이승호 you're so 90s

[hdseungho]

hi (again), i'm bo ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ and introduce to you lee seung-ho! seungho has a profile to check out, more scribbles about him below, pin board, & reach me on discord @/baebo!

seung-ho can be either really sweet and goofy when you meet him or quiet, and reserved. he's a nerd.

his favorite movie is 'parasite' (2019).

he doesn't have much money, getting into a good university was thanks to sleepless nights, good grades, tutoring rich kids, hustle jobs, and lots of loans/scholarships. very few friends, went by mostly unknown.

his favorite type of music/artists are dpr ian, dean, rave techno mixes.

he has manhwa collection and full library of rich literature. kind of weird, but he also knows how to leather bind a book.

he loses things easily.

i'd say his social life is pretty abundant, but he's more homebody, nerdy and likes to have a close knit of people rather than a party full.

he likes to raise fish!!! he's training, going to school and working just so he can give him the best life possible. he lives for them.

he likes to view things positively, doesn't dwell on negativity.

he'll be your cook, cleaner, your everyman. the best roomate. he's normally the one changing lightbulbs in his apartment, cooking, and generally being an unpaid repairman and janitor. but not everything gets fixed, mistakes are made......

he hoped to sign hydra through an ace labs auditon in secret and with minimal people knowing about it. he still takes dancing classes at night two times a week, has odd jobs, and has been dabbling with producing music to get an ear for the craft.

✆ wishlist!

childhood friends he left behind, or new friends in university, he goes to yonsei university.

second oldest brother likes to date around and not treat girls well, and it doesn't help they don't look alike. did seungho's brother break your heart 'cause you deserve compensation!

i'm thinking he's working as a manager/assistant/coffee runner/errand boy for a social influencer. if that's your character, he's very punctual

[worldofhommes]

Visit Original Link

[hdmiru]

was she being naive? perhaps. but she's been judged by far too many people in the neighborhood without being given a chance to explain herself, so she's always been a believer in giving people a chance. plus, he said so himself. he needed to get away, right? that meant that there was a high chance he wouldn't harm her. the last thing anybody needs right now is a dead body.

when he gets closer, she gently starts wrapping up his gash, trying her best to make sure it doesn't do any more harm. mihyang's been taught the basics from the mother, and she's treated many wounded scholars before, but the scale of his cut was a lot more grandiose than she's ever experienced. just what on earth had he been fighting?

"i'm mihyang," she offers with another gentle smile. "won mihyang," she adds, wondering if the clan name offers any more information. "i don't think i've ever seen you around." the best she could probably do is stop talking, but something about seungcheol sparks her curiosity. "or perhaps you've done a very nice job of hiding so far."

[hdseungho]

the touch of her hands came upon him like a startling thing. impossibly tender against a body long accustomed only to the lash of winter wind and the merciless kiss of bamboo rods split clean across his flesh. seungcheol stiffened at once, every muscle drawing taut beneath her fingers with the wary instinct. and yet, as she worked, the strain began to leave him little by little, bleeding away beneath the measured grace of her touch. he watched her in silence, darkly fascinated by the sight of a noblewoman tending to ruined skin with the same care a lady might devote to silken embroidery.

"won mihyang," he repeated at length, savoring the manner in which her name rested on his tongue, "now you have seen me. and i see you."

his eyes, dark as spilled ink and twice as permanent, traced the curve of her throat before settling back on her eyes. he leaned in, his aura flaring in a way that seemed to bruise the air between them. "you have placed a brand upon me with those gentle hands of yours, my lady. a debt of blood and silk that cannot be settled with a simple 'farewell' in the dark. tell me... when i vanish back into the shadows of hanyang, will you spend the rest of your life wondering if the wolf you saved was merely a dream that bit back?"

[hdseungho]

mun note: seungho absolutely does not have the budget for all this, and like realistically he's pulling up to evaluations in the same white tank top and jeans combo like it's become part of the brand at this point. the vibe? very playboy. shirts mysteriously disappearing on stage, briefs peeking over waistbands, sweaty 2nd gen idol energy cranked up to a dangerous level. i'm also going with that narrative most of it's straight from the company lookbooks they got handed 😭 i'm leaning hard into 2nd gen inspo because respectfully, that was the best generation for stage styling and unnecessary exposed torso moments

[hdmiru]

the gates to the won's was always open but mostly because they sometimes had scholars wanting answers to their questions or potential testers who needed a helping hand as they couldn't risk failing the exam once more. mihyang thinks this is the first time she's helped a runaway—or so she assumes that's what he is.

with a gulp, she wonders what she got herself into for a moment. she's always been an advocate for not judging anybody until she's had a moment to speak to them, but she couldn't deny that she was a bit scared of what may happen.

"the doors to our home are always open. my father's rules," she explains with another gentle smile, hoping that it calms him down if he was planning on harming her in any way. mihyang glanced down at the seal that slipped from his sleeve. was that blood? what exactly has she gotten herself into?

thinking fast, she cleared her throat before looking around the room for some cloth. "is that your blood? i'll patch you up and then you can get going, sir. i believe by now the men should have made their way into the town square." her brother and father were away, but she wasn't sure when they'd be back, and this was a rather sticky situation she didn't want to get caught in.

[hdseungho]

seungcheol watched mihyang scramble for cloth, her movements far too frantic for a girl who claimed to be at peace with her father's open-door policy. she was a deer and he was a gutter wolf that had somehow lodged itself in her family's throat. "don't waste your linen on me..." he rasps, he didn't want to move toward the light she offered. "that is a dangerous habit in a city of wolves." his gaze snaps to the official seal that had betrayed him. the blood on it was darkening, turning the color of crushed plums against the floorboards. he let out another raspy laugh that sounded like dry husks rubbing together. the sound of his own mirth felt hollow, rattling ghost of a laugh that died along the way up. he looks at her and sees the way the light from the lattice caught the stray threads of her hair. she was terrifyingly sincere, and it gnawed at him.

but even as he closed his eyes for a heartbeat, his exhaustion lingered, and finally it outweighs his pride. with a grunt, he approaches her slowly, dragging himself into the small circle of light where she waits with her cloth and her terrifyingly open heart. "fine," he extends his arm with a grimace. the gash along his forearm was weeping a sluggish crimson. souvenir from a ministry blade. "mend it, then, if your conscience demands the burden. but be quick, i have no desire to see what happens when your father finds a wolf in his attic."

he moved closer, the movement drawing a sharp hiss of pain from his lungs. "i am lee seung-cheol. no clan, no house, and currently, no luck. and... does the girl who plays with treason have a name to match?"

[hdharu]

the  phantom  flinch  that  haru  felt  when  the  spray  of  sand  scattered  across  his  shoes  raked  over  his  internal  composure,  even  if  absolutely  none  of  it  reflected  on  his  countenance.  this  was  the  exact  defect  haru  lived  in  constant,  suffocating  fear  of  exposing—if  someone  were  to  stare  just  a  second  longer,  or  peer  just  a  fraction  too  deep  beneath  the  surface,  they  would  see  past  the  meticulously  polished  porcelain  and  find  nothing  but  an  echoing,  freezing  abyss.  the  same  one  that  one  of  the  executive  producers  had  already  called  him  out  for;  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time  before  the  cameras  caught  wind  of  it  as  well.

hearing  the  streak  of  curses  spill  from  the  other  male's  mouth  was  by  no  means  an  unfamiliar  experience  for  haru,  though  it  still  poked  at  and  tested  the  sterile,  pedantic  sensibilities  he  was  raised  to  uphold.  haru  could  barely  remember  the  last  time  a  single  obscenity  had  crossed  his  own  lips,  let  alone  possessing  the  ability  to  be  so  remarkably  fluent  in  the  raw,  unapologetic  cadence  that  seungho  wielded  like  a  second  language.  in  a  strange  way,  that  was  exactly  what  made  existing  within  seungho's  chaotic  orbit  so  undeniably  liberating,  even  if  his  mother  would  have  not  felt  the  same  way.

"i  try  to  be,  but..."  haru's  lips  pressed  into  a  thin  line  and  a  quiet,  noncommittal  hum  vibrated  in  the  back  of  his  throat.

"what  if  i'm  unable  to  even  be  myself?"  he  asked,  the  syllables  dissolving  into  the  sea  breeze,  barely  louder  than  the  crashing  tide.  "what  do  you  think  would  happen  then?"

[hdseungho]

seungho feels that question sink straight into him. haru is trying to be a masterpiece so bad that he forgot he's actually the one holding the golden brush. seungho understands this, its a specific kind of exhaustion, you start to curate yourself until theres nothing left but the highlights. seungho looks down at his own hands; they are calloused in ways a trainee's hands aren't supposed to be, mapped with scars of a life lived before he was a project. he always thought haru was the one built for this but maybe that's the trick. maybe whoever is trying to mold him, or whatever is trying to break him, is just looking for a mirror to reflect back. it hits him that looking at haru, seeing all that potential being treated like a defect, feels exactly like those calloused hands. rough, raw, a work in progress that the powers that be are trying to rush.

"i don't know what's going to happen. honestly? nobody does…"

his voice comes out quieter than he expects, dragged a little by the wind. he nudges the sand with his foot again, softer this time, pushing it forward instead of kicking it away, watching the grains shift and settle like they've got nowhere better to be. "but if you really get lost?" he glances over, a crooked kind of smile tugging at his lips, warmer than the sun. "just follow the sound of my laugh. it'll always be loud enough to find."

[hdmiru]

𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓, @hdseungho

the door to the won's house was always pretty wide open. something about how they had to be welcoming to everybody were her father's words, but she just thinks it's becaus they can't seem to say "no" to anybody. need a place to rest? they'll let you sleep for a night. need some food? here's some tteok.

did mihyang love it? not really, but it's not like she had any say in what goes on in the won household.

despite all that, however, this is a new experience for herself. when she heard a slight rustle toward the attic of her home, mihyang thought it was probably a bird building a nest or a stray cat. what she didn't expect to find was a person. she thinks she's seen him around town before, but she can't put a name to the face.

she doesn't even get the time to think either because there's ruckus toward the gates of her home. she looks down and signals for him to stay quiet before heading out. "what may i do for you?" she offers them her warm smile as they explain that they're chasing a thief. ran off with something of value—the words are muffled in her ears as all she can think about is that there's a very high chance the man in her attic is very much this so-called thief.

"i haven't seen anybody like that around here. i suggest you try looking around the square? there are many paths with dead-ends," she suggests. a sigh of relief leaves her lips as she watches them walk away from her home.

when she gets back to her attic, she's actually surprised to see him still there. mihyang would have thought he would've tried to run away once more and go hide somewhere else. "they're gone, but, sir, please don't tell me that i've gotten involved in something that'll put me in danger."

[hdseungho]

seungcheol adjusted the brass hand-warmer at his belt. inside, the dokkaebi was laughing maniacally, and that felt like needles under his ribs. 'she's pretty,' the spirit's voice slithered through his mind like spilled ink. 'ask her for her jewelry. or her soul... whichever is heavier.' he ignored the ghost, his gaze narrowing as he looked at the woman who had just gambled her family's reputation on a whim. he was grateful, in the way a trapped stray dog is grateful for a momentarily open cage, should he make a run for the hills? but the gratitude was thick coating of grimy cynicism.

he finally laughed. he was unaccustomed to the delicate honorifics of a house like this. "you've been 'involved' since the moment your father or husband decided a lock was an optional decoration for a front door, my lady." he bowed. seunghcheol usually did not waste motion on grace, but something in him told him to.

"those men at your gate aren't looking for a thief. partly. they're looking for a scapegoat to pin a century of administrative failure on, and i happen to be very, very good at looking guilty." his gaze averted vaguely toward the open lattice window, where the scent of plum blossoms was trying (and failing) to mask the metallic tang of his own desperation.

"yet you lied for me. in hanyang, a lie for a stranger is a debt well-earned... does fate tempt you, too?" he didn't wait for her answer. instead, he pulled a small, blood-smudged ivory seal from his sleeve and rolled it between his fingers—the very thing the guards were likely bleeding the streets to find. "because a pure heart is just a larger target for a knife and i need this scroll to start a new life, elsewhere... how should we mend this?"

[hdharu]

seungho  had  a  point.  did  the  architects  of  this  little  purgatory  indeed  have  a  plan  or  anticipated  outcome  for  such  an  arrangement?  in  theory,  haru  could  reverse-engineer  the  desired  outcome—it  was  clear  they  wanted  authenticity,  packaged  for  mass  consumption—but  it  was  working  through  all  the  finer  details  that  made  him  stumble.  he  was  uncertain  of  the  expectation,  and  even  more  uncertain  of  his  ability  to  meet  it.

regardless,  haru  harbored  a  quiet,  corrosive  doubt  that  he  was  remotely  built  for  whatever  mold  they  were  trying  to  pour  him  into.

he  let  out  a  sigh,  soft  and  fraying  at  the  edges,  and  shifted  his  weight  on  the  sand.  "you  don't  have  go  that  far...  it's  a  risk  i'm  willing  to  take.  if  they  confiscate  my  e-reader,  then  so  be  it."

he  wanted  to  steer  the  conversation  back  to  safer,  shallower  waters,  but  seungho's  final  words  hung  heavy  in  the  salt  air,  and  he  could  not  find  it  within  himself  to  not  acknowledge  them.

"that  might  be  easy  for  you,"  haru  began,  his  voice  a  low  murmur  that  barely  carried  over  the  waves.  "but  for  me..."  he  trailed  off,  the  sentence  dissolving  not  from  an  unwillingness  to  speak,  but  from  a  fundamental  inability  to  string  words  together  into  a  coherent  sentence.

who  am  i?  who  do  i  want  to  be?  who  should  i  be?

something  told  him  that  verbalising  the  thought  was  unnecessary;  seungho,  despite  the  deceptive  simplicity  of  his  sprawl  on  the  beach,  seemed  to  have  the  capacity  to  read  the  subtext  written  in  haru’s  silence.  haru’s  fear  now  was  whether  the  cameras  were  capable  of  the  same  feat—and  he  knew,  with  a  sinking  certainty,  that  their  lens  would  be  significantly  less  kind.

[hdseungho]

seungho hears haru's words just sort of evaporate into the salt air. he lets out a sharp, clicking tsk—the universal korean sound for you are overthinking this and it's making my teeth ache. he hates this. he hates the way the industry turns functional human beings into these glass figurines, always terrified of a hairline fracture. everyone is so busy trying to be a masterpiece that they forget how to just be a person who occasionally trips over their own feet or says something profoundly stupid. the unwillingness to act a fool is the real villain of this little purgatory. he misses the culture of early generations.

"look at you," seungho says, low-slung, he's talking to haru like they're two idiots sharing a cigarette behind a convenience store, not two products being polished for a lens. "if you get any tighter, you're gonna snap and take an eye out."

he kicks a spray of sand toward haru's shoes and then simply leans back on his elbows, looking up at the sky. he lets a string of words fly that would make a harbor master blush, a foul-mouthed cadence that is somehow the most honest thing on this entire beach. he'll wreck ball his aim at the 'mold' haru is so scared of.

"you? you're the sensible, intellectual guy the rest of us messy kids can lean on. own it."

[hdseungho]

DATE — 2026년 01-3월 EVENT — CO-ED PROJECT WORD COUNT — 343

seungho's still in the same practice room at stupid hours. the speakers crackle a little when he pushes them too loud, bass bleeding into the floor, into his bones, into whatever part of him is supposed to feel stable. he runs the same set twice, three times, until sweat drips down his spine and his shirt sticks. nothing about that's changed. same version of himself staring back like, you again? what has changed is the way he checks his phone between runs. not for messages (there aren't many) but for numbers. bank account. again. like it might magically decide to stop looking like a joke.

he laughs once, breathless, and the thing is the punchline landed but no one's around to hear it. beggars can't be choosers. it sits in his head, heavy and simple.

the folder lives everyday now, edges getting soft from being handled too much. he tells himself he's not thinking about it, but he keeps thinking about it. co-ed. whatever. he's seen worse odds and still walked out standing. besides, he remembers the room. naimei didn't look scared so much as much as scary, like the girl is three steps ahead of whatever this could become. miru, quieter, but not small about it. she was listening to something no one else could hear yet. that stuck with him; that and the way nobody laughed at the idea.

he tries to picture it sometimes, between sets with varsity. five of them, friends... it feels fake when he pushes it too hard, so he stops trying to make it pretty. lets be messy instead. easier that way. he needs this. not in a poetic, 'i was born for this way!' in a very real, my-account-is-screaming, i-don't-have-the-luxury-of-waiting-for-perfect way. he exhales, saying no to this is letting a life fulfilled go instead of grabbing onto it.

"yeah..." he says, to no one, but to the city, to himself. "okay."

he signs it the next day in front of this secretary and without making a scene. ink where it needs to be. straightforward. done.

[hdseungho]

Juansen Dizon, from "I Am The Architect of My Own Destruction" (page 24)

🌸 GOVERNMENT APPENDIX: Registry of the Uncounted (1805)

🍃 SECTION I — Identity

Name: lee seung-cheol, state-registered laborer (이승결)

Clan: a whole street rat. nominally of the namin (southerners), but effectively a son of a slaves thinned out by poverty, who somehow survived on the scraps of scrolls and the kindness of temple monks.

The Reputation: the rumor mill calls him "gutter boy." they say he is a scoundrel, a poor man who "finds" the fans, letters, and trinkets dropped by the elite and knows exactly what they are worth. some folks say he found an ancient brass hand-warmer in the ruins of a desecrated pagoda that breathes and grants of impossible wishes...

🦋 SECTION II — Aura

Color: ghost-copper (metallic orange-brown??), color of a weathered coin lost in a stream; he feels warm to the touch but looks like it might vanish if you blink.

Trigger: lies carry a sound. especially in this season of 'invisible knives.' some words ring a false note (a fake laugh, a feigned compliment) his aura pulses electric violet. it's a warning system he can't seem to shut off.

The Interpretation: matchmakers see his tanned skin and label it "commoner's exhaustion." and quickly shoo him away from potential brides. they think his life is simply tired. they don't realize he's never needed a hearth to stay alive.

🌷 SECTION III — The Heart

Arrangement: none. but, he is unofficially 'bound' to a noble daughter of the (come plot with me!) clan. he plans to use his one great wish for a single night to become the "prince of the southern stars" just to stand in her light at the spring banquet.

Memory: he remembers the taste of chemically sweet peach tea and this vibration on the side of his legs happens here and there. now, he only has the load of a ferret-like weasel on his shoulder and the silence of spring.

The Scandal: seungcheol doesn't have an aura; he stole a map from the king's private collection and found an ancient tool. if the yeonghwa scholars discover that his "aura" is actually a projection of a captured dokkaebi, he'll be dead man walking (💀).

[hdseungho]

waiting for the credits to roll —

written for song naimei (@hdnaimei) ♡

look, he isn't saying the universe is a jukebox, but they've definitely just hit the part of the night where the needle skips and suddenly everything feels high-stakes and rather cinematic. it's that weird, blurry 3:00 am energy where the cheap beer tastes like actual champagne and every street corner in the city feels like a set piece waiting for them to mess it up. there's this specific brand of messy that only happens when the party dies down and it's just strays left behind, wandering toward a 24-hour diner like they're on some holy pilgrimage for pork belly. seungho wants to tell naimei something profound, something that sounds like a b-side track, but he'll probably just end up asking if she wants to split the soju or beer and hoping the silence between them feels more like a bridge than a wall.

he's more than okay with either. he stops under a flickering streetlight, the cold air finally cutting through the adrenaline as he thinks about the press release hitting the trades in a few months. he looks at her, and finally breaks the silence. "so," he says, his voice a little lower than before, "now that it's actually happening… how are you feeling about the debut news? are you ready for a co-ed group?"

[hdjaeyi]

dog days are over / for @hdseungho

there are specific things jaeyi remembers about seungho— it surprises her that she still does. 2026, new year’s party, she’s about to fetch drinks for the friends she’s with only to catch him on guard at the drink station. her throat is tight. it’s from guilt, of course; something a less tipsy version of herself wouldn’t let her feel, so she soaks up all of it now.

jaeyi, too, soaks up the image of him. she remembers his eyes. his overgrown fringe, how she used to brush the strands of hair away. they end up in the same company, because life works out in funny ways, but she’s always kept a distance from him. it’s a struggle to differentiate what she’s allowed to do and what not to do with seungho.

“hey,” she looks up at him, unsure if she has the right to offer him a smile. he’s always been easygoing, so jaeyi places the plastic cup in front of him. “drinks? which one are you feeling?” she wonders if it’s the same one he always got years ago. “how are you feeling, actually?”

[hdseungho]

seungho doesn't believe in ghosts, but seeing jaeyi under the strobe lights of a cheongdam-dong penthouse feels like being haunted by a version of himself from six months ago. she looks exactly the same. okay, maybe a little sharper, maybe a little more like the idol the company wants her to be, and it's annoying how easily his brain tries to fill in the blanks.

he's standing by the drinks, mostly because it's the only place he can look busy without actually talking to anyone. the bass is thumping through the floorboards, a rhythm that usually feels like a heartbeat but tonight just feels like a headache. then she's there. jaeyi. the girl who ghosted him with a text that was shorter than a grocery list. "hey..." seungho looks at her, then down at the cup she slides toward him. it's a peace offering, right? she asks what he's feeling, and honestly? he's feeling like an actor who forgot his lines.

"i'm feeling like i've had enough of this playlist," he says, flat but not mean. just... distant. like he's looking at her from the other side of a very long tunnel. he doesn't reach for the cup yet. he just watches her, probably wondering if she's waiting for to choose the same drink. that guy is dead, buried six feet under. but he finally picks up the cup (yes, same drink, so simple minded) and his fingers brush hers for a microsecond. "you still drinking that sugary cider stuff?"

[hdmiru]

miru had almost forgotten just how much work everything required. stopping to pose for photos with people she doesn't even know, having to be on a look out for the rest of her members to make sure they're staying out of trouble all while looking like she's having the time of her life.

no wonder she's slipped out into the balcony for a breath of fresh air. when she hears the door click open, she almost wants to ask for more privacy, but then she hears seungho's voice and her tensed up muscles naturally relax. "thanks," she says as she takes the cup from him.

"after all this? i'm not sure. i sort of just want to go home and sleep." without thinking twice, miru leans over to put her head on seungho's shoulder, letting out a sigh. she's been trying her best to enjoy this second round of promotions, but the burden of being leader and having to keep up with everything brings her headaches. "at least the award shows are over. those were way too hectic."

[hdseungho]

seungho's a statue as miru leans in. when her head hits the notch of his shoulder, he broadens his back like he's personally offended by the wind and intends to fight it on her behalf. the party is still happening on the other side of the glass, a dull, rhythmic thud that feels like a headache you haven't quite earned yet, but out here, the air is empty of everything but them.

"yeah," he says. his voice is a hum, heavy with a brand of melancholy that usually doesn't come from deungho. "this is a lot." his arm finds the ledge behind her. it's not a hug, he'd probably file a legal brief if caught arguing that it's definitely not a hug, it's just a boundary. a structural reinforcement. a wall. "you did well," he says. he's staring at the city lights now, his jaw tight enough to crack a tooth, like he's physically swallowing the next three sentences he isn't brave enough to say.

miru's so close that her hair brushes his collarbone with every breath she takes. it's delicate, rhythmic friction, and seungho stays absolutely, terrifyingly still. he is a man holding his breath in a room made of glass, terrified that one dumb word will shatter the whole moment. "sleep sounds right," and it sounds like a prayer. "everything’s too loud after this." the wind decides to get mean, cutting sharper across the balcony. without a word, he sheds his coat and drapes it over her, letting his own frame absorb the cold. he doesn't ask if she wants it; he just anchors her anyway. "you don't gotta hold it all right now," he says, the words nearly lost to the gust. "just tonight. let the night hold it for you."

[hdseungho]

gold on the shoulders —

written for hasegawa haru (@hdharu) ♡

seungho's all stretched out on the sand, towel crooked under his shoulders. somewhere up the beach, distorted through a portable speaker, son dambi's "saturday night" is playing (looped, a little too loud) and it's the kind of song that shouldn't fit this quiet and somehow does. the song floats over the sand and water, nostalgic in a way that sneaks up on you.

he didn't grow up like this. hardly any beach weekends, or salt in his hair, but trot/pop music did drift from your local noodle shop so there's that. but god, he wishes he did. the taiwan wave rolls in easy, forgiving laps and his mind goes blank.

haru's nearby, new member in name only, long-time bromancer in every other sense. seungho watches him absently. the cameras sit back, pretending they're just scenery. the chorus hits, echoing off laughter down the shore. seungho exhales, turns his head toward haru, one eye closed against the sun. "you hear that?" he says, nodding toward the music. "that song makes it sound easy. like all you gotta do is show up and move together."

[hdseungho]

DATE — 2025년 12월 EVENT — YEAR END 2K25 010 WORD COUNT — 434

seungho does not wait for the lights to cool. the last note of the award show's stage still vibrates in his bones when he bows, counts the steps backward, and leaves. he doesn't catch that encore feeling. the chase for the hallway cameras or meeting peers from other companies. the boys' manager calls his name once, maybe twice, but he's already shrugging into his coat, sweat drying sharp on his neck. he tells the manager he's fine. he tells the driver to step on it... the black SUV cuts through seoul on a held breath. neon slides across the windows and disappears. he lets the city fall away. tonight, varsity did what they could do with the bodies they still had. tonight, was the last time some things were said without being spoken. he does not name the boys who left. naming makes them permanent.

his phone buzzes throughout the entire card ride.

there is a war inside him, quiet, constant. fame pulls like tidewater, strong, inevitable. but home pulls like gravity. he learned that resisting either one will tear you apart. so he lets himself be moved, but only does so on his own terms.

their house in saerom-dong is smaller than the stages he's stood on, yet it feels larger than life. the door opens before he knocks. his mother scolds him for not eating. his father claps him once on the shoulder, proud in a way that does not ask for proof. his brothers are louder, older jokes sharpened by time, laughter crashing into him like something solid. for a while, he is not an idol. he is just lee seungho, the middle son of four, the one who left and came back changed.

they eat. rice, soup, so much meat, and side dishes that taste like winter evenings and childhood. conversation moves around the awards without touching them. this is mercy. this is love... later, when the house is nearly asleep, he stands alone.

he lights incense with careful hands. the smoke rises thin. only then does she appear in the room (in spirit). his grandmother's name rests in him like a stone polished smooth by years. she does not speak. she never needed to. he bows before the ancestral altar, slow, forehead lowered, back straight. the boy she raised. the man he is becoming. the man she'll never get to see, but somehow always knew. he tells her nothing about trophies. he tells her he endured. he tells her he is still himself. he tells her he will walk forward, even if the road splits.

the incense burns down.

[hdseungho]

close enough to be noticed —

written for takada miru (@hdmiru) ♡

the cameras are finally gone or, at least the obvious ones. seungho slips out onto the service balcony behind the venue with a paper cup of lukewarm coffee, jacket still half-on from styling, mic tape ghosting his collarbone. the after-party hums behind glass doors: laughter, bass, someone yelling about a missing phone. it's loud enough to feel distant, like he's stepped into a pocket world between schedules.

he spots miru and slows down, deciding whether this is allowed or just convenient. either way, he steps closer, resting his forearms against the cool metal, gaze drifting over the city before settling back on her for a minute. "thought you disappeared," he says, not loud, not quiet. just enough to be heard. he holds out the second cup without ceremony, eyes flicking back toward the door like he's expecting a manager or a socialite to materialize. "they're rounding people up for photos in twenty," he adds, then pauses, considering. "but no one's checking the balcony."

the city breathes below and it all feels strange, being offstage without the rush dropping all at once. like the buzz is still running in the background. he exhales, finally letting the thought out. "feels weird. being done, but not really done... what's next for you tonight?"

[runawaysbish]

the lost boys (1987)