[tw: panic attack]

☾

The wind on the bridge cut through the night, sharp and biting, making him shiver as it whipped against his skin. He pulled his jacket tighter, his fingers numb from the cold. His breath misted in the air, each exhale dissolving quickly into the dark sky above, while the distant hum of traffic beneath him felt like white noise, almost comforting in its monotony. His eyes stung, dry and irritated, but he wasn't sure if it was from the wind or the exhaustion that dragged at every fiber of his body. Maybe it was from the hours of sleep he hadn't gotten in days. Or maybe, it was because he had spent the last two hours crying until his throat burned and his chest ached.

He hadn't even noticed the tears until Hwasa had pulled him into her arms, whispering soft reassurances, her presence steady and unwavering like it always was. His mind had been too clouded, too lost in the storm of everything—work, his mother, and the one person who hadn't stopped haunting his thoughts for weeks now. Mingi stood silently beside them, his hand resting gently on San's shoulder, while Hwasa held him until the sobs subsided, until the trembling stopped, but the hollow ache in his chest remained.

"Stay the night, man. You shouldn't be alone right now" Mingi had suggested after San's sobs had quieted.

But San had shaken his head, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. "I can't. I need to go" they had calmed him down, sure, but the rawness of it all hadn't left him, and the thought of staying the night—of keeping them awake with his crying—felt suffocating.

Now, standing alone on the bridge with the city spread out before him, he couldn't shake the sense of emptiness. The world felt too big, too indifferent, and he was just... small. Insignificant. He stared down at the river below, watching the faint glimmers of light ripple across the water's surface. The scene was peaceful in its way, but he found no peace in it.

His mind raced, thoughts darting from one thing to the next, never settling long enough for him to grasp hold of them. The agency was a constant weight on his shoulders, the expectations unrelenting. He wasn't sure if he could keep up the pace they demanded of him anymore. The continuous rehearsals, the meetings, the shows, the relentless need to prove himself every day—it was suffocating. And yet, it was nothing compared to the guilt that twisted in his gut whenever he thought of his mother. He knew she needed him, her health fragile despite the new, better therapy she started, the worry always present in the back of his mind like a dull throb. He wasn't there enough. No matter how often he checked in, no matter the money he could provide now, no matter how many times he promised he'd visit soon, it never felt like enough.

But it was the other thing that weighed the heaviest tonight.

He dragged a hand across his face, his skin cold to the touch, and turned away from the water. His motorbike was parked a few feet away, leaning on its stand beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp. The keys dangled loosely from his fingers as he walked toward it, his steps slow and heavy. He knew he should go home. His mother would be waiting, worrying like she always did. And he needed sleep—God, he needed sleep. Tomorrow was going to be another grueling day, another string of endless demands at the agency that he wasn't sure he had the energy to meet. He had difficulty believing he had dreamed that life once.

But as he reached the bike, sliding the key into the ignition, he knew he wasn't going home. Not yet.

The engine roared to life beneath him, the vibrations buzzing up through his hands and into his chest, but it did little to clear the haze in his head. He kicked the stand back and took off, the wind biting harder now as he sped through the empty streets. His mind drifted as the city blurred past him, his body moving on instinct alone, taking turns he wasn't fully aware of until he realized he was heading in the opposite direction.

Away from home.

Toward the only place he really wanted to be.

He wasn't even sure what he was hoping for anymore. Maybe just to feel like he was doing something, anything, that might help. Or maybe it was the need to be close, to prove to himself that he hadn't been completely shut out, that he still mattered. That he wasn't just a failure—at work, with his family, with... him.

The buildings began to change as he entered another part of the city, the streets becoming more familiar now, though they weren't the kind of streets anyone wandered at this time of night. He didn't care. His grip tightened on the handlebars as he made the final turn, the apartment building rising up in front of him, looming against the sky. The lights inside were mostly off, save for a few scattered windows here and there. He slowed to a stop, cutting the engine and pulling off his helmet. For a moment, he just sat there, the silence pressing in on him, his chest tightening again.

What was he doing there?

The question lingered in his mind, taunting him as he stared at the dimly lit building before him. He knew how this would go, could predict every step before it even happened. And yet, here he was. Again. The routine had become familiar, almost comforting in its way, like picking at a scab that never healed but brought a strange sense of relief. He knew it wasn't healthy, knew that each visit only left him feeling emptier, more hollow. But the alternative—the silence, the unanswered questions, the distance—was worse. It was unbearable.

With a sigh, he swung his leg over the bike and pocketed his keys. The street was eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of the city that never truly slept. He climbed the stairs, his footsteps echoing off the walls, the familiar weight settling in his chest with each step. By the time he reached the door, his hands were trembling, though whether from the cold or from something deeper, he wasn't sure.

He knocked.

A few moments passed, the sound of shuffling from behind the door. When it opened, Yeosang stood there, his expression tired but unsurprised. They didn't exchange words. They didn't need to anymore. Yeosang stepped aside, allowing him to walk in, the apartment dim and quiet, save for the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance.

"You want tea?" Yeosang asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

He shook his head. "No, thanks"

Yeosang nodded, as if he had expected the refusal, and gestured toward the couch. "You know where everything is"

He did. Too well by now. He walked over, the springs of the couch creaking slightly as he sat down, the familiar weight of exhaustion pulling at him but never quite letting him rest. Yeosang lingered for a moment, watching him, as if debating whether to say something more. But then he simply sighed and walked toward his bedroom, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

And then there was silence.

He laid back on the couch, pulling the thin blanket over himself, his body heavy but his mind restless. The apartment was so still, the kind of stillness that made every creak, every sigh of the wind outside feel louder than it was. But he wasn't listening for the wind or the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

His eyes drifted to the door at the end of the hallway. The door that never opened. Not for him, not anymore.

He turned over, trying to find a comfortable position on the lumpy cushions, but comfort was a foreign concept in this place. He tossed and turned, the minutes ticking by, his mind circling the same thoughts over and over. Why wouldn't it open? Why wouldn't he open it? Despite everything, he kept coming back, kept hoping that one night, the door would creak open and Wooyoung would step out. He'd say something—anything—and the knot that had been tightening in his chest for weeks would finally loosen. But each time, he was met with the same silence, the same refusal. And yet he couldn't stop himself from coming back, couldn't stop the pull that drew him to this apartment like gravity.

He shifted again, his back aching from the unforgiving couch, his eyes burning as he stared at the door. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, the weight of everything pressing down on him again. He knew it was going to be just another night gone, another night of hoping for something that never came.

His thoughts drifted, as they always did, to Wooyoung. The image of him was vivid—his smile, the way his eyes lit up when he laughed, the warmth he used to radiate. San missed him so much it ached, a constant dull pain in his chest that never went away. But more than that, he felt the weight of guilt pressing down on him. He should've been there. He should've protected Wooyoung from all the hurt, from all the darkness that had consumed him. But he hadn't, and now it felt like Wooyoung was slipping further and further away. He'd never been enough, had he? Maybe that's why Wooyoung still refused to see him, why he kept the door closed every time San came by. What if Wooyoung didn't want him around anymore? What if he never did again?

The thought tightened around his heart like a vice, squeezing the air from his lungs. The familiar tightness in his chest started creeping in, slowly at first, like an itch just beneath his skin. He tried to ignore it, tried to breathe through it like they always told him to do, but he could already feel the panic rising. It was like a wave, pulling back just before crashing over him. He sat up abruptly, his heart beginning to race, his breathing shallow. He knew what was happening.

Knew that in a matter of seconds—

It would feel like—

The walls were closing in—

The air too thin—

His pulse deafening in his ears—

His fingers trembled as he ran them through his hair, tugging at the strands slightly as if the physical sensation could somehow ground him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to count his breaths, trying to focus on anything but the rising tide of fear. But the panic didn't care. It was relentless, crawling through him, making his skin tingle with an unbearable heat.

No. Not here. Not now.

He stood up quickly, almost knocking over the blanket that had been draped across his lap. He needed to move, to do something—anything—to stop the feeling from consuming him. His hands fumbled as he grabbed for the empty glass on the coffee table, the slight clink of it against the wood too loud in the quiet apartment.

San headed toward the kitchen, the floor creaking beneath his feet. He opened the fridge door with more force than necessary, the faint hum of the motor sounding louder in his ears. He grabbed a bottle of water, but his fingers were trembling so much that it slipped from his hand, clattering against the countertop and spilling across the floor.

"Shit," he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse, the sudden sound jarring in the stillness.

San braced himself against the counter, his eyes shut tightly as he forced his breathing to slow. He had to calm down. He couldn't let himself fall apart. Not now. Not when there was so much waiting for him, so many responsibilities pressing down on his shoulders. Not when—

He heard footsteps from behind him.

San froze, his breath hitching in his throat. The room spun, and for a moment, he thought he was imagining it. He had to be. There was no way. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, the panic constricting his chest, making it impossible to think straight.

But then he felt it—a touch, light at first, then firmer. Two hands resting gently on his shoulders.

"San," a soft voice whispered, the warmth of it so close to his ear that it made his heart stutter. "Breathe with me"

He gasped, the world around him still blurring as his mind tried to catch up. His body trembled as if refusing to believe the presence behind him was real. He was hallucinating. He had to be. There was no way Wooyoung was there, not after everything.

"San," the voice said again, a little more firmly now, and then the hands moved, one settling over his chest, the other guiding his back.

San opened his eyes in disbelief, turning his head just enough to catch a glimpse of him. Wooyoung was there, really there. His face, pale and tired, was framed by the dim light of the kitchen.

"Breathe," Wooyoung urged, his hands applying gentle pressure as he inhaled slowly, demonstrating. "With me. In... and out"

San's breaths were shallow, shaky, but he tried to match the rhythm Wooyoung was setting. He could feel Wooyoung's hands grounding him, pulling him out of the chaos swirling in his mind. For a moment, San couldn't focus on anything but the steady rise and fall of Wooyoung's chest, how close they were, how surreal this felt.

Wooyoung's voice cut through the fog again. "You're okay. Just breathe"

San's heart pounded against his ribs, the tightness in his chest easing slightly as he followed the slow, steady rhythm. He wasn't sure how long they stood like that, in the soft glow of the kitchen light, with water spilled across the floor and silence heavy around them. But for the first time in what felt like forever, San could breathe. And Wooyoung was still there, his touch warm and real, keeping him from falling apart.

He kept breathing, the air rushing from his lungs in shaky exhales. His body sagged, exhaustion and emotion finally catching up to him all at once. Wooyoung's hands remained steady on his body, grounding him, and that only made San feel worse.

He slowly turned around, his eyes searching Wooyoung's face for something, anything—anger, forgiveness, a sign. But Wooyoung's expression was unreadable, his dark eyes focused on San, studying him in a way that made San feel exposed, vulnerable. He just kept his hands on San's shoulders, guiding him through each breath. His touch was tentative, like he wasn't entirely sure if it was okay to make contact. San stared at Wooyoung's face—he was thinner, with dark circles under his eyes. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, torn between disbelief and the desperate hope that maybe he hadn't lost him completely.

The tightness in his chest was still there, but Wooyoung's quiet voice cut through the rising panic, grounding him once again.

"Don't stop. Breathe with me," Wooyoung murmured, his own voice shaking slightly. His fingers trembled against San's shoulders as though he might pull away at any second, but he stayed, guiding San through slow, deliberate breaths. In and out. In and out.

San tried to focus on that—on the way Wooyoung's breath hitched every now and then, as if he was trying to calm himself down too. The sight of him standing there, so close, after so many sleepless nights spent hoping, sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing over San. His throat tightened as tears welled up again, but he forced himself to hold it together, not wanting to break down in front of Wooyoung like this.

"I'm sorry," San choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn't know what he was apologizing for—maybe for dropping the bottle, maybe for showing up night after night, or maybe for everything. Maybe because he didn't know how to fix this. Wooyoung's silence felt heavy, and San couldn't bear it any longer. "I'm so sorry, Woo"

Wooyoung flinched at the sound of San's voice, his gaze dropping to the floor as if he couldn't bear to look at him. His hands hovered for a second, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, before he pulled them back, crossing his arms protectively over his chest.

"You don't have to apologize," Wooyoung muttered, his voice barely audible. He took a step back, creating space between them, as if he was afraid of being too close. "It's me. It's all on me"

San's heart twisted painfully at that. "No, it's not—" His voice broke, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep himself from falling apart. "I should've been there for you, Woo. I should've protected you. I... I didn't know how bad things were, I—"

"Stop," Wooyoung interrupted, his voice fragile, cracking at the edges. His eyes were red, swollen with unshed tears, and San could see how much it took for him to stand there in front of him like this. "Just... stop. Please"

San felt the words die in his throat, his chest tightening all over again. He wanted to say something—anything—that would fix this, that would make Wooyoung see that he was still here, still waiting, still hoping. But no words came. He was terrified that saying the wrong thing would shatter whatever fragile connection they had left.

"I thought you didn't want to see me," San admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought... I don't know..."

Wooyoung's eyes widened, his breath hitching as he took a shaky step back. "No," he whispered, his voice almost breaking. "It's not you, San. It's never been you" he took a deep breath, his hands gripping the hem of his shirt tightly, as if grounding himself. "I just... I didn't want you to see me like this. I didn't want you to see how messed up I am. I thought... I thought you wouldn't want to be around me anymore"

San shook his head, his heart aching at how broken Wooyoung sounded. He wanted to reach out, to pull him close and tell him it wasn't true, that he could never think of him that way. But he stopped himself, afraid that any sudden movement might scare Wooyoung away.

"I could never—" San's voice wavered, and he had to pause to collect himself. "Woo, you are... I am—" How could he express all that? "I can't be without you. Knowing that you were there, inside that room, facing all that alone... It's tearing me apart"

The silence that followed felt suffocating, both of them standing there, raw and vulnerable, not knowing what to say. Wooyoung's eyes flickered toward the door, his body tense, like he was ready to retreat. San felt his chest constricting again, the thought of Wooyoung walking away unbearable.

But then, Wooyoung hesitated, his arms still wrapped tightly around himself, as if trying to hold himself together. He looked at San, and for the first time in weeks, something shifted in his eyes. There was still fear, still hesitation, but underneath that... there was something else. Something that hadn't been there before. A glimmer of hope, fragile but real.

And then, slowly—hesitantly—Wooyoung took a step forward. His arms dropped to his sides, and for a moment, he looked unsure of what to do next. His eyes flickered toward San's face, and then, almost awkwardly, he moved closer, closing the distance between them.

San held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, as Wooyoung's arms slowly—almost clumsily—wrapped around him in a tentative hug. It was awkward at first, stiff and unsure, as if Wooyoung didn't know how to do this anymore. But then, San let out a shaky breath, and everything seemed to melt away.

San's arms wrapped around Wooyoung in return, holding him as tightly as he dared, afraid that if he let go, this fragile moment would disappear. Wooyoung's body trembled against his, his grip tightening slightly as if he was afraid to let go too.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, San allowed himself to break. He buried his face in Wooyoung's shoulder, his tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, and he didn't try to stop them. He didn't hold anything back, because Wooyoung was there, and that was all that mattered.

"I can't be without you either," Wooyoung whispered, his voice barely audible but steady. "Thanks for not giving up on me, Sanie"

San had no idea how long they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms. Time seemed to blur, the world outside fading into irrelevance. All he could feel was Wooyoung's warmth, the way his fingers clung to San's shirt, pressing against his back as if anchoring him in place. San's breathing gradually steadied, his tears slowing as he focused on the subtle rise and fall of Wooyoung's chest, the familiar scent of his skin filling his senses. God, he'd missed that scent. He'd missed everything about him.

The last of his tears dried up, leaving his cheeks damp but his heart somehow lighter. He wasn't sure when he had stopped crying—only that Wooyoung was still there, holding him. It was like a lifeline, and San wasn't ready to let go. Not yet. Not ever, if he could help it.

When Wooyoung finally took a small step back, his tired smile catching the faint light from the hallway, San could see just how exhausted he was. The dark circles under his eyes looked more severe now that San could see them closely. The bruises Woobin had left on him had healed, but if San stared long enough, he was sure he could spot faint new scars on Wooyoung's skin. There was a heaviness in his posture that San hadn't noticed at first, as if standing there, held in San's arms, was taking all of Wooyoung's strength. But despite that, Wooyoung didn't pull away. Instead, he lifted his hand to gently wipe the lingering tears from San's cheeks, his thumb brushing tenderly against his skin.

San knew he should let go—knew that Wooyoung still struggled with being touched, especially after everything—but Wooyoung wasn't flinching, wasn't pulling back. So San didn't either. His hands stayed resting lightly on Wooyoung's hips, holding on just enough to feel real, to remind himself that Wooyoung was here, that this wasn't some cruel dream. He couldn't let go. Not now.

The silence between them was soft, almost comforting, as if they didn't need words to fill the space. But then Wooyoung spoke, his voice quiet, carrying the faintest trace of something lighter than before.

"Wanna play go-stop?"

San blinked, surprised by the suggestion. He couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him, shaking his head slightly. It was the middle of the night—probably neither of them had slept properly in days—but the idea felt perfect. Like it was a way of reclaiming something normal, something familiar.

"Go-stop, huh?" San said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips with an easiness that left him stunned. "I guess it's been a while since you whooped my ass"

Wooyoung chuckled softly, the sound low but genuine, "Don't worry, I'll go easy on you this time," he teased, his tired eyes gleaming in the dim light.

San moved to the small table in front of the couch, back leaning against the rough fabric as Wooyoung found the deck of cards and passed them to San, his hands grabbed them a little steadier now. As they sat down, something about the familiar routine brought a sense of comfort—a piece of their old life slipping back into place. It was just them, playing cards, the world outside forgotten for a little while.

He shuffled the cards, glancing at Wooyoung across the table. The last time they played, Wooyoung had beaten him—again. "You're not winning this time," San warned, setting the cards down between them with exaggerated seriousness.

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips, "You always say that," he shot back, his voice softer than usual but filled with warmth.

As the game began, San found himself slipping into old habits, focusing intently on his hand of cards. He had always been competitive when it came to this game, but Wooyoung had a knack for it—his sharp mind and quick reflexes giving him the upper hand more often than not.

After a particularly close round—one San had almost won—he leaned back against the sofa, sighing. "You know... it's been weird, not playing this with you," he admitted, his voice softer now, "Everything's been weird lately"

Wooyoung glanced up from his cards, his expression gentler, "How are you doing? Yeosang told me you're becoming famous. What did I miss?"

San blinked at the question, Wooyoung's casual tone catching him off guard. He hadn't expected to talk about himself, especially not after everything that had happened. For a moment, he just stared at the cards in his hand, unsure of how to answer.

"Well..." San started, shifting a little against the sofa. "I wouldn't say I'm becoming famous, but things have been picking up" he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Wooyoung's curious expression, "The agency's been pushing me harder, and I've been performing more, but honestly? It's... overwhelming sometimes. I thought this was what I wanted, you know? But now that I'm in it, I'm not so sure"

Wooyoung tilted his head slightly, watching him closely, "You've always wanted to do music, though," he said softly, his voice filled with the kind of quiet understanding only Wooyoung could give, "It's your dream"

"Yeah, but..." San trailed off, fiddling with one of the cards in his hand. "It's not just about the music anymore. It's about image and numbers and—" He hesitated, unsure if he should say the next part. But this was Wooyoung. He could be honest with him, couldn't he? "Sometimes, I feel like I don't belong there. Like I'm not cut out for this world"

Wooyoung's gaze softened even further. He set his cards down on the table, his fingers resting lightly on the edge, "You belong there, San. You're made for this. It's just... a lot in the beginning. But you'll get through it"

San smiled a little at that, appreciating the encouragement, but the doubt still lingered, "It's just weird, having people recognize me. Like, I've actually been stopped in public. People ask for selfies, autographs..." he chuckled, shaking his head, "A girl in the subway even had me sign her phone case. I'm still getting used to it"

Wooyoung's lips curled into a small smile, the glimmer of mischief in his eyes making an appearance again, "Look at you, San the superstar," he teased lightly, "Your fan club must be going crazy. I bet they don't know you're sitting here, losing a game of go-stop to me"

San rolled his eyes, trying to hide his smile, "I'm not losing. I'm letting you think you're winning"

Wooyoung laughed, the sound light and genuine, and San felt his heart swell at the sound. It was such a simple thing, hearing Wooyoung laugh, but it meant everything to him in that moment. For a second, San just let himself watch Wooyoung, taking in the way his eyes sparkled when he smiled, the way his whole face softened.

And then it hit him, all over again—how deeply in love he was with Wooyoung. It wasn't a sudden realization; it was something that had been growing inside him for so long, but every time he saw Wooyoung like this, laughing and alive, it hit him with the same intensity. He wondered, briefly, what his fans would think if they knew their "idol" was hopelessly in love with a boy. But that thought drifted away as quickly as it came because, in that moment, the only thing that mattered was that Wooyoung was there, smiling again.

San cleared his throat, trying to push those feelings down for now, "You know," he said, forcing a teasing tone back into his voice, "if my fans knew I was playing cards with you right now, they'd probably think you're the luckiest guy on the planet"

Wooyoung smirked, pushing himself a bit forward on the table, "Oh, I know I am"

San's heart skipped a beat, his chest tightening at the ease with which Wooyoung said that. For a moment, neither of them said anything, the room falling into a comfortable silence. San's gaze lingered on Wooyoung's face, watching as the tiredness slowly returned to his expression, the weight of everything they'd both been through settling back in. He wasn't going to push him, wasn't going to ask questions about the past few weeks or what had happened with Woobin. Not yet. Right now, this quiet, shared moment was enough.

"I've missed this," Wooyoung finally said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "Playing cards, just... being here with you"

San swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, his voice barely above a whisper when he replied, "Me too, Woo"

For a moment, they just sat there, staring at each other, the unspoken feelings between them heavier than ever. And in that silence, San felt a flicker of hope—a small, fragile thing, but real. They weren't fixed, not yet. But maybe they were starting to put the pieces of their friendship back together.

Wooyoung picked up his cards again, smirking slightly. "Ready to lose?"

San grinned, the playful spark returning, "Not a chance"

☾

A/N—I didn't have time to read this a second time, I hope there aren't too many mistakes, I'll edit later tonight! How are you feeling? Thoughts?