Archive of Our Own

When Hongjoong graces Seonghwa’s room on a normal day, he sprawls onto the bed, rifles through Seonghwa’s snacks, fiddles with his lego, complains about schedules – fills the space like he belongs there.

Tonight, he’s leaning against the doorframe, outlined by the hallway light. Seonghwa thinks he looks terrifying.

“Let’s talk, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitches, catches painfully in his throat. A clenched jaw follows, muscles tightening in a feeble attempt to ground himself. It’s ridiculous, honestly.

Eight years. Eight years since they first met. Eight years since Seonghwa’s muted, barren heart stuttered to a start at the mere first sight of him – tousled brown hair, oversized red hoodie that swallowed his frame as he hunched over his laptop. Eight years since Seonghwa felt his world tilt beneath him, gravity pulling him into an abyss of sheer panic, helplessness flooding into his veins at the crushing, devastating realisation because you don’t – you can’t – fall in love with someone you’re supposed to work with. Debut with.

And believe him, he’s tried, he’s tried so fucking hard to stop. To look at him, touch him and feel nothing but what he’s supposed to - friendship, brotherhood, something clean and manageable. How many nights had he gone to sleep praying, begging to whatever higher being there was out there to take these wretched thoughts away before they hollowed him out? How many mornings had he woken up, hoping against hope that the feelings that consumed him, roaring through him like destructive wildfire, would finally burn themselves out and disappear?

But you can't wish your feelings away, can you?

Day after day, each glance he catches has him drowning in his amber orbs, each touch leaves him starved for more – please, I'll take anything just –

Alas. It's been eight years since Seonghwa fell hopelessly, madly, irrevocably in love with Kim Hongjoong.

And still, after eight years, the sound of his name falling from Hongjoong’s lips, no matter how casual, how fleeting, still feels sacred, something he treasures with every fibre of his being. It sounds like white doves singing on Christmas morning, like fingers on a church harp, the resonance echoing through his chest long after the sound fades. When the reverberation finally stills, Seonghwa treasures the sound long after it fades, hoards it like something finite.

It’s pathetic, Seonghwa recognises distantly. Embarrassingly pathetic.

But then again, perhaps that’s why he's always teetering on the edge – because some part of him has been mentally preparing for the day he hears his name tumble from Hongjoong’s lips for the final time. For the moment Hongjoong finally looks at him with disgust, repulsed by Seonghwa’s eight-year secret. How disappointed would he be? To realise that his bandmate, his supposed best friend would give anything, do anything for the slightest chance of being loved in return?

He's thought about it, dreamt about it, obsessed over it – how Hongjoong’s slightly smaller but sturdier, more muscular frame would fit right into his arms, as though that’s where he’s always meant to be, how his palms would feel pressed against his own, fingers interlocked and held tight like he was afraid that Seonghwa would disappear if he let go, how his chapped lips –

Seonghwa sets the hand lotion with a quiet click, the final step of his nighttime routine abruptly abandoned. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and swivels around in his chair to face him, the man who has undone him in ways he’d never admit aloud.

Hongjoong doesn’t knock anymore – hasn’t in a long time – and Seonghwa supposes he should feel grateful, special even, for the familiarity.

But Jesus Christ. Some mercy for this poor lovesick fool please.

It's nearing midnight and here the man is. Intruding Seonghwa’s safe space where Hongjoong is no longer a permanent fixture in.

When the dorm change was announced, a part of Seonghwa wanted to cry out, to psycho their manager into giving in to his sick, self-indulgent desires. After living together in the same room for 5 years, it was only natural that coming home to Hongjoong became all that Seonghwa knew. Routine, comfort, ruin, wrapped up neatly and presented as familiarity.

But two weeks after the move, sitting alone on his bed, in an apartment that Hongjoong wasn’t in, didn't belong in, he realised something terrifying and freeing all at once.

He could breathe.

He could hide. He could run. He could shove the thundering, overwhelming thoughts of Hongjoong Hongjoong Hongjoong to the very back of his mind, at least until the next time they were meant to meet.

He lived a bit easier after that.

Though, Hongjoong had developed the (bad) habit of popping by Seonghwa’s shared dorm unannounced, and tonight was no different. Seonghwa loved having Hongjoong around to control San and Mingi once in a while. The problem, the glaring, unavoidable problem this time, was that Seonghwa had sent San and Mingi off to supper without him. His phone is still lit up, the message painfully fresh from when it was received 5 minutes ago.

Hyung, we'll be back late. gg to watch a midnight movie with Youngie now!

Seonghwa exhales softly.

Of all nights.

He raises his gaze to take in Hongjoong’s form. The man is still in his same navy knitted Ralph Lauren pullover and jeans from earlier in the day, a surprise since they were dismissed from their last rehearsal after lunch. Hongjoong has his hands shoved in his jeans pocket, a poor attempt at nonchalance but Seonghwa knows better. Always knows better.

He tries to ignore the fact that the knitted Ralph Lauren is one that he helped pick out.

Hongjoong’s eyes are glazed over with poorly hidden concern (judgement?) and Seonghwa wriggles nervously in his chair under the sheer intensity of his captain’s gaze. The locks of dark hair swept over his eyes don’t make his look any less weighted.

Seonghwa hopes Hongjoong can’t hear the sound of his heart thundering in his ear because he knows what this is about.

“What do you mean?” He parts his lips and lies through his teeth, words coming out meek, guilty, akin to a whisper. Like a child that’s been caught stealing candy.

He hears Hongjoong sigh as he takes another uninvited step into Seonghwa’s room. Into the space that he’s so meticulously curated for himself, stripped of any trace of the love of his life. No more pictures of the two of them pasted above his bunk, no more cards with Hongjoong’s doodles on them. They’ve been folded neatly and stored away in his desk drawer, hidden away from damaging sunlight and prying eyes. Stored away like contraband. Like treasure.

If Hongjoong’s ever noticed the difference, he's never said anything about it.

Hongjoong eyes Seonghwa carefully. He takes more time than he needs to before he asks, voice low, careful, “I saw the tweets about your live. What did you mean?”

“What’s wrong with my live?” Seonghwa chirps back too quickly, hands finding the hand lotion bottle again, popping the lid back open and snapping it shut again. A distraction.

“Seonghwa you–”

Hongjoong lets out a frustrated sigh that sounds like it’s been brewing in his chest for awhile and runs his fingers through his gelled hair. Stray strands fall loose. He gives a low shake of his head and breathes in.

“What did you mean?” He repeats himself, tone firmer and laced with authority. He takes another step into Seonghwa’s sacred space and Seonghwa is left wondering when was the last time the two of them were alone in such a small area.

It does little (nothing) to calm him.

Seonghwa pops the cap open again, eyes darting downwards and absentmindedly noting how the lotion pools at the opening. “I don’t know what you're talking about, Hongjoong-ah.”

Another sigh – rougher this time.

“Your post. The lyrics.”

Oh, Seonghwa knows exactly what Hongjoong is talking about.

I will upload a photo in 3 minutes.
Please listen closely to the lyrics.

Perhaps it was an act of rebellion, the blooms of emotions he’s kept buried deep in his chest for eight years desperately clawing for some sunlight, for escape from the confines of his being.

Seonghwa hasn’t thought it through. He hadn’t thought Hongjoong would notice – would care – so he’d done it. Thrown ATINY, the MATZ shippers, a bone.

Oh, would they ever know how painfully, humiliatingly true it was.

It would be an utter, blatant lie if Seonghwa said that he didn't enjoy, revel in the comments people made. How the members called them mom and dad, how ATINY branded them the perfect imperfect match, how the fortune tellers said they were like husband and wife (twice!), because that was all he had. Lord forgive him because it was only in those fleeting moments that he indulged himself, believing that there was a chance, he had a chance. How could it be that there was no hope for them when everyone else around them was saying the same damn thing, feeding his one-sided delusions?

“Seonghwa…”

The way his name sounds on Hongjoong's lips still sends a familiar rush through him, warm and euphoric, but not like this – no. This time, it carries weight. Finality. Seonghwa feels the end approaching, inevitable and cruel because Hongjoong does not love him like that. He wishes it never had to come to this.

He should have just kept his mouth shut.

He fidgets with the cap, eyes darting to his phone again, hope flaring uselessly in his chest that San would message right this instant, that they were on the way back because the movie got retimed. Or perhaps Mingi would say he was coming back alone because San decided to stay with Wooyoung tonight.

Something. Anything.

“Seonghwa what did you mean?” Hongjoong urges again, filling the silence, and Seonghwa can feel his exit routes closing in. Hongjoong is no more than three feet away and Seonghwa can smell his cologne from where he is. Familiar, comforting cruel. It’s taking all of his self control and more not to grab Hongjoong by his shirt collar and –

“It didn't mean anything, Hongjoong-ah.” Seonghwa quickly bites back, swallows his desires and shoves his thoughts, his wants, the truth, into the depths of his mind, into a familiar box labelled impossible, “I already said that it’s not a big deal.”

Hongjoong scoffs.

The sound alone has him looking up. But he doesn’t need to see Hongjoong’s face to know. Seonghwa always knows.

Hongjoong is pissed.

“You said to listen to the lyrics,” Hongjoong needlessly prompts, voice tight, brows hardened into a frown. “The lyrics were about falling in love with your best friend. Am I reading too much into this or do we need to talk?”

“You’re here to ask me about that?” Seonghwa’s shaky laugh rattles in his chest, “Joong-ah they’re just lyrics from a song that I like. You know I’ve been listening to dhruv recently.”

Please, please just let it go. Pretend I never said anything. Let us be normal. Please.

Hongjoong scoffs again.

“Don’t do that.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t lie to my face.” Hongjoong’s voice quietens into just above a whisper, light and airy, but it knocks the air out of Seonghwa’s chest and settles heavy in his gut, “Park Seonghwa don’t you look me in the eye and lie to me.”

Seonghwa has never heard Hongjoong sound like this before, not with him. Yes they’ve had their fair share of disagreements, stumbled through misunderstandings and squabbles but they always find their way back to each other. Always, as friends. Only as friends.

Not this time.

This time, Hongjoong is angry.

He knows.

And he’s angry about it.

Seonghwa closes his eyes, realisation settling in his bones – heavy and unmistakable. This is the end. The end of the fragile balance that he’s so desperately protected by himself for eight years. The end of his tragic one-sided love story.

So he speaks, accepts his fate.

“I’m sorry.”

Seonghwa doesn’t know what else to say – what else can he say to make things any better?

His eyes stay shut but his ears are ringing, the floor is spinning dangerously beneath his feet. The lingering scent of Hongjoong’s cologne a jarring reminder of how utterly exposed he is and how this would be the last time he would have the privilege of breathing it in. Why would Hongjoong want to be anywhere near him after this?

He hears Hongjoong take another step closer and he braces himself for the inevitable. Will he yell? Shout at him for being unprofessional, reckless, selfish? Or worse, will he say nothing at all? Everything that needs to be said laid bare completely in his eyes – disappointment, disgust, disillusionment.

Every memory, every moment Hongjoong has given him the luxury of having flashes in sharp fragments. The late night talks on Hongjoong’s bottom bunk with the lights off, shoulders pressed together as they discussed the group’s future in whispers. The intimate practice sessions long after the rest of the group had run off for fried chicken, Hongjoong gently, patiently coaching Seonghwa through his parts. The hand-holding, hugs, heck, even those stupid cheek kisses Hongjoong had to give him as part of his penalty game.

He remembers how Hongjoong had sent his heart soaring, thundering in his chest, only to drop him into free fall at the sight of how visibly disturbed he’d looked at having to kiss him during that stupid blind date game. Calling it a kiss would be generous, Hongjoong had barely scraped his cheek before he immediately jerked away, like Seonghwa was poison.

But he would gratefully, humbly accept whatever the younger man would allow him.

And now, he would graciously let everything go.

Hongjoong sighs again and Seonghwa winces, ready for the impact, ready to say goodbye –

“Who is it?”

His eyes shoot open.

What?

He eyes Hongjoong in disbelief, only now registering details he’d missed before: his sleeves unevenly, haphazardly rolled up and the hem of his pullover awkwardly caught on his right hip. It’s now that he notices Hongjoong’s slightly heavier breathing, sweat rolling down his neck, as though he’s been running.

Seonghwa blinks. “I’m… sorry?”

Hongjoong’s frown deepens as he crosses his arms, and Seonghwa absentmindedly notices how good his biceps look.

He recognises that he’s a sick, sick man.

Silence settles between them. Not the comfortable kind, it’s the kind of silence that’s thick and oppressive, the one that makes you want to run, peppered only with the sound of the clock and Hongjoong’s heavy breathing. Confusion coils in Seonghwa’s chest. This is not how he expected things to play out.

Hongjoong lets it stretch, worries his bottom lip as his eyes flick restlessly about the room.

“Who is it?” He repeats, urgency creeping in.

What does he mean, who is it? Thoughts race through Seonghwa’s mind, he’s struggling to understand – is he toying with him? Dragging this out for satisfaction? For humiliation — forcing him to name the object of his affection just so he can tear him apart with a laugh?

Seonghwa’s chest tightens painfully. He can’t breathe, can’t think.

“Hongjoong-ah I don’t understand –”

“Fuck, Park Seonghwa, stop fucking playing.” Hoongjoong snaps, fingers running through his now-messed hair. “You don’t post something like that and tell people to listen to the lyrics unless there’s someone.” His voice drops, quieter now. Accusatory. “Unless it’s true.”

“Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa scrabbles for the edge of his table to push himself up, knees shaking and weak. “Hongjoong-ah I’m sorry, please know that I never meant for this to happen. I– I tried, Joong-ah, I really tried to stop. I tried and hoped and prayed... you know I’m not religious but I prayed, Joong-ah, every single day. And I tried to hide it, I think I did a good job right? But I don’t know what came over me just now, I… I just heard the lyrics and… Joong-ah I’m sorry.”

He grips into the wood, bile building in his throat and stares holes into the ground. The reality that he’s about to say goodbye to everything he’s held dear – his group, his leader, his Hongjoong, is settling in.

He’s so afraid.

“Joong-ah, Hongjoong-ah, I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry. Please don’t be angry, please.”

Hongjoong’s humourless laugh cuts into Seonghwa more than he’d ever admit. It hurts. But he deserves it, he deserves the anger, the disappointment, the disgust. Seonghwa squeezes his eyes shut.

This is it. This is the moment he's been anticipating, hoping against all hope that it'd never come.

“Does he know?”

A pause. A tilt of his head. Seonghwa blinks.

Huh?

“I’m sorry?”

Hongjoong clicks his tongue, irritation flashing across his face.

“Does Lee Know know?”

“Lee… Know..?”

“Because if he doesn’t,” Hongjoong says flatly, “then keep it that way.”

Huh?

Seonghwa frowns, “Why are we talking about Lee Know? What does-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake stop playing with me, Seonghwa!”Hongjoong snaps. His hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening.” Does he know? Fuck. Actually, wait, are you actually already together?” The words tumble faster, sharper, spiralling. “Is this what this is about? Fuck does the rest of the group know? Jesus Seonghwa how the fuck am I going to answer to Bang Chan? How long has this been going on for? When did it start? Was it from weekly idol? How did I completely miss this? Fuck Seonghwa what –”

The questions come frantic, breathless. None of them relevant.

“Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa rushes in, cuts his rambling off. He wrinkles his nose in genuine, bewildered confusion, “What are you talking about?”

“Seonghwa stop fucking playing with me.” Hongjoong repeats, back rigid but he looks like he’s sinking into himself. “Jesus, Seonghwa-yah, fucking give me a break. Do you have any idea how it felt to read those tweets and see your post? To find out this way that you’re in love with someone and you all but confessed to ATINY, to the world, that you’re spoken for? Fucking hell Seonghwa.”

His voice cracks, just slightly.

“Give me a break.”

Seonghwa blinks slowly, “Give you a break?”

He feels something hot, bitter, and unpleasant building in his chest.

“Give you a break? A break from what? Hongjoong you don’t know what you’re asking of me, you don’t deserve to ask that of me.”

“The hell I don’t, Seonghwa,” He sees Hongjoong bare his teeth, lips pulled back into a snarl.

Seonghwa stumbles forward without thinking, barely registering the proximity of their bodies over the thick, charged energy in the dimly lit room.

“Hongjoong I–” He reaches out, fingers brushing Hongjoong’s arm — maybe to ground him, maybe himself — but Hongjoong jerks away, stares at him like he’s been burned. Anger burning within amber. Seonghwa barely registers how his leader fiddles with his team ring. A nervous tick, he recognises.

“How long has this been going on for? Fuck–,” Hongjoong’s hand tears through his hair, now completely roughed up, “Seonghwa I’m fucking going crazy here, why didn't you tell me anything?”

Hongjoong takes a step back, maintains that distance that he always has with him, “Why would you just spring this on me like this? Have a bit of mercy please, you don’t know the thoughts I’ve been having. Fuck, the thought of him... or someone else with you, I just– Seonghwa, how far have you gone with him?”

Seonghwa gapes at Hongjoong’s tone. How far – how dare he scandalise him like this?

Something in Seonghwa snaps. He takes a defiant, deliberate step closer. Eyes locked, closing the distance again.

Go on, he thinks wildly, move back, run, you coward.

Hongjoong doesn’t.

“How dare you, Kim Hongjoong, how dare you?” Seonghwa starts slowly, drawing himself to full height and leveraging the few inches he has on Hongjoong to help me feel stronger, more confident, more in control. “You don’t get to come in here, into my home, my space, and project your self-indulgent messed up thoughts onto me and expect me, demand me to entertain you. I don’t owe you shit.”

“You owe me answers, Seonghwa. You said that it’s nothing but it sure fucking doesn’t sound like it’s nothing. How long have you been with him? How– what–,” Hongjoong’s words fracture, “How far have you gone with him?”

There it is again. That accusation. Seonghwa shudders, why does it matter?

Oh.

But wait.

Wait.

Waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait.

His thoughts slam to a screeched halt. A terrible, hopeful idea sparks – could it be?

He hopes, he hopes –

Then he baits.

“Hongjoong why would do you care–”

“Of course I fucking care!” Hongjoong shouts, shoulders heaving, as though he too had a secret he’s been burying for years, threatening to claw its way out through careless words. Seonghwa holds his breath and time seems to still. He’s standing at the edge of the cliff – dare he dream?

Dare he hope against hope that maybe, just maybe, he had a chance after all?

Dare he hope?

“Of course– fucking hell Seonghwa, of course I care, I’m the fucking leader of the group.” Hongjoong continues hoarsely, “I can’t let your mistake fuck us up like this. We’ve worked so fucking hard for years now, Seonghwa. I’m not letting all this go to hell because you decided to fuck things up. Because you decided it’d be funny, entertaining, to profess to the world your dying love for him on a fucking live.”

.

.

.
.

.
Ah.

Ah, Seonghwa smiles to himself bitterly. Of course. How foolish can he get?

He hears his heart shatter in his chest, shards piercing somewhere vital and unremovable. He never stood a fucking chance, did he?

The thing about Hongjoong is that he always knows what to say. He stumbles over his words sometimes, awkward and endearing, but he’s always known how to pick the right ones when it matters — after a brutal practice, after a cruel tweet, after a long day when the world feels too loud. Years of carrying seven boys onto the world stage have carved presence and grace into him.

He also knows, Seonghwa learns tonight, exactly what to say to make things hurt.

“You’re right, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa’s tone tight, formality seeping in like armour. His eyes close as he takes a step back in surrender, “I’m sorry. This is my mistake. I shouldn’t have been so reckless on the live. It won’t happen again. I won’t address it, don’t worry. Everything will go back to normal.”

The misunderstanding still looms over them, heavy and unresolved, but what’s the point of clarifying?

Maybe this is mercy. Let Hongjoong walk away, painfully, blissfully unaware and ignorant to how Seonghwa bleeds for him. Because he doesn’t, hasn’t, wouldn’t ever feel the same way for him.

And if Hongjoong is reacting like this to a ridiculous, self-construed belief, how would he react to the truth?

It’s over, Seonghwa accepts.

Seonghwa shuffles backwards, almost tripping over his long pajama pants, and leans against his table. He crosses his arms, a feeble shield, whatever it takes to protect his heart, or what’s left of it.

“It won’t happen again, Hongjoong. You have my word. I’m sorry.”

“So it’s true?” Hongjoong says numbly, steadies his hand on his hip.

“Huh?” The irritation in Seonghwa’s voice surprises even him, but he doesn’t care anymore. He just wants this conversation to end. He just wants to move on.

“So it really is Lee Know,” Hongjoong mutters, “Fuck. Alright. Fine.”

“Look, Hongjoong, I’m sorry that it’s come to this but trust me, believe me, when I say that nothing will change.” Seonghwa’s lips slip in a small, sad, smile and he meets Hongjoong’s eyes, “We’re okay. The group will be okay.”

This is the truth. He pleads. Take it, Hongjoong. Take it and leave, please.

“Since when?”

Seonghwa thumbs his temples, pressure blooming behind his eyes, “Since when– Jesus, Hongjoong why does it matter? It’s over, let’s move on.”

“No, Seonghwa, nothing’s fucking over. Fuck, be honest with me please,” Hongjoong shakes his head, “How long have you been together? God please, just tell me.”

“We aren’t– Hongjoong– We’re not–”

“You’re not?” Hongjoong catches that and laughs once, breathless, “So it’s one-sided?”

Seonghwa stills.

“You’re in love with him,” Hongjoong selfishly concludes, voice softer than before, “That’s it isn’t it? That’s what all this is?”

Seonghwa steps closer before he can stop himself. Hongjoong’s arms are folded tight across his chest, thumb worrying at his teeth, eyes darting anywhere but at him.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa starts quietly, ”Listen to me, there’s nothing going on –”

He wonders why he’s still trying.

“I didn't even know you were still close to him,” Hongjoong interrupts. He doesn’t seem to be listening to Seonghwa anymore. “Shit, I didn't know you were close to him in the first place. I had to find out on a variety show. Do you know how that felt, Hwa?”

He’s not looking at Seonghwa, head in his hands as he sinks down onto Seonghwa’s bed, shoulders sagging into something that Seonghwa thinks looks too much like defeat.

Why?

“I thought, maybe I was being stupid, but I always thought that it was the two of us,” Hongjoong admits, shuffling his feet into the carpet. Seonghwa sadly recognises those red polka-dotted socks – he had picked those out too. “Me for you and you for me. Because you’re all I have Seonghwa-yah, you’re my only friend. Everything I do is for you, you occupy my thoughts whether I like it or not.”

The words hit like a blow.

“And now you’re telling me,” He continues hoarsely, eyes peering up at Seonghwa from behind dark locks, “That not only is my best friend best friends with someone else, but he’s also in love with him?” He swallows. “Fuck, Seonghwa, please I– I can’t do this. Please don’t do this to me, Seonghwa. Not when–”

Hongjoong clamps his mouth shut, trapping the words in his throat forbidding them from coming out. As though they’d ruin him.

Seonghwa blinks. His confusion deepens into something dizzying, almost unreal.

What is he talking about?

“Joong-ah,” he says softly, instinctively slipping back into the pet name. He shuffles closer, and gingerly kneels at the feet of his captain, his love, hands awkwardly by his side. He doesn’t think that he has the privilege of touching him, not after all he’s done, “Joong-ah I don’t understand. I’m really sorry, I knew that what I said would be scandalised but I really didn't think it would make you so angry. Please don’t be angry at me-”

“Fuck, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong chokes out a laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob.

He looks up then, eyes shining. Seonghwa freezes.

“Seonghwa-yah, I could never be angry at you,” He confesses sincerely, “There is not a fibre in my being that could hold an ounce of anger towards you. Not you. Not now, not ever.”

What.

Seonghwa’s blood is rushing in his ears - every cell in his body on fire, alive and trembling.

Seonghwa sees Hongjoong’s fists ball in his sheets and before it registers, he’s reaching out to touch him for the first time that night. Hongjoong’s icy fingers twitch under his touch and he instinctively wants to draw back, for crossing the line, but then Hongjoong relaxes and Seonghwa allows himself this lingering touch. He hopes it conveys all he wants to, but can’t say – I’m sorry. I love you. Please forgive me.

So Seonghwa doesn’t answer. He can’t. If he opens his mouth now, he doesn’t know what will come out — the truth, or something desperate and ugly and selfish. He’s not taking any chances.

Hongjoong’s words remain hovering between them, fragile and fleeting. His fists clench momentarily as he studies Seonghwa’s face.

“... Seonghwa?” He tries.

Seonghwa’s lip remain pursed, a tired sigh escaping.

Hongjoong exhales, slow and measured, like he’s steadying himself.

“Right,” he says quietly. Too quietly. “Okay.”

In that second, he slips his hand away from Seonghwa and pushes himself to his feet, movements controlled again, leader-mask sliding back into place piece by piece. Seonghwa stumbles back onto his feet, breath shaky.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Hongjoong continues, voice deflated. “Forget it. I crossed a line.”

Seonghwa panics.

“Joong–”

Hongjoong lifts a hand. Stops him.

“No. Don’t.” He doesn’t look at Seonghwa. “You’ve already said enough tonight. I’ll handle this for you.”

For you.

Panic brews fast in Seonghwa’s chest, bubbling up into his throat.

“Hongjoong–”

Hongjoong turns away and for a moment, Seonghwa thinks he sees his shoulders quiver. His hands shoot out, grabbing onto Hongjoong’s arm, soft Ralph Lauren gentle against his skin, sharp, tense lines of his leader’s biceps underneath.

“Hongjoong it’s not what you think–”

“Drop it, Seonghwa!” Hongjoong whips around, eyes ablaze and yanks his arm from Seonghwa’s grasp. Seonghwa shrinks back. He’s never seen Hongjoong like this before. “I fucking get it, alright? You want to move on? Okay we’ll fucking move on. Just let me go. I–” He huffs, sharp and roughly, “Forget it. Yeah you’re right. You should have a life outside us, outside me.”

“Outside you?” Seonghwa parrots, words foreign on his tongue. “Hongjoong I never wanted that, I never wanted to live a life without you in it. You don’t know what you mean to me– what am I, without you?”

What am I, if not yours?

“Seonghwa, don’t start,” Hongjoong chuckles humourlessly, “You don’t have to patronise me.”

“Patronise you?” Seonghwa echoes, incredulous, “Why would I ever patronise you?”

“Careful now,” Hongjoong snarls quietly, “He might get jealous.”

Oh that does it.

That fucking does it.

Seonghwa snaps.

“Who the fuck are you talking about?” Seonghwa screeches, voice finally rising, jagged and raw. He swears for the first time that night – a feat, he’s known to be gentle with his words. Not tonight. “Since the moment you walked into my room you’ve been spewing bullshit you pulled straight out of your ass. Have you stopped to fucking listen to me?”

He presses forward again and Hongjoong takes a wobbly step back in response, back thudding against Seonghwa’s door. Always that damned distance.

Seonghwa’s arms shake with adrenaline and he fists at Hongjoong’s collar.

Fuck you.

“You know what your problem is, Kim Hongjoong?” Seonghwa spits, voice shaking with fury now, his feelings tearing loose after years of being held together by sheer will. “You’re so fucking good with your words, but you don’t fucking listen. You spin these fucked up fantasies and force them onto me, then leave me to deal with the mess. How many times have we fought because of your own misunderstandings? Because you refuse to get your head out of your ass and actually hear what I’m saying?”

“My love, I–”

The words spill out of Seonghwa then, unstoppable, a train hurtling down broken tracks. He doesn’t care who he shatters in the process. He doesn’t even register what Hongjoong calls him.

“Do you even fucking hear yourself?” He shouts, chest heaving, eyes wide, voice raw with eight years of suppression. He can feel his own fingernails through the knitted fabric, dully registering how the pain blooms in crescents. “Jesus, Kim Hongjoong, I didn't know the leader of ATEEZ could be this fucking stupid. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t fucking know how I’ve been living.”

His voice is hoarse, throat burning. He doesn’t stop.

“Eight years! Eight fucking, pathetic years, did you know that, Hongjoong? Huh? Eight years of having to live with you, work with you, be with you but pretend that everything’s normal, I’m normal, like I don’t feel anything for you. Sometimes I think I have a chance, y’know? You say things, give me looks that I think, hope, could mean something but then the next minute you’re pulling away from me like poison. Like the thought of just being near me disgusts you. And that fucking hurts, it hurts Hongjoong.”

“Seonghwa that’s not–”

His chest heaves and his ears burn – tears of anger, frustration, devotion, devastation, building up. He closes his eyes and steps off the cliff. There’s no turning back now.

Fuck Kim Hongjoong.

“Eight years,” he repeats slowly, voice finally breaking. The tears spill, leaving hot, burning trails down his cheeks. “Eight years of loving you and dying every single fucking night because I knew that my love was doomed from the beginning.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, deafening. Seonghwa’s breath comes out in short, ragged spurts. He sees how Hongjoong’s eyebrows reach his hairline, jaw tight. He lets go of his collar, hands tracing briefly down Hongjoong’s arms, lingering for just a heartbeat, one final forbidden touch, before he pulls away. His shoulders slump, hands falling uselessly to his sides.

“Seonghwa you–”

“So yeah, yeah you’re right. You’re fucking right.” Seonghwa cuts in quickly, harsh and bitter. He doesn’t want to hear anything. “If I had known this was why you came over, I wouldn't have opened the fucking door. Let’s fucking move on. Let me move on please. I can’t do this anymore.”

“But– But Lee Know–”

“Fucking hell I meet Lee Know twice a year! We’re not best friends, we’re nothing. Fuck Hongjoong-ah, why are you so stupid?”

Seonghwa retreats, slumps onto his bed and looks up at Hongjoong wearily. There’s no more strength in his bones.

“It’s you, it’s always, only ever been you.”

I will upload a photo in 3 minutes.
Please listen closely to the lyrics.

He had said, adding it's not a big deal, as an after-thought. All he saw behind closed lids as he ended the live was chicken-yellow hair (he’d laughed at it more than once) guiding him through the streets of Europe.

“Joongie-yah, I’m tired,” he’d complained, breath fogging in the cold, “It’s freezing.”

“Oh shit, yeah - okay,” Hongjoong had said immediately, glancing around, “It’s still awhile more till boarding,” His eyes landed on a stone bench, “Let’s rest there for a bit?”

Seonghwa nodded, limbs stiff from the cold, fingers aching even inside his gloves. He’d brought his hands to his mouth, blowing warm air into them — useless, really.

He’d taken barely two steps before an arm slipped around his waist. Familiar. Easy.

The extra warmth had been a welcome surprise.

What it did to his heart was anything but.

Hongjoong hadn’t noticed him staring. He’d just tugged Seonghwa along, swept the bench clean with his sleeve, then gently guided him down. He’d sat close — shoulders pressed together, knees touching, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Seonghwa’s mind went fuzzy at the realisation of how comfortable Hongjoong was with him.

The cold air bit at his skin but where they touched, his skin seared.

“Thanks for doing this trip with me, Seonghwa-yah.” Hongjoong had chirped happily, eyes framed with his favourite dark rimmed glasses that Seonghwa helped pick out, “It was really fun.”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa remembers answering, swallowing hard at the ghost of Hongjoong’s warm breath on his skin, “The trip of a lifetime.”

He’d wanted to freeze the moment there but he hadn’t. It would’ve been strange to ask the filming crew to capture it, stranger to admit why he wanted it preserved.

But weeks later, his manager sent him a photo.

:)

That’s the caption. Like he knew. It emboldened Seonghwa.

So Seonghwa did something he’d never done before.

He posted another member on his Instagram for the first time.

And he captioned it: bestie.

Hongjoong’s stupid gif in his comments section left him reeling in happiness for a full three days after. If the post bothered him, he never said a word.

His baby superstar.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa sighs his name, reaching for Hongjoong’s wrist but not yet looking at him. He can’t, not yet.

His fingers wrap around it anyway, gentle but deliberate.

Go on, he thinks sadly, pull away.

Hongjoong doesn’t.

“Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa supplies softly, “What did I caption my Lake Como post?”

Hongjoong dumbly stares at Seonghwa’s hand on his wrist.

“... Bestie?”

“Does that explain anything?”

A pause.

“So you–” Hongjoong’s jaw snaps shut in belated realisation, “You– I–”

“You’re not making much sense, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa says, sadness seeping into his words.

He sucks in a tired breath and looks up. Takes a long, deliberate moment to really look at his captain, truly seeing him for the first time that night.

Bitten, pale chapped lips, messy hair that their stylist would freak out over, dark eye bags. Foundation is smudged around the pimple on his cheek, caking in the shallow lines by his eyes. His sweat glistening along his jaw. It's eight degrees out tonight.

King Hongjoong is not perfect in any way. But he is everything Seonghwa has loved, everything he’s been terrified of loving.

He notices the furrowed wrinkles on Hongjoong’s forehead, the subtle twitch of tension as he tries to parse Seonghwa’s confession, the secret he’s protected for so long.

“It’s me?” Hongjoong tries carefully, sounding meeker than Seonghwa’s ever heard him. Like saying it out loud would break the spell.

Seonghwa sighs, thumb rubbing tender circles into Hongjoong’s wrist.

“It’s you.” He confirms softly.

He savours the words, lets them exist in the open. Never, not once, has he thought that he’d get to say them like this.

It’s strange, Seonghwa realises with distant calm, that the end isn’t as scary as he’d imagined. The world didn't end, Hongjoong didn't curse him to hell, he’s still alive and breathing.

He’d always thought Hongjoong would be the one comforting him — coaxing him gently through rejection, smiling apologetically as if this love were an accident neither of them could help.

He never imagined it would be the other way around.

Hongjoong’s breath stills.

Then, without warning, the leader drops to the ground by Seonghwa’s feet. The exact opposite of their positions five minutes ago.

But things are so different now.

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Seonghwa closes his eyes and the tears fall again, thick and heavy on his lap. The words wring his tired heart.

This will all be over soon, he reassures himself. You’re strong, Park Seonghwa. Soon.

“It’s okay Joongie-yah,” he says softly, forcing gentleness into his voice, hoping it will be enough. Enough to make Hongjoong forgive him, enough to make him forget about how Seonghwa almost destroyed everything they had. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m the one who decided it would be a good idea to –”

“No.”

Hongjoong reaches up, carefully cradling Seonghwa’s balled fists in his lap. His hands are warmer now, steady where Seonghwa is unraveling.

“My Seonghwa,” he says, voice firm despite the tremor underneath. “My dear, dear Seonghwa.”

He lifts their joined hands. warm breath lingering over Seonghwa’s skin. Hesitation manifesting in a hitch of his breath before he presses the gentlest, softest kiss to Seonghwa’s knuckles.

What.

Seonghwa gasps loudly, hands going utterly still within Hongjoong’s grasp.

He’s afraid to move now – afraid that if he shifts, if he speaks, that this illusion would break, leaving him alone with reality again.

“I’m sorry,” He says again but his words are lighter, the tension easing out of each syllable, “My love, I’m sorry for everything.”

“Hongjoong I don’t understand…”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer right away, just looks at Seonghwa like he hung the moon, lips still hovering over Seonghwa’s fingers.

Panic curls sharp and sudden in Seonghwa’s chest.

“Hongjoong, if this is some cruel joke… if this is your version of punishment –”

Hongjoong exhales, long and shaky, and brings their hands to his forehead, bowed low. It looks like an apology. Like a prayer. A quiet plea for forgiveness Seonghwa doesn’t understand why he has to grant.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to say this,” he murmurs to the ground, “You’re so kind, you know that? Even now, even at the end, you’re still trying to make things easy for me.”

Hongjoong lifts his head then, gaze locking onto Seonghwa’s so fiercely it steals the air from his lungs. “My love. My heart.”

He hesitates – just for a second – like the words frighten him.

Then.

“I love you,” Hongjoong confesses, quiet but unwavering, “I’m so in love with you.”

.

What.

Seonghwa can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t hear anything over the sound of his heart thundering in his ears. He barely registers as Hongjoong’s hands return to hover near his lips, waiting — patient, respectful — for permission. He doesn’t notice the single tear sliding down Hongjoong’s cheek.

This can’t be real.

“What… what do you mean?” He says shakily, terrified. For one awful second Seonghwa is convinced that if he so much as blinks, this pathetic delusion would vanish before his eyes. That Hongjoong will be standing again, guarded and distant, leader-first, Seonghwa-second.

Hongjoong lets out a soft chuckle, the gentle kind that’s reserved only for him.

“It means, silly,” voice like silk wrapping Seonghwa’s bruised, tattered heart, “That we’re in this together. And I’m sorry for everything, I’m sorry for making you wait. For making this so hard for you.” “I—”

Nothing comes out.

His chest aches like it’s caving in on itself, heart beating too fast, too loud.

Hongjoong notices.

Of course he does.

He always notices Seonghwa’s silences.

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says immediately, soft but alert now. He loosens his grip instead of tightening it, thumbs retreating, palms opening — giving Seonghwa space, choice. “Hey, hey, look at me. You don’t have to say anything. Okay? I’m not… I’m not asking you for anything right now.”

Seonghwa swallows hard, eyes burning.

Hongjoong shifts slightly, careful, still on the floor, still lower than Seonghwa — not because he has to be, but because he chooses to be.

“But I’m not going anywhere,” he adds, slower this time. “Not if you tell me to leave. Not if you tell me you need time. Not even if you tell me you don’t feel the same anymore. I’m not running anymore.”

That finally breaks something.

Seonghwa’s breath stutters, a sharp inhale that fractures into a quiet, ugly sound he can’t stop. He brings a hand up to his face, pressing his knuckles against his mouth to muffle the sobs that wrack through his body anyway.

Hongjoong watches him like he’s holding delicate glass, like one wrong move might shatter him completely. He reaches out again, stopping just short of Seonghwa’s knee.

“Can I?” he asks.

The question, so simple and so him, wrecks Seonghwa more than anything else tonight.

He nods. And Hongjoong’s palm settles on him, hand burning. His fingers curl and flex, gripping and releasing. His thumb moves in slow circles, kneading comfort into trembling skin — whether for Seonghwa or himself, Seonghwa doesn’t know.

“You don’t get to say it like this.” Seonghwa feels his cheeks flush, eyes down on his lap, refusing to meet Hongjoong’s piercing stare. ”Don’t say things you don’t mean. Please, Hongjoong-ah… have mercy. I won’t be able to take it.”

Hongjoong scrambles closer to Seonghwa, still kneeling, his chest all but pressed against Seonghwa’s thighs. One hand stays firm on his knee while the other reaches for his cheek, brushing away the tears that pool at his eyes with unbearable tenderness.

“My love.”

Oh, Seonghwa falls deeper.

“Seonghwa, when have I ever lied to you, hmm?” Hongjoong’s voice softens, losing the edge of insistence and urgency it carried before. His gaze warms, steady and familiar, like quiet June mornings, sunlight spilling through half-drawn curtains.

“And I would never, ever, lie about something like this. I’m sorry it took me so long, and I’m sorry you had to say it first. I’m sorry your captain was too scared, too much of a coward to say anything sooner.”

Seonghwa chokes.

“Since when?” he whispers.

“A long time, my love, it's been long time,” Hongjoong speaks softly, like it’s the first time he’s admitting this out loud, “I can’t pinpoint when it exactly started but since before THANK U,” he chuckles fondly, “It was the closest I could get back then to writing you a love song without scaring you away. And I guess you never did figure it out, but I meant it.”

THANK U.

THANK U?

From fucking 2019?

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa feels faint, “What?”

Hongjoong’s lips pull into a tight, sheepish smile, “Not as long as you, but I deserve a little credit, don’t I?”

Carefully, his hand slips from Seonghwa’s face and he takes Seonghwa’s hand instead and presses his open palm to his cheek, sighing into the touch like it’s something he’s been starving for.

“I was ready to take this to my grave,” he admits quietly. “The push and pull… I’m sorry. Sometimes I’d selfishly indulge myself, let myself look at you a little longer, hold you a little longer. But the thought of me fucking things up for you, for us—” his breath stutters, “—it terrified me. So I pulled away. I tried to keep my distance. I thought I was losing my mind.”

Seonghwa sees him bite the inside of his cheek. “Lake Como wasn’t a coincidence. I knew what it meant to you. It was me being selfish. I convinced the managers to let us go even though we had the fashion shows the next day. I wanted to pretend, just for once, that we were real.”

His eyes soften, guilt and longing tangled together.

“It wasn’t enough, Seonghwa. It never is. But I knew there might never be another chance. So I took it. I’d take whatever you give me,” he whispers, “and I’d be grateful for it.”

The words feel painfully familiar.

“I guess ATINYs noticed where I slipped up, though,” he adds quietly, “I’ve seen more fan edits of us than I should admit.”

“So have I.”

“I saved a few of them.”

“So did I.”

A soft giggle escapes Hongjoong, unrestrained and boyish. It rings through the room like rain clearing the fog, like sunlight spilling through clouds after a storm. He’s not ATEEZ’s captain now, he’s just a boy in love.

“I was at the studio earlier when San called me, told me about the tweets, about your live.” He turns his head and presses a kiss to Seonghwa’s open palm. Seonghwa decides there and then that he loves the feeling of Hongjoong’s lips on him. “I dropped everything and ran. I—” His words falter, swallowed by a breathy exhale. “I panicked, Seonghwa. I desperately needed to know.”

Seonghwa blinks, flushes. “Wait, San?”

“Yeah. Wooyoung told him about it, said that I was completely fucked. That I had one chance to make this right–”

“Wait. Wooyoung too? They know about you? About us– huh?”

Hongjoong nods slowly. “They asked me about it when they first came to me to ask for my permission, and again when they asked for my blessings. Said that if there was hope for them, there was hope for me. For us.”

Maybe Hongjoong can hear Seonghwa’s thoughts. He kisses his palm again.

“But I told them that I didn't have the right to impose that on the group. It was easy for them, they were it for each other from the beginning. But I… I was working against hope. I’d imagined how badly things would turn out too many times. So I ran. Ran away from the only person I ever truly wanted.”

“So,” Seonghwa furrows his brows, “Why did you think it was Lee Know?”

“I don’t know, honestly. You mentioned doing dinner with him earlier this week so I just… I guess I just never considered that it’d be me. I stopped letting myself have that hope years ago.”

Seonghwa grips Hongjoong's hand on his knee fiercely.

“I refused to see it,” Hongjoong’s laugh doesn’t quite land, “Even when they said on the phone that the tweets were about me, that MATZ was trending on Twitter, insisted that I was the best friend you fell in love with, I refused to hope. If something were to happen between us, I thought it would have happened years ago.”

He smiles fondly, “I guess I forgot that you’re as stubborn as I am.”

Seonghwa leans in and reaches down for Hongjoong’s nape, caressing his grown locks. He feels a shiver course through the younger. Hongjoong meets his gaze, meets him where he’s at and smiles. So pure, so genuine. They say the eyes never lie and he understands that entirely now.

Hongjoong looks at him like he’s utterly, completely, hopelessly in love.

“I never knew you looked at me like this.”

“Oh my love, I’ve always looked at you like this,” Hongjoong replies softly. “I just learned when to look away.”

Seonghwa feels the steady thrum beneath his palm. This is real.

“You’re not scared?” he asks.

“Terrified. But I’ve led this team through worse than fear,” Hongjoong smiles, small and earnest, “I can lead my own heart, too.”

“But you know how we can be like. We’re nothing alike. We fight all the time.”

Hongjoong exhales a choked laugh. “You keep giving me exits like I’m going to take them.”

“I have so many questions–”

“I’m sure you do,” Hongjoong interrupts gently, eyes smoldering now, fire and want coiled beneath, spilling over. “And so do I. But can we talk tomorrow?”

His eyes flick to Seonghwa’s lips hungrily.

“Because I really, really, want to kiss you now.”

Seonghwa closes his eyes. Finally.

“Please.”

It happens impossibly slowly. Hongjoong stands up from his knees, bending at his waist, hands cradling his face and leans forward. His lips hover just above Seonghwa’s, a breath away, and the world contracts until it’s only them. The warmth of his breath, the faint scent of mint, makes Seonghwa’s knees weak.

“May I?” Hongjoong whispers, almost breaking the space between them with the weight of the question.

Seonghwa barely nods.

“Please.”

Then, finally, finally, their lips meet.

At that moment, nothing else matters. Not the world outside his room, not the fear of tomorrow. All he cares about is how right this feels.

All of Seonghwa’s doubts, fears, years of quiet yearning simmering into nothingness at the soft, plush feel of Hongjoong’s lips against his. Hesitant and soft.

Hongjoong lets out the softest, most satisfied sigh against his lips and Seonghwa loses all sense of self-restraint. All he wants is Hongjoong, his Hongjoong, his everything.

He flings his arms around his leader and yanks him towards him, pulling him flush against his body. Back hitting soft sheets, Hongjoong yelps into the kiss as he’s pulled down with him, elbow awkwardly jabbing into his ribs but Seonghwa can’t bring himself to give a fuck.

He needs more.

Seonghwa parts his lips and Hongjoong responds wordlessly. The kiss is a desperate clash of tongue and teeth and quiet moans that Seonghwa had imagined only in the privacy of his filthiest fantasies. Hongjoong nudges his knee between Seonghwa’s thighs and parts them smoothly, the shorter slipping into the space without missing a beat. Hongjoong’s hands roam, desperate to know him, down his arms, tracing his waist, before they slip beneath the hem of pajama shirt, hands stilling like he’s asking for permission.

Seonghwa is not a patient man.

One arm around Hongjoong’s neck and the other reaching downwards, grabbing onto Hongjoong’s offending hand and all but shoves it below his shirt. He needs to feel him against his skin.

Hongjoong learns fast. His hands leave burning trails as fingers explore the expanse of his body, laid bare with his shirt now hitched above his belly button. When Hongjoong’s fingers brush against a sensitive bud, Seonghwa gasps, arching his back and breaks the kiss.

“Fuck– Hongjoong-ah, I–”

“Mm?” Hongjoong mouth travels downwards, lips feathering across his neck, littering his skin with wet kisses that send electricity shooting straight downwards.

“Fuck, I need–,” Seonghwa cradles his head, nosing the crown of his head, recognising the smell of his minty shampoo immediately, “I love you, fuck, I love you.”

Hongjoong’s lips are on his again in a charged instant, tongue prodding against his bottom lip. He pulls back for a second and whispers, voice thick with arousal, “Say that again, fuck, please Seonghwa-yah.”

And who is Seonghwa to deny him?

“I love you,” Seonghwa’s nails dig desperately into Hongjoong’s back clawing at the fabric, “I love you, Captain. Please, I need more just–”

Seonghwa’s phone blares.

The spell instantly breaks. Seonghwa briefly contemplates murder.

He grumbles loudly, pushing himself up on his elbows. Hongjoong laughs, kissing a line up his nape, arms wrapping protectively around Seonghwa’s waist.

“You should probably get that,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing.

Seonghwa groans, “Who the fuck…”

Hongjoong cuts him off, holding Seonghwa’s face in his hands, eyes brimming with love.

“Hey, hey my love, we have all the time. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

“Someone better be fucking dying.”

Hongjoong laughs and sends him off with a gentle peck to his lips. Seonghwa grumbles but obeys, scoots to his bedside table to grab the offending object, legs hanging off the side of his bed. He brings it to his ear and sighs.

“San-ah…”

“Hyung we’re on the way back now! The movie was retimed.”

Oh… you’re fucking joking.

Seonghwa pinches his nosebridge, “Sannie-yah…”

“Hyung is… is everything okay?” San’s voice trembles slightly through the line. “Did… did Hongjoong-hyung come over?”

“Hongjoong is –”

Hongjoong must have caught what he said. He swings his legs around, gently trapping Seonghwa between them. Arms loop snugly around his waist, chin pressing into the side of his neck. A soft, teasing kiss lands there, nipping right where the skin is most sensitive.

“Everything is fine, San-ah." Hongjoong says, voice coming out muffled against Seonghwa's nape. "We’re fine. Get back safe.”

Seonghwa can hear the smile in his voice. He assumes San does too.

“... Hongjoong-hyung? ... oh. Oh my god. Wait, you mean– oh fuck- Young-ah! Jagi-yah they’re–”

The line cuts.

Seonghwa chucks his phone back onto the table and sinks backwards into Hongjoong’s embrace, savoring the warmth of him, the reality of him. “Perfect timing.”

Hongjoong smiles against his neck, “Oh, my love. We have all the time in the world. I’m not letting you go, I hope you’re ready, I can be quite the possessive type.”

“Really now?” Seonghwa challenges, tilts his head, eyes smouldering as they meet Hongjoong’s before fluttering shut. He accepts the soft, deliberate kiss Hongjoong places on his lips. Time stills again, distractions fading, everything narrowing down to the slow, aching press of their mouths and the warmth of shared breath.

“I don’t see nobody but you.” Hongjoong sings softly when they part for air. He presses another soft kiss to Seonghwa’s temple. “You’re my vice, you’re my muse.”

Seonghwa chuckles, “Am I now?”

“Maybe I’ll let you listen to some of the other songs I’ve written. The ones no one else has heard. Then you can tell me.”

He falls back onto Seonghwa’s bed, pulling Seonghwa with him, guiding him down until Seonghwa is resting against his chest. Hongjoong’s hand comes up to cradle his cheek, thumb tracing slow, reverent lines along his jaw. His other hand finds Seonghwa’s, fingers threading together, thumb brushing over his knuckles in a distracted, tender rhythm.

“It’s not going to be as easy as with Wooyoung and San,” Seonghwa murmurs, half in warning, half in awe.

Hongjoong scoffs softly. He leans closer and kisses Seonghwa’s forehead, “Don’t talk about those newly-weds to me now. We have catching up to do.”

Seonghwa blinks, lifting his head slightly. “What?”

“I mean it. I’d like to, you know.”

“What?”

Hongjoong exhales, gaze dropping to their intertwined hands. He takes a moment — then lifts his eyes back to Seonghwa, resolve settling in them like dawn.

“I mean it,” he repeats, more carefully this time. “I’d like to... marry you. One day. Not now, but one day.” He spins the band on his finger slowly. “One day this team ring will be joined by a ring that’s just for you and me.”

He plants the gentlest kiss on Seonghwa’s trembling lips, eyes burning into Seonghwa’s, spilling over with determination. Seonghwa wants to cry.

“I’ll prove I’m worth it. That we’re worth it,” Hongjoong continues softly, thumb pausing on Seonghwa’s ring finger. “I love you. If you’ll have me. If you’ll be mine.”

Seonghwa’s breath stutters. His chest tightens, emotions cresting too fast to name: relief, disbelief, devotion, love. Tears blur his vision, but he doesn’t look away. He trusts that his Captain will be there to catch him.

“I’ve been yours,” he whispers, voice breaking on the words. “For a very long time.”

.

The rest of the group finds out a few days later over now-lukewarm fried chicken and too many empty soda cans scattered across Seonghwa’s living room floor.

There’s no announcement. No clearing of throats. Hongjoong just reaches for Seonghwa’s hand.

It happens in plain sight, their fingers slipping together in Hongjoong’s lap, interlacing with a calm, stubborn certainty that makes the room still in a way no one comments on.

Wooyoung is the first to notice. He pauses mid-bite, eyes flicking down, then up again. His mouth twitches, like he’s deciding between a full blown Wooyoung-outburst or something softer. He chooses neither — just nudges his husband with his elbow.

San follows his gaze. Blinks. Smiles to himself and goes back to his chicken, arm settling around Wooyoung like nothing in the world has changed.

“Hyung can you pass me the–” Yeosang starts, looking up from his phone when he pauses mid-sentence. He says nothing, just a nod and a smile as he leans into Wooyoung to show him a video that sounds suspiciously like a MATZ edit.

Seonghwa hears Yunho and Mingi’s boisterous laughter as they walk in from the kitchen, but it quietens when they notice. Mingi meets Seonghwa’s gaze, drops down across Seonghwa and gives a thumbs-up. Yunho winks, then continues his discussion with Mingi about that weekend getaway.

Jongho notices last. The youngest looks away from the TV and exhales through his nose, amused, “Took you long enough,” he mutters, not unkindly, grabbing another soda and turning back to the show.

No one claps. No one questions. The TV hums on.

Seonghwa watches all of it with a strange, hollowed-out calm.

He’d spent eight years bracing for disaster, imagining heartbreak, fallout, headlines, silence. He’d built entire futures in his head where this confession was the beginning of the end.

Instead, Yunho asks if anyone wants more chicken.
Mingi steals Yeosang’s fries and receives a jab in his ribs in return.
San leans into Wooyoung, kisses his cheek.
Jongho changes the channel.

The world doesn’t end. It barely even pauses.

It’s when they’re cleaning up that someone makes a joke about finally being able to stop editing their ship videos in secret (apparently Wooyoung’s the main admin of a six-membered chat group named project parents. Seonghwa catches Yeosang’s name in the list of group members and shoots him a barely concealed glare. San coughs. Jongho looks away. Yunho says he’s called it since 2019 and Mingi chimes in that they should return to the fortune tellers next week for the lottery numbers).

Hongjoong is the last to leave that night. From the front door, Seonghwa can hear Mingi snoring, San’s shower still running, sees Wooyoung's shoes by the doorway that will stay here until morning, the remnants of the evening stretching quietly around him.

“So… see you later?” Seonghwa smiles, forehead pressed to Hongjoong’s.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Hongjoong teases. Face in his hands, he kisses him sweetly one more time, like promising forever, and turns to leave.

“Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa calls softly, fingers fluttering on his lips, preserving Hongjoong's kiss.

“Yes, my love?”

“Next time you write a love song about me,” Seonghwa smiles, leaning against the doorframe, “don’t hide it so well.”

His best friend, the love of his life, lifts his head, a grin on his lips. Light and warm.

“No promises.”