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Ni-ki used to be easy to spot.
Not because he was the shortest, he never really was for long, but because he was loud. Because he clung. Because he followed the others like a shadow with too much energy, tugging sleeves, leaning his weight into their sides, laughing too hard at jokes that weren’t that funny just because it made someone look at him.
Back then, people would glance at the group and immediately know.
Ah. The maknae.
Now, people looked at them and hesitated.
At fan events, new fans leaned toward Jungwon and smiled fondly, voices pitching higher when they spoke to him. Staff crouched slightly when talking to Sunoo, cooing, slipping him snacks, calling him cute without a second thought.
Ni-ki stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, quiet.
Sometimes, people mistook Heeseung for being younger than him. Sometimes, they asked Ni-ki if he was one of the older members.
He never corrected them.
It wasn’t that he minded.
At first, he liked it. No more constant hovering. No more being told to be careful every five seconds. No more hands pulling him back by the hood of his jacket when he wandered too far. He liked the space. The way people trusted him. The way no one worried.
So he told himself it was fine.
He told himself he didn’t need it anymore.
The first time it stung, he didn’t even realize that’s what it was. The fans’ voices rose and fell in soft waves, light and excited, the kind of sound Ni-ki had grown used to tuning out. He sat straight in his chair, hands folded neatly on the table, posture practiced and calm. Tall. Composed. Almost intimidating, some new fans whispered.
His name was called often, but not the way it used to be.
“Your dancing is amazing.”
“You’re so cool.”
“You feel so dependable.”
Compliments, all of them. Earned, even. He smiled every time, polite and warm, the way he’d learned to do without thinking.
A few seats away, Jungwon laughed.
It was soft at first, just a breathy sound—but it made heads turn immediately. Fans leaned forward, eyes bright, voices lifting instinctively.
“Aww, look at him.”
“He’s really the baby, isn’t he?”
A staff member passed behind Jungwon, slowing without realizing it. “You’re like the maknae today,” they said fondly, fingers briefly ruffling Jungwon’s hair. Sunoo beamed beside him, naturally leaning closer, soaking in the attention with practiced ease.
Ni-ki saw it all.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen. Didn’t look away.
He smiled.
Not the wide, unguarded smile he used to have, but a small, controlled one. The kind that didn’t ask for anything. The kind that didn’t need to be responded to.
No one looked at him.
Not because they were avoiding him. Not because they were being cruel.
They just didn’t think to.
The moment passed quickly. Another fan spoke. Another question was asked. The energy shifted, moved on, as fanmeetings always did.
Ni-ki stayed exactly where he was.
Later, much later, when the lights were off and the dorm was quiet, he stood in front of the mirror alone.
The reflection staring back at him didn’t look unfamiliar. His shoulders were broader now. His face sharper. His height impossible to ignore. Even standing still, he looked older than he felt. He lifted a hand, hesitating, then let it fall back to his side. No one would reach up to mess his hair anymore. He met his own eyes in the mirror, searching for something he couldn’t quite name.
“I didn’t disappear,” he thought slowly, carefully, as if testing the words.
“I just… outgrew their arms.”
The realization didn’t hurt yet. It didn’t come with anger, didn’t come with tears. It settled quietly in his chest, heavy and undeniable. Growing up hadn’t taken anything away from him. It had simply changed where people thought he belonged.
And no one, not even him, had noticed when it happened.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the others moving around. Laughing. Talking.
Not worrying, he thought.
He wasn’t sure why that sentence felt so heavy.
The moment he realized, really realized, came quietly.
No argument. No tears.
Just absence.
They were lining up backstage, and Jungwon stood between Sunghoon and Jake, shoulders draped in borrowed warmth. Sunoo leaned against Heeseung, sleepy and content.
Ni-ki stood a step behind them.
No one told him to move.
No one reached back to pull him in.
They didn’t mean to leave him out. They just, assumed he didn’t need it.
And that was when it hit him.
They stopped seeing me as the youngest... and I didn’t even notice when it happened.
The thought struck so cleanly it stole his breath. He didn’t feel angry. He felt small.
He still danced late at night, alone in the practice room, music low. He still ate quietly, sometimes after everyone else had finished. He still smiled, still joked when spoken to.
He adapted.
He always had.
But sometimes, when the dorm was quiet and his thoughts grew too loud, he imagined a hand in his hair. Someone nagging him to sleep earlier. Someone calling him baby without thinking twice.
And that was the part that hurt.
Not that he had grown up.
But that growing up had felt like being gently set aside, and no one even noticed when it happened.
He was taller than all of them now. Stronger. Quieter. Composed. But somewhere inside, the maknae still waited. Not to be smaller again.
Just to be held the same way.
Practice had been relentless that afternoon. The studio was sweltering, the floor sticky with sweat and effort, the mirrors reflecting the intensity of the seven boys as they drilled their choreography for the upcoming stage. Ni-ki had been moving on autopilot for the last half-hour, counting steps, correcting angles, shifting his weight without thinking. His muscles ached, but that was normal. He had learned to ignore that ache long ago.
And then it happened. A slip, a brief misstep as he pivoted too sharply, and his ankle twisted under him. It wasn’t dramatic, no loud snap or visible distortion. Just a quick, sharp pain shooting up his leg. He caught himself against the wall instinctively, testing it. Nothing broken. Nothing to worry about.
If it had been the old Ni-ki, the youngest, the one who used to stumble and almost fall in the middle of practice, the hyungs would have been on him immediately. Heeseung would have been there first, crouching to inspect him, hands checking, concern etched across his face. Sunghoon and Sunoo would hover behind him, ready to lift him off the floor if needed. Jungwon would pause, voice full of gentle reprimand, ready to make the decision for him. Jake and Jay would look on with worried expressions, hovering just enough to notice any sign of weakness.
But now… he was strong. He was composed. He had learned to be reliable, to manage himself. The ankle throbbed faintly, a subtle sting, and yet he forced himself to finish the move, toe pointed, chest lifted, expression calm.
“Ni-ki… you okay?” The voice was distant, polite, measured. Heeseung, from across the room, didn’t move closer. Just a question from afar.
“I’m fine,” Ni-ki replied automatically, tucking the ankle under his control, forcing a nod. His voice sounded steady even to him.
He breathed, counting the rhythm of his own heart. The physical ache was minor, negligible, something to push through. But beneath it, a dull, persistent ache curled around his ribs, settled in his chest. His chest. Not his ankle. The ache of being reliable, of being measured, of being seen as competent first and youngest second. That was sharper. That hurt more than any twisted ankle ever could.
Practice ended. Cool-down stretches followed. The hyungs moved efficiently, gathering their own mats and towels, chatting quietly among themselves. None of them paused to crouch beside him, check his ankle, or ruffle his hair in reassurance. Ni-ki didn’t mind, not consciously. He had adapted.
And yet, as he stretched his leg gingerly, he felt the loneliness of the space between them, the unspoken assumption that he didn’t need their coddling anymore. He didn’t. That’s what he told himself.
Later, as he sat towel-drying his arms, a staff member approached, clipboard in hand, smiling faintly. “Ni-ki, you’ve been really reliable today,” they said. “We don’t have to worry about you at all anymore. You handled everything perfectly.”
The words hung in the air, and Ni-ki forced a polite nod, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured. His voice was calm, controlled, unshaken.
But inside, a subtle bitterness curled along with a strange ache he couldn’t name. Being reliable was supposed to feel good, right? Praise meant recognition. But this… this didn’t feel like recognition. It felt like a verdict. Adult. Capable. Dependable. Not the Ni-ki who laughed too loudly at a joke, tripped over his own feet, begged for ruffled hair, or needed someone to fuss over him.
He glanced at the hyungs. They nodded, approving, satisfied with his maturity. Sunghoon caught his eye and smiled faintly, a quiet, knowing smile. But it wasn’t the same as the touch of reassurance he remembered from years ago, the gentle shove or the playful scolding that made him feel safe.
That night, Ni-ki lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The rooms lights were off, the air conditioner humming softly, the quiet punctuated by the distant sounds of the city. He thought of the ankle, now wrapped in ice, the dull sting in his chest, and the smiles of the hyungs who treated him as capable, grown, untouchable.
He turned over, eyes tracing the patterns on the ceiling, and felt the ache deepen. Not physical, not even emotional in the usual sense. A hollow, quiet ache that whispered truths he had been ignoring.
He wasn’t the youngest anymore. They didn’t see him that way. And he hadn’t noticed.
Sleep wouldn’t come easily. Not that night, maybe not for several nights. His body could rest, but his heart, his old yearning for the comfort of being the maknae, wouldn’t be quieted so easily.
And he wondered, silently, if anyone else noticed that the grown, reliable Ni-ki still wanted to be held, fussed over, cared for exactly as he had when he was small.
Because being reliable didn’t make the ache disappear.
It only made him bear it quietly.
Morning came like any other, but the air in the dorm felt heavier than usual. Ni-ki stirred beneath the covers, body warm against the sheets, muscles aching more than they should. He’d woken up with a slight stiffness in his joints, a dull throb in his head, and a heat that made the room feel suffocating. He sat up slowly, taking shallow breaths, careful not to make a sound.
He had a fever.
Not a massive one, yet, but enough to make him feel sluggish, lethargic, like his body was wading through molasses. He pressed his palm to his forehead, his skin burning under his touch. For a second, he thought about calling someone, saying he didn’t feel well, letting the hyungs fuss over him the way they always had when he was younger. But then he shook his head. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t impose. He was the maknae, yes, but he wasn’t a child anymore. They had always praised his reliability. They trusted him.
So, as always, he swallowed down the ache. He reached for the small bottle of medicine he kept tucked away, a habit he had perfected over the years, and popped two pills in his mouth, washing them down with water, his hands trembling slightly. He didn’t linger. There was too much to do, too many things that wouldn’t wait. His body could manage. It always did.
He left his room quietly, tiptoeing past the others’ doors. That’s when he first heard it, Heeseung’s voice, raised slightly, laced with worry and irritation. “Quiet down! Jungwon is not feeling well!”
Ni-ki froze. His stomach twisted. Jungwon, his leader, his almost-brother, his friend, was also sick? And here he was, worrying about him instead of himself. He lingered just outside the door for a moment, listening, heart tightening. The apartment, the dorm, usually filled with laughter and banter, felt too loud, too chaotic, and yet… strangely empty.
He stayed in the background, keeping his own fever hidden, forcing his lips into a small smile as he watched the commotion. Jungwon’s fever was obvious to everyone, his flushed cheeks, his sluggish movements, the tight grip on his head. Staff hovered, checking temperatures, bringing blankets, fussing. Ni-ki’s own warmth, his own dizziness, the heavy ache in his chest, went completely unnoticed.
He should’ve been upset. He should’ve been frustrated. But instead, his chest ached in a different way, a quiet, hollow weight. The same weight that had been accumulating for months, slowly and almost invisibly. He had learned to bear it alone. And now, even in the face of his own discomfort, his first instinct was care for Jungwon.
The next day, things didn’t improve for him. Meanwhile, Jungwon’s fever started to break, his color returned slightly, the grogginess less pronounced. But Ni-ki… Ni-ki felt worse. Paler. Weaker. Sunghoon noticed first, his eyes sharp, immediately catching the subtle hollowness in Ni-ki’s expression.
“You… you don’t look well,” Sunghoon said, voice low, teasing almost, trying to coax a laugh. Ni-ki smiled, though faintly, brushing it off with a shrug. “Probably because I haven’t left my room in days,” he joked lightly, attempting to sound casual.
He even managed a soft laugh, just to keep the mood light. Sunghoon chuckled at that, but there was worry simmering beneath his humor, a spark of realization in his gaze. It had been a while, hadn’t it? A long while since Ni-ki had let himself laugh like that around him, like they used to.
And yet… no one really noticed. Not fully. Not yet.
Fanmeeting day arrived. The bright lights, the screaming fans, the overwhelming chaos of cameras and excitement, all of it was a blur to Ni-ki. He followed the choreography, smiled when cameras were pointed at him, waved, laughed, but the spinning room, the pounding heat, the rhythm of the music, it all started to pull at him.
He started to feel lightheaded. At first, he tried to ignore it, bowing his head subtly to steady himself. No fans were close enough to see yet. He thought he could make it through, that he could manage, he always could. Sunghoon, beside him, noticed immediately. His hand brushed against Ni-ki’s arm, steadying him. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly, voice threading concern into the background noise of the fanmeeting.
“I’m fine,” Ni-ki said, voice tight, polite, hiding the tremor beneath his words. He smiled, a small, practiced curve of the lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Sunghoon’s worry didn’t fade, and he let his hand linger just a moment longer, subtle support.
The fanmeeting had finally just ended, excitement surging around them, until Jungwon’s own headache intensified. His complaint drew immediate attention, staff rushing forward, fans stepping back, the members swarming, checking temperatures, offering drinks, holding Jungwon upright. Ni-ki didn’t hesitate, he moved beside his leader, offering water, towels, care, even as his own body began to protest in quiet, aching ways.
And then it happened.
Ni-ki bent forward, reaching out to hand Jungwon water. A sharp pulse of pain lanced through his head. Dizziness hit him like a sudden wave, knocking his balance. His hands shook. The glass slipped, water cascading down in a shocking splash over both of them.
Jungwon flinched, instinctively pressing his hands to shield himself. His voice, usually firm and controlled, cracked slightly with irritation. “Ni-ki!” he chided lowly, and the sound made the air in the room feel heavy. But he didnt raise his voice. He could never.
Ni-ki’s cheeks burned, hot and self-conscious. He stammered apologies, words tumbling out, clumsy and desperate. “I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—”
Heeseung noticed the scene immediately, stepping forward with a mix of care and reprimand, gently pushing Ni-ki back. “Ni-ki, stand still,” he said softly, inspecting Jungwon first. “You could’ve slipped. It’s dangerous.”
But Ni-ki wasn’t listening anymore.
The fever, the exhaustion, the constant weight of responsibility he had carried alone, it all collided at once. The spinning room, the harsh fluorescent lights, the murmuring staff and chatter of the hyungs, it became too much. His body gave up quietly, suddenly, without fanfare.
The world tilted.
And then… darkness.
Heeseung’s voice, loud, strained, terrified, tore through the haze. “Ni-ki? Ni-ki!”
Sunghoon’s hands were around him before he could even register, catching his limp body instinctively. The heat, the sweat, the faint tremors, Ni-ki was burning up. His small, quiet surrender to exhaustion, his body heavy in Sunghoon’s arms, registered all at once.
The members froze, all eyes drawn to him. Panic, worry, fear, none of it dramatic, just raw, natural, unavoidable, flooded the room. He wouldn’t even wake up. Not yet. Not for the moments that stretched like fragile glass around them.
In that instant, it wasn’t just a fever or a minor sickness. It was the weight of all the months of unnoticed pain, the quiet hurt of a boy who had outgrown the world’s perception of him, who had carried everything alone, invisible to those who loved him most.
Ni-ki, the grown maknae, the reliable one, the quiet shadow in the background, was finally forcing them to notice.
And for the first time in a long while, he had no choice but to be seen.
Ni-ki stood in the doorway of his room, the faint light of late afternoon casting long shadows across the floor. He could hear the soft, worried voices of his hyungs lingering outside, Heeseung softly asking if he needed water, Sunghoon muttering something about checking his temperature, Jay’s voice frustrated but gentle, Jake pacing back and forth. Sunoo had said something comforting too, but Ni-ki didn’t catch it. Jungwon’s usual calm command had softened into worry.
He took a deep breath, feeling the fever in his body, the fatigue pressing against his ribs, and tried to stand tall despite it all. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly, his voice calm, almost too calm. “Really. Don’t worry about me. You don’t need to—any of you.” He didn’t pause to wait for their protests. Ni-ki shut the door behind him softly, the click echoing like a small chime of finality. Leaning against it, he let out a small, exhausted sigh. His hands trembled slightly, but he pressed them to his sides, refusing to let weakness show. He would be fine. He always had been. He had learned, over the years, to handle things alone. To push pain down. To endure discomfort and exhaustion without a complaint.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, pulling the blanket around him. Fever burned through him, making his vision swim slightly, but he refused to lie down fully. “They shouldn’t… they shouldn’t have to—catch a sickness for me,” he muttered to himself. “I can manage. I always do.”
Ni-ki’s chest tightened, not from illness, but from habit. From years of conditioning himself to endure alone. From never knowing how, or when to ask for help. Even now, as his body protested, as the ache in his bones made every movement heavy, he could only rely on himself. The idea of leaning on someone, of letting someone hover and fuss over him, felt foreign and almost intrusive.
The thought of bothering them, of pulling them away from schedules, from practice, from their own lives, made him clamp down even harder. “I’ll be fine,” he whispered again, softer this time, almost as if convincing himself. “Just a few days… then it will be back to normal. Everything will be fine.”
Outside the door, the hyungs paused. The silence told them everything. Heeseung’s jaw tightened, guilt twisting his stomach. Sunghoon’s hands clenched, quiet devastation written across his face. Jay’s anger at himself simmered silently, frustration mingled with heartbreak. Jake’s chest ached as though the room itself had grown smaller, tighter, heavier. Sunoo’s eyes stung as he realized that Ni-ki didn’t even consider letting them in, that the boy they had always adored and protected had grown so used to managing alone that he didn’t know how to accept care anymore. Jungwon simply stood frozen, the weight of leadership pressing against him, realizing the subtle loss they hadn’t noticed.
And it hurt them all the more because they knew he wasn’t being unkind. Ni-ki wasn’t pushing them away. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t rejecting them. He had simply… adapted to something he should never have had to. He had grown accustomed to being alone, to holding himself together, to enduring without a single complaint.
Ni-ki pressed his forehead to the wall, closing his eyes. The warmth of the room and the fever in his body mingled into a dull haze. He didn’t notice the quiet, collective ache outside the door. He didn’t notice the weight of unspoken love and concern that lingered in the hallway. All he knew was that he could handle it. He always had. He would be fine.
And that, more than the fever, more than the exhaustion, more than the silence, was what hurt them the most.
The fever that Ni-ki had been dismissing for days was never just a fever. In the beginning, it had been mild, something that could be masked by a couple of painkillers and a nap. Ni-ki, ever the reliable maknae who had learned to endure everything on his own, ignored it. He danced through exhaustion, pushed through practice, smiled through meetings, and went on stage as if nothing was wrong. To everyone else, it was just another day in Ni-ki’s world of perfection, where he could handle anything.
But inside, his body was running on empty. His immune system, already compromised by irregular sleep, skipped meals, and the relentless physical demands of his training, could not fight the viral infection that had quietly taken hold. Chills ran through him, dizziness made his vision blur at the edges, and chest tightness made every breath a little more labored. Each day he dismissed it as fatigue. Each day he believed he could handle it alone.
When he collapsed once during a late-night dance session, it had only been for a few minutes. He shook it off quickly, thinking no one would notice, or worse, that he shouldn’t let anyone notice. He got up, hid the sweat and the trembling hands, and continued practicing until the room cleared. But the infection had already begun spreading, creeping through his bloodstream silently, undetected.
By the time the night came when the infection reached its peak, Ni-ki was in the dorm, exhausted but still trying to care for himself and check on Sunoo, who had also been recovering from a mild fever. He hadn’t realized just how high his temperature had climbed, how dangerously low his blood pressure had become. He barely noticed the hallucinations that fluttered at the edges of his vision, strange shadows, whispers that weren’t there, until his body could no longer hold itself upright.
He collapsed again, this time without the strength to rise. The world spun violently around him. He couldn’t reach for water. He couldn’t lift his head. His breathing was shallow, labored, as though each inhale were dragging him closer to the edge. Panic rose in his chest, but he couldn’t call out, couldn’t move. The dorm was quiet except for the soft whir of the air conditioning and the distant hum of the city outside.
Sunghoon, who had been checking on him just moments before, noticed the absence of movement and the pallor that had deepened across Ni-ki’s face. The moment he realized the severity of the situation, he lunged forward, calling Ni-ki’s name, shaking him gently but urgently. Within seconds, the rest of the members were around, alarm replacing any lingering exhaustion from their day. Heeseung was shouting instructions, Jungwon trying to assess Ni-ki’s state, Jay and Jake moving to gather anything needed to keep him stable.
Ni-ki was unresponsive. Sunghoon held him close, feeling the dangerous heat radiating from his body, the rapid yet shallow breaths that betrayed the severity of his condition. Fear, the kind he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for weeks, clawed at him. Ni-ki, their independent, grown maknae, the one who always pushed through alone, was now helpless.
They rushed him to the hospital, and the diagnosis was swift and grave. Sepsis. The infection had entered his bloodstream, threatening multiple organs. The doctors explained the only way to protect him was through sedation and a medically induced coma. Ni-ki’s body needed rest that he had never allowed himself to give it. It was not punishment. It was protection. But to the brothers, it felt like punishment for all the times they hadn’t realized how much he had carried alone.
The words of the doctor echoed in the quiet of the hospital room,
“If this had been treated earlier, the outcome could have been less severe.”
The sentence was simple, factual, devoid of blame, but it was enough to break them. Heeseung’s hands trembled. Sunghoon’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. Jay’s fists clenched until his nails dug into his palms. Jake felt his chest constrict, as if Ni-ki had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders for months and no one had noticed. Sunoo’s eyes watered, raw with the ache of silent regret. Jungwon’s composure cracked just slightly, realizing he hadn’t noticed the signs his maknae had been showing all along.
Ni-ki was placed in the coma. Two to three months of unresponsive, silent suffering, while the brothers sat vigil, replaying the past months in their minds. Every moment they hadn’t hugged him, every night he had spent alone practicing, every meal he had eaten in silence, they remembered it now. Every minor ache he had dismissed alone became monumental in their minds.
The coma was quiet. Terrifyingly quiet. And in that quiet, the brothers learned. They realized the emotional and physical weight Ni-ki had been carrying, and how he had learned to endure alone without complaint. He hadn’t disappeared; he had simply outgrown the hands that once pulled him close, the voices that once fussed over him, the chaos that he had been the center of.
When Ni-ki eventually awoke, the world had changed. The dynamics in the dorm, in the studio, in their lives, had shifted subtly but irrevocably. He was taller, stronger, more composed, more independent. And yet, the brothers who had watched over him, silently, knew that beneath the outward change, the same maknae still existed, the one who still needed love, still needed to belong, still needed them.
The coma, terrifying as it was, became the turning point. It forced reflection. It froze time. It made them see Ni-ki, not just as a member of their group, not just as a skilled dancer, not just as a reliable adult, but as their brother, their maknae, their baby, who had always been there, quietly waiting to be held.
The coma honors that quiet damage.
Ni-ki didn’t end up in a coma because he was weak. He didn’t end up there because he was reckless. No one failed him.
He ended up there because he learned how to endure alone, and endured too long.
Every fever he ignored. Every late-night practice he pushed through. Every skipped meal, every moment of exhaustion masked with a smile. All of it accumulated quietly, invisibly, until his body finally refused to carry it any longer.
He collapsed once, shook it off, got up, and continued. He treated every ache, every dizzying moment, as nothing. His body, running on borrowed strength, refused to complain. His mind, accustomed to taking care of everyone else, refused to allow help.
Until one night, the exhaustion, the infection, the unchecked strain became too much. His breaths became shallow, his fever soared, his vision blurred into hallucinations. He could no longer push through. He could no longer endure alone.
The members noticed too late. They saw the pale skin, the trembling hands, the shallow breaths. Sunghoon lunged forward, catching him before he hit the floor. Heeseung shouted, the panic slicing through the dorm, and the rest of the brothers rushed to him, but it was already urgent, already critical.
And now here they were, watching over an unconscious Ni-ki. Wondering what and when everything went wrong.
The sentence from the doctor earlier hit the brothers harder than any blame could, “If this had been treated earlier…”
It wasn’t punishment. It wasn’t carelessness. It was quiet suffering, accumulated over months. And now, in the quiet white hospital room, the brothers realized the truth: Ni-ki had carried himself alone, endured alone, until his body could no longer bear it.
The coma became a monument to that endurance. To the quiet damage that had gone unnoticed. To the maknae who had outgrown their arms, but still needed them.
Ni-ki had survived not because anyone saved him immediately, but because his body, finally, was allowed to rest. But the emotional weight of his isolation was heavier than the physical illness itself.
And when he'll finally wake up, the world had would change around him. They'll promis to make it up to him. And in the silent aftermath, the brothers learned what it truly meant: he hadn’t disappeared. He had endured, alone, silently, and too long.
The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beeping of the monitors. Ni-ki lay still beneath the white sheets, the ventilator regulating his shallow breaths, the IV lines a constant reminder of how fragile he was. His body was fighting, but his consciousness was trapped somewhere in between.
Heeseung sat closest to the bed, his hand resting lightly on Ni-ki’s arm. He had spent hours reviewing every moment of the past months in his mind, how Ni-ki had started leaving earlier, how he stopped asking for help, how he ate alone, how he quietly endured everything. Guilt gnawed at him.
When did I stop pulling him into my arms?
He thought, staring at the stillness of his baby brother, the one who had grown taller than him yet still needed the same care he once took for granted. Every beep, every shallow breath, every twitch of Ni-ki’s fingers reminded him that he hadn’t noticed the quiet suffering. He clenched his jaw, silent tears forming as he vowed he would never let Ni-ki feel that invisible distance again.
Jay, pacing by the window, ran a hand through his hair. Anger prickled under his skin, not at Ni-ki, not at anyone, but at himself. “I thought giving him space was respect. I thought I was being a good hyung. I thought I understood him.” He could remember Ni-ki joking lightly, smiling faintly, pretending he was fine, and Jay had nodded, assuming he truly was. And now, faced with Ni-ki’s unconscious form, he felt the sting of self-directed fury. His own hesitation had allowed Ni-ki to endure too much alone.
Jake sat on the edge of the chair opposite the bed, fingers intertwined, staring at the floor. Heartbreak clung to him in a dull ache that didn’t fade. “He grew up… but we didn’t grow with him,” he whispered under his breath, a confession no one would hear but himself. He had watched Ni-ki retreat into his independence, laughing less, causing less chaos, staying in his room more. And he had thought, naively, that this was maturity, that Ni-ki had chosen it. But seeing the tubes, the monitor’s red alarms, the fragile rise and fall of his chest, Jake realized that Ni-ki had just been enduring, silently, alone.
Sunghoon leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Quiet devastation radiated from him, heavier than any of the others’ visible emotions. He had noticed the subtle signals first, the hesitations, the small sighs when Ni-ki thought no one was looking, the waiting for approval that never came. Sunghoon had watched Ni-ki joke to hide the strain, pretend to eat well, dance at odd hours, all alone. And now, seeing him like this, Sunghoon’s chest tightened as he realized just how much the maknae had internalized. The quiet, controlled boy he had become was still waiting, still needing, but no one had noticed.
Sunoo, the first to break, was crouched beside the bed, pressing a hand lightly against Ni-ki’s shoulder. He had cried silently the first night, unsure if anyone else had seen him, unsure if anyone else had noticed. He just wrapped his arms around Ni-ki when no one was looking, whispering into the emptiness, “I miss you, my baby…” Ni-ki hadn’t responded, couldn’t respond, but Sunoo held him anyway. He didn’t explain why, because no words could capture the mix of relief and anguish he felt. He had missed the maknae who had grown so much, yet still belonged to them.
Jungwon, ever the leader, had stayed near the foot of the bed, tablet in hand, schedules paused, notifications ignored. His leadership instincts battled with his heartbreak. He had ensured Ni-ki’s room was stocked, staff informed, medicine administered, but his mind kept circling back to the months prior. How had he allowed Ni-ki to shoulder so much alone? How had he not noticed the slow disappearance of the small habits that marked him as the youngest? Leadership had taken over, and in doing so, he had failed to nurture the bond. Now, silent and tense, he promised himself that once Ni-ki woke, everything would change.
Days turned into nights. The brothers rotated shifts, never leaving his side for long. Some spoke softly, recounting small memories to Ni-ki, hoping the sound of their voices might anchor him even in unconsciousness. Some sat silently, hands brushing the edge of the blanket, willing him to wake. All were haunted by the months they hadn’t realized Ni-ki had needed them, not because he asked, not because he complained, but because he had adapted to a loneliness that was never meant to be.
Even in his coma, Ni-ki’s presence reshaped the rhythm of the room. Sunghoon would pause mid-step, glancing at the monitor as if willing the beeping to sync with Ni-ki’s heartbeat. Jay’s hands trembled slightly when adjusting the blanket, anger mixed with fear, guilt threading through every movement. Heeseung’s eyes never left him for long, silently holding Ni-ki accountable, silently accepting his own failures. Sunoo would stroke his hair absentmindedly, murmuring things that didn’t need to be understood, just felt. Jake stared at the ceiling, whispering apologies he could never voice aloud. Jungwon made detailed notes on the medical charts, his mind cataloging each moment while internally cataloging what he had failed to notice emotionally.
Every brother had their own way of coping, their own way of silently grieving the months lost, not in blame, but in realization. Ni-ki had endured, adapted, carried himself alone, and now they were learning the magnitude of what that meant.
And through it all, Ni-ki remained asleep. Unresponsive. Vulnerable. Yet more present than ever, because in his absence, the brothers finally saw him, not just the grown, composed idol everyone else recognized, but the maknae who had always belonged in their arms.
Ni-ki’s eyelids fluttered open, heavy as if the world itself weighed on them. The sterile scent of the hospital room hit him first, sharp and unfamiliar, and his muscles ached with the stiffness of weeks he couldn’t remember moving. He blinked, trying to focus, and the pale light filtering through the blinds made him wince.
“Ni-ki?” A soft voice. Careful. Concerned.
He turned slowly, seeing blurred shapes of the brothers gathered around his bed, all staring at him with a mix of relief, fear, and exhaustion. The realization came next, he was alive. But… why were they all here? His brow furrowed. “What… happened?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, rough from disuse.
“You had sepsis,” Heeseung’s voice broke slightly, controlled but tense. “We… you collapsed. You’ve been in a coma for weeks.”
Ni-ki froze, the words sinking slowly. Weeks. He swallowed. Memories of the last fever, the fanmeet, the dizziness, the pain he had shrugged off, all of it crashed back. His chest tightened. He had been alone. Alone through it all, and no one had known how bad it really was until now.
The room was quiet, expectant. Ni-ki’s hands gripped the sheets, feeling the harsh hospital texture against his palms, and he realized he could feel everything again, his body, his fatigue, his own vulnerability. And in that vulnerability, he felt exposed.
He looked at each of them in turn, avoiding eye contact, feeling the weight of their gazes. Heeseung sat closest, hands clenched in his lap, jaw tight. Sunoo fidgeted near the foot of the bed, restless, trying to hold back tears. Jay and Jake leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent but watchful. Sunghoon hovered protectively, stern but trembling at the corners of his eyes. Jungwon, distant, stood near the door, observing, calculating, waiting for Ni-ki to make the first move.
And Ni-ki didn’t know what to do. His instincts told him to stand, to reassure them, to act like nothing had happened. But his body protested. His mind whirled. He felt small, fragile, and uncomfortably, painfully aware of how much they had cared for him while he had been incapable of caring for himself. “I… I’m fine,” he finally muttered, voice small, hesitant. “Really. You don’t need to… do anything. I can handle it. I always can.”
The words hung in the air. A protest, a shield, a reflex he didn’t even realize he had. But each brother stiffened, sensing the lie in the quiet insistence. He was not fine. His body screamed it; his fevered cheeks, his trembling hands, the faint flush of weakness in his lips betrayed it.
Sunghoon’s eyes softened, but his jaw remained set. “Ni-ki,” he said low, controlled, “you don’t have to handle it alone this time.”
“I… I can,” Ni-ki insisted again, almost pleading. “It’s just a small infection, I'm already being treated anyway. I’m… I’ll be okay in a few days. Please, don’t… don’t worry about me.”
And that, above all, broke something in the room. Not because it was dramatic. Not because anyone was angry. But because it was quiet. Because he had spent so long alone, learning to endure, that he didn’t even know how to let them care.
They moved anyway. They hovered, gently. Sunghoon adjusted his pillow, subtly keeping Ni-ki upright. Sunoo brought a small cup of water, offering it with a careful smile. Heeseung checked his chart, murmuring instructions to the nurses while glancing at Ni-ki’s eyes. Jay quietly arranged the blankets, muttering small reassurances. Jake sat in the corner, notebook in hand, pretending to read but never taking his eyes off him. Jungwon finally stepped closer, leaning against the wall, silent, just observing.
Ni-ki fidgeted, awkward, unused to attention without demands, to care without reprimand. Each gesture, small as it was, made him flush. His pride fought against the warmth in his chest, the embarrassment of needing help. He wanted to push them away, but couldn’t. He wanted to retreat, but didn’t. Every instinct screamed self-sufficiency, but every muscle, every ache, reminded him he couldn’t do it alone anymore.
Minutes stretched into hours. Ni-ki barely spoke, occasionally murmuring a “thanks” or “I’ll be fine,” but mostly just letting them fuss, letting them linger, letting himself exist without pretending he was invincible. He shifted in the bed, avoiding Sunghoon’s steady gaze but feeling its silent protection, and found himself almost wishing they would never leave.
He hated that he needed them.
And that, quietly, was the most honest realization of all.
The first morning after his discharge, Ni-ki woke to the sound of soft voices outside his dorm room. He groaned, turning onto his side, hoping to find a few more hours of rest before anyone came barging in. But the voices persisted. Footsteps. Quiet knocks. “Ni-ki, you awake?” Sunghoon’s calm, careful tone slipped under the door.
Ni-ki blinked against the sunlight streaming through the blinds, muscles sore and mind groggy. “I’m awake,” he called out, keeping his voice small, trying to sound composed. The door cracked open just enough for Sunghoon to peek in. “Good. Just making sure you’re okay. You slept through breakfast again.”
Ni-ki sat up slowly, pressing the blanket against his chest. “I… I can take care of myself. Really. You don’t have to…”
“You don’t get to decide that,” Sunghoon interrupted gently, but firmly, stepping fully into the room. He held a tray with a small bowl of soup, a cup of water, and neatly folded clothes. “You’re not alone, Ni-ki. You’re allowed to let us help.”
Ni-ki looked down, cheeks warming. He wanted to protest, wanted to say he didn’t need this, but the words got stuck in his throat. He could feel the weight of their care, soft touches, small gestures, constant presence, and all he could do was sit there, stiff, awkward, silent.
The pattern repeated the next day. And the next.
Sunoo would pop in first, carrying a game console and his favorite snacks, insisting that Ni-ki needed a break. Jay and Jake checked on his physical therapy, making sure he stretched properly, not letting him lift anything heavy. Heeseung hovered with quiet patience, ensuring that meals were eaten and hydration maintained. Jungwon peeked in with a clipboard, updating schedules while scanning Ni-ki for any signs of fatigue.
Ni-ki’s protests were consistent. “I’m fine. I can manage it myself. Don’t waste your time.” And their responses were always the same, gentle, unwavering, persistent.
Each day, he tried to maintain a semblance of control, pouring his own water, attempting to dress himself, brushing his own hair, but every effort was met with soft corrections, careful adjustments, reminders, and subtle hovering.
He hated how dependent he felt. Every act of care reminded him of how long he had been enduring alone, of how he had convinced himself he could always handle it. And now, faced with their unwavering presence, he realized just how much he had missed it. He laughed once, trying to joke about it. “You’re treating me like a child.”
Sunghoon’s expression softened, a rare small smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve always been our baby, Ni-ki. That doesn’t change because you’re taller than all of us now.”
Ni-ki froze, the words hitting him harder than any reprimand ever could. He looked away, blinking rapidly to hide the sting in his eyes. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
Even after the discharge, life didn’t slow down. In the dorm, they hovered just as much, lingering with water bottles, snacks, jackets, blankets, little nudges and gentle reminders that he didn’t have to manage everything alone.
He moved through the days in a quiet haze, feeling simultaneously grateful and unbearably awkward. He wanted to retreat, to reclaim the independence he had prided himself on, but he couldn’t bring himself to push them away. Not fully.
And so he learned to exist in this new balance: watching them care, feeling the warmth of their constant presence, and slowly realizing, sometimes painfully, that being allowed to lean on them didn’t make him weak. It made him human.
Every time one of them adjusted his pillow, handed him a snack, or lingered a little too long, he felt a mix of embarrassment and comfort. The world he had built alone for so long was being gently, persistently reshaped, not by force, but by love.
And through it all, he could only watch, quiet and awkward, letting them carry the weight he had always shouldered by himself.
Night settles quietly over the dorm, the kind of quiet that only exists when everyone is awake but pretending not to be. The lights are dim. No schedules. No staff. Just them.
Ni-ki sits on the edge of the couch, knees pulled close, fingers worrying at the hem of his sleeve. The others are scattered around the room, too close, hovering again, like they used to. It’s been like this since he woke up. Since the hospital. Since the coma.
Too familiar.
Too sudden.
He exhales. “Can I ask you something?”
Every head turns immediately. Too fast. That alone almost makes him stop. Almost makes him swallow it down like he always does.
But he doesn’t.
“…Why are you acting like this?”
Silence.
He keeps his gaze on the floor. “You’re all hovering. Watching me. Checking if I ate, if I slept, if I took my meds.” His voice is steady, but it takes effort. “You sit with me. You wait for me. You don’t leave me alone anymore.”
A pause. Then, quieter.
“You didn’t do that before.”
The air shifts.
Heeseung straightens slightly. Jay’s jaw tightens. Jake’s hands curl into fists in his lap. Sunoo looks like he might cry already. Sunghoon doesn’t move at all. Jungwon watches Ni-ki carefully, like he’s afraid of interrupting something fragile.
Ni-ki finally looks up.
“I didn’t imagine it,” he says. Not accusing. Just… stating. “I know I didn’t.”
No one interrupts him.
“I didn’t change,” Ni-ki continues. His brows knit together, confusion bleeding into hurt. “I mean, I grew. I got taller. I got quieter. But I didn’t… stop being me.”
His fingers curl tighter.
“But you stopped treating me like I was.”
His voice wavers for the first time, just barely.
Ni-ki finally exhaled. “I… I’ve been noticing things,” he began, voice low but steady. His eyes met each of theirs in turn. “About you. About… us. About me.”
The room grew quieter. Even the hum of the air conditioner seemed to hush. “I noticed,” he continued, “that you don’t pull me into your arms like before. That you stopped teasing me, stopped nagging me… that you all… let me be alone. I didn’t realize it at first. I thought it was just… normal.”
Sunghoon’s hands curled into fists. Sunoo’s throat tightened. Heeseung’s shoulders slumped. The confession hung in the air, sharp and undeniable.
“I… got used to it,” Ni-ki said, voice catching slightly. “I stopped asking for help. I stopped waiting. I thought I didn’t need it anymore. I thought I could handle everything myself. And maybe I could… but…” He swallowed. His chest tightened, the words bitter and raw.
“At first, it was fine. I liked it.” A small, humorless smile. “I wasn’t nagged anymore. I wasn’t dragged into hugs. I wasn’t told to slow down or eat more or sleep.”
He swallows.
“I thought… this is what growing up is.”
The room feels too still now.
“But then,” he says softly, “I started realizing I was doing everything alone.”
Jake’s breath catches.
“I got sick alone. I dealt with it alone. I stopped asking for help because… it didn’t feel like something I was allowed to do anymore.” He lets out a shaky breath. “And I didn’t even notice when it started hurting.”
Sunoo presses a hand to his mouth.
Ni-ki’s voice drops. “I kept telling myself it was okay. That I was just being dramatic. That this was normal.” He laughs quietly, bitter and small. “I mean, everyone was proud of me for being independent.”
He finally looks at them properly now. All of them.
“So when I woke up,” he says, “and suddenly you were all here again, like before, I didn’t understand.” His shoulders tense.
“Why now?”
No one answers immediately.
Heeseung’s eyes are glassy. Jay looks like he’s barely holding himself together. Jungwon’s chest rises and falls too fast. Sunghoon’s gaze is fixed on Ni-ki like he’s memorizing him. Jake looks devastated. Sunoo is openly crying now.
Ni-ki shakes his head, quickly. “I’m not mad,” he says, immediately, like he needs them to know. “I just… needed to understand.”
He hesitates. Then—
“I know I’m not a kid anymore.”
The words are quiet. Flat. Honest.
“I don’t need to be.”
A pause. His throat tightens.
“I just…” His voice cracks, finally, unmistakably.
“…I didn’t know growing up meant being alone.”
Silence.
Not the awkward kind.
The devastating kind.
It hits them all at once.
Because he didn’t say they left him.
He didn’t say they failed him.
He said he adapted.
Silence.
Thick, suffocating silence.
Then, quietly, Sunoo moved closer. “Ni-ki…” he murmured, voice breaking. He reached out, hesitated, then finally pulled Ni-ki into a tight hug. “You don’t have to be alone. You never have to be alone.” Ni-ki stiffened for a moment, then relaxed just enough to let him in. Not fully embracing, not yet, but allowing himself to be felt, to be seen.
Heeseung stepped forward, eyes glistening. “We… we didn’t realize,” he admitted, voice rough. “We thought you were fine, that you were choosing this. We… we let it happen without noticing. I should’ve pulled you closer, even when you didn’t ask. I should’ve…” His voice broke.
He was unable to finish his words when Sunoo broke beside him, not with words, but with sound. A small, broken sob that slips out before he can stop it. He presses his sleeve to his eyes, shoulders shaking, and that’s when the tension finally fractures. He pulls Ni-ki closer into his arms.
It’s sudden. Tight. Desperate.
“I missed you,” Sunoo whispers into his shoulder, voice wrecked. “I missed you. I didn’t even realize how much until you were gone.”
Ni-ki stiffens at first, caught off guard by the closeness. He still doesn’t hug back, not yet. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with all this emotion being handed to him at once. But he doesn’t pull away either.
He just lets Sunoo hold him.
Heeseung exhales shakily, rubbing his face with both hands. When he looks up, his eyes are red. "I think…” His voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. “I think somewhere along the way, I convinced myself you didn’t need that anymore.”
He gestures vaguely, hugs, fussing, softness.
“You stopped asking,” he says quietly. “So I thought… you were okay.”
Jay lets out a sharp breath, fists clenched. “I told myself it was respect,” he admits, jaw tight. “That giving you space meant I was trusting you.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t realize I was just… stepping back and never stepping forward again.”
Sunghoon finally speaks, his voice low and steady but devastated underneath. “You still looked at us,” he says. “You still waited. I saw it.” His gaze drops. “We just didn’t understand what it meant.”
Ni-ki rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand, embarrassed by the wetness there. “I didn’t say that to make you feel bad,” he mutters. “I just… I didn’t know where else to put it.”
Heeseung swallows hard. “You didn’t put it anywhere,” he says quietly. “You carried it.”
Jay lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except it’s sharp around the edges. “Do you know what scares me?” he says. “That when you were sick, really sick, you didn’t even consider telling us.”
Ni-ki looks up at that. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
The word lands wrong. It always does.
Jake shakes his head slowly. “Interrupt what?” he asks. “Us existing without you?”
Ni-ki flinches. “That’s not—”
“But that’s how you thought,” Jake finishes gently. His voice breaks anyway. “Somewhere along the way, you decided you were optional.”
That one hurts. You can see it in Ni-ki’s face, the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders curl in. “I didn’t think I was optional,” he says. “I just thought… I was supposed to be easier now.”
Sunghoon exhales through his nose, eyes fixed on the floor. “You started asking for permission,” he says suddenly.
Everyone looks at him.
“For everything,” Sunghoon continues. “Practice. Food. Even jokes.” His fingers curl against his knee. “You didn’t need permission. You were waiting to see if we still wanted you there.”
Ni-ki doesn’t deny it.
Sunoo wipes his cheeks, voice small but steady. “You stopped being loud,” he says. “I thought you were just tired.” He lets out a shaky breath. “I didn’t realize you were being quiet so we wouldn’t push you away.”
Jungwon finally speaks, voice low and heavy. “When you collapsed,” he says, “I remember thinking, why didn’t he call us?” His hands clench. “And then I realized... we taught you not to.”
Ni-ki’s chest tightens. “You didn’t teach me,” he insists. “You didn’t say anything. That’s the thing. No one did.”
Silence again. Thicker this time.
“I filled in the gaps myself,” Ni-ki continues. “I saw where I wasn’t needed anymore, and I adjusted.” He lets out a quiet breath. “I thought that was maturity.”
Heeseung’s voice cracks. “It was survival.”
Ni-ki looks at him, startled.
“I should’ve noticed when you stopped running to us,” Heeseung says. “When you stopped knocking on doors. When you stopped climbing into our space like it was yours by default.” His eyes burn. “I thought I was respecting you.”
Jay nods, jaw tight. “We thought distance meant growth.”
“And I thought closeness meant inconvenience,” Ni-ki replies.
That breaks something open.
Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to earn your place,” he says firmly. “You never did.”
Ni-ki laughs softly, disbelieving. “Then why did it feel like I had to?”
No one answers right away, because there isn’t a clean answer. Just regret. Just time.
Sunoo reaches out again, slower this time, resting his head against Ni-ki’s shoulder. “You don’t have to figure it out tonight,” he murmurs. “Just… don’t disappear on us again.”
Ni-ki closes his eyes. “I don’t want to,” he admits. “I just forgot how to stay.”
Jungwon shifts closer. “Then we’ll remind you,” he says. “Not by holding you back. Not by pretending you didn’t grow.” His voice steadies. “But by staying where you can reach us.”
Sunoo loosens his grip slightly, enough to look at him. “You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he says softly. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself.”
Ni-ki lets out a shaky laugh. “I didn’t mean to,” he says. “I swear. I just… got used to it.” His eyes burn. “At first, it felt nice,” he admits. “Like, wow. They trust me. They think I can handle things.” He shrugs weakly. “So I kept handling them.”
He looks down at his hands.
“And then one day, I realized I didn’t know how to stop.”
The words hang heavy.
“I didn’t want to be a burden,” he continues. “I didn’t want to bother you. I thought if I needed less… you’d be happier.”
That does it.
Heeseung moves forward and gently cups the back of Ni-ki’s head, pressing his forehead against his hair like he used to when Ni-ki was smaller. “You were never a burden,” he says, voice breaking. “Not once. Not ever.”
Jay nods fiercely. “And needing us doesn’t make you weak.”
Jake adds softly, “It just makes you ours.”
Ni-ki’s breath stutters. “I know independence is good,” he says. “I really do. I’m proud of myself for growing.” He looks up at them, eyes glossy but steady. “I just… didn’t know it meant losing you a little.”
Sunghoon’s hand settles on his shoulder. Solid. Grounding. “It doesn’t,” he says firmly. “Not if we do it right.” Jungwon steps closer. “You don’t have to choose between growing up and being cared for,” he says. “We should’ve told you that.”
Silence settles again, but this time, it’s warm.
Ni-ki finally exhales, something heavy loosening in his chest. “I don’t know how to ask for help anymore,” he admits. “I don’t even realize when I need it.”
Heeseung squeezes him gently. “Then we’ll learn again,” he says. “Together.”
Sunoo sniffs, hugging him tighter. “You don’t have to hug back yet,” he murmurs. “I’ll wait.”
Ni-ki lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, and this time, slowly, carefully, he lifts his arms and wraps them around Sunoo.
Not tight.
Not desperate.
Just real.
Ni-ki exhales, long and shaky.
For the first time, he doesn’t pull away.
For the first time, he doesn’t feel like he has to prove he’s okay.
And for the first time in years, the room feels like somewhere he belongs.
Not because he endured it,
but because they chose him back.
And for the first time in a long while, Ni-ki doesn’t feel like he has to carry himself alone. They stay like that, talking, listening, learning, long into the night.
No accusations.
No blame.
Just understanding.
Just brothers.
The change doesn’t happen all at once.
It’s quieter than that.
It shows up in small, almost unnoticeable ways, ways that don’t push him backward, don’t shrink him down into something he isn’t anymore. Not a reset. Not an apology spoken out loud. Just presence, choosing him again and again without making a show of it.
The next morning, Jay hands him a mug without asking if he wants one. Just sets it down beside him like it’s obvious Ni-ki belongs there. “Careful, it’s hot,” Jay says, already turning away.
Ni-ki watches the steam curl upward, something in his chest loosening at the casual certainty of it.
Jake steals half of Ni-ki’s toast and grins when Ni-ki swats at him. “Relax,” Jake says. “You heal faster when you’re annoyed.”
Sunghoon starts waiting again, not obviously, not like before. Just lingering a few steps behind when they walk together, matching Ni-ki’s pace without comment. Sometimes he glances over, not to check if Ni-ki is weak, but to make sure he’s still there.
Sunoo hugs him like it’s natural. Not dramatic. Not careful. Just arms around his shoulders when he passes by, chin pressing briefly against his collarbone like muscle memory never really forgot him. Jungwon leans on him during late nights, resting his head against Ni-ki’s shoulder while scrolling on his phone. No words. Just weight. Trust.
And Heeseung,
Heeseung starts asking things again.
“What do you think?”
“Stay with me?”
“Eat with us.”
Not because Ni-ki needs supervision. Because he’s wanted. They tease him now, the way they used to, but different. Sharper. Warmer. They complain about how unfair it is that he’s taller than them, stronger than half of them combined. Jay flicks his forehead and tells him not to let it get to his head. Jake groans about how the maknae is intimidating now.
Ni-ki rolls his eyes, but his lips curve every time. No one cages him. No one smothers him. No one pretends he didn’t grow up. They just… stay.
And as days pass, that staying deepens, settles, until it stops feeling tentative and starts feeling natural again. The healing settles in slowly, the way dawn does, not announced, not dramatic, just light seeping in where darkness used to live. It’s in the way they stop hesitating around him.
Jay starts tossing him a jacket without asking if he’s cold. Not because Ni-ki can’t get one himself, but because Jay noticed the weather change before Ni-ki did. “You’re gonna complain later,” Jay mutters.
Ni-ki doesn’t. He wears it anyway.
Jake starts pulling him into things again. Not hovering, not careful, just reckless inclusion. “Come with me,” he says, already walking. Ni-ki follows without thinking. Later, it hits him, how long it’s been since anyone assumed he would.
Sunghoon starts training with him at night. Side by side. No lectures. No corrections unless Ni-ki asks. Just shared space, the sound of breathing and footwork, the quiet understanding of effort. Sometimes Sunghoon hands him water. Sometimes he just says, “Good.”
And Ni-ki feels that word settle deep in his chest like approval he didn’t know he was still waiting for. Sunoo laughs louder again when Ni-ki is around. Drapes himself over Ni-ki’s back, dramatic and warm, complaining about everything and nothing. “You’re too tall,” Sunoo whines. “It’s annoying.” But he never lets go first. And Ni-ki never pushes him away.
Jungwon treats him like an equal and a brother at the same time. They argue over stupid things. Share snacks. Jungwon leans on him when leadership gets heavy, and Ni-ki doesn’t feel like he’s stepping out of place when he supports him.
He feels trusted.
And Heeseung changes in the quietest way of all. He sits closer now. Not looming. Not hovering. Just there. Sometimes he nudges Ni-ki’s knee with his own, grounding, present. Sometimes, mid-conversation, without thinking, his hand reaches out and ruffles Ni-ki’s hair.
Ni-ki freezes the first time it happens.
Then, slowly, he relaxes.
No one says sorry out loud. No one rewinds time. They don’t try to erase the years or pretend nothing changed. They let the past sit where it belongs and choose differently now.
They let him be strong.
They let him be capable.
And they let him be soft.
They let him leave early, and notice when he comes back. They let him eat alone, and still save him a seat. They trust him to handle things, and remind him he doesn’t have to handle everything.
Some nights, Ni-ki still wakes up disoriented, heart racing for reasons he can’t fully name. On those nights, he doesn’t lock his door anymore.
He wanders into the living room and finds someone there. Always. Half-asleep, sprawled, familiar. An arm reaches out automatically, pulling him down without a word.
No questions.
No concern sharp enough to sting.
Just space made for him.
And Ni-ki learns, slowly, carefully, that growing up didn’t steal anything from him.
It only changed the shape of how love looks.
He’s taller now. Broader. His voice deeper, his presence heavier. He doesn’t curl into them the way he used to.
But when they pull him in, arms firm, steady, unafraid,
He still fits.