And here’s a small introduction for those who wants to read that ↓
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Hello there 🧍🏾♂️
First of all, I have two small disclaimers:
• I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t really know how tumblr works, but I am slowly learning 💪🏽
• This is apparently a ‘secondary blog’, though I am still not certain of what that means- I just so happened to already have an old account that I used to be an avid reader on🤣
It seems I can’t really like or follow people with this blog, so is that because it’s a secondary blog? If that’s the case, then oops, my bad 🤷🏽♂️ it is what it is I guess..
Anywaaaays..
Who am I?
I’m a 23 year old European guy who’s always loved all things hurt/comfort, especially in writing.
Now… This blog came to existence with no intention of it becoming a place to write and post my own sickfics…. Yet here we are😂
I recently got pulled back into the world of kpop after many years of being too busy to indulge in it, and now the creative writer in me is having a blast again!😙
Who do I write for?
My current ult group is Stray Kids, and I’ll be writing mainly for them 🤭
I have written one short story for TXT so far as well, but I’m not too confident in my writing of their dynamics.. yet ✋🏽I also used to write for BTS many years ago, but I don’t feel that comfortable writing for them as of now😅👀
Right not skz is all consuming 😮💨
What do I write?
I’ve dabbled a lot more in writing about stomach related illnesses over the years than I have in snzfics, but I am more than willing to continue expanding! Favorite tropes are definitely emeto and fevers though 🤭
I don’t really know a lot about what my no-gos are yet, but I think the list may grow along the way 😅
The only thing I know for sure is that this is is going to be a place for sickfics and I’m only going to be writing stories around illnesss/sickness/injuries/ that stuff✨ (so far, that is)
What I don’t write?
- x reader
- little space
As for request, please just send them in 🙏🏽
Even though I may not be able to write every one of them, I really love getting them! 🥹 they help a lot with inspiration and new insights, which is so fun!
So yeah..
I guess this is just going to be a little k-pop sickfic blog to have fun with on the side of my daily life🙂 I’ve never ever ran a blog like this before, so please bear with me as I figure it out a little more for each passing day 🤣
I saw this on tiktok.. and uh.. ot8 food poisoning with 2 bathrooms only.. seems sickfic-able already.. just wanted to share this with you
Hehe, thank you ☺️
Though, I have to admit this is the exact interview that inspired my nurse racha story 🤣 I’ll definitely ruminate on the ot8 fp idea as well though 👀 who knows, maybe the inspiration strikes 😎
Idol life and diabetes burnout turns out to be one hell of detrimental concoction.
Hyunjin is just so fucking over it, and negligent mismanagement leaves him crashing during dance practice.
Only then do his worried hyungs and dongsaengs realise just how heavy a burden he’s been carrying.
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Sickie/whumpe: Hyunjin
Caretaker/s: stray kids
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Note: when writing the blood sugar (for those who care), I’ll write the measurements I’m personally familiar with; mmol/L and then write mg/dL in parenthesis!
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Hyunjin was diagnosed with type one diabetes the year he turned fifteen— just before becoming a trainee. That was over a decade ago now.
On the surface, he handled his condition with effortless control, like it was just another part of his routine. Something manageable. Something small and almost insignificant.
But chronic illness came with grief and frustration no one could truly fathom without experiencing it firsthand. Behind his stuck-on mask, it consumed every ounce of his being. Every. Single. Day.
And sometimes, when everything built up just a little too much, the carefully constructed shell he wore cracked.
Sometimes, he just wanted to close his eyes and let go, praying he’d magically wake up with a functioning pancreas…
Sometimes, he just needed a fucking break.
And lately, he certainly wasn’t getting one.
It had been a shit week, today an even shittier day at that.
Hyunjin went to bed already running high, testy and negligent in that way only bone-deep exhaustion and a constantly fluctuating blood sugar make you.
He promptly ignored Changbin’s sweet attempt at a ‘good night’, slamming the door to his room hard enough to rattle the frame— only to send an apology text a couple minutes later, of course.
“Sorry, rough day, goodnight.”
It wasn’t Changbin’s fault, Hyunjin knew that, but sometimes the frustration spilled out of control, spoiling everything around him. It was a rotten feeling. He hated it.
Closing his eyes, he begged that would be the last of it; that the following day wouldn’t be as trying, but he wasn’t let off the hook that easy.
The correction dose he’d taken before bed should’ve simply fixed the problem, but instead it dragged him down so fast it ripped him out of sleep an hour later.
Low.
Annoyed, drowsy and glum, Hyunjin knew the drill regardless of his frustration. Emergency juice first. Then a few (probably too many) crackers. Then more juice because he still felt shitty and stopping required more mental clarity than he had.
By the time he fell back into bed, his blood sugar was already climbing back up again. Which was a steady and comfortable process, until it wasn’t.
The following morning, Hyunjin didn’t need to test to know he was high as a kite. He just knew, inexplicably, in the same way your body senses someone staring at you from across the room. Having to pee four times within half an hour of waking only confirmed it.
“Stupid, fucking, dumbass—” he cut himself off with a sharp exhale, dragging open the bathroom drawer a little harder than necessary. Morning highs, thankfully, weren’t a frequent occurrence for him, but they sucked all the same.
The plastic containers rattled as he shoved things aside, fingers already moving on autopilot. Meter. Lancet. Strip.
Hyunjin pricked his finger with more force than needed, barely reacting as the sting bloomed to a crimson sphere. He impatiently tapped his foot against the floor as the strip filled with blood, watching the loading bar crawl forward at a snails pace.
He didn’t have time for this, because dance practice started in 30 minutes and both his body and brain felt like sludge. But then again; it was his fault for getting on a damn rollercoaster with no safety bar, wasn’t it?
His old dexcom and insulin pump had come off a couple of days prior, and he still hadn’t gotten around to replacing them, because… well, because idol life tended to get in the way of basic self care needs.
Hyunjin had meant to replace them, he really had… but when schedules piled up and rehearsals stretched late, the thought of another death needle punching into his skin somehow kept getting shoved further down the to-do list.
Now, he was left to pay the price of his petulant avoidance, forced to stick to the old fashioned way.
Hyunjin resisted the urge to scream (mostly to avoid giving his roommate a heart attack) as his eyes locked on the blinking numbers of the glucometer.
He already knew he was high, but 14.2 (255)…?
“Oh, fuck you.”
He huffed out another frustrated breath, fingers trembling as he fumbled for a vial of insulin.
Lips dry, Hyunjin drew out the correction dose— a little more carefully this time, despite the frustration still buzzing under his skin like a disturbed wasps nest.
“How many units? Four… or..?” He trailed off, frowning at the syringe in his hands with blurry eyes.
Sleep-deprived, muddled and still reeling from last night’s endless rollercoaster, the math felt impossibly heavy. Maybe he had grown too accustomed to the pump…
A beat passed. His brain was still static, not supplying him anything of value.
“Fuck it.”
Perhaps without truly taking the effects of his previous yoyo-ride of a night into consideration, Hyunjin pinched the skin on his stomach and pushed the needle in.
The bathroom door cracked open to reveal Changbin on the other side, hair damp and bare face fresh as a dewdrop. His eyes met Hyunjin’s first, then dropped to the needle poking into his stomach, before lifting again.
His gaze softened with far too obvious sympathy, a small sigh slipping from his lips before he could rein it in.
“Long night, huh?” Changbin asked, voice low and gentle in a way that made it hit harder than it should have.
Hyunjin felt his throat tighten. He blinked rapidly to disperse the tears welling up in his eyes, shaking his head like he could physically will the emotion away.
“Yeah..” he admitted quietly, biting his lip in an attempt to keep himself in check. No time. He didn’t want a pity-party, not now.
Once the dose was in, Hyunjin flicked the needle into a sharps container and let his shirt fall back down to cover the site.
Changbin didn’t need to know about the rage bolus, nor the amount of times he’d contemplated just giving up on monitoring his condition in the past five minutes alone. They had places to be.
“But it’s fine— I’m fine. We leaving?”
Hyunjin didn’t mean to sound as sharp as he did. He was just so tired. Tired of feeling like his own body was working against him, tired of mornings that started with numbers instead of sunlight, tired of having to calculate every move before even stepping out the door.
Some days it all just felt like too much.
Luckily, Changbin paid his prickly tone no mind. He just gave a small nod, stepping aside when Hyunjin pressed past and quietly falling into step behind him.
Any other day, he might’ve teased him about being in a grouchy mood, but Changbin knew when not to push— and this was one of those times.
-
Dance practice started as usual. Hyunjin was fine for the first part. In fact, despite the harrowing night behind him, physical exertion was exactly what he needed to burn off the negative emotions that had accumulated in his body overnight.
Every step, every jump— it all made him feel a little lighter than before, like the weight lifted off him one sweat drop at a time.
But at the tail end of the first hour, however, a creeping weakness began to gnaw at his body, slowing his steps just a fraction off the beat. It started as a flutter in his stomach, a shakiness in his knees followed by lightheadedness he stubbornly tried to ignore.
He shook his head, trying to refocus on the steps, but a distant memory from that morning suddenly flashed before him.
Six units of fast-acting insulin. He’d ended up taking six units before practice…? Six.. six was… too much. On top of that, he hadn’t even accounted for the extra burn of dancing, had he?
Fuck.
Every spin, jump, and push off the floor was sending his blood sugar plummeting faster than he could combat, and with that amount of insulin coursing through him without even a crumb of breakfast… that was a recipe for disaster.
Usually, Hyunjin was absolutely punctilious when it came to gauging his condition, but that morning he’d been too angry, too exhausted— it made him act recklessly...
“Hyunjinnie… you okay?” a voice called out, scarcely breaking through the fog that had suddenly sunk into him. Hyunjin barely registered it as vague background noise.
His head felt weird, his lips tingly and numb. “I…” His vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting ever so slightly before him. His pulse felt fast, then slow, then way too fast again, like his heart couldn’t decide on a rhythm.
By the time his brain realised what was happening, he was already shaking like a leaf, staggering like a drunk and cold to the bone despite the heat of the studio.
Hyunjin opened his mouth to say something, maybe try to warn everyone his blood sugar was crashing, but his brain didn’t supply him any words. As Felix appeared before him, way too bright and seemingly moving in slow motion, a thin whimper slipped past his lips instead.
When Hyunjin’s knees buckled, Felix and Jisung were the first to catch him. They latched onto one side each, carefully lowering him to the ground while Chan quickly delegated tasks. Jeongin, get me a glucometer, Minho, fetch some back up carbs from the cafeteria.
Hyunjin folded on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
“He’s definitely low-“ Changbin hissed through his teeth as he dug into Hyunjin’s bag, but the side pocket that always contained emergency carbs was empty. It was never empty. “Fuck—he’s-he’s out, anyone else got some sugar?!”
For a moment, no one answered, but then Jisung’s eyes widened with realisation, spluttering as he tried to answer. “Uh-yeah-yeah! I have some energy gels in my bag!”
Changbin nodded and started to rummage through Jisung's bag, searching for the gels while Felix remained beside Hyunjin, rubbing small circles into his back while his consciousness dwindled before them.
Chan knelt next to them a second later, the small bag containing Hyunjin’s glucometer clutched in his hands. He was already pressing the lancing device against his skin, but Hyunjin’s fingers felt so cold to the touch that it made his stomach twist with fear.
“Hey, hey, Hyunjinnie, stay awake now…”
Felix brushed some hair out of Hyunjin’s clammy face, alarmed by the way his eyelids fluttered, eyes rolling back in a struggle to stay alert. They hadn’t seen him crash like this in ages.
“Hyunjin-ah, hang in there. We're gonna get some sugar, okay? Just- just hold on," Jisung murmured, his voice surprisingly steady despite the worry churning in his chest. Where were those damn gels?
“Here!” Seungmin threw a five-pack of energy gels across the room like he was pitching a fastball, and it hit the back of Chan’s head, making him double over with a soft ‘oof’. Luckily, the lancet was no longer piercing skin, and the blood had already been gathered into a strip.
With no time to wallow, Felix plucked the bundle off the floor and ripped a pack of gel open with his teeth. “Hyunjin,” he said firmly, before pressing the pack against the dancers lips. “You need to swallow this.”
Jisung placed a hand under Hyunjin’s chin when he didn’t respond sufficiently, coaxing his lips open with a gentle press of his thumb. Felix squeezed the jelly out, and the sugary gel coated the half-conscious man’s tongue like a brush of gold.
For a gruelling second, nothing happened at all.
The gel just sat there, sticky and cloying on Hyunjin’s tongue while his depleted brain struggled to register what it was or what he was supposed to do with it. Panic gripped the other men as the dancer remained entirely slack, not moving so much as a muscle— had he passed out? Was he about to have a fit? Did they need to call an ambulance?
Chan’s eyes flicked to the screen of the glucometer the second it finished processing, his face paling enough for the others to recognise the change. His jaw ticked. “2.2.. (40).”
“Shit,” Changbin sucked in a sharp breath, one hand coming up to scrub over his face before he dropped it again, hovering it uselessly at his side. “That’s— fuck, that’s bad.”
“Hyunjin, c’mon, you need to swallow,” Felix urged desperately, eyebrows tightly knit with concern.
But Hyunjin couldn’t hear anything but the roar of blood in his ears, couldn’t see anything but the infinite darkness stretching before him.
Was he going to die?
“Get someone from medical,” Chan barked, and Seungmin leapt from the room faster than they’d ever seen him move before.
Hyunjin throat clenched too closely to gag, the muscles of his neck stiff and uncooperative. His hands twitched uselessly, tangled in the sleeves of Jisung’s shirt, but Felix didn’t let up.
One steady hand cupped the back of Hyunjin’s head while the other pressed lightly on his jaw, tilting it just enough so the gel wouldn’t get stuck. A nod to Jisung and the rapper was aiding him with a shaky hand cupping Hyunjin’s chin.
“Come.On.” Felix said again, firmer this time, as Jisung hoisted Hyunjin’s limp body up to lay against his chest. “Swallow, Hyunjin. Just a little… please.” His voice faltered then, the plea barely more than a breath, but something shifted.
Like primal instinct had finally won over, Hyunjin’s throat worked on autopilot, spurring to life and greedily gulping down the sugary fix. Each swallow felt like a tiny victory, a little spark against the dark fog that swarmed them all.
“Yes—thats good, good, very good,” Felix murmured encouragingly, almost like a mantra, his own fingers trembling. “Keep it up, Hyunjin-ah… you’re doing perfect.”
Hyunjin could barely process the words, could still hardly hear them. His tongue felt sticky and overly sweet, and his stomach fluttered in protest before eventually relaxing as the first drops of sugar entered his bloodstream.
The shakes were still bad, fine tremors running through him like an electric current, but the suffocating sense of impending doom began to ebb, receding inch by inch under the slow, unsteady thaw of relief.
“More, he needs more,” sounded Jeongin’s voice as Felix squeezed the last of the gel into the older dancers mouth. They all knew he was right; 2.2 was awfully low, and Hyunjin could possibly still be dropping by the looks of it.
Chan was reeling. He didn’t know how if Hyunjin had eaten, or if he’d taken insulin that day, let alone how far the effects would be dragging him down— all he knew was that the downward trend had to be flipped. Fast. And for that, his dongsaeng would definitely need more than a singular carb pack.
“Here,” Chan quickly handed over another energy gel he’d ripped off the bundle. Felix didn’t hesitate. He tore open the pack in a hurry, fingers sticky, and brought it to Hyunjin’s lips again.
“Have some more, Jinnie..”
Hyunjin’s head lolled slightly against Jisung’s shoulder, but this time, when the gel touched his tongue, his body reacted quicker. Instinct. Survival.
His throat worked the gel down, slow but deliberate, swallowing in uneven pulls. Each effort seemed an arduous task, like he was dragging himself uphill through thick mud, but it was working. Slowly, but surely.
“Good,” Jisung breathed, relief threading hesitantly through his voice as they watched the gel go down. “That’s good, you’re doing so good, baby, keep going—”
A tremor wracked through Hyunjin’s body, sharper this time, and his fingers curled weakly into the fabric of Jisung’s shirt. Jisung could almost physically feel his heart break.
“Why isn’t he better yet?” Jeongin asked shakily, eyes flicking to the watch on his wrist. Ten minutes had already passed. Usually, when Hyunjin went hypo, the effects of glucose were noticeable by now— at least a little.
Changbin bit his lip, Felix shut his eyes, Jisung’s grip on Hyunjin tightened instinctually. No one had any good answers.
“C’mon, c’mon..” Chan muttered under his breath, rubbing his hand across Hyunjin’s forearm to rouse him. “Stay with us, Hyune…”
The door flung open with a crash, bouncing against the wall in its haste.
"I've got juice," Minho announced, skidding back into the room, slightly out of breath as he dropped to his knees and shoved a bundle of juice boxes toward them. “Full sugar."
"Give it here-"
Chan snatched a juice from the pile, already twisting the cap off before passing it over to Felix. "Once he's a bit more responsive— we gotta get him up."
The sugar was starting to work its magic, slowly but surely, after a harrowing 15 minutes had passed. Normally, the effects were prominent within half that time. Two packs of gels were down, the last glob meticulously pressed into Hyunjin’s mouth as the clock ticked on. At last, he was a little more awake, but far from coherent.
"Hyunjin," Felix tried again, gentler this time, brushing damp hair from his forehead and tucking the longer strands behind his ear. "Can you hear me?"
A pause. Then…
“‘Cold," Hyunjin whispered, barely audible from where his face was mushed against Jisung’s shirt.
“Aigoo, aigoo, that’s no good,” Jisung cooed sweetly, brushing a bead of sweat from his brow. He shifted a little, pulling his own discarded hoodie over the dancers bare arms. “Better?”
A contented hum rumbled against him. Hyunjin’s eyes slipped shut again, face pale and lips quivering.
“Can you stay awake for us, Hyunjinnie?”
Hyunjin hummed again in response, but whether he actually heard the question or was simply complying instinctually was anyone’s guess.
Something squeezed his hand, something warm, a little rougher to the touch— Changbin’s hand, without a doubt. Hyunjin could recognise it anywhere, even now, when everything else felt foreign. Though, the realisation that he could feel something other than static was a tremendous relief.
Voices spoke around him, hushed and a little too far away to catch from where his conscious floated in a sea of replenishing sweets. He was starving, nauseous, hot and cold all at once. But at the edge of his mind, Hyunjin heard Changbin’s voice speaking lowly, telling the others about seeing him take insulin that morning. No breakfast that he’d witnessed. How Hyunjin had acted the night before. The grouchy mood he’d been in…
While Hyunjin had no way to fully register the words, let alone reply to them, the shift in the atmosphere was impossible to miss. Urgency sharpened, hands steadied him a little firmer, rubbed his back a little more tenderly.
He overdid it, he overdid it bad, and the consequences of his action was a scare out of this world.
-
Hyunjin had no idea how much time had passed, but the next time someone pricked his finger, he felt the pain jolt up his arm. He flinched, letting out an unhappy grumble as his eyes fluttered against the bright lights.
“Sorry,” Changbin apologised on their leaders behalf, as Chan was fully immersed in getting a new reading, eyebrows drawn in deep concentration. “We just gotta check on that blood sugar, baby..”
Fingers grasped around his wrist, and Hyunjin peeled a blurry eye open to find Jeongin beside him now, pressed somewhere between Changbin and Minho. “Heartrate is getting better.”
“Good.” Chan finally glanced up from the glucometer again, reading the numbers and giving a sharp nod. “3.3 (60).. okay, he's climbing, but it’s still way too low. Keep him upright, don't let him slump too much.”
Hyunjin was still too disoriented and weak for comfort, the excess insulin in his blood stubbornly warring against the carbs they kept introducing. 3.3 after 25 minutes was hardly enough of a consolation.
“Juice?” Minho prompted, eyes razor sharp as he motioned to the bottle still sitting untouched by Felix’s side.
“Juice,” Jisung and Felix echoed in unison. The younger of the two lifted the beverage to Hyunjin’s lips while Chan carefully wrapped the tip of his finger in a small bandaid.
Roughly 45 minutes crawled by before Hyunjin seemed to reclaim enough of himself for panic to ease and the juice to stop flowing.
Thanks to the insulin still coursing through him, the effect of the sugar took far longer to set in than they would have hoped. At last, it seemed an abundance of sugar had definitely been a more than necessary step.
Hyunjin sat slumped against the wall, flanked by Minho and Jeongin, a piece of bread held loosely in his fingers.
Seungmin had returned with the snack a little while ago, alongside one of JYP’s medics (one they’ve gotten to know fairly well over the years), who was now carefully monitoring him.
His blood sugar had finally reached a stable 4.2 (75), but while he was awake, Hyunjin still felt… off. Hollow. Exhausted. Ashamed.
“How are you feeling now, Hyunjin-ssi?” The medic asked calmly, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder to encourage him to meet their eyes. He didn’t.
Hyunjin swallowed slowly, flexing his fingers against his thigh like he was trying to reconnect with his limbs. “..weird.”
“Dizzy or weak?”
“A lil bit of both..”
He let out a long sigh, letting his head fall against Jeongin’s shoulder. The medic nodded, taking note.
“Okay, just stay with me now,” they said, eyes flicking back to the glucometer. “You’re just above the threshold, but I don’t quite trust it yet.”
The other members hovered around them, restless and concerned for their friend. While the fog was slowly lifting, the severity of the crash had left a clear damper on the room.
“Where’s your tech, huh?” The medic went on, carefully brushing a finger over the spot on Hyunjin’s arm where his last Dexcom had been. It had been a flimsy application, the skin still bruised in its wake.
Hyunjin frowned and shut his eyes tightly, like thinking was proving to be too hard a task. “Took… took it off,” he said simply, voice trailing off until it was barely audible. “Didn’t get to replace it…”
The medic’s eyes narrowed, sensing there was more to it than what meets the eye, but they didn’t press. Hyunjin wasn’t in the state for explanations, and some truths could wait. For now.
Changbin inched closer, sitting cross-legged beside him. His hand found Hyunjin’s again, fingers curling around his in a careful, grounding squeeze. “This morning… do you remember how much insulin you took?”
The shame surged in Hyunjin’s chest like a volcanic eruption, searing, bitter and vile, as the memory of that morning resurfaced. He shrank into himself, gaze dropping to his lap as tears threatened to spill over his lash line. Voice trembling, he conceded, “..T-too much…”
The answer was small, hardly satisfying without any numbers to calculate by, but the meaning was clear. Everyone could feel the hesitation, the guilt and fear burning quietly through him.
“Okay,” the medic said softly, leaving space for him to recover. “Do you feel like you might drop again?”
Hyunjin shook his head slightly. “Don’t think so…”
“Okay. That’s good..” The medic’s gaze lingered on Hyunjin a moment longer, brow furrowed, before they turned and beckoned Chan over. They stepped just out of earshot, voices dropping low.
The medic let the leader know they weren’t sure it was safe to just let this slide without a checkup. An unknowingly large bolus, combined with the physical exertion from practice having sent Hyunjin to a critical low, was enough to warrant observation in a hospital setting. Chan couldn’t help but agree.
While the medic went outside the studio to organise a medical escort to the nearest hospital, the Stray kids were left to reassemble.
Jeongin adjusted slightly, tipping his shoulder down so Hyunjin could rest more comfortably, while Minho kept a steady hand on his back, thumb brushing in small, soothing circles.
The room stayed quiet for a beat, the kind of quiet that pressed against the skin, making every small movement feel harsher than it should. The faint hum of the air conditioning, the restless tap of anxious feet against the floor— everything exaggerated in that fragile, suspended moment.
“I’m sorry…” Hyunjin’s voice was small, almost swallowed by the thick air, while his gaze remained fixed stubbornly on the floor.
“It’s okay,” Felix replied instantly, voice gentle and understanding, as he gave Hyunjin’s knee a reassuring squeeze. “You didn’t mean to.”
The silence that followed was deafening, the way Hyunjin’s breath stuttered a quiet avowal to the truth he didn’t dare speak out loud.
He hadn’t meant to, not fully. It wasn’t a clear conscious decision he’d made. At least, that was the truth he clung to— but he also couldn’t lie to himself.
Part of him hadn’t not meant it. The frustration, the exhaustion, the quiet rage at his own body had guided his hands more than reason ever could. He had watched the numbers on that syringe and, in a moment of reckless clarity, chosen to ignore them. Chosen to act out his frustration and disregard his well-being.
God, how could he have been so selfishly self-destructive?
Felix’s expression shifted, pale and startled, as the realisation struck him. His breath stuttered on a small ‘what’, brown eyes glistening with unshed tears as Seungmin carefully guided him a step back.
Hyunjin immediately felt the tension rise in Jeongin’s body, the way Minho’s hand stilled against his back before falling away completely. Guilt curled through him like a snake.
He felt sick.
“Hey,” Changbin snapped him out of the spiral, gently tapping a finger under his chin and lifting Hyunjin’s gaze just enough to meet his own. “Look at me. Right now.”
His eyes spoke before his mouth did. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. It’s okay. We have you.’ Hyunjin felt tears dance at the edge of his vision, and when Changbin pulled him into his chest, the dam broke.
Hyunjin wrapped himself around his roommate like a vine gripping a tree, wild and contorted as the emotions poured out of him in a ceaseless flood. Changbin let him release whatever he needed to. They all did.
“I-I-I’m so—ugh- so-sorry, I-huh- I was ju-hust s-so ma-d..” Hyunjin hitched out between sobs, hardly discernible, barely more than a jumble of sounds.
Snotty, wet hiccups punctuated every word, his nose running freely as tears streaked down his red, blotchy face. The heaviness in his chest bled out on the floor around them one sob at a time, burning through him until his lungs could finally pull air again.
Everyone sat frozen around them, eyes glistening with tears of their own, some pressing trembling hands to their mouths to swallow back sobs as they watched Hyunjin fall apart.
Chan eventually shifted closer, quietly placing his chin on Hyunjin’s shoulder as he worked his hand in circles over his back. “It’s okay..” he breathed shakily, “we don’t understand— I don’t think we can, but..”
Hyunjin didn’t need to see him to imagine the look on his face. He’d seen it many times before.
“You don’t need to talk about it any more today if you don’t want to, okay? We don’t need to figure it out right now. We just..” he swallowed thickly, like a rock had been lodged in his throat, “We just need to get you checked out first. Then, whenever you’re ready, we can talk..“
Seungmin slid in from the side, voice equally as gentle as he reached out to carefully dab a cool napkin under Hyunjin’s puffy eyes. “You’re not alone… we’re right here.”
Hyunjin bit his lips hard enough to draw blood trying to keep his sobs back, but it was no use. Everything he’d pent up was pouring out of him, and there was no way of stopping it.
His chest ached and burned, lips tingling, but gradually the intensity of his crying softened, giving way to a quiet catharsis that left him numb, but lighter than before.
He sagged into Changbin’s chest, gazing hollow-eyed at Seungmin as the younger passed him napkins and tenderly cleaned up his face. Was he really deserving of all this love and care?
Someone nudged his shoulder, and Hyunjin’s eyes flicked over to see a small bottle with colourful cartoon characters held out to him.
“Juice,” Minho urged, and this time, Hyunjin felt his lips twitch weakly in response. Sometimes, Minho truly was a man of few words. With the help of Changbin’s hands steadying him, Hyunjin sat up a little straighter, allowing Minho to carefully pour a little juice into his mouth.
He was far too tired to lift his own arms, it felt like they’d been stuffed with wet sand. Thankfully, he didn’t need to say that out loud to be understood.
Chan gave him a smile, one that showed emotions deeper than Hyunjin could express with words. They were the same emotions he’d valiantly fought to capture in his paintings for years. He nodded to the door, two bags slung over his shoulder. “Ready?”
Hyunjin chewed the inside of his cheek, fingers trembling as he reached out, but going steady once interlocked with Chan’s. With the hood of Jisung’s oversized sweater pulled up over his head, he gave a resigned nod. “Ready..”
He didn’t ask them to, but the members all followed after them like pearls on a string. They silently agreed to come along without a trace of hesitation, like it was second nature— packing their bags and leaving the studio behind.
And while Hyunjin would rather not spend his evening at the hospital, listening to patronising doctors reprimand him on his own dumb choices, he was grateful he didn’t have to do it alone. Minho had already promised he’d have the head of anyone who dared be foul to him by the time they left the studio. Jisung had voiced a similar threat, but his pledge lacked the same conviction when his eyes were puffy and red from crying.
Hyunjin appreciated it anyway.
Maybe they didn’t understand what it was like to live with his condition, but him? Yeah. They understood him better than most.
____________________________________________
Someone requested one of the members with diabetes a while back, and this idea was born… now, here it is.
I don’t have diabetes myself, so my knowledge comes purely from knowing someone with T1 and scouring across the vast internet to do my own research🫡 the frustration of living with an incurable disease that consume your every thought though? I know ball, unfortunately😮💨
I hope it was up to standards and that you enjoyed reading, as I enjoyed writing it a lot🙂↕️✨
*not proof read yet, but my works rarely are nowadays, I don’t have the energy :’) one day, maybe 😂
I love your writing! Can I ask How did you manage to make your fics famous? /gen
Thank you! But…. My….. my fics are what?… famous? 🧍🏾♂️
I don’t reckon they are? Genuinely…. Are they??? Since when??😭😂 I’m sorry, anon, but I fear I have no answer to this question😂 I’m just as clueless as the rest of you🫡
Hyunjin, Bang Chan, and I.N. did the Spaghetti dance challenge at their fan meet and during the vomiting part, Han and Changbin ran in to pat Chan’s back 👀
The way I RAN to search it up when this message ticked in😂 love it, I eat every little crumb like it’s a five course meal 🥳 thank you for sharing!!!
The waiting room smelled faintly of hairspray, leather and overheated electronics. It clung to the back of Jisung’s throat like stale smoke, dry and artificial, mixing with the lingering adrenaline that hadn’t yet left his system after their appearance.
The muffled echo of their ‘big deal’ interview played on a delay somewhere down the hall, their own voices faint and distorted through the backstage speakers. Both familiar and unfamiliar staff swept past the open doorway, moving with brisk efficiency as their headsets buzzed with overlapping instructions.
Jisung watched them rush by, eyes wide, his leg bouncing restlessly against the carpet— because... what now?
It was over.
They had done well; they behaved, answered appropriately, and generally showed themselves from their best side. Jisung should have felt relieved, and yet something kept nagging at him, never fully allowing him to unwind. He couldn’t entirely pinpoint the source, but something in the energy of the room felt off…
The room itself was close to empty, harbouring only Seungmin and Jisung himself. Most of the other members were still tied up in individual interviews, which wasn’t a problem, but Jisung couldn’t seem to shake the tension hanging in the air.
Across from him, Seungmin sat in one of the stiff vinyl chairs, elbows braced on his knees, head slightly bowed and his own leg bouncing in quiet sync with Jisung’s. His in-ear monitors hung loose around his neck, the wire disappearing into the collar of his neatly put together outfit. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Jisung couldn’t help but notice that his skin looked strangely pale, almost translucent, though he told himself it was likely a play of light.
At first, the rapper didn’t think much of it, he just sprawled out on the leather couch and made an effort to distract himself by mindlessly scrolling on his phone. Seungmin was probably just tired— the same way Jisung himself was tired, the way they’d all be tired once the day came to an end.
Interviews truly were their own kind of performance; with carefully measured words, polite laughter and endless awareness of posture and expression. It was exhausting in a way that settled deep into their bones, but in an entirely different way than dancing and singing did. When parts of said interviews were carried through a video call, the technicalities only doubled.
At first, the silence didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. Seungmin’s quiet restlessness wasn’t anything’s new; he usually struggled with staying still for long periods of time regardless of time and day. Though, the wandering and fidgeting normally seemed to be some sort of relief for him, and this… this was different. Jisung could tell.
It didn’t feel right.
The bouncing leg, the audible puffs of air, the fingers scratching at his knee. There was some sort of tension in him. Wrong tension. Bad tension.
It showed in the way his shoulders were drawn taut, not even once relaxed enough to rest against the back of the chair. In the way his fingers dug into his knees, curling and uncurling like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. It showed in the red spot forming on Seungmin’s lip because he’d been chewing it bloody.
Jisung frowned faintly, instincts tingling across his skin like goosebumps. He glanced up from his phone and tilted his eyebrows up with concern at the sight of his bandmate.
Something was definitely wrong.
Seungmin was staring straight ahead. Not at anything. Just… ahead, eyes fixed onto the thin air like his brain had shut down entirely. His breathing seemed wrong too; it was too fast, too shallow, each inhale sharp and incomplete.
A cold, familiar fear settled heavily in Jisung’s stomach. There was something strangely familiar there. He knew that rhythm— he knew it in the same way he knew his own reflection.
“Seungmin-ah?” Jisung called out cautiously, setting his phone aside.
Seungmin didn’t answer at first, eyes still locked in a vacant stare that didn’t break even when Jisung moved into his line of sight. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, lips parting slightly. “I…” he tried, but his voice came out thin, barely more than a shaky breath.
He lifted a hand to press flat against the center of his chest, fingers splayed like he was trying to keep his heart from leaping out.
Jisung’s own chest tightened painfully in turn, mouth going dry. He knew that gesture all too well, and it made his heart lodge in his throat as suspicion grew.
“I can’t breathe,” Seungmin finally whispered, strained and sharp, his bloodied lower lip quivering.
For a few fleeting seconds, all Jisung could do was to stare dumbly at him, waiting for his neurons to connect and his body to act accordingly.
This was all wrong; a glitch in the matrix, maybe. Something of that sort.
Because Seungmin wasn’t one for anxiety... He got nervous before a big performance, sure; he experienced the normal and necessary anxiety every human being experienced. The kind meant to sharpen focus and enhance performance, to keep you alert and quick off the mark..
However, he had never experienced the kind of anxiety Jisung had grappled with throughout the years; the kind that snuck up, pierced its claws into you and didn’t let go despite the obvious rationals. The bad kind that made everything seem hopeless, that made everything too much for a mere mortal to survive.
Seungmin had always been there for Jisung when he needed him, even through the roughest patches, where getting a smile out of him seemed damn near an impossible feat.
Which is why, maybe it was strange, that Seungmin hadn’t recognised the telling signs in himself before it escalated to this point. And also why it was such a gruelling, epochal realisation to Jisung that his gut feeling rang true.
Seungmin was having a panic attack.
For just a second, panic sparked in his own chest in cruel, instinctive sympathy, but Jisung forced it back down the way he’d learned to over time. Because this wasn’t about him.
This was about Seungmin.
Seungmin, who somehow always knew what to do when the crisis rose from the pit of Jisung’s chest. Seungmin, who had been one of the few who guided him through the worst times of his life with steady hands and quiet words. Not necessarily one to speak much, but always a steadfast presence Jisung sought out. Safe. Unwavering.
Seungmin, who had never before needed this sort of saving from him, from Jisung before. Not until now— and the sudden role reversal shook him to the very core.
Seungmin’s breath hitched sharply, fingers curling back into the fabric of his pants. Through an unintentional rip in the denim on his left knee, Jisung saw red streaks forming in the skin beneath. Wait, when had his pants ripped?
“I-I don’t know what’s happening,” Seungmin whispered shakily, and those words seemed to crack something open in Jisung’s heart. He had to bite back the urge to reply with something along the lines of ‘I do’, Because while the situation at hand felt oddly familiar, it was also completely foreign to him.
Like some magical reflex had been planted in his spine, Jisung found himself moving without second thought. He crouched in front of Seungmin without hesitation, gently prying his hands away from the death grip on his pants. His thumbs traced soothing circles over Seungmin’s knuckles— his hands were cold. Too cold for someone breathing this fast.
“Hey, hey look at me,” Jisung urged, tilting his head up to catch Seungmin’s glassy gaze, but he still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“It’s okay,” The rapper said, his voice softer than he’d ever heard it, steadier than he’d expected. He turned toward Seungmin fully, quietly persistent, every movement careful and deliberate. “You’re okay.”
Seungmin just shook his head faintly, a quiet ‘no’ falling from his lips.
No, he wasn’t.
Jisung knew that. He could hear the fear in his voice, the way it curdled every rational thought Seungmin tried to conjure. It was the same fear he had carried for years, the kind he’d grown far too familiar with.
He didn’t know how Seungmin would respond, but he tried anyway; placing a firm hand on his knee in a desperate attempt to tether him back to reality.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Jisung tried again, quieter this time, yet somehow far more resolute. He remembered the words clear as day, but not more than he remembered clinging to them like a lifeline whenever the world came crashing down around him.
Seungmin’s breathing hitched so sharply it made Jisung flinch, confidence slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Then, like a bolt from the blue, the idea finally struck him.
It was a technique Seungmin had once tried on him, though it’d quickly been scratched when bringing in math had only made Jisung cry harder. Maybe, just maybe, it was more effective on Seungmin himself.
It was worth a shot anyways.
With newfound resolve, Jisung gave Seungmin’s knee a squeeze, trying to garner his attention. “Seungmin, listen to me,” he called out again, still sounding far calmer than he thought he would. “What’s 58 minus 5?”
Seungmin was frozen for a second, mind reeling as he blinked down at Jisung like he was seeing him for the first time. His hand trembled as he lifted it, a shaky exhale leaving him as he weakly tried to recall the calculation in his head. It shouldn’t have been a difficult question— it wasn’t a difficult question, but the numbers kept slipping out of his grasp as soon as they formed.
Slowly, his eyes flitted to meet Jisung. The fear in them shone bright as a star on a moonless night. Raw, naked fear.
Jisung kept his hand steady on Seungmin’s knee, thumb pressing into the fabric of his pants in a quiet plea of ‘stay with me’. “58 minus 5,” he repeated gently. “What’s the answer?”
Seungmin swallowed thickly. He knew the answer. He knew he knew, and yet.. His lips parted, but no sound came out despite his best efforts. His breathing hitched again, faster now, spiralling, as his eyebrows drew back in exasperation.
Jisung’s heart ached for him, it truly did. He remembered this part vividly from his own experiences. The frustration. The helplessness. The way your own mind betrayed you, either blanking out or racing too fast for you to catch up. The soundless, yet overbearing noise that fills you from the tips of your toes to the top of your head.
Panic had seized Seungmin in its grasp, and there was Jisung desperately trying to pry him back out, despite feeling entirely out of his depths.
“It’s okay,” Jisung added quickly when Seungmin’s eyes grew watery, “You don’t have to rush.” He shifted a little closer, swallowing thickly,“Just… think about it. I know you know it.”
Seungmin’s fingers curled tightly against his thighs, his brow furrowed faintly as his mind fought to break free from the relentless panic.
Jisung watched the effort it took; the way Seungmin clung to the question like it was the only tangible thing in the middle of a storm. Finally, a faint whisper pierced the silence.
“Fifty…” Seungmin started hoarsely, voice wavering and lips pulled in a shaky pout. His chest rose sharply, eyes to the sky as he fought to keep the tears at bay. Jisung gave him an encouraging nod.
“That’s good. Keep going.”
“…three.”
The word was barely audible, so shaky Jisung had a hard time deciphering it, but it was there. And just then, something in Seungmin’s posture loosened just slightly, like the first crack had finally punctured through the wall of despair. The instant relief flooded Jisung so suddenly it made him dizzy. “Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s right, Seungmin-ah. Good job.”
Seungmin’s breathing was still uneven, but at least it wasn’t getting worse. His eyes stayed on Jisung now, somewhat focused, yet searching for solid ground to stick to. Scared, terrified even, but present. That was great progress.
“You’re not dying,” Jisung said, smoothing his thumb in circles against Seungmin's knee. He remembered how important it had been to hear those words, especially the first few times he’d been caught in the maelstrom, barely able to keep his head above water. “Now, what’s 53 minus 5?” He ventured, and Seungmin blinked again.
It took a few shaky breaths longer, but eventually the younger of the pair replied with a strained, “48…”
By the time they reached 33, Seungmin’s breathing had slowed enough for the colour to slowly seep back into his face, his lips no longer tinged with an alarming blueish hue.
”Good job, minnie..” Jisung praised, pressing his palm more firmly into the other man’s knee. “Can you feel my hand?” he asked quietly. Seungmin nodded.
“Great. Focus on that.”
Seungmin’s fingers slowly lifted from his own thigh, hesitating only briefly before curling weakly into the sleeve of Jisung’s jacket, gripping at the fabric like an anchor to the present. Jisung didn’t interject.
“I know it’s hard, but this is just your body reacting. It’ll pass,” Jisung said calmly, eyes flickering briefly to the door. “It thinks you’re in danger, but you’re not.” He kept his voice low and even, the way Seungmin always used to. “I promise.”
He didn’t know when he had learned how to do this, didn’t know when Seungmin’s voice had suddenly become his own, but Jisung held onto it with all his might.
“You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word hung between them like a shard of glass.
Seungmin’s shoulders trembled faintly, his breathing still stuttered and caught, but then, gradually, it began to slow. Not all at once, definitely not perfectly, but enough that Jisung could sense the difference.
Minutes passed. The noise in the hallway faded into the background as the world narrowed down to just the two of them. To just the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the fragile space between panic and peace in an otherwise quiet green room.
Jisung opened his mouth to say something— to awkwardly offer a hug, maybe, but Seungmin folded into his shoulder before he could speak. The other man’s tears soaked through to his shoulder in an instant, and Jisung felt his own dam begin to crack in return, frantically blinking past the blurs in his vision. His grip tightened instinctively, pulling him closer, arms folding around Seungmin like they knew exactly how he needed to be held.
Eventually, Seungmin exhaled a long, shaky breath, his grip on Jisung’s sleeve finally loosening. He didn’t pull away, so Jisung kept him close, resting his cheek against the side of his head while he waited for him to make the first move.
“I didn’t know,” Seungmin whispered finally, like he’d been building up the courage to find his voice again. He sounded small— younger in a way Jisung couldn’t recall hearing before.
The elder tilted his head with a small frown, instinctively wiping a tear from Seungmin’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Didn’t know what?”
Seungmin hesitated, shifting away just enough to press a hand to his own face, as if making sure his skin was still attached. It felt… prickly, like static buzzing through every cell.
“That it felt like that.”
Jisung’s chest tightened, the lump in his throat growing tenfolds. He understood, of course he did. He squeezed Seungmin’s knee gently. “It’s scary,” he admitted.
Seungmin let out a weak, breathless huff that might have been a laugh if all his energy hadn’t deserted him in the span of the past 20 minutes.
“Yeah.”
Seungmin bit his lip, pressing a shaky palm back to his chest. "I really.. I couldn't.. I felt.. it- I..." He gazed at the curve of Jisung’s jaw, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower, barely a whisper. "You.. you deal with that regularly?”
"Hmm.." Jisung shrugged, trying to make light of it. “Not that bad every time, not anymore,” he answered earnestly. “But… yeah. Sometimes.”
They sat in silence for a moment longer, allowing the heaviness to dissipate, for the room to start lifting again. When Seungmin pulled away, it was just enough for him to look at Jisung through red-rimmed eyes.
There was something different in his expression now; something softer, more understanding than before, like he’d just had a quiet revelation that would shift their bond forever.
“You stayed calm though,” Seungmin remarked softly, catching Jisung entirely off guard. He blinked dumbly. Calm..?
In the heat of it all, he hadn’t really noticed the fact. He’d just… done what Seungmin usually did. Copy and paste. Jisung gave a light shrug, suddenly self-conscious, and offered a bashful smile.
“'guess I learned from the best?”
Seungmin didn’t answer, but the slight twitch of his lips made Jisung’s chest fill with relief.
____________________________________________
So… I never posted this…. ? Oops 😆 anywaaaays, this is one of those stories I never truly feel satisfied with, but I guess I’ll post it regardless🙂↕️ busy life is busy y’all I’m sorry 💔
Yeosang didn’t really understand what it was at first. After recovering (or so he thought) from an upper respiratory infection a few days prior, the only lingering symptom was a strange sense of fullness in his ear.
At the time, it barely registered as a concern. Maybe he hadn’t managed to clear all the water out after a shower. Maybe it was just leftover congestion from the cold. Either way, he assumed it would pass on its own.
But when he suddenly failed to catch what Wooyoung was saying from his spot right beside him on the couch, a flicker of unease finally crept in.
Yeosang blinked twice and slowly twisted around to face him, a blank look settling over his features. “S-sorry, did you say something?”
Any other day, Wooyoung might’ve taken offense to his best friend’s lack of attention. But the genuine remorse flickering in Yeosang’s eyes shut down any dramatic complaints before they could surface.
Whatever question Wooyoung had been holding onto flew out the window in an instant. His eyebrows creased together in a frown, eyes filling with fiery concern.
“Dude… are you okay?”
Yeosang wasn’t entirely sure how to answer that question. When he turned his head, the room seemed to tilt slightly, and he tightened his grip on the edge of the couch— just to anchor himself to something solid.
“Uh…” he began hesitantly, lifting a hand to his ear. His right side was fine, Wooyoung’s voice came through clear as ever, but on the left, everything sounded muffled and distant. Almost like he was underwater…
Ultimately, Yeosang gave a small shrug and paired it with an uncertain nod. “Yeah? I think so, my ear is just a little clogged up, probably from the cold I had. Sorry again, I couldn’t hear you.” He cleared his throat, “What were you saying?”
Wooyoung went quiet for a moment, scanning Yeosang’s face so intently it made the older man shrink back from the blatant scrutiny.
There was a glint in Wooyoung’s eyes that told Yeosang he wasn’t buying it—but even if he wasn’t, he didn’t say it out loud. Instead, a good-natured smile returned to his face, the kind that was always hard to refuse.
“I was wondering if you wanted to go swimming with San and me? Yunho already said yes.”
Yeosang considered the offer for a moment, weighing his options, then gave a nod. “Sure, I’ll join.”
A swim sounded quite nice, actually. His body still felt a little sore, likely the remaining dregs of his cold, and a dip in the pool seemed perfect to ease the lingering tension.
When Wooyoung pumped his fist in the air like he’d won gold, already jumping to his feet in excitement, Yeosang smiled and rose to join him. “So, like... now?”
“Now.” Wooyoung grinned.
-
A couple of hours later, Yeosang was starting to regret his past self’s decision. Because while he had naively thought submerging himself in a pool would be the solution to all his problems, it only seemed to add to the discomfort.
His ear felt no less clogged than it had been beforehand— if anything, his hearing was getting worse by the minute. He hadn’t caught San speaking to him just a couple of meters away, nor Wooyoung’s shouted warning before the latter cannonballed into the water beside him.
The water temperature hadn’t helped either; one minute too warm, the next too cold, never quite comfortable.
While the others were having a blast, Yeosang admitted quietly to himself that maybe going swimming had been a bad idea…
By the time the four of them settled into the sauna, drinking in the steam and melting into the wooden benches like slabs of dough, the pain in his ear had sharpened considerably.
Trying to clear what he assumed was water trapped inside, Yeosang sat with his head tilted to the left, like he’d caught the world’s worst crick in his neck. Hopefully, he thought, that would do the trick.
San, sitting to his right, glanced at him briefly before continuing his conversation with Wooyoung, only to snap his head back in a double take when he properly registered Yeosang’s odd pose.
He couldn’t hold back a short, incredulous laugh, “Yah, Yeosangie… what are you doing?”
“Oh—“ Yeosang straightened instinctively, only to flinch when the sudden movement sent a sharp wave of dizziness through his head. He let out an awkward chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m just trying to clear the water out of my ear.”
“Aigoo, still bunged up?” Wooyoung chimed in with a concerned frown, eyebrows tilting with exasperation when Yeosang replied with a faint nod.
From his left, Yunho’s voice joined in on the conversation, but Yeosang couldn’t make out his words over the saunas ambience and the impermeable wall that barricaded his ear.
“Huh?” Yeosang asked, turning toward him with a dazed look.
The smile was wiped flat off Yunho’s face, replaced by a deep frown as his eyes flickered between Yeosang’s ear and his eyes.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Yeosang tried again, unsettled by how troubled Yunho suddenly looked.
“Your ear, it’s.. leaking. ” Yunho repeated, a little louder this time. He pointed to emphasise his words before quickly grabbing a rolled-up towel and lifting it toward Yeosang’s left ear.
The terry cotton pressed against his skin made Yeosang tense, blinking at Yunho like he’d been slapped with the most shocking news he’d ever heard. “Leaking?” He echoed quietly, then finally admitted, “It… it kind of hurts.”
Yunho carefully peeled back the towel and sure enough, the light fabric was stained with a murky, reddish brown fluid. Yeosang scrunched his nose in distaste, stomach lurching without warning, and shut his eyes tightly as another wave of dizziness swarmed him.
God, he felt… wrong.
He clenched his eyes tighter in a vain attempt to center himself, but it seemed like the world was determined to keep shifting beneath his feet.
The heat of the sauna definitely wasn’t helping— if anything, it only made everything worse, his body working overtime to pump the blood to his brain. His legs started tingling, head flushing hot.
“Oh…uh..”
The others watched in horror as Yeosang blanched, his eyes glazing over as the colour leached from his face. In the span of a heartbeat, it felt as though his mind had dissolved into static. A high ringing swallowed every other sound until all he could hear was the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears.
When he opened his eyes again, after what he had only assumed was a longer-than-usual blink, Wooyoung was right in front of him.
Or rather.. Above him, actually.
Yunho sat at his side, and what unmistakably felt like San’s hands were gripping at his shoulders from behind.
Yeosang blinked once, slow and heavy, still feeling strangely unmoored as the world blurred back into focus.
“Sangie.. hey, hey, you here?” Wooyoung’s voice was urgent. Yeosang gave a small nod.
“Yeah? What’s..?” His words were cut short once he realised he was no longer in the sauna, but rather half-lying down on the locker room floor.
The very public locker room next to the pool they’d been at just half an hour ago….
“You passed out for a moment, Yeosangie..” San informed from behind him, sounding just a little too shaky for Yeosang’s liking.
“How are you feeling now?” Yunho added gently, and only then did Yeosang realise the older dancer was holding the towel back to his ear, hardly dulling the sharp throb pulsing through it.
Yeosang pulled his shoulders into a halfhearted shrug, still too loopy to fully convey the genuine surprise on his face. Had he seriously passed out?
“Uh… I’m okay, I feel fine,” he eventually said, because it was true. In his half reclined position on the floor (aside from the awful throb in his ear), he didn’t feel all that bad, just a little disoriented.
If anything, he was more embarrassed to be sprawled on the floor in a public locker room with nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist…
“Here, drink some water,” Wooyoung instructed, holding a small water bottle out and shaking it impatiently in front of Yeonsang’s face.
The motion made his eyes cross, but he grabbed the cool beverage anyway, obediently taking a couple tentative sips.
Yeosang hadn’t been lying when he said he felt better, but once he pushed himself to sit up straight, the words flung back at him like the world’s biggest lie.
Dizzy didn’t even begin to describe the feeling that struck him.
Suddenly, Wooyoung’s face was dispersed in swirling pieces, dotting around his vision as if his sclera had been shattered like a glass pane.
The nausea came hand in hand with the vertigo, and before anyone could even begin to react, Yeosang pitched forward with a gurgle. Strong hands pressed against his bare chest, steadying him as a thin stream of vomit streaked across the cold tiles.
“Call Seonghwa-hyung,” San said quickly, panic slipping through despite his best efforts to contain it.
Yeosang couldn’t seem to hear him, even if he tried, and only let out a small, distressed noise before another wave of sick surged, rushing past his lips and painting the white floor in a bilious sludge.
Wooyoung seemed almost eerily calm despite everything, holding Yeosang’s hair back even as his own face paled and his fingers began to tremble. “It’s okay, you’re okay, Sangie,” he muttered, voice shaky, as Yunho fumbled for his phone.
When the vomiting subsided, Yeosang slumped back against San’s chest with a soft gasp, breathing raggedly. His body was covered in a slick sheen of sweat, and even with his eyes shut, everything still kept spinning.
The muffled chatter of the others barely reached his left ear, making the resonance in his right screech far too loudly in turn.
“Yah, he definitely has a fever—“
“Yeah, that’s not just the sauna, right? He’s burning to the touch..”
“Is he— oh..”
“Sangie, baby…”
Yeosang didn’t realise he was crying until Wooyoung was wiping the salty drops from his cheeks, and the realisation only made him feel worse. Not only had he passed out in a sauna and puked all over the locker room floor… now he was crying too?
God, he just wanted to go home.
“Tsk, Yeosang-ah, why didn’t you say you were feeling sick, huh?” Wooyoung said sadly, dabbing a cool towel across the tender skin below his bestfriend’s bloodshot eyes.
Whether Yeosang felt too sick to answer or simply didn’t hear him was anyone’s guess. Either way, Wooyoung didn’t press. Instead, he glanced at San, an entirely silent conversation passing between them while Yunho wrapped up his call with Seonghwa.
“Okay,” Yunho said, lowering his phone and deliberately keeping his eyes away from the mess on the floor. “They’re coming to pick us up.”
-
Getting dressed was a hassle unlike anything Yeosang had experienced before. Pulling his shirt over his head was excruciating; even the lightest touch to his ear suddenly sent sharp, shooting pains like lightning strikes right through his skull.
The persistent dizziness made every movement precarious, and each step was a careful negotiation with the world itself. To his dismay, he had no choice but to rely almost entirely on his friends just to get his clothes on.
Wooyoung and San moved with practiced gentleness, maneuvering fabric around him with painstaking care, while Yunho kept a watchful eye for any sign he would pass out again. Yeosang felt like a child, and by god, he hated it. It was mortifying.
“‘M fine, guys..” he mumbled for the umpteenth time, even as Wooyoung slipped his sock onto his foot and all Yeosang could do was blink hazily at him.
“You’re not.” Wooyoung said firmly, squeezing his calf before rising to steady him by the shoulders. “You’re literally swaying like you’re on a boat.”
“M not..” Yeosang tried aimlessly.
But he definitely was…
Yeosang allowed San to carry him to the car only because attempting to move on his own made him both look and feel like a fawn taking its first uncertain steps.
The world still tilted and twisted beneath him, his legs refusing to cooperate no matter how hard he tried to focus. It felt as though every bone and muscle in his body had suddenly dissolved into jelly.
In the end, Yeosang was fairly certain gravity itself had it out for him today… so he relented.
Folding his arms around San’s broad shoulders, he allowed himself be lifted, swallowing the sting to his pride as they made their way toward the car. Despite his reluctance, Yeosang melted into San’s warmth, tucking his face into the curve of his shoulder where the world felt a little dimmer, a little steadier.
“M sorry…” he murmured, cheeks burning with equal parts fever and mortification. “I didn’t mean to make things so complicated..”
“Sangie..” San sighed affectionately, biting back the overwhelming desire to press a kiss to his warm forehead. “You didn’t make it complicated, it’s okay..”
“Yeah,” Yunho agreed, hovering close as they walked, Yeosang’s bag slung over his shoulder. “You can’t control being sick… it happens.”
“Though, you should’ve said something earlier.” Wooyoung cut in, voice sharper, but no less concerned, as his fingers closed gently around Yeosang’s arm.
Yeosang’s brows pinched in a pained grimace, and Wooyoung immediately softened, thumb brushing slow circles over his wrist.
“Still dizzy?”
Yeosang nodded against San’s shoulder, letting out a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice small. “Like I’m being tumble dried..”
San’s brow furrowed slightly at the description, but he kept his arms steady around Yeosang’s feverish body. “That sounds… rough,” he admitted, the gentle rumble of his voice tethering Yeosang to his physical body in some sort of way. “but it’s okay, we’re almost there. A doctors gonna take a look at you and make it all better..”
Yeosang really hoped he was right.
Outside, the cool air hit his overheated skin like a shock. Yeosang shivered despite the fever simmering under his skin, fingers tightening weakly in San’s shirt in a way that made their hearts clench.
Reaching the car, San carefully eased him into the back seat, buckling his belt for him when the poor man’s fingers trembled too bad to do so himself. Yeosang slumped bonelessly against him when they’d gotten settled, eyelids heavy and his ear throbbing in relentless pulses that matched his heartbeat.
Wooyoung and San flanked him in the back seat, providing some much needed support to his wobbly body, while Yunho climbed into the front, already filing Seonghwa in on the details.
Yeosang barely heard them, and decidedly focused on nothing but trying not to throw up again. He tried to breathe slow and steady, but bile still stung in his nose, only exacerbating the nausea that never seemed to let up.
A hand squeezed his thigh.
“Just hold on, Sangie…” Wooyoung hummed, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to the side of Yeosang’s head that he didn’t even have the energy to react to. “We’re gonna get you help.”
The car pulled away.
Yeosang closed his eyes once more, fingers lightly entwined with Wooyoung’s, and silently begged the world to steady before he slipped under again.
____________________________________________
I love Yeosang so much it’s ridiculous 🫡 anywaaaaays those I love must always suffer in fiction
Danceracha (short of Felix, who was doing promotional shoots for one of his many ambassadorships) were gathered in the practice room to polish off their newest choreography, smoothing out kinks and adding minor changes where they saw fit.
Usually, working on choreography was a fun pastime, but the joy was taken out of the equation when the so-called leader seemed to be drowning under a miserable headcold.
The music cut after another run through, and Hyunjin froze in ending position, catching his breath and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Glancing in the mirror, he saw Minho teetering just behind him, his breath hitching before the older dancer bent over, sneezing for the umpteenth time that day.
“H’tsch!” Minho pitched forward, Hyunjin barely able to grab onto him before he hit the floor. “Lino-hyu—“ Minho stubbornly shook his hand off, “ssh’ktUH!”, and finally, “TCH’SHH!”
Hyunjin watched him, stunned, half expecting another sneeze to cut him off, before speaking up again.
“Hyung, you need to sit down before you—“ Just as he was saying it, Minho staggered toward his bag, arms flailing out to catch himself before he toppled over. The fact that the latter had even survived dancing for well past an hour was beyond Hyunjin.
“‘M fine..” Minho braced himself against his knees, heaving in breaths like his lungs were about to cave.
He wouldn’t say it out loud, but whenever he sneezed, he saw stars everywhere. The floor, the ceiling, the walls— all over Hyunjin’s casual black outfit.
Stars.
It was strange symptom he had never considered before. Not one he cared to mention.
Minho sniffled, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s just a cold.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Hyunjin replied dryly, crossing his arms with a sigh as he watched Minho support himself against the wall. “But you also keep having to grab onto something to keep from falling over, so it seems to me that this cold is kicking. your. ass.”
Minho didn’t even spare him a glance this time around. He just let out an evasive grunt, plopping down to the floor and unscrewing his water bottle.
The lack of response didn’t exactly ease Hyunjin’s mind.
“It’s the lights,” Minho said gruffly, assigning blame to the beaming rods above them. “They make my nose tickle.”
Hyunjin scoffed. “Yeah, sure, blame the ambiance for your sneezing. It’s the lights fault, not the fact that you’ve been stubbornly pushing through a damn cold for three fucking days.”
He didn’t know where the bold snappiness had come from; Hyuniin rarely spoke to Minho like that, knowing any strike back would be twice as harsh. Today, threats of being thrown in an air fryer just didn’t seem to touch him, somehow.
Maybe it was because his patience was stretched thin after almost two hours of vicarious suffering, watching Minho insist he was fine like a damn pigheaded fool.
Or maybe it was because he knew Minho was in no shape to retaliate either way, because even his attempted glares fell flat.
“‘S too bright…” Minho insisted, more timid this time, as his head tipped back against the wall.
Hyunjin placed a hand over his face, the other on his hip, drawing in a steadying breath before releasing it in a sigh. Oh my fucking god.
Judging by the past hour of trifling rebuttals that had spilled from Minho’s lips, he was beginning to suspect it wasn’t merely obstinate resistance, but that the older dancer truly was lost deep in the throes of denial.
Hyunjin glanced at the ceiling, quietly pleading for patience before sauntering over and plopping down at Minho’s side. His gaze fixed into still air and he briefly wondered whether he should just abandon his quest for an admission, or if the matter was worth pressing further.
Luckily, Hyunjin was almost equally as stubborn as Minho himself, and he wasn’t about to let him win. Not today.
“Hyung..” he started, voice resolute despite the way his eyebrows tilted up with concern when Minho ducked back into his elbow. His hand settled silently on his back, rubbing across it until the older man feebly shook him off again.
Stubborn bastard…
Hyunjin’s lips pressed together into a thin line. While Minho had shunned every little attempt of comfort he initiated, Hyunjin’s hand had been in contact with him long enough to feel the raging fever burning through his shirt. The heat was unnerving. “Please, I can’t keep watching you do this.”
“Then close your eyes.” Minho croaked back, sniffling into a small napkin he’d fished from his pant pocket. Hyunjin felt his jaw tick.
“No.” He answered, loud enough to make Minho wince, the sharpness in his voice only whetting the knife that already sunk deep in his skull.
Hyunjin didn’t have time to feel bad for him, not when his blood was skittering with exasperation. How fucking impossible could he be?
“Will you just stop it already? You’re sick, hyung. I know it, you know it— so stop beating around the bush. You won’t get better if you keep pushing like this.” Hyunjin paused, weighing his options before speaking again in a low, warning tone.
“I will tell Channie-hyung.”
Now that threat finally sparked a response. Minho tensed, before surrendering to another bout of coughs that emanated from deep in his chest, rattling like coins shaken in a jar.
When the effort tapered off, his eyes locked on Hyunjin’s, narrowing in another ineffectual stare down. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Hyunjin held his gaze, unrelenting and stern like a parent who’d run out of patience many hours ago. He couldn’t back down now, couldn’t capitulate and allow the older to run himself to the ground. Not today. Not on his watch.
Because while Minho’s self-destructive stubborn streak made him want to throttle him, they were still family, and family took care of each other…
“You have three seconds to relent,” Hyunjin tapped into Bang Chan’s contact on his phone, thumb hovering above the call button. “One…”
Minho stared at him, baffled— because since when was Hyunjin the one threatening HIM? The role reversal made his brain short-circuit. “Yah-“
“Two…” Hyunjin’s thumb inched closer to the screen, eyes razor sharp.
“Alright! Okay, fuck— enough.” Minho grumbled with a sniffle. His foot poked out to lightly nudge Hyunjin’s shin. “If I go home ..” he said nasally, eyes squinting like he was fighting another sneeze. “You won’t tell him. Deal?”
Hyunjin let out a breath of relief, eyes softening a fraction as his lips curled into a triumphant grin. “And you’re letting me make you tea.”
Minho let out an incredulously huff. “What—why?”
Hyunjin’s finger wordlessly descended back towards the call button, and Minho scrambled to push the phone from his hand, a little surprised by his own desperation.
“Jesus— okay, okay, fine.” Minho relented, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll drink your stupid tea. Let’s go..”
Hyunjin grinned, slipping his phone into his pant pocket.
He fucking won.
____________________________________________
Short and sweet 🙂↕️ my (too busy) life is very much prioritised over writing lately, but I do try to write whenever I’m able… it’s just… I rarely am🥲
Feveruary 2026 | Day: 18 | “You're not being needy. You're being human."
Whumpee: Han
Caretaker/s: Bang Chan
Chn sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he begged for his patience to last. Not in the dramatic, end-of-the-world way. Just… in the deeply tired, way past 3 A.M’, “I love you but please stop crying before I start crying too” kind of way.
Across the living room, Jisung sat on the floor with his back against the couch, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands. His breathing was uneven and flimsy, shoulders jerking every few seconds like his body couldn’t decide whether to jump into a fist-fight or shut down completely. The same limbo he’d been stuck in for the better part of the night…
The rest of the dorm was quiet. Too quiet, compared to the storm of panic that buzzed through the air like static. Everyone else had wisely retreated to their rooms when the spiral started hours ago, quietly obeying an unspoken protocol. Any hesitant loiterers had been ushered away, ordered to get some sleep after a gruelling day.
Bang Chan stayed though. Of course he did.
Because even when Jisung started snapping, and his patience ran thin, Chan knew better than to run away. They’d seen this before, he could take it.
He crouched down a couple metres away, not too close, not crowding, the way he’d started to learn worked best when Jisung was too far gone for reason. Space first, bone-crushing hugs later.
“Hey,” Chan said gently. Not loud. Not soft. Just steady, present, a feeble attempt to somehow pull his kid back to his physical body. “You’re safe, Jisung-ah, okay? Nothing bad is happening right now.”
Jisung shook his head hard, eyes squeezing shut as he clutched at his chest. “But I messed up. I messed up, I mess up, I mess—”
“You didn’t,” Chan cut in calmly. “You don’t. Your brain’s just being loud. You haven’t messed up anything.”
Jisung’s breathing hitched harder and Chan shifted, sitting cross-legged on the floor before him. He rested his forearms on his knees, making himself seem smaller, less overwhelming.
“Can you look at me for one second?” he asked patiently, still unshakable despite the whirlwind of emotions that practically suffocated the room.
It took a few tries, but Jisung finally peeked at him through tear-blurred eyes and clumped lashes.
“There you are,” Chan said warmly, like he’d just found something precious that had rolled under the couch. “Okay. Good. Stay with me now. We’re gonna slow this down together.” He inhaled slowly, exaggerated but not overly theatric, waiting for Jisung to latch on.
“In… two… three…”
Jisung’s breath stuttered, but he tried. Chan could tell from the way his fingers twisted into his own sleeves, the way his eyes shut tightly as he fought to seize control over his own body.
“Out… two… three… four…”
It wasn’t perfect, but then again, it didn’t need to be. When Jisung’s breathing hitched and faltered, Chan held the soothing rhythm anyway, voice low and even, like the comforting hum of background music.
After a minute, Jisung felt himself starting to slip again, chest growing tighter, the buzzing in his head swallowing him whole. His eyes widened as he pressed a hand to his sternum, choking out a desperate, “Hyung, I can’t— my chest—”
“I know,” Chan said immediately, keeping his voice steady. “It feels awful. But it’s just your body being dramatic. You’re not dying, you’re not in danger. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He reached out his hand, palm facing up, offering instead of forcing himself through the protective shields Jisung had carefully conducted.
The younger man stared at the outstretched hand for a beat, like he couldn’t quite process what he was supposed to do. Then, slowly, Jisung grabbed on, his own fingers trembling and cold.
Chan squeezed his hand once, tethering him to the moment with something tangible in his own warm grasp. “Good,” he praised softly. “That’s it. You’re doing really well, Han-ah.”
Jisung let out a broken sound, somewhere between a scoff and a whimper, blinking hard as his vision blurred over again. “I-I’m literally falling apart, hyung.”
“And you’re still breathing with me,” Chan replied casually, moving his thumb in soothing circles over the back of his hand. “Multitasking king~”
That earned a weak huff of air that was almost a laugh. Almost.
Progress.
Chan kept talking— not giving advice or empty lectures, hust gentle narration and simple observations of the space around them. His own voice was rough with exhaustion, both physically and emotionally, but that didn’t deter him in the slightest.
“The coffee stain on couch is still there. The lamp’s still on, still a little flickery, I haven’t gotten around to changing the bulb… It’s quite warm in here, but your hands are still awfully cold, huh? And I’m right in front of you—“ Chan offered a cheeky, dimpled smile, “—being extremely insistent and annoying with my bad narrating.”
Jisung’s grip tightened on instinct, like he’d suddenly caught himself just before slipping away again.
“Don’tgo.”
His voice was barely above a whisper, merely a hopeful breath, but Chan didn’t hesitate to reassure him. He shifted a little closer and covered Jisung’s hand with his other one, warm and measured. “I’m not going anywhere, baby… I promise.”
Minutes passed. The storm didn’t dissipate all at once, but it softened, the darkest clouds drawing back to the horizon while the stars fought to regain their spot in the sky.
Jisung’s shoulders lowered, his breaths stopped sounding like they were fighting him on their way out, and Chan watched helplessly as the pearlescent drops on his lash line overflowed again, trailing in shimmering paths down his flushed cheeks.
Eventually, the younger slumped forward with a heavy sigh, forehead pressing into Chan’s shoulder like he’d finally run out of battery. His shoulders still shook, his breath hitching, but now at the tail end of soft sobs rather than the frantic pull of hyperventilation.
Chan wrapped his arms around him like he’d been waiting to do so for ages, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.
“Sorry,” Jisung mumbled into his shirt, voice muffled and low. Chan’s grip tightened just a little. “For what? Having a brain?” he said quietly, pressing a reassuring kiss to the side of Jisung’s head. “Rude of it for making you feel like shit, honestly.”
Another shaky breath, a little less sharp this time. “M’sorry for..” Jisung tried again, fingers curling into Chan’s hoodie and bunching the soft fabric. “F-for being so.. needy. Y-you don’t have time for this.. I-I’m.. I’m a mess.. I can’t do anything, I-I’m-“
“Ah-ah, none of that..” Chan shook his head, drawing in a slow breath through his nose as he leaned back just enough to gently guide Jisung’s face up to meet his eyes.
“Hey…” his thumb brushed carefully across Jisung’s cheek, dispelling of the tears that still clung to his raw skin. “You’re not being needy, Han-ah. You’re just being human..”
His heart ached when Jisung’s lower lip quivered again, and Chan couldn’t help but pull him back into his chest, his own voice trembling. “You’re struggling… and that’s okay, you’re allowed to struggle just..”
Chan closed his eyes, inhaling shakily as he held Jisung just a little closer, almost as if afraid he might disappear if he loosened his grip.
“Don’t shut me out, yeah?” He mumured, feeling the warmth of his own tears welling at the corners of his eyes. “I want to be here with you, for you, even through the muck..”
Jisung’s fingers loosened in the fabric at Chan’s back, like the words had knocked the last bit of strength out of him. His forehead pressed into Chan’s shoulder, breath stuttering again as he tried, and ultimately failed, to keep it steady.
“I don’t… mean to,” he whispered hoarsely, sounding entirely defeated. “I just… I get stuck and everything feels so loud and I can’t—” His voice cracked, the rest dissolving into a shaky exhale against cotton.
Chan didn’t rush him. He just kept one hand at the back of Jisung’s head, the other rubbing slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades. “I know, Jisung-ah,” he whispered. “I know..”
Because that was the thing; despite their differences, Chan meant it. He knew. He was no stranger to that kind of darkness himself— he knew the shame that came with it, and he knew Jisung couldn’t help it. No matter how hard he tried.
Maybe that was why he truly didn’t mind being there with him, on the floor of the living room, in the dead of night.
In fact, Chan much preferred it to discovering belatedly that Jisung had been struggling alone, or waking up to find him missing and spending hours fearing the worst…
Jisung had always had a colourful, loud and extraordinary mind— and with the highest of highs, came the lowest of lows.
In the beginning, it was hard to figure him out. But Chan understood now, not all of it, but enough to feel the significance of every second Jisung allowed him a peek inside his head. Especially when it came to the scary, ugly parts.
The parts that had felt overwhelming and forbidding at first, but softened into a quiet, fearful plea once you unpacked the rotten shroud. ‘Please don’t hate me, I’m just scared’.
And if Chan could help— if he could be there for and hold Jisung together while the world came crashing down around him, then why wouldn’t he?
Wasn’t that what he was meant to do; as a leader, as an older brother?
And even if all his attempts fell flat… then that was okay too. Because Jisung was right there, in Chan’s arms, alive and breathing… and he would never let him disappear again.
For now, they’d just sit there together in the quiet mess of being human, wrapped up like two broken stars still trying to shine. Sometimes, that was all they could do. And sometimes, that was enough.
Jisung swallowed hard against the lump that had stuck in his throat for weeks. “Feels like I’m… broken or something. Everyone else can just… function.”
Chan huffed, not amused, but fond in that tired, achingly understanding way. “Yeah? Well, everyone else isn’t you. You’re not broken, Han-ah.” He tipped his head slightly, brushing his cheek against Jisung’s hair. “Your brain just runs a little hotter than most. Doesn’t make it broken. Just means it needs more care sometimes...”
“That’s…” Jisung let out a weak, breathy sound that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t wobble so much at the edges. “Such a dad thing to say.”
“Good,” Chan replied immediately, nodding once. “I have a reputation to maintain.” He nuzzled against the side of Jisung’s head, making small kissing noises all the while. “You’re my first kid, remember?”
That finally pulled a real, if small, huff of laughter from Jisung’s chest; wet and fragile, but there. He pushed at Chan weakly, no doubt rolling his eyes, but he didn’t pull away.
If anything, he melted into every silly little sign of affection Chan showered him with, like each one was another promise to stay.
Chan kept his breathing slow and deliberate, the kind you could follow even without conscious effort.
After a minute or two, Jisung’s breaths finally started to match the rhythm, the sharp edges slowly sanding down to something more comfortable. But his chest ached from hours of shallow gasps and desperate heaves, deep and burning, and every muscle in his body burned like he’d just finished a marathon.
“I hate this,” Jisung admitted into the dark room.
“I know.”
“I feel stupid.”
“You’re not.”
“I feel like a lot.”
“Well,” Chan’s arms tightened again, firm and certain. “You are,” he said softly, unable to mask the fondness practically dripping off his words. “You’re a lot of things. Loud, dramatic, cute, talented, a little annoying sometimes—”
Jisung made a weak noise of protest, pushing a poorly balled up fist against Chan’s chest.
“—but never too much,” Chan finished, pressing his cheek more firmly to Jisung’s temple. “Not for me.”
Jisung unfurled his fist on the spot, letting out a relived breath he didn’t know he’d been holding onto for so long. Truthfully, he hadn’t known how much he needed to hear that.
They stayed like that on the floor, long after the worst had passed, breathing into the stillness of the night. Chan still didn’t rush him up, didn’t check the time, didn’t move— not even when his leg started to go numb under Jisung’s weight.
Some things were more important than circulation, and Jisung was definitely among those things. Chan had his priorities straight.
“Hyung?” Jisung whispered finally, voice small and weary, but laced with a hint of trust that made Chan’s chest soar.
“Yeah?”
Jisung pressed a little closer, and Chan welcomed it like he’d never wished for anything else. “Thanks for… staying.”
Chan lightly rested his cheek back against the top of Jisung’s head.
“Always.” he said.
And he meant it.
——————-——————-——————-—————
Angsty whump is allowed in Feveruary too, right? I sure hope so 👀
Also lol @ me posting these stories just as unpredictably and disorganised and as I feared I would 😂😭
Hiiii hru?? I’ve been thinking about this idea lately and I’ve never seen a fic like this so hear me out
felix has a stomach bug, but he doesn’t really have it anymore, instead he’s recovering. So he has the lingering symptoms, is tired af and has to attend schedule cs technically he’s not sick anymore. He’s really cuddly and the members feel bad for him so while they’re backstage there’s just always one or more people cuddling him and trying to make him feel better
The past week had, for lack of better word, dragged Felix through hell and back. The stomach flu he’d been warring with had entirely sapped him of all his vitality, dulling Stray Kids’ own sunshine into a dim glow.
The virus had only lasted for about three days, the last bout of vomiting striking sometime around noon on day two, and the fever breaking overnight.
Per Idol definition, he was no longer sick by the third day, and was expected to return to his usual pursuits. Naturally, that’s exactly what he did.
Felix returned to his schedule, pushing past the way he had to lean against the wall for support or close his eyes when the world started spinning.
On paper, he wasn’t sick anymore, but in reality, his body didn’t seem to have gotten the memo just yet.
While Felix was upright and no longer in need of a bathroom attached by the hip, his body still felt far from okay. His limbs were heavy, his head foggy, and even the act of sitting up too fast made him feel awfully faint.
He could eat now (though only plain foods in small portions), but even that left him exhausted in a way that sleep didn't seem to fix. ‘Food is fuel’ suddenly didn’t ring true anymore, and his appetite had yet to make an appearance.
Felix felt dull, hollowed out, like the virus had scooped him clean and left only a fragile shell behind. He felt drained of the brightness that usually came so naturally to him, and beneath it all lingered a quiet sadness, because he didn’t feel like himself.
Which was how he ended up backstage, wrapped in an oversized hoodie with the hood pulled low, legs tucked up on the couch like he was trying not to take up space. Not moping, per se, just… feeling a little dejected.
They had a fan meeting today, and there was no way he could skip it. No matter how many times the others had assured him it would be okay to sit this one out, he couldn’t bring himself to. No matter how unproductively queasy he felt after the bowl of rice porridge Chan had made for him an hour earlier, he had to do it.
The bowl still sat on the low table in front of him, barely stirred through once, the spoon resting exactly where’d he’d let it fall. He’s already conceded defeat. 1–0 to the porridge.
Felix tried to close his eyes, to sneak in a little nap before he had to return to the world. They had an hour before they had to make an appearance, 30 minutes went before they had to get their final touch ups…
Even the overhead lights backstage made him feel dizzy, exacerbating his nausea not to the point of puking, but enough to unsettle him. So Felix pulled the hood lower with a frustrated sigh, letting the darkness wash over him.
A good solider sleeps when he can.
Of course, so long he gets the opportunity to.
“You okay, Lixie?” Jeongin’s voice called out gently, and he felt the slightest dip in the cushions as the maknae lowered himself down beside him.
Felix nodded automatically, because that was the answer he was supposed to give, programmed into him after years of being an idol. He lifted the hood slightly, peeking out with a weary smile. “Yeah..” he said, voice quiet. “Just really tired…”
Jeongin hummed, clearly unconvinced, and gave him a sympathetic look. He didn’t push though, just draped an arm around Felix's shoulders and tugged him in without ceremony. Thank god.
Felix melted instantly, head tipping sideways until it rested against Jeongin’s strong shoulder; one of his absolute favourite pillows. He let out a small, involuntary sigh, like his body had been waiting for permission to fully relax.
“Nap?” Jeongin asked— like he’d read his mind, and Felix nodded softly, a barely there ‘yes, please’ slipping from under the hood.
He shuffled a little to get comfortable, slinging his legs over the maknaes lap and tucking in like the spot had been reserved just for him. And Jeongin held him close, rubbing his back through the hoodie and tracing idle patterns into the fabric with his index finger.
Honestly? Felix could’ve cried from that point of contact alone, and from how generously Jeongin always offered it to him. Amid discomfort and debility, the intimacy felt like a soft balm on his weary soul.
He was halfway out of it when another weight gently dropped onto the couch beside them, followed by Jeongin’s voice shushing someone. Felix’s lips twitched in amusement, his heart fluttering from the gesture.
“Is he okay?” Changbin voice asked, low and careful, but whispering wasn’t exactly his forte.
Jeongin was about to answer, but Felix beat him to it, groggy and soft-spoken. “I’m okay.. just tired.”
“Right.. long week,” Changbin mumbled, lips pressing into a thin line. He moved closer to Felix's other side and pressed against his back, rubbing his shoulder. "Let me know if there’s anything I can do, yeah?”
Felix just hummed in agreement. He nuzzled his nose against Jeongin’s collarbone, a gentle sweater-pawed grip holding onto his shoulder.
“You’re an awfully cuddly cat today..” the maknae commented with a chuckle, trailing his finger down Felix’s spine.
“Yeah, you’re being so clingy, Yongbokkie~” Changbin chimed in with his baby talk voice, making Felix huff softly in return. Well, they weren’t wrong..
Felix was generally one of the more affectionate members, one of the ones who sought out physical contact the most, but this was different. He didn’t just enjoy touch; he craved it, needed it like he needed air to breathe.
Being held somehow kept the lingering aches at bay, and grounded him when the exhaustion made his head swim and the tears threaten to spill.
The members seemed to realise that instinctively, and in turn formed a quiet rotation around him without ever saying it out loud. Felix was eternally grateful.
When Jeongin had to leave for his touch ups, Minho readily claimed his spot on the couch, settling in with a soft scoff. “You’re not contagious anymore, right?”
“No,” Felix answered quickly, though he was no professional. He hadn’t actually been sick in over twenty-four hours, solely suffering from the aftermath of his illness. But if he by any chance was still contagious, they’d have to blame JYP for clearing him prematurely. “You can't catch it.. I think...? Probably.. Maybe..”
“Good.” Minho pulled Felix closer like he was planning to do so regardless of his answer, tucking his chin over Felix’s head. “You’re allowed to just be pathetic then.”
Felix laughed weakly at that, the sound muffled against Minho’s shirt. “Thanks..” His eyes slipped shut again, lashes fluttering as his body gave in. They still had 40 minutes to go, so no one commented on it.
Jisung just grabbed a blanket from the side of the couch and draped it over him, careful not to jostle him too much.
“Hyunjin’s going to sulk,” he whispered, sitting down beside them and tucking a few strands of blonde hair behind Felix’s ear. “He hates missing cuddle time with Lixie.”
Right on cue, Hyunjin appeared in the doorway like he’d been summoned, eyes narrowing at the sight of Felix curled up in the middle of a Minsung sandwich (with a generous side of Changbin).
“Why is everyone touching Felix without me?”
Minho snorted. “Yah, there’s plenty of Felix to go around,” he replied dryly, lips twitching to a smirk.
Hyunjin didn’t reply. Instead, he promptly plopped down on the floor by the couch, grabbing Felix’s hand and lacing their fingers together.
Felix almost seemed to purr at the additional comfort, fingers curling around Hyunjin’s and a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m feeling kinda… clingy today.”
Hyunjin’s expression softened immediately, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “That’s okay. You’re allowed. You’ve had a rough week.”
“And that’s an understatement.” Another voice joined in, just as gentle and soothing as the rest. Seungmin. “You haven’t exactly had much of nutritional value the last days either.. Your body is still adjusting.”
Felix hummed a flat note in agreement, allowing himself to wallow in the comfortable warmth surrounding him. The mixed colognes, all familiar but with their own characteristic, were strangely appeasing.
He didn’t feel like opening his eyes, not when he was so comfortable, but he didn’t have to. After all the years spent together, Felix could just about recognise the members by their footsteps alone.
“I have some energy bars in my bag, if you’d like one?” Chan offered, sounding a little further off than the rest.
Felix considered his request, but ultimately decided against it. He didn’t want to risk making himself feel sick again before the fan meet started. “Thanks, Channie-hyung, but I think I’d rather stick with water for now.”
“Just promise me you’ll eat a little later?” Came Seungmin’s retaliation, ever vigilant about his meals not being skipped.
Felix smiled softly, nodding against Minho’s shoulder. “Promise”
_
The ten final minutes before showtime went by in a flash. Then, they were suddenly on stage, performing an opening number while lights danced around them and cheers erupted from the crowd.
Felix forced himself to believe his attempt of napping had recharged his batteries, even though it truly hadn’t. If he could gaslight anyone without soul-crushing guilt, it was himself, after all.
The Stays didn’t seem notice how poorly he was feeling, at least not more than they were to expect. JYP had released a subtle statement regarding his health situation a few days prior, when he failed to attend a promotional event, but he was back now. Present.
Which once again meant, on paper, he was healthy… and he was a performer, an idol; putting on a show was second nature to him.
Felix stood where he was supposed to, smiled when he was meant to, laughed on cue and struck cute poses for the camera. He answered questions, voice still deep and warm, accent rolling smoothly off his tongue.
To anyone watching, he looked fine for the most part, maybe a little paler than usual, a little less energetic, but nothing alarming.
But the members knew him better.
They noticed how Felix shifted his weight constantly, like even standing still was too much on his weary bones. They caught the way his smile lagged half a second behind the joke, and the way his eyes dulled under the bright studio lights, blinking so much he looked as though he was impersonating Lee Know.
They saw every little tell Felix was struggling, and they’d be damned if they didn’t help out at any point they could.
After performing another one of their songs, Felix swayed on his feet, dizziness crashing over him like a tidal wave.
It was barely discernible on the outside, just a slight roll onto his heels, but Minho’s hand was there instantly, fingers curling around Felix’s wrist under the guise of adjusting their formation. Felix didn’t even look surprised, he just leaned in subtly, grounding himself.
“You good?” Minho murmured, making sure to hold his hand up so no one could read off their lips.
Felix nodded robotically, the glitching in his vision finally stilling. “Yeah..” He breathed, but Minho’s grip only tightened, eyes sharp as razors. He saw right through him
The older dancer met Chan’s gaze from across the floor and gave a curt nod, like he’d settled some non-spoken deal between them. Felix didn’t know what it meant, but whatever it was, he was grateful to have his own protection squad on deck.
Between segments, while staff adjusted equipment and changed their outfits, Felix sagged against the wall like someone had flipped a switch. Chan immediately handed him a bottle of water, thumb brushing reassuring circles into his back as Felix took small, careful sips.
"You're doing great," Chan said quietly.
Felix's eyes fluttered shut for just a second. His lower lip quivered, so he caught it between his teeth and bit back a whimper.
"I'm trying."
"I know," Chan replied, voice warm with certainty as he pressed a kiss to Felix’s exposed shoulder. “Just hold on, we’re halfway through..”
-
From that point on, all the member closed ranks without even discussing it. Whenever Felix had to stand for a prolonged period of time, someone was there beside him; steadying him, guiding him, handing him water and reminding him to sip slowly.
Someone always had an arm around looped around his waist, a shoulder available to lean on, a hand warm against his back; every little gesture a silent reminder that they were there for him.
By the last part of the fan meeting though, Felix’s practiced smile had noticeably grown thinner, his skin duller, the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin.
When they lined up to take some final photos, Changbin subtly shifted so Felix could lean against his shoulder. Hyunjin slung an arm around his midriff, steady and unyielding, anchoring him in place while Jeongin inched a little closer on his other side. Jisung’s hand slipped into his, Minho’s breath tickled his neck.
Everyone was right there, circled around him like everyone had signed a treaty to protect him at all costs.
The flash went off, and Felix smiled; softer this time, not as forced, but actually real.
Because even if he was still worn down, the past days of sickness still clinging to his back like a looming shadow, at least he wasn’t carrying it alone.
Feveruary | Day: 7| “Did you seriously think I wouldn't notice?"
Sickie: Bang Chan
Caretaker/s: Changbin
Chan never thought that treating himself to some Chinese take-away on an otherwise ordinary Friday night would have such fatal consequences. The food itself had been everything he wanted and more, the perfect indulgence to wrap up a stressful week.
Unfortunately, the repercussions the following morning were far from as pleasant. The meal that had been so succulent and delectable the night before returned as nothing short of an acidic, burning nightmare.
What started as a small, lingering ache low in his gut by midnight quickly became far more intrusive than Chan cared to admit. The pain intensified slowly, creeping in through the darkness and growing harder and harder to ignore.
Until, at around four in the morning, Chan found himself rushing to the bathroom in a haste, loosing his insides from both ends like satan himself had it out for him.
And again, barely twenty minutes later.
And then again— until he was trapped in an endless, horrendous cycle of bathroom trips he couldn’t seem to escape.
In the back of his mind, Chan wondered if he’d ever been able to look a Peking duck in the eye ever again. He highly doubted it. He should’ve just stuck to his trustworthy Pho… Pho would never have turned its back on him like this.
At last, he resigned himself to camping out in the bathroom for the night, a blanket pulled tight over his shoulders as he slumped onto the tiled floor. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d get some rest (or whatever passed for it) in between the bouts.
Either way, Christopher Chahn Bahng wouldn’t let a sore stomach and a lousy nights sleep keep him from work when daylight eventually crept in a few hours later. With great effort, he pulled his weary bones off the cold tiles as morning light spilled through the window, steeling himself for the day ahead.
And as per usual, he gathered with the others in the practice room at ten sharp, a bag slung over his shoulder and a beanie covering the fuzzy bleached hair he’d failed to tame.
While Chan was fairly certain the ruckus inside him was purely a result of last nights take-away (and his own poor judgement of food safety, perhaps), he tried to hold himself off from the other members, keeping a remote distance and refraining from skinship with the excuse of a sore throat. Which wasn’t a lie, so to say— the bile had left his throat feeling scorched, but it wasn’t the full truth either…
He made it through the first hour surprisingly well despite the circumstances.
Grateful for his own ability to silently sneak out the studio when no one seemed to be looking, Chan believed he’d been remarkably nonchalant about his frequent bathroom trips between run-throughs— ducking in and out with impeccable stealth. In all sincerity, though maybe naively, he truly thought no one had noticed his recurrent absences.
But as he returned to the cold toilet for the sixth time since arriving at the studio, Chan had to admit he was starting to feel quite poorly, the effects of the never ending cycle setting in. His stomach was still cramping mercilessly despite its emptiness, his entire body trembling as liquid poured out of him, as if it were determined to purge everything he’d ever consumed.
“Ugh..” he groaned shakily, biting back the nausea that was once again brewing at the back of his throat. For a moment, he genuinely contemplated giving in; going home, curling up in his bed, and waiting for his body to sort itself out. But as soon as he steadied himself, the idea disappeared entirely, because he couldn't just leave and let the rest of the group down. No. He was the leader for Christ's sake. He got this.
After another few harrowing minutes, Chan managed to clean himself off and step out of the booth he'd become far too acquainted with. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he momentarily froze at the ghastly sight looking back at him. Ouch. His face was void of any colour, washed in a greyish white that keenly matched the bathroom tiles surrounding him. Dark blue circles shadowed bleary eyes, undoubtedly worsened by his lack of sleep, and his cheekbones were flushed red— the only indication that he was, in fact, still alive.
Simply put, he looked like a dead man walking. With a low sigh, Chan pressed his knuckles to his cheek, feeling the burn simmering gently against his fingers. Did he have a fever? or was he just flushed from the strain? It was awfully hard to tell...
Cleaning his hands while avoiding his own hollow-eyed reflection, Chan eventually headed back to the practice room, a hand mindlessly pressed into his stomach as he walked. Just like he’d done a million times before, he slipped back into the room, soundless as a ninja. The others were too preoccupied to notice his return, either sprawled on the floor or fine-tuning moves.
All except for Changbin, it seemed.
Chan gulped as the other rapper’s gaze snapped onto him in an instant, sharp and unrelenting, like a predator locking onto its prey. For the briefest moment, he froze in place, a deer caught in headlights, suddenly all too aware of how exposed he felt under Changbin’s scrutinizing eyes. Then, forcing himself to move, he shook it off.
Wearing the practiced smile he’d spent years perfecting, Chan meandered over to Jisung and Seungmin, launching into a passionate, utterly nonsensical conversation in a deliberate attempt to sell the illusion that he was perfectly fine.
He would like to think it worked, but Changbin wasn’t dumb, and quite frankly— he felt a little offended that Chan didn’t seem to think he would figure him out. He didn't even attempt to mask his observant stare as Chan silently re-entered for the umpteenth time, taking in his leader's haggard appearance with a keen eye.
The animated conversation with the other members didn’t throw Chabgbin off his track in the slightest. He wasn’t that easily fooled.
In his eyes, even a blind man could tell something was wrong. From the way Chan staggered at the end of formations, clearly swallowing back tidal waves at every turn, to the subtle way his body slowed with each passing minute, his eyes sinking a little deeper into his skull each time he’d return to the room.
It was blatantly obvious he wasn’t feeling well.
“Alright, everyone,” Minho called out, sauntering over to the front of the room with his eyes glued onto the phone in his hands. “We’ll take it one more time from the top. Hyunjin-ah, up front with me.”
The members scurried from their various sprawls across the floor, gathering their sore limbs as they resumed their respective positions. Chan started at the back, eyes focused, body locked in, but his hand remained pressed on his abdomen for a moment too long— just another sign betraying his discomfort.
Changbin tried to refocus on the choreography when the music started up again, but it was damn near an impossible task. His eyes kept drifting back to their sickly leader at every turn, as if he were bracing himself to swoop in and catch him should he keel over.
The way Chan moved; his stiff body language, the pinched expression on his pallid face, made Changbin’s own stomach twist in a furious mix of sympathy and exasperation. He hated, as much as anyone else in the room, seeing him like that…
But knowing Bang Chan, he hadn't even entertained the idea of telling someone if he was feeling unwell, and Changbin knew coaxing out the truth wouldn’t be the way to go. He had to catch him, somehow… maybe the next time he slipped out the room, he’d have to follow..
At the other end of the room, Chan evidently did his best to ignore Changbin's unwavering gaze, to follow the dance and blend in with the others. But his movements were noticeably stiff and flimsy, each step just a fraction off-beat.
The frequent bathroom trips had left him zapped of any energy, making him dizzy and logy like his brain no longer had full connection to his limbs. No matter how hard he fought to correct himself, he kept lacking, undoubtedly drawing Minho’s suspicion as he stumbled over nothing but thin air.
But before the dancer could cut in and call him out on the slip, something abruptly shifted inside him. The nausea that had been silently lingering under the surface suddenly shot through like a bullet, surging back up his throat at the speed of light. Chan’s face quickly drained of any colour it had left, and he froze mid-motion, eyes going wide.
Oh god... he wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom this time, was he?
Before chaos could ensue, a pair of firm hands gripped his biceps, practically hoisting him off the ground and hauling him to the corner of the room. Changbin urgently kicked a trash can between them, and Chan's shoulders rolled as the first wave of vomit gushed past his lips, splashing into the receptacle with a sickening noise.
He shuddered, barely able to suck in a sharp breath before another heave wrecked through him, his stomach promptly spewing up another slurry of sick to add to the acrid mess.
"Oh, goddamn it.." Changbin's muttered under his breath, his mind racing as he grappled with the situation. He was no stranger to members getting sick, but this was more concerning than your typical headache or cold.
Chan was really sick, that much was obvious. And Changbin, who generally didn’t do great with the smell of vomit, was the one unlucky enough to bear witness to it up close and personal. “Aish— breathe, hyung.. breathe.”
He reached out and held Chan by the shoulders, carefully angling him away from the others in an attempt to shield them all, in what he assumed was in both their and their leaders best interest.
Chan coughed a couple of times, choking on his own rancid saliva as as his vision blurred and his eyes nearly rolled back. He let out an embarrassingly helpless noise, trying to follow Changbin’s instructions and draw a breath, but his stomach was relentless in its uproar— cramping and sloshing like a cat batting around a doomed mouse.
The others had without a doubt caught onto his debacle, and although Changbin’s body shielded him from their prying eyes, they both knew the predicament was hard to miss. As the music quietened down, Chan's misery became all too evident, heaves echoing back at him like mockery.
The other members collectively let out a few gasps and concerned noises, clustering together in the middle of the room like a flock of worried chicks. Thankfully, Minho got the gist and told them to stay put, trusting that Changbin had it under control. Besides, he was well acquainted with Chan’s aversion to an audience at his weakest. The fewer eyes on him, the better.
Chan’s fingers tightened their grip on Changbin's forearm, desperation bleeding through his grip. "B-bathroom..." he managed to choke out weakly, and Changbin didn’t need much convincing.
Swivelling around and kicking the door open for them, the rapper set course for the restrooms. Chan’s legs barely held out as Changbin manoeuvred him down the hall, but they eventually made it to their destination without too much of a struggle.
Once they were safely inside the privacy of the restroom, Changbin slammed the door shut behind them, locking it with one swift motion. He led Chan to the toilet, lowering him onto wobbly knees in front of the bowl.
"Jesus, hyung..." he whispered as Chan doubled over the bowl with a bellowing heave.
Changbin knelt beside him as Chan let loose another mouthful of vomit into to bowl, no doubt evacuating the final remains of his stomachs contents. There was almost no substance to it, just pure bile that burned through him from his chest to his nose, making him want to sob at how miserable everything felt.
Once the vomiting ceased to a halt, Chan hung his head over the bowl with a soft sniffle, chin resting on the toilet seat and eyes squeezed shut. Changbin watched him carefully, reaching out to tentatively tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Think you’re done?”
The noncommittal hum he received was no definite answer, but Changbin didn’t push. He just rubbed soothing circles across the expanse of Chan’s back, eyebrows drawn and lips twitched down in a concerned frown.
It took a while before Chan could trust that any movement wouldn’t set off another round, but eventually his stomach settled enough to grant him a brief respite. Changbin managed to pry him away from the toilet then, easing him back against the wall so he could get a proper look at him.
Sweaty, shaky, and pale as a sheet, the leader couldn’t help but wonder how Changbin had known— how he’d pieced it together back in the studio before things had spiralled, and how he’d been ready to step in and act so fast to prevent a mess. Chan had thought he’d been subtle. Apparently not.
When he eventually squinted his eyes open, the younger man was crouched down before him, a troubled frown still etched across his face as his thumb traced gentle circles on Chan’s shoulder. The leader hesitated only for a moment before croaking out a barely audible, “How..? how’d you know I was..?”
Changbin arched a brow, rising to his feet with a heavy sigh. “Hyung,” he started, crossing his arms over his chest in the most disappointed-father-pose Chan had ever seen him strike. “You’ve been sneaking off like every ten minutes—it wasn’t hard to figure out.” His frown deepened, disbelief flickering across his face. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice?”
Chan shrugged faintly, gaze down, fiddling with his thumbs. “The others didn’t notice…”
“Yeah, well, they’re—” Changbin gestured wildly with his hands, exasperation spilling out despite his best efforts to keep it contained, “—dense! They’re dense!”
That broke Chan. He snorted once, but the hoarse laugh that followed quickly turned into a pained noise as his stomach seized in protest. With a small gasp, he grabbed onto the wall, eyebrows pinched. “Holy shit… you can’t be funny right now— ooow.”
Changbin tried to hide the proud smirk tugging at his lips for half a second, schooling his expression back to the stern look it had held before. “I’m not trying to be funny,” he grumbled, albeit softer this time. “How long have you been sick, huh? Honest.”
Chan hummed, covering his face with his hand and revelling in the gentle coolness of his palm against his cheek. “Started at like… four this morning..” he admitted sheepishly, cringing at the reminiscence. “…I had some take-away last night. Must've been bad..."
“Ah,” Changbin nodded once, then gave Chan’s shoulder a half-hearted jab. “You are an absolute idiot sometimes, you know that, right? You got food poisoning and decided to show up to a five hour dance session? You shouldn’t even be here at all, hyung…”
Chan knew he was right, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. Instead, he bit his lip and frowned at his own obstinacy, allowing the lecture to simmer.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it, we’re all dumb sometimes..” Changbin mumbled half-encouragingly. With a sigh, he held his hand out to Chan, nodding towards the door. “Let’s just get you home, yeah? No use in wallowing in here.. I’ll drive, you just try not to ruin my car, ‘kay?”
Admitting to his surrender with a faint nod, Chan clasped his hand in Changbin’s. Despite his body feeling like jello, the younger rapper managed to hoist him up from the floor like he had weighed nothing, locking him to his side with a firm grip.
Chan’s breath stuttered, eyes glossy and feet dragging against the floor liked they were tied to sacks of sand. There was a small pout carved into his face now, and to Changbin, the tiny jut of Chan’s lips hit him like a strike to the chest. Seeing his normally strong and indomitable leader reduced to this was never something he could never seem to get used to. Plus, something about it was undeniably adorable…
While the infuriation from before still lingered, Changbin couldn’t stay upset about Chan not being honest about feeling unwell. Not when he looked like a kicked puppy with ashen lips and red-rimmed eyes.
“Aish, stop looking so sad. It’s okay, hyung..” Changbin tried, voice gentle as he gave Chan’s waist a careful squeeze. “There’s always another day tomorrow..”
——————-——————-——————-—————
Mate, I just had to post something at this point 😂 so here it is😮💨 workload is kicking my ass lately but gotta get that degree ig 🧑🎓
Adding some teasers/WIP’s because maybe… maybe it will spur me on and help me finish these in between lectures and work😂🫡
As always, I’ll do my best 🙂↕️
Feveruary Day 7: “Did you seriously think I wouldn't notice?"
The others had without a doubt caught onto his debacle, and although Changbin shielded him from their prying eyes, they both knew the predicament was hard to miss.
As the music quietened down, Chan's misery became all too evident, heaves echoing back at him like mockery.
Feveruary Day 9: unlikely caretaker
Jisung’s own chest tightened painfully. He knew that gesture all too well, and his suspicion only grew.
Feveruary Day 10: “You can't catch it... Probably... Maybe."
Honestly? Felix could’ve cried from that point of contact alone, and from how generously Jeongin always offered it to him. Amid discomfort and debility, the intimacy felt like a soft balm on his weary soul.
Feveruary Day 25: “It’s just a cold”
“H’tsch!” Minho pitched forward, Hyunjin barely able to grab onto him before he lost his balance. “Lino-hyu—“ Minho stubborn shook Hyunjin’s hand off, “ssh’ktUH!”, and finally, “TCH’SHH!”
Hyunjin watched him, stunned, half expecting another sneeze to cut him off, before speaking up again.
“Hyung, you need to sit down before you—“
Feveruary Day 18: “You’re not being needy. You’re being human”
The rest of the dorm was quiet. Too quiet, compared to the storm of panic that buzzed through the air like static. Everyone else had wisely retreated to their rooms when the spiral started hours ago, quietly obeying an unspoken protocol. Any loiterers had been reluctantly ushered away, ordered to get some sleep after the gruelling day.
Bang Chan stayed though. Of course he did.
Because even when Jisung started snapping, and his patience ran thin, Chan knew better than to run away. They’d seen this before, he could take it.
The time pneumonia convinced Minho he was from outer space, and for just a moment, Chan almost believed him.
____________________________________________
Sickie: Lee Know
Caretaker/s: Bang Chan
____________________________________________
“Hyung.. I think… ‘think I’m having a.. transcendence..”
Chan paused, slowly lowering his phone as he met the pale-faced Minho stood in the doorway of his room. He knew then, without a doubt, that that word was not supposed to be in that man’s vocabulary.
“Okay,” he replied casually, like it was just an every day conversation starter. “Would you like to elaborate..?”
Minho sighed heavily, breaths sounding congested and thick as he leaned against the doorframe. “Every time I sneeze… I swear,” he blinked hard, squeezing his eyes shut like he was trying to recreate it in his mind. “I… I travel across the galaxy.”
Right.
“Mhm,” Chan stood from his chair, approaching Minho in slow steps as the younger man’s eyes struggled (and inevitably failed) to follow him. He pressed a hand to the sick man’s forehead before he could swat him away, and the answer made itself clear.
He was burning up. Again.
Time for another dose of those fever reducers, Chan thought with a sigh, eyebrows creasing.
Just the other day, Minho had been coerced to urgent care by their manager, leaving with a prescription of antibiotics for what turned out to be a stubborn case of pneumonia. But Chan had to admit, those antibiotics weren’t working nearly as fast as he wished they would…
Minho blinked at him way too slowly, like even his eyelids weighed a ton. “I think I might be…” he drew in a laboured breath, and Chan didn’t miss the crackling noise that rang from his chest when he did. “Extraterrestrial..”
Another word Minho had no business harbouring in his mind right now.
Chan paused, taking a second to process what he was hearing. Then, he let out an incredulous huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Well, yeah, duh… that much I’ve gathered…”
Minho groaned a hoarse grumble, something akin to a protest, though even he had no idea where he was protesting, and Chan simply shushed him in return. His hand slid to the younger man’s arm, fingers wrapping loosely around Minho’s wrist.
He knew that Minho was stubborn. Hell, all of the members knew that, but he was also well acquainted with just how clingy the younger man was during times like these.
In his own, mostly silent, way.
“Alright,” Chan hummed, eyes softening as a half-concerned, half-amused sound left his lips. “Let’s get you back to bed, Mr. Alien..”
When his arm wound around Minho’s waist, steadying his teetering frame and steering them down the hall, there were no rebuttals.
Which was concerning in and of itself.
Chan led him down the hallway with conscientious care, and Minho followed in quiet compliance, only breaking the silence with a few wheezy coughs.
It was strange whenever Minho was this feverish— he always got so out of character, in one way or another. Sometimes he babbled like a brook; other times he grew unusually touch-seeking and affectionate. At times, he had otherworldly, mind-boggling experiences that no one could quite explain.
And sometimes, like right there in the hallway, he was so pliant and amendable it made Chan shudder.
It almost unnerving, how quickly he could flip from one version of himself to another. A remarkable volte-face of their usual dynamic, all at the hands of a pesky pathogen.
Normally, Chan was the clingy one, the one hanging off Minho and pressing every button he could find, while Minho pretended to loathe every second of it. But Chan was never fooled by it. He never missed the way the corners of his lips would twitch, the way he’d quickly bury it beneath a practiced scowl.
Deep down, Chan knew Minho liked it more than he’d ever admit aloud.
But when Minho fell ill, something inside Chan shifted. A strange sort of guardianship seemed to surge from within, like a fierce, protective urge set ablaze in his chest.
It wasn’t the same as he felt for the others, at least Chan didn’t feel like it was, but that didn’t mean it didn’t burn just as strong. It was just… different, with him.
Minho had never been good at asking for help, but neither had Chan. They both knew it, they both understood it, yet neither had ever spoken the words aloud.
Instead, there was almost as if they’d made a silent pact— no words, no written agreement, just a mutual commitment to help each other out when life struck them to the bone.
They’d never have to ask for help if the other part acted first, right?
Suddenly, Minho planted himself mid-step like a cat refusing to move, yanking Chan back from his straying thoughts. “Wha—Whats wrong?” The elder asked quickly, already searching Minho’s pasty face for any signs he was about to hurl. He’d never been one to give much warning in the past…
Minho straightened up a little, breaths heavy as he strained to pull air into his poor lungs. “My bones… they feel like jelly..” he stated, swaying dangerously until Chan locked him back against his side. “Hyung, why’s… jellyfish… they made of jelly?”
Ah. No sudden urge to vomit— good. Just… whatever you could call Minho’s fever-addled ruminations.
Chan couldn’t hold back his amusement even if he tried, biting his lip as a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Mm, no, jellyfish are in fact not made of jelly,” he replied with a sigh, voice turning impossibly soft as he added, “And neither are you, for that matter. Come on now, we’re almost there.”
Minho let out a weak groan, allowing Chan to steady him on wobbly legs the rest of the way to his bed. The covers were all rumpled and tossed to the side from earlier, sheets still a little damp from the excessive bouts of sweating the infection was triggering.
“I feel so dumb,” Minho said sadly as he sank down onto the mattress, hair slicking against the side of his face.
“Ya, Chan-ah..” He lifted a finger, poking it into Chan’s chest to emphasise his solemnity. “I… I’m a dignified extraterrestrial… they can’t know I’m being dumb..”
Chan let out a soft, warm laugh, his dimples peeking through despite himself. “Don’t worry, alien prince, I’ll make sure to protect your intergalactic reputation.”
He caught Minho's finger gently between his own, pressing a small kiss to the tip. In return, albeit a lot slower than usual, Minho withdrew his hand and scrunched his nose in disgust.
“Ew.”
Chan had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing again.
Minho was too cute sometimes; even in the throes of delirium, he still fought to hold onto some shred of dignity.
Though it certainly didn’t help his case that his nose was all red and his hair a fluffy mess, making him look less like a grown man and more like a scruffy little kitten…
As Minho flopped back onto the sheets, completely boneless, Chan grabbed the box of fever reducers and his prescribed antibiotics from the nightstand, carefully measuring out the right doses into his palm. “Alright, you gotta take some more medicine before you go spacefaring again.”
Minho didn’t budge, voice muffled against the pillow as he replied, strangely polite, “No, thank you..”
Chan sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he begged for patience. “It wasn’t an offer, Minho.” he said firmly, nudging his shoulder. “Come on.”
Minho let out a soft whine, then a tiny grumble as he rolled his head to the side, eyes fixed warily at the pills in Chan’s outstretched hand. He scowled at them like they were poison, squinting his eyes like he was trying to determine if it was some sort of elaborate trap.
“Those are eggs..” Minho finally said, making the other man feel all the more confused than he already was.
“Eggs?” Chan repeated, trying to wrap his head around the delirious musings. The younger man sounded so damned serious he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Mhm,” Minho nodded faintly, before adding quietly, like it was meant to be kept a secret, “Alien eggs..”
Chan stared at him for a very, very long moment, trying to figure out how to go about this turn of events. He sighed, staring down at the little round pills in his hand, then back up at Minho, who was still looking at them like they may just hatch into tiny monsters at any given moment.
He held them up, tilting the pills this way and that, trying to see through whatever fever-induced hallucination was playing out in Minho’s brain.
But no, they were both just pills, nothing more, nothing less. Not even translucent, but solid white, boring and chalky in their exterior.
Chan had to admit, he was already thrown off by all the absurd claims that had spilled from Minho within the last thirty minutes. Declaring that his pills were not actually medication prescribed by professionals, but alien eggs— yeah, that was the final straw.
He nudged the sick man’s shoulder again, steeling himself as he scooted closer to him on the bed. The leader had a solemn look on his face now, any humour swallowed by the insistent need to make Minho take his damn medicine.
In the back of his mind, he was already wondering if he’d have to crush the pills into some pudding to make this work… or potentially force them down his throat if that didn’t do the trick.
“Lee Minho,” Chan said earnestly, maintaining a stoic calm alongside the firmness in his voice. “I swear on my life, I am not trying to feed you— alien eggs…” he let out a long sigh. “Please… just take the medicine. It’s gonna make you feel better.”
Minho seemed to consider the request, peering up at him like he was trying to see through a fog. Then, he sighed resignedly.
“Do I have to?” He asked pitifully, like a child pleading to a parent, but Chan simply raised an eyebrow, lips pursed in feigned disappointment. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to— not out loud, anyways. Chan had already perfected the disappointed, exhausted dad look by the time he turned twenty.
Chan seized it, that tiny crack in delirium's armour, and made the most of it. He grabbed the water bottle off the nightstand before Minho could have second thoughts and held it to his lips along with the two pills still nestled in his palm.
"One swallow," he coaxed, voice low and soothing like he was taming something wild. "Just one. For me?"
With great theatrical reluctance, Minho parted his lips, only to immediately gag at the taste of the medicine, scrunching his whole face in disgust. With a mouthful of water, he washed the pills down anyway.
“Gross..” he murmured hoarsely, flopping back onto the pillows like the whole ordeal had personally wounded him.
Victory. Chan grinned, patting his knee affectionately as Minho recoiled with a petulant pout. “Atta boy.”
Minho groaned, swatting weakly at Chan’s hand. “Tsk.. ‘m not a dog…” he mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.
Chan just smiled, smoothing a cool hand over Minho’s damp forehead and brushing his fringe aside. “No,” he whispered softly in agreement, the next part barely audible, “you’re a grumpy old cat..”
A tiny hum escaped Minho, barely there, but it was enough to tell Chan he’d heard him.
And the way he was still scowling while half-sleep? Adorable. Chan had to stop himself from snapping a photo, knowing the repercussions would be far from pretty.
He was about to get up, maybe to go and get a cool towel, but his attention was suddenly drawn back to Minho, who had gone strangely silent all of a sudden. Not asleep, just silent.
Instead of protesting, Minho’s face was scrunched up in a familiar expression, his nose curling in distaste. This time, though, Chan knew it wasn't just because the medicine tasted terrible.
He could see it in the way Minho's eyes squinted as his sinuses filled, the way his chest rose and fell with laboured breaths, trying to hold off the inevitable.
“Hh’tch!”
One…
“Huh’tSSKH!”
Two…
“Hhh’TSCH!”
Three.
Like clockwork.
Chan turned to grab some tissue from the small box on the nightstand, a minuscule smile tugging on his lips despite himself. Minho really did sneeze like a kitten sometimes.
“ss…sorry.. ‘m back now.” Minho slurred, making Chan glance back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
Right. He’d almost forgotten about the whole transcending time and space thing.
“Where’d you go, bud?” Chan hummed with gentle curiosity, holding a couple of tissues up to Minho’s face.
Minho coughed again, low and chesty, eyes squeezing shut against the spin. With a sniffle, he replied, “sixty degrees off Jupiter.. ‘think..”
Chan let out a low chuckle, gently wiping Minho's nose with the tissue before he could shove him away. “Oh, is that so?” he teased softly, voice warm with amusement. “Sounds interesting.”
He tossed the used tissue into the bin and sat back on the edge of the bed, watching as Minho blinked at the ceiling, eyes growing heavier as he struggled to keep them open.
It was a battle he was quickly losing. No matter how stubbornly he tried to fight off sleep, his eyelids were betraying him, slipping closed with every flutter of his eyelashes.
Chan could see his exhaustion clear as day, the way it seemed to weigh on him, pulling his limbs down into the mattress and locking them there. Minho was worn out, completely at the mercy of the bacteria raging in his lungs.
And despite himself, Chan could feel fondness welling up in his chest as he watched the other man fight sleep like a toddler refusing a nap.
Shaking his head, he ran a hand down Minho’s side in a gentle motion. “Go to sleep, baby…” he murmured, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead. “And send me a postcard from your next galactic vacation, yeah?”
Minho didn’t flinch or protest when he called him ‘baby’, and Chan silently vowed to hold onto that moment for as long as he could. He chuckled again, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched Minho’s breathing slow, finally surrendering to the lure of sleep.
Chan stayed seated beside him, diligently watching the unsteady rise and fall of Minho’s chest. He reached over and tugged the blanket up to cover his shoulders, adjusting it with gentle hands before sitting back with a sigh.
Alien or not, Chan had to admit; Minho truly was something out of this world.
hi! can i ask for changbin who gets a migraine during dance practice?? i don’t think he’d hide it as i can see it get worse over the day… maybe while he directs recording he starts feeling nauseous too? i can see that happening
lee know as main caretaker because minbin is so soft 😭
~☆ anon
Well, well, well… two birds, one stone, aye? 😎 this is an old request too, but oh well— better late than never 😅 minbin let’s gooo (not proof read so let’s pray it reads well enough)
Feveruary 2026 | Day: 3 | Migraine
Sickie: Changbin
Caretaker/s: Lee Know
The bass thumped through the studio floor, each beat reverberating in Changbin’s skull like a hammer strike.
A dull ache had been festering in there since morning, something that had been easy enough to ignore at first, or assume was the result of dehydration. A couple of painkillers, a strong caffeine-fix, and Changbin thought he’d be fine.
He was wrong.
By the time dance practice rolled around in the afternoon, the ache had sharpened into something far meaner. Changbin had taken not only one, but two painkillers since practice started, quietly swallowing them down during water breaks.
Every flash of the mirror lights felt like a blade slicing through his eyes, glaring at him like blinding headlights. He rubbed at his temple in a futile attempt to soothe the pain, hoping no one would notice.
But Minho noticed. Because of course he did. The second-oldest always had a keen eye during dance practice, picking apart the routines and quietly rectifying any missteps. Clearly, Changbin’s attempted concealment of his grimaces wasn’t as convincing as he’d hoped.
“Yah, Seo Changbin,” Minho called out as the music cut again, his voice slicing through the chorus of heavy breaths and exhaustion. “You good? You’ve been blinking like you’re about to pass out.”
Changbin tried to laugh, but the motion only made the pain spike, so he bit his tongue, hoping to dismiss it with a tight smile. “Just a little headache,” he muttered.
Minho didn’t look convinced in the slightest, but with a packed schedule looming ahead of them all, he didn’t press the matter. Deciding to take him at face value, he simply gave a nod and swiveled back to his spot to take it from the top. Though he couldn’t help the way his eyes drifted to Changbin more often than usual, as if his subconscious kept him on edge and vigilant just in case it all came crashing down…
-
They moved into recording after wrapping up dance practice, Changbin insisting he’d be fine to direct Minho through a session. But the studio wasn’t much kinder than the practice room had been; the glare of the monitors, the low hum of electronics, the way the bass buzzed under his skin. He leaned forward on the console, squinting at the track on his screen when it suddenly wavered.
A ripple of light at the edge of his vision, shimmering like heat off asphalt. Changbin blinked a few times and tried to focus again, but any strain on his ocular muscles made the pain in his head spike so bad his vision blipped. He swallowed hard.
The lights seemed to burn brighter all of a sudden, but Minho didn’t appear affected by them at all, which only confirmed Changbin’s suspicion that the problem was his alone. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, letting the darkness offer him a brief respite before forcing himself back to work.
“O-okay, uh,” Changbin cleared his throat into the microphone, prepared to give feedback on Minho’s take, only for the words to fail him.. “Y-your.. thes.. uh.”
Everything felt like it was going too slow and too fast simultaneously, and Changbin felt heat spread up his neck, like hot water diffusing under his skin. He could hear the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, each beat amplifying the unbearable ache behind his eye. There was no doubt; his body was screaming now, demanding to be heard after countless ignored warnings.
Changbin sucked in a shaky breath, trying to pull himself together, but the nausea crashing over him was the final straw.
His fingers gripped onto the edge of the desk to keep from toppling over, a thick swallow forcing down a wave of sickness as the monitors blurred into one shifting haze of colour.
Oh no.
Minho, still patiently waiting for instructions, seemed to sense something was amiss when Changbin’s words faltered. He cleared his throat before speaking into the microphone, voice gentle as a zephyr. “Changbin-ah? You good?”
Changbin felt his skin crawl, a sweat breaking out across the back of his neck. “Ssorry- I-I’m gonna.. go sit inthe.. bathroom for a bit-“ he hurried out, voice a little unclear, before he was out of the studio in a flash.
Minho stood frozen in the recording booth, blinking at the swiveling chair Changbin had vacated in the blink of an eye. Removing the headset from his head, his eyebrows furrowed. “What? Sit in the bathroom…?”
He slipped out of the booth, brushing off his shirt before quickly opening the door and setting course for the restrooms down the hall.
Because no one just sits in the bathroom..
-
As it turned out, his gut feeling was entirely correct. Minho found Changbin in the far corner of the bathroom, hunched over on a closed toilet lid, elbows on his knees and palms pressed hard against his temples. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glow against the sterile tiles.
“Changbin-ah?” Minho’s voice softened as soon as he saw the state of him, and Changbin instinctively flinched at the sound, a small wince twisting his expression.
“Please,” the younger of the two groaned, sounding strained. “N-no talking….” He heaved fruitlessly, groaning in pure agony as the effort made his ears ring. “Hurts.”
That was all the confirmation Minho needed to hear. He promptly turned on his heel and flicked the light switch off, plunging the bathroom into darkness— only the faint glow of the hallway slipping through the crack in the door.
The sudden dark earned a shaky exhale of relief from Changbin. It helped take the edge off, if only just a little.
“Jesus, Bin-ah,” Minho murmured quietly, his voice barely above a whisper as he sunk down to the floor beside him. “Didn’t realise it was that bad… mind telling me what’s going on?”
Changbin didn’t respond with more than another shaky exhale at first. He just leaned back against the wall, breathing shallow and uneven as one hand drifted up to his right eye, covering it completely.
Minho couldn’t help but notice that his skin looked even paler in the murky blueish hue of the room, a light sheen of sweat catching in the dim light. Changbin looked… unwell, to say the least. But a hand pressed to the back of his neck told Minho there was no apparent fever to account for his dismay.
“Head’s… splitting,” Changbin’s whispered finally, the words slurring together at the edges. “Feels like… pressure.. behind my eye— the whole right side just... Can’t-can’t—see right..” he sucked in another breath, leg bouncing restlessly against the tiles, “hurts so bad, hyung..”
So Changbin had a migraine, Minho gathered, a scowl instantly pulling on his lips. His hand trekked down to Changbin’s shoulder, squeezing gently in a small, feeble attempt to offer some comfort.
“Alright...” Minho said quietly, steady, the way he always was when someone needed grounding. “Nauseous?”
Changbin gave a faint nod, the answer punctuated by a thick swallow.
Minho gnawed at the inside of his cheek, casting a brief glance down to his phone. “Think you’re gonna get sick?”
A little more reluctant this time around, Changbin gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders. Well, at least it wasn’t a definite yes. Minho wasn’t opposed to those odds.
“You think you can get out of here..?” The older suggested, smoothing a hand down Changbin’s trembling, muscular back. “I’ll grab your bag and we’ll go to the dorm. I’ll drive. No lights, no noise.”
He offered an arm, careful not to force any sudden movement until Changbin nodded weakly and grabbed on in compliance.
The walk outside felt painfully slow; Changbin shuffling with his head down while Minho wordlessly steered him around bright spots and chatter. Every sound seemed to make him flinch like a skittish animal, and Minho couldn’t help the strange protectiveness that surged inside him seeing the younger man act that way.
It was so at odds with his usual demeanour; small, frail and dependant in stark contrast to the strong, reliable, pillar that Changbin usually was. It was in these kinds of moments, Minho realised, that Changbin truly did feel like his dongsaeng…
Once in the car, Minho reclined the passenger seat back and pulled the hood of Changbin’s hoodie up over his face to block the streetlights. “Deep breaths,” he instructed quietly. “You’re gonna be okay.”
Once Changbin was laid back as comfortably as he could be— hood covering his eyes, Minho’s ear buds plugged in without any music playing, paper bag in his lap just in case— the older of the two started the car.
The silence stretched for a while, only broken by the hum of the engine and Changbin’s uneven breathing and pained moans whenever the car bumped a little too harshly on the road.
In his quiet mind, Minho couldn’t help but wonder if this was the longest silence they had ever sat through together the past few years. It wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, just unusual, because there was usually at least some sort of noise buzzing in the background.
“Lino-hyung?” came a faint mumble from under the hood, when they were merely a block away from home.
Minho turned his head briefly, casting a quick glance at the man laid down in the passenger seat. “Yeah?”
“Sorry.”
Minho shook his head, eyes focusing back on the road before them. “Tsk.. don’t be stupid. Not your fault your body decided to throw a rave in your skull or something...”
A faint, strangled laugh escaped from Changbin, then a sigh. “I’ll make it up to you..”
“Don’t.”
A hand settled on his thigh, giving it a little pat before Minho’s voice spoke again, still unusually gentle. “Just don’t pass out before we get inside, ‘kay? That’s all I need.”
“M’kay.”
“And no puking on the floor this time.”
Changbin flushed at the crude callback to a migraine he’d suffered a few months back, an episode he’d rather just forget. With a sigh, he let his shoulders slump in resignation, the paper bag in his lap crinkling under his fingertips.
Lee Felix had never been one to shy away from hugs or physical displays of affection.
In fact, out of the eight members of Stray Kids, he was usually the one most inclined to skinship, never one to decline a cuddle.
Which is why it was so extraordinarily odd when Hyunjin’s attempted back hug was suddenly warded off like he was some sort of pest.
The moment Hyunjin’s arms slipped around his waist, Felix stiffened and ducked out of his hold like it was a defensive move drilled into him years ago in taekwondo.
“Don’t get too close!” The younger dancer squeaked nasally, throwing his arms up to form a protective ‘X’ in front of his chest.
Hyunjin stood rooted in his place, arms still hovering out in a circle, now empty— like a hunchbacked ballerina in a less than adequate first position.
He blinked incredulously, eyes darting to follow Felix, but any dramatic complaint about ‘how could you’ was quickly swallowed as the younger man hacked into the crook of his elbow.
Hyunjin’s face fell, arms dropping limply down by his sides. “W-why-who- what?” Was all he managed to say, evidently shell-shocked from the unusual turn of events.
Never in the eight years they’d known each other, had Felix ever refused any of his initiatives of affection. Ever. At least not when out of sight from the public eye.
The rejection stung embarrassingly deep.
Seeing the gears turning inside Hyunjin’s head, the disappointment evident in the pout on his face, Felix quickly shot him an apologetic look.
“Hey- s-sorry, Hyunjin-ah, I just don’t want you to get sick too..” he explained, pointing a finger to his own face, with glossy eyes and a red nose that stood in sharp contrast to his otherwise pale features.
Hyunjin’s lips formed into an oval shape as the pieces finally clicked together in his mind. “Oh,” he intoned, feeling silly for not having taken that possibility into consideration.
Honestly? The deep-chested coughs that sounded like something dredged up from hell should’ve been a dead giveaway…
His eyes softened as Felix subtly leaned back against the wall, choppy breaths pressing past cracked lips. He definitely looked sick alright.
“Why are you out here then?” Hyunjin asked cautiously, voice small, like he was still trying to fit the small pieces into the narrative. “You should be in bed..”
Felix nodded to the kettle bubbling on the stove, arms crossing over his chest as he hugged onto himself— probably cold. “Making some tea.” He answered honestly, and Hyunjin couldn’t oppose that logic.
Sick. Coughing. Tea. Right. Made sense.
Hyunjin didn’t say anything, which was disconcerting in its own right, especially when his eyebrows knit together in thought, leaving Felix to aimlessly guess what was going on in his mind.
The guesswork didn’t get far though.
Without another word, Hyunjin turned on his heel and made a beeline for the living room, leaving Felix to gaze after him in stunned silence.
When he returned, a fluffy beige blanket hung over his arms, and he wasted no time to sweep it around Felix’s shoulders like a royal mantle.
Felix blinked up at him, still frozen in his feverish daze, the absurd softness of the blanket settling over him like he’d just been knighted by a very dramatic, very benevolent monarch. “Oh..” he breathed softly, the corners of his lips quirking up in a weary smile.
Hyunjin still didn’t say anything at first. He just gave the edges of the blanket a firm little tug, tucking it closer around Felix’s neck with exaggerated precision. His lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes were suspiciously bright; half with concern, half with poorly hidden fondness.
“There, you shouldn’t be cold at the very least..” The older dancer muttered at last, like this had been a life-or-death operation. “Go sit down down, I’ll fix the tea.”
Felix opened his mouth to argue that while he was sick, he could manage to make a cup of tea on his own, but the look on Hyunjin’s face silenced him.
Besides, the blanket was warm, and nothing sounded better than melting into the cushions and let his poor body rest. “Okay,” he concurred, barely audible, giving his head a slight nod.
When Hyunjin stepped towards him, Felix instantly shrunk back and turned his head away, muttering a half-hearted, “Distance..”
With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Hyunjin complied and pulled back again, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Right,” he said, sucking in a breath. “You can get to the living room alright on your own?”
“I’m not dying, Hyune..” Felix murmured with a weary smile, grimacing when his voice cracked, throat stinging like it’d been burnt.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Hyunjin quipped fondly, giving Felix a once-over before nodding his head in direction of the living room. “Off you go~”
Felix narrowed his eyes in a playful glare before compliantly shuffling off. Reaching the couch, he collapsed face-first into the cushions, then slowly rolled onto his back with the dramatic resignation of a Victorian heroine.
The blanket bunched under his chin as he stared up at the blank ceiling, feeling his brain buzz quietly along the rush of blood in his ears. Heavy, everything felt so heavy— like his body had been filled with wet sand.
A moment later, could’ve been one minute, could’ve been ten, Hyunjin appeared in the doorway holding a cup with both hands like it contained the elixir of life.
Which, to be fair, it kind of felt like it did.
As Felix looked up to meet him, his eyebrows raised in surprise at the addition of a new accessory. With elastic string looped around his ears, Hyunjin was now wearing a light blue surgical mask, covering the lower half of his face.
Felix blinked hard, wondering where on earth he’d just gone and found one of those. “Is that—”
“From Channie-hyungs deep cleaning stash, yes.” Hyunjin answered before he even got the chance to finish, sounding awfully pleased with himself.
Felix huffed a weak laugh that immediately turned into a harsh cough, his shoulders shaking under the blanket from the sheer force of it.
Hyunjin was at his side in half a step before the younger man was glaring again, just as innocuous as his previous attempts.
“D-distance,” Felix rasped, pointing an accusing finger at him like a fragile, bleary-eyed prosecutor.
“Yah-“ Hyunjin stepped back and exaggeratedly pushed at the metal strip moulded over the curve of his nose. “See? I’m totally filtered with this on!”
Felix squinted his eyes at him, unconvinced and reluctant to concede to his claim. Filtered? What did he think it was— a force field? A respirator straight from NASA?
“If it keeps Channie-hyung safe from dangerous chemicals,” Hyunjin continued justifying his proposition, clearly sensing every doubt Felix didn’t voice, “then it’ll keep me safe from your sickly germs, yeah?”
While a mask definitely couldn’t guarantee anything, Felix felt his resolve wavering at the proposition. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes, feeling far too tired to argue with Hyunjin’s insistent rational. “…if you say so.”
Pleased to see his idea quietly accepted, Hyunjin crouched next to the couch, careful now, like Felix was some sort of skittish woodland creature. “I added honey,” he said softly, holding the cup of tea out for him. “And extra ginger for a little germ-fighting kick.”
Felix pushed himself up with effort, hands shaking just slightly as he took the cup, ceramic melding into his hands like it had been made just for him. “Thanks…”
Hyunjin stayed crouched in front of him, eyes soft above the mask as he hesitated, fingers twitching. “Can I coddle you now, or are you going to karate-chop me?”
Felix’s resolve was already on the edge of full on collapse, and the supplicating look in Hyunjin’s eyes was successfully tearing down the final pieces. How was he, a mere mortal, supposed to oppose that incredible force?
There on the couch, his nose pink, eyes glassy, and lashes clumped slightly at the corners, every cell in his body screamed at him to say yes to the offer.
Felix didn’t stand a chance.
The blanket had slipped a little, exposing one trembling shoulder like he simply didn’t have the energy to fix it.
“I just don’t want you sick..” Felix said meekly, staring into the cup as steam gently wafted against his face.
Hyunjin’s expression gentled in a way that made his voice lose all its previous jest and dramatics. “I know…”
He reached out slowly, giving Felix plenty of time to object, and adjusted the blanket back around his shoulders; careful and with minimal contact, fingers barely brushing the fabric.
Felix didn’t pull away this time, just sipped the tea with a quiet, congested sigh. His attempt at altruistic defence had already failed remarkably, every wall he’d tried to build torn to the ground…
Encouraged by the progression toward normality, Hyunjin took his chances, tapping the edge of the couch cushion. “Enough sad eyes. Scoot over.”
Felix frowned again, helplessly repeating the one word that had been spilling out as if he’d swallowed a broken record. “But…. distance.”
“I am wearing the mask,” Hyunjin argued matter-of-factly. “And I’ll face this way.” He demonstrated by turning his head dramatically to the side. “Look. Zero germ exchange. I’ll even hold my breath if you want. I have strong dancer lungs, after all.”
Felix let out a tired, wheezy giggle, because how could he not? This was getting absolutely ridiculous. “…wow, you’re insanely persistent sometimes.”
“So is that a yes?”
A small pause.
Then Felix inched sideways, making the tiniest bit of space beside him. Hyunjin didn’t hesitate to sit down, leaving a deferential gap between them, then gently tugged at the edges of the blanket so it covered Felix all the way down to his socked feet.
After a moment of hesitant silence, Felix tipped sideways, just slightly, until his temple rested against Hyunjin’s shoulder. Because there was no use in pretending he wasn’t longing for some tender comfort anymore.
Hyunjin went completely still, like a butterfly had landed on him and even the slightest movement risked scaring him off. “…am I allowed to hug you now?” he asked softly.
Felix’s eyes were already drifting shut, the comforting warmth of Hyunjin’s body slowly seeping into his own paradoxically fever-chilled one.
After a moment of labouring contemplation, he settled on a compromise that didn’t weigh too heavy on his conscience. “Side hug..”
Hyunjin smiled under the mask, eyes crinkling, and shifted just enough to let his arm drape around Felix’s shoulders.
Rubbing his thumb in gentle circles against Felix’s arm, Hyunjin leaned back against the cushions with a contented sigh.
I’ve never participated in any Feveruary/sicktember sort of arrangement before, I have no idea what I'm doing, but here I am at last… 😎 I won’t be doing every day (and probably not in the correct order), but I’ll write whatever ideas the prompts spark and post them accordingly🙂↕️
Still mainly Stray kids based stories, but Ateez may sneak in every now and then.. only time will tell😂
I’ll link the ones I write to the respective prompt/day here🌟
Prompt list :
1. "Don't get too close." (Felix, Hyunjin)
2. "You're going to get yourself hurt."
3. Migraine (Changbin, Lee Know)
4. Whiny Sickie
5. "I told you to wear something warm!"
6. Flu Shot
7. "Did you seriously think I wouldn't notice?" (Bang Chan, Changbin)
