~*

“I love you,” Yongguk says, and it’s so quiet he thinks Himchan might not have even heard him, but he doesn’t dare look up, he can’t imagine the look on his friend’s face right now but I can’t bear seeing it either.

And Himchan’s so silent, so silent, Yongguk can hear his heart beating, can hear every little shift as he tries not to fidget, his sneakers against the carpet, the string on his hoodie moving slightly as he breathes. He’s focused on the way the fabric of the hood touches his ears and how much he can curl his toes inside his shoes, focused on the stitching along the seams of his pockets, focused on the sharp press of his teeth against the sides of his tongue. Breathe in, breathe out, and his blush has faded a little, but the rushing sound in his head is getting louder, he feels like he can’t slow his breathing, can't slow his heart rate, can’t stop the minute tremors in his hands. If he passes out, maybe Himchan will take pity on him and pretend this never happened.

“I’m so sorry, Bbang,” Himchan whispers, that edge of genuine misery in his voice that grips Yongguk’s heart like a vice, and this is the answer he was expecting. If Himchan says anything else he can’t hear it, he feels like he’s been submerged in ice water, everything’s white noise and he’s so cold inside it burns.

Himchan moves and Yongguk feels a brief flash of terror that Himchan will hug him and he won’t be able to take it but the younger man hesitates just before he touches him, pulls back again, and Yongguk focuses on the way his hands open and close, like they’re aching to touch someone.

He doesn’t know what to do when Himchan leaves him alone, so he sits on the floor of the little production room they’ve put together in their tiny dorm and he writes, pencil flying over paper as he pours everything out of himself – he doesn’t think, doesn’t try to stem the flow, he knows more than half of it is crap, useless lyrics, bad rhymes, words that won’t fit if he tries to put them to a tune, but he gets it all down anyway, because if he keeps writing until he doesn’t have anything left, maybe the feeling will drain out with the words and he’ll be empty. The light slants through the window and out of the corner of his eye he tracks its progress across the floor, and when the orange-tinted glow falls hazy and tired across his paper he sighs and sets aside his pencil and leans back against the wall, watching the thin strip of sunset in silence.

It doesn’t feel better but at the same time it must, this must be what better feels like right now, because he feels less of the weight that’s been heavy on him for over a year now and more of a tired acceptance. He doesn’t even hear the door open, doesn’t notice that Himchan’s in the room until he’s sitting right beside him on the floor, his thigh almost brushing Yongguk’s knee. There’s a rip in his jeans and Yongguk wants to reach over and feel the frayed edge, wants the electric shock of letting his fingertips brush Himchan’s skin, but he knows there’s no way he can do that, not now, not anymore.

“I wanted you to know it’s okay,” Himchan starts hesitantly, and Yongguk can see him out of the corner of his eye, looking at the notebook on the floor in front of them – almost to the end now, the pages covered in words he doesn’t want or need, in emotions spilled out like oil slick over his usually well-crafted lyrics. But Himchan’s gaze isn’t fixed, and Yongguk knows he can’t see far enough without his glasses to read what it says. “I won’t pretend I’m not surprised, I won’t... I won’t pretend this doesn’t change anything, but Bbang, you really are my best friend...”

That gets his attention, gets him to finally look at Himchan, and the look of fear in his eyes cuts deep. Yongguk’s scared but somehow he didn’t think Himchan would be afraid too. It feels, oddly, reassuring.

“You’re not gonna...”

Himchan doesn’t say it, can’t finish the sentence – Yongguk hears the way his voice catches, the way he chokes on his words, and he doesn’t even think before he’s caught Himchan’s hand, and their fingers lace together easily. He tries not to think about how nicely their hands fit together, and focuses instead on what he knows Himchan was about to say.

Could he hate him?

He thinks about watching Himchan’s hands linger on Jongup’s shoulder, on his knee, thinks about the way Himchan watches the younger dancer when he thinks no one is looking, about the way he smiles at Jongup like he’s the greatest person who ever existed. He thinks about the way Himchan compliments him at interviews, the appreciative way he watches Jongup dance. Those will never be smiles for him - Himchan will never look at him that way, will never talk about him as anything more than a friend, will never have that look of overwhelmed affection when he speaks. But he’ll still be there, he’ll still be nearby and smiling and he’ll still always be Yongguk’s friend, as long as he lets him. Could he hate him? Could this feeling he’s harbored turn to anger, turn to bitterness, warped by rejection into something twisted?

Himchan’s looking at him with that hopeful, fearful expression, his eyes wide and his soft lips pressed into a tight line, the same look he had every morning while he was injured, the look he gets every time he feels he’s broken something irreparably, that he’s not doing enough, that he’s disappointing or hurting everyone. And Yongguk knows the answer.

“Never,” he murmurs, and even though it feels like it should take more explanation than that he can feel Himchan relax, knows he’s taken him completely and unquestioningly at his word. Himchan’s always believed him, always, and as he watches his least favorite expression slip off Himchan’s pretty face he feels a little lighter.

It won’t be perfect, it won’t be what he wanted, but it can still be good.

“Don’t mope in here too much longer,” Himchan says softly, squeezing Yongguk’s hand tightly. “You’re worrying the maknae.”

Yongguk comes out of his self-imposed exile an hour later – he meant to leave right after Himchan, to go scrounge something to eat from their perpetually poorly stocked kitchen, but then he got caught in a particular phrase, a line that came out right in a mess of useless scrawling, and the rap he’s started now is one he can hear when he closes his eyes, something good and smooth that might, just might, work. Junhong’s sitting on the floor outside the door when he opens it, long legs pulled up against his chest, gazing morosely at the carpet, his pout peeking out over the top of the face mask slung around his chin. Yongguk wonders how long he’s been sitting there, but if the odd smudge on Junhong’s cheek and temple is any indication, it’s been a while.

“Were you sleeping out here?” he asks, pointing at the pressure marks on Junhong’s face when the youngest looks up in surprise. Junhong’s cheeks color, a tiny spill of pink, and Yongguk feels himself smiling. “Well, come on, I’m starving...”

Junhong gets to his feet with surprising grace, biting his lips and tucking in his chin once he’s up, but the little cloth mask doesn’t slip up over his nose at the habitual movement, so a moment later Junhong reaches up and tugs it into place. “They ate dinner without us,” the boy mumbles, and Yongguk feels the apologies there. He grabs Junhong’s hand and tugs him down the hall, joking that the other members probably ate every bit of food left in the house, leaving them no choice but to go out or dinner.

The youngest is trying not to look excited, Yongguk can tell. He wonders why.

It’s weeks and months, and the feeling doesn’t really fade, the way he thinks about Himchan doesn’t really change, but the sense of waiting, the sense of weight, of longing, it goes away. Himchan knows now and maybe they both restrict themselves from the kind of friendly, affectionate touches they’ve shared up until now – no more hugs, for now, no more holding hands, no more of Himchan’s long fingers threading into his hair while they watch television after a long day – but there’s a feeling that it won’t be forever, the comfortableness of their friendship will slowly settle back until they’re okay again. Different, but okay.

He’s sitting in the kitchen, puzzling over a new rap, new lyrics pouring out of his pencil and over the lines – not melancholy, not anything like that, not today. He can hear Himchan and Jongup whispering in the next room, their soft laughter carried through the thin walls, Himchan’s teasing tone of voice followed by a yelp and a thud and Yongguk makes a mental note not to go into the living room for a while. Daehyun and Youngjae are down the hall but even from their room he can hear them bickering over the new vocal exercise they’ve been trying.

The youngest plops down into the chair beside him like a heavy weight, unwieldy limbs splayed out – legs bumping Yongguk’s under the table, arms stretched out so they block him from his notebook, and Junhong sighs in a loud plea for attention.

He looks up because he has to and feels the happiness that spills into Junhong’s eyes like a physical pull. There’s something there, something new and different, something that could be his, if he wanted it, if he went looking for it. He grins in response to Junhong’s cheeky smile, reaches over and ruffles the maknae’s hair until he whines and swats his hands away.

There will be other loves, he knows, and maybe the next one is already waiting for him.

[ fin. ]