Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello readers!

Welcome to my collection of Mingyu oneshots, where I’ll be bringing to life stories inspired by your ideas and requests. Whether you’re here for fluff, angst, comfort, drama, or whatever else you want, I’ve got you covered.

I won’t write smut since I’m not comfortable with it, nor do I feel confident in my ability to do it justice.

Chapter Text

The music hadn’t started yet, but the building already throbbed with anticipation—low and seismic, like a creature beneath the skin of the earth beginning to stir. It wasn’t rhythm, not exactly. It was potential. A pulse felt more than heard, vibrating through steel beams and concrete, through the soles of shoes, through the fragile architecture of nerves.

The green room sat just behind the stage like a pressure chamber, air heavy with hairspray and expectation. Harsh overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, flickering over matte black walls and chrome fixtures. Every surface caught light like a blade. Every breath tasted of ozone and nerves.

Someone was laughing—Jun, probably. Someone else was singing under their breath. Radios crackled with crew chatter, stylists scurried with brushes and lint rollers in hand, and in the middle of it all: Mingyu paced.

He wasn’t nervous. He hadn’t been in years.

This wasn’t fear—it was sharpening. Honing. A ritual so ingrained it had become part of his muscle memory, like breath or heartbeat or instinct.

His footsteps carved practiced paths into the floor, tracing the same loop he always walked pre-show. Each stride wound tighter around his center, like drawing a bowstring back to full tension. It wasn’t fidgeting—it was forging. Building voltage. Every second closer to curtain call sparked louder under his skin.

He stopped, glanced in the mirror. The figure that stared back was no longer soft edges and boyish charm. It was a weapon.

All-black outfit—sleek, layered, perfectly tailored. Leather over matte fabric, flashes of silver hardware glinting at the collarbones, wrists, and waist. His silhouette was sharp enough to cut glass.

Gloves: fitted snug.

Mic pack: checked.

In-ears: secure.

He looked like a warning. A thunderhead in human form.

He tugged once at his jacket hem—an unconscious habit. Not nerves. Just grounding. The feel of fabric obeying his pull, the confirmation that he was still in control of something.

“Yah!” Soonyoung’s voice rang from across the room, slightly muffled around a water bottle between his teeth. “You gonna ask that mirror for its number, or are you gonna grace us mortals with your presence?”

Mingyu didn’t miss a beat. Turned, grinning like a devil freshly promoted. “Don’t be jealous,” he said, winking. “Mirror’s the only one who never ghosts me.”

Collective groans. An empty hairbrush lobbed at his head—he ducked.

“Seriously, you flirt with the lens like it owes you money,” Seungkwan muttered as he smoothed down the hem of his shirt with surgical precision.

“I’m committed,” Mingyu replied, placing a solemn hand over his heart. “Monogamous. Me and the main camera angle—till death do us part.”

Jihoon didn’t look up from the setlist. “If only death would hurry.”

Banter like this was as integral to their pre-show ritual as mic checks or deep breathing. It helped. Anchored. The teasing was rhythmic, familiar. Half-roast, half-love letter in disguise. The kind of comfort that came only from years of shared backstage lives.

But beneath it tonight, there was something else.

A shift in the air. Subtle, but real.

The room felt denser. Each inhale heavier. The kind of weight that pressed against the skin without leaving bruises.

Mingyu felt it. That sixth sense that came after hundreds of performances—a flicker at the edge of perception that said this night is different.

They weren’t just about to perform.

They were about to summon something.

Behind him, Chan bounced on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating. Joshua stretched in the corner, fluid and unbothered. Seokmin cracked his knuckles and hummed a scale under his breath.

The others moved, but Mingyu stilled. His body coiled, ready. His mind narrowed to a point.

And then—

“Positions.”

Seungcheol’s voice. Calm, firm, inevitable.

Everything snapped into place.

Twelve men moved as one, shedding their final mortal touches. Brushes down. Phones away. Eyelines sharpened. Even their silence had unity to it—tight, compressed, brimming.

Outside the green room, the world howled.

CARATs. Thousands. Their collective voices bleeding through concrete and steel like smoke, like a wildfire. That brand of deafening love that could both anchor and overwhelm. The sound didn’t just echo. It invaded.

“MAESTRO in five.”

Crew voices echoed through their in-ears. Lights shifted. Shadows deepened.

Mingyu walked to his lift.

Each step forward carried weight. Not dread—but gravity. Something ancient and unshakeable, like the pull of the moon on the tide. He took a slow breath, bounced once on the balls of his feet, testing the ground beneath him. The platform hummed faintly under his boots.

He never looked down.

Never had. Not superstition. Just self-preservation.

A rustle to his right. Jeonghan, ever casual, tugged lightly at the edge of his sleeve in passing. Barely a gesture. More muscle memory than concern. Their way of saying I see you. We’re here.

Mingyu’s mouth tilted into a softer grin. “I’m good,” he said aloud, even though no one had asked.

And he was.

Until the lift moved.

It started wrong.

A tiny, almost imperceptible jerk—not downward, as expected, but upward.

He frowned. Just a glitch, he told himself. It’ll settle.

It didn’t.

The lift surged.

A violent jolt. Up, not down. Against the cue, against gravity, against everything rehearsed. The metallic grind was sharp and grating, just loud enough to pierce through the storm in his ears.

His knees locked. Instinct.

His hands clutched the side rail. Reflex.

His breath hitched. Terror.

The platform should have taken him down.

Instead, it dragged him upward—mechanical, mindless.

He was rising.

Alone.

The others—his brothers—were vanishing below him. Twelve silhouettes sinking smoothly into darkness, swallowed by the stage like mythic figures returning to the underworld for their dramatic reemergence.

But not him.

He remained above.

Visible.

Exposed.

Wrong.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. The camera might still be on him. The crowd, roaring louder, thought it was part of the act.

But he knew.

He knew.

Every inch he climbed, the air grew thinner—not literally, but perceptibly. His pulse scattered. His mouth went dry. His mind reeled, dragged backward in time.

Back to childhood.

Back to glass elevators.

Back to the way his stomach flipped and twisted at the thought of open space beneath his feet.

Back to that ancient, bone-deep fear: falling.

He hadn’t beaten it.

He’d just buried it.

Until now.

Now it returned—full-force and ice-cold. No mercy. No delay. The terror gripped his spine and yanked.

The lift clanged again. Loud. Final. The platform shuddered to a stop. It didn’t descend. It locked.

Far above the stage.

His world narrowed instantly, tunneled into a single point of static and brightness. The crowd's cheers faded into white noise. Even the music—pounding, glorious, meticulously timed—sounded distant. Removed.

His throat tightened.

This wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t cinematic.

It was a malfunction.

It was fear.

Real, brutal, electric.

His hands trembled—barely. He didn’t allow more than that. Didn’t let his knees buckle, didn’t shout into the comms, didn’t wave for help.

He stayed still.

He endured.

Because that was the job.

Because the camera might still be watching.

Because the show goes on.

But deep in his chest, something had already snapped.

He was already falling.

Even if the platform hadn’t moved.

Even if the stage below remained stubbornly out of reach.

The fall was internal.

Sudden.

Violent.

And it had already begun.

____________________

He couldn’t breathe.

And not in that butterflies-flitting, starstruck sort of way.

Not in the rookie-oh-I’m-nervous kind of way.

Not even in the way seasoned idols do—where adrenaline pulses hard beneath a perfectly trained exterior, where every cell is vibrating with pressure, but you still smile, still move, still kill your mark like it’s nothing.

No, this wasn’t that.

This was wrong.

This was his body imploding.

A total system failure, dressed in glitter and sweat.

It began like a whisper. A quiet twist in his gut, the kind he’d learned to breathe through. Could’ve been nerves. Could’ve been nothing. Could’ve been fixed. But then—

Then his throat—

Closed.

No warning. No mercy.

Like a noose had cinched shut inside his chest and pulled taut.

His lungs panicked before his brain did.

They clawed for air and got nothing.

Every breath was cut short. Collapsed in on itself. Like he was inhaling vacuum. Like the air had turned to smoke and shards.

And then the floor beneath his mind split open.

The world didn’t just blur. It fractured.

Light bent the wrong way. Colors sharpened into knives.

The music disappeared. The crowd disappeared.

Even the pulse of the beat, always his anchor, vanished—swallowed by the deafening roar of nothing.

No sound.

Except for the pounding in his head.

No rhythm.

Except for the stuttering freight-train of his heart, careening too fast, too hard, like it would burst through bone.

Panic didn’t arrive gently. It didn’t whisper or knock.

It obliterated.

It stormed in. Ravaged everything. Ripped logic from limb and nerve from muscle. It left him stranded inside himself.

And he was still rising.

____________________

Or… wasn’t he?

Because by now, the lift had stopped.

But his body didn’t know that.

His brain didn’t believe it.

He still felt it moving. Still felt like it was climbing.

Dragging him higher, higher, into open sky.

Like a thread unraveling him from the earth.

The worst part wasn’t being suspended.

The worst part was being betrayed—by his own senses.

He didn’t know what was real anymore.

His hands gripped the rail, white-knuckled. So tight he felt the bite of metal digging into the soft flesh between his fingers. His wrists ached. His arms locked. His skin burned.

His legs—

Were gone.

Not trembling. Not wobbly. Just—gone.

Like someone had unplugged the wiring.

Like gravity had let go of him.

And not metaphorically. He genuinely wasn’t sure he was still attached to the ground.

He didn’t feel tall anymore.

Didn’t feel anything.

His body—this body that fans called godlike, powerful, comforting—was betraying him cell by cell.

His shoulders hunched inward, collapsing around his ribcage like armor folding in on itself. A fortress caving under its own weight.

He was disappearing.

Not fainting. Not swooning.

Vanishing.

Shrinking.

Curling so tightly into himself it felt like his bones were trying to escape.

And then—

“You’re going to fall.”

Just five words.

But they detonated inside his skull like a bomb.

And once that thought took root, nothing else mattered.

Not reality.

Not physics.

Not the twelve people screaming his name beneath him.

Because panic rewrites truth.

Panic takes what is and replaces it with what could be, and then brands it onto your soul as fact.

He wasn’t going to fall.

But to his brain—

He already was.

____________________

Meters below, hell broke loose.

SEVENTEEN were no longer performers.

They were just twelve people watching someone they loved unravel above them—and being unable to do anything.

The music didn’t stop. The crowd didn’t notice—yet.

But on stage?

Twelve hearts detonated in real time.

Seungcheol noticed first. Of course he did.

His eyes snapped up mid-step. His mouth opened—no words, just breath. A gasp that sounded like it was torn from the core of him.

He didn’t think. He didn’t calculate.

He reacted.

Then Jeonghan.

His expression cracked. No more practiced calm. No more effortless grace.

He grabbed Seungcheol’s arm, hard, grounding himself. His other hand shook at his side.

Jihoon—sharp, focused Jihoon—ripped his in-ear out with enough force to pop the seal. His gaze locked onto Mingyu like a man calculating disaster.

Soonyoung stopped mid-formation.

Just stopped.

The lights hit him square in the face—but he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

He turned, fully, completely, toward Mingyu.

His whole body shifting like instinct took the wheel.

Vernon swore. Quietly. Brutally. English slicing through his panic.

His eyes flicked to the tech pit, back up to the lift, back again—caught in a loop of uselessness.

Because he knew what this was.

This wasn’t nerves.

This was a total collapse.

Wonwoo reached for the edge of his own lift.

It was stupid. Pointless. He couldn’t reach him.

But his hand extended anyway. Desperate. Helpless. His mouth moved around Mingyu’s name.

“Gyu! Gyu-ya!”

Nothing.

Mingyu didn’t see him.

Didn’t see any of them.

____________________

Because Mingyu was gone.

Somewhere deep, deep inside himself.

Inside a cage made of sky and fear and silence.

And the silence was deafening.

The only sound left was the thunder in his chest.

Breath. Breath. Fail. Fail.

Inhale: fire.

Exhale: nothing.

His mouth parted. A whisper? A plea?

No sound came out.

His fingers spasmed around the railing.

His knees locked.

His vision tunneled again—blurring into white noise, halos of stage light spinning like sirens.

He didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

Even tears required oxygen.

All he could do was tremble.

Each breath a gasp.

Each second, a scream trapped behind his ribs.

And in his mind, the voices came—

“You’re going to fall.”

“You’re going to ruin it.”

“You’re embarrassing them.”

“You’re weak.”

“They’ll never look at you the same.”

“You don’t deserve to be here.”

“You’re going to die up here.”

____________________

“GYU HYUNG!”

Seungkwan.

His voice cracked so hard it pierced through the sound system.

He didn’t care.

Didn’t care about mics. About choreography. About the millions of eyes watching.

He screamed again, voice ripping at the seams:

“MINGYU HYUNG, PLEASE! LOOK AT US!”

The crowd’s energy wavered. Some still cheered.

Some had started filming.

Some were beginning to realize something was wrong.

____________________

Jihoon spun, face like a storm cloud.

He grabbed the nearest stagehand by the collar.

“CUT THE POWER TO HIS LIFT! NOW!

Manual if you have to!”

No hesitation. No softness. Just command.

Jeonghan turned to another tech.

“Climb up! GO! NOW! He’s panicking!”

His voice cracked. It always cracked when he was scared.

But now it cracked with rage. Protective, wild rage.

Joshua stood paralyzed. Hands trembling. Eyes locked on Mingyu’s silhouette like he could pray the boy down from the clouds.

His lips moved silently. Prayers. Apologies. Pleas.

Seokmin looked like he was holding his breath.

Mouth half-open, one lyric frozen mid-air, forgotten.

Chan’s hands fluttered like broken wings.

He looked twelve again. Small. Vulnerable.

Terrified.

Minghao ripped both in-ears out and yelled in Mandarin, voice hoarse, fast, desperate—calling for someone to do something.

Jun was rocking. Back and forth. Hands fisting the hem of his shirt. Eyes glassy.

“He’s not okay… He’s not okay… he’s not okay—”

A mantra. A warning. A prayer.

____________________

This wasn’t nerves.

This wasn’t a bad day.

This was panic.

True, suffocating, all-consuming panic.

The kind that doesn’t just break the mind—it breaks the body with it.

Mingyu was breaking.

And they couldn’t reach him.

Not yet.

____________________

He was shaking harder now.

His whole frame convulsing in tiny, uncontrollable jerks.

His heart stuttered.

His breaths were high, shallow, gasped through clenched teeth.

His chest burned.

His mouth moved—

Maybe “Hyung.”

Maybe “Help.”

Maybe nothing.

Just air. Just silence.

He swayed.

Just a little.

But enough to make every heart below him split in two.

And even through the terror, the guilt crept in—

“They’re watching.”

“They’re scared because of me.”

“I’m ruining it.”

“I don’t deserve them.”

____________________

Then—

CLANK.

A groan.

A mechanical hiss.

The platform moved.

Down.

Rough. Uneven. But down.

Mingyu didn’t register it.

Didn’t feel the shift.

His body stayed locked.

Arms still curled.

Eyes still wide.

Still convinced he was going to die.

The descent was slow. Torturous.

And they ran.

All of them.

No cue. No cue sheet. No formation.

No idols.

Just brothers.

Twelve voices yelling his name.

Twelve hands reaching.

Twelve hearts racing toward a single goal:

Catch him.

____________________

Because Mingyu hadn’t fallen—

Not physically.

But he had fallen.

And now?

They would catch him however they could.

With arms.

With tears.

With names.

With love.

With everything they had left.

____________________

He still couldn’t breathe.

Not really.

The platform was moving now—lowering inch by inch—but his body hadn’t registered safety. Hadn’t registered motion. Hadn’t registered anything but terror.

His skin knew something was happening, sure—the way the floor seemed to shift beneath him, the way the metal beneath his palms vibrated in slow, juddering rhythm—but none of it made sense.

Because his body wasn’t processing logic.

Only sensation.

Raw. Brutal. Relentless.

His knees were locked at unnatural angles, thighs quaking with fatigue. Pain bloomed across his quads and calves like bruises that hadn’t yet formed. His fingers remained clamped around the railing, welded to it, skin slick and white-knuckled, blood barely circulating.

He didn’t remember grabbing it this tightly.

Didn’t remember clenching his jaw until his molars groaned, pressure building behind his teeth like they might crack.

Didn’t remember curling in on himself until his spine creaked and his shoulders threatened to fuse shut around his lungs.

But his body remembered.

Every nerve screamed it.

The stage lights were still strobing overhead—red, then blue, then white, again and again—slashing through the haze like blades. They seared into his retinas, pulsing in time with the beat.

If there still was a beat.

He couldn’t tell.

The music might’ve been playing. Might’ve been pounding through the speakers loud enough to split concrete.

But Mingyu was trapped inside a bubble.

A vacuum where rhythm had been replaced by a single pounding thud:

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

A pulse. A warning. A countdown to collapse.

Someone was shouting.

He was sure of it. He could feel it more than hear it.

Fractured voices—shards of sound slicing through the static in his ears:

“Mingyu!”

“Gyu-ya! Please—look at me!”

“Don’t move, just—breathe, okay? Please!”

They were so close and so far all at once.

All of them were down there.

He was not.

The difference between here and there—between the lift and the stage—felt infinite. It felt like death.

His thoughts, usually fluid and fast, glitched and lagged like a corrupted file.

Fragments swirled, disconnected and jagged:

—The ceiling of the dome, yawning open like a mouth ready to swallow him whole.

—The lighting rig above him, too close, humming dangerously.

—The stage below, impossibly distant.

—The faces of his members, tilting upward, panic carved into every feature.

—Wonwoo’s hands, reaching.

—Jeonghan’s mouth, forming a scream.

—Seungcheol’s eyes, wild with fury, barking into comms.

And Mingyu?

Mingyu was frozen.

Still crouched midair. Still locked in the moment of rupture.

As if gravity hadn’t quite decided whether to claim him or let him drift.

He tried to speak. Tried to push a word out of his mouth.

His lips parted. Air scraped in, dry and searing. But nothing came out.

No voice.

No sentence.

No self.

The boy the world knew—Kim Mingyu, the flirt, the stage-king, the golden retriever wrapped in six feet of godlike visuals—he wasn’t here.

He’d unraveled.

What remained was someone else.

Someone raw, peeled down to the bone, paralyzed in the echo of terror.

He tried again.

A whisper? A name? A plea?

“Hyung,” maybe.

Or “Help.”

Or maybe just—

“Please.”

What came out instead was a sound so broken, so small, it barely qualified as human.

A choking whimper, muffled and sharp, forced out between clenched teeth.

That’s when something inside him shattered.

His knees gave.

His fingers slipped from the rail.

He didn’t fall—he crumpled.

Collapsed into himself like a dying star.

Dropped into a crouch, arms clutching his legs, spine curved, head bowed. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel. Couldn’t fight.

His whole body trembled.

Violent, shuddering tremors rippling through muscle and bone like electricity.

The lift was still moving.

Still descending.

Still too slow.

The members lost it.

“SOMEONE CATCH HIM!” Seungkwan’s voice cracked, sharp and guttural.

“FASTER! LOWER IT FASTER!” Jihoon shouted, his voice strangled with urgency, frantic.

“I’m going—!” Soonyoung lunged toward the base, sheer panic in every limb, but a tech restrained him.

“LET ME GO—IF HE FALLS I’LL CATCH HIM—JUST LET ME—!”

“Mingyu—Mingyu, baby, it’s okay,” Jeonghan’s voice was high and breaking, halfway between comfort and scream. “You’re almost down, you’re okay, you’re okay—”

But Mingyu couldn’t hear them.

His body had stopped believing in oxygen. In physics. In sense.

He curled tighter.

Arms around knees.

Forehead pressed to trembling thighs.

He couldn’t be seen like this.

Not by them.

Not by anyone.

His whole being screamed shame louder than it screamed help.

He was supposed to be the strong one.

The tallest.

The reacher-of-things, the carrier-of-bags, the bringer-of-laughter.

He took stairs two at a time and joked through exhaustion and made himself into a pillar.

He wasn’t supposed to break at the top of a lift.

But he did.

He broke.

A cracked sob tore from his throat, half-swallowed, muffled against his skin.

And then—

THUD.

CLANK.

A groan of metal.

The lift reached the ground.

Not gently. Not cleanly. But it landed.

And in that instant—

Everything moved.

Wonwoo ran.

Like he’d been holding himself back with chains, and the second they snapped, he bolted.

He reached the platform in seconds, dropping to his knees beside Mingyu without a word.

He didn’t touch him.

Not yet.

He waited.

Watching.

Letting Mingyu have those last few inches of control.

Then—when Mingyu’s shoulders twitched and he turned his head ever so slightly, burying his face further—

Wonwoo leaned in.

Just close enough.

So their foreheads brushed.

So Mingyu could feel him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I swear.”

Jeonghan came next.

He dropped to his knees like the earth had yanked him down.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just reached out, fingertips barely grazing Mingyu’s elbow.

Then—softly, brokenly:

“Gyu, we’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

The others followed.

A ripple of movement, like gravity had finally returned.

Joshua. Jihoon. Seokmin. Seungkwan.

All dropping. All folding in.

Chan hovered nearby, eyes wide, hands twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Jun’s face was white. His lips moved but no sound came out.

Minghao was rigid—arms crossed, jaw locked. A dam holding back a flood.

Vernon stood just behind them all, staring like he was trying to will reality to rewind ten minutes.

Seungcheol didn’t move.

Not at first.

He was standing still, fists balled, jaw clenched so tightly his entire neck pulsed with the effort of control.

His eyes never left Mingyu.

But then a voice—panicked, fast—rushed in from the wings. A stage manager. Young. Terrified. Babbling into his headset.

“We didn’t know—the timing—it wasn’t supposed to—”

And Seungcheol turned.

Like thunder.

“What the fuck happened?!”

The whole stage flinched.

“That lift bucked. That’s YOUR mistake. He could’ve—” his voice broke. He reset. “He could’ve fallen. He could’ve died.”

The manager stammered something about orders, miscommunication, automation—

“Don’t you dare blame this on the schedule,” Seungcheol snarled. “He is not a goddamn prop.”

Silence.

The man backed off. Color drained.

And Seungcheol?

He finally turned.

Back to the team.

Back to Mingyu.

Back to his family.

His voice, when it came again, was hoarse:

“Just… get him off this stage. Please.”

And they did.

Carefully.

Gently.

Wonwoo on one side. Jeonghan on the other.

Together, like bookends of trust, they slipped their arms beneath Mingyu’s—still featherlight, still cautious—and steadied him.

Jeonghan whispered:

“We’re going now, Gyu. Just us. You’re safe. You can lean.”

And Mingyu…

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t speak.

But he let them lift him.

Let them guide him.

Let them carry him.

And behind them, the lights dimmed.

The crowd shifted—murmuring, filming, crying, whispering his name.

And one by one, the members followed.

A wall of protection.

A shield made of thirteen hearts.

And in the darkness behind the curtain—

Somewhere quiet.

Somewhere safe.

A heartbeat slowly found rhythm again.

Not quite steady.

Not quite strong.

But alive.

And for now—

That was enough.

____________________

The hallway backstage was wrong.

Too bright.

Too clean.

Too empty.

The kind of quiet that didn’t soothe—just rang.

Everything buzzed under the surface, just out of reach.

White walls, white floors, white lights humming overhead like the fluorescent static of a hospital corridor. It didn’t feel like the place they’d laughed in earlier, teasing each other over mic checks and misplaced water bottles. It felt sterile. Like grief could grow here.

Mingyu wasn’t really walking—he was being moved. His limbs were cooperating only because they were being guided. Wonwoo’s hand pressed steady against the small of his back, warm and patient. Jeonghan’s voice poured like silk beside his ear, low and persistent, speaking not to his ears, but to whatever part of Mingyu was still reachable beneath the fog.

“One more step, baby. There you go. That’s it.”

“Breathe in through your nose, okay? Slowly. You’re doing so well.”

The words skimmed past him like leaves on water. He couldn’t hold on to any of them.

Every part of his body still felt coiled, waiting. Like gravity hadn’t really reclaimed him yet.

Like the floor might disappear again.

Like the lift had been a trick, and he’d still find himself floating, weightless and alone, if he let go.

His chest was tight.

Not physically—but in that awful way where no inhale felt big enough.

No exhale felt clean.

Everything stuttered. Shallow. High in the chest. Caught in his throat like splinters.

They turned the last corner.

The green room came into view—dimmed now, someone had lowered the lights. Just a single warm lamp lit the space. It was the room they always used before a show. Safe. Familiar. The soft navy couches, the vending machine with the one stuck granola bar, that ridiculous hanging plant Seungkwan kept threatening to name “President Leaf.”

But it didn’t feel funny now. It felt sacred.

No cameras.

No staff.

No crowd.

Just the twelve of them.

And him.

Mingyu collapsed onto the couch like a puppet with its strings cut.

The second his knees touched the edge, his whole frame folded. He curled inward instinctively—arms crossing tight over his chest, as if he could compress the panic into something small enough to survive.

And then he sobbed.

Not loud. Not performative.

Not the kind of sob that split open the room.

These were quieter. But they scraped. Dry, gasping cries that made his shoulders twitch violently. The kind of sound you made when your body had nothing left to protect itself with. When crying was just air and grief colliding.

Tears ran like they’d been waiting their turn. Down his cheeks, soaking into his collar, falling off his chin. He wasn’t shaking anymore—he was trembling. Full-body tremors, small but constant, like something deep inside him still refused to believe he was okay.

“I’m— I’m s-sorry—” he choked out.

The words were barely recognizable.

Jeonghan was already on his knees beside him, fingers threading into Mingyu’s hair like muscle memory. “Don’t,” he said firmly, but with a voice so gentle it could’ve cradled glass. “Don’t apologize for being human, sweetheart. Not here. Not to us.”

Mingyu’s voice cracked. “I c-couldn’t… move. I—I couldn’t b-breathe. I froze. I ruined—”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Soonyoung said, dropping into a crouch in front of the couch, his own eyes red at the edges. “You were scared. That’s not failure. That’s not shameful. That’s what being alive looks like sometimes.”

“But everyone saw— I—”

“I was supposed to be better. Stronger. I messed everything up—”

“Mingyu.”

It was Jihoon’s voice this time. He didn’t raise it. Didn’t need to.

Just one syllable. Solid as bedrock.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said. “You scared us because we care. That’s all. You don’t have to apologize for being in pain.”

Mingyu’s breath stuttered again. A wheeze. Then a hiccup. The kind that lingers after sobs, the kind you can’t suppress.

Wonwoo reached out slowly. His hand hovered near Mingyu’s wrist—not demanding, just waiting. “Can I?” he murmured.

A tiny nod.

Wonwoo’s hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers resting right over the racing pulse beneath his skin. Not squeezing. Just there. Just with him.

“You’re not floating anymore,” Wonwoo whispered. “You’re on the ground. You’re safe. I promise.”

Seungkwan had disappeared somewhere behind the couch, and now reappeared with a hoodie, a bottle of water, and a box of tissues that looked like it had been stolen from a hotel room. The hoodie was definitely Chan’s—it still had a Maknae on Top patch on the sleeve.

He draped it around Mingyu like a blanket. Tucked it in under his arms. Then, without any fuss, he dropped to the floor, leaned his back against Mingyu’s knees, and sighed theatrically.

“You gave me, like, a full decade of anxiety in three minutes,” he muttered. “I’m aging in real-time. I want reparations.”

A tiny breath puffed out of Mingyu’s nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh. But it was close.

“See?” Seungkwan said, glancing up at the others smugly. “I’m still the emotional backbone of this group.”

“You’re the loudest backbone,” Vernon noted, dry as a desert.

“You all wish you were this emotionally intelligent.”

“Is crying into the carpet emotionally intelligent?” Joshua asked mildly, returning from the corner with his phone, clearly having just hung up on someone. “Because I saw you almost hyperventilate.”

“I was processing grief, Joshua.”

Mingyu let his forehead drop gently onto Seungkwan’s head. His hand, still shaky, curled into Seungkwan’s sleeve. The smallest of anchors.

Jun had perched himself on the armrest behind him, one hand moving in slow circles on Mingyu’s upper back, calm and steady as a heartbeat.

Minghao showed up with a hot pack—no one knew from where—and pressed it against the back of Mingyu’s neck without saying a word. Efficient. Warm. Reassuring.

Chan produced a pair of fuzzy socks from someone’s duffel and crouched down to place them gently by Mingyu’s feet.

“Your socks were sweaty,” he said. “Figured you’d want something soft.”

Mingyu blinked at him, still sniffling. “You’re... so weird.”

“I’m practical,” Chan replied with dignity. “You’re lucky to have me.”

And then—Seungcheol moved.

He’d been standing the whole time, just a few feet away, arms crossed, posture rigid like he’d been holding himself upright by sheer will. But now, finally, he stepped forward.

Knelt down. Met Mingyu’s eyes.

And when he spoke, his voice cracked on the first syllable.

“You scared me,” he said. “So much.”

“I scared me too,” Mingyu whispered.

Seungcheol nodded, once, like that was all he needed to hear. Then he reached forward—arms strong, hands sure—and pulled Mingyu into him.

Not a leader’s hug. Not a pat-on-the-back kind of comfort.

He held him.

Full-body. Chest-to-chest. Wrapped him up and didn’t let go.

Mingyu’s hands clenched into his shirt.

And then the sobs returned.

But they were different this time.

Looser. Freer.

Like something inside him was unclenching, finally. Like fear was making room for grief. And grief was making room for relief.

He wasn’t falling anymore.

The rest of the members didn’t leave. Didn’t talk over it. They just… stayed. Sat where they were, curled around the room like a human perimeter.

Twelve heartbeats forming a net around the thirteenth.

No one asked what happened.

They didn’t need to.

They already knew.

And eventually—

Eventually, the sobs stopped. The shaking dulled. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was whole.

And Mingyu… he stayed curled into Seungcheol’s chest a little longer. Letting himself be held. Letting himself land.

And slowly—slowly—his heartbeat remembered what it meant to belong to a body again.

Not air. Not panic. Not fear.

Just warmth.

Just ground.

Just now.

Just here.

____________________

It didn’t begin with sound.

Not with shouting. Not with sobbing.

Not with the sharp ring of phones or the rush of footsteps or the metallic echo of emergency.

It began with stillness.

With a hush that settled over the dorm like snowfall.

Soft, slow, sure.

But not the hollow kind of silence—the kind that buzzes like hospital lights or lingers sterile in corridors of “you’ll be fine.”

Not that kind of silence.

No.

This was a different kind of quiet.

The kind rooted in safety. In soil. In memory.

A hush with weight to it.

It softened sharp corners.

Blurred the outlines of pain.

It moved like warm honey through the cracks of things, through Mingyu’s clenched ribs and trembling spine, through the chaos that had screamed inside his skull for hours, and whispered:

You made it.

You’re safe now.

It’s done.

Mingyu was curled into the couch in the living room—the long, gray one sagging in the middle from a hundred movie nights and five hundred naps. The kind of couch that didn’t care how expensive it looked, only how well it remembered the shape of your body.

It had held all of them, in pieces and in joy.

Tonight, it held him.

He didn’t remember how he got there.

Couldn’t recall the steps between collapse and this small, sacred quiet.

Only remembered the way his knees buckled into Seungcheol’s arms, how the world tilted and bled sideways, how time folded like a dropped umbrella—and then nothing.

Nothing but heat and blur and breath.

Someone had covered him with a blanket.

Someone else had crumpled a hoodie into a pillow beneath his cheek.

Voices had risen and then fallen again, the kind of murmur reserved for sacred spaces.

And fingers—gentle, unhurried fingers—were threading slowly through his hair.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Like the tide pulling at sand.

Like time restarting.

That’s what brought him back.

Not the voices. Not the warmth.

The hands.

The steady rhythm of touch.

His eyes opened slowly, reluctantly, like surfacing from deep underwater.

Jihoon was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, framed in the amber wash of a floor lamp. His music notebook—his usual shield, his faithful companion—lay tossed aside, spine-up and unopened. For once, his hands weren’t full of lyrics or deadlines. They were just… there. Reaching. Grounding.

His expression was tight. Not harsh, not cold. Just pinched with worry in the way Mingyu had only seen a handful of times—moments when things really mattered.

Jihoon met his eyes without flinching.

“You back?”

Mingyu swallowed, throat dry and cracked like droughted earth. His voice rasped low. “Trying.”

Jihoon nodded once, slow.

“You were out for a while. Close to two hours, I think. We didn’t want to move you more than we had to.”

He leaned forward slightly, knuckles brushing down Mingyu’s temple—featherlight. Then his hand slid back up, combing through hair like it steadied him, too. “You passed out cold. Right after everything hit. Scared the shit out of us.”

Mingyu blinked slowly. “Yeah.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Jihoon’s mouth tilted at the corner—dry, a little crooked. “Only you would face your worst fear, faint into our leader’s arms, and then crash like a hibernating bear.”

Mingyu huffed, a breath of a laugh. “On brand.”

His voice softened. “You guys knew, didn’t you?”

Jihoon didn’t miss a beat. “Of course we did. You’ve never been subtle. We just… didn’t ask you to admit it out loud.”

That struck somewhere deep.

Mingyu’s breath caught on the edge of gratitude.

Down the hallway, a door creaked open. Quiet footsteps moved across tile.

Joshua entered the room like a lullaby in human form—draped in a soft cardigan, both hands curled around a steaming mug. His presence was featherlight, like even the air made space for him.

He knelt gently beside the couch.

“Hey,” he said, voice as soft as worn cotton. “You’re awake.”

His smile crinkled at the corners, kind and real. The kind of smile that didn’t ask anything of you. The kind that just stayed.

“You want some tea?” he offered, holding the mug out with reverent care.

Mingyu nodded, shifting slowly beneath the blanket. His muscles ached in deep, bone-heavy ways, like every cell was still catching up from the spiral. He sat up with effort, leaning into the couch like it could still hold his weight.

Joshua passed him the cup—lavender steam curling like a gentle exhale.

“It’s lavender,” Joshua said. “Barley felt like too much. This one’s… softer.”

Mingyu brought the cup to his lips. The taste bloomed quiet on his tongue—floral, calming, like breathing out after holding in too much for too long.

“What time is it?”

“Late,” Jihoon answered, still on the floor like a sentry. “But it doesn’t matter. Seungcheol cleared the schedule. No one’s going anywhere.”

“Where is he?”

Joshua nodded toward the kitchen. “Holding the fort. Giving you space.”

Mingyu’s fingers curled tighter around the mug. “I don’t want space.”

Jihoon stood with a stretch and a scoff. “Give me five seconds. I’ll summon the horde.”

He strode off like a small, determined typhoon, and soon enough, the shuffle of footsteps filtered in—a chorus of sneakers, whispered negotiations, and what sounded suspiciously like Seungkwan threatening someone into silence.

Then—

They arrived.

Not in a rush.

Not in a crowd.

In waves.

Soonyoung entered first, cradling one of Mingyu’s old hoodies like it was a relic. His usual spark was quieted, flickering like candlelight instead of fireworks.

“Didn’t wash it,” he said, laying it gently on the armrest. “Figured you might want something that smells like… here. Like us.”

Seungkwan came next, balancing a steaming bowl of porridge like a sacred offering. “I threatened the rice cooker into cooperation,” he muttered, refusing to meet Mingyu’s eyes. “So eat it before I start crying and fry the circuits.”

Jun followed like twilight, silent and steady, sitting cross-legged at Mingyu’s feet without a word.

Minghao moved with him, settling onto the armrest like a sentry in a storm—watchful, near.

Dino came trailing a massive comforter behind him, superhero cape-style. “It’s soft,” he said, plopping it down. “And big enough for all thirteen of us if we squish. I vote yes.”

He folded himself next to the couch like he belonged there. Like they all did.

Vernon appeared with his phone. “Made a playlist,” he said. “Ocean waves. That heartbeat-song you like. You don’t have to play it. It’s just... there.”

Wonwoo crossed the room in silence. Sat down beside Mingyu.

Held out a hand.

Open. Quiet. Steady.

Mingyu took it.

Then—finally—Seungcheol stood in the doorway.

Breath shallow, face drawn, eyes saying more than words ever could.

He didn’t speak at first. Just crossed the space and sat, solid and anchoring, beside Mingyu on the couch. Shoulder to shoulder. No pressure. No expectations. Just there.

“I knew it would happen eventually,” Mingyu whispered. “Hoped it wouldn’t. But… I think I always knew.”

Seungcheol nodded. “We all did. We’ve been bracing behind you this whole time. You didn’t fall alone.”

“It snapped,” Mingyu said. “Like something inside me broke and then—I wasn’t even afraid. I just disappeared.”

Jun’s voice was quiet. “We saw it in your eyes. Before you moved. It was already breaking.”

“You’ve been living with this fear like a shadow,” Minghao added. “Stitched to your heels. We just… didn’t pull it into the light.”

“You’ve always been there for us,” Joshua said, warm and unwavering. “Let us return the favor. No rules. No refunds.”

Mingyu’s voice cracked. “I thought the fans would hate me. That I failed. That I broke the promise.”

“They love you,” Seungkwan said simply. “They just want you safe.”

“I felt like I wasn’t real anymore,” Mingyu whispered. “Like I was watching my body drown from above.”

Silence returned.

But this time, it wasn’t hollow.

It was full.

Of breath. Of closeness. Of presence.

Joshua reached for his hand, wrapped it gently between both of his.

“If it ever happens again,” he said, “just signal. A look. A word. A breath. We’ll come.”

Soonyoung nodded. “We’ll know. Even if it doesn’t make sense.”

“We’ll build you a bridge back,” Minghao murmured. “Every time.”

Mingyu’s eyes brimmed. His voice—when it came—was hoarse and soft.

“I love you guys. I don’t say it enough. But I do. I love you. All of you.”

Chan, muffled under the comforter, said, “You don’t have to say it. We already know.”

But Mingyu said it again.

And again.

And again.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Like the words had weight.

Like they could glue the broken edges together.

Like they could anchor him when the ground tilted again.

And his members—his family—took it. Every syllable. Every echo.

No one laughed.

No one turned away.

They leaned in. Folded around him.

Not to trap. Not to fix.

Just to stay.

Twelve hearts pressing close—not to hold him up, but to remind him that he wasn’t falling anymore.

And this time—

When Mingyu let go—

It wasn’t a collapse.

It was a return.

A soft, sacred landing into hands that knew how to catch him.

Into a ground that didn’t just hold his weight—

But remembered his name.

And whispered it back like a promise.

Again.

And again.

And again.

____________________

Later—

when Mingyu’s lungs stopped dragging breath in like it hurt to exist,

when his fingers finally surrendered their tremble and went still, palms slack against the blanket instead of curling in on themselves like fists afraid of the world,

when the iron weight lodged in his chest loosened—not gone, never gone, but no longer smothering—

the silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was thick with something unspoken.

Settled like dust after a storm.

Not fragile, but sacred.

Like the kind of hush that fills old chapels.

Like the stillness after the last note of a lullaby, lingering in the dark.

Not absence of sound, but presence of meaning.

No one had left.

Not a single one.

They hadn't whispered excuses or tiptoed out on quiet feet, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

They hadn't hovered, hadn’t fussed, hadn’t tried to shatter the quiet with forced cheer or clumsy concern.

They’d simply… stayed.

Like constellations holding their places in the sky.

Jeonghan sat closest, tucked comfortably at the foot of the couch, cross-legged like he’d been born to lounge, a throw pillow wedged behind his back. One hand, half-hidden beneath the edge of the blanket, rested lightly against Mingyu’s ankle. His thumb traced gentle, rhythmic circles—slow and aimless, not in comfort but in connection.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t offer platitudes or fill the air with meaningless noise.

He just looked at Mingyu like he was studying the shape of him—like he wanted to etch this version of him, calm and quiet and breathing, into memory.

And it didn’t feel like pity.

Didn’t feel like a performance.

It felt like presence. Real and rooted. A kind of saying that said: you don’t have to speak for me to hear you.

Across the room, Seokmin had made a small fort of himself: legs tucked beneath him, phone in hand, his voice a low, pleasant hum. He wasn’t reading anything important—it might’ve been an article on puffins or a thread of forest myths or even some ridiculous BuzzFeed-style quiz. The content didn’t matter.

It was the cadence.

The comfort in the familiar rasp of his voice.

The weight of it, grounding the space like the gentle gravity of someone who has always known how to make a room feel less alone.

He paused, squinting at the screen.

“Says here Mingyu would be a cream of mushroom soup,” Seokmin announced, tone bright with fake scandal.

“Blasphemy,” Seungkwan muttered from beneath the blanket nest he’d constructed under the coffee table. “He’s tomato basil. Classic. Strong profile. Bit dramatic.”

“Tomato basil is basic,” Jun grumbled from where he was sitted, barely lifting his head. “He’s miso. With extra tofu. Complicated, but it hugs you when it’s hot.”

There was a beat of stillness.

And then—soft and hoarse and barely there—a laugh.

It caught at first, like Mingyu wasn’t sure how to let it out, like it had to crawl past the raw place in his throat. But it came anyway. Small. Shaky.

Real.

His head turned just slightly, enough to catch the flash of Seungkwan’s smug little smirk peeking out from beneath two blankets and a pillow crown.

“You’re all idiots,” Mingyu rasped, voice like dry leaves.

“And you’re welcome,” Jeonghan murmured, the corners of his mouth curving gently.

And something shifted then.

Something deep. Quiet.

The ache in Mingyu’s chest didn’t vanish, but it changed shape.

From a monster with teeth to a knot of thread.

From I don’t know how to survive this

to maybe I can survive this—because of them.

From the corner, Jihoon—silent until now—reached behind him and pulled out the battered acoustic guitar they all recognized. The one with the faded strap and the long, diagonal scratch across the body, earned on some tour nights none of them could quite remember but all of them recalled feeling safe.

He didn’t say a word. Just settled into the floor, closed his eyes, and let his fingers find the chords. Nothing fancy. Nothing demanding. Just soft, open strumming—loops of familiar progressions that curled around the room like a blanket tucked at the edges.

It didn’t demand attention.

It just offered it. Gently. Steadily. Like a hand you don’t have to ask for.

The sound filled the spaces between heartbeats.

Between exhales.

Between all the things they couldn’t say but didn’t need to.

Now across from him, Jun had claimed Seungcheol as his personal canvas and was braiding sections of his hair with absolute focus. Tiny, precise movements. Not a single protest from Seungcheol, who sat still with the same quiet steadiness he always carried—like a mountain that had learned how to bend just enough.

“Are you grounding me?” Seungcheol asked eventually, voice low and dry.

Jun nodded without pause. “Through hair.”

“You’re weird.”

“And you love it.”

Seungcheol made a noncommittal noise. But didn’t move.

Which meant: yes.

There were no big speeches. No miraculous recoveries.

No one trying to force meaning into the moment.

It was just them.

In this shared hush.

In the rhythm of breath and strum and quiet, ridiculous conversation.

No one trying to fix him.

Just… making room for him to exist.

Not as the strong one.

Not as the reliable one.

Just as Mingyu.

And when he finally exhaled—a full breath, deep in the chest, unhurried—it wasn’t shaky.

He looked around the room like he needed proof.

Proof that they were still there.

That this wasn’t some soft, mercy-shaped dream.

Jihoon’s guitar still hummed gently.

Seokmin was reading again, voice low and laced with warmth.

Jun was tapping Seungcheol’s head like he was sealing in good energy with each braid.

And Seungcheol—who always carried the world quietly—shifted just enough to lean closer, shoulder brushing Mingyu’s. He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

The contact was steady.

Unshakable.

Like saying: I’ve got you. You don’t have to ask.

And then, from somewhere in the dim, Joshua’s voice joined the moment. Soft. Gentle as a thread pulling something closed.

“You’re not a burden,” he said, not looking for eye contact, not forcing anything open. “You’re just Mingyu. And we love you.”

From the rug, Chan echoed him. “Let us carry you this time” he said.

“Besides,” Jihoon added, eyes still closed, fingers still moving, “you’re too damn tall for one person to carry anyway.”

A breathless little huff of laughter broke from Jeonghan. A ripple of quiet chuckles followed—Seokmin’s snort, Seungkwan’s muffled cackle, Jun’s lopsided grin. Nothing loud. Nothing flashy.

Just relief.

And Mingyu—Mingyu laughed, too. Really laughed.

It spilled out of him like water over cracked earth.

Like something unstuck.

Like something leaving his chest that was never meant to live there in the first place.

Not because everything was okay.

But because it didn’t have to be okay to feel safe.

____________________

By the time the night settled fully, the room had softened around them.

Sleep had taken most of them, slow and gentle.

Blankets trailed over legs and shoulders.

Hands tangled without meaning to.

Someone—probably Seungkwan—was snoring softly beneath the table.

The only light left was the faint glow of a forgotten phone screen, blinking itself to sleep.

Mingyu didn’t sleep yet.

Not because he was afraid now,

but because he wanted to remember.

This hush.

This warmth.

This small, sacred proof that love didn’t always need a grand gesture.

Sometimes it looked like bodies curled in proximity.

Like someone braiding your hair in silence.

Like the echo of laughter from a dumb soup quiz.

He watched the slow rise and fall of their chests.

The way Minghao leaned instinctively into Jun even in sleep.

The gentle pull of gravity that kept them all close.

Next to him, Seungcheol stirred, lids heavy, voice low.

“You alright?”

Mingyu swallowed once. Nodded.

“I think I’m gonna be.”

Seungcheol didn’t press. Just blinked slowly. “That’s enough.”

And it was.

Tomorrow would come.

The ache would still whisper at the edges.

But it wouldn’t be the only thing in the room anymore.

Now, there was this.

This moment.

This memory of hands that didn’t let go.

Of a room that stayed.

And for the first time in too long,

Mingyu let himself lie back.

Let his eyes close.

Let sleep find him.

No fear.

No fight.

Just breath.

And the steady hum of love that asked for nothing in return.

____________________

Morning didn’t come with fanfare.

No bright golden beams piercing curtains, no birdsong serenade or soft piano soundtrack like the kind you’d expect in a drama. It came quietly—like a breath taken after crying. Like the hush after being held. It slipped through the windows in thin, reluctant streaks, filtered soft through mismatched blinds and sleepy dust motes, and settled across the floor where SEVENTEEN lay tangled in the remains of a long, long night.

The dorm didn’t just hold warmth anymore.

It held memory.

It held them.

Not just their bodies scattered across cushions and blankets, but the invisible threadwork of what they had given each other the night before. What they hadn’t said. What they hadn’t needed to say. The room was full of it—like a house after prayer. Not empty. Not clean. Just… sacred.

Mingyu woke slowly.

Not with panic, not with the bone-snapping jolt he’d grown used to. This was something quieter. A floating up. A surfacing. As if his body had finally decided that it was safe enough to let him return.

The first thing he noticed was weight—steady, grounding. Someone’s arm draped over his ribs like a shield left behind after a battle. Then the press of fabric over his hip—blanket, slipping slightly, revealing a sliver of cool air. Then warmth at his back—Seokmin’s steady breath against his shoulder, and the faintest brush of Wonwoo’s knuckles against his spine.

It hit him, then, in a way it hadn’t the night before.

He hadn’t woken up alone.

And that simple fact folded into him like a new language. Like truth spoken in a dialect he hadn’t known his heart could understand.

He didn’t move, not at first. Just lay there, blinking slowly, the ceiling above him washed in pale blue morning light.

This wasn’t stillness born of fear.

It was rest.

It was peace.

His gaze drifted over the room.

Chan was curled on his side near the edge of the coffee table, one sock half-off, his lips parted, whispering nonsense to a dream. Vernon was slouched in a corner, someone’s hoodie pulled halfway over his head, headphones tangled around his neck like a lifeline. His foot tapped to some beat even in sleep.

Seungkwan had claimed the center of the room like it was a throne, starfished atop three pillows with one foot in a cereal bowl and a blanket draped dramatically over his face.

There was a mug on the table—Jun’s favorite chipped ceramic one with the crack shaped like a lightning bolt near the handle. It sat half-full, steamless now, but unmistakably placed there for him.

Mingyu.

Someone had brewed it. Carried it. Left it. Not for show. Not for credit.

Just for care.

In the armchair nearby, Minghao had fallen asleep mid-page, a slim book splayed open across his chest. His glasses were slipping off the bridge of his nose, head tilted in that vulnerable way that only came from full-body trust in the space around him.

Behind them, Soonyoung slept on the couch, legs over the armrest, arm trailing over the edge—his fingers grazing Mingyu’s shoulder. Barely a touch. But it was there. Present. Intentional.

A tether, quiet and sure.

The room was chaos. And comfort. A slow symphony of breath and softness and unspoken solidarity.

And in the center of it all—him.

Mingyu.

Still here. Still breathing.

Not shattered. Not fixed. Just… held.

____________________

By the time all the others started stirring, the light had shifted—less blue now, more gold, slipping over faces and limbs and half-crushed pillows like honey.

Jihoon groaned and stretched like a cat, eyes scrunched shut. Chan blinked around in bleary confusion, mouthing “what year is it” without sound. Seungcheol shuffled in from the hall carrying three mugs of coffee and a box of cereal like a sleep-deprived dad on autopilot, despite the fact that he didn’t even drink coffee.

Joshua was already dressed, somehow. Hair tidy. Socks matching. Because of course he was.

“Feel human?” he asked with a gentle smile.

Mingyu hesitated. “Somewhere between frog and raccoon.”

Joshua didn’t miss a beat. “Elegant evolution.”

“Solid range,” Vernon agreed, still half-asleep.

No one asked if he was okay.

They just… made room.

Jun shifted. Seokmin patted the cushion beside him. Seungkwan handed over a stuffed dolphin without comment.

Mingyu sank into the middle of them, and this time, he didn’t feel like an intrusion.

He felt like part of it.

And when Seungcheol sat beside him last, warm mug in hand, silence hanging between them like a thread—they just looked at each other for a long moment.

“You did everything right,” Seungcheol said finally.

Mingyu shook his head. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You let us help,” Seungcheol said, low and firm. “That’s everything.”

Mingyu stared at the cartoon shark mug in his hands. Pressed it to his chest like it might hold him back.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Seungcheol said immediately. Voice tight. “I am. I knew you hated the platforms. I should’ve checked three times. I should’ve—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mingyu whispered.

“And it wasn’t yours either.”

Their eyes met.

Not as leader and member.

Not as protector and protected.

Just as Seungcheol and Mingyu.

____________________

They didn’t go to their rooms that night.

Didn’t climb into bunks or disappear behind doors.

Instead, someone—definitely Seungkwan—dragged every spare blanket and pillow into the living room like they were building a fortress. Jun made ramen, meticulous and proud. Soonyoung played an instrumental playlist full of gentle strings and low piano. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to keep the silence company.

They curled in again.

Not for Mingyu’s sake.

For theirs.

Because this mess of limbs and warmth and tea mugs and bad breath? This was the real stage. This was the place where the magic happened.

Mingyu settled between Jihoon and Wonwoo this time, one hand curled lazily around the hem of Seungcheol’s hoodie sleeve, like a kid hanging onto a parent’s coat in a crowded street.

Sleep didn’t come fast.

But it came without fear.

And when he finally let go—body loose, breath easy—

he didn’t fall.

He landed.

Chapter Text

The van lurched over a patch of uneven asphalt, jolting everyone inside like dice in a cup. Groans broke out instantly, limbs flailing as bodies knocked against each other.

Mingyu, folded into his seat like a praying mantis forced into economy class, had his forehead pressed dramatically against the cool window. His breath fogged a faint circle onto the glass.

“Why do you look like you’re starring in a tragic black-and-white movie right now?” Jeonghan asked, his tone all velvet sarcasm, leaning forward from two seats away.

Mingyu rolled his head to the side, meeting Jeonghan’s eyes with the languid melancholy of a soap opera lead. “Because, hyung,” he intoned, voice grave, “my youth is wasting away… in Seoul traffic.”

That won him a sneaker to the shin from Soonyoung. “Your youth isn’t the only thing wasting away. My patience is.”

“Join the club,” Seungkwan muttered from the row behind, arms crossed and lips pursed like he’d already lived three lifetimes in this van.

The whole thing set off a ripple of laughter—groans mixing with chuckles, the kind of sound that always made the vehicle feel a little smaller but a lot warmer. They were on their way to another schedule, another promotional gimmick. The manager had been annoyingly vague this morning: “A Q&A with a fun twist!” Vague enough to sound ominous.

And Seungkwan was taking it upon himself to manifest every possible disaster scenario aloud.

“Watch it be something like answering questions while eating fire noodles,” he said darkly.

Jun perked up immediately, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Or on trampolines.”

“That’s not even safe,” Jihoon said flatly, not looking up from his phone.

“Neither is eating fire noodles,” Seungkwan countered.

“I could handle both,” Mingyu declared, stretching his arms out until Wonwoo shoved them back. “When have I ever not been able to handle something?”

Wonwoo gave him a look that said where do I even begin?

Jihoon, deadpan as always, supplied the answer: “You’re literally the guy who trips over air.”

“Graceful tripping,” Mingyu corrected, grinning, as if even gravity bent to his charm.

They laughed, rolled their eyes, carried on. Mingyu’s bravado was a constant in their world—loud, larger than life, comforting in its predictability. He was the dependable one, the guy who would lug the heaviest box without complaint, who would make a dumb joke just when the mood needed it.

Even his weakness—his infamous cat allergy—had become something of a running gag. He leaned into it on shows, sneezing theatrically, pretending to faint when a kitten brushed past him. It was funny, safe, his bit.

So when he sneezed suddenly in the van, sharp enough to make everyone startle, no one thought much of it.

“Bless you,” Joshua said automatically, his voice carrying that faint American lilt.

“Dust,” Mingyu said scrubbing at his nose.

“Uh huh,” Joshua replied, side-eyeing him. “Dust. In a sealed van.”

Mingyu grinned at him through watery eyes. “Some of us are just sensitive artists, hyung.”

The moment dissolved into chuckles. Just Mingyu being Mingyu. Nothing to worry about.

____________________

By the time the van rolled to a stop, most of them were leaning forward in their seats, stretching, ready to escape the cramped ride. Mingyu swung the door open with his usual flourish, one foot landing on the pavement—only to freeze.

His eyes shot up to the giant banner strung above the building’s entrance:

“Q&A: Purrfect Partners — SEVENTEEN + Cats”

A low, horrified “Wait” slipped out of him.

Wonwoo groaned under his breath. “Oh, no.”

Before anyone else could speak, their manager clapped his hands like he’d just gifted them all luxury watches. “Surprise! Cats roaming around while you answer fan questions! Adorable, right?”

A faint meow drifted from inside, soft but unmistakable.

Minghao, who had been lounging elegantly in his seat, tilted his head and looked directly at Mingyu. “Not for him.”

That one sentence set off a ripple. Jeonghan’s smirk disappeared, his eyes narrowing as if he’d spotted a trap. Seungcheol’s shoulders tensed. Even Chan, who had practically vibrated with excitement seconds ago, faltered.

Mingyu felt all their gazes converge on him like a dozen spotlights. He pasted on a grin. “Come on, guys. It’s fine. I’ll just… sit far away or something.”

Jihoon snapped his head up from his phone. “You can’t sit far away if they’re roaming around freely.”

“They’re cats, Jihoonie, not wolves,” Mingyu teased, forcing breeziness into his tone as he stepped fully out of the van. “I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

The others followed reluctantly, exchanging glances sharp enough to cut. Jeonghan muttered something about staff incompetence under his breath, while Seungcheol’s jaw clenched visibly.

Mingyu, though, rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake off the strange prickling sensation crawling along his skin. He was used to sneezing, itchy eyes, the occasional stuffed nose. Used to laughing it off. Used to being the giant who turned weakness into comedy.

But as the faint smell of fur hit his nose before he’d even stepped inside, something unsettled stirred in his chest.

He sneezed again—harder this time.

“Hey, you good?” Seokmin asked instantly, voice pitched low and a little too quick. His eyes held the kind of worry that cracked through his usual sunshine.

Mingyu straightened his shoulders, forcing the easy grin back on. “Always.”

But as the venue doors swung open and a small gray tabby darted toward them, weaving between their legs with the self-assurance of royalty, Mingyu’s heart lurched.

The brush of fur against denim, the jingling of a tiny bell, the warm, living reminder of his Achilles’ heel—

—he had the sudden, uneasy sense that today would test that word in ways he hadn’t imagined.

____________________

The interview set looked like someone had decided to dismantle a cozy café and sprinkle it with feline chaos. Couches and mismatched armchairs formed a wide circle, fairy lights tangled overhead like lazy constellations, and cameras crouched in corners, eager to capture every angle.

And then there were the cats.

Cats sprawled on cushions, draped elegantly along chair backs, and slinked across the polished floor like miniature royalty. A sleek black one batted languidly at a dangling string from a boom mic while a calico stalked the perimeter like it was on some high-stakes mission. The air smelled faintly of litter and the warm, dusty scent of fur—not unpleasant, but potent enough to make Mingyu wrinkle his nose instantly.

“Cute,” Chan breathed, dropping to his knees and letting a ginger tabby wind around his fingers. “So… soft.”

“Dangerous,” Jihoon muttered under his breath, eyes flicking to Mingyu like he might spontaneously combust at any moment.

Mingyu cleared his throat, waving one hand in mock reassurance. “Relax, hyung. I’m not gonna die just because a cat sneezed near me.”

“You sneeze because of the cat,” Jihoon shot back, deadpan.

Jeonghan, draped effortlessly over Mingyu’s shoulders as if corralling livestock, murmured, “Don’t worry. We’ll keep the kittens from attacking our giant.”

“They’re not going to attack—” Mingyu began, then a sharp, involuntary sneeze cut him off.

Seokmin practically jumped out of his seat, fingers twitching like he wanted to snatch tissues straight from the air. “Here,” he said, shoving one into Mingyu’s hand before he could protest. “Blow your nose!”

Mingyu laughed into it, muffled. “What are you, my mom?”

“Someone has to be.” Seokmin’s smile was tight, almost too careful.

The staff bustled around, completely oblivious to the quiet tension threading through the group. “Everyone! Just relax, play with the cats, and we’ll start filming in ten minutes!”

A cream-colored Persian approached Mingyu’s feet with the slow, deliberate dignity of a miniature lion. He instinctively shifted backward, only to catch the edge of a camera cord with his shoe, stumbling slightly. Soonyoung’s hand shot out, catching his elbow.

“Gyu reflexes,” Soonyoung said, voice low and playful. “But seriously, don’t try to play hero right now.”

Mingyu rolled his eyes but didn’t retreat. “I’m fine. It’s just… a tickle.”

The words sounded thinner than usual, even to him. His throat felt scratchy, his eyes pricking at the corners. Normally, he could sneeze, rub at watery eyes, and move on. Today, it was different—the sensation came faster, sharper, unrelenting.

He collapsed onto one of the couches, draping an arm across the back as if nothing were wrong. Almost immediately, a black-and-white cat jumped up beside him, curling its tail against his side like it owned the space.

Every member noticed.

Seungcheol’s body stiffened, shoulders bracing as if he might need to call off the entire interview. Jihoon jaw clenched; Seokmin half-rose before freezing when Mingyu shook his head ever so slightly.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” Mingyu said, his voice softer this time, meant for the members rather than the cameras. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

Joshua’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and steady. “We’ll hold you to that,” he murmured, a faint crease between his brows.

The next few minutes unfolded in a blur of small chaos: cats weaving between ankles, staff adjusting microphones, members exchanging nervous glances every time Mingyu sniffled or rubbed at his eyes. No one had even started filming yet, but already the air was taut, like holding your breath before a storm.

Mingyu leaned back, trying to ignore the heat creeping at his temples and the slight tightness in his chest. He noticed Seokmin across from him, hands clasped too tightly, eyes fixed on him like he might vanish in a puff of sneezy air.

He forced a grin, big and shameless. “Cheer up, Seokmin-ah. It’s cats, not an earthquake.”

The joke fell flat. The members didn’t laugh. Not even a smirk.

Chan’s excitement dimmed slightly, the tabby in his lap mewing softly as if echoing the unease in the room. Seungcheol let out a slow, controlled breath, jaw tight. Jeonghan’s hand lingered on Mingyu’s shoulder, tense enough to send a ripple down Mingyu’s spine.

Mingyu caught the subtle glances of Joshua, Jun, and Jihoon, each one carrying a single thought: We need to protect him. It was silent, unspoken, but heavy, and for the first time that day, Mingyu felt the weight of being the one everyone looks out for.

The staff, blissfully unaware, moved around like everything was ordinary. Lights flicked, microphones swung, and a bell jingled somewhere—cats darting in sudden bursts, impossible to predict. And Mingyu, sitting there with a black-and-white feline brushing against him, realized: this was not going to be “just another Q&A.”

No. This was a trial by fur, and he was smack in the middle.

He inhaled, trying to steady himself, but the warmth in his eyes and the tickle at his nose told him the battle had already begun.

____________________

Mingyu had barely caught his balance when a staff member, oblivious to the danger, stepped closer, carrying a small cream-colored kitten. “Here, maybe this one will keep you company!”  

Before anyone could react, the kitten was placed directly into Mingyu’s arms. He froze. His chest tightened immediately, throat itching with merciless intensity. Fingers trembling, he gripped the kitten as if it were both shield and punishment. Warm fur pressed against him like a live wire, triggering the full force of his allergy.  

“Ming—” Seokmin’s voice broke as he lunged forward, but it was too late.  

Mingyu’s breath hitched violently. His eyes widened in panic, lips parting for air he couldn’t draw. A violent sneeze tore through him, and the kitten wriggled helplessly. He stumbled backward, trying to set it down, but his legs betrayed him.  

The polished floor rushed up to meet him. Pain exploded across his side, ribs jarring painfully, a bruise blooming immediately across his hip. His head snapped against the arm of the couch, neck jolting, and he tumbled awkwardly to the ground.  

“MINGYU!” Seokmin cried, diving to catch him mid-collapse. Hands trembling, he braced Mingyu’s torso, trying to anchor him. “Look at me! Stay with me!”  

Mingyu coughed violently, a deep, rasping sound that echoed in the room. Each attempt to inhale drew fire into his lungs. His skin flushed, blotchy patches spreading across his neck, chest, and arms.  

Seungcheol moved like a general taking command. “Back! Step back, everyone!” His voice was sharp, cutting through the stunned chaos of staff and cameras.  

“Water! Water, now!” Jeonghan barked, snapping at anyone nearby, though water would barely help with airway constriction.  

Vernon shoved chairs aside, creating a protective circle around Mingyu, jaw tight, eyes dark with panic. Soonyoung muttered imprecations under his breath, eyes never leaving him. Joshua knelt beside Seokmin, calm voice guiding breaths even as sharp fear threaded his gaze.  

Jun hovered, trembling, hands brushing lightly at Mingyu’s side as if his mere presence might stabilize him. Seungkwan crouched at his feet, murmuring encouragements, brushing Mingyu’s arm lightly, tears threatening.  

Mingyu swayed. His body trembled uncontrollably. The air around him felt suffocating, every inhale ragged.  

“EpiPen—he didn’t bring it, right?” Jihoon’s voice cracked, urgency slicing through the panic.  

Minghao cursed, running a hand over his face. “He… he didn’t bring it.”  

“WHAT?!” Seokmin’s grip tightened around Mingyu’s shoulders. “Gyu, why didn’t you—why didn’t you bring it?!” His voice cracked, fear raw and tangible.  

“I… I forgot…” Mingyu rasped, voice barely audible between gasps. “I… didn’t think—”  

“Not now! Just… just focus on breathing!” Seokmin snapped, pressing his forehead to Mingyu’s temple. His hands were firm, unyielding, but shaking slightly under the strain. “You’re staying with me. That’s all that matters right now.”  

The room spiraled. Seungcheol barked commands, staff froze, cats scattered in alarm. Seokmin’s arms supported Mingyu’s chest; Soonyoung continue to mutter imprecations; Vernon crouched low, a protective barrier; Joshua guided shallow, careful breaths; Jun hovered, caught between wanting to touch and fear of causing more pain; Seungkwan’s hand traced slow, reassuring circles over Mingyu’s arm.  

Mingyu’s chest heaved violently, ribs burning with every strained breath. Lips tinged faintly purple, throat swelling painfully. A final, shuddering collapse overcame him, and Seokmin caught him just in time, cradling his head and torso. Pain radiated from bruised ribs, hip, and arms—the smallest fractures beginning to form—but above all was terror, sharp and immediate.  

“He’s losing color,” Joshua muttered under his breath, jaw tight.  

“Stay with me, Kim Mingyu! You hear me?” Seokmin’s voice was fierce, unwavering. “I’m not letting go. Not now. Not ever.”  

“Someone—call them again! Ambulance!” Seungcheol’s voice thundered.  

Seungkwan dropped to his knees beside them, tears streaking his face. “We’ll fix this! You’ll be okay! Just hold on!”  

Jihoon paced, muttering sharp curses under his breath, while Jun hovered, clutching his own hands, jaw tight. Vernon shifted closer, creating a wall around Mingyu, eyes flashing between members and staff. Soonyoung started to whisper fragmented prayers, voice almost drowned by Mingyu’s strained gasps.  

Mingyu’s world narrowed to the weight of Seokmin’s hand anchoring him, Joshua’s calm instructions threading through the panic, and the members’ taut, desperate presence.  

The distant wail of sirens cut through the chaos—the first tangible sign of hope. But until help arrived, the storm of the room—the cats, the lights, the crashing commotion—blurred around him. Seokmin’s grip never loosened. Mingyu trembled, chest burning, lungs screaming, body battered, but that single lifeline was enough to hold him suspended between collapse and survival.

____________________

The wail of sirens grew louder, slicing through the thick haze of panic that had gripped the room. Mingyu’s world narrowed to a dizzying blur of Seokmin’s arms around him, Joshua’s calm voice threading into his ragged breaths, and the frantic movements of the members circling him like a protective wall. Each inhale scorched his lungs; each exhale felt impossibly weak, shallow, desperate. The weight of his body against the floor, his bruised ribs, the sting of a sprained hip—they all compounded the terror building inside him.

Seungcheol was already moving with military precision, barking orders as though commanding a battlefield. “Clear a path! Move the cameras! Step back—everyone, now!” His sharp voice cut through the chaos, giving structure to the panic that threatened to swallow them. Vernon shoved a stray chair aside, creating a protective barrier around Mingyu, eyes dark and unrelenting. Jun hovered uncertainly, hand hovering above Mingyu’s trembling shoulder, afraid that any touch might worsen the pain.

The front door slammed open, and two paramedics rushed in, medical bags in hand, eyes scanning the scene like hawks. One of them barked, voice commanding but urgent.

“Clear the way! Move back!”

Seokmin pressed even closer, cradling Mingyu’s head against his chest. “He’s allergic—severe. No EpiPen on him. We need immediate help!” His voice cracked despite his strength, raw fear threading through each word.

Mingyu’s chest burned with each desperate attempt to breathe. His vision flickered at the edges, dizziness clawing at him. I can’t… I can’t—please… just breathe…

“Sir, can you hear me?” the paramedic asked, kneeling beside him, hand probing gently but firmly at his chest. “Do you have any known allergies? Did you carry an EpiPen?”

“I—I forgot…” Mingyu rasped, his voice trembling between panicked gasps. His body jerked involuntarily, ribs protesting. Pain radiated through his hip and shoulder where he’d hit the floor. Each small movement was a jolt of agony, a cruel reminder that his body was fragile even without the allergic reaction.

Seokmin’s hands trembled slightly as he adjusted Mingyu’s head, his forehead pressed against his temple. “It’s okay. Just focus on me. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

The paramedics worked quickly, one pressing a stethoscope to Mingyu’s chest while the other scanned his arms and torso for visible signs of trauma.

“Airway is constricting. He’s going into anaphylaxis,” the first paramedic announced, voice sharp. “We need epinephrine—NOW.”

Seokmin shook his head violently. “He didn’t bring it! Please, just… just help him!”

“We’ve got this,” the second paramedic said, producing a syringe. “Sir, help us. Can you support his legs while we stabilize him?”

Seungcheol immediately knelt beside Mingyu, gripping his shoulders. “I’ve got him. Vernon, Joshua—support the upper body. Jun, stay ready—don’t touch unless needed.”

The room was a symphony of chaos. Soonyoung muttered rapid prayers, fingertips brushing lightly against Mingyu’s arm. Seungkwan pressed his palm over Mingyu’s hand, whispering, “Stay with us, hyung… hold on…”

Mingyu’s vision blurred with tears—both his own and the others’. His chest heaved violently, lungs screaming for oxygen. Every movement reminded him of the fall: the bruised ribs, the sharp jolt in his hip, the sting of his shoulder. Panic surged alongside his allergy, a vicious tandem assault he could barely contain.

“Sir, clear airway! Oxygen mask!” one paramedic barked, fitting a small, firm mask over Mingyu’s face. The hiss of oxygen was both alien and comforting, a small lifeline amid the chaos.

Seokmin whispered fiercely into his ear, “You hear me? Breathe with me. In… out… in… out…” His hands pressed lightly but firmly on Mingyu’s chest, offering support, anchoring him in a storm that felt like it could swallow him whole.

Vernon crouched beside them, fists clenched, jaw tight, scanning the room for anything threatening or disruptive. “Get out of the way!” he barked at a trembling staff member lingering too close.

Mingyu’s chest heaved violently against Seokmin’s support. Pain radiated through his body with each inhalation, but he clung to the sound of the others’ voices, to the warmth of Seokmin’s arms, to the rhythmic hiss of oxygen. His mind flickered between sheer terror and fleeting relief: I might survive this… maybe… if I just hold on…

The paramedics moved with coordinated urgency. “Epinephrine administered. We need to monitor for shock and trauma—possible fractures. Can someone hold him steady?”

Seokmin, Seungcheol, and Joshua formed an instinctive tripod, bracing Mingyu as the paramedics lifted him carefully onto a stretcher. Pain shot through his ribs and hip as he was moved, his body protesting violently, but the collective presence of the members—protective, unflinching—was the only thing keeping him tethered to consciousness.

Mingyu’s eyes fluttered, fear and pain etched across his face. “I… I can’t… it hurts…” he rasped, voice thin and tremulous.

Seokmin’s eyes softened for a brief second, voice firm and unwavering. “I know it hurts. I know. But we’re here. We’re not leaving you, Gyu. You’re going to make it. Just hold on.”

“Get him to the ambulance!” the paramedic ordered. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Joshua guided the stretcher carefully through the scattered chairs and startled cats. Soonyoung trailed close, whispering prayers, while Jun hovered at the edge, jaw tight, hands clutched. Seungkwan refused to leave Mingyu’s side, holding his hand gently as they moved.

As the ambulance doors swung open, Mingyu’s body shivered violently, fatigue and fear colliding in an overwhelming wave. The oxygen hissed steadily against his lips, searing through his chest with every inhalation. He could feel the bruises from the fall, the sharp edges of pain threading through fractured ribs, but amidst it all, he could sense the members’ unwavering presence—their protective, desperate care anchoring him against the storm.

Seokmin leaned close as they loaded him into the ambulance. “You’re safe now, just breathe. We’ve got you. All of us.”

Mingyu clung to that reassurance like a lifeline, tears streaming freely, heart hammering, body aching, but for the first time since the collapse, a fragment of hope pierced through the terror.

The ambulance doors shut. The wail of sirens rose into the night once more. Outside, the remaining members stood tense, frozen, some with trembling hands, others with clenched jaws, all carrying the weight of fear, guilt, and helplessness. Seungcheol’s gaze swept over them like a commander assessing his unit. “He’s in capable hands. Stay calm. We’ll follow.”

And in the back of the ambulance, Mingyu’s shallow breaths slowly steadied, bolstered by the unyielding presence of those who refused to let him go.

____________________

The ambulance screeched to a halt at the emergency entrance, lights flashing, sirens still wailing faintly behind. The paramedics worked quickly, sliding Mingyu from the stretcher and into the sterile hospital hallway. The stark, disinfected air hit everyone like a cold wave; the fluorescent lights reflected harshly off polished floors, and the faint beeping of monitors echoed from the triage area.

“Please, clear the corridor,” a nurse said firmly but kindly, guiding Seokmin and the other members to the sides. “We need space to work.”

Seokmin’s hands clutched Mingyu’s arm, unwilling to let go. “He’s hurt! You can’t—he can’t be left alone!” His voice cracked, raw panic threaded through each word.

“We understand,” the nurse said softly, but there was an unyielding firmness in her posture. “We’re trained for this. He’s in immediate danger, and every second counts. For his safety, we need you outside for now. You can wait just outside the room, but please—trust us.”

Vernon and Joshua flanked Seokmin, their faces tight with fear, but neither moved to argue. Seungcheol’s jaw tightened; he exhaled slowly, a soldier holding himself together in front of chaos. “Fine. But we’re right here. Tell us immediately if anything changes.” His voice was low, taut, a mix of control and helplessness.

The nurse gave a small nod, eyes warm despite the strictness. “You’ll be allowed back in once we stabilize him. He needs space to breathe, to be assessed without interference.” She gestured to the waiting chairs, and the members hesitated before moving.

Mingyu’s head lolled slightly against Seokmin’s chest as they gently set him on the hospital bed. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his ribs and hip, and his chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow gasps. His body trembled violently, not just from the allergic reaction, but from fear, pain, and the aftershock of his fall.

Seokmin pressed a hand over Mingyu’s. “It’s okay, Gyu. Stay with me. You’re not alone.” His voice was a tether, pulling Mingyu back from the edge of panic.

The doctor, a tall woman with soft eyes and a professional demeanor, approached, clipboard in hand. “He’s in serious condition,” she said firmly, her voice calm but authoritative. “We’re going to do everything necessary to stabilize him. We need you to step outside for now. This is for his safety—and yours.”

Seungcheol’s gaze hardened, arms crossed, but he nodded. “Understood. We’ll stay nearby.”

Vernon’s fists clenched at his sides. “We’re not leaving. We’re just… outside, yeah,” he muttered, voice tight.

The doctor gave a brief, empathetic smile. “Good. You can wait right down the hall. The moment he’s stable, we’ll let you back in. I promise. For now, please step back and trust the team.”

Soonyoung whispered a shaky prayer under his breath, moving toward the door reluctantly. Jun’s fingers fidgeted nervously at the hem of his sleeve. Seungkwan’s hand lingered on the doorframe for a moment, longing to stay by Mingyu’s side, before finally stepping outside.

Inside, the nurses and doctor moved with synchronized precision. Oxygen masks were adjusted, vitals monitored, and careful hands palpated bruised areas to assess fractures without causing more damage. The epinephrine was still taking effect, and they prepared for pain management and imaging.

Meanwhile, in the hallway, the members clustered together, faces pale, voices quiet but taut with tension.

Seokmin paced, hands gripping his knees, murmuring, “He’s alive… but he’s hurt. So much… I can’t—I can’t just wait.”

Seungcheol ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “We have to trust them, Seok. That’s all we can do. But I don’t like it.”

Vernon muttered curses under his breath, eyes darting to the doorway. Joshua placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “They’re professionals. Right now, this is the best thing for him.”

Soonyoung sank onto a chair, knees drawn up, whispering fragmented prayers. “Please… let him be okay… please…”

Seungkwan crouched beside him, holding one of his hands, whispering softly, “He’s strong… he’s going to be okay. We just have to wait.”

Minutes stretched like hours. Every soft beep from the monitors inside, every hurried shuffle of nurses, every muffled word from the doctor filtered through the door, intensifying the anxiety. Every member’s mind raced with worst-case scenarios.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doctor emerged, clipboard in hand, expression softening as she approached the group.

“He’s stable,” she said firmly, projecting calm authority. “The epinephrine worked, oxygen is steady, and we’ve begun pain management. He has bruises and probable rib fractures, along with a hip contusion, but nothing immediately life-threatening. We’ll monitor him closely and keep him comfortable.”

Seokmin exhaled audibly, knees going weak. “He… he’s going to be okay?” His voice cracked under the weight of relief and lingering fear.

“Yes,” the doctor replied gently but still firm. “You can go back in now. Just don’t panic; stay calm and supportive. He needs your presence—but not panic.”

The members hurried inside, clustering around the hospital bed. Mingyu’s eyes flickered open, taking in their anxious, pale faces. He attempted a weak smile, but it faltered under the weight of pain.

Seokmin bent down immediately, pressing his forehead lightly against Mingyu’s. “See? I told you I wouldn’t leave. I’ve got you. We’re right here.”

Vernon, Joshua, Jun, Soonyoung, Seungkwan, and Seungcheol formed a protective circle around him, each one trembling slightly but radiating care and desperation. Every whispered reassurance, every gentle touch, was a lifeline, grounding Mingyu in the sterile hospital room.

And in that moment, the myth of invincibility—of always being okay—was shattered. Mingyu was fragile, scared, and in pain, and the members realized how much it truly meant to protect, to hold, to be present, even when helpless. Their loyalty, their fear, and their love formed a shield around him stronger than any physical barrier.

____________________

The hospital room felt suspended in time. Mingyu lay on the bed, chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths, his hip tender, ribs bruised, still recovering from the allergic reaction. The faint tang of antiseptic mingled with the metallic hint of blood from his injuries, sharp reminders of his fragility. Each beep from the monitors punctuated the silence, but it was the presence of the members that made the tension in the room almost tangible—protective, defensive, eyes constantly scanning the doorway with quiet suspicion whenever a nurse entered.

Seokmin hovered closest, never letting go of Mingyu’s hand. His gaze never wavered, shadows of fear lurking beneath the surface, refusing to fade. Beside him, Jeonghan offered a calm counterweight, brushing Mingyu’s hair gently back and murmuring soft reassurances in that soothing tone only he could manage. “We’re all here, Mingyu. No one’s going anywhere,” he whispered, letting his words anchor Mingyu more than any monitor ever could.

Seungcheol stood slightly apart, arms crossed, tension radiating in waves. His eyes flicked to the hallway beyond the window, jaw tightening at any staff movement. “No one leaves this room without permission,” he muttered to himself, leadership instincts fully in overdrive. The unspoken rule was clear: Mingyu was untouchable.

Vernon’s hands were always within reach, draped across the bed whenever Mingyu shifted slightly. Joshua sat nearby, quietly sketching, but his eyes flicked constantly toward Mingyu, ready to act at the first sign of discomfort. Jun, a restless ball of nervous energy, paced quietly, fingers twitching, ready to grab a pillow or blanket—or even confront anyone approaching too close. Soonyoung whispered prayers under his breath, a soft, steady undercurrent of care, while Seungkwan sat close, hand holding Mingyu’s, laughter soft and coaxing, teasing him gently through the pain.

Even Minghao, usually reserved, hovered at the foot of the bed, subtly adjusting blankets or offering pillows, showing quiet care through action rather than words. Chan, the youngest, flitted between the room and the corridor, hands full of juice or snacks, insisting, “You need energy, hyung.”

Time stretched in a heavy haze. Nurses came and went, checking vitals or administering medications, and each approach stiffened the members’ postures, protective instincts flaring. “Do not touch him without letting us know first,” Seokmin muttered under his breath one evening. Seungcheol’s glare could have frozen fire, and even Jeonghan’s soft voice carried a subtle edge of insistence.

Mingyu’s voice, fragile and hesitant, broke the tension. “You… don’t need to… watch me this much,” he murmured, a weak attempt at teasing.

“Are you kidding?” Vernon cut in sharply, though not unkindly. “We’ve seen what happens if we don’t. One moment of carelessness and…” His words trailed, heavy with memory of the fall.

Jeonghan reached over, squeezing Mingyu’s hand gently. “We know you’re strong, but you don’t have to be alone in being strong,” he said softly, warmth threading through his words.

Seungcheol stepped closer, placing a steady hand on Mingyu’s shoulder. “We’re all strong together,” he said firmly. “We’re not leaving. Not for a second.”

Even at night, sleep was fragmented, at least one member always awake, sitting close, ready to respond to any flinch, cough, or movement. Mingyu rested in a cocoon of arms and blankets—a living fortress of care. Soonyoung hummed quietly like a lullaby, Jun stroked his hair nervously, Chan offered whispered encouragements, each member tuned instinctively to Mingyu’s smallest discomforts.

The adrenaline of the earlier chaos lingered in Seokmin, raw and tense. “Do not… I mean it, don’t touch him without telling me,” he whispered when a nurse approached, polite on the surface but fiercely defensive beneath.

“Seokmin, I know you’re scared,” Jeonghan murmured softly. “We all are. But they’re just checking him, nothing else.”

“I don’t care!” Seokmin snapped, voice breaking. “I don’t trust anyone with him. Not now. Not after—after what happened!”

Seungcheol placed a reassuring hand on Seokmin’s shoulder. “Breathe. We’re all here. He’s safe. We’ve got him.”

Seokmin exhaled shakily, eyes locked on Mingyu, who reached up to squeeze his hand. “Seokmin…” he whispered.

“I know Gyu. I know you’re scared too, but we’re not letting go,” Seokmin replied, softer now, though intensity never left his voice.

____________________

For days, Seokmin’s vigilance never wavered. He slept beside Mingyu in the hospital bed, curling protectively whenever pain flinched across him. Vernon stayed nearby like a silent shield, Joshua’s hand occasionally brushing against Mingyu’s, Jun hovered nervously, Soonyoung hummed prayers, Jeonghan soothed with gentle touches and words, Seungkwan coaxed faint laughs, Seungcheol maintained his silent guard, Minghao quietly adjusted pillows and blankets, and Chan flitted in with snacks and encouragement.

Even small interactions were tests of Seokmin’s patience. When a nurse approached to check vitals, he stiffened, eyes flashing. “Please… just tell me first,” he said, hands clenched. The nurse nodded, eyes soft. “Of course. I understand.”

When Mingyu was finally cleared to leave, the protective bubble followed him home. Dorm life revolved around comfort and vigilance. Seokmin stayed closest, adjusting pillows, blankets, water, even the room’s temperature. Vernon draped an arm over Mingyu’s shoulders. Joshua rested a hand on his knees. Jun lingered like a shadow, ever ready. Jeonghan moved with a soothing presence. Seungcheol patrolled, eyes scanning for potential mishaps. Soonyoung, Seungkwan, Chan, and Minghao filled the roles of comforters, playful guardians, or silent sentinels with seamless care.

“Seriously… you act like I’m going to break if I blink wrong,” Mingyu laughed weakly one evening.

“You almost did,” Seokmin said gently, tugging him closer. “And we’re never letting that happen again. I’ll be here… always, right by your side.”

Jeonghan smiled softly, voice warm and steady. “We’re not going anywhere, Mingyu. You don’t have to worry about a single thing—we’ll take care of you.”

And in that circle of arms, whispered reassurances, and quiet vigilance, Mingyu finally understood what it truly meant to rest—not just from broken ribs or bruised hips, but from the weight of always needing to be strong.

The myth of invincibility was gone, replaced by something stronger, fiercer, and unshakable. Mingyu was fragile, yes—but never alone. Not with Seokmin. Not with all of them.

____________________

The dorm felt alive in a way that was almost suffocating. Every creak of the floor, every faint rustle from the outside world was met with a flinch from one member or another. Mingyu had begun to notice the subtle choreography of vigilance that had become their new rhythm: Seokmin adjusting his chair to hover closer to the bed, Vernon draping an arm casually but strategically across Mingyu’s lap, Jeonghan smoothing a blanket over his legs just a little too often, Seungcheol lingering at the window like a sentinel, scanning the street for any unexpected movement, and Jun pacing softly, fingers twitching as if ready to intercept the slightest threat.

It had been weeks since the incident—the allergic reaction, the fall, the bruises that still whispered pain with every movement—and the members had not let their guard down once. The dorm itself had transformed into a fortress of care: every blanket tucked just so, every glass of water within reach, every doorway monitored. Mingyu couldn’t move without someone noticing, and while the constant attention was warm, it was starting to feel like a cage.

He stared at the ceiling one afternoon, fingers tracing the patterns of light streaming through the blinds.

I know they care… I know they do.

But the thought was tangled with frustration, a sharp edge beneath the gratitude. Each time Vernon adjusted the pillow yet again or Seokmin’s gaze followed him into the bathroom, Mingyu could feel his chest tightening.

I’m not fragile anymore. I can move. I can handle things. But they… they won’t let me.

Seokmin was always closest, arms perpetually ready to shield, body practically a barrier between Mingyu and the world. “You’re too pale,” he murmured while adjusting Mingyu’s seat at the table. “Drink your juice. Now.” Even when Mingyu protested softly, Seokmin’s tone carried unshakable certainty that made protest feel almost criminal.

Joshua, sensing the tension, tried to lighten the air. “If we’re all this cautious, maybe we should bubble-wrap him,” he said one evening, pencil scratching in his sketchbook. Chan giggled from the corner, juice carton in hand. “I can help! Bubble-wrap hyung!”

Soonyoung hummed a song under his breath, a soft thread of grounding calm. Jeonghan remained the counterpoint, smoothing Mingyu’s hair, murmuring gentle reassurances, though his hands trembled slightly when Seokmin tensed.

Even leaving the dorm became a carefully orchestrated operation. Mingyu had wanted to run a quick errand to the nearby convenience store, only to find Seungcheol blocking the doorway. “We’re not risking it,” he said firmly. Vernon flanked him, arms folded, eyes narrowing. Jun hovered behind, fingers twitching. Mingyu opened his mouth, but any words were immediately cut off by protest.

I can’t breathe, Mingyu thought, heart hammering.

I’m alive… I’m fine… but they act like I’m breaking if I blink wrong.

____________________

Days passed in this rhythm. Meals were fussed over, blankets readjusted a dozen times before comfort could be found. Every tiny sound from the street caused Seungcheol to snap his head toward the window. Vernon ensured Mingyu never lifted a finger unnecessarily, Joshua hovered, Jeonghan soothed, Seokmin corrected every minor detail. Even Seungkwan’s teasing, Dino’s jokes, and Joshua’s sketches felt like ripples against an impenetrable wall of vigilance.

Then the doorbell rang. Mingyu knew immediately—two staff members from the company and a couple of friends had come to visit. Normally, it would have been a welcome distraction. But today, the dorm erupted.

“Do not let them near him,” Seokmin hissed, stepping in front of Mingyu like a shield. Vernon moved to flank him, arms folded, eyes narrowed. Seungcheol’s gaze hardened. Jun’s fingers flexed nervously, Soonyoung murmured a low warning, and even Jeonghan’s voice took on a clipped edge. “Mingyu, don’t move,” he said softly, but steel threaded through his calm tone.

Mingyu froze, heart hammering, tension pressing into his chest. This… this isn’t care anymore. It’s a cage.

The door opened, and the visitors stepped in, hesitant smiles faltering under the members’ defensive stances. “Mingyu! We just—” one friend began, only to be interrupted by Seokmin, voice tight and eyes blazing. “No touching him. Don’t come any closer than this.”

Mingyu’s patience snapped.

“Enough!” he shouted, voice cracking with both fury and exhaustion. He pushed Seokmin’s hand away and stood abruptly, chest heaving, eyes wide. “I’m not fragile! I’m not breaking if someone looks at me wrong! I’m alive, I’m fine, and I can handle myself!”

The room froze. Members’ mouths opened, some to speak, some to protest, but no sound came. Mingyu’s voice shook as he gestured wildly toward the visitors. “You don’t get to treat everyone like a threat! They’re my friends! They’re my colleagues! Stop turning my life into a prison!”

Seokmin’s jaw tightened, Vernon’s arms faltered, Jeonghan’s hands hovered mid-air. Mingyu’s tears slipped down, unheeded in his own fury. “I appreciate you! All of you! But this… this is too much!”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the sound of shallow breaths. Slowly, Seokmin exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Mingyu…” he said softly, voice almost breaking. “We… we’re sorry.” He stepped closer, gaze fixed on him. “I didn’t realize… we… I didn’t see that we were smothering you. I only wanted to protect you. But I… I should have trusted you more. Please forgive me.”

Jeonghan knelt beside Mingyu, taking his hand gently. “We’re sorry too,” he said, voice steady but filled with emotion. “We thought we were helping… but we see now that we crossed the line. I promise we’ll do better. Please believe us.”

Vernon’s stance softened, and his voice was low, sincere. “Hyung… we never meant to hurt you. We just… didn’t know how to give you space. We’re sorry.”

Seungcheol exhaled, shoulders unclenching. “I… I thought I was keeping you safe. But we forgot the most important part: listening to you. I’m sorry, Mingyu.”

Jun fidgeted, then finally met Mingyu’s eyes. “I… I’m sorry too, Gyu. I just wanted to help, but I see now that it was too much.”

Soonyoung’s hands folded over his chest. “We misjudged,” he murmured, eyes downcast. “We’re sorry. Truly.”

Even Seungkwan, Jihoon, Wonwoo, Chan, Joshua, and Minghao stepped forward, each voice layered with remorse: heartfelt, unguarded, and earnest. “We’re sorry,” they repeated, a chorus of sincerity that filled the room, a shared acknowledgment of their mistake.

Mingyu’s chest loosened slightly at their words. His anger softened into relief, though tears still lingered, shimmering along his cheeks. The visitors took a cautious step closer, smiles tentative but understanding. “We just wanted to see you, Mingyu,” one said softly.

He looked around at the members, now hesitant, their eyes filled with guilt and concern. “I… I need to breathe,” he murmured. “I’m not a child. I’m not… broken.”

Jeonghan knelt beside him, brushing a hand over his hair. “We understand,” he said quietly, voice threaded with warmth. “We just… care.”

Mingyu nodded, letting the warmth settle without the weight of suffocating vigilance. “I know. But I can handle myself now… sometimes, I need to do things alone.”

____________________

The following days were different. The members remained close, protective still, but there was a subtle shift—a softening, an acknowledgment that Mingyu could take steps on his own. He ran small errands, carried his own bags, even cooked simple meals, with hands occasionally brushing against Seokmin’s protective ones, silently reminding him that he could still lean on them—but on his terms.

That evening, the dorm felt unusually quiet, as if it too understood the shift that had taken place. Mingyu stood by the window, the cool evening breeze brushing against his face. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting his chest expand fully, and when he opened them again, there was a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

Behind him, the members drifted closer one by one—not hovering, not suffocating this time, but simply being there. Some sat on the floor near his feet, others leaned against the wall. A blanket was draped carefully over the back of his chair, not forced onto him. Jeonghan slipped close, fingers brushing Mingyu’s wrist before lacing gently through his hand. Seokmin’s arm rested across his shoulder in a loose, easy hold, and Vernon leaned nearby, not as a wall but as quiet reassurance.

Mingyu glanced at them, warmth filling his chest. “I’m still… me,” he said softly, almost like he was reminding himself. Then his voice steadied, a little stronger, a little brighter. “And I’m alive.”

A hush fell over the room, but this silence wasn’t heavy—it was comforting, filled with unspoken love.

Joshua was the first to speak, his voice warm and teasing at the edges. “You’re more than alive, Mingyu. You’re stubborn, dramatic, and still too clumsy for your own good.”

Laughter rippled gently across the room.

“You’re also loud,” Seungkwan added, grinning. “Don’t forget that.”

Mingyu laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah… I guess that’s true.” His smile softened. “But I needed to say it. Out loud. To all of you.”

Jeonghan squeezed his hand gently. “We heard you, Mingyu. And we believe you. You’re strong.”

“Strong and ours,” Seokmin murmured, voice low and thick with emotion. “But we’ll follow your pace from now on. I promise.”

Vernon’s eyes softened as he leaned closer. “We’ll always be here, but… we’ll give you space too. You deserve that.”

Mingyu’s throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t with anger—it was with gratitude so deep it nearly overflowed. “I know… I know you all love me. And I love you too. More than I can ever explain.” He stepped away from the window, his steps steady, deliberate, the quiet strength of someone reclaiming himself.

He crossed the room, and as he reached the center, he paused to take their hands—Seokmin’s, Jeonghan’s, Vernon’s—and squeezed firmly, like anchoring himself to each of them in turn. Then he turned, looking at all thirteen pairs of eyes shining at him.

“I’m okay,” he said softly, but with a conviction that made every word ring true. “I can do this… because I have all of you with me.”

A tear slipped down Seokmin’s cheek, and he laughed shakily as he wiped it away. “Yah, why are you making me cry?”

Soonyoung leaned in with a crooked grin. “Because he’s cheesy, that’s why.”

Mingyu chuckled, shaking his head, but his voice grew even gentler. “I mean it. You don’t have to protect me from every little thing anymore. Just… stand with me. That’s all I need.”

“Always,” Seungcheol said firmly, his leader’s voice soft but steady. “We’ll always stand with you.”

Jeonghan brushed Mingyu’s hair back, eyes shimmering. “Not as guards. As brothers. As family.”

One by one, the members closed in, not trapping him this time, but surrounding him in warmth—a circle of arms, smiles, quiet laughter, and the kind of care that didn’t confine, but freed. Mingyu let himself sink into it, his tall frame bending easily as the circle tightened, his voice muffled in their embrace.

“I love you guys,” he whispered.

A chorus answered him, overlapping but perfectly in sync:

“We love you too.”

And there they stood, no cage in sight—only care, freedom, and a bond that was unshakable, stronger than any fear, deeper than any wound.

Chapter Text

The lights of Incheon Stadium blazed like a merciless sun, pouring down in sheets of white and gold. Heat shimmered off the stage floor, swallowing breath, pressing against lungs. CARATLAND was a galaxy of pastel lightsticks, an ocean swaying and roaring with love. Confetti spun and danced on the stage winds, sticking to damp hair and glittering like scattered stars.

For the fans, this was paradise.

For Mingyu, it was survival.

The fever had stalked him all day, burning through his skin, threading fire through his veins. Now, under the flood of light and sound, it howled like a storm. His microphone slipped against his sweaty palm; he tightened his grip, forcing a grin. But when his turn to sing came, the truth slipped through.

His deep voice, usually smooth and unshakable, rasped low and ragged. The notes scraped raw, every syllable catching in his throat. He smiled wider, dimples showing, pretending the hoarseness was just “passion.” A laugh burst out after his line—meant to be playful, but it cracked halfway through, thin and breathless.

And no one noticed.

Not when Seungcheol swayed at the edge of formation, his cough ripping through the mic like thunder.

“Cheol!” Jeonghan darted behind him, steadying his shoulders.

“Careful,” Joshua whispered, voice tender in his ear.

Soonyoung rushed in, tucking a water bottle into his leader’s hand mid-step, choreography be damned.

The fans screamed encouragement, thousands chanting his name like a spell. The cameras zoomed in on his pale smile, framing his fragility as something noble.

Meanwhile, Mingyu forced himself steady, every inhale scalding, every exhale trembling. His hoarse line came again, roughened into a growl he hadn’t meant, his throat scraping like broken glass. He laughed it off into the mic, dimples flashing, and bowed his head slightly as if it were a joke. The audience screamed for the gesture, never hearing the strain.

They hear every cough from him. Every crack in his voice is a reason to love him more.

And me?

Invisible.

____________________

The song ended. Ment time.

The members instinctively huddled closer around Seungcheol, their leader the eye of their storm. Jeonghan swept damp bangs off his forehead. Jihoon snapped, “Don’t talk too long. Your throat’s done for,” though his eyes betrayed worry.

Seungcheol’s mic shook in his hands. His first word split in half, voice cracking pitifully. He gave a small, self-conscious laugh.

“Ah… sorry. My throat’s… not listening tonight.” He swallowed, coughed weakly. “But… CARATs waited so long. I’ll give you everything I have. Just… stay with us, okay?”

The stadium erupted, the sound swelling until the roof shook. Chants of COUPS! COUPS! COUPS! echoed like thunder.

Mingyu’s turn came. He lifted the mic with an easy grin that cost him everything.

“CARATs…” His voice came out rough, too rough, cracking at the edges. He cleared his throat, pain flashing in his eyes, and tried again with forced bravado. “…are you having fun tonight?”

The cheers were deafening. His hoarseness washed away under the roar.

He laughed, but it wasn’t his usual full-bodied laugh; it rasped, caught on a cough, breaking into air. He covered it with another grin, winking at the crowd. “You’re louder than me tonight,” he teased, voice raw, the end of the sentence vanishing as if the sound just ran out.

Not a single head turned his way.

Hansol twisted open another bottle, but it went to Seungcheol.

Chan leaned into their leader’s shoulder, whispering encouragement.

Minghao hovered close, hand ready at his back.

Mingyu swallowed, wincing at the scrape, and pressed the mic to his chest for a moment. One stumble from him, and it’s tragedy. One stumble from me, and it’s comedy at best.

____________________

The next track blasted in.

Mingyu’s body was unraveling, each fever wave a pendulum swing between burning and freezing. His throat was an open wound. He forced his voice through anyway, his verse spilling out in rough growls where once it was velvet. His laugh afterward came cracked, cut short by breathlessness. He bent at the waist, pretending it was part of the choreography.

At the same moment, Seungcheol faltered. His knees dipped; his shoulders sagged. Minghao was already at his side, Wonwoo sliding effortlessly to close the gap.

“Sorry,” Seungcheol rasped under his breath, voice frayed. “I’ll… I’ll get it next move.”

The fans roared louder, their love carrying him like a tide.

Mingyu gritted his teeth, voice breaking on his next line, raw as it spilled from his throat. He forced a laugh to cover it, the sound painful to his own ears. His smile sharpened.

Don’t falter. Not now. Don’t let them hear it.

____________________

Backstage, staff surged like a wave—stylists blotting sweat, managers pressing bottles into hands.

Seungcheol collapsed into a chair, and the members closed around him instantly. Jeonghan dabbed at his forehead, Joshua crouched close, Jihoon tugged a jacket over his shoulders.

“Hyung, your fever’s high.”

“Drink this.”

“Please, just rest a little.”

Seungcheol coughed weakly, then chuckled through it, his voice breaking.

“I’m really okay. Don’t… don’t look at me like that. I can… keep going. CARATs are waiting.”

Their groans came in unison, fond exasperation filling the space as hands hovered protectively over him.

A few seats away, Mingyu slumped onto a chair, towel over his head. His chest heaved, breath rasping loud enough to hear. His voice cracked when he muttered to Seokmin, who glanced over.

“I’m good. Just—just catching my breath.” His words were raw, almost whispered, broken by a cough he smothered into the towel. He forced a chuckle. “You know me. Always dramatic.”

Seokmin laughed lightly, relieved, then turned back to hover over Seungcheol.

Mingyu closed his eyes under the towel, throat burning like embers. Around him, voices wove into a chorus:

“Cheol, drink.”

“Hyung, don’t push.”

“Coups, let us help.”

And Mingyu sat in silence, fever pressing behind his temples, his own hoarse breath the only proof he was still there.

____________________

The second half surged forward, glittering and merciless.

The crowd roared. Seungcheol staggered, and hands reached for him. Mingyu rasped through his lines, his voice breaking apart, but his grin covered it, his laugh turned it into “charm.”

To the fans, he towered, dazzling and unshaken.

Inside, he was unraveling.

And no one was listening for him to fall.

____________________

The bassline throbbed like a second heartbeat beneath the stage, rattling through the soles of their shoes and into their bones. The platform trembled with every jump, every stomp in unison. Spotlights carved the air in white and gold, pouring heat down like a furnace.

Mingyu moved with mechanical grace, body obeying the muscle memory drilled into him through endless rehearsals. His arms carved sharp arcs, legs kicked on cue, smile blazing under the storm of light. But inside, his fever raged hotter than the stage lamps. Each inhale seared his throat raw; each exhale trembled as if it might break apart.

He coughed into the back of his hand as the lights swept away from him, smothering the sound behind a grin. A polite laugh followed—soft, airy, a little sheepish. To the crowd it looked like charm. To Mingyu, it was survival.

Across the formation, Seungcheol stumbled. Just a fraction too slow, knees buckling under the weight of exhaustion. But that fraction was enough—the cameras caught it, the audience gasped, and instantly the group shifted around him. Soonyoung’s hand brushed his back, steadying. Jeonghan’s sharp eyes narrowed with worry, his movements fluid but angled toward their leader. Wonwoo’s shoulder nudged closer, closing ranks.

The choreography bent around Seungcheol like water circling stone. Seamless. Protective.

Mingyu forced his arms higher, plastering a grin across his flushed face. He nearly lost his footing when the stage lights flared, vision tilting sideways, but he pulled it back with a sharp inhale that sliced down his throat.

Don’t stumble. Don’t let them see.

When the chorus ended, Seungcheol lifted his mic, shoulders trembling. His voice rasped, cracked halfway into the word:

“C–CARATs…” he coughed, the sound tearing through the speakers. His chest heaved once before he forced the words out, hoarse and frayed. “T-thank you for… being here with us tonight.”

The roar of the stadium was immediate—an explosion of cheers, chants, waves of love crashing over the stage. The cameras zoomed in on his pale smile, amplifying the fragility into something heroic.

Mingyu clapped above his head, dimples flashing, heart slamming against his ribs. The motion sent a dizzy rush through him, but he laughed it off, mic pressed casually to his chest. His palm trembled against the metal, slick with sweat.

Beside Seungcheol, Wonwoo leaned in, voice low but sharp through their in-ears. “Hyung, don’t force it.”

Seungcheol answered with stubborn warmth, breath hitching. “I can… handle it. Just a little more.” His laugh came out thin, breaking into a cough. “CARATs are waiting.”

Jihoon’s sigh crackled in the monitors, soft but unmistakably fond. “You’re impossible.”

Soonyoung shoved another water bottle into Seungcheol’s hand mid-step, grin plastered wide as though it were all part of the fanservice. The fans roared again, charmed by the devotion.

The circle tightened around their leader, hands brushing his back, shoulders shielding him. On the jumbotron, it looked like brotherhood incarnate.

Mingyu swallowed against the scrape in his throat, lowering his mic carefully. His smile didn’t falter, though his lungs begged for rest. He tried to focus on the crowd—the pastel sea of lightsticks, the ocean of voices chanting—but the sound pressed too heavy against his temples, making his head swim.

When his cue came, he straightened, voice deliberately playful though it rasped weakly.

“C…CARATs,” he started, the syllables cracking in his raw throat. He coughed into his shoulder quickly, dimples flashing as though it were part of the act. “A-are you having f-fun tonight?”

The response was deafening. Laughter, cheers, screams that rattled the roof. His cracked tone vanished beneath the noise. Mingyu chuckled into the mic, the sound hoarse and uneven, covering the catch in his chest with a wink. “Y-you’re louder than us,” he teased, his voice breaking on the last word. He laughed again, breathless, throat raw. “I… I think they can hear you all the way in Seoul.”

The crowd screamed even louder, delighted.

No one noticed the way his breath snagged halfway through the sentence. No one noticed the cough he buried in his shoulder when the lights shifted away.

Behind him, Seungcheol’s cough rang again, harsher this time. Jihoon’s voice snapped immediately through the monitors, sharp and protective: “Hyung, enough talking.”

Seungcheol gave a hoarse chuckle, voice fraying at the edges. “Then… I’ll s-save it for… singing.” Another cough ripped through him, shoulders shuddering. He still managed to grin. “Don’t… don’t worry so much.”

The crowd roared louder, chanting his name in unison: “S.COUPS! S.COUPS! S.COUPS!”

The sound vibrated through Mingyu’s bones, echoing in his chest. He clapped along with the others, pretending joy, while inside the chant pressed down like a weight.

Always him. Always only him. If I fall, will they even notice?

____________________

The next track slammed into being, merciless.

Mingyu bent into the opening pose, palm pressed flat to the stage floor. His body screamed with every beat of the bass, fever flaring hot enough to blur the edges of his vision. For a terrifying second, his balance wavered. He blinked rapidly, pulling himself upright on cue, the grin fixed, unshaken.

His heart thudded unevenly in his chest. His lungs felt too small for the air. Sweat stung his eyes.

But when the spotlight swept over him, Mingyu lifted his chin, dimples carved deep, every inch the dazzling performer CARATs believed him to be.

Inside, he was burning alive.

And still, no one was looking.

____________________

The stage lights dimmed, the echoes of applause fading into the shadows as they retreated backstage. The roar of CARATs softened into a hum, leaving only the scent of sweat, hairspray, and overworked electronics hanging heavy in the air. Every footstep on the cold floor sounded amplified in Mingyu’s skull, thudding like a metronome against his fevered heartbeat.

Seungcheol was immediately swarmed. Towels pressed to his neck, bottles shoved into his hands, staff fussing over the tremor in his arms. His pale face, streaked with sweat, seemed almost luminescent under the harsh backstage fluorescents.

“Seungcheol, sit down. Now,” Jeonghan’s voice was soft but insistent, his hands guiding Seungcheol toward a chair like a shepherd corralling a reluctant lamb.

“I… I’m fine, Hannie,” Seungcheol rasped, voice tight and cracked. He slumped into the chair, the effort of smiling at the lingering cameras evident in the tremor of his shoulders. “Just… a second.” A cough ripped through him, husky and raw, and he wiped at his mouth with the back of a hand. “Nothing to worry about.”

Joshua crouched, unscrewing a water bottle with practiced patience. “Drink slowly, Cheollie. Don’t gulp,” he instructed, tilting his head as though Seungcheol’s survival were the only metric that mattered.

Chan laid a cool towel over Seungcheol’s shoulders. “Better?” he asked gently, brushing damp hair from the leader’s forehead.

Jihoon hovered close, eyes sharp, lips pressed in a line that mingled worry with exasperation. “You really shouldn’t push so hard during ments. You’ll burn out,” he warned, tugging lightly at Seungcheol’s jacket to cool him.

The leader chuckled, a fragile sound that fractured into another cough. “You’re all worse than my mom,” he rasped, voice quivering yet firm, as if stubbornness alone could hold him upright. The group laughed, warmth layering over tension, a shield against the growing fever creeping through his limbs.

Mingyu, only two benches away, lowered himself carefully onto a hard wooden seat. Every muscle screamed, every joint ached as though his skeleton had been replaced with molten iron. Heat licked his skin, and the towel he draped across his face was the only buffer against the suffocating thickness of the air. His breaths were shallow, uneven, each inhale a battle against the raw burn in his chest.

Seokmin glanced at him, brow slightly furrowed. Mingyu lifted the towel just enough to flash a crooked, polite smile. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. Just… trying not to scare anyone with my sweaty face,” he joked lightly, though the sound came out strained, rough around the edges. Seokmin only nodded absentmindedly, returning to fuss over Seungcheol’s hand, already wrapped around a water bottle.

Invisible. Again.

Mingyu let his head tilt back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. Fever blurring the edges of the room, he felt the quiet desperation settling into his bones. He wanted to complain, to let someone—anyone—notice, but the memory of thousands of CARATs watching made the thought impossible. A pillar doesn’t crumble in front of an audience.

“Cheol-hyung,” Minghao’s bright voice cut through the haze, plopping onto the arm of Seungcheol’s chair. “Want me to hype up the crowd more during the next ment so you can rest your voice?”

Seungcheol’s lips curled weakly, hand trembling as he ruffled the maknae’s hair. “Thanks, Hao-ah… You’re getting better at those ad-libs. Might steal your job one day,” he rasped, voice rough but playful. Another cough shook him mid-sentence, but he smiled anyway, leaning into the care surrounding him.

The circle around Seungcheol tightened almost instinctively—hands brushing backs, shoulders guiding, eyes watching for any falter. Every movement was protective, instinctive, an unspoken shield he didn’t have to ask for.

Mingyu wanted to laugh, to join the warmth, but his throat seized at the effort. He swallowed against the sting, masking it behind a cough muffled into his towel. His hands shook faintly as he clutched it tighter, his knees protesting when he shifted on the bench. No one noticed.

The stage director’s voice called the two-minute warning. Staff hustled to adjust in-ears, check costumes, and tidy the last props.

“Hyung… you really sure you can handle this next block?” Wonwoo crouched beside Seungcheol, voice quiet, eyes searching.

Seungcheol nodded, stubborn and steadfast, though his voice cracked like thin ice. “Yeah… CARATs came all this way. I… can’t… I won’t let them down.” Another cough punctuated the vow, his fingers curling around the towel.

Jihoon’s hand pressed reassuringly against his shoulder. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Don’t push until you break.”

“I… I won’t break,” Seungcheol said, voice hoarse but unwavering. “Not while they’re watching.” His gaze swept the group like a torch, and the others relaxed around him, hands lingering on his arms, faces soft with protective care.

Mingyu’s stomach twisted as he stared at the floor. That was him too, wasn’t it? Burning quietly, holding together with nothing but willpower and a polite grin. Yet his efforts earned nothing. The group’s collective care flowed entirely toward Seungcheol, leaving him to mask his own shaking hands and pounding fever behind light jokes and tilted smiles.

He rose when the others did, shoulders rolling as though loosening tension rather than fighting dizziness. His knees wobbled with each step, but he forced himself upright, grin plastered wide when a coordi-noona pressed a fresh water bottle into his hands. “Thanks, noona,” he said lightly, though the thought of swallowing churned his stomach. He kept the bottle like a prop, a token of his illusion of health.

____________________

Back at the wings, they lined up for the next set. Seungcheol’s jaw was rigid, fists clenched like steel, the circle of members still cocooning him. Soonyoung cracked a joke, nudging him to laugh, while Minghao patted his back, and Joshua adjusted the mic one last time. The attention, the warmth, the protection—it was a forcefield Mingyu could see but not touch.

He fumbled with his mic, fingers trembling faintly before curling them into a fist. Tilted his head toward the stage lights, letting the glare blind him for a heartbeat.

You can do this. Just smile. Just hold it together. No one’s looking anyway.

The curtains rose. The CARATs’ roar hit him like a physical wave. Mingyu gritted his teeth, masking the tremor in his chest, and forced his grin wider.

And the cracks in his foundation deepened, invisible to everyone but himself.

A sudden ache shot through his temples as another wave of heat rolled over him, and he realized, in a cold, sinking moment, that this wasn’t just fatigue. He was burning from the inside out. And still, the care he craved so desperately remained out of reach, focused entirely on Seungcheol, the pillar of the stage, while he stood, silently fracturing, hidden in plain sight.

____________________

The lights snapped alive again, white-hot beams slicing through the haze as the second half of CARATLAND fan meeting ignited. The stadium throbbed with energy, thousands of voices crashing like waves, chants pressing down with an almost tangible weight. The air was thick, humid with heat and excitement, every inhale tasting faintly of sweat and metal, every exhale a labor against the dense atmosphere.

Mingyu felt it immediately. The costume clung to his fevered skin, damp and suffocating, pressing against every joint. His spine ached, shoulders tight like coiled steel. He rolled them with the practiced ease of someone made to perform, flashing a grin that dazzled under the relentless lights. But inside, his lungs rasped with every inhale, throat raw and fiery, fever coursing like molten lead through his veins.

Seungcheol, meanwhile, drew all eyes like a magnet. Every micro-falter, every rasping note, sparked immediate attention. When a high note cracked in his voice mid-song, the audience erupted: “LEADER! LEADER! LEADER!” The members shifted instinctively, a silent choreography of protection.

Minghao’s hand slid to Seungcheol’s back, guiding him smoothly through the formation. Wonwoo subtly widened his stance, covering the space as their leader wavered on his feet, chest heaving.

“Leader-nim…” Seungcheol muttered into his mic, voice hoarse, warm with effort, “s-sorry… not my best tonight, but… you… you give me strength.” His hand fluttered to his chest, eyes closing briefly as he leaned into the reassurance surrounding him.

The roar that followed was deafening. The crowd’s adoration washed over Seungcheol in waves, hands brushing, shoulders steadying, murmurs of care filling his ears.

Mingyu forced a laugh into his own mic, light and playful. “Don’t worry, everyone—our leader’s still stronger than all of us combined.” He nudged Seungcheol’s arm lightly, coaxing laughter from the audience. But the hand he pulled back trembled, body buzzing with weakness, and his smile wavered for a heartbeat. No one noticed. No one reached for him.

The choreography swallowed them again, relentless. Mingyu’s steps grew heavier, like boots filled with molten lead. Each breath rasped, sharp against the heat burning in his chest. He bent too low on a spin, knees threatening to buckle, but a jagged inhale became a grin, muscles tensing against the ache, masking the tremor.

Don’t stumble. Don’t cough. They don’t even see.

____________________

The song ended, and they lined up for another ment. Jeonghan hooked an arm over Seungcheol’s shoulders, tugging him close, fingers lingering as though the proximity alone could carry him. “Hyung, you’re scaring us,” he teased, soft and protective. “Don’t push so hard. CARATs already know how hard you work.”

“I… I’m okay,” Seungcheol said, voice frayed, lips curling into a small, warm smile. He leaned subtly into Jeonghan’s hold, shivering faintly from the fever but steadying with sheer will. “We’re almost done. Let’s finish strong… for them.” Another cough racked him, low and ragged, and hands reached immediately to support him.

Joshua bent forward, eyes locked on Seungcheol’s, concern etched deep. “Cheol… if it gets worse, signal us. Don’t hide it.”

Seungcheol chuckled, a thin, broken sound. “Me? Hide? You’d notice before I do.”

The fans swooned at the tenderness, screens zooming in on the leader propped up by the unwavering care of his members.

And Mingyu clapped along, heart a bitter knot. “CARATs, isn’t he stubborn?” he called into his mic, tone bright, voice cracking halfway through, but he masked it with a chuckle, ruffling his hair as though the tremor in his chest was just part of the act. His eyes burned behind the stage lights, and he clenched the bottle in his hand until knuckles whitened.

No one questioned it. No one came close.

The set barreled forward: lights blazing, confetti twirling, choreography precise. Mingyu hit every move, but heat crawled through him in waves, vision smearing, muscles twitching with exhaustion. His throat screamed for water, yet swallowing made his stomach heave. The unopened bottle sat in his hand—a prop to maintain the illusion of health.

____________________

By the encore, Seungcheol’s face glistened, steps slowed, his body betraying the effort. When he stumbled on a spin, Soonyoung darted in, murmuring into his ear, “Hyung… lean on me.”

“I… I’ve got it,” Seungcheol rasped, voice breaking with the effort. Another deep, ragged cough, and a hand reached to steady him automatically. The fans roared, oblivious to the struggle behind the smiles.

Mingyu’s chest ached—not just from fever, but from the sting of invisibility. Every step, every motion exact and controlled, his breaths shallow and jagged, yet no one glanced at him, offered a hand, or whispered concern. The warmth radiated to Seungcheol, enveloping him like a cocoon, leaving Mingyu in the shadows of care.

You’re invisible. That’s your role. Don’t fall. Not here.

The final bow came, hands linked and raised. Seungcheol’s knees threatened to give way; half the group tightened around him, murmuring encouragement, offering subtle weight-bearing support.

Mingyu’s grip was steady, smile perfect for the cameras, but sweat slicked his palm, heart hammering unevenly. His throat burned, lungs shrieked with each shallow breath, eyes stinging from heat and fatigue. Confetti rained down, fans screaming, but he could only focus on the pulse hammering through his veins.

If I collapse, will anyone notice?

The answer came in a violent, shuddering wave of heat that surged from his chest to his head, twisting his vision into golden blurs. His body protested with a tremor that rattled his spine.

And still, no one noticed.

____________________

The encore erupted like a storm, neon beams carving the stadium into fractured shards of light. Confetti spiraled through the humid air, glittering like tiny meteors, while CARATs’ cheers collided with the bass in a living, pulsing wave. Every heartbeat, every inhale felt magnified against the heat and pressure of thousands of bodies, and Mingyu felt it deep in his bones.

He raised his hand to wave, dimples flashing, his grin wide and bright. The voice that followed, smooth and steady, carried through the stadium. “CARATs, he’s always so dramatic, isn’t he?” His laugh sounded rich and playful—but inside, his chest constricted with every breath, lungs rasping, throat stinging, fever making each syllable a battle.

Seungcheol remained the eye of the storm, faltering occasionally on steps that once felt effortless. Jeonghan’s hand brushed against his back, guiding. Joshua’s arm linked with his, a buffer of stability. Soonyoung fussed over the mic wire, adjusting it as though it might magically steady Seungcheol’s wavering body. The cameras lingered on him, and every pixel of the broadcast amplified the devotion aimed at the leader.

“CARATs…” Seungcheol’s voice broke slightly, hoarse and raw, but steadying with a stubborn tilt of the chin. “…thank you… for being here. You keep me… standing.” His words rasped through the mic, the warmth in them nearly tangible despite the cough that rattled his chest.

Hands and murmurs and care poured into him instinctively. Every member surrounded him, forming a circle of shields, murmuring guidance through the in-ears.

Mingyu’s hands itched for attention, a silent plea that went unanswered. He swallowed the scream rising in his throat, masking the heat rolling through his body behind another practiced grin. “He’s… unstoppable, isn’t he, CARATs?” His own voice cracked slightly but he smoothed it with a laugh, fingers tightening on the mic, hiding the tremor.

No one noticed his fatigue. No one checked his shaky step, the feverish sheen on his skin, or the way his knees threatened to buckle.

____________________

The next song began, chords ringing sweet and nostalgic, but every movement felt heavier than the last. Mingyu’s lungs burned, every exhale a rasping rasp that scraped against his throat. He hit every beat, but the lights blurred into golden streaks, the music like a hammer against his skull. Each step required a mental calculation: balance, pose, smile, repeat.

Seungcheol bent slower than the choreography demanded. Instantly, hands were there—Minghao pressed against his back, Wonwoo filling the gap beside him, Chan hovering, wide-eyed and ready to catch him.

“Hyung, lean on me.”

“Don’t push so hard.”

“Almost done.”

Every murmur a lifeline, every touch a buffer against collapse. The audience roared, oblivious to the fine thread holding their leader upright.

Mingyu exhaled shakily, mic raised, voice steady enough to sound effortless. Each line scraped his throat, but he carried it through, forcing a wide smile whenever CARATs’ chants swelled. Behind the mask, his muscles trembled, fever burning like fire, and the edges of his vision darkened with heat and exhaustion.

Mid-verse, Seungcheol stumbled again, knees bending lower than intended. Hands and voices reached immediately.

“Hyung, sit—just for a moment.”

“Don’t force it—”

“You’ve done enough.”

“I… I can finish,” Seungcheol rasped, chest heaving, voice raw but firm. “It’s… the last song. I can’t… I won’t stop.” Another cough shook him, deep and wet, yet the circle around him tightened automatically, steadying him like a living brace.

Mingyu’s chest convulsed in tandem with a violent cough he couldn’t suppress. He angled the mic, bending forward as though he were catching his breath, forcing the familiar grin back on his face. No one glanced. No one reached. The body that had been a silent pillar all night threatened to betray him in a feverish rebellion.

The final chorus blazed. Mingyu’s legs trembled mid-step, and though he forced them straight, strength bled out of him like water from a cracked vessel. Lights seared, cheers rattled his skull, fever roared like wildfire.

He stumbled once. Just slightly. Then again, harder. The mic clattered against his teeth, and he forced a laugh, waving to the fans as if the stumble were deliberate. The stadium laughed with him, ignorant of the truth beneath the polished veneer.

Then the world tilted. Vision narrowing, edges blackening. Chest heaving, lungs straining, he tried to hold the choreography, the grin, the role.

But the body would not obey.

His knees gave first, then the rest of him followed. The mic slipped from clammy hands, confetti blurring into a kaleidoscope above him. He reached instinctively, fingers grasping for the floor as if it could anchor him, but the heat and weakness crushed him.

The stage swallowed him, a hollow thud masked by the music. CARATs screamed, their adoration still unbroken, but the members’ eyes never left Seungcheol, still staggering through his final steps, still burning with stubborn light.

Mingyu lay in the shadow of the circle, invisible, the fever roaring through every vein, every bone. The mask of the performer fractured into a thin, trembling line of reality—one that no one saw until the final note echoed, the lights dimmed, and the cameras caught the slumped figure on the far edge of the stage.

And in that heartbeat, the world shifted—first for Mingyu, then for everyone who would witness his fall.

____________________

The final note lingered in the air, a thin, fragile echo that barely brushed the ears of thousands. Then the world shifted. A tremor ran through the crowd—gasps, fragmented screams, lightsticks jerking in panicked waves. Glitter and confetti seemed to freeze midair, each flake suspended, catching the lights like shards of ice.

Chan’s voice cut through the sudden silence, sharp and urgent.

“Hyung—Mingyu—!”

The circle around Seungcheol fractured instantly. All attention, all instinct, turned toward the other side of the stage. Mingyu lay sprawled, limbs splayed at odd angles, the mic abandoned beside him. His costume clung to fevered skin, sweat gleaming like oil under the stage lights. The practiced grin had vanished, replaced by the stillness of someone overwhelmed by their own body.

“What—when—how—?” Joshua’s words stumbled out, disbelief thick in his throat. The members had been so focused on Seungcheol, steadying him through every faltering step, every ragged note. They hadn’t noticed Mingyu, hadn’t seen the hidden war he’d been waging all night.

Wonwoo dropped beside him first, knees striking the stage hard, hands hovering before settling gently on Mingyu’s back. The heat radiating off him was frightening, skin slick with sweat. “He’s… he’s out cold,” Wonwoo choked, voice breaking. “He’s not—he’s not waking up.”

Minghao crouched next, pressing a hand to Mingyu’s chest, feeling the rapid, shallow rise and fall. “God… his fever… it’s through the roof. Why—why didn’t we notice sooner?” His usual calm was gone, replaced with panic, white-knuckled fear gripping him.

The crowd’s cheers dissolved into a wall of anxious cries, a chaotic tide of thousands of voices calling Mingyu’s name, their devotion twisted into desperate concern. Lightsticks thrashed, waving erratically, a storm of neon desperation.

Jeonghan tightened his hold around Seungcheol, who had lurched forward at the commotion. His body shivered violently under the fever, balance faltering. “Cheol! Stop!” Jeonghan’s voice strained as he held him upright. “You’ll collapse too!”

“I have to—” Seungcheol rasped, coughing violently until his body shuddered with the force. His hands reached instinctively, yearning toward Mingyu. “That’s… our member… our Mingyu… lying there—I can’t just—”

“Hyung, you can’t even stand,” Soonyoung’s voice cracked with urgency, hands gripping Seungcheol’s sides tightly. “If you fall, we’ll have no one left standing. Please… just let us help him.”

Meanwhile, Seokmin knelt beside Mingyu, voice raw and fragile. “Mingyu! Can you hear me? It’s me… it’s us… wake up, please, wake up—” His words caught in his throat, sobs he couldn’t fully swallow leaking out as he held Mingyu’s arm, clutching as if sheer force could pull him back to consciousness.

Vernon paced behind, fingers clawing at his hair, composure shattered. “Why didn’t we notice? He… he was smiling the whole time…” His voice pitched higher, disbelief burning into panic. “He’s been hiding it… always trying to protect everyone else.”

Chan’s hands shook as he brushed confetti from Mingyu’s damp hair. “He didn’t even say anything… he didn’t let us see—”

Wonwoo’s voice was tight, trembling with the weight of truth. “He never does. Always hiding it. Always protecting others… even now.”

Staff flooded the stage in a flurry of black shirts and headsets, their clinical efficiency cutting through the glitter and chaos. One kneeling beside Mingyu pressed an oxygen mask to his face; another checked his pulse, murmuring numbers into a radio. The illusion of the concert shattered like glass.

Members scrambled around him, some kneeling, some clutching his hands, murmuring his name, trying to anchor him. Minghao refused to release his grip, Seokmin pressed close, and Wonwoo remained still, eyes locked on the faint, trembling rise of Mingyu’s chest.

Across the stage, Seungcheol swayed in Jeonghan and Soonyoung’s arms, fever soaking through every inch of him. His breaths were ragged, body slick with sweat, yet his gaze never left Mingyu. Voice hoarse, cracking with effort, he rasped,

“Don’t… waste time on me… Mingyu first. Get him safe… please.”

The words, barely more than a whisper, carried like iron. Every member froze for half a heartbeat before the frantic motion resumed.

Joshua’s voice was raw, tears welling. “Cheol… you can barely stand—”

“I’m still standing,” Seungcheol croaked, tone hardened beneath the weakness. “He’s not. Focus on him. I’ll endure.” His knees buckled suddenly; Jeonghan and Soonyoung’s arms locked tighter, still he strained to stay upright, eyes never leaving Mingyu’s fevered form.

The stadium was a maelstrom. Fans sobbed openly, some screaming prayers, others chanting Mingyu’s name until their voices cracked. The wall of sound pressed heavy against the stage, suffocating and relentless.

Thirteen had always been a fortress. But now, two pillars trembled—one on the floor, fever flaring, the other swaying on borrowed strength.

Mingyu’s eyes fluttered beneath the heat, consciousness a fragile thread. His hands twitched, reaching for something—anything—to anchor him. The panic, the warmth, the thrum of the crowd pressed in from all sides. And then, slowly, exhaustion took him completely.

His body shuddered in the arms of the members, chest convulsing, skin burning with fever, and for a single suspended heartbeat, the entire arena held its collective breath.

The concert had ended not with victory, not with applause, but with a chorus of cries, the sound of hearts breaking in unison, and the realization that even the strongest pillars could crumble—sometimes at the same time.

____________________

Mingyu clawed his way back to awareness, eyelids dragging open as though they were made of stone. Heat pressed against him from the inside out, his skin slick with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead. Every breath rattled in his chest, shallow and unsteady, and even turning his head toward the sound of movement made the world tilt.

“…Mingyu?” Seokmin’s voice cracked, half-choked. He leaned close, wringing out a damp cloth, pressing it carefully to Mingyu’s burning skin. “…You’re awake. Oh thank God…”

Mingyu swallowed, throat raw, words coming out as a broken rasp. “…H-hurts… f-feels like… fire…” He coughed weakly, chest shuddering, and the effort alone left him trembling.

Seokmin’s lips wobbled, guilt scrawled across his face. “We should’ve noticed sooner. You were like this… and I just—none of us saw. Not until it was too late.”

Mingyu’s fevered eyes fluttered shut, then open again, heavy-lidded. His voice was barely there, cracked and hoarse, each word dragging. “…I didn’t… want it… to be a secret…” His chest hitched with a breath. “…Just wanted… someone to… notice. Without me… saying it…”

The room froze, silence sharp as glass.

Wonwoo sank to the floor beside him, hand steadying Mingyu’s shaking shoulder. His own voice trembled. “…We should have. You shouldn’t have needed to speak. We should have seen it in your face, in your body, in how quiet you’d gotten. But we didn’t. And that’s on us.”

Mingyu let out a sound between a laugh and a sob, weak and frayed. “…That’s what… hurts worse… than this fever. I was here. Right here… and no one… saw me.”

Vernon pressed his palm over his mouth, pacing small circles before his voice cracked loose. “…You smiled through it. You laughed like nothing was wrong. And I… I let myself believe you were okay.” His voice shook with anger at himself. “…We all let you drown in plain sight.”

Minghao crouched low, offering a glass of water. His hands trembled, but his words were firm. “…Easy. Small sips. Don’t force it.”

Mingyu’s fingers twitched around the glass, his grip unsteady. He managed a swallow, but it burned down his throat, leaving him coughing again. When he finally spoke, his voice was a dry whisper, splintering with every word. “…Kept waiting… f-for someone… to ask. But no one… no one did…”

Across the room, Seungcheol stirred, fever dragging his body down into trembling shivers. He pushed himself upright, face ghost-pale, eyes glassy. His voice broke as soon as it left his lips, faint and ragged. “…M-Mingyu…” He coughed harshly, gripping the blanket. “…I… I should’ve… seen you. Should’ve… protected you.”

Jihoon steadied him with a firm hand, voice sharp with pain. “…Hyung, you were sick too. You could barely breathe yourself. None of us saw it. That’s the truth.”

Mingyu’s bleary gaze shifted toward Seungcheol, his fever-dulled eyes glistening. He rasped, low and uneven. “…You always… try to protect… everyone…” A pause, his chest rattling. “…But this time… I needed you. And you weren’t there.”

The words hung heavy, unbearable. Seungcheol’s shoulders crumpled, his body folding under the weight of guilt and fever alike. He wheezed through another cough, tears mixing with sweat. “…I… failed you…” His voice was so faint it almost dissolved in the air.

Mingyu shook his head weakly against the pillow, voice fraying to threads. “…You all… did. Not just you.” His lips cracked into a small, bitter smile. “…I didn’t… want to hide it. I just… wanted to matter enough… for someone to see without me telling.”

Seokmin bowed his head over Mingyu’s hand, clutching it tight against his damp cheek. His own tears soaked the skin. “…You do matter. You matter more than anything. I swear to you, Mingyu—we won’t ever let you feel unseen again.”

Mingyu’s fever-flushed face softened, though his words came in fragments, heavy with exhaustion. “…Still hurts… here.” He tapped his chest weakly with trembling fingers. “…But it’s… better now. With you… here…”

The dorm sank into fragile quiet—labored breaths, stifled sobs, the rustle of blankets as hands reached to touch, to hold, to promise.

Mingyu curled smaller beneath the covers, letting the exhaustion take him under. His voice, faint as a sigh, spilled out one last confession: “…Lucky I… still have you. Even if you… didn’t see me.”

A ragged whisper came back from across the room, Seungcheol’s voice crumbling with fever. “…And we’re… lucky you’re still here… for us to see… now.”

The words lingered like a bruise in the dim glow of the dorm. The fortress of thirteen stood battered, cracked by guilt, their leader and their pillar both fevered and worn—but the thread of connection held. Fragile. Trembling. Still alive.

Chapter Text

The city felt like it was exhaling.

Seoul at midnight was never fully asleep, but out here, on the quieter outskirts, it came close enough. The streets were thinly populated, dotted with the occasional taxi or delivery scooter, but mostly it was ribbons of asphalt stretching on beneath dim orange lamps. Mingyu drove with the window cracked open, letting the night air slip inside. It carried the faint smell of rain-soaked pavement and gasoline—sharp, cool, oddly soothing.

He rested deeper into the seat, shoulders sinking back. His body was still buzzing faintly from the long day: rehearsal, interviews, more rehearsal, and the endless parade of eyes on him. Tonight he’d allowed himself something small, almost rebellious—an unplanned late-night meal. Nothing glamorous, nothing curated. Just steaming broth and grilled meat at a neighborhood spot that didn’t care who he was. For a brief while he wasn’t “SEVENTEEN’s Mingyu,” he was just another customer, tired and hungry enough to forget the world.

The thought made him smile faintly. His lips curved for barely a second before smoothing back out. He tapped a slow rhythm against the steering wheel, the sound joining the hum of the engine, steady and low. The dashboard glowed with soft green light: 12:17 a.m. His favorite hour—when the world seemed to belong only to those still awake.

Streetlamps passed in lazy intervals, each one painting the hood in a soft halo before sliding away. The rhythm lulled him, the drive hypnotic in its quiet. Mingyu shifted, long legs adjusting beneath the wheel. A sigh slipped out—heavy, but tinged with something like relief.

Finally, space. Finally, calm.

He let the thought sink into him like a balm, though even now there was a flicker of guilt. He knew managers hated when they went out like this. He knew the risk. But tonight the hunger had been louder than his self-control, and the craving for silence louder still.

Another block passed. A dog barked faintly from somewhere behind a gate, the sound swallowed by distance.

Mingyu glanced casually at the rearview mirror, a habit as much as necessity. Headlights glowed faintly in the distance. He barely registered them—just another driver, maybe heading home, maybe making a late delivery. He flicked his gaze back forward without thought.

His mind drifted instead. To the taste of the broth—rich, salty, lingering. To the way the shop owner had smiled kindly, sliding him extra side dishes without comment. To how rare it felt, eating without whispers or stares or someone sneaking a photo when they thought he wasn’t looking.

The memory almost made him want to laugh. The smallness of it, the sweetness.

Another lazy curve. Another glance at the mirror. The headlights were still there.

Closer this time.

Mingyu didn’t think much of it. Seoul wasn’t deserted at night; people drove all hours. Maybe it was a taxi, maybe just someone else heading home late. He shifted his grip on the wheel, adjusting slightly, the faintest crease forming between his brows. Still, nothing to worry about.

The wipers brushed across the windshield with a soft squeak, clearing the faint drizzle that had started up. Tiny beads of water caught the streetlamp glow, scattering like small constellations before vanishing. His breath fogged faintly against the cold air.

Another street. Another mirror-check. The headlights matched his turn.

He exhaled slowly, telling himself not to be dramatic. Coincidence. Drivers shared roads all the time. He shook his head a little, as if physically trying to dismiss the thought.

But minutes ticked on, and the car was still there. Not passing him. Not falling back. Just there.

Something thin and cold threaded down his spine, so quiet it could almost be ignored—but not quite. The peace he’d wrapped around himself began to feel brittle, like glass under pressure.

He rubbed his palm briefly against his thigh, grounding himself. “Don’t overthink it,” he muttered under his breath, voice low, meant only for himself. The sound filled the car for a heartbeat, then vanished back into silence.

He made another turn—sharper this time, onto a smaller road lined with shuttered shops and drawn shutters. The other car followed smoothly, its headlights sweeping across the same stretch of wet pavement.

Mingyu’s pulse gave a single, uneven kick.

The air inside the car seemed to shift, no longer crisp and freeing, but heavy—dense enough to notice, dense enough to press against his chest. The night itself had changed. The lamps looked harsher, the shadows deeper, every corner holding too much space.

He swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around the wheel, the knuckles paling under the strain. The quiet, once a gift, now felt like a trap.

The engine hummed steadily beneath him, a constant thrum like a second heartbeat. Only now it didn’t soothe. It echoed his own, faster, uneven, reminding him of the growing tightness that wouldn’t let go.

And still—the headlights followed.

____________________

The longer he kept driving, the harder it became to lie to himself. That car wasn’t just behind him—it was with him, step for step, turn for turn, like a shadow stitched to his bumper.

Mingyu shifted in his seat, the leather creaking faintly beneath his weight. The cabin of his car suddenly felt too small, like the walls were drawing closer, the roof pressing down toward him. His pulse pounded in his ears, louder than the rain starting to hiss across the windshield.

Another corner. A side street he almost never took—narrow, lined with shuttered restaurants and old neon signs half-dead with age. He slowed, then eased into the turn, eyes flicking up toward the mirror.

The headlights curved neatly after him. Not hesitant, not delayed. Precise.

A chill crawled across his skin, the kind that didn’t stop even when he rubbed a hand along his arm. He adjusted the rearview, as though angling it differently might somehow change what he saw. But there it was—those twin lights glowing steady, patient, like eyes that refused to blink.

His phone sat in the console, screen dark. He thought about reaching for it, calling a manager, anyone. But what would he even say? Someone’s following me? It sounded paranoid, childish even. And if it was just a coincidence, he’d only earn himself another lecture about being reckless.

Still, his hand hovered near the phone for too long before pulling back to the wheel.

The drizzle thickened, spattering hard against the glass. The wipers swished, but each pass smeared the lights into distorted streaks, stretching the glow until it looked almost inhuman.

“Too close,” he muttered, voice hoarse, the words barely filling the space. His own voice startled him, sharp in the quiet.

His shoulders tensed, every muscle wound tight. He shifted lanes suddenly, the tires splashing through shallow puddles. Behind him, the car shifted too, smooth as a shadow cast under streetlight.

Mingyu’s throat dried out. He swallowed, but it did nothing.

The rational side of him fought to push through.

It’s nothing.

Just another driver. They don’t even know who you are. Don’t be dramatic.

But the words were empty. His body knew what his mind refused to say aloud: someone was watching, and someone wasn’t letting him go.

He pressed his foot down, the engine growling louder. Streetlamps blurred past faster, casting long gold flashes across his hands on the wheel.

The car behind him kept pace, headlights stretching out like claws across the wet road.

Mingyu’s breath quickened. He lifted a hand to the back of his neck, fingertips grazing damp hair. His skin felt feverish, prickled with sweat, though the air inside the car was still cool.

He tried rolling down the window again, hoping the night air might calm him, might prove he wasn’t suffocating. Instead, the sound that rushed in only made the world sharper—the rush of water against the tires, the mechanical purr of the other engine, the faint vibration of something larger than him, bearing down.

For one brief, unsteady second, he considered pulling over. Stopping. Facing whatever—or whoever—it was. But the thought alone sent another ripple of dread knifing through his chest.

No. Stopping meant being cornered. Stopping meant giving them the chance to close in.

“Keep moving,” he whispered, the words barely audible, meant only to tether him to something.

The road ahead stretched long and empty, framed by shuttered storefronts and blank windows. No late-night taxis. No passing scooters. Just silence, rain, and the glow in the mirror.

And for the first time that night, Mingyu realized with bone-deep certainty—he wasn’t driving alone anymore.

____________________

The first swerve wasn’t instinct—it was survival.

Mingyu yanked the wheel hard to the left, tires skidding over rain-slick asphalt before catching grip with a teeth-grinding shriek. His chest slammed against the seatbelt, ribs compressing with the violent pull. The steering wheel vibrated under his palms, every nerve in his hands buzzing like an electric current.

For one fleeting second, he hoped—prayed—the maneuver would shake them.

It didn’t.

The car behind him slid into the same turn without hesitation, headlights flaring, brighter now, closer now. Predatory.

His stomach dropped. The truth landed with the weight of cold iron: he wasn’t imagining this. He wasn’t being dramatic. Someone was chasing him.

Panic lit his body like fire. His pulse thundered, his breath came too fast, too shallow. He pressed the accelerator, the engine roaring so loud it rattled through his bones. Streetlamps blurred past in streaks of molten orange, fractured through beads of rain on the glass.

The other car surged forward, their engine snarling like a beast on his heels.

Why? Who are you?

The questions slammed through his mind in staccato bursts, each one cutting deeper. He couldn’t find answers—only the raw fact of danger, tightening around him like a vise.

The rain thickened, no longer a drizzle but sharp needles pelting the windshield. Wipers squealed as they swept back and forth, smearing light into warped halos that blinded more than they helped.

Another turn. Harder this time. His own car fishtailed dangerously, back end sliding before jerking straight again. His body whipped with the motion, shoulders slamming the seat. He tasted copper at the back of his throat, whether from bitten lip or rising nausea he couldn’t tell.

The headlights behind him swung around the same curve, smooth, merciless.

“Shit—!” Mingyu’s voice tore from him, raw, unfiltered.

His grip trembled against the wheel. He couldn’t do this alone. He couldn’t. His gaze darted to the console where his phone rested, screen dark but suddenly the most important object in the world.

One hand ripped from the wheel, fumbling. His fingers slipped once, twice, before catching it. He stabbed at the screen, eyes darting desperately between the glowing road ahead and the contact list swimming under his shaking thumb.

Seungcheol.

The call clicked. A voice, groggy but quick to sharpen: “Hello? Mingyu?”

“Hyung—” The word cracked apart in his throat. Breathless, broken. “Someone—someone is following me. A car. It’s—it’s right behind me, I can’t—” His voice tripped over itself, sentences collapsing into ragged gasps.

The line jolted alive. Seungcheol’s tone shifted instantly, steel wrapped in urgency. “Calm down. Listen to me, Gyu. Where are you?”

“I don’t—I don’t know—” Mingyu’s vision blurred with panic, the street bending and stretching under the rain. His knuckles were chalk-white against the wheel. “They’re right there—hyung, I can’t get away—”

On the line, Seungcheol swore under his breath, voice shaking but steady enough to cut through the chaos. “Stay with me. Don’t hang up, do you hear me? Keep the line open. Just keep driving.”

The other car surged forward, its headlights flooding Mingyu’s mirrors until he was blinded, pupils contracting painfully against the sudden glare. The engine’s roar filled the space around him, louder than his own, drowning out even Seungcheol’s voice.

He jerked the wheel again, veering onto another road. The tires screamed, rubber burning against wet concrete. His car jolted so violently he almost lost control, nearly clipping a lamppost before yanking it back in line.

The shadow followed, closer still.

“They’re gonna hit me!” Mingyu’s scream broke sharp into the speaker, high with panic. His throat burned.

“No, they’re not,” Seungcheol shot back, his voice harder now, fierce with command. “You hear me? Don’t let them break you. Breathe. Focus on the road. Don’t look at them—look forward.”

“I can’t—hyung, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can!” Seungcheol’s words cracked like a whip. “You’re not alone. I’m on my way. Just keep going. I’ll find you.”

Mingyu’s breaths came in fractured sobs, chest heaving against the unyielding seatbelt. His vision tunneled, everything narrowing to slick asphalt and the blinding wash of headlights behind him. Every instinct screamed to slam the brakes, to stop, to surrender—but another instinct screamed louder: run.

He pressed the accelerator until the pedal kissed the floor. His car leapt forward, engine howling into the storm. The road blurred, signs whipping past too fast to read, the city reduced to a smear of light and shadow.

The other car didn’t falter.

Every second stretched long, unbearable. Every heartbeat felt like it might be the last.

And still—he drove.

____________________

The rain turned savage. No longer a drizzle, no longer a nuisance—it was a torrent, thrashing against the windshield so violently that every streetlamp fractured into a thousand broken shards of light. Mingyu’s world was nothing but motion and noise: the howl of the engine, the roar of water, the hiss of tires sliding across flooded asphalt.

And always—those headlights behind him.

Closer now. Too close.

His grip on the wheel burned. His arms shook with effort, tendons taut, muscles locking with every shudder of the car. His throat was raw from sucking in air too fast, his chest heaving as if the seatbelt itself were strangling him.

“Please,” he muttered, barely a sound, words swallowed by the storm. “Please just stop.”

The impact came like a cannon.

A violent slam to the rear bumper, sharp and merciless, tore a cry from his chest. His body pitched forward, ribcage crushed against the restraint of the belt. Pain bloomed across his sternum, hot and immediate. The steering wheel jolted sideways, wheels shrieking against the slick pavement.

The car behind didn’t fall back. It surged forward again, another deliberate ram, harder this time. Metal screamed. Mingyu’s car jerked into the next lane, horn wailing, tires splashing through a puddle deep enough to rock the chassis.

“Hyung!” His voice cracked through the phone, high and panicked, barely human. “They’re hitting me—I can’t—I can’t—”

On the other end, Seungcheol’s tone was a whip-crack, fear wrapped in command. “Mingyu! Keep the wheel straight, no matter what! Lock your arms, do you hear me? Don’t let them take you off the road!”

“I can’t hold it!” Mingyu’s sob tangled with his words. His chest ached with each gasp, lungs clawing for air. “They won’t stop—they won’t stop—”

Another impact. This one angled, brutal. His teeth clacked hard enough to bite his tongue, copper flooding his mouth. The phone nearly slipped from his hand. His body slammed into the side door, seatbelt carving deep lines into his shoulder.

“Mingyu! Talk to me! Stay awake—stay awake, do you hear me?!” Seungcheol’s voice was breaking, the edges fraying into raw desperation. “Where are you?! Tell me what you see—anything!”

“I—I can’t—” Mingyu choked out, eyes blurring. Neon signs whipped by but he couldn’t read them, couldn’t focus. The world had collapsed into rain, headlights, fear.

The predator behind him didn’t hesitate. It lunged again, metal colliding with metal. His car fishtailed wildly, spinning him across lanes. The headlights in his mirror exploded into brightness, twin suns consuming his sight.

“Hyung!” It was a scream this time, ripped from his chest, shredded and helpless.

“Hold on!” Seungcheol barked, his voice cracking under the force. “Don’t you dare let go—hold on, Mingyu!”

The final strike came sudden, merciless. The sasaeng clipped his bumper at an angle, the hit precise, calculated to end it.

Mingyu’s car spun. The world turned into a carousel of chaos—streetlights swirling, asphalt tilting, the city tearing itself apart in dizzying streaks. His body slammed left, then right, bones rattling in their sockets. Glass shattered, raining down like ice, slicing across his cheek, his forearms.

The sound was deafening: the shriek of tires, the crunch of metal folding in on itself, the storm hammering down.

And then—the barrier.

The car slammed into it with bone-breaking force. The seatbelt carved into his chest like a blade. His head snapped forward, then back, a hot explosion of pain detonating behind his eyes. Something sharp pierced his skin—glass, metal, he couldn’t tell. His breath left him in one violent rush, lungs refusing to refill.

The phone fell from his hand, screen cracking against the console. Seungcheol’s voice bled through the speaker, frantic, shouting his name again and again.

But Mingyu’s vision was already collapsing inward, the edges blackening, sound warping into muffled echoes. His body sagged against the seatbelt, limp, blood warm against his skin as the storm roared on outside.

The last thing he heard was Seungcheol’s voice, broken and desperate, clawing through static:

“Mingyu—please—stay with me—!”

And then—nothing.

____________________

The wreckage smelled of iron and smoke. A chemical tang clung to the rain-soaked air, acrid enough to choke. Mingyu’s world was a fractured mosaic—flickers of streetlights, shards of glass embedded in his arms, the sticky warmth pooling under him. His chest refused to rise properly; every breath was a shallow scrape, like lungs fighting against their own collapse.

He tried to move, to shift even an inch, but the seatbelt held him pinned in its brutal grip, slicing into bruised ribs. His legs screamed where twisted metal pressed too tightly, and somewhere deeper inside—lower, sharper—there was a pain that felt dangerous, fatal.

The storm beat harder, as if determined to drown out the sound of his failing body.

The other car—the predator’s—was a mangled carcass across the lane. Its front end was crushed into itself, hood smoking. Through the spiderweb of a cracked windshield, a shadow sat slumped, unmoving. No movement. No sound. Just silence where there should have been a threat.

For a heartbeat, Mingyu’s blood chilled colder than the rain.

He tried to swallow. Tried to speak. His throat gurgled instead, blood filling the space where words should have been.

And then—footsteps.

“Gyu!” A voice, ragged with fear, cutting through sirens that hadn’t even arrived yet. “Mingyu!”

Seungcheol.

Mingyu’s lashes fluttered, vision blurring as a figure burst into view—hair plastered flat, clothes heavy with rain, eyes wild. Seungcheol skidded to the driver’s side, grabbing the twisted handle, yanking until his hands went white. The metal refused.

“Shit—no, no—” His fists slammed against the frame before he shoved his arm through the shattered window, ignoring the glass slicing his skin. He found Mingyu’s shoulder, warm and trembling under blood and rain. His voice softened, even as his hands shook. “I’m here. I’m here, Gyu. Just hold on for me, okay?”

Mingyu’s lips parted, blood bubbling up with the effort. “…hyung.” Barely a breath. Barely him.

Seungcheol swallowed the crack in his throat, pressing his palm hard against Mingyu’s chest where crimson bloomed too fast. “Don’t talk. Just stay with me.” His hands were steady because they had to be, but his eyes were glassy with terror.

Sirens finally shattered the storm’s dominion, red and blue flashing across the rain-slick asphalt. Tires screeched to a halt, doors slammed, and voices stormed the scene.

“Code Blue! Young male, massive blood loss—”

“Get the jaws of life! We need access now!”

“Another victim in the other vehicle—no pulse.”

Seungcheol’s head whipped toward the voice, just long enough to hear the words he dreaded. Dead. The sasaeng hadn’t survived. But there was no space to feel relief or fury—Mingyu was slipping.

“I’ve got his airway!” one paramedic shouted, forcing an oxygen mask over Mingyu’s face. Another was already cutting through the seatbelt, barking vitals. “BP crashing—heart rate erratic—”

“Stay with me, Mingyu,” Seungcheol whispered, leaning close enough that his forehead nearly touched Mingyu’s. He wanted to anchor him here, keep him tethered by sheer will. “You don’t get to leave me like this. Not like this.”

Metal screamed as hydraulic cutters bit through the wreck. Rain hissed as sparks flew, and then the door wrenched open with a violent crack. Hands moved in a blur—collars bracing Mingyu’s neck, clamps pressed against bleeding wounds, IV lines snaking into his veins.

“Multiple fractures, chest trauma, possible punctured lung. He’s critical—get him on the board!”

They lifted him, his body jerking under their hands, a raw groan tearing from his throat before it collapsed back into silence. Monitors shrieked, the high-pitched flatline spiking Seungcheol’s panic.

“No, no, no—Mingyu! Don’t you close your eyes!” Seungcheol’s voice ripped out, breaking against the storm. He surged forward, only to be restrained by an officer. “Let me go! That’s my member, that’s my—” His words broke, but his fight didn’t. “Please, just let me stay with him.”

The medic nearest him—sweat mixing with rain—nodded sharply. “You ride with us. But don’t get in the way.”

Seungcheol was already climbing in, gripping Mingyu’s hand as they shoved the stretcher into the ambulance. The cold fingers didn’t squeeze back.

Inside, chaos tightened. Pads pressed to Mingyu’s chest, shocks delivered that made his body jolt violently on the gurney. The monitor spat warnings, the medic’s voice a drumbeat of clinical precision: “Charging—clear! No pulse. Continue compressions.”

Seungcheol’s forehead pressed almost against Mingyu’s damp hair as he whispered like a prayer, over and over, a plea that cracked with each repetition: “Stay with me. Please, Gyu. Don’t you dare leave me here.”

The doors slammed, sirens wailed, and the ambulance tore through the rain-slick night—carrying them toward whatever fragile thread of hope still held.

____________________

Inside the ambulance, the storm outside was replaced with another kind of violence—urgency. White lights burned overhead, sterile and merciless, illuminating every line of Mingyu’s battered body. The siren’s wail bled into the monitor’s alarms, each shriek a countdown.

“Pressure’s tanking—sixty over thirty!”

“Heart rate unstable. Get another line in, now!”

The medics moved with ruthless precision. One cut away Mingyu’s soaked shirt, exposing skin marbled with bruises, ribs protruding oddly under mottled red and purple. Another pressed gloved hands hard against the wound at his side where blood refused to stop spilling.

Seungcheol clung to the only space left for him—wedged in the corner, soaked to the bone, fingers locked around Mingyu’s hand. His knuckles were white, but his grip never faltered.

“Gyu. Hey. Focus on me.” His voice shook, but he forced it steady, as if his tone alone could build a bridge strong enough to pull Mingyu back. “It’s hyung. Don’t you forget my voice, okay? You’re not leaving me.”

Mingyu’s lips parted, wet with blood, a whisper dragging itself out like broken glass. “...hyung…” The syllable cracked halfway through, collapsing on his tongue.

The monitor wailed. A medic swore under his breath.

“Starting compressions—he’s crashing!”

Seungcheol’s world narrowed to a single point: Mingyu’s chest jerking under the medic’s hands, his body bouncing lifelessly on the gurney. His stomach dropped so violently he thought he might vomit.

“No! Gyu—no, don’t you dare!” His voice ripped raw, breaking against the storm inside the ambulance. “Stay with me! You hear me? Don’t close your eyes!”

“Clear!”

Mingyu’s body jolted with the shock, a violent arch that knocked the air from Seungcheol’s lungs.

For one awful second—nothing.

Then—the weak, stuttering beep of a heartbeat clawing its way back.

“Got him back—for now.” The medic’s tone was grim, not celebratory. “He won’t hold without intervention. Tell the ER to prep an OR—stat.”

The ambulance screeched into the bay. Doors slammed open, rain spilling in as more hands grabbed the stretcher, wheeling Mingyu away into blinding hospital light.

Seungcheol stumbled after them, numb, his soaked sneakers slipping against the tile. He pushed forward until a nurse blocked his chest with a firm palm.

“You can’t come past this point.”

His voice broke instantly. “That’s my member—he’s—he’s my family—”

“I know,” she said softly, steady but unyielding. “The only thing you can do for him right now is let us work.”

The double doors swallowed Mingyu whole.

____________________

The hallway felt cavernous, sterile, echoing with Seungcheol’s ragged breathing. His hands, still slick with Mingyu’s blood, trembled as he pressed them against his face. He wanted to scream, to tear the walls down, but his body felt too heavy to move.

The thunder of footsteps snapped his head up. Jeonghan appeared first, hair plastered from the rain, Joshua right behind him, his chest heaving. Seokmin, Wonwoo, Minghao, and Seungkwan rushed in next, their expressions carved with panic. Dino stumbled in last, his face pale, his eyes searching desperately.

“Hyung—where is he?!” Seungkwan’s voice cracked.

Seungcheol lifted a trembling hand, pointing at the sealed trauma bay. His lips shaped the words like they were poison. “Code Blue.”

The reaction rippled like a shattering glass.

Jeonghan’s hand flew instantly to Joshua’s shoulder, steadying him though his own mouth trembled.

Wonwoo’s jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped, fists locked at his sides.

Minghao’s eyes glistened, his hand covering his mouth as he whispered in Mandarin, too soft to catch.

Seokmin shook his head violently, muttering no under his breath until it became a prayer.

Chan froze entirely, staring at the doors like they were an executioner’s gallows. His chest barely moved, until Seungkwan hooked an arm around him, dragging him against his side.

And for a long, heavy minute, no one spoke. The only sound was the muffled thunder of chaos inside the trauma bay—monitors screaming, doctors shouting orders they couldn’t hear.

Finally, Seungcheol’s composure fractured. His hands slid down his face, and his voice cracked open. “He was still talking to me.” The confession was hoarse, hollow. “He was still there—I should’ve…” He couldn’t finish.

Joshua stepped forward, his own voice trembling but firm. “You got him here alive. That’s what matters.”

The words barely clung to air before the doors slammed open again. A doctor, scrub cap dripping with sweat, pulled down her mask as she scanned their faces.

“Family of Kim Mingyu?”

They all surged forward as one.

Her tone was clinical, but the weight in her eyes was undeniable. “He suffered multiple traumatic injuries—rib fractures, a collapsed lung, severe internal bleeding. We were able to stabilize him in surgery, but…” She hesitated, and the silence was suffocating. “…there were complications. His brain was deprived of oxygen during cardiac arrest. He’s in a coma.”

The hallway collapsed around them.

“No.” Seokmin’s denial came first, his voice cracking. “No—he can’t—”

Minghao shook his head, whispering fiercely in broken Korean, “Not Gyu, not him—”

Chan’s knees buckled, Seungkwan dragging him down into a trembling crouch.

Jeonghan’s hand slid over his mouth, tears finally breaking free. Joshua wrapped both arms around him, shoulders trembling violently.

Wonwoo stayed utterly still, his silence louder than any scream, his eyes fixed on the floor like if he lifted them, the world would collapse completely.

Seungcheol’s chest caved inward, his breath tearing ragged through his throat. His knees nearly gave, but he caught himself against the wall. His voice, when it came, was shredded. “How long… will he—?”

The doctor’s eyes softened. “There’s no way to know. Days. Weeks. Longer. Right now, he’s critical. All we can do is wait.”

Wait.

The word landed like a curse, like punishment.

The members collapsed into each other, grief, fury, and disbelief binding them into one trembling mass. And Seungcheol—he stood apart, forehead pressed against the sterile wall, Mingyu’s blood still drying on his hands, whispering into the silence.

“I promised I’d keep him safe.”

But the silence gave no answer.

____________________

The hallway smelled of antiseptic and rain, a bitter, metallic bite clawing at Seungcheol’s throat. Outside, lightning stabbed the hospital windows like cruel spotlights, each thunderclap a reminder of the storm that had followed them here. Four weeks. Four interminable weeks. Every second a torment. Every memory of Mingyu’s frantic call burned behind his eyes.

He had been running—heart hammering, wet asphalt slick beneath his shoes, the world a blur—when Mingyu’s voice had reached him: small, terrified, pleading. “Hyung… please… help me…” He had been powerless. By the time he’d arrived, the crash had happened. Now, Mingyu lay fragile as porcelain, wired to machines that beeped in endless, unforgiving rhythms, each one a clawing echo of Seungcheol’s guilt.

He pressed his forehead to the ICU glass, hands trembling violently, making the surface rattle. “This… this is my fault,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t get to you… I wasn’t there… I should’ve… I should’ve saved you…”

Inside, Mingyu’s chest rose and fell just enough to remind him that life still clung stubbornly, tethered by tubes and wires, each breath a fragile whisper.

Joshua’s voice cracked nearby, raw and hoarse from weeks of pleading. “Gyu… come back… we’re all here… I—” His words faltered, swallowed by emotion. “I can’t do this without you…”

Seokmin’s knuckles whitened as he pressed them to his knees, lips trembling. “Don’t… don’t leave me… please, Gyu… I can’t survive this…”

Chan, pale and shaking, clutched Mingyu’s hand beneath the thin hospital blanket. “Please… stay… stay with us…”

Hoshi paced in erratic circles, fists pounding the wall, voice breaking into raw shouts. “Why him? Why now? Why did this happen?! I should’ve—God, I should’ve done something!”

Minghao whispered prayers, soft, repeated, desperate. “Come back… please… come back…”

Seungkwan crouched beside Dino, trembling. “He hears us… he has to… he knows we’re here.”

Seungcheol sank to the floor, sobs wracking his body, fingers entwined with Mingyu’s frail ones, pressing his forehead against them. “I failed you… I should’ve reached you… your call… I should’ve… I should’ve saved you… Gyu, I couldn’t…” His chest heaved violently. If only I had been faster. If only I hadn’t hesitated. If only…

____________________

Days and nights bled into each other. Chairs became beds; floors became pillows. Meals were skipped. Showers forgotten. Sleep a distant memory. Their world shrank to this room, to Mingyu, and to the torturous tension of waiting.

“We should’ve been there!” Soonyoung cried one night, raw and trembling. “We should’ve—he’s lying there, and we’re just…” His voice cracked, choking on helplessness.

“We are here!” Seungcheol’s voice rang low and fierce. “We… We're here every day, every second. That’s all we can do. That’s all I can do for him… but I know that it’s not enough… I should’ve been faster…” His words dissolved into ragged sobs.

Joshua’s hand pressed firmly to his shoulder. “Seungcheol, stop blaming yourself. You’re here now. That’s what counts—he’s alive because you never left him.”

Seokmin whispered over Mingyu’s arm, voice shaking. “Don’t leave me… please… not like this…”

Chan sobbed quietly, pressing his forehead to Mingyu’s hand. “Fight… just… stay with us…”

____________________

Then it happened.

A twitch.

A single finger moved.

Seungcheol froze, heart thundering, chest constricting. “Gyu… it’s me… Cheol… I’m here… I’m not leaving… don’t… don’t leave me…”

A shallow, ragged breath.

An eyelid fluttered.

Seungcheol’s knees buckled. Tears streamed unchecked. “You’re… you’re awake… Gyu… please, just hold on…”

A weak whimper followed, faint, broken, almost drowned out by the steady beeping of machines—but unmistakable.

“Doctor! He’s awake!” Seungcheol shouted, panic and relief shattering his voice. “Please… hurry! He’s moving!”

____________________

Doctors arrived immediately, professional and controlled. “Step back, sir,” the lead doctor instructed firmly. “We need space to assess him safely.”

“I—I can’t—I need to—” Seungcheol tried to push past, panic roaring. “You don’t understand… he called me… he needs me…”

“Sir,” the doctor’s tone remained calm, unyielding. “It’s for both your safety and his. Any sudden stress or movement could harm him.”

Seungcheol pressed his forehead to the doorframe. “I… I can’t… I should’ve… it’s my fault… if I’d been there…”

Joshua’s hand found his shoulder. “Seungcheol, calm down. He is awake now. That’s what counts.”

The doctors moved with precise urgency—checking vitals, adjusting IVs, calibrating monitors. Every subtle movement, every beep, amplified Seungcheol’s guilt: every second I wasn’t there… every second before he called me…

Finally, the lead doctor turned to the group. “He’s awake. Extremely weak, but responsive. He can see and hear you. Gentle voices, calm movements—he needs reassurance, not panic.”

Seungcheol’s hands shook as he called to the others. “He’s awake… Mingyu’s awake… everyone… come… now!”

____________________

The others rushed in. The sterile room became alive with sobs, whispered confessions, trembling hands, desperate embraces.

Seokmin fell to his knees, lips pressing Mingyu’s hand. “Don’t ever leave me… I can’t survive without you…”

Joshua wrapped him in a shaking embrace. “I’ve got you… always…”

Chan collapsed into the blankets, sobbing uncontrollably.

Soonyoung ran fingers through damp hair, voice hoarse. “You can’t scare us like that again! Do you hear me? You can’t!”

Minghao whispered prayers, hands entwined with Mingyu’s. “We’re here… all of us… always…”

Seungkwan shook him gently, tears streaking his cheeks. “I thought I lost you…”

Seungcheol knelt beside Mingyu, holding their hands together. “You’re back… I promised… I’ll never leave you again… Gyu… never. You hear me?” His voice cracked, raw with guilt and relief. “I didn't reach you on time… but never again. Never again.”

Mingyu’s lips curved faintly; his weak hand brushed Seungcheol’s damp hair, grounding him.

Outside, the storm had passed. Inside, the guilt, the fear, the love, the pain—all still pulsed. But the monitors beeped steadily, a defiant heartbeat after weeks of limbo.

Seungcheol pressed his forehead to Mingyu’s hand. “Always… I’m always here. Never again… never again will I fail you.”

And Mingyu’s weak squeeze answered him.

____________________

Weeks later, spring crept quietly into Seoul. The air carried a softer warmth, and cherry blossoms dotted the streets, petals drifting like pale confetti with each passing breeze. But inside the dorm, a heavier, quieter weight lingered—an invisible thread tying every member to the memory of that night.

Mingyu sat on the couch, propped against pillows, a blanket draped over his legs. His body still bore the story of the crash—bruises fading in mottled shades, ribs wrapped carefully, an IV scar still faint on his arm—but his eyes, though tired, were clearer, sharper than they had been in weeks.

Around him, the rest of the members gathered. Some sat cross-legged on the floor, some sprawled against walls, a few leaned quietly, watching. The low murmur of voices filled the room, but it was softer than usual, heavier, weighted with unspoken emotions.

Soonyoung was the first to break the silence, voice quiet, almost hesitant. “I keep thinking… if you hadn’t called Seungcheol-hyung when you did…”

Mingyu’s voice cut in, steady but raw, hands twisting the blanket in his lap. “I wouldn’t be here,” he said simply, eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the room. “I know.”

The silence that followed was sharp and aching, stretching between them like a held breath.

Wonwoo leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee, gaze locked on Mingyu. “But you are here. That’s what matters. Nothing else.”

Minghao nodded faintly, his eyes lingering on Mingyu with a depth of concern that didn’t need words.

Chan, who had been quiet the whole evening, whispered finally, voice trembling, “I thought we were going to lose you, hyung.” Immediately, Seungkwan wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

Mingyu’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, the usual easy grin absent. “I thought I was going to lose me too,” he admitted. Voice raw, almost breaking. “That car… those headlights… they’re still in my head. Every time I close my eyes, I see it.” He pressed a trembling hand against his chest. “And I… I keep blaming myself. For driving too fast. For not stopping. For even going out that night.”

Seungcheol’s voice cut through, firm and commanding, yet layered with warmth and care. “Stop.” The room froze, all eyes on him. He sat upright, shoulders squared, yet softened as he spoke. “This wasn’t your fault, Mingyu. Don’t carry that weight. Not when all that matters is that you survived. You’re here—alive. That’s all that counts.”

Mingyu looked at him, tears brimming, finally letting them fall. “Hyung…”

Seungcheol moved closer, crouching in front of him, hands gripping Mingyu’s knees to ground him. “You’re here because you fought,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “And you’re here because we’ll always come for you. Do you understand? You’re not alone. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—full of grief turned into steady love, of promises made silently through tears, of hearts tethered by trauma and care.

Joshua exhaled softly, voice calm yet carrying weight. “We protect each other. Always. That’s what we’ve always done. That’s what we’ll keep doing.”

Mingyu’s gaze swept the room, taking in the faces he had almost lost, the family he had almost left behind. His heartbeat stuttered, uneven but alive. Surrounded by them, it felt steadier.

Outside, the night was quiet, peaceful for the first time in weeks. Streetlamps glowed, no shadows trailing in mirrors. The darkness that had haunted him now felt different—fragile, yes. Haunting, yes. But precious, too.

Because survival wasn’t his alone. It had always been theirs. Together.

____________________

Later that night, Mingyu lay in bed, eyes heavy, the memory of the crash still clawing at the edges of his mind—the rearview mirror, the headlights, the car sliding into the unknown. His body trembled, but when he turned his head, he saw Seungcheol asleep in the bed beside him, silent vigilance etched into every line of his face. Just beyond the door, the quiet murmur of the other members lingered—a presence, a shield, a tether to life.

The fear hadn’t vanished. The shadows hadn’t fully lifted. But now he believes that he could face them.

And the night stretched on, endless and uncertain, but stitched into every heartbeat was a fragile, enduring hope—born not from forgetting the darkness, but from standing together in it.

Chapter Text

The morning should have been ordinary — easy, autopilot. Wake. Shower. Breakfast. Rehearse the same choreography, eat the same meal, pack the same bag. But for Mingyu, every step was heavy, like the floor itself resisted his weight. His limbs refused to sync with the rhythm in his head, and the fever burning under his skin whispered truths his pride wouldn’t admit. He was sick.

Still, he grinned, the kind of bright, effortless grin fans loved. Even if it cost him everything inside.

The van hummed along the highway, city lights blurring past in streaks of gold and gray. Dino sprawled across the back seat, cracking jokes about Seungkwan’s “eternal playlist,” and laughter bounced off the windows. Mingyu chuckled along, louder than necessary, because he had to — filling silence was his armor. But beneath the laughter, his head throbbed in sync with the tires, each bump sending a spike of heat behind his eyes.

By the time they arrived at the stadium, a tide of anticipation vibrated through the air. VIP sound check wasn’t a full arena yet, but the walls hummed with energy. Lightsticks waved in greeting, fans’ voices calling out names in rhythmic chants. Mingyu tugged his cap lower, suppressing a cough, rolling his shoulders under the hoodie clinging to his sweat-dampened skin. Peeling it off would show just how unwell he felt — not an option.

“Alright, let’s run it once,” Hoshi’s voice sliced through the din, sharp and commanding as ever. His grin was infectious, energy blazing, but Mingyu caught a subtle flicker of concern in his eyes — a silent check-in. Mingyu smiled back, quick and casual. I’m fine. Don’t ask.

The first beat dropped.

Bodies slotted into the choreography, a familiar rhythm that should have been comforting but now felt like fire under his skin. Bass thumped in his chest, pulse racing, lungs straining. Arms lifted, legs snapped, they moved as one. Fans clapped along, cheers bouncing off the walls, oblivious to the fever burning him from within.

By the second chorus, his grip on the mic wavered. Barely noticeable, but Wonwoo noticed. Always did. Their eyes met mid-turn, a flicker of understanding passing silently — calm, grounded, steady. Mingyu nodded, drawing strength from the quiet support.

When the track ended, Hoshi waved toward the small section of fans allowed in for VIP sound check. “Alright, Mingyu, say hi!” he called, nudging him gently.

Mingyu lifted the mic, voice rough but playful. “Hey everyone! You ready for tonight?”

Fans shrieked, waving lightsticks furiously. One shouted, “Mingyu, you look hot!” Not literally — they meant energy, but it hit him literally, and he coughed into his sleeve.

Wonwoo leaned in, low enough that no fan could hear, murmuring, “Drink before you answer again, okay?” A tiny nod was all it took. Mingyu tipped the bottle to his lips, hands steadying on Wonwoo’s shoulder.

“Seungkwan hyung, what about you?” Dino called, grinning, pointing toward a cluster of fans holding signs. Seungkwan blew exaggerated kisses, engaging them with his signature theatrical flair. The fans giggled, Mingyu’s lips twitching despite the heat in his chest.

Hoshi spun, catching fans’ eyes, “Jun, show them that move!” Jun flung his arms wide, dipping low, pulling the fans into the choreography, their cheers blending with the rhythm. Meanwhile, Mingyu’s body followed the moves on autopilot, each step sapping energy, each smile masking the heat burning through him.

Even so, the members maintained a silent ballet of care around him. Jihoon adjusted his mic wire, “Mingyu, keep hydrated.” Seokmin handed him a towel with a wink. Dino cracked a light joke, “Try not to melt under all this attention, okay?” — and Mingyu laughed, scratchy but real, letting the warmth from their voices anchor him.

Between songs, Hoshi leaned in, whispering to the fans, “They’ve been working really hard, so cheer extra loud for them tonight!” Dino bounced, mimicking Hoshi’s energy, Seungkwan added theatrical waves, and Jun’s precise choreography pulled their tiny audience into the beat. Through it all, Mingyu’s fever made every movement feel double the effort, but every glance from Wonwoo, every small gesture from Jihoon or Hoshi, reinforced that he wasn’t alone.

The final run-through ended with fans screaming their names, waving lightsticks high, phones out. Mingyu’s chest heaved, but he managed a grin, letting the cheers wash over him. Seungcheol’s calm voice cut through the applause:

“Good. Let’s take it easy before the real thing.”

It wasn’t just leader speak. It was we see you. Don’t push harder than you need to.

Backstage was chaos wrapped in routine. Stylists brushed and curled hair, adjusted costumes, smoothed fabrics over sticky skin. Makeup artists dabbed powder to tame shine under the unforgiving stage lights. Mingyu sank into a folding chair, hoodie damp against his back, heart still racing. A stylist pressed a water bottle into his hand. He lifted it, trembling, half-drinking before the shiver reminded him he wasn’t fully in control.

Jihoon adjusted his earpiece. “You’re sweating too much already. Don’t collapse before the first song.”

“Hyung,” Mingyu rasped, “if I collapse, I’ll do it stylishly.”

Seokmin rolled past, smirking. “Yeah, real chic. Face-plant on stage. Big energy.”

The tension eased, if only for a moment. Then, quiet as a shadow, Wonwoo appeared, nudge of the water bottle, steady gaze, unwavering presence. Mingyu drank, feeling the fevered burn dull just slightly.

Hoshi circled, Jun adjusted formations, Dino joked, Seungkwan engaged fans through the open curtain — and through it all, Mingyu moved, smiled, and survived. The warmth of their attention, the rhythm of their voices, the steady support threading around him, carried him.

Somewhere deep down, beneath fever and exhaustion, Mingyu knew the spotlight would demand everything.

And they’d carry him.

Because this was SEVENTEEN.

Nobody got left behind.

____________________

The minutes crawled and surged at the same time. The stadium beyond the walls thrummed like a living thing, every cheer and chant vibrating through the concrete and metal, teasing the edges of Mingyu’s senses. Even here, in the relative quiet of the dressing room, the energy pressed in, electric and insistent. He could hear the faint bass of the pre-show playlist, rhythmic and insistent, as if the arena itself was counting down to ignition.

Mingyu sank to the floor, stretching alongside the others. The hoodie was gone now, replaced with stage clothes that hugged his frame: black pants cut sharp, sleeveless top designed to catch the floodlights. His skin prickled beneath the fabric, warm and unnatural, but he forced his body into the familiar bends and lunges, rolling through the motions like a machine. Every stretch was measured, every movement calculated. One slip, one falter—and someone would notice. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Hyung, you really good?” Dino crouched beside him, sweatband glinting under the fluorescent dressing room lights. The usual teasing lilt of his voice was there, but his eyes were sharp, scanning him like a lifeline.

Mingyu gave a crooked grin, pressing a knee against Dino’s shoulder. “When am I not?”

Dino didn’t laugh. “You looked like you were about to pass out during sound check,” he muttered, voice low.

“I was… just testing gravity,” Mingyu quipped, smirking through a tremor that made his hip thrum. “Making sure it still works.”

Dino rolled his eyes, but didn’t press. He bounced back toward Seungkwan, who was busy fine-tuning his mic with meticulous, exaggerated flourishes, as if the world depended on it.

Hoshi was pacing nearby, murmuring counts under his breath, eyes tracing formations in the air as he mapped the choreography for the hundredth time. Seungcheol hovered like a quiet anchor, hands on shoulders, a steadying presence. Joshua and Jun leaned into each other, sharing a laugh over something on a phone screen, light and effortless. Jihoon sat perched on a stool, notebook in hand, flipping pages even now, pen tapping a measured rhythm on the paper.

It looked like any other pre-show chaos: tangled wires, mirrors reflecting frantic hands, the scent of hairspray and stage fog curling in from the wings. But Mingyu’s world was overlaid with a different rhythm, one he couldn’t switch off. The fever pulsed in his veins, heat radiating like a second spotlight, invisible yet unyielding.

A makeup artist swept a brush across his cheekbones and frowned when it came away damp. “You’re already—”

“I sweat a lot,” Mingyu interrupted, forcing a grin wide enough to soften her concern. Dimples lifted, teeth flashing. She shook her head, laughter carrying off as she moved to another member.

But Wonwoo didn’t laugh. He sat a few feet away, stretching quietly, eyes flicking toward Mingyu with constant calculation. Every small shiver, every hitch in his breath, Wonwoo cataloged silently, the weight of unspoken worry pressing in.

Then Jihoon appeared, hovering just behind him, a small bottle of fever medicine in his hand. “Mingyu, seriously,” he said softly, voice low, but firm enough to pierce through the fog of adrenaline. “You don’t have to do this if—”

“I’m fine,” Mingyu rasped, voice scratchy, and reached for the bottle. “Really. I can handle it.”

Seokmin leaned over, arching a brow. “You look fine,” he said with a smirk, though his eyes lingered longer than the words implied. “Just make sure you don’t melt into a puddle before the opening line.”

“Minnie,” Mingyu wheezed, tipping the medicine into his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste. Dino rolled his eyes. “Try not to poison yourself, okay? We’ll save the drama for the stage.”

Even Seungcheol, calm and composed as ever, hovered nearby, hand briefly pressing on Mingyu’s back. “You sure you’re ready for this?” His voice wasn’t an order—it was a test of trust, a subtle challenge to the stubborn streak Mingyu had always carried.

“I’m ready,” Mingyu said, forcing the words through the heat in his chest, forcing the grin that would become his armor.

They moved into their circle, hands layered together, a ritual etched into muscle memory. Seungcheol’s voice cut through the nervous hum of anticipation, grounding them all. “We’ve got this. Tonight is ours.”

“Fighting!” they chorused, voices mingling. Mingyu’s own rang out as strong as ever, even if his throat tickled and his chest burned. He pressed his hands harder into the circle, letting the warmth from their touch ground him.

Hoshi nudged him subtly. “Remember, it’s okay if you need to breathe. We’ve got your back.”

Mingyu gave a faint nod, though the world behind his eyes spun a little faster than it should have. Wonwoo’s hand brushed his briefly, the faintest tether to reality. It was quiet, almost imperceptible, but it reminded him he wasn’t alone. Not now, not ever.

Backstage chaos faded to background noise as the final call came: thirty seconds. The music behind the curtain swelled, fans’ cheers growing louder, a tide of excitement that would soon crash into them. Mingyu adjusted his top, smoothed his hair, and breathed through the fever pounding in his veins.

Because when the lights went down, and the beat hit the floor, there would be no sickness. There would only be thirteen hearts, moving as one, igniting the stage with fire.

And somewhere beneath that heat, Mingyu knew with absolute clarity: if he stumbled, if he faltered, someone was already there.

Already ready to catch him.

____________________

The lights cut, sharp and sudden, and the stadium became a living heartbeat, thrumming under the soles of his boots. A tidal wave of screams rose from every corner, tens of thousands of voices colliding into a single, deafening roar. Mingyu’s chest tightened—not from excitement, not from awe—but from the fever crawling under his skin, relentless and unyielding. Each inhale felt shallow, each breath a small rebellion against the heat burning in his chest.

Yet, as the first spotlight sliced through the darkness and found him, he straightened instinctively. Shoulders squared, back rigid, he plastered on the grin—the one he wore for millions of eyes, the one that told the world he was untouchable, unbreakable. Beneath it, his body simmered, trembling just enough to whisper its rebellion.

The VCR faded, bass rattling the metal floor beneath their feet, and “HOT” hit the speakers like an explosion. Fire bursts spat sparks into the smoke-slicked air, orange flames painting the fog around them. Mingyu surged forward with the group, muscles remembering every cut, every spin, every leap. For a heartbeat, adrenaline muted the fever, and he flowed with the choreography—sharp lines, perfect angles, the kind that made fans scream in worship.

But the illusion shattered quickly. By the first chorus, his lungs burned, ribs tightening as though gripping the fire within him. Sweat slicked his skin under the weight of the stage lights, soaking the fabric of his top. He forced a smirk, catching Dino’s eye during the “burn it up” line. Dino’s wink was exaggerated, playful, almost theatrical—a silent lifeline that drew a hoarse laugh from Mingyu, even as his chest protested.

From the corner of his eye, Hoshi shifted a fraction, a subtle half-step, covering the slight delay in Mingyu’s movement. No fan would notice; perfection was the performance’s mask. But to the group, every minor adjustment was a tether, a promise: we’ve got you.

The setlist barreled on: “Left & Right,” “Mansae,” “Rock With You.” Each song stacked the weight higher, each jump and spin sending tremors through fever-addled muscles. Mingyu’s voice cracked once during a line, thin and raspy, yet the crowd only roared louder, deaf to weakness, enamored by energy.

By the bridge of “Rock With You,” his footing faltered. The microphone trembled in his slick fingers, his body teetering on the edge of collapse. Wonwoo’s arm brushed against his side, deliberate yet silent, a steady anchor. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant amidst the pyrotechnic haze. Mingyu’s pride wanted to ignore it, to push forward, but Wonwoo’s gaze said more than words ever could: You’re not alone. Not here. Not now.

He forced the next line, throat raw, as if willing his body to obey. Every spin felt like lead, every leap a negotiation with gravity. When “Don’t Wanna Cry” came, his legs screamed betrayal. Sweat blurred his vision, streaked makeup clinging to damp skin. Fans saw only passion, only performance, only SEVENTEEN pouring life into every note and step.

But backstage, chaos whispered. Hands slipped him bottles of water between tracks, Jihoon pressing a damp towel to his shoulder, muttering low, urgent commands: “Slow down, idiot,” before vanishing back into the shadows. Seungcheol’s brief, grounding touches reinforced the rhythm of survival, not showmanship. Mingyu leaned into it, shoulder brushing, wrist catching, the subtle choreography of care hidden in plain sight.

Encore crashed over them, the stadium chanting “SEVENTEEN! SEVENTEEN!” like a rolling storm. Mingyu’s head spun, limbs heavy as molten lead, yet he threw the grin wide, flashing dimples into the neon sea of lightsticks. “Aju Nice” ignited the arena, bouncing energy back and forth like electricity.

Every step was a duel with his fever. When his ankle twisted ever so slightly during a spin, Seungcheol’s hand landed firm on his back, propelling him forward seamlessly. To fans, it was flawless choreography; to the group, it was a lifeline, a silent promise: we survive together.

Mingyu felt the heat coil through him like fire in a cage. Sweat plastered hair to his forehead, made his skin prickle under the relentless lights. He swallowed against the bitter taste of medicine still lingering in his mouth, each gulp of water a fragile relief. Dino shot him a side glance, eyes wide with warning, but nodding—silent acknowledgment of the war waged under the guise of performance.

When the final notes struck, fireworks erupting overhead, the arena shaking with unrestrained cheers, Mingyu’s body wanted to give way, legs quivering beneath him. Still, he stood tall, chest heaving, hands linked with the others in final bows.

Only in that moment, in the private weight of success, did his body betray him fully. He leaned, just slightly, toward Wonwoo, seeking the faint tether of stability. Wonwoo’s hand caught his, gentle, firm—an anchor in the firestorm, a reminder that beneath the pyrotechnics, beneath the roar of tens of thousands, he was never truly alone.

And as the crowd roared, Mingyu let himself breathe, just for a fraction of a second, into the quiet between the chaos—because someone, always, had him.

____________________

The encore didn’t end with “Aju Nice.” It never did. The fans’ chants wound around the stadium like an unbreakable rope, relentless and insistent, and SEVENTEEN — thirteen hearts beating in sync — could not refuse.

The lights softened, dimming into a sea of gentle blue, and the hush of tens of thousands fell over the arena, a breath held collectively. The opening chords of “Together” floated into the night, delicate yet heavy with memory. A song that had always carried the weight of promises—promises whispered in practice rooms, late-night studios, and small stages long before the floodlights.

Mingyu gripped the mic, every joint screaming beneath the weight of heat and exhaustion. His voice trembled at first, uneven, as though the fever had lodged itself inside his throat. Then Seokmin’s harmony wrapped beneath his line like a soft, invisible hand, lifting him just enough. Joshua leaned subtly into him during his own verse, voice warm, steady, buying Mingyu precious fractions of a second to inhale without faltering.

The arena swayed in soft waves of color, lightsticks painting the air with gentle rhythm. To the fans, it was artistry and unity. To the twelve others on stage, it was a battlefield of survival—micro-adjustments, quiet anchors, hidden support.

By the bridge, Mingyu was meant to step forward, the center spotlight slicing across him like a thin blade. Every step felt labored, a tug-of-war between body and duty, but he forced himself there, towering and unbroken in silhouette. His rap came out rougher than rehearsed, voice rasping and raw. The fever had sharpened it into something almost primal. The crowd cheered with unknowing fervor, mistaking sickness for intensity, and Mingyu let the roar carry him, leaning into it.

The final formation left them hands reaching outward, eyes lifted toward the invisible horizon. Mingyu’s arm wavered, tremors threatening the perfect arc, but Wonwoo’s hand brushed his in the slightest touch earlier than planned, subtle yet grounding. No one else would notice, no one but the group, the silent communication threading between them: We’ve got you.

Applause cracked overhead like lightning. The lights bathed them in warm amber one last time.

Seungcheol stepped forward first for the closing ment, voice calm yet firm, gratitude spilling naturally: “Carats, tonight you gave us everything. We’ll always give you everything in return.”

Jeonghan followed with a playful jab, making the fans laugh, Seungkwan’s voice chimed in with mischievous energy, and Vernon’s words were brief but sharp. When the mic reached Mingyu, he paused, hesitation heavy, the fever fogging his thoughts. His spine tingled, a subtle ache threading through every vertebra, but he lifted his gaze and smiled, dimples sharp.

“Thank you… thank you for always giving us so much love. We’ll keep working hard for you. Please get home safe tonight.”

The roar that followed struck him deep, reverberating through the burning haze of his body. He bowed low, chest tight, forcing straight posture even as heat, exhaustion, and tension warred inside him.

Then the lights went out. The moment vanished. And in that instant, the arena became silent.

Backstage was a different world entirely. Cool shadows replaced the searing lights, the smell of smoke, sweat, and scorched metal from pyrotechnics lingering like a phantom. Mingyu stumbled forward, muscles slackening now that the performance mask could drop, knees threatening to give. Instantly, a firm hand gripped his elbow—Wonwoo again, silent, steady, unyielding.

“Water,” Jihoon barked, thrusting a bottle toward him. Mingyu drank greedily, choking once, cough shaking his frame, heat rolling up through his throat like molten liquid.

The others closed in seamlessly, forming a protective shell around him as they navigated the maze of corridors toward the dressing room. Staff moved efficiently around them, earpieces whispering instructions, but the instinct was theirs alone: shield him. Cover him. Keep the fans from seeing anything but perfection.

By the time they reached the benches and mirrors, Mingyu sagged into a chair. Sweat plastered his costume to his skin, droplets threading through hair and makeup. His reflection stared back pale and glassy-eyed, lips split dry, a ghost of the boy who had just ignited tens of thousands. Makeup artists hovered, concerned, but he waved weakly, forcing a smile he didn’t feel.

Seokmin dabbed a towel against his damp neck. Dino crouched beside him, voice quiet, teasing just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone: “Don’t try to die on us before the van ride, Gyu.” Mingyu cracked a faint laugh, though it ended in a cough.

Wonwoo stayed close, unwavering, eyes never leaving him. His hand hovered, ready to catch, steady, a quiet tether in the chaotic afterglow.

Hoshi leaned in, murmuring counts from memory, checking Mingyu’s posture as if choreography could fix exhaustion. Seungcheol’s presence was there too, calm but alert, offering a grounding hand on Mingyu’s shoulder every so often, a subtle reminder that strength came in support as well as in fire.

The show had been perfect. The fans had left breathless. And yet, the price lay heavy on Mingyu, fire still burning under skin and muscle, exhaustion clawing through every bone. Here, backstage, with the others gathered like silent sentinels, he could finally let himself feel it—all the heat, all the ache, all the relief mingled with fear.

And Wonwoo, faithful as ever, didn’t take his eyes off him once. Not until Mingyu had a chance to breathe, to let the inferno inside cool just a fraction.

____________________

The van hummed softly along the highway, headlights casting fleeting streaks across Mingyu’s face. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, chasing the temporary relief it offered against the fever still scorching through his veins. The city beyond blurred into a smear of neon and shadow, colors running like wet paint over a canvas he couldn’t focus on. Every muscle screamed in rebellion—thighs tight from jumps, shoulders stiff from lifts, ribs aching from inhaling and exhaling against exhaustion—but still, his body obeyed enough to sit upright, a soldier trapped in his own heat.

Around him, the others were quiet. Not their usual post-concert chatter of teasing or half-baked jokes, but a subdued hum of bodies spent. Some scrolled through phones, thumbs moving almost automatically. Some slumped against the seats, eyes half-closed. And yet, Mingyu felt it—the silent tether of eyes on him, scanning, measuring, worry threaded beneath their usual composure. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He already knew.

“Hyung…” Dino’s voice came low and tentative from two rows back. Mingyu barely caught it, swallowed by the buzz of the bus. “You… you did good tonight.”

He offered a faint smile, hoarse, shaky. “Yeah… yeah, better than good.” He coughed, throat burning. “I… survived.”

The boy’s small chuckle echoed quietly, and Mingyu closed his eyes, letting the warmth of camaraderie seep in through the cracks of his exhaustion.

The van finally curled into the underground garage, tires hissing against concrete, the metallic scent of oil and damp steel filling the air. Footsteps echoed as staff guided them toward the elevators, luggage and duffels thumping softly against their legs. Mingyu’s knees wobbled, each step a negotiation with gravity, but when Dino nudged him with a grin, he forced another laugh.

“You look like a zombie,” Chan whispered, bumping his shoulder.

“Better than you,” Mingyu rasped, voice cracking slightly. “At least I’m a handsome zombie.”

Chan snorted but didn’t argue. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, worry betraying the teasing facade. Mingyu’s lips twitched in acknowledgment, too drained to tease back.

By the time they reached the hotel’s quiet hallway, exhaustion draped over them like heavy velvet. Room keys clicked. Soft goodnights trailed in the air. No one said it outright, but the unspoken concern for Mingyu pulsed stronger than any conversation.

Then Wonwoo’s voice cut through the hush, soft but deliberate:

“I’ll room with Mingyu.”

There was no hesitation, no question. The others—Seungcheol first, decisive, then Jeonghan with a faint, knowing smile, Joshua brushing Mingyu’s arm—simply nodded. Trust flowed silently between them like an unbroken chain, unspoken yet understood.

“I’m fine, really—” Mingyu tried to protest, throat raw and weak.

Wonwoo didn’t answer. He simply reached for Mingyu’s duffel, hand steady, and started walking toward the room. Mingyu followed, body too heavy to argue, the heat of fever making every step feel like wading through water.

____________________

The hotel room smelled faintly of clean linens and polished wood, a soft refuge from the harshness of stage lights and screaming fans. The warm glow from bedside lamps softened the edges of furniture: twin beds made immaculate, a low desk, curtains drawn against the city’s glow. To anyone else, it might have seemed ordinary. To Mingyu, stepping inside felt like collapsing into a sanctuary, shadows curling around him like protective hands.

Wonwoo set the bag down and turned to him. “Sit.”

Mingyu sank onto the edge of the mattress, every muscle trembling as the tension of the day drained away. Hands clumsy, he fumbled at the zipper of his stage jacket. Wonwoo crouched in front of him, quiet and patient, easing it down. Mingyu flushed—part embarrassment, part fever—and muttered, “I can do it…”

“You can barely stand,” Wonwoo said softly, fingers steady as they rested on the zipper, helping him free himself.

“I—I sound like a dad,” Mingyu joked weakly, though the laugh was half cough, half surrender.

Wonwoo’s eyebrows lifted, unamused, yet there was no harshness, only an anchor of calm that drew Mingyu’s fevered thoughts into a tethered focus. A towel appeared—cool, damp—and pressed against his burning forehead. The shock of it made Mingyu suck in a sharp breath, then exhale, muscles unclenching for the first time all night.

Silence filled the room, punctuated only by Mingyu’s uneven breaths and the faint hum of the air conditioning. Beyond the glass, the city pulsed with neon, but here it felt suspended, cocooned in warmth and quiet.

“You should sleep,” Wonwoo murmured, voice low and steady, his hand lingering near Mingyu’s shoulder.

Mingyu’s eyes fluttered, heavy. He wanted to argue, to say he was fine—but guilt tangled his words:

“I slowed everyone down tonight…”

“No,” Wonwoo replied, firm, unyielding. He adjusted the towel, fingers brushing Mingyu’s temple, light enough to soothe, deliberate enough to anchor him. “You didn’t. You carried through when you shouldn’t have had to. That’s enough.”

Gratitude swelled in Mingyu’s chest, tight and weighty, lodged in his throat. He leaned forward instinctively, shoulder pressing against Wonwoo’s, forehead almost brushing his. Fever-warm, clumsy, but grounding. Wonwoo didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted just enough, steady and quiet, an unspoken reassurance threading between them.

Mingyu let his eyelids drop, surrendering, finally letting go.

For a long moment, nothing moved but the soft rise and fall of chest and breath. Then Wonwoo murmured, almost to himself, “You don’t have to be strong alone.”

Mingyu’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, heart tightening at the vulnerability, the care, the closeness that had always existed but never been named. He tilted his head slightly, resting more fully against Wonwoo’s shoulder.

“Promise me,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Promise you’ll… stay?”

“I promise,” Wonwoo said, low and unwavering. His hand curved around Mingyu’s arm, firm yet gentle, a tether to ground him. “Always.”

And in the soft yellow glow, amid shadows and linens, Mingyu felt the inferno of the stage finally ease, replaced by something warmer, something quieter: a sanctuary not just of walls, but of presence, trust, and the unspoken intimacy that lingered between them.

The city outside continued to pulse, relentless, but here, in the shadowed room, for the first time all night, Mingyu felt truly safe.

____________________

Wonwoo moves with a quiet precision that makes every small sound—Mingyu’s shallow breaths, the rustle of fabric, the faint hum of the air conditioner—resonate in the room. He guided Mingyu back against the pillows, adjusting his posture with a soft, practiced care. The stage jacket, still damp with sweat, clung stubbornly to Mingyu’s frame.

“Arms up,” Wonwoo instructed, gentle but firm, his voice carrying a weight that left no room for argument.

Mingyu groaned, burying his face in the pillow. “Hyung… don’t treat me like a kid.”

“You’re worse than a kid,” Wonwoo replied with a faint smirk, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Kids at least listen the first time.”

Even fevered and exhausted, Mingyu couldn’t resist a dramatic, theatrical sigh. “Fine,” he muttered, arms lifting reluctantly.

Wonwoo peeled the jacket away carefully, the fabric clinging to the heat of Mingyu’s skin. Mingyu winced at the sudden stretch of his shoulder.

“See?” Wonwoo murmured softly, thumb brushing over tense muscle. “Too heavy.”

Mingyu muttered something incoherent, half protest, half embarrassment. When Wonwoo reached for the hem of his shirt, Mingyu’s fingers caught his wrist in a feeble attempt at autonomy. His eyes, glossy with fever, searched Wonwoo’s face.

“I can—”

But his hand betrayed him, trembling too violently to grip the fabric. His voice cracked. “Fine. You win.”

Wonwoo didn’t gloat. He simply lifted the shirt over Mingyu’s head, folding it neatly before setting it aside. A rush of cool air hit Mingyu’s overheated skin, making him shiver despite the fever burning from within. Wonwoo noticed instantly, tugging the comforter loosely around him before reaching into his bag for a clean shirt.

“Head through,” he instructed softly.

Mingyu obeyed, the cotton sliding cool against his skin, a simple act of care heavier than words. He sank back against the pillows, letting the towel on his forehead cool him in waves, while Wonwoo twisted the cap off the water bottle and held it to his lips.

“Slow,” Wonwoo reminded, thumb brushing against Mingyu’s fingers to steady the bottle.

Mingyu rolled his eyes, but drank carefully. A cough rattled through his chest, spilling water down his chin. He cursed under his breath, but Wonwoo was already there, dabbing gently with the towel.

“Clumsy,” Wonwoo murmured, his voice softer than the word warranted.

Mingyu chuckled, weak but genuine. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed him. Silence settled between them, comfortable and warm, a fragile bubble against the distant hum of the city outside.

Mingyu let his head tilt toward Wonwoo, eyelids drooping. His hand slipped from beneath the blanket, brushing against Wonwoo’s at the edge of the bed. Not intentional—or maybe it was. Fever blurred the line between accident and desire.

Wonwoo didn’t pull away. He shifted his hand until their fingers intertwined loosely, warm and steady.

Mingyu’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with sickness. He whispered, voice rough, “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” Wonwoo replied, low, deliberate, thumb brushing his knuckles in rhythm with his heartbeat. “That’s why I’m here.”

The words lingered, filling the small room, heavier than the night air. Mingyu swallowed, guilt clawing at him. “I hate that you’re seeing me like this… weak.”

Wonwoo leaned closer, face calm and resolute, eyes locking with his. “You are not weak.”

Something inside Mingyu finally gave way—the wall he’d been bracing against since the day had begun cracked. Shoulders sagged, jaw unclenched, body melting into the mattress. He turned his face toward Wonwoo’s hand, dimples faint even in exhaustion.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Not just for the water, the towel, or the shirt. For the anchor. For the presence. For the unspoken assurance that he didn’t have to carry the world alone.

Wonwoo’s hand squeezed his once, firm but gentle. “Sleep, Min,” he said, voice a quiet command, not a request.

Mingyu exhaled slowly, chest loosening, and let the blanket cocoon him. Their fingers remained linked, and for the first time in hours, the inferno inside him dimmed, replaced by something quieter, steadier—a warmth that was more than just physical.

Outside, the city pulsed with life, relentless and bright. Inside, the room was a world apart: shadows, soft linens, the faint scent of medicine and clean fabric. Mingyu’s eyelids slipped closed, head resting against the mattress, hand still entwined with Wonwoo’s, heart echoing a rhythm that wasn’t his alone.

And Wonwoo stayed, steadfast, silent, a quiet guardian in the sanctuary of shadows. A gentle promise threaded between them, unspoken but understood, as night folded around the room and finally, Mingyu let himself rest.

____________________

The night didn’t so much end as it softened, bleeding gradually into the pale gray of dawn. Wonwoo remained where he had settled hours ago, perched on the edge of the armchair beside Mingyu’s bed. The paperback in his lap had long since been abandoned, pages curling slightly under the weight of his inattention. His eyes never strayed far from Mingyu, following the rise and fall of his chest as if charting a fragile heartbeat against the dark.

Feverish sweats had left damp streaks along Mingyu’s temple, clinging to the fine strands of hair that had fallen loose in restless sleep. He stirred, groaning softly, a sound like wind caught between leaves, and Wonwoo’s hand moved instinctively to smooth the blankets over him, tugging the corners back when Mingyu kicked at them in unconscious flails. Another sip of water, another damp towel to the fevered forehead—Wonwoo’s vigil was quiet, meticulous, and absolute.

Sleep flirted with him in shallow bursts, but each hitch in Mingyu’s breath yanked him back awake. His own body ached from hours of sitting in a rigid posture, but he barely noticed. In this dimly lit sanctuary of shadows and linens, rest was secondary; care was primary.

When the first tendrils of sunlight crept through the curtains, dusted pale and trembling, Mingyu stirred fully, a groan like a cracked note in a melody. His lashes were clumped with fever sweat, his skin flushed, yet the clarity in his gaze sharpened slowly as he found Wonwoo’s unwavering eyes.

“You… didn’t sleep,” he rasped, voice raw as sandpaper, cracking in places.

Wonwoo tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that faint, restrained smirk Mingyu knew all too well. “Someone had to stay awake,” he murmured, voice low but steady. “You needed it more than I needed rest.”

Mingyu blinked, focusing with difficulty, a flicker of gratitude—and a shadow of guilt—passing across his face. “You always… do this.”

“Do what?” Wonwoo asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Stay. Even when I make it hard.” Mingyu’s lips curved faintly, a fragile echo of his usual smile, soft yet unmistakably him.

Wonwoo didn’t answer with words. He leaned forward, uncapping the water bottle and pouring into the paper cup, the liquid catching the morning light in a tiny ripple of silver. “Drink before you get more dramatic,” he said instead, extending it.

Mingyu chuckled, rough and shallow, but his hands took the cup without protest. The water slid down his throat like cool relief, washing away the last remnants of fevered delirium. He sagged back into the pillows, exhaling a shuddering breath, the faint weight of lingering weakness pressing in.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The city outside began its slow awakening—cars hummed in the distance, birds flitted through the first warm currents of air, and somewhere far off, an alarm buzzed in a neighboring hotel room. But inside this small, dimly lit space, time felt suspended.

Mingyu turned his head slightly, catching Wonwoo’s gaze. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice hoarse but steadying. “For last night. For… all of it.”

Wonwoo’s expression softened, the stoic mask slipping for the briefest instant. “Don’t thank me,” he said simply, leaning closer to brush a stray hair from Mingyu’s forehead. “Just rest. That’s enough.”

Mingyu’s hand drifted toward Wonwoo’s, unsteady and uncertain, brushing against the larger, warmer hand at the edge of the bed. It wasn’t quite a grasp—yet not accidental either—and Wonwoo’s fingers threaded lightly through his, anchoring him without a word. The contact was quiet, deliberate, a subtle tether between them.

“You always know what to do,” Mingyu murmured after a beat, half-laughing, half-sighing. “Even when I don’t ask.”

“I pay attention,” Wonwoo replied, voice low, almost intimate.

A blush flickered over Mingyu’s cheeks, even in the soft gray of dawn. He lowered his gaze, heart beating in sync with the warmth of Wonwoo’s hand. Something unspoken hovered between them—comfort, gratitude, perhaps something softer, more tentative, that neither was quite ready to name.

Minutes passed in quiet companionship. Mingyu’s eyelids drooped again, exhaustion claiming him, but he didn’t pull away. Wonwoo remained close, hand resting over Mingyu’s, a gentle weight, a presence that said, without speaking, “You’re not alone.”

From down the hall, faint sounds of life stirred—the rest of Seventeen shifting beneath tangled blankets, phones buzzing and alarms blaring softly. Interviews, rehearsals, schedules—they waited. But here, in the still cocoon of this hotel room, the world outside had no claim. Only the soft hum of the air conditioner, the whisper of linen, the warmth of a hand bridging weakness and steadiness.

Mingyu’s voice, barely audible, broke the hush. “You’re… good at this.”

Wonwoo’s fingers tightened around his. “I learned from the best,” he replied, voice quiet but carrying a weight of care, subtle warmth threading through the words. The hint of a smile lingered at his lips.

Mingyu exhaled slowly, eyelids closing as he surrendered to rest again, head sinking into the pillow, body melting under the blanket. The last traces of fever ebbed, leaving only a lingering warmth and the soft, steady presence of Wonwoo by his side.

Sunlight spilled further across the room, warming the sheets and painting gold across the quiet sanctuary. No applause, no lights, no roaring crowd—just two people, tethered by silent care, anchored through the night, embracing a dawn that felt almost sacred.

And Wonwoo stayed, unwavering, hand still resting over Mingyu’s, guarding him not as duty but as choice, letting the fragile morning bloom between them. The concert was over, the chaos quelled, but this—this slow, quiet continuance—was the truest victory yet.

Chapter Text

The morning arrived not like a dawn, but like a weight settling slowly across the chest. April 6th never whispered its presence; it pressed, dense and unyielding, as if the air itself carried the ache of memory. Rain drummed intermittently against the dorm windows, blurring the city lights outside into uneven streaks of gold and gray. The clouds hung low, stitched across the sky like thick fabric, muting the world before it had even begun.

Inside, the dorm breathed in silence. Too quiet for thirteen people to share a space. The faint hum of the fridge sounded unusually loud, a low, constant drone that seemed almost accusatory in its persistence. Mingyu noticed it the moment his eyes fluttered open, lying beneath the weight of his blankets. Not peace—absence. A hollow pressing against his chest that made each breath feel deliberate, careful.

He stretched, long limbs unfolding like paper, and stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the plaster as if their shapes might somehow anchor him. April 6th. His birthday. The day that should have been bright, marked by balloons, texts from his mom, laughter threading the air. But now, the date tasted different. Bitter. Not his day—not really.

Three years ago, the world had shifted for Wonwoo. His mother had died on this same date, and the dorm had carried that grief with them ever since. Mingyu had watched the subtle markers: Wonwoo’s shoulders heavy with invisible stones, his gaze turning inward, laughter leaving the room before it even began. And over time, Mingyu had learned—careful, silent, tactful—to bury his own joy in service of someone else’s mourning.

He sat up, the cold floorboards under his feet grounding him as he padded toward the living room. Each step was careful, aware. Seungcheol was already there, perched on the couch with his phone in hand. He didn’t look at it, eyes distant, the kind of look that made Mingyu want to ask something—anything—but he swallowed the impulse.

“Morning, hyung,” Mingyu said, voice practiced, bright enough to seem casual.

Seungcheol’s eyes flicked up, a small, fleeting smile that didn’t reach the corners. “Morning,” he murmured, words softer than usual, fragile.

Mingyu returned the smile, wide, easy, and slid past him into the kitchen. The smell of dampness from the rain outside mingled with the faint aroma of coffee. Jun was at the sink, rinsing dishes with movements stripped of his usual energy, lips pressed tight as if holding back more than suds.

Mingyu reached for a cereal box, the act of pouring milk into a bowl almost meditative in its normalcy. He settled at the table, spoon in hand, feeling the oppressive stillness press into him like a weight.

“You’re up early,” Jun said without looking, tone neutral.

“Couldn’t sleep much,” Mingyu replied lightly, clinking the spoon against the bowl. He didn’t mention the date. He didn’t need to.

One by one, the others filtered in. Jeonghan, hair tied loosely, moved quietly past him to the counter. Joshua lingered behind, dragging his feet as though the world was heavy for everyone this morning. Jihoon’s eyes barely lifted from his phone. Soonyoung, usually an explosion of morning energy, leaned against the counter with a glass of water, shoulders drooped, a thin, polite smile tugging at his lips. Even their presence, usually a comforting hum of life, was muted—toned down, careful.

And then Wonwoo arrived.

He slipped into the kitchen like a shadow, pale, eyes downcast, face carved with exhaustion that no sleep could erase. “Morning,” he murmured, voice low, almost swallowed by the room’s weight. He slid into a chair, the silence thick around him, and Mingyu’s chest tightened at the sight.

“Eat, hyung,” Mingyu said softly, nudging the cereal bowl closer. “You need it.”

Wonwoo’s lips quivered into a half-smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. “Thanks,” he whispered, voice thin.

Mingyu paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. The hum of the fridge had grown impossibly loud, the rain outside drumming in a rhythm that echoed the pull of the day. He considered saying something—anything—but words like happy birthday felt wrong. Not his day—not today.

Instead, he smiled again. Wide, careful, deliberate. It was a performance, yes, but one threaded with empathy. No one asked why the brightness didn’t reach his eyes.

And the morning moved forward in fragments.

Jun rinsed dishes with a mechanical rhythm, Jihoon scrolled through messages he would never read aloud, and Joshua sipped his coffee quietly, eyes on the rain-streaked windows. Soonyoung occasionally glanced at Wonwoo, a flicker of worry in his gaze, before turning back to his glass. Even Seungcheol, who should have been the anchor of the dorm’s energy, seemed tethered to the heaviness, phone untouched, hands clasped loosely on his lap.

Mingyu finished his cereal in silence, the spoon clinking faintly against the bowl with a hollow echo that matched the mood. He looked at Wonwoo again, wanted to reach across the small distance between them, to say something that might make it lighter, might make it less heavy—but all he could offer was presence. Solid, quiet, unwavering.

Because grief didn’t need words. It needed witnesses.

And this morning, the witness was him.

____________________

The hours unraveled like wet string—slow, uneven, refusing to hold their shape. April 6th had that effect, turning time into something sluggish and distorted, as though the very clock hands were reluctant to move.

The rain outside had quieted into a thin drizzle, but the dorm carried its own storm. The silence wasn’t empty; it was crowded, alive with unsaid things. Footsteps softened themselves automatically, voices dipped before leaving throats. Even laughter, if it dared to appear, broke off halfway, embarrassed by its own existence.

Mingyu felt it most in the spaces between. The way a mug touched down on the table with exaggerated care. The way someone walking down the hall closed their door an inch slower than usual. The way no one dared to turn the TV volume above a whisper.

He tried to busy himself—God, he tried. He picked up plates and wiped them again, though they had already been washed. He leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone without seeing anything. He even sat with Seungkwan for a while, letting him talk about a variety show he’d been watching. But even Seungkwan, who usually filled the room like a whole brass band, had dialed himself back to a muted instrument.

Mingyu caught it, the way they glanced at him and then away, like he was a reflection too painful to hold onto. Not ignored—no, worse. Protected from notice. Handled like fragile glass.

The dorm’s living room felt like a waiting room for grief.

Jihoon sat curled up in the armchair with a notebook open, pencil scratching lightly in time with whatever melody played in his headphones. He didn’t hum, didn’t mutter lyrics like he usually did—just wrote silently, his jaw tight. Joshua had planted himself near the window, thumb swiping lazily across his phone screen, eyes clearly not focused on anything at all. Chan sat on the floor, remote in his hand, flicking through channels so fast the images blurred, but leaving the sound so low it barely existed.

And at the center—always at the center—sat Wonwoo. Shoulders rounded forward, hands loose in his lap, gaze fixed on something beyond the glass. Not the rain. Not the city. Something else, unreachable, far away. The room revolved around his stillness like planets tethered to gravity.

Mingyu sipped from the mug in his hand and tried to cut through the heaviness.

“Anyone want ramen later?” he asked, tone deliberately light, leaning into the doorway as though announcing something exciting.

A few eyes lifted. Jun shrugged, head tilting slightly but without conviction. Soonyoung gave a faint nod, polite, half-hearted.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Mingyu forced a chuckle, lowering the mug. “Guess I’ll make extra,” he said, like the silence hadn’t already answered.

The lie tasted bitter, but he smiled anyway.

____________________

By mid-afternoon, the sky had settled into that strange twilight-gray where the sun never quite commits to setting. The rain had stopped, but the windows still wore streaks of water, blurring the world outside into smudged outlines of buildings and traffic lights. The dorm lights flicked on one by one, casting everything in that warm artificial yellow that made shadows feel longer, sharper.

Mingyu excused himself quietly, retreating into his room. The mattress sank beneath his weight as he sprawled onto his back, eyes locked on the ceiling’s faded paint. His phone buzzed twice—his sister, warm emojis punctuating her birthday wish, then an old classmate sending a quick “Happy b-day bro.”

He typed out replies with careful gratitude, smiling faintly at the screen before setting it aside. The silence that followed those messages was deafening. No other notifications came.

He pressed his palm against his chest, feeling the shallow rhythm of his breath. A thought he didn’t want pushed at him anyway: Is this what it’ll always be? Every birthday?

The guilt followed fast.

How selfish are you, Kim Mingyu, to even ask that?

His eyes squeezed shut. He rolled onto his stomach, buried his face into the pillow until it grew too hot to breathe. But the ache remained, stitched into him.

When he finally sat up, he rubbed both hands over his face, smoothing away every trace of the heaviness. He rehearsed the expression he’d been wearing all day: bright enough to comfort, empty enough not to intrude.

The mask fit well. Too well.

____________________

Evening crawled in slowly. The dorm’s rhythm stayed subdued. Seungcheol sat on the couch, murmuring something low to Jeonghan, their words too soft to carry. Jihoon had disappeared into his studio, door shut tight. Soonyoung lingered in the kitchen, fiddling absently with a glass of water, staring at the condensation as though it might answer something.

Wonwoo’s door stayed closed.

Mingyu hovered in the hallway, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. For a long moment, he simply stood there, letting the stillness press against him until it threatened to crush.

“Another year,” he whispered under his breath, barely audible even to himself.

Then he forced a laugh, too quiet to be mistaken for joy, and pulled the mask tighter over his face. He squared his shoulders, stepped back into the light, and made for the kitchen.

The fridge hummed steadily, the one sound that had never wavered all day.

The day wasn’t done yet.

____________________

By the time the sky dimmed into slate gray, the city outside the dorm looked washed out, a watercolor blurred by mist and distance. The rain had eased to a damp haze, clinging to the glass in thin rivulets that bent the streetlights into trembling halos. Inside, the lamps glowed with tired yellow light, long shadows spilling across the walls like they had nowhere else to go.

Dinner came, but it didn’t feel like dinner.

The table, usually a battlefield of voices and overlapping laughter, was muted. Chopsticks scraped gently against bowls, the sound too sharp in the stillness. Conversations flickered and died before they could take shape. Even Seungkwan, who usually kept the air buzzing, spoke in fragments before letting his words dissolve into the heavy quiet.

Wonwoo sat with his gaze fixed downward, eating in slow, methodical bites. His silence bent the table toward him—no one dared lean too close, no one wanted to intrude on his grief.

Mingyu forced a smile, forced his voice into brightness when he joked about how much rice he was piling onto his plate. A couple chuckled politely—Jun reached over to nudge his arm, Soonyoung tried to grin—but the moment fizzled out almost instantly, like a match snuffed by the wind.

He kept smiling anyway. Even as the weight inside him grew.

It’s fine. This is how it should be. Don’t be selfish, Mingyu.

But when his eyes flicked to the clock on the wall and saw the hands nearing nine, something twisted in his chest. Another April 6th nearly gone. Another birthday swallowed whole without anyone daring to speak it.

And guilt followed the thought immediately, sharp and merciless.

How dare you even notice? How dare you want something more, when Wonwoo lost so much on this day?

He lowered his gaze back to his food, chewing without tasting, and willed the shame down.

____________________

Later, when the dorm began to settle—doors closing gently, voices fading into quiet rooms—Mingyu slipped away. His footsteps carried him to the kitchen like a secret.

He didn’t switch on the light. Instead, the fridge bathed him in a brief wash of blue as he pulled out the object he had tucked away earlier. A candle—plain, white, left over from a blackout months ago. Not a birthday candle, not something meant to celebrate. Just… something to hold a flame.

He set it on the table, struck his lighter, and watched the flame flicker to life.

The kitchen shifted under its glow, transformed. Shadows stretched across cupboards and tile, bending toward the flame as though listening. Mingyu leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his face drawn close to the warmth.

“This is enough,” he murmured. His voice was thin, as if saying it might make it true.

But it wasn’t enough. Not really.

His mask slipped. He let himself feel the ache that had pressed against him all day. And with it came words—small, selfish, guilty words—that tumbled into the quiet before he could stop them.

I wish I didn’t feel invisible.

The thought made his stomach clench. Selfish. He pictured Wonwoo’s hollowed shoulders, the way grief clung to him, and shame burned hot in Mingyu’s chest.

How dare you want to be seen today, when Wonwoo would give anything to disappear into her arms again?

Still, the ache pushed deeper. I wish someone would say my name. Just once. Like it matters.

The shame doubled. He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened, teeth biting into the inside of his cheek.

Pathetic. Greedy. You’re surrounded by brothers who love you. Why isn’t that enough?

The flame wavered with the draft. Mingyu’s breath shook.

I wish I didn’t have to do this alone.

Tears pricked, unbidden, and guilt followed even faster.

Alone? How could he say that when Wonwoo sat two rooms away, drowning silently in the loss of his mother? What’s your loneliness compared to that?

Still, the words pressed free, the ugliest truth of all. He whispered them so low even the shadows barely carried them:

“I just want someone to celebrate with me.”

The guilt hit hardest there. Belonging—he already had it, didn’t he? Thirteen of them, bound together tighter than most families. And yet here he was, sitting in the dark, hiding a candle like a thief, wishing for scraps of acknowledgment.

His head bowed, shame twisting with longing until he could barely breathe.

____________________

Soft footsteps broke the silence.

Mingyu’s eyes flew up just as a shadow filled the doorway.

Seokmin.

He hadn’t come with intention—just a pull, a faint wrongness that led his feet down the hall. But the sight rooted him in place. Mingyu, tall and bright and usually untouchable in his energy, folded in half over a flickering flame, whispering like it was his last listener. His eyes glistened, his shoulders curved inward, his smile nowhere in sight.

The guilt that slammed into Seokmin was immediate and merciless. How had none of them seen this? How long had Mingyu been carrying this ritual in secret while the rest of them let the day pass him by?

“...Mingyu?” His voice cracked, fragile in the dark.

Mingyu startled. And then—too quickly—his grin snapped back into place. “Seokmin! You scared me.” His laugh was bright, exaggerated, a mask thrown on with desperate speed.

Seokmin’s throat tightened. “What are you… doing?”

“Nothing.” Mingyu leaned back, waving his hand toward the candle. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d, you know, light a candle. Mood lighting. Romantic, right?” He chuckled, the sound brittle.

The joke landed dead in the space between them.

“Mingyu…” Seokmin’s voice gentled, breaking around the edges. “You don’t have to—”

“I’m fine.” Too quick. Too sharp. “Really, Seok. Don’t worry about me.”

But the candlelight betrayed him. It showed the sheen in his eyes, the way his smile trembled at the corners, the guilt carved deep into his expression.

Seokmin felt the words he wanted to say knot in his throat. I’m sorry. We should have been here. You shouldn’t have to hide like this. But guilt turned them heavy, impossible to voice.

So instead he only nodded, voice fragile. “…Okay.”

Mingyu’s relief looked almost real as he turned his gaze back to the flame.

But when Seokmin stepped quietly back down the hall, his chest burned with guilt sharp enough to split him open. He knew then he couldn’t let this happen again. Mingyu shouldn’t have to whisper his wishes into the dark, swallowing guilt just for wanting.

Not another year.

____________________

Seokmin drifted down the hallway, but the quiet wasn’t kind. It pressed in on him, thick and suffocating, until every step felt like wading through water. The image of Mingyu hunched in that kitchen wouldn’t leave him—the flicker of the candlelight reflected in damp eyes, the brittle laugh, the way his smile seemed glued on, cracking at the edges.

When he reached his door, he didn’t open it. He leaned against the wall instead, rubbing at his temple as if that could erase the guilt already pounding through him.

How long had this been happening?

How many birthdays had slipped by like this—smothered beneath silence, hidden under grief too big to speak around?

He thought of Mingyu’s shoulders, always squared, always carrying weight for others, always there. And yet, tonight, when it mattered most, no one had been there for him. Not even Seokmin, who had walked right into the moment and still left him behind.

“Pathetic,” he whispered to himself, voice bitter.

A door clicked open nearby, and Seokmin startled. Jeonghan stepped out, hair tousled, his sweater hanging loose from one shoulder. He squinted at him in the dim light, water bottle dangling from his hand.

“Seokmin-ah?” Jeonghan’s voice was quiet, still rough with sleep. “What are you doing standing here like a lost ghost?”

Seokmin hesitated, throat tight. He wanted to swallow it down, pretend, but the words came tumbling out, raw and unsteady. “It’s Mingyu. He’s—”

Another door opened before he could finish. Seungcheol appeared, tugging a hoodie over his head, blinking at the sight of both of them clustered in the hallway. The leader’s brows furrowed immediately. “What’s going on?”

Seokmin looked between them, panic twisting with shame. He thought about keeping it vague, brushing it off. But the memory of Mingyu’s bowed head over that flame shoved the hesitation out of him.

“He’s in the kitchen,” Seokmin said, voice cracking. “Sitting with a candle. Alone. Like… like that’s all he gets.”

The silence that followed was heavy, absolute.

Jeonghan froze in place, the water bottle slipping slightly in his grip. His lips parted, but no sound came out—only a faint exhale, almost a wince. Seungcheol’s jaw tightened as he processed it, eyes narrowing with the weight of realization.

“God,” Jeonghan murmured finally, his voice barely audible. “All this time, and none of us…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “We just let him cover it up with that stupid grin.”

“Every year,” Seokmin whispered, guilt thick in his throat. “Every single year we’ve let this day pass like he doesn’t matter. I saw his face, hyung. He—” He broke off, pressing his fist against his mouth as if to keep the image from spilling out again.

Seungcheol let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. His usual composure faltered, replaced by something rawer—self-reproach, maybe even shame. “We were so focused on Wonwoo,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “We told ourselves Mingyu was fine because he kept smiling. And we wanted to believe it.”

Jeonghan’s gaze softened, but the guilt in his eyes was unmistakable. “We made it too easy for him to disappear behind the mask. That’s on us.”

Seokmin’s voice was small, but steady. “He shouldn’t have to beg shadows for company on his birthday.”

The three of them stood in silence, the faint hiss of rain against the windows filling the hall. Somewhere deeper in the dorm, a door shut softly, footsteps padding across the creaky floorboards. Life went on, unaware.

Seungcheol straightened, his shoulders squaring with quiet resolve. “Not this year,” he said, low but firm. His voice carried the weight of a decision. “We’re not letting the day end like this.”

Jeonghan’s eyes flickered with agreement, tired but determined. “Then let’s fix it. Tonight. Before the candle burns out.”

Seokmin swallowed, guilt still clawing at him, but a spark of relief broke through. They weren’t too late. Not yet.

The three of them exchanged a look, wordless but binding. And for the first time all night, the weight pressing on Seokmin’s chest lifted—just enough to let him breathe.

Because Mingyu didn’t need another year of silence. He needed them. And this time, they would show up.

____________________

The hallway still carried the echo of rain tapping gently against the glass when Seungcheol spoke. His voice was quiet but carried the weight of a decision that couldn’t be postponed.

“We’re not letting him sit in that kitchen alone,” he said, tone clipped, unyielding. “Not this year. Not ever again.”

Jeonghan, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded, let out a slow exhale. His hair fell forward, shadowing his face, but his voice was steady. “We’ve all seen it—his smile, his jokes. We let ourselves believe it was enough because it was easier.” His mouth twisted into something bitter. “Turns out it wasn’t.”

Seokmin’s head hung low, fingers twisting together restlessly. “Hyung, he looked… so small. Mingyu. And he looked like—like he was folding in on himself. And I just left him there.” The words cracked in his throat. “I shouldn’t have.”

Silence followed, heavy but full of unspoken guilt.

Then a voice broke it, careful, almost hesitant. “Then we do something about it.”

It was Joshua, stepping softly out of his room, his book still open in one hand. He glanced around the hallway, meeting each pair of eyes. “We can’t change the past years, but tonight—tonight we can show him he matters.”

The words sparked something. A shift in the air, fragile but determined.

____________________

The living room became their quiet headquarters. Lights stayed low, voices hushed, as though they were conspiring against the silence itself. Seungcheol spread them out with practiced authority, like rehearsing for a stage they hadn’t known they were building.

“Jun, Soonyoung—lights. Nothing flashy. Just warm, soft. Balcony and the living room.”

Jun nodded, already sketching an idea with his hands. Soonyoung clapped him on the back, whispering, “Golden giant deserves golden glow.”

“Joshua, Jeonghan—decorations. Simple, but thoughtful. No confetti bombs.” Seungcheol shot Hoshi a look before he could even suggest it.

“Jihoon,” Seungcheol continued, “music. Keep it subtle. Something that feels like him.”

Jihoon just nodded once, already flipping through playlists in his head, fingers tapping a rhythm against his thigh.

“Chan, you’re on cake duty. Don’t drop it. I don’t care if your arms fall off.”

“I won’t!” Chan whispered fiercely, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’ll hold it like my life depends on it.”

“Seungkwan—details. Plates, napkins, timing, all of it.”

“I was already making a checklist,” Seungkwan muttered, scribbling furiously in a notebook. “Do you want balloons too? Streamers? Or are we keeping it classy?”

“Classy,” Jeonghan said, plucking the pen from Seungkwan’s hand just long enough to doodle a balloon. “But a little whimsical never hurt anyone.”

Seungkwan swatted him away, muttering under his breath, but there was no mistaking the shine in his eyes.

____________________

When the sound of soft footsteps joined them, all heads turned. Wonwoo stood in the doorway, arms hanging loosely at his sides. His face was unreadable, but his voice, though quiet, carried weight.

“It’s his day too,” he said. The words were slow, deliberate, like stepping carefully onto thin ice. “I know what today means to me. But I don’t want him to lose it because of me.”

The room stilled. None of them had expected him to speak, not tonight.

“Hyung…” Seokmin’s voice cracked with relief.

Wonwoo’s gaze dropped, his fingers twitching at his sides. “I should’ve noticed. I should’ve said something before now.” His voice faltered, softer. “We all should have.”

Seungcheol’s eyes softened, guilt etched deep in his expression. “We’ll make it right, Wonwoo. Together.”

Wonwoo nodded once. No smile, no dramatic gesture—but the intent was clear. He was in.

____________________

They moved quickly, but quietly, each step careful not to wake Mingyu’s suspicion. Soonyoung and Jun strung fairy lights along the balcony, their glow warm against the glass, while Seungkwan blew up balloons in hushed bursts, shoving them at Dino when his cheeks went red. Joshua and Jeonghan worked silently with tape and paper, hanging a small banner that read Happy Birthday, Gyu in soft lettering above the couch.

In the kitchen, Jihoon busied himself with his phone and speaker, testing chords until he landed on something that hummed like comfort instead of noise.

And on the table, finally, a cake. Chocolate—Mingyu’s favorite—smoothed with shaky frosting but made with care. One candle stood tall in the center, waiting.

Seokmin lingered nearby, hands twitching with nerves. His mind kept replaying the sight of Mingyu whispering into candlelight. That image burned in him, driving every small movement—straightening plates, adjusting forks, wiping invisible dust off the table. Anything to make this right.

The dorm was alive again, soft laughter bubbling up in between the guilt. Tiny sparks of joy, fragile but real.

____________________

When the last balloon was tied, the last plate set, Seungcheol stood in the center, arms crossed, surveying their work. Warm light glowed across the living room, bouncing off gold ribbons and the soft banner. The cake sat proudly at the heart of the table, candle waiting to be lit.

“Looks good,” he murmured. “Feels good.” He exhaled, his shoulders easing slightly. “He’ll know. This time, he’ll know.”

Seokmin’s chest ached, but the tightness was different now—hope, tangled with guilt. “He won’t be invisible tonight,” he whispered.

Jeonghan smiled faintly, tugging at one corner of the banner. “Not with twelve pairs of eyes on him.”

The rain outside softened into mist, the dorm settling into a hush. They waited together, hearts heavy but ready, the glow of their quiet planning shimmering against the shadows.

Tonight, when Mingyu walked back into this room, he would not find silence. He would find them.

And for once, he wouldn’t have to light a candle alone.

____________________

The dorm had settled into a heavy, expectant silence. The decorations glowed softly, the cake waited patiently at the table, and yet the air was dense—not with noise, but with memory, regret, and hope. Each member moved sparingly, conscious of the quiet, their eyes reflecting thoughts they couldn’t voice aloud.

Seungkwan sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped around his knees. “I keep thinking about last years,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “We didn’t do anything because… because of Wonwoo. His mom…” His voice faltered, swallowed by the misty hush of the room. “We thought it wasn’t the right time for celebration. But we forgot how lonely that made Gyu hyung feel.”

Seokmin, leaning against the wall, exhaled slowly, guilt etched across his face. “I saw it tonight,” he murmured. “The candle… he tried so hard to hide the loneliness behind that smile. And all these years, we let it happen. We were too focused on making sure Wonwoo could breathe on his grief that we forgot someone else was there, waiting, too.”

Soonyoung, crouched by the balcony, ran a hand through his hair. “I keep picturing him, small and quiet by that little flame,” he admitted. “And it hits harder knowing we never noticed before. We’ve been… selfish.”

Jun stood beside him, nodding, his expression tight. “Not anymore. We’re here now. Every one of us. He won’t be alone again. That’s all that matters.”

Even Wonwoo, usually reserved and quiet, moved slowly to the table, staring down at the cake. His voice was low, almost fragile, yet deliberate: “I’ve carried my own grief on this day for the past years… and I didn’t see him. I didn’t notice how he suffered quietly, making room for my pain. I’m sorry.” His eyes flicked to each member, then down at the candle waiting for Mingyu. “I want to help him feel what he deserves. Not just today, but every day he lets us in.”

Seungcheol exhaled, his shoulders releasing some of the tension he’d carried all evening. “Then we make it right. Quietly. Thoughtfully. He’ll know we mean it.”

Across the room, Joshua and Jeonghan exchanged a glance, unspoken guilt mirrored in each other’s eyes. “He never complained,” Joshua said softly. “Never asked for anything. And we still let him sit in silence.”

Jeonghan nodded, voice low. “That’s what makes this so important. Tonight, we show him that he belongs—with all of us, without guilt or hesitation.”

Hansol shifted on the floor, fidgeting with the string of lights in his hands. “It’s just… the thought that he’s spent years hiding his loneliness while we thought he was fine,” he muttered, voice heavy. “It burns.”

Chan, perched on the armrest above him, nodded solemnly. “I never realized before. I thought he was always cheerful, always fine. But seeing him tonight… I get it now.”

The members drifted into quiet reflection, each carrying their private guilt, each acknowledging their past oversights. Even in the soft hum of fairy lights and gentle rain outside, the weight of their shared remorse pressed in. And yet, beneath it, there was a fragile determination: they would not let Mingyu feel invisible tonight.

Seungkwan finally broke the silence, softer this time. “We can’t change what happened before, but we can be here now. Fully. Every one of us. He’s waited long enough for this.”

Seokmin nodded, chest tight with emotion. “He won’t have to light a candle alone. Not again.”

Wonwoo’s gaze lingered on the single candle atop the cake, his hand brushing the edge of the table. “We failed him before. But we’re here now. All of us. That’s what matters.”

Seungcheol walked slowly to the center of the room, hands resting lightly on the back of a chair. “When he walks in… let him see us. Let him feel it. Every one of us.”

The dorm held its breath. The rain softened into a misty whisper outside, the faint glow of lights and candles casting long shadows that seemed to bow in respect. Twelve hearts heavy with guilt, yet beating in quiet unison, waited for the moment Mingyu would finally step into warmth instead of solitude.

Tonight, April 6th would bend. And this time, he would not be alone.

____________________

The dorm glowed like a small sanctuary, bathed in golden light that softened the lingering gray of the evening. Fairy lights wound across the shelves, draped over the couch, spilling a warm radiance over the floor. Rain tapped softly against the balcony windows, a delicate rhythm that mixed with the sweet scent of the untouched cake, the single candle perched proudly at its center. The faint piano melody Jihoon coaxed from the keys was gentle and steady, weaving a quiet magic through the room.

Mingyu lingered near the hallway, hoodie pulled tight, eyes flicking nervously to the living room. His chest fluttered with an unfamiliar feeling—anticipation, but tinged with caution. Wonwoo appeared beside him, silent and steady, hand brushing lightly against his arm.

“Come on,” Wonwoo murmured, voice low. “I want to show you something.”

Mingyu hesitated, a small frown tugging at his lips. “Show me… what?”

“You’ll see,” Wonwoo replied with a soft, almost mischievous smile. “Just trust me.”

Slowly, Mingyu followed him down the hallway. Wonwoo guided him past familiar furniture, past the quiet hum of the living room, until they reached the balcony doors. He paused, tilting Mingyu gently toward the room.

“Close your eyes,” Wonwoo whispered. Mingyu obeyed, letting himself be led.

Then came a chorus of voices, bright and warm: “Surprise!”

Mingyu froze, heart hammering. His eyes opened slowly. The room shimmered in golden light: fairy lights twinkled like fireflies, and the cake, simple yet perfect, glowed in the center of the table. Each member stood ready, small smiles flickering across their faces, but the air held something more profound than celebration—it carried care, attention, and recognition.

Seungcheol stepped forward, voice calm but steady, an anchor in the swirl of emotion. “Tonight is yours, Mingyu. Every one of us is here.”

Seokmin ’s voice wavered as he spoke, eyes glistening. “We didn’t notice before… and we’re sorry. But tonight, we’re here, all of us, for you.”

Mingyu’s chest tightened. His lips trembled, the weight of unspoken years pressing down, and yet there was warmth in the room that made his old armor feel heavy, unnecessary. He nodded, swallowing hard, eyes flicking across the group, lingering on each face in turn. A small, genuine smile began to form.

Seungkwan placed the cake carefully before him. “Make a wish,” he said softly, voice gentle and coaxing.

Mingyu’s fingers hovered above the flame. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, his wish was happy, light, and full of hope:

I wish… I wish we could always have nights like this. Full of laughter, warmth, and just being together, without any pain in the way.

He blew out the candle, the flame fluttering once before surrendering. Golden light filled the room, but it was the warmth radiating from the members around him that truly mattered.

Tears pricked at his eyes, and he laughed softly through them, a bright, shaky sound that made Soonyoung grin.

“Look at him,” Jun whispered to Chan, nudging him lightly. “He’s finally letting himself enjoy it.”

Chan bounced forward eagerly, offering the first slice of cake like a treasured prize. “Here! Eat it before it disappears!”

Mingyu chuckled, taking it carefully. “Thanks… I don’t even know if I deserve this.”

“You do,” Jihoon said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Every bit of it.”

Soonyoung stepped closer with a paper lantern. “Your turn,” he said softly. Mingyu’s hands trembled slightly as he held it, lit the small flame, and watched it drift upward. The golden light danced across their faces and mingled with the mist outside, carrying his quiet happiness into the night sky.

Even Wonwoo approached with a small note, sliding it into Mingyu’s hands. The words were simple, deliberate: I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re you. Mingyu’s fingers brushed Wonwoo’s, the faint contact anchoring him in the moment, in the certainty of friendship and care.

Seungkwan nudged him playfully. “Okay, birthday boy. You’ve got to tell us—what’s the first thing you want to do with all this happiness?”

Mingyu blinked, smiling through tears. “Honestly? Just… stay here. Just like this. Laughing, eating cake, messing with our Maknae.”

“Ah, that’s a good answer,” Soonyoung said, feigning disappointment. “Guess we’ll have to plan more nights like this.”

Jun laughed, elbowing Mingyu gently. “See? You made a wish and it’s already starting to come true.”

The room continued in gentle harmony—laughter, whispered jokes, playful nudges, soft glances. Rain pattered against the balcony, but it no longer echoed loneliness—it was a lullaby accompanying the warmth in the room.

Yet Mingyu’s gaze found Wonwoo for a heartbeat longer, noticing the faint shadow in his eyes, a quiet ache that lingered beneath the joy. April 6th had always carried a weight—the absence of Wonwoo’s mother, her memory threading through the day like a gentle, unshakable presence. Mingyu reached over, resting a hand lightly on Wonwoo’s arm.

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “It’s alright to feel both… happy and sad.”

Wonwoo’s lips quirked in a faint, fragile smile. “Yeah… it’s okay,” he replied, voice low. “It’s always been okay, I guess… we just needed to remember it.”

The members drew closer, instinctively surrounding them both. They did not erase the grief—they acknowledged it with quiet understanding—but they embraced the joy, letting it fill the spaces left behind by absence and longing.

Mingyu leaned back, candlelight and fairy lights forming a halo around his face, breathing in the shared warmth. He realized birthdays weren’t just about cake or tradition—they were about happiness, memory, and the people who hold you through both. Tonight, April 6th belonged to laughter, to remembrance, to warmth, and to belonging.

He let himself smile then, fully, softly, with the bittersweet knowledge that joy and grief could coexist—and that even in the shadows, light could still find its way in.