Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"What would you do if you knew this was the last night of the world?" Jeongin blurted as soon as the call connected.

Felix blinked at him through the screen.

“Sorry?” He said after a moment, and Jeongin swallowed, leg bouncing machine-gun fast beneath his desk.

“If the world was going to end tonight, what would you do today?” He said.

“What would I do; you mean, seriously?” Felix asked, but it was pointless to ask. Jeongin’s wide eyes and uncharacteristically pale skin said it all.

“Seriously,” he said. “What would you do?”

Felix stared back at him wordlessly. His gaze was slightly off-centre, looking at his screen rather than his camera. It was comforting and disconcerting at the same time.

“I—I don’t know,” Felix said softly after a long moment, nibbling the edge of his thumbnail. “I hadn’t thought.”

“You hadn’t thought,” Jeongin repeated, his voice brittle. “Did you not have the—”

“I did,” Felix interrupted, his tone final. “Everyone did, didn’t they?”

Jeongin watched himself nod on the little screen, delayed by just a moment.

“Have you spoken to the others?” Felix asked, and Jeongin saw himself shake his head. “Why not?” Felix asked, and the little digital Jeongin shrugged.

“Have you?” He fired back, and Felix shook his head; they lapsed into silence.

Changbin and Hyunjin were the next to join, two little figures in one box. Jeongin was instantly sickened with the sort of burning jealousy most people never get to feel.

“So,” Hyunjin said plainly, and Jeongin frowned.

“‘So,’ what?” He asked. Hyunjin rolled his eyes, and Jeongin almost cracked a smile at his unfaltering sass. Almost.

“The end of the world,” Hyunjin said, shrugging one shoulder. He and Changbin were sat on separate chairs, half a foot apart, not draped all over one another like usual. Jeongin didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one. He wasn’t sure if such a concept existed anymore.

“I can’t believe you’re not crying,” he said, for lack of anything better to say.

“I don’t see why I should,” Hyunjin replied, and Jeongin nodded in silent understanding.

Half a minute ticked by in silence. For once in their lives, they had nothing to say to each other. Or maybe they had too much, but not enough time to say it.

“What are you guys up to?” Changbin asked, voice strained with the effort of making small talk. Nobody replied, and Changbin sighed. “What time is it there?” He asked. That was his real question all along, Jeongin suspected.

“Two in the afternoon,” Jeongin said quietly.

“You have time,” Changbin said—as if that made any difference.

“I don’t,” Felix said, huffing an empty laugh. “It’s ten p.m. here already. Me and Ch—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed thickly. “Me and Chan will be the first to go.”

“And I’ll be the last,” Jeongin said, only realising it then. They would tick out of existence, one by one, as the night went around the world. The others—Chan and Felix in Australia, then the others in Korea and Japan—would go first, and Jeongin would be left alone until it was his turn. The thought struck him with panic, his pulse thrumming in his neck, in the crooks of his elbows.

At that moment, Chan joined the call.

“Speak of the devil,” Hyunjin said, without a trace of his usual humour.

“Felix,” Chan said, as soon as his audio connected. His hair was a mess—even more than usual—and he had his coat on, car keys in hand. He was standing up in front of his desk chair, bent over awkwardly to fit into frame. “Didn’t you see my text? I can—I can come to you,” he said, frantic. “There’s still time.”

Felix swallowed again, silent for a long moment as Chan watched the screen expectantly. Felix’s face was blank, and the quiet was deafening.

“To do what?” Felix said eventually, so quiet the microphone almost didn’t pick it up.

“I—I don’t know,” Chan stammered, looking shocked, untethered. Felix said nothing, expression static and unchanging. “I don’t know,” Chan said again, his voice getting quieter with every word, “I guess I just wanted to be with you.”

Jeongin watched Felix’s heart break, his face crumpling.

“I—there’s no point,” he said, voice wavering. “The traffic is—you’ll never make it here before—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, visibly forcing his broken pieces back into place. “I’d rather you stay here. With everyone.”

Only then did Chan even seem to register the presence of the others, and it was like he snapped out of some sort of trance. He blinked, eyes skittering across his screen, then swore under his breath, keys clattering loudly to the desk as he fell back in his chair, burying his face in his hands.

Nobody said anything, just sat there, watching or carefully not watching. There was nothing to say that they didn’t all already know.

“I’m sorry,” Chan said in the end, his voice rough. “You’re right, I—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Changbin said, a little too understanding. Jeongin’s eyes flicked to Hyunjin, then back to Changbin. He decided not to think too hard about it. “Do you know if the others are coming?” Changbin asked, and Chan froze.

“Uh… I don’t know,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere away from his computer. Jeongin didn’t judge him for not reaching out to the rest of them—he’d be a hypocrite if he did.

They sat for a while longer, in a silence that was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. It was the purest silence Jeongin had ever experienced; he thought it might have been peaceful under different circumstances.

Then, two new video feeds blinked into existence on their screens at the exact same moment. Minho and Jisung blurred into view, and Jeongin’s eyebrows shot up.

Minho was crying.

Jeongin was sure that he could count the number of times he’d seen Minho cry on one hand, so seeing him now, face swollen and eyes red-rimmed, was an unpleasant surprise. Jisung’s face went from blank to concerned in a flash.

“Hyung,” he said, eyes widening. “Are you okay?”

Minho sniffed.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Hannie,” he said flatly, and Jisung visibly winced.

“Sorry,” he said, and left it at that.

“Are you still in…?” Chan asked, trailing off in question.

“Osaka,” Jisung said, his voice heavy. “I was meant to be going to Tokyo tomorrow.”

If Minho let out a little, broken sob, nobody mentioned it.

In the background of his video, outside the window, a giant red-and-white tower was lit up like a fairground ride. Jeongin looked over the top of his laptop screen and saw an almost-identical construction looming over the city—a day ago, it was a symbol of love and romance. Now, a bitter reminder of his isolation.

When the final empty grey rectangle appeared, with its little ‘Seungmin is connecting to audio…’ tag, every muscle in Jeongin’s body tensed. The tendons stood out of his neck, and his fingernails dug into his palms. He didn’t register the pain, nor did he register the pitying looks on everyone else’s faces.

When Seungmin appeared in the box, all that painful, straining tension loosened, at the same time as Jeongin’s heart dropped.

Seungmin was smiling.

Why was he smiling?

“How about that stupid conspiracy theory?” He said in lieu of a greeting, and the bottom fell out of Jeongin’s stomach.

“C-conspiracy theory?” Hyunjin breathed after a moment.

“It’s ridiculous,” Seungmin said, not missing a beat. “They lifted it all from a Ray Bradbury story from the fifties. The dream, the voice—everything.” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t understand why so many people are believing it.”

There was a long pause as each of them took in the information. Chan’s face stayed carefully blank, while Minho’s head snapped up, an accusatory glare in his bloodshot eyes. Changbin’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, while Hyunjin’s mouth fell open in shock. Jisung’s eyes widened, while Felix just looked down at his lap and sighed.

For his part, Jeongin just stared. It might have been disbelief which had him blinking, eyes skating over Seungmin’s tiny, pixelated face; or, he might have been desperately trying to memorise the fold of his eyelids, the curve of his cheek, while he was still smiling. He pinned Seungmin’s video.

“Because they had the dream too,” Hyunjin said quietly, voice tinged with confusion—and rightfully so; Seungmin was the first person any of them had heard of who didn’t believe it. Now, he scoffed.

“They think they had the dream too,” he corrected, gesturing to his head, and Jeongin frowned. Seungmin's shirt cuff was undone. “It’s mass hysteria,” he said, shrugging.

Another long silence stretched out between them, Seungmin eerily nonchalant while the rest stared on in confusion, in disbelief, or in horror.

“I had the dream.” Changbin was the first of them to say it.

“Hyung,” Seungmin said, fondly exasperated. “You—”

“I did, too,” Hyunjin said, and Seungmin gave him this horrible, pitying look that made Jeongin’s stomach turn.

“With all due respect,” he said, “I can imagine Changbin telling you he—”

“We all had it,” Chan cut in, silencing Seungmin instantly. Chan quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed by Seungmin’s apparent smugness. “Didn’t you?”

“Me?” Seungmin laughed, shaking his head. “You think I’d fall for a ridiculous Internet hoax like—”

“Did you have the dream,” Chan asked flatly, “yes or no?”

“Did I have the dream,” Seungmin repeated, and Jeongin wondered if he was the only one who noticed that his conviction was waning. “The dream that everyone had,” Seungmin said theatrically, “where the spooky God-voice tells you that the world’s gonna end—”

“It’s a simple fucking question!” Felix blurted, blank expression finally cracking into a scowl. “Are you gonna answer it? Or are you just gonna sit here and—and mock everyone who did have the dream? Is that what you’re gonna do? Act like you’re above us?” He scoffed. “You’re gonna waste the last hours of your life alienating the people who love—”

“Of course I had the dream!” Seungmin yelled, and they all fell silent. “Everyone had the fucking dream! But it doesn’t—it can’t—I need—it—it doesn’t mean anything! Okay!?”

Jeongin blinked. Seungmin was shouting loud. Louder than Felix. Louder than Jeongin had heard him shout before. So loud that it came through the microphone all distorted and robotic. The strange, synthetic sound rang in Jeongin’s ears, filling their stunned silence with echoes of the outburst.

Jeongin didn’t know if it hurt more or less that they couldn't quite make eye contact through the screen.

“Seungmin,” Chan said eventually, his voice level. “How can it not mean anything?”

Seungmin blinked in disbelief.

“Have you all lost your minds?” He said, slow and quiet. “It’s a dream. Logically speaking, it has absolutely no bearing on anything that happens in real life. Do you not understand that?”

“Everyone had it,” Minho said, his voice wet and miserable. “The same dream. Everyone. That already defies logic.”

Seungmin seemed to notice, right then, that Minho had been crying. He faltered, just enough for Jeongin to notice, then gathered himself again.

“We don’t know everything there is to know about human psychology,” he said. “Chances are, there’s a perfectly scientific explanation for—”

“Seungmin, please,” Changbin said, looking pained. “It’s almost eleven in Sydney. We don’t want to spend our last hours together arguing, if—if it’s true. Please.”

Seungmin paused, staring at the screen blankly for a moment. Jeongin could see Minho’s slumped form reflected in the whites of his eyes.

“Yeah,” Seungmin said, suddenly looking exhausted. “Yeah, okay.”

The conversation moved onto lighter topics, then—what everyone had done today, where they’d been, who they’d seen. They talked about it all as if it wasn’t potentially the most significant day of their lives, and they ignored whenever Minho muted his microphone, turned off his camera, and came back minutes later, eyes freshly red and nose rubbed raw.

Somewhere around midnight, Chan yawned, and Felix cleared his throat, glancing off to one side.

“I… I think me and Chan should go to bed,” he said, and the rest of them froze.

“Bed?” Jisung said, eyes wide and panicked.

“Yeah,” Felix said, picking at his fingernails.

“Why?” Hyunjin asked. Felix bit his lip.

“I just…” He cleared his throat again, the sound thick. When he spoke again, his voice was small and frail. “I was thinking… I don’t think we want to be awake when…” He trailed off as realisation dawned on the others’ faces. “And I don’t think you guys—you know, I don’t think we should be… on camera…”

“Oh,” Jeongin whispered, horrified.

“Yeah,” Felix said. “So I’m gonna go.”

“Alright,” Changbin said, the word coming out forced.

“Bye,” Felix said. They repeated the farewell back to him, a chorus of hollow voices.

“I love you,” Chan said suddenly, but Felix was already gone. Chan sighed, the light all gone from his eyes, and left the call. Jeongin’s chest felt like a huge, gaping hole.

“Right,” Jisung whispered. His hands were shaking.

The conversation was threadbare after that, thin and stilted. Over the next hour, Jeongin watched as Minho’s tears dried, as Changbin’s jaw clenched, as Jisung went quiet, as Hyunjin’s eyes grew impossibly sad. All of them were in the same time zone, except for Jeongin.

“Are you gonna be okay, Innie?” Hyunjin whispered, when his own clock showed ten to midnight. Jeongin’s own was only just approaching five p.m., the sun shining red-orange through the narrow window of his hotel room.

“Yeah,” Jeongin said, shrugging a shoulder. It wasn’t a lie, as far as he was aware. He felt numb, strangely unaffected by it all.

“Okay,” Hyunjin said, and they left it at that.

They all logged off, one by one, with brief, throw-away goodbyes, just like Chan and Felix. Jeongin supposed he would’ve done the same; anything grander would hurt far too much.

Seungmin was the last to leave, only by a second.

“See you soon,” he said, smiling, and then he was gone.

Gone.

Jeongin was glad of it.

He was glad Seungmin didn’t see the way he folded in on himself, crumpling like he’d been hit in the stomach. He was glad Seungmin didn’t hear the first horrific, painful sob that tore its way out of his chest, echoing off the empty, white walls.

He was glad Seungmin didn’t see the way he slid down onto the floor, knees hitting the hardwood, body sagging over the seat of his chair, tears wetting the intricate brocade. He was glad Seungmin didn’t hear the way he screamed their names, one after the other, to the empty room.

He was glad Seungmin didn’t hear his own name, cried over and over until Jeongin’s voice ran out and he slumped to the floor.

Kim Seungmin. Seungmin-hyung. Seungmin. Seungmin, Seungmin, Seungmin.

Jeongin stayed there, cheek resting on the heavy damask rug, the leg of his chair digging into his back. His eyes roamed listlessly around the room, from the floor-length curtains to the out-of-use fireplace to the chandelier to the chaise longue.

He watched the sun slip lower and lower, grateful when it dipped below the windowsill and stopped burning his eyes. He watched the very top of the Eiffel tower light up, loath to stand up and see the rest. Why should he? Love was dead. Jeongin’s was, anyway.

As the moon rose over the city, dripping its mercury into the river and pressing silver leaf onto the rooftops, Jeongin fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

When they leave the call, Changbin and Hyunjin sit in silence for the better part of a minute, staring at their own reflections on the computer screen.

It’s strangely different from watching themselves on video. For one, it’s more immediate—they see each tiny movement the instant it happens, rather than with a brief delay. But also, like this, it’s inevitable that they’ll catch eye-contact at some point—and they do.

The moment their eyes meet, they both look away, and it’s so ridiculously childish that it makes Changbin giggle.

“What’s funny?” Hyunjin says, short and bitter and resigned. Changbin takes a moment to consider what he’s about to say. The last thing he wants is to upset Hyunjin, to poke at an open wound on their last day on earth… but then again, what does it matter anymore?

“Don’t you think it’s ridiculous for us to still be shy about it?” Changbin blurts.

Hyunjin blinks.

“Shy?” He says. “About what?”

Changbin balks. Then, he laughs, the sound brittle. It’s not funny. Not anymore.

“About me being in love with you.”

“About what?!” Hyunjin chokes, eyes wide. His cheeks flare the bright red of a warning light.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t get it anymore,” Changbin says calmly, because it’s true—for the first time in years, their public image doesn’t matter. In a matter of hours, they won’t have a reputation to break anymore. So Changbin’s calm about it.

Hyunjin isn’t.

“H-hyung,” he sputters, “what?” Changbin gives him a flat look. “What?” Hyunjin repeats, looking genuinely confused, and it’s in that moment that Changbin starts to realise.

Poor Hyunjin. All these years of Changbin throwing himself at him, on- and off-camera, and he never thought that it could be more than a joke. And poor Changbin. He gave up long ago, convinced his love was unrequited, and now he finds out that it might not have been? Changbin lets the pain hit him.

“Well,” he says, his voice shaky. Hyunjin is still pale, shocked paper-thin.

“I thought you were joking,” he says, desperate.

“I thought I was joking,” Changbin says carefully. “And then—well, anyway, I thought it was in the past. I spent years—” He breaks off, rubbing his hand over his face, then looks at Hyunjin, who hasn’t moved an inch. “At least tell me you don’t like me,” he pleads, “so that the time I spent getting over you still counts.”

Changbin knows, in the first half-second of silence, that the words won’t come out. Hyunjin can’t say it.

It hits Changbin like a fist to the stomach, harsh and merciless, slamming up under his ribs. The pain burns so bright that, at first, Changbin can’t tell if he’s happy or sad that Hyunjin does like him—may well have liked him all along.

Once the initial shock dulls down to an ache, Changbin finds that he still can’t untangle his feelings about it. He sighs heavily, burying his face in his hands.

He doesn’t cry. He never has, not over Hyunjin—he never could. Could never find it in himself to be sad when he still got to have Hyunjin in his life, by his side every day. That proximity alone was more than he could have ever asked for.

And so he doesn’t cry now, because Hyunjin’s still here, isn’t he? It’s more than the other six got, at least, spread out across the Earth as they are.

Despite it all, Hyunjin’s hand on Changbin’s shoulder almost breaks him. It’s just so Hyunjin, to offer that one final comfort after all that’s happened.

“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin says, his voice low and thick. “I’m—”

“Don’t be sorry.” Changbin looks up, finally meets Hyunjin’s sorrowful gaze. “Please, don’t apologise,” he says, because an apology could—would—hurt him more than anything else.

He doesn’t want to know what Hyunjin would be apologising for. For loving him back? For admitting it? For not admitting it before? None of the options look good to Changbin.

“Okay,” Hyunjin says softly, his hand still big and warm and strangely comforting despite the crushing reality of the situation. “It’s okay,” he says genuinely.

“It is?” Changbin questions, not mocking, just curious. He’s always curious about Hyunjin—about what he’s thinking, how his mind operates.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin says softly. “It’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?”

Changbin looks up at him for a moment, bewildered, and then suddenly he can’t help but to laugh. For the first time all day, it’s a bright, honest laugh. Of course Hyunjin would see the romance in a belated confession at the end of the world.

“Romantic?” Changbin giggles, and Hyunjin smiles softly.

“Yeah!” He says. “It’s like something out of a film, don’t you think?”

Changbin snorts, his knee bumping Hyunjin’s.

“I mean, it’d be a pretty depressing film, but…”

“I like sad films,” Hyunjin says with a shrug, “and I like you.”

“You do?” Changbin says, fishing for something realer.

“I do,” Hyunjin says. “I love you; you know that. And I guess… there’s something more, something I didn’t let myself feel back when we—when it couldn’t have worked between us. I think, maybe… maybe I was holding onto it for the future?” He frowns.

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Changbin says gently, cupping Hyunjin’s jaw in his hand as he cuts off his rambling. “You didn’t know—neither of us knew. And what difference would it have made if we did? We couldn’t have been together, not for real.”

Hyunjin looks at him for a moment, then huffs.

“Well, we could’ve spent a lot more time kissing,” he says, and Changbin laughs.

“There’s still time,” he points out, and Hyunjin’s eyes widen, like he’s only just realising it’s a possibility. He probably is. “If… if you want it,” Changbin says tentatively, “I want to kiss you until the world ends.”

Hyunjin blinks, and then a wide, beautiful smile dawns on his face.

“Now that’s romantic,” he says, and then he’s scooting in towards Changbin, taking his face in his hands and kissing him.

Hyunjin’s lips are just as soft as they look, just as soft as Changbin always imagined, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Changbin is so glad he got to find out. He loses himself in the kiss, in the slick press of lips against lips, until Hyunjin pulls away with a little sound of discomfort.

“Ow,” he says, “my back. It’s gonna be sore at practice tomorro—oh.” He looks at Changbin, and Changbin looks at him, and then they both burst out laughing, Changbin leaning on Hyunjin’s shoulder as he giggles uncontrollably.

“This is so ridiculous,” he gasps, “I love you.” It slips out, the same way it does almost every day, at practice, during schedules, but this time they both know it means so much more.

“I love you too,” Hyunjin says sweetly. “But let’s at least move to the sofa,” he pleads, and Changbin laughs again.

“I’ll do you one better,” he says, and then, without warning, he picks Hyunjin up in a bridal carry and starts off down the hall. Hyunjin is giggling hysterically, but then he grabs onto Changbin’s bicep and suddenly his laughter dies out.

“You’re so hot,” he says, apropos of nothing, and Changbin almost trips over his own feet.

“Me?” He says, incredulous, and Hyunjin frowns up at him as he places him down on the bed.

“Yeah, you,” he says. “What? You don’t think you’re attractive?”

“I do,” Changbin says, “but… I dunno, it’s different coming from you. I mean, look at you.” He gestures vaguely towards Hyunjin reclining elegantly on the bed, all long limbs and perfect features. Hyunjin frowns.

“Are you comparing yourself to me?” He asks bluntly, and Changbin shakes his head.

“It’s not like that,” he rushes to correct. “It’s more… I guess I always thought you were a little out of my league.” It sounds silly even to Changbin’s own ears, now.

“Is anyone out of your league? You’re an international celebrity,” Hyunjin points out.

“You’re right,” Changbin concedes, “but if anyone were out of my league, it’d be you.” He climbs onto the bed then, hovering over Hyunjin. “And I’m not a celebrity anymore. Tonight, I’m only one thing: yours.”

“Cheesy,” Hyunjin says, but he’s smiling so wide it can’t really be counted as a criticism.

They kiss and talk for a while, just enjoying being together. It’s lovely, so lovely that Changbin almost forgets the circumstances they’re in. So it shocks him a little when Hyunjin says it.

“How long do you think we have?” He asks. “I mean, it’s…” He glances at his watch. “It’s like two in the morning already. Half past, even.”

Changbin frowns.

“I mean, I guess it could be any time before sunrise,” he says. “All we know is that it’ll be in the night, right?”

Hyunjin nods. Then, he yawns.

“I’m getting sleepy,” he says through his yawn, and Changbin snickers.

“You don’t say,” he says dryly, and Hyunjin giggles. “D’you wanna sleep?”

Hyunjin shakes his head.

“I’d get FOMO if you were awake for it and I wasn’t,” he jokes, and Changbin huffs a weak laugh.

“I’d never let you hear the end of it,” he says, carrying on the bit, and Hyunjin giggles. Changbin knows him well enough to read between the lines—the joke is only surface-deep. The truth is, he just wants to spend all their remaining time together… doesn’t want to leave Changbin alone.

“So what d’you wanna do?” Hyunjin asks, smiling up at Changbin innocently.

“I think you know exactly what I wanna do,” Changbin says with a wicked smirk, and Hyunjin’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” he breathes, and then he flashes Changbin a grin and rolls on top of him. “I guess that could be arranged… if it’s your last wish.”

“Oh, it is. It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Changbin says with a silly grin… but he’s not joking, not really.

It’s great—a little rushed, for obvious reasons, but great. Changbin’s never felt so satisfied, so connected to another person, in his life, and the thought crosses his mind that he couldn’t have asked for a better way to close out his time on Earth.

They’re still laying there, still halfway tangled together, a little sweaty but happier than they’ve ever been, when they see it.

“What?” Hyunjin says flatly, out of nowhere.

“What?” Changbin asks, then follows Hyunjin’s eye-line and… What?

Changbin blinks, then rubs his eyes.

What?

“Uh,” Hyunjin says, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed and padding over to the window to push the curtains open fully. “Can you turn the light off real quick?” He asks, his voice shaking.

“Sure,” Changbin says, similarly strained. He flicks the bedside lamp off, then gets up to join Hyunjin by the window.

“Light pollution?” Hyunjin says, so softly and so tentatively that it’s almost comical.

“I… I’m not sure,” Changbin says, squinting.

“It can’t be,” Hyunjin says with finality. Then, he shifts a little, socked feet scuffing on the carpet. “Can it?” He looks at Changbin, then back out the window.

“Uh… I don’t know,” Changbin says. He looks out the window again.

It’s impossible to tell, as of right now. What looks like the tiniest threads of light emerging behind the city skyline could be car headlights, could be streetlights, could just be a figment of their imaginations. It’s impossible to tell, and yet they both stay there, staring out of the window, staring and staring until the buildings blur.

“We should really do something,” Hyunjin says softly. Changbin frowns at him. “You know, to kill some time, and then we can come back and check again.”

It’s a good idea. A great one, even.

“Okay,” Changbin shrugs, and then they stay there, unmoving, for a minute more. “Um,” Changbin says eventually, “like what?”

“I dunno,” Hyunjin says. “Should we… get some breakfast?” He looks at Changbin then, a funny little look that sits somewhere in-between confused and hopeful. It’s so endearing, so undeniably Hyunjin, that Changbin’s chest clenches and he lets out a strangled laugh. “What?” Hyunjin asks.

“Nothing,” Changbin says. “You’re cute.”

“I know,” Hyunjin says, preening—only half-joking. Changbin chuckles fondly.

“What d’you wanna eat?” He asks, and Hyunjin shrugs a shoulder.

“What do we have?” He says, and Changbin shrugs back at him. It’s Hyunjin’s turn to laugh, then, as he drags Changbin through to the kitchen to see what food they have in.

Changbin finds that he’s ravenous—more so than usual, for having eaten practically nothing all day. Hyunjin’s hungry, too, his stomach growling dramatically the moment he lays eyes on the pantry.

“God, I’m starving,” he murmurs. “Is there anything we can make quickly?”

So that’s how they end up eating cereal on the most significant day in human history. They pad back through to the main room, Hyunjin with his favourite chocolate-chip Mini Weetabix, cold milk in a separate bowl, and Changbin with a chaotic mixture of every cereal in the pantry.

“I’m telling you,” Hyunjin says, rolling his eyes as he chews on one carefully milk-dipped Mini Weetabix, “the Cookie Crisps were totally stale.”

“Who cares?” Changbin volleys back, shovelling a heaping spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “They’re Cookie Crisps, they’re gonna be amazing even if—”

“Oh,” Hyunjin says, his bowls slamming down on the dining table with an ugly ‘clunk’.

“What?” Changbin says with his mouth still full of half-chewed cereal. Then— “Oh.”

The property they’re staying in has a balcony—a fact that they both laughed about when they first arrived, because what use is a balcony in Seoul? Hyunjin had spotted one lonely person out on her balcony across the way, joked that she might as well take up chain-smoking for all the pollution she was breathing in.

So the French doors had stayed shut, the patio furniture under its neat weather-proof cover. But now, Hyunjin strides across the room, Mini Weetabix forgotten on the table, and throws the double doors wide open.

Changbin stands, jaw dropped, rooted in place as he watches him. Because it’s undeniable now.

The sun is coming up.

“No way,” Changbin breathes as it sinks in.

The world isn’t ending.

Hyunjin’s not going to die today.

Changbin’s not going to die.

And Hyunjin loves him.

“Are you seeing this?!” Hyunjin yells from the balcony, ecstatic. The silky white drapes are billowing around him, and for a slightly unhinged moment, Changbin wonders if they have died, and these are the gates of Heaven. “Are you seeing it?!”

“Yeah,” Changbin replies, a little late and a little hollow. “Yeah, oh my God, I’m seeing it, Jinnie.” He finally stumbles out onto the balcony, and Hyunjin catches him around the waist, pulling him into an ecstatic, cereal-flavoured kiss.

“We’re alive,” Hyunjin says as they part, grinning.

“We are,” Changbin says, his heart fluttering in his chest as he imagines the lifetime they have ahead of them—together.

“I love you,” Hyunjin says, as if he feels the need to remind Changbin, to tell him it was all real. “I’m in love with you.” He says it with such fervent conviction that Changbin can’t help but lean in for another kiss.

“And I’m in love with you,” he says against Hyunjin’s lips as he pulls away. “I love you, Hwang Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin giggles, and then their bubble is popped when his stomach growls loudly.

“Oh, God,” Hyunjin groans, covering his ears as they turn pink and Changbin cackles in the background. “Shut up.” Hyunjin turns to head back inside to his cereal.

“What?” Changbin says through laughter. “I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to,” Hyunjin grumbles, smacking him on the shoulder, and Changbin only laughs harder.

They end up on the balcony—pollution be damned—eating their cereal and watching the sunrise as they chatter about what on Earth is going to happen now.

“Like, surely people will renounce all their material possessions and—oh, God,” Hyunjin says suddenly, freezing with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

“What?” Changbin asks, alarmed. Hyunjin takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a long, put-upon sigh. He looks at Changbin.

“Seungmin was right,” he says.

Changbin looks at him for a long moment, then groans.

“Oh, God,” he says. “We’re never gonna hear the end of this, are we?”

Hyunjin shakes his head.

“Is it too soon to say I kind of wish the world had ended?”

Chapter Text

It isn’t until Jisung hangs up the call that his heart sinks. It takes him by surprise, the way the bottom of his stomach drops out, leaving him dizzy, feeling untethered from reality.

“Woah,” he says to himself, as his breathing picks up, and he tries to take a deep breath to ground himself. He suddenly realises, in that moment, that Minho has reminded him to ‘breathe through it’ so many times over the years that it’s become a reflex. The breath catches in his throat, and his hands start to tingle with over-oxygenation.

A panic attack, he realises—the pins-and-needles in his hands and feet are so familiar they’re almost comforting. Jisung laughs to himself, then swears when it makes his head spin. He doesn’t even realise what he’s doing, running on autopilot, until the dial tone sounds.

“Fuck,” Jisung whispers, as Minho’s name blinks back at him from his computer screen. Minho seemed so defeated, helplessly sad in a way Jisung had never seen before, and the last thing he wants to do is hand him more burden. He scrabbles to hang up, but the call connects before he gets the chance.

“Hi,” Minho says miserably, and then he takes in Jisung’s appearance—maybe it’s something about his expression, or his hair mussed from his frantic, tugging fingers, or the slight tremor in his hands—and his entire disposition changes. “Hey, look at me, deep breaths,” he says, and Jisung’s eyes burn.

Because just like that, Minho’s own emotions disappear, under a sheet of unwavering calmness. Even at the end of the world, he’s stepped into his role as Jisung’s supporter, as his advisor, as his protector, as if it’s his whole life’s purpose.

“That’s it,” he says encouragingly, “deep breath in, hold it—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—and out. Good, you’re doing great, jagi,” he says, and it hits Jisung like a punch in the gut.

Jagi. It’s not a new development; they’ve been together for well over a year now. Well… sort of. It’s a complicated issue. The fact of the matter is, as high-profile Korean celebrities, when it comes to them being in a queer relationship, the risks far outweigh the rewards. So, for now, ‘jagi’ is all it is.

Jisung doesn’t want to dwell on it, but he can’t help but think that that’s exactly why Minho has been so torn up about it all. He kept it quiet—of course he did—but Jisung could tell that, even though he loved his job, Minho was always just waiting for the day where he could truly be himself.

A day which, apparently, would never come.

“Come on, Jisungie,” Minho is saying, “nice slow breath in, now hold it, and then let it out. You’re doing great.” Jisung snaps out of his spiral and lets Minho talk him through it. He feels the horrible tightness in his chest loosen, the strange tingly numbness in his legs dissipate.

“Sorry,” is the first thing he says, as soon as he can get the words out.

“For what?” Minho asks kindly. “I’ll always be here to take care of you, Sungie.” As soon as he says it, he grimaces. “Well,” he says, a little awkwardly. “Until—”

“Yeah,” Jisung says. “Yeah, you’re—you’ve always been so… you know. So good to me.”

Minho shrugs.

“How could I not? I love you.”

Jisung takes a long, slow breath that hurts at the back of his throat.

“Love you too,” he mumbles. Minho visibly swallows.

“Um,” he says, and the wariness in his voice snaps Jisung to attention. “I was thinking…” He pauses, nibbling his lower lip.

“Yeah?” Jisung prompts after a moment.

“I might… drive,” Minho says. Jisung stares at the screen blankly.

“Drive?”

“To Osaka,” Minho sighs. “Just… you know. Just in case there's a chance.”

Jisung’s eyes widen.

“But it’s—what, seven hours? The drive?” He asks, taken aback.

“Almost eight,” Minho says quietly, with a small nod. Jisung knows him well enough to know he’s been thinking about it for a while, that he’s really, seriously considering it. He might have decided already—and if he has, even Jisung won’t be able to talk him out of it.

“A-and you wouldn’t have contact with me on the road,” Jisung realises, frowning. They don’t have network coverage in Japan; Jisung’s on his hotel WiFi, and he’s sure Minho is too. No need for the company to pay for a SIM when the plan was to hop from hotel to photoshoot to hotel again, he supposes.

“You’re right,” Minho says, but his tone doesn’t imply he’ll leave it alone.

“There’s no way we have that long,” Jisung says, pushing towards frantic. It’s looking more and more like Minho’s going to do this.

“Who says?” Minho counters, a little harshly.

“It—you know,” Jisung says, “it’s gonna happen in the night, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Minho says, “but maybe not.”

“What do you mean ‘maybe not’?” Jisung says, and he knows he’s being loud, practically shouting at his computer at this point. “Why would you—”

“I have to!” Minho snaps, cuts him off. His hands are shaking as he wipes roughly at his eyes.

“Why?” Jisung asks, small and shaky. Minho takes a deep breath, sitting up straight.

“Han Jisung,” he says, somehow steady even though his voice is wobbling. “If I can have even one second with you—really with you, in real life—it’ll be worth it. Maybe I won’t get it, but… I’m willing to take that risk. Please let me.”

This is the thing about Minho. He’s usually so private, so quiet with his love, saving it for only the most intimate moments. Even then, even when it’s just the two of them, he’s not one for grand gestures or flowery words. So when, once in a blue moon, he does say something heartfelt, it feels earth-shattering.

Like right now—Jisung really does feel like the earth is shattering beneath him.

He blinks, hit full-force by the colossal, unstoppable thing that is Minho’s love for him, the breath knocked from his lungs.

“Is that okay?” Minho asks, and there’s the tiniest hint of urgency mixed in with it, a well-hidden undercurrent. Jisung hears it anyway. “Can I come to you?”

Jisung is silent for a moment longer, and then he sees Minho’s finger twitch, and he suddenly understands that Minho wants to be out the door right now, that he’s only waiting for Jisung’s say-so because he doesn’t want to hurt him.

Jisung nods.

“Um… yeah,” he says, and Minho’s entire body loosens. “But,” Jisung says, quiet and unsure, “will you… stay, for just a moment? If—if this is the last time we…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “If this is the last time we see each other, I don’t want you to just… disappear.”

Minho looks at him—or rather, looks slightly off-camera, staring at him on the screen—for a long moment, and then sags.

“Jagi,” he sighs, “you know I wasn’t just going to disappear out the door, right? You don’t think I’d do that to you… do you?”

“No,” Jisung answers, quick and truthful. “No, I know you’d never do that. I just… get nervous.” He shrugs awkwardly, and somehow that pulls a smile from Minho.

“I know, baby,” he says softly, and something inside Jisung’s chest swells, warm and bright, because Minho does know—he knows Jisung better than anyone does, better than anyone ever has.

After that, Minho stays for a little while—long enough to tell Jisung exactly how much he loves him, long enough for Jisung to say the same back, in less pretty words. But, eventually, he does have to go.

“If I leave now,” Minho says, “I’ll be there at… well, it depends on the traffic, but I think about six in the morning, if I put my foot down. That’s still… that’s still before sunrise.”

He smiles, just a little, and it’s beautiful on him, as always. Minho doesn’t smile often, and Jisung thinks that that only makes it more stunning.

“Um,” Minho says, visibly antsy, on the verge of getting up out of his chair.

“Go,” Jisung says, before he can lose his nerve. He forces his own smile, knows it won’t suit him the way it suits Minho. “I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you more,” Minho says before he logs off, and it feels as impossible as it does true.

When Minho is gone, Jisung sits there for a long moment, still and quiet, and then gets up.

He walks to the kitchenette, pours a glass of water and drinks it slowly, watching the city lights blink outside his hotel window. He goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, then changes into his pyjamas—they’re printed with silly little cartoon cats, matching with the ones Minho isn’t wearing.

Jisung slips into bed and unlocks his phone, then locks it again when the endless ladder of notifications on the screen makes him a little nauseous. Without another thought, he flicks off the bedside lamp and hunkers down under the sheets.

It takes Jisung a long time to fall asleep, long enough that he almost wants to get up and forget he ever tried—but he stays put, keeps his eyes resolutely closed. Whatever happens, however this ends, he doesn’t want to be awake for it.

—

Jisung wakes to a familiar sound blaring from right beside his ear. He groans, then reaches for his phone unconsciously, tapping blindly at the screen until the call picks up.

“Min?” He mumbles, his voice croaky with sleep. He’s exhausted, enough that it fills his brain with thick, sticky fog, the only clear thought being that he wants to go back to sleep.

“Jisung?” Minho says, and he sounds worried, he sounds urgent. Jisung frowns.

“Yeah?” He says, confused.

“I’m here,” Minho says, and Jisung badly stifles a yawn.

“Where?” He says, airy and sleepy. Minho is silent for just a moment, and then he huffs a soft laugh.

“Jisung, jagi, did you just wake up?”

“Uh huh,” Jisung says, his voice pitiful. He just wants to go back to sleep. Even just a short nap would do. Minho would probably forgive him if he went quiet for just a few minutes…

“Jisung,” Minho says, fondly exasperated. “Wake up, Ji. Remember what’s happening—what happened yesterday?”

Jisung makes a soft sound, racking his brain. He remembers a sweet dream about Minho’s cats, and a super weird one about him and all of the guys living in a big house in the middle of nowhere, and a kind of really scary one where the world was going to end—hold on.

“Wait, did we die?!” Jisung blurts, blearily propping himself up on one elbow. Minho bursts out laughing, far too hard for the situation. It wakes Jisung up, tugs a little more of the truth back to the forefront of his mind.

“Not yet,” Minho says, a little hysterically. “So can you please call down to reception and tell them I can come up?”

“Um—sure,” Jisung says, only really remembering at that moment that he’s in a hotel. He scrabbles with the old corded phone on the bedside table for a moment, dialling the number wrong twice (which is kind of impressive, given that it’s only two digits long) before he gets through to reception.

Nobody answers, but the phone spits out an automated message and, after a convoluted journey through various menus, a one-time code for the elevator, which Jisung repeats to Minho. Once that’s done, Jisung feels a little more awake, a little more aware, and the fear rushes back in alongside the relief.

At this point, Minho’s only a few scant metres away, but that doesn’t mean they’re in the clear. What if the elevator isn’t working? What if the power goes out and he’s left hanging? What if it breaks with Minho still in it, and he goes crashing down the elevator shaft to a brutal, violent death?

Jisung takes a sharp, shaky breath. He’s overthinking, he’s catastrophizing—he knows it, and yet it’s so hard to stop the runaway train in his mind. He needs something to ground him. He needs Minho.

“Min?” Jisung says, and listens, holding his breath, waiting for Minho’s voice to rush over him like cool water on a burning-hot day.

That’s when he realises the line’s gone silent. Totally silent. Not just Minho’s-not-speaking-right-now silent, but completely dead. He looks down at the screen, sees that the call is still connected, puts it on speakerphone. It’s still silent.

“Min?” Jisung says again, cold, shivery anxiety rushing from his chest down to the tips of his fingers. “Minho? Are you still there?”

The silence makes it feel like the air is being sucked out of Jisung’s chest. Every tick from the alarm clock on the bedside table sounds gunshot-loud, echoing in Jisung’s skull. Is this it? Is Minho gone? Jisung doesn’t even have the presence of mind to think about whether that means he’ll be next.

“Minho?” He tries one more time, quiet and hollow.

There’s no response.

Well, not until—

“—lo? Come on,” Minho mutters, and Jisung comes back to life.

“Minho?” He croaks, eyes watering.

“Ah, hi, jagi,” Minho says easily. “I’m almost—”

“Where did you go?” Jisung asks, his voice wavering embarrassingly. He feels like a helpless child, lost in a strange playground or supermarket or airport.

“Lost signal in the elevator,” Minho says easily, and then there’s a shuffling sound before a loud knock rings out at the door of Jisung’s room, echoing down the line. Jisung springs up on shaky legs, wrenching open the door with a trembling hand.

For a moment, they both just stand there, taking each other in. Minho is beaming, smiling so wide it ought to hurt.

“Jagi,” he breathes, reaching out to take hold of Jisung’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?” He looks concerned even as he’s still smiling, and Jisung laughs softly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“Nothing,” he says, “just, you know—when the call cut off.” He grins, then, amused by his own anxiety, and Minho shakes his head, pulling Jisung into a tight hug.

“Aw, jagi,” he coos, hand creeping up the back of Jisung’s neck to thread itself into his hair. Jisung hums, taking in every sensation, the feeling of Minho’s arms around him, the smell of his cologne, the sound of his voice, even the curl of the wisps of hair Jisung can see out of the corner of his eye.

“I love you,” he says, wriggling out of Minho’s arms to look at him.

“I love you too,” Minho says softly, and then without a word, he pushes in the door, kicking it shut behind him before toeing his shoes off and dragging Jisung down the hallway into his bedroom. He all but throws Jisung down onto the bed, and Jisung laughs lightly.

“Right now?” He asks breathlessly, and Minho rolls his eyes.

“No,” he scoffs, and Jisung chuckles. “I just thought we’d be more comfortable here,” he says, and then he’s diving onto the bed, long limbs snaking around Jisung’s body everywhere he can reach. When Jisung turns his head to face him, their noses touch, and Jisung can’t help but grin.

“Hi,” he says, wrapping his arms around Minho at a much more reasonable pace. “So… you made it.” Minho nods.

“We made it,” he says, his mouth spreading into that adorable bunny-toothed grin. “I love you.”

“You just said that,” Jisung chuckles, stroking Minho’s unkempt hair out of his face. It’s still just as soft and silky as ever, and Minho is smiling up at him, and Jisung can’t help but be in awe of this beautiful, incredible person who’s somehow his.

“I love you,” Minho repeats forcefully, and the reply slips out of Jisung’s mouth without his say-so.

“I love you more,” he says, and Minho scoffs.

“We both know that’s impossible,” he insists, and Jisung goes along with it.

“In that case,” he says, a smile curling at the corner of his lips, “I love you as much as I possibly can.” Minho’s eyes widen for a moment, and then he smiles again, impossibly wider than before.

“I suppose that checks out,” he says, and then he leans in to kiss Jisung. It’s only when their lips meet that they both realise that they hadn't kissed yet—once they start, it’s impossible to stop.

They only break apart when, any number of minutes or hours later, a thought pricks at the back of Jisung’s mind.

“Wait,” he mumbles, but Minho pays him no mind, just presses their mouths together again. “Wait!” Jisung giggles, turning his head away, and Minho makes a frustrated sound. “Minho,” Jisung pants, grappling with Minho’s wandering hands. “What time is it, jagi?”

That seems to catch Minho’s attention.

“Uh, I don’t know,” he says, finally letting Jisung up so that he can check the time.

“Eight forty-seven,” Jisung reads out, and they look at each other for a long moment, a little stunned.

“That can’t be right,” Minho murmurs, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and pushing himself to standing, walking the few steps to the window. He pauses for just a moment before opening the heavy blackout curtains.

Sunlight streams into the room.

Minho stands there, frozen, silhouetted by the golden rays. Then, he turns around, looking at Jisung.

“What?” Jisung asks, his own burgeoning elation stalled by Minho’s grave expression. Minho takes a long, slow breath, shaking his head sadly. “What is it?” Jisung repeats.

“Seungmin’s going to be so fucking annoying about this.”

Chapter Text

Two hours. That’s all Felix got.

Two hours on the call; two hours with his family; two hours with Chan.

Two hours—and not even that, since Chan joined after ten and they both left before midnight.

Felix feels sick to his stomach at the thought.

He stumbles out of his chair on autopilot, his mind somewhere else entirely.

It’s not fair for this to happen now. Not when Felix is so close to what he wants. When he was just about to reach out and grab it. Now, his plans will never come to fruition.

Of course they won’t. Why should they? Felix laughs bitterly.

That’s the feeling which overwhelms him: bitterness. Roiling, churning bitterness, burning like bile in the back of his throat. Bitterness borne of an age-old truth, that bad things happen to good people. Though with the way he’s thinking, Felix starts to wonder if he even fits into that category anymore.

Because somehow, he finds it in himself to be mad at Minho and Jisung. At a time like this, he snipes inside his own head, disgusted with himself. It’s mean, and it’s childish. To be mad at them because he wants to be them.

And it’s not just harmless envy, but a cruel, sickening jealousy; a desire to wrench them out of their love story so that he can force himself into their place. Himself, along with—

When Felix snaps out of his reverie, he has his toothbrush in hand, lazily scrubbing at his teeth. He peers at himself in the mirror, meeting his own shuttered, sunken eyes.

What a fall from grace, he thinks darkly. He spends his whole life cultivating a cheery, sunny personality—always the first to smile, the first to give a compliment, the first to capture a friend in a bone-crushing hug—and this is how it ends?

He wonders if he’d have died happy if he’d been selfish.

For one, he’d have told Chan how he felt.

The only thing that ever held him back was his desire to keep everyone happy. It wasn’t people-pleasing, he’d thought at the time, but looking back… Maybe he should’ve said “fuck it” and torn the band apart after all.

That was the thing—it wouldn’t have been the same as it was for Minho and Jisung, who could love quietly, under wraps. Felix knew Chan. And he knew that a love kept secret would do Chan more harm than good. But, a love made public would destroy their careers.

So he never said a word.

Felix finds his way to his bed in the dark, groping around in the blackness to turn on the side lamp.

He plugs in his phone, then huffs a laugh and unplugs it again. Ridiculous.

Felix rolls his eyes and flicks the lamp off, darkness wrapping around him like a blanket.

It’s not his usual style, not nowadays—for all the pressure put on him, on all of them, rarely does Felix dwell on anything strongly enough to think about it once he’s left work. But tonight, he pulls the covers tight and lets the darkness consume him.

—

Felix wakes with a start, in an instant panic. For a moment, he’s not sure what snapped him out of such a deep sleep, but somewhere through the fog of fatigue, the sound of glass breaking echoes in his ears.

Shit.

There are scuffling sounds, a low male voice, and Felix wrenches himself upright, scanning the room for a weapon. His eyes catch on the clock. It’s 4:52 a.m.

And there’s someone in his house.

Felix is gonna die.

“Lix?” A voice says—shouts, really—and Felix starts again.

That voice—it’s—

At the very thought of Chan’s name, everything that happened yesterday floods back to him… along with a healthy wave of relief, then confusion, horror hot on its tail.

He’s still trying to piece it all together when the door to his room swings open, and there’s Chan, panting with exertion and fear.

“Felix!” He cries, a little too loud—Felix winces as Chan practically drops to his knees, steadying himself with a hand on the footboard before clumsily vaulting it to join Felix on the bed. “Felix, you’re okay, thank God you’re ali—”

He seems to choke on his words as he shuffles in closer, eyes flicking over Felix’s features. “What happened?” He asks softly and, at Felix’s look of confusion, “I was calling you, for—for a while.”

Felix frowns, picking up his phone, pressing the power button once, twice…

“Dead,” he says, his voice gravelly with sleep.

There’s a moment of silence, and Felix properly processes the fact that Chan’s here. “You came,” he says, voice a little hollow.

“Of course I did,” Chan says softly, fingers reaching out to tuck a lock of Felix’s unkempt hair behind his ear. Felix shifts minutely, and his hair falls from between Chan’s fingers, hanging down in front of his eye. “I love you,” Chan says, hand coming to rest on Felix’s shoulder.

“Love you too,” Felix replies automatically—a familiar exchange. Chan clears his throat.

“No, like…” he says, a little awkwardly, “I mean—” He cuts himself off, ears turning pink, then meets Felix’s gaze. Something changes in Chan’s expression, softens, and then his hand is shifting up to cup Felix’s neck, and it feels so warm, so wonderful, and he’s leaning in, asking “Can I—”

“No,” Felix blurts, turning his head away sharply. A second passes, then two, and he can practically feel Chan’s incredulous eyes on the side of his face.

“No?” Chan repeats softly, and the word thumps somewhere low in Felix’s ribcage. He takes a steadying breath, even as it feels like the world is falling out from under him.

“No,” he confirms, still avoiding Chan’s gaze. Chan’s fingers twitch against Felix’s neck, and Felix feels the muscles of his jaw flicker in response. His stomach twists; he should get Chan’s hands off him, get far away, but he can’t bring himself to.

“Why?” Chan asks after a moment, his voice small.

Felix knows why, the knowledge stowed somewhere so deep inside him that he struggles to put it into words.

“It wasn’t meant to be like this,” is what he comes up with. It’s a ridiculous thing to say—of course it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Of course the world wasn’t meant to end before they had their chance. Stupid, Felix tells himself. But—

“I know,” is Chan’s quiet response, ever-understanding. He withdraws his hand, and Felix yearns to follow it, even as he shrinks away, slumping against the headboard. Chan scoots over to join him, the two of them side-by-side. “How was it meant to be?” Chan asks.

Felix pauses. How was it meant to be?

“I don’t know where to start,” he says with a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

“Start… today,” Chan says. “We’re here, together. The night ends, after all, and… the sun comes up.” He gestures to Felix to continue the story.

“We have breakfast,” Felix says blandly, side-stepping the question. Chan shoots him a look, and Felix holds his gaze defiantly.

Then, Chan’s features morph into a silly face, and it’s so familiar, so comforting, so Chan that Felix’s traitorous heart lurches, lifts, and he can’t help but break into a smile. “We have breakfast,” he repeats, then the words tumble out in a rush, “and I tell you I love you.”

Somehow, he can bear to say it like this. When it’s only a story, a fantasy—not something real that’s about to be ripped from him before he gets the chance to really know it.

“You do?” Chan says, clearly trying—failing—to keep his grin under control. “You do say that, I mean,” he corrects, “hypothetically.” Felix can't help but smile, his mood lifting as he watches Chan fumble.

“Yeah, hypothetically,” he says, knocking his shoulder against Chan’s.

“Then what?” Chan asks, pressing a touch closer, so that the lengths of their arms brush together.

“Then what? Hmm,” Felix muses, gazing at the far wall. “I tell you I love you, and then… I tell the whole world,” he flashes a grin. “I scream it from the rooftops so everyone knows, and nobody can ignore it.”

He falters, but decides to push away thoughts of the outside world and lean into the fantasy. “We move in together,” Felix says, “Just you and me. And Berry,” he adds with a nod, finally looking at Chan.

Chan’s beatific smile rips something apart inside Felix’s chest. On some level, he’s aware that it’s just Chan’s smile—the same smile Felix has seen virtually every day for the better part of a decade. Yet, knowing the reason behind the smile is devastating. Knowing this might be one of the last he ever sees.

“Yeah,” Chan says, turning his body more fully towards Felix. “Our own house. Right by the beach, big enough for all the boys to visit,” he says, inclining his head a touch as he thinks, “but no bigger. And modern, but not too modern.”

“Cozy,” Felix nods, “homey, with a nice kitchen—I’ll bake for you, those cookies you like.”

“And I’ll cook for you, every day,” Chan adds, though they both know their schedules would rarely allow it. Perhaps it’s that thought which leads Chan to his next. “I’ll write songs about you,” he says, then blushes. “Well, I’ll write songs that people know are about you.”

“You’ve written songs about me?” Felix coos. “Which ones?”

“Um,” Chan laughs awkwardly, covering his reddening ears with his hands, “that’s—”

“Which ones?” Felix asks again, his smile turning wicked.

“Ah, well it’s just—”

“Which. Ones?” Felix persists, pushing into Chan’s space and watching, grinning, as his eyes squeeze shut.

“Red Lights, Connected and Railway!” Chan blurts, all at once, and Felix freezes.

Then bursts out laughing.

“You dirty bastard!” Felix cackles, and Chan cringes, even as he breaks out into silly, squeaky giggles.

“I’m sorry—”

“You’re not sorry, you’re dirty,” Felix quips, then laughs so hard at his own reference that tears fill his eyes as Chan doubles over, grabbing onto Felix’s arm as he gasps for air.

When they finally get a hold of themselves, they meet each other’s gazes… and crack up all over again. It gets to the point where Chan, belly aching with laughter, has to forcefully move Felix so that they can’t look at each other. If Felix’s stomach flutters at Chan’s strong hands on his chest, his waist… that’s nobody’s business but his.

Sat back-to-back, their raging cackles eventually die down, first into short bursts of giggles, then into light-hearted conversation, then into comfortable silence.

Silence which is broken by a sudden, high-pitched sound.

Felix tilts his head.

He’s instantly reminded of all that happened over the last twenty-four hours. All that he had blissfully forgotten over the last hour-or-so with Chan. His stomach sinks low at the thought that their dream will never actually happen, and then swoops high when he hears the sound again.

A sharp trill, then a response.

“Birds?” Chan breathes, his hand reaching back to find some—any—point of contact with Felix as he turns to meet his gaze.

Felix is mute, his heart thundering as he forces himself up and over to the window on shaky legs, Chan trailing behind him, gripping his hand like a vice. When Felix parts the curtains, it’s still pitch-dark outside.

“It’s still night,” he says hollowly, though something in him is already horribly hopeful. He tries to squash it down, but the look on Chan’s face doesn’t help.

“Birds don’t sing at night,” Chan says, tugging insistently on Felix’s fingers, before releasing them to make a beeline for his phone. Felix stares out of the window as Chan looks up whatever it was he cared to look up, then gasps, his feet thumping on the carpet as he springs up to standing. “The sun’s coming up in New Zealand!”

It takes Felix a moment to put the pieces together. Strangely, he finds himself thinking of New Year’s Day and how, every year, New Zealand celebrates an hour early—an hour before Australia. Their midnight comes first. So their night ends first. And their night is ending.

“What?” Felix whispers, eyes still searching the inky black outside the window—or is it more of a charcoal grey? A warm hand finds his shoulder, and he’s turned away from the darkness.

“Breakfast?” Chan is beaming, and the corners of Felix’s mouth begin to tug upwards in spite of him.

“Uh… sure,” Felix says, and lets Chan lead him towards the kitchen. He’s still not entirely convinced they’re safe, but there’s a warm hope swelling in his chest that he’s powerless to quash.

His eyes dart to the windows more often than he’d like them to as Chan makes them breakfast—nothing fancy, just granola, but he takes his time topping each bowl with yogurt, syrup, and a rainbow of fruit, chattering all the while. Perhaps he’s as anxious as Felix is to see whether the sun really will rise on a new day.

They sit across from one another, falling silent as they take their seats. They look at each other for a long while, and when they finally speak, it’s at the same time.

“Well—”

“Do you—”

They blink at each other, then Chan smiles.

“You go,” he says with a flick of his hand.

“I suppose we should eat,” Felix says, realising that after a long day and a longer night, he’s starving. He picks up his spoon.

“I suppose we should,” Chan says, mirroring Felix’s movements.

For a moment, neither of them moves. For a moment, it's not a spoon over a bowl—it's a foot over the edge of a cliff. But then, it’s like a thread is cut, and both of them dig in, falling into a light conversation.

By the time Felix is scraping the bottom of his bowl, he can see sunlight. It came so gradually that there was no singular moment where he realised he could see it, where the knot of anxiety loosened in his chest. But, the sun is warming the sky, and Felix feels light, buoyant.

“That’s it then,” he announces, placing his bowl on the table gently as he makes a pointed glance towards the window, a smile tugging at his lips.

“That’s it,” Chan nods, looking at Felix expectantly, lips pressed together to stifle his own grin. The joy in Felix’s chest fluffs up like a preening bird.

“Bang Chan,” Felix says, and there’s no sign of the doubt or reservation he’s felt in the past. “Christopher Bang… I’m in love with you.”

“I'm in love with you too,” Chan says, beaming and far too quick to be smooth—but Felix loves it. Loves him. Thinks that if this isn’t romantic, then romance isn’t what he wants at all.

“I think I might have been in love with you since the day we met,” Felix says fervently, “I love you so much—so much, and for so long that I don’t know how I survived without telling you.” He’s fully grinning now—his real smile back with him after a full day of faking it.

Because Felix is happy, in a way he might never have been before. A thought enters his head, and he’s up on his feet, sliding open the window.

The sliver of street that’s visible from Felix’s house is empty, but the moment he opens the window, they can hear voices in the distance. It sounds like midday more than the early hours of the morning—people talking, kids squealing, music thrumming through the air. A celebration.

Felix has his own celebration planned.

“I’m in love with Christopher Bang!” He bellows out the open window, his deep voice echoing in the empty street. Chan grins so big and so beautiful Felix swears he might pass out.

“I’m in love with Felix Lee!” Chan yells in turn, bursting into bright laughter, and Felix can feel his own smile, so wide it hurts.

“Good on ya!” Some guy shouts back, a street or two away, and Chan and Felix fall about laughing so hard it hurts.

“Help me, Channie,” Felix gasps, wheezing with mirth as he clutches his belly dramatically, “my stomach—”

“Ow,” Chan concurs, which isn’t even funny, but for whatever reason it sets off the science-fair-baking-soda-and-vinegar volcano of Felix’s laughter all over again.

When they recover from their hysterics, they find their way into each other’s arms, fitting together like they were made for it. Chan’s hands thread into Felix’s hair, thumbs coming to rest at his temples.

“Now what?” Felix asks, memorising every detail of Chan’s face, of his smile up close.

“I have a few ideas,” Chan smiles.

“Okay, Mr. Red Lights,” Felix chuckles, rolling his eyes. Chan flushes.

“I didn’t mean that!” He says, defensive, “I was talking about the—the house by the sea, and—”

“I know,” Felix soothes. “And we will do all of that, eventually. But what about right now?”

“I guess we should try to get in contact with the others,” Chan suggests, “although they’re probably all asleep right now, save for maybe Jeongin. What time is it in Paris?” He frowns. “Ten at night? Eleven?”

“Yeah,” Felix says, “He’s probably heard about New Zealand. I hope he has.”

“Mm,” Chan agrees. “I’ll give him a call in a moment, and then—oh God,” he groans, head dropping into his hands.

“What?” Felix says with a light chuckle.

“Seungmin.”

Felix’s smile drops.

Chapter Text

Barely a minute passes between the second Jeongin wakes up and the second he realises.

He’s preoccupied for a moment by the crust of dried tears on his eyelashes, his swollen eyes and puffy face, skin sticky with dried God-knows-what. But it comes back to him quickly—the reason why he cried himself to sleep.

There’s sun streaming in through curtains left open overnight, and it only takes Jeongin a moment longer to realise what that sunlight means.

The world is still turning.

He scrambles for his phone—it’s almost half past seven, and Jeongin has missed calls from Chan, from Felix, from all of them. Except, he can’t help to notice, from the one person whose name he had hoped to see.

Jeongin doesn’t have an easy time sorting through the emotions coursing through his body. First and foremost, he’s thrilled that they’re alive. Underneath it, though, is an undercurrent of anxiety—an emotional hangover, he’d call it. Typical for when he’s spent a night crying.

It’s that emotional hangover, he thinks, that causes his heart to drop into the pit of his stomach when he checks, double checks, and discovers that Seungmin hasn’t reached out at all. Not a call, not a text, not even a paltry KakaoTalk sticker.

It says a lot about their relationship, the fact that Jeongin even has the confidence to call Seungmin directly. Normally, he’s not the type, prone to anxiously waiting for the other person to reach out, or ignoring them altogether.

The dial tone beeps once, twice, then stops as the call connects. Jeongin takes a sharp breath—

“The number you are calling is not reachable.”

Jeongin blinks.

He double-checks the time in Tokyo, and… it’s three in the afternoon. Seungmin should be awake, his phone switched on…

Jeongin smacks his forehead. Can’t take calls abroad. Duh.

He finds Seungmin on KakaoTalk—at the bottom of a pile of unopened messages—and hits the call button.

Jeongin’s own face stares back at him as the call connects, and he winces at his mussed hair and swollen face, but his discomfort is fast replaced with anticipation, heart thrumming as he reads Seungmin’s name at the top of the screen, reads it again and again.

And then the call drops.

No answer.

Jeongin frowns. His anticipation sours into anxiety.

He tries calling twice more, foot tapping on the carpet as he chews on the edge of his thumbnail.

Once the call fails for the third time, Jeongin calls Minho, who’s also in Tokyo—chances are, Seungmin is with him.

This time, the call goes through straight away

“Have you heard from Seungmin?” Jeongin’s heart drops, because Minho asks the question before he even has the chance. He shakes his head mutely, sure that if he opens his mouth, his voice might crack, or worse.

“Shit,” says a voice in the background. Jisung, Jeongin thinks distantly.

“We, uh…” Minho trails off. “I came to Osaka.”

“Oh. Was the train busy?” Jeongin asks, a little nonsensically, not particularly taking in the conversation.

“I drove,” Minho says simply. “But, uh… Innie, if I were still in Tokyo, I’d have gone to check on him, but…”

Right. Seungmin is in Tokyo. And not responding. Jeongin hears a tiny sob, feels it clawing its way out of his chest.

“Hey, hey,” Jisung soothes, and suddenly he’s in frame, too. “You’re okay, Innie—”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Jeongin bursts into loud, ugly sobs, all the misery of the previous day crashing over him like a wave, flooding up over his head, drowning him.

“You’re okay—”

“But he’s not!” Jeongin shouts, too loud, his voice odd and broken from disuse, rusted by half a day’s worth of tears. Jisung winces.

“We have it under control,” Minho says, but Jeongin doesn’t believe him.

He hangs up, another wretched, angry sob forcing its way out of his throat.

Seconds later, Minho calls him back, and he declines.

He feels sick. How can they possibly have it under control? How can they, when Seungmin is so far away, and unresponsive, and alone?

Jisung calls, and Jeongin declines.

His sobs turn more and more painful, turn into screams, screams of pain and fear and longing.

Because he does. Long for Seungmin. He wants to have him and hold him and press himself so close that their two bodies become one. Seungmin is the one he loves—the only one. He needs Seungmin. Needs him like he needs air, needs water. He doesn’t care if he’s alive, not if Seungmin isn’t.

At some point, Jeongin begins to dwell on the fact that Seungmin hadn’t believed the world was ending. Maybe this whole situation was some sort of test. Something divine—a test of faith. Maybe, in believing that he would live, Seungmin ensured that he would die.

How cruel? How cruel, that the man he love would be killed for his intelligence, his curious mind, the mind that Jeongin loves so, so deeply. If it was some divine test—if this is God’s will, if having the man he loves ripped away is staring into the face of God… Well, he’ll spit in it.

Jeongin’s phone rings and rings, member after member calling, none of them Seungmin, as he rises to his feet, some satanic fire burning through his veins as he screams into the empty hotel room like some sort of feral beast.

A lamp is the first thing he gets his hands on, knuckles white as he grips the body of it, smashing the shade against the wall with a yell, again and again, the wire frame buckling, caving in on itself. When he finally hears the lightbulb shatter, it feels so right, a perfect match for the knife-sharp edges inside his chest.

Jeongin rips the curtains from their rails, relishing the way the fine fabric tears thread by thread; he kicks a dining chair, bringing his heel down on the flimsy wood over and over, until it splinters and caves in; he smashes in the glass tabletop, screaming into the glimmering shards.

Minutes or hours later, Jeongin collapses back onto the rug, panting. There are cuts on his knuckles, bruises forming on his heels, his legs, the tender sides of his hands.

His phone chimes again, and he’s of half a mind to smash that too, but he squashes down the impulse.

The newest notification—Hyunjin has sent him a video. Odd. Jeongin opens it on reflex, though he quickly realises he doesn’t much care to watch it. Yet, he’s too exhausted to think of anything else to do.

The footage is shaky at first, colours flashing by on the screen so fast and sporadic he can’t make head or tail of it. Then, the shot steadies and Jeongin makes out a throng of people, hears voices talking loud, the clatter of footsteps on tile. Through the crowd, he glimpses snips of illuminated signs, uniformed staff, suitcases.

An airport. The camera bobs to the side, revealing someone holding a welcome sign—On est vivants, et je t’aimerai tant qu’on le sera—grinning, waiting to greet their loved one.

Whatever, Jeongin thinks bitterly.

He’s about to swipe the video away, when suddenly—

Jeongin does care to watch the video. He cares very, very much.

Because it’s—

“Seungmin,” he breathes, and it’s the first time he’s said his name since screaming himself hoarse last night.

It’s Seungmin, catching sight of the camera and heading directly for it.

“I’m Kim Seungmin from the band Stray Kids,” he says in English, tone urgent. His eyes flick up to whoever is behind the camera. “Do you speak English?” A pause. “Can you post this online? Please.” He looks back into the camera. “Get this to Yang Jeongin.”

Jeongin’s breath catches.

“Innie, I’m here,” Seungmin says, in Korean, and Jeongin notices that he’s a little out of breath. “I just landed in Paris. I’ll be there by—” He looks at his watch, “by nine. I promise.” His gaze is intense, earnest, and bores straight to the core of Jeongin’s being. “Merci beaucoup,” he says.

And like that, he’s gone, striding off through the airport. The camera wobbles back down to the ground, and the video cuts off.

Jeongin feels like he’s dived from the hundredth floor of a building. His brain goes numb, and his stomach swoops sickeningly, before exploding with a thrill of relief and exhilaration.

He calls Hyunjin.

“You saw the video?” Hyunjin blurts, words tripping over themselves.

“Yeah,” Jeonging whispers, then clears his throat, sore from screaming, “I d—” he swallows uncomfortably, “I did. Does everyone else know? That he’s okay?” He takes a breath, the first full breath he’s taken all day, filling his lungs until they stretch and sting, then filling them some more.

“Mm,” Hyunjin hums, looking at something on his screen. “Yeah. Yeah, everyone’s seen it now. They want to know,” he pauses, shooting an apologetic look towards the camera, “if you’re okay, too.”

“I, uh…” Jeongin grimaces, realising that there’s shattered glass, splintered wood and torn fabric littering the background of his video feed. He shifts, the debris sliding out of shot. “Tell them I’m okay. Now. He’s okay. And he’s on his way here.”

As he says the words, his excitement flutters back to life, and when he realises nine o’clock is barely twenty minutes away, his belly swarms with little winged things—fireflies, filling him with bright, twinkling lights.

“Okay,” Hyunjin says, his worry at least partly assuaged by the look on Jeongin’s face.

“Okay,” Jeongin echoes, nodding. Then, looking at Hyunjin, a thought sprouts inside his head. “Hey,” he says, then pauses, unsure how to phrase it. “You and Changbin…”

Hyunjin flushes, and Jeongin cracks a teasing smile. “Ohhhh,” he says, eyes widening in understanding. “You and Changbin,” he says, waggling his eyebrows, and Hyunjin shrieks.

“Don’t make it sound so dirty,” he admonishes, then smiles dreamily. “It was soooo romantic.”

Jeongin’s smile loses its jokey edge as something inside him melts at the sight of his friend’s happiness.

“Tell me all about it,” he says, and Hyunjin does.

The story—which was surprisingly sweet, surprisingly emotional—has just come to an end when the hotel phone rings. Hyunjin gives Jeongin a look.

“It’s your turn now,” he says, sounding far more wise and sagely than he has any right to. “Go get your man!” He breaks into a bright grin, then says a quick goodbye and hangs up as Jeongin answers the phone.

Jeongin stumbles his way through the short exchange with reception, and once the call is over he finds he can’t wait any longer. He grabs his keys and throws open the door, breaking into a light jog down the hallway towards the bank of elevators.

Every second feels like an hour—a day, a year, an eternity—as he waits for the doors to open, and for Seungmin to finally be within touching distance.

When the bell rings, Jeongin’s eyes dart from elevator to elevator, desperate to know which set of doors stands between him and the love of his life. He freezes when he hears the doors slide open behind him.

His heart thumps, and he swears he can feel Seungmin’s presence instantly, feel the red string that links them snap into place.

“Innie,” Seungmin says, and Jeongin turns to face him. The moment their eyes meet, it’s like something snaps, and Jeongin is hurtling towards him, diving at him, their chests colliding, both of them losing their balance as he wraps his arms around Seungmin, clutching him so tightly it ought to hurt.

Seungmin hits the wall with a soft oof, then slides down to the floor, Jeongin’s face buried in the crook of his neck. “Hey,” he says softly, cradling Jeongin’s head, thumb rubbing gentle circles near his temple.

“Seungmin-hyung, I’m in love with you.” The words tumble out without Jeongin’s say-so, and he flushes, but stays resolute—as resolute as one can be on the floor of an elevator, face hidden in the crook of their true love’s neck.

“I’m in love with you too,” Seungmin says, so quickly and so easily that Jeongin has no choice but to believe it. Even so, he has to ask—

“Really?” He pulls back to look up at Seungmin with shining eyes.

“Really.” Seungmin takes Jeongin’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers.

Then, the elevator doors shut, with them still inside.

“Oop.” Jeongin says, and they spend the twelve-floor elevator ride schooling their appearances into some semblance of normalcy. He tugs on Seungmin’s hand once, then twice. “Let go,” he hisses as they pass the third floor, directing a pointed look towards their hands.

“It’s fine,” Seungmin says casually, “we’re in Paris.” Whether he means that queerness is accepted, or simply that they won’t be recognised, Jeongin doesn’t know. And he finds that he doesn’t care. He squeezes Seungmin’s hand hard, grinning.

On their ride back up, they are accompanied by a redoubtable businesswoman in a bright pink power suit all the way to the seventh floor. She doesn’t look at them twice—not at their dishevelled appearances, nor at their joined hands.

The moment the doors close behind her, the fingers of Seungmin’s free hand brush Jeongin’s jaw, turning his head until they’re nose-to-nose. Jeongin’s heart pounds so hard he thinks Seungmin might be able to feel his pulse through his fingers.

“Kiss me,” Seungmin says. Jeongin does.

When their lips meet, it’s like something slots into place inside Jeongin’s heart. Something that’s been a touch misaligned for months, maybe years. It feels like stepping onto the shore after months at sea—a little wobbly, a little new, but a lot like coming home.

They make it out of the elevator this time, make it down the hallway—with a brief stop against the wall, Jeongin panting as Seungmin kisses down his neck—and into Jeongin’s hotel room.

It’s only after the door swings open that Jeongin remembers.

“Oh,” Seungmin says as his eyes scan the carnage in the main room. “Oh, Innie…”

For the briefest of moments, Jeongin feels like he’s about to be scolded. But Seungmin cups his cheek so tenderly, thumb brushing over his pink cheek. “I’m sorry,” Seungmin says, understanding instantly what it was that undid Jeongin so thoroughly.

“It’s okay,” Jeongin says, and he means it. “You’re here now.”

“I am,” Seungmin says, nodding. Then, he leads Jeongin past the mess without giving it another thought, leads him into the bedroom, and closes the door behind them, putting the painful scene—the painful memory—out of sight and out of mind.

There, they talk, and talk, and talk, about anything and everything and how long they’ve loved each other—both insist they were first—and how they survived so long without saying so. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, until the fire inside them burns too hot to be ignored.

Later, when Jeongin is laying with his head on Seungmin’s chest, tracing lazy patterns on his smooth skin, they finally re-connect with the outside world.

“Oh my God,” Seungmin says, with a fervor he usually reserves for insane baseball plays.

“What?” Jeongin says, still sifting through the mountain of notifications stacked up on his screen.

“Chan and Lix confessed,” Seungmin says. “Chan drove to—oh my God!” Jeongin literally feels Seungmin’s jaw drop, brushing the crown of his head.

“What?” Jeongin asks, tilting his head up slightly as if he’ll be able to see through the back of Seungmin’s phone and into his messages.

“Changbin and Hyunjin too!” Seungmin laughs, bright and loud.

“No way!” Jeongin cries, gleeful. He scrambles to the group chat to send a ‘Congrats!’ “That’s crazy,” he says. “This whole end-of-the-world thing,” he waves his hand in the air, “has done crazy things for our love lives.”

“Crazy, beautiful things,” Seungmin agrees, looking down at Jeongin, who quirks an eyebrow.

“You calling me crazy?” He asks, faux-annoyed, and Seungmin’s smile turns wicked, challenging. “I’ll show you crazy—”

Their play-fighting turns into something else entirely, but eventually, they find their way back to their conversation.

“About the end of the world,” Seungmin starts, and immediately Jeongin is on high alert, can see where he’s going with it.

“Don’t say it,” he warns. Seungmin gives him a look.

“I’m gonna say it, Innie.”

“No, you're absolutely not—”

“I’m gonna say it,” Seungmin goads, flashing an evil grin.

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No, hyung,” Jeongin whines, and squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head fervently.

“Here I go…”

“No! No, no, no, no, no—”

“Kim Seungmin was right and everyone else was wrong!” Seungmin announces triumphantly, kneeling up, fists on his hips.

Jeongin pushes him off the side of the bed.

Chapter Text

Jeongin takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out. His hands are balled up in his lap, picking the skin around his nails, and his knee is bouncing uncontrollably, heel tapping on the mat in the footwell. The sound is mostly drowned out by the engine’s hum, but Jeongin can feel it echoing through his body.

A hand settles on his knee, weighing it down into stillness. Jeongin tears his gaze away from the scenery flying by and meets Seungmin’s gaze in the rearview. Seungmin’s eyes crinkle with a smile, and the tension inside Jeongin loosens—but doesn’t disappear.

He’s not nervous—or he is, but not in a bad way—or, well, it’s not in a good way, but it’s unfounded—or, maybe not completely unfounded…

Jeongin is a mess.

It’s not seeing the others in person that he’s nervous about. All he feels about that is excitement and relief.

It’s more so what will come after: in a scant few hours, there’s a meeting to re-group with the company, and Jeongin is frankly terrified of what their managers—even more so, their publicists—will say.

To his knowledge, none of what happened last week made it out online. Only Seungmin’s video, which didn’t give away too much.

But it’s not about what the public knows—it’s about what the band want them to know.

What happened last week, it changed them. They’ve discussed it in some depth over a handful of video calls, and it’s pretty clear that at least some of them—Minho and Jisung, for one—want to go public. To come out—a phrase Jeongin had barely let himself think of before.

Will management be on board? Or will they actively oppose it—even outright forbid it? Jeongin isn’t sure.

It feels like his heart rate doubles as they turn onto the street, the company building coming into view. Jeongin looks up at it, ducking a little to see all the way up to the top. The five jagged edges look a little like teeth—grinning or snarling, he doesn’t know. Jeongin looks back down at his lap.

As they pull into the parking lot, Seungmin squeezes his thigh, then withdraws his hand. His thigh feels suddenly cold… until Seungmin’s hand comes to rest behind Jeongin’s headrest, the sharp line of his jaw highlighted by the fluorescents as he smoothly reverses into his space. Then, no part of Jeongin feels cold at all.

He tamps down the urge to throw himself at Seungmin, finding his way to the elevator on legs that have gone just a little weak.

As soon as the doors slide shut, their eyes meet and Seungmin shoots him a wink that turns Jeongin’s belly into something fuzzy and bursting with too much energy. He makes a tiny sound, flushing, and…

All Jeongin will say is that the sound clearly does something to Seungmin.

They tumble out of the elevator on the right floor (though it’s a close shave, Jeongin yelping and diving for the door right as it’s about to close on them), a little rumpled, a little flushed, and grinning far too wide for the situation.

As soon as they walk in the room—the last to arrive, it seems—they’re bombarded with knowing looks. As they toe off their shoes at the door, they hear suggestive murmuring, and Jisung even whistles lowly.

“I was gonna ask why you’re late,” Felix goads, “but…” He gestures at their general appearance, and everyone giggles, while Jeongin ducks his head.

“There was traffic,” Seungmin says coolly. It’s the truth, but he tacks on a wolfish grin just to provoke the others. They react in kind, and Jeongin feels his ears turn a shade redder.

He drags a showboating Seungmin along with him as he tacks himself onto the end of the loose semicircle formed by three plush sofas. He sinks down into his seat—partly because it’s extremely soft, and partly because he’s trying to disappear into it.

Luckily, they drop the topic quickly in favour of more general chatter.

“You’re glowing,” Hyunjin insists to Felix, who beams, and Chan, who ducks his head shyly.

“We’re in love,” Felix says, drawing out the words for emphasis, then presses a kiss to Chan’s cheek. It’s sickly-sweet, and so perfectly Chan-and-Felix that Jeongin can’t help but smile. “You’re glowing, too,” he says to Hyunjin, who nods sagely.

“It’s from all the sex,” he says, and Felix shrieks a laugh, along with the other bolder members. Changbin would normally balk, Jeongin thinks, but today he just smirks while the shyer amongst them splutter.

Jeongin, for his part, stays quiet, even when they turn their attention to him and Seungmin.

“You two are glowing too,” Jisung says, a gleam in his eye, “what’s your secret?”

“Well,” Seungmin starts, a smile beginning to spread across his lips. “There’s a certain appeal… a certain allure,” he draws out the word salaciously, “to being right.” He receives looks of confusion, plus a couple of dawning recognition.

“Oh, God,” Minho murmurs, while Chan groans.

“I hate to say ‘I told you so’,” Seungmin drawls, “but—”

Thwap.

Seungmin looks down at the hand slapped over his mouth. His brow furrows in annoyance as he looks along Jeongin’s arm to meet his gaze. Jeongin’s lips twitch at his look of indignance, but he manages to maintain his scowl.

“No, hyung,” Jeongin says, faux-condescending—as if he’s speaking to a dog. “No,” he enunciates, shaking his head in a slow, exaggerated movement.

Seungmin wrests Jeongin’s hand off his face, bristling—though there’s a hint of a smile dancing around the edges of his frown.

“I have every right,” he says, putting on a haughty act, “to say it.” Then, he sweeps his gaze around the rough semi-circle of the group as he speaks. “I,” he says, drawing the word out as he looks Hyunjin in the eye, then Changbin. “Told,” he stares down Jisung, then Minho. “You,” Chan, Felix. “So.”

The second Seungmin meets Jeongin’s eyes, Jeongin dives for him, wrestling him down onto the plush carpet.

Felix follows suit immediately, dogpiling on top of them, and a giggling Chan isn’t far behind.

“Get him!” Hyunjin shrieks theatrically, while Jisung attempts to join the pile without letting go of Minho’s hand—Minho, of course, won’t budge.

Changbin pushes Hyunjin down first, toppling him into an inelegant sprawl, before diving on top of him, clinging on like a human backpack. Hyunjin shrieks a laugh, which is echoed by Jisung’s cry of victory as he finally convinces Minho to join, by way of a filthy, whispered promise.

Jeongin—somewhere towards the bottom of the pile—has dropped all pretenses of annoyance. He giggles softly, love bubbling up inside him like crystal-clear water from a fountain. It’s healing, the physical contact. Not just with Seungmin, but with all his closest friends.

Seungmin must share the sentiment—only Jeongin is close enough to hear his contented sigh as Hyunjin topples off the pile and Changbin and Jisung seem to get into some sort of scrap.

They slowly disassemble their human Jenga, giggling and play-fighting all the while, then manage to cram themselves onto two of the three sofas. It’s a tight fit—Jeongin squished between Hyunjin and Minho, who’s bookended by Chan on the other side.

A certain tranquility flows over Jeongin, the kind he hasn’t felt since the last time they were all together in person. Perhaps not even then. The others fall quiet for a moment too, basking in their proximity.

“What do you think’s gonna happen with management?” Chan asks, voice gentle but not insecure.

“Dunno,” Minho answers, and Jeongin feels him shrug against his arm. “I guess it could go either way.”

“I think they’ll support us,” Jisung says from the other sofa, and Felix nods beside him. “Everything we do is lowkey queer-coded anyway, so what’s the harm in Minho and me making it more obvious?”

“Everything everyone does in K-pop is queer-coded,” Seungmin points out, “but yeah, I hope they might be more… open, especially after what happened.”

He’s talking about the impact of what happened, really. The news has been crammed with stories flowing in from all over the globe—how people’s outlooks on life changed after being faced with something even greater than death.

Jeongin had watched dozens of them online one night, one after the other. His favourite was taken from some American news broadcast: two old men sat on a porch swing, one taller, one shorter, telling their story.

“Math,” the taller one said, “we met in high school Math. He was a nerd, and I was dumb as a box of rocks.”

“He played football,” the shorter one added, “and I couldn’t catch a ball to save my life.”

“A perfect match, then,” the reporter said with a smile, and both men chuckled. “So what took you so long?”

“We were scared,” said the shorter one, “of our parents, and our teachers, and our classmates… later it was our friends, our bosses…”

“Back then, we didn’t talk about any of this stuff. There wasn’t anyone around who understood—who was okay with it,” the taller said, and his companion nodded.

“So we never admitted it. Pretended it didn’t exist.”

“What changed?” Asked the reporter. “That night.”

“Nothin’,” the shorter chortled.

“We were both of us cowards,” said the taller, “but we thought, if this is it, at least we’re going out together.”

“So we fixed ourselves a coffee,” said the shorter, mirth dancing in his eyes, “and did our puzzles—I like crosswords, and he likes wordsearches. He fell asleep in his chair—”

“And so did he,” the taller countered, grinning. “And when I woke him up, he said—”

“I can’t do another day without telling you I love you. I always have.”

“Damn fool, I said. I’ve been waiting sixty years to hear you say it.”

“Do you regret not telling each other sooner?” The reporter asked.

“No,” the short one answered definitively. “‘Cause it wasn’t our fault. What we regret is the way we were treated.”

“We wanted to share our story,” said the tall one, “so that young men—young people like us know that we exist. We’ve always existed.”

“And so they can live their lives openly. Love each other openly.”

“And how does it feel now?” The reporter asked. “Being able to love each other openly?”

“Well… it feels like being seventeen again.”

Seungmin had translated the few words he didn’t catch, and Jeongin’s eyes had prickled with tears.

“I want to c—” Jeongin blurts, the words catching in his throat. “I want to come out too,” he says, trailing off almost to a whisper.

“I do too,” Chan says without a pause, locking eyes with Jeongin and offering a small smile. Jeongin lets out a breath he didn’t quite know he was holding.

“Me too,” Hyunjin says, and Felix echoes his words.

“Sorta feels like a hat on a hat for you two,” Jisung quips, and receives twin glares, to which he holds his hands up.

“Binnie?” Seungmin says, aware that they’re both yet to comment. Changbin shrugs a shoulder.

“I will if you will,” he smirks.

“Deal,” Seungmin grins.

“So—all of us?” Chan confirms, and they nod.

“Why the hell not?” Changbin says. “If people are gonna be mad at us, they’re gonna be mad at us whether it’s one or eight.”

“True,” Chan nods, “and that includes the company. There are a lot of people involved with Stray Kids—management, PR, production, styling, and so on—but the only people who are truly essential are us.”

“Damn right!” Jisung crows. “We are Stray Kids, so Stray Kids should reflect us—who we actually are. Our fans look up to us because we show that it’s okay to break the mold, find your own path, and be who you want to be. If management don’t agree, fuck them! We’ll fire them!”

“I mean, technically we can’t fire them,” Chan says diplomatically.

“Hyung,” Jisung pouts, “you’re ruining my moment.”

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” Minho jokes, giving a mock-salute. Jisung sticks his tongue out. “It’s a fair point, though. I’m not saying that if they oppose us we should go on strike, but…” He pauses, tapping a finger on his lip. “No, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“A strike,” Changbin lashes out at the air theatrically, “I like it. Very French.”

“Very French… and that’s a good thing?” Minho says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oui,” Changbin says solemnly.

No matter what happens, in the meeting or afterwards… Jeongin thinks they’ll be just fine.

—

Weeks later, Jeongin’s heart thrums hummingbird-fast as they wait backstage. He fiddles with his handheld mic, scratching his nails over the metal grille, flicking the switch then flicking it back. Hoping the techies won’t tell him off for tampering with it.

Talk shows have always been the worst. When it’s their own show, or a guest performance, Jeongin feels like he’s in control. Like he’s rehearsed every beat, every syllable until they’re literally etched into his bones. But talk shows…

Jeongin’s been having nightmares about saying too much, saying the wrong thing. About not even getting to speak before the fans boo them off stage, screaming that they hate—

A hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, a comforting weight. Since they have to be silent in the wings, Seungmin gets his message across with a questioning flick of his brows.

Ready?

Jeongin pauses, eyes scanning Seungmin’s face. He looks as calm and confident as ever. Jeongin steels himself, and nods back.

Ready.

When the host shouts their name, they all look to Chan, who gives a thumbs up, and then they’re heading out onto the stage.

For the briefest of moments, Jeongin can’t hear the crowd over his own blood roaring in his ears, and he sure as hell can’t see them behind the flare of the stage lights. For the briefest of moments, his heart falls through the stage into the crawlspace below.

This is it, he thinks. The press release went out two days ago. Long enough for the news to get around, long enough for everyone to weigh in with their own opinion.

They tried to avoid reading the headlines, but they’re everywhere. Jeongin’s eyes kept catching on phrases as he tried to skim past: Betraying Millions, Selfish Desires, Threaten National Values.

Jeongin plasters a smile on his face even as his pulse thunders in his ears. It’s all a blur as he waves, bows, sits in his assigned seat.

Once he’s sat, the ringing in his ears begins to dissipate.

First, he hears the host introducing them once again, and then he hears them—

The audience.

Their fans.

Cheering.