Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s late. 

Chan knows it’s late, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He stares at himself in the mirror, panting and watching the other members in the practice room chatter amongst themselves. 

Jisoo, Jeonghan, and Seungcheol are standing near the door and  probably talking about dinner. Seokmin, Mingyu, Minghao, Seungkwan and Jun are in a circle in the middle of the room, passing water bottles around and laughing about some joke Jun told. The rest of the members are huddled around Soonyoung's phone, chattering about some new song that Shinee dropped today or yesterday. 

Chan turns back to the mirror, taking in the green walls behind him and how his sweat stuck his hair to his forehead. How his clothes were always too big because the other members were taller than him and he always got their old clothes. His feet ached from dancing in crappy tennis shoes that he had gotten from Samuel when he noticed that Chan’s old shoes had gotten several holes in them. 

“Guys! Let’s go get dinner!” Seungcheol shouted from the doorway as he pulled it open. There were various shouts of approval and meal suggestions as all the boys scrambled to stand and line up for headcount before they left. They always did a headcount before they went anywhere because the company couldn’t keep track of 14 boys in one group. Chan ran a hand through his hair and started making his way over to the line. 

As they started to line up, Seungcheol started counting off my tapping people on the head as he went down the line. 

“Jeonghan, Jisoo, Junhui, Soonyoung, Wonwoo, Jihoon, Mingyu, Seokmin, Minghao, Seungkwan, Hansol,”

Chan was just about to stand in line behind Samuel when he heard Seungcheol say, 

“Samuel, and myself. Everybody accounted for, let’s go! We’re heading to the barbecue place down the street!” 

Everybody cheered but Chan was frozen where he stood. It wasn’t unusual for them to forget about him when they did headcounts or went out for food. They would have early practices that he was never told about and when he would ask their managers after showing up when everyone was gone, they would say 

‘They didn’t tell you?’ 

He would just smile and laugh and say, 

‘They probably just forgot, I'm sure they’ll tell me next time!’

He would slip into the practice room and dance until dawn, and then slink back to the dorms where he would find them all curled up in the living room, sharing blankets and food and watching a movie from somebody’s childhood that he was never told about. Sometimes, he would stand in the doorway and watch for a little while before slipping past them and curling up in his top bunk in the middle of one of their rooms. Sometimes he would cry. 

Sometimes he would simply stare at the ceiling and listen to the sounds of their laughter through the walls. 

Sometimes, he would wish that they remembered he was there. 

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t even started rising when Chan slipped into the kitchen, careful not to make a sound. He had memorized their dorm by now —where the bowls were stacked, which mug each member preferred and why, how to pick up the kettle just before it started whistling. 

The rice cooker was already humming. He’d set it the night before, just in case no one else remembered.

It was stupid, probably. They were grown. They could feed themselves. But he still laid out cups of tea on the counter, —careful to fill each one with the tea that member enjoyed— slid a few bananas into the front of the fruit basket, and left the last packet of honey-lemon cough drops at the corner of the table, because Jeonghan had been coughing again last night and but refused to say anything about it.

By the time the others stumbled in, Chan was already dressed and half-done with his second cup of chamomile tea. 

Mingyu a cup without looking. “Thanks, hyung,” he mumbled, though his eyes were glued to his phone, open to some new game Wonwoo had probably introduced to him. 

Chan smiled anyway’s. “No problem.”

They filtered in and out like that —absent thanks, half-hearted comments about the weather, the choreography. No one asked if he’d slept or when he had gotten home last night. At one point, he slipped into the bathroom when there was a lul in guests. He came back to find half the tea dumped in the sink and cups left haphazardly on the living room floor.

Soonyoung was agitated. "You're too far back in the chorus, Chan. And Seokmin keeps jumping in late, can you fix that?"

Chan nodded. He hadn’t even completely danced his own part yet —he’d been walking the lines, helping Seungkwan and Hansol align with the mirrors, marking timing with his foot tapping against the floor. He adjusted the speakers when Jeonghan made a comment about them being too loud. He lowered the thermostat when Jihoon complained about it being too hot. Took mental notes on three different positions for three different members to be sure he could help them when they did the music video shoot. 

“You didn’t fix the third formation,” Seungkwan called, tossing around a water bottle with the cap half-off.

Chan didn’t correct him. He had fixed it. Twice. 

He smiled. “I’ll look at it again.”

Hours passed. It was nearly 2 pm when finally they broke for lunch. Someone mentioned chicken, someone else argued about side dishes, while Seungcheol tried to rally everyone to ask what they wanted to eat as a group. 

Chan stayed by the mirror and stared at his shoes, chest heaving. 

He looked up when he heard shoes starting to squeak on the floor and watched them all file out the door, chattering about who would get Seungcheol or Jisoo to pay for their food. 

Once they all left, he sat cross-legged against the mirrored wall, head leaned back, trying to steady the tremor in his hands. His body felt distant. Detached, like if he closed his eyes, he could watch himself float away. Every inhale felt like dragging air through gauze.

But the music started again. So, he stood, legs heavy. Counted beats. Let the track restart by itself. He bent over after 5 more run throughs, hands on his knees, head pounding and vision starting to swim.  

Eventually, Chan stood up, the voice in his head screaming at him to keep going, keep pushing. Because they would see his effort eventually right? He rubbed at his eyes once more before fully standing up and looking in the mirror. 

The floor pitched a little when he moved, but he kept going. Through the verse. The bridge. The chorus, even though his knees buckled for half a second. He didn’t stop. He wasn’t sure he could stop, even if he had wanted to. 

At some point, his vision started tunneling, going black around the edges and creeping into the center. He felt himself tilting, stumbling, his arms still moving to the choreography. His throat felt tight and his limbs limp. He felt like throwing up. 

Chan didn’t remember hitting the ground.

Just the sound of the song cutting out, and then —nothing.

When he blinked back into consciousness, the lights were off and their song had stopped playing. It was quiet again. His cheek was pressed to the cool studio floor. The room was empty.

How long had it been?

His heart stuttered back to rhythm slowly, painfully. His limbs felt underwater. His chest ached in a strange, distant way —like grief, but buried somewhere under muscle and pride. He pushed himself up, leaning against the wall as his head pounded and ignoring the nausea that rolled up his spine. He walked slowly towards the lightswitch, pressing his side against the wall for support on the way. When he switched the flip, he was blinded for a temporary moment. 

His reflection stared back from the mirror: pale, hair matted to his forehead, lip split just slightly.

He exhaled.

He wiped the floor with a towel, noticed that there was a jacket in the corner that hadn’t been there when the others left for dinner. Seungkwan’s water bottle —that he had taken with him to dinner— was now sitting by the mirror, tipped over and leaking water on the floor. Chan stared at it for a while then sighed, picked it up, turned off the lights, and slipped out of the room without a word.

He didn’t tell anyone. 

They had another early morning tomorrow and he didn’t need them worrying about him. 

Not that they would, anyways. 

Chapter Text

Chan wakes up late the next morning to find all the members gone from their dorm. He checks the time on his phone through bleary eyes and nearly falls out of bed when he’s met with a bright, 3:00 pm. He scrambles towards his closet and pulls on the first pair of jeans and tank top he can get his hands on. He leaves his sleeping socks on and makes a dash for the front door, pausing in the kitchen only for a second to contemplate grabbing a banana. He receives a text from his manager and only glances at it before catching sight of the time again and kickstarting his anxiety. He forgoes his breakfast —or lunch, however you want to put it— and pulls on his sneakers before dashing out the door, only barely remembering to lock the door behind him. 

“You're late” his manager scolds him, hands crossed tightly across his chest. Chan can barely hear him over the room speakers blasting their new song. The sound of chatter drowns out the rest of the manager chewing him out. Chan nods and keeps his head down and says plenty of ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘It won’t happen again.’ Eventually, their manager's face goes from anger to concern and his hands drop from their hold, finding purchase inside his pockets instead.  

“They didn’t wake you up?”

Chan shakes his head and forces a smile. 

“I’m sure they just forgot!” he says cheerily, “I’ll be sure to do better in the future, Manager-nim!”

His manager eyes him before patting him on the shoulder and letting him go off to practice. Chan joins his members just as the song starts again, taking his place and letting his body take control of his mind while he dances.

A couple hours later, most members are sprawled out on the floor with water bottles or sagging against mirrors as they chatter idly. Soonyoung is standing in front of the mirror, running through the choreography in his head while taking small sips from his water bottle. Just as he mentally gets to the second chorus, he hears Soonyoung mutter 

“The formation is off for the whole second part and it doesn’t match the music.” 

He watches Soonyoung look around and his eyes catch on Chan for a fraction of a second before he’s walking to the other side of the room towards the monitor. 

“Guys! Dinner time!”

The volume in the room goes up by several notches and he watches everybody start to file into a line before he rips his eyes away. Stands in front of the mirror and starts dancing from the beginning, filtering out the sounds of talk about meat and drinks and dessert. He gets through half of the song before somebody taps him on the shoulder and he turns around to find his manager. 

“Aren’t you going with them, Chan? You work so hard, you really do deserve to eat something nice. I heard Seungcheol’s paying.” 

Chan squashes down the lump in his throat before smiling brightly and waving him off by saying

“I’m not that hungry so I’ll just eat when I get back to the dorm! It’s no worries!” he laughs, though it sounds fake and hollow to his ears. 

“And I really want to make sure that I get this choreography down before tomorrow’s practice!”

His squints at him and asks 

“Are you sure?”

Chan simply nods and waves him off, turning back to the mirror and starting over. 

Sometime later, once everybody has vacated the practice room, Chan grabs the ipad they use for dance notes and downloads the video they use for practice reference. He loses track of time as he painstakingly goes through each formation and draws out light notes on each frame. By the time he looks up, his neck and wrist are aching just as bad as his stomach and it’s nearly 2am. He watches his work one time before shutting off the ipad, wiping down the mirrors and floors, shutting off the lights and slipping out of the building. 

The next morning, the members find themselves standing in front of their practice room TV, watching the new footage with Chan’s notes. He feels his heart swell as he stands behind them and hears their praise wash over him like a wave crashing on a beach shore.

“Ok, everyone!” Soonyoung claps his hand to get their attention. 

“Our choreographers have been so kind as to make this video for us, so were not going to let it go to waste, are we?”  

Chan's heart sinks to the floor as a chorus of enthusiastic ‘no’s’ echo through the room. His vision starts to swim as everybody scatters to the middle of the room and starts to get into position. He surreptitiously rubs at his eyes with the sleeve hoodie as he gets into position just as the music starts. His brain goes a little fuzzy and his ears start ringing at some point but then the music has stopped and then started again and he doesn’t know how many times they run through the song before they start to file out. He stands in the middle of the room, watching through the mirror as the members and few staff file out slowly. 

He watches as Minghao flips off the light before shutting the door behind himself, encasing Chan in darkness. He stares at the mirror, imagining them coming back in and thanking him for fixing their formations and taking him out to lunch with them and having one of the other members pay for his meal. He sinks to the ground and lets his eyes blur again, letting himself fall backwards. He barely feels the pain of his head hitting the hard floor before hot tears are streaming down his face. His chest feels tight with each forced breath, with each fresh batch of tears that pools on the hardwood beside his ears. At some point, the ringing in his ears picks back up again and then he’s thinking about his members, the people that are supposed to be his people, the ones that take care of him and help him and care for him, and how they don’t and they never will and he’s sobbing all over again. He brings his hand up to his mouth to muffle his sobs and bites it so hard he tastes blood. At some point, Chan thinks he hears the door open and click shut but he doesn’t care because he can barely. Fucking. Breathe. 

When Chan drags himself back to their dorm in the middle of the night, he smells of soju and cheap cigarettes. He tries to be quiet as he opens and locks their front door, stumbling to his room and passing the living room on the way there. He sees Minghao, Soonyoung, and Wonwoo sitting on the floor and playing a game of Jenga. Before he can think properly, he stumbles right through their tower on the way to his room. 

“What the fuck?” Soonyoung yells, glaring up at Chan. He doesn’t do anything but blink back at his friend. 

Can he even call them that? Does he even have that privilege? 

He doesn’t move even as they start recollecting the blocks and building another tower. He just stares for a while and then walks to their communal bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The person that stares back at him is flushed with droopy eyes and a blood-crusted bite mark on his hand. It doesn’t look like him at all. 

But then again, what does he look like in the first place? 

Chapter Text

“Who ate all the ramyeon from our cabinet?”

Chan froze his hands over the game controller he was using, watching his character die blankly on the screen. 

“I didn’t!” Soonyoung called from his room, followed by a chorus of ‘me neither!’ from the other members. Chan continued staring at their TV screen, though he could practically feel Seokmin’s eyes boring into the back of his head. Memories of himself making a pack of ramyeon late last night after everybody had gone to bed, resurfaced. He remembered still being hungry and going back for a second packet. And then a third. He forced himself to swallow down the guilt and restart his game, pushing the thoughts out of his head. They couldn’t do anything if he never said anything about it, right? 

Right? 

When he goes to bed that night, on his way to the bathroom, he hears Seokmin mutter the words “Fat pig” under his breath before he’s running down the hall to join Seungcheol and Jihoon in their game of cards. 

Their recording had ended early today, with a couple hours of sunlight left in the day. Some of their members split off into groups to go out walking or visit cafes, but most of them stayed in the dorm, taking advantage of their rare free time. On their way back to their dorm, Chan made a detour to their local convenience store and grabbed more ramyeon, some diet coke for Jihoon and some ice cream for himself since it had been hot lately and their AC was broken. When he got back, he shut the door behind him quietly, toeing off his shoes and setting the bag down on the counter before slipping into the bathroom. He washed his hands and stared at the bite mark on his hand from a couple days ago, noticing a scab starting to form. He dries them off and walks back out to the counter to collect his food. He reaches the kitchen only to find the ramyeon dumped in a pot of boiling water, various coke cans scattered across the room and his ice cream melting on the counter. He quickly grabs a paper towel and wipes up the spilled dessert and then unwraps it and licks around it. He can feel his hands getting sticky but he doesn’t really care. He dumps the plastic bag and a few empty coke cans in the recycling bin before sitting down at the table and scrolling Instagram. 

A few minutes later, Mingyu, Seokmin, Minghao and Junhui come into the kitchen and divide the ramyeon into 4 bowls before disappearing into the living room to sit in front of the TV and probably play games. After he’s done with his ice cream, he throws the wrapper in the trash and cleans the pot left on the sink until it shines like the sun. 

“Who even eats shit like this?” 

Chan’s body freezes in the hallway at the sound of Seokmin’s voice. He’s still in his dance clothes, having opted for a baggy shirt and jeans today instead of his usual tank top. It’s nearly 1am, which isn’t the latest he’s gone to bed but they have a pre-recording tomorrow and he doesn’t want to be exhausted.

“You’ll get fucking fat if you eat shit like that” Seokmin say’s, making someone who sounds like Wonwoo laugh. 

Chan forces himself to walk into the kitchen and grab a glass of water, bypassing Wonwoo and Seokmin where they’re lounging around on the counter. He fills his cup to the top with ice cold water and watches as it overflows onto the counter as he dumps ice cubes into it. He takes a sip off the top and reaches for the paper towels on the counter next to where Wonwoo’s sitting. He watches as they soak up the water, but when he goes to dump them in the trash can, he notices that it’s already open. Then, from around his shoulder, somebody drops a wrapper into it. And an ice cream wrapper. His ice cream wrapper. 

“I mean, come on, man! You ate all our rameyon and now you have ice cream?”

Chan hears Seokmin’s voice fade down the hall as he exits the kitchen with Wonwoo. 

“Seriously, nobody should be eating that much.” 

There’s a pause in the conversation until he just barely hears Seokmin say

“He’s fat enough already. We don’t need someone who looks like that representing the team.”

Chan freezes. He can hear his heart in his ears and there's a lump in his throat that he swallows around. He drops the wet paper towels in the trash can before turning around and chugging his glass of water. His throat burns as the cold shocks and numbs his insides and he can feel tears slipping down his eyes as he stares into the fluorescent ceiling lights, but he doesn’t stop until there’s no more water left to drink. He rinses out his cup and dries it and places it back in the cabinet before turning and walking to his room. For the next hour, he listens to the sounds of Seunkwan singing karaoke, Minghao doing his nightly tea ceremony, Wonwoo and Seungcheol playing games, and Jihoon playing guitar until everything goes silent. Once he’s sure everyone’s asleep, he slips out of bed and into the bathroom, shutting it quietly behind him. There, he stares at himself in the mirror, turning to the side and pinching his arms and thighs and stomach and face until they’re red and raw from pulling and rubbing. He turns on the shower and sheds his clothes, careful not to look in the mirror, and steps under the scalding spray. He rubs at his skin until it’s scarlet and the bite mark on his hand starts to bleed again. He washes his face like he can scrub the chub in his cheeks away with the force of his hands. When he steps out, he realizes he forgot to grab a change of clothes from his dresser. He mentally curses himself and refuses to look at himself in the mirror. If he had, he would have seen a boy with ruby red skin and eyes that can no longer stand the sight of himself. 

“Chan-ah, we’re going to need you to go on a diet.”

Chan stiffens where he’s sitting in a chair across from their managers. He must not hide his reaction very well because they quickly add

“It won’t be for very long. Just 2 weeks until the new album releases.” 

He keeps his eyes on the floor. It wouldn’t be that different from now, would it? Ever since the conversation he heard in the kitchen a couple days ago, he’s been cutting back on food anyways. He never eats ice cream anymore or the cakes that the company gets for special lives. He’s stopped eating ramyeon and started skipping breakfast, with the excuse of ‘I’m just going to practice early’ or ‘I'm just not hungry this morning.’ Nobody ever asks him why, or tells him to make sure he doesn’t overwork himself. He’s sure they care. They probably just forget to ask. But they do care. Right? 

“Chan?” 

He looks up to find his manager staring at him. He forces a smile and straightens his posture, forcing all the negative thoughts out of his body for the moment. 

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I just zoned out for a second. What were you saying?”

“I was just going over the regulations for your diet. You're sure you're okay to continue?”

Chan nods and smiles eagerly, gesturing for his manager to continue. He gets a weird look but by the end of the meeting, he’s gathered that his new diet wouldn’t change much anyways. 

“Congratulations!” The members all gather around their manager with various comments of ‘oh my god!’ and ‘what’s this for?’ 

“Me and the staff decided to get you a cake since you have all been working so hard lately and to congratulate you on another album release!”

All of the members cheer and hugs and plates and utensils are passed around as the cake is cut. The smell of vanilla permeates the room and suddenly Chan feels nauseous. He stands up, stumbling slightly before slipping behind the group of people in front of the door. 

“Chan! Where are you going?” one of the staff members asks him, just as he twists the door handle. He smiles weakly, and responds with 

“Just the bathroom! I’ll be right back!” the staff smiles at him and nods, turning back to the cake and his members. He slips out the door and down the hallway, locking the bathroom door behind him. He leans against the counter, nausea crawling up his throat. He can feel sweat beading at his temple and he’s started shivering at some point. He looks up at himself in the mirror and dread washes over him. Did he always look this fat? Were his arms always this fleshy? Was his face always so chubby? He looks down at his stomach and it growls unpleasantly. He thinks about the breakfast he skipped yesterday, the singular unsalted chicken breast he ate for lunch 5 hours ago, and then the cake sitting in their practice room. He’s over the toilet bowl and throwing up before he registers it.  His stomach contracts for what feels like hours, pushing out nothing and everything that he’s digested. When it finally stops, he flushes and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, slumping against the opposite wall. His chest is heaving and his mouth tastes sharp and unpleasant. 

Chan stares up at the bright, fluorescent lights on the ceiling, and starts to cry.

Chapter Text

For the next couple weeks, Chan sticks to his new diet best he can. He’s allowed most of what he’s used to eating, except for ramyeon and other generally unhealthy foods. He rotates between morning practices, lunch, throwing up said lunch, vocal practice or recordings, and the occasional granola bar for dinner. He’s learned not to each much, politely declining offers about dinner and company lunches from staff and his managers. He has rehearsed sentences about sticking to his diet and not being hungry. He’s never really hungry, if he thinks about it. Or, no. That’s a lie. He is hungry. He’s just gotten used to ignoring it.

This morning, they have a recording instead of dance practice, so Chan gifts himself 10 extra minutes of sleep before getting up and making his usual tea. He’d started making it before their debut, as a way to get closer to the members when there had been even more of them competing for a spot in Seventeen. They had talked to him then, inviting him to movie nights and celebratory dinners for whenever somebody got a good monthly review. He remembers having late night talks with Jisoo, listening to him talk about missing Los Angeles and how he wished he could see his parents. Chan wonders if he’s still homesick, if the feeling ever got any better. He remembers fun and chaotic dance practices with Soonyoung that would run early into the morning until Seungcheol came and forced them to go to bed. He wonders if Soonyoung does that with Minghao, or Jun, now, instead of him. He remembers talking with Samuel, worrying about how the boy was so young when he joined that the pressure was too much. That it would be too much when he debuted. If he debuted. He had always wanted to debut with Samuel, had wanted someone to tease and take care of and treat like a little brother. The members had loved him as well, had always been willing to give him anything and everything while they trained. Jeonghan always spent his last dollars on ice cream for the young boy, Mingyu always staying up late researching dishes that might make Samuel feel like he was back home. 

It was a sad day when his mother chose to withdraw him from training. Chan had been devastated, but he let his hyungs cry. He let them show their emotions, to vent and plead and sob as much as they wanted to. He kept to himself, tears spilling over silently, watching them give Samuel tight hugs and words of encouragement. Chan only let himself cry properly once he hugged Samuel, crouching and letting the boy run into his arms. He nearly crushed him that day, nearly made him into planets and stardust that he could forever carry in his pocket. He felt like Samuel hugged him a little harder than the other members that day, but he forced the thought away. He convinced himself to let go, to wipe the other boy’s tears and tell him to be strong and that he would be missed. 

What followed his departure was something that Chan didn’t want to think about. He forced himself back to the present and found his cup of tea to be cold in his hand. He dumped the liquid down the sink and washed his cup, placing it on their drying rack before running off to his room to get ready for the day. 

“You're behind the beat.” Jihoon said flatly, making Chan curl inwards on himself. He nodded and turned back to the mic, signaling for Jihoon to start the track again. He sang through the first line easily but tripped on a word on his second line. He mentally curses himself, prepared to be called out by Jihoon or even Hansol about his slip up. Instead, he turned to the glass to find Jihoon staring daggers into his head. He reached for the red button that allowed him to hear Jihoon’s comments. 

“Chan, get out. Try again later. We don’t have time for this.” 

Something ugly twists in his gut but he swallows it down, slipping the headphones over his head and placing them on the music stand in front of the mic. As he steps out of the booth and over to a chair in the corner, he can feel the member’s eyes boring into the sides of his head. He pulls his knees up to his chest and listens to Jihoon and Hansol give the next member advice on how to make their rift cleaner. At some point, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom, though he’s not sure anybody hears him. He slips out the door and walks down the hall, pulling open the bathroom door and letting it slam shut behind him. He winces as the sound echoes through the tile room, and stares at himself in the mirror. Normally, he wouldn’t dare do such a thing, but he hasn’t eaten anything today so there’s nothing for his body to regurgitate. He leans on the edge of the sink, feeling cold water spreading under his warm palm. Chan lets his eyes drag over his face, the dark bags under his eyes, the cracks in his lips. Slowly, he pulls out his phone and pulls up the document that Jihoon sent their groupchat, scrolling down until he gets to his lyrics. He only has 2 lines, and his second one is half covered by Seungkwan starting his, but it’s fine. He’s performance team, he gets it. 

It’s fine. 

Slowly, Chan starts to sing. He drags out the syllables in the places Jihoon instructed him to, pronounces some words differently per Hansol’s request, and tries his best to make himself believe that it sounds good. When he gets to the end of his lines, he starts over again. He tries to sing more powerfully this time, focusing less on how clear he sounds and more on how much presence his voice has. He listens to the way it reverberates around the bathroom, cringing when his voice cracks on the last note. When he gets to the end for a second time, he restarts again. 

Chan sings and sings, until his voice is cracking so much that it barely sounds like he’s singing at all. He swipes through the document and clicks on the song demo that Jihoon added, placing his phone on the edge of the sink and pressing play. The sound of his hyung’s voice fills the room, drowning out everything in his head. Chan slides down the wall until he’s sitting and leaning against it, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. A couple minutes later, when the song stops, he opens his eyes and picks up his phone. He swipes back to his lyrics and sings again. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays in the bathroom, singing until his throat is raw, jaw

aching. He finally pockets his phone, the lyrics burned into his memory. He takes one last glance in the mirror before averting his eyes and stepping out into the hallway. He hums the song under his breath on his way back to the recording studio, ignoring the pain that comes with each pitch change and rift. When he reaches the studio, he places his hand on the handle and pauses when he hears laughter. His gut clenches and he hesitates before pressing his ear to the door. 

Seungkwan's voice filters through the metal, loud and mocking 

“And then, when I was walking past the bathroom to get drinks from the vending machine, I could hear him singing in the bathroom!” 

Chan’s head pounds, his face flushing at the thought that Seungkwan of all people heard him singing. 

“And the worst part was, that he was singing like he actually thought it sounded good!”

The room erupted in laughter and Chan could practically see their faces, Hansol’s gummy smile, Soonyoung squinting as he smiled. 

“I thought I was going to throw up, seriously! It was so bad. I can’t believe he thinks he can actually sing.” 

Chan’s eyes start to burn with tears, his vision blurring and a lump forming in his throat. 

“Good call on telling him to get out of the booth, hyung. He would have ruined the entire track.”

More laughter, and then Jihoon’s voice. 

“Yeah, I wasn’t gonna continue letting him sing like that and have it on the official track . Having Jun sing his part sounded way better anyways.”

Chan tuned out the rest of the conversation as they started compliment Junhui on his 

Singing. He backed away from the door, letting his hand fall away from the handle as he let his tears fall. He swallowed thickly and then turned and ran.

Chan locked himself in a bathroom stall —a different bathroom than the previous one. He might never be able to go back there. 

He buries his head between his legs and sobs until he can taste blood on his tongue. He lifts his head and coughs into his hand, pulling it away to find the smallest amount of blood splattered onto the back of it. He stands up, wiping his eyes with his clean hand and unlocking the stall. He steps out and grabs a paper towel, swiping it on the back of his hand and then throwing it in the trash before glancing at himself in the mirror. His eyes are puffy and his cheeks are a splotchy red. His throat feels like someone rubbed an open wound with sandpaper and then doused it in lemon juice. He tries to sing his verse one more time but only gets through the first verse with a weak sound, and then he’s hunched over the sink, coughing a lung out. He opens his eyes when it dies down, staring at the blood before turning on the faucet and watching it swirl down the drain.

Chan spends the next couple weeks talking as little as he can and avoiding singing at all costs. When they start performing for music shows again, Chan asks the staff to turn up the volume of his backing track. He doesn’t end up singing during his part anyways because it’s Junhui’s voice and the fans would notice. He just holds his mic and mouths along with the words, smiling through the pain of his throat. When they win first place, he cries and gets jostled around with the other members, hugged and smiled at. They accept the award and Chan makes his way to the back of the group to avoid making a speech. He basks in the small amount of attention his members give him while they’re on stage, but he’s not startled when they start completely ignoring him once back in the green room. 

He sits on a little couch in the corner and opens his phone to X, scrolling through the tweets. By the time he looks up, his members are gone and only the staff is left picking up their remnants and trash. He tosses his phone on the couch, still open to a tweet he had been looking at, before standing up and helping the makeup noonas to clean up their products. 

jeongcheolove @scoupsxhannie - 2 hours ago

Anybody notice how Dino’s voice sounded like Jun's in the recent performance?

Svtfrvrcarat @svtcarat1713 - 2 hours ago

Replying to @scoupsxhannie 

I did! which was also weird because i didn’t notice him having any other parts

DanceMachineDino @leechansdancepants - 2 hours ago

Replying to @scoupsxhannie 

me toooo 

he danced good as always but i feel like i never actually heard his voice :(

junhuihui @junnieeeeeeee<3 - 1 hour ago

Replying to @leechansdancepants 

frrrr 

I feel like i’ve been hearing him less and less in songs, is it just me? 

shuashuamongmong @josh’s_acoustic_guitar - 1 hour ago

Replying to @junnieeeeeeee<3 

It’s not just you. I’ve been noticing it too, i feel like i don’t hear his voice as much in their songs as I used to.

chwehansolchokeme @chewnotchwe - 30 min ago

Replying to @josh’s_acoustic_guita

Could it be that he’s just sick lately? or has a sore throat?

shuashuamongmong @josh’s_acoustic_guitar - 30 min ago

Replying to @chewnotchwe

I guess it’s possible? But it feels like something more…

Chapter Text

“Hey” 

Chan looks up from his phone where he’d been watching their most recent episode of Going Seventeen. He finds Wonwoo in the door of his room, leaning against the doorframe and staring at his phone. 

“Wonwoo-hyung?” he asks, voice light. It’s rare that his hyung ask him anything, or even approaches him at all outside of filming. Wonwoo’s eyes flick from his phone to his face briefly before shoving off the doorway and saying 

“Go get us snacks from the convenience store. We’re having a movie night.”

He simultaneously perks up and deflates at the thought of having a movie night. While he has mostly fond memories of movie nights with his fellow trainees before debut, he’s almost never invited anymore. He almost considers saying no, imagines an alternate universe where he declines and demands to be included in their fun and not a servant made to run errands. He shakes the thought off. He would never do something like that. 

“You’re invited.” 

Chan snaps his eyes back from where they had drifted to the top corner of the doorframe. He stares and then beams as the words catch up to him. 

“Really?” he asks, dropping his phone onto the wood floor in his haste scramble to stand up. Wonwoos looks him up and down, eyes blank but tinged with something close to disdain. Chan chooses to ignore it. 

“Yeah.” Wonwoo says, turning away, “But only if you go get the snacks.” 

Chan stops, just for a second when his brain whispers that he shouldn’t, that it’s a trick. He shakes his head and jogs through their dorm to the front door, slipping his shoes on and calling out to their empty living room that he’s going out. 

He slips his jacket on as the door clicks shut behind him, shivering as the cold air blasts him in the face. 

He stuffs his hands into his pockets as he hurries down the sidewalk, gaze set on the convenience store on the corner. He blows out a puff of cold air as he steps over the threshold, nodding to the store clerk as the door slides shut behind him. He grabs a basket and fills it with chips and candies and a singular pint of ice cream in a flavor that he knows Junhui loves. He pauses at the ice cream section after grabbing the pint, starting at the singular bars. He hesitates before slamming the freezer door shut and walking over to the counter. Chan sets his basket down and pulls out his wallet, scanning his card over the reader before slipping it back into its leather pouch. He smiles at the cashier as he fists two nearly-overflowing bags of snacks, and steps out the door. As he walks down the sidewalk, he notices that snow has begun to fall. Chan tilts his head up and opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out and feeling the cold nip at it. He stares up at the sky, which had turned a dark shade of blue in the time he was in the store. After several minutes, he registered that he could barely feel his fingers anymore and quickly tilted his head back down and resumed walking. As he walked, he remembered how there was a night when Jeonghan had convinced him to sneak out with him and Samuel to get ice cream. Originally, he had opposed the idea, fearing that they would get punished harshly if caught. Yet, Jeonghan had convinced him, and he found himself huddled under a street lamp licking a lime-flavored popsicle. He remembers shivering in the cold as snow had begun to fall and regretting not bringing his warmer coat. He remembers hugging Samuel tight to his chest with one arm after the boy finished his icecream, and had started shivering. He remembers Jeonghan shrugging off his coat and placing it over his shoulders, despite his protests. 

He remembers Jeonghan getting sick after that, that he had been miserable for a whole week simply because he had wanted to take them out to buy ice cream, and Chan had forgotten his coat. 

Chan shakes himself out of his thoughts as he reaches their dorm, setting the bags down on the floor before fishing around in his pocket for the door key. He pauses when he doesn’t feel anything but soft fabric, and then shines his phone flashlight into both pockets. He sighs, and then knocks on the door. 

“Guys! I’m back!”

He yells, waiting before knocking again. Maybe they didn’t hear him the first time. 

“I forgot my key! I have the snacks!”

He yells again, this time slightly louder than before. His heart rate picks up when he realizes that there’s no noise coming from inside. Maybe they forgoed the movie and went to sleep instead? But there has to be somebody awake, there’s always somebody that can’t sleep right away. 

He knocks again, harsher this time, voice cracking on his words as he shouts. 

“Guys? Wonwoo hyung? Jeonghan hyung? Seungkwannie?”

His eyes start to water and he wipes at them furiously. He refuses to cry. They probably just can’t hear him, right? They probably have their headphones in, or they're in the shower, or something like that? 

Chan pulls out his phone and swipes through his contacts, pressing on Hansol’s number. He’s the most likely to be awake, along with Seungcheol and Jihoon, but also probably the most likely to pick up. Seungcheol is always playing games late into the night and Jihoon never picks up his phone in general, unless it's an extremely important situation. Chan doesn’t think this counts as an ‘extremely important’ situation. 

He listens to the phone ring, hope fading until the line clicks and his heart soars. 

“The number you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a messa-”

Chan ends the call and lets his heart sink, swiping to Seungcheol’s contact instead. 

He waits a couple of minutes. Straight to voicemail. 

He calls Jihoon. 

Straight to voicemail. 

He calls Mingyu.

Straight to voicemail. 

He calls Junhui. 

Straight to voicemail, but this time it's in Chinese. 

He calls Wonwoo. 

Straight to voicemail. 

He calls every single one of the members, yet none of them respond. 

He texts their groupchat, the one that was last texted in one and a half years ago to ask if somebody had mistakenly taken someone else's tie out of the dryer.

He texts Wonwoo individually, say’s that he’s outside and has the food. Chan pockets his phone and stares at the bags next to him. On the good side, at least the ice cream won’t melt, given how cold it is. On the bad side, he might freeze, given how cold it is. After 10 minutes of waiting, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks their group chat. 

His heart stutters when he sees the screen. 

His message had been read by every member, except Jihoon, 2 minutes after he sent it. He lifted his gaze to stare at the door in front of him. 

It remains closed, dead silence filtering out from the building. 

Chan takes a deep breath as his eyes start to water, squeezing them shut and baling his fists. 

“It’s fine” he whispers to himself, his voice cracking. 

“You're fine.”

He opens his eyes and rubs them dry, wiping out his phone and dialing his manager. The phone only rings twice before the line clicks and a familiar groggy voice filters through. 

“Hello?”

Chan nearly sobs at the sound. 

“Hyung?” he asks instead, keeping his voice surprisingly level. 

“Chan?” he sounds more alert now, with rustling filtering through behind his voice. 

“Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Chan swallows around the lump in his throat as he answers. 

“I’m fine. I just,” he swallows, holding his phone in a vice grip. “I lost my key to our dorm and was wondering if you had a spare one?” 

The line is silent for a couple seconds too long before there’s a sigh. 

“Ah. Um, I’m a little far out of the way of the dorm, but I could come. The members won’t let you in?”

Chan breathes out through his nose, rubbing at his eyes again. They’ll be puffy tomorrow, probably red too. 

He doesn’t care about that right now. 

“How far away are you?” he asks.

“About 45 minutes, probably? Maybe 35 if there’s no traffic.”

His heart clenches at the thought of his manager having to drive all that way so late at night just to let him into the dorm. 

“Actually,” he rushes out, “I just found my key, so it’s fine.”

“Really?” his manager asks skeptically. 

“Yeah” he lies, swallowing down the bile in his throat. “It was just buried in my pocket, don’t worry hyung.”

“Ok…” Chan can hear his manager's skepticality through the phone but he reassures him nonetheless. Once he hangs up, he sighs heavily and swipes to the maps app. He begins typing in ‘motels’ but suddenly his phone screen goes black. 

He stares down at it for one too many seconds.
“No no no no—”
He taps it again, harder this time. 

Nothing. Not even the faint glow of the low battery sign flashing back at him.

He stares at his reflection in the black screen for a long moment before he lets out a breathless, bitter laugh.
Of course.

Of course he was lucky enough to get locked out, get ignored and then have his fucking phone die. 

Of. Fucking. Course. 

And then—on impulse, on frustration, on something he doesn’t have the energy to unpack yet—he throws it.

The phone hits the curb with a sharp, splitting crack and skitters across the pavement. It lands face-down in a shallow puddle, the corner spiderwebbed with a fracture he doesn’t bother checking.

He doesn’t go to pick it up. He just turns. Grabs the plastic bags of food, fisting them like the red marks they’ll leave in his palm will save his sanity. 

The snow bites at his cheeks, red from the cold, and he keeps walking. Away dorm, past the coffee shop they used to sneak into after late-night practices. Past the bench where he and Minghao once stayed up talking until dawn. Past the park where him, Seokmin and Soonyoung once came out to have a picnic after a particularly hard practice. 

He doesn’t even know where he’s going. He just knows he can’t stay there. Not in front of that door. Not with his name ringing silent in their phones, with ignored messages in their chat. 

It takes him over an hour, maybe two, before the neon “24-HOUR MOTEL” sign finally cuts through the darkness.

The inside is warm. Too warm. Suffocating, almost. The woman at the desk doesn’t look at him twice, just slides him a key when he mumbles his name and fishes out his wallet with shaking fingers.

The room is beige and smells faintly of cigarette smoke and old carpet cleaner. But it has a shower. And that’s all he can think about. He dumps the bags unceremoniously on the floor next to the door before making a beeline for the bathroom.

He strips off his clothes, shedding layers like peeling off skin. The hot water scalds his back, and he leans into it until the heat starts to feel like it might blister. Even then, he doesn’t move. Just stands there. Relishes in it. 

30 minutes later, he has a towel slung low around his waist. The mirror is streaky from when he wiped the condensation off of it. He stares at himself. At the way his skin is flushed and red. How palms have angry red indents in them. How his stomach is more fleshy now than it was a couple days ago. 

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t have the energy.
He just… pulls.
At the skin under his arms. 

His stomach. 

His jaw. 

His waist. 

His cheeks. 

His neck. 

Not scratching. Just pulling. Holding. Like he can make it go away by holding it away from his bones. 

He throws up. Once. Then again. Chest heaving, hands on either side of the sink, finger down his throat.
The taste of stomach acid burns his mouth but he feels like control. Like something real. Like he’s finally doing something right. 

Eventually, he lays in the stiff bed, damp hair soaking into the motel pillow, and falls asleep to the sound of the heater clunking in the corner.

Chan is sick.

Not just a sore throat. Not just a sniffle.

Laid-out, ache-in-every-bone, can’t-sit-up, sick.

He’s curled in a blanket on the spare couch in their practice room, hoodie drawn over his head, nose red, face pale. His whole body shakes from a fever, but he refused to go home when the manager offered mid-practice.

He refused the offers of medicine too.
Refused to say why he won’t go back to the dorm.
Refused to say how he got sick in the first place.

He just said he needed to rest for 20 minutes, that he would be fine afterwards. 

That was hours ago.

The manager comes over to him again, worried.
“Chan, are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

Chan doesn’t open his eyes.
“I’m fine,” he rasps.

The manager sighs and sets down a bottle of water and a packet of cold medicine beside him, then leaves.

The door clicks shut.
And he's alone again.

He turns his face into the pillow. Breathes in.
It smells like a storage closet. Cleaning supplies. Dust.
Safety.

His phone is still dead, cracked screen face-down in his bag. He picked it up this morning on the way to the company.
He hasn’t plugged it in. Hasn’t turned it on.
He doesn’t want to see if anyone’s called. If anyone ever answered his text’s, concerned or confused. 

He knows the answer anyways. 

Chapter Text

It’s cold. 

That’s the first thing Chan thinks when he opens his eyes. It’s been about a week since he got sick, and while he’s mostly recovered, their managers and his doctor advised him to rest for a couple more days.

Key word: advised . Not required.

Which, to him, meant that as soon as he stopped having a runny nose and a fever, he was out of bed and in the practice room. (He still has a nasty cough, but that’s beside the point.) He squints as his eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting. The floor beneath him is firm and cold, and his hoodie isn’t doing much to help. He must’ve fallen asleep again, during a break between choreo runs.

The room is filled now. The other members are here, scattered around the studio; stretching, laughing, chatting, reviewing steps with the choreographer. The warm-up playlist hums low in the background, and somewhere, someone’s humming along off-key, probably Seokmin. 

Chan pulls himself to his feet slowly, biting back the throb in his temples and coughing as he stands. His head feels stuffy, like cotton soaked in water, but he brushes it off. He walks over to the others and begins his stretching routine —legs, back, arms, ankles, everything he can remember. Muscle memory kicks in before he’s fully awake.

They gather around the monitor when the choreographer calls them over, and as they watch the footage of the new routine, Chan feels it.

Eyes.

He’s used to being watched —it comes with the job— but this feels different. Like a spotlight with no warmth behind it. He catches movement in the mirror. A glance exchanged between two members —then a quiet giggle.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t ask. Just tunes it out.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just in his head. He’s tired. Still foggy from being sick. He focuses on the choreo.

They begin to dance. Over and over. Pieces of the new routine fall into place, some stick better than others. By the final run-through, sweat is dripping down the back of Chan’s neck and his shirt looks like he was water bombed down the front. He’s moving on autopilot, timing every step, counting silently under his breath.

But still, that feeling lingers. The eyes. The hushed laughter.

After they finish the final run, the choreographer claps and walks around, giving notes to whichever members need the most help. Chan gulps down water like it’s going to flush out the cotton feeling in his head.

He excuses himself quickly and heads to the bathroom down the hall, wiping his face with a towel on the way. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his back. He refuses to look at himself in the mirror, but catches a glimpse of himself anyways. He wants to vomit. He avoids the mirror on the way out as well, and once he’s back in the practice room, he tries to put it out of his head. As he’s sipping water, waiting for their next runthrough to start, he hears his name. His ears automatically tune in to the conversation. He’s not trying to eavesdrop. He really isn’t.

But he does anyway.

He hears his name again, and then

“He’s not keeping up.”
“I really thought he’d be better by now, it’s been like seven fucking years?”
“He was sharper when he was a trainee. His dancing is just, messy now.”
“He honestly just looks silly. Like, why is he even on stage at all?”

Minghao’s voice. Then Junhui’s.

Chan freezes, midway through capping his water bottle. He’s pretty sure they can see his reflection in the mirror. Or maybe they already did and said it anyway.

He sits there for a second. Two. Long enough for a cold fire to settle in his chest, and for them to walk off to a different corner of the room. 

Then he stands up.

Walks to the middle of the room, where everyone is gathered, and resumes practice. Like everything’s normal. Like he doesn’t have the guilt of imposter syndrome crawling up his spine and making his every step shaky. 

Hours later, everyone’s packing up. The music’s switched off. Some of the members wave goodbye to the remaining staff as they leave in pairs or small groups.

Chan doesn’t say anything. Just grabs his water bottle and waits for everybody to leave before turning the music back on.

Slowly at first, he walks through the routine. One step at a time. Over and over. The mirror reflects every misstep, every delay in timing. He adjusts, rewinds the song, starts again. At one point, he connects the speakers to his phone instead of the resident laptop to make it easier to pause and rewind.

He keeps dancing. Over and over, taking breaks only when his knees give out and he needs to give himself time to be able to stand up again. At some point, he thinks he falls asleep against the mirror. When he wakes up, the practice room is dark and the towel around his neck has fallen into a small puddle beside him. He groans, grabbing his towel, and his throat feels like it’s on fire, scratchy and burning. 

His muscles protest, screaming at him as he walks over to the door, flipping on the light switch and reaching to turn the music back on. He coughs once, stilling his movements, and then again, and then he’s doubled over, feeling like he’s hacking up a lung. He grabs his towel, holding it up to mouth as he feels something dripping out of his mouth. He waits and waits for the coughing to die down, feeling like his lungs are on fire and his throat is getting skinned. Once it does, he lets himself lean against the wall behind him, sliding down until he’s sitting against the cold floor. He breathes through his nose as he pulls the cloth away. 

Chan’s heart stutters when his eyes meet red against the pure white of the towel. His mouth tastes metallic, like a coin rusted and he didn’t spit it out. He sighs, letting his head thunk back against the wall as he closes his eyes. 

Maybe it’ll all go away, if he just sits and doesn’t think about it. 

It probably won’t. In fact, he knows it won’t. 

But a boy can dream, right? 

Chapter Text

“Yah”

Chan turns towards the sound of Jeonghan’s voice, body tensing when he sees the white towel he’s holding onto with his fingertips. The previously bright red stain is now a dark reddish-brown, though it’s still very visible. Most of the members have turned towards him, staring at the cloth with vague interest. He cringes inwardly when he remembers how he left his towel here last night, and vowed that he would come in early to take care of it.

Clearly, that didn’t happen. 

“Who’s towel is this?”

Chan raises his hand gingerly, and tries not to shrink in on himself when 12 pairs of eyes turn his way. Jeonghan’s previously mildly concerned expression turns hard and indifferent. He stalks over to where Chan is standing and drops the towel at his feet, not bothering to make eye contact with him as he turns around. 

“Keep track of your own fucking things, Lee. Nobody wants to deal with your shit”

The use of his last name hits harder than it should, and he can’t help the hurt expression that flits across his face, before he’s schooling his features back into a calm smile. 

“Of course, Jeonghan. I’ll do better in the future”

But Jeonghan’s already walking away, calling out to Jisoo and Soonyoung to not start stretching without him. 

The rest of their practice goes normally, and Chan accepts a protein bar that one of the staff gave him after realizing he didn’t bring any food with him. He brought his bigged water bottle since they were learning new choreography today, and it was a little over 50 ounces. He was about halfway through his bottle, even though they were only 30 minutes into practice. He unwraps the protein bar during his break, sitting down and leaning against the wall, staring at the opposite wall. The chocolate smells too sweet, too dense, and the texture is dry in his mouth. He forces himself to chew slowly, ignoring the slight tremble in his fingers and the way his stomach tightens with each bite.

By the time he finishes it, a faint wave of nausea curls in his gut. He swallows hard and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, trying not to grimace. His throat still aches —raw and tender from his cold that never completely went away— and the chalky protein bar only seems to make it worse. It feels like something’s scratching against the inside of his esophagus every time he swallows.

He takes another long drink from his water bottle, trying to wash the taste down. It doesn’t help much.

They go back to practicing, and he forces himself through it—muscles burning, movements sharp, the ache in his throat steadily growing worse. No one seems to notice he’s pushing harder than usual. That’s good. That’s what he wants.

By the time the others are grabbing their bags and trickling out of the studio, Chan's already drained the rest of his bottle—over 50 ounces in total. His stomach feels bloated and heavy, but he waves off the staff who remind him to eat later and tells them he’ll lock up.

He needs to be alone.

The moment the door shuts behind the last person, he collapses against the mirror, bracing himself with one arm as the first cramp hits. His body folds slightly, and he breathes through his nose, jaw clenched. Then the nausea returns, stronger this time, rolling through his gut like a storm.

He barely makes it to the trash can in the corner.

Water and bile surge up his throat in one violent heave after another, until he feels like he’s throwing up his stomach lining instead of liquid. He coughs hard afterward, both hands gripping the rim of the bin to stay upright. Another cough wracks his body, and this time, it burns. His vision blurs for a second before he spits into the bin.

The pink-red streaks in the mess catch his eye.

Blood.

He blinks, heart hammering now for a different reason, and wipes his mouth shakily with the back of his hand. His throat is on fire. There’s a metallic tang on his tongue that no amount of water will wash away. 

He stares down into the trash can, chest rising and falling too quickly, and wonders if anybody will notice. If anybody will come in later tonight and look into this trashcan and think, ‘I wonder what happened to this poor soul.’

Chan blinks back tears as they start to pool in his eyes, but they fall anyways, landing in the mess of liquid and blood and chocolate goo. Shakily, he peels his clammy hands off of the trash can, and backs up until he’s in the middle of the room. There, he stands, letting his hands dangle by his sides, and begins to cry. He fixes his eyes on a spot on the wall and lets the world warp and run around him, lets himself hiccup and choke and sob in the air while his body betrays him. He’s probably being loud, and the people in the next practice room can probably hear him, but it’s whatever. He’ll apologize later, maybe bring them a cake or pastries or something. Or, maybe not because he can barely stand the smell of either of those things anymore. He has a list now, tucked away in the drawer of his nightstand, inside a small, black spiral notebook. Vanilla cake, brownies, cookies, sorbet, ice cream, oranges, apples, most kinds of candy, matcha, sandwiches, chocolate. It goes on for a while, but he doesn’t have the energy to remember them all right now. He has another list as well, one that’s far shorter, to his dislike. His mind drifts to the water he drank today, and his eyes drift to the trashcan. He tells himself to remember to write down 50+ liters in an hour on his list. 

At some point, his eyes had dried up and throat had stopped burning. He took a deep breath, holding his breath until it started to burn and then letting it out in a huff. He forced all his thoughts out of his head as he walked around the practice room, methodically wiping down the mirrors, unplugging the sound system, and grabbing his towel. He made a point of taking out the trash as well, not bothering to think about what would happen if somebody found it later. He flipped off the lights, staring at his figure in the mirror, backlit by the hallway lighting. He tore his eyes away after a couple minutes, and shut the door behind himself with a thud. 

Later that night, Chan stood in their dorm bathroom. Most of their members had gone to bed, save for Hansol and Jihoon who were in the studio working on their new album. The rest of their dorm was dark, but Chan made sure that the bathroom light was all the way up, made sure that it would spill into the hallways through the cracks around the door. He had taken a shower a couple hours ago and came back to brush his teeth, but got distracted. 

The bags under his eyes were prominent now, sunken in and dark. His collarbones were visible through his thin shirt, and his cheeks had hollowed out a good bit. Chan turned to the side and smoothed a hand down his stomach. He had a faint outline of abs that were once there, but now the skin was just soft and slightly rounded at the bottom. If he breathed in a little bit, the outline of his ribs were visible through his skin. The muscle that used to wrap around his legs and arms was slowly waning, leaving him looking skinnier. Smaller. Paler. 

He smiled, eyes exhausted and bloodshot. He felt like crying again. The kind of crying that left you feeling bone tired and empty. 

“It’s working” he whispered, “It’s working”

Chapter Text

Chan kind of wants to scream. 

Kind of wants to rip all his hair out and punch a wall and collapse into a wailing mess on the floor. 

He kind of does, but he won’t. 

He won’t because he’s in a room full of producers and sound engineers and the rest of Seventeen, and he doesn't need them to see him having an emotional breakdown. Or mental breakdown. 

An emotional mental breakdown. 

So, instead of falling to the floor, he digs his nails into his knees through his pants and clenches his jaw and forces himself to stare at Jihoon’s monitor. 

They’re currently going through the songs for their new album, and when they entered the room, Jihoon and Hansol had surprised them. Every member had gotten their own single, their own individual track that they had either written themselves, or co-written with Hansol or Jihoon. The thing is, Chan never wrote his track. Or even got the notice that he was supposed to write a track. In these past weeks, he never once found himself in the studio with Jihoon or Hansol, like apparently all of the other members did. He watches as the screen switches between tracks, song titles and lyrics flashing on screen, as well as deadlines and Music Bank show times. 

“So,” Jihoon concludes, and Chan forces himself to listen. “We will all have our own stages for our individual songs, as well as the performances for our group songs. Everybody understand? ”

Everybody makes varying sounds of agreement or acknowledgement, before standing up and striking up conversations with the people next to them. As everybody starts trickling out, Chan forces himself to stay seated on the couch, clutching at his kneecaps like his life depends on it. 

It might, actually, in a way. He’ll probably end up doing something he’ll regret if he lets himself go right now, so he pushes it under the surface and lets it simmer there. He waits until it’s only him and Jihoon left in the studio before he stands up and stalks out the door. He walks down the hall, hands clenched into fists so tight that he hopes they’ll leave crest shaped indents in his palm. He forgoes the elevator this time, opting for the stairs, his legs burning as he takes them 2 at a time down to the ground floor.  The cold air hits him as he makes his way outside, and his anger dissipates the slightest bit. It’s still there, boiling under his skin, but now it’s less anger and more resentment. Or, no. Maybe resignation is the right word. 

He puffs out air and watches as it turns white in front of his face and then disappears. By the time he makes it back to their dorm, his nose is red and he’s shivering from head to toe. He can hear the laughter coming from their living room as he turns the key in the lock and something inside him burns red hot. He stamps it down as he enters, quietly toeing off his shoes and shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the coat hanger. He walks past them, only letting himself glance at the sprawled out mess of bodies on their couch. 

Probably watching another movie or something else that he wasn’t invited to. 

He trudges over to his room and throws open the door, shutting it behind him before stalking over to the closet and throwing that door open as well. He rummages around for a couple minutes before pulling out exactly what he’s looking for. An old, worn, mid-sized blue duffel bag that he’s pretty sure was last used when he arrived as a trainee.

He throws it on his bed, unzipping the top, and walking over to his dresser. He opens the drawer, grabbing clothes that he doesn’t wear very often and folding them neatly before dropping them in. He goes around his room and does the same with the other clothes and materialistic things he owns, only leaving two or three outfits to rotate for the week. By the time he’s done, his space is threadbare and empty, with only a few outfits folded neatly on his bed. He sighs and zips up his duffel bag, shoving it under his bed and walking out to the kitchen. There, he grabs a glass and fills it with water, not paying attention until he feels it start to flow over his hand. 

“Shit”

 He jerks his hand away, and in the process, splatters some of the water onto the floor. He dumps some of it in the sink and then proceeds to stare at the puddle. There’s a familiar urge to grab a paper towel and mop it up, to apologize to the air around him as if he did something sinful. But now, there’s this small corner of his brain telling him to leave it. To walk away and hope that someone comes and slips and screams. Slowly, he starts backing away, eyes trained on the floor. He walks slowly, methodically, out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Only once he turns around does Chan let out the breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding, feeling his lungs slowly relax. He walks down the hallway towards his room, hand shaking, senses heightened and acutely aware of the laughter still sounding from the living room. He pushes the door closed behind himself with his foot, walking over to his bare nightstand and setting his glass down. He sits down on his bed, feeling the mattress dip under his weight and runs his hands along the thin material. He slides around until he’s lying flat on his back, staring at nothing, and eventually letting his eyes drift shut. 

He remembers buying these sheets with Seungcheol and Samuel when they were still trainees, going to a nearby store and being told that he could pick out any pattern he wanted. 13 year old Chan had been obsessed with dinosaurs and therefore chose a dark blue set with green and purple dinosaurs of varying shades and types scattered across it. He remembers Samuel choosing something related to disco balls or maybe microphones and thinking ‘a kid like him is way more mature than me.’ He remembers staring down at the package in his hand while waiting in line for the register and wondering if he should pick something more mature, more sophisticated. He remembers crying about it when he got back to the dorm and having Jun and Minghao comfort with their broken korean and say that it was okay for him to be a little childish. He was still a child, after all. 

Chan opens his eyes when the pressure becomes too much and feels warm tears spill down the sides of his face. It surprises him how attached he is to the memories he has of them before. 

Before they debuted. 

Before they were 13 instead of 14. 

Before all the shit that happened throughout the years. 

He misses it, he realizes. He misses sneaking out to eat icecream, and secretly ordering food, and watching movies with the 14 of them at three am. He lets his eyes water and spill over again and again, until his eyes feel like they might bleed from how raw they are.  

He heaves a deep sigh and throws an arm over his eyes, curling onto his side and before he knows it, he’s being pulled under by the exhaustion in his bones. 

Through the next week, Chan continues his work as normal. 

He gets to dance practice on time —which means early, in his case— and stays afterwards to keep working on the choreography. Someday’s, he’ll pop into the studio when it’s just one of their producers, no Jihoon or Hansol, and work on his lines or just harmonies in general. He no longer refuses the staff's offers to eat out with them, and always enjoys whatever place that they choose. Granted, he never eats much, just minimum to have them not worry, so the enjoyment is probably due to the people and not the place. He still makes tea in the mornings, always remembering which ones the members like and how much honey they like. Most of the time, he finds them still sitting, cold, on the counter when he comes home from practices at night. There’s still a pang in his chest whenever he sees them, and occasionally there’ll be one or two drained, but he tries not to think much of it. Simply dumping them down the drain and setting them in the dishwasher before he runs it for the night. He still does their laundry too, methodically separating the reds and whites and colors into separate washes. 

He slowly packs more stuff into his duffle bag, starting with his skincare and then the other things he can just grab and use. He leaves his shampoo and conditioner in the shower, but grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste and tosses them in. 

As their comeback draws nearer, Chan gets put on another diet. For what reason, he doesn’t know. He thought he was doing pretty good. He thought he looked okay, for the first time in a while. He guesses he thought wrong. 

He’s standing in front of their bathroom mirror now, tying a scratchy, thin piece of rope around his waist. He pulls it tight, until it’s just slightly pulled around his middle as he stands. He cuts the rope and ties it, slipping the scissors into a drawer and stuffing the excess string into his pocket. He knots it once, twice, three times, just to be sure that it won’t come loose during practice. He steps back from the mirror to admire his work, taking a shallow breath and relishing in the way the rope digs into his skin.

Chan tugs his shirt down until it covers it, and then does a bit more fiddling to make sure it’s not visible from any angle before taking a deep breath, and then coughing after forgetting that wasn’t something he could do anymore. 

Three hours later, Chan feels like his lungs are on fire. 

Everytime he takes a breath, he feels the dig of the string on his waist. A twisted part of him relishes in the feeling of it, that he’s finally doing something right, something that people might notice if he pushes it far enough. The other part of him is saying that it’s not worth it, that they’re not going to notice anyways. That they never notice. Why would this time be any different? 

Chan pushes that part down. 

He shoves it down, down, down, until it’s stuffed in a box with the key thrown away into the recesses of his mind. 

He hopes to never finds that key. 

Their dance instructor keeps sending him concerned looks when he keels over during break or sets a hand on his stomach. He always smiles and asks for advice on something or turns away and talks to one of their managers about upcoming schedules. Anything to keep suspicions away. 

By the time practice ends, Chan has about enough energy to stumble to their dorm and into their bathroom before letting himself crumple to the ground. He sits there for god knows how long, listening to the creak of old wood and the sound of the cars passing by on the street outside. He assumes their members went out to eat, or something similar, like they always do. 

Slowly, he drags himself up and standing, staring at the mirror. He rucks up his shirt and grabs the scissors from their place in the drawer. Carefully, he cuts through the rope and lets it fall away. 

His heart skips a beat when he sees the angry red line across his body. He skates his fingers across it and winces when they hit particularly raw areas. A small part of him is happy about it, that there’s evidence that he tried. 

That he’s trying. 

He stuffs the scissors and string into his pocket, walking down the hall towards his room. He kicks the door shut behind him and walks over to his bed, pulling out his duffel bag from under it. He unzips the top and drops his two new items in before zipping it back up and shoving it back under. 

He slides his phone out of his pocket when he’s done and checks the time. He glances out his small window and hesitates slightly before grabbing a loose hoodie and walking quietly out of the dorm. He zips up the jacket as the cold nighttime air hits him and decides to walk around the park near them. It’s relatively quiet and empty this time of night, the walkway’s simply lit with the occasional street lamp. 

Chan walks in silence, letting the stars read his thoughts and breathing deeply. At some point, he pulls out his phone. He stops in the middle of the pathway, staring down at the device in his hand. It takes a couple minutes, but before long, he’s made his way to his contacts list. He scrolls down until he finds the name he’s looking for, stopping before pressing on it gingerly. 

Chan tilts his head up to the dark sky as the phone rings, thinking not for the first time, 

What am I doing here?

Chapter Text

“Can you look up, please?”

Chan blinks as he registers the stylist hovering in front of him, hands on her hips, her mouth in a rather grim line. He blinks again, regaining his senses and then smiles quietly and lifts his head, feeling goosebumps erupt along his body as a brush sweeps across his eyelids. The group is at Music Bank to perform their new album, and Chan was exhausted from waking up at nearly 2 am. Sure he had slept in the van on the way here, and had fallen asleep while waiting to, as well as actively getting his makeup done. But those couple hours don’t make up for the cumulative day’s he hasn’t been sleeping properly. 

He blames that on the impulse of a decision he made last week. That stupid fucking phone call that got into his head way more than it should have. 

“Thanks,” Chan murmurs softly as the stylist gives him a final dusting of powder, her expression softening slightly at his gratitude.

“No problem,” she says, stepping back with a nod. “You're on in twenty.”

Chan stands up, gives her a slight bow, and walks over to the corner of the green room, the weight of fatigue hanging over him and clouding his head. He sinks onto the couch, resting his head back against the cushion, letting the hum of the room fill the lull the pressure in his head.

The rest of the group is scattered —doing vocal warm ups, stretching, joking around, scrolling through their phones. It's their typical pre-performance atmosphere, but Chan feels oddly distant, like he’s watching through frosted glass. Normally, his veins would be thrumming with adrenaline and he would be barely able to sit still. This time, he feels no such thing. His heart feels closed off, his body cold and sluggish. The room is alive, but it doesn’t feel warm.

After they get called for standby, the show goes by in a blur. They’re promoting their new album, one that has been long awaited by their fans. 

Chan dances hard, sings like he means it, feels the buzz of stage lights catch on the edges of his being. He doesn’t have a solo today — something that he’s tried to come to peace with, actually. He likes to believe that he’s succeeded, for the most part. He brushes it aside, tells himself it’s just a strategic decision. 

That it’s not personal.

After their group performance, he watches from the green room TV as each member steps into the spotlight, commanding the stage with their own flavor. The fans cheer, the lights pulse, the camera moves with grace. They’re professionals.

By the time the final bows are done and the lights fade, Chan has a nervous energy running through his veins, battling adrenaline that has begun to ebb. He tells one of the staff he’s going to the bathroom and pops outside, making his way down the long hall. The bathroom is shockingly far from any of the rooms, and the stage itself and it takes him a good 5 minutes just to find it. 

When he returns, the green room is quiet.

Dark. 

No rustling bags. No post-show chatter. No teasing or laughter. No glowing phone screens. 

“Guys?” he calls, glancing around.

Nothing.

The makeup and hair artists bags are gone.

His chest tightens, a slow coil of disbelief sinking into his gut. He grabs his phone and jacket and rushes downstairs, past the staff bustling about, past a rookie group trailing behind a manager.

He hits the underground garage.

Empty.

The two vans they came in are gone.

His breath catches. He checks his phone — no messages, no missed calls. 

Nothing from their manager. 

He opens the group chat. Dead silent.

A few seconds tick by before reality lands like a stone in his stomach.

They left him.

On purpose.

He stares at the entrance of the garage, the harsh fluorescent lights above buzzing like static in his ears. His hand trembles as he opens the Uber app, typing in the dorm address with slow fingers.

Rain hits the city as he rides in silence. The windows fog slightly, and Chan presses his forehead against the glass, watching the wet blur of Seoul slide by.

His throat aches. He can feel the lump building, the familiar pressure against his eyelids. 

He swallows. Forces it down. Because he doesn’t want to cry. 

Not now. 

The dorm is quiet when he enters.

The living room light is off. There’s a couple of empty takeout boxes on the counter, a half-drunk soda on the table. They’d obviously been home for a while.

He walks in, wet sneakers squeaking against the tile.

They’re all in the common room — sprawled across the couch, half-watching a movie, half-scrolling through their phones or chatting with the member next to them. 

They barely glance at him.

“What the hell?” Chan says, his voice low, but sharp.

A few heads turn.

“You left. Without me.”

There’s a pause. Mingyu shifts, eyes flicking between Chan and his phone screen. Jeonghan looks away, eyes trained on the TV. 

Seungcheol is the only one who holds his gaze.

“You took too long,” he says flatly. “We weren’t gonna wait all night.”

“I was gone for ten minutes at most ,” Chan snaps, voice rising. “You didn’t even text me, tell me you were waiting or anything.”

“Because we didn’t want to.”

The room goes silent.

Chan’s stomach drops.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Seungcheol says, standing now. “We didn’t want to. You’ve been a deadweight. Always exhausted, dragging the energy down, asking for breaks during practices. You don’t even have a solo for this comeback, Chan. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

Chan flinches like he’s been slapped, curling in on himself.

“I’ve been trying,” he says, quieter now. “I haven’t slept, I’ve been working hard, I—”

“And why is that?” Seungcheol sneers, his tone mocking. “Feel like you have to prove yourself? Like you have to show us that you belong. ”

“I don’t do it to prove anything,” Chan says, heart racing, eyes watering. “I do it because I want to carry my weight. To be part of this. Us. ”

Seungcheol scoffs, voise rising. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” he says, stepping closer. “There is no us. Not with you. We didn’t want you here in the first place. We wanted Samuel. He belonged. You don’t. You think you can just fill into his spot and pretend like you’re enough?”

The silence is like molasses, thick and sticky in the air. 

Chan’s breath hitches.

And then it clicks.

They never wanted him.

He was a patch. Not a piece.

Something breaks quietly in his chest, shards like broken glass shoving their way into his heart. 

He doesn’t say anything else. Just turns. Walks to his room. Shuts the door.

And then he cries.

Sinks down against his door and buries his head in between his knees and sobs. 

Not loud. Just a slow, bleeding, broken unraveling into a body that he no longer deserves.

It’s around 1:00 AM when he hears the others filter into their rooms. Doors closing. Showers running. Hushed ‘good nights’, followed by a cold silence.

He sits up. Wipes his eyes and swallows around the tightness in his throat. 

His duffel bag is already packed.

He knew. Somewhere deep down, he knew.

He grabs it quietly.

Takes one last look around the room. The old dinosaur comforter he’d folded and placed neatly atop the old white mattress. The small notebook tucked onto the top of his nightstand, nestled next to his phone — still lit with a background photo of them all, arms around each other, smiling, from their trainee day’s. 

It’s the only photo he has where they all look excited. Happy. 

He quietly slips out his door and shuts it with a small click, tiptoeing to their front door.

Slips out into the hallway.

Clicks it shut it behind him.

The rain has long stopped, but the air still smells like a storm and the sidewalk is still damp.

Chan steps out into the cool air and takes a deep breath. Stares at the stars in the sky bitterly. 

And he thought he could be one of those stars. 

Chapter Text

There was no tea.
That was the first thing Mingyu noticed when he woke up.

Normally, there would be twelve steaming cups lined up on the counter every morning — no matter how early it was, no matter how late they got in the night before. Always hot, always tailored to each member’s taste. Extra packets laid out neatly, like someone had taken the time to think about them.

Today, there was nothing.

No cups.
No kettle.
No steam curling into the cold morning air.

Just, nothing.

Mingyu blinked at the empty countertop. It didn’t register as important. Just odd. He yawned, grabbed a protein shake from the fridge, and moved on.

As the others shuffled into the kitchen, some barely awake, some already yelling down the hall at each other, no one mentioned the missing tea.

The next few days were relentless — back-to-back dance practices, vocal rehearsals, fittings, meetings. Everyone was on edge, snapping at each other more than usual. The pressure of upcoming music shows was looming. Stress was mounting.

When they went out to dinner like usual, no one noticed that nobody stayed behind in the practice room.
No one thought to ask why the practice room didn’t smell faintly of citrus and laundry detergent anymore.

When a complicated transition in one of the choreographies kept tripping them up, Jihoon scrolled through the shared iPad to check the usual choreography notes. 

But there was nothing. 

No diagrams. 

No timestamps. 

No scribbled notes or arrows or exclamation marks.

Just the base file from their choreographer.

“That’s weird,” Jihoon muttered. “Aren’t there usually notes here?”

“Maybe the choreographer forgot,” Wonwoo offered, distracted, sweat running down his temple. “Everybody’s been stressed lately.”

Jihoon hesitated, but eventually brushed it off. Again. Like they always did.

When the move still didn’t land right, they went to their choreographer for help. He furrowed his brows in confusion when they asked.

“Did you guys look at the notes in the video file?”

They shook their heads.

Jihoon frowned. “There were none”

“We always thought that was you,” Jeonghan offered. 

The man shook his head. “I’m pretty sure it was Chan. Even as a choreographer, I'm pretty sure I could never make such detailed notes.” He chuckled low, before patting them on the shoulders and walking off. 

Jeonghan stared blankly at the wall, while Jihoon’s mind was stuck on a loop of ‘it was Chan, it was Chan, it was Chan’

That night, during a late practice with just the members, Jeonghan stood in the corner with the iPad, flipping through all the files.

“There’s nothing here,” he stated, swiping frantically.

Joshua walked over. “What do you mean?”

“I mean none of…” he swallows the name “ his notes are here. For any of the songs.”

A strange hush spread through the room and slowly more members crowded around him.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Junhui finally said, breaking the silence.

It didn’t.

They boy Jun remembered was obsessive with preparation. He never left things half-done.
Even when they ignored him.
Even when they barely acknowledged his work. Junhui shied away from that thought.

There was a heavy silence as Jeonhan set down the ipad and switched the music back on. They all took their places, but for the first time in a while, they noticed that there was an empty space. A space that they vaguely remember someone standing in during their performances. A space that felt like it should be filled with another body. 

A familiar body. 

When they got back to the dorm, exhaustion and fatigue weighed heavy in their bones. They all drifted off to different corners of the dorm, collectively agreeing that tonight was not the night for another movie marathon. They took turns taking showers and doing skincare in the bathrooms, and then coming out and eating whatever giant pot of food Mingyu had heated up. As more of them filed in, chatter started to fill the air. Talks about upcoming days off, meeting with friends, or rumors that had been spread recently. At some point, Seungkwan poked his head into the room and asked

“Anybody know where my clothes are?”

Everyone stared at him. No one answered.

Slowly, Seokmin stood up and walked to the laundry room. It now smelled faintly of mildew. Hampers were overflowing.
It looked like it had been over a week since anybody had been in here. 

It probably had. 

“Has anyone done laundry recently?” he asked. A cold, unsettled feeling started to creep into his stomach.

He felt the eyes of the other members on his back and he turned to face them. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, he knew the answer. Seungcheol scrubbed a hand down his face and closed his eyes.

“Chan used to do our laundry, didn’t he?”Everyone stiffened at the name. As if it was something taboo that was not to be spoken about. Perhaps it had been.                                                        “And let me guess,” Seungcheol spat, “he used to make the tea in the morning too. And the practice notes. ”                                        

The silence was deafening. 

“Has anyone... seen him?” Minghao asked suddenly.

A beat. Another.
No one could answer.

Suddenly, Seokmin turned and marched down the hall to Chan’s room. He knocked, half expecting someone to answer. When no answer came, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. His room was silent. Clean. Sterile, almost. The bed was made. A small folded comforter sat in the middle. There was nothing plugged into the outlets. The closet was barren.

The only remaining items were a phone and notebook that Vernon found on the bedside table — both untouched, with a thin coat of dust. 

Seungcheol flipped through the pages, slowly. Chan’s neat handwriting filled most of them, in numbered or bulleted lists. At a glance, he could tell that only a few pages were entries, and short ones at that. He flipped to the first list, one that seemingly spanned many, many, pages. What he read made him sick. 

The list was lines and lines of foods, with the title, “Don’t Eat.” 

It starts with cake, and then sub-lists almost every flavour of the food. It then moves on to cookies, tarts, candy, ramyeon, chips, chocolate, and then it moves on to fruit. Oranges, cherries, blackberries, blueberries, anything you could possibly think of. At the end of the list was most kinds of meat and vegetables — fish, pork, chicken, broccoli, asparagus, brussel sprouts. 

Seungcheol flips through the next couple pages that are titled with entry numbers and hits the next list towards the back of the book. 

This time, it’s titled “ Methods. ” 

The first bullet is “ overworking. ”

The second is “ purging. ”

The third is “ laxatives. ”

The fourth is “ gagging. ” 

The fifth is “ water - 50 ounces. ”

The sixth is “ waist string. ”

The seventh is “ vomiting. ”

Under each bullet is a brief description. 

“ dancing non-stop/always moving = fainting ”

“ pressing on stomach = throwing up (works best after eating food) ”

“ take 10-15 lax after eating - will throw up within 20-30 min ”

“ fingers down throat ”

“ 50 ounces under 1 hour = throwing up ”

“ tie waist around string/lung area - constricts breathing and food intake ”

“ any form of making myself throw up ”

and at the end, in scraggly handwriting, was a little note 

"it's working"

Seungcheol drops the book and ignores the confused looks from his members as he runs to the bathroom and promptly throws up into the toilet. He throws up for longer than he would like and sinks back against the wall when he’s done, breathing heavily. He can feel sweat pooling on his temple and his mouth is tangy and gross. He rinses his mouth out in the sink and walks back to Chan’s room, watching from the doorway as the other members flip through the notebook. Jisoo and Seungkwan look back at him and look like they’re going to be ill.
Seungcheol can only offer them a sad grimace.

“The last entry was dated nearly two weeks ago” Wonwoo say’s, voice shaking. 

“ Thank you for tolerating me. Letting me stay. I hope you find peace, like I will try to. I’m sorry I couldn’t be enough. I loved you anyways. Always will. ”

The room is chillingly silent. 

“He’s gone,” Jeonghan said, numb, voice breaking the tension. 

No one argued.

The next morning, they confronted their manager.

Seungcheol’s voice was low. Controlled. “Where is Chan?”

The manager didn’t look surprised. He just sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Chan terminated his contract.”

Silence.

“He came to me two weeks ago. Said it was final. Said he couldn’t stay. That he was done.”

“You didn’t tell us?” Jihoon demanded.

“He asked me not to. He said he didn’t want to make it a scene. Said you wouldn’t care.”

That last part nicked a part of their hearts none of them wanted to unpack.

Because maybe he was right.
They hadn’t cared. Not when he started skipping meals. Not when his cheeks hollowed out. Not when he flinched away from mirrors. Not when he audibly cried in the bathrooms and pretended he had allergies when his eyes were puffy and red.

They hadn’t cared, they realized— until he was gone.

And now, suddenly, the silence left behind was louder than any of them could bear.

Chapter Text

The dorm was quieter than it had ever been.

Not silent —there were still the sounds of movement, the mechanical hum of appliances, the occasional cough or creak of floorboards— but it felt wrong. Like something sacred had been dismantled and no one had the blueprint to put it back.

That first night, no one talked much. No one tried to make dinner. No one mentioned the notebook or the phone. Jeonghan stared at the TV without turning it on, a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders even though it wasn’t cold. Joshua sat at the kitchen table, hands folded, staring at a single cup of tea he’d made without thinking—only to realize, as the steam rose into the air, that it didn’t taste right. Not sweet enough. Too bitter. Too empty. 

Soonyoung stayed in the practice room long after the rest left, music off, just… standing. In the dark. In the silence. The mirrors showed an incomplete formation no matter where he stood, no matter how many times he re-did their choreography. 

Minghao went back to Chan’s room that night. He didn’t sleep. Just sat on the bed with the notebook in his lap and the taste of bile thick in his throat.

Over the next few days, things moved mechanically.

They went to schedules. They smiled when cameras were pointed their way. They answered questions about new choreography, favorite meals, what songs they were listening to lately.

No one said his name.

But they all felt it.

The hole.

The vacuum left behind by someone who’d filled every unnoticed space. Made every ignored person feel welcome. 

The laundry stayed undone. Jihoon’s monitors remained untouched. The tea didn’t come back. There were no extra vocal warm-ups. No gentle reminders. No late-night snacks left on the table with sticky notes that said, “Eat well, xo.”

It was like a ghost had been exorcised.

But the haunting had only just begun.

Jeonghan was the first to crack.

He’d locked himself in his room with his phone for hours. Not to message anyone —just to scroll. He didn’t even know what he was looking for until he opened his own chat history with Chan.

The conversations were short. Mostly surface level.

But the replies…

They were always kind. Thoughtful. Caring .

“I saw you missed lunch. I left a bento in the fridge. No onions.”
“You looked tired today. Get some rest, hyung.”
“You don’t have to smile all the time for everyone. You can be yourself around me, if you want to.”

Jeonghan stared at that one the longest. It had been sent months ago. He had never replied.

He locked his phone and curled under his blanket, heart aching in a way he didn’t have words for.
“I think I loved you,” he whispered into the silence.

And for the first time in his life, Jeonghan didn’t know how to manipulate a situation to get what he wanted.

Junhui started avoiding the others. He stayed out later than usual, found reasons to practice alone. But at night, he remembered.

How Chan always waited.

Junhui would say, “Go ahead without me,” and Chan would nod —but still be there when he came out of the studio. Sitting on the floor, arms crossed over his knees, earbuds in, a small smile reserved only for him.

Back then, Junhui hadn’t thought much of it. Just another person who was there.

But now, with that smile absent from every corner of his life, he saw it for what it was.

Love. Steady. Quiet. Unreciprocated.

He sat outside the dorm on the curb, legs stretched out in front of him, and cried softly into his hands.
“I should’ve waited for you, too.”

Seungcheol was the last to admit it.

At first, he felt rage. At Chan for leaving. At himself for not stopping it. At the universe for letting someone who loved so deeply feel so unloved.

He hated that he couldn’t fix it.

He hated that he hadn't noticed .

But eventually, the rage dulled into something worse —memory.

Chan, bringing him energy drinks after late meetings.
Chan, massaging his shoulder without being asked.
Chan, sitting next to him in silence when he looked tired, saying nothing, just… being there.
Chan, glancing at him like he wanted to say something, but never did.
Like he was waiting. Hoping.

And Seungcheol had brushed it off. Every time. Too busy. Too distracted. Too uncaring.

“I was supposed to protect you,” Seungcheol murmured, forehead pressed to the cool edge of the nightstand in Chan’s empty room. “I think I loved you, and I didn’t even know . ”

Minghao starts meditating again, but hears Chan’s voice in every stretch of silence.
Seungkwan avoids the kitchen. The kettle feels like an accusation.
Jihoon composes, but every melody veers into minor keys. He stops writing altogether.
Mingyu cooks more than ever, but ends up storing leftovers no one eats.
Hansol rereads the notebook, over and over, as if a code will reveal itself.
Jisoo dreams about Chan —sometimes laughing, sometimes vanishing into thin air.

One by one, they realize;

He was the glue. The silent heartbeat. The warmth they didn’t know they needed until the cold settled in his absence.

And somewhere between grief and guilt, obsession took root.

Because if they had loved him —truly, truly, loved him— then surely there must still be time to find him.

Surely, love means never letting go.

Chapter Text

Time didn't stop. It dragged.

The company released a statement about Seventeen continuing as a 12 member group. The members refused to look at the fan responses. 

Schedules continued. Photoshoots, rehearsals, meetings —they all carried on with practiced precision. But everything was quieter now. Movements were mechanical, conversations clipped. A hollow space had carved itself into their daily routines, and no one dared to speak of it. Chan's absence was not a topic of conversation. It was a shadow that draped over every room, every van ride, every break between songs.

They avoided the dorm kitchen in the mornings —Chan always made tea first. Sometimes coffee. The game console in the living room sat untouched. Rehearsals felt strained; no one volunteered to help the struggling members anymore.

There were unspoken rituals of avoidance.

Jihoon stayed up too late, hunched over his laptop, the glow of the screen reflected in tired eyes. Minghao started leaving the dorm early, returning only when everyone else was asleep. Seungkwan, once the loudest voice in the room, barely raised it above a whisper. Jeonghan took on the role of entertainer with forced brightness, cracking jokes that didn’t quite land, but were good enough to pass. 

Some tried to reach out —carefully. Soonyoung posted a blurry sunset on Instagram, captioned, ‘Hope you’re watching this too.’ It got thousands of likes, but none from the one person he hoped would see it.

Others just waited, hoping time would fix what had unraveled. But the days kept passing, and Chan didn't come back.

Jihoon was the first to break.

One night, after too much coffee and not enough sleep, he found himself at a hospital two districts over, asking for a patient who didn’t exist. The nurse gave him a strange look. He didn’t explain. The next day, he checked a local shelter downtown. Then another.

He told no one.

Minghao played it differently —quieter, more efficiently. One morning, he left an envelope on a stranger’s desk in Gangnam. Inside; cash, their company's most recent photo of Chan, and a single word — Find. He never mentioned it to the others.

Hansol scoured dance circles —old instructors, underground studios, faded acquaintances. He combed through message boards, watched videos posted from open mics and street showcases, always scanning the background.

No one had seen him.

And Seungcheol. He wrote an email. A letter. A long one. It took him four nights to finish. The subject line read: I’m sorry. He stared at the send button for almost an hour before finally clicking it.

The email bounced back within seconds. ‘ Address not found’.

No one talked about it, but the truth was becoming impossible to ignore.

Chan was gone. And none of them knew how to bring him back.

Their first lead came from a blurry bus station security tape in Daegu —a boy with a familiar walk, a baseball cap pulled low. For two whole days, they let themselves believe. Watched him return to the bus station at the same hours, get on the same bus, get off at the same time. 

But when they arrived and found him, the boy turned around and it wasn’t Chan. He was younger, thinner, confused when they called out a name that didn’t belong to him. Wonwoo apologized. Minghao turned away. Seokmin stared at the ground for a long time.

Their hope cracked a little more that day.

The emotional weight settled deeper into their bones after that. Junhui began pushing himself harder —longer practices, heavier routines, until the staff noticed bruises that weren’t healing and wrongly taped joints under his sleeves. No one could get him to slow down. It was like he needed to hurt just to feel something.

Jisoo quietly began attending church again, slipping in unnoticed into the back pews. He didn’t tell the others. His prayers were whispered, desperate things —half pleas, half bargains with a God he wasn’t even sure he believed in anymore. 

“Just bring him back. I’ll do anything.”

And then there was Seungkwan.

During a variety show taping, a lighthearted question about "the old days" broke him open. His laughter faltered, then stopped entirely. Before anyone could pivot the conversation, his face crumpled —and he cried. On camera. The silence that followed was heavier than the moment itself. The editors clipped it out of the final take, framing the other members' reactions instead. Not that they have very many. The filming staff asked if he was okay. He said he was, that he had just had a rough week. None of them knew the full story.

But the group did.

And for the first time, it felt like the cracks weren’t just internal.

They were starting to show on the outside.

By the ninth month, the group began to fracture.

Some argued that they needed to stop —for their health, for the fans, for their sanity. “He left. Maybe… maybe he doesn’t want to be found ,” Jihoon said one night, voice low and even. His words hung in the air like smoke.

Seungcheol’s answer was immediate, furious. “ Of course he wants to be found. We don’t give up on each other. Not now. Not ever.”

The room fell silent after that.

Mingyu started spiraling in his own way. He became obsessed with routines —cooking elaborate meals no one had asked for, scrubbing the dorm floors at 3 a.m., organizing the pantry by expiration date. If someone thanked him, he flinched. If someone didn’t, he worked harder.

He told himself it was his fault. That if he’d noticed sooner, if he’d just said the right thing at the right time, Chan would still be here.

The divide grew. Minghao stopped showing up to some meetings, ignoring the warnings from their managers. Wonwoo spoke even less than usual. Jeonghan tried to mediate, but even his calm was fraying.

Junhui said nothing. He rarely picked a side during arguments. But he had started writing down every dream he had of Chan —fragmented memories, imagined conversations, half-formed symbols he couldn’t explain— in a small leather notebook he kept tucked beneath his pillow. The others didn’t know about it.

The group still functioned, still smiled for cameras, still stood in formation. But behind the scenes, they were no longer moving as one.

The silence had returned.

But now, it was full of sharp edges.

Chapter Text

They’re traveling again. After being stationary in Korea for nearly two years, their management had decided that it was time to start fanmeetings again. 

Right now, Junhui is alone. 

Walking off unfamiliar streets in another city, running from his thoughts or maybe just trying to breathe. 

A glance into a coffee shop window catches him off guard.

Chan.

His hair is longer. His posture is relaxed, a cup of coffee and a small cake sitting half eaten in front of him. He leans across the table toward someone across from him, face soft in ways Jun doesn't remember. He can practically hear him laugh when he tips his head back. 

Junhui doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
He watches from the sidewalk, one hand trembling in his coat pocket, the other pressing crescent shaped marks into his palm. 

Chan never looks up. Never sees him.

Jun doesn’t tell anyone for seven days.

Two weeks later, Minghao sees him in Incheon —holding a child’s hand as they cross the street. Their silhouettes blur into the crowd on the other side. 

He blinks. Rubs at his eyes. Gone.

Jihoon spots him on a city bus when they’re in Goyang. Rain streaks the glass. Chan’s eyes are far away, lost in the kind of thought that they once ignored out of habit. 

Jisoo spots him in a bookstore in Seoul, hands pulling out old books and flipping them open before sliding back into their shelf. He looks relaxed. Content. Something unpleasant curls in Jisoo’s gut. He follows Chan when he leaves, but loses him in the crowd when they exit the store. 

Seokmin sees him on a train platform in Gyeonggi. He was standing with his hands in his coat pockets, headphones covering his ears and eyes closed. He tapped a rhythm on his leg, nodding his head in rhythm with whatever was playing through his headphones. Seokmin watched as he boarded the train, turning and staring out the window as it pulled out of the station. 

Seungkwan sees him in a grocery store parking lot in Daegu.
They lock eyes.

Chan freezes.
Then—
He smiles. Small. Something that looks like forgiveness.
And drives away.

None of them speak of it immediately.

But the silence is different now.

They begin to talk. Share locations. Compare times.

Maps appear on Chan’s bedroom wall. Red twine and thumbtacks connect circled locations, thread pulled tight. Scribbled sketches of clothing and expressions are pinned next to stores. Details are listed in bullets, hung on red twine. 

A month later, they find it:
A small dance academy on the outskirts of Seoul.
Chan is teaching there.
A different name.
An unknown past.

They go, one by one. Pretending to be curious strangers. Lying to the receptionists and saying that they have kids, just to get a peek inside the dance rooms. 

He dances with the children. Twirls, laughs, encourages.
No trace of the storm he once carried. 

They search up his youtube, scrolling endlessly through videos of Chan laughing and dancing in front of the mirror.
From the shadows, they watch him become someone new.

It’s Vernon who follows him home first, one night, after he catches him leaving. 

A quiet neighborhood. White fences. A porch light left on even in the day.

He texts the group;
"He lives here." Sends them a photo. 

They begin shifts. Sitting in parked cars. Walking the block like residents, always hiding their faces under baseball caps or tight hoodies. They see Samuel come and go, always greeted with a smile or a hug from Chan. 

Something akin to jealousy sparks in their hearts. 

Junhui keeps a log:
License plate. Groceries. What time he comes home. What time Samuel comes home. How often they have guests. When he smiles. When he doesn't.

No one knocks.
Not yet.

But they’re closer than they’ve ever been.

It begins with small things.
Soft things.

Mingyu brings tea in a thermos one night. Leaves it on the doorstep. No note.
Jisoo writes a letter. Long. Honest. Folds it neatly and slides it into the mailbox.

No reply.
Not even an acknowledgement.

Still, they watch. Wait. Hope.
Hope turns bitter. Becomes need. Becomes obsession .

And one evening, the line snaps.

They gather.
Not all at once, but enough.

Junhui. Seungcheol. Jisoo. Jeonghan.
Their shadows spill across the pavement as the sun sinks.

They walk to the door together.

This time, they knock.

It’s Samuel who answers.

He’s older now.
Not just in years. In wear. In weight.
His eyes move across each face slowly, like he’s counting ghosts.

“What do you want?”

“Chan,” Seungcheol says. “We just… we need to talk to him.”

Samuel doesn't move, eyes heard. “He’s not here.”

“Yes, he is,” Junhui replies automatically. “I saw him come home 30 minutes ago.”

Samuel clenches his jaw. 

“Please,” Jisoo says. “If he knew we were here —if he just knew— we could fix this.”

“We loved him,” Jeonghani adds, voice cracking. “We still do.”

Samuel’s fists tighten.

“He loved you,” he says quietly. “All of you. More than you ever deserved.”

Seungcheol steps forward, hands extended in front of him, pleading. “We didn’t understand then. But we do now. We see him now.”

“No,” Samuel says, shaking his head, a bitter laugh rising. “Now you see what you lost . There’s a difference.”

Silence.
No one dares to breathe.

“You want to say you love him?” Samuel steps closer, the porch creaking beneath him. “You want to say you’re sorry? Where was that love when he cried himself to sleep for months? When he stopped dancing? When he stopped eating ? When he fucking starved himself half to death because of you ?”

They don’t answer.
They can’t .

Samuel’s voice breaks. “He gave you everything . And you broke him.”

Seungcheol starts “But-”

The slap is sharp. Sudden.

It lands on Seungcheol's cheek like thunder, head snapping sharply to the right. No one stops it.

Samuel’s hand trembles. His eyes blaze.

“He deserved so much better than you.”

Chapter Text

Chan appears at their door a week later.

It’s quiet. The house holds its breath when the doorbell rings, and every head turns. They weren’t expecting him. Not really. Hope is a cruel, habitual thing.

Seungcheol’s cheek still carries the echo of Samuel’s slap. The bruising didn’t come up, not physically, but the sting hasn’t left. None of them talk about it. No one says out loud that they deserved it.

And then Chan is standing there.

He’s calm. Gentle. Dressed in a soft, oversized sweater that hangs comfortably off his frame. His hair is longer now, a little wavy near the ends. His hands are tucked loosely in his sleeves. He looks like he’s come in from a walk, or a late night run to the convenience store. Not disappeared for months upon months upon months. 

There’s no tension in his shoulders. No fear in his eyes. But there’s something missing too —something that used to blaze when he looked at them. That warmth that used to bleed out of him, that love so big, it filled rooms— it’s there, but faded. Distant. Something that doesn’t belong to them anymore. 

They scramble.

“We’re sorry,” Jisoo breathes, already on his feet, scrambling over the couch. 

Junhui’s voice cracks “We love you.”

“Please,” Seungcheol chokes out, stepping forward like a man crossing a minefield. “Come back.”

“We’ve changed. We promise.” Soonyoung begs, stepping forward, doing his best to push past Seungcheol and Junhui and Jisoo.

Minghao and Mingyu stand just behind the crowd, staring like they’re afraid he’ll disappear if they blink so much as blink. 

The words hang between them like mist —fragile and desperate, half-said a thousand times in their heads and finally real.

And Chan smiles.

It’s small. Soft. His eyes shine, but not with tears. Something dream-like hovers behind them, as if he’s not fully there. As if the moment is happening just outside of him, and he’s watching it like a memory already fading.

Then, gently, almost too gently, he says,
“Samuel told me what happened.”

They pause, and it’s as if a void has taken the place of their eagerness. 

“I believe you’ve changed.”

And that’s enough for them. 

All at once —chaos. Hands reach for him. Jisoo pulls him into a hug like he’s afraid he’ll vanish. Mingyu is crying openly now. Jeonghan clasps his hand, trembling. Someone— maybe Seokmin— laughs in disbelief. Even Seungcheol sinks to his knees for a second, overcome with relief. They cling to him like a lifeline, a miracle they didn’t think they deserved.

But Chan doesn’t grip them back. Not fully. His hands linger at their shoulders. His arms circle them, but loosely. He lets them cry, lets them clutch at him— but he doesn’t fall into the embrace.

And that smile stays.
Soft.
Too soft.
Like he’s still somewhere else.

They ask him if he’ll stay. If he’ll come back and rejoin and live with them again. 

He says yes. He says okay.

But it doesn’t feel like forgiveness.

It feels like the start of a slow decay. The beginning of a putrid end to a chapter he no longer needs, to a life he no longer wants but doesn’t want to leave unfinished.
A kindness offered out of duty.
A door opening behind him, not for them —but for himself.

And none of them, in that moment, dare to ask where exactly he’s going.

The next morning, there’s tea on the counter. 

12 cups lined up neatly on the kitchen counter, steam rising towards the ceiling, with extra packets set out next to their respective cups. The members stumble out of their rooms slowly, drawn in by the smell of fresh chamomile and warm honey. One by one, they register the cups and Chan leaning against the counter, sipping his own tea, and wearing a different sweatshirt from yesterday. Slowly, they all register that Chan is leaning against their dorm counter, and sipping his own tea. 

“Chan?” Mingyu stutters out, stepping forward tentatively. Like the boy might just evaporate into thin air if he gets too close. 

Chan smiles, walking over to their kitchen table and sliding into a chair at the far end. He watches them with clouded yet smiling eyes as they all gather their tea and slowly move to join him. He lets his chin rest on his folded hands, staring at Junhui who had the fortune of sitting directly opposite to him. 

“So” he starts, eyes flicking between the people in front of him. “Samuel told me what happened.”

They visibly cringe, expectant eyes flicking away or mouths busying themselves with delicate tea cups. Chan sighs, downing his tea, and setting the cup down lightly. The mention of Samuel causes something sour to curdle in their stomachs. The thought of Chan being with someone else, loving someone else felt akin to planting a flower in the sun and having it reach for the shade. 

“He told me that you came to our house yesterday. That you asked for me. Said you-” He takes in a sharp breath, eyes flicking to the wall before letting it out and spitting out “ loved me.”

Jeonghan opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by Chan’s next question. 

“Is it true? Do you really love me? Do you really want me back?”

His eyes flick vacantly between them, settling on Jisoo and boring into his. Jisoo squirms uncomfortably in his seat before locking eyes with Chan and saying

“Yes. We do. We love you.”

“We loved you from the start, we think.” Wonwoo chimes in quietly. “We were just too stupid to realize it.” The other members nod in agreement, saying ‘we want you back’ and ‘we promise to treat you better’

Chan hums, swirling his fingertips lightly around the edge of the cup. Finally, he stands up and grabs his cup, walking into the kitchen and depositing it into the sink. He feels their stare boring into his back and turns around to find them staring at him longingly. He smiles softly, and walks back over to them, standing behind Hansol and Seungkwan’s chairs. He runs a hand through each of their hairs, tugging on the strands lightly as the other members track his movements with their eyes. 

“Ok” he says eventually, pausing his hands. “I’ll come back. Re-sign with the company, if they’ll take me.”

“We’ll come with you” Seungcheol says hurriedly, standing up so fast his chair tips backward and crashes against the floor. 

“All of us. We’ll protect you this time, Channie” Mingyu affirms. 

Chan smiles, but it’s vacant. His eyes crinkle like they remember, but they no longer shine like the sun. 

He opens his arm and seconds later, he has bodies crashing into him, pressing into him from all sides. It’s a weight he should remember, something he should feel safe or content in. Instead, it feels odd. 

Wrong. 

As if he’s being suffocated instead of protected. Because he should want to watched over, right? He should want to be protected, and cared for, and loved. 

Because that’s what everybody wants in the end, right? 

To have someone not look away?

But if they do, why does it feel so wrong when they finally, finally pay attention?

Chapter Text

By the end of the week, Chan’s schedule is still a blur. It’s steadier now. Predictable in its chaos. He’s not flinching at every call time, every new stylist's hands in his hair, every flash of the camera. Mostly. 

Jeonghan suggests they get a family photo taken —“Just for fun,” he says, already texting their groupchat a location —Chan doesn’t resist. He just gets in the van with the rest of them, wedged between Mingyu and Junhui, content to listen to them playfully bicker about videogames. 

When they get there, the photo studio smells like varnish and tea. The photographer, a thin man with a tired expression and a Nikon around his neck, blinks at them as they file in. His eyes scan, and then double back. He counts once. Twice.

“All… thirteen? Of you?” he asks, after Seungcheol requests a photo session for all of them.

“Yup,” Jisoo smiles, easy and unfazed, flipping through the photo book samples.

The man doesn’t say anything else, just darts his eyes through their group again, like someone trying to piece together a puzzle with parts missing.

He adjusts the lighting, mutters something about ‘needing a wider lens’ and eventually lines them up: Seungcheol in the middle, with Chan in front, like a core to orbit around. Hansol crouches low on one side, Jihoon standing strong on the other. Someone cracks a joke about trying to fit in the frame. Nobody laughs except the photographer, weak and confused. 

“Smile,” he says, uncertain, just before the shutter clicks.

A few days later, they show up at a family-style restaurant, one of those places with big round tables and lazy susans full of side dishes. Seungkwan tells the host they have a reservation for a table of thirteen.

The woman stares. “Thirteen?” she echoes, blinking down at her seating chart like it personally betrayed her.

“Thirteen,” Seungkwan repeats with a cheerful nod. “We did make a reservation, I believe.”

She doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. Just leads them to a back room with a table meant for a reunion party. Her eyes flicker across them as they sit, Chan pulled into the seat between Jihoon and Minghao, being handed lettuce wraps and topped-up drinks before he can even lift his chopsticks.

Halfway through dinner, the waitress comes in with a refill of iced tea, pauses, and squints at them. Her mouth opens like she wants to say something —but doesn’t.

Two days after that, they’re in a costume rental shop. Minghao is dead-set on doing a theme day for their next monthly meet up. Something stupid like “Time Travelers” or “Modern Royalty” This time, he drags all of their members to the store to buy costumes. The clerk does the usual double take when they ask for thirteen matching outfits.

“Thirteen? You sure…”

“Yep,” Minghao says, expression unreadable. “One set each.”

The clerk says nothing for a moment. Then, “Right… well I’ll need to measure all of you today. So…”

He lets them all step up onto the stool, taking the measurements of their hips and legs and chests and arms. Twelve people later, with pages full of measurements, the clerk starts to turn away

“Wait!” Jihoon calls, grabbing the clerk's attention. “He still needs to be measured.” He says gesturing to Chan. 

The man stares at them, and his eyes dart between Jihoon and the space he’s gesturing to. 

“Uh…who?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “Chan. Chan still needs to be measured.”

The clerk stares at them some more, flicking his eyes between Jeonghan, Jihoon, and Chan. 

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Just…step up here, then.” He gestures to the step stool and stares at it until Chan is up. He starts measuring his waist, and arms, and is done within minutes. 

When Chan picks up his outfit a week later, it’s too loose around the waist and a little baggier around the arms than he’s comfortable with. 

The fourth time it happens, they’re at a karaoke place. Late night. The neon sign is buzzing and the front desk guy looks up from his phone when they ask for a room.

“Thirteen?”

He doesn’t mask the skepticism this time. “Really? There’s thirteen of you?”

“There is,” Hoshi grins, waving his hands around. “It’s a party of sorts.”

“For who?”

Chan looks up from his phone, caught off-guard. “Uh… mine?”

The guy frowns. “Uh. Who’s party is it?”

Chan blinks. “Mine,” he says again. 

The guy pauses and then shrugs, handing over the keycard. “Whatever. Don’t have to tell me. As long as you don’t break the mic. Or the speakers”

When they get inside, someone queues up an old track —Pretty U, maybe— and the room erupts in off-key harmonies and ridiculous dance moves. Chan sits with a mic in his lap, half-smiling, half-sighing, as Seungcheol nudges him to sing the high note.

He does.

It’s terrible. But they cheer like it’s the best thing they’ve ever heard.

None of them mention the glances or the questions. None of them bring up the fact that no one ever really says why they look at them like that —like thirteen is a number that shouldn't belong to one group, one schedule, one karaoke room.

But it does. 

It always has.

Chapter Text

The fanmeeting was going as expected. 

The room was stuffy and warm, adding to the sweat dripping down the back of their necks. Their table was set with a thin black table cloth and plastic dividers between each member, giving the fans the illusion of privacy. Chan sat sandwiched between Soonyoung and Mingyu, like he always used to. He was quiet. Patient and smiling warmly —faintly— as each fan approached the table.

But they never stopped for him.

They’d squeal for Soonyoung, talk about how much they loved his dancing and how much they appreciate how much he does for the team. They would gush over Mingyu, ramble about how strong he was and how his rapping was so clean and the lyrics were so pretty. Then, try to pass straight by Chan like he wasn’t there at all. Not in a malicious way —more like they genuinely didn’t register him.

Every time, Soonyoung or Mingyu would stop them. A hand on a shoulder, or a featherlight touch on the inside of a wrist. A pointed glance.

“Say hi to Chan,” Soonyoung would say, his voice deceptively light. “You don’t wanna be rude do you?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu would add, frowning slightly. “He’s right there.”

The fans would hesitate. Confused. Their brows furrowed in discomfort, like they weren’t sure what they were being asked to do. But they’d turn, lips pressed into polite lines, and murmur a quick "hello" to the space in between the two boys before moving on.

It became a rhythm. A pattern. A ritual. 

Chan didn’t mind. He sat fidgeting with the table cloth or one of the props he was given, but never actually used. He would let his members fuss over his hair and ask if he was cold or hungry or tired. He welcomed the change. 

Eventually, during their mid-way break, their manager pulled Soonyoung and Mingyu aside. Into one of the cold dressing rooms in the back of the venue.  

“What are you two doing?” he asked, voice low and tight. “Can’t you tell you're making the fans uncomfortable?”

They stared at him like he was the crazy one.

“We’re just making sure people show Chan respect,” Mingyu said, eyes hardening and voice rough. 

“Like they should,” Soonyoung added, tone clipped.

Without letting the manager get a word in, they turned on their heels and stalked back to the table.

The next morning, the dorm smelled like orange honey and lavender.

Chan moved around the kitchen like normal, barefoot, humming softly as he made tea. He always brewed it just right —never too hot, never bitter. The scent clung to the walls, soothing and strange. It was a rhythm he had settled back into. Waking up early and making tea when the world was still quiet and the sky still darkened with afterthought of nighttime. The delicate cups would be set on the edge of the counter one by one, some mixed with honey and others left plain and bitter. The steam would permeate the house with the smell of herbs and nostalgia, dancing with the golden morning sunlight streaming through their living room window. 

Minghao, bleary-eyed, wandered toward the kitchen, drawn awake by the promising smell —but paused.

The door to Chan’s room was cracked open. Inside, Chan paced the length of his bed, tea cooling on his nightstand, phone pressed to his right ear.

“I don’t care how you get them to do it,” he whispered, voice harsher than Minghao was used to. He furrowed his brow, pressed further towards the door without touching it. “Just make sure it happens.”

A pause. Then, a low laugh, laced with bitterness and dipped in melancholy.

“They’ve already done it to themselves once. I just get to watch this time.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the apartment smelled like it always did —a soft mix of orange honey and steeped herbs clinging to the kitchen walls, swirling gently into the quiet of dawn. The air felt weighted with sleep and warmth, the kind of heaviness that never quite went away.

Chan moved through the kitchen barefoot. The tile was cold under his feet, but he didn’t mind. He preferred it that way. The kettle hissed gently, a soft kind of exhale, and he hummed under his breath, something melodic and shapeless.

The cups lined the counter like always —thirteen of them. Each one a little different. Each one with a different type of tea set next to it. It was muscle memory by now. Hands moving before his thoughts did. Spoon clinking, liquid swirling, steam curling upward.

And then—

A crash.

One of the cups slipped through his fingers.

It shattered on the tile, a mix of sharp, pale ceramic edges splitting into pieces that skittered across the floor. The hot tea splashed across the counter, down onto his toes.

He flinched. Stared

“Chan”

Jeonghan was there in a heartbeat, standing over him like a ghost. His voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet. Then his hand flew out before either of them could think.

Red bloomed on Chan cheek. 

Bright and stinging. It was enough to make his heart stop for a split second and for a heavy silence to fall over the kitchen. 

The sound echoed too long.

Jeonghan froze.

“I—” He stepped back like he’d been burned. “Shit. Fuck. No. No, I didn’t mean to—”

Chan raised a hand to his cheek, blinked once.

“It’s fine,” he said, voice level. “It was just a cup.”

“No, I—” Jeonghan’s eyes searched his face, like he was waiting for something to break.

But Chan only bent down, carefully picking up the larger shards, cradling them in his palm. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

Jeonghan hesitated, then knelt beside him, wordlessly helping him clean. The tea soaked into a dish towel, the ceramic scraped into the trash. The room settled again, but the quiet didn’t feel quite the same.

When the others shuffled into the kitchen minutes later, yawning and still warm from sleep, nothing seemed out of place.

Chan handed out cups like always. He even made an extra.

He avoided Jeonghan’s stares. 

Later that morning, they piled into two black vans and made their way to the company building. The sky was cloudy, but not in a dramatic way —just washed out, like someone had turned down the saturation on the world.

They had a team meeting scheduled with the managers. Briefing, they said. Just a light check-in, nothing heavy. A few schedules to go over. Upcoming shoots. Fan feedback. The usual.

They all filed into the meeting room —Jeonghan, Seungcheol, Mingyu, Soonyoung, Seokmin, Seungkwan, Wonwoo, Minghao, Hansol, Junhui, Jihoon, Jisoo. Chan followed at the end, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, head ducked slightly.

The managers started talking immediately.

“We want to adjust the choreography formations for the comeback.”

“Maybe pull Seokmin forward during the bridge.”

“We got some feedback about Soonyoung’s solo part —it’s overwhelmingly positive. We’ll push it harder.”

They went on like that.

Chan sat in the chair closest to the window, watching the reflection of everyone in the glass. How their mouths moved. How their bodies shifted. He watched them laugh at something Mingyu said. Saw Seungkwan argue gently about air time. Noticed how Minghao leaned forward whenever someone else spoke.

No one looked at him. 

He sat there the whole hour, listening.

When the meeting ended, the members stood and stretched. Someone made a joke. Laughter flared. Back slaps and casual shoulder squeezes. They filed out again, just like they came in.

Chan followed.

Dance practice was next. The studio was lit harsh and white, mirrors across every wall. Their choreographer was already in the middle of the room when they arrived, clipboard in hand and hair tied back.

“Alright,” she said, not looking up. “We’re cleaning today. Detail work. I want to get into the solo transitions and fix the spacing for the chorus.”

They started running the set.

It was tiring. Repetitive. She was merciless, as always — stopping them mid-move to adjust a wrist angle, correct a stance, tighten a spin. She paused the music again and again, pointing out small mistakes, giving one-on-one adjustments.

She pulled Seungcheol aside to talk about posture.

She guided Minghao’s hand position during a turn.

She clapped twice and called Jihoon over, muttering about his footwork.

Only once did her eyes flicker toward Chan.

He danced like he always did. Clean. Controlled. Sharp where he needed to be, fluid everywhere else. He adjusted his spacing. Watched the others. Followed the counts. Hit his marks.

But the choreographer's eyes skimmed right over him during every passover.

Like he wasn’t even there.

By the time practice ended, sweat stuck to their shirts and bruises bloomed at the edges of their knees and hips. Someone flopped down onto the couch with a groan. Another stretched out on the floor.

Chan grabbed his water bottle and sat against the mirror.

No one said anything. No one pointed it out.

They got home late.

The dorm smelled like old takeout and fabric softener. Lights low, music from someone’s phone playing faintly through a speaker. A few of the guys had already claimed the couch, buried under blankets, legs tangled. Someone was in the shower. Someone else was half-asleep at the kitchen table, scrolling through something aimlessly.

Chan waited with his shoes at the front door.

“I’m heading out,” he said casually, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets.

Minghao looked up from the couch. “Where to?”

“Dinner,” Chan replied.

It took a second. Then Jeonghan lifted his head. “With who?”

“A friend.” Chan smiled faintly. “We’ll probably talk late. Just catching up.”

“Be safe,” Soonyoung called from the kitchen.

“Text if you need anything,” Jisoo added, not looking up from his phone.

Mingyu offered a casual wave. “Don’t get kidnapped.”

Chan slipped out before anyone could say more.

The door closed with a soft click.

Hours passed.

The dorm quieted. The lights dimmed. Laughter faded into low murmurs, then into silence.

Minghao sat by the window, legs curled under him, phone face-down on the table beside him. His eyes flicked toward the front door every few minutes.

Jeonghan had curled up on the couch, but he wasn’t asleep.

None of them said it out loud —the tension sitting low in their bellies, the half-hearted justifications.

“Maybe they really did lose track of time.”

“I’m sure he’s okay.”

“He’s with a friend, he’s not alone.”

But the worry stayed. Quiet. Persistent.

It wasn’t just that he was out late. It was something else.

It was the way his tea cup shattered this morning.

It was the sound of the slap the echoed in Jeonghan’s mind,

It was the way no one had looked at him in that meeting.

It was the space the choreographer never asked him to fill.

At 2:07 AM, the door clicked open.

Chan stepped in, hoodie still on, cheeks slightly flushed, hair mused. His shoes came off quietly. 

Minghao stood before he could stop himself. “It’s late.”

Chan blinked, then smiled. “Yeah. Sorry. We were just… talking. A lot to catch up on.”

“Have fun?”

“Yeah. We grabbed dinner, walked around a bit. It just kind of… happened.”

Jeonghan hovered near the hallway, his voice low. “Everything good?”

“Everything’s fine.” Chan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You guys didn’t have to wait up.”

But they did.

Minghao watched him for a second longer, then just nodded.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Get some rest.”

Chan nodded, turned down the hall.

The dorm settled again.

But the quiet felt different now.

Like the home they had carefully crafted was cracking. Not completely —but enough to feel the draft from the other side. 

Chapter Text

“Hello everyone! Weekly Idol! Today’s episode is a special one, with an entire hour with our friends! Please welcome, Seventeen!”

The two MCs cheered as the group walked out from behind the cameras, clapping and whooping.

“Waaah, it’s Seventeen!” the taller host shouted, raising both hands as the members spilled onto the stage. “Look at all of you! It’s been a while, huh?”

“Too long,” the other agreed with a bright grin. “The studio feels too small now!”

The members laughed, bowing and waving toward the cameras, fanning out around the space to settle onto various white stools. 

Thirteen stood center stage, bright-eyed and smiling, every movement polished from years of repetition.

Chan smiled too —not too wide, not too quiet. Just enough. He clapped with the others. Bowed with them. Even laughed a little when Soonyoung made a goofy sound effect and Seungkwan launched into an impromptu monologue about it, waving his hands about in dramatic gestures. 

But no one responded to him.

Not the MCs.

Not the staff behind the cameras.

Not even the editor notes flashing across the live monitor.

When the roll call started —a usual segment, asking each member to introduce themselves with charm and flair— the camera panned from one member to the next. Name. Signature pose. A quick quip or pun. Applause or laughter. 

But it skipped Chan.

It moved from Jihoon to Soonyoung like he wasn’t there.

Chan didn’t say anything. Just smiled, and listened as Jihoon said something about the production of their new album. He could feel the member's eyes boring into the back of his head. 

No one said anything.

Except for her.

A staff member —young, quiet, with a clipboard tucked to her chest, and her hair tied back into a low ponytail— approached from the far side of the set. She leaned in close, waiting until the camera was off of their section, and whispered something low.

Chan glanced at her, surprised. Then he gave a small nod and smile. 

She nodded back quickly —almost apologetically— and scurried off toward the producers, toward the MCs, forwarding on a message that Chan was too far away to hear.

Then;

“Ah right,” the shorter MC said, a little too sudden, like someone had just passed him a note. “By the way, we heard that Chan actually left the group for a while.”

There was a pause. Not dramatic, just awkward.

He chuckled, eyes darting around. “That must’ve been hard, huh? Adjusting without him?”

The camera zoomed in on Seungcheol.

His smile was tight. Thin.

“Yeah. It was… different,” he said.

“How did the rest of you handle it?” the other MC asked, scanning the group and leaning forward in his chair.

A few members laughed stiffly.

“We’re fine now,” Jeonghan said, his eyes not quite meeting the camera. “It’s good to be together again.”

“So he’s back now?” one MC asked, finally glancing at Chan, but only briefly —like a tourist noticing something in the distance.

Chan nodded once.

There was another moment of silence before one of the MC’s cleared their throat and announced “Anyway—! Let’s get into our first game!”

The lights shifted.

The music flared.

And the show went on.

That night, the dorm was quieter than usual.

The overhead lights were dimmed to warm tones, the TV running an old rerun of a drama no one was watching. Someone had ordered snacks but no one was really eating them.

Twelve members sat in the living room, shoes off, shoulders close, blankets and pillows scattered haphazardly around the floor.

“I hate this,” Seungkwan said finally, voice soft, like the words had been trying to claw out of his throat all night.

“Yeah,” Soonyoung murmured, picking at a frayed thread in his sweatpants. “Me too.”

“It’s like they don’t even see him,” Mingyu added, stirring his noodles aimlessly. “Like he’s a ghost.”

“They’re just…” Jihoon sighed. “They’re not used to it yet. That’s all.”

Jun shook his head. “It’s been months.”

“They think it’s a joke,” Seokmin said quietly. “Like, he left and now it’s funny to pretend he didn’t come back.”

“It’s not funny,” Jeonghan said, voice sharper than he meant.

No one responded to that.

A long silence stretched.

Then, as if summoned by the weight of his name alone, the hallway creaked.

Chan appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. He looked tired. Worn down to the seams. But he smiled —crooked and real in that way he always had when he didn’t want to make it worse.

“Secret meetings,” he said, leaning against the frame. “Just like old times, huh?”

Everyone stilled.

Jeonghan opened his mouth, closed it, then scooted across the floor. 

“Come here.”

Chan hesitated.

“Seriously,” Soonyoung said, patting the space between them. “We saved you a spot.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie.

Chan walked in, slowly, sinking into the circle like he always wanted to —like his weight suddenly fit the space between them. They shifted, reshaped, pulled him in without asking more questions.

Hugs. Laughter. A few dumb jokes to cut the mood.

Someone passed him a bag of chips.

Someone else handed him a soda.

The conversation moved on.

But later that night, when the dorm lights were off and most of them were asleep, Chan lay in bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

The words from earlier kept looping in his head.

“They think it’s a joke.”

“They’re not used to it yet.”

“He’s a ghost.”

He mumbled softly, voice barely audible in the dark:

“Just like old times, huh?”

A small smile crept onto his face. And then again, quieter;

“Just like old times…”

Chapter Text

The next few weeks are a blur. 

The members are shuffled between schedule after schedule, with barely enough time to catch a nap during the car ride between locations. At one point, Chan dozes off against the window of a car going on one of their longer trips and wakes up what seems to only be minutes later, only to find that it’s been hours. They get used to dragging overnight bags with them, and changing in cramped Inkigayo and Mnet bathrooms stalls. Chan can tell that there are bags under his eyes, which are probably permanently half closed. The makeup noonas slathered him with foundation and concleaner anyways, so it doesn't really matter, even if it’s heavier makeup than he’s used to. And slightly uncomfortable. He’s tempted to rub at his eyes until they turn watery and red, but then their five minute warning is called and he has to stifle a yawn as he stands up. 

It takes all of them a minute to register that this is a fansign, instead of their usual performance or variety show. It makes them feel a little better, given the fact that it means they’ll get to sit down instead of being on their feet for hours on end. He can practically see the way the tension drains out of the members, if the way their shoulders relax is anything to go by. All of them walk down the stage, some running their hands over the black table cloth before plopping down into their seats. Some of them start up conversations with the staff or each other, drowning out the silence with idle chatter. Some of them let their heads lean backwards or rest them on the table, their eyes drifting shut and their thoughts floating away. 

Some of them doze off and have to be gently shaken awake by staff, and others have their makeup touched up before the doors are opened. Jeonghan slaps his cheeks a few times and Jihoon is muttering under his breath, but soon, everybody’s sitting and the doors are opening and smiles have been plastered on. 

Soonyoung is exhausted. 

He can feel it in his head, in his muscles, in his fucking bones. 

The fan in front of him is graciously shy, and only asks him questions that he mostly has pre-prepared answers to. At some point, she scoots down the line to Jeonghan and there’s a new girl sitting in front of him. Soonyoung lets his eyes roam over her face and to her hair where it sits neatly atop her head in a braided crown. 

“ You have very pretty hair” he offers, and smiles cheekily when she blushes a furious shade of pink. She splutters through a rushed thanks in response, and bows slightly before asking him about their newest choreography. She questions about their practices, and how they go for, and if they have any other schedules after this. Not one time does she ask about Chan, which is unusual given the fact that almost everyone mentions him at some point. 

He welcomes the change. 

Towards the end of their time together, she pulls out a photocard. It takes him a moment, but eventually he recognizes it as the ‘family photo’ that Jeonghan had insisted they take after Chan had first come back. His eyes roam over the photo, taking in Jihoon’s lazy smile and Jeonghan’s relaxed posture. 

“It’s my first OT12 photocard!” the girl says excitedly. Soonyoung nods and smiles and then freezes. 

“12? But there’s 13 of us!” He laughs awkwardly. “Are you sure you have the right photocard?”

The girl flips the photocard around and then stares at him oddly.

“But there’s twelve of you! There is a space in the middle that looks like it might be for….you know…” 

Soonyoung cocks his head and raises his eyebrows. “For who?” he presses, leaning forward with his head resting on his hands. 

The girl shifts uncomfortably, and casts her gaze to a spot just past his left ear. 

“For….Chan” she whispers, shifting her gaze to stare him in the eyes. 

“A space,” he repeats, “for Chan.”

The girl nods her head and then snaps her head up, her eyes widening comically. 

“But I am totally just projecting, I don’t mean to insinuate anything about your feelings towards him, I just thought-”

Soonyoung places a finger over her mouth and flashes her dazzling smile. 

“Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong. Could I see the photo again?”

The girl nods, body frozen as she places the photocard in between them on the table. Soonyoung takes his hand away and flips the card around, staring at the space between Seungcheol and Hansol. 

The empty space. 

He blinks. 

Rubs his eyes. 

Puts the picture down and picks it back up again. 

Rubs his eyes one more time. 

When he looks up, the girl is staring at him with something in her gaze he’s not sure he’s ready to decipher. She tentatively asks if he can sign it, and he does, moving mechanically as he grabs the sharpie next to him. He stares in front of him as the girl moves to the next member. 

As she does, Soonyoung stands up and leans over the table, casting his gaze down towards the end. His eyes scan over every member, counting down until he gets to an empty spot between Seokmin and Junhui. He stills when he sees the empty chair, still tucked under the black tablecloth. The props sit untouched, lined up neatly and contrasting the mess that the other members have made. He stares, head whirling until a staff member taps him on the shoulder and gestures towards the fan in front of him. He sits back down and pastes on a smile, but his eyes are far away. Eventually, he comes to the conclusion that Chan took a break or went to the bathroom. It would make sense, he reasons, that he would sneak off to take a nap somewhere. They’ve been so overworked lately, that Soonyoung wouldn’t even fault him for it. 

Yet, even as he settles back into his chair, he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he’s not seeing.  

Chapter Text

happyvirusdokyeom @imyourhappyvirus - 4 hours ago

Did anybody else notice that the members were acting weird at the fanmeeting? 

baohao @baobaohaohao - 4 hours ago

Replying to @imyourhapyvirus 

Omg I totally did. They kept asking me to sit in front of an empty seat, saying it was Chan?

youre.my.star @shiningstarchwehansollie - 4 hours ago

Replying to @baobaohaohao

It happened to me too. I just ended up sitting in a chair for 10 minutes, staring at nothing? Like….what?

nonvernonnie @nonvernotvernon - 3 hours ago

Replying to @shiningstarchwehansollie 

They even set out props in front of the chair, and it wasn't even pulled out. 

kyeomshualuv @kyeomxshuaendgame - 2 hours ago

Replying to @shiningstarchwehansollie

oh my. Soonyoung kept starting at my pc weird too, after I said that it was my first w/ ot12 svt. like….sir, there are 12 of you now? Are you unaware of that, or?

Soonyoung tells them in the car.

It’s the quiet kind of confusion that follows— like a chord being held too long, and the artist becoming tired. He doesn't mean to say it like it’s urgent. He only mentions it because it’s bothering him, like a grenade held between his teeth.

“I think Chan ditched the fansign early,” he says, somewhere between one red light and the next. “His seat was empty. His props were untouched too.”

For a few seconds, no one says anything.

Then:

“What do you mean?” Seokmin asks, turning from the passenger seat to look at him. “He was just…” he wrinkled his nose. “Wasn’t he next to me?”

Junhui frowns. “No, I thought he was next to me.”

Jihoon shifts slightly, pulling one AirPod out. “Wait—so he didn’t show up at all?”

“He was there during soundcheck,” Jeonghan says slowly. “I said hi to him before we went backstage.”

But now that he says it, he’s not sure. He remembers turning, remembers talking, but the person in front of him is blurry —muffled and staticy in a way that feels unnatural, even in his tired mind. 

Soonyoung doesn’t answer. =

By the time they get back to the company building, they’re fully panicked. Mingyu practically sprints down the hallway. Seungcheol calls Chan’s name as he checks each rehearsal room and recording studio.

No one finds him.

Jihoon tries calling his phone. It rings once before it cuts to voicemail.

When they all crowd into the manager’s office, the mood is tense —buzzing like a live wire.

“Hyung,” Jeonghan starts, barely out of breath. “Have you seen Chan? He’s not answering. We think he got lost at the fansign —or maybe left early? We just wanted to make sure he got back okay.”

The manager looks at them like they’re the ones who’ve gone missing.

He puts down the tablet in his hand, fingers clasped carefully together, and stares. 

And then, with a voice so careful that it seems he’s trying to frighten skittish children, he says

“Do you guys… know that Chan has been gone for two months already?”

The room tilts. 

A beat.
Two.

Seungcheol’s voice comes out strangled. “What?”

“You’re kidding,” Soonyoung says, even though he can already feel his stomach twisting. “That’s not —what are you talking about?”

The manager shifts uncomfortably. “You were told. There was a meeting. Right after the Tokyo shows. You were all there.”

“No,” Jihoon says sharply, “There wasn’t. We never had that meeting. And even if we did, he was here. He’s always there.”

“You didn’t tell the fans though,” Minghao says slowly. “If he left, the fans would’ve—”

“They were told,” the manager says. “There was a Weverse post. An official one. His health, his mental state —it was all in the statement. And you all agreed to protect his privacy. We even filmed the group statement the next day.”

There’s silence.

The type of silence that presses into the spaces behind your ribs, until it’s hard to breathe.

Because now that he says it—

They do remember a meeting.

A gray day. Rain tapping the windows. All of them around the table.

But when they try to place Chan there, try to picture his face, his voice—
There’s only static.

A blur where his head should be. An outline that never sharpens.
A fuzzy blob sitting between Minghao and Jihoon. A voice like a warped radio transmission. 

Jeonghan is the first to speak, voice hoarse.

“No. That’s not —he was just here.”

The manager looks at them for a long time. Then sighs, almost sadly.

“Get some rest,” he says, grabbing his tablet and sighing. “I’ll send the schedule for tomorrow later tonight.”

They don’t rest.
Not really.
They just keep moving, because it’s easier than standing still.
Standing still would mean thinking — and thinking leads to remembering, and remembering leads to that space again.
That fuzzy shape at the edge of every memory.
That thing that used to be Chan.

So they keep going.
They film their variety shows. Do their photoshoots. Put out two V Lives.

One of them cries on camera —Mingyu, maybe, or Seokmin— but they all laugh it off, even as their hands shake. Blaming the fan letters. The lighting. The lack of sleep. Anything but the truth.
Anything but him.

They go on tour.
New outfits. New hair. New venues.

They perform as thirteen.
They move as thirteen.
But only twelve bodies cast shadows.

And no one says anything.

They leave space on stage without realizing it — adjusting instinctively, like their bones are following a choreography their minds can’t remember. There’s always a mic stand left untouched. A water bottle unopened. A dressing room corner that no one steps into.

At the ending ments, someone always turns to laugh — to smile — to pass the mic to no one. Just subtle enough that no one calls them out.
But later, watching the replays, they see it.
The eyes tracking a ghost.
The half-nods toward a space that shouldn't exist.

And they keep pretending.

Even when it starts to crack.

It’s the fans who notice first.

They stitch together clips like investigators. Fancams, livestreams, behind-the-scenes footage. Red circles. Slow motion. Enhancements. Comparisons.
They point out the gaps in choreography.
The phantom movements.
The strange moments where Jeonghan starts laughing before anyone speaks — where Seungcheol turns to whisper something to the air beside him.

They call it “The Chan Glitch.”

At first, it’s a joke.
A fandom bit. A creepy little fandom mystery.

But then it’s not.

Because the footage doesn’t lie.
Because the OT12 photocard shows up again — the same one — passed around, scanned, uploaded.
Twelve members smiling.
And a gap in the middle. Perfectly centered. Perfectly untouched.

Some fans say it’s a prank.
Others think it’s a memorial.
A few whisper about timelines and curses, déjà vu and lost time.

And still —no one explains it.
No one can.

Because when the members try to remember recent content — interviews, stages, behind-the-scenes —
Chan is there.
Right there. In their heads.

But they can’t quote him.
Can’t describe what he wore.
Can’t mimic his laugh.
Can’t remember how he held the mic.
He’s simply a shape.
A blur.
A fuzzy blob.

And it’s driving them mad.

Jeonghan snaps during a dance practice —throws his hat across the room and storms out.

Minghao curls in the backseat of the van with headphones blasting static, muttering that something’s wrong with the lights in his head.

Seungkwan locks himself in a bathroom stall for forty minutes and doesn’t come out until Hansol picks the lock with a hairpin.

Jihoon writes a full demo, then listens back to it on loop, convinced there’s a thirteenth voice layered underneath the track.

Nobody sleeps properly anymore.

Nobody jokes about it.

Because they are waiting — Seungcheol, Wonwoo, Mingyu, Soonyoung— all of them.
Waiting for someone to come out and say it’s a prank.
That Chan’s backstage. That he’s fine. That it was all for a long-term reveal, or a viral project, or a secret show.

But no door opens.

No chair slides back.

And the fog never lifts.

And the static is louder now.
Louder than anything else.
Louder than the music. Louder than the cheers.
Louder than the twelve of them trying to hold themselves together.

It starts with a notification.

One sentence.

Black text. White background.

"Hello, this is Pledis Entertainment”

Chapter Text

-

Hello, this is Pledis Entertainment. 

Due to recent events, and the mental health of our members, Seventeen will be going on an indefinite hiatus. 

We ask for the support and cooperation of Carat’s during this time. 

Thank you for continuing to support Seventeen. 

-

“Seungcheol-ssi, please eat something. At least a piece of bread, or even some soup would do. Anything, really.” The attendant was gentle as she placed the tray on the small metal table. 

Seungcheol didn’t even look at it. He’s sitting with his back perfectly straight, hands clasped in his lap like hes waiting to give a press conference. The only movement is the slight tremble in his right leg. Barely noticeable, unless you're looking for it. 

“I told you already,” he says, voice even. “I’m not eating until Chan’s here.”

The attendant hesitates. “It’s been weeks-”

“No.” Seungcheol says sharply, hands gripping his knees. “It’s only been a couple hours. He’s just out at a photoshoot, and then he’ll be right back to pick us up. He’s probably filling out the paperwork in the next room as we speak.”

His voice is flippant, but his smile is broad when he turns around to face her. The attendant smiles uncomfortably, bowing slightly as she backs up towards the door. Seungcheol turns back around and closes his eyes. 

He listens. 

“There,” he says softly. “Did you hear that? You can hear them talking in the next room.”

The attendant says nothing. 

Eventually, she picks up the tray and leaves, the sound of the door closing echoing in the silent hallways.

Seungcheol stays still. 

He’s smiling, just slightly, nodding his head along to the hums of the people in the next room. 

“You should get some fresh air,” the attendant says, sliding open the metal doors. 

Soonyoung doesn’t move.

He’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, arms wrapped tightly around his torso. The lights above him flicker occasionally, and every time they do, he jerks his head around,as if he’s expecting something to appear before him. 

“I told you,” he says, eyes never leaving the small window at the top of his headboard. “We’re not leaving yet.”

“But-”

“Chan’s almost home.” His voice is calm, like he’s talking to a frightened cat. “When he gets here, we’ll all go outside. We’ll run. We’ll walk. We’ll dance. We’ll be together again. Just like we’re meant to be.”

He turns to her, eyes heavy and smile crooked. 

“He promised.”

“Soonyoung, it’s just you here.” She says quietly, gesturing to the sterile room around then, pointedly ignoring the stare boring into the side of her face. When she looks back at him, his smile is wider and his head is cocked to the side. 

“But it’s not.”

No one understands what Minghao is saying anymore. 

He mutters constantly under his breath, words tumbling over one another in a mess of Chinese, Korean, and little bits of English and Japanese. It becomes something smashed and warped —weighed down by the feeling of unease. The phrases loop. Repeat. Layer over themselves until his voice feels more like a texture than a sound. 

“Not a dream / not a dream / the laundry’s done / the tea is hot / he’s in his room / he’s in the mirror / he’s in the walls / he was here/ he’s talking / he was -”

The walls of his room are covered with pen. When he first came, they gave him a pack of sharpies and dry erase markers, saying that art therapy might be helpful long-term. The walls are now smeared with black, smudged out words and patterned sentences. Some are big, while others fit into cracks and whatever small empty space he can find. Sometimes, he carves into the wooden floorboards with the dull spoon he gets with his meals. 

It’s always the same thing. 

 “Where did we go wrong?”

And sometimes, underneath it, in smaller writing

“He’s talking to me. I can hear him.”

They had to take the mic away. 

At first, they thought letting him sing might help. 

That was, until he started screaming only Chan’s parts. Over and over. Every day, every night, every hour, until his body gave out and he collapsed or fainted. His throat went raw and bloody, the veins in his neck pulsing. His hands clutching invisible cords and hand-held microphones. Rehearsing choreography he wasn’t even doing, the steps choppy and out of order. 

He won’t respond to his own name anymore. 

Only answers to “Producer-nim” or “Hyung”

And if you ask him where Chan is, he’ll look at you like you're stupid. 

“He’s recording,” Jihoon says. “He’s at the company, in the studio with one of our other producers. He’s just finishing up the guide track for one of our new songs.”

Sometimes, they catch him staring at his reflection in the metal of the food trays, mouthing words and muttering singing tips and corrections to himself for a person that’s not here. 

They found Mingyu in his closet again —on the floor, curled next to his desk chair that he dragged in. 

His attendant says that it sounds like he’s been talking to someone. Offering them snacks. Water. Brushing their hair, and making sure their clothes are okay. Doing vocal warm-ups. 

“Come on, Channie,” they hear him murmur. “You like banana milk, right? I saved one for you from the concessions fridge. Please eat something before we go on stage.”

When they try to move the chair, he screams. Shrieks that “Channie’s going to fall” and that they’re trying to kill him. 

When they try to move his clothing that he’s piled on top of it, he’ll screech and say that they’re “taking away Channie’s clothes.”

“They’re his” he’ll sob. “He needs them when we dance.”

Seungkwan doesn’t cry anymore. 

He just laughs. And laughs. And laughs. 

Everything is funny. The flickering lights. The cold food. The hard bed. The way his attendant avoids eye contact. 

Sometimes, he laughs so hard he chokes on his tongue. 

Other times, he leans forward like he’s about to deliver the punchline to a joke —only to stop and break out into tear-inducing laughter. 

“Did you hear what Chan said?” he gasps once, eyes wide and wild. “He said-he said-” and then he breaks into laughter again, clutching his stomach and rolling around on the floor, echoing through the hallway. 

2 months later

There’s a room. 

White, sterile, not unlike the rest of the facility —except this has two doors on opposite sides, and a clear glass partition runs directly down the middle. 

It’s brighter than the others. 

Cleaner, too.

The air hums slightly with the sound of the circulation fan and fluorescent lighting. 

One by one, they’re all led inside. 

Some have to be coaxed. 

Others walk freely, chattering or silent but obedient. 

Seungcheol first. Then Jeonghan. Jisoo, Junhui, Soonyoung, Wonwoo, Jihoon, Seokmin, Mingyu, Minghao, Seungkwan, and Hansol.

They stand, one by one, on one side of the partition, laughing at the air or muttering to themselves. Minghao has headphones pressed to head while he writes on himself, while Seungkwan cackles in the direction of the partition at a joke nobody told. 

Twelve figures.
The moment all of them are inside, the air shifts. 

The attendant at the door clears her throat, speaking carefully into a small headset mic that projects her voice, shaky but clear, into the room. 

“You have a visitor.”