SYPNOSIS you get your period, which means you get a free pass for cussing out the members
CORTIS 6TH MEMBER AU
WARNINGS/DISCLAIMERS strong language, menstruation, heavy menstrual bleeding, period cramps, sleep deprivation, mood swings, brief mention of butt cramps, keonho being painfully corny, martin vacuuming at four in the morning, everyone collectively trying their hardest not to become y/n’s first degree murder victim.
NOTE im crying keonho needs to gtfo😭also i finally tried the thing where you put commas at the end of a dialogue and idk if i did it right but fuck it we ball
series mlist
based off this request!
you had spent the last few days eating absolutely everything that crossed your path, and by this point nobody in the dorm was even remotely surprised anymore. it did not matter if it was your food, someone else’s food, or something that had been sitting in the pantry untouched for weeks. if you found it first, you ate it without a second thought, leaving nothing but empty wrappers behind while the others stared at you in complete disbelief. every few hours you found yourself wandering back into the kitchen looking for something else to snack on, somehow still feeling hungry no matter how much you had already eaten.
you had tried convincing yourself it was probably just ovulation week messing with your appetite, even if something about it felt a little… off. on top of constantly craving junk food, you had also been getting random cramps that came and went without warning, making you pause for a second before continuing with whatever you had been doing. your period had literally just ended though, and there was still over two weeks until the next one was supposed to start, so you eventually shrugged it off and decided your body was probably just being weird this month. everyone had strange months every now and then, right?
right now, you were standing in the kitchen with an almost empty bag of hot cheetos in your hands, happily munching away while completely ignoring the judgmental looks being sent your way from the living room. by the time you finished the last handful, your fingers were coated in bright red seasoning, forcing you to head toward the bathroom to wash your hands before touching literally anything else. after scrubbing away the evidence of your latest snack, you let out a quiet yawn and made your way back to your room, already feeling the exhaustion settle over you.
when you stepped inside, james and juhoon were already getting comfortable for the night. james had one earbud in while lazily watching anime on his phone, occasionally letting out the smallest reactions whenever something happened on screen, while juhoon was lying flat on his back, endlessly scrolling through social media with the brightness turned down low enough to keep from blinding everyone else. neither of them bothered looking up when they heard the door open since they already knew it was you.
you climbed into your bed with another tired yawn before pulling the blankets all the way up to your shoulders, immediately sinking into the mattress with a satisfied sigh. “goodnight guys. juhoon, if you start snoring again i’m kicking you out of the room,” you warned, pointing a finger in his direction despite already having your eyes half closed.
before either of them could answer, a loud scream echoed somewhere else in the dorm, followed by what sounded like several voices yelling over one another. nobody even flinched. it was probably keonho causing some kind of chaos again. juhoon slowly lowered his phone just enough to stare blankly at the ceiling before letting out an exhausted sigh. “kick me out of the group instead. everyone here is crazy.”
james quietly laughed to himself before locking his phone and placing it beside his pillow. “goodnight, y/n,” he muttered sleepily, sounding far more exhausted than either of you.
“night,” you mumbled back, already feeling yourself drift off as the room became quieter. despite the distant sounds of your members still causing absolute havoc somewhere else in the dorm, sleep came surprisingly fast, and within minutes you had completely given in to the exhaustion without realizing that the strange cravings and random cramps were only the beginning.
you woke up with a sharp gasp, your eyes snapping open as an unbearable cramp twisted through your lower stomach so suddenly that it almost knocked the breath out of you. for a few long seconds, you couldn’t even think properly because of how intense it was, and all you could do was curl yourself into the tightest ball possible while clutching your abdomen with both hands. you squeezed your eyes shut and bit down on your lip, forcing yourself to stay completely silent despite how badly it hurt because the last thing you wanted was to wake james and juhoon in the middle of the night over what you were still convinced was just another weird cramp.
after waiting for the pain to ease just enough for you to move, you slowly pushed yourself upright, taking your time as another ache settled into your stomach. the moment you stood on your feet, however, you immediately froze. something warm suddenly ran down the inside of your thighs, continuing lower until you actually felt it reaching your ankles, and your heart instantly dropped into your stomach. you looked down in complete confusion, only to see bright red blood staining your thin white cotton sweatpants almost immediately. your eyes widened in horror as your brain desperately tried to process what you were looking at, especially considering your period had ended not even two weeks ago.
without wasting another second, you hurried toward the bathroom as carefully as you could, trying not to leave a trail behind you while another cramp forced you to stop halfway down the hall. the second you stepped inside, you quickly stripped out of your ruined clothes before stepping under the warm water, hoping it would at least help calm the pain in your stomach while you cleaned yourself off. by the time you finished showering, your body felt slightly less uncomfortable, but the cramps were still lingering in the background, making you more irritated with every passing minute.
you reached toward the sink out of habit, expecting to find the clean clothes you always brought with you whenever you showered, only for your hand to meet absolutely nothing. you stared blankly for a second before letting out the most exhausted sigh imaginable as you realized you had forgotten them in your room. normally, you would rather die than walk around the dorm wearing nothing but a towel, but considering it was four in the morning and everyone should have been asleep, you convinced yourself it would only take a few seconds to run back and grab them.
wrapping the towel tightly around yourself, you quietly opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway, already planning to rush back before anyone had the chance to see you. instead, you were immediately greeted by the loud hum of a vacuum cleaner.
you blinked in disbelief.
martin stood a few feet away, casually vacuuming the hallway as if this were the most normal thing anyone had ever done at four in the morning. the second he noticed movement, he looked up, and the moment your eyes met, his entire face turned bright red. he looked completely frozen, still gripping the vacuum handle while staring at you with the most bewildered expression imaginable.
you were far too exhausted, uncomfortable, and irritated to even acknowledge the awkwardness of the situation. “what the hell are you doing? it’s four am,” you exhaled, your voice heavy with annoyance as another cramp made you instinctively press a hand against your stomach beneath the towel.
martin awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed to have been caught. “i’m just cleaning…” he mumbled quietly, as though that somehow explained everything.
your patience completely disappeared.
“well, why don’t you ever fucking clean when i ask you to?” you snapped, glaring at him with visible frustration. “why does it always have to be when no one needs you to clean? and why does it have to be in the middle of the night? so you can complain all day after everyone else wakes up?”
martin simply stared at you for a few seconds, not looking offended in the slightest. if anything, he just looked genuinely confused by how angry you suddenly were. after a moment, he carefully tilted his head. “are you like… okay?” he asked cautiously.
that question somehow irritated you even more.
without answering him, you shot him one final glare before storming back into your room, grabbing the first clean clothes you could find while james and juhoon remained completely asleep through the entire ordeal. less than a minute later, you stepped back into the hallway with your clothes clutched against your chest, only to find martin still standing exactly where you had left him, vacuum cleaner still in hand as though he had completely forgotten what he had been doing.
you looked at him with complete disbelief before letting out another irritated scoff. “go to fucking bed.”
martin blinked once, clearly deciding it was smarter not to argue, while you turned on your heel and disappeared back into the bathroom to finally get dressed.
you never managed to fall asleep again after everything that had happened. every time you started drifting off, another cramp would pull you right back awake, leaving you staring at the ceiling while silently wondering why your body had suddenly decided to declare war against you. by the time sunlight finally began spilling through the curtains, you had only managed around four miserable hours of sleep, and you already felt completely drained before the day had even started.
with a quiet groan, you forced yourself out of bed and shuffled toward the kitchen out of habit. despite everything, you still planned on making breakfast for everyone like you usually did, already knowing that if you didn’t, somebody would inevitably complain about being hungry. you had barely managed to grab a pan before another intense cramp twisted through your stomach so hard that your knees almost gave out beneath you. gripping the edge of the counter for support, you stayed frozen until the pain eased just enough for you to breathe again before finally giving up altogether. without saying a word, you abandoned the kitchen and slowly made your way over to the couch, curling into yourself while blinking back frustrated tears.
the dorm gradually came alive over the next half hour as doors opened one after another and sleepy voices echoed down the hallway. one by one, everyone wandered toward the kitchen, still waking up and expecting the usual morning routine without realizing that today was definitely not going to be normal.
“what, no food today? want us to starve?” seonghyeon asked the moment he stepped inside.
you slowly turned your head from where you were lying on the couch and shot him the most exhausted glare imaginable. “make your own food,” you muttered, your voice completely flat.
a few seconds later, keonho walked into the kitchen, completely oblivious to the atmosphere. “no food today?” he asked innocently.
you let out a long, irritated exhale. “shut the hell up, keonho.”
before keonho could even respond, martin wandered into the room carrying absolutely no shame whatsoever. “hey, why the hell were you taking a shower at four in the morning?” he asked curiously.
you groaned so loudly it practically echoed through the dorm. “why so many questions? because i wanted to shower! what’s the problem? why the hell were you vacuuming at four in the morning?” you snapped right back.
martin blinked at you before shrugging. “well someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“i didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed because i didn’t even get to sleep!” you shouted, your patience officially disappearing.
juhoon finally looked up from his phone with an unimpressed expression. “calm down,” he said with a lazy eye roll.
for a second, you genuinely considered throwing the nearest object at him.
before you could think of an appropriate comeback, james casually walked into the living room with his hands in his pockets. “hey, no food today?”
that was the final straw.
you sat upright so quickly that everyone instinctively took half a step back. “why would i, the youngest member, have to always do all the work around here? i’m not a goddamn maid! make your own food!” you shouted, your voice echoing throughout the entire dorm.
all five boys stared at you in complete silence. strangely enough, none of them actually looked offended. if anything, they looked like they were trying to figure out the safest way to survive the morning.
after a long pause, martin awkwardly raised a hand. “well… i guess i’m a maid as well. y’know, since i always vacuum around here.”
juhoon immediately snorted, failing miserably at holding back his laugh.
you slowly turned your head toward martin. “your vacuuming is fucking useless, martin. i don’t know why you always expect praise after that.”
martin quietly lowered his hand again.
keonho tilted his head while studying your expression for a moment before speaking very carefully. “did you like… get your period early?”
your eyes immediately landed on him. “what’s it to you?” you scoffed.
“oh, so you did,” he nodded thoughtfully. “it’s just so that i hide in my room without having to worry that you might kill me for existing.”
you stared at him without saying a word for several long seconds. “well you better fucking hide right now because the idea of killing you sounds really good.”
keonho smiled the most awkward smile anyone had ever seen before slowly backing away. “oookay…”
without another word, he turned around and speed walked toward his bedroom.
martin wasted absolutely no time grabbing seonghyeon’s arm. “she’s fucking scary when she gets her period,” he whispered while dragging the equally confused seonghyeon down the hallway after keonho.
“hey!” juhoon suddenly called out before disappearing toward his room as well. “you have extra pads and tampons in my drawer. i don’t know why you put them there, but whatever…”
before you even had a chance to answer, keonho yelled from somewhere in the hallway.
“it’s because she has an extra heavy flow during the first three days and she always runs out so she bought a bunch of pads and tampons and they didn’t all fit under the sink and in her own drawers so she put the remaining ones in yours!”
you stared blankly toward the hallway.
“…who the hell was talking to him?” you muttered under your breath.
the room fell quiet again until james walked over without saying much. he reached behind the couch before tossing something toward you.
“here.”
you caught it automatically before looking down.
your heating pad.
without questioning when he had gone to get it, you quietly plugged it in before resting it against your stomach, immediately sighing as the warmth slowly began easing some of the pain.
james watched for another second before turning to leave. “try not to kill keonho,” he said casually. “or sean. or martin.”
you gave the smallest nod, far too exhausted to argue anymore.
he simply nodded back before walking away, leaving the living room almost completely empty. as annoying as they could be sometimes, every single one of them had eventually learned one very important lesson. when you were dealing with your period, especially during the first few days, giving you space was usually the smartest survival strategy anyone in the dorm could possibly have.
the next few hours passed painfully slowly as you stayed curled up on the couch with your heating pad pressed firmly against your stomach, absentmindedly scrolling through your phone without really paying attention to anything on the screen. every now and then another cramp would hit hard enough to make you wince, forcing you to pause whatever you were looking at until it passed. after this morning’s outburst, the rest of the members had wisely decided to keep their distance, and the opposite side of the dorm was filled with quiet conversations and laughter that always seemed to stop the moment someone accidentally looked in your direction.
you honestly appreciated the silence. nobody was asking unnecessary questions anymore, nobody was expecting you to cook, and nobody was testing your already nonexistent patience. for the first time all day, the warmth from the heating pad was actually starting to help, and your eyelids gradually became heavier as you sank further into the couch. you had almost fallen asleep when the unmistakable sound of several pairs of footsteps came thundering down the hallway toward you.
you let out the most irritated sigh imaginable before slowly opening your eyes.
standing in front of you were keonho, seonghyeon, and martin. all three of them wore the exact same awkward expression.
“what.” you asked flatly.
the three boys looked at one another as if silently deciding who had to speak first before martin finally cleared his throat.
“we’re going to get ice cream,” he said carefully. “do you want us to get you some?”
you stared at him for a second before rolling your eyes.
“the ice cream shop is twenty minutes away. we don’t have money for an uber, and none of you idiots can drive. it would melt before you even got here.”
the three of them quietly nodded in agreement.
“…right.” seonghyeon mumbled.
an awkward silence settled over the room before keonho suddenly brightened. “i think i have an idea on how to make you feel better.”
your eyebrows immediately pulled together. “…how?”
without answering, keonho confidently walked over and sat beside you on the couch.
you slowly turned your head toward him, already feeling yourself become irritated because absolutely nothing good had ever followed that expression on his face.
he leaned forward and pointed dramatically toward your stomach. “leave my y/n alone!” he declared with complete sincerity. “you mean period! y/n doesn’t deserve this!”
the living room instantly fell silent.
martin and seonghyeon both snapped their heads toward each other at exactly the same time, immediately grabbing onto one another as they desperately tried not to burst into laughter. both of their shoulders were already shaking from the effort, while keonho continued looking completely serious, apparently convinced this was an excellent idea.
you slowly opened your mouth, ready to yell at him for saying the corniest thing you had ever heard in your entire life.
instead, an absolutely brutal cramp shot through your asscrack.
your eyes widened. “AH!”
you practically launched yourself off the couch before instinctively grabbing the closest thing to you, which unfortunately happened to be keonho’s shoulder.
your grip was so ridiculously strong that he immediately hissed in pain.
“ow! ow, ow, ow!”
seonghyeon took one look at your expression and immediately knew exactly where this was headed.
“let’s go,” he said without hesitation.
before martin could even react, seonghyeon had already grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him toward the hallway.
keonho, meanwhile, remained trapped beside you. “please let go,” he pleaded, his voice climbing an octave. “that was—it was a joke! i swear it was a joke! you usually laugh at my jokes so i thought i’d—”
he didn’t even get to finish his sentence before you finally loosened your grip.
the second your hand let go, keonho practically stumbled backward. he clutched his shoulder dramatically before letting out the biggest sigh of relief imaginable.
“oh, thank god.”
without wasting another second, he turned around and sprinted toward the hallway as fast as his legs could carry him.
“she’s fucking crazy!” you heard him yell somewhere in the distance as he caught up with seonghyeon and martin.
the dorm fell quiet once again.
you simply lowered yourself back onto the couch with another exhausted groan, pulling the heating pad against your stomach as if nothing had happened. despite everything, a tiny, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your mouth for only a split second before another cramp completely ruined the moment.
I’LL KISS YOUR GRAVE 𓄲 in which, in Martin’s ideal world- he gets to co-produce a song with you- his current musical obsession. But you’re not the type to get wooed that easily- he’s gonna have to put up a fight to work with you. Will one evening be enough? Will a lifetime be enough? 21k w.c 𝓶. list
❪ 6102 ❫ ｡ ❛ 馬丁 ❜ 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 𝑖𝑛 ikyg 𓈒𓈒 based on @mkissed’s req. my blog is mostly nsfw so please minors don’t interact with it!
𓋵࣬ warnings : sfw, ANGST- down bad Martin x indifferent reader at first, fluff; skinship; love based on music taste (he falls in love with her music). ANGST. language barrier (chinese reader); bonding over music. did i mention ANGST? emotionally vulnerable characters, character death, chronic illness (unspecified), throwing up (not described), grief, funeral, lots of crying. ───── playlist
MAYBE SIRENS DID EXIST, for all Martin Edwards Park knew. Maybe you'd come out of a dark room, luring him with your music— and the only thing he would do is nod like an idiot.
Needless to say, he was hooked, hadn't been able to listen to anything else in weeks and only sound coming out of his AirPods was your music. Layered synths, a bass that hit just enough to make his shoulders move on their own, and that voice —god, that voice— cutting through the mix like it was whispering little secrets only he was meant to hear.
Maybe that was what mythological creatures were all about, he'd figured.
He'd replayed your latest EP until the waveforms were burned into his brain, every subtle reverb, every intentional breath between phrases, every tiny creative choice ? He'd memorized them all.
Your english was so precise and so devastating that Martin had to remind himself -sometimes- what you'd told an interviewer once.
That you'd learned the language just to write in it.
That you thought in mandarin, dreamed in mandarin, but chose english for your songs because- and this was the part that had replayed in his head more than any other- "it creates distance. distance is easier to be honest inside of."
You were so beautifully spoken he had a hard time believing you were his age, you sounded like you were 200 years old and had a lifetime of sorrow behind you. Martin secretly loved it, the way it bled into your music, the way he'd —shamelessly— shed a couple tears listening.
You were terribly deep in both languages.
He'd also watched the interview that quote came from three times— which was how he knew that when the host tried to follow up in english— ,you'd smiled politely and waited for your interpreter. He knew you'd nodded along with the translation and answered in your own language without self-consciousness, unhurried, like the language barrier was simply a feature of the landscape and not a high wall.
He was not okay with those facts. Embarrassingly so.
Probably captivated also.
Not with you, exactly- he kept making that distinction to himself, because it felt important.
It was the music.
He'd produced enough songs to know when someone was doing something only technically correct, and when someone was doing something true. And every single choice on that EP had been 'true' in a way that made his own recent work feel like a rough draft.
Martin needed to understand how your brain worked— he needed to be in a room with you.
Which was why— after two weeks of replaying your songs and one increasingly embarrassing pitch to his label about something like 'creative synergy' and 'sonic landscape expansion' (which had not been in his vocabulary prior to that)- Martin was now standing outside a studio door. He had his laptop bag on one shoulder, a track he'd rewritten six times since Tuesday, and —this was the part he was least proud of- a folded piece of paper with notes written in mandarin.
Rough mandarin- embarrassingly rough, typed into a translation app and then hand-copied because he'd read that you found it more sincere when people tried.
He wasn't sure where he'd read that and maybe he'd made it up. Maybe he'd just wanted a reason to spend forty minutes practicing chinese characters at midnight.
The label had set this up as a "casual introduction," but Martin had spent the last three days rewriting his own beat just in case you asked to hear something.
He wanted- scratch that needed- to co-produce with you.
In his ideal world, the two of you would lock yourselves in this room for twelve straight hours, trading ideas until something magical happened.
But you weren't the type to be easily impressed.
He knew that much from the interviews he'd watched twice (okay, three times).
You were blunt, focused, and notoriously picky about collaborators. You didn't do fan-service. You didn't do ego-stroking. You just made music that stuck like chewing gum in people's heads.
And Martin was thirsty, hungry to finally figure out the person behind these songs, to know how a simple human brain could create lyrics so beautiful they made even the most intransigent men cry.
The door to the studio opened before he could knock.
You stood there in an oversized hoodie, headphones around your neck, one eyebrow already arched like you were sizing him up— in your hand was a book that he didn't recognize.
"Martin." your voice was exactly what it sounded like on the tracks- low, a little raspy, entirely unbothered. "Cortis."
That wasnt a question.
Your English landed cleanly, each word chosen like you kept an inventory of vocabulary, and it sounded like Martin was in a waiting room waiting for a job interview. If he was honest, you looked quite terrifying, intimidating but at the same time— you looked exactly like the melodies in your songs, scalding and forever impossible to reach.
"Come in. Thirty minutes. I have session after." you spoke.
Thirty minutes. In his ideal world- Martin would get thirty hours- a whiteboard and room service.
But he stepped inside, eternally grateful, trying not to grin like an idiot when your arm brushed his as you closed the door. The contact was brief, casual, but it sent a stupid little spark up his spine anyway. He imagined that was what fans felt whenever their idols would accidentally touch them- then he thought of himself as the biggest idiot in the world.
"I've been listening to your EP," he started, which was an understatement so severe it was nearly a lie. "The track- 红底鞋."
He tried the mandarin- and almost certainly fucked it up.
"Red Bottoms. The way you built the bridge- the vocal chops, and everything-" He shook his head like he was still in disbelief. "I've never heard anyone make these choices and have them sound so good."
You tilted your head, an avid listener.
"It's smart. Really smart. I brought some sketches I've been messing with. Thought we could try bouncing ideas."
You leaned back, arms loosely crossed, watching the screen
with mild disinterest. "Alright. Play then."
Martin queued up the first track and the room filled with his rough beat-, built around a sample he'd been obsessed with for days. You listened without nodding, without comment, fingers tapping once against your arm— and when it ended, you gave a small shrug.
"Clean," you nodded. "Structure is good." A pause. "What do you want from it?"
Martin had prepared several professional answers to this question. He said none of them.
"I- um... kept coming back to your music because it does something to me," he started, keeping his eyes on the waveform. "Not just the technique-though that's insane- but the way it hits emotionally. 'red bottoms' makes me feel this... sorry i'm gonna be corny but— ache, like nostalgia for a place I've never been. That's rare. That's why I pushed for this session. I think we could make something that does that even stronger."
You were quiet for long enough that Martin wondered if he'd said something wrong, or if the translation -the invisible constant translation running behind your eyes- was taking a moment.
Then you rolled your chair a little closer, your knee brushing his in the tight space. You didn't pull away, instead you reached over and dragged the trackpad yourself, restarting his demo from the beginning.
"Play again," you spoke, voice still cool but now carrying a thread of curiosity. "From the top. And tell me where you hear the ache."
The thirty minutes became ninety— maybe Martin was in his ideal world. You'd pulled up your own project files somewhere around the forty-minute mark- swiveling your monitor slightly so he could see the arrangement without being asked and Martin had leaned forward without thinking, elbows on knees, studying your session like it was a text he needed to memorize before an exam (he'd given up on school long ago.)
Your layers were immaculate. That was the word that kept arriving, they weren't clean- clean was what he'd been going for in his own work, clean was achievable- yours were Nobel prize worthy.
Alright maybe that was exaggerated.
But fuck, it felt true in the moment. Martin was leaning so far forward his elbows were digging into his knees, eyes glued to your screen like it held the secrets of the universe.
Your layers weren't just stacked— they breathed. There was this one vocal stem buried so deep he almost missed it, a whispery mandarin phrase reversed and pitched down, sitting right under the main hook.
You pointed at it with two fingers. "You can't hear that one."
"I... yeah, no. But it's there," he said, half-laughing in disbelief. "Why bury it?"
You shrugged, the oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. "Because it should feel like memory. Not loud. Just... there."
Martin's brain short-circuited for a second. God, she's cool. Like actually, terrifyingly cool. He wanted to say something smart but all that came out was, "That's fucking genius."
You gave him a small look— half amused, half 'why is this guy like this' —and dragged the playhead back. "Play again. From the ache part."
He did. And this time when the bridge hit, he actually pointed out the exact moment his shoulders had lifted the first time he heard your EP. You listened without nodding, but your fingers tapped a different rhythm on your arm, not matching his beat but something of your own.
The thirty minutes bled into ninety, then two hours. Your manager knocked once but you waved her off with a quick mandarin phrase that sounded like 'five more minutes'. Martin didn't speak the language but he understood the tone: don't fuck with my flow.
At some point you pulled out a half-empty bag of spicy peanuts from your bag and offered him some without ceremony. He took a handful, immediately regretted it when the heat hit, and coughed like an idiot.
"Shit—warn a guy," he wheezed, eyes watering.
You actually smiled. "Weak."
"My spice tolerance is bad, sorry."
That got a soft huff out of you and Martin felt it like a hook sinking into his ribs. Don't get flattered, dumbass.
But it was hard not to when you started explaining your process. You talked about sound like it was weather— how certain frequencies felt like fog rolling off the Yangtze, how a good drop should hit like summer rain on hot pavement. He hung on every word, even the ones where your English tripped and you switched to typing on your phone for precision.
You were unconsciously poetic— the thing was, you didn’t even realise what you were saying was potent and moved something deep inside his chest.
Then you asked him something —a technical question, he thought, about sidechain compression and whatnot, but the sentence had restructured itself between your brain and your mouth.
Lost in translation.
And Martin was aware of something now that he hadn't let himself be aware of before.
There was a door in this room that neither of you had a key to.
He was fluent in your music. He could hear your creative language with accuracy —could predict, sometimes, where a track was going, could feel when a choice was wrong before he could articulate why.
In that language, he and you were almost eerily aligned.
You'd leaned back at some point arms loosely crossed, and for once your expression softened by a millimeter. "We're not so different in here," you said quietly, tapping the screen. "Outside... maybe. But here?" A small shrug. "Same language."
Around the 2 hours mark, your manager knocked twice and opened the door without waiting, she said something in your language, one hand on her hip.
You looked at him. "I have to-" You gestured at the door. "Session."
"Right." He started closing his laptop. "Yeah, of course."
You were looking at his screen- at the demo, still open, the waveform sitting there half-discussed. Then you walked him to the door, which wasn't a long walk in a studio that size- and when he stepped into the hallway you were already turning back toward the board.
No 'nice to meet you'. No 'I'll be in touch'
Just- back to work. Like he'd been a parenthesis.
Gosh- had he really been that awkward?
"I'll send you the updated file," he spoke to your back.
You raised one hand- not really a wave, more like an acknowledgment and the door closed. Martin stood in the hallway for approximately four seconds, then started walking.
Fuck my life, he thought.
He sent the file that evening. Clean mix, properly labeled, a short note underneath— because he didn't know what the right amount to say was and defaulted to less.
He watched the delivered receipt appear, then he watched it stay delivered for three whole days.
MARTIN THOUGHT MAYBE it was because of the language barrier- maybe you preferred working with people who could actually understand you without having to use Google translate.
Maybe after he left you'd sat back down at the board and thought, 'never again', and that had been that.
He also wondered if maybe you hadn't liked his music- his way of working- or maybe it was his personality?
He'd talked too much about what your music did to him, which in retrospect- was possibly a lot to say to someone he'd met eleven minutes prior.
He could've come across as a lot.
He was potentially a lot.
Instead of spending hours trying to figure out what he could change about himself— Martin chose to do something much healthier with his time— listen for the umpteenth time to your EP.
The first time he'd ever encountered you- your name had not been immediately googleable. He'd heard the track on Juhoon's phone- he had it queued in a playlist, one of those late-night sessions where nobody was making anything, just listening, sprawled across studio furniture with takeout going cold.
And Martin had sat up halfway through the second verse and said 'who is this'.
Like he needed to know right know or he'd die.
Juhoon hadn't known the artist name offhand. Had to dig through the playlist- and the name that came up was your alias- two words.
When Martin searched it, the results were sparse.
A Soundcloud with six tracks, oldest upload three years ago, an Instagram with maybe forty posts, mostly studio photos -equipment, waveforms, the occasional selfie.
He'd found an interview eventually- a small music publication, with english subtitles- you were on screen in a plain chair in what looked like your own studio, answering questions.
Your English in the interview was functional but minimal- you chose words lik you were packing a bag for a short trip— nothing unnecessary.
But when you talked about the music you lit up in a different way.
Here is the thing Martin had not said to Juhoon, or Seonghyeon, or even James, because there wasn't a version of it that didn't sound insane:
You were extraordinarily beautiful and but it was almost completely irrelevant.
He'd seen your face for the first time in a video someone had posted from a small showcase- grainy phone footage really. You looked objectively nice- screw that- nicer than anything he'd ever seen.
Martin wasn't foreign to pretty girls trust me— but the knowledge that you made music so touching added even more to your already beautiful face.
So yes, you were beautiful, in the way that became a secondary fact.
Like learning that a book you loved also had a gorgeous cover.
Noted. Filed. Definitely not the point.
YOU ALMOST DIDNT GO.That was the thing anybody could've known from looking at you in that lobby -standing there, weight on one foot, like an idiot.
You'd listened to his file the night he sent it. That was the other thing. The delivered receipt wasn't indifference- er.. maybe it was.
You couldn't pin point it though- what had brought you there in that specific moment.
Here is what you knew about him before the session; Cortis.
The group, the name, the general thing, not much more.
You existed in the same industry without overlapping much —your world was smaller, quieter, more underground, and you'd kept it that way deliberately. But you'd heard his name in production circles.
'Good ear', some guy had said once. 'Real one'.
Then he'd walked in your studio and said your EP name in mandarin, badly, clearly practiced, and you'd found it secretly endearing.
Funny guy, you'd thought, awkward and weird.
People talked about your music in a particular way- in interviews and comments and the occasional review- random words that seemed way too complicated. You'd learned to receive those words with the same expression you received everything: mildly, without giving away whether they'd landed.
But Martin had said it much more simply, 'nostalgia for a place I've never been' and then had looked almost embarrassed about saying it, eyes on the waveform instead of you, and something in your chest had done a thing you hadn't anticipated and hadn't appreciated.
Because your music wasn't all that complicated- it wasn't "ethereal" or whatever stupid word critics used to seem smart; your music was simple, based on experiences and stuff you'd learned, there was no need to get pretentious.
And you'd never heard anyone say it back to you in those words. Humble. In mandarin or rnglish or anything in between.
Now— the receptionist at the Hybe building had been professional about it.
You'd asked for him by name in english, careful enough to be understood, explained in the most efficient possible sentence, and you waited.
You'd been fine while waiting.
And then the elevator had opened and Martin had walked out in dance practice clothes, slightly out of breath, water bottle in hand- hair unmanaged.
He wasn’t expecting to see you— understandable— so his eyebrows rose to his forehead, mouth opening and closing like a blob fish.
Funny, you thought as he scrambled for words.
"You said you'd show me," you raised your chin."The bridge. What you would put there." You made a pause that wasn't awkward because didn't seem to do awkward. "I have time now."
Martin stood there for approximately three seconds wondering what the fuck was going on.
Three weeks. Three weeks of delivered-and-nothing. Martin still wasn't even sure you remembered his name and now all of a sudden, you came looking for him.
"Erm- okay," he ended up saying.
He almost heard Keonho's voice in his ears, "what wouldn't you do for the huzz..."
And apparently he needed to add 'absolute pathetic douchebag' in his personality traits.
The elevator ride up was quiet. Martin was aware that he was in dance practice clothes. He was aware that his hair was doing something crazy on top of his head. He was also very aware that you were standing approximately two feet away from him in an elevator that felt, for no reason, very small.
He wanted to ask 'why now', but he didn't.
The elevator opened on his floor.
"It's not a proper studio," Martin announced, leading you down the hall, which was true -it was a production room, good equipment, acoustically treated, but smaller than what you were used to, he guessed, based on the setup he'd seen at your session. “We use it for demos mostly. Personal stuff."
You nodded, taking in the hallway with the same mild attention you seemed to give everything. He opened the door, the room was exactly as he'd left it that morning —his project file still open on the monitor, three empty water bottles on the desk that he immediately wanted to remove.
You walked in and went directly to the monitor. Not the couch, not the chair- the monitor. You leaned forward and read the open file without touching anything, just looking.
Martin watched you clock the timestamp, the track name, the arrangement and whatever else your brain extracted in those few seconds.
"You kept working on it," you stated, neutral.
"Ah- yeah..."
You straightened and looked at him. "Play it."
He set down the water bottle, moved to the chair, pulled up the current version -not the one he'd sent you, three iterations past that now- and pressed pay.
You listened with your arms loosely crossed, expressionless. And when it ended, the silence was a different kind than before.
You looked at him, he wasn’t sure what exactly what was going on— you’d came in, all business, and hadn’t even explained the past few weeks, acting like you were just two friends making music.
"What do you want to do," you asked him. "What are you expecting?"
Martin opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn't even know what to say.
"Well-" He exhaled. "Erm." He turned the water bottle in his hands once. "I don't know, I thought maybe you'd- I thought if you replied, we could maybe discuss a possible-" He paused. "Well. But you didn't really reply."
You looked at the monitor, trying to figure out what to say. "I was out of country,"
Lie. You'd been in this city for the entire three weeks.
"The-" You paused, reaching for the word. "Computer. Was not working." Also not true. "But I'm here now. Yes?"
"Yeah." Martin nodded. "Yeah, I can see that. I was- well. What I'm trying to say is- if maybe you'd consider giving me a chance. I really wanna work with you."
You rubbed the center of your chest once, almost absentmindedly, the way people do when heartburn hits. Then you leaned forward again as if nothing happened.
"Is this why you sent demo?" you asked flatly. "You want work with me. Really bad."
"Yes." it was immediate with no hesitation. "I'm sorry if I was being pushy- I just really like-" He stopped to correct himself. "Love your music."
You were quiet, assembling words in your mind to make a sentence.
"I don't know," you said finally. "I'm busy these days. I don't know."
"Well- I could give you time to think about it, if you—”
"No." you cut him, dry, but not unkind. "I'm busy these days, I said. Maybe one day."
Martin was quiet for a moment but then decided to stop being careful and to say it in his own stupid messy way.
"Look. Let me put it clearly. I've never felt this way about any other music. Not like this." He held your gaze. "Please consider this. Or- heck, I don't know."
A short, slightly helpless exhale came out of his mouth, "Free your schedule. Let's do something outside and I'll show you I'm really serious about this." He paused. "Please."
You considered him- maybe because the word 'please' in english always sounded more exposed than in mandarin, you'd always thought. Less formal architecture to hide inside- it just sat there, plain and asking.
"I can't," you concluded. "Have two meetings later. Can't."
"Tonight then?"
You looked at him.
"Please," Martin insisted.
"Tonight?" You repeated it back.
"Yes. Tonight."
The room was very quiet as you wondered if you should give him a chance. Maybe something- anything could come out of it. Maybe you'd gain some sort of competence- maybe even new english vocabulary.
"Not long then," you decided.
Martin's expression did something he didn't fully manage to contain- like a kid being allowed to eat sweets.
"Not long," he agreed, immediately like he was agreeing before you could change your mind.
You looked back at the monitor. At his arrangement, still open, the bridge sitting there, "Finish the session first," you said. “I meet you there later.”
THE RECORD SHOP was the kind that didn't have a sign you could read from the street. It was just a door and a window with a few sleeves propped against the glass and —when you pushed it open— the smell of old vinyl and central heating.
Martin was already inside.
He'd worn a mask and a cap pulled low, the standard-issue attempt at anonymity that you recognized because you'd put on your own mask for the same reason.
He was flipping through a section near the back when you came in, and he looked up with the expression of someone who —had been trying to look like they hadn't been watching the door.
"You found it," he observed.
"The pin was good," you said.
He smiled, slightly. The mask hid most of it but not the way his eyes changed. You put your hands in your pockets and looked around the shop- it was small and dense, organized neatly with color coded alleys.
"Do you come here a lot?" you asked him.
"When I can." He moved to make room beside him. "Which is not a lot. But- when I need to think about something differently. About music. I come here and I remember what made me want to do it."
"What made you?" you interrogated- like the answer would help you make a quicker decision.
"The feeling of hearing something for the first time that-" He paused for a beat "That takes the top of your head off. You know?"
You knew- for a fact— what he meant. You didn't say so but you moved to the nearest shelf and started looking, because that was easier than going into depth about the tragic reason why you started making music.
You moved through the sections without talking much, which suited you and Martin drifted nearby - doing the same thing. He'd pick something up occasionally- hold it out for you to see without commentary- you'd look, and either nod or make the small sound of approval.
"Okay," Martin began, after a while. "Favorite album. What do you go back to."
You considered the question seriously, the way it deserved. You had quite a few in mind, but only one sat at the top of that list, so you walked three shelves over, found the section you wanted, and flipped through it.
When you found it you pulled it out and held it toward him, he took it— looked at it and went very very still.
Jar of Flies- Alice in Chains.
The cover art faced up in his hands, worn at the corners, a used copy that someone had loved before it got here.
"You like Alice in Chains," he almost choked out.
It wasn't quite a question though- he had the living proof in his hands.
"Yes." You watched his face. "Why. You don't like?"
"I-" He looked up. "I love."
You recognized the thing people did in reaction to your broken english- they accommodated without even realizing- started to use the same manner of language unconsciously. It was funny.
Something in his expression had shifted entirely though— replaced by something unguarded and disbelieving.
"I love them. I just didn't-"He stopped. You watched him recalibrate. "Well. Now that I think about it." He looked at you. "You do seem like the type of person who listens to good music. Since you make good music and all-"
"Martin."
"Yeah?"
"What's yours," you cut him off. "Favorite album."
"Oh-" He paused. Looked down at the sleeve in his hands. "Um. Well." A short exhale, almost a laugh. "It's kind of in my hands, actually."
You looked at the record. Then at him. "What. Jar of Flies?"
"Yeah." Martin turned it over, looked at the tracklist like he'd memorized it a long time ago and was just confirming. "I always go back to that one. I listen to it when I need to breathe."
“You make it sound like medication.”
“It kind of is.” he shrugged.
Silence stretched between you as Martin ran his thumb along the edge of the cardboard sleeve.
“My dad used to play records when I was a kid.” He shrugged. “Not because he was one of those vinyl purists. He just couldn’t afford Spotify for a while.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“So we’d sit on the floor and he’d play albums from start to finish.” His eyes stayed on the record. “No skipping. No playlists. If track three sucked, well…” He lifted a shoulder. “Too fucking bad.”
“You had to earn track seven.” you added, speaking from experience.
“Exactly. But it fucked me up, though.”
“How?”you tilted your head, very mcuh aware that you were having a full blown conversation in the middle of the shop like it was a coffee table.
“I can’t listen to music casually anymore. I think like… if an album doesn’t feel like someone’s whole nervous system got printed onto plastic…” Martin grimaced. “I don’t know. It just feels empty.”
You stared at him for a second “Music is different for everyone.”
His eyes lifted but you looked away first.
“In China,” you said carefully, searching for words, “my father…He worked. So, no music allowed in the house. Only in the headphones. So it was private. When I was young everything was loud.”
You hated speaking English. Every sentence felt like dragging furniture through a doorway too small.
“But music…” You touched two fingers against your chest without thinking. “…made one room.”
Martin didn’t answer immediately, people would think he didnt understand what you meant because your english was messy— (and to be fair I don’t think you readers understood what y/n meant either). But that went behind the point, because he could see clearly through your thoughts, like he’d known you for years.
“Jesus.” he said. “I’ve never heard anyone explain headphones like that.”
You frowned. “Is it bad English?”
“No.” he smiled fondly, “It’s good truth. You’re doing great.”
It felt nice. You’d been around enough people to know that accents— especially a chinese one, were constantly mocked, made fun of and used for shits and giggles. Nobody saw through that— nobody saw the girl standing in a country far too big, head still in a place her feet don’t recognize anymore.
You folded your arms tighter. “I don’t think people hear songs. I think they hear themselves.”
“Hm.”
“They say they love an artist, but really…They love who they become for four minutes.” you gestured vaguely, “who do you become when you listen to Alice in Chains?”
Martin stared, as if the answer wasn’t just sitting on the surface waiting to be spoken.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “Smaller. Not in a bad way. Just… the parts of me that are always trying to explain themselves kind of shut up.”
You glanced around, the shop empty felt like you were both existing in a secluded space in time— one where conversations were truly meaningful and went beyond weather-talks. One in which you could be yourself and not be called ‘too emotional.’
“So?” you said.
“So?”
“You want to produce with me.”
“I do.” Martin let out an amused laugh, kind of nervous at the same time.
“Because I speak weird? Or because what?”
“I want to produce with you because your demos pissed me off.” he admitted
You blinked. “…huh?”
“They’re unfinished but they still made me feel like shit.”
You scoffed, cocking an eyebrow, “…Thank you?”
“I mean that as a compliment.” Martin clarified.
“You Americans are confusing.” you rolled your eyes, slightly amused.
He stood there from his 6ft-something tower, looking down at you like you were the craziest thing he’d ever met, the brilliant shell of a woman— and didn’t even get mad when you confused his nationality because at least you were acknowledging his presence.
“I’m Canadian.” he simply said, matter-of-factly.
“Oh.”
And God, you hated that you sounded like a bitch.
“…Sorry.”
“I’ll recover.” he gave an awkward laugh, hand on the back of his neck.
A tiny smile threatened the corner of your mouth before you killed it, but he noticed anyway.
“There it is.”
“What?” you brought back the poker-face.
Martin’s cheeks got red for an instant, “You smile.”
“I don’t.”
“You literally just did.”
“Oh, fuck you.” it slipped out faster than intended, and you clutched your mouth.
Cursing was bad— you’d learned it from a very young age. You never cursed, having always been taught to be put together and classy— but inside your mind? You did nothing but.
“There she is.” Martin chuckled when you rolled your eyes.
Martin smiled like he’d won something— not the argument— just the sound of your laugh. And it was very you, very beautiful. He committed it to memory, keeping it in a locked box inside his brain, one he planned to open every now and then just to remind himself of how sweet it sounded.
“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “I don’t actually care if we make a track… I mean—I do. But that’s not why I asked you to come here.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “I heard your music before I saw you. And I had this really stupid feeling that whoever made it might understand me.”
The shop was quiet around you until somebody somewhere decided to put a needle down and the soft opening of a familiar song filled the space.
'I want someone badly' by Jeff Buckley.
Here we go. You braced for impact.
You couldn’t tell him why the song had affected you. For one, trying to explain it in english would be impossible, and his mandarin was practically nonexistent. But mostly because there was nothing to explain that wouldn’t sound completely ridiculous.
You knew it was. You’d always known there was something a little wrong with you.
Music was the only thing that didn't need translation for you- social relationships did- but music didn't.
And now, standing there with heat creeping up your face, you wondered if it was really possible to start liking someone simply because they liked the same songs you did.
He was a stranger —with good music taste— but a stranger nonetheless.
You wanted to believe that music taste told a lot about who a person was- that maybe if you listened to 'Jar of flies' with him- you could figure him out in minutes.
And the Jeff Buckley song only accented that- because you believed if you stood there for a few minutes more— you'd actually start to appreciate his presence.
You ended up buying three records. Martin bought two, including a pressing you'd pointed at without comment- that he'd looked at for a long time before putting under his arm.
When you got out, the city had gotten colder— you and Martin walked in the direction of nothing in particular, which was the only direction either of you seemed to have— bags from the shop in hand, masks back up against the cold and the recognition.
"Not long," you reiterated, which was what you'd agreed to, and which had now been almost two hours.
"Right," Martin nodded, glancing sideways at you. "Are you hungry?"
You considered it. "A little."
"There's a noraebang near here." He said it carefully, watching your face. "Not a big one. Private rooms. We could-" He paused. "Or not. If you have to leave-"
"Noraebang," you repeated.
You thought about your empty apartment- your studio, which you'd been in for nine hours before coming here. The two meetings that had ended at six and left you with an evening that had no shape yet. Boring.
"Okay," you ended up saying, shrugging.
Martin looked straight ahead but you saw his shoulders do a weird something.
The place was small, the way he'd said— a narrow staircase down from street level, a front desk staffed by a woman who didn't look up from her phone, and corridor of numbered doors.
The room he booked was just large enough- a curved booth, a screen, two microphones on the table, and a tambourine absolutely nobody was going to touch.
The song catalog was on a tablet between you- a small speaker in the corner played an upbeat song while you ordered food from the laminated menu, communicating with the front desk through a buzzer system that required no language whatsoever. It suited you.
"You pick a song first," Martin said, sliding the tablet toward you.
"Me?"
Yeah you, idiot.
"You." He leaned back- arms crossed. "I wanna see what you pick."
You looked at him for a moment before you took the tablet. You found your song without much searching- you'd known before you sat down, if you were being honest, from the moment the song had come through the record shop speakers and made you feel conflicted.
You typed Jeff Buckley into the search bar, found the song almost immediately, and stared at it for a second before pressing queue.
The opening drifted through the room’s speakers—softer than it had been in the record shop, but it carried the same strange shift in temperature, the same subtle way of changing the air around you.
You reached for the microphone, your fingers wrapping around its base.
This was dangerous. For all you knew, you’d end up crying before the song was over. Loud music had always done something strange to you, overwhelming you with an inexplicable urge to cry, as though your body responded to volume before your mind ever could.
Still, you knew this song the way you knew your own name in both languages, so you sang it.
You didn’t look at Martin. Instead, your gaze settled somewhere in the middle distance—the place singers on television always seemed to look, as if fixing their eyes on something far away was the only way to stop their feelings from spilling out.
So you let the song do what it had always done.
It arrived fully, without asking permission, in that particular way Jeff Buckley had of slipping into your mind and wrapping himself around your brain tightly.
Your singing voice in English barely sounded like your speaking voice, it was steadier somehow, as though the language created just enough distance for honesty to slip through the cracks.
Now I want someone badly. Got a girl here tonight, want someone new. Someone new. A little cry, want someone badly I wanna know if this is a bad lease on me
(I want to know) I want to know. Am I sure that I heard you right. I want to know
If you're leaving, just do it tonight. Now I want someone badly. To burn in here with me, you better listen, baby 'Cause I, I cry all over madly
Don't do anything, do it for me Ooh-ooh, I wanna know (l wanna know. Am I sure that I have your love I wanna know (I wanna know). If you're leaving, just make sure it's right. Now I want someone badly.
Could it be true that someone is you?
You finished the last line and let the note go- the backing track faded and the room was quiet for a moment that lasted. You lowered the microphone and looked at Martin- who'd been silent the whole time.
He was facing the table- and when you looked more carefully—
"Martin."
He didn't look up immediately, but when he did, he was weird- you registered it in pieces. The brightness in his eyes- the way he was pressing his mouth together- the extremely controlled quality of his breathing.
He was crying.
Martin Edwards Park was crying.
The evidence was there, undeniable, in the corners of his eyes and the particular set of his jaw- and the wetness on his cheeks.
You stared at him and he made a sound that was almost a laugh.
"Don't-" He stopped. Pressed the back of his hand against one eye, quick, like he could undo it. "Sorry. I'm-" Another sound, closer to a laugh this time. "Shit. I'm so sorry this is ridiculous."
"You're crying," you remarked.
"I'm aware," he deadpanned. "Thank you."
"Why?"
"It's the-"
Martin exhaled, looked at the ceiling briefly and when he looked back at you his eyes were still bright, his expression had shifted into something that was equal parts embarrassed and helpless.
"This is- I feel stupid. I feel genuinely stupid right now."
You looked at him- something happening in your chest that moved up into your face before you could manage it, and you laughed.
Martin stared at you. "You're laughing at me," he spoke.
"No-" You pressed your hand over your mouth. "No, I'm not- I'm-" The laugh came again, quieter. "Sorry. Sorry, it's not-"
But the words wouldn't come- not in english.
There was so much you could've said to him if only he'd understood your language.
"It's a little bit at me." Martin tilted his head.
"It's a little bit at you," you admitted.
He looked at you for a second, then he laughed through the tears too.
"I can't help it," he explained, when he'd recovered enough. "I've been like this since I was a kid. My members make fun of me for it. Keonho once caught me tearing up in the studio and told the whole group chat. That was a difficult week."
"You cried in the studio," you repeated, trying not to laugh.
"I was mixing something really sad- well it wasn't really that sad. But i tend to- like... feel music way too deeply. Until it becomes overwhelming, i can't help it... i'm sorry."
You wanted to say a lot of things- but the language barrier wouldn't let you. To be honest it wasn’t the only reason, you were just scared of oversharing if you opened your mouth— because wMartin was so relatable in that moment it felt comical.
"What song." you shifted your attention elsewhere.
He told you- and you knew it. It was the kind of song that deserved that reaction, at least in your book. And when you told him so- Martin looked at you with an expression that suggested nobody had ever validated this particular aspect of his personality before.
Like maybe he wasn't all that ridiculous for feeling too much and too intensely.
"I thought it was-" He searched for the word. "Too much. That I was too much about it."
You considered this as a person who’d been endlessly told she was too much and took too much place.
"That’s not true. Music should feel like something... big. Or, what is it for?"
The room was quiet as Martin looked at you for a long moment.
"Yeah," he ended up saying quietly. "Yeah, exactly."
You could tell in that moment- the moment when two souls shared the same ugly sensation.
That same dramatic feeling when meeting someone and thinking- this is the person.
The brain says it's absurd but not the heart.
The feeling when living a whole life of never being fully understood and finally being seen for something. That naive and ridiculous thing that- rationally - shouldn't exist with someone you've been around only a few times.
But you didn't step back this time, you weren't sure why. Maybe it was the record shop. Maybe it was Jar of Flies worn at the corners in his hands.
Maybe it was the crying -the way he hadn't tried to hide it and hadn't tried to explain it away until you'd already seen it, and even what he'd said.
That he felt music too deeply, like that was something to apologize for- rather than the only correct way to feel it.
So you didn't make a big deal out of it.
"Your turn," you told him, nodding at the tablet.
He took it without argument, scrolled for a moment and queued something without showing you the title, wiping his face.
The opening came through the room's speakers- just guitar at first, bare and unhurried- and you placed it immediately.
Alice in Chains. Down in a Hole. Unplugged version.
You looked at him and he'd already picked up the microphone. He was looking at the same place you'd looked during Buckley when he started to sing.
You had not been prepared for that. Not for his voice itself -you'd known, abstractly, that he was an amazing singer, that singing was the thing, professionally, that he did.
But there was a difference betwen knowing- and then sitting three feet away from Martin Edwards Park in a small room while he sang Down in a Hole with his eyes half-closed.
His voice did something low and unhurried and raspy in exactly the right places- those were different experiences entirely. It came from somewhere far inside his body- like it had to travel a long way to get out.
You went back and forth for a while after that-you'd pick something, he'd pick somethingz. Then the food arrived and got slowly eaten between songs- the tablet passing between you with less and less ceremony.
You sang 'Rotten Apple' at some point— he listened without moving and when you finished he smiled. Martin sang something of his own after- slower, something you didn't recognize, not a cover. You didn't ask, you just listened the same way he listened to you.
It was a good song, it grieved in exactly the right place but ou didn't tell him that yet.
Instead you said :
"I think- We could make good music together."
And Martin's head turned like he'd been waiting for this.
"I was being complicated," you continued, looking at the table. "I just didn't want to- involve myself. I have um-" You paused, reaching. "What is the word? Deadlines. And I don't know....I'm not good with working with others. Usually."
He was quiet for a moment- reflecting.
"That's okay," he finally said. "I respect that. I'm not asking for much- I just wanted you to consider it. I really like what you do. And I think we could do good things. Fuck that. Great things."
He held your gaze without flinching, which you noted, because most people didn't do that when they'd just said something that exposed them.
"Yeah," you answered slowly. "You're right- but I don't know how it's going to work. I don't speak very good english and you—well…”
You gestured at him, at the general fact of him—korean and obviously busy; operating in a world that ran on a language you'd taught yourself through song lyrics and netflix tv shows.
"I'm learning mandarin," Martin responded quickly, like it was already decided. "I can learn."
You looked at him for a moment before your lips curved into a laugh.
Silly boy.
"Mandarin." You shook your head. "You can't learn it in a week, Martin."
"Well-" He made a face. "Yeah, you're right. But we'll make it work. And plus I don't think there's much to be said anyway. When we're making music. I feel like— Okay this is gonna be corny."
"Say it," you encouraged.
"I just... I feel like you get me. A little bit. So you'd understand me. In there." He tilted his head toward an imaginary studio, an imaginary session, something that hadn't happened yet.
"I don't get you," you replied. "But i get your music, maybe."
"That's the same thing," he maintained. "My music is basically- Me. It's just me. Everything I can't say out loud or don't know how to explain- it goes in there. So if you get the music, you get me.”
"Okay," you concluded. Like it was a decision. Probably a bad one at that.
"We try. One session. Properly." You held up one finger. “One. And if it doesn't-"
If it doesn't work. If the door is still there. If the language is still a wall.
"One session," Martin agreed immediately before you could attach more conditions to it. "That's all I'm asking."
You nodded- looked at the tablet and woke the screen.
"One more song," you announced. "Then I go."
"One more," he agreed with a hint of a smile.
You handed him the tablet.
"You pick," you said. "Something that's you." You touched your chest. "From here. So I can- So I know what I'm working with."
He found it extremely endearing the way you couldn't name your body parts so you resolved to pointing at them. It was on top of a long list of things he couldn’t possibly keep track of.
The room, without the music, was just a room again. Like you, sort of.
You put your mask back on and so did Martin; the street was quiet- a few people passing but nobody paying attention to anyone else.
Martin looked in the direction of the road while you held your bag strap with both hands.
This was the part, you were realizing, that the evening hadn't prepared you for- the inside of the record shop had been easy- the noraebang room had been easy.
But out here there was no music
"I'll-" Martin started.
"Yes," you said, at the same time- realizing you sounded like a complete idiot.
"I was about to say I'll get you a car," he continued. "It's late."
"I can get myself a car"
"I know you can." He answered "I just want to."
He was already on his phone, the app open- and you let him, because the english for "i dont like when people pay for my stuff" wasn't available and you weren't going to pull out google translate.
You stood beside him on the pavement while he sorted it- realizing you were both going to go back to being separate people in separate places, after sharing one of your most intimate forms of art.
"Three minutes," he updated you, showing you the phone with the little car moving on the map.
"Okay," you nodded. "Thanks, you didn't have to. And for the session, I'll have my manager reach out. For scheduling."
"Yeah," Martin agreed. "Yeah, that works."
Formal, correct.
The language of two professionals who hadnt just spent the last two hours singing 'Alice in chains’ to each other in a small warm room
A car turned onto the street, the one on the map, slowing toward you. You picked up your bag properly, adjuste your mask.
Martin stepped to the curb slightly, checking the plate and confirming it then he opened the door for you, standing there with his hand on it, close enough that the city noise seemed slightly further away.
"Thank you," you said "For the record shop. And the-" You gestured back in the direction of the noraebang.
"Thank you for coming to my company building," he looked down- cheeks flushing. "With your laptop bag. And your face."
Your lips curved into a smile, revealing your teeth.
"That came out wrong," he shook his head immediately.
"It's okay, I make sure to bring my face again next time, yeah?"
You got in the car— feeling the driver's impatience.
You gave him one last smile- because apparently you were smiling now- and Martin gave it back sheepishly, cheeks the same color as tomatoes.
THE SESSION WAS SCHEDULED for a Thursday. Two weeks after the noraebang- long enough for the ugly feelings to slowly fade- leaving the usual indifference you'd always had.
Your manager had coordinated with his people; scheduling it in a neutral studio, not yours, nor his- a place in the middle that belonged to neither of you, which you'd requested without explaining why.
Yours felt too much like yours- and his felt too much like walking into someone's space.
You'd told yourself it was one session.
You were still telling yourself that on Thursday morning when you packed your laptop bag and stood in your apartment for a moment before leaving- and thought, it's just music.
Martin was already there when you arrived -the studio already open, monitors on and a project file open on the screen that he closed as soon as you came in. He was in a plain sweatshirt and the same cap from the record shop, and he looked up when the door opened, hair doing a bouncy thing on his head.
"Hey," he greeted.
"Hi," you responded simply.
You looked at each other for a moment- it felt strangely professional- like standing inside a corporate office and talking to a co-worker.
Two weeks of voice memos, file exchanges and a scheduling chain that had gone through four different people- had set you guys back to separate people in separate worlds.
"Coffee?" he cleared his throat.
"Please,"
The first five minutes were practical- coffee, bag down, laptop out, the equipment check that you did automatically in any new space- testing the monitors, looking around.
"Okay," he finally said, settling into the chair beside yours. "So I was thinking-"
"I have an idea," you said, at the same time.
You both stopped.
"You first," he let out a breathy laugh.
"No," you conceded. "You."
"Well- i've been building something. Since the noraebang actually. I wasn't going to show you yet but-" He reached for his laptop. "Can I just play it? And you tell me what you think."
"Play it," you nodded.
He queued it up and the room filled with it- a rough sketch, clearly, but the bone structure was good. Better than good.
You listened without moving- trying to figure out what part of the tune sounded the most like him.
When it ended you concluded, "The intro is too long."
"Yeah," he agreed immediately. "I know. I couldn't figure out where to cut it."
"Four bars," you indicated. "Cut first four bars, start where the bass comes in."
He nodded, already reaching for the mouse. "And what about the—"
"The mid section needs something. It's missing-" You reached for the word. "Weight. In the low end. It floats too much in the middle."
"I was thinking sub," he said. "But I didn't want to make it sound weid"
"Sub would work. Careful with the frequency. It can get muddy there."
"Yeah, I was going to sidechain it to the kick."
The first hour was good. Better than good -actually. Professional, filled with a bunch of overcomplicated words. You could point at a section of the waveform and he'd already know what you were about to say. There was no need for google translate.
You built on his sketch, adding layers, pulling things back, making decisions that you could feel both of you arriving at simultaneously from different directions.
He'd pick something up and you'd extend it- it worked surprisingly well.
This part of you- didn't need translation. You'd known that from the first session— from the way you could finish each other's musical thoughts mid-sentence.
Then you were working on the bridge- the section that had been the conversation piece since the very beginning- nd you had an idea for it that you'd been developing for three days.
Something specific.
You started to explain it in english- and you got through the first sentence fine- and then in the second sentence, which was where the actual reasoning lived, you flunked it.
"I want it to feel like-" You paused to reach for a word. "Like when you are in a place that used to be- Like the moment before you remember something that-"
You pressed your fingers against your temple briefly. "There's a word. There's specific- in mandarin there is a word for this exact thing and I can't-"
"Take your time," Martin said, gently.
"I don't want to take time," you shook your head. "I want to say the thing."
"Okay," he said, recalibrating. "Well explain it to me."
"It's like-" You tried again. "You know when you're in a city. And the city look like home but is not home. And your body thinks it's home and then- And then it isn't. And there's this -this feeling in the chest-"
"Like a false recognition?" Martin hypothesized.
You looked at him- expression indecipherable
"Is that-" He gestured with his hands "Like something that looks like home but isn't."
"Yes," you nodded. "That. That's what the bridge should feel like. That specific-" You put your hand to your chest briefly. "Here."
"Okay," Martin said, nodding, leaning forward. "Okay I get that- so you want it to feel like-"
"Like 乡愁," you said, and it came out in mandarin because that was where it lived- the ache of homesickness.
English had the word 'homesickness' but it was a flat translation that didn't carry the weight that '乡愁' carried.
Martin had his phone out- he typed it in. You watched him type the characters, getting them wrong the first time and correcting, the translation app loading.
"Homesickness," he read.
"Yes," you said. "But more than that- homesickness is- it's too simple. 乡愁 is the grief of it. Not just missing. Grieving. For a place that is still there but you are not in it, and you might not-"
You stopped again- the words were spinning in your head and you wanted to honestly cry- you could've been so much clearer, so intelligible in your own language. You could’ve sounded so smart.
"Might not go back," Martin finished quietly.
You looked at the screen instead of him- nodded, feeling like a complete idiot.
"So the bridge," he said, carefully navigating back to the music, which you appreciated. "You want it to carry that. The grief of a place that still exists without you."
"Yes. And to do that I need to strip it back. Because 乡愁 is- it's a quiet feeling. it's not loud. It lives here-" You touched your sternum. "Quietly. All the time. So the bridge needs to be quiet. Remove layers. Let it breathe."
He reached for the mouse and started pulling layers out of the bridge section, muting tracks, and when he'd done the obvious ones- there was still something wrong.
Something that'd been lost in translation.
"The piano," you pointed. "Move it. It's sitting in the wrong place-"
"Where do you want it?"
"Later. Two bars later. After the-"
"After the vocal comes in?"
"No, before. One bar before."
He moved it. Played it back.
"That's- no," you shook your head. "That's not-"
You knew you were being a pain- deep down- but you were so frustrated- so so frustrated, because in some ugly way- you wanted him to see how smart you could be in your own language.
"Too early?" Martin asked.
"No it's not about early or late it's about-"
You stopped because the word wasn't coming. The specific word for what was wrong with it- the word that would explain why the placement felt off, was sitting in mandarin and wouldn't translate into something useful.
"It needs to feel like it arrives after the feeling. Like- like someone who sees you crying and doesn't say anything but puts their hand— i don't know how to say."
"I understand," Martin said simply. "Let me try something,"
He moved the piano in a different position, slightly later, a rhythmic placement you wouldn't have chosen but that he seemed sure about.
It was close. Very close. But something was still sitting wrong.
"It's almost right," you said.
"Almost where?"
"Almost- The note. The first note of the piano. It's-"
"Too bright?"
"It's not a technincal thing- When you write in English, and you want to say something sad- you choose words that sound like the thing. The sound of the word matches the feeling. Yes?"
"Yeah," Martin said, following you. "Like sonic texture in language."
"Yes. The first note of the piano sounds like-" You searched. "Like question. And it should sound like statement. Like something that already been decided. Like grief... is not asking to be felt but is simply- felt. Present. 已经在了."
You said the last part in mandarin without meaning to- already there and Martin reached for his phone again.
And something about that- the translation app, the inevitable flattening of '已经在了' into something that would come back technically correct but emotionally miles from the thing you'd said— made you loose your patience completely.
"I could really-" You stopped to take a breath.
Martin looked up at you- curious.
"I could really be myself right now," you told him. "And say the things I want to say. If I were speaking mandarin."
"I know," Martin nodded quietly.
"You don't know," you said- not unkindly. "You hear what I say and you think you know what I mean. But I'm giving you—" You held up your hand, fingers close together. "This much. I'm giving you this much of what I actually mean. Because this much fits in the English i have." You looked at him. "The rest-" You opened your hand and motioned letting it go.
"The feeling I'm trying to describe," you continued, "In my language it takes one word. One word and you understand exactly and we move on and the music would be correct." You looked at the screen. "Instead we are here."
"Then teach me," Martin said very quickly.
"I can't teach you '乡愁' in an afternoon, Martin." You said it flatly. "I can't teach you what it feels like. You have to have felt it. You have to have been far from a place and felt it missing from your body. Like here" You touched your ribs.
"But, I have." Martin claimed.
"Then you know '乡愁," you said. "You just don't have the word for it."
"But you do," he continued. "And I don't. And that's the problem.” He stopped.
You looked at the screen. At the bridge section, the piano sitting in its almost-right position, the bridge almost carrying the thing you needed it to carry.
"I'm not-" You started. "I'm not frustrated with you. I want to be clear. I'm frustrated with-" You gestured at the space between you. "This."
"I know," Martin nodded. "I do- but it's gonna be okay- we'll end up understanding each other. If we try a little more."
"I came here today and I had things I wanted to make- I could hear them and I could feel them and I-" You exhaled. "I can't get them out in a language that isn't mine. I don't want music to feel dumb- just because i don't speak the language."
"It's not." he shook his head. "Hey, one day you said something in an interview. You said it in english- i remember it. You said that- 'music doesn't need translation the way relationships do.' And not to be weird or anything- but i think you sound smart in all the languages. You dont need a translation because you already have the feeling- that's enough."
The thing about being seen in a language that wasn't yours was that it arrived differently than being seen in your own.
In mandarin, someone understanding you was expected- the words did their job. But in english, when someone reached through the reduced version of you- through the compressed thought, it was a different kind of 'being seen'.
"I've been trying to learn mandarin,” Martin continued when he saw you were struggling to reply, "I know it's not enough. Iknow a few words and tones I'm mispronouncing and a phrase I looked up at midnight isn't- enough. I know that."
"It's not about learning Mandarin," you finally spoke, a small smile tickling the corners of your lips. "It's about- It's about the fact that I have been far from home for two years. And in those two years I have said- Maybe thirty percent of what I actually think. But today I wanted to say the full thing. So we could understand each other."
Outside, somewhere in the building, music was playing from another session. Another song. Another room. Someone else making something in whatever language they had.
"Do you miss it," Martin asked quietly.
"Every day," you smiled. "The food first, I know that sounds- fat"
He found it amusing, the way you'd used the word "fat".
"No it doesn't sound fat, i miss korean food too when i'm abroad." he chuckled.
"There is a- a specific noodle. From a specific place near where I grew up. I try to find it here. Something similar. I can't." You shook your head. "And my mother makes soup. In winter. And I can smell it sometimes. When I'm in the studio very late and I'm tired."
The boy listened, eyes bored on you, like listening to a very interesting TED talk.
"I miss speaking without thinking," you continued. "I miss saying exactly the thing I mean without building it first. Without losing half of it. My thoughts in mandarin are so interesting. In English they are dumb.”
"I'm sorry," Martin replied.
"Don't be," you shrugged. "I chose this. I chose to come here, to work here, you didn’t drag me out of china.”
And you realized maybe you'd said entirely too much until Martin spoke again.
"Earlier you said you missed noodles. Specific noodles. From a specific place. What kind ?"
You looked at him for a moment, one eyebrow raised.
"Why," you questioned.
"Because I wanna know," he said simply.
"重庆小面," you replied, "重庆, It's the city where I'm from." And 小面 means like- small noodles. But small is wrong. The translation is wrong. They're not small. They're humble, maybe. That's better. Humble noodles. Street noodles."
Martin listened, the track long forgotten.
"The woman who made them- she was there since before I was born. Very small, very fast. I watched her when I was a child."
"Is she still there," Martin asked, eyes bright now. Like he was smiling with his eyes.
"It's her daughter now," you said. "Same hands. Same speed."
So you told him about your country. Like you'd tell a good friend about things that didn't really matter in that moment- since you were both supposed to work. You told him about Chongqing, about the food, about your old house... a little about the rivers and the mountains. The fog that came in off the Yangtze in the mornin- the hotpot restraints open until four- the smell of charcoal. Many many things.
You talked- he listened, and then he told you about where he came from, the food he enjoyed, the things he did.
And you started to understand a little more why Martin was the way he was. He'd grown up full of love- a child with too many passions- and it showed now, in his adult form.
"Songpa-gu is where i grew up," he said. "Seoul. So technically I'm from here- but it didn't feel like this city when I was growing up. It felt like its own thing."
"Your family is here?," you asked.
"My mother is Korean," he said. "My father is Canadian. So- It was always a little bit of both. A little bit of neither, sometimes."
You looked at him. "You grew up between two languages."
"Yeah, we lived in Ottawa for a year and a half when I was a kid. So English came early. And then Korean at home with my mother."
"Did you like it, Ottawa?"
"I liked the snow," he said. "And I liked that nobody knew who anyone was. Like-" He paused. "I was just a kid there. Not a Korean kid or a half-Canadian kid or anything with a label. My sister hated it though. She was thirteen and very unhappy about the whole thing."
"You have a sister," you said.
"Older," he said. "By a few years. She's the reason I'm serious about anything- she was always more disciplined than me. More focused. I had way too many interests."
"Like what?” you asked- finding him more and more relatable.
So he told you about the passions, plural and overlapping. Music first and always, but also: drawing, which he'd done seriously until he was a teenager and then stopped without knowing why— photography, briefly, one summer. Cooking- specifically one dish he'd learned from a YouTube video at seventeen and had since made approximately two hundred times.
"And then there was the fish," he announced with a smile.
You looked at him, deadpanning. "The fish."
"I went through a phase of wanting to learn everything about deep sea fish. Specifically. For about eight months when I was sixteen."
"Why," you chuckled.
You thought maybe you'd heard it wrong- maybe your english was that bad, but turned out Martin was really talking about fish.
"I don't know," he shrugged. "I genuinely don't know. I just became very interested in the fact that there were things living at the bottom of the ocean that had never seen. I thought that was— something."
Martin had grown up full of love- a child with too many passions and a father who cried at Nutshell on the third listen. A mother who fed everyone who came through the door.
It made sense that he'd been moved by Layne Staley's voice at twelve, everything made sense.
He'd grown up being listened to, and it had made him into someone who listened the same way.
LATER THAT DAY. . .
Martin thought about countless ways he could make you smile, for days. You looked like you weren’t necessarily doing good— and in all likelihood he would have to do something about it- that’s just the way he was. He spent the afternoon looking for places that had your specific noodles, one that wouldn’t be too far away but familiar enough.
He thought about getting you something, a gift maybe, then he opted out— that would make him look ridiculous. Come on, he didn’t even know you all that well. But he spent the next few days planning how to ask you regardless— drafted different messages in different tones, compared them withthe help of James, and decided to just send a quick, ‘hey, i wanna take you somewhere to eat, is that okay?’
He stared at the sent message for a solid ten minutes, heart doing that stupid flip thing again. ‘Fuck, what if she thinks I’m a creep? Or worse, what if she says no and I just ruined the whole music thing?’
Your reply came two hours later, which felt like two years.
You: Okay. When?
Martin almost dropped his phone. He typed back way too fast.
Martin: Tomorrow night? 7? There’s this place I found. Chongqing style. No pressure tho
You: Fine. Send location.
That was it. No emojis. No “sounds good.” Just Fine. Martin grinned at his screen like an idiot anyway.
‘She said yes. Holy shit she said yes.’
The restaurant was small, tucked between a closed karaoke bar and a convenience store. Red lanterns hung outside even though it wasn’t a holiday, and the smell of chili oil and garlic hit Martin the second he opened the door for you. You walked in first, mask down now that you were inside, scanning the place with that same careful look you gave everything.
The auntie behind the counter lit up when she saw you, like she could just tell you were a native. She said something fast in Mandarin and you answered back without hesitation, your voice suddenly smoother, faster, like English had been weighing it down the whole time.
Martin stood there awkwardly, smiling like he understood a single word.
You glanced at him. “She says the noodles are fresh today. Sit.”
He followed you to a corner table like a puppy.
The place was half-full, mostly locals, and the auntie brought water and a menu without asking. You ordered for both of you— Chongqing small noodles, mild for him, normal for you—then handed the menu back.
The noodles arrived fast, steaming bowls piled with green onions, peanuts, and that dark red sauce. You picked up your chopsticks and took the first bite. For a second— just a second—your whole face changed, your eyes softened, shoulders dropped, and you made this small satisfied sound in the back of your throat.
“Fuck… good,” you muttered, almost to yourself.
It seemed the curse words just couldn’t stop flowing around him, like you could finally speak your thoughts without being called ‘vulgar.’
Martin laughed, nearly choking on his first bite. “Holy shit this is spicy. My mouth is dying.”
You looked at him, chopsticks paused. “You picked mild. Still too much?”
“Yeah but I’m surviving. I’ll be aight.” He took another bite, eyes watering. “Tell me about the real place. The one near your house.”
You ate slowly, like you were savoring every strand. “重庆小面. The auntie there knew me since I was small. Always extra peanuts for me. She yelled at boys who tried to talk to me after school.” A tiny, rare smile tugged at your lips. “I sat there every day after class. Did homework. Ate. Listened to music on cheap earphones.”
Martin watched you, mesmerized. “Sounds nice. I wish I could’ve had that, I became a trainee when I was like… thirteen? Fourteen? Everything after that was schedules, practice rooms, sleeping in the dorm.”
You tilted your head. “Thirteen? That is very young. No normal childhood?”
“Nah. I mean, it was fun sometimes. But I missed a lot. First dates? Never really had normal ones. Just… sneaking around or group stuff where everyone was watching.” He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. “My last ‘relationship’ was mostly texting between schedules. She got tired of me canceling plans. Can’t blame her.”
You nodded, understanding flickering across your face. “Idol life. I saw some. Very… strict. I stayed underground longer. More freedom. But lonely too.”
“Yeah?” Martin leaned in. “Any crazy ex stories? Or am I being nosy?”
You took another bite, chewing slowly. “One. Trainee too. Thought music was competition. Always compared our streams.” You made a small dismissive sound. “Annoying. I ended it. Better alone than pretending.”
“Damn. Brutal but fair.” Martin grinned. “I had one who said I was too emotional because i cried during sad movies. She called it cute at first, then said it was embarrassing in front of friends.”
You looked at him directly. “Crying is honest. Nothing wrong.”
Martin’s chest did that warm flip again. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that without laughing.”
The auntie came back, refilling waters and chatting with you again in. You spoke more freely this time— laughing quietly at something she said, gesturing with your chopsticks. Martin just watched, smiling softly.
You translated bits for him without him asking.
“She says you look like a good boy. But too skinny. Eat more.”
He laughed. “Tell her I’m trying. These noodles are trying to kill me though.”
You relayed it and the auntie clapped her hands, saying something that made you huff. “She says Korean boys cannot handle real spice. Come back when you are stronger.”
Martin clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. Tell her I’ll train every day.”
You did, and for a moment the three of you were laughing— you translating between languages, the auntie patting your shoulder like you were family. Martin caught the way your face lit up when you spoke your own language.
It was so rare. Beautiful. He wanted to see it more.
As the bowls emptied, conversation drifted deeper. You talked about your friends back home, asked him about his music, about Cortis. He told you about sneaking snacks into the dorm, swarmed airports, and how stressful it all was. Then he talked about how lonely it felt not to be able to live teenage life normally, how happy he was back when he could mess around with girls without consequences.
“I had zero game,” he admitted, poking at the last peanuts. “Still don’t, honestly. I get too excited about music and forget how to talk like a normal person.”
You were quiet for a second, pushing a stray hair behind your ear. “You talk fine. When it is about music. Real.”
Martin felt his face heat. “Thanks. Coming from you that means a lot.”
The flutter came back while you were talking— a familiar tightness under your sternum. You pressed two fingers there lightly under the table, breathing slow.
Not now. It must’ve been the spice.
You hid it well, sipping water like nothing happened. Martin didn’t notice. Or if he did, he thought it was the heat from the noodles.
After he paid (he insisted, waving off your protest), you stepped out into the cool evening air. The city was loud around you, neon mixing with the leftover chili warmth on your tongues.
“You liked it?” he asked, walking beside you.
You nodded. “Yes. Tasted like home.” Your voice was quieter now, the exhaustion was creeping in, hollowing out the small joy from the noodles. But you didn’t say it. Couldn’t.
You felt grateful, that he’d taken time out of his day to make you smile like that— it wasn’t his job— but he did it anyway.
Martin walked close but not too close. “I’m glad. I spent way too long googling places. James called me pathetic.”
You huffed, almost a laugh. “Not pathetic. Thoughtful.”
That sentence died the second you started coughing, you folded in half, hand over your mouth. Martin thought it was probably the cold night air— or the spice again.
He stopped under a streetlight, turning to you. “Hey.” His hand lifted slowly, giving you time to pull away.
When you didn’t, he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear, his fingers lingered half a second longer than necessary. “Are you fine? Breathe.”
You straightened up, pressing the back of your hand on your mouth. “I’m okay. Just spice.” you cleared your throat, suddenly very aware of his hand.
Your breath caught. His eyes met yours—searching, soft, like he was trying to read every layer you kept buried. For a moment it felt like he could see straight through the careful english and the guarded expressions, right into the tired, aching parts you hid even from yourself.
“I’m glad you smiled today, looks good on you.” he said quietly. “Are you okay though?”
You looked away first, heart doing something complicated. “I am fine.”
The lie tasted heavier than the noodles. You felt seen— dangerously seen—and it made guilt twist in your chest right next to the flutter.
He is trying so hard. And you are hiding. Always hiding.
Martin pulled out one earbud from his pocket and offered it to you. “Here. Walk back with this, we don’t have to talk.”
You took it, surprised, and he started playing one of his unfinished demos on his phone— The shared sound connected you as you walked, shoulders occasionally brushing.
It felt intimate. Too intimate for two people who barely knew each other. But it also felt terribly right.
At the corner where your car would pick you up, you stopped. “Thank you, for the noodles. For trying.”
“Anytime,” he said, meaning it. “So… more sessions? Real ones this time?”
You hesitated, the guilt and exhaustion heavy, but the music pulled stronger. “Yes. More sessions. One more at least, we will see.”
Martin’s smile was bright enough to cut through the night. “That’s all I’m asking.”
You climbed into the car when it arrived, watching him wave through the window. Alone again, you pressed your palm flat against your chest and closed your eyes— thhe flutter had settled, but the hollowness remained.
Martin made you feel seen in a way no one had in this city. That was terrifying.
Because the more he saw, the harder it became to keep hiding how much everything— the distance, the language, your body— was wearing you down. You leaned your head against the seat, replaying the way his fingers had brushed your hair.
Just music, you told yourself. It has to stay just music.
But you already knew it wasn’t.
Music was deep. Martin was even deeper.
The next time— you arrived first, laptop already open, the rough demo from last time playing low on the monitors and Martin showed up ten minutes late, hair messy like he’d run here, two iced coffees in hand and a stupid grin that made him look twelve instead of his own age.
“Sorry, practice ran long,” he said, sliding into the chair right next to yours. The wheels squeaked as he scooted closer without asking. Your arms were already brushing when he set the coffee down. “One’s for you. No idea if you like it sweet or whatever, so I got it kinda in the middle.”
You took it, fingers grazing his. “Thanks.” You sipped. It was too sweet, but you didn’t say anything. The chair was close enough that your knee kept bumping his when you moved.
Martin leaned in, elbows on the desk, peering at your screen. “Okay so… we’re really doing this? Finishing it today?”
You nodded, mouse already moving. “Yes. Let’s finish.”
He bumped your arm on purpose this time. “Bossy. I like it.”
You gave him a sideways look but didn’t pull away; the work started easy, you tweaked a vocal chop while he messed with the low end— arms brushing every few seconds. Accidental at first, then erm… not so much.
“You’re so focused, stop biting your lip so hard” Martin said, laughing under his breath as he dragged a fader. “I know you were desperate to collab with me but damn…”
You huffed, a small amused sound. “Right. Funny guy.”
“Oh c’mon, we’re past that now.” He nudged your chair with his foot. “We’re practically best friends now.”
“I did not say that,” you said, adjusting a reverb tail. Your elbow brushed his again. “I never said it.”
Martin snorted. “Mmhh… right. Okay. Whatever you say bossy.”
You shook your head, fighting a smile. “You are dramatic. Crying in noraebang. What’s next, crying in this studio because we’re not friends ?”
“Probably,” he admitted cheerfully. “But also if this bridge comes out right I might actually sob. Fair warning.”
You both laughed at that—quiet at first, the chairs so close your shoulders touched when you leaned back. It felt easy. Stupidly easy.
Martin queued up a silly sample he’d added yesterday —a cartoonish boing sound. “What do you think? Genius or garbage?”
You listened, head tilted. “Garbage. Delete.”
“Jeez, tough crowd.” He clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him. “I worked so hard on that boing. Two whole minutes.”
“Two minutes wasted.” You reached over and deleted it yourself, your arm fully pressed against his now. “Better.”
He groaned dramatically but was grinning. “You’re so mean when you’re focused. I respect it though. My members just nod and say everything’s fire even when it’s ass.”
You took another sip of the too-sweet coffee. “They lie to protect your feelings. I don’t lie about music.”
“Brutal honesty. Noted.” He bumped your knee again. “Okay, real talk though— did you actually like the noodles or were you just being nice because I looked desperate?”
You paused the playback. “I liked them. Really. Tasted close enough to home. The auntie was funny too.” Your voice softened just a fraction. “You googled a lot for that, right?”
Martin rubbed the back of his neck, ears going pink. “Yeah… maybe too much. James said I was down bad. I told him to shut up.”
You let out a short laugh. “Down bad. What does that mean exactly?”
“Like… really into someone. Can’t stop thinking about them. Pathetic levels.” He glanced at you, then quickly back at the screen. “Not saying that’s me. Just… the phrase.”
“Uh huh.” You dragged the playhead, arms brushing again for the nth time, “You are a little pathetic. But nice pathetic.”
“Hey” He poked your arm lightly. “Rude. I bought you coffee and everything.”
You poked him back, surprising yourself. “Coffee is bribe. Not enough.”
He laughed, bright and loud, the kind that filled the entire room and made him look like a kid again. “Okay, fair. Next time I’ll bring a whole offering or something, deal?”
“Deal.” You restarted the section.
Martin started humming along off-key on purpose. “This part needs more… soul. Like this—” He did a ridiculous vibrato that cracked halfway.
“Shutup.” You couldn’t help laughing. “Or what do they say again? Shut you ass up??”
“Yeah don’t say that” But he was laughing too, leaning into you so your arms pressed fully together. “Dont say this okay? Thats not something you tell random people, you can say it to me but don’t go saying it to other people or you’ll get into trouble.”
“Okay, shut your ass up then.”
“Yes maa’m.”
The work continued like that— talking over the music, fixing tiny things while trading stories. Martin told you about the time he accidentally walked into the wrong practice room and danced to girl group choreography for ten minutes before realizing. You told him about sneaking into underground shows back home when you were sixteen, pretending you were older.
“Trainee life sounds exhausting,” you said, mouse clicking steadily.
Your pinky brushed his on the desk— mind you the room was big enough to avoid that— but your bodies kept finding each other’s.
“It was. Still is. But worth it most days.” He turned his hand slightly so your fingers touched more. “What about you? Ever get homesick so bad you wanted to quit everything?”
“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But then I make something and it feels less heavy.”
Martin nodded, eyes soft. “Yeah. Same.”
The demo was coming together. You added a layer; he adjusted the bass, complementary.
At one point Martin tried to reach for the keyboard and nearly knocked his coffee over. You caught it just in time, both of you freezing with your hands overlapping on the cup.
“Nice reflexes,” he said, voice a little quieter.
“You are clumsy,” you replied, but there was no bite to it.
He didn’t move his hand right away and quite frankly neither did you.
Your manager had texted earlier saying she’d be late picking you up, so time stretched. The song kept playing on loop as you refined it.
The tension was thick, you knew it. Palpable even. Your heart was doing that annoying flutter again, but you ignored it, pressing your free hand lightly under the table against your sternum for a moment.
It was probably the coffee.
Martin noticed the small movement but misread it. “You okay?”
“Fine.” You straightened a little, but your knee stayed locked with his.
The demo was nearly done when Martin played the full thing from the top. You listened with your eyes half-closed, shoulder pressed solidly to his. When it ended, the laughter faded into comfortable quiet as you both focused on the final stretch.
The song was beautiful, it was as if you’d carved out both your souls and put them in a mixer together. A pretty mix of you both.
Neither of you had moved away in the last forty minutes and the forced proximity had become its own kind of conversation— every brush of fabric, every shared inhale, every accidental graze of fingers feeling heavier than the last.
Martin turned his head slowly, his face was only inches from yours now, you could smell everythung from the coffee on his breath to the scent of his hoodie.
His eyes searched yours, except he wasn’t playful anymore. His gaze dropped to your lips for a long second before flicking back up, like he was asking permission without words.
It was the song, you told yourself, the artistic euphoria of making something beautiful and wanting to let those feelings spill out- it was a human reflex.
But the tension had been building for hours—the physical was aligning with the emotional— everything you’d felt for him, everytime your soul had recognised his, it translated into body language now.
Want. Fear. The terrifying knowledge that this was crossing a line you didn’t know how to uncross.
Martin swallowed hard, his voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about this since… the record shop. Since… fuck, since the first session probably.” His hand lifted slowly, giving you every second to stop him, his fingers brushed your cheek, then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with aching gentleness. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong. Tell me to stop and I will, okay?”
You didn’t speak, instead, you leaned in just a fraction— barely anything, but enough. Your nose brushed his. The air between you holding all the things you couldn’t say properly in english or mandarin.
The body did not know language barrier.
Martin’s breath hitched, then he closed the last inch.
The kiss was soft at first— hesitant, almost careful, like both of you were afraid of breaking something fragile. His lips were warm, slightly chapped from biting them nervously during the session. You felt like you were holding something very dear in your hands, never squeezing tight in fears of breaking it.
You tasted the sweetness of coffee and the salt of his skin when your lips parted just enough and his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair, holding you there like he still couldn’t believe this was real.
Your own hand came up to grip the front of his hoodie, knuckles brushing the warm skin at the base of his throat where his pulse hammered wildly.
His other arm wrapped around your waist in the cramped space, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. Your knees pressed hard together, your chest against his. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric—fast, unsteady, matching the flutter in your own chest.
Could Martin feel yours? Could he feel how wrong it was beating, trying to catch up with his rythm?
The music was still playing softly in the background as he fell in deeper.
It felt like drinking straight out of the bottle when you had spent your whole life using glasses. Risky. Dangerous. Messy and overwhelming and everything in between.
But it was all you had ever wanted. You felt incredibly overwhelmingly seen.
When you finally broke apart, foreheads still pressed together, breaths mingling, neither of you spoke right away. Martin’s eyes stayed closed for a second longer, like he was trying to hold onto the feeling, is thumb brushed your bottom lip gently.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. A small, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long, is it… is that bad? Was that okay?”
But before you could say anything, his phone exploded with ringing on the desk.
He jumped, fumbling for it without thinking.
Juhoon’s name flashed and Martin answered fast. “Hey man, I’m kinda in the—”
Juhoon’s voice blasted on speaker because Martin had hit it accidentally. “Yo. So how’s it going with fine shit? You finally kiss her or what?”
Martin froze, face instantly tomato red. “Juhoon—what the fuck—”
You stared at the phone, then at him, amusement flickering across your face.
Juhoon kept going, oblivious. “Come on, did she friendzone you already? I told you not to be such a simp with the noodles—”
Martin looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him, he kept fumbling with the hang up button. “Dude. She’s right here. Shut the fuck up.”
There was a pause, then Juhoon: “Oh shit. My bad. Uh… hey. I’m gonna—”
Before he could hang up, you leaned in, grabbed Martin by the front of his hoodie, and kissed him again— firmer this time. A clear “not friendzoned” statement. Martin made a surprised sound against your lips but melted into it immediately.
From the speaker came a dramatic fake gag. “Oh god— ewww, I can hear that man. Gross. I’m hanging up now.”
The call ended with a click.
Martin pulled back, face burning, eyes wide. “I’m actually dead. Kill me. Please. He’s never letting me live this down.”
You were smirking, still holding his hoodie. “Fine shit? Friendzone?”
He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around you “I’m so sorry. He’s an idiot. I’m an idiot—”
You laughed quietly, the sound vibrating against him. “It is funny. And I am not friendzoning you.”
Debatable considering what you’d said earlier.
Martin lifted his head, still red but smiling now and bumped his forehead gently against yours. “So… more sessions? Or did that just scare you off forever?”
You stayed close, your hand still loosely on his hoodie, the flutter in your chest was back, but the warmth from him made it easier to ignore. “More sessions. We can try.”
His grin came back, silly and bright. “Yeah?”
“Yes. But no more speaker phone. Ever.”
“Deal.” He bumped your knee one last time, reluctant to create any distance. “And maybe more coffee bribes. And no more surprise calls from idiots.”
The next few weeks blurred into something that felt a liiiitle too close to routine. After that night in the studio— things shifted without either of you naming it. You kept telling yourself it was just music, just proximity. (you were that delusional.)
But Martin made it impossible to stay detached.
He started texting more, just stupid shit that made you huff a laugh in your empty apartment, memes he thought you’d like.
Voice notes of him trying (and failing bad) new mandarin phrases he’d learned from Duolingo at 2 am “Nǐ hǎo, wǒ shì Martin. Wǒ xǐhuān nǐ de yīnyuè… and also you. Wait, that last part wasn’t in the app.” His tones were still garbage, but you laughed anyway, the sound surprising you.
One night he picked you up after a long session.
“Late-night walk?” he asked, already knowing you’d say yes. You ended up on some empty road outside the city, Martin’s hand found yours fingers threading together like it was the most natural thing.
“Remember when I sounded like a mess trying to speak mandarin?” he said, grinning. “Well, you’ll be surprised I’ve been practicing. Listen—”
He proceeded to butcher a full sentence about liking spicy food and— tall mountains??
You corrected him between laughs, your head leaning against him. The flutter in your chest came again many times, but you breathed through it, squeezing his hand instead of pressing against your sternum.
Another time you dragged him to a second record shop, smaller and dustier than the first. You pulled out underground Chinese indie—artists he’d never heard— and played snippets on your phone while flipping through sleeves. “This one,” you said, pointing to a track with raw, lo-fi production. “You need to listen, it makes me think of you.”
Martin listened with his whole body, eyes closed, shoulder pressed to yours in the narrow aisle. “Damn, that means i’m kind of sad...” He tried pronouncing the artist’s name and mangled it so badly you actually laughed out loud, covering your mouth.
He looked proud as hell. “Worth it just for that sound.”
You showed him mandarin rap next, late one evening in his dorm when his members were out. Sitting on his bed with laptops open, you translated bits while the aggressive beats filled the small room— Martin attempted to rap along to a line and sounded so ridiculous you had to pause the track, shoulders shaking. “You are terrible,” you told him, but your voice was softer than usual.
“Yeah, but you’re laughing,” he shot back, pulling you closer until your back rested against his chest. “I’ll take the L.”
Those months had pockets of warmth like that. Deep conversations that started light and turned heavy. One night after another record shop visit, you sat in a rental car in the parking lot, engine off, the city humming around you. You tried to explain the growing numbness— the way everything felt further away lately, like you were watching your own life through frosted glass.
“It’s not just missing home,” you said slowly. “My words fail again. Stupid. But i’m happy here with you. I wish I could take you home.”
Martin pulled you into a hug right there in the front seat, arms wrapping tight around you. His chin rested on your head. “Hey. It’s okay. I get it—you miss home. You’ve been here alone for so long.” He kissed your forehead, soft then another on your temple. “I’m here though. For whatever you need.”
You let him hold you, guilt twisting harder because he thought it was simple homesickness.
You didn’t correct him. Couldn’t. The flutter had been worse that week, and you were tired down to your bones. “I am okay,” you murmured against his hoodie. “Just tired.”
He believed you. Of course he did. He terribly wanted to.
You recorded vocals for the song a few days later the studio was dim, just the two of you. Martin hugged you after the take, forehead kiss again, whispering how proud he was. You leaned into him, letting the warmth cover the hollowness for a little while.
The turning point came quietly, the way bad things often do, you started canceling sessions. First one was “manager changed my schedule.” Then another: “tired today, tomorrow?”
Martin noticed— you were quieter in texts, slower to reply—but he chalked it up to your busy schedule. You were an artist after all, underground didn’t mean easy.
In person it was harder to hide— you’d lost a little weight; your hoodie hung looser. You stared into space more at times,eyes distant while he talked about his day.
When he asked, you always said the same thing: “I’m okay. Just tired. Studio work is a lot.”
Martin believed you because he needed to. He’d pull you closer in those moments, arm around your shoulders, playing your shared playlist until you relaxed against him.
Your family started hearing about him around then— your mom called one evening while you were at his place, you answered in mandarin, voice lighter than it had been in weeks. Martin sat quietly on the couch, pretending not to listen but clearly curious and when you hung up, he raised an eyebrow.
“She asked who the boy who keeps stealing my time is,” you said dryly. “I told her ‘he is annoying but makes good music’.”
Martin grinned like an idiot.
Later that month you met his members—casual dinner at the dorm. Juhoon was there, of course, and immediately brought up the speakerphone incident. “So you’re the one who friendzoned him and then didn’t,” he teased.
Martin turned bright red and tried to smother him with a pillow while you watched, amused.
The others were nice—loud but welcoming. They teased Martin for being down bad and you for putting up with him. You didn’t talk much, but you stayed close to Martin’s side, his hand on your knee under the table.
He introduced you as “the genius behind the best song I’ve ever made.” The pride in his voice made your chest ache in many different ways.
It all piled up, messy, beautiful. You’d never felt so safe.
He kissed you often now— soft forehead kisses when you looked distant, longer ones in private when the music hit just right, hesitant and deep like he was still scared you’d disappear or walk away.
One evening after a shortened session you canceled the next day, Martin showed up at your building with flowers.
“Not a big gesture,” he said, sheepish. “Just… missed you. You’ve been quiet lately.”
You let him in, let him hug you for a long time. “I am fine,” you whispered into his shoulder.
The lie tasted worse every time, your body felt heavier,the numbness deeper. But his warmth made you want to believe it too, just for a little longer.
Your mom started asking more questions on calls. “This Martin boy— he treats you well? You sound tired, daughter. Come home soon.” You reassured her, but the guilt sat heavy.
Martin was trying so so hard— learning clumsy phrases, planning small dates, holding you like you were something precious— he met your guarded silences with patience and stupid jokes that made you laugh despite everything.
He thought the distance was just homesickness.
You let him. Because admitting more felt impossible, and the music— the song you’d made together— still felt like the only honest thing between you.
Those months were the brightest.
Martin e looked at you like you hung the stars, but underneath, the cracks were widening. You shortened more sessions, started off more. Lost more weight. Martin noticed the changes but always accepted “just tired” because the alternative scared him too much.
And you? You felt seen in a way that terrified you. Guilty for hiding, hollow in ways the music couldn’t always fix anymore. But you kept saying yes to one more drive, one more kiss, one more late night in his arms.
For now, that was enough.
He wanted to believe you were fine. Fuck, he needed to believe you— so he planned something stupid and big and hopeful.
A surprise trip to Chongqing, just a long weekend.
He’d cleared it with your manager through a million careful texts, booked tickets, found a small airbnb near the river, even researched noodle spots that matched the one you’d described.
He practiced the mandarin for “I want to see your home with you” until his tongue hurt.
This would fix it. Seeing home, even briefly, would bring you back.
Bring you back to him.
The insomnia was worse tonight, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, chest tight, breaths shallow. Every time you closed your eyes the flutter came — irregular, annoying, like your heart was arguing with itself.
You thought about telling him. Really telling him. But the words wouldn’t line up in english, and the idea of worrying him felt dreadful.
Just a little longer, you thought. One more good day please.
“Martin,” you started. “I need time.”
He froze from his side of the bed, phone in hand, “Time?”
You looked at the ceiling. “Time to go home. Really home. For a while. Things are… not good. I need space.”
The English came out wrong and clipped and distant. You meant ‘I need to return to China for my health, for rest, maybe a month or two’. But it landed like— I need time away from ‘this’. From us.
Martin’s face changed and the hopeful light drained fast. “Oh. Fuck. Okay… You need time from… us.”
You tried to correct it. “Not us. Home. My body—”
But he was already panicking, scooting closer, hands gentle on your arms. “Wait, please. I know I’ve been a lot— I can back off. I can give you space here. Don’t… don’t pull away completely. We can make this work. The song, us, everything. I’ll learn faster. I’ll be better.”
His voice cracked a little as he pulled you into a hug, tight and desperate, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m sorry if I made it worse. Just… don’t say you need time from us. Please.”
You let him hold you, pretending the flutter wasnt back, worse. You wanted to explain — the insomnia, the way food wouldn’t stay down, the way your heart kept skipping like it was tired of carrying everything alone. But the words stuck. “I am tired,” you said instead. “Very tired.”
Martin kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your cheek —small, frantic kisses like he could hold you together through touch alone. “Then rest. Here. With me. I’ll take care of everything baby. We don’t have to go out. We can stay in. Just don’t leave yet.”
You nodded because arguing felt impossible, because part of you wanted the warmth— also because saying the full truth was too heavy in this language.
You were pulling away. He could feel it. The surprise trip was supposed to fix things, but now you were saying you needed time and he was spiraling. He became clingier without meaning to, texting more when you were apart. Showing up with food after shortened sessions. Planning more small dates. Anything to distract from the huge gap in between you.
Every time you said “I’m okay, just tired,” he hugged you tighter. Forehead kisses turned into long embraces where he rocked you gently.
“I got you,” he’d whisper. “Whatever it is, I got you.”
To Martin it was still homesickness. Stress. He’d fix it by loving harder.
Sessions got even shorter at som. point. You canceled two in a row so Martin showed up at your door with takeout and that worried, hopeful smile.
“I’m giving you space but also… not really,” he admitted, rubbing his neck. “Sorry. I’m bad at this. But I’m here.”
You let him in, let him hold you on the couch while music played, the flutter was constant now. The numbness even deeper. You pressed your face into his shoulder and said nothing.
He thought he was helping, and he was, on some level. You felt so stupid for not being able to tell him, not being able to pick up the damn google translate and say the things that needed to be said. Because it would mean all of this had an expiration date, and you weren’t ready for that.
You felt the walls closing in, one misunderstood sentence at a time. Martin sensed the wrongness but kept reaching holding you closer every time you seemed distant.
You spiraled quieter— you blamed the studio air, the long hours, everything except the truth your body was screaming in a language only you could hear.
And Martin, desperately in love, heard only what he could understand: that you needed time.
He just didn’t realize how little time might be left.
You canceled two sessions in a row but when you finally met, you were quieter, staring at the studio screen without really seeing it. Your hoodie hung looser and your breaths came shallower.
“I’m okay,” you kept saying. “Just tired.”
He didn’t believe it anymore, but he pretended he did.
Martin stayed by the desk, fists clenched at his sides. His voice was barely a whisper as you reached the door a couple hours later.
“When you feel like leaving… just come to me. I’ll always be there. Even if it’s only half.” he said.
That night you fought. You fought because of a lot of things that don’t need explaining. People fight, people in love fight.
You fought because admitting the truth felt like handing him the knife— better to push him away with half-truths than watch him break trying to carry something he couldn’t fix.
He fought because love had made him porous. Every time you pulled back, he felt it in his bones, a fear so deep it tasted like childhood abandonment dressed up as adult terror.
“I’m right here,” he kept saying, the sentence looping “Why does it feel like you’re already gone?”
Two days after the fight, Martin showed up at your apartment door with a bag full of snacks, a new hoodie that looked exactly like your favorite oversized one, and red eyes like he hadn’t slept.
You opened the door in silence— he looked at you for a long second, then stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, voice rough. “I was an asshole. I heard what I wanted to hear instead of what you were actually saying. I’m really fucking sorry.”
You stood there in the hallway, arms wrapped around yourself. “You were scared,” you said finally. “I was tired. We both said things.”
Martin set the bag down and crossed the distance slowly, like you might bolt. When you didn’t, he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to hold all your broken pieces together. “I don’t want half,” he whispered into your hair. “I want all of you. Even the parts I don’t understand yet. Even when you need space. I’ll wait. I’ll learn. Just… don’t disappear on me.”
You let yourself lean into him- for once, you didn’t pull away. “Okay,” you murmured against his hoodie. “Not disappear. But I still need… slower.”
He nodded fast, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Slower. Got it. I’ll be whatever you need. Just let me take care of you a little. Please.”
That night he stayed over. He ran you a shower without asking twice and when you came out in his oversized hoodie (the new one he’d bought), hair damp, he was waiting with warm tea and your favorite peanuts arranged in a silly heart shape on a plate.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said, but the corner of your mouth twitched.
“Ridiculously in love with you, yeah.” He pulled you onto the couch, settling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. His arms wrapped around your middle, holding you tight. “Is this okay?”
You nodded. For the first time in weeks, the hollowness felt a little smaller.
He kissed the side of your neck, soft and slow. “I brought stuff from that auntie’s stall near your old house. The one you told me about.”
And God, he wanted to tell you about the trip— felt like his heart was leaping out of his body at how excited he was to surprise you.
You turned your head to look at him, his eyes were so earnest it hurt. “You did all that?”
“Obviously.” Martin kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your eye like he could kiss away the tiredness. “I’m going to make you feel better. Even if it’s just a little bit every day. You don’t have to be strong all the time with me.”
That night he held you in bed like you were something precious, one arm under your head, the other wrapped around your waist, legs tangled. Every time you shifted, he pulled you closer, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispered when your breathing hitched. “Sleep. I’m right here.”
The next few days were devastatingly sweet.
Martin basically moved in, he canceled practices when he could, brought over his laptop so you could work from bed. When you were too tired to shower, he helped —gentle, careful, no pressure. He washed your hair with slow fingers, massaging your scalp until you almost fell asleep standing up, he wrapped you in warm towels after, carried you back to bed like you weighed nothing, then held you while your hair dried.
“You don’t have to do this,” you mumbled one evening, face buried in his neck.
“I want to,” he said simply. “Let me. Please. It makes me feel useful when I can’t fix the big stuff yet.”
He gave you pieces of himself in return.
One night he played you old voice memos from when he was a trainee —awkward, cracking voice singing covers, crying after a bad evaluation. “This is the me before I learned how to hide it,” he said, cheeks pink. “The overly emotional mess. I figured if you’re giving me the hard parts of you, I should give you mine too.”
You listened with your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. “I like this version,” you told him quietly. “The real one.”
He kissed you then —slow, deep, full of all the things he couldn’t say right. When he pulled back, forehead against yours, he smiled that silly, devoted smile. “Good. Because he’s all yours.”
Another night he cooked terrible Korean-Chinese fusion food and fed you bites when you had no appetite. He made you laugh with awful mandarin impressions, then held you tight when the laughter turned into quiet tears you couldn’t explain.
“I’ve got you,” Martin repeated like a promise, rocking you gently. “I’ve got you okay?”
He kissed every part of you only he could reach— your knuckles when your hands trembled, your closed eyelids when you were fighting sleep, the spot right over your sternum when you pressed your fingers there without thinking. “Whatever this is,” he whispered against your skin, “we’ll figure it out together. No more half. Okay?”
For those few days, it felt like enough. He was devoted in the most heartbreakingly pure way — cooking, carrying, kissing, listening even when you couldn’t explain. He thought it was homesickness and stress. He thought his love could carry the weight.
You let him believe it, like a stupid stupid mean mad-woman.
Martin woke up tangled in his sheets, smiling like an idiot before he even opened his eyes. The past week had been pure warmth. He’d held you every night, arms locked around your smaller frame like he could shield you from the world. He’d washed your hair in the shower, fingers gentle on your scalp while you leaned into him with a tired little sigh that made his chest ache in the best way.
He made breakfast that morning —terrible scrambled eggs and toast cut into hearts because he was a sap and proud of it.
He sent you a voice note in broken mandarin: “Good morning, sexy beautiful wonderful woman. Eat something today, okay? I’m coming over later with real food. Miss you.” His tones were still awful, but he knew it would make you huff that tiny laugh he was addicted to.
Martin felt hopeful. The fight was behind you, you were letting him in more, the trip to Chongqing was coming closer and closer.
But something felt off.
A low stomach ache had settled in his gut since he woke up, not bad enough to ruin the day, but persistent. Like his body knew something his brain didn’t.
He rubbed his abdomen absently while scrolling through social media— reading fan comments from cortis’ latest comeback.
It was probably just nerves, he thought despite the unease, or maybe he’d ate too much again.
The morning unfolded gently, the way good days were supposed to. He deep cleaned his laptop with music playing low —one of your unfinished demos.
Martin spent twenty minutes picking flowers from the small patch near his dorm building — pink and white ones, the kind you once said reminded you of spring in Chongqing even if they weren’t the same. He arranged them clumsily in a glass jar, feeling like the biggest sappiest idiot on earth. No reply yet, but that was okay. You were probably still sleeping. You’d been so tired lately.
By midday the stomach ache had sharpened, a dull twist that made him wince when he bent down to tie his shoes. He ignored it. Popped some medicine. Told himself it was anxiety about making the trip perfect. He wanted everything right for you. He practiced more mandarin on the way to your place, murmuring full sentences under his breath in the taxi. “Wǒ ài nǐ. Nǐ shì wǒ de yīqiè.” Martin’s accent was still terrible, but the intention felt real.
The driver asked if he was okay. Martin laughed it off. “Yeah, just excited. Taking my girl somewhere special.” The words felt good in his mouth. My girl. After all the half-steps and half-understandings, it finally felt like you two were moving forward.
His phone buzzed on his thigh and the screen lit up with your name. His heart did a full flip —that stupid, lovesick jump he never got tired of and he answered immediately, grin wide.
“Hey precious—”
“Martin?”
It wasn’t your voice.
The woman on the line sounded shaky, speaking careful english with a heavy accent. One of your friends —the one you’d mentioned a few times, that one producer you trusted. “This is Lin. I’m… I’m calling from the hospital. Y/n collapsed last night. They brought her in this morning.”
The world tilted on its axis.
Martin’s stomach dropped like a stone, the ache flared sharp and vicious. “What?— I’m coming… i’m coming right now—. where?”
“She’s stable for now,” Lin said, but her voice cracked. “Just… get here. She was asking for you before she lost consciousness again.”
He was already signaling to the driver, heart hammering so hard he felt dizzy. “Tell her I’m coming. Tell her I love her. Fuck— tell her I’m sorry I didn’t come over last night.“
“Martin. Just get here.”
He hung up and told the taxi driver the adress.
It was hell. Martin sat in the back, leg bouncing, stomach twisting into knots. Guilt ate him alive. Why didn’t he go over last night? you said you were tired, but he should’ve known.He should’ve pushed. He should’ve been there to hold you.
He thought it was just homesickness. Stress. He thought this love was enough.
The driver weaved through traffic while Martin stared out the window, phone clutched so tight his knuckles were white. “Faster, please,” he begged. Tears pricked his eyes.
He arrived at the hospital in record time, throwing cash at the driver and bolting toward the entrance. The parking lot was chaotic —cars honking, people rushing, ambulances pulling in. His stomach ached worse now, sharp and nauseating, he felt like throwing up, like the world was ending and he was the only one who hadn’t seen it coming.
His phone rang again. Same number. Lin.
Martin answered instantly, voice cracking. “I’m here! I’m in the parking lot, almost inside. How is she? Can I see her? Tell her I’m coming—”
“Martin.” Lin’s voice was different this time. And it made him sick to his stomach. “Are you somewhere safe? Where are you right now?”
“I’m in the fucking parking lot!” he snapped, panic rising. “Why? What’s going on? Is she awake? Can I talk to her?”
There was a long, horrible pause. Time was a fucking traitor.
“Martin… you need to come inside. But I need you to breathe, okay?”
His legs felt weak. “Why are you saying that? Why? What the fuck is going on???”
Lin’s voice broke completely. “She… she passed away while you were on the way. The doctors tried everything. Her heart… it just gave out. I’m so sorry.”
The words hit like a truck.
Martin stopped dead in the middle of the parking lot. Cars honked around him. Someone shouted. He didn’t hear any of it.
“What?” His voice was small. Childlike. “What did you say?”
“She’s gone, Martin. I’m so sorry.”
The phone slipped in his grip but he caught it, squeezing it like a lifeline, the world spun. His stomach ache exploded into pure agony, his body dizzy, vision blurring.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no— that’s not— Stop.”
His knees buckled.
And oh, Martin felt like a kid again.
He dropped to his knees, the hard concrete scraping the caps, bits of dirt engraving into his skin until it felt raw. He dropped to his knees except this time it wasn’t to love you.
The phone still squeezed in his grip, his other hand clasped over his mouth- fingers molding itself to the shape of his lips. Lips that once caressed yours with such duplicity, eating at you until you were nothing but scraps of flesh.
Martin wanted— in that moment— to call his mom. He wanted to crawl back in her womb, forget all that had your name, forget he even had existed for the tiniest moment.
Maybe he would finally, finally, learn. Learn how not to feel so deeply- so painfully- maybe he’d finally be less of a man.
But the only thing he could do in that moment, was sit there until his knees bled into the ground, until maybe the wind erased the smell of you from his clothes.
Cars kept honking, someone asked if he was okay. He couldn’t answer. The phone had gone silent in his hand. The world kept moving around him —people rushing to appointments, families laughing, life continuing like his hadn’t just ended in a hospital parking lot.
Martin wanted to bargain. That was until his stomach pushed out everything he’d eaten that day, and he heaved on the ground like a wounded animal. You’d never know he was on his way to see you. He threw up again, food and a bit of his heart.
Martin remembered the way you used to steal the last bite of everything. Not in a greedy way. Never that. You’d push your plate toward him at the end of every meal, fork hovering with that one perfect remaining piece —whether it was the crispy edge of a dumpling, the last strawberry in a bowl of fruit, or the final spoonful of rice. “You have it,” you’d say, voice quiet but certain, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I saved it for you.”
Martin had teased you about it once, early on. “You always do that. Why?”
You had shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. “Because you eat like the food might disappear if you don’t enjoy it. I like watching you enjoy things.”
It was such a small thing. Stupidly human. Just you — thoughtful in the quietest ways, saving the best for someone else even when you were the one who needed it more. He had fallen a little harder every single time you did it. You were his silly silly girl, his beautiful precious girl.
But now that small habit haunted every meal he tried to eat.
You left fingerprints on every version of his future.
They were everywhere, in the way he reached for two mugs out of habit and had to set one down with shaking hands. In the empty side of the bed that still smelled like your shampoo. In the way he caught himself practicing mandarin phrases out loud, only to realize there was no point cause he’d learned it for you, only you.
Learning you were gone was the closest he’d felt to dying.
And now the apartment still expected you. So did he.
The hoodie you’d worn last time hung on the back of the chair, a half-empty bag of peanuts sat on the counter where he’d left it for you. The playlist you’d made together still queued up automatically every time he opened his laptop. He kept thinking he’d hear the door open, that soft sound of your footsteps, your voice saying “Hi, baby— no! ‘Fuck face’, i learned that new word today!”
You were supposed to outlive his bad habits, you were supposed to be the one who stayed when he got too emotional, when he cried at songs, when he overthought everything. Instead he was the one left behind, staring at the ceiling at 4 a.m., stomach aching with guilt and grief so heavy it felt physical.
A few days blurred into nothing.
Martin didn’t cry, not even once. The numbness had settled in deep, like frostbite that reached all the way to his bones, he barely moved from the couch. His company had issued a hiatus notice — “personal reasons” —and the members checked in constantly, but their voices sounded far far away. He answered texts with single words. Ate when someone forced food into his hands. Slept in fits and starts, waking up reaching for you.
He learned afterward that you’d been sick for a long time— longer than anyone had let him believe— longer than he’d been holding your hand without realizing how carefully you had been rationing your strength, how many smiles had cost you something, how many times you’d said you were just tired when your body had already been quietly losing a war.
Everyone seemed to brace themselves for his anger when they told him, as though betrayal was the only thing love could become after death. But he never felt betrayed, not even for a second.
What would have been the point? Whatever reasons had made you carry that weight alone had died with you, and he refused to drag them back into the light just so he could resent someone who wasn’t there to defend herself.
He never wanted to ask why you hadn’t told him, the question had nowhere to go. There would never be an answer that could change anything, never be a version of the truth that ended with you alive again.
Maybe you had been scared.
Maybe you had wanted one part of your life to remain untouched by hospitals and pity, maybe you had convinced yourself you were protecting him, maybe you hadn’t known how to say the words out loud without making them real. None of it mattered anymore.
Martin loved you before he knew, and he loved you after he knew.
He didn’t need an explanation. He didn’t need someone to blame. He only wished, with a grief so quiet it never stopped hurting, that for just one evening, just one impossible hour, you had let him be afraid with you instead of letting you be brave all by yourself.
Your friends had texted him about the funeral, he read the message three times before it sank in. Closed casket. Private ceremony. They thought it would be easier that way.
He got ready on autopilot. Black shirt, black pants. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, wondering if the person looking back was still the one you had kissed so gently in the studio.
The funeral was small.
He sat in the back, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. Thank god the casket was closed. The thought made him feel like shit immediately — how could he be relieved not to see you? — but the other part of him ached with it.
He wanted to see his sweet girl one last time, the one who scrunched her nose when she was thinking hard— not the one who was gone.
Your friends and family spoke. Beautiful, painful words in mandarin and english. Stories about your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you poured everything into your work. He listened like a ghost haunting the edges of someone else’s life.
Then your aunt turned to him, eyes red but kind. “Martin? Would you like to say a few words?”
The room went quiet.
The boy stood up without thinking, legs carrying him to the front like they belonged to someone else. The paper in his pocket —the speech he hadn’t written —stayed blank. He gripped the edge of the podium, staring at the closed casket draped in white flowers.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He stood at the podium, hands gripping the edges like it was the only thing keeping him upright, no notes, no plan, just his heart cracking open in front of everyone.
"My sweet girl." His voice almost disappeared "You hated when I looked sad. So... this is awkward. But I just need to talk to you. Even if you can’t hear me anymore.”
Martin didn’t dare look at your casket— in hopes he’d find you to be anywhere but there.
“You… you remember the first time we met? I stood outside in that studio like a complete idiot and told you I’d learn mandarin so we could work together properly. You looked at me with that one eyebrow raised and said I couldn’t learn it in a short period of time. You were right.”
His voice shook, and broke.
“But I did, baby. I learned it. And now we finally speak the same language.”
His voice broke hard, a sob catching in his throat as fresh tears fell. He didn’t wipe them. “I’m so sorry, baby. I've been trying to remember our last conversation but I can’t. I remember your laugh, and… I remember what you were wearing, but I don’t— sorry. I don’t remember what i told you. I hope it was ‘I loved you’. I wish I could’ve learned your language earlier— cause maybe if I spoke it… then maybe I could’ve understood you better, maybe i could’ve loved you better.”
Martin’s voice shattered completely on the last words, shoulders shaking with deep, broken sobs he couldn’t hold back anymore.
“I found out afterward. I found out you’d been sick for so long, and… I didn’t even feel betrayed. Everyone keeps asking me if I’m angry that you never told me, and I’m not. I swear to God, I’m not”
“I just keep thinking about what it must’ve been like for you to wake up every morning already knowing something I didn’t. I’m wondering how many times you looked at me and decided, ‘Not today. I’ll let him be happy one more day.’”
His voice cracked again.
“You were protecting me.”
A tear slipped from his jaw.
“And that’s so unfair.”
Martin’s lips quivered. “Not because you lied to me. Because even while you were dying… you were still taking care of me.”
“You barely spoke my language when we met. Half our conversations were messy.” He gave a watery smile, “But somehow… you understood me better than people who’d known me for years.”
He looked down at his shaking hands.
“I used to think being understood was this like… huge miracle. Then I met you. And suddenly I wasn’t explaining myself anymore— I was just… existing. And you loved me there.”
His breathing faltered.
“I don’t know if you ever understood what that did to a person like me. To be loved by someone so precious— i’m sorry,” he choked on a sob, “By someone so smart and so creative. And I keep thinking about how you didn’t even realize it, like you thought you were just… existing, but you were doing so much more than that for everyone around you. Especially for me. And now I just don’t know how I’m supposed to unlearn what it felt like to be seen by you.”
His voice dissolved into tears. “So if theres a language that’s more appropriate for this… if you can hear me somewhere,”
He spoke the next words in Mandarin, slow, careful, with the same determination he’d had the first day he’d promised he’d learn.
“I love you. I loved you. I will keep loving you. Okay? You’re my girl.”
The room was silent, nobody spoke. He didn’t want to monopolise the funeral, so he retreated a bit.
"My sweet girl. I’m gonna leave now,” his voice shook, "I've never gone anywhere without making sure you were coming too. I don't really… know how to do this. So if you can...”
SYPNOSIS after getting hurt at the airport, you decide not to tell the members, thinking they wouldn’t care.
CORTIS 6TH MEMBER AU
WARNINGS crazy airport fans, bruising y/n getting hurt, lots of worrying, hurt/comfort, protective cortis members, and keonho and y/n being incapable of acting normal for more than five minutes
NOTE i got tired by the end so theres not much dialogue🥲
->based off this request!!
->series mlist
being an idol, you quite liked your job. maybe because you were still in the honeymoon phase, which meant that you found everything funny. getting stalked? funny. chased? funny. hated on for breathing? funny.
one thing you absolutely could not stand, however, was airports. they were a nightmare from start to finish. the second you arrived, there were hundreds of fans packed together behind barriers, screaming names loud enough to make your ears ring. cameras flashed nonstop from every direction, paparazzi shouted questions nobody intended to answer, security guards barked orders at people who never listened, and everyone seemed determined to push their way closer. it felt like pure chaos compressed into one building, and every time you walked through it, your brain felt like it was being attacked from all sides at once.
so on the way to the airport, you were trying to stay as calm as possible, but inside, you were already freaking out. you sat quietly in your seat while the members chatted amongst themselves, occasionally glancing out the window and mentally preparing yourself for what was waiting outside. no matter how many times you did this, it never got easier.
as soon as you stepped out of the van and were met with loud cheers and wild fans, you immediately let out a sigh, putting your sunglasses on so that the flashes of cameras would stop bothering your eyes so early in the morning. the noise hit you instantly, making your shoulders tense. fans screamed your name from every direction while dozens of phones were shoved into the air, all trying to capture a glimpse of you.
during the entire walk, fans were wild, pushing security, pushing each other, and screaming so loudly that it became difficult to even hear the members talking beside you. every few seconds there was another camera flash, another person calling your name, another body trying to squeeze closer. you were annoyed, and you could tell the other members were annoyed as well, especially seonghyeon and keonho. martin, james, and juhoon were better at hiding it, but every now and then you caught the tight expressions on their faces.
you were almost at the check in area, and you finally started to relax. once you got your tickets, things would calm down. fans wouldn’t be able to follow you anymore, security would have an easier time controlling the crowd, and you could finally breathe without feeling like a zoo animal on display.
suddenly, you heard a loud commotion. “y/n!” a fanboy screamed, his voice cutting through the crowd as he sprinted towards you with his phone raised in the air.
before anyone could properly react, he slipped past security and rushed straight at you. his hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist so harshly that it immediately hurt. “y/n, i love you! please take a picture with me!” he yelled excitedly, yanking you closer as if you were some kind of doll.
your entire body froze.
for a second, your brain completely stopped working. you just stared at him, unable to process what was happening. your muscles locked up, your chest tightened, and all the noise around you suddenly felt distant.
seonghyeon reacted first. he stepped between the two of you and shoved the guy back. “hey, man. back off,” he snapped, his patience clearly gone.
“security!” martin called immediately, grabbing one of the guards by the shoulder.
the moment the guard realized what was happening, his eyes widened. he rushed over and grabbed the fanboy, dragging him away from the group while the guy continued shouting your name. for a brief second, you thought it was over.
then somehow the fanboy managed to wrench himself free.
everything happened so quickly that nobody had time to react before he was charging towards you again. the guard lunged after him and caught him a second time, this time using much more force as he tried to restrain him. the fanboy struggled wildly, throwing his arms around as he fought against the guard’s grip.
and then his elbow slammed directly into your stomach.
once.
twice.
the force behind it made your entire body jolt.
suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.
you had read somewhere that getting hit in the stomach could temporarily knock the air out of you because the impact shocked your diaphragm. you had always assumed people exaggerated it for dramatic effect.
apparently they didn’t.
your lungs refused to cooperate. no matter how hard you tried, air wouldn’t come. panic immediately flared inside your chest as you stood there frozen, eyes wide, desperately waiting for your body to remember how breathing worked. the world blurred around the edges while everyone continued moving, security finally dragging the fanboy away for good.
“you okay?” juhoon asked quietly once things settled down.
you looked up at him. for a moment, you considered telling the truth. your stomach hurt, your chest felt tight, and you still felt shaken from being grabbed in the first place. but there were cameras everywhere, fans watching every movement, people recording from every angle.
so after a brief hesitation, you nodded.
juhoon’s expression immediately told you he didn’t believe a single word. still, he nodded back and continued walking.
throughout the entire check in process, the members kept sending worried glances your way. every time you looked up, someone was watching you.
seonghyeon kept frowning whenever he thought you weren’t looking, keonho looked one question away from pulling you aside, and even martin, who was usually good at acting normal in public, looked unusually tense. you were sure they wanted to talk to you, to ask if you were actually okay, but with hundreds of eyes and cameras surrounding them, they couldn’t risk causing another scene.
so you ignored every look they sent your way and pretended everything was fine, even as your stomach continued to ache and your breathing still didn’t quite feel normal.
after the fans were gone, all six of you were finally able to walk through the airport without cameras constantly being shoved in your faces.
the silence should have been relaxing, but it wasn’t.
every step sent another pulse of pain through your side. the place where you had been hit felt like it was on fire, and even something as simple as breathing too deeply made your stomach ache. you kept your face neutral, refusing to let anyone notice, but at one point your eyes had watered from how much it hurt and you had to blink rapidly to stop yourself from actually crying.
“hey, you’re okay, right?” martin’s voice broke the silence so suddenly that you nearly jumped.
everyone immediately looked at you.
you looked up at martin, caught off guard by the question. but it wasn’t really the question itself that made you pause. it was the way he said it.
he sounded like he already knew the answer.
like he expected you to say yes.
like he wasn’t actually asking if you were okay.
you hesitated for a second before nodding your head.
the relief on everyone’s faces was immediate. that made you feel even worse.
you looked away from them, staring down at the floor as you continued walking.
it wasn’t a big deal. it was probably going to bruise a little, but thats okay because people got hurt all the time.
you were surrounded by guys who trained until they collapsed, performed through injuries, and worked schedules that barely gave them enough time to sleep. compared to all of that, getting elbowed in the stomach was nothing.
besides, what exactly were they supposed to do about it?
sit there and worry?
hover around you?
cancel schedules because your side hurt?
the thought felt ridiculous.
you told yourself that they probably wouldn’t even care that much if they knew. maybe they would ask if you were okay, maybe they would tell you to be more careful, and then life would move on. there was no point making a big deal out of something so small.
so you kept walking and ignored the pain.
on the plane, you were unfortunately forced to sit with keonho and seonghyeon.
“the kids sit together.” james announced before immediately abandoning the three of you and heading towards his own seats with martin and juhoon.
after a ridiculous amount of arguing, complaints, and threats, you successfully bullied keonho into giving up the window seat.
meanwhile, seonghyeon sat in the aisle seat looking annoyed. “can you both shut up?” he muttered while buckling his seatbelt.
eventually the plane took off, and the three of you settled down.
you rested your head against the window and stared outside.
the ocean stretched endlessly beneath the plane, bright blue under the sunlight. far below, you spotted a tiny boat drifting through the water completely alone.
you found yourself staring at it.
you wondered what life would be like if you were down there instead.
no schedules.
no cameras.
no screaming crowds.
just the ocean and silence. for a brief moment, that sounded a lot nicer than whatever your current life was.
your thoughts were interrupted when a sudden sharp pain shot through your side.
you immediately stiffened.
at some point during his sleep, keonho had shifted closer to you. his elbow was pressing directly into the spot where you had been hit earlier.
the pain was instant.
it felt like someone was digging their fingers directly into where you were hurt.
you tried to ignore it for several seconds because waking keonho up felt like more trouble than it was worth, but eventually the pain became unbearable.
without thinking, you shoved him away harshly, and keonho practically launched upright in his seat. “what?” he asked sleepily. “what’s wrong?”
“bathroom.”
that was all you said before standing up.
keonho immediately groaned. “you’re so annoying. this is why you should get the aisle seat and i get the window seat.”
“i’m not sitting in the middle.” seonghyeon muttered without even looking up from his phone.
you squeezed past them while both boys awkwardly shifted around to make room.
halfway down the aisle, you forgot they weren’t the only members on the plane.
your hand instinctively moved to your ribs. you winced and kept walking.
martin, juhoon, and james all looked up at exactly the wrong moment. their confused expressions followed you all the way to the bathroom.
once inside, you locked the door and immediately lifted your shirt. the sight made your stomach drop.
a large purple bruise was spreading across your side.
it looked worse than you expected. much worse. you stared at it for several seconds before quickly lowering your shirt again.
it was just a bruise.
bruises healed.
there was no reason to panic.
you took a deep breath and left the bathroom. while walking back, you immediately noticed three pairs of eyes watching you.
martin looked confused, juhoon looked concerned and james looked suspicious.
you frowned.
“i told them i’m fine. so annoying.” you muttered under your breath.
by the time you reached your row, your annoyance had shifted towards a completely different target.
keonho was sitting in your seat, sleeping.
the middle seat beside him was empty.
you stared at him for a moment, then immediately leaned over seonghyeon and smacked keonho’s arm.
he jumped awake with a startled yelp.
before he could process what was happening, you grabbed his shirt and physically dragged him towards the middle seat.
“no!” keonho shouted while desperately trying to pull himself back. “i paid for this seat!”
“get out of there right now.”
“no!”
“can you two stop acting like babies?” seonghyeon complained as both of you practically crushed him between your bodies.
a few moments later, a flight attendant appeared beside your row with the smile of someone who was trying very hard not to lose her patience. “excuse me, ma’am, but i’m gonna have to ask you to sit down.”
you hesitated for a moment, before slowly sitting down in the middle. keonho immediately settled into the window seat with the most obnoxious smug grin imaginable.
you were furious. a few minutes later, he attempted to rest his head on your shoulder.
you shoved him away instantly. “do not touch me.”
he rolled his eyes before leaning against the window instead. “wow. beautiful view.”
you clenched your jaw.
he glanced over. “something wrong?” he asked, smiling.
you seriously considered hitting him. judging by the way he immediately raised his arms in defense, he knew exactly what you were thinking.
before either of you could start fighting again, seonghyeon finally snapped. “just shut up, both of you. literally so annoying.”
you and keonho stared at him, then immediately started ganging up on him.
“why are you even talking right now?” you asked. “all you do is scroll on that damn phone. i haven’t seen you look up once this whole flight.”
“and no one was speaking to you.” keonho added helpfully.
before seonghyeon could respond, the woman sitting in front of you turned around.
“excuse me.” she said with a tight smile. “there are people on this plane trying to relax.”
all three of you stared at her, becoming even more annoyed.
“yeah. we’re sorry.” seonghyeon said immediately.
the woman nodded and turned back around.
the three of you sat in silence. you and keonho both sulked, each leaning away from the other as much as possible, while seonghyeon returned to his phone looking completely exhausted.
“hey, are you sure you’re okay?”
james asked the question while all six of you stood around the hotel reception desk waiting for your room keys.
you paused and looked at him, immediately recognizing that look on his face. it was the exact same look martin had given you at the airport and the exact same look juhoon had given you on the plane. somehow, all three of them had decided that you were secretly dying despite the fact that you had already told them multiple times that you were perfectly fine.
“i told you that i’m fine already.”
james immediately shook his head.
“no, i know something happened—”
before he could finish, a loud voice cut through the lobby.
“why am i in a room with y/n? can’t we just be with the same people as in the dorms? this is so unfair!”
everybody turned towards keonho.
“can i go with someone else?” seonghyeon complained from beside him. “i cannot keep dealing with keonho and y/n. all they do is argue, argue… oh and argue! they’re exhausting!”
you exhaled dramatically and immediately abandoned james. “i should be the one complaining!” you shouted while running over to them. “why should i have to be with these two? they’re loud, nasty, and annoying! they don’t understand boundaries!”
“you started a fight with me on the plane!”
“because you stole my seat!”
“it should’ve been my seat!”
“nobody cared!”
“guys, i am begging you…” seonghyeon groaned while rubbing his face.
within seconds, all three of you were arguing over each other in the middle of the hotel lobby while confused guests openly stared at the spectacle unfolding in front of them.
“martin, come on, i wanna go with james and juhoon!” you whined.
martin smiled at you with absolutely no sympathy. “sorryy. the kids gotta stick together.”
before you could protest, he walked away with the others.
you stared after them in disbelief.
a few minutes later, the three of you were standing alone near the elevators.
the silence that settled over the group felt strange after all the shouting.
“get my stuff.” you snatched the key card out of keonho’s hands before he could react.
“oh, come on!” he complained immediately. “you have too much stuff.”
you ignored him completely. the elevator doors opened and you stepped inside.
keonho continued complaining the entire way to the room.
once the door finally opened, you immediately claimed the bed beside the balcony before either of them could even take their shoes off.
“that’s mine.”
“too slow.”
“you got the window seat and the balcony bed?”
“no, keonho, i didn’t get the window seat because you stole it from me.”
“i paid for the window seat!”
“guys…”
eventually everyone unpacked, showered, and got ready for bed.
hours later, the room was dark and quiet. you lay on your side facing the balcony doors while soft moonlight spilled across the room.
outside, the city stretched endlessly beneath the night sky. tiny lights glowed in the distance while the moon hung high above everything, bright and peaceful.
you found yourself staring at it.
somehow, no matter where you were in the world, it always looked familiar. it didn’t matter if you were exhausted, stressed, angry, overwhelmed, or homesick. the moon never changed. every time you looked at it, it felt like seeing an old friend who had quietly followed you everywhere without ever asking for anything in return.
the constant schedules, the screaming crowds, the cameras, the pressure of being watched every second of every day all seemed smaller whenever you sat and looked at it long enough.
it never completely fixed anything, but it always helped.
even now, with your side still aching every time you moved and your head full of a hundred different thoughts, you could feel yourself slowly relaxing as you watched the silver light spread across the balcony floor.
for the first time all day, you felt calm.
then your bed suddenly creaked. slowly turning around, you immediately spotted the source of the problem.
seonghyeon was lying in your bed.
“oh, fuck off!” you immediately launched yourself at him. “get out!”
“no.”
“this is my bed!”
“not anymore.”
“yes it is!”
you started shoving him towards the edge, but seonghyeon simply wrapped an arm around your waist and held on like a parasite refusing to be removed.
“you’re so annoying.”
“i know.”
the commotion was loud enough to wake keonho. he sat up sleepily and blinked towards your bed.
for several seconds he simply watched the two of you wrestle. then, to your horror, he stood up.
“don’t you dare get any closer.” your warning accomplished absolutely nothing.
he climbed onto the bed and immediately flopped down on your other side.
you immediately started shouting at both of them. the problem was that neither seemed remotely interested in listening.
seonghyeon had already closed his eyes again, and keonho had stolen one of your pillows.
both of them looked entirely comfortable.
after several more minutes of arguing, shoving, and threatening violence, you finally realized neither of them was moving.
with a frustrated groan, you dropped back onto the mattress.
“why am i in the middle again?”
“shhhh.”
seonghyeon’s eyes remained closed.
you glared at him.
then you nudged keonho with your foot. he didn’t respond.
you leaned up slightly and discovered that both of them had already fallen asleep.
you stared at them in disbelief.
you genuinely hated them.
after another minute of contemplating whether murder would be worth the prison sentence, you finally rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling.
the moonlight still spilled through the balcony doors, casting a soft glow across the room. despite how annoyed you were, the steady breathing on either side of you and the quiet darkness surrounding the three of you made the room feel strangely peaceful.
you would never admit that out loud, though.
the next day was exhausting from the moment you woke up. between rehearsals, makeup, hair styling, interviews, outfit changes, and the actual performance itself, it felt like you barely had a second to sit down and think. normally you enjoyed busy schedules because they distracted you from everything else, but this time the constant movement only reminded you of the bruise on your side. every stretch, every turn, and every sharp movement sent a dull ache through your ribs, forcing you to grit your teeth and pretend nothing was wrong whenever somebody looked your way.
fortunately, nobody seemed to notice. the members were too busy preparing for the performance, running through choreography one final time and teasing each other backstage while the staff rushed around trying to keep everything on schedule. whenever the pain flared up, you simply ignored it and focused on something else. after all, you had already gone this long without telling anyone. there was no point bringing it up now when the performance was only minutes away.
when it was finally time to go on stage, your nerves disappeared almost immediately. the second the music started and the crowd began screaming, your body automatically slipped into performance mode. suddenly your focus was on the choreography, the audience, and making sure you stayed synchronized with the others. for a little while, you almost forgot about the bruise entirely, too distracted by the adrenaline rushing through your system to think about anything else.
everything was going perfectly until the middle of one of the songs. during a particularly energetic part of the choreography, you threw your arms above your head while turning, and your shirt lifted slightly from the movement. it happened so quickly that you didn’t even notice. james did, however, because he happened to glance in your direction at exactly the wrong moment. for a split second, his eyes landed on the dark bruise stretching across your side, and the expression on his face changed instantly.
throughout the rest of the performance, james kept looking at you whenever he thought you weren’t paying attention. at first you couldn’t figure out why, but the increasingly worried look on his face made you uneasy. every time your eyes met, he would immediately glance away before looking back again a few moments later, as if he was trying to convince himself that he hadn’t actually seen what he thought he had seen.
the second the performance ended and all six of you returned backstage, james immediately walked over to you. he barely waited for the dressing room door to close before pointing at a chair and telling you to sit down. the seriousness in his voice caught you off guard, and judging by the way everyone else stopped what they were doing to look over, it caught them off guard too. when you asked what his problem was, he simply repeated himself and told you to sit.
you refused immediately. unfortunately, that only seemed to make him more suspicious. before long, martin had joined him, followed by juhoon, then seonghyeon, then keonho. somehow, within less than a minute, all five of them had decided that whatever james was worried about was now their business too. the fact that nobody would explain what was happening only made you more irritated, and after several minutes of arguing, you found yourself sitting in the chair anyway because apparently five people were stronger than one.
“lift your shirt.”
the request made you freeze.
for a moment, the entire room fell silent as you stared at james in disbelief. when he repeated himself, you immediately refused, but the determined look on his face didn’t change. finally, after an increasingly uncomfortable pause, he revealed that he had seen the bruise during the performance. the second those words left his mouth, every member in the room turned to look at you.
you knew you had lost.
with a dramatic groan, you reluctantly lifted the edge of your shirt.
the reactions were immediate.
the room exploded with shocked voices almost instantly, and several members physically stepped closer to get a better look. nobody seemed prepared for how bad it looked. overnight, the bruise had spread even further across your side, creating an ugly mixture of dark purple and blue that was impossible to ignore. for several seconds, everyone simply stared at it while trying to process what they were seeing.
“what happened?”
martin was the first one to speak, but the others immediately started asking questions as well. when did it happen? how did it happen? why did nobody know about it? eventually you explained everything, starting with the airport and ending with the fan accidentally elbowing you while fighting against security. the more details you gave, the more horrified everyone looked, especially when you admitted that you couldn’t breathe properly afterward.
the room became strangely quiet once you finished explaining.
for a few moments, nobody said anything at all.
then keonho finally looked at you and frowned. “why didn’t you tell us?” he asked, and for once there wasn’t even a hint of teasing in his voice. the question made everyone look at you again, all waiting for an answer.
you hesitated before shrugging your shoulders. honestly, the answer seemed obvious to you. it was just a bruise. yes, it hurt, but bruises happened all the time. compared to everything else idols dealt with, it didn’t seem important enough to make a big fuss over. more than anything, you simply hadn’t wanted them worrying about something so small when they already had enough things to think about.
when you finally admitted that, the members looked even more confused.
martin crouched down slightly so he could look you in the eyes, while james crossed his arms and shook his head in disbelief. they immediately started explaining that the issue wasn’t how serious the injury was. the issue was that something had happened to you and you had chosen to deal with it alone. according to them, it didn’t matter whether it was a bruise, a cold, or something much worse. if you were hurt, they wanted to know.
you tried arguing that it really wasn’t that deep, but nobody accepted that explanation. juhoon pointed out that you had been visibly uncomfortable since the airport. james reminded you that you had literally struggled to breathe afterward. seonghyeon quietly mentioned that he had noticed you wincing every time you moved on the plane. even keonho admitted that you had been acting weird ever since the airport incident, although he immediately ruined the sincerity by saying that your normal behavior was already weird enough.
despite the teasing, there was something surprisingly comforting about the conversation. nobody was angry at you. nobody was annoyed. if anything, they seemed upset that you had felt like you couldn’t tell them. as they continued talking over each other, insisting that you should have said something sooner, you slowly realized that all the assumptions you had made over the last day had been completely wrong.
you had convinced yourself that they wouldn’t care because it wasn’t serious enough. instead, they were treating the bruise like it was the most important thing in the room. you had convinced yourself that telling them would only make them worry unnecessarily, but judging by the expressions on their faces, finding out days later had worried them far more. for the first time since the airport, you felt some of the guilt and anxiety start to disappear.
eventually martin reached over and gently flicked your forehead, earning an offended noise from you and several laughs from the others. he told you that next time you were injured, sick, upset, or dealing with literally anything, you were supposed to tell them immediately instead of trying to handle it by yourself. one by one, the others agreed, and although they all phrased it differently, the message remained the same.
you weren’t alone.
and despite how annoying they were, despite all the arguments, complaints, and constant chaos they brought into your life, hearing that made the ache in your chest disappear far more effectively than any medicine ever could.
sypnosis in your eyes, Martin Edwards was your best friend, you did everything together, from sharing secrets between each other to hanging out everyday. Although you didn't have a lot of friends, you thought one friend like Martin was enough—completely unaware that he is the one pulling the strings to keep you all to himself.
warnings angst no comfort, not proofread, fem reader, toxic and manipulative Martin, Martin is deeply obsessed with reader, bullying, swearing, rushed ending, fighting, wc: 4k+
notes was listening to shoujo rei when i thought of this. hope 🪽anon is proud of this! idk i think rush it too much cause i was losing motivation
── divider by @/cursed-carmine
the school bell rang eruptly across the courtyard, and almost instantly, the hallways erupted into motion.
you hurriedly grabbed your items from the locker─ well just some dusty old textbooks that has been pass down from seniors over the years, your small but minmalist pencil case and your water bottle.
you tried your best to balance everything, praying it wont fell onto the floor while still trying to get to class before the teacher comes.
that would be especially embarassing, no?
just then, someone walked besides you. not someone but your friend, Martin. He always somehow matches your pace despite having some reallyyy long legs, completely the opposite of you.
"did you even finish the homework?" Martin asked, adjusting the strap of his bag.
you shot him a look.
"bold of you to assume I remembered we had homework."
a small grin appeared on his face.
"that's what I thought"
"she wouldn't checks it anyways" , you said, dodging a group of freshmen who were sprinting like their lives depended on it.
"pff─ dude, that's exactly what she wants us to think." Martin bumped your shoulder lightly.
"whatever"
the crowd began to thin as students disappeared into classrooms, their voices faded behind the closing doors. fortunately, you both made it on time.
Martin gasp for the air dramatically, placing a hand over his chest as if he had survived a great journey, how he did even become your friend?
He held the door open with an exaggerated bow, signaling you to go in first.
"after you m'lady"
rolling your eyes, you stepped inside.
the classroom was already filled with students, mostly are still chatting with their peers, while some are sleeping. A few of them glances at you for a second judgingly before continuing chatting like they payed no mind to your existense.
you never understand why.
still, you ignored them and walked over to your seat. Martin always saved you a seat besides him, you propped your bag next to your chair, waiting for the teacher patiently.
"hey" Martin whispered, leaning over "xxx gave me her book to copy, wanna copy with me?"
"mhm, sure" is all you said, trying to put the book in the middle to make it easier to copy.
but unfortunately, the book was quickly snatched by its rightful owner.
"did I gave you permission to copy my book?" she hissed loudly at you, "I only allowed Martin to copy, not you"
okay rude? but she was right, she didn't gave you her book afterall.
"hey hey, relax" he said, raising both hands. "She wasn't trying to steal your work or anything."
The girl folded her arms tightly across her chest. "That's not the point. she should've asked first" the looks she's giving you was so fierce that you didn't dare to look at her at all.
"I know" Martin replied gently "and she's probably sorry for that. right?"
All eyes turned to you suddenly.
why did you feel like Martin was making the situation worse?
You shifted awkwardly in your seat, face flushed. "...I'm so sorry. I just saw everyone copying and thought it was okay"
The girl's expression softened ever so slightly, though she still looked annoyed. "Well next time, ask" she muttered.
Just then, the teacher walked in, silencing whatever noises inside the classroom.
all that effort just to go to waste i guess
You quietly sat near the stairs after school, waiting for Martin. The stairwell light flickered overhead, casting uneven shadows across the school hall. Ever since last year, Martin has constantly begged you to wait for him after school, even when he have club activities, he would come out earlier than usual just to walk you home.
and you do, you waited quietly at the stairs, even when the hall becomes empty, you calmly waited for his arrival.
"Did you see what happened this morning?"
Your thoughts was interupted suddenly, is someone spilling teas?
You quietly slide to the corner and peeked through the sides─ a group of girls stood a few metres away, completely unaware that you could hear every word.
"the notebook thing?" one of them asked.
"yeah and omg, that was embarrassing"
You swallowed hard, is this about you?
"does she have any manners at all?" one of them snickered.
"bet she doesn't even know proper etiquette"
"she always seems so desperate"
"Right? like she barely talks to anyone"
The words landed heavier than they probably intended. You hold your fist tightly against your palm, you should've run away by now, instead of listening but you stayed still, body frozen in place.
"I don't get why Martin hangs around her so much"
Martin.
"He's way too nice for his own good"
You looked down at your shoes. Your view suddenly turned blurry, and just like that , a few droplets has fallen on the floor. You didn't remembered the rest of the convo after that, too busy wiping your tears away.
They were right though. Martin was so effortlessly popular around school. Wherever he went, people seemed to gather around him. Friends often called out his name from across hallways. Even the younger students admired him. The attention was well deserved, he was kind and gentle─ almost like an angel. Someone like you could never be on par with him.
You tried peeking again, and they were gone. but their words remained rock hard in your chest, you replayed every sentence in your head, again and again. Why he even became your friend in the first place?
You sat there, deep in thought, completely oblivious to your surroundings as your mind drifted away. It was only when you heard footsteps that you were finally snapped back in to reality. Out of instinct, you instantly tried to composed yourself, forcing your expression back to normal just in time to greet Martin.
"hey!" he called out to you, face covered in sweats. "sorry took a bit too long..." he suddenly stops when he saw your face, something in his expression has changed.
"hey...what happended?" his eyes was full of worry, "your eyes...they're red and puffy"
You immediately looked away. "its nothing."
'He's way too nice for his own good'
Those words still lingers around your head as you spoke.
You could felt his stare even without looking at him, and for some reason you were scared, you never felt his gaze that heavy─especially towards you. You didn't dare to look back, afraid of what kind of reaction he has on his face.It was only until he sighed softly that you could finally loosen your shoulders.
"I'm here if you need me okay?" he whispered, holding your hands warmly against his own, gently stroking the back of your hand, like it could somehow make all the bad things dissapear.
"thanks..." you only replied.
you wished this day has never existed at all.
. ݁ ₊ ⊹. ౨ৎ . ݁ ₊ ⊹
The annual school festival is just around the corner.
Students are busy decorating their own classroom, colorful banners hung around the school corridor. Many prefects were rushing around carrying boxes, decorations and who knows what, while the poor teachers tried their best to maintain the order. Despite the chaos around the school, you sat quietly behind the school hall, settling onto the concrete stairs.
Well not because you didn't wanted to help, it's just that...nobody wanted you to help them, let alone interacting with them. You started to get used to the harsh treatment, although if Martin was here, he would surely lend you his ear to rant, always making sure that your not alone in this.
Ever since the incident that day, you always wondered, will he ever get tired of you? He's basically your only friend, the only one who's willing to sit with you during lunchbreak, walk you back home from school as well as saving you a seat everytime in class.
Of course your glad about having a friend like him, no one has ever made that much of an effort to be friends with you─ one friend like Martin is enough honestly.
You quicky tried to push away the negative thoughts circling around you as you heard footsteps approaching.
"oh! look what we have here"
You quickly looked up from that voice.
"What are you doing back here all by yourself?" one of the girl snickers, "Don't tell me you didn't wanted to help out so you ran here to rest"
"It's not like th─" before you respond, one of them splash cold water all over your head, the chilling sensation made you jolt.
"teacher told us to threw away the dirty water" all of them laugh simultaneously, "thank you for helping this atleast~"
You lowered your head, hand clenching in your lap, silently waiting for this torture to end. A sudden kick from one of the girls made you groan and look up. It was the same girl who had lent her book to Martin.
"I want to ask you a question" she said coldly,
"Why did you target Martin?"
huh?
"You thought we wouldn't know? How you constantly threaten him to be your lapdog?"
"I never did─" a sharp force slammed into your stomach, knocking the air from your lungs. For a moment, everything seemed to stop. Pain spread through your abdomen, it hurts, it hurts so bad.
"Shut up! Still trying to act like the victim?" she continued, "the messages you sent, the audio files, they were all leaked throughout the school"
She pulled out her phone to show you, but you could only stared at it like a stranger. In what world, that you would do any of this? The picture was so real, your username, your profile, the account looked identical to yours. The amount of hatred and malice of those messages was sent to Martin? By you?
You were shocked. Who sent this?
"Poor Martin, he always come to us whenever you coerce him" one of the girls behind her said dramatically.
"He even sent these messages to us just incase you tried to do something insane"
...
What?
The one who's been doing this was… Martin.... all along?
You couldn't believed it, this couldn't be right. A cold feeling settled over you. You tried to prove yourself wrong, the kind-hearted Martin, the one who always comfort you whenever another bad day appear, the one who sat by your side to hear you rant for the nth time, the one who told you that he will be there for you everytime, the person you trusted the most. Martin.
The evidence sat in front of you, destroying every hope you still had for him. Your vision blurred. The girl looked at you confused, why are you the one crying? Like you were the victim instead?
Before they could continue questioning, you quickly got up despite the pain, and ran away before they could catch up to you. Your vision blurred as you ran farther and farther, their voices faded into the background.
You need to get away from this place, from them, from Martin, asap.
Someone grabbed your hand hard before you knew it.
Did the girls catched up? You thought. You turned around to see and your heart nearly stopped then.
It was Martin.
He looked like he's about to break, quite the irony.
you tried to break free from his grasp, but it was useless, his grip was far too strong. You tried to speak, but one look at his expression froze the words in your throat.
"who did this to you?" the tone in his voice was far too cold from the Martin you knew, " I swear if I find out who did th─"
"Nobody did this, I was just careless" you quickly made excuses to shut him up, afraid of what he's gonna do when he found the culprit. The look in his eyes was so different, so distant, so chilling. The joyful, warm Martin you knew was gone; the stranger standing before you now was his chilling opposite.
It was like he read your mind, he quickly covered his previous expression with the same old one you loved, "sorry, I went overboard didn't I?"
his voice was suddenly so soft, like he was trying to make you forget about that version of him just now.
He took his blazer off and quickly draped it over you, the fabric was still warm from his body. You froze for a second, fingers curling around the sleeves automatically. Slowly, he guided you towards a bench, the cold wood biting through your soaked clothes.
If you didn't know about it, you would have started to bawl your eyes out, letting Martin comfort you as you rant about the incident just now. But instead, you just sat there, eyes glued towards the concrete path, like he was complete stranger to you.
Martin was confused as why your acting like this. Still, he sat beside you quietly. As if he was waiting for you to tell him about what happend just now.
You knew, you knew him too well. He would stay here until you were feeling better, maybe even treating you to your favourite desserts later. Anything to make you feel better really.
What a psycho bastard he is.
His fingers wrapped around yours suddenly, carresing your knuckles gently. you payed no mind to it, despite everything, you still wished that side of him was just a rumour, a false news.
You closed your eyes, this might be the last time you ever wanted anything to do with him.
. ݁ ₊ ⊹. ౨ৎ . ݁ ₊ ⊹
The class bell rang as usual.
Students flooded to left the classroom, some were still chatting about activities to do afterschool. You however, sat at your place, packing your bags slowly.
Eversince that day, you still talk to Martin like nothing has ever happened at all. Harsh insults were still thrown at you every now and then, you already grown numb towards it.
Afterall, you don't need to worry about that anymore.
The transfer papers were already signed.
and by tomorrow, you wouldn't even be a student here anymore.
No one knew. Not even Martin.
Slowly, you waited until the coast is clear and made your way towards your locker. Few obvious insults were written in markers on the locker wall. The inside was no different, letters and notes that were slide in by the small gap of the locker door.
The notes were anything but positive and warm. You already knew the contents by heart, but still, you choose to keep it in your bag. The remaining books were taken by you quickly─ you gotta hand over the books to the office before Martin comes.
To your dismay, as you shut the locker door, you could felt his presence behind you.
"hey…why are you taking out your books?" that same familiar voice you knew
"I’m cleaning my locker" you replied coldly as you walk towards the office
Martin didn’t buy it.
He followed right behind you, "and handling your books to the office? Quit lying" this time his tone wasn’t as gentle as before.
you ignored that sentence and kept walking, it was like he sense something was off, he grabbed you by your shoulder, not harsh but enough to make you stop.
"Is it because of those girls? I’ll tell them to quit teasing you─"
"quit teasing?" you laughed out, in what world that the girls was only teasing you?
"You shouldn’t take it to heart"
The moment those words left his mouth, something inside you snapped. For a second, you simply stared at him, you couldn't believe he had actually said that. After all the nights you spent wondering what was wrong with you, after everything.
Don't fucking take it to heart?
Your grip tightened around the books in your arms. Martin frowned like he knew he said something wrong.
"I didn't mean─"
The books slipped from your hands just then. You didn't even notice it.
The slap echoed through the hallway.
It felt like the sound was unnaturally loud, you were lucky no one was at the hallway right now, though that was the last thing your concerned about.
Martin's head turned slightly from the force of it.
Your heart was pounding too hard, eyes seeping with anger as you look at him.
"You don't get to say that"
A red mark was already forming on his cheek. He stood frozen in front of you.
"You were the one who did this to me afterall" your voice trembled as you said that, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.
that sentence hits him cold in the stomach, his eyes suddenly went wide as he try to mutter something out. The guilt on his face was almost unbearable to look at.
You turned away, bending down to gather the books scattered across the floor, you didn't want to hear his voice nor see his face anymore. You got up and left, hoping this may be the last time you'll see him again.
"Its...not my fault" he suddenly spoke up.
Your blood boils harder the second you heard that.
"what?" you turned around to face him.
"think about it...." his hand slowly rose up to his reddened cheek. "You’ve always been so distant from the class. You make people uncomfortable before you even knew it. If you hadn't isolated yourself and acted so weird around others, they wouldn't have targeted you."
Your breath hitches, those word felt like a hammer into your chest. Why is he suddenly blaming you?
"in short, you practically invited them to do this"
this....psychopath?
You said nothing. You never knew this side of Martin before, the Martin you knew, kind and gentle, student's favourite, the school most gentle boy, now standing infront of you was gone. The kind warm facade had already worn off.
You told him too much about yourself that he's basically weaponizing your own vulnerability right now.
"But don't worry" he cooed, "you only need me, okay? I'll protect you"
"Your insane" you said, voice cracking.
The space between you shrank with every step he took forward. Out of instinct, your feet shuffled backwards─ desperate to maintain a safe distance. Your fingers dug into the covers of your books, clutching them against your chest tightly. You were scared.
You were genuinely scared.
It was like he read your eyes and almost immediately stop his pace.Your gaze locked onto his, your heart hammering against your ribs. Regret pooled in your stomach almost instantly. You should have taken the chance and run out of this place right now.
"Please."
Your thoughts were interupted suddenly by his tone. Whole body tensing up as your steps falter, his voice sounded so soft, yet so fragile─completely different from the tone just now. The sudden warmth of his proximity feels more threatening than comforting right now.
"I just...wanted you to look at me" his voice was barely above a whisper.
"and me only"
It was like a spell that has been broken when he said that.
For so long, everything about Martin had felt unquestionable. You always felt weird how he was the only one who wanted to be your friend despite all the rumours. His kindness and patience, the way he always seemed to appear whenever you needed someone, like he knew (cause he did knew). Every concidence, every moment he had stepped in to 'save' you, was just for you to cling onto him even more.
The real him standing infront of you finally make sense.
You should have realise it from the start. From the year he met you, when he approached you at your desk, you should have known.
You should have avoided him from the start.
Martin was still looking at you.
You met his eyes one final time, unexpectedly, you smiled.
"Martin" the name slipping from your lips so soft and gentle, almost affectionate.
His eyes slightly widen from the tone of your voice, almost like he never expected that. His eyes glimmer with a spark of hope like you had succesfully fallen into his trap─ that somehow, despite everything, he could still pull you back.
"fuck off will you?"
His whole body froze. The color slowly drained from his face, whatever hope had been building inside him shattered instantly. You almost laughed at that. Before he could even mutter a word out, you had already ran off. Leaving him hopelessly alone in the hallway.
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Days passed.
It was like the incident that day didn't exist for Martin at all.
Hanging out with his friends, joining activities. Girls constantly swayed by his side whenever he needed help, some were even worried about the freshly new bandage at the side of his face, offering him help whenever he needed.
From the outside, he looked perfectly fine. Almost like he didn't begged you to stay days ago.
He wasn't really.
You haven't been to school for the past 3 days. No calls, no messages, it was like you completely went MIA after that day. You weren't answering messages, you weren't reading them either. Maybe your sick or maybe your just trying to scare him, make him regret for what he did. But one thing stays for sure─ the silence these days was unbearable to Martin.
The friends around him isn't making it better too.
Your classmates often ask whether he and you was still friends, he could only laughed softly at that. Making cruel comments towards you whenever they have the chance, as well as spreading fake rumours on how you pretend to get sick to seek attention. Vile, really.
He was walking to class that day when he realise something.
Your desk. You had always sat beside him. The space nowadays is occupied with other students due to your absence, but they were never permanent. However, something felt off today. The desk you used was nowhere seen, instead it was replace another one, with a new student siting on it.
He was confused. Did they thought that seat was free?
"hey, this desk is already occupied" he said softly
"oh really? the teacher said this seat was free"
huh? Martin was stunned, since when?
Just when he was about to question further, another girl interupted.
"Ughh finally, I was waiting for that bitch to transfer out of this school"
For a second, Martin forgot how to breathe.
"what?"
"you didn't heard it yet, hyung? she finally transfer to another school" she replied.
Transferred.
The realisation hits harder than he expected.
That's why you were cleaning your locker. How did he not notice that?
"do you know where she went?"
"huh?"
"what school"
"heard she's going to Busan"
Busan. He fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it in the process. The previous days has no record of any train going to Busan, all except today. You were leaving today.
Today.
He still had a chance.
"Ah shit, I forgot to bring yesterday's homework!" Martin pretended to realise, "45 minutes before class start, ill go grab it real quick"
"Hey Mart─ " the girl voice quickly faded into the background as he sprinted off. The thought struck him like lightning.
He sprinted like his life depended on it. and honestly, it is.
His heart were beating hard when he reached the station. Eyes scaning the signs frantically, desperately searching for your platform.
Shit, your train is leaving in 15 minutes.
The station felt impossibly crowded as he pushed through the crowds. His chest burned as he wandered around the station, perhaps maybe he could see you among the dozens of people. He was able to find your platform on time, the train your on was bigger than the rest, he frantically ran from one coach number to another. Just to search for your presence.
Nothing matters to him right now.
Nothing except you.
Gasping for air, he was losing hope. Until,
he finally saw you.
Suitcase in hand, you were about to step on the train. All words suddenly died in his throat, the sight nearly brought him to a stop. It was like you sense something, you abruptly stopped and turned around towards his direction, like you sense him.
You were right, he was there. Martin was there.
You could only smile at him. It wasn't affectionate or anything, perhaps it was out of sympathy, you weren't sure either.
The train doors were about to close.
You stepped in without hesitation.
There was nothing he could do, he should've known by now.
The doors slid shut between you.
Still, his eyes reached out to seek yours. Perhaps maybe, you'll still believe in him. Perhaps that, you'll even stop the train to get off for him. Maybe just maybe.
SYPNOSIS : in which…you get your first ever dating rumours and you dont react the way your members expected you to.
CORTIS 6TH MEMBER AU
SMAU X WRITTEN
Featuring Woojin of LNGSHOT
based off this ask!!
series mlist
you had completely fucked it up.
the original plan had been to ignore the rumors and let people get bored on their own. fans had been going insane over the possibility of you and woojin, finding “proof” in absolutely everything and turning every interaction into a conspiracy theory. it was entertaining at first, mostly because it was nice getting shipped with someone who wasn’t one of your members for once, but you definitely weren’t planning on adding fuel to the fire. eventually everyone would move on and find something else to obsess over.
unfortunately, that plan lasted right up until you accidentally logged into the wrong account.
you had been laying on your bed scrolling through your phone when longshots uploaded a new post. without really thinking about it, you left a quick comment underneath.
it wasn’t until after you hit send that your stomach dropped.
slowly, your eyes moved to the username.
cortis.
not your private account.
the official cortis account.
for a moment you just stared at the screen, hoping that maybe you were hallucinating. unfortunately, reality had other plans. before you could even process what you’d done, another notification appeared.
woojin had replied.
you immediately sat upright. “oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
the reply had only been up for seconds and somehow people were already finding it. likes were piling up. reposts were piling up. the quote tweets were multiplying at a horrifying speed. you didn’t even want to look at them because you already knew exactly what they were saying.
you dropped your phone onto the bed and buried your face in your hands. “i’m finished.”
less than two minutes later, your bedroom door flew open so hard that it slammed against the wall.
for about three seconds, keonho and seonghyeon stared at you.
then keonho launched himself across the room.
you barely had time to react before he grabbed your pillow and started repeatedly smacking you with it. every hit was accompanied by a new complaint about your complete lack of survival instincts and media training while you curled up on the bed laughing so hard that your stomach hurt.
“okay, wait, stop hitting me so i can explain.” you managed to get out between laughs.
surprisingly, that worked.
keonho lowered the pillow and both he and seonghyeon stared at you expectantly. the room went quiet as they waited for your explanation. you looked at keonho, then at seonghyeon, then back at keonho.
for a second it genuinely looked like you were about to say something. instead, you shoved both of them as hard as you could.
neither of them had been expecting it. the two immediately fell off the bed and crashed onto the floor with matching yelps while you practically threw yourself off the mattress and sprinted toward the door.
“hey!”
you were already gone.
laughter echoed through the dorm as you ran down the hallway at full speed. behind you, you could hear the sounds of two idiots scrambling back to their feet while loudly demanding that you get back there immediately.
“absolutely not!” you shouted over your shoulder, nearly slipping while turning the corner.
the chase continued through the apartment. you dodged around furniture, nearly crashed into a wall, and somehow made it all the way to the front door before either of them managed to catch you. the second you reached it, you threw it open and bolted outside.
unfortunately, keonho and seonghyeon followed.
the three of you tore down the street like complete lunatics, laughing the entire time. somewhere along the way, all common sense disappeared. nobody stopped to think about the fact that you were idols. nobody thought about cameras. nobody thought about fans.
the only thing on your mind was getting away.
you glanced behind you and immediately regretted it because keonho was somehow gaining on you. “why are you so fast?” you yelled.
“because i wanna kill you right now!”
seonghyeon, meanwhile, was laughing so hard that he could barely keep up with either of you. every few seconds he doubled over trying to catch his breath before forcing himself to keep running.
people were definitely staring now.
a few pedestrians had already pulled out their phones. one person actually pointed at the three of you before excitedly showing their friend. if any of you had been paying attention, you probably would’ve stopped immediately.
instead, you just kept running. your lungs were starting to burn by now, but there was no way you were letting either of them catch you after starting this. besides, the second you slowed down, keonho was absolutely going to continue his lecture about social media responsibility.
mysterious stranger in my phone -how to pull an idol (a series)
idol!martin x reader
⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖When you let a random stranger rant for a whole ten minutes, you not only gain a new favorite band but also a devestating crush. ݁‧₊˚⋆ִֶָ
previous warnings: cussing, martin being a dumbass
twinski nr.1 BEEN right and you they are just not listening what the heck man
SYPNOSIS : in which…the guys thought it would be funny to play a little prank on you, not knowing you hadn’t completely healed from the way they used to treat you before debuting.
SIXTH MEMBER SERIES
a/n: two updates in one day omg…ALSO I LOVE THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH AIAOSOSO I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT AS MUCH AS ME…
01 | 02
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the past few days had been hell for everyone. avoiding the others wasn’t exactly difficult since you were barely home anymore. whenever practice ended, you usually disappeared with allday project and stayed out until ridiculous hours of the night. if you did return to the dorm, it was usually long after everyone had gone to sleep. you would quietly let yourself in, grab a blanket from the couch, and sleep there until morning before leaving again. the guys had tried everything to catch you long enough for a conversation, but every attempt somehow failed.
even during practice there wasn’t an opportunity. lately, you had been training like your life depended on it. the second practice started, you completely locked in. every break was spent stretching, rehearsing, or running through choreography again. if anyone tried approaching you, you always found an excuse to leave. after a few days, everyone finally realized you weren’t just busy. you were avoiding them.
nobody was taking it well. keonho had probably sent enough texts to fill an entire novel by now, and martin had already tried cornering you twice after practice. even seonghyeon had sent an apology message, which shocked everyone considering he hated talking about his feelings. none of it worked. every time you thought about that stupid prank, your stomach twisted all over again. what hurt wasn’t even the prank itself. it was the fact that they all knew exactly why it affected you so badly.
especially james.
out of everyone, james was the one you couldn’t stop thinking about.
that was how you ended up sitting on the beach late one night. the ocean stretched endlessly in front of you while the moon reflected across the water in a long silver line. the waves rolled onto the shore in a steady rhythm, and for once your thoughts felt a little quieter. you had been sitting there for nearly half an hour when you heard footsteps approaching from behind.
normally, you would’ve ignored it, but something about the pace felt familiar. a second later, someone lowered themselves into the sand beside you. you didn’t even bother looking. you already knew who it was.
james.
for several minutes, neither of you said anything. he sat beside you with his hands resting on his knees while staring out at the water. surprisingly, the silence wasn’t awkward. it never really had been between the two of you. eventually, you let out a slow breath and broke it yourself.
“out of all people, i thought you’d be the last one to do something like that.”
beside you, james lowered his gaze and nodded once. he didn’t interrupt, didn’t defend himself, and didn’t try making excuses. he simply waited. he knew you weren’t finished.
you laughed quietly to yourself, not because anything was funny, but because you genuinely didn’t know what else to do. “i mean, seriously. i understand keonho or sean. they’re idiots. i love them, but they’re idiots. half the time they don’t even realize they’re doing too much until somebody yells at them.”
that earned the smallest smile from james before it disappeared again.
“but you?” you finally turned your head toward him. “you’re supposed to be my older brother.”
james visibly winced.
“you were the first person in this group who actually saw me as me. before everyone got close to me. before all of that. it was you.” your eyes drifted back toward the ocean. “you saw how badly all that trainee stuff affected me. you saw everything.”
the words came easier now that you had started.
“that’s why i thought you’d stop them. or at least tell them it wasn’t going to be funny. you were there when i cried about that stuff. you were there when i thought nobody wanted me around. you were there when i felt like i didn’t belong here.” you swallowed hard. “so when all of that happened again, even for one day, i honestly felt like we were right back at the beginning.”
for a moment, neither of you spoke. the only sound was the ocean.
when james finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual.
“i know.”
you didn’t say anything.
james dragged a hand through his hair and sighed. “and honestly, that’s exactly why i’ve felt like shit this entire week.” he stared down at the sand while speaking. “i’m not gonna sit here and make excuses because there really aren’t any. we thought it’d be a stupid prank. that’s the truth. we thought you’d get annoyed, we’d tell you it was a joke, everybody would laugh, and we’d move on.”
he shook his head.
“but we didn’t stop to think about what it’d actually feel like for you. especially me.”
you glanced over at him.
“i should’ve known better than anyone,” he continued. “i remember those trainee days. i remember finding you crying after practice. i remember how long it took before you finally got comfortable around everyone. the second you came home excited about seeing allday project, i already knew this was probably a bad idea. i should’ve stopped it right there.”
the guilt on his face was obvious.
“and i’m sorry.”
the apology sat between you for a few moments. you didn’t know what to say to it. part of you was still angry. part of you was still hurt. but another part of you could tell he genuinely meant every word.
james looked back out at the water and laughed quietly to himself. “also, whether you like it or not, you’re basically our little sister.”
you immediately rolled your eyes.
“there it is.”
“what?”
“the sibling speech.”
james grinned.
“it’s an important speech.”
“it’s a terrible speech.”
“still important.”
despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched slightly.
james immediately pointed at you.
“that was almost a smile.”
“shut up.”
“it was.”
“james.”
“i saw it.”
you groaned and buried your face in your hands while he laughed quietly beside you. for the first time all week, the tension between you didn’t feel quite as suffocating.
after that, neither of you said much. surprisingly, it wasn’t awkward. if anything, it reminded you of your predebut days. back when you and james weren’t particularly close yet, but somehow always ended up sitting together after practice. neither of you had known how to start conversations properly back then, so you mostly sat in comfortable silence until somebody finally thought of something worth saying.
eventually, james pushed himself to his feet and brushed the sand off his clothes. then he held out a hand toward you.
you stared at it for a second.
then sighed dramatically.
“you’re annoying.”
“coming from you, that’s basically a compliment.”
rolling your eyes, you grabbed his hand and let him pull you up.
the walk back to the dorm was almost completely silent. strangely enough, it felt familiar. not because everything was fixed, because it definitely wasn’t. there were still conversations waiting for you back at the dorm and apologies you hadn’t heard yet. but for the first time in days, the distance between you and james didn’t feel quite so impossible anymore.
and for now, that was enough.
the next morning, you woke up before everyone else like you had been doing for the past week. for a moment, you simply stared at the ceiling. your usual routine would be to quietly leave before anybody woke up, spend the entire day avoiding the dorm, and come back sometime after midnight. honestly, you were already halfway through convincing yourself to do exactly that.
instead, you sat up with a sigh and climbed out of bed.
the apartment was completely silent as you made your way into the living room. pale morning sunlight was peeking through the gaps in the curtains. after a moment of hesitation, you walked over and opened the blinds. sunlight immediately flooded the room, making you squint.
you stood there awkwardly for a second, then shook your head. if you were already here, you might as well do something useful.
the kitchen was exactly as disastrous as you expected. judging by the state of a frying pan sitting in the sink, somebody had attempted cooking recently and failed miserably. you didn’t even want to know who.
with a sigh, you rolled up your sleeves and got started.
despite everything that had happened, you still knew exactly how everyone liked their breakfast. james liked his eggs plain. martin liked extra cheese. juhoon hated having too much pepper. keonho somehow managed to complain about every breakfast food imaginable except bacon. seonghyeon preferred his eggs cooked longer than everyone else.
it was annoyingly easy to remember.
by the time you were done, six different plates sat neatly on the countertop. beside them were six different drinks. water for james. orange juice for martin. cherry juice for juhoon. cold milk for keonho. warm milk for seonghyeon.
you had no idea why you remembered all of that.
afterward, you grabbed your own bowl of cereal and sat at the table. you had never liked eggs much anyway. the apartment remained quiet for a while before you finally heard movement coming from one of the bedrooms.
a few seconds later, james shuffled into the living room.
his hair was sticking up in every direction imaginable and his face was still puffy from sleep. he looked half conscious at best. the moment his eyes landed on you, though, you watched something visibly relax in his expression.
like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
james simply grabbed his plate and drink before sitting down beside you. the two of you ate quietly. it wasn’t awkward. if anything, it felt surprisingly normal.
that peace lasted all of five minutes.
the next person to wake up was juhoon. he walked into the living room while rubbing his eyes, clearly still half asleep, when he noticed you sitting there.
he froze.
without saying a single word, he turned around and walked straight back to the bedroom.
“…okay.” you frowned.
james immediately started laughing into his water.
a minute later, juhoon returned, this time holding a folded piece of paper. he walked directly over to you and awkwardly shoved it into your hands before taking several steps backward.
you stared at him. slowly, you started unfolding the paper.
“no, wait.”
you paused.
juhoon looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “don’t read it now.”
you looked up. “why?”
“because it’s embarrassing.”
you immediately became interested. “how embarrassing?”
“very.”
“juhoon.”
“please.”
you grinned. “if this is too corny, i’m literally never letting you live it down.”
juhoon closed his eyes and sighed like a man accepting his fate. without another word, he grabbed his breakfast and sat down as far away from you as physically possible.
you laughed quietly and slipped the paper into your pocket. whatever was written on it could wait until practice.
a few minutes later, the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by yelling.
“i’m telling you that’s not how microwaves work.”
“then explain why it started smoking.”
“because you’re stupid.”
“that’s not an explanation.”
the remaining three idiots.
their argument continued all the way down the hallway before they entered the kitchen together. the second they walked in, however, all three of them froze.
their eyes landed on you.
the silence lasted approximately two seconds.
“oh thank god.”
before you could react, keonho launched himself across the room.
you had literally just taken a bite of cereal when he wrapped his arms around you. the sudden impact made you immediately choke.
“i’m sorry y/n, i love you, you’re my baby sister, please forgive me, i’ll never do that again, i’m horrible, i’m a terrible person, you’re just a little kid—”
you awkwardly patted his back while coughing. “get him away from me.”
james took another bite of breakfast. “nah.”
eventually, martin grabbed keonho by the hoodie and physically dragged him away. keonho hit the floor dramatically and kept whining.
your relief lasted about three seconds, because then you noticed martin opening his arms. “no.”
martin ignored you. the next thing you knew, he had somehow folded himself into your lap despite being significantly larger than you.
“we don’t deserve you,” he cried dramatically. “if it wasn’t for you, we’d be dead. we’d be starving. we’d be eating drywall.”
“martin, you’re crushing me.” you coughed while trying to shove him away.
eventually, after several seconds of struggling, you managed to push him off. martin immediately collapsed onto the floor beside keonho.
both of them remained there.
your attention drifted toward seonghyeon. unlike the others, he hadn’t said much. he was already sitting at the table with his breakfast in front of him. when your eyes met, he immediately froze.
for a second, neither of you looked away. then seonghyeon lowered his gaze.
you frowned slightly. the tension was definitely still there, which was strange.
you had already forgiven keonho. honestly, the second he threw himself at you and nearly caused your death by cereal, most of your anger disappeared. martin was martin. juhoon had apparently written you some sort of emotional apology letter. james had already talked things out with you last night.
but seonghyeon felt different. he didn’t feel angry, defensive or anything like that.
he just looked nervous as hell. almost like he’d been rehearsing something in his head for days and still hadn’t figured out how to say it.
and judging by the way he kept staring down at his breakfast instead of eating it, you had a feeling that conversation was coming sooner rather than later.
practice had gone surprisingly well.
the atmosphere was completely different from how it had been a week ago. everyone was joking around again, teasing each other whenever someone messed up choreography, and arguing over things that didn’t matter. for the first time in days, things felt normal.
during break, you slipped away to the balcony with a can of cola.
the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange and pink as a cool breeze drifted through the air. after making sure nobody was following you, you finally pulled the folded letter out of your pocket.
juhoon’s handwriting was terrible.
you immediately smiled.
dear y/n.
first of all, before you start making fun of my handwriting, shut up.
i know you’re already laughing.
anyway.
i’m not really good at saying stuff like this out loud, so i’m writing it instead. james told me that’s a coward move, but i’m choosing to ignore him because he’s old.
i wanted to say i’m sorry.
not just for the prank. i’m sorry for every time i’ve made you feel like you weren’t important to us. because you are.
i don’t think i tell you that enough.
actually, i don’t think i tell you that at all.
you do so many things for us that none of us even think about until they’re suddenly gone. you remember everyone’s schedules. you remind us to eat. you know exactly how everybody likes their food. you somehow always know when one of us is having a bad day before we even say anything.
and the thing is, you act like nobody notices.
but i do.
i notice how every night before bed, you stand on the balcony for a few minutes and stare outside before going to sleep.
i notice how you always leave the last piece of food for somebody else even when you’re still hungry.
i notice how you pretend you’re not tired because you don’t want anybody worrying about you.
i notice how you always check if everyone’s home before you go to bed.
i notice how every time one of us gets sick, you somehow become the most annoying person alive because you’re constantly checking on us.
i notice how you’re always the first person to congratulate us when something goes right and the first person to comfort us when something goes wrong.
you think nobody notices those things.
but i do. and i know the others do too.
i think sometimes you forget how much you’ve become part of our lives.
if i’m being honest, i can’t really remember what the dorm was like before you moved in, which is probably a problem because it definitely existed before then.
but you get what i mean.
you’re family.
you annoy me constantly. you steal my hoodies, and i steal your stupid skinny jeans. you threaten violence every other day. you insult me at least seventeen times daily.
but you’re still family. and i love you.
even if saying that makes me want to launch myself into traffic.
i’m really sorry, y/n and i hope someday you’ll forgive me completely.
please burn this letter after reading it. seriously. i’m begging.
love, juhoon.
p.s. if you show this to anyone i’ll tell everybody about that embarrassing thing you did in 2024.
p.p.s. you know exactly which thing i’m talking about.
you finished reading and immediately started laughing through the tears in your eyes. by the end of the letter, your vision had become blurry. stupid idiot.
a small smile remained on your face as you carefully folded the paper and slipped it back into your pocket.
that’s when the balcony door opened.
you looked up at seonghyeon who stood there. the second your eyes met, he looked like he wanted to run away. instead, he awkwardly walked over and sat in the chair opposite yours.
for a moment, neither of you spoke. then you sighed. “i know there’s stuff you wanna get off your chest, so just say it. you know i’ll never judge.”
seonghyeon immediately looked down. his fingers twisted together in his lap. he chewed anxiously at the inside of his cheek while trying to find the words.
you waited.
eventually, he looked up. the second he did, a tear slipped down his face.
your heart immediately dropped. “seonghyeon—”
“i was jealous.”
you froze as he laughed shakily and wiped at his eyes. “that’s it. that’s the reason.” more tears followed.
“every time you talked about allday project, you’d look so happy.” his voice cracked slightly. “like… really happy.”
you stared at him quietly.
“and i started thinking maybe that was because they were your first choice.” another tear slid down his cheek.
“and maybe we weren’t.”
your stomach twisted.
seonghyeon looked away. “i know it sounds stupid.”
“it doesn’t.”
“it does.” he laughed bitterly. “because instead of talking to you like a normal person, i got jealous.” his shoulders shook.
“i kept thinking maybe you still liked them more than us. maybe you were only here because you had to be. maybe if you could choose, you’d pick them every time.”
you felt your chest tighten. “seonghyeon…”
“and then i started thinking about how i’m probably the member you’re least close to.” his voice had gotten so quiet you could barely hear him.
“i mean… can you blame me?” he wiped at his eyes again. “i treated you like absolute shit before debut.” the bluntness of it made you flinch.
“and i know we moved past it. i know you’ve forgiven me.” he shook his head. “but part of me always thought maybe you didn’t forgive me completely.” the words seemed to physically hurt him.
“so when everyone started talking about pranks, i suggested ignoring you.” he laughed bitterly. “because i was jealous.”
another tear rolled down his face. “and because i’m an idiot.”
by now, tears were running down your own face too.
“i’m so sorry, y/n.” the guilt in his voice was unbearable. “i’m sorry for the prank. i’m sorry for being jealous. i’m sorry for everything before debut. i’m just… i’m sorry.”
for a few seconds, neither of you moved. then you grabbed your chair and dragged it closer. before seonghyeon could react, you wrapped your arms around him.
immediately, he broke. his face buried itself in your shoulder as sobs shook his entire body.
you held him tighter and before you knew it, you were crying too. “you’re so stupid,” you mumbled through your tears.
he nodded immediately. “i know.”
“you’re actually so stupid.” another nod.
“i know.”
you laughed weakly, then hugged him tighter. “i love you all equally, seonghyeon.”
his shoulders froze while you pulled back just enough to look at him. “you guys are not my last choice.”
more tears spilled down his face.
“not even close.”
he immediately buried his face back into your shoulder.
“please don’t ever think that again.”
seonghyeon nodded so fast it was almost painful. for the first time in days, you felt some of the tension finally disappear.
inside the practice room, meanwhile, absolute chaos was unfolding.
martin was standing by the door with his phone out.
“clip that, clip that!” keonho giggled from beside him
“i am clipping it.” martin whisper yelled at keonho
james looked exhausted. “guys, she literally just forgave us. let’s not make her angry again.”
neither of them listened.
juhoon, meanwhile, looked like he was experiencing genuine psychological distress.
“i need that letter back.”
nobody answered him.
“i’m serious.”
still nothing.
“i need to burn it.”
keonho immediately looked over. “was it that bad?”
downbad cortis x femreader smau ─── cortis as that one dude in your dms praying for the downfall of every guy you post. aka they’ll definitely treat you better than whoever the hell you’re in a new talking stage with. ˎˊ˗
contains extremely downbad cortis (slightly embarrassing..). crack smau! ft. ohyul & louis lngshot, gyuvin & eumppappa and2ble (only mentioned)
( 🪽 ) —— lowk part 2 to downbadism :P but can be read as a stand alone! i only got to post this now bcuz ive been very busy 🥹 anw, hope you guys enjoy this one! likes and reblogs are very much appreciated 💋
you're thoughts that can't be tamed
—martin edwards
🌻 idol!martin x f!reader, yearning, miscommunication, abandonment, angst/no comfort
wc: 2.6k
syn: disappearing from your life was the best way for martin to let you go without hurting you, right?
playlist: welcome and goodbye by dream and ivory
iro's notes: this actually felt a lot like break the ice to me, sum ab these concepts dude 😵💫. anyw i hope u guys liked it. this idea lowk came to me in my dreams universe was plotting,, now that i read this back, im not the proudest of this one but we ballin
Martin’s definition of breaking the news to you was just simply not doing it. Sounds stupid as fuck. He knows that too. How was he supposed to tell the love of his life he was leaving? Leaving and never coming back. Never looking back.
9th February, 2019
You chuckled, “Mars, why do you have a bag on? You look stupid like this.”
Martin didn't look at you; he could only stare at the floor. “Yn.” His voice was shaky. He finally looked up at you, eyes meeting yours. His heartbeat only got faster. “I’m sorry.”
You walked closer to him. Looking up, trying to meet his eyeline. “What did you do?”
The way your innocent eyes gleamed at him only made it harder. “I–” his voice cracked, “I can’t tell you.” He held your shoulders, dipping his head down slightly to the crook of your neck. “Please forgive me.”
“Martin, what’s–” You didn’t get to finish the sentence. You barely had time to process the weight of his breath against your skin before the space he occupied was empty. You didn't even get to ask a question before he ran.
Unfortunately, that was the last time you saw him.
1st June, 2026
Saying that 6 years ago was the last time you saw him, in present time would be a lie. He's everywhere. Big billboards. Your social media feeds. Even going to a record shop feels like hell. What do you mean the first thing you see is a giant poster of Cortis with Martin smack bang in the centre?
Exactly six years ago, Martin Edwards—the same boy you'd known since the day you were born—quite literally walked out of your life. No explanations, no warning, no nothing. Just an, "I'm sorry, bye," as if those words were enough. As if they could make up for the six years you spent without him. As if they could answer every question he left behind. By the fifth year, you'd learned more about Martin from a giant billboard than you ever did from him. At least the billboard told you where he'd gone.
The day he left, you cried. You cried so hard. You asked everyone—your mom, his mom, his dad, even his sister. The only answer you ever received was, "Sorry." Apologies upon apologies. You hated apologies. What you hated even more was the fact that Martin couldn't even tell you he was leaving to chase his dreams.
He didn't send a text. He didn't leave a note. He didn't leave anything at all. You mourned him without having anything of his to hold onto. As a child, you thought you were the most horrible friend anyone could ask for. You were only eleven years old, naive enough to believe his disappearance had somehow been your fault. That's how far your imagination could take you.
At some point, you stopped showing up at family gatherings afraid Martin would show up. That's funny, he never did. At some point, you even stopped talking to his sister because of how much she resembled him. It’s fucking stupid. It’s so fucking stupid.
What frustrated you further was that the only time Martin reached out to you was on August 18, 2025. The day Cortis debuted. He invited you and your mom to the release party of his first album.
You didn't go.
You didn't have to.
Instead, as pathetic as it sounds—you stayed at home. All alone. What did you do all alone? You sat and watched old videos of you as a child. And of course, every video had Martin in it. Videos of you and him fighting. Videos of you and him eating ice cream. Even a video of you and him attempting to push Martin’s sister into the pool, which only ended up in both of you being thrown in. You missed him. You missed him more than you’d want to admit. But why would you go?
I mean, did you want to? No. This isn't a lie. You didn't want to go. You'd somehow harboured hatred for Martin Edwards. And that was the verdict. You hate Martin Edwards.
He still sent invites to all his concerts and release parties. Your mom always tried to convince you—“Sweetheart, that's your best friend. Come with me please?”
Best Friend. You had many, the word didn't bother you. Apart from the sole exception of it being used for Martin. Because abandoning you with no explanation isn't something a best friend would do.
Over time you and his sister started talking again. She obviously realised the impact Martin had on you in the first 3 years of him disappearing. She did what any older sister would. She filled in the void Martin created. She was older, of course. But she was like your sister. So when Cortis had a university performance, she convinced you.
Let's not get into how. Just know it took three months of relentless hints, suspiciously timed conversations, and far too much persistence on her part. Somehow, she'd managed to wear you down.
The terms were simple:
Go the concert
Stay the entirety of it
Don’t go backstage with everyone else.
Leave.
Martin’s eyes were glued onto his screen. Trying to adjust a track that didn’t sound right yet. “Martin, she agreed.” He finally looked away from his screen.
“You’re joking.”
Martin’s sister chuckled at his expression, “You want me to uninvite her right now? I’m sure she’d love that.”
Martin got up from his seat wrapping his sister in a tight hug. “I love you, I love you. Thank you so much.”
She pushed him off, "That doesn't mean she forgives you," she said, her voice muffled.
Martin sat back on his chair, “I know, but I'll apologise the second I get a chance.”
She went silent for a second, and then,”She’s not coming backstage.”
Martin looked up at his sister. Stared at her face for a second, processing it all. And then a small nod. “Does she still hate crowds?”
His sister shrugged before walking out. Behind him, Seonghyeon, Juhoon, James, and Keonho sat staring in confusion. Keonho cleared his throat, “So…who’s Yn?”
Martin stared at his laptop screen, watching the unfinished track. Juhoon chimed in, “Wait, is this the one you keep sending invites to?”
James perked up, “Is her mother your mother’s friend? The one we always see backstage?”
Seonghyeon chuckled, “Why doesn't she like you, what did you do dude.”
Martin didn't turn to look at them. Just sighed, “Something bad, I guess.”
“How bad?”
Martin sighs, “I left.” a pause, “I didn’t tell her.”
Juhoon eyebrows furrowed, “For how long?”
“Since 2019.”
Seonghyeon meddles in, "Without saying anything?"
"Yeah."
"And you've been sending her concert invitations?"
Martin spun his chair around to face them. He nodded slightly.
James let out an awkward chuckle, “That’s bad.”
Keonho rubbed a hand over his face. "And you've been sending her invites all this time?"
Martin nodded again.
Juhoon leaned back in his chair. "Dang..."
Martin finally spoke up, “I know it’s bad. I’ll tell you guys everything later.” he gets up from his chair stretching. “I’ll drop her a text, I know she’s going to leave the second we’re done performing.”
Seonghyeon tilted his head at martin, “How bad did you fuck up for her to not even want to say hi?”
Martin just stared at the floor. He had nothing to say.
Six years should've been enough. Enough time to forget the way you laughed. Enough time to stop searching for your face in crowded arenas. Enough time to stop wondering whether you still took your tea the same way or whether you'd finally learned to like crowds. Six years should've been enough to let you go.
It wasn't.
The cruelest part was that Martin had gotten everything he'd wanted. The career. The music. The stages. The screaming crowds. Everything he'd spent years chasing sat right in front of him, yet somehow his mind always found its way back to you.
His only friend.
No—that wasn't true. He had friends now. Good friends. People he trusted. People he cared about. Yet when he thought about home, when he thought about comfort, when he thought about the person who knew him before he became someone worth knowing, he thought about you.
And maybe that was why he was afraid.
Some nights he wondered if he should've stayed. If he should've told you the truth. If he should've let himself be selfish and chosen you over the dream that had consumed him for years. Maybe things would've hurt less that way.
Maybe you would've hated him less.
The thought sat heavy in his chest.
You were everywhere. In old memories. In songs he never released, or in songs he did release. In unfinished lyrics buried beneath folders he'd never open again. In every apology he'd rehearsed a thousand times but never had the courage to say aloud.
He can’t even talk about the comfort and warmth you brought to him. The warmth of your skin whenever you gave him a hug, the way your words sounded like honey whenever he was down. He should've stayed and let you run into his heart carelessly. But instead, he carelessly let go. That's why he’s afraid.
Six years later, and you were still the thought he couldn't tame. The thought that refused to leave. The thought that made him wonder whether success was worth the silence he left behind. And for the first time in years, you weren't a memory on a screen or a name on an invitation.
You were coming.
Which should've made him happy. and, it did.
But for some reason, the day of the performance. He regretted ever asking you to come. He begged his sister to convince you for three months straight. His wishes sound ungrateful. He isn't ungrateful. He's a coward.
Six years of writing lyrics, almost a year of performing in front of thousands without breaking a sweat, and he couldn’t even put four words together in his head without suffocating.
“Hey, glad you came.” No, that sounded arrogant.
“Yn, I’m sorry.” Pathetic.
His carelessness can't be cursed with a stupid apology. He’d spent months begging his sister to convince you, but now that you’d actually agreed, the reality of it hit him like a physical blow to the chest. His hands were clammy and sweaty, his heart was pounding against his ribs, and the carefully rehearsed apologies he’d muttered to himself in empty hotel rooms completely dissolved like cotton candy in water.
He wanted to run. He wanted the power to cut out, the stage to collapse, anything to give him an out. He was an absolute coward. He’d built an entire career out of finding the right words, yet looking at his screen right now, he knew the second he saw your face, he was going to open his mouth and give you nothing but silence.
And since the universe loves Martin Edwards, you were in the front row.
To his surprise, you were actually enjoying the show. He saw you take videos. Videos of everyone but him. You didn't even look at him during his parts. But all he could focus on was you. He wished he could lose this crowd, just be alone with you. Apologise for his stupidity and win you back. He wished he could pull you into a hug mid set.
The performance ended.
Martin's heart was still racing. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin, damp with sweat. His lungs burned from the set, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.
Backstage, his members were talking over one another. His parents had somehow found their way into the room. Your mother stood near the entrance, laughing at something James had said.
Everyone was here. Everyone except you.
Martin's sister tugged on his sleeve. "She's going to leave."
His stomach dropped. All at once, the noise around him disappeared. You weren't coming backstage. Of course you weren't.
Why would you?
Before he knew it, he was moving. "Martin?" someone called after him. He ignored them. The backstage door slammed open. Security yelled something. Fans gathered outside immediately noticed him, voices rising in excitement as they called his name.
He didn't stop. He pushed through the crowd, scanning every face, every car pulling away from the venue.
Then he saw you. Finally. The passenger door had already closed. The engine started. "No, no, no—" Martin broke into a run.
The driver looked startled as he yanked the door open before the car could pull away. Breathless, he slid into the seat beside you and slammed the door shut.
Silence.
You turned your head. And he saw your face. Not as a polaroid, not in pixels. But real, in flesh. For a second, Martin forgot every apology he'd spent six years rehearsing.
His chest tightened again, guilt engulfed him. You just stared at him. Martin swallowed hard. "Yn..." His voice cracked. "I—" Nothing,he couldn't speak. His hands were shaking. "I'm sorry." The words came out rushed. "I'm sorry."
You didn't react.
Martin looked down at his hands. "I know that's stupid. I know it doesn't fix anything. I just..." He laughed weakly, shaking his head. "God, I had this whole thing planned. I thought if I saw you again I'd know what to say. But you're here and I can't—" Martin dragged a hand over his face. "I can't do this right."
The city lights flickered across your face through the car window. You finally spoke. Not to him though. To the driver. You leaned ahead, “Can you stop by the hotel near Orchard avenue?”
He watched as you ignored him, but he didn't stop. "I should've told you." His voice was barely above a whisper now. "I should've stayed. I thought leaving would make things easier. I know I always told you everything. I know this was crucial but I—I didn't know how to leave you. I thought just disappearing would work but—" A bitter laugh escaped him. "It didn't."
Martin looked at you for the first time since getting into the car. "I missed everything."
He missed your birthdays, school, all the important things. He missed everything stupid thing that happened to you. He also missed telling you every stupid thing that happened to him.
"I kept thinking I'd reach out when I had something worth showing for it. When I was finally something valuable. Time went by so quick." He shook his head. "Then one year became two. Two became six. And suddenly I didn't know how to begin." The silence from your end felt unbearable. "I never stopped thinking about you. I tried." His eyes burned brimming with tears. "I really tried to. Every thought, every song I've drafted, everything somehow winds me back to you. I'm sorry. I was a terrible friend." Martin let out a shaky breath.
Then, before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you. For a second, he let himself pretend. Pretend six years hadn't happened. Pretend he hadn't destroyed the best thing he'd ever had.
You didn't hug him back but you push him away either. You just sat there, letting him feel whatever he was feeling. When Martin finally pulled away, the ache in his chest felt worse.
The rest of the drive passed in silence. Eventually, the car slowed. The hotel came into view. Martin reached for the door. Then he paused. "At least you still cared enough to drop me back."
It wasn't a question. You finally looked at him. The expression on your face gave nothing away. "Would be fun watching you get slimed out by your fans, but frankly, I don't care."
The car door opened, Martin stepped out. The window began rolling up again. Panic surged through him suddenly as he bent down. "Are you serious?"
"I'll let you know in six years."
And then the window closed. Martin saw the car leave. He can't even blame you. You gave him exactly what he gave you.
SUMMARY: juhoon is dared by his friends to ask you out, which he does. guilt starts spread inside himself as he realizes he can no longer be in this relationship. resulting in a breakup you wouldve never wished on anyone.
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