The first night, William told himself it was fine.

The venue lights were blinding, the crowd loud, the bass vibrating through his bones. Two days of concerts. Two days of smiling, waving, performing like nothing in his world was missing.

But he still looked.

Every time the lights dimmed between songs.

Every time the camera panned across the audience.

Every time the chant quieted just enough for him to hear his own heartbeat.

He looked for Est.

Front rows.

Balcony.

VIP section.

Anywhere.

He wasn’t there.

William told himself Est was busy. Training. Exams. Family things. Life.

He told himself love didn’t mean attendance.

Still, that night, when he returned to the hotel and opened his phone, the screen stayed blank.

No missed calls.

No “I’m here.”

No photo from the crowd with a teasing caption.

Just silence.

He stared at their chat until 3 a.m.

The second night hurt worse.

Because hope is crueler on repeat.

William didn’t mean to search again, but his eyes betrayed him. He scanned the crowd so often that one of the members nudged him backstage.

“You’re distracted.”

He smiled it off.

“I’m just tired.”

But during the final song — the one Est loved, the one he once said felt like “falling in love under stadium lights” — William’s chest tightened.

He imagined Est standing somewhere in the dark.

Clapping.

Smiling.

Watching him the way he always did — like William was more than just someone on stage.

But imagination is not the same as presence.

That night, William didn’t text first.

He wanted Est to want to come.

He hated himself for thinking that.

The third night, William stopped looking.

That was the worst part.

He performed like a professional. Hit every note. Smiled at the cameras. Blew kisses to fans.

He convinced himself he didn’t care anymore.

If Est came, fine.

If he didn’t, also fine.

He would not search.

He would not ache.

He would not.

The lights softened during the encore.

The crowd noise shifted — not louder, but different. A ripple. A murmur. Something passing through rows like a secret.

William almost ignored it.

Almost.

And then he saw it.

Not Est at first.

Blue.

A flash of deep, impossible blue rising above heads in the crowd.

A bouquet.

Blue roses.

William’s breath faltered mid-lyric.

They weren’t natural. They never were. Blue roses meant mystery. The unattainable. The rare.

Est once told him that.

“If I ever give you blue roses,” Est had joked months ago, “it means you survived something hard without me.”

William’s voice wavered.

And then he saw him.

Standing three rows back from the barricade. Hair slightly messy like he’d rushed. Hoodie pulled up, but not enough to hide that soft, familiar face.

Est wasn’t screaming.

Wasn’t waving wildly.

He was just looking at William.

The way he always did.

Like the stage lights were nothing compared to him.

William forgot the choreography for half a second.

Someone beside him covered smoothly. The audience thought it was fan service when William stepped closer to the edge of the stage.

But it wasn’t for them.

Est lifted the bouquet slightly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

William swallowed hard and finished the song.

Professional.

Barely.

Backstage after the show felt like drowning.

Staff everywhere. Noise. Sweat. Congratulations.

William pushed through it all, heart pounding like he was about to go on stage again.

When he finally stepped outside the restricted area, he saw him.

Leaning against the wall.

Blue roses still in hand.

“You didn’t come,” William said first.

He hadn’t meant to make it sound like that.

Est straightened.

“I know.”

Two simple words.

William’s jaw tightened. “Two days.”

“I know.”

Silence pressed between them.

Then Est stepped closer and held out the bouquet.

“They were rescheduled,” he said softly. “My competition. I couldn’t leave. I wanted to come the first day. I tried the second. I got on a train and had to turn back.”

William blinked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Est smiled, small and tired.

“Because I didn’t want you looking for me.”

That hit harder than anything.

“I always look for you,” William whispered.

Est’s fingers tightened around the stems before finally placing the bouquet in William’s hands.

“That’s why I came today. I wanted you to stop looking… and finally find me.”

The blue petals brushed against William’s wrist.

“You heard what you said once?” Est continued. “Blue roses mean you survived something hard without me.”

William’s voice broke, just slightly.

“I didn’t survive it well.”

Est stepped forward, closing the space between them. Close enough that William could feel warmth, breath, real presence.

“You did,” Est said. “You sang. You smiled. You were incredible.”

William’s eyes burned.

“I hated that you weren’t there.”

“I was,” Est replied gently, touching William’s chest. “Just not where you could see.”

That was unfair.

That was too much.

William dropped all pretense and pulled Est into him, careful of the bouquet crushed between them. The hug wasn’t dramatic — it was tight. Desperate. Two days of swallowed disappointment collapsing into relief.

“I don’t want to do big things without you,” William murmured into Est’s shoulder.

“You won’t,” Est promised. “Next time, I’ll be first row.”

William pulled back slightly.

“With normal roses?”

Est smiled.

“No. With blue ones again.”

“Why?”

Est reached up and brushed his thumb beneath William’s eye, where stage makeup had smudged faintly.

“Because loving you feels impossible sometimes. Loud. Big. Out of reach. Like those roses.”

He paused.

“But I show up anyway.”

William leaned in then.

No cameras.

No fans.

No stage lights.

Just them.

The kiss was soft, not urgent — the kind that says I’m here now.

When they pulled apart, William finally smiled without pretending.

“You made me miss you on purpose.”

Est grinned faintly. “Maybe.”

William looked down at the blue roses.

“They’re dramatic.”

“So are you.”

And for the first time in three nights, William laughed.