Archive of Our Own

3Racha was a gamble. Chan had known the minute he met Jisung and Changbin that there was something special there, something worth protecting. As jaded as he was, as hurt and beat down as he had become hiding in JYPE’s practice rooms, he couldn’t shake the feeling that standing up on a stage with Jisung and Changbin next to him was right.

When they debuted, they found moderate success. It was less than typically expected from a big three company, but they just kept their heads down and soldiered on. They made the music they enjoyed. They experimented with their sound. They refused to give into the industry pressures.

Five years later, they’re one of the biggest names in Korean entertainment. Han. Changbin. Chan. 3Racha.

When Chan goes to sleep every night, he whispers it over and over again like a mantra, a promise that he isn’t alone anymore. He’ll never be alone again.

MAMA awards is one of the most highly anticipated events of the year. The performances are legendary, and everyone waits with bated breath to see what everyone will do on so big a stage.

Chan is itching to be out there, performing for the fans, and showing the world what they can do. It’s his favorite part of the job. Nothing beats the feeling of performing for thousands of people, looking out at the crowd and seeing the genuine joy painted across a sea of faces.

He has always preferred concerts to big award show performances, but there is something novel about the big budget, showstopping stages that they get to put together for fans to enjoy.

This year, they’re working with a new choreographer. He’s never done anything with JYPE before, and from what Chan has heard, he’s fucking incredible. Unfortunately, Chan hasn’t slept for more than three hours in the last two weeks, and he’s starting to feel less like a person and more like a corpse.

Chan walks into the practice room to see Changbin and Jisung laying on the sofa, Jisung’s head pillowed on Changbin’s strong thighs. Jisung glances up from his phone and a lazy smile spreads across his face.

“Hyung!” he says, hand flopping out toward him. Chan smiles, making his way over and dropping to sit beside the sofa and squeezing Jisung’s outstretched hand.

“Hey, Sung.” Jisung wriggles around to stare at him. He reaches out to plop a hand into Chan’s curls, ruffling them and huffing out a soft laugh.

“Missed you this morning,” he says, and Chan’s ears warm. He had fallen asleep at his studio desk the night before. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes. They have their first rehearsal with their new choreographer, and Chan probably smells like he hasn’t showered in well over 24 hours.

Everything is totally fine. He presses up into the warmth of Jisung’s palm and scrunches up his nose.

“I was working late, and then I was awake…” he offers, and Jisung rolls his eyes. Changbin looks up from his phone and raises his eyebrows. The silence stretches between them for a moment before Jisung rolls up as gracefully as he can manage, sitting and shaking out his bangs.

“You’re so fucking stupid.” he looks around, pulling Changbin’s beanie off his head to chuck it at Chan’s face. Chan blinks up at him, shaking out his curls and tossing the hat back onto Changbin’s lap.

“Yeah. Water is wet. Fork found in kitchen. Chan is stupid,” he says, and Changbin kicks his shoulder.

“Cut the self-deprecation shit,” he mumbles without looking away from his phone. He shoots off a text, smiles at something, rolls his eyes, and then sets it aside, “I’m locking you in your bedroom tonight.”

Chan nods, scooting forward to drop his chin on Changbin’s knee. They sit there like that, entwined in the back until there’s a knock on the door.

Chan is up in a second, and his dongsaengs are immediately there behind him. When the door clicks open, an unfamiliar head pops inside. Chan is immediately bowing.

“Ah, Lee Know-ssi. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, and then when he stands up, their eyes meet.

Chan goes completely still.

He’s so pretty. He’s the prettiest person that Chan has seen in his life. Chan’s eyes dart around his face, and he feels insane. A million thoughts rattle around his stupid skull. He reels back, blinks three times, and forces a smile on his face.

“Ah, good morning. Minho is fine,” he says, smiling pleasantly and pushing into the room. Their manager hyung comes in, and he smiles at Chan.

“We’re so excited to work with you! Everything you do is so amazing. I stayed up and watched like all of your stages last week,” Jisung rambles, and Minho chuckles.

“Oh, that’s kind of you to say,” he says politely, and then they all fall silent. Eventually, Chan jumps into action. He gestures Minho further in, and his cheeks flush pink when he stutters out a ‘where do you want me?’

They’ve seen the outline and the general idea for staging. They’ve talked through everything, and now this fucking Adonis of a man is here to teach them the actual choreography, and Chan might have a panic attack?

Minho has an easy sort of confidence, but somehow manages to be kind while he talks them through everything that they’ve decided. When it’s time to get to dancing, it’s like a switch flips. He goes serious, his eyes assessing while he works them through sections.

He gives constructive criticism with decisive sentences, but he’s never unkind. Chan’s head spins. It isn’t from the dancing; he knows how to spot.

Seven hours later, Chan is banging his fist against Changbin’s door. Again. Again. Again. He keeps knocking until Changbin pulls it open and frowns at him.

“Dude, what-”

“I think I have a problem,” he forces out, and Changbin blanches, pulling Chan in and sniffing at his sweat-slicked neck. His head drops to the side on instinct and hits the door frame. He hisses, and Changbin makes a warning sound.

“Are you in pre-rut? How the hell are you in pre-rut?” he demands, and Chan makes a choked-off noise. He squeezes his eyes shut and shrugs miserably.

It doesn’t make sense. They’re on such high suppressant doses that it should be literally impossible to have a breakthrough cycle. Chan goes off for one cycle every other year just like the doctor recommended, and it’s fine. It’s always been fine. Why is this happening? What does-

“Chris,” Changbin says, and the English cuts through his panicked haze. He blinks his eyes open and tries his best to focus on Changbin’s face, “It’s not your fault. It’s fine. We’ll set you up in your room, and Jisung-ah can stay with hyung or in a hotel or something. You’ll be fine.”

Chan tips forward until Changbin’s arms are wrapped around his shoulders.

“We don’t have time for this,” he croaks, and his brain rattles around in his skull when Changbin’s chest shakes from his laugh.

“I don’t think we get a choice, hyung. Come on. Let’s get you in bed. Do you need some clothes? Should I make you a nest?” he asks.

Changbin’s beta instincts are strong. He’s an excellent caretaker, and Chan is desperately grateful when he ushers him into the bathroom and turns on the shower. When Chan stumbles out twenty minutes later, there are two carefully folded piles of clothes on his desk, one of his and one of Jisung’s.

Chan is sensitive to scents. He always has been. Sometimes, he wants to burrow into his best friends smells until his own is gone, and sometimes, the idea of another person anywhere near him sends his skin crawling. He sneaks closer and takes a tentative sniff. He recoils, his nose scrunching up.

Changbin takes them away without so much as a comment. He comes back with a clean blanket that has obviously been doused in scent neutralizer and offers that instead. Chan pulls it tight to his chest and nods.

“Okay. Jisungie is already out, and Hyung has cleared our schedule for the next three days. If it goes longer than normal, we’ll deal with it when we get there. I’ll be in my room, okay? If you need anything, send a text or yell really loud.” Changbin’s voice is measured, soft. Chan nods, blinking up at him with hazy eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and Changbin sighs.

“Aigo, what am I supposed to do with you? You haven’t done anything wrong,” he promises, and Chan reaches out to grab his hands. He squeezes once, and Changbin leans in to ruffle his curls.

“I’m still sorry.” he argues, and Changbin shakes his head.

“Don’t be. I’ll come check on you soon, okay?”

Chan is done talking after that, and Changbin slips out of his bedroom. He gets a few more hours of lucidity before slipping into the hazy, lust-filled state that terrorizes him during his ruts.

He doesn’t remember too much coming out of it. He remembers Changbin coming in to force a protein shake down his throat between waves. He remembers getting tangled in the blanket and waking in a panic from being restrained.

But mostly, he remembers the ghost of Minho’s smile.

When Chan stumbles out of his room, Changbin looks up from his place on the couch and smiles.

“Ah, welcome back,” he says, and Chan just groans. He doesn’t say anything before showering and shoving four protein bars into his mouth. Eventually, he drops down next to Changbin and glances over at him.

“Hi. When is rehearsal?” he asks, and Changbin sighs.

“Hyung. We’ve talked about this. You need to slow the fuck down. Give yourself a minute to breathe, okay? I texted hyung and Jisung to let them know you’re good. But we definitely won’t be rehearsing before tomorrow. You need to sleep, dude.” Changbin says, ever the responsible one.

Sometimes, Chan feels guilty about it. Maybe Changbin should have been the leader. Chan does his best, and he’s good at his job. He knows that he’s good at his job. But there’s something about Changbin that is just so unshakable, and Chan feels absolutely fragile in his wake.

Changbin smiles at him, and Chan sighs. He melts into the corner of their couch and lets his eyes close. Changbin is watching some crime drama, and Chan can’t keep up with it. His head aches. His muscles are sore. He has so many fucking questions.

What could be five hours or ten minutes later, their front door clicks open. Chan shifts in the general direction, but he doesn’t relax until Jisung is worming his way onto the couch, pressed in the middle with his feet under Chan’s thighs.

“You good?” is all he asks, and when Chan nods, they drop it.

It’s good to have him home.

Chan reaches out to pull him closer. He tugs until he can bundle Jisung up and nuzzle at his shoulder. He lets the presence of his brain-designated pack omega wash over him. Coming out of a rut is always hard, but this one was so much worse than they normally are. Having Jisung there, bare-faced and happy, certainly helps to chill out his fraying nerves.

Changbin snaps a picture, and Chan glares.

“What? You’re cute when you’re not ten seconds away from a panic attack. Jisung hasn’t been cuddled in days, he’ll die.”

“I will not. Don’t be such a dick,” he says, swatting at Changbin’s shoulder, “Besides, Hyung doesn’t let me get that bad… unless he’s holed up in the studio for too long. Also, I can take care of myself?” Jisung rants, and Chan hums, squeezing him tighter.

“Well, I trust you to not let him leave this apartment,” Changbin says before disappearing down the hallway into his bedroom. Chan tracks him the whole way, frowning when the door clicks shut.

“Whatever,” Jisung grumbles, and then he’s wriggling in Chan’s hold until they’re both comfortable. Chan lets himself float for a while, his head still post-rut hazy. Jisung puts on One Piece, and Chan’s eyes fall closed.

When he wakes up, he’s in his bed, and one of Jisung’s scented quokkas is pressed to his chest.

Rehearsals are fine except for that every time Chan does a move, he thinks about the way that Lee Minho’s fucking body shifts. He moves like water. He’s sturdy like brick. He’s insane, and Chan is losing his mind.

He goes through the motions. He pushes through the moves as well as he can given the general panic surging through his brain. They go through it again and again.

Tomorrow, the background dancers will be here.

Minho will be here, too.

Chan’s stomach lurches when he remembers. Instead of focusing on that train of thought, he focuses on the line of his arm. He minds his elbows and wrists. He keeps his lines straight. He resists the urge to overextend. He practices again and again until Changbin calls it.

“One more,” he says, and Changbin shakes his head.

“No. You’ve got it. We need to rest now,” he says, and Jisung groans and throws himself onto the sofa. He flails and makes a weird noise, and Chan’s eyes dart over to him.

“I just think-”

“No, please. My legs can’t. They’ll snap in half,” Jisung argues, flailing more aggressively. Chan cedes without another word. They clean up and slide into the car when it arrives.

Changbin keeps his eyes trained on Chan for the duration of their drive. Chan pointedly ignores it, his foot tapping against the floor of the van.

Jisung is talking about the web comic he’s currently reading. It’s some bullshit workplace romance, and Chan briefly considers jumping out of the moving vehicle. His brain is sprinting a marathon. He’s bone-tired and restless at the same time.

“Chan, do you want to-”

“I’m gonna head to the gym, I think. I need to burn off some energy,” he blurts out, and Changbin sighs.

“You might need some rest.” He argues, but Chan just shrugs.

“Can’t rest when I’m like this. I’ll just toss and turn,” he argues, and Changbin must decide that the argument isn’t worth it.

Chan spends two hours at the gym until his muscles pleasantly ache and his brain is blissfully empty.

When they arrive the next morning, the dancers and team are already there. There’s a crew with cameras, and Minho is speaking with one of the dancers with a no-nonsense look on his face.

Oh no. He’s even prettier than Chan remembered. This is absolutely the worst thing that could possibly be happening. Chan swallows thickly, willing himself to stay calm and collected and unflappable. He pastes on his on-camera persona, an easy grin spreading across his face while he says hello to everyone. When he meets Minho’s gaze, everything goes quiet.

They both just stare for a second before Chan bows. Minho blinks once and then bows back, his lips twitching into a smug little smile. Chan’s brain sings. It’s rapture. It’s ruin. It’s terrifying and beautiful, and Chan wants to see him smile forever. He wants to make him smile forever.

His steps stutter, but he moves forward anyway.

“Minho-ssi, it’s good to see you again,” he says, and Minho hums.

“You as well, Chan-ssi. I heard you were feeling under the weather. Are you better now?” he asks, and it’s like the room ratchets up ten degrees. He swallows thickly and nods, his eyes darting around his face.

“Yes,” he croaks eventually, “Yes, thank you for asking. I’m so sorry that it messed up our rehearsal schedule. I’m sure you’re very busy and have a lot to do.”

Minho studies him for a minute, his face that same veneer of pleasant calmness, “Ah, don’t worry about it. I wasn’t feeling too well myself. If you hadn’t had to cancel, I might’ve.”

And what the fuck is Chan supposed to do with that?

They’re both staring. Minho turns then, claps once, and gets everyone’s attention. Chan is staring at him with that same forced smile as before, but his mask cracks. Jisung elbows him in the ribs, and he glances over. His head tips to the side in silent question, and Chan just shakes his head.

It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Unless it’s not fine at all because what the fuck does that even mean? He was sick? Did he eat a bad batch of oysters? Did he get a cough?

Did he have his heat?

Chan’s stomach roils, and he almost has to leave the room. God, if Minho went into heat, and Chan went into rut… fuck. Fuck. No, no this cannot be happening.

It’s fine. It’s probably fine. There is no reason for him to have a fucking panic attack here in the middle of rehearsal. He slinks over and takes a swig from his water bottle, barely resisting the urge to upend it, dousing himself in its content.

He turns back to Minho to see him placing dancers in their formations.

“Chan-ssi, can you-” he jogs over, settling into his spot with practiced ease, “Yes, thank you.”

Chan’s ears go pink, and Minho’s eyes linger there for just a second before he’s turning to fix the left side’s formation. After that, they rehearse the first song all the way through. It’s a little choppy, but after a bit, Chan settles into it. Every time Minho’s eyes find him, he feels it sharply. He’s keenly aware of him in a way that does nothing but set off every alarm bell in his brain.

After that, they go through and isolate. Minho’s face goes serious when he’s in charge. His eyes are sharp, and he catches every little thing that any of them do wrong. He’s still kind though. He offers precise, no-nonsense feedback without it feeling cruel.

When Jisung keeps fucking up the transition into the second verse, Minho comes over and demonstrates with so much fluidity that Chan’s breath catches.

He shows Jisung a second time and then politely offers a suggestion about Jisung’s weight distribution which somehow fixes the entire thing. He’s like a magician. He knows exactly what’s wrong and how to fix it.

When they transition to the next song, everything falls out except for them. The dancers are out of the way, and Chan is right there, center stage. He starts their dance break, and the second he moves, Minho makes an inquisitive noise.

“Chan-ssi. You’re not finishing that move. You’re cutting it off too early. You need to bring your arm all the way through,” he says, and Chan nods once.

Everything in him is screaming to please Minho. If he does it right, then Minho will have to be pleased, yes? And if Minho is pleased, he’ll have done well.

That’s all Chan really wants.

He tries again, and Minho shakes his head slowly. He comes over, stands a few feet in front, close enough that it would be so easy for Chan to reach out and touch him. He bites his cheek until he can taste the sharp tang of blood.

“When you spin, you need to go all the way through, like this,” he says, and then he demonstrates with practiced ease. His muscles shift, and Chan’s jaw aches. Well, shit. Shit shit shit.

He tries again, and Minho shakes his head.

“No, you’re stopping right here.” He does it again, and Chan can see exactly when Minho’s movements shift, just a hair too early into the next move, “This part is all you. We’re highlighting you, okay? You need to hold onto every millisecond like it’s precious. If you move too early, we don’t get the time to appreciate it.”

Chan blinks once, and then he nods.

It’s good advice. In this moment, no one else on the massive stage is doing anything. He’s meant to be showing off. Luxuriating in the moment, in being seen.

Right now, he feels stripped naked, bared in front of Minho and god and everyone in the goddamn room.

He sucks in a shaky breath and does it again.

“Better. We’ll move on. Keep working on it, hm?” he says, and Chan is nodding before he’s even done.

The rest of rehearsal is a Minho-colored blur. By the time their lunch break comes around, Chan’s pushing his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead and his chest is heaving. He chugs half of his water bottle, and Jisung groans, leaning his entire weight into Chan and looking over at him.

“God, he’s such a fucking beast. How does he make it all look so easy?” he whispers, and Chan chuckles, shrugging.

“Years of dedication to his craft? I don’t know, how do you make rapping look so easy?” he asks, and Jisung blinks up at him with a blank expression.

“Natural talent, then,” he deadpans, and Chan shoves his shoulder.

“You impossible little shit,” he whispers in English, and Jisung tosses his head back, laughing loudly.

“You love me,” he muses, and Chan nods, hopelessly endeared. Changbin is just watching them with a soft smile.

“Lunch?” he asks, and they’re both nodding. Changbin catches Minho’s eye while they head toward the door, raising a hand.

“Minho-hyung, come eat with us!” Jisung calls out, and Chan’s eyes widen. He whips over, and they make eye contact.

“I brought-”

“It’s paid for. And even if it weren’t, hyung would treat you. Right, Chan-hyung?” Changbin says, and Chan is nodding immediately. Of course he would. Minho stares for another few seconds before he walks over.

“Ah, well if hyung is treating,” he teases, and Chan’s heart stutters in his chest.

“It’s already payed for,” he reminds again, his voice strained.

Changbin leads the way toward the cafeteria, and Jisung chatters the whole way, filling the silence with his enthused ramblings. Minho indulges him, asking the right questions and encouraging him at just the right time.

Chan loves seeing Jisung comfortable. He blooms. Chan catches Changbin’s eye, and he fucking winks at him. Chan has never been more confused in his life.

Suddenly, he’s sitting down with a tray of food in front of him, and Changbin is sliding into the seat across from him. Jisung drops down beside him, and then Minho is sitting next to Changbin. Chan can’t breathe right.

Is this normal? This can’t be fucking normal.

Chan shoves a spoonful of rice into his mouth and chews slowly.

“So, Minho-hyung! What is your favorite animal?” Jisung asks, and Chan fucking chokes. He takes a swig of water and looks at Jisung like he’s grown a second head, “What! It’s a good way to get to know someone. If you’re boring, just say that.”

Minho laughs, seemingly delighted by Jisung’s antics, “I like cats. I have three of them, and they’re the lights of my life.” Minho pulls out his phone and clicks it to show his wallpaper.

Jisung beams, leaning in to study each one of the little animals.

“Jisung likes animals. Every time I give him control of the TV, we’re stuck watching dating shows or animal documentaries.” Changbin teases.

“Or anime,” Chan argues, perking up.

“You guys like anime?” Minho asks, and Jisung and Chan nod in unison.

“Yes! I just re-watched demon slayer,” Chan offers, and Minho hums appreciatively.

“Demon Slayer is good. I’m working my way through Oshi no Ko,” he says, and Jisung perks up again.

“Oh, I like you,” he muses, and Minho laughs, his nose scrunching up with it. He preens though, dropping a piece of pork into his mouth and smiling. He chews and chats and slots into the conversation like he’s always been there.

Fuck, Chan needs a cold shower.

When Chan’s phone chimes, Changbin groans.

“Ten minutes,” he offers apologetically, but Minho just straightens up. He looks… eager, maybe? Excited to get back to the grueling grind of rehearsal. They clean up their trays and make their way back to the rehearsal room.

Chan tries to act normal, but his gaze keeps drifting toward Minho. With every step towards the practice room, Minho’s laid back energy shifts into something sturdier. His easy smile softens before settling back into that serious look he wears while working.

Jisung keeps the conversation going, but by the time they’re inside, Minho has excused himself to go over and fuss over something. Chan tries his damnedest to listen to whatever Changbin is saying, but he can’t focus.

Minho’s forearm muscles flex when he scoops up his water bottle to take a swig. Chan follows the column of his neck down to his wide shoulders. He could really use that cold shower.

He’s shocked out of his staring by a clap. With that, rehearsal begins again. He forces the distractions away and puts his remaining energy into executing the choreography to the best of his ability.

It’s two more grueling hours before the dancers and crew are sent away for the day. Chan wants to curl up in his bed and never move again, but he catches their managers eye with a sinking stomach.

“It should only take a few minutes. They just want to triple check everything with you and Lee Know-ssi while he’s here. I’ll call the car for you after,” he apologizes, and Chan nods, accepting his fate without complaint.

Changbin pats his shoulder and saunters off toward Jisung. He watches them go, and doesn’t move from his spot until they’ve slipped into the elevator.

After that, he follows his manager-hyung upstairs into the meeting room where they’re finalizing the formations and logistical nightmares of the set. Minho follows them dutifully. They slip into the division one room, and Chan bows to the two staff members here to help them iron everything out. They need a road map for the lighting technicians. Chan’s head throbs.

He sits down in his usual spot, and after introducing himself, Minho settles down in the seat beside him. Chan maybe should have slipped into the bathroom to apply some more scent block. He can smell the beginnings of his scent sneaking through. He’ll have to keep track of that.

Minho sits straight with his head held high.

“Once again, it’s so lovely to be working with you, Lee Know-ssi,” Damin says, and Minho hums, spouting a polite line about being grateful to work with such a talented group and crew.

It’s odd. This is obviously the same man he just ate lunch with a few hours ago. It’s the same man that leads rehearsal with a keen eye and unwavering precision. But here, he’s different. Maybe it’s the lighting, or maybe it’s the crafted veneer that he puts on for suits. But it’s almost off-putting to see him put on an act like this.

God, is this what he looks like to Changbin and Jisung?

Beomjun starts going through their original plans, confirming numbers and timing with Minho while they go. He knows so much, can immediately answer questions, and speaks kindly but with intention. Chan doesn’t actually have to say that much, Minho taking lead throughout their conversation.

“And then, the dancers will use these side steps to get off stage for the dance break. They can wait beneath the stage until their cue which is-”

“No, they need to use the larger stairs back here,” Minho says politely, reaching out to tap the two main points near the side of main stage.

“There isn’t enough time for them to all get off before the break,” Beomjun argues, and Minho sits impossibly straighter.

“There’s time. I accounted for that when I choreographed. There’s enough time for everyone except the small group, but they can exit during the transition when Chan-ssi comes forward. And if the videographers know what they’re doing, the camera will be on 3Racha anyway, so no one will see if they’re a beat late getting off,” Minho explains. Beomjun bristles just a bit.

“No, it won’t look right for the cameras. We’ll just have them use the side stairs. They’ll be off before the camera would even need to cut to Chan for their section.” Beomjun’s words are firm. Chan frowns, glancing over at Minho. He still has a polite mask on, but there’s a tension in his frame that wasn’t there before.

“Yes, I understand that the timing is more complicated with the side steps, however, there are notoriously a lot of injuries on this style of stage. The last time I had dancers use those steps, one of them fell and injured her ankle and foot. For the safety of our performers, I accounted for the amount of time required to use the other stairs,” Minho explains. Beomjun laughs, shaking his head.

“If the dancers have prepared, they’ll be fine.”

“No amount of preparation can overtake a poor stage design. It’s dangerous for so many people to be using these stairs as quickly as they will need to in order to-”

“Lee Know, we’ll use these stairs. It’s final.”

Chan clears his throat.

“No, Lee Know-ssi is right. Remember last year, Jisung tripped down the stairs and strained his wrist catching himself? And he was the only one on the stairs. They aren’t very well built,” Chan agrees, “If we can help keep the dancers safe, I think it’s worth doing. If the dancers have prepared, they’ll make time to the side stairs just fine.”

When Chan throws Beomjun’s words back at him, his fingers twitch. He looks between them, from Minho to Chan and back before he nods.

“Fine. But if they don’t make it-”

“They will,” Chan and Minho say at the same time.

Beomjun cedes after that, and Minho relaxes again. The rest of the conversation goes fine, and Damin seems to step in and take over. When she gets a call from one of the other staff members, she stands.

“Sorry, guys. We need to step out for a minute. If you wouldn’t mind waiting… fifteen maybe? Then we can finish this up and just be done with it,” she offers apologetically, and Chan defers to Minho.

“Yes, that’s fine. I can wait if Chan-ssi can,” he says, and Chan agrees without missing a beat.

When the door closes behind them, Minho turns to Chan, studying him for a minute before he says anything.

“Thank you,” he says, and Chan jolts, whipping around to meet his gaze. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t that.

“For what?” he asks, and Minho rolls his eyes.

“For backing me up. He wasn’t going to listen to me,” he points out, and Chan shrugs.

“You were right, though. I was on the other side, and I saw Jisung go down last year it was like… I saw fucking everything flash, you know? And I didn’t know if he was okay for like three minutes and it was the longest three minutes of my life.” Minho considers that for a minute and nods.

“Jae needed surgery, she hurt her metatarsals so much. They haven’t fixed the steps,” Minho offers, and Chan sighs. He can’t imagine. He thinks of Jisung with tears in his eyes, cradling his wrist to his chest after they got off stage. No one even noticed anything was wrong until later when a fan posted a video clip to twitter.

“Is she better now?” he asks, and Minho blinks twice.

“Yeah, she’s better now.” Neither of them speaks again for a minute. Chan watches Minho think. And it’s clear that he’s mulling something over. Eventually, he leans back into his chair, dropping what’s left of his mask, and gives Chan a once over.

“You know, I didn’t imagine you’d smell like vanilla.”

Chan’s scent sweetens, and he slaps a hand over his throat with widened eyes. Minho laughs, shaking his head.

Idols generally don’t publicize their scents. Sometimes, they don’t even publicize their actual designations. Chan knows more than one idol who are publicly known as a different designation. He swallows thickly and blinks.

“Oh, sorry. Was I not meant to mention it?” he asks, and Chan’s eyes narrow. They both know he wasn’t, “Should I even the scales. Tip the balance or whatever?”

Chan holds his breath. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

“What?” he croaks, and Minho laughs, high and airy in his beautiful throat.

“I went into heat. Before,” he says, and Chan shudders.

“Why are you telling me that?” he asks, and Minho sighs.

“Are you being obtuse on purpose or are you actually stupid?” he asks, and Chan has whiplash. This Minho is new. Maybe this Minho is the realest one. Or maybe they’re all the realest ones, and Chan has just been paying too close attention to him.

“The second one, probably.” He says, and Minho shakes his head.

“Ah, so I should spell it out for you then?” he asks, and Chan shakes his head too slowly. Minho sits up again, leaning closer, “I think you know and just don’t like the answer. So maybe I should ask you this instead. Were you in rut?”

Chan’s ears are ringing. Minho’s words aren’t loud, but it’s a cymbal crash in his eardrum. He swallows thickly, glances in the direction of the CCTV cameras, and nods once. Minho hums, leaning back again.

“Okay, so you know what that means, right?” he asks, and Minho is right, Chan doesn’t like the answer. He nods once, and the omega studies him once again. He doesn’t say anything, leaves Chan to process that.

He spends the rest of their time alone trying to scrape a coherent thought out of his skull and into his throat. When he fails, the weight of it is crushing.

When the door clicks open, Minho is sitting up immediately, his professional veneer on display within the blink of an eye. Chan mirrors him, plastering a serene expression on and smiling at Damin when she comes back in.

If Chan had to describe the rest of the meeting, he would fail. Every word went in one ear and out the other. Damin is kind of Minho though, and Chan speaks when spoken to.

And when they’re free, they slip out of the meeting room, and Minho runs a hand through his shiny hair. Chan stares helplessly at the length of his fingers, and he wants to press him into the wall. Instead, he keeps watching him.

Minho lets him watch, refuses to hold his gaze, and leads him back downstairs to the practice room where he had left his stuff. Chan follows him like a lost puppy, caught in his orbit.

“If I ask for your kakao, are you going to implode?” he asks, waving his cell phone around with a smirk.

“No. Not here. Maybe later,” The words rush out of him unbidden. Minho opens his phone and offers it over. Chan holds it in his hands for a moment before he carefully looks up his contact information and adds himself to Minho’s contacts.

He bites back a reminder to not share it. Minho knows.

“Okay. Now, later, when you’re going to have a panic attack about this or whatever, pick up your phone and text me.” Minho sends him a sticker of a cat wearing sunglasses, and Chan nods slowly.

“Okay?” he says, still only half aware of what’s going on. Minho smiles over at him, showing off a row of shiny white teeth, and Chan’s chest aches. He wants to bite. He wants to bite and gnaw and claim.

“Top up your scent blockers, alpha,” he teases, and Chan squeaks, his hand darting to his throat again. It’s dessert sweet in the room, syrupy between them. He’s always had a sweet scent for an alpha. Minho hums, pulling his own scent blockers out of his bag and tossing them over. Chan barely catches the tube. He scrunches his face up, groaning and rushing to hide the evidence of his depravity.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not that serious. Us normal people are used to it,” he assures, and Chan glares at him.

“I’m a normal person,” he argues, and Minho shrugs.

“I mean, sure. But you’re a normal person with so many rules, you meet your fated-”

“Shh,” Chan is in front of him in a second, eyes frantic.

“See, you may be normal, but your circumstances are decidedly not. I need to feed my cats. Text me if you feel flighty, okay? Or call.” Minho says, and then he reaches out to squeeze Chan’s wrist just once. Then he’s gone, slipping out of the room and leaving Chan there to stare after him dumbly.

Minho’s scent blockers are still in his hand.

Chan has been pacing for three hours. He wonders, absently, if his downstairs neighbors want to hunt him for sport. Hopefully, it’ll be a painful death. He turns on his heels again and walks back.

He pulls out his phone and stares at the stupid profile picture of Minho fishing. Which is ridiculous. He has time to go fishing. What the fuck?

Instead of texting, he hits call.

He immediately hangs up.

Thirty seconds later, his phone starts ringing, and Minho is on the screen with his goddamn fishing pole. Chan chucks his phone across the room, flinching when it bounces against his pillows. He stares for another ten seconds.

When he presses the phone to his ear, he’s met with the quiet sound of a displeased meow from the other line.

“I know, but Channie called. I have to make sure he isn’t imploding, hm?” Minho says, and his voice is so soft, clearly meant for the cat, but Chan just melts. He buries his face in his pillow and screams.

“Hello to you, too, Bang Chan.”

He goes stone still for a second before he turns his head to the side to mutter, “hyung.”

“Hello to you, too, Bang Chan-hyung,” Minho amends without missing a beat. This man might fucking kill him.

“Hello.” There’s another meow. “Did I upset him?”

Minho laughs, “No. He’s just dramatic. Turns out, I like that, I guess. How was the rest of your evening?”

Chan debates lying. Eventually, he sighs, “I’m not supposed to do this.”

“Do what?” Minho asks, with that same stupid practiced neutrality. It isn’t cold, but it’s hard for Chan to parse it.

“This.”

“And what is this, exactly?”

“You just want me to say it,” Chan grumbles, and Minho sighs.

“Look, I get it. You’re a big time singer in a band, and being with me would be-”

“No, no I don’t think you get it,” Chan argues, “It’s not about you.”

“Ah, it’s not me, it’s you, is it?” he asks, and Chan can hear his eye roll.

And yes, it is him. Chris has spent over a decade of his life building this tentative, fragile empire. He spends every day protecting it, guarding it, looking for cracks in the facade and the foundation. He knows what a scandal could do. He knows how it could ruin absolutely everything that he’s worked for.

“No. I mean, yes. But…”

Minho gives him a minute. He doesn’t push even when Chan makes him wait for for what must feel like an eternity. He just sits there, breath steady.

“I have to be perfect. All the time. I’m obviously not, nobody is. But I have to seem perfect. And this is… a liability? Fuck, no, that sounds awful. I don’t mean it like that. I just mean that…”

“This is a risk,” Minho agrees, and Chan hums, “Sure. But Chan-ah, everything is a risk. You wake up in the morning and leave your house and someone might… i don’t know accuse you of throwing an empty beer bottle at their head or some shit. Or you could like step on a dog and break it’s fucking paw or something I don’t know.”

“What are you talking about?” It’s so absurd that Chan is shocked out of his thought spiral.

“I’m just saying, life entails risk. But If you aren’t willing to risk anything, you won’t get anything.”

Chan hums, acknowledging him without a word.

“Does it feel like your chest is caving in, too? Cuz it kind of feels like I’m being ripped apart,” he whispers after a while. Minho chuckles.

“No. No, it just feels like I woke up and can see a new color now. But only when you smile… or talk. Or move.” Chan’s chest aches.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks, and Minho sighs.

“Learn a new rainbow, I guess,” he says, and it’s so silly that Chan can’t help but laugh.

He falls asleep with Minho still on the line.

When he wakes up, the call is still connected.

Days pass, and they settle into a tentative routine with each other. Chan knows that he should put his feelings aside and focus on the things he needs to get done for work, but when he wakes in the morning, he checks hi phone first.

Minho sends him random facts or pictures of his cats or a good morning text, and Chan wriggles where he lays.

Sometimes, if Chan is really lucky, Minho will call him and talk about his day. He has an uncanny ability to steal the panic from Chan’s body. He isn’t sure where it goes, but it’s hard to get hung up on it when he gets a glimpse of Minho’s sweet smile or hears his melodic voice.

If anyone has noticed, they haven’t said anything. So Chan embodies Icarus, veering closer and closer to the warmest thing he’s ever known.

Minho’s apartment is warm. Chan toes his tennis shoes off, and a big orange cat comes to inspect him. He stands still, lets him sniff around. Eventually, he kneels to offer his hand.

“Sooni, leave him alone,” Minho muses, but Chan shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay. He’s cute. I don’t mind.” He pets him, feels the soft fur between his fingers, and looks up to meet Minho’s gaze.

He stares down at him, and Chan gets to catalog another one of Minho’s expressions. He isn’t quite sure what this one is yet. He stands, and Minho is so close. Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to grab, clutch, hold, protect. Minho reaches out to link their fingers together.

He doesn’t have his scent blockers on. It’s the first time that Chan has ever smelt him, and he wants to bite.

It’s ripe clementine, bright and citrusy and sticky-sweet on his palate. He takes a small step closer, and Minho raises his eyebrows.

“Can I help you?” he asks, and Chan swallows thickly.

“I… I didn’t think…”

“I know.” Minho fires back, and Chan rolls his eyes, reaching out to shove Minho’s shoulder with the gentle press of his palm.

“I didn’t expect you to smell like tangerines,” he forces out, and Minho’s ears flush so red that Chan’s head spins.

“Are you coming onto me, Christopher?” he asks, and the way his full name sounds from Minho’s mouth makes his head swim. He takes a step forward and nods. And in that moment, he thinks fuck it before they’re kissing.

Minho lets out a soft noise and then he’s pressing into Chan without pause. He crowds into Chan’s space, presses back until he’s against the wall, and pins him there. Chan’s hands are in Minho’s hair, and it’s silky soft. He’s never done anything so reckless, and he doesn’t even fucking care.

He ends and begins at Minho’s pink mouth. He tastes like clementine and sin.

Chan is nothing but a greedy fool, taking lungfuls of Minho’s air, drinking him up until he’s so close that they can’t be pried apart in any way that matters.

Eventually, when he pulls back for air, Minho hides his face in Chan’s neck and sucks in a greedy breath. He groans, nipping at his shoulder over top the fabric of his t-shirt.

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters into the fabric, and Chan lets out a manic little laugh.

“I’m gonna kill myself,” he counters, and Minho pulls back to glare at him.

“I’ll resurrect you and then kill you myself,” he hisses, and Chan can’t hide his smile, “And then I’ll resurrect you and kill you again. Then I’ll taxidermy you and carry you around like you’re a fucking labubu.”

“Something is wrong with you,” Chan says, and Minho shrugs, unbothered by Chan’s assessment. He pulls back, but his hand find’s Chan’s. He tugs him toward the sofa and curls up to his side.

“Sure,” Minho agrees easily. Chan leans in and kisses his cheek. Then he kisses his nose. Then Minho is straddling him, “Also, I haven’t gotten your knot yet.”

Chan makes a noise so pathetic that he considers shoving Minho aside and running away. His fingers dig into the meat of Minho’s hips, and he swallows thickly.

“Well.” He doesn’t know how to answer that. Minho laughs, high and airy and just a touch threatening. He’s so beautiful it steals the air from Chan’s lungs. His ribs ache. He leans in to nose at the sharp cut of Minho’s jaw.

“You know, you could have anyone you want? You’re acting like a virgin. Are you a virgin, Christopher?” he asks, and Chan shoves him halfheartedly.

“No. I just don’t… Everyone is always looking, you know? And I spent so fucking long working for this, and if I fuck it up, I think it would actually ruin me. I don’t think I could survive that,” he admits. Minho studies him for a minute, his face carefully blank.

“That’s understandable. But you still have a life to live. You shouldn’t ignore the other stuff because of your career,” he says, and Chan shrugs. He knows that’s true objectively, but it’s easier said than done. Chan has been mercilessly studied under a microscope since he turned thirteen. He grew up in practice rooms. He grew up with rules and restrictions and a desire to be good that surpassed his desire for anything else.

How does he let himself want after that?

“You sound like Changbin,” he says after a too-long pause.

“Mm. Wise man,” he says, and Chan nods, “Well, no one is watching you here. Well… the cats are maybe watching you here, but they’ve signed a strict NDA.”

Chan laughs, shaking his head. As if on cue, Dori comes over to sniff at him. Minho reaches out to pat him, murmuring soft praise that washes over Chan. His cheeks flush pink, and when Minho turns back to him, a slow grin spreads across his face.

“Ah, so it’s like that?” he asks, and Chan shakes his head.

“Please, please just ignore me,” he croaks, and Minho rolls his eyes, leaning in to nip at Chan’s bottom lip.

“I think that would be counter intuitive,” he points out, and Chan’s face scrunches up. Minho presses a gentle kiss to his nose, his left cheekbone, the space between his eyebrows. He ghosts his lips across the plane of Chan’s forehead, nuzzles at his jaw.

It’s intense.

Chan isn’t used to this kind of attention, and Minho gives it so freely. It’s unabashed. He opens his left eye, and Minho is smiling at him.

“Okay. Dinner?” he says, and Chan nods.

They order sushi, and Chan insists on paying. Minho lets him without much of an argument.

They have a lot in common which surprises Chan more than it should. They both like to exercise. They both watch anime and enjoy food.

Minho has a sweet tooth, and he loves spicy food. Minho loves to perform, had even entertained the idea of auditioning to be a trainee before he decided to pour all of his energy into dancing. Minho likes to read and camp and spend time with his friends.

He’s funny and attentive, and the more they talk, the more Chan wants to press him into the floor and taste him.

By the time they’re done eating, Chan is sated and soft and melted into his spot on the couch. He looks over to watch Minho pop a piece of ginger into his mouth. He reaches over, nudges their pinkies together, and ducks his head when Minho takes his hand without hesitation.

“I’m sorry that I’m so…” he starts, and Minho kicks his calf lazily.

“Dude, it’s fine. You need to chill out. Are you having fun?” When Chan nods, he shakes his head. “Then don’t apologize. We’re okay.”

That seems too good, too easy. Nothing in Chan’s entire life has been that easy, so why the fuck would it start now? He doesn’t say anything, lapsing into a tense sort of silence while Minho studies him.

Minho puts something on the television, and the living room is awash with the low hum of voices. Suddenly, everything feels too big. Chan could get swallowed up by it, lost in that too-muchness. He swallows thickly, and Minho’s face goes serious.

“Hyung,” he says softly, and when Chan doesn’t so much as twitch in response, Minho shifts closer, “Chan-ah.”

Everything goes blurry and then dark. Distantly, he hears something. Maybe Minho is talking? All Chan can worry about is the persistent pressure in his chest building and building and building until he can’t fucking breathe.

He sucks in a sharp, clawing breath of air, and then he’s being pulled forward with strong hands. He keens, and then he’s being tucked somewhere warm where it smells like Jeju-do in January. He inhales again and fights it the entire time.

There’s a hand in his hair, a beating heart against his chest. Or maybe it’s in his chest? He presses closer until his nose aches from the pressure.

“I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you,” the voice says. It’s Minho. Minho is here, and he’s breaking down into his shoulder. Oh god, what a fucking nightmare, “Mhm, I’m not going anywhere. Just try your best to breathe.”

It’s hard to to disobey. He chokes down another gulp of air, and Minho whispers praise into the curls near his temple.

They sit there like that until the fight drains out of him, leaving him shaking and boneless in Minho’s arms. He moves back, but Minho’s grip on the back of his head tightens. He keeps him there, shaking his head.

“Not yet. Scent,” he says, and Chan nuzzles mechanically against the tender skin of Minho’s throat. His scent sweetens, and Chan’s tongue darts out to drag across his scent gland. Minho shivers, pressing into his waiting mouth like nothing sharp lives there.

Chan keeps scenting until his head is filled with cotton. When he pulls back this time, Minho lets him. Their glassy eyes meet, and Minho smiles, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

“What did we say about imploding?” he asks, but his voice is gauzy now. Chan reaches up to poke the tip of his nose, giggling when Minho goes cross-eyed to watch.

“That ‘m supposed to call you first?” he says, and Minho rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be a smart ass. Have you considered therapy? You have issues,” he says, and Chan nods.

“Yeah, I have regular sessions. I have panic attacks sometimes,” he says, and Minho nods.

“I noticed.” They stare for a minute before Minho is leaning in to drag his nose up the side of Chan’s throat, “was it something I said?”

Chan flinches like he’s been struck, and his eyes go wide.

“What? No. I just… do that sometimes.” Chan argues, but Minho doesn’t look convinced. He scoop Dori up and deposits him on Chan’s lap.

“I mean… sure, but something caused it, right? Like a trigger.” His voice is quieter now, and Chan aches all over again.

“It’s not supposed to be this easy.” It might be a bad explanation, but Minho makes a soft, knowing noise, and reaches out to lace their fingers together.

“Oh, trust me. It won’t be easy at all. We’re going to spend a whole lot of time locked up in this apartment. It’s a good thing you aren’t allergic to cats,” Minho says, nodding once. Chan squeezes his hand, and shrugs.

“Sure, but… I guess I just… fuck, I’m scared.”

When Minho kisses him, Chan’s mind goes blank. It’s the first time his brain has been quiet maybe ever, and his free hand moves to cradle Minho’s jaw immediately. Minho licks into his mouth and shifts closer.

“I can work with scared,” he whispers against the seam of Chan’s lips, “As long as you’re not giving up on me.”

Chan wants to howl. The idea of giving up on Minho is so fucking ludicrous that his brain can’t even process it. He shakes his head, and Minho grins.

“Okay, alpha. Then take a breath and make it work, hm?”

Chan jolts, fingers tightening on instinct. Minho wriggles closer, dipping in to nip at Chan’s jaw before he pulls back.

“Make it work. Okay. We… yeah.”

The last few days before the awards are exhausting. Chan has spent every possible minute doing something to prepare or work on their next comeback or sitting in a meeting with the team.

Today, he wakes with his forehead pressed against the grain of his desk. When he sits up, there’s a twinge in his neck. He rolls his head twice and pulls his phone from his pocket.

It’s 4:37, and his head fucking hurts.

Changbin had sent him three texts, Jisung two. He fights back his grimace and pulls open his calendar app to go through the day’s schedule. He has his final fitting this morning and vocal lessons in the afternoon. They fly out tonight, and he needs to finish packing.

He scrubs a hand across his face. He should shower. He should go home and shower. But home is far, and the idea of going out right now makes him want to scream. He stares blankly at his monitor for a minute. It has gone dark. He rolls his shoulders and pulls his phone up again.

He considers sending a text to one of the boys, but they’re both bound to be asleep right now. He doesn’t want to disturb them especially not when they’re so busy. He fiddles with his case for a minute before he stands, grabbing his stuff and heading toward the door.

The rest of the early morning goes by in a blur. He stumbles home and sits under the hot stream of water for longer than he should. When the sun crests, he gets a text message from Minho.

It’s a blurry, sleep-mussed selfie. He stills, staring at the picture with wide eyes. He studies the sharp slope of Minho’s nose, the soft curl of his lips. There’s a pillow crease on his left cheek, and his eyes are half closed.

He sends a smiling selfie back before he can talk himself out of it. Minho sends a keyboard smash, and Chan’s chest warms.

He presses the call button and holds his breath until he can hear Minho’s steady breathing on the other line.

“Morning. Did you sleep?” Minho’s voice is lower than normal, gravelier too. Chan swallows thickly and makes a noncommittal noise.

“For a few hours, yeah,” he says, and Minho sighs.

“I’m going to figure out how to get you to calm down one of these days. Have you tried jerking off before bed? You can imagine me if it helps. I’m flexible,” half-asleep Minho says, and Chan sputters, choking on air for a minute.

“Um… thanks for the offer?” What is he supposed to say to that? He does think of Minho when he touches himself, but the omega most certainly knows that. Minho laughs and then yawns.

“I could do a live demonstration. Those are very exclusive. You have to pull strings to get in, you know.” Minho’s voice is syrup sweet, and Chan can taste phantom tangerine on his tongue.

“Is that so?” he asks, and Minho hums.

“Mmm, but if you’re good, I’ll even let you fuck me. Bet you’ll knot me so good.” Chan’s breath hitches, and he fights desperately to not imagine Minho blissed out and stuck on his knot.

“You said I’m always good,” he says, and Minho laughs. For a second, it sounds like he moves further away from the phone. When he’s back, Chan shivers.

“You are. My good alpha. The best alpha,” Minho promises. Chan’s mouth is a desert, and he fights to swallow around nothing.

“Well, you deserve the best,” he whispers, and Minho is silent for a minute. Chan is back to pacing his bedroom, barely comforted by the now familiar sound of Minho’s breathing. Was it the wrong thing to say?

“I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. The cats are getting annoyed with my pining. Anymore sighs, and I think Doongi will start clawing.”

“You’d look hot with a scar,” Chan assures immediately, and Minho fucking giggles.

“You only want me for my body.”

“It’s a good body… but I like the rest of you, too.” It’s a touch too earnest for this time of day, but Minho is unperturbed. Chan listens to the ambient sounds of Minho moving around his apartment. He pours food for the cats and drinks a glass of water.

“Sorry for calling. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Minho yawns again, but Chan can imagine him shaking his head.

“Best morning. Love your voice,” he muses, “Although you should be sleeping. You’re busy.”

Chan ducks his head, his face scrunching up. He hates worrying the people he cares about. Minho has a big heart, and he keeps proving it. Chan doesn’t want to burden him.

“Sorry. Yeah, I know. I’m not very good at sleep,” he admits.

“You should take a week off, and we should cuddle. You seem like a cuddler.” Minho suggests, and Chan’s ears warm.

“Ah, well I think we have a break in January? Maybe we could take a day or two?”

“Do you have other plans for your vacation?” he asks, and Chan shifts from his right foot to his left.

“No?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Minho challenges, and Chan’s cheeks go as pink as his ears.

“Telling you.”

“Okay, so then come over for the week. Text me the dates,” he says, and Chan is struck dumb once again. It still feels like some kind of hoax. It shouldn’t be this easy. It can’t be. And yet…

“Okay. I’m gonna go make breakfast for the guys. I’ll text you the dates?” he says, and Minho hums decisively.

“See you tomorrow. Please get some rest tonight.” When the line goes dead, Chan stands still for three minutes before he makes his way to the kitchen.

There are thousands of people cheering. It washes over him like a tidal wave, and he lets himself get swept up with it for just a second. When the lights come up and the bass reverberates through his chest, he comes alive.

They’ve practiced this for hours, and more than anything, Chan wants to do Minho justice. He put so much work into crafting them the perfect performance, he’s just a paint brush, a canvas.

Their first section goes by flawlessly, and when it’s Chan’s turn to command the stage with no one but Changbin and Jisung by his side, he luxuriates in every millisecond. He holds every move like he doesn’t want it to go away. He hits every beat with practiced precision.

When their performance is done, he pulls out his left in-ear and listens to the screams. They’re loud enough to drown out the rush of blood in his ears, the drag of air in his lungs. He slings an arm over each of his group mates’ shoulders and beams.

When they get backstage, Chan is buzzing. He makes his rounds, hugs the dancers and chats with his manager. He’s bothering Changbin, hanging on his arm, when he looks up and meets Minho’s familiar gaze.

Immediately, his stomach swoops. He straightens up and lifts his hand in the vague approximation of a wave. Minho’s lips twitch into a smile, and he pushes off the wall.

If you were to ask Chan about anything else in the room, he wouldn’t have an answer. All he knows is Minho’s confident gait and warm smile. When he gets over to them, he reaches out to ruffle Jisung’s sweat-damp hair.

“You did an amazing job. All of you.” His eyes don’t leave Chan’s face, but he lets Jisung pull him into a tight hug.

“Thank you for making it for us. If we did amazing, it’s thanks to you,” Chan says, and Minho rolls his eyes.

“Ah, hyung, you flatter me. You could give an incredible performance if you were just sitting on stage in your pajamas. You don’t need me to make it amazing,” he says, and Chan just shakes his head.

“Alright, boys back into your outfits, please, we need to be back in your seats in ten,” their manager says, and Chan wants to bare his teeth.

Minho shakes his head, turning on his heels and heading back toward the door.

“I hope we get to work with each other again. You three are something special,” he says, and then he gives another round of praise to the room at large, thanking all of the dancers for working so hard before he slips back out to his seat.

“You’re staring. put on your clothes,” Changbin whispers after elbowing Chan in the ribs. He jolts, gaze snapping away from the door. When Changbin catches his eye, he just smiles, reaching over to squeeze over his bicep.

The rest of the night is a blur. They win album of the year, and Chan bites back tears for their entire speech. Jisung keeps wiping his eyes, and Changbin keeps looking around like he’s expecting someone to pop out and tell them it’s just a big joke.

They’re here. They’re here, and they’re together. They made it.

When Chan looks out in the crowd, he’s only looking for one face.

It’s frigid when Chan slings his duffle bag over his shoulder and slams the taxi door shut. His breath is visible in the air, a hazy reminder of just how little he wants to be standing outside right now.

He waddles through the snow and heaves a sigh of relief when he’s safely inside the entrance of Minho’s apartment building. His fingers twitch while he waits for the elevator to descend.

The wait has been agonizing, nearly two months. They’ve seen each other, of course. They’ve even gone out in public a couple of times now. There’s nothing suspicious about Chan hanging out with a friend at the movies or a restaurant. As long as he can resist wrapping around Minho like a damn octopus, no one should suspect anything.

Mostly, they’ve been texting and calling. December is always insane for idols. They had too many events and performances. When the new year came, Chan felt like he could finally breathe again.

Now, he’s here.

His hand hovers in front of the doorbell for a second. He exists in that liminal space between decisions. When he presses the button, the muffled sound of a door chime makes him tense.

When the door swings open, his entire body relaxes.

It hasn’t gotten any less weird, the way that Minho soothes his frayed nerves like a balm. Minho steps aside and grabs Chan’s bag without complaint. While Chan drops down to untie his shoes and place them in the shoe closet where Minho has left an empty space for him, Minho trots off toward the bedroom.

He comes back and drapes across Chan with a hum. He feels the buzz of it against his back, and he grins. He turns his face into Minho’s his nose dragging a trail across the cut of his cheekbone.

“Hi,” he whispers, and Minho kisses him instead of responding. It’s simpler than the last time they kissed, just one gentle press of lips together and then another. Chan sucks in a greedy breath, floating in Minho’s soothing scent.

“I hope you don’t plan on leaving this week. We should just laze around the whole time. I never do that,” he muses, and Chan laughs.

Minho pats Sooni on the head on his way to the living room. The cats follow him, making themselves at home in the space. Chan finds his own spot, curling into the arm of Minho’s sofa.

Minho settles against him, pressed firmly against his thigh. Chan tugs him impossibly closer, letting the omega tuck into his side and make a home there.

“Mmm well, what are we going to do locked up in here for a week?” Chan asks.

Minho’s eyes practically sparkle when he whispers a conspiratorial, “Well, I can think of some ideas.”

Chan’s stomach flips, and he leans in to press a chaste kiss to the soft skin of Minho’s temple. They spend their first afternoon just like that. Chan luxuriates in Minho’s proximity . They watch a few movies and eat snacks. Chan barely resists pressing kisses into Minho’s skin every other minute.

When it’s time to sleep, Minho beats him into the bedroom. He’s lingering near the bed, but Chan manages to pull his eyes away from Minho. His room is tidy, brimming with personality. He has pictures pinned up on the wall, a bookshelf stuffed full of books and manga, and some random trinkets around.

Chan scans over some of the books and is surprised by how varied his reading tastes are. There’s nonfiction stuffed right beside a volume of Dragon Ball Z. Chan smiles so wide that his cheeks hurt.

Minho clears his throat, and Chan looks over to him.

“So… would you like to come in the nest?” he asks, and Chan’s entire world fades out. The only thing left is Minho. They stare for a minute before Chan trips over his feet. He scrambles over and nods.

“Yes. Yes, please let me in your nest.”

His nest is insanely tidy, and it doesn’t look particularly nest-like at all. There are blankets layered together and a bunny plush. When Chan settles in, his entire being is smothered with Minho. It smells like a tangerine orchard. He turns to bury his nose in the pillow and inhales deeply.

“Pervert,” Minho mutters, but then he’s turning off the light and worming his way into Chan’s embrace.

“You’re projecting. You’re the one who keeps mentioning my knot,” Chan argues, and Minho rolls his eyes, elbowing Chan in the ribs.

“I’m sure it’s a lovely knot. Maybe someday I’ll know for sure.”

Chan kisses the bridge of Minho’s nose before he bumps their noses together.

Someday, Chan will muster the courage to give Minho everything that he wants and deserves. Tonight, they’ll have to settle for reverent kisses and limbs tangled together like roots.

Chan has a short list of what he considers to be the best days of his life. Most of them are with 3racha. The entire week definitely makes the list. Minho is endlessly kind, and he makes Chan laugh so hard that he feels stitches between his rib bones.

How did he exist before this? How did he function before Minho was here to bring out the sun in him.

He looks up from where he’s laying on the floor with Dori atop his stomach. Minho is already looking back.

“Can I help you?” Minho asks, and Chan grins.

“As soon as Dori decides that I’m not a cat bed, I think I’d really like to get you naked.”

Chan bursts through the door to see Changbin and Jisung settled on their sofa with a bag of microwave popcorn on the cushion between them. One of Jisung’s animal documentaries is on, and Changbin is half paying attention.

Jisung looks up when the door clicks shut, and he smiles.

“Oh, hey Hyung! Welcome back from your trip. Did you have a good time?” he asks, and Chan’s head spins for a second. He nods woodenly, and Jisung’s eyes narrow. “Then why do you look like you’re going to freak out?”

“I slept with Minho,” he blurts out before he can work himself into another panic attack. Changbin straightens up at that, turning to meet Chan’s gaze with a quirked eyebrow. Chan shakes his head.

“No, that’s not right. I mean… it is right. I did sleep with Minho, but also we’re dating. And we’re fated mates. And I’m so fucking sorry. It just kind of happened? And I know that I’m not supposed to do this, and it’s an awful fucking idea. I’m just tired of keeping it from you. And I’m sorry. And I’ll-”

“Will you come sit down. Your hovering is stressing me out,” Jisung cuts him off, plucking the popcorn from Chan’s spot on the sofa and moving it to their coffee table. Chan stares for a second before he jumps into action, moving to sit between them with his eyes trained on the floor.

“Okay, first of all… will it help or make it worse if I told you that we knew?” he asks, and Chan’s head snaps up.

“What do you mean?” he demands, and Changbin laughs, nudging his shoulder and turning to face Chan head on.

“I mean… he triggered your rut, right? And every time he’s around you’re laser focused on him… You’ve also been glued to your phone the last few months.”

“And you went to see the demon slayer movie together! You didn’t even invite me,” Jisung adds.

“Yes, there’s also that. But hyung, those are all things that only we would notice. So before you freak out, I need you to remember that literally no one else has figured anything out. Also, you are absolutely allowed to do this. We haven’t had a dating ban for years. No one can tell you not to date the pretty choreographer that also happens to be your literal soulmate.” Changbin smiles at him, and Chan wants the floor to swallow him whole.

“Ugh, I cannot believe I’m the only single one. I would have bet literal money on me finding a hot boyfriend before you did,” Jisung whines, and Chan’s attention snaps to Changbin.

“What?” he demands, and Changbin blinks once.

“What?” Changbin counters, and they just stare at each other for a minute before Jisung breaks the silence.

“Bin-hyung has a boyfriend? This isn’t news. We knew this. He literally told us that he fully intends to mate him someday. They’re literally always texting?” That makes a lot of sense, but Chan is still reeling.

“You didn’t-”

“I did. I didn’t like come out with it or anything, but I did tell you. Some of us are just more subtle than others,” he teases, reaching over to ruffle Chan’s hair. He stands then, reaching over to ruffle Jisung’s hair, too.

“I’m living proof that you can be in a long term committed relationship without anyone noticing. You’ll be okay. I’m happy for you,” he says earnestly before slipping away to his bedroom with his phone already pressed to his ear.

“I’m stupid,” Chan says, and Jisung laughs, wriggling closer and nodding.

“Maybe, but that’s okay. We love you anyway. Hey… do you think that Minho has a cute dancer friend he could set me up with?” Jisung asks, and Chan shrugs.

“I’m gonna go call Minho,” he says suddenly and then stalks off toward his room.

Jisung mumbles, “great now there’s two of them” before he closes his door.

He face plants on his bed, goes over Changbin’s words again and again before he fishes his phone from his pocket.

He hesitates for less than three seconds before he presses call. Minho picks up on the second ring.

“Hyung?” he asks, and Chan grins. He’s quiet for a minute, lets the now familiar sound of Minho’s steady breathing settle over him.

“Do you want to come over for dinner this weekend?”

Minho’s yes tastes like salvation. He’ll give up anything else before he lets it go.