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The morning light crept through the curtains like an accusation.
Kei had been awake for what felt like hours, his mind refusing to grant him even a moment of peaceful ignorance. Every thought that surfaced was a blade, and he turned each one over and over, examining the sharp edges with a kind of masochistic precision. The weight of Jo's arm across his chest felt foreign now, in the clarity of daylight, though it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world just hours ago.
What have I done?
The question pulsed through him, syncing with the steady beat of his heart. He could feel the soreness in his body, the particular ache that came from someone else's hands, someone else's mouth. His neck throbbed where Jo had bitten down, and when Kei lifted his fingers to touch the tender skin, he found the raised marks without surprise.
He remembered everything.
Every touch, every whispered word, every gasp that had filled the silence of Jo's bedroom. The way Jo had looked at him with something between confusion and desire when Kei had appeared at his door. The question hanging in the air between them, Kei's voice barely steady as he asked permission for something he couldn't even name.
“Can I kiss you?”
The words had tumbled out before Kei could stop them, and Jo's eyes had gone wide, his lips parting around a question that never quite formed. Kei had stepped into the room anyway, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot.
Taki's face had flashed through his mind then, the image of Taki pressed against the kitchen counter, Jo's hands on his waist, their mouths fused together. The sound Taki had made—a soft, wanting noise that Kei had never heard from him before.
That sound lived inside Kei now, scratching at the walls of his chest.
He had told himself it wasn't jealousy. It couldn't be jealousy. Taki was his little brother, his responsibility, his to protect and guide. The thought of claiming Taki romantically had never entered Kei's mind—not consciously, anyway. They belonged to each other, yes, but in the way that family belongs to each other. In the way that years of shared history and quiet devotion built something that didn't need labels.
Or so he had convinced himself.
But seeing Taki with Jo had cracked something open, and now Kei lay in Jo's bed, Jo's warmth pressed against his side, and he couldn't stop the avalanche of questions burying him.
What did I want to prove?
Was this about taking what Taki had? About marking Jo with the same possessiveness that had flared when Kei saw Taki being touched? Or was there something else, something deeper that Kei had spent a decade burying under the careful label of "brother"?
He didn't know. He didn't want to know.
The sheets rustled as Jo shifted, his arm tightening briefly before going slack again. Kei held his breath, listening to the rhythm of Jo's breathing, the soft snore that meant deep sleep. Jo, at least, had found peace in this. Whatever complicated web they were weaving, Jo had given himself over to it with the same earnestness he brought to everything.
Kei envied him that.
The bedroom door was closed, but Kei's imagination supplied what lay beyond it—the hallway, the living room, the kitchen where yesterday's wounds had been carved into existence. Taki's door down the hall. Taki, who had been part of Kei's life for so long that Kei couldn't remember who he was before they met.
Taki at fourteen, all sharp elbows and uncertain smiles, his talent raw and his determination blinding. Kei had taken one look at him and felt something click into place, a sense of purpose that he hadn't known he was missing. He had become Taki's guide, his protector, his confidant. He had watched Taki grow from a gangly teenager into the man he was now—twenty-one and beautiful and so far out of Kei's reach that Kei hadn't even realized he was reaching.
Until yesterday.
The memory of Taki's moan surfaced again, and Kei's hands curled into fists beneath the covers. He shouldn't have heard that. He shouldn't have seen it. The kitchen was supposed to be a shared space, innocent and safe, and instead it had become the place where Kei's carefully constructed reality had collapsed.
They had all lived together for so long—the nine of them navigating debut and promotions and the grinding pressure of idol life. Kei had shared dorms with different members over the years, different configurations, but this arrangement with Jo and Taki had felt like a gift. Waking up to Taki's cooking, seeing Taki wear Kei's oversized shirts around the apartment, the casual intimacy of two people who had known each other for more than a decade.
What Taki's is Kei's too. What Kei's is Taki's too.
The refrain had played through Kei's mind so many times that it had worn a groove, a comforting mantra that didn't ask to be examined too closely. They shared clothes, they shared food, they shared a history that no one else could touch. The other members saw it—the bond between the oldest and the second youngest, the way they gravitated toward each other in crowds, the unspoken understanding that passed between them.
But Taki had found something with Jo that Kei couldn't name, couldn't touch, couldn't share. And the realization had carved a hollow in Kei's chest that he hadn't known how to fill.
So he had gone to Jo's room.
He had asked for a kiss.
And Jo, dear, confused Jo, had said yes.
Kei's throat tightened as he stared at the ceiling, the early morning light growing stronger. He could feel the heat of Jo's body beside him, the evidence of what they'd done scattered across the room—clothes discarded on the floor, the bottle of lotion on the nightstand, the tangled sheets that smelled of sweat and skin.
He should feel guilty. He did feel guilty, a heavy stone in his stomach that grew heavier with each passing minute. But beneath the guilt was something else, something he didn't want to examine. A strange satisfaction, maybe. A dark, possessive part of him that had looked at Jo and thought mine.
Not because he wanted Jo. Not really. But because Jo had something Kei couldn't have, and taking it—taking him—felt like closing a wound with salt.
It burns, but at least it stops the bleeding.
The analogy was imperfect, and Kei knew it. Nothing had been stopped. Everything had been made worse.
He heard movement in the hallway then—footsteps, soft and careful. His heart lurched, his breath catching in his throat. The steps paused outside the door, and for a terrible, suspended moment, Kei wondered if Taki would knock. If he would ask to come in, if he would speak in that gentle voice of his, the one that always made Kei feel like he could confess anything.
The steps moved on.
Kei exhaled, but the relief was short-lived. He couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, Jo would wake. Eventually, he would have to face the daylight, face the members, face Taki.
Face himself.
He thought about the way Taki had looked yesterday, pressed against the counter. The soft curve of his neck as Jo had kissed down it, the way his fingers had clutched at Jo's shoulders. Taki's eyes had been half-closed, lost in sensation, and Kei had watched from the doorway, invisible and immobile, as something inside him shattered.
The jealousy he had denied flared bright and undeniable. It wasn't about sharing. It wasn't about brotherhood. It was about wanting, pure and simple, a wanting that Kei had suppressed for so long that it had become unrecognizable.
He wanted Taki.
The thought landed in his chest like a stone dropped into water, rippling outward through his entire body. He wanted Taki in ways that had nothing to do with being older, being responsible, being a brother. He wanted to be the one kissing Taki's neck. He wanted to be the one making Taki moan. He wanted Taki to look at him the way he looked at Jo, with that soft, open vulnerability that Kei had glimpsed for just a moment before he had turned away.
But Taki was with Jo now. Had been with Jo, apparently, for some time—how long, Kei didn't know. He had deliberately ignored the signs, the lingering touches, the way Taki and Jo seemed to exist in their own orbit sometimes. He had told himself it was just friendship, just the closeness of members, just Taki being his affectionate self.
He had lied to himself.
And now he had compounded that lie with an action that couldn't be undone. Whatever had happened between him and Jo last night, whatever strange energy had pulled them together, it was written into both of them now. Written in bruises and bite marks and the shared breath of two people who had crossed a line.
The room was growing brighter, and Kei knew he needed to move. He carefully slid out from under Jo's arm, wincing at the loss of warmth, at the way Jo's face scrunched in his sleep before smoothing again. Kei stood on unsteady legs, his body reminding him of every moment of the night before.
He found his clothes on the floor—his shirt, his sweatpants—and pulled them on with mechanical movements. His reflection caught in the mirror on Jo's closet door, and he forced himself to look.
His hair was a mess, his neck a canvas of purple and red marks. His eyes had shadows beneath them, and his expression held a haunted quality that he couldn't quite mask. He looked like someone who had done something he couldn't take back.
He looked like someone who had betrayed the most important person in his life.
The door. The last thing separate his guiltiness from the world. From Taki.
He reached for the handle, his fingers cold against the metal. He could hear movement in the apartment now—the sounds of someone in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes. Taki, probably. Taki, who always woke up early to cook, who took care of everyone in his own quiet way.
Taki, who had no idea what Kei had done.
Taki, who was about to find out.
Kei turned the handle. The door swung open, and the hallway stretched before him, bright with morning sun. He took a step forward, then another, his bare feet silent on the floor. Each step felt like walking through water, resistance and weight pulling at him.
He reached the end of the hallway, the kitchen coming into view. And there was Taki, standing at the counter with his back to Kei, his shoulders moving with the rhythm of chopping vegetables. He was wearing one of Kei's old shirts, the faded blue one with the torn hem, and the sight of it made Kei's chest ache.
Taki turned.
His face went through several expressions in quick succession—surprise, confusion, a brief flicker of warmth that Kei didn't deserve. Then his gaze traveled down, landing on Kei's neck, and something shifted. Taki's eyes went wide, his lips parting around a question that didn't come.
Kei stood frozen, his breath lodged in his throat. He watched as understanding dawned on Taki's face, as the pieces clicked into place. The marks on Kei's neck. The fact that Kei was coming from Jo's room. The early hour, the rumpled clothes, the look in Kei's eyes that said I'm sorry and I'm not sorry and I don't know what I'm feeling.
Taki's hand tightened on the knife he was holding, his knuckles going white. His face had gone pale, and Kei could see the moment it all crashed down, the moment Taki realized what had happened in this apartment while he slept.
The moment Taki realized that Kei had taken something that was supposed to be his.
The silence stretched between them, endless and terrible. Kei wanted to speak, to explain, to say something that would make this right. But there were no words for this. There was no explanation that could undo the damage.
And then—
"Kei."
Taki's voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through Kei like a blade. The sound held no anger, no accusation. Just a raw, aching hurt that was worse than any shout.
Kei opened his mouth to respond, to offer something, anything—
And then the door to Jo's room swung open behind him, and Jo emerged, his hair sleep-tousled, wearing nothing but boxers, his own neck decorated with marks that matched Kei's.
Taki's gaze moved from Kei to Jo and back again. His face cracked, just for a moment, a fissure running through the careful composure he always maintained. His bottom lip trembled.
The knife clattered against the counter, the sound too loud in the suffocating silence. Taki didn’t move to pick it up. His hands hovered in the air, suspended as if he no longer knew what to do with them. The early morning light caught the tremble in his fingers, the slightest shake that betrayed the storm beneath his carefully composed exterior. His lips parted once more—but no words came. Only a breath, ragged and uneven, like he’d forgotten how to breathe until this moment.
Kei could see it all in slow motion: the way Taki’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the flicker of something raw and wounded in his eyes before he shut them tightly, as if that could erase the sight before him. Jo, standing there with sleep-softened features and the evidence of their night written across his skin. Kei, caught between them like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, one wrong step away from falling.
The air between them was thick with everything unspoken, every confession Kei had buried, every boundary he’d crossed without realizing it until it was too late.
Taki took a step back. Just one. But it felt like a chasm opening between them, wider than the years they’d shared, deeper than the bond they’d sworn was unbreakable. His shoulders curled inward slightly, a reflexive withdrawal, as if he could physically distance himself from the truth.
He looked small, Kei thought, smaller than he had in years—not the confident young man he’d become, but the fourteen-year-old boy Kei had once promised to protect.
And then came the worst part. Taki didn’t yell. He didn’t cry. He didn’t demand answers or lash out in anger. Instead, he turned away, his hands falling limply to his sides, his entire body radiating a quiet devastation that cut deeper than any words could.
Kei had seen Taki in a thousand moods—excited, determined, exhausted—but never this. Never so completely shattered. It was worse, somehow, that he made no sound. That the only movement was the slow rise and fall of his chest, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric as he took another step back, then another, retreating like a wounded animal.
Jo shifted behind Kei, a muffled yawn escaping him before confusion settled over his face as he took in the scene. “Taki?” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep, oblivious to the weight of the moment.
But Taki didn’t answer. His gaze flickered to Jo—just for a second—before landing back on Kei with a look that seared straight through him. Betrayal. And then, without a word, he walked away, leaving behind the half-chopped vegetables, the fallen knife, and the wreckage of everything Kei thought they were.