Chapter Text
Matthew’s world had a carefully edited hush to it, the kind of silence you build around a broken thing so it won’t make a sound. His studio was small for a man who wrote songs that filled stadiums; it was efficient and slightly cluttered, maps of melodies pinned to corkboards, lyric sheets folded like paper cranes, a battered espresso machine perpetually humming in one corner. Outside, Seoul moved on—neon and traffic and a city that never asked for permission to be loud. Inside, he measured his days in decibels and coffee stains.
He worked at night because the night understood him. In the daytime the city reminded him of all the obligations he’d once accepted with ease—meetings, interviews, the rehearsed warmth that labels polished and handed out to their producers like business cards. By midnight, the house lights dimmed and the songs came back to what they were: clean, sovereign things that let him shape grief into phrases.
The glow of the monitors painted his face in cool blues; his hair was kept in a dark, neat line. He had learned to keep his expression neutral in public—there were no interviews that required the tremor he felt when he passed by a memory that still lingered at the back of his mind. It was the kind of absence that kept the shape of a body around Matthew’s days, unspoken but impossible to forget.
Medication sat in a small amber bottle beside his lamp: neat, clinical labels. The hormone imbalance wasn't a metaphor—it moved through his body in a way that needed management. His doctor had explained it in precise sentences that Matthew tried to take in like sheet music. “An alpha’s pheromones stabilize certain regulatory pathways,” the doctor had said once, as if naming the mechanism would make the ache less personal. “You can’t rely on medication forever—it’ll begin to cause complications, especially if you ever wish to carry a pup. Having an alpha by your side would be the healthier, longer-term way to keep your system balanced. Proximity matters, Matthew.”
It had sounded like an instruction and an intrusion. He followed it, because what else did he do but follow the recommendations of experts who held his body in terms he could not argue with. Yet the idea of deliberately placing himself near an alpha for chemical reasons felt vulgar and intimate all at once; intimacy and appetite were knottily threaded through the same sentence.
Work was both refuge and reminder. A demo could hold the honesty he couldn’t afford elsewhere. He mixed, tweaked, and rewove fragments of his life into choruses that made people cry in their cars and feel less alone in their rooms. The irony was a small, bitter thing he swallowed: people loved his songs because they were honest about loss; he carried his loss like a badge no one could see.
When he left the studio it was usually to go home to his apartment a few blocks away, a place that had been rearranged to pretend decay could be disciplined. There were traces of another life in quiet corners—things too personal to discard, and too painful to use. The scent of something faint and impossible sometimes lingered in the air, waking a small, ridiculous hope.
There were friends who eased the solitude. Hanbin often dropped by his studio, always with a litany of choreographic metaphors that somehow translated into breakfast suggestions. Between Hanbin’s brief stops came Zhang Hao’s recordings—classical pieces that drifted into Matthew’s inbox like salt—and the occasional visit from Yujin—the three-year-old son of Hanbin and Hao—whose crayon suns and crooked smiles were pinned proudly to his fridge. Taerae left the occasional meme about practice techniques, and Jiwoong checked in with terse texts that read more like shorthand for care. These were the constellations of his life: precise, consistent, and sometimes too bright.
Tonight, Matthew was awake because the melody that refused to die lived on the speakers. He fingered the beat with the same absent patience he used to peel oranges, testing where the drums might land, humming a line that had the shape of a confession. A kettle hissed in the kitchen, a domestic punctuation. The city hummed beyond the panes; rain had begun, not yet heavy, just the kind that made the street smell like wet asphalt and old paper.
The phone vibrated on the console. He glanced at the screen without thinking—unknown number, then another message, then the name that pulled him back into the rhythm of work: Jiwoong. A curt reminder about Monday’s pitch. He thumbed a quick reply and returned to the mixes. Messages came and went like passing thoughts—quick, necessary, and never warm. He wasn’t unused to attention; he was unused to care.
Sometime around two in the morning fatigue makes mistakes, and he let himself fall into a shallow sleep in the chair, the headphones still warm on his neck. He dreamed in fragments: a plum tree by the canal, sunlight spilling through thin curtains, a warm laugh against his shoulder, the press of fingers tracing a promise at the back of his neck—then a hospital corridor washed in white light, where that warmth was gone. He woke with the taste of metal in his mouth and the ceaseless loop of a chorus on his tongue.
The conversation with his doctor lingered in the back of his mind, not for the words she used but for the quiet weight behind them. She hadn’t told him anything new—just facts he already knew by heart—but hearing them again, spoken aloud in that small, sterile room, had left an echo. The talk wasn’t really about medicine or pheromones anymore; it was about living, about the small ways his body reminded him it was built for connection he’d long avoided.
He had left the clinic that day with the scent of antiseptic still clinging to his clothes, the doctor’s voice repeating in his head like a refrain he didn’t want to memorize. Maybe, she’d said, it was time to stop surviving and start living again. He hadn’t answered then. But sometimes, when the studio went quiet and the music stopped looping, the thought returned—soft, uninvited, and almost kind: perhaps it was time to let someone near again.
The day followed routine. Revisions for a vocal line, a call with an artist about lyric phrasing, a two-hour session with Taerae who insisted on practicing breaths together like a religious ritual. Hanbin popped by with Yujin in tow, and the boy barreled into Matthew's arms like an uncontained comet, sticky hands and all. Yujin’s presence was a collision of small, brutal joy—Matthew let himself be the ridiculous adult who played animal noises until the child giggled. When Hanbin left, he pressed a CD into Matthew's hands—Hao's new recording—and said, “Bring it home. It’ll make you sleep.” Hanbin’s laugh was easy and old; like sunlight half-remembered.
Evenings in this part of Seoul had a certain etiquette: curtains almost always drawn against the city's glow, a quiet offering of privacy people paid for with habit. Matthew made dinner—simple, according to the rituals he kept to keep memories orderly—and finally sank into his armchair with the CD in his lap. Somewhere between the second track and the third, his phone lit up with a name that had been a geography of his past: Park Gunwook. The sound of the rain seemed to soften when his name appeared, as if the world recognized it before Matthew did.
He hadn't heard from Gunwook regularly; their communication had always been sporadic since the days Gunwook moved to Busan at fourteen. But they had reconnected at university—an email, a coffee—an easy re-entry as if time were elastic in the places that mattered. Gunwook had been different then: sharpened by the discipline of stage management, protective in a way that made Matthew's chest unclench without asking for permission. When they spoke, Gunwook went from boy-next-door to man-behind-stage with the ease of someone who had learned to carry both.
The message notification hovered:
Gunwook: Hey hyung. Friday okay? Pojangmacha by the river? 8?
Matthew stared at the screen, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Gunwook’s message felt like a small, familiar knock on the door of an old memory. It wasn’t excitement that filled him, just a quiet warmth that came from the thought of seeing a childhood friend again—someone who had once been part of his simpler days.
He leaned back in his chair, thumb hovering over the keyboard. There was no need to overthink it; this was just Gunwookie, the boy who used to chase him through the neighborhood park, now the man who worked behind the glow of stage lights. It had been a while since they sat together without schedules dictating the conversation.
He typed, deleted, and typed again, not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he had forgotten how to sound casual without sounding guarded. In the end, he sent something plain, unpolished: Yeah. See you Friday.
He placed the phone aside and exhaled. The room regained its stillness, the rain still whispering against the glass. He poured himself tea, its warmth grounding him as Hao’s violin drifted from the speakers—slow, steady notes that filled the space between memory and now. For the first time in a long while, the thought of Friday didn’t feel heavy. It simply felt... ordinary. And that was enough.
—
The rain had stopped by Friday afternoon, leaving behind streets that glistened like wet glass and a sky that couldn’t decide between dusk and light. Seoul’s air was cool and clean, touched by that faint metallic scent that came after a long downpour. Matthew drove through the familiar riverfront road with the windows cracked open, letting in the damp breeze. He parked near the small public lot by the park, where the river path curved toward the old pojangmacha he and Gunwook had chosen.
He stepped out, buttoning his coat as the sound of the river mixed with the faint chatter of people nearby. The walk wasn’t long—five minutes at most—but enough for his mind to slow down after a week spent chasing melodies and deadlines. The soft echo of his shoes on wet pavement set an unhurried rhythm as he followed the glow of the orange tent ahead. There was no reason to be nervous—this wasn’t a meeting or a pitch. Just a dinner with Gunwook. Still, as he passed a parked delivery scooter, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the side mirror and instinctively ran a hand through his hair before smiling wryly at himself. Old habits.
The pojangmacha by the river was still the same—the same orange tent, the same auntie who recognized familiar faces by how they ordered. The air was thick with the scent of spicy broth and sizzling tteokbokki, the laughter of office workers echoing faintly beneath the tent’s plastic flaps. And there, at the far end, sleeves rolled up and a bottle already open, was Park Gunwook.
Gunwook hadn’t changed much, Matthew thought as he spotted him across the table. Maybe a little broader now, more sure of himself in the way he moved. But that smile—bright, unguarded, and impossible to mistake—was the same one Matthew had grown used to seeing every few months whenever they managed to meet. Gunwook stood when he saw him, waving in that easy, familiar way that ignored subtlety entirely.
“Hyung! Over here!”
Matthew chuckled softly as he made his way over. “You don’t have to shout, Gunwookie. The whole river heard you.”
Gunwook grinned, unbothered. “Old habits. You used to ignore me on purpose.”
“Because you never stopped talking,” Matthew teased, sitting across from him.
“Still don’t,” Gunwook replied easily, pouring him a drink. “Some things never change.”
The familiarity between them settled quickly, like slipping into a well-worn rhythm. The clatter of chopsticks, the hum of conversations around them, and the faint sound of the river outside formed the backdrop to something simple and comfortable.
“So,” Gunwook said once their food arrived, “still making half the industry emotional wrecks with your songs?”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “If they’re crying, that’s their problem. I just write.”
Gunwook laughed. “You say that, but every time I hear your music, I have to check if it’s raining or if I’m just sad.”
“That’s a you problem.”
Their laughter blended with the murmur of the tent. Between casual teasing and light conversation about work—Hanbin’s never-ending rehearsals, Jiwoong’s terrifying precision, Taerae’s obsession with vocal warm-ups—the evening moved easily. They didn’t need to reach for connection; it was already there, waiting.
But between the laughter, Matthew noticed small things—the way Gunwook gestured when he spoke, the slight rasp of his voice when he laughed too hard, the steady calm that seemed to radiate from him. It wasn’t anything special, he told himself. Just familiarity. The comfort of someone who had known him long before the world did.
Gunwook was the first to break their silence. “You’ve been working yourself too hard again, haven’t you?”
Matthew blinked. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.” Gunwook leaned back, watching him. “You get that look, hyung. The one that says your brain’s still editing a melody even when you’re eating.”
Matthew smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard.”
“Maybe. But you should let yourself rest sometimes.”
Matthew shrugged, noncommittal. “Rest doesn’t always help.”
Gunwook didn’t push, just nodded. “Still. Try, at least. You used to be better at it.”
“Guess I grew up.”
“Guess you forgot how.”
Matthew laughed, shaking his head. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“Thank you,” Gunwook said with mock pride. “Consistency is my best quality.”
As their plates began to empty, Matthew turned the conversation toward him instead. “What about you, Gunwookie? Still managing stages for every major event in Seoul?” he asked, his tone light but curious.
Gunwook smiled sheepishly. “Pretty much. The chaos doesn’t end. Festivals, award shows, halftime shows—sometimes I forget what weekend means.”
“Sounds like you’re living on caffeine and adrenaline,” Matthew said, amused.
“Guilty,” Gunwook replied with a laugh. “But I like it. It feels good to see everything come together from the shadows. I guess that’s something we have in common.”
Matthew hummed softly in agreement. “We’ve always been the behind-the-scenes types.”
“Yeah,” Gunwook said, pouring another round. “We make the noise, but no one sees us.”
They shared a quiet look, one that carried the mutual understanding of those who thrived in silence.
They drink in companionable quiet for a while. The city beyond the tent lights blurred into streaks of gold on the river’s surface. Every now and then, Gunwook would refill their glasses, and Matthew would let him.
“Do you ever go back there?” Gunwook asked after a while.
“Where?”
“Our old neighborhood.” Gunwook smiled faintly. “I passed by last month. The park’s still there, though they cut down some of the plum trees.”
Matthew’s hand stilled over his chopsticks. “Really?”
“Yeah. The swings are gone too.”
For a heartbeat, the image unfolded—two boys racing down a cracked path, laughter carried by wind, the scent of plum blossoms hanging in the air. Time had dulled it, but the memory returned with startling clarity.
“I remember,” Matthew said quietly. “You always won.”
Gunwook laughed. “Only because you let me. You said the winner could pick the next song on your playlist.”
Matthew smiled, eyes softening. “That sounds like something I’d do.”
“It was,” Gunwook said, grinning. “And you’d let me listen as long as I didn’t delete anything. Still the best bribe I’ve ever gotten.”
Their laughter came easy again, and the years between them thinned a little more. When the conversation faded, they sat with the kind of silence that felt earned, not awkward.
By the time the tent began to empty, the night air had turned crisp. They stepped out, the river beside them glinting under the streetlights. Seoul stretched out quietly, the noise softened by distance.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Gunwook said.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Matthew hesitated, then nodded. They fell into step together, their pace unhurried. The air carried the faint sweetness of grilled chestnuts from a nearby stall.
When they reached the parking lot, Matthew slowed beside his car. The streetlights reflected faintly on the wet asphalt, painting soft halos around their feet.
“Thanks for tonight,” Matthew said, turning to face him.
“Anytime, hyung.” Gunwook grinned, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Let’s not make it another three-month reunion special, yeah?”
Matthew huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he slipped his hands into his own pockets.
“You make it sound like I’m the one avoiding you,” he said, his tone half-scolding, half-amused. “You’re the one always running around managing half the country’s events, remember?”
Gunwook’s grin turned sheepish. “Occupational hazard,” he said, mimicking Matthew’s earlier words almost exactly, his tone light but his eyes soft with quiet amusement.
They lingered for a moment, the sound of the river nearby breaking the quiet between them. Then Gunwook’s phone buzzed—work, probably. He glanced at the screen, grimaced slightly, then looked back up with a faint grin. “Guess I’ve got to run. Drive safe, hyung.”
Matthew nodded. “You too, Gunwookie.”
Gunwook gave a small wave before heading toward the main road, the rhythm of his footsteps fading into the hum of traffic. Matthew watched until the younger man disappeared beyond the bend, the night folding around him again. The city’s quiet felt different now—lighter somehow, less hollow.
He stood there for a while, listening to the water move beneath the bridge. Then he opened the car door and sat for a moment, fingers resting on the steering wheel, the scent of rain and roasted chestnuts still clinging to his coat. When he finally started the engine and pulled out of the lot, he found himself humming—not for work, not for anyone, but simply because, for once, it felt easy.
—End of Chapter One—