Chapter 5: The Studio at 2 AM
The studio air was stale, recycled through a ventilation system that couldn’t quite erase the scent of old coffee and cheaper aftershave. Donghae sat in the isolation booth, the massive headphones a vise around his skull, crushing the world into a tinny, repeating loop. The piano melody was beautiful, aching, and utterly fucking stuck. He’d recorded it months ago, a late-night whim after a video call from Helsinki where Hyukjae’s pixelated face had looked hollow with fatigue. It had poured out of him then, a sudden cascade of minor chords and a hesitant, ascending riff.
Now, it felt like a locked room. He’d tweaked the EQ until the high notes hurt his teeth.He’d layered a synthetic string pad underneath, then deleted it in disgust. He played the eight-bar loop again, his forehead nearly touching the cool wood of the grand piano. The notes ended, leaving a digital silence that hissed in his ears.He was chasing a ghost. Not just Hyukjae’s ghost, but the ghost of the duo they were supposed to be. D&E. The name felt corporate on his tongue lately, a brand manager’s dry acronym, not the living, breathing thing that used to crack jokes until they couldn’t breathe in the back of a schedule-packed van.
He pulled the headphones off, the sudden rush of real sound—the hum of the computer tower, the distant drip of a tap in the kitchenette—making him flinch. He’d been here for four hours. The sky outside the high, soundproofed windows had deepened from afternoon blue to bruised purple.He pressed his fingers into his closed eyes, seeing phantom keys. The promise from the cabin, the one spat against a door at dawn, felt like a kid’s fantasy.In the studio.At 2 AM.It was 8 PM. Hyukjae was likely at some post-shoot dinner, playing the charming ace MC, miles away in both distance and attention.The door to the main studio swung open.
It didn’t creak.The hinges were expensive, silent. But the change in air pressure was immediate, a draft carrying the smell of cold night and jet fuel.Donghae didn’t look up. Probably a cleaning crew, or some junior producer leaving a USB drive.Footsteps crossed the plush carpet. Not the soft, shuffling step of the cleaners.These were purposeful, direct. They stopped just outside the open door of the isolation booth.Donghae looked up.
Hyukjae stood there. He was still in the slim black jeans and oversized grey hoodie he’d been photographed in at Incheon Airport twelve hours earlier, the one from the luxury collab. His hair was a mess, flattened on one side from a plane seat or a car window. A single, battered duffel bag was slumped at his feet. He looked exhausted, his eyes shadowed, but they were fixed on Donghae with an intensity that stripped the room of oxygen.
He didn’t smile.He didn’t say hello.
He just pushed the glass door wider, stepped inside the booth, and let the door sigh shut behind him. The space, designed for one or two engineers, shrank instantly.He dropped his bag with a soft thud. Then he walked to the piano bench, his movements weary but deliberate, and sat down.The bench was narrow. His thigh pressed flush against Donghae’s from hip to knee.Solid.Real. A wave of body heat cut through the studio’s clinical chill.
Hyukjae stared at the piano keys, then at the open laptop screen displaying the solitary, looping waveform. He reached over, his fingers brushing Donghae’s as he took the headphones from his lap. He put them on, leaning back slightly.“Play it again,” he said, his voice rough from disuse and travel. It wasn’t a request.It was an initiation.
Donghae’s heart was a wild, hammering thing in his throat.He turned back to the piano. His fingers, cold and stiff a moment ago, found their places.He played the eight bars. The simple, left-hand bass pattern.The aching right-hand melody that climbed and faltered. He played it clean, no pedal, letting the notes hang in the silent booth, fed directly into Hyukjae’s ears through the cord.He finished.The last note faded into the headphones’ silence.
Hyukjae didn’t move for a long moment. Then he slowly took the headphones off, the cord coiling in his lap.He turned his head.His eyes were dark, focused. “The bridge is weak.”
“What?”
“The part where it climbs? It’s asking a question it doesn’t answer.It’s just… sad. It needs teeth.”
A spark, hot and immediate, flared in Donghae’s gut.“It’s supposed to be yearning. It’s not a fight song.”
“Yearning without tension is just whining.” Hyukjae’s hand landed on Donghae’s thigh, a heavy, grounding weight. His thumb began to move, a slow, unconscious stroke along the inseam of Donghae’s jeans.“Play the second half again.Slower.”
Donghae played it slower. The melody dragged, becoming a dirge.
“Stop.” Hyukjae’s other hand came up, hovering over the higher keys. “What if it goes dissonant here?” He pressed two adjacent notes together, a jarring, clashing sound.“Just for a beat. Then resolves.” He played the clashing chord, then let his fingers fall into the next, sweeter note of Donghae’s original progression.The effect was a shock. A puncture of anger in the wall of sadness.“See?” Hyukjae murmured.“Now it’s got a story. It’s not just missing someone. It’s pissed off about it.”
Donghae looked at him, at the focused crease between his brows, the absolute absorption in his face. This was the presence he’d been starving for. Not the body in the cabin, but the mind in the room.He felt a surge of something so fierce it threatened to crack his chest open. “You’re an asshole,” he said, voice thick.
Hyukjae finally looked at him.A faint, tired smirk touched his lips. “You sent it to me because you knew I’d say that.” His hand tightened on Donghae’s thigh. “Play it with the clash.”
Donghae played it. The dissonance Hyukjae had introduced felt violent, brilliant.It transformed the loop.They argued over the next chord for twenty minutes. Hyukjae wanted a major seventh, something bittersweet and complex. Donghae fought for a simple minor, pure and desolate.Their voices rose, cutting through the quiet studio.
“It’s too clever, it feels like a musical!”
“It’s too basic, it’s like a drama soundtrack from 2008!”
“You have no soul!”
“You have no edge!”
Through it all, Hyukjae’s hand never left Donghae’s leg. Donghae’s fingers would slam a rejected chord on the keys, then his hand would drop, his knuckles brushing Hyukjae’s jeans. It was a constant, low-voltage connection, a tether holding the creative fury in place.
Finally, exasperated, Donghae played Hyukjae’s major seventh suggestion, but held it for two extra beats before resolving. The prolonged tension created a breathtaking, aching space.Hyukjae stopped. He stared at the keys, then at Donghae.The argument died mid-breath. Something shifted in the air, from charged to combustible.Slowly, Hyukjae leaned in.Donghae met him halfway. The kiss wasn’t like the ones in the cabin. There was no desperate fury, no performative anger.It was slow.Deep.A tasting. Hyukjae’s lips were chapped, and he tasted of stale airport coffee and the mint gum he’d used to fight it. It was profoundly unromantic.It was utterly real.
Hyukjae broke the kiss, his forehead resting against Donghae’s.His eyes were closed. “I’m here,” he breathed, the words a vibration between them. “For real.”
For a minute, they just sat in the quiet, breathing the same air. The computer screen went to sleep, plunging the booth into deeper shadow, lit only by the single overhead spot above the piano.
“You didn’t go to the dinner,” Donghae said, not a question.
“Told them I had a migraine. Came straight from the airport.” Hyukjae finally pulled back, his gaze scanning Donghae’s face.“You look like shit. Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Your manager should be fired.”
“She’s scared of me when I’m like this.”
Hyukjae stood up, his joints popping.He extended a hand.“Come on. We’re ordering chicken.And then we’re finishing this bridge.The real one. Not just an eight-bar loop.”
Donghae took his hand, let himself be pulled up. The solidity of Hyukjae’s grip, the simple, mundane plan—food, then work—felt more intimate than anything that had happened in the dark.It was the routine they’d lost. It was the partnership.As they walked out of the isolation booth, Hyukjae didn’t let go. His phone buzzed in his pocket, lighting up with a manager’s name. He glanced at it, thumbed a quick response, and silenced it. He dropped it back into his hoodie pocket like a piece of trash.
“The dissonance stays,” Donghae said, as Hyukjae rummaged for a takeout menu in the cluttered kitchenette.
“The major seventh stays,” Hyukjae countered, not looking up.
“We’ll see.”
Hyukjae looked over then, a real smile finally breaking through the exhaustion. It was the boyish, challenging grin from twenty years ago, from practice rooms and backstage corridors. “Yeah,” he said.“We will.”
Outside, Seoul glittered, a circuit board of endless obligations. But in the warm, messy womb of the studio, for the first time in months, the ghost was in the room. And it had ordered chicken.
The chicken arrived in a greasy paper bag that left translucent stains on the mixing console. They ate with their fingers, perched on rolling engineer’s chairs, wiping sauce on sweatpants that had seen better days. The argument over the chord progression continued between bites, but the edges had softened into a familiar, comfortable debate.
“The major seventh is a cheat,” Donghae said, sucking chili sauce from his thumb. “It’s what everyone expects us to do.”
“It’s what works,” Hyukjae countered, tearing a strip of meat with his teeth.“Your dissonant clash is the surprise.The resolution is the reward. People need the reward, Hae.”
They worked until the bone container was full and the city lights outside the windows had blurred into a sleepy haze. They found a structure, a verse that coiled tight with the tense, clashing melody Hyukjae had invented, then bloomed into a chorus built on Donghae’s original, aching progression. They didn’t record anything properly, just smartphone voice memos and messy notes on manuscript paper. It was the scaffolding, and for the first time in months, it felt solid enough to hold their weight.
After dinner, Hyukjae slumped back in his chair, spinning slowly in a half-circle. The adrenaline of the work was fading, leaving the gritty fatigue in his eyes plain under the studio’s fluorescents. “We should get out of here,” he said, his voice rough.“Let’s go rest at your apartment first. Can’t write without a clear mind.”
Donghae snorted, scrubbing a hand over his own tired face.“What can a day rest do? We’ll just wake up and have to be… elsewhere. Again.” The thought of another temporary pause, another fleeting interlude before the machine reclaimed them, made his stomach turn.Hyukjae stopped spinning. He looked at Donghae, really looked, past the collaborative energy of the last few hours. He saw the deep-set weariness, the same hollowed look he’d glimpsed in his own airport reflection. A day wouldn’t touch it.He took a slow breath. “So take a week.”
“What?”
“A week.We take it. Time away from work, from this,” he said, gesturing at the screens, the equipment, the invisible pressure. “Let’s go to my house in Yongin.Only my mother is there. When I’m away, Sora and her husband look after her.” He said it quietly, a simple statement, but the offer hung in the air, immense and fragile.It wasn’t a cabin booked by management.It was a home.
Donghae felt the word ‘week’ expand in the silence, a vast, terrifying expanse of unstructured time.The constant motion was a habit, a addiction.Stopping felt like falling. But the alternative—another grinding month of chasing each other’s shadows—felt like dying. He thought of the Yongin house, of Hyukjae’s mother’s quiet smile, of the dusty light in the guest room.A place with no cameras, no schedules, no locked doors.
The hollow space inside him, the one he’d been trying to fill with music and sex and frantic energy, didn’t clamor.It quieted, just for a second, listening. “Yeah,” Donghae said, the word leaving him in a relieved exhale.“Okay. Yeah, I like that.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across Hyukjae’s face, erasing the exhaustion for a moment.“Go pack, then.A week. Don’t just bring stage clothes.Bring stupid t-shirts. Bring the shoes you don’t care about getting muddy.”
Donghae stood, the decision lending a new lightness to his limbs. The studio, humming around them, already felt like a memory. “I’m going to bring that horrible neon hoodie you hate.”
“I’ll burn it,” Hyukjae said, standing too and gathering the greasy trash.“I’ll throw it in the pond. Mother will help me.”
Laughing, a real, unforced sound that bounced off the soundproofed walls, Donghae grabbed his jacket. The unfinished song was still on the computer, a promise to return to. But a bigger promise, made of simple things like a mother’s house and a clear mind, waited just outside. He pushed the heavy studio door open, the night air cool and sweet, and went to pack for the week.
He pushed the heavy studio door open, the night air cool and sweet, and went to pack for the week.
An hour later, Hyukjae’s black sedan idled curbside, its trunk swallowing Donghae’s duffel. The drive to Yongin was a silent, dark tunnel. The adrenaline from the studio had evaporated completely, leaving Donghae boneless against the passenger seat. The hum of the engine, the rhythmic swipe of the windshield wipers against a faint mist, the warm blast of the heater—it all fused into a lullaby. His last conscious thought was the green glow of the dashboard clock reading 11:47, and the solid, familiar shape of Hyukjae’s profile against the passing streetlights.
He fell asleep somewhere past the city limits, his head tilting toward the window.
Hyukjae drove on, one hand loose on the wheel.The highway was nearly empty.He glanced over. In the intermittent wash of overhead lights, Donghae’s face was soft, unguarded, the stubborn line of his mouth relaxed. Hyukjae’s chest tightened with a familiar, brutal ache. This was the boy who’d followed him home a thousand times, who’d crammed into his family’s spare room after brutal rehearsals, who’d shared a single set of headphones on buses, listening to the same demo track on repeat until the batteries died. He reached across the console. His thumb brushed a stray strand of hair from Donghae’s forehead, then rested, lightly, on his cheekbone.The skin was warm. He traced the arch of an eyebrow, the gesture so tender it felt stolen from another, simpler life. The boy he’d known before he fully knew what love was, and the man he’d loved every day since.
He didn’t remove his hand until the exit for Yongin appeared.
The car rolled to a stop in the paved driveway of a modern, two-story townhouse nestled behind a manicured hedge. The downstairs windows were dark, but a soft light glowed from an upstairs room—his mother’s room. Hyukjae killed the engine.The sudden silence was profound.He turned in his seat. “Hae.” His voice was a low rumble.Donghae didn’t stir. Hyukjae shook his shoulder gently.“Hey. We’re here.”
Donghae murmured something unintelligible, nuzzling against the headrest.
Hyukjae unbuckled his own seatbelt and leaned closer, his lips near Donghae’s ear. “Do you want me to carry you in like a bride?” he whispered, a smile in his voice. “Mum would so judge us.”
That registered. Donghae’s eyes fluttered open, bleary and disoriented. He processed the dark driveway, the familiar hedge, Hyukjae’s grinning face inches from his own. He swatted weakly at Hyukjae’s arm.“Shut up,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “She’d take your side and tell me I was being difficult.”
“She would not. You’re her favorite.” Hyukjae climbed out, the cold night air rushing in as he retrieved their bags. Donghae stumbled after him, fumbling for the house keys Hyukjae tossed him. The front door opened with a quiet click, revealing a warm, minimalist foyer that smelled subtly of lemon polish and simmering ginger tea.It was overwhelmingly peaceful.
Donghae stood just inside, suddenly awkward, the weight of the week-long promise feeling immense in the sleeping house. “Do I need to sleep in the guest room?” he whispered, the question hanging in the quiet hall.
Hyukjae dropped the bags and stepped close, his hands finding Donghae’s hips. “You sleep with me, Hae,” he said, his own voice hushed. “But try not to wake Mum up with your moaning.”
A slow, defiant smile spread across Donghae’s sleep-softened face. He looped his arms around Hyukjae’s neck, leaning into him. “You’re not getting any tonight,” he murmured, his breath warm against Hyukjae’s throat.“I’m too tired. You drove me here to sleep, remember?”
Hyukjae’s laughter was a silent puff of air against Donghae’s temple. He held him tighter, feeling the deep, solid truth of him in the dark hallway. “Fine,” he conceded, kissing the crown of Donghae’s head. “Just sleep, then.”
They crept upstairs, past the soft light under his mother’s door, and into the sanctuary of Hyukjae’s bedroom. The door shut with a final, soft click, sealing them in.
The door shut with a final, soft click, sealing them in. The bedroom was dark, familiar in its outlines—the low platform bed, the sleek dresser, the blackout curtains drawn against the world. Hyukjae toed off his shoes, a soft thump on the carpet. Donghae just stood for a moment, breathing in the scent of cedar and clean linen, so different from the sterile studio or the pine-heavy cabin. His body felt heavy, his mind blissfully empty.
“Come on,” Hyukjae murmured, his hands guiding Donghae toward the bed. They didn’t bother with pajamas. They shed their jeans and hoodies in a tired heap, climbing under the cool duvet in just their underwear. The sheets carried the faint, clean smell of Hyukjae’s detergent, a scent Donghae associated with safety. Hyukjae shifted, turning onto his side, and pulled Donghae back against his chest, slotting them together like puzzle pieces stored for years. Donghae sighed, a deep release of tension he’d carried since the cabin door closed. Hyukjae’s arm was a solid weight across his ribs, his breath warm on the nape of Donghae’s neck.
Sleep took them quickly, a deep and dreamless plunge.
Morning arrived as a slow bleed of grey light around the curtains. Donghae woke to the sensation of fingers tracing the notches of his spine. He was still curled into Hyukjae, who was propped on one elbow, watching him. The room was soft with dawn, details emerging: a framed photo on the nightstand of them as teenagers, gangly and grinning in matching stage outfits.
“Your hair is a disaster,” Hyukjae said, his voice gravelly with sleep. He pushed a chaotic curl from Donghae’s forehead.
“Yours isn’t,” Donghae mumbled, burrowing closer. “You sleep like a statue.” He could feel the steady beat of Hyukjae’s heart against his back. The hollow ache from the studio, from the relentless schedule, was quiet here, muffled by the duvet and the simple fact of Hyukjae’s skin on his. For a long moment, they just existed. The silence wasn’t empty. It was full.
A soft knock at the door made them both stiffen. “Hyukjae-ah?” The voice was gentle, melodious. His mother.
Hyukjae cleared his throat. “Yes, Umma?”
“I heard the car last night. Is Donghae with you?”
Donghae felt Hyukjae’s chest vibrate with a silent laugh. “Yes,” Hyukjae called back. “We’ll be down in a minute.”
They disentangled themselves, the warmth of the bed reluctant to release them. Donghae pulled on the sweatpants and t-shirt he’d packed, the fabric soft and worn. Hyukjae did the same, running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it. They traded a look in the dim room—a silent, amused acknowledgment of the domestic normality about to unfold. Then Hyukjae opened the door.
The hallway was bright, morning sun streaming from a skylight. They padded downstairs, the wooden steps cool under their bare feet. The kitchen was wide and sun-filled, smelling of toasted barley tea and garlic. Hyukjae’s mother stood at the counter, her back to them, slicing apples. She was small, her posture perfectly straight, her grey hair cut in a neat bob. She turned, her face breaking into a wide, warm smile that mirrored her son’s.
“Ah, my boys,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
Donghae crossed the room first. He wrapped his arms around her in a tight, familiar hug, his chin resting on her shoulder. She patted his back, laughing softly. “It’s been too long,” she said into his ear.
“I missed you,” Donghae said, his voice sincere. He pulled back, his hands on her shoulders. “We’re hijacking your peace for a week.”
Hyukjae stepped in, giving his mother a quicker, but no less affectionate, squeeze. “Donghae’s having a creative crisis,” Hyukjae explained, his tone light but edged with truth. “Writer’s block. What he’s written just isn’t flowing naturally. It’s all knots.”
Donghae nodded, leaning against the kitchen island. “The melody feels stuck. Like it’s breathing wrong.” He gestured vaguely, as if shaping the problem in the air. “We thought spending time away, here, might… I don’t know. Unknot it. Inspire him.” He glanced at Hyukjae, correcting himself. “Us. Inspire us.”
His mother listened, her dark eyes moving between them. She understood the unspoken layers—the exhaustion, the distance the calendar enforced. She picked up the apple slices, arranging them on a plate. “Well, the air is clearer here,” she said simply. “And the fridge is full. No one will bother you.” She pointed a knife at Hyukjae. “You, make the coffee. Donghae, sit. Eat.”
They obeyed. Hyukjae moved to the espresso machine, its familiar gurgle and hiss filling the kitchen. Donghae slid onto a stool, accepting a plate of apples and a cup of barley tea. The steam warmed his face. Sunlight pooled on the polished concrete floor, catching dust motes in a slow dance. The tension of the studio, the frantic energy of the cabin, felt like memories from another life.
Hyukjae placed a mug of black coffee in front of Donghae, then leaned against the counter beside his mother. “So, a week of nothing,” he said, sipping his own coffee. “What’s the first rule of nothing?”
Donghae took a crisp apple slice. “No phones after dinner,” he proposed, a testing glance at Hyukjae.
“Impossible,” Hyukjae snorted. “But we can try. No talking about work for…” He pondered. “The first twenty-four hours.”
“You’ll last ten minutes,” Donghae said, a smile tugging at his lips.
Their bickering was comfortable, a soft hum under the morning light. His mother watched them, a knowing softness in her expression. She refilled Donghae’s tea without asking. “The pond needs clearing,” she mentioned casually. “Leaves are clogging the filter. It’s a messy job.”
Hyukjae groaned. Donghae’s eyes lit up. “I’ll do it,” he said quickly. “I like messy jobs.”
“You just like the excuse to get wet,” Hyukjae countered.
“Same thing.”
The plan formed effortlessly, without spreadsheets or manager approval. They would clear the pond. They would walk the property. They would cook dinner together. They would, perhaps, sit at the old keyboard in Hyukjae’s study and see if the melody breathed differently here, in the quiet. The week stretched before them, not as an escape, but as a deliberate return. To something simpler. To each other.
Hyukjae finished his coffee, the mug clicking softly on the counter. He looked at Donghae, really looked, in the clear morning light. The shadows under his eyes were still there, but softer. The frantic edge from the studio had melted into a watchful calm. Donghae held his gaze, feeling the silent promise of the week solidify between them. It was a foundation, built not on a stolen hour, but on seven open days.
His mother turned back to the sink, humming a tune from their last concert. The melody lingered in the sunlit air, familiar and sweet. Outside, a bird called. The world, for once, could wait.