Scene: Backstage, Minutes Before the Performance

The dressing room is a blur of movement — stylists touching up makeup, crew members running cables, the soft crackle of in-ear monitors being tested. A soft, bass-heavy thrum from the stage beyond the curtain pulses in the walls. It's almost time.

Hong stands in front of the mirror, adjusting the strap of his black mesh crop top. It hugs his frame just enough to be scandalous — tight where it counts, loose where it teases. His hair is slicked back, damp at the temples, a silver chain resting against the hollow of his collarbone. There’s glitter under his eyes, sharp eyeliner at the corners, and a small smirk curling on his lips as he watches himself.

Nut leans against the wall near the door, arms crossed, jaw clenched just enough to give him away. His own outfit is simple — oversized black jacket, ripped jeans, heavy boots — but his gaze is anything but casual. He hasn’t said a word since Hong walked out of the styling room dressed like that.

Nut:

(grumbling)

Do you even know what you’re wearing?

Hong:

(innocent, eyes on the mirror)

Clothes. Fashion. Concepts. Art. You wouldn’t understand.

Nut:

(steps forward)

It’s a crop top.

Hong:

(grinning)

Very observant. Proud of you.

Nut:

(squints)

It’s... distracting.

Hong:

(turns to face him)

To who?

Nut:

You know who.

Hong's smile deepens. He crosses the room slowly, until he’s toe-to-toe with Nut. The lights behind him catch on the shimmer beneath his eyes, making him look like something untouchable — half firework, half heartbeat.

Hong:

(soft)

You’re not my papa, Nut.

Nut:

Oh my darling, you, señorita

Call mе papa, then you are mama.

Nut falters — just for a second. Then the stage manager calls out:

“Group Aether — two minutes!”

Nut exhales and turns toward the hallway without another word, but his ears are red. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s standing just offstage with the others — William, Lego, and Tui already bouncing on their heels, hyped up and joking around.

The lights dim. The crowd screams.

Their opening track drops heavy with synth and heartbeat bass. The group rushes onto the stage — Hong front and center, of course. The cheers spike the moment he hits the light.

Nut takes his spot beside him, mic in hand, and when the second chorus hits, his voice cuts through the mix.

Nut:

(singing, eyes locked on Hong)

Oh senorita… call me papa…

Hong shoots him a sideways glance, breathless from dancing, eyes gleaming like he knows exactly what Nut’s doing.

Nut:

(grinning mid-line)

Then you’re mama…

The fans scream louder. Not for the lyrics. For the tension.

Hong laughs — barely — like it caught him off guard. But he doesn’t miss a beat. He turns into the spin, leans into the mic, and gives the camera his most dangerous smirk of the night.

Hong:

(under his breath, not in the mic)

Careful, Nut. You’re gonna make it real.

They don’t speak again for the rest of the set — but they don’t have to.

Every glance, every touch in choreography, every lyric they throw at each other across the stage — it's all a conversation only they understand.

And the crowd eats it up.

Scene: home — Late Night, Just Nut and Hong

The apartment is unusually quiet for a post-show night. No clattering dishes, no bickering over shower order, no Lego belting ballads off-key while William threatens to hide his shampoo.

Hong tosses his duffel bag onto the couch and stretches, the hem of his black hoodie riding up just a bit. Nut pretends not to look.

Nut:

(grabbing a water bottle from the fridge)

So… just us tonight?

Hong:

(glancing at him, deadpan)

You sound disappointed.

Nut:

(sips)

Just surprised. William ran off with Po the second we stepped off stage. Diamond dragged Lego somewhere suspiciously romantic. And Tui…

Hong:

(interrupting)

Tui said, and I quote, “If I die, delete my search history.” Then vanished.

Nut:

(chuckles)

Right. So it’s just you, me, and this weirdly quiet apartment.

A beat of silence passes.

Hong:

(nods)

We could put on a movie. Or, you know… awkwardly avoid eye contact for three hours and pretend we don’t remember the green room.

Nut’s face flushes immediately.

Nut:

(defensive)

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Hong:

(smiling slightly)

Sure you don’t.

Nut groans and flops onto the couch, throwing a cushion over his face. His voice comes out muffled.

Nut:

You promised never to bring that up again.

Hong:

(grinning, heading to the kitchen)

I promised nothing. You sang “Oh señorita, call me papa” into a live mic. That’s eternal now.

Nut:

(grumbling)

Only because you said I’m not your papa! What was I supposed to do?

Hong:

(leaning against the counter, watching him)

Not flirt with me in front of ten thousand people?

Nut lifts the cushion just enough to peek at him, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something honest between them. Tired. Raw. Still buzzing from the concert. Still carrying the weight of everything unsaid.

Nut:

(quiet)

Was I flirting?

Hong doesn’t answer right away. He walks over, sinks down beside Nut on the couch, and grabs the remote.

Hong:

Let’s see what’s on. Maybe something where two idiots don’t know how to talk about their feelings.

Nut:

(softly, almost laughing)

Sounds familiar.

They settle into a comfortable silence, the kind that feels like a held breath. The TV hums softly in the background, but neither of them is really watching. The space between them is shrinking, slowly. Not physically — but in the way eyes linger a little too long, in the way fingers brush when reaching for the same blanket.

Outside, the city hums quietly in the distance. Inside, under the soft glow of the living room lamp, two hearts sit in limbo, afraid to move and even more afraid to stay still.

And somewhere — Tui is probably buying a haunted knife off the dark web.

But for now, it’s just Nut and Hong.

And the quiet, tender electricity that only comes when you finally run out of reasons not to feel what you feel.

Scene: Shared Bedroom — Late Night

The rain had started sometime after midnight — soft and steady, tapping gently at the windows like a hush. The movie had ended, the lights had dimmed, and neither Nut nor Hong had said anything for a long while.

But now, they stood in the quiet glow of Hong’s bedroom, toes brushing against the edge of the rug. The space between them wasn’t empty anymore.

Nut reached out first — tentative fingers brushing Hong’s wrist, then curling around it, as if to make sure this moment was real. That he could touch him, and not lose him.

Hong didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in, eyes unreadable, mouth barely parted like he was about to say something — but never did.

Their kiss wasn’t loud. It wasn’t rushed. It was the kind of kiss that comes after months of pretending it would never happen. Soft, deliberate, and terrifying in its honesty.

Clothes slipped away slowly — layer by layer, heartbeat by heartbeat. When Nut's hands found the hem of Hong’s hoodie, he hesitated.

Nut:

(whispering)

Is this okay?

Hong:

(nods, voice low)

Yeah. Just… don’t laugh.

He lifts his arms, and the hoodie comes off.

And Nut sees it.

Just above Hong’s hipbone, inked in delicate script. Simple. Unassuming. But impossible to ignore.

“nut’s.”

Lowercase, just like his name. Like a secret only meant for one pair of eyes.

Nut freezes. His breath catches in his throat.

Nut:

(staring, voice barely audible)

You… got a tattoo?

Hong:

(quiet, eyes flicking away)

A while ago.

Nut:

(reading it again)

It says my name.

Hong:

It does.

Nut:

(heart pounding)

Why?

Hong looks at him then — not teasing, not hiding behind sarcasm or smirks. Just raw and real.

Hong:

Because even when you’re stupid, and loud, and jealous over crop tops…

(pauses)

You’re still the only one I ever wanted to belong to.

Nut exhales shakily, blinking fast.

Nut:

That’s not fair.

Hong:

(smiles faintly)

Neither are you.

Nut cups his face, gently. The air between them is heavy with everything unsaid — but also everything finally understood.