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Minho's been doing his best to ignore it. This tilted dynamic.
He's not like the wolves of their team but even he, with his dulled human senses and inability to sniff out emotions, can tell something is off with two of his members. Despite trying his level best not to think about it, the image of Jeongin barely visible through a mound of downy white duvet while Chan stood in the doorway, trying to look as if he wasn't barring Minho from entry, still sticks in Minho’s mind like lichen against craggly rock. As if any of them had any sense of privacy. As if Chan knew what boundaries meant beyond base propriety.
“Are you sure you know what you're doing?” He asked and watched over Chan's shoulder as Jeongin's eyes flashed, dark and possessive and looking nothing like Minho's sweet baby maknae who used to cling to him before performances through the first year all the while studiously pretending he wasn't doing so.
Out of all of them, Chan was most discomfited by Jeongin's initial presentation while Minho remained undisturbed by it; there was nothing to be done about their youngest suddenly sprouting tertiary characteristics almost phased out by evolution. Stressing about it was doubly useless. Chan could pace up and down his dorm like a chained dog all he wanted, outwardly restless and irritable, but short of flagrantly disobeying management and giving into instinct, there was nothing to be done. He watched Chan keep his distance, straining at the invisible leash around his neck, watched him stare at Jeongin and badly pretend like he wasn’t doing so. Watched him twist himself into knots to keep toeing the line underscored in company red.
Even Minho, with his stupid human nose, could smell the yearning coming off Chan in waves. Yet he did nothing about it because there was nothing to be done. They were still under their contract, still party to the whims and control of their company. And If JYP said no, Chan would listen. For the group, he would listen.
However, now it's Minho who is uncomfortable and that sense of unease only grows when he sees what Chan looks like post-rut, black and blue and purple all over, hazy and bright-eyed. A pleased satiation Minho's only thought about in his weakest, oldest moments.
He doesn't like it. This unbalanced dynamic. The intensity that rebounds between them, compounding with every hit. Minho likes it even less when he comes up short on how to fix it.
He's at the gym, seven kilometers into a run that still hasn't managed to silence his thoughts when Changbin enters. Minho sees him in the mirrors, backlit by the hallway light that floods into the dim room and then glances up at the clock through sweat drenched bangs.
“It's late,” Changbin says, unconsciously mirroring Minho's thoughts.
Minho pulls an airpod out and drops it carelessly on the stand. “I should be telling you that.” The pounding of his feet is louder now—at some point he started sacrificing form for energy. He's going to regret this in the morning.
“You're going to regret this tomorrow,” Changbin chides and Minho scowls. Slaps the STOP button and slows to a standstill.
“Stop reading my mind.”
Changbin braces an elbow on the arm of the treadmill and looks up at him. “Stop being so easy to read then.” He waits a beat and then adds, neutral and steady. “We have to leave in a few hours.”
A flight back home, back to eagle-eyed staff and disapproving managers who are already pissed about having two wolves in one team and even more so about the disobeyment of rules that they don’t know have been broken but suspect probably are. Minho's mind races through the pitfalls: the airport, the flight, landing back home in a crowd that will certainly have at least one person who will immediately be able to tell that Chan smells like alpha. And that's if they somehow manage to do all of this without anyone catching a glimpse of the brutal watercolour that is Chan's back and neck.
“They have a purifier,” Minho says through a thick throat. “I'll get them scent neutralizers.”
Changbin bops his head. “Already done.”
His expression doesn't twitch, doesn't give anything away but Minho still sees through him. Wolf instincts be damned, Minho knows his family well enough without them. “What?”
“They're…” Changbin swallows and then apparently gives up entirely on tact. “What the fuck, hyung?”
Minho leans against the opposite side of the treadmill and crosses his arms over his chest. “I know.”
“No, like,” Changbin looks around at the empty hotel gym and then lowers his voice to a hiss anyway. “He looks like he's been mauled.”
“I know. What do you want me to do about it? Throw myself between them next time and have Iyennie rip my throat out with his teeth?”
Changbin pales and then visibly gets himself under control. They're not the touchiest people—not when there's no performance to be made from it—but Minho still pats Changbin's hair, coaxing an unruly curl back down.
“It's getting worse.”
Minho nods. “Yeah.”
One of Changbin's dimples deepen in concern as he purses his lips. “I don't know what to do about it. Hyung’s not going to listen to us—not about this.”
Stubborn and unyielding and selfless except when he’s selfish; and even now Minho can’t begrudge him, not really. He’s seen Chan bear the last five years alone, they all have. Only a very small part of him wants to pull Chan away from whatever drug Jeongin’s scent is pumping into his bloodstream and that part is easily overshadowed by the sheer relief he feels when he leaves the company and finds Chan’s studio dark and empty.
“I know.”
They stare at each other for a minute longer, doubly helpless, and then Changbin sighs, pats Minho's arm. “Come on, hyung. Let's go get ready. I bet you haven't packed yet.”
Minho narrows his eyes at him. “Don't patronise me, Seo Changbin. I know where you sleep.”
“Mmm. That’s terrifying, hyung.”
To their credit, Chan and Jeongin aren't overt about it—this newfound obsession with each other.
To anyone else, it would just look like another case of Stray Kids textbook affection—the normality only undercut by the fact that it's the least likely pair. The only more surprising thing, Minho thinks, would be if Seungmin suddenly started scenting Chan in public, as if it was completely normal for him to be running his nose behind Chan's ear before dance practice was about to start, ignoring the wide-eyed looks the others exchange like tossing a hot coal back and forth. They've skirted management catching on so far, thanks to a cocktail of luck and Changbin making a trip to Costco with his father's membership card to bulk buy scent neutralisers. But with every passing week, Minho feels the budding ulcer in his stomach grow.
It's like Jeongin's rut has taken a wrecking ball to Chan's defenses; guilt and responsibility and iron will crumbling in the face of their maknae's need. Where before Chan would squirrel away in his studio rather than run into Jeongin at his apartment, now they're more together than they've ever been. Minho rarely sees Jeongin at the dorms anymore; all of them have taken to calling Chan if they need Jeongin because Jeongin always has his ringer off and Chan always has his on. In the privacy of his mind, Minho wonders what they smell like now, wonders, not for the first time, what they smell like in general. He’s never summoned the bravery to ask—wolf traits always felt so off limits with Chan, like it was a visible, jagged scar he didn’t want to be asked about.
The biggest shock comes a month later, when they start practice in earnest for another comeback—thankfully only a repackage this time with an equally short promotion period. Minho knocks on Jeongin's door to wake him up for dance practice only to find Chan half buried under Jeongin’s body, both of them shirtless, blankets shucked down to their waists, utterly dead to the world. Minho can't help himself, he stares.
Chan’s hair is curly and unruly, face pressed into Jeongin’s shoulder, expression smooth and lax. Minho can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Chan this relaxed, even asleep—even his under-eye circles seem to have faded. One arm is curled around Jeongin’s back, fingertips brushing the end of his hair.
Minho is loath to wake him—both of them—but it wouldn’t be a good look to be late on the first day of practice with their choreographer.
“Hyung,” he says, quietly, keeping a distance. Usually a few words are enough to wake Chan but today he doesn’t even stir. Minho raises his voice. “Chan hyung.”
When no sign of awareness comes, Minho steps forward and gently taps the naked expanse of Jeongin’s back only to rear back immediately as Jeongin whips awake with his teeth bared, snarling at him. Minho takes two rapid steps back, heart thudding hard in his chest, his hand pulled to his side. Underneath, Chan is stirring.
“Jeongin-ah, it’s me.”
Jeongin stares at him blankly for a handful of seconds, before the sleep drains from his eyes and he blinks, mouth immediately curving downward.
“Hyung,” he murmurs, shrinking back as Chan’s face creases in confusion, taking in the scene before him. Minho sees Jeongin’s hand under the sheets, retreating from around Chan’s waist. “Ah, hyung, I’m so sorry.”
Minho swallows thickly. “We’ve got practice,” he says, and his voice comes out strangled. “Thirty minutes.” He takes another two steps backwards and then turns and leaves the room, heart still racing even as the door slams shut behind him.
He doesn’t mention it to anyone else. Watches Chan out of the corner of his eye and by default ends up watching Jeongin as well because they don’t leave each other’s personal space except for when they’re learning the choreo. Subtle touches, nothing to alert their managers nor the choreographer: a palm sliding up Chan’s spine, fingers tugging teasingly at Jeongin’s newly dyed hair, slumping against each other during a break. They’re not any worse but they’re not any better either. Minho’s unsure if that makes him feel better or worse.
Jeongin sidles up to him after practice, wringing his hands. expression sheepish. “I’m sorry, hyung. You took me by surprise.”
“It’s fine,” Minho says before he adds, with a small jab he can’t quite hold back. “You never had a problem with me in your room before.”
Jeongin shrugs. They’re alone in the hallway, the others still in the practice room, joking and arguing loudly about what to get for dinner. Minho gets the sense that Jeongin isn’t quite all here with him, that some part of those near-invisible canine traits are trained on the room five feet away from them, listening for the shuffle of Chan’s shoes.
“My instincts go a little crazy when hyung’s around,” is all he says finally, tearing his eyes away from the door. “I’m working on it.”
What does Minho even say to that? He only nods and then, forcing himself back to normalcy, smacks the back of Jeongin’s neck. “That’s for scaring me,” he says, only half-scolding, before he turns back to the room. Jeongin follows him with a pout.
“I get it.”
It takes a moment for the words to filter through Minho's consciousness, but when they do he drops out of his plank and twists to look at Jisung. He's upside down on Minho's bed, newly brown hair skimming the floor as he holds his phone up over his head. The tinny sounds of a British man narrating the death of a soft shelled crab under the belly of a sting ray pour from the speaker.
“Get what?”
Jisung cranes his neck to peer at Minho. “The Jeongin Thing.”
“The Jeongin Thing,” Minho echoes, articulating the words in the same way Jisung had to get the emphasis hovering ominously in the air between them.
Jisung waves his phone. “You know, how like, Chan hyung was really lonely and kind of in love with you but then The Jeongin Thing happened and, I dunno,” he shrugs. “It must be really nice to have someone who understands all of that. In a way we can't.”
Minho stares at him. “How… Did you know Chan was in love with me?”
It was obvious to Minho but Minho also spends a lot of energy quietly observing his members, Chan especially, to make sure he's equipped to help them when they need it. Jisung, on the other hand, is oblivious to things that sit two feet from his nose. Case in point: Minho sitting two feet away from him.
“It's kind of obvious, isn't it?” Jisung pauses his video and widens his eyes at Minho. “Don't tell me you didn't know.”
“Of course I knew,” Minho snaps, caught off guard. He wants to grab Jisung by the shoulders and shake him around until some sense falls into that big head of his. How can you read Chan so easily but still don't know about me?
Jisung takes no offense at it, just smiles a little. “So it makes sense, doesn't it? He only had Younghyun hyung and then he didn't even have him. I can't imagine feeling so alone.” His smile turns downward, a little sadder. “I just wish there was something we could do to help. So it wasn't all on hyung and Iyennie alone.”
Minho sighs, abandoning his half-baked workout for the night and crawling closer to the bed, looking down at Jisung. He's got a spectacular view up Jisung's nose from this angle. Horrifyingly enough, it doesn't do a damn thing to dampen the ever-bubbling fondness under Minho's ribs. “I don't think he'd let you help even if you did know what to do, jagi.” Besides, Minho has his thoughts about what Jeongin would do if the rest of the kids tried inserting themselves between him and Chan.
Jisung's pout melts into a grimace as Minho makes to get up on the bed. “Ugh, hyung you're all sweaty! Go shower!”
“This is my bed you little shit.”
“I. Don't. Care,” Jisung insists, poking Minho's thigh with every word. “Go. Shower.”
Minho smacks his hand away but then goes to retrieve his pajamas. Over his shoulder, asks, “Are you staying here?”
“Obviously. Hurry back, hyung.” Jisung snuggles upright into Minho's bed, face bright red from the blood rushing to his head. He clicks play on the documentary again as Minho opens his bedroom door.
He’s been trying to ignore a lot of things lately; it’s starting to get exhausting.
Company dinner. Their staff is around them, occupying the nearby tables, celebrating the completion of another successful album run. Chan isn’t drinking but Jeongin is, and in the low light of the restaurant, his eyes flash gold as he laughs at something one of their managers said, leaning back in his chair and throwing his arm across the back of Chan’s. Minho watches Chan lean into the touch, smiling down at his plate even as he keeps up with the conversation beside him. He seems lighter. Happier.
Isn’t that what they always wanted in the end?
Minho catches Changbin’s eye at the other end of the table and shrugs. Chan is eating properly and better yet, sleeping. He and Jeongin have seemed to find some sort of balance now that they’re months out from any sort of rut or heat. As long as the company doesn’t know, he’s okay to keep this secret for now. Changbin seems to come to the same conclusion, nods slightly, and then turns back to his own conversation. Minho looks at Jisung, three seats down and arguing with Hyunjin about an anime while bright pink in the face from half a beer. Anyway, Minho would do a lot worse for their pack.