Chapter 16: Third Round Reckoning
The cream was a stupid, decadent idea.
It had started in the kitchen, with Hyukjae trying to be helpful, handing Donghae a mug of coffee. Their fingers had brushed. The look that passed between them was electric, a leftover current from the wreckage of their morning. Hyukjae had smiled, that soft, knowing smile, and Donghae had felt the fragile peace inside him splinter.
He didn’t want peace. He wanted obliteration. One more time. To scorch the anxiety out through his pores.
He’d put the mug down, never breaking eye contact, and opened the refrigerator. The whipped cream canister was there from some forgotten dessert. He picked it up. The cold metal hissed in his hand.
Back in the bedroom, with Hyukjae watching him from the bed, a question in his eyes, Donghae didn’t speak. He shook the canister, the ball bearing rattling like a nervous pulse. Then he aimed it at his own inner thigh, just above the knee, and pressed the nozzle.
The sound was obscene in the quiet room. A frothy, white dollop landed on his skin, startlingly cold. He did it again, a second spurt higher up. The chill made him gasp. He met Hyukjae’s gaze, now dark with understanding and a flicker of something wild.
Donghae climbed onto the bed, straddling Hyukjae’s thighs. The cream was already beginning to melt, a slick, cool trail against Hyukjae’s heated skin. Donghae leaned forward, capturing Hyukjae’s mouth in a kiss that was all tongue and desperate heat. He could taste the coffee, the sleep, the him.
He broke the kiss, breathing harshly. “You’re still so hard for me,” he purred, his voice rough. He left a wet, open-mouthed trail along the line of Hyukjae’s jaw, down the tendon of his neck, biting just hard enough to sting. The cream smeared between them, sticky and cool.
Hyukjae’s hands came up to grip Donghae’s hips, his fingers digging in. “You’re a mess,” he breathed, but it sounded like worship.
“Your mess,” Donghae corrected, rolling his hips in a slow, filthy circle. He felt Hyukjae beneath him, thick and insistent. “Gonna milk you dry on my cock one more time, birthday boy.” The words were a dare, a promise, a last resort.
He reached between them, guiding Hyukjae inside him. The entry was easier now, slick with more than just lube, but the stretch was still profound, still a shock. He sank down in one fluid, relentless motion, a wanton moan tearing from his throat as he took him to the hilt.
He rode him. Slow, then deep. A punishing, sensual rhythm that had less to do with pleasure and everything to do with conquest. He was conquering his own fear, using Hyukjae’s body as the battlefield. Each downward plunge was an attack on the parts of himself that whispered he wasn’t enough, that the stage lift was an omen, that the solo album would be a public, spectacular failure.
Hyukjae watched him, mesmerized. His hands slid up Donghae’s torso, smearing the remnants of the cream, mapping the trembling muscles of his abdomen and chest. He didn’t try to take control. He gave it, completely. He was the altar, and Donghae was the sacrifice and the priest.
“That’s it,” Hyukjae whispered, his voice wrecked. “Use me. Take it. Take everything.”
Donghae’s rhythm grew more frantic, less controlled. The slick, wet sounds of their joining filled the room. He was chasing something just out of reach, a final erasure. He leaned back, bracing his hands on Hyukjae’s knees, arching his spine, presenting himself fully. The movement shifted the angle, and Hyukjae hit a spot that made Donghae see stars.
“There—fuck, right there, don’t stop—” he begged, his composure shattering.
Hyukjae’s own control snapped. His hips pistoned up, meeting Donghae’s downward slams with brutal force. “Hae—I’m gonna—”
“Do it.” Donghae clenched around him, milking him, forcing it. “Fill me. Leave your mark. I want to carry you into that studio.”
The command was all it took. Hyukjae cried out, a guttural, broken sound, as he spilled inside him, his body bowing off the bed. The hot, pulsing flood triggered Donghae’s own release, a sharp, violent clenching that left him shaking and empty.
He collapsed forward, chest heaving against Hyukjae’s. They were both sticky, smeared with cream and sweat and come, a gloriously ruined tangle. Hyukjae’s arms came around him, holding him through the tremors.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing syncing, slowing.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed. 10:17 AM.
Reality, cold and procedural, seeped back in. The vocal session. The producer. The microphone waiting in a soundproofed room that would magnify every hesitation.
Donghae stirred. He didn’t want to move. He wanted to fossilize in this bed, in this mess, with this man.
“You have to shower,” Hyukjae murmured into his hair, his voice thick with spent passion. “You reek of me and dairy. It’s not a professional scent.”
A laugh, weak but real, bubbled out of Donghae. He pushed himself up, wincing at the deep, familiar ache. He looked down at Hyukjae, who was gazing up at him with an expression of such profound, uncomplicated love it was almost painful.
“I don’t want to go,” Donghae whispered, the truth finally laid bare without the filter of lust.
“I know.” Hyukjae reached up, wiping a smear of cream from Donghae’s cheekbone with his thumb. “But you will. And you’ll be incredible.”
The shower was too hot, the water needling his sensitive skin. He scrubbed mechanically, watching the evidence of their morning swirl down the drain. The mirror was fogged. He didn’t wipe it. He didn’t want to see his own face.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, Hyukjae was in the kitchen. Clean, dressed in soft grey sweats, making a fresh pot of coffee. The domestic normalcy of it was an anchor.
“Eat this,” Hyukjae said, sliding a plate with two pieces of buttered toast across the island. “Fuel. Not a request.”
Donghae ate. The toast was tasteless, but he swallowed it. Hyukjae leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee, watching him.
“The song,” Hyukjae said. “‘The Last.’ It’s not a sad song.”
Donghae looked up, mid-chew.
“It’s a defiant one,” Hyukjae continued, his eyes clear and certain. “It’s you saying ‘I’m still here.’ After everything. After the lift, after the fucking… existential terror of turning forty and doing this alone for the first time. It’s you spitting in the face of the ending. So sing it like that. Not like a goodbye. Like a challenge.”
Donghae put the toast down. He hadn’t thought of it that way. He’d only felt the weight of it.
His phone buzzed. His manager was downstairs.
The panic, a cold, sharp knife, twisted in his gut again. His hands went clammy. He looked at Hyukjae, his eyes wide, silently pleading.
Hyukjae came around the island. He didn’t hug him. He put his hands on Donghae’s shoulders, firm and grounding. He looked him directly in the eye.
“Listen to me. You are Lee Donghae. You helped build a kingdom. You’ve survived scandals, injuries, armies of fans, and me for twenty-five years. A microphone is nothing. A song is nothing.” He shook him gently. “It’s just you and the music. That’s all it’s ever been. That’s all it needs to be today. You and the music. Go remind them why they fell in love with you in the first place.”
The words didn’t magically dissolve the fear. But they built a structure around it, something Donghae could lean on. He took a shuddering breath, then nodded.
He dressed in silence: black jeans, a simple grey hoodie. He felt the phantom sensation of Hyukjae inside him with every movement, a secret comfort.
At the door, he hesitated. Hyukjae leaned in and kissed him, not deeply, but firmly. A stamp. A seal.
“Step,” Hyukjae whispered against his lips.
Donghae walked out the door.
The car ride was a blur. The ODE building loomed, glass and steel. His legs felt like water as he walked through the lobby, ignoring the bows from staff. The elevator to the recording studios was a silent ascent.
The producer, a young guy with kind eyes, greeted him in the control room. “Ready, sunbaenim?”
Donghae looked through the glass into the live room. The microphone stood alone in the center, a cold, sleek pillar in the diffused light. He thought of the island. Of Hyukjae’s breath on his neck. Of the stage lift and the arms that caught him. Of cream on hot skin and a voice whispering you and the music.
“Yeah,” Donghae said, his voice surprising him with its steadiness. “Let’s do it.”
He walked into the live room. The door sealed behind him with a soft, definitive thud. Silence, thick and expectant, pressed in. He adjusted the headphones. His hands were not shaking.
He looked at the lyric sheet on the stand. The Last. He remembered Hyukjae’s words. A challenge.
He nodded to the producer through the glass.
The first haunting piano notes filtered into his headphones. He closed his eyes. He didn’t see the studio. He saw the ocean at dusk from their island suite. He felt the ghost of a grip on his hips.
He opened his mouth. And took the step.
The first note that came out was clean. It was strong. It was his.
It was his.
The vocal took shape in the booth, a raw and defiant thing that built brick by brick from the foundation of that first clean note. He didn’t just sing “The Last.” He confronted it. Each phrase was a reinvention, a reclamation. By the final, soaring ad-lib, his throat was raw but his chest was light, the phantom weight of the solo album shifting from a boulder to a stone he could carry.
The producer’s voice crackled through the headphones. “Wow. Okay. That was… not what I expected, sunbaenim. In the best way.”
Donghae stepped out of the booth, his muscles humming. “It wasn’t what I expected either.” He accepted a water bottle, the cold liquid a shock. “What’s next?”
“The guide for the title track is ready,” the producer said, clicking a file open. “It’s a different vibe. Softer. We thought it would be a good palette cleanser.”
The first few piano chords filtered into the room. They were simple, unadorned. A gentle, walking tempo. Donghae leaned against the mixing desk, listening as a familiar melody unfolded. It wasn’t grand. It felt like sunlight on a dusty floorboard, like the quiet moment after a first sip of coffee.
A smile, unbidden and soft, touched his lips. “This is the one Hyukjae called ‘the morning song.’”
The producer nodded. “He said you’d know. He listened to the demo last week and said, and I quote, ‘This smells like Donghae’s favorite sweater.’”
A laugh burst out of him, real and bright. It echoed in the sterile room. That was it exactly. The song didn’t demand drama. It didn’t ask for a performance. It just sat there, warm and patient, like Hyukjae’s hand on the back of his neck after a long day. It was about choosing happiness in ordinary moments. Waking up and deciding today could be good. Finding light even when things felt heavy.
“Let’s do it,” Donghae said, his voice quiet.
Back in the booth, the atmosphere had fundamentally changed. The lights seemed gentler. He closed his eyes, not to escape, but to settle. He thought of the stupid whipped cream. The way Hyukjae’s laughter had felt against his skin before it dissolved into something else. He thought of toast on a kitchen island, and a voice telling him he’d built a kingdom.
He opened his mouth and began to sing.
It wasn’t loud positivity. It was quiet, comforting. A vocal touch so gentle it felt like reassurance. He sang of small, quiet joys, his tone warm and people-oriented, a direct channel to the most genuine part of himself. The one that worried, that loved too fiercely, that got scared. The song didn’t deny the fear. It simply sat beside it and whispered, It’s okay. Let’s take today slowly. It can still be a good day.
He wasn’t spitting a challenge anymore. He was offering a hand.
The take was flawless in its ease. He did it in one pass, the emotions flowing out unimpeded by technique or anxiety. When the last note faded, a profound silence filled the booth. It wasn’t empty. It was peaceful.
The producer’s voice was hushed. “We… we got it. That’s the master. I don’t think we should touch it.”
Donghae opened his eyes. He felt drained, but clean. The frantic energy from the penthouse, the defiant fire of “The Last,” had burned down to embers, leaving this soft, glowing warmth. He’d captured it. The feeling of a day that feels like hope.
He left the booth. The producer was grinning, shaking his head. “You just laid down the title track in one take. I’ve never seen that. Hyukjae-ssi was right. It is you.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message lit up the screen.
Hyukjae: Did you remind them?
Donghae’s thumbs moved over the screen, a real, unforced smile on his face.
Donghae: No. I reminded me.
Hyukjae: Same thing. Your voice okay? You sound rough in my head.
Donghae: It’s fine. I recorded “Good Day.”
There was a long pause. Then three dots appeared.
Hyukjae: The morning song? Tell me you didn’t cry.
Donghae: I didn’t cry. I think I… smiled. While singing.
Hyukjae: That’s worse. That’s devastating. I’m gonna need audio proof. Come home. I’ll make soup.
Donghae looked up at the producer. “Are we done?”
“We’re done. Go celebrate. Or rest. You sound like you’ve lived ten lives in three hours.”
The elevator ride down felt different. The weight in his stomach was gone, replaced by a floating, tentative lightness. He stepped out into the lobby, the late afternoon sun slicing through the glass walls. It painted everything in long, golden shadows.
His manager materialized at his side. “How was it?”
Donghae took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of polished floors and distant coffee. He could still feel the ghost of cream, the ache of good use, the warmth of a simple melody sitting in his ribs.
“It was,” he said, the words feeling utterly true for the first time that day, “a good day.”
The confidence from that first day proved brittle, but it was a foundation. The next two weeks became a grueling, beautiful osmosis where Donghae’s body learned the new rhythm of solitude. Mornings often started with a voice still rough from the previous day’s recording, a throat sore from pushing too hard on a bridge, a mind cluttered with a producer’s technical notes. He drank enough honey tea to float a ship.
He recorded the upbeat tracks for ‘Alive’ first, needing their energy to fuel him. The songs were bright, synthesizers weaving through rhythms that made his body want to move even as he stood anchored to the microphone. He’d finish a take, sweating under the studio lights, and for a fleeting moment, he’d miss the shared glance across a stage, the unspoken you take this part built over decades. The silence after the music cut was his alone to fill.
“It feels empty,” he confessed to Hyukjae over a late video call one night, his face bleached by his phone screen in the dark bedroom. He was in Seoul. Hyukjae was back in Taiwan for final commitments.
“It’s not empty,” Hyukjae corrected, his voice tinny but firm. “It’s spacious. You’re just used to sharing all the space with fifteen other dudes. Now you get to put your shit everywhere. All over the walls. It’s your room, Hae. Decorate it.”
The analogy stuck. He started treating each song like a room he was furnishing. This one needed the warmth of a specific guitar riff there, a whispered ad-lib in that corner. The vocal director, a patient woman with a hawk’s ear, began to note a shift. “You’re not just hitting notes anymore, sunbaenim. You’re placing them.”
The physicality of it surprised him. By the end of the first week, a different fatigue set in, deep in the marrow. It was the exhaustion of sustained, uninterrupted emotional output. No one to tag out to. No one to share the lyrical load. He’d come home, his voice a ghost of itself, and collapse into the silence of the penthouse. He’d replay his own takes, critiquing, nitpicking, sometimes just listening in a state of numb disbelief. That’s me. All of it.
The music video filming was a different kind of beast. It was performative, but solitary. A grand set built just for him. They shot the choreography sequences for the title track first—sharp, aggressive movements that left his muscles burning. The director kept shouting for more intensity in his eyes. “It’s just you! There’s no one to play off! Your eyes have to tell the whole story!”
On the third day of filming, a different set was constructed: a warm, sun-dappled kitchen for ‘Good Day.’ The crew filled it with real baking props, flour dusting the counters, bowls of real fruit. The atmosphere was lighter, the crew’s chatter softer. Donghae felt his shoulders drop an inch.
“Your mother is here, sunbaenim,” his manager whispered, touching his arm.
He turned. There she was, being gently ushered onto the set by an assistant. She was dressed beautifully, a soft lavender cardigan over a neat dress, her hands clasped nervously. She looked small under the high, hot lights. His heart squeezed. He hadn’t seen her in weeks.
“Eomma,” he said, crossing to her quickly. He took her hands. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”
“And miss my son’s first solo video?” she chided, her eyes already shiny. She reached up and patted his cheek, then smoothed his eyebrow, a gesture from his childhood. “You look tired. Are you eating?”
“Yes, eomma.”
“Liar,” she said, but she was smiling.
The director explained her role: simply to be there, at the kitchen table, watching him with a quiet smile as he moved around the set pretending to bake. She was to be the embodiment of the song’s comfort. No lines. Just presence.
They started rolling. Donghae moved through the choreographed domesticity—pouring pretend coffee, smiling at nothing. His focus was split, part on the camera, a larger part on her. He’d glance over. She’d be sitting perfectly still, her hands in her lap, and then she’d catch his eye and the most natural, unscripted smile would break across her face. It wasn’t an actress’s smile. It was a mother’s smile, full of pride and a lifetime of love. The camera saw it. The director let it run.
During a lighting change, as crew swarmed around them, a familiar figure in a black cap and mask appeared at the far edge of the set, leaning against a lighting crate. Hyukjae had flown in.
Donghae felt the sight of him like a physical wave of relief. He made a small movement to go to him, but Hyukjae shook his head minutely, a clear do your job. He just stood there, a solid, watchful presence in the chaos.
The next take was the best one. Donghae’s movements lost their last bit of stiffness. His smile felt real, reaching his eyes.
When the director finally called cut, Donghae went straight to his mother, hugging her tightly. “You were perfect,” he murmured into her hair.
“It was easy,” she whispered back. “I was just looking at my son.”
As Donghae led her off the set to a chair, Hyukjae approached. He pulled his mask down.
“Ah, Hyukjae-ah!” Donghae’s mother’s face lit up with a different kind of joy. She opened her arms.
“Eomeonim,” Hyukjae said, his voice warm as he bent into her hug. He was good with her, always had been. Respectful but familiar.
“You look thin too,” she scolded, holding him at arm’s length. “Is he not feeding you either?” She jerked her head at Donghae.
Hyukjae laughed, a bright sound that cut through the studio hum. “He tries. He makes toast. Sometimes he even butters it.”
“Yah!” Donghae swatted at him, but he was grinning.
His mother looked between them, her expression softening into something profound and knowing. She patted Hyukjae’s hand where it rested on her arm. “You take good care of him. I see it. Even from far away, this mother’s heart sees it.”
Hyukjae’s playful demeanor melted into something more genuine, more vulnerable. He ducked his head slightly. “He’s doing all the hard work, eomeonim. I’m just… the audience.”
“The most important audience,” she corrected softly. She turned to Donghae. “My son is shining all by himself. But it’s good,” she said, her gaze encompassing both of them, “to have someone to come home to who saw you shine.”
The moment hung, warm and true, until a PA came over to discuss the next setup. Hyukjae squeezed Donghae’s shoulder. “Go. Be brilliant. I’ll take eomeonim for some coffee that isn’t pretend.”
Donghae watched them go, his mother looping her arm through Hyukjae’s, already talking animatedly. The tight, anxious coil that had lived in his chest for two weeks loosened another irrevocable turn.
The final day of filming was for the album’s cover shoot. The concept was simple: Donghae, bare-faced, in a plain white t-shirt, against a clean backdrop. The photographer wanted capture, not construction. “We’re not selling a fantasy. We’re selling a man. A man who’s… present.”
They played the rough mixes of the album through the studio speakers. As the music swelled—the defiance of ‘The Last,’ the warmth of ‘Good Day,’ the driving pulse of ‘Alive’—the photographer shot continuously. Donghae didn’t pose. He listened. He closed his eyes during the gentle parts, his face softening. He opened them during the crescendos, his gaze finding the lens with a directness that felt new.
Later, in the car home, utterly spent, Hyukjae scrolled through the camera roll on the photographer’s monitor, stolen via a quick phone snapshot.
“Look at this,” Hyukjae said, handing the phone over.
Donghae looked. It was a shot between takes. He was glancing off-camera, a slight, unguarded smile on his lips, his head tilted. He looked thoughtful. He looked his age. He looked, undeniably, like himself.
“You see it?” Hyukjae asked, his voice low.
Donghae stared at the image. He saw the faint lines by his eyes, the honesty in his expression. He saw not an idol, but a man immersed in the terrifying, thrilling act of his own creation. He saw the evidence of two weeks of labor, of fear, of small triumphs and his mother’s smile and his partner’s steady presence in the wings.
He saw what the album was finally, fully named.
He saw himself, Alive.