Work Text:
Seonghwa didn’t remember the last time he felt warm.
Maybe it was sometime before the agency stopped calling. Before the shoots dried up, before the industry whispered that his look was “overdone,” “too classic,” “faded.” Maybe before he lost three jobs in two months and had to pawn his watch for rent. Or before his fridge was empty for four straight days and he’d gotten used to ignoring the ache in his stomach.
But now? Now he was just tired.
Not sleepy. Tired.
The kind of tired that sank into your bones, hollowed out your ribs, and settled behind your eyes until even crying took too much effort.
He walked through the rain because he had nowhere else to be. His hood was soaked through. His boots made that awful squelch sound with every step. He stopped at a corner under a flickering streetlamp and sat on the curb, ignoring the puddle pooling beneath him.
He lit a cigarette. Or tried to.
The flame fizzled. The lighter was wet.
He stared at the cigarette anyway. It didn’t matter. None of it did.
Maybe he’d just stay here until morning. Or forever.
He dropped the lighter, let it roll into the gutter.
Then—footsteps.
Too fast to be casual. Too light to be threatening.
He didn’t look up until a pair of white sneakers stepped into view, clean despite the rain.
“Hey,” a voice said, soft but firm. “You’re gonna catch a cold.”
Seonghwa didn’t respond. Not right away. Not until the voice came again.
“You okay?”
Slowly, he looked up.
The man was short, with dark blond hair tucked under a beanie. He wore a long tan coat that looked far too thin for the storm, yet he wasn’t shivering. His eyes were bright and dark at the same time, lined with kohl, and he tilted his head like he was genuinely concerned.
Seonghwa blinked. “Do I… look okay?”
The man crouched beside him, the rain soaking his coat in seconds. “Honestly? You look like shit.”
A breath left Seonghwa’s mouth—half-laugh, half-sigh.
“I’ve seen worse, though,” the man added. “Here.”
He slipped his coat off and draped it over Seonghwa’s shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Seonghwa asked, dazed.
“You’re freezing. Come with me.”
Seonghwa flinched. “I don’t even know your name.”
“You don’t have to.” The man stood, offered a hand. “Just... don’t stay out here alone.”
Seonghwa stared at the hand. Pale, inked fingers. A silver ring on the thumb. Rain trailing down the skin like a tear.
He could say no.
Should say no.
But instead, he reached out—and took it.
---
The studio was messy in the way creative people’s spaces often were. Bolts of fabric rolled against the walls. Sketches pinned on corkboards, a mannequin wearing an unfinished piece. Fairy lights strung above the windows. There was music playing quietly from a speaker—Troye Sivan’s Angel Baby, looping.
“This place is…” Seonghwa said, voice hoarse.
“A dump?” the man grinned.
Seonghwa’s lips tugged. “I was going to say lived-in.”
“Same thing.” He tossed his soaked beanie onto a chair. “I’m Hongjoong, by the way.”
Seonghwa blinked, then finally offered: “Seonghwa.”
“Good name.” Hongjoong was already in the tiny kitchenette, digging through cupboards. “You hungry?”
Seonghwa hesitated.
“…Yeah.”
He hadn’t said yes to that in weeks.
Hongjoong made instant ramyeon, extra egg, and set the steaming bowl in front of him on a tiny table covered in thread clippings. Seonghwa ate slowly, almost like he’d forgotten how. Hongjoong didn’t watch—he just worked in the background, sketching something in a notebook with furrowed brows.
“Why did you stop for me?” Seonghwa asked eventually, voice rough.
Hongjoong didn’t look up. “Because you looked like someone still hoping someone would.”
The answer cut too deep. Seonghwa stared at his bowl, suddenly blinking fast.
“You don’t have to stay,” Hongjoong said gently. “Just rest tonight. I’ve got a couch. Not fancy, but…”
“I’ll stay.”
It slipped out too fast. Too desperate.
But Hongjoong just nodded. “Okay.”
He handed him a clean shirt. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels on the shelf. And the couch—well, it squeaks when you breathe too hard, but it hasn’t collapsed yet.”
That night, Seonghwa lay in the dark, curled beneath a soft blanket that smelled like detergent and dust and something almost like lavender.
He stared at the ceiling.
And for the first time in months—he didn’t think about disappearing.
Morning found Seonghwa wrapped in a blanket burrito, curled on Hongjoong’s squeaky couch.
His body was stiff, his head pounding like he hadn’t slept in years. He blinked at the ceiling—same as the night before—except now it held faint shadows of dangling fairy lights and the faint scent of coffee drifting through the air.
It almost felt like… safety.
He hated it.
Because safe wasn’t a real thing. Not for people like him.
Seonghwa sat up, immediately regretting it. The blanket slipped down his shoulders and revealed the oversized borrowed shirt, which hung off one side like it belonged to someone much bigger—or maybe someone more whole.
His hands fumbled through his jacket pocket for his phone. Still dead.
Figures.
“Good morning, sleeping cryptid,” Hongjoong’s voice chirped from somewhere behind the kitchen wall.
Seonghwa flinched. “You’re still here.”
“Well, yeah. It’s my place.”
Hongjoong poked his head out from the doorway, hair even messier than last night, now dyed slightly silver at the roots from the dried rain.
He looked at Seonghwa like he was... a person.
Not a burden.
Not a wreck.
Just—there.
Hongjoong held out a mug. “Coffee? It’s not great. I think my beans expired last year. But it’s hot.”
Seonghwa stared for a second too long before reaching out. Their fingers brushed. Warm. Steady.
“Thanks.”
They sat at the tiny round table with mismatched chairs and a slightly wobbling leg. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Until Hongjoong said, “So… wanna tell me what the hell you were doing out in that storm last night?”
Seonghwa looked down at the coffee.
The steam curled upward like a sigh. He didn’t answer.
Hongjoong didn’t push.
Instead, he reached over and flicked a tiny scrap of thread off Seonghwa’s sleeve. “Guessing the world’s been cruel lately.”
Seonghwa gave a bitter laugh. “Cruel would’ve been fine. At least cruel pays attention.”
“Mm.” Hongjoong leaned back. “Let me guess. Model?”
“…Yeah.”
“You’ve got that ‘I-used-to-be-on-billboards’ kind of sad.”
That caught Seonghwa off guard. “Is that a real thing?”
“Oh, for sure,” Hongjoong said with a smirk. “I’ve worked with enough burned-out models to know the look.”
Seonghwa swallowed. “Used to be with a top agency. Got replaced. Got tired. Then… nothing.”
Hongjoong nodded, quiet. Then:
“You ever want to model again?”
Seonghwa scoffed. “I can’t even afford to print a new portfolio.”
“I don’t care about portfolios.” Hongjoong stood, pulled open a drawer, and tossed a thin black sketchbook onto the table. “I care about presence.”
He flipped to a half-finished design. It was striking—sharp shoulders, delicate lace detail, a high collar. Bold. Fierce. Made to be worn by someone who didn’t want to be ignored.
“You’re what I see when I draw,” Hongjoong said simply.
Seonghwa blinked at him. “You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t have to,” he said. “I see enough. And I’ve got a show coming up. I want you in it.”
Seonghwa laughed. It came out brittle. “Why me?”
Hongjoong looked at him then—really looked—like he was trying to see past every wall, every wound.
“Because you looked like someone who forgot they used to be radiant.”
That silence afterward hurt more than the words did.
Seonghwa looked away, eyes burning. “I don’t think I remember how to be anything.”
“Then we’ll start over,” Hongjoong said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You don’t have to be anything but alive right now.”
That night, Seonghwa didn’t go home.
Hongjoong never asked him to.
He stayed on the couch again, same blanket, same worn-out shirt. But this time, he didn’t stay up staring at the ceiling.
He fell asleep to the sound of quiet pencil strokes in the next room.
To the soft hum of a man who dreamed in fabric and thread.
And to the smallest hope—tucked into his chest like a secret—that maybe the worst was behind him.
He didn’t know he was wrong.
But he wanted to believe.
Seonghwa didn’t remember agreeing to stay.
Not exactly.
But a few nights became a week.
And a week turned into him having a toothbrush in Hongjoong’s bathroom. His own mug labeled “🌙 Pretty Boy Fuel.” A folded sweater tucked under the studio couch. A pair of indoor slippers he swore weren’t his—but fit anyway.
He didn’t talk much.
But Hongjoong didn’t need him to.
He just existed—in pencil smudges, in steaming ramen bowls at 2AM, in the gentle sound of fabric rustling as he adjusted measurements on a mannequin. He hummed constantly. Always low and quiet, sometimes K-R&B, sometimes movie soundtracks, sometimes just tuneless comfort.
Seonghwa found himself watching Hongjoong more than he meant to.
The way his fingers moved with certainty over silk. The tiny bite of his lower lip when he focused too hard. The occasional scratch of ink on his forearm when he forgot to clean off tattoo sketches. The soft smile he gave when the stitching finally came together.
Seonghwa had only ever known fashion through cold spotlights and fake compliments. But Hongjoong—he made it feel like art. Like home.
---
One night, after hours of silent sketching, Hongjoong looked up and said, “Try this on.”
He handed over a jacket—midnight blue, sharp lapels, silver stitching shaped like broken stars.
Seonghwa hesitated. “I’m not ready.”
“You’re standing,” Hongjoong said. “That’s ready enough.”
They stood in front of the floor mirror. Seonghwa tugged the jacket on, shoulders tense, fingers awkward against the buttons.
But when he turned around—
Hongjoong just smiled.
Not in a fake, showroom kind of way.
But in a breathless, holy shit, there you are kind of way.
“You’re electric,” Hongjoong whispered.
Seonghwa looked at his reflection. He looked… unfamiliar. Not dead. Not broken. Just quiet. Like the outline of someone who used to be whole.
“I don’t know if I can go back out there,” Seonghwa confessed. “What if I fail again?”
“You won’t,” Hongjoong said without blinking.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you’re not finished.”
Seonghwa shook his head. “I’m tired of proving myself to people.”
“Then don’t.” Hongjoong stepped closer. His voice dropped. “Don’t prove anything. Just wear the thing and breathe. That’s all I need.”
The world got a little blurry. Not from sadness this time—but from something unfamiliar and sharp behind his ribs.
He turned away quickly. “You ask for too little.”
“I ask for you.”
Hongjoong’s voice was quiet, sure. “That’s everything.”
---
The first photoshoot was in the alley behind the studio.
Low-budget. Improvised lighting. Film camera.
No one around but pigeons and parked scooters.
Seonghwa wore a cream-colored suit that hugged his frame like it missed him. Hongjoong clicked shutter after shutter with focus so intense it made Seonghwa flinch.
“Don’t look away,” he called. “Look at me.”
Seonghwa looked.
And the shutter clicked again—loud in the silence.
“Beautiful,” Hongjoong said under his breath.
Later, as they reviewed the photos, Hongjoong tapped the screen. “That one. That’s the face I saw the night I found you.”
Seonghwa stared at the photo.
He didn’t recognize the man in it.
But for the first time in forever, he wanted to.
That night, Hongjoong stayed up sewing again. Seonghwa lay on the couch, pretending not to watch him through half-lidded eyes.
“Why do you stay up so late?” he asked finally.
Hongjoong chuckled. “Because the silence lets me think.”
“Think about what?”
Hongjoong paused. “About how easy it is to lose things.”
Seonghwa didn’t answer. He knew that kind of thinking too well.
“Come here,” Hongjoong said.
Seonghwa sat up slowly.
Hongjoong held out a piece of fabric—a deep burgundy sash with intricate hand embroidery, gold thread curling like veins.
“Touch this,” he said.
Seonghwa did.
“See how the thread pulls just enough to hold it together?”
He nodded.
“That’s what people are like,” Hongjoong said softly. “Delicate. Strong in the right places. But if you tug too hard…”
“They unravel.”
“Exactly.”
Seonghwa didn’t know what moved him, but he found himself saying, “What if someone’s already unraveled?”
Hongjoong turned to him, eyes tired but shining. “Then you don’t throw them away.”
He stepped closer, hand brushing Seonghwa’s.
“You just learn how to stitch them back up.”
It started with a joke.
“We should run away for Christmas,” Hongjoong said, voice muffled through a pencil held in his teeth. “Somewhere cold. But not city-cold. Forest cold. Where no one knows your name and the heater works sometimes.”
Seonghwa had smiled. “Sounds awful.”
“Exactly,” Hongjoong said. “Perfect.”
---
They rented a tiny cabin in the mountains. A mismatched patchwork of wood and tile with a fireplace that barely lit and a window view of snow-covered trees that looked like they were drawn in charcoal.
They brought nothing fancy—just thick coats, two sketchpads, and enough instant food to fuel three winters.
Hongjoong insisted on playing holiday songs through a Bluetooth speaker shaped like a mushroom. Seonghwa made hot chocolate. The lights flickered.
It was stupid.
It was cozy.
It was everything.
They shared the only bed.
The first night, they laid back to back, shoulders just barely brushing under the blankets. Too scared to shift. Too scared to breathe.
By the second night, Seonghwa woke up with Hongjoong curled toward him, arm flopped over his middle. His nose was cold. His breath warm against Seonghwa’s neck.
Seonghwa didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink.
Just stared at the ceiling with his heart pounding loud enough to feel in his teeth.
On the third night, Seonghwa traced Hongjoong’s tattoos.
They sat in front of the fireplace, both wearing sweatpants and nothing else. Blankets tangled around their hips. Snow tapping the windows like a lullaby. The flames cast shadows across their skin.
Seonghwa reached out with trembling fingers.
Touched Hongjoong’s wrist.
“You said this one means ‘freedom,’” he murmured.
Hongjoong nodded.
Seonghwa ran his finger along a delicate crescent on his forearm. “And this?”
“Got that one after I left someone toxic. It was like… reclaiming my body.”
Seonghwa swallowed.
He shifted to the design curling over Hongjoong’s ribs. Two lines, knotted in the middle. “And this?”
Hongjoong was quiet.
Then: “That’s the one I got when I realized I wanted to stay.”
Seonghwa’s heart twisted. “Stay where?”
“…In the world.”
They sat in silence. The only sound was the crackle of firewood.
Then Seonghwa slid behind him. Pulled the blanket higher.
His fingers found the pair of angel wings inked on Hongjoong’s back. Delicate. Almost faded.
“These look old,” he whispered.
“They are.”
“What do they mean?”
Hongjoong shifted, spine tensing. “It’s for someone I lost.”
Seonghwa froze. “Someone you loved?”
“I think I still do.”
Seonghwa let his hand rest against the curve of one wing. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be.” Hongjoong turned toward him, the firelight soft in his eyes. “I got them so I’d never forget. I used to dream of becoming someone who could… lift people. Carry them when they couldn’t walk.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“It is,” Hongjoong said. “But when it works—when someone starts shining again—it’s worth it.”
He reached up then.
Touched Seonghwa’s cheek.
“You’re shining again.”
And Seonghwa—who hadn’t cried in front of anyone since he was seventeen—felt the tears before he could stop them.
Hongjoong wiped them away. Gently. Like the tears were part of him.
“I don’t know what I’d be without you,” Seonghwa whispered, voice raw.
“You don’t have to know yet,” Hongjoong said. “Just be.”
They kissed that night.
Not rushed. Not hot. Not possessive.
Just slow.
Careful.
Like they were promising not to break each other.
Seonghwa whispered, “You’re mine,” into the space between their mouths.
Hongjoong kissed his jaw and answered, “Only ever yours.”
Later, as Seonghwa dozed off in his arms, he whispered:
“You feel like the first place I’ve ever wanted to stay.”
And Hongjoong just held him tighter.
He didn’t say it back.
Not because it wasn’t true.
But because deep down, he already knew:
People like him didn’t get to stay.
---
Back in the city, everything felt sharper.
The concrete was louder. The cold bit harder. But for the first time in a long time, Seonghwa didn’t dread coming home.
Because home wasn’t a building anymore.
It was wherever Hongjoong was.
The studio was a mess. A beautiful one.
Sketches pinned over each other. Fabric scraps clinging to socks. Ramyeon cups piling on the counter. Music playing on loop—Hongjoong always hummed along, out of tune, but Seonghwa never told him.
They fell into a rhythm.
Mornings started with forehead kisses and shared toothbrushes. Afternoons blurred into fittings and late lunch breaks filled with banter and secondhand laughter. Nights ended with slow hands and tangled limbs on the too-small couch.
It should’ve been enough.
But Seonghwa was scared.
Terrified, actually.
Because nothing this perfect ever stayed.
---
One night, Hongjoong was sprawled on the floor, sketchbook in his lap, Seonghwa beside him.
The room was quiet except for the sound of pencil against paper.
Seonghwa broke the silence first. “Have you ever been in love before?”
Hongjoong paused.
Then: “Yes.”
Seonghwa’s heart clenched.
“And… did it end badly?”
“Worse,” Hongjoong said. “It didn’t end at all. He just disappeared. No goodbye. No closure. Just... gone.”
“Oh.”
A beat.
Then Hongjoong glanced at him. “You jealous?”
Seonghwa looked down. “No. Scared.”
“Of what?”
“That you’ll leave too.”
Hongjoong’s face softened. He closed his sketchbook and reached out, thumb brushing Seonghwa’s jaw.
“I won’t leave.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it now. That’s what matters.”
“But what if something—” Seonghwa’s voice cracked. “What if I lose you?”
“You will,” Hongjoong said gently. “Someday. Somehow. That’s life.”
“Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true.” He leaned closer. Their foreheads touched. “And that’s why we love harder. Right now. While we still can.”
Later that night, Seonghwa couldn’t sleep.
He turned on the lamp. Crawled over to where Hongjoong lay half-asleep and whispered, “Can I count them again?”
Hongjoong hummed, eyes still closed. “Count what?”
“Your tattoos.”
A sleepy smile. “You already know the number.”
“I just like touching them.”
“Mm. Then come here.”
Seonghwa peeled the blanket down and settled behind him, fingertips tracing over skin like paper.
“One,” he whispered, over the crescent moon.
“Two…” along the line art across his spine.
“Three… four…”
His voice cracked on “seventeen.”
Still the same number.
No new wings.
---
In the morning, Hongjoong was already up.
Coffee in hand. Hair unbrushed. His back turned as he stared out the window like something out there was calling him.
“Joong?” Seonghwa asked softly.
Hongjoong turned.
Smiled.
But it was the kind of smile you give someone before saying goodbye.
And Seonghwa felt his stomach twist.
Something was shifting.
---
The week after was quiet.
Hongjoong worked longer hours. Stopped humming. Ate less. Smiled tighter.
Seonghwa asked if he was okay.
Hongjoong always said, “Yeah. Just tired.”
But at night, he clung to Seonghwa like he was afraid he would disappear.
Seonghwa whispered “I love you” once in the dark.
Hongjoong kissed him hard. But he didn’t say it back.
One night, Seonghwa found Hongjoong’s sketchbook open on the table.
A new page.
A full-body design.
Laced sleeves. Embroidered chest. Angel wings stitched into the back. Gold threading where the heart would be.
At the bottom, in tiny handwriting:
“Final piece. For Seonghwa.”
He stared at it for a long time.
And then he cried.
---
It happened on a Tuesday.
Cloudy skies. A chill in the wind.
The kind of day that made you want to stay in bed.
Seonghwa remembers every second of that morning.
How Hongjoong had crawled back under the blanket after his alarm.
How he buried his face in Seonghwa’s neck and mumbled, “Five more minutes.”
How he smelled like laundry soap and coffee grounds.
How he’d kissed Seonghwa’s shoulder and said,
“You’re my favorite part of being awake.”
They’d made breakfast together. Toast and eggs. Seonghwa burnt the crust and Joong laughed and called him “useless but hot.”
Then Hongjoong grabbed his bag and keys, paused at the door, and looked back.
Not rushed. Not distracted.
Just one last look.
“I’ll be back before dinner,” he said.
“Buy the spicy chips,” Seonghwa called.
“Only if you stop burning toast.”
“No promises.”
“I love you,” Hongjoong whispered. So soft, it almost got swallowed by the slam of the door.
---
He never came home.
---
It started with silence.
Then a full hour passed.
Then two.
Then Seonghwa called. No answer.
Then five hours. Then nine.
The sky outside turned a bruised blue.
And when Seonghwa finally picked up a call from an unknown number—
he knew.
He didn’t hear most of it.
Just a voice. Calm. Distant. Medical.
“... accident.”
“... driver didn’t stop.”
“... immediate.”
“... we’re so sorry.”
His knees buckled.
The phone clattered to the floor.
He screamed.
He tore the studio apart.
The sketches. The pins. The mannequin. The lights.
He punched a hole through the closet door.
Knocked over the sewing machine.
Smashed the mirror they used for fittings.
The photo they took together at the cabin—split down the middle.
He curled up under the worktable, sobbing.
Snot and tears and sweat and blood from his knuckles.
He clutched Hongjoong’s hoodie in both hands.
“No,” he whispered.
“No, no, no, no—”
He begged.
He bargained.
He screamed into the floor until his voice was gone.
And when his body gave out—he slept.
In his dream, Hongjoong was there.
He looked the same. But brighter.
Weightless.
He didn’t say anything.
Just touched Seonghwa’s cheek…
and smiled.
---
The next morning, the world didn’t end.
And that was the worst part.
Because it should have.
The city kept moving.
People bought groceries.
Buses ran.
Time passed.
Like Hongjoong was never here at all.
Seonghwa didn’t go to the funeral.
He couldn’t.
He stayed in the studio, buried in Hongjoong’s clothes, breathing in the last pieces of him.
He didn’t eat.
Didn’t shower.
Didn’t answer calls.
Until one night, he found the sketchbook again.
The final page.
The one titled “Angel Baby.”
There, written in Hongjoong’s sharp, hurried scrawl:
“If I go first, I hope I loved him loud enough that he’ll still hear it when I’m gone.”
Seonghwa clutched the book to his chest.
Collapsed to the floor.
And for the first time in days—
he let himself break completely.
Some days, Seonghwa forgot that breathing was supposed to happen automatically.
He’d catch himself holding his breath while washing dishes. While brushing his teeth. While standing in the middle of Hongjoong’s studio, staring at the half-finished jacket on the mannequin.
The air hurt.
Everything hurt.
But nothing hurt as much as waking up.
Because every morning, for just half a second—he forgot.
And in that half-second, he’d reach across the bed—
And remember.
All over again.
---
He didn’t clean the studio.
Couldn’t.
The mug Joong last drank from still sat in the sink. His sketchbook stayed open on the desk, a half-drawn silhouette frozen in time. The smell of his cologne clung to the couch like it missed being touched.
Seonghwa wore his ring.
Not a fancy one.
Just a silver band Hongjoong used to fiddle with when nervous.
It had a tiny dent on the side where Joong once dropped it during a fitting.
Seonghwa slid it onto his thumb.
Too big.
But he liked the weight.
He never took it off.
Not even to sleep.
---
The city felt wrong without Hongjoong in it.
Too loud. Too wide.
People passed him on sidewalks. Talked. Laughed. Lived.
He wanted to scream.
“Don’t you know someone golden is missing?”
But no one did.
Except him.
---
One night, two weeks after, Seonghwa opened the closet.
He meant to grab a blanket.
Instead, he found a sealed box, tucked behind rolls of fabric.
Labeled:
“For when I’m gone.”
His hands shook.
Inside:
A USB drive.
A sealed envelope.
A folded piece of cloth—light cream, with stitched wings. The jacket. The Angel Baby piece. Finished.
He collapsed to the floor again.
This time, he didn’t scream.
Didn’t cry.
He just held the jacket to his chest and rocked.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Like maybe time would rewind if he moved gently enough.
He watched the video a day later.
The USB.
Labeled only with his name: “Hwa 💫”
Hongjoong sat in the studio, cross-legged, hoodie sleeves too long.
“Hey, baby,” he said, smiling.
Seonghwa sobbed instantly.
“If you’re watching this… it means I’m not there. And I hate that. I hate it.”
Joong’s voice cracked. He wiped his eyes and laughed. “I didn’t want to film this. But you… you deserve every word.”
He looked into the camera like he was still looking at him.
“I love you, Seonghwa. Not just in a dreamy way. I love you like… I built a whole future around you. Like you gave me back my name.”
He held up the jacket.
“I finished it. I stitched my whole heart into it. Wear it for me.”
He paused, eyes red.
“I wish I could’ve stayed. God, I wanted to. But if I couldn’t... I hope I loved you loud enough to echo.”
Seonghwa couldn’t breathe.
Hongjoong reached toward the screen, like a final touch.
“I’ll wait for you, Hwa. In every star, in every thread. You’ll find me.”
Then the video ended.
And the room was silent again.
Seonghwa wore the jacket.
Only once.
He walked to the roof of the studio.
The night air cold, stars overhead like spilled glitter.
He tilted his head back. Closed his eyes.
Felt the wind pull the jacket tight against his frame.
It felt like being held.
He whispered, “I’m still yours.”
And the wind carried it into the dark.
It was spring when the show finally happened.
Not the original one Hongjoong planned.
A new one.
Built entirely around him.
The invitation was simple.
A single line:
“This is for the one who gave me wings.”
No designers were credited.
No sponsors listed.
Just a quiet venue. A small crowd.
And a name in white gold on every seat:
K. Hongjoong.
---
Backstage, Seonghwa stood in front of the mirror, the Angel Baby jacket on his shoulders.
He had altered nothing.
The seams were imperfect.
The threads sometimes loose.
The lining a little scratchy.
But he couldn’t touch it.
Because it was Joong’s hands that made it.
And he needed to be held by them one more time.
He inhaled.
The scent was gone now.
But the memory stayed.
“You’re not gone,” he whispered.
“You’re stitched into me.”
---
When he stepped onto the runway, the room fell silent.
Not out of awe.
Not out of shock.
But because the air knew.
This wasn’t just a walk.
It was a prayer.
A resurrection.
A final, endless love letter—written in thread and sorrow and light.
---
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t pose.
He just walked.
One foot in front of the other.
Each step steady.
Heavy.
Like he was carrying two hearts.
The wings on his back shimmered under the lights.
The gold thread at his chest glowed like something alive.
And when he reached the end—
He looked up.
Straight into the lights.
Blinding.
Holy.
And whispered,
“Did you see me, Joong?”
Somewhere, in a place Seonghwa couldn’t touch—
something answered.
---
After the show, he didn’t speak.
He sat in the dressing room, fingers tracing the seams of the jacket, over and over and over.
And then—
A flicker.
Light. Soft. Warm.
He turned.
No one there.
But on the mirror—drawn in fog, like breath on glass:
“Always yours”
---
That night, Seonghwa stood on the rooftop again.
Same studio. Same stars.
He wore the jacket.
And a smile that trembled but stayed.
He pulled out the old lighter Joong had found in the rain the night they met.
It still didn’t work.
But he held it anyway.
Then he looked up.
“You’re the sky now,” he whispered.
“So I’ll keep walking under you.”
And he did.
---
One year later, Seonghwa stood in Paris.
Not the glossy part.
Not the tourist-lit streets.
But a quiet block outside a small gallery, where a solo exhibit bore his name for the first time.
“PARK SEONGHWA — SKIN & STITCHES.”
Subtitled: “Curated in memory of light.”
He walked through the space slowly, coat trailing.
Each corner held moments—
Photos of his final walk.
Joong’s sketches, framed in gold.
Even that cursed burnt toast, recreated in ceramic as a joke. (He cried anyway.)
There were no mannequins.
Just one display.
A single glass case.
Inside:
The Angel Baby jacket.
Worn.
Loved.
Untouched.
And next to it, a handwritten plaque:
“He made me feel real when I wanted to disappear.
He left, but he stitched his soul into mine.
When I walk, it’s for him.
When I shine, it’s him.
— Park Seonghwa”
---
After the show, someone asked him,
“Was he your muse?”
Seonghwa smiled softly, hands folded.
“No,” he said.
“He was my miracle.”
---
That night, alone in the hotel, Seonghwa lit a candle.
He stood in front of the mirror.
Pulled off his shirt.
And revealed the new ink etched into his shoulder blade.
Delicate. Simple.
Two embroidered wings.
One word beneath them, in Joong’s handwriting:
“Loved.”
He traced the edge with one fingertip.
Then looked out the window.
“I kept going,” he whispered.
“Like you asked.”
And the city glowed in reply.
---
Somewhere in the quiet,
in the air between stars—
a soft voice echoed back.
“I see you, Hwa.
Keep shining.
You were always meant to.”
---
End.
(but love never really ends ❤️🩹)