Sick Kids

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Hello there 🧍🏾‍♂️

First of all, I have two small disclaimers:

• I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t really know how tumblr works, but I am slowly learning 💪🏽

• This is apparently a ‘secondary blog’, though I am still not certain of what that means- I just so happened to already have an old account that I used to be an avid reader on🤣

It seems I can’t really like or follow people with this blog, so is that because it’s a secondary blog? If that’s the case, then oops, my bad 🤷🏽‍♂️ it is what it is I guess..

Anywaaaays..

Who am I?

I’m a twenty-something year old European guy who’s always loved all things hurt/comfort (with a side of tooth-rotting fluff), especially in writing.

Now… This blog came to existence with no intention of it becoming a place to write and post my own sickfics…. Yet here we are😂

I recently got pulled back into the world of kpop after many years of being too busy to indulge in it, and now the creative writer in me is having a blast again!😙

Who do I write for?

My current ult groups are Stray Kids and Ateez, and I’ll mainly be writing for them🤭

I have written one short story for TXT as well, as well as a crossover, but I’m not too confident in my writing of their dynamics.. yet ✋🏽I also used to write for BTS many years ago, but I don’t feel that comfortable writing for them as of now😅👀

Right now strayteez are all consuming 😮‍💨

What do I write?

I’ve dabbled a lot more in writing about stomach related illnesses over the years than I have in snzfics, but I am more than willing to continue expanding! Favorite tropes are definitely emeto and fevers though 🤭

I don’t really know a lot about what my no-gos are yet, but I think the list may grow along the way 😅

The only thing I know for sure is that this is is going to be a place for sickfics and I’m only going to be writing stories around illnesss/sickness/injuries/ that stuff✨ (so far, that is)

What I don’t write?

- x reader

- little space

As for request, please just send them in 🙏🏽

Even though I may not be able to write every one of them, I really love getting them! 🥹 they help a lot with inspiration and new insights, which is so fun!

So yeah..

“Wha… what the fuck?”

Mingi rubbed a hand over his face, leaning heavily against the doorway as he struggled to peel his eyes open against the bright light. Was he seeing things correctly?

“San-ah, what the…? Wha’s goin’ on?”

San blinked up at him and lifted his hand in a brief greeting, still stuck on the bathroom floor with Wooyoung half-collapsed against his chest. For a second, a hint of relief flickered across his face at the sight of his housemate, but it quickly gave way to concern again when Wooyoung squirmed in his arms.

“He’s sick,” San said simply, as if that alone explained everything. Sensing the need for an elaboration, he continued before Mingi had the opportunity to ask. “Fever. Throwing up. He just came to my room and…” he hesitated, glancing briefly towards the toilet, “…yeah.”

Mingi squinted his eyes, finally lucid enough to take in the scene properly. His gaze flicked from San to Wooyoung, then to the toilet, then back again. “Oh,” he said at last, less sharp now. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” San agreed wearily, letting his head tip down until his cheek pressed against the top of Wooyoung’s hair. “Shit.”

Mingi stood there for a beat, aimlessly staring at the pair while his mind tried to catch up. Eventually, he spoke again, seeming a little timid all of the sudden. “Do you… uh, can I do something?”

San exhaled through his nose, considering the offer for a moment before ultimately nodding his head yes. He could use an extra pair of hands. “Yeah, actually..” he frowned down at Wooyoung, who was slipping further and further away from consciousness by the minute. They really needed to try and get some medicine in him before he fully conked out…

“Could you swap places with me? Just hold him? While I figure something out, he’s…” San trailed off, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, his concern blooming at the sight of Wooyoung’s pallid features. His skin almost blended in with the tiles…

Mingi nodded once, almost a little too quickly, like he was trying not to overthink the task. “Yeah— yeah, okay. I can do that.”

He stepped carefully into the bathroom, crouching down beside them as San shifted just enough to make room. For a moment there was an awkward shuffle of limbs and uncertain positioning, Mingi hovering like he was afraid he might somehow do it wrong, before San guided him in with a quick, quiet instructions.

“Just don’t let him drop down— yeah, like that… arms around him, you got it.”

“Got it, got it,” Mingi repeated softly to himself, sliding into place beside Wooyoung as San reluctantly eased his hold.

The second he fully let go, Wooyoung sagged down immediately, too weak to hold himself up, but Mingi caught him with ease, arms locking around him and guiding him to rest against his own chest.

“Oh shit— he’s really warm.” Mingi said under his breath, adjusting his grip a little as he involuntarily cringed back from the fierce heat emanating off the younger.

“Yeah, I know,” San retorted, sounding way sharper than he’d intended to. The edge in his voice lingered in the air for barely a heartbeat before guilt settled heavily in his chest, like a stone had lodged itself in place of his heart.

He really didn’t mean to sound like that. San wasn’t angry at Mingi. Not even a little. He was just worried beyond measure and he felt… lost. Scared— terrified, even, by his own uncertainty. Wooyoung was barely conscious, and San suddenly felt hopelessly out of his depth, desperately trying to keep his head above water while pretending he knew what he was doing. He scrubbed a tired hand over his face with a quiet sigh. "…Sorry,” he murmured, softer this time. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

Mingi glanced up immediately, giving a small shake of his head. He’d been too groggy to even catch the clipped tone, let alone be hurt by it. A blessing in disguise, maybe. “Oh, It’s okay.”

“I’m just worried..” San swallowed thickly, rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his neck. “I uh, we have to…”

His eyes flitted back to the cabinet he’d searched earlier, quickly zeroing in on the thermometer he’d left behind in his haste. With determination in every step, he quickly strode over and snagged the device off the shelf.

“Okay, let’s see..” San sank to the floor, uncapping the device and prepping it for use. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d used it.

Mingi cupped Wooyoung’s jaw, carefully tilting his head while San positioned the thermometer against his ear. The process, unfortunately, proved far less straightforward than any of them had hoped.

Despite every attempt to be gentle, the sensation of a cold, hard gadget pressing into his ear drew an immediate protest. Wooyoung squirmed, one arm flailing out to bat the intrusion away. “Ya— stop it…” he groaned, eyes still too heavy to open as he blindly swatted at the offending device. Mingi tried to hold him still, but Wooyoung managed to squirm his way out of his grip like a cat wrestling to get out of a bath “Stop’iiiiit…”

“Shhh, I know, I know, I’m sorry,” San tried to soothe him, surprised by the sudden strength rushing through the sick man’s body. Had he known Wooyoung still had the physical vigour to deliver such an impressively accurate smack to his face, he might’ve taken some more precautions.

“Ow— ya, Wooyoungie,” San huffed, rubbing his stinging cheek with a pout. “I know It’s not comfortable, but it’ll be over soon, I promi—“

Before the words had even left his lips, the thermometer erupted into three shrill beeps in quick succession.

The numbers on the red, glowing screen made San’s heart drop into his feet. He instantly forgot about the lingering ache in his cheek. “39.7°C(103.5°F)…” he read aloud, earning a soft, wide-eyed ‘oh’ from Mingi. “fuck.”

San felt his jaw tick, his heart rate picking up a notch as the panic truly began to set in. He knew the fever had to be high, but not that high. At what point was a fever dangerously high again?

“Ooooh, that’s not good at all. Uh—“

His eyes darted around the room again, mind reeling for a solution. A second later and San was pacing the bathroom tiles like a madman, because moving around helped him think better. Or at least, that was what he always told himself whenever he started wearing grooves into the floor during a crisis. Right now, it was either pace or panic. Unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence, he was effectively doing both.

San moved in a rhythmic tempo, one hand dragging through his hair as he trialled every possible remedy that didn’t involve waking Seonghwa. They were grown ups, they should be able to handle this.

Right?

Wooyoung’s fever was concerningly high, that much was clear. They had to tackle that first. He needed medicine, yes— but would he even be able to keep it down? Judging by the looks of it, it was highly unlikely. But if he didn’t get any medicine, would the fever just keep rising? How were they supposed to handle it if Wooyoung only ended up getting sick all over again?

Mingi watched the gears turning in San’s head in stunned silence, cradling Wooyoung against his chest while quietly trusting his housemate to make the grown-up decisions for the night. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke, voice small. “Is it true that the brain melts if you get too warm..?”

San shot him an exasperated look before coming to a stop, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not helping…”

“Right,” Mingi grimaced and bowed his head sheepishly. “Sorry, forget I said that. Uh, what.. what should we do?”

San huffed, glancing back down at the thermometer he was clutching in his fist like it owed him money, when the winning idea finally struck him. Mingi could almost see the light bulb illuminating above his head, because a split second later, San was glowing like he’d discovered the cure for cancer.

“Bath.”

“What?” Mingi blinked, clearly failing to follow whatever train of thought had just barreled through San’s head. He himself was still halfway stuck in dreamland, lounging on a beach where candy fish swam through a pearly ocean and bowls of fried chicken refilled themselves whenever you finished one. It was, by every conceivable metric, a far more pleasant place than the reality he’d unexpectedly stumbled into.

“We need to give him a bath, a lukewarm one,” San clarified, already halfway across the bathroom again as he began to prepare the tub. “It’ll help bring the fever down.”

Mingi nodded his head slowly, the information settling into the crevices of his sleep-addled brain one blink at a time.“Okay, yeah. That sounds… smart..” he agreed, before his brows suddenly furrowed. “Wait. Why lukewarm? Wouldn’t, y’know, cold water work faster?”

“If it’s too cold, he’ll start shivering more, which will ultimately only make his temperature go up.” San replied matter-of-factly, leaving Mingi looking equally confused and impressed simultaneously.

“Woah,” The rapper mumbled, visibly awestruck. San raised an eyebrow at him over his shoulder. Mingi looked genuinely astonished.

“How do you know that?”

San shrugged his shoulders, too tired to feign indignation over the fact that his friend seemed so deeply impressed by him simply knowing things.

What was that supposed to indicate? He knew things...

“Seonghwa-hyung taught me once.”

The answer, no matter how curt it was, seemed to satisfy Mingi immediately. “Ah.” He nodded sagely, resting his head back against the wall. “Must be true then.”

Despite himself, San let out a tired huff of amusement as he reached for the faucet, turning on the water and testing the temperature with the back of his hand. “Come on,” he said softly, bracing himself for the next step. “Help me get him situated.”

Together, they carefully began peeling the sweat-dampened pyjama shirt from Wooyoung’s torso. The fabric clung stubbornly to his skin, forcing them to work slowly to avoid aggravating the angry red welts scattered across his body.

Wooyoung offered little resistance this time around. In fact, he barely seemed aware of what was happening at all. Which was far more unnerving than anyone would like to admit out loud.

Occasionally, a weak sound of protest escaped him when they shifted him too quickly, his brows pinching together as though even the smallest movement took more effort than he could spare. Other than that, he simply sagged between them like a sack of potatoes, pliant and exhausted in a way that made alarm bells go off in San’s brain.

Was this normal sick or ER sick? Should they call someone? An ambulance? Or worse— Seonghwa?

“Sorry, baby,” San murmured as he carefully lifted one of Wooyoung’s arms through a sleeve, the fabric catching slightly at his shoulder. “Almost done.”

By the time they finished, Wooyoung was left in nothing but his boxer shorts, his skin flushed pink with fever and glistening with sweat.

“This feels very wrong..” Mingi whispered at some point, his own fingers trembling as he swiped away a bead of sweat from Wooyoung’s temple. “He’s so… not Wooyoung.”

San couldn’t say he disagreed with that sentiment. This frail, feverish man was a far cry from the fierce Wooyoung they all knew and loved. His throat felt too tight to answer, so he decidedly skipped past it, instead focusing on the task ahead.

“Let’s get him in the tub.”

Mingi nodded, immediately sliding his arm around Wooyoung’s back while San moved to support his legs, hooking his arms under his knees.

“One, two, three.”

With joint effort, they lifted him off the floor far easier than any of them had foreseen. Wooyoung let out a faint groan, his head rolling heavily onto Mingi’s shoulder as the sudden motion made his stomach churn in protest.

“I know,” Mingi soothed him this time, a soft, concerned pout pulling at his features. “I know. Just a little more, Woo.”

With a great deal of coaxing, careful maneuvering, and more support than Wooyoung was actually contributing himself, they eventually managed to get him somewhat stable in the tub; half-slouched with Mingi serving as his personal over-the-shoulder restraint.

The moment the lukewarm water touched his skin, a shudder rippled through his body, but it didn’t seem like it was from being cold. If anything, Wooyoung finally seemed to relax, sinking as far down into the water as Mingi’s grip on him would allow.

For the first time that night, the tight furrow between his brows eased ever so slightly, allowing space for something a little gentler to settle in his expression. The change was imperceptible to most, but after the disconcerting tailspin they’d been caught in for the past hour, it almost made San cry with relief.

“That feels better, huh?” He whispered, dipping a washcloth into the water before carefully sweeping it across Wooyoung’s chest. There wasn’t any verbal answer, but that was alright. San hadn’t really been expecting one.

“Has he been this out of it the whole time?” Mingi mumbled after a few moments of sorely needed tranquility, his thumb tracing carefully along the sharp angle of Wooyoung’s jaw.

San hesitated, pursing his lips as he tipped his head from side to side in a silent ‘not quite’ gesture. “Mmm… he was a little more with it before you showed up, but…” He let out a quiet breath, wringing out the cloth before drawing it gently over Wooyoung’s unsteady chest once more. “I think the whole vomiting ordeal really did him in… All the straining probably sent his fever through the roof.”

Mingi hummed in quiet acknowledgement, eyes fixed on Wooyoung’s blanched face as he watched the subtle shifts come and go. The faint wrinkle of his nose whenever he sniffled. The occasional twitch of his brows. The restless flutter of his lashes.

At least the shaking had eased; the worst of the tremors seemed to have melted away into the lukewarm water. Either way, his uncharacteristic silence carved itself into Mingi’s soul like a bad omen. He had to check that he was responsive, somehow— to make sure he wasn’t slipping away from them.

“Hey, Wooyoungie..” Mingi called gently, giving his bicep a light squeeze to try and draw him back. “Can you hear us?”

To their surprise, the response was almost immediate.

“Mmhm..” Wooyoung hummed, lashes fluttering again as he shifted, readjusting his head against Mingi’s chest. His fingers found the rappers wrist, loosely curling around it. “Mangi-ya…?”

“Yeah? Yeah, it’s me, Woo—“ Mingi answered quickly, a little more enthusiastically than he’d expected of himself. “it’s me, I’m here..” He leaned in a little closer, eyes full of worried anticipation. “What is it?”

A moment of silence… but then.

“Shhhh..”

Mingi’s expression crumpled. His face twisted in pure disbelief, mouth dropping open in a quiet ‘wha?’ as he shot San a look of utter betrayal— one that very clearly asked,

Did he just shush me?

San ducked his head, barely managing to smother a laugh, his lips twitching from the sheer shock on Mingi’s face. When he looked back up, the latter still hadn’t moved, frozen in place while his brain slowly, reluctantly caught up with what had just happened.

Wooyoung had, despite everything, in fact shushed him. While Mingi was quite literally keeping him afloat? Holding him when he was too weak to do so himself?

Ungrateful bastard.

“Alright, then, gee..” Mingi huffed, feigning offense, though his lips curled into a fond, crooked smile once the initial shock had passed. “Guess I’ll be quiet then… I’ll let you sleep, little prince...”

His eyes flicked to San, and the two of them shared an amused look, both fondly shaking their heads at the exchange.

Mingi silently took back what he’d said moments earlier; Wooyoung was still very much Wooyoung, even like this. Just… subdued, like he’d been turned down a few too many notches. Which, in its own way, could turn out a blessing and a curse in equal measure.

For a while after that, everything fell into a silent rythmn. Mingi remained vigilant behind the tub, holding Wooyoung’s body upright like it was his sole purpose in life, while San washed his fevered skin and mumbled sweet nothings in his ear at every utter of discomfort.

As time dragged on, Wooyoung began to turn more lucid in the brief stretches between bouts of drifting off, even if the improvement was meagre at first. He responded with little more than soft mumbles, nods, or shakes of his head, but— in contrast to when Mingi had first showed up, he was actually responding. Which, at least in San’s mind, counted as meaningful progress toward something a little less terrifying than him being out cold and unresponsive.

But in a warm, quiet room where the only sounds were the gentle splash of water and their synchronous breathing, drowsiness came easily—especially in the hours before sunrise.

With his head resting against Wooyoung’s and his arms still locked securely around his chest, Mingi felt his eyelids grow heavier in the quiet lull of the room, slipping more and more, until…

He startled himself awake, his head snapping up sharply as his body gave a brief, involuntary dip. His hold on Wooyoung, loosened only for that split second, tightened again the moment he caught himself.

The sharp movement, unsurprisingly, jolted Wooyoung from his rudderless drift through consciousness. He let out a sharp breath and instinctively clung harder to Mingi’s arm, as if letting go meant going under for good.

San looked up at once, eyes widening as his arm shot out to steady Mingi by the shoulder. “Hey, woah, you okay?”

Mingi hugged Wooyoung a little tighter, guilt flashing across his face as he felt the tension return to the sick man’s shoulders. “S-sorry, sorry, ‘s okay, I’ve got him.”

“Mm.” San stared at him for a long second, unconvinced. His hand stayed on his shoulder, fingers digging in a little tighter. “Mingi.”

A beat.

Mingi blinked a few times, slowly refocusing on the room around them as if his brain had briefly shut down and forced a restart. “Uh, yeah… yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. I just— I think I almost fell asleep. I’m okay though, I’m okay.”

“If you say so..” San exhaled through his nose, still not fully convinced, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. His hand slid from Mingi’s shoulder back into the water, fishing up his washcloth to resume his ministrations. “Just let me know if anything is off, okay?”

Mingi nodded quickly, embarrassment making his ears flush bright red. “M’kay..”

San shifted, eyes searching for the thermometer so they could get an updated reading on Wooyoung’s fever, when something clattered to the floor behind him, startling all three of the men at once.

“Aish— what on earth is..“

Seonghwa’s voice faltered as slipper-clad feet stilled at the threshold of the bathroom. He’d accidentally kicked the bottle of fever reducers San had dropped earlier that night, announcing his presence before he’d even had the change to comprehend the situation he’d stepped foot into.

A soft gasp sounded, followed by hurried shuffling as the last of their apartment’s inhabitants staggered into the bathroom. How they’d all ended up gathered in his bathroom in the middle of the night was something San would have to consider at some later time.

For now, he couldn’t even lie to himself and pretend that seeing Seonghwa didn’t feel like his prayers had been answered.

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And so it turns out this story is going to be three parts… 😂 I got a little carried away, and then promptly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of words I managed to write during my rapid writing sessions…. But! I can finally post part two!!!! Hopefully, the final draft is not as messy as it has been for the past few days… I’ve tried my best… I swear 😅

When San woke to the weight of someone dipping down on the other side of his bed, he felt strangely unbothered by the unexpected visitor. There was no startled wake up, no surge of adrenaline striking him in a flash of panic, because it took him no longer than a fleeting second to recognise the body pressing against his own. From the gentle smell of vanilla body wash, to the familiar, slender arm wrapping around him like it had always been meant to fit there.

For a moment, the still half-asleep San just hugged Wooyoung back like he’d been waiting for him to show up all night, drowsily folding his arms around his smaller frame and pulling him in closer. Everything about it was so familiar, so safe— perhaps it was even something San hadn’t realised he’d been deeply missing the last couple of weeks. It was initially a pleasant surprise. San could’ve easily just let sleep pull him back under right then and there, no questions asked, but there was something about the state of affairs that piqued the interest of his subconscious just enough to stir him awake.

Wooyoung was in his bed— not unusual in and of its own, but… in the middle of the night? Out of the blue? With no notice? Why? And how had he..?

Spare key, right… but still, San rounded right back to the question of why?

With a confused frown pulling on his lips, he peeled his eyes open to find the room still shrouded in darkness, the curtains admitting not so much as a sliver of light. The digital clock on his bedside table cast red numbers through the darkness; 3:46AM. What on earth could have driven Wooyoung to seek him out at this hour? Surely, if all he wanted was a cuddle, he could’ve at least waited until the break of dawn.

“Woo..?” San murmured sleepily, nuzzling his nose into the younger man’s hair with a slow exhale. “Whas’up? ‘S the middle of the night..”

For a moment, the silence that followed had San wondering if Wooyoung had already drifted back to sleep. Then, finally, a meek answer emerged.

“Don’t feel good..”

Wooyoung’s voice was muffled by the duvet, his warm breath fanning gently against San’s neck. The words came out rough and hoarse, as though his throat was sore… or as though he’d been crying. The thought tugged the last remnants of sleep from San’s body. The quiet confession struck him like a bolt of lightning, jolting him awake as effectively as a shot of caffeine pushed straight into a vein. One moment he was half-asleep; the next, his mind was sounding the alarm, every nerve in his body on high alert.

“Don’t feel good..?” San echoed the words thoughtfully, squeezing Wooyoung a little closer. As he raised a hand to cradle the back of his head, his index finger gave two gentle taps against Wooyoung’s skull. To anyone else, it might have seemed like a meaningless gesture, but between the two of them, it carried far more significance. It was a quiet invitation— a way of opening the door to conversations that were often difficult to start aloud.

“In what way…?” San asked gently.

“Not that way,” Wooyoung assured him quickly, though he didn’t sound as convincing as he hoped. San waited for him to elaborate. “‘Sick.. ’just feel sick. Ugh.. Stomach, head, everything hurts…”

“Oh,” San intoned gruffly, feeling his chest loosen just a tad, even though the concern never dwindled. “Did you throw up?”

“Not yet..”

The answer did little to reassure him. If anything, the yet had San’s own stomach sinking with dread. To his ears, it sounded less like an uncertainty and more like a warning...

“So, you think you might?” The older was already mapping out every receptacle within an arms reach of his bed. Wooyoung shook his head against him, but with the way they were positioned, it was hard to tell whether it was a yes or a no. Considering the state of him, San begrudgingly assumed the former.

Judging by the convulsive swallowing (which was usually an easy tell for Wooyoung imminently praying to the porcelain gods), San had the growing suspicion that his late night visitor probably was more nauseous than he let on, and he’d rather not have his bed soiled if he could help it. He needed an answer, preferably a verbal notice before the inevitable struck.

“Woo, baby,” San urged softly, twirling a lock of the youngers hair between his fingers. “Be honest with me. Do you think you’re gonna throw up?”

Wooyoung let out a stuttering breath, a shiver running down his spine so violently San could almost felt it rattle his own bones.

“Dunno...” his answer finally sounded, though the uncertainty in his voice still didn’t ease San’s concern in the slightest. He smoothed his hand down Wooyoung’s back, feeling the clammy heat that clung to him, the pyjama shirt sticking to flushed, overheated flesh beneath.

“‘Not yet..I… just really don’t feel good..”

San sighed gently, pressing his lips against Wooyoung’s forehead as he murmured, “You feel pretty warm, Woo…” another concerned exhale followed. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

Wooyoung let out a shaky breath, another tremble running through him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “Woke up like this an hour ago…” he paused before speaking again, voice smaller, almost sheepish. “‘Dunno.. just.. just needed to come here..”

“Yeah?” San shifted a little to get comfortable, his fingers combing idly through the damp hair at Wooyoung’s nape. “Well, I’m glad you did..” He hesitated, then added gently, though he doubted it would be a possibility, “Wanna try to getting some more sleep then, or..?”

“Mhm..”

If San hadn’t turned hyper aware once Wooyoung conceded the reason for his late-night visit, he probably could’ve fallen back asleep in the blink of an eye. The warmth of another body intertwining with his own was soporific on its own. But now, with Wooyoung’s hitched breaths and small sounds of discomfort brushed against his collarbone, sleep suddenly felt miles away.

San trailed his index finger in slow, soothing patterns across the other man’s overheated skin as he shivered, wishing to alleviate if only a fraction of his discomfort. But rather than easing up, Wooyoung was only becoming more restless by the minute.

And San had a gruelling feeling he knew exactly why.

“Hey, Youngie..” he eventually whispered, dragging his hand back up Wooyoung’s trembling back. They both knew sleep was off the table for the time being. “Wanna go sit in the bathroom for a bit? I’ll come with you.. maybe get some medicine, too..”

Wooyoung went quiet at the suggestion. He definitely didn’t want to go sit in the bathroom. Really, who would? Only a madman would deliberately choose cold tiles over a comfy bed. But then again, he was also painfully aware that it was likely the wisest decision to make.

The nausea that had clung to him since he woke up only kept building exponentially, each new wave crashing in harder than the last. A cold sheen of sweat had broken out across his skin despite the fever raging beneath it, and the back of his throat burned with a warning he knew all too well. They both knew that waiting it out could very potentially be at the expense of San’s clean bedsheets.

Swallowing hard, Wooyoung pressed his face deeper into San’s shoulder before finally giving a small, resigned nod. Untangling himself from his bestfriends comforting arms felt like torture in itself, but he slowly slid away from the loving warmth and inched to the edge of the bed. The sudden ambiance of the bedside lamp did him no favours when San switched it on, making him squint and recoil like a vampire caught in sunlight.

A sheepish chuckle and quiet apology followed, but all Wooyoung could offer in return was a sour look and a noise that sounded somewhere between a hiss and a grumble.

With limbs feeling heavy as lead, Wooyoung made an effort to sit up, only to inhale sharply when the motion sent his vision spinning and his stomach lurching into his throat.

His head tipped a little too far forward, but San was by his side in an instant, one hand carefully grasping onto his shoulder to pull him back. “Woah, there— don’t fall off the bed..” he said, carefully guiding him upright again. “You okay to walk?”

Well, he’d managed the walk from his own room to San’s, hadn’t he?

Wooyoung tsk’ed softly, still ostensibly irked by the lamp incident. Blinking hard one last time in an attempt to fend off the static lingering behind his eyelids, he stubbornly pushed himself to his feet. His knees immediately wobbled, threatening to buckle beneath his weight, but San’s arm swept around his waist before they had the chance. Held upright by his steady presence, Woououng allowed himself to be guided through the dim hallway, taking slow, careful steps toward the bathroom.

When they reached it, he wasted no time dropping to the floor the moment they crossed the threshold, huddling around the toilet like it was his only salvation.

San tapped the switch and the lights blinked to life above them, harshly illuminating the rather sorrowful scene before him. This time, Wooyoung didn’t have the energy to spare on being grouchy about the brightness. Judging by how tightly he was squeezing his eyes shut, San doubted he’d even noticed the lights were on.

San crouched down beside him for a moment, patting his back a few times before carefully standing to search the cabinet for anything that might help. Fever reducers for when his stomach settled, nausea medication that would likely remain untouched in his current state, a thermometer…

A harsh gag quickly tore San from his wandering thoughts. He spun around instantly, the bottle of fever reducers slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor as he rushed back to Wooyoung’s side. Dropping to his knees against the tiles, he reached out, rubbing slow circles into his bestfriends heaving back. His brows knit tightly with concern as Wooyoung coughed up a small, miserable mouthful of bile— hardly enough to alleviate his discomfort. If anything, it was likely only adding to it.

“That’s it, baby, just get it out..”

If encouragement alone could’ve flipped the switch, Wooyoung would’ve been eternally grateful for the push. But even with San’s gentle words and grounding touch, his stomach remained locked in relentless knots that refused to loosen. The nausea consumed every fiber of his being, and yet, like he was being played by some cruel joke, each new gag left him no closer to relief.

“Sannie-ugh—“

Wooyoung choked out a whine between dry heaves, his stomach tensing and cramping relentlessly beneath his sweat-dampened shirt. San could feel the pull of every incessant heave ripple through the back muscles beneath his palm, each one a tangible testament of the effort his poor body was expending.

“Shh… I know, I know…” he soothed softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Wooyoung’s shoulder in a quiet, desperate gesture of comfort.

In the sharp fluorescent light, he could finally see the red tear tracks that had carved themselves into Wooyoung’s pale cheeks, as well as the raised welts of skin peeking out from the collar of his shirt— angry, red and clearly only adding to his misery.

A ragged inhale caught in Wooyoung’s chest before a helpless gasp escaped him, his shoulders hitching with another futile attempt to bring up whatever was tormenting his stomach. San felt his heart shatter, fingers working deftly to tie the younger man’s hair back with a stray hair tie he’d serendipitously found forgotten beneath the sink.

“Aigoo, aigoo, you feel that bad, baby?” He asked, though the answer was painfully obvious. He brushed a lingering lock of hair behind Wooyoung’s ear, earning only a faint, miserable nod in return.

“I’m so sorry..” San murmured, his hand sliding in slow, grounding passes down Wooyoung’s trembling spine “Just.. just try to breathe, take it easy.. let it happen.”

“I-I can’t…” Wooyoung sobbed, his breath hitching with every stabbing cramp that made his abdomen visibly tense. Tears, snot and whatnot gathered together in a pathetic smear across his face, lower lip trembling as he hung above the toilet bowl in ceaseless anticipation. “It-it wo-hurGh-w-won’t come..”

San’s brows pulled back in a helpless, empathetic grimace, his chest twisting with guilt as he watched Wooyoung writhe in pain. “I’m sorry you feel so sick, sweetheart, I don’t..” he let his eyes wander down the other man’s frame— from the spit dribbling from his lips to the skin of his abdomen peeking beneath his shirt, visibly taut and bloated just enough to puff out above the waistband of his pyjama pants. It looked beyond uncomfortable.

San inched a little closer, his movements guided more by instinct than any conscious thought. When his hand suddenly hovered over the warm skin of Wooyoung’s stomach, the younger tensed instinctively, and San paused, hesitating before carefully asking permission. “Sorry… can I? Maybe I’ll help..?”

Wooyoung hardly hesitated once his intention had been made clear, quickly nodding his head with a strained moan. “P-please.. please help me.”

He just wanted it to be over with. They both did.

At first, San barely dared to apply any pressure to the angry organ, terrified of making Wooyoung’s pain any worse than it already was. It was just a light, reassuring contact to start, his thumb brushing slow arcs against the scalding heat of his skin. But when Wooyoung let out a strained breath and gave another nod of his head, more desperate this time, San finally pressed a little firmer. “Tell me if it hurts more, yeah?” he added quickly, furrowing his brows in concentration.

Wooyoung shook his head yes, one hand gripping the edge of the toilet as another wave of nausea rolled through him. “Jus’—ngh— feels… tight… ow.. keep going…”

San kept his touch gentle, flattening his palm against the tense curve of Wooyoung’s stomach with steady purpose as the younger man pressed his forehead against the toilet rim. “Easy… I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low and even despite the concern coiled tight in his chest.

The younger man was still breathing far too shallow and ragged— short, hitched gasps slipping between gags that never quite turned into anything steady or useful. San could tell there was no real progress being made like this. And as Wooyoung let out the most broken whimpering “hurts” San swore he had ever heard, something primal and protective clicked into place in his mind. There was no doubt. He had to help him. Fast.

“I know,” San whispered mournfully, keeping the pressure even as he worked against the spastic muscles. “Just keep breathing, Woo… let your body do its thing. You’re safe..”

He shifted closer, one knee braced against the tile beside Wooyoung’s thigh, the other tucked under himself. His free hand came up to cradle the back of Wooyoung’s neck, thumb brushing just below his ear in a soothing rhythm while the other hand continued to work slow circles over his abdomen.

Feeling the rapid, uneven rise and fall of his chest, San gently rested his chin over Wooyoung’s shoulder in an attempt to ground him. “Hey, try to breathe with me,” he coached softly, keeping his voice low. “Slow… in… and out…”

Wooyoung tried, he really did, but every inhale felt like it caught halfway, snagging on the nausea that kept twisting inside him like an alligator in a death roll. His breaths came out shaky and erratic, punctuated by pitiful whimpers he couldn’t hold back even if he tried.

Another gag hit him suddenly, but it emanated from somewhere deeper this time, somewhere fuller— which, unpleasant as it was, felt like a promising sign.

San reacted instantly, shifting his hand from Wooyoung’s stomach to his back and rubbing in firm circles, as if encouraging his body to follow the progression. “That’s it— good, lean forward, baby, don’t fight it.”

Wooyoung coughed deeply, the sheer force of it jerking his body forward so abruptly he nearly head-butted the toilet seat. This time, finally, the effort wasn’t entirely fruitless. There was only a small amount to spit up at first, but that first mouthful proved sufficient enough to break the awful stalemate his body had been locked in. Before he could even attempt to brace himself for the next wave to come, a torrent of sick rushed up his throat and spewed out past both his lips and nostrils.

Once the floodgates opened, there suddenly seemed to be no end in sight, wave after wave of sick gushing into the toilet bowl like a ruptured dam breaking loose. Yet again, Wooyoung barely managed to keep himself from collapsing face first into the porcelain, had it not been for the strong arms holding him back.

“Oh sh— there you go, there you go…” San coaxed softly, concern still present but easing now that things were finally moving in the right direction. “Good job, Woo… just let it out.”

Eventually, the onslaught began to subside.

Wooyoung groaned shakily, his forehead pressed to the cool porcelain as tremors rippled through him in the aftermath. His nose and eyes stung with bile, his ears were ringing, and his throat felt grated raw. While the worst seemed to have passed and his stomach had stopped seizing, his head kept spinning, leaving him limp and exhausted against the toilet bowl.

San didn’t rush him. Not even if he at the very back of his mind couldn’t help but worry about how unsanitary it was to press one’s face against the toilet the way Wooyoung had been for the past half an hour. He supposed it likely didn’t matter as much considering he was already sick… His hand kept moving in slow circles along Wooyoung’s back, the other returning to rest lightly on his stomach again— this time just a comforting weight rather than trying to trigger a reaction. It felt notably less rigid now, the immense pressure from before finally seeming to have let up. “Feel a little better?”

There was a long pause before Wooyoung gave the smallest nod, the motion barely imperceptible. “..yeah…” he mumbled hoarsely, a rather nasty shiver shooting up his spine, sharp enough to make his teeth chatter. “A-a bit…”

San exhaled slowly, a shred of tension easing from his own shoulders. “Okay. Good. That’s good. That’s something..”

He reached over, tearing off a few sheets of toilet paper to gently wipe at the corner of Wooyoung’s mouth. Then he tilted his head until their faces were level, brushing a few wayward strands of hair away from Wooyoung’s clammy skin. “You did really well.”

Wooyoung let out a weak huff that might’ve been an attempt at a sarcastic laugh, his eyes half-lidded and his skin ashen. Under the harsh lighting, his face looked almost gaunt. “Pft.. Choi San, don’t lie to me…”

A faint smile tugged at San’s lips despite himself, the pad of his thumb brushing tenderly over Wooyoung’s sharp cheekbone as he tried not to dwell on the hollowness beneath it. “Jung Wooyoung,” he replied in the same, mock-formal manner, “I never lie. I’m being so serious.”

“Mm…”

Wooyoung didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t argue the point. Or maybe he had simply run out of energy to spare on trivialities.

Carefully, San shifted again, this time guiding Wooyoung back just enough so he wasn’t folded over the toilet completely. “Let’s stay here a minute,” he murmured, helping the younger man settle against the wall before reaching over to flip down the toilet lid and flush away its foul contents.

“How are you feeling? What hurts?” San assessed him once he sat back, watching the way Wooyoung’s eyelids kept slipping shut over and over again, like a flickering light on the verge of going out.

“‘M itchy..” Wooyoung complained drowsily, which checked out once San’s eyes returned to the raised patches that spread down his arms and crept up his collar.

“Mm.. yeah, the fever must’ve triggered your hives, huh? Aigoo, I’m so sorry, baby…” San tutted softly as he tried to fan Wooyoung’s neck with his hand— a meagre, almost foolish attempt at cooling him down, really. “You’re really burning up..”

While Wooyoung didn’t necessarily agree with that assessment— he felt frozen to the marrow—he had not even an ounce of energy to fight him on it. San bit the inside of his cheek, contemplating their current situation, before trying again. “What else?”

Wooyoung answered with a flat hum at first, like he needed to warm up his vocal cords before attempting to speak again. “Everythin’ hurts…” He hiccupped softly. “’N my mouth tastes gross, ‘n…” His voice slid into something between a whine and a hiss. “’S fucking itchyyyy…”

Right. San chewed his lip out of nervous habit, giving Wooyoung’s shoulder a couple of gentle, reassuring squeezes— because he truly didn’t know what else he could do. Maybe Mingi had some antihistamines that would do the trick? He’d have to go look whenever he got the opportunity.

“Okay, let’s see,” San said carefully, mapping it out in his mind. “Let me get you some water. Just to rinse your mouth, okay? You don’t need to drink yet— only when you’re ready.” He paused, searching Wooyoung’s face and tenderly cupping his cheek with his hand. “Does that sound okay?”

Wooyoung nodded sluggishly at the suggestion, but he leaned into San’s touch without thinking, melting against him like butter on a hot biscuit. And San went completely still, because how could he not?

Suddenly, the water could wait, because how on earth was San supposed to pull away when everything inside him was screaming at him to hold Wooyoung closer? Every time his bestfriend instinctively sought him out like this, some invisible force tugged him closer in return. He’d long since discovered he was powerless against it.

After half a heartbeat of hesitation, San slid down to sit, pressing a gentle kiss to Wooyoung’s temple and lingering there when the other made no move to pull away.

Wooyoung seemed instantly relieved, gripping San’s shirt and curling against him with a soft whimper, as though San himself were the cure to every ache and ailment. If only it were that simple… The elder could only tighten his grip around him, a small, concerned sigh slipping past his lips. “I’m right here, Woo, you’ll be okay..”

The moment of peaceful respite was brief, swallowed by another round of tremors that wracked Wooyoung’s body like a storm rolling through fraying leaves.

San’s chest ached at the sight. Wooyoung was shaking like a chihuahua despite the heat clinging to him, every shiver a cruel reminder of the sudden illness that held him firmly in its grip. The fever wasn’t settling, and it didn’t seem to be going down any time soon. If anything, it seemed fiercely determined to dig its claws in deeper.

“Aish, you’re really burning up..” San repeated, more to himself than Wooyoung, as he pressed the back of his fingers against the other man’s forehead. Clammy. Hot. Flushed. Damn it, he really should’ve grabbed that thermometer and gotten a reading before being cat trapped. While San always enjoyed a snuggle, he couldn’t simply ignore the more pressing matters at hand. That would be irresponsible.

Wooyoung twisted weakly against him, one trembling hand fumbling at his arm before tugging at the collar of his pyjama shirt. He mumbled something incoherent, but then, almost indiscernible, he repeated himself.

“’M itchy…”

“Yeah, I know, I know…” San said quietly, gently guiding Wooyoung’s hands away from the rash before he was able to claw away at the irritated skin. “Don’t scratch, it’ll only make it worse.”

Wooyoung’s hand flopped back into his lap without much resistance, though San had a sneaking feeling it was as a result of debilitation rather than compliance.

“I’m gonna get you some anti histamines as well, okay? Just hold on, don’t scratch..” San spoke to him almost in the way one would their child, but in the moment, with Wooyoung delirious as a sailor in a fog bank, that state of mind was the only thing keeping him level-headed. He had to channel his inner mother hen, his inner Seonghwa, if you will.

Just as San was about to resign himself to spending the rest of their night on the bathroom floor, the door suddenly creaked open, revealing a very heavy-lidded, half-asleep Mingi on the other side of it.

The following second passed in a deafening, stunned silence.

“Wha.. what the fuck?”

____________________________________________

Hehe, so… I had the sudden epiphany that if I divide this story into smaller parts rather than stare at the thousands of words I’ve written and desperately try to tie them together, I’ll actually be able to post something!!! 😅😂 so here’s a part one of likely two, maybe three— we’ll see how it develops 😎

Hyunjin was diagnosed with type one diabetes the year he turned fifteen— just before becoming a trainee. That was over a decade ago now.

On the surface, he handled his condition with effortless control, like it was just another part of his routine. Something manageable. Something small and almost insignificant.

But chronic illness came with grief and frustration no one could truly fathom without experiencing it firsthand. Behind his stuck-on mask, it consumed every ounce of his being. Every. Single. Day.

And sometimes, when everything built up just a little too much, the carefully constructed shell he wore cracked.

Sometimes, he just wanted to close his eyes and let go, praying he’d magically wake up with a functioning pancreas…

Sometimes, he just needed a fucking break.

And lately, he certainly wasn’t getting one.

It had been a shit week, today an even shittier day at that.

Hyunjin went to bed already running high, testy and negligent in that way only bone-deep exhaustion and a constantly fluctuating blood sugar make you. 

He promptly ignored Changbin’s sweet attempt at a ‘good night’, slamming the door to his room hard enough to rattle the frame— only to send an apology text a couple minutes later, of course. 

“Sorry, rough day, goodnight.”

It wasn’t Changbin’s fault, Hyunjin knew that, but sometimes the frustration spilled out of control, spoiling everything around him. It was a rotten feeling. He hated it.

Closing his eyes, he begged that would be the last of it; that the following day wouldn’t be as trying, but he wasn’t let off the hook that easy. 

The correction dose he’d taken before bed should’ve simply fixed the problem, but instead it dragged him down so fast it ripped him out of sleep an hour later. 

Low.

Annoyed, drowsy and glum, Hyunjin knew the drill regardless of his frustration. Emergency juice first. Then a few (probably too many) crackers. Then more juice because he still felt shitty and stopping required more mental clarity than he had.

By the time he fell back into bed, his blood sugar was already climbing back up again. Which was a steady and comfortable process, until it wasn’t. 

The following morning, Hyunjin didn’t need to test to know he was high as a kite. He just knew, inexplicably, in the same way your body senses someone staring at you from across the room. Having to pee four times within half an hour of waking only confirmed it.

“Stupid, fucking, dumbass—” he cut himself off with a sharp exhale, dragging open the bathroom drawer a little harder than necessary. Morning highs, thankfully, weren’t a frequent occurrence for him, but they sucked all the same.

The plastic containers rattled as he shoved things aside, fingers already moving on autopilot. Meter. Lancet. Strip. 

Hyunjin pricked his finger with more force than needed, barely reacting as the sting bloomed to a crimson sphere. He impatiently tapped his foot against the floor as the strip filled with blood, watching the loading bar crawl forward at a snails pace.  

He didn’t have time for this, because dance practice started in 30 minutes and both his body and brain felt like sludge. But then again; it was his fault for getting on a damn rollercoaster with no safety bar, wasn’t it? 

His old dexcom and insulin pump had come off a couple of days prior, and he still hadn’t gotten around to replacing them, because… well, because idol life tended to get in the way of basic self care needs. 

Hyunjin had meant to replace them, he really had… but when schedules piled up and rehearsals stretched late, the thought of another death needle punching into his skin somehow kept getting shoved further down the to-do list.

Now, he was left to pay the price of his petulant avoidance, forced to stick to the old fashioned way. 

Hyunjin resisted the urge to scream (mostly to avoid giving his roommate a heart attack) as his eyes locked on the blinking numbers of the glucometer. 

He already knew he was high, but 14.2 (255)…?

“Oh, fuck you.” 

He huffed out another frustrated breath, fingers trembling as he fumbled for a vial of insulin. 

Lips dry, Hyunjin drew out the correction dose— a little more carefully this time, despite the frustration still buzzing under his skin like a disturbed wasps nest. 

“How many units? Four… or..?” He trailed off, frowning at the syringe in his hands with blurry eyes.

Sleep-deprived, muddled and still reeling from last night’s endless rollercoaster, the math felt impossibly heavy. Maybe he had grown too accustomed to the pump…

A beat passed. His brain was still static, not supplying him anything of value.

“Fuck it.”

Perhaps without truly taking the effects of his previous yoyo-ride of a night into consideration, Hyunjin pinched the skin on his stomach and pushed the needle in.  

The bathroom door cracked open to reveal Changbin on the other side, hair damp and bare face fresh as a dewdrop. His eyes met Hyunjin’s first, then dropped to the needle poking into his stomach, before lifting again. 

His gaze softened with far too obvious sympathy, a small sigh slipping from his lips before he could rein it in. 

“Long night, huh?” Changbin asked, voice low and gentle in a way that made it hit harder than it should have.

Hyunjin felt his throat tighten. He blinked rapidly to disperse the tears welling up in his eyes, shaking his head like he could physically will the emotion away.

“Yeah..” he admitted quietly, biting his lip in an attempt to keep himself in check. No time. He didn’t want a pity-party, not now.

Once the dose was in, Hyunjin flicked the needle into a sharps container and let his shirt fall back down to cover the site. 

Changbin didn’t need to know about the rage bolus, nor the amount of times he’d contemplated just giving up on monitoring his condition in the past five minutes alone. They had places to be.

“But it’s fine— I’m fine. We leaving?”  

Hyunjin didn’t mean to sound as sharp as he did. He was just so tired. Tired of feeling like his own body was working against him, tired of mornings that started with numbers instead of sunlight, tired of having to calculate every move before even stepping out the door. 

Some days it all just felt like too much.

Luckily, Changbin paid his prickly tone no mind. He just gave a small nod, stepping aside when Hyunjin pressed past and quietly falling into step behind him. 

Any other day, he might’ve teased him about being in a grouchy mood, but Changbin knew when not to push— and this was one of those times.

-

Dance practice started as usual. Hyunjin was fine for the first part. In fact, despite the harrowing night behind him, physical exertion was exactly what he needed to burn off the negative emotions that had accumulated in his body overnight.

Every step, every jump— it all made him feel a little lighter than before, like the weight lifted off him one sweat drop at a time. 

But at the tail end of the first hour, however, a creeping weakness began to gnaw at his body, slowing his steps just a fraction off the beat. It started as a flutter in his stomach, a shakiness in his knees followed by lightheadedness he stubbornly tried to ignore. 

He shook his head, trying to refocus on the steps, but a distant memory from that morning suddenly flashed before him. 

Six units of fast-acting insulin. He’d ended up taking six units before practice…? Six.. six was… too much. On top of that, he hadn’t even accounted for the extra burn of dancing, had he?

Fuck. 

Every spin, jump, and push off the floor was sending his blood sugar plummeting faster than he could combat, and with that amount of insulin coursing through him without even a crumb of breakfast… that was a recipe for disaster.

Usually, Hyunjin was absolutely punctilious when it came to gauging his condition, but that morning he’d been too angry, too exhausted— it made him act recklessly... 

“Hyunjinnie… you okay?” a voice called out, scarcely breaking through the fog that had suddenly sunk into him. Hyunjin barely registered it as vague background noise.

His head felt weird, his lips tingly and numb. “I…” His vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting ever so slightly before him. His pulse felt fast, then slow, then way too fast again, like his heart couldn’t decide on a rhythm. 

By the time his brain realised what was happening, he was already shaking like a leaf, staggering like a drunk and cold to the bone despite the heat of the studio. 

Hyunjin opened his mouth to say something, maybe try to warn everyone his blood sugar was crashing, but his brain didn’t supply him any words. As Felix appeared before him, way too bright and seemingly moving in slow motion, a thin whimper slipped past his lips instead.

When Hyunjin’s knees buckled, Felix and Jisung were the first to catch him. They latched onto one side each, carefully lowering him to the ground while Chan quickly delegated tasks. Jeongin, get me a glucometer, Minho, fetch some back up carbs from the cafeteria.

Hyunjin folded on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

“He’s definitely low-“ Changbin hissed through his teeth as he dug into Hyunjin’s bag, but the side pocket that always contained emergency carbs was empty. It was never empty. “Fuck—he’s-he’s out, anyone else got some sugar?!”

For a moment, no one answered, but then Jisung’s eyes widened with realisation, spluttering as he tried to answer. “Uh-yeah-yeah! I have some energy gels in my bag!” 

Changbin nodded and started to rummage through Jisung's bag, searching for the gels while Felix remained beside Hyunjin, rubbing small circles into his back while his consciousness dwindled before them. 

Chan knelt next to them a second later, the small bag containing Hyunjin’s glucometer clutched in his hands. He was already pressing the lancing device against his skin, but Hyunjin’s fingers felt so cold to the touch that it made his stomach twist with fear. 

“Hey, hey, Hyunjinnie, stay awake now…” 

Felix brushed some hair out of Hyunjin’s clammy face, alarmed by the way his eyelids fluttered, eyes rolling back in a struggle to stay alert. They hadn’t seen him crash like this in ages.

“Hyunjin-ah, hang in there. We're gonna get some sugar, okay? Just- just hold on," Jisung murmured, his voice surprisingly steady despite the worry churning in his chest. Where were those damn gels?

“Here!” Seungmin threw a five-pack of energy gels across the room like he was pitching a fastball, and it hit the back of Chan’s head, making him double over with a soft ‘oof’. Luckily, the lancet was no longer piercing skin, and the blood had already been gathered into a strip.

With no time to wallow, Felix plucked the bundle off the floor and ripped a pack of gel open with his teeth. “Hyunjin,” he said firmly, before pressing the pack against the dancers lips. “You need to swallow this.”

Jisung placed a hand under Hyunjin’s chin when he didn’t respond sufficiently, coaxing his lips open with a gentle press of his thumb. Felix squeezed the jelly out, and the sugary gel coated the half-conscious man’s tongue like a brush of gold.

For a gruelling second, nothing happened at all.

The gel just sat there, sticky and cloying on Hyunjin’s tongue while his depleted brain struggled to register what it was or what he was supposed to do with it. Panic gripped the other men as the dancer remained entirely slack, not moving so much as a muscle— had he passed out? Was he about to have a fit? Did they need to call an ambulance? 

Chan’s eyes flicked to the screen of the glucometer the second it finished processing, his face paling enough for the others to recognise the change. His jaw ticked. “2.2.. (40).”

“Shit,” Changbin sucked in a sharp breath, one hand coming up to scrub over his face before he dropped it again, hovering it uselessly at his side. “That’s— fuck, that’s bad.”

“Hyunjin, c’mon, you need to swallow,” Felix urged desperately, eyebrows tightly knit with concern. 

But Hyunjin couldn’t hear anything but the roar of blood in his ears, couldn’t see anything but the infinite darkness stretching before him. 

Was he going to die?

“Get someone from medical,” Chan barked, and Seungmin leapt from the room faster than they’d ever seen him move before.

Hyunjin throat clenched too closely to gag, the muscles of his neck stiff and uncooperative. His hands twitched uselessly, tangled in the sleeves of Jisung’s shirt, but Felix didn’t let up. 

One steady hand cupped the back of Hyunjin’s head while the other pressed lightly on his jaw, tilting it just enough so the gel wouldn’t get stuck. A nod to Jisung and the rapper was aiding him with a shaky hand cupping Hyunjin’s chin.

“Come.On.” Felix said again, firmer this time, as Jisung hoisted Hyunjin’s limp body up to lay against his chest. “Swallow, Hyunjin. Just a little… please.” His voice faltered then, the plea barely more than a breath, but something shifted. 

Like primal instinct had finally won over, Hyunjin’s throat worked on autopilot, spurring to life and greedily gulping down the sugary fix. Each swallow felt like a tiny victory, a little spark against the dark fog that swarmed them all. 

“Yes—thats good, good, very good,” Felix murmured encouragingly, almost like a mantra, his own fingers trembling. “Keep it up, Hyunjin-ah… you’re doing perfect.”

Hyunjin could barely process the words, could still hardly hear them. His tongue felt sticky and overly sweet, and his stomach fluttered in protest before eventually relaxing as the first drops of sugar entered his bloodstream. 

The shakes were still bad, fine tremors running through him like an electric current, but the suffocating sense of impending doom began to ebb, receding inch by inch under the slow, unsteady thaw of relief.

“More, he needs more,” sounded Jeongin’s voice as Felix squeezed the last of the gel into the older dancers mouth. They all knew he was right; 2.2 was awfully low, and Hyunjin could possibly still be dropping by the looks of it. 

Chan was reeling. He didn’t know how if Hyunjin had eaten, or if he’d taken insulin that day, let alone how far the effects would be dragging him down— all he knew was that the downward trend had to be flipped. Fast. And for that, his dongsaeng would definitely need more than a singular carb pack.

“Here,” Chan quickly handed over another energy gel he’d ripped off the bundle. Felix didn’t hesitate. He tore open the pack in a hurry, fingers sticky, and brought it to Hyunjin’s lips again.

“Have some more, Jinnie..” 

Hyunjin’s head lolled slightly against Jisung’s shoulder, but this time, when the gel touched his tongue, his body reacted quicker. Instinct. Survival. 

His throat worked the gel down, slow but deliberate, swallowing in uneven pulls. Each effort seemed an arduous task, like he was dragging himself uphill through thick mud, but it was working. Slowly, but surely. 

“Good,” Jisung breathed, relief threading hesitantly through his voice as they watched the gel go down. “That’s good, you’re doing so good, baby, keep going—”

A tremor wracked through Hyunjin’s body, sharper this time, and his fingers curled weakly into the fabric of Jisung’s shirt. Jisung could almost physically feel his heart break. 

“Why isn’t he better yet?” Jeongin asked shakily, eyes flicking to the watch on his wrist. Ten minutes had already passed. Usually, when Hyunjin went hypo, the effects of glucose were noticeable by now— at least a little.

Changbin bit his lip, Felix shut his eyes, Jisung’s grip on Hyunjin tightened instinctually. No one had any good answers.

“C’mon, c’mon..” Chan muttered under his breath, rubbing his hand across Hyunjin’s forearm to rouse him. “Stay with us, Hyune…”

The door flung open with a crash, bouncing against the wall in its haste.

"I've got juice," Minho announced, skidding back into the room, slightly out of breath as he dropped to his knees and shoved a bundle of juice boxes toward them. “Full sugar."

"Give it here-"

Chan snatched a juice from the pile, already twisting the cap off before passing it over to Felix. "Once he's a bit more responsive— we gotta get him up."

The sugar was starting to work its magic, slowly but surely, after a harrowing 15 minutes had passed. Normally, the effects were prominent within half that time. Two packs of gels were down, the last glob meticulously pressed into Hyunjin’s mouth as the clock ticked on. At last, he was a little more awake, but far from coherent.

"Hyunjin," Felix tried again, gentler this time, brushing damp hair from his forehead and tucking the longer strands behind his ear. "Can you hear me?"

A pause. Then…

“‘Cold," Hyunjin whispered, barely audible from where his face was mushed against Jisung’s shirt.

“Aigoo, aigoo, that’s no good,” Jisung cooed sweetly, brushing a bead of sweat from his brow. He shifted a little, pulling his own discarded hoodie over the dancers bare arms. “Better?”

A contented hum rumbled against him. Hyunjin’s eyes slipped shut again, face pale and lips quivering.

“Can you stay awake for us, Hyunjinnie?”

Hyunjin hummed again in response, but whether he actually heard the question or was simply complying instinctually was anyone’s guess. 

Something squeezed his hand, something warm, a little rougher to the touch— Changbin’s hand, without a doubt. Hyunjin could recognise it anywhere, even now, when everything else felt foreign. Though, the realisation that he could feel something other than static was a tremendous relief.

Voices spoke around him, hushed and a little too far away to catch from where his conscious floated in a sea of replenishing sweets. He was starving, nauseous, hot and cold all at once. But at the edge of his mind, Hyunjin heard Changbin’s voice speaking lowly, telling the others about seeing him take insulin that morning. No breakfast that he’d witnessed. How Hyunjin had acted the night before. The grouchy mood he’d been in…

While Hyunjin had no way to fully register the words, let alone reply to them, the shift in the atmosphere was impossible to miss. Urgency sharpened, hands steadied him a little firmer, rubbed his back a little more tenderly.

He overdid it, he overdid it bad, and the consequences of his action was a scare out of this world. 

-

Hyunjin had no idea how much time had passed, but the next time someone pricked his finger, he felt the pain jolt up his arm. He flinched, letting out an unhappy grumble as his eyes fluttered against the bright lights. 

“Sorry,” Changbin apologised on their leaders behalf, as Chan was fully immersed in getting a new reading, eyebrows drawn in deep concentration. “We just gotta check on that blood sugar, baby..”

Fingers grasped around his wrist, and Hyunjin peeled a blurry eye open to find Jeongin beside him now, pressed somewhere between Changbin and Minho. “Heartrate is getting better.”

“Good.” Chan finally glanced up from the glucometer again, reading the numbers and giving a sharp nod. “3.3 (60).. okay, he's climbing, but it’s still way too low. Keep him upright, don't let him slump too much.”

Hyunjin was still too disoriented and weak for comfort, the excess insulin in his blood stubbornly warring against the carbs they kept introducing. 3.3 after 25 minutes was hardly enough of a consolation. 

“Juice?” Minho prompted, eyes razor sharp as he motioned to the bottle still sitting untouched by Felix’s side. 

“Juice,” Jisung and Felix echoed in unison. The younger of the two lifted the beverage to Hyunjin’s lips while Chan carefully wrapped the tip of his finger in a small bandaid.

Roughly 45 minutes crawled by before Hyunjin seemed to reclaim enough of himself for panic to ease and the juice to stop flowing. 

Thanks to the insulin still coursing through him, the effect of the sugar took far longer to set in than they would have hoped. At last, it seemed an abundance of sugar had definitely been a more than necessary step.

Hyunjin sat slumped against the wall, flanked by Minho and Jeongin, a piece of bread held loosely in his fingers.

Seungmin had returned with the snack a little while ago, alongside one of JYP’s medics (one they’ve gotten to know fairly well over the years), who was now carefully monitoring him.

His blood sugar had finally reached a stable 4.2 (75), but while he was awake, Hyunjin still felt… off. Hollow. Exhausted. Ashamed.

“How are you feeling now, Hyunjin-ssi?” The medic asked calmly, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder to encourage him to meet their eyes. He didn’t.

Hyunjin swallowed slowly, flexing his fingers against his thigh like he was trying to reconnect with his limbs. “..weird.”

“Dizzy or weak?”

“A lil bit of both..”

He let out a long sigh, letting his head fall against Jeongin’s shoulder. The medic nodded, taking note.

“Okay, just stay with me now,” they said, eyes flicking back to the glucometer. “You’re just above the threshold, but I don’t quite trust it yet.”

The other members hovered around them, restless and concerned for their friend. While the fog was slowly lifting, the severity of the crash had left a clear damper on the room. 

“Where’s your tech, huh?” The medic went on, carefully brushing a finger over the spot on Hyunjin’s arm where his last Dexcom had been. It had been a flimsy application, the skin still bruised in its wake.

Hyunjin frowned and shut his eyes tightly, like thinking was proving to be too hard a task. “Took… took it off,” he said simply, voice trailing off until it was barely audible. “Didn’t get to replace it…”

The medic’s eyes narrowed, sensing there was more to it than what meets the eye, but they didn’t press. Hyunjin wasn’t in the state for explanations, and some truths could wait. For now. 

Changbin inched closer, sitting cross-legged beside him. His hand found Hyunjin’s again, fingers curling around his in a careful, grounding squeeze. “This morning… do you remember how much insulin you took?”

The shame surged in Hyunjin’s chest like a volcanic eruption, searing, bitter and vile, as the memory of that morning resurfaced. He shrank into himself, gaze dropping to his lap as tears threatened to spill over his lash line. Voice trembling, he conceded, “..T-too much…”

The answer was small, hardly satisfying without any numbers to calculate by, but the meaning was clear. Everyone could feel the hesitation, the guilt and fear burning quietly through him. 

“Okay,” the medic said softly, leaving space for him to recover. “Do you feel like you might drop again?”

Hyunjin shook his head slightly. “Don’t think so…”

“Okay. That’s good..” The medic’s gaze lingered on Hyunjin a moment longer, brow furrowed, before they turned and beckoned Chan over. They stepped just out of earshot, voices dropping low.

The medic let the leader know they weren’t sure it was safe to just let this slide without a checkup. An unknowingly large bolus, combined with the physical exertion from practice having sent Hyunjin to a critical low, was enough to warrant observation in a hospital setting. Chan couldn’t help but agree.

While the medic went outside the studio to organise a medical escort to the nearest hospital, the Stray kids were left to reassemble. 

Jeongin adjusted slightly, tipping his shoulder down so Hyunjin could rest more comfortably, while Minho kept a steady hand on his back, thumb brushing in small, soothing circles.

The room stayed quiet for a beat, the kind of quiet that pressed against the skin, making every small movement feel harsher than it should. The faint hum of the air conditioning, the restless tap of anxious feet against the floor— everything exaggerated in that fragile, suspended moment.

“I’m sorry…” Hyunjin’s voice was small, almost swallowed by the thick air, while his gaze remained fixed stubbornly on the floor.

“It’s okay,” Felix replied instantly, voice gentle and understanding, as he gave Hyunjin’s knee a reassuring squeeze. “You didn’t mean to.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the way Hyunjin’s breath stuttered a quiet avowal to the truth he didn’t dare speak out loud. 

He hadn’t meant to, not fully. It wasn’t a clear conscious decision he’d made. At least, that was the truth he clung to— but he also couldn’t lie to himself.

Part of him hadn’t not meant it. The frustration, the exhaustion, the quiet rage at his own body had guided his hands more than reason ever could. He had watched the numbers on that syringe and, in a moment of reckless clarity, chosen to ignore them. Chosen to act out his frustration and disregard his well-being.

God, how could he have been so selfishly self-destructive?

Felix’s expression shifted, pale and startled, as the realisation struck him. His breath stuttered on a small ‘what’, brown eyes glistening with unshed tears as Seungmin carefully guided him a step back. 

Hyunjin immediately felt the tension rise in Jeongin’s body, the way Minho’s hand stilled against his back before falling away completely. Guilt curled through him like a snake. 

He felt sick.

“Hey,” Changbin snapped him out of the spiral, gently tapping a finger under his chin and lifting Hyunjin’s gaze just enough to meet his own. “Look at me. Right now.”

His eyes spoke before his mouth did. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. It’s okay. We have you.’ Hyunjin felt tears dance at the edge of his vision, and when Changbin pulled him into his chest, the dam broke. 

Hyunjin wrapped himself around his roommate like a vine gripping a tree, wild and contorted as the emotions poured out of him in a ceaseless flood. Changbin let him release whatever he needed to. They all did.

“I-I-I’m so—ugh- so-sorry, I-huh- I was ju-hust s-so ma-d..” Hyunjin hitched out between sobs, hardly discernible, barely more than a jumble of sounds.

Snotty, wet hiccups punctuated every word, his nose running freely as tears streaked down his red, blotchy face. The heaviness in his chest bled out on the floor around them one sob at a time, burning through him until his lungs could finally pull air again.

Everyone sat frozen around them, eyes glistening with tears of their own, some pressing trembling hands to their mouths to swallow back sobs as they watched Hyunjin fall apart.

Chan eventually shifted closer, quietly placing his chin on Hyunjin’s shoulder as he worked his hand in circles over his back. “It’s okay..” he breathed shakily, “we don’t understand— I don’t think we can, but..”

Hyunjin didn’t need to see him to imagine the look on his face. He’d seen it many times before. 

“You don’t need to talk about it any more today if you don’t want to, okay? We don’t need to figure it out right now. We just..” he swallowed thickly, like a rock had been lodged in his throat, “We just need to get you checked out first. Then, whenever you’re ready, we can talk..“

Seungmin slid in from the side, voice equally as gentle as he reached out to carefully dab a cool napkin under Hyunjin’s puffy eyes. “You’re not alone… we’re right here.”

Hyunjin bit his lips hard enough to draw blood trying to keep his sobs back, but it was no use. Everything he’d pent up was pouring out of him, and there was no way of stopping it.

His chest ached and burned, lips tingling, but gradually the intensity of his crying softened, giving way to a quiet catharsis that left him numb, but lighter than before. 

He sagged into Changbin’s chest, gazing hollow-eyed at Seungmin as the younger passed him napkins and tenderly cleaned up his face. Was he really deserving of all this love and care?

Someone nudged his shoulder, and Hyunjin’s eyes flicked over to see a small bottle with colourful cartoon characters held out to him. 

“Juice,” Minho urged, and this time, Hyunjin felt his lips twitch weakly in response. Sometimes, Minho truly was a man of few words. With the help of Changbin’s hands steadying him, Hyunjin sat up a little straighter, allowing Minho to carefully pour a little juice into his mouth. 

He was far too tired to lift his own arms, it felt like they’d been stuffed with wet sand. Thankfully, he didn’t need to say that out loud to be understood. 

Chan gave him a smile, one that showed emotions deeper than Hyunjin could express with words. They were the same emotions he’d valiantly fought to capture in his paintings for years. He nodded to the door, two bags slung over his shoulder. “Ready?”

Hyunjin chewed the inside of his cheek, fingers trembling as he reached out, but going steady once interlocked with Chan’s. With the hood of Jisung’s oversized sweater pulled up over his head, he gave a resigned nod. “Ready..”

He didn’t ask them to, but the members all followed after them like pearls on a string. They silently agreed to come along without a trace of hesitation, like it was second nature— packing their bags and leaving the studio behind.

And while Hyunjin would rather not spend his evening at the hospital, listening to patronising doctors reprimand him on his own dumb choices, he was grateful he didn’t have to do it alone. Minho had already promised he’d have the head of anyone who dared be foul to him by the time they left the studio. Jisung had voiced a similar threat, but his pledge lacked the same conviction when his eyes were puffy and red from crying. 

Hyunjin appreciated it anyway. 

Maybe they didn’t understand what it was like to live with his condition, but him? Yeah. They understood him better than most.

____________________________________________

Someone requested one of the members with diabetes a while back, and this idea was born… now, here it is.

I don’t have diabetes myself, so my knowledge comes purely from knowing someone with T1 and scouring across the vast internet to do my own research🫡 the frustration of living with an incurable disease that consume your every thought though? I know ball, unfortunately😮‍💨

I hope it was up to standards and that you enjoyed reading, as I enjoyed writing it a lot🙂‍↕️✨

The waiting room smelled faintly of hairspray, leather and overheated electronics. It clung to the back of Jisung’s throat like stale smoke, dry and artificial, mixing with the lingering adrenaline that hadn’t yet left his system after their appearance.

The muffled echo of their ‘big deal’ interview played on a delay somewhere down the hall, their own voices faint and distorted through the backstage speakers. Both familiar and unfamiliar staff swept past the open doorway, moving with brisk efficiency as their headsets buzzed with overlapping instructions.

Jisung watched them rush by, eyes wide, his leg bouncing restlessly against the carpet— because... what now?

It was over.

They had done well; they behaved, answered appropriately, and generally showed themselves from their best side. Jisung should have felt relieved, and yet something kept nagging at him, never fully allowing him to unwind. He couldn’t entirely pinpoint the source, but something in the energy of the room felt off…

The room itself was close to empty, harbouring only Seungmin and Jisung himself. Most of the other members were still tied up in individual interviews, which wasn’t a problem, but Jisung couldn’t seem to shake the tension hanging in the air.

Across from him, Seungmin sat in one of the stiff vinyl chairs, elbows braced on his knees, head slightly bowed and his own leg bouncing in quiet sync with Jisung’s. His in-ear monitors hung loose around his neck, the wire disappearing into the collar of his neatly put together outfit. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Jisung couldn’t help but notice that his skin looked strangely pale, almost translucent, though he told himself it was likely a play of light.

At first, the rapper didn’t think much of it, he just sprawled out on the leather couch and made an effort to distract himself by mindlessly scrolling on his phone. Seungmin was probably just tired— the same way Jisung himself was tired, the way they’d all be tired once the day came to an end.

Interviews truly were their own kind of performance; with carefully measured words, polite laughter and endless awareness of posture and expression. It was exhausting in a way that settled deep into their bones, but in an entirely different way than dancing and singing did. When parts of said interviews were carried through a video call, the technicalities only doubled.

At first, the silence didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. Seungmin’s quiet restlessness wasn’t anything’s new; he usually struggled with staying still for long periods of time regardless of time and day. Though, the wandering and fidgeting normally seemed to be some sort of relief for him, and this… this was different. Jisung could tell.

It didn’t feel right.

The bouncing leg, the audible puffs of air, the fingers scratching at his knee. There was some sort of tension in him. Wrong tension. Bad tension.

It showed in the way his shoulders were drawn taut, not even once relaxed enough to rest against the back of the chair. In the way his fingers dug into his knees, curling and uncurling like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. It showed in the red spot forming on Seungmin’s lip because he’d been chewing it bloody.

Jisung frowned faintly, instincts tingling across his skin like goosebumps. He glanced up from his phone and tilted his eyebrows up with concern at the sight of his bandmate.

Something was definitely wrong.

Seungmin was staring straight ahead. Not at anything. Just… ahead, eyes fixed onto the thin air like his brain had shut down entirely. His breathing seemed wrong too; it was too fast, too shallow, each inhale sharp and incomplete.

A cold, familiar fear settled heavily in Jisung’s stomach. There was something strangely familiar there. He knew that rhythm— he knew it in the same way he knew his own reflection.

“Seungmin-ah?” Jisung called out cautiously, setting his phone aside.

Seungmin didn’t answer at first, eyes still locked in a vacant stare that didn’t break even when Jisung moved into his line of sight. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, lips parting slightly. “I…” he tried, but his voice came out thin, barely more than a shaky breath.

He lifted a hand to press flat against the center of his chest, fingers splayed like he was trying to keep his heart from leaping out.

Jisung’s own chest tightened painfully in turn, mouth going dry. He knew that gesture all too well, and it made his heart lodge in his throat as suspicion grew.

“I can’t breathe,” Seungmin finally whispered, strained and sharp, his bloodied lower lip quivering.

For a few fleeting seconds, all Jisung could do was to stare dumbly at him, waiting for his neurons to connect and his body to act accordingly.

This was all wrong; a glitch in the matrix, maybe. Something of that sort.

Because Seungmin wasn’t one for anxiety... He got nervous before a big performance, sure; he experienced the normal and necessary anxiety every human being experienced. The kind meant to sharpen focus and enhance performance, to keep you alert and quick off the mark..

However, he had never experienced the kind of anxiety Jisung had grappled with throughout the years; the kind that snuck up, pierced its claws into you and didn’t let go despite the obvious rationals. The bad kind that made everything seem hopeless, that made everything too much for a mere mortal to survive.

Seungmin had always been there for Jisung when he needed him, even through the roughest patches, where getting a smile out of him seemed damn near an impossible feat.

Which is why, maybe it was strange, that Seungmin hadn’t recognised the telling signs in himself before it escalated to this point. And also why it was such a gruelling, epochal realisation to Jisung that his gut feeling rang true.

Seungmin was having a panic attack.

For just a second, panic sparked in his own chest in cruel, instinctive sympathy, but Jisung forced it back down the way he’d learned to over time. Because this wasn’t about him.

This was about Seungmin.

Seungmin, who somehow always knew what to do when the crisis rose from the pit of Jisung’s chest. Seungmin, who had been one of the few who guided him through the worst times of his life with steady hands and quiet words. Not necessarily one to speak much, but always a steadfast presence Jisung sought out. Safe. Unwavering.

Seungmin, who had never before needed this sort of saving from him, from Jisung before. Not until now— and the sudden role reversal shook him to the very core.

Seungmin’s breath hitched sharply, fingers curling back into the fabric of his pants. Through an unintentional rip in the denim on his left knee, Jisung saw red streaks forming in the skin beneath. Wait, when had his pants ripped?

“I-I don’t know what’s happening,” Seungmin whispered shakily, and those words seemed to crack something open in Jisung’s heart. He had to bite back the urge to reply with something along the lines of ‘I do’, Because while the situation at hand felt oddly familiar, it was also completely foreign to him.

Like some magical reflex had been planted in his spine, Jisung found himself moving without second thought. He crouched in front of Seungmin without hesitation, gently prying his hands away from the death grip on his pants. His thumbs traced soothing circles over Seungmin’s knuckles— his hands were cold. Too cold for someone breathing this fast.

“Hey, hey look at me,” Jisung urged, tilting his head up to catch Seungmin’s glassy gaze, but he still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s okay,” The rapper said, his voice softer than he’d ever heard it, steadier than he’d expected. He turned toward Seungmin fully, quietly persistent, every movement careful and deliberate. “You’re okay.”

Seungmin just shook his head faintly, a quiet ‘no’ falling from his lips.

No, he wasn’t.

Jisung knew that. He could hear the fear in his voice, the way it curdled every rational thought Seungmin tried to conjure. It was the same fear he had carried for years, the kind he’d grown far too familiar with.

He didn’t know how Seungmin would respond, but he tried anyway; placing a firm hand on his knee in a desperate attempt to tether him back to reality.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Jisung tried again, quieter this time, yet somehow far more resolute. He remembered the words clear as day, but not more than he remembered clinging to them like a lifeline whenever the world came crashing down around him.

Seungmin’s breathing hitched so sharply it made Jisung flinch, confidence slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Then, like a bolt from the blue, the idea finally struck him.

It was a technique Seungmin had once tried on him, though it’d quickly been scratched when bringing in math had only made Jisung cry harder. Maybe, just maybe, it was more effective on Seungmin himself.

It was worth a shot anyways.

With newfound resolve, Jisung gave Seungmin’s knee a squeeze, trying to garner his attention. “Seungmin, listen to me,” he called out again, still sounding far calmer than he thought he would. “What’s 58 minus 5?”

Seungmin was frozen for a second, mind reeling as he blinked down at Jisung like he was seeing him for the first time. His hand trembled as he lifted it, a shaky exhale leaving him as he weakly tried to recall the calculation in his head. It shouldn’t have been a difficult question— it wasn’t a difficult question, but the numbers kept slipping out of his grasp as soon as they formed.

Slowly, his eyes flitted to meet Jisung. The fear in them shone bright as a star on a moonless night. Raw, naked fear.

Jisung kept his hand steady on Seungmin’s knee, thumb pressing into the fabric of his pants in a quiet plea of ‘stay with me’. “58 minus 5,” he repeated gently. “What’s the answer?”

Seungmin swallowed thickly. He knew the answer. He knew he knew, and yet.. His lips parted, but no sound came out despite his best efforts. His breathing hitched again, faster now, spiralling, as his eyebrows drew back in exasperation.

Jisung’s heart ached for him, it truly did. He remembered this part vividly from his own experiences. The frustration. The helplessness. The way your own mind betrayed you, either blanking out or racing too fast for you to catch up. The soundless, yet overbearing noise that fills you from the tips of your toes to the top of your head.

Panic had seized Seungmin in its grasp, and there was Jisung desperately trying to pry him back out, despite feeling entirely out of his depths.

“It’s okay,” Jisung added quickly when Seungmin’s eyes grew watery, “You don’t have to rush.” He shifted a little closer, swallowing thickly,“Just… think about it. I know you know it.”

Seungmin’s fingers curled tightly against his thighs, his brow furrowed faintly as his mind fought to break free from the relentless panic.

Jisung watched the effort it took; the way Seungmin clung to the question like it was the only tangible thing in the middle of a storm. Finally, a faint whisper pierced the silence.

“Fifty…” Seungmin started hoarsely, voice wavering and lips pulled in a shaky pout. His chest rose sharply, eyes to the sky as he fought to keep the tears at bay. Jisung gave him an encouraging nod.

“That’s good. Keep going.”

“…three.”

The word was barely audible, so shaky Jisung had a hard time deciphering it, but it was there. And just then, something in Seungmin’s posture loosened just slightly, like the first crack had finally punctured through the wall of despair. The instant relief flooded Jisung so suddenly it made him dizzy. “Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s right, Seungmin-ah. Good job.”

Seungmin’s breathing was still uneven, but at least it wasn’t getting worse. His eyes stayed on Jisung now, somewhat focused, yet searching for solid ground to stick to. Scared, terrified even, but present. That was great progress.

“You’re not dying,” Jisung said, smoothing his thumb in circles against Seungmin's knee. He remembered how important it had been to hear those words, especially the first few times he’d been caught in the maelstrom, barely able to keep his head above water. “Now, what’s 53 minus 5?” He ventured, and Seungmin blinked again.

It took a few shaky breaths longer, but eventually the younger of the pair replied with a strained, “48…”

By the time they reached 33, Seungmin’s breathing had slowed enough for the colour to slowly seep back into his face, his lips no longer tinged with an alarming blueish hue.

”Good job, minnie..” Jisung praised, pressing his palm more firmly into the other man’s knee. “Can you feel my hand?” he asked quietly. Seungmin nodded.

“Great. Focus on that.”

Seungmin’s fingers slowly lifted from his own thigh, hesitating only briefly before curling weakly into the sleeve of Jisung’s jacket, gripping at the fabric like an anchor to the present. Jisung didn’t interject.

“I know it’s hard, but this is just your body reacting. It’ll pass,” Jisung said calmly, eyes flickering briefly to the door. “It thinks you’re in danger, but you’re not.” He kept his voice low and even, the way Seungmin always used to. “I promise.”

He didn’t know when he had learned how to do this, didn’t know when Seungmin’s voice had suddenly become his own, but Jisung held onto it with all his might.

“You’re safe.”

Safe.

The word hung between them like a shard of glass.

Seungmin’s shoulders trembled faintly, his breathing still stuttered and caught, but then, gradually, it began to slow. Not all at once, definitely not perfectly, but enough that Jisung could sense the difference.

Minutes passed. The noise in the hallway faded into the background as the world narrowed down to just the two of them. To just the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the fragile space between panic and peace in an otherwise quiet green room.

Jisung opened his mouth to say something— to awkwardly offer a hug, maybe, but Seungmin folded into his shoulder before he could speak. The other man’s tears soaked through to his shoulder in an instant, and Jisung felt his own dam begin to crack in return, frantically blinking past the blurs in his vision. His grip tightened instinctively, pulling him closer, arms folding around Seungmin like they knew exactly how he needed to be held.

Eventually, Seungmin exhaled a long, shaky breath, his grip on Jisung’s sleeve finally loosening. He didn’t pull away, so Jisung kept him close, resting his cheek against the side of his head while he waited for him to make the first move.

“I didn’t know,” Seungmin whispered finally, like he’d been building up the courage to find his voice again. He sounded small— younger in a way Jisung couldn’t recall hearing before.

The elder tilted his head with a small frown, instinctively wiping a tear from Seungmin’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Didn’t know what?”

Seungmin hesitated, shifting away just enough to press a hand to his own face, as if making sure his skin was still attached. It felt… prickly, like static buzzing through every cell.

“That it felt like that.”

Jisung’s chest tightened, the lump in his throat growing tenfolds. He understood, of course he did. He squeezed Seungmin’s knee gently. “It’s scary,” he admitted.

Seungmin let out a weak, breathless huff that might have been a laugh if all his energy hadn’t deserted him in the span of the past 20 minutes.

“Yeah.”

Seungmin bit his lip, pressing a shaky palm back to his chest. "I really.. I couldn't.. I felt.. it- I..." He gazed at the curve of Jisung’s jaw, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, barely a whisper. "You.. you deal with that regularly?”

"Hmm.." Jisung shrugged, trying to make light of it. “Not that bad every time, not anymore,” he answered earnestly. “But… yeah. Sometimes.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, allowing the heaviness to dissipate, for the room to start lifting again. When Seungmin pulled away, it was just enough for him to look at Jisung through red-rimmed eyes.

There was something different in his expression now; something softer, more understanding than before, like he’d just had a quiet revelation that would shift their bond forever.

“You stayed calm though,” Seungmin remarked softly, catching Jisung entirely off guard. He blinked dumbly. Calm..?

In the heat of it all, he hadn’t really noticed the fact. He’d just… done what Seungmin usually did. Copy and paste. Jisung gave a light shrug, suddenly self-conscious, and offered a bashful smile.

“'guess I learned from the best?”

Seungmin didn’t answer, but the slight twitch of his lips made Jisung’s chest fill with relief.

____________________________________________

Yeosang didn’t really understand what it was at first. After recovering (or so he thought) from an upper respiratory infection a few days prior, the only lingering symptom was a strange sense of fullness in his ear.

At the time, it barely registered as a concern. Maybe he hadn’t managed to clear all the water out after a shower. Maybe it was just leftover congestion from the cold. Either way, he assumed it would pass on its own.

But when he suddenly failed to catch what Wooyoung was saying from his spot right beside him on the couch, a flicker of unease finally crept in.

Yeosang blinked twice and slowly twisted around to face him, a blank look settling over his features. “S-sorry, did you say something?”

Any other day, Wooyoung might’ve taken offense to his best friend’s lack of attention. But the genuine remorse flickering in Yeosang’s eyes shut down any dramatic complaints before they could surface.

Whatever question Wooyoung had been holding onto flew out the window in an instant. His eyebrows creased together in a frown, eyes filling with fiery concern.

“Dude… are you okay?”

Yeosang wasn’t entirely sure how to answer that question. When he turned his head, the room seemed to tilt slightly, and he tightened his grip on the edge of the couch— just to anchor himself to something solid.

“Uh…” he began hesitantly, lifting a hand to his ear. His right side was fine, Wooyoung’s voice came through clear as ever, but on the left, everything sounded muffled and distant. Almost like he was underwater…

Ultimately, Yeosang gave a small shrug and paired it with an uncertain nod. “Yeah? I think so, my ear is just a little clogged up, probably from the cold I had. Sorry again, I couldn’t hear you.” He cleared his throat, “What were you saying?”

Wooyoung went quiet for a moment, scanning Yeosang’s face so intently it made the older man shrink back from the blatant scrutiny.

There was a glint in Wooyoung’s eyes that told Yeosang he wasn’t buying it—but even if he wasn’t, he didn’t say it out loud. Instead, a good-natured smile returned to his face, the kind that was always hard to refuse.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go swimming with San and me? Yunho already said yes.”

Yeosang considered the offer for a moment, weighing his options, then gave a nod. “Sure, I’ll join.”

A swim sounded quite nice, actually. His body still felt a little sore, likely the remaining dregs of his cold, and a dip in the pool seemed perfect to ease the lingering tension.

When Wooyoung pumped his fist in the air like he’d won gold, already jumping to his feet in excitement, Yeosang smiled and rose to join him. “So, like... now?”

“Now.” Wooyoung grinned.

-

A couple of hours later, Yeosang was starting to regret his past self’s decision. Because while he had naively thought submerging himself in a pool would be the solution to all his problems, it only seemed to add to the discomfort.

His ear felt no less clogged than it had been beforehand— if anything, his hearing was getting worse by the minute. He hadn’t caught San speaking to him just a couple of meters away, nor Wooyoung’s shouted warning before the latter cannonballed into the water beside him.

The water temperature hadn’t helped either; one minute too warm, the next too cold, never quite comfortable.

While the others were having a blast, Yeosang admitted quietly to himself that maybe going swimming had been a bad idea…

By the time the four of them settled into the sauna, drinking in the steam and melting into the wooden benches like slabs of dough, the pain in his ear had sharpened considerably.

Trying to clear what he assumed was water trapped inside, Yeosang sat with his head tilted to the left, like he’d caught the world’s worst crick in his neck. Hopefully, he thought, that would do the trick.

San, sitting to his right, glanced at him briefly before continuing his conversation with Wooyoung, only to snap his head back in a double take when he properly registered Yeosang’s odd pose.

He couldn’t hold back a short, incredulous laugh, “Yah, Yeosangie… what are you doing?”

“Oh—“ Yeosang straightened instinctively, only to flinch when the sudden movement sent a sharp wave of dizziness through his head. He let out an awkward chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m just trying to clear the water out of my ear.”

“Aigoo, still bunged up?” Wooyoung chimed in with a concerned frown, eyebrows tilting with exasperation when Yeosang replied with a faint nod.

From his left, Yunho’s voice joined in on the conversation, but Yeosang couldn’t make out his words over the saunas ambience and the impermeable wall that barricaded his ear.

“Huh?” Yeosang asked, turning toward him with a dazed look.

The smile was wiped flat off Yunho’s face, replaced by a deep frown as his eyes flickered between Yeosang’s ear and his eyes.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Yeosang tried again, unsettled by how troubled Yunho suddenly looked.

“Your ear, it’s.. leaking. ” Yunho repeated, a little louder this time. He pointed to emphasise his words before quickly grabbing a rolled-up towel and lifting it toward Yeosang’s left ear.

The terry cotton pressed against his skin made Yeosang tense, blinking at Yunho like he’d been slapped with the most shocking news he’d ever heard. “Leaking?” He echoed quietly, then finally admitted, “It… it kind of hurts.”

Yunho carefully peeled back the towel and sure enough, the light fabric was stained with a murky, reddish brown fluid. Yeosang scrunched his nose in distaste, stomach lurching without warning, and shut his eyes tightly as another wave of dizziness swarmed him.

God, he felt… wrong.

He clenched his eyes tighter in a vain attempt to center himself, but it seemed like the world was determined to keep shifting beneath his feet.

The heat of the sauna definitely wasn’t helping— if anything, it only made everything worse, his body working overtime to pump the blood to his brain. His legs started tingling, head flushing hot.

“Oh…uh..”

The others watched in horror as Yeosang blanched, his eyes glazing over as the colour leached from his face. In the span of a heartbeat, it felt as though his mind had dissolved into static. A high ringing swallowed every other sound until all he could hear was the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears.

When he opened his eyes again, after what he had only assumed was a longer-than-usual blink, Wooyoung was right in front of him.

Or rather.. Above him, actually.

Yunho sat at his side, and what unmistakably felt like San’s hands were gripping at his shoulders from behind.

Yeosang blinked once, slow and heavy, still feeling strangely unmoored as the world blurred back into focus.

“Sangie.. hey, hey, you here?” Wooyoung’s voice was urgent. Yeosang gave a small nod.

“Yeah? What’s..?” His words were cut short once he realised he was no longer in the sauna, but rather half-lying down on the locker room floor.

The very public locker room next to the pool they’d been at just half an hour ago….

“You passed out for a moment, Yeosangie..” San informed from behind him, sounding just a little too shaky for Yeosang’s liking.

“How are you feeling now?” Yunho added gently, and only then did Yeosang realise the older dancer was holding the towel back to his ear, hardly dulling the sharp throb pulsing through it.

Yeosang pulled his shoulders into a halfhearted shrug, still too loopy to fully convey the genuine surprise on his face. Had he seriously passed out?

“Uh… I’m okay, I feel fine,” he eventually said, because it was true. In his half reclined position on the floor (aside from the awful throb in his ear), he didn’t feel all that bad, just a little disoriented.

If anything, he was more embarrassed to be sprawled on the floor in a public locker room with nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist…

“Here, drink some water,” Wooyoung instructed, holding a small water bottle out and shaking it impatiently in front of Yeonsang’s face.

The motion made his eyes cross, but he grabbed the cool beverage anyway, obediently taking a couple tentative sips.

Yeosang hadn’t been lying when he said he felt better, but once he pushed himself to sit up straight, the words flung back at him like the world’s biggest lie.

Dizzy didn’t even begin to describe the feeling that struck him.

Suddenly, Wooyoung’s face was dispersed in swirling pieces, dotting around his vision as if his sclera had been shattered like a glass pane.

The nausea came hand in hand with the vertigo, and before anyone could even begin to react, Yeosang pitched forward with a gurgle. Strong hands pressed against his bare chest, steadying him as a thin stream of vomit streaked across the cold tiles.

“Call Seonghwa-hyung,” San said quickly, panic slipping through despite his best efforts to contain it.

Yeosang couldn’t seem to hear him, even if he tried, and only let out a small, distressed noise before another wave of sick surged, rushing past his lips and painting the white floor in a bilious sludge.

Wooyoung seemed almost eerily calm despite everything, holding Yeosang’s hair back even as his own face paled and his fingers began to tremble. “It’s okay, you’re okay, Sangie,” he muttered, voice shaky, as Yunho fumbled for his phone.

When the vomiting subsided, Yeosang slumped back against San’s chest with a soft gasp, breathing raggedly. His body was covered in a slick sheen of sweat, and even with his eyes shut, everything still kept spinning.

The muffled chatter of the others barely reached his left ear, making the resonance in his right screech far too loudly in turn.

“Yah, he definitely has a fever—“

“Yeah, that’s not just the sauna, right? He’s burning to the touch..”

“Is he— oh..”

“Sangie, baby…”

Yeosang didn’t realise he was crying until Wooyoung was wiping the salty drops from his cheeks, and the realisation only made him feel worse. Not only had he passed out in a sauna and puked all over the locker room floor… now he was crying too?

God, he just wanted to go home.

“Tsk, Yeosang-ah, why didn’t you say you were feeling sick, huh?” Wooyoung said sadly, dabbing a cool towel across the tender skin below his bestfriend’s bloodshot eyes.

Whether Yeosang felt too sick to answer or simply didn’t hear him was anyone’s guess. Either way, Wooyoung didn’t press. Instead, he glanced at San, an entirely silent conversation passing between them while Yunho wrapped up his call with Seonghwa.

“Okay,” Yunho said, lowering his phone and deliberately keeping his eyes away from the mess on the floor. “They’re coming to pick us up.”

-

Getting dressed was a hassle unlike anything Yeosang had experienced before. Pulling his shirt over his head was excruciating; even the lightest touch to his ear suddenly sent sharp, shooting pains like lightning strikes right through his skull.

The persistent dizziness made every movement precarious, and each step was a careful negotiation with the world itself. To his dismay, he had no choice but to rely almost entirely on his friends just to get his clothes on.

Wooyoung and San moved with practiced gentleness, maneuvering fabric around him with painstaking care, while Yunho kept a watchful eye for any sign he would pass out again. Yeosang felt like a child, and by god, he hated it. It was mortifying.

“‘M fine, guys..” he mumbled for the umpteenth time, even as Wooyoung slipped his sock onto his foot and all Yeosang could do was blink hazily at him.

“You’re not.” Wooyoung said firmly, squeezing his calf before rising to steady him by the shoulders. “You’re literally swaying like you’re on a boat.”

“M not..” Yeosang tried aimlessly.

But he definitely was…

Yeosang allowed San to carry him to the car only because attempting to move on his own made him both look and feel like a fawn taking its first uncertain steps.

The world still tilted and twisted beneath him, his legs refusing to cooperate no matter how hard he tried to focus. It felt as though every bone and muscle in his body had suddenly dissolved into jelly.

In the end, Yeosang was fairly certain gravity itself had it out for him today… so he relented.

Folding his arms around San’s broad shoulders, he allowed himself be lifted, swallowing the sting to his pride as they made their way toward the car. Despite his reluctance, Yeosang melted into San’s warmth, tucking his face into the curve of his shoulder where the world felt a little dimmer, a little steadier.

“M sorry…” he murmured, cheeks burning with equal parts fever and mortification. “I didn’t mean to make things so complicated..”

“Sangie..” San sighed affectionately, biting back the overwhelming desire to press a kiss to his warm forehead. “You didn’t make it complicated, it’s okay..”

“Yeah,” Yunho agreed, hovering close as they walked, Yeosang’s bag slung over his shoulder. “You can’t control being sick… it happens.”

“Though, you should’ve said something earlier.” Wooyoung cut in, voice sharper, but no less concerned, as his fingers closed gently around Yeosang’s arm.

Yeosang’s brows pinched in a pained grimace, and Wooyoung immediately softened, thumb brushing slow circles over his wrist.

“Still dizzy?”

Yeosang nodded against San’s shoulder, letting out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice small. “Like I’m being tumble dried..”

San’s brow furrowed slightly at the description, but he kept his arms steady around Yeosang’s feverish body. “That sounds… rough,” he admitted, the gentle rumble of his voice tethering Yeosang to his physical body in some sort of way. “but it’s okay, we’re almost there. A doctors gonna take a look at you and make it all better..”

Yeosang really hoped he was right.

Outside, the cool air hit his overheated skin like a shock. Yeosang shivered despite the fever simmering under his skin, fingers tightening weakly in San’s shirt in a way that made their hearts clench.

Reaching the car, San carefully eased him into the back seat, buckling his belt for him when the poor man’s fingers trembled too bad to do so himself. Yeosang slumped bonelessly against him when they’d gotten settled, eyelids heavy and his ear throbbing in relentless pulses that matched his heartbeat.

Wooyoung and San flanked him in the back seat, providing some much needed support to his wobbly body, while Yunho climbed into the front, already filing Seonghwa in on the details.

Yeosang barely heard them, and decidedly focused on nothing but trying not to throw up again. He tried to breathe slow and steady, but bile still stung in his nose, only exacerbating the nausea that never seemed to let up.

A hand squeezed his thigh.

“Just hold on, Sangie…” Wooyoung hummed, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to the side of Yeosang’s head that he didn’t even have the energy to react to. “We’re gonna get you help.”

The car pulled away.

Yeosang closed his eyes once more, fingers lightly entwined with Wooyoung’s, and silently begged the world to steady before he slipped under again.

____________________________________________

Danceracha (short of Felix, who was doing promotional shoots for one of his many ambassadorships) were gathered in the practice room to polish off their newest choreography, smoothing out kinks and adding minor changes where they saw fit.

Usually, working on choreography was a fun pastime, but the joy was taken out of the equation when the so-called leader seemed to be drowning under a miserable headcold.

The music cut after another run through, and Hyunjin froze in ending position, catching his breath and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

Glancing in the mirror, he saw Minho teetering just behind him, his breath hitching before the older dancer bent over, sneezing for the umpteenth time that day.

“H’tsch!” Minho pitched forward, Hyunjin barely able to grab onto him before he hit the floor. “Lino-hyu—“ Minho stubbornly shook his hand off, “ssh’ktUH!”, and finally, “TCH’SHH!”

Hyunjin watched him, stunned, half expecting another sneeze to cut him off, before speaking up again.

“Hyung, you need to sit down before you—“ Just as he was saying it, Minho staggered toward his bag, arms flailing out to catch himself before he toppled over. The fact that the latter had even survived dancing for well past an hour was beyond Hyunjin.

“‘M fine..” Minho braced himself against his knees, heaving in breaths like his lungs were about to cave.

He wouldn’t say it out loud, but whenever he sneezed, he saw stars everywhere. The floor, the ceiling, the walls— all over Hyunjin’s casual black outfit.

Stars.

It was strange symptom he had never considered before. Not one he cared to mention.

Minho sniffled, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s just a cold.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Hyunjin replied dryly, crossing his arms with a sigh as he watched Minho support himself against the wall. “But you also keep having to grab onto something to keep from falling over, so it seems to me that this cold is kicking. your. ass.”

Minho didn’t even spare him a glance this time around. He just let out an evasive grunt, plopping down to the floor and unscrewing his water bottle.

The lack of response didn’t exactly ease Hyunjin’s mind.

“It’s the lights,” Minho said gruffly, assigning blame to the beaming rods above them. “They make my nose tickle.”

Hyunjin scoffed. “Yeah, sure, blame the ambiance for your sneezing. It’s the lights fault, not the fact that you’ve been stubbornly pushing through a damn cold for three fucking days.”

He didn’t know where the bold snappiness had come from; Hyuniin rarely spoke to Minho like that, knowing any strike back would be twice as harsh. Today, threats of being thrown in an air fryer just didn’t seem to touch him, somehow.

Maybe it was because his patience was stretched thin after almost two hours of vicarious suffering, watching Minho insist he was fine like a damn pigheaded fool.

Or maybe it was because he knew Minho was in no shape to retaliate either way, because even his attempted glares fell flat.

“‘S too bright…” Minho insisted, more timid this time, as his head tipped back against the wall.

Hyunjin placed a hand over his face, the other on his hip, drawing in a steadying breath before releasing it in a sigh. Oh my fucking god.

Judging by the past hour of trifling rebuttals that had spilled from Minho’s lips, he was beginning to suspect it wasn’t merely obstinate resistance, but that the older dancer truly was lost deep in the throes of denial.

Hyunjin glanced at the ceiling, quietly pleading for patience before sauntering over and plopping down at Minho’s side. His gaze fixed into still air and he briefly wondered whether he should just abandon his quest for an admission, or if the matter was worth pressing further.

Luckily, Hyunjin was almost equally as stubborn as Minho himself, and he wasn’t about to let him win. Not today.

“Hyung..” he started, voice resolute despite the way his eyebrows tilted up with concern when Minho ducked back into his elbow. His hand settled silently on his back, rubbing across it until the older man feebly shook him off again.

Stubborn bastard…

Hyunjin’s lips pressed together into a thin line. While Minho had shunned every little attempt of comfort he initiated, Hyunjin’s hand had been in contact with him long enough to feel the raging fever burning through his shirt. The heat was unnerving. “Please, I can’t keep watching you do this.”

“Then close your eyes.” Minho croaked back, sniffling into a small napkin he’d fished from his pant pocket. Hyunjin felt his jaw tick.

“No.” He answered, loud enough to make Minho wince, the sharpness in his voice only whetting the knife that already sunk deep in his skull.

Hyunjin didn’t have time to feel bad for him, not when his blood was skittering with exasperation. How fucking impossible could he be?

“Will you just stop it already? You’re sick, hyung. I know it, you know it— so stop beating around the bush. You won’t get better if you keep pushing like this.” Hyunjin paused, weighing his options before speaking again in a low, warning tone.

“I will tell Channie-hyung.”

Now that threat finally sparked a response. Minho tensed, before surrendering to another bout of coughs that emanated from deep in his chest, rattling like coins shaken in a jar.

When the effort tapered off, his eyes locked on Hyunjin’s, narrowing in another ineffectual stare down. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Hyunjin held his gaze, unrelenting and stern like a parent who’d run out of patience many hours ago. He couldn’t back down now, couldn’t capitulate and allow the older to run himself to the ground. Not today. Not on his watch.

Because while Minho’s self-destructive stubborn streak made him want to throttle him, they were still family, and family took care of each other…

“You have three seconds to relent,” Hyunjin tapped into Bang Chan’s contact on his phone, thumb hovering above the call button. “One…”

Minho stared at him, baffled— because since when was Hyunjin the one threatening HIM? The role reversal made his brain short-circuit. “Yah-“

“Two…” Hyunjin’s thumb inched closer to the screen, eyes razor sharp.

“Alright! Okay, fuck— enough.” Minho grumbled with a sniffle. His foot poked out to lightly nudge Hyunjin’s shin. “If I go home ..” he said nasally, eyes squinting like he was fighting another sneeze. “You won’t tell him. Deal?”

Hyunjin let out a breath of relief, eyes softening a fraction as his lips curled into a triumphant grin. “And you’re letting me make you tea.”

Minho let out an incredulously huff. “What—why?”

Hyunjin’s finger wordlessly descended back towards the call button, and Minho scrambled to push the phone from his hand, a little surprised by his own desperation.

“Jesus— okay, okay, fine.” Minho relented, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll drink your stupid tea. Let’s go..”

Hyunjin grinned, slipping his phone into his pant pocket.

He fucking won.

____________________________________________

Short and sweet 🙂‍↕️ my (too busy) life is very much prioritised over writing lately, but I do try to write whenever I’m able… it’s just… I rarely am🥲

I just had to post something

Anywayssss, hope you enjoyed!

Chn sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he begged for his patience to last. Not in the dramatic, end-of-the-world way. Just… in the deeply tired, way past 3 A.M’, “I love you but please stop crying before I start crying too” kind of way.

Across the living room, Jisung sat on the floor with his back against the couch, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands. His breathing was uneven and flimsy, shoulders jerking every few seconds like his body couldn’t decide whether to jump into a fist-fight or shut down completely. The same limbo he’d been stuck in for the better part of the night…

The rest of the dorm was quiet. Too quiet, compared to the storm of panic that buzzed through the air like static. Everyone else had wisely retreated to their rooms when the spiral started hours ago, quietly obeying an unspoken protocol. Any hesitant loiterers had been ushered away, ordered to get some sleep after a gruelling day.

Bang Chan stayed though. Of course he did.

Because even when Jisung started snapping, and his patience ran thin, Chan knew better than to run away. They’d seen this before, he could take it.

He crouched down a couple metres away, not too close, not crowding, the way he’d started to learn worked best when Jisung was too far gone for reason. Space first, bone-crushing hugs later.

“Hey,” Chan said gently. Not loud. Not soft. Just steady, present, a feeble attempt to somehow pull his kid back to his physical body. “You’re safe, Jisung-ah, okay? Nothing bad is happening right now.”

Jisung shook his head hard, eyes squeezing shut as he clutched at his chest. “But I messed up. I messed up, I mess up, I mess—”

“You didn’t,” Chan cut in calmly. “You don’t. Your brain’s just being loud. You haven’t messed up anything.”

Jisung’s breathing hitched harder and Chan shifted, sitting cross-legged on the floor before him. He rested his forearms on his knees, making himself seem smaller, less overwhelming.

“Can you look at me for one second?” he asked patiently, still unshakable despite the whirlwind of emotions that practically suffocated the room.

It took a few tries, but Jisung finally peeked at him through tear-blurred eyes and clumped lashes.

“There you are,” Chan said warmly, like he’d just found something precious that had rolled under the couch. “Okay. Good. Stay with me now. We’re gonna slow this down together.” He inhaled slowly, exaggerated but not overly theatric, waiting for Jisung to latch on.

“In… two… three…”

Jisung’s breath stuttered, but he tried. Chan could tell from the way his fingers twisted into his own sleeves, the way his eyes shut tightly as he fought to seize control over his own body.

“Out… two… three… four…”

It wasn’t perfect, but then again, it didn’t need to be. When Jisung’s breathing hitched and faltered, Chan held the soothing rhythm anyway, voice low and even, like the comforting hum of background music.

After a minute, Jisung felt himself starting to slip again, chest growing tighter, the buzzing in his head swallowing him whole. His eyes widened as he pressed a hand to his sternum, choking out a desperate, “Hyung, I can’t— my chest—”

“I know,” Chan said immediately, keeping his voice steady. “It feels awful. But it’s just your body being dramatic. You’re not dying, you’re not in danger. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He reached out his hand, palm facing up, offering instead of forcing himself through the protective shields Jisung had carefully conducted.

The younger man stared at the outstretched hand for a beat, like he couldn’t quite process what he was supposed to do. Then, slowly, Jisung grabbed on, his own fingers trembling and cold.

Chan squeezed his hand once, tethering him to the moment with something tangible in his own warm grasp. “Good,” he praised softly. “That’s it. You’re doing really well, Han-ah.”

Jisung let out a broken sound, somewhere between a scoff and a whimper, blinking hard as his vision blurred over again. “I-I’m literally falling apart, hyung.”

“And you’re still breathing with me,” Chan replied casually, moving his thumb in soothing circles over the back of his hand. “Multitasking king~”

That earned a weak huff of air that was almost a laugh. Almost.

Progress.

Chan kept talking— not giving advice or empty lectures, hust gentle narration and simple observations of the space around them. His own voice was rough with exhaustion, both physically and emotionally, but that didn’t deter him in the slightest.

“The coffee stain on couch is still there. The lamp’s still on, still a little flickery, I haven’t gotten around to changing the bulb… It’s quite warm in here, but your hands are still awfully cold, huh? And I’m right in front of you—“ Chan offered a cheeky, dimpled smile, “—being extremely insistent and annoying with my bad narrating.”

Jisung’s grip tightened on instinct, like he’d suddenly caught himself just before slipping away again.

“Don’tgo.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, merely a hopeful breath, but Chan didn’t hesitate to reassure him. He shifted a little closer and covered Jisung’s hand with his other one, warm and measured. “I’m not going anywhere, baby… I promise.”

Minutes passed. The storm didn’t dissipate all at once, but it softened, the darkest clouds drawing back to the horizon while the stars fought to regain their spot in the sky.

Jisung’s shoulders lowered, his breaths stopped sounding like they were fighting him on their way out, and Chan watched helplessly as the pearlescent drops on his lash line overflowed again, trailing in shimmering paths down his flushed cheeks.

Eventually, the younger slumped forward with a heavy sigh, forehead pressing into Chan’s shoulder like he’d finally run out of battery. His shoulders still shook, his breath hitching, but now at the tail end of soft sobs rather than the frantic pull of hyperventilation.

Chan wrapped his arms around him like he’d been waiting to do so for ages, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.

“Sorry,” Jisung mumbled into his shirt, voice muffled and low. Chan’s grip tightened just a little. “For what? Having a brain?” he said quietly, pressing a reassuring kiss to the side of Jisung’s head. “Rude of it for making you feel like shit, honestly.”

Another shaky breath, a little less sharp this time. “M’sorry for..” Jisung tried again, fingers curling into Chan’s hoodie and bunching the soft fabric. “F-for being so.. needy. Y-you don’t have time for this.. I-I’m.. I’m a mess.. I can’t do anything, I-I’m-“

“Ah-ah, none of that..” Chan shook his head, drawing in a slow breath through his nose as he leaned back just enough to gently guide Jisung’s face up to meet his eyes.

“Hey…” his thumb brushed carefully across Jisung’s cheek, dispelling of the tears that still clung to his raw skin. “You’re not being needy, Han-ah. You’re just being human..”

His heart ached when Jisung’s lower lip quivered again, and Chan couldn’t help but pull him back into his chest, his own voice trembling. “You’re struggling… and that’s okay, you’re allowed to struggle just..”

Chan closed his eyes, inhaling shakily as he held Jisung just a little closer, almost as if afraid he might disappear if he loosened his grip.

“Don’t shut me out, yeah?” He mumured, feeling the warmth of his own tears welling at the corners of his eyes. “I want to be here with you, for you, even through the muck..”

Jisung’s fingers loosened in the fabric at Chan’s back, like the words had knocked the last bit of strength out of him. His forehead pressed into Chan’s shoulder, breath stuttering again as he tried, and ultimately failed, to keep it steady.

“I don’t… mean to,” he whispered hoarsely, sounding entirely defeated. “I just… I get stuck and everything feels so loud and I can’t—” His voice cracked, the rest dissolving into a shaky exhale against cotton.

Chan didn’t rush him. He just kept one hand at the back of Jisung’s head, the other rubbing slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades. “I know, Jisung-ah,” he whispered. “I know..”

Because that was the thing; despite their differences, Chan meant it. He knew. He was no stranger to that kind of darkness himself— he knew the shame that came with it, and he knew Jisung couldn’t help it. No matter how hard he tried.

Maybe that was why he truly didn’t mind being there with him, on the floor of the living room, in the dead of night.

In fact, Chan much preferred it to discovering belatedly that Jisung had been struggling alone, or waking up to find him missing and spending hours fearing the worst…

Jisung had always had a colourful, loud and extraordinary mind— and with the highest of highs, came the lowest of lows.

In the beginning, it was hard to figure him out. But Chan understood now, not all of it, but enough to feel the significance of every second Jisung allowed him a peek inside his head. Especially when it came to the scary, ugly parts.

The parts that had felt overwhelming and forbidding at first, but softened into a quiet, fearful plea once you unpacked the rotten shroud. ‘Please don’t hate me, I’m just scared’.

And if Chan could help— if he could be there for and hold Jisung together while the world came crashing down around him, then why wouldn’t he?

Wasn’t that what he was meant to do; as a leader, as an older brother?

And even if all his attempts fell flat… then that was okay too. Because Jisung was right there, in Chan’s arms, alive and breathing… and he would never let him disappear again.

For now, they’d just sit there together in the quiet mess of being human, wrapped up like two broken stars still trying to shine. Sometimes, that was all they could do. And sometimes, that was enough.

Jisung swallowed hard against the lump that had stuck in his throat for weeks. “Feels like I’m… broken or something. Everyone else can just… function.”

Chan huffed, not amused, but fond in that tired, achingly understanding way. “Yeah? Well, everyone else isn’t you. You’re not broken, Han-ah.” He tipped his head slightly, brushing his cheek against Jisung’s hair. “Your brain just runs a little hotter than most. Doesn’t make it broken. Just means it needs more care sometimes...”

“That’s…” Jisung let out a weak, breathy sound that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t wobble so much at the edges. “Such a dad thing to say.”

“Good,” Chan replied immediately, nodding once. “I have a reputation to maintain.” He nuzzled against the side of Jisung’s head, making small kissing noises all the while. “You’re my first kid, remember?”

That finally pulled a real, if small, huff of laughter from Jisung’s chest; wet and fragile, but there. He pushed at Chan weakly, no doubt rolling his eyes, but he didn’t pull away.

If anything, he melted into every silly little sign of affection Chan showered him with, like each one was another promise to stay.

Chan kept his breathing slow and deliberate, the kind you could follow even without conscious effort.

After a minute or two, Jisung’s breaths finally started to match the rhythm, the sharp edges slowly sanding down to something more comfortable. But his chest ached from hours of shallow gasps and desperate heaves, deep and burning, and every muscle in his body burned like he’d just finished a marathon.

“I hate this,” Jisung admitted into the dark room.

“I know.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You’re not.”

“I feel like a lot.”

“Well,” Chan’s arms tightened again, firm and certain. “You are,” he said softly, unable to mask the fondness practically dripping off his words. “You’re a lot of things. Loud, dramatic, cute, talented, a little annoying sometimes—”

Jisung made a weak noise of protest, pushing a poorly balled up fist against Chan’s chest.

“—but never too much,” Chan finished, pressing his cheek more firmly to Jisung’s temple. “Not for me.”

Jisung unfurled his fist on the spot, letting out a relived breath he didn’t know he’d been holding onto for so long. Truthfully, he hadn’t known how much he needed to hear that.

They stayed like that on the floor, long after the worst had passed, breathing into the stillness of the night. Chan still didn’t rush him up, didn’t check the time, didn’t move— not even when his leg started to go numb under Jisung’s weight.

Some things were more important than circulation, and Jisung was definitely among those things. Chan had his priorities straight.

“Hyung?” Jisung whispered finally, voice small and weary, but laced with a hint of trust that made Chan’s chest soar.

“Yeah?”

Jisung pressed a little closer, and Chan welcomed it like he’d never wished for anything else. “Thanks for… staying.”

Chan lightly rested his cheek back against the top of Jisung’s head.

“Always.” he said.

And he meant it.

——————-——————-——————-—————

Angsty whump is allowed in Feveruary too, right? I sure hope so 👀

The past week had, for lack of better word, dragged Felix through hell and back. The stomach flu he’d been warring with had entirely sapped him of all his vitality, dulling Stray Kids’ own sunshine into a dim glow.

The virus had only lasted for about three days, the last bout of vomiting striking sometime around noon on day two, and the fever breaking overnight.

Per Idol definition, he was no longer sick by the third day, and was expected to return to his usual pursuits. Naturally, that’s exactly what he did.

Felix returned to his schedule, pushing past the way he had to lean against the wall for support or close his eyes when the world started spinning.

On paper, he wasn’t sick anymore, but in reality, his body didn’t seem to have gotten the memo just yet.

While Felix was upright and no longer in need of a bathroom attached by the hip, his body still felt far from okay. His limbs were heavy, his head foggy, and even the act of sitting up too fast made him feel awfully faint.

He could eat now (though only plain foods in small portions), but even that left him exhausted in a way that sleep didn't seem to fix. ‘Food is fuel’ suddenly didn’t ring true anymore, and his appetite had yet to make an appearance.

Felix felt dull, hollowed out, like the virus had scooped him clean and left only a fragile shell behind. He felt drained of the brightness that usually came so naturally to him, and beneath it all lingered a quiet sadness, because he didn’t feel like himself.

Which was how he ended up backstage, wrapped in an oversized hoodie with the hood pulled low, legs tucked up on the couch like he was trying not to take up space. Not moping, per se, just… feeling a little dejected.

They had a fan meeting today, and there was no way he could skip it. No matter how many times the others had assured him it would be okay to sit this one out, he couldn’t bring himself to. No matter how unproductively queasy he felt after the bowl of rice porridge Chan had made for him an hour earlier, he had to do it.

The bowl still sat on the low table in front of him, barely stirred through once, the spoon resting exactly where’d he’d let it fall. He’s already conceded defeat. 1–0 to the porridge.

Felix tried to close his eyes, to sneak in a little nap before he had to return to the world. They had an hour before they had to make an appearance, 30 minutes went before they had to get their final touch ups…

Even the overhead lights backstage made him feel dizzy, exacerbating his nausea not to the point of puking, but enough to unsettle him. So Felix pulled the hood lower with a frustrated sigh, letting the darkness wash over him.

A good solider sleeps when he can.

Of course, so long he gets the opportunity to.

“You okay, Lixie?” Jeongin’s voice called out gently, and he felt the slightest dip in the cushions as the maknae lowered himself down beside him.

Felix nodded automatically, because that was the answer he was supposed to give, programmed into him after years of being an idol. He lifted the hood slightly, peeking out with a weary smile. “Yeah..” he said, voice quiet. “Just really tired…”

Jeongin hummed, clearly unconvinced, and gave him a sympathetic look. He didn’t push though, just draped an arm around Felix's shoulders and tugged him in without ceremony. Thank god.

Felix melted instantly, head tipping sideways until it rested against Jeongin’s strong shoulder; one of his absolute favourite pillows. He let out a small, involuntary sigh, like his body had been waiting for permission to fully relax.

“Nap?” Jeongin asked— like he’d read his mind, and Felix nodded softly, a barely there ‘yes, please’ slipping from under the hood.

He shuffled a little to get comfortable, slinging his legs over the maknaes lap and tucking in like the spot had been reserved just for him. And Jeongin held him close, rubbing his back through the hoodie and tracing idle patterns into the fabric with his index finger.

Honestly? Felix could’ve cried from that point of contact alone, and from how generously Jeongin always offered it to him. Amid discomfort and debility, the intimacy felt like a soft balm on his weary soul.

He was halfway out of it when another weight gently dropped onto the couch beside them, followed by Jeongin’s voice shushing someone. Felix’s lips twitched in amusement, his heart fluttering from the gesture.

“Is he okay?” Changbin voice asked, low and careful, but whispering wasn’t exactly his forte.

Jeongin was about to answer, but Felix beat him to it, groggy and soft-spoken. “I’m okay.. just tired.”

“Right.. long week,” Changbin mumbled, lips pressing into a thin line. He moved closer to Felix's other side and pressed against his back, rubbing his shoulder. "Let me know if there’s anything I can do, yeah?”

Felix just hummed in agreement. He nuzzled his nose against Jeongin’s collarbone, a gentle sweater-pawed grip holding onto his shoulder.

“You’re an awfully cuddly cat today..” the maknae commented with a chuckle, trailing his finger down Felix’s spine.

“Yeah, you’re being so clingy, Yongbokkie~” Changbin chimed in with his baby talk voice, making Felix huff softly in return. Well, they weren’t wrong..

Felix was generally one of the more affectionate members, one of the ones who sought out physical contact the most, but this was different. He didn’t just enjoy touch; he craved it, needed it like he needed air to breathe.

Being held somehow kept the lingering aches at bay, and grounded him when the exhaustion made his head swim and the tears threaten to spill.

The members seemed to realise that instinctively, and in turn formed a quiet rotation around him without ever saying it out loud. Felix was eternally grateful.

When Jeongin had to leave for his touch ups, Minho readily claimed his spot on the couch, settling in with a soft scoff. “You’re not contagious anymore, right?”

“No,” Felix answered quickly, though he was no professional. He hadn’t actually been sick in over twenty-four hours, solely suffering from the aftermath of his illness. But if he by any chance was still contagious, they’d have to blame JYP for clearing him prematurely. “You can't catch it.. I think...? Probably.. Maybe..”

“Good.” Minho pulled Felix closer like he was planning to do so regardless of his answer, tucking his chin over Felix’s head. “You’re allowed to just be pathetic then.”

Felix laughed weakly at that, the sound muffled against Minho’s shirt. “Thanks..” His eyes slipped shut again, lashes fluttering as his body gave in. They still had 40 minutes to go, so no one commented on it.

Jisung just grabbed a blanket from the side of the couch and draped it over him, careful not to jostle him too much.

“Hyunjin’s going to sulk,” he whispered, sitting down beside them and tucking a few strands of blonde hair behind Felix’s ear. “He hates missing cuddle time with Lixie.”

Right on cue, Hyunjin appeared in the doorway like he’d been summoned, eyes narrowing at the sight of Felix curled up in the middle of a Minsung sandwich (with a generous side of Changbin).

“Why is everyone touching Felix without me?”

Minho snorted. “Yah, there’s plenty of Felix to go around,” he replied dryly, lips twitching to a smirk.

Hyunjin didn’t reply. Instead, he promptly plopped down on the floor by the couch, grabbing Felix’s hand and lacing their fingers together.

Felix almost seemed to purr at the additional comfort, fingers curling around Hyunjin’s and a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m feeling kinda… clingy today.”

Hyunjin’s expression softened immediately, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “That’s okay. You’re allowed. You’ve had a rough week.”

“And that’s an understatement.” Another voice joined in, just as gentle and soothing as the rest. Seungmin. “You haven’t exactly had much of nutritional value the last days either.. Your body is still adjusting.”

Felix hummed a flat note in agreement, allowing himself to wallow in the comfortable warmth surrounding him. The mixed colognes, all familiar but with their own characteristic, were strangely appeasing.

He didn’t feel like opening his eyes, not when he was so comfortable, but he didn’t have to. After all the years spent together, Felix could just about recognise the members by their footsteps alone.

“I have some energy bars in my bag, if you’d like one?” Chan offered, sounding a little further off than the rest.

Felix considered his request, but ultimately decided against it. He didn’t want to risk making himself feel sick again before the fan meet started. “Thanks, Channie-hyung, but I think I’d rather stick with water for now.”

“Just promise me you’ll eat a little later?” Came Seungmin’s retaliation, ever vigilant about his meals not being skipped.

Felix smiled softly, nodding against Minho’s shoulder. “Promise”

_

The ten final minutes before showtime went by in a flash. Then, they were suddenly on stage, performing an opening number while lights danced around them and cheers erupted from the crowd.

Felix forced himself to believe his attempt of napping had recharged his batteries, even though it truly hadn’t. If he could gaslight anyone without soul-crushing guilt, it was himself, after all.

The Stays didn’t seem notice how poorly he was feeling, at least not more than they were to expect. JYP had released a subtle statement regarding his health situation a few days prior, when he failed to attend a promotional event, but he was back now. Present.

Which once again meant, on paper, he was healthy… and he was a performer, an idol; putting on a show was second nature to him.

Felix stood where he was supposed to, smiled when he was meant to, laughed on cue and struck cute poses for the camera. He answered questions, voice still deep and warm, accent rolling smoothly off his tongue.

To anyone watching, he looked fine for the most part, maybe a little paler than usual, a little less energetic, but nothing alarming.

But the members knew him better.

They noticed how Felix shifted his weight constantly, like even standing still was too much on his weary bones. They caught the way his smile lagged half a second behind the joke, and the way his eyes dulled under the bright studio lights, blinking so much he looked as though he was impersonating Lee Know.

They saw every little tell Felix was struggling, and they’d be damned if they didn’t help out at any point they could.

After performing another one of their songs, Felix swayed on his feet, dizziness crashing over him like a tidal wave.

It was barely discernible on the outside, just a slight roll onto his heels, but Minho’s hand was there instantly, fingers curling around Felix’s wrist under the guise of adjusting their formation. Felix didn’t even look surprised, he just leaned in subtly, grounding himself.

“You good?” Minho murmured, making sure to hold his hand up so no one could read off their lips.

Felix nodded robotically, the glitching in his vision finally stilling. “Yeah..” He breathed, but Minho’s grip only tightened, eyes sharp as razors. He saw right through him

The older dancer met Chan’s gaze from across the floor and gave a curt nod, like he’d settled some non-spoken deal between them. Felix didn’t know what it meant, but whatever it was, he was grateful to have his own protection squad on deck.

Between segments, while staff adjusted equipment and changed their outfits, Felix sagged against the wall like someone had flipped a switch. Chan immediately handed him a bottle of water, thumb brushing reassuring circles into his back as Felix took small, careful sips.

"You're doing great," Chan said quietly.

Felix's eyes fluttered shut for just a second. His lower lip quivered, so he caught it between his teeth and bit back a whimper.

"I'm trying."

"I know," Chan replied, voice warm with certainty as he pressed a kiss to Felix’s exposed shoulder. “Just hold on, we’re halfway through..”

-

From that point on, all the member closed ranks without even discussing it. Whenever Felix had to stand for a prolonged period of time, someone was there beside him; steadying him, guiding him, handing him water and reminding him to sip slowly.

Someone always had an arm around looped around his waist, a shoulder available to lean on, a hand warm against his back; every little gesture a silent reminder that they were there for him.

By the last part of the fan meeting though, Felix’s practiced smile had noticeably grown thinner, his skin duller, the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin.

When they lined up to take some final photos, Changbin subtly shifted so Felix could lean against his shoulder. Hyunjin slung an arm around his midriff, steady and unyielding, anchoring him in place while Jeongin inched a little closer on his other side. Jisung’s hand slipped into his, Minho’s breath tickled his neck.

Everyone was right there, circled around him like everyone had signed a treaty to protect him at all costs.

The flash went off, and Felix smiled; softer this time, not as forced, but actually real.

Because even if he was still worn down, the past days of sickness still clinging to his back like a looming shadow, at least he wasn’t carrying it alone.

Chan never thought that treating himself to some Chinese take-away on an otherwise ordinary Friday night would have such fatal consequences. The food itself had been everything he wanted and more, the perfect indulgence to wrap up a stressful week.

Unfortunately, the repercussions the following morning were far from as pleasant. The meal that had been so succulent and delectable the night before returned as nothing short of an acidic, burning nightmare.

What started as a small, lingering ache low in his gut by midnight quickly became far more intrusive than Chan cared to admit. The pain intensified slowly, creeping in through the darkness and growing harder and harder to ignore.

Until, at around four in the morning, Chan found himself rushing to the bathroom in a haste, loosing his insides from both ends like satan himself had it out for him.

And again, barely twenty minutes later.

And then again— until he was trapped in an endless, horrendous cycle of bathroom trips he couldn’t seem to escape.

In the back of his mind, Chan wondered if he’d ever been able to look a Peking duck in the eye ever again. He highly doubted it. He should’ve just stuck to his trustworthy Pho… Pho would never have turned its back on him like this.

At last, he resigned himself to camping out in the bathroom for the night, a blanket pulled tight over his shoulders as he slumped onto the tiled floor. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d get some rest (or whatever passed for it) in between the bouts.

Either way, Christopher Chahn Bahng wouldn’t let a sore stomach and a lousy nights sleep keep him from work when daylight eventually crept in a few hours later. With great effort, he pulled his weary bones off the cold tiles as morning light spilled through the window, steeling himself for the day ahead.

And as per usual, he gathered with the others in the practice room at ten sharp, a bag slung over his shoulder and a beanie covering the fuzzy bleached hair he’d failed to tame.

While Chan was fairly certain the ruckus inside him was purely a result of last nights take-away (and his own poor judgement of food safety, perhaps), he tried to hold himself off from the other members, keeping a remote distance and refraining from skinship with the excuse of a sore throat. Which wasn’t a lie, so to say— the bile had left his throat feeling scorched, but it wasn’t the full truth either…

He made it through the first hour surprisingly well despite the circumstances.

Grateful for his own ability to silently sneak out the studio when no one seemed to be looking, Chan believed he’d been remarkably nonchalant about his frequent bathroom trips between run-throughs— ducking in and out with impeccable stealth. In all sincerity, though maybe naively, he truly thought no one had noticed his recurrent absences.

But as he returned to the cold toilet for the sixth time since arriving at the studio, Chan had to admit he was starting to feel quite poorly, the effects of the never ending cycle setting in. His stomach was still cramping mercilessly despite its emptiness, his entire body trembling as liquid poured out of him, as if it were determined to purge everything he’d ever consumed.

“Ugh..” he groaned shakily, biting back the nausea that was once again brewing at the back of his throat. For a moment, he genuinely contemplated giving in; going home, curling up in his bed, and waiting for his body to sort itself out. But as soon as he steadied himself, the idea disappeared entirely, because he couldn't just leave and let the rest of the group down. No. He was the leader for Christ's sake. He got this.

After another few harrowing minutes, Chan managed to clean himself off and step out of the booth he'd become far too acquainted with. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he momentarily froze at the ghastly sight looking back at him. Ouch. His face was void of any colour, washed in a greyish white that keenly matched the bathroom tiles surrounding him. Dark blue circles shadowed bleary eyes, undoubtedly worsened by his lack of sleep, and his cheekbones were flushed red— the only indication that he was, in fact, still alive.

Simply put, he looked like a dead man walking. With a low sigh, Chan pressed his knuckles to his cheek, feeling the burn simmering gently against his fingers. Did he have a fever? or was he just flushed from the strain? It was awfully hard to tell...

Cleaning his hands while avoiding his own hollow-eyed reflection, Chan eventually headed back to the practice room, a hand mindlessly pressed into his stomach as he walked. Just like he’d done a million times before, he slipped back into the room, soundless as a ninja. The others were too preoccupied to notice his return, either sprawled on the floor or fine-tuning moves.

All except for Changbin, it seemed.

Chan gulped as the other rapper’s gaze snapped onto him in an instant, sharp and unrelenting, like a predator locking onto its prey. For the briefest moment, he froze in place, a deer caught in headlights, suddenly all too aware of how exposed he felt under Changbin’s scrutinizing eyes. Then, forcing himself to move, he shook it off.

Wearing the practiced smile he’d spent years perfecting, Chan meandered over to Jisung and Seungmin, launching into a passionate, utterly nonsensical conversation in a deliberate attempt to sell the illusion that he was perfectly fine.

He would like to think it worked, but Changbin wasn’t dumb, and quite frankly— he felt a little offended that Chan didn’t seem to think he would figure him out. He didn't even attempt to mask his observant stare as Chan silently re-entered for the umpteenth time, taking in his leader's haggard appearance with a keen eye.

The animated conversation with the other members didn’t throw Chabgbin off his track in the slightest. He wasn’t that easily fooled.

In his eyes, even a blind man could tell something was wrong. From the way Chan staggered at the end of formations, clearly swallowing back tidal waves at every turn, to the subtle way his body slowed with each passing minute, his eyes sinking a little deeper into his skull each time he’d return to the room.

It was blatantly obvious he wasn’t feeling well.

“Alright, everyone,” Minho called out, sauntering over to the front of the room with his eyes glued onto the phone in his hands. “We’ll take it one more time from the top. Hyunjin-ah, up front with me.”

The members scurried from their various sprawls across the floor, gathering their sore limbs as they resumed their respective positions. Chan started at the back, eyes focused, body locked in, but his hand remained pressed on his abdomen for a moment too long— just another sign betraying his discomfort.

Changbin tried to refocus on the choreography when the music started up again, but it was damn near an impossible task. His eyes kept drifting back to their sickly leader at every turn, as if he were bracing himself to swoop in and catch him should he keel over.

The way Chan moved; his stiff body language, the pinched expression on his pallid face, made Changbin’s own stomach twist in a furious mix of sympathy and exasperation. He hated, as much as anyone else in the room, seeing him like that…

But knowing Bang Chan, he hadn't even entertained the idea of telling someone if he was feeling unwell, and Changbin knew coaxing out the truth wouldn’t be the way to go. He had to catch him, somehow… maybe the next time he slipped out the room, he’d have to follow..

At the other end of the room, Chan evidently did his best to ignore Changbin's unwavering gaze, to follow the dance and blend in with the others. But his movements were noticeably stiff and flimsy, each step just a fraction off-beat.

The frequent bathroom trips had left him zapped of any energy, making him dizzy and logy like his brain no longer had full connection to his limbs. No matter how hard he fought to correct himself, he kept lacking, undoubtedly drawing Minho’s suspicion as he stumbled over nothing but thin air.

But before the dancer could cut in and call him out on the slip, something abruptly shifted inside him. The nausea that had been silently lingering under the surface suddenly shot through like a bullet, surging back up his throat at the speed of light. Chan’s face quickly drained of any colour it had left, and he froze mid-motion, eyes going wide.

Oh god... he wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom this time, was he?

Before chaos could ensue, a pair of firm hands gripped his biceps, practically hoisting him off the ground and hauling him to the corner of the room. Changbin urgently kicked a trash can between them, and Chan's shoulders rolled as the first wave of vomit gushed past his lips, splashing into the receptacle with a sickening noise.

He shuddered, barely able to suck in a sharp breath before another heave wrecked through him, his stomach promptly spewing up another slurry of sick to add to the acrid mess.

"Oh, goddamn it.." Changbin's muttered under his breath, his mind racing as he grappled with the situation. He was no stranger to members getting sick, but this was more concerning than your typical headache or cold.

Chan was really sick, that much was obvious. And Changbin, who generally didn’t do great with the smell of vomit, was the one unlucky enough to bear witness to it up close and personal. “Aish— breathe, hyung.. breathe.”

He reached out and held Chan by the shoulders, carefully angling him away from the others in an attempt to shield them all, in what he assumed was in both their and their leaders best interest.

Chan coughed a couple of times, choking on his own rancid saliva as as his vision blurred and his eyes nearly rolled back. He let out an embarrassingly helpless noise, trying to follow Changbin’s instructions and draw a breath, but his stomach was relentless in its uproar— cramping and sloshing like a cat batting around a doomed mouse.

The others had without a doubt caught onto his debacle, and although Changbin’s body shielded him from their prying eyes, they both knew the predicament was hard to miss. As the music quietened down, Chan's misery became all too evident, heaves echoing back at him like mockery.

The other members collectively let out a few gasps and concerned noises, clustering together in the middle of the room like a flock of worried chicks. Thankfully, Minho got the gist and told them to stay put, trusting that Changbin had it under control. Besides, he was well acquainted with Chan’s aversion to an audience at his weakest. The fewer eyes on him, the better.

Chan’s fingers tightened their grip on Changbin's forearm, desperation bleeding through his grip. "B-bathroom..." he managed to choke out weakly, and Changbin didn’t need much convincing.

Swivelling around and kicking the door open for them, the rapper set course for the restrooms. Chan’s legs barely held out as Changbin manoeuvred him down the hall, but they eventually made it to their destination without too much of a struggle.

Once they were safely inside the privacy of the restroom, Changbin slammed the door shut behind them, locking it with one swift motion. He led Chan to the toilet, lowering him onto wobbly knees in front of the bowl.

"Jesus, hyung..." he whispered as Chan doubled over the bowl with a bellowing heave.

Changbin knelt beside him as Chan let loose another mouthful of vomit into to bowl, no doubt evacuating the final remains of his stomachs contents. There was almost no substance to it, just pure bile that burned through him from his chest to his nose, making him want to sob at how miserable everything felt.

Once the vomiting ceased to a halt, Chan hung his head over the bowl with a soft sniffle, chin resting on the toilet seat and eyes squeezed shut. Changbin watched him carefully, reaching out to tentatively tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Think you’re done?”

The noncommittal hum he received was no definite answer, but Changbin didn’t push. He just rubbed soothing circles across the expanse of Chan’s back, eyebrows drawn and lips twitched down in a concerned frown.

It took a while before Chan could trust that any movement wouldn’t set off another round, but eventually his stomach settled enough to grant him a brief respite. Changbin managed to pry him away from the toilet then, easing him back against the wall so he could get a proper look at him.

Sweaty, shaky, and pale as a sheet, the leader couldn’t help but wonder how Changbin had known— how he’d pieced it together back in the studio before things had spiralled, and how he’d been ready to step in and act so fast to prevent a mess. Chan had thought he’d been subtle. Apparently not.

When he eventually squinted his eyes open, the younger man was crouched down before him, a troubled frown still etched across his face as his thumb traced gentle circles on Chan’s shoulder. The leader hesitated only for a moment before croaking out a barely audible, “How..? how’d you know I was..?”

Changbin arched a brow, rising to his feet with a heavy sigh. “Hyung,” he started, crossing his arms over his chest in the most disappointed-father-pose Chan had ever seen him strike. “You’ve been sneaking off like every ten minutes—it wasn’t hard to figure out.” His frown deepened, disbelief flickering across his face. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice?”

Chan shrugged faintly, gaze down, fiddling with his thumbs. “The others didn’t notice…”

“Yeah, well, they’re—” Changbin gestured wildly with his hands, exasperation spilling out despite his best efforts to keep it contained, “—dense! They’re dense!”

That broke Chan. He snorted once, but the hoarse laugh that followed quickly turned into a pained noise as his stomach seized in protest. With a small gasp, he grabbed onto the wall, eyebrows pinched. “Holy shit… you can’t be funny right now— ooow.”

Changbin tried to hide the proud smirk tugging at his lips for half a second, schooling his expression back to the stern look it had held before. “I’m not trying to be funny,” he grumbled, albeit softer this time. “How long have you been sick, huh? Honest.”

Chan hummed, covering his face with his hand and revelling in the gentle coolness of his palm against his cheek. “Started at like… four this morning..” he admitted sheepishly, cringing at the reminiscence. “…I had some take-away last night. Must've been bad..."

“Ah,” Changbin nodded once, then gave Chan’s shoulder a half-hearted jab. “You are an absolute idiot sometimes, you know that, right? You got food poisoning and decided to show up to a five hour dance session? You shouldn’t even be here at all, hyung…”

Chan knew he was right, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. Instead, he bit his lip and frowned at his own obstinacy, allowing the lecture to simmer.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, we’re all dumb sometimes..” Changbin mumbled half-encouragingly. With a sigh, he held his hand out to Chan, nodding towards the door. “Let’s just get you home, yeah? No use in wallowing in here.. I’ll drive, you just try not to ruin my car, ‘kay?”

Admitting to his surrender with a faint nod, Chan clasped his hand in Changbin’s. Despite his body feeling like jello, the younger rapper managed to hoist him up from the floor like he had weighed nothing, locking him to his side with a firm grip.

Chan’s breath stuttered, eyes glossy and feet dragging against the floor liked they were tied to sacks of sand. There was a small pout carved into his face now, and to Changbin, the tiny jut of Chan’s lips hit him like a strike to the chest. Seeing his normally strong and indomitable leader reduced to this was never something he could never seem to get used to. Plus, something about it was undeniably adorable…

While the infuriation from before still lingered, Changbin couldn’t stay upset about Chan not being honest about feeling unwell. Not when he looked like a kicked puppy with ashen lips and red-rimmed eyes.

“Aish, stop looking so sad. It’s okay, hyung..” Changbin tried, voice gentle as he gave Chan’s waist a careful squeeze. “There’s always another day tomorrow..”

——————-——————-——————-—————

“Hyung.. I think… ‘think I’m having a.. transcendence..”

Chan paused, slowly lowering his phone as he met the pale-faced Minho stood in the doorway of his room. He knew then, without a doubt, that that word was not supposed to be in that man’s vocabulary.

“Okay,” he replied casually, like it was just an every day conversation starter. “Would you like to elaborate..?”

Minho sighed heavily, breaths sounding congested and thick as he leaned against the doorframe. “Every time I sneeze… I swear,” he blinked hard, squeezing his eyes shut like he was trying to recreate it in his mind. “I… I travel across the galaxy.”

Right.

“Mhm,” Chan stood from his chair, approaching Minho in slow steps as the younger man’s eyes struggled (and inevitably failed) to follow him. He pressed a hand to the sick man’s forehead before he could swat him away, and the answer made itself clear.

He was burning up. Again.

Time for another dose of those fever reducers, Chan thought with a sigh, eyebrows creasing.

Just the other day, Minho had been coerced to urgent care by their manager, leaving with a prescription of antibiotics for what turned out to be a stubborn case of pneumonia. But Chan had to admit, those antibiotics weren’t working nearly as fast as he wished they would…

Minho blinked at him way too slowly, like even his eyelids weighed a ton. “I think I might be…” he drew in a laboured breath, and Chan didn’t miss the crackling noise that rang from his chest when he did. “Extraterrestrial..”

Another word Minho had no business harbouring in his mind right now.

Chan paused, taking a second to process what he was hearing. Then, he let out an incredulous huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Well, yeah, duh… that much I’ve gathered…”

Minho groaned a hoarse grumble, something akin to a protest, though even he had no idea where he was protesting, and Chan simply shushed him in return. His hand slid to the younger man’s arm, fingers wrapping loosely around Minho’s wrist.

He knew that Minho was stubborn. Hell, all of the members knew that, but he was also well acquainted with just how clingy the younger man was during times like these.

In his own, mostly silent, way.

“Alright,” Chan hummed, eyes softening as a half-concerned, half-amused sound left his lips. “Let’s get you back to bed, Mr. Alien..”

When his arm wound around Minho’s waist, steadying his teetering frame and steering them down the hall, there were no rebuttals.

Which was concerning in and of itself.

Chan led him down the hallway with conscientious care, and Minho followed in quiet compliance, only breaking the silence with a few wheezy coughs.

It was strange whenever Minho was this feverish— he always got so out of character, in one way or another. Sometimes he babbled like a brook; other times he grew unusually touch-seeking and affectionate. At times, he had otherworldly, mind-boggling experiences that no one could quite explain.

And sometimes, like right there in the hallway, he was so pliant and amendable it made Chan shudder.

It almost unnerving, how quickly he could flip from one version of himself to another. A remarkable volte-face of their usual dynamic, all at the hands of a pesky pathogen.

Normally, Chan was the clingy one, the one hanging off Minho and pressing every button he could find, while Minho pretended to loathe every second of it. But Chan was never fooled by it. He never missed the way the corners of his lips would twitch, the way he’d quickly bury it beneath a practiced scowl.

Deep down, Chan knew Minho liked it more than he’d ever admit aloud.

But when Minho fell ill, something inside Chan shifted. A strange sort of guardianship seemed to surge from within, like a fierce, protective urge set ablaze in his chest.

It wasn’t the same as he felt for the others, at least Chan didn’t feel like it was, but that didn’t mean it didn’t burn just as strong. It was just… different, with him.

Minho had never been good at asking for help, but neither had Chan. They both knew it, they both understood it, yet neither had ever spoken the words aloud.

Instead, there was almost as if they’d made a silent pact— no words, no written agreement, just a mutual commitment to help each other out when life struck them to the bone.

They’d never have to ask for help if the other part acted first, right?

Suddenly, Minho planted himself mid-step like a cat refusing to move, yanking Chan back from his straying thoughts. “Wha—Whats wrong?” The elder asked quickly, already searching Minho’s pasty face for any signs he was about to hurl. He’d never been one to give much warning in the past…

Minho straightened up a little, breaths heavy as he strained to pull air into his poor lungs. “My bones… they feel like jelly..” he stated, swaying dangerously until Chan locked him back against his side. “Hyung, why’s… jellyfish… they made of jelly?”

Ah. No sudden urge to vomit— good. Just… whatever you could call Minho’s fever-addled ruminations.

Chan couldn’t hold back his amusement even if he tried, biting his lip as a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Mm, no, jellyfish are in fact not made of jelly,” he replied with a sigh, voice turning impossibly soft as he added, “And neither are you, for that matter. Come on now, we’re almost there.”

Minho let out a weak groan, allowing Chan to steady him on wobbly legs the rest of the way to his bed. The covers were all rumpled and tossed to the side from earlier, sheets still a little damp from the excessive bouts of sweating the infection was triggering.

“I feel so dumb,” Minho said sadly as he sank down onto the mattress, hair slicking against the side of his face.

“Ya, Chan-ah..” He lifted a finger, poking it into Chan’s chest to emphasise his solemnity. “I… I’m a dignified extraterrestrial… they can’t know I’m being dumb..”

Chan let out a soft, warm laugh, his dimples peeking through despite himself. “Don’t worry, alien prince, I’ll make sure to protect your intergalactic reputation.”

He caught Minho's finger gently between his own, pressing a small kiss to the tip. In return, albeit a lot slower than usual, Minho withdrew his hand and scrunched his nose in disgust.

“Ew.”

Chan had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing again.

Minho was too cute sometimes; even in the throes of delirium, he still fought to hold onto some shred of dignity.

Though it certainly didn’t help his case that his nose was all red and his hair a fluffy mess, making him look less like a grown man and more like a scruffy little kitten…

As Minho flopped back onto the sheets, completely boneless, Chan grabbed the box of fever reducers and his prescribed antibiotics from the nightstand, carefully measuring out the right doses into his palm. “Alright, you gotta take some more medicine before you go spacefaring again.”

Minho didn’t budge, voice muffled against the pillow as he replied, strangely polite, “No, thank you..”

Chan sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he begged for patience. “It wasn’t an offer, Minho.” he said firmly, nudging his shoulder. “Come on.”

Minho let out a soft whine, then a tiny grumble as he rolled his head to the side, eyes fixed warily at the pills in Chan’s outstretched hand. He scowled at them like they were poison, squinting his eyes like he was trying to determine if it was some sort of elaborate trap.

“Those are eggs..” Minho finally said, making the other man feel all the more confused than he already was.

“Eggs?” Chan repeated, trying to wrap his head around the delirious musings. The younger man sounded so damned serious he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Mhm,” Minho nodded faintly, before adding quietly, like it was meant to be kept a secret, “Alien eggs..”

Chan stared at him for a very, very long moment, trying to figure out how to go about this turn of events. He sighed, staring down at the little round pills in his hand, then back up at Minho, who was still looking at them like they may just hatch into tiny monsters at any given moment.

He held them up, tilting the pills this way and that, trying to see through whatever fever-induced hallucination was playing out in Minho’s brain.

But no, they were both just pills, nothing more, nothing less. Not even translucent, but solid white, boring and chalky in their exterior.

Chan had to admit, he was already thrown off by all the absurd claims that had spilled from Minho within the last thirty minutes. Declaring that his pills were not actually medication prescribed by professionals, but alien eggs— yeah, that was the final straw.

He nudged the sick man’s shoulder again, steeling himself as he scooted closer to him on the bed. The leader had a solemn look on his face now, any humour swallowed by the insistent need to make Minho take his damn medicine.

In the back of his mind, he was already wondering if he’d have to crush the pills into some pudding to make this work… or potentially force them down his throat if that didn’t do the trick.

“Lee Minho,” Chan said earnestly, maintaining a stoic calm alongside the firmness in his voice. “I swear on my life, I am not trying to feed you— alien eggs…” he let out a long sigh. “Please… just take the medicine. It’s gonna make you feel better.”

Minho seemed to consider the request, peering up at him like he was trying to see through a fog. Then, he sighed resignedly.

“Do I have to?” He asked pitifully, like a child pleading to a parent, but Chan simply raised an eyebrow, lips pursed in feigned disappointment. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to— not out loud, anyways. Chan had already perfected the disappointed, exhausted dad look by the time he turned twenty.

“Fine…. okay,” Minho relented, voice soft, gaze flicking away.

Chan seized it, that tiny crack in delirium's armour, and made the most of it. He grabbed the water bottle off the nightstand before Minho could have second thoughts and held it to his lips along with the two pills still nestled in his palm.

"One swallow," he coaxed, voice low and soothing like he was taming something wild. "Just one. For me?"

With great theatrical reluctance, Minho parted his lips, only to immediately gag at the taste of the medicine, scrunching his whole face in disgust. With a mouthful of water, he washed the pills down anyway.

“Gross..” he murmured hoarsely, flopping back onto the pillows like the whole ordeal had personally wounded him.

Victory. Chan grinned, patting his knee affectionately as Minho recoiled with a petulant pout. “Atta boy.”

Minho groaned, swatting weakly at Chan’s hand. “Tsk.. ‘m not a dog…” he mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

Chan just smiled, smoothing a cool hand over Minho’s damp forehead and brushing his fringe aside. “No,” he whispered softly in agreement, the next part barely audible, “you’re a grumpy old cat..”

A tiny hum escaped Minho, barely there, but it was enough to tell Chan he’d heard him.

And the way he was still scowling while half-sleep? Adorable. Chan had to stop himself from snapping a photo, knowing the repercussions would be far from pretty.

He was about to get up, maybe to go and get a cool towel, but his attention was suddenly drawn back to Minho, who had gone strangely silent all of a sudden. Not asleep, just silent.

Instead of protesting, Minho’s face was scrunched up in a familiar expression, his nose curling in distaste. This time, though, Chan knew it wasn't just because the medicine tasted terrible.

He could see it in the way Minho's eyes squinted as his sinuses filled, the way his chest rose and fell with laboured breaths, trying to hold off the inevitable.

“Hh’tch!”

One…

“Huh’tSSKH!”

Two…

“Hhh’TSCH!”

Three.

Like clockwork.

Chan turned to grab some tissue from the small box on the nightstand, a minuscule smile tugging on his lips despite himself. Minho really did sneeze like a kitten sometimes.

“ss…sorry.. ‘m back now.” Minho slurred, making Chan glance back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

Right. He’d almost forgotten about the whole transcending time and space thing.

“Where’d you go, bud?” Chan hummed with gentle curiosity, holding a couple of tissues up to Minho’s face.

Minho coughed again, low and chesty, eyes squeezing shut against the spin. With a sniffle, he replied, “sixty degrees off Jupiter.. ‘think..”

Chan let out a low chuckle, gently wiping Minho's nose with the tissue before he could shove him away. “Oh, is that so?” he teased softly, voice warm with amusement. “Sounds interesting.”

He tossed the used tissue into the bin and sat back on the edge of the bed, watching as Minho blinked at the ceiling, eyes growing heavier as he struggled to keep them open.

It was a battle he was quickly losing. No matter how stubbornly he tried to fight off sleep, his eyelids were betraying him, slipping closed with every flutter of his eyelashes.

Chan could see his exhaustion clear as day, the way it seemed to weigh on him, pulling his limbs down into the mattress and locking them there. Minho was worn out, completely at the mercy of the bacteria raging in his lungs.

And despite himself, Chan could feel fondness welling up in his chest as he watched the other man fight sleep like a toddler refusing a nap.

Shaking his head, he ran a hand down Minho’s side in a gentle motion. “Go to sleep, baby…” he murmured, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead. “And send me a postcard from your next galactic vacation, yeah?”

Minho didn’t flinch or protest when he called him ‘baby’, and Chan silently vowed to hold onto that moment for as long as he could. He chuckled again, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched Minho’s breathing slow, finally surrendering to the lure of sleep.

Chan stayed seated beside him, diligently watching the unsteady rise and fall of Minho’s chest. He reached over and tugged the blanket up to cover his shoulders, adjusting it with gentle hands before sitting back with a sigh.