"Coming up in our countdown, at number 3, we have a single from the K-rock international sensation Evxn's EP, "Again", who is also joining us today on BBC Radio 2 for an official live performance..."

The typically rowdy company cafeteria lulls, uncomfortable silence blankets the sterilized space. Jongseong feels a shiver running down his spine as the aqueous drops of opening piano chords are replaced with a metronomical click, click, click, pointing down, forward, up, like an omen, signaling his entire body to tense up in anticipation of a looming end.

It was there that he heard Heeseung.

Jongseong used to wonder, back in the ancient, glorious age of teenage obsession and insomniac daydreaming, if his birth was in fact a byproduct of Heeseung's, a vessel of acknowledgement for the transience of his hyung's existence – God's only concession attached to an otherwise unblemished creation; as it would have been so unfair not to keep him confined, between the putrid bound of the physical realm, with bones that rot and muscles that ache.

Yet, whenever Jongseong used to whisper this obvious, evidential truth, I was born in honor of you, hyung would merely respond with a delicate chuckle, no more audible than the pellucid chirping of those things with wings, creatures who lurk behind crackling olive branches that offer them no shelter nor promises, just to hide from the prying eyes of the eternally curious Park Jongseong.

But Heeseung doesn't hide, never from him. It's Jongseong who had always tried to escape the others' inquisitive gaze, a pathetic pretense of nonchalance: fumbling fingers that turn into mush the moment they come into contact with this civilization's most poorly hidden secret, the soul-awakening awe that shapes a man who would rather turn down an invitation to heaven to stay in the nonexistent hut some called happiness, others named tragedy.

Perhaps it was this sensation that brought him into Heeseung's embrace, heart pries open, mind and soul ready for him to take, take, take as much as he wants, cement traces of his cravings onto Jongseong's body, sizzling flesh under the red-hot head of a branding iron. Perhaps it was this very sensation that had gradually suffocated them, for as much as Jongseong yearned to be consumed whole, vanish as fuel for his hyung's final glorious transformation, Heeseung wouldn't, couldn't – instead, hyung would breathe to the crook of his neck, with his kindest, most addictive tone:

"You're too pretty for that."

If we're being honest, Jongseong knew, had always known, Lee Heeseung would never be ready enough for him.

It came as no surprise, their breakup – the words that sprang out of his twenty-year-old lips came naturally, as if belonged not to Jongseong, but somewhere in a lost scripture, found under oblivious eyes and reverent hands, tales and lives away from where it was first inscribed.

"You know, I'll probably never regret us," Hyung said, and it took everything out of Jongseong not to kneel.

"I know," And he knew it wasn't a lie, despite the slight tremble in his voice, "I won't either."

The true tragedies are always malleable. Theirs aren't.

"Damn this," Heeseung hyung laughed, and here it is again, that funny imitation of the inanimate, threatening to lunge itself out of Jongseong's throat, "You and your goddamn romance."

It's curious, Jongseong thinks, how easy it always was with hyung by his side. Way back then and even now, as his eyes trace the soft outlines of his coworkers-slash-best-friend-of-seven-years' features, following constructed missing words to squeeze himself back into the conversation.

"And then she has the audacity to say— aaaand he's back. G'morning, mate." Sim Jaeyun says, proceed to remind Jongseong that he had managed to zone out for ten whole minutes upon his friend's arrival, and that he has approximately five more to finish his half-full tray before their manager starts threatening to have a heart attack from workplace disorder. Jongseong responded by fake-quoting Einstein and arguing to thin air about the relativity and arrogant subjectivity of the man-made clock, each bite taking longer and longer to be finished. The brunette just scoffs, making no attempt to stop him.

Jaeyun probably knows what happened. He doesn't mention anything, letting Jongseong talk his ears off about something neither of them cares about after rambling about nothing for hours on end. He knows that they both need this, a way to release their bottled-up tension whenever that third person is in the picture: worse happened.

And by worse, it's not worse worse, just that—

The day Park Jongseong strolled back into their shared home, water-soaked and listless, promptly announcing to the band that their lead singer and frontman had gone on to sign that individual artist deal with Hybe, that he's not coming back, and that sorry, I told him to do that, it had taken Sim Jaeyun fucking his brains out and him crying into his shoulder for them not to break apart.

Kissing his best friend's trembling temple as he screamed, silently, into his hollow ribcage, Jongseong saw, rumbling in the pit of his stomach, the slightest chance that Lee Heeseung meant the same thing to Sim Jaeyun as he did Park Jongseong.

And just like that, it's easy again. Sex with Jaeyun is simple. Safe. In the same way that making music with him is – they fit each other like a glove, all quick-tempered and rash decisions, mistakes overlaying mistakes like tempera on undried plaster, straying half-notes in a melodic minor scale. If you don't think too hard, it's right. It wouldn't disintegrate in a hundred years, anyway.

Just like that, life went. Heeseung is doing well without them, making music that they listen to and going on talk shows that they, as a principle, do not watch. They are doing well without Heeseung, making a name for themselves in cramped bars and damp venues, signing up for company dinners that they would skip for band practice, recruiting more and more irresponsible factors to their already chaotic nebula. Kim Sunoo, who functionally acts as both manager and their marketing agent, forcing his way into their meager five-part gig money sharing groupchat via nepotism (adult Riki is a certified simp for his boyfriend and an enormous headache to his literal adoptive parents like we seriously raised you bro– ); Yang Jungwon, who sauntered into their practice room one day and proceed to stay there indefinitely (materials for his final college essay, he said, two years out of graduation).

Don't overthink this. Jaeyun would say, the day Heeseung got his first Hot100 placement, looking up from between Jongseong's legs, spit drawing a metallic line that glistens along his crimson-streaked thigh, with sincere eyes that scream I would take this with me to the end of the world. And Jongseong would let him. Hell, he would tag along if he could.

It wouldn't be that bad for them to get buried together, but he doubts that Jaeyun, of all people, would agree with him. Again and again, he would imagine a distant era, in which his nights with Sim Jaeyun would be written down, thousands of worlds from now, as the purest artistic entanglement of love, the same way humans have always excavated deaths to make meanings out of things that don't possess any. All things considered, it would make the most sense for them to do that. Factually, it is indeed with Jaeyun that Jongseong's body is most attuned with.

Sex with Jaeyun is simple because it can never go any deeper than that: an entanglement. Not with the knowledge that there is someone out there with whom he wouldn't be able to hold without burning himself to ashes, not when he had caught, many times before, the bassist fervently scouring his body for signs of lost relics and missed confessions.

And yet, every so often, when one's sanity become too numb to carry the weight of their heart, as his Jaeyun starts mindlessly count, with his stupidly lean body and idiotic breathless whisper, the mole on his eyes, the corner of his lips, places that even himself doesn't know exists, referring to them as lost stars living on his body, seen to no one but themselves, even the ever-pious believer in Jongseong would decides against correcting him.

As they waltz back to their office, taking turns reciting lists of potential group apologies that have proven many times before to not work, he bursts into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. A speck of uncertainty flashes before his accomplice's expression, before it softens into something mirroring his own, incredulous and understanding.

"This is fun," Jongseong says, never feeling more truthful, "Being with you, I mean."

If his reluctant, moment-too-late shrug afterwards means anything, Jongseong doesn't think about it.

°✷

Things came crashing down with the silent bloodstain that trickled along through the draining roof of Moonstruck , into the escape pipe underlying their private lounge. The bloodstain knocked twice, and as no one cared to come for it, three more times, by which point a raspy shout emitted from within, probably from someone who was too occupied with curling themselves up on the rattled-up Facebook Marketplace couch to offer any semblance of courtesy to their visitor. As one would, after banging their heads and jumping around a stage for two hours straight.

"JUST COME IN. WE'RE ALL FULLY CLOTHED, for the most part—Sunghoon-hyung, put on your pants for fuck's sake– "

The door swings open, and as if it wasn't just a stain, but boiling clumps of suggested fresh blood splurging out from a film noir's severed head—smooth, dark grey patches of pixel dipped in ambiguous morality and disinfected violence—one can almost hear the early death of a scream echoing off of all that's alive in the room.

"Heeseung-hyung." Jaeyun breathes in after what seems like forever. Sunoo gasped, finally recognizing the forbidden, hex-inducing syllables he had once threatened everyone into informing him about, mostly out of his own meddlesome nature and, to a lesser extent, because it's in his job description. It's important to the team, that's why I'm asking you; else, I'm going to ask Jay hyung, to which everyone eventually obliged.

"Heeseung-hyung!" Riki nearly screamed, taking huge, excited steps to the entrance, landing on a running jump-hug that almost topples the older boy over; wide shoulders and long limbs forming an image of a free-flowing, Impressionistic tree, stacked full of chaotic curves and disconnected lines, only losing its improbability upon closer inspection, as changing hues disintegrated into colors and curves into points. "What are you doing here?"

Heeseung yelped from the pressure, that of a boy who has yet to have his enormous existence figured out despite being well into his 10th year of puberty, then chuckled at the familiarity of having this overgrown child dragging his aching body even closer to the ground. He pinched his mouth into a straight line, thought for a moment, and said,

"Just wanna check out a local band in town, you know, heard they're pretty good", Heeseung adjusted his posture, instantly feeling a gaping hole forming as Niki gradually climbed down. Everyone stayed silent, unsure of the implications it would make to react, in whichever way, to his words. Niki's question suddenly seems much more weighted than it was intended to be.

"Liar." Jaeyun sang songs, eyes fixed on the buzzing presence of the new— old? guest. Heeseung stared back, unblinking. Jaeyun found himself completely unfazed with time freezing at this precise moment. As pathetic as it sounds, he felt like he was pleading, begging for a bit more time, for a chance to relay his case, understanding that someone, something, can die, will die, had he stopped.

As Heeseung diverted his eyes to their stinking concrete floor, breaking their eye contact, he felt a spark of heat that dissipated as quickly as it came, like bead-cut diamonds forming on top of his forearm and rolling down, before getting caught up in the crevices of his young skin, clinging themselves to the slightest chance of survival. Jaeyun shifted his gaze to the uncharacteristically silent Jongseong, who he realized was wearing a similar expression: heavy eyelids, desperate hearts. He heard himself say, Let's get out of here, the same way he would every time they sneaked out into their secret world, the very place he'd built, brick by brick, oh so carefully, for moments like this,

Yes, yes, out of here. Jongseong would say, I need to feel you.

Before he could reach his hand out to grab onto Jongseongs', whose body he knew would just respond regardless of his heart, and throw them into a sprint, as far away from this place as possible, Heeseung was there, head cocked to one side, hands scratching his neck, skin tight, voice low,

"Can I borrow Jongseong for a minute?"

And Jaeyun would just sit there, static, soaked, looking up as his melting star dies its third death.

✷°　.　　°✷　•

"You're silent. It's unlike you." Heeseung quipped, kicking his shiny Oxfords' soles onto the glistening surface of the rubber-treaded road.

Jongseong just stared at him, his shoulder backed against a cast-iron lamp post. He stared. And stared.

And Heeseung stared back, watching as grey iron bled into emerald and burgundy, as the blue on Jongseong's hair was soldered by humidity to blushing flesh, the heatmap that was formed with Jongseong in its center.

"You lied." He retaliated, barely meaning what he said. It's unlike you.

As Jongseong stood up and walked away, Heeseung saw in his periphery a speck of flame escaping from the light heads above their heads, and promptly caught on fire. He grabbed Jongseong's neck, crushing their lips together, felt the burn in his throat intensifes until it's not just ashes that found themselves lodged in his heart, but something harder, coarser, like the clumps of salt he found tasting the roof of Jongseong's mouth, the musky flavour that signals a form of breaking down, stalactites forming out of millennias of yearning.

He wondered if it's too late, if it always has been, as his hand strayed into the small of the guitarist's back, mouth travelling up the younger's alcohol-damped neck, leaving behind bruises, remnants of clogged blood that look no darker than his stars. The singer rolled his hips onto Jongseong's once, twice, hands placed on the columns right behind Jongseong's head, knowing that this boy tended to lose himself in times like this. Another thrust, and Jongseong hissed; the overwhelming sensation jolted him awake. He pushed Heeseung away with a start.

"The fuck do you think—Are you out of your mind?" He shouted, glassy eyes darting over their suspiciously barren surroundings before going back to Heeseung's, frantically pulling up his hood as if that would do anything to the horde of catastrophe that was already kick-started. And when he laughed under his breath one more time, whispering I might be, Jongseong got even more jittery,

"Don't you know who you are? Where you are?"

"Hmm. It doesn't matter, Jongseong."

"It does, hyung, it does. I know they treated you like Kurt-fucking-Cobain over there, but you're still an idol here, Heeseung-hyung. Imagine what this will do to your reputation; this place's practically swarmed with paparazzi. Imagine what they would say—"

"I don't give a fuck about my stupid reputation, Jongseong." Heeseung closed the distance between them, feeling his body warm up at the sight of wide-eyed Jongseong melting, part by part, with every next sound he uttered. "I need you. I ne— I wanna fuck you, right now. We can do it in that alleyway over there, like we did in Hongdae—not like I haven't had any scandals like this before, huh? This is nothing. Hell, we can do it right here, let them take all the fuckin' photo they want. It's no use anyway; might as well give them a show, yeah?"

"That was different. This is different. You know that." Jongseong diverted his eyes, felt it stung with something not that different from a kind of primal, preyful shame as Heeseung took a step back, hands on his hips as he scanned the younger boy for any indication of an effort to run away.

"Oh, yeah? How so?"

"Why are you here?"

You're not supposed to be here. Jongseong felt himself filled with a sense of dread. This was not how it was supposed to be. Park Jongseong was supposed to be only a part of Lee Heeseung's past, a blurry signature at the end of a molding note, a broken negative peaking out from stacks and stacks of undistinguished silhouettes. The fact that Jongseong is aware of all this, by its nature, was already a mistake; it was for this that he was removed from his hyung's life, having gotten too close, being too greedy for his own good.

"I've already told you the truth."

"You didn't."

"I need you." His hyung's browline collapsed into soft inclined lines; he seemed tired, dejected.

"That doesn't make sense."

" You don't make sense. God, you're so—You know what, whatever. I'll never get through to you like this." Heeseung groaned, yanking at Jongseong's hands, and immediately took off. To the corner of his eyes, Park Jongseong realized with horror, an explosion of light took place.

As they ran, ran, and ran, passing along the dimly lit Jongno streets, dripped in colored LED pipes and flashing billboards, Heeseung saw, one after the other, faces: people he'd seen, people he'd bowed to, people to whom he'd said hello, good day, I've admire your work since I was a child, you were the reason why I started working, hello, good day, yes, I would love to be part of your get-together, yes, hello, of course I'm up for a drink, let's talk collab, yes, yes, I'm doing great, I'll get that master out by next Tuesday, for sure—

People, whose images blurred as they swept through each other, merging into a form of hazy, ethereal, beaming corporal existence. An existence that's frayed at the edge, for no one would ever dare to question its legitimacy.

Heeseung used to dream of this, sitting in their shared 15-pyeong rented studio apartment, looking across the wondrous, sparkling streets of the place that was truly, sincerely named Seoul, bright lights and busy hearts; running over oneself in excitement to pursuit of one's dream, reaching closer and closer to perfection without having to worry about due rents and unpaid gigs, make-up teams and coordi, red carpets and man in silk shirts, thousands of people screaming away the ever-present loneliness that have plagued him since he was tricked into being aware of himself.

Surely, Lee Heeseung was born for this.

Hyung, you were born for this. Go.

And went, he did. And yet. And yet.

"Hyung," Jongseong tried, "Hyung, where are we going?" He repeated, exasperated from the sudden burst of adrenaline running through his body. He felt it, the fogginess, drowsy signs of a brain shutting off to protect itself, the residue of what was sleazily placed into his mouth, the want, the longing — and what's left of a mind without reasons but to follow its basest beliefs?

"My studio. It's right there in the intersection."

Jongseong felt himself nodding. They ran, and ran, until Heeseung came to a halt.

Things with hyung are so easy, Jongseong said to himself, panting into his elbow as his hyung plunges into him with his third finger, bare chest perched precariously over the edge of a mirror-shiny Yamaha DM7, as if a single knob on that thing plus tax doesn't cost him two full months of overtiming in his semi-decent PR office job.

"Eating me up so well, my Jongseong," Heeseung rested his chin on the younger's neck, ear placed beside his jawline, right where his carotid artery would be — it's an obsession of his, being able to hear his Jongseong's heartbeat rise as he got more and more riled up under his hands; "So tight for me..."

Distantly, Jongseong found himself wonder, just how many heartbeats had found themselves lost in the music that his hyung made in this room.

Heeseung watched fervently as an effervescent fluid seeped onto Jongseong's quivering thighs, drawing circles with his fingers until he found the one angle that got his boy to arch so beautifully against the mixing board, with that breathy, tantalizing whine of his, the one that got Heeseung lightheaded no matter how many time he'd hear it. For the first time in a while, he found himself thinking,

"We should make a song like this, baby," Heeseung breathes out, reaching out for the lube, half-knocked over by their incessant collision. He thought for a moment, rasped, "They should know just how pretty you get for me", before dragging his hands onto the power unit and switching it open. The console rumbled, hissing for a few moments before it blinked alive, buttons flashing and burning until it burst into work, as the glow from its workscreen illuminated the murky room. He narrowly got to connecting his cable with the hand mic before Jongseong started shaking violently, the back of his hand muffling out barely-contained sobs.

"Hyung, hyung, don't stop, I want—" He choked out, feeling Heeseung distangle himself from their stance, feeling his eye burn at the thought of being left like that, high, desperate, filled to the brim with ugly, undeserving jealousy.

"Shhh," Heeseung hushed, kissing his tears away as he stroked through Jongseong's slicked-through hair, "Hyung isn't going anywhere."

Things were simpler after that, as they collided into each other, brewing up a sort of skin-shattering physical memory, broken moans and yielding touch, as the monster behind them kept roaring, etching into their bones a looming warning of predestined separation, a constant reminder of the vast, unending galaxy outside of this room that didn't have enough space to ever contain theirs.

"Hyung, don't cry." Jongseong reached his hand up, pulling himself over Heeseung's neck, murmuring, moments after their parting, "Please."

✸　　　　°*　

"Jongseong-ah, I can't write anything without you," Heeseung mumbled, watching as the younger man dragged his white towel over cum-stained skin, covering bluing scratches with his stretched-out tee and the Jordan shorts he'd haphazardly strewn over the producer chair weeks ago. Jongseong wouldn't leave just yet, Heeseung knew, not after making sure that his hyung wouldn't have another post-coital anxiety attack as soon as he was gone.

"That's not true. You did." Jongseong answered, matter-of-factly.

"You know what I mean. I can't anymore."

Jongseong knew. Which didn't mean he could do anything about it.

Perhaps that's their ultimate tragedy: always knowing what's coming before it ever happened, sharing the same vocabulary and memories but not the same set of faith, though Jongseong's had long killed off his in reparation for Heeseung's broken ones. Heeseung thought, how harrowing it was that the one time he finally found it in himself to open his mouth and spill his heart out to the younger one, he would get Jongseong to be like this: immobile, volatile, afraid.

Perhaps, the very fact that Heeseung is here with him was enough proof to challenge his biggest conviction. Perhaps that conviction was never there in the first place.

However, in the end, Jongseong is still Jongseong — he never stays afraid.

"It's just a slump, hyung, you know how it is." Jongseong said, playing with Heeseung's hair as he leaned in, "You will find it again in no time, you're—"

"It's not just a slump, Jongseong, I know. You're doing it again— talking as if you know everything. As if, as if I would act just how you want if you imagined it long enough."

"What do you mean?"

Heeseung reclined on his couch, opened his mouth, felt himself straying,

He can finally ask Jongseong about that one time he disappeared for weeks, a month into moving in together, ignoring every single one of Heeseung's calls, had him nearly getting arrested for fighting with the police over being uneligible to file for a missing person report, just to show up on April 21st, dull smile on his face, asking for a belated Happy Birthday. About the fact that it became a routine, a spell, that any day marked up in their calendar would be a day Jongseong decided to go on another one of his little spontaneous runaways.

Or that one time Jongseong ran to him after their first opening for BTS, high on the rumbling soul of the stage they were on, breathless and beautiful after pulling him into that deep, visceral kiss he loved so much, asking Heeseung to marry him, to take everything of him, to live their entire life like this, to never, ever stop loving him like this, please, please, please, just to then promptly pretend that never happened when they woke up the next morning.

Or—

"I don't know. You tell me. Why did we break up?" Bile under his tongue, Heeseung said, knowing full well how low he's stooping.

"That's unfair, hyung, you know that," Jongseong muttered, looking away, fingers incessantly fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt.

"Of course," Heeseung felt the irritation rising to his temple, "Yes, of fucking course. I am the unfair one."

The other grew even smaller after his snide remark, hunched back, and swollen pout. Heeseung sighed, his entire body deflating.

The problem was, Heeseung got it, theoretically, why Jongseong did everything he did. He got it, really, yet he had never been able to quite stop Jongseong from acting like that. Like he would accept losing Heeseung at any moment.

"You know, I just wanted to meet you 'cause I miss you, really."

Another moment of eerie silence went by, and the one-man confession resumed.

"I kept thinking what would have happened if you had come that day. You know. Maybe we— Maybe I would have been better."

"That's not necessarily true. Hyung—"

"I wasn't lying when I said I can't write anything without you. I haven't written anything in months, Jongseong— I think I'm forgetting you. And it kills me knowing that you're still out there, playing, performing without me. I miss you. I miss myself.

It's... you know, it's almost as if I have dropped him somewhere on my way here, your Lee Heeseung that was so in love with creating and discovering and performing; the one that was so unreasonably excited every time he hears someone reacting positively to a chord he chose; the one that, despite having to act like a brat to everyone who'd ever love him, still obstinately clings to that idea of pure, untamed creativity. And I thought I had everything to bring him back, you know? I thought signing with you would be the beginning of our life, of my life, Jongseong-ah. And yet—"

Heeseung halted, his breath shortening. He closed his eyes for a few moments, just enough to feel his head lightened before looking up. Jongseong was there, waiting for him.

"Jongseong." For the first time since they arrived in the studio, Heeseung feel stable. He didn't move his eyes. "Why didn't you sign that contract?"

For the first time in forever, Jongseong didn't look away. He didn't answer, but Heeseung could swear he heard it in his head, along with the resounding cheers from his heart. He felt something bloom from the coarse wasteland that is his soul — It hurted, and hurted, until a swift, scarcely-existing wind escaped into the room, knocking away every last bit of his pain. It hit him: It didn't matter anymore—had never been even remotely important.

"You kept me going, Jongseong." You hurt me. I miss you. "I can't bear this anymore." The words he croaked out sounded unfamiliar, like it's not himself but something else—something hungrier, more savage, something unreasonable. An ultimatum.

"Hyung—"

"Jongseong, please, just tell me. Do you love me? Have you ever loved me?"

"Yes, I did—I do. More than anything, hyung, I swear–"

"Then, Jongseong, tell hyung. How do we fix this?" Heeseung asked, feeling his hands numbing from holding tight, tight onto the younger's arms.

"I..." Jongseong said, overwhelmed with an ominous sense of resolution, trying to muster something, anything, between Lee Heeseung's frantic pleas. He felt the other breaking, crushing his luminous self into speckles and speckles of fine sand. He felt his arms reddening, cut by the ridges of the granular particles from the other's grip. He felt himself tear up, wanting everything to stop hurting for them both. He finally croaked out, placing his entire body into Heeseung's hold, "I don't know."

Jongseong blinked, feeling breathless, despite not saying anything, despite not having said anything in a long while.

When he looked, he saw Lee Heeseung. Beautiful, whole Lee Heeseung. His hyung.

Lee Heeseung smiled, happy and at ease, tired eyes curved up into that wonderful half-moon Jongseong had sworn to himself he would live his entire life for.

"That's good. Because I don't as well."

And then, as the night greyed out, and as both of them found themselves too tired to fight back the drowning dawn, Jongseong heard it whispered back,

"Jongseong-ah. Let's start over."

☆•✯　　　

Because perhaps, actually, nothing had ever been that easy with Lee Heeseung. And that's just how it should be.

·　　*