Archive of Our Own

Oh Sion has never been without love.

He knows from the stories that his parents used to tell him back then, about the trials and errors of raising a young, mischievous boy in a small countryside town. For every little incident a young Sion caused, his parents were always at his side, cradling him close and comforting him.

His mother always made him his favorite foods when he felt wronged by the universe. His father taught him to cool down and think rationally before giving into his anger, offering him a hand when the young boy struggled to carry the weight of his small world on his shoulders. He didn’t have any siblings as a young , young child—his parents already had enough on their hands caring for him on his own—but his friends fell right into place at his side: teasing and caring in the ways only they knew how.

(Sion still doesn’t know how exactly they managed to fill his shoe locker with so many paper stars and butterflies and origami of that nature, but he does know that he’d found paper stars littered around his house for the next week and a half. They came out of his school bag, his shoes, both indoor and outdoor, and worst of all: they came out of his uniform pockets when he’d put the thing to wash.

His mother was not impressed, to say the least.)

Then, he’d done it: moved to the busy city, far, far away from the small farm and quiet countryside he’d called home for more than a decade.

Seoul is loud. Seoul is busy, and never waits for anyone. Especially not for teenaged idol trainees. The practice rooms quickly become the only places Sion sees, day in and day out. Every day he works, sings, dances until he can’t feel the muscles in his legs or the ache in his chest.

The company building is all clean hallways and barren walls, and never once has Sion gone to a different floor other than the one designated for trainees. The dorm he stays in is quiet for the most part, and despite the friendships he’s formed with his four other roommates, Sion never quite gets that same warm, gooey feeling that his house back in Mokpo radiated.

People come and go. Some trainees return back to school, some even return back to their family homes, unable to keep up with the hectic, destructive lifestyle. Some trainees debut before him despite joining after him. Sion tries not to envy them too much; tries to dampen the ugly feeling in his chest when yet another lineup is announced without him.

He sucks it up and grits his teeth. Like he always does. Like he’s always done.

Oh Sion has never been without love, but sometimes, he does get lonely.

The first time Oh Sion meets him is on the train.

It’s rush hour. The station is packed to the brim with people and luggage, work briefcases and rolling bags included. Sion himself is one of the people with a traveling bag: his duffle bag is slung over his shoulder in an attempt to keep it out of the way, filled with extra practice clothes, snacks, and other essentials to keep him alive through the day.

His train isn’t set to arrive for another ten minutes or so. He’s here early to wake himself up—let the noise and bustle of the station fill his ears before he’s subjected to the neverending bass and beat of the company’s stereo speaker system. The coffee in his hand also helps with that. Ice cold to shock his system awake at the early hour.

Someone bumps into his side, murmuring their apologies as they swiftly jump into the moving crowd. Sion sighs, taking another sip of his heavily caffeinated drink. Three extra espresso shots and it still isn’t strong enough to keep his thoughts from wandering—wondering what would happen to his status as a trainee if he kicked that man in the shin, what would happen if the man had shifted just a little to the left and knocked Sion’s drink from his hand.

He shakes his head, glancing up at the LED display. His train arrives soon.

Sion chugs the rest of the coffee with the grace of a Seoul businessman at a late night meeting, chucking the empty cup into the trash can against the pillar. He moves from his place against the station wall, readjusting his grip on his duffle bag as he meanders closer to the yellow line and planting his feet firmly on the smooth ground when another person pushes into his back.

There’s a kid standing in front of him; a high schooler, if their uniform is to be believed. Sion does his best to not rush them, using his body as a sort-of shield from the impending crowd when the train pulls into the station. He only moves once the student has safely passed the threshold between the station and the traincar.

Sion doesn’t get a seat. Or, well, he does at first, but he gives it up when a woman old enough to be his grandmother walks into the train car, casting her gaze back and forth for any open seats. Her cane clicks on the metal floor as she walks, moving closer and closer and closer until Sion is rising up out of his seat and gesturing for her to take a seat.

It’s only when the train starts to move does Sion see him. Another boy sitting at the very end of the row, beckoning Sion over to where he sits. He’s mouthing something—and doing a very bad job of it, mind you—and waving his hand like a fool.

Sion walks over to his seat anyway, mouthing apologies to the people he passes on the way down.

“There’s an empty seat next to me.” The boy whispers, picking up a bag from the seat to his right and placing it on his lap. The thing is about as big as him, and from the sound it makes, Sion can tell that there’s a lot in there. “There was no one in it originally, so I put my bag there, but yours looks pretty heavy too.”

“Yeah, thank you.” Sion nods, carefully dropping his bag to the floor and kicking it under the seat.

He does his best to not accidentally collide with the boy on his way down, but a man can only do so much when faced with such little space. The seat the boy offered up was the one at the very, very end of the row, meaning it was conjoined with the wall, and hence, narrower than the others.

It can’t be helped that their shoulders touch a little—Sion’s built a bit of muscle in his time as a trainee, though he can’t quite be labeled a gym junkie just yet—and Sion really can’t control when their legs end up touching a little at the knee. He literally cannot make himself any smaller. It will have to do.

The boy, thankfully, seems to recognize Sion’s dilemma. He even laughs a little when he spots Sion’s awkward expression. “I should’ve just given up my seat, huh?”

“No, no.” Sion says, waving his hands around to ensure the boy doesn’t even try to get up. He shifts a little in the narrow seat, adjusting himself just enough to be able to look at the boy next to him properly and rest an awkward hand on his shoulder. “You had the seat first, it’s only fair that you get to sit in the thing.”

The boy’s gaze flicks to Sion’s hand, almost imperceptible if not for the way his eyes linger there for a second too long. He withdraws his hand, letting it rest on his leg instead. “Sorry, didn't want to make it weird. Just, keep the seat, okay?

“Okay,” the boy responds, his tone light. Sion nods a little, as if to agree, and then turns back to his own space, or really, half his space and half of the boy’s space.

They don’t speak much after that, with Sion pulling out his phone and earbuds and the boy immersing himself in some pocket-sized novel. He doesn’t seem to be making much progress in actually reading it—not with the way he’s been trying to sneak glances at Sion, he’s not—but he doesn’t call out to Sion either. Not when the train causes their feet to overlap, not when their shoulders accidentally brush a little too close together; nothing.

The train rattles on, passing by one station and stopping at three others. Sion spends most of that time checking the messages on his phone, opening emails from the training team to skim through the contents. His eyes catch on the words “new trainee” for a second too long, but he moves on quickly enough when the next paragraph mentions another pathway for debut: a survival show.

It makes sense. If the company were to do a type of show, then the training team would absolutely need more trainees to fill the open spots. Not that they didn’t already have more than enough in the lower ranks and levels, but Sion digresses. For these types of shows—the types that connect with a viewer’s heart and have them lose sleep to vote for their favorite idol-possibility—it would make sense for the company to pull their highest ranking trainees and mix in a few from the other subsidiaries.

A survival show. The thought is a little unreal, even as Sion throws it back and forth in his mind. Would he be eliminated for good if he didn’t pass a certain round? Would all of his five years of practice fizzle into nothing at the hands of strangers behind a screen? What would—

“Hey.” A gentle voice calls, breaking through the rapidly darkening clouds of Sion’s thoughts. He has to blink a little to get his eyes to focus; taking in the bright fluorescent lights, metal walls and floors, and the sound of the stranger’s voice all at once.

Sion turns his head, a small smile on his face. He pulls out his left earbud, carefully placing it back into the case to ensure he doesn’t lose it. “Yes? Did you need something?”

“Ah, well.” The boy stammers, bringing up a hand to scratch at his shoulder. Must be some type of nervous tick. “I’m getting off at the next station, so if you want to take my seat, go right ahead.”

The next station? Sion averts his gaze to the LED display above the train doors, watching two adverts go by before the name of the next station finally reveals itself: Seoul Forest.

Also known as: Sion’s station.

“I’m getting off too, don’t worry. Maybe someone more worthy will take your spot.” Sion laughs, gathering up his things into his lap. The head of training would kill him if he accidentally left something on the train again, and his bank account would hate him for the amount he’d have to shell out in replacement fees.

The boy laughs along with him. Sion spots a small snaggletooth behind his upper lip. Cute. “Someone more worthy? How does one even become worthy of a train seat on public transit?”

The more he talks, the more Sion can parse a lilting difference in the way he speaks. It’s not the accent of a foreigner, and it definitely doesn’t sing the same tones as Sion’s own dialect, but it’s different from the standard. He finds himself leaning into the rhythmic rise and fall of the boy’s voice, finding comfort in the unusual, far-from-standard, far from Seoul and closer to home, tones.

“I don’t know.” Sion says, pushing himself to his feet as the train begins to slow. He slings his bag back over his shoulder, adjusting the strap to be a bit shorter while the boy in front of him practically shoves all of his things into the open maw of his backpack. “I guess you’d have to give up a seat to get one these days, right? Maybe a little angel will take pity on you.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, with Sion staring at the boy and the boy looking back in confusion. There’s a slight furrow between his brows, and his nose scrunches up in a way that reminds Sion of a little puppy. He could almost see the gears turning in the boy’s head, hear the clicking and squeaking before the boy gasps and turns away, hiding his face in the shadow of his bag.

Sion has to hold back a laugh when the boy’s ears turn as red as a tomato. His next retort is quieter, nearly lost to the squeals of the train’s brakes echoing through the Seoul Forest station. “‘M not an angel.”

Sion doesn’t comment on that. Well, it’s more like he doesn’t get the chance to comment on it. As soon as the boy finishes his statement, the train turns into a flurry of activity, swallowing both of them into the flutter of Seoul’s eternal busyness.

Doors hiss open at the same time as the conductor’s announcement comes over the intercom, and adults and children gather up near the doors, hauling luggages with loud plastic wheels behind them and heavy looking backpacks at their front. Sion finds himself wishing to swap bodies with the high schooler from earlier who escapes the train car with practised ease—maybe it was time to admit that taking college exams would be a much better use of his time than repeating the same choreo sequence over and over again into the wee hours of morning.

In the convex mirror across the aisle, the crowd of the train turns into a swollen mess of black suits and colorful spring clothing. The crowd is a mess, organized in such a way that only the citizens of Seoul knew how to navigate without crashing into one another and stepping on people’s toes.

Sion has not yet become one of the well integrated, and the convex mirror shows him just that. In the crowd, both Sion and the boy both look like little ants, pressed up against each other in the corner, waiting for the doorway to clear up and the noise level to go down. They’re not as close as they were in their seats, but the lack of distance is something worth noting—-especially when Sion is able to get a few whiffs of a fig scented something from the boy’s hair and neck.

Silently, Sion hopes he doesn’t smell like the practice room or the sweat that tends to cling to his clothes and body after hours and hours of running routines. The cute boy next to him doesn’t deserve that type of assault on his olfactory system.

They eventually do make it off of the train, both of them getting swept up in the crowd, but never once getting too far from each other. It’s not too hard to lose the boy in the crowd anyway, not with the way he towers over the rest of the tired travelers, heads bent down, looking at their phones and novels and their shoes skidding on the metal floor. It reminds Sion of those movie scenes—the ones where the crowd blurs into a mess of movement, leaving just one character in focus at the very center of the screen.

Once they’re out in the open air, fresh oxygen filling Sion’s lungs and clouded sunshine flooding over his skin, Sion regains his voice. “Thanks for lending me the seat, again.”

“It’s no problem.” The boy bows, his snaggletooth making another appearance when he throws another smile in Sion’s direction. The backpack he’d been stuffing full of random paraphernalia gets thrown over his shoulders, and then: “I guess I’ll see you around then?”

Sion feels his shoulders tense. Right—with every greeting, every meeting, comes a parting. Sion and this boy don’t know each other. They’ve never even seen each other before. Hell, Sion doesn’t even know his name.

And yet—beyond all of that, Sion can’t help but feel a sense of companionship. Can’t help but be a little drawn to the stranger who’d been kind enough to open up the seat next to him when common courtesy allowed for him to simply ignore Sion altogether.

There’s a quiet ache in his chest. Sion smothers it down, lifting his hand up in a half-wave. “I’ll see you.”

It takes a second, as neither of them seem to want to move. Sion’s feet are glued to the pavement, his legs suddenly shackled to the ground as he takes in the boy’s long lashes and careful smile. His voice comes out too quiet when he speaks, whispering as if it were midnight instead of the cusp of morning. “Uh, I’ll get going now, okay?”

“Mm.” The boy responds, his smile disappearing in another half-nod-half-bow. “Bye-bye.”

Sion is the first to turn around. His footsteps are heavy on the asphalt, loud enough to drown out the ache in his chest, echoing through the busy cityscape and losing itself in the hustle and bustle of flashing traffic lights and distant city-wide chatter. He’ll most likely never see that boy again. He tries to think back to his smile, the way his voice sounded, the soft lilting tones of an unfamiliar dialect in the standard framing of Seoul’s skyscrapers—he hadn’t even gotten the kid’s name.

His earbuds drown out the noise of the city, dampening it until all he can hear is the gentle melody of piano keys.

Yet another point for Seoul; Sion’s score is in the negatives at this point.

It’s only when Sion arrives in the practice room, having taken a few stops to drop off his bag and change into his practice clothes in the changing rooms by the tenth floor bathrooms, does he learn that the boy had been following behind him the whole time. His footsteps quiet and unsure, but his gaze steady on the back of the quote-unquote “nice hyung he met on the train with the SM Ent keychain on his bag.”

Sion curses his past self internally for being uncool enough to buy such a keychain, but thanks himself at the same time.

It is only because of that obnoxious bright pink that he gets to attach a name to the cute, snaggletooth-smiling trainee that stands tall in front of him.

“Hello, my name is Kim Daeyoung.” The boy smiles, his hands flat at his sides as he bows. “I look forward to training with all of you.”

The smile that splits Sion’s face when practice starts is uncontainable because take that Seoul.

Sion is even now.

Sion comes to learn a few things about Kim Daeyoung.

For one, the boy sleeps like a rock. It is downright impossible to wake him up with any conventional method. Sion has tried shaking, turning on the lights, setting loud and repetitive alarms, taking all of the blankets off of Daeyoung’s bed; all for him to roll over and curl up on himself for warmth. Nothing works. Sion just about tears out his hair every morning until management shuffles around the trainee dorms via seniority.

Second. Kim Daeyoung is clumsy as hell. Sion has never seen someone trip over their own feet thrice in a row in his life before Daeyoung, and is quick to conclude that no other person would be able to commit such a feat other than Kim Daeyoung himself. He was already tall to begin with—Sion finds himself a little envious of that—but the fact stands that he’s still growing. His long limbs work at both his advantage and disadvantage, catching on the lips of thresholds and forcing Daeyoung to go buy new jackets every now and then to accommodate.

Thirdly—not last as there’s at least twenty more points Sion could rattle off the top of his head about their new fawn-like trainee—is that Kim Daeyoung learns fast. He has vocals that are untrained, but certainly, definitely, jaw-dropping. He skips the first two levels of singing lessons in his first week, and by the second month, Sion isn’t surprised to see him in the debut level class. He belts high notes with no issues, and plays piano accompaniment with the skills of a classical musician.

His dancing skills leave much to be desired, but that isn’t to say that he doesn’t try. Daeyoung is catching up to trainees that have been here for two years and leaving them in the dust within his first month. Sion is almost jealous. It took him a good half year to get to the points Daeyoung is passing with ease.

Perhaps this is getting too lengthy. There’s too many points to cover. Too many things to say about the cute boy who just so happened to be sitting next to a senior trainee on a train. He’ll just get to the point.

Lastly. Last, past the twenty and thirty other points that take up their respective spaces in Sion’s mind: Daeyoung is kind. Too kind.

With his quick rising and rapid overtaking of other trainees, Daeyoung seems to have gathered a—crowd, per se.

There’s never anything said or done directly to Daeyoung’s face, but Sion can see it all. Short blips in time where Daeyoung’s practice clothes go missing from the tenth floor changing rooms and show up conveniently in the half-hidden lockers at the very back corner of the practice room, the ones dusty enough to turn any white fabric to an immediate black. The breaks in practice where Daeyoung’s water bottle gets knocked over, spilling the contents all over the floor despite Sion muttering that he’d definitely watched Daeyoung close it tight before setting it down.

Daeyoung waves it off, as he always does, smile and laugh and all, but Sion can see the precautions he takes to ensure certain issues don’t repeat themselves. He brings along a set of gym clothes to practice, a blue tracksuit with a butterfly printed on the breast, and changes anything with a loose top to something with a locking function; things like his airpods and water bottle are secured that way.

The incidents—as Sion’s taken to calling them—carry on.

One day, Daeyoung’s phone is accidentally stepped on when another trainee was running around the room, slacking off. Daeyoung waves off his apology with that sweet smile of his, saying things like “it’s okay” and “accidents happen,” even though his screen is completely cracked and ruined. Sion’s not even sure the thing turns on properly anymore.

Sion is the one who takes Daeyoung to the mall to get a new one. He has to haggle with the saleslady for a bit, but the smile on Daeyoung’s face when they walk out with an even better model than the one he had before is completely worth it.

Another day, a different trainee “accidentally” spills a whole bottle of soda overtop Daeyoung’s backpack. It dries sticky before they think to get Daeyoung’s attention, but even then, it’s no use. The clothes he’d brought to change into after practise are soaked through—as well as the few Japanese workbooks and extra sheets of paper that Daeyoung tended to carry around. Sion finds himself thanking God when Daeyoung tells him later that day that he’d forgotten his tablet and headphones back at the dorm.

They’d shared their textbooks from them on, each page carrying two sets of annotations: one in a deep, forest green and the other in an outrageous shade of glittering purple. It was not Sion’s choice to use such a color. Daeyoung had been the one that so kindly offered the pen to him—so it was only right for him to accept it.

The last incident involved a physical altercation. It starts with something about Daeyoung being too slow to stop from colliding with another trainee that wasn’t meant to be in that spot in that certain formation in the first place, and it peaks when the trainee grabs Daeyoung by the collar and pulls him down to his level, rearing back a clenched fist that swings down a little too close for comfort.

Sion had been there this time. Sion had reported it, bruised knuckles and bloodied rings and all, with Daeyoung standing just behind him, his tall self curled up to fit in the shape of Sion’s shadow. There are no bruises on Daeyoung’s skin, no injuries sustained to his face or arms—-but Sion still feels a bit of vindication when the offending trainee glares from across the meeting table, their face peppered with yellowing, purpling, blossoming bruises and cuts.

That trainee and his accomplices are dropped from SM. Sion gets a lesson about handling issues with teammates in a way that doesn’t involve throwing them to the ground, and a weird half-glare-half-impressed look from Yushi when he gets back to the dorm.

Yushi tells him to use the first-aid kit under the sink to clean his hands. Sion doesn’t listen. He doesn’t particularly care either, though that’s in no way meant to slight Yushi and his genuine worry for Sion’s well being. He’s too focused on cooling off to worry about the way his knuckles would heal in the coming days.

Honestly, he could’ve gotten a few more good hits in. He should have.

What Sion does care about, however, is the expression on Daeyoung’s face when he carefully eases Sion’s door open that night.

It’s shock at first. Maybe he wasn’t expecting Sion to actually be here, sitting up at the edge of his bed, back to the wall, scrolling mindlessly on his phone as he waits for his brain to quiet down. But then the shock melts down into something different when his eyes spot Sion’s hands; it melts into something softer, something squishy, in Yushi’s eloquent words—more like the kid Sion had met on the train all those months ago as opposed to the dedicated, relentless trainee Kim Daeyoung that works himself ragged to stand at perfection’s edge.

The dorm is quiet at this time, bathed in a thin layer of moonlight that filters in through sheer curtains and poorly covered windows. Most of the other occupants have either fled to nearby convenience stores or knocked out on their beds three hours prior. Sion doesn’t even know who let Daeyoung in; doesn’t know who would risk being an accomplice in a trainee’s curfew being quite clearly broken.

Time runs slow as Daeyoung lifts his gaze. He’s grown taller since the first time they met, his body growing to better fill out the baggy clothes he kept bringing to practice, but nothing has changed about his eyes. They shine through the quiet, a raging undercurrent of emotions that Sion couldn’t even begin to name or parse through.

“Hyung.” Is all Daeyoung says, all Daeyoung gets to say, before Sion is rising up out of his bed to his side.

It should be alarming; the way Daeyoung simply, nearly, collapses into Sion’s open arms. Sion is prepared for the impact nonetheless, his arms taking up residence around Daeyoung’s waist, hands coming to rest upon the boy’s back, rubbing small circles into his lower shoulder. The boy’s head lands on Sion’s left shoulder, his hair tickling the side of Sion’s face as he buries his face into the fabric there, taking a breath that doesn’t shudder or break as Sion expects it to.

Daeyoung’s arms only return the hug when Sion tugs them back a little—out of the doorway, properly into the dim, golden lighting of his poorly furnished bedroom. He can’t quite drag Daeyoung around like this, can’t convince him to sit down at the edge of his bed or on the floor to have a proper conversation, so Sion settles for simply rocking them in place, shifting his weight from side to side so Daeyoung has no choice but to shift along with him.

It’s a strange little dance. A makeshift waltz with no music, no pattern, no grand ballroom floor or costumes. Just Oh Sion and Kim Daeyoung in their mismatched pajamas, wrapped up in each other’s arms, heartbeats pattering out of time with the rhythm of their lungs. Somehow, they end up spinning in place like fools; once, twice, and halfway through a third before Daeyoung speaks again, his voice muffled into Sion’s shoulder.

“Why are we spinning?” He asks, his breath hot against Sion’s neck as he laughs; weak, more of a huff than a real laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

“I don’t know, just felt like it.” Sion admits quietly. Daeyoung must’ve turned his face to speak to him, Sion realizes, ears no doubt burning a benevolent shade of red when he feels Daeyoung nuzzle into the space at the base of his neck.

Daeyoung hums a sound of acknowledgement, squeezing tight. “Ok.”

“Did you need something?” Sion prompts, shifting his weight to his right foot and keeping it there, if only to be able to take a quick glance at the silent boy on his shoulder. Daeyoung’s breathing is long and even, but not deep enough to be considered sleepy. The tight grip of his hands on the back of Sion’s t-shirt helps too, but still. “Daeyoung? Are you feeling okay?”

“Hyung,” Daeyoung starts, lifting his head up from Sion’s shoulder just to readjust himself, hooking his chin over the muscle there instead of simply resting upon it.

Night fades in, soaking them both in a deep, midnight hue. Daeyoung’s voice is quiet, as quiet as it’s ever been since the day they first met, but it doesn’t carry that same steady quality. Instead, it shakes and wavers, breaking in time with Sion’s heart at the very end of it all. “Do you think I’m not good enough for this?”

Sion pulls back from Daeyoung’s embrace, moving his hands up to the boy’s shoulders. Daeyoung averts his eyes as soon as Sion is able to meet them, but Sion is quick to notice the tears that are beginning to gather at the corners of his eyes because here’s another fact; another bit of Daeyoung-trivia if you will: Daeyoung cries a lot, but only when he feels truly hurt. Sion has seen the boy deal with the harsh criticism of the training team leaders, watched from the side as he clean up another mess that wasn’t his own, practice until he physically cannot keep up with the tempo of the song blasting through the room; all with that same smile and look of determination in his eyes.

Never once has Daeyoung blamed others when it clearly wasn’t his fault. Not once has Sion witnessed Daeyoung roll his eyes or click his tongue or even get reasonably mad at the way he was treated. So, Sion can’t really be blamed for being the one who does it for him.

It’s hard to keep that simmering anger at bay—it’s that same feeling from earlier that day, the same flames igniting the burnt wick in Sion’s lungs and chest. Daeyoung’s arms are still loosely wrapped around his waist, but Sion’s hands are the ones that are holding tight to Daeyoung’s shoulders, crouching down ever so slightly to ensure Daeyoung meets his gaze. “Who said you aren’t?”

Daeyoung sighs, head hanging low. “Who ever said I was?”

Sion pauses at that. Well, actually, it’s more like the world itself pauses because what? Sion can’t quite believe the words that fall from Daeyoung’s mouth—in his mind, there was no doubt as to why Daeyoung was here, training with them all in the hopes of debuting in the future. His voice, his charisma, his will to learn and change and engage with people no matter what they think of him—Kim Daeyoung has always deserved to debut. That is fact, and in fact, Sion would even go as far to say that it was fate.

The question itself seemed like a trap; a trap to get Sion to lay out his heart, right here, right now, on some random Tuesday night, wearing his loser-esque t-shirt and sleep shorts in the middle of his extremely loser-esque five year trainee bedroom.

So, Sion avoids it. Sue him for not being ready for confrontation, but right now it’s time for Plan B: spit out whatever comes to Sion’s mind to convince Daeyoung that he’s worth much more than he thinks, more than what those dropped trainees convinced him to be.

Unfortunately; or maybe a bit fortunately, Sion hasn’t decided yet, what comes out of his mouth is something along the lines of: “Come here, you’re sleeping with hyung tonight.”

Okay. That wasn’t exactly what Sion had in mind, but whatever. It's what he gets for letting his mouth run a-mile-a-minute when Daeyoung’s around.

And, as a bonus, the sudden declaration does its job. Daeyoung whips his head up, and his face scrunches up into that shocked expression that Sion has become all too familiar with in the past two months when Sion frees himself from Daeyoung’s grasp and immediately starts pulling the boy toward his bed. “Wait—but my—”

“Shh, just stay.” Sion whispers, pressing a finger to Daeyoung’s lips and laughing at the resultant offended look in Daeyoung’s eyes. Gone is the sulking boy, and back is the kid from the train—all uncoordinated motions and bumbling, boyish awkwardness. “My bed is big enough to fit us both if we scrunch a little.”

“But won’t the training team get mad at you, hyung?” Daeyoung asks, always thinking of others before himself, that sweet boy, the words partially muffled by the placement of Sion’s finger. He pushes the offending appendage away, holding tight to Sion’s wrist. Sion can see his eyes drifting to his split knuckles. “I don’t want to get you in any more trouble than I already have.”

Sion wants to simultaneously throw himself into the Han River and burst into flames in the middle of the desert because, God, what did he ever do to be in the presence of such an angelic being. Kim Daeyoung must have fallen from heaven, must be Sion’s personal heaven-sent angel on high, because what else could explain the warmth that expands in Sion’s chest every time the boy opens his mouth? What else would accurately define the way Daeyoung carefully runs his fingers over Sion’s busted knuckles, as if they were glass, as if they were as fragile as butterfly wings?

“They’re just bruises,” Sion whispers, “so they don’t hurt as bad as they look.”

Daeyoung huffs, more of an exasperated noise than a laugh. “So you admit that they look bad.”

“Can’t exactly lie about what’s in plain sight.”

“You, of all people, would try anyway.”

Sion laughs at that, muffling the sound behind his free hand. Daeyoung is smiling now too, the corners of his lips ever so slightly raised. It’s not the same smile Sion is used to seeing in daily life—the one where Daeyoung is full out bursting with happiness, displaying his snaggletooth as he laughs and laughs and gasps for air—but it’s certainly better than the frown he’d had earlier. Sion considers it a win, even when Daeyoung eventually lets go of his wrist, letting Sion’s hand fall rightfully down to his side.

“We should sleep soon.” Sion says, glancing at the night lingering outside of his window. He’s sure if he moved the curtains, he would see Seoul’s city landscape glowing in the night, alive in ways Sion would never be able to experience, drowning in a youth characterized by barren walls and misty practice room mirrors.

Daeyoung doesn’t say anything, but the gentle bump of his hand to Sion’s hip is enough.

There’s no clocks hanging in his room, just as there’s no posters of artists he admired during his childhood and no postcards or notes from old friends adorning the space above his desk. It’s as barren as trainee dorms get, filled only with Sion’s clothes, his few belongings, the bedsheets he’d brought along from Mokpo at his mother’s insistence, and an age-old lamp on a worn nightstand.

His mom’s Queen sized bed sheets weren’t the right size to fit his mattress; this, Sion knows too well after many a night of readjusting them to sit properly over the Twin XL slab of wood he’d been provided. They were always too loose at the top right corner but too tight at the bottom edge, always bunching up and coming off in the mornings after a night’s worth of Sion’s restless sleeping habits. The multiple pillows at the head of the bed are a side effect of said habits—Sion’s only ever been able to push one pillow off, leaving the other one safe to cushion his head.

“Sion hyung.” Daeyoung calls, already settled at the edge of Sion’s bed. He’s at the side closest to the wall, the side where the bedsheets are gathered up and shoved to the side in a vain attempt to get them to stay in place, but not once has he complained. The pillow there is shifted a little higher to accommodate him.

All he does is call Sion’s name, his eyes following Sion’s movements across the room as he tries to find where his charger could have gone in the span of twenty minutes. He gives up in the end, giving into the blossoming warmth he can feel crawling up the base of his neck when Daeyoung calls his name again; softer, warmer. “Sion hyung, didn’t you say we should sleep?”

Right. Right, right. Sion runs a hand through his hair, tossing his phone blindly on his nightstand. Daeyoung is already on the damn bed, having pushed the blankets around to cover his legs while Sion was busy puttering about, trying to delay the fate he’d imposed on himself.

“Are you alright sleeping on that side? It’s, uh, messy.” Sion blurts mindlessly, pointing at the bedsheets he’d so carelessly jammed into the corners of his bed frame right behind Daeyoung’s head. He’s standing at the edge of the bed now, crouched down ever so slightly to meet Daeyoung’s eyes.

Daeyoung glances back at the bundled up fabric, pursing his lips. “I don’t really mind, hyung, but if you want this side I can trade—”

“No, no. You stay there.” Sion cuts in, hastily climbing onto his mattress and laying down in the open space to Daeyoung’s left. Like this, his head fully back against the edge of his pillow, he’s looking up at Daeyoung. It would be so easy to take his fingers to trace his facial features, to take his pointer finger to the apples of Daeyoung’s cheeks, to run his thumb against the edge of his jaw, and indulge just a little the warmth that radiates from Daeyoung’s presence in overwhelming, gentle, daunting waves.

Sion blinks. The moment passes.

“Let’s go to sleep, Daeng.” Sion mutters, reaching a hand toward the lamp. Tapping it twice saps the light out of the room, leaving them both in an almost eerie moonlit darkness. Sion tugs the blanket up as much as he physically can with Daeyoung still sitting up, which is to mean: Sion just pulls up as much excess fabric as he can until his body is covered up to his shoulders.

Again, a Queen sized bed sheet equals a Queen sized comforter. Sion takes his wins when he gets them.

Daeyoung is still, but by the shape of his silhouette, Sion can tell that the boy is looking at him. Moonlight dances across his face—or it could be the echoes of fading car headlights passing the window outside, Sion’s not too sure—illuminating Daeyoung’s expression just enough for Sion to see his concerned eyes and pouting lips.

He’s no doubt looking down at Sion’s exposed hands again. Maybe Sion should invest in some bandages and gauze before their next practice if it bothers Daeyoung this much. He can’t have the boy getting too wrapped up in his head, not for Sion’s sake, at least.

Sion pulls his arms beneath the comforter, pulling them close to his chest. “Go to sleep, Daeng. You’ve got a long day of practice tomorrow.”

Daeyoung’s response comes in a flurry of noise; shuffling sheets and creaking mattress springs, all accompanied, quite unhelpfully, by Sion’s heartbeat, pounding in his ears as Daeyoung gets himself settled. “Don’t you have a long day tomorrow too?”

“Shhh,” Sion whispers, pulling up the blankets over his head. Daeyoung pulls them right back down, his laugh breathy. “Don’t speak those types of things into existence. I want to go home early for once.”

It takes them a few minutes of rearranging themselves, but eventually they get settled enough to let the conversation fade out into an easy silence. The only sounds that echo through the room now are the sputters of Sion’s poor, overworked air conditioning unit and the cars outside, rattling as they hit the rough patches of asphalt that have yet to be properly patched.

Sion is the first to fall asleep, he thinks. The last thing he remembers is stretching his arms up a little, trying to get comfortable without disturbing Daeyoung too much. He didn’t want to be an indirect cause of Daeyoung messing anything up at practice. What kind of hyung would he be? He settles for tucking his arm awkwardly up, out of Daeyoung’s way but still comfortable enough for Sion himself to knock out.

So yes, he must be the first to fall asleep. Sion is also the first to wake up.

However, when he does wake up, it is in a severely different state to how he fell asleep.

The first thing he registers is that he’s on his side. Not too strange, considering that Sion doesn’t normally sleep on his back on a daily basis. He rolls around a lot, moves and kicks occasionally, lots of fun things that his parents have complained about on multiple occasions.

The second thing he realizes is that his arms are tucked into his chest instead of splayed out across the space, and that his legs are tangled in what he assumes to be the excess fabric of his comforter. A little strange, but Sion is quick to brush it off. Bad sleeping habits. Sucks.

But then: Sion registers that his head is moving. Up and down. A slow rise and fall that a pillow usually cannot do as a pillow usually isn’t, you know, alive? He tries to move around a little—get a better bearing of what exactly had happened while he was frolicking off in his dreams—but he’s stuck. There’s something hanging loose over his back, trailing down from somewhere by Sion’s neck, keeping him from moving too far.

The last thing he realizes is that he is being held.

Daeyoung is holding him in his sleep; it’s his hand that rests on Sion’s back, and his chest that Sion apparently slept on for an unknown amount of time. He’s somehow still perfectly on his back, but his head is tilted ever so slightly in Sion’s direction—he can feel Daeyoung’s breaths in his hair, sometimes cascading down to his neck.

Sion wants to burst into flames. His ears are getting pretty close to that point because, oh my God, Daeyoung is holding him in his sleep?

The worst part is that Sion doesn’t want to move either. Daeyoung is warm; he’s always been, in a sense, but having Daeyoung so close, close enough to tangle their legs together into an inseparable mass, it makes something in Sion’s chest turn mushy and soft. His stomach is aflutter, not in the way that he usually gets on rollercoasters and fairground rides, but in the way that usually strikes right before an evaluation. That nervous, anxious feeling that never quite goes away.

A cold breeze blows over him from the AC, sputtering out the last of its cycle before it falls quiet again, but Sion doesn’t shiver. He slowly looks up at the Daeyoung-shaped heat pack that’s somehow holding him as tight as a stuffed toy, jumping a little when he realizes that Daeyoung could possibly feel every one of Sion’s movements in his sleep. His face is in full view now, allowing for Sion’s tired eyes to slowly graze over the landscape of Daeyoung’s face.

He looks much younger like this, Sion realizes with a jolt. Daeyoung’s hair lays limp over his face, its length allowing for it to get splayed out over half of his face and more than half of Sion’s pillows, and there’s a slight part between Daeyoung’s lips, tinted a shade of reddish-pink from the tinted lip balm.

Sion pulls his eyes away and sighs out a long, long breath.

Okay. So maybe he has a small problem.

And then: the survival show.

Lastart hits like a tsunami’s waves, shaking Sion’s foundations and leaving him to deal with the aftershocks. His confirmed debut is imminent, looming over him like a rain cloud on a clear summer’s day. It’s meeting after meeting, greeting after greeting, and then he’s getting paired up, grouped up, and sent to practice songs he’s never heard, in a language non-native to his own tongue.

Sion feels as if his bones are turning to jelly. With every oncoming night comes the dread of having to wash up and actually get ready for bed. He can feel the days grating at his near-perfected customer service personality, feeling himself fraying at the edges when he has to correct yet another angle in a dance formation that he’d also just learned two days ago.

His previous problems are shoved aside with no regard. Sion gets no time to see Daeyoung, no time to attach himself to the boy’s side like he used to between practice times and lessons. He sends messages instead, good mornings overlapping with good lucks and good nights. Daeyoung practices on a different floor than Sion does now, with Sion moving between two set rooms and Daeyoung using the other few that aren’t being occupied by Lastart’s cast of trainees.

The boy isn’t chosen in the lineup of trainees, which is fair. He’s only been training for a couple of months at this point. Putting him up against trainees that have been training at SM for years, or at least a single year, would be putting Daeyoung at a huge disadvantage.

The decision is logical, if not a little cruel. It stings that they wouldn’t have the chance to debut together. The decision isn’t one that Sion and Yushi are a part of, but the announcement of the lineup in the first Lastart meeting left Sion feeling strange. It felt as if there was a piece of him accidentally forgotten in that tenth floor practice room; back in his bedroom, tangled in the blankets and extra pillow, or perhaps back in the monochromatic landscape of Seoul’s train cars, in the hands of a boy with a boyish smile and awkward laugh.

It burns and lingers, churning in his stomach, in a way that Sion is long familiar with, but usually from the opposite end. He makes weird faces all the way down the hallway, clenching and unclenching his fists as he goes; trying not to be too obvious in getting all of his nerves out. He supposes he’ll be the first of Daeyoung’s close friends to debut without him.

He hopes he’s the last.

All Sion does in a day is streamlined from that moment forward: wake up, practice, sing, memorize, practice, swap teams, practice, practice, go home, sleep, and repeat. He doesn’t even know how he finds time to eat proper meals in the middle of it all. He practices and practices, takes Yushi’s hand as they move from team to team, learning two different songs and choreos when the other trainees only have to learn one.

And yeah, he gets it. This is the price of being a guaranteed debut member. The show is to find other people to debut with him and Yushi—to find people that look and perform best next to them and with them—but Sion can’t help but feel a little jaded about it all. It makes him a little loose-lipped, a little more frustrated when the words he wants to say are lost on his tongue.

There’s no sugarcoating it. He’s tired, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t know how Yushi does it, his concentration never once failing him on stage in front of the judges and panelists, and his voice never once giving way under the stage lights. Yushi shines under those damned multicolored lights, but Sion feels like he’s been shredding himself to bits underneath it all.

The first two rounds are hell. Sion can almost feel himself melting on the spot as each stage finishes, listening to the judges send out their rankings and judgement on them all. His feet hurt. His chest aches. He’s sweating off half of the makeup the stylists have packed onto his face, but still somehow standing until the last judgement has passed.

It’s the halfway point. Sion can almost feel his hands shaking as the trainees return back to the dorms for the night. Oh Sion is officially two rounds and an epilogue away from debuting. He could almost scream with elation if it weren’t for Yushi standing near him twenty-four-seven and the fact that his voice threatens to give out every time he attempts to speak the next day.

The vocal coach puts him on vocal rest, so that gives their dance coach full permission to put him to work in the practice room. Yushi has an opposite schedule to him today, spending his morning dancing and his afternoon singing. Lucky. Sion wishes his vocal cords would cut him enough slack to at least sing a simple scale.

A door opens, making a noise loud enough to shock Sion out of his repetitive, dancing haze. He whips his head up, quickly pulling his extended arms back so as to not look like a fool in front of whoever has decided to barge in so unceremoniously.

“Sion hyung?” It’s Yushi, hiding halfway behind the door. Yushi, who’s been attached at his side ever since their world had been thrown sideways in front of cameras and recording teams. He’s not wearing his usual dance practice clothes, looking much more comfortable in his sweater and jeans than Sion could ever feel in his ratty t-shirt and athletic shorts. “They’re calling for you.”

Sion’s mind kicks into overdrive. His voice is rough and dry when he speaks, but he knows Yushi wouldn’t mind. “Where?”

“In the tenth floor practice room. The one with the pink window.”

“Got it. Thanks, Ushi-ah.” Sion says, waving the boy out with a smile, though his mind lingers. What good would having a meeting in a practice room do? Were the staff going to make him perform as a single person instead of the Sion-Yushi unit they’ve insisted on using in every performance in every round?

So, he hauls ass to the tenth floor. Rides the elevator down two floors, walks around the halls at least twice to make sure he isn’t accidentally on the wrong floor, takes a left, right, passes by two eerily dimmed hallways and turns left at the last one. The door with the pink tinted glass is the fourth one on the right, though Sion has never personally been inside. He just knows the floor by heart. A byproduct of being here for so long, he supposes.

He doesn’t hesitate to knock—his knuckles tapping a neat two beats into the glass—before pushing open the door.

What greets him on the other side is a nearly barren room. The only things that decorate the usually full trainee practice room are a long table at the opposite wall, and a group of five or so people, sprawled out across the floor with papers and pens in hand. Only one person remains behind the main table, pushing their glasses up as their eyes flick up to meet Sion’s curious gaze.

“Sion-ah!” The head of training calls, beckoning him over to the table at the head of the room as soon as Sion pushes the door open fully. He doesn’t wait for Sion to make it to the table before he opens his mouth again, his voice echoing all around the room as if he were speaking into a megaphone. “We were just about to call Yushi to ask where you were!”

“Sorry about that, sir.” Sion bows, silently wincing when his back pinches at the movement. He’s quick to straighten himself, and even quicker to scurry to the table’s edge, tucking his hands behind his back and leaning forward ever so slightly. The world doesn’t care if Sion is tired and aching, he still has to be that perfect person in front of the superiors that keep him here. “Yushi said you called for me? What for?”

The training head must see something funny in the way Sion hides his hands behind his back, as he busts out into laughter. The papers on his clipboard fall forward on the table with the force of it. “You’re not in trouble, Sion, don’t worry. We wanted your opinion on letting another kid join Lastart.”

“Halfway through?” Sion asks, trying very hard not to roll his eyes. Do these people not realize that throwing another trainee in at this point in the show would be setting them up for failure? How could they hope to gather a fair evaluation from the judges who already had their opinions formed on the other contestants?

The training head blabbers on and on, his voice eventually turning into a stream of background noise to Sion’s thoughts. Another trainee? In round three? They’re going to get crushed by the weight of the show, no doubt. Whichever trainee they’re trying to get into the show is going to have the hardest time of their life competing against senior trainees and adapting to the new language environment of the practice rooms.

Sion feels bad for them, but he has some hope. Maybe the trainee will get to turn the experience into something for their future—-get them used to cameras and being under the spotlight. God knows that Sion needed some of that practice before being shoved into the main spotlight of a show.

“—-ah! And here’s the man of the night, right on time, as always!”

Sion frowns, blinking himself back into reality. “What?”

“The trainee joining Lastart! I brought you here to see if he would be a good addition to the group we’ve picked out already.” The training head smiles, all teeth and misplaced energy, gesturing to someone who is very obviously approaching with hesitant steps. Sion can hear the squeaking of their shoes on the practice room floor, can hear the quiet shuffling of some type of jacket as they come to a stop just behind him.

Sion takes a deep breath in and smells fig, artificially sweetened and already halfway faded on the trainee’s clothes. He almost chokes on it; fuck, he knows that scent. There’s only one kid that wears clothes loud enough to hear and a body mist strong enough to last past the grueling repetitions of morning practice.

“Sion-ah, this is Kim Daeyoung! Lead him well, dear future leader!”

Sion only sees the top of his head when Daeyoung bows, but somehow that’s enough for his heart to settle in his chest. Something clicks into place when Daeyoung steps up beside him, hands clasped in front of him and a silly little smile on his face. Sion wants to throw himself out of the nearest window, honestly. Either that or bury his face into the crook of Daeyoung’s neck.

Because if it’s Daeyoung being added to the show, then the producers must already want him in the debut line-up itself. There would be no other reason to throw such a powerful vocalist in otherwise; or at least, no other reason that Sion can logically defend at this exact point in time.

That would mean that Sion wouldn’t have to leave him here to rot in the liminal space of the practice rooms and windowless vocal rooms. That would mean that Sion would get to spend at least the next seven years of his life basking in a warmth that he’d believed to be foreign to his flesh, basking in Daeyoung’s voice and laugh and presence—

The exhaustion that riddles his muscles and bones and throat is quickly forgotten when Daeyoung risks a glance at him, standing nice and proper at Sion’s right. And for the first time in two months, Sion feels the knot in his chest loosen, the pressure lessening just enough when Daeyoung taps the back of Sion’s right hand with his left.

The last two rounds and finale of Lastart pass in a haze.

The finale in particular is almost too much for Sion to take in, but all that matters is this: Oh Sion has debuted as a member of the last NCT unit, and Kim Daeyoung stands just behind his right shoulder, his stance all tensed up and his mouth pressed into a nervous line, but he’s there nonetheless.

Sion can’t stop sneaking glances back at him; like a child in a shopping mall, standing in front of his favorite store. Daeyoung is there every time, there’s no point in really looking back all that often, but Sion really, really can’t help himself. The fluttery feeling in his chest is back, surging up to his throat as time passes by in a honey-slow drizzle.

He wants to hug him already, congratulate him on completing a goal that took Sion five years to accomplish. He wants to throw an arm over Daeyoung’s shoulder and rough up his hair, to tug at the hoodie that hangs over the back of his stage outfit until Daeyoung falls into his arms, his laugh echoing through the room as Sion clings to him.

Daeyoung is here. He’s here, he’s here.

After three months and an uncertain amount of days, Oh Sion is going to debut with Kim Daeyoung. And Sion wouldn’t have it any other way.

“So,” Yushi starts, sitting at the edge of Sion’s mattress. He’s half hanging off the edge, legs dangling over the wood frame as he reaches for one of Sion’s stuffed animals to squeeze. “Any reason why you kept looking at Daeyoung when the judges were talking today, or..?”

Sion chucks a pillow at him from the floor. It doesn’t hit its mark. “Why are you even here?”

“Laundry.” Yushi says, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. He gestures down to his outfit; a fashionable combination of basketball shorts and an old graphic tee Sion recognizes from Yushi’s first few years in Seoul. “Waiting for the machine to be done.”

“You have a washer in your dorm, Ushi-ah.” Sion points out.

Yushi shrugs, sitting up and leaning back against Sion’s headboard. The pillow Sion threw at him turns into his cushion. “Ryo has the better fabric softener. Riku and Daeyoung use whatever brand they happen to find at the convenience store down the road, and Saku doesn’t do any laundry if he can help it.”

It’s such a mundane thing, one roommate complaining about the laundry habits of others, but Sion feels warmth surge and catch on the edges of his ribs all the same. He repeats the names in his mind, elongating the vowels and twisting the tones: Hirose Ryo, Maeda Riku, Tokuno Yushi, Fujinaga Sakuya, and Kim Daeyoung.

“We’re really debuting, right, Yushi?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Yushi eyes Sion up and down, as if to assess him. “Of course we are, hyung.”

Sion changes the subject. For some reason, Yushi lets him. His Problem will have to wait for another day.

Or another month. Maybe another year.

Sion believes that he’s drowning.

Their debut is hectic. There’s recordings to be done, films to be made, teasers to be filmed and posted at certain times and dates. Sion would compare the feeling to drowning, but there’s simply no way he could be drowning yet. It’s only been a few months. His ankles are the only things submerged in the water, and he already feels as if the world is going to cave in on his head.

It’s hard taking care of five younger boys, especially when most of them have only been in Korea for a year or less. Sion becomes their go-to, leading them through crowds, organizing what to eat for their meals, noting down allergies and how certain kids behave in certain places. It doesn’t help that he’s the oldest out of them all, it’s almost built into his blood to care for them, but after a while it does grow to be a bit much.

He knows to never put Yushi on the spot without a warning first, never to leave Riku on his own in crowded places for longer than five minutes, and to definitely not leave Daeyoung with either of the aforementioned boys without a manager nearby. He has napkins and wet wipes on hand for when Ryo accidentally drops half of his lunch on his clothes, and has at least three hair ties on his wrist at all times for when Sakuya gets tired of his bangs getting in his eyes.

Riku and Yushi help a lot, though it’s usually Yushi who truly knows what they’re doing and Riku who does most of the physical going and talking. They’re the opposite sides of the same coin, those two, fond of mixing their Korean and Japanese into a merged language that, for now, only they can understand.

Sion will get there eventually, when his language proficiency increases beyond the level of your average grade schooler. For now he bides his time, offering them their favorites when he can and buying things with his card when they’re unavailable in person.

Sakuya and Ryo are cute and rambunctious little kids. They cling to each other like a lifeline—which in a way, Sion supposes they are. He can’t exactly blame them for being so attached to each other. They’ve been together since day one, and play off of each other well enough.

He knows not to leave them to their own devices for too long, though. Sometimes they genuinely forget about their surroundings and get lost messing around. Sion tries to keep their innocence intact, playing along with their antics and even instigating them on occasion. It can’t be helped—Sakuya’s reactions are too good and Ryo is too cute not to mess with. Sion’s never changed his phone lock screen so often before in his life.

“Isn’t that just your older brother instinct coming out?” Riku asks one day. Sion shrugs, hoping his younger sister doesn’t mind being pushed aside for a bit while Sion struggles to handle the five kids who’ve entrusted into his leadership.

Leadership. A strange term. Even stranger when Sion hears it attached to his own name. He’s already the eldest, but a leader?

All management does when he asks for clarification is hand him a stack of loose papers, pat him on the back, and whisper a loose-lipped “good luck” on their way out of the meeting room.

Change is loud and swift, it sweeps Sion off of his feet and swells up like a wave beneath him. All it took was a mere five or so months for Sion’s life to flip on its axis. The cityscape he’d found to be too fast all that time ago now seems too slow for the pace of Sion’s life. When was the last time he’d been so busy? What city were they meant to be in next? What language had he meant to be using on that broadcast? It’s too much. It’s too fast. The trains he could never navigate now take him away with no warning, leaving Sion to shiver in his metaphorical seat.

Maybe it’s the winter air finally making its way into Sion’s bones, but something about it—New Team changing to Wish, his hair giving up its natural dark pigment to make way for a surprisingly flattering blonde, gaining six debut mates and then losing one soon after—something about it all makes his heart ache. The life he’d been chasing for so long, was this really it? He’d worked hard just to be told to work even harder?

And then, there’s Daeyoung. Well, Daeyoung-but-not-Daeyoung. His name is Jaehee now, changed for reasons that fly right over Sion’s head when management explains it to him, to all of them. He’s too busy trying to not stare at Daeyoung himself, dressed in his usual long coat and black long sleeve at the other end of the table, nodding along when he’s prompted and agreeing when he’s supposed to.

Yushi elbowed him twice. Riku stomped on his foot pretty hard, and still Sion’s eyes can’t help but drift in that direction; away from the boring presentation slides and toward the pretty boy with the long bangs sitting just out of his reach, his frame swallowed up by the coat he wears lightly draped over his shoulders.

Change is swift, but it cannot touch everything. There’s one thing that hasn’t changed from three months prior. Another slight little thing that Sion has shoved aside to make room for Lastart’s demanding schedule: his Problem.

Sion’s never been one to be overly attached to someone, but Daeyoung makes it too easy to lean and cling. Sion holds his hands every now and then, and Daeyoung never pushes back. Sion loops an arm into Daeyoung’s when they’re walking back from the convenience store, and Daeyoung simply pulls him closer to offer a bite of his ice cream.

If Sion were to jump on Daeyoung’s back, he would most likely just play along—carry Sion around until he gets tired or someone calls for them—because that’s just who Daeyoung is. The warmth he carries in his chest is easily given and shared, and Sion is always almost the first one to receive, the first to stick and cling like those sticky hands that Ryo likes to throw at random objects in their dorm.

Sakuya throws a wadded up piece of notecard at him when they lock eyes across the table, eyes flicking between him and Daeyoung as if to challenge him. Sion is one torn piece of paper away from retaliating, but then Ryo swats at Sakuya’s shoulder, the sound echoing through the quiet meeting room.

Silence falls over the lot of them. To Sion’s left, Riku is pressing his lips together to stop from laughing. Yushi has physically turned himself away in his seat, separating himself from the rest of them with shaking shoulders when their manager whirls on his heel, glancing around at the six of them with a look that could only be described as parental disappointment. “Are you even listening?”

“Of course, hyung.” If it weren’t for the situation, Sion would have laughed. For now he suppresses his giggles and tears his eyes away from Sakuya and his glare, trying to keep his gaze steady on the monitor they’re supposed to be watching. “But I think Sakuya is—”

Sakuya throws the other half of the torn notecard at Sion’s head.

They settle back down eventually, ending the meeting with much less fanfare than they started with. Sion has to cross it off of his mental list as they’re being led to their next destination—they’ve already gone through the horrors of early morning practice, vocal warmups and recordings for the b-sides of their upcoming release, two interviews for some international magazines, and the one meeting they had scheduled for today, thank God, which leaves them with one more big event: a late night photoshoot.

Sion finds himself thanking any higher being that’s willing to listen when their manager tells them about the coffee truck that will be on site. The drive is a long one, but Sion can’t exactly afford to sleep like the rest of them. He’s too busy checking his dumb emails, skimming over important ones and chucking the rest into another folder for later analysis. Being a leader means that he has responsibilities, yes, but Sion hadn’t exactly correlated those responsibilities with getting at least fifty emails a day to check and confirm and deny and delete.

Riku hands him some type of waffle snack as Sion deletes another three emails, giving up the whole bag to him when he sees how fast the snack disappears into Sion’s mouth.

They’re ferried off to some filming site on the outskirts of Seoul, where the wind has enough room to fully coat the ground and the grass grows up to Sion’s knees. Some of it sticks to the fabric of his jeans as he jumps out of the van, clinging to him like gum as he steps out into the open air and stretches his arms to the clouded sky. Wind sneaks its way beneath his outer layers, puffing up the fabric at the back and catching in his sleeves.

“There’s a playground!” Ryo shouts from somewhere behind Sion’s back as the rest of them climb out of the van, gathering up in their padded down coats and jackets as management hurriedly gathers up their things.

Sion spots Riku’s headphones over his ears and tugs them down before he accidentally misses any instructions, is quick to grab Ryo’s arm before the boy starts sprinting away toward wherever his little distracted heart takes him, lightly pushing him over to where Sakuya is taking in the scenery, and scurries around to the other side of the van to grab Yushi and Daeyoung before the chill settles into their skin.

Yushi presses a hot pack to Sion’s neck, and holds up about ten more when Sion tries to push it back into his hands. His gaze flickers to someone walking just behind them, “Share it. I have enough.”

Bless Yushi and his soft heart. Sion nods, slowing his pace just enough to pull Daeyoung closer to his side. The boy doesn’t fight when Sion tucks an arm around his waist, only complaining when Sion presses the hot pack to his cheek. Sion leeches off of his warmth for the whole walk, eventually sneaking his way into Daeyoung’s coat by way of the arm around Daeyoung’s waist.

“Shouldn’t you have worn something warmer, hyung?” Daeyoung asks. They’re walking at a slower pace than the rest, but that’s only because Sion has hijacked Daeyoung’s body heat, pressing his back to Daeyoung’s chest and sticking his arms through the sleeves of Daeyoung’s coat.

It’s a strange way to stand, and an even stranger way to walk, but Sion makes it work, curling his arms—and hence, Daeyoung’s arms—around himself in a makeshift hug of sorts.

A cloud of mist forms in front of his face when Sion laughs, “Maybe, but I like it better this way.”

Daeyoung hums in response, but says nothing more. Winter has fully set in, the biting cold of the wind when the sun sets is enough evidence of that, but the shooting site would be prettier in the springtime, Sion thinks, glancing at the low-lying lichen and small wildflowers that almost get crushed underfoot. He doesn’t get much time to admire them—-the makeup and dressing staff get a hold of him as soon as he steps within arm’s reach.

Sion blinks, and time passes. He’s the first one to step up in front of the camera; which is great in terms of getting done early, but awful in terms of having to wait for five others to finish their solo shoots before he can truly be finished. The photoshoot itself operates on its own schedule—one that Sion has not been enlightened with, mind you—so it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that he’s stuck here for the time being.

Eventually, after spending a good two hours walking in circles through the nearby field and open space, he finds himself sitting at the top of a small plastic slide; one of the ones that flares out into two at the very bottom, bundled up to the best of his ability in his magazine-provided winter clothes: a pair of dark wash jeans, paired with a striped button-down underneath a dark purple long-sleeved sweater thin enough for Sion to catch his death.

Night begins to fall earlier now, much too early for Sion to care when he’s inside, safe in the warmth of his busted up heater and three blankets; but it’s a different story when he’s outside, sitting atop a children’s playscape slide, wearing the most ineffective winter clothes to ever grace his figure.

“Sion hyung?” Sion whips his head around at the call of his name. He tries to stop his teeth from chattering too badly when he spots Daeyoung jogging over to the edge of the slide, but it’s no use. His teeth chatter anyway, and he shivers involuntarily when another stray gust of wind batters against his face.

Though he has to blink a few times to see it properly, Sion can easily see that Daeyoung’s outfit for the photoshoot is much more practical for cold protection: a thick, forest green hoodie sits beneath a brown coat, with the hoodie bundled up around his neck to act as a makeshift scarf, and a pair of weather appropriate dark wash jeans.

He’s quite literally bundled up against the cold, speed-walking toward Sion like a penguin, hands shoved into his pockets to prevent his fingers from freezing off—and Sion still finds him absolutely adorable.

Sion pretends to sniffle to avert his eyes, drawing his arms closer to his body to retain some of his dignity. It’s not unheard of for Daeyoung to wear comfortable clothes during their off days—coats and dandy types of styles tend to be his go-to when he wants to dress up—but to see it on him for a photoshoot? With his makeup all done up and his cheeks and nose an adorable shade of rosy pink from the cold? Sion might just have to hide those photos from ever being released to the public. His heart won’t allow them to be seen by anyone else.

Daeyoung stops at the edge of the slide, the top of his head just barely reaching past the plastic edge, peering upward at Sion. His eyes are wide with worry, surrounded by a neat coating of glittering gold eyeshadow and white highlight marks. Sion physically recoils at the downturned corners of his lips. “What are you doing out here? Aren’t you cold?”

And well! That’s certainly a question because, to be quite honest, Sion doesn’t know why he’s decided to take up residence on the playscape of all places. There were several other perfectly sane places to wait out the rest of the photoshoot; like the van or the tent the magazine staff had so nicely set up for them with heaters and warm drinks at the ready, but Sion had simply taken one look at the playscape and headed right for it.

“Yeah,” Sion admits, pulling his legs up to his chest. Streetlights flicker on around them as the sun lowers its head beneath the horizon, bathing the playground—Sion and Daeyoung included—in a warm, golden light. “It is cold now that you mention it, but I don’t want to move.”

Maybe, somewhere deep in Sion’s soul—the part that hasn’t been chipped at with hammers and harsh words—he found comfort in it. The playscape, he means. The bright colors, purple and green, red and blue, intertwining and blending into each other as the equipment criss-crosses and flares out into slides and climbing holds; it reminds Sion of something more innocent, a time where he could wander beneath evergreen trees and grab hold of wildflowers that grew between the cracks of the worn Mokpo sidewalks.

Daeyoung’s voice breaks through his reverie. Sion peers down at him, only to see the top view of Daeyoung’s head. “You don’t want to move, but you admit that it’s cold?”

“Then,” Daeyoung snaps his fingers. “What if I got you another layer to wear?”

Sion shakes his head. “Can’t mess up the makeup, Daeng. Anything that goes over the head is a no-go.”

But it seems Daeyoung has already made up his mind, speed walking back in the direction he came with nothing more than a wave and a quick shout of, “Don’t move, hyung! I’ll be right back!”

Psh. As if Sion would try to move in the first place. He spends most of the waiting time looking out at the scenery instead. Off in the distance, Sion thinks he sees a school. There’s a small garden growing in the backyard space, small planters filled with even smaller seedlings. Maybe the kids there would walk over to this playground to play after school. Walking hand-in-hand, backpacks and belongings thrown to the side as they race each other to the nearest slide.

He would most likely never get to mess around like that again, Sion muses. The life of an idol isn’t exactly one that leaves room for escaping lessons to play at the nearest park, after all, but still the thought lingers at the back of Sion’s mind. He tries to imagine himself in that position, maybe dragging Sakuya and Yushi along with him, and giggles to himself. Maybe he’d have more luck with Ryo and Riku; well, actually Ryo might be too busy studying to go and play—-

“Hyung!” Is the only warning Sion gets before Daeyoung’s face appears in front of him, leaning in close enough for Sion to count his lashes.

Sion blinks, “Yeah?”

“Grit your teeth.”

“Huh?”

And then they’re both going down the slide, with Daeyoung scrambling to move out of Sion’s way and Sion abiding by Daeyoung’s instructions in gritting his teeth, even closing his eyes for good measure. The wind from him going down the slide makes him feel as if he purposefully planted his face into a cold bucket of water. Fucking hell it’s cold. Even the rapid apologies that fall from Daeyoung’s mouth aren’t enough to stop Sion from cursing him under his breath.

“The stylist noonas will probably want this coat back,” Daeyoung starts, sitting himself down on the other side of the plastic barrier that split the slide into two separate ramps, “but you can have it for now. It’ll help.”

“Absolutely not.” Sion says, opening his eyes and shoving the obviously very expensive and most likely sponsored-by-the-brand coat in Daeyoung’s direction. “I am not taking one of your layers. You need to stay warm too, Daeng.”

“I have two more layers under this, hyung. You need the warmth more than me.” Daeyoung counters, pushing the thick fabric into Sion’s arms. Sion can smell the lingering scent of fig on the lapels and sleeve ends. Curse Daeyoung for wearing such an easily transferable fragrance. “Just put it on. I’ll be warm by just sitting next to you, don’t worry.”

Another gust of wind blows past them, rattling the branches of the nearby trees. Sion stares at Daeyoung, considering the options he has. He could argue with Daeyoung and end up losing, or he could just put up with Daeyoung’s antics and just put the damn thing on. Either way, it ends with him keeping the coat, and that’s not even beginning to analyze the way Daeyoung is looking at him right now, all openly tender and gentle in a way that makes Sion want to burst into raging flames.

Sion sighs dramatically, giving Daeyoung the best side eye he can muster in the cold weather. He quickly pulls the coat over his shoulders, already feeling the residual warmth from Daeyoung’s body heat warming him up. Pushing his arms through the sleeves, he childishly sticks his tongue out in Daeyoung’s direction, only to dissolve into quiet laughter when Daeyoung copies him.

“I’m only doing this because I have no other choice, okay?” He clarifies, whipping around the sleeves of Daeyoung’s sponsored coat as if they were weapons. “Next time, you need to keep your outerwear to yourself. I don’t want to be responsible for you catching a cold.”

Daeyoung laughs and hops over the plastic barrier of the slide, easily sitting down behind Sion and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Okay, alright. Sion might freeze at first contact, but genuinely, isn’t that a normal reaction to have when Kim Daeyoung is essentially wrapping you up in a big, warm, bear hug?

He’s draped over Sion like a cape, or perhaps a better comparison would be one of those big teddy bear prizes in festival booths. Sion’s never had one before in his life, but this is what it must feel like, comfort and warmth resting against his back, and legs wrapped around Sion’s waist. Daeyoung is stuck to him like a leech; but it’s not like Sion is complaining.

“I won’t get sick.” Daeyoung mutters, his breath ghosting over the shell of Sion’s ear. “Why would I get sick when I have Sion hyung here to keep me warm?”

Sion leans his head back, resting in the divot between Daeyoung’s shoulder and neck. It’s a touch he’s never allowed for himself to take, but one that comes so easily when Daeyoung pulls him closer. “Kim Daeyoung, you better hush.”

“Whatever you say.” Daeyoung laughs, but keeps his mouth zipped nonetheless. The night is still cold, but Sion can feel himself warming up from being in Daeyoung’s embrace. It brings him back to a younger time, when they’d spent a whole night like that, entangled without either of them consciously knowing.

The memory is a little aged now, but if Sion thinks hard enough, he thinks he can remember a feather light touch grazing the broken skin of his knuckles, and a gentle hum luring him back to sleep when he flinches at the touch. Had Daeyoung been awake after Sion fell asleep back then? If so, Sion doesn’t find that very fair.

“Daeyoung?” Sion calls, breaking the silence. He doesn’t bother lifting his head from Daeyoung’s shoulder to look at him. It’s much easier to speak to the halogen lamp lit sky than it is to look Daeyoung in the eye. “Kim Daeyoung?”

“Yes, hyung?” Daeyoung responds.

Sion smiles. Daeyoung’s voice is softer at night, not too much unlike the one he puts on in front of their behind cameras, but different enough for Sion to be able to tell the difference. He calls again. “Daeng-ah?”

Once again, “Yes?”

“Jaehee?”

“Hm?”

Sion sighs, already preparing himself for the oncoming reprimands of all the staff above him. “Don’t we need to be back at the photoshoot soon?”

To his surprise, the hold Daeyoung has on his waist tightens. “Not yet. I asked for a thirty minute break.”

The confession is quiet, but the laugh that bursts out of Sion’s chest is loud and free, flooding the empty cavities between his ribs with a slow moving warmth as Daeyoung pulls him even closer. He can feel Daeyoung’s hair poking at his neck as he laughs, feels Daeyoung breath feathering out over his collarbone as the boy hunches over in embarrassment and uses Sion as his own personal squeeze toy.

Fuck—thirty whole minutes? Sion can’t quite wrap his head around it just yet. He resorts to teasing Daeyoung instead, shaking his head back and forth on Daeyoung’s shoulder like a child. “Did you want to hug hyung that badly, hm? Enough to ask for a break in the middle of a shoot?”

His laughs only get louder when Daeyoung nods into his shoulder because what the hell, Daeyoung is so soft for him. Sion can’t stop smiling at the thought.

“Quit laughing!” Daeyoung whines, his hands pinching at the skin of Sion’s hip. “I just wanted you to take a break, that’s all!”

Leave it to Daeyoung to postpone a whole photoshoot just to bring a coat out to his shivering hyung and cuddle with him at the bottom of the slide; Sion’s heart wants to burst out of his chest. Good God, Sion is in love.

And fuck. Wouldn’t you know. There’s Sion’s Problem, back at the surface of his mind.

When the two of them return to the shoot, it comes to no surprise that Yushi is the one who corners Sion in the makeup room. Daeyoung is swiftly hauled off to fix his clothes by the stylists—his coat is fully off and his hair is all sorts of messy from the way he’d been resting on Sion’s shoulder—leaving Sion completely at Yushi’s mercy.

“Well,” Yushi starts, his arms crossed. “Did you enjoy making us all wait an extra thirty minutes for you two to show up?”

Sion can only shrug. It’s not like he’s the one who called for the break in the first place, and he tells Yushi that, word-for-word.

This only serves to make Yushi even more annoyed, for some God forsaken reason. So annoyed, in fact, that he slips into Japanese, lowering his voice just enough for Sion to hear him. No one else. “Quit playing around, Sion, seriously.”

His next words are delivered with a hand warmer, thrown directly at Sion’s chest. Sion barely manages to catch it before it actually hits him.

“Why can you never just take what you want?”

Sion doesn’t respond. He ponders the question for a grand ten seconds, and Yushi walks away. Why can’t he take what he wants? Well, that’s easy. Sion doesn’t really want anything. There’s nothing to take—

Daeyoung’s laugh hits Sion’s ears, echoing out from the main waiting space. The kids must be playing a game of some sort; Sion can hear the sound effects of attacks and shields being put up through the tinny speakers of their portable devices. He can imagine the smile on Daeyoung’s face already, the one that flashes that cute snaggletooth and dimple combination that always manages to send Sion’s sanity into a downward spiral.

And, okay, well. Maybe there is one thing that Sion wants to take. Just one.

It’s ten minutes after midnight when Sion decides that enough is enough.

Yushi bolts up from his bed when Sion bursts through his door, out of breath and probably as red as a tomato. Sion doesn’t give him a chance to ask what happened, clamoring up onto his best friend’s bed and sneaking his legs under the edge of Yushi’s throw blanket with nothing more than a silent plea.

“Could you quit trying to bust down my door in the middle of the night?” Yushi asks, fed up with Sion’s lack of knocking. He scurries away from Sion when Sion clamors into his bed, pressing himself up against the wall and using the blanket as a shield. “And get your cold feet away from me, hyung. This is a crime in Japan.”

“I think I like Daeyoung.” Sion blurts, hands grabbing hold of Yushi’s blanket as if it were a lifeline. He tugs, pulling the blanket out of Yushi’s hands. “Ushi-ah, what do I do? I think I like him. I think I like him a lot.”

Yushi looks three steps away from pushing Sion to the floor. “You think you like him?” He asks.

“Yes, Yushi.” Sion sighs, leaning forward to put his head in his hands.

Yushi narrows his eyes, his tone cautious. “You think. You are still thinking if you like Daeyoung?”

“No, no. I think I like like Daeyoung.” Sion says, scrambling around for the right words. Japanese might be his second language, but God knows how incredibly inefficient he is at using it beyond every day conversations. “Not as in, like, the ‘let’s walk to class together’ type of way but more like ‘the moon is pretty tonight, isn’t it?’ type of way? You get it?”

“You classify the different between normal like and like like on a scale of ‘highschool sweethearts’ to ‘the moon is pretty tonight.’” Yushi deadpans.

“That is not what I wanted you to get out of that entire statement, Ushi-ah.”

Yushi doesn’t acknowledge the quip. Instead, he crosses his arms and tilts his head, making Sion feel like a child getting lectured by their teacher for doing something incredibly stupid. The scenario isn’t too far off from reality. Sion does feel pretty stupid.

“Sion hyung,” Yushi starts, “why are you saying that you ‘think’ you like Daeyoung?”

“Like the actual reason? Or the more thought out one?”

“Whichever one gets you out of my room faster.”

See, now that has Sion wracking his brain. It’s like when someone asks for his favorite song, and suddenly his mind blanks on every single song he’s heard in his life. Why does he like Daeyoung? The answer could be so many things and nothing at all.

He thinks of old practice rooms and shared workbooks; of green and purple ink sprawling across the pages, into the margins and off the side. His mind draws up the sound of the rattling train car, the squeeze of a narrow seat, and a shy smile in the midst of a blurry Seoul rush hour crowd. His hands flex into fists, curling and uncurling with the memory of broken skin and wavering voices at midnight.

It could be the scent of Daeyoung’s body mist clinging to the edges of a borrowed coat, or the sight of Daeyoung standing at Sion’s side underneath the stage lights. So many things, so many options; so many chances for Sion to have his new—could they really be considered new if he’s always known?—feelings stomped on and kicked to the curb.

“Daeyoung is,” Sion starts, running a hand through his hair. Frustration wells up in his chest, his words stuck in his throat. “Daeyoung is warm, I don’t know.”

“Warm?” Yushi repeats incredulously, looking every bit as done as Sion feels. “Daeyoung is warm, huh. No elaboration?”

Sion tries. He really does! Nothing. “Nope. Nothing comes to mind.”

“You really are something else.”

“You say that as if I’m some foreign entity, Ushi-ah.” Sion complains, tugging once more at Yushi’s blanket to stop the other boy from hiding underneath it. “I’m just your hyung. Just Sion.”

“And can ‘just Sion’ not go physically talk this out with Daeyoung?” Yushi crosses his arms, casting a glance at the digital clock on his nightstand. It’s Animal Crossing themed, probably a joke gift from Sakuya. “We have to get up early tomorrow, leader. I want to sleep.”

Sion frowns, throwing his hands up and leaning back against the edge of Yushi’s bedframe. “God forbid a guy come ask his best friend for advice.”

Yushi rolls his eyes. “Go talk to him.”

“I think I need to talk to him.” Sion concludes.

“I just said that.”

“Well, now I said it.” Sion says, freeing himself from Yushi’ blankets. Yushi kicks at his legs, barely missing with the way Sion vaults off the side of the mattress. “And I’m going to do it. Because I said it and not you.”

He bounces off of the worn mattress, sticking his tongue out at his disgruntled looking friend. Yushi looks a lot more cat-like when he’s mad, like he’s trying to burn Sion to a crisp right where he stands. “Lovely talk, ten out of ten would do it again. Thanks Ushi-ah!”

Sion shuts the door with a quick tug, relishing in the way the slamming noise perfectly drowns out the frustrated exclamations spewing from Yushi’s mouth. Learning that skill took him two years, and he loves using it to his advantage.

By the time he finds himself outside of Daeyoung’s bedroom door, he’s spent at least five minutes crossing the dorm, and another few dawdling around in the hallway. Daeyoung is obviously in there; there’s light coming from under the door, and if Sion leans forward, he can hear the light trills of an implacable melody.

Sion shakes his head, continuing to pace up and down. Two steps forward, five steps back. How does one exactly start a conversation about something like this? There’s a thin line between being narcissistic and confident about this, and Sion can feel himself teetering on its edge with every other lap he takes on the worn wooden floor.

He raises a hand to knock on the door. Then lowers it again, his nerves getting the better of him. What if Daeyoung isn’t awake? What if he left the lights and music on by accident? Sion should head back to his dorm. He should think this out.

Sion raises his hand again, hovering a few centimeters away from the wood.

And then the door cracks open of its own accord because when has Sion ever been known for his luck.

“Sion hyung? What are you doing out here?” Daeyoung asks. His natural pouty lips are out in full force, and his hair hangs into his face, bangs falling into his eyes. His pajamas are a little droopy on him, the sleeves hanging loose from his arms and the collar of his pajama shirt stretching a little too far over his right shoulder. Sion averts his eyes, if only to be polite.

Sion offers him a smile when he can finally meet Daeyoung’s gaze without combusting. He’s surprised that it doesn’t waver. “I wanted to talk.”

“Scary.” Daeyoung says. He moves aside to let Sion into his room nonetheless, holding open the door as if they were at some expensive hotel or something.

Sion feels out of his element here. The interior of Daeyoung’s room is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Familiar in the sense of layout—Sion vaguely remembers the window placement and bed placement of Sakuya’s bedroom in the upper dorm—but unfamiliar in the various decorations and knickknacks that litter the space. A keyboard is propped up against the wall by the door, and next to that is a small chest organizer, the top drawer open just enough for Sion to see sweater sleeves peeking up past the edge.

There’s a small desk right next to Daeyoung’s bed, tucked into the corner as close to the window as he could get it, and on the desk is everything and anything. Sion’s eyes catch on the copious amount of workbooks stacked on the left side, his mind filling in the blanks when he spots the page flags and tabs that stick out beyond the edge of the pages.

“Are these our old textbooks?” He asks, grabbing one off the top of the stack. The chair in front of the desk is covered in crumpled up clothes—Sion does notice a lack of a laundry hamper—so he settles at the edge of Daeyoung’s mattress, ignoring the urge to curl his hands into the plush comforter.

Daeyoung doesn’t sit next to him. He moves the clothes off of the chair and sits there instead, dumping the clothes into an unseen basket on the other side of his desk. “I was looking over some conjugation rules, so,” he waves his hands in the air, right next to the old books, “had to bust out the shared ones.”

Sion flips open the front cover of the workbook. The first page is completely blank, nothing but the title of the workbook printed on the center of the page in a bolded typeface; the second page, however, has two names scrawled at the top: Oh Sion, in glittering purple ink, and Kim Daeyoung, beneath it in a deep forest green color.

“Sion hyung?” Daeyoung calls, spinning idly in his chair. He’s fiddling with his fingers, crossing them and inspecting his nails while Sion closes the workbook. “Didn’t you say you wanted to talk?”

Sion mindlessly hums a response, not quite sure if he should commit to using his words just yet. Then again, he’s not quite sure if this whole “telling Daeyoung how he feels” plan was a good idea in the first place, but he’s already here. So: “I was wondering why you weren’t asleep yet, that’s all.”

Because yeah, Oh Sion might not know how to talk about his feelings, but sure as hell can redirect a conversation to address another concern! Sion feels like he’s going crazy. His mind is a whirlwind of ideas and thoughts, all surrounding Daeyoung and warmth and comforts and craziness—maybe it would’ve been a better idea to just wait until the morning. Maybe it would have been a better idea to be patient and think things out for once.

Sion’s worries are proven true when Daeyoung tilts his head, frowning. “Is that really all that’s bothering you, hyung?”

“Yes?” Is Sion’s very debatable answer.

“No it’s not.” Daeyoung responds. Sion curses the boy’s observational skills, averting his gaze to the curtains covering Daeyoung’s window when Daeyoung spins his desk chair to face Sion. He suddenly feels as if he’s under interrogation, like he’s in one of those American cop shows with the tinny spotlight hovering over his head.

Sion meets Daeyoung’s eyes. A horribly bad idea in hindsight, because all he sees in Daeyoung’s gaze is warmth; sticky and slow moving, coating Sion’s ribs and lungs and heart in a way that makes it hard to breathe in Daeyoung’s presence, hard to focus on anything other than Daeyoung when in front of cameras and crowds.

He thinks and remembers the scolding he’d gotten from the training team when they spotted his cracked knuckles, the way Daeyoung had tried to pull him off of those dumb bullies, the careful way Daeyoung had held him that same night, making sure his hands were cradled between them even in his sleep. It’s nothing but warmth, nothing but love, hidden between the lively moments of their busy lives: artificially sweetened fig on coat sleeves and shared eye contact on stage.

Daeyoung pouts. His lips curl outward, all soft looking and pink, and God forgive him but Sion might actually commit a sin, right here and now. “What’s wrong, Sionie hyung?”

His gaze flickers down to his lips, then back to Daeyoung, then back down to his lips like a magnet. “Hypothetically—”

“It’s okay, hyung.” Daeyoung interrupts, leaning forward just enough for Sion to be within arm’s reach. “It’s okay.”

Alright, fuck it. Let it be known that Sion is a very impatient person. He works off of impulse, following his fickle heart before his brain can attempt to stop him. No amount of logic can stop him, not when his heart is already ten steps ahead; not when his hands are already reaching for the arms of Daeyoung’s chair and pulling him to the edge of the bed. He’s reaching to cup his face while he tries to sit up a little higher, fumbling for purchase on Daeyoung’s shirt in his blind haste.

And what’s worse is that Daeyoung doesn’t resist the force of Sion tugging him down, so easily meeting him halfway. There’s even a smile on his face, as if he were expecting to be dragged into Sion’s space, expecting to feel Sion’s hands clawing at his shirt collar.

When their lips meet, you’d probably think there would be sparks. Fireworks, maybe, or even some grand explosion of color behind Sion’s eyes, but there aren’t. No explosions, no fancy colors that dance around them.

There’s nothing but a light click. Two adjacent puzzle pieces that finally interlocked with the other after so long of hovering along the sidelines. Kissing Daeyoung comes as easy to Sion as riding a bike. Their noses bump into each other, and yeah, maybe he accidentally hits their foreheads together at the start, but once they get the hang of it, Sion can’t stop.

He crashes his lips on Daeyoung’s and feels the other melt into him, his muscles tensing up under Sion’s touch before Sion pulls him off of the chair, down into his lap. The sudden movement breaks the contact between them for what has to be the longest second Sion’s ever experienced in his life.

Daeyoung tastes like artificially flavored cheap chapstick; strawberries, Sion deduces. His arms come to rest around Sion’s shoulders, and Sion can feel one hand bury itself into his hair, tilting Sion’s head just enough to deepen what Sion purposefully started as slow. He can feel the rush of Daeyoung’s heartbeat linking with his own, and savors every little breath that he breathes out between each little kiss pressed to the corners of his lips.

Daeyoung’s teeth scrape against the edge of Sion’s bottom lip as he pulls away for a short breath, chasing him for more whether he realized or not. Golden light coats him from head to toe, and Sion thinks that the man in front of him, straddling Sion’s hips with dazed eyes and cheeks the color of the strawberries he tastes of, must have been an angel in a past life.

“Kim Daeyoung.” Sion calls between each press of his lips to Daeyoung’s own, resulting in a broken sounding hum being his only answer. Still he carries on, pressing feather light kisses all over Daeyoung’s face, calling his name after every single one.

One goes on his cheek. “Daeyoung.”

Another one lands at the tip of Daeyoung’s nose. “Jaehee.”

The next one is a millimeter away from the corner of Daeyoung’s lips, right over a small patch of blotchy red. “Daeng-ah.”

And when he pulls back, smiling at his hard work, it doesn’t surprise him to see Daeyoung already halfway to laughing. His nose is scrunched up like he’s about to sneeze, and his eyes are bright, shining crescents before Sion’s face.

Sion finds himself treasuring Daeyoung like this; so open and sweet, so free.

“Ah, Daeng-ah, you’re so cute.” Sion mutters, looping his arms around Daeyoung’s waist and pressing his face into Daeyoung’s chest. The fabric smells of fig. There’s no doubt in Sion’s mind that the fragrance has transferred into his hair. “So cute, you know that? So warm.”

“Hyung.” Sion presses a kiss to Daeyoung’s collarbone. It does not zip Daeyoung’s mouth as he plans for it to. Damn. Sion can hear the smile in his voice. “Sion hyung, is this really what was bothering you?”

Sion frowns, gathering the excess fabric of Daeyoung’s pajama shirt in his fists on Daeyoung’s back. “Daeng-ah, can you spare hyung a few more kisses before you interrogate me? Hm?”

“What, and let you get away with jumping me like some animal?” Daeyoung laughs, running a hand through Sion’s hair as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Sion shivers at the feeling of Daeyoung’s fingernails on his scalp.

Sion presses his cheek to Daeyoung’s chest, listening to the frantic thump-thumping of Daeyoung’s heart. “Your heart is beating too fast, Daeng-ah.”

“I can’t get it to slow down.” Daeyoung mutters. He tugs at Sion’s chin, angling his lips upward. Easier to take, easier to give. “I don’t think it’ll ever slow down around you.”

And, as much as Sion hates to say it, that little admission is all it takes for him to press his lips to Daeyoung’s once more, chasing after the smothered laughter at the tip of his tongue.

Sion isn’t ashamed of all the time he’d spent loitering around in Daeyoung’s orbit. It took him some time, but he’s finally reached the center of it all. Here, being held in Daeyoung’s arms and holding Daeyoung just as tight, Sion felt the world’s weight lift from his shoulders.

Sion and Jaehee fade back into Oh Sion and Kim Daeyoung, just as they’ve always been, and how they’ll always continue to be.

Oh Sion has never been without love, and with Kim Daeyoung at his side, never again would he be lonely.

They’re sitting around the lower dorm’s dining table, the afternoon sun bearing down on them through the kitchen window, when Sion remembers it.

“Oh yeah,” Sion snaps his fingers, trading his jelly snacks for a freshly iced cookie from Daeyoung’s platter. Icing leaks over the edge of this one, but that’s a problem that’s fixed by shoving the entire thing in his mouth. “I never told you that I liked you, did I?”

Daeyoung is looking at him, handing him another icing cookie when the one in his hand disappears in a shower of crumbs. His hair is pulled back into a half ponytail. Sakuya calls it a disgrace during practice; Sion thinks it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “You’re confessing now, Sion hyung? Isn’t the order a little wrong?”

“What, do you expect hyung to never say it at all?” Sion frowns, shoving another cookie in his mouth. “I think we’re okay like this, though? Do we really have to do things in a set order?”

Daeyoung hums, thinking. The cookie icing in his hand threatens to drip red icing over the counter, and Sion mindlessly sticks his hand underneath the opening to catch the droplets. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to. It was just a thought.”

“That’s good, I didn’t have any words planned anyway.” Red icing drips onto Sion’s finger, nearly landing on top of the counter with the way Daeyoung tries to swipe at Sion’s hand.

“I didn’t think you did.” Daeyoung laughs, shoving at Sion’s shoulder. Sion watches him set the icing bag down, carefully balancing it on the edge of the cookie platter. “You’re not the type to do things like that without something pushing you to.”

“As if you’re any better.” Sion scoffs. He smears the red icing on Daeyoung’s cheek, laughing at the way Daeyoung’s face scrunches up. “You were planning to let hyung do all the work, Daeng-ah. That’s not fair.”

Daeyoung rolls his eyes, but reaches for Sion’s hand all the same. Sion holds perfectly still as Daeyoun raises his hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to each of his knuckles there. The feeling is a little ticklish. Sion tries not to laugh.

“I like you, Oh Sion.” Daeyoung says, pressing Sion’s palm to his cheek. The skin there is soft; warm under Sion’s touch. “I think I like you a lot.”

“You think?” Sion asks. He’s not laughing. He’s not!

“Don’t tease me, hyung!” Daeyoung frowns. The sight is so silly, so cute, that Sion might just burst. “Don’t tease me.”

Sion smiles and takes a step forward. Then another. And another, all the way until he’s practically stepping on Daeyoung’s toes. Close enough to count the lashes that hang low over Daeyoung’s eyes.

“It’s okay.” He says, and he really, really means it. Sion presses a chaste kiss to Daeyoung’s lips to prove it, smiling when Daeyoung tries to chase him when he pulls back. “I think I like Daeyoung a lot too.”

Daeyoung knocks his forehead against Sion’s, forcing Sion’s hand to move to his nape. “Promise?”

“Always,” Sion laughs, ready to admit it all, here and now. Spill his heart out onto the tiled floor and pray Daeyoung doesn’t slip and fall on the slush.

He settles for something simple in the end; something that’s been caught behind his ribs for far too long to not say: “I like you a lot, Daeng-ah.”

(“And I’ll keep liking you for a long, long time.”)