Chapter 9: Starlight Revelations
The air in the penthouse had lost its medicinal tinge, replaced by the clean scent of rain-washed concrete blowing in from the balcony. Donghae’s strength returned in increments, measured in full meals kept down, in walks that grew longer than just from the bed to the bathroom. The quiet, sun-drenched days of convalescence had been a strange, suspended pocket of time, filled with Hyukjae’s efficient tenderness and the low murmur of bad television.
Now, a different kind of nervous energy prickled under his skin.
“Do I look okay?” Donghae asked, staring at his reflection in the hallway mirror. He was dressed in simple, dark trousers and a soft grey sweater. Respectful, but not formal. It felt like a costume for a role he was still auditioning for: The Fiancé.
“You look like you’re about to be inspected by military police,” Hyukjae said, coming up behind him. He was in a similar state of casual neatness, a cream-colored cable knit over black jeans. He rested his chin on Donghae’s shoulder, their eyes meeting in the glass. “Relax. It’s just my parents. And my sister. Who you’ve known for twenty years.”
“It’s different now,” Donghae muttered, fussing with his hair.
“It’s not.” Hyukjae turned him around, his hands firm on Donghae’s shoulders. “It’s the same. They’ve loved you since you were a scrawny kid who ate three helpings of my mom’s galbijjim. The only thing that’s changed is we’re finally being honest.” He kissed Donghae, a quick, grounding press. “And they’re thrilled. I’ve been getting celebratory emoji bombs for a week.”
The restaurant was one of those quietly opulent places tucked away in Gangnam, all warm wood panels and soft lighting. A private room, for discretion and noise. Donghae’s palms were damp as they approached the closed door. He could hear the lively cadence of Sora’s laughter already.
Hyukjae didn’t knock. He just slid the door open.
The scene inside was instantly, overwhelmingly warm. Hyukjae’s father, Mr. Lee, was pouring soju into tiny glasses with a steady hand, a gentle smile on his face. His mother was arranging side dishes with meticulous care, her movements familiar and calming. And Sora, Hyukjae’s older sister, was mid-story, her hands animated in the air. She stopped as they entered, her face breaking into a wide, unreserved grin.
“Finally! We were starting to think you’d gotten cold feet!”
“Sorry, eonni,” Hyukjae said, toeing off his shoes. “Someone took twenty minutes choosing a sweater.”
Donghae elbowed him gently, offering a bow. “Thank you for having me.”
“Have you?” Mrs. Lee said, abandoning the dishes. She crossed the room and took Donghae’s face in her hands, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones. Her eyes, so like Hyukjae’s, were shimmering. “Look at you. You’re too thin. That flu was terrible, hm?” The maternal concern in her voice was a balm.
“He’s eating,” Hyukjae assured her, sliding into his seat.
“Good.” She released Donghae’s face only to capture his hand, then Hyukjae’s, pulling them together. She pressed their joined hands between both of hers. Her skin was soft, slightly cool. The gesture was silent, profound. It wasn’t approval—that had existed long before. It was a blessing, physical and warm. “My boys,” she said, her voice thick. Then she blinked, patting their hands briskly. “Now sit, the food is getting cold.”
The meal was a comfortable, noisy affair. Mr. Lee asked after the company, the careful CEO questions giving way to fatherly curiosity about tour life. Sora demanded all the engagement details they were willing to share.
“So, no big, flashy proposal?” she teased, sipping her wine. “No JumboTron at a concert? I’m disappointed, Hyukjae-ah. You’re usually so extra.”
Hyukjae rolled his eyes, piling more grilled pork onto Donghae’s lettuce wrap without being asked. “It was private. It was right.”
“It was perfect,” Donghae said, the words coming out softer than he intended. The table went quiet for a beat. He felt his ears grow hot.
Mrs. Lee beamed, refilling his glass with barley tea. “Private is good. This life… you need things that are just yours.” She glanced between them, a mischievous glint entering her eye. “Of course, now the next question all the ahjummas will ask me is about grandchildren.”
Hyukjae choked on a mouthful of soup. A violent coughing fit ensued, his face turning red. Donghae patted his back, helplessly.
Sora cackled, slapping the table. “See? You’re not ready! You can’t even handle the word!”
When Hyukjae could breathe again, he wiped his eyes, scowling at his sister. “We’ve been a little busy trying to get married, eonni. One life-altering event at a time.”
The wine and the soju had loosened something in Donghae, a thread of boldness spun from the unconditional acceptance in the room. He felt Hyukjae’s knee pressed against his under the table, a steady line of contact. He looked at Sora’s teasing face, at Mrs. Lee’s expectant, kindly smile.
He leaned slightly toward Hyukjae, his voice a stage whisper that carried perfectly in the sudden lull. “Well,” he said, his tone thoughtful, almost innocent. “We have been practicing.”
The effect was instantaneous.
Hyukjae’s head snapped toward him, his eyes comically wide. The glass of red wine halfway to his lips froze, then tipped. A dark, rich splash arced through the air and landed directly in the center of his own pristine white rice.
A beat of stunned silence.
Then Sora let out a shrieking laugh that bordered on hysterical, doubling over and clutching her stomach. Mr. Lee’s shoulders began to shake, a hand coming up to cover his mouth, a low rumble of laughter escaping. Mrs. Lee gasped, then burst into melodic giggles, reaching for a napkin to dab at her streaming eyes.
Hyukjae stared down at his wine-stained rice, then at Donghae’s utterly guileless expression. A strangled sound, part outrage, part uncontrollable mirth, erupted from him. He dropped his forehead to the table with a soft thunk, his entire body trembling with silent laughter.
The room filled with a raucous, joyous, unfiltered noise. It was the sound of a family celebrating not just an engagement, but the raw, real, wonderfully ridiculous people within it.
Later, stuffed with food and lightness, they stood on the pavement outside the restaurant. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of the city and rain. Goodbyes were drawn out, hugs tight and lingering.
Mrs. Lee hugged Donghae last and longest. She whispered in his ear, her voice gentle but firm. “You take care of each other. That’s all that matters.”
In the back of the car heading home, Hyukjae was quiet, staring out the window. The city lights streaked across his face. Donghae watched him, the earlier bravado gone, replaced by a tinge of uncertainty.
“Are you mad?” Donghae asked quietly.
Hyukjae turned from the window. His expression was unreadable in the intermittent dark. Then he reached out, his hand finding Donghae’s in the shadows between the seats. He laced their fingers together, his grip tight.
“Mad?” he finally said, his voice a husky rumble. “I just had to throw away a perfectly good bowl of rice.” He brought Donghae’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles, the same spot. “It was worth it. To see you like that. To see them see you like that. Unafraid.”
He leaned closer, his breath a warm caress against Donghae’s ear. “But ‘practicing’?” he murmured, the word a low, intimate tease. “You’re going to have to demonstrate your progress when we get home. Extensive, rigorous demonstration.”
Donghae shivered, a thrill that had nothing to do with the cold running through him. The fear of the dinner, the pressure of the album waiting in his studio, it all receded, pushed back by the solid, thrilling reality of the man beside him. The promise of the night ahead felt like a different kind of infinity, one built not on desperate passion, but on this deep, steady, laughing joy.
He squeezed Hyukjae’s hand, watching their joined shadows sway with the motion of the car. “I think,” Donghae said, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “my practice has been very dedicated.”
Hyukjae’s answering grin in the darkness was a flash of pure, unadulterated promise. The city blurred past, a river of light. For the first time in a long time, the path ahead didn’t feel like a lonely ledge, but a wide-open road, and he wasn’t walking it alone.
For the first time in a long time, the path ahead didn’t feel like a lonely ledge, but a wide-open road, and he wasn’t walking it alone. That certainty lasted a full forty-eight hours, a warm glow he carried through vocal practice and a grueling choreography session for the solo album’s title track. Then, standing in his own minimalist apartment on Sunday morning, the nerves transformed. They weren't his own this time; they were a vibration he felt through the man leaning against his kitchen counter.
Hyukjae was scanning the living room, his index finger tapping a relentless, silent rhythm on the marble. The clutter of Donghae’s life—sheet music on the coffee table, a discarded hoodie on the back of the sofa—seemed to draw his critical gaze.
“Should I have hired a cleaner?” Donghae asked, wiping down the already-spotless dining table for the third time.
“It’s fine. It’s lived-in. It’s you,” Hyukjae said, the words coming out in a clipped, tense burst. He didn’t move from his post.
“You’re worse than I was before your parents.” Donghae stopped his frantic cleaning, watching him. “It’s just my dad and my brother. You’ve known them forever.”
Hyukjae pushed off the counter, running a hand through his hair.“Exactly. I’ve known them forever. Your dad, who still calls me that ‘nice Hyukjae boy’ after two and a half decades. Your brother, who literally helped me carry your drunk ass home in 2012.” He started pacing a short, tight path near the balcony window. “This isn’t the ‘nice Hyukjae boy’ showing up. This is the guy who… you know. Who defiled his precious son in a dressing room and is now demanding his hand in marriage. The math feels different.”
“Demanding?” Donghae laughed, a short, incredulous puff of air. He stepped into Hyukjae’s pacing route, stopping him with two hands on his shoulders. “The only thing being defiled here is my sense of calm. Look at you.” He smoothed Hyukjae’s shirt collar. “You’re acting like you’re about to get court-martialed by the marines.”
The doorbell rang. Hyukjae flinched, a full-body jerk.
“See?” Donghae whispered, grinning. He gave him a quick, hard kiss. “Marines.”
He went to the door, his own heartbeat kicking up a notch. Not from fear, but from the strange, giddy shift of roles. He pulled the door open to find his father, Kim Jae-won, holding a bakery box, and his older brother, Donghwa, behind him with a six-pack of imported beer.
“Hae-ah,” his dad said, his broad face breaking into a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He stepped in, patting Donghae’s cheek, his gaze already sweeping past him to find Hyukjae. “And Hyukjae-ssi. It’s been too long.”
Donghwa shouldered past them, heading straight for the kitchen. “You said casual, so we brought the good beer. Hey, Hyukjae, help me with these glasses.”
For a second, Hyukjae was a statue. Then the performer in him, the deep-seated muscle memory, clicked on. He moved toward the kitchen, his pace steadying. “Hyung, you didn’t have to. I have plenty here.”
“My treat,” Donghwa said, already rummaging in a drawer he’d known for years. “Celebrating your big Taiwan success. Heard the crowds were insane.”
It was a perfect, casual opener. Donghae listened, hanging back as his father took off his light jacket. The apartment filled with the easy, familiar sounds of his family, but the undercurrent was new, electric. Hyukjae’s laughter at Donghwa’s story was a fraction too bright, his movements a little too precise as he set the table.
They ate the fried chicken and sundubu-jjigae Donghae had ordered. The conversation swirled around safe topics: baseball, the chaotic state of their shared company logistics, a funny story about a manager’s new puppy. The ring on Donghae’s left hand felt like a beacon, heavy and obvious with every gesture he made. His father’s eyes kept flicking to it.
“So,” his dad finally said, setting his spoon down with a soft clink. The safe bubble popped. He looked between them, his expression gentle but unyielding. “Are you two going to tell me why this feels more like a summit meeting than a Sunday lunch?”
Donghae froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. He looked at Hyukjae. Hyukjae was staring at his own bowl, his jaw tight. The supportive rock, the unflappable co-CEO, was gone. In his place was the boy who’d once been terrified of disappointing.
“Appa,” Donghae started, his voice soft.
“Sir,” Hyukjae interrupted, the word abrupt. He looked up, meeting his father’s eyes directly. His fingers, curled around the edge of the table, were white. “It’s my fault. This… tension.”
A deep silence settled. Donghwa stopped chewing.
“I love your son,” Hyukjae said. The words weren’t flowery. They were stark, simple, and wrenched from some deep, vulnerable place Donghae rarely saw. “I have for… honestly, I don’t remember a time I didn’t. And for years, I thought that meant being his best friend. His support. The person in the shadows who made sure he was okay.” He took a shaky breath. “But I got greedy. I’m not in the shadows anymore. I’m asking to be next to him. For the rest of our lives. And I’m so fucking terrified that you’ll look at me and see someone who broke the rules. Who took advantage.”
Donghae’s throat closed. He reached under the table, finding Hyukjae’s clenched fist and prying it open to lace their fingers together.
Kim Jae-won was quiet for a long moment. He studied Hyukjae’s face, then his son’s, then their joined hands resting on the table. He picked up his beer, took a long, slow drink.
“Hyukjae-ah,” he said, finally. Not ‘ssi.’ “When you two were teenagers, and you’d come to our house, you remember what you’d do?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You’d walk in, give your greetings, and your eyes would immediately find Donghae. Even if he was across the room. You’d track him. Like you were making sure he was still there.” He set the bottle down. “A father notices that. I’ve spent twenty-five years watching you watch out for him. To me, there are no broken rules. There’s only the man who has always put my son first.”
Hyukjae’s breath hitched. He bowed his head, a single, sharp nod.
“Good,” Donghwa chimed in, breaking the intensity with a loud clap. “Because if he made you cry, I’d have to beat him up, and he’s scrawnier than he looks on stage.” He shoved the bakery box toward the center of the table. “Now can we have the pastry? I’m dying here.”
The laugh that tore from Hyukjae was part sob, part release. He wiped hastily at his eyes with the heel of his free hand. Donghae just squeezed his fingers, holding on tight, the solid warmth of him the only real thing in the spinning room. He looked at his father, whose eyes were now suspiciously bright, and then at his brother, already tearing open the box.
The road ahead, wide and open, had just welcomed its most important traveler home.
The pastry was a sticky, sweet demolition job, powdered sugar dusting the table and their fingers. Donghwa licked custard from his thumb, eyeing them both. "So, when's the date? Don't tell me you haven't set one. Mum's already texting me about venues."
Donghae groaned, flopping back in his chair. "We've been engaged for two weeks. And I have a solo album to finish."
"Which is why you need a date," Hyukjae said, his voice returning to its normal, reasonable timbre. He was meticulously cleaning a smudge of red bean paste from Donghae's knuckle with a damp napkin."A deadline. Something to look forward to after the promotional hellscape."
"Is that your CEO brain talking, or your fiancé brain?" Donghwa asked, popping the last of his pastry in his mouth.
"Both," Hyukjae said. He finally looked at Donghae, the raw vulnerability from moments ago now a warm, steady gleam."A small ceremony. Just family, closest friends. Maybe late spring, after your promotions."
Donghae imagined it: hyungs from the group, their loud, overwhelming joy. His mother's quiet tears. The press, the noise, the chaos they'd have to manage. His gut twisted. "Late spring feels fast."
"Good," Hyukjae countered. "We've waited long enough."
The casual, definitive statement hung in the air. Donghae's brother raised his beer bottle in a silent salute.
When his family left, the apartment settled into a different quiet. It was no longer the tense silence of anticipation, but the deep, peaceful hum of settled things. Donghae stacked the dishes, the clatter loud in the calm. He could feel Hyukjae watching him from the sofa.
"Your mum's visiting tomorrow," Donghae stated, scrubbing at a plate. "You told her about the dinner here?"Yes. She's thrilled. She wants to see the ring in person." Hyukjae's voice was closer. He leaned against the kitchen doorway, a dark silhouette against the warm light. "She also asked if you needed more seaweed soup. Said you still look peaky."
Donghae huffed a laugh, turning off the tap. "I'm fine. It's just... a lot. The album feels like a mountain. And now this wedding mountain. And they're right next to each other." He dried his hands slowly, focusing on the terrycloth. "Sometimes I think it's easier to just be in the crisis. The messy part. The dressing room." He dared a glance at Hyukjae.
Hyukjae understood. He always did. The messy part was pure reaction, a lightning strike of need. The calm after required building something new on the scorched earth. "The messy part got us here," Hyukjae said. He pushed off the doorframe and walked into the kitchen. He took the towel from Donghae's hands and tossed it on the counter. "Now we get to do the hard part. The good hard part."
He pulled Donghae into a hold that wasn't passionate, but profound. It was a full-body anchor, his chin hooking over Donghae's shoulder, his arms a tight band around his ribs. Donghae sank into it, his face pressing into the familiar, citrus-and-clean scent of Hyukjae's neck. He felt the rhythm of Hyukjae's heart against his own, a steady, synchronized beat.
"The songs," Donghae murmured into his skin. "They're all so... heavy. Like I have to prove I can be serious alone."
Hyukjae's hand came up, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Donghae's neck. "You're not alone. You've just never had to look behind you to see me before." He squeezed gently. "Make the album you need to make. Angsty.Heavy. I'll be there when you walk offstage afterward. Just like always."
Donghae closed his eyes. He could see it: the blinding stage lights, the deafening silence after the last note, the walk to the wings where Hyukjae would be waiting, not with a critic's eye, but with a bottle of water and that private, knowing look.
It was enough.
"For the record," Hyukjae said, his lips brushing Donghae's earlobe. "I liked your version of family dinner better. The wine-in-the-rice moment. Very avant-garde."
Donghae pinched his side, making him yelp."You deserved it."
"I really did." Hyukjae laughed, the vibration passing through both of them. He loosened his hold, just enough to look Donghae in the face."Late spring. Say yes."
Outside, the city glittered, a distant, indifferent galaxy. Inside, the light was warm, contained. The mountains on the horizon were still there, but from here, they looked like what they were: just landscapes to cross, together.
"Yes," Donghae said.
Three days later, the sterile, sleek panic of the recording booth was swallowing him whole. Donghae adjusted the headphones again, the leather creaking. The guide track clicked in his ears, a sparse, melancholy piano line. Through the glass, his producer gave him an encouraging nod. It was the third take of the bridge, and his voice kept fraying on the high note, cracking with a tension that wasn’t musical.
He closed his eyes, chasing the emotion. The lyric was about solitude, the echoing silence of a room after someone leaves. But all he felt was performance anxiety, a metallic fear coating his throat. He botched the note again.
"Let's take five," the producer's voice filtered through, polite but tinged with subtle frustration.
Donghae pushed out of the booth, the heavy door sucking shut behind him. The control room was dim, all glowing screens and expensive black hardware. He felt like a malfunctioning component.
"My throat's just tight today," he mumbled, avoiding the producer's eyes, reaching for his water bottle.
"Maybe we should come back to this one tomorrow," the producer suggested gently, tapping his pen on the console. "We got good takes on the verses."
Failure. The word hissed in his mind. He gave a stiff nod, gathered his bag, and offered a terse bow before fleeing into the hallway. He didn’t go home. He went to the one place that smelled not of antiseptic studio air, but of sweat, worn wood, and possibility.
The ODE practice room was empty at this hour. He dumped his bag, toed off his shoes, and walked to the center of the sprung floor. He called up the track on his phone, connected it to the room's speakers, and let the unfinished demo fill the vast space.
He didn't sing. He just stood there, listening to the hollow bones of the song he’d written. It felt like a stranger’s confession. He pressed play again, and this time, he moved. Not the sharp, practiced choreography of his idol self, but something clumsy and searching. A turn, a drop of his shoulders, a pacing of the room’s perimeter as the piano looped.
On the fifth pass, the door hissed open. Donghae didn't turn. He knew the footfall, the weight of the presence leaning against the doorframe. He let the track play out to its end. The silence that followed was expectant.
"I sound scared," Donghae said to the mirrored wall, his reflection pale and stark.
Hyukjae pushed off the doorframe. He walked over to the sound system, scrolling through Donghae’s phone with a swipe. He found a different file—an early, rough guitar demo Donghae had made on a lazy Sunday, just strumming chords while Hyukjae made pancakes. It was warmer, simpler.
This, Hyukjae played.
The richer, organic strum filled the room. It wasn't a professional track. It had the faint buzz of a cheap microphone, the sound of fingers sliding on strings. It sounded like a person, not a product.
"Sing that one," Hyukjae said. He sat on the floor, back against the mirror, and looked up at him. Not as a CEO, not as a producer. As a witness.
Donghae took a breath. He closed his eyes, and he began. The lyrics were the same, but the vessel was different. The fear was still there, but it was inside the song now, not wrapped around his vocal cords. He sang to the empty room, to the man on the floor. His voice didn't crack. It wavered, it thinned in places, but it carried. It felt true.
When he finished, the last chord hummed into quiet. He opened his eyes. Hyukjae was still there, his knees drawn up, his expression unreadable.
"That," Hyukjae said, his voice soft but cutting cleanly through the lingering resonance, "is your solo album." He stood up, brushing off his pants. "The other thing, the perfect, lonely piano thing? That's what you think a solo artist should sound like. This," he gestured to the phone, "this is what you sound like.Alive. Messy. In the room."
He walked over until they were a foot apart. "Your duet with fate is over, Donghae. You're singing solo now." He reached out and flicked him gently on the forehead. "So sing."
He turned and left, the door sighing shut behind him.
Donghae stood in the center of the silent, sun-warmed room. The ghost of the guitar chord seemed to hang in the air. He looked at his phone, at the two files. One was polished, a monument. The other was a blueprint, alive with potential faults and fingerprints. He selected the guitar demo, saved it under a new name.
He played it again. This time, he sang louder.