Chapter Text
They’ve always been close. That’s what the fans say, anyway.
“AuauSave is real,” they chant in comments.
What they don’t know is: it kind of is. But neither of them is brave enough to admit it yet.
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The dressing room was quiet, the soft hum of the air conditioner competing only with the rustle of stage outfits being hung up. AuAu sat on the floor with his back against the couch, towel draped over his shoulders, still catching his breath from rehearsal.
Save walked in a few seconds later, hair damp from the quick rinse he'd done backstage. He dropped beside him without a word, close enough that their knees touched.
No cameras. No staff. Just them.
"Your mic pack was falling off the whole time," Save said casually, sipping from his water bottle.
AuAu blinked, then laughed softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought it was funny. The fans would call it ‘charming’ or something.”
"You're evil."
Save smiled, the kind of quiet, private smile he didn’t show often. “Maybe. You looked good, though.”
AuAu froze for a second. Not because the words were unusual, but because of the way Save said them — low, lazy, with that look in his eyes that said more than it should.
Their “pairing” had started as a marketing strategy. The company said they had “organic chemistry,” and fans picked up on it fast — the height difference, the casual banter, the way Save always seemed to stand between AuAu and the chaos.
But somewhere along the way, things blurred.
It was easy to say “I love you” for fan service. Easy to drape an arm around shoulders and wink at the camera.
It was harder to explain why those touches lingered off-camera too.
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Later that night, after they’d done the livestream, rehearsed the same chorus five times, and smiled until their cheeks hurt, they were finally back at the dorm.
Save was in the kitchen, stirring instant noodles, still wearing Auau’s oversized hoodie. He hadn’t asked — just slipped it on after changing out of his stage outfit. Auau never said anything when he did. He never would.
"You're not eating that whole pack, are you?" Auau asked, leaning against the doorway.
Save turned, lips curling. “You want some?”
"You’ll complain later and then steal mine.”
“Then say no, and I’ll steal it guilt-free.”
Auau rolled his eyes and padded into the kitchen, taking the chopsticks from Save’s hand mid-stir.
“Hey!”
“You didn’t even wait for the water to fully boil,” Auau scolded, adjusting the heat like some kind of noodle whisperer.
Save just watched him. This was the part no one saw. Not the styled photoshoots or the live interviews. Just Auau being weirdly serious about noodles at 1 a.m., still in his black training pants, hair messy from the towel-dry.
"You act like my boyfriend sometimes," Save said before he could stop himself.
Auau didn’t even flinch. "Would that be a bad thing?"
Save blinked. “...No.”
Silence. The water bubbled. The air got thicker.
Auau stirred once more and then finally turned around. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t teasing.
"You’re not just playing along with the fanservice anymore, are you?"
Save looked down. “Are you?”
Another pause. Then: “No.”
The words hung in the air like static.
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After they ate, neither of them went back to their rooms.
The living room light was dim. A late-night re-run of a variety show was on mute in the background. Auau sat on the couch, and Save curled up next to him, knees pulled close, face half-hidden in the hoodie.
They weren’t touching, but the space between them was so thin it felt louder than any noise.
“You make it hard,” Auau said quietly, voice nearly drowned by the soft clink of the spoon against a ceramic cup. “To pretend it’s nothing.”
Save’s voice was muffled. “I’m scared it’ll change everything.”
“It already did.”
Their eyes met.
And in that tiny pause — with no cameras, no managers, no fans pushing for clips — Save lifted a hand, slowly, like he didn’t want to spook a bird. He brushed a strand of hair from AuAu’s cheek.
AuAu didn’t pull away.