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The lights onstage were warmer than Ricky expected. Too warm, actually—yellow and soft, the kind of lighting that made dust visible when you looked hard enough. It floated in the air above the stage like glitter that had given up on being magical. Ricky stood slightly behind the others, bass strap pressing into his shoulder, fingers resting against the strings in a way that was more habit than readiness. He liked standing there. Behind. Not hidden exactly, but not seen either. The bass hummed low against his ribs when he tested it, a quiet reassurance that something solid still existed even if the rest of the room felt hollow.
The auditorium was sparse.
Not empty. Empty would’ve been cleaner. This was worse—rows of seats filled inconsistently, like someone had started to care and then stopped halfway. A cluster of teachers sat near the center, hands folded politely, expressions set into that careful encouragement adults reserved for things they didn’t fully understand but wanted to support anyway. Parents dotted the back rows, whispering to each other, clapping too early, too late, sometimes both. A handful of students lounged in the aisle seats, phones angled vaguely toward the stage but clearly recording out of obligation rather than excitement.
Ricky noticed all of it; he always did.
He noticed the seats their classmates used to take—front rows, close enough to shout jokes at Taerae mid-performance. He noticed how the cheers that once came naturally now had to be coaxed out, polite applause spreading through the room like a delayed echo. He noticed how phones were pointed at the stage but never stayed there long, drifting back down to laps after a few seconds, thumbs already moving.
The band played well, and somehow that was the cruelest part.
Hanbin’s keyboard lines were clean and precise, his body tense but controlled as he led them through the set like a general trying not to show how badly he needed a win. Taerae sang with his usual bright sincerity, smiling at the crowd as if enthusiasm alone might spark something back to life. Yujin’s drumming was sharp, almost aggressive, like he was trying to beat energy out of the air by force.
And Ricky, he held it all together quietly.
The bass filled the spaces no one else thought about, smoothing over rough edges, grounding the sound. It always did. No one ever commented on it, and that was fine. Ricky had long since convinced himself the band could survive without him. Bassists were replaceable. Invisible. Necessary, sure—but never the point.
When the last note rang out, it lingered longer than the applause did.
Claps came in waves that never quite synchronized, breaking apart almost as soon as they formed. Ricky bowed with the others, eyes fixed somewhere just above the audience’s heads, and when they stepped offstage, the noise faded too quickly. Like the room was relieved they were done.
Backstage smelled like sweat and old curtains. Someone had left a half-empty water bottle on the floor, condensation pooling around it. Hanbin dropped into a chair dramatically, notebook clutched to his chest like he’d just survived a near-death experience.
“We are,” he announced, voice low and heavy, “musically cursed.”
Taerae laughed, breathless, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. “Okay, but hear me out—vibes. Vibes matter more than trophies.”
Yujin didn’t even look up as he leaned against the wall. “We’ve never won. Not once. Not even third place. This isn’t about vibes. This is about us slowly becoming background noise.”
No one argued with him.
Ricky leaned his bass gently against the wall and sat beside it, knees drawn in, listening. He watched Hanbin flip through his notebook like the answer might suddenly appear if he looked hard enough. He watched Taerae keep smiling, just a little too bright. He watched Yujin stare at the floor, jaw tight.
He didn’t say anything.
Across the hallway, the atmosphere was completely different.
Stardust’s laughter spilled out of their assigned room like music on its own—loud, confident, unashamed. Glitter clung to the floor where they’d passed earlier, and someone’s sweet perfume hung stubbornly in the air. When Ricky peeked around the corner, he saw Jiwoong adjusting his jacket as if he belonged on a magazine cover, Matthew talking with his hands like the world needed to hear every word, Gunwook deadpan as ever, and Hao—well. He knew exactly how he looked under stage lights.
Their performance had come earlier.
Ricky hadn’t needed to watch it to know how it went. The screams had told him everything. Chants. Lightsticks. Phones held high with no hesitation. When Jiwoong had spotted the band on their way back from the stage, he’d given them a wink, grin sharp and amused, like this was all part of a long-running joke.
Ricky looked away before his face could betray anything.
Back in their little circle, Hanbin finally slammed his notebook shut. “We need to rebrand.”
Yujin groaned. Taerae leaned forward eagerly. Ricky blinked.
“We need a hook,” Hanbin continued, pacing now. “Something—or someone—that pulls people in. Someone popular. Someone who draws attention just by existing.”
The name came up almost immediately.
“Kim Gyuvin,” Taerae said, like it was obvious.
Ricky felt his stomach drop.
Gyuvin was everywhere. Hallways, events, group chats he wasn’t even technically part of. Always smiling, always laughing, always surrounded. Ricky had seen him at games, at assemblies, leaning casually against lockers like he owned the school. He was the kind of person who could walk into a room and tilt the gravity just by being there.
Yujin frowned first. “That’s insane.”
Taerae turned. “Why?”
“Because he’s Gyuvin,” Yujin said, as if that explained everything. “He’s not going to join a losing school band that practices in a dusty room that smells like regret.”
“It smells like burnt cables, actually,” Taerae muttered.
“And regret,” Yujin insisted.
Hanbin stopped pacing. “It’s not insane. It’s strategic.”
“It’s delusional,” Yujin countered. “He probably doesn’t even play anything.”
“We can teach,” Hanbin said quickly.
“We can barely teach ourselves,” Yujin shot back.
Taerae leaned forward, warming up, not that the idea was in the air. “Think about it. We don’t need him to be amazing on day one. We need attention. Curiosity. Traffic. Once people show up, we keep them with sound.”
Hanbin nodded. “Visual entry point. Musical retention.”
Yujin stared at both of them. “Did you rehearse that sentence?”
“Maybe,” Hanbin said calmly. He then continued, “We’ve tried everything else. New setlists, covers, original tracks, social posts. Nothing sticks. But this might.”
Yujin still looked unconvinced. “And what exactly do we say? ‘Hello, famous person, please attach your popularity to our declining brand?”
Taerae pointed at him. “Okay, first of all, don’t say it like that.”
Hanbin exhaled softly. “We ask honestly.”
“That’s worse,” Yujin said.
“Better than sounding fake,” Hanbin replied.
The room fell into a thoughtful quiet, the idea settling into corners, testing its shape. And across the room, Ricky said nothing.
He sat on the edge of the worn sofa, bass resting across his lap, fingers lightly touching the strings without pressing. The metal felt cool under his skin, grounding and safe.
He replayed the image in his head—Gyuvin laughing with friends near the stairwell, sunlight catching in his hair, effortless in a way Ricky had never been.
Someone who draws attention just by existing.
It was true. Painfully true.
“You’re quiet,” Hanbin said suddenly, looking at him. “What do you think?”
Every head turned. Ricky looked up, startled, like he had been pulled out of deep water. Words lined up behind his teeth and refused to come out. He was never good at strategy. Or persuasion, or even people.
He was good at showing up, playing right, and not messing up.
“I think…” He swallowed. “If it helps the band, we should try.”
Yujin groaned. “Hyung, you're supposed to be my ally.”
Ricky gave a small, apologetic shrug.
Taerae snapped his fingers. “See? Even Ricky agrees. That means it’s morally correct.”
Yujin muttered, “That is not how morality works.”
Hanbin nodded once, decision forming. “Alright, we try.”
Yujin pointed at all of them. “When this fails, I want it recorded that I predicted this.”
“And so we’ll recruit him,” Hanbin said, completely ignoring Yujin. “Who’s going first?”
Silence.
From the sofa, Ricky lowered his gaze back to his bass, the faint vibration of a plucked string humming under his fingertip.
He had a strange feeling. Like something small had just been decided that would end up changing everything.
Hanbin tried first. Formal. Polite. Carefully rehearsed.
He approached Gyuvin near the lockers, posture straight, fingers gripping his notebook just a little too tightly. He’d practiced the lines in his head at least ten times that morning, but now that Gyuvin was actually in front of him, his throat felt strangely dry.
“So,” Hanbin began cautiously, forcing a small, polite smile, “you must’ve heard of us, right?”
Gyuvin blinked, taken off guard. “Us… who?”
For a split second, Hanbin almost let out a disbelieving laugh. Instead, he swallowed it down and kept his expression calm.
“The school band,” he clarified. “The Afterglow.”
“Oh,” Gyuvin said, nodding as recognition settled in. “Okay. Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
Relief flickered across Hanbin’s face. “Cool. So…we’ve been thinking of rebranding. And that includes recruiting a new member.”
He tried to sound excited, but the enthusiasm came out stiff, almost mechanical. Both of them could hear how forced it was.
“That’s nice,” Gyuvin replied politely. “Are you doing an audition? Or has it already been decided?”
Hanbin hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “No audition and yes. We’ve already decided on who.”
He looked straight at Gyuvin.
“That’s nice,” Gyuvin repeated, but this time his smile turned awkward. A faint frown creased his brows as the realization settled in. Then he laughed lightly, like he’d just heard a harmless joke.
“Oh,” he said, still smiling, “is this a prank?”
Hanbin opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“You guys are funny,” Gyuvin added kindly.
He gave a small, polite bow, as if the conversation had simply been a pleasant exchange, then turned and walked away down the hall.
Hanbin stood there, notebook still clutched in his hands, completely stunned—like he’d just finished a speech to an empty room.
Taerae tried next, enthusiasm dialed up to eleven.
He marched up to Gyuvin with purpose, hands clasped behind his back like he’d rehearsed this in front of a mirror. Gyuvin was leaning against a locker, scrolling on his phone, when Taerae cleared his throat—loudly.
“Gyuvin,” Taerae said, eyes sparkling. “Have you ever considered… joining a band?”
Gyuvin looked up slowly. Blinked. “Is this an intervention?”
“No,” Taerae said immediately. “Well. Kind of. But like a musical intervention.”
Gyuvin laughed, already amused, and Taerae took it as encouragement.
“Okay, hear me out,” Taerae continued, words spilling faster now. “You’re popular, you’re charismatic, people like you. A lot. And we—our band—has, uh, talent. Passion. Instruments. What we’re missing is you.”
Gyuvin raised an eyebrow. “Me specifically?”
“Yes,” Taerae said firmly. “Your face alone could double our audience.”
From a few steps away, Yujin coughed. “We’re not supposed to say it like that.”
Taerae waved him off. “No, it’s fine. Honesty builds trust.”
Gyuvin snorted, shaking his head. “So you want me to join your band because you think I'm attractive?”
“That is not the only reason,” Taerae said quickly. “You also have amazing vibes. Like stage-compatible vibes. You look like you belong under bright lights. People would scream.”
Gyuvin laughed again and clapped Taerae on the shoulder, amused more than offended. “Are you recording this? Because it feels like I’m being recruited into a pyramid scheme.”
“It’s not a pyramid scheme,” Taerae protested. “It’s more like… a trapezoid.”
“That did not help your case.”
From the sidelines, Hanbin sighed dramatically. “We’re losing him.”
Gyuvin tucked his phone away, still smiling. “You’re fun, I’ll give you that. But I don’t play any instruments.”
Taerae froze. Then, very confidently, he said, “We can fix that.”
Gyuvin laughed even harder. “I’ll think about it,” he said, already stepping away. “No promises.”
As he walked off, Taerae turned back to the band, deflated but hopeful.
“…He didn’t say no.”
Ricky, quiet in the back, tightened his grip on his bass and thought—that went exactly as expected.
The next day, it was Yujin’s turn, and he…panicked. Hard.
The moment he spotted Gyuvin by the vending machines the next day, his brain short-circuited. He approached too fast, stopped too close, and immediately forgot every sentence he’d rehearsed the night before.
“Gyuvin hyung—” Yujin said, words tumbling over each other. “This is going to sound bad, but I swear it’s not that bad—”
Gyuvin looked up from selecting a drink, already smiling politely. “Uh-huh.”
“We’re a band,” Yujin blurted. “Like, a school band. And we keep losing. Not just once. Like. A lot. Consistently. Repeatedly. Statistically.”
The vending machine whirred loudly in the background, far too aware of the moment.
“And people used to watch us,” Yujin continued, sweat forming at his temples. “But now they don’t. Or they leave halfway. Or they go watch the dance team instead. Not that they’re bad—Stardust is very… sparkly—but anyway—”
Gyuvin tilted his head. “You’re… really selling this.”
“I know,” Yujin said, horrified. “I’m trying not to sound desperate, but I am desperate, and now I’ve said it out loud.”
He laughed once. Nervously. It echoed.
“So,” he rushed on, “we were thinking maybe if someone popular joined us, people would come back, and you’re popular and nice, and you smile a lot and—oh god—”
Gyuvin held up a hand, still smiling but clearly already backing away. “Hey, I appreciate the honesty.”
Yujin nodded too hard. “Thank you. That’s good. Honesty is good. We’re very honest losers.”
Gyuvin laughed softly, genuinely this time. “You seem sweet. Really. But I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for.”
“That’s fair,” Yujin said immediately. “Totally fair. Completely understandable. I would also not choose us.”
Gyuvin gave him an apologetic smile, grabbed his drink, and waved as he stepped away. “Good luck, though.”
Yujin stood there, staring after him.
Then he slowly leaned his forehead against the vending machine.
“…I told him about the losing streak,” he muttered to no one.
From down the hall, Taerae called out, “Why would you do that?!”
Yujin didn’t answer. The vending machine beeped in quiet judgment.
All the while, Ricky watched from a distance.
He never once considered stepping in. Why would he? Gyuvin barely knew him. Probably barely noticed him. Ricky was the bassist who stood in the back, quiet and unremarkable. There was no universe where Gyuvin would say yes to him.
Which was exactly why the band turned to him last.
Ricky almost laughed when Hanbin said his name. But he went anyway. Slowly. Carefully. Like every step towards Gyuvin required conscious effort.
They ended up near the windows at the end of the hallway, afternoon light spilling in, warming the floor. Gyuvin turned when he noticed Ricky, surprise flickering briefly across his face before that familiar smile returned.
“Hey,” Gyuvin said. “Ricky, right?”
Ricky nodded. Even that small acknowledgment felt like a miracle.
“So I guess it’s your turn to persuade me now?” Gyuvin continued, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Y-yes,” Ricky said, shoulders stiff. “If you don’t wanna hear it, just let me know now. I’ll… I’ll tell the others you said no.” He sounded more like he was apologizing than recruiting.
Gyuvin’s expression softened. “No, let’s hear it. I wanna hear your version.”
Ricky swallowed. He bit his lower lip a little too hard, then forced himself to look up. His fingers curled around the strap of his bass case like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
He didn’t give a speech. He didn’t mention trophies, crowds, or rebranding. He just told the truth.
“We love music,” he said quietly. “We’re trying. And we don’t want to disappear.”
For once, Gyuvin didn’t interrupt. He listened. Really listened. The playful glint in his eyes softened, the usual lightness in his posture settling into something calmer, more focused. He looked at Ricky like he was actually weighing every word.
The hallway felt unusually still. Even the chatter from nearby classrooms seemed distant.
“I’ll join,” Gyuvin said eventually.
Ricky’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“But,” Gyuvin added, tilting his head slightly, eyes sharp with something unreadable, “on one condition.”
Ricky’s fingers tightened around his bass strap. “What?”
Gyuvin smiled—slow, deliberate. “You date me.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
Ricky waited for the punchline. For the laugh. For the teasing grin that would turn this into one of Gyuvin’s usual jokes. But it never came.
Gyuvin just stood there, watching him. Calm. Patient.
Ricky opened his mouth, then closed it again. His mind felt blank, like someone had pulled the plug on every thought at once. His ears were warm. His heart was beating far too fast for something that was probably just a joke.
“You’re joking, right?” he asked softly.
Gyuvin shook his head once. “No.”
Silence stretched between them.
A group of students passed by, laughing loudly, the sound bouncing off the lockers. Someone dropped a book down the hall. The normal noise of school life continued, but it all felt distant, like Ricky was standing inside a bubble.
He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even decide what kind of answer he was supposed to give.
Gyuvin studied his face for a moment, then sighed softly—not annoyed, just thoughtful.
“You don’t have to answer now,” he said.
Ricky blinked, still stunned.
“But you have until tomorrow morning,” Gyuvin continued. “If I don’t get an answer by then, I’ll take it as a no.”
He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder.
“And if it’s a no,” he added, voice light again but eyes still serious, “then I’ll have to pass on being the new member.”
Ricky’s stomach dropped.
Gyuvin gave him a small, almost gentle smile. “See you tomorrow, bassist.”
Then he turned and walked down the hall, disappearing into the crowd like nothing unusual had just happened.
Ricky stayed where he was, fingers still wrapped around his bass strap, heart racing, the words echoing in his head.
You date me.
You have until tomorrow morning.
For the first time since joining the band, he wasn’t thinking about music at all.
That night, Ricky didn’t sleep.
He lay on his back, eyes fixed on the faint crack running across the ceiling above his bed. The room was dark except for the soft glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. Every now and then, a car passed by, headlights sliding across the wall like quiet ghosts.
His bass case rested against his desk, right where he’d left it after practice. The black surface caught the light in dull streaks, silent and watchful—like it was judging him.
Guilt, loyalty, and something dangerously close to hope twisted together in his chest.
“It’s for the band,” he told himself.
Only for the band.
They needed this. They needed people to watch them again. Needed noise, attention, a reason to keep practicing after school instead of drifting apart like everyone else seemed to expect.
If dating Gyuvin was the price, then maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. It wasn’t like it had to be real. It was just a condition. Just an arrangement.
Still, every time he closed his eyes, he saw Gyuvin’s face from the hallway—serious, steady, waiting. Not joking. Not teasing.
Waiting for him.
Ricky turned onto his side, then onto his stomach, then onto his back again. The sheets were twisted around his legs by the time the sky outside started turning pale blue.
He didn’t remember falling asleep. Maybe he never did.
The next morning felt strangely quiet.
School buzzed with its usual noise—lockers slamming, shoes squeaking across the floor, distant laughter—but everything sounded muffled to Ricky, like his ears were half-covered. His heart thumped too loudly in his chest, drowning out the rest.
He spotted Gyuvin near the staircase, leaning casually against the railing, talking to a couple of classmates. He looked completely relaxed, like he hadn’t just dropped a life-altering condition the day before.
Ricky’s feet slowed.
Gyuvin noticed him almost immediately. His eyes lit up, and he excused himself from the conversation with an easy grin before walking over.
“Morning,” he said. “You look like you fought a war.”
Ricky swallowed. “I didn’t sleep.”
“That bad, huh?”
Ricky nodded. His fingers curled around the strap of his bag. For a second, he thought about running. Pretending he never heard the offer. Telling the band it didn’t work out.
But then he pictured them backstage—Hanbin pacing, Taerae forcing optimism, Yujin dramatically declaring their downfall. He thought about the empty seats at their last competition.
So he forced the words out. “I’ll do it.”
Gyuvin blinked. “Do what?”
Ricky’s ears burned. “The condition. I’ll date you.”
The words came out so quietly, he wasn’t sure they even reached him. But Gyuvin heard them, and he smiled. Not the teasing, flashy smile everyone else got. Not the playful grin he wore in the hallways. This one was softer. Warmer. Almost relieved.
It made something unfamiliar flip inside Ricky’s chest.
“Okay,” Gyuvin said gently. “Then I’ll join the band.”
Ricky nodded, still unable to meet his eyes. “But I think we should set some rules.”
Gyuvin tilted his head. “Rules?”
Ricky forced himself to look up. “I do it for the band. So it doesn’t have to be too showy.”
Something flickered in Gyuvin’s expression, but it disappeared quickly. “Okay. What kind of rules?”
Ricky counted them off on his fingers, voice small but steady.
“No sudden skinship. Not in front of people. No embarrassing me in the hallway. And the others don’t need to know about this deal, just us dating. That’s it.”
Gyuvin hummed thoughtfully. “So secret relationship, and with boundaries.”
Ricky nodded. “Yes.”
Gyuvin was quiet for a moment. Then he extended his hand, like they were closing a business deal. “Deal,” he said.
Ricky hesitated, then shook it. Gyuvin’s hand was warm.
“Oh,” Gyuvin added casually, “one more rule from my side.”
Ricky tensed. “What?”
Gyuvin shifted his weight, expression gentler now, less playful than before. “Don’t treat this like a transaction when it’s just the two of us.”
Ricky blinked. “I’m not—”
“I know,” Gyuvin said quietly. “But you’re trying very hard to make this sound like a band contract.” He smiled a little. Not teasing, just warm.
“I’m joining the band because I want to,” he continued. “And I asked you out because I meant it. So when we’re alone, just be honest with me. That’s all.”
Ricky’s grip tightened slightly on his bag strap. His heartbeat had gone uneven again. “Okay,” he said softly.
Gyuvin nodded once, satisfied. “Okay.”
Then his usual brightness slipped back into place like sunlight through clouds. “Great! Now let’s go tell your band before they decide to plan for your funeral.”
Ricky swallowed, heart racing all over again, and followed him down the hall.
Gyuvin’s smile—warm, genuine, victorious—made Ricky’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.
And that was how everything started going wrong, or right.
The practice room always smelled faintly of dust, old cables, and the citrus cleaner the janitor used every Thursday. The amps were already humming softly, and someone—probably Taerae—had left a half-finished bottle of iced tea on top of the keyboard.
Hanbin was pacing near the drum set, muttering to himself while flipping through a notebook. Taerae was tuning his guitar with exaggerated seriousness, though he kept glancing at the door every few seconds. Yujin sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at his phone but not actually scrolling.
They were literally waiting for a miracle. And the moment the door creaked open, all three heads snapped up at the same time.
Ricky stepped in first, bass case slung over his shoulder, expression carefully neutral. Gyuvin followed a half step behind, hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking around the room like he’d just entered a place he’d heard stories about but never seen in person.
For a full three seconds, nobody said anything.
Then—
“He said yes?!” Yujin shouted, scrambling to his feet so fast he almost tripped over a cable.
Hanbin dropped his notebook. It hit the floor with a soft slap. “No way.”
Taerae’s tuner beeped in protest as he abandoned his guitar. “Wait—seriously? Like, seriously, seriously?”
Ricky flinched at the sudden noise. “Please don’t scream.”
But it was too late.
Yujin rushed forward first, stopping just short of Gyuvin like he was approaching a rare animal. “You’re actually here,” he said, wide-eyed. “In the practice room. With us. Voluntarily.”
Gyuvin laughed. “It’s not a crime scene, is it?”
“Not yet,” Taerae said, appearing at Yujin’s shoulder. “But it has seen emotional damage.”
The first band practice after Gyuvin joined was loud. Not musically—emotionally.
Gyuvin was already getting comfortable, sitting backwards on a chair, arms draped over the backrest, chatting easily with Taerae like they’d known each other for years instead of approximately twenty minutes.
Taerae, traitor that he was, laughed too loudly at everything Gyuvin said.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re really joining,” Taerae said, clapping his hands together. “This is insane. I love this. I don’t know why I love this, but I do.”
Yujin, seated on the floor with his drumsticks crossed over his knees, eyed Gyuvin like he was an unexploded bomb. “I don’t trust him.”
“You were all giddy when you saw him entering the room earlier, and now you don’t trust him?” Taerae rolled his eyes.
“That hurts,” Gyuvin said cheerfully. “I’m very trustworthy. I once returned a lost wallet with all the money still inside.”
Hanbin cleared his throat sharply, notebook already open. “Before we celebrate, we need to establish roles. Gyuvin, what instrument do you play?”
Gyuvin didn’t even hesitate. “I told Taerae before, none.”
Silence.
Ricky shifted his bass strap higher on his shoulder, staring very intently at the floor like it might swallow him whole.
Hanbin blinked. “None?”
“Zero,” Gyuvin confirmed. “But I’m a fast learner. And I look good holding things.”
“That is not a qualification,” Yujin said flatly.
“Disagree,” Taerae said. “That’s at least half of K-pop.”
And so they tried anyway.
Drums lasted approximately seven seconds before everyone agreed never to speak of it again. Keyboard was worse—Gyuvin pressed keys with the confidence of someone opening random doors in a haunted house. Tambourine was immediately confiscated when he started spinning it like a weapon.
Finally, Hanbin sighed, defeated. “Guitar.”
Gyuvin brightened. “Yes. That one. I like that one.”
Ricky’s stomach dropped. “I can teach him,” he heard himself say, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Everyone turned to look at him.
“You play bass,” Yujin said slowly.
“I know,” Ricky said. “But guitar isn’t that different.”
This was, objectively, a lie.
Gyuvin’s eyes lit up. “Perfect! Private lessons?”
Ricky’s ears went hot immediately.
They started after practice, when the others filtered out one by one—Hanbin muttering about schedules, Taerae waving enthusiastically, Yujin warning Ricky not to get murdered. The room quieted, settling into a low hum of fluorescent lights and distant hallway noise.
Ricky sat beside Gyuvin on the bench, guitar balanced awkwardly between them.
“Okay,” Ricky said, voice a little too careful. “This is the chord.”
He placed Gyuvin’s fingers gently on the strings, trying very hard not to think about how warm his hands were. Or how close their knees were. Or how Gyuvin leaned in like personal space was merely a suggestion.
Their fingers brushed, and it made Ricky flinch. Gyuvin smiled like he’d noticed.
“You’re blushing,” Gyuvin said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m concentrating.”
“On my hands?”
Ricky made a sound that might’ve been a sigh or a whimper. He didn’t know anymore.
Despite being terrible at guitar, Gyuvin was enthusiastic. Painfully so. He celebrated every correct note as if he’d just won an award, fist-pumping and laughing loudly, which echoed through the empty room and made Ricky laugh despite himself.
That was the first crack. The first time Ricky laughed out loud in front of Gyuvin without immediately regretting it.
Their relationship escalated faster than anyone expected.
It started small—walking to class together, Gyuvin’s hand slipping into Ricky’s like it was the most natural thing in the world. Ricky’s brain short-circuited every time; he tried pulling his hand away, every time, but Gyuvin just held his hand tighter. Then came sitting together at lunch, Gyuvin stealing food off Ricky’s tray and Ricky letting him, because saying no felt impossible.
Rumors spread the way they always did in school—fast, distorted, and completely unstoppable.
It wasn’t about their relationship right away. It was about Gyuvin joining the band.
At first, it was a single sighting. Someone saw Gyuvin walking out of the practice room. Someone else noticed Ricky trailing half a step behind him. By lunchtime, the story had already mutated into something far more dramatic than reality.
“Gyuvin joined The Afterglow.”
“No, he didn’t join—he’s saving them.”
“I heard they begged.”
“I heard he auditioned and they cried.”
“I heard he’s the new leader.”
By the end of the day, it wasn’t just whispers in the hallway anymore. It was text messages, group chats lighting up, screenshots of blurry photos taken through the practice room window. Even the school confession page posted:
Is it true Gyuvin’s in The Afterglow now??? Since when does he do band stuff???
Students who had never once cared about the band suddenly cared a lot.
Lockers slammed a little louder when Ricky walked past. Conversations dipped when Gyuvin entered a room, then resumed in hushed excitement. People casually lingered near the practice room after school “just to see.”
The Afterglow, once background noise in the school’s social ecosystem, had somehow become interesting again.
Whether that was a blessing or the beginning of something chaotic, no one knew yet.
Ricky overheard his name in the hallway more times that week than he had in the entire semester combined. People looked at him differently now—curious, interested, whispering. He didn’t like it. Except when Gyuvin leaned closer, thumb brushing his knuckles, smiling like he’d won something.
Ricky didn’t realize he was jealous until he was.
It hit him suddenly—sharp and unwelcome—when someone laughed too hard at Gyuvin’s jokes, when someone leaned too close. Ricky’s chest tightened every time, an emotion he didn’t have a name for but recognized anyway.
The band noticed.
Hanbin accused Gyuvin of “stealing our bassist” at least twice a week. Taerae pretended to hate it but smiled every time Ricky smiled. Yujin became the reluctant mediator, sighing heavily while making sure practices didn’t dissolve into chaos.
Stardust, of course, made everything worse.
They blocked the hallway one afternoon while the band carried instruments, Jiwoong played music from his phone, and immediately started dancing like this was his personal stage. Matthew joined in loudly. Gunwook critiqued posture mid-routine.
Taerae clapped along accidentally.
“Stop encouraging them!” Hanbin yelled.
“This is so cringe,” Yujin muttered, turning around.
Ricky stood there, bass heavy in his hands, unsure where to look—until Gyuvin leaned in close, voice low.
“If I dance with them,” Gyuvin whispered, “will you still date me?”
Ricky glared. “Don’t you dare.”
Gyuvin danced anyway.
Teachers broke it up. While chaos broke down, Jiwoong pretended to recruit Ricky on the spot. “Honestly, why’d you recruit Gyuvin for popularity when you could just give Ricky a makeover?”
Gyuvin’s smile vanished instantly. He grabbed Ricky’s hand, fingers tight, possessive, making Jiwoong back off immediately, laughing nervously.
“Damn, I guess the band gets both of the visuals,” Jiwoong smirked.
Due to the chaos Stardust had created—one overpowered speaker, two noise complaints, and a hallway dance break that blocked three classrooms—both groups ended up sharing the same practice room for a week as punishment from the teachers.
“It builds cooperation,” the vice principal had said.
“It builds crime,” Taerae had replied under his breath.
And of course it was tense.
The room was barely big enough for one team’s ego, let alone two full performance groups. Cables snaked across the floor like tripwires. Half of the mirrors were claimed by the dancers. The amps guarded the opposite wall like territorial animals. A strip of masking tape down the center marked the “border”, placed by Hanbin and immediately ignored by everyone.
Stardust started the cold war by counting out loud.
“Five, six, seven, eight—!”
The band warmed up riffs at the exact same volume. A guitar screeched, a bass thrummed, and someone hit a drum fill that sounded like a falling toolbox.
“Again! Five, six, sev—”
BWAAAAANG.
Matthew spun around. “Was that necessary?”
Taerae didn’t look up from his fretboard. “Yes. It was emotionally required.”
“You’re not even plugged in,” Matthew said. “You’re not even the bassist!”
“Emotions are wireless. And I play bass too sometimes.”
Gunwook clapped sharply at his team. “Posture! Posture! If your spine looks tired, the audience will be tired.”
Yujin muttered, “If my spine hears one more count, it’s filing a complaint.”
Hao attempted a turn, his hair clip flying off and skidding across the floor like a defeated insect. He froze mid-move, visibly distressed.
Before anyone else reacted, Ricky stepped forward, picked it up, adjusted the bent prong with his thumbnail, and clipped it neatly back into Hao’s hair with precise, gentle fingers. No comment, no eye contact. Just done.
Hao stared at him in the mirror like he'd just been rescued from the ocean. “Thank you…” He said quietly.
Ricky nodded once and returned to his corner.
Matthew watched this and whispered, “Why is he like a fairy godmother?”
“Bass godmother,” Yujin corrected.
Practice continued in waves of mutual irritation. Every time Stardust ran their chorus formation, the band decided it was the perfect moment to test distortion levels. Every time the band tried harmonies, the dancers restarted counts from zero like a ritual.
“Stop stepping on the tape line!” Hanbin snapped.
“There is no tape line in art,” Jiwoong replied.
“That’s literally masking tape.”
At one point, the music overlapped so badly that both groups stopped at the same time and just stared at each other through the mirror.
“This is psychological warfare,” Taerae said.
“This is cardio,” Matthew answered.
Water breaks were worse. The room only had one fan. It rotated like a judge deciding who deserved mercy. No one did.
“Who finished the sports drink?” Taerae demanded.
“Shared resources,” Matthew said, holding the empty bottle.
“That was mine.”
“We are one people now.”
“We are not.”
Late into the session, exhaustion finally sanded the edges off everyone’s temper. Runs got cleaner. Transitions sharper. The noise turned into something almost structured. They did one last full pass—dance and live instruments together by accident more than agreement—and when it ended, the silence felt earned.
Matthew wiped sweat from his jaw, catching his breath. He glanced toward the band. “You sounded…” he admitted reluctantly, “…better than usual.”
The band froze like someone had confessed a crime.
Taerae recovered first. “Your timing wasn’t terrible.”
Gasps. Shock. Historical moment.
Matthew stepped forward. Taerae met him halfway. They shook hands like diplomats ending a war. Cameras did not flash, but they should have.
Gunwook nodded solemnly. “Growth.”
Yujin squinted. “I hate this character development.”
In the corner, Gyuvin leaned closer to Ricky and murmured, “If they hug, I’m leaving.”
Ricky, deadpan, replied, “I’ll go with you.”
And somehow, in the cramped, overheated, overbooked practice room, the rivalry shifted—just slightly—from battle to banter.
Late-night dinner followed.
A cramped noodle shop tucked between a stationery store and a closed bakery. Steam fogged the windows from the inside, blurring the streetlights into soft halos. The air smelled like broth, fried garlic, and chili oil. The tables were too small, the stools slightly uneven, and the place was loud in that comforting, end-of-day way—bowls clinking, soup simmering, someone laughing too hard two tables over.
They piled in anyway.
Everyone was exhausted, sweaty, and starving. Instrument cases were stacked by the door like a barricade. Hanbin looked like he’d aged three years. Taerae stretched his wrists like a retired athlete. Yujin slumped forward onto the table and declared, “If I dissolve into soup, don’t save me.”
Taerae ordered too much.
“Why are there eight bowls?” Hanbin asked. “We’re five people.”
“Growth mindset,” Taerae replied.
Hanbin complained and ate the most.
Yujin, halfway through his first proper meal of the day, relaxed for the first time all week. “Okay,” he mumbled through noodles, “sharing a room with Stardust was not the end of civilization.”
“Write that down,” Taerae said. “Historic statement.”
“Don’t quote me.”
Across the table, Gyuvin fed Ricky noodles without thinking—casually, instinctively, like it didn’t even register as something unusual. He was in the middle of talking, chopsticks already lifting a bite, and instead of bringing it to himself, he turned and held it out toward Ricky without pause. The motion was smooth and absentminded, the kind of small, familiar gesture that slipped out before awareness caught up. Everyone froze.
“What?” Gyuvin said. “Couples do that.”
Ricky’s ears burned red for the rest of the night.
Taerae slowly lowered his spoon. “I just witnessed emotional damage.”
“Eat,” Hanbin ordered.
Conversation restarted, louder than before. For a while, they talked about nothing, but mostly about Stardust—Gunwook’s posture lectures, Matthew’s dramatic counts, how the shared practice room somehow made everyone play tighter out of pure spite.
Then, gradually, the talk shifted. Not heavy. Just honest.
Hanbin traced circles in the condensation on his water glass. “Next competition’s in two months.”
“That soon?” Yujin said.
“We’re not ready,” Taerae added automatically.
“We’re never ready,” Hanbin replied. “That has never stopped us from showing up and embarrassing ourselves.”
Taerae pointed his chopsticks at Hanbin. “What do you actually want from it? Honestly.”
Hanbin paused at that. The table quieted a little. “…I don’t need first place,” he admitted. “I just don’t want to look like we don’t belong there anymore.”
No one joked over that.
Ricky nodded slowly. “I want people to stay until the end of our set.”
“Not wander off to buy drinks halfway,” Yujin added.
Taerae shrugged. “I want one performance where nothing breaks. No cables. No strings. No souls.”
“That’s ambitious,” Ricky said.
They laughed.
Gyuvin listened, chin resting lightly on his hand, gaze moving from speaker to speaker. Not interrupting. Not performing. Just there.
“What about you?” Hanbin asked him eventually. “You joined mid-chaos. Regrets yet?”
Ricky glanced up quickly without meaning to. Gyuvin met his eyes, then smiled—smaller than his usual grin, but steadier.
“None,” he said. “You guys are loud, stressed, and slightly tragic. It’s nice.”
“That’s the worst compliment we’ve received,” Hanbin said.
“I’m serious,” Gyuvin continued. “Most things at school are polished. Rehearsed. Everyone is trying to look good. You guys actually care if it sounds good. That’s different.”
The table went quiet again, but in a softer way.
“I said yes because of Ricky,” he added. “But I’m here because I want to deserve that spot on stage.”
Ricky stared at his bowl.
Taerae pointed dramatically. “He says things like that and wonders why people like him.”
Yujin nodded. “Illegal levels of sincerity.”
Gyuvin nudged Ricky’s shoulder lightly. “And my teacher here refuses to give me easy parts, so I’m suffering already.”
“You keep skipping chord shapes,” Ricky murmured.
“I skip with passion.”
“That’s not better.”
Hanbin leaned back, exhaling. “Alright. Then that’s the goal. We earn our spot.”
“Even if we lose?” Yujin asked.
Hanbin nodded. “Even if we lose.”
Taerae lifted his drink. “To losing with better sound.”
Yujin raised his, too. “To not disappearing.”
“One normal toast,” Ricky begged.
But they clinked glasses anyway—water, soda, leftover tea.
Messy. Uneven. In sync enough.
Outside, the fogged windows held their reflections together in one blurry frame—tired faces, warm bowls, shared noise. And somewhere between the laughter, the chatter, the shared exhaustion, the band started sounding better.
Not perfect, but alive.
Preparation didn’t arrive in a single dramatic montage.
It crept in.
It looked like extra practices added quietly to the group chat. Like Hanbin circling dates in his notebook so aggressively, the ink bled through the pages. Like Taerae bringing snacks “just in case” and Yujin pretending not to eat them while absolutely eating them. It sounded like Ricky’s bass humming through empty rooms long after the sun dipped low enough to turn the practice windows into mirrors.
They practiced after school. Then later. Then too late.
Sometimes it felt productive. Sometimes it felt like they were just sitting in the same room, surrounded by instruments and frustration, waiting for something to click.
Ricky liked those moments anyway. He liked the way the room smelled after an hour—warm wood, metal strings, faint sweat. He liked the quiet thrum that settled into his bones when the band stopped talking and just played. He liked how Gyuvin sat closer now, always closer, legs stretched out carelessly, guitar resting against his thigh like it belonged there—even if the chords still came out clumsy sometimes.
Especially then.
“Again,” Hanbin said one evening, tapping his pen against the stand. “From the bridge. We’re dragging.”
“We’re not dragging,” Taerae argued. “We’re emotionally lingering.”
“That’s dragging with feelings,” Yujin replied without looking up.
Gyuvin leaned toward Ricky, lowering his voice. “Is this what band life is always like?”
Ricky smiled a little. “Only when we care.”
Gyuvin watched him for a second longer than necessary, then nodded, like he was storing that away.
Their “not-so-secret relationship” had settled into something dangerously routine.
They walked to practice together. Sat together automatically. Gyuvin reached for Ricky’s hand without checking first, like it had always been his. Ricky still got flustered—but he didn’t pull away anymore. He’d stopped telling himself it was temporary. That secret required too much effort to maintain.
Sometimes Gyuvin flirted loudly, dramatically, just to see Ricky malfunction. Sometimes he didn’t flirt at all—just stayed close, shoulder brushing shoulder, presence steady and grounding.
Those were the moments that scared Ricky the most. Because they felt real in a way that didn’t need pretending.
The guitar lessons never officially ended; they just blurred.
Ricky would correct Gyuvin’s fingers mid-song, leaning in to adjust pressure, murmuring instructions under his breath. Gyuvin would complain dramatically about sore fingertips, then beam when he finally got a progression right. Each success was celebrated loudly. Each failure laughed off.
“You’re getting better,” Ricky said one night, surprised at himself.
Gyuvin grinned. “High praise from my bassist boyfriend.”
Ricky’s face heated instantly. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.
Gyuvin tilted his head. “Not wrong though,”
Ricky didn’t answer.
The night they got locked in the gym didn’t feel like a turning point at first. It felt like another inconvenience.
Practice had run long again—not in their usual practice room, but in the main gym where the next competition would be held. The school had finally approved their request for a few on-site rehearsals, and they’d jumped at the chance. The space was bigger, louder, more unforgiving. Every mistake echoed. Every timing slip felt exposed. They had wanted to get used to it—the distance between instruments, the way sound bounced off the high ceiling, the strange delay that made everything feel half a beat behind if they weren’t careful.
The air inside the gym was warm and stale, filled with the smell of rubber flooring, dust, and metal bleachers that had baked all day in trapped heat. Extension cables snaked across the court lines. Amp lights glowed like tired eyes. Their last run-through had gone surprisingly well—tight transitions, clean ending, even Hanbin looked halfway satisfied—which was probably why no one checked the time.
Outside, rain started pouring without warning, loud and steady, tapping insistently against the high windows like fingers drumming on glass.
“Again from the bridge—” Hanbin began.
“No,” Yujin said, collapsing backward onto the floor. “My soul has left my body.”
Hanbin finally checked his phone. “Wait. What time is it?”
“Late,” Taerae answered.
“That’s not a number.”
Hanbin frowned at his screen. “Why do I have no signal?”
“Because you’re cursed,” Taerae said.
They packed up slowly, muscles aching, movements lazy with exhaustion. Yujin killed the amp power, and Gyuvin turned off half the lights.
Ricky pushed the exit door. It didn’t move. He pushed again, harder. The metal rattled but stayed shut.
“…Did that door always sound like that?” he asked.
Hanbin walked over and tried the handle himself. Then the second door. Then the side door.
Nothing.
“Oh no,” he breathed.
“Oh no?” Yujin repeated. “Why did you say oh no like that. That’s a horror-movie oh no.”
“It’s locked,” Hanbin said.
“From the outside?” Taerae asked.
“Yes, Taerae. From the inside would be illegal.”
Taerae jogged over and yanked the handle with both hands like enthusiasm could solve physics. “Open with confidence!”
It indeed did not open with confidence — it didn’t even pretend to cooperate. The handle gave a dry metal rattle and snapped back into place, the sound echoing too loudly in the empty gym. The door stayed stubborn and unmoved, like it had already decided the night was over, and they weren’t part of the plan.
Rain hammered louder overhead, no longer a background sound but a full, roaring presence. It pounded against the roof in uneven bursts, drummed along the windowpanes, rushed through the gutters in heavy sheets. The storm swallowed the smaller noises — footsteps, sighs, nervous laughter — until the building felt sealed off from the rest of the world, wrapped in water and static and night.
“You’re joking,” Yujin said. “Tell me this is a joke. I have homework due at midnight.”
“You weren’t going to do it,” Taerae said.
“That’s not the point!”
Hanbin was already spiraling. “Okay. Okay. This is fine. This is manageable. There are protocols for this. Probably. Maybe. Why is there no signal here?”
He lifted his phone above his head and walked in a slow circle like he was summoning reception through interpretive dance.
Ricky tried another entrance. Locked. “Custodians must’ve closed early because of the rain.”
“So we live here now,” Taerae concluded.
“I refuse,” Yujin said. “I’m not emotionally prepared to become a gym ghost.”
Taerae flopped onto the bleachers, grinning. “This is great. Team bonding. Captive audience. Acoustic session.”
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Gyuvin said.
“Stockholm syndrome speedrun.”
Ricky stayed quiet, leaning against the low stage, bass case beside him. He listened to the building settle—the hum of distant wiring, the hollow echo of rain on the roof, the way big empty spaces sounded different at night. Less like a room. More like a shell.
Gyuvin walked over and dropped down beside him. “You okay?”
Ricky nodded once. “Yeah.”
Without comment, Gyuvin pulled off his hoodie and draped it over Ricky’s shoulders. Warm. Slightly damp from earlier rain. Familiar detergent smell.
Ricky looked at him. “You’ll be cold.”
“I generate heat through personality,” Gyuvin said.
“That’s not scientific.”
“Feels scientific.”
Across the gym, Hanbin was still trying emergency numbers. “It’s ringing! It’s ringing—no, it’s not. It stopped ringing. I hate everything.”
Yujin lay flat on the floor. “If I die here, delete my search history.”
“No one wants that responsibility,” Taerae said.
Eventually, the panic burned itself out into tired acceptance. They gathered what they could—spare hoodies, instrument bags as pillows, banners folded into questionable blankets. Someone turned on the dim emergency lights near the stage. The gym fell into soft gray shadows.
Rain kept time for them.
They talked for a while longer—half jokes, half confessions, nonsense stories that only made sense when people were too tired to filter themselves. One by one, voices faded.
Later, when they slept on the stage under the low amber glow, Ricky woke to a steady weight against his shoulder.
Gyuvin.
Head tilted, breathing slow, one hand loosely curled in the fabric of Ricky’s sleeve like he’d grabbed it in his sleep and decided to keep it.
Ricky went completely still. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too deeply. Just sat there, listening: to the rain, to the distant creak of the building, to the quiet rhythm of someone trusting him enough to sleep close.
His heart beat carefully, like it didn’t want to wake anyone.
The thought came quietly, but certain — not dramatic, not overwhelming, just steady in the way truths usually are when they finally settle.
This wasn’t pretending. Not strategy, not a deal, not something done for the band or convenience or timing. Whatever had started between them had already crossed that invisible line somewhere along the way — in shared practice hours, in tired late-night meals, in instinctive gestures neither of them bothered to explain anymore.
This was no longer an act.
It was simply real.
The competition loomed closer, but something else arrived first.
The announcement came during lunch. Hanbin was halfway through complaining about the cafeteria rice—again—when a staff member approached their table, clipboard tucked under her arm. The band froze like they’d been caught doing something illegal.
“Are you the school band?” she asked.
Yujin straightened immediately. “Define school band.”
Taerae kicked his ankle under the table. “Say yes.”
She smiled patiently. “The music department and school board reviewed performances from recent events. We’d like you to be the closing act for the upcoming school event.”
For a moment, no one reacted. Sound seemed to drop out around them—the cafeteria noise turning into a distant blur. Then Taerae gasped. Loudly. Hanbin dropped his fork with a sharp clatter that made people at the next table turn.
Yujin blinked. “Sorry—what?”
“The closing act,” she repeated. “You’ll go on after the dance teams.”
“After?” Hanbin echoed faintly. “Like… last-last?”
“Yes. Final performance of the night.”
Taerae grabbed Hanbin’s shoulders and shook him. “We’re last-last!”
“I heard!” Hanbin shook him back. “Stop shaking me, I’m processing!”
Ricky covered his mouth, eyes wide in stunned silence—the rare kind where he forgot to be a human for a second. Yujin had already pulled out his phone and opened the notes app.
“We need a set list rewrite,” Yujin muttered. “Lighting cues. Transitions. Stage spacing. Oh no, stage spacing.”
“We don’t even know the stage size,” Gyuvin said automatically.
“We will,” Yujin replied. “I will measure it with my soul if I have to.”
Ricky didn’t speak. He just sat there, heart pounding hard enough he could feel it in his throat. Closing act. Not background music. Not filler between programs. The last sound of the night. The one that people walked home remembering.
They weren’t just invited. They were trusted.
Taerae leaned across the table, eyes shining. “Imagine it. Lights off. Crowd already hyped. Then boom—first chord.”
Hanbin nodded slowly now, slipping into performance mode. “We open with something heavy. No slow start. Hit them immediately.”
“Spotlight on center,” Yujin added. “Fog if we can get it. If not, we fake fog with attitude.”
“That is not how fog works,” Taerae said.
“It is now.”
Gyuvin, who had been quietly listening, smiled. “You’re already seeing it.”
“We have to,” Hanbin said softly. “If we don’t see it, we can’t build it.”
Ricky finally let out a breath. “We’ll make it loud,” he said. “Clean. No regrets.”
Gyuvin glanced at him, warm and certain. “We’ll make it unforgettable.”
When the news spread, it didn’t take long for Stardust to find out.
They approached later that day, less dramatic than usual. No blocked hallways. No portable speaker. Just footsteps and presence. Jiwoong leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, expression thoughtful rather than smug.
“Closing act, huh?” he said. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Taerae puffed up immediately. “We did.”
“You did not,” Hanbin said.
Matthew nodded. “Kinda jealous. But like the respectful kind. The mature kind. The emotionally evolved kind.”
“No one asked for the commentary track,” Taerae said.
Gunwook looked at the group, then gave a short nod. “You earned it.” That simple.
Hao’s gaze found Ricky. “You really did.”
Something in Ricky’s chest settled hearing it from him.
Yujin crossed his arms. “We’re redesigning the whole flow. This isn’t just a performance anymore—it’s a statement.”
Jiwoong laughed. “There he is. I was waiting for the manifesto.”
“We’re serious,” Hanbin said—but he was smiling now, unable to hide it. “We want people to look at the stage and think: oh, they belong there.”
Matthew tilted his head. “What’s your ending pose gonna be?”
“We don’t do ending poses,” Hanbin said automatically.
“We should do ending poses,” Taerae countered.
“We are not doing ending poses.”
Gyuvin reached over and squeezed Ricky’s hand under the easy cover of conversation.
Jiwoong noticed the energy more than the gesture. His grin softened. “Good luck. Seriously.”
There was no rivalry in it. No edge. No challenge thrown. Just sincerity. And somehow, that made the upcoming stage feel even bigger.
The venue was bigger than the last one. That was the first thing Ricky noticed when they stepped inside.
The ceiling arched higher, lights hanging like constellations he didn’t know how to name. The air buzzed constantly—voices overlapping, shoes scuffing, feedback squealing briefly from the stage before being corrected. It smelled like plastic chairs and cheap cologne and anticipation. Ricky adjusted the strap of his bass again, then again, fingers curling around the edge like he needed proof it was still there.
They were early. Too early to play, too late to back out.
Stardust was already backstage, stretching, laughing, entirely too comfortable. They looked like they belonged here in a way Ricky still wasn’t sure he ever would. Jiwoong caught sight of them first, eyes sharp, smile already forming.
Their performance went on before the band’s. Ricky tried not to watch, and he failed immediately.
The moment Stardust hit the stage, the crowd surged forward like it had been waiting all night just for them. Screams ripped through the room, loud and high and unrestrained. Phones shot up instantly, lights blinking like fireflies. They moved like the stage had been built around them, every step confident, every gesture deliberate.
Ricky’s chest tightened. He told himself he wasn’t jealous. Just observant.
As Stardust exited, flushed and grinning, Jiwoong glanced over his shoulder. His eyes locked on Ricky’s for half a second. Then, with exaggerated slowness, he mouthed, good luck, lips quirking upward like it was half-teasing, half-sincere.
Ricky looked away before his face could give him away.
The backstage felt smaller suddenly. The band gathered near their instruments, the hum of the crowd seeping through the walls. Hanbin checked his notes for the tenth time, pen tapping nervously. Taerae bounced on his heels, excitement and terror battling for dominance. Yujin rolled his shoulders, jaw tight, eyes unfocused.
Ricky stared at his hands. They were shaking. Not violently. Just enough to notice. Enough to make his grip on the bass feel unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else. He tried to steady his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, but his chest felt too tight to cooperate.
Then Gyuvin was there. No announcement. No dramatic gesture. Just warmth. His hand slipped into Ricky’s like it had always known where to go.
Ricky inhaled sharply.
“Hey,” Gyuvin murmured, thumb brushing over Ricky’s knuckles. “I’ve got you.”
Ricky didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Instead, he gripped back, fingers tightening instinctively, grounding himself in the solid, undeniable reality of someone choosing to stay.
The band noticed, but no one said anything. Hanbin glanced over briefly, then looked away, expression softening. Yujin pretended not to see but shifted closer anyway. Taerae stared for a second too long before leaning toward Yujin and whispering, barely audible, “I’m happy for them, but I hate it here.”
Seconds later, their name was called. The walk to the stage felt unreal, like Ricky was moving through water. Lights blinded him momentarily, heat washing over his skin. The crowd was larger than he expected—rows upon rows of faces, indistinct but present. Watching.
He stepped into his usual spot hesitantly. He then took half a step forward and felt better when no one stopped him.
And when the first note rang out, something clicked.
The band locked in almost immediately, sound weaving together like they’d rehearsed this exact moment a hundred times without realizing it. Hanbin’s keys were steady, confident. Taerae’s voice soared without strain. Yujin drove the rhythm forward, sharp and relentless.
Gyuvin’s guitar wasn’t perfect. But it was fearless.
Ricky felt the bass vibrate through his chest, anchoring everything, filling the spaces between notes like he always had—except now, he felt seen doing it. He looked up once, briefly, and caught Gyuvin watching him, smiling like this was the coolest thing he’d ever witnessed.
The crowd responded. Not explosively. Not all at once. But steadily. Cheers grew louder. Phones stayed raised. Someone near the front shouted the band’s name, and then someone else joined in. By the final chorus, Ricky could hear it clearly—chanting, imperfect but earnest.
When the last note hit, the sound didn’t vanish. It lingered.
Applause crashed over them, warm and loud and real. Ricky stood there, heart pounding, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin, and realized something strange.
He wasn’t thinking about the results.
They didn’t win. Ricky found out later, when the names were announced, and Stardust predictably took the top spot again. There was no sting. No hollow drop in his stomach. Just acceptance.
Because the crowd was still cheering. Students clustered near the stage afterward, phones out, talking excitedly, replaying clips. Someone asked for their socials. Someone else asked when they’d perform again.
Ricky looked at his bandmates—flushed, laughing, alive—and felt something settle into place.
For the first time, losing didn’t hurt. Because somewhere between the shaking hands and the held breath, between the grip of Gyuvin’s fingers and the sound of their name being shouted back at them, they had already won something else.
The school event felt nothing like a competition.
That was the first thing Ricky noticed as they were herded backstage, instruments in hand, soundchecks echoing faintly through the gymnasium. There was no stiff seating arrangement, no judges sitting in the front row with clipboards and neutral expressions. Instead, the space buzzed with chaotic, unfiltered energy—students milling about, banners half-taped to walls, strings of lights zigzagging overhead like they’d been hung in a rush and left that way on purpose.
It smelled like sugar and sweat and something fried.
Ricky adjusted the strap of his bass, eyes tracing the gap between the stage curtains where he could see flashes of movement. Too much movement. Too many people. The crowd noise bled through the walls in waves, loud enough that he could feel it in his chest, vibrating alongside the bass like a second heartbeat.
“This is… a lot,” Taerae said softly, peeking out and immediately retreating. “This is more people than our last three competitions combined.”
Hanbin didn’t respond right away. He stood near the equipment cases, notebook tucked under his arm for once, staring straight ahead like he was bracing himself for impact. Yujin paced in tight circles, cracking his knuckles, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
Stardust occupied the other half of the backstage area, as if they owned it.
They looked relaxed. Annoyingly so.
Jiwoong stretched with the ease of someone who knew exactly how the night would go. Matthew was already half-hyped, bouncing in place to music only he could hear. Gunwook leaned against the wall, arms crossed, surveying everything with quiet assessment. Hao—Hao was crouched by a table of water bottles.
Ricky didn’t realize what was happening until Hanbin made a sound halfway between a gasp and a dramatic inhale.
“Hao,” Hanbin said sharply. “Is that our water?”
Hao looked up, blinking innocently, a bottle already in his hand. “Oh? This? I thought it was communal.”
“It is not communal,” Hanbin replied, stepping forward with surprising speed. “That’s labeled.”
Hao glanced down at the barely legible Sharpie on the side, then smiled, unbothered. “Wow. Artistic handwriting.”
Before Ricky could even process what was happening, Hanbin snatched the bottle back, clutching it to his chest like it was sacred. “Absolutely not. Hydration is a privilege, not a right.”
Matthew laughed so hard he nearly dropped to the floor.
Jiwoong raised his hands. “Hey, hey. No fighting before the show.”
Yujin muttered, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
Gyuvin leaned toward Ricky, whispering, “If he steals your water, I’ll fight him.”
Ricky huffed a laugh, tension easing just a little.
Stardust went onstage first.
The roar of the crowd was immediate and overwhelming. Even backstage, it felt like standing too close to fireworks—sound crashing in, adrenaline spiking whether you wanted it to or not. Ricky listened as the beat kicked in, felt the floor vibrate under his shoes, and wondered distantly what it must feel like to walk onto a stage knowing people were already screaming your name.
When the cheers peaked and began to fade, a staff member poked her head backstage. “You’re up next.”
The words landed heavily.
Hanbin took a breath. “Okay. This is it. Remember—watch each other. Listen. We’re not here to be perfect.”
Taerae nodded, eyes shining. “We’re here to have fun.”
Yujin rolled his shoulders. “I hate this. Let’s do it.”
Ricky stepped toward the curtain, heart pounding hard enough to drown out everything else. He hesitated at the edge, peeking through the gap—
And froze.
The crowd was massive.
Not just big—alive. Students packed shoulder to shoulder, lights waving, voices overlapping. Some were already chanting, others just buzzing with post-performance energy. It was the biggest audience Ricky had ever seen, and for a terrifying second, his instinct was to step back. To retreat to his usual spot behind everyone else. To let the music happen around him instead of through him.
Gyuvin’s shoulder brushed his.
Ricky inhaled.
When they walked out, the lights hit fast and bright, washing the stage in warmth. The noise surged again, but this time it wasn’t just for Stardust. It was for them. People cheered when Taerae waved. Someone screamed when Gyuvin lifted his guitar. Ricky heard his own name—faint, but unmistakable.
He took his place. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward.
Just a little. Enough that he could see the crowd clearly. Enough that the bass felt less like a shield and more like an extension of himself. The first note rang out, deep and steady, grounding everything that followed.
The performance wasn’t perfect.
It was better than that.
It was joyful. Messy in the way only honest things were. Taerae laughed mid-verse and didn’t bother hiding it. Yujin hit the drums like he meant every beat personally. Hanbin closed his eyes during the bridge, fingers flying. Gyuvin moved freely, confidence finally catching up to skill, turning mistakes into flair.
Ricky played like he belonged there. He felt the music ripple outward, felt the crowd respond—not as spectators, but as participants. Jumping. Cheering. Living inside the sound with them.
For once, he wasn’t standing behind the band. He was part of it.
And as the final chord rang out, lights blazing, voices rising, Ricky smiled—wide and unguarded—bass humming warmly in his hands, knowing this moment would stay with him long after the noise faded.
The applause didn’t die down right away.
It rolled over the stage in warm, chaotic waves—cheers, whistles, shouting, the unmistakable sound of people who weren’t ready to let the moment end. Ricky stood there for a second longer than necessary, bass still humming faintly against his body, chest rising and falling like he’d just surfaced from underwater.
His hands were steady now.
That felt important.
Taerae laughed breathlessly, waving at the crowd like he’d just won something enormous. Yujin leaned forward, hands braced on his knees, grinning despite himself. Hanbin looked stunned—like he was trying to memorize the sound, afraid it might disappear if he blinked.
Ricky turned slightly, searching for Gyuvin without thinking.
That’s when it happened.
Gyuvin took two quick steps forward and reached for the mic.
Ricky’s stomach flipped.
“Wait—” Hanbin started, instinctively reaching out, but Gyuvin was already holding it, already smiling out at the crowd like he’d made up his mind somewhere between the last chord and now.
“Hey,” Gyuvin said.
The room quieted—not instantly, but noticeably. The kind of hush that came from curiosity rather than command.
“I know we were supposed to clear the stage,” Gyuvin continued, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the band. “But I just—give me a second. Please.”
Ricky felt his pulse in his throat.
Gyuvin turned fully toward them first.
“Thank you,” he said, voice softer now, sincere in a way that made Ricky’s chest ache. “All of you. For letting me crash your band with zero skills and way too much confidence. For trusting me. For not kicking me out seconds after you all found out I played nothing.”
Taerae made a dramatic wiping motion in his eyes. Yujin scoffed, but didn’t look away.
Then Gyuvin turned back to the crowd. “And especially,” he said, slowing down, “thank you to Ricky.”
The name hit harder than any applause.
Ricky froze.
Gyuvin looked at him openly now—no teasing smile, no playful glint. Just honesty, bare and unguarded.
“I liked him,” Gyuvin said, simply, “from the first time I saw him play.”
A ripple moved through the crowd.
“He stood in the back,” Gyuvin continued, “didn’t talk much. Didn’t try to be impressive. But somehow, he was holding everything together. Quietly. Every time.”
Ricky’s fingers tightened around the neck of his bass.
“I fell in love watching that,” Gyuvin said. “Watching him care without needing to be loud about it. Joining this band was never about popularity. It was about him.”
The silence shattered.
The crowd exploded—screams, cheers, someone shrieking “oh my god”, phones shooting back up like they’d been waiting for permission. Stardust was the loudest of all—Matthew yelling incoherently, Jiwoong clapping above his head, Hao cupping his hands to shout something Ricky couldn’t hear but felt anyway, Gunwook smirking like he knew everything from the start.
Gyuvin turned back to Ricky, eyes bright, vulnerable. “I meant what I said,” he added. “There were conditions at first. But there aren’t anymore. I don’t want to pretend.”
Ricky’s ears rang. Not from the noise—from the way everything suddenly made sense.
He stepped forward before he could talk himself out of it, heart pounding, bass strap slipping as he shifted it aside. Gyuvin offered him the mic without hesitation.
Ricky took it.
The crowd quieted again, like they knew this part mattered.
“I…” Ricky swallowed. Took a breath. “I stopped pretending a long time ago.”
That was all it took.
“I thought I was invisible,” Ricky said, voice steady now. “Turns out I just wasn’t looking up.”
He handed the mic back. Gyuvin didn’t wait. He closed the distance between them and kissed him—right there, under the lights, with the crowd roaring and their friends losing their minds behind them. No conditions. No agreements. Just a choice.
Ricky kissed back, smiling into it, bass forgotten at his side, feeling seen in a way he never had before.
When they pulled apart, Taerae screamed, “About time!” and Yujin muttered, “I knew it,” like he’d put money on it months ago.
Stardust cheered like they’d won too.
And maybe they all had.
The venue emptied slowly.
Not all at once—just a gradual thinning. The kind where the echoes lingered longer than the people. Cables were being coiled somewhere backstage. Someone laughed too loudly down the hall. The smell of sweat and warm equipment hung in the air.
Ricky sat on the edge of the stage, bass resting against his thigh, absentmindedly wiping the strings with the hem of his shirt.
Gyuvin approached without announcing himself, like he always did by then. He dropped down beside Ricky, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Neither of them moved away.
For a while, they just sat there, listening to the quiet come back.
“You were really good today,” Gyuvin said finally.
Ricky hummed. “You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
Ricky smiled—small and unguarded.
Gyuvin swung his legs lightly, then stilled. There was a pause—different from their usual comfortable silence. This one carried weight.
“So,” Gyuvin said, carefully casual, “I was thinking.”
Ricky glanced at him. “That’s dangerous.”
Gyuvin snorted, then looked down at his hands. “Be serious.”
He took a breath. “Am I…still needed in the band?”
The question landed softly—but it landed.
Ricky didn’t answer right away. He set his bass down properly this time, leaned back on his palms, and looked out at the empty seats—the place where the crowd had been only minutes earlier.
Then he turned to Gyuvin.
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation. “And I need you.”
Gyuvin blinked. “Oh.”
Ricky shrugged, like it had been obvious all along.
“You’re part of this,” he continued. “You always were. Not just the band. Me.”
Gyuvin’s smile came, slow and careful, like he was afraid of moving too fast and breaking something fragile.
“Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on leaving.”
Ricky reached out—hesitated for half a second—then laced their fingers together.
The stage was dark by then. The noise was gone. No one was watching.
And for the first time, that felt exactly right.