SVT - Concert Argument
Note from author: Hello my loves and MERRY CHRISTMAS OMGGG!!! As promised the second part of my concert series. I gotta say that I got majorly side-tracked while writing this and please be kind because I literally scrapped and restarted these ones like five times. My brain was not braining lately. The good news is that in the new year we will have biweekly posts!!!! Concert Argument: Hyung Line
Summary: Maknae Line having an argument with you before/after the concert. And yes, it is always their fault because the girlies are always right 🫰🏻
Warnings: None, just my delusions 🤟🏻
1️⃣ Dokyeom:
“It’s been, like… three weeks, babe,” you say softly, voice thin as you fidget with a crumpled piece of paper you found on the bench beside you. You fold it once. Then again. “This just isn’t the kind of pre-holiday I imagined for us.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Dokyeom answers from his makeup chair, eyes glued to his phone as he scrolls through the concert’s song spreadsheet. His brow furrows. “I thought we weren’t doing Dar+ling,” he mutters, more to the room than to you.
That’s when something in you snaps, not loudly, not dramatically, but cleanly.
“Jesus, Dokyeom, do you hear yourself?” You stand up too fast, your boots scraping the floor. He turns toward you immediately, neck whipping around like he’s been waiting for impact. “I’m standing right here, talking to you, and you’re not even here. This…” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, “…this is exhausting.”
The words land hard. You see it instantly, the way his face drains, the way his shoulders stiffen like he’s bracing for something he didn’t expect to hurt this much.
“Babe, no.” He’s up in a second, crossing the space between you. But your hands are already raised, palms out, a barrier you didn’t consciously decide to build.
“No. I really am tired,” you say, voice shaking despite your effort to keep it steady. You try to step past him, but he reaches out, and you push his hands away. “You keep saying you’ll change. You keep saying you’re sorry, that it’ll get better. And I keep believing you. But this is my free time too, Dokyeom. This is my life too.”
You grab your purse and phone from the bench, movements sharp, almost rehearsed.
The room goes quiet.
It’s the first time in your relationship that he doesn’t chase your words with explanations, apologies, jokes, anything. He just stands there, silent, stunned.
“Have a good concert, guys,” you say over your shoulder, forcing your voice to sound polite as you glance at Minghao and Joshua, who look like they’ve merged into the wall on the opposite side of the room.
You close the door gently behind you. Too soft.
The concert feels wrong from the first beat.
For Dokyeom, everything is too loud and not loud enough at the same time. He’s never fought with you like that before, never been left mid-argument, never felt so painfully exposed. It’s as if every eye in the venue is trained on him, dissecting him under a microscope on what already feels like an impossibly unlucky day.
His chest aches with the knowledge that you were right. And the worst part, the part that eats at him relentlessly, is that he can’t run to you, can’t pull you into his arms and fix it before stepping onstage.
His voice cracks more than it ever has. During the ballads, his eyes burn, tears threatening no matter how hard he blinks them away. He keeps scanning the crowd, stupidly hopeful, as if one glimpse of you might steady his heartbeat.
You’re not there.
The moment the final bow ends, he yanks the mic pack off so roughly he’s sure he leaves a layer of skin behind with the adhesive.
“Can I get a pass to the backstage lodge?” he asks breathlessly, grabbing a white towel to wipe the sweat from his neck. “My girlfriend should still be there.”
The staff member barely hesitates before handing him a random pass and unlocking the door to the private viewing rooms. He takes off immediately.
He almost runs straight past you.
You’re heading toward the bathrooms when he stops short, turning so fast he nearly collides with you. His hands come up instinctively, gripping your arms to steady himself, and you.
“What are you…” you start, but the question dies when you see his face.
“I was looking for you,” he says, breathless, adrenaline still humming through him.
“I would hope so,” you reply, the sarcasm automatic, a shield more than an attack.
“I mean it.” His hands slide to your waist, tentative now. “I handled earlier terribly. That was rude. I wasn’t present, and I’m sorry.”
You don’t answer right away.
“I promise I’m here,” he continues, voice lower, more careful. “And I’m sorry. Please… let’s not argue like this anymore. I really want us to work.”
“It feels awful,” you say finally, searching his face, needing to know he’s actually listening, “to be in the same room with you and have no idea where your mind is.”
“I know.” He nods immediately. “And I’m sorry for that too. But if there’s one thing I never want you to doubt…” his grip tightens just slightly, grounding, “…it’s that you’re always on my mind. Even when I don’t want you to be.”
And this time, he doesn’t look away when he says it.
2️⃣ Mingyu:
Mingyu is a flirt. You knew that, he knew that, hell, even your grandma probably knew that. And usually, it wasn’t a problem. He knew his boundaries. Work stayed work, and home, you, was where his loyalty lived. That was the balance you trusted.
But sometimes, even solid things crack when pushed too often.
Like today.
T-minus four hours to the concert, and you were stuck in the press room with Mingyu, Minghao, and Joshua while they ran through a series of short interviews for local TV. You had resigned yourself to boredom, scrolling on your phone, half-listening, until the host started lingering a little too long.
Her hand rested on Mingyu’s arm far more than necessary, fingers squeezing after every joke he made. Each laugh she gave him lingered just a second too late. And Mingyu, whether unintentionally or not, kept meeting her eyes, smiling in that easy, charming way of his.
The worst part wasn’t even the touching.
It was the way you felt invisible.
By the time the interviews wrapped and the group headed toward the changing rooms, your patience was hanging by a thread. One comment. One look. One more second, and you were sure you’d snap.
“Someone’s being a little bit moody today,” Mingyu joked as he caught up from behind, poking at your sides playfully.
“Not in the mood,” you muttered, pushing open the door to the already humid changing room.
“Come on, babe, don’t be like that.” His arm draped easily over your shoulders, warm and familiar.
Normally, you would’ve leaned into it. Normally, it would’ve softened you.
But today, it felt like he wasn’t hearing you at all.
“Can you freaking be serious for one second?” you exploded, your voice louder than you intended. His smile dropped, slow, stunned, and suddenly you were painfully aware of the eyes around you. Staff. Members. Conversations cutting short. “Like, for real. You’re flirting with some random woman right in front of me, and now you want to be all handsy and sweet?”
“Hey…hey,” he said quickly, lowering his voice as his hands reached for yours, fingers fidgeting when you didn’t let him take them. “Don’t make this a bigger deal than it is. It’s work, baby. You know that.”
“No, Mingyu. Really.” Your throat tightened as frustration rose behind your eyes. “How much of this do you think I can take? ‘Work’ won’t always cover it.”
Before he could respond, before the tears could fall, you turned and walked out.
You nearly collided with at least two staff members as you stormed down the hallway, heading for the furthest bathroom you could find, the echo of your footsteps matching the chaos in your chest.
What you didn’t realize was how fast he followed.
You burst into the women’s bathroom and barely had time to breathe before the door swung open behind you.
“What the…” you turned, stopped short by his presence.
“Why are you running away in the middle of an argument?” he asked, breathless, his eyes instinctively scanning the room for other women. Empty. Just you.
“It wasn’t an argument,” you said, turning to the sink and scrubbing your hands harder than necessary.
“Yeah, it wasn’t,” he replied, stepping closer. “Because you left before I could say anything.” His voice softened. “Can you look at me when I talk to you?”
You shut off the water with a sharp thunk and finally faced him.
“I didn’t mean to cross a boundary,” he said, gripping the cold, wet edge of the sink like he needed something solid to hold onto.
“Yet you still did,” you replied flatly. “Right in my face.”
“Babe. Y/N.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear but controlled. “You know this is a persona I have to keep up with for some of these interviews. I swear to you, I would walk on that stage right now and scream that you’re my girlfriend and that I love you more than anything in this fucking world.”
“Mingyu…”
“No.” He met your eyes fully now. “It’s never been about me not wanting to put you out there. But if this is too much, a public relationship is going to be hard. I need you to know that.”
You didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong, and you knew you were too emotional to fight logic with tears.
He exhaled deeply, stepping closer and gently cupping your cheeks, grounding you.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “Whether I’m Mingyu from Seventeen, Kim Mingyu behind closed doors, or anything in between. You have the same place in my heart, always.” His thumbs brushed softly against your skin. “You’re mine, no matter the persona. And I’m always yours.”
He stayed there, breathing with you, until the room felt less heavy.
3️⃣ Minghao:
“Where’s Y/n?” Jun asks as Minghao slips into the changing room, hood pulled low and music blasting through his headphones.
“She’s coming a bit later,” Minghao replies, dropping his duffle bag to the floor and tugging his headphones off.
It’s only half the truth. He doesn’t actually know when you’re coming, if you’re coming at all. For all he knows, you might not show up tonight.
Three days ago, the two of you had what people like to politely call a big fight. The kind that doesn’t start loud but ends that way. The kind that’s been building for months without either of you naming it.
You’d finally reached your limit, tired of being kept on the sidelines of his life, tired of finding things out last, tired of loving someone who seemed to keep you at arm’s length without meaning to. You snapped. He snapped back harder. And words that should’ve stayed buried came rushing out at the worst possible moment.
“If I wanted someone I had to report everything to,” Minghao had shouted, “I would’ve hired an assistant, not a fucking girlfriend.”
You’d stared at him like he’d slapped you.
“Wow. Real mature, Minghao,” you shot back, voice breaking. “Sorry for caring about what my boyfriend does when he disappears for a week and leaves me in the dark. If I bother you that much, then fine, do it all alone.”
Those were your last words before you walked out of his apartment at two in the morning, tears blurring your vision, hands shaking as you slammed the door behind you.
That was three days ago.
And since then, you hadn’t answered a single call. Not one text. Nothing.
He hated it.
Now the concert is three hours away, and Minghao feels restless in his own skin. The room feels louder without you, emptier somehow. You’re always there, quietly, steadily, never asking for credit, never demanding space. And it hits him, sharp and sudden, just how much your presence grounds him. How vital your unspoken support has always been.
“Is she stuck in traffic?” Hoshi asks, slipping up behind him and pulling him into a quick back hug. “She’s usually here by now.”
“I don’t know,” Minghao mutters. “I’ll call her.”
He steps out of the room, phone already in his hand. He doesn’t actually expect you to answer. He’s memorized the sound of his calls going to voicemail over the past three days. Really, he just needs air. Space. A moment to steady himself.
So when his phone vibrates in his pocket, he almost laughs, like the universe is playing a cruel joke.
It’s you.
“Hey,” he says, breathless, like he’s been running.
“Hey.” Your voice is soft on the other end, careful. Distant, but not cold.
“Why did you call?” he asks, then immediately regrets how it sounds. “I…I mean, I’m really glad you did.”
There’s a pause.
“I just wanted to say good luck,” you say quietly. “You’re going to be amazing.”
His chest tightens.
“Y/n…” Your name comes out like a confession. “I miss you.”
“No, you don’t,” you say, almost too quickly.
“Yes, I do,” he says without hesitation. “I miss you so much it hurts. And I was an asshole. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Minghao,” you sigh gently. “Let’s not do this right now.”
“What?” Panic creeps into his lungs. “Why not?”
“I’ll see you after, okay?” you say.
“I’ll come straight to your place,” he promises, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. “I swear.”
There’s another pause, longer this time.
“The door’s always open for you,” you finally say. Softer now. “Even when I wish it wasn’t.”
And then the line goes quiet.
4️⃣ Seungkwan:
“You’re overthinking this,” Seungkwan says, his voice cutting clean through the elevator’s low hum. Too clean. Too sharp. Like a blade slid where there was already a crack.
You don’t answer right away. The numbers crawl upward, painfully slow. The air feels too tight, too small for the way your chest keeps pulling inward.
“Maybe,” you finally say, “because it feels like you don’t want me here.”
The words leave you quieter than you meant them to, but your voice betrays you anyway. There’s a tremor you can’t fully smooth out, a fragile edge you were hoping he wouldn’t notice.
He notices.
He exhales hard, hand dragging over his face. Stress, exhaustion, pressure, everything piling up with nowhere to go. “Jesus, Y/n. Do we really need to do this right now?” He doesn’t look at you. “Stop doing my head in. I don’t have time for this.”
His voice rises despite himself. It echoes faintly against the elevator walls, louder than the space can absorb.
The doors slide open, but neither of you moves.
You look at him then.
And it’s not anger. It’s not accusation. It’s something far worse, hurt so bare it feels indecent to witness. Like he reached inside you, ripped something loose, and let it fall to the floor without even realizing what it was.
Seungkwan’s chest tightens instantly. He opens his mouth, ready to say something, anything, but you’ve already stepped past him, already walking away.
The doors close behind you with a soft, final sound.
That look never leaves him.
Five hours later, it’s still there.
The concert is long over. The crowd gone. The high burned out of his system. Seungkwan sits in the changing room, elbows resting on his knees, costume hanging off his shoulders like it weighs a hundred pounds. Laughter drifts in from down the hall, members talking, teasing, planning drinks, but he can’t bring himself to join them.
He already performed tonight.
Three hours of smiling until his cheeks hurt. Of joking, engaging, pouring his voice into songs meant to make people feel something real. All while knowing he’d been cruel to the one person who mattered most.
The irony sits heavy in his chest.
He keeps replaying it, your voice, your eyes, the way you didn’t fight him. That was the worst part. If you’d yelled, if you’d snapped back, he might’ve justified it. But you didn’t. You just… folded inward.
He knows you’re waiting for him. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere patient.
That knowledge makes it worse.
His phone lights up.
Please come to the car, it’s getting late.
No anger. No guilt-tripping. Just concern.
“How are you still here for me?” he mutters under his breath.
Shame coils tight around his ribs as he grabs his duffle bag. He throws out a few distracted goodbyes, barely registers the responses, and makes his way to the parking garage.
The car is already there.
You’re in the driver’s seat, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in a stiff, repetitive rhythm. Not impatient, just anxious. Like you’re holding yourself together through motion alone.
He opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.
“Hey,” you say.
Your voice is neutral. Too neutral.
“Hey,” he replies. Then, after a beat, “You know, I can drive too.”
He shoves his bag into the backseat, trying to sound normal. Casual.
“It’s fine,” you say. “You’re tired.”
You reach for the gear shift.
His hand moves before his brain catches up, covering yours, stopping you mid-motion. The contact is light but urgent, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.
“Y/n, don’t do that.”
Your head turns slowly. The darkness inside the car makes his face softer, but his eyes look wrecked. Red-rimmed. Exhausted.
“Do what?” you ask, though your voice is already guarded.
“Pretend,” he says quietly. “Pretend everything’s okay.” His throat tightens. “I was a dick to you.”
You force a small smile. Tight. Practiced. “It’s fine. Just concert nerves.”
The lie lands heavy between you.
He shakes his head, frustration flickering, not at you, but at himself. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t make it smaller so I don’t have to face it.” He runs a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “That wasn’t nice of me.”
You try to pull your hand back, to put the car in drive, to escape the moment before it can cut any deeper, but he tightens his grip just enough to stop you. Then, more gently, he laces his fingers through yours and lowers your joined hands into his lap.
“No,” he says, firmer now. “Let me say this.”
Silence stretches. You can hear the faint echo of the garage. The ticking of the engine cooling.
“That’s not how I should treat you,” he continues. “I don’t care how stressed I am. I don’t care how tired. You didn’t deserve that.” His voice wavers, and he hates that it does, but he doesn’t stop. “I love you. And I should never be the reason you feel like you have to shrink. Or second-guess yourself. Or swallow your feelings just to keep the peace.”
Your jaw tightens.
“I never want to be the person who makes you close off,” he says, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s grounding himself. “You’re supposed to be safe with me. Always. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”
For a long moment, you don’t say anything.
The tension doesn’t disappear, but it shifts. Less sharp. More fragile. Like something bruised but still alive.
The car doesn’t move.
But for the first time all night, neither of you feels like you’re running anymore.
5️⃣ Vernon:
It’s officially Vernon’s first concert in three years where you’re there, but he isn’t with you.
Not really.
You and Vernon are on a break. Two weeks in. No calls. No late-night drives. No falling asleep tangled together. Just those careful, almost polite check-in texts between two people who aren’t ready to let go, but don’t quite know how to stay.
Why the break? Because Vernon has always struggled with two things: communicating his feelings, and understanding how much the way he communicates them matters. He feels deeply, he just doesn’t always know how to let it out before it turns into silence.
“WE ARE ON IN 3… 2… 1… SHOWTIME!”
The stage director’s voice cuts through everything as the platform lifts and the lights explode into blinding white.
“Showtime, baby,” Cheol mutters beside him, straightening his posture as if flipping a switch.
Vernon flips his too, but something’s off.
From the first song, it’s not a fun show. The lyrics hit harder than usual, like they’re aimed straight at his chest. The lights feel heavier, pressing down on him, somehow both too bright and not bright enough at the same time. He keeps losing his focus, his thoughts drifting somewhere they shouldn’t be.
Then he thinks he sees you.
Just a flash on the big screen. A face that looks like yours. His heart stutters, then scoffs at itself.
Get it together.
He tells himself it’s nothing, just his brain filling in gaps it shouldn’t. But then it happens again. And again.
By the third time, his breath catches.
That blue sweater. The one he bought you. The one you always stole and never returned.
“I’m tripping… or did I just see Y/n in the lodges?” Vernon mutters, pulling out his in-ear and leaning toward Seungkwan.
Seungkwan barely hesitates. “Yeah, she’s here. I think Sofia’s with her too,” he replies before bouncing away across the stage.
That’s it. He’s gone.
The crowd blurs into noise. Thousands of faces dissolve into nothing. Somehow, the lights seem to land only on you, even though you’re nowhere near the stage. His eyes keep pulling in your direction, like his body knows before his mind can catch up.
Halfway through the show, Cheol shoots him a sharp look and mouths, Focus. This side.
Vernon nods, but the minutes stretch unbearably long. Each song feels like an hour. Each beat drags.
And then suddenly, there’s nothing left to count down.
The show ends.
Backstage, the noise fades into laughter and movement, and there you are. Standing near his dad, smiling, laughing at something he says like nothing in the world is wrong.
“Good concert, Vern,” Sofia says, pulling him into a quick hug.
He barely registers it.
His eyes are locked on you, hungry in a way that startles even him, like someone who’s been holding their breath for far too long.
“Hey,” you say softly, stepping closer. “It was really great seeing you on stage.”
You hug him, quick and polite, or at least that’s what you intend.
The second your skin touches his, something in him gives.
He melts into you, arms tightening instinctively, like his body remembers before his mind can stop it. He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, then kisses you. No hesitation. No warning. Just need.
His thumb grazes your cheek, grounding himself.
“Well,” you breathe out, stunned but smiling faintly, “hello to you too.”
“I’ll do better,” he says immediately, the words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting. His eyes search your face, desperate and sincere. “I swear.”
“Vernon,” you ask gently, confusion threading through your voice, “what are you talking about?”
He exhales shakily. “Right now… I feel calm. I feel happy. Like I’m not suffocating, like I’m not constantly holding my breath.” His forehead rests against yours. “That’s what it feels like when I’m not with you…and I hate it.”
“Vernon…” you whisper, melting fully into his arms now.
“I’ll do better,” he repeats, quieter this time, steadier. “I’ll learn. I’ll open my mind, even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially then. I just… I don’t want to lose you because I didn’t know how to speak.”
6️⃣ Dino:
“I’m sorry,” Dino murmurs, fingers worrying at a stray scrap of tape clinging to the wall.
“It’s fine,” your voice drifts through the phone, soft, distant, and not convincing enough to ease the sting in his chest.
“It doesn’t feel like it is.” He presses his forehead against the cold wall, eyes squeezing shut.
“Let’s talk after the concert, ok?” The line clicks dead before he can answer.
For a moment, he stays there, breathing, trying to swallow everything at once. Then he pushes himself off the wall and walks straight into the chaos of the styling pit. Backstage is loud, frantic, buzzing with pre-show nerves, and none of it helps settle the guilt twisting in his stomach. He’s never been good with conflict, the thought of you somewhere in the arena, upset and maybe not enjoying the night because of him, it gnaws at him worse than any performance anxiety ever could.
“Honestly… was I a dick?” he blurts, half to himself, half toward Woozi while he adjusts his in-ears.
“I don’t know, man. I do not pry into your stupid arguments with your partner,” Woozi snaps, still digging elbow-deep into his back pocket for his mic pack.
“You were kinda… off point,” DK adds carefully as he cups Dino’s face in both hands. Dino smacks his chest in protest, but there’s no heat behind it.
“Talk it out after,” Woozi cuts in, already squeezing past them toward the stage entrance.
Two hours later, mid-show, the roaming camera sweeps across the audience, and there you are. Just a flash. You, his mom’s arm wrapped around your waist, the two of you shouting lyrics and throwing your free hands in the air like nothing in the world could bother you.
Something in his chest cracks. He can’t tell if it’s breaking or fitting itself back together.
By the time crew members are swarming the backstage area, unhooking equipment and yelling over one another, Dino is barely listening. The second his mic pack is off, he’s gone, bolting out of the break room.
Woozi only sighs when Chan nearly vaults over a bundle of cable coils. “Go, Romeo,” he mutters.
“They’re in the waiting room!” a staff member shouts after him as he disappears down the hall.
He feels the adrenaline spike all over again when he pushes through the revolving door into the cool, over-lit waiting room. The white lights sting his tired eyes, but then he sees you, standing among the families and friends of the members, and everything else blurs out.
“Hey,” you say gently, your eyes scanning his face like you’re checking for cracks.
“Hi.” He gives a small, uncertain smile. “I’m… sorry?”
“For what?” You raise an eyebrow, all faux innocence.
“Come on, babe,” he sighs, stepping just close enough to show he wants comfort but still afraid he hasn’t earned it. His hand ghosts over the back of your head. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“I would’ve enjoyed it more if it didn’t take me forty minutes to stop being annoyed every time you showed up on the screen,” you say, trying to maintain your petty edge. But the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you.
And that, finally, is enough for him to breathe again.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” he teases, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. “Now… where’s my mom? I saw how much you were definitely not enjoying the show with her.”
