Chapter Text
The breeze lightly brushed through Minho’s hair, pulling away the heat and exhaustion from his forehead, and replacing it with a sense of peace and calm. He closed his eyes for a moment, the dirt and grime of the garden a somewhat comforting feeling around him, like a second skin, a comfortable nostalgia that pushed the spotlights, leather pants, and eyeliner of idol life far away. His grandmother came up behind him, and ran a hand through his hair.
“That’s good, Minho-ah,” she let out a deep sigh, and looked out over her little garden, “Mm, we can make dinner now. What do you want, sonja? I’ll make you whatever you want.”
“No, no, halmeoni ,” Minho took the basket of vegetables in his hands, and wiped the sweat from his brow, “I’ll cook. My treat.”
She smiled and pet his cheek, “Ah, so sweet. No, no, let grandma cook for you, hm? You work so hard, let me treat you while I have you.”
They walked into the house, and laughing, Minho placed the basket on the counter, “No, you shouldn’t work while I’m here. Let’s go out to eat-- did you like that place from last time? What haven’t you tried? I’ll take you there.”
“No, no,” the old woman hobbled around her kitchen, pulling out various pots and pans, “Don’t spend your hard earned money, let me make something good for you. It’s my pleasure, you know, give your grandmother this pleasure.”
Minho started washing the vegetables, “What’s money if I don’t spend it on taking care of you, grandma? It’s my pleasure treating you out, you know?”
His mother came in and leaned against the doorframe, “Let us take care of you sometimes, hm? It’s amazing the company gave you this surprise break, let us do something special for you.”
She smiled as she pushed the bangs out of his eyes, rubbing the dirt off his cheek. He had a witty retort on the edge of his tongue, but it died in the softness in his eyes, much lighter and fonder than the weariness he had grown used to seeing over video calls.
“Alright,” he whispered, leaving the cleaned vegetables on the counter, “At least let me help you--”
“No, no, no,” his grandmother waved him away, “Go help your father and grandfather-- they’re messing around with something in the shed, trying to build god-knows-what.”
“O-ok…” Minho turned to his mother and mumbled quietly, “But I suck at carpentry…”
She winked, “Then go mess something up for them. I’m sure they’ll get joy out of teaching you to do something properly, hm? Remember, they missed you too.”
So Minho dragged his feet through the weeds of the garden, muttering nonsense under his breath. His parents had been overjoyed when the company had given him a three day vacation, and it had been quickly decided that one would be spent at his maternal grandparents’ place, as they had complained on many occasions of having one foot in the grave, a bleak future of them passing away while Minho danced on prestigious stages around the globe, and not having spent enough time with their grandson. It was a silly prospect, as even in their hobbling, they were both far too busy and active to die anytime soon. But the sentiment remained, so after one day at home, Minho left his cats behind to spend the day in the country.
“Appa?” he opened the shed doors and peered in, the smell of wood and sawdust blinding him, “Do you… need help with anything?”
His grandfather peeked out behind one of the tractor’s waving a hammer, and Minho prayed to all that was holy that his grandfather wouldn’t have him working on machinery, because someone would lose a finger if he did.
“Ah, come, come!” The old man waved his hammer frantically, and out of fear he would swing it at him, Minho shuffled around the tractor to where his father and grandfather were building a desk… looking thing. Something that resembled a desk. Mildly.
“It’s for your grandmother,” Minho’s dad stood up, dusting off his pants, “She needs a new sewing table, so we’re making one with fancy drawers and everything.”
“Lots of space,” his grandfather continued, opening some of the drawers, “Hopefully less cloth on the ground for her to trip on, hm?”
“Mm!” Minho nodded, hands in his pocket as he looked around, nervously eyeing the various tools. He was crap at building and fixing things. Although he had taken up cooking, somewhat out of necessity, this life skill never came easy to him, not under his father’s training, and not even out of necessity in the dorms. Damn it, fixing things was Chan’s department, not his.
“Um, here,” Minho’s dad handed him a screwdriver, “How about you help tighten some screws for us? We have a couple of shelves to put in.”
Minho nodded because, yeah, no possibility of losing fingers in doing that… right?
His grandfather and father started explaining some of the complexities, something about right angles and maximum strength in triangles as they reinforced the legs, and Minho’s mind started to drift off. He thought of Chan, and Felix, holed up in the dorms over the holidays. He had wanted to invite them, wanted someone to invite them, but everyone had been lined up to be otherwise occupied or booked. And selfishly, Minho had wanted time alone with his grandparents, parents, and cats. Not even Jisung, no matter how much he begged, could get a minute of Minho’s meager vacation time. But guilt ate at him now, as he thought of Chan, probably working himself in the studio to distract from the loneliness, and Felix, lazing around with his thoughts. Minho hoped they had the sense and patience to at least spend the time being alone together. Although he wasn’t sure if that would help or not.
“Sch!” Minho hissed and pulled his hand out from the corner of the shelves, his fingertips bloodied from where they had slipped across the unsanded wood.
“Oh, oh!” His grandfather dropped the tools and beckoned him to stand, “Go take care of that— halmeoni! ”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Minho smiled and handed the screwdriver to his father, “I’ll go clean up. Lunch should be ready soon anyways. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“No, no,” his father winked, “Took half the time to screw these in than if it was just the two of us, yeah?”
Minho blinked owlishly, “... I don’t think your math adds up.”
“Yeah?” His father raised an eyebrow, “And what would you know about that?”
“I’m a musician— I think I know numbers better than a furniture salesman.”
“Ah, but I’m a carpenter and a salesman— that means I have double the knowledge you do.”
Minho sarcastically lifted his eyebrows, “Wow, amazing arithmetic, bravo.”
He ducked away, his father and grandfather chuckling fondly behind him. He looked curiously at his bloodied fingertips, pulling at a couple of splinters along his palms. Staring at his hands, he thought about Chan again, always working, always fidgeting or fixing or fussing over something or another, whether it be a track, or something they broke that needed fixing. Chan’s hands had built up impressive calluses over the years, and all the damage from his work remained internal. Minho had spent his fair share of time discreetly massaging their leader’s hands, reheating and refreezing heating pads and ice packs they had accumulated. As Minho pulled some bandaids from his grandmother’s drawer, he thought about all the times Chan would scold and fuss over him in return, when he’d bruise something or another and try to cover it up with concealer before anyone noticed.
But there was no Chan and no concealer, so his mother gasped loudly when she saw the red stains on his shirt, and the bright blue bandages around his fingertips.
“Tch!” she looked it over, her smooth hands running over his rough ones, “So clumsy. I have an oil I’ll put on later for you, hm?”
“Mm,” he pushed away the thought of how much like Chan she sounded, “Okay… sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
They sat around the table, his grandmother bringing dish after dish, until the table was properly filled, steam rising and wonderful, homely smells filling the air. Another memory, from more recently, was seared in his mind, of his dongsaengs, namely a certain freckled Australian, standing over a spread Minho had set out, eyes wide and mouth watering, dishes he couldn’t pronounce fed to him. Felix and Jisung had showered him with compliments, called Minho the greatest Chef this side of Paris or some utter nonsense like that, and Minho had proudly fed everyone little bites of everything until they were satisfied.
“Wah,” Minho smiled to himself as he set the table, “Jisungie is going to be jealous.”
“You should have brought him,” his father said lightly, serving the meat, “I like him. And you both always have a good time together.”
“Mm, maybe next time,” Minho wondered whether he should bring up Chan and Felix, “...Most of the members had plans, and… places… to go.”
“Most?” his mother pressed, “Who didn’t? Ah, Yongbok and Channie? Can they not go home?”
“Pelix!” his grandmother said, completely butchering the name but trying so sweetly, that Minho could only be amused, “Pelix, Pelix, the cute one with freckles. Skinny boy, you should have brought him, I would have fed him properly, hm? He probably hasn’t had good home food in a long time.”
“What? I’m sure he has,” his grandfather interjected, “What with Minho cooking for them!”
“That’s not the same and you know it.”
“Do I?” his grandfather looked at Minho critically, “If you still make anything like that kimchi jjigae, I’m sure they’ve all experienced the taste of home!”
Minho smiled, but quickly changed the topic, “They couldn’t go home because of the situation now, but… they said they’ll be fine. It’s only a couple of days.”
“They’re still in the dorms?” Minho’s father looked shocked.
“Mm, but they’re big boys,” Minho joked, letting it numb his guilt, “They’ll be okay.”
And then it was lost in a conversation, Minho showing pictures and telling his grandparents all the dishes he had cooked at the dorms, as well as all the places they had traveled to perform. The day bled into the afternoon, his grandmother worrying about everything Minho told her, and scolding him to take care of himself better, in the same breath telling how proud she was of him, and how she would brag to all her friends about how mature and accomplished her grandson was. It was a timeless day, his mother holding his hand loosely and massaging little circles into palm, his father’s arm around his back. He nearly melted in the feeling, enveloped in the protective warmth of it all.
Then his phone rang.
He almost didn’t pick it up, slightly annoyed that anyone would bother him with something as intrusive as a phone call, until he saw that he had about thirty missed texts from the members, three missed calls from Seungmin and Changbin, and now a frustrated Jisung leaving him an angry voice message.
“Yah! Minho-hyung! Pick up the phone, you dumba--”
“--Hannie, don’t you know to be more respectful to your hyung?” Minho’s voice bled a saccharine sweetness, masking the bubbling worry under the surface as he excused himself to a side room, “What is it? Is someone dying? Because if not--”
“They’re missing, hyung! Oh god, we should have-- why didn’t we--- oh god what if they--”
“Slow down, Han-ah,” Minho rubbed his temple, “Who’s missing? What’s going--”
“Chan and Felix! God, don’t you read your messages?!”
His heart was caught in his throat, and it was incredibly difficult to breathe. It felt like a sick joke, and he couldn’t even stutter out a question, couldn’t demand that Jisung stop pranking him. Why had he left them alone in the dorms, why didn’t he--?
“Nobody’s seen them since last night,” Jisung continued, “We don’t know whether we should tell management or not, but I mean everyone’s on vacation anyway… we thought about going to security but I mean, what if they’re just, like, traveling?... But that’s stupid because they haven’t responded to our texts or anything, and-and- and- I only found out a couple hours ago when I came home to grab something, but apparently Seungmin’s known since earlier the brat, he’d come home to take them out or something-- everyone’s now at the dorms or checking out placed they might visit… We-we don’t know whether-- hyung’s not stupid, right? They wouldn’t have been kidnapped or anything, r-right? Because everyone’s thinking what could have gotten into their dense heads to have--”
“Hannie, hannie, hannie, stop,” Minho took a deep breath, “Listen. If you’re really that worried, then we should call management, I-- Chan and Felix probably-- I mean, they could have--”
His head was reeling. Chan and Felix would never make them worry like this. It wasn’t in their nature, they wouldn’t leave messages unread for too long, or purposefully not answer calls. Part of him wanted to think that Jisung had just watched too many strange animes to draw a reasonable conclusion but--
“I’ll come home,” he said curtly, his father looking at him seriously, worriedly, “Send someone to check the beach, they probably-- they could have--”
“Oh that’s a good idea! Seungm-- Hyunjin-ah! Has anyone tried the--”
Minho hung up, looking at his father and suddenly lost for words. But he didn’t need to say anything, his grandmother was already bustling about, a heavy package of the food she had cookies in one hand, and sweets she had bought for him and the other boys in the other. His mother looked worriedly as she got his things together.
“Everything alright?” she whispered, having only caught bits and pieces of the conversation, “They’re not in the hospital or anything, right?”
“No, no,” Minho slipped on his jacket as his father ran to get the car started, although as he thought about it, that was another good place to look, “At least, I don’t think so. Don’t worry. Sorry gran--”
“No, no,” his grandfather ruffled his hair fondly, “It was good to see you-- come by whenever you have time, hm?”
“Mm,” Minho gave them each a hug, and looked at his grandmother seriously, “I’m cooking next time.”
“Oh? Oh!” his grandmother swatted him, “Ok, ok, we’ll see, hm?”
He smiled and waved at them, the joy sinking away as soon as the car left the driveway.
“They’re missing?”
“Mhm,” Minho stared out the window.
“You should call management,” his father suggested lightly, voice tense and worried, “Or the police… or someone .”
“They could just be stupid,” Minho reasoned, although he wasn’t sure how much of that he believed, “We don’t want to cause trouble if it’s nothing…”
Minho’s father glanced at him, and tightened his grip on the wheel, “I’ll stick around, okay? In case you need a car, or-or something.”
“Mm, yeah, yeah, okay,” Minho wasn’t really listening, his mind running a thousand miles an hour, a plan already formulating, “That’s good, that’s good…”
When they pulled up to the dorm building, Minho practically flew up the stairs, and up to their dorm. As soon as he opened the door, the noise that came through was practically deafening, a dull roar as voices overlapped each other. He threw off his shoes and jacket and came to the living room space, three people sprawled out on the floor with their laptops open, and everyone else standing and yelling at each other.
“Everyone shut it!” he yelled, commanding the attention of the other boys effortlessly, “I have a plan, but I need to know what you all have done.”
Changbin quickly took the reins, “We were just planning on where everyone is going to go and search. We finished looking through the dorms for a note, a clue, something to help us, but we’ve found nothing except both their shoes are missing, and they both are probably wearing sweatshirts. Probably. Unless someone accidently packed Chan’s--”
“That works, that works,” Minho took one of the laptops and set it on the table, a map of the city pulled up, “We need one person to go to the company, two to run to all the convenient stores, one to search the park, and one to go to Incheon--”
“What?!” Jisung sprung up, knowing he would be the one who would have to go to his hometown, “Why? What good reason would they have to--”
“Because unless they planned on sneaking out to Busan,” he replied critically, “That’s the only beach nearby where they would have tried to go.”
Innie frowned, “And they would have gone to a beach because--?”
“They were homesick?” Minho answered, as though it were obvious, “We did leave them alone while we all went home and--” Minho shook his head, “That’s not important. It’s what I could think of, and knowing Chan and his strange illogical mind, it’s definitely a possibility. Any volunteers?”
“Well, it might be better if you just assign duties at this point,” Seungmin muttered, sitting down next to Minho, “These idiots were arguing about who would go--’
“ These idiots?” Changbin seethed, “ You were--!”
“I don’t want to go to Incheon, any volunteers?”
“You’re from Incheon, you idiot,” Hyunjin swatted him over the head, “You just came from there!”
“Exactly why I shouldn’t go,” Jisung countered, “I just came from there, and--”
“But you know it best!”
“Why do we have to--?”
“This is ridiculous, we should ask for--”
“Can’t we--?”
“At this rate, if they’ve been kidnapped we’ll never get to them in time.”
“--What?! Who said anything about--?”
“I swear, if you throw another tissue at me I’m going to lose it!”
“Oh you’re one to talk!”
“Shut it!”
Minho was now standing on the table, face red.
“Listen, Jisung, you’re going to Incheon whether you want to or not. My dad is downstairs and can take you if you don’t have a ride, but you know the place best, it’s only right that you go look there.”
“But--?”
“Seungmin can check the usual sightseeing places. I think I saw them do a cute couple thingy on their last vacation vlog where they went to some of the cool places around, or something.”
Seungmin nodded, grabbing his phone and coat, and snacking on the candies Minho had left on the table.
“Hyunjin and Innie can check the convenience stores. Ask the store owners if they’ve seen either Chan or Felix, and if they’d be willing to call you if either of them do end up stopping by.”
“Changbin, you go to the company,” Minho pulled up his phone, “I’ll call the managers in an hour, but if you run into them there, ask them if they heard anything from either boy, and if they’d be willing to help.”
Changbin frowned, unsettled by the idea of bringing management in, but nodded. Their managers were their hyungs, and if this was as serious as they were getting worked up about, then it would probably be better to keep them in the loop. Not to mention the obvious benefit of having extra eyes and feet, particularly the kind that owned cars.
“I’ll stay here, in case they come back, and to keep everyone updated,” Minho sat back down in the chair, “Keep me updated-- keep the group chat open unless you’ve found them or any important information. Message me things individually, and I’ll filter through them. Sounds good?”
Everyone nodded or gave verbal affirmation, before quickly shuffling into shoes and jackets and heading out the door. After a minute, only a pouting Jisung remained, Minho’s father standing awkwardly in the kitchen.
“Sungie, you know this makes sense,” Minho said lightly.
Jisung groaned, “Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Would it be easier to take the bus?” Minho’s father offered, “It might be quicker--”
“Bus doesn’t leave anytime soon,” Minho quickly pulled up, “And traffic isn’t too bad… Might be good to follow the bus route anyway, since that’s how they probably got around. If you have any ideas--”
“Yeah, yeah, ok,” Jisung turned to Minho’s father, “Sorry for dragging you into this, sir.”
“No, no, not at all,” the man smiled politely, keys nervously swung from his other hand, “You’re all like my children anyway, I want to help in any way I can.”
“Good luck,” Minho wished as the two hurried out the door.
The dorm was unnervingly quiet, in the sort of way that almost made Minho convinced that Chan and Felix were simply sleeping in their beds, waiting to be woken up, or hiding in the closet, ready to jump out and prank them all. For his own sanity, Minho checked around the dorms again, pulling the sheets all the way to the foots of the bed, just to be sure. Their phones were missing, but Chan’s laptop was lying, half-open on his bed. A sure sign that they hadn’t planned to be out for long. Disappointed, he sat down at the laptop again with a heavy sigh, multiple tabs pulled up with maps and pins on locations, his phone ready at hand. When nothing happened within the first five minutes, Minho pulled out their rice cooker, bitterly throwing different things into it, subconsciously thinking that the Aussies deserved a hot meal at the very least if they came home. When they came home.
He also found himself noticing the dirty dishes and half-eaten meals on the counter. There was a whole box of fried rice, which smelled like something Felix would make for himself, although it looked to be too big for just him. He had probably made it for both Chan and himself.
Minho couldn’t find it in himself to be angry at Felix.
But Chan? Although he didn’t mean it, not truly or deeply, his eyes burned with tears.
Screw Chan.