Chapter Text
The soft hum of voices filtered through the dorm, drifting up the stairwell like warmth from an open oven.
Matthew lingered at the top for a moment, hand resting lightly against the wall. He hadn't been able to fall back asleep after waking earlier, his body still adjusting, his thoughts quieter but not fully settled. Still, the weight in his chest had lifted a little. No hospital walls. No beeping machines. Just the muted sound of laughter and the faint scent of popcorn.
He made his way down slowly, socked feet gliding soundlessly over the stairs, fingers brushing the railing more for comfort than balance. It was early evening he could tell by the soft golden light slipping through the hallway window, casting warm shadows on the floor.
The sound of laughter grew clearer as he neared the living room. Someone shouted triumphantly, probably Ricky, and a chorus of groans followed. He stepped around the corner and paused.
The room was full of life.
The members were sprawled around the living room on cushions, draped across the couch, even sitting cross-legged near the TV. The coffee table was a mess of snack bags and half-finished drinks. Hanbin was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Yujin was gripping a controller with a grimace, clearly mid-defeat. Jiwoong sat like a king on a pile of pillows, Zhang Hao leaning comfortably against him.
It took a second before anyone noticed him.
Zhang Hao was the first to glance up, and when he did, his eyes lit up. Not with pity, but something warmer.
"Matthew," he said, voice carrying over the noise. "You're up"
The others turned, and for a moment, the room paused. Just a breath of quiet, not awkward, just surprised.
Then Jiwoong shifted immediately, scooting over to make room on the couch without saying anything, patting the seat beside him with a soft smile.
Matthew smiled and made his way over. "What are we playing?"
A chorus of answers met him all at once, overlapping and cheerful.
Gunwook, sitting cross-legged on the floor, glanced up briefly. Just a quick look. Just a moment. But something caught in his chest.
Matthew's hair was still slightly messy from sleep, the edge of his sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. But there was color in his face again. Not much, but enough. When he laughed, really laughed, unguarded and breathless as Jiwoong lost a bet and had to do a forfeit dance, it sounded almost like it used to.
Gunwook found himself watching the way Matthew leaned into Jiwoong, laughing into his shoulder like he'd done a hundred times before. Like he wasn't someone who'd just come back from weeks of silence and pain and glassy eyes.
Something in Gunwook's stomach shifted.
He looked away quickly, focusing on the screen, but didn't really absorb what was happening. When his turn came, he played half-heartedly and lost. Not that he noticed.
Matthew was talking more now—joking, arguing over snacks, letting Yujin rest his chin on his shoulder while complaining about being bullied in-game. It was all so normal. Ordinary.
And yet it wasn't.
Gunwook glanced again. Matthew was reaching for a piece of popcorn, cheeks puffed out slightly, eyes crinkled as he squinted at the screen.
He'd eaten dinner earlier. A real one. He hadn't picked at his food, hadn't lied about being full after three bites. It shouldn't have been significant. But to Gunwook, it was.
He wasn't even sure when he'd started noticing this much.
Maybe it was in the hospital, those quiet nights, pretending to be asleep while Matthew twisted and turned under heavy dreams. Or maybe it was earlier, when he first saw the boy curled up, pale and wordless in a sterile white bed. Maybe he'd noticed long before then and just ignored it.
Gunwook frowned slightly and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Gunwook, you okay?" Hanbin asked, glancing over.
"Huh? Yeah." He forced a smile. "Just tired."
But he wasn't. Not really.
He just couldn't stop noticing.
Matthew, who was still soft-spoken but no longer unreachable. Matthew, who still looked tired but no longer empty. Matthew, who leaned into people when he laughed again.
Gunwook didn't know what it meant. He didn't want to think about it too much.
So he leaned back, pretending to focus on the screen, pretending to be annoyed when Jiwoong roped him into the next round. But every now and then, when Matthew wasn't looking, Gunwook let his eyes drift back. Just for a second. Just to check. Just to see him smile.
And when he did—it hit Gunwook in a quiet, steady way:
He's really come back.
Not just to the dorm, but to himself. In the way, his shoulders sat lighter, in how his laughter didn't sound forced anymore.
Gunwook didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He just knew.
And somehow, that certainty settled something deep inside him.
——————
The days that followed settled into something that finally resembled routine again.
Dance practice resumed, full of sweat and stumbles and laughter. Matthew found his rhythm slowly, muscles relearning the sharpness of movement. Gunwook would occasionally glance over during breaks, noticing how Matthew didn't flinch anymore when someone called his name too loudly, or when practice room mirrors caught him off guard.
Vocal training filled the quieter hours—warm-ups, harmonies, and tired hums between sips of water. Matthew didn't retreat from the sound of his own voice anymore. He even joked once during a harmony exercise, and Ricky had fake-gasped so hard that the whole room broke into laughter.
Outside the practice rooms, the shift was quieter but just as real. The rumors that once followed Matthew like a shadow had begun to fade. Whether fans grew bored or the company quietly stepped in, it didn't matter. Some fans began defending him online, flooding comment sections with messages of love and support. Others posted old clips of him smiling or dancing, with captions like "Glad you're still here." Slowly, the noise turned kinder.
What mattered was that Matthew stopped looking over his shoulder. His breathing no longer hitched when someone showed him their phone screen. He even opened his socials again, cautiously, but without panic.
He wasn't all the way back to who he'd been before.
But something steady had returned to him.
The way he smiled without hesitation. The way he lingered in conversations instead of slipping away. The way he laughed again really laughed, head thrown back, eyes crinkling, nothing hidden behind it.
One night, alone in the dorm bathroom, phone clutched in trembling hands, he finally did something he should've done a long time ago.
He blocked his mother.
There was no dramatic build-up. No tears or second thoughts. Just a quiet click, a single breath, and then silence. The kind that felt like freedom. It didn't fix everything, but it carved out space for him to begin again.
And begin he did.
——————
It was late by the time they left the convenience store. The others had already started back to the dorms in a noisy cluster, their voices fading down the street ahead, laughter echoing off dim buildings. Matthew and Gunwook lagged behind without meaning to first distracted by an extra stop inside to grab ice cream, then lingering near the vending machines while Gunwook struggled to choose a drink.
Now the streets were quiet. Only the faint buzz of a distant streetlamp and the soft shuffle of their sneakers filled the silence.
Matthew was talking about something small. Something stupid, really he was complaining about the new limited-edition snack they'd tried earlier at the store, gesturing with his half-eaten popsicle like it had personally offended him.
"It tasted like perfume," he said, wrinkling his nose. "Not even the expensive kind. Just... soap."
Gunwook snorted. "You still finished it."
Matthew looked at him, mock-offended. "That was survival. I was starving."
"You had like five other things in the basket."
"I panicked!"
Gunwook laughed again, shaking his head. The streetlight above them flickered once, then steadied, casting soft yellow light on the sidewalk. He watched as Matthew stuffed the popsicle wrapper into his pocket, swinging his arms lightly as they walked—unbothered, almost childish. There was an ease in his steps now that hadn't been there a few weeks ago. Not forced, not trying. Just... light.
Gunwook didn't join the conversation again right away. He let Matthew ramble on about some new variety show they were scheduled for, half-listening to the details, more focused on the rhythm of his voice.
It was different now. Not because it had changed, but because it had come back.
There was warmth in it again. A natural rise and fall that wasn't straining to be polite or invisible. It filled the space between them without effort, like it belonged there.
Gunwook realized he missed this, not just Matthew, but this feeling. The quiet presence of someone walking beside him. The kind of silence that didn't press on your chest.
When they reached the edge of the dorm building, the rest of the group's shoes were already lined up inside. The door was unlocked, slightly ajar, voices carrying faintly from the hallway.
But Gunwook didn't push it open.
He stood still for a second, fingers brushing the handle, then letting it fall.
Matthew glanced at him. "You good?"
Gunwook nodded slowly, eyes tracing the outline of Matthew's face in the low light. "Yeah. Just... it's quiet out here."
Matthew tilted his head. "You wanna stay out longer?"
Gunwook shook his head. "No, it's late. Just..." He looked down at his shoes, voice softer now. "It's nice. That's all."
There was a beat of silence. Not awkward, just still.
Matthew didn't press. He just hummed lightly and leaned back on his heels, rocking a little like he did when waiting for something to move forward.
Gunwook knew he could've ended it there. Opened the door, stepped inside, and let the moment pass.
But his feet stayed planted.
Something about the quiet, the soft clink of Matthew's bracelet when he moved, the faint sound of a train in the distance, it made him want to hold onto the moment a little longer. To linger in it.
Not because he had something to say.
But because for the first time in a while, this felt like something he didn't want to rush.
So he didn't.
He stood beside Matthew in the dim light, their shoulders a breath apart, saying nothing more. Just letting the night wrap around them like a gentle pause in the noise of everything else.
And eventually, when Matthew yawned and nudged him lightly toward the door, Gunwook followed. Quiet. Steady.
Still not ready to say what had shifted.
But aware, finally, that something had.