Archive of Our Own

The first thing Chris realizes, upon opening his eyes, is he’s woken in not only the wrong place, but in the wrong time.

The blaring alarm that jolted him awake is Vanilla Ice’s “Ice Ice Baby”—a song that he hasn’t listened to in years. The room is tiny, with multiple bunk beds arranged like Tetris blocks. There’s a tiny desk in one corner, covered in figurines from One Piece. Worst of all, though, is the poster of Megan Fox from the original Transformers film on the wall next to him, her body bent languidly over a bright yellow Camaro with black racing stripes. One corner of it has peeled away from the wall, hanging limply. Chris smooths it back against the tape with his hand.

It’s all wrong. Or rather, it’s right—just not right, right now.

Chris hasn’t occupied this space since the very worst year of his life. But that was six years ago.

What the fuck is happening?

He tumbles out of the tiny twin bed, getting tangled in the sheets and crashing to the floor. He groans, rubbing his tailbone. That’s going to bruise.

“Who’s there?” a worried voice calls from the attached bathroom, followed by the sound of footsteps. A very familiar voice.

Before Chris can stand, before he can consider the repercussions of these next few seconds, before he can hide—he’s looking up into a pair of deep brown eyes. Very familiar eyes. His eyes. Above him, brandishing a hairbrush like a weapon, stands a nineteen year-old Bang Chan: dressed in boxers and a hoodie, face slightly rounder, curly sandy blonde hair a chaotic nest.

“I-I’m dreaming,” Chan stammers.

Chris slowly starts to get to his feet, hands raised. “I don’t think you are. We are?” He sits back down on the bed.

“Who are you?” Chan asks. “What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?”

“I’m you,” Chris replies. “But like, from…the future? I’m twenty-five.”

Chan blinks in utter disbelief. The brush falls from his hand, clattering to the floor. He stumbles backwards, not stopping until his knees connect with the chair of the desk. He sinks down, rubbing a hand through his hair and dragging it down over his face. He looks at Chris, and his expression is haunting in its emptiness. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Chris starts. “I don’t know how I got he—”

“No,” Chan interrupts, voice hollow and desperate all at once. “What do you mean you’re twenty-five?”

Chris takes a breath, debating how to answer that question. The younger man is clearly grappling with something at an existential level—

That’s when Chris sees the calendar on the wall, the previous days crossed out with messy X’s. A chill runs down his spine as a string of realizations, of memories, fall into place, perfectly. Because who knows better what’s running through his nineteen year-old self’s mind right now than well…him? Chris stands and makes his way to the bathroom, knowing full well what he is going to find there. He shuts the door, and turns back to Chan.

“It was going to be today, wasn’t it?” Chris asks quietly. Chan doesn’t say anything. He looks at the floor, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie further down to cover his hands, and starts to pick at the skin around his fingernails. “Wasn’t it?” he asks again.

The younger man’s body begins to shake, wracked by silent sobs. He collapses in on himself, like a black hole. “I-I wasn’t s-sure… I h-hadn’t really…” Chan inhales. “I c-can’t do this anymore.”

Chris nods. He has the benefit of experience, of an additional six years—and the ups and downs that came with them—to know those words are false. But he also remembers, with a distinct and honestly uncomfortable clarity, what Chan is feeling. He knows, at this very moment, that none of the other beds in this room have been slept in recently; their occupants have either debuted, or they didn’t make the cut and had to leave the company. He knows it’s been seven long years of training, and waiting, and for what? To always be left behind. 

He kneels down in front of his younger self. “You can,” he says softly. “I’m here, aren’t I? We’re here.”

“W-what if I’m already dead?” Chan whispers, mostly to himself. “That’s it, i-isn’t it? I’m dead, and this is like…” Chan lifts his head, looking at Chris with glassy eyes. “Are you an angel?”

Chris rests a hand on Chan’s knee and squeezes. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know how I got here.” He squeezes harder. “But I am real, okay? You are still alive.” His voice cracks.

He meant it when he said he has no fucking clue how he went to bed last night in the dorm he shares with Jisung, Changbin, and Hyunjin and woke up six years in the past in his old company dorm. He’s read enough books and seen enough movies to know you’re not supposed to fuck with time travel. Is that even what this is? A time warp? A time loop? Whatever—he knows you’re supposed to leave it alone. Don’t make any drastic changes. Don’t tell anyone too much about the future out of fear they might alter it. But at the same time… How is he possibly meant to just…not do anything? How can he not intervene?

Chan’s hand gripping his own draws him from his reverie. The younger man is still crying, and it breaks something in Chris. He remembers: the loneliness, the emptiness, the hopelessness.

Fuck it.

The older man takes a deep breath. “Listen,” he says. “I know it’s going to sound useless, but I need you to listen to me. Okay?” Chan nods. “You are so close . All of this,” he gestures at the empty room, “is going to be worth it. Soon. I promise.”

“Really?” Chan’s voice is barely a whisper.

“Yes,” Chris replies. An odd sensation overcomes him then, a tingling throughout his entire body. He looks down at the hand that Chan is holding, only to see it fading… disappearing. How much time does he have left? Judging by the way his body feels lighter and lighter, he’s not guessing long.

He holds up his other hand, extending the pinky finger. “Promise,” he pleads. His younger self wraps his pinky around Chris’s, but before the older man can finish—he’s gone.

Chan’s pinky slowly curls back against his palm, his hand falling back into his lap. He looks at the empty space in front of him, where just moments before he stood. Or well, twenty-five year-old him stood.

He laughs hollowly. Twenty-five. He makes it to twenty-five. That alone feels surreal, but then he tries to imagine what could possibly change enough for another six years to be…worth it? Chris never really said. 

With a sigh, Chan stands. He glances at the bathroom door, fingers twitching. It was going to be so easy, could be easy still. But he promised—and his next laugh is bitter, because of course Chris would know Chan always keeps his promises.

No matter what.

To say Chan’s nervous is an understatement.

When he’d been called in for a meeting with the head of the company, he had assumed the worst (he always assumes the worst). He hadn’t been expecting— this. The company is organizing a new reality survival show, where a potential debut group will be given the opportunity to prove themselves ready—worthy—of debuting. And J.Y. Park himself wants Chan to put together a boy’s group for it.

Chan collapses on his bed in the empty dorm, rolling over and hugging his pillow tightly. He can already feel the pressure weighing on him, pushing down on his chest and constricting his throat. It’s too much responsibility. “Why?” he groans into the pillow, frustrated tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “Why, why, why?”

He’d specifically spent the last several months—okay, maybe even a year or two, more realistically—curating distance between himself and the other trainees. It was self defence, he’d thought. It was to shield his own heart. If nobody got close, it couldn't  hurt him again when they left. Jisung and Changbin are perhaps the two exceptions to this rule, but Chan is also honest enough to admit that allowing them in (even if only a little) was selfish. The two boys are fun, bright, distracting—and maybe Chan had been using their friendship as a reason to stick around. Sue him.

His phone vibrates next to him, again and again as multiple messages come through.

Hannie:

hyung?

were you still coming?

binnie brought yubuchobap

he had to leave already

…shall i eat your portion? lol

Chan sighs. Shit. He’d completely forgotten that he’d agreed to meet up with Jisung and Changbin for a writing session this afternoon between their practice schedules. Hastily, he types out a reply.

Chan:

Sorry, sorry! Yes I’ll be there!

He pockets the phone without waiting for Jisung’s reply, grabs his laptop, and rushes out the door.

It’s past midnight by the time Chan makes it back to the dorm.

He and Jisung had spent the better part of three hours workshopping several new songs, and Chan thinks these could be some of their best yet. The younger boy is insanely talented, especially when it comes to writing lyrics. The way Jisung manages to convey his emotions through his rap? Chan admires it—and is envious of Jisung’s openness. 

Their time together had also provided a distraction from the task Chan has been given. He hadn’t once thought about the boy’s group he needs to put together. But now, surrounded by empty beds and a deafening silence, it’s once again the only thing he can think about. J.Y. Park wants a group to debut for the company that doesn’t feel manufactured. They want something that feels…organic. Natural. Real. Members who feel like friends. That alone makes Chan recoil. It goes against everything he’s tried to accomplish for his own sanity—for his survival.

Chan flops dramatically into his desk chair. He grumbles, “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Don’t you?”

Chan startles at the voice behind him, spinning around so quickly that he nearly falls off the chair. And surely he must be dreaming again, because sitting on his bed, in shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, is Chris.

His older self cocks an eyebrow, and Chan can’t help but notice there’s a slit shaved into it. “Don’t you?” Chris asks again, casually.

“Is this what you do now?” Chan complains. “Just pop in and out of my life whenever you feel like it, asking me cryptic shit?”

Chris sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m not choosing any of this. It’s just…happening?”

“Well, make it happen less. I’ve got enough to deal with.”

“...I know.” Chris says it quietly.

Chan doesn’t think it will ever get any less unsettling, talking to himself. Chris has already lived through this, after all, and then another six years. He knows who the group members are. He knows the outcome of the reality show that’s currently still in development. He knows everything that happens after—

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Chan asks.

“Thinking about the future. I can’t tell you.”

“Says who?”

And okay, maybe Chan is being petulant, but it’s barely been three days since Chris first appeared. Appeared, and prevented Chan from taking his own life—which doesn’t mean those feelings have magically gotten better. He’s still anxious, still depressed. Some scars take longer to heal than others, and Chan is an open wound.

“Nobody should know too much about their future,” Chris says.

“Well,” Chan snaps, voice raising, “currently I don’t know anything about the future, except that I’m still alive, and my hairline’s receding. Great.”

Chris rolls his eyes, but still raises a subconscious hand to play with his fringe. “Pettiness is a poor quality for a leader.”

“So what? I’m not leadin—”

“Yet,” Chris interrupts. And then he drags his hand down his face and stands, before beginning to pace. He seems…frustrated.

Chan presses, “What do you mean, yet?”

“How about you worry less about that, and go back to worrying about your current task? The boy’s group.”

With a sigh, Chan turns back to the desk and rests his head on it. “Thanks for reminding me,” he says sarcastically. “I still don’t know where to start.” Another sigh, longer this time. “JYP-nim didn’t really—I don’t have any direction. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Chris comes over and leans against the desk. He reaches down and runs his fingers through Chan’s hair, massaging his scalp. The gesture is relaxing, calming, and of course Chris would know that. “I mean, you have,” he says. “You’ve had to pick groups for monthly evaluations before. Or when you break off during practices.”

“But this is bigger than that! Those are temporary, but this group could be…permanent. I could debut with these people. I could share a whole career with them.”

“Fair enough.” Chris chuckles, and Chan side eyes him. “The principle is the same, though,” he continues. “The qualities you look for in your group members wouldn’t change, right?”

“I…I guess not.”

“So, the people you pick first. Why do you choose them? What are you looking for?”

Chan pauses. He’s never actively thought about it like this, never examined the reasons behind his choices, because he never needed to. Especially because, whenever possible, he realizes he’s always just picked Jisung or Changbin. His cheeks flush, embarrassed. It feels childish, that sort of thoughtless favouritism. But—

It’s not really that. Yes, they’re his friends (his only friends). That friendship makes everything seem effortless, though. And given all of their collaborative efforts on the side, they’ve developed a working relationship naturally. Each knows how the others operate. And, obviously, it’s fun (which is not something Chan lets himself indulge in often).

Beside him, Chris smiles. “Well?”

“I guess… I gravitate towards those with a similar work ethic, who are creative and talented. And who help me take things less seriously. Sometimes,” he adds quickly.

“Sounds to me like you know exactly where to start then,” Chris says. “The survival show won’t be publicly announced for several months yet, so you’ve got time. You don’t need to rush this. Trust me.”

Chan rolls his eyes. “There you go again.”

Chris raises his hands in mock defensiveness, and Chan belatedly notices his older self’s fingers are translucent. “Okay, okay, okay. I’ll st—”

One moment he’s there, and the next, he’s vanished.

Chan stares at the space left behind, considering their conversation. Chris’s advice does make sense, but the weight of the decision weighs heavy on his shoulders. The people he selects will audition for the survival show with him. If successful, they’ll participate in the show, together. They could all debut together. These could be the people Chan works with for the length of an entire career. And it will all start with him asking, and them deciding whether or not to put their fate in his hands.

His phone vibrates.

Hannie:

hyung!

chan-hyung!!

the premiere date for the new season of that anime we watched together was announced!!

FIRST OF APRIL

SO SOON

and i fixed the topline in the new track 👀

[voice message]

Only Jisung would be sharing this news, in this order, at nearly two in the morning.

Chan can’t help but laugh, the sound echoing through the empty room. He listens to the voice message, head bobbing along. It’s the song they’d spent most of their time working on this afternoon, and Jisung’s alterations have indeed made it even better. The younger boy’s talent doesn’t surprise Chan, but it does excite him and—

Oh. Chan’s an idiot, isn’t he? How had he ever thought he didn’t know where to start looking for members for the boy’s group, when such an obvious choice was literally right there, the whole time?

Chan:

This sounds so good, Hannie!

Also…there was something I wanted to ask you. :)

Neither of them gets much sleep that night, but what does sleep matter to Chan when Jisung accepts his invitation immediately, no questions asked, and proceeds on a very long thread of messages about how many new raps he is going to start writing, and how this group of theirs is going to dominate the world.

And Jisung’s optimism is clearly contagious, because Chan finds himself believing it, too.

“Stop moving around so much,” Chan chastises the younger trainee sitting across from him on the floor backstage.

Monthly evaluations have arrived, and Chan is regretting the fact that his team were able to talk him into—of all things—a Hallowen concept. In January. But everyone was so excited, and who would Chan be to stifle that? So here he is, painting the other boy’s face entirely white, while another team member is attempting to choke them with the fumes from a spray can of temporary green hair dye. The young boy is going to become The Joker. 

It’s honestly a really fun performance they’ve put together. But not perfect—and Chan blames himself for that, because his brain is always in two places nowadays, and his multitasking has gone to shit. Two weeks have passed since Jisung became the first addition to Chan’s team, but the initial excitement quickly wore off, replaced once again by overwhelming anxieties. If anything, it’s worse now, because it’s more tangible. If the group fails, Chan knows that one of the people he’ll let down is Jisung—and how is he supposed to live with that possibility?

“Here, let me do that,” a familiar voice says, reaching down to take the makeup brush from Chan’s hand.

Will Chris’s random appearances ever stop surprising him?

His older self has silvery blonde hair now instead of black, and he’s wearing a medical mask as a disguise. Chan scoots over wordlessly, letting Chris take over the makeup application. He quickly finishes with the white powder, and then reaches into the makeup bag on the floor for red lipstick that he adeptly smears over the trainee’s mouth. “This is a cool concept,” Chris says conversationally. “The costumes and makeup are a great touch.”

“Yeah!” the trainee replies excitedly. “It’s my first time in an evaluation group with Chan-hyung, too! I hope I’ll do well with him.”

“Fighting!” Chris says, smiling at Chan. “What’s your name?” he asks the trainee.

“Yang Jeongin,” he replies, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Jeongin-ah,” Chris says, “I’m sure you’ll do well today. Your look for the stage is sure to catch JYP-nim’s attention all on its own. It’s all finished now, if you’d like to go see what it looks like.”

Jeongin jumps up and races off to the bathroom in search of a mirror.

Chris looks at Chan, whose mouth is hanging open. “What?”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That,” Chan waves in Jeongin’s direction. “Just…talk to everyone, so naturally, and make them feel…comfortable.”

Chris rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “There’s plenty of opportunity to finesse that in the next six years. I’m not trying to be cryptic,” he adds hastily, when Chan grimaces and starts to open his mouth. “There’s plenty of opportunity for you to do it now, too.” He pauses, taking a purposefully prolonged moment to shuffle the items in the makeup bag at his feet. “We used to talk to everyone like that, before…” Chris trails off, staring pointedly at Chan.

“Yeah, well, you should know why we stopped then, too.”

“I do.” He rests a hand on Chan’s knee. “I know how hard it was—how hard it is. I still think about it in the future, you know. There are… It gets brought up often enough, but sometimes it’ll just surface on its own.”

Brought up? What sort of future is Chan living that his past at the company gets mentioned? Would this point in time still be interesting in interviews six years after debut? That would mean he debuts, though, and that whatever group he’s in is successful enough to still be active. So…okay, maybe it’s more likely that he ends up washed out, and people are just annoyingly curious about where and how it all went wrong— 

“You really need to stop doing that every time I say something about the future,” Chris says. “Forget I said anything. Focus on your monthly evaluation.” He points to Jeongin, headed their way, and the other trainees in Chan’s group. “You owe your focus to them, right now.”

Chan nods, because Chris is right. These kids are counting on him, and his support, to help them do well. The older man helps Chan to his feet, and this time he walks away. Chan doesn’t know if he’s disappeared again afterwards or not, but he shakes that thought off, too, and joins his group.

They exit the stage to the sound of applause and cheers from their fellow trainees in the crowd, and Chan is genuinely happy. The performance wasn’t perfect, but their personalities on stage definitely helped where the technical aspects were weaker. He congratulates everyone, and then proceeds to the bathroom. The makeup was a great idea, but some of it was not waterproof, and it’s sweating into Chan’s eyes now.

He’s in the middle of vigorously scrubbing his face when he hears the door open behind him. And then…clapping? He’s not surprised at all when he turns around to see Chris standing there.

“Well done,” the older man says brightly. “You did brilliantly out there.”

“It wasn’t perfect,” Chan corrects. “ But, I can tell they had fun. And the audience did, too. Which counts for something.”

Chris nods, and jumps up to sit on the bathroom counter, swinging his legs back and forth. “It counts for a lot. You should be proud.”

“I am,” Chan answers. “This group was all younger trainees, so it’s amazing to see their improvement.”

“Absolutely,” Chris says with a smile. “That one kid—Jeongin? The Joker? His facial expressions were insane. I’m impressed he’s got that much confidence, considering he’s only…what? Sixteen?”

“Fifteen, still, I think,” Chan replies. “He mentioned his birthday is soon, though.”

An inexplicably soft expression crosses Chris’s face. “A proper maknae in the making,” he jokes. “Don’t forget to wish him a happy birthday. I can tell he really looks up to you.”

Chan splutters, choking on some of the water he’d been splashing on his face to remove the remaining makeup. 

“I’m serious,” Chris says. He stands, stumbling because his one foot has begun to disappear. There isn’t much time left. “Be proud of yourself, too. I know there’s a lot of pressure, being the oldest—especially given how long you’ve been here.” 

Normally, that reminder would hurt; words jabbing sharply into his skin, drawing blood. But it doesn’t coming from Chris, if for no other reason than that he would know. Chan looks up into the mirror on the wall, expecting to see Chris in the reflection.

But he’s gone, and Chan is alone.

The younger man sighs and dries his face, thinking about what Chris had said. Of course, Chan is intimately familiar with that pressure—both the expectations of others, and the expectations he places upon himself. That’s never felt more pressing than it does now, with the additional responsibility of putting together a group. At the same time, he’s thinking of his evaluation group, and how a similar pressure must be pressing on them. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Everyone at the company is here to train, with the same goal in mind.

Everyone wants to debut.

Not everyone will.

Chan remembers how it felt to be fifteen and hopeful but mostly scared—and how his friends at the time had made that fear more manageable. Inevitably, he thinks of Jeongin. Still so young, but so charismatic. He’d captured the entire audience with his performance, and with a little more time…a little more guidance…

What good is the opportunity to compile a group, if Chan isn’t willing to extend that opportunity as far as it can reach?

He rushes out of the bathroom, hoping that Jeongin has stuck around for the rest of the showcase.

Thankfully, he has.

Chan finds the younger boy sitting in the crowd, watching attentively and cheering at the end of the next group’s performance. He makes his way through the seats, apologizing whenever anyone needs to stand so he can pass by, and takes a seat next to Jeongin—who looks up at him, awestruck.

“Hyung? What are you—”

“Actually, Jeongin-ah, I had…” How should he say this? Chan hadn’t really planned how to bring up the boy’s group project with the boy, and now it feels…awkward? Chan tries to push those feelings aside. He takes a deep breath, and starts again. “JYP-nim has given me the opportunity to put together a performance group for an upcoming sh—event.” Chan corrects himself at the last minute, realizing that the survival show isn’t public information yet, and he doesn’t have the familiarity (or trust) with Jeongin yet that he has with Jisung. “I was impressed with your confidence today, and I’d really like to work with you in this new group, too.” He takes another breath. “I’d like to bring you with me.”

Jeongin’s eyes are so wide Chan fears they might just pop out entirely. “Chan-hyung, I—oh!” He jumps to his feet and bows, body folding into a perfect ninety degree angle. “Thank you for this opportunity, I will work harder than ever before to prove I can be by your side. Thank you, thank you!”

Chan smiles, heat rushing to his reddened cheeks. “Jeongin-ah, thank you for trusting me,” he says. The younger boy bows once again before returning to his seat. Chan can’t help but notice how his legs are bouncing in excitement still.

They remain seated together, watching the rest of the group performances. Chan takes mental notes of each: their successes and errors, strengths and weaknesses. If he’s going to find other potential initiates for the group, what better place?

Unfortunately, no one else is catching his eye quite like Jeongin did. Which is okay, Chan tells himself, because new trainees arrive every month and not everyone is on the same schedule for monthly evaluations, so today doesn’t represent all of the talent at the company, either.

And then—

The second-to-last group of the day takes the stage, and Chan’s eye is immediately drawn to a tall boy with short hair and long, lanky arms. He’s…he’s beautiful. The performance begins, and Chan cannot look away. There’s something about the way this boy moves, as fluid as water but with such precise control over each and every limb, every joint. Behind each movement is an energy that Chan has never seen before, and it transforms the choreography entirely. It elevates it.

Chan is utterly transfixed.

Sure, it doesn’t hurt that the boy is also arguably the prettiest human on earth, either. His face is rounded by youth, but still angular, and his lips—even from this distance—look plump and soft. Chans swears he’s only noticing because of the boy’s expressions, but—okay, that’s not entirely true. Chan is only human, and he has eyes. The dancer’s beauty isn’t something you can overlook. Clearly, because the entire audience is silent, in awe, until the song ends. There’s a silence (long enough to notice, but short enough to overlook) before the applause starts, like everyone needs a moment to come up for air.

“That was incredible,” Jeongin whispers.

“Yeah,” Chan says, awestruck.

Chan doesn’t remember anything about the final performance, doesn’t really remember anything until J.Y. Park himself comes up on stage and announces that Chan’s team placed first for this month’s evaluation. That doesn’t even register fully until Chan feels Jeongin tugging at his arm and calling his name. He stands, following the younger boy down to the stage where they are united with the other members of their team, and they accept the award.

Through it all, though, Chan can’t unsee the beautiful boy and his even more beautiful dancing.

“Have you ever heard of such a thing as working too hard?”

Looking up into the floor-length mirrors lining the entire wall of the practice studio, Chan finds himself making eye contact with Chris, who’s lounging on the couch on the opposite wall. His hair is black again, and styled, and he’s—is he wearing makeup? His outfit isn’t the usual all-black lounge wear affair it has been in the past, either. No, this time he’s wearing light blue jeans and a pink cut-off shirt with…are those dolphins on the front of it?

“Where did you come from?” he asks incredulously.

Chris cocks an eyebrow. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.” He stretches. The shirt untucks from his pants, sliding up his frame and—okay. Okay. At least Chan has fucking washboard abs to look forward to at twenty-five, if nothing else.

“Really?” Chan tries again. “Not even like, a small hint?”

“Say please.”

Chan balks at that. “ What?”

“I was kidding,” Chris says, standing up and coming over to join Chan in front of the mirror. “What are you working on?”

“Choreo, but you’d know that,” Chan says simply. As a trainee, Chan’s always been proficient at everything but perfect at nothing, and it’s starting to weigh on him. Ever since last month’s evaluations, Chan’s put a renewed effort into improving his dancing abilities. He’s decent, but he’d be lying if he said that—after the initial awe faded—the beautiful boy from the other group didn’t leave him feeling a tad jealous, too.

Rather than let those feelings fester, Chan is trying to turn them into something productive. Something positive.

He grabs his phone from his pocket and restarts the song: My House by 2PM.

Chris lets out a laugh. “Ah, I love this song!” He looks at Chan. “...but you’d know that.”

The younger man can’t help it; he smiles, large and toothy, eyes curving like crescent moons around his cheeks. He begins to dance, copying the choreography. Chris joins in beside him, and they dance together, laughing. It’s a bit odd and incredibly surreal, but it’s also…comforting. And fun, too.

There comes a point in the choreo, about halfway through, that involves a body roll. Chan can’t help but notice, watching in the mirror, that his own is far less fluid than Chris’s is. He stops the music. “Show me,” he says, but it comes out sounding like a question. “Please.”

“Sure,” Chris says. He repeats the move, slowly this time, explaining the breakdown of the motions. Chan tries again, but it’s still too stiff for his liking. “Here, let me—” Chris says, coming to stand behind Chan. He places a hand on either side of Chan’s waist, and guides him through it once more, gently moving Chan’s body for him. “There you go,” the older man praises.

Chan grins, finally feeling like he has a proper grasp on the motion.

It’s at that exact moment, though, that he feels the absence of hands on his sides, and realizes Chris has vanished once again.

“Chan-hyung! Chan-hyung!”

The voice calling his name has Chan turning away from the company’s main door. Once Chris had left he’d practiced the choreography alone for another hour or so, but it is starting to get late. The dorms and his bed are calling him.

He looks up, searching for whoever was seeking him out.

His breath catches in his throat.

Coming towards him from the elevators is the beautiful dancing boy.

“Hello,” Chan says.

“Hwang Hyunjin!” the boy offers, before Chan can ask for his name.

“Hyunjin-ah, what did you want to ask?”

The boy looks down at his shoes, scuffing the toe on the floor once, then twice. Then, he looks back up, directly meeting Chan’s gaze. “Chan-hyung, I hope you don’t find this too forward of me, but I was wondering if—I wanted to know—”

“Yes?”

Hyunjin inhales. Exhales. “The next time we are allowed to choose our groups for evaluations, Chan-hyung, can I request to be on your team?”

Chan blanches. What? “Oh, I—Hyunjin… Why?”

“Because you always win, hyung!” The younger boy’s eyes are bright, shining in the lights of the foyer, and his voice is soft when he adds, “I would like to win, too.”

It takes a moment for Chan to realize he heard Hyunjin correctly. This beautiful and talented boy, willing to put that much trust in him, and so earnestly? He doesn’t think himself worthy. “Of course, of course,” he finally manages to say, though, because he knows himself well enough to know he could never refuse Hyunjin anything.

Chan can’t sleep. He rolls over in his bed, turning from side to side before eventually ending up on his back, staring at the bottom of the bunk above him. Sighing, he grabs his phone and makes an unfortunate note of the time, before noticing he’s got a handful of new messages.

Changbin:

[voice message]

Hyung, what do you think of this?

Hannie:

ah chaaaaaaaann-hyung

have you seen the new episode of neto-juu no susume yet? i don’t want to spoil

wow wow WOW

the comments on the new mixtape

all of these noonas want ME to be their boyfriend 😏

Hyune:

if we choose this song, i think something like this could work well for the choreography

[video message]

sorry if your sleeping hyung!!

As he’s reading Hyunjin’s messages, his phone vibrates with even more new texts from Jisung.

Chan:

Jisungie

I will change the Soundcloud password

“Seems a strange hour to be so popular,” Chris muses, leaning over the edge of the top bunk. It’s been barely two months since he first appeared in Chan’s bedroom, but he’s no longer capable of startling his younger self (and yes, he keeps trying—shit that he is).

“It’s less about popularity and more about us all being insomniacs,” Chan replies.

“Touché,” Chris says. He extends both arms, swinging them back and forth. Chan notices his nails are painted, some solid black (but starting to chip) and others with tiny, intricate patterns. “So,” the older man continues conversationally, “how are you doing?”

Chan sets his phone on his chest. “Don’t you know?”

“That’s not the point. I want to hear it from you.”

“Okay, I guess?” Chan hates these sorts of questions and how vague they are. “JYP-nim had a meeting with me yesterday to talk about the boy’s group project. He wanted to see how much progress I’d made.”

“You’ve got three members now, right?”

“Two. I haven’t technically asked Hyunjin yet, but I know I want to. We need at least one dancer in the line-up, and I mean…” Chan narrows his eyes. “Well, you know. You’ve seen him.”

A loud laugh echoes through the empty room. “That I have. He’s very passionate,” Chris says. “It’s a good strategy, too. You want members with different strengths, because then they can share those strengths with everyone. You can balance each other out.”

“I just…don’t know what’s the best size for a team. With Hyunjin and myself included, that would be four and—”

Chris jumps down from the top bunk and sits down cross-legged at the end of Chan’s bed. “Want some friendly advice from the future?” Chan sits up, nodding. “Don’t worry about the number, because then you’ll be too focused on finding people to meet that and not focused enough on finding the right people.”

“But how do I know who the right people are?”

“You’ll know, trust me.”

“I thought you said you were done with the cryptic shit,” Chan groans.

 Chris shrugs. “For the most part.”

Chan’s phone vibrates, and he glances at the screen, grimacing as he reads the message notifications coming through.

“Hannie?” Chris asks.

“He’s having far too much fun with the comment section of our latest mixtape,” Chan sighs. “It’s WOW,” he adds, just in case Chris is struggling with the timeline given how often he jumps in and out. He’s not sure quite what to make of the older man’s expression; it somehow looks nostalgic, pained, and humoured all at once.

“Excuse me, noona, but do you have a boyfriend? ” Chris says, in a tone that is mocking, but still clearly affectionate. “I will say, for his sake, that Hannie has far better raps.”

Chan eyes him suspiciously.

The older man gets such frustrating joy out of saying those things. Is he referring to previous mixtapes, or the songs that he clearly knows 3RACHA are currently working on—or songs that Chan doesn’t even know exist, because they haven’t been written yet?

He knows that Chan is going to overthink it, every time. But how could he not? Chris’s initial appearance literally changed the trajectory of Chan’s life. After finding such comfort in the idea of death—of not having to think about the future, because there simply wouldn’t be one—it’s hard not to constantly question the idea of life, and what that life must entail.

Especially since whatever sort of life it is, it seems worth living for.

Attending the company’s open audition seemed like a logical idea.

Chan is proud of the team he’s put together so far. There’s the obvious strength of his and Jisung’s writing and production abilities, coupled with their existing friendship that helps make things less…terrifying. Not to mention, Jisung is wickedly talented at everything. He can rap, he can sing, he can dance. He’s an ace, and all-rounder, and Chan knows there’s no one else he’d rather have picked first. Jeongin has already made incredible strides in the short time they’ve been practicing together. He’s young, but so determined to prove himself—and Chan’s sure that he will. As for Hyunjin, well, Chan has yet to see anyone dance that beautifully. Ever.

But.

The team is clearly incomplete, and that shortcoming hangs over Chan’s head like a guillotine. He knows there is still plenty of time to find more members to fill in the gaps, to complete this partially put together puzzle, but he can’t help but fixate on his potential to fail. And failure isn’t an option, because he’s not sure how he could survive letting down his members; these boys who have put their hearts in his hands, and trusted Chan not to break them.

He sighs, poking at his lunch with his chopsticks.

“Food for thought?” Chris asks, sliding onto the bench next to Chan with a bowl of tteokbokki.

“I’m not actually that hungry,” Chan says.

“Eat anyways,” Chris says, taking a bite of his meal. He looks Chan up and down. “You need the energy. You look exhausted.”

Begrudgingly, Chan has a bite. “I am exhausted.” 

Chris offers him a small smile and rests a hand on his back, rubbing in gentle circles. “I know,” he says softly. “Would you believe me if I tell you that you’re doing a great job?”

“Probably not.”

“I figured.” Chris rolls his eyes, so quickly Chan thinks he might have imagined it. “But I’m going to tell you anyway, and I’ll keep telling you. Over and over and over and ov—”

“Okay, okay, I believe you! Will you stop that?” That earns Chan a chopstick to the side, because of course Chris knows he’s lying.

A human-shaped shadow is suddenly cast over their table. Both men look up to find a younger boy standing before them. He’s lanky, with a fluffy mop of black hair. He smiles at Chan and Chris. “Hyungs,” he says brightly. “Please, eat well!” And then he leaves, walking back over to a line of people on the other side of the room.

“Who was that?” Chan wonders. 

“Must have been one of the kids here for the open audition,” Chris muses.

Chan nods. “I guess so,” he agrees,  still…shocked—but mostly pleasantly surprised—by the boy’s politeness.

Chris gestures at the bowl in front of Chan again. “Well, you heard him. Eat up.” Chan laughs, but reckons the least he can do is finish his meal.

“I think this one is going to become a new favourite,” Changbin says from where he’s laying on Chan’s bed. It’s late, past midnight and approaching three-thirty, but Chan refuses to rest until 3RACHA’s latest mixtape is completed to his impossible standard of perfection.

“Maybe,” Chan says, hunched over his laptop and soundboard, clicking keys and turning knobs. Changbin comes over, resting a hand on the older boy’s shoulder.

“Definitely,” he corrects.

“It’s not quite there yet, though,” Chan says, handing a headphone to the other boy, who puts it in his ear and listens as Chan plays the part he keeps fussing over.

Changbin bites his lower lip and scratches his nose, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “What if you tried this instead?” he suggests, reaching to fiddle with one of the settings in Chan’s software.

Chan plays it back, smiling. “Where were you half an hour ago?” he laughs. “I can’t believe how much time I wasted when I should’ve—” He saves their progress before sliding his chair away from the desk, rocking back and running a hand through his hair. “I’m an idiot.”

“No you’re not,” Changbin says matter-of-factly.

“Yes, I really am.”

With a gentle hand, Changbin closes Chan’s laptop and perches on the edge of the desk. “You’re not. You’re amazing, hyung. You need to see in yourself what everyone else sees.” There’s something assured about his expression, but Chan can’t quite place it.

Chan opens his mouth to protest, but then the younger boy is reaching out with one hand and grabbing the fabric of Chan’s hoodie. Changbin pulls Chan to his feet, who stumbles—into the younger boy. There’s a moment, brief and flickering but that feels as if it’s suspended forever, and then Changbin is bringing both of his hands up, resting them on either side of Chan’s face, thumbs lightly brushing against his skin—

Another moment.

Changbin’s eyes are dark, pulling Chan in.

There’s an unspoken question hanging in the silence between them.

Chan isn’t sure who moves first, isn’t even sure of what’s happening until—it’s happening. They’re kissing, lips pressing softly together, noses bumping. Chan sighs, mouth falling open to let Changbin inside, and he’s in disbelief. How long has it been since he last kissed someone? Fuck, how long as it been since he even last like…held hands with someone? Chan can’t remember, and that terrifies him. 

It’s only now, as Changbin’s hands—soft and strong and sure—start to move, one sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck as the other travels down to rest against his hip, that Chan realizes how he’d effectively shut off this part of him, too. He hadn’t just closed himself off from friendships, but from anything more than that.

And while he can tell himself it was for his own protection—was it?

What safety is there in loneliness?

Changbin’s hand tightens on Chan’s waist, his thumb caressing the skin at the waistband of Chan’s shorts. It’s not a gesture asking for permission, but rather offering support. It feels like Chan could collapse, and Changbin would be there to catch him.

He sighs again, finally letting his body respond. It feels new, and strange, but Chan relishes it. One hand rises to rest against Changbin’s chest, over his heart. The steady rhythm grounds Chan, like a baseline, and he wishes he could sample the sound for a song. The thought makes him smile against Changbin’s lips.

Too soon, far too soon, he feels Changbin pull away. Chan’s body gives chase, leaning forward, yearning for more of that same feeling. “Binnie, I—”

The younger man offers Chan a smile, and he kisses Chan a second time. “You don’t have to say anything, Chan-hyung,” he whispers.

And then he’s wrapping his arms around Chan, and something about the hug cracks Chan’s exterior far more than either of the kisses did. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he hears Changbin’s gentle, “Shh, shh, shh,” like a chorus. “It’s okay, Chan-hyung. It’s okay.”

They stay like that, embracing in the middle of Chan’s room in the dark. Chan isn’t sure how long it lasts, but eventually his breathing evens out and the tears stop. Chan doesn’t let go, though, hands fisting in the fabric of Changbin’s shirt. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Always.” Changbin gives a final, strong squeeze with his arms before they extricate themselves from the hug. “We should get some sleep, hyung,” Changbin says.

“Yeah, I—”

A question teeters on the edge of Chan’s lips, but he’s not sure how to form the words, how to ask for what he wants. He backs away from Changbin slowly, until he can sit on his mattress, trying to articulate this need building inside him. In the end, he manages a single word. It slips out almost against his will, because it stands for everything Chan thought he’d discarded.

“Stay?”

Changbin doesn’t say anything back, but he doesn’t need to. The younger man simply nods, and then gestures to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”

Overwhelmed, Chan collapses on his mattress.

“Sorry,” a voice says quietly from the top bunk, “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

 Chan splutters, body shooting up into a sitting position. “Are—are you serious? How long have you—what did you—oh my god.” He buries his face in his hands.

Chris peeks over the side, curly hair falling into his eyes. “You don’t need to explain anything to me,” he says softly. “I am you, after all.” The older man’s eyes glaze over, as if reliving the moment from his own memory. “He really does love you, you know?”

That’s still not a thought Chan is comfortable admitting. “I…I guess.” It sounds like a question, like he’s testing out the words.

“They all do. Unconditionally.”

All of them? This future Chris is always hinting at sounds simply too good to be true. That Chan is going to go from being the most alone and isolated he’s ever been to—what, exactly? Having friends? Having a family of sorts? It sounds fake.

“I’m not sure I believe that,” Chan says, because how can he?

“You will.” The older man gestures at the bathroom door. “He’s really good with his mouth, isn’t he?” Chan starts, eyes widening, and Chris bursts out laughing. “Rapping,” he backtracks quickly. “I meant rapping!”

Chan kicks the mattress, but it’s weightless. Chris has already disappeared.

The next several weeks pass in a hurried blur, but the deadline to submit his roster for the boy’s group project continues to loom over Chan. He’s happy with how their team has been progressing, with Changbin the most recent addition.

Chan had asked him the morning after their kiss, while both boys lay tangled in the sheets of his bed, limbs entwined. Changbin had accepted before Chan even finished asking the question, and then blushed, hiding his face against Chan’s chest.

“Sorry, hyung,” he’d said sheepishly. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”

“What do you mean?” Chan had asked.

“Hannie would always talk about this team you were working on with him, but I didn’t want to pry or—or impose—”

Chan had apologized, first with his words and then with his mouth, and promised he couldn’t imagine a world where he wouldn’t have Changbin by his side. It had surprised him later, once he was alone, when he realized how true of a statement it was.

He’s on his way to practice now, texting with Changbin about a verse in another of their new tracks, Runner’s High , when he hears distant shouting coming from down the hallway.

“You…uh, you probably want to investigate that.” Chan turns to see Chris standing behind him, face paler than he’s ever seen it. The older man is dressed oddly, like a pilot? Or a sailor? The navy cardigan with red lining has most of its buttons undone, revealing his chest.

Chan heeds the warning, and they both run towards the voices, which grow louder the closer they get. It turns out to be coming from one of the trainee dance practice rooms, and Chan freezes because he recognizes the voices. It’s Jisung and Hyunjin. Chan grimaces. Not again. The two boys are both incredibly talented, but they are also incredibly proud—and that pride has been getting more and more dangerous recently, neither able to take criticism without getting (offensively) defensive.

Mentally preparing himself, Chan opens the door and peeks inside. The two boys were put together in an evaluation group, but things…do not appear to be going well. They stand in the center of the room, with zero regard for personal space, bickering and shouting.

Jisung is rising onto the tips of his toes to stand level with Hyunjin, jabbing a finger into the dancer’s chest. “Hyunjin-ah, what was that pronunciation? Why are you mumbling your verses?”

“Well, why are you so sloppy with the choreography?” the other boy yells, pushing Jisung away. The shorter boy stumbles, nearly falling over.

“It wouldn’t be sloppy if you knew how to actually—”

“Dance better!” Hyunjin shouts.

Jisung, who had turned away, spins to face the taller boy. “Rap better!”

Chan freezes. They aren’t even really officially a group yet, and it’s already coming to this? To arguments bordering on physical altercations? Has he really fucked up this badly?

A firm hand squeezes his shoulder; Chan had forgotten Chris was still there.

“You’re a leader,” the older man says. “You’re their leader. You’ve got this.” He nudges Chan towards the door, and Chan steps towards it. That’s when Jisung comes storming out and runs straight into him. There are tears welling in his eyes.

“Sorry hyung,” Jisung mutters, before hurrying away down the hall.

There’s a moment where Chan is torn over where to go, who to pursue, who to comfort—but a third voice coming from the practice room draws his attention. It’s lower, and Chan doesn’t recognize it, but whoever it is is stumbling with their Korean, hopelessly trying to talk Hyunjin down.

They clearly aren’t successful, because before Chan can open the door all the way, it’s nearly slamming into his face as Hyunjin exits the practice room, arms thrown in the air. He doesn’t even acknowledge Chan on his way out.

“Hyun—” Chan calls, but stops. From inside the practice room, he now hears a muffled sob. He enters the room to find a small boy standing there, large eyes glassy, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his middle. Chan recognizes him as one of the newer dance trainees.

Spotting Chan, the boy fights back a sniffle and hurriedly wipes at his eyes. His fingers are covered in gold rings; a very large, very gold watch makes his wrist look impossibly tiny. “Hyung, I’m so—shit, sorry.” He switches from Korean to English mid sentence, having stumbled over the first half. His cheeks redden in embarrassment.

“Your accent,” Chan says dumbly, not quite sure he’s hearing it right.

“Yeah,” the boy replies, his voice deepening. “I came over from Australia in February.” He continues to speak in English, clearly more comfortable, and grateful that Chan understands. “I’m Felix—er, Lee Yongbok.” He makes a disgruntled face at the name. “Sorry, I don’t really know Korean all that well yet. Just like, my numbers.”

Chan offers Felix a small smile. It comes back to him instantly, his first few months in Korea after joining the company: alone, trying to overcome the language barrier (though his situation wasn’t quite as dire as Felix’s is), and homesick as hell. That hasn’t changed. He hasn’t had an opportunity to visit home yet.

“It’s been seven years and I still fuck up sometimes,” he confesses. The younger boy smiles in return, big and bright and it lights up his entire face. It loosens something in Chan’s chest, a tightness he hadn’t even realized was there.

Felix looks at the ground, kicking his feet against the floor. “I was trying to get them to stop,” he admits. “But I don’t think either understood me very well. It was such a stupid fight, too. They’re both so good, it doesn’t make sense…”

“It does,” Chan says, regretful. Felix hasn’t been here long enough, his optimism hasn’t been beaten out of him yet. He doesn’t yet know the pressure of the company, the all-consuming need to be the best—because if you’re not, you’re last.

Only the best debut, after all.

Chan knows that better than anyone else here.

Looking at Felix, at the blush deepening his cheeks and highlighting the spattering of freckles there—tiny discolourations that look like stars, that make Chan want to search for constellations—Chan is overcome with a fierce desire to protect the younger boy. He never wants Felix to know that pain. He doesn’t want him to lose the vulnerability and openness that he has now, talking with Chan.

“They’ll get over it,” he reassures Felix. “They always do. Thank you for trying to help, though.”

Felix grins. “Thanks, Hyung. You’re…very cool. Not as scary as the others say.”

Chan isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. He knows the reputation he’s built up among the younger trainees: inspiring, but unsettling. Talented, but unapproachable. He hates it. It wasn’t always that way, but after losing so many friends over the years, it was just…easier, to stop letting anyone in. He thinks of his members then, his growing team for the boy’s group project. Sometimes, if he looks closely, he thinks he can spot the cracks they’ve made in his exterior.

And maybe it’s a bit selfish, this immediate feeling that washes over him the longer he stands next to Felix. Maybe wanting to cling to the closest reminder of home, and who he once was, is extremely selfish.

But Chan doesn’t care.

He wraps an arm around Felix’s shoulders, drawing him close to his side, and swears to himself that he’ll never let go. No matter what.

There’s something magical about Felix.

Chan doesn’t know how this little rag-tag group of theirs had ever managed to function without him, if he’s being honest. The boy is like bottled sunshine, and he spreads that light wherever he goes. He softens the edges of everyone around him.

His impact is immediate.

Hyunjin and Jisung are more aware of each other’s space—and their boundaries. Things can still get tense, but both are far more conscientious of their emotions around Felix, of regulating their outbursts into something productive instead of destructive. Hyunjin in particular is far more mindful, happily babying the younger boy whenever possible (and Felix doesn’t seem to mind, always melting in Hyunjin’s presence). Changbin takes himself less seriously, but in a good way. And Jeongin opens up more when Felix is around. Chan thinks it’s because of how close he and Felix are in age.

Whenever Chan watches them, he feels…something inexplicable growing in his chest. Happiness? Pride? These boys, all strangers—until they weren’t.

Chan leaves group practice early that night, apologizing as he does. They’d all done good work, practicing choreography as a unit, and now all five boys are spread out over the floor, surrounded by notebooks as they help Felix with his Korean studies.

He gets back to his dorm, sighing against the door as he closes it. Then he heads to his desk, opens his laptop, and flips open a binder.

This is his routine. Practice during the day, and pouring over the company’s trainee roster at night. He knows that even with everyone’s strengths, there are still gaps that need to be filled. Especially one gap in particular. Everyone is proficient at rapping, though Jisung and Changbin’s individual talents are unrivalled. Hyunjin and Felix each bring something so unique to how they approach dancing; Felix has an undeniable charisma, and Hyunjin’s passion bleeds out of him like paint on a canvas. 3RACHA’s songwriting and producing abilities will absolutely give them an edge if they’re given the opportunity to debut, and Jeongin’s vocal potential will absolutely only continue to develop with time.

But—

It eats at Chan, knowing he has yet to find a vocalist. They’ll need one if they want to succeed, because rapping will only get them so far as a group. He groans, running a hand through his hair. How he’s not bald at this point, he’s not sure.

“They’re kind of becoming a family, huh?”

Chris is lounging on Chan’s bed, tossing something lazily between his hands. Not a ball, but—pink? A plush heart? Chan doesn’t have the energy to ask.

“We’re still incomplete. We’re missing something…someone.” Frustrated, he bangs his forehead on his desk; once, twice, three times.

“Hey, hey—stop that,” Chris exclaims. He jumps up from the bed and comes over to the desk, pulling Chan back. “Hurting yourself isn’t going to accomplish shit.”

Chan hates him for saying so, for reminding him.

They both sigh, two long breaths released in perfect unison. Chris reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, and then Chan hears the soft brush of paper hitting the floor as the old man vanishes. He bends over and picks up the flyer, which is an advertisement for an open audition for the company. An old advertisement at this point, by months.

Why would Chris have wanted to give this to him? What good is the past, gifted from the future, going to be in the present? The thought alone is giving Chan a migraine, so he sets the flyer aside and promptly forgets about it.

This is probably a poor decision on Chan’s part, but he really doesn’t give a fuck.

It’s June, which means it’s practically almost July, which means Chan has barely two months left to finalize the members for the boy’s group project. But he’s actively ignoring that thought right now. He’s ignoring that he should currently be at practice, too.

He’s ignoring everything that isn’t the feeling of Hyunjin’s lips pressed against his own, his knee sliding between Chan’s thighs and pushing him against the wall, because it feels good and Chan desperately needs a distraction.

And now he has one.

The small part of his brain still capable of thought can’t quite believe he’s here, with Hyunjin of all people. He can’t quite believe it was Hyunjin who walked into the practice room early, before everyone else got there, and saw Chan hunched over his laptop, crying (it was a quiet cry, which made it louder). Hyunjin hadn’t said anything. The younger boy had simply extended a hand and lifted Chan to his feet, and kissed him.

Initially, Chan had been surprised. He’s surprised, still. For someone who said they didn’t like skinship, Hyunjin is very handsy.

It’s fine, he tells himself. It feels good, and it doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.

They stay like that a few minutes more, Hyunjin licking into his mouth and sneaking a hand under Chan’s shirt, splaying his long fingers across Chan’s abdomen and making him shiver.

And then it’s over.

Hyunjin takes a step back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before he presses those same fingers to Chan’s lips. A secret, but also not. “Feel better, Chan-hyung.” It’s both a statement, and a question. Chan nods, dumbfounded. He lifts his own fingers to his lips, still not quite convinced that what just happened, happened. 

He needs a moment.

He needs to process that. Properly. Alone.

Chan flees as the other members start to filter into the practice room, trying to avoid everyone’s questioning stares, and heads straight for the nearest bathroom—to douse himself with cold water. Which he does.

“So…” Chris says, almost too casually, “I’d forgotten about that.”

Chan spins around. “Okay,” he says very seriously, “what future am I living in that makes Hwang Hyunjin kissing me forgettable? Please. I’m waiting.”

“You know I can’t say.”

“Make an exception.”

Chris’s eyes dart back and forth, as if wishing for the universe to vanish him away before he has to answer. But his pleas go unanswered, and Chan corners him against the paper towel dispenser.

“It’s—how do I say this?” His entire body is shaking. “Hyunjin loves you, dearly, but he’s not in love with you?”

“So I still know him in the future? We’re still close.”

Chris groans. “I am not telling you anything else. It’s dangerous to know too much about the future, because you might try and change it. Even without meaning to, or wanting to.”

“But—”

“No,” Chris says sternly. “Stop it. I’ve already said too much.”

Chan backs away, raising his hands in the air in defeat. “Alright, fine. Keep your secrets.”

“It’s for your own good,” Chris says. “Now, I suggest you get back to them, before Hyunjin caves to Jisung’s pestering.” He pauses, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Maybe some things from the past are worth changing.”

The younger man bolts, even before Chris disappears.

One way or another, they all find out—and, except for Jeongin, become utterly insufferable.

Jisung is by far the worst, dramatically clutching his chest whenever Chan comes into the same room. “Hyung,” he shouts, “you wound me! Why do you not reciprocate my love?” The others laugh, and Jisung devotes himself even further to the bit, collapsing at Chan’s feet throughout practices, confessing his feelings and lamenting their unrequited nature.

Eventually, desperate for Jisung to stop, Chan shuts him up mid-sentence with a kiss during practice. Everyone screams and cheers and laughs.

(Jisung, notably, does not stop.)

Changbin is more subtle, but no less devoted. He basically moves into Chan’s dorm—and only sometimes, very rarely, sleeps in his own bunk. Hyunjin doesn’t kiss him again, but his handsy nature nevertheless persists.

(Chan, notably, does not complain.)

A few weeks later, Chan waits in a practice room. It’s time for another monthly evaluation with randomly assigned groups. Chan’s always had a love-hate relationship with this format, but he understands its value and importance.

He tries to focus on the positives, especially as the other trainees start to filter in. He doesn’t recognize most of the faces, but one is familiar. It’s the boy from a few months ago, who had greeted Chan and Chris while they’d eaten lunch. When he spots Chan, he walks right up to him and bows, a perfect ninety degree angle.

“Chan-hyung,” he exclaims. “Hello, I’m Kim Seungmin! I’m so excited to be on your team. I promise to do my best.”

Chan bows in return, though not quite so deep. “Seungmin-ah! I look forward to working with you. What do you do?”

Seungmin smiles, and he looks alarmingly like a puppy. “I rap,” he says stoically. And then he laughs. “No, no! I’m a singer. I’ve been taking lessons with a vocal coach at the company to improve.” Which, that’s impressive. Not many trainees take that much initiative. Chan admires Seungmin for it.

The admiration only increases when they begin to practice. Seungmin can’t be all that much older than Jeongin, but holy shit, his voice? The control he has over it already is incredible. And the tone? The range?

This is a voice that’s going to break hearts—and then heal them right after.

Chan is no stranger to late nights, staying at the company to work on this or that long after he should have called it night and returned to the dorms. But with the announcement of the survival show encroaching, he’s had to shift focus. They’ll need a name, they’ll need songs for the showcase, they’ll need choreography.

Soon, he’s going to have to tell the boys exactly what he’s been recruiting them for—and exactly what it could mean for their future.

For better or worse.

With that on his mind? Sleep is impossible.

He’d messaged Seungmin earlier that night, formally inviting him into…whatever it is all the members have going on. But then he realized that “earlier” still meant the message had been sent after midnight. And Seungmin, actually responsible, is almost definitely asleep and won’t see it until the morning. Not that knowing that makes Chan any less anxious, constantly pulling his phone out of his pocket to glance at the screen. Maybe, if he just stares at it long enough, or hard enough, he’ll manifest a response.

After the fifth check in less than three minutes, he figures he needs to take a break. Time to focus on something that isn’t his phone or a computer screen. He stands, leaving his phone on the desk, and heads down to the vending machines, located on the floor as the practice rooms.

It’s on his way back, candies and drink in hand, that he realizes one of the practice rooms is occupied. He looks through the window on the door, recognizing the small body and mop of hair.

Felix.

Chan knocks on the door, not wanting to alarm the younger boy. Felix still jumps though, turning around with a hand grasping his chest, eyes wide.

“Hyung, you scared me!”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Chan rattles off, entering the room. “What are you doing here so late?”

Felix sits down on the couch lining the wall, pushing his hair off his face. “I…I needed…” He’s fumbling over his words, even in English. “I just…”

“Needed a distraction?” Chan sits down next to him, resting his arm on Felix’s shoulders. The younger boy’s body relaxes against him at the touch, like it always does.

“Y-yeah,” Felix says. “It’s…different than I expected here. Not like, not bad,” he adds hastily, clearly not wanting to hurt Chan’s feelings.

“But different,” Chan repeats. “I know what you mean.” He lets out a harsh laugh. “But it can still be pretty bad. You can say it. You can be honest. You don’t have to lie when you’re around me.”

Felix looks at him, something conflicted in his expression. He plays with the hem of his shirt. “I g-guess… I just thought—” He pauses to take a breath. “I was so fucking s-stupid. Thinking it’d be easy to j-just…leave home and make it over here. Learn the language. D-debut.” He’s crying now, and Chan doesn’t think he even realizes it. “You made it s-seem—”

“Me ?” Chan isn’t sure how to respond to that.

“I mean, I k-know it’s not been easy for you. You’ve been here so long, but e-everyone looks up to you and s-surely it’s going to—”

“Oh, Lix,” Chan sighs.

How does he explain this? Maybe if he hadn’t put so much effort into looking like he had his shit perfectly together; maybe if he’d learned to open up sooner, if he’d been honest with these boys who trusted him so easily, if he had trusted them in return…

He itches at his forearm through his sleeve. “I’m sorry if I ever made it seem—”

Felix is full on sobbing now, tears falling in earnest. “N-no, hyung, don’t apologize! It’s not your f-fault.” Whatever other words he was trying to say are lost in a dry heave, and he fully collapses against Chan’s side. “I miss h-home,” he manages, quietly, broken.

Chan wraps both arms tightly around the younger boy. He tucks Felix’s head under his chin, and whispers soft words of reassurance.

He needs Felix to know that he’s not alone.

Gently, he leans away—just enough so that he can hold Felix’s face between his hands. Felix is still crying. That overwhelming urge to protect this boy surges through Chan then, this need to spare Felix from every dark and twisted thing that Chan couldn’t avoid himself.

He leans in slowly, and presses his lips to Felix’s cheek. It’s soft, barely there, like a ghost, but he kisses away the tears. He repeats the motion, not stopping until he’s erased every last bit of evidence. And then he’s looking at Felix, and Felix is looking back at him. The younger boy bites down on his bottom lip, an unspoken question hanging in the air between them.

Chan nods.

In a hurried blur, Felix is crawling into Chan’s lap and wrapping his arms around Chan’s neck and kissing him. It’s messy and desperate. Felix is chasing something, and Chan has no fucking idea what it is—but he wants to give it to him. He returns the kiss, opening his mouth to Felix when the younger boy’s tongue asks for permission. He places a firm hand on either side of Felix’s waist, keeping him in place.

He holds Felix together while the younger boy falls apart.

Felix spends the night in Chan’s dorm.

They come in quietly, cautious not to wake Changbin from where he’s snoring in the bunk he claimed a few weeks ago. Chan directs Felix to another of the empty bottom bunk beds and then grabs him a pillow from the tiny closet and one of the blankets from Chan’s bed. He tucks the younger boy in, kissing the top of his head and ruffling his hair. As he turns to leave, Felix reaches out and grabs hold of his hand. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

Gently (it’s always gently with Felix, Chan is finding), he crawls under the blanket. It’s a tight fit on the tiny twin mattress, their bodies pushed together, but Chan doesn’t mind. He cuddles closer, honestly.

Felix rolls over so they’re facing each other, and tentatively slides his hands up under Chan’s shirt. He’s cold, and Chan shivers at the touch, but does his best to keep his breathing even. The younger boy is still chasing, searching—for someone to hold, if nothing else—and Chan wants to offer what he can.

“Goodnight, Lix,” he whispers, hearing only light snores in response.

Try as he might though, Chan can’t fall asleep. It’s close to five in the morning when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Carefully pulling it out, he taps the screen.

Seungmin:

Chan-hyung, I would be honoured! I will go with you until the end. Fighting!

Chan:

I’m so glad to hear this, Seungminie!

Thank you. 🙂

Relief floods through him, but his mind is racing. It’s getting too hot in this shared bed to be comfortable—but Chan doesn’t dare try to extricate himself from Felix’s arms and legs (really, is he a boy or an octopus?). So he just lies there, trying not to let his thoughts fester.

“You get used to it.” Chris is sitting on the floor next to the bed. He’s donning a full face of makeup, and the most bejewelled white cropped vest that Chan has ever seen in his life.

“This is a regular thing, then?” he asks, gesturing with a nod to Felix, his head resting on Chan’s chest.

“He’ll rotate,” Chris says fondly, “but yeah. He doesn’t like to be alone.” The older man laughs. “Even the same room isn’t close enough, sometimes.”

Chan can’t help but think of his loneliest days, and what he wouldn’t have given to have that option. “S’okay,” he murmurs, tracing a pattern on the skin of Felix’s shoulder, connecting the freckles.

“He loves you,” Chris adds. “You save his life.”

The second part is said in a whisper, like Chris didn’t mean for Chan to necessarily hear it. But he did—and he isn’t sure what to do with that information. Has he already saved it? Is that something that he’s going to continue doing? Is it something that doesn’t happen for years?

For once, Chris doesn’t chastise Chan for thinking too much about the future.

Chan isn’t quite sure what the seven of them are, but it feels like…something. Something closer than friendship, maybe even closer than family. The answer hits him late one night, when he’s lying in bed, still awake long after everyone else has fallen asleep.

At some point—Chan can’t quite pinpoint when—the other boys just started staying in his dorm with him, the empty beds filling up. As Chris predicted, Felix kept coming back (rotating between Changbin and Chan’s beds). Next came Han, when a songwriting session ran late and he was too tired to transit back home. Then Hyunjin, dragged along by Felix, followed by Seungmin. Jeongin was last, and tried to make out as if he didn’t really want to be there (but it was obvious he did).

It’s then, surrounded by the comfort of their presence, that Chan identifies this feeling growing in his chest. It’s optimistic and hopeful and warm, and it’s something Chan hadn’t thought himself capable of feeling ever again.

He sees it now, in each of his members' faces as they sleep. He sees it in the dog plushie Seungmin uses as a pillow, gifted to him by Jeongin. He sees it in the way Hyunjin spoons Felix in the bed across from him, face hidden in the younger boy’s hair and his arms wrapped tightly around him. He sees it in the bowls littering the desk and floor, because Changbin had taken it upon himself to cook dinner for everyone.

And he’s seen it outside the safe confines of this room, too. He’s seen it in the smiles and heard it in the laughter whenever Jisung and Changbin are writing lyrics or arranging a song. He’s seen it in the way that everyone babies Jeongin, and the youngest boy scoffs and pushes them away—but he’s always smiling when he does it. He’s seen it during rehearsals, when Hyunjin and Jisung work together, encouraging each other rather than fighting. He’s seen it when Felix and Hyunjin sneak off at odd hours to practice (and okay, maybe there’s something more that Chan sees there—but so long as they’re happy, that’s none of his business).

It’s…it’s love.

“They love you, too, y’know.” Chris is sitting at the end of his bed, and he says it bluntly. Obviously.

Chan shakes head. “They—I don’t know, they respect me. They’re grateful that I chose them, and this is just how they show it.” Even after everything, he can’t believe it quite yet. Those walls he built years ago as a means to defend his heart? He doesn’t think he’s quite ready for them to come tumbling down.

He can’t give all of himself to these boys yet, because he’s still too worried about letting them down. There’s so much that could still go wrong—especially since J.Y. Park confirmed at a recent meeting that since a large part of the show is about survival, and Chan’s team proving they are prepared to debut, the weekly challenges could result in eliminations. Nothing is guaranteed for these boys. There are no promises.

The thought of loving them, and of them loving him, is terrifying—because he could fail them. He could lose them.

Chan doesn’t want to risk breaking their hearts more than that. Despite everything, he’s trying to maintain a safe emotional distance. He’s trying not to let any of them get too close.

Chris places both hands on Chan’s shoulders. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he pleads. “You aren’t alone.” The older man sighs, and Chan hears him muttering once more of the risks that come from sharing too much about the future. But then he looks up, gaze determined. “Listen,” he says firmly, fingers digging into Chan’s skin, “you are going to change their lives.”

“Okay,” Chan says dumbly.

“I mean it. But more importantly, they are going to change yours. And I—I know how absolutely fucking impossible that feels for you. For us. And I know it’s not something that you’ll let happen overnight or anything because we’re—” He laughs, quiet but harsh. “We’re not like that. Not right now, at least. But you have to let them, okay?”

It’s so strange, Chan thinks, sitting here with the knowledge of who he is, while staring—quite literally—at the person that he will be, one day. He’s trying to reconcile the differences between himself and Chris, because it seems like such a large leap. Maybe even an impossible one. What kind of future awaits him that he could ever become the man sitting across from him, who seems able to love so openly? So freely?

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the mattress sinking around him as Chris clambers closer, kneeling right in front of Chan, and envelops him in his arms. It’s the biggest hug Chan’s ever received, and it breaks something in him.

The older man runs a hand through his hair, nestling his face against Chan’s neck, and he can feel the dampness of tears against his skin. Chris is crying, too.

“Those boys are going to know you better than you know yourself,” he whispers. “They’re going to find pieces of yourself that you thought—that you thought you’d lost. That you thought were gone forever.” He sniffles, pulling Chan impossibly closer. “They’re going to laugh with you, and scream with you, and cry with you.”

Chris leans back, but he doesn’t let Chan go.

“They’re going to be your brothers. You’re going to be a family—even closer than that, sometimes.” There’s a knowing smirk on his face as he says it that not even the tears can cover up. Chan thinks about the last few months, and he thinks, at the very least, that he understands that.

The hug stretches on for a few minutes more, and then Chris is releasing him. He wipes at his tears, and then at Chan’s. “We’re going to cry a lot more, too,” he says. “Better start preparing for that now.”

He stands, and Chan can see how he’s blurring at the edges, fading. Something about it feels more final than all of the times before. Chris walks towards the door, turning around at the last moment. “Eight. It’s a nice number, isn’t it? It feels a bit like infinity.”

Chris is barely visible, but Chan hears him.

It’s eerily quiet in Chris’s absence, and the room feels strangely empty (especially considering the six additional boys). Chan remains sitting on his bed, dumbstruck, still crying. After all this time, he’s still not sure what to make of Chris and his intermittent appearances in Chan’s life over the last several months. There was never an explanation for it, no discernible reason. Somehow, he was always just…there, exactly when Chan needed him.

Wiping at his eyes proves futile, and the tears fall harder. As quickly and quietly as Chan can manage, he gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he slides to the tiled floor and lets the tears fall freely.

It feels strange, sitting in this room and mourning the loss of his older self, when this was precisely where Chris had stopped him going all those months ago. That Chan feels so far away from who he is now, which makes him wonder if maybe—just maybe—the distance between himself and Chris isn’t as impossible as it once felt, either. 

There’s a faint knock on the door, followed by a quiet, “Hyung?”

Before Chan can protest, the door is opening. Seungmin steps into the small space and closes the door. He sits down next to Chan, picking at the skin around his fingernails and not making eye contact.

“Is everything okay, Chan-hyung?”

Chan opens his mouth—and then closes it as soon as he realizes he’d been about to lie. He’s not okay, and he doesn’t want to pretend like he is, either. The tears come faster. “I don’t think so, Seungminie,” he confesses.

Finally.

He hasn’t been that honest with himself—or with anyone—in so long. He’d forgotten what it feels like.

Seungmin extends a hand, reaching for Chan’s own where it rests on his thigh. They entwine their fingers together, and just…exist. Chan can’t say for sure how much time passes, nor does he care. He cries, and Seungmin stays. They don’t need to say anything more to each other.

Eventually, Seungmin turns to face Chan. “Hyung,” he says again.

Chan shuts him up with a kiss, reaching across with his free hand to cup Seungmin’s cheek and caress the soft skin there with his thumb. The younger boy sighs into it. It’s drawn out, almost lazy. It’s exactly what Chan needed.

The kiss only lasts a moment or two, before both boys are pulling away. Neither makes any move to leave. Ultimately, they spend the night in comfortable silence, side-by-side on the bathroom floor. After a while Seungmin falls asleep, his head coming to rest on Chan’s shoulder.

It’s the most peaceful Chan has felt in a while.

In the morning, Chan wakes to the sound of a fist banging on the door of the bathroom, and a desperate Jisung begging for use of the toilet. Chan and Seungmin scramble to their feet, and both refuse to look Jisung in the eyes as they exit.

July. The month Chan has been dreading. But now, there’s excitement, too. He finally found the courage to explain the entirety of the survival show to the boys, and they were all absolutely ecstatic.

Nervous, sure, but eager most of all.

Which is good, because now they really need to focus on putting together their first performance as a unit for the survival show’s opening showcase. All things considered, it’s coming together, except—

Chan can’t stop thinking about the last thing Chris said to him. Eight . Surely he’d meant the group, right? What else could he have meant? But that means that Chan is still missing someone. There’s one more person out there destined, fated, to become part of their family.

They’re out there, somewhere, just waiting to be found.

“Let’s take it from the second verse,” Hyunjin says. “We need to clean up our lines.”

It’s one of their first official rehearsals for the show, which will be announced publicly in just over two weeks. It will begin airing a couple months after that, and they need to be ready for it.

They shuffle around the practice room, each assuming their position for the section of choreography that Hyunjin wants to practice again. The demo track resumes playing, and they burst into motion.

Overall, things are going well. Chan notices parts that can still be tightened, improved, but they have time. He’s sure of that. They dance through the entirety of the second verse, and then the chorus refrain.

When it hits the bridge, though, everything falls apart.

Jeongin is singing this part, all on his own, and the nerves have clearly gotten to him. He waves for the music to be stopped, and immediately hunches over, head between his legs. His breathing is heavy and shallow, like he can’t get enough air into his lungs.

Chan is at his side in an instant, rubbing their maknae’s back with large, soothing circles. “Jeongin-ah,” he says, “breathe. You need to focus on taking deep breaths.” The younger man isn’t listening—isn’t capable of listening, not right now. The anxiety attack overtakes his entire body.

“Innie, listen to the sound of my voice,” Chan says. “Breathe in, breathe out. Slowly, slowly.” he leans closer. “Inhale. Exhale. There, you’re getting it.” And he is, his breaths growing longer, deeper. But it’s not going away entirely, and that starts to worsen the anxiety attack even more. Shit.

Jisung has joined them now, grabbing Jeongin’s hand. “Innie, please,” he begs, “you need to slow your breathing.” Unfortunately, nothing seems to be working. Jeongin starts to hyperventilate, body shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Before he can overthink it, Chan takes hold of Jeongin’s shirt by its collar, and pulls the younger boy towards him. He kisses Jeongin, chaste and extremely short-lived—but that’s all they need. Jeongin is immediately snapped out of his fears by the kiss. In mere moments, he is looking at Chan with utter disgust. “ Hyung,” he says, dismayed, “What was the reason?”

“Oh, there were several, I’m sure,” Felix says with a laugh. The other members all follow suit, and Chan hides his face as his cheeks grow warmer and brighter.

One week.

That’s all the time Chan has left to submit his final roster for the boy’s group project to J.Y. Park, and he still hasn’t found the eighth member of their group. He’s beginning to panic now. What happens if he doesn’t find them? What irrevocable damage will that wreck upon not only Chan’s future, but everyone’s future?

He’s trying not to think about it, but it’s also the only thing he can think about.

Truthfully, he should have known it would feel like fate.

Because when he decides to take a break by watching another trainee group practicing for the monthly evaluations, he sees a new face. The boy is leading the group through a portion of their choreography, and—much like the first time he ever saw Hyunjin dance—Chan cannot look anywhere else. He’s talented, this stranger, in a way that’s very different from both Hyunjin and Felix. Where the two existing dancers are all about passion, and embracing their emotional potential, this boy is…quite the opposite.

His dancing is all about control, and restraint.

But it’s more than that. Mid-movement, he halts the performance, turning to the other to critique it. However, he does so in a way that is constructive, and still humorous. Without a doubt, this boy knows dancing.

Chan stays until the end of their practice, watching through the open door.

When the group is finished, and the other trainees have left, he approaches the boy where he leans against the counter, wiping at the sweat on his forehead with a towel.

“That was incredible!” Chan says. “I’m Bang Chan.”

The other boy nods. “Ah, Chan-hyung! I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Lee Minho.”

Chan feels a blush creeping in. “I—I haven’t seen you around the company before?”

“No,” Minho says. “I auditioned a few years ago, but only recently received a callback to join.”

Fate. It feels like fate.

“I have a proposition for you,” Chan blurts, mouth working faster than his brain.

“Most people at least ask me out to dinner first,” Minho replies, grinning coyly.

“I mean—I didn’t—” Chan splutters. “Not that I wouldn’t—”

Minho laughs in earnest, loud and bright. Warmth pools in Chan’s stomach at the sound, and he swears he can hear Chris laughing, too.

In the end, it’s lunch that Chan and Minho share together instead of dinner. Sat across from one another at a table in the company’s cafeteria, a spread of food between them, Chan tries to decide how best to start. He’s fairly certain that he’ll sound a bit insane, explaining to this boy he barely knows how strongly it feels like destiny is pushing them together.

Chan doesn’t want to scare Minho away.

He sighs. You can do it, he tells himself. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to work out. And honestly, it feels like it will be.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make the best impression earlier,” he starts off. “You were just—your dancing is incredible, and—”

Minho practically preens. “Do go on,” he says, taking a bite of his food.

Chan blushes. What is it about this boy that catches him so off guard? That makes him feel as though he’s unraveling under Minho’s gaze?

“I—yes.” He clears his throat. Get it together, Chan. “Earlier this year, I was approached by JYP-nim about putting together a boy’s group for a reality program. Specifically, it’s a survival show, and the selected group will have the opportunity to prove ourselves worthy and ready to debut.”

Minho nods. “And you…want me to be in your group?”

“Yes!” Chan replies enthusiastically. “I mean—if you’d like to be. There are two other dancers, but they’re younger, and while they have plenty of charisma, they lack your technical background. You know so much, and I think you could teach them—us—me—a lot.”

“I used to be a support dancer for other acts,” Minho says simply. “I have plenty of experience on stage. Just—in the background.”

Chan smiles. “Would you like the chance to step out up front? I’d really love to have you.”

Minho purses his lips, deep in thought. Abruptly, he stands, “I’ll consider this thoroughly, hyung. One should never make important decisions rashly.”

And then he leaves.

Chan remains seated, shocked. What just happened?

He doesn’t hear from Minho.

At least, not for the rest of the day. Chan does his best to ignore the sinking sensation in his chest, the fear that maybe he’d picked wrong, or—or misunderstood the signals from the universe, or something.

Rather than wallow though, he opts for distraction. That part is easy enough, considering there’s always something to be working on for the group now. There’s the obvious things, like songs and choreography, but there’s something else, ruminating in the back of Chan’s mind.

A name. They’ll need a name.

Usually that’s up to the company, something selected after careful consideration of like, marketability or some shit. Whatever, that’s not Chan’s priority. JYP-nim wanted something organic, and that’s what Chan is going to give him.

He sits on the floor in the practice room, scribbling ideas down in a notebook. It’s nearing midnight, and he should probably head back to the dorms soon, before the other members start to wonder and worry about what’s taking him so long.

Knock, knock! A soft rap on the door steals his attention away from the blurring words on the page. Chan looks up.

The door opens, and it’s Minho who comes through. He’s staring at Chan with a very blank, very serious expression.

Chan’s blood cools, fearing the worst.

Minho approaches, sitting down in front of Chan. “Hyung, I’ve given it some thought.”

“Okay.”

“Yes.”

“I completely unders—wait, what?”

“Yes, hyung.” Minho is grinning from ear to ear, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I would like to go forward with you.”

Chan thinks his heart might honestly burst out of his chest. He doesn’t even realize he’s leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the younger man until he hears Minho gasping in his ear, “Chan-hyung, you have a very firm grip.”

“Oh, sorry. Sorry!” Chan releases him, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.

Minho is still smiling. “However,” he says. Chan’s breath catches in his throat, but then the younger man leans forward. Chan’s not expecting the kiss, but he’s more than happy to accept it. Minho’s lips are slightly chapped, but also impossibly soft. He thinks he could kiss this man forever and never tire of it. Minho pulls back then, just enough to add, “You still owe me dinner.”

And…yeah. Okay. Chan can work with that. Absolutely.

The eight of them have convened in the dorm room. Seungmin is sitting next to Changbin on the floor, his legs thrown over the older boy’s thighs. Felix and Hyunjin are next to Chan on his bed, Felix perched on Hyunjin’s lap. Minho is at the desk, sitting cross-legged on the chair. He’s staring at Chan intently, and it makes the older boy’s stomach flip (pleasantly). Jisung is sprawled on the floor like a starfish, and Jeongin is using his stomach as a pillow.

Their dorm room, Chan corrects himself. That knowledge does something to Chan’s insides; it feels like all of his organs could melt at any moment, but in a good way.

“So,” he begins, “this is it. This is the group.”

The boys all look around the room, and everyone is smiling.

“It feels right,” Felix comments. “Like it was meant to be us.” Hyunjin nods behind him.

“So long as everyone knows I’m the visual,” Jisung starts, but Jeongin cuts him off with a slap to his side. “Ah, Innie!” Jisung exclaims. “Don’t bruise my perfect skin!”

Jeongin rolls his eyes. “Don’t spread lies, hyung. Is being an ace not enough for you?”

Jisung sits up on his elbows. “No,” he says bluntly, earning laughs from Hyunjin and Minho.

Seungmin stands as the laughter dies down, walking over to Chan and taking his hand. “Thank you, Chan-hyung, for bringing us together. I promise we’ll work hard.”

“Fighting!” Changbin shouts, raising his fist in the air.

The others join in on the cheer, and Chan has to fight back tears—even if they’re ones of joy. He still can’t quite believe it, that this is his life now. That these seven boys are his life now. Everything feels worlds away from where he was merely a handful of months ago, sitting in this very room. That Chan had been utterly alone. He’d been hopeless. He’d been so close to letting it all go.

But he hadn’t.

He’d promised Chris he wouldn’t, and he worked so hard to keep that promise.

And now, surrounded by his members, he’s so, so grateful that he did. Not just for himself, but for them, too. Chan can’t shake the feeling that they’ve saved each other. He’d never really been one to believe in fate, or destiny, or soulmates, because those things always felt too good to be true.

But now? He’s never believed more.

Smiling, he pulls the folded piece of paper out of his pocket and holds it up for everyone to see. Written on it, in Chan’s messy-but-legible handwriting, are two words: Stray Kids.

The sea of lightsticks in the arena is blinding, but Chan refuses to close his eyes.

He doesn’t want to miss a single moment.

It’s halfway through the latest leg of their world tour, which has already been going for nearly a year between schedules. Their last two comebacks saw album sales in excess of four million copies (and like, honestly, what the fuck?). There’s rampant rumours spreading that they’re going to feature on the soundtrack for the next Deadpool film; Chan will neither confirm or deny, but it’s certainly fun to feed the chaos regardless.

They’re backstage, doing a quick outfit change. Hyunjin is helping Felix with his shirt; it’s the least he can do, after all, considering he’s the reason the intricate laces came undone in the first place. Seungmin and Changbin are fixing Jeongin’s bangs, and Jisung is checking an issue with his microphone.

Chan shrugs into another crop top, and then bends down so one of their makeup artists can touch up his eyeliner. Beside him, Minho is watching the monitor that shows the crowd. He points out several of the signs that fans are holding up, laughing at the funnier ones.

As soon as Chan’s ready, Minho’s hands are sneaking up under his shirt and gently massaging his shoulders and spine. “Ready?” he asks.

Chan nods, turning and leaning down to give him a quick kiss.

The lights in the arena fade. All eight boys form a circle, placing their hands one on top of another as they cheer in union. It’s something they do every time before they go on stage.

And then, it’s time.

The screams are deafening. Chan will never get tired of it. They finish one song, and make their way down the small catwalk to the extended stage, where individual microphone stands are waiting. He takes hold of it, just for a moment, for support, while he takes the whole spectacle in.

He knows he should be looking at the crowd, but he can’t help turning his head and looking at his members first. His boys, his brothers, his family. It’s still surreal, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that every time Chris appeared to him all those years ago, this is where he’d been coming from.

This was the life he’d been living, and promising would come for Chan.

And now Chan is living it for himself.

Distantly, he hears the music and knows his verse is coming. He smiles, so wide it hurts, and raises his hand, lifting it up and down. Thousands of lightsticks follow suit. “Still astray, ayy-ayy-ayy,” he sings.

Astray. Lost.

But here, surrounded by these boys—and knowing how they all found each other—he’s never felt more at home.