Chapter Text
“Cheol-hyung, you’re too much sometimes.”
Minghao mutters it under his breath as they leave rehearsal, towel slung around his neck, sweat still dripping down his jaw. Seungcheol hears him. Of course he does.
“I’m not your friend during practice,” Seungcheol replies, not turning back. “You want a buddy, wait ‘til we’re back in the dorm.”
The room goes quiet after that. Nobody dares speak. It's not new this coldness, this line he draws between leader and member. But it's never without reason. Never without care.
They know that.
Back in the dorm, Jun finds Seungcheol on the floor of the hallway, head tipped back against the wall, ice pack pressed to his knee.
“You okay?” Jun asks, crouching beside him.
“Hmm.” Seungcheol nods, eyes closed. “You think I’m too hard on you guys?”
Jun smiles, soft. “If you weren’t, would we even be here?”
That earns a laugh. A low, tired one. “I just- I don’t want you guys to hate me.”
“Hyung,” Jun says. “We love you. You love us so much you’d throw hands with the company if you had to.”
And he did.
People don’t know. They don’t see what happens behind closed doors.
They don’t see Seungcheol sitting in a meeting room, voice shaking not from fear but from rage, demanding better conditions for his members. Demanding rest, breaks, fairness, promotions that actually mean something. Saying, “If you don’t treat them right, I will leave.”
They don’t see him staying up to watch over sick members. Ordering warm porridge, insisting they sleep while he deals with the schedule changes. Holding hair back when someone throws up from exhaustion.
They don’t see Jeonghan crying in his arms after a mental breakdown during training days, or how Seungcheol never tells a soul. Not even Jeonghan himself.
They don’t see how he smiles at fans like he doesn’t carry the weight of twelve boys and the expectations of millions.
But the boys see. Every single one of them.
Sometimes, they tease him for being too dad-like.
“Stop buying us stuff,” Seungkwan complains with a grin as he unwraps a new speaker. “You’re spoiling us again.”
Seungcheol shrugs. “So don’t use it.”
They all laugh, but they use it anyway.
They use everything he gives. His time, his care, his sleepless nights, his gentle silences and loud yells, his endless reminders to drink water, stretch, rest.
They use his love because he gives it without asking for anything in return.
“Why are you crying?” Wonwoo asks one night, voice hushed in the shared hotel room.
“I don’t know,” Seungcheol says, his hand over his face. “I just I don’t know if I’m doing enough.”
“Hyung.”
Silence.
“You gave us everything. You still do.”
On stage, Seungcheol doesn’t cry when they win. Not anymore. He lets the others sob, cling, shout. He stands behind them, clapping, holding up lightsticks, grinning like a proud parent.
But the second they bow in the dressing room, he buckles. Every time.
Joshua’s the one who usually catches him. Just a hand on the back, firm and quiet. “You did good, hyung.”
“You all did better,” Seungcheol always says.
He's strict. Cold, even.
He yells when someone slacks off. He glares when they're late. He turns into a different person during practice, one that doesn't blink when someone wants to give up.
But he’s also the first to hug them when it’s over. The first to take the blame if the performance wasn’t perfect. The first to say, “Let’s go again,” even if he’s limping.
He doesn’t lead from the top. He leads from the middle. Always in it with them.
“He spoils us too much,” Chan says once in an interview.
“You think so?” Hoshi grins. “He probably doesn’t think it’s enough.”
“It’s never enough for him,” Woozi adds. “He just loves too hard.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“...Not when it’s Seungcheol-hyung.”
And one night, years later, in the dark after a concert, when they’re older and more bruised by life and fame, Seungcheol sits alone in the dressing room.
“Did I do okay?” he whispers, not knowing Mingyu is nearby.
“You did more than okay, hyung,” Mingyu says. “You were the best leader SEVENTEEN ever could ask for.”
Seungcheol smiles through tears. Not because he needs validation. But because maybe—just maybe—it was all worth it.