Chapter Text
Euijoo doesn’t have to look up to know that he’s staring—it’s something he can feel, no matter how much Nicholas tries to hide it.
The wall clock in their makeshift break room, tucked to the side of the shooting set, says it’s not even 6AM yet, but Euijoo’s coffee tastes like nothing already—it’s been sitting forgotten for far too long, watered down and lukewarm. He takes a small sip out of it and his expression immediately turns sour.
Beside him, there’s music humming quietly from Taki’s phone, where some random YouTube video plays—all while its owner sleeps soundly on the cramped couch alongside Haura. Fuma’s sitting on its armrest, busy showing Yuma photos from his family trip to the mountains. Yudai’s peering over their shoulders, curious.
Muffled voices drift in from outside the tent—the director, maybe, discussing something with their manager. Euijoo listens in to their conversation for a moment, and it’s long enough for him to recognize his own name. He tells himself he should probably go see what that’s about—knows that’s his cue to get up and at least try to act like the professional he’s supposed to be today.
But he doesn’t move. The clock on the wall has been stuck at 5:48AM for what feels like hours now.
Euijoo’s convinced it’s all because of Nicholas.
All because of his gaze, precisely, which feels like it’s about to burn a hole in the back of his head. It’s both sharp and heavy—scrutinizing and penetrating at the same time—and even though they’re sitting at opposite ends of the tent, Euijoo’s almost certain he can hear every breath Nicholas exhales and every shift of fabric against his body when he moves in his chair.
He swears he can feel the burning at his scalp intensify and his skin melt down further each time Nicholas opens his eyes again—after those split seconds it takes him to blink.
Or maybe Euijoo’s just projecting. Maybe Nicholas is asleep, like the rest of them. Maybe he’s reviewing choreography on his phone. Maybe he’s texting someone. Maybe he doesn’t care at all, and the heat under Euijoo’s skin is nothing but his own doing.
Either way, he’s still not sure if showing up here was the right decision.
Maybe he should’ve said no when he picked up his manager’s call two months ago, that one cold evening. Maybe he should’ve mumbled something about taking time off—an oddly timed break, sure, but at least any excuse at all.
Maybe he would have, if he hadn’t been a little tipsy that night. Maybe he would have, if he hadn’t been sunk in that sappy-wet-dog-depressive nostalgia about his old idol days, sitting in a shabby barbecue joint in the heart of Hongdae, surrounded by the crew of his latest drama.
Maybe he would have—but he didn’t. He knows he wouldn’t have been able to take his words back anyway—the messages from Fuma and Harua that came the next day were too full of excitement for him to turn his back on them again.
He must bear the consequences of his own choices, Euijoo tells himself—because no one else will. He has to believe that he’s strong and he’s brave, and he won’t let anyone intimidate him here—not the people waiting for him to mess up, not the reporters looking for a story, and definitely not Nicholas.
He keeps his eyes closed as the makeup artist adds a few final touches of glitter around his brows. The hole’s burned clean through the back of his skull now. He looks up at the clock despite himself. 5:53AM. This is going to be a long day.
“Euijoo-ssi, I need you guys out in five.”
A voice cuts through the pulled-open entrance of the tent, snapping him out of his thoughts—sharp and far too loud for any normal human being awake at this hour. It’s the assistant director, waving a clipboard in one hand and clutching an almost-empty cup of coffee in the other. It’s probably not his first of the morning, and definitely not his last.
Once pulled back to the world, Euijoo starts to notice everything again—his ears picking up the sound of the shoot’s crew moving outside. He hears the low hum of generators, the shuffle of camera equipment, and the clipped exchange of instructions all folding together into the kind of background static Euijoo knows too well.
Years away from the idol scene haven’t made him a stranger to this familiar rhythm. Being an actor might come with a little more freedom and a bit more privacy, but at the end of the day, it’s not all that different from what he remembers from his twenties. He knows that in this industry, they’re all in the same boat—more or less—whether they like it or not.
He blinks quickly a couple of times, letting the makeup artist step back with a soft, satisfied hum. The glitter on his face catches under the fluorescent light, and he forces out a polite smile before standing—polite enough to pass for gratitude. He adjusts his belt and smoothes out the creases in his jacket. His body feels like it’s operating half a second behind his brain. His watered-down coffee sits untouched. He should’ve just drunk it all anyway.
“Whoa, it’s like I’m seeing a celebrity,” Yuma muses, amazed. His eyes open wide but there’s laughter curling at the edges of his voice, about to betray him. Euijoo gives him a look. “I’m not joking! Only time I see you with makeup is on TV—it feels like actor Byun Euijoo came here to support us.”
Euijoo winces before managing to arrange his expression into something more fitting.
The comment stings a bit—not because there’s any reason for it to sting, but because there isn’t. He knows Yuma doesn’t mean anything by it; it’s not like he’s lying, and it’s not like he wants the words to hurt. It’s just that they’re true. Everyone knows Euijoo’s been absent and everyone knows most of them only ever see him on screens now.
Still, he lets it sting, even if just for a moment.
“It’s such an honor to be here,” he says, matching Yuma’s teasing with a soft, self-deprecating tone. A smile threatens to break through, and he lets it. “I’ll be cheering you guys on, hoping you do your best. Fighting!”
Yuma laughs at that and the sound of his voice is bright and unrestrained—too alive to be cutting clean through the dim, sluggish morning air. It catches Euijoo off guard, how easy it sounds. How light—unweighted, even. He has to stop himself from wondering when the last time was that he heard someone sound that enthusiastic this early in the day.
“We’ll hold you to that, hyung.”
The assistant director pokes his head back inside before Euijoo gets to respond.
“Two minutes!” he calls, already halfway turned toward someone else.
The laughter fades into motion almost imperceptibly, and Euijoo’s grateful he doesn’t have the chance to linger on it.
The tent shifts with small noises, as everyone starts getting ready to head out: chairs scraping against the floor, zippers closing, and fabric rustling. Fuma stands, brushing biscuit crumbs from his pants, Haura groans awake on the couch, Jo steps out from behind the changing room’s curtain, and Taki’s phone finally stops playing the video no one was listening to.
Nicholas hasn’t moved.
Euijoo catches his reflection in the mirror before he fully turns—more out of habit than intent. He spots Nicholas’ silhouette and the faint flicker of light catching in his eyes from across the space, and for a fraction of a second, their gazes meet. Under the harsh glare of the ceiling lights, Nicholas’ face is unreadable—composed, maybe, or simply detached. Euijoo can’t tell.
It’s Nicholas who looks away first, bending down to gather his things. The burning at the back of Euijoo’s scalp dissolves. In its place, a cold shiver crawls down his spine before he can stop it.
“Let’s move, people!” the assistant director shouts again from outside, voice impatient now.
Euijoo exhales once, long and steady, and finally faces the tent’s entrance.
6:01AM. He can do this.
See, the worst part about this whole situation—the one Euijoo chose to put himself in willingly, mind you—is that if he were to step outside of it and look at it from anyone else’s point of view, he’d probably say it looks too good to be true.
He remembers their last group appearance so vividly he could almost convince himself it happened yesterday—the end-of-year award show. His recent discharge from the military. The promise of a comeback in the spring. Nicholas shouting at him backstage. The tears. His own blurred reflection in the bathroom mirror. Yudai’s goodbye hug—too tight, as if he already knew.
And so, the fact that Euijoo’s here now—at this abandoned building turned shooting location, in the dead of winter, surrounded by all eight of his teammates during preparations for their twelfth-anniversary album—and the fact that he’s even welcome to be here at all—should feel like unwrapping presents on Christmas Eve.
But maybe we should back up a little.
The night is colder than it should be for late March.
Seoul feels numb and half-muted—like someone’s turned the volume down on everything except Euijoo’s thoughts. The Han River drags by slow and dark beside him, and his reflection stutters every time a gust of wind ripples across the surface.
He hears Nicholas before he sees him—running across the crosswalk. The sound of heavy boots striking asphalt, then skidding against the frozen grass slope, and finally landing on the brick pavement by the river. It must’ve taken him at least three minutes to tie those. Add another three for retying them halfway here. Six minutes, give or take, from the fifteen he’s already late.
It doesn’t matter. He’s here now—or about to be, at least.
Euijoo swallows back down the nausea rising in his throat.
For some strange reason, Nicholas seems to be taller than he remembers, even though it’s only been two weeks since Euijoo flew back home to see his family before enlistment. Taller, even though he knows every line of Nicholas’ body by heart, and even though there’s no way he’s grown upwards even a millimeter since then.
Maybe it’s just the night playing tricks on him. Maybe it’s the platform boots Euijoo hates. Or maybe it’s the coat—thick, long and padded—the kind stylists always tell them not to wear because it hides their body lines.
Nicholas doesn’t seem to care about them tonight. The coat doesn’t even match his heavy boots. It’s almost like it’s not him.
Euijoo notices his hair when he steps closer—it’s darker now, catching a black sheen under the streetlights. His first thought is that he must’ve dyed it to let it rest from the bleach.
His second thought is that he still, undeniably, looks like Nicholas.
“You’re early,” Nicholas says, breath visible in the cold. His voice is rough and light all at once, and he’s clearly trying to hide how out of breath he is—pretending he didn’t just run here—but he’s not really doing a good job. Euijoo heard those boots long before he saw him anyway.
“You’re late,” he answers back automatically. His voice doesn’t sound like his.
Nicholas grins at him faintly and shrugs deeper into his coat. “Traffic.”
“On foot?” Euijoo asks, aiming for disbelief but missing the edge. It comes out soft instead—mushy. Fond, almost. It makes him want to slap himself for how easy it is for Nicholas to disarm him.
But then, who is he to talk, really? He can’t even remember the last time he had any real say in what he feels—the last time his chest wasn’t just a room Nicholas could walk into and leave as he pleased. He can’t decide if it makes him want to punch him or pull him close until there’s no air left between them.
Nicholas shifts something behind his back, and a plastic bag materializes in front of them, the thin film crinkling in the wind. “I stopped by the convenience store. Thought you might want something sweet.”
He pulls out a can of coffee milk—the same kind they used to live on during trainee days—and Euijoo can almost taste it without even touching it. He hasn’t had one in years, but the memory comes instantly: the sweet and artificial flavour, heavy with the kind of nostalgia that sticks to the roof of your mouth.
“Wow,” he says flatly, though the glint in his eyes gives him away. “That’s your going-away gift to me?”
Nicholas doesn’t bother answering. He just looks up at him—unamused, maybe a little fond—and rolls his eyes before cracking the can open. The click of aluminum feels too loud in the calm around them. He takes a sip, then hands Euijoo another one from the bag.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The river flows. The cold wind whistles. A bike bell rings somewhere in the distance.
Since when has Seoul at night been this quiet? The city feels almost too still—like it’s holding its breath for something that isn’t supposed to happen.
And better yet—why is Nicholas even on its premises right now?
What Euijoo knows is that he’s been in Japan up until yesterday—knows everyone else still is. Some of them filming ads, others shooting different variety shows. Yuma and Jo busy with their unit debut. The rest scattered across the country, comfortably unreachable, resting.
It’s strange to have Nicholas here, Euijoo figures—stranger still that he’s standing in front of him now, almost unannounced, with only a thirty-minute prior notice, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Euijoo doesn’t ask what kind of work had him fly to Seoul. Doesn’t ask if he’s here for a few days or if he’s leaving tomorrow. Doesn’t ask if this—standing by the river together, in the cold—is a detour or a decision.
Doesn’t ask if, maybe—if, possibly—Euijoo’s the only reason Nicholas is here at all.
He’s too scared of the answer being either.
He looks at the water instead. The reflection of the bridge lights ripples in the current. There’s a couple sitting huddled together on a bench beneath it, talking in hushed laughter. Euijoo feels like he shouldn’t be watching them, so he turns his gaze back to Nicholas—hesitant, but unable not to.
Nicholas is looking at the river too, his breath steadying in the cold. Momentarily, Euijoo becomes acutely aware of how close they’re standing—close enough to see the faint indentation of the can in Nicholas’ hand, close enough to catch the trace of his cologne, close enough to realize that if he leaned forward just a little, he could close the distance entirely.
“It’s weird,” Nicholas says finally, voice breaking the quiet. The sound startles Euijoo, who’s been tracing the slope of his lashes. “That you’re leaving, and all.”
Euijoo swallows and pretends to focus on the lights across the water. “Weirder to me, probably.”
Nicholas huffs out a small laugh, but it doesn’t seem like he finds it funny. “Yeah. Probably.”
It’s the kind of laugh that doesn’t travel far—it lands between them and stays there, soft and uneven. It leaves something unsaid in its wake, clearly, and Euijoo hates how much he wants to understand it. Hates how much it makes him want to reach out like he once could without hesitation, too—to touch his sleeve, his hand, anything.
It’s quiet again for a moment. The city hums around them, barely audible, and a crow caws. Euijoo breathes in deeply, as if trying to memorize the air between them—as if the moment might last longer, if he keeps on exhaling just a little slower.
He knows he should be saying something right about now—maybe even a simple thanks for coming to say goodbye, I’ll miss you, or a please, take care—but the words sit useless in his throat. Everything he wants to say feels either too big or too small, and he has no idea where to start from.
I love you.
He swallows the thought down hard, fighting the urge to throw up for the second time this evening.
“Listen—” he attempts, but the rest doesn’t come out. He’s not entirely sure what was supposed to follow anyway. He clears his throat, pretending he wasn’t just about to say something he wouldn’t have been able to take back.
Nicholas shifts slightly, his coat brushing Euijoo’s own.
“When you come back,” he says it like an afterthought, quiet enough that Euijoo almost misses it, “we should go somewhere, just us. Maybe that Taiwanese restaurant—the one with red lanterns outside, remember?”
Of course he remembers.
Euijoo looks at him then—like he both understands what he means, and doesn’t at all. The wind pushes a strand of hair across his forehead, and Euijoo resists the impulse to brush it away.
“When I come back?” he echoes, as if to make sure he heard right.
“Yeah,” Nicholas’ lips curve, though his expression doesn’t quite reach a smile. “But don’t make me wait too long, okay?”
Something twists inside Euijoo’s chest at his tone, sharp and ugly.
He wants to tell him that he gets it—wants to tell him that if willpower were enough, those eighteen months ahead of him wouldn’t exist, and there would be nothing stopping them now. That Nicholas wouldn’t have to wait a second longer—not anymore.
“That’s not really up to me,” he says instead, trying to sound light. It comes out brittle.
“I know.” Nicholas’ gaze drops to the can in his hand. His thumb traces the condensation ring around the lid. “Still.”
The word lingers, small and unfinished. Still.
Euijoo watches the movement of Nicholas’ thumb and feels it like a pulse between them—something alive and unresolved, threading through the cold air. He wants to ask what it is that Nicholas is implying, and wants to hold the moment close for a little bit longer, before it slips away.
But the truth is that he already knows—knows what he means, what both of them mean, standing here like this, right before Euijoo has to go, talking about everything except the thing they came here for. Still, neither of them dares to say it out loud.
And so, Euijoo convinces himself that it’s enough. That for now, they’re here together, in this thin slice of night by the river—and that, for a little while, that will have to be enough.
When Nicholas finally looks up at him again, his expression is careful, measured in that way it always is when he’s trying to hide something. Euijoo smiles, because he doesn’t know what else to do.
It feels like a truce. A shared understanding that whatever almost escaped their lips will stay unspoken.
Maybe when he comes back. Maybe then.
The days blur, and the sun is relentless.
That’s the first two things Euijoo learns after enlisting—that time, in its strangest and cruelest way, stops being something he can measure in minutes or hours. Instead, it stretches. It folds. Compresses. Every day is the same thick, unmoving air against his skin, the same early wake-up, the same echoing metallic clang of lunch trays, the same shouting, and the same silence afterward.
He learns the shape of the routine around here the way a body learns habit—through repetition and muscle memory. At times, he doesn’t even find it all that different from what he’s used to. Wake up. Stand in line. Eat. Run. Sleep. Two completely unrelated lives that shouldn’t resemble each other at all—idol work and his time in the military—suddenly blur into somewhat of the same outline.
The biggest difference is that here, Euijoo doesn’t think much anymore. He’s not supposed to, and he doesn’t want to. Thinking takes effort, and effort leads to missing things, and missing things feels like weakness. He finds it almost nice—not having to work his brain. Finds he likes the simplicity of being told what to do, more than he expected.
That’s because it’s easy to get lost in the repetition. At first.
The first few weeks, his body aches too much to think about anything that isn’t survival. His mind feels clean and stripped of the constant noise that’s been accompanying him ever since he can remember, and for a while, the quiet up there almost feels like peace—until he realises it’s just emptiness wearing a different face.
Nicholas is still there, though, lingering in the corners. All of them are—in small details that refuse to fade: in the echo of someone laughing when Euijoo least expects it, in the faint cadence of voices that don’t belong here, and in the way the world still feels slightly off-key when they’re not in it. When he’s not in it.
That’s when the routine starts to dull, and the silence begins to rot—slowly, dark and ugly beneath his skull.
He starts counting—first the days, then the weeks, then the months. He marks time by the arrival of letters from his parents and the occasional packages from his friends that somehow make their way here, across the country through countless hands.
There’s one from Yuma as well, arriving all the way from Japan, packed with his favourite snacks, signed, glossy photos from their unit promotions, and a few polaroids from a trip to the coast he went on with the youngest three. There’s a small postcard with a picture of the Tokyo Tower from Fuma too—with a note that’s short and kind, saying that they miss him.
There’s none from Nicholas.
He tells himself it makes sense. That Nicholas is exactly the type to think letters would only make things harder for him. That maybe he is writing them, but they take ages to get here—from Tokyo, maybe, or Taipei. That it’s the distance that’s at fault, and they just got tangled somewhere along the way.
He ignores the fact that Yuma’s package arrived without issue, and that Fuma’s card found him just fine. He tells himself Nicholas wouldn’t forget—and that he just wouldn’t want to make it worse by reminding Euijoo that he exists somewhere across the sea, unreachable. He wills himself not to dwell on it.
Still, the radio silence feels heavier than it should—and so, on days when Euijoo finds himself missing everyone just a little bit more than usual, and when sleep fails at taking him under, he opens Yuma’s letter again just to look at the photos.
There’s one with all eight of them backstage, somewhere in a studio outside of Tokyo—Jo and Yuma still sweaty from rehearsal, laughing at something on the sidelines. Nicholas stands in the middle, looking at them fondly. His hair’s blonde again, the kind of shade that only ever looks good on him, and even through the blurry print, Euijoo can see the brightness in his face.
It makes his chest squeeze strangely—like he’s glad and hurt all at once. He wonders for how long Nicholas kept the dark colour he remembers him with.
He doesn’t realise how deep that ache runs until his first proper leave.
He’s sitting in the corner booth of a small café near the town’s bus station—just half an hour from the camp’s gates. The air smells faintly of burnt espresso and detergent here, thick and sour in the warmth, but Euijoo barely registers it when his phone finally switches on and reconnects to the world.
Notifications start flooding in with a slight delay: missed messages on group chats, brand newsletters, old news alerts. He scrolls through them all without paying much attention to any in particular, half out of curiosity, half to pass the time until his bus arrives.
Then he sees it.
“Coworkers or Dating? Rumored Relationship Between Nicholas of &TEAM and Taiwanese Actor J. Chen Draws Public Attention!”
His thumb freezes.
There’s a photo—a familiar profile, Nicholas’, caught in a crowded street somewhere overseas. Somewhere home, Euijoo guesses; it doesn’t really look like anywhere in Tokyo. Beside him, a man walks with his head tilted back mid-laugh. The picture is grainy, taken from behind some bushes without permission, and there’s nothing intimate about it—except for the way Nicholas is smiling. Unguarded. Easy. The way he never smiles when he knows someone’s watching.
Euijoo stares at it until the screen dims. Then he taps it awake again, just to stare for longer.
The comments beneath the article are endless—speculations, translation threads, some fans defending him, saying it’s just friendship, others joking about different made-up rumours from last month. He doesn’t mean to click on any of it, but he does. Again and again.
By the time he realizes his coffee’s gone cold, his stomach feels hollow. Acid licks up the back of his throat, and he takes a sip to force it back down.
It’s not really jealousy, he tells himself, though he knows part of it is. It’s surprise—disbelief, maybe. The kind of sudden and tight twist in his gut that comes from seeing something you didn’t expect to care about, and then realising you do.
The news must be fake…right? When you come back. There’s no way that was all in Euijoo’s head—no way it was all his own imagination.
And even if it was, there’s just no way Nicholas wouldn’t tell him about something this big. If it were true—if he was really dating—he’d say it.…wouldn’t he?
Despite himself, Euijoo scrolls down the KakaoTalk app to their old messages. The chat has been quiet for weeks now. The last thing Nicholas sent him was a sticker—a bear waving goodnight—from back when Euijoo first enlisted. He opens the keyboard, types How’s Taipei? and stares at it. Then he deletes it. Types How’s work? and deletes that too.
In the end, he settles on something so neutral and so unlike them that it makes him cringe.
me: hey
me: saw your new shoot, looks great!
He presses send before he can talk himself out of it. The reply comes eight minutes later—it’s short and a little impersonal—nevertheless, it comes.
nico: oh thanks haha good to hear you’re out the barracks!
nico: it’s been so busy lately "( – ⌓ – )
Euijoo stares at the screen, debating whether to leave it there, but his fingers move on their own.
They text a little about nothing important, really. He learns that Nicholas just got back from Japan, that the shoots for the magazines are endless, and that he barely has time to sleep. He asks how camp is, and Euijoo tells him it’s cold and loud and mostly the same every day. They go back and forth for a few minutes like that—about the weather, the food at the camp’s cafeteria, and Nicholas’ schedules.
Euijoo knows they’re using this kind of surface-level chatter to fill a gap between something neither of them goes on to address—at least he is. Neither of them mentions the rumours. Neither of them mentions them.
When the chat eventually dies out, Euijoo looks down at the last two messages.
nico: sounds rough
me: you get used to it i guess
He feels like scoffing for some reason—so he scoffs. He’s not sure at whom.
He locks his phone and doesn’t check it again for the rest of the bus ride back to Seoul, where the man in front of him won’t stop shouting on a call and the one behind him keeps snoring like there’s no tomorrow.
He tells himself it’s fine. That Nicholas must be busy, true to his words. That they don’t always owe each other updates on everything—not on work, not on family, and especially not on their love lives.
Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something small has come loose between them—and that whatever it is, he won’t be able to fix it from where he is.
The next time Euijoo goes on leave, it’s early spring again. The air smells faintly of rain, and the city’s only just beginning to settle after another wild Friday night.
He meets up with Fuma—since he’s just landed in town for work, and since Euijoo’s heading back to camp in a few hours—for ramen at a convenience store near Hongdae. It’s one of those places they both know all too well—one that never closes, that sees a customer maybe once an hour, and always plays old ballads far too loud for how quiet the streets get at dawn.
They sit across from each other outside, on plastic stools beneath the weak flicker of a streetlight. The air’s cool enough that the steam from their ramen cups rises like smoke between them.
Fuma tells him about Japan—about what it’s like staying at the dorm, now that it’s always half-empty, with everyone moving between Tokyo and their family homes while Euijoo’s away. About Yuma and Jo’s unit doing better than anyone imagined, skyrocketing in popularity. About Maki’s upcoming musical role, Haura’s latest brand deal, and Yudai running a marathon days after getting back from a hiking trip and somehow not dying in the process.
“I still can’t get used to it,” Fuma says, slurping his noodles. “You not being around, I mean. Or everyone, really. The dorm’s so quiet.” He laughs a little, shaking his head, but there’s a flicker of something nostalgic—almost sad—behind his smile that Euijoo catches. “Nicholas points that out a lot these days,” he adds. “Says it’s weird sleeping in without you waking him up for schedules.”
The name lands heavy in Euijoo’s stomach, like a stone dropped into still water. It feels strange—unnatural, even—to hear it spoken aloud after so long, and directed at him, of all people. Still, he fights himself so that he doesn’t let it show. He keeps his face neutral, not looking up right away, and sticks to stirring his ramen thoroughly, even though there’s nothing left to stir.
“Yeah?” he finally mumbles something out, even if he suddenly doesn’t feel like talking anymore, voice a little rougher than intended.
“Yeah.” Fuma nods, smiling more fondly now, somehow completely unaware of the way Euijoo’s shoulders go rigid. It’s strange. A year ago, there was no way Fuma would’ve missed it—any sign of discomfort from him, no matter how small.
Euijoo figures that so many months apart must really do their work.
“He’s been good, though,” Fuma continues. “Busy—but you must know that already. He’s been flying between Tokyo and home a lot lately. I think Jimmy lives just outside Taipei or something, so I guess boyfriend duty calls—”
He goes on like it’s nothing.
Euijoo almost doesn’t hear the rest of it. There’s something about Nicholas filming a commercial, about Yuma’s new hair colour, about how Jo’s been writing songs again. His ears start ringing—faintly, but with no room for him to breathe, almost like radio static—as his brain tries to catch up with what Fuma’s just said.
“Oh,” he manages, when there’s finally a pause he can fill. His voice sounds almost normal.
Almost—definitely not like someone whose chest is being hollowed out from the inside. Definitely not like someone caught off guard by the fact that the name of the so-called boyfriend is different from the one in that article he remembers from months ago. Definitely not like someone who’s about to cry, just because Fuma says it so casually—as if it’s common knowledge, as if it’s clear as day that Euijoo’s supposed to know.
“That’s…good. For him.”
Fuma looks up at him, puzzled—like he’s not entirely sure what Euijoo’s responding to. Shit. He’s already moved on from that part of the conversation minutes ago, Euijoo realizes a beat too late.
The silence that follows stretches, thin and taut. Euijoo can feel the questions forming behind Fuma’s eyes in real time, and panic spikes sharp in his chest. He’s going to notice. He’s going to see right through him, and he’s going to understand, and Euijoo will have no choice but to confess.
And yet, before Fuma can ask, he keeps talking.
“Oh, you mean Nicholas?” He laughs suddenly, like the pieces have just clicked into place, finally getting what Euijoo meant. “Yeah, I think so! He really does look happy. Honestly, I’m still kind of shocked at how lightly the company took the news—I don’t know if he told you—but they even said that if the two of them ever want to go public, they’re more than fine with it.”
He looks Euijoo straight in the eyes, and Euijoo silently thanks his past self for not drinking that coffee on the way here. It would’ve ended up in his noodles.
“Wild, huh? Guess times really are changing.”
Euijoo forces a laugh that scrapes the inside of his throat raw. “Yeah,” he says, his voice dry despite how carefully he tries to steady it. “Different times.”
“Exactly,” Fuma agrees, nodding as he chews his food. “And really, I’m so proud of him—I know we all are.”
He pauses for a moment, as if weighing whether to say something else. Then he does.
“You know, there used to be a time I thought you and Nicholas were going to end up together or something.”
He grins as he says it, nudging Euijoo’s arm with the back of his hand like it’s nothing—like it’s a harmless joke tossed into the morning air. “You two were so close back then. I wouldn’t even be exaggerating if I said everyone had their suspicions—even the managers, probably. Look at him now, though!”
Euijoo smiles back at him—because there’s nothing else he can think of doing—though his stomach feels like it’s somewhere beneath him now, and his lungs have never felt this empty.
He really doesn’t feel like unpacking the meaning behind this conversation at four in the morning, outside some random convenience store that smells like soju and cigarette ash, with a bus ticket back to the camp burning a hole in his pocket.
He doesn’t want Nicholas back in his head like that again. Doesn’t want his imagination to keep him awake at night after the longest days. Doesn’t want to let himself spiral further into doubt. Doesn’t want to think about any of it—but the thoughts push through anyway, as they always do.
Was there a moment when Euijoo could’ve stopped this from happening?
Should he have called, written, and reached out first—even when the radio silence from the other side was unrelenting? Would it have changed anything if he’d spent his rare weekend phone time on a single text? Would any of this even matter in the reality where Nicholas got himself into dating rumours not long after Euijoo left?
When you come back. The words burn at the back of his throat.
Was Nicholas ever actually meaning to tell him—or was the suspended silence just easier that way? Was it simpler to let the feelings fade? Would it have made any difference if Euijoo had said something—back then, by the river—before the distance, before the uniform, and before all of this?
Or is it—perhaps—that Euijoo simply misunderstood everything?
The questions keep piling up—anxious and shapeless—but he’s too tired to chase their answers. Fuma’s last comment sits heavy in his chest like grief for something that never had a name. He watches the steam rise from his ramen, curling and vanishing into the cool night, and forces a laugh that doesn’t sound like him, pretending to find it funny.
“Yeah,” he says softly, “guess we fooled everyone.”
But then he’s back at the training camp, and everything folds back into sameness again.
His world narrows down to whatever exists within the high walls and barbed wire—to dorm corridors that smell of disinfectant and sweat, to the metallic echo of trays in the cafeteria, and to the heavy clatter of boots in the hallway when the morning whistle blows.
Routine seems to swallow every hour until nothing else remains.
That’s how it’s supposed to work, at least—how it used to, more or less—but this time, after returning from Seoul, something in Euijoo doesn’t slot back into place the way it should. The weight of knowing, which he brought back with him, sits too heavily to ignore.
Before, the repetition felt like comfort. It was numb, predictable, and manageable. Now, it feels like background noise against which his thoughts spin way too loudly.
There’s no one to lead here, no schedules to check twice, and no members to keep in line or pull back from burning out. His body follows orders just like before, but his mind is free in a way that feels dangerous. Every time he stands still for too long, his thoughts circle back to the same orbit—back to the same person.
Nicholas.
Euijoo starts thinking about him in strange shapes. About how his voice sounded that night by the river—low and rough, like he was about to say something truer than what actually came out. About the small pulse of warmth that existed between them in the cold. About the weight of something unsaid, which somehow keeps on fading the more time passes and the more Euijoo tries to hold onto it.
Some days, he tries convincing himself he misread everything—that maybe Nicholas only meant what he said, no more and no less. When you come back, let’s go eat together. Nothing coded between the lines, nothing left unspoken. A harmless promise between friends.
Other times, he replays it until the words start to sound like something else entirely, until he isn’t sure which version to believe anymore. He catches himself doing it more and more often—turning over small, insignificant memories like they’re puzzle pieces to some grand truth he’s missing.
When he’s allowed his phone on the weekends, he opens social media before he even realizes what he’s doing. He still doesn’t message Nicholas, telling himself there’s nothing to say—because what would a half-hearted how are you? change?—yet it’s always his own fingers that find their way to the worst kind of gossip sites he promised he’d never care about—to fan forums, entertainment blogs, and articles written by people who have no idea what they’re talking about.
He scrolls until his eyes ache, reading into every headline, every caption, and every blurry photo. Most of it seems harmless at first: airport sightings, variety show clips, comments about how Nicholas’ new hair colour keeps fading paler day by day. Sometimes he stumbles upon an interview snippet—filmed between magazine shoots and music channel appearances—of him talking about new projects and his travels, smiling that same smile Euijoo hasn’t seen in over a year.
And then he finds what he’s been unconsciously looking for.
“O.M.G. IT’S HAPPENING! Rumours of Engagement Between &TEAM’s Nicholas and Actor Jimmy Liu Surface Online After Leaked Photo of Matching Rings.”
He clicks on it before he can stop himself.
The photo is a close-up of Nicholas’ hand on a restaurant table, next to another that could belong to anyone—but the rings match, undeniably, simple and silver. The caption claims the two have been together for a while, that their families have met, that the relationship is serious.
Euijoo stares at the screen until the room fades into the night—his bunkmates’ loud snoring barely registering. He doesn’t bother pretending to scroll away, already busy reading through the comments that are split between disbelief and congratulations. Somewhere in the chaos of it all he spots a translation of a recent interview where Jimmy called his partner “one of the most inspiring people in his life.”
He knows it’s just gossip. Knows better than anyone how fabricated headlines can be—but knowing doesn’t stop the acid from rising, and doesn’t stop that ugly feeling from forming inside of him, twisting tighter with each minute he stays awake.
He doesn’t text Nicholas. Not that night—not the next one. He tells himself it’s because he’s busy, because there’s nothing to say, because Nicholas would tell him if it were true. Because it shouldn’t matter anymore—now that there’s someone else waiting for him, somewhere he actually belongs.
But it does.
Days later, he finds himself back on the same page anyway, even though he knows he’s not supposed to. He scrolls through every new update of that rumour like someone tracing the outline of a scar they can’t stop touching. Every detail he reads, true or not, feels like proof of something—of how far Nicholas has drifted, or maybe of how close he never really was.
By lights-out, Euijoo lies sleepless, staring at the ceiling, the faint buzz of the air conditioner drowning out his thoughts. He wonders, briefly, if Nicholas wore that same coat from the night by the river this winter. Wonders if Jimmy, too, complains about his heavy boots that take ages to tie. Wonders if Nicholas ever thinks of him when sleep doesn’t come, or if he’s never on his mind at all.
He wonders what it means to wait for someone who’s already moved on—or if there was ever any “moving on” to be over with in the first place.
And for the first time since enlisting, Euijoo doesn’t feel proud of enduring.
He just feels tired.
The air outside the camp smells sharper than he remembers.
His mum jokes that it’s freedom. Euijoo tells her it’s just pollution coming back into his respiratory system.
It’s strange—stepping out the gates after all that time, with no return bus ticket looming over his head anymore—and realizing that the world didn’t pause for him. Seoul goes on as it always has: buses honking at careless drivers, neon signs bleeding into puddles, and people moving too fast to notice anyone leaving or entering through high glass doors and narrow subway entrances.
He breathes it all in, hoping for familiarity, but the city tastes like something foreign on his tongue.
The company car is already waiting for him when he reaches the building. There’s no cameras and no fan banners around—just his manager, with a small smile, a barely visible streak of tears down his cheek, and a schedule printed in thin, unforgiving font. Euijoo folds the paper once, when it’s passed to him, then twice, and doesn’t read it. He already knows what it will say, anyway. Studio. Meeting. Recording. Practice. The year-end award show season’s about to start, and it’s definitely not his first rodeo.
He tells himself he’s ready—and forces himself to believe it—as they get in the car and head toward the airport.
He sleeps through the hour-long ride, through most of the flight, and through the drive along Tokyo’s streets as well—missing the first glimpse of everything outside the window, everything that must have changed while he was away. He realizes he set foot outside the camp’s gates exhausted this morning, and somehow, after all that sleeping, he’s still exhausted now, pressing in the door code to the group’s apartment.
The first thing he notices as he steps inside is that the couch is a different colour—it’s green.
Most of the posters on the walls around the living room have changed too, and if he had to guess, he’d say their theme seems fixed on pop music from the 2000s. The shoe rack by the door has doubled in size—or maybe the guys bought an identical one and stacked it on top of the old. Someone’s finally fixed the light that used to flicker in the hallway. The air conditioning is blasting, even though it already feels like autumn outside.
Apart from that, the dorm feels almost exactly the same, and Euijoo finds it comforting that the air still carries that specific blend of laundry detergent and hairspray that used to hang on all their clothes.
He barely has time to drop his duffel bag by the door when the noise hits him all at once—bright, messy, and so achingly familiar it almost hurts. Yuma’s shriek from the kitchen. Taki screaming as he launches himself straight into Euijoo’s arms. Yudai dropping his bowl of cereal on the floor, covering his mouth in disbelief that Euijoo’s actually here, standing in front of him.
For a second, Euijoo just stays still and lets it all happen. The arms around his shoulders, the laughter, the sound of his name spoken in that warm way he hasn’t heard in a long time. He doesn’t realize how much he’s missed this—how much he’s missed them all—until it’s right there, in front of him again.
Fuma’s the next one to appear, coming down the hallway with wet hair and a toothbrush dripping toothpaste still in his hand. “Euijoo-ya,” he says, grinning so wide at him it feels like sunlight. “I thought we’d get to pick you up ourselves tomorrow?”
Euijoo laughs, and this time it finally sounds real—the sound coming out of him uneven and shaky, unsure if it’s excitement, the threat of tears, or just exhaustion—as Fuma pulls him into a hug so tight he can barely breathe.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he murmurs into his neck simply, not trusting himself to say more.
“You did,” Fuma laughs, pulling back hesitantly, and stepping to the side just enough to make room for Maki, Harua and Jo, who have materialized beside them in the meantime. “Welcome home.”
Home. The word sticks somewhere behind Euijoo’s ribs. It doesn’t feel real.
Then he hears another voice—coming from behind the couch.
“Hey.”
It’s Nicholas.
He’s sitting on the floor by the coffee table, head bent over his lyric notebook. His hair has grown longer again—longer than Euijoo remembers seeing in interviews—curling slightly at the nape of his neck. It’s back to black, he realizes, and it’s catching the overhead light just enough to show that same familiar sheen, like he’s always half-lit by the city glow. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing the lean muscle of his forearms and the pale scar wrapping around his right one.
Euijoo can almost feel the warmth radiating from his skin across the room.
For a moment, he can’t move. His stomach tightens, and his eyes trace every familiar line of Nicholas’ face: the slope of his jaw, the gentle curve of his lips pressed together in thought, the faint shadow at the hollow of his throat. It all feels magnetic.
And then Euijoo’s mind starts racing.
He’s imagined this moment playing out a hundred different ways before—more, maybe.
In some, it’s soft and effortless. They collapse into each other with laughter, words spilling out freely, like nothing’s changed at all. Nicholas’ arms steady, warm, and unhesitating around him.
In others, it’s quieter. It’s a cautious reunion full of tentative smiles, and eyes searching each other for permission to speak, to touch. The air thick with the silence of months apart. The hug reluctant, but meaningful.
And then, there are the darker versions—the ones Euijoo hates thinking about, the ones that seem closest to their reality. Nicholas has a boyfriend now—hell, he might even be engaged. There’s someone he might've promised a future to. Someone whose presence in his life has filled all the space Euijoo wishes to hold.
When you come back.
What exactly does this make of their bond, then—a memory of something that could’ve been? A friendship, where one side stays longing like a fool? Or maybe just coworkers, sharing a history the world still sells, even if it no longer exists between them—even if it never did to begin with?
He’s prepared for that.
He’s tried to prepare, at least. Tried to imagine Nicholas looking at him and seeing nothing more than a friend and a teammate, nothing more than what they’ve always been on TV screens and on the stage in front of thousands. He’s imagined the way that realization would sit heavy in his chest as he’d find out that Nicholas has learned how to exist easily, in a world from which Euijoo had been shut out by duty and distance.
He breathes in deeply, forcing himself back to the present. All of those imagined versions of this reunion blur and collide at once, and not a single one feels remotely close to the real thing.
Nicholas looks up—eyes catching his—and Euijoo feels the world tilt.
“Hey,” he echoes. It’s barely a whisper. He’s so exhausted.
Nicholas smiles at him, bright and tender, and stands. When he steps forward and pulls Euijoo into his arms, his embrace is warm and familiar in muscle memory—but it’s not the same. It’s not the hug by the river. Not the one on stage, nine years ago. Not the one from any of the fantasies that lived in his head, keeping him awake at night.
There’s caution threaded through it now—distance in place of ease.
The acid creeps back into Euijoo’s throat. He feels the press of Nicholas’ shoulder, the faint warmth of his chest, the scent of his shampoo that hasn’t changed—and yet everything feels different. The hug holds no answers—none about the rumours, the time, or their feelings.
He exhales slowly, letting the moment settle around him, knowing that it’s everything he has for now—and knowing that it’s not enough.