Work Text:
1.
(Matthew’s POV)
Matthew’s smile appeared on command now. He’d signed so many albums the motion blurred together – pen to paper, eye contact, gentle curve of lips. He laughed on cue, nodded through earnest confessions, shaped his fingers into hearts without thought. The mechanics had overridden the meaning somewhere along the way.
Then he heard it.
“I feel bad for Matthew. Hanbin’s outgrown him, hasn’t he?”
His pen stuttered, leaving a black smear across someone’s careful handwriting. The voices drifted from behind the barriers – careless in their assumed privacy, cruel in their certainty.
“Hanbin doesn’t even look at him the same anymore, you know.”
“I mean, they used to be inseparable. Now Hanbin’s always with Hao. Matthew’s just... there.”
The confirmation settled heavy and undeniable. He’d been telling himself the distance was imaginary – fatigue warping his perception, anxiety turning shadows into monsters. But if strangers could read it from their seats in the crowd, how long had he been fooling himself?
His gaze found Hanbin three seats away, shoulders touching Hao’s as they shared some private joke with their fan. They moved with the unconscious ease of people who’d stopped thinking about it. Matthew felt the smallest pinch in his chest, a quiet reminder of when he used to move just as easily in that space. But the current had already carried them forward without him.
He told himself it was just nostalgia. Missing how they used to be. Except when he missed Taerae or Gunwook after a few days apart, it felt simple. This somehow settled differently, clung deeper.
“Your smile always brightens my day,” the fan in front of him was saying, eyes shining with devotion.
His own smile appeared without effort, sliding neatly into place like a well-worn mask. “Thank you. That means the world to me.”
Between fans, Taerae leaned over with concern etched plainly on his face. His voice dropped low. “You okay? I heard them too.”
Matthew didn’t need to ask what he meant. Taerae’s eyes were too kind, and that somehow made it worse. He shrugged. “I’m fine. Just fans being fans.”
But as the event wound down, fragments of Hanbin’s conversation drifted over – words not meant for Matthew’s ears, yet somehow finding them anyway.
“Yeah, Matthew’s been working so hard lately. Always professional, so reliable. Never complains, he just does whatever needs doing to the best of his abilities.”
The praise should’ve warmed him. Instead, it felt distant. Impersonal. The way you’d compliment a coworker’s punctuality – recognition of service rendered, nothing more.
Walking toward their van, Matthew found his voice before courage could abandon him entirely.
“I heard what you said back there.” He immediately regretted how small his voice sounded. “About me working hard and all that.”
Hanbin’s eyebrows lifted, seeming genuinely confused. Or surprised, maybe. “Yeah, because you do. You’ve been handling everything so well.”
“You could just say it to me directly sometimes.” Matthew’s throat went tight. “Instead of just... telling other people.”
“You know I think you’re doing great, right?”
“Still, it would be nice to hear.”
Hanbin paused, something unreadable crossing his expression. “You worked hard, Mashu.”
That’s all I’m going to get, isn’t it?
Matthew nodded and swallowed around the knot of disappointment. “Thanks, hyung.”
He quickened his pace toward the van, leaving Hanbin a step behind. If he practiced walking away first, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much when Hanbin eventually stopped following altogether.
2.
(Matthew’s POV)
The dining table buzzed with their usual controlled chaos – chopsticks clicking against ceramic, Taerae’s infectious laughter bouncing off the walls, someone dramatically reenacting a wardrobe malfunction with exaggerated gestures. The warmth should have reached him the way it usually did. Tonight it didn’t. He was sitting right there at the table, laughing at the right moments, but something had gone numb.
“Okay, okay.” Gyuvin was grinning, rice still in his mouth. “Real question: who here would be the most jealous boyfriend?”
“Hao hyung,” Taerae replied without hesitation.
“What? No!” Hao’s scandalized protest sent laughter rippling around the table.
“Gyuvin hyung, obviously,” Yujin chimed in with a grin, earning a chorus of agreement and an indignant squawk from the accused.
“What about Matthew?” The question came from Jiwoong, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Heads turned toward him, waiting for his usual flustered denial, the shy laugh that would make them coo and move on. Across the table, Hanbin paused mid-bite, chopsticks suspended halfway to his mouth.
Before Matthew could answer, Hanbin laughed and waved a hand. “Come on, guys. Matthew doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body. He’s way too secure for that.”
Agreement murmured around the table like a gentle tide.
“True, Matthew hyung’s so chill about everything.”
“Most easy-going person I know.”
“He just likes to see everyone happy.”
Matthew kept chewing mechanically, smile pliant as always, but something inside had ground to a halt.
Hanbin wasn’t wrong – he’d never been the outwardly jealous type. Not in ways anyone could see.
The truth was: lately, jealousy had taken up residence under his skin. Not over schedules or screen time or opportunities. Nothing like that. But over Hanbin’s attention. Over how it had become something scarce and precious, something to compete for.
Just last week, he’d been telling Hanbin about a movie that had moved him to tears. Mid-sentence, someone across the room said something offhandedly, and Hanbin’s focus had drifted. Just like that. No “hold on,” no acknowledgment that Matthew had been speaking.
Matthew had let his words trail into silence, the story dying half-formed in his throat.
It had been happening more often.
The jealousy burned uglier for being invisible. No one expected him to feel it – apparently Hanbin least of all.
How was he supposed to live up to that?
That night, back at the dorm, Matthew sat cross-legged on his bed, phone screen a meaningless blur in his hands. Ricky appeared in the doorway. He stood there a moment before speaking, like he was deciding something.
“You don’t have to be fine with everything, you know.”
Matthew’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“The way they talk about you sometimes.” Ricky stepped into the room, hands buried in his pockets. “At dinner, when Hanbin hyung just decided for you that you’re too evolved for jealousy – you looked like...”
“Like what?”
“Like you wanted to argue. Or bolt.”
Matthew’s fingers tightened around his phone until the edges bit into his palms. He hadn’t realized he was that obvious. It was nice that Ricky noticed, though. He forced a laugh, “Thanks man, but you have nothing to worry about. You’re reading too much into it.”
“I’m just saying.” Ricky’s expression softened with something close to pity.
He didn’t push further, just nodded once and left.
Later, staring at the ceiling in the dark, Matthew kept hearing Ricky’s voice. You don’t have to be fine with everything. But what was the alternative? Asking for attention felt selfish. Wanting more felt greedy. Admitting he was jealous would ruin their image of him – this version of him.
So he’d keep playing along. Maybe if he pretended long enough, he’d actually learn how to shut it all off for real.
3.
(Matthew’s POV)
Matthew hovered at the edges of the livestream setup, making himself useful – adjusting audio levels, checking camera angles, wordlessly placing water bottles within reach before Hanbin and Gunwook could ask. It was easier to stay in the background these days, to be helpful without being central.
The two sat bathed in ring light, voices overlapping as they answered rapid-fire questions. Comments scrolled past too fast to read individual words – just flashes of emojis and exclamation points.
Matthew kept one eye on the technical aspects, the other on Hanbin’s profile – the way he leaned into questions, hands cutting through air as he talked, the ring light illuminating every animated expressions. Matthew had memorized it all the way you memorize subway stops on a route you take every day – automatically, without deciding to, until you could navigate them with your eyes closed.
A fan question seemed to have caught Hanbin’s eye: hanbin, which member do you go to when you’re struggling?
“Hmm...” He leaned back thoughtfully, finger tapping against his chin. “Probably Hao hyung lately? Or Gyuvin sometimes. Hao’s good at the deep stuff, and Gyuvin’s been surprisingly mature about things.”
Gunwook nodded absently. The comments rushed in still.
Another question flashed up: what about matthew? he said that you two have deep talks when he’s having a hard time. do you go to him too?
Matthew’s hands stilled on the equipment. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been hoping for his name to surface until the possibility dangled right there.
“Ah, it’s been a while since we did that!” Hanbin laughed, glancing off-camera toward Matthew for half a second. He bit his lip, “But that’s a good thing, right? Means he’s doing well. Matthew’s developed such a strong mindset – he’s probably outgrown our talks. Our sunshine.”
The word felt like a name tag he couldn’t peel off. Sunshine. Always meant as praise, always spoken with affection. But Hanbin had neatly sidestepped the actual question, hadn’t he?
Gunwook’s gaze darted toward Matthew, his mouth pulling tight at one corner.
A third question scrolled up: does matthew ever get angry?
“Honestly? Never.” Hanbin shook his head, smiling with what looked like pride. “Not once in all the years I’ve known him. He’s just not built that way. I really admire that about him – I wish I could let things go like he does. Not worth the headspace.”
Matthew laughed from his spot behind the camera – light, automatic, perfectly timed. Even as his lungs seemed to empty. The suffocating irony was that he did get angry. In fact, he possessed it in abundance. He’d simply learned to bury it so deep that even he sometimes forgot it was there.
Because anger required space. Demanded acknowledgment. Insisted on being seen.
And apparently, he wasn’t built for any of those things.
That evening Matthew ended up on the couch next to Gunwook, a bag of chips open between them that neither of them seemed really interested in eating.
He felt Gunwook study him for a while. “Hyung, it’s okay to still have bad days. Even if Hanbin hyung doesn’t think you do.”
“I don’t,” Matthew said automatically, then stopped. “I mean– okay, everyone does. But I’m functional. I handle them.”
“By pretending they don’t exist?”
“By not making them anyone else’s problem.” It came out sharper than he meant. “Hanbin hyung has enough going on.”
“What if he wants to worry about you sometimes?” Gunwook asked carefully.
“You know what? I keep telling myself I don’t want to add to his worries, but he doesn’t bring his to me anymore either. We just… became two people who handle everything separately.” Matthew shrugged, but his hands were twisting the chip bag. “I guess it happens. It’s not a big deal.”
“Maybe not to him,” Gunwook murmured. “What about to you?”
The bag was tearing along the seam now, a clean split down the middle.
Matthew stared at the torn bag. “I wouldn’t be much help anyway. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t come to me anymore.”
“Hyung, that’s not–”
“I’d probably just tell him to look on the bright side. That’s what my strong mindset is good for, right?” His mouth twisted. “I’m sunshine.”
He stood before Gunwook could respond, squeezing his shoulder once.
“Don’t worry about it, Gunwookie. Really.”
That night Matthew lay in bed and tried to remember when he’d decided that being easy was the best way to keep people close. When he’d started believing that needing less made him worth more.
Maybe he’d gotten so good at being fine that he’d convinced everyone – including himself – that fine was all he was capable of being. And if that was true, whose fault was that really? The person who’d stopped looking deeper, or the one who’d made sure there was nothing to find?
4.
(Hanbin’s POV)
The variety show filming had run two hours over schedule, but Hanbin was riding the high of it all. Everything clicked – his timing, the way the hosts laughed at his stories, the easy banter that flowed. This was what he exceled at.
“So, who takes care of Hanbin the most?” the host asked, leaning forward with performed interest.
Hanbin’s gaze swept across his members, landing briefly on Matthew before moving on. “All the members take care of me in different ways.” He gestured broadly. “But day-to-day? Hao hyung. He’s like our group mom – makes sure I eat, sleep, don’t forget half my life somewhere. He even calls my actual mom when I forget.”
The studio audience laughed. Hao played up his exasperation with that endearing mix of fondness and theatrical suffering that made everyone fall in love with him. Everyone ate it up.
“What about Matthew?” the host pressed. “We’ve heard you two go way back.”
Hanbin smiled. The answer came naturally. “Matthew’s different though. He’s more the ‘taken care of’ type, you know? Not that he isn’t capable, but he has this… I don’t know, he just makes you want to look out for him. He’s my baby.”
More laughter. Hanbin caught Matthew laughing too from the corner of his eye – just the right volume, precise duration.
The filming ended soon after without hiccup.
But hours later, back in the dorm kitchen, pieces of the day kept replaying in his head. Something had felt off, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.
Jiwoong wandered in, hair still damp from his shower. “Hanbin-ah, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, hyung.”
“When you were talking about who takes care of you – did you think about Matthew at all?”
Hanbin paused, water bottle halfway to his lips. “What do you mean? I mentioned him.”
“You mentioned him as someone you take care of.” Jiwoong leaned against the counter. “Not someone who takes care of you. But doesn’t he?”
The question sat between them, and suddenly Hanbin was remembering things that made his chest feel strangely tight. Things he’d somehow filed away as just… normal.
Matthew bringing him food during late practice sessions without being asked. Matthew staying up to listen when Hanbin couldn’t sleep before big events. Matthew remembering small things – that Hanbin hated certain fabrics, that sometimes he got anxious in crowds, that he needed exactly seven minutes of quiet after performances to decompress.
Things no one else had ever noticed yet. Things that made Hanbin feel seen in a way that sometimes made his heart skip a beat. Significant.
His stomach dropped. How many times had Matthew known what he needed, so seamlessly that he’d stopped noticing the effort behind it?
“I...” Hanbin started, then found himself without words.
“And when you called him your baby,” Jiwoong’s voice stayed careful. “I don’t know. I think he’s used to hearing it, but I’m not sure he actually likes it anymore.”
Before Hanbin could fully process that, Taerae appeared in the doorway.
“You noticed it too?” Taerae asked. “He got that look. Like he’s trying not to react to something.”
“I meant it lovingly.” The words came out too fast, slightly defensive. “He knows I adore him. He’s– Matthew’s my… he’s just different–”
“Different doesn’t mean lesser,” Jiwoong interrupted gently. “And maybe he doesn’t want to be seen as someone who only gets taken care of when he takes care of you just as much. Especially you.”
Why especially me? The notion stuck, but Hanbin couldn’t work out what Jiwoong meant by it.
Hanbin tried to replay moments from the schedule, but the details kept sliding away from him. He’d meant it fondly, truly – Matthew was precious to him, someone who deserved protecting. But now he wasn’t sure. Had the laugh been too bright? Had Matthew looked away right when the camera panned to him?
Taerae had been quiet for a bit, but now he spoke up. “You should hear some of the comments he deals with.”
Hanbin’s grip tightened involuntarily on his water bottle. “What kind of comments?”
“I saw one that said ‘Matthew looks like he’s watching someone forget him in real time.’ They uhh... they meant you.” Taerae rubbed the back of his neck. “Another one said ‘He’s just the guy Hanbin left behind.’ Pretty harsh stuff.”
“That’s… people are actually saying that?”
“Matthew laughs when he sees or hears them. Says it’s not that deep, tells me not to worry. But I think it gets to him more than he lets on. I mean, it would get to anyone.”
Hanbin had always assumed Matthew was unshakeable – he smiled so brightly, never seemed rattled by anything, steady as bedrock underfoot. Matthew was the one member Hanbin never had to really worry about. The constant.
But what if assuming that had caged Matthew somehow?
Every recent interaction suddenly felt suspect. Like he’d missed something obvious. The way Matthew had started drifting mid-conversation, leaving rooms a little too quickly. The half-questions Hanbin had dismissed as mood swings or fatigue. How Matthew had become harder to read, like he was pulling back deliberately.
In Hanbin’s experience, silence usually meant everything was fine. If something was wrong, people said so. That’s how problems got solved.
But what if Matthew had been trying to say something, just not in a language Hanbin had been listening for?
The others left eventually. Hanbin stayed in the kitchen, guilt sitting heavy in his chest. And frustration too, if he was honest. At himself for missing what now seemed obvious. But also – just a little – at Matthew, for never saying anything. For expecting Hanbin to just know.
His water bottle sat abandoned on the counter.
5.
(Hanbin’s POV)
Hanbin was running on fumes and sheer stubborn will.
Three weeks of back-to-back schedules had blurred into one continuous loop. Rehearsals bled into filming, filming into interviews, interviews back into rehearsals until time lost all meaning. His body moved on autopilot, carrying him through choreography while his mind buzzed with static. Sleep came in stolen fragments. Meals in hurried bites between takes.
Every time someone suggested he slow down, he nodded and smiled and promised he would. Then promptly ignored his own assurances, driven by something he couldn’t shake – a restless energy that felt more like running from something than running toward it.
The unopened messages in their group chat multiplied. Gyuvin’s gentle reminders about eating. Hao’s increasingly worried check-ins. Gunwook’s “Hyung, you look paler than yesterday.” Hanbin deflected them with practiced ease.
Matthew watched. Hanbin felt it even when he wasn’t looking.
At first, it was subtle. Matthew would send texts that went unanswered, linger after practice sessions like he was waiting for an opening that never came. Hanbin noticed but couldn’t decode it through the fog of his exhaustion.
Then one night, Matthew stopped just watching.
Hanbin was alone in the practice room well past midnight, mirrors fogged with heat and exertion. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, sweat stinging his eyes, but he kept moving because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant acknowledging how close to the edge he was skating.
The door opened. Even over the pounding music, Hanbin heard the click.
Matthew stepped inside, and something in his posture was different. Not the careful gentleness Hanbin knew, but something harder. Decided.
“Turn off the music, hyung.”
“I’m almost done with this section.”
“No, you’re not.” Matthew’s voice carried an edge Hanbin rarely heard from him. “You’re going to keep going until you collapse.”
Hanbin finally stopped moving, chest heaving. “I’m managing.”
“And I’m saying you’re not.” Matthew stepped closer, something almost fierce flickering in his expression. “You look like you haven’t slept in days. You’re not eating properly. When’s the last time you answered a single text from any of us?”
“I’ve been busy–”
“Bullshit.”
And maybe it was Matthew’s presence that made it feel safe to break. Matthew, who had always been a place he could land softly. Or maybe he’d simply reached the limit of what his body and mind could take. The careful control he’d been maintaining cracked, then shattered completely.
“I don’t want to be like this,” Hanbin’s voice broke as it rose. “Every time I try to slow down, everything feels like it’s going to fall apart. What am I supposed to do, just stop?”
Matthew’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t retreat. If anything, he seemed to steady himself. “No. But you don’t have to carry it all alone.”
The offer should have felt like relief. Instead, something in Hanbin recoiled – pride and stubbornness tangling into a mess. “I told you I’m fine.”
“You and those two goddamn words. You’re not fine!” Matthew’s own frustration finally bled through. “Just let someone help you for once!”
Hanbin’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. The defensive part of him – the part that lashed out when cornered, that wanted to attack before being attacked – surged to the surface.
“And you think that someone should be you?”
Matthew went completely still. His face didn’t crumble. It just emptied. But Hanbin caught it first – the flash of raw hurt before Matthew locked it away. It was terrible and impossible to unsee.
Panic flooded through him, cold and immediate. He’d realized what he’d done the second the words left his mouth – not just rejected Matthew’s help but questioned his right to offer it.
“I–” He stepped forward instinctively, hand reaching out. “Matthew, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean to–”
Matthew stepped back, out of reach. The small movement felt enormous.
“I know. It’s okay.” The smile that spread across Matthew’s face was devastating because it was understanding. “You’re exhausted. People say things when they’re exhausted.”
That was somehow worse than anger would have been. Worse than yelling or tears or accusations. Because Matthew was giving him an out he didn’t deserve. Because some desperate part of Hanbin had hoped this would finally crack whatever wall had grown between them.
He wanted Matthew to fight back, to finally say something real that he could understand and respond to.
But Matthew was already turning toward the door, shoulders set in a line of quiet resignation.
“Get some rest, hyung. You’ll feel better tomorrow.” Matthew’s voice was carefully stripped of everything that made it distinctly his. “We’re good.”
Hanbin stood there watching him go. His chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with dancing. Like he’d been punched somewhere no one could see. He didn’t know what hurt more – the words he’d said, or the ones Matthew hadn’t.
The exhaustion he’d been fighting suddenly felt irrelevant. He’d said the wrong thing to the wrong person, and now he didn’t know how to take it back.
+1
(Hanbin’s POV)
The tension had been building for days. Not loud – it was never loud with Matthew – but there. It clung to every conversation, every glance, every careful step they took around each other. They were polite now in a way that felt worse than actual conflict.
Hanbin caught himself watching Matthew more than usual, hyperaware of every small interaction. The way Matthew’s smiles never quite reached his eyes anymore. How he’d started sitting just a fraction further away during meetings.
For five days, Hanbin tried to find the right moment to approach him. But Matthew had become a master of being unavailable without seeming to avoid anyone – always just finishing something, just heading somewhere else, just busy enough that interruption felt inconsiderate.
On the sixth night, Hanbin knocked on Matthew’s door, needing – no, aching – to talk. But no answer came.
He found Matthew on the rooftop instead.
Of course it was raining. Light rain, almost misting – the kind that soaked you slowly without you noticing.
Matthew sat in the middle of it, face turned skyward, clothes darkening with moisture. He looked impossibly small against the vast grey sky, like he was trying to disappear into it. And for a second, Hanbin was overwhelmed with the need to shield him from more than just the weather.
“You could’ve just said you wanted to be alone,” Hanbin stepped into the rain. “You’re going to get sick sitting out here like this.”
Matthew didn’t turn. “Maybe.”
The simple acceptance in his voice hurt to hear. Without thinking, Hanbin shrugged off his windbreaker and draped it over Matthew’s head and shoulders. His fingers lingered at the nape of Matthew’s neck.
“You don’t have to do that, hyung.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Now you’re going to get sick,” Matthew’s huff was soft, almost sad. He tugged the jacket wider to make room. “Get in.”
Hanbin settled beside him, their bodies pressing together for warmth and shared protection. Rain still found them – on their arms, their knees, anywhere the jacket couldn’t reach – but Hanbin didn’t care. All that mattered was being here. This felt like the first real thing between them in so long.
Rain drummed softly on concrete.
“You don’t have to be here,” Matthew said eventually.
“I know.”
“I mean it.” Something rawer crept into Matthew’s tone. “I won’t hold it against you.”
“Is that really what you think of me?” The question came out sharper than he meant, an ache building in his temples. “That I’d just leave you like this?”
“I think...” Matthew paused, choosing his words carefully. “I think people always say they’ll stick around until staying gets complicated.”
“But I’m not ‘people.’ And we’re already complicated.” The truth felt heavy on Hanbin’s tongue, but necessary. “Things have felt wrong between us for a long time now.”
“Yeah.” Matthew’s agreement came without elaboration, without invitation for more.
Something about that broke through Hanbin’s patience. All the exasperation and and resentment and confusing guesswork finally reached his breaking point. He was tired of it – of whatever this was or what it had become. He was done dancing around it.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” he admitted. “I want to fix whatever’s wrong. But I can’t read your mind, Matthew.”
“I just wanted you to care enough to ask.”
The simplicity of it stunned him.
“I’m asking now,” he said, almost begging. “Please, I want to know. I need to.”
“What if I tell you and you think it’s childish?” Matthew’s voice was so quiet Hanbin had to strain to hear. “What if you decide this whole conversation was stupid and you can’t look at me the same way anymore?”
“That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that.” Matthew finally looked up, and his eyes were uncertain, almost afraid. “You don’t know how long I’ve been trying to find a way to say this without sounding pathetic.”
“Try me.”
Matthew held his gaze for a long moment, searching for something – reassurance, maybe, or permission to finally tell the truth. When he spoke, the mask finally fell away completely.
“I miss you.”
Hanbin could hear everything Matthew wasn’t saying in those three words.
“I–”
“I miss this, hyung. Us. Whatever we were.”
Rain caught in Matthew’s lashes as he kept his eyes fixed downward.
“And I guess it wasn’t just one thing. It was a lot of little things that started to feel big.” Matthew’s jaw clenched, like he was trying to force the words out. “Hearing your compliments about me second-hand… from interviews, from fans. But never hearing those things directly from you.” His voice wavered. “Why do strangers get to hear what you think of me, but I don’t?”
Something sharp twisted behind Hanbin’s ribs.
“And that thing about how I’d never get jealous – you said it like it was some kind of virtue. But I watch you spend more time with other people and I keep thinking, why not me anymore?”
Hanbin swallowed thickly, “You were jealous?”
“Of course I was.” Matthew’s admission was unsteady. “And I hate feeling that way because you don’t owe me anything, but–”
He cut himself off, fingers white-knuckled around the windbreaker’s fabric.
“In that live, when you called me sunshine–” The word sounded distasteful now. “Like that’s why we don’t talk anymore. Because I’m too bright to handle heavy things, right? But I’ve been there for your bad days before. You used to trust me with them.” His voice grew hoarse, “You just... stopped.”
“Matthew–”
“And then on that show, when you called me your baby.” Everything was tumbling out now. “Like I don’t take care of you. But I do. I have been, or I was trying to. I was always there when you needed me, until you decided you didn’t need me anymore.”
Each confession rewrote the last few months in Hanbin’s mind. It hadn’t occurred to him that his faith in Matthew might have become its own kind of neglect. That loving someone enough to never doubt them could mean never checking if they still needed you too.
Hanbin wanted to interrupt, to explain and defend and justify. But he made himself stay quiet, because this belonged to Matthew.
“That night in the practice room... I was scared for you. Scared you were going to just drop one day from running yourself into the ground. And when I finally worked up the nerve to call you out on it, you looked me in the eye and basically asked who the hell I thought I was.” Matthew turned his head away. “It felt like you were telling me I didn’t have the right to be by your side anymore. That hurt. And you’ve told the fans before that I wasn’t built to be angry, remember? But I was. I was so angry.”
The memory surged back with painful clarity – the way Matthew had frozen, the way he’d smiled like it didn’t matter. Hanbin had wanted to forget the moment so badly he’d almost convinced himself it never happened.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I know. You already said that.” Matthew wiped at his face with the back of his hand. “That almost makes it worse. If you’d meant to hurt me, at least it would mean you were thinking about me at all.”
That hurt more than anything else Matthew had said.
“But I’m sorry, hyung.” He continued, his voice small and tired. “I should’ve been honest sooner, should’ve found a way to talk to you instead of waiting for you to notice. That wasn’t fair.”
“Don’t.” Hanbin reached for Matthew’s hands. “Don’t apologize for this.”
“But I–”
“You know me better than almost anyone. But somehow I’d started seeing that as just... Matthew being Matthew, instead of Matthew choosing to pay attention.”
Matthew looked down at their joined hands. “I didn’t want to seem needy, so I just expected you to magically know what to do without me ever saying what was wrong.”
“And I got so comfortable thinking you were okay that I stopped checking if you actually were.” Hanbin’s grip tightened. “I’m sorry. For not seeing. For all the things I said without thinking. For making you feel invisible.”
Instinctively, Hanbin pulled him closer into a hug.
Matthew slowly relaxed into the embrace. And Hanbin felt something settle in his soul – something that had been restless for so weeks. Holding Matthew like this felt like the most honest thing he’d done so far.
“I want to do better. But you have to tell me when I mess up. Even if it’s going to hurt. Even if it’s small, or ugly. I’d want to hear it.”
“Okay,” Matthew whispered into his shoulder. “And I promise to actually talk to you instead of just hoping you’ll figure it out on your own. No more waiting for you to read between lines I never drew clearly enough.”
“Then I’ll pay attention. And I’ll ask.”
They sat like that as the rain continued. Under the too-small shelter of a shared jacket, everything unspoken between them finally felt safe enough to be said. And heard.
“We should probably go inside,” Matthew said eventually, though he made no move to leave. “We’re both going to get sick if we stay out here much longer.”
Hanbin laughed softly. It felt good to do that again. “You’re worried about that only now?”
“If we both fall sick at the same time, the others will never let us hear the end of it.”
“Probably not.” Hanbin’s arms tightened protectively around Matthew. “But if I have to catch a cold, I don’t mind doing it with you.”
Matthew actually snorted. “You’re so dramatic, hyung.”
“Says the person I found sitting in the rain.”
“I was processing. Having a moment.”
“Yeah?” Hanbin’s smile widened, “How did that work out for you?”
“Better than expected,” Matthew admitted.
When they finally stood to go inside, shaking rain from their clothes and sharing the damp windbreaker between them, the air between them felt different. Not perfect. That would take time. But the foundation felt solid now.
“Hey,” Hanbin said as they reached the door, catching Matthew’s wrist gently.
“Hmm?”
“Tomorrow, after practice – want to grab dinner? Just us. I want to hear about that movie you were trying to tell me about. The one that made you cry.”
Matthew’s entire face lit up. Hanbin thought it was strangely endearing, making his chest ache in a good way.
“Really? Of course I’d like that, hyung!”
“Good,” Hanbin smiled, meaning it with every fibre of his being. “I’d like that a lot too.”
They walked inside together, closer than they’d been in months. Finally ready to start again.