Chapter Text
Dylan was always known for being nonchalant, confident and unbothered with whatever people was saying about him. Usually, he would argue back if he disagree with anything and would have his own stance regardless the situation as long as his point get across.
Yeah, the group knew about Dylan's fear of thunder and how he was actually an overthinking person which they accepted and tried to help out.
Though however, there is one thing that Dylan kept hidden from everyone else, but then Jun became the only person who noticed it.
The practice room was quiet except for the sound of Dylan’s breathing and the soft squeak of sneakers against polished wood.
The music had ended minutes ago.
Dylan stood in front of the mirror anyway, chest rising and falling, eyes fixed on his reflection like it might move if he stared long enough. Sweat clung to his skin, darkening the fabric of his shirt, hair damp at his temples. His body was warm, worked hard, alive—and yet all he could see were the parts that never felt right.
His waist was too thin.
His shoulders not broad enough.
His frame is unproportionate.
His skin too pale as if he's a vampire.
Dylan pressed his palms flat against the mirror.
He twisted slightly, watching how his shirt clung when he moved, how the light caught the curve of his waist. The praise from Nano echoed in his head, saying how he looks good, though it overlaps with something heavier from his heart
I'm not good enough.
He exhaled, slow and controlled, in through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Didn’t help.
He ran a hand down his side, then dropped it quickly, almost like the touch burned. His expression hardened—not anger, just a familiar, quiet disappointment.
This is what he doesn't want people to know.
How insecure he is over his figure.
It began when Nano was complimented for being slim and curvy at the right places, then Jun and Thame being shirtless during one of their concerts, and then Pepper being photographed from behind by Gam secretly.
All of that went viral and their fans are talking about it, loving their confidence, though then came Dylan.
Some comments were mentioning about how Dylan always wear baggy clothes, covering his figure, and almost no photos of him on the group's official page which make fans disappointed. Some even think that maybe Dylan just didn't like to show himself off and prefer to be behind the scene.
Plus with his overthinking mind, he thought that what if he shows off himself, people wouldn't like him? He couldn't handle the hate to be honest.
Behind him, the door opened.
Jun had come straight from a meeting, jacket still slung over one shoulder, hair a little messy in that way that meant he’d been running his fingers through it while listening to people talk. He’d planned to knock, to announce himself, maybe tease Dylan a little and ask him out for dinner like it was nothing.
Then he saw Dylan.
Saw the stillness. The way Dylan’s shoulders were tense, his gaze unfocused despite being locked onto the mirror. Jun had seen this look before—too many times to count.
He didn’t knock.
He stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind him.
Dylan didn’t notice at first.
Jun leaned against the wall for a second, watching. Dylan shifted his weight, frowned at his reflection, tugged lightly at the hem of his shirt like he was debating whether to pull it down or rip it off entirely.
Jun sighed softly.
He crossed the room.
“Your turns are cleaner,” Jun said casually. “You fixed that thing with your shoulders.”
Dylan startled.
He spun around, eyes wide for half a second before recognition set in. “Jun—! When did you—”
“Just now,” Jun said easily, stopping beside him and facing the mirror too, like he belonged there. “You didn’t hear me.”
Dylan laughed weakly. “Guess not.”
Jun tilted his head, studying Dylan’s reflection openly, unashamedly. “You look good.”
Dylan’s smile slipped. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
Dylan scoffed under his breath and turned away from the mirror, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long drink he didn’t need. “You’re biased.”
Jun hummed. “Maybe. Doesn’t make me wrong.”
Dylan lowered the bottle, eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t feel good.”
Jun’s tone softened instantly. “Yeah?”
Dylan hesitated.
He’d gotten good at dodging questions like this. Humor, deflection, changing the subject. But Jun was standing too close, voice too gentle, presence too steady.
“…I keep looking,” Dylan admitted. “And all I can think about is how bad it is.”
Jun crossed his arms. “What is?”
Dylan stayed quiet.
Jun waited.
Finally, Dylan gestured vaguely at himself. “All of it. My body. It’s—” He grimaced. “Not good. I don't like the way I look.”
Jun studied him carefully. “What part do you not like?”
Dylan stiffened.
“That’s a lot,” he muttered.
Jun didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. “Pick one.”
Dylan swallowed. His fingers curled around the bottle until his knuckles whitened. “…My waist.”
Jun blinked.
“That’s it?” Jun asked before he could stop himself.
Dylan bristled. “See? That reaction—”
“No,” Jun interrupted quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just—” He exhaled, searching for the right words. “That’s the part you hate?”
Dylan laughed, brittle. “I mean—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “I just don't like it. I'm not sure why, but it's just, not what I want.”
Jun was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “I like your waist.”
Dylan flinched. “Jun—”
“Let me finish,” Jun said gently.
He stepped closer, close enough that Dylan could feel the warmth of him, but didn’t touch. Jun’s voice was steady, grounded.
“I like your waist because it moves the way your music does. Controlled, but expressive. Because when you dance, it’s not about how it looks—it’s about how you feel the rhythm. You lead with it without even thinking.”
Dylan stared at him.
“And,” Jun added, softer now, “because it’s part of you. The same you who stays up until 3AM rewriting lyrics because one line doesn’t sit right. The same you who gets excited over dumb chord progressions and forgets to eat when you’re inspired.”
Dylan’s throat tightened.
Jun continued, like he couldn’t stop once he’d started. “I like your shoulders because they tense when you’re nervous, broad enough for Nano to lean on. Your hands because they fidget when you’re lying and how you always hold Thame's whenever he's down. Your back because you hunch when you’re trying to be invisible even when Pepper always slapped your back to make you straighten up.”
Dylan laughed shakily. “You’re making this worse.”
Jun smiled sadly. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Dylan said, but there was no heat in it. “You’re turning it into… something.”
Jun nodded. “It is something.”
Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Dylan looked away, blinking too fast. “I don’t think compliments fix this,” he said quietly. “I don’t think anything fixes it.”
Jun’s expression softened even more. “I know.”
Dylan looked back at him, surprised.
Jun shrugged. “I’m not saying this so you wake up tomorrow and love yourself. That’d be stupid.”
Dylan huffed a small laugh.
“I’m saying it because maybe today you hate yourself a little less,” Jun continued. “And tomorrow, maybe it’s the same. Or maybe it’s better. Either way, I’m not going anywhere.”
Dylan’s chest felt tight.
“You’re annoying,” Dylan muttered.
Jun grinned. “Yeah.”
They stood there for a moment longer, the tension slowly easing, the air between them lighter.
Dylan finally sighed. “So… why are you actually here?”
Jun’s serious expression cracked instantly. “Oh. I finished my meeting early and wanted to steal you for dinner.”
Dylan blinked. “…That’s it?”
Jun shrugged. “I’m simple.”
Dylan laughed properly this time, shaking his head. “You really know how to ruin a dramatic moment.”
“On purpose.”
Dylan grabbed his bag. “Where?”
“Anywhere you want.”
Dylan considered it, then smiled softly. “Okay.”
Jun held the door open for him. “Let’s go, superstar.”
Dylan paused as he passed him, glancing back at the mirror one last time.
He didn’t love what he saw.
But for the first time in a while, he didn’t hate it either.
And Jun noticed.
The food truck area glowed softly under strings of warm lights, the kind that made everything feel slower, easier. Dylan had chosen the spot without much thought—open air, plastic tables, the hum of people talking without anyone paying too much attention. Normal. As normal as things ever got.
He was already seated when Jun came back from ordering, hunched slightly over the table with his notebook open. His pen moved quickly, confidently, stopping every few seconds so he could tap the page and hum under his breath. His hair was tied half-up, the loose strands brushing his cheeks, glasses slipping down his nose until he nudged them back with the side of his finger, never breaking focus.
Jun watched from the line.
He didn’t mean to stare. It just… happened.
Dylan like this—quiet, absorbed, unguarded—felt intimate in a way Jun couldn’t quite name. The way his brow furrowed when a lyric didn’t land. The way his lips moved soundlessly as he tested words. Jun found himself smiling before he realized it.
“Excuse me?”
Jun turned.
A fan stood nearby, phone clutched nervously in both hands. “Sorry—I don’t want to bother you, but can I take a picture?”
Jun smiled immediately. “Sure.”
They snapped a quick photo, the fan thanking him profusely before hesitating. “Um—would it be okay to take one with Dylan too?”
Jun glanced toward the table. Dylan was still lost in his notebook, unaware of the world.
Jun shook his head gently. “Not tonight. He’s working.”
The fan nodded quickly. “Oh! Of course. Sorry—thank you!”
Jun watched them leave, something warm settling in his chest as he picked up their food.
When he reached the table, he set the trays down and cleared his throat. “Hey.”
Dylan startled, looking up. “Oh—sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I can tell,” Jun said, sitting across from him. “You’re not allowed to write while eating.”
Dylan frowned. “Says who?”
“Says me. I’m older.”
Dylan snorted, closing the notebook and sliding it into his bag. “Only by a few months.”
Jun pushed a tray toward him. “Eat.”
Dylan obeyed, smiling faintly as he picked up his food. They ate in comfortable silence for a bit, Jun occasionally pushing his bangs back when they fell into his eyes.
Dylan noticed.
“Hold on,” he said suddenly.
Jun paused mid-bite. “What?”
“Lean closer.”
Jun hesitated for exactly half a second before doing as told. Dylan reached across the table, fingers brushing Jun’s forehead as he gathered his bangs together with a hair tie from his wrist.
Jun blinked. “What are you—”
“There,” Dylan said, tying it into a ridiculous little sprout. “Coconut tree.”
Jun stared at him. “…You did this on purpose.”
Dylan burst into laughter, nearly choking. “You look great.”
Jun sighed dramatically but didn’t move. “You’re evil.”
“Stay,” Dylan said, lifting his phone. “I need evidence.”
Jun posed instantly, chin tilted, completely shameless. Dylan snapped a photo, giggling so hard he had to lower the phone.
When they finished eating, Jun asked, “Ice cream?”
Dylan’s eyes lit up. “Yes.”
They walked to another truck, standing close while they waited. Dylan reached up again, this time undoing the hair tie and smoothing Jun’s bangs back into place, careful, almost tender. From the outside, it probably looked affectionate. Jun didn’t comment. He just let Dylan do it.
When they got their ice cream, Jun glanced at Dylan—really looked this time.
The tension from earlier was gone. His shoulders were relaxed, smile easy, eyes bright.
Jun smiled to himself.
“Better,” he murmured.
Dylan glanced up. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jun said, handing him his ice cream. “Just… glad.”