Chapter Text
Chan
At nearly forty years old, Chan surely expected his life to turn out much differently than it actually had.
He blows out the candle in the singular cupcake—surprsingly so, he’s not particularly keen on sweets at this age; it’s insane what growing up did to his tastebuds—and Minho makes a small, celebratory whoop sound from next to him.
“Thirty nine years old,” Minho says out loud, as if the crushing knowledge of that age hasn’t already been hitting Chan all day. “How do you feel?”
“Old,” Chan smirks.
Minho shrugs. “Probably normal,” he hums, and he leans forward to take the candle out of the dessert. At the same time, his mouth opens to take a bite of it, and the frosting dots at his lips. He makes a surprised sound and nods. “That’s good,” he says around a mouthful.
To confirm, Chan takes a bite as well and grimaces from how sweet it is. “Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of sugar,” Chan laughs, forcing the bite down. He shoves the cupcake into Minho’s hands, who takes it happily.
They’re sitting in their living room. They’d moved together a while ago—at first, just as a money thing; they were best friends, and both had steady jobs to pay, so why not just live together? Eventually, though, as time went on, it became clear this was a permanent thing.
If Chan told other people his age that he felt utterly unaccomplished, they would look at him like he’d grown another head. After earning his bachelor of science at 21—he’d graduated high school as a junior rather than in his senior year—he thought maybe, at that age, he’d have something. Back then, it was only girls in his mind, though, as time went on, he’d embraced the part of him that looked at boys in a different light.
No girlfriend. He tried not to dwell on it—he was young, and he’d been too focused on school, so it wasn’t shocking that he didn’t have anybody. Though, he knew he was attractive and charming with his ruffled blonde hair and dimpled smile; he assumed it’d be easy to find someone he liked.
As time went on, though, he realized that nobody seemed to be on the same wavelength of him. Girls usually wanted someone for one night, which he was happily able to oblige to, but the high became dull after the fourth time. His only boyfriend cheated on him after only two weeks, which was so embarrassing that Chan blocked it out of his memory entirely and chose that it didn’t have to count if he didn’t let it.
He never had a girlfriend past high school. He didn’t understand why—was he annoying, too much, or just overall not attractive? Was his nerdiness more cringe-worthy rather than endearing? Did his personality absolutely just suck ass in general?
In order to not think too much of it, he threw himself in school. He got his masters. It wasn’t enough. His life was still so dull, so quiet, and he didn’t know why. Maybe he wanted more.
Having been a math nerd his entire life, choosing applied mathematics as his major wasn’t difficult at all. Unlike other people, math fascinated Chan, and he knew he wanted to do something with it.
And so, he decided to get a whole PhD in it. Those were the worst five years of his life—he thinks he lost enough sleep back then that it warrants him going into hibernation for the rest of his life just to make up for it. Back then, Minho would call him insane—he was completely right.
He thought getting his PhD would solve his problems, but it didn’t. Don’t get him wrong, he loves having such a high education in math and being able to do it for the rest of his life, but the silence of the world was so deafening to him that he would sometimes sit there and wonder what the hell he was doing with his life.
At thirty, he realized what it was. He was at his friend’s house after she had her second kid, visiting the new baby. And in that moment, when he sat with the little girl in his arms while the older, toddling son ran around and squealed with delight, he could feel his stomach dropping.
Chan wanted a family. That’s what it was. When he was younger, he’d always jumped at the opportunity to babysit and was constantly told by everyone around him that he had “baby fever.” He used to laugh it off and tell everyone he would have three kids when he was older—two girls, one boy—and nobody ever doubted that.
He’d live the American dream his parents had envisioned for him after Australia got too busy to live in: white picket fence, a big, suburban house, a pretty wife he’d love and spoil, three kids, and maybe even a dog. He’d get educated, he’d make good money, and his life would be solid.
Perhaps getting so indulged with school quieted that dream for a bit, or rather, simply pushed it to the side to make room. He never had time to think about girls or kids—he had to work, work, work constantly. He will never regret an ounce of the energy he put into his education, but maybe he should’ve lived his life more when he had the chance.
Chan is accomplished. He has what people work a fraction of their life for. He’s so grateful for the opportunities he’s had, but at the end of the day, what does money mean to someone who doesn’t have anybody in their life?
That last part isn’t exactly true. He has Minho. He and Minho met at a bar on Minho’s twenty-first birthday. While Chan had been sulking, chin in his hand and eyebags so dark they rivaled a raccoon, Minho had sultrily gone up to him and sat down next to him, asking why he looked so down. The music of the bar had been nearly deafening, but with Minho in his presence, Chan embarrassingly found everything going silent.
The first time Chan looked at Minho, he froze. He was beautiful. Big eyes, a perfect slope on his nose, and shorts so tiny they might as well have been non-existent. For the first time, Chan could feel his mouth going dry, and he’d simply gaped at Minho like an idiot.
Minho giggled, asking what his problem was, and Chan was nearly about to ask for his phone number before an older, much more muscular, man had gone up to them and wrapped his arms around Minho diligently. Minho had squealed with surprise, his entire face contorting into one of pure glee, before he’d kissed that older guy and asked why he took so long to arrive.
It was as if a bucket of ice cold water had doused over Chan. Of course Minho was taken—somebody that beautiful surely wouldn’t just be going up to Chan in a romantic tendency. Minho, however, dragged Chan around the entire night, and at the end, Chan did get his number, though in a much more platonic way.
When Chan asked about it later, why Minho came up to him specifically, Minho shrugged and explained that he could tell even across the room that Chan was Korean, and after living in America for just around a year, Minho was so homesick from the utter lack of Koreans—and East Asians in general—in their area that he always made sure to befriend any he saw.
Eventually, Chan got over his feelings. The more he spent time around Minho, the more he realized that it was platonic all along, anyway—he was just so attention starved back then that he didn’t even realize all he wanted was somebody to talk and listen to.
Chan was, by no means, a loser. He had friends. He had a circle. He had people to text if he was feeling down, but none of them ever seemed as involved in the friendship as Chan emotionally felt. Once they graduated, it was clear that, to them, Chan was just another college friend to hang out with between classes and do assignments with.
It was fine. Chan didn’t need friends. He could go to school, then to the gym, then to the bakery with the sad looking owners; he could go home and play his guitar and piano and ignore the sparks in his brain that reminded him of the days he wanted to be a music producer—could you imagine? How impractical.
He had stuff to do. He didn’t need people. But, as more time went on, the more that crushing feeling of loneliness would press onto his chest and remind him every day how alone he was.
Minho had fixed that. After that night in the bar, Minho ended up drinking so much—typical for an eager twenty one year old—that he crashed into Chan’s arms while sleepily mumbling to take him home. Chan blushed at the implication and looked around for that guy Minho was with, but he was nowhere to be found.
Unsure of what to do—Minho was blacked out and couldn’t say his address—Chan had taken him back to his own apartment and set him onto his bed while Chan slept on the couch instead. And that was the start of that—waking up with a pounding headache and a terrified, also humiliated, yet beautiful, stranger stumbling around his apartment was surely… an experience.
It was such a stupid meeting that to this day, the two of him die laughing just thinking about it; Minho says that Chan should’ve just opened Minho’s wallet and found his address, and while Chan could’ve (and that definitely would’ve been less creepy), he’s grateful he didn’t, because if he had, then they probably wouldn’t have become such close friends.
Minho has been with him through so much that Chan has lost count at this point. Breakups, almost something with random people, when Chan honestly forgot to eat for two days straight being so focused on studying, when Minho got that career ending injury and had to quit dance…
Chan couldn’t imagine his life without Minho in it. It’s simple, almost like a fact of the universe: the sky is blue, the grass is green, and Minho is Chan’s bestest friend. It feels as if the universe would be teetered off balance if that last part wasn’t true.
The only thing Minho can’t fix is Chan’s hopeless run through with romantic tendencies, and the family thing. Because they aren’t together, obviously, and even if they were, it’s not like they would be able to have kids—
He shoves that thought out of his mind and slumps against the couch pathetically, grabbing the bottle of wine from off the living room table. He sighs dramatically, earning a glance from Minho.
“What?” Minho asks, almost sounding bored—he’s dealt with enough of Chan’s fanatics over the years; he has the right to not sound so concerned.
“I want a child,” Chan mumbles around the bottle’s mouth, not even bothering to grab a cup—sue him, it’s his birthday, he can mope and drink straight out of the bottle if he so pleases.
Curled up around his feet, Dori meows loudly and jumps onto the couch, nuzzling Chan’s hand. Chan gives him a strange look. “No. No wine for you.” Dori seems to meow louder and more impatiently at that.
Minho chuckles lowly. “Then have a kid.”
“Need a girlfriend first.”
“Then find a girl.”
“Already tried that.”
“You’re out of options, then,” Minho shrugs. Then, he pauses, eyebrows drawing together. “Well, not really. You could always adopt.”
Chan’s smile falters, and he lowers the bottle from his mouth. “Huh?”
“If you want a kid so badly, then adopt a kid,” Minho repeats, and he sits up a little straighter. He wraps his fingers around the bottle one by one before taking it from Chan and putting it in his own mouth instead; Chan chooses to ignore the flare of heat he feels in his chest.
“Adopt?” Chan asks, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think I can just… adopt a kid.”
“Why not? You have a house. And money. And a job. And you’re responsible. And you want a kid in general—why can’t you adopt?”
“Well, because—” Chan sputters, but he stops mid sentence to think. Why can’t he? Minho’s right, isn’t he? He has a home and a steady income, and he’s willing, so wouldn’t he be able to? “I just don’t think that’s how it works.”
Minho takes out his phone and types something. After a few seconds, he reads out loud. “In New York, to become a foster parent, you must be twenty one or older,” he gestures to the sad, half eaten cupcake, and Chan snorts—much over twenty one, obviously.
“Be a legal US citizen, have a stable source of income, and pass background checks.” He continues scrolling through and shrugs his shoulders. “Then do a bunch of training, yadayadayada, get certified, and boom—you can foster. You could do that.”
“You keep saying you as if this wouldn’t affect you as well,” Chan notes with a small, humorless laugh—in reality, his heart is thumping against his chest erratically. If he really, truly wanted to, then he could apply to be a foster parent, and why couldn’t he?
Minho grins. “I’d help.”
Chan blinks at him. “You want to… foster children with me.”
“Sure, why not?”
“You hate children—and people in general.”
“Then let’s foster teens,” Minho hums. He’s speaking so casually, like this is just something they can do. “They never get fostered—I just don’t want to be potty training a two year old; I can handle some teenagers.”
Furrowing his eyebrows, Chan makes a small, pained squeak. “You want to foster teenagers?”
“Sure.”
“With me?”
“...Yeah.”
Chan sits up straight and leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees and staring at Minho intensely. “You, Lee Minho, who likes lazing around and who gives kids dirty looks in public for just existing, want to be responsible for a bunch of teenagers—”
“I just said yes, did I not?” Minho snaps, but he doesn’t sound mad, more like he’s amused at Chan’s antics. “Do you want to foster teenagers?”
“I mean—” Chan stops to think. Teenagers are much different than young children—especially teens in the system. They’re troubled, and traumatized, and usually have shitty behavior to protect themselves. Could Chan handle that? He thinks he could; he’s a patient person, and it feels like something tugs on his heart and makes him want to cry whenever he hears about teenagers in the system.
They probably wouldn’t like him so much. They’d be waiting constantly for the other shoe to drop. They’d gone through so much shit already, and he wouldn’t mean anything to them—he’d just be another guy taking care of them, but he wants to mean something to them… He wants to be able to make a positive impact, but he has to prepare himself for the fact that he might screw stuff up worse.
“Yeah, I do,” Chan finds himself saying, and he raises his eyes to meet Minho’s wide ones. “...Should I— we?” He corrects himself.
“Why not?” Minho asks, cocking his head, and a wide smile comes onto his face. “We’d be good ass parents.”
Chan snorts. “They’d probably hate us.”
“They still need a home, though,” Minho reminds him, his voice going softer. “We can give them that.”
Drawing his knees up to his chest, Chan stares into the distance. Their house is pretty big. They have four bedrooms—one for Chan, one for Minho, then two extras. They have room for some teenagers. “How many would we even foster?” Chan asks.
“Probably just one, maybe two,” Minho answers, nodding along as he speaks. He goes back onto his phone and lets out a bark of laughter. “In New York, you can have a maximum of six.”
Chan’s eyes blow wide. “Six?” He echoes. “Imagine us with six teenagers.”
“Oh, God, we’d go insane!” Minho giggles. Once his laughter subsides, he gives Chan a look. “You sure you want to apply? Maybe we should think about this for longer.”
“No, no I’m sure,” Chan immediately says. It’s nothing but the truth—for the longest time, he’s wanted to have children, and even if this wouldn’t be how he imagined it (fostering teenagers rather than biologically having kids with the love of his life), the more the idea lives in his head, the more right it feels. “How hard could applying be?”
“I think my hand is going to fall off if I have to fill out one more form,” Chan moans, pushing his laptop away from him. He’s still dressed in his work clothes from hours earlier, his tie loosened around his neck and most of the buttons of his shirt undone, having immediately gone to work for the application. He slumps against the dining table, resting his head on his bicep.
“Man up,” Minho chuckles, continuing to type on his own laptop, looking completely unphased. He’s sitting criss-cross on the chair and has overhead headphones on; he pauses the music as he continues speaking. “You want to be a dad but can’t even handle some paperwork?”
“It’s so much,” Chan complains. “This is the billionth form I’ve filled out.”
He was a fool. Four months ago, he was a fool. It’s now February, and he and Minho have been in the application process for four months at this point. He thought it’d be easy to apply—well, not like a breeze, but nothing like this.
Of course, he understands the why. They won’t just let anyone foster, obviously, but Jesus Christ. Over the past four months, Chan has done so much training and background checks and paperwork and research in general… He’s surprised that neither he or Minho gave out yet.
“Do you think just promising to be nice would be enough for the ACS to give me a child?” Chan jokingly asks, and Minho lets his head fall back in fits of laughter.
“You wish.”
“I do. I do wish.”
Other than the forms, he and Minho had also attended countless amounts of classes. Chan didn’t realize how much really went into it—both the application and being a parent in general. Of course, he knew there’d be challenges and he’d need to learn how to help a child who had been burned constantly over and over again, but something in his stomach felt like it was twisting whenever the teacher would describe the psychological affects of child abuse—how could anybody ever do that to a kid?
The classes also made him confront a part of himself he didn’t know even existed. Chan is patient, and he’s understanding, and he’s kind—he thought those were kind of just the foundational traits to be able to parent. But, during the classes, they were acting out scenarios and were asked how they’d react to certain situations, and Chan realized maybe he has more flaws than he’d accounted for.
He doesn’t like confronting problems. He isn’t the best at understanding other perspectives if he doesn’t agree with their actions. He can be selfish from time to time. He can get so consumed with his own life that he forgets to check on the people around him. The more and more the teachers forced them to realize their own problems, the more Chan started to doubt himself.
Is he really fit to be a parent if he has so many flaws? He’s a human, he’s expected to not be perfect, but maybe he got confused with parenting being constant fun, playing, dressing up, and milestones rather than said child being an actual human being with their own issues and problems.
The thought comes back to him, and he taps his fingers mindlessly against the table, releasing a small puff of air. No. He’s overthinking this. He can be a good parent, he just has to actually try first.
By the time he and Minho are done with the forms (for today, at least), it’s dark outside, and both men are nearly falling asleep at the table. “We forgot to eat dinner,” Minho mumbles against the wood, and Chan groans loudly.
“Great, now I realized that I’m hungry.”
“Get up and make something,” Minho demands, though not aggressively, and because it’s Minho who asked, Chan immediately pushes his chair back and walks over to the fridge without argument. Looking at all the ingredients, and at the time, he decides on a simple stir fry.
Five minutes into making it, he can hear Minho groaning. From the corner of his eye, Chan sees Minho stretching his arms over his head, making his shirt ride up. “I’m gonna go shower,” Minho informs him before walking out of the room.
The kitchen is quiet now that Minho is gone, and Chan leans against the counter as the rice cooks on the stove. The light from the moon shines between the flits of the blinds, painting the living room in a soft glow, and Chan shivers at the late February breeze coming in through the cracked window.
When the world is silent like this, it gives Chan a moment to be able to actually think straight. He blinks tiredly, not realizing how exhausted he truly was until now, and fiddles with the ring on his hand.
He looks down and frowns. The ring is on his middle finger, though, he desperately wishes that it was on his fourth finger instead. The idea of marriage has always been so natural to Chan; how would his younger self look at him if he knew that he wouldn’t ever get married? Well, he still has time, sure, but the more and more he thinks about it, the more it hits him that he really doesn’t. Who gets married this late in life other than divorcees?
But, at the same time, he hasn’t thought much about marriage at all lately. He’s been consumed by the entire fostering process and work, and the more he continues doing that, the less and less marriage becomes something that presses down on his chest.
Fostering kids. Wow. That’s insane. He blows out a quiet breath before turning the stove to a simmer and adding the vegetables, a soft smile touching at his lips. He can completely see himself fostering teenagers. It feels so oddly right in a way; he’s always wanted his own kids, but really, it’s less about the biological factor and more so the ability to make an impact on somebody’s life.
Just as he finishes up the stir-fry, he can hear the soft padding of socks on the hardwood floor enter the kitchen. He turns his head just barely, enough to see Minho in his peripheral vision; he’s wearing a big hoodie with baggy sweatpants, and his towel-dried hair is going every which way. He looks at Chan tiredly and slides up on the island chair, humming as he rests his chin in his hand.
“‘M so tired,” he mumbles, and Chan chuckles before sliding a plate to him.
“Eat first, then sleep,” Chan instructs, and Minho simply nods before taking a bite.
They both sit in comfortable silence as they eat, and the reminder of how domestic this all feels comes back to Chan. When they’re like this, just quietly eating side by side and nearly falling asleep, is when Chan feels the safest. Minho has always been his person, and the knowledge of fostering kids with him is so equally ridiculous as it is joyous that Chan can’t help but smile to himself like an idiot.
“What?” Minho asks, a teasing edge to his voice, and gives Chan a knowing look.
“Nothin’,” Chan answers. “Just feel happy—is that a crime?”
“Yes,” Minho deadpans, and Chan snorts.
Eventually, Chan finishes eating and is about to put his plate in the sink before he pauses. Minho has completely fallen asleep now, his head resting on his arms and his lips slightly parted as he breathes in and out. Chan’s heart does something strange in his chest as he grabs Minho’s plate as well, putting them away.
“Minho,” Chan whispers. Minho stirs and makes an unhappy sound, shying away from Chan’s touch. “C’mon, sweetheart, you have to go to bed.”
Minho groans and picks his head up, blinking slowly, and a deep frown is present on his face. Like a baby, he extends his arms and looks up at Chan expectantly, and Chan makes a show of rolling his eyes before bending down and picking him up. Honestly, it’s been a while since Chan picked Minho up like this, and Chan makes a small noise of disdain.
“You’re so needy,” Chan notes as he walks them to Minho’s bedroom, kicking the door open and gently putting Minho onto his bed. He sighs dramatically and shakes his arms out, raising his eyebrows. Minho almost immediately gets underneath his covers and pulls them over his frame. “You’ve gotten heavier,” Chan says.
“Just means you gotta go to the gym,” Minho mumbles before getting comfortable. Chan’s jaw slacks in offense—he’s very strong, thank you very much—but he doesn’t get the chance to make a snarky remark before Minho’s eyes shut again.
Chan huffs out and shakes his head, smiling privately to himself before quietly shutting the door and going to his own bed instead.
Two weeks later, and they are officially certified.
Chan stares at the piece of paper in his hands, Minho’s chin hooked over his shoulder. Minho reads it out loud since Chan is, apparently, completely frozen. They’re standing in their living room, some K-Drama Minho is obsessed with but Chan doesn’t really understand playing in the back. It’s a helpful background noise.
“State of New York, Department of Human Services, is hereby licensed to provide…” He continues speaking, reading off of it, and Chan just can blink. He’s rendered speechless, and doesn’t even realize when Minho has finished speaking until Minho nudges his shoulder. “Chan-ah.”
Chan doesn’t even mention the informality before making an embarrassing, high pitched, delighted sound as he turns around and embraces Minho. Minho yelps, groaning loudly as Chan squeezes tighter. “Let me go!” He demands, though the way he relaxes into the touch gives Chan a different idea.
“We can be dads now!” Chan exclaims with glee, shaking Minho a bit. “Minho!”
“Chan!” Minho mocks in the same voice, but he has a smile on his face too; his teeth are showing, and that same, endearing, slightly uneven tooth that Minho shows makes Chan’s heart expand even more.
“We did it!”
“I see that! Now let go of me!”
Obliging, Chan reluctantly puts his hands down and takes a step back, though nothing can conceal his excitement; he rocks back and forth on his heels and bounces a bit, a wide smile on his face. Though, as quickly as the enthusiasm came to him, his face dropped just as fast. “Oh, fuck, I think I’m going to be sick,” he mumbles.
Minho snaps his head up in alarm. “What? Why?”
“Oh my God, what if I’m literally the worst dad— ever?” Chan rambles, bringing his hand up to his mouth and nibbling on the skin around his nails. “What if I fuck up these kids’ lives even more? What if—”
“Channie,” Minho interrupts, gripping onto his shoulders. His warm fingers touch the bare skin there, visible from Chan’s tank top, and Chan falters. He looks at Minho with wide eyes, full of vulnerability and fear, yet Minho is completely stoic; Chan doesn’t understand how—his heart is racing so hard he can feel his pulse jumping in his neck, so how can Minho be so normal?
“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be a fine dad. You know how to parent. You’ve worked so hard over these past few months, so I’d be damned if I let you lose your mind over this,” Minho hisses, drawing his face closer to Chan’s. Chan freezes, and all he can do is stare back.
Between the two of them, Minho has always been the voice of reason; he’s always been the one who calms Chan down, who uses logic whenever Chan is panicking—in more ways than one, he’s Chan’s anchor.
Minho gently reaches up and takes Chan’s hand from his mouth, putting it back to his side, and Chan can do nothing but let Minho do whatever he wants. “You’re okay,” Minho says, looking at Chan expectantly.
Chan draws his eyebrows together, his breathing picking up. “I’m okay?” He echoes skeptically.
“Yep,” Minho sharply nods, his head jerking. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine. It’s not like we’re going to get a placement right this very second—you have a minute to breathe and think it over. It’s literally fine.”
“Right. Yeah. It’s fine,” Chan stammers, nodding, and he’s not quite sure if he’s saying it to Minho or to himself. Chan takes a step back and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, trying to will his hands to stop shaking.
Minho’s still looking at him with concern, his hair falling over his face, and Chan takes a big, deep breath that racks through his frame. Minho’s right—it’s going to be okay, and clearly, the state thinks Chan will be a fine parent, so Chan just has to get out of his own head, right?
“Are you good now?” Minho slowly asks, as if he’s talking to a startled animal. Chan simply nods instead of speaking, and Minho blinks at him rapidly. “Then let’s go get drinks, or something, to celebrate.”
“I can’t believe we’re going to be dads,” Chan giggles, his face flushed from the heat of the bar. In all honesty, he’s not much of a drinker—he’s been nursing the same beer for the past half hour, meanwhile Minho is on his third sweet, girly, sugary mixture. Minho has no shame about it, though.
There’s not many people here—this bar is underground enough, but especially on a random weekday. Like them, there seems to be many friends just hanging out. There’s awful music playing from the speakers, and the drinks here are weirdly expensive, but Chan and Minho have been coming here for years; it’s tradition at this point.
“It feels weird,” Minho admits, putting his drink down and fidgeting with his cup by wrapping his fingers around the rim, one by one, repeatedly; Chan’s eyes catch the movement, but he forces his gaze elsewhere. Chan looks at him, silently telling him to continue—throughout this entire process, Minho has been acting like he’s completely fine and neutral about the whole thing, unlike Chan, who has voiced his many concerns a plethora of times.
Surprisingly, Minho had been amazing during all the training sessions. Chan expected him to be indifferent towards the whole thing, to really let all the responsibility fall into Chan’s hands while he’s just a side character. Minho had never expressed wanting kids at all—matter of fact, he’d repeatedly said over the years that he wouldn’t want children, so what’s new?
Instead, he’d actually been abnormally… aware. For every scenario given to them, he seemed to have the perfect answer and knew exactly what to say and how to act. Minho never spoke much about his childhood, even after all of these years, but the disregard of ever calling or visiting his family and how he just generally acts made Chan put the pieces together—while he doesn’t assume Minho was full on abused, it’s clear there was some form of negligence in his adolescence.
Maybe that’s how he seemed to know so much about it all. They seem to have very different perspectives when it comes to parenting—Chan wants the kid to be able to talk to him about their issues and what’s worrying them, and Chan wants to always find a solution. Contrary, Minho continuously urged giving the kid space and to let them figure it out and decide what they want to do by themselves.
Minho has always told Chan that he has a “savior complex.” Who can blame Chan, though? Why wouldn’t you want to solve the problem? Maybe that’s why he’s such a good mathmatician—he likes it when there’s a solution, and he doesn’t like the unknown. Unlike Minho, who regularly preaches the peace he feels from not knowing something.
Perhaps Minho is right, though. These kids aren’t going to want to talk about their issues. Chan is lucky enough to have grown up in a family where his parents routinely asked about his problems and what was bothering him—it’s second nature for Chan at this point to voice his issues; he feels better whenever he does, and getting something off of his chest is the perfect way for him to move on.
These kids, more likely than not, aren’t going to have grown up in an environment like that, and Chan has to prepare himself to be shut out. He doesn’t blame them—at some point, you learn that being quiet is the key to survival—but he doesn’t know if he is going to be able to sit there and deal with the fact that somebody under his responsibility is struggling but won’t come to him.
He wants to be that safe space, but before he can be, he’s going to have to earn their trust—which is either going to take years or never happen at all. Minho seems to be fine with that fact.
“I think we’ll be good parents,” Minho shrugs. “I mean. We have a good house, and we’re nice, and we’re both… understanding, I guess,” he stumbles over his words a little bit. “It’ll take a bit to get used to, but we got this. Now, we just have to wait.”
Unfortunately, Chan isn’t in his twenties anymore and actually has responsibilities for the next day, so only at nine p.m. does he call quits and ask Minho to go home. Minho only complains a little bit, but the way he stumbles tells Chan enough about cutting off his intake, and he grabs Minho’s arm to drag them out of the bar.
The next morning is how it always is. Breakfast, work, come home, do more work at home while Minho grades papers next to him. The day after that is the same, as well as the next.
It’s not until three weeks later, three weeks of jittering nervously and wanting the phone to ring, three weeks of wondering and preparing himself, does Chan’s phone finally ring.
He’s on his lunch break when it happens. He’s rocking back and forth on his heels, wishing the line at the sandwich shop would move a bit quicker so he can get back to work on time when his phone starts to buzz in his back pocket. Mindlessly, he takes it out, not thinking twice about it; it’s probably just Minho.
When he sees it’s one of their foster agents calling, his heart does a strange flip in his chest, and his stomach instantly sinks with nerves. Oh my God. Holy shit. Oh my god.
He instantly steps out of line and goes out the door, lunch be damned, and answers once he’s inside. He leans against one of the outdoor tables, trying to keep his breathing steady. “Hello?” He says, swallowing down nothing; his mouth suddenly feels very, very dry.
“Hi, is this Christopher?” Chan winces at his English name before affirming.
The phone call itself is only about four minutes. It’s rapid fire talk, and the lady on the other end explains how it’s an urgent placement—the kid needs somewhere to stay and somewhere fast. He’s fourteen years old. History of abuse. It’s his fourth placement in just two years, and he’s always getting reported for bad behavior; it makes Chan’s heart squeeze—how could someone sign up for fostering then get upset when the kid isn’t a complete angel?
He doesn’t even think about talking it over with Minho before he agrees to the placement. Minho would say yes, of course he would. By the time the phone hangs up, Chan is pretty sure he’s about to have a panic attack, which would not be a great look for a new parent.
Quickly, he phones Minho. It’s school hours, but both of them agree to only call the other during work if it’s truly something important. Minho doesn’t pick up originally, but only a few minutes later Chan's phone starts ringing. He slams the answer button so quickly it’s a miracle his screen doesn’t crack.
“What’s up? Is everything okay?” Minho instantly asks. “Be quick—my kids are taking a test and I know damn well they’re cheating now that I’m out of the room.”
Chan doesn’t even find it in himself to laugh before he blurts it out. “We have a placement.”
“What?” Minho gasps. “No way. Already? Holy sh— shoot. Oh my God. Tell me everything.”
Chan covers everything the case worker told him so rapidly he’s not sure if Minho actually picked up on the words. “But it’s quick—he’s supposed to come tonight.”
“That’s— fine. That’s completely okay. What’s his name?”
Chan sucks in a breath. This is real, this is all actually happening—he and Minho are going to be foster dads tonight. It seems too good to be true, and Chan almost wants to call that case worker back and ask if she’s playing a prank on them. “Han Jisung.”