Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s a particular kind of noise that lives in backstage dressing rooms. Not quite chaos, but definitely not calm either. It’s the sound of controlled urgency, of too many people moving in sync toward the same deadline, all aiming for perfection. Hairdryers whir in the background. Shoes scuff against the tile floor. Every now and then, a shout or a burst of laughter cuts through. Together, it all forms a rhythm. A pulse.

Hongjoong sits at the heart of it all, still, like the eye of a storm.

The members move around him in that awkward space between half-dressed and ready, while the stylists weave through them with practiced hands, fixing every detail before the mini fanmeeting kicks off. Hongjoong watches one stylist noona dig into Mingi’s shirt collar and pull out a necklace like she’s doing surgery. She doesn’t even blink, just yanks it into place like it’s muscle memory. It’s kind of impressive. Kind of terrifying.

Hongjoong quickly glances down at his shirt and the silver pendant resting neatly against his chest.

All good. Nothing to fix here.

He drags his sleeves down over his wrists and for a moment considers reaching for the jacket slung over the back of his chair. Spring is creeping into Seoul, little by little, but the chill hasn’t let go yet; it seeps through the walls and lingers in the air, making the room colder than it should be. Hongjoong has no time to complain, though. Not with the makeup noona beating his face nonstop for more than half an hour, probably trying to mask the dark circles under his eyes. He makes a mental note to be more disciplined about his sleep schedule, if only to make her job a bit easier.

“Hyung, look alive!”

Wooyoung’s voice slices through the hum of the room, and before Hongjoong can so much as blink, a phone is practically pressed against his nose. He flinches back on instinct, only to be met with Wooyoung’s gleeful expression—far too excited for whatever he’s about to say.

“Our captain loves to look cute,” Wooyoung announces, lies, his voice rising as if he’s speaking to an invisible audience. “He can’t wait to show Atiny his aegyo on stage—”

Hongjoong releases a breath that’s ninety percent resignation and ten percent regret. This isn’t his first Wooyoung ambush, and he’s learned that playing along only fuels the fire. That’s the trick with Wooyoung: if you don’t react, he’ll get bored and move on.

Sure enough, after a beat of silence and no satisfying reaction, Wooyoung lets out a loud, theatrical groan, as if Hongjoong just personally ruined his day.

“You are the least fun person in this group,” Wooyoung says, scanning for anyone else who’ll play along. “Anyone wanna be my main character today?”

“Try Mingi-hyung,” Jongho chimes in. Hongjoong spots him in the mirror reflection over Wooyoung’s shoulder, a faint smirk already in place. “He cried watching a dog food commercial this morning.”

That lands like a record scratch.

Mingi, hunched over his phone in the seat to Hongjoong’s left, freezes mid-scroll. The ambient noise in the room seems to dip for a second, just long enough for everyone within earshot to clock what was just said.

“...I didn’t cry,” Mingi says after a beat, blinking up with all the wounded dignity of someone absolutely caught. “But the dog was alone in the rain...”

A brief silence. Then, like clockwork, a collective awww ripples through the room, quickly followed by scattered laughter. That’s all the invitation Wooyoung needs. He spins around so fast it’s a wonder his phone stays in his hand, and the noise ramps up instantly.

“It wasn’t even a real dog!” Jongho shouts from the side. “It was animated!” Mingi laughs too, waving his hands like he’s trying to push both Wooyoung and the conversation away.

Hongjoong shakes his head, watching the moment settle like bait in the air. This is either headed for the next logbook or being tucked away by Wooyoung for some future scheme. Probably one that will make Mingi groan later. He quickly scans the room for the nearest neutral zone so he can avoid getting dragged into whatever is unfolding behind him.

On his right, Seonghwa sits like he’s been cut straight out of a painting. He watches the trio in the mirror, head tilted just enough to say he’s entertained but not about to get pulled in. Aside from that tiny tilt, he barely moves—back straight, hands resting in his lap while the stylist noona works product through his hair. A few strands are left loose, falling over his forehead in a way that looks both casual and perfectly planned. Hongjoong can’t help but stare a little. Sometimes it feels like the world just knows how to frame Seonghwa. Even the sharp fluorescent lights seem to play along, catching the angles of his face just right, highlighting the gentle slope of his jaw and the subtle curve of his lips.

But this time it isn’t Seonghwa’s too-good-to-be-true face that catches Hongjoong’s attention this time.

It’s the almost invisible shiver running through him, the tiniest crack in his calm, polished exterior. Most people wouldn’t notice a thing.

But Hongjoong does.

Because someone has to, since Seonghwa sure as hell won’t say anything. Not about the cold, not about aching muscles, not about the nonstop flights that leave your body humming like it’s been wrung out and stitched back together. He just endures. Quietly. Sure, Hongjoong knows it’s part of the deal, the trade-off they all signed up for. But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch.

It gets to him, every time. That urge to fix it, to do something. Even if it’s something small. Even if it’s stupid.

Before Hongjoong can let his mind linger on it, the room shifts again. Another ripple of movement. A coordinator calls for line-up. Someone yells about mics and timing. The current catches him before he can think twice, pulling him halfway toward the door on autopilot.

Then he stops.

One beat. Two. He turns.

The crowded space doesn’t make it easy, but he weaves through it without hesitation, zeroing in on his target like it’s the only thing that matters right now.

Seonghwa is already halfway to standing when he spots Hongjoong coming. “Did you forget something?”

“Nope,” Hongjoong says, reaching for the jacket draped over the back of his chair. “You did.”

The jacket lands on Seonghwa’s shoulders with one smooth motion, and the quick, surprised oh that follows makes Hongjoong grin.

It isn’t just any jacket. Hongjoong spent hours obsessing over this one, tweaking every seam and detail. A custom rework from an old piece he couldn’t bring himself to throw away. He cut it apart, stitched it back together, and added tiny touches only he would notice. His schedule was packed lately, leaving little room for side projects, but he had made time for this one.

“There,” Hongjoong mutters, brushing imaginary dust from Seonghwa’s shoulder. “Congratulations, you’ve been upgraded to ‘not freezing to death.’”

Seonghwa tugs lightly at the lapel, glancing down at the jacket like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the sudden weight. “You don’t have to dress me,” he starts, turning his face slightly but not enough to hide the amused curve of his mouth.

“Wouldn’t have to if you weren’t in denial about your body temperature,” Hongjoong fires back. “Your spine just shivered so hard I thought you were buffering.”

Seonghwa blinks, then laughs weakly. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” Hongjoong hums, already stepping back toward the door. “Keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, keep the jacket. You clearly need it more than I do.”

Seonghwa gives him a once-over—subtle, but not subtle enough. Like he’s checking whether Hongjoong really means it, or maybe just making sure he doesn’t look colder than him. Either way, it’s a terrible attempt at being discreet.

Hongjoong doesn’t stick around for the inevitable comeback. He knows better than to push his luck when he’s already winning.

But honestly, maybe he should’ve stayed.

Because when he looks back, just for a second, he catches Seonghwa slipping the jacket fully onto his shoulders, adjusting the collar with careful fingers. The sight makes Hongjoong stumble—not physically, but in that sudden, unexpected catch of breath that throws off his rhythm. The fabric settles like it belongs there, draping perfectly over Seonghwa’s frame in a way that makes sudden warmth spread through Hongjoong like a slow burn that takes its time to reach every corner of his chest.

It suits him perfectly.

And it’s not just the way it fits or flatters his frame. There’s something deeply… personal about it. Hongjoong knows every inch of that jacket. He remembers staying up until 2 AM, tearing apart the lining because the fabric bunched weird under the shoulders. He remembers debating over that asymmetrical stitch on the sleeves, wondering if it was too much. And now, seeing it sit so naturally on Seonghwa, it’s like the jacket finally found its home.

A minute later, they’re in front of fans. Everything feels loud and fast and familiar, but Hongjoong’s head is a half-second behind the beat. The fan service lines he’s supposed to rattle off? Gone. The talking points he memorized earlier? Nowhere to be found. All he can think is, wow, he looks good in that. Like, really good. So much so that it’s borderline infuriating.

No, scratch that. It is infuriating.

This shouldn’t throw him off so much. It’s not like it’s a big deal.

And yet, Hongjoong’s eyes keep snapping back to Seonghwa. Every little move makes the jacket settle perfectly, the silver buttons catching the light just enough to drag his gaze like a magnet.

Yeah, it’s messing with him.

Worse, it’s messing with him in a way he can’t even explain. He’s not just proud of the piece, he’s weirdly attached to the way Seonghwa wears it. The way it looks on him sparks something warm and selfish and slightly ridiculous in Hongjoong’s chest.

Something that screams, I made this.

But now it’s Seonghwa’s.

The thought lands hard. He likes this. Not just how the jacket looks, but how Seonghwa looks in something he made. Something shaped with his hands, his late-night, probably-insane choices. It’s unnervingly intimate. Seonghwa is wearing a secret and, somehow, only Hongjoong knows it.

Somewhere along the way Seonghwa picks up on it. His expression twitches, curious, and Hongjoong rips his eyes away before he can make it worse. He tries to focus and reminds himself why they are here, but it is useless. No matter where he looks, Seonghwa finds his way back into view. Laughing. Posing for a photo. Just standing there in that damn jacket like he belongs in it.

Every time, Hongjoong feels that same rush. That soft, steady ache that curls low in his chest and won’t leave him alone.

And for the first time in a long while, he isn’t sure what to do about it.

Later that evening, Hongjoong’s sprawled on his bed like a dropped marionette, legs trapped in a blanket he doesn’t even remember pulling over himself. His phone is in one hand, thumb drifting lazily over the screen with no real destination. He’s not even reading—just cycling through apps. Instagram, Twitter, KakaoTalk. Instagram again. He taps on a fancam, watches himself blink dramatically into the camera for five seconds, cringes, and swipes it away like it burned. A second later he opens the group chat, sees seventy-three unread messages—mostly memes, someone arguing over the best ramen brand, and that cursed photo of San in a frog hat making its fifth appearance this week—and closes it again without replying.

His brain is static. The kind of tired that isn’t fixed by sleep.

He thinks about grabbing his laptop, maybe messing with one of the demos he’s been ignoring just to trick himself into feeling productive. But the urge fizzles out before it goes anywhere. He is still caught between doing it or not when the door swings open.

Seonghwa storms in, looking almost comically dramatic with one hand holding the jacket and the other clutching a container of kimbap like it’s both an offering and a weapon. He doesn’t even bother with a knock this time.

“Hey,” Seonghwa says, dropping the jacket onto Hongjoong’s bed and waving the kimbap in his face. “Have you eaten anything today? Or are you surviving on a single Americano again?”

Hongjoong winces. Of course he would notice that, Hongjoong thinks, and for a moment he’s both relieved and irritated by Seonghwa’s tendency to look after him, even when he doesn’t ask for it. “You know, I can take care of myself.”

Seonghwa snorts. “Sure,” he says, eyebrow arching as he sets the kimbap down on the bedside table with a soft thud. “You looked like you were about to collapse mid-fanservice. Very convincing.”

Hongjoong lets out a quiet sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. He thinks he’s deflecting well enough, right up until he glances up and catches the flicker of real concern in Seonghwa’s eyes. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, but the effect lingers. Hongjoong’s stomach churns at the thought of what Seonghwa would say if he knew the real reason Hongjoong was off his game today. What could he possibly say? That he couldn’t focus because he was too busy thinking about Seonghwa in his clothes? Yeah, no way.

“Fine, fine,” Hongjoong relents, sitting up and taking the kimbap without argument. Maybe Seonghwa’s right; he really hasn’t eaten anything substantial all day. Just coffee and a vague hope that he’d get around to something more, only for the hours to slip by.

As he peels back the lid, his gaze drifts to the jacket lying beside him. Even resting in a heap, the jacket keeps the outline of Seonghwa’s frame, stubborn in the way it remembers him. Seeing it there sends that same warm ache prickling through his chest.

He wonders if it will ever stop doing that.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” Seonghwa says, breaking the quiet. Hongjoong looks up and finds him folding the jacket, careful now, smoothing every crease. It makes him want to laugh—Seonghwa can’t stand things being out of place, even if he’s the one who left it that way.

Hongjoong watches for a moment, smiling to himself. “Yeah, no problem. Looked good on you,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. The words leave his mouth too honest and he regrets them instantly. He shoves another bite of kimbap into his mouth like it might muffle any other dumb thing ready to escape. He doesn’t dare look up, eyes glued to the kimbap container like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

“You know,” Seonghwa says, “it reminded me of those Valentino outfits we got for Coachella.”

That actually pulls a laugh out of Hongjoong. He blinks, glancing up in surprise. “No way,” he says, shaking his head with a grin. “My jacket reminded you of Valentino? That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

“No!” Seonghwa says, a little too loud, then ducks his head and lowers his voice. “I—I mean, it’s not… it’s not the brand. It’s more that… when something’s made just for you, it feels different. Like someone actually noticed you and decided you were worth the time. It gives you confidence, even when you don’t really have it.” His thumb traces along the seam of the jacket. “I know this wasn’t made for me, but when I wore it, it felt like I got to borrow that feeling for a little while.” He laughs quietly, almost sheepish. “Sorry. That probably didn’t make much sense.”

Hongjoong is quiet for a moment. “No, I get it,” he says softly. “But, Seonghwa-ya…”

The words hang between them, awkward and heavy, while Hongjoong searches for a way to say what he’s been holding in for so long. You don’t need anything extra to be everything you already are. He’s wanted to say it countless times, especially in those rare moments when he caught that shadow of doubt in Seonghwa’s eyes. It’s better now, not as sharp as it used to be, but it’s still there, just beneath the surface. Seonghwa always seems a step away from thinking he’s not enough, still chasing some impossible version of perfect. And maybe that’s the frustrating part—how someone like Seonghwa, with all his talent, charisma, and kindness, can sometimes be so blind to his own worth.

Hongjoong’s tongue feels heavy, words tumbling around in his head that won’t form a sentence without sounding awkward or too raw. Every phrasing he comes up with feels wrong—either too blunt, too sentimental, or too stupid. Usually, with Seonghwa, it’s easy. Hongjoong barely has to say a thing and Seonghwa just gets it. But right now? Nope. Even Seonghwa wouldn’t have a clue what’s going on in his head.

The words in his head keep spinning in circles until another thought quietly elbows its way forward.

No, maybe Seonghwa wouldn’t believe him.

But if a piece of clothing makes him feel more grounded, more secure in his skin—if it gives him that extra inch of confidence—then maybe it is worth something. And if Hongjoong can give him even a fraction of that feeling, he wants to.

No—he needs to.

The thought plants itself firmly in his chest, refusing to budge. He shifts on his bed, nudging the empty kimbap container aside, and leans forward before his nerves can slam on the brakes.

“What if I made something for you?” he says. “Not just a tweak or a fix. A real custom piece. It would be yours.”

He doesn’t add and mine too, in a way, but the words linger, unsaid, in the space between them.

For a second, nothing happens. Hongjoong expects a chuckle or some throwaway comment that would brush past the moment and file it under his usual spur-of-the-moment suggestions. But no laugh comes. Seonghwa’s just standing there, eyes scanning Hongjoong like he’s trying to decide if this is serious or if Hongjoong’s about to backtrack.

Then Seonghwa’s voice cuts through, softer than usual. “You’re serious?” He hesitates again, eyes scanning Hongjoong’s face. “You’d actually do that?”

Hongjoong shrugs, trying to keep it casual even though his heart’s thudding a little too hard. “Yeah. Whatever you want. Fabric, shape, details…everything.”

Seonghwa’s eyes shift between the jacket and Hongjoong. “That’s… that’s a lot of work, Hongjoong-ah.”

“I don’t mind,” Hongjoong says. “I want to.”

Seonghwa pauses again, his eyes lingering on Hongjoong’s face, as if weighing his words. The corners of his mouth slowly lift into a small, thoughtful smile. “Then… I’d be honored.”

Hongjoong smiles in return, curling one knee up on the bed and tapping it with his fingers. “Alright, it’s settled.” The smile turns into a grin. “But don’t go expecting VIP treatment all the time, Seonghwa-ssi. I’m not running a free couture service here.”

Seonghwa laughs, warm and a little too pleased. “Guess I’ll just have to make it worth your while,” he says, and then the smile spreads, big and real, lighting up his whole face.

And there it is again—that warm tug in Hongjoong’s chest.

The sensation spreads slowly, like a flicker of heat, a dozen tiny sparks igniting inside him. It doesn’t burn or ache, but rather kindles a gentle glow, as if something inside him is quietly waking up after being tucked away for far too long.

Hongjoong knows exactly what it means.

He can admit, to himself at least, that he’s always had this… thing when it comes to Seonghwa.

It’s not like he’s spent years actively pining, nothing that dramatic or intense. But from day one, there’s been this quiet attraction that would flare up at random times, always settling in his mind as a familiar, stubborn part of himself. It was there when they were just awkward trainees stumbling through practices, and it’s still there now, unmoving.

But the other thing… that one’s a little harder to untangle.

If Hongjoong is being honest, he can’t pinpoint exactly when it began. It crept up on him so slowly that it took an embarrassingly long time for him to realize what it meant, and even longer for him to admit it to himself.

People always talk about falling in love like it’s something loud and spectacular—fireworks, confessions, world-tilting moments. But for him, it was the opposite. There wasn’t a big aha! moment. No, more like one random rainy Tuesday he caught himself watching Seonghwa laugh at the way his umbrella got bent by the wind and thought, wait… have I been feeling this for months? Years? And the answer was yes, apparently.

It had been there all along. Patient, quiet, waiting for him to catch up.

Looking back, he wishes he’d seen it sooner, that he’d recognized the signs before it became this unshakable part of him.

For as long as Hongjoong’s known he’s in love with Seonghwa, he’s been careful to keep it locked away in a mental vault where it wouldn’t disrupt the delicate balance of their friendship. It felt safer that way, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself—even if it meant living in the shadow of what might have been. There were moments when he let himself wonder, briefly, about the what-ifs and maybes, but he always brushed them away just as quickly.

What complicates things even more is that Hongjoong knows Seonghwa likely feels the same way, or at least did years ago. Seonghwa dropped hints here and there, little half-formed confessions that never fully took shape because Hongjoong shut them down before they could go anywhere.

He often wonders if Seonghwa is still haunted by those same unresolved feelings or if they’ve faded with time.

Either possibility makes his heart twist painfully.

The next couple of days pass relatively quietly.

Not that they’re actually relaxing; their schedules are packed with practice and meetings. Hongjoong spends most of his time out of the dorm, sitting in on strategy sessions to fine-tune the comeback rollout and content that has to be locked down before summer hits and the tour takes over, running through choreography with the team, shooting promotional videos—

Okay, it’s not quiet.

But through it all, one thought refuses to let go, clinging to him like static on a sweater. Every evening, when the noise of the day fades and the dorm quiets down, Hongjoong finds himself back at his desk, sinking into a different kind of frenzy. It’s become a quiet ritual now—laptop open, tabs multiplying like weeds, an almost-empty cup of cold coffee forgotten at his elbow. He’s long lost track of how many nights he’s spent like this, navigating a digital maze of fabric suppliers, YouTube tutorials, and niche forums full of people arguing about stitch length and seam allowances like their lives depended on it.

Yes, Hongjoong knows how to sew. But he also knows how much work it really takes to bring a complicated design to life. Back when he made custom designs with Ugo Mozie for his Beat It cover, he got a firsthand glimpse of just how many moving parts are involved—from the sketch to the final stitch. He’s lucky enough to have had those designs brought to life by someone with way more skill, but that experience left him hungry to improve his own craftsmanship.

It helps that he’s been spending time at a local jaejakso over the past few months. The place is a small custom tailoring studio tucked behind a stationery shop, quiet and easy to miss unless you’re looking for it. He found a seasoned tailor there who took the time to walk him through everything. They would sit together and go over his designs one by one, drafting patterns, testing fits, marking out where the embroidery should go. It’s so different from watching tutorials at two in the morning. It feels real. Tangible. Like his ideas can actually leave his brain and turn into something people can touch.

He’s also been hitting up Dongdaemun Market more than usual. He’d been going there long before he ever promised Seonghwa anything—sometimes with a clear idea in mind, other times just wandering, letting himself get lost among the endless bolts of fabric. He’s discovered real gems that way, pieces he hadn’t even known he was searching for until they were already in his hands.

The fabric he bought most recently is spread across his desk and, if he’s being brutally honest, mostly on the floor since his room doesn’t have much furniture and the one desk he does have is mostly taken up by his music equipment. He’s even moved a few things around to make space for the sewing machine he ordered a few days ago, shoving cables into precarious stacks just to clear a small corner where he can actually work.

Hongjoong ordered it in a moment of bold optimism which quickly morphed into nervous energy the second it arrived. He’s pretty sure he caught Wooyoung giving it a long, suspicious look, and Jongho might’ve said something under his breath about needle safety, but Hongjoong pretended not to hear. Better to maintain the illusion of confidence than admit he spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to wind a bobbin.

He glances at the machine, fingers hovering like it might explode if he presses the wrong thing. A slow breath. His current go-to mantra runs through his head: You can do this. It’s just fabric. It’s just fabric.

Right as he’s about to dive in, his phone buzzes against the desk, jolting him out of his thoughts. He grabs it and checks the screen.

It’s a message from Seonghwa.

i’ll be there in a second

Hongjoong looks around and promptly feels his soul evacuate his body.

His room is a disaster. It looks like a textile tornado blew through and then decided to settle down permanently. Sure, Seonghwa’s seen worse. They’d spent enough years sharing a room for Seonghwa to be well-acquainted with Hongjoong’s messier side. But still, Hongjoong feels this sudden, unshakable urge to make things look… less tragic. Not perfect, but at least like he hasn’t completely lost control of his life.

He swears under his breath and flings into action, adrenaline fuelling his flimsy attempt at cleaning. He grabs armfuls of fabric from the floor, shoving them into any box or drawer within reach. A roll of linen escapes, bouncing off a chair leg before disappearing under the desk. When he crouches to retrieve it, his hip bumps his sketchbook, sending it tumbling with a heavy thud to the floor, landing face-down. He curses again and drops to his knees, crawling under the desk. Just as his fingers brush against the rogue roll of fabric, a knock sounds at the door.

He freezes. Roll in one hand, heart in his throat.

Seonghwa opens the door with the ease of someone who’s walked in and out of this room a hundred times, but his step falters the second he spots Hongjoong curled under the desk. Hongjoong’s face heats up instantly. He braces for a teasing jab, or worse, that barely restrained sigh Seonghwa does when he’s trying not to sound disappointed but absolutely is.

But no disappointing sigh comes. Seonghwa’s eyes widen in an almost cartoonish way, lips twitching as if he’s fighting back a full laugh. He tilts his head, taking in Hongjoong’s crouched, flailing form. “You said anytime,” he says, voice calm but every inch dripping with amusement.

“Right… I did say that,” Hongjoong mutters, scooting fully out from under the desk.

But before he can even straighten, Seonghwa drops down beside him, folding one leg under the other like sitting on the floor in the middle of Hongjoong’s room is the most natural thing in the world. He reaches out and pokes a roll of fabric. “This one’s plotting an escape too,” he says, letting it flop back onto the floor.

“I—uh, it’s organized chaos?” Hongjoong stammers.

Seonghwa leans back and smirks. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Otherwise, I’d make you clean all of this… with me watching.”

Hongjoong sinks back against the desk. “That’s almost scarier than you going through my sketchbook.”

At the single word, Seonghwa’s eyes light up. “Oh? Where—?” He stops mid-sentence, scanning the room before his gaze locks onto the fallen sketchbook on the floor. He glances at Hongjoong, as if silently asking, is it okay? Hongjoong gives a quick nod, and Seonghwa’s grin spreads wide. He leans down, fingers curling around the book, and flips it open.

Calling it “a few designs” barely scratches the surface. Hongjoong had been nervous at first, but getting them right wasn’t impossible. He knows Seonghwa’s style almost instinctively by now. If that weren’t enough, there was that night after a promotional shoot when they grabbed hotteok and ended up sprawled on a bench under dim streetlights, tossing ideas back and forth.

The first page shows a blazer—cropped at the waist, with a high, wraparound collar that twists into a loose, adjustable knot at the throat, giving it a sleek, almost origami-like look. Seonghwa studies it in silence. Hongjoong watches him, heart pounding in his ears. This is the first time Seonghwa’s really seeing what he’s been doing. Not just vague references or late-night texts. The actual proof. And suddenly Hongjoong isn’t sure if he wants to stand proudly next to it or shove it all into the closet and pretend it never existed.

“Oh, this one’s beautiful,” Seonghwa says quietly, eyes still on the first page. “It looks like something you’d wear too.”

Hongjoong blinks. “If I wore it, it wouldn’t be cropped like that.”

Seonghwa lets out a soft laugh, shrugging. “Atiny would like it.”

And for a moment, all the anxiety fades. Just a little. Seonghwa then starts flipping through the notebook. He lingers, pausing here and there, tilting his head like he wants to see past the graphite and into the thought behind it. Time seems to slow around them, the room narrowing to the sound of paper turning. Hongjoong suddenly wishes, more than anything, that he could peek into Seonghwa’s head and know what he’s really thinking.

Seonghwa stops on a sketch of a blouse with sheer sleeves, the pencil smudged faintly where Hongjoong’s hand must have dragged. Hongjoong rubs the back of his neck, a little self-conscious. “They’re still a little rough. I was just messing around with the ideas you gave me.”

Seonghwa stays quiet for a moment, focused on one sketch, brow furrowed like he’s trying to read between the lines. “They don’t look rough,” he says. “They look like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Seonghwa flips another page and Hongjoong feels his stomach twist.

It’s an idea he sketched in a sudden rush of inspiration. Seonghwa had greenlit dresses, sure, but this was different. Hongjoong combined a dress with a corset. On paper it felt daring, almost thrilling. Now, under Seonghwa’s steady gaze, it feels less bold and more dangerously close to too much.

“I just thought that one would look nice,” Hongjoong blurts before he can stop himself. “I mean… since it’s not for a performance, we could,” he waves a hand, “really cinch you into it. For photos or something.” He pauses, scanning Seonghwa’s face for even a hint of discomfort. “But if it’s too out there, we can go with something simpler.”

Seonghwa shakes his head slowly, eyes still locked on the sketch. “No, Hongjoong-ah,” he says softly. “It’s not too much. I like it. A lot. I just… didn’t expect you to go all out like this.”

Hongjoong ducks his head, fingers twisting the roll of fabric in his hands. “I didn’t want to give you one option and have you be like, ‘Yeah, this doesn’t work.’”

“Well, I’m definitely not complaining. They’re all pretty.” Seonghwa lingers on a page, thumb pressing at the edge. Then, almost abruptly, he shifts the sketchbook closer. “Help me pick, Hongjoong-ah,” he murmurs, tilting it a little more toward him. “If you had to choose… which one would you want to make first?”

“What? No. This isn’t about me. I’ll make whatever you want.”

“But I like all of them.”

“Then I’ll make all of them.”

Seonghwa laughs softly. “Hongjoong-ah…”

Hongjoong lets out a slow breath. Maybe Seonghwa’s right to push him on this. Starting smaller would be smarter. Something manageable. Something that won’t immediately end in emotional collapse or a sewing machine-related injury.

“A skirt might be a good start,” he says finally. “It’s easier to tweak.”

“A skirt?” Seonghwa’s brows lift, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “I’m intrigued. But I’ll warn you, I look pretty good in a skirt.”

Hongjoong rolls his eyes and lightly smacks Seonghwa’s arm with the roll. “You know, I wanted to boost your confidence with some nice clothes, but it seems like you don’t need it after all.”

Seonghwa shrugs. “A little extra boost never hurts. Now, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Hongjoong scoots a little closer as the room settles into a quiet rhythm. The only sound is the soft scrape of paper as Seonghwa flips through the sketchbook. Hongjoong watches him carefully, letting Seonghwa take the lead. His eyes dart between Seonghwa’s face and the designs. A few skirt sketches are scattered among the pages, but he says nothing. He wants Seonghwa to choose for himself.

Eventually, Seonghwa pauses, his finger tapping lightly against one of the sketches. “This one,” he says.

It’s a high-waisted skirt with a zipper running down the side. The hem falls just below the knees in an asymmetrical cut: clean, angular, and modern. The longer side sways slightly as if it’s caught mid-turn, giving the whole piece a quiet sense of motion. There’s a single panel of contrast fabric—just a strip—running parallel to the zipper, a matte black against charcoal grey. It’s minimalistic, but with that slightly rebellious flair that makes it feel like something Seonghwa would wear.

“Okay,” Hongjoong hums in approval.

Seonghwa doesn’t look away from the page. He studies it for a second longer, his head tilting thoughtfully. “Hongjoong-ah,” he says, glancing up, “do you think you could add a slit to the skirt? Right here?” He traces a line down the side of his thigh. “Nothing wild—just enough to show a little leg.”

Hongjoong's throat goes dry. For a second, his mind short-circuits with a brief, stupid flash of Seonghwa actually wearing it.

No, he can’t add that.

“I—yeah, sure. That’s… doable,” he manages to choke out, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat and looks anywhere but at Seonghwa. “I’ll... get started on it soon. And I’ll make sure it’s perfect.”

“What? Hongjoong-ah, no, listen,” Seonghwa says, setting the sketchbook down against his knees with a firm pat. “You’ve got a million things going on. I don’t want to be the reason you pass out at your sewing machine.”

“No, trust me,” Hongjoong says quickly, relieved by the change of subject. It distracts him from the nervous flutter in his chest. “This is actually relaxing. Feels like a break from everything else.”

Seonghwa doesn’t look convinced. He has that look, the one that says he’s clearly skeptical but doesn’t want to push too hard.

“If you say so.”

“Just promise not to laugh if it turns out looking like a high school sewing project,” Hongjoong says, feigning seriousness. The joke feels like a thin veil, but it does its job.

“Only if you promise not to pull an all-nighter trying to make it perfect,” Seonghwa shoots back, soft but firm. “You’re not allowed to die over a skirt.”

“I’m not dying,” Hongjoong says, chuckling. “I’m designing.”

“Alright,” Seonghwa sighs, but the fight’s mostly gone from his tone, “but if I see you looking too exhausted, I'm dragging you away from the sewing machine and making you sleep for a week."

Hongjoong laughs, the tension finally easing. “Deal.”

The days have started to feel a little less monotonous after the fanmeeting in Kobe. Not by much, but enough that Hongjoong notices the difference. There are still meetings and shoots that run longer than they should, but the days aren’t quite so back-to-back anymore. The air feels lighter. For the first time in weeks, Hongjoong has a quiet day with no immediate deadline hanging over his head. Sure, another promotion cycle is around the corner—they always are—but for now, there’s no stage to prep, no script to memorize, no group chat lighting up with last-minute changes.

So he spends most of the day doing nothing. Or trying to. He reorganizes his closet for no reason. Puts on the first episode of a drama he’s been meaning to start, then pauses it halfway through when he realizes he hasn’t retained a single line. Eventually, he ends up lying flat on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, mind buzzing with things he could be doing.

He’s never been good at this—having free days. But he promised himself that after the European tour, he’d at least try not to live in a studio when he doesn’t have to.

There’s an itch to go there. But something else is calling him too. Something he hasn’t had much success with yet.

Slowly, his feet carry him to his room. And then, to his desk.

The sewing machine hums to life a few minutes later, the soft mechanical purr filling the quiet. The sketch Seonghwa picked out, torn from his sketchbook in a moment of impatience, sits propped between a stack of books and a mug of fabric markers. The page keeps slipping, its corners curled from being handled too much, but Hongjoong doesn’t bother fixing it. He already knows it by heart. He just likes having it close.

His gaze shifts between the wool gabardine fabric—neatly folded and waiting for its moment—and the mess of fabric scraps scattered around him.

In theory, he knows what he’s doing. He’s watched countless tutorials, read through guides, and even practiced on some old cotton fabric to get a feel for the stitching. He’s spent hours visualizing how the skirt should come together.

But in practice? Nothing’s going as smoothly as he hoped.

He knows what to do—he knows it. He even managed to get Seonghwa’s measurements without raising any suspicion, though it involved some strategic maneuvering. Asking the stylists directly would have been easier, but it felt too awkward. The last thing he wanted was for this project to become gossip fodder among the staff. Instead, Seonghwa had casually asked for the measurements himself, claiming he needed them for some personal tailoring, then passed them along to Hongjoong.

The issue isn’t preparation—it’s execution.

The stitches aren’t as clean as they should be; tiny wrinkles ripple along the seams where the fabric has bunched in defiance. The presser foot feels like his enemy, either refusing to hold the fabric steady or sending it skidding out of alignment the moment he presses down. And then there’s the dreaded needle jams, which seem to occur at the exact moments when he finally thinks he’s getting the hang of things.

It really shouldn’t be this hard. His tutor makes it look effortless. People online make it look effortless—smooth seams, perfect cuts, no jammed needles. Hongjoong wonders if they’ve secretly edited out all the mistakes just to make amateurs like him suffer. He glances at the untouched gabardine fabric and feels like he’s about to fail some personal mission. If the practice run is this brutal, what hope does he have for the real thing?

But backing down isn’t his style.

He switches to a sturdier scrap and hopes it will be more forgiving. Carefully, he rethreads the machine, double-checks everything, and takes a deep breath. The machine jerks to life with a faint whir as he presses down on the foot pedal, his eyes glued to the needle. He silently wills the fabric to glide through smoothly and the seam to stay straight.

For a moment, everything seems fine. A few smooth stitches fall into place—clean, even.

Then, with a sharp clunk, the needle jams again.

“Fuck!” he shouts, yanking the fabric free, which only tangles the thread worse. He lets out a long, exasperated sigh and slumps back in his chair, arms hanging at his sides. The machine sits there, silent and unrepentant, as if it hasn’t just betrayed him for the fifth time.

He’s considering whether or not to throw the whole thing out the window when the door to his room creaks open.

Wooyoung pops his head in, eyebrows shooting up at the state of the room. His gaze sweeps over the fabric scraps, tangled threads, and Hongjoong, looking completely frazzled. “You okay? You didn’t, like, sew through your hand or anything, right?”

Hongjoong runs a hand through his hair. “Not yet.”

Wooyoung steps fully into the room, taking in the mess. “Hyung,” he says, tone deadpan, “you do know we have staff for this stuff, right? You don’t need to know how to do everything yourself. Next thing I know, you’ll electrocute yourself trying to figure out the stage lighting."

“I might, at this rate.”

Wooyoung gives him an unimpressed look but otherwise ignores the comment, picking up a scrap of crookedly stitched fabric. He holds it up with a wry smile, turning it between his fingers. “Looks like you’re having a rough time.”

“You could say that,” Hongjoong mutters, sinking further into his chair.

Wooyoung claps a hand on his shoulder, somewhere between a pat of sympathy and a playful shove. “It’ll get better. No one nails it on the first try.” He glances around the room again, eyes landing on the crumpled test pieces with an amused tilt of his head. “Or, you know, the second. Or the third.”

Hongjoong snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Truly inspiring. Thanks for the pep talk.”

His eyes drift to the sketch of the skirt propped on his table, and suddenly, it all feels impossibly far away, like every design belongs to some more competent version of himself.

One who could actually sew.

Wooyoung must notice the shift, because his teasing fades. “Seriously though,” he says, a little more gently now, “step away for a minute. Clear your head. Everything looks better after a break.”

Hongjoong thinks about it, then glances up. “Want to grab food or something?”

Wooyoung winces, the corners of his mouth dipping into a faint frown. “I promised Yeonjunie I’d catch a movie with him tonight. But hey, come along if you want. He won’t mind.”

Hongjoong shakes his head, offering a small smile. He knows the TXT guys well enough, but not that well. Plus their night out is theirs, and schedules like that don’t line up often. “Nah, you two go have fun. I’ll figure something out.”

Wooyoung studies him for a beat, then nods, giving his shoulder one last pat.

Once the door shuts behind him, the apartment feels unusually quiet. Hongjoong pauses for a moment, listening for any signs of life, but it seems Jongho isn’t home either. The silence feels strange, like it’s pressing on his chest, amplifying the restless energy that’s been building all day. He picks up his phone and taps out a quick message into the group chat.

anyone free? need a break

The reply comes fast, buzzing against his palm. It’s Yunho: Let’s go. Yeoksam-dong?

Hongjoong smiles. Yunho always knows the best spots, and spending a few hours with him sounds infinitely better than staring at fabric. He sends a quick reply.

As he pockets his phone and grabs his coat, his eyes drift back to the folded gabardine fabric sitting untouched on his desk. It looks almost accusatory, like it knows he’s abandoning it for the night.

One day, he thinks, letting the door click shut behind him. Just not today.

They find the restaurant tucked deep in one of Yeoksam-dong’s backstreets, the kind of place you could easily pass without noticing. Inside, the walls are plastered with photos of laughing patrons, clusters of sticky notes, and handwritten messages of gratitude. Some notes curl at the edges, ink faded and smudged with age, while others are crisp and bright, scrawled in languages Hongjoong doesn’t recognize.

He lets his eyes wander, taking it all in. There’s a strange sense of familiarity, quiet and distant, and then it clicks. He’s seen this place before, in photos Yunho and Mingi used to post back when they would come here after late-night dance practices.

An ajumma in a green apron emerges from behind the counter, her face lighting up as she spots them. “Yunho-ssi,” she greets warmly, bowing deeply before turning to Hongjoong with the same kind smile. “Hongjoong-ssi.”

Hongjoong has never met her, but he returns the bow respectfully, caught off guard by how easily she recognized him. She takes them to a spot in the back corner, and Hongjoong notices the familiarity with which Yunho navigates the space, a testament to the many times he’s been here before.

As they settle in, Yunho looks around with a fond expression. “This place has the best food. I practically lived here during training. They kept me alive with tteokbokki and late-night sundubu.”

Hongjoong quirks an eyebrow. “Late-night sundubu? Sounds like luxury compared to the instant ramyeon I survived on.”

“You should’ve joined me,” Yunho says, flipping through the menu even though it’s obvious he already knows what he wants.

“I didn’t know you that well back then,” Hongjoong replies with a wry smile. “And I was way too awkward to invite myself.”

“Well, now you do,” Yunho replies, putting down the menu as he spots a server. “And lucky for you, I’m about to order the best galbi-jjim in the city.”

Hongjoong watches with a small smile as Yunho rattles off their order with the confidence of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Not long after, the food arrives: steaming galbi-jjim, rich and fall-apart tender, served with an array of banchan. A bottle of soju and two glasses follow, completing the table.

“See?” Yunho says, gesturing proudly to the spread. “Best food in the city.”

Hongjoong picks up his chopsticks. “Okay, let’s see if you’re right.”

Yunho watches eagerly as Hongjoong takes his first bite, eyes locked on him like he’s awaiting a verdict from a judge. The galbi is as tender as promised, soaked in a rich, savory sauce that melts against his tongue. Hongjoong doesn’t speak at first, just nods slowly as he chews.

Yunho’s grin spreads immediately. “That’s the face of a man who knows his friend was right.”

Hongjoong swallows and tilts his head in surrender. “Alright, fine. You win. This is ridiculously good.”

“I told you,” Yunho says, still smiling, already reaching for the bottle of soju. “You just have to trust me more.”

He pours them each a shot, the soft clink of glass against wood as he slides one across the table. They eat and drink in companionable silence, conversation flowing easily between bites. After a while, Yunho goes quiet, his expression shifting as he studies Hongjoong more closely.

“Post-recording jitters?”

Hongjoong looks up, caught off guard. “Huh? No. What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been quiet. Even on the way here, you were somewhere else entirely. You get like that when something’s eating at you.”

“I do?” Hongjoong asks, chopsticks hovering midair.

Yunho nods, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. So? Is it music again? Are you working on something new?”

“No, not really. I mean, not any more than usual,” Hongjoong admits, putting down his chopsticks. It’s mostly true; he hasn’t visited the studio in over a week.

“So what’s got you so wound up today?”

Hongjoong hesitates, fingers toying with the edge of his napkin. Yunho’s steady, open expression makes it easier to speak.

“I’ve been dabbling in fashion again.”

Yunho raises an eyebrow. “Dabbling how?”

“I’m trying to sew something,” Hongjoong says, quieter now. “Not just adjusting stuff or piecing things together. A full piece. From scratch.”

Yunho lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Seriously? That’s great. What are you making?”

Hongjoong takes a slow breath, then murmurs, “A skirt.”

Yunho blinks. “For yourself?”

Hongjoong shakes his head. “No…for Seonghwa.”

There’s a beat of surprised silence before Yunho leans in, eyes wide with curiosity. “Wait, really? Is it for something special?”

“Not exactly,” Hongjoong says, eyes dropping to his scrunched-up napkin. “I offered to make him something custom. He picked a piece he liked from my sketchbook and I said I’d try making it. Didn’t think much of it at first, but now that I’ve started... I’m kind of freaking out.”

“Why?” Yunho asks, resting his chin in his hand.

“Because what if it turns out terrible?” Hongjoong lets out a breathy laugh, but it’s tight around the edges. “What if I spend all this time on it and it’s not even wearable? I’ve already jammed the machine five times and ruined the practice fabric. And it’s for Seonghwa—he notices everything.”

Yunho studies him for a moment. “Hyung, hear me out. Seonghwa-hyung could get a custom piece from anywhere. But if you made it? He’d wear it like it’s straight off a Paris runway. Even if you handed him a pillowcase with arm holes, he’d still thank you and pose like it’s a Vogue editorial.”

Hongjoong shakes his head, but a reluctant smile creeps in. “That’s not the point.”

“No,” Yunho agrees, nudging his glass toward Hongjoong for a toast. “But it kind of is. You’re making something for him, and knowing Seonghwa-hyung, he’s going to love it. Because it’s from you.”

A soft flush spreads across Hongjoong’s neck. He prays Yunho chalks it up to the soju.

“I hope so,” he says quietly.

They clink glasses, the soft chime almost swallowed by the low hum of the restaurant. The soju slides down smooth, warming his chest, while Yunho digs into another piece of galbi like it’s his last meal. Between bites, he mumbles, “Seriously, you’re gonna make Seonghwa-hyung cry. In a good way.”

Hongjoong snorts. “If he cries, I’m never sewing again.”

Yunho grins, chopsticks pausing over gamja jorim. “Then make it ugly. Save yourself.”

Hongjoong laughs, the sound light and unguarded. For once, the knots in his shoulders ease, just a little. Tomorrow, the pressure will return. The fabric will still be waiting. But tonight?

Tonight, he’s got soju, galbi, and Yunho offering half-baked wisdom between bites.

Honestly, it’s more than enough.

Hongjoong wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been to the studio in over a week. It wasn’t avoidance exactly. More like… creative limbo. He tells himself it’s just a phase. Everyone goes through it, right? Even the best artists probably have their days where they’re just not feeling it.

It’s frustrating, though. One minute he’s full of ideas; the next, he’s staring at a blank screen, suddenly daunted by the keyboard in front of him. He knows he should be helping the production team, contributing somehow, but it’s like trying to unlock a door with the key in his hand, only for it to slip away again and again.

Just when he’s starting to wonder if his talent has packed up and left for good, the universe throws him a bone: an email from management. He’d been expecting his inbox to be filled with newsletters about “the next best satin offers” or phishing emails about royalties from songs he doesn’t even remember writing. But no, it’s a real invitation to meet with two American producers.

For a solid thirty seconds, he just stares at the screen, waiting for it to vanish. When it doesn’t, he actually laughs out loud, startling himself. Apparently the universe had finally grown tired of his internal monologue and finally decided to intervene. Okay, okay, fine. Here’s something to get you back on track.

He spends most of his day at a studio located in one of Seoul’s more downtown neighborhoods — a popular hub for international artists and producers passing through the city. The meeting goes better than he expected. Maybe even better than he deserved, considering he’d walked in almost convinced his creative brain was still on vacation. By the end of it, Hongjoong’s got two demos in progress, a notebook crammed with scribbled lyrics, and a caffeine buzz strong enough to power a small city.

When he finally steps back out onto the street, the sky is slipping into sunset, the skyline washed in deep streaks of orange and pink. The breeze brushes past like a soft caress, and for a second he finds himself thinking that maybe the universe doesn’t hate him after all. Maybe.

By the time he gets back to the apartment, the last bits of sunlight are sliding off the buildings, casting everything in a soft, honeyed glow. He kicks off his sneakers and doesn’t even bother with the usual post-work collapse on the couch. Instead, his feet carry him straight to his desk, where the sewing machine sits, smug and waiting, surrounded by the wreckage of previous failures.

He pulls out the chair, cracks his knuckles, and flips the machine on.

Alright, he thinks, mouth twitching into a smile. Round two.

He digs through the mess on his desk and pulls out a fresh piece of practice fabric. It’s not fancy, just something unlikely to cause trouble. He lines it up carefully, lowers the presser foot, and braces himself. He waits for the awful crunch-grind of the machine jamming again, or the bobbin to shoot across the room like a rogue marble.

But nothing happens.

The needle glides forward in a clean, smooth line, the fabric feeding through like butter.

For a moment, Hongjoong just stares, completely dumbfounded. He leans in cautiously, still bracing for something to go wrong—a jam, a snap, maybe the machine bursting into flames just to spite him. But it doesn’t. It hums along quietly, smoothly, like it knows it’s finally doing its job. He adjusts the fabric, fingers moving a little more confidently, and watches as the stitches appear straight and even. It’s not perfect, but it’s good. Good enough that, for the first time in days, Hongjoong feels like he might actually pull this off. That spark he felt in the studio hasn’t left him. It followed him home, settling into his shoulders, keeping his hands steady and his thoughts quiet.

As the sun sets completely, Hongjoong finishes the final seam and carefully lifts the fabric from the machine. He holds it up in front of himself, turning it in his hands. One edge still slants a little, and there’s a rogue thread sticking out where he got distracted by a phone notification, but it’s miles better than anything he managed before.

He promises himself he’ll practice more, that he’ll make it back to the jaejakso soon. And then, maybe, he’ll finally be ready to tackle Seonghwa’s skirt. He exhales without realizing he’s been holding his breath, grinning down at the first neat line of stitches that feels like a win.

Maybe the universe didn’t change overnight.

But tonight, it’s meeting him halfway.

He’s still admiring his handiwork when a familiar voice drifts down the hall, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Hyung!” Wooyoung yells. “You’re coming with us to noraebang!”

Hongjoong sighs, reluctantly poking his head out of his room. “Noraebang?” he repeats, eyebrows rising as he spots Wooyoung leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed like he’s issuing a royal decree.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” Wooyoung says, firm like it’s an order, not an invitation.

Hongjoong blinks at him. In all honesty, he can count on one hand the number of times they’ve gone to karaoke together. He knows Wooyoung, San, and Seonghwa have been sneaking off lately for impromptu nights out, but for him? The idea feels borderline ridiculous. After all, they sing for a living. Spending his night belting out cheesy ballads and clumsy duets for fun feels almost... counterproductive. Like a chef clocking out just to cook instant noodles for entertainment.

“Whose idea was this?” Hongjoong asks, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

“Mingi’s,” Wooyoung says without missing a beat.

Hongjoong squints. “Really?”

“Yeah. “

“You’re not just trying to pass your own idea off as Mingi’s, are you?

“This is slander,” Wooyoung protests.

“And you’re not covering for San or Seonghwa either?” he presses.

Wooyoung throws his hands up. “Why am I the villain here? And for the record, Sannie’s not even coming. Mingi’s the mastermind. Blame him for your ruined evening.”

Hongjoong pinches the bridge of his nose and glances over his shoulder at his desk where the neatly folded fabric and sewing tools sit waiting. His peaceful, productive evening is already slipping through his fingers, and there’s no point in trying to chase it.

“Fine,” Hongjoong mutters. Wooyoung lights up instantly, triumphant, and spins on his heel toward the door like he knew Hongjoong would cave.

On their way out, they pass through the kitchen, where Jongho is calmly stationed at the counter, steeping omija-cha like he’s preparing for a tea ceremony instead of just making a late-night drink. He looks up as they approach, spoon in hand.

“Wait,” Hongjoong says, pausing in the doorway. “Jongho-ya, you’re not coming?”

He watches as Jongho stirs his mug with slow, practiced movements, looking every bit the picture of composure while they’re about to throw themselves into a night of…whatever this is shaping up to be.

Hongjoong turns to shoot Wooyoung a look that’s somewhere between exasperation and mild betrayal. “How come I’m the only one getting dragged out?”

He can see Wooyoung gearing up, chest puffing slightly like he’s about to launch into one of his famous speeches about “team bonding” or “saving Hongjoong from artistic isolation,” but before he can get a word out, Jongho steps in smoothly.

“Hyung, I’ve got a voice lesson tomorrow,” Jongho says, punctuating the words with a tiny, strategic pout. The kind that’s devastatingly effective and should honestly be illegal at this point.

Yeah, he can’t argue with that.

He can definitely argue with Wooyoung, though. Hongjoong turns to him, squinting. “Maybe I had plans too.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. What plans? If I didn’t drag you out, you’d be sewing yourself into a cocoon of loneliness.”

“Maybe I want to be a hermit.”

It’s a lie. He likes people. But he’s petty, and he’s committed.

“Tough.” Wooyoung slaps him on the back like he’s doing some kind of noble charity work. “Consider this an intervention. You’re welcome.”

Jongho, from behind his mug, offers an unhelpful, “Take videos.”

Wooyoung salutes him. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m getting evidence. If hyung even thinks about dodging a song, I’m posting it.”

Hongjoong groans, already regretting everything as Wooyoung starts herding him out of the kitchen. “You’re both traitors.” He throws one last look over his shoulder at Jongho, who’s sipping his tea like a wise old sage watching fools set off on a doomed quest.

“Correction,” Jongho says calmly, tilting his head toward Wooyoung. “He’s the traitor. I’m staying out of it.”

Wooyoung, entirely unbothered, throws up a thumbs-up and nudges Hongjoong toward the front door. As they step into the hallway, he slings an arm over Hongjoong’s shoulders, steering him toward the elevator with far too much enthusiasm for someone initiating a noraebang ambush.

“Guess it’s just us and the others tonight,” he says, not the least bit deterred. “But don’t worry, we’ll make up for Jongho’s absence. In fact, I’ll even let you pick the first song.”

Hongjoong gives him a side-eye. “You’re too generous.”

If Wooyoung picks up on the sarcasm, he doesn’t show it. “Damn right I am.”

Hongjoong’s ears are ringing.

The deafening chorus of off-key notes fills the cramped, neon-lit room, the walls pulsing in time with the blaring speakers. Wooyoung and Mingi are currently butchering—no, enthusiastically attempting—IU’s Good Day, their voices cracking on every high note, each one lunging for the melody with the kind of reckless conviction that only makes it funnier.

Meanwhile, Yeosang is taking advantage of the moment with his phone. The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he crouches low, capturing the scene from an angle that somehow makes it look even worse. When he gets right in Wooyoung’s face, it’s clear he’s having too much fun with this. Hongjoong’s starting to suspect Yeosang agreed to this karaoke just for the blackmail material he’s collecting. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s that Yeosang is a connoisseur of future leverage.

Mingi is halfway through the chorus, his voice cracking spectacularly as he reaches for that infamous high note. Hongjoong instinctively leans back into the plush cushion of the booth, wincing as the pitch goes rogue and veers even further off course. For a brief, traitorous second, he envies Yunho and San, who both conveniently bailed earlier, claiming they absolutely had to catch the finale of some show Hongjoong has never even heard of.

He glances across the booth at Seonghwa, who is quietly watching the scene unfold with an amused expression. His head is tipped back against the seat, eyes half-lidded like he’s unimpressed but secretly entertained. Between them on the table sits a crinkled bag of honey butter chips, which Seonghwa reaches for every now and then, plucking out a chip and holding it delicately between his fingers before popping it into his mouth.

Hongjoong notices absentmindedly how Seonghwa’s hair is held back by a few bobby pins that are doing absolutely nothing to tame the strands falling across his forehead and curling near his temples. The messiness of it only sharpens everything else: the clean line of his jaw, the elegant slope of his nose, the effortless poise that never quite leaves him. Under the flickering neon lights, his skin glows warm and impossibly smooth.

Hongjoong’s gaze slips lower before he can stop himself, tracing the exposed line of Seonghwa’s neck where his collar has dipped just enough to show skin. It’s barely anything, but something about it pulls at him. Out of nowhere, a memory surfaces. Seonghwa in the dressing room after a long shoot, that fake MATZ tattoo still clinging to his neck in smudged black ink. Hongjoong had joked about it, even reached out and dragged his thumb across the letters just to be annoying.

It looked good. Too good.

Dangerous.

And then, almost before he can stop himself, another thought tumbles in after it.

He wants to press his lips there.

Hongjoong stiffens, mentally slamming the brakes so hard he nearly gives himself whiplash.

No. Absolutely not. He’s not thinking about that. Not now. Not ever.

But another part of him—the one that creeps in late at night when his defenses are worn thin—starts unraveling the protest before he can even hold it together.

Not just a kiss, it whispers. Not playful. Not harmless.

He wants it slow. He wants to drag his lips across that warm stretch of skin, to feel the steady thrum of Seonghwa’s pulse under his mouth. He wants to scrape his teeth right where the fake tattoo had once smudged against his fingertips.

He wants to leave a mark.

One that won’t wash off.

One that belongs only to him.

“What are you looking at?” Seonghwa asks suddenly, voice smooth, low, and criminally well-timed.

Shit.

There’s a beat where his brain refuses to reboot, still sluggish from wherever that very inappropriate train of thought had taken him.

“You,” Hongjoong manages, shaking off whatever has come over him.

He can’t help but wonder, for what feels like the hundredth time, if Seonghwa can hear it in his voice. The affection. The quiet wanting. If he can see straight through him.

The thought terrifies him a little.

Seonghwa’s lips curl at the edges. “And?” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, only to have it spring right back into place. “What are the reviews saying?”

Hongjoong shrugs again, busying himself with taking a sip from his drink. “Okay.”

Seonghwa’s smile falters. “Okay?” He places a hand over his heart as if he’s been dealt a grave insult. “Just okay?”

“Reviews are still pending,” Hongjoong says, setting the drink down with the kind of thoughtfulness that implies deep artistic critique, not panic.

Seonghwa leans in, resting his elbow on the table and cradling his chin in his hand. He studies Hongjoong with a pointed sort of mischief, like he’s testing how far he can push. “Then what can I do to improve them?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” Hongjoong says, tilting his head toward the karaoke machine. “You could start by going up there and singing the next song. Maybe your voice will save us.”

Seonghwa laughs but stays planted in his seat. “You just want to get rid of me.”

“Not at all,” Hongjoong says, leaning back. “If I wanted you gone, I wouldn’t have let you steal all the chips.”

“That bag was communal,” Seonghwa protests, lips pulling into a soft pout. “And besides, you weren’t eating them.”

“I was waiting for you to finish so I could have the crumbs.”

Seonghwa huffs a soft laugh, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Fine, I’ll do it,” he says after a beat, glancing toward the karaoke setup. Then his eyes slide back, slower this time, and he leans in just a touch closer, elbow still propped on the table. “But I’ll have you know, I only perform when the audience is attentive.”

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” Hongjoong says, matching his posture. He props his chin on his hand and raises an eyebrow. “Completely captivated.”

That earns another laugh from Seonghwa, but it doesn’t land the same way. He shifts slightly, just enough to seem unsteady for a second, gaze dropping to the tabletop as though looking at Hongjoong has suddenly become too much.

“Good,” he says quietly.

Just as the awkward silence begins to linger, two hands suddenly clamp down on Hongjoong’s shoulders, gripping with the unfiltered enthusiasm of someone who’s definitely had one too many. A chest presses against his back. “What,” Wooyoung’s slurred voice mutters in his ear, “are you two lovebirds whispering about?”

Hongjoong freezes.

This is the worst.

Wooyoung is the worst.

He tilts his head slightly, his expression deadpan. “No one’s whispering. You two are just too loud.”

“We’re exactly as loud as we should be,” Wooyoung fires back, grinning wide as his eyes shift between Hongjoong and Seonghwa. “Come on, you two,” he claps a hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder and stretches the other toward Seonghwa, “we need more voices. It’s karaoke, not a staring contest.”

Hongjoong stays put, arms crossed, making it perfectly clear he isn’t moving just because Wooyoung says so. It’s a silent protest. Predictably, Wooyoung tightens his grip on Hongjoong’s shoulder in response. Hongjoong doesn’t think. He just reacts. He bites at the offending hand, sharp and quick, making Wooyoung yelp in surprise.

“Let go, or I’ll bite you again.”

“Go on then. Bite me,” Wooyoung dares, eyes gleaming.

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow. “I will.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Guys,” Mingi calls out, cutting through the chatter with the authority of someone holding sacred intel. “I forgot to mention…Jongho texted me on the way here. If we hit a perfect score tonight, he’s volunteering to clean your apartment for two whole months.” He gestures between Hongjoong and Wooyoung like this should be life-altering news. “I tried to help, but, well…” Behind him, the karaoke machine pings. A score flashes in bold neon digits across the screen: 20.

Hongjoong blinks. Then blinks again.

“Twenty?” he says, voice rising with disbelief as he leans forward to squint at the screen. “Twenty?” He turns to Mingi, unable to hold back the bark of laughter that escapes him. “Mingi-ya, be honest. Why would you pick this song if we needed a perfect score?”

Mingi waves him off. “Everyone knows these machines are rigged. I figured... you know, I could nail it. How hard could it be?”

“You thought wrong,” Wooyoung mutters, flopping dramatically onto Hongjoong’s shoulder like the weight of Mingi’s choices is personally crushing him. “We are never getting Jongho’s help now.”

“Listen,” Mingi says, holding up a hand like he’s about to make a serious point. “It felt right in the moment.”

“You got a twenty,” Yeosang points out, angling his phone toward Mingi.

“Which is still technically not zero,” Mingi shoots back, trying to salvage whatever pride he has left.

“Is that better?” Seonghwa murmurs, almost to himself.

“Okay, you go next,” Mingi says, plopping down beside Seonghwa and handing him a mic. “Redeem us.”

Seonghwa leans back slightly. “No, thanks. You made this mess. You clean it up. Pick something with… fewer high notes.”

“Nah,” Mingi grins. “I’ve already destroyed my credibility. And I know you’ve got a secret playlist of shower ballads you’ve been dying to unleash.”

Before Seonghwa can argue, Yeosang suddenly steps in front of Hongjoong and shoves a mic into his hand with zero warning and way too much confidence. “Hongjoong-hyung will sing with you,” he says sweetly to Seonghwa—far too sweetly. Hongjoong looks down at the mic, then up at Yeosang, who is already sitting down calmly like he hasn’t just lit a match and walked off whistling.

Seonghwa meets his eyes across the table, brows slightly raised in the universal language of I did not plan this either, but I guess we’re doing it now.

There’s a beat. And then they stand in sync, moving toward the front of the room with the kind of resigned grace one only gains through years of dealing with the unpredictability that is their friend group.

“Okay,” Hongjoong says, adjusting the mic in his hand as he turns back toward the others. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”

The room quiets. Partly in anticipation, partly out of curiosity, but mostly because Wooyoung has loudly shushed everyone like he’s about to watch a soap opera.

Hongjoong gestures toward the screen and then to Seonghwa who’s going through the selection of songs. “But fair warning,” he adds, raising an eyebrow, “you all better pay attention. I’ve been told—by a very private, very reliable source—that Park Seonghwa doesn’t perform unless he’s got the audience’s full attention.”

At that, Seonghwa groans softly, his eyes flicking up from the song list to glare half-heartedly at Hongjoong.

“Hey, don’t give me that look,” Hongjoong starts with a shrug. “I’m just making sure everyone’s aware of the performer’s high standards.”

Wooyoung, sensing the moment of vulnerability, grins widely at Seonghwa. “Don’t worry, hyung. We’re all watching. Really watching.”

“I will walk out,” Seonghwa mutters as he desperately avoids eye contact with anyone.

But there’s no real heat behind it—just a bit of red in Seonghwa’s ears, a new song queued up on screen, and the soft ripple of laughter from the rest of the room as the lights dim just enough to turn the neon-lit room into a small, private stage.

Hongjoong stands in front of Seonghwa’s door, skirt folded neatly over one arm, fist hovering just shy of knocking. He’s been here for a full minute, maybe longer. Long enough to feel ridiculous about it.

It’s just fabric. Just a project.

Just Seonghwa.

And yet his hand won’t move.

He shifts his weight, glances down at the finished skirt like it might give him courage. The seams are clean, the zipper finally behaves, and the contrast panel—his sworn enemy—lines up exactly how he wanted. It should feel like a win. Instead, it feels dangerously close to a grand gesture.

And he’s never been good at those.

His mind drifts back to the last few weeks. Evenings hunched over his sewing machine, the dorm finally quiet and his brain slowing down after a day full of practice. Everyone else had collapsed into bed; he went straight for the fabric. The skirt came together in inches, grudging and slow. The zipper was a nightmare that refused to lie flat. The contrast panel wouldn’t sit right no matter how many times he picked it apart and redid the seams. There were moments he wanted to throw the whole thing across the room, but he didn’t. He kept going. Stitch by stubborn stitch. Quietly, steadily. Maybe a little obsessively.

He glances down at it again, not because he needs to, but because part of him still can’t believe it’s real. Like if he looks away too long, it might vanish and he’ll be left holding nothing but the idea of it again.

He should knock. He knows that. He already texted. Seonghwa’s expecting him.

A few days ago, he’d tossed the suggestion out so casually, as if it hadn’t been looping on repeat in his head for weeks. “Maybe we could do a shoot? Seoul Arts Center?” Seonghwa’s eyes lit up when Hongjoong said it. Just for a second. Then he reined it in, offering only a soft, almost-too-careful, yeah, let’s do that. But Hongjoong knew that look. That was the look Seonghwa gave when something mattered more than he wanted to admit out loud. When he was trying not to seem like he cared as much as he did.

Which is how Hongjoong ends up here, skirt in hand, standing stupidly outside Seonghwa’s door and trying to work up the nerve to go in. With a quiet huff, he gives up on knocking entirely and pushes the door open with his shoulder instead. He slips inside without a word, the skirt still clutched to his chest like it might deflect awkwardness.

Seonghwa sits at his desk, eyes fixed on his phone. One leg tucked beneath him, shoulders loose, posture easy. He looks calm. Comfortable. Oblivious to the nervous energy brewing just inside the doorway.

Just do it. Don’t overthink it. You’ll make it weird if you hesitate.

Hongjoong makes his way across the room, every step louder in his own head than it probably is in real life. He drops the folded skirt on the desk in front of Seonghwa, and the fabric lands with a soft thud that somehow slices through the silence like a blade. Seonghwa flinches, head snapping up so fast you’d think Hongjoong just kicked the door in. Seonghwa blinks at the skirt. Then at Hongjoong. Then back to the skirt. His mouth opens slightly, like there’s a comment forming, but whatever it is never makes it out.

It feels like forever before Seonghwa’s fingers twitch. He releases a soft breath, then sets his phone down on the desk, screen-first like it no longer matters. One hand stays there, resting beside it, while the other lifts slowly. His palm hovers above the fabric, just barely, like he’s afraid to break something by getting too close.

Then Seonghwa pulls back and looks up. His eyes are soft, warm in that way that always makes Hongjoong wonder if he wants to stay staring forever or cut the eye contact before his chest gives out.

“Did you really make this for me?”

Hongjoong lets out a small tsk, masking the jittery flutter in his chest with a crooked smile. “You doubt me, Seonghwa-ssi? You think I just bought it off some boutique site and tried to pass it off as mine?” He leans in, fingers tracing his little logo, the only visual proof that this was really his work. “I’ve been fighting with this thing for weeks. Endless nights of my sanity hanging by a thread…literally.”

“No, Hongjoong-ah—"

“Or,” Hongjoong cuts in, grin widening, “should I be flattered? You think it’s so clean it has to be store-bought? Because if that’s the case—”

He breaks off mid-sentence.

Seonghwa’s hand has come to rest over his own, just lightly. Not firm, not pulling him closer, just resting there like it belongs. It’s a barely-there touch, gentle and weightless, but it sends a sharp current running up his arm. For a second, all he can do is stare at their hands, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.

Then, just as suddenly, Seonghwa pulls his hand back and stands, his eyes locked on Hongjoong’s. “Thank you, Hongjoong-ah,” he says, warmth lacing every word. “It’s beautiful. It really means more to me than you can imagine.”

Hongjoong feels the world tilt just a little and his heart stutters dangerously in his chest. There’s nothing showy or dramatic in Seonghwa’s tone, and somehow that makes the words hit harder than any over-the-top praise ever could. Seonghwa always does this. Every compliment is direct, honest, with no hesitation. It’s disarming every single time. Hongjoong should be used to it by now, but he’s not. The words sink deep, wrapping themselves around something vulnerable inside him.

Seonghwa picks up the skirt like it’s made of glass, holding it in front of him with both hands. His lips twitch into a quiet smile, the kind that makes Hongjoong’s stomach do weird flips.

Well, every hour he spent wrestling with this fabric is officially justified.

“You should try it on,” he says, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Make sure it fits.”

Seonghwa’s eyes never leave the skirt as he answers gently, “I’m sure it will.”

Hongjoong glances around Seonghwa’s tiny room, taking in the lack of seating options—basically none. The desk is a no-go, already claimed by a neat spread of makeup brushes, palettes, and a round mirror propped at an angle. With nowhere else to go, he drops onto the bed instead, sprawling across it with one leg dangling over the edge.

Seonghwa crosses the room, placing the skirt carefully next to Hongjoong before turning to dig through a drawer. After a moment of quiet rummaging, he pulls out a soft white sweater, holds it up thoughtfully, then lays it out above the skirt. The sweater is fitted, with a square neckline and a unique collar that folds gently over itself.

His eyes flick to Hongjoong, a quiet way of asking, well?

Hongjoong nods without hesitation. “Yeah, that’ll work,” he says, because honestly, Seonghwa could pull a curtain out of his closet and he’d probably still agree.

Seonghwa adjusts the sweater slightly. “You can tell me if you want it to look different. I just figured the asymmetry and the cut lines give it enough detail. No need for anything bright or flashy. The skirt should do the talking.”

“That makes sense,” Hongjoong says with a smile.

Seonghwa gives a small nod and moves to his desk. Hongjoong props himself up on one elbow, watching with mild curiosity as Seonghwa begins collecting a handful of makeup supplies.

“What’s this, a whole production?” Hongjoong teases lightly.

Seonghwa doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he picks up his phone, taps a few times, and then leans toward the bed to show Hongjoong a photo. It’s a bold makeup look, all shimmering accents and sharp, dark eyeliner.

Hongjoong blinks at the image, then back up at Seonghwa. “You were looking at this earlier?”

“Fans send me stuff like this all the time,” Seonghwa shrugs, his tone matter-of-fact. “I’m basically swimming in ideas.”

“I see,” Hongjoong murmurs, fighting back a smile that keeps threatening to slip.

“What?” Seonghwa asks, tilting his head.

“You wouldn’t see this on my feed,” Hongjoong says with a shrug. “They don’t send me stuff like that.”

Seonghwa arches a brow. “What do they send you, then?”

Hongjoong lets out a soft breath, his hand cutting lazy circles in the air like he’s trying to gather every example at once. “Mine’s more of a jumble. Outfit ideas, a bit of fanart, random reels. And, uh… Jjoongrami popping up in the strangest places. Grocery aisles. Inside a washing machine. I’m pretty sure someone even photoshopped him into a Renaissance painting once.”

At that, Seonghwa gives a tiny, lopsided smile before setting the phone aside and turning back to his task. For a while, the room is quiet save for the soft clink of brushes and compacts. Hongjoong watches from his spot on the bed, his eyes lingering on Seonghwa’s meticulous movements. Makeup has never been Hongjoong’s thing—he’s more comfortable experimenting with hair color than blending eyeshadow.

“You know,” Hongjoong says, watching Seonghwa with a growing fondness, “you’re taking this really seriously.”

Seonghwa gestures at the skirt with his brush. “I have to. I can’t be the weak link in the ensemble.”

Hongjoong’s grin widens. “Ah, Seonghwa-ya. No pressure.”

“Oh, there’s definitely pressure,” he says, wiping a stray bit of powder from his desk. “And you’re adding to it by lying there like a critic silently judging my every move.”

“Judging?” Hongjoong laughs, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I’m admiring your skills.”

Seonghwa huffs a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Sure, we’ll go with that. Just remember, if I mess this up, I’m blaming you for the nerves.”

Seonghwa’s expression stays calm, but Hongjoong can tell—there’s a little tension in his shoulders, a faint pull at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not actually nervous, are you?” Hongjoong asks. “You’ve done makeup in worse conditions. Remember the car ride to Incheon? No staff, zero lighting, potholes every five seconds.”

“That was survival,” Seonghwa replies without looking away from the mirror. “This is presentation.”

Hongjoong raises a brow. “Presentation?”

Seonghwa dips a finger into a pot of shimmer and gently taps it to the corner of his eye. “You made something for me. I want to do it justice.”

Seonghwa keeps fiddling with stuff on his desk, the soft clinks somehow managing to distract Hongjoong just long enough. Then Seonghwa moves over to the clothes tossed on the bed, and Hongjoong immediately drops into full pretend-mode, inspecting a random thread on the comforter like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Still, no matter how hard he tries, his eyes keep sneaking back to Seonghwa.

He tries to convince himself it’s all research. After all, tonight’s whole point is seeing Seonghwa in the outfit he made. It’s strictly professional, right? Appreciating how good Seonghwa will look is actually necessary. His brain nods in agreement, but his heart... his heart seems to be going off the rails a little as he watches Seonghwa undress.

He really should get a grip.

He’s seen Seonghwa in his underwear a hundred times. Naked too. Years of sharing a room and squeezing into tiny dressing spaces together mean there’s nothing new or scandalous about this. They’ve seen far too much of each other, inside and out, and yet Hongjoong still feels like he’s the one terrifyingly exposed right now.

He blames it all on the noraebang. Ever since that night, it’s as if someone broke into his brain and unlocked a secret vault filled with thoughts he absolutely should not be having while sitting here and staring at Seonghwa like a fool.

Seonghwa pulls on the sweater first, carefully adjusting it to avoid messing up his hair or makeup. Hongjoong watches, trying to keep his cool, but every second feels like his brain is running a mile per minute trying to convince itself this is just a normal day.

Then Seonghwa steps into the skirt.

The world around Hongjoong seems to pause.

It’s exactly how Hongjoong pictured it. No, even better. The whole look just clicks, effortless, like it was meant to be. He deliberately avoids looking at Seonghwa’s bare leg—that way lies danger—instead, he focuses on the hemline, the way it sits clean and precise against Seonghwa’s waist. It’s perfect.

Before he knows it, his hand moves on its own, fingers lightly tugging at the skirt’s waistband as if double-checking that everything is sitting exactly where it should be.

It’s purely technical, he tells himself. Just one last adjustment.

Even though nothing actually needs fixing.

The sudden pull throws Seonghwa slightly off balance, and he steps a little closer. Hongjoong’s hand lingers at the waistband for one heartbeat too long before he yanks it back like he’s been burned.

“Guess I didn’t do too badly for my first try,” he says, voice a little too light, a little too quick. Despite the quiet storm in his chest, Seonghwa's eyes stay mercifully glued to the skirt, hands gliding over the fabric, pausing at the slit that shows just a hint of skin. He looks slightly unsure, like he’s still deciding if it actually works. Hongjoong, who is absolutely not having a normal brain day, feels the silence stretch too long and panics. “Well, if you wanted that detail included, the muse can’t exactly blame the artist.”

The second it leaves his mouth, Hongjoong wishes he could snatch it back. Seonghwa shoots him a pointed look, and heat crawls up Hongjoong’s neck. What is wrong with him today? What is he saying? He’s having one of those moments where he should probably swear off speaking altogether for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the week, just to be safe.

Seonghwa keeps his gaze on him, sharp and amused, with maybe a hint of knowing tucked in there. He steps closer, turning slowly to give the skirt a subtle flare with his movement. “Does it look like what you had in mind?”

Hongjoong blinks, scrambling for a coherent answer. His brain, predictably, is offering nothing helpful. He lingers on the sight a beat too long, mind spinning at how much better it looks in real life than it ever did in his imagination. But he’s not saying that out loud.

He’s already said too much.

He settles for a small smile and a nod.

“Good.” The corner of Seonghwa’s mouth tugs upwards. “Then I guess it’s time to see how it photographs.”

Seoul rushes past in a slow blur of towering buildings and flashing headlights cutting through the fading afternoon haze. The city always feels alive, but from inside the car, it moves like a dream, distant and hushed behind glass.

There’s something oddly comforting in that. In the low hum of the engine. In the familiar presence of Seonghwa beside him. No cameras jammed into the space, no mic packs clipped to their shirts, no eyes watching every move. No pressure to perform. Just the two of them and the quiet murmur of the radio threading through the stillness.

But Hongjoong isn’t entirely convinced that Seonghwa feels the same calm.

He sits silently in the passenger seat, his trenchcoat folded neatly over his lap. His knees rest near the gearstick, one cheek pressed into his hand as he stares out the window. In his other hand, he holds a black face mask, his fingers fidgeting with the edges, tugging and twisting the fabric in an uncharacteristic display of nerves. Hongjoong’s own hand itches to reach over and still them, but he grips the wheel tighter instead. “Are you okay? We can turn back, if you want.”

“I’m okay,” Seonghwa replies, but it doesn’t sound convincing. The words come out quiet, a little thin around the edges. Hongjoong hears the hesitation tucked inside them.

And he understands. If their roles were reversed, he’d be on edge too. The truth is, this could get uncomfortable fast. The outfit looks like it belongs in a magazine spread or under stage lights. In that context, it would make perfect sense. But here, in the soft vulnerability of a public space, it feels different. Like they’re putting something private out into the world without a safety net. People usually mind their own business, sure, but it’s still a man wearing a skirt. That fact alone draws eyes, curiosity, maybe even judgment.

Maybe they should have picked some abandoned rooftop instead of Seoul Arts Center. Somewhere with fewer people and fewer opinions. He remembers suggesting Seonghwa could wear trousers underneath, just to make it safer. But Seonghwa said no. This was the look, and this was how it should be seen.

Maybe Hongjoong should have pushed harder. Maybe he should have insisted.

Before the worry can take root, Seonghwa shifts, finally turning toward him. The soft smile Hongjoong knows too well spreads across his face—the one that says, I know you’re worrying, but you don’t need to. “I’m okay,” Seonghwa repeats, firmer this time. “I really want to do this.”

The knot in Hongjoong’s chest eases a little bit, and he lets his hand drift back to the gearshift, his fingers tapping against the edge. “Good. The city could use a little style upgrade anyway.”

Seonghwa lets out a soft laugh. Barely more than a breath, but enough. The mask band finally stops snapping between his fingers. Hongjoong counts that as a win.

Up ahead, the Seoul Arts Center glows under the amber wash of the late sun. The place is full of people, but it doesn’t feel crowded. People drift across the place, some heading for the art museums, others toward the opera house, all of them caught up in their own quiet worlds.

The moment they step out of the car, the wind hits Hongjoong square in the face. He flinches, hissing under his breath, then shrugs deeper into his jacket. Seonghwa follows suit, but there’s a brief hesitation in his movements as he pulls the coat over his shoulders. Even with the mask covering half his face, Hongjoong sees it. The way his eyes move from person to person. The slight tension in his posture. Like he’s waiting for someone to look a little too long.

Hongjoong doesn’t say anything. He steps closer, just enough to move slightly ahead, clearing a path without really thinking. It’s instinct. Something he does when Seonghwa seems to shrink beside him. His mind is already ticking through backup plans—detours, excuses, anything to make this easier if Seonghwa decides he’s not up for it.

They move further along. Hongjoong scans the crowd, but no one seems interested. No lingering looks, no raised phones.

A few meters ahead, a place catches his eye. Tucked beside one of the buildings is a small alcove of clean, modern lines. Glass and stone meet at sharp angles, all of it glowing in the golden light. The spot feels quiet, like its own little frame inside the city. Private enough to feel safe, open enough to keep the grandeur of the architecture behind them. Even better, the lighting here is perfect: warm, golden hues bathing the scene, casting soft shadows and enhancing the muted tones of Seonghwa’s outfit.

Hongjoong gently nudges Seonghwa’s arm. “Here,” he says, tilting his head toward the spot.

Seonghwa nods, lowering his mask and tucking it into his pocket. He surveys the area, then slowly slips out of his coat, adjusting the skirt with a smooth tug. He pauses for a moment, as if considering where to place the coat, before draping it over Hongjoong’s shoulders, the fabric falling with a soft weight.

Just before stepping away, Seonghwa turns and gestures to his face. “Did I smudge anything?”

Hongjoong blinks, snapping himself out of his thoughts. He takes a step forward, scanning Seonghwa’s face. The light catches on the line of his jaw and the soft curve of his cheek. Everything is exactly in place. Of course it is. “No,” he murmurs, giving a small shake of his head. “You’re good.” A beat, then a grin. “Though, you know, if you did smudge something, I’d have a great excuse to take even more photos.”

Seonghwa shoots him a withering look, but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. His shoulders relax as he turns back to the frame. A breeze ruffles his hair, catching the light, and for a moment, Hongjoong just stares before he mentally kicks himself into motion.

Seonghwa doesn’t need direction—he’s already posing. His movements are fluid, familiar: the tilt of his head, the shift of weight, the way the skirt settles around his legs—it’s all instinctive, like muscle memory. Hongjoong watches through the phone screen, resisting a groan. He should have brought his real camera. The phone works well enough, but it can’t capture the depth and texture a proper camera would. These shots deserve better.

Then it hits him—he’s been taking every photo on his own phone. He quickly reaches into Seonghwa’s coat pocket, still draped over his shoulders, and pulls out Seonghwa’s phone. Time for a fresh start. Not a single perfect ray of light is going to go to waste.

Seonghwa shifts slightly, angling toward the softest edge of sunlight. It grazes his cheek as he lifts a hand to brush a strand of hair away, and Hongjoong almost forgets to keep snapping.

“I swear, you’re trying to be a walking magazine cover,” Hongjoong mutters under his breath, more to himself than anything.

Seonghwa doesn’t move from his pose. “And? Is it working?”

Hongjoong scoffs, adjusting the angle of his phone. “Unfortunately.”

Seonghwa smiles. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“It is,” Hongjoong mutters. “I came here to take a few casual photos. Not have a full-blown existential crisis about lighting and angles and why your face refuses to cooperate with normal standards of attractiveness.”

Seonghwa tilts his head, smirking. “Wait, what was that last part? Speak up, I didn’t catch it.”

Hongjoong can feel the heat rising in his face, and he silently thanks the phone for giving him something to hide behind. “Yah, you’re distracting me. Some of us are actually trying to work here, Seonghwa-ssi.”

“I’m not distracting you,” Seonghwa says, shifting into another pose. “If anything—” His words trail off, and his gaze slides to the side.

Hongjoong follows it and spots the source of the hesitation: two men and a woman lingering nearby. They’re doing that awkward dance of pretending not to stare, but it’s painfully obvious. Hongjoong exhales through his nose, lowering the phone slightly. He glances at Seonghwa. His stance has shifted—he’s not frozen, but the tension is there. Shoulders pulled tight. Chin angled slightly down.

And he gets it. That quiet discomfort of being watched too closely when you’re not performing, just existing. And worse, when it’s something that matters. Something you don’t want misunderstood.

Hongjoong steps in, closing the small gap between them. “I think we’ve got the best shots already,” he says. His eyes drift toward the horizon, where the light is softening into dusk. “And the golden hour’s about to tap out, so…”

“Okay.” Seonghwa nods.

Hongjoong moves without thinking. He slips the coat from his own shoulders and carefully wraps it around Seonghwa. His fingers pull the front together, then button it up slowly, one clasp at a time. The motion feels a little too personal, and it’s definitely lingering a beat too long, but he doesn’t stop.

Seonghwa watches him the whole time.

This is fine, Hongjoong tells himself. Nothing weird about it. Just two friends, one of them being a bit too photogenic for his own good.

Hongjoong steps back and clears his throat. “Let’s call it a wrap, yeah?”

Seonghwa tugs the coat tighter and nods again. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Hongjoong isn’t sure if it’s the added layer of fabric or just Seonghwa’s presence settling back into place, but the tension in his chest finally begins to ease.

The truth slips in before he has a chance to stop it.

He’s been so focused on making Seonghwa feel comfortable, and all this time, he’s been the one holding his own breath.

Back in Seonghwa’s room, the air shifts and settles into something quieter, as if the world outside has melted away. With the last of the sun gone but the room not fully dark, Seonghwa turned on only the bedside lamp. Its soft glow spreads across the space, bathing everything in warmth and casting gentle shadows along the walls. The room feels smaller, more intimate, and Hongjoong swallows against the thought before it can go anywhere.

Seonghwa perches on the edge of the bed and pulls out his phone. Hongjoong hovers for a second, not sure where to go or what to do with himself. Eventually, he slides into the desk chair, arms crossed, trying to look casual. The setup feels familiar, just with the roles flipped. And of course, Hongjoong knows exactly how this is going to go.

He’s doomed. Again.

Seonghwa’s fingers move slowly across his phone screen, pausing every now and then, like he’s inspecting each shot for imperfections or whatever it is Seonghwa thinks about when he’s in that quiet, analytical mode. The photos had already been transferred to Seonghwa’s phone on the drive back to the dorm, an action Hongjoong barely noticed, too busy trying to focus on the road and not the way Seonghwa’s legs looked crossed in the passenger seat. Now, in the soft lamplight, it’s easier to look at him without the added risk of rear-ending someone.

Every so often, Seonghwa’s mouth twitches, like he’s fighting off a smile. Other times, his head tilts with this overly serious expression that makes it seem like he’s solving some world-shattering riddle hidden in the pixels.

“So,” Hongjoong says eventually, cutting through the quiet “how’d I do as your photographer?”

Seonghwa’s thumb swipes once more across the screen. “Not bad,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving.

“Not bad?” Hongjoong blurts, louder than he means to. He pushes up from the chair, crosses the room, and drops onto the bed beside him. “Let me see.”

Seonghwa scrolls a little slower as Hongjoong leans in closer, squinting at each shot as it passes by.

“You’re glowing in half of these,” Hongjoong teases, unable to hold back the smug satisfaction. “Admit it. I’m a natural.”

Seonghwa offers the faintest smile, trying to hide it as he swipes to the next photo. “They’re really nice.” It’s the shot where Hongjoong angled the camera just enough to catch the skirt in motion as Seonghwa stepped sideways. “Definitely another entry on Kim Hongjoong’s never-ending list of skills.”

Hongjoong leans back, eyes drifting from the screen to Seonghwa. “Oh, come on. You’re not just saying that to be polite, are you?”

Seonghwa shakes his head, still focused on the photo. “Polite doesn’t get shots like these. You’ve got an eye for it… for everything, really.”

As Seonghwa remains focused on the photo, Hongjoong finds himself doing the same—watching Seonghwa, the real one. There’s a softness in his expression now, something unguarded, and Hongjoong finds himself tracing the small details: the way his hair falls just a little over his eyes, the slight curve of his lips.

It’s so easy to get lost in Seonghwa, and Hongjoong hates how quickly his thoughts spiral.

“Hey,” Hongjoong says softly, nudging their shoulders together, “it goes both ways. I had a good model. An excellent one even.”

Seonghwa freezes mid-swipe. His head lifts, eyes locking on Hongjoong’s. He leans just a fraction closer, enough to make Hongjoong’s chest tighten. “Yeah?” he murmurs, barely audible.

“Of course,” Hongjoong replies, voice soft. “It’s team work.”

“That makes me lucky then.”

Hongjoong swallows, heat pooling in his chest. “I’d say it’s the other way around.”

Seonghwa blinks, and for a moment his gaze dips down, tracing Hongjoong’s lips before moving back up to meet his eyes.

The room tilts on its axis.

One second everything is normal, the next the air crackles like static. Hongjoong feels it on his skin, humming and hot. Every inch of him is alive with it. He’s hyperaware of everything—the way Seonghwa is watching him, the faint trace of his perfume, the almost-touch of their knees.

Something twists behind Hongjoong’s ribs, tight and urgent. It presses up into his throat and lodges there, pulsing with every frantic heartbeat.

He wants to kiss Seonghwa.

He wants to kiss him so badly it leaves him dizzy.

And before he can talk himself out of it, before he can second-guess every reason why he shouldn’t, Hongjoong leans in.

It’s quick. The kiss is barely a kiss at all, just a brush, soft and hesitant, like the air itself might break if he pressed harder.

But it’s enough.

The spark that shoots down his spine is instant. It’s like every nerve in his body lights up at once, stealing the air from his lungs. He pulls back, startled by the rush of it. His heartbeat roars in his ears.

He might have just ruined everything.

Seonghwa’s next exhale is shaky, and Hongjoong feels it ghost against his skin, a soft tremor that sends a jolt through him.

Panic claws its way up his throat. He wants to backtrack, crack a joke, shove the moment back into the shadows before it becomes irreversible.

He’s already starting to lean away when he chances a glance at Seonghwa.

And stops breathing.

Seonghwa is still close, cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes locked on Hongjoong’s mouth like he wants more. The invitation is right there.

And Hongjoong… he doesn’t have it in him to keep pretending he doesn’t want this.

So he acts.

He surges forward without thinking, like his body has already decided for him. His hand finds the back of Seonghwa’s neck, fingers sliding into the soft hair there as he pulls him close and kisses him again.

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

He kisses him once, then again, each kiss more insistent than the last, as if something inside him has finally broken free, years of bottled-up affection spilling out all at once. Or maybe he’s just that starved for this. For Seonghwa. For the closeness of him.

It gets messy fast. Their mouths part, breath catches, and then he’s licking into Seonghwa’s mouth, hungry and wet and shameless. He’s running on instinct now. One hand cups Seonghwa’s jaw, his thumb brushing beneath the curve of his cheekbone. The other drags down along the column of his neck, where his pulse is racing just as fast as Hongjoong’s own. The skin there is warm, smooth, addicting. He wants to touch all of him. Wants to map out every inch, burn it into memory before it slips away.

Because in the back of his mind, that little voice is still there, whispering everything that could go wrong.

They’re friends. They work together. They have too much to lose. And most terrifying of all, Hongjoong’s feelings aren’t new. They’re deep, complicated, and real. This might be an impulsive heat-of-the-moment thing, but he’s been in this for a long time. Quietly, hopelessly.

He should stop. He knows he should.

But then Seonghwa makes a small broken noise against his lips, and suddenly the idea of denying himself this is unfathomable.

Screw it, Hongjoong thinks.

He slides his hands to Seonghwa’s shoulders, urging him down onto the mattress. He doesn’t even pause to think. He just follows the pull inside him, settling over Seonghwa and straddling him with his heart pounding so loud it feels like it might crack through his ribs.

He leans down and their lips meet again. The instant he feels Seonghwa’s tongue press at the seam of his mouth, Hongjoong parts his lips with a low, involuntary sound. Seonghwa pushes up into it, meeting him in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that leaves Hongjoong reeling. He can’t remember ever kissing anyone like this before. Everything breaks open at once—tongue and teeth and heat colliding, the kisses turning frantic, almost desperate.

Seonghwa keeps making these quiet, helpless sounds—little gasps and high, breathy hums that hit Hongjoong like a current. Each one drives him a little further out of his mind. The more he hears, the tighter everything coils inside him, until his hands are trembling where they’re braced against the sheets on either side of Seonghwa’s head.

But it’s not just Seonghwa’s mouth that’s driving him crazy. Fingers glide up Hongjoong’s arms, skim across his shoulders, slide down his sides in a slow, searching sweep. The touch leaves a trail of fire everywhere it goes. Then Seonghwa’s grip shifts. He takes hold of Hongjoong’s waist, firm and sure, before sliding one hand lower. His palm settles over the curve of Hongjoong’s ass and he pulls him down, closing the last bit of space until their hips press together.

The contact knocks the air out of him.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly his body reacts, how easily he ruts against the pressure, but Hongjoong can’t even bring himself to care. Seonghwa feels too good beneath him, warm and solid and receptive in all the right ways. He is hard, too—Hongjoong can feel it when he grinds down against him, pushing their hips together until they both groan into the kiss. They find a rhythm that might be a little bit clumsy, unrefined, but still mind-blowingly good. Hongjoong's breath comes fast, each gasp and hitch slipping between kisses, and he can’t tell whose heartbeat he’s feeling anymore. The soft sounds Seonghwa makes flood Hongjoong’s mind until everything else fades into white noise. All he knows is the taste of Seonghwa, the grip of his hands clutching him, and the heat swelling between them.

At last he tears away for air, lungs burning, mind spinning.

The sight stops him cold.

Seonghwa’s cheeks are flushed, but it’s not the usual redness. This one is different. This isn’t from dancing too long or laughing too hard or getting embarrassed in public. This flush has a rawness to it, a vulnerability that Hongjoong has never seen before. His lips are swollen, slick, dark with color where Hongjoong’s teeth and kisses left their mark. His pupils are huge, endless black swallowing the brown, and his chest lifts in shaky, uneven breaths he cannot seem to steady.

Hongjoong’s heart trips over itself. He did this. He put that wrecked, beautiful look on Seonghwa’s face. A fierce, possessive thrill burns low in his stomach. He wants more. He wants everything.

His internal bravery doesn’t last long, though. Hongjoong is painfully aware that Seonghwa is looking back at him now, and fuck, it’s too much to handle. He’s always been bad at this. Bad at the rawness of eye contact, at the vulnerability it demands. He’s used to looking when Seonghwa isn’t looking back, when he can admire him from a safe distance, hiding whatever feelings threaten to spill over. When it’s only longing, not possibility. But now, with Seonghwa’s eyes steady on his, there’s nowhere left to hide. It’s like the tension of everything unspoken has finally caught up with him, and it’s pressing down on his chest, choking him. His gaze drops automatically, and that’s worse. So, so much worse. Because it lands on the skirt, still draped low on Seonghwa’s hips, hitched up just enough to reveal the soft skin of his thighs. There’s a strange mix of pride and desire in the pit of his stomach, and that same flash of possessiveness that he doesn’t know how to deal with.

He’s spiraling, so lost in his own whirlwind of thoughts that he almost misses it—the quiet, desperate whisper that slices through the haze.

“Touch me.”

Seonghwa’s voice is rough around the edges, like it scraped its way out of his throat just to be heard.

The words hit Hongjoong like a jolt of electricity.

His breath catches. His body locks up. For a second, it genuinely feels like the air has been stolen from his lungs. His thoughts stall completely, too tangled in the weight of Seonghwa’s voice to register what’s happening—until he feels it. Seonghwa, quicker than him, already working open Hongjoong’s fly, already easing his pants down, already wrapping a hand around him.

It’s nearly over for him right then and there.

It’s been a while. A really long while. He tells himself that it’s just that. Just the time. Not the fact that it’s Seonghwa’s hand wrapped around his cock.

He leans forward like it’ll help, like the press of his body over Seonghwa’s will ground him somehow. He buries his face in the curve of Seonghwa’s neck, muffling the sound that wants to break free as Seonghwa strokes him with slow, deliberate movements. Up and down, wrist flicking at the top, thumb brushing over the slit to spread slickness.

It’s obscene how good it feels.

His thoughts are syrupy now, blurred at the edges, every nerve buzzing with heat. His hips twitch forward into Seonghwa’s fist, helpless, greedy for more.

But he doesn’t want to just take. He forces his hand to move, sliding between them and pushing the skirt higher until the fabric gathers at Seonghwa’s hip. He brushes against the edge of his underwear, and Seonghwa inhales sharply, hips twitching. With a tentative motion, he presses his hand, shifting the fabric just enough to slip his fingers inside.

Seonghwa breathes out a moan, quiet and desperate and right into Hongjoong’s ear, and it's quite possibly the best thing that Hongjoong has ever heard in his life.

He wants Seonghwa to make that sound again.

And again.

He wants all of this so badly that it makes his head spin. It’s too much. It’s all too fucking much, and not enough. He tries to match Seonghwa’s pace, tries to give what he’s getting, but it’s hard—Seonghwa’s hand is too good, too skilled, and his own muscles are trembling with the effort of staying upright. But it might not matter. Not when Seonghwa’s just as gone, just as breathless and desperate, grinding into Hongjoong’s touch like he can’t help it.

He tries to not come embarrassingly soon. Tries to drag it out, to savor every slide of Seonghwa’s hand, every roll of his wrist. But his whole body is on fire, and Seonghwa is everywhere—around him, under him, stroking him so perfectly it almost hurts. That tightness in his gut snaps. The groan he lets out is low and raw, punched out of him as his hips stutter and he spills over Seonghwa’s hand, shuddering through it. The world narrows to white-hot sensation, his body seized up and useless except for the part of him still reaching for Seonghwa, like touch alone might keep him from breaking apart completely.

A second later, Seonghwa follows. There’s a sharp inhale, a scratch of nails against Hongjoong’s waist, and then a broken moan that echoes in Hongjoong’s head.

And god, he’s going to remember that sound for the rest of his life, going to go over it again and again, going to hear it every time he lies down, every time he closes his eyes.

For a moment, they just breathe. The only sound in the room is the soft rise and fall of it, faint and shaky. Hongjoong stays curled in the crook of Seonghwa’s shoulder, face pressed into warm skin. His heartbeat slowly finds rhythm again, no longer thrashing, just thudding steady beneath his ribs. He breathes in Seonghwa’s scent, familiar and dizzying, and lets it anchor him.

But his mind won’t stay calm. It never does.

Thoughts surge up without permission. Stupid thoughts. Dangerous ones. He thinks about how he never wants to kiss anyone else. Never wants anyone else’s hands on him. Not after this. This is where he belongs. This is who he should be with. This synchrony, the way they move in harmony; they fit with a perfection that’s not perfect at all but that feels like the righting of the world, the settling of a longtime ache.

His mind is still in that sweet haze, when the world crashes back in.

A door slams in the hallway. Loud. Jarring. A burst of sound that slices through the moment like a knife.

Hongjoong flinches and jerks upright before he even thinks. The warmth he was wrapped in disappears so fast it leaves a chill.

Someone could have walked in.

Someone still might.

The world rushes back in, stark and unforgiving. The faint sound of footsteps in the hall. The lingering stickiness on his skin. The mess they’ve made of the sheets. Seonghwa’s phone lying abandoned on the floor beside the bed. Every detail feels suddenly magnified, each one pressing down on his chest until it’s hard to breathe.

He pushes himself upright, hastily adjusting his clothes back into place and forcing his shaky limbs to cooperate as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “We should—”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa agrees, sitting up, and Hongjoong hates that he knows him so well, can just look at the slump of Seonghwa’s posture and know he’s feeling awkward, maybe a little disappointed and self-conscious. Fuck.

A box of tissues is shoved into Hongjoong’s hand with more force than necessary, jolting him out of his daze, and his fingers fumble to grab it. He quickly wipes at the worst of the mess on his hand and clothes, and tosses the tissues toward the trash without even looking where they land.

The tension in the room is palpable now, buzzing like static in the space between them. Seonghwa sits on the edge of the bed, staring wide-eyed at the floor and resolutely not meeting Hongjoong’s eyes.

Oh fuck. Oh god.

This was stupid. Stupid and impulsive and probably the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

But also something he knows could blow up their entire friendship.

His pulse jumps for an entirely new reason now, not desire but fear. He needs to leave. If he stays, he’s going to start panicking, overthinking every second of what just happened. He’s going to say something he can’t take back.

He can’t do that—not here, not in front of Seonghwa.

Without another word, Hongjoong bolts for the door.

They don’t talk about it.

It’s not like they’re actively avoiding each other; it’s not that dramatic. Life goes on. They follow the same routines, move through the same spaces, laugh at the same things. It’s easier that way, letting the rhythm of daily life smooth over the silence between them.

So, yeah, it’s fine. They don’t talk about it.

And Hongjoong pretends like he didn’t spend all night staring at the ceiling, lips still tingling with the memory of Seonghwa. Pretends he didn’t lie there replaying it all over and over, whispering what the fuck did I do into the dark like it might give him an answer.

Hongjoong could be almost fooled into thinking it’s only his mind making him act stupid around Seonghwa, but he’s pretty sure there’s a subtle shift in the way they both move around each other. They’re careful now, like they’re two magnets that got too close, snapped together once, and now they’re being held apart by invisible hands, careful not to repeat the mistake.

Not that he thinks it was a mistake. Not really. Maybe. God.

He tells himself it’s a small blessing that they’re never really alone. There’s always someone nearby. Another member. A manager. Staff hovering with schedules and clipboards. Cameras in the corner. It’s like the world has conspired to keep them buffered, to protect them from the awkward silence that neither of them seems ready to face.

But of course, it doesn’t last. Because eventually, it has to catch up to them.

The studio is quiet in that late-night way that makes everything feel slower, heavier. Hongjoong’s five hours deep into a session that should’ve been quick. It’s just him, Seonghwa, and Mingi now. The track looping quietly in the background has long since stopped being useful.

They’re trying to pin down the division for the rap sections—who takes what, where to build tension, how to avoid making it feel like they’re just trading lines for the sake of it. Hongjoong is hunched over the desk, his coffee long cold and forgotten beside him. He rubs at his temple, eyes squeezed shut like maybe that will pull something useful from his brain.

Seonghwa sits on the couch across from him with one leg crossed, a wrinkled lyric sheet in his lap. Mingi is beside him, tapping out rhythms on his thigh, probably chasing a cadence that hasn’t landed yet.

Eventually, Mingi groans and stretches, his back cracking loud in the small space. “Gonna hit the bathroom,” he says around a yawn, already sliding off the couch and heading for the door. “Don’t finish without me.”

Hongjoong hums. Seonghwa gives a vague nod, his eyes still fixed on the page in his hands. The door closes behind Mingi with a soft click.

The silence that follows feels... wrong.

It’s not the usual quiet of a late-night session, it’s stiff, heavy, and just there. Hongjoong feels it immediately, like an itch you can’t quite scratch, and he knows Seonghwa feels it too.

The first minute is excruciating. Both of them are focused on everything but each other. Hongjoong stares at his lyrics like they might rearrange themselves into a hit song if he stares hard enough. Seonghwa, in turn, has swapped out his papers for his phone, pretending to check something clearly not urgent.

By minute two, Hongjoong feels his fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, his body screaming for an escape. He shifts in his seat, his knee bouncing nervously, and he almost stands up, ready to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. Maybe a dumb comment about the weather or an excuse to take an urgent call. But no, that’s ridiculous. Even for him.

It’s just that the prospect of that conversation still sits heavily in Hongjoong’s stomach. They might be pretending it didn’t happen, but Hongjoong can’t fool himself. Not really. He can’t erase the memory of the way Seonghwa looked, kissed breathless, like he’d been pulled apart and pieced back together. Those moments are seared into his brain, impossible to forget.

But how does he even begin to address it? Hey, Seonghwa-ya…listen, about… About what? That night? The way they’ve been tiptoeing around this awkwardness? This… thing between them? His throat tightens, words clawing at him but refusing to come out.

The silence is suffocating, pressing down on Hongjoong’s chest until it feels like he might crack under the weight. He needs to say something, anything, before the tension eats him alive. He needs to say something right fucking now—

“I was thinking about the designs,” he blurts out. Seonghwa’s head snaps up at the sound, and Hongjoong quickly ducks his head, eyes flitting between Seonghwa and the pile of lyric sheets on the desk. “I—I was thinking, if you want, I could work on some more pieces. For you.”

Warning bells go off in his head, flashing red and frantic. What the hell is he even saying? That wasn’t the plan. That’s not where he wanted to go. Or was it? Maybe it was. Maybe this is some convoluted way of bridging the gap without actually talking about that night.

“I mean,” he stammers, words spilling out in a jumble, “it could be fun, I guess. Just thought I’d mention it, if you’re still into it. I could, uh, help. If you want.” He risks a glance at Seonghwa, only to find him staring at him with his mouth slightly open. Hongjoong, in full self-sabotage mode, keeps talking. “Not that you need help, obviously,” he adds, too fast. “You’ve already got great taste. You can get custom pieces anywhere you want. You don’t need me at all.”

Please, shut up, Hongjoong’s brain screams, but his nerves are already in control, sending him careening forward with no brakes in sight.

There’s a brief pause, a beat of silence, before Seonghwa finally speaks. “More clothes?”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong replies quickly. “We could polish the ones I already made. Or I could sketch something new. If you want—”

Before anything else can be said, the door creaks open. A wash of blue hallway light spills into the room, stretching thin across the floor. Mingi walks back in, the soft click of the door closing behind him breaking the moment like glass.

Seonghwa’s expression softens, the tension easing just enough for a small, almost imperceptible nod. Hongjoong’s chest tightens for a moment, then instinctively he mirrors the gesture, offering a small smile and nod in return.

The ghost in the room, the tension haunting them all night and lingering in the quiet between the notes, finally fades into the faint hum of the studio equipment.

Chapter Text

“Who parties on a Tuesday? That’s crazy.”

In every universe, in every version of him that exists, Hongjoong would rather be holed up in the studio writing songs than getting drunk with people he barely knows. But the invitation was unavoidable. Kwon Hyunsik, their former production coordinator, is moving to London for a new job managing live events, and apparently that calls for music, mood lighting, and a room full of industry regulars packed into an overpriced rooftop bar in Itaewon.

Hongjoong already feels the fatigue setting in just thinking about it. And it doesn’t help that his to-do list is a mile long. There’s the tour to prepare for, a mountain of content that has to be filmed and scheduled before they even hit the road, the full Japanese album still waiting for finishing touches, and deadlines he’s already dangerously close to missing. It’s a lot, but when isn’t it? Sometimes he wonders if he knows how to function without fifteen different projects hanging over his head. Probably not. And if he’s being honest, half the reason his schedule is this brutal is because he can’t leave things alone when they’re not perfect. At least he’s self-aware. Though that doesn’t change the fact that he’s now trying to wedge “social event” into a schedule he already sabotaged himself.

Hongjoong lets out a quiet sigh as he perches on the edge of Seonghwa’s bed, brow furrowed in frustration while he wrestles with an earring that refuses to cooperate. Around him, the soft hum of the city drifts through the window, mingling with the faint thrum of music from someone’s phone in the next room, but he barely notices. His mind keeps wandering—off the earring, off the night, back to Seonghwa.

Because the real reason he’s here isn’t the party. Not really.

It’s the shirt he brought for Seonghwa.

The idea first floated into the conversation at a company dinner, slipping between shots of somaek and Paris Fashion Week stories that grew wilder with each retelling. Someone was joking about how one minute they were stressing over outfits in a hotel room, and the next they were sprinting to the airport with barely a breath in between. Amid the jokes, Seonghwa tossed out an offhand comment, Hongjoong said something back, and before either of them realized it, they were sketching ideas on a napkin.

Talking fashion with Seonghwa has always been easy. Their tastes overlap in ways that feel familiar, but their approaches branch in different directions, each filling in where the other leaves off. Together, that push and pull sparked the design: something sleek and tailored with a few details that disrupted the balance just enough to stand out. Hongjoong latched onto that shared vision of “different but wearable”, and reworked one of his older pieces until it matched what they’d imagined together.

The truth is, Hongjoong knew he could have sketched the design and passed it off to someone else to bring to life. He’s done that plenty of times for his own clothes. But this was different. This one felt like it had to come from his own hands; just like the skirt. The thought of gifting Seonghwa a custom piece only to admit he hadn’t made it himself didn’t sit right. It wouldn’t compare to the look on Seonghwa’s face when Hongjoong told him he had. Seonghwa’s whole expression lit up, eyes widening before his mouth curved into a smile so dazzling Hongjoong almost lost his grip on what he meant to hold back. And in that moment, the pride, the satisfaction, the quiet joy of seeing something he created spark that kind of reaction—it was more rewarding than the design itself.

The piece now sits on Seonghwa, a midnight velvet that fits close across the shoulders and chest. The left sleeve is a continuation of the velvet, its surface shimmering faintly with a scatter of micro-beads that catch the light like frost. The right sleeve, by contrast, is smoky organza layered over a fine mesh base, semi-sheer and embroidered with a branching pattern of black thread and jet beading, like spider silk glinting in the dark. Across the upper chest and shoulder, an angled panel of the same organza drapes over the velvet base, edged with a line of faceted stones and dark beads. The back dips low at the nape, but instead of a simple curve, it narrows into a V that trails down toward the line of his spine.

The details and the material were what scared Hongjoong the most. One wrong stitch and the whole thing could be ruined. The fabric was too delicate to hide errors, and the design demanded a skill level he simply did not have. So he went back to the jaejakso, again and again. Hours bled away with another pair of hands guiding him through the process, stitch by stitch, sample by sample, until his muscles stopped hesitating and his hands began to trust themselves. When it was finally done, he just stood there, staring, flipping the shirt in his hands and inspecting seams that didn’t need inspecting.

“Hm, is Kim Hongjoong getting too old for parties?” Seonghwa teases, sliding a shiny bracelet out of a small jewelry box on the dresser.

Hongjoong scoffs. “Excuse me, I’m just calculating how much energy I need to conserve. Someone has to stay upright while the rest of you make fools of yourselves.”

“Sure,” Seonghwa says easily. “I’ll remember that when you fall asleep mid-toast later.”

Hongjoong shoots him a look just as the earring finally clicks into place. “Remind me to revoke your outfit privileges next time.”

“Then I’ll just wear something hideous and tell everyone you styled me. Your fashionista career would be over.”

Hongjoong shakes his head, but a reluctant smile tries to creep in. Maybe he should be grateful for this party after all. It gives them a reason, however flimsy, to be here like this. For Seonghwa to wear the shirt. For Hongjoong to watch him wear it.

A way to pretend it’s nothing.

Things between them have been normal again. And Hongjoong has made damn sure to keep it that way. No reckless comments. No lingering touches. No letting himself read too deeply into the way Seonghwa’s laugh softens when it’s just the two of them.

He’s been good. Careful.

Which is exactly why he needs to be careful now.

“Hongjoong-ah?” Seonghwa’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts again. “Did you have a minute to look at the choreo video I sent you?”

Oh. That.

Hongjoong blinks and swallows dry, trying to shake off the images his mind keeps throwing at him.

Making the solo tracks had been fun. It started when Yeosang asked for a song to drop on his birthday, and before Hongjoong knew it, he was arranging solos for several members, himself included. Most of the early work happened during chilly evenings on tour or in the rare pockets of free time he managed to carve out, with tweaks and refinements stretching weeks beyond the initial sessions. At first, he didn’t think much about the direction the members might want it to go—Yeosang’s track came first, and he just wanted it to sound epic, like something straight out of a fantasy film. That alone was enough to keep him entertained.

He didn’t realize what a minefield Seonghwa’s track would become. When Seonghwa first asked him to write it, Hongjoong didn’t hesitate. He was too flattered, too grateful when Seonghwa said, you’re the only one who knows me well enough to get it right. But then came the moodboards, the references, the intended tone… and finally, a draft scribbled down in Seonghwa’s unmistakable handwriting that was so startlingly explicit Hongjoong didn’t even know how to respond. He just sat there, frozen, heart hammering, until the creeping heat up his neck and the sharp awareness of his own pulse forced him out of the room.

Choreography wasn’t something he spent much time thinking about. It wasn’t his domain. He assumed it would be suggestive, sure, but watching the dance crew run through it was fine—almost satisfying. Like seeing a cog slide neatly into the mechanism he’d helped build. But then came a different practice video. A few nights ago, Seonghwa sent a clip of himself going through the moves. And suddenly, it hit Hongjoong: the whole choreo was apparently a Seonghwa-only problem. Professional detachment flew out the window, and no amount of self-talk could stop the way his pulse spiked or the ridiculous, entirely unhelpful fantasies that insisted on tagging along as he watched Seonghwa move.

“Yeah… it was—nice,” he says finally, letting the word hang before adding, “it fits the concept.”

Seonghwa gives him a look, amused. “Are you sure? You’re blinking like you’ve forgotten how.”

Hongjoong forces his expression into something neutral. “I’m sure.”

“Ah. So it was too much.”

“No. Not really,” he lies.

Seonghwa peers at him for a beat too long, like he knows exactly which nerve he’s hitting. Then, with zero warning, he moves closer and mimics one of the slower, more sensual moves from the choreography. It’s teasing. Harmless, probably. But Hongjoong is not surviving this.

“Aish.” He claps his palms over his eyes and shoots to his feet. “I’m leaving.”

“We’re leaving together,” Seonghwa says calmly, holding out the bracelet for Hongjoong to help him with.

“No,” Hongjoong starts, but he still reaches out and fastens the bracelet. “I’m leaving you here.”

Seonghwa blinks at him, all faux-innocence. “You don’t want anyone to see the shirt?” he asks, gesturing vaguely down his body. “That hurts. I was fully prepared to brag about you and your brilliant craftsmanship to everyone I meet tonight.”

“Oh, god,” Hongjoong groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Please don’t call it ‘brilliant craftsmanship’. You sound like a press release.”

Seonghwa nods. “Would you prefer ‘a triumph of fashion ingenuity’ instead?”

“No,” Hongjoong says flatly. “I’d prefer silence.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Seonghwa says breezily. “Because I’m absolutely going to corner people at the bar and make them admire the stitching. Maybe even point out how good it looks on me.”

“Tormenting strangers at a party and shameless self-promotion?” Hongjoong shakes his head. “Are you proud of yourself?”

“No. I’m proud of you,” Seonghwa says softly, patting Hongjoong’s arm and turning toward the door.

A pang cuts through Hongjoong’s chest, sudden and sharp, but he swallows it down. All of it is tucked away, quietly and carefully, wrapped in a thousand little feelings he still hasn’t figured out how to sort. He trails after Seonghwa, forcing his eyes away from the low dip of the shirt and his steps into a calm that doesn’t reach his chest.

Mingling is a skill Hongjoong has honed over years in the industry. Passion for the craft is non-negotiable, but networking? That’s the invisible scaffolding keeping everything from collapsing. Not his favorite part of the job, but he’s learned how to navigate it well enough. Tonight, though, he’s not exactly at the top of his game. The usual rhythms of the event—the polite smiles, the obligatory name-dropping, the subtle jockeying for attention—feel heavier, somehow, and Hongjoong suspects it’s less about the party and more about everything else he’s trying not to think about.

He and Yunho are tucked inside the glass-paneled lounge—part bar, part small seating area—chatting with a small circle of radio hosts he sort-of recognizes. He nods at all the right moments and even slips in a thoughtful question about listener demographics. But his focus is completely shot. He doesn’t know what to focus on first: the rapid-fire conversation, the lingering effects of the drink he’d finished earlier, or the rooftop stretching out beyond the glass.

Hongjoong’s been keeping an eye on everyone out of habit. Mingi and Jongho hover near the terrace doors, talking to a waiter balancing a tray stacked with bottles and glasses. Judging by the way they’re staring at the drinks, something’s definitely brewing. A tiny alarm goes off in the back of his mind: someone is about to overestimate their tolerance, underestimate gravity, or both.

Through the glass panels, the terrace stretches beneath a canopy of string lights, the warm glow spilling over the tables. In one corner, Yeosang, Wooyoung, and San are all perched on the same couch, each clearly on their own wavelength. Wooyoung leans forward mid-conversation with someone Hongjoong can’t make out, only the back of their head visible. He keeps glancing at San and Yeosang for some kind of reaction, but San is halfway to dozing and Yeosang seems halfway to not responding at all.

Near the railing, Seonghwa stands talking to one of the video editors Hongjoong has met before. What’s his name? Hongjoong can’t remember. Despite Seonghwa’s teasing about bragging and chatting up strangers at the bar, he’s done none of that. Not that Hongjoong is keeping score—it’s just that he knows Seonghwa. He’s a people-person, sure, but shy the first time he meets someone. Even now, he’s all polite smiles and nods. Only when the music spikes in volume does Seonghwa lean in to catch something over the noise. He laughs at whatever was said, muted by the glass but visible in the shake of his shoulders, the crinkle of his eyes, and Hongjoong feels it—the unmistakable twist of something green and ugly curling in his stomach.

This is ridiculous, he tells himself, even as his pulse quickens. He’s not yours. Stop it.

And yet, the thoughts keep coming.

Hongjoong’s been closer to Seonghwa than anyone else in that room—or out there on that terrace. Closer than most people could even dream. He knows how Seonghwa looks when he’s barely awake, hair a mess, groaning his way through the group’s morning schedule. He’s seen the soft curve of his smile when he’s genuinely happy, and the sharp lines of his frown when annoyance wins out.

He’s been close enough to count the lashes framing Seonghwa’s eyes, to memorize the exact placement of the mole near the tail of his eyebrow.

Close enough to —

Heat creeps up his neck, his hands tingle, and he forcefully yanks himself out of those thoughts.

It’s just the alcohol, he tells himself, desperation lacing the excuse. It has to be. Everything’s normal now. He’s not thinking about that. He’s not.

By the time he forces himself to refocus, Yunho is side-eyeing him, his brow arched in that specific way that screams I saw that.

Hongjoong straightens up like he hasn’t just been staring daggers through a pane of glass and forces a smile. If there’s one thing he refuses to do, it’s let himself be publicly humiliated by his own feelings. So, in the spirit of damage control, he launches into a story about the time he and Yunho hosted Idol Radio. He’s halfway through mimicking Yunho’s reaction to a particularly disastrous segment when he risks another glance at the terrace.

A few people step inside through the glass doors, heading toward the bar. The man follows, but Seonghwa stays put, leaning against the railing with a glass in one hand and his phone in the other, thumb swiping lazily across the screen. The string lights catch his skin and the beads on his shirt, making them sparkle with each subtle movement. Seonghwa paired the shirt with wide gray slacks and high block-heeled shoes, and it all just… works.

He looks… good. Really good.

By the time the laughter inside their small circle dies down and the conversation moves on, Hongjoong has already made up his mind. He doesn’t give himself a chance to overthink it, just mutters a quick “catch you later” and slips toward the open space. It’s not like he has anything urgent to say. Maybe he just wants to make sure Seonghwa isn’t out here making grand, embarrassing declarations about his design skills to strangers.

As soon as he gets closer, Hongjoong casts a curious look at Seonghwa. “Seonghwa-ya, don’t tell me you’re out here suffering in the cold in the name of fashion again,” he teases, stepping to the edge of the railing. The days are warm, but the nights carry a bite, and Seonghwa’s thin shirt offers almost no protection.

Seonghwa blinks at him and lets out a soft puff of a laugh. “Not suffering. Just trying to take a photo.” He holds up his phone, the camera app still open, and angles it toward the night sky, aiming at the moon. Hongjoong watches as he zooms in, the image growing fuzzier with each tap. “It never looks as good as it does in real life,” Seonghwa mutters, frowning. “I swear I’m doing something wrong.”

Hongjoong can’t resist. “Maybe it’s because your moon doesn’t shine as bright as the star trying to capture it,” he says, pretending to sound serious.

Seonghwa freezes, blinking like he’s trying to decide if he should laugh, groan, or hit Hongjoong. After a beat, he settles on the last option—gently swatting Hongjoong’s arm with his phone. “That could’ve been a compliment if you’d just said it like a normal person instead of… that.”

“I said it normally,” Hongjoong says with a shrug. “But seriously, the moon’s just a pain to photograph. It always looks better when you’re not trying so hard to keep it.”

Seonghwa pockets the phone with a small sigh, the glow from the screen vanishing as quickly as it came. He glances over the cityscape, fingers brushing the rim of his glass where a thin slice of orange floats in the soft amber liquid. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The city stretches below in soft blurs of bright white and neon, streets and lights folding into one endless, glittering expanse. Hongjoong notices it, but he isn’t really looking at the view.

There’s a weight in his chest, a pressure that builds with every passing moment. He told himself he wasn’t thinking about it anymore, but the feeling won’t let up. Maybe he shouldn’t have had those drinks. Because now, he wants to say it, to let the things that keep piling up inside him spill from his lips.

I love you. I’m in love with you.

They’re on the tip of his tongue, pressing against the back of his teeth, so close it’s almost painful. But he can’t. Not now. Probably not ever.

His chest feels like it might cave in under the pressure. He exhales quietly, trying to ease some of it. “Wish I had my camera with me right now,” he murmurs.

Seonghwa glances over and Hongjoong swears he can tell the moment Seonghwa realizes he isn’t talking about the skyline.

“Next time,” Seonghwa says softly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Hongjoong ducks his head, letting his eyes drift to the subtle movement of Seonghwa’s hands, fingers still tracing the rim of the glass. The drink glints faintly under the moonlight—pale, nearly gone. Seonghwa swirls it absentmindedly.

“I think my tolerance is better than I thought,” he hums.

Hongjoong’s lips twitch into a smile despite himself. What a terrible fucking lie.

Seonghwa blinks at him. “What?”

“What are you drinking, then? Water?”

Seonghwa scoffs. “Of course not.”

“So what is it?”

“…I don’t know.”

Hongjoong gives him a flat, unimpressed look. “You don’t know.”

“I never claimed to be an expert,” Seonghwa says, lifting his chin just enough to look mildly affronted. “I saw the bartender make it for someone and it looked nice. What about it?”

Hongjoong raises an eyebrow and has to stifle a laugh. It does look like Seonghwa is tipsy, and that makes it even funnier. “Why so defensive? Are you really sure the person wasn’t asking for sparkling water?”

A flash of frustration crosses Seonghwa’s face. “Fine. Try it.” Before Hongjoong can even respond, Seonghwa steps closer, his hand settling lightly on the nape of Hongjoong’s neck, holding him in place as he lifts the glass to his lips.

“Wait—” Hongjoong tries to lean back slightly, startled. The scent of alcohol is definitely there, sharp and sweet.

“You don’t trust your best friend,” Seonghwa accuses, the glass still hovering in the space between them. He’s so close now it’s almost disorienting.

“I do. I do,” Hongjoong says quickly, his hand coming up instinctively to catch Seonghwa’s wrist. He means to stop him, or maybe just steady him, but the touch lingers longer than it should.

That’s the moment everything stills.

He’s suddenly painfully aware of every single point of contact. The warmth of Seonghwa’s palm against his neck. The way their hands overlap around the glass. The way Seonghwa’s face is just there, tilted toward him, breath brushing lightly against his cheek. It would take nothing to lean in.

It’s too much. Too close. They’re in public.

Before Hongjoong can figure out how to defuse the moment, the terrace door creaks open behind them, voices spilling out and shoving Hongjoong back like a snapped rubber band. He pulls away instinctively, blinking like he’s just surfaced from deep water.

“I—I’m going to check on the others,” Hongjoong stammers with a small smile, already spotting the corner where their friends are sprawled out. The mystery guy is gone, and Wooyoung sits there with arms crossed, looking like a tiny storm cloud of sulkiness. Hongjoong tilts his head toward San, who is practically melting into the couch. “At least you’re holding up better than him,” he teases.

Seonghwa follows his gaze, lets out a soft, disbelieving “Oh, no,” and falls into step behind him.

The second Wooyoung notices Hongjoong, he straightens up, eyes wide and pleading. “Hyung, these friends have been doing their best to bore me to death. You arrived just in time to give my eulogy.”

Yeosang and San exchange a look before turning eyes to Seonghwa, both of them wearing identical expressions that scream save us. Seonghwa, completely unbothered, lowers himself into the seat opposite and leans back with a quiet sigh, clearly deciding this is not his problem.

“Really? You look pretty alive to me,” Hongjoong says, sliding in next to Seonghwa and raising an eyebrow at the nearly full glass on the table in front of Wooyoung.

“That’s because I’ve been doing all the talking!” Wooyoung exclaims, gesturing wildly at the glass. “I was cornered by Dox-hyung’s friend from London. The guy was talking so fast I thought I was having a stroke. And these two?” He nods in San and Yeosang’s direction. “Not one word of help. Just sitting there like statues, nodding and looking cute while I’m over here trying to survive a conversation. Incredible.”

Hongjoong isn’t surprised. Yeosang has never been one for small talk with strangers, and San’s flushed cheeks and slumped posture make it obvious he’s already had too many drinks.

“Sorry, Young-ah,” San mumbles, sluggish and soft. He lifts a hand to pat Wooyoung’s knee in consolation but completely misses, brushing the edge of the cushion instead. “I was… listening.”

Yeosang snorts. “See, Wooyoung-ah? The only thing dying around here is Sannie’s chance of waking up without a hangover.”

Wooyoung retaliates instantly, leaning over to pinch Yeosang’s cheek with exaggerated sweetness. Yeosang yelps, batting his hand away and glaring, while San giggles helplessly, slumping further into the couch until his head thumps softly against the backrest.

As if drawn by the commotion, Jongho appears at the edge of the table, cradling a suspiciously full bottle of something Hongjoong doesn’t recognize and doesn’t trust. His eyes land on Wooyoung’s glass, and when he sees it’s full, he shifts to Yeosang, who holds up a hand.

“Not for me. I know when I’ve had enough.”

Wooyoung raises a brow. “That’s clearly not something you demonstrated when we were drinking in Jeju.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Yeosang mutters.

Jongho grins. “You wouldn’t, hyung. You were out cold. We had to drag you to bed and undress you ourselves. I even put a blanket over you.”

Before Yeosang can mount a proper rebuttal, San perks up. “Wait… what? We did what?” he mumbles.

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “You weren’t even there, San-ah.”

That catches Jongho’s attention, and his gaze drifts to the empty glass in front of San. “Here, hyung,” Jongho says with a grin, already tipping the bottle.

“Jongho-ya…” Seonghwa starts, but his voice carries no real warning. The pour is slow, steady, and utterly merciless. Hongjoong watches as the liquid climbs higher and higher… until movement at the edge of his vision makes him glance at Wooyoung. Leaning in to gawk at San’s plight, Wooyoung bumps his knee into the table hard enough to set off a perfect chain reaction: San’s drink tips, Wooyoung’s sways, and in one catastrophic heartbeat, both glasses spill. Amber liquid splashes across the table, drips onto the cushions, and streaks down Wooyoung’s and San’s legs.

The entire table erupts into commotion.

Across the table, Hongjoong pinches the bridge of his nose. For the umpteenth time, he wonders if their group is physically incapable of behaving like normal adults in a social setting. Probably not. Definitely not. His eyes sweep the rooftop, checking to see if anyone has noticed, but luckily most of the other guests are wrapped up in their own conversations or already too tipsy to pay attention to the ongoing circus at their table.

Jongho disappears for all of two seconds and reappears with a stack of napkins, attacking the mess on the table like a man on a mission. Hongjoong watches him work, biting back the urge to lecture them. Instead, he turns just slightly toward Seonghwa, the beginnings of a wry comment forming in his head—do you think we should try and rein them in?—though realistically, neither of them had ever been particularly effective at that.

When Hongjoong finally looks at Seonghwa, he finds him staring down at his own glass. The commotion has sloshed the rest of the drink over his hand, dripping onto his knee. Without thinking, Hongjoong grabs one of Jongho’s napkins and leans in, blotting Seonghwa’s hand first, then the dark fabric of his trousers, even though he knows it won’t do much against the stain.

“I wish we hadn’t been interrupted earlier,” Seonghwa says suddenly, his voice pitched low enough that Hongjoong almost misses it beneath the chatter and music. His head jerks up all the same.

There’s something sultry in the way Seonghwa says it. Quiet, but sultry, and Hongjoong feels everything inside him freeze. His hand stills mid-motion, the noise around them blurring into nothing. He has to fight the overwhelming urge to look away because what the hell is he supposed to do with that? His mind is already a tangled mess, and now Seonghwa’s sitting here, wearing that, saying things like that, and Hongjoong feels like the ground just tipped beneath him.

He wants to respond, to tell Seonghwa that he shouldn’t—that they shouldn’t—but the words don’t come. They linger at the edge of his tongue, just out of reach, leaving his mouth slightly open in hesitation.

Maybe he should let it happen.

The thought hits him with startling clarity. He’s spent so long convincing himself he doesn’t deserve good things, that he can’t have them, even when Seonghwa offers them so plainly. Maybe it’s okay to stop pushing him away, just this once. Maybe it’s okay to let himself feel, to let himself want. It’s been a long day.

Would it really be so wrong to just let go for a moment?

“You’re thinking too much,” Seonghwa says, his voice soft but teasing. “I can see every thought passing through your head right,” he lifts a finger and gently pokes Hongjoong’s forehead, “here. You’ve got that frown again, the one you make when you’re overthinking everything.”

Hongjoong blinks, caught off guard by the casual touch and by how easily Seonghwa can read him. His throat goes dry, and he clears it, trying to regain composure. But there’s no hiding the way his pulse stutters or the restless energy prickling under his skin. Out of habit, he glances past them—Jongho has vanished again, while Wooyoung and Yeosang are engaged in the near-impossible task of coaxing and half-dragging San to his feet.

Hongjoong takes a steadying breath and leans just close enough for Seonghwa to hear. “Should we get out of here?”

The ride home is suffocatingly tense.

Shadows fill the car and for once Hongjoong is thankful for the darkness. The driver is just a silhouette bathed in the low glow of an overly elaborate dashboard. Hongjoong is vaguely aware of Seonghwa talking but it feels distant, like the words are coming from somewhere far away. The car pulls away from the curb and the world outside becomes a blur of white, red, and green colors streaking across the windows like light trails in a long exposure photo.

Seonghwa leans in until his shoulder brushes Hongjoong’s, a slow shift that feels deliberate and accidental all at once. Feeling reckless, Hongjoong lets his hand slide onto Seonghwa’s thigh. At first it’s almost automatic, his fingers curling, pressing gently against the fabric. His rings catch the stray glow of streetlights as the car moves, scattering tiny glints across Seonghwa’s leg. But that’s not what really grabs his attention. No, what does is the sharp, involuntary breath Seonghwa draws in. Hongjoong hears it, feels it on the exhale—hot air brushing across his cheek, leaving a faint trail of cold behind. Except for that tiny intake of air, Seonghwa doesn’t move an inch.

By the time they climb out of the car, Hongjoong feels like they’re walking along the edge of a blade. His fingers still tingle where they touched, a faint warmth lingering that makes it impossible to think clearly. The lobby lights feel suddenly too bright as if the world itself is glaring at him, exposing everything. His pulse hammers in his chest, mouth dry, hands itching for something to do. He presses the elevator button too quickly, the hum of the machinery sounding unnervingly loud in the otherwise quiet space. He doesn’t know what to say. He hoped Seonghwa would speak, but he stays quiet.

Inside the elevator, Seonghwa shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a small sway like he’s tired or unsteady. Hongjoong can’t tell if it’s leftover alcohol or if standing too long in those shoes has taken its toll.

“What would you do if the elevator wasn’t working?” Hongjoong finally breaks the silence, dragging his gaze pointedly down to Seonghwa’s heels. “I’d hate to carry you up like a sack of potatoes.”

Seonghwa frowns. “A sack of potatoes? You should carry me princess-style.”

Hongjoong huffs a laugh, startled by how good it feels to hear something light again. “I don’t remember you being royalty,” he says.

“I should be,” Seonghwa huffs, a pout threading through his voice. “I’ve got the grace for it.”

“Yeah, sure, silly,” Hongjoong grins, the words leaving his mouth without thinking. And he’s only lying a little bit. Seonghwa does have a certain elegance about him, even when he’s tipsy and complaining. It’s just part of the charm.

The elevator stops with a soft jolt, and Seonghwa stumbles just enough to catch himself with a quick hand against the wall, a sheepish flicker passing across his face. Hongjoong can’t help but smile back. “Maybe those shoes weren’t the best idea tonight.”

Seonghwa’s mouth curves into a wry line. “I wanted to look good.”

You always look good, Hongjoong wants to say. He doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything, just follows Seonghwa into the dorm.

The moment the door clicks shut behind them, everything snaps.

Hongjoong’s hands are on Seonghwa before he can think, shoving him back against the door with a reverberating thud. The sound echoes in the quiet apartment, sharp and urgent, but Hongjoong doesn’t care. He needs to move. Needs to do something before his thoughts catch up and ruin this moment with their usual noise. There’s no pretending here—they both know exactly why they’re here.

In a breath, the space between them is gone. Hongjoong presses in, chest to chest, pinning Seonghwa in place and steadying himself in the solid weight of him.

Seonghwa looks so much taller in those damn heels. How annoying.

And Hongjoong—Hongjoong doesn’t mind letting Seonghwa have the upper hand, hardly, but right now? He just wants to see what happens when he doesn’t.

He lifts a hand to Seonghwa’s collar, letting his fingers linger there for a heartbeat, then slowly drags them down the front of his shirt. His palm slides along the ribs as Seonghwa shifts under his touch, breath hitching slightly, until it comes to rest just above his pelvis.

He chances a glance up—just to make sure.

Seonghwa is looking right at him.

He’s yours, the ugly green part of his brain croons happily. In the clothes you made, in your arms, this Seonghwa is yours.

And fuck, how he wants that to be true—wants to keep this unguarded Seonghwa all to himself, to lock him away where no one else can see him like this.

Seonghwa leans down then, clearly aiming for his lips, but Hongjoong lifts his other hand and presses it flat to Seonghwa’s chest, shoving him gently but firmly back against the door. Seonghwa blinks in surprise but stays where Hongjoong pushed him, the faintest glint in his eyes saying he’s indulging him, because they both know Seonghwa could push past without effort.

Hongjoong’s right hand, resting low, finds the edge of Seonghwa’s shirt where it’s tucked into his slacks. He tugs slowly, freeing the fabric before sliding his hand beneath it. Heat greets his palm as he traces the slope of Seonghwa’s waist, mapping the lean lines and tense muscle under his touch. Each slow drag of his fingers makes Seonghwa’s abdomen tighten, a tremor running through him that Hongjoong feels right down to his fingertips.

Seonghwa leans in again, head tilting, lips hovering just shy of contact, but Hongjoong doesn’t let him close the gap. The hand over Seonghwa’s chest presses forward once more, and Seonghwa’s head bumps lightly against the door with a dull thud. The annoyed huff that escapes Seonghwa is almost endearing, even as his eyes flash with frustration. Hongjoong nearly laughs.

“Don’t be mean.”

Hongjoong cocks his head, feigning innocence. “Mean? What am I doing?”

“Stop teasing me.”

“You like it.”

“I don’t.”

Hongjoong quirks a brow, smirk tugging at his lips. He leans in, pressing his knee between Seonghwa’s legs. The sound Seonghwa makes is somewhere between a gasp and a whine, sharp and needy.

“Liar.”

Seonghwa tries to glare, but his eyes are already too glassy, too mellow to pull it off. It’s both adorable and unfairly hot, the way he unravels like this under Hongjoong’s touch, just from a few trailing fingers and a steady gaze.

“Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa breathes, voice catching on desperation, and for a split second Hongjoong almost feels bad for dragging it out—but only almost.

He rises to his toes and finally closes the distance, pressing his lips to Seonghwa’s.

Seonghwa’s lips are warm, pliant, tasting of soju and something sweeter beneath it—orange juice, maybe, or a soda—blurred together with the faint smokiness of the party still clinging to them. It shouldn’t taste good, but it does. Or maybe it’s just Seonghwa.

Hongjoong deepens the kiss, tilting his head to press closer, to take more. It’s messy and a little too eager, but neither of them seem to care. The faint groan Seonghwa lets out against Hongjoong’s lips sends a shiver skittering down his spine, sharp and electrifying. He feels it in every nerve, every inch of him. One hand slides up, threading through Seonghwa’s hair, gripping tight to angle his head back, exposing the long, vulnerable stretch of his throat.

And Hongjoong can’t help himself.

He leans in, teeth grazing the soft skin just below Seonghwa’s jaw, right where his pulse stammers in quick, uneven beats. It’s a mark high enough to be visible, too high for even a turtleneck to hide. It’s reckless. It’s stupid. It’s the best thing he’s ever done.

“Kim Hongjoong,” Seonghwa murmurs, voice low and reproachful, though it loses all bite when he rolls his hips forward, pressing against him. The contact hits sharp and delicious even through the barrier of clothing.

“Yes?” Hongjoong replies, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt. Seonghwa shudders, pupils blown wide. One of his hands cups Hongjoong’s jaw, thumb stroking his cheekbone with a gentleness that feels almost out of place given how frantic everything else is.

“Are you crazy?” Seonghwa says, smiling a little. The crooked smile that Hongjoong likes.

Hongjoong presses a kiss to it instead of answering.

After that, the world blurs. Kisses come in urgent, endless waves. Shoes get abandoned by the door. Hongjoong isn’t even sure who’s leading whom toward Seonghwa’s room. Moonlight spills through the open curtains, silver washing across the floor and pooling on Seonghwa’s bed. Hongjoong ends up sitting on the edge, tugging Seonghwa down by the waist into his lap, and Seonghwa’s lips are on his again before he can catch a breath. With a shaky inhale through his nose, he takes in the feeling of a hand tangling through the strands of hair at the back of his head, takes in the feeling of Seonghwa’s tongue pushing past his lips and into his mouth, and tries to keep up with everything that’s happening.

They press into each other wherever they can and Hongjoong’s head swims with how much he wants this. It’s stupidly impulsive, especially with both of them still tipsy, but neither seems to mind. It feels right—dangerously, achingly right—to Hongjoong. Heat pools in his veins, gnawing at him from the inside and making it hard to think, hard to breathe. Seonghwa’s mouth is hot, urgent, and Hongjoong wants. Wants to devour, wants to be devoured.

“Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa murmurs against his lips, voice breathless and almost shy. He avoids Hongjoong’s eyes. “Can I… I want to…”

The words falter, and Hongjoong swears he can see the flush in Seonghwa’s cheeks even in the dim moonlight. Whatever it is, Hongjoong wants him to have it. He nods, and immediately regrets it when Seonghwa rises. Hongjoong reaches out, but his arms drop the moment Seonghwa lowers himself to his knees in front of him.

Hongjoong stares, mouth slightly agape.

“Lift your hips,” Seonghwa says quietly.

Hongjoong blinks, then forces himself to move, tilting his hips up. Seonghwa pulls his pants and underwear down to mid-thigh in one smooth motion and slides closer. The air feels shockingly cool against Hongjoong’s skin, but then Seonghwa’s warm hands are there, tracing up his thighs.

Every second stretches, torturous, and Hongjoong wants to grab him, pull him closer, force the next moment to happen. But he doesn’t. He can’t. So he waits, heart thudding, every part of him attuned to Seonghwa’s touch.

When Seonghwa finally wraps a hand around him, Hongjoong almost moans at the touch, every nerve ending lighting up at the contact. Seonghwa strokes once, a measured movement that makes Hongjoong’s hips jerk slightly off the bed. Then Seonghwa leans in, so close that Hongjoong can feel his breath ghosting over him. Every ounce of self-control claws at him, demanding he stay still instead of chasing the heat he knows is coming.

Seonghwa curls his fingers around him again, sliding them up and down before lowering his lips over the head. Any comment Hongjoong might have made dissolves into a stuttered exhale, his fingers clutching at the sheets beneath him.

It’s so, so hard for Hongjoong to stay still; the muscles of his abdomen twitching each time Seonghwa dips his head a little more. Seonghwa’s mouth is so wet and warm, so fucking perfect, and that mixed with the tingly, buzzing of his nerves as his whole body shudders… it’s good. It’s so damn good.

Hongjoong draws a long, shaky breath and lets his head fall back, eyes closing against the overload of sensation. His focus narrows until nothing exists beyond Seonghwa’s mouth and the teasing pressure of his tongue. A moan slips out, then another, his body growing hot and taut. He has no idea how long he spends like this. Time is relative to gravity, and his head is heavier than usual, slowing everything to a halt, stopping and restarting with every slide of Seonghwa’s head up and down. On and off.

Hongjoong tilts his head, curiosity betraying him, and instantly wishes he hadn’t. Seonghwa does something filthy with his tongue, dragging it along the sensitive underside of his cock, and Hongjoong’s hips jerk hard, forcing him to pull back with a sharp intake of breath.

“Shit—sorry,” Hongjoong mutters, cheeks burning. So much for self-control.

Seonghwa shakes his head, wiping the spit dripping down his chin with the back of his hand. “You just surprised me,” he says softly. “It’s fine. You can do whatever you want.”

It takes a moment for Hongjoong to register the words, to realize what Seonghwa is really suggesting. He must be silent a little too long, because Seonghwa reaches his hand out to where Hongjoong’s is clenching the sheets in a fist, grabs it and silently brings it to his hair.

Seonghwa’s look afterward is sharp, intense, like he’s daring Hongjoong to do exactly what he’s thinking.

“Oh my god,” Hongjoong croaks, hissing when Seonghwa sinks down on his cock again. “Okay, oh, fuck, fuck, okay.”

His fingers curl into Seonghwa’s hair, tugging a little as his hips jerk. Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans into it, letting out a low moan that strikes Hongjoong square in the chest, twisting every nerve into fire. The last bit of restraint snaps. Hongjoong’s grip tightens and he guides Seonghwa with nothing but raw need. No rhythm, no finesse, just force and want, pulling him down, holding, letting go, pulling back up.

It’s better than any fantasy he could ever conjure up.

Hongjoong tries to breathe, tries to remind himself to make it last even though he can feel himself careening towards the edge too soon. He desperately tries to etch every little detail of the moment, every piece of sensory imagery into the surface of his mind. The feeling of his cock engulfed in a tight heat, the softness of Seonghwa’s inky locks, the way his mouth goes slack, receptive —

“God, you’re so fucking good for me,” Hongjoong rasps, words tumbling out without thought. He’d probably be embarrassed to hear himself saying it like this at any other time, but right now he doesn’t care — his mind is locked on the only thing in front of him. “Letting me use you. You like that, don’t you? You like being good for me.”

Seonghwa whimpers around him, a high, keening sound that vibrates all the way through Hongjoong.

He can’t stop himself. His hips snap forward harder, deeper, until his other hand drifts down and presses two fingers to Seonghwa’s throat. He can feel himself there, buried so deep it almost doesn’t seem real.

“Fuck,” Hongjoong groans, gripping Seonghwa’s hair tighter, pulling him off with a sharp tug just to give them both a chance to breathe. Seonghwa inhales sharply, chest heaving, gasping.

He looks absolutely wrecked.

Tears glisten at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill, and his lips—flushed, wet, and glossy—part slightly as he licks the bottom one. Hongjoong swallows hard. He wonders, briefly and dangerously, if Seonghwa ever lets anyone see this side of him.

“Why did you stop?” Seonghwa manages through a ragged breath, pulling his head a little to get closer again.

No, the thought pushes back, don’t think about that, this is only for you.

He doesn’t answer. He grips Seonghwa’s hair tighter, shoving him back down, and watches as Seonghwa takes him again eagerly, lips closing over him without hesitation.

Hongjoong starts to move again, slowly at first, testing, and when Seonghwa doesn’t push back—when he lets him, fingers pressing into Hongjoong’s thighs—he picks up the pace. The nails pricking his skin are grounding, a sharp contrast to the dizzying rush flooding his senses.

There’s an itch in his core begging to be scratched, a frayed cord dangerously close to snapping.

“You need— I’m gonna—,” he gasps, voice slipping into alarm as he tugs on Seonghwa’s hair again. To Hongjoong’s surprise, Seonghwa moans at the rough touch, his eyes sliding shut like he’s the one getting head, then he swallows Hongjoong down the rest of the way without hesitation again.

Heat blooms through Hongjoong, sharp and consuming, crawling up his spine and pooling low, making his skin ache and his fingers curl. He lets out a gasp, every nerve screaming as his body tightens and then unravels. His hips jerk against the tight seal of Seonghwa’s mouth, body shuddering as Seonghwa swallows him down to the last drop.

When Seonghwa finally pulls away, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just kneels there, chest rising unevenly, stray strands of hair brushing his eyes, lips parted. Hongjoong can’t look away, drawn in like a magnet; his gaze drifts lower until he notices the strain in the fabric of Seonghwa’s slacks. Heat surges through him again. Did he actually get hard from this? Fuck, that’s way too fucking hot.

“Come here.”

Warmth presses against him in a second, breath brushing across his ear. Careful not to jostle his softening, oversensitive cock too much, Seonghwa slides into his lap, right arm winding around Hongjoong’s neck while the other stays on his chest.

Hongjoong’s hand moves between them, seeking out the hard line of Seonghwa’s cock through his slacks—and god, he’s not just hard, he’s soaked. The fabric clings damply under Hongjoong’s hand, and the small sound Seonghwa makes at the touch is enough to send something coiling tight inside him. “Shit, Seonghwa-ya,” he mutters, voice low. “All that just from getting on your knees for me?”

Seonghwa lets out a strangled sound, hips twitching forward, grinding into Hongjoong’s palm. Hongjoong tilts him slightly, nudging the waistband down enough to cradle him fully in one hand. The skin underneath is hot, silky, already slick. He drags his thumb over the head, spreading the wetness. Seonghwa’s thighs clench and a moan slips softly into the air between them.

Hongjoong tilts his head, a fleeting thought brushing through his mind—should he offer the same thing Seonghwa just gave him? But the way Seonghwa is shaking, the tension coiled in his body, tells him there’s no way Seonghwa will last long enough for that.

His eyes fall on Seonghwa’s throat and the faint hickey he left earlier, now darker, more pronounced. Impulse takes over. He leans in, dragging his tongue slowly along the hollow of Seonghwa’s neck, feeling the hitch in his breath under his mouth. When Hongjoong’s teeth scrape lightly along the curve of his jawline, Seonghwa’s fingers dig into the front of his shirt, a shaky sound escaping his lips.

“Leave marks.” Seonghwa breathes out, hips pressing into Hongjoong’s hand as if to punctuate the demand. “Fuck—I don’t care, I don’t care. Leave marks. Please.”

Hongjoong doesn’t need to be told twice. One hand grips Seonghwa’s jaw, holding him still, while the other continues working his cock with slow, deliberate strokes. He leans in, lips tracing the slope of Seonghwa’s throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin before sinking in. He sucks, teeth and tongue working together until Seonghwa lets out a broken groan, fingers digging into Hongjoong’s arm.

“More,” Seonghwa whispers, body rocking slightly, seeking friction wherever he can find it.

Hongjoong obliges without hesitation, pressing teeth into the delicate skin just above the collarbone, determined to leave a mark darker than the last.

It doesn’t take much more—just the right rhythm of Hongjoong’s hand and the press of his teeth against tender skin. Seonghwa’s whole body tenses, breath breaking apart in sharp little ohs, and then he’s coming hard, spilling hot over Hongjoong’s hand. Hongjoong doesn’t stop, stroking him through it, biting down on the side of his throat once more for good measure.

When it’s over, Seonghwa slumps against him, breathing heavily, his fingers still tangled in Hongjoong’s shirt. Hongjoong tilts his head back just enough to press a soft kiss to the marks he’s left, a quiet satisfaction curling in his chest. A small, smug part of his mind croons happily—every time Seonghwa catches his reflection in the mirror, he’ll remember exactly how good he was… for Hongjoong.

He smiles and lets himself sink, body finally giving in to gravity. He leans back slowly until he’s lying flat against the mattress, pulling Seonghwa down with him, chest to chest. Seonghwa follows easily, pliant and warm and still trembling a little. He drapes himself over Hongjoong, resting his cheek on his shoulder, breath ghosting over his collarbone. Hongjoong wraps an arm around him, holding him close, fingertips tracing the long line of exposed skin along Seonghwa’s spine where the V-cut of his shirt dips.

It’s then he notices the mess on his other hand—sticky, drying quickly. He grimaces, glancing around for the box of tissues, but it’s nowhere in sight. With a sigh of resignation, he wipes his hand on the sheets.

Yeah, Seonghwa’s definitely going to complain about that later.

Or maybe he won’t. Since they don’t really talk about this part.

Seonghwa has gone quiet, but he doesn’t pull away. His fingers trace slow, soothing lines against Hongjoong’s bicep, the motion steady, grounding. His hair is a wild mess—loose, tangled from where Hongjoong had his hands in it earlier.

“You alright?” Hongjoong murmurs, sliding a hand up from Seonghwa’s back to smooth down a few stray tufts. He frowns at the messy strands, letting his thumb linger lightly against Seonghwa’s temple. “Sorry… I might’ve pulled too hard.”

Seonghwa shakes his head, just barely. “I liked it.”

And that’s good. Hongjoong doesn’t want to make Seonghwa hurt. He wants to make him feel safe, to hold him and hold him down and make him come as many times as he can until, until—

No. Hongjoong forces himself to shut off that train of thought before it gets anywhere dangerous. None of them are in the right state for this—not now, not like this.

Instead, Hongjoong lets himself sink into the moment, savoring the quiet warmth of Seonghwa pressed against him, the soft exhale of his breath against Hongjoong’s skin. There’s a fragile sort of peace here, but Hongjoong knows it won’t last.

They can’t stay like this forever.

“Seonghwa-ya?” Hongjoong whispers, his voice barely breaking the quiet.

“Mmmh.” Seonghwa hums, still not moving his head off Hongjoong’s shoulder.

“We’re gonna have to move at some point.”

“Mmmh,” Seonghwa repeats, though he doesn’t make any effort to shift.

The night outside is quiet, the usual hum of the city fading as the remnants of the day slip away, leaving only the occasional distant sound of a car speeding through the streets below. The city, usually alive with energy, feels almost muted in this moment, as if the world around them has slowed down to match the stillness in the room. The demands of their careers, the expectations of the public, the relentless pace of their lives—all of it fades into insignificance. Hongjoong tightens his hold, feeling the rise and fall of Seonghwa’s breathing, steady and reassuring. He wants to stay like this forever, cocooned in warmth.

In the back of his mind, though, he knows the reality of their situation will eventually catch up to them. But for now, he doesn’t want to move. He wants to relax into the touch, to close his eyes and just not worry for once, so that’s exactly what he does.

The world outside can wait just a bit longer.

Hongjoong wakes up to a pounding headache and the unpleasant dryness of his mouth, the telltale signs of a hangover. His thoughts feel sluggish, muddled, like his brain hasn’t fully caught up with the fact that he’s awake. Disoriented, he shifts slightly, trying to get his bearings, only to freeze when he feels his arm trapped beneath something. No—someone.

His pulse jumps.

It takes a moment, but reality starts to bleed through the fog.

He’s not in his own bed. He’s not even in his own apartment. Slowly, his eyes adjust and the all-too-familiar surroundings of Seonghwa’s room come into focus.

The room is still cloaked in shadows, but faint silver light starts to consume them. Early morning, maybe. That dim, gray haze just before dawn. He turns his head slowly. Seonghwa lies beside him, still asleep, face soft in the faint light. He looks peaceful. Unbothered. Completely unaware of the storm building behind Hongjoong’s eyes.

Pieces of the night before come back in fragments—flashes of laughter, the warmth of too many drinks, mouths on skin, hands tangled in hair. But after that? Nothing. He doesn’t remember getting under the blankets. Doesn’t remember falling asleep. Did Seonghwa ask him to stay? Or did he just… forget himself?

Guilt creeps in, coiling tight in his gut. He knows Seonghwa wouldn’t push him away, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t crossed a line. He hates that he can’t remember.

He tries to untangle the unspoken rules. Stay or leave? Staying feels intrusive, leaving feels worse—but maybe that’s the only way to protect them both from the awkwardness waiting on the other side.

His internal tug-of-war reaches its peak as he carefully starts to ease his arm out from under Seonghwa. The bed is too small for graceful exits and Seonghwa stirs faintly as Hongjoong tries to untangle himself. He freezes, breath caught, until Seonghwa settles again. Only when he’s sure Seonghwa won’t wake does he step toward the door, his heart thudding with every step.

He’s so consumed by his spiraling thoughts that he nearly jumps out of his skin when a groggy voice interrupts his train of thought.

“Where’re you goin’...?”

Hongjoong turns sharply, his hand frozen on the door handle. Seonghwa’s voice is soft, still heavy with sleep, and his eyes remain mostly closed as he shifts to face Hongjoong.

“Just… getting some water,” Hongjoong lies quickly, keeping his voice low and even. “Go back to sleep.”

Seonghwa mumbles something incoherent and rolls over, still half-asleep. Hongjoong hesitates for a moment, then quietly slips into the kitchen. He fills a glass with water, the coolness of it soothing his nerves slightly. Returning to the bedroom, he places the glass on the bedside table, noting that Seonghwa hasn’t moved, his features calm and serene in sleep.

Hongjoong lingers for a moment, unable to stop himself from studying him. Seonghwa’s hair is a mess, dark strands fanning across his forehead. His face, bare except for the smudge of mascara clinging to the corner of one eye, looks soft in the morning light. The marks—Hongjoong’s marks—stand out against the skin of Seonghwa’s neck, peeking just above the edge of the blanket.

So it wasn’t a dream. That really happened.

Without thinking, Hongjoong reaches out, his fingers hovering just above the curve of Seonghwa’s shoulder. He doesn’t even know what he’s planning to do. Trace the marks? Smooth back Seonghwa’s hair? Maybe it doesn’t matter because he stops himself before he makes contact. His hand hovers awkwardly for a moment before he pulls it back.

He’s lingering too long. He needs to leave.

Hongjoong moves as quietly as he can toward the front door, careful not to make a sound. He bends down to grab his shoes, but his hand freezes before he even touches them.

Two other pairs sit neatly beside his own.

Mingi’s boots. San’s loafers.

They know.

His heart sinks. The sight feels like a punch to the gut, twisting his stomach into knots. They know. They must have seen his shoes lined up here last night and put it together.

He scrambles to talk himself down, telling himself it’s nothing. They probably think it’s normal, that he just crashed after a night of drinking. After all, they often stay at each other’s places. It’s routine.

Except it’s not. Not for him. And they know it. He’s not the kind of person who ends up in someone else’s bed, even drunk.

His heart pounds fiercely in his chest as he finally laces his shoes and reaches for the doorknob. He’s not embarrassed, not exactly, but he feels off-balance, exposed in a way that makes his stomach twist. He doesn’t want to think about it now. Not the questions, not the feelings, not the way his chest aches when he pictures the conversation he’s been avoiding. He quickly swallows the jittery emotions that come up his throat back down and stomps on them for good measure.

Later, when the hangover fades and his head is clear, he’ll figure it out.

He will.

There’s something meditative about threading a sewing machine.

Every step demands focus, a steady hand and a calm mind. Hongjoong finds an odd comfort in the routine. The soft hum beneath his fingertips isn’t just noise; it’s a rhythm, a pulse he can control. The needle dips and rises like breath, and for a little while his thoughts quiet down, reshaped into something tangible he can hold. Music feels the same. It’s all rhythm and flow, tiny parts weaving into a larger whole. Each note, each stitch, is a small act of precision that builds toward something bigger, a balance of tension and release he can feel in his bones. It’s not just work — it’s a kind of therapy, a way of stitching himself back together.

That’s exactly what he needs—to unwind after the past few weeks.

Seonghwa didn’t say a word about that night. At first Hongjoong tried convincing himself that maybe Seonghwa didn’t remember everything. Maybe it all blurred together. Maybe the details weren’t sharp enough to matter. But then he saw him the next day, wrapped in a turtleneck and scarf indoors like it was the dead of winter, murmuring excuses about a sore throat. That flimsy act didn’t stand a chance. Hongjoong knew the marks were exactly where he’d left them and no amount of fabric could erase that. No matter how blurry your memory was you couldn’t ignore the marks staring back at you in the mirror.

Only then did he realize just how stupidly reckless he’d been. This wasn’t some private bubble. They were idols. Cameras followed them, stylists hovered, schedules lined up like dominos. He should probably send a thank-you note to the universe that they didn’t have a shoot scheduled the morning after. In the worst case it could have been a photoshoot with high-definition close-ups. He even imagined Seonghwa faking a flare of eczema just to skip a schedule. The thought made him want to crawl under the floor. Worse still was the shame curling in his gut because beneath all of that a traitorous part of him still preened over the marks he left.

It was a week later, after they wrapped a promo shoot, that Seonghwa finally circled back to what they’d been doing — just like Hongjoong had in the studio that time.

They sat in the car with the engine idling softly, waiting for Yeosang and Wooyoung to climb in. Hongjoong had his ever-present sketchbook open on his lap, the same one he used for sketches, lyrics, stage notes, anything he wanted to keep close. He noticed Seonghwa looking before he said anything. His gaze kept flicking down to the pages, lingering too long to be casual. Then, out of nowhere, Seonghwa started to speak. His voice caught once, then twice, as though he’d rehearsed the question in his head and it still came out tangled. Hongjoong didn’t even let him finish. The second he realized where the question was heading he cut him off with a quick, I’ll make it for you. Of course I’ll make it.

The way Seonghwa blinked at him, surprised but soft, made the air feel lighter. He leaned back against the seat, his shoulders easing, the tension slipping away like it had never been there.

A few days later, Hongjoong was already knee-deep in the corset dress design and “struggling” didn’t even begin to cover it.

Corsetry is a specialized art, but anyone with sewing experience can learn it with practice, his tutor had said. Still, this piece was far more challenging than anything he’d ever attempted. The fabric refused to cooperate, the boning slipped, and even the straightest seams warped under his hands. The worst part? He couldn’t even explain the truth to his tutor. When he first mentioned making the dress, his teacher assumed it was for a woman, rattling off advice on bust darts, shaping the bodice, accentuating curves. Hongjoong just nodded along, throat tight, cheeks burning. Admitting it was for his male friend felt like voluntarily walking into fire. Better to let the man think whatever he wanted than to have that awkward conversation. So he took mental notes and tried to retain as much as he could.

That’s how he finds himself back in his chair, leaning over the sewing machine. What else is there to do but try? The fabric he found in Dongdaemun Market—soft, flowing, dotted with delicate red and silver accents—was too perfect to waste. He’s going to make this dress exactly as he imagined, down to the last glint of silver and flash of red, no matter how many times he mutters curses under his breath or threatens the pattern pieces with unprovoked violence.

Well, it’s not like he has that much free time to wage an imaginary war against fabric. Life doesn’t pause for anyone. Rehearsals still need attending. Promo material stacks up. Trips to Santiago and Kuala Lumpur are staring him down on the calendar. There’s no time to linger.

Later, when the machine is finally silent and the unfinished dress is draped over his desk, Hongjoong can’t shake the restless energy still buzzing in his chest. He climbs into bed, hoping for sleep, but it doesn’t come. Maybe he should have stayed at the sewing machine longer, letting the hum and rhythm of the work drown out the noise in his head.

Maybe he should take up yoga. Or running. Anything but lying here remembering everything that makes him feel like a human pinball, bouncing between want, guilt, and the stupid, lovely ache that comes with both.

He takes a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Resolutely doesn’t think about bright brown eyes or a sharp smile. Inhale, exhale. Not the memory of lips pressed to his, not the soft sounds Seonghwa made, not the insistent press of his hips.

Inhale, exhale.

Hongjoong groans softly, dragging a hand over his face in frustration.

Maybe no amount of focus can undo the imprint Seonghwa has left on him.

His eyes drift through the darkness of the room, settling on the faint silhouette of the dress on his desk.

Deep down, he knows he’s being a little selfish. There’s a rush in seeing Seonghwa’s eyes light up, the way his whole expression changes when he looks at something Hongjoong has made. It’s indulgent, yes, but it’s also addictive.

Making Seonghwa happy makes him happy.

And really…what’s the harm in that?

Hongjoong has always enjoyed Japan schedules— the flights are mercifully short, the variety shows are chaotic in the best way, and something about the energy of the place just makes sense to him. The rhythm of it all feels almost familiar, like slipping into a well-worn routine. But this time, something’s different. There’s a tension humming beneath the surface, an undercurrent of nerves that refuses to settle.

It’s not the schedule—he’s used to packed days and running on adrenaline. The ceremony they’re attending is not the issue. This is something else.

Maybe it has something to do with the dress. Finished, folded, and currently tucked away in his suitcase like a perfectly normal item to pack. Nothing to see here. And yet, he can’t ignore the nagging feeling that carrying it around is somehow… incriminating. His brain replays last night’s fever-dream nightmare: airport security pulling him aside, unzipping his bag, and finding that. The look of confusion, the silent judgment. Hongjoong can practically feel the heat of his imaginary shame as some guy in uniform asks, “Care to explain this?”

Yeah, he doesn’t even want to think about it. It would be like that time he had to explain a weirdly personal song lyric to his mom. Embarrassing.

Of course, none of that happened. His suitcase passed through security without so much as a raised eyebrow. But the damage was already done. Hongjoong barely slept the night before, too busy imagining every possible scenario where he somehow ends up blacklisted from international travel for inappropriate luggage choices. So when he finally makes it into the hotel lobby, Hongjoong doesn’t know whether he wants to sleep or die.

Die, he decides when he trips over his suitcase a little because the wheels are all twisted in the wrong directions again. Definitely die.

He manages to steal a few precious hours of sleep before squeezing whatever he can out of the sliver of free time he’s been given. There won’t be much of it once the ceremony starts tomorrow, and the day after that they’re already flying back to Korea, diving straight back into the full swing of Lemon Drop promotions.

Before the sun sets, Hongjoong, San, and Jongho make a quick stop at a record shop—a cozy little hole-in-the-wall wedged between a noodle shop and a bookstore in central Yokohama. Hongjoong’s hoping to stumble across something special, maybe a rare Japanese punk pressing or a vintage ’80s pop vinyl. He isn’t sure why San and Jongho insisted on tagging along. Neither of them seems remotely interested in collecting; instead, they appear to have declared their own mission: a competition to find the most cursed album cover in the store.

It doesn’t take long. Barely five minutes into digging, San lets out a triumphant “Ha!” and yanks a record from the bin. The cover is so absurd that Hongjoong immediately lets out a laugh. The image is a bizarre collage of a man in a glittery suit, surrounded by dancing animals, with a psychedelic rainbow streaking across the sky. The title sprawls across the top in garish, unreadable letters.

“Alright,” Hongjoong concedes, “you win.”

San smirks, still inspecting the cover. “It reminds me of someone…”

Hongjoong narrows his eyes. “Careful.”

“Wait, why are you already declaring a winner?” Jongho’s voice calls from somewhere deep in the shop’s labyrinth of shelves. “I’ve got one that’s going to make your little masterpiece look like a Grammy-winning album.”

True to his word, Jongho soon emerges from the racks holding a record with a cover that’s even more outlandish—an inflatable pool filled with oddly dressed people, all staring at the camera with expressions ranging from mildly confused to outright panicked. One poor soul is floating in the background, wearing a mask of a giant fish. And the title, painted in bubbly pink letters, is the final blow: Summer Vibes in the Water.

“No way,” San says, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I think it’s inspirational,” Jongho says with a grin. “Honestly, we should take notes. Next comeback: us in a kiddie pool. Hongjoong-hyung floating in the back with… I don’t know… a giant squirrel mask.”

Hongjoong fixes him with the most unimpressed stare he can muster while San snickers beside him.

“I’m vetoing this comeback concept immediately,” Hongjoong says, deadpan.

When they get back to the hotel, Hongjoong finally feels a little calmer. The frenzy from earlier has faded into a quiet, focused energy. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he carefully checks his camera, making sure the settings are right for low-light shots.

He and Seonghwa have made plans to head to Osanbashi Pier. The managers weren’t thrilled, to say the least. Two idols walking around in a city swarming with thousands of fans? Risky. Extremely risky. But Hongjoong reasoned, promised, reassured — swearing up and down he’d call the second anything happened.

Because he knew Seonghwa wouldn’t agree to go if a manager came along.

Before heading to the record shop, Hongjoong handed the dress to Seonghwa, wrapped in a crinkly plastic cover he’d grabbed from the hotel closet. Not exactly the grand unveiling he’d pictured, but it made sense to give it to him first—they needed it to be darker outside anyway. He didn’t stick around long enough for Seonghwa to say much. When Hongjoong unzipped the cover, a soft oh wow escaped him, which Hongjoong took as a good sign, before something unreadable flickered across his face. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes glistening, voice quiet as he thanked Hongjoong. Hongjoong waved him off, trying to keep things light so Seonghwa wouldn’t start tearing up in front of him.

Somehow, it all felt like too much for Hongjoong to hold at once.

And then there was the… implication.

Both times Hongjoong gave Seonghwa a piece of clothing, it seemed to turn into… something. A quiet inevitability that ended with the two of them in Seonghwa’s bed. They never spoke about it directly, but the invitation always seemed to be there, hidden in the seams, stitched into the fabric. And this time, Hongjoong wasn’t sure if he’d just extended it again.

Or if Seonghwa would accept.

Hongjoong sets his camera down and pulls out his phone, typing out a quick message.

are you ready to go?

He barely puts the phone down before it pings again.

no

Hongjoong stares at the single word, frowning. A million possibilities flash through his mind—did it not fit? Did he somehow mess up the design, despite taking the measurements three times? But no, that couldn’t be it. For this piece, he actually made Seonghwa stand for a fitting. He triple-checked everything, even endured countless pricks from needles during the final adjustments, the extra fabric flapping awkwardly at Seonghwa’s sides like impractical wings until he pinned it perfectly.

Frowning, he’s about to type a response when another message pings almost immediately.

i need help lacing it

Hongjoong blinks at the screen, and then it hits him. Oh. Right. Of course. The corset-style back isn’t exactly something Seonghwa can manage alone. And who is he supposed to call for help? One of the members? His manager? Yeah… not happening.

be right there

Shaking his head at himself, Hongjoong stuffs his camera into its bag, slings it over his shoulder, and pushes off the bed. At Seonghwa’s door, he takes a steadying breath, pauses for a moment, and knocks lightly.

“It’s me,” he says, low but clear.

The door cracks open just enough for Seonghwa’s head to peek out, his hair slightly tousled and his expression unreadable. Before Hongjoong can focus on anything else, a hand darts out, grabs his wrist, and yanks him inside with surprising force.

The sudden movement throws Hongjoong off balance, but what truly stops him is the sight in front of him.

Even though it’s not fully laced, the corset dress hugs Seonghwa’s frame, cinching his waist into a clean, defined curve. Thin silver embroidery traces the seams, catching the light with every movement while tiny crimson beads dot the embroidery like sparks of fire flickering across the fabric. There’s a dark overlay that stretches above the corset, leaving his arms bare but covering just enough from chest to collarbone to keep it elegant. From the fitted waist, the skirt flows in the same deep shade as the overlay, pooling lightly around Seonghwa’s knees and glinting softly in the hotel lights. Wide enough to pass for trousers, soft enough to read as a skirt. It blurs the line between both—exactly the effect Hongjoong wanted.

Seonghwa turns sharply and walks to the dresser with a mirror, pausing with his fingers hovering uncertainly over the back of the corset. “Can you…?”

Blinking himself out of it, Hongjoong steps forward, reaching for the trailing laces. Standing behind Seonghwa feels like the perfect shield—his frame blocking any view of the flush creeping up Hongjoong’s neck and the way his hands almost tremble as he threads the first loop. He tries, and fails, not to brush Seonghwa’s bare skin more than necessary.

“Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa says softly. “Do you think it’s too much? That it… looks off on me?”

Hongjoong frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know…The dress is beautiful, but I just worry that me wearing it might… cross the line, you know? That it won’t feel right. Tasteful.”

Hongjoong glances at his reflection. It doesn’t look off. It looks—well. It looks hot. Too hot. But that’s probably not what Seonghwa wants to hear right now. “It doesn’t look off,” he assures him instead, eyes flicking to Seonghwa’s in the mirror. “Just tell me if it’s too tight, okay?”

Seonghwa offers a small, strained smile.

Hongjoong barely finishes the first loop of the corset before Seonghwa speaks again. “Do you think a lot of people will be there? I don’t want—I…” His voice falters, and Hongjoong lets his hands drop.

Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

He knows he’s put together something Seonghwa wouldn’t normally wear. The top is sewn to the skirted bottom, the corset layered over it, creating one flowing garment—a dress that leaves nothing to chance. No matter how you look at it, how you break it down, not a single element would go unnoticed on Seonghwa. Nothing about it is subtle enough for Seonghwa to wear in public without turning heads.

Hongjoong glances at the light cardigan on the chair meant to cover the dress while they’re out, then back at Seonghwa in the mirror. The nervous look on his face makes Hongjoong wonder if it will be enough.

“Seonghwa-ya…” Hongjoong’s voice softens. “We don’t have to go. You don’t even have to wear it—I won’t be offended. You can just keep it. Or, if you want to wear it but avoid the crowd, we can stay here. Or… I don’t know, maybe I could rent a rooftop or a private booth, take a taxi straight there. I’ll figure it out—” He starts to turn, already running through the logistics in his head.

“No!” Seonghwa grabs his wrist. “No, it’s not that. I’ve worn similar stuff before.” He exhales, glancing away as his grip relaxes. “It’s just… on set it’s different. It’s controlled. I know the script, the cameras, the people watching. It feels… safe.” His eyes flick to Hongjoong, then away again. “Going out like this isn’t the same. You brought the dress here and I really do feel good in it, I promise. I just wish I didn’t care what other people thought. I keep telling myself it shouldn’t matter, but it does.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. We don’t have to go,” Hongjoong says again.

“I want to go. If it’s not with you, then…who could I possibly do this with?”

Hongjoong swallows, his mind racing, not sure whether to reach out or simply stay still. The thought that Seonghwa trusts him alone with this… it settles over his chest, warm and heavy all at once. Part of him aches at the vulnerability in Seonghwa’s tone. He wants to tell him it’s okay, that it’s more than okay. That he’s proud. That this, all of this, is already enough. But he knows he can’t fix this; no amount of reassurance, clever phrasing, or gentle coaxing can make some fears vanish.

Seonghwa shifts slightly. “And your work— it should be seen.”

Hongjoong blinks, caught off guard. “Seen?”

“Yeah. Everyone should see it. All the effort you put into every little detail,” he says, bringing a hand to the embroidery at the corset, “it shouldn’t just be for me.” Seonghwa’s voice falters, quieter now. “I didn’t even post the photos the first time we did this.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightens at the sight of Seonghwa’s downcast expression. It’s the last thing he wanted—the complete opposite of what this was supposed to be.

“Seonghwa-ya, listen. If I’d made this just so people could see it, I could’ve thrown it on a mannequin, taken a few detail shots, and called it a day. That’s not why I made it. I made it for you. When I sketched it, it wasn’t about whether it would be cool, or whether people would compliment me. No. I sketched it because I thought you’d look amazing in it… and… and you do.”

He tries to hold Seonghwa’s eyes, to make him see that he really means it.

“I’ll take a million photos of you if you want,” Hongjoong goes on. “And you don’t have to post a single one. That’s not why I’m doing it, okay?”

Seonghwa exhales. There’s a complicated expression on his face. “You don’t mind doing it like last time?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Hongjoong says quickly. “Again, my photography skills—free of charge,” he adds with a small grin.

Seonghwa looks at him, a little hesitant still. “Okay,” he says, turning slowly towards the mirror. “Okay, then keep going. No—wait. Actually, can you redo the first loop? Make it tighter.”

“Tighter?”

“Yes. You said it before. It’s not like I’ll be dancing and singing in it.”

Hongjoong forcefully pushes any ideas about what else they could be doing from his mind.

Nodding, Hongjoong focuses intently on adjusting the corset, ensuring it fits snugly but comfortably. He keeps stealing glances between the laces and Seonghwa’s expression in the mirror, searching for any hint of discomfort, but it’s not really discomfort he’s seeing. Instead, he notices Seonghwa’s eyes shifting between the mirror and the side, his posture slightly tense, each tug of Hongjoong’s hands making him jostle a little. A few times, Seonghwa swallows, his throat working visibly as a faint flush creeps up his neck.

Hongjoong is ashamedly a little grateful he’s not the only one feeling a certain way about this.

“You can breathe, you know?” Hongjoong tries, offering a small, awkward smile.

Seonghwa laughs softly, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Right. Breathing is good.”

“Yeah, it helps with the whole staying alive thing.”

Seonghwa elbows him lightly, and they both chuckle. But then the teasing fades, and Seonghwa’s voice softens. “It’s really beautiful, Hongjoong-ah. I can’t even imagine how many hours you put into it.”

Hongjoong keeps his eyes on the laces, resisting the pull to meet Seonghwa’s in the mirror. “I had fun making it,” he says, a little too quickly. Talking about the clothes feels easier—safer. “I don’t usually get the chance to make things in this style. When I looked back, most of my sketches for myself were just jeans or trousers. Maybe that’s just my comfort zone.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “But I love stepping out of that. Trying different silhouettes, different vibes. This one… this was fun. It felt like a treat.”

Finally, after a few moments that seem to stretch into eternity, Hongjoong ties off the laces securely. He steps back, his eyes tracing the defined curve where the fabric molds to Seonghwa’s frame. Seonghwa’s waist looks impossibly small—like Hongjoong’s hands could wrap completely around it.

Part of him wants to try.

Hongjoong licks his lips nervously. “How the hell does your waist look like that?” he blurts instead, jabbing Seonghwa lightly in the side with his finger. “I think I just compressed your organs into a different dimension.”

Seonghwa turns to him slowly, deadpan, like Hongjoong just said the dumbest thing he’s heard all week. “You could’ve just said, ‘Wow, Seonghwa-ya. You look good. Nice body line.’ He crosses his arms, letting the pause hang, drawing it out for maximum effect. “Instead… I don’t even know what that was.”

Hongjoong doesn’t hear half of it because he’s way too busy not knowing where the hell to look—at Seonghwa’s waist, his arms, his… everything. So he lets his eyes drift around the room, landing on anything that isn’t Seonghwa. The situation demands that he finds something to do with himself before he blurts out one of the completely inappropriate thoughts racing through his head or confesses his undying fucking love or something equally mortifying.

“You look good. You have a nice body line,” he recites flatly, like he’s reading from a manual. “Do you need anything else?”

Seonghwa’s smile only grows in the periphery of Hongjoong’s vision. “No, just this.”

When Hongjoong finally looks back, Seonghwa’s hand is on the dresser, lifting something that glints faintly in the dim hotel light.

The team ring.

For a beat everything goes very quiet; the sight makes him freeze and lose his next thought. He catches himself, then forces a grin. “You know,” he says, eyes on the ring, “I think this is the best accessory you’ve ever worn. Not to brag, but it really ties the whole look together.”

“Really?” Seonghwa says, slipping the cardigan over his shoulders. “So I don’t get to take any credit for the look at all?”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” Hongjoong shoots back, rolling his eyes. “You’ve already got me saying more in one day than I have in a year.”

“People should say nice things to each other, you know,” Seonghwa says as he adjusts the cardigan one last time, tugging it neatly over the dress. Then he tilts his head, his expression turning more serious. “Does it look like I’m wearing a dress? Be honest.”

Hongjoong takes a moment, trying to look at him like he’s just another person on the street, not the one who made the dress, not the one who knows every seam. “I mean… I wouldn’t exactly walk up to you and ask if you were wearing a dress or not,” he says, sending Seonghwa a reassuring smile. “Not unless I wanted to start a very awkward conversation.”

This time, when Seonghwa smiles back, it looks a little more solid, less fragile. “Good.” He nods at Hongjoong, fingers brushing the edge of the cardigan. “Hongjoong-ah… I hope you know, with you it almost feels possible — wearing things I usually can’t. Thank you for always making it feel okay.”

Hongjoong swallows, heart thudding, and before he can talk himself out of it, he slides a hand toward Seonghwa’s waist—just enough to steer him gently, guiding him forward.

Hongjoong feels an odd sense of déjà vu walking beside Seonghwa, the dress tucked carefully beneath the cardigan. Their face masks are on too, just in case. Wooden planks stretch under their feet, slick with evening dew, creaking faintly with each step. The harbor shimmers, catching the neon glow of Minato Mirai—the Ferris wheel turning slowly, the towers bright against the night sky. Boats drift lazily across the harbor, their lights glinting on the dark water. From one of them, the faint strains of string instruments drift across the pier. Hongjoong can’t help thinking it feels like a movie scene: perfect frame, soft lighting, music in the background, the world itself softened at the edges.

“This is so nice,” Seonghwa says, almost as if reading his thoughts.

Hongjoong hums in agreement, lifting his camera to snap a few shots—partly for the aesthetics, mostly to keep himself from doing something stupid, like reaching for Seonghwa’s hand. “Feels like it’s missing a violin solo.”

Seonghwa lets out a quiet laugh. “What kind of cheesy drama are you living in?”

“The kind with perfect lighting and an over-the-top soundtrack,” Hongjoong replies, lowering the camera with a grin. “It just needs one more cinematic moment.”

“I can do that,” Seonghwa says, a spark of mischief in his eyes. He steps to the edge of the pier where a yellowish light hits him just wrong enough to cast an oversized glow, one arm stretched toward the railing, the other pressed to his forehead as if scanning for alien ships. For a moment, the light makes him look ridiculous—like he’s being awkwardly beamed straight into the sky by a low-budget sci-fi special.

Hongjoong snorts. “Okay, now you’re definitely ruining the mood,” he says, unable to hold back the laughter in his voice.

“I’m just doing my part for the cinematic universe,” Seonghwa shoots back.

Hongjoong sighs, lifting the camera again because, honestly, he might as well document this nonsense. He snaps another photo, biting back laughter as Seonghwa holds the pose, perfectly ridiculous. He steps closer, the camera almost brushing Seonghwa’s face. “I’m going to ruin your reputation with these photos.”

“I dare you.”

When Hongjoong finally lowers the camera, he exhales. “Stop it.” He reaches out, catching Seonghwa by the elbow and guiding him away from the water’s edge. “If you fall in, I’m not diving after you.”

Seonghwa finally breaks, and Hongjoong knows he’s smiling beneath the face mask from the way his eyes crinkle. “You wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d jump in after me like some tragic, lovesick hero.”

Hongjoong masks the flutter in his chest with a scoff. “I’d hesitate. A lot.”

“Sure you would,” Seonghwa teases, his tone turning smug.

Hongjoong rolls his eyes but doesn’t release Seonghwa’s elbow, keeping a loose hold just in case he gets any more silly ideas. They wander farther down the pier, toward the wide, curved section of Osanbashi. Beneath their feet, the planks give way to a smooth stretch of green decking that winds like a hill, dotted with built-in wooden benches.

“Okay, this looks good,” Hongjoong says, crouching slightly and squinting through his mental viewfinder. “The lighting’s perfect.”

Seonghwa nods and perches on one of the low wooden seats built into the curve of the pier, glancing around the area. He slips off his mask, then peels off the cardigan, letting it fall across his lap. Before he can even ask, Hongjoong scuttles over, takes both items, tucks the mask into the cardigan pocket, and drapes it over his own shoulders to keep it out of the frame. Then Hongjoong notices it—a tiny twitch at the corner of Seonghwa’s lips, like he’s fighting back a laugh. “Ready when you are,” Seonghwa says, clearly pleased with himself.

Shaking off the thought, Hongjoong lifts his camera, determined to focus. He lines up the shot. Seonghwa leans back against the wooden slats, relaxed, the lights haloing him in muted gold.

“Move a little to the left,” Hongjoong says, waving a hand. A better patch of light waits just out of frame, and with a small shift, the composition will be perfect. Seonghwa adjusts, and Hongjoong fires off a series of shots, capturing every detail.

“Got it,” Hongjoong says finally, lowering the camera. His eyes skim the pier. “Would it be okay if you stand over there?” He points toward a more open stretch, where the skyline and Ferris wheel spill their colors across the water. “I’ll be quick.”

Seonghwa hesitates. “Yeah. Just… a second.”

A couple with a small dog strolls past, their voices soft against the sound of the water. Seonghwa angles his body away, waiting. They both pause, silent, until the couple drifts farther ahead. Then, finally, Seonghwa moves. He exhales quietly as he straightens, brushing invisible lint from the dress before he steps toward the spot Hongjoong indicated. Hongjoong watches through the viewfinder as Seonghwa walks into the frame and the harbor lights spill over him—liquid gold and electric blue—wrapping around the dress like it was made for this moment.

“Just there,” Hongjoong calls softly. “Perfect.”

Seonghwa pauses, one hand resting lightly on the railing. The skyline blazes behind him, Ferris wheel spinning in a lazy arc, towers glinting like polished steel. For a second, Hongjoong forgets to breathe. He snaps a photo, then another, then lowers the camera just enough to really look.

“Almost done,” he murmurs. “Just one more.”

He lifts the camera again and takes a close-up. Hongjoong nods, and Seonghwa darts over, unwinding the cardigan from Hongjoong and slipping it back on. “Can I see them?”

Hongjoong quickly brings the camera up. The soft glow of the screen illuminates their faces as he scrolls through the shots, the quiet around them settling like a blanket.

“How did I do?” Hongjoong asks, though he already expects the answer. He waits for the teasing—the inevitable smirk, the too-cool not bad that still lingers from the last time Seonghwa humored him with a photoshoot. But this time there is nothing.

When Hongjoong finally looks over, he catches Seonghwa staring. Not at the photos, but at him.

There is something there, an opportunity that neither one of them takes. Hongjoong knows how easy it would be to take off his mask, to close the space between them, to lift onto his toes and brush his lips against Seonghwa’s. His mind begs: No one would see. No one would know.

He squashes the thoughts down. They feel strange—out of place, like they belong to another version of them, somewhere this would be possible.

And so, Hongjoong doesn’t move. Neither does Seonghwa.

Then, Seonghwa finally speaks. “They’re really good.” His voice is softer now, almost thoughtful. He tilts his head, eyes flicking back to the screen. “You make me look different.”

Hongjoong frowns. “Different how?”

Seonghwa exhales a soft laugh. “I don’t know.” He watches as Hongjoong pauses on a close-up where the soft pier lights catch the curve of his cheekbone. “Just different,” he finally says.

The walk back is quieter. Their footsteps echo softly against the wooden planks, then shift to pavement as they cut through Yamashita Park. Here, the air smells faintly of salt and flowers. The pathways are lined with low hedges and benches, and the glow of old-fashioned streetlamps paints warm pools of light on the ground. Hongjoong lingers behind for a moment, camera dangling from his fingers. He snaps a quick photo of Seonghwa’s silhouette framed by the park’s trees and the dim glow of the lamps. This one feels different—less staged, more real. Like catching something he isn’t supposed to see.

If they didn’t have a performance tomorrow, Hongjoong would suggest grabbing something to eat, stretch the night out a little longer. But instead, they head back. Normally, he’d barge into Seonghwa’s room without a second thought—flop onto the bed, steal the good pillow, irritate him just enough to get a laugh, act like he belonged there. But now? Now his heart is hammering against his ribs, each step up the hotel corridor making it worse. Is he reading too much into things? The line between what’s familiar and what’s new has blurred, and he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to cross it. Or if he’s even allowed to.

Seonghwa pauses at the door, silent, eyes straight ahead. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t glance back. Just waits, daring Hongjoong to step forward. Hongjoong’s mind stutters like something slow and brittle, the way it does when he’s sleepy. Except he isn’t sleepy right now, not in a situation like this. How could he be?

Hongjoong follows, inevitably.

The soft thud of the door closing behind them feels like a grenade in his head—loud, final. His pulse trips over itself as he lingers near the entrance, rooted to the spot, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, his feet, his entire existence. He puts his face mask away and puts down the camera bag on the nearest furniture he registers.

He watches as Seonghwa moves to take the face mask off too, then the cardigan, the fabric slipping off his shoulders. He leans against the dresser, casual and calm, as if the entire world isn’t tilting on its axis right here, right now. And Hongjoong’s stuck. Stuck on the line of Seonghwa’s collarbones, the hollow beneath, the subtle flex of his arms. The corset cinched just right.

His thoughts take a dangerous turn, spiraling faster than he can stop them.

He wants to pull Seonghwa closer—wants to slip his hand around the back of his neck and drag him in. He wants to feel the heat of Seonghwa’s body pressed against his own, feel his skin against his fingertips. He wants to kiss him. Touch him. Taste him.

The thoughts keep piling up, but he doesn’t even know how far Seonghwa is willing to go, what he’s comfortable with—shit, they haven’t even sat down to have this conversation, even though they really, really should.

For a moment, Hongjoong wonders if Seonghwa even wants to have that conversation at all. He’s always been the one to communicate better, the one who’s more open, more honest. He’s never had trouble saying what’s on his mind. But now, he’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Breathing slowly, he studies Seonghwa’s face, telling himself that maybe if he focuses on something else, this whole situation won’t feel so impossibly real. His eyes drop and catch on the small detail on the bottom of the dress—the soft embroidered logo that glimmers faintly in the gentle light. He lingers on it, letting it hold his attention so he doesn’t have to think about his hammering heart.

“Do you want me to keep it on?” Seonghwa’s voice cuts the silence.

It’s like the floor disappears beneath Hongjoong.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up. Heat floods his face so fast he swears he feels it down to his chest. His eyes snap back to Seonghwa’s face, and there he is, looking just as wrecked. Seonghwa’s face is flushed, the low light doing nothing to hide it. There’s a strange, complicated expression on him, part surprise and part something else. It’s like Seonghwa is startled by his own words but also carrying a quiet, determined edge, trying to shield himself behind a layer of bravado for Hongjoong’s sake.

Hongjoong should laugh, brush it off, deflect like he always does. But it’d be stupid to pretend. To act like it’s something that doesn’t make his pulse pound in his throat.

“I—” he pauses and hooks a finger in the collar of his shirt, tugging it away from his overheated skin. He exhales sharply, his mind racing, trying to find the right words when none seem good enough. “You’d be okay with that?”

“Yes,” Seonghwa replies, like it’s that simple.

But it doesn’t feel simple. Not at all. It feels like crossing a line, like stepping over some invisible boundary.

Hongjoong knows he shouldn’t. He should have more control, more discipline. Yet he keeps giving in to these selfish impulses, the ones that only deepen the yearning, the ones that could change the strange not-dance between him and Seonghwa forever.

But hasn’t it already changed?

It only takes a few seconds of direct eye contact for Hongjoong’s uncertainty to solidify into eager, borderline starved, wanting. Without another thought, he strides forward, his hand finding the back of Seonghwa’s neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at his nape. Their mouths collide. It’s fast, messy, the kind of kiss that carries all the restraint that’s finally worn thin.

He presses Seonghwa back against the dresser. A few objects clatter to the surface, but neither of them notices. Seonghwa’s hands are already on Hongjoong, gripping his waist, both steadying him and drawing him closer. Hongjoong has no sense of what’s guiding him anymore. Instinct, desire, self-control—they’re tangled together, impossible to separate. Even though this is their third time doing this, the intimacy of it—the closeness, the sharing of breath, the vulnerability—still rattles his mind. It used to scare him, the thought of being so dreadfully exposed. But when it’s Seonghwa whose breath he feels hitch in response to a change in the angle of the kiss, it’s different. It’s enjoyable, almost achingly so.

He can’t stop. Something inside him has snapped loose, and now that he’s started, he can’t rein it in. The press of their bodies, the heat they generate, it’s addictive, consuming, and he doesn’t want it to end. His hands slide down, instinctively gripping Seonghwa’s waist, like he’s been imagining this moment for weeks. The need for more drives him wild, and so he allows himself to chase it. Blindly, Hongjoong leads them to the bed, his hands never leaving Seonghwa as he guides him down onto the mattress, then braces himself above him. Hongjoong leans in, brushing his lips against Seonghwa’s temple, then his jaw, then finally, his mouth. Seonghwa tilts his head, letting their mouths meet again and again, each kiss knocking down whatever walls Hongjoong still had left standing. Despite how urgent it seems, it’s still tender, effectively disarming him, throwing his senses into a haze.

Seonghwa’s hands slide to Hongjoong’s shirt, fumbling with the buttons in a mix of nervousness and urgency. Hongjoong doesn’t hesitate. He leans in, his own fingers joining Seonghwa’s, undoing the buttons quickly. Within seconds, the shirt is undone, sliding off his frame as Hongjoong pulls it free and tosses it carelessly to the side before leaning back down. Seonghwa’s hands return immediately, roaming over his chest, his sides, his back—everywhere they can reach. The feel of skin against skin sends a fresh, searing wave of heat through him.

There’s a beat where Hongjoong should probably slow down, maybe think this through, but his body refuses. His hips shift on their own, a slow roll downward, grinding against Seonghwa. The friction draws a broken groan from Seonghwa. Hongjoong keeps doing that, the motion of something that could be. Suddenly, Seonghwa’s hand leaves where it was gripping Hongjoong’s arm and darts toward the drawer next to the bed, fumbling blindly with something inside.

“Don’t freak out,” Seonghwa murmurs against his lips.

“I’m not freaking out,” Hongjoong says reflexively, even though he most definitely is freaking out.

He eases back reluctantly, just enough for Seonghwa to lean over properly. There’s a clumsy fumbling, a soft thud of something knocking inside, and then Seonghwa pulls out a condom and a bottle of lube. He sets them on the bed with the calm precision of someone retrieving a phone charger—not the items currently making Hongjoong’s stomach flip.

Seonghwa swallows, his throat bobbing. “Okay. Then…”

The words are a spark, and the silence that follows is all gasoline.

Hongjoong stares, speechless. He was stressing over the stupid dress folded in his suitcase, and Seonghwa… was traveling with this? Fuck.

His eyes flick from Seonghwa’s face to the items on the bed, then back again, like his brain needs extra time to catch up.

“I can do it myself,” Seonghwa offers. “I don’t mind.”

Hongjoong licks his lips, shaking his head. No. He’s not going to act useless when they’re doing this.

“You came prepared,” Hongjoong finally manages, hoarse, though it sounds less like a statement and more like his brain rebooting.

Seonghwa pauses, calm slipping just slightly. His eyes dart away, a faint blush rising along his neck. “I just thought—” he starts, hesitant. “I don’t know… I hoped—”

He trails off, leaving the rest unsaid, but Hongjoong feels the weight of it land square in his chest. Seonghwa hoped. He planned. For this. For them.

Hongjoong’s pulse thunders in his ears, drowning out everything but the sight of Seonghwa sprawled out in front of him, looking unfairly gorgeous, and prepared, and Hongjoong’s brain is doing cartwheels between how is he even real and move, touch him, now.

“Don’t just stare at me like that,” Seonghwa whines, his voice cracking at the edges, more flustered than confident. A hand flies up to cover his face, fingers curling against his temple like he can block out the weight of Hongjoong’s gaze.

Hongjoong swallows with an audible gulp. “How…how do you want to do this?”

Seonghwa exhales sharply, then drags his hand down, finally locking eyes with Hongjoong. Maybe he realizes that Hongjoong is making this way too fucking awkward, because after a beat of hesitation, he shifts—moves deliberately beneath him before rolling onto his stomach. He settles there, adjusting for a moment, until he finds a position that works, arms propped on his elbows. His fingers twitch against the sheets, gripping the fabric like an anchor.

Hongjoong fumbles for the items on the bed, his hands clumsy as the lube spills over his fingers. His nerves are frayed, and he’s embarrassingly hard, straining against his jeans to the point of near-painful pressure. He tries not to focus on that, instead he presses a hand to where the dress still covers Seonghwa. It clings to him like a second skin, a layer of protective film that Hongjoong can’t bring himself to fully remove. Instead, he pushes the fabric up and peels Seonghwa’s underwear down completely, exposing Seonghwa’s ass and thighs, which quickly become sticky with lube as Hongjoong works to open him up.

His mind teeters between two extremes—awash in disbelief at what he’s doing and razor-sharp, focused on every subtle detail. The way Seonghwa’s body tenses, then melts beneath his touch. The barely-there shifts in posture, the fingers clutching at the sheets, the hitch in his breath every time Hongjoong presses his fingers a little deeper. There’s a ragged gasp that slips from Seonghwa’s lips as he teases a particular spot, and Hongjoong makes it his mission to draw more out with every stroke. He pushes his fingers there, gently at first then harder, over and over until Seonghwa is gasping against the sheets.

“Fuck,” Seonghwa curses, voice muffled. He tilts his head slightly, his cheek pressed against the mattress as he speaks. “Enough, I’m ready. I just need you to… ah. Just... just get inside already.”

Every rational thought shatters at once, disintegrating into nothing.

Hongjoong’s fingers slip free, and suddenly everything is moving too fast and too slow all at once. He barely manages to kick off his jeans and underwear, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His hands fumble with the condom—shaky, too desperate, nearly ripping it in his rush to get it on. He curses under his breath, rolling it down before pressing closer, until the heat of Seonghwa’s body is right there, scorching against his skin.

He gulps, swallowing hard as he grabs Seongha’s waist. He is slightly shocked to find that he, himself, is shaking with this, his heart pounding in his ears as he presses forward. Presses into Seonghwa. He bites down hard on his lip, desperate to keep himself quiet, the sting the only thing keeping him grounded when the rest of him feels like he’s coming apart.

Seonghwa buries his face in his forearms, making it impossible to see him properly, but Hongjoong hears him—the shaky breath, the choked, broken moan. It makes something inside him lurch, makes his whole body tense up mid-movement. His gaze catches on the corset, laced tight against Seonghwa’s back, every inhale pushing against its constraints. The sight makes Hongjoong suddenly wonder if it’s making this harder for him.

“Move,” Seonghwa murmurs with as much assertion as his voice allows in the shaky state he’s in. “D-don’t think about it.”

Don’t think about it.

Hongjoong can do that. Maybe. He hopes he can.

His hand traces the length of Seonghwa’s spine, lingering in the small dip before shifting to grip his waist, both steadying him and grounding himself. He wants to commit it all to memory, the way Seonghwa looks, sounds, and feels, just in case they’ll never be like this again. He slowly moves in and out, and Seonghwa shudders under his touch, exhaling a soft breath that vibrates through Hongjoong’s fingers. Every time Hongjoong fully bottoms out, Seonghwa’s hands go lax for a moment before twisting into the sheets again.

As Seonghwa’s body yields more easily with each motion, Hongjoong gives him more in return. His grip tightens without thinking as he starts to roll his hips fully, pulling out further each time, enjoying the way Seonghwa clings to him and moans on the drag out. He builds up to a steady rhythm that has the mattress slowly creaking underneath them, the friction igniting sparks that dance through his nerves and settle low in his stomach.

He’s addicted. To the warmth under him, the trembling muscles, the breathy sounds that escape before Seonghwa can swallow them back. They fit too well, like their bodies already learned each other long before this moment. Hongjoong could do this forever, moving like this, taking and giving until the world outside stops existing. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever look back or look past. It’s dangerous, this kind of familiarity, the sort he shouldn’t want but can’t stop reaching for.

He thrusts again, a little harder this time, and Seonghwa’s arms tremble as he struggles to stay upright.

“Oh my god, yes, like that,” Seonghwa chokes out, nearly writhing under him. His fingers curl into the duvet, knuckles whitening as he grips it for leverage. Then he does something that nearly makes Hongjoong lose control entirely—he pushes back, meeting Hongjoong’s thrust with a desperate, uncoordinated shove of his hips. “Please, I can take it — harder.”

Hongjoong’s entire body goes taut. He has gone from hard as a rock, able to fuck forever, to teetering on the edge in the blink of an eye. It’s barely been a few minutes, but Seonghwa is so tight, so hot around him, the sounds he’s making—the way he’s begging Hongjoong to do it harder—

“Please, I won’t break, please—”

Hongjoong doesn’t think—can’t think. Instinct takes over.

His hand flies to the back of Seonghwa’s neck, fingers curling around the nape, and he pushes him down into the mattress. Not rough, just firm, just enough to hold him there, to keep him steady as his hips snap forward, chasing that impossible, consuming need that’s been clawing at his insides from the moment this started.

Seonghwa’s moans spill out, muffled against the sheets where Hongjoong holds him. Each reaction—arching, gripping, gasping—sets off a jolt in Hongjoong, a sharp thrill tearing through him. The quiet in the room makes every sound feel louder, every creak and gasp sharper. Skin meets skin in sharp, obscene slaps. The sounds Seonghwa makes against the sheets every time Hongjoong buries himself to the hilt. It’s too much. Almost unbearable. Almost too good, like it’s rewiring his entire brain, shoving him straight into the abyss of wantwantwant with no way out.

He tries to keep pace, but each quiet gasp from Seonghwa hits him like electricity. Hongjoong’s chasing those sounds, craving them, needing to hear them, to see Seonghwa react so viscerally to something he’s done. Hongjoong’s eyes darken, his body reacting before his mind can catch up. He slides his hand down from the nape of Seonghwa’s neck to the tied laces at the edge of the corset. He grips and pulls.

The motion forces Seonghwa into a sharper arch, his body bending in a perfect, taut curve. His head lifts just enough off the mattress, letting the sounds escape, ricocheting around the room. Hongjoong keeps moving, hips pressing into Seonghwa again and again.

Hongjoong’s spiraling, body and mind both on fire.

“God, you sound so pretty like this,” he says before any rational thought can stop him.

That alone draws another sound from Seonghwa, soft and ragged.

“You like it when I praise you,” Hongjoong murmurs as he watches every reaction. It’s not new to him, but he didn’t realize it extended to this.

“…I… N-no I don’t…”

“Then why, ah,” Hongjoong’s voice stumbles on a gasp before he can finish, “…why do you tighten so much down here when I say something like that?” His grip on the laces loosens, and Seonghwa sinks back down, pliant beneath him. Hongjoong plants a hand beside him on the bed for leverage, steadying himself before falling back into the rhythm, driving into him with steady purpose.

He hangs on by a thread, his orgasm coiling tighter with every slide. He knows he’s close, has been since the moment Seonghwa begged him for more, but he’s somehow still holding on, riding the edge with a kind of delirious resolution.

Seonghwa’s hands flail, searching for something to hold—grasping air, sheets, nothing at all. His body writhes and shifts, pressing back against Hongjoong, then down into the mattress, chasing friction. Almost there. Hongjoong focuses on finding the right angle, on finding the right spots inside to drag the ragged sounds from Seonghwa’s throat.

His hand slips down, fingers wrapping around Seonghwa’s cock with a firm, steady grip.

The reaction is instantaneous. Seonghwa jerks, his whole body jolting like he’s been shocked. His hands scramble for something to hold onto, until his fingers finally find Hongjoong’s hand splayed across the sheets. He clings, his grip frantic, almost desperate.

“Ah— I can’t, Hongjoong-ah... I can’t—”

“You can. I’ve got you,” Hongjoong murmurs. He tightens his grip, timing his hand with how deep he fucks into him. “I’ve got you, okay? Just let go.”

The words seem to snap something loose in Seonghwa. His nails bite into Hongjoong’s hand, sharp and insistent, leaving tiny crescent-shaped marks on his skin as his whole body winds tighter and tighter, every muscle coiling like a spring on the verge of snapping. His breath stutters, shivering out in uneven, desperate gasps, and Hongjoong can feel it—the moment just before he unravels, the unbearable tension humming beneath his skin.

Hongjoong fucks him right through it, and it’s almost too much, the way his body clenches around him. His own control is slipping fast, his rhythm stuttering, his focus scattering in a million directions. Seonghwa’s fingers still cling desperately to his hand, and Hongjoong can feel the faint outline of the ring—

He thrusts one last time, deep and deliberate, and everything shatters.

Hongjoong comes hard, his body locking up as pleasure tears through him, white-hot and overwhelming, dragging him under until he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel. His nerves, his senses, everything feels like it has been lit up brightly, his vision blurring. He groans, shapes it around Seonghwa’s name, keeps moving and reveling in the heat till they’re both too sensitive, and he finally lets go. His forehead drops against Seonghwa’s damp back, breath ragged and uneven, every muscle trembling as the last waves crash through him. He barely registers the way Seonghwa trembles against him, how his body feels impossibly soft in the aftermath, how their chests rise and fall in sync—like they’re still moving together, even now.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is their breathing, broken only by the filthy, slick noise when Hongjoong carefully pulls out. He deals with the condom, while Seonghwa stays sprawled where he is, his face turned away. He’s still catching his breath, his body moving with it.

Then, softly, he says, “Can you unlace it for me?”

He nods even though Seonghwa isn’t looking at him. “Yeah,” he murmurs.

He shifts back onto the bed as Seonghwa sits up, the mattress dipping with the movement. A dark patch stains the sheets where Seonghwa’s body was pressed, the lingering dampness stark against the fabric. Hongjoong’s hands hover for a second before he reaches for the laces, fingers slowly easing the tension that’s been holding the fabric so tight against Seonghwa’s frame. The fabric gives way inch by inch, and as it slackens, faint red lines are revealed beneath it—thin indentations carved down Seonghwa’s back in perfect, unforgiving rows.

Hongjoong stares, his fingers hovering just above the marks.

“Did it hurt?” he asks, voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Seonghwa tilts his head slightly, just enough for Hongjoong to catch a glimpse of his profile. “No. It’s fine,” he says, his tone calm but soft enough that Hongjoong almost hears the ghost of a smile hidden in it.

Hongjoong keeps unlacing until the corset loosens completely, fabric falling slack, easy for Seonghwa to slip out of.

And then Hongjoong hesitates.

He imagines pulling Seonghwa back into bed, wrapping his arms around him and letting the warmth of his body chase away the sudden chill that’s crept into the room now that they’re no longer tangled together. He could pull the covers up, let the weight of them settle over both of them, let the closeness mean something.

Something solid, something real.

He wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like if he could just say it. If he could say all of it.

But then another thought creeps in, cold and unwanted. They’ve never talked about this. Not really. Not what it means, not what happens after. And just like that, his stomach twists, something uneasy curling tight in his chest.

Hongjoong exhales sharply, breaking himself out of the loop in his head. Instead of waiting, instead of asking, he forces himself to move. He stands, gathering his clothes and stepping into them with mechanical precision, as if going through the motions will make everything settle back into place.

“You don’t have to—” Seonghwa’s voice cuts through the quiet, pulling him back. “I—never mind.” He shakes his head, a small, fragile smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. His hair falls messily into his eyes, still damp at the edges, and there’s something unreadable in his expression—hesitant, uncertain, like he’s waiting for Hongjoong to say something. When the silence stretches, Seonghwa fills it. “At least my outfit tomorrow actually covers everything. That’d be hard to explain.” He glances back at his own skin, at the faint marks laced across his back. It sounds like a joke, but it feels more like an attempt to patch the atmosphere, to drag them back into something normal.

Maybe Hongjoong should be grateful for it.

“Hah. Yeah.” The sound that comes out of him is thin, hollow even to his own ears. He clears his throat, still buttoning up his shirt, and forces a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right. We should probably actually sleep if we’re going to make it to breakfast before they run out of anything decent. Or we’ll just end up ordering something to the room again.”

Seonghwa blinks at him. “Thinking about food? You?”

Hongjoong shrugs, trying to make it sound easy, like this is just another night. “Last time we stayed somewhere like this, you got the last of the good croissants and left me with that sad little butter roll.”

Seonghwa lets out an exaggerated sigh, playing along just enough. “It’s your problem you overslept.” His voice is easy, but there’s a thread beneath it that doesn’t quite match the playfulness. He stands and moves toward the ensuite bathroom. At the door, he pauses and glances back at Hongjoong one last time, something heavy passing through his eyes. Whatever it is, Seonghwa doesn’t say it.

And Hongjoong doesn’t ask.

The next day, backstage in the dressing room, Seonghwa jokes with him—asks if he can press the DJ launch pad Hongjoong’s brought along. It feels almost normal again.

Almost.

Hongjoong can’t mask the softness in his expression, nor the way his heart lurches at the smallest tilt of Seonghwa’s lips or the spark in his glance. No matter how hard he tries, nothing can cover it.

He already knows. The line he crossed yesterday isn’t just behind him. It’s scorched into the ground. Smoldering.

And retracing his steps isn’t an option with the flames still licking at his heels.

Hongjoong thinks he’s getting better at the whole “not working yourself to the bone” thing. Better, but not perfect. He’s managed to step away from the studio tonight, despite the unfinished demos piling up in his files. The nagging itch to tweak, polish, and perfect is still there, buzzing in the back of his head, but for once, he’s ignoring it.

Instead, he’s sitting here at Cheonggyecheon, his legs stretched out on the cool stone steps lining the stream. The urban waterway cuts through the heart of Seoul, flowing quietly beneath the shadows of looming high-rises. Streetlights cast a soft, golden glow along the paths that border the stream, while the distant hum of traffic mingles with the gentle rush of water.

Seonghwa sits next to him, their shoulders almost touching, while Wooyoung stands a few meters away, crouched to get a better angle as he takes pictures of San who’s striking poses on the other side of the stream. It’s peaceful, the kind of night that feels like it should slow your heartbeat and clear your head.

That’s what he’s supposed to be doing. Just sitting here, enjoying the night, maybe stealing a glance at Seonghwa every now and then when he thinks no one’s looking.

But his mind won’t cooperate. It’s like a record stuck on repeat, thoughts circling back to work again and again.

He needs a good selection of songs finished before the end of the year. Something to hone and shape into the kind of material that might mean something in a few years. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? What if he looks back and decides to scrap all these songs—these little demos—years down the road? The uncertainty gnaws at him.

Of course, there are some tracks he feels could work. A few he imagines for the group, some he thinks would fit for xikers. And there are others—scraps of melodies, hooks, half-formed bridges—that he could pass along to other artists. They’re decent. They have potential. But are they enough?

He lets out a quiet sigh, shaking his head as if to dislodge the thoughts.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Seonghwa says suddenly without looking up.

“What?” Hongjoong laughs despite himself. “Is it that obvious?”

“Painfully.” Seonghwa stretches, leaning back on his hands. “You should let it go for tonight. The work will still be there tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Seonghwa’s tone is teasing, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes. “You’re here, Hongjoong-ah. Be here.”

Hongjoong exhales slowly, settling back against the stone steps. For a moment, he considers pushing Seonghwa’s buttons a little. He’s really not better than Hongjoong in this regard. A few days ago, before leaving for Paris to walk for Songzio, Seonghwa was texting him nonstop, fretting that he hadn’t had enough time to practice this time and worried he’d mess up.

He lets it go, in the end. Seonghwa doesn’t always follow his own advice, but he’s right.

The bright lights of the city ripple across the water, painting shifting patterns on its surface. Nearby, Wooyoung waves his arms wildly, camera dangling from a strap around his neck. He’s barking instructions at San, pointing this way, then that, trying to position him perfectly before he even lifts the camera. San follows Wooyoung’s gestures like clockwork, shifting his stance a few steps left, then right, adjusting just as Wooyoung spins around and starts directing him to another spot. Hongjoong finds himself smiling despite everything.

The scene feels familiar. Too familiar.

He is suddenly reminded of another night, long ago, when they were trainees. They wandered these same streets back then, exhausted yet quietly hopeful, walking off the tension of endless practice sessions. It was late then too, the air just as cool, the city just as alive.

“That should be you,” Seonghwa said.

“What?” Hongjoong frowned, following Seonghwa’s line of sight. Across the street, a billboard flickered with the image of a smiling idol promoting her new single, the bright colors reflecting off the surrounding buildings.

“A famous superstar. That’s who you should be.”

Hongjoong laughed, shaking his head, but the words stuck.

Sometimes, he still wonders. Wonders what Seonghwa saw back then.

What he sees now.

It’s a thought that sneaks up on him, one that feels too big to confront head-on. Somehow, it’s a little terrifying. That Hongjoong doesn’t know. Hongjoong has pushed their friendship into all sorts of uncharted angles that he isn’t even sure how Seonghwa sees him anymore.

He never used to doubt, never had to wonder what Seonghwa was thinking or how he really felt about him. He showed it often enough. The little gestures—tiny things, really, but that carry so much weight to him. It’s the way Seonghwa always has his back, the way he never lets Hongjoong be too hard on himself. How when Hongjoong loses his earrings, he’s always the one to find them and put them somewhere he knows Hongjoong will see. It’s Seonghwa's silent but unwavering support whenever the responsibility over something in the company falls under Hongjoong, how he always has spare airpods with him for when Hongjoong inevitably forgets his.

And Hongjoong knows, logically, that this is what friendship is.

But he wonders.

He turns toward Seonghwa. He’s leaning back on his hands, the oversized hoodie engulfing most of his frame. He gazes at the water below, the clear lenses of his glasses catching the faint glow, subtly reflecting the shimmer across the surface.

“Seonghwa-ya,” he says gently. “Do you still want this?”

Do you still want me? goes unsaid.

Seonghwa turns to look at him then, and something in his expression shifts—his eyes soften, his face caught between shadow and warmth. He feels both impossibly close and just out of reach.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Hongjoong swallows. “Things change.”

“Some don’t.”

Hongjoong lets out a slow breath, hears it shake at the end.

Seonghwa must notice, because a subtle expression passes over his face. Hongjoong draws in a sharp breath, fingers gripping the rough concrete beneath him.

“I wanted to tell you,” he says, the words spilling out unsteady and raw. “At Hyunsik’s party. In Japan, too.” His gaze darts to the water, then back to Seonghwa. “I wanted to tell you. I still want to.”

“So tell me.”

Hongjoong opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The words are right there, tangled at the edge of his tongue, but they won’t move.

Coward, his mind whispers.

Seonghwa frowns, the smallest of sighs escaping him as he looks away. For a moment, Hongjoong imagines anger building inside him, a fire ready to consume.

But then Seonghwa breathes. Once. Twice.

When he looks back at Hongjoong, his shoulders slump, and whatever fire might have been there has turned to ashes.

“You don’t get to have it both ways, Hongjoong-ah. Tell me what you want from me, one way or the other, but you need to commit to it. I’m right here, so just talk to me.”

Hongjoong looks away, panic curling in his chest because he knows. He knows how he feels. He’s known for so long that it’s become an ache, a constant pulse behind every thought. He’s imagined this moment a hundred times over the past few months, maybe more. In his head, it’s always simple—he fumbles through the confession, Seonghwa smiles, maybe even laughs at his awkwardness, and says it’s okay.

Maybe, maybe, if time hadn’t changed things, he’d say he loves him back.

It should be easy.

And yet. Hongjoong wonders if there’s something wrong with him. Seonghwa is sitting right next to him, practically telling him he feels the same, and he is still finding it hard to confess his feelings. His chest feels tight, like the words are a physical weight he can’t lift.

He isn’t afraid of commitment. That’s probably what Seonghwa suspects. But it’s not that. The truth is, Hongjoong doesn’t do things halfway. He’s all in, or not at all. He gave everything to the band, years of his life, all his dreams bundled into a singular goal without hesitation. And yet here he is now, hesitating when it matters so fucking much.

But it’s not just about what he wants. It’s about what’s safe. What’s smart. There are people involved—Seonghwa, the members, the company. One wrong move and the headlines write themselves. The public doesn’t care about nuance. People just want something to rip apart.

It’s true, and it hurts.

He hates how true it is. How easily society twists something into scandal. The way media distills identity into controversy. How love becomes a liability when it doesn’t fit neatly into the mold. And it makes him furious—burning, bone-deep furious—because none of it is fair. And still, somehow, all of it is normal. Expected.

There’s a particular kind of grief that comes from loving in silence, from caring in a way that has to stay hidden. It wears at you—not all at once, but in slow, quiet pieces. And sometimes, when Hongjoong thinks about it too long, he feels like he’s floating just outside his own body, watching a version of himself play the role he was given. Always composed. Always careful.

Always almost enough.

Hongjoong realizes he’s been quiet for too long when Seonghwa nods lightly, his shoulders dropping further as the last traces of tension seem to drain from him. Whatever flashes through his eyes looks like heartbreak for a moment, longing in the next, and it settles over his features the way resignation does, deepening the line between his brows, the clench of his jaw.

It’s not anger in Seonghwa’s eyes. It’s hurt.

And it kills Hongjoong to know he’s the one who put it there.

“Let’s go,” Seonghwa says abruptly, already moving.

Hongjoong scrambles to stand up and speeds through the next couple of steps to catch up to his side. Seonghwa halts next to Wooyoung who’s already pulling out his camera to show off the photos he’s taken. Seonghwa listens, nodding occasionally, but Hongjoong barely hears a word. The world around him feels muted.

They begin walking again, and the night settles around them like dust disturbed by a sudden breeze to show off Hongjoong's rawness underneath. Crude and incomplete. It drifts back down just as quickly, masking everything once more as he forces a brisk pace, his body moving on autopilot while his mind rages over the words he didn’t speak.

A few minutes later, San hails a taxi. The four of them climb in and Hongjoong ends up pressed against the door, eyes glued to the streaking city lights outside. The confession that should have happened lingers like a phantom in his chest—unspoken, reshaping the terrain into something unfamiliar. He catches the reflection of himself in the taxi window, watching strange patterns of light move over his nose, cheeks, the tips of his hair. Glancing past Wooyoung, he sees Seonghwa sitting slightly angled away, shadows curling protectively around him, already putting distance where none should be.

Hongjoong’s eyes sting.

He was wrong.

There’s a big difference between making music and sewing clothes.

With music, there’s room to improvise, a way to weave mistakes into the melody, transforming them into something new, something beautiful. The rhythm flows, the notes bend, and even missteps can become art.

The sewing machine offers no mercy. A single misaligned stitch, a miscalculation of the tiniest measurement, and the error stares back at him, daring him to correct it—instantly—or unravel everything and start over.

In the end, some threads fray and break, and some moments, no matter how desperately he wishes it otherwise, can never be rewoven.