Archive of Our Own

Chan wakes up to Seungkwan's elbow in his ribs.

"Yah, get up. We're late."

He groans, rolling over to squint at his phone. 6:47 AM. Practice starts at 8:00, which means they have exactly one hour and thirteen minutes to eat, dress, and get to the company—tight, but doable.

Seungkwan is already halfway out the door, yelling something about Mingyu hogging the bathroom again.

Chan stretches, feeling the pleasant ache in his shoulders from yesterday's run-through. They'd stayed late working on the bridge formation, and he'd finally nailed that turn sequence that had been eating at him for days. Hoshi had clapped him on the back, grinning. "There it is. I knew you had it."

The memory sits warm in his chest as he pulls on sweatpants and pads into the kitchen.

The dorm is chaos, as always.

Seungcheol is at the stove flipping eggs with the intense focus he brings to everything. DK is half-asleep at the table, cheek pressed to his palm, nodding along to whatever Vernon is saying. Woozi walks past with headphones on, holding a piece of toast between his teeth. Jun and Minghao are arguing in Mandarin—something about laundry, maybe, or groceries, Chan's not sure.

"Morning," Chan mumbles, dropping into a chair.

Seungcheol glances over his shoulder. "Eat fast. We're leaving in thirty."

A plate appears in front of him—rice, eggs, kimchi, a piece of grilled mackerel. Standard breakfast. Chan picks up his chopsticks and eats without thinking, the way he always does. He's starving, actually. He usually is after intensive practice the day before.

Mingyu stumbles in, hair wet, and immediately reaches for Chan's plate.

"Hyung, no—"

"Just one bite—"

"You have your own food!"

Seungcheol smacks Mingyu's hand with the spatula. "Leave the kid alone."

Chan grins, shoveling rice into his mouth before Mingyu can try again. The word—kid—doesn't register as anything more than teasing. He's used to it. They all baby him sometimes; it's just how it's always been.

"You're too soft on him, hyung," Mingyu complains, but he's smiling as he says it, reaching instead for the communal banchan.

"Someone has to protect our maknae," Jeonghan calls from the doorway, voice still rough with sleep. He shuffles in wearing his ridiculous fuzzy slippers and immediately ruffles Chan's hair in passing.

Chan ducks away, laughing. "Hyung, I just fixed it—"

"It looks better messy. More cute."

The word lands differently this time. Just barely. A small prickle of something Chan can't quite name.

He shakes it off.

It's loud and stupid and normal. Seungkwan is yelling at Vernon for stealing his phone charger again. DK has fallen asleep with his chin on the table. Woozi is ignoring everyone, lost in whatever he's listening to.

Chan likes mornings like this. The easy rhythm of it. The way he doesn't have to think, just exists in the comfortable chaos of twelve people who've lived together so long they move around each other like a well-practiced choreography.

Practice is good.

Better than good, actually.

They're cleaning the choreography for the comeback title track, and Chan feels sharp today—movements precise, energy high. He's in the back for most of the formation, but when the camera will focus on him during his part, he knows exactly what he needs to give.

Power. Control. Maturity.

He's been thinking about that a lot lately. The kind of performer he wants to be. Not just technically skilled, but commanding. Someone who draws the eye not because he's the youngest, but because he's undeniable.

Hoshi runs them through it four times, then six, then eight. By the time they break for water, Chan's shirt is soaked through and his lungs are burning, but he feels incredible.

"Chan-ah," Hoshi calls, gesturing him over.

Chan jogs to the front, still catching his breath.

Hoshi rewinds the practice video on his phone, tilting the screen. "Look at this part. See how much cleaner your lines are than last week?"

Chan leans in, watching himself move. Hoshi's right—his arms are sharper, his isolations crisper. He's been drilling this sequence every night before bed, even when he's exhausted.

"You've been working on it," Hoshi says. It's not a question.

Chan nods.

Hoshi smiles, ruffling his hair. "It shows. Keep it up."

Something warm unfurls in Chan's chest. Hoshi doesn't give empty praise—if he says it's good, it's good.

"Thanks, hyung."

Hoshi waves him off, already scrolling to the next part of the video.

Chan heads back to his spot, grabbing his water bottle. Across the room, he catches his own eye in the mirror—flushed, sweaty, grinning—and feels a surge of satisfaction.

This is what he works for. This feeling. The proof that the hours matter, that he's improving, that he's becoming more than just the cute maknae. A real dancer. A performer people take seriously.

"Dino-yah!" Seungkwan tosses him a towel. "Stop admiring yourself and get back in formation!"

Chan catches it and throws it right back, laughing. "I wasn't—"

"Sure you weren't, narcissist."

The teasing is affectionate, easy. Chan falls back into position, still smiling.

Lunch is delivered to the practice room—kimbap, tteokbokki, fried chicken.

The members descend on it like locusts.

Chan eats three pieces of kimbap, a drumstick, and a handful of tteokbokki, sitting on the floor between Wonwoo and Jun. His body is screaming for fuel, and he gives it what it wants without hesitation. The ache in his muscles feels good, productive. He's earned this.

Jun tries to steal the last piece of chicken.

Chan is faster.

"Maknae privileges," he declares, biting into it.

Jun lunges for him. Chan shrieks and scrambles away, laughing around a mouthful of chicken. Wonwoo watches them with fond exasperation, scooting aside so they don't knock over his water bottle.

Seungcheol doesn't even look up from his phone. "Don't choke, Chan-ah."

"I won't!"

"Our baby is so energetic today," Jeonghan observes from where he's sprawled dramatically across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes.

There it is again. Baby.

Chan makes a face at him but doesn't say anything. It's just Jeonghan being Jeonghan—he calls everyone ridiculous things when he's tired. Yesterday he called Mingyu "my little baby giraffe" and Mingyu had threatened to sit on him.

Still, something about it sticks. Maybe it's because Chan's been thinking so much about stage presence lately, about being taken seriously.

They finish eating and get back to work. Afternoon practice is harder—everyone's starting to feel the fatigue, and the moves get sloppier. Seungcheol calls for one more full run-through, and they drag themselves through it. Chan pushes through the exhaustion, determined to maintain the same level of precision he had this morning.

By the time they're done, it's past 7 PM.

Chan's legs are shaking as he collapses onto the floor, chest heaving. Sweat drips into his eyes. His entire body feels like jelly, but it's the best kind of exhausted. The kind that means he left everything on the floor.

"Dinner?" DK asks, already pulling up a delivery app.

"Jjajangmyeon," Mingyu votes.

"We had that two days ago," Seungkwan argues. "Fried chicken."

"We literally just had chicken for lunch—"

The bickering continues as they gather their things and head out. Chan trails behind, legs still wobbly, feeling the satisfying burn of a day well-spent.

He doesn't think about his body beyond the pleasant ache of used muscles.

He doesn't think about food beyond knowing he's hungry.

He just... exists.

Easy.

Back at the dorm, they crowd around the kitchen table with enough food to feed a small army. Chan ends up between Woozi and Vernon, and the conversation flows around him—something about a variety show appearance next week, whether they should order more side dishes, Seungkwan doing a pitch-perfect imitation of their manager's scolding voice that has everyone in stitches.

Chan eats well. He's hungry. He laughs at DK's terrible joke about why the chicken crossed the road (something involving a debut stage that doesn't quite make sense). He argues with Seungkwan about whether the tteokbokki is too spicy.

"It's perfect," Chan insists.

"Your mouth is literally red!"

"That's not from the spice, that's from—" Chan catches sight of his reflection in the window and realizes Seungkwan is right. He looks like he's been crying. "Okay, fine, it's a little spicy."

Seungkwan crows in victory.

When dinner winds down, Chan helps clear the table without being asked, stacking bowls efficiently.

"Wow, our baby is so helpful today," Jeonghan teases, bringing over the last of the side dishes.

"I'm always helpful," Chan protests, but he's smiling.

"Sure you are," Jeonghan says, pinching his cheek. "Such a good baby."

The word lands heavier this time. Chan's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, but Jeonghan doesn't notice—he's already turned away to argue with Joshua about whose turn it is to take out the trash.

Chan finishes cleaning up, then showers and changes into clean clothes. By the time he flops onto his bed, his body is singing with exhaustion. His phone is on the nightstand, screen dark.

He should sleep. They have another early practice tomorrow.

But his thumb is already unlocking the screen, muscle memory carrying him to Instagram before his brain catches up.

He's not looking for anything in particular. Just scrolling. Winding down.

The algorithm knows him, though. It always does.

A clip pops up—a fancam from their last music show performance. He's front and center for eight counts, and the comments are flooded with compliments.

"Chan's stage presence is insane"

"How is he so stable while dancing that hard??"

"Main dancer things 👑"

"The way he ATTACKS every move... that's my Dino"

He smiles, pleased, and scrolls past.

Another video. A compilation someone made of his best dance moments from the past year, set to dramatic music. The editing is good—it makes him look powerful, skilled. The comments are similarly enthusiastic.

"He's so underrated as a dancer"

"People sleep on Dino's skills"

"That's SEVENTEEN's maknae, show some respect"

Chan feels that warm glow of validation. This is what he wants. Recognition for his skills, not just his position in the group.

He keeps scrolling.

The next video makes him pause.

It's a behind-the-scenes clip from a recent Going Seventeen episode. The thumbnail shows him mid-laugh, eyes crinkled into crescents, cheeks full from whatever snack he's eating.
The caption reads: "baby dino being adorable for 3 minutes straight 🥺"

His thumb hovers over it. He shouldn't click. He knows he shouldn't.

He clicks anyway.

The video is exactly what the title promised—three minutes of clips edited together.

Chan clinging to Seungcheol's arm during a haunted house segment.

Chan pouting when he loses a game.

Chan being fed by Jeonghan, mouth open like a baby bird.

Chan falling asleep on Joshua's shoulder in the car.

Chan being teased by the older members and whining in that exaggerated way that always makes them laugh.

The comments load.

"Aww our baby maknae is so cute 😭"

"Chan will always have that baby face omg I can't"

"He still looks 17 how is that possible"

"The way the hyungs baby him I'm CRYING"

"Baby Dino 🥺🥺"

"He's so clingy with his hyungs I love their bond"

"Forever the maknae fr"

"Why is he like an actual child lmaooo so precious"

Chan's thumb freezes over the screen.

He tells himself to scroll.

He doesn't.

He reads them again. And again.

Baby face. Still looks 17. Cute. Clingy.

They're not mean comments. He knows that. They're affectionate—fans love him, they say it all the time. The fans think the dynamic is cute, think his relationship with his hyungs is endearing.

But something about it...

He clicks back to the profile and looks at the video again. Really looks.

Is that what people see? Not a skilled performer, but... someone to be coddled? Someone cute and clingy and forever young?

He thinks about practice today. The way Hoshi praised his improvement, the sharpness of his movements, the power he's been working so hard to cultivate.

And then he thinks about Jeonghan calling him "baby" three times at dinner. Seungcheol saying "leave the kid alone" this morning. The way he'd been clinging to Seungcheol's arm in that clip, the way he'd pouted, the way he'd—

When did he become like this?

Has he always been like this?

Chan locks his phone abruptly.

Sets it face-down on the nightstand.

Stares at the ceiling.

His body still aches from practice—good ache, productive ache. Proof of work, proof of improvement. He's been getting stronger, sharper, more skilled.

So why do people still see him as cute?

Why is that the first word that comes up?

Not powerful. Not sharp. Not skilled.

Cute. Clingy. Baby.

He closes his eyes, frustrated with himself. This is stupid. He's being stupid. They're just comments from fans who love him. The members tease him because they care about him. It doesn't mean anything.

Tomorrow he'll wake up and it won't bother him.

But sleep doesn't come easily. His mind keeps circling back—to the comments, to the word "baby," to the way he'd been hanging off Seungcheol in that clip like he couldn't stand on his own two feet.

He's twenty-four years old.

He's been an idol for almost nine years.

When does he stop being the baby?

He rolls onto his side, pulls the blanket up to his chin, and forces his eyes shut.

Tomorrow. He'll figure it out tomorrow.

It takes a long time for sleep to come.

Morning comes too soon.

Chan drags himself out of bed at Seungkwan's wake-up call and shuffles into the kitchen on autopilot. His body is sore in that deep, satisfying way that means yesterday's practice was productive. But there's something else too—a restless energy that kept him half-awake most of the night.

Seungcheol is at the stove again. There's rice, soup, grilled fish, the usual spread of banchan.

"Morning," Chan mumbles, dropping into his usual chair.

"Eat up," Seungcheol says, already plating food. "Long day today."

The plate appears in front of him—full, generous, the same portions Seungcheol always gives him.

Chan picks up his spoon.

And then—he pauses.

It's just for a second. Maybe two.

He looks at the rice, the fish, the soup. Thinks about that video last night. The comments. Baby face. Still looks 17.

He shakes his head, annoyed at himself. It's just food. He ate yesterday without thinking twice. He should do the same today.

He eats.

But he's... aware of it now. The weight of the spoon. The texture of the rice. The way it sits in his stomach.

Across the table, Mingyu is inhaling his breakfast like he hasn't eaten in days. Beside him, DK is scrolling through his phone with one hand, mechanically bringing food to his mouth with the other. Vernon is still half-asleep, chewing slowly.

Normal. Everyone just eating normally.

Chan finishes about three-quarters of the bowl and sets it down.

"Done already?" Seungcheol asks, glancing over.

Chan nods. "Yeah, I'm full."

It's not entirely a lie. He is full. Maybe not completely full, but full enough. And besides, he read somewhere that you should stop eating before you're too full. Something about digestion.

Seungcheol just shrugs and goes back to cooking.

No one questions it.

Why would they?

At practice, Chan makes a conscious effort to be different.

Not dramatically different—he's not stupid. But... less clingy. More independent.

When they take their first water break, Chan doesn't immediately gravitate toward Seungcheol like he usually would. Instead, he stays where he is, stretching out his hamstrings and checking his phone.

"Chan-ah," Seungcheol calls from across the room. "Come here a sec."

Chan looks up. Seungcheol is standing with Hoshi, looking at something on Hoshi's tablet—probably formation notes.

Normally, Chan would bounce over immediately.

Today, he takes his time. Finishes his stretch. Takes a sip of water. Walks over at a measured pace.

"What's up?" he asks when he gets there.

Seungcheol doesn't seem to notice anything different. "We're thinking about changing this transition. What do you think—would it be cleaner if you came from stage left instead of center?"

They discuss it for a few minutes. Chan gives his input—professional, thoughtful. When they're done, he nods and walks back to his spot without lingering.

Seungcheol and Hoshi go back to their discussion.

Chan tells himself this is good. This is more mature. Less dependent.

During their mid-morning break, Seungkwan tosses him a protein bar.

"Eat. You didn't finish breakfast."

Chan catches it, surprised Seungkwan noticed. Then again, Seungkwan notices everything.

"I ate enough," he says lightly.

"Chan-ah, we have three more hours. Eat."

There's that edge of older-brother concern in Seungkwan's voice.

Chan unwraps the bar and takes a bite to appease him. It tastes like chalk and artificial chocolate. He chews slowly, making it last, taking small bites.

"Better?" he asks after he's eaten about half.

"Finish it."

"I'm good, hyung. Really." Chan tucks the rest into his bag when Seungkwan turns to argue with Vernon about something. "I'll save it for later."

(He won't.)

When lunch is delivered to the practice room—pork cutlet today—Chan takes smaller portions than usual.

Not dramatically smaller. Just... mindful.

"Light appetite today?" Jun asks, reaching across Chan to grab the rice container.

"Ate too much at breakfast," Chan lies smoothly. "My stomach feels a little off."

Jun just nods, not questioning it.

Chan eats his cutlet slowly, cutting it into small pieces, chewing thoroughly. He participates in the conversation—laughs at Mingyu's story about accidentally texting their manager instead of his mom, argues with DK about whether pineapple belongs on pizza—but he's hyperaware of every bite.

When Mingyu reaches over to steal a piece of pickled radish from Chan's plate, Chan lets him. Normally he'd put up a fight, make a big deal about it. Today he just smiles and pushes the whole dish toward Mingyu.

"Wow, generous today," Mingyu comments, but he's smiling.

"I'm always generous," Chan protests, but without the usual whining tone.

"Sure you are, baby."

The word makes Chan's chest tighten, but he keeps smiling.

That afternoon, they learn a new section of choreography—partner work where Chan has to interact closely with Jeonghan for several eight-counts.

Jeonghan keeps making mistakes, stumbling over the footwork, and normally Chan would laugh and cling to his arm and whine about it playfully. That's their dynamic. That's what fans love about their interactions.

Today, Chan just resets to position and waits patiently.

"Sorry, sorry," Jeonghan says, getting back in place. "I'm off today."

"It's fine, hyung," Chan says. "Take your time."

Jeonghan glances at him—a quick, assessing look—but doesn't say anything.

They run through it again. And again. By the fifth time, Jeonghan has it down.

"Good job," Chan says when they break.

Jeonghan's eyes linger on him for a moment longer than necessary, but then Hoshi is calling them back and the moment passes.

That night, back at the dorm, they order Chinese food for dinner. Chan takes small portions—mostly vegetables, some jajangmyeon, a little tangsuyuk.

"That's all you're eating?" Mingyu asks, already reaching for seconds.

"I'm still full from lunch," Chan says.

Another lie.

They're coming easier now.

Mingyu shrugs and piles more food onto his own plate. The conversation flows around Chan—something about the photoshoot tomorrow, how long it might take, what the title track might sound like.

Chan participates enough to seem normal. Laughs at the right times. Adds to the conversation when prompted. But he's mostly focused on eating slowly, making it look like he's eating more than he is.

When dinner ends, he volunteers to do dishes—partly to be helpful, partly for the convenient excuse to scrape away evidence.

Woozi helps him, which is unusual. Woozi isn't big on chores.

They work in silence for a while, Woozi washing, Chan drying.

Then Woozi says, very casually, "You okay, Chan-ah?"

Chan's hands still on the plate he's drying.

"Yeah, why?"

"Just checking." Woozi hands him another dish. "You've been quiet today."

"Just focused on the comeback, hyung. Want to make sure I'm giving my best."

"You always give your best."

There's something weighted in the way Woozi says it, but Chan can't quite figure out what.

They finish the dishes in silence.

Later that night, Chan lies in bed with his phone, scrolling through Instagram again. He tells himself he's not looking for anything specific.

But when he comes across a new video—a fan edit of him and Seungcheol, set to some emotional piano music—he clicks it anyway.

The edit is well-made. It shows Chan over the years, always gravitating toward Seungcheol. Hugging him from behind. Holding his hand. Falling asleep on his shoulder. Crying on his shoulder after a particularly emotional concert. Looking at him with obvious admiration.

The caption: "the way dino has never stopped looking at seungcheol like he hung the stars... baby maknae & leader forever 🥺"

The comments are variations on the same theme.

"Their bond is so pure"

"Coups treats him like an actual baby I'm SOBBING"

"Chan is so clingy especially with Cheol it's the cutest thing"

"He's so dependent on his hyungs 😭"

"Forever the baby fr"

Chan closes the app.

Opens his Notes instead.

He stares at the blank page for a long moment.

Then types:

Day 2 Breakfast - 3/4 bowl rice, soup, fish Lunch - 1/2 protein bar, small portion cutlet Dinner - small portions jajangmyeon, vegetables

He stares at it.

Deletes it.

Then types it again, this time with one additional line:

Be less clingy tomorrow

He saves the note.

Turns off his phone.

Stares at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, he decides, he'll be even more careful. More mature. More independent.

Less like a baby.

More like someone people should take seriously.

It's fine.

Everything is fine.

Chan doesn't dream that night, but his sleep is restless—the kind where he's half-aware of tossing and turning, of his mind never quite shutting off. When Seungkwan's alarm goes off at 6:30, Chan is already awake, staring at the faint light creeping through the curtains.

His stomach feels empty.

Hollow.

He likes it.

The thought surprises him, but there it is—clear and undeniable. There's something satisfying about the emptiness, like he's in control of something when everything else in his life is choreographed by other people. Schedules, formations, even what he wears on stage—none of it is really his choice.

But this? This he can control.

He gets out of bed before Seungkwan can elbow him again, padding quietly to the bathroom. The scale they keep tucked beside the toilet catches his eye. He doesn't usually weigh himself—none of them do, really, except maybe before comeback season when they all get a little paranoid about how they'll look on camera.

He steps on it anyway.

63.2 kg.

He's not sure what he weighed two days ago, but he thinks maybe it was more than this. Maybe 64 kg? He can't remember exactly.

He should feel concerned about not knowing.

Instead, he feels... curious.

He takes a mental note. Tomorrow he'll check again. Just to see.

Breakfast is the same as yesterday—rice, soup, banchan spread across the table. Seungcheol is cooking again, sleeves rolled up, hair still messy from sleep. Mingyu is complaining about something Joshua said last night. Minghao is trying to mediate while clearly not paying attention.

Chan takes his usual seat and accepts the bowl Seungcheol hands him.

This time, he doesn't pause before eating.

He just... eats less.

Half the rice. A few bites of fish. Some kimchi.

He eats slowly, making sure to look engaged in the conversation. Seungkwan is telling some story about a fan at the last fansign who kept calling him a tangerine, and everyone is laughing, and Chan laughs too, at all the right moments.

When he sets his bowl down—still half full—no one notices.

Seungcheol is too busy plating more food for Mingyu.

Seungkwan is still talking.

Vernon is scrolling through his phone, showing Wonwoo some meme.

Chan stands, picks up his bowl, and quietly scrapes the rest into the trash before putting it in the sink.

Easy.

Simple.

No one saw.

Something about that—the secrecy of it—sends a small thrill through him. Like he's getting away with something.

But getting away with what? He's just not overeating. That's responsible. That's healthy.

He's fine.

Practice is different today.

Not bad different. Actually, Chan feels... light. Lighter than usual. His movements feel quicker, sharper. When they run through the choreography, he nails every count, every transition.

"Woah," Hoshi says during a water break, genuinely impressed. "Chan-ah, what's gotten into you? You're on fire today."

Chan shrugs, trying not to smile too widely. "Just feeling good, I guess."

"Whatever you're doing, keep it up. You look great."

You look great.

The words settle warm in his chest, and Chan holds onto them like a trophy.

See? It's working.

During the break, Joshua walks over with his water bottle. "You okay, Chan-ah? You seem different today."

"Different how?" Chan asks, genuinely curious.

Joshua shrugs, taking a sip. "I don't know. Quieter, maybe? You didn't join in when we were messing around earlier."

He's right. Earlier, Mingyu and DK had been doing some ridiculous bit, trying to get everyone to join in. Normally Chan would have jumped right in—he loves that kind of chaos, loves making the others laugh.

Today, he'd just watched from the side, smiling but not participating.

"Just focused, hyung," Chan says. "I want this comeback to be really good."

Joshua studies him for a moment, then nods. "Okay. But you know you can take breaks, right? You don't have to be 'on' all the time."

"I know."

Joshua squeezes his shoulder—brief, affectionate—and walks back to where Jeonghan is dramatically sprawled on the floor, claiming he's dying.

Chan watches them. Joshua immediately starts fussing over Jeonghan, and Jeonghan milks it for all it's worth, and everyone is laughing.

Chan used to do that. Used to drape himself over the members dramatically, used to demand attention in that playful way.

When did he stop?

When lunch arrives—pork cutlet, rice, soup—Chan takes a small portion of cutlet, no rice, extra vegetables.

"Not eating rice?" Minghao asks, reaching over Chan to grab the container.

"Ate too much last night," Chan lies smoothly. "My stomach feels a little off."

Minghao just nods, not questioning it.

Chan eats his cutlet slowly, cutting it into tiny pieces, chewing thoroughly. He learned somewhere—probably online, in one of those threads he definitely shouldn't be reading—that eating slowly makes you feel fuller with less food.

It works.

Kind of.

His stomach stops growling, at least.

But there's still that hollow feeling, and he's starting to like it. Starting to associate it with control, with discipline, with being better. More mature. Less dependent.

That afternoon, they have a photoshoot for the comeback album.

The photographer is new—some acclaimed artist their company hired for the concept photos. Everything is very artistic, very dramatic. Lots of shadows and interesting angles.

Chan stands in front of the camera and focuses on the feeling of control. The lightness in his body. The sharpness of his angles.

"Beautiful, Chan-ah!" the photographer calls out. "Give me more intensity—yes, like that! Your bone structure is incredible."

Bone structure.

Not "cute."

Not "baby-faced."

Bone structure.

Chan holds the pose, feeling something like pride surge through him.

When they break for the next member's solo shots, Chan checks the preview screen. The photographer is showing some of the shots to their manager, and Chan lingers nearby, trying to see.

He looks good.

Really good.

The shadows hit his cheekbones in a way they didn't before. His jaw looks more defined. Even his collarbones are more prominent in the shot where he's wearing the open-necked shirt.

"You've lost weight," Jeonghan comments, appearing beside him suddenly.

Chan startles. "What?"

Jeonghan is studying him with that knowing look he sometimes gets—the one that makes Chan feel like Jeonghan can see right through him.

"You look thinner," Jeonghan says. It's not quite a question, but not quite a statement either.

"Maybe a little," Chan admits, keeping his tone casual. "Comeback prep, you know? We're all working hard."

"Mm." Jeonghan hums, noncommittal, still looking at him with those sharp eyes. "You're eating enough, right?"

"Of course, hyung."

The lie comes easily now.

Jeonghan reaches out and ruffles his hair—gentle, affectionate—but his expression is still assessing.

For a second, Chan thinks Jeonghan is going to push further.

But then the photographer calls for the next setup, and Jeonghan just says, "Come to me if you need anything, okay?"

"I will."

Jeonghan holds his gaze for another moment, then walks away.

Chan exhales slowly.

That was close.

He needs to be more careful.

That evening, when they return to the dorm, Seungcheol announces he's cooking again. He's been on a cooking kick lately, trying new recipes from some YouTube channel he's obsessed with.

Tonight it's dakgalbi—spicy stir-fried chicken with vegetables and rice cakes. It smells incredible, and Chan's stomach clenches with genuine hunger.

He hasn't eaten much today.

Half a bowl of rice for breakfast. A small piece of pork cutlet for lunch. Some water and a few sips of an energy drink during the photoshoot.

His body is asking for food.

But his mind is stronger.

He takes a small portion—mostly vegetables, a few pieces of chicken, no rice cakes.

"That's all you're eating?" Mingyu asks, already reaching for seconds.

"I'm still full from lunch," Chan says.

Another lie.

Mingyu shrugs and piles more food onto his own plate. Beside Chan, Minghao is picking at his food slowly, methodical as always. On his other side, Vernon is mixing everything together into what Seungkwan calls "an abomination."

The conversation flows around Chan—something about the photoshoot, whether the concept is too dark, what the fans might think of it.

"What do you think, Chan-ah?" DK asks suddenly.

Chan looks up, realizing he missed part of the conversation. "Sorry, what?"

"The concept. Do you think it's too dark compared to our usual stuff?"

Chan considers it. "I think it's different, but in a good way. Shows range."

"Mature," Wonwoo adds, glancing at Chan. "More mature than our usual concepts."

The word—mature—lands exactly right.

"Yeah," Chan agrees, sitting up straighter. "Exactly. We've been doing this for almost nine years. We can't stay in the same box forever."

"Our baby's getting philosophical," Jeonghan teases from across the table.

Chan's jaw tightens, but he forces a smile. "I'm just saying we're evolving."

"Of course we are," Seungcheol says, serving himself more dakgalbi. "That's what makes us who we are. We're not afraid to try new things."

The conversation shifts to the upcoming comeback schedule, but Chan is still stuck on Jeonghan's comment. Baby. How many times has he heard that word in the past three days? Five times? Ten? More?

He eats mechanically, hyperaware of every bite. When no one's looking, he pushes some of the chicken around his plate to make it look like he ate more than he did.

After dinner, he volunteers to clean up again. This time, Seungcheol helps him.

They work in comfortable silence for a few minutes—Seungcheol washing, Chan drying—and Chan thinks maybe he's safe.

Then Seungcheol says, "You've been quiet lately."

Chan's hands still on the plate he's drying. "Have I?"

"Yeah. Usually you're bouncing off the walls by now. Bothering Seungkwan, wrestling with Mingyu, something."

Chan forces a light laugh. "Just focused, hyung. Comeback mode."

"Mm." Seungcheol hands him another plate, and for a moment Chan thinks that's the end of it. But then: "You can talk to me, you know. If something's bothering you."

"Nothing's bothering me."

"Chan-ah." Seungcheol's voice is gentle but firm. "I've known you since you were fourteen. I can tell when something's off."

Chan's throat tightens. He focuses on drying the plate in his hands, not meeting Seungcheol's eyes.

"I'm just trying to be less... I don't know. Annoying, I guess."

Seungcheol stops washing, turning to look at him fully. "Annoying? Who said you were annoying?"

"No one. I just—" Chan sets the plate down, frustrated with himself. "I'm twenty-four, hyung. I should be able to handle things on my own without constantly... clinging to everyone."

There's a beat of silence.

"Is that what you think you do?" Seungcheol asks quietly. "Cling?"

"I—" Chan's voice catches. "I just want to be taken more seriously. As a performer. As an adult."

Seungcheol is studying him with that leader expression—the one that sees too much.

"Chan-ah, no one thinks you're not a serious performer. You're one of the best dancers in the industry. And being the youngest doesn't make you any less capable or talented."

"I know that." But does he? "I just... I want to show a different side. More mature."

"Mature doesn't mean pushing people away," Seungcheol says carefully. "Or changing who you are."

"I'm not changing who I am. I'm just—growing up."

Seungcheol looks like he wants to say more, but then Mingyu crashes into the kitchen yelling something about Seungkwan hiding his phone again, and the moment breaks.

"Think about what I said," Seungcheol tells him, squeezing his shoulder before turning to deal with Mingyu's crisis.

Chan finishes the dishes alone.

Later that night, Chan lies in bed scrolling through his phone. He should sleep—they have another early morning tomorrow—but his mind is too active.

He opens Twitter, scrolling through the tags. More comments about the group, about the comeback teasers that dropped today, about individual members.

Then he sees it: a new trending hashtag. #DinoBabyboyCompilation

Against his better judgment, he clicks.

It's a thread. A long one. Hundreds of tweets with photos and GIFs, all of Chan being "cute" and "baby" with the other members.

Chan sitting in Seungcheol's lap during a fansign
Chan being fed by Jeonghan
Chan falling asleep on Joshua's shoulder
Chan crying and being comforted by Wonwoo
Chan playfully fighting with Mingyu like a little brother
Chan being carried on Hoshi's back
Chan pouting when he loses a game

Each tweet has thousands of likes. Thousands of comments saying variations of the same thing:

"My baby 🥺"
"He's so precious"
"Forever the group's baby"
"He never grew up and I love that"
"Actual baby behavior"

Chan's chest feels tight.

He keeps scrolling, unable to stop.

There's a video from last week's Going Seventeen episode. Chan hadn't seen this episode yet. He's sitting between Seungcheol and Jeonghan, and at one point, without even seeming to think about it, he leans into Seungcheol's side. Seungcheol automatically wraps an arm around him, still talking to the camera, as natural as breathing.

The comments:

"The way Coups just automatically holds him 😭"
"Chan is so clingy I can't"
"He really can't function without his hyungs"
"Baby wants attention"

Chan locks his phone.

Sets it face-down.

Presses his palms against his eyes.

Is that really how people see him? As someone who can't function alone? Someone who needs constant attention and care?

He thinks about practice earlier—how he'd deliberately kept his distance, hadn't sought out Seungcheol during breaks, had stayed independent.

And Seungcheol noticed. Joshua noticed.

Because it's not who he usually is.

But maybe that's the problem.

Maybe he's made himself too comfortable being the baby. Made it too easy for everyone to see him that way.

He needs to change that. Needs to show people—fans, members, everyone—that he's more than just cute. More than just the youngest. More than just someone who needs to be taken care of.

He opens his Notes app.

Day 3 Breakfast - 1/2 bowl rice, minimal sides Lunch - small pork cutlet, vegetables Dinner - vegetables, small amount chicken Practice - 6 hours Photoshoot - 4 hours Weight - 63.0 kg

Goals:

• Be more independent
• Less physical affection
• More mature image
• Keep improving

He stares at the last line, then adds one more:

• Keep control

He saves the note and closes his eyes.

Tomorrow will be better. He'll be better.

More controlled. More mature. More worthy of being taken seriously.

Sleep comes eventually, fitful and thin.

[Several days pass with similar patterns - Chan gradually eating less, pulling away from the members more, becoming increasingly isolated and focused on control. 

Day ten starts like any other, except Chan wakes up angrier than usual.

He's not sure why. Maybe it's the way his stomach has been cramping all night—empty and tight, protesting the lack of food. Maybe it's the way his head pounds dully behind his eyes, a constant presence now. Maybe it's just the accumulation of everything—the hunger, the exhaustion, the constant mental calculations of what he can and cannot eat.

Whatever it is, it sits under his skin like an itch he can't scratch.

He weighs himself first thing: 60.3 kg.

The number should make him happy. It does make him happy, in that brief, hollow way. But the satisfaction lasts maybe thirty seconds before the anxiety creeps back in.

Don't eat too much today. You could lose more tomorrow. Just stay focused.

In the kitchen, most of the members are already awake. Seungcheol is at the stove—of course he is—making what looks like a full breakfast spread. The smell of cooking rice and sizzling fish makes Chan's stomach clench painfully.

"Morning," Chan mumbles, heading straight for the coffee maker.

"Chan-ah, sit down," Seungcheol calls over his shoulder. "Food's almost ready."

"I'm good with just coffee."

"You need more than coffee."

Chan's jaw tightens, but he doesn't respond. Just pours his coffee and leans against the counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand.

Seungkwan bounces in, still in his pajamas, hair sticking up at odd angles. "Morning! What's for breakfast?"

"Rice, fish, kimchi, soup," Seungcheol lists off. "Chan-ah, grab some bowls."

Chan doesn't move.

"Chan-ah?"

"I said I'm not hungry."

There's a beat of silence. Seungkwan glances between them, clearly sensing the tension.

"You need to eat something," Seungcheol says, his tone still patient but with an edge of firmness underneath.

"I'll eat later."

"That's what you said yesterday."

"And I did eat yesterday." Another lie. He'd had half a protein bar and some water. "I'm just not hungry right now."

Seungcheol turns around fully now, spatula in hand, and gives Chan that look—the leader look that usually makes Chan cave immediately.

Today it just makes him more irritated.

"Chan-ah—"

"Hyung, I'm twenty-four years old. I think I know when I'm hungry."

The words come out sharper than he intends. Seungkwan's eyes widen slightly.

Seungcheol's expression hardens. "Fine. But you're taking food with you to practice."

"I don't need—"

"That wasn't a request."

They stare at each other for a long moment. Chan wants to argue more, wants to push back, but something about the set of Seungcheol's shoulders tells him this isn't a battle he'll win.

"Fine," Chan mutters, grabbing his coffee and heading back to his room.

Behind him, he hears Seungkwan's quiet voice: "What's going on with him?"

"I don't know," Seungcheol replies, sounding tired. "But I'm worried."

Chan closes his door before he can hear more.

Practice starts at 9 AM.

Chan shows up early—not exactly on time like he usually is, not trailing in with one of the other members. Just... there. Alone.

He'd left the dorm before everyone else, claiming he needed to warm up early. Really, he just couldn't stand another minute of Seungcheol's concerned looks or Seungkwan's careful questions.

The practice room is empty when he arrives. He drops his bag in the corner, connects his phone to the speaker, and starts stretching.

His body feels stiff and uncooperative. His muscles protest every movement, tight and sore in a way that goes beyond normal practice fatigue. He pushes through it, folding himself into deeper stretches, ignoring the way his vision swims slightly when he bends forward.

The door opens about fifteen minutes later. Vernon walks in, followed by Wonwoo.

"Hey," Vernon says, surprised. "Didn't know you were here already."

"Just warming up."

Wonwoo is watching him with that quiet, assessing look he's had lately. Chan pretends not to notice, standing up and shaking out his legs.

"You eat breakfast?" Wonwoo asks casually.

Chan's shoulders tense. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because you never eat with us anymore," Vernon says bluntly.

"I eat fine on my own."

"Do you?"

Chan turns to face them fully. "Is this going to be a thing now? Everyone monitoring what I eat?"

"We're just worried—" Wonwoo starts.

"Well, don't be. I'm fine."

The door opens again. More members file in—Mingyu and DK, then Joshua and Jun, then everyone else in clusters. The practice room fills with the usual morning chaos—stretching, chattering, someone's phone playing music too loud.

Chan moves to his usual spot and continues stretching alone.

He can feel eyes on him. Wonwoo's, definitely. Probably others too. It makes his skin crawl.

Hoshi claps his hands together. "Okay, let's get started. We're cleaning the title track today, so I want everyone focused."

They run through it once as a warm-up. Chan's movements are sharp, precise. He's been running this choreography in his head constantly—in bed at night, during meals he's not eating, in the shower. Every eight-count is burned into his muscle memory.

"Good," Hoshi says when they finish. "Chan-ah, your execution is really clean. Whatever you've been doing, keep it up."

The praise sends a warm flash through Chan's chest, but it's quickly followed by anxiety. Keep it up. Don't slip. Don't eat too much. Stay in control.

They run through it again. And again.

By the fifth run-through, Chan's vision is starting to blur at the edges. By the seventh, his legs are shaking. By the tenth, he can barely hear the music over the rushing in his ears.

"Water break," Hoshi finally calls.

Everyone disperses. Chan grabs his water bottle with hands that tremble slightly and drinks slowly, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Hey."

Chan looks up. Seungkwan is standing in front of him, holding something wrapped in plastic.

"What's that?"

"Kimbap. Seungcheol-hyung made me promise to make sure you ate it."

Chan's stomach twists. "I'm not hungry."

"Chan-ah—"

"I said I'm not hungry." His voice is too sharp again, too defensive.

Seungkwan flinches. "Okay. I'm just... I'm worried about you."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it's true."

Chan stands up abruptly. "I'm going to the bathroom."

He walks away before Seungkwan can respond, before he can see the hurt expression on his face.

In the bathroom, Chan locks himself in a stall and leans against the door, breathing hard.

What is wrong with you?

Seungkwan was just trying to help. They all are. And Chan keeps snapping at them, pushing them away, being an asshole for no reason.

Except there is a reason. The hunger makes everything feel too intense, too much. Every sound is too loud, every touch too intrusive, every expression of concern feels like criticism.

He splashes cold water on his face at the sink, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

When he returns to the practice room, Seungkwan is sitting alone in the corner, the kimbap still in his hands, unopened.

Their eyes meet for a second before Chan looks away.

Lunch break comes at 1 PM.

Everyone orders delivery—Chinese food from the place down the street. The practice room fills with the smell of jajangmyeon and tangsuyuk and fried dumplings.

Chan's stomach clenches so hard it's almost painful. He hasn't eaten anything since yesterday afternoon—just coffee this morning, and that's long since burned through his system.

But he can't eat. Not in front of everyone. Not when they're all watching him.

"Chan-ah, what do you want?" Mingyu asks, phone in hand, ready to add to the order.

"I'm okay."

"You have to eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

Mingyu's expression flickers with something—frustration, maybe, or worry. "You said that this morning too."

"Because it's true."

"Chan—"

"Just order without me." Chan stands up, grabbing his water bottle. "I'm going to keep practicing."

"We're on lunch break," DK points out.

"I know. I just want to work on something."

He can feel them all watching him as he moves to the center of the practice room, can feel the weight of their concern and confusion. But he doesn't stop. Just plugs his earbuds in and starts running through the choreography alone.

Behind him, he hears quiet murmuring. Someone says his name. Someone else says something he can't quite catch.

Chan turns up the music and focuses on the movements.

When the food arrives twenty minutes later, Chan stays in his corner, earbuds still in, pretending to be too absorbed in practice to notice.

The members eat together on the other side of the room. Chan catches glimpses in the mirror—Mingyu and DK arguing over the last dumpling, Joshua trying to mediate, Jeonghan stealing food from Seungcheol's plate just to annoy him.

Normal. Easy. The way lunch used to be.

Chan's stomach cramps painfully, but he ignores it.

After about ten minutes, someone walks over. Chan can see them in the mirror before they reach him—Wonwoo, holding a container of food.

Chan pulls out one earbud. "What?"

"You should eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Chan-ah." Wonwoo's voice is patient but firm. "You haven't eaten anything all day."

"You don't know that."

They stare at each other for a moment.

"I had coffee this morning," Chan says finally.

"Coffee isn't food."

"It's enough."

"It's not." Wonwoo sets the container down on the floor between them. "Please. Just eat something. Even a little bit."

Chan looks at the container. Jajangmyeon, still steaming slightly. His stomach clenches with hunger so intense it almost makes him dizzy.

But the thought of eating—of all those calories, of losing control, of undoing his progress—makes anxiety spike hard in his chest.

"I can't," he whispers.

Wonwoo's expression shifts to something that looks like pain. "Can't or won't?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah. It does."

Chan picks up his water bottle instead. "I'll eat later. At the dorm."

"You said that yesterday too. And the day before."

"Well, I mean it this time."

Wonwoo doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push either. Just picks up the container and walks back to the others.

Chan puts his earbud back in and returns to practicing.

They work until 6 PM.

By the time Hoshi finally calls it, Chan is running on pure adrenaline and spite. His legs are shaking. His vision keeps blurring. There's a constant ringing in his ears that won't go away.

But his dancing was perfect. Every single run-through, every single move. No mistakes.

That has to count for something.

"Good work today," Hoshi says, addressing the group. "Get some rest tonight. We're back at it tomorrow morning."

Everyone starts packing up. Chan moves slowly, his body protesting every motion.

"Chan-ah."

He looks up. Joshua is standing in front of him, car keys in hand.

"I'm driving back to the dorm. Want a ride?"

Chan usually rides with Seungcheol and whoever else piles into his car. But right now, the thought of being trapped in close quarters with Seungcheol's concerned looks and careful questions makes him want to scream.

"Sure," he says.

They walk to the parking garage in silence. Chan is grateful for it—Joshua has always been good at reading when people don't want to talk.

But once they're in the car, doors closed, Joshua doesn't start the engine immediately.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"I'm fine."

"Chan-ah."

"I'm fine, hyung."

Joshua's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "You're not. And you know you're not."

Chan stares out the window. "Can we not do this right now?"

"When, then? Because you won't talk to any of us. You barely eat, you're practicing until you drop, and you're snapping at everyone who tries to help."

"Maybe I don't need help."

"Everyone needs help sometimes."

"Well, I don't." Chan's voice rises despite himself. "I'm just trying to be better. To improve. Why is that such a problem?"

"It's not about improving—"

"Then what is it about? Because from where I'm sitting, it feels like everyone's upset that I'm not being the same useless, clingy baby I've always been."

The words hang in the air between them.

Joshua's expression shifts—surprise, then understanding, then something that looks like sadness.

"Is that what you think?" he asks softly. "That you're useless? That we think you're useless?"

Chan doesn't answer.

"Chan-ah, look at me."

Reluctantly, Chan turns his head.

"You have never been useless," Joshua says, each word deliberate and clear. "You're one of the most talented people I know. Your dancing, your performance skills, your work ethic—you're incredible. We've always known that."

"Then why does everyone still treat me like a child?"

"We don't—"

"You do." Chan's voice cracks. "All of you. The baby talk, the constant checking in, the way everyone just... handles me like I might break. I'm twenty-four years old and I'm tired of being the baby."

Joshua is quiet for a long moment.

"Is that what this is about?" he finally asks. "You're trying to... what, prove something by not eating? By pushing everyone away?"

"I'm trying to grow up."

"That's not how growing up works."

"Then how does it work?" Chan demands. "Because I've been doing everything I can think of. I've been more independent, less clingy, working harder—and everyone's acting like I'm doing something wrong."

"Because you're hurting yourself," Joshua says, voice tight with emotion. "That's what's wrong. Not the independence, not the hard work. The fact that you think you have to destroy yourself to be taken seriously."

Chan looks away again. His throat is tight, eyes burning.

"I just want people to see me differently," he whispers.

"We see you, Chan-ah. We've always seen you. The real you. Not some baby, not some child—a talented, hardworking, incredible performer who also happens to be kind and affectionate and the youngest. Those things aren't mutually exclusive."

"It feels like they are."

Joshua starts the engine. "I think we need to have a longer conversation about this. But not here. Not like this."

They drive back to the dorm in silence.

Chan watches the city lights blur past his window and tries to ignore the way his stomach cramps with hunger, the way his hands shake in his lap, the way everything feels too big and too small at the same time.

When they pull up to the dorm, Joshua parks but doesn't get out immediately.

"Will you please eat something tonight?" he asks. "Actually eat. For me?"

Chan wants to say yes. Wants to promise he will.

But he can't lie to Joshua. Not directly.

"I'll try," he says instead.

It's not a promise.

Joshua seems to know that.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Let's go inside."

The dorm is quiet when they enter.

"Hello?" Joshua calls out.

"Kitchen!" Seungcheol's voice responds.

They walk in to find Seungcheol cooking—again—with Jeonghan perched on the counter beside him, stealing pieces of vegetables when Seungcheol isn't looking.

"Hey," Seungcheol says, glancing over. "Where is everyone else?"

"They were leaving when we did," Joshua says. "Should be here soon."

Seungcheol's eyes land on Chan. "You hungry? Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes."

Chan's stomach twists. "I'm actually really tired. I think I'm just going to shower and go to bed."

"Chan-ah, you need to eat—"

"I know. I'll probably grab something after my shower. I’m all sweaty from practice."

Another lie.

Seungcheol opens his mouth to argue, but Joshua catches his eye and gives a small shake of his head. Not now. Not like this.

Seungcheol's jaw tightens, but he nods. "Okay. But if you change your mind, food will be here."

"Thanks, hyung."

Chan escapes to his room before anyone can say anything else.

He closes the door and leans against it, breathing hard. His whole body feels like it's vibrating with tension—hunger and exhaustion and anxiety all mixing into something unbearable.

He pulls out his phone and opens his Notes app.

Day 10 Breakfast - coffee Lunch - skipped Dinner - will skip Weight - 60.3 kg

Progress: good. Stay focused. Don't let them make you feel bad for taking care of yourself.

He stares at the last line.

Is that what he's doing? Taking care of himself?

It doesn't feel like it. It feels like falling apart.

But he's too tired to think about it anymore.

He showers quickly—catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror and quickly looking away from the sharp angles, the prominent bones—and collapses into bed.

Outside his door, he can hear the others coming home. Voices overlapping, someone laughing, the sounds of dinner being served.

Normal life, continuing without him.

Chan pulls his blanket over his head and waits for sleep that doesn't come.

A couple of weeks later. Chan wakes up at 4 AM after maybe two hours of broken sleep.

His body feels like it's made of lead and static at the same time. Every muscle aches. His head pounds with a dull, persistent throb. When he sits up, the room spins for a long moment before settling.

He should eat something. He knows he should.

But the thought of food makes his stomach turn.

Just get through today. One performance. That's all.

He weighs himself in the bathroom: 57.3 kg.

The number doesn't even register anymore. It's just a number. Meaningless.

He looks at himself in the mirror—really looks.

His face is gaunt, cheekbones sharp enough to cut. His eyes are sunken, ringed with shadows the makeup artists will have to work hard to cover. His collarbones jut out prominently above the neckline of his shirt.

He looks sick.

He looks like he's dying.

Just one more day.
Just until the showcase.

He splashes cold water on his face and goes to make coffee.

In the kitchen, Seungcheol is already awake, sitting at the table with his own coffee, scrolling through his phone.

He looks up when Chan enters. "Morning."

"Morning."

"You sleep okay?"

"Fine."

It's a lie and they both know it, but Seungcheol doesn't challenge it.

"You want breakfast?" Seungcheol asks carefully. "I can make something light. Toast? Fruit?"

"Just coffee."

Seungcheol's jaw tightens, but he nods. "Okay. But you'll eat something before the showcase, right? You need energy for the performance."

"Yeah. I will."

Another lie.

They sit in silence while Chan makes his coffee. The early morning quiet is almost peaceful, except for the tension hanging between them like a physical thing.

"Chan-ah," Seungcheol says finally. "After the showcase... we need to talk. Really talk."

"I know."

"I'm serious. No more avoiding it. No more saying you're fine when you're clearly not."

Chan wraps his hands around his coffee mug, feeling the warmth seep into his cold fingers. "Okay."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Seungcheol searches his face for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. Finish your coffee. We need to leave in an hour."

The venue is chaos when they arrive.

Staff rushing around with last-minute preparations. Stylists setting up stations. The creative director barking orders into a headset. Camera crews testing equipment.

The members are ushered into a large dressing room where makeup and hair stations are set up.

Chan drops into a chair and lets the stylist get to work.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asks, frowning at his face. "You have such dark circles."

"A little."

"You need to take better care of yourself," she chides gently, dabbing concealer under his eyes. "Especially on showcase days."

Chan doesn't respond.

The makeup takes longer than usual—there's more to cover. By the time she's done, Chan looks almost normal. Almost healthy.

It's all just paint and powder over rot.

"All done," she says, spinning his chair so he can see. "What do you think?"

Chan stares at his reflection. The person looking back at him is both familiar and foreign. Made up and perfect and completely hollow.

"It's good," he says. "Thank you."

Around the room, the other members are getting ready. There's nervous energy in the air—the good kind, the excited kind. Comeback showcases are always like this.

Chan tries to tap into that energy, but all he feels is exhausted.

"One hour until places," their manager announces, poking his head in. "Make sure you're all ready."

The hour passes in a blur.

Costume check. Last-minute hair adjustments. A brief run-through of formations in an empty backstage area. Everyone going through their pre-show rituals.

Chan goes through the motions mechanically.

When they're called to gather for their pre-show huddle, he stands in the circle with the others, their hands all meeting in the center.

"Okay," Seungcheol says, looking around at all of them. "This is it. Our comeback showcase. We've worked so hard for this. I'm proud of all of you."

His eyes linger on Chan for a moment—something heavy in his expression.

"Let's give them everything we have," Seungcheol continues. "And let's take care of each other up there. We're a team. Always."

They do their chant—thirteen voices united, hands gripping tight.

Chan holds on perhaps a bit too long, using their strength to keep himself upright.

"Alright," their manager says. "They're ready for you."

Seungcheol's POV

Seungcheol has been a leader for almost nine years. He knows his members—knows their tells, their habits, the subtle shifts in behavior that signal when something's wrong.

And he knows Chan is not okay.

He's known for weeks now, watching their maknae slowly disappear in front of them. The weight loss, the isolation, the way Chan flinches away from touch like it hurts, the constant excuses about eating.

Seungcheol has been trying to give him space, like the others agreed. Trying to let Chan come to them when he's ready.

But as they walk toward the stage, Chan stumbling slightly and catching himself on Wonwoo's arm, Seungcheol realizes with sick certainty that they waited too long.

Chan looks terrible. Even under all the makeup, even with the styled hair and the perfectly fitted stage outfit, he looks like he might collapse at any moment.

"Chan-ah," Seungcheol says quietly, catching his arm. "Are you sure you can do this?"

Chan's eyes are glassy, unfocused. But he nods. "I'm fine, hyung."

He's not fine. He's so far from fine that Seungcheol wants to call the whole thing off, wants to tell their manager they can't perform, wants to take Chan to a hospital right now.

But they're out of time. The showcase is about to start. The cameras are rolling. Hundred of fans are screaming their names.

"Stay close to me during the performance," Seungcheol says. "If you feel like you can't continue, signal me and I'll cover for you."

"I'll be fine—"

"Chan." Seungcheol grips his shoulders, making sure Chan is looking at him. "I mean it. I'd rather have an incomplete performance than watch you hurt yourself."

Chan nods, but Seungcheol isn't convinced he actually heard.

They take their positions on the dark stage.

Seungcheol is in the front-center for the opening. Chan is behind him to the left—close enough that Seungcheol can keep an eye on him.

The music starts.

The lights come up.

And they begin.

Chan's POV

The first verse is muscle memory.

Chan's body moves through the choreography without his conscious input. His mind is somewhere else, floating above the performance, disconnected.

The stage lights are too bright. The music is too loud. Everything feels wrong.

But his body knows what to do.

Step, turn, hit the mark, eight counts, formation change.

He can do this.

He's done this a hundred times in practice.

The chorus hits. More intense, more energy required.

Chan pushes through it, but his vision is starting to blur at the edges. The stage tilts slightly under his feet.

Keep going. Just keep going.

Seungcheol's POV

Seungcheol hits his mark for the chorus, executing the choreography while simultaneously tracking Chan in his peripheral vision.

Chan is moving, but something's off. His movements lack their usual sharpness. He's half a beat behind on several counts.

During a formation change, Seungcheol deliberately positions himself closer to Chan, close enough to reach him if needed.

They make eye contact for a split second. Chan's eyes are unfocused, pupils dilated.

Fuck.

Seungcheol wants to stop the performance right now. But they're in the middle of the showcase, cameras broadcasting live, and stopping would cause chaos.

So he keeps dancing, but he never takes his eyes off Chan for more than a second.

Chan's POV

The bridge is approaching.

The most intense part of the choreography. Jumps, spins, rapid movements.

Chan can barely see straight anymore. The stage is tilting dangerously. His legs feel like they might give out at any moment.

But it's almost over. Just get through the bridge, then one more chorus, then it's done.

You can do this. Just a little more.

The bridge section starts.

Chan jumps into the spin that's given him so much trouble in practice—

And suddenly there's nothing beneath him.

The world tilts violently. The stage rushes up to meet him—or maybe he's falling toward it, he can't tell.

He sees the lights spinning overhead.

Hears someone shout his name.

And then everything goes black.

Seungcheol's POV

Seungcheol sees it happen in slow motion.

Chan jumps into the spin. His leg buckles mid-air. His body tilts wrong.

And then he's falling.

Seungcheol is moving before Chan hits the ground, muscle memory and nine years of protective instincts taking over.

He breaks formation, lunges forward, and catches Chan before he can hit the stage floor.

Chan's full weight drops into his arms—limp, unconscious, terrifyingly light.

"Chan!" Seungcheol's voice cuts through the music. "Chan-ah!"

The music cuts out abruptly.

The other members break formation, clustering around them. Seungcheol can hear their voices—panicked, scared.

"Oh my god—" "Chan-ah—" "Is he breathing?" "Someone get medical—" "Move back, give him space—"

Seungcheol lowers Chan carefully to the stage floor, cradling his head. "Chan-ah, can you hear me? Chan!"

Nothing. Chan's face is pale under the stage makeup, lips slightly blue. His chest is rising and falling—shallow breaths, but he's breathing.

He doesn't think as he lifts Chan up, running off stage. The rest of the members close behind.

"Medical!" Seungcheol shouts toward the wings. "We need medical now!"

Staff members are already running toward them. Their manager appears with the medic.

"What happened?" the medic asks, dropping to her knees beside them.

"He collapsed during the performance. He's unconscious—"

The medic is checking Chan's pulse, his breathing, shining a light in his eyes. "His pulse is weak and rapid. Breathing is shallow. How long has he been unconscious?"

"Maybe thirty seconds?"

"Has he eaten today?"

Seungcheol's stomach drops. "I... I don't think so. He's barely eaten anything in weeks."

The medic's expression hardens. "We need to get him to a hospital. Now."

Everything happens very fast after that.

A stretcher appears. They lift Chan onto it—so light, so small, Seungcheol's heart breaks at how little there is of him.

"I'm going with him," Seungcheol says, already following the stretcher.

"Hyung—" Mingyu's voice, choked with tears.

Seungcheol turns back. All eleven members are standing there, still in their stage costumes, makeup running where some of them are crying. They look devastated.

"Jeonghan, you're in charge," Seungcheol says quickly. "Keep everyone together. I'll call as soon as I know anything."

"We should all go—" Wonwoo starts.

"You can't. Not all at once. Just—" Seungcheol's voice cracks. "Just wait for my call. Please."

He doesn't wait for a response. Just follows the paramedics as they wheel Chan off stage, through the backstage area, toward the exit where an ambulance is already waiting.

The venue is in chaos. Staff members scatter out of the way. Seungcheol can hear someone on a headset saying something about the live broadcast, about what to do about the showcase, but he doesn't care about any of that.

All he cares about is Chan.

They load the stretcher into the ambulance. Seungcheol climbs in after it.

"Are you family?" one of the paramedics asks.

"I'm his leader. His legal guardian in emergency situations." It's true—their contracts designate him as the emergency contact for the younger members.

The paramedic nods and doesn't argue.

Seungcheol sits beside the stretcher as the ambulance pulls away, sirens wailing. He reaches out and takes Chan's hand—so cold, so thin, bones prominent under papery skin.

"You're going to be okay," Seungcheol whispers, even though Chan can't hear him. "You hear me? You're going to be okay. I've got you."

One of the paramedics is putting in an IV line, moving efficiently. "Blood pressure is low. Checking blood sugar now."

She pricks Chan's finger, checks the reading on a small device, and swears under her breath.

"What?" Seungcheol asks. "What is it?"

"His blood sugar is dangerously low. Hypoglycemic crisis level. How long has he been starving himself?"

The word—starving—hits Seungcheol like a physical blow.

"I don't know. Weeks, maybe. We thought—" His voice breaks. "We thought we were giving him space. We didn't realize how bad it was."

The paramedic's expression softens slightly. "There wasn't much you could have done if he was hiding it. These things... they're very good at hiding."

She starts another IV, this one with glucose.

Seungcheol watches Chan's pale face, tears burning in his eyes.

How did we let this happen? How did I let this happen?

He's the leader. He's supposed to protect them. All of them. And he let Chan slip through his fingers, let him deteriorate right in front of them while they all tiptoed around the issue.

"Please be okay," Seungcheol whispers, squeezing Chan's hand. "Please. We need you. I need you."

The ambulance speeds through the city streets, sirens blaring, and Seungcheol prays to any god that might be listening that they're not too late.

They rush Chan through the emergency room doors on the stretcher, medical staff swarming immediately.

"Twenty-four-year-old male—" one of the paramedics is saying.

The doctor looks at Chan, then back at the paramedic with disbelief evident in his expression.

"Suspected eating disorder, severe malnutrition, hypoglycemic crisis," the paramedic continues. "Blood sugar was 42 when we checked. We started glucose IV in the ambulance."

They wheel Chan through a set of double doors. Seungcheol tries to follow.

"Sir, you need to wait here," a nurse says, putting a hand on his arm.

"But—"

"We'll take good care of him. But we need you to wait. There's paperwork—"

Seungcheol wants to argue, wants to stay with Chan, but he knows he'll just be in the way.

"Okay," he says, his voice hollow. "Okay."

The nurse guides him to a waiting area and hands him a clipboard. "Fill these out as best you can. The doctor will come talk to you as soon as they have an update."

Seungcheol stares at the forms—medical history, emergency contacts, insurance information—and his hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold the pen.

He pulls out his phone. Thirty-seven missed messages in the group chat.

Jeonghan: what's happening
Wonwoo: is he okay???
Mingyu: hyung please tell us something
Hoshi: is he awake??
DK: i'm scared
Vernon: we're all freaking out here

Seungcheol takes a shaky breath and calls Jeonghan.

He answers on the first ring. "Hyung?"

"We're at the hospital. He's... they took him back immediately. His blood sugar was really low. They're treating him now."

"How low?" Jeonghan's voice is tight.

"42."

Seungcheol hears Jeonghan relay this to the others, hears the collective gasp.

"What do we do?" Jeonghan asks. "Should we come there?"

Seungcheol ignores the questions. “The showcase... what happened with that?"

"They cancelled it. Told everyone there was a medical emergency and they'd reschedule. People saw him collapse, hyung. It was on the live broadcast. It's already all over social media."

Seungcheol closes his eyes. Of course it is.

"Okay. Listen, you and maybe two others come to the hospital. The rest stay at the dorm. We can't have all thirteen of us here."

"Who should come?"

"Wonwoo. And..." Seungcheol thinks. "Hoshi. The three of you come. Keep everyone else calm."

"Okay. We're leaving now."

"Jeonghan?"

"Yeah?"

"This is bad. This is really bad."

There's a long pause. "I know, hyung. But Chan's strong. He'll get through this."

"He collapsed on stage because he was starving himself and we didn't stop him."

"We didn't know—"

"We should have known. We're his family. We should have known."

"Don't do this," Jeonghan says firmly. "Don't blame yourself. Not right now. Right now we just focus on Chan getting better."

Seungcheol nods even though Jeonghan can't see him. "Okay. Just... get here soon."

He hangs up and forces himself to focus on the paperwork.

Every question feels like an accusation.

When did symptoms first appear? Weeks ago. Maybe longer.
Has the patient expressed thoughts of self-harm? Not in words. But isn't starving yourself a form of self-harm?
Family history of eating disorders? Not that Seungcheol knows of. But he's realizing he doesn't know nearly as much about Chan as he thought he did.

He's finishing the last form when Jeonghan, Wonwoo, and Hoshi rush into the waiting room.

"Any news?" Wonwoo asks immediately.

"Not yet. They're still treating him."

They sit down in the uncomfortable plastic chairs. None of them speak for a long moment.

Finally, Hoshi breaks the silence. "I should have pushed harder for breaks. During practice. I could see he wasn't okay."

"We all could see it," Wonwoo says quietly. "We just... didn't want to believe it was this bad."

"He kept saying he was fine," Jeonghan adds. "And we wanted to believe him."

Seungcheol stares at his hands. "I caught him. When he fell. Did you see?"

"Yeah," Hoshi says. "You moved so fast."

"I was watching him the whole performance. I knew something was wrong. I could see it in his eyes. And then he jumped and I just... knew he was going to fall." Seungcheol's voice cracks. "What if I hadn't caught him? What if he'd hit his head?"

"But you did catch him," Wonwoo says firmly. "You caught him, hyung. You saved him from getting hurt worse."

"I should have stopped the performance. Should have called it off before we even started."

"You couldn't have known—"

"I knew he wasn't okay! I knew and I let him perform anyway because I was worried about the showcase, about the comeback, about disappointing people. And now he's—" Seungcheol can't finish the sentence.

Jeonghan reaches over and takes his hand. "Cheollie… this isn't your fault."

"Then whose fault is it?"

"No one's. Or maybe all of ours. Or maybe it's just... something that happened. Something Chan was going through that we didn't fully understand. …Something that we still don’t fully understand"

They fall silent again.

Time passes slowly in the waiting room. Ten minutes. Twenty. Forty-five.

Finally, a doctor approaches them.

"Family of Lee Chan?"

They all stand up at once.

"I'm Choi Seungcheol, his guardian," Seungcheol says. "How is he?"

The doctor's expression is serious. "Mr. Lee is stable now. We've got him on IV fluids and glucose, and we're monitoring his vitals closely."

"But he's okay?"

"He's alive and stable, yes. But Mr. Choi, I need to be frank with you. Your... friend? Brother?"

"Our member. We're in a group together. He's like my little brother."

The doctor nods. "Mr. Lee is severely malnourished. His BMI is dangerously low, his electrolytes are completely out of balance, and his organs are showing signs of stress from prolonged starvation. If he'd continued like this much longer..." The doctor pauses. "This could have been fatal."

The words hit like bullets.

Fatal.

Chan could have died.

"How long?" Wonwoo asks, voice shaking. "How long has he been... doing this?"

"Based on his current condition? I'd estimate at least a month, possibly longer. The weight loss, the organ stress... this didn't happen overnight."

A month. Maybe longer.

The whole time they were giving him space, he was slowly killing himself.

"Can we see him?" Seungcheol asks.

"He's still unconscious. The hypoglycemic episode was severe, and his body is exhausted. But yes, you can see him. Just two at a time, please."

Seungcheol and Wonwoo go first.

The doctor leads them through a maze of hallways to a private room in the ICU.

Chan looks impossibly small in the hospital bed. There are IVs in both arms, monitors beeping steadily, oxygen tube in his nose. His face is still pale, makeup smudged now, hair messy.

But he's breathing. His chest rises and falls steadily.

He's alive.

Seungcheol walks to the bedside and takes Chan's hand again. It's warmer now than it was in the ambulance, the IVs doing their work.

"Hey, Chan-ah," Seungcheol says softly, even though Chan can't hear him. "We're here. You're going to be okay. I promise you're going to be okay."

Wonwoo stands on the other side of the bed, tears streaming down his face. "I should have pushed harder. When I talked to him a couple weeks ago, I should have—"

"You talked to him?" Seungcheol asks.

"After he almost collapsed at practice one day. I told him I'd gone through something similar during trainee days, that I understood. I thought... I thought I got through to him." Wonwoo's voice breaks. "I thought he was okay."

Seungcheol looks back at Chan's unconscious face.

How did we miss this? How did we miss all of this?

"We're not leaving him alone again," Seungcheol says firmly. "No matter what. When he wakes up, one of us is with him at all times. We're not giving him the chance to hide this anymore."

"What if he doesn't want our help?" Wonwoo asks quietly.

"I don't care. He's getting it anyway."

They stand there in silence, watching Chan breathe, and Seungcheol makes a silent vow.

Never again. Never again will we fail you like this.

Chan wakes up slowly, consciousness returning in fragments.

Beeping. Steady and rhythmic.

Bright lights behind his eyelids.

Something in his nose, his arms.

Voices, distant and worried.

He tries to open his eyes but they feel glued shut. Heavy.

"—stable now but we need to keep him for observation—"
"—blood work came back, showing severe—"
"—psychological evaluation as soon as he's—"

The voices swim in and out of focus. Chan can't quite grasp onto them.

He tries to move his hand and something tugs. IV line, he realizes distantly.

"He's waking up."

That voice is closer. Familiar.

Chan forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, making him squint.

Slowly, the room comes into focus.

Hospital room. White walls. Medical equipment.

And beside his bed, Seungcheol, looking exhausted and worried and relieved all at once.

"Hey," Seungcheol says softly. "Welcome back."

Chan's mouth is dry. He tries to speak but his throat is too raw.

Seungcheol seems to understand. He holds a cup of water with a straw to Chan's lips. "Small sips."

Chan drinks. The water helps a little.

"What..." His voice comes out as a croak. "What happened?"

Seungcheol's expression does something complicated—relief and pain mixing together.

"You collapsed," he says quietly. "During the showcase. You passed out on stage."

Memory trickles back. The performance. The bridge section. The world tilting.

Falling.

"You caught me," Chan whispers.

"Yeah. I caught you."

Chan closes his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just... don't apologize."

Footsteps. Chan opens his eyes to see a doctor entering the room.

"Mr. Lee, I'm Dr. Kim. How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"I'm not surprised. You gave everyone quite a scare." The doctor checks the monitors, makes some notes. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital."

"That's right. Do you remember what happened?"

Chan's throat tightens. "I collapsed during the showcase."

"Yes. Due to severe hypoglycemia and malnutrition." Dr. Kim's voice is kind but firm. "Mr. Lee, when did you last eat a proper meal?"

Chan doesn't answer.

"Chan-ah," Seungcheol prompts gently. "Please answer."

"I don't... I don't remember."

"Your body went into crisis," Dr. Kim continues. "Your blood sugar was dangerously low, your electrolytes were severely imbalanced, and you're showing signs of organ stress. If you'd continued like this..." She pauses. "Mr. Lee, this could have killed you."

The words hang in the air.

Chan turns his head away, unable to look at either of them.

"I'm going to be honest with you," Dr. Kim says. "You're going to need to stay here for at least a week, possibly longer. We need to stabilize your vitals, restore your nutritional balance, and make sure there's no permanent damage. And after that, you're going to need ongoing treatment. Therapy, nutritional counseling, close monitoring."

"Okay," Chan whispers.

"We're also going to need to talk about what led to this. I understand you’re an idol, but the restriction, the weight loss—these are symptoms of an eating disorder, Mr. Lee. And eating disorders are serious, life-threatening illnesses that require professional treatment."

Chan's eyes burn. He nods once, the movement tiny.

"For now, you need to rest. We're going to keep you on IV nutrition for the next day or two, then slowly introduce solid foods. Your body needs to relearn how to process nutrients."

Dr. Kim gives some instructions to Seungcheol, then leaves.

The silence that follows is heavy.

Chan squeezes his eyes shut, and immediately tears start leaking out. He turns his face away from Seungcheol, toward the wall, bringing his hands up to cover his face.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm so sorry."

"Chan-ah—"

"I ruined everything." The words come out muffled behind his hands, voice thick with tears. "The showcase, the comeback, everything you all worked so hard for—"

"Chan-ah, no—"

"It was live, it was broadcast, everyone saw—" Chan's voice cracks completely. He's crying in earnest now, shoulders shaking. "You guys are all so mad at me, I know you are, I deserve it, I was so awful, I pushed everyone away, I was so disrespectful—"

"Chan—"

"How can I even face you?" Chan's voice breaks on a sob. "After everything I've done? I snapped at everyone, I lied to you, I avoided you all, I said such horrible things and now I've—I've destroyed everything—"

"Chan-ah." Seungcheol's voice is firmer now, but still gentle. "Chan-ah, please. Look at me."

Chan shakes his head, keeping his hands pressed to his face. His whole body is trembling with sobs. "I can't. I can't face you. Not after this."

"Please, baby. Please look at me."

But Chan can't. The shame is too overwhelming, pressing down on his chest like a physical weight. The tears keep coming, hot and endless, and he can't make himself lower his hands.

He hears Seungcheol move closer. Feels the bed dip slightly as Seungcheol sits on the edge.

Then, gently—so gently—Seungcheol's hands wrap around Chan's wrists.

"Chan-ah," he says softly. "I'm going to move your hands now, okay? I need to see you."

Chan wants to resist but he doesn't have the strength. He lets Seungcheol carefully pull his hands away from his face.

His face is a mess—tears streaming down, red and blotchy, makeup completely ruined. He still can't look at Seungcheol, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the wall, anywhere else.

Seungcheol holds both of Chan's hands in his, gentle but secure. His thumbs brush across Chan's knuckles.

"Chan-ah," Seungcheol says, and his voice shifts—not harsh, but firm. His leader voice. The one that cuts through panic and chaos and makes everyone listen. "Look at me."

Slowly, reluctantly, Chan's eyes move to meet Seungcheol's.

Seungcheol's face is serious, eyes red-rimmed but dry, jaw set with determination.

"Listen to me," Seungcheol says, each word clear and deliberate. "You did not ruin a single thing. You hear me? Not one single thing."

"But the showcase—"

"I don't care about the showcase." Seungcheol's grip on Chan's hands tightens slightly. "I don't care about the comeback. I don't care about any of it. The only thing I care about is you being okay."

"But everyone worked so hard—"

"Chan." Seungcheol leans closer, making sure Chan can't look away. "There is not a single thing I wouldn't do for you. Nothing we wouldn't do for you. Do you understand? If I had to choose between a thousand perfect showcases and you being safe and healthy, I would choose you every single time. We all would."

Chan's face crumples. "But I messed everything up—"

"You didn't mess anything up. You got sick. That's what happened. You got sick and we didn't catch it soon enough."

"Everyone must be so mad at me—"

"No one is mad at you," Seungcheol says firmly. "Chan-ah, listen to me. When they brought you to the hospital, everyone was freaking out. They wanted to rush here immediately, all of them. They're waiting at the dorm right now because the hospital wouldn't let everyone visit at once, but they're terrified. They're praying you're okay. Mingyu couldn't stop crying. DK looked like his world was ending. Seungkwan was having a panic attack in the van."

Fresh tears spill down Chan's face.

"They're not mad," Seungcheol continues, his voice softening. "They're scared. They're worried. They love you so much, Chan-ah. We all love you so much. You couldn't ruin that even if you tried."

"But I was so horrible to everyone," Chan sobs. "I pushed you all away, I snapped at you, I said such awful things—"

"You were hurting," Seungcheol says simply. "You were in pain and you didn't know how to ask for help."

"But I lied to you—I lied so much—every time you asked if I'd eaten, every time you tried to help—"

"I know." Seungcheol's voice cracks slightly. "I know you did. And Chan-ah, as the leader, as your hyung... I should have seen it. I should have pushed harder. I should have known something was seriously wrong."

"No—"

"I should have," Seungcheol insists, and now there are tears in his eyes too. "We all decided to give you space because we thought that's what you needed. But we should have seen that you were falling apart. We should have caught this before it got this bad. Before you ended up here."

"Hyung—"

"I'm your leader. I'm supposed to protect you. All of you. And I let you down." Seungcheol's voice breaks. "I let you slip through my fingers when you needed me most. I'm so sorry, Chan-ah. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's not your fault—" Chan is crying harder now, squeezing Seungcheol's hands.

"It's not yours either," Seungcheol says firmly. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. This isn't about fault or blame. This is about an illness that you were struggling with, that got out of control. And now we're going to help you get better."

"I don't know if I can—"

"You can. I know you can. Because you're strong, Chan-ah. So much stronger than you realize. And this time, you're not going to do it alone." Seungcheol reaches up with one hand to wipe the tears from Chan's face, his touch unbearably gentle. "This time, we're all going to be right here with you. Every single step."

"What if I can't do it?" Chan whispers, his voice small and broken. "What if I fail again?"

"Then we pick you back up and try again. As many times as it takes." Seungcheol moves closer, carefully pulling Chan into a hug, mindful of all the IVs. "I've got you, Chan-ah. We've all got you. You're not going to fall because we won't let you."

Chan clings to him, burying his face in Seungcheol's shoulder, and lets himself break apart completely. All the fear, the shame, the exhaustion, the loneliness of the past few weeks—it all comes pouring out in harsh, painful sobs.

"I'm sorry," he keeps saying between sobs. "I'm so sorry, hyung. I'm sorry."

"Shh," Seungcheol soothes, one hand rubbing circles on Chan's back. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. You hear me?"

"I do—I have so much to apologize for—"

"No." Seungcheol pulls back just enough to look at Chan's face, cupping his cheeks with both hands. His expression is fierce and tender all at once. "Chan-ah, you are our baby. Our maknae. Our little brother. And nothing—nothing—could ever make us stop loving you. Not pushing us away, not being sick, not anything. You're stuck with us forever, whether you like it or not."

Chan lets out a sound that's half-sob, half-laugh. "Even after everything?"

"Especially after everything." Seungcheol's thumbs brush away Chan's tears, though new ones keep falling. "Chan-ah, I need you to understand something. When you fell today, when I caught you and you were just... limp in my arms, not responding, barely breathing... that was the scariest moment of my entire life. Scarier than debut. Scarier than any sasaeng incident. Scarier than anything. Because I thought we might lose you."

Chan's breath hitches.

"And in that moment," Seungcheol continues, his voice thick with emotion, "I would have given anything—anything—to go back and make you feel safe enough to tell us what was happening. To make you understand how much we love you. How important you are to us. Not as the maknae, not as a performer, but as Chan. As you."

"Hyung—" Chan's voice breaks completely.

"You are so loved," Seungcheol says, and tears are falling down his face now too. "So incredibly loved. By all of us. By Carats. By your family. You are precious and irreplaceable and the thought of losing you—" His voice cracks and he has to take a breath. "We can't lose you, Chan-ah. We need you here. I need you here."

Chan falls forward into Seungcheol's arms again, and they hold each other while they both cry. Seungcheol's hand cradles the back of Chan's head, protective and gentle.

"I was so scared," Chan admits in a whisper. "I didn't know how to stop. It got so big and I didn't know how to fix it and I thought—I thought if I could just make it to the showcase, if I could just get through one performance, then maybe..."

"Then maybe what?"

"I don't know. Then maybe I could stop. Then maybe everything would be okay. But it just kept getting worse and I couldn't—I couldn't—"

"It's okay," Seungcheol soothes. "It's okay now. You don't have to carry this alone anymore."

They stay like that for a long moment, Chan crying into Seungcheol's shoulder while Seungcheol holds him like he's something precious and breakable.

Finally, Chan's sobs start to quiet. His breathing evens out slightly, though his whole body is still trembling.

"The others really aren't mad?" he asks in a small voice.

"They really aren't. They're desperate to see you. Jeonghan and Wonwoo are in the waiting room right now. The rest are back at the dorm waiting for updates. Your phone has about a hundred messages."

"I don't know if I can face them."

"You don't have to right now. But Chan-ah, when you're ready... they're going to love you just as much as they did before. Maybe even more, because now they understand what you were going through."

Chan pulls back slightly, wiping at his face with shaking hands. "I was awful to Seungkwan. And Joshua. And I snapped at Hoshi during practice—"

"They understand. They all understand. Because they love you."

"Even after I pushed them away?"

"Even then. Chan-ah, you could push us away a thousand times and we'd still come back. That's what family does."

Fresh tears spill down Chan's face, but these ones feel different. Less like shame, more like relief.

"I'm really scared, hyung," he whispers. "The doctor said I have to stay here. That I need treatment. I don't know how to do this."

"I know you're scared. I'm scared too. But we're going to figure it out together." Seungcheol squeezes his hand. "One day at a time. One hour at a time if we need to. And I'm going to be right here with you. We all are."

"Promise?"

"I promise. On everything I am, I promise you're not alone in this."

Chan nods slowly, exhausted but feeling something like hope for the first time in weeks.

"Can I..." He hesitates. "Can I see Wonwoo-hyung and Jeonghan-hyung? If they're still here?"

"Of course. They've been waiting. Let me get them."

Seungcheol gently extracts himself from the bed and walks to the door. He steps out briefly, and Chan hears his muffled voice: "He wants to see you."

A moment later, Wonwoo and Jeonghan appear in the doorway.

Wonwoo's face is pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed. Jeonghan looks like he's aged ten years, worry etched into every line of his face.

When they see Chan awake, sitting up in bed with tear-stained cheeks, both of their expressions crumple with relief.

"Chan-ah," Wonwoo breathes, crossing the room in three quick strides. He takes Chan's hand carefully, like Chan might shatter. "Oh, Chan-ah."

Jeonghan sits on the other side of the bed, reaching out to brush Chan's hair back from his forehead with infinite gentleness.

"Hey, baby," Jeonghan says softly, and his voice is thick with emotion. "You gave us quite a scare."

"I'm sorry," Chan says automatically.

"No more apologizing," Wonwoo says firmly, though his voice wavers. "Seungcheol-hyung is right. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I pushed you away—"

"We should have pushed back harder," Wonwoo interrupts. "I knew something was wrong. That night we talked, I knew. And I should have—" His voice breaks. "I should have done more."

"It's not your fault—"

"It's not yours either," Jeonghan says gently. "Chan-ah, we're your hyungs. We're supposed to take care of you. And we missed this. We missed how much you were hurting."

"I didn't want you to know," Chan admits in a whisper. "I thought I could handle it on my own. I thought asking for help made me weak."

"Asking for help is the strongest thing you can do," Wonwoo says, squeezing his hand. "I learned that the hard way too. Remember what I told you? About when I was a trainee?"

Chan nods.

"I almost destroyed myself because I was too proud to ask for help. Too scared to admit I was struggling. And it nearly cost me everything." Wonwoo's eyes are intense, boring into Chan's. "Don't make the same mistake I did. Let us help you. Please."

"I don't know how," Chan whispers.

"That's okay," Jeonghan says, his hand still gently carding through Chan's hair. "That's what we're here for. To help you figure it out."

"The others—" Chan starts.

"Are losing their minds wanting to see you," Jeonghan finishes. "Seungkwan is stress-baking at the dorm. Minghao won't stop pacing. DK has gone completely silent, which you know means he's worried sick."

Chan's chest tightens. "They're really not mad?"

"Chan-ah." Jeonghan's voice is impossibly gentle. "We watched you collapse on stage today. We watched you fall and not get up. We watched them wheel you away on a stretcher. The only thing anyone feels right now is relief that you're alive and fear that we almost lost you."

"We love you so much," Wonwoo adds, and there are tears streaming down his face now. "So much, Chan-ah. More than you could possibly know."

Chan looks between them—Wonwoo with his tears and fierce grip on Chan's hand, Jeonghan with his gentle touches and worried eyes, Seungcheol standing behind them with his arms crossed but his expression soft.

His hyungs. His family.

Who caught him when he fell—literally and figuratively.

"I love you guys too," Chan whispers. "I'm sorry I forgot that for a while."

"You never forgot," Seungcheol says. "You just got lost. But we found you. And we're not letting go."

The door opens and Dr. Kim enters, checking the monitors and making notes.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Lee?" she asks.

"Scared," Chan admits. "But... less alone."

Dr. Kim smiles gently. "Good. That's very good. Your vitals are stabilizing nicely. We're going to keep you on IV nutrition for another day, then slowly start introducing liquids, then soft foods. Your body needs to adjust gradually."

Chan nods.

"And tomorrow," Dr. Kim continues, "we'll have someone from our psychiatric team come talk to you. About what you've been going through and what treatment will look like going forward."

Chan's hands clench in the blanket, anxiety spiking.

"We'll be here," Wonwoo says immediately. "For all of it. Whatever you need."

"All of us," Jeonghan agrees.

"One of us will be here at all times," Seungcheol adds. "You're not going through any of this alone."

Dr. Kim looks between them and nods approvingly. "Good support system. That's going to be very important for recovery."

After she leaves, Chan feels exhaustion pulling at him again. The emotional conversation, the crying, the weight of everything—it's all catching up to him.

"Sleep, baby," Jeonghan says, noticing his drooping eyes. "We'll be right here."

"Promise?"

"Promise," all three of them say in unison.

Chan's eyes drift closed, and for the first time in weeks, he doesn't feel the crushing weight of being alone.

He's surrounded by love.

And maybe—just maybe—that's enough to start healing.

Over the next several days in the hospital, Chan has individual conversations with each member. They all come to visit in small groups, and Chan apologizes to each of them—to Seungkwan for snapping at him, to Joshua for their fight, to Hoshi for being difficult at practice.
Each time, he's met with forgiveness and love and reassurances that he has nothing to apologize for.

The psychiatric evaluation happens on his second day. It's difficult, but having Seungcheol there holding his hand makes it bearable. He's officially diagnosed with an eating disorder and depression, and a comprehensive treatment plan is put in place.

By day five, he's transitioned from IV nutrition to liquids, then to soft foods. Each meal is still a struggle, but having a member there with him—taking turns, never leaving him alone—makes it possible.

The news of his collapse has gone viral. The company releases a statement about a health emergency and asks for privacy. The members shield Chan from most of the online discourse, but he knows it's out there. Knows people saw him fall. Knows there's speculation about what happened.

But his members create a bubble of safety around him, and he focuses on that instead of the outside noise.

Three days into Chan's hospital stay, all thirteen of them are finally allowed in the room at once.

Dr. Kim bent the rules after Seungcheol had a very respectful but very firm conversation about family and support systems. She'd taken one look at the twelve men camping out in the waiting room, taking shifts, refusing to leave, and made an exception.

"Just for an hour," she'd said. "And if his vitals spike from stress, everyone out."

Now they're all crammed into the small hospital room—some sitting on chairs they brought in from the hallway, others standing against the walls, Mingyu and Vernon sitting on the floor. It's crowded and chaotic and exactly what Chan has needed.

For the past three days, they've been visiting in small groups. Chan has had tearful conversations with each of them individually—apologizing to Seungkwan for snapping at him, to Joshua for the fight in the kitchen, to Hoshi for being difficult during practice. Each time, he's been met with forgiveness and love and the insistence that he has nothing to apologize for.

But he hasn't told them everything yet.

He hasn't told them why. What started this whole spiral. What made him think starving himself was the answer.

Dr. Kim says it's important—that keeping secrets will only make recovery harder. That being honest with his support system is crucial.

So Chan asked for this. All of them together. So he only has to say it once.

Now, sitting in the hospital bed with an IV still in his arm, wearing an oversized hospital gown, he's terrified.

Seungcheol is sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, close enough that their shoulders touch. Chan is grateful for the proximity—it grounds him.

"You okay?" Seungcheol asks quietly.

Chan nods, even though his heart is racing. "I... I want to tell you guys. About what happened. Why this all started."

The room goes quiet. Everyone is looking at him with varying expressions of concern and encouragement.

"You don't have to if you're not ready," Jeonghan says gently.

"No, I need to." Chan takes a shaky breath. "Dr. Kim said being honest is important. And I don't want to keep secrets anymore."

"We're listening," Wonwoo says. "Whatever you need to say, we're here."

Chan's hands are trembling. Seungcheol reaches over and takes one of them, threading their fingers together and squeezing gently.

The touch helps. Chan squeezes back and tries to find the words.

"It started with... with a video I saw. Online. On Instagram." His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. "It was one of those compilation videos. Of me being... cute. With all of you. There were like hundreds of comments, all saying the same things. 'Baby Dino.' 'So cute with his hyungs.' 'He'll always be the baby.'"

He pauses, trying to steady his breathing.

"And I know they weren't being mean. I know fans love that stuff. But reading them all at once, seeing myself like that... it just made me feel so small. Like that's all anyone sees when they look at me. Not my dancing, not my skills, not my work—just cute. Just baby."

Several of the members shift uncomfortably, but no one interrupts.

"And I started thinking about how I act with all of you," Chan continues, his voice wavering. "How I'm always hanging off everyone, always being clingy, always needing attention and reassurance. And I realized I'd made myself into this... this caricature. The baby maknae who can't do anything alone. Who needs to be taken care of."

Tears are starting to slip down his face now, but he pushes on.

"I'm twenty-four years old. I've been an idol for almost nine years. And I still felt like everyone was treating me like a child. Babying me. And I thought—" His voice cracks. "I thought if I could just change myself, make myself more independent, more mature, maybe people would take me seriously. Maybe you guys would stop seeing me as the baby and start seeing me as an equal."

"Chan-ah—" DK starts, but Seungcheol holds up a hand.

"Let him finish," Seungcheol says gently.

Chan nods gratefully, using his free hand to wipe at his face.

"So I started... pulling away. Being less affectionate. Trying to be more independent. And then I thought maybe if I looked different too—more angular, less soft, less baby-faced—maybe that would help. So I started eating less. Just a little at first. But then..." He swallows hard. "Then it became about control. About having something that was mine. And I couldn't stop. Even when I wanted to, I couldn't."

He's crying openly now, tears streaming down his face.

"I pushed all of you away because I wanted you to see me differently. I wanted to prove I didn't need to be taken care of. And instead I just..." His voice breaks completely. "I just made everything worse. I hurt all of you. I ruined the comeback. I destroyed everything I was trying to build."

"No—" several voices say at once.

But Chan isn't done.

"And the worst part is," he sobs, "the worst part is that I was wrong. About all of it. I was so stupid. I thought being independent meant being alone. I thought being mature meant not needing anyone. I thought I had to choose between being your baby and being taken seriously. And I chose wrong. I chose so wrong and I almost—"

He can't finish the sentence. Can't say out loud how close he came to dying.

Seungcheol pulls him into a hug, careful of the IV, and Chan clings to him.

"I'm sorry," Chan gasps between sobs. "I'm so sorry. I know you guys don't see me as useless. I know you respect me. I just—I couldn't see it through all the noise in my head."

The room is silent except for Chan's crying and several other sniffles—Mingyu is crying, and DK, and Seungkwan.

Seungcheol pulls back slightly, keeping his hands on Chan's shoulders.

"Chan-ah," he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion. "Look at me."

Chan does, his vision blurry with tears.

"First of all," Seungcheol says, "thank you for telling us. I know that wasn't easy. And I'm so sorry that you've been feeling this way. That we didn't notice how much you were struggling with this."

"It's not your fault—"

"Let me finish." Seungcheol's voice is gentle but firm. "We should have noticed. We should have created a space where you felt safe telling us these things before they got to this point. So I'm sorry for that. We all are."

Nods around the room.

"But Chan-ah, I need you to understand something." Seungcheol's grip on his shoulders tightens slightly. "You are taken seriously. You always have been. You're one of the most talented performers I've ever worked with. Your dancing is incredible. Your stage presence is unmatched. The dedication you bring to every practice, every performance—we see it. We've always seen it."

"But the comments—"

"Fuck the comments," Hoshi says bluntly, and Chan startles slightly at the vehemence in his voice. "Sorry, but seriously. Random people online who only see you as cute don't know you. They don't see what we see every day. They don't see you stay late perfecting choreography. They don't see you help the others when they're struggling with moves. They don't see how hard you work."

"Hoshi's right," Wonwoo adds. "The people who matter—us, the industry professionals we work with, other dancers—they all know how talented you are. Don't let some comments from people who've never met you define how you see yourself."

Chan nods, but fresh tears are falling.

"And as for the other thing," Seungcheol continues, his voice softening. "The being babied thing. Chan-ah, if that's how we've been making you feel, we need to know. Any problem you have, anything that's bothering you, you need to tell us. We can't fix what we don't know is broken."

"I just..." Chan's voice is small. "I just wanted to be seen as more than the baby."

"Okay," Seungcheol says, nodding seriously. "Then we'll be more careful. We won't call you baby anymore. We'll—"

"No!" The word bursts out of Chan with surprising force, and he's suddenly crying harder, his whole body shaking with sobs.

Everyone freezes.

"Chan-ah?" Seungcheol's voice is immediately worried. "What's wrong? What did I say?"

"No, I—" Chan can barely get the words out through his tears. "I don't—I don't want that—"

"You don't want what?" Jeonghan leans forward, concerned. "Channie, what's wrong?"

The endearment makes Chan cry even harder.

"I'm confused," Mingyu says helplessly. "Chan-ah, please tell us what's wrong."

Chan is crying too hard to speak for a moment. Seungcheol pulls him back into a hug, rubbing his back while Chan shakes apart.

"Breathe," Seungcheol murmurs. "Just breathe, Chan-ah. Take your time."

It takes a few minutes for Chan to calm down enough to speak. When he does, his voice is muffled against Seungcheol's shoulder.

"I don't want you to stop calling me baby," he whispers.

There's a beat of confused silence.

"I'm... I'm not following," Vernon says carefully.

Chan pulls back, wiping at his face with shaking hands. His eyes are red and swollen, cheeks blotchy.

"I thought I hated it," he says, voice thick with tears. "I thought being called baby made me feel small and useless and like I wasn't being taken seriously. But that's not—" He takes a shaky breath. "I don't hate it. I never hated it. I was just scared that being your baby meant I couldn't also be capable and talented and mature."

Understanding starts to dawn on several faces.

"But I can be both, right?" Chan looks around at all of them desperately. "I can be the baby and also be a good dancer? I can let you guys take care of me sometimes and still be taken seriously? Those things don't cancel each other out?"

"Oh, Chan-ah," Joshua breathes, his own eyes watering. "Of course you can be both. You've always been both."

"Being the maknae doesn't make you less talented," Minghao adds gently. "It just means you're the youngest. That's it."

"And us calling you baby or wanting to take care of you—that's not because we think you're incapable," Jun says. "It's because we love you. Because you're precious to us."

"We baby Mingyu all the time too," Seungkwan points out, trying to lighten the mood slightly. "And he's not even in the maknae line."

"Hey—" Mingyu protests weakly, but he's smiling through his tears.

Chan lets out a sound that's half-sob, half-laugh.

Seungcheol cups Chan's face in both hands, thumbs brushing away tears.

"Chan-ah, listen to me," he says, his voice incredibly gentle. "You will always be our baby. Always. Not because you're weak or incapable or any of those things you were worried about. But because you're the youngest. Because we've watched you grow up. Because we love you more than anything."

"Really?" Chan's voice is so small, so vulnerable.

"Really," Seungcheol says firmly. Then his expression softens into something fond, almost amused. "Is that it, Chan-ah? You want to be our baby?"

Chan nods, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. "I do. I really do. I'm sorry I tried to push you all away. I'm sorry I made you think I didn't want—"

"Stop apologizing," Jeonghan interrupts gently, moving to sit on Chan's other side. "You were confused and hurting. But we understand now."

"You'll always be our baby," Seungcheol says again, pressing a kiss to Chan's forehead. "Our maknae. Our Dino-yah. And that doesn't make you any less of an incredible performer or a talented dancer or a capable adult. All those things are true at the same time."

"How do I believe that?" Chan whispers. "How do I make myself believe it?"

"One day at a time," Wonwoo says. "With our help. With therapy. With treatment. You don't have to figure it all out right now."

"But what if I can't—"

"You can," Hoshi says firmly. "You're strong enough. You've always been strong enough."

"And you're not alone," DK adds, reaching over to squeeze Chan's foot through the blanket. "We're all here. We're not going anywhere."

Chan looks around the room at all of them—his twelve members, his brothers, his family. Mingyu and DK with matching tear-stained faces. Seungkwan gripping Vernon's hand tightly. Joshua and Jeonghan flanking him on either side. Wonwoo and Hoshi standing against the wall with soft expressions. Jun and Minghao side by side. Woozi in the corner with his arms crossed but his eyes suspiciously shiny.

And Seungcheol right beside him, solid and steady and safe.

"I don't deserve you guys," Chan says quietly.

"Yes, you do," Seungcheol says without hesitation. "You deserve all of this and more. You deserve to be loved and supported and taken care of."

"Even when I'm difficult?"

"Especially then."

"Even when I push you away?"

"We'll just pull you back," Jeonghan says simply, ruffling Chan's hair. "That's what family does, baby."

The endearment doesn't sting. Instead, it feels warm. Safe.

Like coming home.

"Can I..." Chan hesitates. "Can I ask for something?"

"Anything," Seungcheol says immediately.

"Can we just... stay like this for a while? All of us together?"

"Of course," Joshua says, smiling. "We have nowhere else to be."

"The nurses are going to kick us out eventually," Seungkwan points out.

"Then we'll stay until they do," Seungcheol decides. "Everyone get comfortable."

There's shuffling as everyone settles in. Mingyu and DK sprawl on the floor. Vernon pulls a chair closer. Hoshi sits cross-legged by the door like he's standing guard.

Seungcheol stays on the bed beside Chan, one arm around his shoulders. Jeonghan is on Chan's other side, holding his hand.

"Can I ask you guys something else?" Chan says after a moment of comfortable silence.

"Of course," several voices respond.

"When I get out of here... when I'm doing better... can things go back to how they were? Before I messed everything up?"

"They're going to be better than they were," Wonwoo says confidently. "Because now we understand each other better. Now we know what you need and you know how to tell us."

"And we'll be more careful," Seungcheol adds. "About making sure you know you're valued for more than just being the maknae. That we see all of you—not just the cute baby, but also the incredible dancer and performer and person."

"But you'll still call me baby?" Chan's voice is almost shy.

Seungcheol chuckles, the sound warm and fond. "Until you get sick of it."

Chan nods against his shoulder, and there's something lighter in the room now. The heavy emotions from earlier are still there, but mixed with something that feels like hope.

"We'll definitely still call you baby," Jeonghan confirms, squeezing his hand. "You're stuck with that forever."

"Good," Chan whispers. "I don't want to be anything else."

"You're our baby," Seungcheol says softly, pressing another kiss to Chan's temple. "Our youngest. Our precious maknae. And nothing—nothing—will ever change that."

"Even when I'm forty?"

"Especially when you're forty," Mingyu chimes in from the floor. "You're going to be our baby when you're eighty years old and we're all old men."

"That's a weird image," Vernon comments.

"But accurate," Joshua agrees, smiling.

Chan feels something in his chest unclench—something that's been tight and painful for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe longer than he realized.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "For not giving up on me. For being here. For loving me even when I couldn't love myself."

"Always," Seungcheol says firmly. "We will always love you. That's non-negotiable."

They sit in comfortable silence for a while. Someone starts humming—Seungkwan, maybe—and soon others join in. It's one of their songs, something soft and familiar.

Chan closes his eyes and lets the sound wash over him. His body still hurts. His mind is still exhausted. The road ahead is long and scary.

But right now, surrounded by his members, held safe in Seungcheol's arms, Jeonghan's hand warm in his—

Right now, Chan thinks maybe everything might actually be okay.

"Hey, Chan-ah?" Vernon says suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad you didn't die."

The bluntness of it makes several people gasp or protest, but Chan laughs—a real, genuine laugh that feels foreign after weeks of barely smiling.

"Me too," he says. "Me too."

"Vernon-ah, you can't just say things like that," Seungkwan scolds.

"Why not? It's true. We're all thinking it."

"He's not wrong," Mingyu mutters.

"Still," Joshua says, but he's fighting a smile. "Maybe a little less blunt next time?"

"I'm just saying," Vernon continues, sitting up. "I'm really glad we still have our Dino. Our baby. Our annoying little brother who steals my food and kicks me in his sleep."

"I don't kick you in my sleep," Chan protests weakly.

"You absolutely do."

"Chan-ah definitely kicks," Seungkwan confirms. "I've shared a room with him. It's like sharing with a windmill."

"A very small, baby windmill," Jeonghan adds with a grin.

Chan groans, but he's smiling. "You guys are the worst."

"But you love us," DK says cheerfully.

"Unfortunately."

"Say it," Seungcheol prompts, giving him a gentle squeeze. "Say you love us."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes. Doctor's orders."

"I don't think that's how that works."

"Say it anyway."

Chan sighs dramatically, but his smile is real and his eyes are bright.

"I love you guys," he says. "All of you. So much."

"We love you too, baby," Seungcheol says, and the endearment wraps around Chan like a warm blanket.

Baby.

He's their baby.

And for the first time in a long time, that feels like exactly what he's supposed to be.

The day Chan is discharged from the hospital, all twelve members show up to take him home.

"You didn't all have to come," Chan says, but his voice is thick with emotion as he looks at them crowded in the hospital room.

"Of course we did," Seungcheol says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You're coming home. That's a big deal."

Dr. Kim goes over the discharge instructions with all of them—not just Seungcheol, but everyone. The meal plan, the follow-up appointments, the therapy schedule, the warning signs to watch for.

"He needs to eat six small meals a day," she explains, handing over a thick folder of information. "His body is still recovering from the malnutrition. Skipping meals or restricting portions could trigger a relapse or cause medical complications."

"We'll make sure he eats," Jeonghan promises.

"And he needs to avoid strenuous physical activity for at least two weeks. His body is weak. Pushing too hard could cause injury or worse."

"No dancing," Hoshi interrupts, looking directly at Chan. "For two weeks minimum. Doctor's orders."

Chan's face falls. "But—"

"Non-negotiable," Seungcheol says firmly. "Your health comes first."

Chan wants to argue, but the serious expressions on all their faces stop him.

"Fine," he mutters. "Two weeks."

"And someone should be with him at all times for the first few weeks," Dr. Kim continues. "The risk of relapse is highest in the early stages of recovery. He shouldn't be left alone, especially during meal times."

"Already planned for it," Wonwoo says. "We made a schedule."

Chan blinks. "A schedule?"

"Everyone's taking shifts," Seungkwan explains. "So you're never alone. We figured it would be less overwhelming than having all thirteen of us hovering constantly."

"Though we'll probably still do that too," Mingyu adds with a grin.

Chan doesn't know whether to be touched or embarrassed. He settles on both.

The drive back to the dorm is quiet. Chan sits in the middle of the back seat, squeezed between Joshua and Jeonghan. Seungcheol drives, Wonwoo in the passenger seat, everyone else following in the other cars.

"You okay?" Joshua asks softly.

Chan nods. "Just tired."

And scared. And anxious. And a thousand other things.

The hospital was safe in a way—structured, monitored, controlled. Going home means facing real life again. Means trusting himself not to fall back into old patterns.

It's terrifying.

As if reading his mind, Jeonghan takes his hand and squeezes. "We've got you."

When they arrive at the dorm, Chan is surprised to find it's been... changed.

Not dramatically. But subtly.

The scale is gone from the bathroom—Seungkwan confirms they threw it away. The full-length mirror in Chan's room has been covered with a sheet. The kitchen has been restocked with the specific foods from his meal plan.

"We wanted to make it easier," Seungcheol explains. "Remove triggers where we could."

Chan's throat tightens. "You didn't have to do all this."

"We wanted to," DK says firmly. "This is your home. It should feel safe."

And it does. For the first time in weeks, Chan feels like he can breathe in the dorm.

"Come sit," Wonwoo says, guiding him to the couch. "You should rest before lunch."

Lunch. Right. His first meal at home.

The anxiety must show on his face because suddenly Mingyu is sitting on one side of him, Vernon on the other, both of them pressing close.

"We're right here," Vernon says quietly. "For all of it."

Lunch is terrifying.

Chan sits at the kitchen table with the carefully portioned meal in front of him—the exact measurements from his meal plan, prepared by Seungcheol under the watchful eyes of their manager who helped them understand the nutritionist's instructions.

Rice. Steamed vegetables. A small piece of grilled chicken. Fruit.

It looks like so much food. Too much.

Chan's hands shake as he picks up his chopsticks.

All twelve members are there. Not hovering, exactly, but present. Seungcheol and Jeonghan sit on either side of him. The others are scattered around the table and kitchen, eating their own lunches, keeping the atmosphere casual.

But Chan can feel their attention. Can sense them watching without staring.

"You can do this," Seungcheol says quietly. "Just one bite at a time."

Chan takes a bite of rice. Chews slowly. Swallows.

His stomach immediately clenches with anxiety.

Too much. It's too much. You're going to gain weight. You're losing control.

The thoughts come automatically, intrusive and loud.

"Keep going," Jeonghan encourages gently. "You're doing great."

Another bite. And another.

By the time he's halfway through the meal, tears are streaming down his face.

"I can't," he whispers. "I can't do this."

"Yes you can," Wonwoo says from across the table. "Chan-ah, look at me."

Chan looks up, vision blurry with tears.

"You are the strongest person I know," Wonwoo says firmly. "You can do hard things. And this is hard—I know it's hard. But you can do it."

"It feels like too much—"

"I know. But your body needs this. Your body is asking for this fuel so it can heal."

Chan takes a shaky breath and forces himself to take another bite.

It takes nearly forty minutes to finish the small meal—longer than everyone else, interrupted by tears and panic and Seungcheol's steady reassurances.

But he finishes it.

When his plate is finally empty, the relief in the room is palpable.

"I'm so proud of you," Seungcheol says, pulling him into a hug. "That was incredible, Chan-ah."

"It was just lunch," Chan mumbles into his shoulder.

"It was everything," Jeonghan corrects. "That was you choosing recovery. That's huge."

Day Three

Dinner is still hard, but slightly less terrifying than that first lunch.

Chan sits at his usual spot, Seungkwan on his left, Hoshi on his right. The table is full—all thirteen of them squeezed around it like always, talking and laughing and passing dishes.

Normal. Almost normal.

Except everyone is being careful not to comment on food. Not to talk about calories or weight or dieting. Not to make jokes about eating too much or too little.

They're trying so hard for him.

Chan takes a bite of soup and feels Seungkwan's hand slip into his under the table, squeezing gently.

He squeezes back.

Day Five

Chan wakes up with Mingyu's arm thrown across his chest, Vernon's leg tangled with his, and someone—probably Seungkwan—breathing softly against his back.

They've been doing this every night. Piling into Chan's room after he goes to bed, creating a barrier of bodies around him. Protective and warm and maybe a little suffocating, but mostly comforting.

"Can't sleep without checking on you," Mingyu had explained the first night. "Just need to know you're okay."

Chan had protested initially—said they didn't need to, that he was fine alone.

The protest lasted about thirty seconds before he gave in.

Truth is, he sleeps better with them there. The nightmares that plagued him in the hospital—dreams of falling, of disappearing, of being alone—don't come when he's surrounded by his members.

"You awake?" Vernon mumbles.

"Yeah."

"Breakfast soon."

Chan's stomach clenches with anxiety, but he nods. "Yeah. Okay."

Mingyu stirs, tightening his arm around Chan. "Five more minutes."

"You said that twenty minutes ago," someone else says—Joshua, from the other bed.

How many of them are in here?

Chan does a mental count: Mingyu, Vernon, Seungkwan, Joshua... and based on the snoring, probably DK too.

Five of them crammed into his room meant for two.

It should annoy him. Should make him feel claustrophobic.

Instead, his heart feels full.

Week Two

Chan is sitting on the couch, trying to watch TV, when the restlessness becomes unbearable.

Two weeks since he came home. Two weeks of eating six times a day, of being monitored constantly, of sitting still when his body is screaming to move.

He needs to dance.

"No," Seungcheol says immediately when Chan brings it up.

"Please. Just a little bit. I'm going crazy sitting here—"

"The doctor said two weeks minimum—"

"It's been two weeks!"

Seungcheol's expression is torn between sympathy and firmness. "Chan-ah, you're still so weak. Yesterday you got dizzy just walking to the kitchen."

"That was one time—"

"It was three times."

Chan slumps back against the couch, frustrated. Dancing has always been his outlet, his therapy, his way of processing emotions. Without it, everything feels bottled up and wrong.

"What if we compromise?" Hoshi suggests from the doorway.

Both of them turn to look at him.

"What kind of compromise?" Seungcheol asks warily.

"Let him do some light stretching. Maybe walk through some choreography—slowly, no jumping or intense movements. But only when someone's with him to monitor. And only for short periods."

Chan sits up hopefully. "Really?"

"I don't know..." Seungcheol looks uncertain.

"He's going to go stir-crazy if we keep him completely sedentary," Wonwoo points out. "And we can't watch him twenty-four-seven once we go back to schedules. Better to let him move a little, under supervision, than have him sneak off to practice alone."

Chan winces because Wonwoo is right—he'd been considering doing exactly that.

Seungcheol sighs heavily. "Fine. But light activity only. And if you get dizzy or tired or anything feels wrong, you stop immediately. Understood?"

"Understood!" Chan agrees quickly, before Seungcheol can change his mind.

That afternoon, Chan stands in the practice room for the first time since the collapse.

Hoshi and Minghao are with him—self-appointed supervisors.

"Slow," Hoshi warns. "We're just walking through movements. No intensity."

Chan nods eagerly, just grateful to be here.

They run through some basic choreography—old songs, familiar patterns. Chan moves carefully, hyperaware of Hoshi and Minghao watching him like hawks.

His body feels foreign. Weak and uncoordinated in ways it never has before. Movements that used to be second nature now require conscious thought.

It's frustrating. Heartbreaking.

But it's also dancing. And god, he's missed it.

After twenty minutes, Minghao calls it. "That's enough for today."

"But I'm fine—"

"You're shaking," Minghao points out gently.

Chan looks down at his hands. He is shaking.

"Come on," Hoshi says, slinging an arm around Chan's shoulders. "Let's get you some food. It's almost snack time anyway."

Snack time. Another meal. Another battle with his anxiety.

But Chan doesn't protest. Just lets them guide him out of the practice room, already looking forward to tomorrow when he can dance again.

Even if it's only for twenty minutes.

Even if it's supervised.

It's something.

Week Three

Chan is in the bathroom when he realizes Wonwoo followed him in.

"Hyung," Chan says, exasperated. "I'm just using the bathroom."

"I know."

"So... you can wait outside?"

"I'll turn around," Wonwoo offers, turning to face the door.

Chan sighs heavily. "This is ridiculous."

"Doctor said you shouldn't be alone. Especially in bathrooms."

Because bathrooms are where relapses happen. Where people make themselves purge. Where dangerous behaviors hide.

Chan knows this. He understands the logic.

It doesn't make it less embarrassing.

"I'm not going to—" He can't even finish the sentence. "I'm doing better. I promise."

"I know," Wonwoo says simply. "But I'm staying anyway."

Later, when Chan complains about it to the group, Seungkwan shrugs unapologetically.

"Get used to it. We're not taking any chances."

"It's mortifying."

"It's love," Jeonghan corrects. "Mortifying, intrusive love."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now."

Week Four

Dinner that night is japchae—one of Chan's favorites.

He's been doing better with meals. Still hard, still anxiety-inducing, but easier than those first few days. He's up to eating about seventy percent of each meal without crying.

Progress.

Tonight, he's sandwiched between Seungcheol and Jeonghan as always, with Mingyu directly across from him making ridiculous faces to make him laugh.

It's working. Chan snorts into his water, and Seungcheol shoots Mingyu a look that's half-exasperation, half-fondness.

"You're going to make him choke."

"Worth it to see him smile," Mingyu retorts.

Under the table, Jeonghan's hand finds Chan's knee, squeezing gently. A silent check-in: You okay?

Chan squeezes back: I'm okay.

And he is. Right now, in this moment, surrounded by his members, eating dinner together like they've done thousands of times—he's okay.

After dinner, they pile onto the couches to watch a movie. Chan ends up in the middle of a member sandwich—Seungcheol on one side, Wonwoo on the other, Mingyu sprawled across all their laps, DK and Seungkwan on the floor leaning back against the couch.

It's cramped and too warm and someone's elbow is in Chan's ribs.

It's perfect.

"You comfortable, baby?" Seungcheol asks, adjusting his arm around Chan's shoulders.

"Yeah," Chan says softly. "Really comfortable."

The endearment doesn't sting. Doesn't make him feel small or incapable.

It just makes him feel loved.

Week Five

Chan is allowed back to light practice with the full group now.

Not full rehearsals—he still can't handle the intensity. But he can run through choreography at half-speed, can participate in the group formations, can feel like part of the team again.

It's everything.

During a water break, Hoshi pulls him aside.

"How are you feeling? Honestly?"

"Tired," Chan admits. "But good tired. Not scary tired."

"And the meals?"

"Still hard. But I'm trying."

"That's all we ask," Hoshi says, ruffling his hair. "Just keep trying."

That night, after dinner, the members are scattered around the living room. Chan is tucked into the corner of the couch, Seungkwan pressed against his right side, Vernon on his left. Across from them, Mingyu and DK are arguing about something ridiculous while Joshua tries to mediate.

Normal. Chaotic. Home.

Chan looks around at all of them—his twelve members, his brothers, his family—and feels emotion well up in his throat.

How did he ever think he had to do anything alone?

"You okay, baby?" Seungkwan asks, noticing his expression.

"Yeah," Chan says, voice thick. "I just... I'm really grateful. For all of you. For not giving up on me. For sitting with me at every meal and following me to the bathroom and sleeping in my room and just... everything."

"Chan-ah," Seungcheol says from across the room, "you don't have to thank us. This is what family does."

"I know, but... it should make me angry, right? Being babied even more than usual. Having zero privacy. Being monitored constantly." Chan swallows hard. "But it doesn't. It just makes me feel... loved. So loved. And I don't think I realized how much I'd forgotten that. How much I'd convinced myself you guys didn't care, that I was a burden, that I was just the annoying baby you were stuck with."

"Never," Wonwoo says firmly. "You have never been a burden."

"We choose to take care of you," Jeonghan adds. "It's not an obligation. It's a privilege."

"Even when I'm difficult?" Chan's voice is small.

"Especially then," Seungcheol says. "Chan-ah, do you remember what I told you in the hospital?"

Chan nods. "That I'm your baby. That I'll always be your baby."

"And that's never been more true than right now. Watching you fight this, watching you choose recovery every single day even when it's hard—" Seungcheol's voice catches. "I've never been more proud to call you our maknae."

Tears slip down Chan's face. "I'm trying so hard."

"We know," Vernon says quietly, squeezing his hand. "We see it. Every meal, every time you push through the anxiety, every time you let us help instead of pushing us away—we see it all."

"You're so strong, Chan-ah," DK adds. "Stronger than you know."

"I don't feel strong."

"That's because you're doing the work," Wonwoo explains. "Real strength isn't feeling powerful all the time. It's doing the hard things even when you're scared. And you do that every single day."

Chan wipes at his face. "I couldn't do it without you guys. Without this." He gestures around at all of them. "The sitting together at meals, the sleeping in piles, the constant company—it should feel suffocating but it doesn't. It feels like safety."

"Good," Seungcheol says firmly. "Because we're not stopping. Even when you're fully recovered, we're still going to hover. Still going to make sure you're eating. Still going to climb into your bed uninvited."

"We're basically going to be annoying forever," Mingyu adds cheerfully.

"I'm okay with that," Chan says, and he means it. "I think... I think I need it. The reminder that you guys care. That I'm not alone."

"You're never alone," Hoshi says. "Even when you think you are, even when you try to be—you're never alone. You're stuck with us, baby."

Baby.

The word wraps around Chan like a warm blanket. Like coming home. Like everything he'd been so scared of losing and then realized he never wanted to lose at all.

"I love you guys," Chan says quietly. "So much."

"We love you too," comes the chorus of responses.

Seungkwan hugs him tighter. Vernon presses their shoulders together. Across the room, Mingyu is definitely crying again.

"Group hug!" DK announces suddenly, and before Chan can protest, all twelve members are piling onto the couch, creating a chaotic tangle of limbs and bodies and laughter.

Someone's elbow is in Chan's stomach. Mingyu's knee is digging into his thigh. He can't breathe properly because Joshua is basically sitting on his lap.

It's uncomfortable and ridiculous and absolutely perfect.

"Can't breathe," Chan wheezes, but he's laughing.

"Suffer," Jeonghan says cheerfully, but he adjusts slightly to give Chan more room.

They stay like that for several minutes, just existing together in their messy, chaotic pile of love.

And Chan thinks: This. This is what I was missing. This is what I almost gave up.

Not perfection. Not independence. Not some idealized version of maturity.

Just this. His members. His family. His home.

Everything he needed was here all along.

Week Eight

Chan's first therapy session after discharge is scheduled for a Thursday afternoon.

Seungcheol drives him, and Wonwoo comes along for support.

"Do you want us to come in with you?" Seungcheol asks as they pull up to the building.

"No," Chan says, then reconsiders. "Maybe wait in the waiting room? In case I need you after?"

"Of course."

The session is hard. The therapist asks questions that make Chan's chest tight, makes him confront thoughts and fears he'd rather avoid.

But it's also... helpful. Having someone outside the situation, someone trained to understand eating disorders and body image issues, helps Chan start to untangle the mess in his head.

When he comes out an hour later, eyes red but feeling oddly lighter, Seungcheol and Wonwoo are right where he left them.

"How was it?" Wonwoo asks carefully.

"Hard," Chan admits. "But good. I think."

"That's good," Seungcheol says, slinging an arm around his shoulders as they walk to the car. "Proud of you, Chan-ah."

"For what? Crying in a therapist's office?"

"For doing the work," Seungcheol corrects. "For choosing to get better."

In the car on the way home, Chan stares out the window and thinks about everything the therapist said. About how recovery isn't linear. About how some days will be harder than others. About how healing takes time and patience and self-compassion.

"Hey, Chan-ah?" Wonwoo says from the passenger seat.

"Yeah?"

"We're really proud of you. All of us. I know we say it a lot, but I don't think we say it enough. What you're doing—it's not easy. And you're handling it with so much courage."

Chan's throat tightens. "I don't feel very courageous."

"You don't have to feel it for it to be true."

Week Twelve

Three months after the collapse, Chan is cleared to return to full practice.

"But," their doctor emphasizes, "you need to listen to your body. Take breaks when you need them. Eat before and after practice. Stay hydrated. If you start feeling dizzy or weak, stop immediately."

"I will," Chan promises.

That first full practice is both exhilarating and terrifying. His body still isn't what it used to be—he's gained back some weight but still has a ways to go. His stamina isn't fully recovered. His strength is still rebuilding.

But god, it feels good to dance at full intensity again.

When they break for water after the third run-through, Chan is breathing hard, sweat dripping, muscles burning—and smiling.

"Feel good?" Hoshi asks.

"So good," Chan gasps. "I missed this so much."

"We missed having you back," Hoshi says, bumping their shoulders together. "The formations weren't the same without you."

At lunch—because they take a proper lunch break now, all of them eating together—Chan works through his meal steadily. It's still not easy. Probably won't be easy for a long time.

But he's doing it.

And his members are right there with him, as always.

Seungcheol on his left, Jeonghan on his right, everyone else scattered around the practice room, eating and talking and laughing.

Family.

"You okay, baby?" Seungcheol asks quietly.

Chan looks at him—at the concern and love in his eyes, the protective way he sits close, the careful monitoring that might be annoying if Chan didn't know it came from a place of deep care.

"Yeah," Chan says honestly. "I'm okay."

And for the first time in a long time, he really means it.

He's not fully healed. Recovery is ongoing, will be ongoing for a long time. Some days are still really hard. The thoughts don't just disappear. The anxiety around food doesn't just vanish.

But he's okay.

He's eating. He's dancing. He's letting himself be loved and cared for and babied without shame.

He's choosing recovery. Every single day, he's choosing it.

And surrounded by his twelve members—his brothers, his family, his safety net—Chan knows he can keep choosing it.

One day at a time.

One meal at a time.

One moment at a time.

He's going to be okay.