Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter 1

Matthew’s POV

Seok Matthew swore Sung Hanbin was the most insufferable person on campus.

It wasn't just the way he danced – though that was infuriating enough. Hanbin moved like every step was scripture and he was its high priest. He led Eclipse, the university's official dance team, with the kind of precision and discipline that made their performances untouchable. Pristine formations, razor-sharp transitions, routines so flawless they bordered on inhuman.

But that wasn't why Matthew hated him.

No. What really got under his skin was how Hanbin acted like he owned dance itself. Like every other crew was just noise cluttering his perfect stage. Like UnorthodX – Matthew's team – was nothing more than a warm-up act for the real show.

And UnorthodX wasn’t just some scrappy group of wannabes trying to get attention. They had soul. Real, raw talent. They danced for the love of it, pushing boundaries and pulling off moves that Hanbin’s sterile routines could never match.

Standing at the edge of the campus amphitheatre now, Matthew watched Eclipse run through their routine for the student body’s welcome festival. His arms were crossed, jaw tight as the crowd erupted at the end of Eclipse's set.

"Clean as always," Taerae muttered from beside him, grudging admiration in his voice.

Matthew's eyes never left the stage. "Soulless."

Hanbin bowed with his team, all graceful poise and controlled breathing. His gaze swept the crowd with detached interest like he was above it. And for a second, his eyes found Matthew's across the distance.

Matthew didn't look away.

Neither did Hanbin.

Then, with the slightest tilt of his head, Hanbin offered the smallest, most insufferably smug nod. Not acknowledgment. Not greeting. More like I see you down there, trying.

Matthew's lip curled.

"Why do you let him get under your skin like that?" Gunwook asked later as they gathered in their practice space – an unused classroom in the engineering building they'd claimed through sheer persistence.

Matthew dropped his bag with unnecessary force, yanking off his hoodie. "Because he acts like we're a joke."

The contrast between their teams was stark, and everyone on campus knew it.

"No," Gunwook said, settling onto the floor to stretch. "He acts like we're a threat."

Matthew paused, remote halfway to the speaker. He didn't respond, but the tiniest smile ghosted across his lips.

UnorthodX wasn't polished like Eclipse, but they were electric. Freestyle battles in parking lots. Hybrid styles that shouldn't work but did. Unpredictable choreography that made people hold their breath. They trained with passion, not protocol, and the internet loved them for the chaos – viral clips, dance edits, even a collab with an idol trainee that hit a million views in three days.

Maybe threat was exactly what they were.

"Let's run the new piece," Matthew said, shaking tension from his shoulders. "From the top."

The next morning, an announcement appeared on the campus bulletin board like a declaration of war:

Annual University Dance Showcase: 1 Team to Represent at Nationals

Selection Process Begins This Month

Matthew stared at the fine print, scanning details about live performance rounds, faculty judging, wildcard challenges.

Only one team would be chosen.

"Third year in a row," someone said behind him. "Eclipse is probably already picking out victory outfits."

Matthew didn't turn around. That voice was too composed, too smooth, too aggravatingly familiar.

Hanbin stepped beside him, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, eyes skimming the same announcement. "Cute that your crew's trying this year."

Matthew's jaw tightened. "Try not to trip on stage. Would hate to see your perfect record shattered."

"I don't trip."

"Then you'd better watch your back."

Hanbin met his gaze with steady dark eyes. "I always do."

Just like that, the gauntlet was thrown.

The rivalry wasn't new, but this raised the stakes beyond petty campus politics. For the first time, UnorthodX wasn't just the underground favourite – they were officially in the running.

And if Matthew had anything to say about it, Eclipse was going down this year. Not because he needed the trophy. Not because he hated Hanbin – though, God, he supposed he really, really did.

But because Matthew was going to prove that heart could beat perfection. That passion could triumph over control. That sometimes, the most beautiful things were born from chaos.

They were going to burn the stage down.

The first elimination round was a group showcase.

UnorthodX went first.

The auditorium was packed, faculty judges stone-faced behind their table, but Matthew thrived on this energy. The electric current of a live crowd was his fuel.

Matthew led with a grin tugging at his mouth – this was their playground. The music hit, and they exploded into motion: rolling hips, rubbery limbs, popping locks that melted into liquid transitions. Their routine didn't just hit beats – it surfed them. Every step had flavour, every moment a conversation with the audience. Wild and magnetic, building energy through soul and swagger.

The crowd ate it up.

Then Eclipse took the stage.

Hanbin stood centre like a blade waiting to strike. The music dropped hard and percussive, and the entire crew sliced through it with breathtaking accuracy. Lines sharp enough to cut glass, angles precise as mathematics. Hanbin moved like he was hardwired into the rhythm – shoulders snapping, feet striking, transitions so fast and clean it looked like choreography on double speed. Every member moved like components of a single, perfect machine.

It wasn’t just clean. It was commanding.

The audience erupted just as loudly.

Two opposing philosophies of dance, both undeniably powerful.

The judges deliberated for what felt like hours. Crews filtered into the hallway, everyone pretending not to strain their ears toward the closed conference room doors.

UnorthodX cracked nervous jokes. Eclipse stood in perfect formation like awaiting inspection. Matthew leaned against the wall, bouncing slightly. Hanbin scrolled his phone like the results were beneath his concern.

When Professor Lee finally emerged, clipboard in hand, her expression gave nothing away.

"After much deliberation," she began once everyone had filed back into the auditorium, "the judges have reached a decision regarding the group round."

The room held its breath.

"We have... a tie. Between Eclipse and UnorthodX."

Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by confused murmurs.

Matthew blinked. "What?"

For the first time all day, Hanbin looked genuinely surprised.

"A tie?" someone from Eclipse repeated. "That's never happened."

Professor Lee nodded once. "Due to the closeness in scores and the judges' split opinions, both teams advance to Round Two: solo choreography."

This round saw one lead dancer from each team representing their crew's style.

Matthew chose to go first again.

The beat dropped, and something inside him unlocked.

This was UnorthodX distilled to its essence: loose-limbed explosiveness, pure groove and swagger. Hip-hop melted into house, freestyle funk bleeding into contemporary in ways that should have clashed but felt effortless. Matthew moved like the music lived under his skin, dancing with instinct born from feeling rather than formula.

Joyful. Unrefined. Utterly alive.

When he hit the final freeze, the crowd exploded.

Matthew didn't bow – just looked straight at the judges with an expression that said yeah, I know. Then he glanced toward the wings.

Hanbin was already watching him, expression unreadable.

Then, it was time for Eclipse’s leader to take the stage.

Hanbin stood alone under the spotlight, back to the audience. Silence stretched. Then – he moved.

A sharp, metronomic piano line cut through the room, and Hanbin hit the first beat like electricity through wire. Every movement was honed to razor precision – body lines clean as architecture, footwork crisp, transitions locked with mechanical timing. No wasted energy. No softness. Just pure control and devastating presence.

By the final eight-count, the entire auditorium held its breath.

Matthew watched with unwilling admiration, hating how good it was. He suppressed the twitch in his fingers as everyone around him broke into whoops and applause.

Another deliberation. Another agonizing wait. This time the crews stayed in the auditorium, gravitating toward opposite sides like rival armies.

Matthew bounced one knee. Hanbin sat perfectly still.

When the panel returned, Professor Lee looked personally affronted by the universe.

"Again," she said slowly, adjusting her glasses, "we have a tie."

The gasps were louder this time. One judge actually pinched the bridge of his nose.

"This is unprecedented in this university's history. Frankly, I was hoping to retire before it happened." Professor Lee's mouth twitched. "The panel is evenly split, right down the middle."

She held up her clipboard, continuing. "We'll be reviewing recordings from both rounds and consulting external adjudicators before making our final decision."

"Like who?" someone called from the back.

Professor Lee's expression turned wry. "A few colleagues from our sister schools. Some choreographers from the alumni network. Former students who think they know better than me now. My personal dance group chat."

A few students laughed despite the tension.

Hanbin raised an eyebrow.

Matthew muttered, "Did she just say group chat?"

"I heard it too," Taerae whispered back.

"In all seriousness," Professor Lee went on, "we need time and apparently backup to be fair with the judging. Final results will be announced by the end of the week. Until then – no new performances, no social media stunts, no shady TikToks, Matthew."

Matthew's mouth fell open. "How did yo–"

"None," she said dryly. "Now go home. All of you."

As the crowd dispersed, Matthew caught Hanbin's eye across the hallway. Only one team would represent the university at Nationals.

Until the verdict came in, they were all holding their breath.

This was far from over.

Chapter 2

Matthew’s POV

In the aftermath of the qualifiers, the university dropped a bombshell that made Matthew question reality itself.

"You're kidding me," Hanbin said first, eyes narrowing at Professor Lee's announcement like he could will it into non-existence.

Matthew barked out a laugh – incredulous and slightly hysterical. "This is a joke, right? There's no way this guy's team is dancing with mine."

He jerked a thumb in Hanbin's direction without looking. He didn't need to. The heat of Hanbin's glare was practically radioactive.

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing," Hanbin replied, folding his arms with that holier-than-thou posture he wore like armour.

Matthew mirrored the stance immediately, jaw tightening. After all the time UnorthodX had spent fighting to be considered legitimate, after years of Eclipse lording their perfect technique over everyone – this was how it would play out?

A forced collaboration?

Professor Lee rubbed her temples like she'd expected this exact meltdown. "Listen. The school's reputation is on the line. Nationals are being broadcast live this year. We need versatility – range, innovation, artistry. Separately, both your teams are excellent. But together?"

She looked between them with something approaching hope.

"You'd be unstoppable."

Matthew scoffed. "More like unbearable."

Hanbin didn’t miss a beat. "You think I want to dance with you? I actually care about this. I don’t have time for your… half-assed routines."

Matthew's head snapped toward him. "Oh, I'm sorry, captain. Not all of us dance like robots having technical difficulties."

Hanbin's eyes narrowed to slits. "Not all of us dance like we’re being taken over by a parasite either."

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Matthew took a step forward.

Hanbin didn't retreat – just lifted his chin in challenge.

They stood toe to toe, glaring like if they concentrated hard enough, one of them would spontaneously combust.

"Enough," Professor Lee said, raising a hand. "You don't have a choice."

They turned on her in perfect, furious synchronization.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," she said calmly, satisfaction creeping into her tone like she'd been waiting all week to drop this particular bomb. "You join forces, or neither team competes."

Silence fell like a hammer.

"This is ridiculous," Hanbin muttered. "How are we supposed to choreograph something cohesive? Our styles are fundamentally incompatible."

"Then you'd better learn to speak each other's language," Lee said, completely unbothered. "You have five months."

She nodded to herself and headed for the door, effectively ending the meeting.

"Wait, you're serious?" Matthew called after her. "You're actually doing this?"

Professor Lee didn't even look back. "Good luck. You're going to need it."

The door clicked shut behind her with awful finality.

They were alone.

Matthew could already feel a headache blooming behind his eyes. He turned slowly to face Hanbin, who hadn't moved. The tension in his shoulders was visible even through his perfectly tailored jacket.

He crossed his arms. "Well. Guess we're stuck with each other."

Hanbin didn't answer. Just stared at him like he was still trying to figure out how they'd ended up in the same room, same nightmare, same impossible task.

Matthew looked away first, frustration coiling in his chest.

The news spread through campus like wildfire.

By morning, it was everywhere:

Eclipse + UnorthodX = One Nationals Team

Some people were thrilled. Others confused. A few asked if it was an elaborate prank. One anonymous Twitter account posted a poll on who would quit first.

In the comments:

"My money's on the control freak."
"Nah, the chaos gremlin will crack first."
"Plot twist: they both quit and Professor Lee has to compete herself."

Matthew scrolled through his phone, oscillating between amusement and horror. Five months. Five months to build a routine together. Five months to merge whatever they all were.

This was going to be a disaster.

Chapter 3

Matthew’s POV

The first joint practice went exactly as everyone expected: like a nightmare.

From the moment both crews stepped into the studio, tension crackled thick enough to taste. The room buzzed with barely contained energy – part excitement, part dread. Eclipse and UnorthodX claimed opposite sides of the floor like rival gangs, nobody daring to cross the invisible battle line.

And Matthew? He was already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

"Alright," he announced, bouncing slightly on his toes. "We’ll open with a freestyle section. Something that pulls the crowd in – makes them want to watch."

Hanbin's arms crossed before the words finished leaving Matthew's mouth. "We're starting unstructured?"

"It's called improvisation," Matthew said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Ever heard of it?"

"I've heard of it. I've also seen it done badly." Hanbin's tone could have frosted windows. "So we're opening with sloppiness instead of strength?"

"It's not sloppy. It's authentic."

"It's messy."

"God forbid people actually feel something during a performance."

"Dance isn't just about feeling. It's about execution." Hanbin gestured sharply. "We need clean formations – intentional spacing, purposeful movement. You want to open with a free-for-all. I want to open with impact."

"This is impact."

"No, this is you trying to turn a national showcase into your personal entertainment session."

That was it.

Matthew grabbed the remote and killed the music, crossing the room in three sharp strides. "You just hate that my crew actually knows how to have fun."

Hanbin didn't budge an inch. "And you just hate that my team actually wins."

The words hung in the air like smoke after an explosion.

Ricky from Eclipse scratched the back of his neck nervously. "Yikes." His teammate Gyuvin just made a face like he wanted to disappear.

UnorthodX’s oldest Jiwoong whispered, "Should we... leave?"

Nobody laughed.

Matthew's fists ached from clenching. He hated this – not just Hanbin's arrogance, but how desperately he wanted to prove him wrong. How badly he wanted to wipe that smug expression off his face.

"Let's try again," someone offered – Hao, from Eclipse, always the peacekeeper.

But Matthew and Hanbin were locked in their staring contest, neither willing to concede a millimetre.

"Fine," Hanbin said finally. "Let's see this 'impact' you're so confident about."

The music kicked back in – something hard-hitting and rhythmic – and Matthew stepped forward, body falling into the beat on pure instinct. He didn't need choreography. He didn't think. He felt. The groove lived in his bones.

Seconds later, Eclipse’s youngest dance prodigy Yujin picked up the flow on the other side.

The rest followed, hesitant but game.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't smooth. It sure as hell wasn't unified.

But for the briefest moment, something was on the way to clicking.

Until Hanbin stopped the music again.

"That transition makes no sense," he said flatly.

Matthew groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Seriously? It's called finding our rhythm. Give us more than thirty seconds to figure it out."

"It looks like a freestyle battle you choreographed in a parking lot."

Matthew stepped closer, close enough to see the tight line of Hanbin's jaw, the controlled rise and fall of his chest. "At least I choreograph things people remember. You do the same routine every year with different costumes."

Hanbin's eyes flashed. "You think this is easy for me? Working with someone who doesn't believe in discipline? You're not serious about winning. You just want attention."

"I want to win just as much as you do." The words came out sharper than intended. "I just don't think you have to suck the soul out of dance to do it."

Another beat of loaded silence.

Hanbin took a step back, gaze unreadable. "You have five months prove it."

The rest of practice was a minefield. Every eight-count became a negotiation. Every formation met with "why" or "that won't work." By the end, everyone was sweaty, frustrated, and emotionally drained.

Matthew left the studio with his hoodie pulled up and headphones in, already dreading the days to come.

Three weeks later, they still hadn't agreed on a concept.

The studio had become a battleground of competing visions. Hanbin arrived each day with detailed notes, storyboards, precise timing breakdowns. Matthew countered with YouTube videos, song suggestions, and what he generously called "vibe references."

"We are not wearing LED jackets," Hanbin stated.

"We are not performing a modern-dance interpretation of the lunar cycle," Matthew fired back.

They argued for twenty minutes before realizing no one else was talking.

"Anyone else have thoughts?" Hanbin asked, turning to their increasingly distressed audience.

Seven pairs of eyes immediately found the floor.

"Cowards," Matthew muttered.

Week seven brought partner work.

Professor Lee had mandated "fusion moments" – Eclipse and UnorthodX members blending styles in pairs.

Of course Matthew got paired with Hanbin because everyone else had already claimed their own partners somehow, even if they were odd-numbered.

They barely made skin contact before it fell apart.

"Relax your arm," Matthew said, trying to guide him through a groove.

"It is relaxed," Hanbin replied through gritted teeth.

"You're stiffer than a mannequin."

"You're off-beat."

"I am the beat."

"You're exhausting."

"You're uptight."

They managed exactly twelve seconds of partnered movement before someone from the back whispered, "This is either foreplay or a murder plot."

Matthew dropped Hanbin's hand like it was contaminated. Hanbin looked personally offended by the comment.

"Break time," Hao announced, already distributing water bottles like he was performing triage.

By week eleven, everyone was beyond tired.

Not just physically, but emotionally. Mentally. Existentially. The studio had become a pressure cooker of unresolved creative differences and barely contained hostility.

They were one "you call that dancing?" away from possibly complete collapse.

Today's rehearsal had devolved into another Matthew vs. Hanbin standoff over the opening formation.

Again.

"It's not symmetrical!" Hanbin snapped.

"It's not supposed to be! Being dynamic creates visual interest."

"It looks like a drunk triangle."

"It looks like character, which you wouldn't recognize if it pirouetted into your face."

Hanbin groaned audibly. "I'm begging you to use spatial logic."

"I'm begging you to have a single original thought."

"Okay," Yujin called weakly from the corner, "but have either of you considered... not doing this right now?"

"This is insane," Jiwoong added, looking between them. "You're both incredible dancers. You both have something to offer. But if you keep treating this like a war, we're all going to lose."

Something twisted in Matthew's chest – part shame, part frustration. He looked at Hanbin, who was staring back with that familiar tight-jawed anger.

Hao looked up from where he was refilling his water bottle. "Yeah seriously, how long is this going to go on?"

"Can we go back to fighting about blocking?" Ricky slumped to the floor. "That felt safer."

For a moment, both leaders seemed to actually hear what their teams were saying.

Yet, the rehearsal still ended with zero progress.

The shared group chat – recently renamed The Hostages – was blowing up with passive-aggressive memes by the time everyone got home.

A week later, things escalated further. If that was even possible.

Today's argument was about tempo. Not the overall speed, but the precise timing of individual beats. They debated it for thirty-five minutes. Thirty-five.

Hanbin looked ready to throw a metronome at Matthew's head. Matthew looked like he'd welcome the impact out of pure spite.

During break, Taerae pulled Matthew aside. "You need to chill. Just… try nodding and pretending he said something you agree with."

Matthew blinked. "But he didn't."

"That's not the point."

Meanwhile, Gyuvin was staging a similar intervention with Hanbin across the room.

"Hyung, I love you, but this isn't sustainable," Gyuvin said carefully. "Maybe pick your battles? Like, one battle per rehearsal?"

"He doesn't listen." Hanbin's scowl could have wilted plants. "He's allergic to structure."

"Then be the bigger person."

"I am."

"Right now, you're just the louder person."

When they regrouped, the pep talks had clearly failed spectacularly.

Three days later, everyone arrived to find Hao and Jiwoong taping a sign to the wall:

Support Group for Survivors of Hanbin & Matthew

Weekly Meetings Start Today (Snacks Provided)

Everyone was too exhausted to laugh.

Today's fight was about how long a wave movement should last. Literally a single count.

"Stretch it out one beat," Matthew growled.

"No, that ruins the syncopation," Hanbin replied, exasperated.

"I am the syncopation."

"Stop saying that! It doesn't mean anything."

Gyuvin leaned toward Ricky. "If they kill each other, do we still get to compete?"

"Only if we hide the bodies fast enough."

Hao nodded sagely. "It's gone beyond art at this point."

Gunwook raised his hand. "Are we in too deep to back out now?"

Nobody remembered what they were supposed to rehearse that day, but everyone left feeling aged by years.

They were still fighting. Still snapping at each other like feral cats.

But there was once it felt almost... entertaining?

"Are you going to land that turn or just hover near it like a ghost?" Hanbin sniped during a particularly challenging sequence.

Matthew smirked. "Why don't you worry about your robot recalibration or your three-degree head tilt and let me live?"

They argued over a transition later and somehow choreographed it in the process.

Matthew suggested a reverse roll mid-spin. Hanbin argued it was unnecessary but tried it anyway. They ran it three times.

It worked.

They both looked vaguely annoyed that it did.

No thank-yous. No compliments. Just loaded silence and mutual eye-rolling.

Progress? Maybe.

There were quiet moments too. Extremely far and few between, yes. But to be fair it wasn’t all fire.

Like the late-night session when most of the others had gone home, and Matthew stayed behind to loop a particularly stubborn section of footwork.

Hanbin stayed too.

This time, they weren't shouting. They weren't even talking much – just the quiet repetition of movement, the soft slap of sneakers on hardwood, the gradual alignment of two very different approaches to the same problem.

Matthew was first to break the silence when he tripped over his own foot, catching himself with a muttered curse.

Hanbin didn't react immediately. Then, in his usual dry tone: "Your foot placement is too wide. It’s throwing off your balance."

Matthew shot him a look but didn't argue. "Yeah, I noticed."

They adjusted and tried again. Stilted at first, uncoordinated, but slowly finding something that resembled rhythm. Not quite smooth, not quite right, but functional.

Hanbin corrected his form again – quieter this time. Less like criticism, more like... guidance.

Matthew shifted his weight, adding a subtle groove. "Not bad, right?"

Hanbin adjusted his stance without comment. The silence wasn't comfortable exactly, but it wasn't hostile either.

When the music cut off, Hanbin gave a short nod. "Better."

Not approval. Not rejection. Just neutral acknowledgment.

Matthew stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to say something. He didn't.

They finished the final run without music, packed up their things, and went separate ways.

Still not friends.

But maybe not the banes of each other’s existence either.

Chapter 4

Matthew’s POV

Three and a half months of joint practices, and Matthew was starting to think they'd never find their footing.

There was some foot, sure – but not great. Nothing groundbreaking. Nothing that screamed Nationals.

The choreography was progressing, technically. But everything else crawled forward at glacial pace. Cohesion remained elusive. Chemistry felt like a foreign concept buried under layers of resentment and miscommunication.

Every time Matthew glimpsed hope flickering between them, Hanbin would snuff it out with surgical precision. Or Matthew would say something that sent them spiraling back to square one. He'd stopped keeping score of who struck first.

Their teams had grown weary of playing referee. Professor Lee's check-ins became increasingly sparse. Even Hao had retreated to neutral corners, watching their clashes with weary resignation.

Yet neither crew had walked away. They kept showing up, kept grinding through the friction. The arguments had settled into predictable patterns – sharp flares of tension followed by grudging compromise.

Matthew had started calling it the false lull. Those deceptive moments when the air cleared and he almost believed they were finally breaking through.

Tonight felt like the end of another lull. One step forward, three steps back.

Matthew arrived ten minutes late, still wrestling his hoodie over his head as he shouldered through the door of the backup studio. The one that smelled like old varnish and broken dreams.

Hanbin was already there, adjusting mirror panels with methodical precision. His reflection caught Matthew's eye – shoulders squared, sleeves rolled to his elbows, that unreadable expression that suggested he was perpetually on the verge of delivering a lecture about life choices.

"The Ice King graces us with his presence," Matthew muttered, dropping his bag. "Great."

Hanbin didn't look up. "Maybe save the commentary for after you learn to read a clock."

"Relax. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Unfortunately."

They ran choreography with their combined team for nearly an hour – if you could call it running. More like limping through sequences while tension crackled between them like live wire.

By midnight, everyone else had fled.

Matthew found himself alone with the studio's borrowed spotlight, a piece of equipment he'd charmed out of the drama department. He was experimenting with angles for the intro, searching for something that would make the audience feel before they thought.

Hanbin, predictably, was watching. Judging.

"You're angling it wrong," Hanbin said eventually, arms folded. "No one will see the footwork from that position."

Matthew straightened, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. "I'm not adjusting it for the front row. I'm adjusting it for the feeling."

"Right. The feeling." Hanbin's tone could have frozen hell. "That'll help when no one can distinguish your left leg from your right."

Matthew turned fully to face him, catching Hanbin's reflection in the mirror before meeting his gaze directly. "Do you even care if people feel something when you dance? Or is it just about being clean and precise and..." He gestured vaguely. "Empty?"

Something flickered behind Hanbin's eyes – quick as lightning, gone as fast.

"It's about control," he said after a pause that stretched too long. "Building something beautiful through discipline. Not–" He gestured at Matthew's entire existence, "whatever you always like to do."

"Maybe you'd understand if you ever danced like you meant it."

Hanbin went still. The hit had landed harder than Matthew expected.

"I've led my team to national wins," Hanbin said, voice low and sharp. "Don't lecture me about meaning it."

"Winning doesn't mean you felt it. It just means you executed well."

"Not that you'd know anything about that."

The music clicked off behind them, cycling back to its beginning with a sound that seemed amplified in the sudden silence. From somewhere beyond the walls, another studio's bass line pulsed faintly – a distant heartbeat that made their stillness feel smothering.

Matthew felt something bitter unfurl in his chest. "Why do you hate me so much?"

Hanbin blinked, the question catching him off guard. He looked like he had an answer ready – maybe something cutting and final. But he said nothing.

Matthew didn't press. He turned back to the light, nudging it unnecessarily to the left, letting the quiet settle around them while regret pooled in his stomach for opening his mouth.

He avoided Hanbin’s eyes the rest of the night.

Chapter 5

Hanbin’s POV

Some dances were built on crescendos – slow rise, sudden peak, clean resolution.

Whatever he and Matthew were doing felt more like tectonic shifts. Constant pressure along fault lines that looked stable until the ground cracked open and swallowed everything whole. This strange gravitational pull that transformed minor disagreements into something personal, something that left bruises.

Or maybe they were trapped in market cycles – friction, rise, crash, repeat. Progress detonating into familiar arguments, hope dissolving into disappointment. Maybe he was the one giving Matthew whiplash, the reason they kept circling the same fights over and over.

For all his structure, all his carefully constructed systems, Hanbin had no blueprint for this. No method to break the pattern.

Because Matthew had a talent for finding nerves Hanbin didn't know existed. He wasn't just challenging technique – he was challenging everything Hanbin believed about dance, about control, about himself.

They were supposed to rehearse noon to four that day.

By two-thirty, Matthew was gone.

Hanbin stood at the front of the studio, pulse hammering behind his eyes. The others shifted awkwardly around him, suddenly fascinated by water bottles and shoelaces – anything but the wreckage of their latest explosion. The room had gone heavy with the particular weight of public humiliation.

"Take five," he said, and they scattered like startled birds.

Hanbin didn't move. He stared at the door, still swaying from Matthew's dramatic exit like punctuation at the end of an incomplete sentence.

The argument had started over footwork.

Again. Always again.

Matthew had modified a transition mid-run. Said it felt "more natural" for the way his body wanted to move.  A minuscule change perhaps, that might as well have been a grenade for how it disrupted Hanbin's carefully calibrated equations.

"You can't improvise during group sequences," he'd snapped, control fraying. "There are eight other people on stage."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "It's a tiny adjustment. The world won't end."

"We're a month out from Nationals. You want to gamble the entire routine on 'tiny'?"

"Maybe if the choreography didn't still feel like military drills, I wouldn't need to humanize it."

The fuse lit. Explosion followed.

Voices climbed. Gestures became weapons. Lines were crossed.

Matthew called him a dictator. Hanbin accused Matthew of using spontaneity as a crutch for his inability to commit to discipline.

It should have ended there, burned itself out like every other fight.

Instead–

"Jesus, you're so obsessed with control you don't even realize you choke the life out of everything you touch," Matthew snapped. "This team, this routine, probably even yourself."

Hanbin could feel the blood roar in his ears. The words cut him somewhere that actually hurt, its venom spreading and stinging its way through.

"And you're so desperate to feel special that you'd blow up months of work just to make yourself feel important," he shot back defensively, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. "You can't stand the idea that maybe, just maybe, you're not the most talented person in the room."

Something had splintered then. Matthew's fists clenched, his whole body coiling like a spring wound past breaking point. For a heartbeat, Hanbin thought he might actually swing. But he didn’t back down – in fact, he’d dared it closer.

The team was forced to intervene. Hao stepped between them while Gunwook pulled Matthew back by the shoulder.

The reckless moment passed.

Matthew shook free, spun on his heel, and punched the wall on his way out. The sound cracked like a gunshot.

Ten minutes later, Hanbin found him on the concrete steps behind the building, near the service exit where dumpsters kept company with forgotten cigarette butts and the dreams of students who'd given up on greatness.

Matthew sat hunched over, picking at loose threads on his sweatpants.

"Finished with your tantrum?"

Matthew didn't look up. "Or what? You gonna kick me off the team?"

"Tempting." Hanbin stepped closer. "But apparently, we're 'unstoppable' together, so no. Can't have you sulking your way out of the performance."

"I'm cooling off. Give me a break."

"You walked out mid-practice."

"So?" Matthew stood, tension crackling back to life.

"You changed choreography. In front of everyone. Four weeks before the biggest competition of the year."

"I changed one count!" Matthew's voice climbed, fire catching in his eyes.

"It’s not your solo. It’s an ensemble."

"Exactly. A group effort. I– Do you even hear yourself?"

Hanbin stepped in closer. “We have a plan. A system. You don’t just get to rewrite the playbook when you’re bored.”

"Maybe I wouldn't need to if you actually listened when I suggested improvements before."

"Maybe I would if your ideas didn’t go against every cell of my being."

"You know, we’re supposed to be co-captains. But I feel like all I’ve done is compromise at the end of the day while you–"

"You call this compromising? You work against me out of spite!"

"Because you hate me so much you'd rather waste our potential than admit I might contribute something valuable!" The raw words cut deeper than anger. "This entire time."

"You still think I hate you?" The question escaped before Hanbin could catch it, carrying weight he hadn't intended.

Matthew blinked, anger faltering. "Don't you?"

Silence opened like a chasm between them.

Hanbin's mouth opened, closed, opened again. Words formed and dissolved before reaching his lips.

And judging from Matthew’s face, that seemed worse than yelling.

"Why do I keep having to prove myself to you?" His voice was smaller now.

He looked at Hanbin for a second longer and scoffed to himself. Then he shook his head with what might have been disappointment or just bitter resignation.

"I'm tired, man." The words fell to the concrete between them. Then he turned and walked away.

That night, Hanbin stayed in the studio past midnight.

He played the track on repeat until the melody embedded in his bones, until rhythm became his heartbeat. But the problem wasn't the music. Wasn't the steps.

The problem was that Matthew's version actually worked. Worse – it worked better than his original. It felt right in ways his own choreography didn't.

He tried both versions. His first, with rigid precision and mathematical beauty. Then Matthew's, with organic flow and intuitive grace.

Matthew's transition clicked into place like muscle memory he hadn't known he possessed.

Hanbin stopped moving, breath catching in the empty studio. He couldn't decide if this revelation made him angry… or scared.

The next day, energy in the studio remained thick. Cautious. Everyone moved like they were navigating a minefield, waiting to see if today would bring breakthrough or breakdown.

Hanbin ran Eclipse through their section – every beat exact, every formation locked. But it felt hollow now. He could sense the gaps between movement and meaning, the disconnect that prioritized execution over emotion.

When the music cut, he turned to find Matthew sprawled against the mirror, sweat-slicked and staring at the floor like it owed him an apology he wasn't getting.

Maybe Hanbin was the one who owed apologies.

But pride was a stubborn thing, so he simply met Matthew's gaze and said, "Let’s go. You’re up."

Matthew pushed to his feet with deliberate slowness. "Your way, right?"

"Let's try yours," Hanbin said quietly.

Matthew blinked. No grin. No comeback. Just surprise flickering across his features like Hanbin had finally said something worth hearing.

He stepped into position, focused and ready.

The music began. Matthew moved.

Hanbin felt it more than saw it, and it was instant. It wasn’t rebellion this time. It was expression. How rhythm wrapped around Matthew like a second skin, how he carved space not by filling it but by belonging to it. Loose but never reckless. Free but never aimless. A faux casualness that still landed with impact. A groove that didn’t sacrifice clarity.

And in the pauses between the motion, in the restraint Matthew had chosen, Hanbin recognized pieces of himself.

He saw that the spacing was intentional. That the lines extended just past what Matthew usually cared for. The precision was not dominating, but present. Respected.

Matthew had been adjusting all along.

Not abandoning his identity, not folding into someone else's vision or mould. But making space. For Hanbin. For the way Hanbin understood dance.

And suddenly, the past few months snapped into focus like a camera finding its subject.

Matthew had been compromising. Attempting to bridge the distance between their philosophies without losing his own in the process.

Matthew had been right. And Hanbin had been wrong.

For the first time in months, he didn't brace for impact.

He stepped in.

Not to correct or control or impose his will. Just… to meet Matthew there.

They moved together – not in perfect unison, but in conversation. Call and response. Two dancers pulling the same thread from opposite ends and somehow weaving it into something stronger. Somewhere between Matthew’s instinct and Hanbin’s discipline, they found a third harmonious thing neither had touched before.

Hanbin didn’t lead. He didn’t follow either. He simply danced.

And it worked.

No analysis required. Just motion and momentum and the strange, undeniable fact that they made sense when they danced together.

When the music faded, they faced each other, chests heaving.

Matthew stepped back, running fingers through his hair. "That didn't completely suck," he mumbled, too soft to be conceited but with a sense of quiet pride.

Hanbin was still catching his breath. Still processing.

He cleared his throat, letting the corner of his mouth lift. "Next time, I'm taking the lead."

Matthew glanced at him with a faint grin. "We'll see about that."

And this time, when their eyes locked–

Neither looked away.

Chapter 6

Hanbin’s POV

The thing was – against all odds – everything started working.

Something had cracked open after that evening. But whatever it was, it bled into everything.

The routine began to flow like water finding its natural course. The sharp edges and the clashing rhythms between them hadn’t disappeared, but they softened and reformed. Found new ways to move forward.

Hanbin started letting go – his uncompromising lines now found natural endpoints in Matthew's intuitive fluidity. Matthew stopped treating structure as creativity's enemy.

The change spread through both teams like contagion.

Where invisible battle lines once divided the studio – Eclipse on one side, UnorthodX on the other, tension thick enough to choke on – now there was breathing room. Space to experiment, to fail and try again without judgment.

Eclipse absorbed UnorthodX's raw energy and street-smart instincts. UnorthodX embraced Eclipse's discipline and attention to detail. Formations crystallized faster. Feedback flowed freely. Dancers switched partners without ego, shared techniques without hoarding secrets.

They'd stopped looking like two crews forced into uncomfortable alliance. They looked like something new – a collective with its own heartbeat.

Even their arguments evolved. Less personal warfare, more creative friction. Matthew gave more ground. Hanbin gripped control less tightly. The give-and-take between them, once grating and exhausting, became a dance of its own.

No one dared acknowledge the shift aloud – too afraid of jinxing whatever fragile magic had taken root. But relief settled across the studio like fresh air after a storm.

The bickering continued, of course. Hanbin still complained when Matthew showed up five minutes late. Matthew still called him "Dictator Dancer" behind his back and sometimes to his face.

But the venom had transformed into something else – affection wearing the mask of familiar insults, comfort disguised as complaint.

They'd been rivals so long that neither knew how to navigate this new territory. But they were learning, step by careful step, that maybe they could trust each other.

Then came that night – the one that would later feel like a turning point, though neither recognized it at the time.

The studio was empty except for them, their teams having left hours ago with the satisfaction of work well done. They'd run the full routine four times, each iteration tighter than the last, but Hanbin's perfectionist streak wouldn't settle for "good enough."

"One more," he'd said, and Matthew had simply nodded, rolling his shoulders without complaint. The fight had drained out of their conflicts, replaced by something dangerously close to partnership.

The music clicked on. They moved.

It wasn't flawless – a transition slightly rushed here, a breath's hesitation there – but it was alive in ways that transcended technical perfection. Somewhere in the second verse, when the choreography called for mirrored movement, something shifted.

Matthew threw in a small adjustment. A pivot that should have disrupted Hanbin's planned sequence. Instead of fighting it, Hanbin let the change pull him off his predetermined path, curving his movement to meet Matthew halfway.

They caught each other mid-motion, Matthew's hand finding Hanbin's ribs – not for balance, but to steady them both. The contact was brief, practical, but it burned like a brand.

For a heartbeat, they were chest to chest, breathing hard, music spinning in the background.

Matthew's eyes found his, and Hanbin felt the world narrow to this: the heat between them, the weight of Matthew's gaze as it traced his collarbone, followed the curve of his throat, and paused – just barely – on his mouth.

Hanbin's breath caught. Time suspended itself, holding them in amber while his heart hammered against his ribs.

The track faded. Silence took its place.

Matthew blinked once. Then again. Reality reasserted itself as he stepped back slowly. "That was..." he started, voice rougher than usual. "That was okay."

Hanbin's mouth quirked – more reflex than choice. "High praise."

Matthew looked like he wanted to say more – probably something flippant about Hanbin’s "crippling need to correct every millimetre of pinky articulation". But the words tangled in his throat, and he simply moved away, retrieving his water bottle.

Hanbin watched him. Not with usual critical assessment, not searching for flaws to correct. Just... actually watching. Because now he found that he wanted to understand the person that was Matthew.

"By the way," Hanbin said suddenly, words rushing out before he could stop them, "you're good."

Matthew's eyebrows rose into his hairline. "What?"

"I mean–" Hanbin exhaled hard, like the admission cost him. "You're still the most annoying person I've ever worked with. But you're good. Really good."

"Wow. An acknowledgement from you?" Matthew's smile was slow, wondering. "Finally. Mark the date."

"I’m just saying."

Matthew's smile was slow and wondering, like he was testing whether this moment was real. "Careful. People might think you're going soft."

"Don’t get used to it." Hanbin grumbled, but there was no bite in it.

"For what it's worth," Matthew said, grin widening, "you're not entirely terrible either. For a perfectionist control freak."

"That's your idea of a compliment? I know how good I am. Now I want to take back everything I just said."

"Hey! Baby steps."

The quiet settling between them felt different from their usual silences – less charged with unspoken conflict, more comfortable yet alert.

Matthew tilted his head. "It’s weird, isn’t it? How much ground we've covered in such a short period of time just by… not trying to one-up each other."

"Not weird," Hanbin said slowly, turning the words over. "I think I was the one holding us back. My ego, my need to be right about everything."

"And I could've been less..." Matthew waved vaguely. "Antagonistic. Less determined to prove you wrong about everything." He paused, voice softer. "Hyung."

Hanbin's head snapped up. That word. The tone. Matthew's eyes were questioning, hopeful – could he finally use it?

They stood in the hush for a beat longer.

"We've come a long way." Hanbin murmured, a real smile tugging at his mouth. An acceptance.

"Yeah. We really have." Matthew nodded, relief in his voice. Then he wriggled his brows. "Still rivals though."

"Of course," Hanbin agreed, though with less conviction than he would have shown weeks ago.

After Matthew left, Hanbin remained in the studio, surrounded by echoes of their movement and the ghost of that moment when they'd been so close. He stared at his reflection, trying to understand the stranger looking back – someone whose carefully constructed walls had developed cracks.

He thought about the weight of Matthew's hand against his ribs, the look in Matthew's eyes. About how somewhere along the way, irritation had transformed into something that made his breath catch whenever Matthew smiled. Or when he got a little authoritative.

Hanbin wasn’t sure what scared him more – the fact that Matthew had already found permanent residence under his skin, or the fact that he'd finally stopped trying to pull him out because…he liked him there.

Chapter 7

Hanbin’s POV

By the time the Nationals were two weeks away, everything felt like it was fracturing for some reason.

Not the choreography – that was tighter than ever, seamless in ways that made faculty nod approvingly and the campus dance community watch with barely concealed envy. Their routine had transcended mere movement, becoming something that pulsed with its own heartbeat.

But underneath the applause, beneath the thrilling sense of something coming together, Hanbin was falling apart.

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it started, couldn't untangle which thread had pulled first to unravel everything else. Maybe it was when the calendar flipped to competition month and suddenly the weight of expectations felt crushing – not just his own perfectionist standards, but the trust everyone had placed in this partnership, this impossible risk they'd all taken together.

Maybe it was watching Matthew move beside him in practice, the way his presence had shifted from irritant to something magnetic. Professional admiration bleeding into something more dangerous, more personal, until he couldn't tell where partnership ended and whatever this was began.

Or maybe it was because for the first time in his life, he wasn't entering Nationals as an undisputed leader. This wasn't his team built from the ground up, shaped by his vision alone. This was compromise stitched into every eight-count, vulnerability threaded through every formation.

This was sharing the spotlight. Sharing control.

It was all crashing together in ways he couldn't separate. Fear of failure tangled with fear of intimacy. Professional anxiety tied with personal confusion. The terror of letting everyone down wrapped around the even more terrifying possibility of letting someone in. He couldn't breathe through it, couldn't think past it. It was all just... too much.

So Hanbin did what he always did when panic set in – he built walls. Higher, thicker, more impenetrable than before.

His patience – once carefully rationed – evaporated. His words turned sharp, meant to carve distance between himself and the chaos of feelings he couldn't process. The silences between his corrections grew heavy with unspoken criticism, with the weight of everything he didn’t know how to say.

The studio grew cold whenever he entered. Everyone started moving around him like they used to – uncertain, walking on eggshells.

Nobody challenged him, though. Nobody except Matthew.

Then the university threw them a curveball.

"Last-minute press event," Professor Lee announced with a smile that suggested she was delivering good news. "Local media wants a preview of your Nationals routine. Just a teaser. Let’s keep the rest for the actual thing. High visibility, great exposure." Her smile widened. "No pressure."

Hanbin's jaw tightened. There was always pressure. All he heard was "no room for error."

Predictably, the rehearsal for the press event was a wreck.

Hanbin was laser-focused, more rigid than he'd been in weeks. Every step had to be exact, every beat surgically timed. He barked corrections faster than people could process them – no grace, no breathing room, just an endless stream of demands delivered in that clipped tone that made everyone's shoulders tense.

Matthew, as if sensing the overpowering atmosphere, began to rebel in small ways. A bit of a backslide into old habits, just like Hanbin had done. Matthew made a little joke here, an eye roll there. He showed up three minutes late, stretching lazily while Hanbin's gaze burned holes through him. He smirked like they weren't on the precipice of their biggest competition.

For a while, he kept pace. Natural talent carried him even when attitude didn't. But then he missed a cue – a split-second hesitation, a move delayed by half a beat.

Hanbin killed the music like Matthew had just set the building on fire.

"Again!"

Matthew dragged his shirt across his sweat-dampened face, chest still heaving. "Okay, relax."

"Your single mistake throws off the whole sequence." Hanbin's voice was ice-cold, professional. "That one step means we're not ready."

"Right. Message received, Darth Hanbin."

The sarcasm should have rolled off him. Hanbin had heard worse, had developed armour against Matthew's particular brand of defiance. Maybe even some sort of appreciation. This wasn’t even a bad one. But today, something inside him was stretched too thin. The comment hit like a match to kindling.

"If you can't commit to being here, don't waste our time showing up."

Matthew actually stepped back, expression shifting from irritation to something rawer, more vulnerable.

"Wow." His voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual bravado. "So the old Hanbin is back."

"This isn't personal." Even as he said it, Hanbin knew it was a lie. Everything about this felt personal. Every practice, every challenge to his authority, every moment that reminded him how much he'd let himself care about this group of nine. About Matthew, in some way. "I don't have time to coddle anyone. Not when we're this close."

"No, you don't have time for anyone. Period. Doesn't matter who you burn along the way."

"What would you know about–"

"I think you're scared." The accusation sliced through Hanbin's deflection. "And instead of dealing with it, you're lashing out at everyone around you."

"Watch it."

"I thought we were past this, hyung." Matthew's voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly he looked young – younger than Hanbin had ever seen him. "I thought we were finally starting to be okay. Why are you doing this again?"

The question echoed in sudden silence. Every dancer had gone still, watching their leaders tear each other apart with morbid fascination.

Hanbin's throat worked soundlessly. How could he explain that he felt like he was standing on a cliff's edge? That the closer they got to Nationals, the more terrifying it became to imagine losing – not just the competition, but this fragile thing they'd built together. The trust he'd never learned to hold without crushing. The version of himself that had started to emerge from all this.

How could he admit that being okay with any of it – the collaboration, the vulnerability, the way Matthew made him feel things he had no names for – felt like the most dangerous thing he'd ever done?

The silence stretched until it became unbearable.

"You know what?" Hao’s voice interrupted the tension. "Take five, everyone. Um…make it fifteen."

The room scattered, grateful for escape. But Matthew didn't move toward the door. He stood there for another heartbeat, looking at Hanbin like he was waiting for something – an apology, an explanation, anything.

When nothing came, his expression shuttered.

"Forget it," he said, so quietly Hanbin almost missed it.

He grabbed his bag and walked out without looking back. He didn’t return that day.

Matthew didn't come to the press event.

"Sick," read the brief text thirty minutes before call time. Nothing more.

Hanbin didn't believe it for a second. Not when he could still see the look on Matthew's face from the day before.

The audience applauded at all the right moments, cameras caught their best angles, and the news anchor used words like "seamless" and "effortless" in her coverage.

But the space beside Hanbin felt cavernous.

The routine was perfect. He was perfect.

When a reporter asked about the group’s "incredible chemistry", Hanbin gave the blandest answer possible. Something about hard work and dedication, about the importance of teamwork. Kept his smile polite, his posture straight. Nodded when expected, answered all the other questions like a machine. He played the part of the perfect dance captain.

But all he could think about was the bitter echo of Matthew's words: Doesn't matter who you burn along the way.

Hanbin wondered if maybe he had finally pushed too hard. If winning would feel like anything without Matthew there to share it.

The thought followed him through the rest of the event, through the congratulations and the faculty praise, through the ride back to campus. By the time they arrived, it had grown into something more urgent.

He didn't think. He just ran.

Across the quad, through spring air that bit at his lungs, toward the only place Matthew might be. The practice studios were supposed to be locked this late, but determined dancers always found a way.

The main studio was dark, but he could hear music bleeding through the walls – low, muffled, unmistakably there.

He cracked the door open and found Matthew exactly where he'd expected.

Alone, every line of his body taut with exhaustion like he had been dancing for hours. His reflection held his attention completely, as if he were searching for answers in his own eyes.

"I thought you were sick," Hanbin said, stepping inside and letting the door click shut.

Matthew shrugged. "Didn't feel like smiling for cameras."

His voice carried none of its usual fire, just bone-deep weariness that made Hanbin's chest tighten with guilt.

Hanbin crossed the floor slowly, cautiously. "You missed something important."

"So did you." Matthew finally looked at him directly. "You missed how hard I've been trying to meet you on your terms."

Hanbin winced. "I didn't mean–"

"Yes, you did." Matthew's eyes narrowed. "You always mean it."

"I was trying to make us stronger."

"I'm not your pawn, hyung." Matthew stepped closer, exasperation etched in every line of his face. "I'm not here to colour inside your lines. Even though that's what I keep doing."

"I'm just trying to win."

"Is that what this is still about for you? Just winning?"

"What else is there?"

"You really don't get it, do you?"

Hanbin exhaled harshly. "I get that you didn't show up when we needed you."

"I needed one goddamn second," Matthew said, voice rising with desperation, "to not feel like I'm nothing when I'm next to you."

Hanbin looked at him – really looked. The flushed cheeks. The cracked knuckles. The faint tremor in his jaw. Matthew wasn't just angry – he was hurt.

Suddenly, something inside Hanbin buckled. The rivalry, the friction, the energy between them – it hadn't just been about dance for a while now.

"I thought you'd quit," Hanbin whispered. "Because of me."

Something in Matthew's expression softened fractionally. "I'm still here. But I don't know why I keep showing up when every time I do, I feel like I'm fighting just to exist in the same space as you."

"Then why don't you stop?"

"You first. But you can't, can you? You don't know how.” Matthew stepped closer, close enough that Hanbin could feel heat radiating from his skin. "I think you actually like fighting with me."

The observation hit like lightning, illuminating something Hanbin had been trying not to see.

"Well, I think you like giving me something to fight."

"You keep looking for it."

Their eyes locked, and suddenly the space between them crackled with electricity.

"And if we don't fight," Hanbin breathed, "then what are we?"

Matthew grabbed the front of Hanbin's shirt and pulled him forward, because apparently the only answer that made sense was to press their lips together.

The kiss was desperate, unforgiving – months of restraint collapsing in a single moment. It tasted like fury and want and every sleepless night they'd spent orbiting each other like binary stars, too close to pull away, too afraid to collide.

Hands in hair, fingernails against skin, breath stolen like oxygen was luxury they couldn't afford. This wasn't romantic – it was wreckage and revelation.

Then sense crashed back in.

Hanbin pulled away like he'd been burned, panting as if he'd surfaced from drowning. His eyes widened, scared and confused.

Matthew staggered backward, equally stunned, fists still twisted in Hanbin's shirt like he couldn't decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

"What the hell was that?" Hanbin rasped.

"I don't know," Matthew said, voice rough.

"That can't happen again." The words tasted wrong. "I don't know what to do with this. With you."

"You don't have to do anything. We can just see–"

"We're not…this isn't–" Hanbin took another step back, putting distance between them that felt like miles. The smaller fingers on his shirt were finally forced to let go. "It was a moment."

"Bullshit." Matthew shook his head. "You felt it too."

"I can't afford this. Not now."

That's what broke Matthew's composure entirely. His face didn't fall – it crumpled.

"Can't afford what, exactly? Can't afford to want something?" His voice cracked. "Or can't afford to admit you've been thinking about this as much as I have?"

Hanbin's silence stretched between them like an abyss. He didn’t deny it. And technically, he didn’t deny feeling something either.

"You know what’s funny? You act like I’m the commotion. Like I’m the risk. But you’re the one who’s always putting on an act."

"I'm not."

Matthew laughed bitterly. "Then what do you call this? Why are your hands still shaking?"

Hanbin looked down. They were.

"You want to know what I can't afford?" Matthew's voice dropped. "I can't afford to keep showing up here knowing you'll push me away the second I call you out on what’s real. I can't afford to care about someone too scared to care back. But apparently that's beyond my control."

He reached for his bag like a hundred times before, and Hanbin felt panic claw up his throat.

"Wait–"

"For what?"

Hanbin's mouth opened, but no sound came. The words were right there – I'm sorry, I'm scared but I want to try – but they felt too big, too dangerous.

Matthew saw his silence and nodded to himself.

"Forget it happened then, hyung. Go back to pretending." He paused at the door without turning around. "But just so you know? I think we could've been worth the risk."

He left without another word.

Hanbin stood alone in the empty studio, sweat cooling on his skin, lips still tingling, chest burning. And everything he'd been holding together started to break apart.

I think we could’ve been worth the risk.

The words echoed in silence, and Hanbin finally understood what he'd just lost.

Not just Matthew. Not just the possibility of something more.

He'd lost the chance to be brave enough to find out who he could become when he stopped running from the things that scared him most.

For the next few days, Hanbin did what any mature, responsible, emotionally constipated adult would do after accidentally making out with his rival-turned-partner in a dark room.

He avoided Matthew like the plague.

Which would have been easier if his brain hadn't become a broken record, replaying that kiss on endless loop.

The way Matthew had tasted like mint and salt. The way his hands had fisted in Hanbin's shirt like he needed him. The small, breathless sound he'd made when Hanbin kissed back.

Hanbin would be mid-lecture and suddenly remember the warmth of Matthew's mouth, his pen freezing mid-sentence. He'd be eating lunch when Matthew's laugh echoed from across the cafeteria, nearly choking on his food.

Sleep became impossible. He'd lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second. The way Matthew had looked at him – vulnerable and fierce simultaneously. The way he'd said "hyung" like it meant something precious.

Forget it happened then, hyung.

But Hanbin couldn't forget. The harder he tried, the more it consumed him.

Meanwhile, Matthew seemed equally committed to avoiding him, which should have been a relief.

Instead, it made everything worse.

Because now Hanbin found himself looking for Matthew everywhere. Scanning hallways between classes. Glancing at the door whenever someone entered the studio. Checking his phone for messages that never came.

When had that happened? When had Matthew become someone he searched for instead of someone he competed against?

Rehearsals became a different type of mess.

Matthew would step into the studio and spot Hanbin already warming up, then do a perfect about-face like he'd just remembered he left the stove on. Hanbin would try to act unaffected – right up until he got within arm's reach of Matthew and short-circuited like someone had yanked his power cable.

If he stepped too close to correct posture, he'd catch a whiff of Matthew's shampoo and completely lose his train of thought.

If Matthew tossed a joke in his general direction – not at him, just near him – Hanbin would stiffen like a board and pretend he'd suddenly lost the ability to hear, even though his heart did that stupid skip thing whenever Matthew so much as looked his way.

The worst part was catching himself staring. Matthew would be demonstrating a move, completely focused, hair falling into his eyes, and Hanbin would find himself fascinated by the curve of his neck, the way his muscles shifted under his shirt, the small scar near his elbow he'd never noticed before.

Then Matthew would catch him looking, and Hanbin would jerk his gaze away so fast he'd nearly give himself whiplash, face burning.

It was awkward. It was obvious. Their teams noticed. Oh, they definitely noticed.

"Okay," Jiwoong finally said during a water break, hands on his hips. "What the hell is going on with you two?"

Matthew, sprawled on the floor with a towel over his face, groaned. "Nothing."

Hanbin didn't look up from the speaker controls. "Nothing." But his heart rate spiked as he fiddled with dials.

Jiwoong didn't buy it. "Right. So you totally didn't have some weird moment where you almost kissed or whatever."

Matthew choked on air.

Hanbin accidentally ripped the volume knob clean off.

"I…I was joking," Jiwoong said, eyes widening.

"Oh my god," Gyuvin gasped. "They did. They kissed."

"We didn't," Matthew said too quickly, voice too high.

"It was a mistake," Hanbin muttered, but the words tasted wrong.

"You're both terrible liars," Taerae had the cheek to laugh.

Hanbin didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because Matthew was looking at him with that same intense, unblinking gaze from that night – like he could see straight through every wall Hanbin spent his school life building.

And he suspected that he was staring back the same way. Because Matthew tilted his head, that infuriating smirk curling at his mouth's edge.

"Yeah, hyung. If it was such a mistake, why do you keep looking at me like that?"

Dead silence.

Hanbin turned bright red.

Gunwook clutched his chest. "Oh, this is better than drama club."

"I told you they kissed," Gyuvin shook Yujin like a ragdoll.

Hanbin clenched his jaw and repeated himself. "It was a mistake."

"Sure. If that helps you sleep at night." Matthew shrugged, casual on the surface, but his eyes said otherwise.

It doesn't, Hanbin thought desperately. I haven't slept properly in days because of you.

"You think this is funny?"

"I think you're funny," Matthew said, folding his arms. "Running from your own damn feelings."

The words pierced his resolve. Because that's exactly what he was doing – running, hiding, pretending his heart didn't leap every time Matthew entered a room, that he didn't miss their banter, their fights, the way Matthew challenged him to be better.

The team erupted into gasps and "ooohs" like they were witnessing a high school hallway fight.

But Hanbin didn't lash out.

He just turned, face closed off, feeling like he was suffocating. "I can't do this."

He started for the door.

"You two better get it together," Hao called out. "Nationals are in a few days, and you're ruining the vibes."

Matthew – because he was Matthew, because he never knew when to quit – chased after him.

Caught him just past the stairwell, fingers wrapping around his wrist. The touch sent electricity shooting up Hanbin's arm.

"Don't," he whispered, but didn't pull away.

Matthew stepped closer, eyes searching. "Tell me you actually want to forget it."

Hanbin opened his mouth to lie, to say yes, to end this before it could ever become something he might lose. But his throat refused to cooperate.

"Tell me you didn't feel anything," Matthew said, voice quieter now. "Tell me I imagined everything, and I'll stop. I'll give you space. I'll respect what you want. I swear."

Hanbin stared at him, heart hammering. Matthew was close enough that he could see uncertainty flickering in his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched like he was bracing for rejection.

Suddenly, Hanbin realized something that made his world tilt.

Matthew was scared too.

But he was brave enough to put his heart on the line anyway. Brave enough to fight for what he wanted.

While Hanbin was still running.

"I..." Hanbin started, then stopped. His gaze flickered – just for a second – to Matthew's lips. That stupid, traitorous slip.

And he was transported back to that night. It hadn't felt like a mistake then, in that moment.

Matthew caught the look, and hope bloomed across his features.

"Hyung," he whispered, and the way he said it – soft, careful, like Hanbin was something precious – shattered the last of his defenses.

Because Matthew was still here, still trying, even after Hanbin had called him a mistake.

That was all it took.

Hanbin was the one who surged forward this time, cupping Matthew's face and kissing him like he was drowning and Matthew was air.

No surprise, no hesitation. Matthew melted into him immediately, hands wrapping around his waist, kissing back with equal urgency. Like he'd been waiting for this moment since they'd walked away from each other.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Hanbin pressed his forehead against Matthew's.

"It wasn't a mistake," he breathed.

Matthew's smile was radiant. "No, it wasn't."

This time, when Hanbin had the urge to run, he stayed.

Chapter 8

Hanbin’s POV

It was remarkable how quickly everything shifted once they stopped pretending.

The next morning, Hanbin arrived at the studio expecting awkwardness – fumbled words, averted eyes, maybe both of them downplaying what had happened. Instead, he found Matthew already in the studio at 7 AM, stretching against the barre with his eyes closed, earbuds in.

The sight stopped Hanbin in the doorway. Matthew's shirt rode up slightly as he bent forward, exposing a strip of skin that made Hanbin's breath catch. When Matthew straightened and spotted him, no panic flashed across his features. Just that slow, knowing smile that had been haunting Hanbin's dreams.

"Morning, hyung."

The casual intimacy in his voice made Hanbin's chest flutter. "You’re very early."

"It can happen," Matthew shrugged casually as he smirked, "Sleep well?"

"Fine," he managed, dropping his bag and trying to look anywhere but at Matthew's mouth.

"Liar. You look like you didn't sleep at all." Matthew moved closer, close enough that Hanbin could smell his baby powder scented body wash. "Kept thinking about something?"

Heat crept up Hanbin's neck. Before he could formulate a response, Matthew kissed him – quick, confident, tasting of mint toothpaste. When he pulled back, Hanbin was left blinking in surprise at how natural it felt.

"There," Matthew said, grinning wider. "Now we can practice without you staring at my mouth all morning. Because you’re distracting when you do that."

Resolving that much tension, as it turned out, did wonders for… everything, really. The atmosphere in the studio the next few days was different – lighter, like someone had finally opened a window and let all the stale energy escape.

They didn’t make an announcement, no sit-down conversation about what they were or what it meant. There was no "hey, so we made out again and now things are still weird but not bad anymore" speech to the rest.

There was just a softness to Hanbin's corrections now – his voice lost its bite, and his touches lost their caution. Matthew still teased him relentlessly. But his digs had turned warm, almost reverent, like every joke came with an invisible I might actually really care about you attached.

Their duet sections crackled with new energy. When Hanbin spun, Matthew caught him like it was second nature. When Matthew leapt into a lift, Hanbin didn’t hesitate – he was just there, ready to catch him. It was like Hanbin finally understood that the spark didn’t need to burn the whole room down – it could just burn steady.

Even their teammates fell quiet during run-throughs, watching with something approaching awe as two people who had spent months at each other's throats finally figured out how to fight together.

"Okay, who are you two and what have you done with our captains?" Taerae demanded after a particularly charged run-through. "Be honest – who kissed who first and rewrote the laws of attraction?"

Matthew tossed his towel at him. "Shut up and watch us work."

Nationals were upon them.

The venue was all polished floors and soaring ceilings, designed to make every sound echo. Teams clustered in territorial groups, marking their space with gym bags and water bottles. The air hummed with nervous energy – whispered counts, the squeak of sneakers, the distant thump of bass lines bleeding through practice room walls.

Hanbin stood at the edge of it all, watching their combined team warm up with the focus of a general surveying his troops. They looked good. Better than good. Months of grinding had honed them into something sharp and cohesive, Eclipse's precision married to UnorthodX's fire.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Matthew appeared at his elbow, hair still damp from their final rehearsal.

"Just…blown away by it all." Hanbin's gaze tracked across their teammates – Gyuvin perfecting his footwork, Hao running through arm isolations, Jiwoong and Gunwook spotting each other through a difficult lift. "Six months ago, I would have bet money this was impossible."

"The routine or us?"

Hanbin turned to study Matthew's profile. Even in the harsh lighting, he was beautiful – sharp jaw, dark eyes bright with anticipation, that restless energy that made him impossible to ignore.

"Both."

Matthew bumped their shoulders together. "Ready to show them what we’ve got?"

"Yeah," Hanbin said, and meant it. "Let's go win this thing."

The backstage area buzzed with controlled chaos. Costumes being adjusted, last-minute touch-ups to makeup, coaches delivering final pep talks in urgent whispers. The sound of their competitors performing bled through the walls – muffled music, crowd reactions, the occasional roar that meant someone had just delivered something spectacular.

Hanbin ran through his pre-performance ritual: checking his costume, rolling his shoulders, finding his centre. Around him, his teammates were going through their final preparations too – Yujin muttering counts under his breath, Ricky doing his pre-show stretches, Hao giving what sounded like a pep talk to his reflection in a compact mirror.

Before he knew it, their number was called.

The walk to the wings felt both endless and instantaneous. Their teammates fell into formation behind them, a unit forged in shared sweat and stubborn determination. Hanbin could feel the collective breath-holding of their audience, the weight of expectations settling on his shoulders.

"Places, everyone." His voice cut through the pre-show jitters. "We've earned this moment. Now let's make them remember why."

Matthew wrapped it up with a bright smile. "We've got this. Now let's have some fun and kick ass while we're at it."

The curtain rose. Stage lights blazed white-hot against their skin. They stepped forward into that familiar rush of adrenaline and trepidation.

Music filled the space, and they danced.

The routine they'd rehearsed hundreds of times became something else entirely under the lights – instinct and muscle memory taking over while conscious thought stepped aside to marvel.

Every argument, every compromise, every small revelation had been preparing them to move like this. Two opposing forces finding equilibrium in motion. Controlled and wild. Precision and chaos. Discipline and instinct.

Everything that they had been, combined into a beautiful amalgamation. Them.

They moved like they'd been dancing together for years instead of months. The crowd couldn't look away, and neither could the judges.

When the ending pose hit and the music cut to silence, the pause lasted exactly three heartbeats.

Then– thunder.

Applause crashed over them in waves. Judges rose to their feet. Camera flashes strobed like lightning. Through the roar, Matthew could hear individual voices shouting their names, their school, fragmentary praise that blurred together into a wall of sound.

Hanbin and Matthew were still locked in their ending position – Matthew's hand pressed against Hanbin's chest, both of them breathing hard, eyes fixed on each other. The rest of the world felt like static. Slowly, they broke apart.

Their teammates crashed into them like human-sized bulldozers. Gyuvin tackle-hugged them both while Gunwook shouted something incomprehensible over the noise. Yujin bounced around them like he'd forgotten how to contain his excitement.

Years later, Hanbin would’ve said that he didn’t even need to hear the results to know. But the fact was, it almost didn’t register at first.

When the scores were announced, the numbers almost felt anticlimactic.

Of course they'd won.

And suddenly Hanbin found himself separated from Matthew by a wall of celebrating bodies.

He tried to catch Matthew's eye through the chaos – past Yujin's flailing arms and Taerae's delighted whooping. When their gazes finally locked across the mayhem, Matthew winked at him as Gunwook and Jiwoong attempted to lift him off the ground.

Gyuvin cried into Ricky's shoulder while Hao yelled something about hotpot being the second-best thing in his life now. Medals were pressed into their hands, cold and surprisingly heavy.

But even through the noise and celebration, Hanbin's eyes stayed on the one person he truly wanted to share this moment with.

He finally found Matthew alone later, on the hotel roof of all places. He was leaning against the railing, wind ruffling his hair, looking for all the world like he'd stepped out of a movie.

"Having a main character moment?" Hanbin asked softly, coming to stand beside him. The night air carried the distant sounds of their teammates' continued celebrations several floors below. "You're missing all the confetti and celebratory karaoke."

"Someone's gotta do it," Matthew replied, but he was wearing that warm, fond smile that made Hanbin's chest feel impossibly full. "How does it feel? Being a national champion again."

Hanbin exhaled, tension leaving his shoulders for the first time all day. The city sprawled beneath them, all glittering lights and possibility. "Different."

"How so?"

"I'm just..." He paused, searching for the right words. "I never knew winning could feel this good. This complete." His voice dropped to a mumble. "Because you were there this time."

Matthew turned to study him, eyebrows raised but eyes twinkling with renewed affection. "Is this your version of being romantic?"

"I'm trying my best," Hanbin felt heat creep up even the back of his skull.

"Oh no, very dangerous habit." Matthew's tone was teasing, but his voice had gone tender.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the city breathe and sparkle below them like scattered stardust. The night felt infinite.

Then, without overthinking it for once, Hanbin reached over and took Matthew's hand. The simple contact sent warmth shooting up his arm – how had he gone so long without this? Matthew's fingers intertwined with his immediately, like they'd been doing this dance for years, like they were always meant to fit together this way.

"I'm glad you didn't let me walk away," Hanbin murmured.

Matthew squeezed his hand, thumb brushing across his knuckles. "I'm glad you finally stopped running."

Victory had never tasted quite this sweet.

Chapter 9

Matthew’s POV

They never had a conversation about what they were.

Not really.

Everything had changed. And somehow, nothing had.

They were still them – still arguing over song choices, still challenging each other to push harder, dance sharper, fight better. The fire was still there, burning as bright as ever, but now it felt warm instead of destructive.

They were still rivals. But now they leaned on each other without pretending it didn't matter.

They stayed behind after practice because goodbye suddenly felt too early. They shared glances that lingered way longer than necessary. A shoulder bump on the way out of the studio. A hoodie that somehow found its way into the wrong closet and stayed there.

And kisses. God, the kisses.

Lazy ones before morning practice, when the studio was empty and the world felt like it belonged to just them. Quick ones stolen between classes, pressed against hallway walls when no one was looking. Kisses to win arguments, kisses to end them, kisses just because they could.

They didn't rush to define what they were. They didn't need to.

Nationals were behind them. The pressure was gone. The rivalry had melted into something sharper, sweeter, still crackling with competition – but now layered with something softer.

But they didn’t talk about it. Not to each other. Not out loud. No labels.

To the world, they were obvious. They didn’t need to say "we’re together" when everyone already assumed they were. When Matthew started wearing Hanbin's hoodies, when Hanbin began showing up with Matthew's coffee order memorized, when they fell asleep on each other during movie nights, no one questioned it. Not the team. Not their friends. Not even themselves.

To each other, they were just figuring it out. One day, one kiss, one shared smile at a time.

And one night, long after the world had stopped watching and the lights in the studio had dimmed, Matthew looked over at Hanbin – hand still clasped in his after they'd spent the evening choreographing a new routine, Hanbin's thumb tracing lazy circles on his palm like it was the most natural thing in the world – and felt something shift in his chest.

No.

Nope.

Matthew was not in love with Hanbin.

Absolutely not.

Sure, maybe he spent his free time replaying their kisses like a deranged film editor. Maybe he'd started showing up to practice earlier than necessary just to catch Hanbin mid-stretch, hair tied messily back, forehead creased in focus. And yeah, okay, maybe his heart did this stupid little skip every time Hanbin looked at him like he was the only person in the room.

But in love? No way. Definitely not.

...Right?

"You're in love with him," Jiwoong said one day, casually destroying Matthew's entire worldview.

Matthew, sprawled on the studio couch mid-sip of his drink, choked so hard he nearly aspirated the entire can. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jiwoong didn't even glance up from his phone. "You. Hanbin. The constant eye contact. The secret smiles. The way you both suddenly forget how to function like normal humans when the other walks into the room. It's obvious."

Matthew scoffed, sitting up with the indignation of someone who had definitely not been thinking about Hanbin's hands for the past twenty minutes. "First of all, no. Second of all– no!"

"So you're saying you don't think about him all the time? And all the other cliché things people think about when they’re in love?"

Matthew opened his mouth to deliver a scathing denial, but none came.

Jiwoong's grin was pure evil. "Hmm, interesting."

"I hate you."

"No, you hate how right I am." Jiwoong stretched lazily. "Take it from me – you don't have to worry about anything. Just talk to him."

Matthew buried his face in a throw pillow and screamed into it.

Jiwoong was right.

Every time Hanbin’s cheek whiskers appeared for him, every time his laugh caught Matthew off guard, every time their eyes met across the studio and the rest of the world fell away – he felt it. That fluttery, terrifying, undeniable feeling.

He was completely, absolutely, pathetically screwed.

He'd planned to ignore it forever. Shove it in a box, lock the box, drop it in the ocean. Just to be safe.

But then Hanbin had to go and ruin everything by looking unfairly attractive during practice.

It was infuriating. No one should look that good while drenched in sweat, brow furrowed in concentration, shirt clinging to his frame in ways that should be illegal. It was actively sabotage. Practically a felony against Matthew's mental health.

And Matthew? He was a goner.

Hanbin caught him staring. "What?"

Matthew hesitated, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. His heart was doing that stupid racing thing, and his palms were sweaty, and this was it. This was how he died. Death by feelings.

Then – without thinking, without planning, without giving himself time to run screaming from the building – he opened his mouth and said, "If I told you something, would you promise not to leave?"

Hanbin tilted his head, curious. "Depends on what you're going to say."

"I like you, hyung."

The words tumbled out all at once. Just– boom.

Hanbin smirked. "I would hope you liked me at least a little, considering all the kis–"

"Uh, I mean I hate you," Matthew blurted, panic taking over his brain like a hostile takeover.

Hanbin just stared at him, waiting.

Matthew winced. "No, I don't. I don't hate you, I just…I–"

He dragged a hand through his hair, breath coming quick and uneven.

"I like you, okay? A lot. I just didn't realize it at first because I was too busy trying to counter every comment you made and being annoyed by your entire existence. But then we danced so well together, and then we kissed. And I told myself it was nothing, except it wasn't nothing. And now we have this thing going, whatever this is. But you're in my mind all the time and I think–" He stopped, heart hammering against his ribs. "I think I'm actually in love with you."

Silence.

Hanbin just stood there, frozen, lips slightly parted like Matthew had just told him the earth was flat or that pineapple belonged on pizza (it’s good though).

Matthew's stomach dropped through the floor. "Great talk. It's cool," he muttered, already turning toward the door. "I'll just go die of embarrassment now."

Before he could bolt, Hanbin's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

"Wait."

"Huh?"

Hanbin let out a slow breath, eyes flickering down to Matthew's mouth, then back up again. When he spoke, his voice was impossibly fond, like Matthew was something precious and slightly ridiculous. "You're an idiot."

Matthew scowled. "Wow, okay, thanks for that–"

Hanbin kissed him.

It wasn't like their previous kisses – desperate and stolen and charged with months of unresolved tension. This one was slow, steady, sure. Like Hanbin had known it all along and had just been waiting for Matthew to be the one to catch up this time.

When he finally pulled away, he didn't step back. Just pressed their foreheads together, noses brushing, and whispered, "I kinda love you too."

And just like that, everything made sense.

Maybe falling in love with your rival wasn't the worst thing in the world. Maybe it was what happened when you found someone who challenged you to be better, who matched your fire with their own, who made you want to fight harder not against them, but alongside them.

Actually? It might've been the best thing that ever happened to them.