Archive of Our Own

“Sometimes you don't know how much you loved someone until you start falling out of love with them. Because you start falling out of love with them in a million different ways, and you go, "Wow, I didn't even know I loved that person in that way." And so, a million ways of falling out makes you realize the million ways that you fell in. Then you end up falling in love with those many ways that you're falling out of love. It's the worst. You never really escape from that kind of love, do you?”
– C. JoyBell C.

all things end – 2031.11.22

So this is how things end, Dohoon thinks. 

It’s not with silence, not with something soft enough to miss if you aren’t paying attention, but with light– violent and blinding and pouring down from above in relentless whites and burning golds, cutting across his vision sharply. It feels almost strange, the way it seems to simultaneously expose and erase everything. There’s never been anywhere to hide onstage, after all. 

For a moment, Dohoon thinks that if he blinks, the lights might just swallow him whole. 

In front of him, the resounding cheers of tens of thousands of fans echo around the venue. The chants crash over him like waves, voices folding into one another in some vast and uncontrollable force– yet it doesn’t feel unfamiliar, either. 

Or maybe Dohoon’s just gotten used to it. After all, seven years is plenty of time to forget the exact sound of anything– the way it presses into your chest and overwhelms all your senses, filling your ears and mind and lungs until you can’t really tell if you’re breathing or just swallowing the noise itself, taking it all in. 

“TWS! TWS! TWS!”

Dohoon breathes in. 

The air tastes like heat and something faintly bitter– residue from the fog machine, or maybe the lingering traces of pyrotechnics. There’s a trickle of sweat at the back of his neck tracing its way down the fabric of his stage outfit, all the way to the electronic buzz of his mic pack, a now-familiar weight at his hip. Dohoon pulls his in-ear monitor out so he can better hear the audience, absentmindedly brushing the bracelet wrapped around his right wrist as he does so. 

Outside, it might be colder than usual for a late November night, but here onstage, everything feels like the warmest summer day again. Artificial, manufactured warmth burning into his skin like a second sun. 

Their final concert. 

The words don’t sink in, but rather settle at the surface of Dohoon’s mind, the same way that oil might rest atop water. Behind him, someone calls out his name– Junghwan, probably, or maybe Jihoon– but it’s all-too-quickly dissolved by the noise of the audience. Phone flashlights and rectangular lightsticks form constellations in the dark, white and blue flickers waving in an imaginary wind. 

Dohoon inhales, closing his eyes briefly. 

Then exhales. 

Then he looks up and glances to his right. 

Youngjae is already facing their fans as he waves at them, expression composed in a way that Dohoon knows he’s perfected for seven years and counting– calm, smiling softly, eyes bright as if nothing bad could possibly be happening. Since their last comeback, his hair’s faded back to a darker shade of brown, closer to his natural color; it barely moves from its neat styling even when Youngjae turns his head to look over at Dohoon. 

And there’s that same smile on his face again– the one that Dohoon’s come to know all too well. The kind that says everything is fine, even when it isn’t. 

Especially when it isn’t. 

For a second, Dohoon wonders what Youngjae’s thinking. 

He probably isn’t thinking of the photo that surfaces in Dohoon’s mind– one of the many they’d taken together, thoughtlessly, a few years back during the encore of one of their overseas concerts (where, he can’t quite recall). Dohoon had set it as his wallpaper for a while, long before it all went wrong. But regardless, Youngjae probably doesn’t even know how much Dohoon wishes he had his phone to capture this exact moment, even though he’d inevitably lose it amidst thousands of other photos in his camera roll. 

So Dohoon looks away as a familiar countdown echoes through his in-ear, the one signaling that the next song is about to begin and he needs to find his place. Letting muscle memory carry him through the motions, he’s pulled into his spot as the opening synth of “OVERDRIVE” rings through the sound system. The crowd screams louder, if that’s even possible. 

Step. Turn. Breathe. Sing. 

It’s natural at this point– his body knows exactly where to go without looking, where he belongs among their six-member formations. When Kyungmin steps out, when they break off into two groups of three temporarily, whenever Dohoon has to jump with too much energy like he’s twenty-one again. 

There was a time, when this felt new, he thinks offhandedly. Once upon a time, every stage had been somewhere they needed to prove themselves worthy of, the lights too bright and the audience too loud and his hands too shaky to even hold a microphone properly. 

Dohoon remembers– 

Winter, 2024, their first-ever comeback show, breath unsteady while he adjusted his mic pack for the millionth time and tried not to let his anxiety show– just in case Jihoon decided to tease him again. Cold January wind biting past his puffer jacket as the six of them lingered just outside the Mnet building; Dohoon had wondered if his life was about to be changed forever. 

Ever the reliable one, Youngjae had leaned over then as they were finally let into the building by a staff, ushered past waiting rooms of artists whose names Dohoon couldn’t not recognize. “Hey,” Youngjae had said casually, in a way that made everything easier to believe. “Don’t overthink it. We’ve practiced ‘plot twist’ what, a million times?” 

Dohoon had just nodded, even if he hadn’t really believed him. 

But then they had stepped out onto that stage, and the lights had hit– and something inside Dohoon had settled. Maybe settled isn’t the right word, looking back. It was more like, regardless of his true feelings, a voice had simply been telling him: this is where you are now, who you are. 

The memory dissolves as quickly as it had come on as the chorus of “OVERDRIVE” comes flooding into Dohoon’s sense; amidst the cheering crowd, he takes a deep breath in and sings. 

Behind the six of them, the twin LED screens flicker to life. 

Old clips flash across in a montage, quickly met with sad cheers from their fans as nostalgia and recognition ripple through the venue. It’s a compilation of music show wins with confetti streaming down, comeback shows and fanmeetings, variety content, dance practice videos. Behind the scenes. Fansign clips. Livestreams at 2 a.m. where Jihoon had shared his self-choreographed dances, Youngjae had sang along to fan requests, and Junghwan had played his stupid ramen cooking game while Kyungmin teased him. 

Dohoon catches a glimpse of him at twenty-three, laughing at something on Hanjin’s phone with an arm thrown around Youngjae’s shoulders, and the first thought he has is, I look different. 

Not in the obvious ways– he doesn’t have that dark blonde hair from their second full album, and his fashion style’s changed over the years– but in a way harder to put a finger on. It’s in his eyes, Dohoon observes. The way he looks at the others. 

The way he looks at Youngjae. 

In front of Dohoon, the monitor flashes: a message that it’s time for “concert ment 4”, and they have three minutes and twelve seconds. Right on cue, Junghwan steps forward, their leader even now. “Thank you, our 42s, for coming tonight,” he starts, voice steady despite all the current circumstances. The crowd answers like they’ve always done so for seven years, as if they too have rehearsed this. 

Dohoon lets his gaze drift. 

Without meaning to, it lands on Youngjae. 

As always. 

Youngjae, who watches Junghwan intently, yet Dohoon gets the strange sense that he isn’t taking in Junghwan’s words, not really. Youngjae, whose expression is softer now, more sincere, less practiced. But there’s something off about it. Or maybe there isn’t. 

Maybe Dohoon is just imagining things. 

He’s been imagining a lot of things lately. 

Dohoon wonders if Youngjae’s ever thought back to the millions of chances they gave each other to try again and again, and wonders whether or not he regrets anything. 

Too soon, Junghwan wraps up his speech, giving the cue for them to start naturally finding their places for the next song. Dohoon moves to the center of the formation, tucking his left hand into his pocket as he looks down at the ground. 

The opening notes of “plot twist”– a keyboard line that cuts to synth and bass and drums– are enough to trigger a wave of cheers from the crowd. He can still remember the shock when it had risen to the top of the Melon charts, when they found out on Weverse Live that they’d won on The Show, when it had been playing everywhere at the start of 2024. An unprecedented hit, and their debut track, no less. 

And time had flown by– two years ago, they’d been all across the world, in Paris and Los Angeles and Tokyo and Manila and Chicago and more, in some scrambled order that Dohoon’s brain doesn’t recall that well, because it doesn't really matter anymore, does it? What he can remember is waiting backstage, the hum of a foreign crowd vibrating through some venue’s walls. Youngjae looking at him, smiling and laughing in a way Dohoon hasn’t seen much lately. 

“It’s crazy, right?” 

Dohoon had just nodded, grinning. “Yeah.”

He hadn’t known then. There was no way for him to have known, obviously. 

That everything that had begun back way would– end. 

It had been a Monday morning, two months ago, when the announcement had gone up on their Weverse. 

2031.8.18

Hello, this is Pledis Entertainment. 

We would like to express our sincere gratitude for 42s who have loved and supported TWS. 

The exclusive artist contract with TWS will expire this coming December 31. After multiple careful and lengthy discussions with the members of TWS regarding each member’s future and direction, we have come to an amicable conclusion to end the contract. 

We would like to thank the members of TWS who have worked hard over the past seven years in order to show their best side to 42s. TWS will conclude their group activities with the special release of a fan song and a final concert, for which more information will be announced in the coming weeks… 

Please continue to send TWS your unwavering love and support.

Thank you. 

Dohoon doesn’t even remember reading it the first time. 

He remembers the aftermath of it. 

Hanjin, ever attuned to their fans’ thoughts, had been the first to upload a handwritten letter to Weverse, filled with apologies and explanations that Dohoon knew was what they could say, not what they actually wanted to. Then Youngjae and Jihoon had written their own, and soon enough, Dohoon had found himself following suit. 

Now, he can barely recall fragments of what he really said– a mix of “thank you for being with us”, “I know this must be shocking and hard for our 42s”, maybe. Words that meant everything and nothing at the same time. 

It’s not that Dohoon isn’t infinitely grateful for the seven years he’s spent living out his lifelong dream, no. Rather, now that they’ve reached this ending that nobody quite understands that well, where are the words? What are the right words, even?

How can you apologize to millions of people who’ve loved you, despite never truly knowing you? 

Dohoon hadn’t known how to tell those people, their fans, that he’d be leaving– when he couldn’t even bring himself to apologize to the person who did truly know him. 

So he had logged into one of Jihoon’s many burner Twitter accounts, purely out of curiosity. Trending number one was “TWS disbandment”. Number two, “TWS”. Number six, “Pledis Entertainment”. 

faly ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱  @smileflawerr ᐧ 3h

this can’t be real??? they’re literally at their PEAK?? tell me this is a joke please 😭😭

fleur 🌸 @imjustasai ᐧ 3h

what do you mean FINAL CONCERT

hanni 🎀 @luxyujin ᐧ 54m

pledis when i catch you

Dohoon had scrolled for a bit, tossing his phone to the side in exhaustion. A part of him, inexplicably, began to miss back when the six of them lived in the same dorm, when he shared a room with Jihoon. Missed crashing on the living room couch after long days of choreography practice, settling down to watch dramas with Hanjin and Youngjae or ordering late-night tteokbokki and fried chicken with Junghwan. 

But now that they’d been split into two apartments– Kyungmin, Dohoon, and Youngjae in one; Jihoon, Junghwan, and Hanjin in the other– and all given solo rooms, the silence had suddenly transformed into something overwhelming. Beside him on the bed, his phone refused to stop vibrating: maybe concern from friends, or questions from coworkers he’d seen only once or twice. 

I need sleep, he’d thought. 

lala ⁴² @yuyaville ᐧ 42m

no but tell me why this is so suspicious timing… we all know that tws is doing so well domestically and internationally, and there’s literally no reason for them to disband. pledis is crazy for doing this to them 

✮⋆ ˙ lee ֶָ֢ @lyycheri replying to lala ⁴² @yuyaville ᐧ 37m

pledis is fucking crazy tho

— 

Back onstage, the music swells again. 

The crowd gets louder.

Everything is exactly as it has always been, as it should be. 

Dohoon moves through it all like he was made for it, like this is the only version of himself that has ever existed– the one under stage lights, in formation, who knows where to stand and when to smile. The one who knows how to sound like nothing’s wrong. 

He tilts his head to his left, knowing who’s standing there. It takes– a lot of effort, to not stop himself this time. 

Youngjae doesn’t seem to notice Dohoon’s gaze, too busy staring out at the crowd and wandering the perimeter of the stage, mic in hand. To Dohoon, he’s both close and far, real and unreachable. And although it seems impossible, the noise fades– not completely, but enough that Dohoon can hear that voice in his head again. 

Is this the end? 

Because it certainly doesn’t feel like one. This feels like they’ll wrap up their three days of concert peacefully, start preparations for a new album, and it’ll be those long hours spent in the practice room and vocal studios once more. And either Dohoon or Youngjae will inevitably ask the other, “Can I ask you something,” and it’ll be the summer of 2024 once more. 

But then again, Dohoon had never been good at recognizing endings while they’re happening. 

Only after, when he starts counting all the things that won’t happen again, not until the next beginning. 

The last song.

The last late-night talk sitting on Dohoon’s bed. 

The last time he stands beside Youngjae and doesn’t have to pretend things haven’t changed. 

The last time Youngjae told him, “I love you.” 

rara @hotbluejae ᐧ 12m

omg but did you guys see how much dohoon was staring at youngjae on day 2 🚬🚬

[video link] 

jihooniedohoonie 🌼🤍 @iluvtws42 replying to rara @hotbluejae ᐧ 8m

WHATTTT

⋆.˚ cube ✩˙⋆✮ @cubeflover42 replying to rara @hotbluejae ᐧ 1m

i just know they were in love once

Maybe that isn’t so far from the truth. 

— 

leaves and late-night talks – 2025.03.07 

March carries with it unborn cherry blossoms, chasing away February’s chilly winter wind. It’s not quite warm yet– the trees outside the company building are still barren, branches thin and reaching up for the sky. The air is cold in the mornings and warmer than it should be by the afternoon, like the season itself hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be yet. 

Inside, their practice room is too bright, too warm. “Let’s run that section again, from Jihoon’s part,” their choreographer calls out. “Junghwan, make sure you aren’t late when you come forward here. And raise your arms a little faster, Hanjin.” 

Youngjae stares at his reflection in the mirror, and he thinks, I look like shit. His brown hair is messy with sweat and the dark circles under his eyes certainly aren’t helping either, not to mention the way his shirt sticks to his back while he catches his breath. Tiredly, he reaches up to brush a few stray strands of hair off from his forehead. 

This is just what comeback season is– a stretch of time where days are nothing but repetition. Practice, dorm, car. Repeat. Sleep is an afterthought at best, a brief health concern at worst. He’s learned that much from his one year as an idol. 

The six of them are little more than blurs in the reflection of the mirror that stretches across the wall. Youngjae stands next to Kyungmin, and on the other side of Kyungmin is Dohoon, half-listening to their choreography teacher’s feedback while messing around with Jihoon casually, saying something under his breath that makes Jihoon’s eyes crinkle in his signature, joyful laugh. 

It shouldn’t matter, really. 

But Youngjae looks away anyway. 

“From Jihoon’s part, again,” their choreographer claps his hands twice to get their attention. They fall back into place like they’ve done this a hundred times already. 

Probably because they have. 

If Youngjae’s being honest, he and Dohoon haven’t talked, properly, since their first breakup. It’s hard to figure out when something ended if you never really know when it started in the first place, after all. 

They had tried, really. All throughout “Last Festival” promotions and year-end award shows, it had been the bare minimum– smiles on cue, standing shoulder to shoulder, nothing beyond the manufactured “behind-the-scenes” content. Their mutual silence could be easily explained by the exhaustion and busy schedules. And yet, Youngjae can still remember early January, when their PR manager had called them into one of the company offices. 

“You two look awkward on camera,” she’d said, shrugging. “Fans are perceptive.” 

That’s one way to put it. 

Dohoon had looked over at him curiously, and Youngjae had restrained the urge to say that it’s hard to pretend you’re on good terms with a guy you broke up with three months ago and didn’t move on from. 

Their choreography teacher’s count-off brings Youngjae back into the present, and he forces himself to stop thinking about the past. Nevertheless, he misses a beat in the next runthrough and when they inevitably stop again, Dohoon corrects him. “You’re a bit early there,” he says quietly, gesturing to demonstrate the correct motion. 

Their eyes meet. 

“Got it,” Youngjae just nods along to the feedback before they run the part again, because he’s not quite sure what else to do. 

Then they’re in the car back to the dorms at 3 am. The city is at its quietest at this hour– no subways, little traffic, streetlights taking their break from illuminating the world. Youngjae drifts in and out of sleep as he stares out the windows, Kyungmin asks everyone what they want for snacks (to which no one replies), Hanjin has his AirPods in while he and Jihoon review the choreo they’d just worked on, and Junghwan scrolls on his phone. Dohoon, who just happens to be sitting next to Youngjae in the back, is unusually quiet. 

Breaking up, Youngjae thinks, watching the city pass by, is a strange feeling. Not even in the act itself– but in everything that follows. The way that nothing really changes, and yet everything does. In the end, you’re still sitting next to each other in the same car, going to the same place, living the same life. 

But something’s missing.

Is it normal, to continue to long for someone when you’ve already promised to let them go? 

Perhaps the right question would be if he still loves Dohoon. 

But they had already come to a peaceful agreement, that they'd be better off not together. There had been no drama, no shouting matches– not even tears shed or pleas that “we can make this work”. Because it wouldn’t. Blame their careers or the timing, the world that they live in, or maybe the rules that go unspoken but society expects them to adhere to. 

It had made sense.

It still does, to Youngjae. 

That doesn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. Because there are things you don’t think about losing until they’re not there anymore. 

There would be no more nighttime talks while sitting behind the curtain of Youngjae’s bed; no more gentle kisses pressed to each others’ lips when nobody else was home; no more hearing Dohoon say “I love you” like he truly meant it, like it wasn’t something fragile. No more letting himself just laugh and melt into the comfort of having someone be there, regardless of whatever shit was going on in the world. They had tried– really tried– to leave, all while convincing themselves that it would be fine. 

Outside, a gust of wind whispers against the car, rattling the branches of trees. 

The leaves had already fallen months ago. 

Nobody– Youngjae included– had noticed when the last ones did, though. 

Soon enough, their car pulls into the parking lot beneath their dorms, and everyone files out of the car, one by one: Junghwan complains that his legs hurt, Jihoon’s already busy on Weverse while Kyungmin prevents him from walking into a concrete pillar. Youngjae is the last one out, sliding the door shut behind him. 

“Hey.”

Dohoon’s voice, from somewhere off to his left side. 

“Youngjae.”

Youngjae turns. 

“Can–” Dohoon hesitates. “Could I talk to you tonight?” 

There’s something off about the way he says it. 

“Yeah, sure, what is it?” Youngjae replies. He’s not expecting much– maybe an offer to join him and Hanjin for their regular takeout and movie nights, or something else. It could be anything, really. 

“I just… wanted to ask you something.” 

Dohoon’s room hasn’t changed a bit, Youngjae observes as he takes a seat on his bed. He’s trying hard not to think of how familiar this had been, once– how natural it was to exist in this space, like it was where they belonged. Jihoon, Dohoon’s roommate, is thankfully out in the kitchen eating mala-tang with Hanjin, leaving the two of them alone. Youngjae can still hear his muffled laughter from under the door. 

It feels– almost too normal.

“I mean, I know this is gonna sound so sudden, but like–” Dohoon starts, then abruptly stops. “I just wanted to say sorry.” 

“For what?” Youngjae asks, tilting his head slightly. “You haven’t done anything–“ 

“I– I told you that I’d let you go,” sighs Dohoon. “And… and I lied.”

Silence settles between them. 

“Because I haven’t,” Dohoon continues, hands restlessly fidgeting with the hem of his T-shirt– one that Youngjae had bought for him when they were in Japan, sometime ago. A long time ago. “And I know that we said we would, that it was all a bad idea, but– I can’t. Because I don’t know how.” 

He takes a shaky deep breath in, shoulders lifting in a helpless shrug. “So I just wanted to say that. I guess.”

And no matter how much Youngjae sits there and waits for the guilt, the regret, the voice telling him that this is a mistake, what comes instead is… relief. 

Relief, coursing through his mind and body; he hasn’t been alone in his loneliness. That just as he’s quietly longed, yearned to have Dohoon back, Dohoon has felt the same way. It’s sharp, and immediate, and undeniable, and Youngjae both loves and hates it. 

Would that make it alright, to want him again? To want them back? If Youngjae could ask one question to the universe right now, he’d ask for the guidelines for falling in love with your groupmate, one of the people you know you shouldn’t be able to have, but want anyway. Perhaps what everyone says about wanting what’s forbidden is true. 

It’s not until he hears Dohoon clear his throat that Youngjae realizes he’s been sitting there, silently, for far too long. “I–“ he begins, voice scratchy.  

“You don‘t have to say you‘ve felt the same way if you haven’t,” Dohoon cuts in. “It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not that. What you said about–” 

“You know, maybe you should forget that I said any of that,” offers Dohoon quickly, interrupting Youngjae once again. “You were always better at this stuff, you know? Feelings and things like that–” 

”Dohoon-ah.” 

Dohoon stops, looks over at him intently. 

“Will you just let me finish speaking?“ Youngjae asks. “Please?”

That shuts him up, enough to let Youngjae say what he’s desperately wanted to for two months. “What I’m trying to tell you is that, I know how you feel.”

He swallows.

Saying it out loud makes it real in a way that thinking about it doesn’t.

“Because… I feel the same way, Dohoon-ah.”

There. Out in the open now. It’s a leap of faith, hopefully one where he lands on his feet.

“How– how am I supposed to let you go?” Youngjae adds, softer. “How do I forget about us?”  

He doesn’t have a good answer, and neither does Dohoon. Maybe that’s their issue, why they end up inevitably here and will continue to. 

Or maybe Youngjae’s judgement is flawed because it’s three in the morning and they have to be up again at six, or because they never properly broke up and resolved their feelings and figured out how to let the other go. But regardless, in this hour where nothing quite feels that real, Youngjae finds himself asking, “Do you– want to try again?” 

“Us?” Dohoon answers, to which Youngjae nods slowly. He laughs, breathless and a bit disbelieving. “God, Youngjae,” he adds. “I don’t think you know how much I’ve missed you.” 

I do, Youngjae thinks; he just doesn’t say it. Aloud, he offers, “Let’s do things right. This time.” 

Even so, if Youngjae’s being honest, he still can’t tell what went wrong the first time. 

With a soft smile, Dohoon leans in like he’s done this a hundred times before– because he has– and Youngjae meets him halfway without much thought; his body remembers what his mind has been trying to forget. 

It’s gentle, and careful, and familiar to the point that if Youngjae let it, it could be muscle memory. 

Dohoon’s lips are warm, and just a little bit chapped as he kisses Youngjae gently, light enough that it doesn’t feel like it has to mean anything and yet real enough that it does mean something. One of his hands hovers before settling at Youngjae’s hip, while Youngjae lets himself indulge in those suppressed feelings that he’s hopelessly missed for months. His fingers find the back of Dohoon’s neck instinctively, threading into the hair there while he tilts his head slightly. 

Here in Dohoon’s room, sitting on Dohoon’s bed, and kissing Dohoon, Youngjae could forget about their schedules. It would be all too easy to leave behind the expectations placed on them, or the reality that they shouldn’t be doing this.

That’s the problem. 

Because it’s easy. 

Like they never stopped, or tried to stop– what’s the difference, really; like the last three months of silence and orbiting each other and barely-concealed desperation and longing never happened in the first place. Like Youngjae had never said, “this isn’t going to work”, and Dohoon had agreed all too readily. 

It would be so easy, he thinks, to believe this is enough. 

That this is something they can keep.

That this time will be different.

But he’s already been here before.

Nevertheless, later that night, Youngjae unhides old photos and videos from his camera roll, updates Dohoon’s contact on Kakao to add a heart back next to his name, sits on his bed and thinks. His fingers land on a picture of him and Dohoon from SN promotions, standing together on the street and forming a heart between the two of them. Full, green trees surround them, blooming brightly in the summer weather: and not so unlike them, either. 

Perhaps it would’ve been nice to know that this would become a never-ending cycle– they’d part ways and promise “this time, we’re letting go” and “we’ll end things here”, and it would be like that for a while, until it got too unbearable. Until one of them gave in and had to run back to the other with apologies that they’d broken their end of the deal. It didn’t matter who or when or where, so long as the conversation ended with a “let’s try again, and this time, we’ll do it right.”

And yet they never could. Because there would never be a version that worked, never a way to love each other that wouldn’t lead back to where they started.

In the present, Youngjae locks his phone and sets it down beside him, staring up at the ceiling. Then he picks it up again, fingers hovering over a different wallpaper– the one of them. 

He taps on it. 

Let’s do it right this time. 

—

limbo – 2033.01.22

Winter, Dohoon has realized, feels different when you have nowhere in particular to be. 

Not the cold itself, although the weather has hit its annual low, dragging along chilly winds and the occasional snow flurry. But there’s a strange absence of urgency for him, even amidst the hustle of people– no early call times, no vans waiting outside, no manager shaking a sleep-deprived Dohoon awake at 4 in the morning to tell him that they have to be at Music Bank in two hours. 

Just… a lot of time. Too much of it. 

Which is weird, since Dohoon should have gotten used to it in the last two years. 

Outside the passenger window, Seoul is a haze of whites and grays blurring together, tiny flakes of snow landing on the glass faster than the windshield wipers of Jihoon’s car can erase them. Speaking of Jihoon, Dohoon watches him hum softly while bringing the car to a stop at a red light, reaching over to turn the speakers up a few clicks. 

“You’re quiet today,” he points out, not looking over at Dohoon. 

“I’m always quiet,” Dohoon replies.

Jihoon snorts, flicking at a piece of dust on the dashboard. “That’s a lie and we both know it.” 

Shrugging, Dohoon rests an elbow on the passenger-side door, choosing to instead stare at his reflection in the window. In his lap, his phone buzzes weakly a few times– notifications he hasn’t checked and probably won’t look at until tonight, the screen lighting up in an attempt to grab his attention. 

He looks… fine, Dohoon supposes as he watches himself. Put together enough that Kyungmin or Junghwan won’t question what he’s been up to lately, but not so put together that they already know. Unlike some people, his mind offers pointedly.

“How’ve you been, hyung?” Jihoon’s voice pulls Dohoon from his thoughts. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Go figure. Jihoon always asks anyway. 

“You know,” Dohoon hums noncommittally. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That,” says Jihoon, lifting one hand off the steering wheel to gesture vaguely. “The whole ‘I’m fine’ thing. It’s annoying.”

“I am fine.”

Jihoon glances over at him briefly, before turning his gaze back to the road. Ahead of them, some motorcycle driver rudely cuts in front of Jihoon, eliciting a set of muttered, half-hearted curses from him. Dohoon does his best not to crack a smile, instead offering a, “I’ve just been busy.” When Jihoon doesn’t reply, Dohoon goes on. “That drama filming wrapped up late, you know, and then I was recording for–” 

“You didn’t like that drama, though.” 

It’s not a question.

Dohoon pauses. “…It was okay.”

“And that means you actually hated it,” Jihoon lets out a quiet laugh. “I know you better than that, hyung.”

“I didn’t hate it,” protests Dohoon, sitting up.

“You said the script made no sense.”

“Because it didn’t!”

“And you said the director–”

“Okay,” Dohoon cuts in, maybe a little sharper than he intends. “It wasn’t that great. Whatever.”

Looking over at him, Jihoon asks, “Then why’d you do it?”

Dohoon doesn’t answer right away, mulling over the question in his mind for a few, brief heartbeats. “I don’t know,” he says finally, with a tired shrug. “No choice, I guess.” 

That, at least, is honest.

Not all of us can afford to pick and choose our projects, Jihoon-ah. 

Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

He doesn’t really know.

Not what he’s doing, or where he’s going, or whether he’s supposed to be standing onstage or in front of a camera or maybe somewhere else entirely. Music, at the very least, had been something he used to be. Acting is a change he hasn’t quite settled into yet. 

For Dohoon, everything seems to be stuck in some awkward limbo state, unfinished and unsettled. 

Maybe he’s just letting it bother him too much. 

But, honestly, he does despise the way that everyone else appears to have moved on, settling into new careers and lives and ambitions like disbandment had been nothing but a simple change of plans, as easy as rescheduling a filming session or recording. Dohoon had sat by and watched as the six of them drifted apart, figuring everything out so easily. 

Jihoon, with his personal dance studio and his classes always booked out, name credited as a choreographer for a seemingly never-ending stream of idol groups. Kyungmin, who’d disappeared for a year before returning with a YouTube channel and new solo songs, like he’d never gone anywhere in the first place. Hanjin, with his Instagram and Tiktok and Douyin and YouTube, face plastered all over brand deals with a perfect, effortless smile. Even Junghwan, transitioning into acting like everyone had expected him to, stepping into bigger roles each year even if he still occasionally joked about being typecast.  

Arguably, the person that had hurt most to watch had been Youngjae; it would always be. Dohoon can remember reading the articles as they came out, seeing Youngjae’s name all over the news and weekly chart recaps and social media. 

tws charts & updates @twsupdates42 ᐧ Jan 15

Bugs Chart 2033.01.15 – OST 

1 ( - ) 다시 만날 그때 - 최영재 

1 ( - ) When We Meet Again - Choi Youngjae

Circle Chart 2033 Week 3 – Digital Chart 

7 (⭡4)  다시 만날 그때 - 최영재

7 (⭡4) When We Meet Again - Choi Youngjae

Their group chat had been all over the place, Dohoon vaguely recalls. Something about Jihoon spamming a mass of screenshots of Youngjae’s latest OST charting, Kyungmin and Junghwan sending short congratulatory messages, Hanjin posting the soundtrack to his Instagram story. 

It’s not like this was a new occurrence, either. Youngjae had been the first of the six of them to start releasing solo music, mostly through drama soundtracks and one full-length album that Dohoon probably still has a copy of lying around, somewhere in his apartment. And it hadn’t been too much of a surprise that he’d done well on the charts, even if it was a welcome one. 

The most put together of them, Dohoon would say now. 

Even if he’s reluctant to admit it, he’s watched videos of the five others, read through interviews and magazine features, all in the hopes of seeing a bit of a crack. Some kind of sign that meant no, they hadn’t completely moved on from their group’s unfortunate disbandment. They too missed being TWS, missed being part of one of the most popular boy groups in Korea, missed singing and dancing and just existing beside the others always– right? 

Maybe Dohoon wanted some bit of validation that he wasn’t so alone in how he felt.

“Dohoon-hyung,” Jihoon calls him softly. “We’re here.” 

Dohoon gives him a little smile, opens the door on his side, and steps out, stretching his back while Jihoon locks the car. 

They walk toward the entrance of the apartment building, snowflakes fluttering down in the January wind. “You nervous?” asks Jihoon lightly, glancing over at him. 

“No.”

A beat of silence.

“…Maybe.”

“It’s just dinner, hyung,” Jihoon tells him. “We’re not going on stage or anything like that.”

Dohoon lets out a quiet breath. “I know.”

Kyungmin’s apartment is warm when he lets Jihoon and Dohoon in, practically flinging the door open the instant Jihoon rings the doorbell. “Hyungs!” he beams, grabbing Jihoon first, then Dohoon, pulling them both into a quick, clumsy, characteristically-Kyungmin hug. “You’re late.” 

“We’re not late,” Jihoon protests. “You said seven.” 

“And it’s 7:12.”

“That’s basically seven,” Jihoon says; Dohoon takes a peek around once Kyungmin lets him go– glancing at the soft lighting, the speakers in the living room playing some of their old songs quietly, the jacket that he’d seen on Hanjin’s Instagram a week earlier thrown over the couch carelessly. 

It also smells like food.

Real food. Not takeout boxes stacked on top of each other at two in the morning (Jihoon had always blamed Junghwan, the resident foodie, even if it was probably a collective fault), or something eaten quickly between schedules where they had to remind a seventeen-year-old Kyungmin to not spill food on his stage outfit.

“Come on in, come in,” Kyungmin waves them on in, already turning back as he does so. “Hanjin-hyung’s been here for like an hour– he keeps eating everything.” 

“I can hear you!” Hanjin’s voice drifts over from somewhere in the kitchen. 

“Good,” Kyungmin shoots back. “You were supposed to.”

I miss this, a part of Dohoon’s brain goes, quietly. The almost-instant familiarity of it all– shoes kicked off at the door, jackets piled on top of each other, voices he’d spent tens of thousands of hours listening to and arguing with over the stupidest things and singing alongside. 

For a few seconds, Dohoon could forget all about the last two years of nothing as he stands there. 

“Dohoon-hyung!” Hanjin appears from the kitchen area, arms open already in preparation to embrace him. “You came,” he says– like there was ever a doubt.

“Of course I did,” Dohoon replies.

“I think Shinyu-hyung’s a few minutes away– at least that’s what he said,” Jihoon looks up from his phone while Hanjin reluctantly releases Dohoon from his hug. “And Youngjae–”

“Is coming back from the airport,” Kyungmin finishes, half-yawning. “And will be late. For the first time in his life, probably.” 

“That’s not true,” says Jihoon immediately, because of course he remembers everything Youngjae-related. “Remember that time when we were in LA a few years back and he didn’t show up for the concert rehearsal and we all thought he died–” 

“I didn’t think he literally died?” Kyungmin jumps in indignantly. “You’re exaggerating.”

“And you literally cried.”

“I did not–!”

Right. 

Dohoon remembers: fall of 2029, sometime in the midst of their second world tour, when Youngjae had pulled him aside right after their concert in Toronto and confessed that he couldn’t do things anymore. We should break up again, he’d meant. That fragile balance, that limbo, had never lasted long for Dohoon and Youngjae anyway– a month? Two? Four, if they were lucky? 

For some reason, that particular breakup had made Dohoon strangely angry at the time– he has a vague memory of sneaking out of their hotel a few weeks later, when they were in LA, to buy himself some cheap beers from a nearby convenience store. Junghwan, his roommate at the time, had been hanging out in Jihoon and Hanjin’s hotel room, playing minigames on Jihoon’s Nintendo, leaving a bored and rather annoyed Dohoon all alone. 

That was, until Youngjae had knocked on his door, asking to try again, promising that this time they could make it all right. 

And how could Dohoon say no? He, too, wanted Youngjae back; he too hated the month-long intervals of breakup and silence that had become inevitable over the past few years of dating-not-dating. So on a whim, Dohoon let him in, let Youngjae talk to him over a few drinks while time ticked by mindlessly, and before either of them knew it, they were back together with that stupid promise. 

Youngjae had kissed him then, tasting vaguely of alcohol and the sweetness of reunion, and Dohoon had asked himself, How bad could it be?

They were just repeating words they’d said to the other countless times, after all. Promising things they already knew they couldn’t keep, and yet somewhere between one moment and the next– 

That invisible boundary between being together and not was crossed yet again. 

This time, it’ll be different. 

And maybe, a slightly younger Dohoon had been a little more foolish, a little more hopeful that things might just work out. 

Of course, Dohoon now knows that would have never been true. It was obvious– that it was never meant to last. Not because their feelings weren’t real or that they had never truly loved the other, no. Rather, it wasn’t going to last because their feelings were real, because they loved the other. Because it was far too easy to return to, like gravity pulling them to the ground– inescapable, no matter how hard they tried. 

“Hyung?” 

Kyungmin’s voice pulls Dohoon back to the present. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Dohoon blinks. “Just– thinking.” 

“That’s dangerous for you,” mutters Jihoon under his breath, reaching for another piece of tteokbokki. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

Laughter, easy and instant, follows. It almost feels natural again, to joke around with them, like those two years spent apart had vaporized in the warmth of Kyungmin’s apartment and the memories that come flooding back as Dohoon watches each of his former members. 

Not long after, Junghwan arrives, shaking off snow from his expensive coat and joining in as if he hadn’t been late at all. The conversations flow easily– filming schedules, Jihoon’s choreography work and studio classes, brand deals and endorsements, small complaints about things that don’t really matter but are easy to talk about anyway. 

Dohoon listens. 

And nods. 

And tries not to count all the ways he doesn’t fit in. 

Somewhere between Kyungmin ordering a second round of delivery chicken and Jihoon refilling everyone’s glasses, Junghwan talks about a new script he just got offered– “second lead again, though, but I think he dies at the end, so I guess it’s different?”– and they all laugh, because of course Junghwan says it like it’s a joke instead of something that bothers him more than he lets on. 

“You’re always telling me about these second lead characters,” Jihoon points out. “And then you call me at 3 am crying over stupid YouTube comments.” 

“That was one time–” Junghwan starts, raising his hands in protest. 

“Yeah, two weeks ago,” adds Jihoon with a snort. “That drama came out, like, a good three months ago.” 

Kyungmin shakes his head, gesturing for Hanjin to pass over the dirty dishes. “We are not doing this again, Jihoon-hyung.” 

“Still doing acting stuff, Dohoon-hyung?” Hanjin asks, handing Kyungmin the stack of plates.

Dohoon looks up. “Yeah. Kind of.”

“And what does ‘kind of’ entail?” adds Jihoon, tapping his chopsticks on the table mindlessly. 

“I did a project, I guess,” Dohoon replies, shrugging. “And I might do another one.” 

“Well, you sound like you hated both already,” Hanjin jokes. 

“I haven’t even started the second one yet!” 

“Exactly.” 

They all laugh again, and Dohoon lets himself smile. Just enough. 

“I mean,” Kyungmin offers, “you were good, though. I watched it.” 

“Yeah?” Dohoon glances over at him briefly. 

“Yeah. I mean, some of the writing was… questionable, you know,” admits Kyungmin. “But you were good.” 

“And that’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me that it sucked,” Dohoon quips. 

“I’m serious!”

“Yeah, we know,” Jihoon cuts in. “You know, he told me that he was going to do a reaction series on his YouTube.” 

“Why didn’t you?” asks Junghwan.

Kyungmin shrugs lightly. “Just–”

“Cause he wouldn’t have found anything to compliment,” jokes Jihoon. “Other than Dohoon-hyung’s face.”

“Excuse me? I’m very good at commentary,” Kyungmin shoots back. 

“You been doing any music lately?” Junghwan leans over to ask Dohoon quietly, while Jihoon and Kyungmin launch into their own argument over Kyungmin’s YouTube channel.

Dohoon hesitates. “Sometimes,” he responds. “Haven’t really finished writing anything, though. It’ll probably be a while until I like it, though.” 

Nodding, Junghwan reaches for his drink. “Sometimes you’re hardest on your own work, you know?” 

“Yeah,” sighs Dohoon. “I’ve just been… busy.” 

“With what?” Jihoon jumps in. 

Dohoon opens his mouth to speak. 

Then closes it. 

He doesn’t really have a great answer, if he thinks about it.

Thankfully, Hanjin jumps in, starting a story about the time he got mobbed in the airport on his way back to China while Kyungmin stands up to somewhat clear off the rest of the table for the second round of delivery; Dohoon leans back slightly and lets the noise wash over him. 

It should feel comfortable– isn’t this where he belongs? 

It is. 

And it isn’t.

Because no matter how hard Dohoon tries, there will always be that layer of distance. He knows these voices better than he knows his own, knows the way they live and speak and take their coffee in the mornings.  

But then Dohoon watches them talk, the way they’ve all settled into their lives like it was always meant to be like this in the end– Jihoon, animated even when he’s sitting still with his signature sunny smile; Kyungmin moving in and out of the kitchen while chiming into jokes naturally; Hanjin with his phone camera ready to document the perfect moment; Junghwan leaning back in his chair as he takes a sip of his water, more relaxed than Dohoon remembers seeing him before. 

Everyone looks like they’ve reached some new chapter in life and stepped into it without hesitation, without an ounce of doubt.

Except for Dohoon, of course. 

I don’t even know when all of that happened.

Had it been the final day, when they’d moved out of their two dorms once and for all? Had it been standing onstage for their final concert, waving goodbye to thousands and thousands of fans, singing all together for the last time? Or had it been sometime much earlier, and Dohoon was just the only one to not notice? 

Inexplicably, Dohoon is reminded of his countless breakups with Youngjae– how he never knew when it was coming to an end, only that it was over whenever they told each other, “I can’t do this anymore”. Not even, “I don’t love you”, but “I can’t do this”. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. 

[tws introvert club (6)]

Kyungmin: r u coming youngjae-hyung

Junghwan: kyungmin he’s literally here [sent a location]

Kyungmin: oh

Hanjin: LOL

Jihoon: kyungmin lock in 💔

Kyungmin: try having a han jihoon at ur apartment for more than 4 hours

Jihoon: ???? wtf does that mean

Dohoon locks his phone, sets it down, and looks away. 

“You okay?” Jihoon materializes somewhere beside him, having apparently left his mini argument with Kyungmin in the group chat in favor of taking a seat beside Dohoon. 

“Yeah,” sighs Dohoon, gaze drifting to the darkened city skyline beyond the window. 

“You sure?” 

“Yup.”

Jihoon studies him for a second, tilting his head curiously, but he doesn’t push. 

Then the doorbell rings. 

“I’ll get it!” shouts Junghwan. 

Really, Youngjae showing up shouldn’t mean anything beyond the fact that the six of them are finally reuniting for the first time in two years. It should be a happy occasion– and it is. 

Is it? 

Dohoon turns his head away from watching Junghwan unlock the front door. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Youngjae’s voice calls out. “The airport was kind of hell.”

“Youngjae-hyung!” Both Jihoon and Hanjin are at the door quickly, probably pulling Youngjae into a hug. 

Dohoon stares down at the condensation forming on his glass of soda. At the table. At anything else, really. 

Anything, but the man with whom he’s been in love with for nine years, the man who Dohoon met at fifteen, who he dated and broke up who-knows-how-many-times, who he somehow never really fell out of love with. 

“Dohoon-ah.” 

Even though he shouldn’t– Dohoon looks up, cursing his almost-instant reaction time. 

And there he is.

There’s a dusting of snowflakes in his dark hair that Dohoon guesses Hanjin didn’t brush away fully, resting atop neatly styled bangs. His features are a little sharper, more defined than they’d been in their early twenties, but that’s to be expected with Youngjae’s increasingly busy schedules and traveling and everything else he’s been up to. 

He looks like someone who knows what they’re doing. 

“Hey, Youngjae,” Dohoon says. 

It’s just two words, really. Or one word and a name; same difference, he supposes. 

“Hey,” replies Youngjae, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach as far as it used to. Doesn’t react as far as when they were– whatever they were. Dating? In love? 

Happier?

There’s a brief pause as they watch each other– and in that pause, Dohoon is suddenly, vividly, re-living every version of this that they'd lived through before. The almosts and nots and hesitation and space between together and not-together and kind-of-together. It used to be filled with something: longing, perhaps, or at times want. 

But now, it’s just empty. 

“You look good,” Youngjae tells him. 

“So do you.” 

They both nod slightly, like they have some need to acknowledge the other’s presence. 

“Come sit,” Kyungmin, thank him, interrupts, grabbing Youngjae by the arm and pulling him into a chair beside Hanjin and across from Junghwan. “We were talking about you earlier.”

“Only good things, I hope.” 

“Obviously not,” smiles Jihoon, eyes crinkling. 

Youngjae laughs.

And god, it sounds– so similar, even if Dohoon wishes it didn’t. 

Or maybe he wishes it did. He can’t really tell. 

“What took you so long?” Junghwan asks Youngjae, already piling food onto his plate before Youngjae can protest. 

“You’re never late,” Jihoon cuts in. 

“Flight got delayed,” sighs Youngjae, running a hand through his hair. “And then the airport was a mess, and then there was traffic on top of all of that.” 

“Hey, at least you made it,” Kyungmin says. “And before we ate all the food, too.”

“I’m surprised,” Youngjae jokes.

Dohoon watches him as he talks. The way he fits back into this space like he’d always been there, forever, like he never left for even a moment. Like none of them did. 

And just for a second, Dohoon thinks, maybe I should have paid more attention, back then. 

To this. 

To them, instead of– 

Instead of what?

It’s pointless; Dohoon knows. 

Instead of being always being caught somewhere in-between: between staying and leaving, between holding on and letting go, between love and heartbreak, between Youngjae and– 

Youngjae and everything else. 

Because now, Dohoon sits here, surrounded by people he’s known for over ten years, who he’s spent more of his life with than anyone else, who he wouldn’t hesitate to call family, and yet he feels it. 

That same sense of incompleteness that rises up whenever he reads a text in the group chat about the latest update or some new filming schedule or awards or whatever it is, as long as it isn’t Dohoon’s. Call him selfish, but is it really hard to blame him when they all seem so content to move forward and leave Dohoon behind?  

Really, Dohoon regrets not treasuring that time when he had it– those countless hours spent beside everyone else in the practice rooms and dorms and company building and whatever other shared spaces there were, once. Maybe if he had only appreciated it while it lasted, things wouldn’t feel so… incomplete now. 

Across the table, Youngjae laughs at something Hanjin says lightly, and Dohoon looks down at his hands.

He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything anymore. That whatever they had– ended. 

A long time ago.

And yet, Dohoon can’t really tell if things ended once and for all, or if they never really began in the first place. 

—

love lasts one moment – 2026.04.09

“Let’s break up, Dohoon-ah.” 

Youngjae practices the words under his breath as he stares at his reflection in the company building’s third-floor bathroom, hands resting on the counter for support. They’re on a brief dance practice break, everyone having scattered to catch their breath before resuming the choreography lesson. 

I can’t do this anymore, Youngjae thinks to himself. 

It’s not even that he doesn’t love Dohoon anymore, not that his feelings have changed. But Youngjae has always believed there’s a time and place for everything, a right occasion to meet someone, and he can’t pretend that things haven’t been falling apart for the past week. Maybe it’s the stress of their upcoming promotions, or it might be the slow realization that this is wrong, it’s not going to last. 

It just seems like with one push, all of it could come crashing down. 

The bathroom door creaks open behind Youngjae; it’s Dohoon, peering in. “Oh, you’re here, Youngjae-yah,” he says lightly. “We’re starting in five.” 

Youngjae nods; Dohoon hovers in the doorway for a few seconds before stepping inside. “You good?” he asks, hand coming up to carefully brush Youngjae’s sweaty hair off his forehead.

“Just… tired,” Youngjae shrugs.

Dohoon hums in response, wrapping an arm around his waist as he pulls Youngjae into a hug, one that Youngjae can’t help but melt into all too easily. “You can always tell me anything,” he murmurs, breath hot against Youngjae’s ear. “You know that, right?” 

And god, it’s too hard for Youngjae to act like he knows what’s good for him, while his heart longs for something else. It’s too hard to retreat away from Dohoon’s embrace and tell him that they have to end things because it’s “for their own good”, as idols, as best friends, as something more than that. 

So they remain like that for some time, Youngjae with his head buried in Dohoon’s shoulder and Dohoon’s hands holding him steady in place. “Are you worried about the comeback?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah,” sighs Youngjae. “And–”

Then in a heartbeat, Dohoon is pulling back from the hug, all so he can reach up with one hand to gently raise Youngjae’s head off his shoulder and kiss him suddenly. Youngjae startles for a brief moment before kissing back, bringing a hand to Dohoon’s waist so he can draw him in closer, as if nothing could ever get between them. The soft sound of surprise Dohoon makes against him as Youngjae tilts his head to deepen the kiss, tongue slipping inside Dohoon’s mouth, is nothing short of perfect; it’s like tasting heaven. 

How could he tell Dohoon that he wants to end things, when Youngjae doesn’t even want to? 

Ever since the last time they broke up and got back together, Youngjae had grappled with the idea of whether or not he truly loved Dohoon. It had been so easy to tell himself that he didn’t– that was the easy answer, but that was also a lie. 

Too soon, Dohoon breaks the kiss, a thin line of saliva trailing from his lower lip. Youngjae reaches up to brush it away, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. Blinking, Dohoon meets his gaze steadily– even if his cheeks are flushed pink from the heat of the moment. “We should go back,” Youngjae tells him quietly. 

“Yeah,” agrees Dohoon, but his eyes don’t leave Youngjae. “We should.” 

And then Youngjae is leaning in again to kiss him, just one last time. It’s more desperate this time, hotter and faster, but there’s no rush in the way that Dohoon’s hand comes up to the back of his neck– bringing him even closer, as if to swallow Youngjae’s existence whole and leave nothing behind. 

There’s a loud knock at the bathroom door; the two of them spring apart as Jihoon pokes his head in. “Thought you’d be in here,” he sighs.

“What does that even mean?” Dohoon protests. 

“Whatever,” replies Jihoon with a casual shrug. “Anyways. Shinyu-hyung says we’re starting now.” 

Dohoon turns to Youngjae, giving him a small smile as he takes his hand gently. It’s so damn unfair, to be able to have this, and to know that it will inevitably all have to come to an end. 

They break up between the dorms and the company building, somewhere in the time where there is too much room for Youngjae’s thoughts and not enough for them to exist. It’s a week before they’re slated to have their comeback– a perfectly inconvenient time for both of them to suddenly grow distant. 

Jihoon, as always, is the first one to notice the space. Youngjae watches the way he trails Dohoon back to their dorm room, hand wrapped around Dohoon’s shoulder in a comforting motion. 

It’s been no secret to their members, even if Dohoon and Youngjae hadn’t said a word aloud about their relationship and the countless breakups and confessions. But it still hurts, when Jihoon glances back at a silent Youngjae sitting at the kitchen table, head tilted in a simple question– why? 

Youngjae, too, wishes he knew the answer to that.

Tonight, there’s no slipping into Dohoon’s room quietly while Jihoon’s in the shower to give him a slow, gentle kiss; no long conversation on the living room couch until it’s past 3; nothing but a faint emptiness in Youngjae’s chest. He’s already taken the heart out of Dohoon’s contact name, changed his phone wallpaper back– but it’s not those little things that could ever make him feel like it’s all over. 

Not when Youngjae watches an old clip of Dohoon talking about how “Youngjae opened his heart to me” from a live less than a month ago, and Youngjae’s breath hitches as he remembers that day that he’d kissed Dohoon in the darkness of his bedroom. Remembers leaning into him as he slid his hands under Dohoon’s shirt, holding him by the waist as Dohoon wrapped his arms around Youngjae. Remembers, the way Dohoon had gasped into another kiss when Youngjae had said, “I’m so in love with you that I don’t know what to do”, and meant it with all of his heart. 

Would he have acted differently, if he’d known they’d break up three days later? 

Youngjae lets out a long sigh, standing up as he makes his way to him and Junghwan’s shared room, running a hand through his messy hair. Inside, Junghwan is lying in bed, face illuminated by the dim light of his phone. “Gonna sleep now?” he asks, voice rough with exhaustion. 

“Probably,” Youngjae replies as he settles into his own bed, his weary body practically melting in. But as tired as he is, sleep doesn’t come easily; it never has in the nights Dohoon isn’t right beside him. 

Junghwan hums noncommittally, and before he knows it, Youngjae blurts out, “Hyung. Can I ask you something?” 

“Yeah, what is it?” responds Junghwan, looking up from his phone. 

“Have– have you ever been in love?” 

In the dark silence, Youngjae can barely make out Junghwan blinking, obviously trying to figure out where such a question could have possibly come from. Then: “Of course, Youngjae,” he says lightly. “I’ve been in love many times before.”

“And what did you… do about those feelings?” What should I do, is the unspoken question in Youngjae’s voice. 

“Nothing much?” says Junghwan. Before Youngjae can ask anything, he continues. “Because for me, Youngjae, love doesn’t have to always be a romantic thing. I can say that I’ve been in love with, like, a middle school crush, sure. But I can also say I love the way the sun paints the sky orange when it sets, or a good late-night dinner after dance practice, or… just being able to have you guys.”

“That’s not the same thing, though,” argues Youngjae. “It’s different. It feels different.” 

“What makes it feel different to you?” Junghwan asks, phone long abandoned beside him on the bed. 

Youngjae sighs. “It’s just– it’s not the same thing with him, as it is with anything else.” Leaning his head back on his pillow, he adds, “I feel like I shouldn’t love him, and I don’t– but I do. It feels so wrong and right at the same time.” 

“Wrong to be with him, or–”

“I don’t know, hyung,” Youngjae admits softly. “It feels wrong to say that I love him, but it feels even worse when he isn’t there.” He lays there in the silence, thinking for a few seconds longer. “I think… I just don’t know how to make it last. Even if it feels like it should.” 

There’s a couple moments of silence, almost long enough for Youngjae to worry that Junghwan no longer has anything to say, before Junghwan suddenly speaks again. “I think that’s because,” he slowly offers, “beautiful things are temporary, Youngjae. But they’re beautiful, because they don’t last, because they’re temporary. We don’t say that we’re thankful for things that are always there, not until they’re gone, you know?” Junghwan hesitates. “So don’t live like you’re trying to make it last forever. Live for the time you do have with those beautiful, impermanent things.” 

“I will,” Youngjae says quietly. “I’ll try to.” 

“Get some sleep,” Junghwan hums. “And– nevermind. Sleep well, Youngjae.” 

One more day. 

As the final notes of “You, You” fade from the speakers, the only sound that echoes through the practice room is the sound of six people collectively catching their breath. Youngjae counts to five, holding his position and doing his best to not think about the warm presence of Dohoon’s back right against his own, before he unfreezes. 

It’s almost comical how fast the two of them separate, drifting off to opposite ends of the room to grab water bottles and collapse against the wall in utter exhaustion. The voice of their choreography teacher pointing out small mistakes is little but a faint noise to Youngjae; no matter how hard he tries not to, he can’t help but meet Dohoon’s gaze from across the practice space. 

Youngjae looks away too quickly. 

“One last run,” Jihoon declares, ever their dance perfectionist– his suggestion is met with annoyed, tired yet begrudging sighs of weariness, but the six of them still form a line while their choreographer restarts the song. 

It’s all easy, until a certain spot. Specifically: one move, seventeen seconds into the song, where Dohoon’s face comes within a few inches of Youngjae, and Youngjae has to try his hardest to simultaneously not push him away and not pull him in for a kiss. 

When they’d first watched the demo for the choreo, it had been long before their breakup. Youngjae still vividly remembers that night in March, returning to the dorms– Dohoon had chattered nonstop about how excited he was, about how it was such a “cute” move (Youngjae wouldn’t quite call it “cute”, but whatever), that it was perfect for them, because they were dating, right? And for the first few weeks of practice, as Dohoon perfected the right distance– close enough that it would make the fans scream, but not too close that their faces accidentally touched in performance– things were so, so simple. 

And now they’re not. 

Youngjae doesn’t even realize that he’s visibly flinched away from Dohoon, body moving faster through the next few motions than his mind can follow, until their choreographer claps his hands twice to stop them. “Go back to that part,” he shouts as he pauses the music, shaking his head.

“Is something wrong, hyung?” Hanjin asks, frowning as he inspects the awkward silence between Youngjae and Dohoon. 

“No,” Youngjae blinks. “No, let’s just run it again.” 

He ignores the way that he sighs a little loudly, that Kyungmin and Jihoon and Junghwan’s eyes all follow him as he takes a few steps away from Dohoon– anything to put space between himself and whatever this lingering awkwardness even is. 

Thankfully, Youngjae makes it through the next runthrough, even if he has to squeeze his eyes shut as soon as Dohoon’s face nears his own. Does his very best, to not overthink the way that he can feel Dohoon’s breath against his lips, the inexplicably comforting heat of his presence. It frustrates Youngjae to no end, that his emotional and physical reactions can be such polar opposites. 

As soon as the song ends, their choreographer dismisses them for the night, telling them to get a good night’s rest (nobody ever does before comebacks, though) so they can be prepared for the showcase the following day. Youngjae’s in the middle of packing up his bag, shoving the jacket he’d worn earlier in, when: 

“Hey, Youngjae-yah.” 

Dohoon. 

“Um,” Dohoon starts, hands tucked awkwardly into the pockets of his sweatpants. He can barely raise his head to meet Youngjae’s questioning, curious gaze. “The choreo teacher just wanted to say that we should probably practice that one move a few times. You know. He said it looks– awkward. And that he’s not sure why it looks worse this week.”

Well, we both know why, Youngjae thinks. 

“Okay,” he replies instead, dropping his bag back onto the floor. Dohoon hovers there for a moment before moving hurriedly over to the sound system, restarting the title track for the millionth time of the night. They find their places easily, moving through the room with a certain distance separating them that feels like two planets orbiting.

And too soon, Dohoon is stepping in, and he’s too close, having miscalculated the distance– and their faces are brushing against each other, and Youngjae really can’t do anything but bring his hands up to hold the curve of Dohoon’s jaw as their lips meet in a searing kiss. The song is long forgotten in the background as one of Dohoon’s hands roughly tangles in Youngjae’s hair, head already tilted at the perfect angle as his tongue brushes over Youngjae’s lower lip. 

What an intoxicating thing, to be so in love, Youngjae tells himself as Dohoon coaxes a low, soft moan out of him, mouth hungrily drinking in the sound. Panting heavily, they separate, only for Dohoon to dive back in again with an even messier kiss, tongue sneaking into Youngjae’s mouth to taste as much of him as possible. Youngjae distantly registers that “You, You” is still playing in the reality they’ve left behind, already reaching the last chorus. It’s strange to hear Dohoon’s recorded voice over the speakers while he’s kissing him– but he supposes that’s what they get for making out in the practice rooms at goddamn 2 in the morning.

Without breaking the kiss, Dohoon guides Youngjae until his back hits one of the full-length wall mirrors. His hands find their way to Youngjae’s shoulders as he presses against him, bodies flush against each other, a quiet whine that’s quickly swallowed by Youngjae slipping from his lips. “God,” Dohoon mutters, voice rough with want as he pulls away to catch his breath. “God, Youngjae. Do you know– how much I’ve missed you?”

“Yes,” Youngjae breathes in response. “Yes, I do, Dohoon.” 

It’s not a gentle motion when they collide yet again; it’s fully desperate and hungry as Youngjae brings a hand to Dohoon’s collar, tugging him closer frantically. He kisses at the corner of Dohoon’s mouth, slowly trailing down to his jawline and neck while his hands slip under the hem of Dohoon’s shirt to steady himself. Dohoon tilts his head back, his body a warm, grounding weight that keeps Youngjae pinned between himself and the wall. 

“Can I take this off?” Dohoon whispers as his fingers brush over the soft fabric of Youngjae’s shirt; Youngjae nods. 

Even when they dated, they’d always been careful about leaving any traces– it’s in the nature of their job as idols and public figures, after all. But it seems that tonight, all of that has gone to shit as Dohoon tugs Youngjae’s shirt over his head quickly before stripping his own. Their bare chests meet as they kiss again, Dohoon’s lips moving lower to suck hard at the skin of Youngjae’s exposed shoulder, in a way that Youngjae is sure will bruise the next day. Who cares, though? It’ll all be covered by concealer “borrowed” from Hanjin and stage clothing. 

So Youngjae runs his fingers through Dohoon’s soft hair while Dohoon trails soft kisses over his chest, allowing himself to bask in the feeling of Dohoon all over him. They’ve carved out this little slice of heaven in the practice room, a world for just the two of them where nothing else could possibly ever matter, and if Youngjae already knows that it won’t last long, he may as well live in this moment. 

—

mono no aware – 2031.12.29

Dohoon drops the last hoodie into the box, glancing around his now-barren dorm room. They’ll be moving out soon, having been instructed by the company to pack everything up and take it home, or to wherever else they’d be living after their contracts formally end. 

And yet, it still doesn’t quite feel real to Dohoon: the fact that it’s all over. Every second that goes by ticks down toward the moment when he no longer is “TWS’s Dohoon”, but just simply “Kim Dohoon”. Somehow, it’s been six months since their most recent– and final– promotions. Four months since the announcement, a month since the concert. 

Also a month since he and Youngjae decided to try again. 

With a heavy sigh, Dohoon flops backwards onto his bed in exhaustion, reaching instinctively for his phone. Briefly, in the loud silence that follows, he longs to have his old roommate Jihoon back, even if that came with sharing a smaller space with a guy that just wouldn’t shut up sometimes. 

But now Jihoon’s a floor up in a different yet identical room, probably packing away the last of his stuff into the company’s neat cardboard boxes like Dohoon. Or maybe he’s scrolling through old photos on his camera roll and reminiscing on the most random memories. Or maybe, he could be quietly sitting down on his bed while trying not to cry, because in a month it’s no longer going to be the six of them all together. 

God, why does this have to be so fucking hard, Dohoon thinks as he runs a hand through his hair. 

Mindlessly, he opens his KakaoTalk to see a single message from Hanjin. It’s nothing more than a link to a Twitter post, accompanied by a crying emoji, but Dohoon still clicks on it.

And he realizes: oh. 

They’ve already said “twenty-four seven with us” for the last time. They’ve already performed their last concert. June was the last time they’d perform on Inkigayo and Music Bank and M Countdown all together. That one random livestream where he and Junghwan made microwave tteokbokki in the basement dance studio and talked about songs they’d been listening to lately would be their last duo live– how long ago was that, even? 

December 18 would be the last time Dohoon stayed up all night talking to Youngjae in one of the vocal studios while singing karaoke to “Emergency Room” by izi or “Every Moment of You” or whatever other karaoke classics they already knew by heart. Three days ago, Youngjae had bought Dohoon his last late-night ice cream from the GS25 around the corner, where they covered their faces but the employees still knew it was them. 

As much as Dohoon can count down the “lasts” of everything, some of them have passed without him fully knowing it, without living in the moment with the awareness that it’d be the last time. It changes the way he remembers things, really. Like the edges of his vision have a tinge of gold and rosy pink, coloring it all in nostalgia.

Other things are more mundane: Dohoon could forget that it’d be the last time he argued with Kyungmin in the car to the company building over hair and makeup order, or bickered with Jihoon over how many minutes to cook his ramen noodles for. 

Quietly, Dohoon replies to Hanjin’s text with a simple “ㅠㅠ” before setting his phone down. All the traces of his life here have been packed up nicely into brown boxes and duffel bags and suitcases and the occasional black trash bag, leaving nothing behind but a typical apartment room. 

Yet this room, these four walls, have somehow seen it all: Dohoon rewatching old performances of “hey! hey!” and “Countdown!” just because he could, scrolling through Instagram and YouTube comments and pretending they don’t bother him, texting his parents about their latest accomplishments as TWS, ranting to Junghwan or Kyungmin late into the night. Dohoon crying over breakups. Dohoon kissing Youngjae. 

Somehow, it always has to come back to Youngjae. 

As if the universe has decided to give Dohoon another cruel cue, there’s a knock at his door, and Dohoon calls out, “Come in, Youngjae,” because he already knows who’s there. 

“Hey,” Youngjae pokes his head in, an easy smile on his face. “How’d you know it was me?” 

“Dunno,” Dohoon shrugs. “Just thought it’d be you.” 

“Can I come in?” asks Youngjae, hand resting on the doorframe. His dark hair is messy, and there’s a pair of glasses perched on his nose that Dohoon would really like to reach out and fix. 

Dohoon nods, because there’s no reason for him to say no. It’s already been a month since the day when Youngjae pulled him aside as they were leaving the concert venue, kissed him in the car, cried into his shoulder, told him that they could make it work again. A month since they’d slipped back into the familiar rhythm of being together, able to look each other in the eye again.

“Have you finished packing?” Youngjae glances around his room, at the stacks and stacks of boxes all over the floor, before stepping in to sit beside Dohoon on the bed. 

“Yeah,” hums Dohoon quietly. “Damn, I can’t believe that it’s over,” he whispers from where he’s lying down. 

“Don’t say that.”

“But it is. We’re really just… not doing this anymore.” 

“Maybe,” sighs Youngjae. Dohoon watches him speak, the way his shoulders sag with the effort of someone trying to hold themself together for the sake of the group, just for two more days. “But we’re still gonna stay close, you know?” He glances down at Dohoon, that ever-present soft smile on his face. “And you’ll stay with me.”

“Of course,” Dohoon smiles, sitting up so he can brush a few strands of Youngjae’s hair away from his glasses. “Of course I will, Youngjae.” 

Without a word, Youngjae pulls him in for a gentle kiss, their lips meeting softly in the dim lighting of the room. One of his hands comes to rest at Dohoon’s waist as he tilts his head, and Dohoon closes his eyes. Relives the hundreds, maybe thousands, of times that they’ve done this– the way they fit together like two puzzle pieces. Tries not to wonder, subconsciously, will this be the last time that we do this? That we can?

It’s unfortunate, Dohoon’s learned from the years of whatever his and Youngjae’s relationship has been, that any moment could be the last. 

Time has always moved too fast for them, like the memories are already slipping through Dohoon’s fingers as he’s still living in the moment. 

Youngjae makes a muffled sound against Dohoon’s mouth, briefly pulling away so he can catch his breath. “Are you good?” he asks gently. 

“Yeah,” Dohoon murmurs. “It’s just–” 

I’m not sure what I’ll do without you being there every day. 

Because the truth is, for every time they’ve broken up, told each other that “this just isn’t going to work”, nothing really… changes. Nothing, except for the fact that they can’t look at each other. And not out of anger or anything– no, it’s in the way Dohoon realizes the millions of little things that he misses, that he got used to, that he just happened to fall in love with. 

The millions of reasons why he fell out of love with Youngjae become the millions of reasons why he loved him in the first place, and inexplicably, Dohoon wants it all back. Even if it never works. 

Dohoon doesn’t even realize that he’s crying until he feels the first tear trail down his cheek and it’s suddenly so hard to breathe. 

“Please,” he whispers, wiping away the tears with hasty motions that are almost angry. “Please, just… let’s not lose this, okay?” 

And because Dohoon has never been good at making the right decision, he grabs Youngjae by the collar of his shirt and kisses him again. Youngjae’s hands are warm from where they rest, one at Dohoon’s waist and the other cupping his jaw gently, almost reverently, his thumb wiping away a tear carefully. Their bodies are so close Dohoon can feel the steady pulse of Youngjae’s heartbeat as he leans into Dohoon, tongue brushing over Dohoon’s lower lip. It really makes him wonder, truly, how he went fifteen years of his life without knowing Youngjae– the person who’d complete him, regardless of the good and bad times. 

Maybe that’s the problem, that it’s just too easy for them. It takes so little effort to give in to this, to wrap his arms around Youngjae’s shoulders, to let Youngjae taste him as their tongues meet, to lose himself in this moment just because he can. Because he wants to, and there isn’t anything stopping them but the slow passage of time. 

Later that night, Youngjae falls asleep next to Dohoon first; Dohoon watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, and tries not to cry again. 

A day later, Kyungmin asks at the dinner table, “What do you guys think you’ll do… after…?” The rest of the question goes unspoken yet understood. 

Two days later, as the last seconds of the year tick down, Youngjae murmurs, “Don’t ever forget this,” against Dohoon’s shoulder, and Dohoon kisses him on the forehead before they fall asleep as groupmates for the final time.

— 

stay in my memories – 2033.05.30

The funny thing about moving on is that it never happens smoothly. 

People, Dohoon thinks, like to talk about heartbreak like it’s some big event, something singular and cinematic– doors slamming, a final argument, tears in the rain, one last desperate confession before the screen fades to black. He should know; he’s filmed his fair share of those kinds of scenes in dramas and movies. 

Perhaps it would’ve been easier if there’d been a final fight, where they’d screamed at each other or said cruel things they didn’t mean and left some gaping hole in their relationship. Then Dohoon would know when the ending was. 

But no, real endings happen quietly enough that sometimes you don’t even notice they’ve already happened. When you look up one day, and the person who used to exist at the center of your galaxy has drifted quietly to the edges. 

After disbandment, they’d still texted every day. 

At first. 

It was little things: did you eat? this reminded me of you, haha. wow i heard junghwan-hyung’s new agency is terrible. really? omg kyungmin posted the worst picture of me plz tell him to delete it

Then Dohoon would forget to reply until an hour later, then the next morning, then two days afterward when the conversation had already died on its own. Slowly, then all of a sudden, he was staring at his phone and waiting for replies that used to come instantly– you up? yeah. Sorry, filming ran late. I’ll call you tomorrow? Sure. 

Tomorrow, becoming next week, becoming eventually, becoming nothing. 

Maybe, moving on is just– calling less. Texting later. Realizing that you haven’t heard their voice in weeks. Saying, “I’ll text you when I get home,” and forgetting to do it and only remembering when it’s too late. 

Getting used to absence. 

And somehow, days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months.

Then longer. 

Dohoon can’t even remember what their last real conversation had been about: something small, probably. That’s the worst part about it, really. You never know which conversation is going to become the last one that matters. Or just the last one.

Outside his apartment, late spring rain taps softly against the window, blurring the Seoul skyline into streaks of gray and white and yellow. Dohoon sits on the floor with his back against the couch, phone in one hand and a half-finished glass of water in the other, scrolling meaninglessly through news articles and Instagram reels and whatever else there is to fill space in his life. Anything, to not think about how strange it is that at twenty-eight, he still feels stuck between versions of himself. 

Sighing softly, Dohoon opens KakaoTalk, and his fingers instinctively find his chat with Youngjae. He stares at the date for a couple seconds– January 2. It’s been five months, almost, since they talked. Longer since they last saw each other properly, not counting accidental glimpses or industry events where they’d bowed politely and moved past each other like how former coworkers would.

His thumb drifts lower through the chat history, through photos they had sent mindlessly: blurry backstage selfies, screenshots of lyrics Dohoon never finished writing, pictures of food and sunsets from airplane windows and Jihoon asleep in the car with his mouth open. A blurry shot Youngjae once took of him asleep in a waiting room, Kyungmin wiping away tears onstage during a music show win, Hanjin hugging a crying Junghwan at their last concert. 

He pauses, until– oh. 

There it is.

That one photo, that Dohoon had as his wallpaper for forever, that he thought about at the concert, that he now stares at silently.

They’re both sweaty and yet still smiling, faces flushed pink from performing as they stand too close together under blue and white stage lights during a concert somewhere– New York? Los Angeles? Maybe Tokyo? He still can’t remember, strangely. 

Youngjae is laughing at something outside the frame, and Dohoon’s looking at him with one arm thrown around Youngjae’s shoulder, a smile on his face like someone who believed that wanting something bad enough could make it permanent. Confetti hangs suspended midair, like snowflakes. 

Oh.

Really, it’s so obvious now, but things are always obvious in hindsight. 

Nothing about seeing the photo hurts, strangely. 

Once upon a time, something as small as that picture would’ve sent him spiraling into memories and longing, all the unbearable weight of missing someone who used to know him better than anyone else in the whole world. Back then, they were still caught in that endless cycle of ending and returning– breaking up quietly. Getting back together quietly. Promises made at 3 in the morning, “this time will be different,” “we’ll make it work”, as though love had ever been the issue.

But now, albeit a bit late, Dohoon is simply just… tired. He leans back into the couch, sighing again, when he feels his phone buzz in his hand suddenly. 

Youngjae’s name flashing across the screen. 

Dohoon stares for one second, two, three, then swipes across to answer the call. 

“... Hello?” 

Silence. There’s a bit of background noise first: voices, muffled music, the sound of people shuffling around. 

“Dohoon-ah.”

Youngjae’s words slur together at the edges, and it’s then Dohoon realizes how drunk he sounds. 

He closes his eyes briefly. “What.” 

“That’s rude,” Youngjae mumbles. 

Despite himself, Dohoon sits up straighter. “Are you drunk, Youngjae?”

“No,” answers Youngjae immediately. 

A pause. 

“Maybe.”

“You sound terrible.”

“Thanks,” Youngjae sighs dramatically into the phone. “I had a fight with Gunwook.” 

Right. 

Dohoon remembers Youngjae mentioning it at one of their reunions– how he and Gunwook had been in contact in the months after disbandment purely by coincidence, just texting, and then, all of a sudden they were moving into some apartment together. Out of convenience, Youngjae had said, but the details had always been strangely vague. 

It felt like there was meant to be some implication of something between them, but Youngjae never really said much, and Dohoon never asked.

Maybe he didn’t want to know enough for it to hurt properly.

“... Okay,” Dohoon says carefully.

Youngjae laughs softly under his breath once, humorless. “That’s your response?” 

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think he’s mad at me.”

“Okay.”

Another pause. 

“Can– can you come get me?” 

Dohoon lets out a short huff. “God, no.”

“Please?”

“You can call a taxi.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’re crazy.” 

“And?”

“…Youngjae.”

“I’m at that barbecue place near the Han River,” mumbles Youngjae. “You know. Kyungmin’s favorite.”

“So,” Dohoon asks, but it’s not really a question. 

“I don’t know.”

There’s something so horribly familiar about all of this– Youngjae drunk, and calling him anyway. The way it’s a terrible idea, the kind of thing he should’ve stopped doing years ago, and yet Dohoon has never made good decisions around Youngjae. 

Because that’s the problem with him; even now, even after everything, Dohoon still reacts first and thinks second when it comes to him. So despite the fact that he presses a tired hand against his forehead, tells himself just hang up and tell him to sort it out himself, Dohoon mutters, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” 

Of course. 

The restaurant is nearly empty by the time Dohoon arrives, a few minutes after midnight, when only the exhausted office workers and burnt out employees remain drinking into the late hours. It’s still raining, water droplets glistening as they fall on the pavement beneath flickering neon lights. 

He finds Youngjae easily enough, head resting on one hand and cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol. There’s a handful of empty soju bottles scattered across the table, definitely more than Dohoon remembers his tolerance being, back when they lived together. 

Maybe people change. 

Youngjae looks up when Dohoon approaches, smiling slowly– and it fucking hurts, how familiar that smile still is. 

“You actually came.”

“Unfortunately,” Dohoon crosses his arms. “God, Youngjae, you drink too much lately.” 

Shrugging, Youngjae leans back in his chair, his messy dark hair half-covering his face while he laughs quietly to himself. 

Dohoon digs around in Youngjae’s coat for his wallet, gives up, and pays the bill with his own card while ignoring the look the restaurant owner gives him. He makes a mental note that Youngjae owes him for this, even though they’ll both probably forget about this night soon enough. Hopefully. 

Carefully, one hand wrapped around his waist and the other on his shoulder, Dohoon guides Youngjae out, cursing under his breath every time Youngjae drifts sideways while walking. The rain has let up, mostly, puddles reflecting gold and white under the city lights. 

Youngjae leans into him, slightly, while they wait outside the restaurant for the taxi Dohoon called. It’s likely unintentional, but still– Dohoon feels it. Like his body remembers before his mind can. 

“... Sorry,” Youngjae murmurs into his shoulder, head buried there. 

“For what?”

“Everything.”

Dohoon looks over at him– the flush of his face, the way his eyes are half-lidded with exhaustion. Youngjae probably won’t even remember this conversation tomorrow. “Don’t say weird things when you’re drunk,” he mutters instead.

Youngjae hums softly.

They wind up at Dohoon’s apartment, partially because Dohoon couldn’t get Youngjae to tell the taxi driver his address in his inebriated state and partially because it was just easier that way. “You’re sleeping there,” Dohoon drops a few blankets onto the couch, pushing Youngjae toward it. 

“Mean,” Youngjae blinks slowly, but he still obeys easily, damp hair falling into his eyes while he sits there.

“Yeah, well, it’s my apartment,” says Dohoon. “And drink some water. You smell like alcohol.”

“I had a lot.” 

“I can tell.” 

Eventually, Youngjae falls asleep while mumbling something incoherent, head tipped sideways against the cushions as his breathing evens out slowly. Dohoon fixes the blanket, covering him without thinking too hard about why his hands still remember how to be this gentle with him.

For a long moment, Dohoon just stands there, staring– the sight overlaps, almost painfully, with memories. Late nights in the dorms, schedules running over time, dozing off in the practice rooms during breaks. Youngjae slipping into Dohoon and Jihoon’s shared room. Youngjae falling asleep beside him in the last few days. 

What am I still doing? 

Because he doesn’t know anymore: if this is love or just habit, grief, affection, longing, something between all of those. 

For a long, long time, Dohoon thought that he never fell out of love with Youngjae, and they had simply come to a tragic end.

But lying in bed that night, half-conscious and exhausted, he wonders why the heartache feels different lately– softer, older. Less like wanting, and more like remembering. Reminiscing. 

Maybe that’s worse. 

The next morning, Dohoon wakes up to an empty, quiet apartment. Sunlight filters weakly through the curtains, and for one horrible second, he thinks he imagined the whole thing. But he steps out of his room, and there’s the extra water glass on the counter, and the blankets folded neatly on the couch. 

No Youngjae. 

For some reason, disappointment arrives before relief.

Dohoon fumbles for his phone, finding three unread messages displayed on the screen that were sent forty-two minutes ago. 

[Youngjae]

Youngjae: I’m sorry about last night

Youngjae: Thank you for picking me up.

Youngjae: It won’t happen again. 

It’s oddly– formal. Distant, maybe. Like an email more than a text. 

Dohoon stares for a few seconds, then notices something draped over the couch. 

Youngjae’s jacket. 

Carefully, he picks it up slowly, trying not to think of the way it smells faintly of rain and the same fabric softener Youngjae used to have, a long time ago. 

[Youngjae]

Dohoon: you left your jacket

And Youngjae just has to reply almost immediately.

[Youngjae]

Youngjae: oh

Youngjae: i can come get it later if that’s okay

Dohoon: yeah 

An hour later, the doorbell rings, and Dohoon opens the door to Youngjae standing there in a baseball cap and a plain gray hoodie, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans awkwardly. 

Neither of them speaks for a long, few heartbeats. “You… didn’t have to come all the way back,” Dohoon says finally. 

Youngjae shrugs. “I was nearby.”

A lie.

Probably.

Dohoon holds out the jacket to him, and Youngjae takes it. Their fingers brush briefly, lightly. 

And– this could be it. So easily. Here you go, thanks, bye, see you again or never. The end. 

But instead, nobody moves, and Dohoon hears himself ask into the silence, “... Do you want coffee?” 

Youngjae hesitates. 

Then nods. “Okay.” 

Just like that, they sit across from each other at Dohoon’s kitchen counter with untouched drinks between them, talking about easy things first. What they’ve been up to lately with schedules and recording and filming. Kyungmin’s latest video. How Junghwan’s supposed to have a solo fanmeeting soon, apparently, and somehow none of them knew about it. 

Nothing important, and everything important. 

Tracing a droplet of condensation down his cup absently, Youngjae sighs. “Sorry again. About last night.”

“It’s fine.”

“It really wasn’t your problem.”

Dohoon lets out a small laugh at that. “You’ve never cared much about that before.”

Youngjae smiles faintly.

Outside, wind stirs the trees lining the street below– late spring’s already painted everything green once again. Just like the first spring we fell in love, Dohoon thinks. 

How many seasons did they spend together, even? How many times did they break apart and return to each other beneath different skies, different weather, different versions of themselves? 

Winter breakups, and summer reunions, and fall apologies, and spring promises that were somehow never kept, again and again and again. 

At some point, perhaps, they stopped being people in love and became people trying to recreate being in love. That was how it had really ended, not with breakup or disbandment, but repetition. And as he stares at Youngjae in the daylight, this version of him that’s twenty-eight and tired with another life waiting elsewhere, Dohoon realizes– 

He will never have the Youngjae back, because that version of Youngjae no longer exists. The boy from the photographs and the late-night conversations and kisses in the practice rooms. The one that Dohoon tried so hard to preserve long after reality moved on. 

Youngjae looks up suddenly. “What?”

Dohoon hadn’t realized he was staring.

“…Nothing.”

It isn’t nothing.

Because maybe, Dohoon spent so long insisting he didn’t fall out of love that he never noticed it happening– not all at once, dramatically, but in millions of tiny ways. The same ways they’d lose each other before, only this time it would be permanent. Calls they missed, texts left unread, silences that stretched longer and longer each time. 

It’s the realization, that he’d been mourning something already gone for years. 

But maybe, that’s okay. 

Across from him, Youngjae smiles faintly at something on his phone, and god, he looks happy. Not completely, of course, but it’s more than enough for Dohoon to understand that Youngjae already let go a long time ago. 

The only person still lingering in the doorway of their ending had been Dohoon. 

“I should go,” Youngjae stands suddenly, slipping his jacket on. 

Dohoon nods. There’s no desperate urge to stop him, to ask him to wait or to try again, as they walk to the door together slowly. “Take care of yourself, Dohoon,” he adds.

“You too,” Dohoon replies softly. 

With his hand on the doorknob, Youngjae hesitates, as if he too has been thinking all too much about them lately. “I’ll see you around?”

Once upon a time, that phrase would have hurt. 

But now, Dohoon says softly, “Yeah.” 

For the first time in a very long time, he thinks they actually might. 

The door clicks shut behind Youngjae. 

And maybe, just maybe, this is how things begin again. 

(epilogue: The next day, Dohoon watches his former group members upload Instagram stories featuring Youngjae for his birthday, scrolls through his own camera roll, and finally opens that old KakaoTalk chat for the first time in many months. “Happy birthday, Youngjae,” Dohoon types out. And because maybe, he’s feeling braver than he’s ever felt in his life, he adds, “Let’s hang out sometime?”)

fin.