Chapter Text
The building was quiet, save for the faint hum of air conditioning and the muffled sound of a bass track from a practice room two floors down. It was long past midnight, and most of the trainees and staff had gone home. Only the five members of Cortis lingered in their studio at the company building, scattered across rooms, each lost in his own ritual of unwinding after another long day.
Martin sat in the cramped studio, headphones hanging loosely around his neck, the glow of his laptop screen casting soft shadows across his face. His cursor blinked over a half-finished track, the looping bassline already feeling like it had been played one too many times. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
On the floor, Juhoon was sprawled on a cushion with a notebook balanced on his knees, the pen in his hand moving in restless circles. Lyrics, phrases, and stray words filled the page, some crossed out, others underlined twice. He looked focused, but every so often, he let out a quiet sigh that broke Martin’s concentration.
Martin glanced over. He’s restless again. Juhoon always worked with an intensity that seemed too heavy for someone his age. At seventeen, he was still technically the group’s “middle,” same as Martin, but he often forgot—his seriousness made him seem older, even when his laughter reminded you how young he really was, how young they both were.
“Do you ever feel like we’re just chasing what people want us to be?” Juhoon asked suddenly, his pen pausing mid-scribble.
Martin blinked, pulled back from his thoughts. “What do you mean?”
Juhoon shifted, sitting upright, his dark hoodie hanging loose around his frame. “Like… we’re supposed to be ‘different,’ right? Cortis, the ones who don’t fit inside the box. But sometimes it feels like even that’s a box. Like people expect ‘freedom’ from us, and it’s just another role to play.”
His words hung in the quiet. Martin took a minute to let them sink in before replying.
“You’re not wrong,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But… I think what matters is that we still believe in what we’re doing. Expectations will always be there—fans, the company, even ourselves. What scares me isn’t being boxed in. It’s forgetting why we wanted to step out of the box in the first place.”
Juhoon’s gaze dropped to his notebook, then back to Martin. “You make it sound so simple.”
Martin smiled faintly. “It’s not. But we have to act like it is. Otherwise, we’ll drive ourselves insane.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them again. Juhoon tapped his pen against the page, his expression unreadable. Then he asked quietly, almost like he wasn’t sure Martin would answer:
“Do you ever feel like the expectations you put on yourself are heavier than the ones anyone else puts on you?” His voice trailing off towards the end.
Martin froze. He hadn’t expected Juhoon to flip the question back. He thought about his own late nights in the studio, the constant push to write, to produce, to lead. The pressure to prove not just that Cortis belonged, but that he could carry them there.
“Every day,” Martin admitted finally, his voice lower now. “But that’s why we share it. You don’t have to carry it all alone. That’s why we’re a group.”
Juhoon’s lips quirked into a small, wry smile. “Hearing it from you helps more than you know.”He sighed.
The sincerity in his tone made Martin’s chest tighten unexpectedly. He swallowed, looked away before it lingered too long.
“Come on,” Martin said, standing and stretching. “Let’s take a break. Roof?”
Juhoon’s eyes lit up, the heaviness easing just slightly. He tossed his pen onto the notebook and followed.
They climbed the narrow stairwell to the rooftop, pushing open the heavy metal door. Cool night air rushed over them, carrying the faint sounds of traffic from below. Seoul sprawled out endlessly—neon lights, headlights snaking through streets, skyscrapers glowing like stars.
Juhoon stepped toward the railing, leaning against it, his hoodie pulled tight against the breeze. Martin joined him, close enough that their shoulders brushed lightly when the wind pushed them.
“You ever wonder what people see when they look at us on stage?” Martin asked, his voice softer than before.
Juhoon tilted his head. “You mean besides the choreography and good looks?” He was only half joking.
Martin smiled, yet his tone stayed more serious, “I mean… do they see us? Or just a performance?”
Juhoon thought for a long moment, eyes fixed on the skyline. “Sometimes I feel like people only see the version of me that sings and dances well. Not the version that overthinks everything. Not the one who doubts himself at 2 a.m.”
Martin exhaled slowly. “Maybe. But the people who matter—the ones who really watch us—they’ll see both. And even if they don’t… we’ll know we’re giving them something real. Even the messy parts.”
The billboard across the street flashed, momentarily painting their faces in blue light. Juhoon turned his head to study Martin, who stared out over the city, his jaw set, eyes determined.
“Promise me we’ll keep doing it that way,” Juhoon said softly. “Even when things get hectic.”
Martin finally looked back at him, their eyes locking. The city noise faded, the wind stilled, and for a moment it felt like the whole rooftop was holding its breath.
“Promise,” Martin said.
And though nothing more was spoken, the silence between them carried a weight Juhoon couldn’t ignore.
———————————————————————————
The next night was anything but quiet.
The dorm’s living room was filled with the sounds of the two youngest members, Seonghyeon and Keonho, locked in another dramatic battle. This time, it was over the TV remote.
“Hyung, tell him I get the TV tonight! I called it yesterday!” Keonho whined, clutching the remote like a trophy.
“You’re lying, you always do this!” Seonghyeon shot back, lunging for it.
Their scuffle spilled across the floor, limbs tangling as they wrestled like puppies. James sat stretched out on the couch, phone in hand, watching the chaos unfold with the patience of someone who had seen it a hundred times before. His expression was calm, but his eyes flicked up every so often, observant.
Leaning against the doorway, Juhoon smirked at the scene. He was about to intervene when Martin passed by from the kitchen, brushing his shoulder in the process. The brief touch sent a spark up Juhoon’s arm that he pretended not to feel.
The maknaes noticed him immediately. “Juhoon-hyung! Decide for us!” Seonghyeon cried, while Keonho clutched the remote tighter.
Juhoon raised his hands in surrender, feigning innocence. “Don’t drag me into this. Martin’s the leader—ask him.”
All at once, the maknaes pounced. “Hyuuuuung!” they chorused, turning to Martin like he was the judge of the century.
Martin blinked, caught mid-sip of his water. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Rock-paper-scissors. Best of three. Settle it like men.”
Grumbling, the maknaes dropped to the floor, launching into the most dramatic round of rock-paper-scissors the group had ever seen. Their laughter echoed through the room.
Juhoon sat casually on the armrest of the couch near Martin, pretending to watch the game. In reality, all he could feel was the warmth radiating from Martin sitting beside him, the way their sleeves brushed whenever either of them shifted. It was maddeningly small and yet impossible to ignore.
James glanced up from his phone, eyes flicking between them. For a split second, Juhoon thought he saw something in James’s expression—curiosity, maybe recognition—but the older member said nothing.
The game ended with Seonghyeon victorious, Keonho groaning and flopping dramatically into the couch cushions. The living room dissolved into more laughter, the volume nearly shaking the walls.
Amidst the chaos, Martin leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Juhoon could hear.
“Do you want to escape later? Practice room. Work on that verse?”
The offer wasn’t unusual, but the way his tone dipped—quiet, intentional—made Juhoon’s pulse stumble. He glanced sideways, trying to read Martin’s expression, but the leader was already focused on the floor where the maknaes were arguing again.
“Yeah,” Juhoon said softly. “Let’s.”
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second too long. Juhoon looked away first, his chest tight.
And from his spot on the couch, James noticed again, the corner of his mouth twitching like he understood far more than anyone gave him credit for.
———————————————————————————
The company building was different at night. Long hallways that bustled with staff in the day were now silent, the fluorescent lights dimmed to half-brightness. It made every sound echo: the squeak of sneakers against the linoleum, the faint hum of a vending machine down the hall.
Juhoon adjusted his hoodie as he followed Martin into one of the smaller practice rooms. The mirrors stretched from wall to wall, reflecting their shadows under the single overhead light. It smelled faintly of resin and sweat, the familiar scent of hours spent chasing perfection.
Martin dropped his water bottle in the corner, crouched down to set up his laptop with the speaker system. “I added a rough chorus to the track from yesterday. Wanted to see how it sits with your verse.”
Juhoon nodded, pulling out his notebook and sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, tugging his hoodie hood over his head. He flipped to the page, tapping his pen against the margin as Martin’s voice filled the room, explaining chord progressions and timing.
When Martin pressed play, the bass filled the air—low, steady, like a heartbeat. The new chorus unfolded, his voice layered with harmony, then the track cut out abruptly.
“What do you think?” Martin asked, glancing over, his eyes searching for the validation of his best friend and group member.
Juhoon looked at the mirror instead of him. His own reflection stared back, hoodie loose, hair falling into his eyes. He hesitated. “It sounds… good. Too good, maybe.”
Martin frowned. “Too good?”
Juhoon’s lips pressed together. “It feels polished, but…” He searched for words. “It’s missing something raw. Something that feels like us.” His voice was calm in the way it normally was as he played with his hoodie string.
For a moment, Martin was quiet. Then he smirked faintly, sitting down beside him, close enough that Juhoon could feel the warmth radiating off his shoulder. “You’re starting to sound like me,” Martin teased softly.
Juhoon chuckled under his breath. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”
The air shifted with those words. He hadn’t meant for them to come out sounding so weighted, but when he turned his head, Martin was already looking at him—steady, unreadable.
The track looped faintly in the background, the bass thumping like an echo of Juhoon’s own heart.
“I wanted to tell you something,” Juhoon blurted, before he could stop himself. His hand tightened around the pen. “It’s just… sometimes when we work like this, I feel—”
The door creaked open.
Both of them jerked their heads toward the sound. James stood in the doorway, hair messy from sleep, a mug in his hand.
“You’re still here?” His voice was low, laced with that older-brother calm. “It’s almost 2 a.m.”
Martin cleared his throat quickly, standing to his feet. “Just working on the new track. We’ll wrap up soon.”
James’s eyes flicked between them, lingering just long enough to make Juhoon’s ears burn. Then he nodded once, stepping back. “Don’t overdo it. We’ve got a full schedule tomorrow. Make sure you clean up before heading back.”
The door closed.
The silence after was deafening. Juhoon bit his bottom lip as he stared down at his notebook, the words on the page blurring. His chance to say more was gone, slipped through his fingers.
Martin sat back down slowly, expression unreadable. “What were you about to say?” His tone was sweet and reassuring–the way it always was when it came to Juhoon.
Juhoon swallowed, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just… that working with you makes things feel easier. Even when it’s hard.” He swallowed down what he really wanted to say, his eyes trained on the white leather star on his shoes.
Martin studied him for a moment longer, as if trying to catch the words Juhoon wasn’t saying. Then he nodded. “Same here.”
They didn’t speak of it again. But when Martin pressed play once more, and their shoulders brushed as they leaned over the notebook, the tension lingered—thick, unspoken, and dangerously close to breaking.