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Yeonjun didn’t win at Music Bank today. Not even close.

And though his team kindly doesn’t say anything after the trophy is awarded and the lights go out, he hears the whispers, and he knows.

Not good enough.

His manager drives him home in the company van afterwards. Jisoo is the strong and silent type, not one for emotional conversations, and for once Yeonjun is thankful for the quiet as he stares out the car window at the dreary Seoul skyline.

“We’re here,” Jisoo finally says as the van pulls around the back of Yeonjun’s apartment complex.

His company had finally caved and let him move out of the dorm he had shared with his team last year. Yeonjun had even put it into his newly renegotiated contract. No more forced dorm experiences. Thank god for small miracles.

“Thanks, hyung.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jisoo says. He looks tired too. “Next time it’ll be better, yeah?”

Yeonjun nods, though he’s not sure if either of them believe it. The numbers don’t lie, after all.

Ambition has been the invisible red string pulling him forward to meet his fate for as long as he can remember, the driving force behind his entire life.

His hopes and dreams might as well have been imprinted on the insides of his eyelids like a giant flashing billboard, urging him to work harder, push further, practice just a little bit longer than everyone else.

And it was good, for a while. Bighit’s legendary trainee, successful solo debut, album sales that kept climbing up (until they didn’t).

But somewhere along the way, his hopes turned into heavyweights and his dreams into dust, and now he’s on his way to being yet another casualty of the music industry if his next few rounds of promotions aren’t successful. After all, this career is a long trek up to the top of the mountain, but a short fall down into obscurity.

At the mere age of twenty-four, Yeonjun wonders how much longer he can keep fighting for it.

***

His name is Beomgyu, and Yeonjun dislikes him immediately.

“Please welcome Choi Beomgyu-ssi to the team,” says his creative director, a shrewd man named Taehyun. There’s a polite smattering of applause around the board room table.

“Nice to meet you all,” Beomgyu says. His voice is deeper than Yeonjun had expected, like warm honey.

Yeonjun determinedly ignores the shiver that runs down his spine as he files that piece of information into the folder in his brain labeled “Not Important.”

“As many of you are aware,” Taehyun continues, “we’ve been dissatisfied with several performance metrics from our artist’s recent promotional cycles.”

Taehyun has become something of a friend to him in recent months, so the words bring a sting of embarrassment to his cheeks.

Not good enough, Yeonjun thinks once again. Echoing the sentiments of everyone else in the room, he’s sure. Never good enough.

He knows Taehyun is just doing his job, but it doesn’t stop the bile from rising in his throat.

Everything he’s worked so hard for, reduced to a pathetic pile of subpar statistics and unmet bottom lines.

“We’d like to explore a different musical direction for Yeonjun-ssi’s next album,” Taehyun says. “Beomgyu-ssi has extensive writing and producing experience in a variety of genres, and achieved number one on the Billboard Hot 100 with his contributions to BTS’s recent album. He’ll be a valuable addition to our team.”

Yeonjun can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“I believe I was promised more creative freedom in my last contract negotiation,” he cuts in. Being a largely self-produced idol was something he took pride in. He’d fought damn hard to retain that level of control over his music, and for what?

The thought of working with yet another arrogant producer who thinks he’s the second coming of Christ just because he’s been on a few hits that have charted well is nearly aneurysm-inducing.

“And you will have it,” Taehyun replies smoothly. “You’ll each have an equal say in the creative process, but you’ll be expected to collaborate in order to prepare the best product possible for your next comeback.”

He gives Yeonjun a pleading look that says please don’t make my job any harder than it has to be.

Yeonjun knows this decision was likely above Taehyun’s paygrade, maybe even coming from Bang Sihyuk himself, but he’s too angry to care.

“Fine,” he grits out.

“I look forward to working with Yeonjun-ssi and the whole team,” Beomgyu says brightly. He flashes Yeonjun a megawatt smile.

Yeonjun hates him already.

***

Sometimes Yeonjun feels like a painting hung on display in a museum for all to see.

People from all over the world come to gawk at him like the spectacle he is. And while some are satisfied, others inspect his performance a little closer and realize he was prettier from far away.

I thought he would be more impressive in real life, they say.

Criticism is par for the course in his line of work, but he’s learned from experience that the sting never really goes away.

So Yeonjun guards himself like a fortress and projects confidence like a shield. He doesn’t let anyone see the doubt that plagues his dreams at night, or the loneliness that prickles under his skin when he comes home to an empty apartment, the one he had begged for in his last contract negotiation.

They say it’s lonely at the top, but Yeonjun doesn’t reside there anymore. He’s somewhere in the shapeless middle, drifting, floating aimlessly.

Waiting.

For what, he’s no longer sure.

***

Yeonjun unlocks the door to the studio, knowing that he’s already late for their first session. He finds Beomgyu curled up on the couch, flipping through a copy of Wuthering Heights.

“Didn’t take you for a classics kind of guy,” he says at last.

“Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same,” Beomgyu quotes dreamily.

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. “You’re a real hopeless romantic, huh?”

“Hey, it helps me get inspired, especially when I’m working on a new song. Don’t you read?”

“No,” Yeonjun lies. He thinks of his battered copy of Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore that kept him company during his trainee days, and the ever-growing stack of books at his apartment that he never has time to read anyways.

“Oh,” Beomgyu says. He almost sounds disappointed. Yeonjun can’t imagine why he would care.

“So, I’m gonna get to work,” he says, pulling out a pair of headphones and turning on the soundboard.

“We’re supposed to work together.”

“Right, but I work better alone, and we don’t even know each other.”

Beomgyu huffs. “Okay, so let me get to know you then.”

“I’ll pass on the interrogation, thanks.”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Look, it’s obvious that you don’t want to be here. But I need this to go well, and let’s be honest, you do too. So can we put aside whatever is going on here and just be, like, civil?”

“I’m being plenty civil,” Yeonjun replies calmly, ignoring the sting of you do too. “I just work better without someone else breathing down my neck, that’s all.”

“Well I work better when I can bounce ideas off of people,” Beomgyu says. “So I guess we’re at a stalemate.”

Yeonjun narrows his eyes. “Guess so.”

Beomgyu drops his notebook onto the keyboard and faces Yeonjun. “Okay, I’m going to start talking then. The company wants to explore the theme of love in a different way. Darker songs about losing love, brighter songs about finding love. Lost and found. Rock and rap influences mixed with alt-pop. Like a dual concept, you know?”

“Did you read that straight from the company memo or something?”

Beomgyu brow furrows. “What memo?”

Yeonjun barely suppresses another eye roll. “I’m just saying. If you’re going to tell me what my album’s about, why don’t you just write it yourself?”

Beomgyu deflates. “Oh. That’s what this is about? I’m here to steal your creativity, is that it?”

“Looks that way to me.”

“Fine,” Beomgyu says. “We’ll write separately today, and then share what we’ve got at the end of the session. Win-win. Deal?”

Yeonjun shrugs, which Beomgyu seems to take as a yes. He plugs his own set of headphones into one of the keyboards and turns away from Yeonjun, humming to himself.

It’s two hours of hell.

Beomgyu is merely sitting there, doing absolutely nothing wrong, and Yeonjun hates him for it. Hates himself a little bit too.

Still, the resentment that courses through his veins makes it impossible to concentrate. At the end of the session, all he has to show for it are a few scribbled lyrics in the margins of his notebook, not even a real chord progression or a motif in mind.

“So, I’ve got something,” Beomgyu grins, like Yeonjun hasn’t been glowering at his back for the entire afternoon.

The sound of heavy guitar chords fills the room. It’s only eight bars, nothing substantial yet, but it’s not bad. Pretty good, in fact. Not that Yeonjun would ever admit it out loud.

“It’s…intense.”

“Right, but that’s the point. Not many idols have experimented with rock or metal. Why not push some boundaries?”

It’s right up Yeonjun’s alley if he’s being honest.

“I guess,” he offers weakly.

Beomgyu seems undeterred. “Great, I’ll keep working on it this week. What have you got?”

“None of your business,” Yeonjun deflects. “I told you, I prefer working alone.”

Beomgyu glances at his empty notebook and seems to understand the excuse for what it is.

“Right. Well, see you next time,” he says as they begin to pack up their things. He offers Yeonjun a pitying smile before shutting the door behind him.

Yeonjun stays put, ignoring the incessant buzz of his phone. It’s Jisoo, he’s sure, coming to whisk him off to his next schedule.

But he’s not quite ready to leave.

Instead, he finds himself turning one of the keyboards back on, familiar chords filling the room as he presses down gingerly on the keys. It’s a ballad from his second EP, and the first song he was ever officially credited on.

The world fades around him, blurring into tunnel vision as he lets the music sweep him away.

The last chords fade out. The room stands once more in eerie silence.

Yeonjun closes his eyes and feels like for a single precious moment, he can finally breathe again.

***

Beomgyu’s presence seems to follow him like his own shadow after that first session.

Worse, he seems undeterred in his belief that somehow they’re going to end up as friends.

“Nice to see you Yeonjun-ssi,” Beomgyu greets him conversationally as they step into the company elevator the next day, Jisoo following closely behind.

Yeonjun tilts his head in a slight bow. “Beomgyu-ssi.”

“You’re coming by the studio tomorrow, right?” Beomgyu asks, choosing to ignore Yeonjun’s stiff tone.

“After my morning schedule, I think.”

“Great,” Beomgyu says enthusiastically. “I’m looking forward to our next session.”

The elevator dings on the fourth floor, and Beomgyu steps out.

“See you then,” he says. He offers them a friendly wave.

Yeonjun mumbles his goodbye and manages a grimace that doesn’t quite pass for a smile.

“You could try harder,” Jisoo says once the door clicks shut again.

Yeonjun winces. He knows he’s being a dick, that Beomgyu doesn’t deserve his attitude. But still. There’s something about him that Yeonjun can’t quite shake.

The elevator dings once more on the sixth floor.

Yeonjun steps into one of the dance studios at the end of the hall and doesn’t step back out for another six hours, until his lungs are aching and his legs are numb.

He wonders, desperately, if it will ever be enough.

***

“I don’t understand why you won’t just give him a chance,” Taehyun says. “Did he do something to upset you?”

They’re sitting in his office after an evening team meeting, sharing a small pour of whiskey from the bottle that Taehyun definitely isn’t supposed to keep in his desk.

Yeonjun takes a swig, grateful that he’d told Jisoo not to wait up. “Being in the same room as him upsets me.”

Taehyun regards him with an unimpressed stare. “Is it really that bad working with a songwriting partner? Most people don’t do this stuff alone, you know.”

Yeonjun does know. Yet some part of him feels like an immovable mountain, rooted in place and trying to stand tall while the rest of the world changes around him.

“But we were forced together,” he argues. It’s not the same as sending a half-written topline to one of his hyungs in the industry and asking for his opinion, or working with one of the world-class producers at HYBE that he’s looked up to since he was a trainee.

He and Beomgyu were shoved together because he wasn’t good enough, plain and simple, and he can’t bring himself to forgive Beomgyu for reminding him of his own shortcomings.

“And besides, we have creative differences,” he continues. “How am I supposed to work with someone who has completely different ideas? It’s my album, not his.”

“He’s working with you, not against you. Try not being so stubborn and maybe you’ll actually come up with something good together.”

It sounds so reasonable when Taehyun puts it that way.

“And he’s annoying,” Yeonjun adds unnecessarily. Taehyun snorts in amusement.

“He is,” Yeonjun defends, aware that he sounds like a child throwing a tantrum.

“Right,” Taehyun says, clearly not buying a single word. “If you say so. He’s quite the looker though, I’ll give him that.”

Yeonjun sets down his glass with an emphatic thud and shoots Taehyun a warning look. “That’s enough.”

Taehyun just smirks and waves him off.

Beomgyu is attractive, Yeonjun will give him that. He could’ve been an idol himself, with his expressive features, floppy brown hair and a tiny waist that haunts Yeonjun’s dreams, not that he’ll ever admit it out loud. But then Beomgyu opens his mouth, and any attraction Yeonjun might have privately entertained instantly evaporates.

If he’s being truthful though, he knows exactly why Beomgyu irks him so much. What he really hates most of all, even more than Beomgyu’s seemingly carefree attitude about this whole situation, is the fact that he needs him.

He’s too paranoid to even think about it in public, as if everyone around him will be able to smell weakness. But privately, the thought circles around his head like a vulture waiting to strike.

Because as usual, Taehyun is right. Yeonjun had listened to some of Beomgyu’s stuff, and he’s good. Really good. Their first session together had only solidified this simple fact.

And when it comes down to it, Yeonjun’s songs simply aren’t up to snuff.

He needs Choi Beomgyu, and it feels like the beginning of the end.

***

“It’s not memorable. You need a better hook.”

Their second studio session is not off to a good start. Yeonjun had finally scrambled together the unfinished workings of a song he’d been toying around with in his free time, but Beomgyu seems determined to change every aspect of it until it’s unrecognizable from the original.

“So what, I can sound like a carbon copy of everyone else on the radio?”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes. “No, so you get radio play in the first place. That is what you want, right?”

Yeonjun pinches the area in between his eyebrows and fights back a scream.

How can one person be so infuriating? He hates that Beomgyu seems so chill about this whole arrangement. Yeonjun doesn’t know how he can waltz right in here like he owns the place, stepping over all of his hard work, like he wasn’t hired by management with the sole purpose of dictating Yeonjun’s creativity.

Beomgyu ignores his bad attitude and insists they tinker around with it for a while, much to Yeonjun’s chagrin. The song is far from finished by the end of their session, but even Yeonjun has to admit that it has the makings of an album-worthy track if they can fit all the pieces together.

“Gotta run,” Beomgyu flashes him a breezy smile, as if Yeonjun hasn’t spent the last two hours making his life unnecessarily difficult. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder, and Yeonjun catches a glimpse of the book peeking out of the side pocket. Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger. Could Beomgyu get any more cliche?

Beomgyu clocks the direction of his stare.

“Have you read it?” he asks.

Yeonjun shrugs, which Beomgyu seems to take as a no. He doesn’t know why he can’t just admit that the two of them have something in common. Too personal, maybe. Too close to home.

“Funny,” Beomgyu says. “You remind me of the main character.”

Yeonjun bristles in indignation. “How’s that?”

“Hot-headed and cynical?”

“Don’t you mean sensitive and brooding?”

A hint of a smirk plays at Beomgyu’s lips. “Thought you said you hadn’t read it.”

Caught red-handed.

“Thought you said you were leaving,” Yeonjun fires back.

Beomgyu’s answering smile is wicked, like he knows he’s won this round. Yeonjun hates how good it looks on him.

“Goodnight, Yeonjun-ssi,” he says. “Don’t work too hard tonight.”

Yeonjun seethes all the way home.

***

Whatever game they’re playing, Beomgyu clearly has the upper hand now, and they both know it. Every interaction they have with one another is a carefully choreographed dance, as if they’re circling each other in a fighting ring waiting for the right chance to strike.

Yeonjun almost enjoys it, not that he’d ever admit such sacrilege out loud. The worst part of him thinks about it at night when his guard is down, the devilish glint in Beomgyu’s eye that sends a shiver straight down to his groin, the triumphant smirk whenever he wins one of their verbal sparring matches and won’t let Yeonjun forget it.

It’s not foreplay, or at least that’s what Yeonjun tells himself. He’s an idol in the public sphere, for god’s sake. In what universe would that scenario ever be possible, let alone realistic? He despises Beomgyu, though he seems to need reminding of that fact more and more these days.

Still, he finds himself anticipating their writing sessions, even though Beomgyu’s presence drives him up a fucking wall.

Until one day a few weeks later, when everything unexpectedly goes to shit.

They’re on a video call with a producer team from Sweden, a duo called Moonshine. Yeonjun’s worked with them before—they have some of the slickest mixing skills of anyone he knows, and are at the top of a very short list of people he actually trusts his music with.

“What’s up guys?” he greets them in English. His stint living in America as a kid served him well, and he relaxes into the familiar cadence of his second language.

He notices Beomgyu’s mood turn chilly almost immediately into their call. They’re supposed to be discussing the first song that he and Beomgyu have finally managed to finish, and what Yeonjun’s vision is for the final version of the track.

It’s different, he reasons, from how he feels about Beomgyu. The Moonshine guys are just here to turn the raw material that Yeonjun has already come up with into a glossy finished product. They’re not breathing down his neck or writing his songs for him.

Still, he’s not so sure about that logic when he feels Beomgyu’s icy stare bore into his skull.

The silence after the call drops hangs over the room like an oppressive summer storm.

Beomgyu is the first to break. “You’re nice to them,” he accuses, clearly upset. “I’m sorry, but what the fuck did I ever do to you?”

Yeonjun blanches. “I—”

“I may not be as fluent in English as you are, but I’m not fucking stupid,” Beomgyu interrupts. “I’ve tried so hard to be nice, to play along with whatever the fuck this thing is between us. But nothing I do will ever be good enough, will it?”

Yeonjun feels nauseous. His head spins with the sudden switch in mood. Somehow, he hadn’t thought that he’d have to confront the ugliest parts of himself in the mirror today, the insecurity and exhaustion reminding him that he’s never going to be good enough, not as an artist or a person. And like a coward, he’s projected it all onto Beomgyu without a care in the world for his feelings.

“You know, I was excited to work with you,” Beomgyu says. “I thought maybe—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

Yeonjun’s heart is in his throat. “Tell me,” he whispers, though he’s fully aware that Beomgyu doesn’t owe him shit at this point.

“I thought we could have been a team,” Beomgyu says at last. “Maybe even friends. Clearly I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Yeonjun says, faltering. The words ring hollow to his own ears, too.

Beomgyu slams the studio door shut behind him, not bothering to respond.

Yeonjun just sits there in shock, unable to move. Jisoo finds him there thirty minutes later when he comes to collect him for his next schedule. How the fuck is he supposed to go film an interview when it feels like the entire world has fallen out from under his feet?

He doesn’t sleep a wink that night, just stares at the ceiling until the sky comes back to life and the harsh morning light hits his face, taunting him with the promise of another long, sleep-deprived day.

Not good enough. Never good enough. He’s felt it within himself for a long time now, but now he’s made it Beomgyu’s problem too.

But nothing is so broken it can’t be fixed.

And he’s going to fix this. For Beomgyu’s sake. He has to.

***

Sometimes, Yeonjun wonders what it would’ve been like to debut in a group.

He wonders how it would feel to have hands to hold and shoulders to cry on. Brothers to share the stage with, friends to confide in when things got hard and to celebrate with when things got better.

In another life, maybe.

But in this one, he’s alone.

The glow of the spotlight used to be a comforting warmth, but he flew too close to the sun and now he’s falling, falling, falling.

Yeonjun wonders if anyone will hear his screams when he finally hits the ground.

***

“I need flowers, stat.”

“What kind?” Huening Kai asks when Yeonjun calls him the following weekend.

“The ‘I fucked up please forgive me’ kind?”

“Ah,” Kai says brightly. “That kind.” He makes no move to respond further.

“Can you please put your boyfriend on the line?” Yeonjun asks impatiently.

“Heard you’re having boy trouble,” Choi Soobin says when Kai passes the phone over. Yeonjun knows he’s on speaker, sure that the two of them are cuddling on the couch together staring dreamily into each other’s eyes, or whatever it is that grossly in love people do all weekend.

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“But you are having boy trouble,” Soobin says knowingly. “What did you do this time?”

Yeonjun sighs, but in a way, the probing questions are a relief. They represent a level of honesty that only comes from people who’ve known each other for as long as they have.

Soobin and Kai are the only two school friends he’s managed to keep in touch with over the years, and he’s never been more grateful to hear their voices. These days they’re a two-for-one package deal—Soobin had finally gotten up the courage to confess to Kai last year. Yeonjun couldn’t be happier for them, even if he’s secretly a little envious of their love.

“I was a real asshole to someone at work who didn’t deserve it,” he says. He winces internally, aware that he’s putting it mildly. “I want to apologize to him, so I thought flowers would be a nice gesture.”

He can practically hear Soobin’s eyebrows raise over the phone. “Right,” his friend says eventually. “Most people would start with a verbal apology instead of jumping straight to flowers, you know. Especially for someone who’s just a coworker.”

Yeonjun doesn’t answer, knowing he’s been caught out.

“I think it’s nice that you want to apologize,” Soobin assures him. “Daffodils are a good option. I can make you a bouquet when I get back to the shop on Monday—”

“Yeonjun has a cruuush,” Kai sing-songs, and Yeonjun scoffs.

“That’s hyung to you,” he shoots back, but Kai just laughs and ignores him.

He feels marginally better when he hangs up the phone an hour later, always comforted by his friends and their antics. Soobin runs a trendy florist shop in Itaewon now, while Kai is a local radio DJ, slowly working his way up to bigger, flashier gigs. He wishes he was able to see them more often, but he’ll take these small precious moments whenever he can get them.

True to his word, Soobin sends a bouquet of fresh daffodils to his apartment the following week. Jisoo gives him a bizarre look when he picks Yeonjun up for his morning schedule and sees him clutching the flowers like a lifeline.

“Just wanted to spruce up the studio today,” Yeonjun lies. Jisoo clearly doesn’t buy it, but he looks too tired to ask any questions.

“Be careful,” is all he says. “I don’t want to have to clean up any messes.”

Yeonjun’s insides twist, but he takes Jisoo’s point and mercifully, the subject gets dropped.

He hasn’t seen Beomgyu since their fight almost two weeks ago, but they’ve booked studio time for a couple hours this morning before his variety show shoot that will go the rest of the day.

He’s the first one to arrive, and as the minutes drag on, he wonders if Beomgyu will even show.

But sure enough, Beomgyu steps through the door looking composed as always. Yeonjun feels like a train wreck in comparison.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out before Beomgyu can say anything. “You were right. I was a total asshole, and I’m sorry.”

Beomgyu says nothing, which Yeonjun takes as his cue to keep talking.

“I had this stupid fantasy that I was going to be this perfect self-made idol,” he says. “I was going to write the album of the year, send it off for final production, and boost my career back up to where I wanted it to be. And then you showed up with all your talent and good ideas and threw a wrench in my plans. I guess I felt threatened.”

It feels good to say it out loud for some reason. He hadn’t expected that.

“Anyways, these flowers are for you. You didn’t deserve my attitude, and I’m sorry.”

“Why flowers?”

“What?” He hadn’t been expecting that response.

“Why did you get me flowers?” Beomgyu repeats.

Yeonjun chooses his next words carefully. The truth is that there’s an ache inside him that presses against the edges of his skin and threatens to spill into the liminal space between them. He wants to be more than a memory to Beomgyu, not just a soon-to-be-forgotten footnote in a single, bittersweet chapter of his life.

But he knows that saying something so monumental would only widen the gap between them. It’s too soon for such vulnerabilities.

So instead he says simply, “I wanted to give you beauty instead of pain this time.”

“Oh,” Beomgyu says. “I feel like you stole that line from a book or something.”

“Off the cuff, I swear,” Yeonjun answers. “You just read too many classic romance novels.”

“And you don’t read enough of them.” He does, but Beomgyu doesn’t know that yet.

“Did I mention I was sorry yet?”

The smallest hint of a teasing smile plays across Beomgyu’s face, though his guard remains up. “I don’t think you got that point across, no.”

“Well I’ll keep saying it,” Yeonjun says seriously. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, at least not right away, but I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, I just like seeing this new side of you.”

A flush fills Yeonjun’s face. “And what side would that be?”

“The groveling kind,” Beomgyu says matter-of-factly. “It suits you.”

Yeonjun groans, and the tension in the room finally dissipates.

“See?” Beomgyu says. “We’re not so bad together when you’re not busy sticking your head up your ass.”

Yeonjun can’t help the sheepish grin that spreads across his face. “Guess I deserved that one.”

He knows it’s going to take more than a day to rebuild this fragile thing between them, but the lightness in his chest surprises him.

He’s been imprisoned in a self-sabotaging cage of his own making for so long. Finally, he gets a glimpse of what it feels like to be free.

***

They fall into an easy dynamic after that. They’re not exactly friends, but things are relatively civil and pleasant now. Yeonjun’s surprised by how much more productive he is now that he’s not wasting so much energy staring daggers at Beomgyu’s backside.

Beomgyu is still cautious around him, which is to be expected. But Yeonjun keeps showing up on his best behavior, and slowly Beomgyu starts to relax in his presence.

They’re in the studio again. Some weeks he doesn’t make it there at all, has to make do with saving ideas in his notes app in between filming and other schedules. But the company is on his ass to submit something for review, even if it’s unfinished, so Yeonjun dutifully opens the studio door after a busy day of schedules and prepares for a long night.

“Hey—” Beomgyu begins, but he chokes before he can finish his sentence. “You look different today,” he finishes, finally recovering.

Yeonjun raises an eyebrow. There’s no way Beomgyu is this affected by his appearance today. And yet…

“Came from a photoshoot,” he says at last. “Edgy concept today.”

He hadn’t been able to take home any of the clothes from set, but his hair had been artfully mussed by the stylist team, and he’s still wearing a full face of makeup.

“Suits you,” Beomgyu says, but he won’t look Yeonjun in the eye.

There’s nothing between them. How could there be? Yet for the first time ever, Yeonjun wonders if he has the upper hand tonight.

He decides to test his theory.

“Should we order food?” he asks casually. He stretches his arms over his head as he fakes a yawn, his torn muscle tee riding up past his waistline and leaving a thin strip of skin exposed.

Yeah, there’s definitely a blush rising on Beomgyu’s cheeks.

An involuntary shiver passes down Yeonjun’s spine.

“Can we get noodles?” Beomgyu asks. His wide eyes remind Yeonjun of a pleading puppy. “Please?”

Since when does he act this cute? Beomgyu is usually so self-assured, so in control. But for some reason, their dynamic seems to have shifted tonight.

Yeonjun can’t quite figure him out.

“We can get noodles,” he relents, if only to see the way Beomgyu’s face lights up in satisfaction.

“Good, because you owe me,” Beomgyu says, suddenly serious.

“For what?”

“For being a complete dick for so long.”

Yeonjun winces. “Yeah, fair enough.”

“Do you want to work together or separately today?”

“Together,” Yeonjun decides. “Let’s work together.”

He already knew what he was going to say, but Beomgyu’s answering smile is extra confirmation that he chose correctly.

They spend some time working on a few unfinished tracks, and they’re finally getting into a good flow by the time someone from his protocol team knocks on the door with their food delivery.

“Thank god, I’m starving,” Beomgyu groans.

Yeonjun just laughs in response. Clearly it’s time for a break.

Beomgyu wastes no time in opening the takeout container and shoveling a large bite of noodles into his mouth. Yeonjun frowns and motions in warning, feeling protective all of a sudden.

“Careful, you’ll choke again. It’s not good for you.”

“Depends what I’m choking on,” Beomgyu grins, waggling an eyebrow, and now it’s Yeonjun’s turn to splutter.

It’s not flirting. It’s not.

“Why were you choking in the first place?” he asks, trying to refocus the conversation before it veers into territory he’s not prepared for. “Do I really look that bad today?”

“Not bad,” Beomgyu rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Don’t fish for compliments. Just different, that’s all. Surprised me.”

Yeonjun blushes. There’s the bluntness that he’s become so accustomed to. “Different how?”

“It’s the eyeliner,” Beomgyu says. “You look like you belong in one of those American emo bands. Fall Out Boy or Linkin Park or something like that.”

“You listen to Fall Out Boy and Linkin Park?”

“And J. Cole, and BoA, and Justin Bieber.”

“Huh.”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Beomgyu laughs. “I’m a musician. Of course I listen to lots of different artists.”

Yeonjun smiles. “I grew up on BoA. My mom played her debut EP around the house nonstop when I was a kid.”

“I wasn’t even born when that album came out.”

“Wait, how old are you?”

“Twenty-three, you?”

Yeonjun’s eyebrows shoot up. Throughout all of this, Beomgyu’s age somehow hadn’t crossed his mind at all.

“I’m your hyung then,” he says at last, and god if that doesn’t make him feel like even more of an asshole. “I’ll be twenty-five in the fall.”

Beomgyu’s mouth tilts upwards into a small grin. “My hyung, huh?”

It’s playful in a way that catches Yeonjun off guard, and something flips in his stomach. There’s something in the air between them tonight, but he’s just not sure what. Too many possibilities, and if there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s that fantasies are dangerous things.

Still, something inside him fissures at the sight of Beomgyu tugging at the strings of his hoodie. He looks like an oversized teddy bear, and not for the first time, Yeonjun wonders why he ever played this hating game anyway.

They work in relative peace for the next couple of hours, to the point where Yeonjun loses track of time.

But by the 2am mark, Beomgyu’s face looks ashen and pale. He clutches at his stomach.

“I don’t feel so well,” he says finally.

“Go home, Gyu-yah,” Yeonjun tells him, the nickname slipping out fondly, unbidden. “Come on, I’ll call you a cab.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Beomgyu jokes weakly.

“If I was trying to get rid of you, I’d let you stay and make yourself sicker,” Yeonjun says. “Let’s get you home.”

He’d never admit it out loud, but the way Beomgyu grumbles his assent is downright cute.

Beomgyu grudgingly accepts the cell phone Yeonjun hands him and types his address in for the taxi. Yeonjun mentally notes that he doesn’t live far from his own neighborhood at all, not that it really matters.

“Dizzy,” Beomgyu mumbles suddenly.

Yeonjun stiffens. “I’m getting you home,” he says sharply.

Before Beomgyu can protest, Yeonjun is hoisting him into a piggyback ride, gathering up their things, and shutting the studio door behind them.

“I’m fine,” Beomgyu protests. “Just stood up too fast, really.” But by the way he tightens his arms around Yeonjun, he doesn’t appear convinced either.

Yeonjun ignores him and thanks his lucky stars that it’s too late for them to run into anyone in the building. He’s not exactly sure how he would explain this anyway.

Beomgyu’s breath against his neck sends a warm shiver down his spine, and he’s suddenly hyper-aware of how close they really are.

He’s equal parts relieved and disappointed when they separate to slip inside the taxi and Beomgyu’s warmth disappears. But soon enough, Beomgyu’s head is lolling to the side, and he scoots over to lean against Yeonjun as he continues to clutch at his stomach.

“Can you drive any faster?” Yeonjun asks the taxi driver. “My friend is really sick.”

The taxi driver hums his assent.

“Friend?” Beomgyu whispers sleepily, nuzzling into his neck.

Yeonjun shudders at the touch.

“You’re sick,” he shushes. “Just rest.”

Twenty minutes later, he’s hauling Beomgyu out of the taxi and up the front steps of his apartment building.

By the time they finally get up the elevator and into the apartment, Yeonjun’s arms are aching. Beomgyu collapses into his bed, and Yeonjun tucks the covers around him to keep him warm.

“Thanks,” Beomgyu mumbles.

“You don’t need to thank me for doing the bare minimum,” Yeonjun says, feeling guilty.

“No, I mean thank you for not hating me anymore.”

Yeonjun’s heart cracks clean in two, giving way to a quiet warmth and something more, something he’s not quite ready to say out loud yet.

“I don’t hate you, Gyu-yah,” he says haltingly. “I never did. Hyung’s sorry for making you think that. Please rest, okay? I want you to feel better.”

“Kay,” Beomgyu slurs sleepily. “You won’t be here in the morning, will you?”

Yeonjun’s stomach lurches. “Did…you want me to be?”

But Beomgyu is already nodding off, snuggling into his blankets as his eyelids flutter shut.

I was in the middle before I knew I had begun, Jane Austen once said, and the thought lingers as he watches Beomgyu’s sleeping form.

He finds Advil in the bathroom cabinet and tea in the kitchen, setting them gingerly on Beomgyu’s bedside table alongside a glass of water. A parting gift for the morning. The least he can do.

The silence when he closes Beomgyu’s apartment door behind him and steps into the hallway is heavy with implication and possibility.

Thank you for not hating me anymore.

Fuck.

Yeonjun’s head spins all the way home.

***

He sends Beomgyu delivery the next night, ramyeon from the fancy place he likes to treat himself to if it’s been a particularly good (or bad) day. Light on the stomach, perfect for a sick day.

There’s no indication that the food is from him, but before he goes to bed, a text from Beomgyu flashes across his screen that reads “I ate well, thank you hyung :)”

He doesn’t deserve the stupid smile that spreads across his face, but he falls asleep grinning anyway.

***

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Yeonjun says when Beomgyu finally returns to the studio next week.

“Stomach bugs are the worst,” Beomgyu agrees. His smile turns teasing. “Good thing one of my hyungs was there to take care of me.”

“I hardly did anything,” Yeonjun deflects. He likes this new dynamic between them, but his gnawing guilt won’t let him take any credit for it.

Beomgyu takes a seat next to him. He’s close. Almost too close. “Show me what you’ve been working on while I was out?”

Yeonjun feels his cheeks flush. “Schedule’s been packed. Not much time to write.”

“But you have something, don’t you?”

Yeonjun opens up the music software on his computer and clicks play. “It’s not much,” he says. “No lyrics yet, just instrumentals.”

Beomgyu hums thoughtfully. “It’s a good start,” he says. “Do you know where you want to go lyrically?”

Yeonjun shakes his head.

Beomgyu rummages around his bag and produces his copy of Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, the one Yeonjun had seen him reading before their first session.

“Reading helps me get inspired,” he says. “You don’t only have to sing about your own experiences, you know. Isn’t being a great artist also conveying the stories of others?”

Yeonjun can’t find fault with that logic.

“For example,” Beomgyu continues, flipping through the weathered pages until he lands on an underlined quote, “Have you ever been so in love that you wanted someone to haunt you to the ends of the earth?”

Yeonjun gives him a blank stare. “Real life isn’t a tragic romance novel from the 1800s.”

“Wrong question then. Have you ever wanted to be that in love?”

A heavy pause.

“Yes,” Yeonjun admits quietly. “Of course I have.”

“Me too,” Beomgyu whispers, and it feels like sacrilege.

Their eyes meet, and suddenly the room feels thick with an unnameable tension.

Beomgyu holds his gaze like he’s challenging him to look away.

Silently, Yeonjun picks up his pen and begins writing.

***

He dreams of shadow that night.

Two shadows to be exact, except the other shadow is now a solid, familiar body underneath his own, tracing patterns down his spine like lyrics littered in the margins of a well-loved notebook, whispering words so intimate that his insides turn to liquid night.

It doesn’t matter, Yeonjun tells himself when he wakes up with the taste of Beomgyu’s cologne on the tip of his tongue. It can’t matter.

Still, he aches for it just the same.

***

In the end, fighting the feelings makes no difference.

Beomgyu walks into the studio one day clearly bursting with something to say.

“You’re making me nervous,” Yeonjun says. Beomgyu stops fidgeting, looking sheepish.

“Come on. Spit it out.”

“I wrote a song,” Beomgyu says. “I’m not sure if you’ll like it enough to put on your album, but…” he trails off. “I know how much writing this album has meant to you. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Oh,” Yeonjun says softly, guilt creeping back into his veins.

Beomgyu looks away, back to fidgeting in his seat. Yeonjun’s never seen him so nervous. He kind of wants to kiss him.

“You can show me,” he says, knocking their knees together. “I promise I want you to.”

So Beomgyu pulls up the demo and presses play. It’s only when his husky vocals fill the room that Yeonjun realizes, unbelievably, that this is the first time he’s ever heard Beomgyu really sing. Did he always sing this well, and Yeonjun was too busy hating him to notice?

The opening lyrics fit the song perfectly, and Yeonjun nods along in satisfaction. But it’s not until the second part of the chorus that his breath catches.

Ships pass in the night
I don’t wanna wait "til the next life
One glance and the avalanche drops
One look and my heartbeat stops

The words touch on some unnamable emotion that’s been simmering below the surface, something he’s been too afraid to say out loud.

He barely realizes the song is over until Beomgyu touches his arm, startling him out of his reverie.

“So?” he prompts.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Yeonjun says stupidly, not knowing what else he could possibly say.

Beomgyu stares at him for a moment, and then bursts into a puzzled laugh. “What do you think I do for a living, exactly?”

“No I know, but Gyu-yah, not like that—”

“I used to be a trainee,” Beomgyu cuts him off. “I’ve been a classically trained vocalist since I was seven. Got scouted at a talent show several years back, trained for a few years at another company. It didn’t work out.”

Yeonjun’s head spins with unanswered questions. It explains why Beomgyu is so successful at such a young age, for one. “What happened?”

“Vocal nodes,” Beomgyu says. “I got lazy, over-trained with bad technique and paid the price. The doctors said I was lucky to not need surgery, it was that bad. Didn’t know if I’d ever be able to sing again.”

The pit in Yeonjun’s stomach grows deeper. He feels like the worst person in the world now for giving Beomgyu such a hard time.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “Gyu-yah, I didn’t know—“

“I know,” Beomgyu interrupts. “Can we not talk about it? It was a long time ago, anyhow.”

Yeonjun wants to push it, but this dynamic between them feels so new and fragile. Too much pressure and it’ll crack like glass.

“Okay,” he says at last. “Thank you for telling me.”

Beomgyu’s smile is one of relief. “So, the lyrics?”

“They’re perfect.” You’re perfect.

Beomgyu’s eyebrows shoot up. “No tweaks or adjustments? Come on, you must have something.”

“Well, I’m sure I can come up with a few things,” Yeonjun teases, and he’s grateful that Beomgyu’s answering laugh is genuine.

“Can I ask you something?” Beomgyu says, not waiting for an answer. “Why do you feel like you need to do all of this alone?”

A beat of silence passes. Yeonjun realizes, belatedly, that no one has ever asked him this before.

“I think,” he says haltingly, “because no one’s ever told me that I didn’t have to.”

On a physical level, he’s surrounded by people. Fans, backup dancers, his manager and creative team. Beomgyu’s sudden (if unwelcome) entrance into his life is more than proof that he doesn’t have to do this alone.

But it’s not about that, and Beomgyu seems to understand this simple truth. “Do you need someone to tell you that?” he asks seriously.

No one’s ever told him that he doesn’t need to carry the weight in his chest and the chip on his shoulder alone. He was Bighit’s legendary trainee, after all. He practiced solo, debuted solo, promoted solo. Even upheld his contractual dating ban for fear of all his hard work being snatched from under his feet by an unwanted scandal.

He’s always been a lone, bright star outshining all the others. Why wouldn’t he be okay?

Except he’s not a baby-faced trainee anymore. He’s twenty-four and sharp around the edges, left with more acquaintances than friends and a career that’s about to take a nosedive if he doesn’t get it together fast.

“Do you need me to tell you that you don’t have to carry this alone?” Beomgyu repeats, voice gentle and hushed. When did they get so close? “I can tell you, but only if you let me. You have to let me.”

Yeonjun is so, so lonely, and so, so tired of fighting this.

And maybe that’s what does it.

All he knows is that one moment they’re two separate bodies, and the next he’s closing the space between them and kissing Beomgyu hard.

The gravity of what he’s just done catches up with him—oh no is Beomgyu even—oh god what if he’s not—but before he can begin to pull away in horror, Beomgyu curls a hand into his hair and firmly brings their lips back together.

It’s like coming home.

Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same, Beomgyu had quoted to him during their first studio session together, and Yeonjun doesn’t believe in soulmates, but he thinks he’s starting to understand now.

His awareness narrows down solely to the feeling of Beomgyu’s mouth against his, the way Beomgyu’s tongue meets his own, his skin alight at the touch. He takes Beomgyu’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs hard in return, trying to give as good as he’s getting.

“Oh my god,” Beomgyu breaks away from the kiss, panting heavily. “Are we really doing this?”

What is this, exactly? Yeonjun doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what his public-facing career will let him have, doesn’t know what Beomgyu will let him have either.

He just knows that he doesn’t want to go back to how things were before he discovered what it felt like to kiss Beomgyu. What it felt like to be kissed by Beomgyu.

“Do you not want to?”

“No, it’s just—you’re sure that you want this?” Beomgyu asks. He meets Yeonjun’s gaze head on, not shying away from the question. “That you want me? Because you have to be sure.”

Oh. Oh.

Yeonjun hears the double-edged question for what it is, and he realizes that Beomgyu is giving him an opportunity, but he’s also giving him an out.

He has to be sure that he wants this enough not to hurt Beomgyu in the process, but he also has to be sure for his own sake. He has everything to lose if this goes up in flames.

But if he squanders this delicate moment of vulnerability by making a cheap joke or running away, he’ll never get it back. Beomgyu’s face will shutter and they’ll go back to arguing over song lyrics and bury this moment deep down in the recesses of their brains, in the padlocked vault of memories deemed too dangerous to touch.

Yeonjun decides that he’s tired of missed chances and words left unsaid.

“I’m sure,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “Want you so bad, Gyu-yah. Can I show you?”

Beomgyu exhales, and is that relief in his gaze, or is Yeonjun just imagining it? He guides them to the couch, lying down so Beomgyu can crawl on top of him, and kisses him like he’s starving.

Yeonjun thanks his lucky stars for locked doors and soundproof studios.

The breathy noises that Beomgyu lets out when Yeonjun pulls away to mouth at his neck, tongue tracing the crevices of his collarbone, are enough to make Yeonjun rock hard, like he wasn’t on the way there already. Beomgyu notices, and it seems to boost his confidence.

He grinds down hard.

The friction of their jeans catches, and they both groan in unison.

“You want me,” Beomgyu repeats incredulously, and this time it’s not a question.

In response, Yeonjun hauls him up onto his lap and into a searing kiss. Beomgyu’s breath catches as he grinds down to meet Yeonjun’s hips, and suddenly he’s grabbing at Yeonjun’s hoodie and tugging it over his head, whispering off, off, and then pulling his own shirt off to match.

Angel, Yeonjun thinks dazedly as he takes in the view in front of him. Beomgyu sits pretty in his lap like he’s claiming his throne, and it’s fitting, really, because he deserves to be worshiped.

“Perfect,” he says out loud. “Fuck, c’mere, you’re gorgeous—“

“You’re so easy,” Beomgyu teases, but goes willingly. Yeonjun growls in protest as he attempts to swallow Beomgyu’s words with another all-consuming kiss, but deep down he knows Beomgyu is right.

The worst part of him hates that fact, but this time, the part of him that wants Beomgyu so badly he burns for it wins out.

He sinks to his knees and fingers the button on Beomgyu’s jeans. God, it’s been a while.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Beomgyu confirms, eyes dark with want.

A sharp knock on the door jolts them out of their precarious positions.

“Fuck,” Yeonjun swears. It’s Jisoo, no doubt. He’d lost track of time and forgotten that he had an evening shoot. Yet another reminder of how irresponsible his choices have been today. He would’ve skipped it altogether if it meant getting to taste Beomgyu one more time.

Beomgyu looks nothing short of wrecked. His breath comes heavily, legs still spread wide on the couch. Yeonjun wants to take him apart and put him back together again just to see how pretty he looks when he loses control.

“I have to go,” he says instead. “I’ll just…” he trails off, lost for words.

“Yeah,” Beomgyu waves him off, reaching for his discarded shirt. “Go. I know.”

So Yeonjun leaves, head spinning with the knowledge that there’s absolutely no coming back from this.

What else is there to do now but wait?

***

True to his favorite Bronte novel, Beomgyu haunts his dreams, and his waking hours too.

Yeonjun wonders what it will be like, the next time he feels Beomgyu’s skin pressed against his own. If there’s even a next time.

He thinks about it at night when he touches himself, and afterwards again when he feels guilty. He wonders how much longer he has to wait, if he’s allowed to be selfish with how much he wants this.

The next time comes sooner than he thinks. He had forgotten that he booked studio time after a variety segment filming that had filled up most of his Friday.

“Want company?” Jisoo asks when they arrive back at HYBE headquarters.

Yeonjun shakes his head politely, and Jisoo, ever patient and understanding, doesn’t put up a fight.

Still, he doesn’t really expect to see Beomgyu there when he unlocks the studio door. They hadn’t planned to see each other, after all.

“Saw your name on the reservations calendar,” Beomgyu says by way of explanation. “Hope you don’t mind some company?”

Yeonjun does the only thing he can think of to assure Beomgyu that no, he absolutely does not mind, and kisses him firmly on the mouth.

Thankfully, Beomgyu’s response is immediate, and the content sigh he lets out in between dizzying kisses goes straight to Yeonjun’s groin.

“We’re supposed to be working,” he pants against Beomgyu’s lips, even though he had clearly been the one to start it.

“Thought you worked better alone,” Beomgyu teases, pulling him back down. “I’m sure you have time for a quick break.”

And really, who is Yeonjun to argue with that impeccable logic?

They do get some work done eventually, after a heavy, drawn-out makeout session punctuated by Yeonjun’s phone going off at random intervals. Jisoo, asking if he’s taking Yeonjun home in the company van tonight. Taehyun, reminding him that he needs demos for the new album by the end of the month.

By the time they’re packing up for the night, the air is charged with static electricity, and Yeonjun feels a familiar flicker of desire tug low in his gut.

He fires off a quick text to Jisoo telling him not to wait up, and calls a taxi instead.

“Do you want to come over?” he asks Beomgyu, twining their fingers together.

Beomgyu nods and squeezes his hand tightly in response.

It’s finally happening. Yeonjun can’t remember the last time he fell into bed with someone. And it’s not just anyone this time. It’s Beomgyu. It feels like the culmination of something big, something he doesn’t quite have words for yet.

He wonders what Beomgyu will feel like spread out beneath him, writhing and moaning. Or maybe he’ll be the one laying flat on the bed instead while Beomgyu takes control.

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out, because as soon as they arrive at Yeonjun’s apartment and the door shuts behind them, Beomgyu is crowding him up against the wall and kissing him hard.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. Beomgyu pours every emotion he has into the kiss, making up for all the missed chances and stolen moments that weren’t quite enough.

Yeonjun’s skin is alight with warmth as he flips Beomgyu around and catches his mouth in a bruising kiss again.

This seems to delight Beomgyu. “Come on,” he grins. “Have your way with me. That is what you want, right?”

“Oh my god,” Yeonjun pants, pressing kisses up and down Beomgyu’s neck, nipping gently in all the sensitive spots that he knows Beomgyu likes. “You’re so…”

“I’m so what?” Beomgyu taunts.

Yeonjun pulls back to take in the sight in front of him. Beomgyu looks positively debauched—hair mussed, lips cherry red, eyes dark with want. He looks like a painting, like something out of Yeonjun’s wildest fantasies.

“So beautiful,” Yeonjun whispers at last. “So fucking beautiful, Gyu-yah. Look at you.”

Beomgyu softens at that, and then he’s licking into Yeonjun’s mouth again, and suddenly talk feels cheap compared to Beomgyu’s lips hot against his own.

Yeonjun hauls him up into his arms, and Beomgyu laughs against his mouth as he obediently wraps his legs around Yeonjun’s waist and lets Yeonjun carry him into the bedroom.

“Let me take care of you,” Yeonjun murmurs.

Beomgyu nods fervently as Yeonjun deposits him onto his bed.

“Off,” he says, tugging at Yeonjun’s shirt, and Yeonjun complies, Beomgyu following suit until they’re both stripped all the way down.

“Holy fuck,” Yeonjun swears. “You’re actually perfect.”

Beomgyu blushes the prettiest shade of pink, and it dawns on Yeonjun that maybe he needs this. It’s not really a surprise, considering how their relationship began. Maybe Beomgyu needs Yeonjun to tell him how he really feels, not just show him.

Yeonjun wastes no time in doing both.

“I think we got interrupted last time,” he grins, making a show of sinking to his knees. “Can I?”

“Please,” Beomgyu whispers.

Yeonjun starts slow, just tonguing at the slit of Beomgyu’s cock and pressing teasing kisses up the side of his length. But it’s not enough for either of them, and soon Beomgyu’s hips jerk up involuntarily and he whines, begging for more.

Yeonjun swallows him down in response, lips stretched wide, not caring if he chokes. He wants to feel Beomgyu in his throat for days.

“Holy fuck,” Beomgyu moans as Yeonjun motions for him to fuck his throat.

He guides Yeonjun’s head down even further until his mouth is stuffed full with cock. Just how Yeonjun wants it tonight. He hollows out his cheeks as Beomgyu’s hips find a rhythm, vaguely wondering if he’s going to even have a voice tomorrow. If he loses it, then so be it.

He lasts for a little while, letting Beomgyu use his throat, but eventually he chokes after a particularly hard thrust.

“Sorry,” Beomgyu pants, pulling him off, but Yeonjun just shakes his head.

“Want it, want it.” God, he already sounds so fucked out.

He moves to swallow Beomgyu back down, but Beomgyu tilts his chin up until their eyes meet head on. His thumb traces across Yeonjun’s bottom lip, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Not yet,” Beomgyu says. “Want to come with you inside me.”

“Shit,” Yeonjun hisses, and then he’s fumbling for the lube that he keeps on his bedside table just in case, but Beomgyu has already beaten him to it.

“No touching,” he says, pushing Yeonjun back against the pillows. “Watch.”

So Yeonjun watches helplessly as Beomgyu slides the first lubed up finger inside himself, a little sigh escaping his lips as he adjusts to the sensation.

“You’re killing me,” he groans, but Beomgyu just smiles like he has Yeonjun right where he wants him.

From this angle, Yeonjun can take in all the little details that he might have otherwise missed, like the sheen of sweat that decorates Beomgyu’s cheeks and the flush that traces down his collarbone. The feathering of his lashes as his eyes flutter shut, the fullness of his pretty lips.

Art in motion.

“Not enough,” Beomgyu whines, and Yeonjun is there in an instant, replacing Beomgyu’s fingers with his own and fucking in deep.

He kisses Beomgyu through it until they’re not even really kissing anymore, just open-mouthed little gasps falling from Beomgyu’s lips.

“Inside me,” Beomgyu commands. Before Yeonjun can so much as blink, he’s pushing himself onto all fours and presenting his ass for the taking. It’s practically obscene how sexy he looks right now.

“Pretty boy,” Yeonjun murmurs. He can’t resist smacking Beomgyu’s ass a little, just to see how good he looks with Yeonjun’s hands all over him. “The fucking prettiest, god, look at you.”

“C’mon, c’mon,” Beomgyu goads him. “Need it, need you—”

Yeonjun rolls on the condom and slides home.

He goes slow at first, inching in so that it doesn’t hurt, but Beomgyu just clenches around him, sucking him in further.

“Holy shit,” Yeonjun groans. He thrusts experimentally. “Taking me so good, baby.”

Beomgyu lets out a shameless moan, and it’s quite possibly the hottest noise Yeonjun’s ever heard him make. It’s his wildest fantasy come to life, but tonight it’s not quite right.

He flips them over so Beomgyu is spread out beneath him and slides back in, watching in satisfaction as Beomgyu bites down on his lip and closes his eyes, already lost in his own pleasure.

“Need to see you,” Yeonjun explains, and then they’re kissing again like nothing else matters. Maybe it doesn’t.

He goes slow at first, taking his time unraveling Beomgyu with light kisses to his neck and deep, slow thrusts.

“Fuck, please,” Beomgyu whispers. He loops his arms around Yeonjun’s neck and hooks his legs around Yeonjun’s waist, drawing him in deeper.

Their foreheads press together, and Yeonjun feels dizzy with arousal. It’s already the most intense sex he’s ever had in his life. Looking into Beomgyu’s eyes and seeing the best parts of himself reflected back in his gaze is an intimacy all of its own.

“Faster,” Beomgyu urges. “Come on, fuck me like you mean it—”

Yeonjun slams into him, fucking in hard.

“Is this how you want it?” he taunts. “Need it that badly?”

“Yes,” Beomgyu moans. His back arches off the bed as Yeonjun pounds into him, setting an unforgiving pace. It’s the culmination of months of pent up energy, so many feelings with nowhere to go until right here, right now.

Beomgyu is a fucking vision beneath him, and Yeonjun tightly intertwines their fingers, chasing the need to be even closer.

He’s on the verge of losing control, but maybe Beomgyu likes him that way.

Beomgyu seems to be getting close too. Jumbled words fall from his lips like whispered prayers, little incantations of want you, need you and please, please, please.

Yeonjun wonders what the difference between being wanted and needed is. Need is visceral, but wanting feels like a choice.

Falling for Beomgyu was inevitable, but Beomgyu chose him back.

Yeonjun still doesn’t know if he deserves it.

Beomgyu’s eyes go glassy and unfocused as Yeonjun drives into him. He looks like a fucking doll, like the prettiest boy Yeonjun’s ever seen.

“Mine,” Yeonjun growls. He doesn’t know why he says it, doesn’t know if it’s even true.

But Beomgyu just shudders and nods. “Yours,” he whispers back, and Yeonjun kisses him long and hard, trying to pour every overwhelming feeling he’s currently experiencing into Beomgyu’s mouth and hoping that he’ll somehow understand.

Neither of them last long. Beomgyu is the first to let go, crying out as he reaches his peak. Yeonjun thinks he’s never seen a more gorgeous sight than Beomgyu shuddering in ecstasy beneath him, and it’s enough to have him following less than a minute later.

“Holy shit,” Beomgyu laughs, and then they’re kissing all over again, grinning into each other’s mouths like idiots. Yeonjun’s not in love yet, won’t let himself even think those words, but if this is how it’s going to be then he knows it’s only a matter of time.

“You kissed me first,” Beomgyu says afterwards, when they’re lying in bed together tangled up in Yeonjun’s sheets post-cleanup. “In the studio that first time, I mean. What made you do it?”

Yeonjun thinks about the song Beomgyu had written for him, the lyrics twisting themselves around his heart and burrowing deep into his veins. “I didn’t want to wait until the next life,” he says eventually.

His heart is fully on his sleeve now, raw and exposed. A sudden wave of anxiety crashes down from the shadows of his mind, and he braces himself for the avalanche to drop, for the inevitable let-down that always accompanies any expression of vulnerability.

“Oh,” Beomgyu says instead. “I think I’m falling for you too.”

The ugliest part of himself that wants to run far away from his feelings is clawing underneath the surface, but Yeonjun pushes it down. He can’t bear the thought of causing Beomgyu any more pain. And besides, he doesn’t think he could give Beomgyu up if he tried, especially not after tonight.

So he stays rooted in his spot, heart suddenly in his throat.

Beomgyu notices his silence. “That is what you meant, right?” he asks, a note of uncertainty creeping into his tone.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun whispers back, not trusting himself to say much more. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

Beomgyu kisses him then, soft and sweet, and they fall into each other once again. Yeonjun feels like he understands the stories about the sailors who drowned in a siren’s kiss now. He thinks it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go if they smiled at him the way Beomgyu does.

Beomgyu falls asleep snuggled against his side not long after, and Yeonjun’s heart feels whole for the first time in a long time.

And that"s that. Beomgyu’s staying.

Like he would have complained anyway.

***

It’s the middle of the night and freezing, but his fingers itch for a cigarette. So before he can think twice, he tiptoes out of bed and into his slippers, grabbing his coat and quietly sliding the balcony door open.

Bad habit, he knows, but the self-destructive urge crawls up his skin occasionally, even when things are going well.

Especially when things are going well.

He startles as Beomgyu steps out onto the balcony next to him, the blanket wrapped around him nearly swallowing him whole.

“Shouldn’t smoke,” he mumbles before Yeonjun can light up. Yeonjun watches as he tugs his blanket up over his mouth in a flimsy attempt to keep out the cold. “Bad for you, you know.”

“Thought you were asleep,” Yeonjun says.

The look Beomgyu fixes him with falls just short of disappointment. Expectant, maybe. Waiting.

Yeonjun silently tucks his lighter back inside his coat pocket, cigarette unlit, and Beomgyu’s expression turns pleased.

Easy, Beomgyu had told him that first time, murmuring the word into his mouth like a taunt and a promise wrapped into one.

Yeonjun had protested in disagreement, but privately, he thinks Beomgyu had been right.

“And besides,” Beomgyu says now, a secretive smile passing over his face, “you can’t kiss me if you smoke. I simply won’t allow it.”

And, well, what more is there to say?

So Yeonjun says nothing, but he doesn’t have to. Beomgyu seems to understand. He briefly catches Yeonjun’s lips and steps back inside, leaving Yeonjun shivering in the cold, breath a sharp white cloud against the blur of night.

The phantom touch from where Beomgyu’s mouth had been lingers, pressed into his skin like a bruise that hurts in the best way.

Yeonjun closes his fingers around the unlit cigarette and feels like he’s burning anyway.

***

“Thought you said you didn’t read.”

“I don’t. No time.”

“Not the same thing,” Beomgyu says, staring up in wonder at the bookshelf that stretches from floor to ceiling in Yeonjun’s tiny living room. “I didn’t notice all this last night because of…well, you know.”

Yeonjun does know, because he can’t stop thinking about it either. He shrugs, suddenly feeling shy and exposed.

“Do you have a favorite?” Beomgyu asks him.

Yeonjun reaches up to grab Kafka on the Shore off the middle shelf and hands it to Beomgyu, who turns it over gingerly in his hands like he’s caressing a lover’s cheek.

“Oh, I haven’t read this one yet,” he says. “I need to get to it one of these days.”

“Take it,” Yeonjun says. “You can borrow it. I don’t mind.”

The luminous smile that spreads across Beomgyu’s entire face is well worth it.

“Look at you,” he teases. “You talk such a big game. Who knew you’re really just a giant book nerd?”

Yeonjun can’t think of what to say to that, so he does the next best thing and kisses Beomgyu right there in the middle of his apartment, trying to convey what words cannot.

You’re perfect.

I hate that you see me.

Thank you for seeing me.

***

There’s a very specific moment in which he knows that he’s going to fall in love with Beomgyu.

It’s many weeks later, and he’s home on a rare night off. Beomgyu is visiting his family in Daegu, and Yeonjun had declined his ‘99 line groupchat’s invitation to go drink whiskey in favor of a quiet night alone with his thoughts. Sometimes that"s a dangerous combination, but these days he feels more steady on his own two feet than he has in a long time.

He’s thumbing through his tattered copy of Kafka on the Shore that now sits on his bedside table, newly minted with fresh notes from Beomgyu scattered in the margins.

Beomgyu had double underlined Yeonjun’s favorite quote, the one that’s been swirling around his head ever since he admitted to himself that there was something real between them.

If you remember me, then I don’t care if everyone else forgets.

Beomgyu had written his own response at the bottom of the page. “Let’s make lots of memories together, hyung! Let’s shine as bright as the stars in the sky.”

Oh, Yeonjun thinks stupidly. I’m going to love you so much, aren’t I?

And sometimes, it really is that simple.

He thinks about their bodies tangled up in moonlit sheets, Beomgyu tracing patterns into his skin like he’s trying to commit the slope of Yeonjun’s shoulders and the curve of his lips to memory.

More than anything else, Yeonjun aches to be remembered.

***

The album comes together, piece by piece. He sends a zip file titled Lost and Found to Taehyun’s inbox at the end of the month, and feels an immense weight lift off his shoulders.

The company makes a few tweaks here and there, asks them to change a lyric or adjust an arrangement, but overall the songs are a hit. Maybe something he’s done is good enough after all. Beomgyu, with his confident words of encouragement and reassuring smile, certainly seems to think so.

“Knew you guys would figure it out if you just got your head out of your ass,” Taehyun texts him after he listens to the demos. “Could’ve saved yourself the headache and me the whiskey.”

Yeonjun suppresses a smile and types back a series of eye roll emojis, grudgingly followed by a few hearts as well.

“I remember the first time you walked into that company meeting,” Beomgyu says later that night. They’re lying in bed after a celebration dinner at Yeonjun’s apartment, just the two of them. “I had worked with a few idols before, but I couldn’t believe you were actually that handsome in person. And then you opened your mouth and decided I was the bane of your existence.”

Yeonjun winces. He doesn’t like to think about it these days, a reminder of how poorly he had treated the boy whose heart he now holds as his most precious possession.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into Beomgyu’s neck.

“It’s funny,” Beomgyu laughs. “You were being so mean for no reason, and all I wanted to do was ask if you could please just save that for the bedroom.”

Yeonjun lets out a surprised bark of laughter, but quickly recovers. “Oh really,” he murmurs into Beomgyu’s mouth, kissing the soft edges of his smile. “Tell me more.”

“Or,” Beomgyu grins, never one to miss an opportunity, “I could just show you.”

It’s a race to see who can tear each other’s clothes off faster.

Yeonjun fucks him slow and deep until tears streak down his cheeks and he’s begging for release. He takes his time unraveling Beomgyu, edging him with mean little whispers (so fucking loose, so easy for me, do you open your legs like this for everyone?) quickly followed by heaps of praise (so beautiful, so mine, you’re so fucking perfect Gyu-yah, do you even know?)

Afterwards, when they’re both sated, Beomgyu curls up in his arms and Yeonjun tells him something he’s been scared to say for a while now, something that has him even more nervous than the prospect of saying I love you.

“I wrote you a song,” he says. “Can I play it for you sometime?”

Beomgyu’s answering smile is nothing short of radiant, and Yeonjun wonders for the millionth time how he got so lucky.

Before Beomgyu, he remembers feeling unmoored, lonely and adrift from the rest of his peers. While everyone else was graduating high school, going off to university, falling in love and getting their hearts broken, he was in a practice room for eight hours a day dancing so fast his feet barely touched the ground.

Daily life went on for those around him, but his world had narrowed down to a singular dream that gave him purpose and drove him forward.

He’d had a few flings before his dating ban kicked in, and one semi-serious affair with another idol after the ban expired. Nothing worth staying for, in the end. Easier to run. And his career had been too transient to make trying feel worth it.

But this love right here grounds him, makes him feel solid and real and worthy of being remembered.

A respite of calm amidst all the chaos.

It’s quiet now, here in his apartment. Nothing but the white noise of the city around them and the sound of their heartbeats in perfect harmony.

Beomgyu wraps his arms tighter around Yeonjun and smiles sleepily up at him.

This time, Yeonjun stays.