Archive of Our Own

“We should bring Ring Ding Dong back to the setlist.”

Kibum winced. If he had to choose a personal hell, it would be this decision exactly. He didn’t even bother to hide his distaste; his dislike towards the hit was almost as well-known as the song itself. He crossed his arms, biting his tongue, but of course, his bandmates saw right through him.

“Why do you even hate it so much?” Minho was genuinely curious.

And for that, Kibum had only one answer, “No reason at all.”

It started almost two decades ago.

Do you remember? I used to ask you if you’re hearing the bells.

Randomly, in the middle of the day.

At night, trying to fall asleep.

When eating breakfast and brushing your teeth.

It would never stop. Just ring after ring, for years. Enough to drive anyone insane.

At some point, you adjust, though. You hear it less and less. It becomes more of a soundtrack to your life than a warning alarm. Not that number-one single that everyone knows, of course—it would be too obvious. No. Think more of a background track; that pleasant melody you can’t quite get out of your head. It sticks there, on repeat, and all you can do is wonder, “What the heck was that song’s name?”

Because you know.

But you also wish you hadn't.

~ • ~

“So, when did it start?” The doctor asked, guiding the octoscope into Kibum’s ear.

Kibum frowned, trying to pinpoint the first time he’d noticed the sound. “A year ago? Maybe two?” It couldn’t have been earlier than their debut preparations, and definitely no later than Replay .

“Would you say it interferes with your work?”

“Well, not really, but—”

“Could be psychosomatic then.”

The doctor sat back, closing his notebook. Another dead end. Of course it was.

It has been like this every time. ENT, neurologist, audiologist—Kibum had heard it all before. No visible issue. No real answer. Still, part of him had hoped; hoped that maybe this time, someone would give it a name. It was nerve-wracking, honestly. That constant ringing in his ears? Annoying? Yes. It made his sleeping difficult, broke his focus. But what really terrified him was what it might mean for his career and future. It felt like a countdown to a disaster, a metronome ticking toward some inevitable collapse.

He tried to explain it to his psychiatrist, probably straying from the core of the issue. He ended up medicated for anxiety and a lengthy diagnosis towards ADHD. In the end, it solved problems he hadn’t even known he had, but the sound remained untouched.

“It's, like, always there,” he tried to explain to Jinki, his tone more whiny than usual. “Sometimes it's that high pitched sound. Y'know, like an old ringtone. Other times, more like a gong.”

Jinki closed the door, cutting off the sounds of the video game from the living room. “Is it always a bell?”

“No.” Kibum bit his lip, wondering. “It can be a melody. But not as often.”

They looked at each other, both clueless what to do. At first, Kibum was adamant it was tinnitus. He tried to brush it off with home-made treatments, assuming it was bound to happen like any musician would. It never stopped. With time, it morphed into something more persistent. More invasive.

He was lucky, honestly. His company could've dropped him like a hot potato the moment he'd admitted something was wrong. Instead, they ran him test after test, all with the same result. Or rather, no result at all.

“Maybe it’s misophonia?” Jonghyun gave him his thoughts.

“That's sensitivity to sounds.” Kibum shook his head. “Not hearing more than there is.”

“An echolocation then?”

“Do I look like a bat to you?”

Part of him had wished it was schizophrenia—at least he would have a name; a direction. But that was ruled out too.

If only that head-splitting ringing came with some kind of a gift—a perfect pitch, or a genius to compose numerous masterpieces over night—then maybe it’d be worth it. It didn’t. It was nowhere near being helpful, even though at least it didn't disturb him when learning a group dance or a song. Yet.

Instead, it grew louder and louder, in those moments only resembling a heartbeat matching the bass and the beat. It synced with their music and choreography, harmonising with their newest release.

Just for a moment.

Just for a split second of not being a noise.

Right before flushing back into an attack the moment the practice was over.

Not long after, SM introduced them to Ring Ding Dong . The song wasn't terrible—quite catchy, even—but all Kibum could hear was the bells.

Loud. Relentless.

Ever since the night before, the volume inside his head had been stuck at maximum, as if someone had left a speaker on full blast behind his eyes. It made him feel like he didn't sleep at all.

“I don't know why, but I'm sure you're the reason for that,” Kibum had said as soon as Minho entered their room, wiping the smirk off Minho's face and replacing it with an eye roll.

It was a joke.

Mostly.

Because the idea that Minho was behind his constant headache (at least the one related to the noise), wasn't entirely absurd. The bells always got worse when Minho was around; he had noticed it a few times already. Even the best sleep Kibum had ever had was when his bunk-bed partner stayed at his parents’. It couldn't be a coincidence. 

The theory of Minho possessing witchcraft powers was unrealistic at best though, and Kibum wanted the real answer, not a petty idea he had crafted at his lowest. Those thoughts came at night, when he couldn’t fall asleep, and the sounds in his head became akin to the chimes on the wind.

It was like an earworm—too elusive to catch, yet tangible enough to feel like it was within reach. Maybe it was a sign, he had been thinking at times. Maybe I’m not supposed to drown it out. Maybe I’m supposed to listen. Maybe, just maybe, if he focused hard enough, he’d figure it out.

Yet, each time he gave it a try, it ended the same way—the louder the bells got, the more scared he had been about what it could possibly mean.

“So, what do you think about the songs?” The manager asked, steering the van out of the company's parking lot.

Kibum leaned against the headrest, doing his best to ignore the surge in volume. The car was crammed, and Minho's long legs pressed on his, turning the pressure in his skull up a notch.

“I’m excited about the collab with Luna,” he said, massaging his temples. “But not so much about this one here.”

“Hey!” Minho caught the finger Kibum pointed at him. “What did I do to you?”

“Exist.” Kibum scoffed.

It's not that he disliked Minho, but having him around almost 24/7? It started to seem quite convincing as the reason for Kibum’s odd ailment. After all, the only time they didn't see each other was at school—which also happened to be the only time the ringing ever stopped, replaced by the shrill agony of actual school bells.

And sure, one could say it was true about other members too, but Kibum didn't care—his assumption was more than logical. He even thought of avoiding Minho as much as possible, but it was harder than initially imagined.

“And what about Ring Ding Dong ?”

“Not bad either.”

“Kinda fresh, no? Completely different from Romeo .”

Taemin started to hum the chorus, offbeat and teasing, but somehow landing perfectly in time with the sound inside Kibum’s head. Even though Taemin had no idea what he was doing, he synchronized with eerie precision.

“I was thinking,” the boy said, still tapping on the window seal, “but what’s it actually about? The song?”

The silence stretched, almost awkward.

“About…falling in love?” Jinki furrowed his brows. “Y'know, the ring ding dong? Playing in your head?”

And that was the moment Kibum shot his eyes wide open.

No.

No.

No, that couldn’t be it.

It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t .

The world sharpened. The bells roared, crashing through his mind like a siren in a tunnel. It was just a metaphor. Just lyrics. Nothing else. Besides, he wasn't in love. Yes, okay; he had a girlfriend, but that was different. He didn't love-love her. Not yet. And those rings? They’d started long before he’d even met her.

So no, it wasn't that.

He glanced around the van, his gaze flitting from one member to the next. None of them had noticed his sudden panic, thankfully. Yet, what Kibum craved at the moment was a shelter from all of them, somewhere private and quiet.

To think. Properly. Alone.

Because blaming Minho had been so much easier. Comforting even. And sure, now that he thought of it, he’d heard the story before. The one about hearing bells when you meet your destined one. But that was just that—a story. A myth.

Definitely not the truth.

Definitely not his truth.

But as he laid in his bed later that night, Minho tossing his body around the mattress and shaking the whole frame, all Kibum was able to think about was, “It's ringing in my head” part of the lyrics.

Because it was ringing in his head.

Nonstop.

For the past few years.

Over time, the pattern of the bells became impossible to ignore—it was painfully clear. Kibum had stopped talking about it altogether, treating his condition like a shameful secret. The cause of it remained a mystery, but Kibum didn’t have the time or nerve to dwell on it, too busy with his girlfriend.

It was easier that way.

The moment he realised what caused the volume to go up and down, he started to notice the changing rhythm, the tone, the overall mood. He still couldn’t draw any solid conclusions, but it was easier to ignore it when it wasn't that overwhelming clash. There were moments—rare but real—when the symphony settled into something peaceful, more of a gentle adagio brimming with fondness and appreciation. He grew to enjoy those little private concerts, smiling at the ceiling like a dreamer he would never admit to being. It wasn't a single bell, or a chime, or a harsh gong. It was more complex, like a full-sized orchestra, one that played under the baton of his shifting feelings.

He had to admit, he liked those the most. Only then did he allow himself to smile at Minho, to laugh and joke, to feel that wash of comfort he had strayed away from ever so often. He would drape himself over Minho’s arm, tease him, hug him, and learn to live with that constant hum of noise whenever his friend was near.

“You two seem to get along well,” noticed his girlfriend as they parted ways with the rest of their 91st-born group of friends.

And Kibum nodded, quite amused. “It took a while,” he admitted with his eyes set on Minho's back.

Even now, there were times he couldn't stand Minho's face, the bells crashing against his thoughts, sharp and jarring. Maybe it was normal to clash like that, especially when your personalities burned at opposite ends. Still, nothing compared to when Minho’s popularity was rubbed in his face, whenever he saw Minho's smile shining brightly at others. Then—and only then—the worst of the cacophony returned, stealing his mood like static cutting through a melody.

It was a cold winter night, the first decade of the new millennium nearly over. Kibum's plans and dreams lay ruined in the middle of Gangnam, soaked in the mud and regret.

“Move.” He kicked Minho's legs and slid inside his bed.

“What happened?” Minho asked, offering him a blanket, and although Kibum's cheeks were flushed from all the alcohol he’d drunk, he rolled himself in it, hiding from the world.

“She dumped me.” His voice was shaky—from the cold or anger, he wasn't sure. It sounded distant. Hollow. Like it could’ve belonged to someone else entirely.

Kibum turned around to look into his bandmate’s eyes, hoping to find his own emotions reflected back. He should've known it was coming. He and Jiho were never meant to last—better off as friends, and now even that was gone.

He bit his lip as Minho grabbed his hand. “I'm sorry, Bum.”

There was an undeniable comfort in his whisper, the kind Kibum would normally choose to hate. Yet, tonight it worked like an ointment; a soothing balm spread over his wounded heart. He would love to bathe in it for hours, to dip his toes first and take a dive.

The night spread its wings, the silence settled with weight. Their eyes met, and—with a gentle squeeze of Minho’s hand—Kibum tried to ignore the pain in his chest.

He would be fine, he knew he would. Heartbreaks weren’t that bad.

Yet, as he lay under Minho's blanket, a hand over his shoulder, Kibum almost cried at the sound of the bells. They chimed clearer than ever, with an overly dramatic aria filling his heart. He curled his toes, hoping to muffle it down, but while he was able to lie to others, it was almost impossible to fool himself, too.

She was right.

Jiho was right.

Jonghyun’s sleepy whisper cut through the dark, his “Bummie, I'm so sorry,” dancing at the edge of Kibum's awareness.

“Sorry, Bum,” came Jinki’s voice, quieter, gentler, from across the room.

Then Taemin, muffled through a yawn, “Get in there.”

A rustle of blankets. A shared exhale. No judgment. No questions. Just the quiet presence of his bandmates, threaded through the dark like warmth.

~ • ~

I don't know what was worse—the sharp awareness of what the bells had meant, or that blinding haze of denial. I remember spending nights listening to the demo in an attempt to convince myself it was anything but a call for love.

It's ringing in my ears.

It's ringing in my head.

It's ringing in my heart.

The ad libs stuck in my head worse than the chorus. While the nation banned the song for the exam season, I have banned it as a reminder of what gave me the idea. I might’ve convinced myself at first, that it was because of how you got under my skin, but the second I realised my feelings, the truth was there, with a mocking smirk.

You were supposed to be my only one.

~ • ~

Kibum didn't run from his feelings the way he thought he would. Yes, he kept it a secret. Yes, he would never act on it. But at the same time, he was honest with himself, facing all his reactions to Minho's mere existence with pride.

Well, almost all.

Diving nose-first into Minho’s sheets still felt like a sin. A major one. He would bury himself in the scent, cover himself up, and it would never be enough. So, as any Catholic, Kibum knew it was the time to confess. Or rather, to make a Confession with a capital C.

“Jjong, may I talk to you?” Kibum's voice must've been softer than usual, because all four heads in the living room snapped towards him at once. His eyes crossed with Minho's for a second as he added, more firmly this time, “Outside.”

There was something in the way Minho knitted his brows, how his lips parted like he wanted to speak but didn't, that unsettled Kibum more than he cared to admit. He ignored it.

Jonghyun nodded, stealing a quick glance at Minho too. “Sure.”

They didn’t speak as they stepped outside. It was late evening, the kind where the sky smudged into soft greys, letting only slivers of moonlight break through. The park was nearly empty. They paced through it slowly, just the crunch of their shoes between them.

“You know…” Kibum broke the silence and paused. No, that was a terrible way to start. He licked his lips and tried again. "Actually—”

It was harder than he had anticipated, and his friend's piercing eyes were nowhere to be of any help. But Jonghyun didn’t rush him. If anything, he was almost too patient, walking beside Kibum like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew Kibum's whole existence buzzed with nerves. Like he knew Kibum needed to feel the weight of his own words before letting them go.

And then, before he could overthink it any further—

"I think I'm bi.”

Jonghyun twitched. He didn't stop, he didn't wince. He didn't even say a word. He just mulled it over, and after what felt like an eternity, he nodded. Slowly. Mindfully. “That's awesome.”

And that was it.

Nothing else.

No theatrics. No grand speech. Just those two words—so simple, so solid—and yet enough to untie the knot in Kibum's guts.

At once, the tension bled from him, like he had been holding his breath for years without realizing it. His lungs felt lighter. His body did. The truth had been spoken, and the world hadn’t shattered.

He let out a breath. Laughed a little. "Okay. Cool.”

He sat down on the nearest bench and smiled. It's not that he'd ever doubted Jonghyun or thought there was something wrong in being anything other than straight, but no one else had known yet.

Well— officially at least.

Jonghyun plopped beside him. The chilly breeze tugged at his hair. Kibum truly appreciated the way he addressed his words; of that silent space he gave them. There was nothing else to be said, nothing to congratulate either. Jonghyun had taken it as any other fact, an information akin to a new hair color.

Still—there was one more thing.

"I have a favor to ask."

“Sure. What's up?”

Kibum looked at him. Sucked his teeth. “But before you say anything,” he rushed to explain, “I want to make it clear—I'm not interested in you. Like, not even a little bit.”

“Good. ‘Cause I'm straight.”

“Oh, I know.” Kibum barked out a laugh. He relaxed enough to unclench his fingers from the bench, and took a breath. "Can I…kiss you? Just once?”

Their eyes met. Kibum cleared his throat, suddenly worried. Maybe it came off wrong.

“I just want to check something,” he added. “That's all.”

Jonghyun didn't mind.

And so, tuning into his inner self, Kibum flicked his gaze toward Jonghyun’s lips. The noise in his head was there, the way it always was, but only the usual amount. No build-up. No anticipation. Nothing as hysteric as the erupting presto that could wreck his mind.

Kibum leaned in.

The kiss was soft, almost careful. Jonghyun tilted his head, letting him take what he needed, and Kibum’s lips pressed, testing and searching. His mind zeroed in on the feeling, on the sensation of their mouths meeting. Jonghyun didn’t pull away. Didn’t tense. He allowed Kibum to take his time, his own lips relaxed, neutral. There was no hesitation, no discomfort, but also...no spark.

No fire.

No bells.

Kibum pulled back. “Yeah, no,” he said.

“What? Not bi, after all?”

“Oh, no.” Kibum laughed. “I'm very much definitely into men. Just not you.”

When they walked back home, their fingers linked casually, Kibum couldn’t stop smiling. Because although he was far from being pleased with his situation, one thing had become clear.

It was Minho.

It had always been Minho.

When they got back home, Minho was the only one still awake. He sprawled on the couch with his legs crossed, eyes lazily tracking the flickering images on the TV. He looked half-asleep until the door clicked shut behind them.

“All good?”

His voice was low, casual.

Jonghyun kicked off his shoes, grinning over his shoulder. "Bummie confessed his undying love to me," he joked. "Had to reject him, though.”

Kibum rolled his eyes, flipping a middle finger at Jonghyun’s retreating back. The laughter trailing down the hall barely phased him. He sank onto the couch beside Minho, still buzzing from earlier and everything that came with it. Finally, he had a confirmation—this thing, this song, linked to Minho's presence, and it wasn't a mistake.

It wasn't about the others.

It wasn't about simply liking a man.

Kibum glanced at Minho, smiling. The sound swelled again, sneaking into his mind the way it always did.

This time, it wasn’t a bell. It was softer, deeper. A melody laced with warmth, like a violin tuning itself before the song begins. His heartbeat synced with it—steady, strong, and filling his ribs. Minho was right there, just next to him, leaning against the headrest, his eyes half-closed.

“Do you hear it?” The words slipped out before Kibum could think better of them. The melody was still playing, weaving around them and curling. Surely, he couldn't be the only one to hear it.

But Minho frowned, tilting his head. “Hear what?”

“This.”

Minho stilled. Waited. He even held his breath for a second, like he was genuinely listening for something.

And then—

"No." He shook his head. "I don’t hear anything.”

Kibum’s smile faltered. It's not like he was expecting a yes, not really, but still…

His fingers twitched slightly against his knee, and the hum in his chest twisted—less of a melody now and more of a hollow, unwelcome noise. He forced a shrug, watching Minho shift on the couch, his gaze still soft on Kibum's face.

"Guess I must've made it up.”

It wasn't the last time Kibum asked about it.

With time, it became a habit—casual, almost thoughtless. A quiet test slipped into conversation when Minho least expected it.

“Do you hear it?” Kibum asked in a morning haze, a toothbrush hanging from his mouth.

“Do you hear it?” he asked when the noise was barely there.

“Do you hear it?” he asked in the heat of a moment, his frustration bleeding into the notes. He did it in almost all possible configurations, playing it cool when the answer was ‘no’.

And it was always a ‘no’.

At some point, he had to accept the truth; it was only a figment of his imagination. Something experienced only by him, something that carried a meaning, but the meaning of loss. If it was true that the bells were meant to be heard upon meeting one's soulmate, shouldn't the soulmate hear them too?

Which was why, on an otherwise ordinary day, the silent furrow of Minho’s brows became the final straw. Not a rejection. Not a betrayal. Just another moment of not understanding. Kibum left the dorm not just because he craved his own space, but because enduring a headache every time his soulmate unknowingly shattered his heart was something he could no longer bear.

Strangely enough, moving out turned out to be the best decision he had ever made. Then again, maybe it wasn’t surprising at all—he could finally roam Itaewon’s bars without restraint, bring people over without a shadow of worry, and let himself blossom into the truest version of himself so far.

He thrived. All of it, without the constant noise in between his ears.

At first, he hadn’t even noticed it, too caught in the rush of his newfound freedom. That was until one night, after stumbling home with a stranger’s cologne lingering on his skin, he realised—there was only silence.

It was temporary, of course—Minho was still in his life. He always would be. Yet, without the constant ache of phantom connection, Kibum could finally appreciate their friendship for what it was—easy, familiar, safe. It was simpler this way, knowing Minho didn’t hear what he did, that whatever Kibum had spent years convincing himself was meant to be had never been real to begin with.

And so, he let his heart wander.

From relationship to relationship, he lived through love. Or at least something close to it. Each time felt different, yet somehow the same—exciting at the start, burning fast and bright, then flickering out like a match consumed too quickly.

No one ever stayed.

Kibum never asked them to.

When they left, he watched them go with nothing more than a speck of remorse. Anything else would be too rich, coming from the one who had never expected more to begin with. The story repeated itself, over and over, only the actors and setting changed.

Which was why he wasn't surprised when it happened again.

Again and again and again.

He learned to brace for it. Equipped with anti-heartbreak armor, able to sense it coming from afar like a well-tuned seismometer registering tremors before they cracked the ground.

This time was no different. The night was dramatic, but not in a glass-shattering, screaming-in-the-streets kind of way. No—it was the quiet kind. The one that somewhere along the way settled in the chest like a dull ache, infecting Kibum beyond repair like a rust.

Woohyun had been great. He had everything Kibum used to crave—charm, confidence, affection. Yet, it wasn't enough. Not at the end.

So Kibum left. Slipped out of Woohyun’s apartment with a mumbled, “I’ll call you,” which they both knew was a lie, and let his feet take him to the one place he would always call home.

The dorm was quiet.

It was long past midnight when he stepped through the space, his heart wedged somewhere between his throat and the hollow of his chest. Minho seemed to be awake—the faint glow from his bedside lamp bled beneath the door. Kibum knocked.

"God!" Minho startled, his phone slipping from his hands. “I need those keys back—you sneak around like a damn ghost.”

“Are you asleep?”

“Do I look like I am? What's up?”

His eyes followed Kibum as he stepped inside. The silence grew thick—familiar, not suffocating, but heavy like wet wool. Kibum didn’t answer; he just moved. His hand fumbled clumsily at his belt, jeans on the floor, socks kicked off one by one. For a fraction of a second, he hesitated at the edge of the bed, caught between impulse and dread.

It felt like a mistake.

It was a mistake.

Their eyes met and Kibum broke. He slipped beneath the covers without a word. Even if it was a mistake, it was one he'd made before. He pressed his face against Minho’s shoulder, the scent of him hitting him all at once—something warm, something home —wrapped him in a comfort he never let himself admit he needed.

“We're over,” he whispered. “This time for good, I think.”

Minho didn’t respond. He just exhaled softly and wrapped an arm around Kibum to pull him in. Just like a thousand times before.

“I'm sorry.” His breath skimmed Kibum's forehead.

And there it was.

The bells.

Low, steady—like the distant overture of a song he thought he’d long forgotten. One that was undeniable, existing only in the sphere of Minho’s arms.

“Do you hear it…?” Kibum risked it, his voice muffled against the blanket.

“What?”

“The sound.”

Minho stilled, listening, but that was an answer in itself. He didn't. Of course, he didn’t. Kibum sighed, tucking closer.

“Is Jinki home?” he asked instead.

“Out.”

Both of them let the silence stretch ahead. Kibum sank in Minho's warmth, shoving the ache down like he always did.

Minho was here. Solid. Grounding. Not in a sense of his physique, not really, but the way his fingers dragged up and down Kibum’s back. Lazy. Absentminded. This was why Kibum always came back and why, despite everything, Minho was his anchor.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

The words came soft. Unexpected. Kibum blinked, nearly sure he’d made them up.

“You deserve better, you know?” Minho’s hand slid into his hair, fingers scratching lightly against his scalp. "Someone better. Someone who cherishes you for who you are.”

Kibum closed his eyes. His breath hitched. “It's not as easy,” he mumbled. “To find someone like that.”

He expected Minho to let it go. To let the silence win. His chest rose and fell in time with Minho’s, steady enough to pretend nothing had been said.

But then—

“I cherish you, Bum.”

Kibum’s chest tightened.

“We all do. Hyungs. Taemin.”

Oh.

Kibum scoffed, half amused, half disappointed. Of course. That’s what Minho meant. Something tight twisted in his chest, yet he couldn't shake off the feeling that tonight was different. That beneath the surface, something was shifting. Something unspoken. Hidden.

It was in the way Minho held him—not just comforting, but firm. In the way Kibum curled into him—not just seeking warmth, but desperate to feel Minho’s body.

And then, in the way he tilted his head—just slightly—enough for his lips to graze Minho’s throat. A touch so light it could’ve been accidental.

But it wasn't.

They both knew it.

Kibum waited. Gave Minho a chance to pull away; to signal that it was a mistake.

He didn't.

Instead, Minho's fingers tightened around his waist—not pulling, not pushing, just holding him in place. They lingered for a moment longer; Kibum's lips on Minho’s skin, Minho's breath a lost cause. It was intoxicating. Almost too much.

And then…

Kibum moved.

He pressed his lips against Minho’s jaw, his heart racing to the melody thrumming in his ear. For the first time in his life, it all aligned: the rhythm, the speed, the sound.

He could've left. He should've left.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he hovered over Minho for a fraction of a second, Minho meeting him halfway with a tilted head.

It started slow. Tentative. A question rather than an answer. Not for long. When Minho sighed into it, the music inside Kibum swelled, taken over by something all-consuming. His hand found the hem of Minho’s shirt, slid beneath the fabric. It skimmed over the planes of Minho’s stomach—warm, smooth, and trembling. It was like a dream. Their bodies pressed close, fingers finding unknown patterns. Minho’s muscles tensed under his touch, and then—

Fuck.

Kibum felt it. The heat pressing against his thigh. Minho’s need, firm and real. For him.

He guided his hand lower, their eyes locked. His own body hummed with the music inside of him, a rhythm he could finally follow without a doubt. His fingers curled, just slightly, as he palmed Minho through his sweatpants, Minho rocking his hips gently—almost too patiently—trying to match Kibum's rhythm.

It was perfect.

Their rhythm, their bodies, their breath—everything just fit. Like this had never been impossible. Like it had never been forbidden. Kibum didn’t question it. Didn’t second-guess. He didn't pull away, either.

No. He leaned in.

He let it happen.

And then—without thinking, without meaning to—

“You can pretend I’m a girl.”

At first, he didn't notice Minho's freeze.

Still caught in the heat, he added, “I can wear a wig, too, if you want me to.”

But then—nothing. No response.

Minho had gone completely rigid beneath him, his fingers loosening their grip.

“Kibum, what the hell…”

His voice was barely above a whisper as he pushed Kibum’s hand away—not harshly, not abruptly, but enough to send a clear message. He looked more disappointed than angry, like Kibum had said something that knocked the wind out of him.

“You really think I need you to pretend?”

Something shifted. Something broken and irreparable. Kibum blinked with his breath caught somewhere in his throat, watching Minho sit up and drag a hand over his face.

 “I thought…I mean…” Minho ruffled his hair. “The fuck, Bum?” He still didn't look at him. “You really think you’re the first guy I’ve done this with? Hell, I literally just bottomed for Changmin and his girlfriend!”

The words tumbled out sharp and tired, like he hadn’t meant to say them but couldn’t stop himself either. It was then, when he finally looked up, his eyes raw with pain.

“Has anyone ever actually asked you to do that…?”

Kibum sighed. Shrugged. What else could he say?

“My god!” Minho's voice broke. “What kind of people have you been with?”

He pulled Kibum into a tight embrace, but despite his arms holding Kibum for the rest of the night, whatever had bloomed between them, whatever was growing, shattered.

Into pity.

Into anger.

Into silence.

Kibum left before Minho was awake, a simple note left behind.

‘Thank you for being the best friend I could ever have. Yours, Ki.’

“I can't believe he slept with Changmin.”

Kibum slouched against Jonghyun, his hand buried into a popcorn bowl. They were in Jonghyun's apartment, just the two of them for a movie night, but Kibum was too distracted by his own thoughts to pay attention to the images on the screen.

“And what was that whole confession for?” he whined, ignoring Jonghyun's lack of reaction. “Like, why do I even need to know your position? What was the point? Why bring it up?”

Jonghyun barely lifted his gaze from the screen as he threw a kernel into his mouth. “I mean…isn’t it obvious?”

“I guess?” Kibum frowned. He waited for an explanation, but Jonghyun simply smirked, dragging it out.

“Come on, Kibum.” He gestured vaguely. “He practically asked you to fuck him.”

Kibum froze, and Jonghyun burst into laughter, shoveling more popcorn into his mouth as if he hadn’t just casually detonated Kibum's brain. Kibum couldn’t shake it off—the image of Minho with Changmin. Of Minho like that. Too vivid. Too real for something he had never actually seen.

“What? Are you jealous?”

Kibum huffed out a laugh, quite amused despite himself. “Kinda.” He licked his lips. “But I don’t know who I envy more.”

He tried to refocus on the movie, but quickly realised it was useless. His thoughts spiraled, circling back, looping to the point he barely registered the plot.

“How come I didn't know he’s bi?”

This time, his question carried more weight, his voice close to whisper.

“Well, I think you're the only one.” Jonghyun gave him a look.

He said it with confidence so striking, Kibum sprung upright, his brows drawn together. “Taemin?”

“Taemin was told explicitly, but yeah. He knows.”

That was enough to make Kibum pout. He slumped deeper into the couch, chewing aggressively, as if that could somehow rid him of the growing frustration. “Then why wasn’t I told explicitly?” he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

But the answer didn’t matter.

Because whatever was the reason for him to learn it so late, no matter how long it took him to notice, he saw it now. He knew it now. Suddenly, things made more sense than ever before, letting him see Minho in a new light.

And that, from one thing to another, led him to a decision to finally confess.

Thing is, he never did.

Soon after, Minho introduced them to a girl he had started seeing. One that had everything a person would want. They looked like a match made in heaven—two actors, bright and loved. Kibum had told himself it wasn’t serious. He wanted to believe that. One look at Minho’s smile around her, and he knew better than that.

He stepped aside.

It didn't mean he was the selfless type, wishing happiness for someone he loved. Not even close. If he could, he would burst that perfect bubble; poison it with a dark shade of green. He didn’t. He knew his place—always a few steps back.

Still, he never wallowed for long. Like always, he hit the clubs and let the music drown out everything else. For nearly two years, he lived in motion; one guy after another, each a distraction from the last. It worked, in a way. Kept him occupied.

Yet, he never strayed from Minho. Quite the opposite.

He kept it light. Casual. His touch only a tad calculated, his stares just a little too long. Always deliberate. He wasn’t trying to win; he just wanted to stay. Linger in Minho’s mind without crossing the line.

It became a routine. A rhythm.

At night, he danced through strangers and slipped out before morning. By day, he shared his coffee with Minho, sent memes back and forth, and let their legs brush under the tables after schedules. It was like nothing had ever burned between them. Kibum let himself laugh, leaned in just a little too close. Just to make himself impossible to forget.

He wasn't sure what his goal was, but one thing was certain—he hadn't expected the girl to last as long. Yet, months passed. Seasons changed. Minho showed up with his arm around her waist, and Kibum clinked his glass with hers. He had to accept it; she was to stay.

So when Minho knocked on his door one very late evening, Kibum didn't know what to expect.

“We broke up.”

The sentence dropped fast—blunt, but not heavy. The bells chimed in as Kibum stepped aside, letting him in. The edges of Minho’s faint smile had not escaped his notice. He looked light, in a sense. Not relieved, but not wounded either.

They walked into the kitchen and Kibum leaned against the sink. He didn't bother to clear the clutter—half-used mugs, yesterday’s dishes, and an empty bottle of wine hid behind his back.

“I thought you're gonna propose.” 

“Honestly? Me too.”

“Then what happened?”

The answer didn't come right away. Minho shuffled his fingers against the counter’s edge, his breath caught in the middle of the word. “I guess it’s a lot of things,” he said at last. “She's incredible, she really is.”

Kibum dropped his gaze on the floor, fiddling with a teaspoon beside the sink.

“I mean, it's like a puzzle, you know?” Minho smiled sadly without a pause in words. “First, it's small elements all over the place, and only later, much later, with enough of them put together, you can tell what the image was in the first place,” he continued.

“I guess, I was just chasing the idea.” He sighed. “Idea of something stable. Something that made sense on paper. After all, everyone loved us together. We looked good. It was all very…clean. Easy.”

“...But?”

“But it always felt like something was missing.”

Kibum froze. The cold metal of the teaspoon burned his fingertips. Minho was watching him now, shoulders relaxed, eyes steady.

“You were right, you know?” he said, moving closer. “When you told me there's more to the relationship than comfort.”

Their eyes met, and the kitchen’s light spread gold over the line of Minho’s jaw. It was hard for Kibum to stay still. He didn't intend to move, either. The weight of the moment pressed between them, warm and close and familiar.

“I ended it.” Minho’s eyes drifted all over Kibum's face. “And I think I should’ve done it a long time ago.”

They were close. Closer than before. Lips only a breath away.

Kibum grazed the edge of the counter, watching Minho as his knuckles brushed the other's thigh. It wasn’t intentional, but it wasn’t accidental either. As if on the clue, the rhythmic staccato in his head followed his moves and buzzed with the silence of the outerworld. Minho’s gaze flicked to his mouth. Kibum didn’t move.

They leaned in; just slightly.

And then—

A door creaked open.

His hookup—shirtless and sleepy-eyed—emerged from the bedroom. Minho stiffened, suddenly confused, both of them watching the guy enter the bathroom after a casual half-wave sent towards them.

“A guest?”

“Something like that.”

Kibum bit his lip. He was certain he had lost his chance, for the second time at least, Minho's eyes glued to the bathroom door. He shivered, reaching out, when Minho turned around.

“I should go.”

Kibum’s hand hovered over the edge of Minho’s sleeve. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Please, do.”

He frowned. When he looked up, Minho's eyes were gentle and sincere. He didn't seem angry; if only, amused. Kibum wanted to rush with explanations, assure that Minho was the only one he ever wanted. He didn't. The sounds in his head popped off off-key. One note after another, like three question marks typed on the phone. They moved towards the door, Minho glancing at him from time to time.

“So the guy…?”

“Just a one time thing.”

“Good.” Minho smiled. “I'll wait for the call.”

He didn't.

They started making plans almost as soon as the doors closed, flirting through the messages whilst Kibum's hookup still snored across his bed.

There were no transitions, no gradual change. It shifted over the night, closing the distance that held them apart. Minho stopped knocking; he came over late. Kibum cooked, pretending he didn't wait. They tangled in the sheets, lost in each other—Minho in love with the rhythmic grind of their hips together, and Kibum enjoying Minho's face against the mattress’ plush.

It wasn't just sex, though. Neither was it just friendship.

Although they kept things casual, without putting any labels, Kibum was finally at ease. The bells in his head reached their full harmony, no clashes of sounds around Minho anymore. It was easy to be with him; to carry it, even when they were fighting. Kibum never dreamed of a relationship like that—years of their hard-earned friendship paid off in mutual understanding. It wasn't perfect, of course it was not. But it was good enough for Kibum to fall for Minho even more.

Without even talking about it, he’d stopped seeing other people. Minho never brought up anyone else. They shared a bed, then the mornings; while they acted like best friends who occasionally kissed, it would be a lie to say it didn't feel like more.

And it was more. At least for Kibum.

He laughed at Minho calling him a cool cat; Minho meowed in his ear in response to it. Time passed, silly and warm, and Kibum forgot how his life was without Minho’s gentle touch. Ironic, in a way, knowing that soon they would be separated again—this time, in barracks far apart. They didn't talk about enlistment often, savouring the borrowed time—day after day, until Kibum's date was finally set, just the two of them and Taemin, if they hung out outside.

But while they didn't let the ticking time play the first fiddle, it was palpable in all the small kisses and stolen glances. With his arm over his eyes, and fingers curled around Minho’s waist, Kibum wanted to spend their last night like any other. Without success. They slowed their movements; locked their eyes. Minho straddled him, the grind of his hips more of a plea than a motion.

It wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t rough.

But it was urgent.

Minho moved like he needed to memorize Kibum. Like he didn’t know when he’d get to touch him like this again. With his sweats on, but barely, he hovered over Kibum, his hair falling into his eyes, jaw tight, brows knit—not from effort, but emotion. He rolled his teasing hips again, this time deeper, harder, the angle just right.

Kibum moaned. “You're killing me.”

“Good.”

Minho leaned forward, resting his forehead against Kibum's. Their noses brushed. There was no other time Kibum had enjoyed the velvet texture of his internal mezzo piano just as much. Dragging his lips to Minho’s ear, he tugged the loose strands behind it, and said, his voice thick from want, “I want you to have me.”

Minho froze. Pulled slightly away. “Are you sure?”

He didn't look disgusted. Nor angry, sad or disappointed the way he did those years ago in the dorm. He was asking only, as simply as that, a dash of concern in the corner of his eyes.

But Kibum was sure, and so he nodded—it wasn't the first time the idea crossed his mind.

“When was the last time—?”

“I don't know.” Kibum shrugged, slowly, lightly. “Not since I told you I can wear a wig in bed.”

He brushed the back of Minho’s neck, trying to hide a wince splitting his face, and Minho cooed into the touch with a soft smile on his face.

“If that's your wish.” He sighed, leaning for another kiss.

The whole thing was perfect, just as Kibum had imagined. Although he loved having Minho beneath him—the way he trembled and opened, with his groans a steady cadence—being the one under Minho’s weight was just as appealing.

He had to bite his lips; held Minho tight. Each huff of Minho’s breath, each moan from his own throat, played a new note in the concert unfolding inside his thoughts. He closed his eyes. Let the emotions flood him at once.

For once, as if reaching their high, the melody was loud but not in any way other than euphonious. It filled him to the brim with a sense of clarity; their eyes locked, the bells deafening. If Kibum had ever doubted they were not meant to be, he was wrong.

So, so wrong.

So when he turned to the side as they later lay in bed, he couldn't stop smiling, his head finally at ease. He had so many words he wanted to say, like ‘thank you,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘I want you forever,’ but what came out of his mouth was long forgotten, “Can you hear it?”

Minho blinked. “Hear what?”

The ground trembled.

The bell-drums stopped.

As if washed with a bucket of iced water, Kibum shivered, Minho's body no longer giving him enough warmth.

“That sound,” he murmured, grappling with hope. “The melody.”

“The truck?”

He didn't let it show, but his body was wrecked with panic. It was impossible. It couldn't be right. The high pitch whistled like a kettle on fire, Minho blissfully unaware of his internal fight. Kibum needed Minho to hear it too. To shake him, to look at him, to feel the same. Because if the bells were for him and him only, if the months of blooming feelings were not enough, then there was nothing that could make it right.

Nothing to make it real.

His eyes prickled from tears he could never share, as he clung to Minho's side as if chasing the last surges of hope. And then—the question. A metallic shriek.

What if they were no soulmates after all?

~ • ~

Days pass, pages tearing off of the calendar on the barrack's wall. Everyone awaits their discharge, looking at the pictures of the ones they love, while I do my best to ignore your existence. Your phones. Your texts.

I'd lie if I said I don't miss you.

I do.

I miss your warmth. I miss your smile. I miss your laugh (although it's terrible).

I want to see you, and I want to never see you again.

Because being away from you changed my life in the way that is best for me. Silent. There are no bells, no distraction. For the first time in a decade, my thoughts can exist without combat.

Can you imagine how easy it is? To go through your life with an empty head?

I guess you do.

And I wish you didn't.

~ • ~

The doors burst open, and Minho walked in. At once, the distance shrank, and Kibum had trouble breathing—it was as if someone sucked the air out of the room. It lasted a second, maybe even less. Their eyes met and everything snapped back, like no time had passed at all. People moved—his bandmates, the staff, everyone all at once. Kibum did his best to play it cool, wincing at Minho's uniform with an exaggerated huff.

He feared that moment for months; he looked forward to it for years.

The Inkigayo became a stage for their reunion, something that Kibum pondered what to expect from, after all the ghosting, aching and distance. He was the one to set the wall, yes. He was the one to ignore all the texts. Minho was the sweetest, messaging him over and over again, as if the lack of answer wasn’t even a subtle cue. Yet, it was Kibum who suffered through it, for months worried it would be over by the time they met.

He wasn't right.

Not even close.

The second Minho wrapped his arms around him, the music slammed back to its loudest track.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

He took a deep breath. That overwhelming ringing—his private sonata—rose like a high note in his chest. It was all back, every note, every rhythm he missed so much. He drowned in the sound, not ready to give it up ever again, and hugged Minho close, realising he no longer cared.

Not if the bells were only one-sided.

Not if the break up was to happen tomorrow.

Soulmates weren't fate. It was up to him. To hold onto. To fight for. He was angry at himself; for the months he had lost. For the months of silence, so empty and bleak. So what if Minho was never to hear it too? It didn't mean he didn't love him, it didn't mean it wasn't to last.

He took a step back and—

“Jesus, what's that?!”

Minho went rigid as if bracing for war, his muscles tense, face screwed in pain.

“An alarm? A fire drill?” He covered his ears, his eyes wide in shock. Noone knew what was going on, everyone clearly confused. Only Minho was startled, as if hit by a gong. “Come on! How come you don't hear it too?”

That's when Kibum realised.

“You hear them too.”

He gasped, suddenly overwhelmed and grabbed a chair, his legs wobbly. The ringing shifted as their eyes met—no longer a harsh noise of their shock, but a gentle music filled with love. Kibum could see it in Minho's eyes, the realisation, the truth, the process of connecting dots.

Kibum’s throat closed. Something behind his ribs cracked open. It didn't change what he already knew, but stated something that both of them had missed.

The bells weren’t one-sided.

They had never been.

They'd just been waiting—waiting for Minho to hear them too.

“So what's up with you and Ring Ding Dong?” Minho asked as they drove back home, Kibum's home, after talking through the setlist of the upcoming Tokyo Dome's show.

“Really…?” Kibum smacked his tongue. “Can't I just dislike the song?”

“Come on. You never dislike something just because. There must be a reason.”

Minho grabbed his hand, and Kibum exhaled, his eyes set at the sun visor mirror in front of him.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes!”

He hesitated. “I mean, isn't it obvious?” He escaped Minho’s eyes, putting sunglasses on. He didn't expect to explain it to one of his members, not after so many years, not ever. “It's in the lyrics,” he said at last. “You should've got it by now.”

With a sense of defeat he took out his phone. He thumbed through the notes and found the one. There were pages and pages of words and answers, of attempts to reply to Minho’s texts while on the military pass. He forgot how much he had written to him, how much he had wanted to reply. At first, he never meant to ignore him—it just happened. Lost in search of best words, he stretched the time. But then, with time, it became harder to reply and also easier to ignore. Days passed and the silence felt like a rightful escape.

The car parked, and Kibum passed Minho his phone. “Here,” he said. “Maybe this will help you understand.”

He sank into the seat, Minho’s eyes skimming through the old passages of thoughts. They were long overdue and some of the type he would prefer to never share. Yet, he had never found strength to delete the drafts, not even after they had confessed their love.

Kibum squeezed Minho’s hand and looked upfront, the lyrics of Ring Ding Dong back in his mind like an old friend.

It's ringing in my head

It's ringing in my heart