Archive of Our Own

The worst thing about being an insomniac is the constant buzzing—like the static noise of a record player just before the music starts. It’s easy enough to tune it out during the day. Hongjoong has had a lot of practice with that over the past few months. If the music is loud enough, if the beat in his headphones pulses with enough life, if there are other people around and he can hear the sounds of the city in the distance, the sound recedes into the back of his mind. It’s almost bearable—enough that Hongjoong can fool himself into believing there’s nothing there.

It’s the nights that are the worst.

At night, with the creeping silence of the dead hour the only thing keeping him company at three in the morning, Hongjoong can do nothing but feel it. The sensation crawls under his skin like a million tiny ants. The noise in his ears is unbearable.

Hongjoong has never had the healthiest sleep schedule, from long nights spent at the studio and in the practice room as a trainee, to the bleary 2 a.m. studio sessions now that he’s established himself as both a solo artist and a producer. He would sleep in fits and starts, always chased by the persistent thought that he wasn’t burning his youth bright enough, that he was missing out on a world of experiences while asleep. But he still slept.

It was really the American tour that fucked his sleep schedule up for good. At first, Hongjoong thought he was just fighting particularly stubborn jetlag. But days went by where Hongjoong only slept for two-three hours a night, caught naps during the day whenever his schedule allowed it, and by the time he returned to Seoul only to continue this cycle, he began to understand that something had changed.

After falling asleep in the makeup chair two days in a row, Hongjoong asked his manager to schedule a doctor’s appointment for him. The doctor, a no-nonsense middle-aged woman, gave him sleeping pills that left him fuzzy for the majority of the following day and told him to schedule a sleep study. They tested him for everything from heart disease to hyperthyroidism, only for all tests to come back negative.

“It’s stress, Hongjoong-ssi,” the doctor said. “And poor sleep hygiene.”

Hongjoong tried, then. Home by eleven, in bed by midnight without exceptions. He made it three months with no improvement before he had to go back to late studio sessions when San’s first solo album was due to come out.

He’s learned a lot in those seven months since coming back from the States. Naps help. Background noise helps reduce the buzzing. Music works great, but hearing someone else’s voice is the best distraction. Audiobooks are too monotone. Podcasts are fine. Radio is better.

Hongjoong has gotten into the habit of jumping between the stations late at night. Some of them play classical music. Some still continue regular programming at hours most people are sound asleep. Hongjoong sometimes wonders if the people sitting in the soundproof studios are just like him—unable to fall asleep and making the best of it. It’s a comforting thought, whether or not it’s true. Makes him feel less alone.

It’s raining tonight. The muggy Seoul summer is slowly giving way to fall and soon the days will grow shorter and darker, the boundary between day and night even more blurry. It’s always night in Hongjoong’s basement studio at KQ, but when he emerges from the room every once in a while to go on a quick 7-Eleven run, he can tell what time of day it is for most of the year. That gets harder the closer they move towards winter, throwing his circadian rhythm out of balance even further.

Not that it matters anymore. Hongjoong is not sleeping anyway.

It’s the empty coffee cup that finally drags him out of his studio late in the evening. The darkness outside is never complete—not in Hongdae where the lights of the city illuminate the night sky no matter the season. Hongjoong supposes it’s impossible to feel completely alone in a place like this. Maybe that’s why he likes cities so much. There’s always someone else out there in the middle of the night.

Hongjoong runs into Minjae on the stairs, clearly coming back from a snack run before he heads back to the practice room. Xikers are preparing for a comeback soon, polishing the choreo ahead of the MV shoot.

“Hyung!” Minjae gives him a polite bow. At least he’s no longer tripping over his tongue to call Hongjoong sunbaenim.

In another life, it could’ve been Hongjoong—the leader of KQ’s first idol boy group. Back when Hongjoong first entered the company, there was a lot of talk of putting a group together. Establishing a trainee program. But then an investor pulled back at the last moment, the board vetoed the CEO using his own money to fund the venture, and the plans fell through. Hongjoong remembers the day one of the staff members called him into the CEO’s office. The last time he had been there, it had been to sign the contract. Now he was going there to learn that his idol future would remain unrealized. They were more than happy to keep Hongjoong on as a producer, assured him that he would be able to debut as a solo artist down the line if he still wanted to perform, but they were unable to scrounge up enough resources to properly train any boys they could potentially take under their wing.

Hongjoong nodded and swallowed the disappointment until all that was left was the bitter aftertaste.

The company kept its promises, at least. They let Hongjoong join their production team as they established themselves in the industry. They let him produce and release his own music when he felt he was ready, promoted him and made it possible for Hongjoong to meet his fans at home and overseas. It’s more than some artists in this industry can say for themselves.

But there’s this niggling doubt that sometimes still eats at him in the sleepless hours of the night: what if? What if things had turned out differently?

It’s a stupid thought. Hongjoong is relatively famous. He has more money than he knows what to do with thanks to his royalties. He gets to fill venues of several thousand people when he tours. He’s worked with everyone from K-pop idols to R&B singers and hip hop artists, and his KOMCA credits are extensive and varied. He’s an artist, a producer, a lyricist. He plays several instruments. People respect his work. It’s useless wondering what could have been.

The rain soaks his jacket in minutes once he’s out, but it’s only a short sprint to the convenience store. Their coffee is not the best, but it’s half past 11 p.m. and Hongjoong is not really looking for quality. He greets the ajumma stocking the shelves with a short bow and makes directly for the refrigerated shelf where they keep their cold coffee drinks. There’s one last cup of iced americano wedged in between two neat rows of cappuccinos and mochas; Hongjoong pulls it off the shelf and goes back to the register to pay, swipes another energy drink on his way.

“Calling it an early night, Hongjoong-ssi?” the ajumma asks, raising an eyebrow as she leans towards him conspiratorially. They’ve been seeing each other often enough that it’s almost like they’re partners in crime by now.

“Ah, no, I’m trying to cut back a little,” Hongjoong admits truthfully. “To be completely honest, ajumeoni, I haven’t been sleeping too well.”

“We have some herbal remedies here for that,” she tells him, pointing to a whole shelf of various small bottles. Hangover remedies. Vitality boosters. Herbal sleeping aids.

“Believe me, ajumeoni, if it exists, I’ve already tried it,” Hongjoong says. “Don’t worry, though. There’s nothing that can keep me away from your coffee. You’ll get sick of seeing me all the time one of these days.”

She laughs, delighted. It’s loud and piercing. “How could a person get sick of seeing a face like this?” she says. Hongjoong ducks his head and shuffles his feet with a nervous little laugh. The ajumma shakes her head. “Such a handsome man, just wasting his life away in that basement. You know, my cousin has a daughter—graduated top of her class at SNU! So if you ever—”

“Thank you, ajumeoni,” Hongjoong says before she can say anything more. “But I don’t—I’m very busy these days. I don’t have time for that kind of thing.”

The real reason stings beneath the veneer of the excuse. It’s not like Hongjoong could simply tell her, though. Not with the world being what it is.

“You never know, Hongjoong-ssi,” she says. “Maybe it’s just the kind of thing you need. Something to keep you away from the studio at all hours of day and night.”

Hongjoong just smiles politely and bows again as he turns to leave. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he says.

He heads home at half past midnight and picks up some fried chicken from the place that always stays open until late at night on the way. The owners know Hongjoong well, and they put an extra chicken leg in his takeaway bag the way they always do.

He snaps a quick photo to share on Fromm later, then heads out into the night to where he’d parked his car. The rain has turned into more of a drizzle. Hongjoong has his hood up, and he’s wearing a mask, but even that does little to protect him from the damp air. It’s cold, too, with the kind of soggy chill that penetrates right to the bone.

The photo from earlier, along with another one, taken in Hongjoong’s living room once he’s unpacked the chicken, gets posted on Fromm along with a flurry of updates. It’s all the usual stuff: he’s tired, he was working at the studio until late, he’s about to eat and wash up, then turn in for the night.

Easier said than done.

Hongjoong tosses and turns for a while in silence, watching the play of light on the walls of his bedroom. He knows he should close the curtains, that the neon light streaking in through the windows is part of the problem, but the buzzing under his skin tells the story of another sleepless night. It doesn’t matter if Hongjoong’s blackout curtains are drawn or not. He won’t be sleeping anyway. This way, at least, it doesn’t feel like he’s completely alone in the world.

The weather takes a turn from bad to worse, as if the city itself intended to drown the pavements and wash away the last of the summer warmth. It’s been raining incessantly even though it’s only early September and the worst of the rainy season is long past them.

Hongjoong watches people huddled under their umbrellas rush places with their shoulders hunched and their heads down as he waits in traffic for the light to change. He got three whole hours of sleep last night and he’s going to stop by the good coffee shop on his way to the studio. He has a long day ahead, but he might even be able to go home at a reasonable hour. His brother called him earlier this morning to ask if Hongjoong has been sleeping in the studio again, which means that Maddox must have snitched on him.

It's been only a few times, in Hongjoong’s defense. His couch is pretty comfortable. He’s used to it.

It’s not like Hongjoong is doing this just because, either. Between preparations for his first full album and the work he’s doing on San’s debut solo mini, Hongjoong has been keeping busy. Then there are the people Seungyoun-hyung recommended him to—a pair of independent artists—who want him to write lyrics for a few of their new tracks, and the request from Chungha asking for a collab. They’ve been messaging back and forth these past few weeks, brainstorming ideas, since she wants him to co-produce the track as well.

At first, he could barely believe it. Some kind of unfunny prank, he thought, to pretend that an artist of Chungha’s caliber would want to feature a smaller artist like Hongjoong on her long-anticipated comeback single. But it wasn’t a joke, and Hongjoong is writing a verse for the song, and he’s getting production credits on top of it.

“Noona, how did you even find out about me?” he asked during their most recent facetime call, the word feeling new and awkward on his tongue, but she insisted.

She only laughed, warm and delighted, then said, “A friend recommended that I listen to your work, and then I couldn’t imagine anyone else doing it. I’m so glad you found the time, Hongjoong-ah. I know you’re a very busy man.”

Hongjoong wanted to ask more questions, but the time they had was limited, so he dropped the matter, even though curiosity has continued to gnaw at him ever since.

The traffic light finally turns green, and the cars at the front begin to move. It takes Hongjoong two more light changes before he’s past the intersection, the worst of his daily morning drive behind him. The traffic eases up as he takes a left, singing to a new Chappel Roan song under his breath.

He quickly checks his calendar at the next intersection. He’s overseeing a recording session with Jongho first thing in the morning because Ollounder has called in sick, then after that there’s a producer team meeting, another recording session, this time with San, and finally some free time in the late afternoon for Hongjoong to work on his own stuff. Maybe he should revise his plans of going home early, then.

In between coffee run three and four, Yunho knocks on the door of Hongjoong’s studio, then sticks his head inside. Hongjoong rarely bothers to actually lock the door when he’s there, and he welcomes this particular distraction.

“Hyung, have you considered that maybe that’s enough caffeine for the day?” Yunho prompts gently when Hongjoong informs him he’s about to step out for a moment to get himself another iced americano and asks if Yunho wanted anything from the convenience store.

“Yunho-ya, I have a ton of work,” Hongjoong says in response. “I’m okay, promise, you don’t need to worry.”

Yunho gives him a smile as he leans against the wall. “You know I always worry, hyung,” he says.

He hasn’t been here the longest out of all of them, but he’s the one Hongjoong has always been the closest to. He’ll be forever grateful to Mingi—who showed up about a year after Hongjoong first came to KQ—for eventually dragging his best friend after him once the company concluded they were ready to commit to artist management.

Back when he still lived at the dorms, Hongjoong had a single before Jongho switched companies and joined them, and Yunho and Mingi shared a room, but Yunho would always be there whenever Hongjoong had a bad day at the studio, sprawled out on Hongjoong’s bed ostensibly to play mobile games and eat through his stash of snacks, but really to encourage Hongjoong not to bottle up absolutely everything inside. He’d always eventually pry Hongjoong’s frustrations out of him with infinite patience, gentleness, and just a tiny amount of good-natured ribbing.

Yunho has always been magic, in a way. He’s always had a way about him, like being in his presence was enough to make people’s worries recede and disappear. It’s a good thing Hongjoong has never felt a spark between them. It would’ve been difficult to guard his heart against it otherwise.

“At least get something to eat, too?” Yunho suggests when Hongjoong reaches for his jacket.

“Yeah, yeah…” Hongjoong waves his hand dismissively. “So? Want anything? I’m buying.”

Yunho checks the time. “I have to be back in the practice room in…uh, half an hour, so just get me a sausage or two and triangle kimbap and I’m gonna be good,” he says, then makes a cute face. “Thank you, Hongjoongie-hyung.”

By the time Hongjoong makes the round trip and tosses the plastic bag at Yunho, he has thirteen unread messages from Eden, Maddox, Chungha’s head producer and several other people who require his time and attention.

Yunho must see the expression on his face, because he swallows the kimbap in his mouth and asks, “That bad?” Then, “What are the chances you’ll actually get to go home tonight?”

Hongjoong laughs. “Not great. I’ll stop by if you’re still at the practice room at two in the morning.”

It wouldn’t be the first time. Yunho may be full of good advice, but he works just as hard and just as obsessively as Hongjoong does.

“Well, see you there, hyung,” Yunho says and salutes him before heading to the door.

It’s not quite a miracle that causes Hongjoong to get home before 2 a.m. but it’s a close thing. He texts Yunho from his car, idling in his usual parking spot in the underground garage of his building.

eden-hyung kicked me out of the studio, he writes. told me to get some sleep.

Yunho’s response comes almost immediately.

honestly, understandable, he sends. you didn’t look too great earlier, hyung.

Hongjoong only sighs. He’s starting to really feel it now, the lack of proper sleep catching up to him. It must show more than he’s realized. When he pulls down the visor and swipes the little mirror open, the face that looks back at him is ashen, his eyes sunken with sleeplessness. Rubbing at his eyes only makes them sting more and does nothing to chase away the grit. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe that means Hongjoong will get to sleep tonight.

He takes the elevator up to his floor, sparing a single thought for the mail he was supposed to pick up from the concierge and deciding that he can do it in the morning. It’s late enough. Hongjoong would rather not bother the man if he doesn’t have to. Night shift universally sucks.

The inside of his apartment is quiet, illuminated by the orange glow of the city lights. The motion-activated light in the entryway comes on the moment Hongjoong opens the door, but as soon as he’s out of his shoes and trudging deeper into the apartment, the entire space falls back into the hazy darkness lightened only by the streetlamps and neon lights outside.

The cleaners must have been by, because the mug and bowl he left on the counter in the morning are no longer there, and the envelope that contains the hefty tip Hongjoong leaves each week pinned to the fridge with a magnet is gone, too.

Hongjoong goes through his evening routine on autopilot. He orders delivery and hops into the shower while he waits, then eats while reading through his messages on Fromm. He pops into the chat for a little while to update them on his day, sends a new selfie and leaves some encouraging words. The fans from overseas keep teasing him about the late hour, which Hongjoong finds more endearing than annoying. They all care about him in all their little ways. Even if it’s just a message left during lunchtime that Hongjoong reads deep in the night.

He dozes off on the couch for a little while after dinner, but when he wakes up, only half an hour has passed and he’s wide awake. That was his mistake. He should’ve headed to bed the moment his eyelids started drooping, because now it’s half past one in the morning and it looks like he’s gearing up for another sleepless night—the ants are back, crawling just beneath his skin, and Hongjoong’s entire body is thrumming, pulsating with the rhythm of his heart. He can feel each inhale and exhale down to the roots of his hair.

He ends up stretched out on his stomach with his headphones on, swiping through the radio stations in the app, hoping to find something that will catch his attention. The broadcasts he usually relies on are off the air today and nothing else fits quite right the peculiar mood he’s in.

Hongjoong is about to give up when he switches to another station and stops in his tracks.

“—is the Sleepless Hour, and I’m your host, Park Seonghwa, here to help you count the minutes till sunrise,” says a soft, rich voice. It’s pitched low and has a darker timbre to it—the kind of tone Hongjoong loves in the recording booth. It scratches pleasantly at the back of Hongjoong’s brain. “Playing music for all those who can’t sleep and answering questions from those in need of advice. Tonight, DPR Ian is here to keep us company as we head into the colder seasons. For all those looking for a human connection and finding themselves too hesitant to reach out, this is Winterfall.”

Hongjoong barely registers the song that starts playing—deep and dark like the inside of a smoky lounge late at night. Instead, he’s still hung up on the rich smoothness of the host’s voice. A voice fit for the radio, of course, but there’s something about it that keeps nagging at Hongjoong—an elusive quality that scratches at the part of his brain where his songs come from.

When the voice returns, it is to say, “That was DPR Ian with Winterfall. One of my favorite artists these days, and just the right fit for long, sleepless nights. It’s been raining here all the time, and it reminds me of the nights I used to spend in my childhood room listening to music hidden under the duvet. Sometimes I would pull my headphones off, expecting silence, only to be greeted with the sound of the rain hitting the windows.” A pause. “It’s been a while since I last visited my parents, but with Chuseok coming up, I think it might be time to go.”

There’s another moment of silence, then the man laughs, low and airy.

“I’m reading the comments, and our long-time listener Tired Bee wants to know what my guide to surviving Chuseok is,” he says. “Well, in that case, dear listeners, here’s Park Seonghwa’s guide to surviving the holidays while single.”

Hongjoong snickers. His mother has already announced in no uncertain terms that she’s expecting him back home for the holidays and will accept no excuses. There must be a part of her that’s hoping he might bring someone with him, because she’s made sure to mention that the bed in the newly remodeled guest room is very spacious on several different occasions.

There’s no one, of course. It’s been over a year since Taeho. Enough time for her to get antsy about Hongjoong being lonely, but not enough time for Hongjoong to forget how bad that relationship got in the end.

They didn’t even fight. No one cheated. Taeho just got fed up with it—the secrecy, the odd hours. Meeting up late at night. Pretending they were only friends while out in public. Hongjoong saying no each time Taeho proposed that they meet up with his friends at one of the clubs in Itaewon or Hongdae. Hongjoong always in a face mask each time they went out together.

Sometimes I forget what you look like under that fucking mask, Taeho had told him once.

Daily messages petered out as Hongjoong spent most of the month at the studio rushing to finalize the tracks for his album. Late night calls turned to no calls. The last few times Hongjoong had tried dialing his number, it went straight to voicemail.

Hongjoong didn’t fight it when Taeho said he was done. There was nothing to fight, no argument to refute each accusation. It was better that way.

There hasn’t been anyone since.

“—number three, have an exit strategy,” the host—Park Seonghwa—says as Hongjoong turns his attention back to the program. “If you have siblings, you can always help each other out. Back before my hyung got himself a girlfriend, I used to, quote-unquote, need his help all the time whenever our extended family would come to visit and the questions got a little too pointed. Pets work, too, especially if you have to walk them. My parents only have a pair of birds, though, so that’s out of the question, unfortunately.”

And there it is again, that warm, rich laugh that carries through the radio frequencies and makes the hair at Hongjoong’s nape prickle.

San would no doubt say there’s something romantic about it: listening to a voice like that in the small hours of the morning, not knowing what the speaker looks like. The romance of two strangers in the dark, connected over the radio waves.

“And that’s all I have for you on that topic, I’m afraid,” Park Seonghwa says. “I hope it helps. Even if just to deter your aunt for long enough that you can make your escape. And now for our weekly segment: candle and tea corner. Today’s candle recommendation is After Dark by the Harlem Candle Company, a scent that mixes notes of bourbon vanilla that wrap around you like a soft blanket on rainy days with darker, more woodsy undertones—and no,” he laughs, “we’re still not sponsored, I promise. Those are still coming from my personal collection. This scent is like a warm hug when you come in from the rain. And for the tea to pair with that scent, I’ll go to a classic favorite for a reason: the hero of this week’s tea recommendation is none other than the humble Lady Grey. The notes of bergamot and citrus go really well with this candle, perfect for a cozy evening. It will put you right in the mood to sleep, too, but remember to put the candle out before you go to bed.”

Hongjoong doesn’t have the candle the host is recommending, but he does have a half-burned scented candle that feels seasonally appropriate enough. It’s a little silly to immediately follow the recommendation of a disembodied voice on the radio, but it’s not like anything else is working. Hongjoong rolls off the bed and fishes a lighter out of the top drawer of his dresser where he keeps all the little odds and ends that don’t fit anywhere else. The candle’s wick comes to life with a hiss, then a moment later the little flame wobbles inside the glass as it turns brighter.

The candle was a gift from Taeho’s sister, the only member of his family who knew about them. Hongjoong finds himself missing her more than he misses Taeho at times. They don’t really keep in touch even if she still follows Hongjoong on Instagram. So do over a million other people, though. It doesn’t really mean anything.

In the kitchen, Hongjoong finds some loose-leaf tea at the bottom of the tin and scrapes it out into a metal strainer while the water boils. It’s not the tea the host has recommended, either, but there are little chunks of citrus peel in it, so that will have to do.

Sitting under the covers with the candle on and the mug warming his palms as he sips on his tea is pretty nice. For someone without Hongjoong’s problems, it would probably be a pretty effective bedtime routine. Still, it’s nice.

The broadcast continues, the host’s rich voice interspersed with the music he plays. He seems to have an eclectic taste and broad musical horizons. He plays mostly Korean artists, but there’s a little bit of every genre from R&B to hip hop, alternative music, K-pop. A few songs Hongjoong had worked on in some capacity as a producer or lyricist.

By the time the host begins to wrap it up, it’s nearing three in the morning.

“And for all the people still awake and listening,” Park Seonghwa says, “one last song to say goodnight. I hope the morning finds you asleep. This has been the Sleepless Hour with your host Park Seonghwa, keeping you company while you count the minutes till sunrise, and this is Cifika with Melody. Goodnight and see you again tomorrow. Sleep well, everyone.”

The soft, mellow melody takes over, shaking Hongjoong out of the half-doze. He extinguishes the candle before he can fully drift off and spares a thought for his unbrushed teeth before deciding that it’s not worth risking whatever sleep he might be able to catch if he just stays put.

Hongjoong tunes into the broadcast the following night. And the night after that. And the one after that.

Over the next couple of weeks he finds out several things about Park Seonghwa. One: he was born in the same year as Hongjoong, but he’s older. His birthday is in April. Two: he’s from Jinju, but he’s lived in Seoul since he was nineteen. Three: apart from his eclectic music taste, he has a keen interest in Lego and Star Wars, and he seems to be a bit of a nerd behind his beautiful, rich voice and comforting words that seem at times almost like poetry. He’s well-spoken and well-read. He laughs a lot.

The broadcast itself doesn’t seem to follow a very specific structure. Seonghwa gives his recommendations, including a monthly book recommendation in addition to the weekly tea, candle and snack recommendations, and he responds to some comments from listeners, but other than that, he talks about anything and everything for two hours between 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. five days a week, Monday to Friday.

Weirdly, it helps. Radio has always helped Hongjoong the most, but the way Seonghwa’s voice burrows into his brain and quiets down the jitters. It’s a little silly, a little embarrassing to admit, perhaps, that the best measure to counter his insomnia is some guy’s voice on the radio. It’s not a cure—not by a long mile—but it helps.

This month’s book recommendation is a book of poetry that Hongjoong mentions to San in passing during their Tuesday recording session.

“Oh, hyung, I didn’t know you liked poetry,” San says, eyes turning to crescents as he smiles.

Hongjoong shrugs, self-consciousness making his nose scrunch. “Someone else recommended it, and I thought of you,” he says. “So I hope it’s good, but I trust their taste, so…”

“Anyone I know?” San asks. They’re sitting in the recording studio, taking a break while San sips his iced americano and Hongjoong cleans his files.

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Hongjoong should count himself lucky it’s not Yunho in the studio with him, or he’d be facing the friendliest interrogation of his life as Yunho attempted to wheedle the truth out of him. He’s always been good at that—making Hongjoong spill more than he’s intended.

There’s no reason for him to be so embarrassed by all of this. It’s just—Hongjoong has tried so many different things to fix his insomnia. What are the odds that a pretty voice is what he’s been missing all along.

He and San are interrupted by a rapid knock on the studio’s door, and Maddox pops his head in through the gap.

“Busy?” he asks, then pushes the door open to let himself in.

“We have maybe half an hour left today,” Hongjoong informs him. “Did you need anything, hyung?”

“You gonna be here for the Xikers recording next week? The special clip,” Maddox adds when Hongjoong frowns in confusion.

Then he remembers why that’s not in his calendar.

“No, sorry, I’m filming the MV with Chungha-noona that day,” he says. “I thought Oliv-hyung was handling that instead?”

“Oh, okay, because I thought…never mind.” Maddox waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m gonna talk to Oliv, then. And you—” he points at Hongjoong, “you’re going to tell me all about your album progress when I treat you to meat tonight. Everybody present welcome, of course.”

San only shakes his head. “I have plans with Wooyoungie tonight,” he says. “But if you get anything out of Hongjoong-hyung, you need to tell me, because he never wants to tell me anything about this album.”

“Cute,” Hongjoong says in response to San’s pout. “But it won’t work. Maddox-hyung is sworn to secrecy.”

Maddox raises his hands in a gesture of defeat. “You heard the man.”

There are reasons why Hongjoong is keeping his cards so close to his chest with this album. It’s personal, for one. Stripped down and vulnerable in a way he didn’t allow himself to be in his previous projects. He’s not quite ready for people to look at the spillage of guts yet before he wrenches it under control and into a shape that is fit for human consumption. At present, the mess of it beats in his hand like the heart of a living thing, but it’s still too bloody and raw to go exposing it to the world.

Maddox is the only person, other than Eden and Ollounder, who’s heard the demos Hongjoong had managed to finish. But the bulk of the work is still ahead of him.

“So,” Maddox says conversationally as they wait for the meat to start sizzling on the grill, “have you thought about the title track?”

The album is tentatively scheduled for an early April release. They’re still six months away. It’s supposed to be a full album, but Hongjoong only has five demos finished.

“Uh, actually, I was thinking about Why Do You Love,” he says.

It was the first track he polished for this album, unearthed from his archive all the way back in 2021.

Maddox hums, then flips the meat over as it begins to brown. The smoke seeps into Hongjoong’s hair, his clothes. His mouth waters.

“Not an obvious choice for a title track,” Maddox says, which is just about the reaction Hongjoong expected.

“I’m not doing this to be obvious,” Hongjoong counters. The tongs click as Maddox continues to diligently flip the meat pieces, then puts the juiciest, most golden piece on Hongjoong’s plate.

“I didn’t say it’s a bad thing.” Maddox looks up at him at last and quirks an eyebrow. “I like a non-obvious title track. I just wonder…is that song about—”

“No,” Hongjoong cuts him off before he has a chance to finish the sentence. “It’s not about Taeho. I don’t—that’s not what I’m doing. I wouldn’t make it the title track if it was about him. None of the songs on this album are.”

Maybe that should’ve been Hongjoong’s first clue. He had never, in the entire time they had been together, felt the pull to write a song about Taeho. It was like him and Hongjoong’s music existed in two separate spaces that rarely crossed.

Taeho was not another creative—not at all the kind of person Hongjoong had always secretly imagined dating one day, back when he was a teenager with a lot of ambition and a terrible secret that wouldn’t have had to stay a secret if they’d lived in a more just world. Taeho worked the kind of job Hongjoong had only ever seen from afar: a regular nine to five as a marketing and business development manager at a corporation. They met through Bumjoong at his birthday party, because they had been enlisted together and kept in touch once they got discharged.

Not anymore, though.

Taeho was never particularly interested in Hongjoong’s music. He listened to his songs, but the most he could offer in terms of feedback was a lukewarm, It’s good. He was still nice to Hongjoong. He messaged him every morning and sometimes ordered lunch for him, knowing that Hongjoong would forget to eat otherwise. He was good in bed, and patient with Hongjoong when he realized how inexperienced he had been—a corollary of years’ worth of long hours spent in the studio, buried in Cubase and sheet music.

But Taeho didn’t understand how music made Hongjoong feel. And, in turn, Hongjoong never felt inspired to write songs for or about him. That should’ve been his sign all along. While songwriting was Hongjoong’s job, it was, above all, an expression of his love. All those personal, intimate songs he had ever gifted to other people have always been a quiet, I love you.

He doesn’t think about the half-written song lingering on his hard drive that’s waiting for a warm, rich voice with a nice lower range to sing it.

“I mean, if you say so.” Maddox gives him a look, but he drops the topic nonetheless. “You’re making good progress on San’s album, in any case. I got the masters for the tracks you sent for mixing last week, and they’re fire.”

“Door-hyung did a great job, yeah,” Hongjoong says. “It’s going to be a good solo debut for Sannie.”

It’s not like Hongjoong is their leader, not the way that Minjae is to Xikers, but he does feel a little responsibility for all of them: Mingi and Yunho, San and Wooyoung and Yeosang, Jongho as well. It was because of Hongjoong that the company even considered artist management in the first place, and they’re all close like a family anyway. Sometimes he wonders if in a different life—in a life where the investors didn’t pull out at the last moment, rendering Hongjoong’s idol future nothing but an unrealized dream—the seven of them could have been a proper team.

Maybe. Maybe not. The thought leaves Hongjoong with a funny feeling in his stomach.

“You should focus on your own stuff once you’re done, though,” Maddox says, piling more meat onto Hongjoong’s plate, followed by browned slices of garlic and some fried kimchi. “It’s been a while since your last album.”

A year—a little over a year. Hongjoong can barely remember the promotions for it, too wrapped up in everything that had happened with Taeho. He remembers busking in Seoul and in Busan. Brief appearances on a few variety shows. Everything else is a blur.

But this album will be different. This time Hongjoong will be present for it; he’ll allow himself to enjoy the moment, enjoy the process, even if everything about it has been hard-won so far.

“Yeah,” Hongjoong says, hanging his head between his shoulders, staring at the wood grain of their table. “Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“I’ve been watching a lot of dramas these days,” Seonghwa says. “I have a friend who’s really into them, and he keeps recommending me stuff to watch, so I’ve made a list of all the recommendations and I’m trying to get through it. I usually binge-watch them on weekends. Isn’t the fall the perfect time for this kind of thing? Just pull out your favorite blanket and make yourself a warm drink, then you can spend some time in a different world, a different life.” He pauses and laughs quietly, a little breathy. “Isn’t it interesting how, deep down, that’s something we all want? To be something other than ourselves, if just for a moment. But I’ve been trying something different lately. It’s an early New Year’s resolution, something I’m trying to carry with me into the next year, so…I’m trying to be more myself. Do you know what I mean? So often we make ourselves into someone else for other people, and I realized I’ve been doing that for a long time. But this year—and next year, and all the years after that, I want to be the kind of person who’s not afraid to be myself. It could be a scary thing—some people might leave, but wouldn’t you rather live with people around you who appreciate you for who you are? That’s more than most of us get in our lifetimes. So if you find those people, hold onto them and let them know that you appreciate them in the same way—just the way they are.”

Hongjoong rolls his head, hoping that will help with the stiffening of his shoulders. He’d spent most of the day on set of Chungha’s music video. Even though he should be drained from the long day, the frenetic energy of the shoot hasn’t left him yet. He has his phone propped up on the counter by the sink as he methodically removes his makeup, rubbing with the cotton pad soaked in micellar water until the last of his mascara comes off.

The song is coming out in three weeks. It’s been a tight turnaround between finalizing the lyrics, the track, and recording his verse, but it’s a digital single, not a physical release. Hongjoong still doesn’t know how the plans will shake out with regard to promo, but he’s ready to make some time to promote with her if she asks.

Seonghwa continues talking in the meantime, his soothing voice keeping Hongjoong company at half past two in the morning.

“You’re asking for recommendations?” he says. “Well, the one I’m watching now is an older drama. It’s called While You Were Sleeping, and it’s about three people brought together by a mysterious power that makes them appear in each other’s dreams to prevent a horrible future from coming true. It’s really good, you know? I didn’t expect to like it as much as I do, but Lee Jongsuk is so handsome in it—just so handsome, and so good as the male lead. And Suzy, of course, she’s amazing as always. And you—do you believe in fate? Do you believe that some encounters in our lives are just meant to be, that you will meet certain people at just the right moment to change the course of your life forever? Let me know by posting a comment on our Naver blog or in the live chat of our Youtube broadcast. I can’t wait to see what you all have to say. And while I wait, here’s NCT Dream with Heavenly.”

There’s a Youtube broadcast? Hongjoong thinks idly as the song starts, pulling up the app on his way back to the living room.

He has been a little curious about it—matching a face to the voice that keeps him company late at night. He hasn’t gone looking yet. He’s irrationally worried that knowing will take some of the magic out of it. Maybe the real Seonghwa won’t be able to live up to the image of him that Hongjoong made up in his own head, silly as that sounds.

His worries turn out entirely unfounded. The moment the video buffers and Seonghwa appears on screen, busy monitoring the incoming responses, Hongjoong nearly drops his phone.

Park Seonghwa is one of the most beautiful people Hongjoong has ever seen. He has strong features that somehow add up to a gentle face. His hair is long, dark and shiny, reaching past his chin. It must have been gently permed not too long ago if the way it curls around his face is any indication. He’s wearing a cream cashmere sweater and a pretty necklace that rests in the dip of his collarbone.

Hongjoong’s mouth goes dry.

Then Seonghwa smiles, reading something on the computer screen in front of him, and Hongjoong’s heart does a concerning little swoop.

Park Seonghwa is beautiful. Worse than that, he seems kind and thoughtful, and he has the kind of voice that makes Hongjoong want to write songs till the small hours of the morning.

The song that has been playing fades out eventually, and Seonghwa leans forward towards the microphone. “That was NCT Dream with Heavenly, a B-side from their latest album Dreamscape. I listen to this song a lot when I need something to comfort me and cheer me up. I think it’s very uplifting, and it’s in regular rotation on my personal playlist, so I hope it gives you some comfort as well at this late hour. And now, let’s see what you have to say on the subject of fate. Eldest Daughter On Shift says: But isn’t it true that even if you believe in fate, if you really want something to happen and believe that it will, you’ll start working toward it even without realizing and make the probability that it comes true that much higher?”

Seonghwa releases a quiet breath and leans back in his chair. His eyes dart to the side to one of the other monitors.

“That’s a very interesting way of looking at things,” he continues, “and a little bit similar to my personal thoughts on the matter, at least when it comes to things such as luck. Because I think luck comes to those who are prepared. Often, we may get offered lucky opportunities in life, but if we’re not able to take full advantage of them, they go to waste anyway. So in that respect, I agree. The thing that we call luck is sometimes just a case of knowing how to use the opportunities that come your way because of other reasons, like hard work and dedication. But other things…I don’t know. Sometimes I think that things really do happen for a reason. I wouldn’t be where I am now without making some very deliberate choices, but I still wonder, sometimes—have I gone against what fate had in store for me? If I’d made different choices back then, my life could be very different now.”

Seonghwa sounds almost wistful, Hongjoong thinks. His eyes are boring into the desk like he’s not quite ready to face his past choices head-on.

“But in the end, I didn’t,” Seonghwa says, “and this is where I am now, keeping you company as you wait for sunrise. So maybe I got lucky in a way, too, to have found something else I enjoy doing. That turning back from the other path I’d been on wasn’t the end of everything.”

Against his better judgment, Hongjoong finds himself enraptured, fascinated. He wants to know more—who did Seonghwa want to be before he decided to work in broadcasting? What other paths had he walked on? There’s something about the way he talks about it that feels like whatever had happened in his past has not been entirely resolved. It makes Hongjoong curious, even though it shouldn’t. Park Seonghwa is a stranger, after all. Hongjoong has no business snooping around his past.

Even so, his words feel a little like a confession, an admission of some lingering regret, an ever-present what if?

It resonates with Hongjoong, who spent years wondering the very same thing.

Before he knows it, September turns to October, bringing even colder weather and windy days that turn into windy nights. Hongjoong can hear the wild howling up in his apartment on the top floor of the building. The view of the city that he has from his balcony is great, but the wind rattles the windows and wails in the vents.

There’s an electric fireplace that Hongjoong had never really used, one of the apartment’s perks that the real estate agent had advertised with great enthusiasm. With the weather so capricious, Hongjoong finds himself turning the fireplace on more often than not as he tunes into Seonghwa’s program night after night.

At least it’s getting used, Hongjoong reasons, watching the flickering of the fake fire behind glass.

He can still barely believe the deal he got on this place—it was getting sold by one of Eden’s friends, and Hongjoong got the friends and family discount to go along with the already sizeable mortgage. He never would’ve been able to afford the downpayment otherwise, not even with how comfortable he has been these past few years between his solo career and his producer work. But the truth is, it’s too nice of a place for someone who’s barely there. Hongjoong feels guilty about this sometimes. Guilty and maybe just a little bit more lonely.

Hongjoong is not really a lonely person, though. He has friends: his fellow producer-hyungs, other artists at the company, the people who have come into his life by accident and decided to stay. But they also have their own lives, their own homes that they return to at the end of the day. Hongjoong’s own place remains as it has always been: dark and silent when he comes in.

His mom nags him about it sometimes when they speak on the phone. She means well, but she had gotten married at twenty-two and has never once regretted that decision because Hongjoong’s dad would do anything to make her smile, even thirty years on. Hongjoong is a gay man in a country that wouldn’t let him be open about who he loves without tanking his career, let alone get married. Their realities, he thinks darkly, are those of two completely different worlds.

He doesn’t like that version of himself—the brooding, moody alter-ego that comes out every once in a while. Hongjoong doesn’t quite understand what’s making it emerge this time until he looks at the date.

October 10th. It would have been their anniversary.

No wonder life today has felt like an itchy sweater he put on without any undershirt.

On his laptop screen, the standby music changes as the scene switches. Seonghwa is getting seated behind the microphone while the opening jingle signals the start of the broadcast. He’s wearing a cropped leather jacket today with a black turtleneck underneath, and his hair is slicked back.

“It’s 1 a.m. on a Thursday night, and this is the Sleepless Hour,” Seonghwa says, closing his eyes as he recites the now-familiar greeting. “I’m your host, Park Seonghwa, here to help you count the minutes till sunrise. Playing music for all those who can’t sleep and answering questions from those in need of advice.”

Hongjoong tunes out the actual words and allows the soft cadence of Seonghwa’s voice wash over him instead, soothing and mellow. Hongjoong begins to drift off despite himself.

Maybe tonight is the night he will sleep until morning. It’s been rough these past three days, and the exhaustion is catching up to him, the ants just beneath his skin marching on and on.

He’s almost asleep when he hears it, unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

“—is Hongjoong with A Walker, for all of you who need a reminder that it’s okay to simply walk at your own pace instead of running,” Seonghwa says, then the all too familiar beat comes on, followed by Hongjoong’s own voice coming to him over the radio waves.

Hongjoong has never felt more awake in his entire life.

Sure, he’s a decently popular artist who’s doing pretty okay for himself. People listen to his music. People play his music. That’s nothing new. But for some reason he’d never expected to hear his song played by the most beautiful man Hongjoong has ever seen, whose honey-sweet voice has been lulling him to sleep for the past several weeks.

He’s not quite shaken off the stupor by the time the song ends and Seonghwa’s voice returns.

“And that was Hongjoong with A Walker, a hymn for people in their late twenties who dread what’s about to come the moment they turn thirty.”

Seonghwa hums,a bit like he’s lost in thought, a small smile tucked into the corners of his lips.

“I’ve been listening to this song a lot since it came out,” he continues, “especially in the moments when everything becomes too much, too overwhelming. We all have uncertainty in our lives, but I feel like this song doesn’t shy away from acknowledging that while telling us that it’s okay not to know at the same time. It’s okay to be uncertain and go on living despite it. It’s okay to slow down and take stock of your life before trying to figure out the answer. And it’s also okay if you don’t figure it all out right away. I think that’s such a positive message, because at the end of the day, isn’t that the best thing we can do for ourselves? So, if you’re feeling overwhelmed by the fast pace of life around you, by the hectic world we live in, just remember that it’s okay to simply be a walker, not a racer, and to have the courage to fall behind, as the song says.”

Hongjoong blinks a few times, his throat suspiciously tight. That’s such a sweet sentiment, and to hear this man—Seonghwa—confess it in such a way dislodges… something deep inside him.

It means a lot to him that people are comforted by his music. It’s even more humbling to hear it from the person who has been Hongjoong’s source of comfort these days, making his sleepless nights just a little easier to bear.

Hongjoong likes to think that he’s not an impulsive person. That he’s more of a strategist, a planner. But he did send a mixtape to an entertainment company at sixteen on a whim and a prayer, and he did agree to ditch his old life as soon as the opportunity to make music presented itself. So maybe he doesn’t always think things through as thoroughly as he could. That is exactly how he justifies looking up the email address associated with the show. He doesn’t want anyone else to read what he has to say, which rules out the Youtube chat or the Naver blog, but he doesn’t want to leave without saying something. Not when Seonghwa was so earnestly open about his own feelings—not when he said so many nice things about one of Hongjoong’s most personal songs.

It takes a little digging since Seonghwa doesn’t really mention the email address on the show, but it’s listed on the radio station’s website. There’s a good possibility that no one other than an intern ever reads it—if anyone at all—but Hongjoong is willing to take that chance.

He finds himself strangely flustered as he starts typing, his cheeks hot to the touch like he’s a schoolboy with an embarrassing secret, not a professional with nearly a decade of experience in the industry.

Hongjoong presses send before he can think better of it. He doesn’t have the courage to read it back because he knows he’s been embarrassingly open about things he wanted to keep to himself. At least he sent it from his backup email that doesn’t have his full name in the handle.

Whatever.

No one but some unlucky intern will read it anyway.

True to his word, Hongjoong finds himself mortified once he wakes up after four solid hours of sleep and the realization of what he’s done fully hits him.

At least he’s feeling more rested than he has in a long while. That’s good, especially with the rehearsals they’re starting today for his Asia tour—nothing massive, only four stops across Southeast Asia and one concert in Japan. Bangkok to Manila, to Kuala Lumpur, to Jakarta, then Tokyo at the very end. They’re changing the setlist a little bit and Hongjoong gets to take two additional backup dancers on top of the two who accompanied him to the States. This means that the stage setup will have to be modified, their cues changed, their blocking reworked. It will make for a better show, but the work they all have to put in now is substantial.

That’s fine, though. Hongjoong is not afraid of hard work.

He rereads the email from last night over a rushed breakfast and cringes at his own sincerity, relieved when he sees that there has been no reply.

The rehearsal is at ten. It is followed by a recording session at two, then another rehearsal after lunch. They’re splitting the set into two parts, bridged by an instrumental interlude. Part one in the morning; part two in the afternoon. It’s the only way Hongjoong can fit it with his packed schedule.

He spends the night at the studio, busy enough that once he realizes what time it is, Seonghwa’s broadcast is already well underway. Hongjoong puts it on in the background as he continues to organize his files so he can send them for mixing and mastering.

The couch welcomes him like an old friend when he finally crashes at half past three in the morning. Hongjoong can barely pull the blanket over himself before his eyelids begin to droop. Still, he ends up tossing and turning for a little while before he actually starts to drift off for good. His body keeps pulling him up from shallow sleep like he’s submerged in a pool and a hand is reaching to grab a handful of his waterlogged shirt billowing around his chest. It won’t let him stay down there, buoyed by the movement of the water.

When he wakes up and reaches blindly for his phone, the clock shows 5:37 a.m. Hongjoong has been here before too many times to entertain the illusions of going back to sleep. Instead, he blinks blearily a few times and sits up.

His stomach grumbles—loud enough that even he can’t ignore it despite the fact that he tends to skip breakfast most days, or eat late if he does. There’s not much in the way of food at the studio, and he doesn’t feel like going down to the convenience store, but then he unearths a forgotten bowl of Cheese Buldak. He weighs the imminent spice-related suffering against the force of his hunger, but the hunger wins this time.

While he waits for the water to boil, silently thanking his mother for insisting on getting him a nice electric kettle for the studio, he pulls up the half-finished files and a replay of tonight’s broadcast on his computer.

Each time his eyes stray to Seonghwa, Hongjoong feels the embarrassment creep up his throat. What was he thinking, sending an email like that? Backup address or not? And yet, there’s a part of him that knows that it made him feel better, sharing those thoughts with someone other than himself, someone other than the people he actually knows and works with. It’s different when it’s a stranger, or maybe no one at all. There’s a kind of comfort in that—knowing that even if someone is reading his clumsy attempt at untangling his jumbled thoughts, it’s not someone who can see straight into Hongjoong’s heart.

It becomes his embarrassing, secret little habit.

Hongjoong doesn’t email after every broadcast, but on the nights when the silence around him gets a little too oppressive, when it feels like there’s nothing but the encroaching darkness around him and not another living soul left alive, he writes.

It’s strangely freeing in a way keeping a journal has never been. Hongjoong tried it twice, but both times he got bored with it after three days. He’s not a stranger to dissecting his emotions, but he usually ends up spilling them to someone. His fans on Fromm. His mom. Maddox, occasionally. There’s always another person at the other end of this emotional vivisection, and maybe that’s why the emails work, why Hongjoong can write down all these things he wouldn’t be able to say otherwise.

He’s always done his finest work on paper, after all.

There are more emails before, and after, and in between. Short and funny, long and nostalgic. There’s never any reply, and that constant is a comfort, too. This is the way it’s meant to be: Hongjoong awake in the middle of the night, letting the soft parts of him show through.

One particularly hard night, he writes:

“This is good,” Eden says at the end of their feedback session. They’re lounging in his studio together with Ollounder and Leez, listening to the last two demos Hongjoong managed to finish in between his preparations for the Asia tour and the work on San’s album. “Probably enough for a mini, especially if you do an instrumental intro or outro for the sixth track.”

Hongjoong frowns. “But hyung, it was supposed to be a full album,” he says.

“We’d be cutting it close with everything else going on,” Eden hums, scrolling through the calendar on his phone. “It’s something you should at the very least consider, Hongjoong-ah. You’ve been busy, and the schedule for the rest of the year doesn’t look much better. I’m not saying you shouldn’t release a full album right now, but we do have to consider the timing.”

Hongjoong knows, deep down, that Eden is not wrong. He’s about halfway done with the demos. He’s aiming for ten full tracks, an instrumental intro and outro, and none of them are close to being polished enough for recording. It’s late October. The album is supposed to ship in April.

“Listen,” Leez says, leaning in to pat Hongjoong on the shoulder, “you’re not gonna release anything if you get too sick to work. You need to slow down, sleep more, get some rest, you know? It’s like…you can keep doing what you’re doing and land yourself in hospital, or you can slow down a little and shelve the full album for later, give yourself more time to work on it in between other projects.”

It's stupid that this is what makes Hongjoong’s throat tighten dangerously. He knows they’re right, but the album would feel incomplete with just the existing songs. Hongjoong’s got it all figured out, the progression of the storyline between the tracks. To cut it in half would feel like leaving the listeners to figure out the rest themselves. It’s not what Hongjoong wants.

“I can make it,” he insists. “I promise. It’s not a problem. I’ll have the tracks ready.”

He can work while on tour. Maybe the change of pace, change of place will help him sleep better. It’s still not too late.

“That’s not what we’re worried about,” Ollounder says. He’s sitting back in his chair, playing with the cardboard sleeve of his coffee cup.

Hongjoong shakes his head. “You don’t have to worry at all. It’ll be okay.”

The conversation stays with him until late in the night. He’s in the studio again long after hours, dusting off a half-finished track from three years ago—it has just the right vibe for the back half of the album, but he should probably rearrange the pre-chorus, and there’s the entire second verse and the bridge missing.

Hongjoong drags his hands down his face and leans back in his chair with a groan. He can do it. He can. He just needs to focus a little longer.

The buzzing of his phone nearly makes him jump, too loud in the silence of the studio. Hongjoong looks at the caller ID.

“Mom,” he says. “It’s late. What are you doing up?”

“Well, I could ask you the same question, Hongjoong-ah,” she says. “What are you doing still up?”

Hongjoong takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “You know this is early for me. But seriously, shouldn’t you be in bed? It’s almost midnight.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she confesses. “And we haven’t talked in a while. How have you been, baby? Are you doing okay?”

Hongjoong sighs, then realizes his mistake immediately. “I’m fine,” he says, knowing full well this won’t placate his mother now that she’s caught on to his mood. “I had a meeting with the producer hyungs today.”

“Did it not go well?” his mother asks cautiously.

Hongjoong sighs again, then runs a hand through his hair. “They liked the songs…”

“But?”

“But they think I should consider making it a mini album, with the tour and everything else that’s on my plate,” he says. He doesn’t want to worry her, he really doesn’t.

His mom is silent for a moment. “Well, Hongjoong-ah,” she says then, “what do you want?”

“It’s not that simple. It’s—”

“No, Hongjoong-ah. It is,” she insists. “What do you want? Not Yonghwan-ssi, not Kyungmoon-ssi, not the rest of them. What do you want to do?”

“I want to release a full album,” he says. “I’m done with Sannie’s album, all the tracks are off to be mixed and mastered now, and I can work while on tour—I always do anyway. I know they just worry I’m taking on too much, and that I won’t be able to meet the deadlines, but I know myself. It’s just—I’ve been doing this for a while, right? And it’s been over a year since I last released any music, so I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I want this project to be. So this isn’t like—it’s not just me being contrary or not knowing my own limits or anything, you know? I know what I want this to be, and it’s not five tracks and an outro.”

“Then do that,” his mom says, and Hongjoong has never been more grateful to be her son. “But, Hongjoong-ah, please, make sure to take care of yourself too, okay? I worry about you when you’re all alone. How have you been sleeping?”

For a moment, Hongjoong considers sidestepping the truth in favor of something more palatable. Then he thinks better of it.

“Ah, that—yeah, it’s been a little rough,” he admits. “I mean, you know what the doctor said, and it’s better some nights, worse some others, but I’ve been doing okay.” Hongjoong pauses. “There’s—uh, actually something that’s been helping a little. I found this late-night broadcast on the radio, and the host has a really nice voice, so it helps me fall asleep sometimes. And it’s like—I know it’s a little silly,” he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, “but it helps, so… Yeah.”

His mother is quiet again for a little moment. “There’s nothing silly about finding comfort in something,” she says. “But please, promise me to take care of yourself. You need to eat your meals and try to sleep as much as you can, and if you need anything, just give your mom a call, okay? You’re never too old to let me dote on you a bit.”

“Mom,” Hongjoong whines, embarrassed, but deep down, a warm feeling spreads all over his chest.

“Now, now,” she counters immediately. “I said what I said. Both you and your brother will always be my little boys in my eyes.”

They’re about to hang up when Hongjoong inhales deeply, then asks, “Mom…when you met Taeho, did you like him?”

It’s a question that’s been rattling around his head ever since the breakup. Hongjoong’s father never met him, but his mother did when she came to visit him while she was in the city to visit a friend in hospital. It wasn’t even that Hongjoong was keeping him a secret; they were simply not at that stage yet. But she did meet him once, and Hongjoong has wondered ever since.

His mother is quiet for a long time.

“He seemed nice,” she says at last, a little hesitant. “He was nice. But being nice is not enough to make a relationship work, Hongjoong-ah. You can be the nicest person in the world, but if you’re not right for the other person, it just won’t work no matter how hard you try. Hongjoong-ah, where is this coming from?”

Hongjoong leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve been thinking, I guess, about everything that’s happened in the past year. Last time I was promoting, it was right after we—yeah, it’s just been on my mind, I guess, with the album coming out and everything.”

He’s had a lot of time to think, wondering late at night about the could haves-should haves. At the time, he was so preoccupied with the slow dissolution of everything between them, he’d never been quite sure how all of that looked from the outside.

“Well, as long as you’re okay,” his mom says.

Hongjoong smiles. “No, I am, really,” he says. “You don’t have to worry.”

The quiet huff of air tells Hongjoong that his mother is laughing on the other end of the line. “Silly boy,” she chides, “I always worry.”

Hongjoong feels a little lighter once they hang up, less burdened by doubt and overthinking. He knows he’s lucky in ways many people like him aren’t. His mother is infinitely caring, and she loves him unconditionally, the same as his father. He can talk to her about anything and know that she will listen.

Thank you, he writes in their chat, then presses send.

After that, he turns off his computer and shrugs on his leather jacket. Then, with the flick of the light switch and the beep of the electronic lock, he’s gone for the night.

The day the Chungha collab comes out, Hongjoong goes live between studio sessions. He’s not wearing any makeup and has a pair of big glasses framing his face. His hair is getting a little too long, he thinks as he watches himself in the corner of the screen.

“Ah, yes, the collab was so much fun,” he says, leaning forward to prop his face on the back of his hand stacked on top of the other. “I could hardly believe it when Chungha-sunbaenim reached out to me. I didn’t know if I’d be able to do it at first, but our schedules aligned, and we were able to collaborate after all… Hah, yeah, I feel very thankful to have had this opportunity, and seeing the positive reaction now, I’m just happy I could show you another side of myself.”

He scrolls through the comments that keep pouring in at a breakneck speed until one of them catches his attention.

“I know it’s been a little while since you could hear my voice like this,” he says, “but if you could be just a little more patient… I mean, there are some things happening that I can’t talk about right now, but I think you’ll be able to enjoy seeing even more new sides of me. In the meantime, though, please, give Eenie Meenie and Chungha-sunbaenim a lot of love. We worked really hard on it, and it’s a great song that I think many people will like. Sunbaenim’s voice suits it so well, I think, and then my verse—well, I had a lot of fun writing it. It’s not my usual style, right? But I really wanted to try something new, so I challenged myself a little, and I hope you like it, too.”

He stays a little longer, answering the questions he manages to catch in the fast-moving chat. He has a rehearsal with the live band scheduled in twenty minutes, but they’re coming over instead of Hongjoong going out to meet them, so he doesn’t need to rush that much.

The song is doing well. The reaction has been positive, and he’s been getting so much love for his verse. It’s flattering and reassuring. It tells Hongjoong that maybe he’s not as rusty as he sometimes feels, working on his album long after everyone else has gone to sleep.

When he comes by the practice room, the first thing he hears are the cheers from Jungjae and the other guys.

“Yah, aren’t you a little too good at this?” Jungjae asks, giving Hongjoong a friendly punch in the arm.

“Hyung, stop embarrassing me.” Hongjoong laughs. He hides his face in his hands, until only his eyes are peeking out. He bows a few times to everyone in the room then says, “Can we, please, get on with the practice now?”

They do a few run-throughs of the set until Hongjoong is starting to get hoarse. The band members weren’t able to come with him to the States, and it’s been a while since they last performed together, back at Hongjoong’s Seoul concert that kicked off the tour last winter.

After the rehearsal, he has one of the staff members record him doing the Eenie Meenie challenge—he filmed one with Chungha back on set, but it would be nice if he uploaded one on his own as well. Then he ropes their head of security into learning the steps and filming it with him, just so there’s something fun to post later this week after the first wave of excitement starts to die down. He’ll be packing for the tour by then, so it’s best to take care of it in advance.

In his Kakao chat with Chungha, Hongjoong sends a quick, Noona, fighting!, accompanied by a sticker of a cheerleading squirrel.

He has another choreo practice ahead of him, then more work at the studio. He probably won’t be going home tonight. Already he can hear his mother’s scolding voice at the back of his head, but there’s no way around it. If he wants this album to come out on time and in the shape that he’s envisioned, it means sacrificing something else for it.

Hongjoong is quite adept at that already.

It’s just past midnight when Chungha sends Hongjoong a sleepy selfie from her car with a thank you message attached. It’s too early to be up for a music show prerecording, so she’s most likely coming back from a late schedule.

He’s still at the studio, but he has the countdown to the radio broadcast pulled up on his second monitor while he goes over his lyrics.

The sound of the broadcast beginning startles him out of his focus. Hongjoong expects to see the familiar setup, but then out of the corner of his eye he spies an anomaly. There’s another person sitting right next to Seonghwa in the studio, and when Hongjoong takes a moment to really look at them, his eyes widen, mouth opening in surprise.

“What?” he says to himself, then looks closer.

No matter how many times he blinks, it’s still Chungha sitting on Seonghwa’s left at the table, headphones on and leaning into the microphone.

But it’s still Seonghwa who speaks first.

“It’s 1 a.m. on a Friday night, and this is the Sleepless Hour,” he says. “I’m your host, Park Seonghwa, here to help you count the minutes till sunrise. Playing music for all those who can’t sleep and answering questions from those in need of advice. As you can see, today is not a regular broadcast. Instead, I have a little surprise for you. I hope you’ll forgive me, then, for straying from our usual Friday schedule a little bit, but we have a very special guest with us, who’s just released a new single, and who really, really wanted to come on my show. Dear listeners, please, give your warmest welcome to Chungha, who’s just had a comeback with her new digital single Eenie Meenie.”

Chungha laughs as she says hello, her nose scrunching up. “Ah, thank you, thank you, Seonghwa-ssi,” she says. “Thank you so much for having me at this very late hour. Maybe we should explain to your listeners why I’m even here? Aside from promoting my single, of course.”

Seonghwa smiles and Hongjoong pushes his work laptop away.

“Of course. Would you care to explain, then, or should I?” He gestures to Chungha, like he’s trying to encourage her to speak.

“Ah, you see, there’s a little story behind this appearance,” she says. “We’ve known each other for quite a while, haven’t we?”

Seonghwa nods with a quiet hum, and Hongjoong’s pulse quickens.

“How many years has it been, five? Six?” Chungha continues. “So we know each other pretty well, and when I thought about how to promote my new song, I asked Seonghwa if he could do me a huge favor and have me on his show as a guest. But, you see, he didn’t want to believe me at first!”

“Noona, you’re a big star, and I’m just a late night radio show host. I really thought you were teasing!” Seonghwa protests.

They both laugh.

“Also, just so there are no misunderstandings—please, don’t think he’s being rude, calling me that on air.” Chungha smiles with the corner of her mouth. “I specifically asked him to—he’s spent so many years calling me that, it would be too weird to go back to formal speech now. He’s like a little brother to me anyway. That’s the story, really. I don’t always listen to his show because I’m an early sleeper, but whenever I do, it always feels so nice and cozy. I’ve always wanted to be a guest even though Seonghwa almost never has any, so I jumped at the chance and wouldn’t take no for an answer when the opportunity presented itself, and now here I am.”

Once she leans back in her chair, Seonghwa tells his listeners that they’re about to hear the new single, leaving Hongjoong to stew while the familiar music plays.

It’s a little bit of a cosmic joke—that someone he knows would not only be familiar with Seonghwa but also know him so well. There’s an ease to the way these two are around each other, as the camera catches them chatting while the song plays, that testifies to long years of friendship. Hongjoong doesn’t quite know what to do with that. It’s two worlds colliding at 1 a.m. on a Friday night with a rain of sparks.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Seonghwa was supposed to be an unreachable voice on the radio, not someone Hongjoong could probably meet if he really wanted.

His phone lights up with a message from Yunho, asking if he’s still up at the company and if he wants to order anything to eat, but Hongjoong says he’s gone home for the day. A little white lie, because he can barely tear his eyes away from the screen. His work is entirely forgotten for the night.

He’s still trying to wrap his head around the incredible coincidence of the person he’s collaborated with being close friends with the man Hongjoong has been turning to for comfort over the past few months.

Hongjoong is not stupid. Nor is he prone to self-delusion. He knows he’s attracted to Seonghwa. The man is beautiful, exactly Hongjoong’s type, and he seems to be kind and thoughtful.

It’s all too easy to want to succumb to this budding little crush. But it’s really an innocent vice at the end of the day—just Hongjoong looking at a pretty face and listening to a smooth voice in the privacy of his studio or his home with a fluttery feeling in his chest. It doesn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything anyway. Not with Hongjoong being who he is.

He hasn’t slept with anyone since Taeho. It’s been over a year. Hongjoong has pushed those thoughts and feelings deep, deep down, thrown himself into work and simply pretended that side of him doesn’t exist. He gets himself off in the shower from time to time, but that’s about the extent of it. Utilitarian and perfunctory. He hasn’t even actively thought about being attracted to someone in a long, long time.

But he’s attracted to Seonghwa. And this—this is making it all a little bit too real.

The song ends, then the sound cuts back to the studio. Seonghwa leans into the mic and says, “And that was Chungha with Eenie Meenie, her latest single which is out now. She’s with us tonight to share some of her favorite songs to fall asleep to and promote her new album.” With that, he turns to her. “So how was it, working on the album after such a long break?”

Chungha nods. “Ah, right, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” she says. “Things have changed a lot since I last put out new music, so I wanted this single to reflect that as well. Show my fans a new side of me, something they haven’t seen before.” She looks at Seonghwa for a moment, then leans forward a bit more. “There’s actually another story about it, isn’t there? So the thing is, Seonghwa might be playing really soft, cozy music on the show, but in real life, he’s actually a huge fan of rap and hip-hop. And so when I first told him about the song, he was really excited about it. With the comeback having more of a hip-hop vibe, I thought I should really look for a real rapper to feature. I’m not too great at rapping, so I really wanted someone who would suit this track well and had the skills to pull off the verse I had in mind. So I was racking my brain trying to find the right person to do it, and then one evening we were talking about it, and Seonghwa said, Noona, you should check out Hongjoong. He’s really good and he’d be a great fit for the feature.”

Hongjoong freezes.

On the screen, Chungha is still talking. “I went to listen to Hongjoong’s music and thought to myself, wow, he’s so good! So I added all of his albums to my playlist and just kept listening to them over and over for a few days, then I had my team contact his company. The whole time I kept thinking to myself, what if he doesn’t agree? What if he doesn’t have the time? Because at that point I didn’t really want anyone else for this feature. But thankfully he agreed. He not only wrote but also produced his own verse, which really made the song what it is. So I’m really grateful to him that he said yes.” She turns to the camera and makes a heart with a sunny smile. “Hongjoong-ah, thank you so much! You better be asleep, though! I’ll send you a clip in the morning.”

Hongjoong’s ears are ringing. It takes the rest of his body a moment to catch up to the avalanche of emotions in his head, but then he slumps in his chair like someone’s cut the strings on a marionette.

He can barely wrap his head around it.

What are the odds? Hongjoong keeps thinking to himself, a little hysterically. What are the fucking odds?

How is this even his life? What kind of a coincidence it must be, for Seonghwa to have been the person who made it possible for Hongjoong to collaborate with Chungha in the first place?

It seems like something out of a daytime drama. Definitely not the kind of thing that happens to real people like Hongjoong. He’s already picking up his phone, ready to message Chungha and ask why she’d never mentioned any of that when they worked together, but thinks better of it when the idea that word would get back to Seonghwa occurs to him.

Hongjoong thinks once again about all the emails he’s sent. All the vulnerable moments he’s shared with Seonghwa. Of course there’s a good chance that Seonghwa has never even read them in the first place, but the thought of having to confront this silly little thing he has been doing makes Hongjoong’s stomach curdle in embarrassment.

Maybe he should just stop with the emails altogether. They’ve never been meant as anything but a little escape from reality into a space where Hongjoong could be more vulnerable with his feelings than he would otherwise.

But now he feels not only vulnerable but exposed. It’s all getting a little too real. And that—that freaks Hongjoong out. He’ll miss sending those messages into the ether, but it’s the reasonable thing to do.

Hongjoong can barely remember the rest of that broadcast, and he doesn’t sleep more than three hours that night. It’s less of a sleep and more of a nap, really—fitful and restless. By the time he wakes up again, it’s 6:30 a.m.

He decides to get up. If there’s anything his experience of these past few months has taught him, it’s that if he wakes up past six in the morning, there’s no use in trying to go back to sleep. He’ll only end up tossing and turning, more and more frustrated.

Instead, Hongjoong drags himself over to the company gym and spends some time doing cardio and light weight training, then hits the showers.

On his way out, he snaps a mirror selfie and attaches it to a string of messages on Fromm.

Hongjoong
hello! my early morning workout is done! ㅋㅋㅋ

Hongjoong
today i rose with the sun and now i have a full day
ahead of me!

Hongjoong
please, think of me warmly as you go about your
day, and remember not to catch a cold!

Hongjoong
it's getting really cold these days, isn’t it? but with
all the warm thoughts i’m receiving from all of you,
i don't even need a coat or a hot drink. you should
remember to dress warmly, though, because this weather
is not for the weak!

He pauses for a moment, then, before he can think better of it, he continues:

Hongjoong
actually, these days i haven’t been sleeping too well...
i’m fine, though! you don't have to worry about me! and for
those of you who are like me and have a little trouble
falling asleep sometimes, there's actually something i’d like
to recommend!

Hongjoong
there's this late-night radio show - you can listen to it
on the local radio, but they also have a broadcast on youtube.
it’s called 'the sleepless hour', and i tune into it whenever
i’m having trouble falling asleep. the program is very nice and
the host has a really soothing voice. it’s really good! you
should check it out!

Hongjoong
they even played my new song last night ㅋㅋㅋ

He then closes the app and starts sifting through the files in his work in progress folders.

Hongjoong’s process has always been a little bit erratic. He doesn’t work on one song from start to finish. Instead, he keeps jumping between projects: the instrumental for Sohyang’s upcoming single here, the holiday cover arrangement for Yeosang there, his own work somewhere in between. There’s a method to this madness, though, and Hongjoong enjoys the variety, even if it leaves him having to clean up his folders more often than he’d like. It's mostly mindless work, though, because if there’s one thing Hongjoong is extremely methodical about in this whole process, it’s naming the files. From there, it’s just a case of sorting them into the relevant folders to free up the space for the new files in the main folder.

This, however, means that Hongjoong is free to let his thoughts roam, and no matter what he does, they keep straying towards Seonghwa.

Of course, Hongjoong knows that his fans are everywhere. He’s had enough random encounters with people from high school students to ajummas selling hotteok on the street corner to know that there are all kinds of people listening to his music. He’s always felt infinitely grateful for that. So it shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary for a radio host to be familiar with and enjoy his music. Hongjoong might not be charting in the Top 10 on Melon, but he’s decently popular. Seonghwa is around his age—Hongjoong’s main fan demographic.

And yet, it gives Hongjoong a squirmy feeling in his stomach. But there’s nothing he can do about it now. He can’t unsend those emails; he can’t stuff the words back under his fingers and pretend he said nothing. If there’s any consolation, it’s in the silence which has been the only answer he’s received.

Sometimes when Hongjoong can’t sleep on the weekend, he takes his camera and goes outside to take pictures. Some of them make it to his official socials. Others are posted on his anonymous photography account. view.from.the.horizon has a decent following on Instagram, and it gives Hongjoong the freedom to post the kind of stuff that feels a little more personal. The stuff he wants to keep closer to his chest.

He never really has a plan when he goes out. He photographs whatever catches his attention. Tonight, it’s the rain reflected in the yellow light of street lamps. It’s been drizzling since morning, and even, now the persistent damp wrenches itself beneath his clothes to sit there wetly and plasters his hair to the back of his neck.

Still, the pictures come out pretty—the yellow-orange glow, the raindrops caught in the moment, the shine of rain-soaked leaves on the trees where the light catches them. Hongjoong lets himself wander a little longer, until the humidity starts to be too much. Slowly, he trudges back home and greets the concierge on night shift, then disappears into the elevator.

It’s nearly three in the morning by the time he punches in the code for his front door and slips his shoes off in the entryway. The apartment is dark and quiet as always. The bright light from the fridge when he goes to open it in search of a drink blinds him for a few seconds. Hongjoong blinks against the glare and pulls out a bottle of barley tea.

As he unscrews the bottle, he opens his laptop with his other hand to check his emails one last time before he goes to bed. His company inbox doesn’t redirect automatically to his phone as a concession to his mother, but he likes to check in periodically.

When he opens the browser, though, the first email tab that loads is not his company email—it’s his backup private account that he’d left open weeks ago and promptly forgot. There’s over three thousand eight hundred unread messages—mostly newsletters that Hongjoong doesn’t remember subscribing to—and he goes to close the tab when the third email from the top stops him in his tracks.

That’s impossible, he thinks. He feels a little dizzy, and there’s a faint ringing in his ears.

He takes a big gulp of the barley tea and looks again, but the email is still there. Delivered at 11:36 p.m. Hongjoong swallows, his throat tight.

The sender name spells, in stark bold, Park Seonghwa.