Work Text:
Oneshot
That Friday night, the apartment in Seoul—once filled with laughter, the smell of fastfoods, and the lazy meows of their two cats—was silent. But not the kind of silence they used to love together. It was a heavy, suffocating silence that follows a fight.
It all started with a sharp reply. Junseong, distracted, answered in a harsher tone than he intended. Seongho, already hurting from other things, snapped back. The words piled up like stones rolling down a hill—it wasn’t just about that one answer, but all the differences that had been weighing on them for some time.
“You don’t understand me...” Seongho whispered, eyes filled with tears.
Junseong put down his vape, his shoulders tense. “I try, Seongho.”
“But you don’t,” his voice cracked as the tears began to fall. “What I fear most is us growing to hate each other in the future,” he continued with a tight chest. “I’d rather end it now, while there’s still love.”
“Don’t say that,” the older one felt his heart shatter. “I don’t want to break up with you, I love you so much, yeobo.” He pleaded with his eyes, but Seongho said nothing. Junseong stepped closer, hands trembling as he gently held his boyfriend’s face. “Is this really what you want right now?”
Crying harder, Seongho reluctantly nodded, unable to meet Junseong’s eyes.
At that moment, Junseong froze. He knew he was complicated—bad at expressing himself—and that in many ways over the past two years, he had failed his partner.
“All right. I’ll go. You stay here,” he said softly, like someone offering up their chest for a knife.
And he left, carrying the pain with him to the office of the company they had started together, leaving their home in silence.
Three days of hell followed.
Seongho stayed at home, clinging to the cats, crying, dozing off from exhaustion and waking up even emptier. Junseong, at the office, stared at his computer screen without seeing anything, trying to calm his mind with cigarette smoke and cold coffee. Neither of them ate. Neither slept. Their eyes were swollen from crying.
By Tuesday night, the inevitable happened: they agreed to announce the breakup.
Over the phone—because neither had the strength to meet in person yet—they decided it would be on social media. They were public figures, former contestants on a dating reality show, owners of a YouTube channel with thousands of fans. Junseong, even while in pieces, offered: “I’ll take care of it. The post, the message, the videos. You don’t have to worry.”
The older one wrote and deleted the breakup post over and over again. He scrolled through photos and videos of the two of them together, of their cat Mangchi, with whom he had built such a strong bond, and of the newest addition to their little family, the kitten Pparu. None of it made sense to him. They had fought before—many times—but never to the point of ending things. He felt like he had failed, even at that.
Still at the office, trying to stay strong as he prepared to end their relationship publicly, Junseong messaged Seongho’s friends, apologizing for not having taken better care of him. Over the past three days, he had tried not to disturb Seongho, knowing that if he saw him in person, he wouldn’t be able to resist begging to come back. He was miserable.
After pouring his heart into the message, he opened their conversation full of short texts and sent the draft to Seongho on KakaoTalk.
“Is this okay? Can I post it?”
He received only an “Okay.” His chest tightened even more.
That was it. The time had come.
As soon as the announcement was posted, both their phones were flooded with notifications from surprised fans. Junseong quietly left their shared Instagram group with followers and started deleting the couple photos from his feed.
The faster this goes, the sooner the pain will ease for both of us, he thought.
And that was it. It was happening.
In the dark apartment, the glow of the screen reflected in his eyes as each photo disappeared—taking his heart with it. Seongho, through tears, watched the notifications multiply. Every comment from people who had loved them over the years asked what had happened. For the first time in two years, the breakup wasn’t just a distant possibility—it was a cold, real thing, nothing like the warmth they had once shared. It was too much. He dropped the phone, unable to handle the storm inside his mind and heart—torn by the idea of a life without the person who had given his world meaning.
After minutes of crying, shaking, he picked the phone back up and typed: “Can you come here?”
Junseong assumed he meant to pick up his belongings, so he got up immediately and grabbed his keys. He would explain that he only came to get some clothes to stay at the office but was already looking into a new apartment lease.
The door opened softly. The house was dark, the only sound coming from Seongho’s quiet sobs in the bedroom. Junseong took a deep breath and stepped inside.
With a longing meow, Mangchi ran to his legs. The cat didn’t understand the sudden distance—he only missed the warmth of sleeping beside them. That simple gesture became a silent invitation, a sign that maybe, just maybe, their little family could find its way back.
Junseong crouched down and stroked Mangchi’s soft fur. A single tear fell down his cheek, blending into the cat’s fur—an unspoken, painful goodbye to the life they had built. He knew he would also have to let go of the cat he had bonded so deeply with. He wouldn't be selfish—he wouldn’t force his presence into Seongho’s life. The pain in his chest grew stronger.
“Hey...” the taller one said, noticing Seongho from across the room, watching him.
The younger one was curled up in bed, wrapped in the blanket, and at the sound of his voice, cried even more softly.
Standing in the room, Junseong realized just how much he missed all four of them together. Being back felt almost unbearable. But he needed to say goodbye to the dream of the family they had created. He needed to say goodbye to the person he had loved more than anyone. Nothing compared to the pain of those days apart.
“I haven’t packed my things yet… but I’ll take care of it. I don’t want to drag this out,” Junseong whispered, holding back tears.
Suddenly, Seongho got up and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around him tightly—as if trying to piece together everything that had broken.
“I’m sorry for being like this.” His sobs were desperate.
“You don’t have to apologize…” Junseong murmured, running his fingers through Seongho’s hair, as if trying to calm the storm inside his chest.
But Seongho kept sobbing, choking on his tears, repeating “I’m sorry” like a broken mantra—until he found Junseong’s lips in a trembling, desperate kiss. His hands, open and unsure, rested on the older man’s abdomen, clinging as if pleading not to be left behind.
“Why… why are you doing this if you want to break up?” Junseong’s voice came out muffled against his lips, full of pain. “I’m already hurting so much, yeobo...”
For a moment, he tried to resist. He wanted to pull away, to protect what was left of himself. But his heart betrayed reason. The premature longing, the fear of losing him, and the love stronger than pride made him give in.
And there, between tears and trembling caresses, they surrendered to each other like every touch was a goodbye.
They made love as if it were the last time—intense, desperate, a silent promise of don’t forget me.
Junseong knew he might regret that night, for making the separation even harder. But he loved Seongho too much to deny him. He would take whatever he could have, even if it was just the memory of that stolen moment.
They fell asleep, exhausted, bodies entwined—after three days without peace—as if sleep was the only refuge from a pain neither of them knew how to heal.
Still on Wednesday morning, Seongho woke up. His body was still wrapped in Junseong’s warm, firm arms, like the world could fall apart and that embrace would never let go. For a moment, he just stayed there, watching his lover’s peaceful face.
He always loved watching Junseong sleep.
It was when he looked the most vulnerable, less stubborn, less distant—just the man he loved, breathing quietly beside him.
With a tight chest, he leaned in and kissed him softly. First on the lips, then his face, planting gentle kisses on his eyelids, cheeks, and the tip of his nose. Each kiss carried the longing that still pulsed, even after they had been so close just hours before.
Seongho was fragile, his chest trembling. As he watched Junseong sleep, thoughts overwhelmed him. How could he ask to come back when he was the one who asked to end it?
His pride clashed with the shame of feeling too much. He wanted Junseong desperately, but the fear was even greater: fear that one day his lover would grow tired of him, of his insecurities, of his softness that he had often mistaken for weakness.
When he noticed Junseong wasn’t really asleep anymore—his breathing changed—he asked: “Are you awake?” Seongho asked softly, his voice trembling despite his effort to hide it.
Junseong nodded in silence, his eyes fixed on him. After a pause, he murmured with hesitation: “Do you… want me to leave?”
Seongho’s chest tightened at those words. "No." Embarrassed but unwilling to give up, he asked quietly: “Do you… want to talk?”
Junseong took a deep breath, his fingers brushing gently along the younger man’s arm. “I do. But first… I need to hear you.” He touched his chest lightly. “What are you feeling right now?”
Seongho inhaled deeply, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when he opened them, his voice came out weak: “I… I’m scared, Junseong. Scared that one day you’ll realize you’d be better off somewhere else, with different people, living a life more like yours… and leave me behind.”
Junseong narrowed his eyes but didn’t interrupt.
“Even when I ended things… when I said I didn’t want this anymore… you respected that. You didn’t yell, you didn’t beg, you didn’t force anything. You left without thinking of yourself first. I… I don’t know how to handle someone who loves me like that. You always surprise me—it feels like I can’t control you, and that scares me. Can you understand that?” Seongho murmured, biting his lip.
Junseong took a deep breath, trying not to smile. “No.”
“No?” Seongho looked up, surprised.
“I don’t understand you.” Junseong tilted his head, offering a faint smile. “But I can love you.”
“Idiot…” Seongho slapped his arm lightly, half-laughing, half-crying.
“Ow!” Junseong pretended to be hurt, placing his hand over the spot.
Silence fell for a few seconds. Seongho looked away, unsure, until he confessed softly: “Sometimes I feel ashamed of who I am… too soft, too full of insecurities. I think about the wounds others left on me, the times they made me believe I couldn’t be truly loved. And it still echoes inside me, you know?” Seongho lowered his eyes, his voice almost a whisper. “I feel like I’m too much. That at some point you’ll get tired.”
Junseong gently squeezed the wrist he still held, a firm but tender gesture. “Tired of you? Impossible,” he said seriously. Then, raising an eyebrow, he added playfully: “Now, of you hitting my arm? Maybe.”
Seongho laughed genuinely this time, pushing his shoulder. “Idiot…”
“But that’s my way of saying I’m not going anywhere,” Junseong softened, his gaze intense. “Not even when you think you’re too much. Especially in those moments.”
The younger man took a deep breath, his chest a little lighter with that balance between laughter and tears. That was how his yeobo was: he could make him smile in the middle of fear, give love in the middle of doubt.
Seongho’s heart clenched, his throat tightened. “But… what if I’m pressuring you?”
Junseong shook his head, nearly laughing. “You’re not pressuring me. If anyone’s doing that, it’s me.”
“You?” Seongho blinked, confused.
Junseong took a deep breath, turning serious: “I regret not slowing down in the beginning… thinking I had to conquer everything all at once, when really, I should’ve kept winning you over, every day.” He squeezed Seongho’s hand. “We should’ve made more time to talk, to open up, before we got lost in so many things.”
Seongho stayed silent, biting his lip, visibly moved.
“We’ve been through so much together, yeobo,” Junseong continued, his voice low. “I shouldn’t have tried to win against you… I should’ve tried to walk beside you, at your pace.”
“Yeobo…” Seongho whispered, eyes brimming. “Why do you say things like that as if I have no choice but to love you even more?”
Junseong smiled, resting his forehead against his. “Because that’s exactly my choice: to keep loving you, even when you think you don’t deserve it—even when you think we’re beyond saving.”
Seongho closed his eyes, laughing softly through his tears. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re mine,” Junseong replied without hesitation, hugging him and stealing a quick kiss, as if sealing a promise.
Feeling safe to open his heart, Seongho continued: “When you hug me, when you comfort me… even though I like it, I feel… strange. Like I don’t deserve it. My ex left me with that scar—that I’m hard to love. That’s why, before you give up on me, I’d rather give up first. I couldn’t bear to lose you because you got tired of me.”
He began crying again, unable to meet Junseong’s eyes.
Junseong, breathing deeply at the sight of his love so hurt, cupped his face, kissed the tattoos on his neck—making him giggle through tears.
“Seongho-yah… you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I know I’ve got my flaws too—that I’m distracted, that I miss the signs you leave. I know I made you feel alone and misunderstood many times… I’m sorry for all the time you were suffering while I was focused on other things.”
Seongho sobbed, holding tightly onto his chest.
“You brought color to my life, yeobo. I would never, ever change anything about you,” Junseong said, eyes steady on his.
Lying there, amid confessions, the couple kissed with the urgency of those trying to erase each other’s pain through their lips.
“Then let’s promise? That we’ll talk more?” the younger one murmured, breaking the kiss, voice trembling.
“Let’s,” Junseong smiled through tears. “Because I don’t want to, and I can’t live without you.”
“I love you.” Seongho managed to say through the tears.
“I love you more,” the older one replied.
They kissed with intensity, as if sealing an invisible pact.
And stayed in each other’s arms for long minutes, in silence—listening only to their hearts beating in sync. It was peace, it was home, it was them.
That night, between tears and sincere promises, they finally understood: they weren’t perfect—but they belonged to each other.
The love they shared wasn’t made of ease, but of endurance.
And above all, they were willing to keep fighting—for each other.