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“He’s alive in there,” Jeongin assures Minho when he arrives. “He texted me that he’d be out in five minutes.”
“And how long has it been?”
“Nearly two hours.”
“Right,” Minho says with a sigh. If even their maknae can’t get in, what can he really do? A couple of things come to mind, but first there’s the locked door and the whole bowl of ramen Jeongin has prepared for Chan to eat once one of them gains access.
Then finally, Chan himself.
Minho’s still figuring that one out.
“Stand back.”
Jeongin instinctively jumps away with his eyes blown open. They remain that wide as they watch Minho stride up to knock on the door, softly at first.
“Chan-ah, we have your dinner.”
“Minho?” A dreadfully soft, tired voice. “What’re you doing here?”
“Unlock this door and I’ll show you.”
Silence. Minho and Jeongin look at each other resignedly before they snap up again at a nearly indiscernible click.
Good, he won’t need to kick it down after all.
“Chan-ah, I’m coming in,” Minho says, taking the steaming bowl from Jeongin.
It’s been about a full day since anyone last saw Chan in the flesh, perhaps twice that amount since he’s eaten or slept. When Minho steps into the darkened room he has to squint. The only light is that from the laptop, reflecting all nine yards of pale naked flesh and a pair of bleary panda eyes that stare back at him.
Despite that, Minho whistles.
“Did you make that?” Chan asks about the ramen.
“No, Iyen did,” Minho looks for another place he can set the bowl down, because it’ll spill over if he picks the desk in its current state. And Chan will start off into a fret, and they will have yet another problem on their hands. Then it hits him.
“Save your work now and come eat this, Chan.”
“Oh, um, you can just leave it here.” Chan begins organising some scattered sheets on his desk.
“No,” Minho says. “You have to take it from me.”
Minho can’t tell for sure what face Chan’s making at him through that blue-light glow, but catches him licking his finger to flick through the stack in his hands, followed by that irksome little huffing noise.
Two can play that game.
“I’m not taking over the group if you die.”
“Wh— what?”
“You heard me,” Minho says. “So you can’t die. Now come and eat.”
Chan rolls his eyes, but puts everything down before rising at last. Minho notices only then that he’s got those ridiculous little glasses on. Does he think they’ll help maintain his already perfect vision while he works hours in the dark? Absolutely ridiculous. It also doesn’t help that Chan’s butt-ass naked, whatever he was wearing before long folded somewhere neatly in the laundry basket.
It’s infuriating, actually. Minho could upturn the bowl on the floor from how pissed it makes him. Instead, he collects some of the ramen with the chopsticks and holds it to Chan’s lips — that smirk at him delightfully.
“Yeobo, it’s hot.”
“Good,” and Minho blows the steam at him.
Minho checks on things as Chan huddles eating supper at his newly tidied desk, updating Jeongin that there’s now nothing to worry about, after first moving the laptop safely out of the way and bringing Chan a box of tissues should he need it. He’ll blind them both for real if he puts the main lights on, so he just makes do with Chan’s bedside lamp.
“Don’t do this again,” Minho tells him off, knowing he absolutely will. “You scared Innie.”
“I texted him, he knows I’m okay.”
“But you still scared him! I meant it, you know.” Minho goes and sits on Chan’s bed a few steps away. “I’m not taking over the group if you die. It’s not Stray Kids without Bang Chan.”
Chan swallows and his smile belies the sadness in what he says next:
“And it’s not Stray Kids without Lee Know.”
Well, they’ve both got the new album on their minds — no doubt it lingers in the back of Chan’s all the time. Running comeback to comeback is par for the course by now, but it’s different all the same. Any of them could be the one before Minho’s called to enlist — that thought’s probably wedged next to the album in Chan’s mind — and more than anything Minho hates that it's him who’s up first. It feels like he’s leaving, even though he isn’t.
Chan hates it too. He just won’t say those words exactly; they won’t add anything to what Minho already knows. Instead, Chan’s preferred to tell Minho that he’s grateful for him, that he mustn’t worry about him, because he’ll wait patiently for him.
And that he loves him.
It makes Minho want to slump weakly over Chan’s shoulders and press his face into Chan’s neck. But no, not yet. He drops down, arms spread, atop Chan’s bed.
“The last to join should never be first to leave.”
“Hm?” Chan hums. “What do you mean?”
“You need me.”
“I do,” Chan says. Those words sound far too good coming from him; Minho feels his heart pooling in his ribs.
“I need you too,” he breathes.
“You have me, love. Just give me a minute,” Chan says, and Minho realises then that the ramen’s all gone, the bowl’s dry since who knows, and he’s back mixing the track again. Minho can’t take it anymore, the rush of it floods him like hot broth, and he rolls to his side of Chan’s bed, whining and kicking his feet.
Chan has the audacity to gush and snicker at his distress.
“Awww, baby, what’s wrong?”
“Come to bed, Chan-ah. Listen to your wife.”
That, at least, hooks Chan at last. “I thought I was your wife!” he laughs, turning around in his chair.
“Okay then. Listen to your dongsaeng. You’re his role model. Don’t make an ass of yourself by not getting some rest.”
Both of Chan’s eyebrows quirk in surprise. Minho isn’t sure where that came from either. It’s been ages since he referred to himself as Chan’s dongsaeng, so long he can’t even remember when, perhaps even before they decided to do the boyfriends thing for real.
“I can’t take over if you die,” Minho mutters again. Why does it feel like he’s about to burn and drown? “I’m old. I have to go soon. Changbin’s basically coming with me too and it’s not fair to leave you.”
“Are you still worried about that?” Chan says softly. The laptop clicks shut and the sheets around him rustle as Chan lifts them over him, wrapping Minho up close enough to share the same breath.
“It’s okay, Min, we can go over the plans for that again if you—”
“No, I don’t mean that.” Minho shuts his eyes and opens them to find Chan holding him as he lies on his side, though it certainly squashes his shoulders to do so. “I miss you.”
Chan blinks at him, lips still turned up at him.
“I’m right here, love.”
“You’re here, but I won’t be. I’m supposed to be…”
Minho trails off. He can’t decide what to say next, there’s so much of it. Practically no time will pass at all before the other five follow him to base camp. He’s going to look out for them there, the way he’s always done. That’s just what hyungs do.
But who will Chan lean on? Who will touch his back, put their hand over his in the sleepless hours? Scold him when he inevitably forgets to eat again and frenzies Jeongin? Minho’s heart tells him to give it up. His brain tells him Felix. He loves that little chick, but he can’t bring himself to imagine it when he thinks of it. That's his job as Chan’s wife, husband and dongsaeng among other things.
“What did you mean, that other thing you said?” Chan’s hand finds his under the blankets. “‘Last to join should never be first to leave?’”
Minho pretends his sniffle is a very reasonable intake of breath. “What do you think?”
“It’s another of those us-things,” Chan says right away. “Our birthdays being the debut date, us being the oldest…”
Minho sniffles.
“You’re my final piece and my last love,” Chan smiles at him, and in the dark his eyes smile too, moons gazing back to earth. “I can wait, you know.”
“You’d better. It’s very un-hyung of you if you don’t.”
“Hey, don’t cry!” Chan chuckles with that staggering charm of his that makes Minho's teeth grit as he furiously knuckles his eyes. Chan moves them away and thumbs the tears away gently, pursing his lips at him. “Hyung’s sorry. Hyung will make it up to you.”
“Ughhhhhh.”
“Hyung will sing you to sleep, how’s that?”
“You have to sleep too.” Minho’s hands scrabble out from his chrysalis to wrap around Chan’s back. “Fuck, what time is it?”
Chan sucks in his breath a little checking the clock under the lamp. “It’s… one minute to four.”
“Look what you’ve done,” Minho mumbled, shutting his eyes and opening them again when he meets Chan’s skin. He looks at the outline of Chan’s body next to his under the blankets and knows this will pierce him anew when he’s spending each night alone for two years, squeezed in a humid little bunker, then breathes him in at last and knows, like he always does, that they’ve still got some more time.