Chapter 2: The Morning After
Donghae woke to the particular quiet of a Seoul afternoon, the kind that felt thick and earned. The bedroom was washed in honeyed light, dust motes dancing in the slanting beams that cut through the blinds. He was on his side, and his first conscious thought was of warmth. Hyukjae was a solid line of heat against his chest, one arm flung back over Donghae’s hip, fingers loosely curled. His breathing was deep and even, stirring the fine hairs on Donghae’s forearm.
He didn’t move. He cataloged the details. The way Hyukjae’s eyelashes fanned against his cheek, soot-black against his skin. The faint, healed scar on his temple from a childhood mishap with a bicycle. The relaxed pout of his lips, slightly parted. This was the face he’d conjured in a hundred silent hotel rooms, the image that had flickered behind his eyes when the sapphire lights of Macau had felt cold instead of electric.
A dull, deep ache pulsed in the small of his back, a stubborn reminder of the Tokyo incident and yesterday’s… enthusiastic welcome. He ignored it. The trade was more than fair.
Hyukjae stirred, a muffled grunt escaping him. His nose scrunched. His eyes fluttered open, bleary and unfocused, before landing on Donghae’s face. Confusion smoothed into recognition, and then into a soft, unguarded smile that did something irreversible to Donghae’s heart.
“You’re staring,” Hyukjae mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“You’re here,” Donghae replied, as if it were a revelation.
Hyukjae shifted, wincing slightly as he stretched. “Oof. My thighs are protesting your homecoming.” He poked Donghae’s side. “You were an animal.”
“You started it. With the… dancing.” Donghae felt a goofy grin spread across his face. He leaned in and kissed Hyukjae, a slow, lazy press of lips that tasted of sleep and shared breath. It was unhurried. There was no stage to run to, no flight to catch. Just this.
“I had to make a point,” Hyukjae said against his mouth. Then he pulled back, his sharp eyes scanning Donghae’s face. “How’s the back? Don’t lie.”
“It’s… present.”
“That means it hurts.” Hyukjae threw the cherry blossom quilt off and sat up. The afternoon light gilded the lines of his shoulders, the knobs of his spine. “I’m making you coffee. And finding the heat pad. And you’re going to take the anti-inflammatories the physio prescribed, which I know you haven’t been taking regularly because your pill case in your toiletries bag was still full.”
Donghae groaned, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling. “You snooped.”
“I assessed.” Hyukjae stood, stretching his arms overhead with a satisfying crack. “You think I waited two months for you to come home just to watch you hobble around like an old man? The dream was you walking properly, for at least a few decades.” He padded naked toward the bedroom door, utterly unselfconscious. “Black coffee? Or have your tastes become tragically sweet on tour?”
“Black,” Donghae called after him. “Like my soul after being away from you.”
He heard Hyukjae’s snort of laughter from the kitchen. “Your soul is neon pink and covered in sequins, don’t kid yourself.”
Alone, Donghae let the silence settle. It was a different silence from the hotel rooms. It was alive. The low hum of their refrigerator, the distant sigh of traffic seven floors below, the creak of a floorboard as Hyukjae moved about. He could map every sound. This was his ecosystem.
He finally got up, his body protesting with a symphony of small twinges. He pulled on a pair of loose sweatpants from the floor and shuffled out to the living area.
Hyukjae was at the espresso machine, a familiar figure of focused domesticity. The machine hissed and steamed. Sunlight caught the fine steam, turning it into miniature clouds. Donghae leaned against the doorway, just watching. The way Hyukjae’s brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the precise tap of the portafilter, the careful pour of milk. It was a performance as captivating as any stage routine.
“I got used to the quiet,” Donghae said, his voice quiet. “But I never got used to the emptiness. Even when the room service guy was talking to me, it felt empty.”
Hyukjae didn’t turn around. He finished pouring the latte art—a haphazard heart that looked more like a lopsided blob—and handed the mug to Donghae. “Here. For your tragic, empty soul.”
Donghae took the mug, his fingers brushing Hyukjae’s. “It’s not empty now.”
“Good.” Hyukjae fixed his own coffee, leaning back against the counter. He studied Donghae over the rim of his cup. “So. Macau. The final show. How did it really feel?”
Donghae blew on his coffee, considering. “The performance was… incredible. The energy was so high it felt like we were all breathing the same air. But the bow? That last thank you?” He looked out the window, at the Seoul skyline. “It felt like I was saying goodbye to a part of myself I left behind in those hotels. A lonely part. I could feel you, right here.” He tapped his sternum. “A physical pull. The spotlight felt cold the second the music ended.”
Hyukjae listened, his gaze soft. “I felt that pull too. Like a tide going out. Annoying as hell.”
They moved to the couch, sitting close enough for their legs to touch. The warmth was a constant, reassuring pressure.
“Jihye called while you were comatose,” Hyukjae said, sipping his coffee. “She says you have a clean slate for three weeks. No schedules. Then there’s the company meeting about the next album cycle.”
Three weeks. A lifetime. A blink.
“What do you want to do?” Hyukjae asked. “Now that you’re not Lee Donghae, Asia Touring Solo Artist, for a few minutes. Just you.”
Donghae rested his head on Hyukjae’s shoulder, the heat from the mug seeping into his hands. “This. I want to do this. I want to go to the grocery store and argue about what brand of kimchi to buy. I want to watch those terrible reality shows you love and make fun of the editing. I want to fall asleep on this couch at 9 PM because we’re boring and tired and together.” He paused. “And maybe, if my cruel overseer allows it, I’d like to go for a walk. A slow one. By the Han. Before the cherry blossoms are all gone.”
Hyukjae’s hand came up, his fingers threading through Donghae’s hair. “A slow walk. I can supervise that.” He gently tugged his head up. “But first, heat pad. Medicine. And you’re eating actual food, not just airline peanuts and vitamin packets.”
Later, dressed in soft sweaters and jeans, they walked along the river path. The air was cool, carrying the damp, green scent of spring. Donghae moved carefully, the heat pad a comforting presence against his lower back under his clothes. Hyukjae matched his pace, their shoulders bumping occasionally.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no grand confession. They pointed out silly things—a dog wearing rain boots, an especially aggressive pigeon. They talked about nothing: a drama Hyukjae had watched, a funny mistake a backup dancer had made in Osaka. The conversation was a meandering stream, easy and familiar.
But then, as they paused to watch the light fade over the water, turning it the color of bruised steel, Donghae felt the words rise up, raw and necessary.
“I don’t know if I can do it again,” he said quietly, not looking at Hyukjae. “The long tour. Like that. Not… not without you.”
Hyukjae was silent for a long moment. A breeze came off the river, ruffling his hair. “You can,” he finally said, his voice firm. “You will. Because it’s what you love. And because I’ll be right here, watching the stream, nagging you about your posture and your pill case.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know it’s not.” Hyukjae turned to him, his expression stark with understanding. “It’s shit. It’s a giant, lonely, hollow shit. But you’re not making music for the hotel rooms, Donghae. You’re making it for the sapphire lights. For that bow. And then you’re making it to come home. To this.” He gestured between them, then out at the river, the city, the everyday world. “The leaving is part of the coming home. I hate it, but I get it.”
Donghae felt a lump form in his throat. He nodded, swallowing hard. “Next time,” he whispered. “Even if it’s just for a few days. You have to come. Meet me somewhere. Bangkok or… or somewhere. I need a touchpoint. Or I might dissolve into those hotel walls.”
Hyukjae slid his hand into Donghae’s, lacing their fingers together. His grip was tight. “Okay,” he said, simple and definitive. “Bangkok. Or wherever. I’ll be there. Now, walk back. Your pacing is off, you’re favoring your left side. The physio said even strides.”
The nagging was a love song. Donghae listened, adjusting his gait, holding onto Hyukjae’s hand like an anchor.
Back at the apartment, as dusk settled, the reality of the body reasserted itself. Donghae was leaning over to untie his shoes when the muscle in his back seized—a white-hot clamp that stole his breath. He gasped, frozen in the bent position.
“Damn it, Donghae.” Hyukjae was there in an instant, his hands firm on Donghae’s hips, guiding him slowly upright. “That’s it. Couch. Now. No arguments.”
There was no room for argument. The pain was a bright, insistent beacon. Hyukjae guided him down onto his stomach on the living room couch, fetched the real medical-grade heat pad, and pressed it over the offending area. He retrieved the pills and a glass of water.
“Take them.”
Donghae did, feeling chastised and cared for in equal measure.
Hyukjae sat on the floor beside the couch, his back against it. He reached up and began to knead the un-injured parts of Donghae’s shoulders, his fingers finding knots Donghae didn’t even know he had. The pressure was perfect, knowing and firm.
“I’m calling the physio tomorrow,” Hyukjae stated, his voice leaving no room for debate. “You’re going in. Three weeks off doesn’t mean three weeks of you reinjuring yourself by being a lovesick idiot. It means rehab. Properly.”
Donghae moaned into the cushion, part pain, part relief at the touch. “You’re very sexy when you’re authoritarian.”
“Shut up.” But Hyukjae’s thumbs dug in a little more deliberately, and Donghae could hear the smile in his voice. They stayed like that as the room darkened, the only sounds their breathing and the faint buzz of the heat pad.
The peace was split by the sharp buzz of Donghae’s phone on the coffee table. The screen lit up, casting a blue glow: MANAGER JIHYE.
Hyukjae’s hands stilled. “Do not answer that.”
“I have to.”
“You’re on your stomach, drugged, with a heating pad on your spine. You are medically unavailable.”
The phone stopped, then immediately started buzzing again. Urgent.
With a grunt, Donghae reached an arm out, fumbling for it. He swiped to answer, putting it on speaker. “Jihye? What’s up?”
Her voice was strained, a forced calm over a wire of tension. “Donghae. Hey. How’s the first day of rest?”
“It was great until ten seconds ago,” Hyukjae called out from the floor.
“Hi, Hyukjae. Listen, I’m sorry. I know this is your time. But we have a… a situation.” She took a breath. “The fancam from Macau. The final bow. It’s gone viral. Not just the performance—the look on your face when you thanked them. They’re calling it ‘the goodbye of a lonely heart.’ They’ve analyzed it. The trembling lip, the eyes. It’s… it’s sparked a lot of concern. The company is getting inundated. Are you okay? Are you… unhappy?”
Donghae closed his eyes. The sapphire light, the hollow in his chest, the sheer longing he knew had been transparent in that moment. The fans saw everything. They always did.
He felt Hyukjae’s hand come to rest, warm and steady, on the back of his neck.
“I’m home, Jihye,” Donghae said, his voice clear. “Tell them I’m home. And tell the company I’m fine. But I have a physio appointment tomorrow for my back. So my schedule is… full.”
A beat of silence from Jihye. Then, a relieved chuckle. “Okay. Okay. I’ll handle it. Enjoy your full schedule.” She hung up.
The room was dark now. Hyukjae didn’t move his hand.
“See?” Donghae whispered into the cushion. “They see me.”
“They see the performance,” Hyukjae corrected softly, his thumb stroking the short hairs at Donghae’s nape. “I see you.”
Outside, the city lights began to glitter like a field of fallen stars, but inside, the only light that mattered was the warmth under Hyukjae’s palm, a steady point of contact in the comforting dark.
Outside, the city lights began to glitter like a field of fallen stars, but inside, the only light that mattered was the warmth under Hyukjae’s palm, a steady point of contact in the comforting dark.
“Jihye’s right, you know,” Hyukjae said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Your face in that fancam.” His thumb traced a slow circle. “It wasn’t just performative emotion. It was a leak. You’ve never been good at sealing those.”
Donghae turned his head on the couch cushion to look at him. “It felt like a leak. Like something vital was draining out of me right there under the lights. Because all the lines to you were cut.”
“Then we fix the lines.” Hyukjae removed his hand, the loss of contact immediate. He stood up, his silhouette moving with purpose to the desk by the window. He flipped open his laptop, the screen’s blue glow sharpening the angles of his face. “The physio appointment is set for ten a.m. Be prepared for him to yell at you. But that’s not the main event.”
“What is?” Donghae pushed himself up carefully, the heat pad slipping to the floor.
Hyukjae didn’t answer immediately. The brisk tap of keys filled the space. Donghae recognized his posture—the coiled focus of composing choreography or, more recently, reviewing quarterly reports for their company. This was CEO Hyukjae, not just partner Hyukjae. “I’ve cleared your schedule for the next month. Completely. No demos, no vague ‘creative meetings,’ no magazine shoots.”
“A month?” Donghae blinked. “Hyukkie, the next album cycle—”
“Is on hold. My schedule is clear, too. I cancelled the variety shoot and the consultancy thing.” He turned the laptop screen toward Donghae. It displayed a simple itinerary. “We’re going to Mokpo. For three, maybe four weeks. My parents’ house. It’s empty. It’s quiet. The air is different there.”
Mokpo. The name landed softly, a memory of sea salt and slower summers. Donghae’s family had lived there for a few years during his childhood; he’d first met Hyukjae in Seoul, but they’d visited the port city together twice since debut, chasing anonymity and fried squid.
“You’re prescribing a month in Mokpo?” Donghae asked, a slow understanding dawning.
“I’m prescribing actual rehabilitation. Not you faking it here between sofa and bed.” Hyukjae’s gaze was unyielding. “There’s a clinic near the harbor. Excellent physio. Twice a day if needed. Walks on the dock. Real sleep. No one will look for us there.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Fifteen years as a duo, twenty in the group… we’ve earned the right to disappear for a minute. As co-CEO, I’m approving the medical leave.”
A bubble of fondness, thick and warm, rose in Donghae’s chest. This was Hyukjae’s love language: fierce, practical, meticulously orchestrated protection. He’d seen the leak in the fancam and was now deploying a strategic retreat to patch it.
“So,” Donghae said, a mischievous grin pulling at his mouth. He shifted, wincing only a little. “You’ll be my private nurse?”
Hyukjae snorted, shutting the laptop lid. “I’ll be ensuring you don’t permanently damage the company’s most valuable asset.”
“But a nurse, though.” Donghae’s voice took on a playful, wheedling tone. He limped exaggeratedly toward him. “Does a private nurse wear a uniform? Can I choose for my nurse to wear one?”
Hyukjae rolled his eyes so hard his whole head tilted back. “You are an absolute child. The only uniform will be your sweatpants and a serious expression during your stretches.”
“I was thinking of something crisp.White. Maybe a little short.” Donghae hooked a finger into the waistband of Hyukjae’s jeans, tugging him closer.
“You’ll be thinking about isometric holds and proper lumbar support.” Hyukjae captured the wandering hand, but didn’t let go. His expression softened, the CEO veneer cracking. “This isn’t a joke, Hae. That spasm tonight… it scared me. I need you walking. I need you running. I need us back on stage together when the time comes, not you watching from a chair.”
The raw need in his voice dissolved the last of Donghae’s teasing. He squeezed Hyukjae’s hand. “Okay. Mokpo. No uniforms. Just you, me, and the terrifying physio.”
“Good.” Hyukjae released a breath he seemed to have been holding. “We pack tomorrow. Simple stuff. The house has everything else.”
The following forty-eight hours were a blur of efficient motion. The physio, a man built like a wrestler, had indeed scolded Donghae thoroughly before prescribing a brutal regimen of core stabilization. Jihye handled the outgoing statement—a brief mention of Donghae taking a planned hiatus for physical therapy after the tour’s rigors. The viral fancam story was gently steered toward admiration for his dedication.
Packing was quiet, a shared task of folding soft fabrics into duffel bags. Donghae caught Hyukjae slipping in a heat pad, the new bottle of anti-inflammatories, and the embroidered cherry blossom quilt from their bed.
“For the drive,” Hyukjae said, catching his look. “It’s long. You’ll need to adjust your position often.”
They left Seoul just after dawn, the city shedding its nighttime glitter for a pale, metallic grey. Hyukjae drove, his hands relaxed on the wheel. Donghae watched the urban sprawl gradually unravel into open fields and patches of woodland, the landscape softening.
The silence between them was comfortable, filled by the road’s hum and the low folk playlist Hyukjae favored for long drives. Donghae felt the coiled tension in his own body—the performer’s constant readiness—begin to unwind, thread by thread.
“Remember that summer we drove down for the seafood festival?” Donghae asked, his head resting against the window. “We got recognized at the grill and had to eat in the car.”
“The car smelled like grilled mackerel for a week,” Hyukjae said, a smile in his voice. “Worth it.”
“It was.” Donghae watched a river flash by, a silver ribbon in the morning sun. “This feels different. It’s not a escape. It’s a… recalibration.”
“It’s medical leave,” Hyukjae stated, ever literal. But then he added, softer, “Recalibration sounds better, though. Put that on the form.”
The hours melted. Donghae dozed, lulled by the motion and the profound safety of not being the one in charge. When he woke, the air had changed. It carried a damp, briny weight. The scent of salt, mud, and distant fish markets.
Mokpo.
Hyukjae navigated the familiar streets with a relaxed ease, away from the bustling port, up into a quieter hillside neighborhood of low, traditional houses and twisting alleys. He pulled into the narrow driveway of a weathered but tidy blue-tiled home. The porch light was already on, a yellow beacon in the gathering twilight.
“Home,” Hyukjae said, cutting the engine. The word meant something different here. It wasn’t their Seoul apartment, a curated haven. This was a root. A place where the wind came straight from the sea.
Donghae stepped out, stretching his back cautiously. The air was cool and thick, filling his lungs differently. He could hear the distant, mournful blast of a ship’s horn from the harbor. The quiet was profound, broken only by rustling leaves and a neighbor’s distant television.
Hyukjae unlocked the front door, pushing it open to reveal a shadowy main room smelling of polished wood and dried herbs. He flicked a switch, and warm light illuminated a space frozen in a gentler time: worn but clean floor cushions, a low table, family photos on the wall charting Hyukjae’s growth from a gawky teen to the sharp-featured man beside him.
“It’s just us,” Hyukjae said, dropping the bags inside the door. His voice echoed slightly in the empty house. “The whole world is somewhere else.”
Donghae walked in, his socked feet quiet on the wooden floor. He stopped before a photo of the two of them, maybe ten years younger, arms slung around each other’s necks on this very porch, faces sunburnt and grinning. They looked impossibly young, the weight of tours and companies and a thousand sapphire-lit stages not yet fully etched into their smiles.
He felt Hyukjae come up behind him, not touching, just standing close enough for Donghae to feel his presence as a solid warmth.
“The clinic is at nine tomorrow,” Hyukjae murmured, his breath disturbing the air by Donghae’s ear. “No arguments.”
“No arguments,” Donghae agreed, still staring at their younger selves. He leaned back, just slightly, until his shoulders met Hyukjae’s chest. The drive was over. The city was gone. Here, there was only the salt in the air, the ghost of their laughter in a photograph, and the long, quiet work of healing ahead.