Chapter Text
A cool summer wind whistles through the empty spaces of the skeleton high-rise, displacing rubble and ruffling Bang Chan's hair as he scans the other half-constructed buildings around him. This high up and he can see for miles - the cityscape stretching until the mountains surrounding Seoul create inky blots on the horizon. The roof he stands on is bare of anything but rubble and concrete and dusty plastic sheets, but the broken staircase doesn’t allow anyone but him to access it, making it a great vantage point.
Perks of being a son of Zeus.
Controlling the wind was one of the first things he learnt as a half-blood, and seven years later it feels like breathing, to play with the breeze and mold the gusts around him. And so it was with very little effort did he park himself at the highest point in the Pits as soon as the conch went off, signaling the start of the game.
Capture the flag. Played every first Friday with no delay, rain or shine or earthquake, it's the closest trainee demigods get to the real world. A scrimmage, if you will, if scrimmages involved running around skeleton high-rises with medieval weapons and the threat of ancient Greek monsters attacking you at every corner. And that's not even counting your demigod opponents.
Chan loves it.
He loves the thrill, the challenge: the grip and swing of his sword real, the clunky training drills turned fluid and instinctive in the heat of the moment. He can't lie and say that winning and getting chore privileges doesn't create an incentive.
So when he zeroes in on a faint green glow coming from one of the buildings across the Pits, on another rooftop and blended as best as it could against the periwinkle color of dusk setting in, he grins triumphantly. Gotcha.
Toeing the edge of the building, he buoys the air around him as he floats his way down to where a couple of Athena kids are waiting by the bottom of the crumbled stairs, weapons drawn and ready.
Yeji tracks him as he approaches on light feet, eyes sharp and arrow fletchings even sharper. She raises a pointed eyebrow at him.
"They got it on the rooftop of Block C, nearest to the river."
Yeji smirks a feline smile. "So predictable, as expected from those Ares numb skulls."
"Ryujin's not gonna like that you said that."
"And Changbin won't like that we'll steal their flag right from under their noses, will he, Bang Chan?"
"All the more reason to kick their asses."
Yeji turns to her half-brother. “Hongjoong, is the flag secure?”
The boy, sharp-eyed and willowy as his sister, looks up from the looking glass in his hand, the surface shimmering purple. “Oh it’s secured, alright. Yeosang’s really been getting better at his cloaking magic, so thank the gods we got the Hecate kids on our team this time.”
They split. The two Athena kids take the stairs down to guard their flag and homebase, while Chan insists on taking a more… convenient route.
Blood singing in his veins, Chan leaps off the back side of the building.
The wind rushes addictingly through his hair for a moment before he gathers the air around him to float to a stop behind a neighboring building. Half-drunk on adrenaline already, he tucks himself into the shadows under the cover of the sliver of a moon suspended high above him as he goes over Yeji’s plan in his head.
His earlier vantage point allowed him a near-bird’s eye view of where everyone was situated - their opponents’ defenders at the bottom of the Block C, their attackers scattered near the territory line. It would be too easy to slip past their defenses on high ground (or should he say, high air), if he keeps himself well hidden. With the multitude of abandoned buildings providing ample cover in its stark shadows, it sounds like a walk in the park (or should he say, fly- okay he’ll stop).
But the shadows that would hide Chan could readily be housing any of the other team’s members as well, archers or swordsmen at the ready. And so Chan needs to be on his toes, keeping track of where he is in the ever changing maze that is the Pits and making sure he’s not being followed.
He carves a flighty path from building to building, sword in hand and keeping to the shadows. Halfway into enemy territory, he lands with a muffled grunt as he makes a risky sprint across two half-finished skyrises, the gap between them particularly wide and the moon shining like a beacon in the middle. Gods, he might have just looked like E.T. flying on his bicycle across the sky just now. Embarrassing. He can hear the sound of the fighting coming from his right, the distant ringing of swords and spears, metal on metal, and the occasional roar of an order being called out to push forward, flank, retreat.
But it seems like the fight’s been concentrated there, which goes exactly according to plan. There isn’t much that can go wrong now, if Chan stays careful; the shadows are dark enough to hide in, but the back of his neck prickles with anxiety, the survival instincts encoded in his very DNA rearing their heads and gnashing their teeth.
Something is watching him.
He barely misses the arrow that flies at him from below, zinging past and nearly nicking him in the ear. Damn Apollo kids.
A normal archer would barely have the strength behind their arrow to reach him this high up. But when you pit the children of gods against each other, well - the laws of physics can bend just a little. Three more arrows fly straight at him, and he quickly condenses the air around them, slowing them down like flies in honey in time for him to fly out of range and out of sight.
Heart thumping, Chan quickens his pace and lands on the roof of Block C. From here, he can see the Han river severing a path through the city, lit up with boats and bridges. Looking around the roof, the phosphorescence of the flag is even brighter up close, bathing the lone demigod standing guard at its base in neon green.
His landing catches the demigod’s attention, who flicks their sword into a defensive stance.
Chan grins when he sees who it is.
“Only you, Juyeon?” Chan prods, mirroring the son of Nike and gripping his sword in front of him. “Been a while since we sparred one-on-one, hey?”
Juyeon’s mouth ticks up in a quick smirk. “Not my fault HYBE’s very own star boy is getting incredibly busy.”
The unexpected workaround compliment forces a laugh out of Chan, and he ignores the prickling heat at the back of his neck as he points his sword at the other demigod. "Now who are you calling star boy, Juyeon-ah? You got the judges practically tripping over themselves to fall at your feet, last eval we had together."
"One day, you will learn how to take a compliment, hyung," Juyeon says, rolling his eyes with a resigned smile before widening his stance. Chan can only shake his head in defeat.
Their bronze swords throw shards of emerald moonlight across the rooftop as they each regard the other with bated breath.
Blades leveled at each other, they charge.
Much like when he jumped off the building earlier, something in Chan simultaneously clicks into place and sparks to life when their swords connect.
Juyeon lunges and parries with all the grace and speed of a wildcat, and Chan meets him with strength and bottled lightning energy as he counters, slowly pushing the leaner boy further and further back towards the edge of the roof.
The clash of their blades coming together rings in between the thunderous rush of blood in Chan's ears, years upon years of training propelling every swing. Muscle memory turns the sword in his hand into just another extension of himself, balanced perfectly and controlled in his grip.
He flinches back as Juyeon nearly catches the side of his face with a viciously quick swipe, but the momentum of his attack brings him closer to the edge. Chan seizes the opportunity to send a gust of wind that shoves the other boy backwards.
Juyeon's eyes widen, sneakers catching on gravel before he stumbles and falls into empty space.
Chan listens to him scream expletives for a couple seconds before peeking over the roof. Meters before Juyeon becomes a demigod splat on the concrete, Chan catches the boy on a breeze, softening his landing and depositing him safely on the ground.
Juyeon looks up at the eighty feet between them and sends him the middle finger.
"Sorry!" Chan yells, mouth twitching into a helpless grin.
"No you're fucking not!"
Once he makes sure the Nike boy is unharmed, if not a little windswept, Chan scrambles away from the edge, picking up his sword and turning to the flag.
It’s anchored tall and proud, flapping in the summer wind and coloring the dusty floor in a pulsating electric green. This is too easy, he thinks, stepping carefully towards it. Where are their other defenses? The Ares kids are cocky and brash beyond belief, sure, but the Apollo kids would never leave their flag guarded with one man. He tenses, because there’s no way there isn’t a Hephaestus kid’s trap here somewhere. Nothing happens, though, when he grabs the pole.
Huh.
Well, Chan isn’t about to look a gift pegasus in the mouth, so he turns to head back to his homebase with the other team’s flag so they can finally claim their victory.
Except his attempt at pulling on the pole reels him back, and he only hears a zip and a click before the air around him catches fire.
“What the f…!” His swearing is drowned out by the violent crackle of fire surrounding him in a perfect circle, the flames growing to meet in a point right above his head.
Damn Hephaestus kids. A fucking fire dome, really?
He pulls on the flag once more, which only makes it worse, as another click sounds and the dome of searing heat starts shrinking, closing in around him and singeing his sleeves. He grits his teeth in frustration, the sweat breaking out on his skin immediately evaporating. With the flames eating hungrily at the oxygen in his lungs, he can barely fly himself out, and what little wind he can summon will probably only feed the fire further instead of putting it out.
He curses the fact that Jisung is on the other team - what he would do to have that son of Poseidon by his side right now.
Okay, this fire is starting to get really hot, and Chan is seriously contemplating making a run for it through the dome. It'll be fine! If he burns himself - only for a searing second, just enough time to escape - he can just head straight to the infirmary right after; there's nothing that a little bit of nectar and ambrosia can't fix, right? Anything to get out and breathe some proper air.
He takes one last deep breath, and just as he tenses his muscles to fling himself out, there’s a clamor of metal and the shouting of voices.
“Don’t even think about it, hyung! It’s over!”
Speak of the devil.
“Sit tight, hyung!” Changbin’s voice is full of glee, and Chan can only sigh in exasperation as Jisung laughs his lungs out. “Ryujin should be here with your flag soon, making this our third win in a row.”
“You little shits!” Chan yells out, trying not to let his big grin leak into his voice. It’s all in good fun, and the elation in Changbin’s voice makes him happy, but he is still covered in fire. “Get me outta here!”
A horn blows in the distance, followed by delighted screams and whoops from one of the floors below them: the other team won. Chan hears Jisung let out a series of obnoxious whoops as he gives Changbin a high five.
Another clang sounds out over the roof, followed by a startled, “HOLY SHIT! MY TRAP WORKED?”
“HELL YEAH, IT WORKED, BEOMGYU!” Jisung yells for the entire Korean peninsula to hear. “YOUR MAGNIFICENT CONTRAPTION STOPPED CHAN-HYUNG FROM GETTING OUR FLAG!”
A moment of silence, until - “OH MY GODS, CHAN-HYUNG? I AM SO SORRY,” Beomgyu freaks, and Chan can see his shadow quickly kneel by the trap’s side, desperately pushing and turning different dials and buttons that instantly blow the fire out.
Chan takes a deep breath of fresh Seoul air, seeing Changbin’s smug grin and Jisung’s sparkling eyes first. “C’mere, you!” He leaps at them with a yell, gathering the two boys under his arms and giving them a good unwieldy shake that sends their weapons clattering. “The utter disrespect! The betrayal!”
A throat clears, and Chan turns to see Beomgyu positively quaking on his feet, which is -- perplexing. The fire didn’t even pose any lasting harm (a few days in the infirmary, at worst, but nothing deadly) so it’s not like Chan was about to go ham on the Hephaestus kid for creating a trap that was actually pretty genius. He says so to the unruly-haired boy, who brightens up at the compliment, only to shift his gaze to Chan’s head with wide eyes. “Oh- hyung, you have a little-”
“I’ll handle it!” Jisung, being the little shit he is, gathers a droplet of water from the humid summer air around them and unceremoniously splashes it onto Chan, putting out the tiny flame that was stubbornly clinging onto his curls.
Chan splutters, drenched. “Oh, you’re gonna get it this time, Han Jisung!”
Jisung yelps and makes a run for it, and Chan ends up chasing after him out of the Pits with Changbin right on their tail, yelling, “Get him, hyung! Get him! He woke me up the same way this morning, the menace!”
Jisung is small, but fast, and Chan has to slow down before he rams himself into the spinning doors that lead into the main HYBE tower. He steps into the building with Changbin pushing in behind him, reveling in the cool air conditioned lobby.
On the outside, Half-Blood Entertainment - otherwise incorrectly abbreviated as HYBE - is 19 stories of glass and steel that flash in the sun and moon just as much as any high-rise in Seoul. That’s what the Mist will have you believe, anyways.
As one of the oldest and most established demigod training facilities on this side of the globe, HYBE was engineered with designs straight from Daedalus’ blueprints of the Labyrinth, allowing it to hold entire arenas within a seemingly normal-sized office building. It boasted a training field, a dining pavilion, fully equipped gyms and armories stocked with weapons for any kind of half-blood. And if sword-fighting or archery or climbing up a lava-wall wasn’t to your taste - well, you could always cater to South Korea’s more trending career path, by becoming an idol. (That’s where the Entertainment part comes in.)
Because while their American counterparts trained their warriors under a summer-camp program, hiding from the world as much as they possibly can, the Koreans thought it was only fitting for them to blend in plain sight using the ever-shifting music industry as their guise.
Demigods - artists - at HYBE are encouraged to hone their vocal chords just as much as their aim in archery, to ingrain dance moves as well as sword fighting drills into their muscles until it becomes second nature. It’s a bloody industry, sure, but being a demigod already sets monsters out of myths and legends on your tail; what’s a little more?
First and foremost, HYBE was built as a haven. For children of the gods left estranged on the eastern side of the globe, away from the monsters that seek to destroy every trace of the Olympians left on earth by taking their anger out on their children. Sucks, huh? But HYBE is 19 floors and acres and acres of training grounds and mirror-lined practice rooms, all secured with a magical border that only let's those with godly blood in, keeping monsters and wandering mortals out. It’s the safest place a demigod can be.
And Chan has called it home, for seven years.
He knows the endless hallways like the back of his hand, the way he knows to press the up button on the elevator three times before it works, the sort of familiarity that moves you from one place to another without you realizing. One moment he is chasing Jisung through the lobby, and the next he's 18 floors up and standing outside the dining hall, catching Jisung in a bear hug and ruffling his hair affectionately.
"Let me go, let me go!" yelps Jisung, violently wriggling in Chan's hold but smiling so wide it shapes his mouth into a heart.
It just makes Chan cuddle him closer to his body, shaking the boy side to side. "Say you're sorry!"
"Let me make it up to you," the younger wheezes, kicking his feet. "Let's go eat, dinner's on me!"
It only gets him a raised eyebrow from Changbin. "We literally get free food from the dining hall, what are you going on about," he deadpans.
"As in, to make up for our landslide victory and Chan-hyung's, ahem," Jisung gives him a cheeky look as he worms his way out of his grip, "-loss, you win my supreme five-star Michelin portion of green beans!"
Jisung makes jazz hands and looks at them like he just offered them an all expenses-paid trip to Disney land. Changbin can only roll his eyes, saying, "You hate green beans. You always make me or Chan-hyung eat them when you could just as easily not ask for them in the first place."
"Fine, fine!" Jisung exclaims, loud enough for Olympus to hear, eyes wide and lips pouty. "Once we debut, once we get outta here, I'll get you all the samgyeopsal you can eat."
A beat. Chan gives Jisung an expectant look, and if Changbin's eyebrow raises any further, Chan is afraid he's going to get a muscle spasm. Jisung only flashes a lopsided grin.
"With Changbin-hyung's wallet."
Before Changbin can go ham on Jisung and start off another chase through the halls, his stomach erupts obnoxiously as if it sensed that its owner was going to take them further away from the dining hall instead of closer to it.
They all stare at each other with wide eyes before Chan bursts into raucous laughter, which quickly dissolves into all three of them looking like fools and giggling in the entryway.
"I'm hungry, can we please get some dinner!" Changbin pleads.
Snickering still, Chan ushers them into the wide room that acts as their dining hall. It takes up almost the entire floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Seoul. The sun setting behind the cityscape bleeds reds and oranges into the soft petal blue of a day tucking in for the night, spinning cotton candy clouds and dipping them in gold. Any higher and Chan could almost imagine what the Olympian gods see at the seat of their thrones, witnessing the sun slip under the curve of the horizon, the city lights blinking on like fireflies. How miniscule everything may seem, with miles and centuries between them.
He goes to follow the younger boys into the honey-dipped dining hall, telling himself he wants to stay for the food and not for the sky he bitterly hopes his father is watching too - after a millennia of sunrises and sunsets, it would surely get boring - before he remembers.
PD-nim had wanted a track on his desk by tomorrow morning.
"Hey, uh," Chan steps back into the entryway, a hand on his neck, "you guys go ahead. I have some things I need to finish up tonight."
He flits his eyes away from the downcast look on Jisung's face. Only it proves to be a mistake when he catches the brunt of Changbin's scowl. Throat dry with guilt, he turns away before either of them have the chance to drag him back into the dining hall.
⚔︎
Chan situates himself in a small practice room that he's unofficially claimed as his temporary studio workspace, trying to get comfy in a creaky foldable chair.
He thinks back to what Jisung said earlier, amongst his other nonsensical ramblings.
Once we debut, once we get outta here.
The words tumble and echo through the rabbithole in his head, a stone eroded smooth, disturbing the animal that lays within. The animal that hungers for spotlights and thunderous acclamation, that preens at the whistle of a blade arcing perfectly through the air.
An animal he discovered at nine years old, watching Australian singers dance on his foster mother's kitchen TV, stars in their eyes and voices like ocean tides. An animal he fed at eleven, singing Jason Mraz to his stuffed bear with a flashlight he snuck from downstairs acting like a stage light. An animal he cowered behind at thirteen, as the woman who's roof he'd been growing up under attacked him, eyes blood red and scaly claws outstretched. The animal he clung to on the boat to his home country, stowed away like cargo and following the sharp smell of ozone that led him to HYBE's doorstep, bruised and whittled hollow.
The words - debut debut debut debut - are a whistle to his animal, stoking a fire that's slowly been crackling energy through his veins. Chasing gasoline-lit adrenaline to fill up the perennial cavern in his chest at every showcase and every tournament he can sign up to.
He thinks of Seo Changbin taking a jerry can to his fire with every rap they perform. Of Han Jisung energizing his animal with every silly quip and beautifully written line. Of sparring into the morning until matching callouses form on their palms and their sword pommels are slick with sweat.
And so, slightly singed at the edges and aching at the marrow of his bones, Chan opens his laptop and gets to work.
⚔︎
"It's missing something."
Chan blinks down at the floor, only letting himself clasp his hands tighter in front of him to curb the shaking; he's not sure if it's the nerves of turning one of his tracks in, or the fact that he hasn't eaten or slept in an unhealthy amount of time. He doesn’t think he can take any sort of criticism right now, threads frayed and barely holding himself together at the seams.
"But..."
He lifts his head at the infliction in Park Jinyoung's voice, heart about to beat out of his chest. The senior demigod gives him a smile, eyes glancing knowingly at where Chan's hands are clenched.
"It's good, quite good, actually. We can do a lot with this, Chan-ah. It's good work." Jinyoung muses, clicking around on his desktop and eyes scanning the layers of soundwaves on his screen.
Chan holds himself back from deflating in relief like a balloon released of its tension - lying limp on the floor doesn’t seem like a look befitting a son of the king of the gods. He gives a polite bow instead. "Thank you, PD-nim. I'll work harder, PD-nim."
Jinyoung glances sidelong at him, eyebrow raised. "Was capture the flag not last night? I heard you were quite literally on fire?"
Chan opens his mouth to say something stupid like Yes, but I'm fine, or Haha yeah, it was awesome! but he can't even find the energy to lie through his teeth, so then he's left standing there just gaping like a fish out of water.
He blinks, feeling the burning strain in his eyes, grips his sweaty hands tighter. "Yes, sir." A beat of silence where Jinyoung just stares him down. "I- I lost my team the flag. We lost, again."
Damn, way to be optimistic.
Jinyoung regards him with his head cocked, simultaneously indifferent and calculating. "Well, when there's a winner, there's bound to be a loser. Most times though, there is no winner, no loser." The older man spins in his chair to face him, hands steepled under his chin. "There's just growth, or no growth. Do you think you've grown over the past 7 years, Bang Chan?"
Chan has zero clue where this conversation is hurtling towards, and when it swerved into something that's fizzing carbonation through his blood, hyper aware of the space he's taking up in the room. 7 years, since he stumbled his way through HYBE's walls, monsters biting at his ankles and breathing down his neck. 7 years since he found out about a father that abandoned him, that didn't care for him.
But since then - 7 years of learning, and training, and finding solace in music. Sometimes, a sword feels like another one of his limbs, a perfect extension of his body; sometimes, the jumble of chords and beats and snares in his head land seamlessly into bars and stanzas, satisfying beats pouring out of his fingers.
But other times-
Other times, not a single arrow he fires in the archery range will make its mark. Other times, the cacophony in his head refuses to translate into discernable ideas, jumbled and tangled and redundant enough to sound like white noise and self-deprecation. Other times, he runs in place, stuck watching his friends debut and go out into the real world and come back, victoriously bruised and wind-battered and eyes reflecting the glint of their weapons.
Sure, he's grown. But it's never been enough, has it?
(No. Not with the way the sun had risen before he was even remotely satisfied with the track he presented not ten minutes ago. Not with the way he's lost three capture the flags in a row, now.)
Enough. It's not enough for him, and evidently not enough for HYBE to deem him a proper demigod warrior, a real artist.
But to verbalize all that into tangible words risks spilling himself bloody onto Jinyoung's nice carpeted studio floor, and the beforetaste of the words are already sour on his tongue. So he settles for a tight-lipped smile, and says, "I think I have a lot further to go, PD-nim."
Jinyoung nods like he expected that answer, which - surely Chan is not that predictable? Is JYP - aloof and eccentric, son of Dionysus, executive producer of HYBE - seriously pulling the disappointed but not surprised card on him?
"You, and countless others in this building, Bang Chan. I think it will do some of them good, to work with you. And," another look, leveled at him like Jinyoung can see straight into the chaos of wires and gears and hydraulic fluid Chan so desperately tries to sweep back into himself, "it will do you some good to guide them, work with them. I've seen you these past 7 years, Chan-ah, and it's about time for you to step up, don't you think?"
The pop rocks in his veins pick up in intensity, kicking his brain into overdrive. "PD-nim, what are you implying?"
"Sihyuk and I have discussed this with the rest of the board members. A new group, a team to debut as warriors, artists."
Chan doesn't know whether to reel backwards or lean forwards, to run or to grab at what Jinyoung is saying by the lapels. It leaves him frozen, the words hurtling down his throat and raining down on his animal like hail, stirring it awake from its fitful slumber.
"With your experience, I want you to be at the forefront of this project group. And I want you to select your own members, create your own team. And prove to me you have what it takes to debut."
Chan's mind jumps to Jisung and Changbin faster than a lightning strike. He swallows, terrified Jinyoung is going to reach down his throat and take those words back.
Jinyoung plows on before Chan can spin too far into himself. "It took the board a lot of convincing, but it's a risk I'm willing to take. I'm putting a lot of my trust in you for this, Chan-ah." He puts a hand out in front of him. "Will you accept the challenge?"
Half-convinced he's dreaming, Chan shakes Jinyoung's hand, cementing the facts and feeling his animal roar to the beat of his heart.
⚔︎
Jinyoung goes on to explain the gritty little details and the preparation required for their debut (their debut!), and Chan has to continuously tether himself back on earth lest he floats away with his thoughts.
He leaves the office floors in a daze, cutting through the back of the building on autopilot. His feet carry him towards the residential area while his brain lags behind in the studio, tripping over itself. Fumbling for his HYBE-assigned ID, Chan swipes his way into the Main Olympian apartments and takes an elevator to the top floor.
His time in Australia was spent surrounded by mess and noise. The foster home was always loud with kids running around and wreaking havoc, and he never got a moment of quiet as all the boys shared one big room, rows and rows of bunk beds lined up like dominoes.
And so when he first stepped foot onto the Zeus floor - a glimmering penthouse suite he was told was all for himself - the change was jarring, to say the least.
The view from his windows was glamorous, but the air felt cold and every surface was spotless, almost clinical. The sheets on his bed were stark white and iron crisp with not a single wrinkle in sight. There were no children running about, yelling and getting yelled at, no dirt smudged on the floor and crayon doodles on the walls. It felt more like a luxury hotel than someplace he was expected to call home for the rest of his life, and Chan made it a goal to change that.
He started with the damned sheets, changing them out to a warm navy blue. The studio-sized kitchen is stocked with ramen and emergency stashes of ambrosia and nectar - the food and drink of the Olympians. (Demigods are allowed to ingest a little bit to cure any injury, but a little goes a long way; too much can make a demigod feverish, and any amount can kill a regular mortal from the inside out. Talk about exclusivity.)
The rock-hard living room set that came with the suite was switched out for a cozy rug and a couple preloved couches that he smuggled in with the help of some Hermes kids. Fairy lights were hung up throughout the space at Jisung's insistence, and Chan can hear him saying, That chandelier is fucking obnoxious. At least these remind me of the fireflies back in Malaysia. It was the first time the spitfire of a boy had willingly opened up about his past to Chan, so he could have never turned him down. The once-pristine white walls are interspersed with ink-black doodles scattered at random: Changbin's own (quite permanent) mark on the place.
Chan traces one of the drawings next to the glass sliding door that leads to the balcony overlooking Seoul. It's a dumb little cartoon, but admittedly his favorite: a wolf, a pig-bunny creature, and a quokka (which Jisung quickly grew obsessed with as soon as Chan explained what it was to him) with their arms around each other. Underneath sit their signatures, a promise to a dream that Chan had started thinking wasn't his at all.
The sight sends Chan hurtling back into his memory. They had just finished their first performance together - a small, mortal underground competition they snuck out to. It was insanely dangerous of them, demigod trainees, nowhere near debut, stepping foot outside of HYBE's magical boundaries. But Changbin was nothing if not stubborn, and Jisung annoyingly passionate. And Chan - who was usually methodical and calculating in his risks - couldn't ignore the thunder in his veins as he rapped on that tiny platform stage, the lighter fluid rush he got feeling the wind howl through the back alleys they snuck through.
A rogue harpy chased them on the way back, and it was terrifying and exhilarating, Jisung's unbelievable yelp, Chan tugging at Changbin's arm, weapons out, an incredulous laugh bubbling in Chan's throat as they ran and ran.
They collapsed in a heap in a corner of the Zeus suite, skin cooled from the wind but still sticky with sweat and blood still full of adrenaline. Chan made them drink a water bottle each as they sat catching their breaths; Jisung shook with so much leftover excitement that Chan had to open the cap for him. Changbin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before bringing out a black permanent marker from one of the countless pockets lining his cargo pants and got to work on the wall they were leaning against.
"Hey! Han Quokka is so much cuter than that!"
"Stop projecting onto Han Quokka, Jisung." Changbin mutters as he carves strong black lines into the white plaster.
"I'm the cutest here, so of course Wolf Chan's gotta be the most adorable."
Changbin and Jisung stared at him blankly, leaving Chan sheepishly grinning.
The drawing finished, Changbin wrote the date and signed it for nobody to see but them. He handed the marker to Jisung, who added hearts and little sunglasses to Han Quokka and scribbled his name next to Changbin's.
"Cute and cool."
Chan ruffled Jisung's hair and plucked the marker from his hand. "You were the cutest and coolest tonight, Jisung-ah."
The boy grinned, all cheeks and teeth, and they dissolved into a comforting silence. Chan was in the middle of perfecting his own signature when Changbin dropped the bomb on them.
"I'm not the only one right? I can't be the only one constantly thinking of debuting."
Jisung sat up from the pillow he stole from Chan's couch. He hugged it to his chest, looking smaller than he was already so. Eyes cast down, he mumbled into the pillow, "It's all I can think about. It's like breathing at this point."
They both turned their eyes to Chan. He'd been so distracted by the sudden change in topic that he left an ink blot at the end of his unfinished signature. Capping the pen, he swallowed hard.
Debut.
That was the goal, wasn't it?
It has been the goal, for so long now. One dream shared amongst so many of them. But when BamBam debuted, and Jungkook debuted, and Mingyu and Seokmin and countless others debuted and Chan didn't, the word had started tasting bitter in Chan's mouth.
And then he found Jisung - battered and young as a fletchling and brimming with potential. They stumbled across Changbin in the dead of night, rapping his own lyrics on the rooftop above Chan's suite with a ferocity that tugged at the beast in Chan's middle.
Debut, the three of them? It was a thought Chan had lived with, went to sleep with and woke up with. If it was with his two boys, Chan would've given his life for the opportunity.
Back then, Chan encouraged them, saying their time will come while fighting the taste in his mouth. He finished his signature off, smiling at them and hoping his hopelessness didn't show through.
Now, taking his shoes off in a daze, Chan turns the entire conversation with Park Jinyoung over and over in his head, still trying to believe it's all real.
He spends a good minute blinking at nothing on his couch before taking out his phone (contraband also from the Hermes kids, equipped with demigod-VPN programmed by Athena's children) and tapping to his messages with Changbin and Jisung.
3RACHA 🔥
Just got outta a meeting with JYP.
My room, asap.
You're gonna wanna hear this.
⚔︎
"A project group?"
Changbin's arms are crossed over his chest. Jisung sits on the couch just as Chan was before, staring at nothing and repeatedly mumbling the word debut into a couch pillow.
Chan stands in front of them, Jinyoung's words chewed, swallowed, digested. He nods at the son of Ares, whose eyes are narrowed as he leans on the armrest next to Jisung. "He wants me to lead, be the leader," gods, his mouth is dry. "I get to pick my own members."
Jisung's head snaps up. "You're gonna pick us, right?" he blurts, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth with wide eyes.
"If you don't pick us, I'm feeding you to the cleaning harpies."
Changbin holds Chan's gaze with a crackling strength that surprises him, an underlying seriousness to the joke.
Chan stares back, just as steadfast, before allowing a grin to overtake his features.
"I would rather escort myself to the depths of Tartarus than not be able to work with you guys for the rest of life."
The answering grins he gets makes every sleepless night and his every aching bone so far near worth it.