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i
The first time it happens, Hongjoong doesn’t realize it until it’s too late.
They’re in Los Angeles at the height of July, resting in between concerts. The weather is just as it always is in LA this time of the year: hot, sweltering, the air shivering right above the concrete. Usually, on days such as these, Hongjoong stays inside, lazing about or working idly, but this time he finds himself roped into an outing with a few fashion industry friends he hasn’t seen in a while. It’s a nice reprieve from the monotony of the tour—the moments in between concerts which always flow according to the same rhythms. They’ve barely started, only two shows in and still fresh off the excitement of Coachella, but the familiar routine has already grasped Hongjoong by the wrist like an old friend visiting again after a period of absence.
Before he leaves the hotel, he knocks on Seonghwa’s door to ask if he needs anything before he goes. He can always cancel last minute if he needs to.
Seonghwa appears through the crack in the door like a ghost—pale, his eyes sunken.
“I’ll be fine, Hongjoong-ah,” he says quietly. “You should go, enjoy your time off.”
Hongjoong’s heart clenches. “Are you sure?” he asks. He can hardly enjoy himself when Seonghwa looks like that, anyway.
Seonghwa only nods in response. He clears his throat. “Yunho said we might go out for food later.”
“Oh, okay, that’s good,” Hongjoong says. “But if you need anything, just text me, okay? Or call me. I’ll always pick up.”
Seonghwa smiles a pale, wan smile. “I will.”
They’re meeting downtown, at a place Ugo suggested. Hongjoong takes an Uber and the entire ride there, he looks at his phone every five seconds. Seonghwa never messages, though, and eventually, the driver informs him that they’ve arrived.
The place turns out to be a nice bistro doubling as a cocktail bar, which, as it turns out, belongs to a friend of Ugo’s. They’re seated in a private room upstairs, with a view of the balcony.
“Good to see you, man,” Ugo says, once the hostess leads Hongjoong up the winding staircase and shows him to their table. They hug, and Ugo pats him on the back.
“Good to see you, too,” Hongjoong says with a smile. “It’s been a while.”
“We’ll have a couple of friends joining us, if you don’t mind,” Ugo says. “I think you might have met Evan? Evan Ross? And Noah’s gonna be here, too. He’s an artist, and he’s heard a ton of good stuff about you, so he really wanted to meet you.”
Hongjoong nods. “Yeah, yeah, of course” he says. “I’m happy to be meeting them, too.”
The two men appear soon after, and they exchange their greetings, then order drinks and food. Hongjoong, who doesn’t know Ugo’s friends as well as he knows Ugo himself, starts out mostly listening to them talk, but he finds himself quickly dragged into the conversation. Evan does music as well, but he hasn’t really toured with it, and Noah turns out to be friends with a lot of musicians.
“Yeah, so for this tour, we have a bus,” Hongjoong says. “For some cities, I mean. But we never—this is our first time going on a tour bus, so it’s really exciting. We don’t get to do things like that often, but I think it’s going to be a lot of fun, yeah.”
Noah leans back in his chair. “Oh, yeah, man, I did the whole tour bus experience with a friend of mine who was on tour, all up and down the California coast, you know?” he says. “You’re gonna love it. We got up to some wild stuff on that bus. And it’s like, that’s the experience you gotta have at some point in your career, right? Just moving from one place to another overnight. That’s like, classic Americana right there.”
Hongjoong nods, his mouth slightly parted. “Ah, really?” he says. He reaches for his drink and takes a sip. It’s a little bitter, very citrusy, and he can’t really taste the alcohol much, which is just as well. “I think we’ll mostly be sleeping, though. Our schedule is really busy, so we’re tired after the concerts.”
“Man, yeah, I’ve seen some of your stuff,” Evan chimes in. It’s a little surreal, Hongjoong thinks, to be sitting right next to Diana Ross’s son, but he’s long learned not to question where his life takes him. “That looks intense as hell, y’know? Where do you even get the stamina? I mean, I’ve done some stunt training and stuff, but that doesn’t even come close.”
Hongjoong laughs. “We prepare like—we have a whole team of like, trainers? And we train like athletes,” he explains. “And we sing on a treadmill, or jumping up and down. So this way we can be more stable on stage.”
“No, yeah, it definitely shows,” Evan says.
“Seonghwa is the most stable out of all of us,” Hongjoong continues. “He works really hard to be so good. He has a lot of—you know, determination. Even if he can’t do something, he will keep trying until he can. Actually…can you excuse me for a moment?”
The chair scratches against the worn hardwood floor when Hongjoong moves to get up. The bistro has a nice, cozy vibe—the walls are painted a dark, burnt orange and deep red, and there are plants everywhere, hanging off decorative planters and windowsills. The bold, colorful prints of the cushions scattered around the sitting spaces provide contrast—the rich, egg yolk yellow and ultramarine blue paired with black, and green, and red, arranged in geometric shapes. On the walls, modern paintings capture the eye in a shock of colors.
Hongjoong finds a quiet spot by the balcony door and dials Yunho’s number.
He picks up after five rings. “Hyung?” he says by way of a greeting. He sounds a little frazzled. “What’s up? Did something happen? I thought you were going out today.”
“Could you, please, make sure that Seonghwa eats something?” Hongjoong asks. “I came by to check on him earlier and he said you had plans to possibly take him out to lunch. He looked very tired, like he didn’t sleep at all.”
“Right, about that,” Yunho says. “I think he might be sleeping and he’s put his phone on do not disturb or something, because I called him and he didn’t pick up, and then I went to knock on his door but no one answered. I was actually going to call you if I couldn’t get through to him in the next fifteen minutes.”
Hongjoong rubs at the spot between his brows. “Okay,” he says with a sigh. “I’ll try calling him and get back to you. He might have fallen asleep, I wouldn’t be surprised. He looked like he had a really rough night.”
Hongjoong’s heart clenches as he disconnects the call. There’s only so much he can do, he supposes, and that powerlessness makes him chafe like a badly cut suit jacket, restricting his movement. Still, he dials Seonghwa’s number and listens to it ring, and ring, and ring. He’s about to disconnect when the sound of the connecting call is cut off by the low murmur of Seonghwa’s voice, raspy with sleep. Hongjoong has heard him sound exactly like that countless times before. He knows that timbre, that specific roughness that comes to Seonghwa first thing in the morning.
“Hello?” Seonghwa says. “Hongjoong-ah? Did something happen? Did you need something?”
Hongjoong licks his lips. “Yunho has been trying to reach you,” he says. “It’s about that lunch date you were supposed to go on together. He said he called you and knocked on your door, but you weren’t answering.”
It’s quiet on the other end of the line for a moment, then Seonghwa says, “Oh. I must have fallen asleep and didn’t hear him knocking. And my phone is on do not disturb.”
Hongjoong frowns. “How did you know to pick up my call, then?” he asks.
There’s a faint rustling of the sheets that comes from the other end of the line. Hongjoong waits patiently until Seonghwa says, “I have an exception set for you on my phone.”
The admission punches right through him; Hongjoong doesn’t quite get how he stays standing. He didn’t know—not until this very moment. He can’t figure out what to do with the information. It seems significant, somehow, but this is not the time to be dreaming of things that cannot be. Seonghwa needs Hongjoong to be there for him, even if he won’t admit it, content to pick up the pieces of his heart in silence. Seonghwa needs Hongjoong to be there for him right now, so that’s what Hongjoong is going to do.
“Call Yunho, okay?” Hongjoong says. “I bet he’s planned something nice for the two of you.”
Seonghwa lets the quiet sit between them for a moment before he says, “I will. Thank you for checking in with me, Hongjoong-ah.”
Hongjoong’s ribcage feels tight around his lungs. “Of course. Call me if you need anything else.”
When he comes back to the table, he finds only Ugo sitting there, sipping on his drink.
“The guys will be back in a moment,” he says. “Went to use the restroom and get more drinks.”
Hongjoong nods. He sits down, glancing at his phone every five seconds.
“Everything okay there?” Ugo asks. He leans in, genuine concern painted across his features. “Obviously I don’t speak Korean, but that sounded pretty serious. And feel free to tell me it’s none of my business.”
Hongjoong shakes his head. He glances at the phone again, but neither Seonghwa nor Yunho call him. “No, no, it’s not that. I—Seonghwa is having a hard time,” he says. It’s not a secret. One of the many they couldn’t keep, traded for the lives they have. Hongjoong is not betraying any kind of confidence here. “I called to ask if everything was okay. Actually—actually, I wondered if I should come today, so… Sorry if I keep checking my phone. He’s just, you know…”
Ugo nods, his expression solemn. “He must be very special, right?” he says. “You keep mentioning him a lot each time we meet.”
Hongjoong can feel the heat creeping up his neck. He wonders sometimes how obvious he is about Seonghwa. He knows the fans pick up on the moments when he gets awkward and flustered around him, but it’s another thing to realize that the friends he sees only several times a year have noticed something, too.
In a way, it’s a relief to be talking about it with someone from outside the industry but at the same time not a stranger to the celebrity life.
“Yeah,” he admits shyly, because he doesn’t want to lie about this if he doesn’t have to. The admission itself is vague enough. Hongjoong is not saying anything openly. “He’s like—we have a phrase in Korean: my left side. It’s like—the person closest to my heart. Something like that.”
Ugo’s eyes widen a little. “Oh, yeah, say no more. I get that,” he says. “Anyway, it’s great that he has such a supportive partner. That’s super important in moments like these.”
“Yeah,” Hongjoong says. “Yeah, I try.”
For years, Seonghwa has been the person Hongjoong has been leaning on, over and over again. The other members, too, have grown used to seeing Seonghwa as a source of comfort. Now Hongjoong wants to be that for Seonghwa as well.
It’s only later, once he’s back at the hotel, that he realizes Ugo used the word partner. Hongjoong had thought nothing of it in the moment, but now that he’s fully aware of it, the weight of the possible misunderstanding gnaws at him like a pang of conscience. He should message Ugo, explain to him that it’s not like that.
He should.
But maybe it’s the kind of conversation one should have face to face. They’ll be seeing each other in a couple of months at Paris Fashion Week. Hongjoong can explain then. In the meantime, he can dream about what it would be like if any of it were real.
ii
Paris during the Fashion Week is a whirlwind of streets and lights, late-night drives to fittings, and photoshoots that won’t come out for a while yet. Hongjoong enjoys it the way he enjoys everything that has to do with fashion—with boundless abandon.
This time around—his third overall—he finds himself on much more stable footing than the first two times he’s been here. The first invitation felt like a fever dream, and Hongjoong could only stand there frozen, star-struck, when he met Olivier for the very first time. Their second meeting was already more cordial, and it was easier for Hongjoong to breathe. They’d chatted in between schedules, here and there, prior to Hongjoong’s second Paris Fashion Week appearance, and that made Olivier a little more human in his eyes, a little more like a real person and not an untouchable artist Hongjoong had idolized for years. After the show, Olivier took him out to eat at a fancy restaurant, and just like that, they were friends.
Now, meeting him for the third time, Hongjoong no longer freezes when Olivier leans in to give him three kisses on the cheek.
“Hongjoong, it’s so good to see you again,” he says in between the kisses.
Around them, the studio is all controlled chaos: shoes and accessories lining the shelves, numbered and getting ready for the runway; last-minute fittings; industrial steam irons puffing up clouds of vapor. There are staff members constantly milling about the place, coming and going with no regard for anything other than their tasks. Hongjoong likes it—the way he becomes part of the space, a little cog in the machine of couture.
He could’ve gone to the Balmain boutique for this final fitting, but he likes that Olivier invited him here instead—right where everything that matters happens in those hours leading up to the show. It makes him feel like he’s a part of it, in a roundabout way.
When Hongjoong first told him, a little shyly, about his personal fashion aspirations, Olivier clasped his hands and told him it was an excellent idea.
“You have an eye for fashion, Hongjoong,” he said seriously. “It would be sad to see it go to waste.”
Now, surrounded by the frenetic energy of the last evening before the show, Hongjoong is reminded of the backstage at a concert, buzzing like a beehive. It’s no wonder he thrives on this kind of anticipatory excitement.
“Ah, but you’re not alone in Paris this time, no?” Olivier asks as he leads him to the rack of clothes where his outfit is ready to be tried on. “See, I had my eye on your special friend as well, but it seems like Isabel was faster this time. It is a shame, really, but Kim has always been shrewd and had an eye for great faces, so I’m not surprised they snatched him before anyone else could.”
Hongjoong flusters at the mention of Seonghwa, caught like a wild animal in the headlights at the implication behind Olivier’s words. He must have been talking to Ugo, then, or maybe he has simply reached the same conclusion—or some combination of the two.
He opens his mouth to deny it, but no sound comes out. Hongjoong thinks about it for a moment—the way he would have to explain everything, the awkwardness of the misapprehension being set to rights. Worst of all, he thinks about how revealing it would be of the state of his own heart, how every single thing he’s ever felt for Seonghwa would suddenly find itself on display for the entire world to see. He’s not that good of an actor to talk about it and keep his true feelings a secret at the same time.
Hongjoong knows that if he were to open his mouth to refute it, he would inevitably give himself away.
“Ah, yes, he’s very happy about that,” Hongjoong says instead. “He wanted to be a model when he was a teenager, so this is very exciting for him, yeah. And he likes genderless style, too, so this is giving him huge inspiration.”
Olivier smiles. “It’s good to share it with someone like that, no?” he asks. “Good things should always be shared. Especially with those who matter to us the most.”
The truth is, Hongjoong can’t even find anything to refute here. Seonghwa is the person who matters to him the most in the entire world, right alongside his family. Seonghwa is the one Hongjoong wants to share everything with. There’s not one lie in what Olivier’s just said.
And then there’s that quiet, selfish voice at the back of Hongjoong’s head, whispering, Would it be so bad to let them think what they want to think? There’s no harm in that.
It’s not entirely true. The word can spread to the wrong ears, and there are things to consider other than Hongjoong’s selfish desires. But he’s spent years carefully telling himself that he can’t have things. Back when he first met Seonghwa, on that December day that would forever change the trajectory of his life, Hongjoong looked at him and understood immediately that Seonghwa was the most dangerous person in any room he walked into. He was all of Hongjoong’s worst nightmares realized in a single body. The pull was immediate and terrifying and real. Hongjoong remembers himself at eighteen, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, knowing that the sweatiness of his palms wasn’t just the nerves of meeting someone new.
Seonghwa was beautiful, but there was something fragile and unsure about the way he carried himself, a kind of vulnerability one wanted to protect. Hongjoong remembers the way his heart lurched in his chest, how it stuttered in its rhythm, how it whispered, You’ll want him so much it will kill you.
It wasn’t wrong. But here Hongjoong is, nearly eight years later, still standing. Maybe he’s more resilient than he gives himself credit for. The wanting hasn’t killed him yet. It’s there, ever-present, sinking its claws into Hongjoong as he grapples with questions of duty and responsibility.
That’s exactly why he should say something now. Why he should explain.
We’re not like that. We can’t. There’s been a misunderstanding.
But something deep inside Hongjoong grabs him by the throat and refuses to let go. Refuses to let any sound come out.
In the end, he nods and smiles. He looks at the ring on his finger and lets it go.
iii
Hongjoong doesn’t think about it for a while. Their life goes back on its usual tracks after the Fashion Week. There’s comeback preparations and the anticipation of their episodes of Moving Voices coming out; there’s the shadow of the Europe tour looming in the distance, and the prospect of award shows and end of the year shows in the near future.
But every once in a while, Hongjoong will wake up to a string of messages from Ugo talking about a new project or sharing the work of other designers that he thinks Hongjoong might be interested in, and the last message will always read, And say hi to Seonghwa from me!
They only met once, briefly, when Ugo was invited backstage at their LA concert back in the summer. Hongjoong knows that’s not the reason why.
Each time it happens, it leaves Hongjoong with a gnawing sense of guilt and a secret thrill all at the same time.
It doesn’t mean anything, he convinces himself. Ugo is only being nice. Their conversation back in July is just a shadow in the room, leaving behind shivering shapes of things that might or might not be real.
The invitation from Paul Smith comes around the same time as Seonghwa’s invitation from Songzio.
“Hey, look,” Hongjoong says, nudging Seonghwa’s foot with the tip of his shoe. They’re sitting backstage at the music video shoot, tired at the end of a long day. “Another Matz schedule coming up.”
Seonghwa cranes his neck to look at the screen of Hongjoong’s phone, illuminated with the details of his Fashion Week appearance.
Hongjoong leans back in his chair, holding in the grimace when he pushes down too hard on the large bruise that blooms across his shoulder blade, a memento of an unfortunate meeting with the wall of the practice room. Instead, he grins, a little cheeky, and says, “Looks like you just can’t get rid of me, huh?”
Seonghwa swats Hongjoong on the arm. “Who says I want to get rid of you?” he asks. “Maybe I do, though, now that you said it.”
Hongjoong catches himself pouting at that. He looks around, checking if there are any Logbook cameras nearby, but it’s just the two of them here, and Mingi joking around with Jongho on the other side of the room, making noise.
“It will be nice to go together, though,” Seonghwa says. “Solo schedules are always a little bit lonely, so it will be fun to go together for once.”
When Hongjoong looks down, he catches the sight of Seonghwa playing with his ring.
It hits him square in the chest, a clean punch that pushes the air out of his lungs. The memory of Ugo saying, partner—of Olivier saying, your special friend plays on loop in his mind. It rattles Hongjoong now, brought into the light and thrust right before his eyes. He suddenly doesn’t know how to think about anything else. His eyes stay fixated on Seonghwa’s hands, his slender fingers turning the ring round and round, diamonds catching the light.
There was a time, before and right after they debuted, when Hongjoong didn’t let himself think about it for the longest time. After Seonghwa had joined the company, Hongjoong folded all of his feelings and stuck them into a tiny box deep inside his chest, then locked it and threw away the key. It was easier than going slowly insane while Seonghwa wormed himself into his life. They shared a room; they shared a responsibility. That was all there could be to it.
It worked for a while—poorly, the light of Hongjoong’s feelings seeping through the cracks in the box, but it worked. It got him through the long nights spent in the practice room with Seonghwa, sharing their fears and hopes, confiding in each other over and over again. He could look at the curve of Seonghwa’s mouth and keep his sanity in check. It got him through the first couple of years, when the weight of responsibility on his shoulders meant that he leaned on Seonghwa more than was probably healthy, the two of them closer than ever. He never said it at the time, but that support was what helped him survive those initial years more than anything else. Hongjoong knew that the Seonghwa he’d come to know was dependable and loyal, and he would always be there for Hongjoong no matter what happened. His right hand. His left side.
Eventually, though, the feelings outgrew the little box, spilling out the sides through all the cracks and crevices until there was nothing left but to feel them to their full extent. It was a terrifying realization, just how much he really felt for Seonghwa. Hongjoong has since learned how to live with this knowledge, how to be normal around Seonghwa in a way that wouldn’t instantly give him away, but those first months after the spillage were some of the most nerve-racking in Hongjoong’s life. He stopped sleeping in their shared room, inventing weak excuses about not wanting to wake Seonghwa up while climbing into his top bunk, and pretended he didn’t see the photos of him that Seonghwa started scattering about the space.
Now, it’s several years later and those feelings are still there, more present than ever. Hongjoong understands now that trying to contain them in a little box was always a futile endeavor. It was only a matter of time before they grew beyond any kind of containment.
Sitting here, with Seonghwa right by his side and wearing the ring that Hongjoong put on his finger, it’s hard not to want things he knows he can’t have.
It would be a lie to say that Hongjoong has made his peace with it, but he understands the weight of responsibility that rests on his shoulders. They’ve made it through the worst of it, but if Hongjoong wants to see them all thrive, he must also understand that some things out there are simply not for him. This little play-pretend is the closest he can get.
Still, watching Seonghwa’s fingers touch the ring that Hongjoong paid for just because Seonghwa got jealous of the silly plastic rings he’d exchanged with Yunho on Idol Radio what feels like a lifetime ago, Hongjoong can’t help but get a little choked up.
Paris Fashion week is a hectic affair that winter. Fitting in Hongjoong’s two shows around their concerts has been difficult, but their staff somehow makes it happen, and while Seonghwa is only attending Songzio this time around, this doesn’t mean he’s any less busy.
They don’t see much of each other while they’re in Paris, staying at two different hotels and too preoccupied with fittings and filming content for anything else. That’s okay, though. Hongjoong still remembers the way Seonghwa’s face looked aboard the ferry on Lake Como, just centimeters away from his own, flushed with the cold and smiling.
He wanted to lean in and kiss him. Instead, he joked about throwing him overboard and hoped Seonghwa wouldn’t hear his frantically beating heart.
Their Fashion Week appearances go well. Hongjoong loves his outfit: the green of the suit, the mature cut of it balanced with a more youthful styling. People keep telling him he looks like David Bowie. Seonghwa, though—Seonghwa looks stunning. Hongjoong’s breath hitches in his chest when he sees the first photos roll in. His heart betrays him; it knocks viciously against his ribs, comes all the way up his throat and Hongjoong swallows and swallows and swallows, but there’s no way to drown these feelings now.
It's only later when they’re in London that Hongjoong’s little lie by omission catches up to him again. The day they arrive, Hongjoong is just coming out of the shower when there’s a knock on his door. With his hair towel still in hand, he shuffles over to the entryway, the complimentary hotel slippers sliding across the hardwood floor, only to find Seonghwa standing in the doorway.
“What’s up?” he asks, going back to drying his dripping hair. If the hairstylist noona saw him now, she would scold him for rubbing too aggressively with the towel, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. “Did you need anything?”
“I’m a little…confused,” Seonghwa says. “There’s a gift from Paul Smith in my room? I thought they misdelivered it and it was meant for you, but—”
Over Hongjoong’s shoulder, Seonghwa must notice the giant bouquet of marigolds that came with Hongjoong’s own gift package from Paul Smith, because his eyes widen and he cuts himself off abruptly.
“Oh,” he says then. “You got one, too. There were flowers in my room as well. Did—did everyone get something, then?”
Hongjoong’s heart leaps into his throat. “I—I’m not sure,” he says. “But I would assume so? What did you get?”
Seonghwa shifts his weight from one foot to another. “I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t really open the package after I saw the flowers and the message. It said my name, though, and I just…I don’t understand.”
Hongjoong swallows. “Yeah,” he says, “maybe they got everyone a little gift. That’s really nice of them. What did your message say?”
“It went like, those dear to our friends are dear to us, or something like that,” Seonghwa says. “I didn’t really understand it, either. But then it must be a group thing, right?”
Hongjoong grasps onto that hope like a man drowning. “Yeah,” he says weakly. “Yeah, it must be.”
As it turns out, it’s very much not a group thing. When Seonghwa asks Mingi the following day before rehearsal, Mingi just says, “Wait, what?” and squints, his mouth falling slightly open.
Jongho gives them both a sly, calculated look and says sweetly, “I think it’s just you and Hongjoong-hyung.”
Hongjoong wipes his sweaty palms on the back of his jeans.
It could be a coincidence. Sometimes brands will take interest in more than one member. It’s normal. It’s expected. Just because Seonghwa has been the only person other than Hongjoong to receive this gift doesn’t mean that it’s actually significant in any way.
“Aww, hyung, look at your couple balaclavas,” Yeosang coos backstage as they wait for the lights to get fixed. “Are you wearing your matching underwear, too?”
Hongjoong knows that he should laugh it off. He should make a disgusted face and pretend like Seonghwa isn’t the most important person in his life. He should go through all the motions he always does in such situations, when faced directly with the reality of his longing.
Instead, he freezes where he sits, remaining quiet long enough that even Yeosang gives him a strange look.
“He wishes,” Hongjoong says at last, but it’s a weak excuse for a response.
“Everything okay, hyung?” Yeosang asks with a frown. “You seem a little…you know.”
Hongjoong shakes his head. “I’m fine, just not fully awake yet,” he says. “I think I need another coffee.”
With that, he makes his way over to the catering table and pours himself another cup of coffee. The americanos that the managers had brought in earlier from a nearby store are long gone, and the coffee they’re serving here is not the best, but it does the job. In fact, it does the job a little too well, and leaves Hongjoong shaky and jittery, his heart’s rhythm turned to a rapid pitter-patter.
This frenetic energy is still there, thrumming in the tips of his fingers, when Seonghwa suggests that they film a funny reel. Hongjoong puts on his Paul Smith bathrobe. They put on the balaclavas. Throughout all of this, Seonghwa remains the way he always is—stealing Hongjoong’s breath away even when he’s being so silly.
They film the reel. Seonghwa doesn’t comment on the gift anymore, doesn’t ask questions.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s okay.
iv
August finds Hongjoong right where it all began, meeting up with Ugo before the LA concerts. They’re in town early to film content ahead of time, but Hongjoong finds a free afternoon to see him. They meet up at a bistro that Ugo recommended, and by the time Hongjoong gets there, Ugo is already waving him over.
It’s like a mirror of a familiar scene from last summer, staring down at Hongjoong and the long road of lies by omission that has led him back here.
It’s just the two of them this time around, and it’s nice to sink into the comforting familiarity that Ugo’s presence brings. The hours spent on video calls together, discussing the detailing on Hongjoong’s jacket and the right kind of zippers to run along the sleeves, have only brought them closer. Now seeing him in person feels like running into an old friend after a longer while, and they can pick up right where they left off.
The memory of that afternoon from a year ago fades eventually, supplanted by the new, fresh memories—the delicious food, the good company. Hongjoong is the kind of person constantly pulled in two directions all at once, the past and the future both calling out to him, but this time he decides to stay in the moment.
It only takes an instant for the past to catch up to him.
Just as they’re about to leave, Ugo pulls out two branded paper shopping bags, the Eleven Sixteen logo emblazoned on both sides.
“Here, brother,” he says, handing Hongjoong the bags. “A little gift for you and your man.”
Hongjoong freezes, nearly missing the handles as he reaches out. He grabs onto the bags at the last moment and gives a little bow in thanks, a force of habit.
It’s the most open anyone has been about this, and there’s a part of Hongjoong that wants to look around, just to make sure no one has overheard them, but in the end he lets it go.
Back at the hotel, he spends an hour lying in bed while he debates how to deal with this. For a moment, he contemplates just leaving the bag outside Seonghwa’s hotel room, knocking and backing away before he can get to the door, but that would be childish and silly. He could have the concierge service bring it up to him instead, but that would be cowardly.
In the end, he finds himself in front of Seonghwa’s hotel room door, palms sweating once he knocks and keeps himself fixed in the spot.
Seonghwa’s footsteps sound on the other side of the door, and then he says, in English, “Hello? Who is it?”
“It’s just me, you can open,” Hongjoong says. His voice sounds a little strangled even to his own ears.
A moment later, Hongjoong finds out why Seonghwa was so hesitant to open the door to begin with. He’s shirtless, barefoot, with only a towel slung over his broad shoulders and wearing a pair of loose culottes. His hair is wet.
“What do you need, Hongjoong-ah?” Seonghwa asks.
That’s what he always asks, and Hongjoong tries not to read too much into that. It’s always been like this between them. Seonghwa has always been the kind of rock Hongjoong could lean on instead of crash against.
In a way, he has been doomed from the start. There has been no one other than Seonghwa who could understand him the way Hongjoong wanted to be understood. Who could give Hongjoong everything he needed and then be ready to give even more. Hongjoong should’ve known he never stood a chance against this feeling. Now here he is, nearly a decade later, standing face to face with Seonghwa and grappling with his own tongue as it refuses to form words.
“Here,” Hongjoong manages at last. “A gift. I went to see Ugo, and he—yeah, anyway, it’s a gift for you.”
Seonghwa frowns. “Come inside,” he says.
The sound of the door closing behind him rings out like a car crash in Hongjoong’s ears. That’s what this entire conversation feels like—a car crash in slow motion.
“Here,” Hongjoong repeats, and reaches out to hand the bag to Seonghwa. “This is for you.”
A soft laugh escapes Seonghwa’s mouth. “Hongjoong-ah, are you working as the delivery service now?” he teases. “Everyone gets their gifts hand-delivered by Kim Hongjoong himself? The last time you did that, it was the rings.”
The memory of that day shoots clean right through Hongjoong’s chest. He remembers how nervous he was back then, too, how determined for Seonghwa to be the first one to receive his ring. How, when Seonghwa said, Well, now you should put it on me. Isn’t that what you did with Yunho at Idol Radio? Hongjoong actually reached out to take his hand and slide the ring on his finger. He remembers how the touch burned; he can still feel a faint echo of it even now, a phantom pain.
“No,” Hongjoong says, which is not a lie. “It’s just you.”
Seonghwa gives him a considering look. “What do you mean, it’s just me? Hongjoong-ah, what’s going on? Where are all the gifts coming from?”
“It’s just…” Hongjoong struggles. He doesn’t want to lie to Seonghwa, but he can’t tell the whole truth, either. “They know we’re close. That’s all.”
Seonghwa takes the bag. “Right,” he says. “Right, of course.”
Inside, there’s cowrie shell jewelry—a necklace and bracelet, a signature Eleven Sixteen style. The same box rests on the desk in Hongjoong’s room.
“Please, say thank you to Ugo-nim for me,” Seonghwa says.
Their LA concerts come and go, a blur of lights and thousands of fans screaming their names. Ugo visits them backstage, but it’s a rushed, frantic affair, and Hongjoong doesn’t manage to catch him on his own for long enough to talk.
Next time they meet, he thinks. Next time they meet, he will come clean. No matter how awkward it is, no matter how badly it reflects on Hongjoong, this has gone too far. It was a nice illusion to entertain, but no more.
Next time.
v
It’s a long time before they meet again. They miss each other at the Jacquemus show, and then Hongjoong has to miss the 2026 Spring/Summer season showing in September. Later in the fall, Olivier announces his exit from Balmain, and Ugo messages Hongjoong to tell him that a new brand from Olivier is coming in the latter part of the following year, and they’re working together behind the scenes to make it happen.
They keep missing each other in February, too, despite both of them attending Fashion Week, and Hongjoong wonders if he should just message Ugo and come clean with it. But it’s not the kind of conversation one can have while separated by entire continents. Hongjoong owes that much to himself, to Seonghwa, to everyone else he’s misled just because he didn’t want to make things too awkward, never thinking that it would spiral so far out of control.
For Seonghwa’s birthday in April, several brands send gifts. Qeelin gifts Seonghwa a white gold diamond necklace that looks stunning on him, the delicate pendant resting in the dip of his collarbones.
Hongjoong feels like he’s going to be sick. He swallows and swallows and swallows back all that he wants to say, and he turns away when Seonghwa catches him looking.
Enough, he thinks, for the hundredth time. Enough.
He’s not yours, the tiny voice at the back of his head says.
Enough.
vi
It’s difficult to pinpoint the tipping point of a lie.
Was it too late the moment Hongjoong didn’t open his mouth in time to contradict Ugo that first time? Was it when Olivier greeted him with kisses and questions about Seonghwa, and Hongjoong only nodded and smiled? Maybe later, when the first gifts began to appear, and Hongjoong did nothing to make them stop? Some other moment in between, when there was still time to make it right and admit to the lie by omission?
Hongjoong doesn’t know. What he does know is that his fault lies mostly in what has not been said.
No, it’s not like this.
We’re not together.
Please, don’t misunderstand. We’re not a couple.
It could’ve been that simple. A moment of embarrassment, and then it would’ve been over. Instead here Hongjoong is, more than two years later, with the lie that has grown into something he can no longer contain, escaping his grasp. Even if there initially was some part of him that liked the idea of others thinking that him and Seonghwa were together, now the feeling is no longer a fluttering of a thousand butterflies in his chest. Instead, it grips his ribs like a vise and squeezes each time Hongjoong thinks about it. His throat goes tight, a stone lodged deep inside, crushing his windpipe.
It's the first time since February 2025 that he’ll be in Paris for Fashion Week at the same time as Seonghwa. Olivier’s showcase is not part of the official Fashion Week calendar, but he’s holding a small, exclusive presentation of his first collection ahead of the opening of his first boutique in Paris. He’s been working on it with Ugo’s help for the past year, and both him and Seonghwa are on the guest list.
The double invitation came as a surprise, but it shouldn’t have. Seonghwa is coming to attend a Songzio show as well, and Hongjoong has been invited by Vivienne Westwood, both of which are happening the day after Olivier’s presentation, and it makes sense that Olivier would invite both of them. Wooyoung is coming for Courrèges, but that’s earlier in the week, and their schedules won’t overlap.
They depart from Incheon in flashes of cameras, surrounded by yelling fans. They keep close together, and each time Hongjoong glances to the side, Seonghwa is there, playing with his ring, a small smile on his lips.
Hongjoong’s heart clenches. His stomach is a tight knot.
All he needs to do is catch Ugo and Olivier alone and explain everything before the presentation begins. They won’t say anything in front of the reporters, and then all Hongjoong needs is just five minutes with them to admit his mistake and apologize for misleading them. Seonghwa never needs to know.
The hotel is one they’ve never stayed at before. The private car sent by Olivier picks them up at the airport and weaves through the streets of Paris until the driver stops in front of the Plaza Athénée lobby. The moment they step out of the car, there are people taking care of their luggage and opening the door for them, the concierge greeting them with a pleasant smile.
“Ah, yes, Monsieur, I see you have been placed in the Haute Couture Suite,” he informs them. “There are two adjoining rooms with ensuite bathrooms for your comfort, as well as a magnificently furnished shared living space. There, you will find a grand piano, and from your windows, you will have the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. Please, follow Guillaume to your floor, and your luggage will be brought up shortly by our butlers. They will also unpack your belongings for you, so you can enjoy your stay to the fullest.”
“Thank you,” Hongjoong says in English, but the sound of his voice rings unfamiliar in his ears. “I’m sure we’ll have a great time.”
On the way to the elevator, Seonghwa leans into him to whisper, “Why would they book us a joint suite? This is so fancy, too? I mean, I’ve stayed in really nice hotels for Fashion Week before, but this is like…next level.”
“I think Olivier just wanted to make a good impression,” Hongjoong says with a weak laugh. “But he really shouldn’t have gone all out like this. That’s crazy.”
Things only get worse when they arrive on their floor and are let into the spacious, luxurious room that’s unlike anywhere else they’ve ever stayed. It looks like the place one books for a dream honeymoon trip—the high ceilings and large windows letting in the autumn sun, the furniture that looks like it costs more than Hongjoong’s childhood house, the impressive Steinway grand piano that reflects light off its black, lacquered surface. It’s beautiful, and Hongjoong wants to touch it. Wants to play it.
“Do you play, Monsieur?” Guillaume asks, clearly following his line of vision, and Hongjoong shakes it off. “I assure you, it is properly tuned and not just here as mere decoration. You may use it whenever you like.”
“I do,” Hongjoong admits. “Thank you for telling me.”
“This is insane,” Seonghwa says from the other room. “Have you seen the bedrooms?”
The bedrooms are located on opposite sides of the main room, their doors facing each other across the living space. Inside, there are large, wide beds, and upholstered chairs placed around glass tables that face marble fireplaces; there are beautifully draped curtains, and elegantly made mannequin forms that spell out the name of the suite. Art on the walls, evergreen plants on the balcony railings, and Guerlain products lining the bathroom shelves.
Once Guillaume is gone, having unpacked their bags with a terrifying kind of efficiency, Hongjoong gives himself a moment to take it all in. It’s a lot—the room and the view outside, the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance. The complimentary champagne sweating in the ice bucket. All of it is adding up to something far more romantic than it should be. The double bedrooms are the only saving grace, but even so, Hongjoong understands what it looks like and what the intention behind it is.
“Wow,” Seonghwa says as he drops down onto the sofa, feet propped up over the armrest. “Now I really feel like some kind of superstar.”
“You are a superstar,” Hongjoong tells him. “Come on, keep up, Seonghwa-ssi.”
“Shut up,” Seonghwa says. He nudges Hongjoong’s hip with his toes playfully, and Hongjoong pretends to make a face.
It’s so easy sometimes—so easy to just be around Seonghwa, and in those moments Hongjoong begins to wonder why he’s so sure he can’t have this. But then the bubble bursts and reality starts seeping in, reminding Hongjoong of all the whys.
It’s always been this way, the weight of responsibility dragging him down. The worst thing is that Seonghwa would most likely not say no if he were to ask. Hongjoong is not blind; he knows how Seonghwa sometimes looks at him, understands all that Seonghwa is saying and not saying at the same time. He realizes how close to the tipping point they were back in Italy, too domestic for their own good. Nothing happened then, but the possibilities have lingered in Hongjoong’s mind ever since. Each time Seonghwa looks at his ring like it has more than one meaning, Hongjoong feels sick. He only has himself to blame for so many things, but it’s so hard to imagine himself getting to have what he’s wanted for years. Maybe that was why Hongjoong let the misunderstanding slide at first. For a moment, he was letting himself imagine a world where things could be different. He never meant for it to turn out like this.
They have their fittings at different times—Seonghwa has other Songzio ambassador duties to attend to while Hongjoong is chauffeured across the Seine to Olivier’s boutique, still closed to the general public.
Olivier’s assistant welcomes him there and informs him that, unfortunately, it’s going to be just the two of them today, with Olivier called away on urgent business. Hongjoong nods, letting himself be swept up in the familiar rhythms of Fashion Week frenzy.
Olivier’s first solo collection is made for Seonghwa—his style has retained his signature commitment to strong, well-tailored silhouettes that everyone knew from his time at Balmain, but the way he’s combined it with draped fabrics and softer curves makes it perfect for Seonghwa’s unique blend of the feminine and the masculine. Seonghwa’s hair is longer again, reaching just past his chin to complement the look, and Hongjoong knows that whatever Seonghwa picks, he will look spectacular in it.
Hongjoong himself opts for a tailored jacket and wide-legged pants, and pairs the outfit with leather boots that sport an intricately carved heel. It’s just his style—a little classy, a little whimsical. He has no idea what Seonghwa is going to choose.
The next time they see each other, it’s in the evening, after their fittings for both Songzio and Vivienne Westwood have been completed. They eat dinner at the hotel restaurant—a gilded, opulent room that makes Hongjoong feel like he doesn’t quite belong there—and Hongjoong watches Seonghwa’s eyes flutter in pleasure when the scallop appetizer first touches his palate.
“Oh my god, this is so good,” he says, and Hongjoong thinks he could stare at him like this forever.
Hongjoong orders an entrée of veal while Seonghwa opts for a sea bass stew, and they steal bites of each from each other’s plates, just to try. Afterwards, they split a dessert—a mille-feuille that’s a little too sweet for Hongjoong’s taste, but which Seonghwa devours in a matter of minutes.
They take the elevator back upstairs in companionable silence and spill through the door of their suite just to find the lamps inside already lit, bathing the space in a warm glow. Housekeeping must have been by, then, while they were dining downstairs.
They’re both a little tipsy from the wine they had with dinner, the lightweights that they are. Seonghwa looks soft and mellow in his cream cashmere sweater that swoops at the neckline, baring his collarbones.
With a sigh, he folds himself on the sofa and leans his head against the armrest.
“Hongjoong-ah, would you play for us?” Seonghwa asks.
It’s impossible to say no to him. Hongjoong only nods, his throat dry, and sits at the piano. There aren’t that many songs that Hongjoong can play from memory, and there’s no sheet music there, but that’s okay.
“Is Park Hyoshin’s Breath okay?” he asks and watches Seonghwa nod enthusiastically.
Suddenly nervous like it’s monthly evaluation day again, Hongjoong warms up his fingers briefly, then rests them against the keys. Seonghwa is watching him from across the room, resting on his side, curled up comfortably on the sofa. The first notes are shaky, but Hongjoong soon finds his rhythm and his training takes over, the melody flowing softly across the space.
When the last notes fade away, Hongjoong tears his eyes away from the piano and finds Seonghwa already looking back at him. Something sparks between them—something inevitable, a mounting tension that’s bound to snap eventually.
“Hongjoong-ah…” Seonghwa begins to say, and Hongjoong laughs nervously, wiping his palms against his dress pants.
“I should probably call my mom,” he says. “I promised her I would, but then everything got so busy and I never got around to it.”
Seonghwa frowns. “Hongjoong-ah, it’s not even six in the morning in Korea right now…”
Hongjoong flushes. “Oh god, you’re right,” he says. The heat in his cheeks pulsates. “The jetlag is getting to me, I think. Maybe if I go to bed early and try to sleep through the night, it’ll be better tomorrow, you know?”
“Mm, maybe we should…” Seonghwa blinks sleepily. “Maybe you’re right. Let’s try to sleep through the night, then.”
Hongjoong wakes up at three in the morning, feeling refreshed in a way that tells him from experience he won’t be getting any more sleep tonight. After fighting with himself for the next twenty minutes, he throws his duvet to the side and fumbles for his slippers in the dark.
With his laptop under his arm and a pair of wired headphones, Hongjoong curls up on the sofa in the living room and gets to work on a few demos he’s left half-finished in the current projects folder.
He works with the lights off, only the faint glow of the screen illuminating the space, and almost jumps when he looks to the side some time later just to find a dark shape in the room.
“Fuck, you scared me,” he says, hand clutching at his chest when he finally recognizes Seonghwa. He’s wearing matching pajamas and an untied robe that makes him look like some kind of ghost. “Yah, Park Seonghwa-ssi, what the hell…”
Seonghwa snorts. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past minute,” he says. “But I didn’t want to touch you or anything not to startle you too much. Clearly that didn’t work.”
“Yah, don’t make fun of me,” Hongjoong says. “I’m a hard-working man.”
The couch cushions dip when Seonghwa sits down right next to him. “Why are you a hard-working man at three in the morning?”
Hongjoong yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand at the last moment. “Same reason as you, I guess. Jetlag. I got like five hours of sleep, so it’s not too bad, but… Well, here we are. I thought I might just as well do something productive.”
“Or,” Seonghwa says, reaching for the remote, “you could do something productive and watch a drama with me.”
“I don’t know…” Hongjoong teases. “Are you gonna make it worth my while?”
It’s only once the words are out of his mouth that he registers the unintended innuendo. His face burns, and he’s glad for the darkness around them.
“I mean—what I wanted to say,” he stutters. “You better pick a good one.”
“There’s a new drama with Suzy-sunbaenim coming out right now,” Seonghwa says. “It’s almost over, the last two episodes should be dropping this week. I only watched half of the first episode and it looked really good, but we can watch again from the beginning, if that’s okay?”
“Ah, I should probably message her and congratulate her, then,” Hongjoong says, and feels Seonghwa laugh next to him.
“I sometimes forget you actually know Suzy-sunbaenim,” he says. “Like, wow, you actually got to perform with her and everything.”
“Yeah, also made a fool of myself in the kitchen right in front of her,” Hongjoong counters. “It will haunt me until the day I die.”
Seonghwa nudges him with his elbow. “Always so dramatic, Hongjoong-ssi.”
“More like realistic,” Hongjoong parries. “Seonghwa-ssi.”
It’s moments like this that make Hongjoong wonder if they could have something for real. If maybe they could try to start something. But between the two of them, and then San and Wooyoung, that’s a lot of secrets to keep for one group. Seonghwa will be fine, though. One day, he will find a person who will be able to give him everything that Hongjoong cannot, and he will get to be happy. That will have to be enough.
They watch the drama until Seonghwa begins to doze off, leaning against Hongjoong, who sits there, frozen, barely breathing. It’s like back when they used to share a room and Seonghwa would fall asleep mid-movie, the two of them squeezed into his bottom bunk, the sound coming out through the tinny speakers of Hongjoong’s old laptop. Eventually, Hongjoong would gently extricate himself from Seonghwa’s bed and climb up to his own bunk, and then he wouldn’t sleep at all.
But they’re older now, and they no longer live together, and something has got to give.
“Seonghwa-ya…” Hongjoong shakes him by the shoulder and watches Seonghwa startle himself awake. “Seonghwa-ya, you should go back to bed, sleep a little more while you can. You dozed off right here.”
Seonghwa makes a soft sound, an unintelligible mumble, before he gets up and shuffles back to his bedroom. Once the door closes behind him with a soft click, Hongjoong releases the air he’s been holding in his lungs for far too long.
He doesn’t sleep until morning.
They go out to take photos after Seonghwa wakes up. He drags Hongjoong and a manager-noona with him from one place to another—they pose in front of the Eiffel Tower, and against an old building with an interesting façade; they take photos in steep, narrow streets, and in front of quaint little cafés and boulangeries.
They eat lunch at a small bistro with a view of the Seine. Seonghwa eats a seafood dish, clam shells obsidian-black in the milky-yellow broth. Hongjoong doesn’t remember what he eats—some kind of meat, he supposes. All of his attention is focused on Seonghwa, who turns heads without even realizing. It makes the jealousy inside Hongjoong’s stomach rise like acid, sour at the back of his mouth.
You have no right, he tells himself. He doesn’t belong to you.
Seonghwa, oblivious, only raises his eyebrows when he notices Hongjoong looking at him.
Hongjoong shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”
It’s not until later, when Seonghwa steps out of his room dressed in a beautifully draped top—one that accentuates the broadness of his shoulders and the graceful slope of his neck, the maddening curve of his waist and the wideness of his hips, paired with wide-legged pants that look like a skirt—that Hongjoong realizes there will be many, many eyes on Seonghwa tonight. That’s okay, though. He deserves the spotlight. True to his name, this is his time to shine.
The venue is already buzzing with excitement when they arrive. There are fans in front of the building, screaming their names and waving at them, and there are reporters who capture their arrival in a burst of light, the camera flashes blinding them for a moment. Hongjoong lets Seonghwa leave the car first, then follows behind, catching himself before he can touch the small of Seonghwa’s back to guide him inside.
The venue Olivier rented for the occasion is a strange combination of history and modernity, baroque opulence meeting industrial aesthetics. Hongjoong looks around, a little in awe, before they’re ushered to where the photo op is taking place. He hangs a few steps behind to let Seonghwa get his moment first, but a moment later he’s being prompted to join him in front of the photographers.
“Together, together,” the man encourages with a smile, and Hongjoong joins Seonghwa in front of the designated spot.
The flashes go off again, the familiar staccato rhythm of the shutters opening and closing rising around them as the photographers take their shots. Hongjoong finds himself wrapping his arm around Seonghwa’s waist, leaning into him to pose. His pinky accidentally slips to rest against the curve of his hip, right where the sliver of bare skin peeks out between the asymmetrical hem of the top and the waistband of the pants, and Seonghwa startles.
“Sorry,” Hongjoong whispers to him as they go through their poses.
Once Seonghwa is ushered away, Hongjoong stays behind to take a few solo shots, and then they’re free to mingle before the show starts.
They make the usual rounds, doing rapid-fire interviews for a series of magazines from Korea and abroad, posing for more photos, catching up with familiar faces. Eventually, they are funneled into the main space, where Hongjoong immediately spots Olivier speaking with Ugo by the far wall.
The moment they approach, Olivier’s face stretches in a wide smile and he exclaims, “Ah, finally, if it isn’t the power couple!” He gathers Hongjoong in an embrace and kisses his cheeks three times, then does the same to Seonghwa. “I’m so glad we can finally meet all together.” He looks between them and lowers his voice to add, “I have to say, you really do make a stunning pair. They call it…how do you say, visual chemistry, no?”
Hongjoong feels like he’s going to be sick. He can’t even open his mouth to say anything because Seonghwa goes rigid by his side. Out of the corner of his eye, Hongjoong sees the tight set of his shoulders, the taut line of his spine. Worse yet, he realizes the exact moment Seonghwa figures it out.
Seonghwa smiles, pale under the golden tan of his skin, but the smile is wan and tight at the corners. Then he bows, and what to a casual observer might seem poised and gracious, to Hongjoong looks exactly like what it is: rigid, furious. Seonghwa’s face is frozen in a mask of politeness, his body locked, joints stiff and unmoving.
It’s over, Hongjoong thinks, queasy. It’s done. There’s no saving this.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Seonghwa says next. “I need to—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he bows again and crosses the space, disappearing in the direction of the entrance hall. For a long, horrifying moment Hongjoong thinks that Seonghwa has just left.
But no, he wouldn’t. He’s professional and principled, and he would rather gnaw his own arm off than make trouble for the group. Still, Hongjoong needs to find him, needs to explain, needs to salvage whatever is left of their friendship.
Olivier is saying something to him, but Hongjoong can’t hear a thing. There’s just static in his ears, like someone’s plugged them with cotton wool. He smiles and nods in all the places he thinks are correct, then extricates himself the moment someone else catches Olivier and Ugo’s attention.
“We’ll talk later, okay?” he mouths to Ugo. “I need to…I’ll be back.”
He weaves between the guests until he reaches the restrooms. There’s no one else in the hallway when Hongjoong slips inside. The restroom, just like the rest of this venue, looks opulent and severe at the same time. There’s an upholstered bench that faces the sinks and giant mirrors, a selection of upscale toiletries lining the edges of the black marble counter. Seonghwa is leaning against the polished stone, his knuckles white where he grips the edge.
Hongjoong swallows. “Seonghwa-ya…” he starts, not quite knowing where to go from there.
Seonghwa whips around, nostrils flaring. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw tight, and he looks like it’s taking everything in him not to tear up.
“Did you tell them?” Seonghwa asks, his voice a furious whisper. Of course, even at a moment such as this, Seonghwa would make sure that they’re not overheard. That only makes it worse.
Hongjoong’s stomach churns.
“Is that what it was?” Seonghwa continues. “The gifts, everything else? Because they thought that, what—we were together? We were a couple? How long has this been going on?”
“Seonghwa-ya, I’m sorry,” Hongjoong chokes out eventually. “Please, let me explain… I didn’t mean for it to get this far.”
Seonghwa’s jaw goes tight, the muscle working as he clenches his teeth. “What do you mean, you didn’t mean for it to get this far?” he asks. “Just—I’m not crazy, am I? All those gifts, this entire time, from all the brands that have nothing to do with me but everything to do with you—they kept coming because they thought we were together, right? And don’t—just don’t lie to me, please.”
Hongjoong swallows. “Yes,” he admits. “I mean—that’s what I assumed, yeah.”
Seonghwa looks like he’s been slapped. He reaches to steady himself with a hand against the countertop. His eyes look big, and furious, and hurt.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” he hisses. “What is wrong with you? Was it amusing to you? Did you have fun? You used me, and I don’t even understand why. Was it so easy for you, pretending that we were—” Seonghwa shakes his head. “No, you know what? I don’t care. I can’t even look at you right now. We have to go back out there. The show is starting in five minutes. Just—just leave me be, because I need to pull myself together now, and I can’t do that when you’re here. You can go back. I’ll just—I need a moment.”
Hongjoong doesn’t argue. He leaves on unsteady legs, nausea sloshing in his stomach. The truth is that he deserves this—he deserves everything Seonghwa just said to him. Hongjoong can accept that. He has been selfish and inconsiderate, and Seonghwa has every right to hate him for that.
After they go back to the hotel, Hongjoong will apologize to him properly. He won’t beg for forgiveness and will accept whatever Seonghwa decides to do. Seonghwa is the one holding Hongjoong’s heart in the palm of his hand even if he himself doesn’t realize it; it’s up to him to allow Hongjoong to salvage whatever is left of their friendship.
Hongjoong stumbles into the room where the presentation is set to take place with only a few minutes to spare. It’s only years of practice that allow him to school his expression into something approaching neutral, but Hongjoong wonders how much of the internal turmoil seeps through the cracks. Dove Cameron is once again seated next to him, and she keeps talking at him, animated and sweet as always, but Hongjoong can barely register the words. He nods and responds on autopilot, hoping that whatever he says makes at least some sense, but his eyes keep straying to the entrance every few seconds.
Eventually, Seonghwa reappears, looking unflappable as he crosses the space to sit next to Hongjoong.
“Oh, hi, I don’t think we’ve met!” Dove says, reaching out her hand to greet him. “You’re Seonghwa, right? Hongjoong has told me so much about you! It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Supermodel.”
Seonghwa smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“He never shuts up about you, I’m not even joking,” Dove goes on, and Hongjoong sits stuck between them, wanting nothing more than to disappear. “He always talks about how much you love fashion, how you worked so hard for your first runway show, how you’re so diligent and dedicated and all that. I just think it’s so sweet and cute.”
Before Seonghwa can respond, the music starts and the models begin to appear, cutting their conversation short. It’s both a blessing and a curse, because now the weight of that information hangs between them, pulling both of them down.
And yet, at his side, Seonghwa is sitting perfectly poised, spine straight and shoulders pulled back, watching the show. Hongjoong barely registers the clothes, too focused on the moments their bodies touch accidentally and the way Seonghwa pulls away each and every time, the movement almost imperceptible. He’s aware of the cameras following the models and cutting to the guests, the flashes of photos being taken, but it all recedes into a low hum in the background, like the sound of an AC unit after a while. So many times Hongjoong finds himself wanting to lean closer to Seonghwa and say something, but each time he pulls back. He’s trampled over enough boundaries already. He doesn’t want to add more to the list.
As is always the case with fashion shows, it’s over in the blink of an eye, the models filing back in one right after another, with Olivier bringing up the rear. The applause is deafening, and Olivier looks so genuinely touched that Hongjoong is glad he got to attend this show after all, despite everything else that happened tonight.
Afterwards, it’s chaos—more photos and interviews, Olivier hugging Hongjoong three separate times and declaring, “Well, now you are the Rousteing Prince, too.” Then, “Are you staying for the afterparty?”
Hongjoong glances back to Seonghwa, who’s standing a little distance to the side, talking to someone who Hongjoong vaguely recognizes as another model.
“Ah, yes, say no more.” Olivier briefly touches Hongjoong’s arm.
Hongjoong’s stomach churns. He unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth to tell Olivier everything—about the misunderstanding, the lies by omission, the embarrassment of the situation spinning out of control—when their manager-noona approaches and leans in to say, “Hongjoong-ssi, the car will be here in fifteen minutes. I think we best go soon if you want to greet the fans.”
Hongjoong nods, then says his goodbyes to Olivier and catches Ugo on the way out. Seonghwa is already ahead of him, stepping out into the sea of camera flashes to sign albums and photocards and mingle with the fans. Hongjoong follows suit, careful to stay out of Seonghwa’s way as he makes his rounds. In the end, though, their paths intersect in front of a fan who looks at them like she’s just won the greatest gift in the world and asks, “Oh my god, hi! Could I ask you—could you pose for a photo together real quick?”
Hongjoong is about to say something apologetic and move on, but Seonghwa says, “Of course,” then takes a step towards Hongjoong.
The flash goes off. When the girl briefly shows them the photo, Hongjoong’s face stares back at him from the phone’s screen, looking startled, a haunted look in his eyes. The girl looks ecstatic, though, and Hongjoong gives her a thumbs up before signing her album and moving on in the opposite direction to Seonghwa.
The entire time, Hongjoong’s stomach is just one giant knot, the queasy sensation clawing up his throat, tasting sour at the back of his mouth. It’s what he deserves.
Seonghwa cries in the car on the way back to the hotel. He tries to be discreet about it, turned away from Hongjoong and staring out the window at the lights of Paris passing them by, but Hongjoong notices anyway. It’s the way he breathes, slow and shaky, like he’s trying to make no sound. Hongjoong recalls all the other times he’d woken up in the middle of the night just to hear those same slow, shaky breaths and quiet sniffling coming from the bottom bunk. Seonghwa would always pretend he was fine whenever Hongjoong asked, until eventually Hongjoong stopped asking to spare him the embarrassment, but he knew. Every single time, he knew that Seonghwa was crying.
It’s a special kind of torture, now, to sit so close to him and have to pretend yet again to see and hear nothing. Seonghwa is being really, really quiet this time around, too, just the trembling breath giving him away in the darkness of the car.
Hongjoong sits pressed into the corner of the backseat, keeping his distance, and doesn’t say a word.
The elevator ride is similarly excruciating. Seonghwa doesn’t look at Hongjoong, doesn’t acknowledge his presence in any way. His eyes are a little red, but otherwise Hongjoong wouldn’t even be able to tell that he’s been crying. He’s composed and closed off, as distant from Hongjoong as a real star in the sky.
Once they’re finally alone, Hongjoong licks his lips and clears his throat nervously. Seonghwa is already barefoot, pulling bobby pins out of his hair, turned away from Hongjoong.
“Seonghwa-ya…” he starts, unsure how to put into words everything he wants to say. “Please, let me explain and apologize. You don’t have to forgive me, just—please, let me do that and then I’ll do whatever you want.”
Seonghwa doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look at Hongjoong. “What I want,” he says slowly, like he’s measuring out each and every word, “is for you to not have lied about this in the first place. I was so—god, I was so stupid, thinking that maybe this would mean something to you. But you were just playing at us being together like it was nothing,” he spits out the last word like it physically hurts him, “when it was all I ever wanted. And all it does is make me feel humiliated and small, and I just—I didn’t know you could be so cruel. I don’t even know what to do right now. It’s like I don’t know you at all.”
Hongjoong slowly, deliberately goes down to his knees, his head bowed. There’s nothing dramatic about it—his knees don’t hit the floor with a loud thud; he doesn’t just let his body drop to the ground. The gesture is sincerely meant, whether Seonghwa turns around to see it or not.
The movement in the periphery of his vision must alert him, though, because Seonghwa finally turns on his heel to face Hongjoong and his eyes widen.
“What are you doing?” he asks. He takes an aborted step, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Confusion twists his features into a frown. “Get up, you don’t need to— Just get up.”
Hongjoong bows his head again. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just need to say it. Please, let me say it, Seonghwa-ya.”
Seonghwa gives him a long, considering look. “Fine.”
Hongjoong takes a deep breath, trying and failing to put his apology into coherent words. “Seonghwa-ya, please, believe me, I never wanted to hurt you,” he says in the end. “I never should’ve let them think that. It was a misunderstanding at first, but I—I let it go on instead of telling the truth, and I’m sorry for that. Whatever those other people thought—it doesn’t really matter, because it was on me to make this right, and I didn’t, and I’m sorry.”
“I just—I don’t understand,” Seonghwa says. “I’m so confused, and I feel used, and I never thought you would make me feel that way. I didn’t think you were even capable of that. Not you, of all people.”
Hongjoong swallows and bows his head. His eyes are stinging and his throat is tight. The floor is hard under his knees, but that’s okay. He deserves this, too.
“I’m sorry,” Hongjoong says again. He shifts his weight from one knee to the other, but the relief is only momentary. “I didn’t want to make you feel like that, but it doesn’t matter, because I did. And I’m really sorry for that. You didn’t deserve to be treated this way.”
Seonghwa frowns. “I just don’t understand why,” he says. “I keep trying to think of a reason, but it’s completely blank. I just don’t…understand. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”
Hongjoong releases a shaky breath. His nose is stuffy and there are tears clinging to his lashes; stubbornly, he keeps his head down, hoping that Seonghwa won’t notice. “I’m sorry,” he says for what feels like a thousandth time, his voice cracking. “I’m so, so sorry, Seonghwa-ya. I don’t know what else to say to make this right, but I feel like I have to, because you deserve better than this. I’m sorry. It was stupid and selfish, and I hurt you just because I didn’t want to make things awkward, and I wanted to pretend for a moment that it was real.”
The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them and he stays there, frozen, his heart beating wildly against his ribs. He didn’t mean to say the last part—that was just for him to carry around like a weight in his chest. But it’s out there now, and Seonghwa is not saying anything. The entire room is completely silent, save for the frantic rush of blood in Hongjoong’s ears.
“What do you mean, pretend that it was real?” Seonghwa asks then.
Hongjoong could deflect now. He could deny, he could say that he misspoke, that it’s not important. But he’s been lying in one way or another for such a long time now. And Seonghwa deserves the truth.
“I—I wanted it to be real,” he repeats. “The idea that someone out there looked at the two of us and thought we were a couple…I wanted that. It was stupid and selfish, and I never should’ve done that, but I just thought—I thought that maybe I could pretend for a moment. Pretend that it was real, you know? That I could have this.”
For a moment, the room goes very quiet. When Hongjoong finally looks up, he finds Seonghwa staring back at him, wearing an inscrutable expression.
“I—” Seonghwa starts. “This is a lot. I think—I think I need some time. Just…to sort out my feelings.”
“Of course,” Hongjoong says. He’s still on his knees, the hardwood floor digging into the skin. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Seonghwa looks right at him. “Did you mean it?” he asks.
Hongjoong could lie.
“Yes,” he says instead. “I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear. But I thought…no more lying.”
“Thank you,” Seonghwa says. “I need to—I need to be alone now, I think.”
Before he goes, he reaches out to Hongjoong and helps him up, his hand clasped firmly in Hongjoong’s own.
His knees are screaming in pain, but it doesn’t matter. Hongjoong stands before Seonghwa now, head still bowed, staring at the ground. Seonghwa hesitates for a moment, his feet halting in their movement, but then he goes. It’s only when Hongjoong hears the click of the door being shut that he looks up. The room is empty and only Seonghwa’s scent lingers in the air.
On weak legs, Hongjoong drops onto the sofa and hides his face in his palms.
What a disaster it’s been. He wonders if this is the end of it—the years of friendship, the easy trust between them. He wouldn’t blame Seonghwa if he decided to walk away now. Hongjoong would deserve it. They would survive, because Seonghwa would never do anything to damage the group, but everything else would change.
The thought leaves a sour taste at the back of his mouth, like he’s about to throw up his entire heart and let everything else spill out after it. His ears are ringing faintly, his vision going in and out of focus.
What if he’s fucked them up irrevocably? What is he going to do then? How is he going to function around Seonghwa? They see each other nearly every day. They work together. At least they don’t live together anymore, because seeing him at home after seeing him at work would be excruciating.
Still. What is he going to do?
His heart is beating like he’s just run a marathon. Nausea sloshes in his stomach. But no matter how hard Hongjoong tries, he can’t come up with any answers. He’s lost, and the person who’s always been his harbor in a storm is the only person he can’t confide in, because Hongjoong himself most likely destroyed whatever had been between them.
Hongjoong doesn’t get any sleep that night. He showers, feeling numb all over, his heart still in his throat, choking him, then lies in bed for hours and stares into the ceiling.
His show is at two in the afternoon, but Seonghwa’s isn’t until the evening. Maybe that’s a blessing, the two of them passing each other throughout the day. If it’s distance that Seonghwa needs, this is the best Hongjoong can offer him.
He gets up and dresses as soon as they start serving breakfast, then heads downstairs without waiting for Seonghwa to wake up. It feels strange to be going alone, not even a manager accompanying him, but he doesn’t want to wake her this early in the morning. It’s fine. It’s not like Hongjoong can’t manage on his own.
The breakfast spread is as impressive as it was the day before, but Hongjoong’s stomach is still in knots. He puts two pieces of toast on his plate, as well as two different types of jam, gets a cup of black coffee and heads to one of the unoccupied tables.
When he checks the group chat, he finds the other members dissecting the photos from last night that were posted on social media.
Wooyoung
lmao hyung, why do u look so startled?
Attached is a photo—the very same they posed for outside the venue, when their paths crossed while signing for the fans. Hongjoong can see it even more clearly now, just how much his face betrays his inner turmoil. There’s a part of him that wants to message Wooyoung privately and tell him everything because, beneath his teasing nature, Wooyoung is serious about relationships, and he’s good with people. But the wound is a little too fresh, the bruise a little too tender.
Hongjoong eats alone, taking small bites of the toast that feel like sawdust in his mouth. He swallows with difficulty and leaves half of the second slice untouched. The coffee he washes it down with tastes bitter, sour in a way that has nothing to do with the roast or the brewing method.
He’s halfway done with his cup when there’s movement behind him, and then Seonghwa appears at the table, looking perfectly put together, holding a cup of coffee and a plate with a croissant.
“Do you—do you want me to go?” Hongjoong asks. “I’m almost done.”
Seonghwa shakes his head. “No.” Then, “You weren’t in the room when I got up.”
Hongjoong swallows. “Well,” he says, “I thought you’d rather, you know. Not see me. You said you needed some time to think. I—I wasn’t sure I would be welcome.”
Seonghwa looks surprised, his eyes wide, mouth slightly parted.
“And I get it, I really, really do,” Hongjoong continues. “So I can go if you want me to, really.”
Seonghwa reaches for the cup, the porcelain clinking when it accidentally catches on the rim of the saucer. “I already said I don’t.”
The anxious tension hangs over them like a shroud. Hongjoong tries to be as unobtrusive as he can, keeping quiet and drinking his coffee that pours down his throat like tar. It’s excruciating to sit so close to Seonghwa and feel at the same time like they’ve never been further apart.
“I think I should go start getting ready,” Hongjoong says quietly once he’s done with his coffee.
Seonghwa looks up. There are croissant crumbs in the corner of his mouth, and he swipes at them with the tip of his tongue. “Okay,” he says.
It’s horrible—the tension, the awkwardness, the invisible wall between them. It’s like they’re two people barely acquainted with each other and not friends of a decade. Hongjoong desperately wants to reach out, to beg Seonghwa for forgiveness, but he’s supposed to be giving him time and space, so this is what he will do.
The Vivienne Westwood show is fun—a handful of familiar faces and a quirky, whimsical collection that strikes right where Hongjoong’s fashion interests lie. He smiles for the cameras and greets various publications in their little reels, but the moment his thoughts are not occupied enough, the spiral begins again.
If there’s one thing Hongjoong is good at, it’s accountability. He takes responsibility for the things he does, however misguided they might be. This time is no different. He will do whatever Seonghwa wants to make this right. That’s not what he’s afraid of.
But what if there’s no way to make this right? What is he going to do then, if Seonghwa decides that there’s no fixing them?
The thought comes back, over and over again, like a scratch on a stuck record. It’s there when Hongjoong poses for photos and it’s there when he catches up with people he’d met at previous shows. It’s there when he signs for the fans outside the venue and it’s there on his way back to the hotel. A persistent, creeping dread. What if today’s breakfast is about to become Hongjoong’s entire life for as long as they stay together? Awkwardly polite and distant, all because of something Hongjoong did.
Whatever Seonghwa wants.
The hotel room is empty when Hongjoong returns. Seonghwa must have already left to get ready for his Songzio show, then. Hongjoong doesn’t even know what Seonghwa is wearing, hasn’t seen any photos or been sent dozens of pins on Pinterest while Seonghwa tries to decide on the hair. He misses it already—their little Fashion Week rituals, the easy camaraderie. Even back when Hongjoong felt like swallowing his tongue each time he found himself alone with Seonghwa long after hours, it was never like this, like he was walking the sharp edge of a knife barefoot.
good luck, seonghwa-ya, he types and deletes, types and deletes, then types again and presses send before he has a chance to second-guess himself.
There’s no reply.
The Songzio show has no livestream, but Hongjoong refreshes Twitter like his life depends on it until the first clips of Seonghwa arriving at the show begin to pop up. He looks stunning—glass skin, hair slicked back, wearing a hanbok-inspired two-piece suit in a stunning shade of cream that only accentuates his beautiful, golden tan. The pleated pants are wide and flowy, settling around Seonghwa like a full skirt. He’s not wearing a shirt under the jacket, which has a lower, more revealing neckline than is usual for hanbok-inspired suits. In Seonghwa’s left ear, there is a lone silver earring, a simple chain that catches the light whenever he moves his head. On his left ring finger, the team ring sparkles in the camera flashes.
Hongjoong swallows. He couldn’t be sure if Seonghwa would wear it, but here he is, with Hongjoong’s ring still on his finger.
It doesn’t mean anything, of course. It doesn’t.
He wonders if Seonghwa will stay for the afterparty or come straight back to the hotel. Their flight is not until tomorrow afternoon, so there’s nothing stopping him from enjoying himself tonight.
Hongjoong, though, can’t stop fidgeting. He picks at his cuticles and paces the room, waiting for Seonghwa to come back. Eventually, to stop himself from gnawing at his skin until he draws blood, Hongjoong sits at the piano. He doesn’t really think about the melodies he plays—it’s just something to occupy his hands. The room is dim, only one small lamp standing in the corner illuminating it with a low, orange glow, but it doesn’t matter. Hongjoong plays from memory and makes up whatever he forgets. It’s not for show; it’s not for anyone. It’s just Hongjoong and the thing that has always served as a source of comfort to him, his other best friend.
At first, he misses the sound of the front door opening. It’s only when Seonghwa turns the light on in the entryway that Hongjoong pauses mid-note, the sound of the piano fading into the dark.
“You’re back,” Hongjoong says, rising to his feet. Then, “You looked beautiful.”
Seonghwa says nothing, but his eyes stray to Hongjoong for a moment, who is so certain Seonghwa is going to leave without another word. But he only takes a few steps forward, coming into the orange-golden haze of the room.
The entryway is once again plunged into darkness. Seonghwa’s eyes are bottomless in the low, dispersed light, easy to drown in. Hongjoong knows that first-hand.
Seonghwa licks his lips. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Hongjoong waits in his spot by the piano, arrested in place. He doesn’t dare breathe louder, for fear of disturbing the moment.
“Did it feel good?” Seonghwa asks eventually, then clarifies, “When you knew others thought we were a couple. Did that feel good?”
His voice is low, husky like he hasn’t spoken in a while.
Hongjoong’s heart leaps once again into his throat, climbing up to his mouth. He swallows, but the tightness is still there, crushing his vocal cords. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Yes. Both. I don’t know… It was—it was like a dream, you know? Like peeking into another life that I could never have.”
“Why couldn’t you?” Seonghwa asks, and Hongjoong’s throat goes dry.
“You know why,” he croaks out.
Seonghwa breathes out. His jaw moves, clicks. “Do you even understand why I’m so angry with you?” he asks. “Because it’s not just about the fact that you lied. That made me feel used and bitter, but this is not the only, or even the main reason why.”
Hongjoong swallows again. “I’m sorry—”
“I don’t want you to keep saying you’re sorry,” Seonghwa says firmly. “I just—you don’t understand, do you? You don’t even get what hurt me the most.”
Hongjoong stares at him, his palms sweating against his jeans. He changed after the show, his outfit already packed away in a garment bag to return to the designer.
“What was it, then?” he asks quietly.
Seonghwa takes another step forward. “You could pretend in front of all these people that we were together,” he says, “but you couldn’t even ask me how I felt or admit how you did. Like it was nothing to you, when it was everything to me. Do you even understand how humiliating that is?”
The admission is like a punch to the solar plexus. Hongjoong nearly bends in half under the force of it.
“Do you understand,” Seonghwa continues, “how humiliating it is to want something so much, so desperately, just to find out the person you care about more than anyone else in the world has been letting people believe the two of you are together out of convenience? Why is it so much easier for you to let other people think you love me than say it to my face?”
Hongjoong takes a shaky breath, but it’s like no air fills his lungs. “What can I do?” he asks. “What can I do to fix this? You know I’m sorry, and I won’t say it again because you told me not to, but I just…I don’t know what to do.”
“Say it,” Seonghwa replies. He takes another small step forward. “If it meant anything to you, anything at all, I want you to say it.”
Hongjoong’s heart beats madly, knocking against his ribs. His tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth.
“I—” he starts.
The truth is, Hongjoong is usually very good at talking, but not about this. Not in front of Seonghwa, who is the subject of the deepest, darkest secret Hongjoong has ever kept—one Seonghwa was never supposed to find out about. There are things which are not meant for Hongjoong, after all, and it’s pointless to daydream about them. But he must do it now, if anything is to change.
Hongjoong takes a breath. His heart has never beaten this hard. He can feel it in his teeth, rattling around his skull. Every single nerve in his body is alive.
“I—I love you. I’m in love with you,” he forces out, looking anywhere but at Seonghwa. He feels naked, vulnerable. Seonghwa knows now, beyond any doubt, where Hongjoong’s feelings lie. It’s terrifying to give that kind of power to another person. “I’ve been—it’s been a long time for me. That’s the truth, Seonghwa-ya. There’s nothing else left. No more lies, right?”
Hongjoong’s vision is swimming and his breath is coming damp and shaky.
“Why do you sound so heartbroken about it?” Seonghwa asks. He takes another step towards Hongjoong, who’s still standing at the piano, frozen. “Hongjoong-ah, why does it make you so sad?”
“Because I can’t?” Hongjoong parries. “Because even if I could, I’ve fucked it all up now, and you—”
“What?” Seonghwa interrupts him. “Are you going to tell me how I feel now? You don’t know that. You’re only assuming things.”
Hongjoong clears his throat. “How do you feel, then?”
“Like I want you to kiss me,” Seonghwa says, and Hongjoong’s knees buckle. “I should be so angry with you, and I have been—I’ve been hurt and angry and bitter, but I’ve wanted this for so long, and I— Honestly, there was a part of me that didn’t think you’d admit it, even now. Did you know that it was what I wished for on my birthday every single year? I want us to be healthy. I want Atiny to be healthy. I want him to say it this year. But it’s been ten years, and you never did, and now—I don’t even know what to do right now. There’s a part of me that still can’t believe this is real, like I’m going to wake up and realize it was just my mind that conjured the whole thing. But don’t you think that we could be so good together, if only you gave us a chance? You said it’s been a long time for you. It’s been a long time for me, too, Hongjoong-ah. So what good does it do if we’re both miserable about it for the next five, ten, fifteen years, and our feelings never change? Because it’s the responsible thing to do? What about being happy? Don’t we also have that responsibility towards ourselves? What good is all this if we can’t even do that?”
Hongjoong stumbles, his knee clipping the corner of the piano stool, but he moves closer towards Seonghwa. His mind is in turmoil. All of it sounds almost like another dream—the idea that Seonghwa still wants this, despite everything. But they’ve come this far. Everything is out in the open now, and all Hongjoong has to do now is take the last step. He’s spent the last ten years telling himself, You can’t have this. This is not for you. You will only hurt him. But all it’s done is lead him here, and he’s ended up hurting Seonghwa anyway.
“I want you to be happy, Seonghwa-ya,” Hongjoong says eventually. “I want us both to be happy. I just didn’t think I could have that.”
“You can,” Seonghwa implores. “You can have that, Hongjoong-ah. And you can kiss me, too. I’ve wanted this for a long, long time.”
Hongjoong licks his lips, suddenly nervous for an entirely different reason. He takes another step towards Seonghwa. His hand reaches for the soft curve of Seonghwa’s waist. Hongjoong pulls him closer, close enough that he can feel the heat of Seonghwa’s body, then says, embarrassed, “Sorry, it’s been a long time for me with this, too,” and tilts his head to press his lips against Seonghwa’s mouth.
It’s lipstick he tastes first, but underneath that it’s simply a little hint of wine on his breath and then just Seonghwa, who doesn’t kiss him gently like Hongjoong thought he would. Instead, the kiss is bruising, hot and insistent, Seonghwa’s tongue licking at the seam of Hongjoong’s mouth. Hongjoong parts his lips, his hands holding onto the sides of Seonghwa’s waist, wrinkling the fabric of the suit. He pulls him closer, and the momentum makes them stagger backwards, until Hongjoong’s back hits the piano that answers with a loud, discordant chord. Hongjoong scrambles to pull off, the heel of his palm hitting the keys again, the sound carrying in the quiet of the evening.
They end up with Hongjoong sitting on the piano stool, Seonghwa straddling his lap as they continue kissing. He towers over Hongjoong like this, knees digging into the upholstery at the sides of Hongjoong’s thighs. One of Hongjoong’s arms is wrapped securely around Seonghwa’s waist, palm closed around a fistful of fabric. His other hand reaches to cup Seonghwa’s face, slotting neatly against the sharp curve of his jaw.
“Wait, wait, we’re ruining your clothes,” Hongjoong whispers with his mouth against Seonghwa’s lips. “We should—”
“I don’t care, I didn’t get these on loan,” Seonghwa says, then sucks Hongjoong’s lower lip between his teeth and pulls. “I can do whatever I want with them. Unless you want to see me out of my clothes so badly.”
A violent flush spreads across Hongjoong’s cheeks and down his neck when his cock twitches as soon as the words are out of Seonghwa’s mouth. He must feel it, too, pressed so close to Hongjoong’s groin, and Hongjoong wants to die a little.
Seonghwa kisses him again and grinds down, hips moving with the same kind of practice he reserves for body rolls on stage. Hongjoong makes a high-pitched, strangled sound.
“Do you, Hongjoong-ah?” Seonghwa asks sweetly, but his voice is hiding the sharp edge of a knife. “Do you want to see me naked?”
Hongjoong takes a deep, desperate breath. His chest is heaving. “Shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we wait?” he asks. “We’ve barely talked about it, and—”
“Isn’t it simple?” Seonghwa asks.
Hongjoong frowns, the fog in his brain making it hard to focus. The weight of Seonghwa over him doesn’t help; each time he shifts in his lap, Hongjoong’s cock gets harder. The friction is the best thing he’s felt in a long, long time.
“Do you want this?” Seonghwa leans in closer. Their mouths are almost touching. “Us, together? Do you want this for real?”
Hongjoong licks his lips. “Yes,” he says. There’s no point in lying.
“Then I don’t care about the rest,” Seonghwa says. “We’ll figure it out later. We’ve wasted so much time already, don’t you think? So I just want you to touch me now. I want to touch you. I know you’re hard. You don’t have to pretend that you don’t want me, it’s okay. It’s okay to want this, I promise.”
His hand sneaks down Hongjoong’s chest, right between their bodies, and hovers over the fly. A few centimeters and he’d be touching the obscene bulge of Hongjoong’s cock. Hongjoong’s gaze flicks down, then back up again. It’s a mistake. Above him, Seonghwa is staring at him with the kind of heat in his eyes that makes all protest die on Hongjoong’s lips.
“Okay,” he says, breathless. His head is spinning, his mind hazy. There’s nothing here other than Seonghwa—his scent, the way his body feels against Hongjoong’s own, the ghost of his touch on Hongjoong’s lips.
“Good. Close the fall board,” Seonghwa says, sliding down to his knees.
All air is punched out of Hongjoong’s lungs at the sight. He fumbles for the keylid and snaps it shut just in time for Seonghwa to open his fly and pull the zipper down over the tented denim.
“Don’t worry,” Seonghwa says. “I’ve been told I’m good with my mouth.”
Who’s telling you that? Hongjoong wants to ask, jealousy sparking like a fuse, but he holds his tongue. Instead, he looks down at Seonghwa and swallows thickly. He’s not going to survive this, he knows that already.
Seonghwa is not dragging it out, but he’s not rushing, either. He opens Hongjoong’s jeans a little more, just enough to reach into his underwear and pull his cock out. They’re both still wearing all their clothes. Seonghwa’s off-white pants are getting dirty on the floor. The little earring glints and glimmers with every movement.
Seonghwa looks up when he leans in to take the tip of Hongjoong’s cock into his mouth. His eyes are big and dark, his plush mouth opens easily around Hongjoong’s girth. He knows he has a big cock, but Seonghwa takes it like it’s nothing, lips wrapping around the head with ease.
Hongjoong won’t last. He can already feel the familiar tension coiling in his abdomen and he’s powerless to stop it. A pathetic little whine slips from his lips when Seonghwa flicks the tip of his tongue into the slit, then curls the flat against the underside and begins to suck. Hongjoong leans back against the piano, elbows braced on top of the fall board, and closes his eyes as he continues to take shallow, desperate breaths.
“Seonghwa-ya,” he says. “Seonghwa-ya, I’m not…I’m not gonna last.”
Seonghwa shakes his head, then pulls back a little. A thick string of spit hangs between them for a moment, then breaks off, splattering against Seonghwa’s mouth. It’s the hottest, most obscene thing Hongjoong has ever seen.
“That’s okay,” Seonghwa says. “You can come whenever you want. I’ll take care of you.”
And isn’t that always the case? Seonghwa, always there, ready to take care of Hongjoong in every way. How did he even get so lucky?
He has little time to contemplate this, because Seonghwa sinks down with his mouth on his cock again. This time, though, he doesn’t stop around the head. He keeps going lower and lower, swallowing down Hongjoong’s cock like he was made to do this, the scorching wet heat of his mouth driving Hongjoong crazy.
His hips jerk, and Hongjoong expects Seonghwa to choke, but Seonghwa takes that, too, then hollows his cheeks and sucks around Hongjoong’s cock on the way up. He gets into a rhythm, a hand wrapped around the base of Hongjoong’s erection, and his mouth moving up and down.
The only sounds in the room are the wet, obscene sounds coming from Seonghwa and their erratic breathing. Hongjoong doesn’t know how much longer he’s going to last; his thighs are shaking from the effort it’s taking him to hold back, but it’s inevitable—the last step that will tip him over the edge, the plunge afterwards. Seonghwa looks so good like this, in front of him on his knees, sweat pearling on his forehead and in the dip of his philtrum, running down his temples. Hongjoong doesn’t believe in God, but he understands now what it means when they say that someone’s mouth is a sin. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt. He doesn’t ever want it to stop.
His entire body feels like it’s on fire. It spreads all over from his groin to his abdomen and then all the way down to his fingers and toes, the tips of his ears. Hongjoong’s entire body beats out the same frantic rhythm as his heart.
His orgasm almost catches him by surprise. His body tenses, a flash of heat going over him, and he tries to warn Seonghwa, tries to open his mouth to say something, but all he can manage is a breathy moan before he spills onto Seonghwa’s tongue. Seonghwa swallows it all and sucks him through it, then releases his cock with a quiet, wet sound.
He looks so neat, so composed that Hongjoong wouldn’t even know something happened if it weren’t for the flush that spreads across Seonghwa’s face—the same kind he gets when he’s had a little too much to drink. He licks his lips when he’s finished and swipes a thumb at the corner of his mouth, then sucks it inside, keeping eye contact with Hongjoong the entire time. One last dribble of come spills down the shaft in response, and Seonghwa leans in closer to lick it up with the tip of his tongue.
“You’re crazy,” Hongjoong says. He’s out of breath, sweating, and his legs are still wobbly. “That was— No one should be allowed to be this good at giving head.”
Seonghwa gets off his knees with the grace of a lifelong dancer, then extends a hand to Hongjoong. “Come on,” he says. “I thought you wanted to see me naked.”
Hongjoong takes a deep, steadying breath, then halfheartedly tucks himself back into his underwear and follows Seonghwa to his bedroom. It’s a mirror of his own, except a lot tidier. The air here still carries the scent of Seonghwa’s perfume.
Hongjoong sits down at the foot of the bed and licks his lips while Seonghwa climbs over him once more and presses a kiss to his mouth that tastes a little more salty, a little more bitter as Hongjoong tastes himself on Seonghwa’s tongue.
“What do you want?” Hongjoong asks. It’s been years since he last gave someone a blowjob, and he’s probably rusty but—
“I want you to fuck me,” Seonghwa says, and Hongjoong’s mouth falls open. “The lube is in my skincare bag.” He points to the white leather bag on the table. “No condom.”
Hongjoong’s cock twitches and leaks a little—it’s just precome, but that in itself is impressive. It hasn’t even been five minutes since he came.
“Are you—are you sure?” he asks weakly.
“Yes,” Seonghwa says, then kisses Hongjoong again. “Unless you’ve slept with someone recently?”
Hongjoong shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, it’s been…a long while.”
“Good,” Seonghwa says simply, then climbs off Hongjoong’s lap.
Hongjoong makes his way over to the table on unsteady legs and fishes a packet of lube out of Seonghwa’s bag, then turns around just in time to see Seonghwa undressing. Mesmerized, he watches the ripple of his muscles beneath his golden skin when he shrugs off the jacket, the flex of his calves when he takes off his pants. Diligent as always, Seonghwa hangs them up, then climbs into bed in just his underwear. It’s a pair of white boxer briefs, the fabric damp and turned translucent where Seonghwa’s cock is leaking.
Hongjoong approaches, his heart beating madly. He’s still wearing his rings from before, and he methodically pulls them off one by one to set them down on the bedside table. Seonghwa follows the movement with hungry eyes.
“Take it off,” Hongjoong says. “Please. I want to see you.”
Seonghwa looks up at Hongjoong, his gaze direct and intense, and says, “You too. It’s only fair.”
Hongjoong tosses the lube onto the bed, then moves to undress. He’s feeling self-conscious all of a sudden, like there’s no way he’s going to measure up to Seonghwa’s expectations. It’s silly. Seonghwa saw him naked from the waist up last week when they were changing ahead of a performance. They used to see each other completely naked back when they still shared a room. It’s nothing new to Seonghwa, and yet it feels like it. Like now Hongjoong is going to be judged and found wanting.
He’s not conceited—Hongjoong knows he has a nice body, toned and muscular where it counts. He might not have San’s abs, but he has nice biceps and a big chest, and his legs are fairly toned. But Seonghwa—Seonghwa has the kind of body that sends Hongjoong’s mind reeling. He’s slim and long-limbed, possessing the kind of grace Hongjoong can only dream of. His body is just planes of smooth, golden skin and rippling muscle beneath. He’s beautiful in a way that defies words—even for someone as good with words as Hongjoong is when he writes lyrics.
“What?” Seonghwa asks, sounding unsure, and Hongjoong realizes he’s been staring. He’s left only in his underwear now, the rest of his clothes discarded on the floor, but Seonghwa is completely naked.
“You’re so…beautiful,” Hongjoong breathes out, awed. “I can’t believe you’re real. You know, when we first met—that first morning after, I genuinely thought I dreamed you up. That you weren’t real. That you couldn’t be real, because people like you didn’t exist. But you’re here, with me.”
“Please,” Seonghwa says, and lets his legs fall open, inviting Hongjoong in. “Hongjoong-ah, please, touch me.”
Hongjoong goes then, discarding his underwear along the way. He settles between Seonghwa’s thighs and reaches out a hand to touch him.
“You’re so warm,” he says with reverence. “Your skin is so soft…”
In response, Seonghwa pulls him closer over himself and tips his chin up for a kiss. Hongjoong’s hands keep roaming his body while they kiss, like now that he has permission, he doesn’t know how to stop. Seonghwa is so, so perfect, but it’s not because he’s flawless. Hongjoong sees the little scars on his knees and shins, only visible from up close. He knows that where the smooth skin now stretches over the long column of Seonghwa’s neck, there used to be red splotches of a persistent rash that flared up each time the weather changed too drastically or stress made Seonghwa’s body fight against itself. He remembers all the little imperfections that make Seonghwa perfectly unique, and just the person he wants above everyone else.
“Touch me, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa demands, and Hongjoong is unable to do anything but comply.
He tears open the lube packet and pours some over his hand, but when he moves to press a finger into Seonghwa, he finds him already slicked up and open. Two fingers sink in easily all at once, and Hongjoong’s eyes snap up to Seonghwa’s face.
“Did you—” he starts, unsure what he wants to ask.
Seonghwa flushes and looks to the side. “I thought—if it didn’t work out, I thought that maybe I would go out and find someone,” he says, and Hongjoong freezes. “So I— But it doesn’t matter. I didn’t want anyone else. I only ever wanted you.”
Hongjoong imagines it briefly—another man’s hands touching Seonghwa, opening him up, seeing all those secret, intimate places that should be just for him—and drives his fingers deeper, until Seonghwa moans and throws his head back. It gives him a vicious flash of satisfaction—the knowledge that even as out of practice as he is, he can coax these sounds and reactions out of Seonghwa so readily.
“Don’t,” he says. “You don’t need to. I’ll take care of you.”
“I won’t,” Seonghwa assures him. “But please, Hongjoong-ah, hurry up.”
Hongjoong’s touch lingers, his fingers sliding in and out of Seonghwa, pressing up against the spot that makes his thighs tremble and his voice crack. Seonghwa’s breathing turns shallow and ragged, and Hongjoong kisses the sound from his lips. He wants nothing more now than to sink into the warmth of Seonghwa’s body, but he wants to stay in this moment, too, suspended on the precipice of something.
“Come on, come on,” Seonghwa urges. “I want to ride you.”
Hongjoong’s throat goes dry at the thought. He scrambles on the bed, pulling his fingers out of Seonghwa and arranging himself on the mattress before he pours the rest of the lube over his cock and spreads it all over the length. He’s hard again, and leaking.
Seonghwa doesn’t waste any time now. He straddles Hongjoong and reaches behind him to line up, then sinks down on Hongjoong’s cock in increments, his mouth falling open.
“Oh god, I feel so full,” he says, slack-jawed.
Hongjoong can barely keep hold of his sanity when Seonghwa finally bottoms out. He grasps at it with desperate hands, but the tight heat of Seonghwa’s body is incredible. Hongjoong feels like he’s been struck by lightning, his entire body charged with frenetic energy that only intensifies when Seonghwa begins to move.
“Please, please,” Seonghwa pleads, and Hongjoong grabs him by the hips to meet him, thrusting up into him while Seonghwa rolls his hips sinuously.
They’re both sweating, but Seonghwa is downright dripping where he’s bent over Hongjoong’s chest as he leans in for a kiss. Hongjoong’s cock slips out for a moment when the angle changes, and he sits up before guiding Seonghwa back down onto it. Like this, they can kiss and fuck at the same time, their bodies damp with perspiration where they meet.
Seonghwa looks so beautiful over him, his body arched gracefully, exposing the long line of his neck. He works his hips in slow circles, then back and forth, and Hongjoong’s toes curl with pleasure.
“Please, I’m so close,” Seonghwa whispers, his movements taking on a frantic edge.
Hongjoong reaches between their bodies and wraps his hand around Seonghwa’s cock, slick with precome and silky hot to the touch. He strokes him in time with his thrusts until Seonghwa’s thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably against him, and he pitches forward to push his face into the crook of Hongjoong’s neck, then comes with a quiet, raspy moan, spilling all over Hongjoong’s fingers.
Hongjoong strokes him through the aftershocks, barely coherent as Seonghwa keeps clenching around him, his body still moving even as he comes down from his orgasm.
“Come on, Hongjoong-ah, you can come now,” he coaxes, speeding up, and it takes Hongjoong only a moment to follow after him.
It nearly blinds him when it happens, dark shapes dancing in front of his eyes as he comes inside Seonghwa, hips jerking frantically.
Hongjoong falls back onto the mattress when he’s done, taking Seonghwa with him. They’re both sticky and breathing heavily, limbs tangled together. It’s the best thing Hongjoong has ever felt.
When Seonghwa shifts, Hongjoong’s cock slips out of him, and Hongjoong feels the warm wetness spilling out after it. The bed is a mess—sheets tangled up and damp with their sweat and other fluids—but neither of them seems to care. Seonghwa only rolls over to the side, but he keeps himself plastered to Hongjoong’s body.
Hongjoong could stay like this for a long, long time. Their breathing eventually synchronizes, and Seonghwa seems to start dozing off with his head pillowed on Hongjoong’s shoulder.
“Seonghwa-ya, we should clean up,” Hongjoong says eventually. It should be an awkward moment, but it feels just right. Like this is simply a part of their lives now, familiar and comforting.
“In a moment,” Seonghwa mumbles without opening his eyes. “I can’t feel my legs.”
They take turns in the bathroom, which doesn’t have a big walk-in shower they could take advantage of, and the bathtub is not big enough for two people. Seonghwa’s bed is straightened out, getting it as neat as they can, and then abandoned in favor of Hongjoong’s freshly made one. While Seonghwa is not looking, Hongjoong slips a hundred euro bill under the bedside lamp for housekeeping.
Neither of them bother dressing again. It’s warm in the room, and their bodies share heat where they touch as they lie in Hongjoong’s bed, not quite ready to fall asleep yet.
“I don’t mind it if they know about us, you know?” Seonghwa says quietly. He’s playing with his team ring, twisting it round and round his finger. “Your fashion friends, I mean. They seemed so happy for us. I think that was what made me so upset in the first place. They were so happy about something that I’d wanted so much but didn’t even know was possible, and I—reacted badly. It completely blindsided me, and I’m not going to pretend that what you did was okay, but I shouldn’t have been so harsh.”
Hongjoong shakes his head. “No, you were right,” he says. “I deserved that. And just because I apologized, it doesn’t mean you have to be okay with what I did.”
“It feels good, though,” Seonghwa says. “To have someone who knows, I mean. I thought it would be scary, but it isn’t, not really. I know we can’t tell too many people, but this makes it more…real? You know what I mean, right?”
Hongjoong does. He’s been thinking about it, trying to figure out how to navigate these waters.
“I was going to tell them anyway, you know?” he says. “Come clean about everything, admit that I lied. Do you—do you not want me to do that, then?”
Seonghwa thinks about this for a moment, then shakes his head. “Not unless you want to,” he says. “It’s good that you’re so ready to do it, but—I mean, it’s true now? I don’t think they’re owed the entire story of how this happened. But if you’d rather tell them, that’s okay, too. I don’t mind either way.”
Hongjoong laughs softly. “Maybe one day, then,” he says. “A story to tell at our wedding.”
It slips out before he can think. Seonghwa stills at his side, and Hongjoong’s heart picks up. He’s ready to backtrack, ready to say he was only joking, but the truth is that he can’t imagine his life with anyone else. It’s always been Seonghwa for him.
It will be a long, long time before they can think of even making that decision—if that’s what Seonghwa even wants—and many things will have to change, but saying it feels strangely right on his tongue.
“You—really?” Seonghwa asks, and it sounds cautious and hopeful at the same time. “Is that something you’ve…thought about?”
Hongjoong moves them around so they’re lying on their sides, facing each other, hands tucked under their cheeks. “Seonghwa-ya, I’ve thought about everything with you. I wasn’t joking when I said it’s been a long time for me. I think that’s why I waited so long to clear up the misunderstanding and let it spiral out of control like that. It was like I was giving myself a taste of something I knew I couldn’t have, you know?”
Seonghwa reaches out to cup the side of Hongjoong’s face. “But you do,” he says. “You do get to have that. It’s real, Hongjoong-ah.”
“Yeah,” Hongjoong says, and he leans in to kiss him, soft and slow. “Yeah, that’s the best part.”