Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Hong Kong hotel shampoo is almost lemon pepper scented, pricking his nose even as he tosses and turns on his stolen pillow.

Mingyu didn’t even realize he was missing it until they landed at the airport, and even then, he hadn’t asked Jeonghan if he’d seen it.

Not that he has a reason to.

Jeonghan huffs, sitting up and flipping the pillow over again, twisting onto his other side to try and get some sleep. Unfortunately, rotating his pillow does nothing for the scent permeating from his hair. The all too familiar scent.

He stole the pillow a month ago and he’s woken up on it every morning since then. He tries not to think about how he liked it better when his head was laying on it.

That was the deal after all. Jeonghan steals something of his and if he doesn’t catch it, then Jeonghan gets to keep it, and vice versa.

There was a box of stuff sitting outside Jeonghan and Seungkwan’s dorm room a week after everything went down. Jeonghan didn’t open it then. It didn’t help that Seungkwan wouldn’t have been back for another few months when it all happened.

Now it just sits in the corner of his room, where Seungkwan can’t see it and ask him why he hasn’t cleared it out of his room yet. He still doesn’t have the heart to open it—doesn’t want to know what’s in it that he’s lost all these years.

God, years.

Six hours. If he can just get six hours of sleep, he can get through the rest of the day. There’ll be time in between the individual and unit shoots to nap—his hair is long enough again that he might even be able to sleep through getting his hair done.

Then again, the unit shoots aren’t their traditional units and he’s been avoiding thinking about that for a reason.

God, he’s avoided that room for months now, only slipping in once to steal the pillow and even then, he walked back to the dorm to try and shake the scent off by the time he got back.

(It didn’t work.)

A knock on the door stirs him out of his tossing and turning. There’s only a few other members who would still be awake right now, especially once he rules out the others still celebrating.

Seungcheol is at the top of his list, fluffy hair mussed and head tilted curiously. “Jeonghan-ah. Can I come in?”

Jeonghan can’t hide the sigh that escapes him, a mixture of relief and dread pooling in his chest. He just holds the door open wider, stepping back slightly.

Seungcheol steps in, the soft glow of the hallway light spilling into the darkened room. He glances around, taking in the disheveled state of Jeonghan’s space—clothes scattered on the floor and the half-open suitcase sitting forlornly in the corner.

Some seven hundred miles away, it’s a box in the corner of his dorm.

Jeonghan crawls back into his bed, pulling the blanket back up before rolling onto his back. He feels the mattress dip on the other side as Seungcheol’s warmth brushes against his side.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle, filled with all the concern Jeonghan has been avoiding. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Probably because he hasn’t.

“Mm.”

The lights don’t have to be on for Jeonghan to know Seungcheol is pulling those ridiculous puppy eyes. They don’t work on him anymore, only Minghao, even if Seungcheol gets flustered denying it, and—

Mingyu.

“Jeonghan-ah.”

The ceiling is painted over perfectly, but he’s been tossing and turning long enough to get accustomed to the dark. He can see the faint outline of the domed light above their heads if he focuses.

He feels the familiar pressure build behind his eyes, and he squeezes his eyes shut. The light still hovers. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“And Mingyu?”

Jeonghan’s fists curl around the sheets tightly, throat tight when he speaks. “You should be asking him that, not me.”

“You guys haven’t spoken much since he came back, have you? I can tell something’s off. You’ve been distant.”

“Is he asking or are you?” Jeonghan retorts acerbically, deflating when Seungcheol nudges his shoulder. “Sorry. It’s—it’s whatever, Coups-yah. We fight all the time—”

“Is that what this is?”

“What?”

“A fight.”

Jeonghan has never been able to lie to Seungcheol. He clenches his jaw, every fiber of his being screaming at him to speak up, to clarify, but the weight of words remains unspoken. Mingyu’s departure, the break in their arrangement, the bitter silence in their last conversation—it all feels like a tangled web he can’t afford to unravel.

He can’t.

Not when they’re all finally together again. Not when they don’t know how many more years they have left together like this.

He can’t taint it.

“It’s complicated,” he finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “We haven’t really had the chance to figure things out.”

“You’re only good at lying when there’s a prize on the line,” Seungcheol observes plainly. He rolls onto his side. “Jeonghan-ah. The cameras aren’t on.”

Jeonghan exhales shakily. “I wish it could have been you.”

Seungcheol snorts, flopping onto his back again. “No, you don’t.”

No, he doesn’t. “It would’ve been so easy.”

“You’ve never wanted easy.” A sigh this time, long and drawn out. “You've only ever wanted him.”

And that’s the crux, isn’t it? How badly he wants him? How badly he fought to not say it because that wasn’t something they did? How easy it was to say ‘I love you,’ and mean it a different way? How easy it was to never talk about it?

No, none of it was easy.

“We could’ve been good,” Jeonghan muses halfheartedly, squeezing Seungcheol’s forearm.

Seungcheol squeezes back. “We’re better like this.”

They are.

And, besides, loathe as Jeonghan is to admit it, Seungcheol is right. He’s never wanted anything if it’s easy. Rather, there’s no point in chasing something easy when the work has to be put in regardless. Might as well do whatever’s hardest.

“Coups-yah.”

“Yeah.” Seungcheol sighs, bringing the blanket up higher. He’s slurring his words now, half asleep. He’s only awake because of his insomnia, so Jeonghan sees no reason to kick him out. It’ll be easier to wake up at the same time anyway—it spares him one more room to wake up.

It’s not easier. Jeonghan stares at the figure in the doorway, keenly aware that Seungcheol is still rambling about something in the tiny hotel bathroom.

“I didn’t know you—I can come back later.”

His gaze is fixed on the mirror, visible at the angle Jeonghan opened the door in.

“No!” Jeonghan calls out, glaring balefully at Seungcheol, who hasn’t noticed. “No, it’s fine. Did you—is everything okay?”

Mingyu snorts derisively, running a hand through his hair. He’s grown it out longer too, nearly as long as he had when they were on their Be the Sun tour. “It’s fine if you have someone over, I can come back later.”

“No, he was just leaving,” Jeonghan grits out, leaning to the side to kick the shower door and get Seungcheol’s attention. Seungcheol looks up with wide eyes, toothpaste foam on his lips and toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, and meets Mingyu’s eyes.

“Mingyu-yah!”

Jeonghan buries his face in his hands. Mingyu winces and gives Seungcheol a strained smile.

“Hi, hyung.”

“I’m leaving,” he calls out unnecessarily. “Hyung, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Oh, me,” Seungcheol realizes, a moment late. Jeonghan squirms, torn between stepping back and bodily shoving Seungcheol out of the bathroom so he can lock himself in there. “Mingyu-yah, I can step out if you guys need to talk.”

Mingyu tilts his head, wolf-like even after so long. Jeonghan doesn’t know why he wondered how everything would change in those years. “Why would we need to talk?”

Even Seungcheol winces at that, gaze darting uncertainly between Jeonghan and Mingyu. “Well, I mean, this is Jeonghannie’s room, so…”

“Seungkwannie told me it was yours,” Mingyu mutters, cheeks blooming red. He used to like that—before—but he looks different now. Almost angry. “Sorry. I’ll see you at the shop.”

“Mingyu-yah—”

“It’s fine, hyung.”

So Jeonghan watches him walk away, yet again, and wonders why no one asked him if it was fine.

“Jeonghan-ah, I’m sorry,” Seungcheol offers quietly. He looks younger like this, hair still uncombed and face puffy from sleep. Jeonghan sighs, ruffling his hair and closing the room door. He stays quiet even as they get ready, pulling on a mask and a baseball cap despite Seungcheol’s assurances that he looks great now.

It doesn’t matter how great he looks if he’s going to be taken apart and put back together by the style team anyway. It matters even less when he has to stand by Kim Mingyu, drape himself over Kim Mingyu and let Mingyu fall over him as they dance around each other for their unit shots.

When they met with their creative team all those months ago to finalize the concept of their group comeback album, the last theme Jeonghan had expected was for Jihoon to suggest something nostalgic, a little retro. Home;run had been retro, full with the theatrics only a group of their size could pull off, and it was already so many years ago that it had come out.

Still, the idea caught on, and Junhui had suggested drawing inspiration from the aesthetics of Wong Kar Wai films, pulling together something dreamy and saturated to match the shoegaze adjacent track Woozi produced. The style team had latched onto it well—the makeup and outfits were easy to coordinate too.

Which brings them to the convenience store, with Jeonghan perched on the counter and leaning against a wall of refrigerators. Mingyu sits by his feet, head resting against his ankle with his back to the merchandiser, filled with customized cans just for their music video shoot.

Mingyu leaning against a shelf and Jeonghan facing him, bodies angled slightly towards the camera. Mingyu staring at him through the glass of an aquarium, Jeonghan looking away when their eyes meet and at the camera instead.

His skin crawls the closer they get and he can’t help the way he bodily flinches when Mingyu loosely curls a hand around his ankle, biting his lip for the camera.

He can’t get away from there fast enough when their director calls for a break, stumbling up the flight of stairs to escape to the roof. It’s a convenience store, nowhere near high enough to compete with the skyscrapers, but he doesn’t mind the view. The close, almost claustrophobic, buildings feel no different to Seoul these days, always closing in when all he wants is to breathe.

He flicks the lighter—a prop, there’s no lighter fuel in it to light a flame—and nearly drops it when his hands shake.

He spent two years convincing himself that it could have been anyone. If not Mingyu, then another member, and if not that, another idol. Maybe. In an industry with so many secrets and a group with so many options, what they had was only a natural progression. They weren’t even the only ones, all things considered, even if it was different between them.

No one really knew him, not in the way Mingyu did.

And now they might as well be strangers, even if he can’t let the memories die.

“Your hairstylist noona’s calling,” a familiar voice calls out.

Right, the wind would’ve done a number on his hair. He nods slowly, staring straight ahead. “Right, I’ll be down in a minute.”

“You still have time,” Mingyu points out, infuriatingly calm.

That’s the worst part, maybe. Despite everything that happened between them, it’s like none of it was real to Mingyu. He’s calm and collected, cute with the others, but unaffected when he does acknowledge Jeonghan, rare as that is.

The total opposite of when they were—before. Where Jeonghan would rile Mingyu up in more ways than one, always teasing him and flirting with him, draping himself over him and sticking his hands in his to hold just to get a reaction. And Mingyu always responded beautifully, blooming red as he followed along, desperate for Jeonghan’s attention one way or the other.

He’s flipped the script now, thrown it out while Jeonghan thinks he’s being too openly desperate for Mingyu to not have figured it out by now.

“Don’t want to make things harder,” Jeonghan mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair before he closes his eyes and winces. He turns around quickly, not bothering to spare Mingyu a glance when he pulls the door to the stairs open.

Mingyu pulls him back, his hand a warm brand around Jeonghan’s wrist. “Hyung.”

“So you’re calling me that again,” he murmurs thoughtlessly, more to himself than anything else.

Mingyu’s face falls and Jeonghan can’t even celebrate his mask finally cracking because it hurts.

“Can’t we still talk to each other?” He asks, voice small.

Jeonghan sighs and wonders where all the time went, why he feels like he’s aged all those years in a second. “I’m not the one ignoring you, Mingyu-yah.”

“Jeonghan hyung—” His voice warbles, ever so slightly and Jeonghan moves before he can think much of it, turning to pull Mingyu in, arms wrapped around his waist. Mingyu’s hands hover around his shoulders, not quite curling up in the space below his shoulder the way he used to, but leagues closer than all their time apart.

Somewhere in the past few years, he’s come to the realization that he doesn’t want someone new.

He sighs. “I know.”

Just someone who feels like Mingyu.