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Kim Hongjoong gets nervous easily.
You’d think that after fifteen years since his – their – debut, he would personify confidence – flair and charisma, presence and grace, a man carved out of stage lights and certainty. That’s what people say about him, anyway.
And maybe they’re right, in parts. He is their leader. The Captain. The entire industry knows that he shields his family, seven of the most important people in his life, with unapologetically reckless ferocity. He knows how to navigate questionable contract negotiations, unfair broadcast station treatment, the cruel, careless bites of tabloids. Fifteen years in the industry have taught him how to stand still, steady in the storm, how to harden his skin without hardening his heart.
But deep at night – when the cameras are gone, when the world shrinks to quiet streets and soft lamplight by a shared bedside – that armour loosens.
When he’s holding the love of his life close to his chest, arm running down his back in silent reverence, soft, calming breathing filling the room, he’s reminded of another side of himself.
The Kim Hongjoong who’s vulnerable, human, and truly, madly, deeply in love.
Who gets incredibly, easily, embarrassingly nervous around Park Seonghwa for absolutely no reason at all.
I’m so in love, he sighs contentedly, the thought easing into his chest like hot chocolate on New Year’s Day, rich, sweet and unmistakably warm. The air is cool, tinged with sugar from the gelato shop. It clings to his skin in a way that makes everything feel unreal, like a memory crystallising in real time.
He watches him through the glass.
Seonghwa stands by the counter, long fingers curled carefully around two cones, brows furrowed in concentration as he listens to the vendor explain something in rapid Italian or broken English. He nods along earnestly, like this is the most important task in the world.
Hongjoong’s heart does something stupid in his chest. Again.
The last time they were here, they were bundled up, Seonghwa growing quieter toward the end of the trip as the cold seeped into his bones. Hongjoong remembers how badly he’d wanted to hold him close, to give him whatever extra warmth he could, as if his love alone could shield him from winter.
But he couldn’t back then, not with the cameras around, not with Seonghwa oblivious to the quiet, aching storm Hongjoong carried in his chest – feelings he’d buried like seeds deep beneath frozen ground.
Not this time, Hongjoong realises when Seonghwa throws back his head in a laugh. The thought blooms in him, sudden and bright, like spring breaking through frostbitten soil. Not anymore.
Seonghwa is wearing his favourite linen pants, the ones he only ever brings out for European holidays, as if they belong to a softer version of himself that exists only under foreign skies. The customised loose white dress shirt, courtesy of Petit Coussin, drapes effortlessly over his frame, soft where it should be, precise where it matters. It’s perfectly tailored around his sharp shoulders, the skin there faintly painted with deep-red blooms of affection left from the previous night. Slightly wrinkled from the day, its sleeves are rolled to his forearms, veins ghosting beneath his skin like delicate ink beneath porcelain.
There’s a marigold stitched on the left side of the shirt. Hongjoong had done it himself, golden thread in shaky hands, just above Seonghwa’s heart.
The tag on the inside of the nape reads For Seonghwa, my love.
No one else ever has to know that though.
Seonghwa turns then, eyes searching the street, and when he spots Hongjoong, his face softens into a smile – gentle, private, like it belongs only to them.
“Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa pipes, sunlight catching in the pale blond of his hair as he exits the store, handing Hongjoong his cone, “The closest thing they had to rainbow sherbet was lemon sherbet. So just take it, and be happy about it.”
“Thank you, my love,” Hongjoong says sweetly, the words warm, intimate, like sunlight spilling through glass. Their fingers brush and his fingertips tingle in quiet delight. Even after eight years, Seonghwa’s presence still feels unreal, like something borrowed from a dream he’s afraid to wake from. He presses a kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek when he hands him back his card, lingering just a second too long.
Seonghwa drags his long tongue up the length of his strawberry gelato and Hongjoong’s mind is sent straight back to last night in their hotel bed. He swallows thickly, shoving delicious thoughts of Fuck Hongjoong, faster, ah! – to the back of his mind. His pulse stumbles and he looks away, smiling to himself.
Kim Hongjoong is a simple man.
“Come on, we should get to the dock now.” Seonghwa’s hand reaches out, catching Hongjoong’s into his own. Fingers lace together in a familiar, fluid motion.
Hongjoong looks down at their intertwined hands, their team rings catching the light and chiming softly against each other. Eight years, and his heart still feels too full for his chest.
“Yes, my love.”
It’s a familiar scene. They’re back on the ferry at Varenna. There are more people this time, still no seats on the upper deck (Seonghwa had sent Hongjoong to scout) so they’ve claimed a corner for themselves, shoulders pressed against each other, knees brushing with the sway of the boat. The faint scent of Seonghwa’s cologne drifts up, soft and intoxicating. Hongjoong has to bite back the instinct to lean in and kiss him, right here, in the open.
They’ve travelled overseas before in the past eight years, far from cameras and Korean paparazzi. They’ve never been caught, but Hongjoong would be lying if he said that the thought of the public, the media, ATINY, finding out, didn't coil fear tight in his chest.
The fear and anxiety had peaked in their second year together, when Dispatch threatened to release a photo of them. It had been an arguably harmless photo, just two silhouettes standing beneath a street lamp, hands intertwined. To any outsider, it could have easily been brushed off as bandmates offering comfort through hard times. Though, heck, given their - MATZ’s - reputation, no one would have even suspected them. Kim Hongjoong, initiating physical contact?
But it had been enough. Enough to make Hongjoong truly confront the fragile line they teetered on, enough to make Hongjoong recognise the weight of getting caught. KQ had intervened, paid the tabloids off, and sent the two of them away with a warning that tasted like iron. And from that night on, Seonghwa insisted on vigilance: every gesture measured, every glance considered.
But six years later, and no longer bound to the company, Hongjoong feels lighter. The pulse of fear hasn’t vanished entirely; the flutter in his chest still lingers, a quiet echo of what they stand to lose. Yet one look at Seonghwa — leaning against the railing, eyes half-closed in the breeze, pale blond hair catching the sun like spun gold — dissolves every worry.
No matter what comes our way, he thinks, we’ll handle it together.
And the thought doesn’t feel naïve. It feels solid, anchored by a chaotic blend of six other men he trusts with his life, who he knows will stand beside them should the world ever catch up.
“Still no Titanic?” Seonghwa breaks his reverie and side-eyes him, finishing off his cone with the grace of someone who owns their every movement.
Hongjoong chuckles, gently nudging his side, “I’ll throw you overboard.”
“But you’ll jump in to save me right?”
“It depends,” Hongjoong teases, voice low and sultry, a teasing promise hidden beneath the levity. “What’s in it for me?”
Seonghwa rolls his eyes but there’s no animosity in them, and leans his head onto Hongjoong’s anyway, the faint brush of his hair against Hongjoong’s cheek sending shivers down his spine. “I’ll give you one more goodnight kiss tonight.”
“That’s a tempting proposition,” Hongjoong murmurs, lips curling with mischief and something far more earnest.
He slides his hand over Seonghwa’s, thumb grazing the base of the taller’s left ring finger, lingering there — an absent-minded caress that feels anything but accidental. Seonghwa keeps his gaze on the glittering water, unaware of the tremor in Hongjoong’s grip, unaware of the storm gathering quietly in his chest.
He slides a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small velvet box he’s carried like a secret, second heartbeat. His thumb rests on the smooth surface, tracing the edge as though testing the courage inside him, like the ring itself might pulse back, urging him forward.
He’s waited for this day for years.
Back when everything was loud and fragile and borrowed, when love was something he had to hide in the margins of his life, tucked carefully between schedules and contracts, he’d made a vow to himself. Once things settled. Once the chaos softened into something survivable. Once the world loosened its grip on them – he would ask.
He would bare his soul, his heart, his future, to Park Seonghwa.
And now, here they are. On this day, eight years after Seonghwa had made that post — after the confession that shattered and remade them, after Hongjoong had realised that loving Seonghwa wasn’t just a chapter in his life, but the spine that held the entire book together.
The world might watch.
The world will judge.
But here — here, with Seonghwa leaning into him, warmth pressed into his side, fingers discreetly laced together as naturally as breathing, their laughter dissolving into the gentle lapping of the lake, none of that matters.
Here, it is only them.
And Hongjoong thinks, with quiet certainty: this is the rest of my life.
Hand in hand, they wander the familiar, sunlit streets of Bellagio, the early summer air warm against their skin. The wind carries the delicious smell of baked bread and citrus and fresh flowers drifting from open cafés. More shops are awake this time, their colorful displays blooming outward and spilling onto the cobblestones.
Seonghwa, ever the quiet presence in the world of fashion, pauses in front of a familiar Isabel Marant display. He poses with effortless grace, every line and tilt of his body precise and natural. Hongjoong snaps more photos than necessary, pretending he doesn’t already know which one will become his wallpaper later.
The quaint souvenir shop from eight years ago still stands, its weathered sign swaying lazily above the doorway. Seonghwa skips in and this time, Hongjoong follows.
The creak of the floorboards echoes like a gentle memory. Basket in hand, Seonghwa carefully picks out magnets for each of their six friends, eyes sparkling with quiet delight. Each choice fits its recipient perfectly – Seonghwa’s thoughtful, considerate nature on full display, one of the countless reasons Hongjoong fell quietly, irrevocably in love with him in the first place.
“I’m getting Yeosang this one,” Seonghwa announces smugly, holding up a magnet with a Doberman standing guard by a regal gate. He shuffles through his basket, counts only four magnets and frowns, “What would your favourite son like?”
“Wooyoung is not my favourite,” he protests, though his mind is filled only with fond memories.
“I didn't name anyone,” Seonghwa singsongs.
Hongjoong leans closer, the warmth of his shoulder brushing against Seonghwa’s, sunlight catching in the strands of his own dark hair — rich and natural now, a quiet symbol of subtle freedom after over a decade of monthly dyes and upkeep. He studies the rack.
“How about this one?” Hongjoong says softly, holding up a magnet of a windowsill where two cats rest together — one jet black, one orange, curled in quiet companionship.
Seonghwa’s expression softens. He meets Hongjoong’s eyes for a brief moment, something knowing and gentle passing between them. “They will love that one,” he says, dropping it into the basket.
Hongjoong watches him, the simple ease of Seonghwa’s happiness making his chest ache in the softest way.
At the counter, the magnets clink softly against the wicker as Seonghwa sets the basket down. The shopkeeper, a kindly older man with salt-and-peppered hair and eyes that seem to have witnessed decades of love stories, takes the basket with familiarity borne into his movements. He studies them for a moment and his face lights up with a warm, knowing smile.
“Oh, what a lovely couple! Are you two here on your honeymoon?”
Hongjoong coughs loudly, sharp and startled.
“Sorry?” Seonghwa squeaks, voice much higher than usual, “Oh no we’re –”
“Your wedding bands are beautiful,” he continues, gesturing at their team rings, and hands them their purchases. They reach for it at the same time and their fingers brush — just barely — and Hongjoong’s skin ignites, heat blooming beneath fingertips.
Kim Hongjoong, get it together, he groans, It’s been eight years.
But Hongjoong sees Seonghwa flush red too, right up to the tips of his ears and down to the graceful line of his collarbone. The older clumsily takes the paper bag. He hears him mutter something about waiting outside and escapes the shop, usual poise forgotten, leaving behind only the faint warmth of his presence, lingering like perfume in the air.
“Is he the shy type?” The shopkeeper teases, eyes crinkling kindly as he slides Hongjoong his change. The coins clink softly against the counter, grounding, ordinary.
“Oh we’re not married –” Hongjoong begins.
“– Yet.” The man supplies gently, lips quirking with a knowing look. “But you’re in love, aren’t you?”
Hongjoong exhales, the breath leaving him like a confession. Through the window, he finds Seonghwa leaning against the railing, the afternoon light painting him in gold. He’s arranged the magnets in a neat row, each one aligned with careful precision, fingers adjusting them as though they’re something precious. He lifts his phone, snapping a photo, focused and serene.
Seonghwa’s smile — quiet, tender — hits Hongjoong like a wave. His throat goes dry, chest tightening, vision blurring for just a heartbeat.
This is real, he realises, awe and disbelief braided together. We’re real. And he’s mine.
He turns back to the shopkeeper, lips curving into a small, honest smile that feels like a vow.
“Yes,” he says simply. “I am.”
They have lunch at the same restaurant. Sunlight pours through the tall windows, late afternoon sunlight catching Seonghwa’s pale blond hair in a halo, and Hongjoong can’t help but steal little glances, each one a quiet pulse in his chest.
Seonghwa helps cut Hongjoong’s steak again, grumbling again about how God only gave him idol stats. Hongjoong just chuckles softly when he extracts the mussels for Seonghwa so he doesn’t soil his sleeves. Their movements are practiced, just two people who have learned each other’s rhythms better than their own.
They manage to get the gelato this time, though the waiter frowns when Hongjoong tries asking for rainbow sherbet. They settle for vanilla and strawberry after Hongjoong dramatically rejects their house-special mint chocolate.
When Seonghwa insists on an espresso again despite Hongjoong’s protests that it’s too bitter for him, Hongjoong rolls his eyes.
Anything for you, my love, he thinks, and orders it anyway.
When the espresso arrives, Seonghwa wrinkles his nose exactly as predicted, shoving the cup toward Hongjoong in mock protest. Hongjoong sighs fondly, taking the barely-drunk, lukewarm coffee to his lips. It is bitter, but by the gentle brush of Seonghwa’s hand against his lap, the taste turns sweet, sweeter than it did eight years ago. Warmth coils in his heart that has nothing to do with the drink.
The noise of the restaurant falls away. Hongjoong lifts their joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Seonghwa’s hand. He watches colour bloom across the older’s cheeks, spreading slowly, like dawn creeping across the sky.
“Hongjoong-ah, we’re in public,” Seonghwa murmurs, but doesn’t pull away.
Hongjoong says nothing, just kisses his knuckles again.
Later, they retrace their steps up the lemon tree-lined path. The trees are heavy with fruit now, a riot of yellow against the summer-green leaves. They sing Lemon Drop this time, Seonghwa’s melodic, tenor voice intertwining with the breeze. Seonghwa laughs when Hongjoong forgets part of the choreography, the sound as bright as the sun itself.
Hongjoong impossibly falls a little more in love.
His hand slips into his pocket. He squeezes the velvet box, feeling the small weight of the future resting against his palm.
Soon.
And just as Hongjoong had planned, they pass by the bench on the way back. Hongjoong’s heart stutters at the memory of the moment lodged there, fossilised in cold stone and even colder air.
“Joongie-yah, I’m tired,” Seonghwa had complained, Hongjoong saw the way his warm breath fogged in the cold winter air, “It’s freezing.”
Hongjoong had panicked instantly. The urge to reach out, to wrap him in whatever warmth he could give, had surged through him like electricity.
But the red recording light and the two cameras on either side of them reminded him of the impossible.
And more importantly, beyond that — Seonghwa, who would never know, who could never know, because the truth thrumming in Hongjoong’s chest would shatter him if revealed.
He had glanced around, pulse stuttering. “Oh, shit, yeah. Okay.” His voice came out lighter than he felt, worry twisting sour in his stomach, at the thought of Seonghwa’s discomfort.
They trudged on for a minute more before Hongjoong’s eyes spotted a stone bench. Out in the open, but better than nothing, “It’s still awhile more till we need to go. Let’s rest there for a bit?”
Seonghwa had nodded, blowing warm air into his gloves but Hongjoong saw the shivers that wracked his frame. He silently cursed himself for not double checking the weather that morning, for dragging him out here unprepared.
He saw Seonghwa’s arms wrapped tightly around himself, shoulders curling inward – and something in Hongjoong cracked.
Without thinking, without weighing consequences, he crossed the distance in two strides and slid a steady arm around Seonghwa’s waist.
He heard Seonghwa gasp, body stiffening only momentarily. Panic flooded Hongjoong.
Fuck. I shouldn’t have done that. Fuck– Kim Hongjoong what the fuck are you thinking you’re in public and he doesn’t see you like that fuck–
His hand was pulling back, a silent retreat, apology rising to his lips–
Then Seonghwa relaxed into him.
The relief was dizzying, intoxicating.
Hongjoong guided him to the bench, wiping away the dirt like he could make the world gentler for him with his hands. When he sat down, he’d accidentally sat too close — shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee — the cold had fogged his mind.
He didn’t dare move, though ready to at a heartbeat if displeasure flickered in Seonghwa’s gaze.
But from the corner of his eye, he saw how soft Seonghwa looked. Lips curled into the smallest, private smile, as though reserved only for him.
So he stayed.
The cold air bit at his skin but where they touched, his skin seared.
“Thanks for doing this trip with me, Hwa.” Hongjoong said, a small smile on his lips. He had adjusted his glasses back onto his nosebridge – the glasses Seonghwa had chosen for him during the last leg of their tour. Seonghwa would never know this, but it was the only pair he had worn since, “It was really fun.”
“Yeah,” he remembers Seonghwa replying, “The trip of a lifetime.”
Hongjoong went still at the reply, words landing like stone against his crystalline heart, cracking edges in places no one but him would see, would feel. Oh, how Seonghwa would never know the quiet, cruel depths of his devotion, the way his world narrowed until it fit perfectly around one person.
They both had early schedules the next day. But when they had returned from the concert the previous night, the pamphlet of Lake Como by the reception desk caught his eye, something in him stilled.
Distantly, he remembered all the times Seonghwa, curled on the dorm floor with tiny Lego figures, would explain Star Wars lore he barely understood. He listened anyway.
“Padme and Anakin got married there,” Seonghwa had commented offhandedly one night when Hongjoong visited his dorm, arranging his finished Star Wars lego set in neat rows on his table display.
“Did they?” Hongjoong nodded, parking the comment away, though heart aching at the recognition that he’d never truly have any real use for the information.
So Hongjoong did something selfish. As the leader of ATEEZ, it was always members (Park Seonghwa) first, but this time, just this once he would allow himself to indulge his fantasies, his delusions.
And so he’d gone straight to his manager’s room and begged. Begged them to let them go to Lake Como, framed it as a marketing stunt, pitched the opportunity to make content.
His manager raised an eyebrow, not questioning his suggestion, but his intent. Still, he agreed. And to Hongjoong’s relief, Seonghwa didn't protest the idea either.
Hongjoong remembered nervously asking his manager if he had happened to take any photos of them on the bench together. His question was met with another raised eyebrow, though not unkind, not judging.
He had received the photo a week later.
:)
That’s the caption. Like he knew.
Hongjoong never addressed it.
When Seonghwa posted the same photo two weeks later, Hongjoong almost cried.
Then he read the caption: bestie.
He had smiled anyway – devastating, aching, pathetic. And chose the most socially acceptable gif he could find, something light and harmless and painfully neutral. A digital joke that swallowed everything he could never say.
He watched the comments roll in, watched fans coo over friendship and believed chemistry, watched strangers narrate a story that bled into the quiet truth of his heart.
So yes, trip of a lifetime indeed. The first and only time he’d ever allow himself to believe that they were real, were more.
He’d take whatever Seonghwa would give him.
And he’d be grateful for it.
“This brings back memories,” Seonghwa says fondly, hands in his lap when he sits down. The bench is far warmer than Hongjoong remembers.
Hongjoong sits beside him, this time without hesitation, without calculation. He slides an arm around Seonghwa’s waist openly, deliberately, like reclaiming a moment he had once stolen and tucked away.
Seonghwa leans into him instantly, natural as gravity, and exhales a soft, contented breath.
“I asked manager-nim for a photo back then,” Seonghwa admits, shy, almost hesitant. “Of us sitting on this very bench.”
“Did you now?” Hongjoong muses quietly, heart stuttering like it’s trying to escape his ribs.
His palm presses against his pocket, the velvet box pushing into his skin, solid and insistent. A reminder. A promise of a future.
He has never truly been a planner with his own merit. He moves through life on instinct, on stubborn effort, on the sheer force of wanting something badly enough. Planning feels foreign, clinical, like trying to cage a storm. Something Seonghwa never understood.
So when he’d gone to his ex-dormmate for help, he’d known it meant something. It had felt like admitting that this mattered more than his pride. He welcomed it entirely, without hesitation.
---
Wooyoung had sighed dramatically, arms folded, leaning into his husband’s chest, like he owned the space. The move was utterly familiar. Hongjoong felt a pang of envy and fondness all at once.
“You haven't planned anything?” Wooyoung accused sharply, the rebuke cooled by the gentle brush of a kiss to his temple, soft enough to betray the fire beneath. “It’s my Seonghwa-hyung, and you–” he scoffed, incredulous, “–you have the nerve to come here and tell me you didn’t plan anything? You’re either really smooth… or incredibly stupid. And knowing you, Kim Hongjoong, you are definitely not the smooth type.”
“Jagiya, you know he’s not the kind to –”
Wooyoung swatted his husband’s hand away, gesture more theatrical than violent, no real heat behind it. Hongjoong recognised the affection disguised as irritation; he’d lived with it for years.
“Kim Hongjoong,” he leaned over the dining table in his marital home, voice low and sharp, words curling into a threat, “This is a once in a lifetime thing. You’re planning to ask the Park Seonghwa to marry you and you haven’t prepared anything? Are you kidding me right now?”
He threw his hands into the air, staring incredulously at San who only shook his head, lips curved in quiet amusement.
“You’re lucky he’s as stupidly in love with you as you are with him,” Wooyoung snarled at him, voice sharp but eyes soft. The disrespect is something Hongjoong thinks not many other leaders would allow.
But alas, it’s Jung Wooyoung. And deny it as he might, Hongjoong loved him deeply. So he forgave. Again. As usual.
“If not for that, I would have introduced him to other men long ago. The line is long, Captain, long.” Wooyoung continued, leaning back, San draped over him like a second shadow, warmth and light in a single chaotic package. Wooyoung’s eyes flicked over to his husband, “Say something.”
San just smiled wider, eyes fixed on Wooyoung like nothing else existed nor mattered.
“I’m sure Seonghwa-hyung would love whatever Joong-hyung puts together.”
“By God, Choi San,” Wooyoung rolled his eyes, shoving San off of him like he was personally offended. “Is that all you have to say? You’re lucky I was okay with your proposal.”
“You’re the one who said you wanted something simple by the beach…” San leaned in, chin resting on Wooyoung’s shoulder and grumbling into his nape. “I thought it was sweet.”
It was.
Hongjoong is reminded of the video call all those years ago, Wooyoung's eyes red and puffy, voice breaking with joy as he screamed We're engaged! into the phone against the backdrop of the couple's favourite beach in Namhae. Behind him, San’s quiet, trembling sobs, the soft press of lips against Wooyoung’s neck, his fingers tangled in hair, small, desperate gestures of affection that said everything words could not.
The six of them had crowded around the phone, faces pressed close. Hongjoong could still hear it, the overlapping laughter, the muffled sniffles, the gasps of awe and joy.
He also remembered thinking then, with a clarity that had haunted him for years: I want that. I want a love like that. And I want it with him.
Wooyoung exhaled, shoving him lightly – more habit than annoyance. San pouted, taking another bite of his strawberry cake. Hongjoong recognised it as the one sold only at the bakery near Wooyoung’s dance studio.
Then Wooyoung’s gaze sharpened, slits of danger and devotion both. “Fine, we’ll help you rehearse. But don’t you fuck this up. You have no idea how lucky you are,” he warned softly, words heavy with knowledge Hongjoong didn’t yet fully possess.
“I know,” Hongjoong sighed, sincerity weighing on every syllable. “I know how lucky I am. I love him so much, I just want–”
“Okay, ew, stop, I don’t want to hear that from you–”
“I love you so much, jagiya,” San had interjected, dimples on full display as he nosed Wooyoung’s cheek, planting a soft kiss there. The Sagittarius had sputtered, cheeks flushing crimson and eyes flicking away but utterly unresisting. Hongjoong heard Wooyoung mumble out a half-cooked protest before a chair leg scraped across the floor, the shorter shifting closer to his husband.
Hongjoong exhaled, part exasperated, part awed. It’d been almost ten years now of dealing with this pair’s married nonsense.
But as he looked up at them, San’s gaze clung to Wooyoung like he was his salvation, his purpose in this cruel, unrelenting world, and Wooyoung returning it with matched intensity, every ounce of his soul reflected back, Hongjoong felt the truth wrap his soul like a warm embrace.
This would be his future.
Park Seonghwa would be worth it all.
---
So he had it all planned out this time.
The same boat route, the same winding paths, the same little shops tucked into corners of the city like secrets. And when they would reach the bench – now warmed by the summer sun, eight years after that day that still leaves Hongjoong breathless and grateful and reeling – he would ask.
He would ask Park Seonghwa to be his, to have, and to hold.
For the rest of his life, for as long as his heart still beats.
He shifts in his seat, box kneading into his sides, a living reminder of every year he’d waited, every promise he’d rehearsed in silence. Every instinct, every reckless, chaotic part of him screaming to leap forward, to spill every word, every longing, every confession at once. But he calms himself,
Breathe, Kim Hongjoong, breathe. Stick to the script.
And so he starts.
“Seonghwa I–”
“Thank you for bringing us here, Joongie-yah,” Seonghwa looks at him, eyes soft, and gently nuzzles his cheek, “Feels like we’ve come full circle.”
Fuck, he wasn’t supposed to say anything. What do I say now?
“Right,” Hongjoong says, voice tight, nervous.
Seonghwa frowns, “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Hongjoong quips back too fast.
Wait what was the next line? Fuck.
He knows Seonghwa can see through him, knows he always has. But Seonghwa only shakes his head with fondness and doesn’t press further, like he’s seen this nervousness a thousand times and loved him through all of it. He squeezes Hongjoong’s hand, their fingers lacing together, joined palms resting on Hongjoong’s thigh.
Hongjoong’s hands are older now, roughened, knuckles marked by years of microphones, pens, stage lights, and gentle pressure of Seonghwa’s hand in his.
“Eight years,” Seonghwa said softly, voice barely above the hum of the world around them, “Eight whole years since we’ve been here.”
Hongjoong drinks him in. The lines of his face sharpened by time, softened by the love Hongjoong has poured into him, by shared laughter, shared grief, shared mornings.
“How different things were back then,” Seonghwa continues, gaze drifting somewhere far away, somewhere younger, “We worked really hard, didn't we? Because we didn't know which comeback would be our last.”
Hongjoong’s throat tightens.
“And here we are, so many years later.” Seonghwa looks down at their intertwined hands, “No more KQ, no more seven-year contracts. Just us eight, against the world.”
Hongjoong’s eyes trace the faint creases on Seonghwa’s face that have weathered into his skin over the years, seasoned with time and laughter, the subtle shadow beneath his eyes that speak of sleepless nights spent worrying, planning, dreaming. He inhales, chest aching, oh how in love he is.
And how lucky he is to have been able to be with him, stand by him, through it all.
“Eight makes one team,” Hongjoong supplies softly.
“Eight makes one team,” Seonghwa repeats, voice softer than anything Hongjoong’s heard in a long time, the kind that lingers between heartbeats.
“Thank you for doing this trip with me, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said, lifting his gaze. Eyes locking on Hongjoong’s, glinting, threatening to spill diamonds. His heart clenches.
He had started this journey alone. Eighteen and unafraid, young and reckless. He toiled endlessly through loneliness and ambition for six months before he was joined by one. Then two. And then they were eight, a constellation of chaos, light in the darkness.
And now the world has shrunk to the two of them, The other six waiting in Korea, a constellation paused, orbiting somewhere far but constant.
Distantly, he can still hear Mingi’s boisterous laugh, see Yunho drape an easy arm around Mingi’s shoulders as they argue about how the font on a presentation neither of them contributed to is too small. Yeosang muttering something about if you have a problem with it then how about you do it while he hovers over his laptop. Jongho yelping, struggling in Wooyoung’s shameless, forced embrace as he tries to steal a kiss again for the third time that day. And San, well San is in the corner, smiling like a quiet witness to everything they’ve built, favourite strawberry mochi in hand.
Hongjoong doesn’t believe in fate. Life is a looping, tangled mess of coincidences, chaos stitched together like some unfinished tapestry.
But when he looks at the team ring, when he looks at Seonghwa, he thinks that fate had whispered its hand into the wave after all.
And so he grips the box again, emboldened. Heart hammering in a rhythm all its own.
He clears his throat.
“Seonghwa-yah,” he starts, words already folding, melting in his brain.
“Hmm?” Seonghwa smiles lazily, utterly unaware of the gravity he carries, of how he unravels Kim Hongjoong with just the tilt of his head, how he is ruin and salvation all at once.
Hongjoong’s lungs seize. Eight years of hidden glances lousily packaged as impatience and intolerance, fingers brushing under tables unseen by cameras, stolen moments behind velvet curtains backstage after shows, and whispered confessions in the quietest corners of the night. All of it has led him here. Here, exactly where he has always wanted to be, and somehow never dared to hope he could.
So now, box in hand, he will ask.
“Seonghwa-yah, I –”
“Oh fuck!” Seonghwa sits up jerkily, “Joong-ah, what’s the time now?”
Hongjoong grits his teeth and groans, Seonghwa-yah…
“It’s four, my love,” he provides, thumbing hesitantly over the box, mind spiralling now that the moment’s broken.
“Oh shit, we need to go! We need to board the boat at 4:40 to be back in Milan by 6:30. Dinner’s at 7:30 so we still have time to change and freshen up and–”
Hongjoong exhales sharply, shoulders tensing as the velvet box presses into his side like an insistent little heartbeat, reminding him of the purpose of the trip, of his horrendous timing. He huffs, hands gripping the edges of the bench. Seonghwa-yah…
Seonghwa is already on his feet, gathering his things with almost ceremonial grace, “Joongie-yah let’s go.”
Hongjoong swallows, lips twitching. Eight years to this moment, and now his brain has short-circuited entirely, plan flung directly into the lake, weighted down by rocks.
What the fuck do I do now.
“I just… need a second,” he says, voice small and panicked, “to… you know… breathe.”
It’s okay, it’s okay. You can still propose at the dinner.
Dinner is romantic. Candlelight. Wine. Wine is good, he likes wine.
Seonghwa pauses, looks at him with seasoned fondness, “Old man,” he teases, sliding a hand over Hongjoong’s arm and tugging him along.
Or at the park tomorrow. Or back in the hotel room.
Wait, fuck– he’s going to think that I’m lazy, or that I’m not serious about this.
He’s Park Seonghwa. He deserves fireworks and orchestras ah fuck Kim Hongjoong why didn't you think of a contingency plan?
“You say that,” Hongjoong mutters, mind spinning faster, “but you’re older than me.”
I’m fucked.
Every cell in him is screaming. He wants to grab him, stop time, maybe launch into a full, cinematic confession about love, fate, and rings. Instead he shuffles forward, stiff as a puppet, the velvet box a squirming, grumbling passenger in his jacket pocket.
KOMCA accredited singer-songwriter, fashion designer, leader of a group with millions of fans. But somehow, he can’t even ask one man to marry him.
Seonghwa laughs, the sound ringing like warm wind through cobblestones, tugging him forward, blissfully unaware of Hongjoong’s panic. Hongjoong can’t find a single bone in his body to be upset at him.
Get your shit together, Kim Hongjoong.
The sun is nearing the horizon when they reach the dock.
Hongjoong parks Seonghwa on a nearby bench, slipping a bottle of cool water with a lemon wedge in it into his hand. He’s prepared it just as Seonghwa likes, earning a smile and shy smooch on his cheek as thanks. It does little to calm him.
“Sorry, this boat is full, and so are the next few,” the staff says when he asks for the tickets in improved English, shrugging with the practiced indifference of someone who’s said the same thing hundreds of times that day.
“When’s the next one?” Hongjoong asks, voice tight with frustration. Is the world conspiring against him? His patience is teetering on cracking ice.
“At seven.”
“Is there no way to board any of the earlier boats?” Hongjoong taps his feet nervously, eyeing his watch.
The staff rolls their eyes, the movement sharp and impatient. “We get busy in summer. You should have done your research.”
Hongjoong’s jaw tightens, irritation rising, but he pays for the tickets departing in two hours anyway.
Seonghwa greets him with an expectant look and hopeful smile when he returns to the bench, “Can we board now?”
“Sorry Hwa, the next boat is at seven,” Hongjoong runs a hand through his hair, tugging at strands, self-inflicted punishment, “The earlier boats are all full.”
Seonghwa’s eyes widen, “What?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh…” Seonghwa’s mouth parts. His thumb brushes against his teeth, a tell-tale gesture of anxiety and agitation Hongjoong knows too well, “We’re gonna miss our dinner reservation, I told – We were supposed to –” he cuts himself off with a snap of his jaw, “They… they don’t offer refunds on the deposit for last-minute cancellations.”
Hongjoong leans forward instinctively. He hates seeing Seonghwa upset, hates being the cause of it even more. He runs a soothing hand along Seonghwa’s arm. “It wasn’t too expensive, right? We can find something around here instead.”
“Yeah, but—” Seonghwa runs a hand through his dark hair, messy at the nape, frustration flashing in his irises for reasons Hongjoong doesn’t quite understand. “You should have seen this coming. It’s peak season now.”
“How was I supposed to know?” Hongjoong says, Seonghwa’s clipped tone taking him by surprise, “It wasn’t like this the last time we were here.”
“That was eight years ago, and it’s summer now,” Seonghwa counters, arms folding like barricades. He knows what’s coming. Eight years is more than enough time to learn when to anticipate Seonghwa’s anger.
Hongjoong opens his mouth, shuts it again. Tension rises, thick and sticky. He slides his hand off Seonghwa’s arm. “It’s not that bad,” he manages. “We can board within the next hour—”
“Sometimes you really piss me off, y’know,” Seonghwa interrupts, lips curving into a scowl, the words biting yet soft with the familiarity only eight years can breed. “I told you to book the return tickets in advance. But what did you say? Oh, there’ll be tickets at the dock. Well, would you look at how that turned out?”
“Hwa, I didn't mean for this to happen,” Hongjoong sighs, louder this time, exasperation bleeding into helplessness. Truly, he hadn’t, proposal now buried under his mounting list of priorities, of worries.
“You don’t plan enough,” Seonghwa shoots back, shoulders tense like coiled springs.
“Well, if you’re so good at planning, maybe you should have given some input this time!” Hongjoong fires back, tone sharper than intended, blood rushing to his ears. He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth.
“Me?” Seonghwa’s on his feet now, tone a metronome of irritation. “Kim Hongjoong, you’re the one who insisted on this trip! I said no. We have contract discussions with Lotte in three days, you know how many sleepless nights I’ve had over it. You know how important the investors are.” Seonghwa glares daggers at him, “You told me everything would be fine, that you’ll handle everything and that I wouldn’t need to worry. So I didn't. Don’t you dare put the blame on me now.”
“Park Seonghwa, why are you so angry?” Hongjoong sighs loudly, tilting his head to look at the taller, to reclaim some semblance of control as everything crumbles, “I’ll get you something to eat if that’s what this is about. Just relax.”
“Relax?” Seonghwa paces, strangely nervous for reasons Hongjoong can’t point out, “You mess things up and now you’re telling me to just relax? That’s what I always have to do, don’t I? Accept your mistakes and move on?”
“That’s not what I meant Hwa, you know that.” Hongjoong frowns, guilt and frustration tangling in his chest.
“It’s always like this.” Seonghwa laughs, but it’s brittle. “You mess up, you say the wrong thing, and I’m the one who has to smooth it over. Find the exit. Fix it before it blows up in our faces.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Hongjoong says tiredly, voice worn thin, “You know that’s not what happens.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Seonghwa your tantrum isn’t helping,” Hongjoong bites out, tone sharper than intended and words escaping before he can stop them, blood rushing to his ears.
Seonghwa stills. “My tantrum?”
“Look, Hwa,” Hongjoong pinches the bridge of his nose, muscles tight, heart hammering. “Don’t make this any harder. Please.”
The box in his pocket seems to shrink in on itself, an embarrassed, indignant little passenger, recoiling from the tension, ashamed of him.
“I’m making this hard?” Seonghwa repeats, incredulous, voice rising like wind through a canyon. Disbelief settles over his features, quiet and dangerous. Hongjoong knows this look.
His tongue stumbles over itself, panic clawing up his throat because this is not how this was supposed to go. Not today. Not with the ring burning in his pocket.
“I’m sorry, that came out wrong,” Hongjoong blurts, fast and desperate. He rushes to soften, tension in every syllable. “I’ll figure something out. I’ll just –”
He doesn’t even know what to say.
Apologise? Rewind time? Be better?
Seonghwa’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, “You do that, Captain.”
The word lands heavy, title mocking him, crown turning to weight.
“Because I’m not doing shit,” Seonghwa continues, already turning away, voice flat now, closed off. “You come find me once you’ve fixed things.”
Then he walks, boots against pebbled ground, each step measured. Each step widening the distance Hongjoong has no idea how to cross.
After eight years together, Hongjoong knows better than to chase him. Chasing only makes Seonghwa feel cornered, makes his silence harden into something that can’t be softened. He exhales slowly, letting the space stretch between them.
Hongjoong ruffles his hair, exhausted and frustrated.
One chance, he thinks bitterly. Kim Hongjoong, you had one chance. And you fucked it up.
Seonghwa’s out of sight now, sounds of his boots reverberating in Hongjoong’s skull, a reminder of the last half hour unraveling into something fragile and ugly.
The ring box knocks softly against his thigh as he stands and follows the path Seonghwa took, a small, stubborn weight — love reduced to velvet and metal.
They fight often. More so in the past year.
When KQ slid another seven-year contract across the table, neat and binding and familiar, Hongjoong had shaken his head.
He thought of eighteen-year-old Kim Hongjoong – knees bouncing under a cheap practice room table, fingers ink-stained from scribbling lyrics in notebooks he couldn’t afford to replace. Back then, contracts felt like lifelines. Chains he’d gladly wear if it meant survival.
Perhaps it was arrogance, maybe it was reckless faith, faith in what he carved for himself out of chaos, of being able to stand on his own two feet without the backing of a company that had never truly valued them — the group that gave the company their first taste of success. But he knew, with quiet, humbling clarity, that the courage had never been his alone.
He remembers the fourteen years too clearly. The late nights that bled into dawn, voices hoarse from arguing over unfair line distributions, over camera time that never lingered on the right members long enough, over schedules that treated them like expendable machines. He remembers carrying the company on their backs and still being treated like a gamble rather than a cornerstone.
So when the question came, the answer was unanimous.
And there is an unmistakable, unshakable truth that he carries with quiet pride. Every ounce of strength, every measure of courage, had come from the seven other men in the room. The eight of them would walk the same uncertain, uncharted road for as long as life would allow, bound to each other by loyalty, sweat, and years of shared victories and tears.
Still, freedom tasted terrifying.
It felt like being eighteen again, like fighting for a dream he wasn’t sure he had the license to chase. There were nights when the eight of them sat around tables littered with coffee cups and half-eaten food, voices rising, hands shaking, tears spilling. Words spoken that lodged too deep, too personal. Words that cut too close to bone, that still haunt him till today.
And then there were the fights with Seonghwa. The ones that could have ended everything.
“You haven’t planned shit!” Seonghwa had snapped one night, “They’re going to eat us alive. Asking for two-year exclusivity from a company like ours is daylight robbery.”
“I know what I’m doing, Seonghwa, trust me.”
“I’m sorry Captain,” Seonghwa had sneered, “But right now, I’m not sure if I can.”
The worst fight over a tense broadcast channel contract had ended with Seonghwa closing the door in his face and not coming home that night. Hongjoong had stood frozen in the doorway long after the echo faded, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, tears soaking into the floorboards.
It was there, in that quiet devastation, that he decided. Kim Hongjoong decided, declared to himself, to the universe, that he would not do anything — truly anything — without Park Seonghwa by his side.
And so he planned. Quiet, careful, deliberate. A plan meant to remind Seonghwa, again and again, that he was Hongjoong’s other half. The better half.
Seonghwa forgave him, eventually, and Hongjoong’s universe fell back into place. Steady, calm, and with Seonghwa right back in the center of its orbit.
Hongjoong trudges through the narrow, sun-dappled streets of Bellagio, hands clasped behind his back (Seonghwa once teased him for the habit – called him an old man—but Hongjoong knows it’s just another thing he picked up from loving him for so long.).
Every time Seonghwa storms off, lashes with words sharper than intended, shrinks back from conflict like a child hiding from the rain, Hongjoong is reminded of how imperfect Park Seonghwa is. Anxious, callous without meaning to be, insecure, selfish at times, overly generous at others. Chaos wrapped in warmth, fire laced with softness. He’s a riddle that Hongjoong, recognises tiredly, would never truly be able to solve.
And yet, he remembers. How Seonghwa’s brows furrow when he’s annoyed, the tilt of his head to the right – always to the right – when he’s incredulous. The soft curl of his lips when amusement breaks through in moments demanding stoicism.
Eight years of noticing, documenting, cataloging all his quirks in a ridiculous, haphazardly stitched-together mental scrapbook.
Eight years of complete, utterly imperfect love.
He finds Seonghwa not long after, sitting on a familiar bench, loose linen shirt draped over slumped shoulders, head hung. The crimson evening sky casting copper highlights into Seonghwa’s bleached hair – a preference he’s stuck with.
Hongjoong lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.
Because at this moment, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life.
He would choose Seonghwa every single time. Through chaos and missed boats, broken plans and heated arguments, painful silences and small annoyances.
He would choose him in every universe, in every lifetime, in every version of himself. Always.
“Hey,” he calls softly.
Seonghwa’s shoulders stiffen instantly. He tilts his head just enough to catch him in his peripheral vision and then looks resolutely in the opposite direction.
Hongjoong finds him incredibly, painfully adorable.
He pauses, catching his breath as he reaches the bench. “Can I sit here?”
“Do whatever you want,” Seonghwa mutters, eyes still trained on some invisible point across the piazza. He’s still annoyed, but there’s a softness in it, a crack in the armour that makes Hongjoong’s chest tighten.
Hongjoong quits down, allowing silence to settle between them.
“My love, I’m sorry,” he says after a while. He tries for lightness, but the apology comes out stripped bare, trembling at the edges.
“Sorry isn’t going to do anything.” Seonghwa shoots back immediately.
“You’re right,” Hongjoong admits, lowering his voice, “but please… don’t be mad anymore, my love.” His hand edges closer to Seonghwa’s, hovering in that delicate space of unspoken permission.
Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. Pinkies hover an inch apart, the heat of his skin almost tangible. Hongjoong lets the moment stretch, before he tries.
“May I?” he murmurs, voice low, uncertain.
Seonghwa rolls his eyes, automatic, reflexive.
“Do whatever you want.”
Hongjoong smiles softly and hooks their pinkies together, glancing down at their hands. Their team rings catch the fading light on opposite hands, always slightly misaligned, but always inevitably returning to each other.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he says again, voice quieter now. “I really wanted to this trip to be perfect. I wanted to make you happy. But you’re right. I should have planned better. Please forgive me.”
Seonghwa sighs, long and exaggerated.
“It’s fine,” he mutters, gaze still on his lap, still not looking at him.
Hongjoong shifts closer, covering Seonghwa’s hand with his own. His thumb traces slow circles over Seonghwa’s knuckles, as if he can soothe years of tension with touch alone.
“Seonghwa-yah,” he whispers, “My love, please know that everything I do is for you. I want to protect you, provide for you, love you in the way that you deserve.”
Hongjoong continues, knives in his heart. “And you’re right. I don’t listen enough. I mess up. I make things worse sometimes. But I’ll learn. I’ll keep trying. So please don’t be angry with me anymore.”
For a moment, Seonghwa doesn’t speak. Then he finally turns, lashes low, eyes soft and tired and impossibly gentle.
“I can never stay angry at you, Kim Hongjoong,” he says quietly, like admitting fault, “That’s the problem.”
Hongjoong lets out a breathless laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. He threads their fingers together, clinging to the warmth like it’s proof the world is still intact.
“You really pissed me off,” Seonghwa mutters lowly.
“I know,” Hongjoong squeezes his hand, voice earnest to the point of pain. “I don’t deserve you.”
Seonghwa gives him a side eye and scoffs, but it’s lacking bite. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.” Hongjoong replies quietly.
He sees Seonghwa pause, lips parting in silent protest, but he chooses not to speak. Instead, he feels Seonghwa squeeze his hand ever so slightly. His heart soars, he recognises, to humiliating heights of elation.
He watches Seonghwa’s profile, the way his jaw tightens when he’s holding too many thoughts in, the faint crease between his brows that never quite disappears. Eight years, and he still studies, memorises him like this.
“Sometimes I hate feeling like I’m the only adult in the room,” Seonghwa admits after a quiet moment. “I mean… that’s what I do, I’m the protector of our protector. And I love that, I love taking care of you.”
He shuffles his loafers into the ground.
“But it feels like I always have to map exits in my head while you’re busy chasing the storm. When you steer the ship in the wrong direction, I’m the one who has to clean everything up.”
“You’re not my cleanup crew,” Hongjoong says instantly, panic flaring hot and sudden in his chest.
“Well,” Seonghwa says, gaze fixed elsewhere, “It feels that way sometimes.”
His words land heavier than a lecture. Hongjoong swallows, guilt blooming sharp and physical beneath his ribs.
“Then I’ve failed you.”
Seonghwa finally turns his head, studying him with searching eyes. There is no more anger behind his eyes, it’s settled, cooled into something quieter and far more dangerous – vulnerability.
“No,” he says softly, squeezing Hongjoong’s hand. “You haven’t.”
A beat.
“But you’re really frustrating sometimes.”
“So I’ve been told,” Hongjoong holds his hand a little tighter, “But I hope you’ll forgive me for it.”
Seonghwa exhales through his nose, a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost surrender. The kind of exhale that says I’m tired of this fight, but I’m not tired of you. Never you.
“You better have followed me here for a reason. I assume you’ve managed to charter a boat for us?”
Hongjoong huffs a laugh.
“What,” Seonghwa raises an eyebrow, “Can’t use your idol privileges for that?”
“They don’t work here.” Hongjoong jokes.
Seonghwa finally looks at him, eyes narrowing just a fraction – not angry, not soft. Searching. Like he’s reading the sky before deciding whether it’s about to rain.
“Then talk. Before I decide that taking a plane back to Korea alone tonight is more appealing than sitting here with you.”
Hongjoong shifts a little closer, thighs touching now. He feels Seonghwa lean against him, his cologne leaving him feeling euphoric.
The velvet box is pressing against his hip again, gently reminding him of its existence.
“Seonghwa-yah,” he says, voice unsteady, heart drumming in his ears.
“Hmm?”
“Seonghwa-yah,” he says it again, just to feel the shape of Seonghwa’s name in his mouth. Proof that he hasn’t lost the right to say it. Proof that Seonghwa is still here. “I love you.”
Seonghwa exhales through his nose, eyes rolling, but his lips curve into a small smile, fiercely private. “Where’s this coming from? What do you want?”
“What do you mean,” Hongjoong gasps, scandalised, “Can I not tell you that I love you?”
“You hardly ever say it,” Seonghwa’s lips curl into a half-baked snarl, “Oh you did last night, I guess. When your cock was in my–”
“Seonghwa-yah…” Hongjoong cuts him off and grumbles, kissing the back of Seonghwa’s hand like a quiet apology, a confession in a language he’s better at speaking. “You know I’m not good with my words.”
“Do better then.”
Hongjoong looks at him – really looks at him.
At the way the city lights paint soft gold across Seonghwa’s cheekbones.
At the way he sits a bit straighter now, like something vital has been injected back into his veins. A quiet admission that the two of them are better together than apart.
At the quiet kindness in his gaze. Even now. Even after everything. Always careful with Hongjoong’s heart, even when he doesn’t deserve it.
Hongjoong looks at his love. His imperfect, maddening, utterly irreplaceable love.
The only love he’s ever wanted, and the only one he’ll ever choose to keep choosing.
There’s no perfect timing, no perfect speech. No such thing as perfection.
But with the two of them here like this, hands linked, histories braided, and hearts exposed, feels strangely, comfortably close to it.
So before his mind can sabotage him, before the words rot in his throat, he moves. He sinks to ground, echoing the position from that night eight years ago — but now with purpose, with intention. On one knee instead of two.
“My love.”
Seonghwa blinks at him, startled.
.
“What.”
Hongjoong hesitates. Then he pulls out the box.
It’s heavier than it should be, and the box suddenly looks absurdly small. How can something that weighs less than an in-ear carry the gravity of a lifetime?
His hand trembles as he opens it.
The ring sees sunlight for the first time. The metal passenger has been with Hongjoong for over a year, freed from its velvet confines only in stolen moments in their bedroom when Seonghwa wasn’t around. When Hongjoong would kneel before the mirror, mouthing words to a version of himself that felt braver.
Inside, the ring catches the late afternoon sun. Simple, elegant – a thin band of white gold. Inside, a tiny marigold and a star are engraved, pressed into the metal like secrets. The flower that had quietly become theirs, instead of just his, joined by the symbol that had followed him across oceans and stages, across every version of himself he’s ever been.
“I don’t have a speech,” he admits, voice breaking, laughter trembling on the edge of a sob. “I mean– I do have one. It was good, I swear. Wooyoung approved it. But I forgot it. And now everything sounds stupid in my head and I just—”
He swallows, breath shallow, like he’s waiting to take the first step off the edge of something vast and endless,
Kim Hongjoong, get your shit together.
“Park Seonghwa,” he says, lifting his eyes. His voice trembles as he looks up at his anchor and his storm. The one who made him brave but keeps him soft. The one who has held him together in dressing rooms when he broke into pieces and remade him with gentle words and soothing touches in hotel rooms before the dawn, making him forget and never wanting to remember what life was like living it alone.
Here, he is not the leader of ATEEZ, not a name etched into credits and headlines. In this moment, he is twenty again, standing in a practice room with a half-written love song poorly disguised as friendship, and a hope so reckless it scared him. A boy who once wondered if he would ever be granted the privilege of being looked at the way he longed to be seen.
In this moment, kneeling before the love of his life, he is just a boy. A boy hopelessly, irrevocably in love, seeking forever.
“Park Seonghwa,” he tries again, his voice steadying on the name.
It always does.
“Will you marry me?”
Time stutters.
The city hum keeps moving. Footsteps, distant laughter, the low churn of traffic, but around them, everything goes quiet, as if the universe has leaned in to listen.
Then Seonghwa’s expression fractures. Shock, confusion.
And then softness. Devastating, bone-deep softness.
The box remains open in Hongjoong’s shaking hand as Seonghwa stares at it like the world has split open beneath his feet.
“Hongjoong,” he whispers, bitten lips parting, breath knocked out of him. “You—”
.
.
.
.
.
Oh—
“You don’t have to—” Hongjoong blurts clumsily, spiraling. The words are colliding, tripping in his mouth. “I’m sorry I know it’s sudden, I shouldn’t have sprung this on you like this. Fuck. We were arguing and the timing is terrible and I can’t remember any of the other things I wanted to say and oh fuck, Seonghwa I’m sorry, you deserve better than this—”
Seonghwa laugh cuts through his breakdown. It comes out broken, wet, hysterical.
“You idiot.”
Hongjoong’s heart drops to his stomach, a stone dropped into deep water. He feels his world closing in, tunnels around the ring that’s blurring in his vision.
.
.
.
.
.
Oh.
.
“It’s okay Seonghwa, I’m sorry.” Hongjoong whispers, already retreating. “I understand – I shouldn’t have –”
Half a heartbeat passes.
Then.
Before Hongjoong can process, has more time to mourn the devastating end of his love –
Seonghwa drops down onto one knee too.
Hongjoong stops breathing.
The world tilts. His brain goes white and blank and useless.
Seonghwa doesn’t look away when he pulls out a velvet box from his satchel. His hands are steady. His eyes are not.
Then he opens it.
Inside is a ring – gold, Hongjoong’s favourite metal. On the inside, engraved in delicate script that looks unmistakably like Seonghwa’s handwriting:
My NO1
They kneel across from each other, mirroring silhouettes, two halves of the same reckless, fervent prayer finally spoken out loud and impossibly, answered.
“I—” Seonghwa laughs again, voice trembling, eyes shining too brightly. “I was going to wait until tonight. I booked the stupid dinner reservation for this. That’s why I was so angry.”
Hongjoong can’t process the words fast enough. His mind lags behind his heart, which is already in freefall.
“I practiced in front of the mirror for months. Remembered my entire speech – it was pretty good yknow? The boys helped me rehearse and Jongho cried and told me I was embarrassing.”
Hongjoong’s brain short-circuits entirely.
“You– you were–”
“Yes,” Seonghwa breathes, exasperated and tender and so in love it almost hurts to look at him. “Yes, I was going to propose to you, Kim Hongjoong. You idiot.”
His posture is too straight, like he’s trying to remember how he stood in front of the mirror. Like Hongjoong, he offers his heart, fragile, unguarded.
“You–” Hongjoong’s scrambles for words in the wind. “You’ve been carrying this too?”
Seonghwa looks away, a faint flush blooming across his cheeks.
“For months.”
Hongjoong drags in a shaky breath. He’s dimly aware of the warm wetness on his face, of gravel biting into his exposed knee. Seonghwa had told him to wear pants. He’d refused, not listening to his better half, again. Now the sting feels earned.
“You think you’re the only one who’s been waiting?” Seonghwa continues, the words reaching Hongjoong’s ears as though his head is underwater. His voice soft, trembling. “You think you’re the only one who was scared? I was terrified. I thought you’d think I was too much. That you’d wake up one day and realise I was a weight.”
Hongjoong chokes on a laugh-sob. Too much?
“Park Seonghwa,” he chokes out his name like a plea. “You’ll only ever be too much because I’m not enough for you.”
He breathes, hand desperately reaching out for his love, to feel his skin and remind himself that this is real. “You are everything. You are my sun, my moon, my star. My precious, precious star”
He cups Seonghwa’s cheek, thumb trembling against bone and wet salt, tracing the contours of a face has loved, known, through years. “You’re my everything. Everything I do, everything I am, is because of you. Every song I write has your shadow in it, every difficult decision I’m able to make is because you look at me like I could survive it, because you stand with me. I don’t deserve you, but please don’t ask me to do life without you. I don’t know how to.”
“And you say you’re not good with words.” Seonghwa huffs.
He reaches up to Hongjoong’s hand on his cheek and Hongjoong feels how his hands are rougher now than they were when they first met sixteen years ago. How lucky he is, to know Seonghwa’s skin through the seasons.
Seonghwa leans into his touch, a single tear slipping free.
“Then marry me,” Seonghwa breathes, “you idiot.”
Whatever restraint they had left collapses.
They’re laughing and crying at once now, graceless, trembling, beautiful. Just two foolish men who orbit about each other, desperately, hopelessly, madly in love.
Hongjoong scrubs a hand through his dark hair in a useless attempt to compose himself, sniffling, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve. He offers the silver band like it’s something carved from his own ribs, a shard of his soul.
“Park Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says again, voice still shaky but resolve completely unwavering, “Will you marry me?”
Seonghwa doesn’t wait for the words to settle. He nods, fast and desperate, laughter breaking through tears.
“Yes. Yes—God, yes. Took you long enough, but yes, I'll marry you.”
Hongjoong’s hands shake as he slides the silver ring onto Seonghwa’s right ring finger. It’s the wrong hand. Tradition can argue with itself.
But it’s right. The promise he made eight years ago had never once left his mind:
One day this team ring will be joined by one that’s just for you and me.
Seonghwa knows. The moment the metal settles against his skin, his breath breaks open, ugly and beautiful and human.
He steadies himself with visible effort.
“Kim Hongjoong,” Seonghwa whispers through tears, hands shaking as he mirrors the gesture, holding out the gold ring like it is the most sacred thing he has. “Will you marry me?”
Hongjoong doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” Hongjoong whispers, voice breaking and tears spilling freely. “Yes. Always. In every universe where you exist, in every universe that I get to exist with you. Yes.”
Seonghwa slides the gold ring into place.
Silver and gold. White star and yellow marigold.
Two reckless hearts, finally saying forever out loud.
Hongjoong has spent his whole life believing in momentum.
Songs, tours, deadlines, comebacks – everything is always moving forward, always urgent, always loud. Feelings are things you chase between schedules, tuck into hotel rooms, whisper through in-ears before going on stage.
But kneeling here, sunlight bleeding into the stone, the ring burning on his finger, he realises love is the only thing that has ever made the noise quiet. The only thing that has ever felt like purpose instead of pursuit.
Seonghwa grabs Hongjoong’s face and kisses him fiercely, messy and emotional and public and uncareful. Hongjoong clutches the front of Seonghwa’s shirt, the marigold over his heart crumpling under his fist.
Their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, Seonghwa whispers, voice trembling, “You’re so bad at planning.”
Hongjoong laughs through tears. “Hey, I planned the same thing as you. I deserve a little credit, don’t I?”
“Well you still fucked things up for me but yes,” Seonghwa laughs too, ragged and unsteady, but he’s smiling now – really smiling. “Yes, I guess you do.”
He slides his arms around Hongjoong’s neck, pulling him closer, closing the last of the distance.
“My baby superstar,” Seonghwa whispers against Hongjoong’s cheek. His lips brush Hongjoong’s skin.
“And you look like the moon,” Hongjoong’s hands find Seonghwa’s waist, the familiar slope of bone and skin. He kisses his nape, “And yes, it’s a good thing, in case you forgot.”
He hears Seonghwa sigh, breath warm on his cheek, “Remind me what it means again?”
Hongjoong leans in slowly, giving Seonghwa all the time in the world to pull away, but knowing he never will. Their lips meet, gentle at first, a question and an answer all at once. The city noise fades into a distant hum as Hongjoong deepens the kiss, feeling Seonghwa’s breath hitch, feeling the way his fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. Seonghwa tastes like sunlight and salt air and everything that feels like home.
When they finally part, their foreheads rest together again, breaths tangled.
“It means, my love,” Hongjoong speaks against his lips, a whisper so soft but speaking volumes so loud, “That I love you. Park Seonghwa, I love you. I’m so in love with you. And I will continue to choose to love you for the rest of my days. In this life and every life I have with you.”
Seonghwa smiles at him like sun rising in the horizon.
This is it, Hongjoong thinks. This is the rest of my life.
And somewhere beyond them, the city continues its ordinary breathing – boats cutting through water, footsteps echoing through stone, time moving forward without pause.
Unaware that on a stretch of sunlit pavement, something infinite has just been promised.
-
The group finds out a few days later, after the meeting with Lotte, in their home over home-made kimchi stew and warm barley tea. No more sitting on the floor, no more sodas and fried chicken – they’re too old for that now.
Yunho, Mingi, and Yeosang stare at Yeosang’s laptop, the Finance Director perched on the loveseat with the device balanced on his lap, adjusting the font size of a presentation for the third time. He grumbles about how the two of them are useless. No one disagrees.
Yunho has claimed the other half of the loveseat and the PR Director is left perched awkwardly on the armrest, back hunching like a question mark so he can see Yeosang’s typing. He claims it’s bullying, the Talent Director just pats his knee affectionately and tells him to deal with it.
Jongho occupies the larger three-seater sofa – leather, not fabric, Seonghwa’s deliberate choice – sitting squarely in the middle of the sofa, mug balanced on his knee like he owns the place. A cover of Turbulence that’s being performed by the rookie group he’s been coaching plays softly on the TV, and he hums along, expression thoughtful, eyes distance. By God it’s been years since Hongjoong has heard the song.
From the kitchen, Wooyoung’s voice rises in familiar indignation, something about San being the worst cook alive for overcooking the meat again, and that dinner will be delayed because of him. Hongjoong hears the clatter of utensils, then a surprised shriek as San scoops the Performance Director up and spins him around. Their silver wedding bands catch the kitchen light, bright and unapologetic.
It’s been fifteen years. Fifteen years to the day they first stepped on stage with a song and a dream, carved out of nothing but blind hope, reckless ambition, and stubborn refusal to give up.
And fifteen years later, things have softened.
The world has moved on. Their names are no longer shouted in every corner of the internet, no longer young and fresh. But they are still here, all hands on deck, on a ship that’s theirs and theirs alone.
They choose their pace, their schedules, and most importantly, they choose each other.
Seonghwa enters the living room, souvenirs from Lake Como in a little white paper bag.
Hongjoong leans back in his chair by the dining table, pen in hand, half-written song abandoned mid-line. It’s embarrassing, Hongjoong thinks, how Park Seonghwa can be in nothing but the simplest t-shirt and jeans and he thinks that he’s a god descended from the heavens for his worship.
He props his chin on his palm and smiles dreamily.
Seonghwa scowls back, but the way his lips quirk up betray him.
On the wall behind Seonghwa hang framed photographs from his first solo fashion show – black and white, dramatic lighting, Seonghwa walking with that quiet, devastating confidence that had once made Hongjoong forget how to breathe.
He did promise him that, didn't he? All those years ago, that his next show would have Seonghwa walking for him.
And who am I to deny him anything?
The instructions for the staff were for all clothing to be archived in a gallery, preserved behind glass. But the last piece that Seonghwa wore to end the show – sheer black bodycon camisole layered with a white ruffled chiffon long sleeve, paired with high waisted pants with lace details, slits up to his upper thighs, went straight to the trash –
Torn to shreds by hands desperate to roam skin and teeth that bit into flesh, obscene moans falling from the model’s bruised, swollen lips. His manicured nails sank into Hongjoong’s back, scrambling for purchase as Hongjoong showed him exactly how he felt about his modelling performance, lips painting red blooms across his neck.
Kim Hongjoong is a simple, simple man.
“Souvenir time, guys,” Seonghwa announces brightly and makes his rounds.
He hands his CEO his magnet. The youngest studies it for a second before nodding, approvingly smug at the bold red font on black: World’s Best Boss.
This time, it’s Jongho who notices first. The CEO pauses mid-sip, gently taking Seonghwa’s hand. His thumb brushes over the band once, twice, like a confirmation, gaze lifting slowly to Hongjoong. Then his eyes flick to Hongjoong’s hand, zeroing in on his left ring finger.
Slowly, he leans back into Hongjoong’s sofa like he owns it, smiling triumphantly.
“You all owe me money.”
He hears collective groans around the house.
Hongjoong blinks, “What.”
Jongho shrugs, “Yeah we didn't think either of y'all would have been able to pull it off.”
“Either of us?” Hongjoong’s eyebrows rise to his forehead. Seonghwa has stopped giving out the magnets and stands next to Hongjoong, slipping an arm around him in a feeble attempt to look intimidating against the six others in the room.
Yeosang sighs like a man whose faith in humanity died in 2027 and fishes out a wad of bills, slapping it into Jongho’s hand like he’s paying off a cursed debt.
“I mean, can you blame us?” Yeosang says flatly. “It’s you,” he points at Hongjoong, “and Seonghwa-hyung.”
Seonghwa folds his arms, muscles flexing in quiet threat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you’re both disasters.” Mingi groans, back cracking when he leans down to grab his wallet. “Congrats though, even though it cost me a new pair of headphones.”
“Seonghwa-hyung, you still haven’t told us how the dinner went.” Yunho pipes up, far too eager, like this is premium reality TV content – ATEEZ Inferno.
“Do we really want to know?” Jongho raises an eyebrow, grabbing the remote to queue some dramatic wedding organ music on YouTube. The comedian he is. The absolute menace.
“No, not really,” Yeosang shakes his head a little too fast. “I’m allergic to stupidity, and I’m sure something stupid happened during the proposal.”
“Hey–” The words die on Hongjoong’s tongue. Yeosang is too smart. Always too smart.
“Congrats hyungs!” The Stage Director calls from the kitchen, chest pressed to Wooyoung’s back like a human koala, “I hope the rehearsals came in handy?”
How hopeful and optimistic his tone is kills Hongjoong inside and he stiffens in Seonghwa’s hold. He feels like a statue that’s just developed anxiety.
Ah, this catches Wooyoung’s attention. Wooyoung, the ever perceptive Wooyoung, notices his constipated face. His eyes narrow into slits.
“Kim Hongjoong,” he says softly – which is always worse. “You better have stuck to the script.”
Hongjoong retreats. Mentally, spiritually, physically. He sinks into Seonghwa’s hold and thinks Seonghwa looks like a knight defending a very nervous chihuahua.
San just gives him a weak thumbs up, tragically unhelpful as Wooyoung charges forward, wedding music blaring in the background.
-
Hongjoong later learns of the existence of a six-membered chat group named project parents (married edition).
The six show absolutely zero remorse.
Jongho merely shrugs when Seonghwa interrogates him about why 108 results pop up when he searches the group for the keyword idiots.
“Are we wrong?” Yeosang says without even looking up from his phone. He looks like he’s uploading a video onto an account that looks suspiciously like a MATZ fanpage.
Hongjoong has nothing to say to that.
Mingi fights back a yawn when Hongjoong raises an eyebrow at the 1031 photos of him and Seonghwa over the years in the group’s photo gallery, taken entirely paparazzi style. The number jumps to 1045 after Yunho puts down his phone. He shrugs his shoulders when Seonghwa shoots him a dirty look.
“If I ever lose my job here, I’ll go work for Dispatch.”
San just sits on the coach, beaming, strawberry mochi in one hand and the other running up and down Wooyoung’s back soothingly, his husband still scowling at Hongjoong like a disappointed in-law.
-
Hongjoong thinks it’d be a little weird—a group of men in their thirties having a sleepover.
But the six men stalk off to various parts of their home like they own it, and Hongjoong supposes he should be touched (?) at the familiarity.
Jongho races for the guest room with the singular king sized bed and ends up wrestling with Wooyoung at the door.
“Why do you need such a big bed? Hojong, you’re just one person. Me and Sannie need more space!”
“To do what?” Jongho says irritatably, and slams the door in his face when Wooyoung stumbles on a lousy excuse.
So Wooyoung quickly retreats to the other room with a smaller bed, dragging a yawning San along with him, dimples on his cheeks as he waddles happily after his husband.
Seonghwa warns them, eyes dangerously sharp, to sleep with a bolster between them.
“I’m in my mid-thirties and married, Mom,” Wooyoung shoots back and closes the door, Seonghwa’s jaw on the ground at the audacity.
“Jung Wooyoung you two better keep your clothes on!” Seonghwa yells at him through the door. Hongjoong can only hope for the best.
Yeosang takes the three-seater, legs stretched out, nestled comfortably with extra blankets. Yunho takes the love seat, legs curled in, squirming very uncomfortably.
Mingi ends up on the floor, though Yunho ends up joining him some time during the night.
Hongjoong closes the door behind him and the world quiets, years compressing into this one room.
Seonghwa is applying his hand lotion by their dresser, a habit not once broken. The bedside lamp paints him in warm amber, softening the lines of his face.
Hongjoong watches him and thinks. Thinks of how many nights they’ve shared just like this in this space just for them. How many ugly, heartbreaking fights cracked under this ceiling, how many apologies whispered into pillows, how many conversations that changed the trajectory of their lives. How many times their love has been messy and loud (in more ways than one)?
He sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping.
How many times he’s almost lost him, and how many times Seonghwa chose to stay?
“Seonghwa-yah.”
“Mm?” Seonghwa barely turns his head, eyes still trained on another contract that needs signing, brows knit in concentration. Co-Founder, model, idol, Hongjoong’s constant.
But in this moment, Park Seonghwa is eighteen again.
Hongjoong is back in the room where they first met, hunched over his laptop, wearing his ridiculous red sweater with the airplane on it when Seonghwa walks in. He’s tall and lanky, easy on the eyes, and hands clasped together awkwardly as they silently acknowledge each other. But his eyes burned, breath stuttering before he looked away, cheeks flushed. Hongjoong remembers noticing it before he understood what it meant to love someone.
They stayed together, trained together, lived together. Orbiting each other from day one.
It’s now day 5,984 of having Park Seonghwa in his life.
5,984 days of witnessing every version of him – the insecure boy who feared looking in the mirror, the broken trainee who thought he was replaceable, the man who blamed himself for being the weak link in the group. The man who tried and learned to love himself in fragments, while loving those around him in full.
And Hongjoong has had the absurd, undeserved privilege of loving him for almost as long, through each and every version, deeper and deeper each time.
“Thank you.”
Seonghwa pauses and fully turns to look at him, face curling in confusion, eyes squinting in suspicion. “What did you do?”
Hongjoong huffs indignantly, though he suddenly feels like crying. Gratitude feels too close to grief when it’s sitting this heavy in his chest.
“Thank you.”
Seonghwa caps his hand lotion with a soft click. He stands, walks over, and sits beside him, thighs pressing, head against his. His hand finds Hongjoong’s automatically, lacing fingers together like muscle memory.
“For what?” he asks, voice quieter now.
Hongjoong swallows.
For choosing me.
For not walking away.
For staying even when things were difficult – when I was difficult.
For growing with me.
He says none of that. He just laughs softly, thumb soothing gentle circles into Seonghwa’s skin.
“For being on my side.”
Seonghwa doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingers, searching Hongjoong’s face like he’s waiting for the punchline. None come, of course.
Hongjoong smiles anyway, bumping their shoulders together, a quiet, boyish gesture that feels out of place in a man who’s spent so long being a leader, the Captain, a shield, “Thank you for letting me do life with you.”
The words feel clumsy and inadequate, but they’re painfully true.
Seonghwa exhales loudly, more fond than annoyed. “You’re acting like I had a choice.”
Hongjoong looks down at their joined hands.
“You did. You do.” His voice drops, earnest and a little afraid, because the fear never fully leaves him. “You can always choose to leave.”
For a moment, Seonghwa’s expression stills. The room suddenly feels too quiet, the hum of the city outside suddenly loud in Hongjoong’s ears. He hates that he still thinks like this, counts blessings like they’re temporary and that Seonghwa’s love for him will expire with time.
Then Seonghwa tilts his head, hand slipping free to cup Hongjoong’s cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye like he’s wiping away something that isn’t there yet. He leans in and pulls him into a soft kiss, lips moving gently against his.
“I chose you.” He says when he pulls back, gravity in his words and fire in his eyes, “I choose you. I will always choose you.”
Hongjoong’s breath leaves him in a shaky exhale. He leans back into their bed, pulling Seonghwa along with him, bodies fitting together perfectly, two pieces of a puzzle always meant to be together. He shifts so that he's now hovering over Seonghwa, soft cheek in his palm. He’s prepared for a shove, for Seonghwa to complain about the germs on Hongjoong’s hands, but neither come. Instead, Seonghwa reaches up, arms around his neck and pulls him closer, bringing their lips together again in a kiss that’s warmer, deeper, that stirs something funny in Hongjong's gut and somewhere else below.
Eight years together and the briefest of touches still sends electricity jolting under his skin.
“Seonghwa-yah,” Hongjoong murmurs into Seonghwa’s ear, hands moving downwards, and holding onto his waist.
“Mm?”
“I love you.”
Seonghwa lifts his gaze, soft now, stripped of teasing. His hand palms Hongjoong’s cheek, tilting his head slightly, guiding their lips closer.
“Even through typhoons, even through heavy rain and the rising wind,” Seonghwa sings softly, the melody achingly familiar. His voice shaky and eyes shining, “you and me, it will always be us.”
He leans forward to brush their foreheads together and whispers against Hongjoong’s lips, “Now till forever. I love you.”
Forever is not a promise.
It’s just tomorrow, again and again, in this and every universe where they find each other.
-
“Joongie-yah.” Seonghwa looks up at him, bare bodies warm, limbs tangled under the sheets.
Hongjoong runs his fingers through Seonghwa’s hair, slow and absent-minded, kissing the top of his head and breathing in the soothing scent of his lavender shampoo, “Yes, my love?”
“So is the song you’re writing now a love song for me?”
Hongjoong hums, half-finished lyrics on paper running through his mind, words that sound suspiciously like a confession. Like love.
“Maybe,” Hongjoong muses, their bruised, swollen lips meeting briefly, “I didn't hide it too well this time though.”
“Good,” Seonghwa says, smiling like he’s already heard it.
-
Jongho announces loudly in the morning that he’s not going to sleepovers for a while. At least not when his room is sandwiched between two couples.
Seonghwa chases Wooyoung down the hallway.
“But we kept our clothes on!” Wooyoung screams in protest.
“Jung Wooyoung,” Seonghwa seethes, slipper in hand, “you're dead to me.”