual. The grounding routine. Coffee. Eggs. Toast. Anything that kept him from spiraling.

By the time Ken shuffled in, barefoot, hair still tousled, Josh had already plated their breakfast. Nothing fancy. Just comfort food. Eggs a little overcooked, toast a little burnt.

“I made coffee,” Josh mumbled, not turning around.

Ken settled into the kitchen stool without a word. The silence was… different today. Not hostile. Just cautious. They both knew what hung in the air between them, thick like steam on the windows.

Josh placed a mug in front of Ken, then another for himself. When he finally sat, their knees brushed. Neither moved.

“So…” Ken started, stirring his cup slowly. “What’s the plan for today?”

Josh shrugged. “Might finish another chapter.”

Ken nodded. “Want company?”

Josh hesitated, then nodded too. “Yeah. I do.”

That was it. No talk of last night. No questions asked. No answers forced.

Just breakfast, two cups of coffee, and a shared moment that said everything they couldn’t yet voice.

The afternoon settled like a soft sigh. Ken had retreated to the couch, curled up with a worn-out manga he brought back from a recent trip. His presence was quiet, grounding, exactly what Josh needed and exactly what made it harder to focus.

Josh sat at his desk, fingers poised above the keyboard, the blinking cursor waiting. He stared at the blank document for a good while, heart too loud for silence, too unsure for music.

Then he started typing.

Not about kisses that almost happened or words left unspoken—but about waiting. About love that wasn’t lightning but something slower. Something that bloomed like sunrise, quiet, inevitable, and kind. He wrote:

Sometimes love isn’t a thunderstorm. Sometimes it’s the sound of eggs cracking in the morning. The warmth of coffee handed over without a word. A hand that doesn’t reach for yours, but never leaves the room.

He paused.

Across the room, Ken had fallen asleep again, his head tipped to the side, one hand hanging off the couch, manga splayed over his chest. Peaceful again.

Josh looked at him. Then back at the screen.

And sometimes, love is the story that still needs editing. The kind that waits for you to get the words right. Even if you delete every sentence a hundred times. Even if you don’t know the ending yet. Because the person it’s about… is still right there.

He saved the file and didn’t reread it. For now, it was enough to have written it.

Josh stood and grabbed a blanket, gently draping it over Ken’s sleeping form. His hand lingered on Ken’s shoulder for a second longer than necessary.

“I’m still writing,” he whispered. “But I’m not running anymore.”

Ken stirred but didn’t wake. Josh smiled.

Maybe the story wasn't ready to end. But for once, he wasn’t afraid to write it.

The apartment was quiet again.

Dinner had been simple, leftover sinigang from the freezer, reheated with rice. Ken had teased Josh for hoarding the sour broth like he always did, and Josh had smacked his arm with a wooden spoon. It was normal, comfortable.

But the quiet that came after wasn’t awkward. It was expectant.

Josh sat at his desk, a freshly printed chapter in his hands. His fingers trembled slightly as he looked at the words. They were raw. More honest than he ever allowed himself to be out loud.

Behind him, Ken sat cross-legged on the couch, flicking through Netflix without really watching. Like he was waiting for something. Or maybe someone.

Josh turned.

“Ken,” he said, voice soft. “You awake?”

Ken looked up, one brow raised, remote still in hand. “Technically. Why?”

Josh walked over with the paper, stopping just short of the couch. He didn’t offer it yet. Instead, he sat down beside Ken, the cushions dipping just enough to bring them closer.

“I finished the next chapter,” he said.

Ken smiled. “Can I read it?”

Josh hesitated. He looked down at the printed pages, thumb grazing the edge. “Not yet. I’m not… fully there.”

Ken’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze softened. “Okay.”

“I’m scared,” Josh admitted. “Not in the book. But… if I give this to you, it’s like handing over every inch of what I feel. And I’m still… sorting that out.”

Ken nodded once, like he’d already expected that answer. “I’ll wait. You know that.”

Josh finally looked at him. “I know. That’s the part that messes me up the most. You’ve always waited for me. Even when I didn’t know I needed someone to.”

He held up the pages. “But I’ll let you read it when it’s done. All of it. First copy, signed. With all the typos still in.”

Ken laughed quietly. “Better be. I want proof of your human error.”

They sat there for a moment longer. The weight of unspoken things is not as heavy as it used to be.

Then, Ken nudged Josh’s shoulder gently. “You know, we don’t have to figure everything out right now.”

Josh nodded. “I know. But I think I’m getting close.”

Ken smiled again, quieter this time. “Then I’ll be here when you do.”

And for once, Josh didn’t feel like he had to rush. Not the book. Not the words. Not even the kiss he knew would happen, eventually.

—

The door clicked softly behind them as they stepped into the hallway, Ken’s duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The taxi was waiting at the curb. Another early morning flight. Another see-you-later.

But this time, Josh didn’t cling to each second like it would be their last.

Ken glanced sideways, his steps slow. “You’re really okay?”

Josh nodded, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.”

They stood just outside the gate, sun barely peeking out from the clouds. Josh pulled his hoodie tighter around himself as Ken adjusted the strap of his bag.

“I’ll text you when I land,” Ken said.

Josh chuckled. “You always do.”

Ken looked at him then, really looked. Like he wanted to say something. Like maybe part of him still expected Josh to break, to retreat back into the version of himself who couldn’t imagine a life without someone to lean on.

But Josh met his gaze without flinching. “I’ll be here,” he said. “Still writing. Still figuring things out. But I’m okay, Ken. You don’t have to worry.”

Ken stepped closer, dropping his bag to wrap his arms around Josh tightly. Josh hugged back just as firm, burying his nose against Ken’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “You’re finally looking ahead.”

Josh’s throat tightened, but he didn’t cry. Instead, he pulled back and grinned. “You’re the one who’s flying. Go chase the dream for both of us.”

“I still want you to chase yours,” Ken said, brushing a hand through Josh’s hair affectionately.

Josh nodded. “I am. I will.”

A final look, a quiet goodbye.

Then Ken turned and walked toward the waiting taxi. Josh didn’t follow this time. He stayed at the gate, arms crossed, the manuscript folder clutched under one arm like armor.

When the taxi turned the corner and disappeared, Josh let out a breath.

It wasn’t emptiness he felt. It was peace.

He turned back inside, locking the gate behind him, and went straight to his desk. The final chapter still waited. The cursor blinked. The coffee had cooled.

But for once, his heart wasn’t. Ken was no longer his anchor. He was the wind in his sails.

And Josh was finally steering the boat.

—

The book release was far from glamorous, but it was deeply personal. Josh had spent sleepless nights editing, rewriting, doubting, and dreaming. The manuscript that once felt too heavy to share now rested between two matte covers, embossed with the title: "Almost, Always, Us". The story of his friendship, his failures, his dreams, and the boy who stood by him through it all.

The small independent bookstore was packed with familiar faces, Justin was there, beaming, along with some fans who had followed Josh since his early vlogs. But one seat in the crowd remained reserved and empty. Ken wasn’t there.

Not yet.

Josh signed copies, smiled for pictures, answered shy questions from readers, and held it all together. Every time someone thanked him for his honesty, he’d clutch the pen tighter, remembering why he wrote this in the first place. For himself. For Ken. For anyone who ever felt like their dreams weren’t big enough.

A week later, Josh found himself seated in the front row of a major venue. The crowd was loud, the lights dazzling, and Ken’s group had just wrapped up their final performance of the night. Josh clapped the hardest, his hands slightly shaking, heart pounding with pride and nerves.

Backstage was a flurry of sweat and adrenaline. Performers congratulated one another, stylists buzzed around, and Josh stood there holding a single copy of his book, neatly wrapped in brown paper with Ken’s name written on it.

Then Ken appeared, fresh from the stage, grinning, chest heaving from the performance. He spotted Josh immediately.

"You came," Ken said, walking over with disbelief and joy lacing his voice.

Josh smiled and handed over the package. "Of course I did. This is for you. The first copy. Signed and everything."

Ken took it carefully, as if afraid to crumple it. "You finished it."

"Yeah," Josh said, eyes soft. "And like I promised, that copy’s yours. I kept my word."

Ken looked at the cover, then back at Josh, his throat bobbing. "I’ll read every word. Slowly. Carefully."

"I wrote it for you," Josh admitted. "For me, too. But mostly... for us."

Ken stepped forward, tugged Josh into a quiet embrace, the cheers and noise muffled by the beating of their hearts.

“Promise me one thing,” he whispered. “Next time I perform… you’ll be there again?”

Josh nodded, his breath catching. “As long as you promise to read this one cover to cover.”

Ken smiled. “Deal.”

—

The screen glowed softly in the dim corner of Josh’s room, casting gentle light across his desk, still cluttered with sticky notes and open notebooks. Josh leaned into the video call, biting the inside of his cheek as he watched the call ring out to both names: Ken 💙 and Justin 🎨.

Justin answered first, lounging on his bed with a tub of ice cream balanced on his chest.

“Yo! This better be good, I paused my K-drama for this.”

Josh huffed a quiet laugh. “It is. Where’s Ken?”

The screen split again, this time with Ken’s image popping up, blurry for a second before it cleared to show him in a practice room, towel around his neck, sweat-damp hair messy and hanging into his eyes.

“You okay?” Ken asked immediately. “You look serious.”

Josh hesitated. “Kinda am.”

Justin sat up straighter. “Uh-oh. What happened?”

Josh reached over and grabbed the printed invitation off the table beside him. He lifted it into frame with both hands, his voice soft but tinged with something new. Excitement. Fear. Hope.

“I got invited to speak.”

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then, “WHAT?!” Justin nearly dropped his ice cream. “A guest speaker? With your book? With people? And chairs? And a mic?”

Josh nodded slowly, heart pounding just from saying it out loud. “Yeah. The Lit department of San Beda invited me to talk about "Almost, Always, Us.”

Ken leaned forward, his eyes focused. “That’s huge.”

“I know,” Josh said, biting his lip. “And terrifying.”

Justin beamed. “Terrifying but freaking amazing, Josh!”

Ken nodded. “You’re going, right?”

Josh went quiet, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the invitation. “I want to. I really do. But what if I choke? Or say something stupid? Or someone asks me what I’m doing next and I don’t have an answer yet—”

“You do have an answer,” Ken interrupted gently. “You wrote a book, Josh. You’re doing this. And if they ask what’s next, you can tell them you’re living chapter by chapter.”

Justin nodded sagely. “Yeah. Or just say you’re on a ‘main character healing arc.’ Readers love that crap.”

Josh laughed despite himself, his chest loosening a little. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“But you’re going, right?” Ken asked again, softer this time.

Josh glanced at the screen. Justin’s encouraging grin. Ken’s steady gaze.

“I think I am,” he said. “I think… I want to tell my story out loud.”

Ken smiled. “I’ll be watching, even if it’s from another city. Promise.”

Justin raised his spoon like a toast. “And I’ll send you a ‘You Slayed!’ graphic gif after your speech.”

Josh grinned. “I’ll hold you both to that.”

That night, after they ended the call, Josh sat on his bed with the invitation still in his hands. He read it again. His name. His words. His book.

And this time, instead of fear, he felt something else settling in his chest. Readiness. Because it wasn’t just his story anymore. It was theirs.

—

The morning sun filtered gently through the curtains of the apartment, painting the room in soft gold. Josh stood by the window, mug of lukewarm coffee in hand, dressed in a crisp button-down he changed into three times already. His manuscript, dog-eared and worn at the edges, sat quietly on the table near his bag, along with a couple of pens and the printed invitation now folded twice from nervous handling.

He hadn’t slept much. Not because he was unprepared, no, the speech was in his head, memorized and rewritten a hundred different ways. It was just that his heart wouldn’t stop racing.

This was it.

People were going to listen to him today. Listen. Not just watch him dance. Not just laugh at his chaotic lives or tag him in TikToks. This time, they’d hear the version of him that bled through the pages. The one who cried under blankets. The one who shoved someone away because he wasn’t ready. The one who finally found the words he couldn’t say then.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Ken 💙: You’re gonna do great, Josh. You always had something to say,  now you’ve got people ready to listen. Read your own words like you’d dance a solo. The whole room’s already rooting for you. I’m rooting for you.

Josh’s eyes watered instantly. He sniffed, setting the mug down and wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. He took the phone and typed back slowly.

Thank you. I needed that. Save a seat in your heart for the signed copy. This one’s for us.

Another message popped up before he could put the phone away.

Ken 💙: It always was.

Josh breathed out, chest trembling but steady this time.

He picked up the manuscript, slid it gently into his bag, and whispered to himself, “Let’s go.”

The hallway was quiet as he locked up. The city was louder than ever. But inside him, for the first time in a long while… Everything felt like it was in rhythm.

Today, he’d speak and finally he was ready to be heard.

The hall wasn’t enormous, but it was full.

The lights were soft, set low enough to draw focus to the small stage at the center where a single chair, a mic, and a table rested. On that table: "Almost, Always, Us", now in its second printing. Josh’s name—Josh Cullen Santos—was printed in clear serif beneath the title.

He sat in the chair, cross-legged and nervous, but trying to smile.

This was a panel hosted by a local university’s lit department, but the audience wasn’t just students. Some were from the online community that followed Josh from his early streaming days. Some were dancers. A few were young men with tired eyes and hopeful notebooks on their laps. One even wore an NV8 merch.

Josh adjusted the mic. “Hey,” he started, voice uncertain but real. “I’m Josh. Most of you probably know me for the TikTok chaos, or maybe because of… certain someone’s dance group.” A soft wave of laughter rolled in. Josh smiled wider now.

“But today I’m here because I wrote something. And I didn’t think it would matter at first. I didn’t think I mattered.”

He took a breath.

“Until I realized that maybe we all want the same thing. To be seen. Fully. Not just for what we can do, or who we know, or how we perform but for the things we try to hide. For the messy, broken, still-trying parts of us.”

He looked down at his book, fingers brushing the dog-eared copy like it was a part of his soul.

“And when I wrote this, I was afraid. Because it’s not fiction. It’s me. It’s the Josh who dropped out, the Josh who panicked, the Josh who almost told the love of his life he was too afraid to be loved back.”

There was a hush in the air.

“And if you’ve ever felt like you’re too late, or not enough, or stuck in the middle of someone else’s spotlight... this book is for you.”

He stood to light applause, warm and genuine. After the panel, there was a short book signing. A handful of people came forward, some shaking, some teary-eyed, telling him things like:

“Your words kept me going.”

“You made me feel seen.”

“This helped me forgive myself.”

And then, at the end of the line, when he thought the wave had passed, he heard a familiar voice from the back.

“Think you can sign mine too?”

Josh looked up and there was Ken. Hoodie pulled low, cap in place, but unmistakable. His smile was soft, eyes a little glossy.

Josh blinked. “Ken... what—? Aren’t you supposed to be in Cebu?”

“Had an early flight,” Ken said, stepping closer. “Didn’t want to miss this one.”

He handed over his now worn copy, the one Josh had given him backstage. There were sticky tabs, underlined sentences. A tear stain or two.

“I read it,” Ken said. “Three times.”

Josh’s hands trembled as he took the book.

“You wrote our story,” Ken said, voice quieter now. “But more than that… you wrote yourself. And I’ve never been prouder.”

Josh swallowed the lump in his throat. “You always believed in me.”

“You gave me someone worth believing in.”

He signed the inside cover with trembling hands: “To the boy who danced beside me, then waited for me to find my rhythm. I’m here now. Love, J.”

Ken didn’t say anything right away. He just hugged him. Long and quiet. And this time, Josh didn’t push him away. He leaned in. Finally ready.

—

The city had settled into its lull, the kind of quiet that blanketed everything just after midnight. The soft hum of the apartment's AC filled the silence, accompanied by the occasional sound of car tires rolling through distant rain-slicked streets.

Josh and Ken sat on the floor of the living room, backs resting against the couch, shoes tossed carelessly to the side. The lights were dim, casting shadows across the spines of books and old game cases. Between them was the first printed copy of “Almost, Always, Us", now signed again in silver ink, To Ken. For everything you were when I couldn’t be anything.

Josh stared ahead, legs crossed, nervously fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. He could feel Ken beside him, warm, solid, constant, the way he always had been.

"Thank you," Josh finally said, voice soft. “For coming. For always showing up.”

Ken smiled faintly, turning his head. “I always will.”

There was a pause.

Josh’s heart thudded loudly in his chest, but it wasn’t the same kind of fear that once stopped him from speaking. It was the same pulse that moved him when he danced. The rhythm that made his hands type in the dark. The voice that had finally, finally found its way to the surface.

"I'm not scared anymore," Josh said, almost a whisper. “Not of this. Not of… us.”

Ken turned fully now, eyes searching Josh’s. “You sure?”

Josh nodded. “Yeah. I was waiting for the perfect moment. But… I think every time you look at me like that, it becomes the perfect one.”

And before Ken could speak, Josh leaned in, tentative but brave, and kissed him.

It was soft. Just a brush. Just enough to say everything he had been keeping inside. But Ken didn’t move at first, startled by the shift, the weight of what it meant. Josh immediately froze, eyes wide, pulling back just a little, cheeks burning.

“I–I’m sorry, I—” Josh stammered, eyes darting away. “Was that okay?”

Ken didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out, hands finding Josh’s waist, and gently tugged him closer. And then, wordlessly, he kissed him back.

This one was different. It wasn’t hesitant or cautious. It was deep, certain, months, maybe years, in the making. Josh melted into it, hands tangled in the fabric of Ken’s hoodie, as if grounding himself to the moment, to him.

When they finally broke apart, Josh’s breath was shaky. His forehead rested against Ken’s, both of them smiling, cheeks flushed, hearts pounding in tandem.

“I’ve waited a long time for that,” Ken murmured.

Josh laughed quietly. “Took me long enough.”

Ken looked at him with that gaze, the one that said he was home.

And Josh, in his heart, knew… He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

And as their fingers laced beneath the moonlight, Josh realized, some dreams don’t end, they just begin differently, with love finally leading the way.