Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The office lights always felt softer in spring. Less sterile, somehow. Or maybe Sieun had just grown used to the rhythm here—had found his corner of the hive and claimed it, finally, not as a temporary pitstop but as something resembling stability.

The SENA project had wrapped with quiet applause and two bottles of cheap champagne, one of which had exploded in Seokdae’s hands and soaked the carpet. That was two months ago. Since then, things had settled like dust in the sunbeam: calm, warm, and not particularly exciting, which was fine. More than fine.

He and Beomseok had been permanently transferred to Seokdae’s team. No more being under the dictator reign of Yeongbin, no more late nights filled with dread about whether this was all leading somewhere. They were here now, officially, in the same orbit.

League had become routine now, too—except this time, it wasn’t with Suho.

Beomseok, of all people, had picked it up. Said it started with some guy he reconnected with at the church over Christmas. A friend from when they were both kids in the orphanage.

They didn’t talk much at first. Just a polite nod, an awkward greeting between near-strangers with distant ties. But the guy—calm, warm-voiced—had asked if Beomseok played League after some small talks. Beomseok, surprised, had blurted out the truth: “No. Never tried it.”

“Well,” the guy had said with a quiet grin, “you should. You look like a support main.”

So Beomseok downloaded it that same night, squinted through the dizzying UI, and died repeatedly within the first five minutes of every match. Still, the guy was patient, praising him with light-hearted encouragements like, “Not bad for a beginner,” or “Hey, you actually saved me there.”

Which was clearly a lie, but a kind one.

Back at the office, Beomseok showed up early the next day, dragging Sieun aside before anyone else clocked in. “Hey,” he whispered urgently, as if confessing to a crime, “you’re good at League, right? Can you… teach me?”

Sieun looked at him, confused. “Why?”

“I just need to get better. Fast.”

Sieun squinted at him. “You’re trying to impress someone?”

Beomseok flushed. “I’m not telling you that.”

But he did anyway.

So their afterwork routine shifted. Sieun, who always mained mid when playing with Suho, reluctantly took on the role of AD. Beomseok was his support—well, technically. For the first week, Sieun spent more time reviving and repositioning than actually attacking. But Beomseok was earnest. He even watched YouTube guides during lunch breaks. He never said the guy’s name, but there was a brightness in his face when they queued up, the kind of subtle hope that needed no explanation.

That brightness always reminded him of Suho, when the kid first wanted to teach Sieun how to play his various online games.

Sometimes, Sieun caught himself wanting to text Suho. Just a quick “Wanna join?” or “We need a jungler.” But Suho was rarely online now. And the window for that kind of spontaneity seemed to have quietly closed.

So he let the urge pass. Mostly.

“You and Suho,” Beomseok asked one night, out of nowhere, while they waited in queue for a League match. “You guys okay?”

Sieun blinked. On screen, his cursor hovered over Jhin.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re good. Why?”

Beomseok shrugged, eyes flicking to his monitor. “Dunno. Just feels a little different, that’s all.”

Sieun didn’t answer for a second, waiting until the game loaded and the map lit up in its usual, familiar haze of digital color. “It’s not something you need to worry about,” he said, carefully. “Really.”

He didn’t mean to lie. And maybe it wasn’t one. Just a deflection. The truth was—there was no fallout. No rift. Just… a shift.

After Christmas, something between him and Suho had quietly rearranged itself. No confrontation, no explanation. Just a mutual, invisible line that had been drawn.

They still talked. Still sent each other memes or bizarre food photos or ranted about the dumbest subplot in their favorite manga. Suho still texted things like “Old man I saw a dog that looked like you” and Sieun still replied “Did it look tired and done with life?” without missing a beat. They hung out, too—grabbed quick meals, traded complaints about school and work—but that was it.

Suho no longer brought him dinner after shifts. No longer flopped on his couch like he belonged there. No longer shouted “Delivery!” before letting himself into Sieun’s space.

And Sieun never asked why.

Because he already knew.

It was easier this way—easier to look at Suho and pretend nothing had ever been unsaid between them. Easier not to feel that familiar ache when Suho sat on the other side of a café booth, just a little too far, with his hood pulled low and his laugh quieter than before.

But the ache never really left. It just softened into something tolerable. Manageable. Like a sore muscle after a long run.

Still, life moved on. And Sieun moved with it.

Seokdae was a polar opposite existence to Suho’s. He was older, steadier, with a strange mix of goofiness and depth that made Sieun feel strangely at ease. Their cinema nights had started with one screening—a classic Korean movie about vengeance, “Oldboy”—and turned into a weekly tradition.

Sieun had never thought of himself as a movie person. He always found them either too loud or too long, too shallow or too indulgent. But these films—the quiet ones, the heavy ones—sat with him long after the credits rolled.

Afterward, they’d walk. Sometimes talk. Sometimes just roam quiet backstreets under the soft hum of street lamps. Seokdae always had opinions. Sieun mostly listened. And when he spoke, Seokdae never interrupted.

They’d talk about plot holes, symbolism, flawed protagonists who made terrible decisions and still somehow earned redemption.

Sometimes, Sieun thought about how he used to talk to Suho like this. Thought about the way Suho used to fall asleep mid-ramble, curled up on the couch, mumbling half-formed thoughts about manga and MMA and microwave dumplings.

But he didn’t say any of that.

This—whatever this was—was new. And good. And he didn’t want to compare it to the past.

One afternoon, as they left the office together, Beomseok walked beside him with his usual unhurried pace.

“You’re different lately,” he said.

Sieun looked up. “How?”

“I don’t know, less tired, maybe.” A beat. “Happier?”

Sieun considered it. “Maybe just more okay.”

“More okay is still better than not okay.”

Sieun gave a small smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach the eyes but didn’t need to. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Maybe that’s why it felt easier now—to laugh at Beomseok’s terrible puns, to linger longer than necessary in the break room after lunch, to let Seokdae drag him to obscure film screenings on Thursday nights and ramble about lighting choices over lukewarm coffee. It wasn’t just coping anymore. It was… company.

That night, as Sieun sat at his desk, zoning out while waiting for Beomseok to log on, his phone buzzed once.

A text from Suho.

Suho
You saw the new volume dropped?

Sieun stared at it for a second before typing back.

You already read it?

Suho
Obviously. My boy Gray got beat up again lol

Sieun smiled, just a little. Then typed:

Save spoilers for when we hang out.

A pause.

Suho
Sure. When are you free?

I’ll let you know.

He meant it.

But as he set his phone down, something tugged faintly at his chest. Maybe that was the subtle awareness of what had changed, and what hadn’t.

Suho was still here. Just not where he used to be.

And maybe that was okay, too.

The holidays passed with surprising quiet.

For the first time in a while, Suho found himself waking up without an ache in his shoulders or an alarm dragging him from sleep with the force of survival. No icy wind against his neck on a motorbike at dawn, no bitter grease clinging to his fingers from late-night deliveries. Grandma had sat him down just after New Year, placing a yellowed envelope of bank slips in front of him with a firm look in her eyes.

“You’re a senior now. You’re not working two jobs anymore,” she said. “I’ve been saving since you were born. What’s the point if it doesn’t help you now?”

He argued, of course—because pride was hard to kill, and so was guilt. But she scolded him until he agreed to drop the delivery gig. The BBQ joint he kept. He liked the people there, liked the rhythm of wiping down tables and taking orders. But letting go of one job left him… lighter.

Suho had always believed that if you worked hard enough—fought hard enough—you could make anything happen. But no amount of bruised fists or late-night deliveries could fix failing grades. His test scores were in the gutter. He knew it. His teachers knew it. And his homeroom teacher had stopped calling his name with any hope in his voice.

Before, he’d just slept through the lessons, head on his arms, too tired to lift his pen. But it wasn’t because he didn’t care. It was because his body couldn’t keep up.

So it felt weird at first when he stopped exhausting himself every single day of the week. He still worked the evening shifts at the barbecue joint—he wanted to keep earning something—but suddenly, he had more free time. He went home before dark several times a week. Ate real meals. Slept eight hours on his own bed.

And little by little, something inside him shifted.

He didn’t want to just pass. He wanted to get into college. Not for some big career dream—he wasn’t sure he even had one—but because he wanted to be someone Grandma could be proud of. Someone who didn’t always need to be pitied or worried about. Someone more like Sieun.

He never told anyone that. Not Naeun, not even himself aloud.

But maybe Naeun saw through him anyway, because one afternoon when they were walking back from the convenience store, she elbowed him in the ribs and said, “You know Baku’s forming a study group, right? You should join.”

“Study group?” Suho raised a brow. “Baku? That guy’s worse than me.”

“That’s why it’s funny. Juntae’s the tutor. He got into Seoul Uni early decision already.”

“And the others?”

“Complete disasters. Just like you.”

She grinned, and Suho groaned.

But he showed up anyway.

And he kept showing up.

The group of said disasters, were the band he met on Christmas Eve, An-core.

Baku, or Park Humin, was loud and explosive, with arms like cannons and a laugh that shook buildings. Gotak, or Go Hyuntak, just as strong, had a softer smile but a kick as quick as panther when provoked. They were childhood friends, constantly bickering like two five-year-olds, but they never turned it on each other. Their loyalty was brutal and sacred.

Youngyi was the quiet emo bassist who barely spoke but had a sharp wit when she did. She hated boys on principle, except for the ones she adopted as her idiots, and Suho quickly became one of them.

And then there was Juntae—their keyboardist, tutor, and the only one with consistently good grades. Small and bespectacled, with a soft voice and steadier hands than any of them deserved, he had a calm presence that held the group together. He never raised his voice, never glared—not even when his best friends were being absolute idiots. Which, somehow, only made them dote on him more.

The study group met at Baku’s place, which was really just his parents’ old comic book store before they opened a fried chicken joint—converted into a practice space for the band, and now their de facto hangout. A big kotatsu table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by bean bags, old amps, and scattered lyric notebooks. Sometimes, the space smelled like instant noodles. Sometimes, like sweaty socks. Most times, like dreams.

Juntae was always the first one there, little glasses perched on his nose, neatly folding out printouts and textbooks like a miniature professor. He was soft-spoken, impossibly patient, and had a knack for explaining things in a way that made even Baku tilt his head and go, “Ohhhh. I get it now… kinda.”

Suho sat across from him one day and stared.

“Something on my face?” Juntae asked, adjusting his glasses.

Suho blinked. “Nah. Just wondering if a hyung I know was like you in high school.”

That earned a confused look.

Suho flushed and shook his head. “Never mind.”

Juntae was like a rabbit—soft, observant, a little skittish. Sieun, by contrast, was a feral cat that bit if you startled him. Still, the hilarious image clung to Suho’s brain longer than it should have.

Should I really be thinking about hyung like that?

Before he could spiral, a loud cackle cut through the room.

“Juntae-ah, you’re so cute when you’re all serious,” Gotak teased, pinching Juntae’s cheek.

Juntae didn’t even blink. “And you’re distracting when I’m serious.”

“Aww, is that your way of saying you love us?”

He shook his head, but there was a tiny, helpless smile he couldn’t quite hide.

Baku flopped beside Suho, laughter shaking his massive frame. “Don’t worry, Suho. You’re still smarter than me. Your scores don’t even need to go up that much to catch up.”

“I sleep in every class,” Suho replied flatly.

It was absurd. Loud. Stupid. But he kept coming back, and the more he returned, the more they treated him like he’d always been part of the band, even if he didn’t know how to play a single instrument.

Gotak, who used to train professionally in taekwondo before blowing out his knee, became the unexpected person Suho talked to the most. They compared injury stories over energy drinks while waiting for everyone else to show up. Sometimes, Suho caught Gotak watching Baku, and the only way he could describe those gazes was familiar.

“You’re better at this than you think,” Gotak muttered once while they reviewed math problems. “You just never had a good enough reason to try.”

Suho didn’t reply, but the words stuck with him for the rest of the night.

He started writing in the margins of his textbook. Not just notes—thoughts. Goals. Questions.

College?

Can I really?

What if I just try harder this week?

He wanted to stop feeling like a failure.

He wanted to stop feeling like the dumb kid in the room.

He wanted—quietly, selfishly—to be someone who could stand next to Sieun again, not as someone to look out for, but as someone who could be leaned on too.

Despite his loud, easygoing front—his cocky grin, his constant joking, the way he threw an arm around anyone without hesitation—Suho had always been lonely.

He was a kid who life had forced to be mature too soon. A kid who never got the luxury of falling apart. A kid who learned, before he even understood the word "sacrifice," that loving someone sometimes meant going without. His father had died in a work accident before he was born, and his mother—too young, too brittle, too afraid—had vanished when he was seven. His grandmother, quiet and resilient and always tired, had been everything since then. So Suho learned how to read her silences. He learned how to stop asking for new sneakers when his old ones were worn through. He learned to say "I'm fine" every time she looked at him with worry in her eyes.

At seventeen, when other kids were skipping class or chasing summer crushes or worrying about grades, Suho was giving up his MMA dream to work two part-time jobs. He didn’t complain. Not once. He thought that was what love meant—to choose what someone else needed over what you wanted.

He once had friends. Like Wooyoung, who used to spar with him at the MMA club. But after Suho quit, everyone just… drifted. That’s how things worked when you couldn’t show up to the same places anymore. And at school, it was worse. He slept through class because he was too tired, too burnt out. No one ever woke him up. They whispered about him—called him a fighter, a delinquent, dangerous—but none of them really knew him. The guys respected him when they needed protection. The girls liked him in that shallow, surface way: enough to giggle when he passed, enough to eat with him once or twice. But no one stayed. Not really.

And still, Suho endured it. Because what else could he do?

An adult-like child was still a child, after all.

Which was why when Sieun came into his life—tired, guarded, but gentle in ways that didn’t look gentle at first—Suho clung. Not in a way he could explain. Not even to himself. But he was obsessed with Sieun. He admired him, wanted to be good enough for him, wanted to be seen—not just as the rough kid with fists and scars, but as someone worth trusting. Someone worth keeping. And before Suho even knew it, he had fallen in love.

Sieun was his first love. And, as last winter came, his first heartbreak.

No one had prepared him for that. For the way all the messy, dangerous emotions surged out of him. Jealousy, confusion, resentment. The need to be held and the fury of being pushed away. He didn’t know how to deal with any of it—how to communicate, how to be rational—because he had never let anyone in close enough to need those skills before.

But now, things were different.

These idiots who called themselves “The greatest high school band in Seoul” took Suho in without question. They didn’t ask about his past, didn’t care that he once went around breaking people’s nose, didn’t walk on eggshells around him. He was just Suho. Loud. Dumb sometimes. Strong. But also good at memorizing history dates and surprisingly decent at harmony when Baku forced him to sing backup during practice.

Suho had once asked them, between bites of tteokbokki and the clatter of chopsticks, “What does An-core mean, anyway?”

Baku, mouth full of fish cake, had grinned and said, “It just sounded cool. Like... y'know, ‘encore.’”

Gotak chimed in with a snort, “Except we spelled it wrong on the poster.”

Apparently, when Baku and Gotak first started the band, they had no real plan beyond “make noise and be awesome.” They heard the word “encore” in English, and thought it would make a badass band name. But when they printed the posters to recruit members, they misspelled it as Ancore. It wasn’t until the entire school saw the poster—and the upperclassmen roasted them for the typo—that Juntae had sighed dramatically, scribbled a little hyphen onto their hand-drawn band logo, and said, “There. Now it looks intentional. Cool and edgy. Like... minimalist branding.”

And just like that, An-core was born.

Suho remembered laughing so hard that day, he nearly choked on tteokbokki. But later, alone on his ride home, the memory stayed with him longer than it should’ve.

That was the thing about them. About youth.

They made mistakes—loud, messy, embarrassing ones. They misspelled things, said dumb stuff, wore hideous matching hoodies to the arcade. And no one cared. Because they were young, and they had the grace of being able to laugh at themselves. To live with no plan and still land on their feet. To fail a test and fix it with a tutoring session and a song practice after.

Suho thought about how he had never really had that before. That kind of safe chaos. That kind of stupid, beautiful freedom. He had never laughed this much. He had never bickered over ramen flavors or gotten into hour-long arguments about which song to cover for a tiny underground show. He had never fallen asleep during group study and woken up with a blanket thrown over him, Youngyi pretending it wasn’t her.

No weight of expectation, no adult-sized wounds that the world couldn’t see.

In that warmth, Suho started to heal.

Maybe that was what growing up really meant—being allowed to be young for once.

And like a single cherry blossom carried off by the breeze, spring passed in a blink.

By the time spring rolled into summer, Suho had developed an immunity to Youngyi's constant insults and Baku’s compulsive need to ruffle his hair like he was some oversized emotional support dog. Which meant, officially, he was part of the band. Not musically, of course. The only chords Suho knew were the ones that tangled his phone charger, and he had just recently learned that the "bridge" they kept talking about wasn’t an architectural structure but some mystical song section where emotions apparently go to sob. Still, he was so enmeshed in the band’s chaotic ecosystem that he might as well have been their unofficial mascot.

One blazing May afternoon, post-rehearsal and collectively marinated in sweat, Gotak dramatically pointed his drumstick at Baku as if it was the Excalibur, and declared: “I swear to God, if you scream at Slam Dunk one more time like it’s the first time Kang Baekho dunk, you’re going to lose your voice for good.”

Without missing a beat, Baku tossed his towel at Suho and grinned. “Good thing we’ve got a backup main vocal.”

Suho groaned. “No, you don’t.”

Youngyi, slouched on the couch with her bass across her lap, chimed in, “You’re not off the hook. I still think I should write a song for you. A proper debut track.”

“A collab of the century,” Juntae added from the keyboard, as if making a note in an imaginary marketing proposal. “An-core ft. the mysterious hot guy from Byeoksan High. It writes itself.”

“Seriously,” Youngyi said, nudging Suho’s leg with her socked foot. “The fans would eat it up.”

Suho scoffed, trying not to blush. “I’m not mysterious. I’m literally just there. I hand you water and fetch your missing capo.”

It was impossible to stop smiling around them. The teasing never really let up, but it never crossed the line either.

When the band got invited to perform at a summer music festival in Sokcho—right by the sea, in the quieter part of Gangwon Province—they all agreed without hesitation. It would be their last gig before retreating into the cold, airless void of CSAT prep. They planned to make it count. Youngyi called it their “last hurrah before academic jail.” Even Naeun was coming along, already planning their bus routes and motel snacks..

Somewhere between practice sessions and ice cream meltdowns, Suho found himself thinking about Sieun again. Not that he’d ever really stopped.

He figured that these “boundaries” that they set up were not going anywhere unless he does something unexpected. Just enough to break the clean lines, the version of “normal” that was supposed to be good for both of them.

At first he didn’t plan to invite Sieun. He didn’t think Sieun would come. But one evening, after rehearsal, Suho found himself staring at his phone too long, then typing out a message before he could stop himself.

there’s this festival by the beach. my friends are performing. want to come?

He hit send, heart thudding, already thinking of ways to backtrack or pretend it was a group thing.

But Sieun replied within a minute.

okay

Okay.

Suho didn’t feel okay at all. But not in a bad way.

Later that week, when he and Youngyi were out grabbing snacks for the whole band at the convenience store, Suho cleared his throat.

“Hey,” he said, awkwardly watching her choose between two types of Monster. “That song you mentioned. The one for me. Were you serious?”

She blinked. “The joke song about you crying in alleyways, or the serious one?”

“The serious one.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You actually want to sing at the festival?”

“I want to sing something. At the festival. But I want to help write it. Like... the lyrics,” he felt his cheeks turning red.

Youngyi blinked at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright. I’m down. But only if you’re not going to chicken out halfway.”

“I won’t,” Suho said. “I just... I have something I want to say.”

It was a strange kind of courage he hadn’t felt before. Suho didn’t explain the reason to Youngyi or who the song was for either.

Didn’t say that he felt like the version of him Sieun had known—loud, possessive, desperate—was starting to fade. That the version he was becoming—still figuring things out, but learning how to be steady—wanted to be seen. He didn’t grow up for Sieun, but he wanted to be seen by Sieun only.

And if Sieun could hear what he couldn’t say... maybe he’d understand that Suho was growing up. Maybe to become someone worth staying beside, if that chance ever came again.

Of course, An-core figured it out immediately.

“You’re so obvious,” Youngyi said the next day, mid-lyric brainstorm. “Everytime you mention him, you look like you’re writing love letters in your brain.”

“I’m not,” Suho muttered, ears pink. “It’s not—okay, maybe a little.”

“Naeun confirmed it anyway,” Juntae added. “She said you talked about Sieun more than food.”

“Kang Naeun, seriously?” Suho groaned. “I was emotionally vulnerable!”

“You were a simp,” Gotak said.

But they didn’t make fun in a mean way. Because if there was one thing about An-core—aside from their complete inability to tune on time or keep a rehearsal schedule—it was that they were loyal.

And they were going to help Suho make this summer count.

Sieun thought this might be the day he die. Maybe he was being dramatic, but it was impossible to keep up with the energy around him.

The place was a riot of colors and motion—streamers tangled in the wind, booths hawking everything from fried squid to glow-in-the-dark hairpins, and teenagers clumping together in loud, messy clusters. A stage had been set up near the waterfront, surrounded by a buzzing crowd. Somewhere, a bubble machine was spitting foam into the sky.

Sieun blinked under the harsh light. Even with sunglasses, it was all a bit too much. The noise, the smell of sweat and sunscreen and caramel popcorn, the feeling of being surrounded by people who hadn’t yet tasted regret in the same way he had. Technically, he hadn’t been this overwhelmed even at the amusement park on Christmas Eve. Maybe it was the heat now, slowly pushing him toward insanity. He should’ve known what he signed up for when he asked Seokdae for the day off.

And yet—when Naeun linked her arm with his and Suho slung a casual arm around his shoulder during the bus ride earlier, when the band kids all turned around in their seats to say “Sieun oppa, thank you for coming!” with that disarming mix of nerves and respect—he’d felt something... warm. Almost wanted.

They were loud, chaotic, expressive in every direction—but they were also well-mannered. Bright. A little awkward around him, but not shy. Sieun had seen their faces before—Christmas Eve, the An-core band, all eyeliner and neon streaks and oversized jackets. They’d left an impression. And now, after months of photos and stories Suho had texted him—of their exams, rehearsals, group chats, silly fights—he felt like he kind of knew them already. They treated him as a big brother of the group without irony, without formality, just enough reverence to feel seen without being pushed away.

Baku even said that he really wanted to shuffle Sieun’s hair, before being swatted with a rolled-up flyer by Gotak.

He didn’t really belong here. But no one made him feel like he didn’t.

Now, he kept close to Suho’s group. The An-core kids pulled him along like a rogue current, showing off their merch booth, their glittery handmade banners, and debating last-minute changes to the setlist like seasoned performers.

When it was finally their turn to take the stage, the crowd responded instantly. Cheers and chants and a sea of waving hands.

They started with an original song, then a cover of “Sunset Glow” and “Start”—a popular OST from Itaewon Class. Everyone knew the lyrics, and the energy in the field became electric. Even Sieun found himself swaying, lips mouthing along to a chorus he hadn’t heard in years.

Baku stepped forward, mic in hand, grinning like he was holding in a secret. “Alright! So before our last song, we wanna share something a little different. If you've been following us since the beginning of the year, you’ve probably spotted a certain someone always hanging around backstage. But today, he’s stepping out front.”

The crowd murmured.

“This is a new song—we’ve never released it. Written by someone very close to us. Today’s the first and maybe only time you’ll hear it live. It’s called Time of Our Life. And the lead vocal is… Suho!”

A beat of silence—then a wave of cheers.

Sieun blinked, startled, as Suho stepped onto the stage from the wings.

Dressed simply in a white tee and jeans, hair ruffled from the wind, Suho looked almost ordinary. Except he wasn’t. Not with that kind of silence in his posture. Not with the way he scanned the crowd like he was searching for something—

Then he found Sieun, instantly.

Just a glance. But enough.

Sieun smiled without meaning to.

The music started—an energetic rhythm of running feet and warm nights and cicadas screaming against the stars. Suho’s first few notes were shaky. His voice wavered like he didn’t trust it.

“솔직히, 말할게 많이 기다려 왔어

너도 그랬을 거라 믿어

오늘이 오길 매일같이 달력을 보면서

(I’ll be honest, I’ve been waiting for a long time

And I believe you have too

For this day to come, looking at the calendar every day…)”

Sieun didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

“솔직히, 나에게도, 지금 이 순간은

꿈만 같아, 너와 함께라

오늘을 위해 꽤 많은 걸 준비해 봤어

(Honestly for me, this moment

Is like a dream for me because I’m with you

For today, I’ve prepared quite a lot of things…)”

The band joined in slowly—harmonies building behind Suho like a wave preparing to crest. His voice wavered again. But then, in the middle of the verse, his eyes met Sieun’s. Something in him settled.

He stood straighter.

“All about you and I, 다른 건 다 제쳐 두고

Now come with me, take my hand

(All about you and I, everything else aside

Now come with me, take my hand…)”

Sieun’s chest tightened.

Because this wasn’t just a fun summer track. It wasn’t just for the crowd, or the band, or even for the version of Suho who had once quit MMA with clenched fists and resentment in his bones. No. This—this was something else entirely.

Suho was singing for someone.

“아름다운 청춘의 한 장 함께 써내려 가자

너와의 추억들로 가득 채울래 (come on!)

아무 걱정도 하지는 마, 나에게 다 맡겨 봐

지금 이 순간이 다시 넘겨볼 수 있는

한 페이지가 될 수 있게

(Let’s write a beautiful chapter of youth together

I will fill it with memories with you (come on!)

Don’t worry about anything, leave everything to me

This exact moment could be something we can get back to

A page we can turn back to…)”

The chorus hit like a rush of wind.

It sounded like an anthem. For everyone there. For every blurry photo and car ride in the sun and spilled soda they’d ever collect. But Sieun—he could feel the difference in Suho’s gaze when the lyrics landed.

He still looked at him the same way.

Not with admiration. Not like a teenager clinging to someone older because he had nowhere to go.

But with love that had grown more certain. Clearer. Grounded not in fantasy, but in quiet, persistent devotion.

“Want you to come on out and have fun”

The bridge was pure invitation.

“Want us to have the time of our life…”

Sieun couldn’t look away. He stood frozen, as if caught in a spell.

He had always seen Suho as something too radiant to touch—like the sun, blazing too close to the walls Sieun had built around himself. A warmth that could melt through his carefully kept distance, leaving behind a longing he was never allowed to name. The sun had come to him once, not out of choice, but out of loneliness.

But now… now, watching him on stage, Sieun wasn’t so sure that was still true.

Suho no longer burned with rage or recklessness. Around him bloomed a sky full of stars—friends, laughter, a whole constellation of people drawn to his light. And he… he had grown calmer, steadier, like a sunrise rather than a wildfire. The warmth he carried no longer threatened to scorch. It felt just right.

And yet—despite all that had changed—there was one thing Suho hadn’t grown out of.

The way he looked at Sieun.

And in the final chorus, with the whole crowd chanting—

“Yah, yeah-oh, yah, yo-oh, this is our page

Yah, yeah-oh, yah, yo-oh, our page…”

Suho’s voice rose above it all.

The song ended in a euphoric roar. The crowd burst into cheers, but Suho didn’t immediately step back.

He stepped forward.

Breathing heavy. Sweat at his temples. And then, with the mic still in hand, he spoke.

“Thanks for listening, everyone.” His voice was rough, worn down by emotion. “I spent a lot of time tried writing that song… because I realized something. Not everyone gets to feel young when they’re supposed to.”

A pause. A silence.

“Sometimes life skips your turn. You miss out. You think it’s too late. But it’s not. Being young… isn’t about your age. It’s about the moments that make you feel alive.”

His eyes found Sieun again. Unlike that Christmas Eve, this time, he didn’t look away.

“And if you never got to have that kind of moment… I want you to know it’s not over. We can still write it. I’m here. I’ll write it with you.”

After the music died down and the applause faded into memory, the festival slipped into something softer—sizzling BBQ, warm night air, and voices tangled in laughter.

Suho sat among the chaos, feeling like he was floating.

Baku and Youngyi were bickering, as always—this time about how one post-performance beer wouldn’t kill anyone, while Juntae made a dramatic fuss about “underage morals” with his mouth full of pork belly. Gotak just laughed with both shoulders shaking, like he was watching a sitcom instead of living it.

And Sieun… he was laughing too. Quiet, a little awkward, but genuinely. His shoulders weren’t as stiff, his eyes not so guarded. He had eased into the group more than Suho ever thought he would, helping Naeun reach the tongs without asking. It wasn’t the same kind of comfort he had with Beomseok and Seokdae—this was messier, louder, full of people with too much energy and no volume control—but somehow, Sieun managed to hold his own.

Suho smiled to himself. He looked happy. That was all Suho ever really wanted.

Well. Mostly.

Somewhere in the middle of dinner, Naeun yelled, “You dickhead—why’d you take the last perilla leaf?!”

Suho, mouth full, grinned and held it up like a trophy. “Survival of the fittest. Cry harder.”

Naeun lunged with her chopsticks. “I will stab you in the eye.”

Sieun blinked, watching the exchange. “Young couples sure have a weird way to communicate.”

The entire table fell silent.

Baku dropped his chopsticks.

Gotak caught them mid-air. “Wait… do you not know they broke up, like, forever ago?”

Sieun looked genuinely surprised, almost comically so. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Youngyi jumped in. “It’s ancient history. Like, November? And believe me, they’re very platonic now.”

Naeun leaned forward, stabbing a piece of meat with exaggerated vengeance. “No offense to whoever dates Suho next, but I wouldn’t do it again. That’s practically suicidal.”

“I’m not that bad,” Suho muttered.

“You’re worse,” Naeun and Youngyi said in sync.

Suho rolled his eyes and glanced at Sieun. He was still smiling—but now, it was tinged with something else. Amusement, yes. But also surprise. Relief, maybe?

Thinking back, Suho realized… yeah, he’d never actually told Sieun. After the breakup, their conversations stayed in safe zones. Sieun never asked, and Suho just… never brought it up.

And now, Sieun laughed. Not out of discomfort, but lightly, like something unknotted inside him.

Suho didn’t know for sure, but something in that laugh made his chest feel full. As if—maybe—Sieun was glad to know.

When dinner started winding down, everyone began splitting off. Naeun and Youngyi linked arms and declared their holy mission to find matching earrings. Baku and the rest of the chaos trio bolted toward the neon-lit arcades like children on sugar highs. Just before they left, Baku shot Suho the most painfully obvious wink, complete with a double thumbs-up behind Sieun’s back.

Suho mentally threw a sandal at him.

And just like that, it was the two of them. Again.

The courage he’d summoned on stage—that sudden, burning boldness that let him sing his heart out in front of hundreds of strangers—was long gone. And what the fuck was that corny speech about youth? What was left was Suho at eighteen. Shy, flustered, and suddenly too aware of every inch between them.

They walked along the beach, side by side, the sound of waves brushing close to their feet.

Suho kicked at a shell. “I couldn’t believe you won a 2v1 against a Jinx and Leona duo.”

Sieun hummed. “I’m efficient.”

“More like evil.”

“That too.”

Their usual banter came easily, like muscle memory. For a while, they let it carry them—petty insults about random things on Earth, inside jokes, Suho imitating Juntae’s penguin-like walk. But underneath it, Suho’s thoughts ran wild.

Because everywhere he looked, there were couples.

Couples holding hands, couples sneaking kisses behind the rocks, couples wrapped in each other like no one else existed.

And he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but picture them—him and Sieun—doing the same thing.

It wasn’t like this was new. Suho had been in love with him for months now, long enough to stop pretending otherwise. But tonight, after the song, after the speech, after that look… he dared to hope. Just a little.

Did Sieun know? Did he hear the message behind the lyrics? Did he understand that every line was for him?

Suho didn’t ask. He couldn’t. Not yet.

And then came the fireworks.

The first one cracked open the sky in gold. Then red, white, blue—blossoms of light and sound that turned the night electric. People cheered. Some ran toward the shoreline to see better.

Suho stayed where he was, heart thudding louder than the explosions. He didn’t think. He just leaned a little closer and whispered, his voice barely audible under the roar:

“I lost you last winter… but I won’t lose you again. Wait for me. When the first snow comes.”

He wasn’t even sure if Sieun heard it. The noise was deafening, the world too bright. But when he looked over—

Sieun was still watching the sky. Calm. Quiet. A faint smile touched his lips, soft as moonlight.

He didn’t say anything.

But something in his expression made Suho feel like maybe—just maybe—it had been heard.

They walked back together in silence. Never touching. Never rushing.

And still, it felt like the seasons turning. Like something inevitable finding its way back.

Like the start of a new page.