#sieuntak

Beneath their differences though, there lies a shared instinct to protect. Gotak’s is outward and loud — the kind of protection that rushes headfirst into fights for his friends without thinking twice. Sieun’s is inward and restrained — the kind that calculates, plans, endures.

By the time Sieun arrives at Eunjang, he is living like a ghost. Suho’s coma has shattered him in ways that don’t show — no outbursts, no tears, just silence that sinks too deep. His body goes through motions: study, fight, survive. He tells himself he can’t let anyone else get too close, can’t risk repeating that pain. So when Gotak steps in to protect him from Hyoman, Sieun’s gratitude comes out wrong — cold, almost dismissive. 

Gotak sees something hauntingly familiar in Sieun’s eyes — the same exhaustion Baku carries, the same silent loneliness that follows people who’ve seen too much, too young. Sieun, in turn, might see in Gotak a kind of emotional vitality he’s long since buried.

Canon leaves their connection understated, but the groundwork is there — enough to imagine how it might unfold if circumstances allowed it to breathe.

Gotak wouldn’t understand all of Sieun's history, but he would feel it. He would notice the pauses before Sieun answers, the way his gaze drifts whenever someone mentions hospitals or Suho. Gotak wouldn’t handle grief with words — he would handle it with action. So he would hover. He would get annoyed when Sieun skips lunch, toss him food, check on him without making it obvious.

He would never say “Are you okay?” — he would say, “Eat something, you look like shit.” And that’s exactly what Sieun would need. No pity, no probing — just someone who stays. Gotak’s affection would be blunt but steady, and Sieun, for all his restraint, would begin to rely on it.

Suho would never truly leave Sieun. Every time someone throws a punch, he would see flashes of Suho’s movements — that same directness, that same instinct to step in when others hesitate. Gotak’s temper, his loyalty, his protectiveness — they would remind Sieun of Suho. But where Suho’s kindness was quiet and intuitive, Gotak’s would burn hot and loud. That difference might unsettle Sieun at first. He wouldn’t want to see Suho in anyone, wouldn’t want to replace him. Yet Gotak wouldn’t replace Suho — he would ground what Suho left behind. Through Gotak, Sieun could rediscover what it feels like to be close to someone without fearing loss at every step.

Their closeness wouldn’t come without friction. Gotak’s hotheaded nature would clash with Sieun’s detached logic. Sieun would get frustrated when Gotak fights impulsively; Gotak would get angry when Sieun withholds emotion like it’s strategy. But beneath every argument would linger the same unspoken truth — fear. When Gotak gets hurt, Sieun’s mask would crack. He would become frantic, cold, overly rational — the same survival mode that kicked in with Suho’s absence. Gotak might mistake it for indifference, but it would be terror. Sieun would be terrified of caring again only to watch history repeat itself.

It wouldn’t be until Gotak realizes this — that Sieun’s detachment isn’t cruelty but panic — that their dynamic would begin to soften. He would learn to slow down, to reassure him with presence instead of words. And that’s when Sieun would start to heal — when he would realize he can love again without losing himself to grief.