Work Text:
Chan was not a hopeless romantic.
That was not to say he didn’t believe in love, because he did. Very much so.
He’d been born inside it.
His parents had been the kind of love story people wrote about but never quite believed in. The kind that survived distance, sacrifice, and the small daily irritations of real life. They loved each other loudly when it mattered and softly when it called for it. They loved his siblings in the patient, practical ways you saw on TV or read in books, packed lunches and late night bedtime stories.
They loved him enough to let him go.
They let him leave to the country they had once left themselves. Let him chase a dream that shimmered like spilled oil on asphalt in the sun, beautiful and entirely unsafe. Even when they worried, and questioned whether their love had led them to a bad decision, they never once asked him to come home.
So yes, Chan believed in love.
He just didn’t believe in the fairytale version.
Love at first sight? Effortless soulmates? One glance across a crowded room and suddenly the universe tilted into place?
No.
Chan believed love was work.
He believed it was choosing someone, over and over, even on days when you were too tired to choose anything at all. He believed love was remembering how someone took their coffee and noticing when they didn’t finish it. It was learning the map of another person’s silence. It was threading someone into the very fabric of your soul, so intricately that pulling them out would mean unraveling yourself entirely.
When you loved someone, it was never enough to simply feel it. You had to show it.
You had to make them the first name you thought of when something wonderful happened. The first voice you wanted to hear when something broke. You had to pour yourself into the space between the two of you until there was no room left for pride or fear.
And Chan...
Chan barely had a bed to his name.
He lived out of cramped dorm rooms and studio corners. His days were swallowed whole by practice, production, deadlines that blinked red and unforgiving like hazard lights warning of a disaster ahead. He gave everything he had to music, every spare hour, every spare thought, every spare fragment of himself.
But love... love required time. It needed energy and stability.
A foundation to grow and something to give.
Chan wasn’t sure he had anything left.
He told himself that was fine. Some people were meant to build things and others were meant to support from the sidelines. His place was in the audience, clapping when other people found their forever.
He would be okay with that.
He was okay with that.
And then he met Minho.
It wasn’t cinematic.
There was no slow motion, no orchestral swell, no sudden stillness in a crowded room. The world didn’t tilt and the universe sure as hell did not announce itself.
Minho walked into practice early, sharp eyes assessing the room like he’d yet to figure out if what it promised was something he wanted.
Chan noticed him because he didn’t seem to be dying for this.
Everyone else was.
They were loud ambition, nervous energy and desperate smiles. Minho stood apart from it all, not bored, not indifferent or as if he’d wandered into the wrong place. He would try, Chan could see that in the way he stretched, he would work his ass off for a spot on a debut group but he wouldn't kill himself for it.
Chan envied that almost immediately.
He'd wondered what it felt like to have something to go back to, without feeling like a complete failure for having to be back.
Their eyes met only briefly.
No lightning.
No revelation.
Not even a flicker of recognition.
No love at first sight.
Later, Chan would try to pinpoint the moment it began. The exact second something shifted under his ribs. He would fail every time.
Because it didn’t happen all at once.
It happened slowly.
In the way Minho’s mouth twitched when he was holding back a laugh.
In the way he stayed behind after practice without being asked to help his fellow trainees.
In the way he listened, really listened, when Chan spoke about music, a melody stuck in his head and the way a chorus needed to feel like exhaling after holding your breath too long or it was all wrong.
Chan didn’t fall in love at first sight.
He fell in love in fragments.
In shared meals eaten at ungodly hours. In tired arguments over choreography counts, and the harsh words thrown at each other in exhaustion and understanding. In the tears and apologies that followed. He fell in love in the rare, fragile moments when Chan let his guard down and softness flickered through Minho's eyes in response.
Love, Chan believed, was work.
And somehow, without realising when it started, he found himself working for this.
For Minho.
Which was terrifying.
Because loving Minho would mean giving him something, threading him deep into Chan's very being, committing to something that would make him the first name Chan thought of when the world felt too big, and the first he reached for when it felt too small.
Chan had told himself for years that love was not in his cards.
But Minho. Sharp tongued, no nonsense, weird as hell Lee Minho, with his bundles and impeccable dance skills, had a way of looking at him like he could see the entire deck.
And worse, liked what he saw.
~
Minho had been the one to make the first move.
Not that anyone who later heard their story would be surprised.
Chan, for all his warmth, devotion and endless capacity to care for everyone around him, had always been painfully strict with himself. He denied himself rest before he denied anyone else comfort, swallowed his own hurt before burdening someone else with it, and treated his own happiness like it was something to be earned rather than something he deserved.
If left entirely to his own devices, Chan would have loved Minho silently for years before ever daring to act on it.
Maybe even forever.
So yes. Of course it had been Minho.
They were officially idols when it happened, two years into what was supposed to be everything they had dreamed of, and yet somehow had become one of the hardest periods of Chan’s life.
Nine had turned to eight.
The loss had split through their group like a crack through glass, and while the others grieved openly, leaning on each other, angry and hurt and confused, Chan had done what Chan always did.
He folded in on himself.
He took the blame where none was his to carry and wore it like his penance. He let every cruel word online sink into his skin, every accusation and criticism and sneered insult embedding itself somewhere deep enough to fester. He smiled through schedules and reassured everyone he was fine and then snuck away to the company to lock himself in his studio for hours after everyone had gone to bed.
The members hated it.
They hated the way their leader smiled thinner and thinner each week, the way he laughed less, the way shadows had begun to settle permanently beneath his eyes.
But Chan was their leader.
And when Chan insisted he was handling it, insisted he just needed time... most of them listened.
Everyone except Minho.
Because Chan didn’t have a hyung anymore.
And Minho, stubborn and fiercely loyal in ways he rarely put into words, had decided without announcement that if Chan needed someone to fill that space, then it would be an honour to do it himself.
He would stand at Chan’s side and he would care for him even when Chan made it difficult.
Especially then.
The dancer wasn’t one for performative romance.
He didn’t care much for Valentine’s Day, or Pepero Day, or even White Day. He didn’t care for the expectation of affection wrapped up in overpriced chocolates, cheap pink decorations and obligations disguised as sentiment.
Besides, he knew Chan too well.
If Minho confessed on one of those days, if he did something sweet under the excuse of a holiday, Chan would rationalise it away. He would smile that guarded smile that had become all too common, and convince himself Minho’s actions were tied to the occasion rather than genuine feeling. He would find some excuse to disregard what was being offered because the idea of someone wanting him like that, truly wanting him, would be too much for Chan's fractured self esteem to accept.
So Minho chose a random Tuesday.
A completely unremarkable evening tucked between rehearsals and schedules, the kind of day Chan wouldn’t suspect anything from.
And in the few hours the leader was dragged away for a meeting, Minho transformed his studio.
It was ridiculous, honestly.
He’d bullied Changbin and Hyunjin into helping him lug things upstairs, had nearly strangled Jeongin when he laughed too hard at the idea of Minho doing something 'this disgustingly romantic', and had threatened Seungmin within an inch of his life when he took too many pictures for blackmail purposes.
But when they were done.
It was perfect.
The overhead fluorescent lights were off, replaced by the warm flicker of candles lined carefully along every safe surface. Takeout had been artfully plated onto real dishes stolen from the dorm kitchen because Minho refused to let Chan eat a confession meal out of plastic packaging and cooking would’ve set off those dangerously sensitive alarm bells in his leader’s head off.
Soft music played quietly from Chan’s speakers, something instrumental and gentle enough not to overwhelm the moment that Felix and Jisung had happily put together. A bottle of wine sat in the centre of the table, more for aesthetics than anything else, as both the dancer and producer weren’t likely to drink.
It was intimate and warm.
But most importantly unmistakably romantic.
When Chan opened the studio door, a handful of minutes after the dance leader had kicked his members out, he froze.
Minho watched him from where he sat cross legged on the couch, trying very hard to appear calmer than he felt, though his heart was hammering violently against his ribs.
Chan blinked once.
Twice.
Then stared around the room like his brain had stopped processing.
“...What is this?”
Minho chuckled sheepishly, “I was hoping it would be pretty obvious.”
Chan looked at him, then the candles, then back at him, eyes wide and confused and painfully soft.
“Minho…”
“Sit down,” Minho said, gentler this time.
Chan obeyed automatically, still looking completely lost as he lowered himself beside the man.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Chan gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh, “did I forget something? Is it someone’s birthday? An anniversary?”
Minho turned to look at him fully and maybe Chan heard something in the silence then, because his smile, already weak and uncertain, faltered almost immediately.
“No,” Minho said softly, “you didn’t forget anything.”
Chan swallowed, nervous. Afraid?
“Then what is all this?”
Minho held his gaze.
“This,” he said, voice steadier than he felt, “is me trying to do something nice for the person I love.”
The world stopped almost immediately.
Chan stared.
Actually stared, lips parted, eyes blown wide in utter shock.
And for one horrible second Minho thought maybe he’d misread everything. Maybe Chan didn’t feel the same. Maybe this had all been some stupid, humiliating mistake.
Then Chan whispered, almost breathless.
“You love me?”
Minho blinked.
Then barked out a laugh, “you sound surprised, hyung. I don't think I've done all too well at hiding it."
“... huh?”
The dancer rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly less sure of himself under the weight of Chan’s wide eyed confusion.
“I mean-” he started, then huffed out a breath, glancing away for a second before forcing himself to look back. His fingers tapped nervously against his knee, “what did you think all of that was? Staying back after everyone else left… just so you weren’t alone in here, making sure you actually ate when you got too caught up working. Because you forget. All the time.”
Chan’s expression shifted, something dawning slowly, because sure he’d noticed that but he’d always chalked it up to Minho not wanting the members to witness their leader break. He hadn’t exactly been all too stable since the departure and he figured the dancer had just been appointed his human antidepressant.
Minho let out a small, awkward laugh as he continued, “and the whole… always ending up next to you? Couch, van, practice… doesn’t really matter. I just…I just like being near you.”
He swallowed, eyes flicking down for a moment.
“And I know I’m bad at hiding it when someone else has your attention for too long,” he muttered, almost under his breath, “Hannie pointed it out once. Said I looked like I wanted to fight him for talking to you too long. Apparently I’m possessive.”
A faint flush crept up his neck at that.
There was a brief silence before he spoke again, quieter this time.
“I notice things, hyung,” Minho admitted, “like when you’re getting tired. Or when you’re pretending you’re fine and hoping no one calls you on it.”
His gaze lifted again.
“I just…” he exhaled, the words catching slightly before he pushed through them, “I take care of you because I want to. Not because I have to.”
Chan looked genuinely dazed by the confession. He simply blinked several times before repeating his earlier shock, “you love me?”
“Yes, idiot,” Minho murmured, “I love you.”
Chan’s eyes went glassy in a way that made the dancer’s chest ache.
“But why?” he asked before he could stop himself, voice so heartbreakingly small it nearly shattered Minho where he sat.
Why?
Not how long?
Not since when?
Not really?
Why?
Like the very idea of someone loving him made no sense.
Minho’s heart cracked clean down the middle.
He reached forward immediately, cupping Chan’s face in both hands before the other idol could retreat into himself.
“Because you’re you,” Minho said firmly, like it should be obvious, “because you care too much and love too hard and carry everyone on your back even when it’s killing you. Because you stay up all night making songs for us and still ask if we ate before eating yourself. Because you’re infuriatingly selfless and stupidly kind and so beautiful it makes me sick sometimes.”
Chan made a tiny, choked noise.
“And because,” Minho whispered, forehead pressing to his, “someone should love you the way you love everyone else and… and I think I have since the day I met you.”
Chan was not a hopeless romantic.
He didn’t believe in the fairytale version of love.
But perhaps Minho was and did.
Chan broke at that realisation.
A tear slipped free before he could stop it, then another, and suddenly he was sobbing. The silent and overwhelmed type as he tried to apologise only to have Minho shut that down immediately.
“Min…” he whispered, voice cracking around the name.
And maybe he should have waited.
Maybe he should have let Chan breathe, let him gather himself, let him process everything being laid bare between them.
But Chan was looking at him like that, like he was standing at the edge of something enormous and terrifying, and Minho figured he'd been patient enough.
So he kissed him.
Softly, at first.
A gentle press of lips against lips, slow and careful, giving Chan every opportunity to pull away if the moment had become more than he could handle.
But Chan didn’t pull away.
He made a tiny sound against his lips instead, fragile and startled, then surged forward like the restraint inside him had snapped. Like he’d been craving the dancer’s lips on his.
His hands fisted desperately in Minho’s shirt, clutching tight enough to wrinkle the fabric as he kissed him back with trembling, unpracticed need. It wasn’t polished or smooth, wasn't the kind of kiss people dreamed about in movies.
But that didn't matter because Chan kissed like he loved, with everything he had.
Minho deepened it carefully, tilting his head, one hand sliding from Chan’s cheek into the soft ducktail at the nape of his neck while the other stayed cradling his face. Chan melted into him immediately, leaning closer until there wasn’t space left between them, kissing him with breathless little noises that made Minho’s head spin.
And when Chan gasped softly into his mouth, overwhelmed by it, by him, Minho pulled back just enough to breathe.
Their foreheads stayed pressed together.
Chan’s eyes were shut, lips pink and swollen, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. He looked absolutely dazed, like the earth beneath him had shifted and he hadn’t quite found his footing again.
Then his eyes fluttered open.
And the look in them, God the look in them. Raw wonder, disbelief and something so achingly tender Minho thought he might die from it if he remained its sole focus for any longer.
“You really mean it?” he whispered.
Minho kissed the tip of his nose.
“I wouldn’t joke about this.”
Chan stared at him for one long moment.
Then his mouth trembled into the most beautiful smile Minho had ever seen.
And quietly, like it was a secret he’d been holding too close for too long, he whispered.
“I love you too.”
Minho’s entire world lit up with those four words.
“I’m sorry,” Chan murmured, a little breathless, a little overwhelmed, “I’m so surprised, I can’t put together a speech.”
Minho let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he leaned in just slightly, fondness written all over his face.
“Save it,” he said lightly, voice warm, “you can use it at our wedding.”
A flush bloomed across Chan’s cheeks almost instantly, soft pink spreading as his eyes widened for half a second before he ducked his head, smiling in a way he couldn’t quite hide.
And later, years later, over bitter coffee that neither of them liked, but sadly needed, paired with the laughter of children and purring of kittens, Chan would still insist that love was work.
But that night... when Minho kissed him again beneath candlelight in the studio where Chan had bled pieces of his soul into every song, Chan thought maybe love could be easy too.
At least when it was with Minho.
After all, Chan didn’t fall in love at first sight. He fell in love in fragments.
But he didn't fall alone.