It started with a broken air conditioner and a heatwave that refused to sleep.
Past midnight, the dorm felt like a sauna in disguise — every fan they owned had already been dragged into the living room and was now whirring helplessly in different directions like confused robots. Windows were flung open. Shirts were discarded. Complaints were plentiful.
"I'm evaporating," Riki groaned, sprawled out on the hardwood floor like a tragic ghost. "This is how I die. Sweaty and betrayed by climate control."
Minhee rolled over from the couch cushions and flicked a water bottle cap at him. "Dramatic. Get up. We're raiding the convenience store."
"Isn't it like, 1 a.m.?" Seojun asked, barely lifting his head from where it rested on the armrest. His tone was equal parts disapproval and resignation, like a father who knew there was no winning this argument.
"We'll melt if we don't," Minhee countered.
Haru, sitting quietly on the floor beside the fan, just gave a soft laugh and rose with them.
They spilled onto the street in mismatched sandals and oversized T-shirts, half-awake and half-feral. The store's fluorescent lights felt like heaven after the sweltering dark of their dorm. Riki immediately began tossing things into a basket with the enthusiasm of a child on a sugar high.
"Five kinds of ramen," he announced, lifting a sixth. "Six, actually. For science."
Minhee made a beeline to the freezer, emerging with two tubs of ice cream and a pack of melon bars. "It's therapy," he explained when Seojun raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn't understand."
Shiro slid two energy drinks into his hoodie pocket when no one was looking.
Seojun sighed, long-suffering. "I'm surrounded by children."
And Haru? He followed behind them quietly, smiling to himself. He didn't need snacks. Just this—this chaotic, ridiculous, golden-tinted moment of late-night nothingness.
When they returned to the dorm, the living room transformed in an instant.
Minhee challenged Riki to a ramen speed-eating contest. "No breaks. First one to cry loses."
"I don't cry," Riki boasted. "I glisten emotionally."
Shiro, never one to waste an opportunity for mischief, grabbed a metal spoon and began beatboxing against a pot lid, turning the boiling water into a background beat. "Freestyle rap session, let's go."
Seojun tried to maintain order for about thirty seconds. "Guys. No fire near the curtains—no, Minhee, not the decorative ones—guys, I said—"
He gave up.
A moment later, he joined in with his signature deadpan: narrating the events like a jaded nature documentarian.
"Here we see the rare Riki in his natural habitat. Watch as he inhales noodles with the desperation of a man fleeing emotional intimacy."
Laughter erupted. Haru was supposed to be on dish duty — someone had scribbled his name on the whiteboard earlier — but he only made it as far as stacking two bowls before Shiro bumped into him from behind.
"You wash like a trainee," Shiro teased, arms crossing as he leaned against the counter.
Haru squinted. "You breathe like a sleep-deprived pug."
Shiro clutched his chest like he'd been mortally wounded. "Ouch. Who taught you that level of savagery?"
"You."
"Aww." Shiro grinned. "He admits it. I'm such a good influence."
"Don't flatter yourself."
They were still mock-arguing when Seojun passed by with a dish towel, muttered, "Married energy," and tossed it directly at Shiro's face.
"Confirmed," Shiro said, pulling the towel off dramatically. "Seojun ships us."
Seojun didn't break stride. "Don't make me revoke your chore privileges."
Minhee gasped from the couch with theatrical horror. "Did you hear that softness? Our Ice Prince is thawing."
Riki, now sitting on the floor with a bowl balanced on his knee, gave a solemn nod. "He's at two percent melt. Monitor closely."
"Barely," Haru mumbled — but when he glanced at Seojun, there was a flicker of warmth in the older boy's expression that he didn't deny.
Eventually, they collapsed.
A pile of limbs and blankets sprawled across the living room floor, too tired and too full to move. The TV flickered with reruns of an old variety show. Someone's foot was in Haru's ribcage — he didn't know whose. Shiro was half-snoring against Seojun's shoulder. Riki's empty ramen cups were lined up like trophies.
Minhee yawned, one eye barely open. "We're kinda gross like this."
"No," Haru whispered, smiling softly. "We're just real."
And in his mind, he thought — Minju would've liked this.
No cameras. No performances. No polish. Just them. Five boys figuring out how to be something like family.
A little bruised. A little healed.
But together.
And home.
The morning after was less poetic.
The dorm was a battlefield of snack wrappers, half-melted ice cream tubs, and balled-up blankets. Haru, determined to sneak out for a peaceful balcony moment, tiptoed across the living room — only to trip over a leg.
"Ow," he hissed, barely catching himself on the wall.
Shiro blinked up from the floor, disoriented. "Morning, sunshine."
"You're literally blocking the exit."
"I'm the gatekeeper of vibes," Shiro replied, stretching like a cat. "None shall pass without paying the toll."
Haru groaned. "Move your vibes somewhere else."
"Make me."
He nudged Shiro's side with his foot. Shiro grabbed it triumphantly. "Ha. Captured."
Minhee stirred on the couch, hair a mess. "You two flirt weird."
"We're not flirting," Haru said a little too quickly.
Shiro grinned, wide and smug. "He's just shy."
Seojun sat up halfway from a cocoon of blankets. "Get a room."
Haru's ears turned red. He grabbed a pillow and launched it — it hit Minhee instead.
"Hey!" Minhee laughed. "I didn't even say anything!"
Riki emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush still in his mouth, and blinked at the mess. "New rule. No bullying Haru before 10 a.m."
Haru squinted. "You dumped noodles on my notebook last night."
"That was art."
"You cried because it was too spicy."
"That was emotional release."
Practice didn't offer any reprieve either.
When Haru hit a particularly difficult high note during vocal drills, the room went silent — for about half a second. Then Shiro collapsed onto the floor dramatically.
"He's too powerful," he moaned. "My ego has been eviscerated."
Seojun raised a brow. "You don't have one."
"False. I have three. Haru just destroyed all of them."
Minhee leaned over to Riki and whispered, "How long until Haru finally snaps and roundhouse kicks Shiro into next week?"
"Two weeks, tops," Riki replied, grinning.
Haru just laughed. He was used to this now — the endless teasing, the whirlwind of chaos, the strange comfort of being needed, even if it was just as the butt of everyone's joke.
That night, they found themselves on the rooftop.
The city sprawled out beneath them, a blanket of blinking lights and soft hums. No schedules. No coaches. Just them. Five boys, a pile of takeout containers, and the endless sky.
Seojun actually smiled — a real one. Minhee pointed at him, mock-gasping. "It's happening. Someone screenshot it."
"Don't get used to it," Seojun warned, but there was no edge in his voice.
Haru nudged him lightly. "Too late."
Shiro caught the exchange, raised an eyebrow, and drawled, "Look at you two. Getting close."
"Shut up," both Haru and Seojun said in unison.
The rooftop burst into laughter again.
As the stars peeked through the haze and the city kept humming below, Haru leaned back and looked at the boys around him.
They'd survived so much — rejections, sleepless nights, brutal training, personal scars they never talked about.
And now, somehow, in this strange constellation of limbs and laughter, they were okay.
Not perfect. Not finished.
But okay.
And together.
That was enough.