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.