Work Text:
What to do next? Maybe we'll love it
White picket chemtrails over the country club
My love, my love
Washing my hair, doing the laundry
Late-night TV, I want you only
It’s quiet on the southern shore of Jeju.
No studio lighting to adjust. No livestream alerts flooding the screen. No rink schedules or press interviews to prepare for.
Just the rhythmic hush of waves crashing onto white sand, the wind brushing through tall grass along the cliffside, and the warm scent of salt lingering in the air like a soft reminder that they’re far, far from Seoul.
The beach house they’ve rented isn’t glamorous, but it’s perfect.
Two cozy rooms, a deck that opens right into the ocean’s gaze, and a squeaky screen door that Sunghoon insists on fixing even though Sunoo says it adds character.
There’s a grill outside, Sunghoon’s pride and joy this week, and a pair of folding chairs they’ve dragged to the edge of the deck just to watch the sunset like old retirees.
Inside, someone’s making breakfast.
Well, brunch. It’s already past eleven, but time doesn’t mean much here.
The kitchen hums with the soft sizzle of grilled meat and the clinking of mismatched plates.
Sunghoon stands barefoot by the counter, his damp hair pushed back carelessly, a white tank top clinging to his shoulders and loose shorts hanging low on his hips. He’s slicing beef with the kind of precision usually reserved for ice routines, brows furrowed like he’s trying to unlock a puzzle only he understands.
“Why does it look like you're auditioning for MasterChef: Grill Dad Edition ?” Sunoo calls out from the living room, voice still raspy with sleep.
Sunghoon doesn’t look up. “Because I am the grill dad.”
“You’re twenty-two.”
“Grill dad is a mindset.”
Sunoo snorts.
He’s wrapped in an oversized grey hoodie that practically eats him alive, sleeves tucked over his hands as he clutches a steaming mug of coffee.
He’s curled up sideways on the couch, feet peeking out from under a faded checkered blanket, eyes half-open as a midday variety show flickers across the screen. His hair is a mess, soft and flattened on one side from sleep.
There’s no concealer under his eyes, no ring light or soft focus, just the natural glow of the sun slipping in through the balcony doors and the quiet joy of being nowhere in particular.
He’s not even really watching the show, more letting it play in the background like white noise—until a familiar name jumps out of the chatter.
“...and fans are speculating whether the recent silence confirms the breakup between Youtuber Kim Sunoo and figure skater Park Sunghoon...”
There’s a pause. Then:
“What the— ”
Sunghoon chokes on his bite of beef, bending over the counter dramatically as he coughs.
Sunoo sits up so fast his coffee nearly sloshes out of the mug.
“Oh my God, don’t die! You still owe me grilled shrimp!”
Sunghoon fumbles for his water bottle, eyes wide as he stares at the screen.
“Breakup?! That’s the narrative now?”
Sunoo grins, all teeth, clearly enjoying this far too much.
“To be fair, you have been ignoring me lately.”
Sunghoon looks betrayed. Deeply.
“I literally carried you to bed last night because you passed out mid-‘just one more episode’ and drooled on my hoodie.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” Sunoo says, sipping his coffee smugly. “I’m resting. I deserve to be cherished. Pampered, even.”
“You made me pause the show so you could monologue about a lighting transition in a K-drama kiss scene, while you were falling asleep.”
“And it was important!” Sunoo insists, wide-eyed. “You never notice the good lighting!”
“You were half-asleep and still critiquing the backlight like it owed you money!”
Sunoo pats the cushion beside him. “Come sit. Your blood pressure’s rising, Grandpa Park.”
Sunghoon sighs, defeated, and makes his way to the couch, still muttering about fake news. He plops down beside Sunoo, who immediately lifts the blanket and drapes it over both of them like a peace treaty.
“I swear,” Sunghoon mutters, stealing a sip from Sunoo’s coffee, “next thing they’ll say is you’re dating Jay.”
“Too late,” Sunoo says. “They already ship me with Jungwon. Sorry.”
Sunghoon blinks. “I introduced you two!”
“And now we’re soulmates,” Sunoo deadpans. “He makes good coffee and never judges my fruit snack addiction.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you believed we broke up.”
“I didn’t! I choked on a beef cube. That’s different!”
They fall into quiet laughter, tangled under the blanket with the sound of the ocean outside and the variety show forgotten on the screen. The segment ends with the hosts joking that maybe the couple will “reunite soon” if they’re really over.
Sunoo glances at Sunghoon, who’s now peeling a tangerine from the fruit basket they brought back from the local market.
“Hey,” Sunoo says casually, voice dropping.
Sunghoon hums, offering him a slice.
“If we had broken up, would you have posted about it or just let the world spiral into chaos?”
Sunghoon thinks for a second, then shrugs. “I’d have released an official statement.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It would say: ‘I was dumped for eating the last strawberry yogurt. Please respect my privacy during this difficult time.’”
Sunoo howls with laughter, nearly dropping the tangerine slice. “You’re such a menace.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” Sunoo says, eyes soft now, the teasing melting into something sweeter. “Unfortunately.”
Sunghoon bumps their shoulders gently together. “Guess we’ll have to stay together. Just to keep the fans guessing.”
Sunoo leans his head on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “You think they’ll make a breakup rumor again if I disappear for a few days?”
“They’ll probably say I cheated with a seafood vendor.”
“Bold of them to assume you’d find someone who grills better than you.”
Sunghoon grins. “Exactly.”
Outside, the waves keep rolling in, the sky soft with sea-washed blue.
Inside, the only chaos is the sound of laughter, the scent of grilled meat lingering in the air, and two people completely at ease in each other’s orbit, unbothered, unfiltered, and exactly where they’re supposed to be.
They had planned this break for months.
After Sunghoon wrapped his competition season with a clean, gold-medal finish, still glittering in the press photos he refused to look at and after Sunoo crossed five million subscribers with a celebratory livestream that involved questionable cake cutting and a very unplanned confetti cannon incident, the need to just breathe had become mutual. Urgent, even.
They didn’t post a fancy “see you later” video.
Didn’t film a goodbye vlog or shoot one last TikTok.
Sunoo had simply changed his channel banner to say “no streams for a bit ✌️” and vanished.
No explanations. No fanfare. Just a quiet exit.
Jeju welcomed them like a well-kept secret, its calm settling over their shoulders the moment they stepped off the plane. There was no itinerary. No morning call sheets or backstage passes.
Just the beach house, two large luggages, a lot of sunscreen, and the understanding that this was a place where they didn’t have to be anyone except Sunghoon and Sunoo.
Mornings were lazy and smelled like toast.
Eggs cooked in too much oil, grilled meat at absurd hours (because Sunghoon believed brunch needed protein), toast smothered in butter until it shimmered like glass, and coffee in chipped mugs they found in the back cabinet.
Sunghoon always used the one with a faded cartoon bear. Sunoo claimed the mug with a cracked dolphin tail because it matched the vibe of someone who never actually finished his coffee.
Afternoons belonged to the ocean.
They’d walk barefoot down to the beach with towels slung over Sunghoon’s shoulder, water bottles rattling in Sunoo’s canvas tote.
Sunghoon always walked ahead, silent and steady. Sunoo always trailed behind, yelling dramatically every time cold waves slapped against his ankles like he’d just been personally attacked.
“You knew the water was here!” Sunghoon would shout over his shoulder.
“I wasn’t emotionally prepared! ” Sunoo would yell back, leaping over a tide pool like it bit him.
Sometimes they swam. Sometimes they sat in the shallows, letting the sea foam bubble over their toes while they shared a pack of fruit snacks Sunoo snuck into the bag.
Most times, they just lay side by side on a large towel, sunglasses on, earbuds in, listening to different playlists and holding hands between them like it was instinct.
Nights were soft.
They burned more marshmallows than they ate. They watched movies with mismatched subtitles that made everything sound like a soap opera. Sunghoon narrated them dramatically. Sunoo laughed until his cheeks hurt.
They curled up on the couch with a thin blanket and shared the last few pieces of grilled corn from dinner, feet tangled, hair damp from evening showers.
Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. There was something sacred in the quiet.
The Wi-Fi was spotty, and they let it be. Phones stayed in airplane mode, tossed somewhere near the door, forgotten unless someone needed a flashlight or wanted to take a blurry photo of the sunset.
Sunoo logged in just once—to reply to Jungwon’s twenty messages asking if he’d been kidnapped.
[12:14 PM] sunoo: alive. living off grilled meat and spite.
[12:14 PM] sunoo: tell the internet to chill
[12:15 PM] sunoo: no, we didn’t break up
[12:15 PM] sunoo: tell jay to stop liking breakup edits
[12:15 PM] sunoo: i see him
He tossed his phone onto the floor after that and buried his face in Sunghoon’s chest with a groan.
“Why are people so dramatic?” Sunoo mumbled, voice muffled.
Sunghoon ran his fingers through Sunoo’s hair and said, “Because we’re prettier when we’re tragic.”
Sunoo looked up with narrowed eyes. “Did you just call us tragic?”
“I said prettier .”
“You’re so lucky I like your face.”
Sunghoon leaned down and kissed his forehead, then his nose. “So lucky.”
Then they both fell asleep like that: legs tangled, burnt marshmallow still stuck to the plate on the coffee table, and the soft sound of waves drifting through the cracked window like the world had nothing else to ask of them.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
A few days in, the rhythm of their getaway settles into something unspoken, slow mornings, sand in their shoes, arguments over how much garlic is “too much” (Sunoo maintains the limit does not exist).
This morning, the sky is overcast, waves gentler than usual, the breeze soft enough to keep the windows open.
Sunghoon drops down onto the couch beside Sunoo with a soft grunt, his plate balanced carefully on one hand as he leans in and rests his chin on Sunoo’s shoulder. He’s still chewing, posture lazy and warm like he’s been waiting all morning to settle into this exact spot.
“You think they’ll believe us,” he mumbles, voice muffled, “if we just come back online looking alive and annoyingly in love?”
Sunoo lets out a quiet hum. “Doubt it. They’ll think we faked a breakup for views.”
Sunghoon scoffs, his smile pressing against the fabric of Sunoo’s hoodie.
“People really don’t trust it when couples are quiet.”
Sunoo shrugs, shifting his coffee to the other hand.
“That’s fine. We’re not quiet to each other.”
Sunghoon pulls back just enough to glance at him. “Is that your way of saying I snore?”
Sunoo smirks. “Only when you fall asleep upside down on the couch.”
“You put me there.”
“You refused to move.”
Sunghoon sighs and steals a sip from Sunoo’s mug without asking. “Still not as bad as when you left me to defend our picnic from that seagull alone.”
Sunoo raises an eyebrow.
“It wanted your sandwich. I respected that.”
“That’s betrayal,” Sunghoon says, shaking his head as he sets the mug down. “You laughed while I was under attack.”
Sunoo grins. “You were screaming. ”
“It flapped at me.”
“You ran.”
“It flapped with intention.”
They fall quiet, the kind of quiet that feels easy. Familiar.
Sunghoon reaches for the blanket across their legs and drapes it over himself too, still holding his plate in one hand. He’s not really eating anymore, just slowly picking at it while he watches the light shift through the windows.
“You want to post something?” he asks, eventually. “To let people know we’re okay?”
Sunoo tilts his head. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. A blurry sunset. Your coffee. My foot.”
Sunoo smiles softly. “Your foot?”
“Yeah. Like a soft launch, but aggressively confusing.”
Sunoo laughs under his breath and rests his head against Sunghoon’s.
“Honestly? I kind of like that people don’t know. That it’s ours for a while.”
Sunghoon just nods, and they stay like that a while longer, legs tangled, food cooling on plates, the hum of the TV still playing in the background.
Later, they’ll go for a walk along the shore, Sunghoon with a hoodie tied around his waist and Sunoo with his camera tucked in his pocket but never taken out.
They’ll collect oddly shaped rocks and argue about which ones look like hearts, and Sunghoon will end up holding both their shoes while Sunoo squints at a crab.
That night, they grill again. Shrimp this time.
Sunghoon insists on seasoning everything even though Sunoo keeps sneaking bites before they’re done. They eat on the deck, barefoot, lit by the porch light and one mosquito-repellent candle that barely works.
“You still think we should post something?” Sunghoon asks again, mouth full of rice.
Sunoo leans back in his chair, eyes a little tired, content.
“No. Let them wonder. We’re here.”
And they are.
They’re not trying to prove anything.
Not chasing headlines or theories or fan edits. Just here. Quietly. Fully. With sand in their clothes and half-melted ice in the cooler and the last bits of sun painting the ocean gold.
They’ll go back to everything soon enough, schedules, cameras, conventions, practices, competitions, edits—but right now?
They’re just a couple on vacation. Figuring out how to make pasta with one pot. Arguing over sunscreen. Sharing hoodies. Laughing too much. Saying nothing when silence feels right.
Not perfect. Just theirs.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
A month later, the thumbnail is a little chaotic: Sunoo with sea-salted hair, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, grinning wide at the camera. The caption reads:
“I’m Not Dead, I Was Just in Love (and Mildly Sunburnt)”
The video starts with the faint sound of the mic being adjusted, a soft click , and then Sunoo slides into frame with a dramatic sigh.
His skin glows, all post-vacation radiance, cheeks a little pink and eyes too bright for someone claiming to be tired.
“Okay,” he says, holding both hands up.
“First of all, hi. I missed you. Second, I was going to make a calm, thoughtful return video, but then someone said I ‘fell off,’ and honestly, that hurt more than the crab that bit my ankle.”
A quiet snort comes from the right side of the camera.
Sunoo immediately glares off-screen. “Don’t. Don’t say anything.”
“I didn’t,” Sunghoon’s voice says calmly, utterly unbothered.
Sunoo points a warning finger at the air. “You were going to bring up the bush.”
“You fell into it,” Sunghoon replies, clearly holding back a laugh.
“It was dark, and I was being attacked.”
“It was a leaf.”
Sunoo groans and leans forward on the desk like he’s surrendering to gravity.
“He’s been like this for weeks.”
But the way he says it, light, fond, a smile tugging at his lips — makes it obvious that he doesn’t mind one bit.
They’d spent a whole month away. Just the two of them.
Jeju, sunsets, no schedules, no content calendars, no alarms. Just ocean breeze, grilled seafood, long walks where neither of them said much, and waking up with Sunghoon’s hand always tucked under Sunoo’s shirt, like it belonged there.
“I took a break,” Sunoo says, more sincerely now.
“A real one. And honestly? I didn’t plan to. But being with him… it felt like I didn’t want to be anywhere else. Like I finally exhaled.”
A beat of silence.
Sunghoon’s hand briefly appears from off-frame, setting a glass of water next to Sunoo. He doesn’t say anything, but Sunoo glances that way and smiles, softer now.
“I didn’t realize how much I needed to be quiet ,” he continues.
“And then we got there, and he didn’t ask me to film anything, or take photos, or even talk unless I wanted to. He just—” He cuts off, laughs a little. “He just held my hand and watched me fall into bushes.”
From off-camera: “Twice.”
Sunoo shoots him a betrayed look. “I said don’t.”
There’s a moment of silence, and then Sunghoon murmurs, “You were cute, though.”
Sunoo tries to hide the way his ears turn pink. Fails. He picks up the water to cover his face with the glass.
They move on — Sunoo answering a few pre-submitted questions, keeping it light and funny, with Sunghoon occasionally chiming in from beside the desk. His voice stays off-camera, but his presence is obvious in every shared glance, every smirk Sunoo bites down when he clearly hears something only he can.
Sunoo scrolls through his tablet dramatically.
“Okay, some of you have zero shame,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“Someone tweeted: ‘Did they break up or just forget we exist?’”
From off-camera, Sunghoon mutters, “Bit harsh.”
Sunoo huffs. “ Right? First of all, no. We did not break up. He still insists on stealing my socks and breathing on my neck when I’m editing.”
“I don’t breathe on your neck,” Sunghoon says, deadpan.
“You do. Like a ghost. A clingy one.” Sunoo squints. “Okay, next one—‘Be honest, did you two fight?’”
He pauses, tilts his head thoughtfully. “Mmm. We almost did.”
There’s a brief silence. Then he adds, “Over whether or not he looks like a tired hamster.”
A beat.
“I don’t,” Sunghoon says flatly, not even looking up.
“You do,” Sunoo argues, already grinning. “But like, a really expensive one. Like a Dior hamster who owns real estate.”
There’s a short silence before Sunghoon replies, slowly, “…Thank you?”
“I mean it,” Sunoo says, earnest despite the teasing. “You’re my little Dior rodent.”
Off-camera, Sunghoon exhales a laugh, soft and a little helpless. The kind that says he’s not winning this one, not that he wants to.
And Sunoo’s smile lingers just a second too long before he clears his throat.
Eventually, he glances to the side. “Should I wrap it up?”
“Mm,” Sunghoon hums. “Before you say more crimes.”
Sunoo turns back to the camera. “Right. Before I overshare. Again.”
He leans forward, voice warm. “I’m back. Maybe not as often as before. But I’ll be here — when it feels right. And he’ll be next to me, even if you can’t see him. He always is.”
There’s no grand finale. No couple reveal. Just Sunghoon’s hand brushing against Sunoo’s as he reaches to turn off the mic, their fingertips lingering a second too long.
But it’s enough.
And somehow, every viewer feels like they just witnessed something private, the kind of love that’s not loud, but steady. The kind you don’t have to see to know is there.