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They get a sliver of a moment after the director calls cut. It's a well rehearsed pause that Seungmin is familiar with, one he has breath-marked in his repertoire of social situations; the room exhales, staff reshuffle, stylists are beckoned over to retouch—
Chan is faster than they are, he doesn’t hesitate. He tosses his phone onto the couch like it’s an afterthought and catches Seungmin before he can slip sideways out of reach with the same ease he always does. Arms around him, firm and sure, squeezing in that way of his that feels like he's able to pin the world down through your chest. Bodies crush together to create enough drag that everything is forced to stop spinning, even if only for a moment. Seungmin always feels like Chan's touch transmits a concern about anchoring something that might otherwise drift.
His words don't contradict this interpretation either. “Don’t cry, okay?” Chan murmurs, mouth brushing the shell of Seungmin’s ear. Soft and light enough that their still-attached mics won't pick it up. Only for him.
And just like that, he’s gone. Called across the set for his individual interview. Seungmin watches him shake his shoulders out as he strides away, already shifting into a different part of himself—while Seungmin is left to one of the makeup-noonas who is guiding him away by the elbow.
Seungmin didn't necessarily want the hug to keep going, but he can't help but feel like he's been left reeling without it. He grounds himself in the rasp of tissue against the sensitive corners of his eyes.
Noona hums sympathetically when he flinches, dabbing more delicately at his water line before any more tears can threaten to break loose properly. “Let’s fix this.”
Seungmin appreciates her pragmatism. He holds onto it, sitting still and quiet in the tall chair and staring past the lights and cameras now pointed elsewhere. He can hear the faint echo of Chan’s voice from the other side of the set—someone replaying the clip of him rapping in that old gaming chair—then, the carried sound of his giggle, doubled by the speakers. Seungmin thinks it's almost rather eerie how identical it sounds to now, and how easy it is to summon the image of a different-but-same Chan-hyung. Bleached hair and exhaustion inked into the space under his eyes, that hiccuping laugh he never quite manages to swallow down.
The years seem to fold in on themselves, close enough for him to touch. Powder presses into his skin in gentle, efficient taps. Seungmin keeps his hands to himself.
There’s no time to say anything else when they switch places anyway, which Seungmin is grateful for. He watches Chan bow as staff announce his wrap, clapping along politely with the small burst of applause, and walks towards the couch just behind him with what he tells himself is single-minded focus. When they brush past each other Seungmin allows himself only a glimpse—earlier flush faded, though still slightly shy—before a hand lands briefly on his shoulder for a silent squeeze, which Seungmin only acknowledges with an eye-contactless nod. He doesn’t trust his face, or the way his eyes keep threatening to fill again over nothing.
It should be fine now, he tells himself, now that it’s out of his system. But of course it isn't. Even in the comfort of his solo interview, with no Chan to monitor or chime in, Seungmin feels his throat closes up all over again, though at least now he is more comforted by the fact that he can frame it clinically in his head. His voice cracking at the edges is a level of authenticity that fans are sure to enjoy thoroughly, if nothing else. As for himself…
Seungmin supposes he can see this as a purge. A necessary rinse. Better here where this is what is expected of him, rather than anywhere else. Better while Chan isn't here to putter around all flustered, a small act of mercy from the universe that he always has other schedules to run to, other responsibilities.
By the time Felix makes it onto set, the worst of it has settled into something manageable. Not quite gone, but absorbed into his skin. Seungmin is able to move through their 2 Kids shoot smoothly—his smiles on cue, jokes well placed, and eye contact maintained consistently enough. Still, it drains him further, and once they're finally shifting to the individual interviews Seungmin finds he can only nod along when Felix mentions he won’t be home until late.
One half of Seungmin's brain manages his preparation for departure while the other drowns his thoughts in dinner ideas, mentally sorting through what his options are in the fridge back home. He wants something easy. Low effort but still enough to fill his stomach, to quiet the leftover noise rattling around in his mind. Maybe he’ll start that new drama tonight. Take a sleeping pill. Remove himself from this plane of reality until it's a different day.
Seungmin is too distracted by the fantasy of oncoming unconsciousness to notice the presence of someone standing in the green room doorway. He's halfway through scrubbing at his face with a makeup wipe when he finally tunes in to the weight of Chan's eyes tracking him.
“Oh,” he says, obvious surprise colouring his tone because the word slips out before he can stop it. “Hyung.”
Chan smiles, does a little self-conscious wave with the hand that has its thumb hooked into his backpack strap. Seungmin can tell it's meant to be reassuring, and it almost works. But there’s that thin layer of unease—embarrassment weighing down the corners of his natural charm. The uncertainty sits awkwardly on his wide shoulders.
Seungmin is caught off guard, not for the first time, by how much younger Chan looks without makeup.
“I, uh, wanted to wait for you,” Chan says. He shifts his weight on his feet like he’s bracing for something.
“Why?” Seungmin isn't able to raise the question without softening it. He’s too tired.
Chan lets out a small, startled laugh—pleased, almost. You say what’s on your mind. Seungmin feels his jaw clench with the memory.
"I wanted to see if you maybe wanted to get lunch?”
Seungmin glances at his phone. 5:07 PM.
“Lunch?” he repeats, angling the screen toward him.
Chan flushes instantly. His fingers jump to tug at his ear lobe like he can rub the color away, reaching for his left side, as usual.
“Ah—dinner. I meant dinner.”
Seungmin pictures it easily: the grill place Chan loves, bright and loud, the owner beaming at them. Chan cutting meat into manageable pieces and ferrying them across the table between stilted attempts at small talk. Steam and smoke and all that's unsaid rising to cloud the air between them, stinging Seungmin's eyes worse than any plea for attention trying to shoulder its way out of his mouth.
It takes some effort, but Seungmin manages to find his voice. “I’m pretty tired." He means it sincerely, though it sounds more dismissive than he intends it to. “I’d rather go home.”
Chan nods too quickly. “Right. Totally. You worked hard today.”
Seungmin watches it happen, Chan's hand lifting toward the door jamb—the habitual slap before exiting somewhere stage left, dismissing himself before he can overstay. The urgency that bubbles up inside of him is too fast for Seungmin to control.
“Did you stay just to ask me that?” Seungmin hates the desperation in his own voice, even if he doesn't think Chan can hear it. The effort it takes to pin it down before Chan can run away. “You could’ve texted.”
The flush under Chan's skin deepens, spreading across the pale skin of his neck in a slow bloom. “Well, I was doing some work in here for a bit,” he says, words tripping over themselves. “And I figured, maybe—well. Ha, I guess it doesn’t matter. I have some stuff to do up at the studio anyway, so—”
“Do you want to come over?”
The raw silence that follows borders on comical, but Seungmin can't find the energy to laugh about it. He uses what he has left in his tank to pull on his sweater, then his jacket. Sling his bag onto his shoulder. He checks the time again like he didn’t just derail whatever graceful exit Chan was attempting to give him the space to absorb the question properly, or himself from the embarrassment of Chan denying his invitation.
When he looks up again, Chan looks smaller somehow. Hands empty at his sides. Seungmin sees the pink still tinting the tips of Chan's ears and imagines all the places it must grow that he can't see, while Chan looks everywhere but at him.
“Are you sure?” Chan asks tentatively. “I’m not getting in the way of your plans or—”
Seungmin cuts in before it can get any worse. “C’mon.”
There’s that traitorous burn once more; a stone, wet and cold, fresh from the riverbed lodged in the back of his throat. Seungmin refuses to let surface. He brushes past Chan deliberately, shoulder nudging his as he heads for the door.
“The faster we get there, the faster we can order.”
Chan’s answering “okay” is careful. Like he’s trying to keep the relief from spilling over the edges too obviously. But he buries his hands deep in his jacket pockets anyway, like containing it physically might help.
Still, the nylon of Chan’s windbreaker keeps whispering against Seungmin’s sleeve as they walk down to the underground lot. The length of their silence measured by the metronomic beat of their syncopated steps, of the non-touch between layers of impermeable fabric. Swish, swish, swish.
Chan orders the pho before they’re even out of the lot, so it arrives at Seungmin's door at the same time they do.
Seungmin is on auto-pilot as he settles them in, because being too present puts him at risk of stalling out. The dining table is occupied—Felix ordered an absurdly large Gundam kit and left its pieces spread in a meticulous halo across the surface that he keeps sending text reminders that say different variations of "pls remember not to touch!!!!"— so he directs Chan to sit on the floor at their coffee table. Seungmin could move things around or clear space at the counter but he doesn't. Mostly because he likes the floor more anyway, but also because it means he can have Chan sitting next to him without facing the risk of having to look directly at his face—less pressure to witness and expectation to parse the micro-hesitations flashing across Chan's face. The 2kr set allowed him to run away somewhat, play musical chairs and keep safe distances, but there's no where else to run when they're in his own home.
“You didn’t even ask what I wanted,” Seungmin says, glancing sideways as Chan begins to pull the various plastic containers out of the crinkly white plastic take-out bag.
Chan’s mouth twitches just a little, one dimple a small crease in the side of his face. “You always get the same thing.”
“No I don't.” Yes he does.
“I got two. You can pick.” Chan slides both bowls toward him before Seungmin can argue properly. “Brisket,” he says, pointing. “Spicy beef.”
Seungmin opens the lids and lets the steam roll over his face. He pretends to deliberate longer than necessary before grabbing one decisively and then reaching for the chili sauce. He pours more than he normally would, definitely more than he knows Chan can handle without his ears turning red and his nose running. He can feel Chan's eyes on him as the broth darkens, oil blooming and bubbling in glowing, red constellations—then he swaps the bowls.
“You—” Chan starts, but whatever he has to say dies quickly when Seungmin meets his eyes, daring him to take it back or complain.
Of course, Chan doesn’t. He just looks down at the bowl now in front of him, watches the red oil drift in slow, shimmering circles across the top until his expression smooths out into something neutral.
He smiles, and passes Seungmin his utensils. “Enjoy.”
They lapse into a familiar quiet, the only sounds between them being the faint clink of plastic, Chan’s occasional sniffle, and the careful twist of a water bottle cap between sips. Meals with the members are often like this—so much of their lives already shared that eating is more practical as a time for individual re-centering than a time for conversation. They always have to be reminded to keep talking during meals when they're filming variety content. Seungmin only half expects Chan to try to slip in a question regarding how his shoot with Felix went, but he doesn’t. He stays mercifully silent, letting them focus on dulling the persistent, gnawing hunger that never quite goes away.
The silence holds until Chan finishes first. Then it's forced to shift subtly as he sets his chopsticks neatly across the rim of his bowl and leans back, hands resting on his thighs.
Seungmin senses it without looking and deliberately slows down, stretching out his last few bites in the faint hope that Chan might get up to use the washroom, or open his phone to check a message/ He doesn’t. He stays, irritatingly patient, until the moment Seungmin lifts his final spoonful. Seungmin swallows, exhales, and reaches forward to stack the bowls.
For all that he thought he’d prepared himself well, he still startles slightly when Chan’s hand closes around his forearm.
“I can do that in a second, just—sit?” Chan asks. “Please.”
Seungmin looks at the hand first. Then at Chan’s face.
“Okay,” he says.
Chan’s thumb rubs once against the fabric of Seungmin’s sleeve before he lets go. He folds his hands together loosely, eyes flickering down to the coffee table. Up for a moment, then down again.
“I know I probably sound like a broken record by now,” he starts, voice lower than before. “But I wanted to say that…hyung is really sorry, again. For fighting you. I know how important it is to you to get things done in a way that, y'know, feels right and I—I dunno. I don’t ever want to distress you like that.”
Like that. Like today. But today they weren't working on the song, they were just talking. And it wasn't thinking about that studio session that upset him, not really.
Seungmin doesn’t speak up right away. Gathering his words is a slow process, one he measures by gathering up some of their stray trash into his palm—the plastic bag tie, the chopsticks wrappers. He smooths one wrapper flat against his thigh and folds it in half. Then again. Then again, and again, smaller and smaller until the paper is too dense and it resists him, too compact to bend further.
“It’s been forever since I’ve cried,” Is all he can can come up with. It’s not really an answer. He releases the crumpled chopsticks wrapper and it unfurls in his lap, thin paper springing back into a loose accordion.
“Yeah, you said.” Chan’s voice is soft. Careful in a way that Seungmin sort of hates. “I’m really sorry for that too. I know you don’t like when that kind of thing happens in front of people.”
Seungmin lets out a short, sharp laugh—more bark than anything else—and immediately regrets it. His throat feels dry again, heavy, paying for his contempt. A sob threatens to follow even without the tears to justify it, and he has to force it down with a thick swallow.
A thousand words bubble up, waves of them crashing, crowding in the shrinking space behind his teeth. None of them feel sturdy enough to survive the trip out, all of them dissolving into sea foam. His jaw tightens with the effort of holding them in. It’s never been about about crying in front of people, Seungmin thinks. It’s unpleasant, sure, but the audience isn’t what unsettles him. Not the strangers or staff, anyway.
“You—I meant it when I said I admire you, you know?” There’s a roughness creeping into Chan’s voice now. A warning. Seungmin avoids it instinctively, stepping around it like a crack in the pavement. He doesn’t look at him. He picks up the wrapper he'd been toying with again and tears it cleanly in half. Then halves it again. Then again. And again.
Even here, even in the safest, most private space, Seungmin hates this. He doesn’t hate crying because it makes him vulnerable—that part he can find a way to tolerate—he hates it because it robs him of speech. His voice is his greatest strength. His sharpest talent, the most reliable weapon in his arsenal. How can he defend himself when his breath stutters in his lungs?
When Seungmin's throat tightens and strips him of the very thing that makes him capable—of what use is he to anyone without it?
“I wish you’d stop.” Seungmin says, in rather frail voice that he can't be sure belongs to him. Crumpling, like paper in his fist.
The first tear slips down his cheek before he can catch it, hot against his skin. He wants to look at Chan, to see the words land, to watch the impact. But he can’t make himself lift his head. He can only listen to Chan's soft echo; “Stop?”
There’s no defensiveness in his tone, just confusion. Something a bit more prickly, too, difficult to digest—hurt, maybe. It makes Seungmin’s chest twist. He’s not a writer. Not the way other members are. He can reflect emotion but he isn't as confident in his ability to translate his own, not through words, not by himself. Maybe that's why that studio session with Chan felt like the end of the world. Why he kept pushing for Chan to snap and it felt like such a betrayal when he didn't. The memory that he even tried continues to make Seungmin's stomach turn with disgust.
“Don’t admire me,” Seungmin says. He's not sure when he actually allowed himself to do so, all he knows is that his gaze has somehow found its way to fixing on the tight line of Chan’s mouth. He watches it part, ready to respond, and panic flickers—“I want you to fight me.”
Chan's mouth closes. Seungmin pushes on, before the nerve he's managed to accumulate evaporates. “I want you to yell. Disagree. Tell me to fuck off.” His breath trembles. “I want you to be angry.”
“Seungmin,” Chan starts, but Seungmin shakes his head sharply.
“When we were trainees, everyone was so fucking scared of you because you wanted them to be.” Chan flinches. “Everyone was scared you’d yell, or that you’d get too annoyed. We knew your opinion mattered enough that you could be the reason someone got cut.”
Seungmin knows now—has known for years, in the quiet clarity of hindsight—how that power sickened him. How Chan never wanted it in the first place. How it turned inward, made him sharper with himself than he ever was with anyone else. He sees the way Chan has always tried to tuck it away, into cupboards, under rugs, like something shameful that needs constant compensating for. Leadership the one debt he's never finished paying. Seungmin knows that Chan has simply lived with it so long that he doesn’t notice how the air changes when he walks into a room, how it thickens with his guilt until the rest of them are left breathing it in without the words to verbalize why it feels so hard to inhale.
Seungmin is finding it difficult to breathe now, but it's not only Chan's guilt flooding his lungs, there's also the shameful stench of his own desire, thickening the smog. Forcing his voice to fracture against his will.
“But you never yelled at me.” It still startles him—how badly he wants it. “Why didn’t you ever yell at me?”
The question thins into a whisper by the end, the words barely managing to push past the tightness in his throat. The effort of forcing them out leaves his chest hitching again, breath catching halfway through the last syllable.
But Chan hears it. Catches on to the slightest change in pitch regardless of if they're in the recording booth or a crowded room, well trained in the art of identifying the threat of oncoming rain.
Before Seungmin can even properly finish the thought, Chan is already shifting beside him—a quiet shushing sound that Seungmin finds both soothing and humiliating as Chan slides an arm slides around Seungmin’s shoulders and pulls him in, closing the small distance between them like it was never meant to exist.
Seungmin lets his world tilt with the motion. The tear-blurry rendering of his living room is gone now, lost to him as his face is pressed against the soft cotton of Chan’s T-shirt. Seungmin sobs once—sharp and humiliating, the sound tearing out of him before he can stop it—and he tries to clamp down on it immediately, swallowing the noise back into himself like it never happened. The fabric of Chan's shirt bunches faintly under his cheek as he breathes in, trying to balance himself, but his deep, gulping breaths also carry something else. Churning uneven and greedy in his effort to fill his lungs with the clean, familiar smell of Chan’s fabric softener, his deodorant, the scent of the same air freshener Chan has hung in all his closets for the last nine years.
Chan’s hands are warm when they slip into the gap between Seungmin’s shirt and hoodie. His palms press firmly against Seungmin’s back, grounding and solid. They move, too—long, steady sweeps up and down Seungmin's spine in a way that feels like water rushing over him, dousing him clean. He's also saying something into Seungmin's hair, voice low with soft reassurance, but the words sound muffled, blending together before Seungmin can make sense of them. They rumble through his chest anyway, and the vibrations against Seungmin's body pass through him like a warm current. Seungmin focuses only on what can’t lie; the solid thud of Chan’s heart beneath his cheek, the easy adjustment of his body when Seungmin presses closer.
There are many things in life that Chan refuses to move toward without double and triple checking, circling a decision until he’s sure every angle has been considered. Touch is not one of them, especially touch that seeks to comfort. A part of Seungmin has always felt rather envious of this trait of Chan’s, of the way others seem able to hold on to each other without shame. It feels strange to do it now, to cling back so openly, to receive so easily when he hasn’t allowed himself to in years. The last time he'd felt like this it had been infinitely worse, unforgiving spotlights blazing overhead and thousands of fans watching him fall apart in real time, and Changbin had had to physically manhandle him into accepting it. Seungmin has never been able to convince himself that the timing was right, or that his feelings were justified enough to deserve it, to deserve this.
Even with circumstances that would explain it, it hadn’t felt right earlier today when Chan knelt beside him as he cried. It didn’t feel right at the end of the shoot, either, when the cameras were finally off and the room had gone quiet. Seungmin had begun to wonder if it would ever feel right when he’s spent so long coaching himself that it’s probably safer to twist away, to make any pressure against him about escape rather than acceptance.
Even now, held like this, he's not sure it feels fully earned.
He isn't sure if Chan understands what he’s trying to say, or if he even has the vocabulary to explain it if he's asked to. Seungmin knows only the urgency of it. The way it’s lived inside him for years. All he can do is breathe against the immovable line of Chan’s body. Feel the brush of lips against his hairline—so light it might almost be imagined. The motion of Chan’s hand along his spine guiding his breathing into something steadier, gradually slowing.
He doesn't really feel ready to speak again but Seungmin thinks if he keeps waiting to feel ready he'll stay here, pressed against Chan's chest, until the end of time.
“I just wish I could've made you see me,” he confesses, small and wet against the rhythm of his own shaking breath.
Chan shifts, and for a split second panic spikes—Seungmin stiffens, nearly tightens his grip—but Chan isn’t pulling away. He’s only leaning back enough to look at him.
A hand comes up to cup his cheek, leading his face gently. Seungmin has to force himself to meet his eyes. Face burning. Chan’s gaze, like so much of him, is both dark and bright all at once. Damp at the edges.
“Seungmin-ah,” He says softly. The reprimanding lilt of his voice a sparkling trip wire that sends Seungmin tumbling down. “I’ve always seen you.”
Another lurch of emotion scrapes at Seungmin’s throat, which he's only partly able to refuse. He won’t let himself dissolve again—not now, under the scrutiny of Chan’s careful eyes tracing every tremor of his expression.
Chan exhales, seeing it. The sound heavy. His thumb sweeps away another tear that had begun to fall.
“Hyung is so, so sorry—”
The apology is already gathering momentum, he can hear it that soft, spiraling cadence in Chan's voice that means he’s about to keep going and dig himself deeper and deeper into that endless whirlpool. Seungmin can’t listen to it again, and the only way he can think to stop it is to lean forward and press his lips to Chan's.
There’s a split second where his whole body braces—he was too abrupt, his teeth knock lightly against Chan’s at first, clumsy and unpracticed—years of instinct locking into place in response to something so deeply unfamiliar. Seungmin feels stiff as a board, expecting rejection, for Chan to freeze in equal measure and pull back, for Chan to catch him by the shoulders and gently push him back into familiar territory.
But the second doesn't last, because another part of him knows not to brace at all, and this one melts with smug certainty when Seungmin allows himself to soften, and Chan's resistance doesn't come at all.
Chan’s mouth is warm and open beneath his, the heat of the chili oil still lingering there. The reminder thrums in Seungmin's belly, warmth spreading immediately, climbing up his throat, and it seems to be flooding into Chan's ears in similar a way—one that Seungmin can trace physically, as his hands come up to land on either side of Chan’s face, fingers curling along his jaw.
Seungmin doesn't really know what he's doing. He moves his lips to kiss Chan for what must be counted as a second, then a third time—Chan still isn't resisting. Seungmin thinks he's responding, actually, though his movements are markedly more gentle and slow than Seungmin's. Unexpectedly emboldened, Seungmin's hands begin to move. He slides them down along the broad line of Chan’s back, struck by a sudden irrefutable restlessness and desperation for skin on skin. His fingers catch the hem of Chan’s shirt and tug it upward, hands diving underneath to touch the hot flush of his skin. The action stretches the fabric carelessly, and Seungmin knows how this sort of thing irritates Chan to no end when roughhousing or during dance practice—but Seungmin needs space to touch him more than he cares to measure himself.
If it does irritate Chan, he makes no move to suggest it, and the lack of reaction is infuriating but Seungmin only frustrates himself further by trying to surprise him. Allowance is one thing, Chan has always been good at allowing things, but when Seungmin presses harder—more insistent, more demanding—it's no longer enough for to Chan to simply press back subtly.
Seungmin licks uncertainly at the seam of Chan’s mouth and all he receives in return is Chan’s thumb shifting under his chin, adjusting the dip of it like he’s handling something delicate. He pushes deeper, and the hand on the hinge of his jaw is only ever to steady him.
It feels like another gesture made just to comfort him, and the thought makes something hot and angry twist in Seungmin's chest—but he’s already too far gone to stop. Too hungry for the contact to care why Chan is letting it happen, letting him rake his hands through his hair or drag his teeth across Chan's plush bottom lip.
He doesn’t know if he’s doing any of this right, every movement he makes is based entirely on what feels good in the moment. Seungmin has never had reason to be ashamed of his inexperience. Not before. But right now he feels every inch of it—every awkward movement, every trial-and-error decision that Chan tries to hold his hand through, always gentle and patient, quietly correcting the angle of Seungmin’s mouth, the pressure of his hands, the tilt of his head. As far as Seungmin knows, Chan shouldn’t know much better than he does, but there’s a steadiness to him anyway. A quiet confidence and endless patience that both settles into the space between them and also makes Seungmin feel like he's scrambling for purchase on unsteady feet while Chan is slowing his own pace just to match.
Seungmin wants to be angry at him for it but he can't, though he burns with something that feels close to that potency. Floods him with that insistent need to find Chan’s limit. To press against it until it cracks. Before he fully realizes what he’s doing, Seungmin is shifting forward and climbing into Chan’s lap with a small, shaky noise of frustration that sounds embarrassingly like a whimper.
Chan rolls with the motion, but as Seungmin shuffles in closer and closer his arms come up instinctively, trying to cradle him—holding him in a way that’s stabilizing. Seungmin rails against it, claws at Chan’s shoulders, shifting his weight, trying to break the careful shape Chan keeps putting him in to bring them flush. When one of Chan’s hands settles against his arm to hold him at a safer distance, Seungmin grabs it, trying to move it—maybe pin it back against the couch.
For half a second it almost works. But then Chan grunts softly under his breath and tightens his grip instead.
The fist around his arm burns. Not harshly, but unmistakably firm. Another warning that serves to spark the need to resist that keeps lighting up Seungmin's nervous system like a Christmas tree. He pushes harder against it, rocking restlessly in Chan’s lap, searching for friction, the shape of him dangerously solid and real between his legs, searching for the pressure of that grip again—for anything that feels real, anything that proves Chan isn't turning another blind eye, letting him get away with it—
One of Chan's hands finds his waist, and the other—holding Seungmin's offending hand—pins his wrist to the small of his back. His grip is hard enough that Seungmin's breath catches with the thought that he might bruise.
And then; a small whine, slipping out of Seungmin’s mouth. Completely involuntary. He has no time for embarrassment to settle when Chan's his hips buck upwards—answering Seungmin with a low groan of his own, a sound deep enough to the compound the heavy air pressure clouding Seungmin's mind and sudden enough to shock him back into reality.
Seungmin jerks back slightly, one clumsy hand bracing against Chan’s chest as he pushes himself away just enough to gasp for air. The second the distance opens between them, Chan reacts instantly, shifting his weight to guide Seungmin off his lap, to undo it all.
He is stopped only by Seungmin's small, distressed whimper. His hands—which have already loosened—hover uncertainly in the air for a moment.
Seungmin’s body trembles without the contact. They come back carefully, settling against his waist again like he’s afraid of startling him. Afraid of shattering the air between them that fizzes like radio static with the sound of their laboured breathing.
Seungmin stares at his wrist. No bruise that he can see. The skin hardly reddened, already fading.
This is so typical of himself, Seungmin thinks, to do something unforgivable like this—something so careless, that has the power to truly ruin everything—but now that the adrenaline is draining out of him, the only thing his brain can latch onto completely once he’s finally able to catch his breath is the damn song.
“Fuck,” Chan says under his breath in English, the word thick with self-loathing. For once, Seungmin doesn’t resent him for it. What else could Chan possibly say or feel after something like that? What else could Seungmin expect from doing something so impossibly stupid?
Seungmin is surprised to realize he is crying again, apparently transformed into a leaky faucet. Tears keep slipping down his face in steady lines, and he has the sudden, irrational fear that he’s broken something inside himself. That whatever switch normally turns this off has been snapped in irreparable half.
Chan adjusts the sleeve of his hoodie again and uses it to dab carefully at Seungmin’s cheeks in a gesture Seungmin is so used to seeing him use with other people it almost hurts to be on the receiving end. He has to hold himself very still to avoid leaning into it.
“I’m sorry,” Seungmin whispers.
Chan blinks, uncomprehending. “Why are you sorry?” he asks, his voice lifting into a tiny, incredulous laugh.
“You told me not to cry.”
Chan stares at him, digesting Seungmin's words for a long moment before he groans, dragging a hand down his face.
For the first time tonight, a wet laugh that trips past Seungmin's lips before he can stop it. He knows Chan’s frustration isn’t directed at him, it's only ever with himself. Seungmin has spent years trying to intercept that instinct, trying to catch it midair and take it onto his own shoulders instead. He keeps trying, even now, even after all this time, but despite the practice he finds he’s never gotten very good at it. Chan isn't good at sharing, and Seungmin, left with nowhere else to put that weight, has only ever learned to copy it onto himself.
“Of course you can cry, Seungmin, I—fuck.” Chan exhales sharply. “I’m the worst at this, aren’t I.” His eyes settle heavily on Seungmin’s face with the kind of attention that usually makes Seungmin want to look away, but tonight he doesn’t. The weight of Chan’s gaze feels grounding instead of suffocating, something to hold onto.
Seungmin shakes his head slowly, and knocks his forehead gently against Chan’s again. It's the same quiet contact as before, though now absent of its heat.
He knows Chan won’t hear him if he argues outright, will just circle back into apologizing again. Instead, Seungmin does what he’s been doing all night. Tries to lead him elsewhere, walk him backward down a different path.
“Kiss me again," Seungmin says.
A cool trickle of satisfaction runs through him at Chan’s small intake of breath.
“Seungmin…” The name leaves Chan's mouth slow and uncertain, like he reached for it out of instinct and only realized halfway through that he doesn’t know what to say next.
It’s no matter to Seungmin, he likes the way Chan says his name. Even when it’s coated in layers of reproach and shame the way it is now—gravelly with the after-effects of something he’s likely already regretting. Unsteady now that the ground under them has shifted. He did that.
Chan tries to turn his face away, another motion to retreat, but now it’s Seungmin’s turn to steady him. His settles a hand against Chan’s jaw, fingers trembling—he can’t stop that—but they hold firm as they slide up along the line of Chan’s face, the pads grazing the edge of his lips as they pass.
“This, it isn’t—”
“Please,” Seungmin adds. Softer than the first demand, but it lands heavier.
It feels good to watch Chan struggle to deny him. Seungmin sees it clearly now: the forceful blink of Chan’s eyes, like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream.
Feeling suddenly frantic with the strange, unfamiliar sense of power, Seungmin uses his free hand to shuffle off one side of his hoodie. He feels gooseflesh rippling up his arms as Chan’s eyes follow the motion immediately, tracking every movement until it hangs from Seungmin’s elbow then slips to the floor. The air between them feels colder without it.
Chan’s throat clicks when he speaks. “You’re sure.”
The lack of question in his tone makes Seungmin ache.
Seungmin nods.
He’s still watching Chan’s face, cataloguing every small shift in his expression. When his gaze drops, it’s only to glance at the inch of space that still separates them—barely anything. Then Chan’s hands move. Still settled carefully at Seungmin’s sides, but his thumbs begin to trace slow, absent arcs against his skin. A touch so simple it almost startles him, sends another wave of shivers up his back enough to make him sigh.
Seungmin wonders what he looks like right now. He hopes Chan likes it. And if he doesn’t—if he's stupid, or ungraceful, or simply not enough—he hopes Chan will show him what he does want instead.
When Chan’s eyes lift back to meet his, Seungmin hopes Chan can see the challenge in him and none of the nerves. He is frightened, but he can take it. He can handle it. Chan, just as he is.
“Be a good hyung to me,” Seungmin whispers.
His lips are close enough to Chan’s that he can feel the texture of his uneven breath, and then the long, smooth sigh that spills from Chan’s mouth. Warm with relief, like it’s the exact instruction he’s been waiting for.