Chapter Text
donghyun was five when his mother died.
he didn’t remember the funeral clearly. just that it rained. that everyone wore black, and someone tried to touch his head. that he stood next to a coffin he didn’t understand and watched his father’s hands stay stiffly at his sides.
he didn’t cry.
he wanted to. his chest was tight, and his eyes burned, but he didn’t. because when they got home, his father crouched down to his eye level and grabbed him by the shoulders. he said one thing. one thing that settled into donghyun's stomach like a cold stone.
“men don’t cry.”
it was said with a sharpness that made the words feel like a slap. and donghyun—five, heartbroken, soft—swallowed them whole.
he didn’t cry that day. or any day after.
not when he woke up the next morning and forgot she was gone for a second. not when he ate breakfast alone for the first time. not when the house became echoing, hollow, and cold.
he simply… stopped crying.
that was the first lesson his father taught him.
the second came when he was ten.
his older brother left for america. boarding school. an “opportunity,” his father said. as if it was a good thing. as if losing the only person who ever held his hand at night meant something beautiful.
for studies. for opportunity. for the family.
donghyun didn’t understand. his brother was the golden one. the one who got the high scores and the right smile. who snuck him candy behind their father’s back. who talked to him like he mattered.
he watched his brother pack with forced excitement. he didn’t say anything until the car was outside and the suitcases were zipped. then, small and scared and already halfway to breaking, donghyun whispered, “don’t go.”
his brother smiled at him with sad eyes and kissed his forehead.
“i’ll call every week,” he promised.
he didn’t.
the house went silent again.
and donghyun… didn’t cry.
instead, he learned the third lesson.
grief can turn into anger. if you feed it enough.
it was ridiculous, of course. childish. his father hadn’t killed his mother. hadn’t forced his brother to go. but he had stood there and let it all happen, hadn’t he? he had watched donghyun crumble and called it discipline. had watched a child bleed and said it was character building.
his father never sat him down to explain things. never asked if he was okay. there were only expectations. rigid, ironclad, and cold.
he was expected to dress well. speak well. study more. eat less sugar. smile in photos. bow lower. shake hands like a man.
at twelve, he was enrolled in private etiquette classes. at thirteen, business seminars.
he never chose anything. his future was already carved out for him like a will read in advance. the company would be his one day. the name would pass on. so would the legacy.
and donghyun? he was just a body walking toward a destiny he never asked for.
he followed the rules, because not following them meant punishment — not physical, never that — but worse: disappointment. cold stares. silence sharp enough to bleed.
he was given everything. money. a chauffeur. custom suits. a room bigger than most apartments. tutors for everything from french to the violin.
everything — except freedom.
and yet, a small part of him — the part that still remembered the soft slope of his mother’s shoulder, the warmth of her voice — still wanted his father to notice him. to say “good job” without sounding like it cost him something. to look at him the way he used to look at his older brother.
but he never did.
instead, he sent donghyun to events where the children of CEOs and politicians shook hands and memorized stock prices. they talked like little adults, rehearsed and empty. they were carefully curated — friends picked not for compatibility, but for usefulness. whose father owned what. whose mother sat on which board. who could offer a connection five years from now.
kim gyuvin; the country's famous politician's oldest son. noh yunah; her mother was an important name in the business industry. park minju; her family owned generational wealth and a well-run business. park sungho; his father was the biggest shareholder in donghyun' father's company, a family friend.
donghyun hated all of them.
except sungho.
sungho was the only one who didn’t pretend. he smoked on balconies and rolled his eyes when they were asked to give toasts. he didn’t speak unless he meant it. maybe that’s why they got along.
they talked about things they weren’t supposed to. about hating their fathers. about wanting to disappear. about wondering what it might be like to make a decision without having to think ten years ahead.
sungho taught him how to light a cigarette. how to drink without flinching. how to survive being watched by a hundred eyes and still feel invisible.
by fifteen, donghyun had learned how to be two people.
the first was the son his father wanted: clean, polished, well-spoken. he bowed at the right times, got perfect grades, and never showed an inch of rebellion.
the second was his shadow self: reckless, craving, too full of everything he wasn’t allowed to feel. he kissed strangers in the backs of cars. smoked out of bathroom windows. snuck out of charity galas just to scream into the night.
but even then, he never really let go.
he flirted with trouble, but never married it.
there were no photos. no paper trails. no broken laws. he kept the shine intact. because if he messed up—if he failed—he wouldn’t just be disappointing his father. he’d be proving him right.
and somehow, that was worse.
he didn’t realize how lonely he was until it started to feel normal.
until his entire personality was built on performance.
he smiled when he was supposed to. laughed when it was expected. let people believe he was untouchable, indifferent, cold.
he wore arrogance like armor.
because if no one thought he could be hurt, maybe they wouldn’t try.
he built himself into a fortress.
and he told himself he was okay.
that this was enough.
that being desired was close enough to being loved.
that being admired was close enough to being known.
it wasn’t.
but he didn’t admit that.
not even to himself.
and then, on a wednesday, in a class he didn’t care about, with sunlight slanting through the blinds just right, someone walked past him without looking twice.
didn’t smile. didn’t say hi. didn’t stare in that quiet, desperate way people usually did.
just walked.
eyes forward. jaw tight. brows furrowed like he was busy hating the world.
donghyun turned his head for the first time in days.
the boy had soft hair and sharp eyes. moved like he was half in battle with the ground. didn’t speak to anyone unless spoken to.
there was something off about him. not weird—just different. like he wasn’t trying to prove anything. like he didn’t care who saw him. like he wasn’t afraid of being invisible.
donghyun found himself watching him. without meaning to.
there was no grand moment. no lightning strike. no fireworks.
just a flicker.
just a question.
who the fuck is that?
it was annoying, really. the way he had taken up space in donghyun’s brain like he owned it. like some permanent, unshakable stain. like a ghost that refused to be exorcised.
han dongmin.
it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. not to him. not to the one who had spent the better part of his life mastering control—polished charm, curated aloofness, flawless smirks. donghyun had never lost control. not until now. not until him.
he noticed dongmin in the back row of their literature class. head down, hoodie up, completely absorbed in whatever book he was devouring that day. something about the way he kept his distance from the world pulled donghyun in. he wasn’t loud, but he didn’t shrink either. he held space without asking for permission.
and donghyun? donghyun hated that.
he hated how curious he became. how he started noticing the little things.
the way dongmin would only talk to woonhak in hushed tones, how he would roll his eyes but listen anyway, how his fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the desk when he was zoning out. donghyun wanted to know what that rhythm was. what songs lived in dongmin’s head.
he wanted to know everything.
but he couldn’t just... ask. that wasn’t how he worked. that wasn’t how anything in his world worked.
so, he used what he had. power. position. privilege. he cornered the homeroom teacher after class one day, voice smooth and casual.
“hey, ms. lee, i’m running an extracurricular survey—music preferences, reading habits, you know... student life. can i get dongmin’s number?”
she blinked. “dongmin? why?”
“just for a quick poll,” donghyun lied, too easily. “he seems like he reads a lot. perfect for the literature section.”
there was a pause. a moment where she looked at him too long, like she saw through him. but donghyun had learned long ago how to smile just enough to disarm suspicion.
the sticky note slid into his palm. ten digits and a lifetime of trouble written in neat script.
he had it. the number.
his breath caught in his chest like a secret.
but of course, life didn’t wait for perfect timing.
it was just before lunch break, the halls unusually empty. he had just left the staff room, clutching the sticky note like it was contraband. he was already imagining what his first text would be—cool, nonchalant, maybe with a hint of mystery. something that would make dongmin curious, not creeped out.
he barely rounded the corner when it happened.
bam.
a full-on collision. papers. books. bodies. a mess.
“fucking hell,” the other boy muttered, voice sharp, low.
donghyun froze.
he knew that voice.
and there he was. in all his ethereal, pissed-off glory.
han dongmin. hood down this time. cheeks flushed. eyebrows furrowed. there was ink on his wrist. his lips were parted in a half-formed curse.
donghyun forgot how to breathe.
fuck.
his heart was doing something stupid. loud. fast. loud. he didn’t remember dropping the sticky note but panic clawed at his ribs the moment he saw it on the floor, nestled between copies of the stranger and advanced mathematics II.
shit shit shit.
without thinking, he crouched down and palmed it before dongmin could see. then reached for the fallen books, fingers brushing dongmin’s once. twice.
his face stayed blank, but his brain was screaming.
he helped gather the books in silence. didn’t say a word. couldn’t. because if he opened his mouth, there was a very real chance he’d blurt something like, “wow you’re so hot can we get married and run away to iceland?”
no.
absolutely not.
he nodded once. sharp. controlled.
then turned on his heel and walked away before he could humiliate himself.
later, sungho found him slumped against a vending machine.
“you look like you saw a ghost.”
"i almost proposed to a boy in the hallway,” donghyun mumbled, banging the back of his head lightly against the glass.
sungho didn’t even blink. just sighed. “please tell me it wasn’t the guy you’ve been obsessing over all week.”
donghyun groaned.
sungho groaned louder.
“you’re down bad.”
“i’m not down anything,” donghyun snapped.
“sure. that’s why you asked your teacher for his number like a serial killer.”
“that’s not— okay, yeah, that was a little crazy.”
"a little?”
“he swore. when we crashed into each other. he swore at me.”
sungho blinked. “...that’s what did it for you?”
donghyun nodded, dazed. “he said fuck. it was hot.”
sungho smacked a hand over his face.
donghyun sighed, slumping further. “and then our hands touched. like, twice.”
“you’ve got to get laid.”
“i want to get laid by him.”
“oh my god.”
it was hopeless. donghyun was a mess. an absolute mess.
he spent the rest of the day zoning out in class, doodling hearts next to the name he definitely wasn’t crushing on. every time he glanced at dongmin’s desk, something twisted in his stomach. want. panic. desire. doom.
because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
donghyun had never been in a relationship. not officially. hookups at the occasional rich kid party, sure. a stolen kiss or two in the back of someone’s car. but never this. never someone taking up space in his mind. someone he wanted to know. not for status. not for games. just… to know.
it was terrifying.
he had spent so long curating this perfect version of himself. polished. powerful. cold enough to be respected. charming enough to be liked. he was the heir. the one meant to carry the family name, inherit the business, marry some daughter of a politician’s cousin.
he couldn’t like boys.
he especially couldn’t like this boy.
because dongmin didn’t fit into neat categories. he wasn’t some impulsive crush. he was something else. something dangerous. he made donghyun want to rip down the mask he’d spent years building.
sungho saw it. had been watching him spiral all week.
“you know,” he said at lunch the next day, casually stabbing at his salad. “i think you might be in love.”
donghyun almost choked.
“love? we haven’t even spoken.”
“exactly. that’s how i know.”
donghyun glared. “you’re so annoying.”
“you’re blushing.”
“shut up.”
sungho smirked. “text him.”
donghyun stared at his phone. the number was still there. still untouched.
“he’s going to think i’m creepy.”
“you are creepy. might as well own it.”
donghyun rolled his eyes. but his fingers hovered over the screen anyway.
he never sent that message. not that day.
instead, he watched. from a distance. from the edges of crowded hallways and busy classrooms. he watched the way dongmin chewed on his pen when he was thinking. the way he tugged at his sleeves when nervous. the way he smiled—rarely, but genuinely—when woonhak made a dumb joke.
it was pathetic.
it was obsessive.
it was—
—kim donghyun.
his name, called by the literature teacher, pulled him from his daydream.
“present,” he said, voice blank.
but his eyes were already back on dongmin.
still watching.
still waiting.
still not sure what the hell he was going to do.
because this boy? this stranger who had cursed him in a hallway and touched his hand twice?
this boy was going to ruin him.
the week had been hell.
his father had an important investor event coming up, and like clockwork, he made it his personal mission to rip donghyun apart—flaw by flaw, mistake by mistake.
the tuxedo fitting was too loose. the proposal pitch was too casual.
your posture, donghyun.
your tone, donghyun.
your life, donghyun.
when things went bad in his father’s world, donghyun became the designated target. the punching bag dressed in designer. the stand-in for everything wrong.
so, like always, donghyun rebelled.
he skipped class. climbed the metal stairs to the rooftop and stayed there. two full hours. long enough for the sun to warm the concrete, long enough for the nicotine to steady his hand.
the cigarette burned slow between his fingers. he didn’t smoke to be cool—he smoked to forget. his father. his carefully crafted life. his spotless record. his unbearable loneliness. and more than anything: the boy who wouldn’t leave his head no matter how many times he tried to shove the thought of him down.
han dongmin.
god. even thinking the name made something shift in his chest. unbearable.
he was blowing out a lazy stream of smoke when he heard it—the soft click of the door, hinges creaking.
footsteps. a pause. the sound of hesitation heavy in the air. then—
retreat. the steps turned back.
“stay,” donghyun said, voice even, low. he said it like it was nothing, like it wasn’t threaded with desperation. like he hadn’t been waiting for this.
the steps stopped. silence. then a shuffle.
dongmin returned.
donghyun didn’t look at him. couldn’t. if he did, he’d give himself away. he could feel dongmin’s presence like static. the way the air felt heavier now. like something was about to shift and there was no stopping it.
he glanced over, eyes dragging over dongmin’s face, and instantly regretted it. he looked too good in the sun. too sharp in the jaw and too soft in the mouth. everything donghyun wasn’t allowed to want.
dongmin sat beside him. legs dangling over the edge. unintentionally mirroring donghyun’s posture.
cute. dangerous.
donghyun didn’t share space. not with anyone. but apparently dongmin was an exception now too.
he offered the cigarette without thinking.
“you want some?”
dongmin looked at it. stared at the spot where donghyun’s lips had been, a fraction too long. donghyun watched him watching, something hungry stirring low in his stomach.
“yeah. whatever.”
dongmin took it, and donghyun pretended not to notice the way his fingers trembled just slightly. he took a drag and immediately started coughing.
he cursed under his breath. tried to act cool. failed adorably.
“come here,” donghyun said before he could stop himself.
he didn’t wait. just brought the cigarette back to his lips, took a deep drag—but didn’t blow out the smoke.
he reached out, fingers brushing dongmin’s jaw. his thumb grazing the line of his chin. dongmin’s lips parted automatically, a breath caught between confusion and something else. something heavier.
and donghyun leaned in.
he exhaled slow, smoke curling from his mouth into dongmin’s. breath to breath. close. too close. their lips never touched, not really, but it didn’t matter. donghyun could feel the heat of it—feel the possibility of what it could become.
for a second, the whole world narrowed to that half-inch of space.
and then he pulled back. fast. too fast.
fuck.
he shouldn’t have done that. shouldn’t have let it get that far. shouldn’t have let the need in him boil up like that, but it did. and dongmin… god, dongmin was looking at him like he was the ocean and dongmin didn’t know how to swim.
“...makes it easier,” donghyun had said, breaking the silence. trying to act normal. calm. like his chest wasn’t caving in.
“huh?”
dongmin’s eyes were unfocused. cheeks flushed.
“smoking. it makes it easier this way. you didn’t cough.”
lie.
dongmin nodded. barely. it wasn’t even a real response. just breath. just survival.
and then—salvation. damnation. both.
the bell rang.
donghyun jolted, breaking the moment. he scrambled to stand, needing to move, needing to get away before he said or did something even more irreversible.
“um. i’m gonna head back to class, yeah?”
he didn’t wait for a response. just turned.
did what he always did when things felt like too much.
he left.
it had been seven days since donghyun last saw him—really saw him.
a week of running. a week of pretending like the almost-kiss, the goddamn smoke between their mouths, hadn’t meant anything. like he hadn’t stood there stunned long after dongmin had left. like his body hadn’t betrayed him every time dongmin entered the room and his gaze instinctively searched.
he was trying to protect something—he wasn’t sure what. his sanity? his composure? his carefully constructed world of business suits, test scores, and silence?
all week, dongmin didn’t look at him. or maybe he didn’t look at dongmin. it didn’t matter. it was easier that way. he told himself it didn’t matter.
sungho saw through it, of course. sungho always did.
“i can feel you unraveling and i haven’t even asked yet,” sungho said dryly, pushing a can of beer toward him in the back of the library. “just tell me. what’s eating you?”
donghyun didn’t answer immediately. he just stared at the can. thought of dongmin’s fingers brushing his when he handed him the assignment back. a flicker of heat. a glance too long. nothing. but still too much.
he exhaled.
“i did something stupid,” he muttered.
“define ‘stupid.’ like, normal-people stupid? or are we talking rich-boy-oh-no-i-felt-something stupid?”
donghyun didn’t laugh. "the second one.”
sungho just raised a brow, unimpressed. “oh god. is this about that guy?”
donghyun stayed silent. which was answer enough.
“you’re really spiraling over this, huh?”
“i kissed him,” donghyun said quietly. “almost. i think i wanted to. i still do.”
sungho blinked. “okay. that escalated.”
“it wasn’t even a kiss,” donghyun said, almost defensively. “i just… i was high off everything. my dad. school. him. he was just there. so close. and then i—” he stopped himself. “forget it.”
sungho sighed. “jesus. you need to get out of your head.”
which is how he ended up at the party.
he hadn’t wanted to go. he had no reason to. the thought of seeing dongmin had his throat closing and his heartbeat in his ears, but sungho promised him sanghyeok would be there. “just drink and dance and forget your miserable rich boy drama for five minutes,” he’d said.
donghyun had tried to keep his expectations low. no grand drama. no rooftop flashbacks. he just wanted to be somewhere else.
and then he saw him.
across the room. black hoodie. half-lidded eyes. leaning back like he owned the couch he was slouched on. like the world owed him a breath.
donghyun’s chest went tight. all the air left his lungs in one clean exhale.
he didn’t think. didn’t pause.
his feet moved on their own.
dongmin didn’t look away. his gaze was steady. unapologetic.
fuck.
donghyun had imagined this moment a hundred times. dreamt it in varying degrees of shame and longing. but he hadn’t expected this. the way the noise dulled. the way everything else blurred. the way dongmin’s eyes swallowed him whole.
he walked over. and dongmin was still looking. still waiting.
“hi,” donghyun said, a little breathless.
he hated how much it sounded like a confession.
dongmin didn’t respond. just looked at him. like he was seeing every fucking version of donghyun that had ever existed—every cruel, every cowardly, every vulnerable one—and judging him for it.
silence stretched. their eyes stayed locked.
and then, without a word, dongmin grabbed his wrist and dragged.
through the crowd. up the stairs.
donghyun didn’t resist.
his pulse was thudding so loudly he barely noticed they were climbing more stairs. rooftop stairs. of course.
it was bitter and funny. he almost laughed.
dongmin stumbled once, and donghyun reached out instinctively. caught him by the waist. they were close—too close—but donghyun made sure not to linger. didn’t press. didn’t touch too much.
he was still pretending he wasn’t starving.
when they finally reached the rooftop, dongmin didn’t let go of his hand. just tugged him forward, like it meant nothing.
like it didn’t make donghyun’s brain short-circuit.
they sat. back against the wall. their arms touching.
silence stretched again. heavy. comfortable. unbearable.
“who else have you ever been to a rooftop with?” dongmin asked, voice casual. too casual.
donghyun looked at him. his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheekbones. his lips looked like sin.
“you,” donghyun said. “just you.”
dongmin looked away. but not before donghyun saw it—the crack. the expression that slipped before the smirk reassembled.
and then dongmin moved.
one second of hesitation. that was all.
and then he was kissing him.
it wasn’t graceful. it wasn’t practiced. it was all teeth and desperation and donghyun forgot how to breathe.
his hands found dongmin’s waist. then his jaw. then his hair. he was on fire. he was the fire.
dongmin crawled into his lap like he belonged there. straddling him. kissing him like he wanted to replace every memory with this one.
and donghyun let him.
no. donghyun needed him.
every part of him burned.
he tasted like cheap alcohol and deep-seated hunger, but donghyun would drink it all if it meant getting closer.
he kissed back harder. let their mouths move like they’d been waiting for this.
because they had.
every moment had been leading to this.
dongmin bit his lip. soft. sharp. on purpose.
donghyun groaned.
his hands moved under the hoodie, just to touch skin, to prove that this wasn’t some fever dream.
dongmin kissed him like he was starving. like he’d been starving for weeks. like he needed to memorize the taste of donghyun’s mouth before the world took it away.
and donghyun? donghyun kissed him like he didn’t want to ever stop.
at one point, their foreheads bumped. their breath caught.
“this is so fucking stupid,” dongmin muttered against his lips.
“i know,” donghyun whispered.
they kissed again anyway.
It wasn’t just a kiss. it was weeks of repression, of grief, of longing, of pretending not to feel. it was desperation in its rawest form.
dongmin rocked into him once. twice.
donghyun’s breath caught.
he grabbed dongmin tighter, pulled him in, until there was no space left.
it could have gone on forever. it should have.
but then a crash.
a laugh.
the door burst open and a drunk couple tumbled in, kissing and giggling and completely oblivious.
dongmin and donghyun broke apart like they’d been electrocuted.
dongmin stared. then snorted. a dry, bitter laugh.
because of course.
of course this would happen.
he slid off donghyun’s lap. sat beside him again. back against the wall. their knees touched. their hands didn’t.
the silence that followed was different now.
their breath slowly evened out.
dongmin didn’t look at him. just stared at the sky.
and then, softly—gently—he turned, and kissed donghyun again.
a small kiss. just a peck.
confirmation.
donghyun’s heart caved.
he wanted to say something. anything.
but dongmin beat him to it.
dongmin laughed under his breath, tired and raw. “you’re gonna pretend this didn’t happen again, aren’t you?”
donghyun shook his head.
“no,” he said.
dongmin looked at him. really looked.
and donghyun smiled.
a full smile.
the kind that creased his eyes. showed his gums. the kind no one else got to see.
just dongmin.
only dongmin.
and for the first time in his life, donghyun didn’t want it to be a one-time thing anymore.