Archive of Our Own

It’s been three months since Jeongin presented as a beta. He had presented quite late, even for a beta. He also read in school what each subgender went through during their presentation, and none of it sounded appealing.

Cramps, fevers, emotional instability—they all sounded too much. Even in high school, Jeongin decided that presenting as a beta would be the path of least resistance, or path of least discomfort, he supposes.

A few weeks before his 22nd birthday, he had come down with what felt like a flu. He couldn’t get out of bed for three whole days—thankfully they were still on break before the continuation of their world tour. It was still within the expected range for beta presentations, but nothing his Google searches said could explain why he had experienced mild fevers and bouts of shortness of breath alongside the deep tiredness in his bones. The company doctor only waved his symptoms off as side effects of a late-bloomer presentation, and that was that. His pheromones and scans showed he was 100% beta anyway.

Not much had changed with the group right after the maknae had presented. 

Prior to Jeongin’s presentation, the team’s alphas—Chan, Hyunjin, and Felix—had kept the ship on its course. They were—and still are—the pillars of the group. Strong and stable protectors, each in their own way. Chan was the pack alpha, the leader in every aspect and the one everyone turned to. Hyunjin was the quiet, observant guardian who made sure every room felt safe for his pack. And Felix was a ball of sun who bled extroversion, but whose aura could effortlessly command an entire room at the drop of a hat.

Meanwhile, their omegas—Changbin, Jisung, and Seungmin brought so much life and comfort to the group. They were the pack’s heart, a perfect foil to the alphas. Changbin, the softie with a heart big enough to fill his chest, and arms thick enough to make a scenting session feel like a headlock. Jisung, the energetic cuddlebug who knew how to melt the harshest frowns, usually at his own expense. Seungmin was the steadiest of the omegas, whose affection always came exactly when the members needed it most.

The team’s only other beta, Minho, was the textbook definition of what a beta should be—level-headed, pragmatic, and overall a reliable person. But none of his dongsaengs would say it out loud, lest their resident cat-hyung rubbed it in their faces.

All seven of Jeongin’s hyungs had developed a stable rhythm by this point.  Of course, the sunshine twins presenting within a day of each other was a whole other experience, but they were able to make it through that ordeal as a group—as a pack.

Even before presenting, Jeongin was never one for displays of affection. The older members knew he didn’t like long scenting sessions, so they usually held back when the youngest let them into his personal space—which wasn’t that often. It was usually during their pre-heats or pre-ruts, when the maknae knew that skinship was a way for them to cope with their cycles. He also wasn’t obligated to help out whenever one of his hyungs was going into heat or rut, but he volunteered anyway. Between tour stops, he had helped Minho prepare rooms and various supplies for two heats and one rut in that timeframe. He did well—Minho and Chan had said so too. Jeongin was happy to be part of his pack this way.

With their tour wrapped up, they had about two months before their next comeback, along with the release of their new full-length album. Three days of rest was all they got—no thanks to their management—before they had come back to grueling preparations. Dance practice, recording, pictorials, content shooting—they had to squeeze being a human being around all of that.

By year five of the idol life, the Kids had somewhat gotten used to all the razzle dazzle of being a world-famous KPop group, but they weren’t ever complacent; they always have to be better than the last comeback to feel just remotely proud of their work. Making music and performing was their passion. Being the maknae, Jeongin never wanted to be the weak link; he pushed himself when he could—extended hours in the dance studio or extra vocal lessons before recording days.

Normally, a good night’s sleep did well to reset the fatigue from a grueling 18-hour schedule. Jeongin had made sure to tick all the boxes before dozing off for half a day—Seungmin would have his ass if he complained about the consequences of forgetting his routine before falling asleep. 

Make sure there are no schedules before two in the afternoon. Check. Make sure he had eaten something before showering. Check. Nighttime skincare routine. Check. Turn off the sink faucet after skincare. Check. Drink a boatload of water with a mild painkiller before going to bed. Check. Turn on the humidifier and set the timer for ten hours. Check. Plug phone into the charger. Check.

After double checking his due diligence, he finally slips under the covers and promptly passes out in exhaustion.

Waking up, he expects to feel rejuvenated, save for the slight dehydration and onset of mild muscle soreness. That’s what the hydration and painkiller before bed are for.

What welcomes Jeongin back to the waking world is nothing like he expected. He’s in his bed. The humidifier is still running. But everything just feels wrong. Scratch that—everything smells wrong. His head is throbbing out of his skull with each inhale. Thick, heavy smells invade the back of his head and sit there like wet cement. It takes him fifteen minutes of putting his face right next to the humidifier to register that it’s his packmates’ scents that are driving him insane.

Jeongin doesn’t know what’s going on. He wants to ask for help from his hyungs. He scrambles to the door and slams it open, which turns out to be the worst thing to do at the moment. The door gives way and his legs almost give out under him. His nose is assaulted by a wall of overbaked brownies, which is weird. Felix would never mess up a batch of brownies. But not even an hour too long in the oven would make brownies smell this wrong—charred, cloying, and bitter.

The door to the bathroom beside his own room opens, and Jeongin winces physically at the sting of the almost astringent medicinal smell of concentrated lavender. He wants to vomit out the chemicals that are being poured into his throat and contorts his face away to avoid heaving into the hallway. Seungmin still has sleep in the corners of his eyes but can clearly see his only dongsaeng frowning and averting his gaze. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he has no chance to do anything about it as the youngest slams his door shut.

Jeongin opens the window to his room and returns to the only place where he feels slightly more lucid, which is next to his humidifier. 

What is going on? He was a beta. Smells shouldn’t affect him this much, if at all; he barely even registers his own minty scent most of the time, unless he’s just showered or brushed his teeth. Seungmin didn’t look any way off in that one second they made eye contact. So is it him? What’s wrong with him? Is he broken? How will he survive the day? Oh my god. What happens when all eight of them are together? Can he make it through a dance rehearsal? 

Jeongin forces himself to take a deep breath—from above the humidifier, of course. The idea hits him then. Scent blockers. He has a standard issue kit from the company right after his first check up. He rummages through his closet and pulls out the box from the lowest compartment. The kit contains scent blockers in multiple forms. Packets of patches, a mister spray bottle, and—for worst-case scenarios—suppressant pills. It also has soothing balms for swollen scent glands, and scent-filtering face masks, along with a stick inhaler of olfactory gel to stimulate the nose away from aggressive scents.

He takes out the pack of patches and places one on his neck haphazardly. He also grabs the stick inhaler and takes a strong whiff. The medicated oil stings his nostrils, but then gives way to a numbness that feels more comfortable than feeling his nasal lining frying itself off. The world halts its gyroscopic movement and finally stops smelling so wrong; it stops smelling like anything altogether. It’s chilling how terrifyingly quiet everything has become, but he’d gladly take it over somatic overstimulation.

Jeongin collapses on the floor beside his bed and only now has the bandwidth to check his phone. It’s already one twenty in the afternoon, so they have about an hour and a half until dance practice. 

He dials the company doctor—he had gotten her number as a precaution in case he had any complications after his late bloomer presentation. The call rings once, twice, thrice, before going into a recorded spiel.

‘Hi, this is Doctor Choi. I’m currently in Japan for a company-sponsored advanced certification course for emergency subgender treatment and seminar for innovations in subgender-based medication. I’ll be back in Korea for consultations by the 22nd of April. Please leave a voicemail after the beep for any concerns and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!’

The line beeps and Jeongin rambles as coherently as he can.

“Hi, Choi sonsaengnim. This is Stray Kids’ I.N. I presented as beta in January of this year. I woke up this morning and suddenly I’m smelling everything so intensely. My members’ scents—I know it’s their scents—they, they all smell so strong, and it doesn't feel right. It’s so painful, sonsaengnim. I… I put on a scent blocker patch and used the inhaler to numb my nose, but I don’t know what's happening to me. Am I… am I sick? Please help me. Can I set a consultation for the 22nd? The earliest schedule you can make. Please.”

He ends the call with a click and tilts his head back to lay it on his bed. The scents that swarmed his senses have now dulled to nothing, and the thumping of blood in his head is the only sensation left grounding him to this world. Jeongin feels the numbness from the inhaler spreading to his cheeks, the way the lack of sensation creeps outward feeling so unnatural. He should make it a point not to rely on it too much.

22nd of April. 

That’s two days from today. He can make it until then…right? He’s out of options anyway. Until he gets to the bottom of this, he needs to make it through the next two days until the weekend. He has the scent blockers to tide him over. It’s going to be okay. He’ll be fine. 

Picking himself up from the floor, he changes into a hoodie and sweats. He forgoes a shower since he’ll end up sweaty in practice anyway and doesn’t want to waste the blocker patch he just put on. He plucks a scent-filtering mask from the box—it looks like a normal face mask, thank heavens. He puts it on—it doesn’t do anything since the effects of the inhaler are still lingering in his system. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared. And from experience a few minutes ago, it definitely hurts to be unprepared. 

The maknae stuffs the box under his bed, away from the line of sight from the doorway. He spends the rest of the hour-long wait Googling his symptoms but he comes up empty. His online diagnosis attempt is interrupted by knocking on his door. 

“Iyen-ah, the car will be here in five. Get ready for practice!” Minho says beyond the door.

“Okay, hyung. Thanks!” he shouts to the air.

He takes a full minute to himself, gathering the willpower to get through this practice. He has to make it. He doesn’t have a choice.

Jeongin gets up and looks at himself in the full body mirror in his room. He looks normal. He can act normal.

He unplugs his phone and pockets it. He doesn’t bring anything else. The studio will have everything they need. He does, however, remember to swipe the inhaler off his nightstand and slip it into his pocket.

By a stroke of misfortune, he is the last one to leave the dorm. His three hyungs are already filing into the company car. Minho sits shotgun, as usual. Felix sits on one end of the backseat; he likes to lean on the door. That leaves Seungmin in the middle. Jeongin hadn’t seen how his youngest hyung reacted to their earlier interaction, but it obviously shows on his face in the car. He’s got this blank look on his face, his lips slightly jutting out like he’s midway to a pout. The boys know that look. He’s thinking about something—something that’s upsetting him. And he’s trying not to show it. 

Felix and Minho don’t say anything though, so he can only guess that Seungmin’s scent must still be under control. He hopes. He doesn’t know how to explain anything to anyone. He can’t suddenly drop a ‘Hey I can suddenly smell everything and it hurts. I hate it. Can everyone please stop smelling like yourselves?’ and expect everyone to get it. Especially not when he was supposed to be a level-headed, unaffected beta.

The car ride is a blur. A rush of urban scenery trying its best not to look threatening to bystanders. But to Jeongin, the entire world might as well be against him. They arrive at the company building’s underground parking area. They’re standing outside the elevator waiting for it to reach level B2. Still no smells. He can feel his cheeks again, so the mask should be working by now. Check. He shrugs his shoulders upward, feeling the scent blocker patch brush against the thick folds of his hoodie. Check. He pats the pockets of his sweats and feels the plastic tube of the inhaler. Check.

A bright ding signals the arrival of his chariot to the battlefield. It’s a three-hour practice session. They’re still trying to nail the choreo for their title track, S-Class. It’s a new vibe for them, but still very Stray Kids in a way only 3Racha could pull off. Jeongin tries not to interact with any of the members for the duration of the rehearsal. No one calls him out on it—it just looks like he’s focused and trying to conserve energy. The mask goes unnoticed; it wouldn’t be the first time someone wore a mask to practice. All the while, Jeongin does his best to respond to critiques on his timing and angles. He also jumps in on a few jokes during their water breaks, but makes sure not to touch his mask. 

He’s doing fine so far.

The digital clock on the studio reads five thirty-five pm when Minho calls for another break. Less than half an hour left. So close. Jeongin is starting to see spots in his vision; he hasn't had a sip of water since he woke up, and it’s starting to catch up to him.

“Iyen-ah, you okay?” Seungmin approaches him, holding a water bottle.

“Yup,” Jeongin says through the mask. “Thanks, hyung.”

“You sure?” Seungmin makes sure, handing him the bottle. Jeongin nods. “Have some water.” He nods again.

Seungmin is about to walk away seeing the maknae twist the bottle open and pull the bottom of his mask forward to drink.

But the moment the fabric lifts from his chin, the younger lets out a choked grunt and hunches over in what looks to Seungmin like a pained reaction. Jeongin keels from the sudden rush of scents that flood the gap in the mask. He had forgotten that the mask was the only protection he had from the ambient smells in the room, which have become exponentially thicker after over two hours of heavy dancing. 

“Jeongin-ah!” Seungmin rushes and tries to place a hand on the youngest’s shoulder. He realizes at the first instance of contact that Seungmin’s hand is so close to where he placed the scent blocker patch. He jerks himself away from the touch. He barely registers the look of shock and hurt on their pack's youngest omega before he’s bolting upright and running out of the studio.

Jeongin makes a mad dash to the bathroom and vomits what little is in his stomach. He takes the inhaler and takes another big whiff in between heaves. After a few minutes, the room stops spinning and he can finally breathe again—as much as the numbness allows. The bathroom smells sterile, safe. He sits there until his breath finally evens out. 

The bathroom door creaks open.

“Jeongin-ah!” Chan bounds to the stall where his maknae is currently sitting on the floor. The beta looks behind him, realizing his legs are visible from the bathroom door, ending the unintentional game of hide and seek. 

“What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay? Are you sick?” the eldest questions. The frown on the leader’s face deepens when he notices the contents of the toilet. “Iyen-ah… Let’s get you home. I’m calling for a car.”

Jeongin lets himself be lifted and carried to the bathroom sink. His hyung cleans up the vomit on his mouth and chin, and tries his best to save the hoodie he’s wearing from any lasting stains. Once Chan is done, he’s making a phone call—to Minho, Jeongin guesses—to reassure the rest of the boys and for the older beta to call a car to get their youngest home. He also instructs Minho to join the ride home.

“I’m okay, hyung. I can ride alone.”

“No,” the pack alpha says, his voice low and unyielding. 

Jeongin can’t smell how mad Chan is, but the authority steeped in the hyung’s tone clearly conveys the message. The maknae makes no further attempt to protest the arrangement.

He doesn’t smell how worried and anxious his eldest hyung is—nor the protective and comforting pheromones that are surging into the bathroom as they speak.

Nevertheless, he can only thank himself from ten minutes ago that he was able to use the inhaler, because his mask was soiled now too. If Chan caught wind of what was going on with him, he’d be in even deeper trouble.

Moments later, Minho opens the door and rushes to take the maknae home. He positions himself in front of the younger beta with arms extended downward and behind him, turning to offer a piggyback ride.

“Get on, the car is just pulling out to the exit,” Minho orders.

“Hyung,” Jeongin whines.

“Jeongin. Get on,” Chan says firmly.

He languidly slots himself onto his second hyung’s back, who walks off to the exit where the company car is waiting for them.

Minho closes the left-hand door of the car’s backseat and runs to get on the car’s right-hand front passenger side. Even in his numbed-out and dehydrated state, Jeongin is able to use that small window of time to swipe another sniff of the inhaler and scratch off the scent blocker on his neck and insert it inside his phone case.

He can’t let up; appearing any more off than that would make his hyungs panic even more.

Once they are home, Minho takes him inside on piggyback once more and sits him on the toilet. He starts a warm bath and leaves the bathroom while waiting for the water to run warm. He returns exactly when the water temperature is just right; he’s had to run this routine so many times and has the timing of everything memorized in his cells. The older beta arrives with a small plate of freshly-sliced fruit and a bottle of electrolyte water. He pulls Jeongin up and helps him undress, setting him into the bath. He places the plate and drink on the closed toilet lid, within arms reach from the tub.

“Have something to eat while you soak,” Minho says while glancing toward the toilet. “I’ll check in on you in ten minutes, but you can stay in the tub longer if you want. Just tell me. Can you do that for hyung?”

The maknae nods mindlessly and the older takes his cue to leave the door. Minho makes sure not to fully close the door as he leaves. Just in case.

Left alone, Jeongin sits in the tub, trying to at least stomach a few apple slices. Even the fresh fruit tastes completely bland, he discovers. The chemical numbness has hijacked his senses to the extreme. He doesn’t smell the milky bath bomb that’s fizzling out in the water, nor the soft vanilla pheromones that Minho let out the whole time to soothe his baby beta dongsaeng. 

The numbness is the only thing he still feels. And it feels heavy, and so wrong. But he knows it’s the only thing he can do. He messed up. He’s messed up. He doesn’t want to harm the team—his pack—even if the numbness kills him. 

Ten minutes later, Minho reenters the bathroom with a silent question. Jeongin raises his hands up toward his hyung, who steps forward to pull him up from the bath.

“You had a few bites. Good job, Iyen-ah,” the older beta says warmly while towelling the younger off. Jeongin wraps the towel around his lower half by himself and they make the short trek to his room next door. Inside, a clean set of clothes is folded neatly on the bed. They don’t look like anything he owns and it dawns on him. ‘These are Minho hyung’s clothes. They probably smell like him too.’ He laments not being able to smell the gentle vanilla that puffs out from the linen top and pajama set as he slips into them. Minho stays outside the room but again leaves the door ajar the whole time. 

He sits on the bed, and again, Minho magically reappears by the doorframe with a bunch of snacks in one hand and fresh bottles of water and electrolyte drink in the other. The older beta sets his supplies on the bedside table. 

“I got you some snacks and some drinks. Please have something, at least once in a while. Do you need anything else?”

“My hoodie… from earlier,” Jeongin mumbles. "It has my things.”

“I’ll get your things,” Minho replies.

The younger beta realizes that his hyung might see the inhaler sitting next to his phone in the hoodie’s pocket. 

“No!” the younger beta says louder than intended. “I want the hoodie too.”

“It’s soiled, Jeongin-ah. We need to wash—”

“Hyung.”

“Okay. I’ll get it for you,” Minho says as he retreats out of the youngest’s bedroom. He returns moments later with the hoodie in question. He hands it to the younger who gingerly takes it, making a show of hugging the garment, as if savoring the lingering smell of their pack alpha—at least he hopes it does, or else his actions wouldn’t make any sense.

Minho leans forward and kisses the younger beta's temple. He’s said everything that needs to be said. He knows to give his maknae some space to rest.

“Sorry, hyung,” Jeongin says before the door closes. He says it loud enough to bounce off the walls, but he doesn’t know if it will reach the person he means to say it to.

In the sterile silence of his bedroom, he pulls out his phone and the inhaler out of the pocket and tosses the hoodie to the floor. He sits up and leans on the headboard, looking at the room. It’s tidier than before he left it this morning. Minho was able to do more work in the room in ten minutes than he could in three times that long. He even turned on the humidifier once he finished.

His hyung always does everything right, and Jeongin knows he will never match up to him. He gets off the bed and pulls out the box from under the bed. Taking the blister pack of pills into his hand, tears fall silently as he resolves never to slip up like that again. At least until Doctor Choi can help fix whatever is wrong with him. Two days. He just has to make it until then. He downs a pill and chases it with the electrolyte drink. He stows the box back under his bed and finally lies back on the bed.

The exhaustion of the whole ordeal and not having eaten a full meal in nearly twenty-four hours consumes the rest of his energy. He offers no resistance to the sleep that takes him over.

He wakes up after an indeterminate amount of time, the only indicator that it is night time being the faint moonlight seeping through the blinds. His phone tells him that it’s currently past one thirty in the morning. He slept for another seven hours. Getting up from the bed, he picks up one of the snacks from the table, making sure to create as little noise as possible. 

Scanning the selection by his bedside, Jeongin lets out a self-deprecating huff. Minho had chosen his favorites, even the one snack he hadn’t told anyone about yet. His hyung must have seen him eat it a few too many times in the dorm. 

To be loved is to be seen. Yet being seen like this and having to make himself invisible makes the love feel like a burden.

His appetite is fully gone now, yet he forces himself to have a few bites—at least to show gratitude to his hyung. Funny how all he can almost taste is how salty his tears are. He finishes the rest of the bag and washes the crumbs down with water. He still can’t smell anything, which is a blessing and a curse. The pills must have worked. Of course they do. They’re made for alphas and omegas, not for a broken beta like him. 

After finishing all of the snacks, Jeongin realizes how hungry he still is. He tiptoes to the kitchen, thankful that the living room is now vacant. He opens the refrigerator looking for something else to sate his hunger, and lowers his stance to be eye level with the shelf where leftovers are usually placed.

“Iyen-ah?” a voice calls out, making him bump his head on the refrigerator door. Seungmin is standing there in an oversized shirt and pajama pants, looking like a kid who didn’t get a gift on Christmas morning. His eyes are faintly red and puffy; he’s obviously been crying. Jeongin melts at the sight of his favorite hyung, and flashbacks of this afternoon overlap with the pained expression he's put on right now. 

Jeongin looks down in shame.

“Sorry for earlier, hyung,” he mumbles.

“Are you feeling better?” the omega asks tentatively. They’re both tiptoeing, unsure how to resolve the tension that’s built up over the two incidents today.

“Yeah, I just felt really sick.” He’s not lying. “Sorry for running out on you guys.” He is sorry, just not for that reason alone.

Seungmin sighs in an emotion Jeongin can’t smell. He just leans in and hugs his hyung—a silent apology. The older reciprocates the hug, and that comforts Jeongin somehow. 

“Were you hungry? We can order some—”

“It’s okay, hyung,” he reaches for an orange on the kitchen island. “I just needed a snack.”

If Seungmin is hurt about being rejected yet again, he doesn’t show it. His scent falters, but Jeongin is unfortunately none the wiser. Neither Felix nor Minho are there to notice, though, so Jeongin is able to slither past Seungmin, mumbling a soft ‘good night.’

As expected, the orange tastes like absolutely nothing, and even intensifies the singed feeling in his nose. He finishes the fruit anyway; he needs the nutrients. He takes another suppressant pill afterward for good measure. Having nothing else to do, he watches a few videos on his phone before drifting off to sleep again.

A gentle shaking of his shoulder nudges Jeongin from his dreamless sleep. His eyes open to register that it’s Minho waking him up.

“Jeongin-ah,” the older beta calls out again. “Chan hyung got you the day off. We’re off to practice. There’s some soup and jeyuk in the fridge. Just heat it up and rest today.”

The maknae nods absentmindedly. 

“Call me—anyone—if you need anything. Okay?”

Jeongin nods again.

“I expect text updates every few hours. Just to know you’re okay. Got it?”

Another nod.

“You did a good job to finish the snacks last night. Seungminnie said you even had fruit,” Minho says proudly. “Let’s do it again today, alright? Need to get your strength back.”

“Yes hyung, I got it,” he finally croaks out. “You’re gonna be late.”

Minho straightens his back and ruffles up the younger beta’s bed hair before walking out. Jeongin catches a glimpse of a familiar head of brown hair unsuccessfully hiding by the doorframe. Seungmin had dyed and cut it shorter for this comeback, and no one else would have brown hair than him.

“I’ll be fine, Seungminnie hyung,” he calls out, voice still scratchy from sleep. “You go kick it at practice.”

He gets no response. The door just closes and Jeongin is left to simmer in his lies. He doesn’t know that he’ll be fine. 

The rest of the day passes in a blur. He manages a few bites of reheated food. Minho is an excellent cook, but Jeongin can’t stomach more than a few bites—not when he can’t taste anything at all. He dumps the rest of the perfectly good food into the trash. He takes another suppressant like it’s his morning vitamins, along with another whiff of the inhaler. It still stings, but he’s getting used to it, he thinks.

He checks his phone, still no word from Dr. Choi. The 22nd is tomorrow. He should get confirmation soon, right? 

Jeongin decides that a shower might help clear his thoughts. Stepping under the cold spray, he wakes up a bit, but the heaviness he carries remains the same—oppressive, mocking, and painful. A reminder that he’s still broken, desperately trying to hold the pieces of himself together until someone can see through his facade and save him. 

The beta spends the whole afternoon in bed. Even practicing his singing feels weird, so he gives up anyway. The burning sensation in his nose makes it hard to focus on getting the vocals right, especially when he’s pushing air out to hit his high notes.

Practice today should run until after dinner time. Stray Kids is also supposed to start learning B-side choreography today. Jeongin just watches the guide videos the choreographer sent a few days ago. He can at least do that without feeling like a complete failure.

A call notification interrupts his third rewatch. It’s Dr. Choi.

“Hello, sonsaengnim?”

“Mr. Yang! So sorry I was only able to get back to you now. My international SIM card wasn’t working in Japan. I just landed in Gimpo Airport a while ago and am on my way back to Seoul. If you’re free now, I can see you in my clinic in twenty minutes.” Her voice is velvety and comforting, the same way it was when she talked about his test results after his presentation.

“Yes please! I’ll be there. It’s the same one right? Next to the jjampong place?”

“Yes, Mr. Yang. That’s the one,” the older female replies, chuckling.

“Okay, thank you, sonsaengnim,” Jeongin says, holding back choked sobs.

“I’ll need to run some tests, but have any of your symptoms changed since the time you left your voicemail?”

“No. I used the inhaler and took the suppressant—”

“What?! No!” Jeongin jolts at the complete one-eighty of her tone, her voice cracking in panic. 

“Those things are formulated for alphas and omegas only! Didn’t your manager talk to you about the emergency kit guidelines? How many of the pills have you taken?”

“No, we… we were in the middle of tour rehearsals,” his voice descends to a whisper. “I’ve taken three since last night...”

The doctor sighs heavily on the other end of the line. “Please do not touch them from this point forward. Those pills should be taken once a day at most, and that dosage is the strict maximum for alphas and omegas. Just… these medicines aren’t meant to enter a beta’s hormonal system. You can still use the scent blocker patches and mask to block out external scents later. Is that clear, Mr. Yang?”

Jeongin swallowed hard. “Yes, sonsaengnim.”

“Okay, good. I guess we don’t have any comparison references on your symptoms since you’ve suppressed them. Are there any side effects you’ve noticed while on the inhaler and the pills?”

“I can’t smell and taste anything at all, but I don’t know if it’s the pills or because of the inhaler.”

Doctor Choi is silent for a few agonizing seconds. “Okay. Okay. I’ll be at the clinic in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll go there now. It’s a ten minute walk. Thank you, sonsaengnim.”

“See you, Mr. Yang.”

The call ends and Jeongin is a whirlwind—washing his face and dressing himself to go out. He only takes his phone with him, leaving the inhaler on his bedside table.

He shoots a text to Minho: ‘Going out for a walk, will be back in a while.’ He switches his phone to silent and locks the door behind him.

Jeongin turns the ten-minute walk into a six-minute jog. Nevermind the burn of the air rushing into his lungs. Nevermind the lightheadedness dulling his senses further. He just wants to be fixed.

The minute he arrives at the clinic entrance, a taxi pulls up to the sidewalk. Dr. Choi steps out of the cab after paying her fare. She’s lugging out a suitcase and Jeongin moves in to help her with it.

“Sonsaengnim!” he calls out.

“Ah, Mr. Yang. You’re here. Thank you,” she says, dusting off her coat. “Let’s go in.”

Once inside the familiar clinic, Dr. Choi does a few basic physical examinations. Even when he lifts the mask just a hair, his nose is assaulted by the lingering scents in the room. He grimaces in discomfort, and Dr. Choi writes down on her notepad. She then draws some blood to run some more tests. With her doing the labs herself, the results come out within minutes—100% normal beta.

“That can’t be, sonsaengnim!” Jeongin says in shock. “I… I was telling the truth!” he cries out.

“I’m not doubting you, Mr. Yang,” she says calmly. “It’s just, not all conditions can be diagnosed by these tests.”

She stands up. “Let me make a call. Hopefully, it’ll be quick.” 

He just nods as she takes her phone to the next room.

Dr. Choi returns exactly five minutes later. Jeongin was counting, of course.

“I just called a colleague I met in Japan, and he confirmed my hypothesis. Your tests are normal, and your only presenting symptom is the intensity of the scents around you. No other smells register outside of expectation—only secondary gender pheromones. This leads me to believe you have developed an acute pheromone sensitivity,” she says with calculated precision.

“A pheromone sensitivity,” Jeongin echoes back.

“Yes,” she continues. “This could also explain the cramping and breathing issues you had encountered when you presented a few months ago.”

“Is there any cure for it?”

“Since there are no definitive case studies for it—”

“I’m broken forever?”

“Mr. Yang, that’s not what I—”

“You said there’s no cure!” he screams in panic. 

He’s not going to be cured. He’ll be this way forever. Broken—incapable of functioning unless he’s numbed out on suppressants or trapped under a damned mask.

“Mr Yang!” the female doctor raises her voice. He shrinks in recognition. With how gentle her voice was, he had mistaken her for a beta all this time. He had been wrong—she’s an alpha, and she had just used her aura to cut his panic. He can’t smell it, but the pheromones she’s pushing out are weighing him down. The mask blocks them from his nose, but his body is shivering under her influence. She huffs and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I apologize for having to do that, but you weren’t letting me finish.”

She adjusts her glasses to the bridge of her nose before continuing. “There is no direct cure, but there are new scent sensitivity dampeners that have just been cleared by the Ministry of Food and Drugs. It was one of the treatments discussed at the conference I attended in Japan. It was formulated as a topical cream alternative to scent blockers for people who are exposed to scents for an extended period of time but still need access to their olfactory senses, such as healthcare and foodservice professionals, but I think the medication might help with your case.”

Hope glows through Jeongin's teary eyes. “I can still be fixed?” 

“You're not broken, Mr. Yang," she says sympathetically. "We can try it on an experimental basis—a few weeks. To see if it can curb the intensity of the scents you can smell. But there’s a small catch.”

Jeongin deflates hearing the last part.

“The earliest I can get you the sensitivity dampeners is tomorrow afternoon. I need to make the calls tomorrow morning to the team making them.”

Jeongin sighs in relief. It’s not that bad. He just needs to last another day. 

“And I trust the cost is not an issue?”

“Yes, sonsaengnim. Whatever it takes, please,” he pleads.

The doctor nods and slides a new blister pack towards him. “These are a different brand of suppressants. Different formulation from the ones you got in the kit, and lower dosage. These are a last resort, Mr. Yang. This should only be used in a life-or-death situation. You should throw the old pills and inhaler in the trash—for your own safety.”

Jeongin nods frantically and pockets the new medication. “Thank you, sonsaengnim.”

“Okay, I’ll text you tomorrow,” she waves him off. “You should get going, it’s getting pretty late.”

“Yes, thank you again. Good night, sonsaengnim,” he says while glancing at the clock. He’s been gone for an hour. The others should be getting back to the dorm by now.

He walks home with a renewed vigor. There’s still hope for him to be fixed. 

The door to the bokseungari dorm clicks open. Jeongin kicks his shoes off and notices there are more pairs of shoes around the rack. Maybe the hyungs decided to all have dinner at their place.

He turns the corner into the living room to find all seven of his hyungs gathered quietly in the living room. Chan is pacing by the TV, and the others are cuddled up to each other on and around the couch.

The maknae’s eyes snap towards the items on the living room table. A blister pack of white pills, a few already missing from the set, and a plain white inhaler stick. 

“Jeongin-ah.”

It’s Chan who breaks the silence. He walks over to the living room table and points to the evidence Jeongin failed to hide.

“What are these?”

For a moment, it feels like the world is crashing down on Jeongin. It might as well be. He’s so stupid. He just needed to last another day until Dr. Choi secured his lifeline. He forgot to hide the meds and the inhaler; the hyungs must have found the box too. They’re just staging this interrogation to make him fess up.

“Jeongin-ah.” It’s Minho this time. “Your alpha is asking you a question.”

The younger beta swallows. It does nothing to push down the bile threatening to escape his throat. 

“Hyungs, I can—”

“And you better explain,” Chan cuts him off, closing the distance between them. He’s now a meter away, nostrils flared and eyes bulging. “You better explain why there’s an opened pack of suppressants and a pheromone blocker stick on your nightstand.” 

Part of Jeongin is thankful he can’t smell anyone right now. He knows the concoction in the air would have been enough to do him in and send him two afterlives over. Unlike before, he doesn’t need to smell anything to know his hyungs are mad—and hurt, and sad.

The tears come out before the words do. He slumps to the floor, a hyperventilating mess. Despite the underlying tension and livewire underscoring the living room, all seven boys react to their maknae falling to the floor. 

Minho is the first to react, brushing past Chan and crouching down and cradling the younger beta’s face in his hands, the other hand silently finding its way to his upper back. Jeongin is still struggling to breathe. Minho makes an attempt to lift the mask to help him regulate his airflow, but is cut off by a blood-curdling scream. 

"NO!!!"

Jeongin is sobbing hysterically now, mumbling out apologies and shaking his head as his hands pull at his own hair. He can’t go back to how things were. He’s broken, and everyone is seeing it. 

“I’m sick,” is all he manages to say before unleashing another bout of sobs.

“I’m broken,” he says, turning away from everyone. He can’t bear to look them in the eyes, not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says shakily. 

For everything. For lying. For snapping. For being broken. 

Arms wrap around him and a warm chest presses onto him from behind. Despite losing his sense of smell, he knows by heart who this hug belongs to—his Seungminnie hyung.

“Hyungs are here,” a wavering voice says softly against the crown of his head. “We’re so sorry, Iyen-ah. For not making you feel like you could tell us. But we’re here now. We’re going to get through it together, alright?”

Jeongin’s cries turn louder, releasing all the emotions he’s pent up these two days. They let him cry it all out. When he’s finally wrung out from crying, he uses his hoodie sleeves to wipe his face of tears and snot.

Turning back to face the room, he takes stock of his hyungs’ faces; they’re all in various states of duress, all coming undone as a visceral reaction to his breakdown. 

He does his best to narrate the events of the last forty-eight hours, trying to hold back fresh tears, stumbling over his words, and apologizing too much—especially towards his youngest hyung who’s still holding his hand in solidarity to keep him from clenching his fists too hard.

“I went to Doctor Choi’s clinic earlier. She thinks I have an acute pheromone sensitivity. There’s a medicine they want to try that could help make smelling scents feel less intense. I’ll get it tomorrow. I was going to tell you all once I was sure it worked—” 

He chokes up again. 

“I didn’t want you to know something was wrong with me. The comeback—”

“Fuck the comeback!” Chan roars.

“Jeongin-ah. And every single one of you needs to remember,” he says, making eye contact with all seven of his packmates. “You always come first. The company can crash and burn for all I care.”

Someone sniffles in the background.

“And you,” the pack alpha turns back to Jeongin. “Our stupid maknae.”

The younger beta winces at being called stupid.

“What in the world were you thinking?” he says, falling to his knees. Rarely do the boys ever see their leader cry like he is now, and it’s never a nice sight. “I was so scared. That you wouldn’t come back to us… to me.”

Jeongin’s breath hitches as Chan pulls him into a hug. “You’re not broken. You’re our maknae. I chose you. And I will choose you over and over again.” 

The hug is too tight, and it nudges the mask he’s wearing loose. He panics, bracing himself for the worst. The last suppressant he took was from this morning. The scents hit him, and it hurts so much. But he can smell everything now—the hurt, the worry, the sadness, and the overwhelming love that all of his hyungs have for him. He can distinctly smell the rich warmth of Felix, the soothing vanilla of Minho, and the fierce, protective woody embrace from Chan blanketed by Seungmin’s lavender.

The stimulation is too much for him to handle, blurring his consciousness. His eyes threaten to close, now that there is no mask to shield him from the world.

Jeongin doesn’t think it matters anymore.

He is not broken. He is loved so much it takes his breath away. He’s sure of it; he can smell the love all over the room. 

Jeongin passes out in Chan's arms with a smile on his face.