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Chan’s nickname may be Genius Leader Bang Chan, but he’s starting to see some major gaps in such a broad moniker. Sure, he can rap, sing, dance and produce like no other, but there are certain things that are simply out of Chan’s range of...expertise.
There are some things that aren’t in his job description.
In this case, that “thing” is trying to understand the majority of references Jisung and Felix seem to exclusively communicate with. At first he thought he was just losing his touch with the youth, but now he feels like he’s always missing something. It’s slightly frustrating, and more than a little embarrassing.
The other members always seem to understand the myriad of inside jokes the two spew at a constant clip—at least the fellow millennium line do, without fail. But to Chan it sounds like a foreign fucking language. It makes him feel like...and he shudders at the mere thought... an old man.
He’s not that old, he swears! He was only born in 1997, so logically speaking he’s not that old! But whenever Jisung and Felix share a mischievous, all-too knowing wink and let loose a stream of words Chan technically understands yet couldn’t even begin to unpack, he feels more like he was born in 1897, than anything.
Like today:
Chan slunk out of his and Changbin’s shared room to retrieve a cool, icy glass of water. Casually, as you do. Hydrating...and shit like that. He’s been working on a track since 4 in the morning, and he fears if he doesn’t suck some good old H2O down within the next five minutes he’ll start seeing things. Or die. That too. Dying? Bad. Hydrating? Good. But on his way to the kitchen, he is met with quite the sight.
Maybe it’s too late, Chan thought, numbly. Helplessly. I’m already seeing things.
Because there, in the living room, is Jisung. Jisung, who is kneeling in front of one Felix Lee.
“Felix,” Jisung started, his voice brimming with what can only be described as overpowering emotion. What emotion, you ask? Chan couldn’t even begin to parse such a thing. “Will you be my Minecraft girlfriend?”
Chan choked on his saliva, silently sputtering as he desperately tried to clear his windpipe. Minecraft girlfriend?!
Chan is all for his members expressing themselves, but what does that even mean?!
Not only is he hallucinating something fierce, but he’s hearing things to boot!
Chan’s stupefied eyes now took notice of what Jisung is brandishing in his hand. Of what he’s proudly holding out to Felix, after announcing his query. An offering. It’s a ringpop. He’s “proposing” to Felix with a fucking ringpop.
Felix gasped. Legitimately gasped, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this very moment. He clamped a hand over his mouth, presumably to hush the torrent of overjoyed sobs about to burst from his lips.
He took the ringpop from Jisung’s hand, and slipped the plastic band onto his finger. A perfect fit, it seems. And then he took a long, slobbery lick of the technicolor candy—his tongue almost instantly dyed a sickening neon pink in the wake of the sucker.
“Jisung, I thought you’d never ask.” He finally whispered, and Chan swears he saw a ream of tears rush onto the younger Australian’s waterlines. His lips are glossy from spit and tinged an unhealthy shade of artificial pink, with a smear of melted sugar pooling at the corner of his mouth. Chan officially feels like he’s in some kind of uncannily realistic fever dream. Or fever nightmare. He’s not sure yet.
Jisung rose from his position on one knee, taking Felix’s ringpop-clad hand gently in his. Movements tender and soft. Loving . Before bringing it flush to his own lips, and leaving an equally sloppy lick on the mock-jewel of pure, unadulterated sugar. Soon, Jisung’s tongue is the same shade of fluorescent pink. Yup, it’s a nightmare alright.
“Creeper?” Jisung...asked? Chan’s not sure if it’s a question. He’s not even sure what the hell it means.
“Creeper.” Felix replied, with a sagely nod of his head. Chan feels dazed. He feels like he’s intruding on something intimate, something sacred he shouldn’t be observing with his mortal eyes. He also feels like he’s been smacked on the head with a lead hammer, but that’s just details.
He trudged back to his room after that little exchange. He didn’t even make it to the kitchen. Didn't even get his glass of water. He’s still so thirsty. Goddamn Jisung and Felix.
Chan shut the door to his shared room and flopped on his bed, shoveling his face in his pillow and wishing for the fluffed cushion to swallow him whole. He slipped his phone from his pocket and typed the words “Minecraft girlfriend” into google.
He didn’t feel any more in the loop after his foray into the bowels of the internet.
But he did see some porn he could’ve gone the entirety of his life without knowing existed.
Goddamn Felix and Jisung.
Later on that day, as if that wasn’t weird enough, Chan walked into the bathroom. Sounds simple enough, hm? Mundane. Only to find Jisung there, toweling off the remaining makeup smudges from his face. Still seems innocent enough, right?
Wrong.
So, so wrong.
“Hi, welcome to Chilli’s.”Jisung stated as soon as his eyes landed on Chan in the doorway, his tone plain and devoid of emotion. His face—albeit dappled in water and residual foamy splotches of makeup remover—is blank. He stared at Chan. Chan stared at Jisung.
Jisung blinked. Chan blinked.
Jisung shoveled his face into a fluffy pink towel, and with that he scampered out of the bathroom. Leaving Chan standing in a stunned, baffled stupor. Welcome to Chilli’s? There’s no Chilli’s in Korea, to Chan’s knowledge. If there is, they haven’t stepped foot inside one. They never went to a Chilli’s on their adventures through America, either.
How does Jisung know what Chilli’s is? And why is Chan being welcomed to one in their bathroom of all places?
“Chan hyung, it’s a meme reference.”
The leader in question almost jumped through the ceiling at the sudden addition of Seungmin’s patented nasally lilt, his broad shoulders jolting with enough force to tear a ligament.
Staggering around with the grace of a gorilla, Chan came face to face with the humanoid puppy that is Kim Seungmin. There’s a knowing glint in his soft eyes, his pretty pink lips barely stifling the wily grin valiantly trying to bloom.
“Or as I like to call it, ‘idiot speak’ .” Seungmin mused, with a pair of exaggerated air quotes for emphasis.
Chan can’t really reprimand him for that little comment. He always knew he could trust Seungmin. That kid has a good head on his shoulders.
He patted Chan on the shoulder with an expression that can only be translated as ‘I feel you, dude’ , and all but skipped past him to begin washing his own makeup off after their schedule.
Chan ran a hand through his head of disheveled curls, ruffling the newly dyed brown locks until it looks like a dollop of frothy chocolate milk dripped onto his head. He let a sigh escape his lips, heavy and thick and brimming with exasperation.
Of course it’s a meme. Why wouldn’t it be?
Of course it flew right over Chan’s head like a ditzy passenger pigeon, yet still expertly dropped the meme-message right into Seungmin’s proverbial grasp. Why wouldn’t it have.
Mission accomplished. The meme has landed.
Just not to Chan. Never to Chan.
/(ò.ó)┛彡┻━┻
It’s a sunday. They have no schedule today. By every right, this should be a good day. A nice day. A calm day.
Chan was being naive.
He awoke at a quarter after noon, surprisingly well-rested despite another late night of producing. He fisted away the remnant particles of sleep from his eyes, before throwing his comforter to the side and making his way to the dining room for some much needed breakfast.
Changbin is still snoring away in his bed, with nothing but his tuft of dirty blonde hair poking from beneath his quilt as a sign he’s still alive to the world. Chan decided to let him sleep—not without tip-toeing over to place the familiar teal and cream puff ball that is Gyu back in Changbin’s slumbering grasp. He must have accidentally dropped the plush during the night.
Once satisfied with his handiwork in his shared room, Chan’s tummy rumbled, signaling that it’s time to get to the dining room. He gladly accomplished his body’s order within a few seconds.
The sight before him seems normal enough once he arrives: Hyunjin is sitting on the sofa in the adjoining living room, with the lean figure of Seungmin cuddled neatly in his lap. Something about Hyunjin’s impressive proportions seem to make Seungmin look startlingly small, despite the two being more or less equals in stature. Hyunjin’s gorgeously sculpted features are buried in a novel, the book held open in one hand, the other lazily slung around Seungmin’s waist. Seungmin appears to be trying to keep up, but Hyunjin is turning the pages at a speed that the younger can’t seem to stay paced with, so he has instead chosen to lay his head against the dancer’s chest.
Jeongin, bless his soul, is slaving away in the kitchen, currently ladling thick gobs of pancake batter onto the griddle. He has to leave for school within the hour, but he’s still doing all he can to get breakfast ready for the other members before the bell tolls for his first class. Chan suddenly feels...guilty. And a little bit proud. An eager Minho is plastered at Jeongin’s side, batter-coated spatula grasped in his hands. Poised and at the ready for his job on pancake-flipping duty today.
That’s right, the maknae has the second oldest as his steadfast second in command, for today’s breakfast endeavors. Stranger things have happened, in their dorm. Speaking of stranger things:
Jisung and Felix are munching on some hearty spoonfuls of sugary cereal at the dining room table. Silently. Serenely.
For now.
In between flipping pancakes, Jeongin fiddles with the silk star-printed tie around his neck. He absentmindedly buffed away a stray splotch of flour on the breast of his marigold yellow school uniform blazer. Everything is so normal . The perfect domesticity is like a spoonful of honey on Chan’s tongue, rousing him from the inside out.
All is right in the world.
All was right in the world.
Chan should’ve known it wouldn’t last long.
“Brother, may I have some oats?” Felix asked Jisung, gesturing to his rapidly emptying cereal bowl. Chan could virtually see the accents on each ‘ o’, implacable and heavily exaggerated.
Jisung nodded, a solemn set to his rounded cheeks as he grasped the box of cereal. “Your oats, brother.” He supplied, his own voice laden with the same unknown, startlingly thick accent.
He poured Felix more cereal. Too much cereal, given the nutritional information on the box, if you asked Chan.
But he was too numb to even care. What the hell just happened.
Felix is Jisung’s Minecraft girlfriend one day, and his... brother the next?! God, Chan’s head feels like a goddamn tornado just ravaged his brain. What does it mean?! So much for all that normalcy, huh.
“That’s how they ask each other for more cereal.”
Chan just about jumped out of his skin at the addition of Minho whispering conspiratorially in his ear. Once his heart isn’t, well, on the verge of giving out, Chan whipped around to see the elegant dancer staring at him. His eyes are bright and expectant, his hand clasping the handle of the batter-encrusted spatula. Chan had half a mind to snatch the utensil from Minho’s grasp and smack him upside the head with it, for almost giving him a heart attack so early in the morning.
But he didn’t. That would make him a bad leader. And if there’s one thing Chan isn’t, it’s a bad leader. He may not know what comes out of his boys’ mouths 9 times out of 10, but he’s still a good leader, goddamnit! Right?
Right….?
Chan’s shoulders slumped, his lungs deflating like punctured balloons as his wild-eyed gaze darted back to Jisung and Felix at the table. They’re still munching and crunching in what can only be described as absolute bliss. Chan just wants to understand.
Just once.
“Oh, yeah,” Chan muttered, voice barely audible. “I think I got that one.”
He’s lying. Partially, at least. Why did they call the cereal oats?
It’s not even an oat-based cereal.
It’s Cocoa Puffs.
/(ò.ó)┛彡┻━┻
Chan’s eyes are officially burning. He looked at the clock on the bottom of his laptop screen; the digits read 1:05 a.m.
Damn it. He’s barely even halfway done with this track! He’ll be up till 5 a.m. at this rate! He scrubbed a hand down his face, the sheen of sweat on his skin giving it a sickening tacky feeling, like malleable putty. To the point where he feared he would smear his features right off his skull, from the pressure of his hand.
He was about to dive back into perfecting this track, after the brief respite to question his life decisions, when there is a light round of knocking on his door. The rapping on the wood was almost imperceptible, but audible nonetheless.
Chan snuck a quick glance over his shoulder at Changbin; he’s cuddled up in bed, with Gyu snuggled up against his chest. His phone is in his hand, bathing his angular features in harsh, blue artificial light. He’s awake—he shouldn’t be at this hour, but Chan is in no place to reprimand his boys for letting the midnight hours melt together and blend into a mush of barely discernible night and day.
But Changbin is awake, meaning Chan can give the mysterious visitor outside his door a soft, “Yes?”, in approval of entering his room.
The door opened. Jisung is now standing in the threshold, with his acoustic guitar slung across his chest. He’s just standing there, slightly menacingly. With his guitar. Why is Jisung standing in Chan’s doorway with his acoustic guitar at 1 in the morning?
Chan opened his mouth to ask that very question. Jisung had other ideas, apparently.
“I love you, bitch!” Jisung announced—sung?—while strumming a set of dissonant, off-key cords on his guitar. He strolled into Chan’s room, pointing at Chan as he advanced forward. Chan still feels a tad menaced. “I ain’t never gonna stop loving you, bitch!” He finished his...love song, of sorts, with a final gesture towards Chan, and an ending flourish of equally shrill notes on his acoustic.
Chan sputtered. He virtually malfunctioned before Jisung’s eyes. “W-what?!” He kept his incredulous shrieking to as soft of a volume as possible, since it’s past 1 in the goddamn morning, but hello?! One of his boys just called him a bitch! Twice! The disrespect!
“That’s his way of telling you he loves you, Chan hyung.” Drawled Changbin. Chan can basically see the smirk in his words, and a fevered blush started to color his synonymously pale cheeks. Oh. He may or may not have completely glossed over the whole... love part of Jisung’s ballad.
“Really?” He asked Jisung, his eyes wide and innocent and probably making him look even more like an idiot than he already does.
Jisung nodded. A simple confirmation.
A smile tugged onto Chan’s lips, illuminating the otherwise dimly lit space with blinding light. Neon green beats from his producing software reflected off his teeth. “O-oh, ok! I love you too...bitch?”
A horrified gasp tore from Jisung’s lips, as he moved his guitar to the side to throw a scandalized hand to his chest. “How dare you call me such a thing, hyung.” He scoffed, before turning on his heel and strutting out of the room with his nose pointed in the air.
Chan could only sit in stunned dismay, as he watched the door to his bedroom close with Jisung’s exit. The soft click sounded more like a deafening gunshot in the newfound silence, and Chan feels dizzy. He swears he heard Changbin’s telltale wild cackling from behind him, but he couldn't be bothered to care. What the hell just happened?
His eyes darted his laptop’s clock once again, his gaze increasingly dazed and vacant. It’s 1:15 a.m.
He doesn’t want to work on the song anymore. He wants to go to sleep.
/(ò.ó)┛彡┻━┻
It’s no well guarded secret that Chan is exhausted. Just in general. He’s tired, all the time. So by that right, he has a slightly unhealthy love of coffee. In fact, his addiction to that inky concoction of bitter muck and cloying sugar is one of the reasons he manages to slide his waking corpse out of bed on any given morning.
Come to papa! Chan thought with a lazy grin, plucking his favorite flavor of Keurig coffee pods from their stash in the kitchen. Most of their fans stereotype Chan as exclusively drinking that pure black, flavorless shit. In reality, Chan’s guilty pleasure is hazelnut macchiato. It’s the perfect amount of sweet and nutty, with a slight hint of please let me stay awake all day, I’ll do anything.
Oh yes , their Keurig. That funky little machine is one of the main reasons Chan hasn’t keeled the fuck over since becoming leader of Stray Kids. Fans ship him and the members? Hell no. They should ship Chan and their Keurig. Chanrig? It has a nice ring to it.
He was about to pop the little coffee pod into the waiting machine, ready and eager to pry Chan from his residual exhaustion stinging his eyes. He can almost taste the saccharine caramel flavor he’s so desperately craving. His mouth started to water, in a move that borders on Pavlovian. But then, a familiar, cavernous timbre shattered the early morning peace as if a pane of glass. He was so close.
So close yet so, so far.
“Chris!” Felix all but howled, and for the umpteenth time this week Chan’s skeleton threatened to fly out of his body like a fucking jack in the box. Chan whipped around to his left, only to see none other than Felix Lee standing in the hallway connecting the kitchen and living room. Small hands placed on his dainty hips as he leveled Chan with a look of...is that accusal?
When did he get there?! Chan didn’t even see him pad into the room, let alone hear him enter!
Also, wait a goddamn minute. Why is Felix calling him Chris? None of the members call him Chris. Regularly, at least. Not even Felix himself, his Australian brother from another mother. Chan’s suddenly got a bad feeling about this.
“Is that a weed?! ” Felix bellowed, pointing an equally insinuating finger at the innocent little coffee pod in Chan’s hand. Chan’s eyes bugged out of his head, before darting between the coffee pod in his hand, the fire burning in Felix’s eyes, and then back down again.
“W-what? Felix, this is coffee—”
“I’m calling the police!” Felix shrieked, his impossibly deep voice echoing through every nook and cranny in their dorm. He stalked forward into the kitchen, and planted himself firmly in front of the microwave.
He reached a diminutive hand up, and imputed 9 1 1 onto the keypad on the microwave. Stout fingers angrily pressing into the keypad. Each electronic beep under the pads of his fingers were more akin to knives raking down Chan’s skull.
What the fuck. What just happened. Chan just felt the last ounces of his soul seep from his body, officially. He just wanted his coffee—that’s all he wanted. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently. Because he’s Genius Leader Bang Chan, and he can’t catch a fucking break.
Felix met Chan’s eyes—his wide, vaguely horrified yet overarchingly perplexed eyes. Felix laughed . Felix doubled over his laughter, in fact. A smile bright enough to put the sun on unemployment bloomed on his lips, and Chan’s chest tightened with love despite the bramble of confusion muddling his brain. It’s also borderline Pavlovian; Felix smiles, Chan almost faints from the sheer affection that bubbles up in his chest. Even if that smile is in the wake of taking Chan’s sanity and proverbially putting it under a truck tire.
And then Felix skipped away as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just pop into the kitchen to accuse Chan’s coffee pod of being marijuana, declare he was going to call the police, and then proceed to type 911 onto their poor, innocent microwave. For a few blissful seconds Chan thought he was trapped in a startlingly realistic hallucination—from coffee withdrawals, of course. But the three digits are still lighting up the microwave’s little screen, neon green and seemingly mocking Chan. This is very much real life.
A hand was then placed on his shoulder, soft and comforting and radiating warmth into his body. He didn’t even have enough mental energy left to startle for the second time in his first hour of waking. He turned to see Minho standing behind him, an unfathomably sympathetic smile gracing his handsome features. The kind of soft grin that makes the corners of his lips curl upwards, like a cartoon feline. He rubbed soothing circles into the taut flesh of Chan’s shoulder, and the Australian is on the cusp of melting into a Chan-shaped puddle at the relaxing touch.
“Don’t worry Chan hyung, that’s a vine reference.” Minho spoke gently, slowly. Chan stiffened immediately, his eye twitching and nails pressing indents on the skin of his palm.
How does Minho know a supposed vine reference when Chan doesn’t?! He’s almost as old as Chan! it doesn’t make sense! That’s got to be a crime, that’s got to be a punishable offense of some sort. He’ll have to look into that later. After coffee, of course.
He didn’t respond to Minho’s little admission. He has nothing to say. Nothing new, at least.
Chan sighed, long suffering and shuddering like brittle leaves in the autumn wind. He popped his coffee pod into the Keurig, and pressed brew.
The Keurig understands him. The Keurig will never betray him.
Chan fears he’s officially losing his mind.
/(ò.ó)┛彡┻━┻
Today really isn’t Chan’s day. He picked the 8th spot in their daily lots for car placements—meaning he gets, objectively, the worst seat in the entire universe.
They have an hour and a half drive left to get to their next schedule; some radio show that’s probably going to mispronounce their name again. Straight kids, most likely. Maybe they’ll be stripped kids today. Chan’s already dreading it.
He’s currently sandwiched in the middle of the second row of their SUV, pressed between Changbin on his left, and Minho on his right. Honestly, Chan doesn’t mind the center seat that much. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he likes the spot quite a bit. Who wouldn’t want to be flanked by the muscular body of Changbin, and the lithe yet equally toned frame of Minho? Who ever wouldn’t, Chan would like to have a few words with them. They’re impossibly warm, like two living hot water bottles heating Chan from the outside in. It feels good. Feels like home.
At the one hour mark, Chan nestled his head into the crook of Minho’s shoulder, and placed one of his hands on the sturdy flesh of Changbin’s thigh. Minho nuzzled his mop of silky locks onto Chan’s dirty brown curls. And like clockwork, Changbin draped a hand over Chan’s, and played with one of his many chunky silver bracelets on his wrist. Feels like home, alright.
Hyunjin’s music is too loud. Chan can basically hear every word of GOT7’s Not By the Moon from his spot in the middle seat, even when Hyunjin is cuddled up against their resident maknae in the corner of the back seat. Poor Jeongin. Chan saw their youngest fervently pressing his own earbuds in, as a futile attempt to drown out Hyunjin’s booming tunes. Seungmin, sitting prim and proper besides Jeongin, silently jammed the volume up button on his phone.
Chan was about to activate his motherly-sensibilities and reprimand Hyunjin to spare his eardrums, when some movement in the front row of seats caught his attention first.
It’s Felix and Jisung. What god of mischief was looking down on them today, and had them draw seat placements next to each other? Obviously one that doesn’t pay any mind to the state of Chan’s rapidly crumbling sanity, that’s who.
Jisung and Felix clambered onto the cushioned seats, twisting around so they’re facing the middle row—facing Chan, dead on.
“You shouldn't turn around like that in a moving car, it’s not safe—” Chan was just trying to be a good leader and take care of his boys; who are well known to have a negative regard for their personal well being. But nope, nothing can ever be that simple. That god of mischief cackling at him from above the heavens must be having a field day today.
“What the fuck, is that allowed?” Felix drawled with a snicker. His eyes flitted from Chan’s position snuggled against Minho and Changbin, then back to meet Jisung’s equally devious gaze.
“What the fuck, is that allowed?” Jisung parroted the younger Aussie, as he gestured to the cuddle puddle in the middle row. Voice just as languid, and somewhat incriminating. Like thick maple syrup. His smirk is so devilish, Chan swears he saw pools of lava and hellish fire shimmer in his dark irises.
Minho doesn’t seem perturbed, though. Neither does Changbin. In fact, they both just rolled their eyes in tandem, as good natured grins pulled onto their lips. Minho nuzzled his head even closer to Chan’s, his hand finding the leader’s and intertwining their fingers. He squeezed, not tight enough to hurt but tight enough to rouse Chan back to reality.
By that logic, Chan shouldn’t mind either. Even if he has no idea what the two are talking about. You know what they say: fake it till you make it.
Jisung and Felix shifted back into their normal positions, leaving nothing but a symphony of melodic giggles behind.
“It’s a vine refe—” the dancer began, mumbling into Chan’s ear. His velvety breath warmed the silver hoop pierced in Chan’s lobe.
“I figured.” Chan observed, unable to halt the smile of his own that tugged at his lips. He stroked his thumb over Minho’s wrist, and he feels warm. Everywhere. Inside and out.
Maybe he hasn’t lost his mind yet. Not completely, at least.
/(ò.ó)┛彡┻━┻
It’s close to midnight on friday night, and Chan is sitting on the sofa in the living room, staring at the ceiling. Why is he staring at the ceiling when there’s a laundry list of songs he should be working on right now? Because he’s lost control of his life, that’s why.
In all honesty, it’s because he’s simply too bone-tired to even attempt to open the Pandora’s box that is producing right now—lest his exhaustion fully take over and cloud his usually adept judgment.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out here, or how long it’ll be until he forces his impossibly heavy legs to carry him into bed. Around 40 minutes ago, however, the majority of the boys bid him goodnight. He says the majority, because two of his members have yet to retire.
Speak of the devils, and they will appear.
“Hyung?” Chan’s head snapped to attention at the soft voice entering the otherwise pin-drop silence of the living room. Standing in the murky darkness of the hallway, is Jisung. With Felix looking nigh surgically attached at his hip.
“Hi boys, why are you up so late?” Chan asked, cocking his head in confusion at the sight of the two staring at him with wide, glimmering eyes. They look oddly...apprehensive? Almost nervous. It made Chan’s stomach knot into uncomfortable twists.
“We just, um, wanted to talk to you about something.” Jisung continued, Felix nodding his head in accordance. They’re both now staring at their feet, hands twiddling in unison.
Chan gulped. This doesn’t sound good.
“Of course guys, come talk to me.” Chan tried to sound as calm and steady as possible, despite the rampage of horrible scenarios tearing through his head. What if they got hurt? What if something is really, really wrong and he can’t fix it?
The boys toddled over, breaking from their attachment to flank either side of Chan. Felix clambered onto the sofa on Chan’s left, cuddling up flush at his side and fitting his head of platinum blonde locks into the crook of Chan’s neck, like a puzzle piece finding its long awaited mate. Jisung took to Chan’s right, curling up on his side and laying his head of dark chocolate tresses onto the firm muscles of Chan’s thigh. He looks so small, like a docile little house cat all snuggled up on Chan’s lap.
Like it’s something primal, something inborn and intrinsic within him, Chan began to card a hand through Jisung’s hair. His other hand interlaced with Felix’s fingers, as if their digits are secretly magnetic. Like it’s second nature. He felt the two physically relax under his calming touch. Felt their nerves dissolve, only to be replaced with tenderness.
“Hyung,” Felix began, his voice now heavy with the unmistakable slur of exhaustion. “We’re sorry.” He grumbled, the words barely discernible through his thick lips pulling into a sleep-induced pout.
Chan’s heart momentarily froze in his chest. His breath hitched in his throat. They’re sorry? Sorry for what?
What did they break? Or destroy? Or—oh god, what if they accidentally killed someone on the way back from practice?! Ok, maybe that’s a bit unlikely, but he honestly wouldn’t put it totally past the twin tornadoes currently draped across him.
His hand petting Jisung’s hair stuttered to an ungraceful halt, before he regained his senses and re-embarked on leaving the soothing strokes against the younger’s scalp.
“Sorry for what, boys?” Chan whispered, hoping the fear in each syllable isn’t as obvious as it felt.
Silence greeted him—it felt agonizing.
“For always saying stuff you don’t understand.” Jisung took the reins now, mumbling into the soft terry of Chan’s sweatpants as he squashed his rounded cheek even flusher on Chan’s thigh.
“Yeah, we don’t mean to make you confused, hyung. We feel really bad.” Felix jumped in again, yet his voice is wavering and teetering on the precipice of falling into slumber. Chan didn't need to look at the younger Australian to know his doe eyes have fluttered shut.
But then what they actually just said to him made the seemingly endless ascent to his brain, and Chan swears he saw stars from relief. His shoulders dropped, his body releasing into the sofa cushions as all the terrifying what-ifs from earlier flew the coop. Did the startling vagueness of their admission swipe 50 years from Chan’s life? Perhaps. Is he simply relieved the only police sirens to follow them will be from Seungmin blasting Maze of Memories at ungodly hours of the night? A resounding yes.
Chan sent a silent thank you to their patron god of mischief, who seems to have taken some pity upon him tonight.
“Boys, don’t be silly! I don’t mind you guys having fun. It just reminds me how out of the loop I am, is all.” Chan mused, voice brimming with tangible relief as a lazy smile bloomed on his lips.
He felt Jisung and Felix hum in acknowledgement, which sounded suspiciously like the purring of two kittens.
Chan’s eyes found the wall clock on the far wall of the living room; the time now reads 12:45 a.m.
It’s late. It’s time for bed, for everyone .
As if reading Chan’s mind, Jisung piped up again. “Chan hyung, can we have a sleepover with you tonight?” The words are drawn out and desperate in only the way exhaustion and longing can make them.
Chan rolled his eyes. Did he really need to ask?
“Ok guys, the Channie express is leaving the station. Next stop, sleepy-land.” Chan announced, in his best train conductor voice. He shifted the boys in his hold, so he can wrap one arm tightly around Felix’s thin waist, and the other in the same position around Jisung’s dainty torso.
With a small heave, Chan rose from the couch, the two boys easily held under each arm like they weigh less than a feather. They cheered in delight, with as much enthusiasm as their exhaustion permitted.
How dare you accuse Chan of working out so religiously just so he can safely carry around his members! You’d be completely right, but how dare you even think such a thing.
After a few seconds of expertly piloting his way down the inky abyss of the hallway, Chan carefully nudged the door to his shared room open. It’s completely dark, save for the dim glow of his bedside lamp. Changbin is nothing more than a small lump under the covers, undoubtedly lost in dreams while cuddling Gyu beneath his blanket cocoon.
Chan placed Jisung down on his bed first, awkwardly crawled in himself, and then released Felix from his protective grasp. A few minutes of settling and slightly clumsy blanket-wrangling later, the trio managed to get as comfortable as Chan’s meager bed space allows.
“‘M love you, hyung.” Felix slurred into Chan’s side, the words sending heated vibrations through Chan’s skin.
“Love you too, hyung.” Jisung grumbled, mimicking his best friend’s mixture of affection and fatigue.
Chan felt fireworks explode in his chest, felt shooting stars race between his ribs as a knitted blanket of endearment enveloped his heart. He doesn't need any of the members to translate that.
He placed a chaste peck on Felix’s forehead, before turning to place the same innocent smooch on Jisung’s rounded cheek. And with that, Chan flicked off his bedside lamp, and the boys are out, instantly.
Jisung’s face is currently buried in the crook of Chan's shoulder, drool leaking from the corner of his parted lips and forcing gobs of saliva to pool in the dip of the elder’s collar bones.
Felix is snuggled on Chan’s other side, his arms and legs wrapped around his leader like the true human-koala hybrid Chan knows him to be. He nestled his head on the opposite side of Chan’s neck, his humid breaths ghosting across the flesh and occasionally tickling the skin.
Around 2 a.m. Changbin clambered into bed with them, planting himself flush against Felix on the skimpy sliver of bed left available. If he knew Chan was still awake, he didn't say anything. But maybe after all these years, he really didn't have to. His right leg unabashedly hung off the mattress, but he didn't seem to mind. He even left Gyu alone on his abandoned bed, the poor plush looking even smaller than usual on the empty sheets.
Chan's bed is not designed to hold four people. It’s barely designed to comfortably fit one person.
But if there's one thing all members of Stray Kids can agree on, it’s that (bed) size is just a number. And one that they all gladly elect to ignore.
The increase in heat from the tangle of limbs formed beads of sweat to dapple Chan’s forehead, yet it isn’t uncomfortable. Rather, the heat is a welcome change. His bed always feels so... uncomfortable. Even when he manages to crawl into it after a particularly grueling night of work, it always feels somewhat impersonal. It feels cold, and sterile, and empty . Because more often than not, it is empty.
But now? He's hotter than if he were perched on the surface of the sun. He's surrounded by his members, his best friends, his boys, and he can feel the love radiating off of them. But that might just be the overpowering heat clouding his judgement.
He'll take it as their love, though. If the way Felix and Jisung snuggled marginally closer into Chan’s body, if how even Changbin has sloppily thrown an arm across Felix to drape over Chan's chest means anything, he thinks he can't be too far off.
Prickles of slumber started to dance on his skin, the weight of his members' arms and legs and heads of sleep-ruffled hair only adding to the exhaustion creeping up his spine.
Chan felt his mind sway, felt his consciousness give way to the hands of sleep. He snuck a final, enamored glance at the boys messily covering him like some sort of living patchwork quilt.
A wise man’s words popped into his head;
“I love you, bitch. I ain't never gonna stop loving you, bitch.”
Palpable affection swelled his heart to bursting. For the first time in what feels like forever, Chan fell asleep with a loving, lopsided grin on his lips. The dopey expression stayed firmly in place throughout the night.
Chan doesn't think he'll ever graduate from the eternal class that is attempting to understand Jisung and Felix. But he's now realizing that it's okay—he doesn't need to understand everything.
Just the important stuff. Like when they're sick, or upset, or cranky from hunger.
Or when they tell him how much they love him.
If he can understand that, then he's satisfied.
He's happy.