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Kiss that tastes more like a punch. Touch that feels like a crushed jaw. Words that cut you like glass. Sounds that resemble silence. These are the fragments of what Raik and Jaehee have become: two bodies orbiting each other in chaotic, destructive spirals, drawn together by gravity neither can escape.
Jaehee knows the exact moment Raik’s breath hitches when his fingers dig into his hips, knows it isn’t pleasure, not really, but something closer to desperation. A silent plea for someone, anyone, to remind him he’s still alive beneath the gloss and glitter. Raik arches into it anyway, teeth biting into his own bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, because pain is the only thing that feels real anymore.
Sometimes Jaehee hates himself for indulging him, hates himself more for craving it – the way Raik’s body trembles when he’s pushed too far, the way his perfect facade cracks just enough to reveal the raw, trembling thing underneath.
It wasn’t always like this.
Once upon a time, Jaehee had traced the moles on Raik’s shoulders like constellations, had whispered promises against his skin that tasted sweet instead of sour. Now, their bodies collide like wreckage – messy, bruising, devoid of tenderness. Raik’s nails rake down Jaehee’s back hard enough to draw blood, and Jaehee wonders if this is all they’ll ever be: two people who used to love each other, now reduced to fucking like they’re trying to erase the past rather than relive it.
Afterwards, when the sweat has cooled and the silence stretches between them like a noose, Jaehee watches Raik’s reflection in the fogged-up mirror. The man is already rebuilding his armor: smoothing his hair, reapplying lip balm with clinical precision, as if the last twenty minutes never happened.
In times like these, Jaehee wants to shake him, wants to scream "look at me, really look at me, and tell me you don’t remember how it used to be!", but he doesn’t.
Because the truth is, he’s afraid Raik does remember and simply doesn’t care enough to pretend anymore.
They never talk about it. Not the way Raik used to cling to him after, breath warm against his collarbone, not the way Jaehee used to press kisses to his forehead when he thought Raik was asleep. Now, they dress in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes like strangers.
It’s easier this way, safer even, and all because if they acknowledged what they’re doing – if they put a name to this twisted, aching thing between them – they might have to admit it’s the only thing keeping them from shattering completely.
If anyone asked Raik about it, he could easily pin all the blame on Jaehee – call him a freak, an abuser or even tell them that he forced himself onto Raik. If the word ever gets out, Jaehee isn't sure if Raik will throw him under the bus or will he deny it all with that same practiced smile and laugh it off. The thought settles in Jaehee’s chest like a dull blade – slow and deliberate, twisting just enough to remind him how easily Raik could erase him if it ever came down to it.
Jaehee knows he’s not innocent himself – he’s the one who pushes, who digs his fingers into Raik’s waist hard enough to bruise, who leaves marks where the cameras won’t catch them.
But Raik never stops him, never tells him no. He meets every rough touch with equal ferocity, teeth sinking into Jaehee’s shoulder like he wants to carve himself into Jaehee’s skin. It’s not resistance – it’s complicity. Raik isn’t some fragile doll being broken, he’s an active participant in their mutual destruction, matching Jaehee’s cruelty with his own brand of calculated carelessness.
Sometimes, in the quiet aftermath when Raik’s breathing evens out beside him, Jaehee wonders if Raik even remembers who he is outside of the act. If he ever slips, just for a second, into something real. Just then Raik will roll away, already reaching for his phone, already smoothing his hair back into place, and Jaehee knows the answer – Raik doesn’t care. Not about him, not about what they do in the dark. It’s just another performance – one where Jaehee happens to be the only audience member.
Jaehee hates how much that stings, despises that he still wants Raik to turn back toward him, to press his forehead against Jaehee’s shoulder the way he used to – like he needed him, like he trusted him.
But current Raik doesn’t trust anyone, least of all himself.
The fear gnaws at Jaehee sometimes – what if someone finds out? What if a staff member walks in, or a fan catches a stray glance backstage?
The group would survive, probably. After all scandals fade. But Jaehee would be the one left holding the wreckage, the one branded a predator while Raik plays the wounded victim. Because Raik is golden, untouchable, and Jaehee is just the drummer who got too greedy.
It’s a bitter truth, but Jaehee accepts it. He’s made his choices and so has Raik.
And yet...
There are moments, fleeting, fractured things that slip through the cracks when Raik thinks no one is watching. The way his fingers tremble around his water bottle after a show, the way he chews his lip raw when he’s stressed. Jaehee sees it all, catalogues it like a man starving, because maybe Raik isn’t as untouchable as he pretends to be.
Maybe he lets someone else touch him.
Jaehee watches from the corner of the dressing room as Raik leans into Wooseong’s space, their shoulders brushing in that casual way that speaks of years of familiarity. The leader’s hand lingers on Raik’s elbow, steadying him as he laughs at something Wooseong murmurs – low and private, just for him. It’s a small thing, insignificant to anyone else, but Jaehee feels it like a knife between his ribs. He knows that touch, remembers when it used to be his.
He hates himself for noticing, hates himself more for caring. Wooseong has always been Raik’s anchor – steady where Jaehee is sharp, patient where Jaehee is relentless.
Even back in their trainee days, when Raik would storm out of practice rooms shaking with frustration, it was Wooseong who followed. Wooseong who knew how to coax him back with quiet words and a hand on his shoulder. Jaehee had never been good at gentleness – his comfort came in teeth marks and bruises, in the kind of touch that left Raik panting and raw rather than soothed.
The realization settles in Jaehee’s gut like spoiled milk: Raik has never needed him the way he needs Wooseong.
Even now, with Raik’s polished perfection and Wooseong’s careful leadership, there’s an unspoken understanding between them, one Jaehee has never been privy to. He wonders if Raik still turns to Wooseong after panic attacks, if he still presses his forehead against Wooseong’s shoulder when the world gets too loud. The thought makes Jaehee’s hands curl into fists, nails biting crescent moons into his palms.
It’s pathetic, this jealousy. It should be beneath him. Jaehee knows this, knows he should be past such childish insecurities, but knowing doesn’t stop the ugly twist in his chest when Wooseong tucks a stray lock of Raik’s hair behind his ear, doesn’t stop the way his throat tightens at the way Raik leans into the touch.
He wants to rip them apart, wants to shove himself between them and demand Raik look at him with that same unguarded trust. He won’t though, because that’s the thing about Wooseong – he’s everything Jaehee isn’t. Safe, stable, good.
Jaehee’s jealousy isn’t a sudden, sharp thing – it’s a slow poison, brewed over years of sidelong glances and quiet intimacies between Raik and Wooseong. He remembers the early days, when Raik’s laughter was still unpolished, when Wooseong would ruffle his hair after practice like he was something precious. Back then, Jaehee had told himself it didn’t matter, told himself he didn’t care.
Still, the truth festers beneath his ribs like an old wound: Raik has always belonged to Wooseong in ways Jaehee could never replicate, not really.
He watches them now, the way Raik’s shoulders relax fractionally when Wooseong’s hand brushes the small of his back. It’s a casual touch, effortless in its familiarity, and it makes Jaehee’s stomach churn. He’s seen Raik flinch at far gentler contact from fans, from staff, even from their maknae. However with Wooseong, he melts – just a little, just enough to notice if you’re looking.
And to his own demise Jaehee is always looking.
It’s pathetic, this obsession. He knows it is, knows he should be past this by now, should have outgrown the useless sting of being second choice. Yet logic has never been enough to dull the ache – not when he remembers the way Raik used to press his forehead against Wooseong’s shoulder after breakdowns, the way Wooseong’s voice alone could steady his breathing when no one else could. Jaehee had tried, once: had gripped Raik’s wrists too tight, had hissed "Breathe, damn it!" like anger could substitute for comfort and Raik had sobbed harder.
The memory lingers like a stain.
The realization hit Jaehee like a slow-motion punch, the kind that doesn't sting at first, just leaves a dull pressure in your ribs until you wake up gasping hours later. He's known, theoretically, that Raik and Wooseong share something beyond what the rest of them have. It's in the way Wooseong's fingers linger when adjusting Raik's earpiece before shows, in the quiet sighs Raik exhales when Wooseong murmurs something only he can hear.
But knowing and feeling are different beasts entirely.
Jaehee watches them now from across the greenroom, his drumsticks tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. Raik is perched on the arm of Wooseong's chair, close enough that their knees brush, his posture loose in a way it never is around Jaehee. There's no performance here, no calculated charm – just Raik's tired slump, his fingers fiddling absently with the hem of Wooseong's sleeve. It's disgustingly intimate. Even worse, it's natural.
Jealousy coils in Jaehee's gut like cheap liquor – hot and acidic, burning its way up his throat. He hates this feeling, hates how small it makes him. He's not some lovesick teenager pining after his bandmate. Except, apparently, he is, as watching Wooseong tuck a strand of Raik's hair behind his ear – so casually, like he's done it a thousand times before (he did of course) makes Jaehee's jaw clench hard enough to ache.
He haw been like this even back then when he was the one that got to kiss and touch Raik in more ways when anyone else. He still felt threatened by Wooseong's quiet influence, by how Raik would always return to him with his guard lowered, how his laughter sounded different when it was directed at their leader – soft and uncalculated, like he'd forgotten the cameras existed. Jaehee hates that even now, after years of shared history and stolen moments in dressing rooms, he still hasn't figured out how to unravel Raik the way Wooseong does without even trying.
It isn't even about sex, though Jaehee has catalogued every gasp and tremor Raik has ever given him, but about trust. The trust that slips through Raik's fingers whenever they're alone together, replaced by something jagged and desperate.
They fuck like they're trying to rewrite history, like if they just press hard enough against each other’s skin, they can erase all the unspoken words between them. But afterward, Raik always pulls away first, always rebuilds his walls while Jaehee lies there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Raik ever thinks about the way Jaehee used to kiss his forehead after rehearsal, back when they still pretended this was love and not mutual destruction.
Sometimes, in the hazy moments before sleep, Jaehee imagines Raik breaking – really breaking, not just the controlled fractures he allows himself when the pressure becomes too much. He imagines Raik collapsing into him, not with anger or desperation, but with something raw and unguarded, whispering "I can't do this anymore" against Jaehee's collarbone. It's a pathetic fantasy, one that tastes like salt and regret on his tongue. Because the truth is, Raik would never let himself fall apart in Jaehee's arms. Not when Wooseong's shoulder is right there, broad and reliable and safe.
The worst part isn't even the jealousy, it's the realization that he's become exactly what Raik accused him of being years ago – someone who wants him small, who wants him weak, just so he can feel needed again. Jaehee despises himself for it, for the way his fingers itch to dig into Raik's hips hard enough to leave fingerprints when he sees him laughing at something Wooseong said. He wants to be the one who makes Raik laugh like that: unguarded and breathless, his nose scrunching up in a way that would ruin his idol image if the fans ever saw it.
But Jaehee has never been good at gentleness, his love has always come with teeth.
There's a special kind of agony in loving someone who used to be yours, in remembering the exact weight of their body against yours, the way their breath hitched when you touched them just right, and knowing they've rewritten those memories into something forgettable.
Jaehee wonders if Raik ever thinks about the way he used to cling to Jaehee after nightmares, his fingers digging into Jaehee's wrists hard enough to bruise. Wonders if he remembers how Jaehee would press his lips to Raik's knuckles afterward. Probably not, as Raik has always been good at editing out the parts of his life that don't fit the narrative.
And isn't that the cruelest joke of all? That Jaehee, who has spent years trying to carve himself into Raik's bones, could be so easily erased, while Wooseong's quiet presence remains etched into Raik's DNA.
It's not fair, but then, nothing about them ever has been.