Archive of Our Own

Soobin had known Beomgyu way before they had signed a contract lease together. Best friends. Bandmates. Roommates. That was the arrangement. 

After their debut, the first few years had been a blur of music show rehearsals, variety show appearances, and fansigns where they had learnt to smile until their faces hurt. Through it all, the duo had been stuck together like glue (or as Beomgyu liked to call it, gum)—it was him who saves Soobin a seat at the van, it was him who infuriates him with his slightly higher rank in league, it was him who urges the leader to step out of his comfort zone and achieve his goals little by little.

The other members noticed, of course. The five of them were always especially close, but there was something about Soobin and Beomgyu’s relationship that stood out, a deeper, more complex connection. Gradually, MOAs started noticing too, joking about how the two of them were soulmates in every universe. Soobin himself felt inclined to agree.

Fifteen albums and four world tours later, they’d finally moved out of the group dorm and into their own spaces. Just the two of them. It had seemed like the obvious choice—they knew each other's habits, they spent most of their time together anyway, and renting together in Seoul was cheaper than living alone. Sensible. Practical. The kind of thing best friends do.

Just roommates, Soobin had repeatedly told himself. Don't make it weird.

It has been three months now. Three months of a high-rise apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a security system that beeped whenever anyone entered. Three months of mornings filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, followed by the obnoxiously loud sounds coming from Beomgyu’s half-broken coffee maker. Three months of Beomgyu leaving his lyric notebook on every surface—the dining table, the kitchen counter, the coffee table, the bathroom counter (somehow). Three months of Beomgyu walking out of his bedroom in nothing but boxer briefs, hair still damp from the shower, completely unbothered, while Soobin would stare shamelessly at the water droplets trailing down his collarbone. 

It was a Thursday night right now, and rain streaked across the windows of their 20th-floor apartment. The air conditioning hummed softly, doing its job a little too well. Soobin was lying sprawled on the leather couch—the expensive one, because Beomgyu had insisted that ‘we’re not sleeping on floor cushions anymore, hyung, we have money’—and pretending to scroll through his phone. He was supposed to be reviewing the choreography for tomorrow’s dance practice. Instead, he was watching Beomgyu. 

The younger was sitting cross-legged on the floor, positioned directly between Soobin’s feet. Surrounding him were layers of lyrical notes and half-finished compositions, and, for whatever reason Soobin cannot begin to comprehend, a psychology article that Soobin couldn’t see the title of. His hair—dark, slightly overgrown, perpetually falling into his eyes—was clipped behind his ears with a white hairpin and a cartoon bear on top (courtesy of Yeonjun). He was wearing a hoodie—Soobin’s hoodie, the grey one he had stolen during their last tour stop at Kuala Lumpur. Soobin tried not to notice how the sleeves swallowed Beomgyu’s hands. He failed.

“You’re doing it again.” Soobin said.

Beomgyu didn’t even look up. “Doing what?”

“You’re stealing my hoodies again. You stole four hoodies from me already. I only have three left.”

Beomgyu flipped a page. “Sounds like you need to buy more hoodies. Put it on the company card.”

Soobin tosses a pillow at him. Beomgyu caught it with practiced ease, because of course he did. All those years of hanging out with Yeonjun and Taehyun had given him reflexes like a cat. He tucked the pillow behind his head like a throne, shifting comfortably at the softness of the cushion. Soobin hated him. He was also extremely aware of the fact that Beomgyu’s head would be directly touching his knee if it weren’t for the pillow.

“Shouldn’t you be working on the new track?” Soobin asked, because whenever Beomgyu’s notes were as haphazard as they are now, it either meant he was producing something brilliant or he was procrastinating by reading something completely irrelevant. There was no in between.

“I am. Some of us actually do research instead of winging it.”

“You say it like that’s a defence.”

“It is. Against you.” Beomgyu finally glanced up momentarily, only to roll his eyes at Soobin. His glasses—his black, thick-rimmed glasses made him look like an annoyingly hot librarian. “Some of us actually take our craft seriously.”

“Some of us spent two hours watching a video analysis on why the chorus in ‘Dynamite’ works.”

“It was valuable market research.”

“It was a YouTube breakdown, Beomgyu-yah.”

“Valuable.”

Soobin suppressed the urge to roll his eyes himself. The conversation ended, and the two of them returned to their previous matters at hand. Soobin went back to his phone—or tried to. He was feeling especially restless that night, and couldn’t help hearing the minuscule sounds from the apartment—the soft shuffling of papers, Beomgyu’s exhale when he hit something interesting, the creak of the floorboards when Beomgyu moved one leg under his thigh. The rain poured more heavily outside. The apartment felt smaller than usual. Occasionally, a strand of Beomgyu’s hair would tickle against Soobin’s bare legs. Soobin could smell his shampoo—something rich and floral, something that even smelled expensive. 

After a few minutes of silence, curiosity won. Soobin leaned forward and glanced at the article Beomgyu was reading.

The text in the article was dense with a rather small font. But the title of the article made Soobin’s brain completely stop.

‘Staged Authenticity: A Case Study on Fan-Perceived Chemistry and Intentional Ambiguity in K-Pop Idol Interactions.’

Soobin blinked. Read it again. Then read it again for a third time, because of course he had read wrongly.

“Gyu.”

No response.

“Beomgyu.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you reading an article about fan shipping?”

Beomgyu still didn’t look up. When he spoke, his voice indicated that he was entirely unaware of Soobin’s bemusement behind him. “It’s for a composition. I’m writing a song about constructed intimacy versus actual intimacy. I need to understand how the fans interpret interactions between idols.”

“You’re writing a song about shipping.”

“I’m writing a song about authenticity. The shipping is just data.”

“Data.”

“Primary source material.” When he looked up, there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You know, some of these paragraphs are actually quite insightful. There’s a whole section about how sustained eye contact and mirrored body movements can cause a perception of romantic tension when there is none.”

Soobin’s stomach did a couple of flips. Suddenly, he was glad he didn’t eat much for dinner that night. “And you’re researching this because—“

“Because I want the song to be accurate. If I’m going to write about the gap between performance and reality, I need to know what the performance looks like.”

“Right,” Soobin’s mouth felt dry. When he swallowed, his throat felt like sandpaper. “Performance.”

He kept reading over Beomgyu’s shoulders, because he couldn’t seem to stop. His eyes traced over the page: 

‘Among the suspiciously natural chemistry between idols, another frequently cited example is Choi Soobin and Choi Beomgyu of the group TOMORROW X TOGETHER. Fan documentaries have recorded over 300 instances of mutual sustained eye contact, incidental touch, and what fans term as ‘private language’—the ability to communicate with one another without verbal language. Whether this behaviour is genuine or is a sophisticated performance of intimacy remains a subject of debate for fans and industry observers alike.’

Soobin hoped his face didn’t look as red as it felt. “Beomgyu.”

“What.”

“Why are there articles about us.”

Beomgyu’s shoulders were shaking slightly. He was holding back a laugh. Soobin wanted to hit him. “I told you, I’m researching.”

“You’re reading an article that cites fan contemplations of us making eye contact.”

“It’s flattering, honestly. Did you see? They called our chemistry ‘suspiciously natural’.” 

“That’s—“ Soobin spluttered. “That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point, then? Look—“ Beomgyu scrolled to a lower section of the piece. “‘In particular, researchers found that the duration of eye contact maintained by the duo exceeds the average by approximately 2.4 seconds per interaction. The extended duration, along with the significant reduction in blinking while eye contact is maintained, aligns with markers of genuine impersonal closeness rather than performative fan service.’”

Soobin’s heart was pounding. He could feel it everywhere—in his chest, his throat, his temples. But it wasn’t just his heart. Something was happening—something lower, something warmer, something that suddenly made his shorts feel too tight. 

He shifted on the couch subtly, hoping Beomgyu wouldn’t notice. Hoping the pillow on his lap would do the job. Because Beomgyu’s head was still inches away from his skin. Because he was still sitting in between his legs, wearing his hoodie, reading descriptions of their sustained mutual gaze in that low, calm voice, and Soobin’s body was reacting in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with friendship. 

It’s fine, he told himself mentally. It’s totally fine. You’re just—it’s just the lighting. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that he’s wearing your clothes and he smells like fresh flowers and his jaw looks so fucking kissable—

Beomgyu zoomed in to another section and his fingers—his long, delicate, beautiful fingers—followed the words. “‘In several clips analyzed, Beomgyu’s gaze lingers on Soobin’s lips for an average of 1.8 seconds before returning to eye contact. This behaviour is often associated with romantic or sexual interest through nonverbal communication.’”

Soobin’s breath caught. His body went hot. Beomgyu was reading about looking at his mouth, in that low, calm, utterly composed voice—as if he was explaining a choreography or discussing vocal warm-ups. 

And Soobin was hard.

There was no denying it. He could no longer blame it on the angle of the couch or the warmth of the room. His body has made its decision. And Beomgyu—Beomgyu, with his damn reading glasses and his stolen hoodie—was making it worse with every passing second.

“You’re staring again.” Beomgyu pointed out without looking up.

Soobin tore his gaze away from him. “I’m reading.”

“You’ve been on the same paragraph for a minute and half.”

Because I’m trying not to think about your mouth. Because if I think about your mouth I’m going to have to excuse myself to go to my room.

“I’m thinking.” He said instead.

“About?”

About you in the lamplight. About how your voice drops when you’re focused. About how I want to take those stupid glasses off your face and—

“The paper,” he lied. “It’s weird to read about yourself.”

Beomgyu turned, and their eyes finally met. And Soobin watched, in real time, as Beomgyu’s gaze dropped lower to Soobin’s mouth before flickering back up.

One point eight seconds. Right on cue.

Beomgyu’s expression shifted imperceptibly. His pupils dilated slightly. His breathing quickened. Subtle behaviours that Soobin had learnt to notice after ten years of friendship. And he was also sure that Beomgyu knew—that he had noticed the stiffness of his posture, the pillow on his lap. That Beomgyu knew exactly what he had done.

But he didn’t call him out. Instead, he smiled—slow, deliberate. When he turned back to his paper, his voice had dipped lower. “There’s a whole section about incidental touch, too. How idols brush their hands together during fansigns. How these touches correlates with—“

“Beomgyu.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Or what?”

Soobin was glaring holes through the latter’s head. “You’re such a—“

“Idiot? Nerd? Menace?” Beomgyu grinned. “You’ve called me all three tonight.”

“I meant them.”

“I know.” Beomgyu set down his laptop very slowly, very carefully. And he turned to face Soobin fully, shifting on the floor so that his shoulder touched Soobin’s knee. The lamplight caught the side of his face. The city gleamed behind him. “But you’re not moving away.”

Soobin wasn’t. He couldn’t. 

“Say it,” Beomgyu whispered. “Say whatever you’re thinking. Because I hope to god we’re thinking the same thing.”

Soobin moved before his brain could process it. He reached forward, hooking a finger into the collar of Beomgyu’s stolen hoodie. Beomgyu came easily, letting himself be pulled into Soobin’s grasp pliantly. He braced a hand on Soobin’s thigh, the other resting on the nape of his neck, and their lips crashed together. 

When Soobin imagined kissing Beomgyu (and he has done so more times than he would like to admit), he visualized soft, gentle pecks against his skin, mixed with smiles and laughter. This was nothing like that. It was hot. It was wet. It was messy. It was utterly perfect.

The warmth of their breaths mingled together. When Soobin’s hand came up to grip at Beomgyu’s hair, the younger made a small, helpless sound against his mouth—a sound that Soobin felt in his bones.

When they broke apart, Soobin was grinning widely. Stupidly. He couldn’t help himself. 

Beomgyu raised a brow, his mouth slightly ajar as he caught his breath. “What?”

“Just thinking about how we would explain this to the members.”

“Tell them it was for research.”

“I think I need a more in-depth investigation, then.”

Beomgyu leaned forward, and they kissed again—deeper this time, slower, with more intent. Somewhere along the process, Beomgyu’s glasses had been knocked completely off, but Soobin didn’t remember when, because the younger’s hands were all over his body: his neck, his shoulders, his hips, his—

Fuck. His body jolted with pleasure at the touch, and he groaned against Beomgyu’s mouth, feeling his erection twitch in protest against the confinement of his pants. “Bedroom,” he muttered into the kiss. It wasn’t a question.

Beomgyu pulled back just far enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. His lips were already red and swollen. “Finally.”

Beomgyu hauled himself up from floor. Soobin let himself be dragged to the bedroom, his hand fisting in Beomgyu’s (Soobin’s) hoodie, as the latter backed towards the hallway without breaking contact. They stumbled twice—once over Beomgyu’s stack of papers and again at the corner of the couch. Beomgyu laughed against Soobin’s neck, his breath hot and damp. Soobin’s hand shook slightly when he pushed open the bedroom door.

The room was dark, the city lights filtering through the blinds and casting everything in pale blue and silver. Beomgyu’s bed was unmade from that morning—grey sheets, too many pillows, and the faint smell of his shampoo.

When the door thunked shut behind them, Soobin walked him backward. Beomgyu’s knees hit the mattress. He fell back onto the sheets, looking at Soobin with hunger-lidded eyes. Soobin climbed over him, his knees bracketing Beomgyu’s hips, hands braced on either side of his head.

Beomgyu reached up, cupping Soobin’s face in both hands, and pulled him down.

“Now stop talking.” He whispered against his mouth.

Soobin stopped talking.

He stopped thinking, too. That night, there was only the weight of Beomgyu beneath him, the quiet sounds he’d make when Soobin’s mouth found his throat, the raw cries and pleas when they both came undone.

That was the end of it. Neither of them brought it up again, and they both moved on with their happy lives as if nothing had ever happened between them.

At least, that’s what Soobin wished it was like.

The truth was much messier. For two weeks, they had existed in a strange, suspended animation—faking nonchalance so hard it could’ve won them awards. They still made coffee for each other. Still sat on the same couch. Still went to rehearsals and recording sessions and group dinners like nothing had changed. But Soobin had noticed the small, minuscule shifts—the way Beomgyu hand hesitated before touching his shoulder now, the way they’d stopped sitting close enough for their knees to brush, the way Beomgyu would catch his eye across the room and immediately look away, as if eye contact was a crime. 

It was driving Soobin crazy. 

Not because he wanted to talk about it. God, no. Talking was the last thing he wanted. But the silence was worse. Every unspoken thing hung between them palpably, and neither of them knew what to make of it.

He probably regrets it, Soobin told himself. It was a one-time thing. The heat of the moment. He doesn’t really—

He didn’t finish the thought. It hurts too much.

So they danced around each other instead. Polite. Careful. Strangers looking at their best friend’s face.

The MV shoot fell two weeks later on a Friday afternoon.

It was their first comeback in six months, and the budget was ridiculous—a moody, cinematic concept set in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Seoul. Exposed emotions. Harsh lighting. Lots of dramatic staring into the distance. The director kept yelling about emotional vulnerability and raw, unfiltered energy, which would have been funny if Soobin wasn’t dying inside.

All five members were there. Hair and makeup had taken two hours. The stylists had put Soobin in a black silk shirt unbuttoned nearly to his sternum, and Beomgyu in a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. They looked expensive. They looked untouchable. They were doing an excellent job at not looking at each other. 

The shoot was running long. They had been here since 6 AM, and it was now pushing 2 PM. Lunch had been a blur of sad bento boxes and energy drinks. The director wanted one more setup—a group shot where they formed a semi-circle, lit from the below like they were about to deliver bad news.

They were between takes when Beomgyu excused himself.

“Bathroom,” he said quietly to no one in particular, already walking towards the back of the warehouse where the portable units were set up. 

Soobin watched him go. Something in his chest tightened. 

He counted thirty seconds in his head. Then he turned to the nearest member—Taehyun, who was scrolling through his phone—and said, “I’m gonna go grab water.”

“We have water right here,” Taehyun said, gesturing towards the craft services table.

“Different water.”

Taehyun raised a brow but didn’t stop him. Soobin was already walking.

The bathroom area was tucked behind a stack of lighting equipment. Three portable units in a row, two of them empty, one with a locked door. Soobin could see Beomgyu’s boots under the gap. 

He leaned against the wall and waited. 

The lock clicked. The door opened. Beomgyu stepped out, saw Soobin, and froze.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The warehouse hummed with distant chatter and generator noise. Beomgyu’s shirt was smeared with fake grime, his hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it. He looked exhausted. He looked beautiful. Soobin wanted to rip his hair out and scream.

“Hey,” Beomgyu said, finally. 

“Hey.”

“You followed me.” 

“Did I?”

Beomgyu gave him a look. “You’re standing outside my bathroom stall. While we’re both supposed to be on set.”

Soobin shrugged. “Needed water.”

“There’s water on set.”

“This is different water.”

Beomgyu’s lips twitched. An almost-smile, but not quite. The tension between them was so thick Soobin could taste it. Two weeks of not talking, two weeks of pretending, and now the two of them were alone, behind a stack of lighting equipment, and neither of them was walking away.

“I’ve been thinking,” Beomgyu said quietly. 

“About what.”

“About that night.”

Soobin’s heart slammed against his rib cage. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Beomgyu stepped closer to him, and Soobin could smell his shampoo—still a fresh floral scent, still driving Soobin insane, “And I’ve been thinking we should talk about it.”

“Talk?” Soobin’s voice came out rougher than he’d intended. “You want to talk.” He repeated.

“I want to—“ Beomgyu stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I want. That’s the problem.”

Soobin looked at him. Really looked. At the flush creeping up Beomgyu’s neck, at his hands shaking slightly at his sides, at the fact that Soobin had followed him to the bathroom and he hadn’t asked him to leave.

“Okay,” Soobin said. “Let’s not talk, then.”

“What do you—“

Soobin kissed him.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't tentative. It was two weeks of silence and confusion and desperate, stupid wanting, all crammed into one press of lips. Beomgyu made a sound—surprised, maybe, or relieved—and then his hands were fisting in Soobin’s silk shirt and he was kissing back just as hard.

They stumbled sideways until Beomgyu’s back hit the wall of the portable bathroom. The metal rattled. Neither of them cared. Beomgyu’s mouth was hot and insistent, his teeth scraping Soobin’s lower lip, and Soobin’s hands were everywhere—Beomgyu’s waist, Beomgyu’s jaw, Beomgyu’s stupid, perfect hair.

“Been driving me crazy,” Soobin muttered against his mouth. “Two weeks. And you didn’t say anything.”

“Neither did you.”

“Because I thought you regretted it.”

Beomgyu pulled back momentarily to catch his breath. His pupils were blown wide, his lips already swollen. “I didn’t regret it. I’ve thought of nothing else ever since.”

Soobin’s breath caught. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then Soobin’s hands were sliding down Beomgyu’s chest, and Beomgyu was gripping Soobin’s hips, and the tension between them was no longer something to be ignored: it was a live wire, sparking and dangerous and about to burn them both alive.

Beomgyu’s hand brushed against Soobin’s belt, and something shifted. Soobin pinned him harder against the wall, leaning in until his lips brushed against Beomgyu’s ear.

“You’re such a brat, you know that?” Soobin’s voice was low, something akin to a growl. “Walking around like this all day. Pretending that nothing’s happened.”

Beomgyu shivered. His head fell back against the metal, his free hand bracing against the side of the sink. “Maybe I like watching you lose it.”

Soobin’s grip tightened. “Yeah? You like making me go crazy?”

“Love it.”

Outside, someone called a name—a staff, probably looking for them. Neither of them moved. Beomgyu’s face was flushed, wrecked, his mouth slightly open.

Then Soobin’s hand moved lower. Just testing. Just to see.

Then he felt it.

His fingers brushed against something unmistakable—something that definitely wasn’t denim or skin. Something that made him freeze. 

He looked at Beomgyu. Beomgyu’s face was bright red, but he wasn’t looking away. His jaw was set. Defiant. Embarrassed but not looking away.

“Beomgyu.” Soobin said slowly. “What is that.”

Beomgyu swallowed. Said nothing.

Soobin moved his hands again—just to make sure, and yep, there it was. Unmistakable. His brain short-circuited.

“Are you serious right now.” He breathed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re wearing a—“ Soobin couldn’t even say it. He felt like he was on fire. “During the entire shoot. While we’re capturing emotional vulnerability and raw unfiltered energy.”

“It helps me focus.”

“It helps you—“ Soobin let out a laugh that was half-unhinged. “You’re insane. You’re actually insane.”

Beomgyu’s eyes flashed. “And you’re turned on.”

Soobin opened his mouth. Closed it. Because Beomgyu was right. He could feel it—his pulse, the way his body reacted the second he realized what Beomgyu was hiding. The degradation of it. The secret of it. The way Beomgyu had stood in the set with his white button-down, looking untouchable, when—

“Disgusting.” But Soobin’s voice had dropped an octave. “You’re disgusting.”

Beomgyu’s breath hitched. “Say that again.”

“Disgusting.” Soobin kissed him roughly, his teeth sinking into Beomgyu’s bottom lip just hard enough not to leave a noticeable mark. “Filthy. Walking around when you’ve got that inside you.”

Beomgyu moaned, actually moaned—a sound that travelled right to Soobin’s dick. His hands shook as he pulled at Beomgyu’s belt. Beomgyu’s hand trembled as he worked on Soobin’s silk shirt. They were both losing it, both conscious of the fact that they had maybe five minutes before someone came looking.

“We have to be fast.” Soobin whispered.

“Then be fast.”

They were.

It was rushed and desperate and not at all graceful. The bathroom unit rattled. Soobin kept one hand over Beomgyu’s mouth to muffle the sounds. Beomgyu’s fingers dug into Soobin’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. Neither of them said anything coherent—just gasps and half-bitten curses and Soobin whispering variations of fuck and look what you do to me while Beomgyu shuddered and clutched at him like he was drowning.

It was over too quickly. And not quickly enough.

When they pulled apart, both of them were breathing hard like they had just run a marathon. Beomgyu’s shirt was wrinkled beyond repair. Soobin’s silk shirt was untucked and hanging open. They looked like two people who had done exactly what they had just done.

“We have to go back,” Beomgyu said, his voice hoarse. 

“I know.”

“Everyone’s going to know.”

“Then we’ll be better actors than we’ve ever been.”

Soobin took a paper towel, dampened it, and handed it to Beomgyu without looking. They fixed themselves in silence, tucking, buttoning, smoothing hair with shaking hands. Soobin caught his reflection in the small mirror at the side—he looked wrecked. He looked happier than he had ever been in the past two weeks.

Beomgyu caught his eye in the mirror. For a moment, they just stared at each other.

“We’re not talking about this later?” Beomgyu said.

“We can talk about it later.”

“Promise?”

Soobin’s heart ached. “Promise.”

They walked back to the set separately: Beomgyu first, Soobin counting to thirty seconds before following. When he turned the corner, Beomgyu was already standing in place between Taehyun and Kai, looking perfectly composed. His shirt was still a little wrinkled, but it was barely noticeable underneath the moody lighting of the set. His face was calm, his breathing was even. He was nodding along to something the director was saying, and if Soobin didn’t know better—if Beomgyu didn’t have his hands all over him just now—he would’ve completely believed the act.

The director clapped his hands. “There you are! We’re ready for the next set, Soobin-ssi. Get in position.”

Soobin slid into position next to Yeonjun. The staff adjusted the lights and checked the monitors. A makeup artist drifted over to powder Soobin’s nose—she didn’t even blink, just hummed to herself and moved on. The manager handed Beomgyu a water bottle, asking about his energy levels. Beomgyu replied that he was fine, just tired. The manager nodded and walked away.

Total utter normalcy. 

Soobin almost laughed in relief. Maybe they had pulled it off. Maybe no one noticed. Maybe the bathroom was far enough from the set that the sounds couldn’t be carried through the distance. Maybe—

Then he caught Taehyun’s eye.

Taehyun was standing a few feet away, looking through his phone—or rather, pretending to look at it. His eyes kept flicking up, swivelling between Soobin and Beomgyu, one eyebrow raised a millimetre. Then the smallest, most knowing smile Soobin had ever seen. 

Soobin looked away immediately. His face went hot.

He glanced around at the other members, suddenly hyperaware. Kai was adjusting his in-ears, his lips were drawn to a thin line—holding back a smile that was threatening to break through. He wasn’t looking at Soobin directly, but his shoulders were shaking. Just barely. Just enough. He leaned over, muttering something to Yeonjun. The older snorted and said something that looked horrifyingly like ‘finally’. 

The next few takes went on in a blur.

By the next interval, Soobin’s shoulders were sagging, exhaustion weighing him down. Around him, the warehouse was bustling with movement—staff adjusting the cables, makeup artists darting in, the members stretching and checking their phones. Soobin slumped against a chair, his heart still racing.

Beomgyu was talking to a stylist across the circle. He looked calm. He looked collected. He looked like he wasn’t pressed against the bathroom walls an hour ago.

Taehyun appeared at Soobin’s elbow. Silent. Smug.

“Hey.” Taehyun said.

“Hey.”

“Nice water break.”

Soobin’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“Nothing.” But his smile widened. He tapped on his phone, zooming onto something, then flipped the  screen towards Soobin. It was a photo from earlier that day, of Soobin and Beomgyu standing near the lighting equipment—before everything that happened. But Taehyun had circled something: Soobin’s shirt, which was only halfway tucked in the photo. “Just noticed that your shirt was much neater after your water break.”

Soobin snatched the phone. Taehyun let him. 

“It’s not what you think.” Soobin said.

“I didn’t say anything,” Taehyun took his phone back, still smiling. “I’m just saying. Yeonjun-hyung owes me twenty thousand won now.” 

“For what.”

“For betting that you’d crack by the end of the month.” He patted Soobin’s back, a gesture that did nothing to reassure him. “Congratulations, by the way. You two have been completely insufferable.”

Soobin opened his mouth to deny it. No sound came out.

Taehyun was already walking away, probably texting Yeonjun about his winnings. Across the room, Yeonjun raised his head and levelled Soobin with a stare, a look that said I know and I support it but also you owe me nothing because I lost the bet.

The director called for the final wrap. The staff cheered. The members gathered for a group photo—messy hair, tired smiles, the whole ‘we worked so hard’ energy that would end up on their behind-the-scenes content.

Soobin stood next to Beomgyu. Shoulder to shoulder. Not quite touching.

The cameraman started the countdown. Three, two—

At the last second, Beomgyu’s pinky brushed against the back of Soobin’s palm. Just a whisper of contact.

Soobin smiled at the touch. Not an idol’s smile. A real smile.

The camera flashed.

Later, in the van, back on their way to Seoul, Soobin sat at the back of the car. Beomgyu sat next to him. The rest of the members were in another van to their own apartment, probably rewatching clips of today’s shoot.

The car hit a bump. Their knees pressed together. Neither of them moved. 

Soobin pulled out his phone. Opened a new message. Typed three words.

We need to talk.

He felt more than saw Beomgyu pull out his own phone. A moment later, his screen lit up. 

Yeah. When we get back home.

Soobin typed back: Promise?

Beomgyu’s response was immediate. Promise.

They did not talk when they got back home. Or at least, not at the start.

The van pulled up to their building at 6:47 PM. The rain had stopped, leaving the Seoul streets slick and shimmering under streetlights. The manager dropped Soobin and Beomgyu at their apartment building with a tired "Good work today" and drove off without a second glance.

The elevator ride was silent.

Not the easy, comfortable kind of silence. The kind of silence which felt suffocating, where the air was thick with everything left unsaid. Soobin stood on his side of the elevator. Beomgyu stood on his. No words were exchanged. Soobin watched as the floors ticked up—7, 8, 9–his heart pounding harder with each one. He could hear Beomgyu breathing. He could hear the absolutely unhinged screaming in his head.

The doors opened. Beomgyu unlocked the apartment. They stepped inside. 

The door clicked shut behind them.

And then Beomgyu’s hands were on him.

No warning. No conversation. No hey, remember when we promised to talk? Just Beomgyu pressing him against the closed door, his mouth hot and insistent on his jaw and completely derailing every thought Soobin had been assembling on the ride home. It was like Beomgyu had been holding himself back the entire day—through the shoot, through the bathroom, through the car ride—and now that the door was closed, the dam had broken.

“Beom—“ Soobin started.

Beomgyu didn’t answer. Instead, his lips moved lower—down Soobin’s throat, grazing his pulse point, tongue following after like an apology. His hands were already sliding underneath Soobin’s shirt, palming against the muscles on his stomach as if he was trying to map every inch of his skin by memory.


Soobin’s head fell back against the door. The wood was cool. Beomgyu’s mouth was not.

“Beomgyu-yah,” he tried again, but it came out breathier than intended, which was embarrassing. He was an idol who could sing high notes in front of thousands of people. He could not, apparently, say his roommate’s name without sounding like he was about to pass out.

Beomgyu hummed against his collarbone. His lips traced the edge of Soobin’s shirt, pushing it aside, finding more skin to devour. He was making these small sounds, these hungry little hums, and Soobin was trying very hard to remember why talking was important.

“We said we’d talk.” He managed.

“Mm.” Beomgyu’s mouth was on his shoulder now, lapping at the skin there. “Talking is overrated.”

“We promised.”

“You promised.” Beomgyu looked up at him through his lashes for a second, just enough for Soobin’s legs to go weak. “I said we’d talk later. This isn’t later yet.”

“That’s not—“ Soobin’s breath hitched when Beomgyu found the back of his earlobe. “That’s not what later means. Later means after we had dinner and sat down with maybe a glass of water. Not—“ Beomgyu bit down gently, and Soobin lost his entire train of thought. “Not whatever this is.”

Beomgyu drew backwards a bit. His eyes were dark. His lips were wet. His hair was somehow already a disaster. He looked completely, insufferably smug, like a cat who had knocked over a glass of water and felt absolutely no remorse. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Beomgyu asked.

Soobin’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Yes, his brain said. We can’t just keep falling into bed without knowing what this is. You’re an adult. Use your words.

No, his body yelled back. Absolutely not. Don’t you dare make him stop. Are you insane?

Beomgyu was staring at him. His thumb was tracing slow circles over his abdomen. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t pushing. He was just…waiting. For Soobin to make a choice.

Soobin hated him for it. Soobin loved him for it.

“You’re impossible,” Soobin said at last.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking for two weeks. How’s that worked out for you?”

“Touché.” A pause. “Why did you wear that today?” Soobin asked. “At the shoot.”

Beomgyu’s smile faltered ever so slightly. “You want to talk about that now?”

“You started it.” Soobin’s grip on Beomgyu’s hips tightened. “You wore a—“ he couldn’t say it without his face catching on fire. “—to an MV shoot. In front of rolling cameras. In front of the other members. In front of forty staff members. Wearing white pants, Gyu, white pants. And you want me to just ignore that?”

Beomgyu’s cheeks flushed. For the first time that night, he averted his eyes from Soobin. “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“Your hand brushed against it when I kissed you. Of course I noticed.”

Beomgyu flushed even deeper. He took a small step backwards, just to put a sliver of space between them. 

“It was supposed to be a secret,” he said quietly. “Something to keep me…I don’t know. Grounded. Focused.” He laughed, soft and self-deprecating. “It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

“It’s not stupid.” Soobin’s voice was softer now. The heat between them hadn’t left, but something else had joined, something that felt like honesty. “It sounds like you’re trying to feel something. Or not feeling something.”

Beomgyu raised his head. “I was trying to feel you.”

The words hung in the air.

“Before. When we—the first time—“ he swallowed. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About your hands and your voice and the way you said—“ he stopped himself with an effort. “I thought that if I could just…have something there, something that reminded me of you without you even knowing, then I could stop obsessing over it. Over you.”

Soobin sucked in a breath. “Beomgyu-yah.”

“I know. It’s pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic.” Soobin reached out, cupping Beomgyu’s face in his hands. “It’s insane. There’s a difference.”

Beomgyu laughed shakily. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot for walking around for two weeks wanting to kiss you but not knowing if you wanted the same thing.”

Beomgyu’s eyes widened. “You didn’t know?”

“How was I supposed to know? You didn’t look at me. Didn’t touch me. You acted like I didn’t exist.”

“Because I was scared.” Beomgyu’s voice cracked. “Because I thought—I don’t know what I thought. That you regretted it. That you didn’t feel the same. That if I pretended it didn’t happen, then things would just go back to normal.” He inhaled, “I didn’t regret it at all, you know. I just…didn’t know what to do next.”

“So you did nothing?”

“I did nothing,” Beomgyu admitted. “It seemed like the most sensible option at that time.”

“The sensible option. Right. Was that what gauged you to wear a—“ Soobin gestured vaguely. “—to an MV shoot?”

"In my defense, no one was supposed to know about that part."

"And yet."

"And yet." Beomgyu sighed. "Okay, so my judgment isn't great."

"Your judgment is terrible."

"And you're still here."

Beomgyu was right. He was still here, standing in their apartment inches away from each other arguing about terrible judgement. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“Yeah,” Soobin said quietly. “I’m still here.”

Beomgyu’s expression softened. For a moment, the apartment was silent except for an occasional car honk in the city.

“There’s another thing.”

Beomgyu nodded. “Go on.”

“What if this doesn’t work out?”

Beomgyu’s face fell. Just slightly. Just enough for Soobin to notice. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—“ Soobin felt his heartbeat pick up. “We live together. We’re in the same group. We have schedules together every single day. We share a bathroom, Beomgyu, a bathroom.”

“I’m aware.”

"So if we do this—whatever this is—and it falls apart... what then? Do we move out? Do we request different hotel rooms on tour? Do we stand on opposite sides of the stage during concerts and pretend we don't know each other?"

Beomgyu’s jaw tightened. “You’re thinking of the worse-case scenario.”

“Someone has to.”

“You sure know how to kill the mood.”

“I’m being realistic,” Soobin said gently. “I’m not saying no. I’m not even saying I don’t want to. I'm just saying... we need to think about it. Because if we break each other, we still have to see each other every day. We still have to perform together. We still have to sit next to each other at group dinners and pretend everything's fine."

Beomgyu didn’t speak for a long moment. He walked over to the window, the city lights reflecting off his face—pale blue, silver, the occasional red flash of a passing car.

“You make it sound like we’re guaranteed to fail,” Beomgyu said quietly.

“I’m not saying that either.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Soobin walked over to stand beside him. He didn't touch. He just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the same city.

"I'm saying that I don't want to lose you," Soobin said. "Not as my roommate. Not as my bandmate. Not as—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Not as whatever you are to me. And I'm scared that if we do this and it goes wrong, I'll lose all of it. Every version of you."

Beomgyu turned to face him, his eyes bright. “You really think I’d let that happen?”

“I don’t think either of us will let that happen. But feelings are messy. Breakups are messier. And we’re stuck together no matter what.”

A short pause. “What if it works?” Beomgyu asked. “What if we try and we’re happy and none of the bad stuff happens?”

“That sounds fake.”

“It sounds scary. There’s a difference.” Beomgyu took a deep breath. “I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know if we're going to work or if we're going to crash and burn. I don't know if we're going to look back at this conversation in five years and laugh or if we're going to regret every word."

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“I’m not trying to be reassuring. I’m trying to be honest.”

Soobin took his hand, squeezing in affirmation. “Okay. Be honest.”

Beomgyu stared at him sincerely. “I want to try. Even though I'm scared. Even though we live together and work together and share a bathroom and all of it could go horribly wrong. I want to try anyway. Because I'd rather face the consequences than play it safe and spend the rest of my life wondering what if."

Soobin’s breath shuddered out of him. His grip on Beomgyu’s hand tightened. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It was not romantic. It was anxiety with a happy ending.”

“Still counts.” 

Beomgyu managed a wry smile. “So we try?”

“We try,” Soobin confirmed. “With a plan that involves more than just…kissing you against bathroom walls and hoping for the best.”

“That’s a very sensible plan.”

“I have my moments.” Soobin tried to matched his smile. “Can we start with you kissing me again? Then maybe we can talk about the plan after.”

Beomgyu hummed in feigned thought. “That depends. Are you going to stop kissing me to talk this time?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then yes.”

Soobin kissed him. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow and deliberate and filled with all the words they haven’t said yet. Beomgyu melted into him, his hands wrapped around Soobin’s waist, and the world outside the apartment kept spinning—but as they stood by the window, their shadows intertwined, everything seemed to stand still for just a moment.

They did talk, hours later, tangled together in Beomgyu’s bed in the dark, voices low and careful. They talked about boundaries and what would happen if things got complicated. They talked about how to handle a potential breakup without destroying the group or their friendship. They made contingency plans that neither of them wanted to use but both felt better having.

They talked about the fact that they were both terrified and both willing. They talked about what ‘trying’ actually meant—dates, secrets, stolen moments, and the possibility of telling the other members someday.

They talked until the city lights dimmed and the sky began to lighten. And when they finally fell asleep, tangled together in sheets that smelled like fresh flowers and fruits and so utterly Beomgyu, Soobin wasn't scared anymore.

He was just…home.