Chan stood at the center of the room, fists clenched at his sides, breathing shallow and erratic. The air was thick with tension, and he could feel every pair of eyes on him.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
The members—those familiar faces—were staring at him like they’d never seen him before. Their voices were softer. Their touches lighter. They were treating him like he was fragile. Like he needed to be protected. And it made his stomach churn.
It sickened him.
He wasn’t used to this.
What he was used to was being acknowledged once a day—maybe. Having his voice cut off mid-sentence like he didn’t matter. Watching someone younger than him—someone he thought of as a little brother—being doted on, babied, held with care.
And now, all of a sudden, he was the youngest. And everything had changed.
They called him “our maknae” in voices too sweet to be sincere. Ruffled his hair like he hadn’t been carefully styling it for five years. Let him eat first. Gave him the corner seat on the couch like he was royalty.
But it wasn’t affection. It was performance. A role they were forcing him into. And Chan could feel himself drowning in it.
His jaw tightened.
Where was this concern when he’d broken down after practice, curled up in the dorm bathroom so no one would see? Where was it when he spent sleepless nights wondering why he didn’t feel like he belonged—even in a group he gave everything to?
Now, it felt fake.
All of it.
And they were looking at him again—like that. Like he was a wounded animal. Something to tiptoe around.
He snapped his head up.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
His voice cut through the silence. Low, flat—but piercing. A few members flinched. Jeonghan’s hand, mid-reach, dropped to his side.
“Like what?” Seokmin asked, cautiously. His brows furrowed.
“Like I’m your beloved maknae,” Chan spat, the bitterness rising at last.
A pause followed—one of those unbearable, suffocating silences where everyone shrinks into themselves, unsure whether to speak or stay silent.
But Chan wasn’t done. Not even close.
“You keep calling me your precious youngest, like it means something now,” he said, louder, eyes scanning the group. “You act like I’ve always belonged in this sacred little position. But I didn’t. And you all know it.”
No one spoke.
Not Wonwoo, who usually had something quietly wise to offer. Not Mingyu, who looked like he wanted to speak—but didn’t know how. Even Seungcheol—who always tried to keep things from falling apart—just stood there, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
Chan’s voice broke again—this time trembling at the edges.
“You’re doing this for yourselves. Not for me. You’re trying to make up for what you ignored before. Don’t think I don’t see it.”
Jun shifted. Jihoon opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“Where were you,” Chan whispered now, almost to himself, “when I couldn’t keep up? When I thought I didn’t matter?”
His eyes landed on Seungcheol and Jeonghan—the two who were supposed to lead. Supposed to see everything.
But even they looked helpless. Like they didn’t know how this had happened.
“You didn’t notice me then,” he said, voice cracking, eyes shimmering. “So don’t pretend to care now. It’s cruel. Stop pretending.”
He took a breath—ragged, sharp.
“You’re going to stop in a day or two. On camera? Fine. I get it. It makes you all look good. But behind the cameras?” His voice shook. “Just stop.
"Stop giving me false hopes.”
“False hopes are worse than being ignored,” he choked, the tears finally spilling over. “At least when you didn’t look at me, I knew where I stood.”
The weight of his words fell like stones in the room.
Seungkwan’s eyes were wet. Minghao’s hands trembled. Even Soonyoung—who always tried to smile through the cracks—looked like he couldn’t breathe.
No one knew how to fix this.
Jeonghan took a step forward, voice quiet. “Chan, we—”
“Don’t,” Chan snapped, sharper than he intended. “Don’t explain. Don’t justify it.”
His eyes turned to Seungcheol—bitter, betrayed.
“You were supposed to protect me.”
Seungcheol’s shoulders tensed. “I know.”
“No, you don’t,” Chan growled. “If you did, I wouldn’t have to stand here begging for something that should’ve come naturally. I wouldn’t have to feel grateful that you’re finally calling me your maknae—like I didn’t earn that title years ago.”
Jeonghan’s lip trembled. “It’s not that we didn’t care—”
“Then where was it?” Chan’s voice cracked completely now. “Where was your care when I was fourteen and trying to hold back tears every night just to prove I belonged here?”
Someone inhaled sharply. But no one moved.
“I needed you,” he whispered, hoarse and broken. “And you didn’t see me. So don’t try now. Not when it’s convenient. Don’t act like I’m finally worthy just because the one before me is gone.”
Silence.
Then—softly, almost inaudibly—Seungcheol said, “I’m sorry.”
But Chan didn’t look at him.
He turned away.
Because sorry wasn’t enough.
Seungcheol stared at the back of Chan’s head like he was trying to will the right words into existence. But they didn’t come.
There was no apology big enough to cover years of absence. No explanation that didn’t sound like an excuse.
“Chan,” Joshua said, his voice low, raw. “We didn’t mean to let you feel so alone.”
Chan let out a short, bitter laugh. “It wasn’t about what you meant, hyung. It’s about what you did.”
He turned slightly, just enough for them to see the devastation on his face—but not enough to let them all the way in.
“You’re treating me like I’m new,” he said, wiping at his cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Like I just showed up out of nowhere and now suddenly I’m this… baby you want to take care of.”
He looked directly at Seungcheol this time. “You raised Samuel. You held his hand through everything. You looked out for him like he was made of glass. You called him your baby. Your sunshine.”
Chan’s voice softened, but it was no less sharp. “I was there too. I was right there. But I wasn’t him.”
He paused, then added, more quietly:
“I never blamed Samuel. I loved him, too. He deserved all of that.”
Then his voice dropped.
“But so did I.”
The room cracked.
Soonyoung sniffled quietly. Seungkwan looked like he wanted to scream or cry—or both.
Vernon had turned away, jaw clenched, like he hasn't already had an heart to heart talk with Chan.
But Chan wasn’t finished.
“I’m not asking you to erase the past,” he said. “I just need you to stop pretending the present makes up for it.”
He took a shaky breath.
“I need you to see me. Not the role. Not the replacement. Me.”
Jeonghan took a step forward, and this time, he didn’t hesitate.
He pulled Chan into a hug.
Chan stiffened—but didn’t pull away.
“I see you,” Jeonghan whispered into his hair, voice breaking. “I’m sorry I didn’t before. But I do now. And I’m going to keep trying, okay? Even if you hate me right now.”
Chan didn’t respond—but his fists relaxed at his sides.
Seungcheol moved next, slow and hesitant. He didn’t join the hug—not yet. Instead, he crouched a little, trying to meet Chan’s eye.
“You were never second to us,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But we didn’t show that. We didn’t protect you like we should have. And that’s on me. I should’ve done more.”
He paused.
“You shouldn’t have had to ask to be seen.”
Chan looked at him for a long time. His face was unreadable, caught somewhere between grief and longing.
A long moment passed.
Then, slowly, Chan leaned into Jeonghan’s hold. Not completely. Not yet.
But enough.
-----
It had been three days.
Three days since Chan had let it all out—every wound, every ache, every word he had buried so deep it had started to rot from the inside.
And now, in the quiet that followed, guilt began to bloom.
It started small.
Like when he found his favorite drink in the fridge. No name on it, just sitting there, waiting. He would’ve brushed it off—if he hadn’t seen Jihoon sneak back into the kitchen that morning with the exact same bottle.
Or when Minghao handed him a pair of thick socks during practice, muttering something about the floors being cold. It was nothing, really.
They’d done things like this before. But this time, Chan noticed.
He noticed how Seokmin always waited until he sat before starting to eat. How Mingyu subtly scooted closer during breaks, like he was making sure Chan wasn’t alone. How even Wonwoo had passed him a protein bar without a word, just a nod.
None of it was big. None of it was loud.
But it was constant.
And it started to feel familiar. Uncomfortably familiar. Because maybe—just maybe—they had been trying, before.
Just… not the way he needed. Not loud enough. Not specific enough.
But not absent, either.
And that made something twist inside him.
That morning, he caught Jeonghan folding laundry—his laundry—and suddenly remembered all the other times Jeonghan had done it before, without saying anything.
He sat on the edge of the couch, staring at nothing, the weight of it all settling in his chest like a slow, heavy tide.
Had he been unfair?
The thought made him want to curl in on himself.
He didn’t regret what he said. Not really.
But he did regret how much it hurt them.
What hurt him most was how Seungcheol had looked like someone had punched the air out of his lungs.
Or maybe how Jeonghan’s hands had shaken even after hugging him.
Or how none of his other hyungs looked into his eyes after the day.
He hadn’t meant to break them.
He just wanted them to see him.
“Hey,” a voice said gently.
Chan looked up. Soonyoung stood in the doorway, holding out a plate with toast and jam.
“You didn’t eat much this morning.”
Chan blinked. “Oh… thanks.”
Soonyoung didn’t leave.
He sat beside him instead, silent for a minute, before speaking.
“You’re thinking too much,” he said softly. “I can see it.”
Chan exhaled, a tired sound. “I just… I don’t know what to do now.”
Soonyoung nodded slowly, toying with a loose thread on his sleeve.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “Just… let us try. That’s all we’re asking.”
Chan swallowed. “But what if I was wrong? About some of it.”
“Then we learn. All of us,” Soonyoung replied. “You spoke up, and that matters. If we made you feel unseen, that’s on us. But this guilt you’re carrying now? You don’t have to hold it alone either.”
Chan didn’t know what to say to that.
So he just leaned his head against Soonyoung’s shoulder. Quiet. Tentative. But there.
And Soonyoung stayed perfectly still—like he understood that this was part of the healing too.
“I hope you know this is new for us too.”
Chan looked up, startled out of his thoughts. Joshua and Jeonghan were leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed—not in anger, just in that familiar, steady way.
“Channie,” Joshua said softly, stepping further into the room. “Seungcheol was younger than your age now when he was given the responsibility of almost fifteen other people.”
He sat beside Chan on the couch, close but not imposing. There was something careful in the way he moved, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.
“You don’t have to dwell on this,” Soonyoung continued. “But it is his first time living too.”
Chan let the words sit there for a second, eyes focused on his hands in his lap.
“I know,” he said eventually. “That’s why I feel like crap.”
Jeonghan gave a faint smile. “You’re allowed to. But feeling guilty doesn’t mean you were wrong. It just means you care.”
Chan’s shoulders slumped, the weight still sitting heavy.
“I keep thinking about everything I said. And now I see all these small things, things you guys did do. I just didn’t notice them back then. Or maybe… I didn’t know how to receive them.”
He let out a shaky breath. “I was so angry. I felt so ignored. And now I’m scared I might’ve made you all feel like you weren’t enough.”
Jeonghan shook his head gently. “You were honest. That’s not something to be ashamed of.”
He reached out and gave Chan’s knee a soft squeeze.
“None of us knew how to handle Samuel leaving. And we didn’t realize that while we were grieving that loss, you were trying to figure out how to fill a space you never asked to step into.”
Chan’s throat tightened. “It’s like… I wanted so badly to be seen. But now that I am, it feels undeserved.”
“It isn’t,” Joshua said, firmer now. “You’re not a replacement, Channie. You never were. You’re you. You’ve always been. And if we failed to show you that before… we’re trying to make up for it now. Not because we feel guilty. But because we want to.”
Jeonghan looked at Chan carefully.
“And we’re going to mess up sometimes. Because this is new for us too. We weren’t trained how to raise a dongsaeng. We just… loved you, in the ways we knew how.”
Chan blinked fast. “Even if those ways weren’t what I needed?”
Jeonghan nodded. “Especially then. Because now we get to learn better ways.”
Chan gave a small, tired laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not. But we’ve been through worse, haven’t we?”
A pause.
Then Jeonghan added, quieter, “You don’t have to carry everything alone, Channie. Not the blame, not the pain, not the pressure to get it all right.”
Chan didn’t answer, but after a moment, he leaned over and rested his head against Jeonghan’s shoulder.
“I don’t know how to go back to normal.”
Jeonghan tilted his head lightly against Chan’s. “Good. Because I don’t want to go back. I want to go forward—with you.”
And in the silence that followed, Chan finally let himself exhale. "Seungcheol hyung."
----
It started with a text in the group chat.
Mingyu: Movie night in the living room 🍿 come if you want, no pressure
Seokmin: we're watching something dumb i promise
Soonyoung: like really dumb. no crying. maybe. probably.
Chan stared at his phone for a moment. He hadn’t replied.
Didn’t need to.
When he walked out of his room twenty minutes later, there was a spot already waiting for him on the couch—blanket tossed over the backrest, popcorn within reach, a pillow tucked just to the side like someone remembered he liked one under his arm.
No one made a big deal of it.
No teasing, no over-the-top welcome. Just space. And warmth.
He slid into the seat. Seokmin leaned into him lightly with a grin and said, “You’re just in time. We’re about to start arguing over snacks.”
And that was it.
The room buzzed with half-focused laughter and the glow of the TV, and slowly, Chan let himself relax. Just a little.
Seungcheol was there too. He hadn’t looked at Chan too much—hadn’t pushed. But he’d quietly sat nearby, angled just enough to leave the door open.
Halfway through the movie, Seungcheol got up for water and Jeonghan nudged Chan’s leg. Just a subtle look. A go on without saying anything.
Chan hesitated.
Then, slowly, he stood.
He found Seungcheol alone in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, drinking from his water bottle. His back was to the doorway.
Chan swallowed.
“Hyung?”
Seungcheol turned, surprised for just a second—then softened.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”
Chan nodded, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Seungcheol set his bottle down. He didn’t move closer, but his eyes were steady.
“You want to talk?”
Chan hesitated. Then, in a quiet voice: “I saw everything. The socks. The snacks. You telling Mingyu to check on me without making it obvious.”
Seungcheol gave a tiny, sheepish smile. “I wasn’t trying to hide it.”
“I know,” Chan said. He looked down at his hands. “And… I think I saw things too late.”
Seungcheol’s voice was calm. “That doesn’t make your feelings any less real.”
Chan looked up, eyes tight. “I still hurt you.”
“And I’ve hurt you too,” Seungcheol said. “We both did things we didn’t mean to. But that doesn’t erase the love between us.”
Chan’s voice cracked. “I was just so tired, hyung. Of pretending I didn’t want to be cared for.”
“I know,” Seungcheol said. His voice shook just slightly. “I should’ve seen it sooner.”
There was a pause. Then,
“I was scared,” Chan admitted. “That if I asked for it, it wouldn’t feel real.”
Seungcheol’s expression softened completely.
“You don’t ever have to ask,” he said, stepping closer now. “You’re my dongsaeng, Chan. That’s for life. I want you to believe, even when we're fifty or more, you will still be our maknae to me.”
Chan took a breath that shuddered out of him, like something inside was loosening.
“Hyung,” he whispered. “Can I…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
Seungcheol opened his arms without hesitation, and Chan ran into them, burying his face in his shoulder.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he didn’t have to be strong.
Just loved.
The hug lasted longer than either of them expected. And when they pulled apart, nothing had been fixed completely—but something had been rebuilt.
Together.
They walked back into the living room, side by side.
Minghao made a quiet comment about how long water breaks shouldn’t take that long.
Seokmin grinned and passed them both a handful of popcorn like nothing had happened.
But the smiles were easier now. The air lighter. And Chan—
Chan let himself laugh, for real this time.
Later that night, the movie had long since ended, but no one moved.
They were sprawled across the living room like sleepy cats—Soonyoung half-asleep with his head on Jeonghan’s thigh, Wonwoo and Minghao sharing a blanket without speaking, and Seokmin trying to explain a meme that absolutely no one else understood.
Chan sat between Mingyu and Seungcheol, sipping the hot chocolate that Seokmin had insisted on making for everyone. He was relaxed now, truly. His laughter came easy, and for the first time in days, the heaviness in his chest felt… manageable.
Which, of course, meant it was the perfect time for chaos to strike.
“You know,” Seokmin said suddenly, glancing at Chan over his mug, “I was thinking earlier about how much braver you’ve gotten lately.”
Chan blinked. “Oh? Thanks?”
“No, no—like, wildly brave,” Soonyoung chimed in, now wide awake, grinning like a gremlin. “Remember when you told Seungcheol hyung to stop pretending?”
Chan immediately tensed. “Wait—wait, I thought we moved on—”
“Iconic behavior, honestly,” Jeonghan said with a fake, dramatic sigh. “I could never survive saying that to him. I enjoy living too much.”
Seungcheol snorted into his drink. “You say worse things to me daily.”
“Yes,” Jeonghan said brightly, “but with charm.”
Mingyu stretched his legs and yawned. “I’m still stuck on the fact that I got dragged into this. For weeks I thought Chan hated me.”
Chan pointed at him. “That was your fault! You called me ‘kiddo’ in front of that staff member.”
“It’s a cute nickname! You should be flattered.”
“I’m twenty-five!”
“Emotionally?” Mingyu grinned. “Debatable.”
The room erupted. Seokmin wheezed. Jeonghan nearly dropped his mug. Soonyoung clapped like a seal.
Even Seungcheol had to cover his face to stop himself from laughing too hard.
“I take back everything,” Chan groaned, sinking into the couch. “You’re all the worst.”
Minghao raised an eyebrow, calmly sipping his drink. “We support you. Emotionally. But also, this is karma.”
“You’re lucky I like you guys,” Chan muttered.
“We trained you too well,” Jeonghan said proudly. “Soft heart, hard roast.”
Chan looked around the room, at every face lit with laughter, every eye watching him with fondness and zero mercy.
He shook his head, smiling despite himself.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I’m gonna be okay.”