Chapter Text
Jeongin stood on the far left of the practice room, sneakers squeaking lightly on the polished floor, hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves as he watched the others with wide, uncertain eyes. He was the youngest, everyone knew it, felt it, even when no one said it aloud.
The survival show was only just beginning, but already the tension crackled in the air like static, the kind you felt in your hair, in your fingertips, before a storm.
He watched as Bang Chan paced, eyes locked on the speaker's voice from the training center hallway. It was Park Jin-young, JYP himself, laying out the stakes: a survival show with a twist. Not trainees against each other, but a test of the team. Chan had chosen them, every single one of them. Jeongin didn’t know why he had been picked, not really, he still stumbled over choreo, still hesitated in his vocals, still second-guessed himself before opening his mouth to speak. But Chan had looked him in the eyes one day in the studio and said, "I saw something in you on that Halloween stage. Your confidence. Your charm. I want to debut with you."
And Jeongin, breath caught in his throat, had only nodded. The first evaluation was brutal, they had only just performed "Hellevator" when Park Jin-young's critique came down like cold rain, the key was too high, some members lacked energy, some were at risk. Jeongin heard his name called with a numb kind of clarity, he was in danger of being cut; so were Felix and Minho.
Later that night, when the dorm lights had dimmed and the others were trying to sleep, Jeongin sat on the floor beside his bed, heart pounding so hard it felt like a second pulse in his ears. He didn't cry, not then. Instead, he just sat there, gripping his knees, wondering if he had ever belonged here to begin with. Then came a quiet knock, Chan, he didn’t say much, just walked over and sat beside him.
"You did well today," Chan murmured, Jeongin shook his head. "No, really," Chan said more firmly, turning to look at him. "You kept going. You kept pushing. That matters. And you're not alone, okay? I'm not giving up on you."
Those words embedded themselves into Jeongin's chest like something permanent, he didn’t say thank you, he couldn’t. His throat was too tight. But Chan didn’t need it, he just bumped Jeongin’s shoulder gently, like a brother, like a leader, like something more than either.
They lost Minho.
Then Felix.
The dorm felt emptier with each loss, laughter a little quieter, footsteps a little slower. Even Chan, who always wore strength like a second skin, looked exhausted. Jeongin once passed by the studio late one night and saw him asleep on the couch, face pressed into the cushions, laptop open with unfinished lyrics glowing softly. He wanted to walk away but he didn’t. Instead, he grabbed a blanket and draped it over Chan’s shoulders. It was the smallest act, he doubted Chan even noticed, but it made Jeongin feel steadier.
He would hold on. For Chan. For all of them.
The show went on, they trained harder, longer. Busking evaluations. Vocal challenges. YG battles. Every week a new mountain.Sometimes, Jeongin felt like a ghost in the mirror of his own life, like he was watching someone else struggle. But Chan never looked at him that way, every time he stumbled, Chan reached out, every time he hesitated, Chan waited. He didn't need to shout or push, his presence was enough. It said: I see you. I'm still here.
Jeongin found strength in that, and when Minho and Felix were brought back for the final episode, when all nine stood on stage and sang "Hellevator" again, this time together, Jeongin knew this was no longer a dream; it was a promise fulfilled.
March 25, 2018, they debuted. Stray Kids.
Nine kids who had once only shared a dorm now shared a future, Jeongin had never felt prouder in his life. Even as he stood at the edge of the stage, microphone still warm in his hand, heart still racing, he found Chan in the crowd of their members and felt everything click into place. This is it, he thought. This is where I start becoming who I am.
They officially debuted with I am NOT, and everything shifted. The dorms became a whirlwind of schedules, lessons, recording sessions, and rehearsals. Interviews, fan signs, photoshoots. The chaos was overwhelming, but also electrifying. Jeongin, still only 17, soaked it all in, he was constantly learning, constantly adjusting, and yet, Chan never let him feel small, not once. From making sure Jeongin’s mic pack was secure before performances to sneaking an extra snack into his bag before a long day, Chan remained a steady, quiet presence in the storm.
At night, when the dorms were dim and the rest of the group knocked out cold, Jeongin would sometimes hear soft strums of a guitar from the living room. Chan, in his usual corner, lost in melodies. Creating something out of nothing. Sometimes Jeongin joined him, just sat nearby with his knees hugged to his chest, listening, letting the calm settle in.
“Do you ever stop?” he once asked Chan softly.
Chan looked over, tired but fond. “Not when I have this much to protect.”
The “I Am” trilogy carved out a path for them, I am NOT, I am WHO, I am YOU, a journey of identity that mirrored what they were all figuring out in real time. The weight of expectations pressed down, every comeback meant more eyes, more pressure. The questions shifted from “Who are they?” to “What will they do next?”
Chan felt it more than most. He’d stay behind in the studio even after the others left, tinkering with beats, vocal tracks, harmonies. He needed everything to be perfect. And Jeongin saw how that perfectionism chipped away at him sometimes.
“Hyung,” Jeongin said one night in 2019, voice quiet but firm, “it’s okay to rest.”
Chan blinked up from his laptop, surprised. “I’m fine, Innie.”
“You say that even when you’re not.” Jeongin paused. “You can let someone else take care of you too, you know.”
But could he? He already lost one of the members, not that he would prefer to force him to stay, but still, the lost was big in his heart, and the only way to deal with it was with work and more work, to be perfect, to be enough. Chan didn’t say anything. But the next morning, Jeongin found him curled up on the couch, his laptop closed, coffee mug untouched. For once, he’d let himself sleep.
Then came 2020, the pandemic halted everything, plans, tours, the rhythm of their lives. The dorms turned into a liminal space, somewhere between home and cage. Jeongin tried not to let it wear him down, but the quiet got to him sometimes. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, just hollow. And yet, Chan’s Room continued, those livestreams became a lifeline, not just for STAYs, but for the members too.
“You keep everyone together,” Jeongin told him once, chin on his knees as they shared a late dinner. “Even when everything’s falling apart.”
Chan smiled, tired but warm. “I’m just trying not to let anyone feel alone.”
Jeongin didn’t say it then, but sometimes, he felt alone too. Not because of the members, not even because of the distance from his family; but because there was something inside him that ached whenever he looked at Chan. Something he couldn’t quite name.
The years went on; Stray Kids soared, God’s Menu, Back Door, Thunderous, MANIAC, each era adding to their legacy. They won Kingdom, charted on Billboard, shattered expectations. And Jeongin, once the quiet youngest, found his own place within the group, his vocals matured, his stage presence sharpened, his confidence grew. But no matter how much he grew, Chan still looked at him like he was someone to care for.
“You’re not a baby anymore,” Chan said one day after a concert, ruffling his hair out of habit.
“Maybe not,” Jeongin said, looking at him too long, “but maybe I liked it when you treated me like one.” The silence that followed buzzed with something unfamiliar. A kind of tension that wasn’t discomfort, but something more dangerous.
By 2023, Stray Kids were legends in the making, they walked the Met Gala red carpet, accepted global awards, made history again and again. And yet… amidst all that noise, Jeongin found himself craving something quieter. Not the crowds. Not the lights. But the stillness he found when it was just the two of them.
That’s why when the group made the decision to move into couple apartments in 2024, Jeongin panicked a little, he didn’t want to lose the warmth of shared spaces, the comfort of late-night banter in the kitchen, the quiet security of knowing someone was just a wall away. He didn’t say it out loud, but Chan must’ve sensed it.
“Wanna live with me?” he asked one day, casual but not really.
Jeongin stared at him. “Seriously?”
Chan shrugged. “Yeah. I mean… I missed the time when we used to live together.” Jeongin tried not to let his heart stutter.
The new apartment was modern and quiet, more space than either of them were used to. They set it up quickly, shared tasks, bickered over decor (Jeongin vetoed Chan’s idea of putting studio monitors in the living room), and fell into a new rhythm with surprising ease.
Morning routines blurred into studio sessions. They made late-night convenience store runs in hoodies and masks, bought too many snacks, and curled up on the couch to binge old anime. It was domestic and easy, a little dangerous, because now, Jeongin couldn’t ignore how close they were. Not just physically, but emotionally; the way Chan trusted him so easily, the way he’d vent about a tough day or a failed mix and look to Jeongin for comfort. Not as the leader, not even as a hyung. Just as a person. And Jeongin found himself wanting more, more moments like these, more softness and skin. More of the quiet, careful way Chan said his name.
One night, after a particularly draining day of practice, Jeongin wandered into the living room to find Chan asleep on the floor, arms spread out, one leg draped over a cushion, the TV was still playing, half-muted. Jeongin just stood there for a moment, heart aching for reasons he didn’t want to name. Then, gently, he knelt beside Chan and pulled the blanket over him.
“Hyung,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
As if in response, Chan’s fingers twitched in his sleep, reaching for something, reaching for him. Jeongin didn’t move, didn’t dare. He sat there in the half-light, watching Chan breathe, wondering if the ache in his chest was love or something even more complicated.