Chapter 2: Vocal Booth Interruption (The Trick That Always Works)
The pancakes had been perfect, golden and buttery. The sushi, later, had been consumed in a comfortable sprawl on the living room floor. But now, in the stark reality of the recording studio, all that comfort felt like a distant, gauzy dream.
The studio was a tomb of polished soundproofing. Red ‘RECORDING’ lights glowed like malevolent eyes from the control room behind the thick glass. Donghae stood alone in the vocal booth, headphones clamped tight, the world outside reduced to a muffled hum. The guide track for ‘Rocket’ played in his ears—a driving, propulsive beat that usually felt like freedom. Today, it felt like a countdown.
His throat was tight. The coffee he’d chugged sat acid in his stomach. Through the glass, he could see his producer, Youngwoon, nodding encouragingly. It felt like pity.
“Take eleven, ‘Rocket,’” crackled the intercom. Youngwoon’s voice was calm, professional. “Whenever you’re ready, Donghae-ssi.”
Donghae closed his eyes. He thought of Hyukjae’s words from the dawn-lit bedroom. Rooms for you to move into. He opened his mouth. The first verse came out thin, technical. Perfectly on key, utterly lifeless. He pushed into the pre-chorus, straining for the emotion he knew was in the lyrics he’d written. It sounded like strain. Like effort.
“Cut.” A sigh filtered through the headphones. “Let’s take five. Drink some water, hyung. You’re thinking too hard.”
Thinking too hard. The criticism was a dull knife twist. He ripped the headphones off, the sudden silence ringing louder than the music. He shoved the heavy booth door open and stalked into the control room. The air was cold, smelled of ozone and spent ambition.
“I’m trying,” Donghae muttered, grabbing a water bottle.
“I know you are,” Youngwoon said, swiveling in his chair. “But it’s getting tense in there. I can hear the worry. It’s flattening your tone.”
“What do you want me to do?” Donghae’s voice rose, edged with frustration. “Smile? It’s a song about chasing a dream that feels like it’s getting further away, not a birthday party.”
Before Youngwoon could answer, the main studio door swung open with a soft whoosh of air. Hyukjae walked in, dressed in a simple black hoodie and sweatpants, a beanie pulled low over his hair. He had two paper cups of something steaming in his hands.
“Am I interrupting a funeral?” Hyukjae asked, his voice cutting through the tension. He handed a cup to a surprised Youngwoon. “Americano.” Then he held the other out to Donghae. “Honey tea. For the vocal cords.”
Donghae took it, his fingers brushing Hyukjae’s. “What are you doing here?”
“Our CEO meeting got moved. Thought I’d see how the rooms were looking.” Hyukjae’s eyes were sharp, missing nothing. He glanced at the waveform on the massive screen, the spiky, anxious peaks of Donghae’s last take. “Sounds a bit… polite in there.”
Youngwoon snorted. “Polite is one word for it.”
Donghae flushed, humiliation warming his cheeks. He looked at the floor. “I can’t find it. The feeling. It’s just… me in there. And it’s not enough.”
Hyukjae was quiet for a moment. He took a sip of his own coffee, studying Donghae. Then he set the cup down on the console with a decisive click. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’m going in.” Hyukjae started toward the vocal booth.
“What? No, you can’t—” Youngwoon began, but Hyukjae just waved a hand.
“I’m not singing. I’m a prop.” He looked back at Donghae. “You coming? Or are you going to stand out here and feel sorry for yourself?”
The challenge was so blunt, so utterly Hyukjae, that Donghae found himself following, tea forgotten. He trailed Hyukjae back into the booth, the door shutting behind them with a final, soft thud. It was smaller with two people. The air grew warm, close.
Hyukjae picked up the spare pair of headphones, not putting them on, just holding them. He leaned against the acoustic paneling, arms crossed. “Go on. Take twelve.”
“With you staring at me?”
“Yes.”
The intercom light went on. Youngwoon’s voice, amused now, said, “Rolling.”
The track started again. Donghae fumbled the headphones back on. He could feel Hyukjae’s gaze like a physical weight. He sang, his voice wobbling on the first line, self-conscious.
Hyukjae pushed off the wall. In two steps he was directly in front of Donghae, inside his personal space, inside the bubble of music. He didn’t touch the headphones. He just put his hands on either side of Donghae’s face, his palms cool against Donghae’s heated skin. He pressed their foreheads together.
Donghae’s breath caught. The music pulsed in his ears.
“Stop singing to a microphone,” Hyukjae growled, his voice low, meant only for him. “You’re not forty in a booth. You’re twenty. We’re in a sweaty club in Hongdae, the speakers are feedbacking, and I just tripped over a cable.” His thumbs brushed Donghae’s cheekbones. “The crowd is screaming so loud you can’t hear yourself. So you sing louder. You sing to me, because I’m the only thing you can see. You’re dragging me back onstage by my collar because I’m about to fall into the pit. Sing it like that.”
The words bypassed his brain, shooting straight into his nervous system. Twenty. Sweat, chaos, the terrifying, exhilarating roar of a crowd that belonged to them. To him. He wasn’t alone in a room. He was trying to be heard over the noise.
Donghae’s eyes snapped open. He met Hyukjae’s intense, focused stare. He took a sharp, deep breath, and as the pre-chorus built, he opened his mouth again.
This time, it wasn’t thin. It wasn’t polite. It was a raw, grating thing that started deep in his chest and tore its way out. He wasn’t singing about a dream. He was yelling at the distance, defiant, angry, alive. He filled the empty spaces with the memory of sticky stages and shared microphones, with Hyukjae’s hands on his face right now, an anchor in the present. His voice cracked, but he let it crack, pushing through into a clear, powerful belt for the chorus that vibrated in the small booth.
Hyukjae didn’t smile. He just held his gaze, nodding slowly, a fierce confirmation in his eyes. Yes. Like that.
When the final note faded, Donghae was panting, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence in the headphones was different now. It was ringing, alive.
Hyukjae finally let go of his face, his hands sliding down to grip Donghae’s shoulders briefly before he stepped back. He picked up the discarded headphones and put them to one ear, listening.
The intercom stayed silent for three long seconds. Then Youngwoon’s voice came through, stripped of all professional calm, buzzing with pure excitement. “That’s… that’s the one. God, that’s the one. Don’t move. Don’t even breathe. We’re doing another take right now, while you’re still there.”
Hyukjae pulled the headphone away and finally smiled, a small, proud curve of his lips. He reached out and squeezed the back of Donghae’s neck. “See?” he murmured. “Not so empty.”
Donghae looked at him, the adrenaline still coursing through him, the echo of the take clinging to the air. The pressure hadn’t vanished. The album was still a mountain. But for the first time, standing in the booth still buzzing with the energy they’d created, he felt like he might actually have the tools to climb it. He picked up his headphones, ready for take thirteen.
He picked up his headphones, ready for take thirteen. The air in the booth still vibrated with the ragged energy of the previous take, and this time, when the track began, Donghae didn’t hesitate. He chased that feeling, that raw, defiant thread Hyukjae had pulled loose inside him. He sang like he was arguing, like he was proving a point, his voice filling every corner of the soundproofed space.
Youngwoon didn’t call for a take fourteen. He just gave a sharp thumbs-up through the glass, his grin wide and real. “We have it,” the intercom announced, the relief palpable. “That’s the master.”
Donghae lowered the headphones, his ears ringing in the new silence. He turned. Hyukjae was already slipping out of the booth door, a ghost of a smile on his face as he left Donghae to it, his job as a prop complete. The simple exit was its own kind of language. You don’t need me in here anymore.
The following weeks blurred into a grueling, exhilarating rhythm. Dawn sessions, late-night mixes, endless tiny adjustments that felt monumental. Donghae moved through the tracks—some bittersweet, some aggressive, one hauntingly quiet—each a different room he had to learn to inhabit alone. He thought of Hyukjae’s words constantly. He pictured dragging him onstage during the angry songs. He imagined his quiet listening during the fragile ones.
He drank too much coffee. He forgot to eat twice, resulting in a delivered box of gimbap appearing mysteriously in the control room. The scent of lavender on his own pillow at night became a signal to his body that it was finally safe to collapse.
The final day arrived without fanfare. The last note, a lingering, sustained vocal on a ballad called ‘Anchor,’ faded. The red light on the console winked out.
Youngwoon leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s it, hyung. All nine. They’re done.”
Donghae stood in the dead center of the live room, not the booth. He’d sung the last one standing right here, needing the space. The silence was absolute, a physical presence. He waited for the crash, the relief, the panic. It didn’t come. A strange, buoyant stillness took its place. It was just… done.
He walked out into the hallway, his body light. The sterile corridor felt different. The weight was gone. He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed a message. It’s finished.
The reply was instant. My office. Now.
Hyukjae’s office was all clean lines and muted tones, a stark contrast to the creative chaos of the studios. He was behind the wide desk, glasses perched on his nose, scrolling through a financial report. He looked every bit the CEO. He glanced up as Donghae entered, closed the laptop, and removed his glasses.
“So?” Hyukjae said. “How do the rooms feel?”
“Furnished,” Donghae replied, a slow smile spreading across his face. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The buoyant feeling was morphing into something giddier. “Crowded, even.”
“Good.” Hyukjae stood and came around the desk. He stopped in front of Donghae, his eyes searching his face. He saw the faint shadows, the tiredness, but also a new steadiness underneath. He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You look like you survived.”
“Barely,” Donghae said, his tone shifting into a playful whine. He let his head tilt, a look he’d perfected over twenty-five years specifically for this man. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I feel… depleted. Hollowed out.”
Hyukjae raised an eyebrow, seeing the act for what it was. “Do you.”
“Mhm.” Donghae pushed off the doorframe and took a half-step closer, into Hyukjae’s space. He tapped a finger lightly on Hyukjae’s chest. “The artist is fragile. The CEO should probably consider some… post-production support. Incentive, maybe.”
A laugh escaped Hyukjae, short and surprised. “Incentive.”
“A treat,” Donghae clarified, his eyes wide and mock-innocent. The adrenaline of completion was fizzing in his veins, demanding an outlet. He let his voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur. “Don’t you think I deserve a treat for completing this? All nine tracks. I didn’t break anything. Or anyone.”
Hyukjae looked at him, at the familiar, teasing glint that had been buried under weeks of anxiety. It was back. He reached out and hooked a finger in the belt loop of Donghae’s jeans, pulling him the final inch closer. “A treat,” he repeated, his voice low and warm. “Like more sushi?”
“Think bigger, CEO-nim,” Donghae whispered, his hands coming to rest on Hyukjae’s hips. “I was thinking something involving zero travel. Your undivided attention. And maybe that bottle of whisky you’ve been hiding in the bottom drawer since last anniversary.”
Hyukjae’s smile was slow, knowing, and entirely predatory. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Donghae’s ear. “Your treat,” he murmured, “is that I’m not making you sit through the initial marketing plan meeting tomorrow.”
Donghae groaned, dropping his forehead onto Hyukjae’s shoulder. “That’s cruel. That’s not a treat, that’s a threat.”
“It is a treat,” Hyukjae insisted, his arms wrapping around him, solid and real. “And the whisky. And my undivided attention.” He pulled back just enough to meet Donghae’s gaze, his own softening around the edges. “You do deserve it. All of it. Every single note.”
The genuine praise, quiet and direct, unknotted the last bit of tension in Donghae’s spine. He sighed, melting into the embrace. The treat was already here, in this room. The promise of the whisky, the reprieve from the meeting, the quiet pride in Hyukjae’s hold—it was all part of the same unspoken language they’d built for twenty-five years. The album was finished. This, right here, was the reward.
Hyukjae’s hands slid up his back, a firm press through his thin shirt. “Then let’s go collect it.”
He disentangled himself, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of his chair. His movements were efficient, decisive. Donghae watched, the playful tension coiling in his gut. “Go where? It’s barely seven.”
“Exactly,” Hyukjae said, slipping his arms into the jacket. “The building is still half-empty. We can sneak out before the night-shift producers ambush you for congratulations.” He nodded toward the door. “My car. Not the office.”
The underground garage was a concrete cavern, echoing with the click of Hyukjae’s boots and the distant hum of a ventilation system. His black sedan waited, nondescript. Hyukjae opened the passenger door, a silent command. Donghae slid in, the familiar scent of the car’s leather interior and Hyukjae’s cologne wrapping around him. It was different from the office, from the studio. A defined, private space.
Hyukjae drove without speaking, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Donghae’s thigh. The city lights streaked past the windows, smears of neon against the twilight. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was a blanket. Donghae let his head fall back against the headrest, watching the world blur. The frantic energy of the studio, the final, soaring note of ‘Anchor,’ the weight of completion—it all began to settle into a quiet, humming exhaustion deep in his bones.
They didn’t go home. Hyukjae pulled into the parking lot of a discreet hanok-style boutique hotel in Seongbuk-dong, one with high walls and shaded lanterns. He parked and turned off the engine. The sudden quiet was profound.
“What is this?” Donghae asked, peering at the elegantly rustic facade.
“A place with no track lights, no mixing boards, and no employees who call me ‘CEO-nim,’” Hyukjae said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Your treat requires a change of scenery.”
A staff member in serene, traditional dress led them through a courtyard garden, the sounds of a tiny water feature trickling over stones. Their room was a masterpiece of minimalist wood and paper, dominated by a wide, low platform bed and a view of the raked gravel garden. The door shut with a whisper.
Hyukhae tossed his jacket onto a chair. He turned, leaning back against the dark wood of the doorframe, and just looked at Donghae standing in the center of the unfamiliar room. “There,” he said softly. “No office.”
The reality of the space, its profound quiet, finally reached Donghae. The last of his performer’s tension dissolved. A slow, deep breath left his lungs, one he felt like he’d been holding for months. “It’s silent,” he murmured.
“I know.” Hyukjae pushed off the doorframe and walked toward him. He didn’t embrace him immediately. He stopped close enough for Donghae to feel his body heat. His eyes traced the lines of Donghae’s face, the slight slackening of his jaw, the soft surrender in his posture. “You filled all the rooms. Now you get to be empty for a while.”
He brought his hands up, not to frame Donghae’s face like in the studio, but to cradle it. His thumbs swept gently over the arches of Donghae’s cheekbones. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to Donghae’s forehead. It was a slow, deliberate kiss, warm and dry. A seal.
He kissed the corner of his right eye, where stress liked to gather. Then the corner of his left. Donghae’s eyelids fluttered shut. Hyukjae’s mouth moved to his temple, a whisper of contact against his skin.
Each kiss was a period at the end of a sentence. A quiet, physical affirmation. Hyukjae kissed the high point of his cheekbone, then the faint laugh line beside his mouth. He was mapping the landscape of Donghae’s exhaustion, marking it with a gentleness that demanded nothing in return.
Donghae stood perfectly still, receiving it. The tender assault dismantled him more effectively than any celebration ever could. His hands, which had been hanging at his sides, came up to clutch weakly at Hyukjae’s sweater.
Hyukjae finally brushed his lips over Donghae’s, once, twice, a barely-there promise. He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath mingling with Donghae’s. “The whisky is in my bag,” he murmured. “But this first.”
“This is better,” Donghae breathed, his voice rough.
Hyukjae smiled, a small, private thing. He dipped his head again, peppering a soft, quick series of kisses along Donghae’s jawline, down to the pulse point just below his ear. Donghae shivered. The sensation was so simple, so focused. It wasn’t about passion. It was about attention. A meticulous, loving reclamation of the body that had been just an instrument for so long.
“You did it,” Hyukjae whispered against his skin, between kisses. “Every song. All by yourself.”
The words, paired with the physical devotion, unlocked something. A quiet, vulnerable sound escaped Donghae’s throat. He turned his face, catching Hyukjae’s mouth properly with his own. This kiss was deeper, a slow welling-up of gratitude and relief. Hyukjae’s arms came around him, solid and sure, holding him together as he finally, fully, let go.
When they parted, foreheads touching, Donghae was floating. The silence of the room was no longer empty. It was full of this.
Hyukjae smoothed a strand of hair behind Donghae’s ear. “Still want that drink?”
Donghae considered it. The warmth spreading through him had nothing to do with alcohol. He shook his head slowly, a drowsy, contented movement. “Later,” he whispered.
He let Hyukjae guide him to the edge of the vast bed. He sat, compliant, as Hyukjae knelt and gently removed his shoes, then his own. Hyukjae nudged him back onto the soft duvet, then stretched out beside him, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at him. He resumed his quiet work, placing a soft kiss on Donghae’s chin, another on the tip of his nose.
Donghae laughed, a breathy, exhausted sound. “You’re like a… very thorough finishing school.”
“Shut up,” Hyukjae said, his tone fond. He kissed Donghae’s closed eyelids. “I’m celebrating.”
Outside, the city continued its indifferent roar. In here, there was only the sound of their breathing, and the soft, loving punctuation of Hyukjae’s lips on his skin. The album was out of him. It existed. And here, in this quiet room, he existed too—not as a CEO, or an idol, or a solo artist, but simply as a man being adored, piece by piece, kiss by kiss. The treat, it turned out, wasn’t a thing at all. It was a process. A homecoming.