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Their travel schedule is, to put it bluntly, absolutely fucked.
Not only did they have to re-schedule their first flight, but they missed their connecting flight as well, and the flights that Skijigi re-booked now means that their trip will take twice as long with more stop-overs as they bunny hop their way through Europe to Japan.
Everyone is understandably frustrated, even if the initial engineering delays were unavoidable. And trying to cram twenty-odd people into an already-busy food court near the boarding lounge is not helping. Everyone is tired, grumpy, and desperately trying not to think about the fact that they have to effectively go straight from the plane to a schedule when they arrive in Japan.
Some people, like Minho and Jisung, just shrug their shoulders and find a quiet place to go and download more anime for the plane. Felix has gone exploring with a manager, trying to keep moving as much as possible before the plane stiffens up his back muscles. Changbin and a few other managers go and get food, while Jeongin plonks himself down in a booth next to Seungmin, a sleepy Hyunjin clutching his arm and demanding cuddles.
Chan however, is not taking this well.
The longer the delays have taken, the more rigid his posture has become; the tighter his lips press together, the heavier the furrow to his brow. Jeongin knows that his hyung is already bending under the weight of constant last minute adjustments to the tracks for their upcoming stage performances. He’d begged out of sex a couple of times over the past few weeks in favour of hunching over his laptop until dawn, and Changbin had pulled Jeongin aside to quietly inform him that the company had also rejected a few of their demos for the next mini-album, “— so don’t take it too personally if Channie-hyung is a little more distant, maknae-yah.”
And, staring at Chan now, Jeongin can recognise that the stress is still there, a permanent exhaustion etched on his face, but it’s becoming amplified by the travel setbacks and the way they’re hewing away at his ability to always have a solution. Because he can’t, not with this.
No one blames him — Jeongin and the other six members will never blame Chan for something so incredibly out of his control like this — but the fact still remains that with so much chaos and disarray in such a short period of time, Chan’s need for routine, for structure and organisation, is crumbling. The only thing holding the cracks together right now is the familiarity of work, the crunch of a deadline, and the strong streak of perfectionism as he tries to hide himself behind his laptop screen in a European airport. And when he looks at his beloved hyung, Jeongin doesn’t see the way that he’s tucked into a small corner of the boarding lounge floor, next to one of the power-points. He doesn’t see the black aura hovering around him that screams DO NOT APPROACH. He only sees his favourite hyung, being washed out to sea in a tiny boat and desperately trying to face the angry, rolling waves head-on without capsizing.
The clock ticks on. The stretch of time they get between their arrival in Tokyo and their schedule gets shorter and shorter. Chan’s glare gets darker and darker, to the point where not even Changbin or Felix approach him.
When they’re finally on the plane, Jeongin switches seats with Minho after take-off, sliding in next to Chan. He doesn’t get offended when Chan barely says a few words to him, but makes sure to remind him of his humanity by sliding a meal tray his way, passing him a water, curling a blanket over his legs. Chan responds with a squeeze to Jeongin’s thigh, a hand on his arm, and Jeongin feels his heart lighten with every touch.
And then they land in Tokyo, and everything gets fucked up again when they lose Chan’s luggage.
It takes a little while for the knowledge to sink in. They still have enough time up their sleeve that they can wait by the luggage carousel before they have to be rushed off to the vehicles awaiting them, but even so, it’s a couple of turns of the conveyor belt before they realise. Chan’s bags just haven’t caught up with all of their plane-hopping.
Any hint of relief that might have appeared on the plane is well and truly gone. Even Jisung isn’t making any jokes, cautiously looking at Chan as if he might explode any second. His face is thunder, the bags under his eyes are storm clouds, and Jeongin can see the veins standing out on his neck from where he’s slipped his jacket from his shoulders. Jeongin doesn’t know if it’s the crowded press of people always inhabiting airports that’s making Chan overheat, or if it’s his anger.
“Come on, hyung,” he says gently. “Let’s go to the service desk.” When he tries to pat Chan on the shoulder, it feels like his fingertips meet steel instead of soft flesh.
The service desk is polite, but a waste of time. The bag just isn’t there, and they don’t know where it is. They leave their details, and then stalk off to their cars. Jeongin’s legs might be longer than Chan’s, but he feels left behind, and has to jog to keep up.
Chan still doesn’t talk to him as they fall into the only available seats left in the car, choosing to hike his headphones over his ears and stare out the window. His knee thrums with an energy that bounces the seat in front of them, and when Hyunjin subtly shifts for the third time in a minute Jeongin intervenes by gripping Chan’s leg, hard. Chan stills, but Jeongin doesn’t remove his hand.
Their schedule — a TV appearance with a short performance — is so tightly organised that Jeongin finds himself being whisked away from Chan as soon as they exit their cars. With his position as leader, and being one of the members that speaks and understand Japanese well, Chan is placed in the front and centre of their little group to chatter away to their hosts. Jeongin, unable to beat Felix for the seat behind Chan, settles instead for boring a hole into the side of his face from the end of the back row, studying his hyung for any signs of distress under the burn of the studio lights.
“It’s sweet,” Seungmin says in their pre-performance break, “how you’re trying to look out for Chan-hyung.” His tone, in true Seungmin fashion, suggests that he finds it anything but sweet.
Jeongin swats at his hyung, who easily dodges. “How about you worry about actually getting your footwork right in the chorus this time,” he bites back, but Seungmin can tell that there’s not the heat in the retort that there should be, and he laughs.
There’s another walk back to their cars. Another round of silence from Chan. Their stylists have managed to scrounge together a somewhat-casual outfit for him, but there’s no hoodie or beanie that he can hide himself under. His shoulders are a tense line.
Arriving at the hotel, Jeongin reattaches himself back to Chan’s side like a small planet sucked into the gravitational pull of the sun. Their rooms are on the same floor, and when Jeongin opens his mouth to offer clothes, company, his body, anything, Chan abruptly says, “I’ve got some things I need to keep working on, Jeongin-ah I’ll see you later,” and disappears behind his door.
Jeongin feels cold and hollow. Jeongin-ah. Not Jeonginnie. Not Yeni.
It’s fine, he tells himself, swallowing his disappointment. Chan just… is busy. It’s an excuse he tells himself, he knows it is, but he doesn’t care. Jeongin will be there if Chan needs him. When he needs him.
He unpacks, sets up his room. Tries not to think about the reason behind the neat way he lays his belongings out.
Hyunjin and Seungmin collect him for a late dinner at the hotel restaurant. There’s no response when they knock on Chan’s door, no answer when he calls his phone.
Hyunjin, seeing Jeongin scowling down at his phone, gently says, “Leave it; hyung will be fine, Jeonginnie. He’s had a shit day, and probably just wants some space.”
He doesn’t need space, Jeongin wants to retort, growing more and more uneasy as the prolonged silence from Chan stretches on. He needs food. A smile. Sleep.
If they were home, it would be easy. He would make Eomma’s kimchi jjigae, letting the smell beckon to Chan from the kitchen. And if that failed, Jeongin could simply pull Chan from his room, safe in the fact that, for as long as they’ve known each other, Chan has never been able to comfortably deny Jeongin much in life. They would eat, Chan would relax throughout the meal, and then, if his careful ministrations at conversation were futile, Jeongin would offer himself to Chan, hoping that he could ease whatever tension was rumpling Chan’s brain through a round of sex to help him sleep.
Sometimes — and these are the times that Jeongin really treasures — Chan is lucid enough after sex that they lie there together in Jeongin’s room and just— talk. About the members. Work. Themselves. On those nights, somewhere in the shadow hours after midnight, the hesitation that is so evident in Chan disappears, and the words just start spilling out. His thoughts. His current anxieties. The recent troubles with their album. And on those nights, Jeongin curls himself on his side, tucks his hands under his pillow to stop them from doing something horribly stupid, like pushing back a loose strand of Chan’s hair, or tracing the words I love you into his skin with his finger. He will look at Chan, and he will listen to him, and he will think, you are everything and more.
It isn’t enough, it never feels like it will ever be enough, but Jeongin contents himself with whatever his hyung is willing to give him. So he will be there, as a comforting presence, an open ear. He will use his silly maknae charm that always makes his hyungs smile. He will be a safe space. He will wait.
None of that will work now, however. Not with the physical barrier of the door between them, let alone the emotional wall that Chan has constructed around himself. No, Jeongin can’t just break down Chan’s door and force him to talk, or to fuck it out. Instead, he has to settle for letting Hyunjin loop his arm around his neck and drag him down the hallway while he texts a dinner invitation to his hyung. It goes ignored until halfway through their meal with Felix, and then Jeongin’s phone pings.
Sorry. Will just get room service, Chan’s reply reads, and Jeongin has to force himself to gulp down the mouthful of food that crumbles to ash in his mouth. If the others notice the way he drops further and further into silence throughout the meal, they choose not to comment on it.
There’s still no answer when he tries knocking on Chan’s door on the way back to his own room, nor does he answer the other message that Jeongin sends him.
And then.
Chan texts to ask if he can borrow some of his skincare products. They’ve shared before at home, so it’s no trouble, and Jeongin agrees easily, hoping to finally get his hyung alone. Chan has barely finished knocking when Jeongin opens the door to him, and Jeongin thinks that he does a good job at pretending that it’s not a crushing blow to his chest when he sees Chan in one of Minho’s shirts. That it’s his dinner that’s suddenly sitting heavy and making his stomach uncomfortable and not jealousy. Then he sees that Chan’s sweaty, slightly out of breath, and feels an extra stab that Chan had a gym session without him. That he’s being reminded of the fact that Chan was choosing to stay in separate rooms, rather than squishing into Jeongin’s bed the way he sometimes does when he can’t admit that he’s lonely, or is too shy to ask directly for sex.
And Jeongin tries. He tries so very hard to pretend that he’s okay with it.
He swallows. “You went to the gym.” The weight of the unspoken without me hangs in the air.
“Yeah,” Chan says sheepishly. “I— needed to get some feelings out.”
“Why are you wearing Minho-hyung’s clothes,” Jeongin tries to ask. It comes out as more of an accusation.
Chan frowns. “Gym?” he reminds, like Jeongin missed the entire previous part of their conversation. “I have no clothes of my own, remember.”
“No.” Maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s irrational. But Jeongin's the one that’s feeling angry now, trying not to choke on the acidity of his emotions as they rise in his throat. “Why are you wearing Minho-hyung’s shirt.”
Chan blinks. “He… offered it to me?”
Jeongin grabs the offending shirt, uses it to haul Chan inside. And he has been patient, Jeongin has been so fucking patient, but apparently a poly-cotton blend in size L is going to be the one thing that sends him over the edge. “Take it off,” he snaps.
His own suitcase is sitting on the built-in bench just inside the door, so he doesn’t have to move far to rummage through it. He finds what he’s looking for easily; years of watching Chan packing his own bags has bled into Jeongin’s own neat preparation style.
“Yen-ah,” Chan starts, but it’s not enough that he’s back to using Jeongin’s nickname again.
“I said take it off,” Jeongin says again, and his tone is sharp, his voice rising at the end of the sentence while he’s elbow-deep in his suitcase. He turns, shoves a tank top at Chan and throws a pair of clean boxers at him. Chan flinches when they hit his face and Jeongin rolls his eyes.
“They’re clean,” he says firmly. “You’ve literally swallowed my come before and you have a problem with a clean pair of shorts? Or is it just my clothes in general? Seeing as you’re so happy to wear Minho-hyung’s clothes.”
Chan is gaping at him now. “Jeongin,” he tries again weakly, but Jeongin shoves him in the direction of the bathroom. He's strong enough now that Chan has to take a step or two to steady himself.
“There’s extra towels,” he says. “And my skin care is already set out on the bench. Have a shower.” And he shuts the door in Chan’s face.
There’s a part of him that supposes he should feel bad for treating his hyung this way, but Jeongin just feels— frustrated. Frustrated that Chan is still shutting him out when all he wants to do is help his hyung, when all he’s tried to do is help. To be a source of comfort that’s not just related to being the cute maknae that makes him smile, or the roommate that he has sex with.
He gets the bed ready as he hears the shower running, pulling back the covers and neatly stacking the extra pillows on the chair in the corner of the room. He’s just finishing up when the water turns off, and Chan exits the bathroom a short time later. He stops, confused.
“Oh. You’re going to bed?” he asks, like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world.
Jeongin pauses, gives Chan a narrow-eyed look. “No. We’re going to bed.”
Chan is confused. “But. I thought— aren’t you mad at me, Yen-ah?”
“Yes,” Jeongin says. “Now get into bed, hyung.”
“I can’t,” Chan says, and he sighs deeply, one that rattles his bones. His shoulders droop, and he leans against the wall. The warmth of the shower has melted away the shield he'd used to hide his exhaustion, but it's clear now. Especially in the way that Chan needs something to help him stand upright, like a drunkard. The removal of his eye makeup highlights how dark the circles are under his eyes. “Jeonginnie, I can’t. I’m sorry, I’m too tired for sex tonight.”
“Hyung, I don’t want sex,” Jeongin implores. “I want you to get into bed and sleep.”
“I can’t,” Chan begs, closing his eyes. “I still have mixes to look at, I still—”
Jeongin has had enough.
“Chan-ah,” he barks, raising his voice to talk over Chan. “Stop. It’s my turn to be the hyung now. So let me do it. Let me take care of you for five minutes. The songs can wait until morning. They will still be there. But right now, it’s bed time.”
Slipping into banmal with Chan — even after all these years of living together, of knowing each other — feels uncomfortable, like a child playing dress-up in their parents’ clothes. Half of Jeongin’s brain is curling in on itself at the lack of respect he’s showing his leader, his hyung, his— his favourite person, who is truly unlike any other human that he’s ever met. But the other part of him, the one that's taken one look at Chan, still spaced out and detached, recognises that this is what he needs right now — to have those barriers of formality stripped away. To be told what to do, to have someone else take control and let him simply follow along so that his overworked brain can just… start to unwind.
So Jeongin will do it. For Chan.
Chan hasn’t moved, nor has he scolded him for speaking like that, but Jeongin didn’t think that he would. Instead, Jeongin can see that there’s something different in his facial expression — nothing drastic, just a small flicker. An opening.
Jeongin presses one of his bedside switches and the main lights turn off, leaving the room dark except for the warm glow of the lamp next to him. “Get into the damn bed, Chan-ah,” Jeongin repeats firmly.
“Hyung-nim,” Chan says softly, and it’s— it’s not the teasing tone that he normally uses when he addresses Jeongin like this. It’s different. It feels more… real. There’s a shiver that scuttles down Jeongin’s spine that he staunchly tries to not think about. This is not about him right now. This is about Chan, and the way it feels like he’s about to offer a protest. So Jeongin plays dirty, in the only way that he can think of to get Chan to acquiesce.
“You’re no good to us like this,” he says, wishing he could be less brutal. Wishing the knife was less blunt. But he shoves it in, twists, leaves it in the bleeding wound. “Do you hear me, Chan-ah? You are a walking ghost right now; how do you think you’re going to get through all of the schedules tomorrow? The rest of the week? I need you— ” His voice cracks. “We need you with us. You might think that we don’t anymore, not as much as we used to, but we do. Always. But not like this, where you’re so exhausted that you’re barely hanging on. Not this way.”
In a strange turn of events, the members were, in fact, probably the one thing that Chan had been okay with relaxing his control over. Perhaps though, Jeongin thinks, that had never really been about trying to control them, but stemmed more from the deep-seated terror in their early years that Chan’s little family would be taken away from him. It’s different now — all of the years they’ve spent together has constructed a bond so deep that any life void of each other’s presence is just… an existence. Just a cold and empty existence lacking that spark of joy and love to give it warmth. Meaning. And Chan himself is the living embodiment of this. Jeongin likes to think that maybe Chan has done enough self-growth over the years that— that he could survive something happening to the group, to any of them, but that does nothing to alleviate the fear of his hyung becoming lonely and inanimate, like a marionette without the strings of his members to bring him to life.
“Please,” Jeongin whispers. “Please just get into bed, hyung. For me.”
“I don’t have my pillow,” Chan says quietly. It isn't, Jeongin notes with a small hint of pleasure, a direct refusal like before. “It’s in my luggage and I don’t— Yen-ah, I don’t have my pillow for my snoring. I’m going to keep you awake, and I don’t want that, you’re tired, and you need to sleep.”
“And you don’t?” Jeongin bites back. Chan is silent. “I don’t care about the snoring,” Jeongin says vehemently. “Is that— is that why you didn’t share a room with me? Because you’re worried about that?”
Chan shrugs, looking down at the ground. He toes the carpet.
“The songs,” Jeongin realises. “You were going to work yourself into the ground again trying to fix everything.”
“I don’t want to keep you awake, hyung-nim,” Chan says softly. And— this is what Chan does. Self-sacrifices, tears himself limb from limb, flesh from bone, in the desire — no, the necessity — to never be a burden, never be an inconvenience to anyone. To be that unwavering, infallible hyung. And even now, when he needs help, Chan is still refusing to accept that he is allowed to want. To need. And Jeongin can feel something shrivel inside him at the way that Chan is there, still in his little boat facing the storm — only this time he’s trying to bail water out of a leak that fills just as quickly as he can empty it, while he searches the horizon for a lighthouse to bring him safely to shore. Because he’d rather do this alone the face the possibility of letting someone else drown with him.
Jeongin sighs. “Come to bed,” he says, and his voice has softened.
“I don’t have— ” Chan starts, but Jeongin interrupts.
“Pillows,” he says. “I know. You can use mine.”
Chan’s shoulders are drooping, the fight going out of him. And this, this is what Jeongin wants. For his hyung to finally drop his guard and let him in. To realise that he doesn’t always have to do everything alone; that Jeongin is here, to be whatever Chan needs. Whatever Chan wants. Jeongin can be just as steady and dependable as Chan himself.
Jeongin can be that lighthouse for him.
Jeongin wants to be that lighthouse.
Chan is shuffling over to the stack of pillows on the desk chair, his feet sliding against the carpet because he’s too tired to lift them up properly. He starts to pick through them.
“No,” Jeongin says. “That’s not what I meant.”
Chan looks at him over his shoulder, questioning.
Jeongin jerks his head back at the bed. “Get into to bed before you fall asleep on your feet, Chan-ah,” he says. He’s trying to be calm, unaffected. The weight of the banmal still feels heavy on his tongue. But it also feels right, the more he uses it.
Chan does as Jeongin says, pulling back the covers to slide into the bed. He doesn’t lay down, not yet, still not quite sure what Jeongin has in mind. He’s waiting, Jeongin realises, to be told what to do next.
Jeongin slips under the covers next to him, adjusting the pillow behind his head so that he can lie comfortably. Then he looks at Chan.
“Come here,” he says. His tone is more neutral now, his anger all bled out. He holds out an arm.
Still seated, Chan does a slow and awkward side-shuffle closer to Jeongin. Then he glances down at his outstretched hand.
“Hyung-nim,” he starts. “I— oh?” His voice rises in surprise, taken aback when, now that he’s within grasp, Jeongin grips his tank top and pulls. Chan loses his balance, falling forward and almost jarring his teeth on Jeongin’s shoulder.
“Lie down, Chan-ah,” Jeongin says in explanation after Chan is already lying down.
“On— on you?” Chan is shy, uncertain. It’s a marked change from the stoic hyung who’d entered the room. And— this is new to Chan. They don’t really cuddle in bed like this outside of sex. Even on those nights that Chan crawls under his covers at home they keep to themselves, with Jeongin sluggishly blinking his eyes open to see the mountain of Chan’s shoulders on the other side of his mattress, blocking out the morning light slipping through his curtains.
“Yes, on me,” Jeongin huffs. “That way I can make sure you don’t vanish in the middle of the night to go back to your room and work on songs.” He’s only half joking.
Chan is still hesitating, raising himself up on one arm again stiffly.
“You’ve had a shit day,” Jeongin tries again, looking up at him. “You’re stressed, and you’re trying not to let it explode and ruin everything, and you look like you need to sleep for the next three years. Are you really going to tell me you don’t want a hug right now?”
It works. Chan lowers himself down, and Jeongin reaches out, manoeuvring Chan until finally, finally he’s settled in against Jeongin. There’s only the slightest pause before Chan drops his head to Jeongin’s chest, nestles himself neatly in there so that the crown of his head is tucked under Jeongin’s chin. He sighs deeply, and from where Jeongin has his arm round him, he can feel the way that Chan’s muscles start to loosen. He pretends not to notice when Chan inhales and subtly rubs his nose in the valley of Jeongin’s chest as he adjusts himself, slinging a leg between Jeongin’s calves. He’s seen the way that Chan’s watched him in the gym when he thought that Jeongin wasn’t aware. Felt the heat of his eyes drag over his upper body when he’s working on his chest, especially since it’s gotten bigger in the last year or so. And if pride is a sin then Jeongin is currently the most sinful person on earth, especially now that he has his arms full of his hyung.
“Better?” he murmurs.
Chan hums in response. “Your heart is beating very fast,” he whispers, from where his ear is pressed directly above said heart. The vibration of his lips against Jeongin’s chest make him simultaneously grateful and frustrated that he’s wearing a t-shirt to sleep in.
Jeongin bites his lip. “It’s because it knows I’m still annoyed at you,” he admits, trying to add a little bit of bluster to his tone. It works a little too well.
“I’m sorry,” Chan says, and his body starts to tense up again, starts to lift his head and pull away. He’s going to run, and Jeongin refuses to let him.
Quick as a snake, he slips his hand under the waistband of Chan’s borrowed boxers and gives him a sharp pinch on the ass. Surprised, Chan yelps and automatically rolls towards Jeongin, his body softening as it folds in on itself.
“You,” Jeongin says fiercely, “are not going anywhere until tomorrow morning. Get back here.”
They re-adjust themselves, and Jeongin holds back a smile at the way Chan’s head returns straight to his chest. He folds his arm around Chan again, feels his hyung drop his own arm over Jeongin’s lower belly as a warm, comforting weight.
“Yes, I’m still annoyed at you,” Jeongin starts. Chan’s fingers tighten in an unconscious flinch at his hipbone. “But I’m not— I’m not angry, alright? I’m just…” He blows out a breath, staring up at the ceiling. “Frustrated.”
“Yeni—” Chan starts. Jeongin pokes him in the side with his free hand.
“Nope,” he says. “Not yet. Me first, and then you, okay? Because— because I just need to get this out.”
Chan falls silent again, starting to stroke Jeongin’s flank with his thumb.
“You’re allowed to be upset,” Jeongin tells him. “You’re allowed to be grumpy and angry, and stressed, but please. Please don’t shut yourself away. Please don’t shut me out.”
Chan’s fingers still.
“I just—” Jeongin tries to start again, but has to pause to collect his thoughts. “You’ve always taken care of me, of us. And maybe part of it was your job, but a lot of it was because it’s just who you are. But. But I want to do that too. I want to be there to help you, and I want you to tell me things the way that I tell you what I’m thinking about… I want to be someone you can rely on, the same way that I’ve relied on you. That’s what— what I’ve been trying to do all day, because I know you’ve been having a shit time, and I just want to help, hyung.” His voice cracks on the last few words. “You do such a good job, all on your own, but you don’t have to, not anymore; you don’t have to keep spreading yourself thin and sacrificing everything for us, because I want—”
Chan shifts, rolling further onto his stomach so that he can tilt his head to look up at Jeongin. He has to blink against the bright light of bedside lamp.
“We live together, right hyung?” Jeongin says quietly. He can’t look at Chan. “So I don’t know if it’s because I’m younger that you’re holding back, or it’s just me, but… you don’t have to hide with me — I don’t want you to come home and feel like you can’t be honest, or tell me what’s going on if you've had a bad day. I don’t want you to feel like you always have to keep looking after me instead of yourself. And I’ve been trying to be someone that— that can be there, that can look after you when you need it, but then you just kept shutting me out, and—” He shudders, his fingers clenching and un-clenching in Chan’s shirt. “—and it hurts, hyung.”
Chan doesn’t say anything for a while. He simply drops his head to press his nose into Jeongin’s sternum, breathing deeply. Jeongin doesn’t know if he imagines the ghostly pressure of his lips pursing in a light kiss.
Jeongin hesitates, chewing on the inside of his mouth. “Hyung, I’m sorry. For yelling about you about Minho-hyung’s clothes. I just. I wanted it to be me? That you came to for help. I wanted to so badly for it to be me, but then it just… felt like you were ignoring me.”
“I’m sorry,” Chan whispers. “Jeonginnie, I’m sorry. For making you feel this way, for getting caught up in everything.” He sighs, closing his eyes briefly. When he reopens them, the angle of the lamp catches his irises, makes them burn. “These end-of-year mixes have got me stressed, and then with my suitcase—”
“I know,” Jeongin murmurs. “Hyung, I know. It sucks. It messed with your head.”
“I was trying so hard to hold everything in,” Chan admits. “I didn’t— couldn’t let it out because I was scared that once I started, I wouldn’t stop. That I was just going to… fall apart? And I didn’t want that to happen, not with so many things scheduled this week and so many people relying on us.”
Jeongin gently boops Chan’s forehead. “You think we would let you fall apart?” he asks. “You think I would let that happen?”
“No,” Chan smiles, and it’s a soft, reluctant thing. “No, I know you wouldn’t, but try telling that to up here.” He taps his head in the same spot that Jeongin touched. “And I didn’t think that it was fair to just… lay that all on you.”
“Hyung.” Jeongin stares at Chan. “How many breakdowns of ours have you seen over the past eight years?”
“Yeah, but. It’s different,” Chan mutters, looking away.
“It’s not.” Jeongin’s nostrils flare. “Just because you’re the eldest, or the leader, it is not any different. Last time I checked, you were still human like the rest of us. And we’re older now, okay? You don’t have to try and protect us as much as you used to anymore.”
There’s a flush that’s working it’s way up Chan’s neck, Jeongin can see how his skin takes on a rosy-gold hue in the light. Chan hides his face in Jeongin’s chest again. There’s an incoherent mumble that Jeongin doesn’t catch. It’s a pleasant buzz near his nipples.
“Hyung?” he asks.
Chan lifts his head, stares Jeongin straight in the eyes. “I will always want to protect you. And the others.” The pretty flush has deepened. Jeongin wants to reach out and touch it.
“I know,” he says instead. “But. What if we want to protect you?”
“That’s not how it works,” Chan starts to say.
“Why not?”
“Because,” Chan huffs.
“Because why?” Jeongin counters. “Are you any less deserving than the rest of us? Do not,” he continues hotly, “answer that, because I will tell you right now that you are probably more deserving.”
Chan makes an embarrassed, whiny noise and looks away from Jeongin. The shadows hide the majority of his face, but his illuminated ear is so red in the lamplight.
“I just want you to let me in,” Jeongin admits quietly. This time, he allows himself reach out to touch Chan, letting his finger trace the shell of his burning ear. “I just— just want you to talk to me, and to know that it’s okay for you to let someone else take the burden for a little while so that you can catch your breath when you need to. Like today.”
Chan readjusts himself, placing a forearm lightly across Jeongin’s chest so that he can rest his chin on it. His eyes are downcast, lashes blurring into the purple bruising under his eyes, and he’s still not quite able to look at Jeongin. There’s a loose thread near the hem of Jeongin’s neck, and Chan’s fingers start to fiddle with it idly. They’re so close to Jeongin’s bare skin, and he’s grateful that Chan can no longer hear how fast his heartbeat is now.
“I’m sorry, Jeonginnie,” he apologises. “It’s not an excuse but… I was just in such a foul mood that I shut myself away from everyone, because I didn’t— I didn’t want to get you in a bad mood either. I didn’t want anyone to feel bad because of me. Everything was just building and building and…I had thought— no, I wanted — to be able to fix things by myself.” He smiles wryly. “I guess it didn’t quite work, huh?”
Chan is looking at him now, and the weight of his eyes has Jeongin now ducking away to hide the fact that he can feel tears pricking uncomfortably at the back of his eyelids. Chan’s fingers are still playing with Jeongin’s shirt.
“No,” Jeongin says bluntly. He swallows thickly. “No, it didn’t.”
“And Minho,” Chan continues. “That was just an accident, Yeni, I promise. I found him in the corridor going to the gym at the same time, that’s all. I didn’t go looking for him. It just happened. Oh—” He breaks off when the first drop of liquid falls over Jeongin’s lower eyelid. “Oh, hey now,” Chan murmurs softly, lifting himself up further to thumb at the tears. Jeongin shuts his eyes, and feels more slip loose as he takes a shuddering breath, trying to steady himself.
“Oh, Yen-ah, hyung is sorry,” he hears Chan whisper, still wiping away his tears. “I’m so fucking sorry for making you feel like this. I’m sorry. I’ll be better, I promise.”
“Just—just let me in, okay?” Jeongin croaks wetly, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes, like he can physically stem the tide of his tears. “Hyung— I don’t care if you don’t want to talk and we just sit there in silence while you work on things, I just— I just don’t want to be shut out anymore.”
Chan crawls up Jeongin’s body, slips his arms under Jeongin and rolls so that they’re on their side facing each other. His fingers slip up Jeongin’s neck, cupping the back of his head and gently tucking it into his collarbone.
“I promise,” he says, nuzzling his nose into the side of Jeongin’s head. “I promise I’ll be better, Yen-ah.”
Jeongin closes his eyes and breathes deeply, inhaling as much of Chan’s scent as he can with his snuffly nose. Chan smells like him — like his body wash, like his shampoo. Chan smells like home. He relaxes in his hold, taking the time to savour being held like this.
“And you’re wrong, you know?” Chan continues. “It’s not because you’re younger, or I don’t trust you that I don’t talk to you or tell you things. I don’t know if you realise just how strong and capable that you are, and it makes me so proud to see who you’ve grown up to be. It’s just a me thing. That's all, I swear. It’s just your hyung being stupid and not knowing how to ask for help when I need it because I don’t want to worry you. But I promise, I’ll make sure to do better from now on. Alright?”
This time, Jeongin is certain about the light press of Chan’s lips to the side of his hair and he trembles, feeling like that just might be the one thing that has the power to unmake him. So he wraps his arms around Chan, and squeezes him tightly. “Okay,” he mumbles into Chan’s neck. “Okay. I believe you.”
Chan tightens his own grip, like he's also reluctant to let go. “And hyung-nim?”
“Mm?” Jeongin doesn’t want to move from his home in Chan’s collarbone.
“Thank you. For worrying about me. For trying to take care of me, even though I don’t make it easy.”
Jeongin laughs wetly. “Always,” he whispers, burrowing in closer.
***
Later, Jeongin wakes briefly in the early hours of the morning. He’s on his back, and his left arm feels completely dead. At some point, they’ve switched positions, and Chan has rolled over to rest his head on Jeongin’s bicep, burrowed completely under the covers. His body is entirely lax, and while his breathing is heavier than normal, it’s not the snoring that he was so worried about. No, Jeongin thinks, he just sounds like someone in a well-deserved deep sleep.
He smiles to himself — just a tiny, small thing — then rolls over to curl behind Chan. His free hand tucks itself around his hyung, finding Chan’s own hand and folding them together somewhere around Chan’s sternum. Then Jeongin sleepily presses his lips to the back of Chan’s head. He inhales once, twice, and slips gently back into sleep.