Chapter Text
Gumayusi wakes up with the distinct sensation that something is wrong.
Not wrong in the dramatic, emergency sense—no pain, no fever, no instinct screaming danger. Just… wrong.
Like waking up in a room where all the furniture has been shifted two centimeters to the left.
Everything is familiar, but his body doesn’t sit right inside itself.
He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, blinking slowly.
“…huh?”
That’s the first sign.
Gumayusi does not usually “huh” at the ceiling.
He usually launches himself out of bed like a bear fired from a cannon, already thinking about inventory, orders, and which supplier tried to sneak in inferior sesame oil this week.
Today, his limbs feel heavy. Not weak—heavy.
Dense.
Like gravity has quietly doubled overnight and only applied itself to him.
Beside him, Keria stirs,“mm… Guma?” the omega’s voice is still half-asleep, soft and warm, “why are you just… staring?”
Gumayusi turns his head slowly. That slowness is the second sign.
“I feel… off” he says.
Keria blinks one eye open, “off how?”
Gumayusi thinks about it. He rolls the word around carefully, as if it might bite, “like… tired,” he says, “but not normal tired.”
Keria immediately sits up a little, concern snapping him awake, “did you sleep badly?”
“No,” Gumayusi says, “I slept great. That’s the problem.”
He slept eight hours.
Solid. Deep. Dreamless.
Normally, that would make him bounce out of bed ready to wrestle the day into submission. Instead, his body is politely requesting another six.
Keria watches him closely now, eyes scanning his face, ears twitching faintly, “are you sick?”
Gumayusi shakes his head, “no fever. No ache. Just…” he pauses, frowns. “…Slow.”
To prove his point, he swings his legs off the bed.
The movement is deliberate. Controlled. Heavy.
Keria’s gaze drops to his shoulders, then his arms, “you look… bigger.”
The bear snorts, “I’m always big.”
“No,” Keria insists, squinting, “I mean—more… solid? Like you inflated overnight.”
Gumayusi looks down at himself. His tank top does feel a little tighter across the chest.
Not uncomfortably so, just… snug, like his body quietly decided to bulk without consulting him.
“…huh?” he says again.
Keria’s eyes widen slightly, “Oh” he says.
“Oh what?”
Keria hesitates, then asks carefully, “when was the last time you… hibernated?”
The word lands between them.
The alpha freezes.
Then he exhales, long and slow, like someone who just found the missing puzzle piece and is annoyed it took this long.
“…two years,” he says.
The smaller nods, “yeah.”
Gumayusi scratches the back of his neck, “that tracks.”
That really tracks.
Bear hybrids don’t hibernate every winter like their full-animal counterparts.
Modern life, artificial light, heated buildings—it messes with the instinct.
But every couple of years, when the body decides it’s time, there’s no arguing with it.
And the early signs?
Deep sleep. Heaviness. A strange calm… and an extremely familiar sense of his body beginning to reorganize priorities without asking permission.
The pomeranian watches him carefully, “so… it’s not just ‘off.’”
Gumayusi sighs, “…no.”
He sits there for a moment, processing. Then, like a switch flips, his eyes sharpen.
“Okay,” he says, already moving, “I need to go to the restaurant today.”
Keria blinks, “today?”
“Yes.”
“Guma, if you’re about to—”
“I know,” the alpha says, standing fully now, “that’s why.”
Keria exhales through his nose, resigned, “you’re impossible.”
“Efficient,” he corrects, already pulling on clothes, “there’s a difference.”
By the time Gumayusi arrives at the restaurant, the signs are undeniable.
The kitchen smells too good.
Not in a bad way. In a dangerous way.
The rich scent of simmering broth makes something deep in his chest purr.
His stomach doesn’t growl—oddly, he’s not hungry—but his body reacts anyway, like it’s mentally bookmarking calories for later.
“…Yep,” he mutters. “Definitely time.”
The manager, Kanavi, stares at him in confusion, “You are late. That’s new. Something’s wrong?”
Gumayusi nods, “Call a briefing. Everyone.”
Kanavi blinks, “Uh—now?”
“Yes.”
There’s something in Gumayusi’s tone that brooks no argument. Ten minutes later, the core staff are gathered, aprons still on, eyes curious.
The bear alpha stands at the head of the table, arms crossed.
“Alright,” he says, “I’ll be direct.”
That alone makes several people straighten. Gumayusi is always direct—but this is… ceremonial level.
“I’m likely entering hibernation” he says.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Oh.”
“Ohhh.”
One of the cooks tilts his head, “how long this time?”
Gumayusi shrugs, “couple of weeks. Maybe three.”
The manager nods immediately, “Got it.”
He points at Kanavi, “hyung, you’re in charge. Full authority. No cutting corners.”
“Got it.”
Gumayusi continues, already in logistics mode.
“Inventory check today. Double-order shelf-stable ingredients. Freeze extra broth portions. Cancel experimental menu changes.”
One of the servers raises a hand, “what about the seasonal special?”
“Postpone,” Gumayusi says instantly, “no risk.”
Another staff member asks, “your office hours?”
“Suspended.”
A cook frowns, “you never suspend—”
“I will be unconscious,” the bear says flatly.
That earns a few nervous laughs.
He keeps going, listing things with the precision of someone who has done this before and learned the hard way.
“Emergency contact stays the same. Do not wake me unless the building is on fire or Keria tells you to.”
Kanavi nods, scribbling notes furiously, “Understood.”
Gumayusi scans the room, eyes sharp despite the heaviness in his limbs.
“This is not a vacation,” he says, “it’s maintenance. The restaurant runs as usual.”
Everyone nods.
The briefing wraps quickly. Efficient. Clean.
As the staff disperse, the manager hesitates, “Gumayusi… you okay?”
Gumayusi pauses.
For a moment, he allows honesty.
“…Yeah,” he says. “I will be.”
Kanavi smiles, “good. Rest well.”
Gumayusi snorts, “I’ll surely do that.”
By the time he leaves the restaurant, the sleepiness hits harder.
Not overwhelming—but persuasive.
Like his body is gently, insistently tapping its watch.
Keria meets him outside, hands tucked into his coat sleeves, “done?”
“Yeah.”
They walk to the car. Gumayusi’s steps are slower now, but steady.
Keria doesn’t have to strain his legs to match his pace now.
When they both are inside the car, the omega glances up at his boyfriend, “you handled that fast.”
“I don’t like loose ends,” the bear answers. Then, after a pause, “…or surprises.”
Keria hums, “you’re lucky you noticed early.”
Gumayusi thinks about that.
He did notice early—he always does.
Because bears, for all their size, are meticulous when it comes to survival.
As they head home, Gumayusi feels the instinct settling in deeper—not panic-inducing, not scary.
Just inevitable.
Behind the scenes, the bear is already preparing to sleep.
And somewhere else in the city, another hybrid is about to do the opposite—completely miss every warning sign until it’s almost too late.
Zeus does not think anything is wrong.
That is, in fact, the core problem.
He wakes up late.
Not alarm-missed late, not overdid-it-last-night late.
Just… late.
The kind of late where his body feels like it has been gently glued to the mattress and is politely refusing to cooperate.
He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, blinking.
“…hmm?”
The room is quiet. Too quiet. The sunlight coming through the curtains is warm but muted, like the sun itself is tired.
Zeus rolls onto his side.
Still tired.
That’s odd.
Normally, he’s the kind of bear who wakes up refreshed, muscles humming faintly, appetite already knocking politely on his ribs.
Today, his limbs feel heavy in a way that isn’t painful—just dense. Like his bones decided to weigh more overnight.
He checks the time.
10:43 a.m.
“…that’s new” he mutters, but without urgency.
He lies there for another minute anyway.
Maybe two—
Okay, maybe five.
Eventually, he drags himself upright, yawning so wide his jaw pops faintly.
The yawn doesn’t feel satisfying. It just opens a deeper well of sleep inside his chest.
Weird.
He shrugs it off.
By the time he reaches the kitchen, Viper is already there, coiled lazily at the counter with a mug of tea, scrolling through his phone. His tail flicks once in mild acknowledgment.
“You’re late,” the snake alpha says.
Zeus squints at him, “am I?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
No defensiveness. No panic. Just… acceptance.
That’s probably another sign, but it doesn’t register.
Faker sits at the table with his tablet, glasses perched low on his nose, posture impeccable as always. He looks up briefly, eyes sharp.
“You look tired.”
Zeus nods seriously, “I am.”
Delight, perched on the arm of the couch with a snack, tilts his head, “you usually deny that.”
“I don’t have the energy to deny it,” Zeus admits.
That makes three pairs of eyes slowly turn toward him.
“…that’s concerning,” the orange cat says gently.
Zeus frowns, “why?”
Oner wanders in next, towel slung around his neck, freshly showered and irritatingly awake. He stops short when he sees Zeus leaning against the counter like gravity personally wronged him.
“…what happened to you?”
The bear blinks, “I woke up.”
Oner narrows his eyes, “suspicious.”
Zeus ignores him and reaches for the pantry.
He opens it.
Stares.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
There are snacks inside. Plenty. Chips. Protein bars. Honey butter chips—his usual weakness.
Nothing calls to him.
That… is unusual.
He frowns slightly, then shrugs and pours himself a glass of water instead.
Maybe it’s because I just woke up, so I’m still not in the mood to munch, he thinks
Viper watches him from the corner of his eye, tail stilled.
“You’re not eating?” he asks.
“I will” Zeus answers
He does not.
Instead, he leans against the counter again, glass untouched, eyelids drooping.
Faker’s fingers pause on the screen, “how long have you felt like this?” he asks calmly.
Zeus thinks about it. Actually thinks.
“…a few days?”
Delight squints, “you forgot to eat dinner last night.”
“I did?”
“Yes,” the beta nods, “which is insane.”
Zeus laughs weakly, “I must’ve been busy.”
Oner snorts, “you were on the couch. Asleep.”
The omega opens his mouth to argue.
Then closes it.
“…Oh.”
He still doesn’t connect the dots.
That’s the dangerous part.
Over the next few days, the pattern continues.
Zeus sleeps.
A lot.
Not dramatic, unconscious-for-days sleep. Just… excessive. He naps after breakfast. Falls asleep mid-conversation.
Sits down “for a second” and wakes up two hours later with a blanket draped over him.
He’s slower, too.
Not clumsy. Just delayed.
Someone calls his name and it takes an extra beat for his brain to respond.
He starts forgetting small things.
Like where he left his phone.
Or why he walked into a room.
Or—more alarmingly—when he last ate.
Viper notices first.
Not because Zeus says anything.
But, because the snake starts finding untouched food.
A plate left on the counter. A bowl of rice barely stirred. Snacks returned to the pantry unopened.
One evening, Viper pushes a plate toward him, “eat.”
Zeus looks at it, blinks slowly, “I’m not hungry.”
Viper freezes, “you’re always hungry.”
The younger shrugs, apologetic, “guess… I’m not today, because I’m so tired.”
That night, he sleeps for almost twenty hours.
The next morning, he wakes up groggy and confused, muscles oddly sore, like they’ve been unused for too long.
Delight tries to joke about it, “congrats, you’re turning into a house cat.”
Zeus smiles faintly, “do cats sleep this much?”
“Yes,” the orange cat says, “But they also eat.”
Oner starts keeping track without telling anyone.
Faker starts observing quietly.
Viper starts panicking.
Not openly—not yet.
But snakes know cycles. They know dormancy.
They know what happens when something goes wrong in a body that’s supposed to follow a rhythm.
And Zeus—bear omega, strong and warm and solid—is slipping into something without realizing it.
One night, Viper watches him doze off sitting upright on the couch, head tilting forward slowly, breath deep and heavy.
“…Zeus” he murmurs.
No response.
He touches his shoulder.
Zeus startles, blinking, “sorry. Did I fall asleep?”
“Yes,” Viper says tightly. “you were talking.”
“Oh.” Zeus rubs his eyes, “what was I saying?”
“…you don’t remember?”
Zeus shakes his head.
That’s when it hits the alpha like ice water.
Not fear. But the unmistakable realization that something is very, very wrong—and Zeus doesn’t know it.
Faker watches the exchange from across the room, eyes sharp behind his glasses.
Delight frowns.
Oner crosses his arms.
And Zeus, oblivious, yawns again—wide, unguarded, unbearably tired.
“Sorry,” he says softly, “I think… I’m just… off lately.”
Viper doesn’t answer.
Because bears don’t get off.
They get cycles.
And if Zeus has forgotten what his own looks like…
That’s dangerous.