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The documentary was supposed to be background noise.
That was Chan’s defense, at least.
Minho didn’t buy it for a second.
They were sprawled on the couch in that familiar, tangled way—Minho’s legs thrown over Chan’s lap, socked feet pressing into his thigh, Chan’s arm slung around Minho’s waist like it belonged there (because it did). The living room lights were dim, curtains half-drawn, the glow of the TV washing everything in soft blues and whites. Chan smelled like clean laundry and that stupid vanilla lotion Minho pretended not to love.
On the screen, a group of penguins waddled dramatically across the ice.
Penguins Town, the title had announced far too proudly.
Minho had snorted when Chan put it on.
“Seriously?” Minho had said, scrolling on his phone. “This is what you want to watch?”
Chan had shrugged, chin resting on Minho’s shoulder. “They’re cute.”
That should have been the first red flag.
Now, fifteen minutes in, the narrator was waxing poetic about lifelong bonds and devotion through the harshest storms, and Minho could practically feel Chan vibrating with thoughts behind him.
He lasted exactly seven more seconds.
“Did you hear that?” Chan said softly.
Minho hummed. “Mmm?”
“They mate for life, baby.”
Minho sighed, long and suffering, and turned his head just enough to glare at Chan out of the corner of his eye. “Do not.”
Chan’s arms tightened immediately. “Do not what?”
“Do not start.”
Chan gasped, offended. “I’m just stating a fact.”
“A fact you’ve stated every time we watch anything involving animals,” Minho said. “Last week it was wolves.”
“They also mate for life,” Chan said defensively.
Minho rolled his eyes. “You can’t compare me to a wolf or a penguin every time we argue about who forgot to replace the toilet paper.”
Chan perked up. “You did forget.”
Minho shifted, turning more fully to face him now. “Oh, I forgot once. You forgot for three days in a row last month.”
“That was different.”
“How.”
“I was busy.”
“With what, angel?” Minho asked sweetly. “Your third rewatch of Fast & Furious?”
Chan opened his mouth, then closed it, then tried again. “That’s not the point.”
Minho smirked. “It never is.”
On the screen, two penguins bumped beaks, the narrator cooing about romance.
Chan gestured at the TV like it was Exhibit A in a courtroom. “See? Even they communicate better than us.”
Minho stared at him. “We are literally talking right now.”
Chan frowned. “You’re being mean.”
“I’m being realistic.”
Chan’s shoulders slumped just a little, and Minho immediately regretted the edge in his voice. Chan always did that—took things too close to heart, even when Minho was just teasing. It was one of the things Minho loved most and hated most about him.
Still.
Chan cleared his throat and said, very quietly, “You don’t love me anymore, just say it.”
Minho froze.
“…What.”
Chan waved a hand vaguely. “I’m just saying. Even penguins stay together more than twelve years.”
Minho blinked once.
Then twice.
Then he burst out laughing.
Like, full-on, chest-shaking, wheezing laughter that made him curl forward and smack his forehead against Chan’s shoulder.
“Oh my god,” Minho gasped. “You are insane.”
Chan stiffened. “I’m serious.”
Minho laughed harder. “Baby, you cannot emotionally blackmail me with penguins.”
Chan pouted. A full, dramatic pout. “Why not?”
“Because,” Minho said, wiping at his eyes, “we’ve been together for seven years, not twelve, and also you cried last week because I ate the last strawberry.”
“That was a special strawberry,” Chan muttered.
Minho sobered a little at that, softening. He reached up and pinched Chan’s cheek gently. “You’re unbelievable.”
Chan leaned into the touch immediately, eyes flicking up to Minho’s face. “So you do love me.”
Minho snorted. “I never said I didn’t.”
“You implied it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You laughed when I said it.”
“Because it was funny.”
“It wasn’t funny,” Chan said, wounded. “It was vulnerable.”
Minho groaned and flopped back against the couch, dragging Chan down with him. Chan let himself be pulled, ending up half on top of Minho, their faces close, noses almost brushing.
“Angel,” Minho said softly, thumb tracing idle circles on Chan’s side. “If I didn’t love you, would I still be here listening to you compare our relationship to aquatic birds?”
Chan huffed. “They’re not aquatic, they’re semi-aquatic.”
Minho stared at him. “You Googled this, didn’t you.”
Chan looked away.
Minho laughed again, fond this time. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me,” Chan said stubbornly.
“I adore you,” Minho corrected. “Unfortunately.”
Chan grinned, bright and boyish, like he always did when he won. “Say it again.”
Minho rolled his eyes. “Don’t push it, kitten.”
Chan melted instantly.
God, Minho hated how easy it was.
They settled again, Chan’s head tucked under Minho’s chin, Minho’s fingers threading through Chan’s hair without thinking. On-screen, the documentary moved on to a pair of male penguins carefully building a nest together.
Chan gasped. “Oh!”
Minho peeked. “What.”
“They’re gay.”
Minho snorted. “Good for them.”
“They adopted an egg,” Chan said, voice thick with emotion already. “Minho.”
“No.”
“Minho.”
“We are not having this conversation again.”
Chan turned to look at him, eyes huge. “But imagine.”
“Imagine what,” Minho asked, wary.
“Us. With an egg.”
Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. “We can barely keep a plant alive.”
“That plant died because you forgot to water it.”
“Because you moved it!”
“So it could get more sunlight!”
“And then you forgot it existed!”
They glared at each other for exactly three seconds before Chan cracked first, laughing quietly into Minho’s chest.
Minho sighed, smiling despite himself, and pressed a kiss to the top of Chan’s head. “I love you, you know.”
Chan hummed, content. “I know.”
“Even when we argue.”
“Especially then,” Chan said softly.
Minho swallowed, heart doing that stupid, warm thing it always did around Chan. “You’re my forever, okay? Penguin or not.”
Chan tilted his head up, eyes shining. “Really?”
Minho smiled. “Really, yeobo.”
Chan beamed and leaned in to kiss him—slow, gentle, familiar in the best way. When they pulled back, Chan rested their foreheads together.
“Penguins would approve of us,” Chan whispered.
Minho groaned. “I’m begging you.”
Chan laughed and snuggled closer, the documentary droning on as snow fell on the screen and the world outside their couch faded away.
-
-
The problem with Chan was that he remembered things.
Not important things, like where he put his keys or whose turn it was to do the dishes—but emotionally significant, deeply inconvenient things. Like the exact wording Minho had used three months ago during an argument. Or the tone. Or the fact that Minho had sighed before answering, which Chan insisted meant something.
So naturally, Penguins Town did not stay confined to that one night.
It followed them.
It lingered.
It waited.
The next time it resurfaced was over breakfast.
Minho was standing barefoot in the kitchen, hair still messy from sleep, wearing one of Chan’s hoodies that hung a little too loose on him. He was making coffee, leaning against the counter, when Chan shuffled in behind him and wrapped his arms around Minho’s waist.
“Morning, baby,” Chan mumbled into his shoulder.
Minho relaxed immediately, body softening like it always did when Chan held him like this. “Morning.”
Chan pressed a kiss to his neck. Then another. Then—annoyingly—lingered.
Minho nudged him with an elbow. “You’re going to make me spill hot coffee on myself.”
Chan just hummed. “Penguins bring food to their mates in the morning.”
Minho closed his eyes.
“…We’re not doing this.”
Chan smiled against his skin. “Just saying.”
Minho turned in his arms, coffee forgotten, and poked Chan in the chest. “If you say ‘penguins’ one more time before I’ve had caffeine, I will bite you.”
Chan’s eyes lit up. “Promise?”
Minho scowled. “You’re impossible.”
“But you love me.”
Minho sighed, defeated. “Unfortunately.”
Chan grinned and leaned in for a quick kiss, soft and sweet, before backing away and stealing a piece of toast from Minho’s plate.
“Hey,” Minho protested. “That’s mine.”
Chan shrugged. “Penguins share.”
Minho stared at him. “You are one documentary away from being banned from nature content.”
Chan laughed and padded off to the table, entirely unbothered.
⸻
The second incident happened in the afternoon.
Minho was on the couch, scrolling on his phone, when Chan plopped down beside him and immediately sprawled across his lap like a cat that had decided this was its spot now.
Minho barely reacted, just adjusted automatically, one hand settling on Chan’s thigh.
“You comfy?” Minho asked.
“Mhm,” Chan said, eyes half-closed. “Hey, Min?”
“What.”
“Do you think penguins ever get annoyed with each other?”
Minho looked down at him. “Yes.”
Chan blinked. “Really?”
“Yes,” Minho said patiently. “I think even penguins argue.”
Chan frowned. “But they stay.”
Minho felt something warm bloom in his chest at the way Chan said it—soft, hopeful, like he was asking without actually asking.
Minho brushed his thumb over Chan’s knee. “So do we.”
Chan smiled, small and shy. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Chan shifted, curling closer. “Even when I’m annoying?”
Minho scoffed. “Especially when you’re annoying.”
Chan laughed, hiding his face against Minho’s stomach. “You’re so mean to me.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” Chan admitted, muffled. “Penguins probably tease each other too.”
Minho groaned. “I take it back. We don’t stay.”
Chan sat up instantly. “What?”
Minho cracked a smile. “I’m kicking you out.”
Chan gasped dramatically and clutched his chest. “After everything we’ve been through?”
“After everything penguins have been through,” Minho corrected.
Chan tackled him back against the couch, all limbs and laughter, pressing kisses to Minho’s cheeks until Minho was laughing too, breathless and helpless.
“Okay, okay,” Minho said, grabbing Chan’s wrists. “Truce.”
Chan hovered above him, hair falling into his eyes. “Say you love me.”
Minho’s expression softened instantly. “I love you.”
Chan beamed, collapsing back onto his chest. “Good.”
⸻
The third—and most dramatic—penguin-related incident occurred during an argument.
A real one.
Not a playful one.
It started small. It always did.
Minho had come home late. Chan had waited up. Words were exchanged. Tones sharpened. Silences grew heavy.
“You could’ve texted,” Chan said, arms crossed.
“I did,” Minho replied. “You didn’t see it.”
“Because you sent it after midnight.”
“I was busy.”
“That’s what you always say.”
Minho exhaled slowly. “Chan—”
Chan cut in, voice quieter now. “You make me feel like I’m always second.”
Minho froze.
The room felt suddenly too still.
“I don’t mean to,” Minho said carefully.
“I know,” Chan said. “But intention doesn’t erase the feeling.”
Minho rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated—not at Chan, but at himself. “I’m trying.”
Chan swallowed. “I just… I need reassurance sometimes.”
Minho looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders were tense. The way his eyes searched Minho’s face like he was bracing for something.
Minho stepped closer. “Angel…”
Chan shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Even penguins—”
Minho laughed.
It slipped out before he could stop it.
Chan stiffened immediately. “Why are you laughing?”
Minho covered his mouth, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I—”
“You’re laughing,” Chan said, hurt flashing across his face.
Minho dropped his hand. “I’m not laughing at you.”
“Then why?”
Minho stepped into his space and cupped Chan’s face, thumbs brushing under his eyes. “Because you’re standing here, upset, comparing us to penguins, and somehow that’s the most you thing in the world.”
Chan blinked. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” Minho said softly. “Because it means I know you. I know how your brain works. I know you love deeply and cling hard and get scared of being left.”
Chan’s breath hitched.
“And I’m still here,” Minho continued. “I’m not going anywhere. Not because of obligation. Not because of habit. Because I choose you. Every day.”
Chan’s eyes filled, just a little.
“…Penguins choose each other too,” he whispered.
Minho smiled, forehead resting against Chan’s. “Then I guess we’re doing something right.”
Chan let out a shaky laugh and leaned into him, arms wrapping tight around Minho’s waist.
“Don’t scare me like that,” Chan murmured.
Minho held him close. “I won’t.”
They stood there for a moment, breathing each other in, the argument dissolving into something softer.
Eventually, Chan pulled back slightly. “We should finish the documentary.”
Minho groaned. “Absolutely not.”
Chan smiled, mischievous. “They’re raising their chick now.”
Minho sighed, pressing a kiss to Chan’s temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Chan smiled and tucked himself under Minho’s arm. “You’re lucky penguins believe in forgiveness.”
Minho laughed quietly, heart warm, and let himself be pulled back toward the couch.