Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A "shelter" can refer to a place that provides protection or refuge, such as a building or structure, or it can describe the state of being protected from danger, bad weather, or the elements

A "sheltered person" refers to someone who has been protected from difficult or unpleasant experiences and realities, often leading to a lack of exposure to the complexities of the world

Sheltered was all Seonghwa had been all his life. His home had never truly been a refuge. It was merely a barrier, a pristine, glass-walled fortress that kept the world out. The world, with all its unpredictability, disasters and monstrocity, was the storm waiting beyond the gates.

He was homeschooled, his education tailored to perfection but devoid of warmth. He never went out to play, never scraped his knees on concrete or climbed trees until his fingers ached. His days followed a strict routine—wake up, eat the meticulously prepared meals his father’s staff laid out for him, step into the lobby only when his driver arrived, and disappear into the world of ballet.

It was the only world he could touch, but even that was a cage dressed in silk and satin.

The house was cold, and loneliness settled in its corners like dust, untouched and unacknowledged. His father was present only in name, and his younger brother, San, was a fleeting shadow. Seonghwa could barely recall the last time they had spoken properly.

There was a time when San was his world. When they played hide and seek through the echoing hallways, laughter bouncing off marble floors. But San had grown up too fast, slipping through Seonghwa’s fingers like sand in a broken sandglass. He had chosen a path of his own, one that led him far away from this house and the expectations that came with their name.

Seonghwa still waited, sometimes, for the sound of a familiar voice. But the house remained silent.

And no matter how many times he pirouetted through its halls, the loneliness never wavered.

Morning came in his repetitive schedule. He slipped into his pink tights, smoothing them over his legs before pulling on a black leotard that hugged his frame. A matching pink satin skirt fluttered gently against his thighs as he adjusted it. His curly blonde hair, still soft from the night’s rest, was twisted into delicate braids before being bunched into a neat bun at the nape of his neck.

He moved with precision.. His gaze flickered to the breakfast laid out for him, untouched, unwanted. Without hesitation, he swept it into the trash, the sound of discarded food muffled beneath the hum of the fridge. From inside, he pulled out a chilled bottle of water and a donut, its sugary glaze catching the dim morning light.

The donut wasn’t for now. If he proved himself in practice, maybe—just maybe—he’d earn it after class.

He slipped on his ballet flats, the soft fabric cradling his feet like a familiar hug. With his pastel pink bag slung over his shoulder, he twirled once in the mirror—just a quick little spin to shake off the morning stiffness—before heading out. The moment the glass doors slid open, the crisp morning air kissed his cheeks, making his eyes crinkle in the tiniest of smiles.

The driver greeted him with a polite nod, holding the car door open. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning!" Seonghwa chirped, slipping into the backseat, his hands resting neatly in his lap. He leaned his head against the cool window, watching the city rush by in blurs of steel and neon. Everything outside was fast, messy, unchoreographed chaos, but he found a sort of beauty in it. The honking cars, the street vendors setting up shop, even the people rushing with their coffee cups—it was all so full of life. A life he wasnt meant to live.

The ballet studio was his sanctuary, his favorite place in the world. The moment he stepped inside, he knew the air would be filled with the sweet scent of resin, the soft strains of piano music, and the hushed whispers of dancers fixing their shoes. Today, like every other day, he would dance—not to escape, but because he loved it. Because dancing felt like breathing, like flying, like everything bright and lovely in the world.

Tonight was a special screening of The Nutcracker, and Seonghwa was playing the Arabian princess. The academy was alive with energy, dancers moving in and out of rehearsal rooms, instructors giving final notes, and costumes being adjusted in the dressing rooms. 

Despite his reserved nature, he was well-liked. He treated everyone with kindness, offering soft smiles and words of encouragement to those who needed them. He moved through the halls with the elegance of someone who had lived and breathed ballet his entire life.

"Hwa!" A familiar voice called, and he turned just in time to see Sasha, the Clara of the performance, bounding toward him with a bright grin.

"Sasha," he greeted, his voice as gentle as ever. "Are you ready for tonight?"

She rolled her eyes playfully. "As ready as I’ll ever be! And you?"

Seonghwa giggled, the sound soft and airy, like the delicate chime of a bell. He rocked slightly on his heels, hands clasped in front of him. “Mhm! I practiced extra last night, so I think my part will be good.” He beamed, his eyes wide with excitement.

Sasha burst out laughing, looping an arm through his. “I swear, you’re too precious for this world.”

Seonghwa hummed happily, swinging their joined arms slightly as they walked. “I just like making people happy,” he admitted. “Performing is fun, but I like it best when I see people smile because of it.”

Sasha squeezed his arm. “Well, I have a feeling you’re going to make a whole lot of people smile tonight, Hwa.”

Seonghwa’s eyes sparkled even brighter. “Then I’ll do my bestest!” He gave a determined nod

As they reached the dressing rooms, the reality of the upcoming performance started settling in. 

Costumes lined the racks, makeup artists rushed between dancers, and the scent of hairspray filled the air. The stage crew were making last-minute adjustments, and the excitement was almost tangible.

Seonghwa disappeared into the dressing room, ready to bring his role—and his joy—to life.

The costume was nothing like the delicate tutus and corsets Seonghwa had worn before. This one was bold, striking—designed to catch the light and command attention. 

The deep burgundy and gold ensemble shimmered under the dressing room bulbs, the rich fabric clinging to his frame like a second skin. The cropped top, adorned with intricate embroidery and delicate gold chains, left his toned stomach exposed, the deep neckline emphasizing the elegant lines of his collarbones. 

Flowing harem pants sat low on his hips, sheer panels teasing glimpses of his legs as he moved, every detail crafted to embody the hypnotic allure of the Arabian Dance.

Seonghwa ran his hands over the fabric, smoothing out the embroidered details as he turned to the mirror. He tilted his head, watching how the golden accents shimmered with his slightest movement, the way the outfit transformed him from the gentle, ethereal dancer he usually was into something more intense, more captivating.

Stepping out of the costume room, he was guided to the vanity, where the makeup artist immediately got to work. First, his hair—she carefully unraveled his curls, brushing them out before slicking them back into a sleek, braided bun. Instead of soft floral headpieces, tonight, he wore a heavy crown along with a gold circlet, resting just above his brows. The circlet's delicate chains draped down the sides of his face like jewelry fit for royalty.

The makeup was deeper, more dramatic. Warm bronze and deep kohl outlined his eyes, elongating them into something sultry and cat-like. The shimmer at his inner corners was richer, more molten than the innocent sparkle he usually wore. A touch of rouge brushed against his cheekbones, defining their sharpness under the stage lights, and his lips were painted a soft but striking rosewood shade—subtle enough to look natural, but deep enough to add to the mystique.

Seonghwa sat still, obedient under the artist’s careful hands, his eyes blinking slowly as she worked. When she finally pulled away, she gave a satisfied hum and turned the mirror toward him.

“Woah.” His voice was barely above a whisper, filled with quiet amusement.

The makeup artist chuckled, adjusting the gold circlet one last time. “You look like a dream, so different today Seonghwa-ya, it’s a good change,” she started. “They won’t be able to take their eyes off you.”

And that was exactly what he wanted.

The audience rarely realized he was a man, and he took quiet pride in that. He was one—just a particularly beautiful one.

His teacher had initially cast him as the Dancing Doll, captivated by his porcelain features and delicate grace. But the way Seonghwa moved—fluid, effortless, like water slipping through fingers—made her reconsider. The stiff, clockwork motions of the Dancing Doll would never do his movement justice. The Arabian Dance was meant to seduce, to enthrall, to weave through the audience’s hearts like a serpent, hypnotic and untamed.  His performance wasn’t until Act 2, so for now, Seonghwa lay comfortably backstage, his head resting on his dance partner’s lap, a book propped open in his hands. The hushed murmurs of the crew and the distant melody of Act 1’s overture drifted through the air, the soft, soothing notes helping to steady his nerves.

Yunho absentmindedly toyed with a stray strand of Seonghwa’s hair, tucking it behind his ear as he glanced down. “Whatcha reading?” he asked, voice low but teasing.

Seonghwa didn’t reply, simply tilted his book so Yunho could see the cover.

Yunho squinted. “Strawberry Shortcake?” His brows furrowed. “What the hell?”

Seonghwa turned around and shot Yunho a glare, his lips pursed in annoyance.

Yunho gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Never play anything other than a doll again,” he teased. “With that kohl around your eyes, you look like a witch.”

Seonghwa froze. His expression shifted in an instant, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by pure panic. “Is my face distracting?” he blurted, bolting upright from Yunho’s lap. His hands frantically patted over his face as if he could wipe away whatever made him look ‘witch-like.’

“Where’s a mirror? I need a mirror,” he mumbled, spinning in place, his anxiety growing by the second.

Yunho sighed, grabbing his wrist before he could spiral any further. “Seonghwa-ya,” he said firmly. “You don’t look bad. I was joking.”

“But what if—” 

“Seonghwa.” Yunho tugged him back down, guiding his head onto his lap again. “You look stunning. Now stop panicking and lay back down before you overthink yourself into a meltdown.”

Seonghwa hesitated, his brows still pinched together, but eventually, he let out a small huff and rested his head back down. “...You sure?” he mumbled, voice smaller now.

“Positive,” Yunho reassured, brushing his fingers through Seonghwa’s hair in slow, soothing motions. “Now go back to reading your Strawberry Shortcake book, you dramatic little Arabian princess.”

Seonghwa huffed and began reading The Adventures of Strawberry Shortcake

“You’re really not nervous?” Yunho asked after a moment, absentmindedly twirling a strand of Seonghwa’s hair between his fingers.

Seonghwa hummed, flipping a page. “Not really,” he answered softly. “I like this dance. It’s not stiff, not too proper. I get to move like I want to.”

Yunho smiled at that, leaning his head back against the wall. “Yeah… it suits you.”

Seonghwa finally glanced up from his book, blinking at him. “It does?”

“Mm,” Yunho nodded. 

Seonghwa stared at him for a beat before a slow, almost shy smile tugged at his lips. He hugged his book to his chest, eyes twinkling..

Before he could respond, the stage director’s voice rang through the backstage. “Arabian dancers, on standby!”

Seonghwa sat up immediately, his excitement bubbling up again. He smoothed down the silky fabric of his costume, making sure every detail was in place before he turned back to Yunho.

“How do I look?” he asked, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice again.

Yunho grinned. “Like you’re about to break a few hearts.”

Seonghwa giggled, reaching for his sheer veil

The music swelled, rich and hypnotic, as the three background dancers lifted Seonghwa, his body wrapped tightly in an ornate, deep-red carpet embroidered with gold thread. The silk shimmered under the stage lights as they balanced him effortlessly atop their heads, carrying him forward like a sacred offering. He could hear the audience hush in anticipation, their murmurs fading beneath the sultry, exotic melody.

For a fleeting moment, memories of rehearsals flickered through his mind—of times they had fumbled, trapping him too tightly, unrolling him too soon, or nearly sending him slipping out onto the stage too early.

It was a funny memory.

With practiced grace, they lowered him to the ground, their movements precise, synchronized, and reverent, as if unveiling something divine. The background dancers twirled around the carpet in rhythmic, serpentine motions, their hands guiding the story before fading into the backdrop.

One of them reached down, pressing a gentle yet firm palm against the bundle of silk—Seonghwa’s silent cue.

His body unraveled from the confines like silk unraveling from a spool, his lithe frame stretching out in an elegant arch, back curving like a feline. The golden jewelry adorning his wrists and ankles glinted under the dim, amber lighting, his sheer veil slipping back just enough to reveal his face—his deep, kohl-rimmed eyes locking onto the audience with an intensity that sent a ripple of excitement through them.

The cheers rose as he lifted himself effortlessly, his legs folding beneath him before he twisted into a graceful spin, the fabric of his costume flowing like liquid around him. The male dancers rushed forward, seamlessly lifting him off the ground, his weightless form spinning midair. He arched his back as they turned him, his body moving like water, undulating like a siren in the ocean depths. Every flex, every pointed toe, every flick of his wrist told a story—one of seduction, mystery, and control.

(i spent 3 hours analyzing the arabian dance idc if this sounds extra)

As the dancers lowered him, they melted into the background, and Yunho stepped into the spotlight.

He was the only one Seonghwa truly trusted with his body in this performance.

Yunho’s presence was strong yet touch was soft. He reached out, fingers ghosting along Seonghwa’s wrists before guiding his arms in a slow, deliberate wave. Seonghwa let his body flow into the movement, his hands gliding like drifting silk as he swayed, hips rolling in mesmerizing undulations.

Yunho moved in tandem, never forceful, only guiding—his hands brushing along Seonghwa’s waist before lifting him again. Seonghwa’s legs waved through the air, curling and unfurling like a ribbon caught in the wind, his torso rippling in a hypnotic sequence.

Yunho spun him, his grip firm yet gentle, before setting him down again, where Seonghwa melted into another serpentine motion, rolling his body forward in perfect sync with the music. His movements were fluid, controlled, intoxicating, like the slow unraveling of a spell.

Yunho circled him, their footwork precise, hands meeting and parting in a dance that spoke of seduction, of worship. With one final lift, Yunho hoisted Seonghwa into the air, his body arching into a flawless curve, arms reaching skyward as if offering himself to the heavens.

And then, as seamlessly as it had begun, Yunho guided him back down, their bodies folding together in one last fluid motion before parting. The music ebbed into its final, lingering note, the tension thick in the air, as if the audience itself had forgotten to breathe.

Without hesitation, Yunho bent down, his strong arms curling around Seonghwa’s waist. With practiced ease, he lifted him high above his head, Seonghwa’s body arching gracefully, arms extending outward like a deity being carried away. The sheer fabric of his costume trailed behind him like flowing water, adding to the illusion of weightlessness.

Just as they had entered, they exited—the audience watching in rapt silence, mesmerized, until the moment the curtains swallowed them whole.

Seonghwa barely made it past the curtains before his legs gave out beneath him, collapsing onto the cool wooden floor backstage. Yunho’s eyes widened in alarm, instinctively reaching for him, but before he could panic, Seonghwa weakly lifted a hand, giving him a thumbs up.

“I’m fine,” he assured between heavy breaths, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Just… let me catch my breath.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he focused on steadying himself, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The distant roar of applause echoed from beyond the stage, but here, in the dimly lit backstage, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat.

“You good? You’ve done harder dances than this, Hwa,” Yunho teased, crouching beside him with an amused smirk, though concern lingered in his gaze.

Seonghwa cracked one eye open, his lips forming a faint pout. “That was hard,” he huffed, his voice breathy. “You were throwing me around like a ragdoll.”

Yunho snorted. “I was supposed to be throwing you around. That’s kind of the whole dance.” He offered a hand, wiggling his fingers. “C’mon, superstar, let’s get you up before you start napping on the floor.”

Seonghwa sighed but let Yunho guide him toward the refreshment table backstage. His muscles ached, his breath was still uneven, but there was something about the post-performance exhaustion that felt… satisfying. The kind that settled deep in his bones but left a lingering warmth in his chest.

Yunho handed him a cold water bottle, watching with an expectant look as Seonghwa unscrewed the cap and took a few slow sips.

“There we go, good boy,” Yunho teased, ruffling Seonghwa’s neatly styled hair.

Seonghwa swatted his hand away immediately, horror flashing in his eyes. “Yah! I just spent an hour getting this perfect—do you know how much wax they put in this?”

Yunho shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “Relax, it’s still flawless.”

Seonghwa gave him a flat look before exhaling heavily. “It better be.”

Just then, Sasha appeared, still in her Clara costume, practically bouncing with excitement. 

“You killed that performance!” she squealed, grabbing Seonghwa’s hands. “The way you moved—I swear, you hypnotized the whole audience.”

Seonghwa flushed, glancing down shyly. “It was okay, I think…”

“Okay?! Okay?!” Sasha repeated, shaking his hands dramatically. “Seonghwa, people were gasping when you unraveled from that carpet. My mom literally clutched her chest. Clutched her pearls.”

Seonghwa bit back a small smile, his gaze flickering to Yunho, who just smirked and shrugged as if to say, Told you so.

“See?” Yunho said, nudging his side. “You own that stage, Hwa. Stop acting like you didn’t just seduce an entire theater with a single twirl.”

Seonghwa groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Stop making it sound like that.”

Sasha laughed. “But it’s true!” She leaned in with a teasing smirk. “Even the conductor was watching you like he forgot how to hold a baton.”

Seonghwa groaned louder. “I hate you both.”

Yunho grinned, throwing an arm around Seonghwa’s shoulders. “You love us, admit it.”

Seonghwa sighed dramatically, letting his weight lean against Yunho. “Fine,” he mumbled. “Maybe just a little.”

He had done well. The lingering adrenaline in his veins was proof of that, and for once, he let himself bask in it. With a small, satisfied hum, he reached into his bag, pulling out the berry-glazed donut he had snuck in earlier. The scent of sugar and tart fruit filled his senses as he took a bite, the sweetness melting against his tongue. It was soft, sticky, perfect—and after depriving himself of sugar for so long, it tasted like heaven.

The conversation between Sasha and Yunho faded into background noise as he chewed slowly, savoring each bite. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, just enjoying it—until a voice cut through the air like a needle popping a bubble.

“Oh? You’re eating that?”

Seonghwa’s jaw locked mid-chew. His gaze snapped to the side where one of the costume assistants, Mina, was standing with an arched brow. She was adjusting the skirt of another dancer, not even looking at him as she continued, voice laced with light amusement. “Didn’t think you’d risk the extra sugar. Aren’t you keeping your figure lean for the next season?”

The bite of donut in Seonghwa’s mouth suddenly felt like cement.

His fingers curled around the pastry, his stomach twisting into a tight knot. He had been doing so well tonight. Hadn’t he? The crowd had cheered, the dance had gone perfectly, Yunho and Sasha had praised him, but now—

Now all he could think about was how much softer his face would look if he kept eating. How the sharp lines of his cheekbones might fade, how people might start looking at him differently—seeing him again. Seeing a better version of him, one that was actually beautiful. 

He shivered at the thought, people wouldnt credit his work anymore if he was beautiful.

It was Yunho who reacted first.

He tensed beside Seonghwa, his easy-going smirk vanishing as his gaze flickered over to Mina, sharp and unimpressed. “And?” he said coolly, crossing his arms. “It’s just a donut.”

Mina glanced up briefly, shrugging like she didn’t see the problem. “Just saying. The instructors are pretty strict about off-season weight gain.”

Seonghwa didn’t realize he was gripping the donut so hard it was starting to squish between his fingers.

Sasha, catching on, huffed dramatically. “Oh my God, Mina, let him eat his damn donut. He just danced his ass off for two hours. Do you want him to survive on air?”

Mina gave an airy chuckle, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, no need to get so defensive.” She turned back to her work, clearly done with the conversation.

Seonghwa swallowed tightly, lowering the donut back into the bag with slow, careful movements. His stomach was no longer twisting in hunger.

Yunho saw.

His frown deepened, watching the way Seonghwa subtly curled into himself, the way his fingers trembled slightly as he tucked the bag away.

“Seonghwa.” Yunho’s voice was gentle but firm.

Seonghwa forced a small smile, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “I wasn’t that hungry anyway.”

Yunho didn’t look convinced. His brows knitted together for a fraction of a second before he exhaled and shifted tactics, offering an easy, lopsided grin instead. “Alright, if you’re not hungry now, how about later? Wanna grab dinner with me?”

Before Seonghwa could react, Sasha practically pounced. “Oooohhh,” she dragged out, eyes alight with mischief. “Dinner? Just the two of you?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. “Shut up,” he said simply, just as his phone buzzed on the dressing table.

The moment he glanced at the caller ID, his breath hitched.

San.

His brother.

The shock jolted through him so quickly that he barely registered himself grabbing the phone, fingers fumbling slightly before he answered. 

“Sannieeee!” Seonghwa chirped, legs swinging off the chair in excitement.

A deep groan echoed from the other end. “Don’t make me regret this.” San’s voice was flat, unimpressed. “And don’t make it a big deal either.”

Seonghwa grinned, because that meant it was a big deal.

“I—”

“Listen,” San cut in sharply. “Do you wanna see me fight tonight or not?”

Seonghwa blinked. “What?”

San sighed. “Wooyoung is pestering me to bring you. This wasn’t my decision.”

Seonghwa’s excitement didn’t dull even a little. His gaze flickered to Yunho, his expression apologetic as he mouthed a small sorry.

“Sure, text me the address,” he said, already preparing to gather his things.

“No,” San replied, exasperated. “I’m outside your academy. Come quick.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened.

Without wasting another second, he jumped from his seat. “Gotta go!” he called out to Yunho and Sasha, offering them a quick, hasty wave before dashing toward the washroom.

Inside, he moved quickly, stripping off his costume with practiced ease. He reached into his dance bag, pulling out the change of clothes he had packed—a soft peach-pink sweatshirt and a comfortable pair of jeans. He pulled them on before slipping into his light-blue Cinnamoroll sneakers, the little embroidered mascot grinning up at him.

Next was his hair. He reached up, tugging free the pins that had kept his sleek bun intact, letting his, silky strands cascade down his face. He ran his fingers through them briefly before twisting them into a loose braid, securing the end with a delicate bow.

Seonghwa leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his head as he examined the dramatic kohl and shimmering highlights that had transformed him into an enigmatic, serpentine figure on stage. 

The boldness suited him under the stage lights, but now, offstage, it felt too weird. Cakey.

Grabbing a few makeup wipes, he carefully began removing the dark liner, the shimmer, the deep rouge. Bit by bit, his face returning to its usual glow. He took a final glance at himself, giving a little twirl in front of the mirror for a last-minute check.

Satisfied, he turned on his heel and hurried out—his heart hammering with a mixture of nerves and excitement.

After all, it wasn’t every day that San wanted him around.

Seonghwa grabbed his bag and practically bolted outside, a giddy giggle escaping him as he spotted San’s car parked near the entrance. Without hesitation, he slipped into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of leather and faint cologne washing over him.

San barely spared him a glance before arching a judgmental eyebrow at his outfit—soft pastels and Cinnamoroll sneakers standing out starkly against the grimy, underground world he was about to step into. But, for once, he didn’t say anything. Just exhaled sharply through his nose and started the engine.

Sitting beside him, Seonghwa was acutely aware of their differences. 

San had muscles—taut and defined from years of fighting, his golden skin marred with bruises, scars, and healing cuts that mapped out the battles he had fought. 

Seonghwa, in contrast, bore only faint pink bruises on his knuckles, remnants of nights spent purging rather than punching.

San’s hair was short, slicked back effortlessly, adding to his sharp, intimidating presence. Meanwhile, Seonghwa’s remained soft, loosely braided.

They couldn’t have been more different.

And yet, despite everything, here he was—San’s older brother, pastel-clad and pretty, about to walk into a world of blood and violence.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed by now? Or do underground fighters get a curfew exemption?” Seonghwa teased lightly, nudging San’s arm. 

San shot him a glare. “Shouldn’t you be locked in a dance studio? Or do ballerinas get night privileges?”

Seonghwa gasped, placing a delicate hand over his chest as if deeply offended. “Wow. Just say you think I’m a delicate little princess and go.”

“You might as well be. All you do is twirl around in pretty dresses and wait for someone to come and rescue you.”

“I’ll have you know, ballet is incredibly difficult, Sannie. You wouldn’t last a day in my shoes.”

San gave him a pointed look before flicking his gaze down to Seonghwa’s ridiculous light blue Cinnamonroll sneakers. “Yeah, I’d die of embarrassment first.”

Seonghwa let out a dramatic whine, lightly kicking at San’s leg. “Rude!”

San rolled his eyes. The car fell into a comfortable silence for a moment. Seonghwa leaned his head against the window, his breath fogging up the glass. He traced idle shapes against it with his fingertip.

“So… Wooyoung really wants me to come?” he asked, breaking the silence.

San let out a long-suffering sigh. “He’s been nagging me about it for awhile. Said something about how you should ‘see your beloved little brother in action.’”

Seonghwa giggled. “That sounds like him.”

San just grunted. “I told him not to get his hopes up. You’re not exactly the type to enjoy a fight.”

Seonghwa pursed his lips in thought. “Well… it’s not like I’m against it. It’s just different from what I’m used to.”

“Whatever. Just don’t freak out when you see the fight.”

Seonghwa hummed, leaning against the window. “As long as you don’t lose, Sannie.”

San scoffed. “That’s not happening.”

A few minutes later, the car rolled to a stop in front of a nondescript building. The faint bass of music pulsed from inside, mixed with distant cheers. The entrance was guarded by a few men, but they didn’t even glance at San as he stepped out of the car. Seonghwa hesitated for a moment before following, his heart picking up speed.

San turned to him, expression serious now.
“Stay close to Wooyoung or me. Don’t wander off, got it?”

Seonghwa nodded, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “Got it.”

San sighed, ruffling Seonghwa’s neatly braided hair just to be annoying. “Let’s go.”

The moment Seonghwa stepped inside, the air changed. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and faint cigarette smoke clung to the walls, the heavy bass of music rattling through his chest. The dim lighting cast deep shadows, flickering from the neon signs overhead.

A roar of cheers erupted from the center of the room where a makeshift ring stood—ropes barely holding together, the floor stained with remnants of past fights. Seonghwa swallowed, his delicate fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as he took it all in.

“Seonghwa hyung!”

A blur of movement and then—arms wrapped around his waist, nearly knocking him over. Wooyoung’s familiar scent of vanilla flooded his senses as the younger clung to him like a koala.

Seonghwa let out a breathless laugh, steadying himself. “Wooyoung, you’re going to crush me.”

Wooyoung pulled back, grinning ear to ear. “You came!” He shot a smug look at San. “Told you he would.”

San rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

Wooyoung ignored him completely, looping his arm through Seonghwa’s. “C’mon, I got us seats near the front! You’re gonna love this.”

Seonghwa allowed himself to be dragged, his gaze flitting nervously between the people around him. They were nothing like the world he knew—rough, rowdy, full of adrenaline and violent energy. He could feel some of them eyeing him, the stark contrast of his soft features and pastel-colored sweatshirt making him stand out in the sea of dark clothing and tattoos.

“Relax, hyung,” Wooyoung murmured, sensing his nerves. “No one will mess with you. You’re with us.”

San, who was walking behind them, scoffed. “He better hope so.” His sharp gaze flickered around, daring anyone to stare too long.

Reaching the front, Wooyoung nudged Seonghwa onto a chair. The ring was right before them, the shouts of gamblers and spectators mixing into the chaotic noise of the underground.

Seonghwa fidgeted, glancing at Wooyoung. “So… who’s fighting first?”

Wooyoung smirked, resting his chin on his palm. “Who else? Your dear little brother.”

Seonghwa blinked in surprise before turning to San. “You’re fighting?”

San exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he unzipped his jacket and handed it to Wooyoung. Beneath it, his toned arms and battle-worn knuckles gleamed under the harsh lights. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Try not to faint, princess.”

Seonghwa shot him a glare. “I won’t.”

But as the announcer stepped into the ring, riling up the crowd, Seonghwa wasn’t so sure. 

His heart pounded, a strange mix of nerves and anticipation bubbling in his chest.

And then, as San stepped forward, the crowd roared—chanting his name like he was some kind of underground king. Seonghwa’s fingers tightened in his lap.

From the opposite side of the ring, another figure emerged.

He was slightly shorter than San, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in sheer presence. 

His body was carved from muscle, his black tank top clinging to broad shoulders and strong, sculpted arms. His pecs tensed with every movement, his veined forearms flexing as he rolled out his wrists. His thick thighs, powerful beneath his loose sweatpants, shifted as he moved with a lethal sort of ease, the kind of control that only came from years of fighting.

His hands, wrapped loosely in tape, bore fresh bruises, faded scars, the kind that told stories of battles long won.

And then there was his face—sharp, predatory, framed by jet-black hair that fell over his empty dark eyes

The crowd quieted just slightly, a mix of anticipation and fear crackling in the air.

Wooyoung leaned in close, voice hushed but brimming with amusement.

“That’s Hongjoong.”

Seonghwa swallowed, his fingers tightening in his lap. Hongjoong. The name felt heavy.

He didn’t just look dangerous—he was dangerous. The way he moved, slow and deliberate, rolling his neck like he was already bored of the fight, sent a shiver down Seonghwa’s spine. There was no wasted energy, no excitement, just pure control, like he already knew the outcome.

San, by contrast, stood rigid and unreadable. But Seonghwa knew his brother—he saw the tension in the way his fists clenched and unclenched, the way his jaw twitched ever so slightly.

The ref stepped into the ring, raising his hand. The crowd hushed.

“Fighters ready?”

Hongjoong gave a lazy nod, his smirk barely visible under the dim lighting.

San rolled out his shoulders, exhaling sharply. “Yeah.”

The ref dropped his hand.

The fight began.

San was the first to move, lunging forward with practiced ease, throwing a sharp right hook—fast, precise, but Hongjoong ducked, sidestepping effortlessly. He barely looked like he was trying.

Seonghwa’s breath hitched.

Hongjoong retaliated instantly, a quick jab to San’s ribs, light, almost playful, like he was testing him. San gritted his teeth and swung again, a brutal uppercut—Hongjoong blocked it with his forearm, barely shifting back. Seonghwa flinched 

The crowd was eating it up, roaring, chanting.

“Come on, San!” Wooyoung cheered beside him, practically bouncing on his feet.

But Seonghwa barely heard him.

His eyes stayed locked on Hongjoong, on the way he fought with that eerie calm, never losing balance, never hesitating.

San swung again, but Hongjoong dodged like it was nothing, ducking low before driving his fist into San’s stomach.

Seonghwa’s breath left him.

San stumbled, barely catching himself on the ropes.

Wooyoung was still shouting beside him, gripping the railingt, but Seonghwa couldn’t move. His fingers dug into his lap, nails pressing into his palms as he watched his little brother get beat.

His chest felt tight.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to see this.

Another brutal punch to San’s face sent him reeling back, blood dripping from his lip, and Seonghwa flinched again. His stomach twisted, his entire body screaming at him to look away, but he couldn’t.

And then it happened.

In the chaos of fists flying and bodies colliding, Seonghwa’s wide, tear-brimmed eyes locked onto Hongjoong’s.

A spark. 

Hongjoong faltered. His knuckles, bruised and bloodied, remained curled mid-motion, his stance momentarily loosening as he took in the sight before him.

A delicate thing.

A soft, trembling vision draped in pastels—Seonghwa stood out like a misplaced dream in a world carved from grit and violence. His flushed cheeks, damp from unshed tears, his parted lips trembling with words left unsaid. His fingers, curled into his lap like he was holding himself together.

Hongjoong almost smirked. The hell is someone like you doing here?

And that was all the opening San needed.

A fist crashed into Hongjoong’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. He barely had time to process the pain before another hit followed, knocking him off balance. His body hit the mat with a dull thud, the rough surface biting at his skin.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t even try.

Because the moment he fell, he landed facing Seonghwa.

And suddenly, the fight didn’t matter anymore.

The cheering crowd blurred into nothing. The stench of sweat and blood faded into irrelevance.

All Hongjoong could see was the man in the pink sweatshirt, with hair neatly braided and tied with a bow, watching him with eyes that had no place in a world like this.

Intriguing.

Hongjoong exhaled, tasting iron on his tongue, and let himself stay down.

The referee's voice barely registered in Hongjoong's ears, muffled beneath the thunderous applause as San was declared the winner.

But Hongjoong wasn’t listening.

He was still staring.

Seonghwa shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, his fingers curling into the hem of his sweatshirt. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling in shallow pants, overwhelmed by the brutality he had just witnessed. 

Hongjoong's gaze flickered over every detail—his wide, terrified eyes, the way his throat bobbed with a nervous swallow, the soft tremble in his lips.

Wooyoung’s laughter cut through the heavy tension like a blade. “Holy shit, you actually knocked the fucker outt.” He clapped San on the back, grinning. 

San scoffed, rolling his shoulders back as he glanced down at Hongjoong. “He let himself get distracted.”

Hongjoong finally blinked, rolling his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood. Slowly, he sat up, wincing slightly as his jaw throbbed from the hit. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a thin line of crimson over his bruised knuckles.

Still, his eyes never left Seonghwa.

Seonghwa swallowed hard, his breath stuttering as Hongjoong's stare pinned him in place. He had seen many men in his life—his father, his instructors, his peers—but never someone like this.

Someone rough. Unforgiving. Predatory in a way that made his skin prickle, yet unable to look away.

The weight of Hongjoong’s stare felt like a bruise, pressing into his skin even from across the ring.

And then, Hongjoong smirked.

A slow, knowing curve of his lips, despite the split in them, despite the sting of his loss.

Pretty little thing, he thought. What are you so afraid of?

Seonghwa’s breath hitched.

San, oblivious, grabbed Seonghwa’s wrist, pulling him up from his seat. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Seonghwa didn’t resist, his legs moving on instinct, but his head turned just slightly, his eyes lingering on the man still sitting on the mat, still watching him.

Watching him like a wolf watching a swan wander too close.

And just as San pulled him through the crowd, Seonghwa saw Hongjoong mouth something.

A single word.

Soon.

Seonghwa’s breath caught in his throat.

They had barely stepped out of the suffocating heat of the arena before Seonghwa crumbled. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as he turned to face San, taking in the fresh cuts and bruises marring his brother’s face. His lips trembled, eyes glossy with tears clinging his lashes as his fingers twitched at his sides, resisting the urge to reach out.

San stared at him for a moment too long, his expression unreadable under the dim glow of the streetlights. Then, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if already exhausted by the conversation that was about to unfold.

“Hyung—”

“We have money, San,” Seonghwa cut him off, his voice thin and wavering. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. “We’re rich as hell. So why—why are you doing this?”

San’s jaw tensed. His lips pressed into a thin line as he exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away.

Seonghwa could feel his own pulse hammering in his ears, a sick, anxious beat. 

“You don’t have to live like this. You don’t have to let people hurt you, let yourself be used like some—” His voice broke slightly, his throat tight. “Like some cheap entertainment for them.”

San let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” Seonghwa pleaded, stepping closer. His fingers curled into the fabric of San’s jacket, his grip tight, desperate. “Help me understand, because all I see is my little brother walking into hell with his own two feet.”

San’s face twisted into something—frustration, defiance, something deeper beneath it all. He looked down at Seonghwa, really looked at him. At his soft hands, his delicate frame, the remnants of stage makeup still clinging to his lashes.

Finally, he scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s just it, hyung,” he muttered, voice lower now. “You can’t understand.”

Seonghwa’s breath shuddered out of him. He wanted to argue, to fight this, but the exhaustion in San’s tone, the finality of his words, felt like a wall slamming between them.

San pulled away first, stepping back and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the weight of the conversation. Then, with a sidelong glance at Seonghwa, he smirked—though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Come on, let’s get dinner,” he said, his voice lighter now, almost teasing. “You look like you just crawled out of a famine.”

Seonghwa’s lips parted in offense, brows furrowing. “That’s mean,” he mumbled, but before he could protest further, San had already grabbed his wrist, dragging him toward the car like nothing had happened.

The moment they slipped inside, the tension in Seonghwa’s shoulders melted slightly. The arena, the blood, the roaring crowd—it all felt like another world from the quiet interior of the car. He sank into the passenger seat, folding his arms as San started the engine.

“Where do you want to eat?” San asked, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he pulled out onto the road.

Seonghwa hummed “Somewhere with good dessert,” he decided.

San rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “Of course.”

They drove in relative silence, the city lights flashing past, washing over Seonghwa’s face in streaks of gold and red. He turned his head to watch his brother, the way San’s hands gripped the wheel, the way his jaw stayed tight even when he was supposed to be relaxed.

But at least for tonight, they were just two brothers getting dinner.

They pulled into a modest restaurant on the quieter side of town, the neon sign flickering softly against the darkened streets. It wasn’t anything extravagant—just a small, homey place with warm lighting and a comforting smell of grilled food wafting through the air.

As San parked, he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “They have really good strawberry cheesecake here,” he said, glancing at Seonghwa. “You’ll definitely like it.”

Seonghwa perked up immediately, eyes shining with interest.

“But,” San added pointedly, cutting him a look, “please eat some actual food first. Remember what happened the last time you skipped straight to dessert?”

Seonghwa blinked, lips parting in confusion, before realization dawned on him.

His jaw dropped. “San.”

San smirked, unbothered. “A whole week, hyung. One week of you crying about your stomach and diarrhea and—”

“WE PROMISED NOT TO BRING THIS UP,” Seonghwa shrieked, scandalized.

San just laughed, shoving his door open. “Come on, princess, let’s get you fed before you self-destruct again.”

They settled into a cozy corner booth, the chatter of conversations and clinking silverware filling the air. A waiter approached, handing them their menus with a polite nod before stepping away to give them time to decide.

Seonghwa scanned the options, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the laminated page. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he knew better than to test San’s patience.

“I’ll have the mini grilled cheese sandwich,” he said finally, setting his menu down.

San snorted. “Of course you will.”

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

San ignored him, casually flipping through the menu. “I’ll get the pepperoni pizza. Large.”

Seonghwa wrinkled his nose. “You’re gonna eat that whole thing yourself?”

San leaned back in his chair, smirking. “You say that like you won’t steal half of it.”

Before Seonghwa could argue, the waiter returned, jotting down their orders before disappearing again.

Seonghwa slumped slightly, letting out a soft sigh. His fingers toyed with the napkin in front of him, folding and unfolding the corners. “San…” he started hesitantly.

San raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Are you… are you really okay? After that fight?”

San exhaled, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “You saw me get punched in the face and now you suddenly care?”

Seonghwa shot him a glare. “I always care, you brat.”

San chuckled but didn’t push him away this time. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them for a moment before finally shrugging. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“That’s not an answer,” Seonghwa murmured.

San looked at him for a long second, then flicked him lightly on the forehead.

Seonghwa huffed, but he didn’t push anymore.

Their food arrived a few minutes later, the scent of warm, buttery bread and melted cheese making Seonghwa’s stomach grumble despite himself. The waiter placed his mini grilled cheese in front of him and slid San’s large pepperoni pizza onto the table, the cheese still bubbling slightly.

Seonghwa immediately reached for one of the smaller slices, but San smacked his hand away.

“Eat your own damn food.”

Seonghwa pouted, pulling his plate closer and taking a delicate bite. The crispy, golden bread gave way to gooey cheese, and he sighed in quiet contentment.

San watched him for a second before rolling his eyes. “You make everything look like a tea party.”

“That’s because I have class,” Seonghwa said, raising his chin dramatically before daintily wiping his lips with a napkin.

San snorted but didn’t argue, instead tearing into his pizza like he hadn’t eaten in days.

They ate in comfortable silence for a whille. 

Then, as Seonghwa finished the last bite of his sandwich, he perked up suddenly.

“You said they have good strawberry cheesecake, right?”

San glanced up, already chewing on another slice. “Yeah, but eat something else first.”

Seonghwa frowned. “I already ate.”

“That was barely anything.”

Seonghwa crossed his arms. “I had a whole sandwich.”

San raised an eyebrow. “A mini sandwich.”

Seonghwa huffed. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says you,” San shot back, but he waved down the waiter anyway.

A few minutes later, a slice of rich strawberry cheesecake was placed in front of Seonghwa. His eyes practically sparkled as he picked up his fork, slicing off a perfect bite. The creamy texture melted on his tongue, the sweet-tart strawberry glaze balancing the richness.

San shook his head. “You look like you’re about to propose to that cake.”

Seonghwa didn’t even deny it. “Maybe I will.”

San rolled his eyes but let him enjoy his moment.

For all their differences—for all the ways their lives had been shaped by things out of their control—this, at least, was something simple. Something easy.

And even if San would never say it out loud, watching his brother’s eyes light up over something as small as cheesecake was enough to make the night feel a little less heavy.

Seonghwa barely managed to keep his expression neutral as he set his fork down, his stomach twisting with something far heavier than just food. The sandwich, the cheesecake—it was all sitting wrong, pressing against his ribs, heavy in his chest, clawing at his thoughts. It was too much. 

He pushed back his chair abruptly, his fingers twitching against his napkin.

San’s gaze flickered up, sharp and knowing. “You good?”

“Nature calls,” Seonghwa said, forcing a smile. His voice was light, too strained, and he knew San caught it. But his brother only gave him a long, unreadable look before nodding.

Seonghwa turned quickly, slipping through the tables and past the kitchen doors. But instead of heading to the bathroom, he slipped out the back exit, the night air biting against his flushed skin.

The alley was dimly lit, the scent of damp concrete and garbage pressing in on him. He didn’t care. His steps were quick, desperate, until he reached the wall beside the dumpster. His hands, shaking, braced against the brick as he bent forward.

His breath hitched. He swallowed. Then forced his fingers into his mouth.

The reaction was immediate—a violent, empty gag that sent tremors through his body. His throat clenched tight, his eyes burning as he pressed deeper, desperate to purge the weight sitting like lead in his stomach. But nothing came at first, just harsh, ugly heaves that left him gasping.

His other hand curled into the fabric of his sweater, gripping tight enough to sting. His body shook, his vision blurred, but he kept going. Kept pushing. Until finally, the pressure loosened, relief washing over him like cold water.

When it was over, Seonghwa straightened, blinking away the dampness in his lashes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, his breathing ragged but steadying.

His hands were still trembling. His knees felt weak. But he had done what he needed to do.

He swallowed down the acrid taste in his mouth, running a hand through his hair before glancing at his reflection in a nearby puddle. Red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks. No good.

Seonghwa smoothed down his sweater, pinched at his skin, and took a deep breath.

San was waiting.

And San couldn’t know.

Seonghwa barely had a second to collect himself before he heard footsteps near him.

A shadow loomed over him, and when he looked up, he was met with sharp, dark eyes and a smirk that curled like smoke.

“You lost, doll?”

Seonghwa flinched, his breath hitching. The nickname struck something in his chest—something humiliating, as if he was just a pretty face meant to be paraded around. His fingers tightened around the hem of his sweater as he instinctively averted his gaze, shaking his head in silent denial.

No way in hell was he making eye contact with the man who had nearly beaten his brother bloody.

Hongjoong scoffed, tilting his head. “What, cat got your tongue?”

Seonghwa swallowed, stepping back, but Hongjoong was quicker. He moved into his space easily, invading it with a slow, lazy sort of confidence. The scent of sweat and metal, clung to him, mixed with the lingering smoke of whatever underground hellhole he had crawled out from.

Then, to Seonghwa’s absolute horror, Hongjoong tilted his head up to meet his gaze, eyes glittering with amusement as he searched his face.

“Don’t be shy, pretty thing,” Hongjoong murmured. “I don’t bite—unless you’re into that.”

Seonghwa’s breath stuttered. His stomach twisted, whether from nerves or fear, he didn’t know.

His first instinct was to turn away, to flee, but his body betrayed him, frozen in place under Hongjoong’s unwavering stare. It wasn’t just cocky— it was something else. Something that made Seonghwa feel like he was being peeled apart layer by layer, examined like a fragile little thing just waiting to break.

Hongjoong’s smirk deepened, as if he could see right through him. He reached up, slow and deliberate, and for a horrifying moment, Seonghwa thought he was going to touch him.

His breath hitched, but Hongjoong only flicked at the little bow securing his braid, twirling the ribbon between his calloused fingers. “Cute,” he mused, head tilting.

Seonghwa’s spine went rigid. His heart pounded against his ribs, and for the first time since the conversation started, he found his voice. 

“Let go.”

Hongjoong hummed, clearly unbothered by the fear in his tone. “Didn’t say I didn’t like it.” He gave the ribbon one last playful tug before finally letting it slip from his fingers.

Seonghwa exhaled, feeling his pulse in his throat. He needed to get away. Now.

“I should go,” he said quickly, stepping back, but Hongjoong mirrored his movement, blocking his path.

“What’s the rush, pretty?” Hongjoong’s voice was smooth, teasing, but his eyes were sharp. 

“I caught you sneaking out, didn’t I? Let me guess—you weren’t just out here for some fresh air.”

Seonghwa’s blood ran cold.

Hongjoong glanced at his trembling fingers, the way he had his arms locked so tightly around himself, the way his lips were slightly parted like he’d been gasping for breath just moments ago.

And then Hongjoong did something truly terrifying.

He smiled.

“I know that look,” he said, voice dropping to something quieter. Almost gentle. 

“You don’t wanna be seen doing something ugly, right, what you doing, drugs?”

Seonghwa’s stomach twisted into knots. His entire body felt hot, suffocated.

The door to the back was opened again.

San didn’t hesitate—he grabbed Hongjoong by the collar and slammed him back against the cold brick wall. The impact was sharp, but Hongjoong barely flinched, only grinning up at San like he found the whole thing amusing.

Seonghwa swallowed, pressing himself further into the shadows of the alley. His heart pounded in his throat.

“Get away from my brother, Kim Hongjoong.” San’s voice was sharp as a blade, dripping with warning. His grip tightened, knuckles whitening around Hongjoong’s collar.

But Hongjoong? He didn’t look threatened in the slightest. If anything, his smirk deepened. 

“Oh, well, hello there, San.” His voice was light, casual, as if he weren’t pinned to a wall by a man who had just fought him in the ring an hour ago. “You seemed to be losing the fight today, weren’t you?”

San’s jaw clenched. “I still won.”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong chuckled, his dark eyes flicking over to Seonghwa with a pointed, knowing look. “Thanks to this pretty thing.”

Seonghwa froze.

His breath hitched as Hongjoong’s gaze lingered on him, dragging over every inch of him.

The way he said it—pretty thing—wasn’t just mocking. It was possessive, indulgent, like he was savoring the words on his tongue.

A shiver ran down Seonghwa’s spine, involuntary and humiliating.

San noticed.

His grip on Hongjoong’s collar tightened dangerously. “Don’t look at him,” he snarled.

Hongjoong, the bastard, only grinned wider. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, tilting his head. “He’s hard to miss, you know. All wrapped up in pink like a little gift. What kind of brother lets something so soft wander out here alone?”

San’s fist came fast.

But Hongjoong was faster.

He ducked just in time, San’s punch landing against the wall instead. The sharp crack of knuckles against brick made Seonghwa flinch.

Hongjoong straightened, fixing his ruffled collar, unbothered. “Tsk, tsk,” he sighed dramatically. “Such anger issues. No wonder you’re so fun to fight.”

San growled under his breath, about to lunge again, but Seonghwa grabbed his arm, holding him back.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, voice barely steady. “Please, Sannie.”

San didn’t move at first, his entire body tense, seething. But then he exhaled sharply, shoving Hongjoong one last time before stepping away.

Hongjoong watched them retreat, his smirk never fading. But just as Seonghwa turned, one foot already inside the restaurant, Hongjoong called out—

“See you around, little doll.”

Seonghwa didn’t dare look back. “You took so long, Hwa.” San’s voice was sharp, cutting through the restaurant’s warm air like a blade. Seonghwa barely had time to close the door behind him before San grabbed his wrist, eyes dark with frustration. “What the hell were you doing out there? In the dark? Alone?”

Seonghwa winced at the tight grip. “San, not here—”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s here or in the middle of the street,” San snapped. “Do you have any idea who you were talking to?”

Seonghwa swallowed, his throat dry. He didn’t want to admit that, yes, he knew exactly who Hongjoong was now. He knew because his hands still trembled from the way Hongjoong had looked at him, from the way his voice had curled around pretty thing like he meant it.

But he couldn’t say that.

“I just— I ran into him by accident,” he murmured instead, lowering his gaze. “It wasn’t anything.”

San scoffed. “Not anything?” His grip tightened for a second before he let go, running a hand through his already-mussed hair. “You don’t know guys like him, Hwa. He’s not some charming stranger in a romance novel.”

Seonghwa bristled. “I know that.”

“Do you?” San’s tone was rough with frustration. “Because he was looking at you like he already owned you.”

Seonghwa’s breath caught.

San sighed, pressing his fingers against his temple. “Look, I don’t care what you do in your perfect ballet world, but in my world? Guys like him? They’re dangerous.”

Seonghwa knew San was right.

But the part that unsettled him the most—the part that made his stomach twist uncomfortably—was that it wasn’t just fear that lingered in his chest.

It was intrigue.

“Just stay away from him, okay?” San’s voice had softened slightly, but his expression remained firm. Protective. “Promise me, hyung.”

Seonghwa hesitated.

His lips parted—ready to say yes, to give San the reassurance he wanted. But the words wouldn’t come out.

Because the moment he closed his eyes, all he could see was dark, teasing eyes and a smirk that sent a thrill down his spine.

Little doll.

“I’ll try,” Seonghwa whispered instead.

San didn’t look convinced.

San threw a few bills on the counter without waiting for change, his jaw tight as he grabbed Seonghwa’s wrist and pulled him outside. The restaurant door swung shut behind them with a dull thud, the cool night air doing nothing to ease the heat of San’s frustration.

San must have noticed the shift in his expression because his frown deepened. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

“No,” Seonghwa answered quickly, too quickly.

San clicked his tongue in irritation, opening the car door and practically shoving Seonghwa inside. “Stay away from him,” he said, voice low and firm. “I mean it.”

Seonghwa didn’t argue. He didn’t say a word, just nodded and stared out the window, his hands still trembling slightly in his lap.

The ride home was silent, the tension between them thick enough to choke on. Seonghwa kept his eyes on the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of neon lights and distant figures. His hands were still curled in his lap, fingers ghosting over his sweatshirt’s fabric, but he could feel San’s occasional glances toward him—sharp, assessing, like he was trying to unravel whatever mess Seonghwa was keeping locked inside.

When they finally pulled into the driveway of their apartment, Seonghwa hesitated before stepping out. The towering society loomed above them, pristine and cold, the kind of home that felt more like a museum than a place people actually lived in.

San shut the car door a little too hard. “Inside. Now.”

Seonghwa huffed but obeyed, trailing behind his younger brother as they entered the marble-floored hallway. Their footsteps echoed as they passed the dimly lit staircase, the rest of the house silent—Father wasnt home, as expected.

The moment they reached Seonghwa’s bedroom, San spun around, blocking the doorway before Seonghwa could escape.

“Tell me the truth,” he demanded. “What the hell were you really doing outside that restaurant?”

Seonghwa sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I told you, I needed air.”

“Bullshit.” San’s voice was sharp, but underneath it was something almost desperate. “You think I don’t know, hyung?” His gaze flickered down to Seonghwa’s hands, the faint tremor still present. “I know you, and I know that look. You were either about to pass out or do something stupid.”

Seonghwa’s stomach twisted. “San, just—drop it.”

San’s jaw tightened. “I can’t drop it. You think I don’t notice how little you eat? How you disappear after meals? How you—” he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. 

“You’re sick, Hwa, this is exactly how mom died.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. “I—”

“And don’t lie to me,” San interrupted, eyes burning. “Because I just watched you pick at your food like it was poison, then run off like—”

“I don’t have a problem,” Seonghwa cut in, voice trembling. It wasn’t supposed to come out so defensive, but the words left him in a rush, raw and unsteady.

San let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Of course you don’t.”

Seonghwa clenched his fists. “You won’t get it.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. San stared at him, eyes dark with something unreadable—anger, frustration, concern, maybe all of them at once. His jaw tensed like he wanted to argue, to keep pushing, but instead, he just exhaled slowly and stepped back.

“Go. Sleep”

Seonghwa didn’t argue. He just nodded stiffly and brushed past him, shutting the door to his bedroom with a quiet click.

The moment he was alone, his entire body sagged. He pressed his back against the door and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. A shaky breath slipped past his lips, but it did nothing to calm the storm raging inside him.

His muscles still ached from the performance, but that wasn’t what lingered. 

An unwanted whisper did

You don’t wanna be seen doing something ugly, right?

Hongjoong.

Seonghwa squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. He could still feel the way Hongjoong had looked at him, how he had peeled him apart with nothing but a smirk and a few sharp words.

He shivered. 

He was still tired. Too tired.

The Nutcracker was only just beginning its run—six more days of performances, six more days of pushing his body past its limits, of forcing himself to be weightless, flawless, untouchable. The exhaustion clung to his bones like lead, heavier than it had ever felt before.

With a trembling hand, he reached for his bag, fingers ghosting over the fabric before slipping inside. The half-eaten donut from earlier sat crumpled in its wrapper, the berry glaze now slightly hardened.

His throat tightened as he unwrapped it, staring at the small, uneven bite he had taken before.

It was stupid. So stupid.

But he was so, so hungry.

His lips parted, and he took a small, hesitant bite, the sweetness melting on his tongue. The taste was warm, nostalgic, something that should have been comforting. But as he swallowed, his chest tightened, a fresh wave of tears slipping down his cheeks.

They fell silently, one after another, like broken pearls scattering to the floor.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The next morning, Seonghwa arrived at the academy as if nothing had happened the night before. His hair was neatly braided, his ballet bag slung over his shoulder, and his expression poised as he greeted his fellow dancers with a small smile.

“You look like you actually slept,” Yunho teased, stretching his arms above his head.

Seonghwa scoffed, nudging him lightly with his foot. “You say that like I don’t always look perfect.”

Yunho snorted. “Right, my mistake, your highness.”

Before Seonghwa could retort, their instructor clapped her hands, calling the class to order. They moved into position, the grand rehearsal for The Nutcracker resuming. Seonghwa let himself slip into the movements, his body responding automatically to the familiar rhythm.

For now, he was just a dancer again.

The studio was filled with the sound of the piano, the soft yet commanding melody dictating their every movement. Seonghwa stepped forward, his body fluid, precise—each motion executed with the kind of grace that had made him one of the academy’s finest.

He lost himself in the routine, his arms lifting, back arching as he let the music guide him. The world outside—the fight, Hongjoong’s gaze, San’s accusations—blurred into irrelevance. Here, he was weightless, untouchable.

The instructor paced between them, occasionally tapping a dancer’s leg or shoulder to adjust their form. When she reached Seonghwa, she simply watched, nodding in quiet approval before moving on.

“Alright, from the top,” she called. “Seonghwa, I need more control in your landing—don’t sink into your feet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They reset. The music began again.

Seonghwa pushed himself harder, sharper, until every movement felt effortless. His gaze flickered to the mirror, catching a glimpse of Yunho beside him, sweat collecting at his temples, a small smirk on his lips.

“Show off,” Yunho mouthed.

Seonghwa fought back a smirk of his own as he turned into another spin, landing this time with the perfect balance.

Evening fell once again, casting a warm golden glow over the academy as the dancers prepared for another performance. The dressing rooms buzzed with movement—costumes rustling, makeup brushes sweeping across skin, whispered words of encouragement exchanged between performers.

Seonghwa stood before the mirror, fastening the final piece of his ensemble.

He traced a careful fingertip under his eye, adjusting the thick kohl that framed his sharp gaze.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened his spine, rolling his shoulders back as he met his own reflection. The stage awaited.

Throughout the performance, Seonghwa executed every move with precision, his body flowing effortlessly through the routine. His technique was flawless, his control unwavering—but his mind was somewhere else.

No matter how hard he tried to push it away, the memory of last night clung to him like smoke. A low, teasing voice. Dark, piercing eyes that had stripped him bare with a single glance. The weight of a presence that had made his skin prickle.

And then, the most humiliating part—just for a fleeting moment, as Yunho’s hands found his waist, guiding him through the intricate turns and lifts, Seonghwa imagined them as Hongjoong’s.

His stomach twisted, heat curling at the base of his spine. Yunho’s touch was gentle, familiar. But in his mind, it was rougher, heavier—laced with a touch of Hongjoong’s dangerous aura. The thought sent an unsteady shiver through him, but he didn’t falter..

As the music swelled, Seonghwa found himself leaning into Yunho’s touch more than usual. His fingers lingered longer when they traced over Yunho’s arms, his body pressed just a little closer during their lifts. Every turn, every controlled arch of his back, every moment of fluid contact—he sank into it, drawn in.

Yunho noticed. Of course, he did. His grip on Seonghwa’s waist was steady, firm, but there was a flicker of something questioning in the way he adjusted his hold. 

They had danced together long enough for Yunho to know Seonghwa’s every movement, every habit, every nuance of his body. And this? This was different. This was oddly sultry.

Seonghwa’s breath hitched as Yunho spun him effortlessly, his hand skimming down Seonghwa’s ribs, guiding his dip. Normally, Seonghwa would have remained distant, poised, professional. But tonight—tonight, he let himself sink into it. His fingers brushed against the nape of Yunho’s neck as he was lifted, the fleeting touch almost intimate. 

His grip on Yunho’s forearm tightened when he was spun back to his feet, chest brushing against Yunho’s for the briefest of moments before he was pulled away again.

The entire dance was seamless—beautiful, mesmerizing, just as it always was. But something was different. The air between them felt charged, heavier. And Seonghwa knew why.

He wasn’t dancing with Yunho in his mind.

As they reached backstage, Seonghwa exhaled deeply, willing his heartbeat to slow as he stepped off the stage. Applause still roared from the theater, muffled behind the heavy curtains, but his mind was elsewhere—still trapped in the ghost of a touch that didn’t belong to Yunho.

“Hey,” Yunho’s voice was low, just behind him. “You good?”

Seonghwa turned, blinking as he met Yunho’s searching gaze. He hadn’t realized how close they were standing until now—until he felt the warmth of Yunho’s body, the steady presence he’d been sinking into all evening. And maybe, if his mind wasn’t such a mess, he would’ve felt guilty for what he was doing.

“I’m fine,” Seonghwa said, a little too quickly. He reached up, smoothing a hand over Yunho’s shoulder, fingers brushing along the exposed skin where his costume dipped. It was subtle, almost casual, but the way Yunho’s brows twitched told Seonghwa he’d noticed the extra touch.

“You sure?” Yunho’s hands hovered near Seonghwa’s waist, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold him or not.

Seonghwa hesitated. “Just… a little tired.”

Yunho nodded, but there was still something uncertain in his expression. 

He didn’t press, though. 

Instead, he squeezed Seonghwa’s wrist lightly before letting go. “You did great. As always.”

Seonghwa smiled, small but genuine. “Thanks, yuyu.”

Before Yunho could say anything else, Sasha’s voice cut through the dressing room, calling his name. He gave Seonghwa one last glance before jogging away, leaving Seonghwa standing alone in the dim backstage lighting.

He rolled his shoulders, exhaling again. He needed to clear his head. To stop this.

And there was only one way to do it. Closure.

Seonghwa moved with practiced precision, peeling off the heavy burgundy and gold ensemble, untying the intricate layers of fabric that clung to his skin like second nature. He wiped away the dark kohl from his eyes.

With a steady breath, he reached for his pink sweater, slipping into the familiar comfort of soft fabric and warmth. His jeans came next—loose, casual, grounding. He sat at the vanity, fingers weaving through his damp hair, braiding it with practiced ease. As he tied the last bow at the end, his hands hesitated.

Hongjoong had tugged on them.

The memory sent an odd shiver down his spine.

Seonghwa clenched his fists, shaking the thought away. He wasn’t doing this to dwell. He was doing this to move on.

San wasn’t fighting tonight, and that gave him the perfect opportunity.

Seonghwa was going back to the fight arena. And this time, he was going there for himself.

Seonghwa pulled out his phone, fingers tapping swiftly as he searched for a nearby hotel—not because he planned to stay the night, but because it was the perfect excuse. If anyone asked, he was just heading to a quiet place to relax after his performance. Not sneaking out alone to an underground fight ring like some reckless fool.

A modest hotel popped up near the arena. Close enough to use as a cover, far enough that San wouldn’t immediately suspect. Satisfied, he set the location on his maps and tucked his phone away.

Stepping out into the night, he inhaled the crisp evening air, the city buzzing softly around him.For the first time he walked alone like this, away from the structured world of ballet, away from the watchful eyes of instructors and peers. His sweater sleeves bunched around his fingers as he held them close, feeling the contrast of warm fabric against the cool air.

The route wasn’t unfamiliar—he’d been here once before, with San. But walking alone made it feel different, each streetlamp casting long shadows as he turned corners, slipping deeper into the rougher part of town. The further he walked, the louder the distant echoes of a crowd became.

And then he was there.

The entrance loomed ahead, dimly lit and pulsing with energy, men loitering outside, some smoking, others talking in hushed tones. The moment he stepped through, the scent of sweat, smoke, and metal filled his senses, the underground world of fighters and gamblers unfolding before him.

Seonghwa tightened his grip on his bag, heart hammering against his ribs as he pressed himself against the cold concrete wall. He had found a quiet, shadowed corner to observe from, blending into the dimness. Or so he thought.

But a pink unicorn in a sea of dirt-streaked warhorses was impossible to miss.

Hongjoong was just finishing up the fight, destroying his opponent like a war machine, he barely had a few bruises and a bloodied lip, and he ended up winning—like he always did. The cheers were as loud as anything he’d never hear before.

And then, in the chaos, those sharp, dark eyes locked onto him.

Seonghwa barely had a second to react before he panicked, letting out an embarrassing squeak and ducking behind the wall. His breath was uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his heart to settle, but—

“Cute bow.”

The voice was too close.

Seonghwa’s eyes snapped open, and he whirled around—only to nearly bowl over a smaller frame. His chin barely stopped from knocking against dark hair as he stumbled back, the scent of sweat, metal, and something unmistakably him filling his lungs.

Hongjoong.

The man stood directly in front of him, barely an inch away, his bloodied lip curved into a smirk as he looked up at Seonghwa. His knuckles were raw and bruised, his broad shoulders dusted with sweat, and yet, his gaze held nothing but amusement—sharp, knowing, and wickedly entertained.

“Your brother isn’t fighting tonight,” Hongjoong mused, tilting his head slightly. 

“Missed me, petal?”

Seonghwa swallowed hard, his mind scrambling for words, but Hongjoong didn’t give him the chance.

“What, got lost on your way back to your palace?” he teased, his voice dripping with mockery. “Or are you just here to watch another poor man get robbed of his winnings?”

Seonghwa frowned. “That’s not—”

Hongjoong clicked his tongue, raising an eyebrow. “Relax, doll. I’m not gonna cry about it. It’s not your fault your family hoards money like dragons while the rest of us break bones for scraps.”

Seonghwa’s lips parted, but he hesitated. He could feel the hostility in Hongjoong’s words, the deep-seated resentment coiled beneath his playful tone. But what unsettled him more was the way Hongjoong looked at him.

And despite himself, despite the sheer audacity of this man, Seonghwa felt his pulse quicken.

His gaze flickered downward, lingering on the blood beading on Hongjoong’s split lip, sliding down the curve of his mouth. It looked painful.

Hongjoong caught the stare immediately, his smirk widening. “What?” he drawled, voice thick with amusement. “Never seen blood before, doll? Can’t imagine you would—must be nice, living in golden fucking castles, silk sheets, and marble floors. Bet the closest you’ve ever been to a fight is arguing over the last imported truffle at some five-star restaurant.”

Seonghwa bristled at the blatant mockery, turning his head sharply. 

"You're so dramatic," he muttered, cheeks puffing slightly in irritation.

Hongjoong leaned in, just enough for Seonghwa to feel the heat radiating from his body. 

“Speak up, doll. What are you looking at?”

Seonghwa huffed and dug through his pink fluffy bag, determinedly ignoring Hongjoong’s scrutinizing gaze. His fingers brushed past his compact mirror, his lip balm, and—there. He pulled out a small pink bandage and a tube of medicated cream, holding them out with a pout.

But before he could say anything, before he could even think, Hongjoong’s expression shifted.

His smirk twisted into something darker. A muscle ticked in his jaw, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he was biting back something mean. 

Then, without a word, he started walking—no, stalking—toward Seonghwa.

Seonghwa barely had time to step back before he felt his spine hit cold, dirty brick.

He sucked in a breath.

Hongjoong didn’t stop until they were chest-to-chest, the scent of sweat, blood, and something sharp and metallic clinging to him like a second skin. He smelled like he belonged here, like he had been born from the very dirt and grime that stained the ground beneath their feet. 

His knuckles were still dusted with dried blood—some his, some not—his tank top slightly torn at the hem, damp with sweat and clinging to the lean muscles of his torso. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, the waistband twisted slightly, as if they had been yanked at one too many times in the heat of a fight.

He was utterly, devastatingly unbothered. Like he fit perfectly into this world of violence and brutality.

And Seonghwa—Seonghwa did not.

The contrast was almost humiliating.

His own pink sweater was too clean, too soft, the pastel shade standing out like a beacon of purity against the filth around them. His jeans were pristine, not a single scuff or tear, and his carefully braided hair, tied up neatly with its little ribbon, felt almost laughably out of place. He was delicate here. Breakable.

Taintable.

And Hongjoong seemed to know it.

He leaned in, the side of his lip curling as he glanced down at the bandage still clutched in Seonghwa’s fingers.

“You think this is funny?” His voice was quiet but laced with something sharp. 

“You walk in here looking like that, acting like you don’t belong to the same fucking world that’s keeping us all in the gutter—” he scoffed, shaking his head. “—and now you wanna play nurse?”

Seonghwa swallowed, his throat dry.

“I was just…” His words died on his tongue, his fingers twitching slightly around the bandage.

Hongjoong tilted his head, gaze dragging over Seonghwa slowly, deliberately. “You ever even been dirty before, doll?”

He raised a hand, fingers smeared with the remnants of a fight, and brushed them lightly against the soft pink wool of Seonghwa’s sweater—just enough to leave a stain.

Seonghwa flinched.

Hongjoong smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

Seonghwa’s fingers trembled around the tiny pink bandage as Hongjoong’s smirk curled, slow and deliberate. 

Hongjoong he leaned in closer, one palm flat against the grimy wall next to Seonghwa’s head. His other hand—filthy, bloodied—reached out, brushing just under Seonghwa’s chin, tilting his face up slightly.

“What’s the matter, petal?” Hongjoong murmured, voice dipping into something almost affectionate. Almost. “You look like you’re about to cry.” he taunted

Seonghwa’s lips parted, his throat tight. He wasn’t about to cry—at least, that’s what he told himself—but the unshed tears welled up anyway, his body betraying him.

Hongjoong hummed, his thumb dragging lightly over Seonghwa’s jaw, calloused fingertips grazing soft skin. “Tch. What, did I ruin your cute little fairytale? This place isn’t all pink ribbons and sugar, sweetheart.”

He tapped lightly at the pink bow securing Seonghwa’s braid. “”Did you come to look for me?”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. “I wasn’t—I just—”

“You just what?” Hongjoong murmured, tipping his chin up slightly, forcing Seonghwa to meet his gaze. His voice dropped to a whisper, teasing, taunting. “Came to see if I’d say your name pretty?”

Seonghwa clenched his jaw, turning his head sharply away—but Hongjoong reached up, fingers catching his chin and gently forcing him to face him again. "Nah, none of that, doll," he scolded, voice sickeningly sweet. "I wanna see those pretty eyes when I talk to you."

Seonghwa’s breathing stuttered, and the first tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.

Hongjoong’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second.

And then, just as quickly, it returned.

“Aw, don’t cry for me, doll.” Hongjoong tsked, wiping the tear away with his thumb before pressing it to his own busted lip. “What a waste of a pretty thing like you.”

And then, before Seonghwa could respond, Hongjoong plucked the pink bandage from his hand, slipping it into his pocket.

A slow, lazy smirk. “I’ll keep this. Call it a souvenir.”

Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd, leaving Seonghwa standing there, breathless and aching—his heart pounding louder than the echoes of the fight.

Seonghwa exhaled shakily, shoulders sinking as the last remnants of warmth from Hongjoong’s touch faded. He was alone again. Alone in a place he didn’t belong, under flickering streetlights and the lingering scent of sweat, smoke, and blood.

He reached for his phone, but the screen barely lit up before flickering off—battery dead. A quiet curse left his lips.

No phone. No money. No ride home.

He tightened his arms around himself, suddenly aware of how cold the night had gotten. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him vulnerable in the worst possible way. He wasn’t stupid—he knew what could happen to people like him in places like this, in the dead of night.

His only choice was to walk.

So he did.

The further he got from the arena, the quieter the streets became. The neon lights of liquor stores and rundown shops cast eerie glows against the pavement, and the only sounds were the occasional rustling of trash and the distant hum of an engine.

Seonghwa shivered, quickening his pace. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to watching over his shoulder, keeping his head low, walking fast but not too fast.

A group of men lingered at a corner near a convenience store, their voices low and slurred, beer bottles clinking. Seonghwa swallowed hard and crossed the street, forcing himself not to react when he felt their eyes on him.

He wasn’t sure how far he had walked when the exhaustion really hit. His legs ached, his feet protested every step, and his stomach churned. He needed to sit. Just for a moment.

He spotted a bus stop ahead, empty except for a broken vending machine and a single flickering streetlamp. He sank onto the metal bench, inhaling deeply, gripping the strap of his bag.

And then, like some cruel twist of fate, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Well, well. You do get yourself into trouble, don’t you?”

Seonghwa’s breath caught. He turned his head, and there he was.

Hongjoong.

Leaning against a motorcycle parked just a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, an eyebrow raised in amused disbelief.

Seonghwa’s stomach flipped.

Hongjoong clicked his tongue. “Tell me, petal,” he drawled, tilting his head. “You lost, or are you just that bad at being rich?”

Seonghwa swallowed around the lump in his throat, fingers gripping the hem of his sweater. He hated the way his voice trembled when he spoke.

“C-can you drop me home?”

For a moment, Hongjoong just stared at him. Then, he scoffed—loud and sharp, the sound slicing through the empty street like a knife.

“Waste my petrol to drop you off at your little candyland?” He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Hell no.”

Seonghwa flinched, embarrassment prickling at his skin. He shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have expected anything from this man.

Hongjoong must have noticed the flicker of shame on his face because his smirk widened, stepping closer until he was looming over Seonghwa.

“Don’t look so sad, doll,” he murmured, voice laced with faux sympathy. “I’m actually doing you a favor. Rich guys like you should learn what it’s like to struggle a little.” His eyes gleamed, sharp and taunting. “Besides, watching you squirm? That’s the real entertainment.”

 His hands trembled slightly, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater.

He wanted to call Yunho—so damn bad.

The thought of hearing his voice, of having someone reliable, someone kind come and pick him up, felt like the only thing keeping him from breaking down completely. But his phone was dead, and he had no money for a cab.

He swallowed his pride. Again.

“At least… can I borrow your phone?” His voice was small, barely above a whisper. “Just for a moment?”

Hongjoong, who had already taken a few steps away, stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he turned back, an incredulous smirk creeping onto his face.

“You’re really pushing it, doll,” he drawled, stepping close again, eyes flicking over Seonghwa’s face with something unreadable. “First, you want a ride. Now, you want my phone?” He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. “Rich kids don’t carry power banks these days?”

Seonghwa bit his lip, lowering his gaze. “Mine died…”

Hongjoong hummed, his amusement never faltering. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, twirling it between his fingers like he was considering it—before suddenly holding it just out of Seonghwa’s reach.

“Alright,” he said, “you can use it.”

Seonghwa blinked, hesitantly reaching out—

“But,” Hongjoong interrupted, snapping the phone back to his side, “what do I get in return?”

Seonghwa stiffened. His stomach twisted. He should’ve known this wouldn’t be that easy.

Hongjoong’s grin widened at the way Seonghwa’s lips parted, struggling to find a response. “Come on, petal,” he teased, stepping even closer, until Seonghwa could see the dried blood on his split lip. “Nothing’s ever free in this world. Especially for someone as pretty as you.”

Seonghwa inhaled sharply, standing frozen as Hongjoong’s words wrapped around him like a trap.

“…What do you want?” he finally asked, voice barely steady.

Hongjoong tilted his head, grinning like a cat that had cornered a mouse.

“Now that’s the right question.”

Hongjoong pretended to think, tapping his fingers against his chin. His phone still dangled carelessly in his other hand, like Seonghwa’s salvation was nothing more than an afterthought to him.

Seonghwa’s fingers curled into his sleeves. His body was rigid, poised like a deer caught in headlights.

“Well,” Hongjoong mused, stepping forward, and Seonghwa instinctively stepped back—only to hit the bench

Hongjoong chuckled lowly. “I could ask for a lot of things,” he murmured, reaching up to ghost his knuckles along Seonghwa’s jaw. “But I don’t think you’re ready for most of them, petal.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. The touch was barely there, but it burned.

His heart pounded violently against his ribs, his stomach curling in confusion and something else he refused to name. This was humiliating. He was exhausted, vulnerable, desperate—and Hongjoong knew it. Enjoyed it.

The bastard.

“…Stop playing games,” Seonghwa finally forced out. His voice was quiet but firm, his fingers tightening around the hem of his sweater. “Just tell me what you want.”

Hongjoong’s smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened.

“Hmm,” he hummed, trailing his fingers up to flick one of the neat little bows at the end of Seonghwa’s braid. “Kiss me.”

Seonghwa’s brain short-circuited.

His lips parted in sheer disbelief, but nothing came out. He stared at Hongjoong, as if waiting for him to say he was joking.

He didn’t.

“You heard me, doll.” Hongjoong tilted his head. “Kiss me, and you can use my phone.”

Seonghwa’s face burned. “You’re disgusting.”

Hongjoong shrugged, entirely unfazed. “Maybe. But that doesn’t change the fact that I have what you need, and this is my price.”

Seonghwa inhaled sharply, his fists trembling.

Yunho. He just needed to call Yunho.

Was this really worth it?

His body refused to move. His mind screamed at him to just walk away, but he couldn’t. He was stranded, and he hated that Hongjoong knew that.

Hongjoong’s eyes flickered over his face, noting every emotion that crossed it. The panic, the hesitation, the humiliation.

His smirk curled wider.

“Or,” he drawled, stepping back just enough to give Seonghwa space, “you can figure it out yourself, princess. The streets are a dangerous place for someone like you, after all.”

Seonghwa clenched his jaw so tightly it ached.

Hongjoong was a bastard. A cruel, cocky, insufferable bastard.

And yet, in that moment, Seonghwa hated himself more—because his heart wasn’t just pounding from anger.

Hongjoong was right. The streets were dangerous, and Seonghwa wasn't naive enough to ignore that fact.

Seonghwa's fingers flexed at his sides, clenching and unclenching as if preparing himself for what came next.

“I... I hate you,” Seonghwa muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible, but his eyes were locked with Hongjoong’s all the same.

“I know, doll,” Hongjoong replied, his voice low, teasing. “But you need me, don’t you?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe, the weight of his options crushing him from all sides.

He had to admit it. He needed Hongjoong’s phone. He had no choice.

Slowly, as though against his will, Seonghwa lifted his head to meet Hongjoong’s gaze. He saw the way Hongjoong’s lips curled slightly, the unspoken challenge in his eyes.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Seonghwa said, his voice shaking, barely a whisper as he forced the words out.

Hongjoong’s grin deepened. “Sure, sugar. We’ll go with that.”

Seonghwa exhaled shakily, ignoring the way Hongjoong’s dark eyes burned into him, the way he leaned in just a little, like he was daring him.

With a deep breath, Seonghwa surged forward and pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to Hongjoong’s cheek.

It was so fast it was almost comical—the briefest brush of lips against warm skin before Seonghwa yanked himself away, his entire face burning.

“There.” He straightened, chin lifting despite the heat crawling up his neck. “Now give me your phone.”

For a moment, Hongjoong just stood there, staring at him.

Then—he laughed. A deep, amused chuckle that sent a shiver down Seonghwa’s spine.

“Oh, doll,” Hongjoong tsked, shaking his head, “you call that a kiss?”

Seonghwa stiffened.

Hongjoong’s fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist, tugging him just a fraction closer. Not enough to trap him, not enough to force anything—but enough to unnerve him. Enough to make his pulse stutter.

“I’ll show you a real kiss, doll.” His voice was low, husky, teasing. “Since you’re so, so naive.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. His fingers curled into his sleeves, knuckles white as he took an unsteady step back—only for his spine to press against the cold, grimy wall.

Hongjoong followed, close enough that Seonghwa could feel the heat of his body, the scent of sweat and iron and something undeniably him.

His breath ghosted over Seonghwa’s lips, maddeningly close.

Seonghwa’s stomach twisted, something unfamiliar clawing at his throat as his knees threatened to buckle. He squeezed his eyes shut like a child hiding from a nightmare, as if not seeing Hongjoong would make the moment any less real.

Like he was praying for someone to save him.

But no one did.

And Hongjoong just chuckled, the sound curling around Seonghwa’s ears like smoke, like sin.

Seonghwa’s eyes fluttered open, heart hammering so hard it hurt. Hongjoong was still there, still unbearably close, but his mouth was curved into a sharp smirk, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Cute,” he murmured, tapping a finger under Seonghwa’s chin. “You really thought I’d kiss you, huh?”

Seonghwa swallowed, his face burning as he turned away sharply, pressing his palm against the bench to steady himself. No, of course not. I wasn’t—

“I—You—” His voice wobbled, mortifyingly so.

Hongjoong only laughed harder, stepping back just enough to give Seonghwa room to breathe—but not enough to let him escape the humiliation sinking into his bones.

“Relax, petal. I’d never waste a real kiss on a thing like you,” he purred, rolling his shoulders like he was already losing interest. “But it’s fun watching you squirm.”

Seonghwa clenched his jaw, staring at the ground as he tried to gather the tattered remains of his dignity. His hands trembled where they rested against the wall, his breath uneven, shaky.

“You’re too easy, petal,” Hongjoong drawled. “Rich guys like you must not get a lot of action, huh?”

Seonghwa’s face burned in humiliation. His heart was still pounding, his pulse too loud in his ears. He felt stupid, standing there, letting Hongjoong toy with him like a cat with a bell.

“I just need to borrow your damn phone,” Seonghwa muttered, looking away.

Hongjoong sighed dramatically and twirled the phone in his hand. “Fine, fine. I’m feeling generous tonight.” He tossed it at Seonghwa without warning, making him scramble to catch it. “Five minutes. Call your little rich-boy chauffeur or whatever.”

Seonghwa clenched his jaw, gripping the phone tight as he turned away.

He quickly dialed Yunho’s number, his fingers unsteady. He felt the weight of Hongjoong’s eyes on him as the phone rang, and for a moment, everything felt impossibly still.The call picked up from the other end 

“Hello?” Yunho’s familiar voice came which sounded confused, it was a given, Hongjoong’s number was unknown 

“Yunho?” Seonghwa mumbled, his voice shaking, 

Yunho’s ears perked up in interest “Seonghwa? Where are you? Are you okay?” 

“I’m..fine just, can you please come pick me?”

Yunho immediately caught onto the distress in Seonghwa’s voice. “Of course, Hwa, but where are you?”

Seonghwa swallowed, gripping the phone tighter. He wasn’t even sure of the exact location—just somewhere near the underground fight arena, a place he definitely shouldn’t be. 

“I-I’ll send you my location,” he mumbled, quickly fumbling with the phone to drop a pin. His hands felt clumsy, his skin prickling with the awareness of Hongjoong still watching him like this was the most amusing thing he’d seen all day.

There was a pause from Yunho’s end, then a slight sigh. “Alright. Stay put, I’m nearby.”

Seonghwa exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”

Before Yunho could say anything else, the phone was suddenly plucked from his hands.

“Time’s up,” Hongjoong said, stuffing his phone back into his pocket without even checking if the call had disconnected. 

Seonghwa glared at him, but it only made Hongjoong’s smirk grow.

“You’re so wound up, petal,” Hongjoong hummed, tilting his head as he took a slow step forward, forcing Seonghwa to instinctively back up. “Did I scare you?”

“No,” Seonghwa shot back quickly.

Hongjoong clicked his tongue. “Liar.”

He lifted a hand, trailing his knuckles just barely along Seonghwa’s jaw, as if testing the waters. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing.

Seonghwa stiffened, his throat tightening. “I’m cold,” he muttered, lying through his teeth.

Hongjoong hummed in amusement, dropping his hand. “Sure, doll. Keep telling yourself that.”

Before Seonghwa could bite back a retort, the distant sound of a car approaching made Hongjoong step back.

“Looks like your ride’s here.”

Seonghwa quickly turned his head, spotting Yunho’s car pulling up near the curb. The second it stopped, Yunho was already stepping out, eyes scanning the area until they landed on Seonghwa—and then immediately narrowed when they flickered to Hongjoong.

Hongjoong only grinned, tilting his head in curiosity. “Aw, is that jealousy I see?”

Yunho ignored him, walking straight up to Seonghwa. “Get in the car,” he said, his voice eerily steady.

Seonghwa hesitated for only a second before nodding, stepping around Hongjoong without another word.

As he reached for the door handle, he felt Hongjoong’s eyes still on him, a silent reminder that this wasn’t over.

As Seonghwa slipped into the passenger seat and shut the door, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The car felt warmer than the outside air, but it didn’t stop the faint tremor in his hands. He curled his fingers into his lap, willing them to stay still.

“Please don’t bring this up to Sannie,” he murmured, not looking at Yunho. 

“Just… tell him we went out for dinner after the dance.”

Yunho didn’t respond immediately, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. He exhaled slowly, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders, but his concern was clear in the way his brows furrowed. “Alright,” he said eventually. “But, Hwa…”

Seonghwa braced himself.

Yunho turned slightly, his eyes scanning over Seonghwa’s face, his slightly smudged eyeliner, the way his lip was caught between his teeth like he was holding back something. 

“Are you okay?” Yunho asked, his voice gentler now. “You’re shaking.”

Seonghwa swallowed hard, shifting in his seat. “It’s just cold,” he lied.

Yunho clearly didn’t buy it. His grip on the wheel tightened as his jaw tensed. 

“Who was that man?” he asked, low but firm. “Did he do something?”

The worry in his voice made Seonghwa’s stomach twist. He hated being fussed over. Hated the way Yunho was looking at him like he was fragile. And worst of all, he hated that he didn’t even have an answer. 

Did Hongjoong do something? Not really. He hadn’t laid a single hand on him in any way that mattered. And yet—Seonghwa still felt like his entire body was vibrating from the encounter, like something invisible had seeped under his skin and refused to leave.

“No,” he finally said, a little too quickly. “He didn’t do anything.”

Yunho’s eyes stayed on him for a beat too long before he sighed, putting the car into drive. “Alright,” he said, but Seonghwa could tell he didn’t believe him.

Neither of them spoke as the car pulled out onto the road, the heavy silence settling between them. And yet, despite everything, despite Yunho’s quiet concern and his own racing thoughts—Seonghwa could still feel it.

The ghost of a touch that never really came. The teasing lilt of Hongjoong’s voice still lingering in his ear.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t tell if he hated it or wanted more.

The car ride was quiet, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional flick of the indicator as Yunho made a turn. Seonghwa kept his hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes fixed on the city lights blurring past the window. His heart had finally slowed down, but his mind hadn’t.

He slumped against the seat, closing his eyes. “It won’t happen again,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he was making a promise to Yunho or to himself.

Because deep down, under all the exhaustion and frustration, there was one thing that scared him more than anything else.

It would happen again.

Because he’d let it.

Hell he was already making plans to go to the fight with Sannie next week.

When they finally pulled up to Seonghwa’s building, Yunho put the car in park but didn’t turn off the engine. He glanced at Seonghwa, concern still etched into his face.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

Seonghwa nodded, fingers curling around the strap of his bag. “Yeah. I just… I just need some sleep.”

Yunho didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he reached out, ruffling Seonghwa’s hair like he always did. “Text me when you wake up, okay?”

Seonghwa managed a small smile, the first real one of the night. “I will.”

With that, he stepped out of the car, the cold night air biting at his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself as Yunho waited, watching until Seonghwa was inside before finally driving away.

The apartment was quiet when he entered. San’s door was shut, meaning he was already asleep, and for a moment, Seonghwa was grateful. He didn’t think he had it in him to explain anything right now.

He made his way to his room, shutting the door behind him before slumping against it. His body ached—not just from dancing, but from everything. From the adrenaline that had rushed through his veins, from the way he had felt so small infront of that fighter.

His fingers brushed against his cheek, right where Hongjoong had leaned in too close, where his breath had lingered. He let out a shaky sigh, shaking his head as if that would somehow dispel the lingering sensation.

This was stupid.

Hongjoong was nothing but a cocky bastard who liked to play games. He didn’t care about Seonghwa. He didn’t care about anything but his own amusement.

And yet—

Seonghwa swallowed hard, throwing himself onto his bed and burying his face into the pillow. A giggle escaped him before he could stop it, muffled against the fabric.

What the hell is wrong with me?

His legs kicked slightly, his stomach twisting in a way that was both frustrating and exhilarating. Hongjoong was so fucking cocky, so sharp-tongued and smug, and it should’ve pissed him off—but instead, it was doing something far, far worse.

Seonghwa groaned, rolling onto his back and pressing his hands against his burning face. His heart was racing, his body still thrumming from the encounter, and he hated that he was reacting like this.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He shouldn’t be thinking about the way Hongjoong had looked at him, the way his voice had curled around petal like it was something sinful, the way his presence had made Seonghwa feel small in the most intoxicating way.

Seonghwa clenched his fists, exhaling sharply. Then—another giggle slipped out, breathy and soft as he turned onto his back, clutching his pillow close. His teeth grazed the tip of his finger as his mind betrayed him, conjuring up everything about him.

Hongjoong’s touch—rough, teasing, deliberate. 

His voice—low, dripping with wicked amusement. 

The way his chains clinked against each other when he moved, catching the dim light like they belonged on a king. 

His tattoos—so many of them, layered like a story across his skin, painful and beautiful all at once. 

His earrings—jangling with every step, adding to the symphony of his presence.

That damn leather jacket—worn, fitted, commanding attention the way he did so effortlessly.

Seonghwa twirled the ends of his bow between his fingers, his breath shaky as he imagined Hongjoong tugging at it again, like he owned him. His skin prickled with heat, and then—shit.

He sat up straight, his heart lurching as he caught sight of the faint stains on his fluffy pink sweater. Blood. Dirt. Evidence.

San would kill me.

No—San would kill him and Hongjoong if he ever found out.

Seonghwa scrambled out of bed, tearing off the sweater and bolting to the laundry room, shoving it into the dryer with frantic hands. He bit his lip, eyes darting to the hallway. 

No one saw. No one knows.

──●◎●──

Hongjoong stepped into his dimly lit apartment, the door creaking as it shut behind him. He shrugged off his leather jacket, tossing it onto the couch before running a hand through his damp hair. 

His body ached, muscles sore from the extra fight he’d taken after making sure that annoying rich brat got into his friend’s car.

He wasn’t sure why he even bothered. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was just common sense—if Seonghwa had gotten himself murdered or worse, harassed, Hongjoong would’ve been suspect number one. 

And the last thing he needed was to deal with San’s pathetic excuse for a punch or the entire weight of his rich-boy connections breathing down his neck.

Groaning, he rolled his shoulders, stretching out the tension before stepping further inside. The place was small, cluttered, and smelled faintly of sweat and cheap cologne. A single light flickered above, casting jagged shadows across the peeling walls.

On the couch, Mingi lounged lazily, one sock-covered foot propped on the coffee table, his head bent over his phone. A lollipop dangled from his lips, the candy clicking against his teeth as he scrolled mindlessly. His messy hair stuck out in different directions, like he’d just rolled out of bed or lost a fight with static electricity.

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, kicking off his boots before dropping onto the couch next to him with a grunt.

Mingi didn’t even look up. “You look like shit.”

“Feel like it too,” Hongjoong muttered, rubbing at the fresh bruises on his knuckles. He tilted his head back, exhaling sharply. “Fucking rich kids.”

That got Mingi’s attention. He glanced over, finally pulling the lollipop from his mouth with a soft pop. “Rich kids?” His brows lifted. “San?”

Hongjoong clicked his tongue. “Worse. His pretty ass brother.”

Mingi blinked. Then smirked. “Oh?”

“Don’t start.”

But Mingi was already grinning like a cheshire cat, leaning in slightly. 

“Seonghwa, huh?” His voice was teasing. “What, did he try to pay you off for protection or some shit?”

Hongjoong let out a humorless chuckle. “No, but he should’ve.” He ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. “Fucking idiot was wandering around like a lost puppy with no cash, no phone, and no clue where he was. If I hadn’t been there, someone else would’ve picked him up, and it wouldn’t have been pretty.”

Mingi whistled low. “Damn. You really are a hero.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Mingi just laughed, biting down on his lollipop again. “I mean, can you blame the guy? If I were that rich and pretty, I’d probably be just as stupid.”

Hongjoong grumbled under his breath, shifting to lean forward, his elbows on his knees. He didn’t want to think about Seonghwa—about those wide, nervous eyes, the way his breath had hitched when Hongjoong leaned in, the way he’d trembled just from a little teasing.

Fucking brat.

He needed a drink. Or another fight. Or both.

Mingi, nudged him with his foot. “Come on, Joong, play around a little with the brat. You need the entertainment anyway.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, scoffing. “The fuck do you mean play around? I barely did anything. Just teased him a little, asked him for a kiss in exchange for help and he had the nerve to—peck my cheek. Like a clueless little princess who’s never touched a man in her life.” He let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Then looked like he was about to cry. Over that. The hell is wrong with him?”

Mingi snorted. “You broke his fragile little fairytale, man.”

Hongjoong cracked his neck, standing up with a groan. “Good. Rich little shits like him need to be reminded that not everything in the world bends over for them.” He grabbed a half-empty water bottle from the counter, chugging it before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mingi raised a brow. “So, what? You’re just gonna keep poking at him ‘cause you hate his brother?”

Hongjoong smirked, tossing the empty bottle at the trash. “That, and he’s easy to mess with. It’s pathetic.”

Mingi just shook his head with a grin. “You’re an asshole.”

Hongjoong shrugged, unbothered. “Better that than a rich brat pretending the world owes him something.”

He didn’t care about Seonghwa—hell, he barely cared about anyone—but if messing with him pissed off San? That was just a bonus.

Mingi chuckled. “You ever think maybe he’s just that naive?”

Hongjoong scoffed. “Or just that stupid.” He sat back down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“I mean, did you see him? Prancing around in his fucking pink sweater, batting his big, dumb eyes like the world is a goddamn fairytale. That’s the problem with rich people—they don’t know what it’s like to actually survive. They walk around acting like the world is just a stage for their perfect little lives.”

Mingi hummed, licking at his lollipop. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about him a lot.”

Hongjoong shot him a glare. “Shut the fuck up.”

Mingi laughed, kicking his feet up on the couch. “Alright, alright. So what’s the plan? You gonna keep messing with him until he finally stops showing up?”

Hongjoong chuckled darkly. “That, or until he learns a thing or two.” He rolled his shoulders, letting out a slow exhale. “Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“You dont actually”

“Shut up nerd i’ll kick you out”

Mingi snorted, unbothered. “Yeah? And then who’s gonna pay half the rent?”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Sure you will,” Mingi said, biting down on his lollipop with a crunch. “Anyway, if you’re done tormenting ballet boy for the night, you should probably sleep. You’ve got another fight tomorrow.”

Hongjoong let out a low grunt, flopping onto the worn-out couch. His knuckles still ached from earlier, but it wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Mingi shook his head. “With how you’re going, that might be sooner than later.”

“Then you better start looking for a new roommate.”

“Asshole,” Mingi muttered

Hongjoong smirked, closing his eyes. He wasn’t worried. Not about the fights, not about money, and sure as hell not about some wide-eyed, delicate thing who shivered at the slightest touch.

But damn, that reaction was kind of funny. Maybe he'd have to push a little more next time.

༊*·˚༊*·˚༊*·˚

San narrowed his eyes, watching as Seonghwa cut another bite of cake with a little too much enthusiasm. His brother wasn’t the type to eat breakfast—hell, he wasn’t even the type to snack—but here he was, shoving forkfuls of rich chocolate cake into his mouth like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

“I thought you didn’t eat in the mornings,” San said slowly, testing the waters.

“I don’t,” Seonghwa replied between bites.

San’s frown deepened. “So?”

Seonghwa only shrugged, licking a smear of frosting off his fork. “This cake is bussing.”

San recoiled. “What the hell did you just say?”

Seonghwa smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You heard me.”

San sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to cry when your instructor makes some stupid comment about your diet again.”

“Nah.” Seonghwa waved him off, stabbing another piece of cake. “She hasn’t been around lately. Besides, we’re having an open house for The Nutcracker for the next few days—everyone’s too busy running around to care who had breakfast or not.”

San didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. He just watched as Seonghwa took another bite.

San exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”

Seonghwa hummed, pleased, as he took another forkful of cake, letting the rich sweetness melt on his tongue. It tasted good. Too good. He only smiled as he scraped up the last of the cake. He knew he wouldn’t be keeping it down. But for now, for just a little while, he could pretend.

San was still watching him. Seonghwa could feel it, the concern brewing behind his eyes, the way his brother was always two seconds away from calling him out. But San didn’t say anything else, just stretched his arms above his head with a sigh.

“I’ll drop you off at the academy today,” he said.

Seonghwa blinked. “Why?”

“Because I feel like it,” San shot back. “And because I don’t trust whatever’s going on with you right now.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re weird,” San muttered, standing up and grabbing his keys. “Come on. You’ll be late.”

Seonghwa followed him out the door, tugging his sweater tighter around himself as they stepped into the cold morning air.

The ride to the academy was mostly silent, save for the low hum of the radio and the occasional honk from the busy streets. Seonghwa kept his gaze fixed outside the window, watching the city blur past. San drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. 

As they pulled up in front of the academy gates. He opened the door, stepping out onto the pavement. “See you later,” he called over his shoulder, waving without looking back.

As soon as San drove off, his smile faltered. His stomach twisted sharply, and he exhaled through his nose.

He knew exactly where he was going first.

The bathroom.

The hallway was empty when he pushed open the door, his hands trembling just slightly. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he made his way into a stall, locking it behind him. He didn’t hesitate as he dropped to his knees, fingers already reaching for his throat.

It was routine by now. Second nature.

His body betrayed him before his mind could catch up, stomach lurching violently as he gagged. Tears stung at his eyes as he pressed harder, willing himself to get it over with quickly.

It wasn’t long before the cake was gone. The chocolate tasted just as good coming out as it did going in

Seonghwa coughed weakly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He sat there for a moment, forehead resting against the cold stall door as he caught his breath.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he straightened up, fixed his hair in the mirror, and dabbed a little more concealer over his bruised knuckles.

He had a long day ahead. And nobody needed to know.

Seonghwa stepped out of the washroom, smoothing his hands down his sweater as if that would erase the lingering shakiness in his limbs. The academy was bustling—dancers hurrying past, fixing their costumes, instructors barking last-minute corrections, the air thick with a mix of sweat, perfume, and anticipation. It was chaotic, but it was home.

His gaze landed on Yunho, who was leaning against the barre in the rehearsal space, lazily scrolling through his phone. Unlike the rest of the company rushing to get ready, Yunho hadn’t even changed into his costume yet. Typical.

Seonghwa took a deep breath, steadying himself before approaching. But before he could speak, Yunho looked up, his brows furrowing immediately.

“Hwa,” Yunho said, locking his phone. “Have you been crying?”

Seonghwa froze.

His stomach flipped, but he quickly forced a lighthearted scoff, rolling his eyes. “What? No.”

Yunho didn’t look convinced. He stepped closer, tilting his head as he examined Seonghwa’s face. “Your eyes are red.”

Seonghwa turned away slightly, fixing the cuffs of his sweater. “Probably just allergies.”

“Allergies?” Yunho echoed, unimpressed. “In November?”

Seonghwa huffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Okay, maybe I got something in my eye. You know how much dust this place collects.”

Yunho’s frown deepened. He was quiet for a moment before he exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the guy in the alley from last night, would it?”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. He didn’t look at Yunho, but his fingers tensed around the hem of his sweater.

Yunho sighed. “Hwa, seriously. Who was he? What did he want?”

Seonghwa forced a small, dismissive smile, willing his hands to stay still at his sides instead of fidgeting. “No one important.”

Yunho’s jaw tightened. “Seonghwa.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted, turning to dig through his bag, pretending to be occupied. “He was just some guy. It doesn’t matter.”

“Some guy who had you shaking when I picked you up.” Yunho crossed his arms, his sharp gaze unwavering. “And now you’re acting weird again.”

Seonghwa let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not acting weird.”

Yunho’s silence said otherwise.

Seonghwa groaned, rubbing his temples. “Look, Yunho, if you’re going to keep interrogating me like this, at least get dressed first. We’re running out of time.”

Yunho stared at him for a beat longer, clearly debating whether to push the topic. Finally, he sighed, ruffling his hair. “This conversation isn’t over.”

Seonghwa smiled a little too brightly. “Of course not.”

Yunho shot him a look before walking away to change, and only then did Seonghwa let his shoulders slump slightly. He turned back toward the mirrors, smoothing out his expression.

It was fine. Yunho would drop it eventually.

Seonghwa slipped into his performance attire, the rich burgundy and gold fabric fitting against his frame like a second skin. He exhaled in quiet relief—thank god he had thrown up earlier. The last thing he needed was to feel heavy in this outfit, especially with the way the cropped top clung to his torso, leaving his stomach completely exposed.

“Five minutes!” a voice called from outside.

Seonghwa stood up, rolling his shoulders as he turned to Yunho. “Let’s go.”

Yunho hesitated, like he wanted to say something, but then just sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

With that, Seonghwa stepped out onto the grand backstage corridor, the distant sound of the orchestra tuning their instruments filling the air. He inhaled deeply, feeling his nerves settle into something steadier. No matter what had happened last night, no matter the thoughts still swirling in his mind—this was his stage.

And for the next few hours, nothing else mattered. Seonghwa sat cross-legged on the dressing room floor, nestled against Yunho’s shoulder, flipping through the pages of yet another Strawberry Shortcake book. The vibrant illustrations of pastel-colored houses and talking desserts filled his vision, a stark contrast to the sharp stage lights and grandiose setting of the academy.

Yunho barely reacted to Seonghwa’s weight against him, only shifting slightly to get more comfortable as he scrolled mindlessly through his phone. 

The room bustled around them, dancers rushing back and forth, last-minute adjustments being made to costumes and makeup, but in this little bubble, everything was quiet. Peaceful.

Seonghwa absentmindedly twirled the ends of Yunho’s pants,, his eyes skimming over the words but not fully processing them. 

A knock at the door startled him. “Arabian dance, on standby.”

Seonghwa inhaled sharply, shutting the book with a soft thud. He turned to Yunho, finally meeting his gaze.

“Ready?” Yunho asked, his voice easy, unreadable.

Seonghwa hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Of course.”

He stood up, smoothing down his costume, and with one last glance at the book, he stepped out into the corridor, where the stage awaited.

The music swelled, a slow, hypnotic rhythm that thrummed through Seonghwa’s veins like a second heartbeat. The stage lights cast a golden glow against his skin, highlighting the delicate arches of his movements.

As he stepped into the routine, everything else melted away. The exhaustion, the hunger, the lingering thoughts of last night—it all ceased to exist the moment his body curved into the serpentine motion of the dance. His arms moved like water, his torso rippling effortlessly with every deliberate breath.

He didn’t think. He didn’t need to. The muscle memory carried him, guiding him like an old friend, and he let himself sink into the rhythm, into the soft chime of bells and the deep pulse of the drums.

For now, there was only the dance. Only him.

The dance ended as seamlessly as it had begun, Seonghwa exhaled softly, his body still warm from exertion, the adrenaline slowly seeping away.

For once, he decided to stay.

Unlike the past few nights, where he’d slip away the moment his performance ended—off to wander, to disappear into something else, someone else—tonight, he’d stay until the last act of The Nutcracker unfolded before him. 

Maybe he’d finally accept Sasha and Yunho’s invitation for dinner instead of brushing them off with an excuse. Maybe, for once, he’d allow himself to exist in the moment instead of searching for an escape.

Yunho excused himself to freshen up, leaving Seonghwa alone backstage. With a sigh, he sank down onto the cool wooden floor, stretching his legs in front of him. The stage lights cast a warm glow over the performers, their movements precise, rehearsed, beautiful. From the sidelines, he watched them weave their magic, their bodies telling a story he had seen a thousand times before—yet tonight, for some reason, he felt himself paying attention.

“Nice dance there, petal. Almost didn’t recognize you.”

The voice sent a sharp jolt down Seonghwa’s spine. He flinched, whipping around so fast he nearly knocked over a prop stand. And there he was—the devil himself, standing far too close for comfort, dressed in that same worn leather jacket, hands in his pockets, head tilted with that signature smirk curling his split lip.

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. Panic swelled in his chest. 

What the hell was he doing here?

“How did you get backstage?” he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper, equal parts alarmed and breathless.

Hongjoong only shrugged, lazy, amused, his dark eyes gleaming under the dim backstage lights. “I have my ways.”

Seonghwa’s heart was racing, his mind scrambling for a response, an escape—because this was his world, his sacred space, and Hongjoong had no business being here. 

He shot up to his feet in an instant, grabbing Hongjoong’s arm in a tight grip before he could slip away into the shadows again. Without a word, he dragged him along, weaving through the maze of props and performers until they reached the dressing room hallway.

Hongjoong barely had a second to react before Seonghwa yanked him into the bathroom and locked the door with a sharp click.

“Damn,” Hongjoong drawled, leaning back against the sink with a lazy smirk. 

“Already locking the door? And here I thought you were innocent. Naughty doll.”

His voice dripped amusement, teasing, but his gaze was sharp, watching, waiting for Seonghwa’s reaction.

Seonghwa took a deep breath, his hands still gripping the lock behind him. 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, keeping his voice as steady as possible.

Hongjoong tilted his head, pretending to think. “Hmm. Came to see a show, I guess. And, well—” his eyes flicked up and down Seonghwa’s body, from the shimmering gold of his costume, the deep kohl and eyeliner, to the sweat still glistening along his collarbones 

“—I got a better one than I expected.”

Seonghwa flushed, more from anger than anything else. “You can’t be here,” he hissed. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ll get into if someone sees you?”

Hongjoong grinned, stepping closer, forcing Seonghwa to press himself against the door. “Trouble? Oh, petal, I am trouble.” His voice dropped, low and mocking. “Besides, looks to me like you’re the one sneaking around with some delinquent in a locked room. Should I be the one worried?”

Seonghwa clenched his jaw. “You—”

“What?” Hongjoong leaned in, just enough that Seonghwa could smell the faint mix of sweat, blood, and cheap aftershave on him. “You gonna scream for help?”

Seonghwa swallowed hard. Hongjoong wasn’t touching him, wasn’t pinning him down, wasn’t doing anything except standing there, close enough to invade every inch of his space—but it was enough. His heart pounded against his ribs, a confusing mess of emotions twisting inside him.

He hated him.

He hated him.

So why was his breath hitching? Why was he gripping the door like he needed something to hold onto?

Seonghwa sucked in a shaky breath, his nails digging into the painted wood behind him. His pulse was hammering so loudly in his ears, he swore Hongjoong could hear it too.

“Cat got your tongue, petal?” Hongjoong’s voice was teasing, smug, dripping with that lazy arrogance that made Seonghwa’s skin prickle.

 “You—” His voice wavered, breathy and uncertain. “You can’t be here. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Hongjoong leaned against the sink, arms crossing lazily over his chest. “And yet, here I am,” he mused. “You should be flattered. I don’t waste my time on just anyone.”

Seonghwa’s fingers curled around the doorknob like he was holding onto a lifeline. “Please, just—leave.”

Hongjoong chuckled, tilting his head. “That’s not what you were saying last night, petal.” His gaze dragged over Seonghwa’s shimmering attire, the golden accents of his costume catching the dim light. “You look expensive.”

Seonghwa’s cheeks burned. “It’s a performance costume.”

“Still,” Hongjoong hummed. “You belong on a stage, I’ll give you that.” His lips twisted into something unreadable before he took a slow step forward, closing the already small distance between them.

Seonghwa’s breath hitched.

“Although,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice dipping into something lower, something dangerous. “That tall dancer of yours—” he tilted his head, feigning nonchalance, “—the one who had his hands all over you.”

Seonghwa stiffened, fingers trembling where they clutched the door handle.

Hongjoong leaned in, so close that Seonghwa could feel the ghost of his breath against his skin. “I hated that,” he whispered, slow and deliberate, his tone filled with possessiveness “So much.”

His lips brushed against the shell of Seonghwa’s ear, not quite touching, but enough to send a shiver down his spine.

“How dare he touch something that’s mine, hmm?”

Seonghwa’s breath stuttered as his fingers curled weakly around the fabric of his own sleeves, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“I—I’m not…” His voice barely made it past his lips, breathy and uncertain. “I don’t belong to you.”

Hongjoong pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, his smirk deepening like he’d heard something hilarious. “Oh? That’s cute,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You think you have a say in this?”

Seonghwa swallowed, his throat dry, his body betraying him in ways he didn’t understand. The way Hongjoong looked at him—half-amused, half-predatory—made something coil tight inside his chest.

But then, just as quickly, Hongjoong’s expression shifted. He stepped back like he’d lost interest entirely, running a hand through his disheveled hair with a lazy sigh.

 “Relax, doll. Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said, voice laced with mockery. “You think I actually care?”

Seonghwa felt like the floor beneath him had cracked open.

Hongjoong shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at Seonghwa’s dazed expression before clicking his tongue. 

“God, you’re so easy to mess with. One whisper and you’re already shaking.” He chuckled, shaking his head as if he pitied him.

Seonghwa’s lips parted, but no words came out.

“Don’t look at me like that, petal,” Hongjoong teased, stepping around him with a low hum. “You’ll make me think you actually want me to keep playing with you.”

But I do, Seonghwa thought, but he didn’t say it. 

Obviously.

Instead, he hesitated for a beat before speaking, voice softer than he intended. 

“W-when are you fighting?”

Hongjoong stopped mid-step, turning to glance at him over his shoulder, an eyebrow quirking up in intrigue. “Why?” His smirk was all sharp edges. “You wanna fight me?”

Seonghwa blinked rapidly, shaking his head. “No… I just…” He hesitated, fingers twisting the hem of his top before he finally met Hongjoong’s gaze again. “I want to see you fight.”

He whistled low. “Now, why would a sweet little thing like you want to see something so ugly?” He tilted his head, stepping closer again, voice dipping lower. “Think it’ll be fun, doll? Watching me get blood on my hands?”

Seonghwa’s stomach twisted at the way Hongjoong was looking at him, like he was picking him apart piece by piece. He wasn’t sure how to answer, wasn’t sure why he had even asked in the first place.

All he knew was that he wanted to see it—wanted to see him.

"I want to see you," Seonghwa meekly said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hongjoong stilled.

"Careful, doll," Hongjoong murmured, reaching out to toy with the beaded tassels hanging from Seonghwa’s stomach. His fingers barely brushed the fabric, but Seonghwa felt it like a spark against his skin. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you actually liked me."

Seonghwa’s breath hitched, and his eyes widened slightly. He did—he shouldn’t, but he did.

Hongjoong let out a low chuckle, stepping back and stuffing his hands into his pockets like none of this meant anything. Because to him, it didn’t. "Meet me after your little ballet thing ends," he said easily. "I’ll let you watch."

Seonghwa swallowed, nodding before he even fully processed what he was agreeing to.

Hongjoong turned for the door but paused just before opening it, glancing back with a smirk that sent shivers down Seonghwa’s spine. "Don’t get too excited, petal. You might not like what you see, i just went easy on your brother last time, there’s a hell lot more of blood and bones."

Then he was gone, leaving Seonghwa alone, breathless and trembling.

He stood frozen, his hands clasped together as if he could steady himself. The room felt colder now that Hongjoong had left, the teasing lilt of his voice still lingering in the air like a ghost.

"You might not like what you see."

But Seonghwa already knew that. He knew Hongjoong fought in places drenched in sweat and blood, knew that his world was nothing like the one Seonghwa belonged to. And yet, he still wanted to go.

His heart pounded as he unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out, the bright lights of the backstage area nearly blinding after the dim washroom. Dancers hurried past, lost in their own preparations, their own lives. No one noticed him.

Yunho, however, did.

"Hey," he called, jogging up to Seonghwa with a bottle of water in hand. "I was looking for you. You okay?"

Seonghwa blinked, nodding quickly. "Yeah, just—just needed a moment."

Yunho frowned but didn’t push, instead handing him the water. "You sure? You look kind of flushed."

Seonghwa took the bottle with a small smile, hoping it masked the storm inside him. "It’s just the stage lights," he said softly, taking a sip. "They’re warm."

Yunho studied him for a moment before sighing. "Alright. Well, is the plan of dinner with me and Sasha still up Hwa?”

Dinner. Normalcy.

Seonghwa should have said yes.

Instead, he found himself shaking his head. "You guys go ahead," he said, voice gentle. "I think I need some fresh air after the show."

Yunho raised an eyebrow but let it go. "Alright. Just don’t wander off alone."

Seonghwa hummed in response, but his mind was already elsewhere.

He was going to see Hongjoong fight. It should have made him scared, terrified considering he almost had a panic attack last time but instead it made him giddy, excited and all for the wrong reasons.

Seonghwa quickly changed out of his stage attire, slipping into a soft cream-colored sweater and a long flowy skirt that brushed his ankles. He pulled out the hairpins keeping his updo in place, letting his silky strands cascade down before carefully parting them into two neat braids, fingers weaving through with practiced ease. A delicate satin bow adorned each end, perfectly placed.

A doll.

He was delicate, pristine—exactly how everyone saw him. How they expected him to be.

And yet, here he was, practically skipping to watch a man who bloodied his knuckles for money.

Seonghwa chewed on his lip as he stepped out into the night, his boots tapping against the pavement. He ignored the way his stomach flipped, ignored the tiny thrill that shot down his spine at the thought of finding Hongjoong again.

This was reckless. This was dangerous.

And yet, he wanted it.

With a deep breath, he hailed a cab, giving the address Hongjoong had scribbled onto a piece of paper before slipping it into his cardigan pocket.

This time, he wasn’t lost.

This time, he was choosing to go.

The drive was quiet, save for the hum of the radio playing some soft tune that Seonghwa wasn’t really listening to. He clutched his bag tightly in his lap, fingers fidgeting with the satin bows on his braids. The anticipation buzzing in his veins was unfamiliar, almost intoxicating.

It wasn’t long before the cab rolled to a stop at an all-too-familiar alleyway. 

Seonghwa swallowed, paying the driver before stepping out onto the pavement. The cold nipped at his exposed skin, but it wasn’t enough to deter him.

He took a tentative step forward, his heart thudding against his ribs. The underground arena was just beyond the rusted metal doors, the same ones he had hesitated before last time. Now, he pushed them open without thinking.

The moment he stepped inside, the scent of sweat, cigarette smoke, and adrenaline hit him all at once. It was loud, chaotic—shouting, laughing, the occasional crash of glass. 

≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫

Hongjoong leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the cigarette between his fingers burning low. The moment Seonghwa stepped inside, looking all lost and delicate, Hongjoong let out a low chuckle.

“Look at that pretty thing,” he murmured, tilting his head toward the entrance.

Mingi followed his gaze, lips quirking up when he spotted Seonghwa. 

“Damn, a skirt and braids? What is he, a princess?” He laughed, shaking his head.

Hongjoong exhaled a slow breath, his tongue running along his bottom lip as his eyes dragged over Seonghwa’s frame—soft cardigan, tiny waist, those stupid little bows at the end of his braids. Pathetic. Out of place. So, so easy to ruin.

“But imagine how pretty he’d look with my cock in his mouth, crying and shit, while i’ve tied his hands behind his back with the bow on his braids” Hongjoong began, licking his lips “I bet he’d struggle so fucking good” he added, taking another slow drag.

Mingi hummed, considering it. “Yeah, he looks the type.”

Hongjoong smirked, watching as Seonghwa’s gaze finally landed on him. He hesitated for only a moment before offering the faintest smile, small and unsure, like he actually thought Hongjoong was going to be nice to him. Like he thought he belonged here.

Pathetic.

Pathetic. Too easy. Too pretty. The kind of pretty that makes a man forget his manners.

Still, he couldn’t deny the way something twisted in his gut when Seonghwa started walking toward them, nearly tripping over the uneven flooring.

Hongjoong let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“This is gonna be fun,” he muttered.

“You lost, doll?” he called out. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade.

Seonghwa straightened, fixing his cardigan and bowing his head slightly. “I— No, I… I was looking for you.”

Hongjoong’s smirk deepened. He took a slow step toward him, the space between them shrinking. “Looking for me, huh?”

Seonghwa swallowed. “You… You said I could watch you fight.”

Mingi chuckled from the side, hiding his laugh with a cough

Hongjoong tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Did I?" he mused, as if he had already forgotten.

Seonghwa's fingers twisted into the hem of his cardigan, his gaze darting away for a second before settling back on Hongjoong. "Y-yes, you did."

Mingi let out another chuckle, barely disguising it this time. 

"Shit, he really came all this way just to watch you throw hands?" He glanced between the two of them, clearly entertained. "That's kinda adorable."

Seonghwa's cheeks warmed, and Hongjoong could see the way he stiffened, his already perfect posture going even straighter, like he was trying not to shrink under their gazes.

"Well," Hongjoong drawled, circling him slightly, hands stuffed into his pockets. "Hate to break it to you, petal, but I'm not fighting tonight."

Seonghwa blinked. "Oh."

His lips parted like he wanted to say something else, but he hesitated. His fingers kept playing with the ends of his cardigan, his nails pressing into the fabric.

Hongjoong smirked. "Disappointed?"

Seonghwa’s mouth opened and closed before he shook his head. "No, I just—" He hesitated again. "I just wanted to see you."

Mingi let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Hongjoong barely held back his laugh. He leaned in slightly, just enough to make Seonghwa’s breath hitch. "That so?" he murmured.

Seonghwa nodded, but his eyes were uncertain, darting away.

It was too easy.

Hongjoong tilted Seonghwa’s chin up with a single finger, forcing their eyes to meet. His touch was light—mockingly so—just enough to make Seonghwa’s breath stutter in his throat.

“Well, I guess I’ll fight then,” Hongjoong mused, voice dripping with amusement. 

“Since you came all this way just to see me. Didn’t even tell your dear brother, did you?” He tilted his head, watching the way Seonghwa's throat bobbed.

 “Lied to your academy friends too, hmm? Skipped out on a nice little dinner date with your tall, handsome partner. Alllll just to watch me fight.”

His smirk widened, eyes gleaming with condescending delight. He leaned in ever so slightly, his breath ghosting over Seonghwa’s skin.

“Such a bad doll you are.”

Seonghwa felt himself shrink, his fingers clutching his cardigan tightly. His lips parted like he wanted to argue, to deny it—but what was there to deny? Hongjoong was right. He had done all of that, had lied, had come running the moment Hongjoong gave him an opening.

And Hongjoong knew it.

Knew it and was reveling in it.

He tapped a finger against Seonghwa’s cheek before stepping back.

“Alright then, petal. You wanted to see me fight?” Hongjoong rolled his shoulders, the smirk on his lips nothing short of wicked. “Watch closely.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the center of the underground ring, where a man with a gun strapped lazily to his belt lounged beside a woman draped over his arm. She was barely dressed, whispering something into his ear with a sultry smirk, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his chest.

The man glanced up as Hongjoong approached, his sharp grin widening. He let out a low whistle, pointing toward the crowd as he banged his fist against the table. A microphone crackled to life, amplifying his voice over the chatter and booze-laden air.

“Next fighter—Kim Hongjoong!” His voice rang through the dimly lit warehouse, laced with excitement and challenge. “If any of you think you’re good enough to take him down, get your ass in the ring!”

A chorus of hollers and jeers erupted from the crowd, some cheering, some laughing.

Hongjoong barely reacted. He just let out a slow breath, reaching up to shrug off his leather jacket. The weight of it left his shoulders in a practiced motion, revealing the ink that stretched over his arms—lines and patterns that told stories no one would ever read. 

He tossed the jacket to the side, then ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back before rolling his neck.

His eyes, dark, scanned the crowd.

“Come on,” he drawled, voice lazy, taunting. “Who’s feeling brave?”

The crowd stirred, shifting as a few men exchanged glances, some murmuring in amusement, others weighing their chances.

Then, with a sharp scrape of a chair against the floor, a tall, broad-shouldered man stood up. His nose looked like it had been broken one too many times, his knuckles already split from past fights. He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck with a smirk that mirrored Hongjoong’s, except his lacked the same effortless arrogance—his was forced, desperate to intimidate.

“I’ll take you on,” the man grunted, stepping over the ropes and into the ring.

Hongjoong clicked his tongue. “Didn’t take long.”

Behind him, Seonghwa barely breathed. His fingers curled around the ends of his cardigan, eyes wide as he took in the scene. Everything about this place was so unfamiliar, so raw and vicious, yet Hongjoong looked right at home, standing there like a king surveying his territory. The confidence in his stance, the way he moved—

it was hypnotic.(and utterly sexy)

A bell rang, the official start of the fight.

Hongjoong didn’t move at first. He stood still, head tilted, watching his opponent like a cat watching a mouse scurry.

Then the man lunged.

Seonghwa flinched.

Hongjoong ducked with ease, sidestepping the blow like he had all the time in the world. The other man stumbled slightly, his balance thrown, and Hongjoong laughed—low, condescending.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

His voice was almost teasing, but then he moved.

Fast.

Seonghwa barely caught it. One second Hongjoong was standing there, relaxed and lazy, and the next—crack.

A fist to the ribs. Another to the side of the man’s face. A sharp kick to his knee.

The man grunted in pain, staggering back, but Hongjoong didn’t give him a second to recover. He was relentless, calculated, landing blow after blow with the kind of precision that only came from experience.

Seonghwa’s stomach twisted. 

He should be horrified. 

He was horrified. 

Mingi whisteled along. Hongjoong’s punches were akin a knife, his legs were kicking the man whenever he was distracted and it left the worst bruise known to man, purple, angry. The man growled, twisting Hongjoong’s feet and getting a punch to his nose, bleeding, leaving Hongjoong stunned for a few moments as he wiped the pool of blood off

Seonghwa gasped softly, his hands clenching around the ends of his sleeves. 

Blood dripped from Hongjoong’s nose, staining his lips a deep crimson. He swiped at it with the back of his hand, staring at the smear of red like it was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Then he grinned.

“Not bad,” Hongjoong mused, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the pain. He licked his lips, tasting the blood before tilting his head.

Hongjoong barely had time to react before a fist came flying at his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Pain bloomed sharp and hot, rattling his skull, but he didn’t stumble. Instead, he let out a low, dark chuckle, rolling his jaw as if testing the damage.

"That all you got?" he taunted, voice thick with amusement, though his tongue flicked over his split lip, tasting copper.

The man lunged again, swinging wildly, but Hongjoong was quicker. He ducked, twisting to the side as a meaty fist grazed his temple. With brutal precision, he drove his elbow straight into the man's ribs, the sickening crunch of bone breaking under force lost beneath the roar of the crowd.

The bastard barely had time to gasp before Hongjoong was on him. A knee to the gut, another to the side, and then Hongjoong slammed his fist into his face, sending blood and spit flying.

The man stumbled, swaying on his feet. But he wasn’t done.

Seonghwa flinched as he watched the guy spit out blood and lunge again, catching Hongjoong off guard with a vicious uppercut straight to the chin. Hongjoong’s head snapped back.

Seonghwa's stomach twisted. He shouldn't be watching this. But he couldn't look away.

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, wiping at his mouth, eyes dark and wild. 

"You hit like a fucking child."

Before the man could react, Hongjoong was on him again—fast, relentless, a beast unleashed. 

A devastating punch to the throat sent the man reeling. Another brutal jab to the stomach made him fold like a house of cards.

Then came the real damage.

Hongjoong didn't stop. He grabbed the guy by the hair, yanked his head back, and drove his fist straight into his face—once, twice, three times. His knuckles split, blood soaking into his skin. The man's nose was already shattered, his left eye swelling shut. But Hongjoong was still going, the roar of the crowd egging him on.

Seonghwa took an unsteady step forward, lips parted, chest tight.

"Hongjoong—"

Mingi’s hand landed on his shoulder, firm, halting. "Let him finish it." His voice was almost amused.

Hongjoong gripped the guy’s collar, dragging his limp body up, and for a second, it looked like he was about to keep going. His breath was ragged, shoulders heaving, blood smeared across his cheek, his hands, his goddamn soul.

Then, with a huff, he let the man drop.

Unconscious. Broken. 

Done.

The bell rang.

The fight was over.

The crowd erupted into chaos—cheers, curses, bets being settled. Mingi whistled low under his breath, shaking his head with a smirk.

Seonghwa felt sick.

And then Hongjoong turned to him.

Dark, amused, looking like something out of a nightmare. Blood and sweat clung to him like a second skin.

And still—still—he winked.

Hongjoong wiped his bloody hands on his shirt, the fabric already ruined, before stepping toward Seonghwa with slow, deliberate movements. The kind of approach a predator made toward a baby deer shivering without its mama.

Seonghwa stiffened, the instinct to step back clawing at him, but his feet refused to move. It was only when Hongjoong got too close—too overwhelming, too much—that his body reacted. His shoulders jerked in a sharp, involuntary flinch. His fingers curled tightly into his sleeves, clutching at the soft fabric like a lifeline.

Hongjoong noticed. Of course, he noticed.

His smirk widened, something sickly sweet lacing his amusement. 

"Scared, petal?" His voice was low and teasing.

Seonghwa swallowed, shaking his head quickly—too quickly. "N-no, I just—"

Hongjoong cut him off by reaching up, his fingers ghosting just beneath Seonghwa’s chin, barely touching, but enough to make his breath stutter. "Liar."

Seonghwa shivered. He didn’t know what was worse—the fight, the blood, or this. The way Hongjoong looked at him, like he was something to be own, something to be played with.

"You wanted to see me fight," Hongjoong murmured, thumb swiping over the edge of Seonghwa’s jaw, just for a second, just to prove he could. His hands were still warm from the violence. "Didn’t expect it to be this ugly, huh?"

Seonghwa shook his head again, but his words tangled in his throat.

Hongjoong hummed, amused. Then, without another word, he pulled away, taking a step back. "Good. You should be scared."

Seonghwa hated how his body reacted to the loss of warmth. He hated how relieved he was, how cold the air felt without Hongjoong so close.

Without thinking, his hands moved first.

Seonghwa’s fingers curled around Hongjoong’s wrist, small and trembling but firm, tugging him back before he could walk away. His big, doe eyes were wide, unblinking as they swept over Hongjoong’s bloodied face—his split lip, the bruising around his nose, the smear of red that still lingered on his skin. His lips parted slightly, his expression scrunching up, delicate and worried.

“Do you ever do proper aftercare on your wounds?” Seonghwa asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Hongjoong stilled.

For the first time, Seonghwa had managed to catch him off guard.

Then, slowly, that damn smirk returned, a lazy curl of amusement as he tilted his head. 

“What’s this, petal?” His voice dropped, mocking and saccharine. “Worried about me?”

Seonghwa’s fingers twitched against his wrist, but he didn’t let go. He shouldn’t have grabbed him in the first place—he knew that—but now that he had, now that Hongjoong was looking at him like that, he didn’t know how to back out.

Hongjoong took a step closer, erasing the little distance Seonghwa had tried to put between them earlier. He leaned in, close enough that Seonghwa could smell the sweat, the blood, the sharp hint of metal that still clung to him.

“I don’t need aftercare, sweetheart,” Hongjoong murmured, low and slow, his breath ghosting over Seonghwa’s cheek. “I need a good fight. And maybe—” he chuckled, tapping a finger beneath Seonghwa’s chin again, forcing his gaze up, “—a little entertainment afterward.”

Seonghwa swallowed thickly, but he refused to look away.

Hongjoong’s smirk deepened.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, petal,” he drawled, finally pulling back, though Seonghwa still hadn’t let go of his wrist. He flexed his fingers, testing, before raising an eyebrow. “You planning on holding me hostage, or do you actually wanna fix me up?”

Seonghwa hesitated. Then, with a soft breath, he nodded.

Hongjoong laughed.

Pathetic

Seonghwa’s fingers simply tightening around Hongjoong’s wrist as he gently tugged him toward a nearby bench. He let go only when Hongjoong finally sat down, his usual smirk still lingering, amused at how easily Seonghwa had taken charge.

But Seonghwa wasn’t paying attention to that.

Instead, he reached into the pocket of his cardigan and pulled out a small pink handkerchief, embroidered with tiny strawberries on the corner, followed by a little tube of antiseptic cream and—of all things—pink bandages.

Hongjoong blinked.

“Why the hell do you carry those?” he asked, eyeing the supplies with an unreadable expression.

Seonghwa didn’t answer, simply wetting the handkerchief with antiseptic liquid before bringing it up to Hongjoong’s face. His touch was delicate, barely a whisper against his skin as he wiped away the dried blood from Hongjoong’s nose and lips, the cool fabric soothing against the bruises forming.

“Come on,” Seonghwa murmured, tilting Hongjoong’s chin up with featherlight fingers.
“Blow your nose.”

Hongjoong narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “Are you serious?”

Seonghwa hummed, giving him the softest, most expectant look, like he wasn’t sitting in the middle of a godforsaken fight club but in a cozy little café, helping someone wipe ice cream off their cheek.

With a put-upon sigh, he blew his nose into the handkerchief, wincing at the sting of movement.

Seonghwa smiled approvingly, dabbing gently at the remaining blood before smoothing some antiseptic over Hongjoong’s busted lip. He was so focused, brows pinched in concentration, lips pursed, handling Hongjoong like he was made of something fragile and not fresh out of a fight.

“You got a mommy kink or something?” Hongjoong muttered, watching Seonghwa’s face closely. “Taking care of people like this, playing house?”

Seonghwa gasped, scandalized, before flicking Hongjoong’s forehead with a disapproving pout.

“Ow,” Hongjoong hissed, rubbing at the spot.

“You shouldn’t talk about mothers like that,” Seonghwa scolded, voice gentle but firm. 

“It’s weird. And disrespectful.”

Hongjoong let out a sharp laugh. “Damn, okay, mama’s boy.”

Seonghwa frowned, his delicate fingers pausing for a beat before carefully peeling open a pink bandage. “I’m not a mama’s boy,” he huffed, his voice soft yet insistent as he smoothed it over the small cut on Hongjoong’s cheek with the utmost care, his touch as light as a whisper.

Hongjoong merely smirked, his lips tugging into something lazy, something teasing. 

“Could’ve fooled me, petal.”

Seonghwa exhaled through his nose, the faintest pout forming. “I don’t even have a mother.”

Hongjoong stilled for a fraction of a second before huffing a quiet laugh, his tone almost careless. “Damn. Me neither.”

Seonghwa’s fingers twitched where they rested against Hongjoong’s jaw, but he didn’t press further. He only nodded once, returning to his task, because somehow, he knew Hongjoong wouldn’t want sympathy.

Hongjoong watched Seonghwa work, his little hands moving with such precise gentleness it was almost ridiculous. His brows knitted together in concentration, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he smoothed another bandage over a scrape on Hongjoong’s temple. It was pink too. Of course, it was.

Seonghwa hesitated, then huffed softly. “You should take better care of yourself.”

Hongjoong snorted. “Yeah? And who’s gonna make me, huh?”

Seonghwa finally looked at him, eyes wide and impossibly soft. “Me,” he said, barely above a whisper.

For a second—just a second—Hongjoong didn’t have anything to say to that.

Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re too cute for a place like this, doll.” His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming as he leaned in just a little. “You really should stop hanging around me.”

Seonghwa’s hands stilled on his skin. He didn’t move away, didn’t flinch this time.

“…I don’t want to,” he admitted.

Hongjoong’s smirk faltered.

He scoffed, leaning back with a shake of his head. “Suit yourself.” But he didn’t tell him to leave. He just let Seonghwa keep dabbing at his wounds, the antiseptic stinging, the warmth of his hands oddly soothing.

Mingi, watching from the sidelines, shook his head. “Man,” he muttered under his breath. “This is some real dangerous shit.” After Seonghwa left, Hongjoong grabbed his leather jacket and bike keys, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off an unwanted spirit. Mingi followed behind him, twirling his own keys between his fingers as they both headed out into the night. Their ride home was quiet, the roar of their bikes filling the silence between them.

The moment they pulled up outside their shared place—a dingy little apartment with a flickering streetlamp casting long shadows—Mingi let out a deep sigh.

“Hongjoong-ah,” he started, voice careful, like he already knew he wouldn’t like the answer. 

“Do you like him?”

Hongjoong scoffed, pulling off his helmet. He turned to Mingi like he had just asked the dumbest question in the world. “The fuck, Min? Of course not.”

Mingi leaned against his bike, arching a brow. “Then what the hell are you doing?”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, throwing his jacket onto the couch as they stepped inside.

 “What do you think? He’s just some spoiled rich trash. A fucking doll who’s been pampered his whole life and has no clue what the real world is like.”

Mingi crossed his arms. “So… you’re messing with him ‘cause he’s rich?”

“Yeah?? Duh.” Hongjoong scoffed, running a hand through his hair before plopping onto the couch. “Pretty boy San is already off fucking his boyfriend, so I can’t take my anger out on him. But his brother? That’s fair game. Win-win situation.”

Mingi’s frown deepened.

Hongjoong smirked, leaning back against the couch like he was getting comfortable. “And fuck, did you see him? All wide-eyed, all insistent on cleaning my wounds and shit—pathetic.” He laughed

 “He actually thinks I give a shit. Like, seriously? What kind of idiot carries around pink bandages and a fucking lace-trimmed handkerchief?”

Mingi still didn’t say anything, just watching Hongjoong with something unreadable in his expression.

Hongjoong waved a hand. “What, you mad now? Gonna lecture me or something?”

Mingi exhaled, shaking his head. “Nah. I just think you’re being real fucking stupid.”

Hongjoong’s smirk twitched. “Excuse me?”

Mingi finally sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. “He seemed really genuine, you know.” His voice was quieter now, hesitant, like he was giving Hongjoong a chance to stop and think.

Hongjoong’s jaw tensed. “The fuck you mean?”

Mingi looked him dead in the eyes. “I mean, Seonghwa. The way he was looking at you? Treating you? That wasn’t fake.” He leaned back slightly. “And we both know you know that.”

Hongjoong didn’t respond right away, just licking his lips and scoffing like Mingi had said something ridiculous. “Tch. Whatever, man. Doesn’t change shit.”

Mingi sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Hongjoong scoffed, pushing himself up from the couch with a stretch, like the conversation wasn’t worth his time. “You’re acting like I fucking killed him or something,” he muttered, cracking his neck. “He’s fine. He’ll be fine.”

Mingi watched him, unimpressed. “I’m just saying, man. You keep playing this little game, and it’s gonna blow up in your face.”

Hongjoong let out a dry laugh. “Yeah? And what, you think I’m gonna wake up one day and be in love or some shit?” He turned to Mingi with an amused smirk. 

“Please. I don’t give a fuck, Min. Seonghwa is soft, too soft. He’s fun to mess with, yeah, but that’s all he is. A distraction.”

Mingi didn’t look convinced. “He’s not like San.”

Hongjoong’s smirk faltered for half a second before it was back in place, sharper this time. 

“Yeah, no shit. San actually has a spine.”

Mingi shook his head, leaning back against the couch. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I don’t care. You really think someone like that is gonna change anything for me?” He laughed again, almost mocking. “He’s nothing.”

Mingi’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he sighed. “Alright, Joong. Whatever you say.”

Hongjoong just hummed, grabbing a cigarette from the pack on the table. “Damn right.”

But even as he lit it, even as he leaned against the window and took a slow drag, the image of Seonghwa’s big, worried eyes wouldn’t leave his head.

Fucking idiot, why did he care so much.

ꕥ

Seonghwa slipped through the front door as quietly as possible, the familiar warmth of home settling around him. His shoes barely made a sound against the polished floors as he crept forward, his cardigan pulled tight around him like it could shield him from whatever trouble he was about to walk into.

He just needed to make it to his room. Just a few more steps.

“Where were you?”

Seonghwa froze.

San’s voice rang through the dimly lit foyer, low and sharp. He wasn’t yelling, but he didn’t need to—his tone alone was enough to make Seonghwa’s stomach twist with unease. 

San for fucks sake, he never stayed home for more than 30 minutes but lately that’s all he had been doing 

Slowly, Seonghwa turned, his fingers tightening around the edges of his sleeves. San stood in the doorway to the living room, arms crossed, eyes shadowed with something unreadable.

“I—” Seonghwa swallowed. “I was at the theater.”

San’s gaze flickered, sharp as a blade, scanning over him. Seonghwa could tell the moment he noticed it—the slight discoloration on his chin, the faint, rusty smudge of blood he had missed while cleaning up. And then, there was the smell. The unmistakable scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes.

San’s eyes darkened. “Try again.”

Seonghwa hesitated. “I—”

“Don’t lie to me, hyung.”

His breath hitched at the edge in San’s voice.

San took a step closer, the tension in his posture coiled tight like a spring. “You smell like smoke,” he bit out. “There’s blood on you. Whose?”

“It’s not mine,” Seonghwa whispered.

San’s jaw clenched. “Then whose?”

Seonghwa lowered his gaze, hesitating for just a second too long.

And that was all it took.

San exhaled sharply, stepping back as if the realization physically struck him. “You’ve been with him.”

Seonghwa’s heart pounded. “San—”

“You were with that fucking bastard.”

Seonghwa flinched at the way his brother spat the name, like it was poison in his mouth.

San ran a hand through his hair, pacing like he needed to physically shake off the rage burning through him. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea who he is? What he does?!”

Seonghwa frowned. “San, it’s not—”

“It’s exactly what I think it is!” San snapped, whirling on him. “That bastard—he’s not getting close to you because he cares, Hwa. He’s doing it to get to me.”

Seonghwa stiffened.

San scoffed, shaking his head. “You think it’s a coincidence? That he suddenly cares about the little ballet prince? He hates me, Seonghwa. He’s hated me for years. This is just another way for him to fuck with me.”

Seonghwa shook his head. “You don’t know that—”

“I do.” San’s voice was cold now, final. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Seonghwa wanted to argue, to tell San that Hongjoong wasn’t as cruel as he thought, that maybe he was different when he was with him—but the words felt weak, hollow.

San scoffed, voice dripping with disgust. “He’s a pathetic fucking monster, Hwa.” His fists clenched at his sides, veins visible beneath his skin. “Do you have any idea what he’s done? He tried to hurt Wooyoung before—badly. Just to get in my head. Why the fuck do you think Wooyoung doesn’t fight anymore, huh?”

Seonghwa’s breath caught.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“He got into a fight with him, left him so fucking bruised he couldn’t even stand properly. Broke two of his ribs, fucked up his face so badly that he couldn’t train for months.” San’s voice trembled with barely controlled fury, his eyes burning into Seonghwa like he was trying to make him understand. “And now you’re telling me that the same asshole has his hands on you?”

Seonghwa closed his eyes, trying to stop the sting of tears forming.

San let out a sharp exhale, rubbing his face with his hands. “Tell me you’re done with him,” he muttered. “Tell me you won’t go near him again.”

Seonghwa hesitated. Just for a second.

And San saw it.

His eyes flashed, sharp and cutting. “Jesus Christ, Seonghwa,” he muttered under his breath, stepping away like he couldn’t stand to look at him.

“I—” Seonghwa’s voice cracked. “San, I—”

“Don’t.” San’s voice was low, tired. “Just… don’t.”

Seonghwa swallowed, watching his brother’s face harden.

“I’m dropping you off and picking you up after class from now on,” San declared, finality laced in his tone.

Seonghwa let out a soft, incredulous scoff. He had never raised his voice before, had never even thought of arguing with his brother, but something inside him twisted, tangled up in years of being ignored, being an afterthought.

“For years, you stayed out,” Seonghwa murmured, his voice trembling but steady enough to cut through the silence. “Never cared for me. Never came home. You called me weak and pathetic. Said I was sheltered. Naïve. Weak. Just like mom”

San’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t interrupt.

Seonghwa exhaled shakily. His fingers curled into the sleeves of his cardigan, gripping them tight as if that would hold him together. “You never called. Never cared, San-ah.” His voice was small, but the weight of his words pressed heavy between them. “I grew up alone in this house.”

San blinked, caught off guard, but Seonghwa wasn’t finished.

“And now… now I’m just talking to someone you hate, and suddenly you care?” His voice cracked at the end, and he hated how weak it sounded. But it was the truth, and it made something sharp rise in his throat, something close to resentment, something he didn’t know he could feel towards his own brother.

San exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression unreadable.

Seonghwa had never fought before. Not like this. Not with San.

He didn’t know how to argue, didn’t know how to be cruel. But the ache in his chest, the betrayal of years gone by, made his words spill out before he could stop them.

“You don’t get to control me now just because you suddenly feel guilty,” Seonghwa whispered.

San’s expression darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. “Don’t be so fucking selfish, you freak.”

Seonghwa flinched.

San didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

“Do you not feel any resentment toward him?” San’s voice was sharp, slicing through the thick air between them. 

“For fucking up Wooyoung so bad? For ruining him?” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Hyung, Wooyoung is going to be so disappointed when he hears about this. You used to feed him strawberry cake with your own hands when we were kids, and now you’re—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “Now you’re letting yourself be toyed with by that piece of shit?”

Seonghwa swallowed hard, his fingers trembling where they clutched at the hem of his cardigan.

He wanted to say something, anything—but his throat felt too tight.

Freak.

San had never called him that before. He had been called a lot of things—too delicate, too soft, too sheltered—but never that.

He knew he was different. Knew he wasn’t like San, or Wooyoung, or anyone else in their world. But hearing his own brother spit the word at him like venom—like an insult—made his stomach twist into knots. 

And San knew why he was different.

Seonghwa tried to hold it in, tried to swallow down the lump in his throat, but his body betrayed him. His nose twitched, his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips trembled despite his best efforts to keep them still. His hands clenched at his sleeves, his fingers gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

San’s anger faded in an instant. The sharp lines of his expression softened, and guilt flickered across his face. He had always been quick to anger, but seeing Seonghwa look like that—like a fragile doll on the verge of breaking—made him regret the words the moment they left his mouth.

Seonghwa sniffled, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

San exhaled, stepping closer. His voice was gentler now, hesitant. “Hwa, I’m sorry—”

But Seonghwa took a step back.

San stilled, watching as Seonghwa turned away, his shoulders trembling. It was rare for Seonghwa to get upset. He was always quiet, always soft, always the one to smooth over tensions rather than create them. And now—now he looked so small, curling into himself like he wanted to disappear.

And for the first time in years, San realized just how much he had been absent.

Just how little he actually knew about his own brother.

Seonghwa kept his head down, his hands twisting into the hem of his cardigan. He sniffled, trying to quiet the unsteady breaths slipping past his lips. He didn’t want to look at San—not when his face was burning with humiliation, not when his chest ached with something heavy and suffocating.

He hated this. Hated that he was standing there, crying like a child, making a fool of himself. He wasn’t supposed to cry. Not in front of San. Not when he had spent years pretending everything was fine.

San shifted on his feet, rubbing a hand over his face with a tired sigh. He hated seeing Seonghwa like this, hated that he had been the one to cause it.

“Hyung,” San tried again, voice softer now, laced with guilt. “Look at me.”

Seonghwa shook his head, his grip on his sleeves tightening. “I can’t.”

San swallowed. “Why?”

“Because…” Seonghwa hesitated, his voice small, fragile. “Because if I do, I’ll start believing you actually care.”

The words hit harder than any punch San had ever taken.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, his throat tightening. He wanted to tell Seonghwa that he did care. That he had always cared. That maybe he had been a shitty brother, but he was trying now.

But what did that mean when Seonghwa had spent years alone?

San exhaled, stepping closer. He hesitated for a second before reaching out, gently resting a hand on Seonghwa’s shoulder.

Seonghwa flinched.

San pulled back immediately, his chest twisting.

Seonghwa sniffled again, wiping his sleeve over his eyes before finally forcing himself to look up. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, and his lips wobbled slightly as he tried to hold himself together.

“Just stop, Sannie,” he whispered. “Stop pretending you suddenly care.”

San had never felt so powerless in his life.

“Hyung,” San said softly, his own voice unsteady. He hated this. Hated how much Seonghwa’s tears affected him, how they twisted something sharp and aching inside his chest. 

When Seonghwa cried, it wasn’t just sadness—it was grief, raw and overwhelming, painted across his delicate features like a tragic masterpiece. It made you feel guilty, made you want to apologize even if you didn’t know what for.

Because Seonghwa never cried over small things.

When he cried, it was because something inside him was breaking.

San hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, his grip gentle as he wrapped his fingers around Seonghwa’s wrist. He pulled him close, enveloping him in a firm embrace, one hand cradling the back of his head. Seonghwa’s body was tense, stiff—like he wanted to resist but didn’t have the strength. But the moment San tightened his hold, Seonghwa broke.

His shoulders shook, breath hitching against San’s chest. A soft, broken sound left his lips, muffled against the fabric of San’s shirt. And then, like all the fight had drained out of him, he collapsed into San’s hold completely.

San sank to his knees, bringing Seonghwa down with him. He held him there, rocking him slightly, his fingers threading through Seonghwa’s soft hair. He whispered apology after apology, pressing a desperate kiss to his forehead, wishing he could take back every cruel word, every moment of neglect, every time he had left Seonghwa alone.

But the damage was done. And all he could do now was hold him as he cried.

“I’m sorry, Sannie—” Seonghwa’s voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “I-I promise, I’ll never see him again. Just… please don’t call me that again. Please don’t be angry. Please don’t scream.”

He hiccuped between words, his breath stuttering, his entire body trembling like a leaf in San’s arms. The sheer desperation in his voice made San feel like the worst kind of person. Like a monster. His throat tightened as guilt clawed at his chest, suffocating him.

God, what had he done?

San wanted to slam his head against the wall, break his knuckles against something solid, punish himself for ever making Seonghwa feel like this—like he had to beg for kindness. He held him tighter, pressing another kiss to his hair, his heart shattering at how small Seonghwa felt in his arms.

“I won’t,” San rasped, voice thick with emotion. “I won’t, I swear. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Seonghwa curled further into him, gripping the back of San’s hoodie like it was the only thing keeping him together. His sobs came in broken little gasps, muffled against San’s shoulder, but the way his body shook gave away the depth of his pain.

San hated this. Hated himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his hand running up and down Seonghwa’s back, trying to soothe him, trying to make up for years of neglect in a single touch. “I didn’t mean it. I was just—just mad, Hwa, but I didn’t mean it. You’re not a freak, I swear.” His voice cracked. 

“I love you, you know that, right?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer, just sniffled, gripping him tighter.

San exhaled shakily, pressing his cheek against Seonghwa’s temple. 

“I don’t care if you hate me or if you never forgive me, but you can’t—” He swallowed hard. His voice was thick with something Seonghwa wasn’t used to hearing—fear. 

“You can’t be around him, hyung. You don’t know what Hongjoong is capable of.”

Seonghwa sniffled again, his breath hitching. Slowly, he pulled back just enough to meet San’s gaze. His big, tear-filled eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks blotchy, lips trembling with the effort to stop crying. His nose twitched like it always did when he was trying to be strong, and it made San’s heart ache.

“I won’t,” Seonghwa whispered, voice small, fragile. “Just… please don’t be angry at me.”

San felt something in his chest splinter. He reached out, cupping the side of Seonghwa’s face with a gentleness he wished he had always given him. “I’m not angry,” he murmured. “I just—I don’t want you to get hurt, hyung.”

Seonghwa sniffled again, nodding.

San forced a small, reassuring smile and ran a hand through Seonghwa’s hair. “Come on, let’s go for a ride, yeah? I’ll buy you your strawberry cheesecake.”

Seonghwa blinked up at him, his lips parting slightly in surprise. Then, as if the words had sunk in, he nodded again, hesitantly.

San helped him up, keeping an arm around his shoulders as he guided him toward the door. If there was one thing he could do right, it was this—taking care of Seonghwa, protecting him, making sure he never had to cry like that again.

Seonghwa curled into himself as he sat in the passenger seat of San’s car, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his cardigan. The streets were still lively despite the late hour, filled with people who had places to be, things to do, lives to live.

San’s hand rested on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping against it absentmindedly. The silence between them wasn’t tense, but it was heavy, weighted with everything left unsaid.

After a while, San sighed. “You still like that bakery near the old ballet studio?”

Seonghwa nodded quietly.

San turned the wheel, heading in that direction without another word. When they pulled up to the small, warm-lit bakery, Seonghwa hesitated before stepping out. He hadn’t been here in a long time—not since he was younger, not since he used to drag San and Wooyoung along, giggling over pastries and sweets.

The bell chimed softly as they entered, and the scent of sugar and vanilla wrapped around them like a comforting embrace.

San nudged him forward. “Go pick whatever you want, hyung.”

Seonghwa hesitated before approaching the glass display, his eyes scanning the neatly arranged pastries, but as soon as he spotted the familiar strawberry cheesecake, his lips parted slightly. The soft pink glaze, the tiny swirl of whipped cream on top—it looked just like it always had.

“One slice of that, please,” San said to the worker before Seonghwa could even ask.

Seonghwa stared at him, his hands gripping his sleeves. “You still remember?”

San huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course, idiot.”

The worker packed the cake neatly, and San paid without hesitation, handing Seonghwa the small bag. “Come on, let’s go eat it by the river. You always liked that, didn’t you?”

The river was quiet at this hour, the occasional ripple of water the only sound besides the soft hum of streetlights buzzing above them. San parked the car near the embankment, stepping out first and waiting for Seonghwa to follow.

Seonghwa moved slower, cradling the small bakery bag in his hands. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of the city mixed with damp stone and the distant whiff of street food.

San stretched his arms over his head before plopping down onto a bench. “Come sit,” he said, patting the empty spot beside him.

Seonghwa hesitated but sat down, his hands resting neatly on his lap, the bag still untouched. San leaned back, gazing at the water, his expression unreadable.

“You used to talk a lot,” San muttered after a moment. “When we were younger. Always rambling about ballet, about books, about stupid little things you loved.”

Seonghwa fiddled with the ribbon on the bakery box. “I guess I grew up.”

San exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t like it.”

Seonghwa blinked, looking over at him. “What?”

“I don’t like that you got quieter.” San’s voice was rough but honest. “I know I wasn’t there much, and I know I didn’t help, but… I should have been. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to—” He stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “I don’t know. It just feels wrong, seeing you like this, like you’re just waiting to die, like mom did.”

Seonghwa pressed his lips together. He wanted to say something, but what was there to say?

San sighed and nudged the bakery bag. “Eat, hyung.”

Seonghwa hesitated, staring at the box. The cheesecake was inside, waiting for him, perfect and untouched.

San watched him, eyes dark with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Seonghwa said quickly, shaking his head. He carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, the sight of the delicate pink dessert making his heart clench.

He picked up the fork and took a small bite, placing it in his mouth. The sweetness spread across his tongue, but it tasted different than he remembered.

“Good?” San asked.

Seonghwa swallowed. Forced a smile. “Yeah.”

San ruffled his hair. “Good. You need to eat more, hyung. You’re too skinny.”

Seonghwa looked down at the cheesecake and hummed but didnt reply.

Seonghwa took another bite, humming softly as the sweetness melted on his tongue. The cheesecake was creamy, the strawberry glaze slightly tart, just the way he liked it. He pressed his fork into the soft cake again, scooping up another bite.

San watched him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing, just letting him eat in peace. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable for once—just the sound of the river, the occasional rustling of leaves, and the faint clink of Seonghwa’s fork against the box.

Halfway through, Seonghwa slowed down, savoring the last few bites like he always did. He wiped his mouth delicately with a napkin, then neatly closed the box, setting it aside.

San smirked. “Still eat like a little prince, huh?”

Seonghwa huffed, crossing his arms. “I just don’t like making a mess.”

San leaned back against the bench, tilting his head toward the sky. The streetlights cast a soft glow over the river, making the water shimmer like glass. He exhaled slowly, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Seonghwa sat more properly, his hands folded neatly in his lap as he stared at the water. His chest felt lighter, the lingering sweetness of the cheesecake still on his tongue. He wasn’t sure if it was the food, the fresh air, or just the simple act of sitting with San like this—but for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel so overwhelmed.

San glanced at him. “You full?”

Seonghwa nodded. “Mhm.”

San hummed in response, tapping his fingers against his knee. “You wanna stay out a little longer?”

Seonghwa hesitated. He should probably say no, should probably go home and shower and sleep, but… he didn’t want to.

“…Yeah.”

San grinned, ruffling his hair again, ignoring Seonghwa’s quiet whine of protest as he pulled him by his shoulder, laying his head on it. “Good. Then let’s just sit here a little longer.”

And so they did. Neither of them spoke, and for once, the silence between them didn’t feel like a wall. It felt like something softer, something easier—something like home.

After a while, San stretched with a groan and got to his feet. “Alright, let’s head back,” he said, rolling his shoulders. The night air had turned colder, making the tips of his fingers tingle.

Seonghwa followed San back to the car, settling into the passenger seat as his brother started the engine. The warmth of the heater hummed softly, filling the space between them as they pulled out onto the road.

They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Seonghwa spoke. “Can we stop by the convenience store?”

San raised an eyebrow, glancing at him briefly. “Why?”

“I need to buy chips. My stock ran out.”

San huffed a small laugh. “You and your snacks.”

Seonghwa pouted slightly, crossing his arms. “I like them.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” San flicked the turn signal and pulled into the parking lot of a small, 24-hour convenience store. The fluorescent lights buzzed above them as he parked. “Want me to come in with you?”

Seonghwa shook his head. “I’ll be quick.”

San waved him off. “Alright. Don’t take forever.”

Seonghwa slipped out of the car, pulling his coat tighter around himself as he stepped inside. The cool air-conditioning greeted him, along with the faint scent of instant noodles and freshly stocked bread. The store was quiet at this hour, save for the low music playing from an old radio behind the counter.

Seonghwa walked straight to the snack aisle, scanning the shelves with a practiced eye. His usual chips were stacked neatly in the middle row. He grabbed two bags, hesitated, then took a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, for good measure.

After paying at the register, he stepped back outside, the cool night air making him shiver slightly.

San was still waiting in the car, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. As soon as Seonghwa slid into the passenger seat, San glanced over at him.

“You good?”

Seonghwa nodded, clutching the bag of chips to his chest. “Yep.”

San hummed, shifting the car into drive. “Alright. Let’s go home.”

The ride back was quiet, the soft hum of the engine filling the space between them. Seonghwa ripped open a bag of chips, munching absentmindedly as he stared out the window. The city lights blurred past, neon signs reflecting off the glass.

By the time they pulled into the driveway, Seonghwa had nearly finished one of the bags. He followed San inside, slipping off his shoes and stretching with a quiet yawn.

“I’m gonna shower,” he mumbled, heading toward his room.

“Alright,” San called after him. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Seonghwa hummed in acknowledgment before disappearing down the hall.

San lingered for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck before sighing. He wasn’t sure if things between them were fixed, but at least for tonight, Seonghwa seemed a little lighter. That was enough.

Seonghwa let the warm water run over him, eyes closed as he let himself relax for the first time that night. The tension from his earlier fight with San still clung to his skin, but the shower helped, if only a little.

Once he was done, he wrapped himself in a fluffy towel and padded softly to his room, rubbing his damp hair with another. His bag of chips sat untouched on his nightstand, right where he left them.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, reaching for the open bag and popping a chip into his mouth. The crunch was satisfying, the salty flavor grounding in a way he couldn’t explain.

A soft knock at his door made him pause mid-bite. “Come in,” he mumbled.

San peeked his head in, eyes scanning him as if making sure he was okay. “…You good?”

Seonghwa nodded, still chewing.”Im Fine San you’ve asked 100 time already”

San huffed. “Alright. Just checking.” He hesitated for a second before stepping back. “Sleep soon, hyung.”

Seonghwa hummed again in response, waiting until San left before sighing.

He wasn’t sure why, but his chest still felt heavy.

Shaking the feeling away, he pulled his blankets over himself, curling up on his side. He mindlessly reached for another chip, eating them slowly as he let his thoughts wander.

At some point, his eyes grew heavy, and without realizing it, he drifted off to sleep, the faint taste of salt and oil still lingering on his tongue. The morning light seeped through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across Seonghwa’s face. He stirred slightly.Blinking groggily, he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His blankets were twisted from the way he’d curled up in his sleep. He exhaled slowly, stretching his arms above his head before finally swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

The house was quiet. 

Seonghwa glanced at the clock—later than usual. San was probably still asleep, which was rare. He usually left early, always restless, always finding something to do.

Deciding not to dwell on it, Seonghwa padded to the bathroom to freshen up. He took his time washing his face, letting the cool water wake him up properly. His skin was still a little puffy from sleep, his hair messier than usual, but he didn’t really care.

By the time he stepped into the kitchen, the scent of coffee filled the air. San was already there, leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone with a deep frown.

Seonghwa hesitated for a second before stepping forward. "Morning."

San looked up, his frown softening just a little. "Morning, hyung. You sleep okay?"

Seonghwa shrugged. "Yeah. You?"

San scoffed. "Do I ever?"

Seonghwa hummed in acknowledgment, not pushing. Instead, he opened the fridge, scanning its contents. His fingers hovered over thecan of soda before deciding against it.

“You doing anything today?” San asked, setting his phone down.

Seonghwa shook his head. “Just another open house today.”

San’s jaw tensed, something flickering across his face. “I’ll drop you off.”

Seonghwa turned to face him fully. “San—”

“No arguments,” San cut in. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was firm, leaving no room for discussion. “I meant what I said yesterday.”

Seonghwa sighed, knowing it was pointless to argue. He grabbed a chocolate from the counter instead, peeling it slowly before taking a bite

San watched him, his fingers drumming against the counter. "You're not gonna—" He stopped himself, shaking his head.

You're not gonna eat something real?

It almost slipped out, the concern on the tip of his tongue, but he caught himself. He knew Seonghwa ate—he wasn’t starving himself(or maybe he was), not exactly—but it was always things like this. Chocolate, chips, cake. He never saw him sit down for a proper meal, never saw him eat something substantial.

Seonghwa arched a brow. "What?"

San hesitated before exhaling sharply. "Nothing."

Seonghwa knew better than to pry, so he let it go. Instead, he grabbed his bag from the chair and nodded toward the door. "Let's go, then."

San followed after him without another word.

The drive to the academy was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the faint sound of a song playing on the radio. Seonghwa stared out the window, watching the city pass by, while San’s grip on the wheel remained just a little too tight.

As they pulled up near the campus, San finally spoke.

"Text me when you're done. I'll pick you up."

Seonghwa hummed in acknowledgment, already unbuckling his seatbelt. He could feel San's eyes on him, as if debating whether to say something more, but nothing came. Instead, San only reached out, ruffling his hair in a way that felt more affectionate than teasing.

"Don't be late," San muttered.

Seonghwa smoothed his hair down with a small pout before stepping out of the car. The moment he turned toward the building, he felt the weight of San’s gaze still lingering on his back.

As soon as he disappeared into the halls, San exhaled and leaned back against the headrest. He sat there for a few seconds before shifting gears and driving off.

The open house had been running for days now, and as expected, none of Seonghwa’s family had come. They never did.

He had long since stopped expecting them to.

The academy was filled with excited chatter—parents and loved ones bustling in and out, congratulating dancers, bringing flowers, hugging and taking pictures. Seonghwa merely observed from the sidelines, gracefully slipping through the crowd, untouched by the warmth that surrounded him.

It had always been this way. Even as a child, he had danced alone. Performed alone. Celebrated alone.

He wasn’t bitter about it. Not anymore.

“You ready?” Yunho’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Seonghwa nodded, offering a small, practiced smile. “Of course.”

“Good.” Yunho clapped him on the back. “Because you’ve been stealing the spotlight every night, and I’d hate to see you break that streak.”

Seonghwa let out a quiet chuckle. “I’ll do my best.”

And with that, he took a deep breath and stepped backstage, preparing to slip into his role—the one place where he was truly seen.

Hours passed in a blur of graceful spins and controlled steps, his body moving on instinct, guided by discipline more than thought, and just like that the day ended, he was back to where he always was, no more Hongjoong.

✧༺♥༻∞

San had never been one to storm into places uninvited. He preferred to handle things cleanly, efficiently—but right now, his blood was boiling too much to care.

The underground fight ring reeked of sweat, blood, and smoke, dimly lit with buzzing neon lights that barely cut through the haze. 

He ignored the eyes that turned to him, ignored the murmurs of What the hell is he doing here? as he stalked past the crowd and straight toward the man he wanted to kill.

Kim Hongjoong.

The bastard was lounging near the ropes, hands taped up, his lip split from an earlier fight, looking like he had not a damn care in the world.

San grabbed him by the collar before he could even react, slamming him against the wall. “Stay the fuck away from my brother.”

The chatter in the ring fell silent. 

Even Hongjoong looked momentarily stunned before a slow, lazy smirk spread across his face. “Damn,” he drawled, “and here I was wondering when you’d finally come crying to me about it.”

San curled his fist, ready to knock that smug expression clean off his face, but before he could throw a punch, another voice cut through.

“Woah, woah, woah—hold the fuck up.” Mingi’s massive form stepped in between them, prying San off Hongjoong with ridiculous ease. He looked between them, exasperation clear on his face. “You two wanna kill each other? Fine. But don’t do it like cowards.”

San’s jaw tightened. “What?”

Mingi crossed his arms. “Fight it out in the ring like real men.”

Hongjoong laughed, wiping a bit of blood from the corner of his lip. “Now that,” he said, tilting his head at San, “sounds fun.”

San didn’t hesitate. The second Mingi stepped back, signaling the fight, he lunged.

Hongjoong barely had time to raise his arms before San’s fist cracked against his jaw, a sickening thwack echoing through the ring. The impact snapped Hongjoong’s head to the side, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he grinned, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh?” Hongjoong rasped, rolling his shoulders. “You’re actually serious.”

“Shut the fuck up,” San spat, already throwing another punch.

Hongjoong dodged, and this time, he struck back—an uppercut straight to San’s ribs. Pain shot through him, but he barely registered it, too blinded by rage to care.

“Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve done?” San snarled, landing a brutal left hook that made Hongjoong stumble. “What you did to Wooyoung—”

Hongjoong gritted his teeth, wiping blood from his mouth. “Yeah, yeah. We all know you’re the goddamn hero, Choi San.” He scoffed, dodging another swing before ramming his knee into San’s gut. “But don’t act like I don’t know what you are.”

San coughed, a flicker of pain flashing across his face before he powered through, grabbing Hongjoong by the collar and slamming him down onto the mat.

“You’re a fucking monster,” San growled, his fists hammering into Hongjoong’s face, over and over again, relentless and raw. “You used my boyfriend as a punching bag just to mess with me! You fucked with his head, made sure he’d never fight again! And now you’re—”

Another punch. Hongjoong’s nose cracked under the force, blood spilling onto the floor.

“—fucking with my brother?”

Hongjoong grunted, barely dodging the next swing, before twisting his body and shoving San off him. He wiped at his face, smearing blood across his cheek, and his smirk widened.

“Ohh, that’s what this is about.” Hongjoong chuckled darkly, spitting blood onto the floor. 

“You think I’m getting close to the doll just to fuck with you?”

San rushed at him again, but this time, Hongjoong was ready. He ducked, delivering a sharp hook to San’s ribs before slamming his elbow into his temple.

“Dont fucking call him that”

San’s vision blurred for a second, but he shook it off, rage giving him strength.

“I know that’s what you’re doing,” San hissed, shoving Hongjoong back. “You don’t give a fuck about him—you just want to piss me off. You want to ruin him.”

Hongjoong that godforsaken monster laughed.

San snapped.

He roared, tackling Hongjoong to the ground, fists flying wildly. Blood splattered, his knuckles burning, but he didn’t stop.

“You ruin everything you touch,” San seethed, every word punctuated by another brutal hit. “Wooyoung! Seonghwa! Everything!”

Hongjoong choked on a laugh, coughing up blood. He grinned through the pain, his swollen eye barely opening.

“Then stop me.”

San’s breath came ragged, chest heaving as his bloodied hands clenched tighter. For a second, just a second, he wanted to. He wanted to keep going until Hongjoong stopped breathing, until he wasn’t a problem anymore.

But before he could move, Mingi grabbed him from behind, yanking him off with brute strength.

“Enough,” Mingi’s deep voice cut through the haze. “You’ll fucking kill him.”

San struggled against his grip, eyes still wild with fury, but Hongjoong just lay there, grinning up at him through bloodied teeth.

San wrenched himself out of Mingi’s grip and staggered back, fists still trembling, his entire body burning with fury.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to hit him again. But instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the ring.

Hongjoong coughed again, groaning as he sat up. Mingi crouched beside him, shaking his head.

“You really don’t know when to shut the fuck up, do you?”

Hongjoong just laughed, wiping the blood off his lip.

“Nope. Seems like i got in his head”

Mingi scoffed, shaking his head as he grabbed a towel and tossed it at Hongjoong. “Yeah? And how’s that working out for you? Because from where I’m sitting, you just got your ass beat.”

Hongjoong wiped his face, wincing as the rough fabric dragged over his busted lip. 

“Tch. Worth it.” He stretched out his jaw, testing the damage. It hurt like hell, but he’d had worse.

Mingi sat back on his heels, studying him with an unreadable expression. “Why the fuck do you keep poking at him like that?”

“Because it’s fun.”

Mingi didn’t laugh. He just sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. 

“Look, man. You need to let this shit with San go. It’s not gonna end well.”

“Let it go?” Hongjoong grinned, teeth streaked with red. “Come on, Mingi. Where’s the fun in letting go?”

Mingi rolled his eyes, standing up. “One day, he’s gonna snap for real, and you’re not gonna be laughing when he actually fucking kills you. You nearly killed his boyfriend once”

Hongjoong leaned back on his elbows, a slow smirk curling his split lip despite the blood dripping from it. “Then I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Mingi exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. 

Without warning, he grabbed the bloodied towel and ripped it off Hongjoong’s face, peeling away a layer of fresh skin.

“Ah—fuck!” Hongjoong groaned, wincing as new pain flared through his already wrecked face. He shot Mingi a sharp glare, but Mingi only raised a brow, unfazed.

“Yeah, don’t expect me to be soft like your little petal with pink bandages and soft mother like hands,” Mingi mocked, lowering his voice into a soft, airy lilt before ending it with a dramatic chicken squawk.

Hongjoong clicked his tongue, irritation flashing in his bruised eyes. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?”

Mingi shrugged. “And yet, I’m still prettier than you.”

Hongjoong just scowled, pressing the towel back against his face, his smirk finally dropping.

He groaned, tilting his head back against the grimy wall, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. His tongue flicked against the torn inside of his cheek, the sharp tang of blood coating his mouth. He let out a dry chuckle, low and breathless. “That bastard actually got better. I’m impressed.”

Mingi scoffed, arms still crossed as he looked down at him. 

“Yeah, that’s what love does to you, man.” His voice was flat, but there was something sharp beneath it, something edged with bitterness. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. 

“You wouldn’t get it, though. Never loved, never were loved.”

 Never loved, never were loved

And Hongjoong would never say it to his face, but god fuck did that hurt.

He scoffed, forcing a smirk despite the throbbing pain in his jaw. 

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

Mingi didn’t answer right away, just gave him a long, knowing look before tossing the bloodied towel onto Hongjoong’s lap. “Nah,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Course not. Nothing means shit to you, right?”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His body ached like hell, his knuckles were split, and his ribs screamed with every breath—but somehow, Mingi’s words stung worse than any of it.

“Exactly,” Hongjoong muttered, staring down at the crusting blood on his fingers. “Nothing means shit.”

Mingi huffed, shaking his head.

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The dim glow of the locker room lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the stained concrete floor.

Finally, Mingi exhaled through his nose and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Look, man. Keep playing your little games if you want, but don’t act so fucking surprised when people start treating you like the monster you pretend to be.”

With that, he turned and walked out, shaking his head as he walked off, leaving Hongjoong alone with his busted face and a silence heavier than any punch San had thrown at him.

Hongjoong sat there for a while, staring at the floor, at the blood on his hands, at nothing.

Monster.

Mingi’s words echoed in his skull, rattling around like loose screws. He should’ve brushed it off, laughed it away like he always did—but for some reason, he couldn’t.

Because it was true, wasn’t it?

He flexed his fingers, feeling the sting of split knuckles, the dull throb of bruises forming beneath his skin. San had hit him harder than he ever had before.

And fuck, Hongjoong had loved it.

Not just the fight, not just the pain—no, it was something else. The way San had lost himself, the way he had screamed at him, called him every vile name in the book. The raw, unfiltered rage in his eyes.

For the first time in years, Hongjoong had felt real.

And wasn’t that the funniest fucking thing?

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh, pressing his palm against his aching ribs. His body screamed in protest, but he only grinned, tongue flicking against the torn skin inside his cheek.

“Fucking pathetic,” he muttered to himself.(take a shot everytime Hongjoong says pathetic)

He dragged himself upright, wincing as he leaned against the wall. He needed to get cleaned up. Needed a drink. Needed to get his mind off the way San’s voice had sounded when he snarled at him.

As he limped toward the locker room exit, he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror by the door.

Bloodied. Beaten. 

Yeah. A real fucking monster.

And for a fleeting moment, he wished for a certain doll’s presence—to have those delicate hands wiping away the blood, to hear that soft voice scolding him for calling himself a monster. 

Because Seonghwa would. Seonghwa, with his gentle touch and those big, concerned eyes, would treat him like something worth saving.

But Hongjoong wasn’t something worth saving.

And he knew, deep down, that all he’d ever do was ruin him. That had been the plan all along, hadn’t it? 

Mess with Seonghwa just to fuck with San. Toy with him, make him another casualty in this game he and San had been playing for years.

He just hadn’t expected Seonghwa to look at him like that. Like he wasn’t filth. Like he wasn’t a lost cause.

He looked at him like he was human. Like he was a person—someone breathing, someone real, a man worth loving.

Hongjoong almost wanted to laugh. To sneer at the sheer absurdity of it. 

Was Seonghwa fucking blind? Why the hell would he look at him of all people like that?

He exhaled sharply, pushing himself off the grimy bench. Fuck this. He wasn’t about to sit here wallowing in his own head like some pathetic loser. He needed a distraction.

He grabbed his jacket off the chair, wincing when his split knuckles caught on the fabric. His body ached from San’s hits, but he’d had worse. He’d live.

The underground bar attached to the fight ring was loud, filled with cigarette smoke and the stench of cheap liquor. Just the place to get out of his own fucking thoughts. Hongjoong slid onto a barstool, nodding at the bartender. “Whiskey. Neat.”

The glass was in front of him within seconds, and he knocked it back in one go, relishing the burn down his throat.

It wasn’t long before a warm body slid up next to him, perfume thick and cloying. A sultry voice murmured, “Rough night?”

Hongjoong turned, lips curling into a smirk. “Something like that.”

He didn’t bother asking for a name. Didn’t care.

All he needed was a distraction.

☆○o

Seonghwa lay curled up on his bed, the soft fabric of his white thigh-high socks brushing against the sheets as he absentmindedly kicked his feet. His long overshirt draped loosely over his frame, the hem barely covering the tops of his thighs. His hair was still tied into two neat braids, a delicate bow secured at the bottom of each—just as always.

The dim glow of his bedside lamp cast a golden hue over the room, the only sound being the faint rustling of pages as he turned them. His fingers traced the intricate illustrations in The Sugarplum Fairy, his lips parting slightly as he read, fully immersed in the world of dancing fairies and enchanted dreams.

A faint breeze from the open window made the sheer curtains sway, but Seonghwa didn’t notice. He was lost in his own quiet world, where everything was soft and beautiful—so unlike the reality waiting beyond his bedroom door.

San had Wooyoung over, and god knows what the two were up to on the sofa while pretending to watch a movie. Muffled giggles and the occasional thud reached Seonghwa’s ears, making him sigh and turn the page of his book. He much preferred the quiet company of The Sugarplum Fairy over whatever nonsense they were getting into.

Just as he settled deeper into the cushions, his phone chimed with a notification. Furrowing his brows, he reached forward, plucking it off the shelf.

Yunho: The Nutcracker is officially finished, princess. Any plans for that dinner of ours, or will I have to wait another season for it? 😉

A soft chuckle escaped him. He quickly typed back:

Seonghwa: The auditions for Swan Lake are soon, Yuyu. Aren’t you nervous? We’re always so busy this season—show after show.

The response was almost immediate.

Yunho: Aw man, is this where you drift the conversation away because you’re not interested?

Seonghwa shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he typed back.

Seonghwa: Nope, not at all. I’m just not much of a dinner guy, but if you’re on board for a little trip to a cheesecake bakery, then I’m up.

Yunho’s reply came almost instantly.

Yunho: Aren’t you auditioning for the lead in Swan Lake? I thought cheesecake wasn’t in your diet.

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, his fingers flying over the screen.

Seonghwa: Then you thought wrong.

He expected Yunho to tease him further, but instead, there was a slight pause before the next message popped up.

Yunho: Alright then, it’s a date. I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow.

Seonghwa hummed, debating whether to correct the wording of "date"—but he let it slide. It wasn't worth arguing over, and honestly, the idea of going out for cheesecake with Yunho didn’t sound so bad.

Just as he was about to put his phone down, another notification popped up.

Yunho: Wear something warm, yeah? Don’t wanna deal with you whining about the cold all night.

Seonghwa scoffed, shaking his head fondly as he typed his response.

Seonghwa: I don’t whine.

Yunho: Sure, princess. Whatever you say.

With a final huff, Seonghwa locked his phone and tossed it onto the bed beside him, stretching his arms above his head. Tomorrow, then, an easy distraction to forget Hongjoong

Seonghwa let out a slow breath, sinking deeper into the blankets. Tomorrow would be simple—just a trip to the bakery, just Yunho being Yunho, just something to occupy his mind.

Nothing more.

He turned his attention back to his book, tracing a finger over the delicate illustration. It was better this way, keeping his thoughts busy, keeping his heart steady.

Downstairs, Wooyoung cackled loudly at something, and Seonghwa heard San groan in annoyance. He rolled his eyes fondly, flipping to the next page.

He was jealous.

Not because Wooyoung was San’s boyfriend—he didn’t care about that. It was something deeper, something that gnawed at him from the inside out.

Despite knowing Wooyoung for years, despite sharing the same space, the same conversations, he could never meet his eyes for too long. Talking to him face-to-face left him flustered, tongue-tied, heart pounding in ways that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with discomfort. 

Sometimes it scared him, how easily he could get attached, how easily he could mistake kindness for something more.

San didn’t have that problem.

San was normal.

He didn’t struggle to pick up on social cues, didn’t miss the signs when someone was fucking with him. He could laugh, joke, push and pull with ease. He knew when people were lying, when they were genuine.

Seonghwa hated that about himself—the way he always second-guessed, the way he either trusted too much or not at all. It made him easy to toy with, easy to manipulate, easy to hurt.

And he hated that he let it happen.

For once, Seonghwa found himself filled with a rare flicker of courage. Maybe he could sit with them for a little while, talk a bit.

It wasn’t like he had anyone else.

Yunho was his only friend—if he could even call him that. Their bond was built on quiet understanding, a shared comfort in being talented dancers. Yunho preferred dancing with a male partner over a female ballerina, and Seonghwa… well, he had never quite fit in anywhere. Sasha was more of a protector than a friend, treating him like a fragile angel, always ready to fight whoever dared to hurt him.

But right now, he didn’t want a protector. He just wanted company.

Seonghwa swallowed and stood up, smoothing down his oversized shirt as he hesitantly stepped out of his room. The hallway felt longer than usual, his socked feet barely making a sound against the wooden floor as he made his way toward the living room.

And then he stopped.

Wooyoung was curled into San’s side on the couch, their faces close—too close. San’s hand was cradling Wooyoung’s jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek, and Wooyoung’s fingers were tangled in San’s hoodie.

They were kissing.

Heat rushed to Seonghwa’s face, mortified at the sight. He hadn’t meant to intrude. He should’ve known better. His stomach twisted in something he didn’t quite understand—embarrassment? Loneliness? 

Whatever it was, it made his chest feel unbearably tight.

His breath hitched, and he immediately turned on his heel, ready to disappear before they even noticed he was there.

“Hyung!”

Wooyoung’s voice rang out before Seonghwa could escape, bright and excited, completely unbothered.

Seonghwa froze, fingers curling at his sides as he debated pretending he hadn’t heard. But it was too late—Wooyoung was already bounding over, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the couch.

“Where are you running off to? Come sit with us!” Wooyoung beamed, as if he hadn’t just been making out with Seonghwa’s brother seconds ago.

San sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he muttered, but Wooyoung was already pulling Seonghwa down onto the couch beside him, practically vibrating with excitement.

“I was just telling San how you’re the best dancer in the academy,i saw your videos online” Wooyoung said, grinning up at him. 

Seonghwa’s face burned even hotter. “That’s not true…”

“Yeah, it is,” Wooyoung huffed, flopping dramatically against his side.

Seonghwa swallowed, his eyes flicking nervously to San, but he didn’t seem to mind Wooyoung’s affectionate nature. He just leaned back, arms crossed, watching them with an unreadable expression.

“I—um…” Seonghwa fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, unsure how to respond.

Wooyoung tilted his head, then gasped suddenly. “Wait! You haven’t eaten yet, right? Let’s order something!”

San groaned. “Wooyoung, it’s late.”

“Don’t care,” Wooyoung shot back before turning to Seonghwa with puppy eyes. “You’ll eat with me, right, hyung?”

Seonghwa hesitated, his mind flickering back to Yunho’s texts and the cheesecake he’d promised to eat tomorrow. But Wooyoung was looking at him like that, all sweet and eager, and Seonghwa found himself nodding before he could think twice.

“Okay,” he murmured.

Wooyoung cheered, grabbing his phone to start scrolling through delivery options, while San just sighed, shaking his head.

And just like that, Seonghwa found himself staying, melting just a little into the warmth of their presence.

Seonghwa barely had a moment to react before San’s arm looped around his shoulders, tugging both him and Wooyoung closer. It wasn’t forceful, wasn’t rough—it was warm. Steady. Secure.

San, of all people, was hugging him.(other than a few days ago when he cried)

Seonghwa tensed at first, unsure what to do, unsure if he should even be here, but Wooyoung just melted into it instantly, curling up against San’s chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

San huffed, resting his chin on top of Wooyoung’s head, his other hand giving Seonghwa’s arm the lightest squeeze before settling there, firm but not restrictive. “You’re both annoying,” he muttered, voice gruff, but there was no real bite to it.

Wooyoung snorted. “Shut up. You love us.”

San didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either.

Seonghwa sat frozen for a moment, the weight of it all sinking into his bones. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had held him like this—like he was meant to be there. Like he belonged, the last time someone hugged him purely out of love not to comfort him from his cryings or panic attacks.

Slowly, carefully, he let himself lean in, just a little. Not enough to be obvious, not enough to give himself away, but enough to feel it. To let it stay.

San didn’t move.

The warmth lingered longer than Seonghwa expected. San didn’t shove him away, didn’t make a snide remark about how awkward he was, didn’t even sigh in exasperation like he usually did. He just stayed there, holding both him and Wooyoung in his steady, silent embrace.

Seonghwa swallowed, his fingers twitching where they rested against his lap. It felt foreign, this kind of affection. He wasn’t sure how to react.

But then, Wooyoung shifted, nuzzling against San’s chest with a hum already forgetting the fact he was going to order food, lucky for Seonghwa. “Hyung, you’re so stiff,” he mumbled sleepily. “Relax a little. We’re not gonna bite.”

Seonghwa let out a small, breathy chuckle, barely more than an exhale. “I know.”

San scoffed. “Then stop sitting like a damn statue.”

Seonghwa hesitated, but finally—hesitantly—he let himself lean a little more, settling against San’s side. It was… comfortable. More than he thought it would be.

The room was quiet except for the sound of the movie playing in the background. Seonghwa wasn’t even paying attention to it, too caught up in the unfamiliar feeling of being held like this, of not being alone.

San’s hand shifted slightly, fingers pressing lightly against his arm. It was barely noticeable, maybe even unintentional, but Seonghwa felt it.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Seonghwa let himself sink into the warmth of another body—two, actually. The steady rise and fall of Wooyoung’s breath against his shoulder, the quiet weight of San’s arm draped loosely around them. It was unfamiliar, yet oddly grounding, like he belonged there, like he was meant to be held.

He almost cursed himself for ever thinking of choosing Hongjoong over this—over Wooyoung, who had no reason to love him yet did so effortlessly. Over San, who pretended not to care but still held him like he was something fragile.

Wooyoung wasn’t his brother. Wasn’t his best friend. Wasn’t anyone who should’ve cared for him as deeply as he did.

And yet, here he was, wrapped in Wooyoung’s embrace, tucked safely beside San, feeling—just for a moment—like he wasn’t so alone after all.

+*:ꔫ:*﹤

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains as Seonghwa stirred awake

 He blinked groggily, pushing himself up from the sofa, the quiet hum of the empty house settling around him.

His gaze landed on a note propped up neatly on the coffee table.

"Fight at the club tonight. Me and Woo had to go. I texted Yunho, he’ll come pick you up for your date. Have fun, hyung ♡"

He had no idea why everyone referred to their hangout as a date but didnt dwell too long on it

Seonghwa ran a hand through his messy hair before stretching, his joints popping like firecrackers in the morning stillness. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders before standing fully. His eyes flickered toward the dining table, where a meticulously prepared breakfast had been laid out—warm food waiting for him, plated with care.

It didn’t matter. It never did.

Without a second thought, he gathered the plates and dumped them into the trash. The food was untouched, just like always.

He moved to the fridge, pulling out a cold bottle of water, condensation dripping down his fingers as he pressed it against his lips, taking slow, measured sips. His phone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting up with a message from Yunho.

Yunho: Picking you up at 12, be ready in time ;)

Seonghwa exhaled through his nose, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before he typed back a simple:

Me: Okay

10:45 a.m.

Plenty of time.

Seonghwa took another slow sip of water before setting the bottle down, rolling his shoulders as he made his way to the bathroom. His body still felt heavy with sleep, limbs aching from yesterday’s rehearsals.

The bathroom was filled with a soft warmth from the sunlight streaming through the frosted glass window. He turned on the shower, letting the water heat up while he stripped off his clothes, neatly folding them on the counter before stepping in. The moment the hot water cascaded over his body, he let out a soft sigh, tilting his head back to soak his hair completely.

He reached for his shampoo, pouring a generous amount onto his palm before massaging it into his scalp. His blonde strands foamed up easily, the rich lather filling the bathroom with the scent of honey and vanilla. He worked his fingers through his hair gently, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, his movements slow and methodical.

After rinsing out the shampoo, he reached for his conditioner, running it through the ends of his hair carefully. His curls had a mind of their own, needing the extra moisture to keep them soft and defined. He left the conditioner to sit while he lathered his body with body wash, the scent of lavender and strawberry clinged to his skin.

Once he was satisfied, he rinsed himself off, the warm water washing away the foam. He squeezed the excess water from his hair before stepping out onto the plush bath mat, grabbing a soft towel to wrap around his head while another draped over his shoulders.

Standing in front of the mirror, he carefully unraveled the towel from his head, his damp blonde curls sticking to his forehead. He reached for his curl cream, rubbing it between his palms before scrunching it into his hair, coaxing each strand into its natural shape. His fingers worked through each section with precision, ensuring his curls wouldn’t frizz as they dried.

After finishing his hair routine, he grabbed his blow dryer, setting it to a low, warm setting as he diffused his curls, watching as they bounced back into place. The golden strands framed his face softly, the curls slightly tighter than before, the honey-toned blonde catching the light beautifully.

Once satisfied, he moved to his closet, fingers grazing over the fabric of each piece before settling on a light purple sweater. It was soft, oversized enough to drape over his frame comfortably. He paired it with white flared pants, slipping them on and fastening them securely at his waist.

He glanced at himself in the mirror, adjusting the hem of his sweater slightly. Satisfied, he turned back to grab his phone. Yunho would be here soon.

Seonghwa wandered into the living room, settling onto the couch with his phone in hand. He scrolled mindlessly through social media, liking a few ballet-related posts before checking his messages again.

Yunho: I'm outside. You better look cute, princess.

Seonghwa rolled his eyes but smiled, grabbing his small bag before heading toward the door.

The moment he stepped outside, the cold air nipped at his skin, but he ignored it, making his way toward Yunho’s car. The taller man was leaning against the hood, dressed in his usual casual but effortlessly stylish way—a dark sweater paired with well-fitted jeans, a teasing smirk already playing on his lips.

“Damn,” Yunho let out a low whistle as he took in Seonghwa’s outfit. “You’re really making me look like a bum today.”

Seonghwa huffed, rolling his eyes. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true,” Yunho shot back with a grin, opening the passenger door for him. “C’mon, the day awaits.”

Seonghwa slid into the seat, adjusting his sweater as Yunho walked around to the driver’s side. As the car pulled away from the curb, Seonghwa found himself relaxing, the familiar presence of Yunho easing some of the tension that had settled in his chest that morning.

It was going to be a good day. Or at least, he hoped so.

Seonghwa blinked in confusion as Yunho smoothly turned the wheel, guiding the car into a dimly lit alleyway between buildings. His brows furrowed. “This… doesn’t look like a bakery.”

Yunho grinned, shifting the gear into park before turning to face him, eyes twinkling with mischief. “That’s because we’re not going to the bakery.”

Seonghwa’s lips parted slightly. “What?”

“We’re going to the arcade,” Yunho announced proudly, leaning back in his seat with a self-satisfied smirk.

Seonghwa gave him a flat look. “I never agreed to that.”

“Nope, but you also never said no to a little fun, and let’s be real, you need it.” Yunho patted his thigh before hopping out of the car. “Come on, live a little.”

Seonghwa sighed, shaking his head, but still, he followed. As soon as he stepped out, he was met with the bright, buzzing glow of neon signs, the faint scent of buttered popcorn and machine oil lingering in the air. The arcade was tucked between old buildings, a relic from another time, but judging by the steady hum of life inside, it was far from forgotten.

Yunho held the door open for him with an exaggerated bow. “After you, my dear.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched. Stepping inside, he was immediately overwhelmed by flashing lights and the chorus of electronic jingles, the space alive with the sounds of laughter, cheering, and the occasional groan of frustration from someone losing a game.

He hesitated, feeling slightly out of place, but Yunho was already grabbing his hand, tugging him toward a row of claw machines. “Alright, let’s start easy. What do you want? The bunny? The bear? Oh, or the little duck—wait, no, that one’s ugly—”

Seonghwa huffed out a small laugh despite himself. “I don’t need a plushie, Yunho.”

“Well, I need to win you one, so just humor me,” Yunho said, already slipping a token into the machine. He maneuvered the claw with impressive focus, his tongue poking out slightly as he aimed.

The first attempt failed. So did the second. But by the third try, the claw successfully clamped around a soft, pastel-colored bunny, dragging it toward the chute before dropping it down with a victorious clunk.

Yunho gasped dramatically, snatching it up and turning to Seonghwa with a proud grin. “For you, my beautiful dancer.”

Seonghwa took the plushie, fingers pressing into the soft fur. He was smiling before he even realized it. “Thank you.”

Yunho wiggled his eyebrows. “Man, I should’ve recorded that. A rare Seonghwa smile in the wild.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest didn’t fade. He hugged the plush bunny close, its softness oddly comforting in his hands.

“Alright, now it’s your turn to win something for me,” Yunho declared, dragging him toward the basketball hoops. “Come on, show me what you got, ballet boy.”

Seonghwa scoffed. “I do pointe, not free throws.”

“Same thing. Precision, grace—use those ballerino skills.”

He sighed, picking up the ball, and took a step forward. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the ball arced beautifully through the air—

—and bounced right off the rim.

Yunho burst out laughing. “Oh, that was tragic. I’m actually in pain.”

Seonghwa groaned, shoving the ball into his chest. “Then you do it.”

“Gladly.” Yunho spun the ball in his hands, cracked his knuckles, and then—

Missed.

Seonghwa covered his mouth to stifle his laugh. “Tragic.”

Yunho gasped, clutching his chest. “You wound me, Princess. You wound me.”

Seonghwa just grinned.

The neon lights overhead flickered in bursts of blues and pinks, casting a dreamlike glow over the arcade. The rhythmic beeping of games, the clatter of coins, and the occasional triumphant shouts from other players blended into a chaotic but strangely comforting background noise.

Seonghwa exhaled sharply, shaking his head at Yunho’s dramatic antics before stepping forward again. He grabbed another basketball, determination flickering in his eyes as he aimed for the hoop.

“Alright,” he muttered. “One more.”

He bent his knees slightly, adjusted his grip, and shot—

The ball went wide, hitting the backboard before bouncing off the rim.

“Oh, come on,” he huffed, but before he could grab another ball, Yunho was suddenly behind him, hands settling over his.

"You're stiff," Yunho mused, his voice entirely too amused. “Relax, Hwa. It’s just a game.”

Seonghwa stiffened more. "You're not helping."

"Yes, I am." Yunho grinned, guiding Seonghwa’s arms into the right position. "Now, follow through like this. Smooth and easy."

Seonghwa swallowed. Yunho was too close, and he could feel the warmth of his breath against his ear, the solid press of his chest against his back, a subtle touch of his hand on his lower back. He wasn’t used to this kind of touch—casual, playful, teasing but not mocking.

With Yunho’s hands still over his, he tossed the ball. It arced smoothly, hitting the rim—then wobbled once before dropping through the net.

The scoreboard dinged.

“Oh.” Seonghwa blinked. “That actually worked.”

Yunho whooped, throwing his hands up. “See? I’m a genius.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but he was smiling again, hugging his bunny plush a little closer. Maybe this arcade ‘date’ wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, the cigarette hanging lazily between his lips as he adjusted the bandages wrapped around his ribs. His entire body ached like hell, bruises blooming under layers of gauze, and he probably had a couple of stitches somewhere on his face—he hadn’t bothered to check, he was forced to go get it checked out by the fighting mediator seeing that even after more than a week after the fight with San, Hongjoong’s body was still unhealed.

Mingi, the bastard, was barely holding back his laughter beside him.

“You look like a fucking mummy,” Mingi snorted, eyes flicking over Hongjoong’s bandaged face with unrestrained amusement.

Hongjoong shot him a glare, pulling the cigarette from his lips and blowing smoke directly at Mingi’s face. “Laugh again, and I’ll make sure you need a matching set.”

Mingi coughed, waving the smoke away, but his grin never faded. 

“Damn, man. You lost that bad?”

Hongjoong scoffed, rolling his shoulders despite the sharp pain shooting through them. “I didn’t lose.”

Mingi snorted. “Right, because getting your ass handed to you and walking out looking like an extra from a horror movie totally screams victory.”

“Fuck you.” Hongjoong sucked in another breath of nicotine, eyes narrowing as they turned onto the main street. His mood was already sour, the painkillers doing little to numb the deep ache crawling under his skin. He was about to suggest heading to the club when something caught his eye through a large glass window.

He stopped.

Mingi nearly bumped into him. “Dude?”

Hongjoong wasn’t listening. His cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers as his eyes locked onto the scene inside the arcade.

There, bathed in neon lights, was Seonghwa—his frame wrapped in a lavender sweater, golden hair still slightly curled from whatever careful routine he did every morning. His cheeks were flushed, eyes alight with laughter as he clutched a plush bunny to his chest.

And next to him, far too close for Hongjoong’s liking, was some tall asshole with his hand on Seonghwa’s waist

Hongjoong watched as the guy spun a basketball in his hands, grinning wide as he leaned into Seonghwa’s space, whispering something that made the dancer laugh, all soft and sweet and comfortable.

His teeth clinked together. A dull ache pounded behind his temples, but Hongjoong barely noticed.

Mingi followed his gaze, groaning as realization dawned on him. “Oh, hell no—”

But Hongjoong was already moving.

“Dude, seriously?” Mingi rushed after him, grabbing his arm just before he could storm through the arcade doors. “What the fuck are you so mad for? I thought you didn’t even like him.”

“I don’t,” Hongjoong spat, shaking him off. “But I’m not done with him either. Is this why he hasn’t been showing up? Hanging around some good-for-nothing, tall-ass motherfucker, smiling at him like that?” His lip curled, eyes dark with something that wasn’t just anger. 

“Looking at his ugly fucking face?”

Mingi, despite himself, glanced through the window.

And yeah. That dude? He was definitely not ugly. Tall, built like an actual lead male dancer, clean-cut features, perfect smile—he looked like the type of guy mothers loved to see their daughters bring home.

Meanwhile, Hongjoong looked like he’d crawled out of a back-alley fight club—which, to be fair, he had.

Mingi sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen, man, you’re mad over nothing—”

But Hongjoong wasn’t listening. His jaw tightened as he watched Seonghwa reach up, pressing the soft bunny plush to the guy’s face in some playful little teasing gesture. The dude just laughed, grabbing Seonghwa’s wrists gently, like he was indulging him.

Hongjoong’s vision turned red.

“Fucking perfect,” he muttered, and then, before Mingi could stop him—

He shoved the door open and stepped inside.

The scent of buttered popcorn, cheap arcade pizza, and warm electricity filled the air as Hongjoong stormed inside. The neon lights cast a sharp glow on his already bruised face, making him look even more out of place amongst the bright, buzzing machines and the laughter of kids.

Mingi cursed under his breath but followed, muttering, “This is a terrible idea.”

Hongjoong didn’t give a fuck.

His eyes locked onto Seonghwa instantly. He was still standing there with that tall asshole—both of them caught in some dumb little moment with that stupid plush bunny. Yunho was grinning down at him, saying something that made Seonghwa’s shoulders shake in laughter. He looked… happy. Completely carefree.

Like Hongjoong hadn’t even existed.

His fingers twitched. His body ached from the beatdown San had given him, but somehow, this? This pissed him off more than getting his face rearranged.

“Oi, doll.”

Seonghwa froze, fingers still curled around the plushie. The blood drained from his face as he turned toward the voice, eyes going wide.

Hongjoong tilted his head, all faux laziness, though his body was wound up tight. “Long time no see.”

“Who the hell are you?” Yunho’s voice was sharp, protective.

Hongjoong barely looked at him. “None of your fucking business, pretty boy.”

Yunho’s brows furrowed, but before he could say anything else, Seonghwa stepped in front of him, shaking his head.

 “Hongjoong—what are you doing here?”

Hongjoong grinned, all teeth. “Oh, you know.” He took a slow step closer, watching how Seonghwa instinctively took one back. “Just wondering if you forgot something.”

Seonghwa’s fingers tightened around the bunny. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Hongjoong scoffed. “Yeah?” Another step closer, and this time, Yunho was the one who shifted, subtly positioning himself in front of Seonghwa. ‘

That alone made something ugly twist in Hongjoong’s gut.

“You’ve been missing for a minute, ballerina,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to ghost. Thought you were all sweet and kind.” He sneered. “Guess that was bullshit, huh?”

Seonghwa swallowed, his nails pressing into the plushie’s fur. “I… I just got busy.”

“Oh yeah?” Hongjoong mocked. “Too busy being all buddy-buddy with some good little rich boy to even come see the fight you so desperately wanted to see?”

Yunho’s face darkened. “Watch your mouth.”

Hongjoong finally, finally looked at him. And smirked.

“Oh? Did I hit a nerve?” He leaned in, voice dripping with amusement. “What, you his little prince charming?”

Yunho’s jaw tightened, but before he could react, Seonghwa grabbed his wrist. “Yuyu, don’t.”

That nickname made Hongjoong seethe.

Yunho took a breath, exhaling sharply through his nose before shaking his head. “Let’s go, Seonghwa. We don’t need to entertain whatever the hell this is.”

He turned, tugging Seonghwa gently with him, but—

Hongjoong laughed.

“Wow. So that’s how it is?” He clutched his stomach like it was the funniest shit he’d ever seen. “You’re just gonna walk away?”

Seonghwa hesitated, biting his lip.

Hongjoong’s laughter died instantly. His voice was low, dangerous.

“Did you even mean any of it?”

Seonghwa’s head snapped up. “W-What?”

“All that sweet fucking talking,” Hongjoong hissed, stepping closer, crowding him. His breath smelled like cigarette smoke and iron. “All that soft, stupid, little I don’t think you’re that bad bullshit. Did you mean it?”

Seonghwa looked like he wanted to cry.

And that… That made something in Hongjoong’s chest twist even worse.

Yunho’s patience snapped. “Alright, that’s enough—”

Before he could do anything, Mingi—who had been watching this whole thing unfold like a trainwreck—finally decided he had seen enough and grabbed Hongjoong by the collar, yanking him back.

“Alright, asshole, you made your point,” Mingi grumbled. “Let’s go.”

Hongjoong jerked out of Mingi’s grip, his gaze still locked onto Seonghwa like a predator sizing up its prey. His lower lip trembled, his fingers clutching that damn plushie like it was the only thing keeping him standing.

And fuck, fuck, fuck—

Why did it make Hongjoong want to ruin something?

Rip that stupid bunny apart, shred it at the seams, stuff its cotton down the drain. Toss it into a fire and watch it melt, burn, disappear—just so Seonghwa wouldn't have anything that Yunho gave him to hold on to.

Mingi groaned, already regretting ever stepping foot outside with this psycho. 

"You’re unbelievable," he muttered before grabbing Hongjoong by the collar and yanking him back.

“Let. It. Go.” His voice was firm, low, the kind of warning Hongjoong usually ignored—but this time, Mingi wasn’t playing.

Hongjoong snarled, yanking his arm away. "The fuck do you care? It’s my business."

Mingi let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "No, it’s your fucking obsession. And I’m not standing here watching you spiral over some rich boy you don’t even like.”

Hongjoong wrenched himself free, his bandaged face twisted in fury. “He’s mine to mess with, not some random fucker with a pretty face and long legs—”

Mingi groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You hear yourself? You sound like a bitter ex-girlfriend.”

“I sound like someone who doesn’t like seeing his toys stolen,” Hongjoong snarled.

“Oh my God.” Mingi turned, ready to cuss him out again—only for his eyes to drift back to the arcade window, just for a split second.

Yunho had thrown an arm around Seonghwa’s shoulders, leaning down to whisper something into his ear. And fuck—Mingi couldn’t even be mad about it, because that guy was fine.

Sharp jawline, tall as hell, broad shoulders—goddamn.

Mingi scowled at himself and turned back to Hongjoong, shoving him forward. “Let’s go before I start acting as dumb as you.” ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Seonghwa’s breaths came shallow and uneven, his chest tightening as he processed what had just happened. He should have been disgusted, terrified—Hongjoong had looked like a demon in the shadows, all bandages and fury, eyes burning with something deranged. But instead, all he could think about was how much he yearned for him. That bloodied face, those piercing, terrifying eyes, that mouth that spoke the most unpretty things.

“Hwa, you good?” Yunho’s voice broke through his haze, warm with concern as they stepped out of the arcade, taking the front exit to avoid any chance of running into Hongjoong again.

Seonghwa forced a nod, clutching the plushie tighter.

Yunho frowned. “Hey… wasn’t that the guy from the alley? The one you were with last time?” His expression darkened. “Is he a stalker? Is he bothering you? You know you can tell me anything, right? I’ll beat his ass, or report him if I have to.”

Seonghwa almost laughed at the foolishness of it all. Yunho, with all his grace and charm, standing up against someone like Hongjoong? He’d never stand a chance.

Seonghwa shook his head, a little too quickly. “No. He’s… no one.”

Yunho didn’t seem convinced, his sharp gaze scanning Seonghwa’s face. “Doesn’t seem like no one.”

Seonghwa bit his lip, lowering his eyes. He didn’t know how to explain it—how do you tell someone that the person they think is a threat is also the only person who ever made you feel real? That the same man who bruised his brother’s knuckles, almost killed his boyfriend, who spat cruel words like venom, was the one who made his heart clench in ways he didn’t understand?

Yunho exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “Look, if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s fine. But if he ever does anything to you—anything—just tell me, alright?”

Seonghwa managed a small smile, grateful for Yunho’s protectiveness even if he knew it was useless against Hongjoong. “Alright.”

Yunho’s expression softened. “Good. Now come on, Princess, we still have a cheesecake date, and I’m not letting some bandaged-up freak ruin it.”

Seonghwa allowed himself to be pulled along, but even as they walked, he couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes still on him. 

The bell above the bakery door chimed as they stepped inside, the scent of sugar and vanilla instantly wrapping around Seonghwa like a warm embrace. The display cases were filled with delicate cheesecakes—strawberry-glazed, chocolate-drizzled, matcha-dusted. It was quiet here, nothing like the neon-lit chaos of the arcade, nothing like the suffocating weight of Hongjoong’s presence.

Seonghwa inhaled slowly, trying to shake the lingering tremor in his hands.

Yunho, seemingly oblivious to the storm still raging in Seonghwa’s chest, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, pick your poison.”

Seonghwa blinked at the assortment before him, momentarily lost.

his mind was still tangled in the earlier encounter—Hongjoong’s glare, his bloody smirk, the way his lips curled around words meant to hurt.

Why did he look at him like that?

“Strawberry cream,” Seonghwa blurted. His voice felt foreign in his own throat.

Yunho grinned. “Good choice.” He turned to the cashier, ordering for the both of them.

Seonghwa sat down at one of the small round tables by the window, fingers still curled around the plush bunny Yunho had won for him. He stared at it, trying to calm his racing heart. The bakery was warm, safe. There was no reason to feel this way.

But even as Yunho slid the cheesecake in front of him, even as the fork clinked against the plate, even as soft laughter filled the air—

He could still feel Hongjoong watching him. Even when he wasn’t there.

And the worst part? It made him feel the weirdest things in the weirdest places.

Seonghwa quickly shoved a bite of cheesecake into his mouth, letting the rich, creamy texture melt on his tongue. His eyes widened as the sweetness hit, a delighted hum slipping past his lips. “This is so good, holy—”

Yunho chuckled, leaning back in his chair, watching him with amusement. “Glad to see you’ve got taste, Princess.”

Seonghwa took another bite, savoring it this time, before nodding. “I should get some for home.”

“You definitely should,” Yunho agreed, smirking. “Maybe I’ll steal a bite if I come over.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “These cakes will be gone in a day, so if you come by evening, you might still find some.”

Yunho raised a brow, amused. “Why? Wooyoung and San planning to devour them?”

“No.” Seonghwa took another bite, licking a stray crumb from his lip. “Me.”

Yunho blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Oh.”

Seonghwa took his tongue out teasingly

Yunho grinned, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "Careful, Princess. Stick that tongue out at me again, and I might just have to bite it."

Seonghwa scoffed, retracting his tongue quickly but still smiling. “You wish.”

“I do,” Yunho shot back without missing a beat, winking.

Seonghwa shook his head, cheeks warming as he focused on his cheesecake, ignoring the way Yunho was watching him like he was the most entertaining thing in the room.

“Alright, alright,” Yunho said, leaning back. “Finish up so we can get you home before your little guard dogs come looking for you, i promised San i’ll bring you back by evening.”

Seonghwa hummed, savoring the last bite. “I doubt they even noticed I was gone.”

“Doubt it,” Yunho countered. “They seem like the overprotective type. I bet they’re already blowing up your phone.”

Seonghwa glanced down at his silent screen and shook his head. “Not really.”

Yunho frowned slightly, but before he could say anything, Seonghwa stood, dusting nonexistent crumbs off his sweater. “Come on, let’s go.”

“After you, m’lady,” Yunho teased, placing a hand on the small of Seonghwa’s back as they stepped out into the cool evening air.

Seonghwa weighed his options. Something in the back of his mind nagged at him, a persistent whisper telling him to go to the fight club—for San, of course. It had nothing to do with Hongjoong. Nothing at all.

He glanced at Yunho, who was still watching him closely, as if he could see the gears turning in his head.

"You're thinking about something," Yunho noted, tilting his head. "Spill."

Seonghwa hesitated, his fingers tightening around the plush bunny in his arms. “I just—San’s fight. I feel like I should be there.”

Yunho exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah? You sure that’s a good idea?”

No. It wasn’t.

Seonghwa had been avoiding the fight club for weeks, avoiding Hongjoong for weeks, but now, after seeing him—seeing those wild eyes and that bloodied-up face—he felt like a thread had been pulled loose inside him, unraveling something dangerous.

But still, San would be there. Wooyoung too. He wouldn’t be alone.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, trying to convince himself more than Yunho.

Yunho studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Alright, Princess. Then I’m coming with you.”

Seonghwa blinked, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh, I absolutely have to,” Yunho interrupted with a smirk. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you wander into a den of sweaty, half-naked men fighting for sport without an escort?”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “Fine. But don’t blame me if you get bored.”

“Oh, I don’t think I will,” Yunho muttered, more to himself than to Seonghwa, as he pulled out his keys.

The underground club was exactly what Yunho expected—loud, grimy, and stifling. The air was thick with sweat, blood, and cheap alcohol, making his stomach twist. Bodies crowded around the ring, shoving, shouting, hyped on violence and money.

“This place is insane,” he muttered beside Seonghwa, eyes scanning the chaos. “And you come here often?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer, too busy searching for San. He spotted him near the ring, arms draped around Wooyoung, grinning as Wooyoung whispered something in his ear

Seonghwa exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. San was fine. More than fine, if the cocky tilt of his smile was anything to go by. Wooyoung, practically draped over him, was grinning like they had already won.

As if sensing his thoughts, Wooyoung’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto him instantly. His grin widened, and before Seonghwa could even think of backing away, Wooyoung was bounding toward him, San following with an amused look.

“You came!” Wooyoung chirped, grabbing Seonghwa’s hands, swinging them slightly. “Look at you! All dressed up and now standing in the middle of a bloodbath—how cute.”

Seonghwa flushed. “It’s not—”

Yunho cleared his throat dramatically. “Hello? Who’s this?”

Wooyoung’s eyes flickered to Yunho, and he gasped, clutching his chest. “Oh my god, who’s this?”

San snorted. “Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung ignored him, bouncing on his toes. “Tall. Broad. Handsome. Who are you and why don’t I know you yet?”

Yunho laughed, holding out his hand. “Jeong Yunho. Seonghwa’s date.”

Seonghwa smacked his arm. “Stop saying that.”

Wooyoung gasped even louder. “Date? Date? Seonghwa, you’ve been holding out on me!”

“It’s not—”

Wooyoung turned to Yunho, eyes gleaming. “Do you treat him well? Feed him? Compliment him at least three times a day?”

Yunho, playing along, nodded solemnly. “Of course. He’s my little star. Beautiful, graceful, tragically out of my league.”

Seonghwa groaned.

San, still watching the exchange with an unreadable expression, finally rolled his eyes. “Are you staying for the fight?”

Seonghwa hesitated again.

Wooyoung clung to his arm, swaying side to side. “Please stay! I promise we’ll protect you from all the scary, sweaty men.”

Yunho smirked. “I’d like to see them try me.”

San gave him a once-over, unimpressed. “Right.”

“Deal” Wooyoung said

San’s gaze flickered around the club, sharp and calculating. He wasn’t stupid—he knew Hongjoong wouldn’t just let things go. The bastard was unpredictable, dangerous when provoked, and for some reason, Seonghwa always seemed to be the thing that provoked him most.

But there was no sign of him. Not yet.

San exhaled, shoving the thought away for now. Instead, he clapped a hand on Seonghwa’s shoulder. “Stick close, yeah?”

Wooyoung pouted. “I was going to say that.”

San rolled his eyes. “Then say it.”

“I was going to, but now it’s lost its impact.”

“You two are ridiculous.”

Yunho, seemingly entertained, looped an arm around Seonghwa’s shoulders and steered him toward the edge of the ring. “C’mon, little star. Let’s get you a front-row seat.”

San tensed slightly, watching the casual way Yunho handled Seonghwa. There was nothing wrong with it—hell, maybe it was even a good thing. Seonghwa deserved to have someone soft for him. Someone normal. Someone who wouldn’t leave bruises in their wake.

Still, something about it made his jaw tick.

Wooyoung must have noticed because he nudged San’s side. “Relax, tiger.”

San ignored him.

The crowd roared as a new match began, the air thick with tension and the sickly scent of sweat and metal.

Seonghwa sat carefully, Yunho sliding in beside him. “So,” Yunho murmured. “Who are we betting on?”

Seonghwa wrinkled his nose. “I don’t gamble.”

“Boring.”

• ～●～●～●～

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, give me a break,” Hongjoong groaned the second he stepped into the fight club.

Mingi, already exhausted, sighed. “What now?”

Hongjoong didn’t even have to say it—he just pointed.

Right there, sitting front and center, Seonghwa and Yunho, too close, too comfortable. Yunho had an arm slung casually over the back of Seonghwa’s seat, leaning in to say something that made Seonghwa’s lips twitch into the smallest, prettiest fucking smile.

Mingi barely had time to process before Hongjoong moved. Instinct kicked in, and he grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him back with all his strength.

“You are not fighting, Kim Hongjoong,” Mingi hissed. “I know what you’re about to do. You wanna threaten Yunho, make Seonghwa’s heart hitch when he sees you turn this place into a bloodbath—but guess what?” Mingi gave him a hard shake. “You’re fucking injured, dumbass. Your ribs are broken.”

Hongjoong scoffed, shaking off Mingi’s grip, a wicked smirk carving into his lips. “And?”

Mingi barely had time to react before Hongjoong reached up, peeling off the flimsy band-aid stuck to his cheek. The motion was slow, deliberate. Then came the bandages on his arms, his fingers tugging the knots loose, unraveling the layers like he was shedding skin.

The sweatshirt was next, yanked off with a rough tug, leaving his bruised torso bare to the dim, buzzing lights of the club. Dark patches of purple and red painted his ribs, proof of just how battered he already was.

And yet, Hongjoong stood there, rolling his shoulders like he was about to step into the ring and wreck someone’s night.

Mingi ran a hand down his face. “You are so fucking stupid.”

Hongjoong let out a sharp whistle, the sound cutting through the thick, humid air of the underground club. Before Mingi could stop him, he was already moving, slipping past the crowd with that same reckless, arrogant stride that always made people step aside without question.

With a swift motion, he swung himself into the ring, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the ache in his bones. He barely flinched at the pain. Instead, he turned to the bell girl, giving her a sharp nod, then signaled to the referee.

The crowd roared to life at the sight of him—Kim Hongjoong, back in the ring.

Seonghwa’s breath hitched. His fingers clenched around his sweater, heart hammering in his chest as he watched Hongjoong stand there, bruised, bleeding, unbothered.

“Wait,” Yunho muttered beside him, brows furrowed. “Isn’t that the guy from the arcade?”

Seonghwa swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze away. “Yeah.”

Yunho scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re joking”

In the ring, Hongjoong tilted his head, cracking his neck before rolling his wrists. He smirked, tongue swiping over his bottom lip as his opponent stepped in—a tall, heavily muscled guy with arms as thick as tree trunks.

Mingi groaned beside the ring, hands in his hair(preacher Mingi). “He’s gonna get himself killed!.”

Seonghwa’s brows knit together, worry settling deep in his chest. Sure, Hongjoong was strong—undeniably so. But those deep purple bruises painting his ribs, the dark patches along his jaw, the way his arm twitched ever so slightly when he rolled his shoulder? Brutal.

He wasn’t just hurt. He was wrecked.

And yet, there he stood, smirking like he was invincible, like the blood crusted over his knuckles and the ache in his bones didn’t matter. Like this was just another game to him.

“That’s a monster” Yunho muttered, watching Hongjoong with mild disbelief and a tad bit intrigue, maybe a little jealousy as well.

Seonghwa didn’t answer, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as the referee raised his hand, signaling the start of the match. The moment the bell rang, Hongjoong lunged.

Hongjoong ducked under a wild swing, slipping through the man’s defenses and landing a brutal punch to his ribs. The opponent staggered, but Hongjoong didn’t give him a second to recover, already twisting to drive his elbow into his gut.

The crowd roared.

Seonghwa flinched as the opponent retaliated, a heavy blow colliding with Hongjoong’s already battered side.

Hongjoong stumbled. Actually stumbled. His body curled slightly as a groan slipped from his lips, eyes squeezing shut in something far from his usual arrogance. 

No smirk, no sharp-tongued taunt—just pain. Real, actual pain.

Seonghwa’s stomach lurched.

Yeah, No.

He shot to his feet. “Stop the fight!” he screamed, already moving toward the ring.

Mingi’s eyes widened before he lunged, faster than Seonghwa, arms wrapping around him in an iron grip.

“Oh no, princess, we’re not doing this,” Mingi drawled, his tone light, but his hold unrelenting.

“Shut the fuck up!” Seonghwa snapped, struggling against him.

Wooyoung, San, and Yunho all froze. 

Seonghwa never cursed.

“He’s injured, Mingi! Do something! That’s your fucking friend—he’s going to die!”

Mingi’s jaw twitched, his grip momentarily tightening before his gaze flickered toward the ring.

Hongjoong was on the floor, clutching his ribs, his breaths shallow, his entire frame trembling ever so slightly. He looked wrecked.

Mingi rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. The fine for stopping a fight was insane.

“You’re rich, right?” he muttered.

Seonghwa didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.” 

Mingi sighed through his nose, already reaching for his wallet. “Then this is about to be your most expensive fucking impulse ever.”

“Seonghwa what the fuck” San already began, angrier than ever, but Seonghwa paid no attention

Mingi shoved Seonghwa behind him and stalked toward the referee, yanking a thick wad of cash from his wallet and slamming it into the man’s chest.

“Fight’s over,” he said flatly.

The referee barely had time to register the bills before Mingi turned to the bell girl. “Ring it.”

She hesitated for half a second.

Mingi’s gaze sharpened. “Ring it.”

The bell sounded.

The crowd erupted in confusion and outrage, but Seonghwa wasn’t listening. He ripped himself free from Mingi’s grip the second he was able, nearly tripping over his own feet as he scrambled toward the ring.

Hongjoong was still on the floor, his arms bracing against the mat, panting. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, sweat dampened the ends of his hair, his ribs—his ribs looked wrong.

“Hongjoong!” Seonghwa’s voice cracked as he slid into the ring, dropping to his knees beside him.

Hongjoong groaned, trying to push himself up, only to falter as pain wracked his body. “What the fuck,” he slurred.

Seonghwa was already reaching out, hands hovering as if unsure where to touch. “You idiot,” he breathed, voice trembling. “You absolute—why would you—”

Hongjoong let out a hoarse chuckle, cut off by a sharp inhale. “Get the fuck off of me Seonghwa i’ll kill you”

Seonghwa clenched his jaw, fingers finally pressing against Hongjoong’s arm. He wanted to shake him, yell at him, kiss him—no. Not that. Not that.

Wooyoung and Seonghwa were already crouched beside Hongjoong when San scoffed, crossing his arms.

“You’re not serious,” he said flatly.

Seonghwa ignored him, trying to haul Hongjoong’s half-conscious body up, but San grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “Let him rot.”

Wooyoung’s head snapped up. “San—”

“No, Woo.” San’s voice was firm, eyes burning with anger. “He almost killed you once, remember? Nearly crushed you under his boot. And now you wanna help him? Let him suffer. He got himself into this mess.”

Hongjoong let out a wheezy chuckle, spitting blood onto the mat. “That’s fair.”

Seonghwa glared at him. “Shut up.”

San’s fingers dug into Seonghwa’s wrist. “Hwa. You don’t owe him anything. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“He doesn’t deserve?” Wooyoung repeated, shaking his head. “San, what’s gonna be the difference between us and him then, huh?”

San flinched, his grip on Seonghwa loosening.

“Are we just gonna leave him like he left me?” Wooyoung continued, voice softer now, more tired than angry. “Because that’s his way, not ours.”

San clenched his jaw. “Wooyoung…”

“I’m not asking you to forgive him,” Wooyoung whispered. “But I can’t—I won’t be like him.”

San exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, then turned away with a bitter laugh. “Do whatever you want.”

Wooyoung wasted no time, helping Seonghwa lift Hongjoong to his feet. Yunho, silent until now, stepped in to help steady him, looking slightly reluctant but resigned.

San stayed behind as they carried Hongjoong out. But as much as he hated him, he still found himself glancing back.

And hating that he cared.

Fuck this.

San exhaled sharply, rubbing his face before grumbling, “Put him in my car. We’ll get him treated.”

Wooyoung and Seonghwa didn’t hesitate, hauling Hongjoong toward the vehicle. San yanked the door open, slipping into the passenger seat while Seonghwa climbed in the back beside Hongjoong, who groaned in pain as he slumped against the seat.

“Drive fast,” Seonghwa muttered.

The doors slammed shut, and before Yunho could process what just happened—

The car pulled off.

“Oh.” Yunho blinked, standing alone outside the underground club, hands in his pockets. “Did they just—” He huffed out a laugh. “They forgot me?”

Mingi strolled up beside him, also watching the taillights disappear down the road. He lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag before side-eyeing Yunho. “Damn. That’s rough.”

Yunho flinched, letting out an undignified squeak as he whipped around.

“Okay, calm down, pretty boy.” Mingi raised his arms in mock surrender, grinning. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Though, gotta say, the reaction was kinda cute.”

Yunho straightened his jacket, ignoring the heat crawling up his neck. “You wish I was interested.”

Mingi smirked, leaning in just a bit. “Oh? So you are interested in someone?”

Yunho’s expression flattened. “Not in you.”

“Shame.” Mingi exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “Then who? That doll you’ve been doting on all night?”

Yunho stiffened at the casual remark. He cleared his throat. “Seonghwa and I are just friends.”

“Yeah?” Mingi tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Then why do you look like you wanna rip Hongjoong’s head off?”

Yunho frowned, glancing away. “I don’t.”

“Sure.” Mingi snorted. “But I bet you’re wondering why he gets to have Seonghwa rushing to his side while you got left in the dust.”

Yunho’s jaw tightened. He was wondering that. Wondering why Seonghwa had looked so worried for that guy. Why he had jumped up the second Hongjoong hit the floor.

“Who is he?” Yunho asked, voice steady despite his growing irritation. “To Seonghwa, I mean.”

Mingi took another drag of his cigarette, watching Yunho closely before exhaling through his nose.

“That,” he mused, “is a very complicated question.”

Yunho crossed his arms. “Try me.”

Mingi chuckled, shaking his head. “All I’m saying is, if you’re trying to get close to Seonghwa…” He tapped the ash off his cigarette. “You might not like the answers.”

Yunho frowned, but before he could press further, Mingi gave him a lazy pat on the shoulder.

“Anyway, you look like you need a drink. Or a punching bag.” His smirk curled. “Or maybe just someone to take your mind off things.”

Yunho rolled his eyes. “Goodnight, Mingi.”

Mingi grinned. “See you around, pretty boy.”

“I hope not”

Mingi let out a low chuckle, flicking his cigarette onto the ground and stomping it out with the heel of his boot. “Aw, don’t be like that.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he watched Yunho with amused eyes. “I grow on people.”

Yunho gave him a flat look. “Like a bad rash.”

Mingi barked out a laugh. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone—for now.” He turned, waving a lazy hand over his shoulder. “Try not to sulk too hard, yeah?”

Yunho ignored him, exhaling sharply as he turned in the opposite direction.

But his feet hesitated.

Because as much as he hated to admit it, Mingi wasn’t wrong. Something about Hongjoong did bother him. Not just because of the fight, not just because he had thrown himself into that ring like he had nothing to lose—

It was the way Seonghwa had looked at him.

The urgency in his voice. The way he had screamed for the fight to stop. The way he had run to Hongjoong’s side without a second thought.

Yunho clenched his jaw, forcing his hands into his pockets as he started walking.

He didn’t know who Hongjoong was to Seonghwa. But if it was anything close to what he was starting to feel—

Then Yunho needed to find out.

♥*♡∞:｡.｡

“Get the fuck away from me,” Hongjoong hissed, shoving at Seonghwa’s hands as they reached for his torso—his injuries, not his abs, but still.

“Shut up,” Seonghwa snapped, unbothered, pressing his fingers against the bruised skin anyway.

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, head thudding against the car seat. 

“Got money to waste, don’t ya, petal?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm. “The fight was over anyway.”

“Yeah, it was. And you were losing.”

Hongjoong scoffed. “Could’ve turned it around.”

“You were on the floor.”

“And?” Hongjoong smirked through the pain. “Ever heard of a comeback?”

Seonghwa gave him a deadpan look before pressing a little harder on a particularly dark bruise.

Hongjoong hissed. “The fuck—”

“Oops,” Seonghwa said flatly, unrepentant. “Must’ve slipped.”

Hongjoong glared at him, jaw tightening. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer, just continued his inspection, fingers pressing against the bruises despite Hongjoong’s weak attempts to shove him off.

“Fuck’s your problem anyway?” Hongjoong grumbled, wincing as Seonghwa probed his ribs. “Ain’t like you actually care.”

Seonghwa’s hands stilled for just a second before he resumed, voice quieter. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Hongjoong scoffed. “Rich boy playing savior—how noble.”

“Rich man,” Seonghwa corrected, voice firm, his fingers pressing down just a little harder out of pure annoyance.

Hongjoong bit back another hiss, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, so you do have a backbone.”

“Always had one,” Seonghwa muttered, letting go of him completely. “Not that you’d notice.”

Hongjoong didn’t reply, just let his head loll to the side, exhaustion finally creeping in now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

San, still watching from the passenger seat, rolled his eyes. “Great. Love this. Let’s take in the man who almost killed Wooyoung and coddle him like a baby.”

“San,” Wooyoung warned gently.

San let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Whatever. Just don’t expect me to feel bad when he gets himself killed next time.”

Seonghwa’s fingers twitched in his lap, but he didn’t say anything.

Hongjoong just closed his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Next time, I win.”

“Sure you do,” San replied flatly

Hongjoong cracked an eye open at that, a slow, taunting grin creeping onto his face. 

“And what’s your deal, rich boy? Playing outlaw like you’re one of us, throwing punches like you’ve ever had to fight for a goddamn thing in your life.” His voice was lazy, but the bitterness in it was unmistakable. “Taking our money every time you win like your daddy didn’t raise you in a gold crib.”

San’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking as he slowly turned to glare at Hongjoong. His fingers curled into the steering wheel. “That gives you no reason to hate me or hurt my loved ones.” His voice was low, firm, dangerous in a way that wasn’t loud but still made Wooyoung shift beside him.

Hongjoong scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “But it does.”

San narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

Hongjoong’s smirk didn’t waver. 

“People like you get everything handed to them. You get to play around in the dirt, pretend you’re tough, but at the end of the day, you can just wash your hands and go home to silk sheets and fine dining.” His voice sharpened, losing the lazy amusement, turning colder. 

“Me? Mingi? We live in the dirt. We don’t get to pretend. And then people like you waltz in and act like you own it too.” He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “It’s fucking insulting.”

San’s grip on his knee tightened, his breathing even but tense.

“You’re still acting like that justified hurting Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said quietly.

Hongjoong barely spared him a glance. “You’re still acting like it doesn’t.”

“Hurting Wooyoung just because he’s my boyfriend was a dick move, he isnt rich either”

“Yeah well he has you, he’ll get rich either way”

A tense silence settled over the car.

Wooyoung sighed, breaking it. “I hate it when you two talk.”

Hongjoong let out a dry chuckle, shifting slightly to get comfortable. “Yeah, well, don’t worry. I’m done wasting my breath.”

San scoffed. “For once, we agree on something.”

Wooyoung shook his head, exasperated. “I swear, if we crash because of all this tension, I’m haunting all of you.”

The rest of the ride was quiet, heavy with unspoken words and resentment thick enough to choke on.

Seonghwa sat stiffly beside Hongjoong, his hands twitching in his lap, itching to reach out and check on his injuries again. But he knew Hongjoong would just swat him away, would spit more bitter words, would keep up this stupid, infuriating act like he wasn’t barely holding himself together.

So Seonghwa clenched his fists instead, nails pressing into his palm. He hated this. Hated watching him in pain. Hated how Hongjoong refused to let anyone care for him.

He turned his head slightly, sneaking a glance. Hongjoong had his eyes closed again, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. His breathing wasn’t steady.

Seonghwa sighed.

Wooyoung glanced at him through the rearview mirror, expression knowing but unreadable.

San, meanwhile, kept his gaze firmly on the road, both hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. He hadn’t said another word since their argument.

“Where are we even taking him?” Seonghwa’s voice cut through the silence.

San exhaled sharply through his nose. “Somewhere that won’t ask questions.”

Hongjoong snorted, not bothering to open his eyes. “How thoughtful.”

“Shut up,” San snapped.

Hongjoong smirked but didn’t push further.

“I still think he should be in a hospital,” Seonghwa muttered.

“No hospitals,” Hongjoong said immediately, voice firm despite how drained he sounded.

“Why not?” Seonghwa pressed.

Hongjoong finally opened his eyes, turning to look at him. His gaze was sharp, tired, and unreadable. “Because I said so.”

Seonghwa met his stare, unflinching.

Wooyoung sighed again, dragging a hand down his face. “Why are men like this?”

“Because my dear Wooyoung, hospitals will report us, we are illegal fighters” San 

Wooyoung scrunched his nose and stuck out his tongue at San. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Still stupid.”

San just rolled his eyes, fingers tapping impatiently against the steering wheel.

Seonghwa, however, wasn’t satisfied. “Then where are we taking him? A back-alley doctor?”

San nodded. “Something like that.”

Seonghwa frowned. “That doesn’t sound very legal.”

Hongjoong let out a breathy chuckle, wincing as it pulled at his injuries. “Rich boy’s got morals. How cute.”

Seonghwa ignored him, turning to San. “Are they reliable?”

“They don’t ask questions,” San said simply.

“That’s not an answer.”

San exhaled sharply. “Look, it’s either this or he bleeds out in your lap. Which do you prefer?”

Seonghwa pressed his lips together, frustration bubbling up. He hated this. Hated the way they spoke about life and death like they were everyday occurrences, hated the way Hongjoong was fine with it, like this was just another part of his routine.

Like he didn’t matter.

Hongjoong must’ve noticed his silence because he turned his head slightly, looking up at him through tired, half-lidded eyes. “What, you worried about me, petal?”

Seonghwa clenched his jaw. He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell him he didn’t care, that Hongjoong could be reckless all he wanted, that it wasn’t his problem.

But the words wouldn’t come out.

Hongjoong’s smirk barely curled his lips before he sighed, shutting his eyes as if the conversation itself exhausted him more than his injuries.

“I’ll live,” he muttered. 

“Been in a coma twice, broken damn near every bone in my body.” He exhaled through his nose, voice turning almost lazy, almost mocking. “You wouldn’t get it. The lengths people go just to survive—to live like humans, to have something to call a life. But you? You’ve never had to struggle a day in yours, have you? Everything must seem so unethical from your perfect little world.”

Seonghwa bit his inner cheek, frustration bubbling up, but his voice remained soft, almost hesitant. “Can we stop bringing up my family’s money?” His lips pressed together before he continued, half pouting. “I know it’s unfair, I get that you had it rough, and I do feel for you. But it’s not like I chose to be born into a rich family. Why do I have to keep proving myself to you?” He glanced at Hongjoong, eyes searching. “All I want is to be… you know, friends.”

San grumbled in annoyance, arms crossed. “No friendship with this monster.”

Hongjoong let out a low chuckle, tilting his head toward Seonghwa. “Your brother answered for you.”

Seonghwa shot San a sharp glare, but San only looked ahead, jaw clenched in stubborn defiance.

Wooyoung sighed dramatically. “I swear, I’m surrounded by children.” He turned in his seat, pouting at San. “What happened to what’s the difference between us and him, Sannie?”

San exhaled harshly, rubbing his temples. “This is different.”

“No, it’s not,” Wooyoung argued. “You just hate him.”

“Yes, Wooyoung, I do!” San snapped, finally looking at him. “He hurt you. He almost killed you.”

The car went quiet. Even Hongjoong, who usually had a sharp remark ready, only shifted slightly against the seat.

Seonghwa swallowed, looking down at his lap. He knew what Hongjoong had done, knew how much San despised him for it. And yet…

Wooyoung’s voice was softer when he spoke again. “I know what he did”

Hongjoong scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Saint Wooyoung, always so kind.”

Seonghwa cut him a glare. “You could say thank you, you know.”

Hongjoong just smirked. “Could. Won’t.”

Seonghwa huffed, rolling his eyes.

San, on the other hand, looked like he was seconds away from pulling over and throwing Hongjoong out of the car. His fingers were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.

Wooyoung sighed dramatically again. “I hate this tension. Someone put music on.”

San didn’t budge.

Seonghwa didn’t budge.

Hongjoong definitely didn’t budge.

Wooyoung groaned, leaning forward to switch on the radio himself. The soft hum of an old ballad filled the car, something slow and nostalgic.

Seonghwa looked down at Hongjoong’s bruised hands, at the way his fingers twitched slightly in his lap.

He wondered, just for a moment, if Hongjoong ever listened to soft songs like this when no one was around.

The car rumbled down a dimly lit road, the glow of streetlights growing fainter as they approached the destination. The further they went, the quieter the world seemed to become, swallowed by the surrounding trees and the faint hum of the engine. Eventually, they pulled up to a house—a luxurious, beige-and-brown structure that stood tall against the night, sleek and modern yet strangely warm in its lighting. The contrast made it look almost out of place, like a sanctuary in the middle of nowhere.

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. What could possibly be here?

Before he could ask, Hongjoong was already pushing the door open, barely waiting for the car to come to a complete stop. Seonghwa immediately moved to help him, hands reaching to steady him.

"Careful," Seonghwa murmured, fingers brushing against Hongjoong’s arm.

Hongjoong recoiled like he’d been burned. “Don’t,” he snapped, shoving him away with the little strength he had left. His body screamed at him to stop moving, his ribs aching with every breath. Jaw tight, he forced himself forward, heading toward the house on his own.

Seonghwa sighed, watching him stumble before catching himself. 

San was the next to step out, closing the car door with more force than necessary. “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, already walking toward the porch.

They all followed suit, trailing behind Hongjoong as he rang the doorbell. The sound echoed faintly from inside, a distant chime that was answered moments later by the door swinging open.

A man stood in the doorway.

Taller than Hongjoong and Wooyoung, standing nearly eye-to-eye with San, he carried an air of quiet amusement, like he was already entertained before they had even spoken. 

His deep green hair, fading into black at the ends, framed his sharp, delicate features—almost unnervingly pretty. A heart-shaped birthmark sat beneath one of his eyes, only adding to the ethereal quality of his face.

His gaze flickered between them, lips curling into a slow, teasing smile.

Yeosang leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his head tilting slightly as he examined the unexpected trio standing at his doorstep. His amused gaze flickered between San and Hongjoong before landing on Seonghwa, who stood awkwardly to the side.

“Huh,” Yeosang mused, his lips curling into a teasing smirk. “Hongjoong and San. Together. At my house. Should I be worried? Is the world ending? Is this the second coming of Christ?”

“Shut up,” San muttered, stepping past him into the house like he owned the place.

Yeosang chuckled, but his gaze sharpened when he saw the bruises littering Hongjoong’s body. “You look like shit,” he noted.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hongjoong waved him off, trudging past without so much as a glance. “Where’s your doctor husband?”

Yeosang let out a short laugh. “Nice to see you too, Hongjoong.” He turned toward the others, raising a brow at Seonghwa and Wooyoung. “And you two? Babysitting these idiots?”

“Something like that,” Wooyoung sighed, following San inside. Seonghwa lingered for a second, hesitant.

Yeosang studied him for a moment, then nudged his head toward the entrance. 

“Come in, sweetheart. You look too pretty to be standing out in the dark like a lost kitten.”

Seonghwa flushed, ducking his head as he stepped inside.

“Jongho!” Yeosang called, shutting the door behind them. “Your favorite patient is here to bother you again!”

From somewhere deeper in the house, a voice groaned in exasperation. “If it’s Hongjoong, I swear to God—”

“It is,” Yeosang confirmed, grinning.

There was a beat of silence, then hurried footsteps. A moment later, Jongho appeared, hair damp from a shower, wearing a loose black sweater and sweatpants. His sharp eyes landed on Hongjoong, scanning his injuries immediately. He sighed, already pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You again?”

Hongjoong gave a bloody grin. “Missed me?”

“No,” Jongho deadpanned. “Sit down before I sedate you.”

Seonghwa scrunched up his nose. “Is he a regular?”

“Very much so,” Yeosang replied smoothly, leaning against the wall. “If we charged him for every time he stumbled in half-dead, we’d be the richest couple alive.”

Jongho shot him a dry look. “Speak for yourself. I am taking fees—from his lifespan.” He turned to Hongjoong and crossed his arms. “Sit.”

Hongjoong simply scoffed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Seonghwa interjected, stepping forward, voice gentle but firm. “You can barely walk properly.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes but finally sank onto the couch, wincing slightly as his ribs protested. Jongho kneeled in front of him, already pulling on a pair of gloves from a medical kit he had grabbed.

“Shirt off,” he ordered.

Hongjoong smirked at that. “At least take me to dinner first, doc.”

Jongho ignored him, reaching forward and yanking Hongjoong’s bloodstained shirt up himself. The sight of bruises—deep, ugly purple blotches spreading across his ribs—made Seonghwa inhale sharply.

Jongho’s brows furrowed. “You fractured at least two ribs.”

“Nothing new,” Hongjoong muttered, but the way his fingers clenched against his knee betrayed his discomfort.

Wooyoung and Seonghwa exchanged worried glances, but San remained unbothered, arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold.

Jongho slapped an ice pack against Hongjoong’s ribs, making him grunt in pain. “Ow—fuck, Jongho!”

“Oh, my bad,” Jongho deadpanned. “Slipped.”

Yeosang snickered while Wooyoung barely held in a giggle, Seonghwa had said the same thing in the car, listening it twice was hilarious. 

Seonghwa, however, remained quiet, his eyes locked onto Hongjoong’s injuries with something unreadable in his gaze.

Hongjoong noticed. He always did. And it pissed him off.

So he smirked, tilting his head toward Seonghwa lazily. “What? Feel bad for me, petal?”

Seonghwa’s lips parted slightly, unsure how to respond. But before he could, San’s voice cut through the air, sharp and biting.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

And for once Seonghwa thanked San

“So who’s this? Your boyfriend or something?” Yeosang asked, lazily gesturing toward Seonghwa.

Hongjoong immediately gagged, clutching his ribs with an exaggerated retch.

Seonghwa blinked, looking between them, unsure if he was supposed to feel offended

“This doll right here,” Hongjoong continued, voice dripping with sarcasm, “is our dear San’s beloved older brother.”

San, who had been quietly brooding, tensed. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing dangerously at Hongjoong. “I swear, I’ll kill you.”

Yeosang snorted, thoroughly entertained. “You two remind me why I retired.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened slightly. “Wait—you retired?”

Yeosang nodded, stretching his arms over his head. “Yep. Believe it or not, I was better than these two back in the day.”

Seonghwa still found it hard to believe. Yeosang looked like he belonged in a high-fashion magazine, not in an underground ring throwing punches. His delicate features and the heart-shaped birthmark on his eye made him seem almost ethereal—like some untouchable fairy prince rather than a brawler.

“Then I found a rich husband and settled,” Yeosang added, grinning as he shot a wink in Jongho’s direction.

Jongho sighed, not looking up from his work as he wrapped Hongjoong’s ribs. “I am a doctor, not a sugar daddy.”

Yeosang hummed. “Same thing.”

Hongjoong groaned. “Can I die now? Is that an option?”

Jongho tightened the bandage just a little too much, making him hiss. “Not on my watch.”

San didn’t seem to have any sympathy, arms still crossed as he leaned against the wall. “If you’re going to be reckless, at least be good at it.”

Hongjoong let out a dry chuckle. “Didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

Yeosang sighed, shaking his head. “You two are exhausting.” Then he turned back to Seonghwa, assessing him with a curious tilt of his head. “So, you’re really San’s brother?”

Seonghwa nodded hesitantly. “Yes?”

Yeosang hummed, gaze flicking between them. “You don’t look alike.”

San scoffed. “That sounds like an insult”

Yeosang shook his head in an exaggerated manner “Not what i meant but okay”

Jongho finished securing the bandage and stood up, stretching his arms. “Alright, he’s done. If you’re lucky, you’ll only be sore for a few weeks.”

Hongjoong sat up with a wince. “You make it sound so promising.”

Jongho gave him a blank look. “I could break them properly if you prefer.”

A smirk curled at Yeosang’s lips. “Doctor’s orders.”

Seonghwa, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. “You were really a fighter?”

Yeosang turned to him, expression shifting slightly, something amused but distant in his gaze. “Why, surprised?”

“A little,” Seonghwa admitted. “You don’t seem the type.”

Yeosang’s smile was unreadable. “And what type is that?”

Seonghwa hesitated. “You just… don’t look like someone who used to fight.”

Yeosang chuckled, shaking his head. “I hear that a lot.”

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, shifting uncomfortably. “We done here?”

Yeosang waved a hand. “Go ahead. Get out of my house before you bleed on my furniture.”

Hongjoong stood carefully, trying not to wince. He looked at Seonghwa, then at San, before scoffing under his breath. “What a fucking night.”

San rolled his eyes, already heading for the door. “You’re the one who got yourself beat up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hongjoong muttered, pushing past him.

Seonghwa hesitated, looking at Yeosang once more. “Thanks for helping.”

Yeosang simply nodded. “Anytime.”

Jongho sighed, already tidying up the mess Hongjoong left behind. “Don’t make it a habit.”

They were already out of the house when Hongjoong took a cigarette out “You guys go, i called Mingi to come pick me up”

“We werent going to drop you anyways bastard, what a waste of my petrol” San spat and 

Wooyoung gave him a side eye “You know you’re really immature”. 

Now it was San’s turn to take his tongue out at him.

Seonghwa just silently went and sat inside the car, not looking back.

Hongjoong huffed a quiet laugh as he lit his cigarette, exhaling a slow stream of smoke into the cold night air. “Didn’t ask for a ride anyway.”

San rolled his eyes, yanking the car door open. “Good. Saves me the headache.”

Wooyoung gave them both a tired look before climbing into the passenger seat. “You two are like cats hissing at each other over scraps of food.”

Hongjoong smirked around the cigarette. “Except I bite harder.”

San fake barfed “Ew cringe”

Wooyoung pulled him inside and shut the door hastily

“Drive.”

Seonghwa had already taken his place in the backseat, staring out the window, hands resting in his lap. He hadn’t said a word since they stepped out of Yeosang’s house.

Hongjoong looked away. Not his problem.

The car engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the darkness. Wooyoung waved lazily through the window. “Try not to die before Mingi gets here.”

Hongjoong smirked, cigarette hanging between his fingers. “No promises.”

San didn’t bother waiting for any more snide remarks. He pressed his foot against the gas, and the car peeled out of the driveway, leaving Hongjoong standing alone in the flickering glow of the streetlight.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring after them. Then, with a sigh, he exhaled another long drag of smoke.

The night was quiet.

“Didn’t think you’d actually wait for me.”

Hongjoong didn’t even turn around. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his heel. “Took your sweet time, huh?”

Mingi grinned, stepping into the glow of the streetlamp. “Had to make sure you suffered a little first.”

Hongjoong huffed. “Asshole.”

Mingi slung an arm around his shoulder, steering him toward his parked car. “C’mon, let’s get you patched up before you pass out on the sidewalk.”

Hongjoong let himself be guided, the exhaustion finally settling into his bones.

Maybe, just this once, he’d let someone take care of him.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“I’m in love with Hongjoong,” Seonghwa declared

The car jerked violently as San slammed the brakes, tires screeching against the pavement. Wooyoung yelped, barely catching himself before his forehead met the dashboard.

He hissed, rubbing his arm where the seatbelt had tightened against him.

San turned in his seat slowly, expression unreadable, except for the slight twitch in his jaw. “Say that again.”

Seonghwa met his brother’s stare without flinching. “I’m in love with Hongjoong.”

San exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping the steering wheel like it had personally offended him. He looked seconds away from throwing the car into reverse just to drive Seonghwa back to Yeosang’s house and throw him out.

“How about I leave you alone in a room with him late at night, no one around,” San said, voice laced with something sharp, something close to disgust. “Then let’s hear you say that again, yeah?”

Seonghwa flinched, his fingers curling into his lap as he looked away.

“San,” Wooyoung warned, gripping his arm,

“That’s enough.”

San scoffed, but he didn’t push Wooyoung off. He clicked his tongue, drumming his fingers against the wheel before exhaling sharply. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know who he is,” Seonghwa murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I know what he’s done.”

“Then what’s wrong with you!?” San snapped.

Seonghwa’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I just… I don’t think he’s as terrible as you think he is.”

San let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “That’s cute. You think you know him?”

“I think I want to,” Seonghwa admitted.

San dragged a hand down his face, turning back toward the road as he restarted the car. “You’re out of your goddamn mind. You don’t even know what you're talking about, hyung. You live in some fantasy world where everything is soft and beautiful, where even the worst people have some tragic excuse for their actions. You don’t know how real people are. All you know is fairytales.”

Seonghwa sighed, turning his head to look out the window, fingers tracing patterns on his lap. “You're being mean again, Sannie.” His voice was quiet, almost tired. “Then you'll feel bad in the morning, try to hug me and make me forgive you, and repeat it all over again.”

San gritted his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Hyung, you promised you'd never talk to him again."

Seonghwa closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them slowly. “I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I want to.”

San let out a sharp breath, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. “I don’t get you. I really don’t.”

“You don’t have to.”

San made a frustrated noise, pressing harder on the accelerator. “If he hurts you, don’t come crying to me.”

Wooyoung finally spoke up, rubbing his temples. “Can we not fight for one car ride? Just one?”

The silence that followed was thick and tense, but at least it was silence.(Wooyoung is a tired mother)

Wooyoung shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, arms crossed as he glanced between the two brothers. Seonghwa remained quiet, eyes distant, while San kept his glare locked onto the road, jaw still clenched in frustration.

It wasn’t until they reached an empty stoplight that Wooyoung sighed

“You know, for someone who hates Hongjoong so much, you sure do talk about him a lot, San.”

San's glare snapped to him. “Don’t start.”

Wooyoung held up his hands. “Just saying. You could’ve just let Seonghwa figure out he’s making a mistake on his own instead of nearly breaking the car’s brakes.”

Seonghwa’s lips curled slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

San exhaled sharply. “You don’t get it, Wooyoung.”

“Then explain.”

San hesitated, fingers tightening around the wheel again, but he shook his head. “Forget it.”

And Wooyoung did drop it not wanting to anger his boyfriend more

°°••....••°°

The next morning, the apartment was unusually quiet.

Seonghwa had woken up before either of them, slipping out of bed with practiced ease. 

Today was important—the day he had been waiting for. His audition for Swan Lake.

He had spent weeks practicing, staying up late, waking up early, repeating each move until his muscles ached and his feet screamed in protest. He couldn’t afford to be anything less than perfect.

Dressed in a fitted white long-sleeve and a pair of grey warm-ups, he tied the ribbons of his ballet shoes with nimble fingers. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, calm but determined. He smoothed down his hair, exhaling deeply.

San and Wooyoung were still asleep—San curled into a ball like he always did, Wooyoung sprawled out, taking up most of the space. Seonghwa hesitated for a moment, watching them, before quietly grabbing his bag and stepping out into the morning air.

The academy wasn’t far, but his heart still pounded as he made his way there.

Today, nothing could go wrong.

By the time he arrived, the halls were already buzzing with dancers stretching and warming up. The scent of rosin and sweat filled the air. His eyes flickered over familiar faces—some smiling, some tense, some openly glaring. He knew why. 

They all wanted the lead. They didn’t want him to have it.

Ignoring the murmurs, he made his way to the studio, taking his place at the barre. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror—poised, elegant, and unreadable. Just as it should be.

“Swan Lake auditions begin in five minutes,” the instructor’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

Seonghwa exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders as he adjusted the ribbons of his ballet slippers. His fingers trembled slightly, but he ignored it. He had spent weeks preparing for this moment, perfecting every movement, controlling every breath. This was it. His chance. His moment.

“Ready to conquer the stage, Odette?”

Seonghwa turned his head just as Yunho slid into place beside him, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. He was already dressed for the audition, standing tall and confident in his fitted rehearsal attire. Yunho was auditioning for Prince Siegfried—of course, he was. It had always been them. The golden duo. The academy’s stars, envied and despised in equal measure.

Seonghwa smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened his features. “Always.”

Yunho gave an approving nod but then sighed dramatically, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Though, I won’t comment on how I was completely ghosted for our plans yesterday.”

Seonghwa blinked, confused for a moment before realization dawned on him. His stomach twisted uncomfortably. Yunho had invited him out for cheesecake. But that was before everything. Before Hongjoong. Before last night, when San and Wooyoung had dragged him away to Yeosang’s house after the disaster with Hongjoong at the underground arena.

“I—” Seonghwa started, but Yunho held up a hand.

“It’s fine,” he said, still smiling, but there was something in his eyes—something softer, maybe even a little concerned. “That guy did seem in need of immediate help.”

Seonghwa forced out a small laugh, but it felt hollow. Yunho didn’t press, though. 

He never did.

Instead, he bumped their shoulders together lightly and straightened up, rolling his neck. “Well, don’t fall on me when I lift you later. I’m not breaking my back because my Odette decided to be nervous today.”

Seonghwa huffed, straightening his spine. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Yunho grinned before stepping toward the center of the studio, waiting for his name to be called.

Seonghwa inhaled sharply and followed.

It was time.

Seonghwa stood poised in the center of the rehearsal hall, his delicate frame wrapped in a flowing white romantic tutu that fluttered ever so slightly with each breath he took. The bodice hugged his slender torso, emphasizing the graceful lines of his body, while his arms—soft yet controlled—hung at his sides, fingers gently curved. His hair was pulled into a neat bun, adorned with pale ribbons that cascaded down slightly, completing the ethereal image he presented.

Around him, the other dancers had already finished their auditions for both Odette and Odile, their murmurs blending into the background as he waited for his turn. He could feel the weight of their gazes—some curious, others judgmental, but most simply waiting to see if he could truly embody both roles, the purity of the White Swan and the seduction of the Black Swan.

At the long table, seated in front of the mirrored walls, the academy’s instructors observed him with critical eyes. Their usual sharp expressions remained unreadable, but it was the unfamiliar man sitting at the center who caught Seonghwa’s attention. He was older, dressed sharply in black, and his scrutinizing gaze lingered on Seonghwa longer than the others.

The new director.

Seonghwa remained still, but his pulse quickened when the man’s gaze traveled over him, assessing every detail of his presentation. The delicate features, the inherently feminine grace to his posture—it was clear the director had already formed an opinion. His brow lifted ever so slightly, as if puzzled by the contradiction of Seonghwa’s presence. The lack of curves made it evident he wasn’t a woman, though most ballerinas were lithe to begin with.

The real question, however, lay unspoken.

Could someone like him—with his soft, almost porcelain-like beauty—truly embody the dark, wicked allure of the Black Swan?

Seonghwa didn’t react, his face composed, his body relaxed. He had been underestimated before. It didn’t matter.

The director said nothing, merely flicking his fingers in a silent signal to the pianist.

The first notes of Swan Lake by Tachovskyfilled the room.

And Seonghwa danced.

The first note of Moderato rang through the studio, filling the space with its aching beauty.

On the polished wooden floor, he began as a vision of serenity—his body curled, arms folded in delicate repose, a sleeping swan cradled in a dream. The gentle rise and fall of his chest mimicked the faint stirrings of life beneath feathers, his fingertips brushing against the ground like rippling water. Then, as the music swelled, he moved.

His hands extended, unfurling like wings caught in the morning breeze. His body followed, rising fluidly from the ground, every motion was a seamless blend of grace and control. His expression was as soft as a dove, eyes wide with yearning, lips parted slightly as though caught in an unspoken plea.

He was Odette in every breath, every motion.

The pain, the fragility, the innocence of a swan cursed to live in a form not her own—it bled through the arch of his arms, the delicate tremble of his fingers, the subtle quiver of his lower lip. His steps were light yet intentional, barely making a sound against the floor as he moved through his opening sequence.

Each arabesque was precise, each port de bras fluid, yet there was something else beneath the technique—an emotion so raw, so deeply felt that it almost seemed as if he wasn’t dancing at all, but rather living the role.

By the time he reached his first pirouette, the room had fallen completely silent.

Even the director, who had initially raised an eyebrow at his appearance, found himself leaning forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The skepticism in his eyes had been replaced by something else—curiosity, perhaps even admiration.

But Seonghwa wasn’t performing for their approval.

He was dancing because he had to. Because the moment the music started, he ceased to be himself. He became Odette. A swan longing for freedom, trapped in the cruel constraints of fate.

His heart pounded as he prepared for the final sequence of his solo, taking a breath before executing a breathtaking series of bourrées, his feet fluttering across the floor in an illusion of weightlessness. His arms curved overhead, fingers trembling as though holding onto hope itself.

The last note played.

And Seonghwa froze mid-motion, arms extended, head tilted back, a single tear clinging to his lashes as if Odette herself had wept through him. (Okay holy fuck)

The room was quiet, the weight of his performance lingering in the air like the last flutter of a dying swan.

Then—

A sharp click of the tongue.

The director, a tall, imposing man, stepped forward, his gaze unreadable as he approached. His shadow loomed over Seonghwa, stark against the bright studio lights. His eyes trailed over Seonghwa’s delicate form, the remnants of Odette still clinging to the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly.

“If you only had to play the White Swan,” the director mused, voice smooth but firm, “she’d be yours without question.”

He let the words settle, watching as Seonghwa’s chest rose and fell, the tension in his posture betraying just how much he had poured into the performance.

“But.”

The director tilted his head, his lips curling faintly in challenge.

“Show me the Black Swan.”

Seonghwa inhaled sharply, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features. His fingers twitched at his sides.

It was hard—so hard.

The White Swan had always come naturally to him, her pain, her grace, her fragility woven into every step he took. 

But Odile—Odile was different.

She wasn’t soft. She wasn’t afraid.

Where Odette’s movements were gentle and tragic, Odile’s were sharp, precise—confident. Where Odette’s gaze shied away, full of sorrow, Odile’s was piercing, unwavering. She knew she would win. She knew she held the power.

Even when Odile feigned sadness, manipulating Prince Siegfried with crocodile tears, it had to look like a performance. A deception wrapped in allure, her every step a calculated trick, her every smile laced with something sinister.

Seonghwa swallowed, pushing down his discomfort.

He had to do this.

Slowly, he straightened his posture, rolling back his shoulders. The vulnerability in his gaze hardened. His lips curled—not into the soft, sorrowful pout of Odette, but into a smirk.

And then, the music began again.

The first echoes of The Black Swan Pas de Deux filled the studio, each note striking like a spark against the cold silence. This was not Odette’s lament, not a swan trapped in sorrow—this was the beginning of a game, a cruel, tantalizing dance of manipulation and triumph.

Seonghwa moved.

Gone was the delicate trembling of the White Swan, the shy, downcast gaze, the softness that made hearts ache.

Instead, he was sharp. Calculated.

His first step was slow, deliberate, his chin tilted upward as his arms unfurled—not fluttering like a desperate bird, but precise, controlled, as if he were reeling in an unseen force. His eyes did not waver, locked ahead with a piercing confidence.

He was playing hard to get.

The trick to Odile was in the details—the subtle arch of a wrist, the way her smirk never fully reached her eyes, the way she pulled away just as Siegfried thought he had her. Seductive, but never melting. A flame that flickered close enough to burn, but never to be caught.

Seonghwa's body curved in a teasing retreat, his movements fast, striking—but then, a pause, a fleeting hesitation, a glance thrown over his shoulder as if considering—only to vanish into another sharp turn, another mocking twirl just out of reach.

The director watched, arms crossed, his gaze analytical.

Seonghwa pushed further.

A controlled pirouette—one, two, three turns—before he landed with a sharp snap of his arms, the angle of his chin commanding. A silent dare.

Then, the crucial test.

His expression shifted, something feigned slipping into his eyes—false vulnerability, a soft, almost tragic downturn of his lips. A performance within the performance.

Odile was a master of deception. She had to make Siegfried believe she was Odette, had to lure him into her spell with a sadness that wasn’t real, a sorrow just convincing enough to make him hesitate—

Then, as soon as he reached for her—

Gone.

Seonghwa turned away, his smirk returning, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

A game.

A seduction.

And Odile always won.

Seonghwa’s wasn’t perfect—he knew that.

Odile was a demanding role, and even harder to master when paired with Odette. Two swans, two souls, trapped in one body—one fragile, yearning, and innocent; the other bold, deceitful, and electric.

His transitions weren’t seamless. There were moments when Odette threatened to seep through—an instinctual softness in his fingers, a fleeting hesitation in his gaze. But he pushed forward, embodying Odile with every sharp flick of his wrist, every deliberate turn of his heel.

He completed the final movement—a grand arch of his back, arms raised in a victorious, taunting curve—before letting his hands fall with a snap, breathless yet poised.

The studio fell silent.

The director’s gaze was hard, unreadable.

He let the silence stretch, dragging out the moment until Seonghwa felt it tighten around his ribs.

“Tch.” A sharp click of the tongue. The man stepped forward, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over Seonghwa.

"You have Odette’s sorrow," he said, voice clipped. "But your Odile? She’s still afraid to bare her fangs."

Seonghwa swallowed, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.

"Again."

The pianist straightened in surprise but quickly poised her fingers over the keys. The music swelled once more.

Seonghwa clenched his jaw.

Again.

He had to be sharper. Stronger. He had to become the darkness to Odette’s light, to shed every trace of hesitation.

Because if he didn’t—

He would lose.

“You’re too controlled,” the director’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “Seduce the audience. Seduce the prince.”

Seonghwa swallowed hard. His chest rose and fell in steady, measured breaths, but inside, doubt clawed at him.

He knew what Odile had to be—dangerous, commanding, dripping in allure. A force that left Siegfried spellbound, willing to throw away everything for a love that wasn’t real.

But how could he—soft-spoken, delicate, endlessly compared to Odette—be that?

The music began again, the haunting introduction curling through the air like smoke.

Seonghwa exhaled sharply.

Then he moved.

This time, his steps were deliberate. His arms no longer fluttered like a trembling bird—they sliced through the air, precise and lethal. His chin tilted higher, gaze piercing as he met the imaginary prince’s eyes, lips curling into a smirk.

There.

That was the moment.

He let the audience feel the deception, the slow pull of seduction woven into every pirouette, every flick of his wrist. The mockery in his smile. The way his steps flirted with the ground, each movement daring, teasing, dangerous.

Odile did not beg for love.

She commanded it.

And when Seonghwa struck his final pose—one foot planted firmly, arms lifted in an elegant crown, his back arching in cruel triumph—he held his breath.

Waiting.

The silence stretched, thick with expectation.

“I’m sorry.”

The director’s voice cut through the stillness, flat and unimpressed.

“I just can’t… feel it. You get me?”

A murmur of disbelief rippled through the room. The other instructors exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“He’s the best we have today,” one of them argued, their voice edged with urgency.

The director didn’t look convinced. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning his sharp gaze back to Seonghwa.

“Your eyes,” he said. “They’re too kind. There’s no deception in them. No seduction.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

The words hit Seonghwa like a slap.

He felt his posture falter, his muscles stiffen under scrutiny.

No deception.
No seduction.

Just Seonghwa—delicate, soft-spoken, too kind.

His fingers curled into his skirt, hidden within the folds of fabric.

He had given everything.

And it still wasn’t enough.

“Dismissed.”

The word was final, cutting through Seonghwa like a blade. The director turned away, already moving on.

But Seonghwa refused to let it end like this.

He stepped forward, pulse hammering in his throat. “Teach me.”

The director paused.

“I’ll stay after class. I’ll practice until I get it right,” Seonghwa continued, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. 

“Tell me how to be a better Odile, and I’ll prove I can do it.”

A slow, amused hum left the director’s lips.

He turned back, looking Seonghwa up and down with something between curiosity and amusement, his smirk curling at the edges.

“Oh?” he mused, tapping a finger against his chin. “Now that’s interesting.”

The other instructors exchanged uncertain glances, but the director’s smirk only deepened.

“You’re desperate, aren’t you?” he mused, stepping closer. Seonghwa forced himself to hold his ground, despite the way his body trembled from exertion.

“I’m determined.”

The director let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Same thing.” He walked around Seonghwa in slow, deliberate steps, scrutinizing every inch of him like he was something to be picked apart. “You have the technique, the grace—even the tragedy for Odette. But Odile?” He stopped in front of Seonghwa, tilting his head. “You still dance like you want to be loved.”

Seonghwa stiffened.

Odile didn’t want love. She toyed with it. Manipulated it. Seduced it until it bent to her will.

And that was the part he struggled with. Because he didnt know how love felt

The director seemed to read the realization on his face. “Stay after class, then. But know this—” he leaned in, voice lowering to a murmur only Seonghwa could hear. “—if you can’t make me believe you’re dangerous, you’ll never be my Odile.”

Seonghwa swallowed hard.

The challenge was set.

—

Evening fell, casting long shadows across the empty studio. Everyone had left hours ago, yet Seonghwa remained, standing before the mirror, his reflection staring back at him—soft, uncertain, painfully honest. No matter how many times he tried, how many angles he tilted his chin or how darkly he narrowed his eyes, the deception never came.

His Odile still looked too much like Odette.

Frustration curled in his gut, his fingers gripping the edge of the barre as he exhaled sharply.

Behind him, the director sighed, the sound edged with impatience. “Pathetic,” he muttered, stepping closer. “You still look like you’re about to apologize.”

Seonghwa flinched.

The director clicked his tongue, circling him like a predator. “Odile doesn’t ask for attention—she demands it. She doesn’t seek love—she owns it.” His voice sharpened. “You’re trying to act the part, but seduction isn’t just in the eyes or the smile—it’s in how you carry yourself, how you believe you’re the most powerful person in the room.”

Seonghwa swallowed, his throat dry.

“Again,” the director ordered.

Seonghwa turned back to the mirror, fixing his posture, forcing his expression into something harder, sharper. But it still wasn’t right.

The director’s voice dropped lower, almost coaxing now. “You’ve never lied before, have you?”

Seonghwa hesitated.

The director hummed knowingly. “That’s the problem. You don’t know what it means to manipulate someone. To play with their emotions. That’s why your Odile is weak.”

Seonghwa’s fingers curled into his palm.

Weak.

The director stepped behind him, his presence suffocating, and before Seonghwa could react, a firm hand wrapped around his throat. Not enough to choke, but enough to control. Enough to force his gaze to the mirror.

Seonghwa gasped, fingers instinctively flying up to pry the hand away, but the director tsked. “Look,” he commanded, his grip tightening just slightly, a warning. “What do you see?”

Seonghwa swallowed, his pulse fluttering against the man’s fingers. “M-myself.”

The director leaned in, his voice a low murmur against his ear. “No. You see a man who doesn’t know how to lie. A nan who still believes in love, in kindness, in fairness.” His fingers flexed slightly before releasing him, shoving him forward just enough to throw him off balance.

Seonghwa caught himself against the barre, inhaling shakily.

“Let’s fix that.”

The director began circling him like a vulture, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “I’ll give you a scenario,” he said smoothly. “You will act it out. No hesitation, no second-guessing. You will be Odile.”

Seonghwa nodded stiffly.

The director smirked. “Imagine this—you’re a courtesan in the king’s court. You’ve caught the prince’s eye, but his fiancée is watching. You want him to touch you, to sin for you, but you must make him believe it was his idea all along.”

Seonghwa swallowed. “That’s—”

“Act it out.”

Seonghwa hesitated before shifting, tilting his chin downward, eyes peering through his lashes. He dragged a slow hand up his own arm, feigning a shiver as he exhaled softly, lips parting just slightly.

The director clicked his tongue. “Pathetic. You look like a blushing virgin. Again.”

Seonghwa clenched his fists.

“Try this.” The director’s voice was almost amused now. “You’re a widow at her husband’s funeral. His younger brother has always been in love with you. You’re devastated, but you let him believe he is the one comforting you.”

Seonghwa stiffened.

“Now do it.”

Shame curled in his stomach, but he obeyed, tilting his head as if lost in grief, hands trembling as they reached for a phantom presence—grasping, vulnerable. And then, the shift—his fingers curled, pulling back just before the touch could land, his lashes fluttering as if withholding a secret.

The director hummed. “Better.”

Seonghwa exhaled shakily, skin crawling.

But the director wasn’t done.

“One more,” he mused, circling closer. “You’re the villain. The hero loves you, but he doesn’t trust you. You want to make him believe you’ve changed—to let his guard down, to let you in.” He leaned in, voice lowering to a whisper. “And then, you will betray him.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched.

Somewhere along the lines the director became a little too cozy, a touch there, a touch here

He stepped forward again, and before Seonghwa could react, the director grabbed his wrist—tight, almost bruising, forcing his arm up between them. Seonghwa flinched.

“What would Odile do if she were caught?” the director mused. “If Prince Siegfried grabbed her like this, accused her, saw through the mask? Would she tremble? Would she cry?”

Seonghwa tried to pull back, but the director yanked him forward instead, throwing him off balance.

“No,” the director answered his own question, his grip like iron. “She would laugh.”

Seonghwa exhaled sharply.

The director smirked. “Try it.”

It was humiliating. His wrist ached where it was being held, his body tensed, skin crawling under the weight of the command. But he had no choice.

He inhaled, forcing his lips to part, forcing sound to come out—

A breathy, broken giggle.

The director clicked his tongue. “Pathetic.”

Seonghwa’s nails bit into his own palms.

“Again,” the director ordered, his other hand suddenly gripping the back of Seonghwa’s neck, tilting his head up. “Laugh like you know you’ve won. Like his heart is already in your palm, and you’re deciding whether or not to crush it.”

Seonghwa gritted his teeth.

And then, he did it.

This time, it was not breathy. It was not hesitant.

It was light. Playful. Cruel.

The director’s lips twitched. “Better.”

Seonghwa barely had a moment to react before the director’s hands were on him, shoving him back against the mirror. His breath hitched as cold glass pressed against his skin, trapping him in place.

"You did good today," the director murmured, voice slick with amusement. His fingers gripped Seonghwa’s jaw, tilting his face up. "Your Odile deserves a little praise, hmm?"

Seonghwa turned his head sharply, trying to shake him off, but it only made the director laugh. The sound sent a chill down his spine.

“Don’t—” His protest was cut off as lips crashed against his, rough and forceful. He thrashed, hands pushing at the director’s shoulders, but the man barely budged. Teeth scraped against his lower lip, a sharp bite that made him whimper in pain. He could taste the metallic sting of it, could feel his pulse hammering in his throat as the grip on his waist tightened.

He gasped when the director’s mouth trailed downward, biting at the soft skin of his neck. “Don’t fight it,” the director cooed, his tone sickeningly sweet. “You want the part, don’t you?”

Seonghwa froze, his body locking up in horror.

“If you sleep with me, it’s yours.”

The words rang in his ears like a death sentence.

Seonghwa’s stomach churned. His whole body recoiled, disgust clawing up his throat. He shoved at the director again, harder this time, but the grip didn’t loosen.

"Get off," he breathed, but the director only smirked, fingers skimming dangerously low.

Panic surged through him. Without thinking, Seonghwa brought his knee up and drove it into the director’s shin with all the strength he had.

The man cursed, his hold loosening just enough for Seonghwa to wrench himself free. His heart pounded as he bolted for the door, feet slamming against the wooden floor as he ran out of the studio, throat tight with fear.

He didn’t stop running. Not until he locked himself inside the nearest bathroom, his hands trembling as he fumbled for his phone.

San. He needed San.

Seonghwa’s hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped his phone. His fingers felt numb, cold sweat slicking his palms as he struggled to press the call button. His breath came in short, rapid gasps, his chest tightening painfully.

The room felt too small.

The air felt too thin. The call rang once.

Twice. “Pick up,” he whispered, voice barely audible over the harsh sound of his own breathing. Another ring. And then— “Seonghwa?” San’s voice. A choked sob slipped past Seonghwa’s lips before he could stop it. He pressed the phone against his ear, his other hand gripping the sink so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“S-Sannie,” he gasped, his words broken, uneven.

“Please—please come.” San’s voice sharpened instantly. “What happened?”

“I—I can’t—” He sucked in a breath, but it only made his chest hurt more. He couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t think, couldn’t stop shaking. His knees buckled, and he sank down onto the cold tile floor, curling into himself. “Please, just—just come.”

“I’m already on my way,” San said, no hesitation, no questions.

“Where are you?” 

“Bathroom—near the studio,” Seonghwa managed, curling his arms around himself. 

“I can’t—can’t go outside. He—” His breath hitched, throat closing up. 

“Don’t move. Lock the door. I’ll be there soon.” 

Seonghwa barely registered hanging up, his body trembling violently as he pressed his forehead against his knees. The mirror in the studio felt like it was still behind him. The director’s voice still echoed in his ears. 

"If you sleep with me, the part is yours." 

His stomach lurched. He shut his eyes tightly, as if that could block it all out. But the panic didn’t fade. 

His heartbeat pounded in his skull, his breaths still shallow, uneven. He dug his nails into his arms, desperate to ground himself, to hold himself together until San arrived.

The minutes dragged, each second stretching unbearably long. Seonghwa’s body refused to stop trembling, his breath still uneven as he pressed himself tighter into the corner of the bathroom. 

The tile beneath him was cold. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to scrub his skin raw, to erase the feeling of unwanted hands, of teeth scraping against his skin, of lips that weren’t supposed to be there.

A sharp knock on the door made him flinch so hard his shoulder hit the wall. His heart slammed against his ribs.

"Hwa?" San’s voice. Urgent. Sharp.

"It’s me. Open the door." Seonghwa scrambled up on shaking legs, his hands fumbling with the lock. The door barely opened before San was pushing in, eyes sweeping over him in an instant. Seonghwa had never seen San’s face like that before. It was tight, tense—his jaw clenched so hard it looked painful, his eyes dark with something dangerous.

“What the hell happened?” San demanded, stepping forward, but Seonghwa stumbled back instinctively. San froze. His anger melted into something softer, his voice lowering.

“Hey. It’s just me, okay?” Seonghwa bit his lip, struggling to form words. His throat burned. His skin felt wrong. San’s gaze dropped—and then Seonghwa realized. The bruises. The marks. The evidence of what had just happened was right there, on his skin, in the form of blooming purple along his neck, where sharp teeth had pressed too hard. San’s entire body went rigid. His fists curled so tightly that his knuckles went white. His chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled breath.

“Who.” His voice was dangerously low, controlled only by sheer force of will.

Seonghwa shook his head frantically. “Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Please, Sannie. Just—don’t.”

San exhaled sharply through his nose, as if trying to steady himself, but his hands were still curled into fists. His entire body was shaking with restraint. Seonghwa’s vision blurred again, his breath hitching. The last thing he wanted was for San to get involved—he just needed him here. Just needed to feel safe.

San swallowed thickly, his anger pushed down for Seonghwa’s sake. He took a slow step forward.

This time, Seonghwa didn’t move away. Without another word, San reached out and pulled him into his arms.

And Seonghwa broke.

His fingers curled into San’s jacket, his body wracking with silent sobs as he clung to him. San held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles against his back.

“I’ve got you,” San murmured, voice steady, grounding. “You’re safe now.”

Seonghwa pressed his face against San’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. Safe.

San was here. And he wasn’t alone.

“I won’t get the part anymore. It’s my fault.”

San pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes burned with something unreadable, but his grip remained steady on Seonghwa’s arms.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I—” Seonghwa’s throat tightened. His fingers trembled as they clutched San’s jacket. “He said… if I slept with him, the part would be mine.” His breath hitched, shame curling in his stomach. “I—I kicked him and ran, but now—now he’ll take it away.”

San’s entire body tensed. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“That bastard—”

“It’s my fault,” Seonghwa whispered, his voice cracking. “I should have just—”

“Don’t.”

San’s voice was sharp, cutting through the rising panic like a knife. His hands cupped Seonghwa’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“Don’t you dare say that. This isn’t your fault. None of it.”

Seonghwa’s breath came in short gasps, his eyes wide. San had never spoken to him like that before. His hands clenched into fists.

“But the role—”

“Forget the fucking role, Hwa.”

San’s voice softened, but his eyes remained firm. “You think I care about some ballet when you just—” He exhaled sharply, swallowing the rest of his sentence. He shook his head, his thumb brushing against Seonghwa’s cheek.

“I don’t care about the role. I care about you.”

Seonghwa’s lips parted, his breath still uneven. San stared at him, his expression tight with barely contained fury. But beneath it, there was something else.

Worry.

“Come on, let’s go home,” San said softly, his voice gentler than usual.

Seonghwa nodded, his body still trembling. But just as they turned—

There he was.

The director stood with his arms crossed, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

Seonghwa’s breath hitched, his stomach twisting painfully. His body instinctively shrank back, a shiver running down his spine. The director clicked his tongue in mock disappointment.

“Pathetic. You’re Odette through and through.”

San saw red.

“Pathetic?” His voice was low, lethal. “I’ll show you fucking pathetic.”

Before Seonghwa could stop him, San’s fist collided with the director’s face with a sickening crack.

The man staggered back, clutching his jaw in shock.

“You think you can put your hands on him and walk away?” San seethed, his voice dangerously low. “You’re fucking done.”

Seonghwa panicked. His heart pounded in his chest as he tugged at San’s arm, desperate to pull him away.

“San, stop—please—”

The director wiped the blood from his split lip, laughing breathlessly.

“Ah… so this is the big, bad brother, huh?” He sneered, eyes flickering to Seonghwa. “How predictable. Always needing someone else to fight for you.”

San nearly snapped. His arm tensed, ready to swing again, but Seonghwa threw himself between them, pressing his hands to San’s chest.

“San, please,” he whispered, voice shaking. “If you hit him again, they’ll expel me.”

San froze, his breathing ragged. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

The director smirked, straightening his coat.

“Smart boy,” he drawled. “You know exactly how this works.”

Seonghwa swallowed back the nausea crawling up his throat. His entire body felt cold, but he forced himself to stand his ground.

“Just leave us alone.”

The director chuckled, licking the blood off his lip.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said mockingly. “I have no interest in a little coward like you.”

His gaze darkened, the threat in his voice unmistakable.

“But you won’t last long here. Someone like you never does.”

Seonghwa flinched, but San was already moving.

“Try something again,” San said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Try anything—and I don’t care about expulsions, or consequences. I will end you.”

The director held his gaze for a moment before scoffing.

“Tch. Not worth it.”

He dusted off his coat, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the night.

Silence hung heavy in the air.

Seonghwa’s hands trembled. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, his body still frozen in fear.

San turned to him, his expression softening immediately.

“Hwa—”

“I just want to go home,” Seonghwa whispered, voice small.

San exhaled, wrapping an arm around him.

“Okay. Let’s go home.”

—

The hot water poured over Seonghwa, steam filling the air, but it did little to ease the chill crawling through his bones. He stood under the showerhead, hands trembling as he scrubbed at his skin, almost violently. His nails bit into his flesh as he scraped them over his arms, his chest, anywhere the director had touched him. It wasn’t enough to erase the feeling. The sensation of unwanted hands, the burn of teeth against his neck, lingered in his skin, seeping deeper into him with every pass of his hand.

He hissed through his teeth as his fingers dug into the bruises on his neck, feeling the tenderness, the marks the director had left, the physical proof of his violation. But the more he scratched, the more it felt like the scars were carving deeper into his soul. His breath was shallow, ragged, as though the water was too thick, too heavy. It suffocated him.

He shut his eyes, trying to drown the thoughts, trying to scrub them out of his mind as if the water could cleanse him of everything—the memory of the director’s fingers, the sickening scent of his cologne, the sound of his voice murmuring that terrible ultimatum.

“If you sleep with me, it’s yours.”

The words echoed, louder than the rush of water. His throat tightened, his vision blurring. He clawed at his skin harder, wishing he could rip away the parts of himself that the director had touched. He was disgusted. He was broken. His body was betraying him, too soft, too exposed.

His fingers left deep red marks on his skin, and still, the feeling didn’t go away.

The memories—of the director’s grip on his neck, the bruising kiss, the cruel, laughing words—swarmed in his mind like insects, biting and crawling under his skin.

His breath caught when his hand brushed over the scars on his arm, old and new, reminders of all the times he had tried to carve the pain away. But it never worked. Nothing ever worked.

He stepped back from the water, his body trembling violently now, the harshness of his actions catching up to him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor of the shower, hugging his knees to his chest, curling in on himself like he could disappear, like he could shrink away from the pain.

His hands continued to scratch at his skin, desperately trying to escape the haunting sensation of the director’s touch.

He wasn’t safe. Not here. Not anywhere.

Seonghwa choked back a sob, his chest tight, his skin raw from the rough treatment. His mind was spinning in a haze of panic and shame, thoughts disjointed and frayed, but one thing kept piercing through:

It was his fault. He should’ve known better. He should’ve been stronger.

But it wasn’t his fault.

The thought hit him like a slap, a whisper through the fog of his mind, but it was drowned out by the shame, by the weight of what had just happened.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

The water turned cold, but he didn’t notice. He could barely feel anything except the gnawing ache of his own skin, of the marks left behind.

“It’s your fault.”

It was all he could hear.

——— 

The next day arrived far too soon.

Seonghwa stood in front of his mirror, carefully dabbing concealer over the angry purple bruises marring his neck. No matter how much he layered, they still felt visible—still felt like they were seared into his skin. But he had no choice. He had to go to the academy.

Even if he already knew.

He wasn’t going to get the lead.

Everything he had poured his heart into, every ounce of effort, every sleepless night spent perfecting his technique—gone. Destroyed because of one man.

He swallowed down the bitterness, squared his shoulders, and walked into the academy.

Yunho was already waiting for him, lounging in a seat beside him.

“They’re announcing the leads today,” he said casually.

Seonghwa nodded, barely mustering a response. He didn’t have the energy to talk.

But Yunho, god bless his soul, saw through him. Somehow, he always did. His eyes flicked over Seonghwa’s face, brows furrowing.

“Did something happen?”

Seonghwa stiffened. He shook his head a little too quickly. “No.”

“Hwa.”

His stomach twisted. Yunho’s voice was gentle, but he couldn’t—he couldn’t talk about this. So instead, he forced a small, hollow smile.

“All I’m saying is… be prepared when I’m not your Odette.”

Yunho’s eyes darkened. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the doors to the auditorium opened.

It was time.

The announcement of Swan Lake's leads was always an event, something to be celebrated, envied, and, for some, mourned. Seonghwa sat stiffly in his chair, his hands clenched into his lap. He barely registered the murmur of names being read out for the ensemble and supporting roles. It all blurred together, his heartbeat pounding too loudly in his ears.

Then—

“Odette and Odile will be played by Park Seonghwa.”

The words didn’t register at first. The room exploded into a mix of reactions—applause, gasps, hushed muttering.

Seonghwa’s head snapped up.

He stared at the director, who sat with an unreadable expression, his bruised jaw the only proof of last night’s confrontation.

No.

No, this couldn’t be happening. He wasn’t supposed to get it.

His stomach twisted violently. He could feel Yunho’s eyes burning into the side of his face, hear the quiet, smug scoff from one of the girls who had been eyeing the role.

The director’s lips curled faintly.

“Congratulations,” he said smoothly. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Seonghwa couldn’t breathe.

The murmurs started almost immediately.

“A little birdie told me he stayed behind last night with the director,” someone whispered, just loud enough to be heard. “God, no wonder he got the role.”

“Everyone knows he’s talented, but Odile? Please. He must’ve done something to convince the director.”

Seonghwa shot up from his seat, his legs moving before his mind could catch up. He barely registered Yunho calling his name as he rushed out of the auditorium, his vision swimming.

He made it halfway down the hallway before a hand caught his wrist.

Seonghwa yelped, flinching so violently that his back hit the wall. His breath came in sharp gasps, panic crawling up his throat.

He recognized Yunho’s touch—he always did—but his body was betraying him, reacting as if he were still trapped under someone else’s grip.

Yunho immediately let go, his eyes widening.

“Hey—Hwa, it’s just me.”

Seonghwa forced himself to nod, his pulse hammering. The heat of his own body was unbearable, sweat slicking his temples, and he could feel the sting of makeup melting away, no longer hiding the faint bruises blooming along his neck.

Yunho's expression shifted, his usual teasing smile completely gone. His gaze locked onto the marks, and Seonghwa knew—he knew—there was no hiding it anymore.

“Did he do that?” Yunho’s voice was soft, filled with only empathy.

Seonghwa swallowed hard, looking away. “Please, Yuyu, don’t do anything.”

“Hwa.”

“Yunho, I mean it.”

“Seonghwa.” His voice was firmer now, demanding. “Tell me. Were you forced, or did you—”

“Yunho?!”

Yunho immediately bit down on his tongue, realizing how his words had come out. Guilt flickered across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “That—that wasn’t what I meant. I just—” He exhaled sharply. “I need to know if I should kill him.”

Seonghwa shook his head quickly, his hands curling into fists against his trembling sides. “No. Just—just drop it, okay? Please.”

Yunho clenched his jaw, frustration evident, but he didn’t push. Instead, he took a step closer, lowering his voice.

“Hwa… if you tell me not to do anything, I won’t. But you have to promise me something.”

Seonghwa barely had the energy to nod.

“You don’t let that bastard make you feel like you don’t deserve this role.” Yunho’s voice was firm, unwavering. “You earned it. Every bit of it. And if anyone—anyone—dares to say otherwise, I’ll handle it.”

Seonghwa swallowed the lump in his throat. “And what if I can’t do it?”

“We don’t think about the bad parts,” Yunho said and patted Seonghwa's head.

San was fucked.

He had never seen traffic this bad in his life.

Cars honked, barely inching forward, and his fingers drummed anxiously against his knee as he stared at his phone.

It was almost time to pick up Seonghwa. He had promised.

He couldn’t let him go home alone—not after what had happened.

Their driver was on leave, Wooyoung had already gone back home, and Yunho... Yunho would’ve been a good choice.

If only San had his damn number.

With a frustrated exhale, he did the unthinkable.

He scrolled down to a contact he had sworn he’d never call. Not for this. Not for him.

His thumb hovered over the screen. His pride screamed at him to find another way. Anyone else.

But there wasn’t anyone else.

And Hongjoong, for all his faults, had morals.

He never touched what wasn’t given to him.

Seonghwa would be safe.

He had to be safe.

San took a deep, humiliated breath and hit call.

Just this once.

Just for hyung.

This is my last resort.

The line rang twice before a rough voice answered.

“What?”

Hongjoong’s tone was as curt and disinterested as ever.

San clenched his jaw.

This was already unbearable.

“Where are you?”

A beat of silence.

“The fuck do you care?” San exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter. “Just answer the damn question, Hongjoong.” There was a faint rustling on the other end, the sound of a cigarette being exhaled. “Near the arena. Why?” San shut his eyes. That was the best-case scenario. 

“Pick up Seonghwa.” Another silence. 

A sharp inhale. Then a low chuckle. “Say that again?”

“Pick. Him. Up,” San bit out, every word tasting like acid on his tongue. “I’m stuck in traffic. He can’t go home alone, keep him safe.”

Hongjoong hummed, dragging out the pause just long enough to make San’s blood boil. “Since when do you trust me with your pretty little brother?”

San’s patience snapped. “Don’t make me fucking regret this.”

Another amused chuckle. “Relax, mama bear. I’m already revving.”

The call ended before San could respond. He gritted his teeth, tossing his phone onto the dashboard. Please let this not be a mistake.

Hongjoong sighed, slipping his phone back into his jacket. San must really be desperate if he’s calling me. He swung a leg over his motorcycle, adjusting his gloves as he revved the engine. The academy wasn’t far. He could be there in minutes. With a sharp turn, he sped off, weaving through the traffic effortlessly. The wind whipped past him, but his mind was already elsewhere.

San’s little swan.

What the hell happened to you, doll?

Hongjoong pulled up with a screech of tires, stopping just inches away from Seonghwa, who stood anxiously on the curb. The dancer kept glancing over his shoulder, his fingers gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Hongjoong clicked his tongue.

Skittish little thing.

“Here’s your royal carriage, princess,” he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Seonghwa flinched. The reaction was small but telling. Hongjoong was about to make another snide remark when his gaze trailed down, catching the dark bruises peeking from beneath Seonghwa’s collar. They weren’t the kind someone got from a lover. No, these were ugly—splotched, harsh, and angry against his pale skin. His grip on the handlebars tightened.

What the fuck is this?

His voice came low, dangerous. “Who did this to you?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer. He just stood there, legs shaking, hands trembling. His silence made Hongjoong’s stomach twist. With a sigh, Hongjoong reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against Seonghwa’s cheek, startlingly gentle.

“Hey, doll,” he murmured, his voice softer now, coaxing. “Tell me.”

Nothing. Seonghwa wouldn’t even look at him. Hongjoong exhaled through his nose, biting back his irritation. He was bad at this—handling people delicately. His thumb traced over Seonghwa’s cheekbone.

“What, cat got your tongue? Or did you let someone else put their mouth all over you?”

Seonghwa just stared at him, those big, soft boba eyes wide and glassy, faint wetness clinging to his lashes. Hongjoong groaned, tilting his head back in frustration.

Fuck. Why am I like this? Why was he blaming Seonghwa? Why was he making it worse when the poor man had done nothing but show him kindness? He dragged a hand down his face, inhaling sharply.

"Shit, forget I said that."

Seonghwa blinked at him, unmoving. Hongjoong clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around the handlebar. He hated this—hated feelings, hated the way guilt was crawling up his throat, hated the way Seonghwa made him feel things he didn’t want to deal with. With a sigh, he reached out again, more hesitant this time, brushing a stray strand of hair away from Seonghwa’s face.

“I didn’t mean that,” he muttered, quieter now, rough with self-loathing.

Seonghwa didn’t pull away, but he didn’t respond either. Hongjoong clicked his tongue, forcing himself to look away. “Just get on the damn bike, yeah?”

Seonghwa hesitated, his gaze flickering between the imposing machine and his own legs. He glanced down at his satin skirt, the sheer stockings hugging his legs, and then back up at the bike.

"Did Sannie send you to pick me up?" he asked softly.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Seonghwa swallowed, looking away. "I can walk back, then. I'm sorry for disturbing you."

Hongjoong blinked. What? Why the hell is he acting like this? His grip on the handlebar tightened. He was used to Seonghwa being soft, polite, maybe even a little hesitant—but this was different. He looked small. Distant. Like he was trying to disappear into himself. Hongjoong hated it.

"Come on, Petal," he drawled, voice intentionally lazy, masking the frustration clawing up his chest. "I gave San my word. I’m not about to get my ribs cracked open again when they’re barely healed."

Seonghwa flinched. Barely noticeable, but Hongjoong caught it. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"Unless you want to see me in a hospital bed," he added, tilting his head with a smirk, trying to tease, trying to make this feel normal.

Seonghwa exhaled shakily, then—finally—took a step forward. But before he could get on, Hongjoong noticed the way his fingers clutched his skirt, the subtle hesitation in his body language. His eyes darted toward the exposed skin of his thighs, where the stockings did nothing to protect him from the heat of the bike.

Of course.

With a sigh, Hongjoong unzipped his leather jacket and shrugged it off, reaching over to wrap it securely around Seonghwa’s waist. “Wear this,” he said, voice gruff, like it was no big deal. “Your pretty little legs won’t last a second if they touch the engine.”

Seonghwa blinked up at him, startled. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but he just clutched the jacket tighter around himself. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Hongjoong ignored the strange warmth curling in his chest and turned away. "Yeah, yeah. Just get on."

Seonghwa gingerly lifted his leg over the bike, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. With a sigh, Hongjoong reached behind him, grabbing Seonghwa’s wrists and pulling them tight around his waist.

"Hold on properly," he muttered, voice low. "Not in the mood to scrape you off the pavement."

Seonghwa’s fingers curled hesitantly into the fabric of Hongjoong’s shirt, barely gripping. Not good enough. Hongjoong grabbed his hands again, squeezing them tighter against his stomach, feeling the delicate tremor running through them. His stomach twisted.

"Like you mean it, doll."

Seonghwa exhaled against his back, a tiny, shaky breath. But this time, he held on properly.

Hongjoong didn’t say another word. Just revved the engine, drowning out the weight in his chest, and sped off into the night. The bike rumbled beneath them, a steady purr that vibrated through Seonghwa’s chest as he clung to Hongjoong’s waist.

He expected Hongjoong to take a direct route home. Maybe even shove him off the second they arrived, making some snide remark about how he was doing San a favor and nothing else.

But Hongjoong didn’t turn toward the estate.

Instead, he veered onto the open road, speeding up.

Seonghwa stiffened. “W-Where are we going?”

No response.

The bike surged forward, the wind slicing against Seonghwa’s skin as Hongjoong twisted the throttle, going faster. The city lights blurred past them in streaks of gold and white, and before Seonghwa could protest—

Hongjoong jerked the bike into a sharp turn.

Seonghwa screamed.

Hongjoong laughed.

The bastard laughed.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Seonghwa yelped, his grip around Hongjoong’s waist tightening in sheer panic.

“Relax, Petal,” Hongjoong drawled over the roar of the engine, amusement laced through his voice. “You’re too tense.”

“I—obviously! You’re going to kill us!”

“Nah.” Hongjoong accelerated. “I know what I’m doing.”

Seonghwa buried his face into Hongjoong’s back, heart hammering against his ribs. “Slow down, please,” he begged, fingers digging into Hongjoong’s shirt.

Hongjoong hummed but didn’t listen. Instead, he took another sharp turn, the force of it making Seonghwa cling tighter, legs squeezing instinctively around him.

Hongjoong chuckled. “There you go.”

“There I go what?” Seonghwa snapped, voice muffled against his shoulder.

“You’re finally holding on properly.”

Seonghwa would’ve hit him if he wasn’t so busy making sure he didn’t fly off the damn bike.

But as terrifying as it was, the rush of cold air against his skin, the way the city blurred past them in streaks of color—he realized something.

His mind was empty.

For the first time since last night, he wasn’t thinking about him. He wasn’t thinking about the director’s hands, the bruises on his neck, the murmurs of the academy girls.

All he could think about was this—the reckless speed, Hongjoong’s warmth beneath his fingertips, the vibration of the engine beneath him.

Nothing else.

Maybe that was Hongjoong’s intention.

Maybe, just this once, Hongjoong was doing something for him.

But he’d never say it out loud.

So Seonghwa didn’t either.

The wind whipped through Seonghwa’s hair, stinging his skin as Hongjoong continued to speed through the empty streets. His heart hammered, fear still sitting heavy in his stomach, but it was different now—less suffocating, less paralyzing.

Eventually, Hongjoong eased off the throttle, the bike slowing as they reached the outskirts of the city, near a small bridge overlooking the river. He rolled to a stop, the engine humming softly beneath them.

Seonghwa slowly lifted his head, breath uneven. “Why did you bring me here?”

Hongjoong exhaled, running a hand through his hair before glancing over his shoulder. “Thought you needed some air.”

Seonghwa blinked. “So you terrified me first?”

Hongjoong smirked. “And it worked, didn’t it?”

Seonghwa scowled but didn’t argue.

The rush of the ride had left his nerves thrumming.

Hongjoong stepped off the bike, stretching with a groan. Seonghwa hesitated before carefully dismounting as well, his legs wobbly beneath him.

He turned toward the river, staring at the way the city lights reflected off the water, rippling like melted gold. The quiet hum of insects and the distant murmur of traffic filled the air, a stark contrast to the chaos of before.

He took a slow breath.

It wasn’t much, but it felt like something.

Hongjoong leaned against his bike, watching him. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t smirking—just watching, like he was studying Seonghwa’s every move.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Hongjoong said suddenly, his voice quieter than before.

Seonghwa stiffened.

“I just need to know if that fucker touched you against your will.” Hongjoong continued, gaze locked onto him. “Was it someone at the academy?”

Seonghwa’s throat tightened.

He didn’t answer.

But Hongjoong didn’t need him to.

The slight tremble in Seonghwa’s fingers, the way his shoulders curled inward as if shielding himself, the faint shimmer of tears in his lashes—it told him everything.

Hongjoong clenched his jaw, looking away as his fingers curled into fists. His breathing deepened, his shoulders tensed, and for a moment, Seonghwa swore he felt the air shift—like a storm was brewing right beside him.

Then, just as suddenly, Hongjoong let out a sharp breath and turned back to him, his usual smirk creeping onto his lips.

“Forget it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Let’s get you home before San breaks my legs.”

Seonghwa hesitated, glancing at him. “Hongjoong—”

“Not now, Petal.”

The way he said it—soft, tired, but final—made Seonghwa swallow his words.

Because for all of Hongjoong’s recklessness, his taunts, his sharp tongue… he was holding something back.

Hongjoong didn’t say another word as he climbed back onto his bike, tapping the seat behind him impatiently. Seonghwa hesitated for only a second before following, still wrapped in Hongjoong’s leather jacket. The scent of cigarettes and cologne clung to it, mixing with the lingering heat of the night.

The ride back was quieter. Hongjoong didn’t speed this time. His grip on the handlebars was tight, his shoulders rigid. 

When they finally reached the apartment, Hongjoong parked the bike in the driveway and killed the engine. Seonghwa made no move to get off immediately.

He sat there, fingers curled into the jacket around his waist, staring at the pavement. The night air pressed down on him, thick and suffocating now that the distraction was gone.

"Hey."

Seonghwa flinched slightly as Hongjoong turned to look at him. His voice wasn’t mocking this time.

"You should go inside," Hongjoong said.

Seonghwa swallowed, nodding. He slowly swung his leg over the bike, his footing unsteady.

Before he could step away completely, Hongjoong reached out, fingers curling around Seonghwa’s wrist—gently, just enough to hold him in place.

Seonghwa froze.

His pulse jumped beneath Hongjoong’s touch, but not in fear.

Hongjoong’s thumb brushed lightly over his wrist bone, a fleeting gesture, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. His gaze flickered to the fading smudges of makeup on Seonghwa’s neck, to the bruises peeking through. His grip tightened, just barely.

Then, with a sigh, Hongjoong pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and held it out.

"Put your number in," he said, voice quieter than before.

Seonghwa hesitated, blinking at the screen. "Why?"

"Just do it, Petal. For protection." Hongjoong's jaw ticked, eyes dark and unreadable. "In case something happens. In case you need someone."

Seonghwa’s fingers trembled as he took the phone, quickly typing in his number. When he handed it back, Hongjoong sent a single message to confirm. Seonghwa felt his own phone buzz in his skirt pocket.

"There," Hongjoong muttered, slipping the device away. "Now you don’t have an excuse to suffer in silence."

Seonghwa opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t know what to say. And Hongjoong didn’t wait for an answer. 

He let go, eyes dropping as he reached for his keys again.

“Go inside, Petal.” Seonghwa took a shaky breath and turned away, stepping toward the door.

He only looked back once, just in time to see Hongjoong run a frustrated hand through his hair before kicking his bike into motion and speeding off into the night.

—-

Hongjoong pulled over a few blocks away from Seonghwa’s house, killing the engine before pulling out his phone.

San picked up instantly. “He home?”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You should’ve seen him. He—fuck, San. He looked terrified.”

A deep exhale crackled through the line. “I know.”

“You knew?” Hongjoong’s voice sharpened.

“I found out yesterday,” San admitted, voice tight. “Saw the bruises. He wouldn’t tell me anything, but I knew. And then when that bastard had the nerve to show up—” San cut himself off, inhaling sharply like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. “You should’ve told me.”

San scoffed. “Why the hell should i”

Another pause. The silence between them was loud.

Then Hongjoong spoke, low and seething. “Where does he live?”

San didn’t hesitate. “Why?”

Hongjoong let out a slow breath. 

“Because that bastard still has his fucking job, and Seonghwa still has to see him every damn day. That doesn’t sit right with me.”

San was silent for a moment. 

“Doesn’t sit right with me either.” he said, his voice eerily calm

Hongjoong smirked humorlessly, already revving the engine. “Then let’s fix that.”

The engine growled beneath his hands, a perfect match for the fury tightening his chest.

San’s voice remained steady, lethal. “He should be leaving the studio about now. His house is near a back alley—he has to cross it to get inside.”

Hongjoong hummed, already calculating. “You already stalked him huh.”

San let out a sharp exhale. “You have no idea the depths I’d go to for Hyung.”

That made Hongjoong pause. He’d always thought San was the more level-headed one, the one who kept his composure. But right now? San sounded just as dangerous as him. Just as willing to spill blood.

“Good,” Hongjoong muttered, twisting the throttle. “Then let’s make sure that fucker never touches him again.”

The call cut off.

With that, Hongjoong tore down the road, the city lights streaking past in a blur. This wasn’t just about revenge—it was about making sure Seonghwa never had to flinch like that again. Never had to look over his shoulder, not only Seonghwa, no other student in that academy has to face that.

By the time he reached the alley, San was already there, leaning against a wall, arms crossed, tension coiled in every muscle. He barely acknowledged Hongjoong’s arrival, just gave a slow nod.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the street.

Hongjoong flexed his fingers.

San rolled his shoulders.

The director came into view, flinching as he noticed the two, he was taller than the both of them  "Well hello there, a little birdie told me you fucked around with one of your students forcefully" Hongjoong began as the director groaned 

"let me catch a fucking break he got the part he doesnt need to whine about it to everyone-”

The director barely had time to react before Hongjoong’s hand was fisting his collar, slamming him against the cold brick wall with a sickening thud. The alley was dimly lit, the distant hum of city life a stark contrast to the suffocating silence between them.

Hongjoong’s voice was low, almost eerily calm. “you touched what’s mine.”

The director scoffed, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. “You act like I fucked him. I barely—”

A sharp crack rang out as Hongjoong’s fist collided with his jaw, cutting him off instantly. The man groaned, his head snapping to the side, but before he could recover, San was there, gripping his arm in a vice-like hold.

San’s voice was ice. “Wrong answer”

The director spat blood onto the pavement, sneering. “You kids don’t scare me.”

Hongjoong let out a sharp, humorless laugh before grabbing him by the hair, forcing him to look up. “Oh, but you should be scared.” He yanked the man forward 

“Do you even realize what you’ve done? Do you have any idea what it’s like to see him flinch? To see him—the sweetest, most delicate thing—look over his shoulder like a scared animal? How many fucking women you must have traumatized because youc ant fucking keep it in your pants”

San’s grip tightened, his fingers digging in so hard it was sure to bruise. “You don’t deserve to be breathing right now.”

The director grunted, trying to shove them off, but Hongjoong was already driving a knee into his stomach, making him wheeze. He doubled over, but Hongjoong didn’t let go—he wouldn’t let go.

San exhaled sharply, barely restraining himself. “You’re going to disappear.”

The director let out a breathy laugh, wincing. “And if I don’t?”

Hongjoong leaned in, pressing in closer, his voice nothing but a whisper of pure malice. “Then you’ll wish we fucking killed you.”

The director barely had time to process the threat before Hongjoong slammed another punch into his face. The force of it sent him stumbling, but before he could catch his breath, San was on him.

A solid knee to the ribs. A sharp hook to the jaw. A brutal shove that sent him sprawling against the damp pavement. The man barely had a chance to cough before San grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back up, his normally composed face twisted with sheer fury.

"You fucking think you can just walk away from this?" San growled, his knuckles white as he threw another devastating punch straight into the director’s gut. The man choked on his own breath, doubling over, but San wasn’t done. He grabbed his hair, yanking his head up. "You don’t touch him. You don’t look at him. You don’t even fucking breathe near him again—"

Before he could finish, Hongjoong swung his fist again, and this time, it was different. This time, it was personal.

Hongjoong had been in a lot of fights. He knew how to hit to hurt, how to aim for weak spots, how to break a man down, but this? This wasn’t just about hurting. This was about ruining.

The director’s nose crunched under his fist, blood splattering onto the pavement. Hongjoong followed up with a vicious kick to the ribs, and the man let out a strangled groan, collapsing onto his side.

But Hongjoong wasn’t stopping. He straddled him, fists flying, punching again and again, the pure rage in his chest boiling over into every strike. He could see Seonghwa in his mind—Seonghwa shaking, Seonghwa flinching, Seonghwa crying—and it only made him hit harder.

San barely managed to pull him back when the director’s face was nothing but a bloody mess, his body twitching weakly against the ground. Hongjoong was panting, hands shaking, face twisted with unfiltered rage.

"Enough," San muttered, gripping his arm. "He's enough."

But Hongjoong wasn’t done. His breath was ragged, his body still thrumming with the need to tear the man apart. "He hurt Seonghwa," he spat. "He fucking—"

"I know." San’s voice was tight, his own hands still trembling with adrenaline. He looked down at the barely conscious director, chest heaving. "And we made sure he’ll never do it again."

Hongjoong let out a sharp exhale, his knuckles split and bruised, his lip bleeding where he had bit down too hard.

San rolled his shoulders, his knuckles flexing as he took a step closer. "Hand in your resignation at the academy tomorrow. Make it look like you’re leaving on your own terms. But if you so much as think about stepping foot into that academy again—"

"Or anywhere near Seonghwa," Hongjoong cut in, his tone dripping with venom, "I’ll make sure you leave on a stretcher next time."

The director let out a broken laugh, spitting a glob of blood onto the pavement. "As if I’ll be able to dance after this," he sneered. "You broke my fucking ribs."

Hongjoong cracked his knuckles, leaning down so their faces were inches apart. "Hey, don’t you sass me, old man," he mocked, voice deceptively light. "I’m still not done."

The director flinched, instinctively trying to crawl back, but his body was too wrecked to move properly. Hongjoong grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up just enough so he had to look him in the eye.

"You like power, don’t you?" he murmured, tilting his head. "That’s why you prey on people smaller than you. Softer than you. People who can’t fight back." His grip tightened, his nails digging into fabric. "But guess what? You’re not the strongest one in the room anymore, asshole."

He let go, and the director crumpled like a fucking ragdoll.

San exhaled sharply, watching the man groan in pain. His own fury still simmered, but there was something deeply satisfying about seeing him this weak. This helpless.

"We should go," San muttered, glancing at Hongjoong. "He’s not worth our time anymore."

Hongjoong scoffed, wiping the blood off his busted lip with the back of his hand. "If I ever see him near Seonghwa again, I won’t hold back."

San didn’t need to say anything. Hongjoong already knew he felt the same.

With one last glare at the broken, wheezing man on the pavement, they turned and walked away, leaving him there like the fucking trash he was.

And somehow, in the middle of all this, San realized—he didn’t hate Hongjoong as much as he thought he did. Maybe, just maybe, he could trust him to be around Seonghwa. Because tonight, Hongjoong hadn’t just fought for the sake of throwing punches—he had fought for Seonghwa. And that meant something.

San exhaled sharply, glancing at the man beside him. "Hey," he muttered.

Hongjoong hummed in acknowledgment, wiping his busted lip with the back of his hand.

San hesitated for a split second before extending his hand. "Truce?"

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, scoffing. "What, you finally warming up to me, rich boy?"

San rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

With an amused shake of his head, Hongjoong clasped San’s hand. "Truce."

"So, what now?" Hongjoong asked after a moment. "You still want me to stay the hell away from your brother, or am I off the blacklist?"

San exhaled sharply, tilting his head up to the sky. “I still don’t like you.”

Hongjoong smirked, lighting a cigarette as he leaned against his bike. “Didn’t ask if you did.”

San ignored him. “But… I don’t think you’re as much of a piece of shit as I thought.” He turned to look at Hongjoong, expression unreadable. “If you fuck up, if you hurt him, if you do anything that makes him cry—”

"Yeah, yeah." Hongjoong waved him off, exhaling smoke into the cold air. "You’ll bury me in some rich-people graveyard, I get it.”

San didn’t laugh. His gaze was serious, unwavering. “I’ll do worse.”

For once, Hongjoong didn’t have a smartass reply. He just held San’s stare for a long, tense moment—then nodded.

San nodded back. It wasn’t approval. It wasn’t even trust. But it was something.

Hongjoong took another drag of his cigarette, watching as San turned on his heel and walked away.

"Hey, rich boy."

San stopped mid-step, exhaling through his nose. "What now?"

Hongjoong shifted his weight, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. His voice was quieter this time, less cocky. "I don’t… like Seonghwa in that way."

San raised an eyebrow, turning slightly.

"I’m just—" Hongjoong hesitated, clicking his tongue. "Intrigued." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if frustrated with himself. "He’s a nice person. Too nice. I wanna know why he’s like that. Why he’s still nice to me."

San scoffed, his lips curling into something unreadable. "Then stay the hell away from him."

Hongjoong smirked, tilting his head. "Noted."

But neither of them really believed that.