Chapter Text
The hallway outside Studio B smells like hairspray and rubber soles. Staff weave through with garment bags and clipboards; someone’s yelling for a light stand that never appears. CORTIS is running the chorus again in the glass box of mirrors—five shadows snapping into place, shirts sticking to their backs.
“Water,” Martin calls, and the formation breaks like a flock.
Seonghyeon drops to the floor first, back against the wall, breathing even, eyes on the ceiling tiles like he’s counting. Keonho jogs over and sinks down beside him, a little too close like always, sweat damp at his hairline and grin refusing to quit.
“Your turn to bully my footwork,” Keonho says, nudging his knee into Seonghyeon’s. “Be brutal.”
“You’re landing half a beat ahead when the snare hits,” Seonghyeon answers, handing over his bottle. “Feels rushed.”
Keonho takes a long sip, then squints. “Translation: chill.”
“Translation: listen,” Seonghyeon counters, lips tilting. It’s not a smile; it’s the idea of one.
Across the room, James is showing Juhoon a TikTok edit of their pre-chorus; Martin’s on speaker with the stylists about the jackets. The room hums with motion, but the pocket of floor by the wall goes quiet—just the small sounds of two people sharing breath, water, space.
“Switch seats with me,” Keonho says, leaning back until his shoulder bumps Seonghyeon’s. “The AC hits better here.”
“You literally sat there first.”
“Yeah, but I’m making a selfless offer.”
Seonghyeon gives him the side-eye that means I know what you’re doing and shifts anyway. The AC does hit better there. Keonho follows, of course, drops back into the new gap like he’s claiming a reserved spot.
They don’t touch on purpose. They never do. But the not-touching is so specific it may as well be choreography.
“Set again in two,” Martin claps, and the spell breaks. Keonho stands, rolls his shoulders, glances down.
“You good?”
“I’m good,” Seonghyeon says, and means it.
—
The van ride to the music show is chaos—bags in the aisle, portable steamer hissing, a fruit cup someone forgot open. Juhoon is DJ, cycling through demos; James is practicing English ad-libs under his breath. Martin’s group chat is popping off with stage timing updates.
Keonho taps the inside of his wrist. “Earbud?”
Seonghyeon pulls one out without looking and passes it over. They share a cable like always—habit, ritual, superstition. The song is a reference track with an empty verse; Keonho hums his idea soft, testing the pocket. Seonghyeon listens, head tilted.
“Too many syllables in the second line,” he says finally.
Keonho chews on that, eyes on the window. “What if I drop the ‘always’?”
“That’s the fix,” Seonghyeon says.
A beat. Keonho’s mouth curves. “Knew you’d say that.”
Seonghyeon doesn’t answer, but the corner of his hoodie lifts as his shoulder shifts closer to the shared wire.
From the front, James twists around. “Quiz time: whose mic got labeled ‘ㄱㅅㄱ’?”
“Yours,” Keonho answers, deadpan.
“Rude,” James says, laughing.
“True,” Juhoon adds.
Martin, without looking up: “We’re writing name tags in Sharpie when we get there. No more chaos.”
Keonho leans in, voice dropped for just them. “You’ll write mine?”
Seonghyeon keeps his eyes on the window. “You can write your own name.”
“Where’s the romance,” Keonho sighs, mock-dramatic, then sits back, pleased anyway.
It’s easy. It’s always been easy. That’s the problem.
—
Backstage is a maze of curtains and taped Xs. Staff heard them to standby; the five spread into their pre-show habits. Seonghyeon fixes his in-ear cable flat against his neck. Keonho steals a glance in the cracked mirror and then looks straight at Seonghyeon’s reflection instead.
“Stay with me on the first camera push,” he says. “If I speed up, yank me back with your eyes.”
“That’s not how physics works,” Seonghyeon says, but he’s already nodding.
“Thirty seconds,” a floor manager calls.
Keonho steps closer—close enough that, if they were different people, this would be a hug. He doesn’t touch. His voice is quiet. “Breathe.”
“You too,” Seonghyeon answers.
The VCR ends. The LED wall explodes to life. Five silhouettes rise and the music hits like a wave.
On the second chorus, Keonho does surge half a beat early, hunger dragging him forward. And just like always, Seonghyeon reels him in with one look—chin, eyes, a micro-nod. Keonho locks to him like a magnet, and the line snaps clean.
After, in the dark wing, they grin at each other without meaning to. It’s quick, small, invisible to everyone else. It feels like getting away with something.
—
They go live on Weverse after the performance. Keonho sits on the arm of the sofa, ankles crossed. Seonghyeon claims the floor below him, back against the couch, hoodie sleeves braced in his hands.
“‘Who choreographed the bridge?’” James reads.
“All of us,” Martin says. “But credit to our maknae twins for the partner timing.”
The chat rockets. 09 TWINS! they move like they share a brain eye contact kings
“Eye contact kings?” Juhoon echoes, amused.
Keonho leans down into frame. “We do look at each other a lot.”
“Because you rush,” Seonghyeon says before he can think. The comment section erupts. Keonho laughs, delighted.
“See?” James points. “Married.”
“Relax,” Martin says, failing to hide his smile.
Seonghyeon tucks his chin, a ghost of a smile in his mouth. He doesn’t look up, but he feels the warmth of Keonho’s gaze skating over the top of his hair like sunlight through blinds.
They end the live with a chorus of goodnights. The screen goes black. The room doesn’t.
Keonho hops off the armrest. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” Seonghyeon admits.
“Convenience store run,” Martin decrees. “Ten minutes. Hoodies, masks, go.”
—
The neon convenience store hums at midnight. Five hoods, five masks, five baskets. They split autopilot paths: Martin to protein bars, James to ice cream, Juhoon to everything. Keonho and Seonghyeon end up in the ramen aisle, staring at a wall of choices like it’s a test.
“Spicy?” Keonho asks.
“You can’t even handle spice,” Seonghyeon says, reaching for mild… then switching to medium because Keonho’s already picked it up. Their knuckles brush around the same packet. Neither acknowledges it.
“Rock-paper-scissors for who cooks?” Keonho offers.
“Loser washes,” Seonghyeon counters.
They play; Keonho loses with suspicious speed and looks pleased about it anyway.
Back at the dorm, the kitchen turns into a tiny stage—steam rising, chopsticks clacking, laughter echoing off tile. James steals egg slices; Juhoon narrates like a food show; Martin monitors sodium like a dad.
When bowls finally hit the table, Keonho sets one by Seonghyeon’s elbow, not looking at him when he does. “Yours.”
“Thanks,” Seonghyeon says, soft enough that the word barely makes air.
They eat. It’s nothing. It’s everything. Under the table, their knees bump once—accident, inevitability, both.
From the couch, Martin calls, “Early call time. Bed by one.”
“Copy,” they chorus.
Lights click off one by one. The city outside keeps breathing. In the narrow hallway to their rooms, Keonho slows. So does Seonghyeon. They hover in the puddle of light from the bathroom night lamp, shoulders almost aligned, the way people do when they want to say a thing and choose to save it for later.
“Good work today,” Keonho says.
“You too,” Seonghyeon answers.
A pause, a breath, a nearly. Then they peel away towards each of their beds, the quiet tug between them stretching like a wire—thin, gleaming, uncut.
—
The alarm hits before sunrise. Staff corral them into motion like sheepdogs, voices sharp against the dark. Hoodies, caps, carry-on bags slung half-zipped.
“Schedule’s stacked,” Martin reads from his phone as they shuffle into the elevator. “Music show, radio, fan call, then back to the studio.”
“Can we teleport instead?” James mutters, dragging his feet.
“Five seconds late to teleportation, you’d still get scolded,” Juhoon says, and James groans dramatically.
By the time they reach the van, dawn is a thin bruise across the sky. Seonghyeon slides into the last bench seat, pressing his cheek against the window’s cool glass. Keonho follows and drops beside him, thigh to thigh in the narrow space. It’s automatic—like water filling a gap.
James climbs in after and groans. “Why do they always sit together?”
“Because we’re efficient,” Keonho answers, leaning back with a grin.
Seonghyeon says nothing, just adjusts his hood. But his chest feels too aware of the proximity. Not bad—just… awake.
⸻
The van hums along the expressway. Martin reviews lyrics under his breath, Juhoon dozes, James plays some rhythm game on his phone with the sound way too loud.
Keonho tilts his head toward Seonghyeon, voice low enough to stay private:
“You’re quieter than usual.”
“I’m conserving energy.”
“You’re conserving moods.”
Seonghyeon cuts him a sideways look, dry. “Do you need me to entertain you?”
“Yeah,” Keonho says, immediate, playful. “Do something funny.”
“I’m not James.”
“Rude.” Keonho nudges his knee against Seonghyeon’s under the blanket pooled across their laps. A small thing. But the pressure lingers, neither moving away.
⸻
Backstage at the show, nerves coil tighter. Stylists flit around with combs, powder, safety pins. Martin calls for formation check; Juhoon stretches shoulders. James is buzzing with too much energy.
Keonho, already wired, leans against the counter beside Seonghyeon, watching staff adjust his mic belt. “Don’t look so serious. We’ve done this a hundred times.”
“I’m not serious. I’m focused.”
“Focused looks like you’re about to fight someone.”
“Maybe I am.”
That gets a laugh out of Keonho, quick and bright. He dips closer, chin almost brushing Seonghyeon’s shoulder. “Who, me?”
The stylist coughs politely, tugging the last strap in place. Seonghyeon’s ears heat. He turns slightly away. “You talk too much.”
“Correct,” Keonho agrees, shameless.
⸻
On stage, the cameras devour them. Every look, every sync, every drop of sweat is magnified.
Seonghyeon zones into muscle memory—beats, breaths, sharp lines. But there’s always Keonho in the corner of his vision, orbiting close during transitions, flashing that grin mid-chorus like a dare.
In the final pose, they end near each other, close enough for their shoulders to almost brush. The crowd screams. The lights blackout. The spell breaks.
Back in the wing, adrenaline buzzing, James slaps both their backs. “Good save on the third chorus—camera almost tripped me, but you guys covered.”
“Teamwork,” Keonho says. But his eyes dart once to Seonghyeon, quick and quiet.
⸻
Later, during a break in recording, the five cram into a waiting room with plastic chairs and lukewarm coffee.
Juhoon sprawls on the couch, scrolling. Martin reviews notes. James hums tunelessly while peeling the label off a water bottle.
Keonho and Seonghyeon share the small two-seater chair—because no one else wants to squeeze. Keonho sprawls, naturally, knees wide. Seonghyeon sits straight, trying to ignore the way their shoulders press together.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Keonho murmurs.
“I’m not tired.”
“You look like you’re buffering.”
Seonghyeon exhales, a near-laugh. “Maybe you just talk too much for my processor.”
“Maybe you like it,” Keonho shoots back, grin tugging at his mouth.
Seonghyeon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to—the way his ears redden is enough to make Keonho’s smile soften, even as he leans back like he won something.
⸻
By the time they pile back into the van that night, the city lights smear across the glass in ribbons. James is knocked out, Juhoon half-asleep with headphones, Martin typing updates.
Keonho yawns, then lets his head tip sideways, bumping lightly onto Seonghyeon’s shoulder. “Five minutes. Wake me before we get there.”
Seonghyeon freezes for a moment—then doesn’t move. He keeps still, staring out at the streetlamps, pulse skittering.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
The van hums on. The night stretches, quiet and endless.
The morning starts with another round of rehearsals. Juhoon’s nagging everyone to drink water, James is half-stretching, half-annoying Martin, and the choreographer looks seconds away from quitting.
During one break, Seonghyeon sits against the mirror, scrolling silently through his phone. Keonho drops beside him, towel slung around his neck.
“You’re not drinking.”
“I will.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
Seonghyeon glances at him, unimpressed. “You timing me?”
“Obviously.” Keonho leans closer, too close, like he’s about to snatch the bottle right out of Seonghyeon’s hands. Their knees knock together, deliberate.
Seonghyeon shifts, but not away—more like he doesn’t know where to shift. “…You’re annoying.”
“You’d miss me if I stopped.”
Seonghyeon doesn’t answer, eyes fixed back on his phone. But his grip on it tightens, betraying the flutter in his chest.
⸻
Later that day — radio schedule.
The five of them squeeze around the table with mics. The DJ throws easy questions, jokes flow, James hams it up, Martin keeps things polished.
Then comes a game segment: finish the other member’s sentence.
Keonho and Seonghyeon are paired.
The sentence: “If I were stranded on an island, the one thing I’d need is…”
Keonho smirks before answering. “Seonghyeon.”
The DJ laughs, Martin claps, James whoops. Juhoon rolls his eyes.
Seonghyeon goes still for a beat, then forces out a dry, “…You’d starve.”
The room bursts again. But Keonho leans just close enough for only him to hear:
“Not if you’re there.”
Seonghyeon’s chest jumps. He doesn’t look at him the rest of the game.
⸻
That night — dorm living room.
Everyone else is distracted: James gaming, Martin FaceTiming family, Juhoon reading.
Keonho flops down beside Seonghyeon on the couch, close enough their arms brush.
“Still ignoring me?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You didn’t look at me once during the game.”
“…Because you’re loud.”
“That’s the point.” Keonho shifts, leaning just slightly forward, his face angled toward Seonghyeon’s. Not touching. Not even that close. But the suggestion of it hangs sharp in the air, enough to make Seonghyeon’s stomach flip.
“You ever wonder,” Keonho murmurs, “what would happen if I stopped joking?”
Seonghyeon blinks, throat dry. “No.”
Keonho smirks, leaning back like he never said it. “Liar.”
Across the room, James yells at his game, oblivious.
But on the couch, tension coils tight and unspoken, stretching between them like a held breath.
Schedules ran late. By the time they piled into the van, everyone was half-asleep, limbs overlapping with bags and jackets.
Seonghyeon ended up by the window, earphones in, head tilted back. Keonho slid in beside him — last seat, cramped, their shoulders pressed automatically.
For once, Keonho didn’t say anything. Just sat there, scrolling on his phone. Quiet.
Minutes stretched. The van hummed along the empty road.
Then, almost lazily, Keonho shifted his hand from his lap to the space between them. His pinky brushed against Seonghyeon’s. Not enough to be anything. Just there.
Seonghyeon glanced down. Didn’t move his hand. Didn’t pull away either.
Outside, streetlights passed in streaks of orange. Inside, silence.
It wasn’t hand-holding. It wasn’t even close. But the warmth of Keonho’s knuckle grazing his made Seonghyeon’s chest feel unsteady, restless.
When Seonghyeon finally glanced sideways, Keonho was pretending to doze, mouth curved in the faintest smirk.
⸻
Back at the dorm
Everyone stumbled into their rooms. Lights off.
Seonghyeon lay awake, replaying the van ride, over and over. That stupid pinky. That stupid smirk.
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. And yet his chest still wouldn’t calm down.