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Tinkering with this build-up, Chan is lost to the world, which is why he doesn’t realise he has company till he feels someone touch his shoulder.
He snaps his head up and pulls off his headphones, quirking an eyebrow up at Changbin. ‘All good?’ he asks, then coughs to clear the raspy quality out of his throat. He grabs the cup on his desk and drains the dregs of his coffee, cold by now and bitter enough to twist his face into a grimace.
‘Yeah, ‘course.’ Changbin lets go of Chan’s shoulder and looks towards the monitor. ‘Just checking in. It’s nearing three, if you care.’
Another cough creeps up his throat and he hacks it into the crook of his elbow.
‘Ante meridiem,’ Changbin adds. ‘And you really don’t look too hot. No offence.’
‘Good thing you’re not a Vogue scout then, isn’t it?’
‘You’re too short to be a model,’ he says. ‘And the whole dark-circles-under-the-eyes-haven’t-slept-for-a-week-looking-half-dead look died in the late 90s anyway. Now the live-love-laugh-hit-the-gym-every-day aesthetic is all the rage, Hyung.’
‘I go to the gym,’ Chan says. ‘You know I do.’
‘Yah, but right now you look like, I don’t fucking know, Kate Moss at the height of her heroin chic era or something.’
‘I’m fine,’ Chan says, and it’s not a lie. Technically. Sure, there’s an insistent throbbing at the back of his skull and his throat is a bit scratchy and he did feel a little bit woozy when he got up to go to the restroom earlier, but it’s nothing a few painkillers won’t take care of. An all-nighter has never killed him before, and it won’t kill him tonight. Their comeback is just around the corner, which means he’s fine. It means he’s not getting sick, because he does not have the time to get sick.
He repeats, ‘I’m fine.’
‘Right,’ Changbin says. ‘So I’m heading back to the dorm. You know, get some sleep. I hear it’s good for you.’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear.’
Changbin rolls his eyes. ‘Okay, but I’m jus’ saying—’ he says, ‘Felix is gonna kick your ass when he finds out you stayed here all night. Again.’
‘Felix can’t kick my ass,’ Chan says. ‘He weighs in at max 125 pounds when wearing a soaking wet T-shirt. I could kick his ass.’
‘Physically, yeah,’ Changbin concedes. ‘But emotionally? No way. You couldn’t even lightly shake him. You’re too soft for him.’
‘I don’t like this conversation,’ Chan says. He stifles a yawn into his palm and wafts his other hand at Changbin. ‘Cheers for checking in, but I’m fine. You should get some sleep.’
‘You know,’ he says, ‘you won’t actually get to enjoy the rewards of all your hard work if you work yourself to death.’
‘Go to sleep, Bin. I’m fine.’
He throws his hands up in defeat. ‘All right, all right. I get it. You really can’t teach an old dog new tricks, huh?’
‘I’m not that o—’ Chan starts, but he’s cut off by a bout of hoarse coughs.
Changbin arches an eyebrow neatly, but doesn’t say anything more before he leaves the studio.
#
Swearing under his breath, he sifts through a desk drawer. There’s so much fucking shit around here—old biros that don’t even work any more and crumpled-up tissues and empty chocolate bar wrappers and paper clips and what could be a used condom, maybe, but Chan really does not want to know, and where—where—where are the fucking pain killers—
He screams soundlessly, which doesn’t help, but finally finds a half-empty jar of prescription-only painkillers.
‘Eureka!’ He gets out of his chair and steals one of the energy drinks from Jisung’s mini fridge, cracks it open, and washes down two pills.
He eyes the jar.
He swallows a third and gets back to work.
#
Just as he gets out of the lift, he spots Minho walking through the front door of the JYPE building.
‘Minho-yah,’ he says, stifling a yawn. ‘Good morning.’
‘Channie-hyung,’ Minho says. ‘We can’t keep meeting like this. It makes me feel like a character in one of Hannie’s dramas.’
‘How would you know anything about Han’s dramas?’ Chan counters, gaze dropping to the takeaway cup of coffee in Minho’s hand. ‘I thought you didn’t watch those.’
Minho rolls his eyes and slips the straw of his drink between his lips. ‘This is the third time this week. And it’s Wednesday.’
Chan feels his lips tug into a sheepish smile. ‘If you don’t want to meet like this, you could stop coming in early.’
‘Or you could stop leaving so late,’ Minho counters. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Uh.’ He thinks back to the vending machine coffee and painkillers he had a few hours ago. ‘Sorta?’
Minho tilts his head and narrows his eyes. Slowly, he says, ‘you don’t look good.’
Chan scoffs. ‘It’s seven in the fuckin’ morning, Minho-yah,’ he says. ‘Of course I don’t look good.’
‘Are you saying I don’t look earth-shatteringly handsome right now?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Right answer,’ Minho says, slurping up more coffee. ‘You better be asleep when I come to your dorm later.’
‘Or what?’
‘I know a way or two to make sure a guy stays unconscious.’
‘Your threats don’t work on me,’ Chan says. ‘You’re just a cute little kitty.’
‘Say that again when I give you a black eye.’ He sidesteps him and adds, ‘if you see Jisung, tell him to pick up his phone when I call. And then go to sleep, Hyung. You look like shit.’
#
He collapses into bed, but sleep never comes that easily. Even when exhaustion cloaks him like a second skin and prickles his eyes, his brain just won’t shut off. The base of his skull throbs and his head feels so stuffy—like he’s encased in cotton, but the cotton is crammed with tiny razor blades.
He shifts to the other side and shoves the blanket between his thighs, but the fabric scratches him and there’s all this dust in the air that irritates his eyes and everything is bad.
He sucks in a sharp breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Calm the fuck down.
He rubs his temples and counts to ten.
He counts backwards from twenty to zero in English.
He recites the eight times table, which is objectively the hardest one.
A cough trickles up his throat. And another. And another. And, oh wow, he has to sit up, he has to—
He hacks up his left lung and collapses back into bed. He sighs and knuckles his eyes. Everything feels a little bit like it’s on fire. But it’s fine.
It is.
He just needs some sleep.
He closes his eyes.
He starts counting sheep.
#
‘What are you doing out of bed?’ Minho points the sharp end of the knife in Chan’s direction.
Unperturbed, Chan grabs a clean glass from the cupboard and fills it with tap water. ‘What are you doing here, Minho-yah?’
‘Chopping celery,’ he says as he returns his attention to the chopping board. ‘Don’t tell me you’re turning blind, too. I thought you were just getting sick.’
‘I’m not getting sick,’ he insists. He takes a sip of water to sponge out that scratchiness in his throat. ‘And I’m not blind either. Did you come here just to cook?’
‘Well, someone has to.’ He pushes the celery cubes to the side of the board and starts finely chopping a carrot. ‘When’s the last time you wankers had a real meal, huh? Answer that.’
Chan has long since made peace with Minho’s seemingly pathological inability to not feign insouciance. He is, frankly, one of the kindest people Chan has ever met, but God forbid anyone ever find that out. No—better fool everyone into thinking you’re an asshole. Much better. Why would you want anyone to know that you don’t suck?
Hyunjin says it’s something to do with his Sun and Mercury both being in Scorpio combined with his Aries Mars, but Chan isn’t sure he really believes that much in astrology.
Seungmin says it’s because he’s an only child, which is a really bold take coming from him.
Whatever the case, Minho is in his kitchen chopping up vegetables.
‘We had spaghetti the other day,’ Chan says.
‘Just plain spaghetti?’ He flicks on the stove and adds sesame oil to a pot. ‘No wonder Han is so scrawny.’
‘No, we had, like, tomato sauce. Chicken breast. And peas and, uh—point is, I can cook. I cook. What’re you doing here, Minho?’
Minho adds rice to the pot and starts stir-frying it. ‘Yongbokie baked last night and he hasn’t cleaned up the kitchen yet, so here I am. Using yours instead.’
Chan rolls his eyes, but he stops pushing for an honest answer.
It’s not like he’d get one anyway.
Instead, he asks, ‘can I help with anything?’
‘You can go back to bed,’ he says, aiming the wooden spoon in Chan’s direction. To anyone else, it might look threatening, but Chan only finds Minho’s intimidation tactics endearing.
He coughs into the crook of his elbow. ‘I have work to do.’
‘Christopher,’ Minho says, ‘go to your room.’
‘Yes, Mommy.’ He winks at him and hightails it out of the kitchen before Minho throws a knife at him.
#
Luckily, the invention of the laptop allows Chan to work anywhere, any time.
He pulls on a hoodie, suddenly cold, and sits down cross-legged on the bed to fiddle with some minor details that he’s still not entirely happy with. Time spirals away from him and suddenly Changbin’s knocking on the door, telling him to come eat.
‘Just one sec.’
‘Minho-hyung said you have ten seconds to get your ass into the kitchen or he’ll cut the power line.’
‘Hyung!’ Jisung hollers from another room. ‘Get out here. If we lose electricity, my laptop will die and I still have an hour left of Ponyo.’
‘He’s watched Ponyo before,’ Chan says, arching a brow at Changbin. ‘And Minho wouldn’t anyway.’
‘But I would,’ he says. ‘And you’re wasting time. Four, three, t—’
‘All right!’ He jumps up from the bed, which momentarily makes the entire room spin. He slams a hand against the wall to steady himself, ignoring the concerned noise Changbin makes, and breezes to the kitchen. ‘All right, I’m here.’
‘Just on time,’ Minho says. He looks up at him briefly and nods for him to sit down, then ladles more dakjuk into one of the ceramic bowls Hyunjin made last summer. ‘Hannie was about to start crying.’
‘I was not,’ he says, eyeing Chan. ‘I really wasn’t.’
‘Whatever you say,’ Minho says cheerfully. He sets down a bowl in front of Chan and starts filling one for Jisung. ‘Crybaby.’
‘I’m not a crybaby,’ he whines.
Changbin drops down next to Chan. ‘You’re not?’
Jisung huffs, his mouth twisting into a pout. ‘Stop being mean to me.’
‘Or what?’ Minho puts his bowl down in front of him. ‘You’ll cry?’
‘I’ll do a VLIVE and do a hyung ranking.’ His cheeks puff out adorably as he shoves a spoonful of juk into his mouth.
‘Aw, Hannie-yah,’ Minho says. ‘You’re going to tell everyone how much you love me?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Why are you even here?’ he asks. ‘Go back to your own dorm and bully Seungmin instead.’
‘I’ll tell him you said that.’
Chan enjoys watching them banter. He ducks his head to hide his small smile and digs into his food, the familiar flavours making nostalgia zip through him. His mum made dakjuk whenever he was sick as a kid and he thinks about being six, maybe seven, home from school with a cold—lying in bed all day, dozing on and off, playing Pokémon on his Gameboy, drinking tea with honey. He thinks he can still remember the feeling of his mum’s hand against his sweat-damp forehead, the pitch of her voice as she fussed over him, the cloying sweetness of the cough syrup.
It might be imagined, though. It might be legerdemain, conjured up by homesickness and that pinch of regret that occasionally cleaves his heart. All the what ifs. All the sick longing and wishing you could be five years old forever and sit in your father’s lap with your ear pressed to his chest, the steady beating of his heart, the timeless smell of his cologne, your belly full with your mother’s kimchi jjigae, the sun setting outside and everything beautiful and everything calm and, in that moment, no rush to grow old.
And now you’re old and it can’t be undone. Time doesn’t stop for anyone.
That’s it. That’s the point. Time doesn’t stop and Chan doesn’t have the time to be sick right now.
He knows what Minho is doing. He knows why he’s here, he knows why he cooked dakjuk, he’s not stupid. And he can recognise it as a sign of love, too. He knows Minho doesn’t go in for words of affection, and he knows that this is, probably, a sign of his concern.
But he knows himself, too. He can push through this.
He has to.
There’s no time. If you slow down for a moment, if you stop running—you collapse. The monster catches up. It digs in its fangs. You never get back up.
Whatever happens, he’ll keep going. He feels like Atlas sometimes. It hurts to hold up the heavens so everyone else can shine, but he’ll keep doing what he has to do.
The dakjuk doesn’t hurt, though.
#
The world is foggy. There’s something flimsy covering his brain and his body’s been dipped in resin. Life feels like a slow-motion sequence, each movement lagging. He takes painkillers and he sucks on cough sweets and he considers brewing coffee with Monster Energy because he’s so fucking tired of feeling this slow.
He ignores the pointed looks from everyone else. He stays late at the studio to tweak a topline and start prep on something else, popping another few painkillers to get through the last hours of the night.
His to-do list is like the Hydra. Every time he ticks off one thing, he jots down two new tasks he has to take care of.
Sure, he’d like to lie down and sleep for eighteen hours straight. He’d fucking love to do that, actually, but it’s a pipedream. He has shit to do. Get it moving.
#
In the dream, he’s submerged in honey but can somehow still breathe.
When he blinks awake, he finds Felix sitting in his desk chair, one leg tucked to his chest, reading something on his phone.
If it were anyone but Felix, Chan would probably feel a little creeped-out. It’d be stalkerish to wake up and see someone in your room. But with Felix—well, it’s Felix. He could do anything and Chan would be okay with it.
He blinks again and shifts slightly, exhaling a truly pathetic sound.
Felix looks up and catches his eyes. His lips part for a second and his expression softens, something so worried crossing his face. ‘Hyung,’ he says. ‘How long did you sleep?’
He rubs his eyes. ‘Time’s it?’ he croaks.
‘Half ten.’
Chan does the maths. He got back to the dorm around seven thirty and it probably took him another forty minutes to fall asleep, so it’s been—
‘Long enough,’ he says. ‘Like, five hours. At least. Probably closer to six.’
‘Liar,’ Felix says with a scoff. ‘Minho-hyung told me he ran into you at seven o’clock.’
‘Maybe Minho’s lying to you.’
Felix tilts his head. ‘Hyung,’ he says softly. ‘I’m just worried about you.’
He drops his head back on the pillow and sighs. ‘Lix,’ he says, eyes closed. ‘You don’t have to worry ‘bout me.’
‘You’re running on, what, two hours of sleep per night? Three, maybe, but that’s being generous.’ He gets out of the chair and sits down on the bed next to Chan, carding his fingers through his hair. ‘You literally sound like you’ve drunk battery acid. Your eyes are bloodshot. I don’t even understand how you’re alive right now.’
‘I’m fine,’ he says.
Felix glares at him. He presses the back of his hand against Chan’s forehead and smoothes his thumb over his eyebrow. ‘Channie,’ he says. ‘Chris. You’re really sick. You need rest.’
‘I just slept,’ he insists. He would argue more, but talking kind of hurts. He gestures vaguely instead, then sits up on his elbows and reaches out to grab a tissue.
‘Nap with me?’ Felix asks.
‘Lixie,’ he says, a little woozy after blowing his nose. ‘You shouldn’t even be here. You’ll get sick.’
‘Oh?’ He cocks his brow, something triumphant tugging on his lips. ‘You’re going to infect me, are you? I thought you weren’t sick.’
‘Ugh.’ He flicks his thigh. ‘I’m not. I’m just—’ He sighs again. ‘Maybe I’m feeling a little bit off, but it’s nothing serious. I swear.’
‘You’re a bad liar, Hyung. You know that, right?’
‘How did you make that sound like a bad thing?’ he retorts even though talking still hurts. ‘You’ve been around Minho too much.’
‘It’s not a bad thing,’ Felix says. ‘It’s a good thing. Definitely. So—’ He brushes Chan’s hair off his forehead again. ‘Nap with me, Hyung? Please?’
When it comes to Felix, Chan is terribly weak. And he is tired—his whole body is leaden and his eyes burn and his throat also feels like he’s drunk battery acid. So maybe—maybe just a short nap. Maybe just half an hour to satisfy Felix, and then he can get up and check his calendar. Maybe—
Felix shifts around and crawls under the blanket, slinging one arm over Chan’s chest to cuddle closer. ‘You’re like five hundred degrees right now,’ he mutters. ‘Celsius.’
‘And here I was thinking you meant 500 kelvins.’
‘Shut up!’ he mutters. ‘Nobody uses kelvins in real life. Close your eyes.’
‘They’re closed.’
‘Close your mouth.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Turn your brain off.’
That’s harder, much harder, but for Felix he’ll try.
#
‘Oh.’ Chan steps back inside the studio after a short toilet break, surprised to find Jisung lingering next to his desk. ‘Han-ah, hi.’
‘Hyung,’ he says, ‘hi.’
‘What’s up?’ He closes the door behind him and settles back down in his desk chair, eyeing the mountain of crumpled-up tissues next to the overfull bin.
‘Just wanted to see how you’re doing,’ Jisung says. He meets Chan’s eyes briefly but looks away again, fidgeting a hand through his fringe.
‘I’m good,’ Chan says. His fingers itch to get back to work. He was in the zone before he got up to go pee, so if Jisung isn’t here for a reason—well, it’s a little bit distracting, really. He wouldn’t call him a nuisance, not at all, but it’s hard to get into the flow state and he’d like to get back into it. ‘And you?’
‘I’m fine,’ Jisung says. ‘Yeah, ‘course, I’m good.’ He clears his throat awkwardly and glances at the bag of cough sweets on the desk, the empty blister pack of Paracetamol. ‘Hyung, it’s like—two a.m. right now. I think you should come back home with me and get some sleep.’
Chan closes his eyes.
This again.
He exhales slowly and looks back at Jisung, jaw tensing. ‘I’ll come back when I’m done with this one thing.’
Jisung waves his arms uselessly. ‘We’re all worried about you, Hyung. You look seriously bad. I’m talking close-to-dying-bad and not your ordinary sleep-deprived-but-still-kind-of-rocking-it-bad.’
Something inside him snaps. ‘I’m fine,’ he says, all acid and anger that’s been contained for too long. ‘I’ve actually had it up to fucking here with all of you fussing over me like this. You’re not my fucking mother, Han Jisung. I said I’m fine, which means I’m fine. I’ll come home and go to bed when I’m done here, okay? And maybe, just maybe, I’d be done earlier if you didn’t come to distract me. Did you think about that?’ Drops of spit flurry from his lips, his face heating up, the floor swaying under him. He hasn’t been this angry in a long time. He doesn’t even remember the last time he let it all out. ‘Do you not understand that I’m doing this for all of you? You like the success, don’t you? You like how the last concerts sold out so fast, you like the awards, you like all of that—right? So can you just fucking—’ He waves his hand between them and leans back in his chair, pinching the skin between his eyebrows. ‘Leave me alone. Let me do what I do. Trust me.’
In front of him, tears well up in Jisung’s eyes. ‘I—I’m sorry,’ he gasps, bottom lip wobbling, ‘sorry, Hyung, I didn’t mean—’ He wipes his hand across his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats, and leaves the studio with a choked-off sound.
Chan slumps down in his chair. Still keyed-up with anger, he also feels defeated. The room spins around him and his head throbs. Part of him knows he should go after Jisung and apologise, but another part—right now, a much larger part, the part of him that’s still angry and irritated and too fucking busy to deal with this right now—wants to stay right here. He feels righteous. Maybe he lost his temper, but he was pushed.
He can talk it out with Jisung tomorrow but, for once, he doesn’t want to be the one to rebuild bridges.
All right, he’ll admit it—he’s sick. He is. Why do you think he’s been taking painkillers? Yes, he has a cold. But that doesn’t mean he can’t work. They’re all overreacting. They don’t trust him to know his own limits.
He pushes all thoughts about Jisung out of his head and turns his focus back to the monitor.
#
Around noon, he stumbles out of his bedroom and finds Minho in their kitchen with his arms crossed. His gaze could melt steel and confused dread starts creeping up Chan’s spine. ‘Minho-yah,’ he says, coughing into the crook of his elbow. ‘You’re in our kitchen again.’
‘What the fuck did you say to Hannie?’
Chan rubs his fingers over his eyes and sighs. ‘What?’
‘I get that you’re not feeling too hot these days,’ he says coldly, ‘which is why I didn’t come directly to your studio to break your fucking neck last night. But now you’ve slept, I hope. And you’re going to tell me exactly what you said to make him that upset. And then we’ll see about breaking your neck.’
‘Piss off,’ he mutters roughly. He should de-escalate the situation, but his brain is trying to catch up and his vision is still blurry at the edges and if Minho wants a fight—well, he’ll bite. He’ll give him a fucking fight. He’s tired of breaking his own back to make other people happy when they’re never happy with him anyway. ‘I told him to stop acting like my fucking mum. I don’t need all of you fretting over me, okay? I’m fine.’
Minho’s eyes narrow. Enunciating each word clearly and slowly, he says, ‘you made him cry.’
His tone sparks icy shivers to run all over Chan’s body.
‘You’re the one who called him a crybaby!’ he says deliriously. ‘I didn’t ask him to come bother me at two a.m.! I didn’t ask any of you to be so fucking—annoying about this. I’m fine! I have a cold, okay, it’s not the end of the world. I’m getting better. If you could all just leave me alone—’
‘Do you hear yourself right now?’ Minho asks, but doesn’t give Chan the chance to reply. ‘I’m so angry I could hit you, but I’m pretty sure it’d kill you. You don’t just have a cold. And you’re not fine. And you don’t get to treat Han like that or I swear to God I won’t care if you die when I beat you up.’
‘Fuck you,’ he spits. ‘You’re all acting like I’m some sickly Victorian boy on the verge of death. I’m fucking sick of it.’
‘You’re going to apologise to him.’
He blinks and just stares at him. ‘I’m what?’
‘You’re going to apologise to him,’ Minho repeats. ‘You don’t get to be an asshole and then act like he deserved it. And don’t call him a crybaby again.’
‘You’re such a hypocrite,’ he says, almost laughing, but that makes him lightheaded and he has to touch the wall to steady himself. ‘You called him that first. Did he ask you to come here and defend his honour or whatever?’
Minho steps closer and curls his hands into fists. ‘You’re acting insane,’ he says. ‘I don’t even recognise you right now. You know he would never ask me to do that. He begged me to let it go because he thinks it’s all his fault anyway and he wants to apologise to you and you’re so fucking—stubborn, it’s infuriating.’
‘Maybe you should listen to him!’ he suggests. ‘Let it go, Minho. And stop babying me!’
His nostrils flare as he exhales slowly. ‘Fine,’ he says eventually. ‘Whatever. Your fucking grave. Not mine.’
He just stares at him. Something inside him twists, but he doesn’t let it bloom into regret just yet. No. Instinct is telling him to roll over like a kicked dog and apologise, talk it out, make Minho understand that he didn’t mean any harm and he’s sorry and can’t we all be friends, I want us all to be friends, I don’t want to fight—
But he won’t back down. He won’t cower.
Fighting can feel good. His head is spinning and nausea seesaws in his throat but this righteous anger burns through him and makes him feel strangely lucid. Something to focus on. And he’s not wrong. He isn’t. They’ve all been babying him and they shouldn’t. They should trust him. He’s the leader. And hasn’t he been a good leader? Hasn’t he done his best? Hasn’t he, since the first day, worked himself sore to be the best person he could possibly be—the best leader, the best friend, the best producer, the best the best the best the best and why can’t they trust him then?
‘For the record,’ Minho says from the doorframe. ‘If you ever make Hannie cry like that again, I’ll break your nose.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Chan exhales, throat burning. ‘Got it the first time.’
#
Of course the rage bleeds into remorse and suddenly doesn’t feel as justified as it did earlier. He shouldn’t have snapped at Jisung and he shouldn’t have said those things to Minho either. He shouldn’t have stoked the sparks, turning the budding fire into a full-force conflagration. He should’ve acted with more maturity.
Now he worries how this will affect the group. Will Minho’s anger simmer, then sour, then poison all their future interactions? Will Jisung grow skittish, afraid of upsetting Chan again?
He thinks they should all be too grown-up for that. They’re big enough to handle conflict. Living together for so long—they’re all family. Families fight sometimes. It’s just bound to happen, really, so Chan should trust that they’ll figure out how to bury this hatchet too.
But still.
He doesn’t like that he caused this bout of fighting.
Thinking back to the scene in the kitchen—he can scarcely believe he’s the one who said those things. Did he really call Jisung a crybaby? Did he really curse Minho out like that?
It eats away at him. It feels like something else took control of him—some fanged beast, pulsing red-hot—and made him spit like that, fuming and callous.
He’s supposed to keep the peace. That carefully calibrated equilibrium of their group—he’s supposed to be its keeper. He’s not supposed to upset it.
He groans and runs a hand through his hair, claggy with sweat. It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe. He should probably pop to the chemist and stock up on more cold medicine and painkillers, but the thought of walking anywhere makes him want to gouge out his own eyeballs.
He blows his nose again and presses his fingertips into his burning eyes. Tiny white stars dot his vision when he looks at the screen again. With a sniffle, he shakes out another two painkillers and downs them with the rest of his Coca-Cola. He pops a cough sweet into his mouth and sucks harshly, the mint flavour turning his throat into Antarctica.
Later, he’ll talk with Jisung. And Minho, if he’s no longer on the warpath. They’ll work it out. It’ll be fine.
It will.
It has to.
He’s doing all of this for them.
#
‘Chan-hyung,’ Hyunjin says on the phone. ‘Are you busy right now?’
Chan leans back in his desk chair and closes his eyes for a second. ‘Depends on what you need.’
Hyunjin exhales a soft sound. ‘Can you stop by the dance studio when you have time?’ he asks. ‘I want to hear your thoughts on something.’
This could be a ruse, some elaborate set-up for an intervention, but Chan doesn’t think it is. Hyunjin does ask for his feedback sometimes. Of course, if it’s anything to do with the technical aspects of dance, he’ll talk with Minho and Felix, but Chan understands how a layman’s perspective can be useful sometimes. Yes, Chan dances too, but that’s necessitated by this job and doesn’t make him a dancer. He won’t ever be that.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Gimme half an hour. That okay?’
‘Sounds good,’ Hyunjin says. ‘See you then.’
He hangs up and finishes what he was finessing before Hyunjin called, then blows his nose again and gets up from the chair.
Oof.
The world spins.
He grabs the edge of the desk and closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly.
Weak-kneed, he makes his way towards the dance studio. Everything keeps spinning a little, like he’s walking underwater. Luckily, it’s not a long walk.
‘Hyung,’ Hyunjin says from the floor, legs spread in a seated saddle stretch. ‘Hey.’ He jumps up and rolls his shoulders. He raises one arm and bends his elbow, palm touching the top of his back, to stretch his triceps. ‘I’ve been working on something and I want to hear what you think before I show Minho-hyung.’ He hesitates—his eyes narrow and his head tilts as he looks Chan over again. ‘Are you—uh, okay?’
‘Mmm,’ Chan mumbles, although he’s suddenly quite woozy. When did he eat last? He remembers a bowl of cereal, but he’s not sure if that was earlier today or yesterday. Did he have lunch? What time is it right now? He tries to focus his eyes, but everything stays blurry. Hyunjin is saying something, but he can’t make out the words. If he could just—lie down. Yeah. That’d help. He thinks. Or—maybe he needs more coffee. He’s suddenly so tired. What’s he doing here again? Oh, right. Something to do with Hyunjin. He wanted to show him something. Chan blinks again. And again. He opens his mouth, he wants to say something, but—
He sways on his feet.
A staticky whirr deafens him.
Reality turns spotty, interspersed with blackness, and he can’t see, can’t reach through the fog, can’t—
His head tilts back. The floor disappears under him. He thinks he’s falling, but he isn’t sure, he isn’t sure of anything right now, if he could just—
The world turns dark.
#
‘Oh God, oh God, oh God—’ Hyunjin’s frenzied voice becomes audible and Chan groans, confused, feeling hands cup his face, smoothe across his forehead, feel for a pulse in his throat. ‘Oh God, please don’t be dead, please wake up—’
‘Hhhwha—’ He lashes twitch in an attempt to open his eyes. His mouth is parched and his body is made of sludge and everything is foggy. He tries to flex his fingers, but he can’t control them.
‘Oh good,’ Hyunjin babbles, ‘you’re alive, fuck, you’re alive, that’s good. Fuck. Hyung, fuck.’ He lightly slaps Chan’s cheek. ‘Please open your eyes. Holy shit, you just—bam. Ouch. Wowzah.’ He presses the back of his hand to Chan’s forehead. ‘Please don’t black out again. Holy shit.’
‘Uuunhghg—’ He finally manages to get his eyes open. The studio floor is hard beneath him. His body throbs with pain and he just wants to pass out again. He wants to not feel like this. He wants a break. ‘Hhhwha—what ha—’ He can’t undo the knots in his tongue so he gives up.
‘You passed out,’ Hyunjin says, still that frantic edge to his voice. ‘It was like a movie. You just started stumbling and hit the floor. Holy shit, are you—Hyung, this isn’t good. This is so bad.’
He’s too tired to say anything. Just give him a second and he’ll—he’ll get up. He’ll think of something. He just needs a second.
He senses movement and hears the sounds of a zip unfastened, feet pacing, Hyunjin huffing out tight breaths.
‘Manager-hyung,’ Hyunjin says, and Chan’s brain is trying desperately to piece together the loose fragments of information, but nothing clicks together, not until—
‘Chan-hyung just collapsed,’ Hyunjin says. ‘I’m freaking out. I asked him to come because of a dance thing and he just—like, fainted. What am I supposed to do?’
Hyunjin must be on the phone. Chan tries to sit up on his elbows and waves out his hand in Hyunjin’s direction, mumbling something mostly incoherent. He wants to say he’s fine.
He’s conscious now. There’s no need to get management involved.
Hyunjin drops to his knees next to Chan. ‘Lie down,’ he hisses, hand on his chest. ‘Can you talk?’
‘Uuuhhh.’ He licks his lips. ‘Y-yeah. I’m fi—’
‘Do not say you’re fine right now,’ Hyunjin says hysterically, pressing down harder on his chest. ‘Holy shit, you just—you’re not fine. Shut up.’ He looks towards the mirrored wall. ‘Sorry, yes, he’s awake again, but—I don’t know. I’m not strong enough to carry him but I seriously don’t think he should walk right now. Can you—I don’t know. What should I do?’
‘Hyunjin,’ Chan tries, searching for his eyes. He manages to lift his arm and put his hand on top of Hyunjin’s. The familiar words are forming in his mouth—calm down, don’t worry, I’m okay now—but Hyunjin’s glare stops him in his tracks.
‘Hyung,’ he says, putting his phone down. ‘If you say you’re fine, I’m going to start crying. Shut up. I am trying so hard not to have a full breakdown right now, so can you please—not say that. Please. Just—please. For once.’
Chan closes his eyes.
He doesn’t have to energy to push it. He barely has the energy to stay awake.
He lets it go.
#
What happens next is a blur, but somehow he makes it back to the dorm and he’s forced into bed. If he focuses, he can remember their manager and Hyunjin, questions he tried to answer, walking on unsteady feet. A car ride, he thinks. Was he awake for that?
He’s propped up against a stack of pillows in bed. He grumbles something about how he’s fine now, but Changbin fixes him with a glare.
He places two small pills in Chan’s palm and holds out a plastic cup with water. ‘Bottoms up.’
Chan eyes the pills. ‘Painkillers?’
‘Yep.’
Sluggishly, he puts them into his mouth and washes them down with water.
‘Oops,’ Changbin says. ‘I lied. They’re soporifics. Doctor’s orders.’
Chan’s eyes fly open. ‘I don’t have ti—’
‘If you try to leave this bed during the next twenty-four hours, Manager-hyung will personally come handcuff you to it.’
He grumbles something and takes another sip of water.
‘You can stop fighting now, Hyung,’ Changbin says. ‘You lost, okay? It’s over. You’re banned from working until you’ve recovered.’
‘No—’ Horror sluices over him. ‘No way, Bin, you can’t do th—’
‘Yes,’ he interrupts, ‘I can. We can. Frankly, we’re getting sick of seeing you kill yourself like this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hyunjin that freaked out.’
‘Oh God,’ he mumbles. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—’
‘You shouldn’t have what?’ Changbin demands. ‘Passed out? Are you apologising for fainting? Jesus Christ. This is a new low even for you.’
Dopeyness is starting to tug at him again. This room feels like a fever dream. Is his body even real? He slurs something, wants to explain, wants to insist that Changbin can’t take away his computer because he needs that. He has things he needs to do. Responsibilities. Work. He doesn’t—he can’t—if they’d just listen—
Changbin whistles. ‘Shit, they kicked in fast.’ He takes the plastic cup from Chan’s hand and manhandles him into a lying position, adjusting the duvet on top of him. ‘Sweet dreams, Hyung.’
He wants to argue. He wants to say something. But—
Everything is so hazy. His eyes are full of sand. He can’t move.
He floats into sleep.
#
When he wakes up, he shivers with déjà vu. The scene is eerily familiar—waking up groggy, exhaustion wresting him, seeing Felix curled up in his chair.
‘Time’s it?’ he croaks, blinking again.
Felix startles. His eyes go wide and he jumps up from the chair to kneel on the floor next to Chan’s bed. ‘I don’t know,’ he says softly, touching his forehead. ‘Shh. Shh, you’re awake.’
He closes his eyes again and exhales a shuddery breath. ‘How long have you—’
‘I don’t know,’ Felix repeats. ‘The others tried to get me to leave, but—I dunno. God, you really scared me.’
He swallows and mumbles, ‘sorry.’
‘No,’ Felix says, ‘no, that’s not—stop saying sorry.’ He smoothes his thumb over Chan’s eyebrow. ‘You’re on bed rest till you’re better,’ he says. ‘And you have to take antibiotics, I think.’
‘About that—’
‘I don’t want to hear it’. He presses his index finger to Chan’s lips, forehead still creased with worry. ‘We’re not going to let you do this again.’
‘I’m—’ he begins, hopelessly staring at Felix’s face. ‘I can’t just—lie here. And I’m—I’m doing it for you, too. All of you. I need to—’
He doesn’t know how to put it into words. Reality is still hazy, all muddled, and his thoughts won’t connect properly.
‘Hyung,’ Felix says, and there’s something wet in his voice that breaks Chan’s heart. ‘Chris. I know what you said to Jisung. About the success and everything. And I just—’ He reaches up to touch his shoulder and squeezes down, staring into his eyes. ‘I don’t care. About all that. None of us do. Not if it means—this. I don’t give a fuck about selling out some stadium if it means you’re on the verge of collapse. Don’t you get that?’ A muscle in his jaw twitches. ‘Why don’t you get that?’
He shudders. ‘Lix…’ he mumbles, unable to meet his eyes. ‘That’s not—’
‘I know you can’t comprehend that you might be a meaningful part of other people’s lives,’ Felix says. ‘But it doesn’t mean it’s not true. You think you’re some terrible burden and you think you have to work yourself to death to prove something. Like, you can’t imagine anyone would ever love you, so you’re just aiming to be useful. Competent. Reliable. God, you drive me crazy,’ he rambles, ‘you’re so—how can’t you see it? How much you mean to me? To all of us?’
He thinks he liked it better when he was still asleep. ‘Felix,’ he says, clenching the duvet. ‘That’s. It’s not. You.’
‘I keep thinking—’ He clasps Chan’s hand. ‘I keep thinking, what if you’d hit your head when you passed out. Oh my God. I can’t even think about it, but I keep thinking about it. If you don’t let us take care of you now, I’m going to let Minho break your neck.’
Worry squeezes his heart at the mention of Minho’s name. ‘Fuck,’ he whispers. ‘Minho, is he—’ He isn’t sure where he’s going with that sentence. Is he still angry? Is he worried? Did I ruin fucking everything again?
‘He’s worried, dumbass,’ Felix says. ‘We’re all worried. Which is why you’re staying in bed till you don’t look like a literal zombie any more.’
He sighs. The fight leaked out of him some time ago so he’s yielding to his fate. ‘Okay,’ he mumbles. ‘I need to pee, though.’
‘I guess I’ll have to allow that,’ he jokes. ‘But don’t try to use it as an excuse to look for your laptop. Pretty sure Changbin hid it in the other dorm.’
‘Asshole,’ he mutters. ‘Just wait till I hide his protein powder.’
#
He drifts in and out of sleep. Hyunjin brings him a bowl with porridge and tugs him into a half hug, muttering about how he almost had a heart attack.
‘I never got to see what you wanted to show me,’ Chan says. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh my God,’ he scoffs. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll ask Seungminnie instead.’
He pouts. ‘But I wanna see too.’
‘I’ll show you when you’re better,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you a damn lap dance if it means you’ll take a break and recover properly.’
Promptly, Chan feels himself turn red. ‘Shut up,’ he mumbles. ‘I’m taking a break now.’
‘Yeah,’ Hyunjin says. ‘Eat your porridge and then get some more sleep.’
‘I can’t just sleep all day.’
‘Not with that attitude.’
He slips a spoonful of porridge between his lips and glares up at Hyunjin.
‘You haven’t slept since you turned nine,’ he insists. ‘You have a lot of catching up to do.’
‘Can I at least have my phone?’
‘No.’ He throws out his hands. ‘Absolutely not. Are you even listening?’
‘I can’t just lie here,’ he says. ‘The silence will kill me. I need music at least. Something.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Chan sighs. He eats another spoonful of porridge.
On his way out, Hyunjin stops in his tracks. He grabs the doorframe tightly but keeps looking ahead, out of the room. ‘Hyung,’ he says quietly. ‘Please don’t ever push yourself this far again.’
His mouth goes dry. He licks out at his lips. ‘No,’ he finally manages, ducking his head. He pushes his spoon around the porridge and steals a glance at Hyunjin’s back. ‘Okay.’
‘Good.’ He taps the wall. He sighs. ‘I won’t say you scared me, because then you’ll get all Bang Chan about it and apologise and beat yourself up and think it’s your fault. It’s not. But—it was scary. I was scared.’ He looks over at him. ‘You want to take care of us. I get that. But you can’t take care of us if you’re dead, okay?’
He swallows. ‘Yeah,’ he croaks. ‘Yeah, I—I get it.’
At least, he’s starting to. At least a little bit.
‘Just, you know—if Felix passed out, how would you feel? Or Innie?’
He shudders.
He doesn’t want to think about that.
Hyunjin nods at him. ‘Eat up,’ he says. ‘Get some more sleep. Seungmin’s drafting a visitation schedule so we don’t all crowd you at the same time and overwhelm you.’
His lips quirk into a smile. ‘Sounds like him.’
‘Yup,’ Hyunjin nods. ‘He’s also signed us all up for CPR classes. I think he could pass the Medical Education Eligibility Test right now with all the reading he’s done.’
Chan snorts. ‘Well, if he ever decides he doesn’t want to be an idol any more, I guess he has a future as a doctor.’
‘Kinda hot,’ he says.
‘Of course you’d say that.’
#
There’s a soft knock, but before Chan can say anything, the door is pushed open and Minho peeks inside with a tray in his hands.
‘Channie-hyung,’ he says. He closes the door behind him with his foot and gingerly sets the tray down on Chan’s lap. ‘Dinner time.’
He fingers the edge of the tray and eyes the ceramic bowl with chicken soup. Tension fizzes in his chest, an unpleasant tinge of worry. He takes a sip of the water and pulls a face as his throat smarts. ‘Minho-yah,’ he says finally, catching his eyes. ‘I’m—I’m sorry. About the things I said. I’ll apologise to Hannie too, of course, I’m—’
‘Hyung,’ Minho says. ‘Don’t strain your throat.’ He nods towards the soup. ‘Eat something, please.’
He swallows and picks up his spoon. ‘Chef Lee’s speciality?’
The corner of his mouth twitches and he gives a small nod. ‘Look,’ he says, fisting the duvet. ‘About—I got really mad. And of course I wouldn’t really—and I shouldn’t have—argh, this is shit. What I’m trying to say is—’
‘I know.’ Chan bites his lip to tame the smile. ‘You’re sorry. I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ He looks up at him and his smile assuages the last tendrils of anxiety in Chan’s chest. ‘For real, though. Don’t make him cry again.’
Chan laughs, but the force of it triggers a new round of coughing.
‘Oh, fuck—’ Minho reaches out to slap his back, then hands him the water glass again. ‘They say laughter’s the best medicine but here it almost killed you.’
He smiles up at him and spoons up more soup. ‘To be honest,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t even mind if you beat me up right now. I’m going insane just lying here, and a sucker punch might make me pass out, so—’ He winks at Minho. ‘Get Han in here and I’ll call him a loser to get your blood pumping. Then you punch me and I get to be unconscious for another few hours.’
Minho laughs. He pushes Chan’s shoulder gently and rolls his eyes at him. ‘He’s next on Seungmin’s geeky little schedule,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell him to bring more sleeping pills or something. I don’t think you really need a broken nose on top of everything else.’
‘Maybe not.’ He eats another spoonful. ‘Soup’s good.’
‘Of course it is,’ he says. ‘I’m the one who cooked it.’
#
‘Jisung-ah,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry I lashed out at you.’
‘Hyung.’ He fidgets with the hem of his sweater. ‘You don’t have anything to apologise for. It’s fine. Totally. Water under the bridge.’
‘Yeah, I do. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry for pushing it and—’
‘No,’ Chan says. ‘No, Hannie, you shouldn’t apologise. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry for being an asshole and making you cry.’
‘Resident crybaby,’ he says with a smile. ‘Gotta live up to that or someone else will steal my title. I think Hyunjin’s been eyeing the crown for a while.’
#
Bored out of his fucking mind, he rolls out of bed. He knows the others will throw a fit, but he’s pretty sure that just staring at the wall won’t expedite recovery. If anything, it’ll drive him mad. He’ll start seeing strings of toadstools in the wallpaper.
He wraps his duvet around himself and pads out of his room.
‘What’re you doing up?’ Changbin asks. ‘You’re sick.’
‘And you’re shitty zookeepers,’ Chan says. ‘I need some enrichment in my enclosure or I’m about to enter my Jack Torrance era.’
Minho snorts from the couch. ‘I’ll send the babies in with a bone for you to chew on.’
Chan huffs and pulls the duvet tighter around himself. He still feels a little dizzy standing up. ‘I’m bored.’
‘Only stupid people get bored,’ Changbin says. ‘Go back to bed.’
He groans. ‘I wouldn’t be bored if I could have my laptop.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Minho says. ‘The very object that got you into this mess in the first place. No, Hyung. You’re on bed rest.’
‘But I don’t know who I am when I’m not working.’
Jisung appears with a can of Fanta. ‘That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard you say.’ He looks over at Changbin. ‘We need to get this man some professional psychological help.’
‘Come on,’ Chan says. ‘I can’t just lie there.’
‘I already said I’ll send the babies in with a bone for you,’ Minho says. He taps his phone a few times and looks back up. ‘I told them to hurry ‘cause visiting hours are starting a bit early. Now go back to your room.’
Chan sighs, but he recognises it as an unfair match. Three against one—no way he’ll win. And he’s pretty sure Minho wouldn’t be above exerting physical force, which just further stacks the odds against him.
So. You know. Whatever. He huffs and shuffles back to his own room, flopping back into bed.
#
‘I thought you came here to enrich me!’ Chan grumbles, hitting Seungmin lightly with a pillow. ‘But you’re not even letting me play.’
‘You just played,’ Jeongin says keeping his eyes glued to the flatscreen, fingers working around the Switch controller. ‘And you’re shit at it.’
‘I’m sick.’
‘That’s no excuse,’ Jeongin says, and Seungmin immediately backs him up with a, ‘sorry, Hyung, but you suck at this even when you’re fit.’
‘Brats,’ he says, but he can’t really hide the smile playing on his lips. He eats one of the apple chips they brought and watches as Seungmin expertly makes Mario run across the screen and jump atop a Goomba.
‘It’s okay, Grandpa,’ Jeongin says. ‘We know it’s hard getting old.’
Chan throws a pillow at him. ‘Who raised you?’
‘Minho-hyung,’ he retorts, flashing him a quick grin before he makes Luigi throw a shell at a Koopa Troopa. ‘I’ve been told I take after him.’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Would it be better if he took after you?’ Seungmin asks pointedly.
‘Focus on the game, please,’ Chan says. He shifts in bed, adjusting the duvet to get more comfortable, and lets his head tilt back. He watches them play—smiling to himself as Jeongin shoves at Seungmin’s shoulder and Seungmin shoves back, eating another apple chip and giggling as Seungmin starts ranting at the screen.
Time is suspended as they float in this little bubble. He drinks honey tea and sucks on another cough sweet and enjoys the company, their silly banter, even the teasing about his age. Exhaustion creeps up on him eventually—his eyelids grow heavy and the world starts feeling a little floaty again, but he doesn’t mind just lying half-reclined in bed, not saying much but watching them with fondness. He feels lucky to not be alone.
He’s reminded, again, of why he does everything he does. Why it matters, and why it’s worth it. For them. Not just the two youngest, but all of them—his family. That’s what matters. Making them happy. Keeping them safe.
He thinks of what Hyunjin said. He thinks of the fear in Felix’s voice, the worry splattered across his face, him saying I keep thinking about it.
‘Thank you,’ he mumbles, a little slurred. He thinks he’s falling asleep. ‘Who’s winning?’
‘Chan-hyung, come on,’ Seungmin laughs. ‘It’s Super Mario. We’re playing as a team.’
‘Old people,’ Jeongin jibes. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘Hey!’ Chan calls out, but he can’t keep the affection out of his voice, the sleepy laugh. ‘Be nice to your elders.’
‘Okay,’ Seungmin says. ‘I’ll say something nice. I’m glad you didn’t get away with it.’
‘Huh?’
‘Working yourself to death,’ he expands. ‘I’m glad you didn’t succeed.’
‘Yeah,’ Jeongin says. ‘Come on, Hyung. You can’t die now. Who else would we make fun of for being so fucking bad at Super Mario?’