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Falling in love with Yonghoon is so easy. It’s so fucking easy.
The first thought Hyungu remembers having when they first met was simply: wow, he’s so tall.
Within a day it became: oh wow, his voice. And within a few months it was: oh, this might actually be dangerous for me.
Yonghoon seemed to have a way of endearing people to him, so easily and so quickly. He always does, still does, of course, but he was more pushy about it when he had the shameless energy of a 21-year-old and the singular mission of getting closer to his new bandmates, and Hyungu in particular.
The feelings Hyungu started with came with all the easy, romantic, day-dreaming hope of a true crush. Yonghoon would hold his hand, and Hyungu would imagine that it meant as much to Yonghoon as it did to him. Yonghoon would text him a heart emoji as a good night, and Hyungu would close his eyes and let himself imagine a world where it meant so much more. And within a year, Hyungu realized: oh, I think I’m in love with him.
So, falling in love was easy. Falling out of love turns out to be so, so much harder.
~~~
Sometimes Hyungu thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have ever named it. This thing, this yearning, as it bloomed within him. Maybe if he’d ignored it, downplayed it, pretended his heart wasn’t on high alert every time Yonghoon touched him, maybe then he could have prevented this. Maybe then it would never have grown so intricately, so thoroughly through every corner of his heart.
Maybe if Yonghoon hadn’t been so touchy, so sweet, so good and attentive and kind in the first place. So easy to love. Maybe Hyungu’s heart would have stood a chance if Yonghoon didn’t like to hold Hyungu’s hand when they sat together, and throw his arm around his shoulders when they stood together, always sweet and affectionate. If he didn’t encourage him, praise him, remember his coffee order.
But Yonghoon was all those things, and did all those things, and Hyungu had flown straight past all the warnings and found himself with capital-L Love fully grown, weaving through his heart.
~~~
Here’s the thing, though: Hyungu always knew that Yonghoon didn’t feel the same.
“I don’t know,” Yonghoon says, finger rubbing at the condensation on his glass. “I already rejected Hotae’s confession to me, all those years ago, you know?”
It’s early 2017, and Hyungu has just turned 19, and they’re sitting at a restaurant together, nursing the same glasses of beer they’ve had in front of them for the past 30 minutes. Hyungu knew even before coming of age that he didn’t like alcohol all that much, and knew that Yonghoon didn’t either, but as his hyung, Yonghoon insisted on buying his newly-legal dongsaeng a beer.
“But now that we’ve reconnected, I’ve just been thinking about it,” Yonghoon continues. “Is it weird to start getting feelings for someone you already rejected?”
The rock that Hyungu had apparently swallowed without knowing settles in his stomach. He shakes his head, partaking in the conversation like a good, normal friend, while his insides twist and squeeze like someone had reached in and started to mold them like clay.
“I don’t think it’s weird,” Hyungu says, with a casual shrug of his shoulder. “It’s not like we can control our feelings.”
~~~
Yonghoon doesn’t even end up actually dating Hotae, but they remain friends, and every mention of his name alone sparks a familiar, sickening anxiety low in Hyungu’s stomach. It’s like a fight or flight response, like his body is gearing up for something, preparing for pain, despite it being a pain in and of itself. Hyungu wonders if it’s just what heartbreak feels like.
“For some reason my body can’t seem to tell the difference between feeling jealous and being held at gunpoint,” Hyungu complains to Harin, a night that Yonghoon has gone out to hang out with Hotae.
Harin hums, apologetic. “Didn’t they decide to just stay friends?”
“Yeah,” Hyungu confirms, pouting, poking at the tteokbokki in front of him with his chopsticks. “But still.”
“Still what?”
“They had something,” Hyungu says. They had feelings, mutually. Even if at different times, even if it didn’t come to anything. It was a Something that he and Yonghoon would never have. And even if Yonghoon never said a word to that guy ever again, Hyungu would still yearn for that kind of Something with him, would still be jealous of whoever had it.
“It’d almost be easier if he were just straight,” Hyungu says, through a mouthful of rice cake.
“Do you think you’d be less jealous if it was a girl?” Harin asks, curious. “Wait, isn’t he bisexual?”
“Yes, he is, and no, it wouldn’t be any better,” Hyungu explains. “But if he were straight at least he’d be literally just incapable of liking me. But he does like guys.” He stuffs another rice cake into his mouth. “He just doesn’t like me.”
~~~
So, he knew Yonghoon didn’t feel the same. There were plenty of warning signs. Plenty of things that had Hyungu’s heart screaming at him: You know he doesn’t like you like that. You shouldn’t have gotten in so deep in the first place. You know you’ll have to move on sooner or later. Sooner will hurt a hundred times less than later.
But, of course, he didn’t listen. He didn’t know how to listen, how to love any less. He didn’t know how to stop, once he’d started. All he could do was continue walking, knowingly, toward heartbreak.
~~~
“Do you ever wonder where you’d be right now if we hadn’t met?”
Yonghoon’s voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, as he looks at Hyungu across the pillow. Hyungu had awoken to Yonghoon sliding into his bed in the dim light of dawn, complaining about a particularly disturbing nightmare. Hyungu didn’t have to say much; he just let Yonghoon tell him bits and pieces of it, disjointed and strange, until the clench of Yonghoon’s hands had relaxed, his breathing steadied.
“Not really,” Hyungu answers. “I think the universe would have brought us all together no matter what.”
Yonghoon blinks, thoughtful. Hyungu watches him. He loves quiet, thoughtful Yonghoon. He loves loud, silly Yonghoon too, of course, but there was always something special about these moments.
“I don’t know if I believe that the universe works like that,” Yonghoon says, finally. “Who’s to say we’re not just… lucky?”
Lucky, so lucky, to have met Yonghoon. Was he lucky to love Yonghoon, too? To feel this roar of desire deep in his ribcage that he knew would never be satisfied? Could he have had the luck of Yonghoon in his life, without loving him like this?
“What does it change?” Hyungu asks, voice still quiet. “It’s good luck, whether the universe meant for it to happen or not.”
“It is sad to think about, though. Like, if I’d stayed in college, or just decided not to enter that competition. That I wouldn’t have met you.” He turns his head toward Hyungu, cheek squishing against the pillow. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Hyungu thinks for a long, silent moment. “It is sad to think about,” he says, finally, not knowing how to respond to something so honest, so meaningful. He twists the sheet around and between his fingers in the space between them. “But we’re in this universe, where we did find each other. Not any other. Although…” Hyungu pauses, “I guess in that universe, I probably wouldn’t have been woken up at 5am.”
Yonghoon’s mouth twists up into a smile. “Your loss.”
Hyungu smiles. He can’t bring himself to admit just how true that is.
Yonghoon falls asleep still in his bed, knee pressing warm against Hyungu’s shin. Hyungu stares at him, the curve of his nose, every hair coming through on his upper lip that he can see in the dim light, and thinks about his luck in this universe, until he too finally drifts back to sleep.
When Hyungu wakes up again, the sun is bright and Yonghoon is gone. He rolls over, pressing his face into the space that Yonghoon had occupied. The sheets still smell like him—not his cologne, just his real, sweet, skin-sweat scent. He takes several long, deep breaths.
~~~
“Where are you?”
Yonghoon’s voice startles Hyungu out of the daydream he’d only half realized he’d fallen into. He’d been lounging on his bed, watching a YouTube video about guitar strings from some American guy with massive biceps and a tastefully decorated apartment. Then the YouTuber’s partner had popped his head in for a quick, adorable exchange, leading Hyungu down a mental rabbit hole of domesticity.
It’s easier when they’re busy, and Hyungu has less time to daydream about a future that will never happen. But it’s been a slow week.
“Hm?”
“In your mind?” Yonghoon clarifies, gesturing toward his own head as he sits down on his bed on the other side of the room, a basket of laundry on the floor in front of him.
“Oh. I was… thinking about how I’d decorate if I had my own apartment,” Hyungu answers. A half-truth would do.
“You mean you don’t like sharing a two bedroom apartment with four other men?” Yonghoon acts shocked.
“No, no, I love it,” Hyungu says. “I just like to imagine the much worse possibilities.”
Yonghoon laughs. “So what are you imagining?” He asks, folding a t-shirt badly in his lap and setting it aside. “Guitars lining every wall?”
“Obviously,” Hyungu says, smiling. He’d actually been imagining a home studio with guitars and mics.
“Even the bathroom?”
“Of course. I’d get a dehumidifier.”
Yonghoon laughs again. “Even in our bedroom too?”
“Our bedroom?” Hyungu asks. “Are you moving yourself into my apartment?”
“I’m moving myself into our apartment,” Yonghoon says, like it’s obvious, and Hyungu smiles.
“Obviously the guitars are in our room too. There are a lot of them.”
“Okay, guitars everywhere, I can live with that,” Yonghoon says, smiling. “What else?”
Hyungu’s thoughts had been more occupied with things like waking up next to you every day and kissing you good night every night, but since he can’t say anything like that, he says, “A fridge stocked with a daily supply of samgyeopsal.”
Yonghoon perks up at that. “You can do that here, too, you know. Nothing’s stopping you.”
Hyungu laughs. “This is the imaginary future where I can afford to live on my own, so it’s the imaginary future where I can afford daily samgyeopsal, too.”
“Okay, okay,” Yonghoon laughs, and the conversation lulls for a minute as Yonghoon gets up to put away the stack of t-shirts he’d stacked precariously on the bed.
“We could get our own place for real though. Eventually,” Yonghoon says, more thoughtful, as he sits back down and reaches for the remaining items in his basket.
Hyungu considers it, realistically this time, outside of his romantic pipe dream. “Wouldn’t you want to live alone, after living like this for so long?”
“In theory, yeah,” Yonghoon says, and then pouts. “But I’d get lonely.”
“And what if I want to live alone?” Hyungu asks, hoping he doesn’t betray how fucking badly he wants this future, with Yonghoon.
“You can if you want,” Yonghoon says, drawing it out. “But I’d be at your apartment all the time anyway. We might as well save the money. For all of your guitars.”
It’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing Yonghoon imagines their futures intertwined, too. Hyungu has never doubted how important he is in Yonghoon’s life, but hearing him say it sends both warmth and guilt through him. Isn’t it greedy, to want more than this? Shouldn’t it be enough, to already be loved this much?
“Wait,” Yonghoon pauses, boxers half folded in his hands, “how will you keep all of your guitars safe from our cat?”
~~~
It’s 2019, and Hyungu can’t help but write songs about him. He keeps sharing them, despite his ears burning in embarrassment as he watches Yonghoon listen to his demo, despite the aching in his heart to just say it. I wrote this about you. I’m destined to love you. We’re fated, forever, and I wholly believe that. My love was inevitable.
But he doesn’t tell Yonghoon that. Yonghoon listens, and they talk about the song structure, the melody, the harmonies. They don’t say anything about the lyrics.
~~~
“Of course I ended up falling for another F,” Yonghoon says with a weary sigh. They’re lounging on their dorm couch, legs tangled, as Hyungu ignores the book in front of him in favor of listening to Yonghoon tell him about the girl he’s most recently got a crush on. It’s already got another heavy, familiar rock of jealousy settling deep in Hyungu’s gut. Hyungu ignores it.
“Ya,” Hyungu says, wiggling his leg a little so it kicks into Yonghoon’s. “What’s wrong with an F?”
“You’re all so unpredictable,” Yonghoon complains, pouting, kicking him back. “And I can never figure out what they’re thinking. I can’t tell if they’re serious or just flirting.”
I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life than I am about you, Hyungu thinks.
“Maybe you just have to be more straightforward,” Hyungu says.
“I am!” Yonghoon says defensively. “You know I am! And somehow I’m still left confused about where we stand!”
Hyungu just shakes his head, amused despite the topic of conversation, and Yonghoon sighs again, head falling back onto the couch.
“An F that’s also a musician, cute round face, short, teasing, tsundere… Fuck, she’s like a girl version of Hotae,” he laments. “Guess I have a type.”
Hyungu ignores how his heart reacts to Yonghoon basically listing out a description of Hyungu. Somehow being Yonghoon’s exact type yet not being of any interest to him feels like some kind of cosmic joke.
“‘Short’ is an easy criteria to meet when you’re a giant,” Hyungu points out.
Yonghoon laughs. “Fair.”
“And ‘musician’ isn’t hard either, when you’re an idol in a band,” Hyungu points out.
“I guess,” Yonghoon concedes. “But I’ve got to stop falling for tsundere types. Fucking confusing.”
“I don’t think I have that strong of a type,” Hyungu muses, pausing to think about it, pretending that he hadn’t already thought this through several times. “The first guy I liked was kind of shy, like me. And the one guy I dated in school I bonded over guitar with. I guess I tend to be drawn to people similar to me.”
But I don’t have a type, Hyungu thinks, because you’re clearly an outlier. He can’t bring himself to say it out loud. It’d be so obvious, too obvious. Part of him wants to say it anyway, and watch as Yonghoon connects the dots.
“And you call me self-absorbed,” Yonghoon says, making them both laugh, and the opportunity passes.
~~~
It’s not until 2020 that distraction finally comes, in the form of a very fit back-up dancer that Hyungu has known for years around the company, but never truly spoken to. A series of coincidental run-ins and hallway conversations has them bonding over watching Itaewon Class together, of all things, and Hyungu finds himself with a new number in his phone and a new crush on his mind.
Hyungu-ya, Donghee says one day, after they’d been texting and blatantly flirting for weeks, I like you. Let’s go out.
Donghee is easy to fall into a relationship with. They go back to his apartment after their very first date, and it’s good, it feels good. It’s a relief, to have someone else to occupy his thoughts, someone else to talk about, someone else to dream about. Someone else to fantasize about, when Hyungu’s alone—someone that doesn’t leave him riddled with a miserable blend of guilt and loneliness when the rush of euphoria is gone.
I’m so glad you’re moving on, Harin says, and the sincerity of it wrings Hyungu’s heart. You deserve to be happy.
But Hyungu knows, the whole time, that it’s wrong. To use Donghee like this, to mentally treat him like a distraction, and not a real human being with feelings. To let Donghee think that his heart is in this. He does like Donghee, he does. But nothing feels right. Hyungu knows it’s not fair to compare five years of friendship and love with a new fling, but he can’t help it—Donghee doesn’t make Hyungu’s heart rush, race, flood with feeling like Yonghoon does. They don’t click, like he and Yonghoon do. It’s not easy, effortless, constant fun and teasing and affection like it is with Yonghoon.
But Donghee kisses him, holds him, chooses him. Like Yonghoon never would.
And still, every day, through it all, there’s Yonghoon. They’re still best friends, because how could they not be?
Hyungu and Donghee were doomed from the start, and by the time they reach the end, it’s more relief than heartbreak.
Where are you? Hyungu texts Yonghoon, moments after walking out of Donghee’s door for the last time.
in bed, why?
i’ll be there in 20
~~~
“Hyungu-ya, are you in your studio?”
Yonghoon’s voice comes loud through the receiver, and Hyungu has to pull the phone slightly away from his ear. “Yeah, I’m here with Dongmyeong. Why?”
“Can you send me the latest version of Eraser? I don’t think I got the updated file with Giuk’s part added.”
“Why don’t you ask Giuk, then?”
“Because I wanted to talk to you,” Yonghoon says. “What are you doing for dinner today?”
They chat for a minute about dinner plans before wrapping up the call, Yonghoon reminding Hyungu again to send the file.
“Mm,” Hyungu hums. “I’ll send it now.”
“Thank youuuu,” Yonghoon says on the other end, voice curling up cutely.
“Bye byeeee,” Hyungu replies, matching his voice.
“I love youuuu,” Yonghoon says, still cutely.
Hyungu rolls his eyes and hangs up without answering, setting his phone down and starting to click around his computer to send the file to Yonghoon.
“So…” Dongmyeong’s voice comes from the chair beside Hyungu, “how’s that going?”
Hyungu pauses, cursor pausing over the track folder. Hyungu had never explicitly told Dongmyeong about his feelings, but Dongmyeong had figured it out on his own some months earlier. And when Harin had refused to confirm or deny anything, he’d walked into Hyungu’s studio, sat himself on the edge of Hyungu’s desk, and asked him for the truth.
I see your lyrics, Dongmyeong had said, when Hyungu had asked how he knew. And I don’t see anyone else in your life since Donghee, and I don’t think he was exactly soulmate material, so. I have a working brain. Don’t worry, Yonghoon hyung doesn’t have one.
“How’s what going?” Hyungu asks, even though he knows Dongmyeong won’t give up that easily.
“Hyung.”
Hyungu sighs. “It’s fine.”
“Have you talked to him about anything yet?”
“No.”
“Hyung,” Dongmyeong says, almost chastising. “You need to tell him.”
“Why?” Hyungu asks, finally looking over at Dongmyeong, who was watching him with the exact combination of concern and impatience that Hyungu was expecting. Hyungu quickly looks back to his computer.
“Because he deserves to know how you feel. And you deserve to know how he feels.”
“I do know,” Hyungu says. “There’s no point in talking about it.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“Dongmyeong,” Hyungu says, pained. “It’s Yonghoon. He always tells people how he feels. And I know him better than anyone. So I already know he doesn’t feel anything for me. Why would I make us both go through the pain of hearing him say it out loud?”
Saying it feels like tearing his chest open to expose his heart beating beneath.
“Then it’s not about him knowing at this point,” Dongmyeong says, more gently now. “It’s about there being this… unspoken thing between you. Doesn’t it stress you out?”
“Not as much as it stresses you out, apparently,” Hyungu says, bitchier than usual, and Dongmyeong gives him a flat stare. “The thought of actually having to talk about it stresses me out way more. Look at how anxious I am just talking about it with you,” he says, and holds his hand out to show it shaking. “It’s embarrassing enough to have unrequited feelings for my best friend of 6 years. I don’t need to talk about it.”
“It’s not something you have to be embarrassed about,” Dongmyeong says, as if Hyungu hadn’t tried to tell himself the same thing for years to no success.
“There’s also,” Hyungu continues, to get off the topic of his own humiliation, “the chance of making things weird between us.”
Dongmyeong gives him a sympathetic look. Hyungu stares at his lips, pressing into a frown. “I get that. But you guys are so close. I don’t think this will break you. Being honest can only make you stronger.”
Easy for you to say, Hyungu thinks. You’ve never threatened one of the most important friendships in your life with stupid feelings.
“Harin is on my side, you know,” Hyungu says, matter-of-fact. “He told me he supports me never saying a thing and suffering forever.”
Dongmyeong rolls his eyes. “You can’t just pine for him forever, hyung.”
“I know,” Hyungu sighs. “I know I have to move on. I tried, with Donghee, but I don’t think I was ready.”
“That’s because you need closure. Then you can actually move on.”
“I know,” Hyungu is quiet for a long moment. “I just…” His voice is near a whisper when he continues, “I can’t even imagine loving someone who isn’t him.”
It hangs in the air between them, honest and pathetic. Hyungu stares at his computer, because he can still feel Dongmyeong’s eyes on him, and doesn’t want to see the pity in them.
“You will,” Dongmyeong says. “I know you will. But you need to put an end to this first.”
Hyungu sighs. The whole conversation was just voicing the same debate that had been running through his mind repeatedly, for years. I should just get it out and move on. But it’s not worth it. I already know how that kind of conversation will go.
Yet the conversation hasn’t happened yet. And some part of him fears that it may be the only thing that will actually tear his heart free of this.
~~~
Some days, Hyungu wonders if he’ll just live with this forever. Wonders if he can just live with this forever.
It’s not like it’s constant misery. His relationship with Yonghoon brings just as much fun into his life as it does soul-wringing pining. That might be the heart of the problem, sure, but it doesn’t detract from how much fun it is. How much fun they are, together.
Yonghoon teases him, treats him, confides in him, encourages him, drives him crazy. Yonghoon dotes on him, acts like a jealous lover, as part of their ongoing theatrical play for each other, for the fans. And Hyungu loves it all, despite the ever-present pang of longing that thrums within him.
Other days, he remembers the stinging jealousy that burned in him, ugly and destructive, when Yonghoon had dated other people. They're too busy, lately, for any dating endeavors, but Hyungu knows that it's inevitable, eventually, for Yonghoon to find someone else. Someone that Hyungu will have to watch him truly fall in love with, someone that will force Hyungu to face that ugly part of himself, or be consumed by it.
But that's a theoretical future, not his present. His present is full of Yonghoon’s attention, his love. And if this all the universe has for him, Hyungu thinks, maybe he could learn to live with it.
~~~
It’s a random Tuesday at the tail end of 2021, and Hyungu finally reaches the moment he always knew was coming.
“These lyrics are about me, aren’t they.”
It should be a question, but Yonghoon doesn’t say it like one. It’s not.
He tries to answer, as Yonghoon sits silent and tense beside him, both of them facing his computer. It was inevitable that I would be drawn to you, the text file on his computer screen reads. From that point on, my star was you. Hyungu stares at it. His throat is suddenly dry, desperately dry, and the effort of speaking feels like too much. He just nods.
“I’ve… suspected,” Yonghoon admits, his voice quiet. “For a while. That you had… feelings, for me. And I, um. I talked to Harin about it.”
Hyungu’s face flushes. It’s embarrassing enough for anyone to know that he has feelings for his best friend. But it’s so much worse for others to know that Yonghoon doesn’t actually like him back. Even Harin, who would never judge either of them for it.
“He said he wouldn’t speak for you,” Yonghoon continues, sounding almost guilty. “But that… told me enough.” His voice drops even quieter as he continues, “I’m sorry, Hyungu, I— I don’t… I—”
He can’t finish the sentence, and it’s a relief. What would he have said? I don’t like you? I don’t love you? I don’t have feelings for you? Hyungu doesn’t want to have the memory of Yonghoon saying any of those stuck in his head. Knowing the truth of them is enough.
“I know,” Hyungu finally says, voice hoarse. “Sorry.”
“No,” Yonghoon says quickly, his hand shooting out to rest on the arm of Hyungu’s chair. “No, you don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry, Hyungu.”
Hyungu finally braves a look at Yonghoon’s face, and instantly regrets it.
“I’m sorry,” Yonghoon repeats, and he’s looking at Hyungu with so much sadness that Hyungu has to look away again immediately.
“I know,” Hyungu hears himself saying, even through the rush of blood pumping through his ears, pounding in his head. He starts popping the pop socket up from his phone and pushing it back in, over and over. It’s out of sync with the pounding of his heart. “I already knew. It’s okay.”
He knew, he knew, he’d always known. He’d seen all the signs, heard all the implications in everything that Yonghoon said. He’d assumed that he knew what it all meant. But assuming—Hyungu realizes with sudden, painful clarity—was different from truly knowing.
“It’s not okay,” Yonghoon says, gently. Hyungu still can’t look back at him, but hears the pain in his voice. “I hate to hurt you like this.”
Then why don’t you just try being in love with me instead, Hyungu thinks, desperately, miserably, even though he knows it’s just not how things work.
“There’s nothing either of us can do to change it,” Hyungu says, still staring, unblinking, at the back of his phone. “So it is what it is.”
His voice is shaky, he realizes with humiliation. He can’t cry, he won’t, he doesn’t cry. Not in front of people, not in front of Yonghoon. He takes some deep breaths, swallows past the lump in his throat.
“I’m still sorry,” Yonghoon says. “But I don’t… It doesn’t change anything, Hyungu. You’re still my best friend. And I still love you. Always.”
It’s not the first time Yonghoon has said I love you, of course. It’s not even the tenth, or the hundredth, probably. But this is the only one that’s felt like a knife through Hyungu’s heart. A tear—one, betraying tear—escapes Hyungu’s eye. He looks away quickly, but knows that Yonghoon sees it.
“Are you—oh,” Yonghoon reaches toward Hyungu’s face, as if to wipe the tear away, but Hyungu turns further away from him, blocking Yonghoon’s hand with his own shaking arm and wiping at his own face. “Hyungu.”
“I’m fine, hyung,” Hyungu says, and clears his throat, then takes a deep, steadying breath. When he speaks again, his voice is steady. He keeps his eyes locked forward. “I always knew you didn’t feel the same. You’re just confirming what I already knew. I’m sorry, because it’s… stupid that I let it go on so long that you had to say something about it.”
“It’s not stupid,” Yonghoon says, gentle. “It’s not like you can control your feelings.”
They’re really having this conversation, Hyungu thinks. He feels like his mind is somewhere else, not in this room, hearing these words.
After a moment he realizes he hasn’t responded, so he nods.
“Besides,” Yonghoon says, “it’s totally understandable to fall for me.”
That gets Hyungu to break from his stare, finally looking back at Yonghoon, and he stares in disbelief before a smile finally twitches at Yonghoon’s lips. They both laugh, and it’s a release.
“You’re so annoying,” Hyungu says, shaking his head. “Of course this is an ego boost for you.”
“It’s flattering for anyone,” Yonghoon says defensively.
“Yeah, I’m sure anyone would say so during a confession,” Hyungu says.
“Ok, in my defense, it wasn’t exactly a confession,” Yonghoon points out. “It was just a… discussion.”
It was a rejection, Hyungu thinks. He just nods, because he doesn’t know what to say. The tension is broken, but he can still feel his heart pounding with what feels like adrenaline.
“Or a kind of… forcing you to talk about it. Sorry,” Yonghoon says. “I’d just been… thinking about it for so long, and I didn’t know how to approach it. I didn’t mean to surprise you like this.”
“It’s okay,” Hyungu says. “I know you can’t go too long without talking about what’s on your mind.”
A smile touches Yonghoon’s lips. “You know me best.”
They’re quiet for a moment, as Hyungu scrambles to make sense of all of the feelings swirling in him. Finally, Yonghoon speaks again.
“I understand if you need space.”
“No,” Hyungu says, before he can think better of it, turning toward Yonghoon. “I mean. Maybe right now. But I don’t want it to be… weird. Between us.”
“It won’t be,” Yonghoon assures him, and then repeats, “You’re still my best friend. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
Hyungu just nods again.
“But I understand, I should go, um… work on my own song anyway,” Yonghoon says, pushing his chair back. But before standing up, he pauses. “Hyungu… Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Mm,” Hyungu hums. It’s barely affirmative but it’s the best he can manage, when he doesn’t even know the answer himself. “I’ll probably head home soon anyway.”
“Okay,” Yonghoon says, standing up. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”
By the time Hyungu nods, Yonghoon has already turned away and is walking out of the studio.
~~~
It’s not until the next morning that Hyungu feels the true weight of his heartbreak.
He’d always assumed that heartbreak was a feeling, an emotion, a great sadness. What Hyungu learns is that it’s more than that. It’s pain. Real, physical pain, bearing down on his core, like he’d slept with an anvil on his chest.
He knew it would hurt, but what he wasn’t prepared for is how stupid it makes him feel. He knew, he always knew, that Yonghoon didn’t feel the same, and ended up in this much pain anyway. It’s like stabbing yourself and then being surprised by how much it hurts. What else did he expect to happen? Why does it hurt so much more now? When nothing’s even changed?
He thought he’d known, thought he’d understood what his reality was. But the rejection, the closure, he realizes, revealed the one shred of hope that had lived on in him for years. That one final remnant of possibility, ripped out of him by words not even spoken.
He showers, get dressed, walks to the company building in the freezing morning air. Sits back at his desk, where Yonghoon had rejected him the night before. And finally lets himself cry.
~~~
He enlists with Yonghoon, because it’s what he’d always planned to do, it’s what he’d promised Yonghoon he’d do when they were younger, talking softly in the middle of the night about a future that felt so distant. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, but it gets easier, each day.
It’s the first time in almost a decade that he’s apart from Yonghoon for more than a few weeks, and the pain of it, at first so stark and ever-present, eases with time, too. A life without Yonghoon—and the rest of his members and his family, at that—isn’t something that Hyungu had ever thought was possible, yet every new day, full of new friends and new experiences, proves him wrong. He hadn’t thought that he needed space, yet every day that his mind reaches for thoughts of Yonghoon less and less makes him realize that he would never have been able to tear himself away from Yonghoon if he hadn’t been forced to.
The distance, somehow, despite everything, brings him and Yonghoon even closer. Yonghoon isn’t shy about vocalizing how much he misses Hyungu, and Hyungu misses him, too. He misses Yonghoon, his friendship, his laughter, his kindness. He can say it, and eventually finds that saying it isn’t leaving anything else out by omission.
He misses Yonghoon, but he doesn’t yearn for him. He loves Yonghoon, knows that he’ll stay by his side for the rest of their lives.
And finally, that’s enough.
~~~
“Look, you can see so many stars out here,” Yonghoon says in wonder, and his breath is visible in the cold air. He grabs Hyungu’s arm to point him at the sky, reaching out wide and dark over the beach, waves lapping gently against the Busan shore.
Maybe there’s a universe out there, Hyungu thinks, where Yonghoon did love him back. A universe where Yonghoon was holding his hand instead of his arm, where Yonghoon would kiss him here, in the dim moonlight, their lips warm in the cold night.
Hyungu blinks up at the stars overhead, and smiles, hoping that somewhere, in some universe, it worked out for him. Even if it didn’t in this one.