Chapter Text
It started with a bang. Not a dramatic, explosive bang, more of a quiet, bureaucratic one. A bang that came in the form of an email, sent from a real estate agency with far too much power and far too little flexibility.
Ateez, now one of the brightest names in K-pop, had worked their way up from small practice rooms and tired dorm rooms to superstardom with stadium tours, successful albums, and millions of fans worldwide. With their growing popularity came a growing bank account, and together they had decided to upgrade to a new, modern penthouse apartment in the middle of Seoul—with a nice view, a gym, and most importantly.. enough bathrooms so no one had to argue about who used the hot water.
But then something went wrong. Some paperwork wasn’t delivered on time. Something with a building certificate. Maybe an inspector who went on vacation in the middle of the process. Whatever the reason, the move-in was postponed. Not for a day or two. For six weeks.
And it didn’t help that the maximum amount of time they could stay in their current apartment was two days, which was already rented to another celebrity who supposedly “needed the space for his creative space” (according to their manager, who spoke in riddles and only ate organic grapes).
That’s when San, of all people, had found the house.
An old apartment in a quiet neighborhood. Worn out, but full of charm, according to the ad. Eight bedrooms, one bathroom (a fact that everyone had elegantly ignored at first glance), and neighbors who seemed… involved in the neighborhood. It was the only place they could get on such short notice.
And so it was that eight young men, who used to have busy days filled with choreography, photo shoots, and interviews, now had to figure out how to cook dinner for eight people with one pot, who was responsible for the trash on Tuesdays, and how to actually dry clothes without forgetting them in the washing machine for three days.
But more than that. When the pace slows down, and the spotlight is a little further away, there is also room for things that were previously pushed to the side. Little secrets. Forgetful glances. Unsaid things. And laughter. Lots of laughter.
Under the same roof, in the weird house with the creaky stairs and the strange neighbor who waters the flowers at five in the morning, a new, unexpected chapter in Ateez's life begins.
And it starts… with a dishwashing problem.
-
It started innocently. As most disasters do.
They had moved in the day before, mid-afternoon, and spent the rest of the evening carrying suitcases, opening creaky cupboards and arguing over who got which room (Hongjoong chose first, since he was the leader – but everyone knew it was really because he found the only room with an electrical outlet near the bed).
No one had given much thought to the kitchen. It seemed fine. A fridge from another era, a stove that had to be poked with a knife handle to light, and a sink that whirred when you turned the tap a certain way.
But the next morning, after eight hungry boys had made breakfast together – well, more like in parallel and chaotically than together – there was suddenly a mountain of plates, cups, pans and cutlery in the sink. Scrambled eggs had congealed on a plate. Someone had tried to make pancakes and given up halfway through. And someone had insisted on cutting up fruit “for aesthetics,” leaving a sticky film of sticky melon residue all over most of the kitchen counter.
“Okay,” Seonghwa said, putting his hands to his sides. “Who’s doing the dishes?”
Silence.
Wooyoung, who had been slouching on the couch with a smoothie he hadn’t really helped make, shrugged. “I was the test subject.” He said as if it was the most important job. “Oh, and Hongjoong. Your pancakes need to get cooked to be eaten.”
A comment which earned him a small glare from their captain.
“I was in charge of the music,” said Mingi, who was sitting on the floor picking seeds from his sweater. “So technically… support function.”
Yeosang pointed to the refrigerator. “I took out the eggs. I did my part.”
“I fried them!” Jongho exclaimed, offended. “And I even asked if anyone wanted salt. That’s service!”
“You know this isn’t how grown-ups work, right?” Hongjoong rubbed his temples. He was wearing a hoodie backwards and had already drunk two cups of coffee. “We need to make a plan. A system.”
San stood up with sudden determination. “We’re doing a rotation! Like in the military! Monday through Sunday. Name. Responsibility. Efficiency.”
Yunho looked at him over the edge of a mountain of dirty cups. “You weren’t in the military.”
“But I could have been,” San replied, adding dramatically, “If it was a dance-based unit.”
They ended up making a board. From a piece of cardboard they found in the hallway and a marker that smelled suspiciously strong. Names were written. Days were divided. Yunho drew little flowers next to everyone’s names to calm the commotion. Mingi suggested they sing a dishwashing song while they worked, but was dismissed with unison frustration.
But still, when the day was over, and Seonghwa and Yeosang (the day’s chosen dishwashing heroes) stood side by side scrubbing a burnt pot that had welded itself to the stove, they started laughing.
“I understand why people argue about dishes,” Yeosang said, waving a splash of water on his shirt.
“I understand why people buy disposable cutlery,” Seonghwa replied.
And inside the living room, where laughter could be heard above the soft sound of dishwater and arguing about the remote control, the house started to feel a little less alien.
Not perfect. Not glamorous. But maybe – just what they needed.