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Minho had always prided himself on being observant. It came with being the second-in-command, the one who watched over the group when Chan got too caught up in his leader responsibilities to notice the small things. But today, sitting in the green plastic chair of the interview set, Minho found himself studying their leader with an intensity that made his chest feel strangely tight.
The interviewer was Junho from 2PM—seasoned, charismatic, and three years Chan's senior. Minho had expected the usual professional courtesy, maybe some industry small talk. What he hadn't expected was the way Chan's entire demeanor shifted the moment they'd walked into the studio.
"So, Bang Chan," Junho leaned forward with that easy smile that had charmed audiences for over a decade, "I heard you're quite the perfectionist in the studio. Is that true?"
Chan's laugh came out breathy, almost giggling, and his hand flew up to rub the back of his neck. "Ah, hyung, you're embarrassing me." The words were spoken with a softness Minho rarely heard, Chan's usual confident tone replaced by something almost... bashful?
Minho's fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair. In all their years together, through late-night studio sessions and grueling practice schedules, he'd never seen Chan act quite like this. Sure, their leader could be playful, could joke around with the best of them, but this was different. This was Chan with his guard down in a way that felt almost foreign.
"I just want everything to be perfect for the kids, you know?" Chan continued, his voice dropping to that shy register again. "They work so hard, and I—" He paused, glancing down at his hands. "I don't want to let them down."
Junho nodded approvingly, and Minho watched as Chan's cheeks flushed pink at the older man's attention. It was subtle, barely noticeable under the studio lights, but Minho caught it. He caught everything when it came to Chan.
The interview continued, and with each question, Minho felt that gnawing sensation in his stomach grow stronger. When had he last seen Chan smile like that—soft and genuine, without the weight of leadership pressing down on his shoulders? When had Chan ever looked at any of them with that same open, almost vulnerable expression he was giving Junho now?
The realization hit him like a cold splash of water; Chan was performing for them too. Not the same polished performance he gave to cameras and crowds, but something else entirely. Around the group, Chan was the strong one, the reliable one, the one who carried all their burdens without complaint. His smiles were encouraging, his words carefully measured to build them up, his presence a constant source of stability.
But here, with someone older, someone who could shoulder the weight of being the senior in the room, Chan seemed to melt. His laugh was lighter, his posture more relaxed, his answers more honest and unguarded. It was like watching someone take off armor they'd forgotten they were wearing.
"You're still young, Chan-ah," Junho said warmly, using the informal address that made Chan's eyes crinkle with genuine pleasure. "Don't put so much pressure on yourself."
"Thank you, hyung," Chan replied, and there was something almost grateful in his voice, like he'd been waiting years for someone to tell him that.
Minho found himself memorizing every detail of this version of Chan—the way his eyes went soft when Junho praised their music, how he ducked his head when complimented, the genuine giggle that escaped when the older idol shared an embarrassing story from his own trainee days. This was Chan unfiltered, Chan without the need to be anyone's rock.
And Minho wanted to see more of him.
The interview wound down, but that strange, hollow feeling in Minho's chest only grew stronger. As they bowed their thanks and prepared to leave, he caught Chan stealing one last glance at Junho, that same soft expression flickering across his features before the familiar mask of leadership slid back into place.
Walking to their van, Chan was already switching back—shoulders squaring, voice taking on that reassuring tone as he asked about everyone's schedule for the rest of the day. But Minho couldn't stop thinking about the giggly, flustered version of their leader, couldn't stop wondering what it would be like if Chan felt safe enough to be that vulnerable around them too.
Maybe, Minho thought as he watched Chan slip seamlessly back into his role as their steady, unshakeable leader, it was time someone else tried being the reliable one for a change.
The first time Minho tried it, they were in the practice room reviewing choreography. Chan was explaining a particularly difficult sequence, his leader voice in full effect, when Minho deliberately interrupted.
"Chan-ah, could you show that part again?"
The room went dead silent. Changbin's eyes went wide, his water bottle halfway to his lips as he stared at Minho like he'd just committed some unforgivable sin. Even Jisung stopped mid-stretch, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
Minho knew of Chan and Jisung’s little altercation during their predebut days from Changbin. How Jisung had gone up to Chan and called him informally and how Chan had lightly reprimanded and how Jisung had sulked for a week because, why could Felix get to call him Chris? Call him just Chan and get away with it?
But Chan just... stared. His eyes found Minho's across the mirrored wall, something unreadable flickering in his expression. For a moment that stretched too long, neither of them moved.
"It's Chan-hyung," Chan said finally, his voice quiet but firm. Then he turned back to the mirrors and demonstrated the sequence again, as if nothing had happened.
Changbin shot Minho a look that clearly said are you insane? but Minho was too busy studying the tension in Chan's shoulders, the way his movements seemed just a fraction more rigid than before.
The second time happened three weeks later. Hyunjin was sprawled dramatically on the floor of their dorm living room, lamenting about some minor critique from their choreographer, when Chan walked through with his laptop.
"Maybe you should listen to what he's saying instead of sulking," Chan said, not unkindly, settling onto the couch.
"Easy for you to say," Hyunjin mumbled into the carpet.
Minho looked up from his phone. "Chan-ah's right though. The feedback was actually helpful."
This time, Chan didn't correct him. He just gave Minho that same complicated look from the practice room—part confusion, part something else that Minho couldn't quite name. Hyunjin lifted his head to glance between them, eyebrows raised, but Chan had already turned his attention back to his laptop screen.
It was during this period of quiet experimentation that Minho started paying closer attention to Chan's dynamic with Felix because Changbin mentioned it once more—how Jisung was sulking again now that even Minho was getting away with it. They'd always been close, but Minho began noticing the subtle differences in how Chan acted when they switched to English.
"Chris, did you eat today?" Felix would ask, casual and concerned, flopping onto the couch next to their leader.
"Yeah, mate, grabbed something earlier," Chan would respond, his entire posture relaxing in a way that never happened with the Korean members. No honorifics, no careful consideration of hierarchy—just two friends talking.
Minho watched as Felix casually stole food from Chan's plate, how Chan would ruffle Felix's hair without the gentle, almost paternal quality he used with the others. In English, Chan wasn't their leader first and friend second. He was just Chris.
But switch back to Korean, and the dynamic shifted immediately. Chan would sit straighter, his voice would take on that encouraging, responsible tone, and Felix would add the appropriate honorifics, the careful distance that hierarchy demanded.
It fascinated and frustrated Minho in equal measure. Chan had shown Felix—however inadvertently—that there was space for informality between them. But with the rest of them, Chan seemed determined to maintain that careful balance of authority and care, never letting his guard down completely.
So Minho kept pushing over the next months.
"Chan-ah, want some coffee?" he asked one evening, walking past where Chan was hunched over his laptop at the kitchen counter.
Chan's fingers paused over the keyboard. "I'm fine, Minho-ya," he said, but there was no correction this time. Just that same careful, measured response.
"Chan-ah," Minho said one night, deliberately, settling into the chair across from him. "When's the last time you slept?"
"Minho." Chan's voice held a warning now, but still no insistence on the honorific. His eyes met Minho's across the laptop screen, and there was something almost vulnerable in them. "What are you doing?"
The question hung between them, loaded with meaning neither of them was quite ready to address. Minho could see the exhaustion in Chan's face, the way his shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, more contained.
"Just checking on you," Minho said simply.
Chan stared at him for a long moment, and Minho caught a glimpse of that same soft expression he'd seen during the interview with Junho—uncertain, almost grateful, like he wasn't quite sure how to handle someone trying to take care of him instead of the other way around.
"I'll sleep soon," Chan said finally, his voice quieter than before.
Minho nodded and got up to make the coffee anyway, leaving Chan to his work but staying within earshot. Each small victory felt significant—every moment Chan didn't correct him, every instance where he let his guard slip just a fraction.
Minho was learning that breaking down Chan's walls wouldn't happen overnight. But he was patient, observant, and increasingly determined to find a way past the leader persona to the person underneath. The person who giggled at Junho's jokes and let Felix call him Chris and maybe, just maybe, could learn to trust Minho with that same vulnerability.
Minho had always liked Chan—that much he knew. What he couldn't figure out was the shape of that liking, the way it had evolved from simple admiration to something more complex, more urgent. It sat in his chest like a puzzle with missing pieces, especially now that he'd started noticing all the ways Chan held himself apart from them.
The first time he tried to be more deliberate about taking care of Chan, Minho ended up face-down on the studio couch at three in the morning.
"Just one more minute," Chan had said around midnight, fingers flying over the keyboard as he tweaked some instrumental layer that sounded identical to Minho's untrained ears. "I almost have it."
Minho had settled into the corner of the couch, determined to wait it out. He'd dragged Chan home from the studio before, but usually Chan was already half-dead on his feet. Tonight, he wanted to catch him before the exhaustion became debilitating.
"One more minute" became thirty, then an hour, then two. Minho's eyes had grown heavy listening to the same eight bars looped over and over, Chan's quiet muttering becoming a familiar soundtrack. When he woke up, there was a blanket draped over him and Chan was gone—probably having snuck out at dawn to avoid waking him.
The blanket smelled like Chan's cologne.
After that, Minho started finding smaller ways to help. He began lingering after 3RACHA sessions, not just to offer his usual surface-level feedback about melodies, but to actually engage with the process.
"The bridge feels a little cluttered," he said one evening, leaning over Chan's shoulder to point at the computer screen. Chan tensed slightly at the proximity, but didn't move away. He could feel Changbin and Jisung’s eyes boring holes into his back.
He knew this wasn’t his job, but he couldn’t help himself. Changbin had once mentioned that Chan hated being corrected when he was in his ‘flow’ but when he was done with the day's work, they’d review their progress and then Chan was more open to critiques.
"What do you mean?" Chan asked, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice rather than the polite attention he usually gave when members offered creative input. Immediately he could hear Jisung whack the couch hard with something.
Minho found himself staying later and later, learning the software, understanding the layers of production that went into each track. He started catching things that 3RACHA missed—not the technical stuff, but the emotional flow, the places where a song felt like it was trying too hard or not trying hard enough.
"Here," Minho would say, reaching across Chan to adjust something on the screen, pretending not to notice the way Chan's breathing changed when their arms brushed. "What if you stripped this back? Let the vocals breathe."
Chan began asking for his opinion before sessions ended, not just after. "Minho-ya, come listen to this," became a regular occurrence, and Minho treasured each invitation like a small victory.
Changbin and Jisung cornered him when he came to the studio, completely forgetting that Chan had a meeting. He blinked at the both of them and they stared right back before Jisung pouted at him. “I’m convinced Chan hyung hates me.”
“He does not hate you,” Changbin groaned. “You’re just… how can I say this?”
“You were a brat when you met hyung,” Minho offers. “I think Chan hyung would’ve given you the liberty if your past self had been just a tad bit more…”
“Mature!” Changbin offered. “But Jisung-ah,” he added, on a softer note. “Having Chan hyung as a hyung-figure did help, no?”
Jisung pouted further, twisting on the couch in his weird antics. “Yes, but I could never convince him to stop.”
They all exchanged glances before Minho could feel Changbin’s eyes narrowing on him. What are you doing?
He just shook his head and offered them the takeout he’d gotten for all of them along with Chan.
Beyond that, Minho just loved it when he could see Chan breathe. Loosen his shoulders and take a deep breath that happened too infrequently.
And it wasn't just the studio. Minho started showing up with food during Chan's solo practice sessions, timing his arrivals for when he knew Chan would be pushing himself too hard.
"I brought extra," he'd lie, setting down containers that were very obviously portioned for one person who needed to eat more. Chan would give him a look that said he knew exactly what Minho was doing, but he'd eat anyway.
When Chan had to prepare presentations for company meetings—budget proposals, comeback concepts, scheduling logistics—Minho started offering to help with those too. He'd sit cross-legged on Chan's bedroom floor, surrounded by printed spreadsheets and sticky notes, helping organize thoughts that Chan was too tired to structure coherently.
"You don't have to do this," Chan said one night, watching Minho create neat piles of paperwork. "It's not really your job."
"Neither is staying up until five AM perfecting a track that already sounds perfect," Minho replied without looking up. "But you do it anyway."
Chan went quiet at that, and when Minho glanced up, he found Chan watching him with that same complicated expression from before—like he was trying to solve a puzzle he hadn't realized existed.
The opportunity came during a particularly lethal week of comeback preparations. Chan had been living off coffee and stubbornness for days, snapping at everyone and immediately apologizing, his usually steady hands shaking with exhaustion.
Minho found him in the practice room at two AM, staring blankly at his reflection in the mirror.
"Chan-ah," he said softly, and for once, Chan didn't even flinch at the informal address.
"I can't get this right," Chan said, his voice hollow. "The formations for the second verse, they're not working, and we perform next week, and I—"
"Hey." Minho moved to stand behind him, close enough that Chan could see him in the mirror. "Show me."
For the next hour, Minho let Chan teach him the choreography, asking questions that forced Chan to break down the movements, to think through the problems systematically instead of just pushing himself harder. When Chan finally figured out the formation that had been eluding him, his smile in the mirror was soft with relief.
"Thank you," Chan said quietly, and there was something different in his voice. Not the grateful tone he used with everyone else, but something more personal, more real. He hugged Minho so suddenly that Minho went still.
"Any time," Minho replied, and meant it, their skin catching on each other's sweat and exertion.
Walking back to the dorms together, Minho caught Chan glancing at him sideways, like he was seeing him properly for the first time. The puzzle pieces in Minho's chest shifted, not quite clicking into place, but getting closer to forming a picture he might actually recognize.
He was falling for Bang Chan—not the leader, not the pillar of strength, but the person underneath who giggled at older idols and needed someone to remind him to eat. The person who was slowly, carefully, letting Minho see him.
The week had been brutal for Minho—a string of criticism from their choreographer, his mother calling to worry about his health in that careful way that meant she'd seen him looking thin in recent photos, and a persistent ache in his shoulder that he couldn't shake. But even with exhaustion weighing down his bones, he still found himself lingering in the studio where Chan was hunched over his laptop, still bringing coffee during late-night sessions, still asking about chord progressions he didn't fully understand.
It was Saturday night when Chan finally noticed.
"You look tired," Chan said, glancing up from his computer screen with that concerned leader expression Minho had grown both fond of and frustrated by.
"I'm fine," Minho replied automatically, settling into his usual spot on the studio couch. "How's the track coming?"
But Chan was studying him now with the same intensity Minho usually reserved for studying Chan. "When's the last time you slept properly?"
The irony wasn't lost on Minho—Chan asking him the same question he'd been asking Chan for weeks. But instead of pointing that out, Minho just shrugged. "I'll sleep when you do."
"Minho-ya." Chan's voice took on that gentle, caretaking tone that made something twist uncomfortably in Minho's chest. "You don't have to—"
"I said I'm fine." The words came out sharper than intended, and Minho saw Chan flinch slightly. "Just... focus on your music, Chan-ah."
Chan stared at him for a long moment, clearly wanting to press further, but Minho had already turned his attention to his phone, effectively ending the conversation. Eventually, Chan went back to his laptop, but Minho could feel the weight of his occasional glances, the way Chan's concern hung in the air between them like an unresolved chord.
When Chan finally packed up for the night, he paused by the couch. "If you want to talk—"
"I don't," Minho cut him off, not looking up from his phone.
Chan lingered for another moment, then quietly gathered his things and left.
Minho was still staring at his phone screen when Seungmin appeared in the doorway ten minutes later, taking in the scene with those sharp, observant eyes that missed nothing.
"He's dense," Seungmin said without preamble, settling into Chan's abandoned chair.
"What?"
"Chan-hyung." Seungmin spun the chair slightly, watching Minho with an expression that was part knowing, part exasperated. "I know you're hurting and you'd rather lick my ass than tell me to my face that you are. But I think you'd be willing to tell Chan-hyung if you weren't so focused on trying to get him to lower his guard."
"I'm not—"
"Seriously?" Seungmin interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "The informal addressing? The staying late, the bringing food, the sudden interest in music production? It's... I don't know. You two should be studied."
"Yah!" Minho grabbed a throw pillow and launched it at Seungmin, who dodged it easily.
"I'm just saying," Seungmin continued, unfazed, "you can't take care of someone while you're falling apart and expect them not to notice. Especially not Chan-hyung. He's dense about some things, but not about people being in pain."
Minho slumped further into the couch, suddenly feeling the full weight of the week pressing down on him. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." Seungmin was quiet for a moment, then his voice softened slightly. "Do you wanna grab something from the convenience store though? I think a change of space will be good for you."
Minho stared at the floor for a while, processing Seungmin's words, the way they cut straight through all his careful deflection. The younger member had always been perceptive, but sometimes his ability to see right through people was uncomfortable.
Finally, Minho nodded.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Yeah. Let's go."
As they stood to leave, Seungmin paused at the door. "For what it's worth," he said, "I think Chan-hyung would want to know. You don't have to carry everything alone just because you're trying to teach him the same thing."
Minho didn't respond, but as they walked toward the elevator, he found himself thinking about the concern in Chan's voice, the way he'd lingered like he wanted to help but didn't know how. Maybe Seungmin was right. Maybe in trying so hard to break down Chan's walls, Minho had built up his own.
The convenience store's fluorescent lights felt harsh after the dim studio, but somehow the change of scenery made it easier to breathe. Seungmin grabbed snacks without asking what Minho wanted, somehow knowing exactly what would help, and for the first time all week, Minho felt like maybe he didn't have to figure everything out by himself.
Minho had been holding it together by threads, and those threads were fraying fast.
It started small—snapping at Jeongin for being a beat behind, his voice sharper than necessary when correcting Felix's positioning. But by the eighth run-through of their title track choreography, when Jisung stumbled over the same transition they'd practiced a hundred times, something in Minho cracked.
"Are you kidding me?" he exploded, throwing his hands up. "We've done this sequence so many times I could do it in my sleep, and you're still—"
"Minho." Changbin's voice cut through his tirade, firm but not unkind. The older rapper stepped between Minho and Jisung, who was looking stunned and a little hurt. "Take a breath."
"Don't tell me to take a breath when everyone else is—"
"Hey." Changbin grabbed Minho's shoulders, forcing him to focus. "Look at me. Breathe."
The practice room had gone silent except for the sound of Minho's harsh breathing. He could see the younger members watching him with wide, uncertain eyes, could feel the weight of his own unraveling pressing down on his chest like a stone.
"I'm fine," he muttered, but even he could hear how unconvincing it sounded.
Changbin didn't let go. "No, you're not. And that's okay, but you can't take it out on them."
Shame burned hot in Minho's throat. He nodded stiffly, not trusting his voice, and Changbin released him with a gentle pat on the back. They ran the choreography three more times in tense silence before Chan finally called it.
"Good work today, everyone," Chan said, his leader voice carefully neutral. "Same time tomorrow."
Everyone began filing out, grabbing water bottles and towels, the usual post-practice chatter notably subdued. Minho was almost at the door when Chan's voice stopped him.
"Come here, Minho-ya," he said softly.
Minho trotted over reluctantly, trying not to meet Chan's eyes. He could feel the concern radiating from the older man and it made his skin crawl—not because he didn't want it, but because he wanted it too much.
"There's some budae jjigae that Hyunjin and Jisung whipped up last night," Chan said conversationally, like Minho hadn't just had a breakdown in front of half their group.
"'m not hungry," Minho mumbled.
Chan ducked slightly, trying to catch his eye. "It has fish cake in it, the naruto ones. Jisung must've forgotten to tell you."
Minho swallowed hard. Hunger simmered close to the surface, but he didn't want Chan to treat him like this—like he was fragile, like he needed taking care of. He wanted to be dependable and strong and—
"Just come," Chan sighed, and before Minho could protest, Chan was taking his arm and wrapping himself around it as they walked out together. Towels and water bottles left scattered for tomorrow.
The drive to Chan's dorm was quiet, Chan's playlist filling the silence with soft R&B that somehow made the knot in Minho's chest loosen slightly. When they arrived, Changbin and Hyunjin had already reheated the budae jjigae, the rich smell filling the apartment, Jisung had gone cutie’s dorm, choosing to spend time with Felix instead.
They made Chan and Minho join them at the small dining table, and despite his protests, Minho found himself eating—sparingly, but eating nonetheless. The naruto fish cakes were perfectly soft, and Chan's quiet laughter at something Changbin said helped untangle some of the tension from Minho's shoulders.
After showering and getting dressed in clothes that definitely belonged to someone else—probably Chan, based on how the sleeves hung past his fingertips—Minho was padding toward the couch when he heard a soft "psst."
Chan was standing in his doorway, gesturing for Minho to follow. They walked into Chan's room, and immediately the Alexa lights began their slow cycle—blue melting into pink, then purple, gradually fading to darker blues and settling into calming greens that made the space feel like being underwater.
Chan sat down on his bed and Minho just stood there, too many thoughts crowding his head at once. He felt exposed standing in the colored light, like Chan could see straight through all his carefully constructed walls to the mess underneath.
Then Chan reached out and gently pulled him down to sit on the edge of the bed, and Minho felt something inside him crack open completely.
"Now," Chan said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper in the blue-green glow. "Tell me what's really going on.”
Minho opened his mouth, tried to form words that wouldn't come, then gave up and just looked at Chan helplessly. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"That's not what I was talking about," Chan said gently.
Minho sniffled, feeling water threatening to spill over the dam he'd built so carefully. "I... I don't know, hyung."
Chan turned his hand over, palm up, and Minho stared at it blankly until Chan had to reach out and lock their fingers together himself. "You've been taking care of me a lot recently," he said quietly. "All of us. You took so much workload off me, Changbin-ah, Jisungie. You reran choreos for us. You got Hyunjin out of his burnout. You got Felix to eat one more meal. Jeongin told me you stayed up helping him with his vocals. And Seungminnie, he told me the most interesting thing."
Minho swallowed hard. "What." It wasn't a question. Just a flat, defeated word.
Chan's thumb traced across the back of his hand. "Minho-ya, do you like me?"
Minho bit his lower lip, shame threatening to crack his walls wide open. But he held firm, redirecting like he always did. "How do you do it, hyung?" he asked, his voice small in a way that made him flinch. "You take care of us all the time and still hold on—"
Chan's hand left his and moved to gently massage his shoulder, and suddenly Minho couldn't stop the words from spilling out.
"You just hold on there, letting us grab onto you even though it hurts and I think it's so fucking selfish and—"
He hiccupped, the sound sharp and embarrassing in the quiet room. He immediately tried to move away from Chan, his face burning. "Sorry. And especially about Seungmin, just... ignore him."
But Chan didn't let him retreat. His hand stayed firm on Minho's shoulder, anchoring him in place even as Minho's chest heaved with the effort of keeping everything contained.
"Minho-ya," Chan said, his voice impossibly soft. "Look at me."
"I can't," Minho whispered, staring down at his hands. "I can't because you'll see and I just wanted to—I wanted to help you the way you help us but I'm so bad at it and I keep making everything worse and—"
"Hey." Chan's other hand came up to cup Minho's face, thumb brushing away a tear Minho hadn't realized had fallen. "You're not making anything worse. You've been trying so hard to take care of me, but who's been taking care of you?"
The question hit like a physical blow, and Minho's careful composure finally shattered completely. The sobs came in harsh, ugly waves, all the exhaustion and frustration and overwhelming feelings he'd been shoving down for weeks pouring out at once.
Chan pulled him forward without hesitation, letting Minho collapse against his chest.
"Aigoo," Chan sighed, his voice thick with something that sounded like regret. "I've been neglecting you, haven't I? I've been letting myself get spoiled by you."
Minho shook his head against Chan's shoulder. "No."
"Yes, I have," Chan said softly, shifting them both so they fell back against the pillows, Minho burrowed safely against his chest. He began rocking them gently, humming something low and melodic that Minho swore he'd heard drifting from Chan's laptop during late-night studio sessions.
Eventually, the storm passed, leaving Minho wrung out but strangely lighter. He remained pressed against Chan's chest, selfishly soaking up the warmth and steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The elephant in the room was doing slow laps around them, and Minho found himself fascinated by the way its metaphorical tail swished at imaginary flies—anything to avoid addressing what had just happened.
But Chan was there to bring him back, as always. "About what Seungmin said—"
"If that disgusts you," Minho interjected quickly, not lifting his head, "I'll leave."
"So you like me."
"I..." Minho sniffled, his heart hammering against his ribs. If Chan called him anything cruel, or even if he let him down politely, Minho would go straight to the other dorm and cry his heart out where no one could see.
"What do you think?" Chan asked, and there was something playful in his voice that made Minho's breath catch.
"I want to hear you say it," Chan hummed, his hand still moving in soothing circles on Minho's back. "Sweetly. Like you've been calling me for the past months."
Minho glared up at him, but it was weak and watery. He peeked out from Chan's chest properly, meeting those warm eyes in the shifting colored light. "I like you, Chan-ah," he mumbled, the informal address feeling different now—not rebellious or testing, but tender.
Chan's smile was soft and warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made Minho's chest feel too small. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Minho's hair.
"I love you too, Minho-ya. Always have."
The words hit Minho like a gentle tidal wave, and he felt his eyes well up with fresh tears—not the harsh, desperate ones from before, but something softer, overwhelmed with relief. He buried himself back in Chan's chest, hiccupping softly as Chan's hand continued its steady path down his spine.
"You don't need to take responsibilities off my back," Chan murmured into his hair, "but you can help by sharing them."
Minho nodded against his chest, finally understanding what Chan meant. Not carrying Chan's burdens alone, but carrying them together. Not breaking down Chan's walls, but building something new where neither of them had to hold everything by themselves.
In the blue-green glow of the Alexa lights, wrapped in Chan's arms and Chan's too-big clothes, Minho finally felt like he could breathe properly for the first time in weeks.
Minho woke to the soft press of lips against his forehead, the sensation gentle enough that for a moment he thought he might still be dreaming. The room was bathed in early morning light filtering through the cracks in Chan's blackout curtains, the Alexa lights having long since cycled off during the night.
He blinked slowly, consciousness creeping in along with the awareness that he was still curled against Chan's chest, their legs tangled together under the covers. Chan's arm was wrapped securely around him, and when Minho tilted his head up, he found Chan already looking down at him with soft, sleepy eyes.
They stared at each other in the quiet morning light, neither moving nor speaking. Chan's hair was mussed from sleep, sticking up at odd angles, his natural curls peeking through despite the amount of treatments the company had enforced, and there were pillow creases on his cheek. Minho had never seen anything more beautiful.
"Hi," Chan whispered finally, his voice rough with sleep.
"Hi," Minho whispered back, suddenly hyperaware of how close they were, how natural it felt to wake up like this—like they'd been doing it for years instead of just one night.
Chan's free hand came up to brush a strand of hair away from Minho's face, his touch feather-light. "How are you feeling?"
Minho considered the question seriously. His eyes felt puffy from crying, and there was a lingering soreness in his chest from everything he'd let out the night before. But underneath all of that was something new—a lightness he hadn't felt in months.
"Better," he said honestly. "Different."
Chan's smile was small but radiant in the morning light. "Good different?"
"Yeah," Minho breathed, letting himself really look at Chan's face—the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the soft curve of his mouth. "Really good different."
They fell back into comfortable silence, just watching each other as the morning light grew stronger around them. Minho could hear the distant sounds of the city waking up, but here in Chan's room, wrapped in warmth and the lingering scent of his cologne, the world felt small and perfect and theirs.
"Chan-ah," Minho said softly, testing the name again in this new context.
"Minho-ya," Chan replied, and the fondness in his voice made Minho's heart do something complicated in his chest.
Neither of them moved to get up, content to exist in this quiet moment before the day demanded they become leader and second-in-command again.
They eventually untangled themselves from bed, moving through Chan's morning routine with surprising ease. Brushing their teeth side by side at the bathroom mirror felt natural, domestic in a way that made Minho's chest warm. Chan bumped his shoulder playfully when Minho took up too much space at the sink, and Minho retaliated by flicking water at him.
In the kitchen, they fell into quiet efficiency—Minho chopping potatoes into thin, even pieces while Chan heated oil in the pan. They moved around each other like they'd done this a hundred times before, Chan reaching over Minho for seasonings, Minho sliding past him to get to the stove.
When they were letting the broth come to a boil, Minho was rinsing his hands at the sink when he felt Chan approach from behind. He blinked up as Chan crowded into his space, hands coming up to bracket him against the just-cleaned counter.
Minho looked up bashfully, suddenly very aware of how close Chan was, how his eyes had gone dark and focused. Before he had any warning, Chan's hands were on his waist, lifting him easily and setting him down on the counter.
Minho licked his lower lip nervously, his eyes flitting down to Chan's mouth and back up again.
Chan, ever teasing, tilted his head with a small smile. "What do you want?"
Minho clicked his tongue in exasperation and pulled Chan in by the back of his head, their lips meeting hard and desperate—like yesterday's confession might have been a joke, like they needed to prove it was real. Chan's hand settled warm on his thigh, the other gripping his waist as Minho looped his arms around Chan's neck.
They only broke apart when they heard footsteps and a door slamming somewhere in the apartment. They stared at each other, eyes fixed on each other's lips, breathing hard.
Then Chan was kissing him again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against Minho's as he opened for him willingly. When they pulled apart, there was spit threading between their lips and—
"What the hell," Minho said, catching sight of Changbin standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
"If you're done, hyungs, I need breakfast," Changbin said dryly.
"Brat," Minho mumbled, but he was fighting a smile.
Changbin hummed absently as he moved around them, gathering a plate and adding the sautéed vegetables, then some sausages. He opened the fridge to retrieve boiled eggs and yesterday's leftover rice, completely unbothered by the fact that his bandmates were still tangled together on the counter.
Before he left, he paused at the kitchen entrance. "I'm glad you sorted things out. Even if it meant defiling our counter."
Chan just smiled, his thumb tracing absent patterns on Minho's thigh. "Thanks, Changbin-ah."
When Changbin disappeared back to his room, Chan's eyes found Minho's again, dark and wanting.
"Room," Minho mumbled.
"We have schedule," Chan replied, but he was already hoisting Minho up in his arms, carrying him toward the bedroom anyway.
Instead of setting him on the bed though, Chan sat down and pulled Minho into his lap. Minho looked even more flustered at the new position, his hands hovering uncertainly over Chan's shoulders.
"Hyung," he croaked.
Chan laughed, the sound fond and a little breathless. "What happened? Hmm? You're not teasing hyung this time?"
Minho groaned in embarrassment, then moved decisively, flipping them until Chan was underneath him on the bed. "You look beautiful like this," he said, looking down at Chan with something like wonder. "Chan-ah."
Chan hid his reddening face before he peeked back out at Minho—his smile was soft and radiant, and he looped an arm around Minho's neck to pull him down for another kiss—slower this time, sweeter, like they had all the time in the world.