Work Text:
Yours
To be honest, where you stood right now didn’t feel real. Waiting for the curtains to rise to see the members sitting on the stage. Your heart dropped every time the lights dimmed, and you joined in the groans of the crowd when it was just staff readjusting for the fourth time.
By this time, you could hear the members behind the curtain. Speaking into their mics as they too waited for that curtain to rise.
“Did everyone eat well?” Woojin could be heard asking softly, then some rustling of the mic.
“Don’t move.” The stylist would scold.
“Sorry.” Then soft laughter from the fans filled the room. You took a look at the banner that was sitting in your lap, one you made in a rush since you didn’t have the time to make a proper one. Just a sketchbook, a marker, and a dream.
On it was written 률 ❤︎ with a heart beside it. Ryul. You knew him in high school, kind of. You were in the same class, although a lot of your class wasn’t there. Trainee life and school life never mixed that well. You guys would talk, just sometimes.
More like during fire drills, before classes started, and when packing up after school.
Very short-lived high school experience with an idol. Well, it’s not like you mixed friends; he had his own friends, and you had your own.
He was sweet. Would he remember those study halls, stolen glances, snack trades?
Well, at least now you get to see him perform on a stage.
The lights finally dimmed down and stayed low. The curtains rose, and there stood four silhouettes. From left to right, Ohyul, Ryul, Woojin, and Louis.
Screams roared from the crowd in excitement. You too joined in. The music began, and the fans managed to scream louder.
Oh yeah, we made it now we’re here…
You couldn’t help but sing along.
There was one day, just after school, on your way out of the classroom, you walked right into Ryul. Just a small bump. He was by himself this time, and so were you.
“Want to walk to the gate together?” The edges of his mouth tugged up as he spoke softly, you’d forget he was on RAP:PUBLIC. Without a doubt, you thought he was cute, but you couldn’t ever think of thinking any further than that. Nowadays, you joke to yourself that maybe you should have reached out, but knowing fan culture in recent years, the public might have chewed you out.
“Sure.” You said, not really hesitating or batting an eye. After all, he was kind of your friend at this point, and it wouldn’t hurt to walk together. It was just to the front gate, not like he was going to walk you home.
It was almost silent the entire walk, a few shoulder bumps that made both of you lock eyes for a moment and laugh before you looked back forward.
Finally, the silence was broken when Ryul tapped your shoulder. Handing you a keychain. It was your keychain. The one you thought you lost last week.
“How’d you…”
“It’s nothing, ahh,” He sighed disappointedly, his gaze shifted from you to the van parked right outside the gates. He turned back to you, his mouth opening slightly like he was going to say something. You raise a brow in response, but all he does is rub the back of his neck before fully groaning. “I’ll see you around.”
Well, seeing him around was rarer recently. The weeks go by, and he’d show up to classes partially. The classroom would often be empty, as a lot of trainees were gone around this time. So it was just you and a few others in the class. Your mind doesn’t immediately go to Ryul, but he looked so defeated on that day, the day he found your keychain. He wanted to tell you something– ah, must be nothing, you brush it off and continue listening to your music during study hall.
My blood be where the sauce is–
You felt like your voice was going to disappear in the sea of fancams and fellow fans, so you jumped in place anyway
Then–Ryul’s rap
Pull up해 to the studio에
We made a banger R-Y-U-L style
You really screamed out, “RYUL style.” It was just so iconic. He pointed his hand out toward your section—or maybe he didn’t. It was loud there.
You’re glad to see him again, back in November, with the remixes and posters being handed out on the streets with his fellow members. He recognized you then—handed you a poster like it was nothing.
“Oh, Ryul. Nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you too.”
That sweet smile and kind voice, just as you remembered. Maybe… just a little too late.
His
He tells himself not to look.
It’s loud—too loud. The bass hums through the stage floor, through his ribs, and the lights are blinding enough that the crowd should blur into nothing but color and movement. That’s how it’s supposed to feel. Debut. Noise. Distance.
He still looks.
At first, it’s just a habit. A sweep of the audience while he waits for his cue, fingers loose around the mic, jaw set. He’s been trained to scan sections, to acknowledge fans without lingering, to let his eyes move like they don’t ever catch on one person.
Then he sees the banner.
률 ❤︎
The heart beside it is uneven, like it was drawn quickly. His stomach drops so fast he almost misses the beat.
No.
It couldn’t be.
But it is.
You’re there—closer than he expects, close enough that the lights don’t wash you out completely. You look different, older maybe, dressed like everyone else around you, screaming just as loud. For a second, he thinks he imagined it, that his brain filled in a face where it wanted one to be.
Then you jump in place, laughing, and he knows.
His verse hits.
He raps on autopilot, muscle memory carrying him through words he’s practiced a thousand times. The crowd roars louder when his part comes up, and he feels it—the shift, the attention, the weight of it.
R-Y-U-L style.
And then you scream it back.
Not his name, the way it used to sound in his head—quiet, almost careful—but loud, shared, swallowed by hundreds of voices around you. He points out instinctively, a reflex drilled into him during rehearsals.
For half a second, he hopes you think it’s just for you.
For half a second, he hates himself for hoping.
It’s strange, seeing you like this. Seeing you as a fan.
He remembers the first time he really noticed you. Not because anything dramatic happened, not because someone announced your name or a note was passed across the class, but because of the little things. You stayed behind during fire drills, tying your shoelaces slower than anyone else, stubborn and quiet, headphones always perched on your ears with one bud dangling, letting the music seep in just enough that it was yours. He’d watch you from across the hall and think, ‘How can someone be so calm, so unshaken, while everyone else trips over each other?’
The study hall became a new kind of observation. His friends would gather with yours for quick questionnaires, and he’d catch glimpses of you. Not staring, not obvious, but enough. The way your laughter bent at the edges, the way you tilted your head when listening to your friends’ stories. Each small glance felt heavier than the last. He’d tell himself it didn’t matter, that he wasn’t looking for anything. But even then, something had settled in his chest, a quiet warmth he couldn’t name.
He remembers the little exchanges too: a wrapper passed under a desk, a pen borrowed and returned with a scribble of your handwriting on the margin of his worksheet, notes jotted down for someone else, but lingered in his hands a little too long. Every tiny act was a ripple he felt stronger than it had any right to be.
He fell in love quietly, early. Not with fireworks or dramatic confessions, but with the rhythm of you being you. With the way you showed up to school every day, a presence he didn’t fully understand, and somehow couldn’t stop noticing.
And then the keychain. That small thing you’d lost, the thing that had been locked onto your bag and vanished last week. When he found it, his hands shook all the way through the afternoon, through the walk to the van, through rehearsing words in his head that would never fully leave him.
I found this. You dropped it. I was thinking maybe…
He wanted to say it. Almost did.
But then you looked at him as if nothing mattered, as if the walk to the gate was just that. A walk. And he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. Not while someone else’s eyes would see him too. He let the moment slip, swallowed it down with a slow exhale, and let you pass by, unaware of what almost happened.
Almost. He would carry that almost for a long time.
The next year and graduation came faster than he expected. Before he knew it, it was November, and he was handing out posters on the street with his members.
The first time he saw you again, it was on the street, handing out posters, plus a lot of people walking right past them, except you. He recognized you instantly. He always would have.
You smiled at him like you always had. Walked right up to him like it was a school reunion after decades.
“Oh, Ryul. Nice to see you again.”
But instead of a reunion hug, he’s met with your hand held out. Ready to grab the poster.
He smiled back, because that’s what he’s good at now.
“Nice to see you too.”
He handed you a poster like it didn’t mean anything, like his chest didn’t ache, like he hadn’t already decided that this was where it ended. You thanked him, stepped back into the crowd of passersby, already turning your attention elsewhere.
You didn’t look back.
On stage now, under lights and cheers, he lets himself look one last time.
You’re happy. Proud. Loving him in the only way you can.
He thinks that maybe this is better. That maybe loving you from a distance hurts less than wanting something he can’t have anymore.
When the song ends, he exhales slowly.
He fell in love long before November.
You whispered to yourself, like admitting it made it harmless, “I fell in love last November.”