Chapter 1: Chapter 1
The suitcase was still open on the floor, a dark blue gaping mouth spilling out a pair of crumpled jeans and the soft sleeve of a hoodie. Taiwan. Hyukjae had been in Taiwan, and Donghae had slept alone in their bed for three nights, which was nothing, really, but it felt like a month. The doorframe was cool against his palm. He didn’t remember walking here, from the kitchen, through the quiet hall. His feet had just carried him, drawn to the source of the warmth, the scent, the presence.
He stood there, watching the slow rise and fall of Hyukjae’s back under the worn-in grey cotton of his t-shirt. Dawn was a thin, hesitant line of gold where the curtains didn’t quite meet. The room held its breath.
And then the weight of it all—the relentless meetings, the choreographer’s tapped foot, the producer’s endless “one more take,” the terrifying, yawning emptiness of a track waiting for his voice and his voice alone—crashed over him in a single, silent wave. His breath hitched, a soft, broken sound. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his sternum, as if he could physically hold himself together.
A tear tracked hot and sudden down his cheek. Then another. He didn’t sob. He just let them fall, a quiet leak from a pressure valve he’d screwed shut too tightly.
The shape in the bed shifted. Hyukjae turned over, his hair a messy dark cloud against the pillow. His eyes weren’t even fully open, just sleepy slits, but they found Donghae in the doorway instantly. There was no surprise. No “what’s wrong?” He just pushed the covers back with one arm and held it out, his palm facing the ceiling, an unspoken command.
Donghae crossed the room like a satellite pulled into orbit. He sank onto the edge of the mattress, his back to Hyukjae, his shoulders curling in. Wordlessly, Hyukjae sat up. His chest pressed against Donghae’s spine, solid and warm. His arms came around, crossing over Donghae’s heart, and he tucked his chin into the hollow of Donghae’s shoulder.
“It’s six in the morning,” Hyukjae mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. “Did you sleep at all?”
Donghae shook his head, a tiny movement. He covered Hyukjae’s hands with his own, gripping them like anchors.
Hyukjae hummed, a low vibration that traveled through both of them. He nuzzled the side of Donghae’s neck. “Your solo album.”
It wasn’t a question. Donghae nodded again, another tear slipping free. He felt so stupid. Forty years old. Twenty-five in this industry. A CEO. And here he was, crumbling because he had to sing by himself.
“It feels… too big,” Donghae whispered. The confession was wrenched out of him. “Everything rests on me. Just me. What if my choices are wrong? What if the song… what if I picked it just because I liked it, and everyone else hears it and thinks it’s nothing?”
Hyukjae’s fingers began to move, carding slowly through the hair at Donghae’s temples. The rhythm was familiar, methodical, a gentle unraveling of the knot between Donghae’s eyes.
“You liked it,” Hyukjae said simply. “That’s the point. It’s yours.” He paused, his breath warm on Donghae’s skin. “Remember our first concert? My mic pack came loose in the middle of ‘Miracle.’ I was swatting at my back like there was a bee in my shirt for the whole second verse.”
A faint, wet sound escaped Donghae—almost a laugh. “You looked insane.”
“I felt insane. But you. You just sidled over during the choreo, spun me around, and clipped it back on without missing a step. Didn’t even look at it. Just fixed it.” Hyukjae’s arms tightened slightly. “You’ve always been the one who fixes things. Now you’re making a thing of your own. It’s scarier. It should be.”
Donghae let his head fall back against Hyukjae’s shoulder, finally closing his eyes. The lavender from the sheets, the faint, clean scent of Hyukjae’s skin, it was weaving a quiet spell around the frantic pounding in his chest. “I keep hearing the spaces,” he admitted. “In the guide track. All these empty bars where no one else is supposed to be.”
“Mm.” Hyukjae shifted, turning Donghae gently in his arms until they were facing each other. He looked soft in the low light, his features blurred with sleep and affection. He wiped the dampness from Donghae’s cheeks with his thumbs. “Those aren’t empty spaces, Donghae-ya. They’re rooms for you to move into. You’ve been sharing a stage, a microphone, a life, for twenty-five years. It’s okay to walk into a room by yourself and see what’s there.”
The metaphor landed, quiet and profound. Donghae stared at him. “Since when are you a poet?”
“Since I had to deal with your catastrophic overthinking at dawn,” Hyukjae deadpanned, a grin tugging at his lips. Then it softened. “It’s going to be good. It’s you. How could it be anything else?”
He leaned in and kissed Donghae, slow and deep, a languid exchange of breath and reassurance. It tasted like sleep and home. Donghae melted into it, his hands coming up to cradle Hyukjae’s face, his earlier anxiety dissolving into the simple, physical reality of this man, here, now.
When they parted, Hyukjae pushed him down gently onto the pillows, following to slot himself around Donghae, chest to back, knees tucked behind knees. He dragged the duvet over them both, a warm, heavy weight.
“Sleep,” Hyukjae murmured into his hair. “The album can wait until the sun is actually up.”
“You just got back. You must be tired,” Donghae protested weakly, even as his body surrendered, sinking into the mattress, into the embrace.
Hyukjae snorted softly. “I’ve had three days of quiet hotel rooms. I missed the human octopus.” He draped an arm more firmly across Donghae’s waist. “Now shut up. We’re sleeping. And later, I want pancakes. And then you’re going to play me the track again, and I’m going to tell you it’s perfect, and you’re going to argue with me, and then we’ll order sushi and you’ll finally believe it.”
Donghae smiled into the pillow. The tectonic pressure behind his ribs had eased, replaced by a weary, grateful warmth. The suitcase on the floor was just a suitcase. The dawn light was just light. The empty bars in the music were just rooms. And he was not, technically, alone in them. Not really.
He listened to Hyukjae’s breathing even out behind him, syncing his own to its rhythm. Outside, Seoul began to stir, but in this room, time stretched, soft and forgiving. He held onto the promise in Hyukjae’s sleep-slurred voice: later. There would be pancakes, and argument, and sushi. There would be work. But first, there was this—the anchor of shared breath, and the quiet courage it lent him to face the day, and the music, when it came.