Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Out with it. What did you want to ask me, hyung?”

Soobin almost chokes on his ice cream.

He’d asked Beomgyu to come get ice cream with him at the Baskin-Robbins near campus so they could talk, but he didn’t think he would get this far. It dawns on him that he actually doesn’t know what to say.

“I...” He cuts himself off, swallowing the big chunk of vanilla that he just put in his mouth, “I just—well. I noticed so many people have been asking you out lately. And you've been saying no to all of them.”

Beomgyu laughs, and then starts repeatedly stabbing his own ice cream with the wooden spoon. “Do you mean Daeheon-sunbae? Come on, you know how boring he is.”

Soobin snorts. Yeah, he knows Daeheon is boring. 

But he still doesn’t understand.

It’s been two weeks since that Thursday.

Soobin had been exhausted from five hours of doing thematic analysis with his research partner at the library. He’d entered their dark apartment ready to hit the shower and get swallowed by his bed when Beomgyu, clad in his oversized grey hoodie, looked up from his phone and very casually said, “Soobin-hyung, I’m in love with you.”

It’s been two weeks. Or 12 days, really—but that’s more or less the same thing. Soobin really doesn’t like the insinuation that he’s counting. He isn’t. It’s just easy to see on a calendar, which he definitely has in his room. He definitely doesn’t open the calendar app on his phone every morning when he wakes up just to count how many days it’s been since that Thursday. No further questions.

Anyway.

It’s been two weeks. And nothing has changed.

(Maybe except for the fact that Soobin has started noticing a lot more things about Beomgyu. More than he ever has before.)

(Like how everyone is in love with him. Everyone who isn't Soobin, apparently.)

Soobin finishes his ice cream, putting the paper cup down on the table. “Not just him. The others too. Jeongin, Sangmin, that freshman Gunwook... even Dimitri, that international student from your department.”

“Hyung,” Beomgyu says, not looking at him, “what are you really asking me?”

He swallows. Looks at Beomgyu’s objectively pretty face, because he doesn’t have anything else to look at. “I’m just worried. You know. Concerned. That maybe I’m accidentally leading you on or something.”

Beomgyu laughs again, louder this time. Thankfully the people in the other booths don’t seem to mind. “I'm not that delusional. And you’re not even subtle about not liking me. What, did your head get big because I told you about my feelings?”

Before his hand starts trembling, he grabs his empty cup again and threatens Beomgyu with it. “Yah, do you want me to hit you?”

Beomgyu doesn’t even flinch, just keeps cackling like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard. As if it’s not a big deal.

And Soobin still doesn’t understand. Beomgyu’s answer still doesn’t explain why he keeps rejecting every single person that asks him out.

“I just think you should give at least one of them a chance,” he says quietly when Beomgyu’s laughter dies down. “That’s all.”

“Soobin-hyung,” Beomgyu says, finally, finally looking him in the eyes. “Don’t be mean, please.”

Soobin feels his stomach clench. “Sorry,” but it’s too late. He’s already hurt Beomgyu. Probably. He doesn’t look hurt at all, for some reason. “Sorry. You know I just want you to be happy.”

“Which I am,” Beomgyu says firmly. For a second Soobin thinks he's mad, but he has a gentle smile on his face, so that doesn't seem to be the case. “Happiness doesn't come from some guy buying me dinner, hyung.”

Soobin nods, but he really doesn’t get it. 

In every movie and every song, unrequited love is supposed to ruin you. People fall apart because of it. They lose sleep, spiral, and overshare on their Close Friends stories. They bleach their hair at 3:00 in the morning, or get a tattoo. They move to different cities just to stop running into someone at the grocery store.

It’s dramatic. It’s miserable.

But Beomgyu? He still laughs at Soobin’s terrible puns. Still shows up like clockwork, hoodie sleeves too long and eyes too bright.

If Beomgyu is like this, whole and unaffected, maybe Soobin could pretend that everything is fine. That nothing had cracked, that nothing had shifted. 

But he’d be lying to himself.

Thursdays remind him of Beomgyu now.

That day, he’d had to endure hours and hours in the library extracting themes from interviews with his research partner, who chewed gum too loudly and made everything twice as hard as it needed to be.

His back hurt. His laptop had died halfway through transcribing the last interview and the nearest outlet was occupied. He hadn’t eaten since lunch.

By the time he got home, it was late. Soobin remembers the exact time he entered the apartment—it was quiet and dark, and he’d checked his phone for the time: 1:58 AM. There was no sound. Just a faint rectangular light near the couch.

That was how he knew that Beomgyu was still awake. He was curled up on the couch, half-buried in that oversized gray hoodie he always wore when it got cold. Legs tucked under him. Phone in hand, illuminating his face. He didn’t spare Soobin a glance.

It wasn’t particularly strange for Beomgyu to be up so late. Soobin figured he didn’t need to ask him what was up.

He had just started toeing off his shoes when Beomgyu broke the silence. “Soobin-hyung,” he called out.

Soobin paused. “Yeah?”

“I’m in love with you.” He said, like he was telling him it was his turn to get groceries.

Silence.

Soobin stood there, one shoe off, backpack still hanging from his shoulder, frozen.

“…What?”

Beomgyu finally looked at him then. Not nervous. Not blushing. Calm in a way that made everything worse.

“I said I’m in love with you.”

Soobin blinked.

“That’s not funny.” He said. “Stop messing with me. I’m really tired, you know.”

“I’m not messing with you, though.”

And he wasn’t.

That was the thing.

As he said it, Beomgyu looked at him the same way he looked at him every single day. Like this was just casual conversation, and he wasn’t changing the trajectory of Soobin’s life with five words.

And then he just went back to scrolling on his phone like he hadn’t just ripped the floor out from under Soobin’s feet.

Soobin couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe right.

“Beomgyu-yah,” he tried, but even saying his name felt stilted. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Beomgyu shrugged. “I thought it’d be easier to just say it.”

“Easier,” Soobin repeated, voice too thin. “But I’m—Beomgyu, I care about you. Of course I do. You mean a lot to me. But I’m not in love with you. How does that make anything easier?”

Beomgyu looked up again. “Hyung, I’m aware you don’t feel the same way. I didn’t have any expectations. I just thought you should know.”

That was it.

Just five words. I’m in love with you.

No grand declarations. No follow-ups.

Soobin stared at him and waited. 

Nothing else came.

Beomgyu, in that stupid hoodie, with that stupid calm face, glanced back at his phone as if he hadn’t just confessed to being in love with his best friend of ten years.

Soobin’s voice felt hollow when he spoke again. “That’s it? Nothing else?”

Beomgyu tilted his head, thinking. “Oh,” he said after a pause. “I ordered chicken earlier. It’s on the counter if you want some.”

That wasn’t what Soobin had expected. He thought there’d be an explanation. Or maybe a retraction—Beomgyu’s loud, boisterous laugh and a joke about him being gullible. Something. Anything.

“...Thanks,” was all he could say.

Beomgyu smiled—sharp and pretty, the corners of his mouth pulling into that familiar V shape. The one that usually meant he was two seconds away from saying something dumb on purpose. It gave Soobin hope that the takeback was finally coming; that all of this was just some dumb joke and Beomgyu was just trying to make him laugh.

But the punchline never came. “Don’t worry about it, hyung.”

Soobin, of course, worries about it.

Which brings them to today.

The thing is, Beomgyu would be a good boyfriend. He listens closely, laughs easily, and remembers the little things people say. He’s the kind of person who reminds you to text when you get home, just so he knows you made it back okay. He knows when to push and when to just sit with you in silence.

Choi Beomgyu will make someone very happy someday. 

But telling him that would be horrible on Soobin’s part. He’s not trying to break Beomgyu’s heart today. (Or at least not more than he already has.) “I just want you to find someone who deserves you,” is what he says instead.

Beomgyu groans. “Hyung, you’re so stubborn,” he mutters, then shoots Soobin a look—like he’s the one being unreasonable. “I already know you don’t feel the same. So it’s fine.”

That doesn’t sound fine at all. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? I’ve made my peace with it. Yeah, I used to be sad about it. But we’re not in high school anymore. I’m okay, hyung. I promise.”

Soobin feels his heart pound against his chest a little too hard. Really, it’s ridiculous. Beomgyu’s the one who confessed and got told his feelings aren’t reciprocated. Beomgyu’s the one who should be hurting.

But he isn’t.

Beomgyu, who has every right to be a mess. Who should be angry, or cold, or resentful, but is here. Eating ice cream like nothing happened. Turning Soobin inside out with every casual look.

Beomgyu, who Soobin loves more than almost anyone. Just not in the way Beomgyu wants him to.

Beomgyu, who keeps saying no to other people like it means nothing. 

“What now?” Beomgyu asks. His expression mirrors Soobin’s own confusion, like they’re speaking different languages in the same conversation.

“You’re a good guy, Beomgyu-yah,” Soobin says quietly. “The best.”

He laughs. “Hyung, you saw where flattery took Daeheon-sunbae. You should know by now that it doesn’t work on me.”

Then he smiles. The same smile Soobin’s known since childhood. Familiar and warm in a way that makes Soobin’s chest ache even more.

And for a moment, Soobin lets himself believe that things can stay like this. That this strange, fragile balance between them isn’t slowly unraveling. That he isn’t already standing on the edge of something he can’t name.

Soobin hopes belief is enough.

Belief, as it turns out, is just another thing that wobbles when the night stretches long and the table grows loud.

“Mark asked you out? Like, Mark Lee?”

The fried chicken shop is buzzing with conversation. An old TV on the counter mutters highlights from some football game that only the uncles are watching. It’s almost 7:00 PM as Soobin walks in, the office workers and students having chimaek for dinner all contributing to the lively atmosphere.

Soobin spots his friends’ table easily—not only because of how loud Kai is, but because he would recognize the sound of Beomgyu’s laugh from miles away.

“…but hyung, you used to hate him!”

“Well, he doesn’t know tha—” Beomgyu cuts himself off mid-sentence when he notices Soobin walking over.

Soobin sets his bag down under the table, sliding into the seat next to Beomgyu. He’s still half in the rhythm of his lecture, Professor Shon’s voice droning about neurotransmitters and neuromodulators, when his own question comes out sharper than intended. “Someone asked Beomgyu out again?”

Beomgyu blinks at him.

When it becomes clear that Beomgyu himself isn’t going to answer, Taehyun breaks the silence easily. “You’re late, hyung,” he says, smooth as always. “Lecture ran over?”

“Yeah,” Soobin mutters. Then, before he can stop himself, he turns to Beomgyu again: “Who asked you out?”

“Mark Lee,” Kai supplies instantly. “Advanced Composition Mark Lee. Beomgyu-hyung told us about him before.”

Soobin nods. Mark Lee, the guy who sits next to Beomgyu during almost every Advanced Composition class. The one Beomgyu used to dislike simply for being American until he found out he wasn’t even American, and was actually an okay guy who would let him borrow his pencil sharpener sometimes.

“That Mark Lee?”

“Yes, that Mark Lee,” Beomgyu says dryly, but there’s a pink flush still sitting high on his cheeks.

“Are you surprised, hyung?” Kai grins.

Taehyun’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Soobin-hyung doesn’t know. He usually doesn’t care about people asking Beomgyu-hyung out.”

“I do know, and I do care, actually,” Soobin corrects him, because he doesn’t feel like he’s that bad of a friend.

Beomgyu snorts beside him. “He does now, apparently.”

Soobin furrows his eyebrows. The operative word in that sentence is now—Beomgyu thinks he didn’t know and didn’t care about that until recently. 

(He’s only right about half of that thought. How did he not know about the amount of people asking Beomgyu out every day? They spend all of their free time together. He should know.

Has he really been that clueless?)

Kai keeps pushing. “Oh, so you know Beomgyu-hyung gets asked out, like, three times a day?”

“Now you're just exaggerating,” Beomgyu says.

“I’m not! It’s fact,” Kai insists. “If anything, I’m lowballing the number.”

Soobin clears his throat, cutting the argument short. “I wasn’t surprised. I was just asking.” His chest feels unsteady, too tight for the easy air in the shop. He forces a laugh. “I mean, it’s Mark Lee. You’ve been classmates for a while. Isn’t it kinda random?”

“What did he say anyway?” Taehyun asks.

Beomgyu shrugs, playing with the box of paper towels on the table. “He caught me after class and asked if I wanted to grab coffee sometime.”

Kai bursts out laughing. “Did he stutter?”

“Not really,” Beomgyu says, smiling despite himself. “But he did look really nervous.”

Kai tries to mimic Mark Lee being nervous and fails, because he hasn’t even met the guy. Beomgyu laughs. Taehyun hums, feigning being unimpressed, but Soobin doesn’t miss his eyes flicking briefly to him.

He decides to ignore it.

“So, are you…” Soobin swallows. “Are you going to go out with him?”

Beomgyu hesitates. That’s what throws Soobin off. Normally, these things bounce off him. He brushes them aside with a joke, or gives a quick “nope” without thinking. But now, he looks… careful. Like he’s choosing his words with Soobin in mind.

“Sorry to disappoint you again, hyung,” he says finally, “but I said no.”

Soobin exhales through his nose, nodding like it’s the most uninteresting answer in the world. He knows Beomgyu is joking; that their conversation last week at the ice cream shop was clear. 

(But Soobin’s stomach still turns at the thought of Beomgyu believing he wants to push him toward someone else just because his feelings make Soobin uncomfortable.)

“Canadian Mark rejected,” Kai sighs dramatically. “Tragic.”

“Tragic for me,” Beomgyu corrects, flicking Kai on the forehead. “Chenle says he’s a good guy. Pretty sure he goes to the same church as my parents, too. They would probably love him.”

They would probably love him.

Too bad for Advanced Composition Mark Lee, then. Soobin knows firsthand what it’s like being loved by Beomgyu’s parents. He’d be missing out.

Taehyun’s gaze lingers on him. It’s not sharp or obvious, but it’s steady enough that Soobin feels it. Suspicion, or curiosity, or something worse. He ignores it, busying himself with the sticky menu he already knows by heart.

Their food comes fast: baskets of fried chicken, fries spilling out of the paper, cold beers in plastic cups that leave rings on the table. Kai immediately claims half the fries, Beomgyu protests, Taehyun just sighs and divides everything into equal portions before it escalates.

It’s loud and stupid in the way their group always is. Kai shows them photos of the cute pets he handled at his internship between bites of chicken. Beomgyu coos at all of them. Taehyun mutters about the state of Kai’s phone case, now greasy with fried chicken oil.

Soobin smiles when they laugh, because that’s what he’s supposed to do. But the tightness in his chest doesn’t go away.

The door jingles open, and then Yeonjun barrels in, damp hair still clinging to his forehead, smelling like body wash and his favorite cologne. “Missed me?”

The table cheers like he’s a celebrity. Beomgyu brightens instantly, louder, looser.

Soobin notices. 

(He hates that he notices.)

Yeonjun drops into the seat on Beomgyu’s other side, shoving Beomgyu’s backpack onto the floor without a second thought. He ruffles Beomgyu’s hair. Beomgyu swats at him with the back of his hand. “You smell like the studio floor,” he teases him.

“You know how the ballet majors are with rosin,” Yeonjun jokes, pouting as he slips on the plastic gloves Taehyun offers him.

It’s easy. Too easy.

Beomgyu starts filling him in. “You’re late. You missed the whole story.”

“What story?” Yeonjun asks, dragging his chair closer until his and Beomgyu’s shoulders almost touch.

“Mark Lee asked Beomgyu-hyung out,” Kai supplies instantly, grinning like he’s just delivered breaking news.

Yeonjun, who was about to put a fry in his mouth, pauses. “Mark Lee? Composition class Mark Lee?”

“Yeah,” Beomgyu mutters, cheeks pink again.

Yeonjun leans back with an easy grin. “Bold move. But if you go out with him, what happens to me?”

Beomgyu scoffs. “At least he had the guts to ask.”

That cracks the table up. Kai almost spills his beer from laughing too hard, Taehyun just shakes his head like he’s seen this show before, and Yeonjun laughs too. But there’s something sitting underneath his smile that doesn’t sound like a joke at all.

Soobin catches it. He feels it land heavy, like a pit in his stomach.

The night unspools the way it always does, voices bouncing between classes, professors, and exams coming up. Yeonjun slides right in like he hadn’t missed most of the night. He makes Beomgyu laugh unguarded, shoulders shaking. Each time, the sound tugs at something deep in Soobin’s chest he’d rather ignore.

When there’s only six wings left in the basket, flavored oil shining under fluorescent light, Yeonjun suddenly points a half-eaten drumstick at Beomgyu. “Chicken-eating contest. Loser does whatever the winner says.”

Kai lets out a whoop so loud half the shop turns their heads. “Finally, some entertainment!”

“Alright, hyung,” Beomgyu shoots back, a cocky grin in place. “I have a good one for you when I win.”

Yeonjun smirks. “That’s if you win.”

“Wait, wait,” Taehyun interjects, already reaching for his phone. “We’re doing this properly. Timer and all.”

“You’re really timing it?” Soobin asks, forcing his voice into something casual.

“Of course, hyung,” Taehyun says. “Otherwise both of them would accuse the other of cheating and we won’t achieve anything.”

Taehyun counts them down, and then chaos. Yeonjun and Beomgyu tear into the wings like it’s war, sauce dripping onto the paper, Kai yelling so hard he nearly falls from his chair.

Soobin finds himself cheering Beomgyu on. “Come on, Beomgyu, don’t let him out-eat you! Do you want to be a loser?”

“Shut up!” Beomgyu manages through a mouthful of chicken, turning quickly just to glare at him.

Yeonjun doesn’t falter. He smiles mid-bite, grease shining at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting like he’s already won.

Soobin laughs when the others do, but his chest feels hollow. From his seat, he sees everything—Yeonjun leaning close, Beomgyu’s flushed cheeks, the mess of their laughter spilling into the air. Too close, too easy.

And of course, Beomgyu loses. Badly.

“No fair!” he complains, wiping sauce off his lips. “You just came from practice. Obviously you’re starving.”

“Rules are rules,” Yeonjun says smugly, leaning in. “Give me a kiss on the cheek, Beomgyu-yah.”

Taehyun shakes his head. “You’re shameless, hyung.”

Beomgyu pouts but doesn’t back down. He presses a quick, embarrassed kiss to Yeonjun’s cheek. The table erupts with laughter and shouts. Kai slams the table with a mixture of annoyance and glee. Taehyun just shakes his head like he predicted this.

He forces himself to laugh along.

By the time the night winds down, it’s just Soobin and Beomgyu. The laughter of their friends has dissolved into memory, leaving only the sound of their shoes scuffing the pavement.

The night feels different now that they’ve left the restaurant. The street they walk down is narrow and hushed, lined with dim cafés already closed for the evening. A neon pharmacy sign flickers weakly on the corner, buzzing against the silence. Cars pass by only once in a while, headlights cutting briefly through the shadows before fading again.

Beomgyu hums under his breath, some tune without words—casual, light, like none of this weighs on him.

Soobin wishes he could say the same.

He clears his throat, breaking what Beomgyu must think is comfortable silence. “Kai was really loud tonight, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, hyung, and you were really quiet.” his best friend shoots back instantly, like he’d been saving the comment all night. “You okay?”

Soobin doesn’t even need to think of an excuse. “Just tired.”

At least he isn’t lying. He is tired—from lectures and group tasks, from late-night revisions and endless deadlines. But mostly, he’s tired of whatever keeps pressing against his ribs whenever Beomgyu laughs, of the way his chest twists at the smallest things he does.

Beomgyu hums again, softer this time. “You should sleep early tonight. You don’t have classes in the morning tomorrow, right?”

“I don’t,” he admits, and then runs out of words. His feet keep moving, but his mouth doesn’t.

“Hyung.”

“Nn?”

“Soobin-hyuuuuung,” Beomgyu stretches the honorific out like taffy. “Look at me, will you?”

Soobin sighs, shoulders dipping, and finally turns his head—only to realize Beomgyu isn’t beside him anymore. He’s a few steps back, planted in the middle of the empty street, arms thrown wide like he’s ready to catch the whole night.

“Hug!”

The word hangs in the quiet air, unashamed and absurd against the backdrop of neon and silence.

Soobin blinks at him, at the ridiculousness of it all. He almost laughs at the absurdity. Last weekend (and even tonight, if he chooses to be honest with himself), he kept dissecting every glance, every brush of Beomgyu’s hand like it was evidence in a case only he was building. 

And now here’s Beomgyu, demanding a hug in the middle of the street.

“Here? In the middle of the street?”

“Yes, hyung, here.” Beomgyu pouts. “C’mon. Don’t make me beg.”

He groans, fake-exasperated, but his feet are already moving. When his arms wrap around Beomgyu, the world stills.

Beomgyu smells faintly of his perfume. Something clean, citrusy, with the soft warmth of laundry detergent clinging to his hoodie. The fabric is loose but soft under Soobin’s hands, his cheek brushing against Beomgyu’s hair for the briefest moment. He notices the way Beomgyu’s shoulders fit just right against his chest, how his laughter fades into a quiet hum, like even he’s content to pause here.

The cold wind slips past, and the city buzzes all around them. Soobin doesn’t usually like showing vulnerability—much less in public—but in the comfort of Beomgyu’s arms, he feels something loosen in his chest.

The same boy who’s been stirring chaos inside him all week suddenly feels like the only calm Soobin’s had in days.

He almost tightens his hold, almost leans in to breathe him in deeper, to stretch this moment for as long as it’ll last. But he forces himself still, fighting the urge to hold on and make the hug mean more than it should.

Beomgyu is the first to pull back, quick and breezy, like the hug didn’t just reset Soobin’s entire heart.

“Alright!” he grins, already bouncing on his heels. “Race you back to our building!”

“What? Wait, Beomgyu—”

But he’s already darting ahead, hair flying, laughter spilling into the empty street.

Soobin sighs, though the corners of his mouth betray him, tugging upward. “Ah, seriously...” he trails off.

And then he takes off after him, sneakers pounding the pavement, the quiet night now filled with their laughter and the sound of two pairs of running feet chasing home.

Home, in the quiet of exam season, is Beomgyu’s voice telling him to sit down before he burns himself out completely.

The night after the chicken shop is a sharp contrast to the previous one. No neon signs, no grease-stained gloves—just the low hum of their apartment’s fridge and the occasional honk from the street outside. Exam week has turned the place into two separate worlds: Soobin in his room with towers of notes and flashcards, Beomgyu in his with a steady rhythm of pen on paper.

Soobin, of course, can’t sit still. He paces the hallway, glasses slipping down his nose as he mutters through cognitive psychology terms. “Sensorimotor... preoperational... concrete operational...” He flips a card, nearly trips over his own sneakers by the door, and bangs his shoulder against the wall.

From down the hall, Beomgyu’s voice comes easy, practiced. “Hyung, that’s the third time you’ve hit something tonight.”

Soobin groans, clutching his flashcards tighter. “If I sit down, I’ll forget everything.”

“If you get a concussion, you’ll forget everything including your name.” His door creaks open, and suddenly Beomgyu’s standing there, hair a little messy but eyes clear, sharp. He doesn’t even hesitate, stepping forward and plucks the flashcards clean out of Soobin’s hand.

“Hey—”

“Break time,” Beomgyu says smoothly, already walking back into his room. “Come on, hyungie.”

Soobin trails after him, grumbling but obedient, and ends up on the edge of Beomgyu’s bed while his roommate locks his flashcards in his desk drawer.

“You’ll get those cards back after you take a break, okay?” He says, and then disappears into the kitchen, leaving Soobin in his bedroom.

He hasn’t really looked around Beomgyu’s room in a while. Sure, he comes in here pretty often, but it’s usually at night when Beomgyu’s in one of his moods and wants to sit on the floor while talking about nothing and everything at the same time. The only light source would be the vintage pink lava lamp he got for free from someone on Karrot.

Now, though, the big light is on, and Beomgyu’s room is well-organized. (Unsurprisingly.) Books neatly stacked by subject, binders lined up with labels so clean it looks like a library. His guitars and keyboards are all in one corner, each with their own stands. His desk is a battlefield of highlighters and pens right now, but everything else is arranged, intentional.

He sighs, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Of course Beomgyu isn’t nervous about exams. Of course he isn’t. He probably had his color-coded review schedule printed out a month ago.

And Soobin knows it’s not just now. Soobin’s been a witness to this since middle school, really. Back when Beomgyu would stay up late to finish campaign posters for student council elections. Or in high school, when he’d juggle council meetings, essays, and band rehearsals, then still have the energy to make his classmates laugh.

The image rises in his mind so easily: a smaller, younger Beomgyu with thick glasses, striding down their old hallways with a clipboard tucked under his arm. Always knowing what to do. Always keeping it together.

There was a time when he tried copying Beomgyu’s habits. He bought a pack of highlighters, drew neat boxes in a planner, even tagged along to the library once or twice. It didn’t last long. Organization wasn’t fun, and Soobin didn’t see the point of forcing himself when he got things done just fine his own way.

Beomgyu just made it all look easy. Even now, years later, Soobin can’t bring himself to envy it. If anything, it’s become one of the things he likes most about living with Beomgyu: that calm, steady rhythm that balances out his own chaos. They’ve always worked differently, but somehow, they’ve always worked well together.

The thought makes him smile.

His eyes wander up to the wall above Beomgyu’s desk. It’s covered in sticky notes—not equations or bullet points, but affirmations written in round, neat handwriting. You’ve done harder things before. One page at a time. You’re allowed to rest.

One in particular catches his eye, stuck at an angle near the corner: home is not a place; it’s a feeling. In English, with a little doodled heart and house beside it.

Soobin chuckles under his breath. Corny. A little cringe, but cute. Adorable, really. Very Pinterest. Very Beomgyu.

Before he can think twice, he reaches out and peels it off the wall.

The floor creaks.

He startles, shoving the note into the pocket of his shorts just as Beomgyu comes back, holding two tall glasses filled with iced chamomile tea, a recipe stolen from his mother.

“Here,” Beomgyu says, handing him one of the glasses. “Drink up and just thank me later.”

Soobin takes it, trying to play it cool, even as the cold sweats against his hand and his heart thuds like he just got caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

Beomgyu doesn’t notice, though. (He never notices when Soobin thinks he’s being weird.)

Instead, he gestures with his chin toward the door. “Come on. Living room. Less depressing than sitting in here.”

Soobin wants to disagree and tell him being in this room isn’t depressing at all, but instead he just nods, standing with the glass in one hand and his other stuffed awkwardly into his pocket. The sticky note crinkles against his palm.

And Beomgyu, completely unsuspecting, just walks ahead.

Soobin follows, though part of him wants to linger just to keep cataloging the traces of Beomgyu’s life arranged so neatly in that room.

On the couch, Beomgyu folds himself cross-legged, sipping his tea as though exam week is just another evening. Soobin mirrors him clumsily, the condensation cooling his palm.

And then it clicks in his head again—what Beomgyu said to him weeks ago on this very couch, what he still hasn’t been able to unlearn: Beomgyu is apparently in love with him.

It used to make his stomach twist whenever he thought about it, like he was standing on the edge of something he wasn’t ready for. Tonight, though, the thought arrives softer, steadier, in time with the clink of ice in his glass.

He only realizes he’s staring at Beomgyu when he speaks. “What, hyung? I know I’m handsome, but you’re staring really intensely. Do you like my face that much?”

Soobin exhales through his nose, refusing to rise to it. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” Beomgyu says with a grin. “I already do that daily.”

Soobin rolls his eyes and shifts against the couch cushions, though he can’t stop the small smile tugging at his mouth. “Your confidence is insufferable.”

“Confidence is hereditary,” Beomgyu replies smoothly, tapping the rim of his glass. “Comes straight from my mom. Just like this iced tea.”

Soobin hums, letting the cool sweetness linger on his tongue. It’s crisp and floral, nothing like the sharp bitterness of the instant coffee Beomgyu usually drowns himself in. “It’s good. Better than the sludge you live on most days.”

“That’s survival juice,” Beomgyu argues. “This is... home.”

The word lingers, soft but steady. Soobin tilts his head, glancing at him. He remembers the note in his pocket. “Home, huh?”

Beomgyu only shrugs, swirling the ice in his glass. “Yeah. You know. Some things just taste like it. Doesn’t matter where you are.”

Soobin looks down at his drink, then back at Beomgyu, and for once doesn’t argue. “I guess I get that.” His voice comes quieter than he means it to. “Eomeoni would be proud you remembered.”

Beomgyu grins, playful again. “Of course. I’m her favorite.”

Soobin finds himself grinning back, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure I’m her favorite, and I’m not even her son.”

“Hyung,” Beomgyu says, mock-offended, “how dare you say that? I made tea for you!”

A laugh slips out of him before he can stop it, light and unguarded. The tension that’s been needling him all evening unravels thread by thread, leaving him refreshed and a little drowsy.

The conversation drifts after that, dissolving into half-jokes and nonsense, until Soobin notices his own words slurring. His head dips further back against the couch cushion, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

He thinks, dimly, that Beomgyu looks too satisfied with himself—but he doesn’t have the strength to call him out on it. The chamomile is doing its work, tugging him under.

The now-empty glass slips gently from his hand. He hears it being set down on the table, the faint clink echoing like it comes from far away.

Then Beomgyu’s voice, low and careful, almost like a secret meant for the dark.
“I can’t believe you fell asleep on me, hyungie. You’re lucky I love you.”

Soobin’s chest flutters at the words, or maybe it’s just the tail end of a dream pulling him down. He can’t tell anymore. All he knows is that his lips curve faintly, unthinking, before sleep finally claims him whole.

It all feels whole again, or at least close enough to it that Soobin doesn’t question it too much.

Nothing seems to change. Beomgyu still drops into the seat across from him at lunch like it’s reserved, still steals his fries without asking, still complains about how ‘unfairly cute’ the campus cats are. He still sends Soobin photos of them late at night, along with messages like look at this one, it’s you if you were a cat, and Soobin still replies, pretending to be annoyed even as he smiles at his phone.

They never talk about Beomgyu’s confession. The memory just lingers quietly somewhere between them, folded away but never really gone. Soobin tells himself that Beomgyu just needed to say it out loud and release whatever had been sitting heavy on his chest. That’s what confessions are for, aren’t they? To lighten the heart.

The more he thinks about it, the more he believes it. It fits neatly in his head, like an answer he can live with. Beomgyu said it, got it out of his system, and now they’re fine. Things have settled back into place.

And if Beomgyu really was hurting, there’s no sign of it now. He’s still the same: teasing, animated, impossible to shut up when he’s excited about something. When he laughs, he still throws his head back the same way, still claps a little too loudly, still leans into Soobin’s space without realizing it. He still hums while studying, still drags Soobin out for coffee breaks (or cider breaks, in Soobin’s own words), still rolls his eyes when Soobin forgets where he left his notes.

If anything, he seems lighter now. 

Free.

Sometimes Soobin catches himself watching too closely, waiting for a flicker of awkwardness or distance. But there’s nothing. Beomgyu meets his gaze the same way he always has; open, easy, unbothered. Soobin takes that as proof that everything’s fine. That they’ve found their way back to normal.

It feels natural again. It feels normal.

And normal means being on Beomgyu’s bed. (Which is much too small for two grown men, but that’s never stopped them before.)

It’s become a kind of unspoken habit, collapsing together after long days with a laptop propped on Beomgyu’s knees and a half-eaten bag of chips wedged between them. Tonight, the screen glows faintly in the dark, casting a soft light over the room as Emma Woodhouse declares that she’s perfectly content to remain single.

“Hyung, pay attention,” Beomgyu mumbles around a mouthful of turtle chips. “The score here is incredible. Every theme lines up perfectly with Emma’s mood swings. It’s so clever.”

Soobin hums in acknowledgment, eyes on the screen but mind elsewhere—on how the glow of the movie reflects off Beomgyu’s cheek. He’s warm beside him, sweater slipping off one shoulder, hair messy from leaning into the pillows. The lavender scent of his body oil lingers in the air. It's the same one Soobin gave him two years ago. It’s all familiar. Easy.

The movie isn’t bad, really, but after an hour Soobin starts to fidget. He shifts, bumping Beomgyu’s knee, and says, “I don’t get it. Emma’s kind of boring.”

Beomgyu turns his head sharply, staring at him like he’s just blasphemed. “Boring? Emma Woodhouse is boring?”

Soobin shrugs, amused by the reaction. “Yeah. She’s spoiled, she doesn’t do much, and she keeps causing problems for herself and others. I don’t know. She’s not exactly exciting to watch.”

Beomgyu gasps dramatically, setting his chips aside. “Exciting? She’s literally learning how to be a decent person, that’s exciting enough!” His hands fly as he talks. “She’s figuring herself out! She’s proud and flawed and—” he waves toward the screen, “—musically accompanied by the most brilliant woodwinds in period film history!”

Soobin laughs, tilting his head. “You’re just defending her because of the soundtrack.”

“I’m defending her because you've misunderstood!” Beomgyu insists, leaning closer, his voice rising with mock outrage. “She’s not boring, she's literally doing everything to not have a boring life. Besides, Emma's story is about growth! Not everyone needs to go to war or fall off a cliff to be interesting.”

Before Soobin can reply, Beomgyu jabs at his side in emphasis. Soobin yelps, twisting away. Beomgyu grins wickedly, clearly enjoying himself. “Say she’s not boring,” he demands.

“Never,” Soobin says between laughs, trying to fend him off.

Beomgyu lunges forward, and in the scuffle, the laptop ends up safely on the nightstand while they dissolve into breathless laughter and shoves. Soobin tries to grab his wrists, but Beomgyu wriggles out of reach, hair falling into his eyes as he moves in for another playful attack.

“Admit it!” Beomgyu insists.

“Not a chance!” Soobin fires back, voice caught somewhere between laughter and protest.

They shift and tumble until Beomgyu ends up straddling him, one knee on either side of his hips. He’s still going on about Emma being misunderstood, about how she just wanted to help her best friend, but Soobin barely hears him.

He’s too aware of Beomgyu’s weight, the way his laughter shakes through him, the faint trace of lavender and warmth between them. His hands come to rest at Beomgyu’s waist, steadying him out of instinct.

Beomgyu doesn’t notice right away. He’s still talking, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “She’s trying her best, hyung! You can’t just call her boring because she’s figuring herself ou—”

He stops when he realizes Soobin hasn’t replied. The air stills, something quiet and charged settling between them.

Beomgyu blinks. “What?” he says, voice softer now.

Soobin doesn’t answer immediately. His thumbs move slightly against Beomgyu’s sides, almost unconsciously. “Nothing,” he murmurs, low. “You really like this movie, huh?”

“I do! I like this movie waaaay more than I like y—” Beomgyu cuts himself off mid-sentence as the realization sinks in.

Maybe it’s the way Soobin’s gaze lingers, or the way his hands have gone still. His grin falters, softens.

“You’re staring,” Beomgyu says at last, voice teasing again. He laughs, the sound breaking through the tension like sunlight. “Don’t tell me this is your apology for calling Emma boring.”

Soobin laughs too, shaking his head. “You wish.” He squeezes Beomgyu’s side lightly, making him yelp and swat his hand away. The air resets, lighter again.

Beomgyu rolls off him dramatically, landing beside him on the bed with a groan. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, shoving a pillow into Soobin’s face. Soobin retaliates by flicking his ear, and they dissolve into laughter again, the kind that leaves their stomachs sore.

The room feels softer after that, lit only by the screen’s flicker and Beomgyu’s pink lava lamp. Beomgyu’s shoulder brushes Soobin’s, and he doesn’t move away. Soobin feels the warmth of him, hears the steady rhythm of his breathing, and lets himself think that maybe this is what they are: comfortable, familiar, unshaken.

“Hyung. You know you don’t have to shake it, right?”

Soobin blinks at Beomgyu over the edge of the little film in his hands. He pauses mid-motion, the Instax film still pinched between his fingers, caught halfway through another absentminded shake.

Beomgyu laughs, soft and teasing. “You’re just gonna make it blurry.”

The corners of Soobin’s mouth twitch. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Beomgyu grins, reaching over to gently tug the photo out of his hand. “Just let it develop on its own.”

They’re standing in the middle of a convenience store somewhere near Gangneung, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The film in question is of Beomgyu himself, throwing up a peace sign in front of the refrigerator aisle with a can of Milkis in one hand and a lopsided smile. Soobin can already see the outline of Beomgyu’s face forming as the colors develop.

Outside, the sunlight is bright and heavy, turning the asphalt gold.

They’d left Seoul early that morning, Beomgyu driving Minho’s car with Kai knocked out in the backseat, their bags stacked beside him. The plan was simple: a short road trip to Gangneung for Beomgyu’s elective photography project. Beaches, small-town cafés, color and light and sound. He’d invited everyone, but Yeonjun apparently had a prior appointment with Wooyoung, and Taehyun was helping his older sister with the upcoming opening of her new restaurant. In the end, only Kai could make it which meant most of the time it was just Beomgyu and Soobin talking, bickering, singing along to the radio.

Kai’s gone to the restroom now, leaving the two of them to their own quiet again.

“Want another one?” Soobin asks suddenly, already raising his old Instax.

“You first,” Beomgyu raises his own camera, a more niche Instax that also saves photos digitally. “And do something stupid in it.”

Soobin hums, pretending to consider it. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Beomgyu says, stepping closer, eyes bright. “Surprise me.”

The shutter clicks before Soobin can react. He blinks as the camera whirs, and Beomgyu laughs so hard he nearly drops it. “You blinked! You look like you’re asleep!”

“You didn’t even count!” Soobin protests, but he’s smiling too, reaching out to snatch the photo from Beomgyu’s hands.

“Don’t you dare shake that one,” Beomgyu warns, still giggling.

“I won’t,” Soobin promises, and he means it this time. He just holds the film between his fingers, waiting for it to bloom. Beside him, Beomgyu leans in a little closer to look.

And then the moment is interrupted by the bell above the door jingling as Kai steps back into the store, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You guys are still here?” he asks, looking between the two of them. “I thought you’d be done loitering by now.”

“We were waiting for you, dummy,” Beomgyu says, tossing him a small bag of chips. “Come on, we still have to get food for the drive.”

Kai grins. “Okay. Let’s get snacks before hyung takes aesthetic pictures of sand for three hours.”

They scatter through the aisles, arms filling with chips, brightly-colored drinks, and a random pack of chocolate pies Beomgyu insists will ‘inspire’ him. Kai and Soobin argue over the taste of Pocari Sweat while Beomgyu takes another candid shot of them mid-bicker.

When they finally head back to the car, Kai calls shotgun, leaving Soobin to slide into the backseat. The afternoon sun spills through the windshield, and the sea’s scent is faint in the distance. Beomgyu starts the car, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lazily to the music. He drives like it’s second nature—steady, relaxed, as if the world simply adjusts around him.

“You’re too confident,” Soobin mutters from the back, leaning an elbow against the window. “If we get into a crash, I’m suing you.”

Beomgyu glances at him through the mirror, smirking. “If I crash this car, you won’t be around to sue me.”

Kai laughs. “No, but seriously, Beomgyu-hyung, you’re so good at driving! You look like you’re in a movie or something.”

Soobin squints. “You sound like you’ve got a crush on him.”

Kai chokes on his drink immediately. “Wh—huh? I—what. No!”

Beomgyu snorts. “You what?”

“I just meant you look cool!” Kai blurts, cheeks turning pink. “Like, aesthetically cool, not like—never mind.”

Soobin grins, leaning forward. “Sure, Kai. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

The car fills with laughter after that, the kind that feels light and echoing, bouncing between them and the road ahead.

By the time they reach the beach, the sky has softened into pale gold. Beomgyu parks a few streets away and tells them to go down first, saying he’ll find a good parking spot. Kai and Soobin trudge toward the shoreline, the air saltier now, their sneakers crunching against the sand.

They find a stretch of beach that looks perfect for photos—empty, except for a few gulls and the foam rolling gently at their feet. Kai drops his camera bag and sighs contentedly, scanning the horizon.

Then, after a moment, he says quietly, “Hyung… don’t call me out like that next time, okay?”

Soobin glances at him, half-smiling. “Call you out for what?”

“You know,” Kai mutters. “I do like Beomgyu-hyung a lot. I don’t want him to think I’m weird.”

It takes Soobin a few seconds to process that. “Wait. You actually—”

“He’s nice. And talented. And pretty. Exactly my type.” Kai looks away, and he’s red down to his neck. “And yes, he drives well.”

Soobin lets out a small laugh, one that comes out a little too thin. “Right. Talented driver. That’s a new one.”

Kai hides his face with his hands. “Don’t tease me, hyung.”

“I’m not,” Soobin says. And he means it. Still, something unfamiliar stirs quietly in his chest as he watches Beomgyu wave at them from across the sand, camera bags slung over his shoulder, wind tugging gently at his hair.

He pushes the thought away.

They’re here for the photos, after all.

The beach is dipped in that late–afternoon glow that makes everything look a little softer, a little kinder; like the world itself is posing for Beomgyu’s camera.

Kai sprints ahead first, arms outstretched, yelling something about “cinematic shots!” while Beomgyu laughs and adjusts the strap of his digital camera. He brings it up to his face, squints, and snaps a burst of photos as Kai spins around in the low tide, kicking up arcs of water.

“Yah, don’t get my lens wet!” Beomgyu calls out, but he’s smiling, the kind of smile that you can hear even without looking.

Soobin hangs back at first, hands in his pockets, sneakers half-buried in the sand. He watches the two of them move—Kai energetic and bouncing like he’s powered by sunlight, Beomgyu calm and focused, posture relaxing whenever he’s looking through the viewfinder. Every so often, Beomgyu switches to his Instax, taking prints he tucks gently into the front pocket of his jacket.

It’s peaceful. The waves hush against the shore in long breaths, and the sky is that washed-out gold that looks good on everyone. Even Soobin feels lighter.

“Hyung!” Kai calls, motioning to him. “Go stand next to the water so Beomgyu-hyung can get a silhouette photo!”

“I don’t want to,” Soobin says, walking over anyway.

Beomgyu snorts and lowers the camera, giving him a look. “If you’re gonna walk over anyway, might as well admit you want to model.”

“I’m being bullied into it, actually.”

But he stands where he’s told, the wind tugging at his hair as Beomgyu steps back, framing the shot.

“Soobin-hyung, there’s something on your face,” Beomgyu says, yet he keeps clicking the shutter repeatedly.

“There’s noth—”

“Oh, nevermind. It’s just your face.”

Kai bursts out laughing, Beomgyu follows, and Soobin ends up smiling even as they tease him.

After a few more shots, Beomgyu turns to the ocean, scanning for angles. “Hold on,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “The light’s good here.”

He walks toward the shoreline but stops short of the water, lifting his camera again. His hair flutters with the breeze, dark strands catching the sun. He checks his settings, adjusts the focus, and does that thing he always does—slightly raising his chin when he’s thinking.

Soobin is supposed to be looking at the horizon. Kai is busy balancing on a rock, trying not to fall. But Soobin’s gaze falls on Beomgyu instead; on the quiet way he studies the world, like he’s trying to love it more by immortalizing it.

And maybe it’s because the moment is pretty.

(Or maybe it’s because Beomgyu is.)

Either way, Soobin slips his phone from his pocket, lifts it just enough, and waits.

Beomgyu turns a little, his back to the ocean, head angled over his shoulder so he can check the color of the sky behind him. The wind hits just right, brushing against his cheek, catching the light in the curve of his lashes.

Click.

It’s a stolen picture. Barely framed, barely thought through. But the preview stops Soobin cold.

Beomgyu looks—well.

Almost unreal.

His profile is soft but striking, the sun glancing off his cheekbone. His eyelashes are long enough to cast a faint shadow. His mouth is parted slightly, like he’s mid-thought. There’s a wistful kind of peace in his eyes, turned toward the waves even though he’s facing away from them.

Soobin’s thumb hovers over the screen.

His heartbeat stutters in sync with the shutter—once, twice.

“What are you doing?” Beomgyu calls from the waterline, not looking back.

“Nothing!” Soobin says too fast, almost dropping his phone. “Just. Uh... checking my messages.”

Kai snorts. “Why do you look so guilty, hyung?

“I do not,” Soobin mutters, locking his phone quickly, heat creeping up his neck.

He’s suddenly painfully aware of his breathing. His palms feel warm. He swallows.

Beomgyu finally turns to look at them again, bright eyes crinkling as he waves the camera at them. “Come here! Group photo!”

Soobin forces his feet to move.

They pack up just as the sun slips behind the horizon, the sky fading from gold to a muted lavender. Kai is still talking about how he could’ve been a model “if only the lighting cooperated,” and Beomgyu teases him about slipping on the rock at least three separate times on the way back to the car.

Soobin laughs in the right places. He even reaches over to flick Kai’s ear once, just to keep the peace. But the whole walk back, he feels the weight of his phone in his pocket—like a secret burning a hole through the fabric.

By the time they reach the parking lot, Kai is already calling shotgun, as always. Normally, Soobin would argue. Or at least pretend to.

But today—

“Go ahead,” he says lightly, tossing Kai the privilege with a flick of his hand.

Kai blinks at him. “Seriously? You’re not gonna fight me for the front seat?”

“I’m tired,” Soobin lies.

Beomgyu raises a brow at him, amused. “That’s new.”

Soobin just shrugs and climbs into the backseat, letting the door shut him into a small, quiet pocket of space.

The engine starts. Kai fiddles with the AUX cord. Beomgyu hums as he pulls onto the road, the faint glow of the dashboard lights softening the edges of his face.

Outside, the world is darkening. Street lamps blur into long streaks of white as the car moves.

Inside, in the privacy of the backseat, Soobin finally unlocks his phone.

The photo fills the screen immediately—Beomgyu backlit by the sea and the late–afternoon sun, that soft expression caught only because he wasn’t looking. Because he didn’t know.

Soobin exhales.

His thumb hesitates only a moment.

Then he presses Set as lock screen.

The new wallpaper settles into place, glowing faintly in the dim car. Soobin studies it for one heartbeat, then two, then presses the power button on the phone.

Up front, Kai and Beomgyu bicker over what playlist to use.

Outside the window, a lone streetlamp flickers past, glowing the faintest shade of orange.

The basket of Jeju oranges sits on the coffee table like a bright, mocking centerpiece.

It’s huge—wrapped in crinkly cellophane and tied with a glittery gold ribbon, a dramatic gift straight from Sooyoung-noona in Ansan. She also sent seaweed soup in a smaller container, less gaudy. The card, which Soobin ripped off the cellophane before anyone else could read it, says:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DUMMY. Eat fruit. (Share with Beomgyu. Maybe he’ll forgive all your sins.) – Choi Sooyoung

Beomgyu had laughed so hard at the gift when it arrived. Apparently, he knew the oranges were coming because, “Syoung-noona informed me the day she ordered it!”

(Whatever sins his noona was talking about in her note, he hopes he’s been forgiven.)

Now the basket glows under the yellow apartment lights, surrounded by empty cans, takeout boxes, and the Bluetooth speaker humming something slow and wintery.

The living room looks like a small disaster site.

There’s a looseness to the night—the kind that only shows up when everyone’s drunk just enough soju bombs to forget about everything that barely matters.

“To Soobin-hyung!” Kai shouts, standing on his knees to raise his glass dramatically.

“Our one and only!” Beomgyu chimes in, leaning into Kai’s side as he lifts his own drink. “God of the nerds!”

The rest of them cheer and knock their drinks together. Someone spills a bit on the table. No one bothers cleaning it up.

Soobin presses a hand to his heart exaggeratedly, eyes closed with faux emotion. “You guys,” he sniffs. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“We better see those tears, hyung,” Taehyun says, taking a slow sip from his cup. “The price of the tteokbokki we ordered for you made us cry.”

Everyone laughs, including Soobin. Because how could he not? It’s one of those rare, easy nights where things are easy, and happiness isn’t hard to find at all.

As the night winds on, the music gets quieter, the jokes get dumber, and the group settles into a slower rhythm. Soobin is sitting on the carpet, back against the couch, half-listening to a story Yeonjun’s telling about one of his professors while Beomgyu opens another drink.

Soobin should feel content. And for the most part, he does.

But then Beomgyu laughs at something Kai says, head thrown back. And when he leans against the couch, his hand rests on Kai’s knee. Just for a second. Maybe two.

Kai freezes.

Not dramatically, but just enough for Soobin to notice the slight hitch in his breath, the way his eyes flick down to where Beomgyu’s hand is. And then, just as fast, Kai smiles. Wide. A little too fast. A little too much.

His whole posture changes—his shoulders straighten, his expression opens. He shifts a little closer, almost imperceptibly. Like he’s afraid to make it obvious, but even more afraid to waste the moment.

It’s subtle. But Soobin sees it.

Beomgyu, of course, doesn’t notice. He’s already moved on, attention pulled elsewhere like it always is.

Soobin blinks.

The moment passes. He doesn’t even think about it. 

Not yet.

Later, Beomgyu is midway through some story about Yeonjun misplacing his ID and panicking because he couldn’t get into the dance studio without it. Taehyun is next to him, quietly wiping condensation off Beomgyu’s can with a napkin. Present. Ready with another drink before Beomgyu even asks. He doesn’t say much, but he stays close enough that Beomgyu naturally leans into him without even realizing.

And Yeonjun has been orbiting Beomgyu all night.

He’s always just a little too near; shoulder pressed close, head leaning in to whisper something that always makes Beomgyu laugh. Not the big, chaotic laugh he gives everyone else, but something quieter. More private. Every time Beomgyu turns to him, Yeonjun looks like he’s holding his breath and trying not to show it.

There’s a look in Yeonjun’s eyes—playful, but edged with something sharper. Like he’s daring Beomgyu to catch on. Like he’s already imagined what it would be like if he said what he was actually thinking. And maybe he has. Maybe he’s said it already, in other ways.

It all blends into the noise of the room.

But Soobin keeps noticing every shift, every glance. Every moment that shouldn’t matter.

He doesn’t mean to.

It’s not like he’s jealous. That would be ridiculous.

They’re just friends. They’re all close. They’ve always been close. The physical affection isn’t new, and neither is the warmth.

So the new thing is this feeling is in his chest that he doesn’t want to name.

He takes a long sip from his drink.

Beomgyu sits back down beside him, cross-legged, and nudges Soobin’s forearm with his knee. “Hyung, you’re kinda quiet.”

Soobin clears his throat. “Just listening.”

“Dangerous,” Beomgyu teases. “You listening means you’re taking note of all our weaknesses.”

Soobin smiles, even as his chest twists. He’s not collecting anyone’s weaknesses. Not really.

He’s just trying to figure out how Beomgyu turned into one.

Beomgyu turns back to Yeonjun, picking up the thread of the conversation without missing a beat.

And Soobin watches. Again.

He doesn’t know what he’s watching for.

He just knows that Yeonjun looks at Beomgyu like he’s waiting for something. That Kai always leans closer than necessary. That Taehyun moves around Beomgyu like he’s spent years learning their choreography by heart. And Beomgyu lets them.

Of course he does.

He’s Beomgyu.

He’s warm. He’s easy to love. He would be a good boyfriend—Soobin has had this thought every day since that cursed Thursday. He’s the kind that notices when you’re tired before you do, the kind that sends you a meme and a “take a break” text in the same breath. The kind who would never ask for too much but still make you feel like you were everything.

There’s laughter around him, but it sounds a little muffled now.

Soobin looks at Beomgyu again, just for a second. He doesn’t know why it suddenly feels like something he shouldn’t be doing.

He downs the rest of his Heineken and sets the empty can down on the carpet.

As the night winds down, the others leave in stages.

Soobin registers it distantly. Kai is the first to stand, hugging him a little too tight as he apologizes for having to catch the last train. He promises to text when he gets home. Promises again when he’s already halfway out the door.

Yeonjun and Taehyun follow soon after, Yeonjun’s giggles trailing down the hallway like loose change. A minute later, Taehyun slips back in alone to retrieve their forgotten shoes, muttering something about Yeonjun being too drunk to trust with the elevator a second time.

Then the door closes for the final time.

The apartment settles.

Soobin sinks deeper into one end of the couch, legs stretched out, head tipped back until the ceiling blurs. It feels like gravity has finally decided to claim him. Somewhere to his left, Beomgyu is still moving—gathering empty cans, putting them into the plastic bag their tteokbokki came in, quiet and habitual about it. Even tired, Beomgyu looks like someone other people rely on. Even now, he’s tidying up what everyone else left behind.

“You know,” Soobin says, the words slipping out before he fully checks them, “it’s funny.”

Beomgyu glances over. “Hm?”

“How people move when you move.”

Soobin sits up with some effort and scoops the last few cans off the carpet, handing them over. Their fingers brush—brief, unremarkable. He notices it anyway.

“Earlier. All night, really,” Soobin continues. “You stand up, they stand up. You laugh, they laugh. It’s like you’ve got your own gravity.”

Beomgyu snorts, tying the bag neatly. “You’re really drunk.”

“I know.” Soobin lets himself smile at that. He slides down the couch until he’s slouched instead of sprawled. “But it’s still true. I’ve been watching it all night.”

He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t say that it’s been impossible not to.

Beomgyu sets the bag by the kitchen table, clearly deciding it can wait until morning. “I noticed.”

Soobin’s smile turns lazy, a little crooked. “You didn’t say I was wrong.”

Beomgyu opens his mouth, then closes it again. He crosses back to the couch and drops onto the opposite end, careful to leave a polite gap between them. The space feels intentional. Soobin clocks it immediately.

“Everyone was just in a good mood,” Beomgyu mumbles.

“Mm.” Soobin hums, unconvinced. His gaze drifts back to Beomgyu and lingers, unguarded now that there’s no one else around to notice. “No. They orbit you.”

Beomgyu laughs, a little breathless. “Hyung, listen to yourself.”

“I am,” Soobin says. “That’s the problem.”

Beomgyu doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “You’re staring.”

Soobin doesn’t deny it. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

He shrugs, careless. “About how effortless you make things look.”

That’s not the whole truth. But it’s close enough.

His eyes trace Beomgyu’s face—the familiar slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the faint shadow beneath his lashes in the low light. He’s been looking at him all day, all night. Watching people lean in, watching hands find Beomgyu without thinking. Somehow it still feels like noticing him for the first time.

“I just think,” Soobin says slowly, “it’d be exhausting. Being... that.”

“That?” Beomgyu echoes.

“Wanted,” Soobin says, then adds lightly, as if it’s an afterthought, “by everyone. Is it not?”

Beomgyu’s fingers still. Soobin notices that too.

“I don’t know, hyung,” Beomgyu says. “You tell me.”

Soobin almost laughs. Almost.

Instead, he shifts closer. It just happens, his body moving before his brain could decide. The space between them closes quietly, without announcement. Beomgyu stiffens for half a second, then leans back into the cushions like he’s making himself relax.

“Go drink some water,” Beomgyu says.

“In a minute.” Soobin tilts his head, studying him. “Does it ever get annoying?”

“What?”

“People liking you.” His smile is faint now. “People wanting to be around you all the time.”

“Hyung.”

“I’m curious. Humor me.”

Beomgyu looks at him properly then. Really looks. “Sometimes,” he admits.

The answer settles warmly in Soobin’s chest, unwarranted and unwelcome. He leans back, then forward again, momentum carrying him closer than he intends. His knee bumps Beomgyu’s thigh.

Neither of them moves away.

“See,” Soobin murmurs. “That’s what I mean.”

“What?” Beomgyu asks, his voice lower now.

“That you don’t even have to try,” Soobin says. “You just sit there and people—” He gestures vaguely, fingers brushing the air between them. “They come to you.”

Beomgyu’s pulse jumps. Soobin can see it in the way his throat moves when he swallows.

“You’re people too,” Beomgyu says.

Soobin laughs under his breath. “Am I?”

Before Beomgyu can answer, Soobin shifts again, clumsier this time. The couch cushion gives way, and suddenly there’s nothing solid beneath him. He reaches out on instinct and lands against Beomgyu, hands braced on either side of his shoulders.

They freeze.

Soobin blinks down at him, close enough to feel his breath, close enough to count his lashes. “Oh,” he says softly.

“Hyung,” Beomgyu breathes.

“Sorry,” Soobin says, though the word barely registers. His instincts are screaming. The rational part of his brain is listing reasons. He ignores all of it.

Neither of them moves.

Soobin’s gaze drops—to Beomgyu’s mouth, then back up again.

He doesn’t pretend it’s an accident. The thought has been circling him all night, and now, he’s run out of reasons not to let it land.

“You’re warm,” he says.

“So are you,” Beomgyu replies, heart racing hard enough that Soobin can feel it where their bodies touch.

Soobin leans in.

Slowly and carefully, like he’s giving himself time to stop.

He doesn’t.

But Beomgyu does.

His hands come up, covering Soobin’s mouth just before their lips meet. Soobin makes a small, surprised sound against his palms, breath warm and unsteady.

“Soobin-hyung,” Beomgyu whispers. “I don’t know who you think I am right now, but this isn’t a good idea.”

Soobin blinks, eyes searching Beomgyu’s. For a moment, something sharp flashes there—confusion, frustration, a flicker of something he doesn’t have the energy to examine.

“Oh,” he says, muffled. “Right.”

Beomgyu opens his mouth, clearly about to say more; maybe to explain, to soften it, but then Soobin’s weight goes slack. His head tips forward, resting against Beomgyu’s shoulder, breath evening out as if someone flipped a switch.

Beomgyu freezes.

“Soobin-hyung?” he tries.

No answer.

Just sleep. Heavy and unbothered.

Beomgyu exhales a sound halfway between a laugh and something more wrecked. He shifts carefully, easing Soobin back against the couch, adjusting him so he won’t wake up sore.

The apartment grows quieter, and the city settles into winter stillness.

On the coffee table, the basket of Jeju oranges sits half-forgotten.