The night pressed in, a thick, damp blanket smelling of pine resin and the faintest hint of something metallic, like hot dust on wet leaves. Frank adjusted his position on the cheap foam mat, wincing as a stray pebble dug into his hip. Stupid. So stupid, really. Two of the biggest faces in pop, hiding out like runaway teenagers in a forest where the only 'fans' were probably raccoons with sticky paws. He could almost hear Manager Baek’s frantic phone calls, the screech of tires, the flashing lights. A laugh, sharp and humourless, caught in his throat. This whole trip, Ryan’s idea, was a masterpiece of bad judgment, brilliant in its pure, unadulterated recklessness.
Across the small, spitting campfire, Ryan was perfectly still. A statue carved from shadow and amber light. His profile, usually so sharply defined on magazine covers, was softened by the flickering flame, turning the edges of his jaw into something less severe, almost… tender. He was poking at a stubborn log with a metal rod, sparks erupting in brief, frantic galaxies against the dark. The sound of wood splintering, the faint hiss of sap. Frank watched his movements: precise, deliberate, utterly grounded. Ryan, the anchor, always. Even now, miles from a stage, a soundcheck, a million screaming voices, he exuded that same unwavering composure.
Frank’s own hands felt clumsy, alien. He picked at a loose thread on his worn hoodie, the fabric soft against his fingertips, a forgotten comfort. His pulse thrummed a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drum solo no one was supposed to hear. It wasn't the cold, or the bugs, or even the lurking threat of a paparazzi lens hidden in the trees, though that sent a fresh shiver down his spine. No, it was Ryan. Always Ryan. The quiet way he breathed, the slight curl of his lip when the fire finally caught the log, the sheer *presence* that filled the surprisingly vast space between them. It was a physical thing, this awareness. A constant, low-frequency hum just beneath his skin, making every hair stand on end.
He remembered a show, months ago, the roar of the stadium so loud it vibrated through the floorboards. He’d messed up a step, a tiny slip, barely noticeable. But Ryan, mid-spin, had locked eyes with him, a brief, sharp glance that wasn’t anger, wasn’t correction, but pure, fierce understanding. A silent message: *I got you.* And the world, for that split second, had narrowed to just them, two points of light in a sea of blinding expectation. That same intensity was here now, in the stillness, amplified by the suffocating privacy of the woods. It was unnerving, exhilarating. A different kind of performance, with much higher stakes.
“You okay?” Ryan’s voice cut through the drone of the crickets, low and steady. Not quite a question, more an observation. He didn’t look up, still coaxing the flames. But Frank felt the weight of the words, a direct hit to the jittery core of him. It wasn't the kind of question they asked each other in the dressing room, surrounded by stylists and managers and the buzz of publicists. This was… naked. Unshielded.
“Yeah,” Frank managed, his voice a little too high, a little too quick. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of casualness. “Just… thinking.” He gestured vaguely at the constellations starting to prick through the velvet black above the canopy, the stars feeling impossibly close, almost aggressive in their brilliance. “Too many stars. Makes you feel… small.” Which was a lie. It made him feel huge, electrified, like every atom in his body was vibrating with the energy of the cosmos, all directed at the man currently staring into the heart of a fire.
Ryan finally looked up, his gaze slow and deliberate, raking over Frank’s face. In the shifting light, his eyes were deep, unreadable pools. Frank felt his cheeks flush, a hot wave that started at his collarbone and spread rapidly. He hated it. Hated the way his body betrayed him, every involuntary tremor, every stuttered breath. He was supposed to be cool, composed, the charming one. Not this flushed, twitchy mess. But around Ryan, the mask always felt too thin, ready to shatter.
“Small isn’t always bad,” Ryan said, his voice softer now, a ripple in the quiet. He finally set aside the poker, letting his hands rest on his knees. They were strong hands, scarred faintly from guitar strings and forgotten scrapes. Frank found himself staring at them, mesmerized, a dizzying spiral of thought: how those hands looked on a fretboard, how they sometimes casually brushed Frank’s shoulder on stage, how they’d once, years ago, gripped his arm hard when Frank almost fell from a scaffold during a practice. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in Frank’s chest.
“No, I guess not.” Frank picked up a small, smooth river stone near his foot, turning it over and over in his palm. It was cool, grounding. He needed grounding. His mind kept zipping from one irrelevant thought to the next: the way the tree bark looked like old, tired skin; the insistent buzz of a mosquito near his ear; the faint, comforting smell of Ryan’s worn jacket, a mix of fabric softener and something uniquely *him*, like rain on warm concrete. He wanted to say something real, something that made sense of the swirling chaos inside him. But the words felt too big, too unwieldy, like trying to catch smoke.
“Remember the first tour?” Ryan asked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It was the same smile he used for fans, but here, it was stripped bare, intimate. “Sleep deprivation. Bad food. The bus broke down in the middle of nowhere, Kansas.”
Frank chuckled, a genuine sound, relief flooding through him. “And you tried to fix it with a paperclip.”
“It was a desperate measure. And it almost worked.” Ryan’s smile widened, a flash of white teeth in the dimness. “We ate those stale donuts. Remember? From that gas station.”
“I still have nightmares,” Frank teased, but a warmth spread through him, easing some of the frantic edge. They’d been so young then, so naive, so desperately hungry for success. The easy camaraderie of those days, before the pressure became crushing, before every move was scrutinized, every word parsed. He missed it, that innocent belief that their passion alone would carry them. They’d lost so much along the way.
“It was hard,” Ryan admitted, his voice dropping, the light leaving his eyes. “Losing… losing what we thought we were.” It was unspoken, but they both knew: the initial joy, the freedom. It had been replaced by a machine, relentless and demanding. And the friends they’d left behind, or who had simply faded away, unable to keep up with the impossible pace. The quiet one, the dancer who quit for a normal life, the trainee who never made the cut. Ghosts of ambition, lingering at the edges of their success. Frank thought of Min, the one who left the group. He’d never quite processed that. The abrupt emptiness. It still stung.
“Yeah,” Frank murmured, the small stone growing heavy in his hand. “It changes you. All of it. You try to remember who you were. Before.” He stared into the embers, the glowing orange core pulsing like a slow, deliberate heartbeat. It was easy to get lost in the fiery depths, to pretend the conversation wasn't happening, that the air wasn't thick with unsaid things.
Ryan shifted, a rustle of fabric. Frank’s head snapped up, his breath catching. Ryan was closer now, not by much, maybe a foot, but the space felt suddenly minuscule. His knee was almost touching Frank’s. An electric charge seemed to bridge the gap. Frank’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic trapped bird. He could feel the heat radiating off Ryan, a low, comforting warmth that also felt utterly dangerous. He wanted to lean in, to close the distance, to escape the unbearable tension. But his body felt locked, rigid with a strange mix of fear and desperate longing.
“I remember,” Ryan said, his voice a low rumble, direct and unwavering. His eyes, fixed on Frank’s, were no longer unreadable. They were intense, open, raw. The air felt thin, suddenly, hard to breathe. Frank couldn’t look away. It was like staring into the sun, impossible to hold, but impossible to avert. “I remember everything.”
The way he said it, simple, declarative. Not a memory of the past, but an affirmation of the present, a declaration of intent that Frank hadn’t been prepared for. It was a weight, pressing down, a revelation. Every shared laugh, every hushed late-night conversation, every glance across a crowded stage, every moment of support… it was all there, in Ryan’s gaze. And it was all aimed at *him*.
A small moth, drawn to the fire, fluttered past Frank’s face, a brief, papery touch against his cheek. He flinched, a tiny, involuntary jerk, breaking the spell. He sucked in a ragged breath, blinking hard. The heat in his face intensified, a full-body flush. He was mortified, exposed. He dropped the stone, it clattered against a smaller rock, a sharp, alien sound in the stillness.
Ryan didn’t move. His gaze remained locked, patient, unwavering. He was a predator, a gentle, silent one, waiting. Frank felt a tremor run through him, a deep, bone-deep shiver that had nothing to do with the cool night air. The spark, the one they never talked about, had just jumped the gap. It wasn't a slow burn, but a sudden, startling flash, bright and hot and absolutely undeniable. It singed the edges of his composure. He wanted to bolt, to run into the safety of the dark forest, to escape this terrifying, wonderful intimacy. But he couldn’t move. He felt like he was caught in a tractor beam, pulled relentlessly closer, molecule by molecule.
“Frank,” Ryan said, his voice barely a whisper, a warm breath against the silence. He raised a hand, slow, deliberate, as if reaching for something infinitely precious and fragile. Frank’s eyes tracked the movement, every muscle in his body tensing, braced for impact. His heart sounded like thunder in his ears. This was it. The precipice. The end of pretending. The end of… everything familiar. The fingertips paused, hovering inches from Frank’s cheek, radiating warmth, a silent question. A promise. Or a threat. Frank didn’t know which, only that his entire existence had suddenly narrowed to this single, impossible moment under a sky full of indifferent stars.
He closed his eyes, a small, involuntary shudder running through him. The air seemed to crackle with anticipation, a heavy, tangible thing. He felt the phantom brush of Ryan’s skin, the ghost of a touch that hadn’t yet landed but had already branded him. It was ridiculous. Absurd. Two grown men, hiding from the world, on the verge of some colossal, life-altering confession, all because of a campfire and too many silent nights. He could almost hear the tabloids: *Idol Scandal in the Wilderness!* But the thought, usually so paralyzing, felt distant, irrelevant. All that mattered was the breath held in his lungs, the frantic beat of his heart, and the electric, undeniable warmth of Ryan’s hand, so close.
Ryan's breath hitched, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. It was the only crack in his otherwise unwavering facade, a tiny ripple in the perfectly calm surface. Frank felt it more than heard it, a tremor in the very air. He finally opened his eyes, blinking up at Ryan, whose hand was still suspended, the question still hanging, unspoken. The campfire, which had been so loud a moment ago, was now a quiet whisper, a gentle crackle of embers dying down. A lone spark shot upwards, a fleeting orange star against the vast, indifferent darkness, and then winked out. Everything was still. The world had stopped, just for them. And in that silence, Frank realized, everything had changed.
He watched the last embers fade, a slow, gentle collapse of light into ash. The sharp scent of woodsmoke filled his lungs, a bittersweet reminder of the fire that had burned so brightly between them. The stars still blazed, impossibly far, impossibly bright, but they felt different now. Less aggressive, more like silent, knowing witnesses. He wasn’t small anymore, not entirely. He was a flicker of something new, something terrifying and exhilarating, catching fire under the vast, open sky. The silence that followed Ryan’s unspoken question wasn’t empty; it was full, vibrating with the potential of everything yet to be said, everything yet to be done. It was a quiet, relentless kind of knowing, settle deep in his bones. A warmth that lingered long after the fire’s glow had receded.