(no) Strings Attached

No exit

Hongjoong doesn't know when it stopped being a game.

It started as curiosity. A challenge. He noticed the way Seonghwa always stood slightly apart from the group, always poised, always composed—like a carefully painted portrait that no one dared to smudge.

Because after that night at the vending machines Hongjoong grew the need in his heart to expose Seonghwa. No, not to the public. He is not that bad. But in front of him.

He might not know Seonghwa as he once thought he did but he knows that at the moment Seonghwa is full of pure bullshit. He was always quiet. Just not a porcelain doll level.

So Hongjoong had done what he always did.

Poked, teased, tested. Just to see if he could make Seonghwa react.

But then he started paying even more attention. And that was his never ending mistake.

Because now, when Seonghwa avoids eye contact, Hongjoong sees. He sees the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of something too heavy for someone so young to carry. When Seonghwa laughs, Hongjoong listens—not just for the sound, but for the difference between real amusement and polite courtesy.

And when Seonghwa is quiet, Hongjoong wonders what kind of thoughts keep him locked inside his own mind.

Now, it's no longer a game.

And if it is then, Hongjoong is admitting defeat.

He saw him again at the same spot; in front of the vending machines; however he wasn't on a call this time.

The others have left for the night, and it's just the two of them—fluorescent lights buzzing, the hum of the machine filling the silence.

Seonghwa stands there, shoulders tight, fingers motionless over the keypad as if he's forgotten why he's here.

Hongjoong leans against the wall, watching. Waiting.

He could leave. He should.

But he doesn't want to.

Instead, he speaks—low, easy, too casual for how much weight lingers in the air.

"You look like you're about to fight the vending machine."

Seonghwa blinks. His hands flex at his sides, but he doesn't look away from the metal box.

"I'm fine."

Hongjoong hums. "I didn't ask if you weren't."
A pause. A flicker of irritation in Seonghwa's expression—quickly smoothed over, like always. But Hongjoong doesn't miss it. Of course. He's been studying Seonghwa as if he is some sort of project nowadays.

"Seonghwa," he says, softer this time. Not teasing. Just saying his name to see if it makes him turn around.

It does.

And Hongjoong regrets it immediately.

Because for a split second—before Seonghwa rebuilds his walls, before his mask clicks back into place—he looks tired. Not just physically, but deeply, crushingly exhausted.

Like he's been holding his breath for years and doesn't know how to exhale.

Hongjoong's chest tightens.

For some reason all his mind told him to do was engulf the taller in a hug so tight he feels it in his core.

He could push. He could ask.

Instead, he tilts his head and offers the only thing he knows how to give. A way out.

"Come on. Let's go."