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The waiting room is loud when Chan realizes he’s in love. The fluorescent lights hum above him, conversations blur into a low, constant murmur, and somewhere a hyunjin is laughing. But none of it reaches him. His eyes are fixed on the chipped edge of the plastic chair across from him, and the weight in his chest presses heavier than the silence he longs for. He doesn’t know what gave it away, maybe the way his hand still tingles when Jisung had brushed past him, or the way his voice echoes longer than anyone else's. It hits him all at once, not with joy, but with the ache of knowing.
Knowing it too late or maybe just knowing it alone.
“I love this guy,” he had said to the camera, without thinking, of course. It was a throwaway comment, tossed out between takes, meant to fill the space or make jisung laugh. But now, sitting in the loud waiting room, the words return with a weight they didn’t have before. He replays them in his head—not as a joke, not as a slip, but as a quiet truth he hadn’t noticed falling out of his mouth. And he wonders if anyone else had noticed. If he had noticed.
Jisung had already left. Chan’s not sure where. He looks across the room, where Seungmin is secure in Changbin’s arms (or in a headlock, really, all elbows and laughter). Minho is standing a few feet away, watching them with a look Chan knows all too well. The kind that says I wish I didn’t care this much.
Chan doesn’t say anything. He just watches Minho watching them, and thinks people are always yearning for something. Someone. And none of them know quite what to do with it when it gets too close.
He doesn’t hear Jisung return—just feels the air shift beside him, the way it always does when he’s near. A quiet presence, careless and constant. Jisung sits without a word, thigh brushing Chan’s like it means nothing. Like it always does.
“You okay?” he asks, not looking at him. Just tearing at the sleeve of his hoodie, eyes on the linoleum floor.
Chan doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching Minho still, who’s stopped looking, turned away like it hurt too much to keep trying. Then he looks at Jisung, really looks, and wonders how long he’s been holding this weight. How long he’s been mistaking it for something lighter.
---
Chan’s in the studio, composing or ruining, he doesn’t really know. The lines between building and breaking have blurred hours ago. He doesn’t know what time it is, either. Just that his eyelids ache when he blinks, and the screen’s glow has started to hum in his skull like a second heartbeat.
He’s about to give up on the song when he hears the soft click of the door. Jisung slips in, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, eyes barely open. He looks like he sleepwalked straight from a dream and into Chan’s. The room is too quiet now, the silence stretching between them like a held breath.
“You’re still here,” Jisung says, voice gravel-soft. Not surprised. Not scolding. Just saying it the way he says most things. With quiet concern wrapped in casual tone.
Chan leans back in his chair, rubs a hand down his face. “Didn’t feel like stopping.” Jisung pads across the room without asking, places a bag on chans desk, and drops onto the couch like he belongs there, because he does. “You never do,” he mutters, already folding into himself like he plans to fall asleep there.
Chan watches him for a moment, eyes tracing the slow rise and fall of his chest. He doesn’t know what he’s making anymore, music, mistakes, confessions dressed in melody. But Jisung’s here. That’s enough. That’s dangerous.
He looks at the plastic bag, then back at Jisung. “Brought you food. Knew you hadn’t eaten yet,” Jisung says, like it’s nothing, already moving.
Before Chan can respond, Jisung pushes himself up from the couch and crosses the room. He kneels beside the desk, fingers deft as he unties the bag, setting out the containers one by one. The smell fills the room, something warm and familiar, grounding. “How’d you know?” Chan asks quietly. “Jeongin was at our dorm,” Jisung says without looking up. “Said you hadn’t come home.”
Chan watches him, watches the careful way he opens the lids, how he always remembers the little things—spoon, napkin, extra sauce. His hands move like this is routine. Like he’s done it before. Like he always will. The studio feels smaller with Jisung in it, quieter somehow, even with all the noise Chan’s been carrying.
“Thanks,” he says, softer than he means to. Jisung finally meets his eyes. “You always forget to take care of yourself.” Chan doesn’t reply. There’s no accusation in his voice, only quiet truth. And Chan doesn’t know what to say to that—that someone still notices, of course they do, his boys. his hannie, his jisung. still keeping track of him even when he forgets to do it himself.
The warmth of the food sinks into his chest like something close to gratitude. Or guilt. Or love. Maybe all three.
Chan eats quietly. Behind him, Jisung hums a soft tune, one Chan vaguely recognizes. Something half-written, maybe his, maybe not. Either way, it fits. The perfect background music. When he finishes, setting down the spoon with a faint clink, Jisung shifts behind him.
“Have you talked to Minho-hyung?” he asks, hesitant. Chan turns slightly, brow furrowed. “About what?” Jisung gives him a look—a very Jisung look. Eyebrows raised, lips pressed into a line. “You know,” he says, dragging the word out like it should mean something obvious.
But Chan’s too tired, too hollowed out. He just blinks at him, confused. Jisung sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “He… he likes Seungmin.”
The words hang in the air, unshaken and heavy. Chan doesn't react at first—doesn’t know how. Something cold settles under his ribs, not jealousy, not surprise. Just the ache of understanding.
“Oh,” he says, barely audible.
And that’s all there is for a moment. Just that: the sound of old feelings collapsing quietly between them.
Jisung starts, “I see them. I see Seungmin when he looks at him—searching, hoping, trying to find something. A flicker, a sign. But Minho-hyung… he-” Jisung huffs, frustrated. “He turns away. Back to Seungmin, like he’s trying not to feel it. And I can see it, the hurt in Seungmin’s eyes when it happens. But it’s in Hyung’s too. He’s trying, I know he is, god, those two are so hopeless.” he thuds his foot where he's sitting down.
Chan doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, eyes fixed on the now-empty container, fingers idly tracing the edge like he’s trying to hold onto something. Jisung’s voice softens, almost breaking. “They keep missing each other, like they’re on opposite sides of a closing door. And neither of them wants to knock.” There’s a long silence.
“You’ve been watching them,” Chan says quietly. “Someone has to,” Jisung mutters. “They won’t look at themselves.” Chan nods, but something in his chest twists. The ache isn’t for Minho or Seungmin, it’s for something much closer. He hesitates, then asks, almost to himself,
“Do you think… that’s what we do, too?”
Jisung looks at him. Really looks. “I don’t know,” he says. “But I think we’re closer to the door.”
“Oh,” Chan thinks.
He knows.
Jisung knows.
It doesn’t come with a swell of music or some grand realization. Just quiet. The kind that settles deep in your bones. He doesn’t look away, not this time. Just meets Jisung’s eyes and lets the silence hold everything they’re too afraid to name.
“Hyung, I—”
“I’m sorry,” Chan interrupts, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
Jisung blinks, mouth still half-open. Whatever he was about to say dissolves in the air between them. Chan isn’t even sure what he’s apologizing for, just that it’s been sitting on his tongue for too long.
“I’m sorry for... not noticing. For noticing too late. For making you carry it alone.” His voice cracks near the end, quiet and raw. Jisung doesn’t speak right away. Just shifts closer, barely an inch, but Chan feels it like a hand to the chest.
“It’s okay,” Jisung whispers. “I was never really alone. Not when it was you.”
Oh
Oh
Again.
Jisung.
His Jisung.
All those years ago, when Chan was barely holding himself together. An enigma wrapped in responsibility and sleepless nights. And then this bright, wild-hearted boy came crashing in with a gummy smile and too many questions, breaking down every wall Chan didn’t even know he’d built.
Jisung, who never asked for permission. Who just launched himself into Chan’s chest and made a home there. Who carved out space where there wasn’t any, and stayed.
Now Chan realizes: he hadn’t been asking for anything. He didn’t need to. Chan would’ve given him the world. Would still give him anything.
But he’d been too stupid. Too blind. Too caught up in craving a proper kind of love to see the real thing already within reach.
He looks at Jisung now, older, softer, but sharp when he needs to be. Still that same warmth. Still that same light. But steadier now. Quieter. And God, how had Chan missed it? How long had he been looking the other way? He wants to say something. Anything.
Jisung beats him to it.
“Don’t,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Don’t say it if you’re going to take it back.”
Chan freezes.
Jisung’s eyes are on him now, wide and shining. Not with hope. Not entirely. Something more fragile. Like he’s bracing for the fall.
“I’ve waited,” Jisung says, voice trembling but steady. “Not out loud. Not on purpose. But I did. I waited. For you to see me. Not just as your kid. Not just someone to take care of. Me.”
Chan opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“And if this is one of those moments,” Jisung continues, softer now, “where you’ll say something just because it’s quiet and we’re tired and it feels safe… don’t. Please.”
He breathes out, like it hurts to hold it in. “Because I won’t forget it. And I don’t think I could forgive you for that.”
“No—no, Jisung. No.” Chan’s voice breaks.
Jisung looks at him, eyes slightly wide.
“Hyung’s sorry, I-” He tries to speak, but a sob wrenches out of him, sharp and sudden. They both know. Their lives are brutal. One wrong move and you're out of the lights, reduced to whispers and headlines. Chan knows the country they live in. He knows the people, the consequences.
But he's tired. God, he's tired.
Tired of hiding, tired of pretending. Tired of hurting. Tired of hurting Jisung.
He doesn’t think he can do it anymore.
“I love you,” Chan says, and it’s barely a whisper.
He doesn’t look up, eyes fixed on the floor like the words might split if he meets Jisung’s gaze. “I think I’ve loved you for a long time. I just… didn’t let myself know it.”
The silence stretches. Heavy. But not empty.
“I thought it was wrong. That I was too old, too responsible, too scared. That I’d ruin you, or me, or both of us. So I tried to forget. I tried to stay your hyung, your leader, your anchor.”
He finally lifts his head.
“But I was lying. To you. To myself. And I can’t anymore.” His voice shakes again, but he doesn’t look away. “I love you, Jisung. I don’t know what to do with it. But I do.”
“Lovely, hyung,” Jisung says with a wet laugh after a bit, eyes shimmering.
“Love you so much,” he continues, voice quieter now, almost like he’s afraid saying it too loud might break the spell.
“You drive me crazy. Make me worry all the time. But I love you. So much it hurts sometimes.”
Chan lets out a shaky breath, eyes stinging.
Jisung squeezes his hand, just once. “So if you’re here—if you really mean it—don’t run this time.”
Chan doesn’t answer. He just steps forward and wraps his arms around Jisung, pulling him in like he’s anchoring himself to something real. Jisung goes easily, melts into him like he’s been waiting. It’s not dramatic. It’s not perfect. It’s warm. Familiar.
Jisung’s face presses into his shoulder, and Chan feels the slow rise and fall of his breath against his chest. Feels the way Jisung clutches the back of his shirt like he’s afraid he’ll let go.
“I’m here,” Chan whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in a long time, he means it.
--
They’re finally at the dorm building. The sky is quiet, still caught in the dark just before morning. Chan checks his watch. 4:03 AM.
The guilt creeps in like clockwork.
“I shouldn’t have kept you up this late,” he murmurs, glancing at Jisung.
But Jisung just bumps his shoulder against Chan’s, barely looking up. “Don’t.”
“But-”
“I said don’t.” Jisung’s voice is firm, but not unkind. “I wanted to be there. With you. That’s not something you need to apologize for.”
Chan opens his mouth, then closes it again. He nods.
A moment passes, just the sound of tired footsteps and the faint buzz of street lamps.
“You always do that,” Jisung says quietly. “Take something good and twist it into something you feel bad for.”
Chan exhales through his nose, a crooked half-smile tugging at his lips. “Force of habit.”
“Break it.”
“Uhm,” Chan starts, hesitating. “You should go sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jisung stops mid-step, turns just slightly, still clutching his keys. “Uhm… hyung,” he says, voice softer now, “do you want to… sleep over?”
Chan blinks. “Sleep? As in… like, your bed?”
Jisung’s ears turn red almost instantly. “I mean, yeah? Or the couch, if that’s weird. I just… didn’t want you to go back alone. Not after tonight.”
Chan’s quiet for a second, then lets out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Your bed’s fine,” he says. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Jisung says, already unlocking the door, not looking back.
The dorm is dark, minho’s probably been asleep for hours, door shut tight.
Chan stands awkwardly in the entryway, shoes half-off, debating whether to wash up or just collapse into bed. His limbs feel heavy, like the night’s finally catching up to him.
“You go first,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom.
Jisung nods, already padding down the hallway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Don’t fall asleep on the floor.”
Chan huffs a soft laugh. “No promises.”
The door clicks shut behind Jisung, and Chan stands there a moment longer, blinking at the ceiling like it might give him answers.
He’s still here. Still not alone. And for once, that thought doesn’t scare him.
--
When they’ve both washed up, the world feels quieter somehow. Sleepier. Softer.
Chan slides into the bed beside Jisung, moving slow, unsure if it’ll feel too strange—but the moment he settles, Jisung shifts instinctively, curling into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
So warm. So familiar.
Chan’s arm comes up around him without thinking, hand resting between Jisung’s shoulder blades. He feels the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his fingers lightly cling to Chan’s shirt.
It’s easy. Easier than he expected. Easier than anything’s felt in a long time.
Jisung mumbles something against his chest, too quiet to catch, but it sounds like home.
Chan closes his eyes.
Finally, he lets himself rest.
In the morning, when Chan blinks his eyes open, the room is awash in quiet gray light.
Jisung is still pressed against him, cheek squished into Chan’s chest, breathing slow and steady in sleep. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft tufts, and his arm is thrown lazily over Chan’s side like he never meant to let go.
Chan doesn’t move. Just watches.
He traces Jisung’s features with his eyes. The soft curve of his closed lids. The slope of his nose. Lips parted slightly, cupid’s bow prominent and still.
He looks so young like this. So peaceful.
Chan takes a mental photograph and stores it deep in the back of his mind. Something quiet and perfect to revisit when the world feels too loud.
He stays still. wanting a little more time like this.
When Jisung starts to stir, shifting slightly against him, Chan leans in just a little and whispers, “Hey, baby.”
Jisung lets out a soft hum in response, eyes still closed, voice caught somewhere between sleep and waking. It’s a sound too adorable for this hour, the kind that squeezes at Chan’s chest in the best way.
He doesn’t reply with words, just burrows closer, nose nudging against Chan’s collarbone like he’s trying to disappear into him.
Chan smiles, slow and quiet. “Sleep a little more,” he murmurs, brushing a hand gently through Jisung’s hair.
And Jisung does.