Chapter Text
The clock had just flickered to 12:13 AM, when the world ended.
Seonghyeon didn't remember the taxi ride. He didn't remember sprinting through the emergency room entrance or the way the sliding doors hissed like a taunt. All he knew was the burning in his lungs and the terrifying, cold void in his chest. When the manager’s frantic call had come through a call ten minutes earlier, Seonghyeon had collapsed to his knees on the hardwood floor of the studio. The air had been punched out of him so violently he couldn't even find the breath to scream.
Now, he stood at the end of the long, sterile hospital corridor, his chest heaving as he panted, his sweat-dampened hair clinging to his forehead.
The sight that greeted him was a living nightmare. The entire management team, the lead producers, and the three remaining members of CORTIS were a huddled mass of grief and shock under the flickering fluorescent lights. James was pacing a frantic, jagged line, his face buried so deeply in his hands that his fingers left red marks on his skin. Juhoon sat on a plastic chair, looking like a ghost, staring at his shoes with a thousand-yard stare.
Before Martin or James could even reach him, the head manager stepped forward. His face was grim, etched with a pity that Seonghyeon hated instantly. He reached out and handed them a clear plastic evidence bag.
"The police found this at the scene," the manager said, his voice low and heavy. "They said... they said he was holding it like his life depended on it, Seonghyeon. He never let it go. Not until the impact."
Seonghyeon, driven by panic and anxiety, took the bag with trembling hands. His vision blurred, then snapped into agonizing focus. Inside was a square sleeve wrapped in silk that was now stained with road grime and slush. Through the silk, the minimalist white cover of the 1996 pressing stared back at him.
The corner was crushed. The plastic wrap was torn. The vinyl he had mentioned once, months ago, was sitting in his hands, ruined and covered in the filth of the street.
"What is this?" Seonghyeon whispered. His voice didn't sound like his own; it was a thin, high-pitched crack of a sound. "What... why did he have this?"
Martin stepped forward, his face gaunt and tear-stained. He didn't look like the confident, teasing hyung anymore; he looked like a man who was carrying a mountain on his back. He sank onto a nearby bench and patted the spot next to him. When Seonghyeon didn't move, Martin reached out and gently pulled him down.
"He wasn't at his cousin's, Seonghyeon," Martin said, his voice breaking on the first word. He couldn't hold the secret anymore. The weight of the lie was crushing the life out of him. "He spent the last 48 hours scouring every corner of this country for that record. He went to Busan today. He hasn't slept. He hasn't eaten. He’s been out there in the freezing cold since the moment he left the dorm."
Seonghyeon looked from the ruined record to Martin, his heart hammering a frantic, painful rhythm. "But... why? Why would he do this?”
"It was a prank, Hyeon," Martin sobbed, finally letting the truth spill out like blood from a wound. "He’s a stupid, head-over-heels teenager who didn't know how to tell you he loved you. He wanted to pull a 'prank'—to act cold and distant for a few days so that when he finally gave you that record on Christmas, the surprise would be so big you'd never doubt him. He wanted to see you cry with joy. But he didn't realize how much it would hurt you. He saw you breaking, and it panicked him. He told me he’d gone too far. He was terrified that if he didn't find that gift, you’d never forgive him for the way he’d been acting."
Seonghyeon’s grip on the plastic bag tightened until his knuckles turned white. A single, hot tear traced a path down his cheek, followed by another, and then the dam simply broke.
"He did this... because he thought I wouldn't forgive him?" Seonghyeon gasped, a choked, agonizing sound. "I would have forgiven him if he’d come home with nothing! I would have forgiven him if he’d never even looked at me again! I just needed him to be safe!"
The realization hit him with more force than the car could have. Every cold word, every avoided glance, every night Seonghyeon had spent crying in the studio—it hadn't been hate. It had been Keonho’s clumsy, desperate way of trying to earn a love he already had.
"I covered for him," Martin wailed, burying his face in Seonghyeon’s shoulder. "He begged me not to tell you. I should have stopped him. I should have dragged him home by his hair."
Seonghyeon didn't blame Martin. He couldn't. He was too busy falling apart. He leaned into Martin’s chest, his body racking with violent, soul-deep sobs. It was the sound of a heart being physically torn in two.
James and Juhoon moved in then, unable to stay back any longer. They formed a tight, shaking circle, their arms interlocking, a huddle of four boys who had started as strangers and become a family, now shattered.
"He loves you so much, Hyeon," Juhoon whispered into the huddle, his own voice thick with tears. "That’s all he kept saying. Everything he did... it was always for you."
The managers and producers stepped back, retreating into the shadows of the hallway to give them a moment of privacy. In the middle of the cold, clinical hospital, Seonghyeon clutched the ruined gift to his chest and cried for the boy who had tried to buy his forgiveness with his life.
🌒
The heavy double doors of the intensive care unit hissed open, and the scent of antiseptic and cold air rushed out to meet them. A nurse, her eyes weary but kind, stepped into the hallway. She looked at the four boys—disheveled, tear-streaked, and trembling—and her professional mask softened.
"He’s stable," she whispered, her voice a fragile lifeline in the silence. "He’s still unconscious; the trauma and the medication have pulled him deep under. You can go in. Stay as long as you need—the doctors are finished with their rounds for now. Just... try to keep the room peaceful for the boy’s sake.”
As they walked towards his room, Seonghyeon was still clutching the plastic bag with the ruined record against his chest, as if it were the only thing keeping his own heart beating.
When they stepped into the room, the sound hit Seonghyeon first. The rhythmic, artificial hiss-click of the ventilator and the steady, haunting beep... beep... beep... of the heart monitor. It was the soundtrack of a nightmare.
Keonho looked terrifyingly vulnerable in the center of the high-tech bed. His face, usually so full of life and light, was deathly pale, save for the dark, angry bruising spreading across his cheek and the stark white of the bandage wrapped around his head. His hands, the hands that played piano and held Seonghyeon’s during long flights, lay limp and pale on top of the white sheets.
James let out a strangled sob and had to lean against the wall, burying his face in his arm. Juhoon reached out, his hand hovering over Keonho’s ankle, afraid that even a touch might break him further.
For a long time, no one spoke. The four of them stood in a semi-circle around the bed, the weight of the last week crashing down on them in the sterile silence. Slowly, almost instinctively, they moved closer.
"Please," James whispered, his voice a broken thread. "Please come back, lil’ bro. We haven't even had our Christmas dinner yet. You still have to complain about the dishes."
They stood there for what felt like hours, a huddle of broken idols offering up whispered prayers and silent promises. Martin leaned down, pressing his forehead against the bed rail. "I'm sorry, Keonho-ya. I'm so sorry I let you go. Just open your eyes and I'll let you pull all the pranks you want for the rest of our lives. I won't even get mad. Just come back."
Eventually, the exhaustion and the weight of the grief became too much to bear in a group. One by one, the members looked at Seonghyeon. They saw the way he was staring at Keonho—not with the casual affection of a group mate, but with the raw, shattered devotion of someone whose entire world was lying in that bed.
Martin squeezed Seonghyeon’s shoulder. "We’re going to step out to the lounge for a bit. We’ll get some water and call the managers. Stay with him, Hyeon.”
Seonghyeon didn't even look up. He just nodded, his eyes fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of Keonho's chest.
As the door clicked shut, leaving the room in a heavy, clinical silence, Seonghyeon finally moved. He approached the side of the bed as if he were walking toward a cliff. He looked down at the boy who had spent the last forty-eight hours starving and freezing because he was afraid of losing a love that was already his.
He carefully set the ruined pressing on the bedside table. He reached out, his fingers trembling violently, and finally touched the back of Keonho’s hand. The skin was cool, but the pulse beneath it was steady.
Beep... beep... beep...
"You're so stupid," Seonghyeon whispered, the silence of the room finally allowing his voice to break. "You absolute, brilliant, terrifying idiot. Did you really think a piece of plastic mattered more than you? Did you really think I wouldn't believe you?"
He sank into the chair beside the bed, his forehead dropping onto the mattress near Keonho's arm. The words he had been suffocating on for five days finally began to pour out.
"I spent five days wondering what I had done wrong. I looked at our old photos, wondering when I became a burden to you. I thought the space you wanted was a way to push me out of your life because I loved you too loudly. I was ready to move out. I was ready to disappear just so you could be happy again. And all that time... you were out there in the cold, starving and shivering, just to find a piece of vinyl for me?"
Seonghyeon let out a broken, watery laugh that sounded more like a sob. He glanced at the ruined record on the nightstand—the bent corner, the grime of the street that had nearly claimed the boy he loved.
"I don't want the 1996 pressing, Keonho. Heck, I don't even want the record. I don't care if I never hear a single note of music again for the rest of my life, as long as I can hear you breathe. Do you have any idea what you are to me? You’re the reason the air feels breathable—bearable."
He squeezed Keonho’s hand, his thumb stroking the pale skin with a desperate, rhythmic intensity.
"I love you so much, Keonho-ya. Every melody I’ve written in the last two years has been a secret letter to you. Every time I looked at you on stage, I was thanking the universe that I got to stand next to you. And you thought... you thought you had to buy my forgiveness with a gift?"
Seonghyeon leaned forward, his voice dropping to a trembling, sacred whisper, his lips brushing against Keonho’s cold fingers.
"You are the gift, one that I have wanted for so long. Your goofy faces in the middle of a high-fashion shoot are my gift. The way you let me steal your hoodies and the scent of your shampoo on them is my gift. I don't need the record to tell me what beauty sounds like. I just need you to wake up. I just need you to open your eyes and tell me that I haven't lost you."
He let his head fall back onto the mattress, his tears soaking into the white sheets.
"I love you," he whispered, repeating the words that finally crossed the distance they had been traveling for years. "Just wake up. Please, just wake up. I’ll let you tease me for a hundred years. I’ll let you stay distant for a thousand more if it means you’re alive to do it. Just... don't leave me here alone. I don't know how to be myself if there is no 'us'.”
The room remained still, save for the steady beep... beep... beep... of the monitor. Seonghyeon closed his eyes, his heart splayed open and bleeding in the quiet of the ICU, holding onto the hand of the boy who risked his life to prove his love.
"I can’t live without you, Keonho," he breathed into the silence.
The exhaustion finally claimed Seonghyeon. With his hand still anchored to Keonho’s, he fell into a heavy, fitful sleep, his head resting uncomfortably on the edge of the hospital mattress.
🌓
An hour passed in the quiet hum of the ICU. Slowly, the boy in the bed began to stir.
Keonho’s eyes flickered open, the world blurry and smelling of antiseptic. The first thing he felt wasn't the ache in his ribs or the throb in his head—it was the warmth of a hand holding his. He turned his head slowly, his breath catching as he saw Seonghyeon. He looked at the older boy’s tear-stained face and the way his shoulders even in sleep seemed weighed down by grief.
Keonho reached out with his free hand, his fingers trembling as he brushed a lock of dark hair away from Seonghyeon’s forehead. He smiled weakly, a surge of pure, overwhelming love rising in his chest. He’s here.
But then, the fog of sleep cleared, and the memories rushed back like a tidal wave. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of profound, agonizing guilt.
Seonghyeon stirred under the touch, his eyes snapping open. For a second, he just stared, frozen.
"Keonho?" he whispered, his voice thick with sleep and disbelief. "Keonho, you're awake!"
Seonghyeon scrambled to stand up, his chair clattering back. "I have to call the nurse—they need to check your vitals—I need to tell the others—"
"No," Keonho croaked, his voice raw. The desperation in his voice causing the heart monitor to spike with a rapid beep-beep-beep. He gripped Seonghyeon’s hand with surprising strength, pulling him back toward the bed. "No, Hyeon. Don't go. Not yet. Just... stay. Please stay with me."
Seonghyeon froze, the plastic chair still rattling from his sudden movement. He looked down at Keonho’s hand—the knuckles bruised, the grip desperate—and slowly sank back into the seat. He didn't speak. He couldn't. The relief was so violent it felt like a second trauma, leaving him breathless and trembling.
For a long minute, they just looked at each other. The light of the room was unforgiving, highlighting the bandages on Keonho's head and the hollow, dark circles under Seonghyeon’s eyes. The silence between them grew heavy, stretching thin like a wire about to snap. Seonghyeon eventually broke the gaze, looking down at his own lap, his fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.
"The... the record," Keonho croaked, his eyes darting frantically to the bedside table. His voice was filled with a sudden, sharp anxiety that made the heart monitor spike, once more. “Hyeon, the bag. Is it... did I break it? I tried to hold on... I tried so hard not to let go when I saw the car..."
Seonghyeon felt a fresh pang of agony in his chest. He reached over and touched the plastic bag, the crinkle of the material sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. "Keonho-ya, forget about the record. It doesn't matter."
"It does," Keonho sobbed, a single tear disappearing into his temple bandage. "It was supposed to be my way back. I ruined it, didn't I? I saw it hit the slush. I’m so sorry. I’m such a mess. I wanted to give you something perfect because I’ve been so far from perfect to you lately."
Seonghyeon’s shoulders shook, but he kept his head down.
"I'm sorry," Keonho whispered, the sound barely audible over the hum of the heart monitor. "The space... the thing I said in the kitchen... I wasn’t thinking. I didn't think it would hit you that hard, Hyeon. I was just being a brat. I wanted to surprise you—I wanted it to be so big that I thought I had to make the 'before' part hurt a little. I’m so stupid. I’m so incredibly stupid."
Seonghyeon finally looked up, his eyes swimming.
"And then I saw your face," Keonho continued, his voice thick with tears. "I saw how much you were hurting, and I panicked. I thought if I just got that record—the one you’ve mentioned—it would fix everything. I thought that would make you forget how mean I’d been. I’m sorry.. I was too cowardly to just tell you I’d messed up."
"A piece of plastic, Keonho? You almost died for a record I mentioned in passing six months ago? I didn't want a gift. I wanted my best friend back. I spent every night this week looking at my phone, waiting for a text that never came, convinced that you had finally realized I wasn’t worth the place I held beside you.”
"Never," Keonho gasped, his hand tightening on Seonghyeon’s. "Don't you ever say that. You were never 'not worth it.' You were always worth every mile, every sleepless night, and every breath I have left.. You’re the only thing I care about. I’ve spent three years trying to hide it, Hyeon. Do you have any idea how hard that is? Even the fans know. Every time I open social media, I see another edit of me looking at you like you’re the sun. I was terrified you’d see them and realize I was obsessed with you."
Seonghyeon let out a jagged, watery laugh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "You think I didn't see them? Keonho, I saw every single one. And do you know what I thought? I thought you were distancing yourself because it finally made you uncomfortable. I thought you saw those videos and felt disgusted that people linked us together. I thought you were trying to prove to the world that you didn't love me back—that you were embarrassed by being shipped with me."
Keonho’s jaw dropped, his gaze filling with a devastating realization of the pain he'd caused. "Disgusted? Hyeon... I love those videos. I save them. They were the only proof I had that I was actually brave enough to look at you the way I wanted to. I wasn't embarrassed. I was just... I was sinking in how much I love you."
The absurdity of it—two people breaking their own hearts over the same set of internet videos—hung in the air between them, raw and real. Keonho looked at the ruined record one last time, then back to Seonghyeon, a small, sheepish smile finally touching his pale lips.
"I had a whole plan, you know," Keonho murmured, his thumb stroking Seonghyeon’s hand. "I was going to give it to you, and then I was going to take you to the Han River. I checked the schedule—there’s a midnight fireworks display for Christmas. I wanted us to stand there, just the two of us, and watch the sky explode. I was going to ask you if I can be yours while the world was looking at the sky. I want you to be the person I'm coming home to.”
Seonghyeon looked at Keonho’s bandaged head, then at the IV line, and finally back to his eyes. He felt a flicker of his old self returning, the protective, slightly bossy older friend who couldn't help but tease the boy who held his entire soul.
"The Han River, huh?" Seonghyeon said, his voice dropping into a dry, shaky tease. "Well, Keonho-ya, you should be very glad you’re already tied to a hospital bed with a concussion."
Keonho blinked, a bit startled. "Why?"
"Because if you weren't already half-broken," Seonghyeon said, leaning in until their foreheads were almost touching, "I think I’d have to hit you myself for being this reckless. You risked your life for a vinyl… and a fireworks show? You’re lucky I love you this much, or I’d never let you live this down."
Keonho let out a weak, genuine laugh, his eyes crinkling at the edges with a newfound peace. "I'll take the hit. As long as you're the one delivering it, I don't mind at all."
The silence in the room shifted from a suffocating weight to a soft, humming warmth. Seonghyeon’s fingers trembled as he guided the younger boy’s palms to rest against his cheeks. He let his eyes flutter shut, leaning into the touch as if Keonho’s skin held the only warmth left in the world. For a long, beautiful minute, they simply breathed each other in. Just a quiet, lingering smile shared between two souls who had finally found the same page.
The moment was shattered by the soft, mechanical hiss of the sliding door. A nurse stepped in, followed closely by a couple whose faces were etched with the kind of hollow exhaustion and anxiety only a parent can feel.
"Oh, he’s already awake! That’s a wonderful sign," the nurse noted, her voice cheerful but efficient. She moved toward the bed, checking the digital readouts and expertly testing Keonho's pupil response with a penlight. "I'm just going to check his vitals and clear the lingering sedation from the line. You two have a moment."
Seonghyeon immediately scrambled to his feet, his heart thudding against his ribs. He felt suddenly exposed, as if the sheer depth of the love in the room was visible to everyone. He took a respectful step back, smoothing his disheveled hair and wrinkled hoodie, and offered a deep, ninety-degree bow to the newcomers.
"Hello," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of respect and lingering emotion. "I... I'll give you some time."
He didn't want to break the connection, but he knew this moment belonged to the family. With one last glance at Keonho—who was already reaching out for his mother’s hand—Seonghyeon slipped out into the hallway.
He nearly collided with Martin, James, and Juhoon, who were walking toward the room with a stack of convenience store bags and cardboard coffee carriers.
"Hyeon? Why are you out here? Is he okay?" Martin asked, his voice spiking with panic.
"He’s awake," Seonghyeon breathed, a radiant, tearful smile breaking across his face like the first sun after a storm. "He’s talking. He’s... he’s himself. His parents are in there with him now."
The collective gasp of relief from the members was heavy and visceral. James practically slumped against the sterile wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, while Juhoon let out a shaky laugh, clutching the cup of ramen as if it were a trophy.
They stayed there in the lounge for what felt like an hour, the tension finally dissolving into hushed, exhausted chatter. Eventually, the door opened again. Keonho’s parents walked out, looking years younger than they had when they arrived.
The four members stood up in unison, bowing politely. The parents approached them, their eyes glistening.
"Thank you," Keonho’s father said, his voice deep and gravelly with emotion. "We’ve been speaking with the doctors and the management, but we wanted to thank you boys personally. For staying with him. For being the family he has when we aren't here. We know he’s a lot to handle sometimes."
His mother let out a small, tired laugh, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "He really is such a naughty one, isn't he? Always so dramatic, always with these big, reckless ideas in his head. He told us about the record... he was crying because he thought he’d ruined Christmas for all of you."
Her gaze then shifted, settling directly on Seonghyeon. She stepped forward, ignoring the celebrity status of the boy in front of her, and took his hands in hers. Her palms were warm and felt exactly like Keonho’s.
"You must be Seonghyeon," she said softly, her eyes searching his face with an incredibly tender expression. "You know, every time that boy comes home for a break, he doesn't talk about the charts or the music programs. He spends the whole dinner talking about you. He told us so much about how you look after him, how you’re the only one who can make him practice his scales, and how you always know when he's had a bad dream."
Seonghyeon felt his throat tighten, a deep, hot blush creeping up his neck.
"He told us how much he loves you, Seonghyeon-ah," she whispered, squeezing his hands firmly. "In his own way, of course—with all that stubbornness. But he loves you very deeply. He says you're his North Star. Please," she smiled, a knowing, motherly twinkle in her eye, "continue to take great care of our boy. He thinks the world of you, and after seeing you today, I think I understand why."
Seonghyeon could only nod, his heart feeling twice its normal size, as he bowed again, unable to find words that wouldn't come out as a sob.
After the heavy, emotional exchange in the hallway with Keonho’s mother, a sense of lightness finally began to settle over the group. The managers gave a small nod of permission, and the members—James, Martin, Juhoon, and Seonghyeon—filed back into the room.
Keonho looked up as they entered, a sheepish, tired grin playing on his pale lips.
"Look at him," Martin started, crossing his arms but failing to hide his watery eyes. "The kid who almost gave us all a collective heart attack because he wanted to be a secret agent."
"Yah, Keonho-ya!" James teased, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "Your mom just told us you’re a 'naughty one.' We’ve been treating you like a delicate prince for two years, and it turns out you’re just a troublemaker in a designer hoodie."
Keonho groaned, pulling the white hospital blanket up to his chin. "She told you that? Man, I have no secrets left. My street cred is ruined."
"You never had any," Juhoon added, leaning over to gently ruffle Keonho’s hair, careful to avoid the bandage. "Next time you want to pull this, just give us a hint so we don't end up crying in a hospital lounge at 1 AM."
"I really am sorry," Keonho murmured, his voice softening as his gaze drifted to Seonghyeon, who was standing at the foot of the bed. "I just... I wanted it to be perfect."
"It's perfect, alright," Seonghyeon said quietly, his eyes locked on Keonho's. "I'll never forget this Christmas as long as I live, but for all the wrong reasons."
Several minutes later, their chatter was interrupted by the door sliding open. The lead doctor stepped in, flipping through a digital tablet. The room went silent instantly, the air thick with anticipation.
"Well," the doctor began, looking over his spectacles at the crowded room. "Your vitals are remarkably stable for someone who tried to tackle a sedan. The concussion is mild, and the scans are clear. It is possible for you to be released later tonight, under strict supervision."
A ripple of excitement went through the group. Seonghyeon stepped forward, his voice hopeful and a little desperate. "Doctor, is it okay if he watches the fireworks display tonight? At home, in his own room, can he watch them from the window? He’s been really looking forward to it.“
The doctor looked at Keonho’s pleading eyes and then back at the protective wall of group mates. "As long as he stays in bed. No loud music, no bright screens, and absolutely no jumping around. If he gets a headache, the curtains close. Understood?"
"Yes! Understood!" the members whispered-yelled in unison.
As the doctor stepped out, James and Martin started to cheer, throwing their fists in the air, only for the manager to immediately hiss, "Shh! This is a hospital!" The boys instantly slapped their hands over their mouths, vibrating with silent, joyful laughter.
A few more minutes later, Keonho’s parents returned to the room. Luckily, the suite was large enough to accommodate them all. Martin quickly stepped forward to inform the couple of the doctor's news.
"He can be discharged!" Martin whispered excitedly. "The doctor said he can go home!"
Keonho’s mother clutched her husband’s arm, her face lighting up with a beautiful, relieved smile. She looked at the four tired, disheveled idols and then at the manager.
"If he's being released," she said, her voice warm, "would you all like to spend Christmas with us at our house? We have plenty of room, and I’ve already started the preparations. We can have a proper family dinner, and Keonho can rest in his old room."
The members looked instinctively at their head manager. The manager looked at the boys—at their red eyes, their pale faces, and the way they were all anchored around Keonho’s bed like he was the center of their universe. He let out a long, defeated sigh, but his eyes were kind.
"The schedule is cleared anyway," the manager muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine. Christmas at the Ahn residence it is."
This time, the boys didn't cheer. They couldn't, out of respect for the parents standing right there. Instead, they just looked at each other with a knowing, profound gaze. They shared a silent, collective breath of victory.
They were spending Christmas. All of them. Together.
🌔
The drive to Keonho’s childhood home was the quietest the group had ever been. Usually, the van was a chaotic mess of loud music and bickering, but tonight, the only sound was the soft hum of the heater and the steady, rhythmic breathing of Keonho, who was safely tucked beside Seonghyeon. The latter hadn't let go of Keonho’s hand once, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles against the younger boy's skin.
When the van finally pulled into the quiet, snow-dusted driveway, the porch light was already casting a warm, golden glow across the front yard. The front door swung open before they even reached it, spilling a rectangle of light onto the white ground.
As they stepped into the entryway, the scent of cinnamon and home-cooked stew rushed to meet them, but it was overshadowed by a frantic, high-pitched scuff-scuff-scuff of tiny paws on the polished wood. Before Keonho could even get his shoes off, a tiny, fluffy blur came flying around the corner.
"Cookie!" Keonho gasped, his voice cracking with instant, raw emotion.
Cookie skidded to a halt. He looked up at Keonho, his entire body vibrating with the force of his wagging tail. He let out a series of tiny, frantic yaps—the kind that sounded like he was scolding him for being gone so long—before he started dancing around his ankles, his nose nudging the fabric of his sweatpants.
"He’s been sitting by the front window for hours," Keonho’s father said, a soft, misty smile on his face as he helped the boys with their bags. "We couldn't get him to move, not even for his favorite treats. He just kept watching the street."
Keonho winced slightly as he tried to lean down to reach him, his concussion making the world tilt. Seonghyeon was there in a split second, his arm wrapping around Keonho’s waist, pulling him close to his chest to steady him. "Careful, careful,” Seonghyeon whispered into his ear. He slowly lowered himself and Keonho down so they were at Cookie's level.
The tiny dog didn't jump. It was as if he could smell the hospital, the antiseptic, and the lingering scent of fear that hadn't quite left them. He let out a soft, worried whimper and began frantically licking Keonho’s hand. Then, he turned his attention to Seonghyeon. He rested his tiny front paws on Seonghyeon’s knee and looked up at him with big, soulful eyes, searching his face as if asking, “Is he okay? Did you take care of him?”
"He's okay now,” Seonghyeon murmured, his voice dropping into that rare, honey-sweet tone he only used for things he truly loved. He scratched the tiny space behind his ears. "We brought him back to you. I promise."
"Can he come up with us?" Keonho asked his mom, his eyes wide and pleading, still looking like the young boy who had lived in this house years ago.
"Go on," his mother laughed softly, her eyes shimmering with relief as she watched the two of them. "Take the him with you. He won't let you out of his sight anyway."
Upstairs, the air in Keonho’s childhood bedroom felt like a sanctuary. It was filled with the quiet history of Keonho’s life before the stage. Seonghyeon helped Keonho into the bed, propping him up with a mountain of pillows, making sure he was comfortable before pulling the heavy duvet up to his chin.
Cookie didn't wait for an invitation. He made a tiny, impressive leap and landed right in the center of the bed. But instead of curling up next to Keonho, the little dog trotted over to Seonghyeon, who was sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching Keonho with an expression of pure, unadulterated devotion. Cookie sniffed his hand, circled once, and then flopped down right against Seonghyeon’s thigh, letting out a long, contented sigh as his eyes drifted shut, his tiny chin resting on the boy’s leg.
Keonho watched them, a weak but beautifully genuine smile spreading across his pale face. "He must really like you, Hyeon," he murmured, his voice thick with a sleepy, soft affection. "Cookie is usually a one-man dog. He doesn't just sleep on anyone. He’s picky... just like me."
Seonghyeon looked down at the tiny weight against his leg, his heart swelling until it felt tight in his chest. He reached out and took Keonho’s hand, lacing their fingers together on top of the quilt.
Keonho’s thumb traced the back of Seonghyeon’s hand, his eyes locking onto Seonghyeon's with a clarity that finally swept away the last five days of shadows. "I thought I wanted to give you a miracle in a box, Hyeon. A rare record to prove I loved you. But being here... with my family downstairs, with Cookie, and you holding me like I’m the only thing that matters... I think I finally realized that the miracle wasn't the gift. It was you."
Seonghyeon leaned down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to Keonho’s forehead. "I'm not a miracle, Keonho-ya. I'm just a boy who is very, very lucky to have you."
From downstairs, they could hear the muffled sounds of the other members laughing with Keonho’s parents, the clinking of porcelain, and the warm hum of a home that was finally whole again.
🌕
The bedroom door creaked open, and the rest of CORTIS spilled in, bringing with them the chaotic warmth that had been missing all week. Martin was carrying a tray of sliced fruit, James was lugging two extra duvets, and Juhoon was already eyeing the trophies on the shelf.
"Movement, everyone! Make way for the oldest!" James announced, immediately flopping onto the foot of the bed.
Within seconds, the small twin bed was under siege. Martin squeezed onto the left side, and Juhoon perched on the right, effectively suffocating Keonho between four teenagers.
"Guys... seriously," Keonho groaned, though his eyes were sparkling with a happiness that hadn't been there for weeks. "I have a concussion, not a superpower. I’m being suffocated here. You're like a pack of giants."
"We're just making sure you don't float away again, bro," James joked, though he gently tucked a blanket around Keonho’s feet.
"Fine, fine, let’s give Lee Sejin some breathing room," Juhoon laughed, standing up and pulling Martin with him. They retreated to the beanbag chair and the desk chair, settling in around the room.
As the bed cleared, Seonghyeon began to stand up too, intending to give Keonho space. But before he could even straighten his back, Keonho’s hand shot out from under the duvet, his fingers locking around Seonghyeon’s wrist with surprising strength.
"Not you," Keonho whispered, his voice dropping into a low, private register. He pulled gently, tugging Seonghyeon back down to the mattress.
The other members exchanged a quick, knowing look, but for the first time in their careers, they didn't tease. They just started chatting quietly among themselves about the food and the upcoming New Year, creating a protective wall of white noise around the two boys on the bed.
As the clock ticked toward 11:58 PM, the room fell into a soft, cozy lull. Seonghyeon leaned in close, his shoulder pressed against Keonho’s.
"You're really okay?" Seonghyeon asked, his voice barely a breath. "Your head doesn't hurt?"
"Only when I think about how much of a fool I was," Keonho murmured. He turned his head on the pillow, his eyes searching Seonghyeon’s with a raw, terrifying honesty. "Hyeon... I spent three years trying to be the perfect idol. I wanted to be the one you could rely on, the one who didn't have these... messy feelings. But when I was lying on that street, the only thing I could think about was that I never told you. I never told you that you’re the beat I count to. You're the reason I even want to sing."
Seonghyeon’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. He took Keonho’s hand and pressed a lingering kiss to the center of his palm. "I used to think that my love for you was a secret I had to protect so I wouldn't lose you," Seonghyeon whispered. "But the thought of a world without you... it wasn't a world at all. You’re the reason I even want to wake up and do this every day. You aren't just my best friend. You’re my home."
"I love you," Keonho breathed, the words finally free. "I love you so much it's actually embarrassing. I love the way you hum when you’re nervous. I love that you’re the only person who knows I’m actually a coward. I’m just... I’m hopelessly yours."
A sudden, deep thump vibrated through the floorboards.
Seonghyeon’s head snapped toward the window. "It’s starting!"
Outside, the midnight sky over the neighborhood erupted. Huge, sprawling shells of emerald, gold, and crystalline white bloomed against the darkness. The light reflected off the snow-covered trees outside, filling the bedroom with a strobing, magical glow.
Seonghyeon watched, mesmerized. He leaned forward, his eyes wide as he watched a shower of silver sparks cascade down. "Keonho, look! The gold one—that’s your favorite. It’s so bright from here. We don't even need the Han River, this is—"
He stopped. In the dark reflection of the windowpane, he realized something. He wasn't seeing Keonho’s profile looking at the sky. He was seeing Keonho’s full face, illuminated by the flashes of light, staring directly at him.
Seonghyeon turned back to the bed, finding Keonho’s eyes already waiting for him. "Keonho-ya? You’re missing it. Look at the window, the finale is coming."
Keonho didn't even glance at the glass. He reached up, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Seonghyeon’s neck, pulling him down until their noses were touching.
"I've spent the last forty-eight hours in the dark, Hyeon," Keonho whispered, his voice trembling with a sweetness that felt like it was melting Seonghyeon’s entire soul. "I don't care about the lights in the sky. I’ve seen enough fireworks to last a lifetime. But you... I could look at you for a hundred years and still feel like I haven't seen enough. Why would I look at the window when the most beautiful view I’ve ever seen is sitting right here, holding my hand?"
Seonghyeon felt a tear slip down his cheek, his heart overflowing. "You’re so incredibly cheesy. You’re such a cheeseball."
"Maybe," Keonho laughed softly, his eyes shimmering with the reflection of a violet firework. "I mean it. You're my miracle. You're my Christmas. Everything else is just background noise."
He pulled Seonghyeon the rest of the way down. As a massive, final firework of pure, shimmering white exploded outside, bathing the room in a light so brilliant it felt like a new day, they finally kissed. It was a slow, deep, and desperate kiss—one that tasted of salt, peppermint, and a thousand "I'm sorrys" and "I love yous." It was the kind of kiss that lingers, filled with a thousand promises they no longer had to hide.
Across the room, the other members were silent. They weren't looking at the bed, but they weren't looking at the fireworks anymore, either. Martin, James, and Juhoon sat in the glow of the sparks, their shoulders relaxed, their own eyes misty. They didn't interrupt. They didn't crack a joke. They just shared a silent, happy glance, listening to the quiet sounds of their two friends finally finding peace.
"Merry Christmas, Keonho-ya," Seonghyeon breathed against his lips.
"Merry Christmas, my North Star," Keonho replied, pulling Seonghyeon into the blankets as Cookie let out a small, happy huff in his sleep.
The record on the nightstand was ruined, the prank had been a disaster, and they were covered in bandages—but as the smoke cleared from the sky, they both knew they had finally received the only gift that mattered.