Chapter Text
The hallway buzzed in a chorus of half-whispered Korean, Mandarin, and broken English. Tired jokes passed between new faces, trainers called names over clipboard checklists, and sneakers squeaked against polished floors that had seen a hundred dreams bloom and die.
Lee Sangwon stood near the dormitory door, arms crossed, jaw tense.
He was tall in that lanky way dancers often were, his features sharp enough to slice through silence. His black shirt clung to the outline of muscle that came from years of punishing practice, but nothing about him softened. Not even the way his eyes darted around the room like they were looking for a threat. Or a camera.
His fingers curled tight around the strap of his bag as he read the room number again. This was it. MNET’s brilliant idea: pairing the Korean and Chinese center picks into a single dorm room, probably just to stir up fan edits or fuel another round of “Haobin 2.0” comments.
Sangwon didn’t flinch, but something in his chest twitched.
That wasn’t what he’d come here for.
Inside, the air was warmer, lived-in already. Someone had claimed the bed near the window. Neatly folded grey blankets. Dried rose apple chips in a ziplock. A light lemon scent lingered in the air, subtle but intentional.
And then he heard it. A soft voice, warm and practiced.
“Welcome to our room, Sangwon-hyung.”
An Xin turned around with a smile that lit up his whole face, the kind that came easy to people who had nothing to hide. His hair was slightly tousled from rehearsals, his skin pale and flushed in a way that made him look like he’d just come in from the sun.
His voice was higher than Sangwon expected, but there was a sincerity in the way he spoke Korean that made it feel almost gentle.
Before Sangwon could respond, two familiar voices cut through.
“Sangwon-ah! We found you!”
Leo and Liyu peeked into the room, breathless from running, eyes gleaming. They had that look, the one you got after finding out the vending machine hadn’t eaten your money for once.
An Xin’s eyes lit up at the sight of them.
“You guys must be starving after filming,” he said brightly, holding out a small plate lined with tissue. “I brought some snacks from home, mooncakes and dried longan too. Sit down.”
His Korean was careful but fluent, laced with an accent that softened the syllables.
Leo didn’t hesitate. “You’re literally a lifesaver.”
They crouched near the edge of the bed, laughing and eating like it was a picnic. The energy shifted, lighter somehow, like a breeze had pushed open a window.
But An Xin’s gaze kept drifting back to Sangwon, searching for something. His voice came quieter this time, tentative.
“So... hyung. What do you usually do when you’re not practicing? Any hobbies? Music you like?”
Sangwon’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling, toward the faint red glow of the cameras blinking silently in the corners.
That was the thing about being filmed constantly. Every smile could be spun into a ship. Every silence turned into tension. Every word twisted in editing.
He shrugged. “I don’t really... do anything. Just practice. Sleep. Repeat.”
The air stilled.
An Xin’s smile faltered, not all at once, but in little parts like a flickering light bulb.
“Oh...” he said softly.
The chatter dimmed. Even Leo looked up, chewing slower now.
Sangwon crossed his arms, sinking deeper into that defensive shell he wore like a second skin.
An Xin gave a tight, polite smile. “Then I guess we’ll just... respect each other’s space.”
His voice stayed light, but the weight behind it lingered in the air.
Sangwon’s throat tightened.
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “No need to force anything. We can just keep it professional.”
It came out sharper than he meant, like he was trying to cut off something before it could take root.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Leo gave a tiny nod, wiping crumbs off his pants, and stood up.
“Well... we should probably go. The shoot is happening soon.”
An Xin nodded, gaze flicking to the cameras again, then back to Sangwon, like he was hoping for something, maybe a softer follow-up, maybe an apology that wasn’t going to come.
Instead, Sangwon turned away.
He pulled open his duffel, grabbed an old, worn-out paperback and his headphones. Settled onto the bed without another word. As he pressed play on his playlist, a soft indie rock melody filtered into his ears, wrapping around his thoughts like cotton.
He didn’t notice An Xin leave.
Not until the door creaked open again fifteen minutes later, the sound sharp even through the music.
“Sangwon-hyung.”
Sangwon looked up, startled.
An Xin stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed, eyes wild like he’d run the whole length of the dorm building. In his hand, a piece of paper shook slightly.
“We have to go. Right now.”
For one moment, they just stared at each other, breath caught in their throats. Then instinct kicked in. Sangwon tossed the book aside and moved.
As they rushed down the hallway, shoulder to shoulder, the air around them crackled. Not just with urgency, but something unspoken.
The filming area was already a flood of light and movement. Trainees shifted restlessly, makeup artists did last-minute dabs, and camera crew milled about like sharks in open water.
The MC clapped his hands once, a crisp command.
“Everyone, attention. This is your first official introduction shoot. We’ll be combining the Korean and Chinese trainees into mixed teams. First step toward the global debut lineup.”
Sangwon’s chest rose and fell quickly, eyes scanning the room until they met An Xin’s.
The younger trainee wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked focused, tense. But somehow, his presence still felt calm beside all the noise.
“Yumeki,” the MC announced, “had the highest views in the signal video. He gets first pick for his team performing Whiplash.”
Yumeki stood at the front, beaming. His dyed hair caught the light just right, his posture so effortlessly confident that it was obvious he belonged onstage.
“I’ll pick... Sangwon. Then…. An Xin.”
The entire room shifted, murmurs rolling like a wave across the crowd.
They walked forward together. Neither spoke. Not even when they stood side by side under the lights.
But something in the air sparked. Not warmth. Not yet.
Just the first flicker of something electric.
━━✦━━✦━━
The room buzzed softly, a ripple of murmurs skating across the surface of the group as the two centers stepped forward, side by side for the first time.
Their bodies didn’t touch, not even close, but the air between them practically hummed. Even without looking at each other, there was a charge… a tension that felt sharp around the edges. The cameras caught every inch of it.
No one said anything about it out loud, though. They didn’t need to.
Rehearsals started right away.
Yumeki stood in front of the group, posture straight, confidence radiating off him like stage lights. He clapped twice and began walking them through the choreography for “Whiplash,” voice clear, gestures precise. The track’s beat boomed through the speakers, heavy and hypnotic, like it was drilling directly into their spines.
An Xin moved like water.
Each step flowed into the next, sharp but smooth, his lines effortless, like his body knew the rhythm before his brain could even think. He picked up the formations fast, quicker than most of the others and nailed the angle of every turn with the timing of every flick of his wrist.
Sangwon wasn’t keeping up.
His body lagged a half-second behind the beat. His turns were tight but late, and he missed the hand flick twice in a row, jaw tightening every time it happened.
The other trainees began glancing at each other.
Yumeki paused the music, his expression pinching into concern.
“Sangwon, what’s wrong? You’re usually so on point.”
The room stilled, all eyes on him.
Sangwon stood frozen. He couldn’t explain it. Everything felt... stuck. His limbs were heavy, his mind too loud, the pressure pressing down so hard that he couldn’t hear the beat anymore. Just his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He opened his mouth to answer, but someone beat him to it.
An Xin stepped forward.
His voice didn’t come out kind.
“Sangwon-hyung. What’s going on?”
He didn’t sound worried. He sounded cold.
“We’ve gone over this move so many times, but we’re still stuck here because of you.”
The silence that followed cracked like glass.
Tension clawed its way up Sangwon’s spine. The other trainees shifted awkwardly, eyes bouncing between the two of them. His cheeks flushed hot with shame, with fury, with something he couldn’t name.
“I... I’m sorry. It’s just been a long day,” he muttered, voice too soft, too brittle.
An Xin didn’t blink.
“A long day?” he repeated, tone sharp. “You think that’s a good enough reason to mess this up for everyone?”
He stepped closer. Not enough to be threatening, but close enough that Sangwon could see the sweat beading along his temple, the tight set of his jaw.
“This isn’t high school theater. This is our one shot. We’re here because we want this. All of us. So step up, or step out.”
His voice was steady, but his hands were clenched at his sides. The bite in his words didn’t come from cruelty. It came from pressure. From panic. From caring too much.
Sangwon swallowed hard. His throat burned.
He wanted to lash out. Wanted to say something sharp enough to cut back. But the worst part was, An Xin wasn’t wrong.
His voice came quieter now. “I get it.”
An Xin didn’t move.
“Do you?” he asked.
Then, something cracked. Maybe it had been building all day.
“Isn’t that selfish, hyung? Aren’t you a HYBE trainee? You’ve had the best training, the best resources. Can’t you handle basic steps? You were chosen as center. So act like it.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
Sangwon flinched, visibly.
Every breath in the room caught.
Their teammates stared like they were watching a car crash in slow motion. No one wanted to get involved. No one dared speak.
Sangwon’s jaw clenched so tight it ached.
He looked away, burning with humiliation, but the anger didn’t rise the way it usually did. Not toward An Xin. Not even toward the others watching him fall apart.
It turned inward.
He knew he had been distracted. Knew his focus had slipped. But to be called out here, in front of everyone, stripped bare like this. It broke something in him that was already splintered.
Still, he didn’t let himself fold.
Instead, he nodded once, sharp and curt.
“You’re right,” he said, voice hoarse.
He didn’t wait for a reaction.
Sangwon turned and walked out of the room.
━━✦━━✦━━
That night, the dorms buzzed with post-rehearsal exhaustion. Laughter drifted faintly through the halls, but Sangwon wasn’t there to hear it.
He was in one of the closed-off practice studios.
Alone.
The harsh studio lights flickered on as he entered, pale and sterile against the mirrors. He dropped his bag beside the wall, no hesitation, and pulled his hoodie over his head. The speaker blinked blue as he connected his phone, and seconds later, the opening beat of “Whiplash” pulsed through the room.
Sangwon moved.
At first, he was stiff. Off-rhythm. His legs felt like stone.
But he didn’t stop.
He ran the first half of the choreo again. Then again. Again.
His shirt clung to his back with sweat. His lungs screamed.
He didn’t care.
He didn’t think about the cameras, or An Xin, or Yumeki’s furrowed brow. He thought about that burning in his chest. The fear of being seen as weak. The way An Xin’s voice had cracked on that last line.
He needed to make it right.
He needed to be better.
Midnight came and went, and still, he danced. Stumbled. Started over.
At some point, he slumped against the mirror, body trembling.
The only sound left was his breath, ragged in the silence.
He looked at his reflection, eyes drawn to the way his own expression twisted with exhaustion. His lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling fast.
He looked... scared.
Not of failing.
Of being seen.
The kind of vulnerability he refused to name pulsed through his limbs, cold and honest. And in the space where anger used to sit, there was something else now.
A hollow ache.
As he finally stepped out into the corridor, the air hit his skin like ice. His shirt stuck to his back. His legs nearly gave out beneath him. But he walked, slow and steady, one step at a time back to the dorm.
And somewhere in the quiet, he realized something else.
An Xin had called him out not just because he was angry.
He had called him out because he expected more from him.
That made it hurt worse.
And yet, it made Sangwon want to try harder.
He couldn't believe An Xin had called him out like that. In front of the entire team, no less. But as Sangwon trudged up the stairs, sweat drying cold against his spine, he knew he couldn’t hold a grudge. Not really.
Not when he’d been the one dragging them down.
On the second-last day before their performance, Yumeki pulled them aside after a grueling six-hour rehearsal. His voice was hoarse but steady, and he didn’t waste time.
“Sangwon, An Xin... special task for you two.”
Sangwon blinked. An Xin tilted his head. There was something dangerous about Yumeki’s smirk, something that made Sangwon’s stomach drop even before the other trainee held up a USB drive between his fingers like a grenade pin.
“For the finale,” Yumeki said, grinning, “we’re adding a duo dance break. Visual shock factor. You two are in charge of making it land.”
An Xin’s brows lifted. Sangwon shifted his weight, throat tight. The last thing either of them wanted was to be thrown together again... especially like this.
But they both nodded. Of course they did.
The practice studio they ended up in was darker than usual, lights buzzing above them like anxious thoughts. The mirrored walls reflected their stiff postures, the tension between them sitting heavy on their shoulders like sweat.
Sangwon didn’t say anything. Just slid the USB into the laptop, hit play.
The music started low and slow, then accelerated into sharp, rhythmic hits. They mirrored the choreography from the video. At least, tried to but it was never going to be easy for both.
Their movements weren’t syncing. They bumped shoulders. Tripped on mirrored steps. An Xin kept hesitating too long before each transition, while Sangwon rushed ahead, too angry to focus.
Their bodies weren’t moving together, no matter how many times they rewound.
Sangwon reached out to lean into An Xin, a planned moment of contact, but An Xin shifted just slightly out of place, and Sangwon’s arm slipped. He staggered sideways, barely catching himself on the edge of the mirror.
“What the hell?” Sangwon snapped, breath catching in his throat as he turned, eyes blazing. His hand shot out, fisting the front of An Xin’s shirt.
“You could’ve fucking hurt me.”
An Xin’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t say anything. Just stared back, gaze unreadable.
Leo and Yumeki were on their feet in seconds, sneakers squeaking against the floor.
“Stop,” Yumeki barked, voice low but sharp. “Both of you, step back.”
He was done playing mediator. The room stilled, heavy with frustration and pride.
“You two need to talk it out. Like men. Right now.”
Leo reached for Sangwon’s wrist, gently peeling his fingers off An Xin’s shirt.
“Come on,” he said, not unkindly. “Don’t do this.”
Sangwon jerked away, teeth clenched. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he hissed, voice low and shaking. His eyes never left An Xin’s face.
Then he turned and stormed out, door slamming behind him with a hollow, final-sounding thud.
The room stayed frozen for a beat too long. Leo exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. Yumeki looked at An Xin with a quiet sigh.
“You should talk to him,” he said. “We can’t have this tension screwing up the stage.”
An Xin stood still, fingers brushing over his collar where Sangwon had grabbed him. The fabric was still warm from the contact.
“I know,” he murmured.
He didn’t want to go after him. But his legs moved anyway.
The All Star building felt colder at night. Or maybe that was just in An Xin’s head.
His footsteps echoed down the corridor, each one swallowed by the thick silence between their last words. He turned a corner, rounded past the vending machines and the half-lit hall that led to the snack room.
There he was.
Sangwon stood at the freezer with the door open, hand hovering mid-air over a carton of ice cream like he’d forgotten what he came for.
The door creaked behind An Xin as he stepped in. A draft of cold air stirred, brushing past his sleeves.
Sangwon didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
He knew it was him.
Their eyes met, just for a second. Not long. But enough for it to sting.
There were no words, just... something between them. Accusation, apology, maybe both. The air buzzed faintly with the sound of the freezer motor, and somewhere outside, a group of trainees laughed over instant noodles.
Inside, the silence was thick enough to chew.
Their ice creams melted slowly in their hands, forgotten. Neither of them said anything.
Eventually, they walked out together.
They didn’t plan it, didn’t even glance at each other as they turned back toward the studio. Their steps lined up, the way they always did when no one was watching.
Back in the practice room, they didn’t speak. Just picked up the routine with the others, the group choreography grinding back to life around them.
But everything felt off.
They were too stiff. Too careful. Every move that was supposed to flow felt strained now. Like they were holding back, afraid to touch or breathe too close.
Yumeki watched with arms crossed, lips pressed into a tight line.
After the last chorus, he clapped his hands once.
“Good job today,” he said. “Let’s meet again tomorrow to clean up the transitions.”
He looked right at them, eyes unwavering.
“You two... figure it out. You know what’s at stake.”
Neither of them replied. Just nodded, eyes trained on the floor.
Sangwon’s chest ached, heavy with things he didn’t say. Regret and resentment tangled together beneath his ribs. And somewhere in all of it, something softer... something he didn’t want to name yet.
But he could still feel the heat from An Xin’s hand on his collar.
Still taste the tension, the silence, the almost.
━━✦━━✦━━
As the other trainees began to disperse, Sangwon and An Xin stayed rooted in place, the silence between them thick with everything they hadn't said. It sat between them like a wall, invisible but impossible to ignore.
They’d always clashed, always pushed and prodded and challenged each other in ways no one else did. Oil and water. Fire and glass. Their rivalry had shaped their time on the team like something carved from friction alone.
But tonight, something was different.
Moonlight slipped through the practice room window, soft and silver. It caught in the corners of the room like a breath that hadn't been let out. An Xin looked smaller than usual in that glow, his shadow stretching long across the floor.
He sat cross-legged with a notebook in his lap, his pen moving in slow, thoughtful strokes. The rhythm of it matched the quiet beat of Sangwon’s pulse as he stood nearby, arms crossed but posture loose with exhaustion.
It had been a long day, but that wasn’t what was making his chest ache.
Sangwon’s voice cracked through the silence before he could stop it. “Was it because I rejected your friendship... you’re treating me like this?”
He didn’t sound angry. Just... tired. Like he’d been holding the question in for too long.
An Xin froze, his pen hovering above the page. “What do you mean?”
The question hovered between them, delicate as thread, fragile as breath.
When he finally looked up, the lamplight caught the shimmer in his lashes. “Sangwon, I—” he started, but his voice faltered. The pen in his hand trembled, a blot of ink spreading on the page like something bleeding.
Sangwon took a step forward, his tone softer this time. “It’s okay. Take your time.”
But An Xin just looked down, blinking hard.
“No, hyung... it was genuine concern,” he said, voice low, barely steady. “I meant it for the team. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
It sounded honest. It felt honest. But something in Sangwon bristled anyway, a defense flaring up before he could smother it. He scoffed under his breath, the sound bitter.
“Fine,” he muttered, turning away. “I’m too tired for this shit.”
He reached over and flicked off the lamp, casting the room in shadows. Then he dropped onto his bed, back turned, sheets pulled up without care. The silence returned, heavier than before.
For a few minutes, neither of them moved. But then, he heard a sound so soft that he thought he imagined it cut through the dark.
A hiccup. Then another.
Sangwon’s eyes snapped open.
He sat up slowly, scanning the dim room. An Xin was curled up under his blanket, shoulders trembling with every quiet sob he tried to muffle. The sound burrowed straight into Sangwon’s ribs.
He hesitated.
Then he got up.
With gentle hands, he peeled back the blanket despite the weak resistance underneath. What he saw caught him off guard.
An Xin’s face was blotchy with tears, nose red, jaw clenched like he was trying not to fall apart. He was heartbreakingly handsome like this, all his armor stripped away.
“An Xin... what’s wrong?” Sangwon’s voice came out softer than he expected, like something reverent. He sat on the edge of the bed, hand hovering awkwardly near the other’s shoulder.
An Xin tried to turn away, clutching the blanket. “Nothing..hyung,” he croaked.
But Sangwon didn’t let him. He placed his hand gently on his shoulder, grounding him.
“Don’t lie. I can’t help if I don’t know.”
The tension in An Xin’s body eased, just slightly. He breathed out, shaky and thin, and finally looked up.
“I’m sorry, hyung,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you... but I always end up doing that.”
Sangwon’s chest tightened.
Without thinking, he pulled him close.
An Xin stiffened, then let go.
He melted into Sangwon’s arms like he’d been waiting for this—for someone to hold him, to not push him away for being too sharp, too intense, too much. His sobs came harder now, face buried in Sangwon’s shirt, tears seeping into the cotton.
Sangwon held him tighter.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, brushing a hand over An Xin’s back. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
He meant it. And somehow, it terrified him.
When An Xin finally pulled back, his cheeks were wet, lashes clumped, eyes glassy and soft. Sangwon wiped a tear from his cheek with his thumb, then hesitated. His fingers lingered against An Xin’s jaw, the warmth of his skin electric in the quiet.
Their breaths tangled.
Sangwon didn’t pull away.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
An Xin did.
“I just wanted to thank you,” An Xin whispered, voice so soft it barely stirred the air. “For the last time we talked. Even if I messed everything up after.”
Sangwon leaned in, his forehead brushing lightly against An Xin’s. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin, the tremble of his breath.
He didn’t know what he was about to say. Only that he didn’t want to move.
He searched An Xin’s eyes, wanting to understand the meaning behind those words. The air between them shifted, the sharp tension softening into a cautious kind of closeness. It felt like stepping onto new ground, both of them unsure of what to expect next.
Sangwon’s heart skipped. That raw honesty, so rare from An Xin, caught him off guard. He knew the other trainee wasn’t one for empty words or hollow apologies.
“Last time?” Sangwon asked, curiosity flickering in his voice. “When was the last time we met that wasn’t practice or a performance?”
An Xin looked away, cheeks flushing pink with a mix of embarrassment and something softer, fondness. “It was at that little café you used to work at, hyung. Remember? You were so kind to me.”
Sangwon’s gaze softened, fingers still cupping An Xin’s cheek. “I remember,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips. “After one of my eval sessions... I was a mess. You were there, waiting for your order.”
An Xin nodded, eyes lowered. “You didn’t have to be, but you were... so kind, Sangwon-hyung,” he whispered.
Sangwon leaned in, their foreheads meeting, breath mingling. A warmth spread inside him at the confession, a tenderness he hadn’t expected. He remembered that day, how broken he was after the failed eval, eyes red, voice hoarse from crying. That crowded café felt like a safe space only because An Xin was there.
An Xin had waited patiently, a quiet smile offering comfort. He handed over pastries Sangwon barely touched, but the gesture stayed with him. And then, a small note slipped into his hand: Hoping tomorrow gets better... Even now, years later, Sangwon’s chest tightened at the memory.
“Sangwon-hyung,” An Xin whispered, eyes searching.
Sangwon’s thumb brushed An Xin’s cheek, soft and unthinking. The silence thickened with everything left unsaid. He felt the warmth of An Xin’s skin, smooth and electric beneath his fingers. Vulnerability shone in An Xin’s gaze, a raw honesty Sangwon hadn’t seen before.
The moment stretched, pulsing like its own heartbeat. Sangwon’s chest rose and fell in time with his pounding heart. He was lost, not just in the memory, but in the present, in the heat between them. The softness of breath, the warmth of skin, it was more than he expected to feel.
An Xin’s voice broke through, soft and tentative. “Sangwon-hyung, I’m sorry if I was too forward. I just wanted to be friends...” His lashes fluttered, heavy with unshed tears.
Sangwon’s breath hitched. His hand stayed where it was, cupping gently. A surge of protectiveness welled inside him, mingling with something sharper, something urgent.
He could see it, the longing, the fragility. It made him want to shield An Xin, to make him happy. Without thinking, Sangwon leaned in, lips brushing softly against the other’s.
The kiss sparked like electricity, raw and unexpected, flooding his veins with heat. He pulled back just a breath, heart racing, eyes locked on An Xin’s.
“Only friends...?” he whispered, voice thick with something new. His fingers traced a path through damp hair, brushing softly across a warm forehead.
An Xin winced at the touch as his eyes fluttering closed before opening again to meet Sangwon’s. “What do you mean, hyung…?” His voice was quiet, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
Sangwon paused, fingers lingering, eyes searching. He saw the uncertainty mirrored in those wide eyes. But he didn’t want to overthink or analyze. Instead, he smiled, a soft, hungry smirk.
He pulled An Xin closer for a deep, messy kiss that tasted like all the things they hadn’t said. Clumsy at first, their lips found a rhythm, like this was always meant to happen. The new truth between them sealed in that moment.
Outside the dorm, the world melted away. Inside, there was only breath, heartbeat, and the messy intertwine of limbs and longing.
Sangwon tangled fingers in An Xin’s hair, pulling him closer. An Xin’s arms wrapped around Sangwon’s waist, fingers clutching at the fabric like a lifeline.
They moved together, unsteady but sure, learning each other’s rhythm in the quiet dark.