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If he was being honest, Jeongin would admit that he was scared shitless when living arrangements were finalized and he found himself living with just Chan for the foreseeable future.
It’s not that there was anything wrong with his eldest hyung—he loves Chan dearly, like he does all of the other members. Loves them enough to whine about them doting on him but seeking out the attention when he goes a reasonable amount of time without it; loves them enough that he’s overly critical of new people that enter their individual circles, because Jeongin always wants the best for them; loves them so much that Jeongin has learned that since everyone is so different, he has to take their differences in stride.
Well, maybe except him and Chan, because as much as Jeongin didn’t want to think about it, the older had practically raised him during the years that Jeongin took most of his personality from.
Along the way, his teenage admiration for the older morphed into adult replication, even more so than the other personality traits that he adapted from the others. Minho’s humour, Seungmin’s bluntness, Changbin’s discipline—just little bits from everyone else—but somehow, the things he took from Chan verged on too much, so much that Jeongin owned those traits instead of attributed them to things he adopted from the people he loves.
It frustrated him sometimes. He’d catch himself saying something, then belatedly realize that it was a phrase Chan used when he was tired, or a soft sigh after a job well done that sounded too much like him—but those can be shrugged off. They’ve all spent so much time with each other that they bounce buzz words and verbal tics off of each other every other week.
There were moments when Jeongin wondered if he’d ever grown into himself at all, or if he stayed as a mirror reflecting the man who’d unknowingly shaped a majority of who he is today.
He thinks he should be resentful of it, or envious of the others who were older than him, that they got the chance to wander aimlessly before they latched onto who they were. Jeongin didn’t have that, he’s always just known that there was someone he respected and wanted to take after.
And there’s no resentment there, even if some people would be. Instead, Jeongin feels relieved that he’s taken on Chan’s image.
He knows, deep down, that he’d only taken so much from Chan because there was so much good to adapt for himself. There was something perpetually reassuring in the thought that the person he turned out to be is a reflection of someone kind and steady, someone who saw Jeongin at his smallest and still chose to nurture him into someone strong and assured.
Maybe that’s why it hit him so hard, the day he realized the way Chan looked at him, years ago.
With quiet fondness when Jeongin handles something on his own. With soft pride when Jeongin offers a solution without batting an eye. With tender adoration when Jeongin comforts one of the others before they even reach out for comfort.
The same fondness and pride and adoration that they all regard Chan with. It’s the same warmth that Jeongin sees in himself when he looks at Chan: a quiet, reverent kind of admiration that sometimes borders on frustration and resignation, but that’s besides the point.
Jeongin punches in the code to their apartment door, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. It’s well past 2 in the morning, and the gym was empty when Jeongin arrived there around midnight. He stayed late at the studio to tune up on his vocals, hours after even Seungmin called it a night and went to have dinner with Felix.
He quietly toes off his shoes, already rehearsing his speech in case Chan is asleep on the couch again (the only reason Jeongin insisted on a spacious couch in the first place). Sorry, hyung, I lost track of time, or something else that won’t explicitly reveal the familiar itch in his bones, the same restless need to do more, be more, because he can’t afford to be stagnant.
As he walks deeper into the apartment, he sees the living room’s floor lamp flicked on.
Chan is sitting on the couch, the TV off but his laptop perched on the coffee table and playing an anime at a low volume despite the older being alone in the apartment. When he sees Jeongin, his expression is soft but tight at the edges, almost unnoticeable with the dim light, but Jeongin recognizes the kind of quiet that’s a result of worry being stretched thin over exhaustion.
“You’re home late.” Chan says, not questioning. His voice is rough in that way it gets when he’s been suppressing even his yawns, resisting sleep.
There’s a cup of tea next to his laptop, probably already cold. Chan is wearing one of his larger hoodies and boxers, one leg folded under the other, and his hair is fluffy in a way that tells Jeongin he had a long shower tonight.
Jeongin drops his bag by the side of the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I, uh... went to the gym. Lost track of time.”
Chan hums, unimpressed. He taps on the spacebar of his laptop, pauses the episode. “Lost track of time,” he repeats. “At half past two, after a full day of practice.”
Jeongin lets out a small laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just wanted to get a few extra reps in, that’s all. It’s no big deal, hyung.”
Chan sits up straighter, the edges on his expression folding into a proper frown. “You’ve been running on naps and caffeine for days, Jeongin. You’ve been coming home past midnight four times a week, and I doubt you’ve even had dinner.”
“Hyung,” Jeongin starts, but Chan cuts him off. His stomach twists, equal parts guilt and defiance. And hunger, because Chan is right in assuming that he hasn’t had a proper meal in hours.
“I get that you want to keep improving, and I love that about you, but you’re not a machine, Innie.” Chan sighs and flicks his laptop closed. “You don’t even notice when you’re burning yourself out. You push until you collapse, and then you’ll brush us off when we ask if you’re okay.”
Jeongin’s jaw tightens. He looks at the floor because it’s easier than looking at the older. His nostrils flare in that specific kind of frustration that comes from people pointing out his actions, especially when he’s not the only one that does it.
So maybe he’s being a little petulant when he mutters, “Maybe because I learned from you.”
What he said makes something in Chan’s expression falter. There’s an almost imperceptible flash of hurt before he exhales and leans back against the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You sound just like me,” he murmurs, but Jeongin can still hear, even if it sounds like he’s speaking more to himself.
That stings, because Jeongin knows that it’s true. He knows that the same stubbornness that once drove Chan into sleepless nights and self-destruction now lives him in, too. With Chan working on those parts of himself, the tendencies have transferred onto Jeongin, like some leech that found a different host body after the previous one expelled it.
Jeongin hates that Chan recognizes it, and hates even more that Chan looks so defeated right now, because the older is many things, but not a hypocrite.
“Hyung,” Jeongin starts, softer now. He moves to sit next to Chan, glances at the paused screen of his laptop and is not surprised that he doesn’t recognize the show. He looks back at Chan, who’s dropped his hand from his nose. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
Chan gives a small, humourless laugh. “You think I can just stop worrying about you? I worry about all of you.” Chan reaches for his hand and squeezes tenderly. “And you’re my baby, I worry about you the most.”
Jeongin hesitates as his defensiveness slowly gives way to something warmer. He squeezes Chan’s hand back and offers the older a small smile. “I know I push myself, but I want to be better. I know I can be better, and I don’t want to meet that version of me sooner. For you guys. For me.”
Chan lets out a slow breath, worry still lingering behind his understanding. “I get that, Jeongin, I really do. But I don’t want to be alone here and get a phone call that you’ve collapsed at the studio or the gym.”
Jeongin doesn’t reply right away. He lets himself lean back into the couch, exhaustion settling into the marrow of his bones. He doesn’t want to think of a situation where Chan would get that kind of phone call, and he wants to assure the older that it won’t happen, but Jeongin has learned not to make promises he might not be able to keep.
So, he sighs. “I’ll try to come home earlier next time. I’m sorry for worrying you, hyung.”
“Don’t apologize, Jeongin.” Chan intones. “I know you mean well, but you need to take care of yourself, too.”
“I know, hyung.” his voice tapers off even when he’s aware that he’s not being scolded. He’s too old to be scolded, and Chan has never been one to do anything more than light nagging.
Jeongin knows that he’s just worried. With their shared perfectionism, it’s difficult for them to confront self-criticism, so they spill it onto other people, and who better to project onto than someone who is so similar to them.
Chan stands, picks his laptop up, then bends down to kiss Jeongin’s hair. He doesn’t even wrinkle his nose at the smell of sweat Jeongin must have brought home with him.
“There’s food in the microwave, eat before showering.” Chan murmurs. “Practice isn’t until 11 tomorrow, so get as much sleep as you can.”
Chan disappears behind his room, leaving Jeongin to take care of himself, which he’s grateful for, because he doesn’t have the strength to argue against any coddling that he knows the older would subject him to if he had to make sure Jeongin ate and showered before bed.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘♡∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The days of the next week blur together in a haze of practice sessions. The DominATE: CelebrATE encore concerts are fast approaching, and a comeback directly after that, even when they’re still riding the high off of KARMA promotions. Chan doesn’t even want to think about the year-end performances that they’re yet to polish.
So, understandably, tensions are high between all 8 of them, but it’s nothing unusual, nothing that they can’t resolve after taking a ten-minute water break and a breather. Just petty, normal squabbles that are inevitable when everyone wants to give it their all. There’s just too many ideas, not enough time, and everyone’s fatigue hanging thick in the air.
Right now, Chan sits cross-legged on the studio floor, laptop open and notes scattered around him as he wraps his head around their changes to the existing setlist. He stares at the typed letters that detail transitions between songs, jots down everyone’s ideas and suggestions as the discussion circling around the room refuses to settle.
Seungmin, Minho, and Jisung throw in comments from their spots on the couches, each with a bottle of water in hand. Felix and Hyunjin are by the monitor, going through their performance recordings with the volume turned low. Changbin is pacing along the mirrored wall, and Jeongin is starfished somewhere in front of Chan.
“I just think that the order doesn’t flow well.” Jeongin says firmly, raising his arms to gesture as he speaks. “If we do ‘In My Head’ in the encore set, there’s nowhere to put it. It’s more reasonable to do it a few songs after the drone song, along with all the other songs from the same album.”
Changbin immediately counters. “But the vibe would kill the build-up. We can’t separate ‘Lonely Street’ and ‘Cover Me’, but doing ‘In My Head’ after that is too much of a contrast.”
“It’s a good buffer since we’re doing ‘TOPLINE’ for the next set.” Jeongin doesn’t back down. “If we don’t experiment with the momentum, then the energy dips before we’re halfway through the concert.”
Chan looks over his laptop just in time to peek at Jeongin. He’s still laying on the floor, his cap abandoned next to his head, and his mouth is set in that familiar stubborn line that makes Chan’s stomach twist.
Jeongin notices his gaze, so he turns his head, just enough for them to lock eyes. Then, “What do you think, hyung?”
There’s nothing accusatory in the question, and even when they’re pretty lax with age hierarchy, there’s a line that no one crosses with Chan when it comes to his leadership, but he still feels the pressure from Jeongin’s question. He knows it all too well: the quiet expectation, the unspoken need for his word to be final.
It unsettles Chan.
He looks at Jeongin—sharp jaw clenches, eyes burning with focus, every word measured and just bordering on forceful.
It’s like an echo of himself from years ago, hardened by desperation and the incessant drive to be perfect, to be heard, to make sure the work he does means something to someone. He sees Jeongin’s unwillingness to let go until every single detail fits just right, until he can anticipate even the smallest possible flaw and fix it.
It should make him proud—it does—but somewhere under that pride sits a deep, uneasy ache.
Chan clears his throat, looks back down at his laptop, and starts typing. “We won’t know unless we try it both ways.” Chan says carefully. “We change outfits before ‘TOPLINE’, so the momentum is being cut no matter what.”
Jeongin exhales, the faintest twitch of frustration crossing his face. He nods, but it’s tight and restrained in that way Chan used to react when someone didn’t immediately agree with him.
Minho clasps his hands together, loud and sharp. “Drink water, we’re starting back up in two minutes.”
Changbin goes to the cooler in the corner of the room and takes out three bottles of water. He hands one to Chan and Jeongin each, then downs the third one for himself. Jeongin sits up and accepts the bottle with a soft, appreciative hum.
“Thanks, hyung.” Jeongin says, as if he wasn’t close to snapping at him thirty seconds ago.
Chan watches Jeongin through the mirror as he takes large gulps of water, thankful for the hydration. Years ago, he always thought that it’d be great if he’d be able to influence Jeongin with his strengths—the drive, the attention to detail, the instinct to lead when things grew uncertain.
But now that he sees them reflected back at him so clearly, he realizes how both he and Jeongin tend to take things to the extremes.
It doesn’t help that Jeongin has Changbin’s decisiveness now, too—that unwavering ability to commit to a choice and stand by it no matter the opposition. It makes him sharper, bolder, and oftentimes unstoppable.
Chan should be proud of that.
And he is.
He truly is.
But he’s also scared of how Jeongin is so much like him. He’s scared that Jeongin will end up carrying the same burdens he once did, even after Chan worked so hard to make sure none of his members would carry that kind of weight.
Least of all Jeongin, who he unknowingly primed to be familiar with the same exhaustion that comes from being too passionate and too unwilling to yield.
He’s getting better at it, but Chan still remembers the incessant need to always have the last word; to consider conflict as a power struggle instead of a problem-solving task. He still has sleepless nights and the constant tug-of-war between his expectations and everyone else’s, raising higher and higher everytime he so much as grazes the bar. He remembers how he forced himself to lead not out of confidence but out of the desperate hold to keep everything together.
As they run through their sequences, Chan’s thoughts drift despite trying so hard to focus on the music. His eyes dart to Jeongin’s reflection in the mirror, and all he can think about is how the younger’s conviction mirrors his own.
He looks at Jeongin, with his shoulders squared, eyes steady, and voice strong, and feels the quiet ache of recognition twist in his chest.
It’s strange to him how Jeongin can see their similarities as something to ground him, even if the moments he outwardly expresses it are few and far in between. To Jeongin, being like him means carrying warmth and respect and trust. But to Chan, it feels like he’s watching his own mistakes reborn in someone he wants to protect from them.
As much as he wants to step in and soften the edges before they harden into habits, he doesn’t know how to. He’s the one that drilled these things into Jeongin—to think deeply, stand firm, care too much. He’s the one that showed Jeongin how to demand perfection not for validation alone, but to fulfill their duties.
By the end of the hour, Minho nods, clipped but satisfied, and that’s all they needed before they relaxed.
“Let’s keep that sequence.” Minho says, hands clasping twice to signal the start of another short break.
Jeongin looks smug, but it’s quickly wiped off when he’s tackled to the floor by Felix and Hyunjin. There’s an amalgamation of protests, Jeongin claiming they’re all sweaty, Felix reasoning that since they’re all sweaty, it doesn’t matter if they pile on the floor.
Minho moves to the monitor to go through footage, while Seungmin sprawls on the couch. Jisung and Changbin head to the corner to retrieve more refreshments for all of them. Looking at them, Chan laughs, small and quiet, and he’s filled with the fondness he holds for all of his members.
A cool bottle of water is pressed to his cheek, and he takes his eyes off the cuddle pile to look at Changbin, who’s looking at him knowingly.
“Don’t worry about him.” Changbin keeps his voice low as he moves the bottle from Chan’s cheek to his forehead. “He’s old enough to know who he is.”
Chan nods along, because he trusts Changbin with his life. If Changbin believes so, then there’s no reason for Chan to question it so much.
Deep down, he knows. Even as he fears how alike he and Jeongin are, there is monumental pride there—two sides of the same coin.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘♡∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Jeongin wakes to the pale light of an early morning leaking through the small gap between the curtains of his bedroom window. He groans, buries his face in his pillow, and mentally reprimands his past self for wanting the room with the window.
With his eyes half-closed, he looks through his phone and impulsively orders a tinted film to stick on his windows, muttering under his breath about how he’d rather not know what time of day it is when he wakes up until he checks his phone.
It’s only a little past 7 in the morning, which is earlier than he wanted to wake up today, since practice isn’t until 10, but his body has long learned to wake hours before the alarms he sets unless he’s either dead tired or so sick he’s bedridden.
He lays in his bed for several more minutes, blinking at his ceiling until the last vestiges of sleep have left his system. He debates sleeping more, but he knows he’ll hate himself from it when he wakes up in an hour feeling groggy and tired instead of well-rested like now.
So, he settles for making breakfast.
He keeps his steps light as he exits his room and goes to the kitchen, wincing when he catches the faint creak of the floor under his slippers as he crosses the apartment. He rubs through the faint ache in his shoulders as he moves through the familiar routine of making coffee, washing and cooking rice, reheating side dishes, frying a couple of eggs, setting water to boil for tea, then pouring himself a mug of freshly brewed coffee.
As he’s rearranging the assortment of side dishes on the table, the front door clicks open. It’s followed by the sound of shoes being toed off, and when Jeongin glances at the foyer, he sees Chan in a tank top and gym shorts, a towel draped around his neck and his hair damp with sweat.
Jeongin frowns, glances at the closed door of Chan’s bedroom, where he thought the older man had been all this time. “You were at the gym?”
Chan looks at him, breathing still laboured from what Jeongin can only assume to be an intense workout. “Yeah, I woke up early and I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went.”
“Early,” Jeongin repeats, raising a brow. “What time are we talking about, exactly?”
Chan shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. He downs the rest of his water and diligently washes his bottle as soon as he’s standing in front of the sink. “Around 5:30, maybe? Maybe closer to 6.”
Jeongin goes to scoop rice into two bowls. “You know, for someone who tells me to stop stretching myself too thin, you’re really bad at following your own advice.”
Chan laughs lightly, placing his washed bottle on the rack for it to dry. “That’s different, Innie. I just couldn’t sleep, and I figured I might as well do something productive since it was a quiet morning.”
“It’s not different.” Jeongin says. “We had this exact same conversation a week ago, when I was coming home late.”
Chan’s expression flickers, something unreadable passing through it. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, the smallest flash of guilt settling in his features before he blinks it away. A weak smile tugs on his lips before he turns away and heads to the bathroom to wash up.
“Old habits.” he says in lieu of an explanation or an apology, which Joengin needs neither of.
Jeongin makes Chan’s tea: warm water and honey, then a teabag. He sets it on the table gently, next to a bowl of rice and a set of utensils, the platter of fried eggs and an assortment of side dishes within reach.
Chan comes back, his shirt off and face washed, little droplets of water dripping down his chest and cooling his skin. He sits down on the chair next to Jeongin, thanks him for the food, and waits for Jeongin to take a first bite before he picks up his chopsticks.
Jeongin thinks it’s ridiculous how they keep running in circles like this. Chan worries about him, and Jeongin worries about him, and they know that they’re both overdoing it, but neither of them want to let the other have the last word on this matter.
Jeongin exhales, not wanting to argue to start what he’s sure to be another full day of heavy choreography. “Minho-hyung is going to scold you if you so much as wince during practice.”
Chan smiles faintly, and Jeongin instantly recognizes it as the older trying to deflect with warmth. “That’s a problem for my future self.”
He looks at Chan again, at the faint tiredness behind his smile despite it only being 8 in the morning. He feels that personalized mix of affection and frustration reserved for Chan settle in his chest again.
He truly loves this man—adores and cherishes him with everything that he has—but sometimes Jeongin wishes that he didn’t understand him as much as he did, so that he can be a little more annoyed when Chan pushed himself too far and deflected from his feelings too much.
Jeongin finishes eating first, which is normal since he’s a habitually quick eater, and Chan savours his food on top of eating multiple servings at a time. So, as the older enjoys his second bowl of rice, Jeongin watches him with half-lidded eyes and his head propped on his palm, only leaving the table to refill his mug of coffee.
Chan keeps eating, doesn’t rush as Jeongin waits for him to finish. His shoulders are more relaxed now, breathing even after hours at the gym. He smiles gratefully when Jeongin wordlessly slides over a napkin once he’s done eating.
Jeongin pretends like he doesn’t notice how Chan’s hand lingers on his knuckles before he accepts the napkin.
They move in sync to gather dishes and wash them. Chan organizes them on the rack while Jeongin puts away the leftover side dishes, then Jeongin disappears to the bathroom to wash up and get ready to leave. Chan only has to change clothes and he’s ready to go, even if there’s still half an hour until they’re set to be picked up.
As they slip on their shoes, Jeongin tumbles. Chan catches him with a steady hand on his elbow and a fond laugh, and Jeongin effortlessly responds with a smile.
“Clumsy, as always.” Chan whispers, lightly teasing.
Jeongin sits on his haunches instead of leaning against the wall, lest he want to tumble again. “Some things I never grow out of.”
Chan stretches his shoulders, and Jeongin sees through his lashes how a faint wince crosses over his features.
“See? You’re sore.” Jeongin mumbles, voice dropping low in exasperation.
Chan groans softly, tugging his hood up over his head. “Don’t start, Innie.”
“I’m not starting.” Jeongin argues, standing now that both his shoelaces have been tied. “I’m just saying—”
“That I should rest more.” Chan finishes for him, but there’s no bite. “I know, Innie. I’ll rest later, I promise.”
Jeongin’s lips press into a stubborn line, but he nods in acceptance of the statement. He opens the door and walks out first, already vividly aware of Chan walking three steps behind him, like he always does, because he likes seeing the members in front of him when they’re going from one place to another.
The van arrives three minutes after they step out of their apartment building. Chan waves the car over, and they slide into the very backseat. Chan sits by the window, and Jeongin settles beside him, even when he knows that Changbin and Hyunjin are more likely to occupy the middle seats when they get picked up in ten minutes.
The ride starts in silence, nothing but the idle morning radio streaming through the speakers. From the corner of his eye, Jeongin sees Chan scrolling through his phone, looking through their shared calendar so that everyone knows what everyone has going on at any given time.
Jeongin reads through their group chat, and snorts under his breath as he gets to the part of Minho and Seungmin’s light bickering before Changbin cut them off last night. He reacts to the picture Felix sent of his and Seungmin’s dinner (they had pizza delivered), and then Hyunjin proclaiming that he was craving pizza.
The car turns a corner. Jeongin peeks at the man sitting next to him and sees that Chan’s head is tilted toward the glass with his eyes fluttered shut. There are soft lines of fatigue etched on his face despite his best efforts to mask them.
Without thinking, Jeongin shifts closer, enough that their knees are pressed together. He moves to a different group chat to read through, but he feels the subtle exhale that leaves Chan as a silent acknowledgement.
They turn another corner, and Chan’s head tilts toward him, until his cheek is resting on top of his shoulder. Jeongin stays still, pretending not to notice the weight on his shoulder and the smell of Chan’s shampoo tickling his nose.
Hyunjin and Changbin get picked up, and Chan’s head stays on Jeongin’s shoulder, even when the older doesn’t nap. He just rests his head there, shifting closer when Changbin complained about Jeongin picking favourites. Jeongin doesn’t acknowledge it more than a hand on Chan’s knee.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘♡∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
There are still days, somehow, that Chan barely sees any of the other members. His day is filled with a meeting that runs far-too long, and while Changbin and Jisung were there as the other members of 3RACHA, it’s not the same as hanging out or being in the studio.
He goes to the gym since they don’t have dance practice, with half of the other members off to their own solo schedules. By the time he’s done, there are more than a dozen unread messages from the members sitting unanswered from his phone. The personal group chat, not the professional one, so he’s pretty sure that the others are just sharing about their days. He can read them at home later.
Before he heads home, he makes a quick stop at a small family-owned restaurant he knows Jeongin loves and picks up dinner, even if he’s unsure what time the younger will be home. He has a photoshoot today, but that doesn’t always guarantee that he eats before he gets home, so it’s better to be safe.
While he’s alone, Chan plays games on his phone, letting the hours tick by as he’s sprawled on the living room couch. The TV is playing white noise, just so that it’s not pin-drop silent in the apartment.
It’s relatively uneventful, which Chan has learned to appreciate, slowly but surely.
After he grows tired of his games, he takes his laptop from his room and decides to get ahead with some pending tracks so he has a good use of his time.
Somewhere along the way, the beeping from the door tells him that Jeongin is home. He hears the younger slipping his shoes off, along with a hushed, “I’m home, hyung. Tell me how it goes.” Silence for a couple of seconds before it’s followed by, “Okay. Good bye.”
Jeongin emerges from the foyer a moment later, wearing his house slippers and his phone in hand. “Channie-hyung?”
Chan looks up from his laptop, eyes bleary from hours of staring at different sized screens. “Hey, Jeonginnie. You were on the phone with someone?”
Jeongin nods as he waves his phone in the air, his screen showing a stolen picture of a sleeping Hyunjin. “Hyunjinnie-hyung needed to talk. He and Jisung-hyung fought.”
That’s all it takes for a sharp edge of concern to wash over Chan, the hours of quiet solitude already forgotten. “They fought? When?”
“A few hours ago.” Jeongin shrugs, sitting next to him. He peeks into Chan’s screen, knowing that he’s allowed to do so. “It wasn’t physical or anything, they just talked back to each other. Something about the choreography revisions that were apparently brought up during your meeting this morning.”
Chan rubs his temples, sighing. “I knew that would rile him up. I was supposed to be the one to relay that information.”
Technically, Chan didn’t know that it would rile Hyunjin up, specifically. But revisions always hit a nerve, no matter how small. One of them would always feel miffed about things being rearranged, and some days it’s hard not to shoot the messenger and just pick a fight.
Changbin probably would defuse it, with his natural talent for pushing the others into healthy confrontations. Chan should still send either of them a text to check up on them and get a feel of the situation, to know if the fight would span for a couple of more days before they inevitably made up.
“It’s not your fault, hyung.” Jeongin moves closer and lays a hand on his bare knee. “We’re all stressed, fighting isn’t new. And I already talked to Hyunjin-hyung, he’s already cooled off. He said he’ll reach out to Jisung-hyung tonight so they can clear things up before the day ends.”
The words sink in slowly, and Chan rests his cheek on his palm to look at Jeongin. “You already handled it?”
Jeongin nods. “He just needed to vent. I called him when I was on the way home from the shoot and that’s how I found out about the fight. Then, I figured it was better to let him talk all his frustrations out with me first before he went to mend things with Jisung-hyung.”
For a moment, Chan doesn’t respons.
He just studies the younger’s face, steadily calm and quietly certain.
And it hits him, then, the faint, familiar tug in his chest that’s only ever caused by Jeongin.
Jeongin’s handling it exactly as he would have.
“You did good, Innie.” he leans back on the couch, sinking into the soft cushions. “Thank you for being there for Hyunjin. And Jisung.”
Jeongin gives a small shrug. “Someone had to.”
The phrase lands heavy in Chan’s chest, the way it always did when he said it himself over the years. There’s that quiet sense of responsibility that never quite leaves, the ever-present compulsion to fix things before they start to fall apart.
Chan reaches for Jeongin hand, still on his knee, and takes his palm on his own. “You didn’t have to step in, even if it was something simple like letting someone vent.”
“Hyunjin-hyung is my friend, it’s the least I could do.” Jeongin mumbles. “He needed someone to be there for him, and I happened to call at the right time.”
The irony isn’t lost on him. For years, he’s been the one taking on everyone’s weight, stitching over their conflicts, absorbing their exhaustion so they wouldn’t have to carry it alone.
Even now, Chan can feel the fatigue coming off of Jeongin in waves. His full day and even fuller week catching up to him and draining him of energy. He won’t be surprised if the younger spends the entire morning tomorrow deep asleep.
“You’ve got a good heart, baby.” Chan says, tone careful. The last thing he wants is to start another fight, this time between the two of them. “But I hope you don’t make a habit out of being there for everyone to the point that you don’t leave a part for yourself.”
Jeongin blinks, like he’s not sure whether to take it as advice or a reprimand. His head tilts in subtle confusion. “But that’s what you do.”
Chan exhales, soft laughing slipping out—tired, fond, and a little pained. “Yeah, and I don’t want you to be too much like me.”
Jeongin’s expression softens, the edges of his calm composure easing just a little. “I know, hyung.” he says quietly. “But I love that we’re so alike. It makes me feel closer to you.”
“How much closer can we get?” Chan muses. He squeezes Jeongin’s hand before he drags his fingers along Jeongin’s hair. “Did you eat?”
“Just snacks.” Jeongin responds, slightly leaning into Chan’s touch.
“There’s food in the microwave. Jjampong, dumplings, and kimbap.” Chan tells him. “Let’s eat before you wash up.”
Jeongin beams at the mention of food. “I’ve been craving jjampong.”
“I know.” Chan lifts his hand from Jeongin’s hair to let the younger stand and go to the kitchen to prepare their dinner. The table is already set for two, so all that’s left is to heat up the food Chan bought earlier, already waiting for them in the microwave.
Even when Jeongin said that Hyunjin already has it figured out—that his fight with Jisung would probably be resolved before the day ends, Chan can’t stop himself from worrying.
Because no matter how much he tells himself to let go of that rescuer mindset, it never really fades.
So, as Jeongin heats up their food, Chan shoots individual texts to Jisung and Hyunjin, asking them how they are. Not out of distrust for his members and for Jeongin’s ability to mediate, but out of that incessant need in his core to be the person that his members can seek out when they need someone.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘♡∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Chan doesn’t get home until close to midnight.
He punches in the code to their apartment door—250803, as a combination of their debut day, then Jeongin’s and his birth days— with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He stayed late at the studio to tune up on background vocals for some of their upcoming songs, hours after even Jisung called it a night and went to have dinner with Minho.
He quietly toes off his shoes, already rehearsing his speech in case Jeongin is asleep on the couch again. He knows there’s a good chance that he’d find the younger there, but he hopes that he’d find Jeongin tucked in bed where he should be at this time of night.
As he walks deeper into the apartment, he sees the living room’s floor lamp flicked on.
Jeongin is sitting on the single seater next to the couch, the TV on and playing a late-night talk show at a low volume.
Jeongin tips his head in his direction before Chan can say anything, his soft expression tight at the edges, almost unnoticeable with the dim light, but Chan knows what the line of Jeongin’s shoulders look like as a result of worry being stretched thin over exhaustion.
“You just got home, hyung?” Jeongin asks despite watching Chan walk inside the apartment.
Chan hums. “Yeah, I was at the studio.”
“Are you tired?” Jeongin asks next. There’s not a trace of suspicion or hostility in his voice, but there barely ever is, even when they argue.
Chan shakes his head, then debates if he should just tell a white lie and say that he is. “Not really.”
With a curt nod, Jeongin lifts his foot, pointing the tip of it to the coffee table, where his car keys lay. “Do you want to go for a drive?”
Chan can’t say no to Jeongin. Not when he’s sick or tired or even when they’re on bad terms. He has a hard time denying any of the members, but even more so Jeongin.
So Chan nods his head and puts his shoes back on while Jeongin disappears into his room for two jackets for the both of them. Chan doesn’t ask where they’re going or which of them will be behind the wheel, but it’s pretty self-explanatory when Jeongin guides him to the passenger seat of his own car.
Jeongin has a key to his car, the same way Chan has a key to his. It’s one of those things that he can’t say the other members get the same privilege of.
“Where are we going?” Chan only asks after they exit the parking garage and realizes that Jeongin has a place in mind.
“Midnight snacks at the Han River.” Jeongin says as he maneuvers the empty streets of midnight Seoul. “I’m craving convenient store food, and I thought my favourite Channie-hyung could indulge me.”
That gets a muted laugh to bubble out of Chan. Playfully, he pinches Jeongin’s waist. “I’m your only Channie-hyung.”
Jeongin glances at him to give him a smile, then drives the whole way to the Han River. They purposefully picked an apartment that was near the Han River. If they had a balcony, then they’d be able to see it from there, too. In Chan’s opinion, it was worth the extra hundred thousand wons, since both he and Jeongin could spend hours staring at the river.
It only takes half an hour before they’ve stocked up on their junk food and drinks, the Han River distantly alive with the bustle of a handful of other people that want to eat convenience store food while looking at the water.
Chan carries the steaming cup of ramyeon they decided to share, insisting that Jeongin would find a way to spill the hot broth all over himself, which leaves the plastic bag of everything else for Jeongin to carry.
They sit down on one of the areas with tables arranged like a set of stairs. There’s only one other pair of people here, and they’re seated at the very top, while Chan and Jeongin settle on the bottommost table to be closest to the water.
As Jeongin takes all their snacks out of the plastic bag, Chan looks out on the river. It carries the reflection of the city like loose thoughts: streetlights, the bridge, the faint smear of the moon glittering on the surface of the water.
Jeongin’s hoodie is a welcomed weight on his lap, and Jeongin sitting cross-legged next to him is a welcomed presence. He hands Chan an unwrapped triangle kimbap before he works on his own, but is still the first one to take a bite because he’s the younger between them and knows that Chan would refuse to eat otherwise.
“You’re spacing off again.” Jeongin mumbles, mouth still chewing on the majority of the triangle kimbap he managed to fit into his mouth in one bite.
Chan shrugs, but his lips quirk up at the sight of Jeongin forcing the rest of the kimbap into his mouth. “Just thinking.”
Jeongin hums like that explains everything, and accepts the opened can of soda Chan is offering him. Chan takes a bite, such a small one compared to how Jeongin eats, but any and all differences between them demand Chan’s recognition.
They fall into an easy quiet, the kind that doesn’t demand anything before, during, or after. Cars whisper by somewhere far behind them, lights flash above the river in long increments. The river keeps moving in front of them, and Chan is fighting the urge to lean his head on Jeongin’s shoulder.
Chan thinks about how natural it feels to end up here again. He’s been doing this since he was a kid—since the oceans back home, since the way waves used to breathe in and out like something alive, like a childhood friend.
Water has always been a constant to him.
Halfway through his triangle kimbap, he tears his eyes from the water to look at Jeongin, silhouetted against the moonlight and he thinks of how Jeongin has also become a constant these past several years.
They’re the same like this. The first of many similarities that Chan picked up on, so long ago.
Jeongin grew up around water, too—different waters, different shores, but the same pull towards it. If Chan can’t bring himself to look for the water, he knows that Jeongin will find it for him.
Jeongin nudges the ramyeon cup closer to him. “Eat before it gets soggy, hyung.”
Chan laughs under his breath and leans forward so their shoulders brush together, taking the chopsticks Jeongin is offering him. The warmth seeps into his hands and his chest, and he has half a mind to acknowledge that it’s not the noodles making him feel that way.
Before they decide to go back home, Chan finds himself laying on Jeongin’s shoulder, his hair tickling the younger’s cheek while his arms are looped into his hoodie sleeves without putting it on.
There’s an arm over his stomach, and he’s confident that Jeongin would deny wanting him closer, so he doesn’t think to comment on it.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘♡∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Jeongin sinks deeper into Felix and Seungmin’s couch, jamming the buttons of the controller with his thumbs, eyes narrowed at the bright colours flashing across the flat-screen. Felix is sitting on the floor, hyper-focused and the tip of his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth in determination as their characters race through a map neither of them have memorized well enough.
Seungmin, meanwhile, is plopped down on the one-seater with his phone out, scrolling through delivery apps. Every now and then, he’ll mutter something like “That’s too greasy” or “That’s a waste of calories” to himself, before he moves on to filter through the menu of a different restaurant.
It almost feels like they’re still living together, and Minho is either still out or locked in his room for his mandatory alone time before he joins them for dinner.
Trying to be subtle, Jeongin digs his socked toe to Felix’s side, smirking in victory when the blond gets distracted.
Felix kicks the coffee table when his character falls off a ledge. With a sulking frown, he turns around and smacks Jeongin’s thigh. “No fair! You kicked me.”
“You fell because you’re bad at swerving.” Jeongin replies without glancing down at the glaring older, focusing instead on overtaking the NPC that’s currently in first place.
He throws his hands up in victory when he finishes the race first, knowing that it’s a once in a blue moon occurrence, even when he plays with someone as inconsistent with gaming as Felix is.
“Are you children ready to make adult decisions now?” Seungmin doesn’t look up from his phone, but the corners of his mouth are tilted up into a small smile. “I can’t decide what to have for dinner.”
Jeongin drops the controller next to him, stretching his legs out as Seungmin scrolls through another restaurant’s menu.
“You’ve been scrolling for ten minutes.” Jeongin says. “How are you not in the mood for anything?”
Seungmin shrugs as he tosses his phone over to Felix. “I’m claiming decision fatigue. At this point, I’ll eat anything as long as I don’t have to be the one to decide what it is.”
Jeongin makes an acknowledging sound. “That’s weird. I can’t remember the last time I had to think about what to eat, honestly.”
Felix perks up, Seungmin’s phone clutched in his hands and the controller forgotten on the coffee table. “Why?”
Jeongin shrugs and pulls a pillow into his lap. “Channie-hyung cooks almost every day, if not, then he buys food on his way home, or asks me to pick something up.” Jeongin omits the fact that anything he picks up is already ordered and paid for in advance. “But he’s been cooking a lot lately, even if our schedules are starting to fill up.”
“Must be nice.” Seungmin mumbles. “I miss his kimchi jiggae.”
Jeongin cracks a small smile. “I’ll ask him to make extra the next time he cooks that, then.”
Felix starts tapping on Seungmin’s phone again, smiling proudly. “We’re having hotpot.”
“Of course.” Seungmin mutters, but makes no use to complain. “No wonder you haven’t been eating fast food with me as much.” He turns to Jeongin, who’s clicking out of their game to go back to the TV’s main homepage, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before Seungmin complains that he wants to watch his show.
“Does it help with your homesickness?” Felix asks, seemingly done with ordering their food. “Having homecooked meals a lot?”
“My homesickness?” Jeongin can’t help the way his brow quirks when he asks.
“Don’t tell me that you weren’t aware of how quickly you get homesick.” Seungmin’s expression is gentle but precise, the way it gets when he’s stating something obvious. “You and Chan-hyung are the most likely to get bad cases of it.”
Jeongin opens his mouth to argue—but he doesn’t.
The reality of it hits him in a strange way.
Yeah, he misses home often, even if it’s realistically easier for him to visit his family compared to Chan and Felix. The others go home quite often, sometimes even for only a day if they have nothing scheduled, but Jeongin prefers making a vacation out of it, so that he can spend more days at a time when he’s back in Busan.
His homesickness isn’t a constant or crushing part of his daily life, and he’s certain that Chan’s isn’t like that either. Not even Felix’s. But Jeongin knows that he feels it most when the days get long and the nights are so calm that he’s itching to get on someone’s nerves to start a petty fight.
But then, he comes home to a fresh homecooked meal he knows has been prepared with so much love and tenderness that he barely knows what to do with himself.
Just as fast, that quiet ache for his parents and his brothers disappear because the apartment smells like aromatics and Chan is humming under his breath as he cooks, and he knows his family trusts that Jeongin will come home soon enough.
Jeongin didn’t even realize how much it grounded him, but everything about Chan grounds him, so he isn’t surprised.
“It’s sweet, though.” Felix breaks through Jeongin’s thoughts. “I’m glad you two can take care of each other like that.”
The scoff Jeongin lets out is weak and half-hearted. “He’s the one that takes care of me. He takes care of all of us.”
Seungmin gives him a deadpan look. “Yeah, but you’re the one he allows to take care of him the most. He lets us be there for him and be his confidants, yeah, but Channie-hyung only ever lets you take care of him.”
“That’s not true.” Jeongin can’t help the way his voice softens, bordering on a sulking tone. “He doesn’t let me take care of him.”
Maybe Chan does. When he’s tired and Jeongin sees him half asleep in the living room, Chan would nuzzle into Jeongin neck and mumble about how sleepy he is, and Jeongin has to bring the older to his room and tuck him in.
When Chan watches anime and he excitedly tells Jeongin about it even when they both know Jeongin isn’t interested, but they also both know that Jeongin listens intently because of how happy it makes Chan.
Or when Chan feels clingy in the morning and he slips into Jeongin’s bed thirty minutes before they have to get ready for the day so that they can wake up together. Jeongin would wake up with one of his arms draped across the older’s waist, and he’d wish that they could sneak another 5 minutes in bed.
Maybe... Maybe Chan does let Jeongin baby him sometimes.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘♡∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Filming for JYPE Game Caterers is loud from the moment they step out of the van—even with only 4 members per group present, voices bounce off of each other, staff shouting instructions and managers rallying their respective group members to their places. Older people tease the ones they’re familiar with, while younger people buzz with nerves.
As soon as they step out of the van, there’s immediately too many people for this early in the morning, but it’s clear that everyone is used to it. Truth be told, Jeongin is excited for this, knows that they’ll all have fun and that it’s not every day that all the groups can come together like this.
“Just think of it as a PT or a team-building vacation.” JYP told everyone during their personal onboarding without Na-PD’s staff.
Jeongin walks between Hyunjin and Changbin, stifling a yawn as he sips on the Iced Americano they ordered for everyone on the way to the filming site. He’s grateful that they’re filming a scout concept today, so none of them are wearing heavy makeup or are overly dressed up.
As everyone is getting set up, they settle into the chaos like it’s second nature. Changbin immediately branches off to roughhouse with Chaeryeong while Hyunjin greets Kickflip and NEXZ. Jeongin stays in place since his mic pack is still being adjusted, and he simply watches as Chan finds himself between YoungK and Jihyo, clearly being coddled like the little brother he is to them.
It should be cute.
And it is. Jeongin loves it when Chan gets flushed from all the affection he receives.
But he still feels something tighten in his chest when Sungjin walks over and slings an arm over Chan’s shoulder, speaking loud enough that Jeongin can hear from where he is. “I was over with the NMIXX girls and they were talking about how great you are! Should I tell them that you didn’t know how to tie your laces when you got to South Korea?”
“I could tie them!” Chan snorted with a loud laugh. “I just did them differently, but they were tied!”
YoungK goes to pinch Chan’s cheek before the latter breaks away from them, pretending to sulk as he moves on to see how Xdinary Heroes are doing with their mic packs. By this time, Jeongin is done setting up, so he’s free to roam around while waiting for filming to start.
He goes to where Changbin is talking with the ITZY girls, catching the tail end of Chaeryeong recounting her recent family vacation.
“Jeonginnie, hello!” Lia greets with a gentle smile.
He joins the conversation fairly quickly, exchangbin comeback details as Lia and Yuna wander off to talk with other people. Every so often, his eyes would wander, mapping out Chan travelling from one group to another, even spending a couple of minutes to greet the staff and express gratitude for spending the day with them.
Changbin nudges him with an elbow. “Are you okay?”
Instinctively, Jeongin looks for Chan and sees that he’s now taking selfies with Lily and Haewon.
Changbin, Chaeryeong, and Ryujin follow his gaze. It’s only Changbin that makes a comment on it, nothing more than a knowing, “I see.”
Jeongin turns to look at his member. “What?”
Changbin shakes his head. “Nothing. Only the people that know you would think it’s obvious.”
That doesn’t tell Jeongin more than he doesn’t, so he lets it go and instead chooses to catch up with other people before they begin filming.
As the day goes on, it’s clear that it’s not just the older groups that are gravitating to Chan. Though, most of them are ruffling Chan’s hair and pulling his leg, praising him or teasing him and calling for his attention so much that it borders on doting, the younger groups are a different story.
They look at Chan with starry, grateful eyes, talking about how much they look up to him and asking for tips on performance and producing, or just telling him about how much they look up to him and Stray Kids as a whole. It gets Chan giggly and smiling so big that Jeongin can’t get himself to look away, even when there are dozens of cameras pointed at all of them.
And it’s not a secret within their group and some others that Jeongin has a protective streak. His parents called it resource guarding, like he was a spoiled dog that snapped at anyone that got too near his toys or food, even when he was always the most possessive of the people in his life.
It stayed the same with the rest of his members, especially since they subjected him to copious amounts of doting and affection at all times, so he can’t help but feel attacked when his hyungs are paying attention to someone else, even if it doesn’t mean anything or they’re not doing it to spite him.
Realistically, he knows that they all have lives outside of each other and are allowed to show fondness and give attention to other people—Jeongin knows that it’s wrong of him to feel sulky and pouty when one of the most important people in his life is being friendly to others.
But something hot still curls in his stomach between games and Chan and Hyunjin are immediately roped into a conversation with Wooyoung and Nayeon.
It’s not rational—he’s painfully aware that this is one of his least rational traits. Chan belongs to everyone: he’s their leader and their anchor, but he’s also somewhat of a safe place for everyone in the industry, the perpetually reliable hyung. Most of all, Chan belongs to himself.
Jeongin is usually proud of that.
He supposes that pride and jealousy are not mutually exclusive.
So, he slips through the organized chaos of the production crew setting up for the next game and managers making sure everyone is well and happy, threading his way right up to Chan’s side. He ignores the amused glances from Changbin and Hyunjin, instead focusing on how Chan is seated on the grass with his legs spread out in front of him.
Chan doesn’t notice him at first, gesturing wildly as he tells their sunbaes something that happened during dance practice—until Jeongin sits down on the space between his knees and presses his back to the older’s chest.
Chan stiffens, startled, and cranes his neck to get a look at Jeongin’s face. “What’s going on? Is something wrong, Jeongin?”
Jeongin bows his head at Wooyoung and Nayeon in respect before he takes Chan’s hands and wraps them around his stomach. “Just cold. It’s windy.”
It certainly is not cold. While it is windy, they’ve already been running around and goofing off with the sun shining high above them. It doesn’t help that Jeongin usually runs warm, so it’s even less likely that he’ll feel cold from the wind.
Chan’s concern immediately melts into fondness, his hands beginning to rub along Jeongin’s arms and holding him a little tighter. “I think there’s a jacket in the van, baby. It might be Minho’s, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Jeongin shakes his head. “It’s okay.”
The three of them go back to their conversation quickly, with Jeongin contently sitting against Chan’s chest as he listens to his sunbaenims talk about their own petty grievances with learning choreography on a tight schedule.
Maybe it’s the energy that’s been driving everyone today. The concept of a company trip to play and have fun, destress and rile each other up in friendly competition. Maybe it’s just the way Chan just has a natural talent of bringing the playfulness out of him, but Jenogin indulges himself.
He moves Chan’s hand to lay palm up on his knee, then taps the tip of his pointer finger in the middle of it, mimicking a person jumping. Chan, as he speaks to Wooyoung and Nayeon, closes his fingers around Jeongin’s randomly, granting him a surprised laugh from the younger when he’s caught off guard.
Chan lets go of Jeongin’s finger and lays his hand back on Jeongin’s knee, palm facing up. Jeongin does it again, laughing under his breath when he successfully pulls his hand away before Chan can grab his finger, and laughing under his breath when Chan catches his finger in his palm. He just likes that Chan is indulging him, too.
For the rest of the break, Jeongin doesn’t miss how a few surrounding people glance over.
Good. Let them look.
If Jeongin coaxes Chan into the same position after they’re both eliminated from the Random Play Dance, then it’s only because he’s privileged enough to have Bang Chan’s arms around him.
When Hyunjin joins them, he chuckles at them as he sits on the grass. “Yang Jeongin, give Channie-hyung space!”
Jeongin shakes his head and leans even further into Chan’s chest, going as far as to dig one of his legs under Chan’s. “No.”
Chan sputters, a laugh bursting out of him. “No?”
The music starts playing again as the game moves on to the next round.
Jeongin lets out an honest whisper of, “I want to stay here.”
Chan doesn’t argue after that. If anything, he pulls Jeongin even closer and holds him tighter, as if he doesn’t want to let go, either. As if he’s doing the same thing that Jeongin is doing: that while anyone can approach Chan, there are only a handful that can cuddle up to him like this.
And among that handful, there’s only one person that will get a kiss to the back of his head.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘♡∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Jeongin sets his bag down on the floor as he toes off his shoes with a soft exhale that’s equal parts travel fatigue and the lingering warmth of his childhood home. The train from Seoul to Busan is always the most tiring part of his visits to his family, but he powers through them when he has enough time to spare.
The Busan air still clings to him—mostly his mother’s cooking and the cedarwood cologne his older brother spritzed at him when Jeongin teased him by saying he smelled bad.
Jeongin moves automatically, the way he always does when he returns from home. He goes to the kitchen to unpack the side dishes his mother packed, the lids labeled with the contents of each container and dates of when to consume them by. His mother didn’t usually fuss too much when he came home, but she did make an effort to send Jeongin back to Seoul with a large assortment of side dishes for him and his housemates.
The quantity didn’t lessen when Jeongin’s housemates went from 3 to 1. If anything, his mother took note of the side dishes Chan prefers and made more of those. Even this morning, she was telling him to ‘make sure he eats properly, and that the both of you get plenty of rest at night’.
“You boys work too hard.” she light-heartedly nags. “I feel better knowing that my child is eating well with the boy that practically raised him.”
Jeongin didn’t bother arguing.
So now, he stores the kimchi, soy-braised potatoes, battered vegetables, scallop jeon, and seasoned spinach in the fridge. His mother also packed some braised pork and fried fish for them to have for dinner tonight, so he leaves those containers out on the kitchen counter and works on making some rice so that they can eat as soon as Chan gets home.
The apartment is quiet with Chan still at the studio with Changbin and Jisung. It’s not late enough for Jeongin to think he’s planning to spend all night there. As far as Jeongin knows, the three of them are working on fine–tuning things no one but the three of them can point out, the kind of overly-detailed work that Chan pretends doesn’t exhaust him.
Jeongin appreciates the hard work the three of them do to make sure all of their careers stay the way they want it to. Jeongin knows everyone puts them on the same pedestal that he does.
After he’s done with the kitchen, he goes to his room for a quick shower and to put away the rest of his things. He can’t help but feel like there’s something out of place with an apartment meant for two people only having one.
He can’t wait for Chan to get home, but he doesn’t want to rush the older. He’s learned to read the rhythm of their workflow: Jisung either falling asleep in the corner or hyperfocused right in the middle, Changbin geting stubborn, and Chan forgetting the hour because he’s surrounded by people who also forget the hour.
It’s as Jeongin is done with his shower and changing into his pajamas that Chan returns.
“Baby? Are you home yet?”
Jeongin’s heart jumps a little. There’s that kind of warmth that comes from everything clicking back into place.
Jeongin puts his shirt on and exits his room to greet Chan, only to find that the older is already opening the door to the fridge, presumably to get a drink, but the younger sees the edges of a smile when he sees it stocked.
Chan peeks out from the edge of the fridge door, eyes crinkling at the sides. “Your mom sent the whole fridge again?”
Jeongin shrugs, moving to check on the rice. “You know how she is. And I know you like her scallop jeon, so you can’t complain.”
“I wasn’t complaining.” Chan laughs. He takes out a bottle of water and closes the fridge, then goes to Jeongin to press his nose between Jeongin’s freshly washed hair. “Let me just wash up, then I’ll join you for dinner.”
“Take your time.” Jeongin tells him, the steam from the rice rising to his face. He blames that for the heat crawling up the back of his neck, even when he knows that it’s because of the weight of Chan’s hand on his hip to keep him close. “Dad said you should visit soon, by the way. He’s learning how to cook lamb for your next visit.”
There’s a kiss on the skin above his ear. “Sounds great. Our next vacation, then.”
The apartment hums softly around them. Chan doesn’t move away despite saying he’ll head to wash up. Jeongin means to start setting the table, but Chan’s fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, wordlessly asking him to stay.
Jeongin turns around to look at him.
Chan breathed out like it’s a relief to have Jeongin so close, when Jeongin feels like it’s the other way around. If he was feeling a little more playful, he would have teased Chan with the fact that the older has to look up at him, but he’s too busy fighting the urge to lean down and press their foreheads together.
“Did you have a good trip?” Chan asks, voice soft, like he could fall asleep any moment.
Jeongin nods. “Yeah. I just played games with my brothers.” Then, matching Chan’s soft tone. “I missed you, though.”
Chan’s eyes shift, warm and proud and almost helpless. Jeongin knows this look all too well. It’s seered into his bones, because it’s the look Chan gives when Jeongin makes him laugh, when he surprises him with small gifts, when he stands his ground no matter how stubborn he has to be.
“You were gone barely a day.” Chan chuckles. “But I promise to come with you the next time you visit. I can’t let your dad’s attempts at cooking lamb go to waste.”
With a muted chuckle, Jeongin tips his head to kiss between Chan’s brows. Just because he can, especially because he wants to.
They clash often, stubborn and too alike in all the ways that matter. Jeongin knows it’s frustrating when they push and pull and challenge each other. But moments like this, where even their relunctance to say things out loud is the same—he knows, deep down to the marrow—that they fit together.
Even when they butt heads. Even when they don’t acknowledge this. Not yet.
Chan moves his head, redirecting Jeongin’s mouth to his nose. A silent invitation that Jeongin doesn’t hesitate to take.
He smooches the tip of Chan’s nose before he dips his head even lower and kisses him softly, barely more than a brush of lips, but still familiar and grounding. The moment Chan leans into him, Jeongin melts, the kiss deepening in a way that has Chan’s fingers curling into the hem of Jeongin’s shirt.
The way Chan kisses him tells Jeongin that he’s been waiting for this all day. Like everything else about him, it’s sure and steady, gentle but certain. Jeongin feels that warmth spread all around him, tingling under his skin and filling his chest until it’s full and overflowing.
Beneath this kiss, like all the other ones, lost in the sound Chan makes when Jeongin pulls him closer, he feels everything they haven’t said to each other yet.
When they break apart, barely an inch of space between them, Jeongin finally rests his forehead against Chan’s.
Jeongin’s heart is still racing as he says, “Go wash up, hyung.”
“Okay.” Chan laughs under his breath, brushing another careful kiss to the corner of Jeongin’s mouth before he takes a step to the side.
Chan disappears into the bathroom. For a moment, Jeongin just stands there in front of the rice cooker, searching for the press of Chan’s mouth in the area between his hair and ear.
It’s silly—so silly—because this isn’t the first time. It’s far from the first time. But everytime Chan does something that intimate without thinking, he feels warm. He’s not fifteen anymore, nowhere near the little kid that followed Chan around hoping for a scrap of attention—but even now that he’s older, he thrives off the knowledge that there are some parts of Chan that are his alone.
He exhales, slightly flustered, and focuses on plating dinner. He takes out the bowls that Chan loves and scoops rice for both of them, but leaves the fish and pork in the containers his mother put them in. He heats up some kimchi and scallop jeon to have on the side, but doesn’t do anything more than that.
He’s halfway through putting down their utensils when Chan returns, his hair damp and skin a little red from the shower, wearing a hoodie that got mixed up in the laundry months ago that Jeongin never asked to get back.
Automatically, Chan moves to him. Jeongin feels him before he sees him: soft footfalls, a warm presence, a hand skimming along his waist as Chan leans over to set glasses down on the table.
They sit and eat. Chan forces one of his feet between Jeongin’s ankles and keeps it there as a permanent point of contact. Jeongin doesn’t mind. He feeds Chan a piece of kimchi and laughs when the older pokes himself on the cheek with Jeongin’s chopsticks.
In the stillness of their shared apartment, Jeongin catches Chan watching him with that soft, familiar look filled with quiet fondness, soft pride, and tender adoration, and it makes the noise in his head quiet down.
In moments like this, Jeongin doesn’t feel like a shadow or a mirror. He feels like he’s grown into himself—shaped by love and seen through love.