Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Felix had taken bets.

It was stupid, and irresponsible, and some may have said that he was praying on the downfall of his hyungs, but anyone who had known the producer group for longer than twenty minutes would have been able to pick up on the fact that they very much didn’t give much of a fuck about doctors orders. Especially when there were other things to worry about (which, Felix would argue that there was always something else to worry about with those three, but he was keeping his words to himself as he often did). He was not praying on their downfall, because, frankly, Felix was absolutely sure he didn’t need a higher power to intervene for those three to start crashing and burning, especially with the added pressure of the canceled tour after the accident.

He was not apathetic. He was not pessimistic. He was nothing but absolutely realistic. 

So, the maknae line (save for Jisung) and Hyunjin decided to put a few thousand won in a pot, betting on when the bullshit was going to catch up to them.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried to help, either. Jisung had been very receptive of assistance, when they had all gotten back to their dorms, according to Minho. Apparently, Jisung was better at accepting help than they had initially given him credit for, but there was also the fact that, for the first couple weeks, he couldn’t even walk. It was likely very much a given that he was going to accept Minho’s help, only asking to supervise the care of his wrist in return.

Hyunjin and Changbin were a fucking train wreck in their dorm, but that was a given. Changbin was recovering from a severe concussion and some kind of build up of liquid-injury-bullshit that Felix couldn’t remember the specifics of. His head was absolutely cooked , and Hyunjin could barely use his good arm to grip onto the railings on the stairs in their dorm. Felix remembered a very specific phone call in which Hyunjin had to shut Changbin up six times, since Binnie was so pissed about not being able to watch movies for months. 

The solution there was easy. Hyunjin had taught Changbin how to draw and paint, showing him different mediums of art, how to hold the supplies; what was best. It even helped him as a form of physical therapy when the big bulky cast had been replaced by a brace with limited mobility. They had bonded over it, and now any time Felix came over, there was a tarp on the floor, paint drying, or pencils strewn carelessly across the apartment, always within reach of a half finished drawing. 

Jisung and Changbin were fine. They were taking it slow, listening to the doctors when they told them to take it easy.

Felix could not say the same about his fellow Sydney native, and at this point, he was fucking tired.

And pissed.

Jeongin gave him debriefs every day, like an itemized list of bullshit that Chris was pulling even though it was clearly fucking hurting him. He had started working out again, just three weeks after surgery, insisting that his doctors said it was good to push himself. He was up late, slumped into his desk chair, compressing the ribs that hadn’t even healed properly yet. He was singing . With broken fucking ribs , and the only reason he wasn’t dancing was because Jeongin had threatened him, stating that he was going to get another doctor’s appointment, just to be fucking sure. Chan had assured him that that wasn’t necessary, Jeongin reiterated that it was important not to dance when even the main dancers couldn’t, and then promptly pulled out his phone and sang like a fucking canary to Felix.

And of course, of fucking course Felix had tried to talk to him. He had tried to check in, spoken to him in English with his wide smile, told him to take care of himself, said that he was there for him, no matter what. All he had gotten in return was a tight smile and a promise that he understood.

So, yeah, Felix had made some fuckin’ bets, because he knew that the minute they could, the rest of 3RACHA would absolutely follow in their fearless leader’s footsteps.

Seungmin hadn’t even denied it. He didn’t even call it sketchy or uncool. He placed his bet, along with Hyunjin and Jeongin and Felix (Minho would have absolutely murdered them if he found out about this), to see how long it would take before the final straw forced Chris to pull his head out of his fucking ass and rest.

They were three weeks into it since the bet had been placed, coming up on Hyunjin’s deadline, and it looked like there was no sign of stopping, soon.

They were tired. They were worried. Felix couldn’t keep his smile when he knew that the others were suffering, especially Chris, because he knew that it was going to end badly, and for what? A song being finished a week sooner? No one gave a shit when he was actively running himself into the ground.

When Felix had been eliminated, Chris had told him to always come find him, that he was never going to leave him behind.

Felix just wished that he understood that it went both ways.

For now, Felix would bake, and complain with Seungmin, and worry and write and try his best to be solid for anyone who needed him.

And patiently await that five week mark, ready with emergency services on speed dial and a fire extinguisher in hand.

—

Kim Seungmin was and would forever be the second youngest in the group.

Which was why it absolutely baffled him that, in the wake of this tragic accident (and, honestly, years before that, even if he wasn’t aware of it), he was acting the most adult out of anyone besides the actual maknae, who had been pigeonholed into babysitter for  their fearless leader.

Seungmin knew that he wasn’t special. He had a gnarly scar from his stitches, but it was easily hidden behind his hair. He hadn’t been nearly as hurt as someone like Chan or Jisung, and he was incredibly thankful for that fact. 

But it was because of that fact that Seungmin forced himself to put on a brave face.

He put on the mask when he rolled out of bed every morning, padding to the bathroom and brushing his teeth. He put on the mask when he left the dorm, even if it was to visit another one just across the way. Seungmin put on the mask when he helped Jisung clean his room while the older told him about what he was writing, how he was feeling, how bed rest sucked. He put on the mask when he woke up to Felix screaming in the middle of the night, calling for Chan or Jisung or him . 

The nights where Felix called for him were the worst.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been fucking traumatized. He had watched Jisung’s heart stop, Felix clinging to him, screaming that it was his fault. He had watched as Changbin stumbled and tripped into a paramedic, mumbling about how his head hurt when he peeled his eyes open. He had watched Chan in the ambulance, breathing heavy, shock blanket over his shoulders, and saw him collapse the moment his feet passed the threshold into the hospital.

God, sometimes he remembered that Jisung was clinically dead through that, and Seungmin envied him for it.

Because now he was a maid, a therapist, a friend, a brother, and himself, but that last one didn’t really matter. He was spread thin, as an uninjured member, and that was before his own nightmares.

Seungmin swore that if there was a God, he was a cruel and evil man, leaving him and Felix to go through this together. It felt like they were alone, forced to be bystanders while their friends suffered in ways that they could never compare their mental turmoil to. For as many nights as Seungmin had awoken to Felix screaming, he had woken up, himself, to Felix shaking him awake, eyes scanning him for injury, hands unsure whether or not they could touch anything but his shoulders. It was not a fun sight to wake up to in the slightest, but he knew from experience that waking up to a friend needing help was not something that he wanted to put Felix through again.

He couldn’t help it, though. Neither of them could.

So, Seungmin watched and worked and cared for the friends that asked for help, listened to Jeongin when he whined about Chan-Hyung’s lack of self preservation, saw Felix’s slow descent into frustration-born apathy, and wondered what he could be doing differently.

And for the first time in ages, Seungmin hadn’t the faintest idea.

It wasn’t like he could go back and un-injure his friends. It wasn’t like he could change the past and tell them that they were in danger. He couldn’t go back and save Jisung or Changbin or even Hyunjin, and he knew that if Chan had any idea what would have transpired, he sooner would have thrown himself over the faulty canon than evacuate the rehearsal.

All he could do was hold Felix and talk to him, book a therapist, clean the dorm and make it safe for anyone to enter, no matter the injuries. He and Felix took it upon themselves to be able to host and care for those who wanted to come over and escape for a little while, but they couldn’t escape, themselves.

They were stuck. He was stuck, and he was slowly going insane.

The nightmares were the first dead giveaway of that, of course. Seungmin was having them more often than Felix did, now to the point where they both decided to switch off, curling up in each other’s bed, just in case their sleep was interrupted. It happened a lot, now, but Seungmin would be lying if he said he didn’t at least enjoy the slightest bit of skinship from Felix. His friend always knew how to make Seungmin feel better, seeing him struggle so much. 

Today was no different.

Seungmin awoke with a start, a gasp tearing itself out of his lips as his hands frantically reached out in front of him. He had been back at the hospital, watching Hyunjin get wheeled in, still frantically crying. He had been back there, watching Channie-Hyung’s unsure footsteps as they stumbled past the doors. He had been there, and he saw the moment Chan’s brain stopped keeping up with his body, and he sunk to the ground like a stone.

Only this time, Seungmin’s feet were planted on the ground, unwavering and unmoving, stuck to the sidewalk like the concrete was reaching up and grabbing him, swallowing him whole. He wanted to scream, to cry as all of his friends rushed past him to aid the fallen, but he couldn’t move. Even as they turned to him, telling him to do something, to find a doctor or something , Seungmin couldn’t fucking move.

And now here he was, glancing at the clock to discover that it was 3:17 in the morning, and he had his hands up in the air like he was some horizontal-zombie.

Seungmin would have rolled his eyes. He would have scoffed, honestly, but then he felt a soft, bony hand in his, pulling and tugging until Seungmin let it fall. When he didn’t fight it, Felix pulled his hand to his chest, rubbing his thumb against the knuckles that were so violently gripping onto nothing.

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to, truthfully. At least not about the nightmare, but this routine was going to get old, and therapy only did so much when the people who needed the most rest were the ones notorious for not getting any. Seungmin couldn’t fucking stand it.

“What are we gonna do, ’Lix?” He whispered, hating how the sting of tears in his eyes reached his voice. 

“I don’t know, Minnie,” Felix answered, his free hand coming up to gently squeeze Seungmin’s shoulder. “I really wish I did.”

—

Minho felt like he was dying.

This was probably the hardest thing he had ever done, and he had to walk way from Stray Kids, once. He had been forcibly exiled from the biggest support group he had ever managed to find. He had been told that he wasn’t allowed to be with them, that he wasn’t allowed to rehearse or write or bounce ideas off of them, anymore, because he wasn’t good enough. He had slipped up. 

Minho remembered that ache; the agony in his chest every time he had woken up with the reality setting in that he was no longer a part of that life, that he had tried, and he had failed. He remembered it well, because it still attacked him, from time to time. He would mess up a step, or his voice would crack, or he would fuck up a lyric, and suddenly he would be there, nineteen again, clinging to Chan in his head, praying for some sort of miracle to bring him back.

Minho remembered that pain, likely would continue to remember it for the rest of his life, but it was a pinprick; an infinitesimal little sting, in comparison to what he was feeling right now. This was suffocation. It was drowning, feeling the air in his lungs be replaced by water, feeling his life force being sucked out and drained as fast as it would go. 

Minho was dying, but on the outside, he was simply happy to help.

Being Jisung’s roommate was one of the best things about the arrangement. They were close, obviously. Best friends. Living together came easy to them, before the tour, and now that they were back, it was almost funny how much things hadn’t changed at all. Jisung would still wake Minho with a stupid question and a bright smile. Minho would often do the same, just to piss him off. It was easy. Their lives slotted into each other’s like a zipper, easy and happy and beautiful. 

And then that zipper got blown up by a defective flamethrower, and it got warped and angry and melted in parts. It didn’t even zip all the way anymore.

What was Minho supposed to do about it? He missed the smooth metallic clang of the teeth slotting together so easily. He missed the way that the metaphorical sweatshirt would drape around him; keep him warm and safe.

Now, somehow, the same sweatshirt had holes burned into it, letting the breeze of the world in around him, even when he tried to pinch the holes shut and manually link each tooth of that godforsaken zipper back together.

Jisung was his favorite sweatshirt, and like a teenager who still slept with the blankie they were born with, Minho would keep him close until he was threadbare, and then some.

They tried. God, they tried. Minho would still pull jokes, stare at Jisung and tell him that he was alive because Minho was allowing it, but in light of the situation that had presented itself, Minho had stopped that joke pretty soon after it started.

He couldn’t even joke about killing Jisung when the boy had been clinically dead under his fingertips.

But the difference in his prickly personality had not resulted in a kinder, sweeter Minho. If he had asked Jisung, Jisung would have said that that was because Minho was already the kindest, sweetest, most caring roommate one could ever ask for, but Minho saw through that bullshit facade.

All of his previous personality had been sucked from him, and Minho wasn’t able to compensate at all. All he could do was sit there, be quiet, and come to Jisung’s beckoned call any time he needed anything.

He was sure the others noticed. Seungmin was one to fuck with him often, but lately, all he got back was a tiny scoff and a Please, Minnie. Not now.

Seungmin didn’t like it. Minho could tell. It felt like a part of him was missing, still mixed with the bloodstains in the concrete floor of the venue. The parts of him that acted like he hated his members, that he didn’t want to be a part of such a chaotic, insane group of people, was no longer. He couldn’t even pretend, because he knew that he had come so close to the reality in which several of them didn’t make it home that day, and if he had acted like that, as his last interaction with the people he loved so much, Minho would have never forgiven himself.

He still really didn’t. 

He found a purpose, though, even in all of this agony. His body was aching and his heart was hurting and his wrist was definitely taking longer to heal than he wanted it to, but Minho didn’t care. The thing that constantly helped, lifted his head above water, was being there for the people who needed him most.

And that meant Jisung, for the time being.

He was the one to call doctors regarding medications, change the dressing on his injuries, help him move when he was feeling adventurous (though those days were few and far between, and often required a wheelchair until the burns healed), and help him smile when it felt like the world was crashing down next to them. 

All he wanted was to see Jisung smile without pain again, but he would settle for the boy leaning on his chest and breathing as softly as he could.

“How’re you feeling?” Minho asked after a moment, shuffling so his feet could curl up under him. Today was one of the rare days that he had managed to get Jisung to take the trek to the couch, and he was so, stupendously proud.

“Better than yesterday,” Jisung replied, a tiny smile on his face as he glanced up to Minho. “I hear that’s supposed to happen, though.”

“It is,” Minho recalled. He let his mind cycle through the filing cabinets in his brain, remembering the supposed recovery timeline for Jisung, after everything. “But don’t be alarmed if you don’t feel like that tomorrow. Doctors said recovery is not linear.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jisung wheezed, causing Minho to straighten up. He was like a cat, ears perked and ready to strike at the prey that was Jisung’s illness. He was very attentive, knowing that if he didn’t pay attention to the younger, that Jisung would pretend he was okay, and, frankly, he absolutely was not. Jisung would not get away with suffering in silence. Not when Minho was around.

“Have you done your treatment today?” Minho knew the answer, but he wanted to give Jisung the opportunity to feel independent and answer on his own.

“No.” He pouted, almost melodramatic in the way his mouth turned downwards. “I don’t even have asthma.”

“The doctor said the albuterol would clear up some of the nasty stuff in your lungs, Sungie.”

“ Hyung. ” Jisung looked up at him. “Every time I do that shit I cough up tar for half an hour.”

“That’s how you know it’s working.”

Minho knew what it did. It loosened up the gunk in his lungs; the fluid and the dried blood, until he was coughing it into the toilet, Minho rubbing soft circles around Jisung’s shoulders in a silent apology. He was sympathetic, but it was best that all the nasty stuff went away, so Jisung could get better.

“It’s bitter .” Jisung was protesting like a toddler, but Minho was already carefully laying him in the couch beside him so he could get up and get his breathing treatment ready.

“So are you,” Minho grumbled. “Maybe I should get you one of those children’s oxygen masks. You know, like the dinosaur ones? I think I had one when I was little. A purple triceratops.”

“I don’t need a baby mask.” Jisung crossed his arms, trying to hide the way the action made his body ache. “I don’t want to do the treatment.”

“Ten minutes.” Minho stood, trying not to let that familiar drowning feeling engulf him once more. “Ten minutes is all I ask, Jisung. Then once you get all that nasty shit out of your lungs, I’ll make you some sorbet. I got fresh pineapple. We could mix it with the berries.”

Jisung looked up at him, pout apparent on his lips, but he forced himself to sit up (agonizingly slowly, if you asked him), and held his hands out, silently asking for the nebulizer mask. “Strawberry, pineapple and an extra splash of lemonade, please.”

Minho felt his face resurface, and maybe one or two of the holes in his favorite sweatshirt get patched. “Anything for you, roomie.”

—

Life was hardest when Hyunjin couldn’t make art.

Of course, he tried. He and Changbin had been doing their best to redecorate their apartment with shitty finger paintings and Changbin’s attempts at water color. Half the paint ended up on the floor, and neither of them could really get down there and put in the elbow grease to get it out of the carpet. They were lucky if they even had the spoons to paint, half the time. Hyunjin wanted to, but using either hand caused a jerk of pain to sizzle around his neck and he genuinely hated the sensation so much that he nearly stopped living entirely, some days.

He was trying his best, truthfully. He really was, but he and Changbin were kind of fucked. Hyunjin couldn’t really move much, waiting for his shoulder to heal, but he tried. He made attempts to go out for walks, as much as he could, even if that slowly turned into Changbin yelling at Bixby to order him a walking pad without even looking at his phone.

The lack of screen time should have been good for them, but Hyunjin knew that their connection to the outside world had been severed the minute Changbin had to go in and get fluid drained from his brain. Concussions often meant less screen time, less phones, more living in the moment (even if that moment was vomiting and stumbling over your words and telling everyone around you to quiet down), but as idols, and, frankly, as Generation Z, Hyunjin and Changbin struggled without their preferred vice of escapism. They couldn’t interact with Stay (Hyunjin wished more than anything that he had the power to refund their Bubble subscriptions for the next couple months), couldn’t watch cute dogs or cats, and they couldn’t even interact with each other.

And, yeah, Hyunjin’s head was fine (filled with dark, dangerous thoughts that felt similar to pre-debut, where his insecurities ravaged his body and his mind, with a pen between his lips, telling him he slurred, that he wasn’t meant for this, that he was simply meant to be a visual, to look good while the others did all the important stuff). It wasn’t injured. He didn’t have a concussion, because his shoulder took the brunt of the damage.

The fucking issue was that he didn’t want Changbin to feel left out, or tempted, or something of the sort. He didn’t want his friend to be upset at his hand, so Hyunjin cut off the rest of the world with him, and tried to teach Changbin how to paint.

And he was, surprisingly, pretty good at it.

He picked up on which brushes to use and how to use them, where they needed to go, how much paint to pick up and how the different mediums created different finishes. Changbin had gone from watercolor to oil paint to acrylic on a canvas, and all Hyunjin could do was watch in awe.

Is it was any other situation, Hyunjin would have been ecstatic to have another artist in the group, especially considering the amount of shit he gave Binnie during SKZ-Code recordings and different interviews. Giving anyone one minute to draw meant that the final product was going to be awful, but Changbin, when given clear instructions, excelled faster than Hyunjin had ever thought he would have. It was inspiring. Hyunjin was inspired.

And so incredibly fucking jealous.

He was jealous, because Changbin had two working arms, and could paint and blend colors easily without his hand trembling from the pain of the opposite shoulder. He was jealous because his art was good, probably better than Hyunjin’s ever would have been (this is a huge fucking lie, and if anyone had heard Hyunjin’s thought process right now, besides himself, Hyunjin would have been smacked lovingly, several times, with a pillow, because he of all people should know that comparing art was like comparing apples to grapes, and drawing the conclusion that you didn’t like citrus, anyway), and all Hyunjin could do was watch as the one thing that had been special about him dissipated into thin air.

They had been cut off from everything but their pencils and paintbrushes, and Hyunjin couldn’t really do anything about it, so he doodled. He doodled in his journal and smiled when Changbin tried some of the techniques that Hyunjin was attempting. Of course it looked good, meaning that familiar twinge of self doubt announce itself in Hyunjin’s chest once more.

But it was quickly shoved offstage when Changbin stopped abruptly, pencil practically levitating above the page. Hyunjin watched him closely, wondering what he was thinking about, only to recognize a familiar tension in Changbin’s jaw and shoulder.

That was one thing that Hyunjin never had to deal with, before, but since Changbin had hit his head, was becoming a common occurrence. Changbin had developed some sort of seizure disorder after his injury. It had happened for the first time a couple nights into their stay at the hospital, long before Jisung had woken up. It had been terrifying, especially since Minho had been checking in on a very stubborn Chan at the time, so all of the seniority had fallen on a very tired, very loopy Hyunjin. 

The doctors said that it wasn’t too much to worry about; that Bin would have to learn to cope and deal, and that it would likely turn into something hat didn’t matter at all, but Hyunjin still felt his heart seize up every time Changbin’s jaw tensed and his eyes got a little glassy.

Focal Seizures, Hyunjin’s mind supplied. That was what they had called them. They were typically non-violent in nature, simply forcing those around Changbin to stop and take a breath, but Binnie hated them. He had confided in Hyunjin that they tasted like fear, smelled like burning rubber, and made him immeasurably nauseous.

They would go away on their own, as his brain continued to heal, but Hyunjin still kept a garbage can close by at every room he could manage, just in case one got particularly bad and the vomit got too much to bear. He cared for Changbin, and Changbin was appreciative, obviously.

He showed it in different ways, mainly learning how to cook. Yeah, yeah, Changbin was a health nut (what else was new?) but Hyunjin once caught him fighting with an Alexa to teach him a recipe slower, this time.

Hyunjin never told him he heard that whenever he did, eventually, come home to a home cooked meal, because Binnie had really outdone himself, and he was not going to be less than appreciative to have Kimchi fried rice that honestly rivaled Minho’s. Changbin seemed to have found skill in the kitchen, too.

But their lives were like this, now, lapsed into painful silences when Changbin freezes, stares into space, and then comes back with a glassy eyed whimper. Hyunjin promised he would be there, always, and if Changbin ever needed him, he could wake him up and Hyunjin could try his best attempt at skinship when half of his upper body was confined to a box.

He shoved his own pain down to help Changbin, because there was nothing he could do besides take pain medication and wait for it to heal on its own. It sucked. He fucking hated it, but at least helping Binnie had a purpose.

As long as Hyunjin had a purpose, he was ready to take on the universe.

—

Jeongin was about ready to fucking kill himself, Chan, or both.

Rooming with his eldest Hyung had been intimidating, at first. Jeongin was so afraid of making a wrong move, ruining their relationship by being messy or grumpy or loud. He knew that Chan liked to spend time alone, confided in his room to work or study or sleep. He also knew that maybe some of his vocal rehearsals went a little later than usual. That wasn’t that much of an issue, before. Chan would have just put his headphones on and locked in, but now Jeongin couldn’t get him to take the damn things off—couldn’t get him to stop working when he was clearly fucking injured.

He felt useless. He felt like he was a buoy or a life boat being thrown off of a sinking ship towards a corpse in the water; destined to save something or someone, but coming up short every fucking time. He felt like he, himself, was bobbing up and down in the water, kicking his feet to try and stay afloat while the giant cruise ship that was Chan’s hero complex churned the waves around him and left him in the misty blue ocean. He could practically taste the salt on his tongue as he was tossed around dragged under only to resurface moments later, destined to save.

But Chan didn’t want saving, no. He wouldn’t even entertain the idea that maybe he could and should rest, because without the tour, the fans are gonna want something, Innie.

It took everything Jeongin had not to bite back, Yeah, they want you safe.

But sadly, for Jeongin, Chan had a knack for using and abusing the Hyung card, and as the maknae, he really didn’t have any seniority between himself and everyone else. He couldn’t ask for help. He couldn’t beg someone to help Channie-Hyung see reason, because he would have pulled the same shit on them and now… ugh, this was so, so, unbelievably stupid. Why couldn’t Chan just cut himself a fucking break?

It was about a month into their new lives at home, resting and recuperating, when Chan approached him.

It took him a month to fucking snap.

Because Chan, at that month mark, had approached him with purpose; a gusto akin to an athlete at the top of their game, and asked, “Hey, Innie. Have you ever considered therapy?”

Jeongin bristled on reflex.

He needed therapy?

Jeongin needed a fucking therapist? 

That was so fucking rich coming from him. So absolutely fucking loaded.

Jeongin’s head snapped up from the kimbap he had been mindlessly fiddling with, the smooth wood of the chopsticks in his hand making it easy for them to slip out and clatter against the plate with a deafening clink . He stared at Chan, eyes narrowing in confusion, and a little bit of disbelief, because Jeongin was not the one who needed a fucking therapist.

“Are you joking right now?” He stared back at Chan, trying to clock what he was thinking or feeling. It was hard. It was so fucking hard because all of Chan’s expression was hidden by this soft, earnest gaze that made Jeongin want to melt and stand up and hug his hyung so tight that his ribs broke again, but his resolve remained true.

“No, Innie, I think it might be really helpful for you.”

“Helpful for me?” Jeongin scoffed, “Chan, are you kidding me right now?”

“I know, people talk about how needing a therapist is weak, but they exist for a reason. It’s not weak to ask for help, Innie. What you went through was traumatic, and I really do think it could help you to talk about it.”

If he were in the right mind, Jeongin would have definitely thought about it, let that seed plant in his mind, and, yeah, maybe he would have acted on it. Jeongin knew it would be beneficial to see someone; talk to them and tell them how he was feeling ever since that day that he had flown across the stage into Changbin’s arms. It kept him up at night; the sight of his best friends laying there, looking nearly dead. All Jeongin had suffered was a bruised back and a broken heart.

A therapist definitely could help with that. 

A therapist could also help with whatever self sacrificing bullshit train that Chan is on, but he doesn’t think so, does he?

“You’re a hypocrite.” Jeongin managed to steady himself enough to keep his tone from rising past deathly lethal. He stared down at his hands, not looking up to see the shock in Chan’s eyes, because frankly, he didn’t want to get guilt tripped into not caring about his Hyung.

“What?”

“ I need a therapist? You need a therapist, Chris.”

Out of the near seven years since he’d known Chan, Jeongin had said his English name exactly three times. One when he was learning it when they first met, and Jeongin wanted to get it right, even if they had agreed to call him Chan. One, when that TikTok audio of that American Netflix show was going viral, and all he could manage to do was walk around the dorms, waking Chan from every nap with, “Chrissy wake up, I don’t like this,” and now.

Now he was using it. He was using it in such a way that Chan’s head snapped up, offended, but also a little confused. He looked like he was going to speak, to bark at him and berate him for saying such a thing, but Chan took a careful calculated breath, and sighed.

“I know,” he whispered. “I was wondering if maybe we could do it together.”

Oh.

Okay, wow, great job, Innie. Wonderful job at being the world’s worst roommate and friend. How could he even say that? Chan had been asking on his behalf and he had shot him down without a second glance because he was getting defensive and—

God, he was an asshole.

“It’s okay if not, Innie,” Chan tried, but his smile was wry. “You don’t have to. It was silly of me to ask.”

Wait. Wait, wait, wait, no, no, no. This was his chance. This was Jeongin’s way of doing it right, helping his Hyung and maybe the rest of the group so they didn’t have to worry any more. There was no way Jeongin was going to turn that down because he had jumped to conclusions. His pride was not that rock solid.

He could admit when he was wrong.

“I’ll do it.” Jeongin reached for Chan’s shoulder as he began to turn away, hand gripping tightly. He had a breakthrough. He was not going to let his pride get in the way of the importance of his friends. This was his breakthrough. “I just… what does that entail? Do you want to go together? To the same one? How much research have you done?”

“None,” Chan admitted, a small, humorless laugh surrounding the word. “I’ve never done any of this. I just thought that, maybe… maybe we could do it together. Lix swears by it. Says it’s really helpful to get feelings out in the open that we can’t exactly write about in our songs.”

Jeongin could have kissed Felix, honestly. He was so damn relieved.

“Y-yeah,” Jeongin squeaked. “Yeah, I’ve heard that, too.”

Chan shuffled awkwardly, eyes down on the floor. “I, um, thanks, Innie. For dealing with… with me. With all of this.”

Perhaps that therapist thing should start tonight, Jeongin thought.

“Of course, Hyung. I love you.” He did. Nothing was ever going to change that. “I care about you. I could never be dealing with you. I just hate dealing with the fact that you have to deal with you.”

Chan’s eyes widened, a tiny shocked expression taking over his face before it was replaced with a bright smile. He gently pressed his fist into Jeongin’s bicep, pulling him into a hug from behind, so if he winced, Jeongin wouldn’t see it.

Jeongin was too smart for him, anyway, but he didn’t want to ruin a good moment, so he reached up and let his hand tangle in the back of Chan’s hair as his chin found it’s place rested on Jeongin’s shoulder. 

“When did you get so wise, Innie?” Chan leaned over and looked at Jeongin with curious eyes, but Innie just shrugged.

“Guess you’re rubbing off, Hyung.” 

And if they stayed like that for a few moments before they pulled out their respective devices and started searching up therapists for each other as well as themselves, then the world didn’t exactly have to know. 

It was a breakthrough, the first gasp of life from the person that Jeongin was thrown overboard to protect, and he was not going to deflate now. Now, all he had to do was somehow, some way, pull Chan to shore.

—

Seo Changbin was starting to understand just how dependent he was on work.

Sitting in the studio with Chan and Jisung, his computer open with one tab full of lyrics and another with his demo mixer open was how he spent most nights. It was fun. It was safe. If he wasn’t performing, he was likely hunched over his computer with Chan next to him, Jisung spitballing behind them in a manner where they had to list bullet points of rhymes just to not fall behind.

The thing was, working, for Changbin, absolutely, positively, one hundred percent relied on the use of his computer or laptop, as he was a producer. He wasn’t in Jisung’s shoes, where he could just sit down with a notebook and fill out page after page. His handwriting was messy, and it got jumbled in his head. Even when they started out, and he was eighteen and stupid, he was still playing around Logic Pro and making songs that he now cringed at (some early 3RACHA were very… teenaged boy coded, but that was because they were teenaged boys). Changbin was now absolutely fucking losing his mind.

Because, yes, okay, the first forty-eight hours after his injury had absolutely come and gone. He was weeks out, but he had suffered a fucking brain bleed, like a concussion on steroids. The first forty-eight were just him sleeping off the anesthesia. They had to keep the room dark for him until Jisung woke up, and now Hyunjin’s too afraid to show him anything lest he have a seizure.

Oh, yeah. That was fun, the first time.

It was like his body had just… stopped. Like he was there one second, and then he was numb, and then he was back, feeling gross and confused. Changbin swore he had blipped out of reality, like Jisung had manifested him away with that creepy witchy shit that he was into (his déjà vu). Changbin swore he was not the same person when he blinked back into reality, but the only person who could have told him that he was was Hyunjin, and he had not been in the room at the time. Something about some nurses saying he needed to go for a walk; get some fresh air. Hyunjin never really was good with staying cooped up, so the whole maknae line went with him (save for jisung, who still hadn’t been breathing on his own at the time).

The second time it happened, however, his friends were right there, and it wound up being fucking trippy.

Because Changbin was there, starting to feel that numb, floaty feeling, so he glanced up at Hyunjin, who was trying his best to draw Kkami. It looked a little jumbled, and he looked upset, but Changbin couldn’t comfort him. 

Then he blinked.

Next thing he knew, his bed was flat, Seungmin was standing over him with the nurses next to him, and Hyunjin was up out of bed, eyes wide.

They joked about it, after, calling him a concerned husband, begging to push past the personnel to see his Wife Seo Changbin , but it had been no use at the time.

Luckily, the seizures had been worst at the hospital, but ever since Jeongin tried to show him something on his phone, and Changbin promptly seized, Hyunjin had a strict no screens rule going on in the apartment.

But that meant Changbin couldn’t work. He couldn’t even work when he went to the company to drag their fearless leader back to rest. Hyunjin simply used him as a bargaining chip, saying that he was sending Changbin and one of their managers, and if there was a screen on when he got there, Changbin’s brain matter and spinal fluid was on Chan’s hands.

It was a low blow, obviously, but Changbin didn’t have the motivation to fight when it gave him an excuse to get out of the apartment. It reeked of acrylic paint. Changbin was tired.

He approached the studio doors with an exhaustion that did not seem like him at all, but that was because he was in pain, and tired, and really, he just wanted to go back to sleep, but his bed had gotten harder from how long he had spent in it. Getting out was good for him. He knew that. He still struggled.

Especially when he walked in to see Chan hunched over his computer, very much not in an appropriate fashion for someone recovering from what Changbin had later found out was called flail chest.  

The screens were not off, obviously. Chan didn’t really think about it, much, but Changbin could tell that the moment he walked in and cleared his throat, Chan regretted not heeding Hyunjin’s warnings.

“Hyung, it’s getting close to dinner time. Hyunjin is making bulgogi, and if I don’t get home soon, he will burn the kitchen down.”

“Hyunjin can make bulgogi now?” Chan turned to him, shutting off the screens and tolting his head towards Changbin. “Doesn’t that require like, a lot of dexterity?”

Changbin scoffed. “You think he’s cutting the meat himself? God , no. I can’t even trust him with a knife when he has two working arms. We got the pre-cut stuff.”

Chan’s frown only lightened a little bit. “He’s still cooking?”

“You only need one arm to stir.”

“I know, I know, I just… didn’t expect him to feel up to it.”

Changbin frowned. “It’s been a month and a half, Chan.”

“Has it?”

Changbin froze, narrowing his eyes as his heart started to race with worry for their leader. It had been. Time hadn’t stopped moving. Chan clearly hadn’t, either, but him not knowing Hyunjin’s state, yet feeling confident enough in Changbin’s recovery to not be waiting outside for their manager and him to pick him up, was not something that pointed to a stellar mental condition. Changbin could tell that something was up.

However, he was feeling the beginning of what Hyunjin had been afraid of, and frankly, the studio was safe enough for him to allow himself to sit down.

He blinked. 

Next thing he knew, Chan was in front of him, staring worriedly at him as Changbin snapped back into reality. He didn’t feel nauseous. He didn’t feel gross or sweaty or tired. Changbin pieced together, from the fact that he was relatively in the same position, the only one having moved being Chan, that he had suffered an absence seizure; one of his zone outs. 

Still, Chan was in front of him, crouching with his knees pressed against his chest as he leaned forward to move Changbin’s bangs out of the way. Absently, Changbin thought about how fucking bad that was for his ribs, but in the present, all he could do was give a simple nod when Chan asked if he was okay.

“I’m fine, Hyung,” Changbin replied. “I just want to go home.”

“Fine.” Chan nodded, standing up so he could grab his laptop from the desk and slide it into his backpack. “Let’s go home, Changbin.”

“Invite Jeongin for bulgolgi.” Changbin was not taking no for an answer. 

“What about everyone else?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Ask them? Or—no, ask Hyunjin. See if he’s got enough meat for everyone.”

Chan did as he was asked, Changbin making sure to double check before he sent a text to the group chat letting them know that he and Hyunjin would be hosting dinner. Family dinners were few and far between, nowadays. Even if they were on bed rest, everyone still had their own lives and own things to tend to. Changbin knew that, so he didn’t push if anyone cancelled, but really, all he wanted was some bulgogi with his brothers.

And coming home, for the first time since he was thrown to the floor by an exploding rocket-thing, Changbin was getting what he wanted.

—

They had bulgogi.

Chan was absolutely shocked that everyone had answered his texts, including Hyunjin who had sent a reply that made him double over laughing.

[From: Hwang Jinnie:

i’ll be so real with u we don’t have enough for everyone

YET.

🏃🏻‍♂️🏃🏻‍♂️🏃🏻‍♂️]

Twenty minutes later,  in an attempt at a horrible pun in English, Hyunjin replied:

[ok family bulgogi is a bulGOgi

was that funny i hope that was funny.]

Within half an hour, Chan was sitting in Hyunjin and Changbin’s living room, watching Hyunjin put the extra packs of pre-sliced meat into the broth that he had been nursing since before they arrived. He seemed in higher spirits, now. His arm had been wrapped in a tight cast for the past few weeks, but a couple days ago, he had been freed from the trap and confined to a sling, instead. It was so much better for him. He was able to start physical therapy, now, and could move and exist and attempt to use his hand for more than just a paperweight.

That was what they had told the others who were a little more apprehensive to show, like Felix and Seungmin, who both had stared at Chan like he had grown a second head through the facetime camera when he called. The fact that they had thought that the prospect of seeing each other and sharing a meal with each other was such a strange request had Chan biting back a scowl. Not at them, no. Chan could never be upset with them, but the fact of the matter was, the meal wasn’t a shock. Him attending was.

He would admit, he had not taken very good care of himself over the past—what was it? Six weeks? Yeah, six weeks. He had been careful to rest up, but the check up where he had been cleared for light work was the last time Chan had taken a deep breath, since then. He was pushing himself, pumping out music as the only member of 3RACHA functional enough to do so (though Changbin was getting better, and he was so glad). They couldn’t take breaks. Not really. Stray Kids had only been given a two month hiatus as a group, with some members resuming activities within the next two weeks.

Initially, those members were only Jeongin, Seungmin, Felix and Minho, but Chan had pushed back until he was granted the same duties, with the caveat that any dancing or performances were prohibited until he was signed off as one hundred percent in the clear; signed off by at least two practicing physicians.

That was a lot easier said than done, he was finding, because he was still injured. He still woke up with aches in his chest and back. He didn’t know if that was from the injury, or the sleepless nights spent alone in the studio, contemplating how he thought he ever could have done this on his own. He was so lucky to have Changbin and Jisung, and, frankly, all of his boys. Surviving without them would have been agony.

The thing was, when people asked him why he had auditioned for JYP, he wouldn’t have had the answer before he debuted. So many people wanted to be soloists. So many talented people let their own pride and egos get in the way of what was best for them, and Chan absolutely hated it.

(If the other members could read his mind right now, they would absolutely snap at him).

Because before Stray Kids, which was what he was when he walked through those doors all those years ago, he had no idea what he wanted, just that he was going to find it, no matter how long it took. 

It wound up taking seven years. Six, really, before he met the bright eyed sixteen year old that stumbled through the doors and declared that he wanted to learn to rap.

After Jisung, they all managed to worm their way into his heart. It started slow, a bunch of kids, (and one man that Chan still regretted seeing as a mentor), flocking to him, promising that this time, they were going to make it. That he was going to make it.

And he did. 

He knew he had made it the moment that, despite JYP’s reservations, the world almost unanimously wanted them to debut as nine. He knew he had made it when, despite the absolute torture that was re-recording the whole album as eight, they released Levanter. He knew they had made it when he saw the way his members interacted with each other. Changbin offering high fives when Jeongin hit a new PR, excited yelling and cheering taking over the gym. Jisung ever so gently tapping on Seungmin’s door, and the other answering without a word with a tight hug that could have cured the plague. Minho taking Hyunjin out to dance workshops on their days off, just so they could learn new routines with each other. Felix knocking on his door with Fairy Bread for every milestone, making him feel a little less homesick.

Chan knew he had made it when they became a family.

And now, because of him, it almost felt like it was falling apart.

He waited in the living room, trying to keep from hunching over so his ribs could get a break from his horrendous posture. The TV was off and covered by a very large canvas that Hyunjin and Changbin had been working on as a duo. It was abstract to an extent, but Chan found himself enamored with every brush stroke. It seemed maybe Changbin was a little more artistic than he initially gave him credit for, but Chan would keep that thought to himself. He didn’t want to pressure his dongsaeng.

Instead, he watched as the others arrived, offering hugs and tight smiles when he saw them. Felix and Seungmin were attached at the hip at this point, both giving knowing looks to each other when they thought no one was looking. Even Hyunjin seemed to understand to some deeper degree, but Chan already knew he couldn’t ask. They wouldn’t tell him and something told him it was personal; private.

Minho and Jisung arrived a bit later, and while Chan tried to hold himself back when Changbin answered the door, he couldn’t stop him from rushing down the staircase to check on the others.

Jisung was on his feet, albeit pale, panting slightly, clutching onto Minho as he stared at the staircase in front of him. Chan would have thought it had insulted his mother, the way that he was staring at it in disgust, but Jisung wiped the look from his face and offered a warm smile, instead. “Hey, Bin-Hyung, Channie-Hyung.”

“You’re up.” They both replied, as if it was a miracle.

“With some help,” Jisung chuckled softly, glancing thankfully at Minho. Chan smiled back in awe.

“That’s amazing, Jisung!” Chan squeaked, but he was cut off by a sharp pain in his chest. He got those, a few times, when he overexerted himself, even before the accident, but healing a slew of broken ribs was not going to lend itself to stability on his pain scale. He tried to hide his wings, but the three people around him were way too observant for that.

“Hyung.” Jisung leveled him with a look. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“You’re standing. Least I can do is greet you,” Chan replied, quirking his brow.

“Alright. I’m greeted. Let’s go upstairs and get some bulgogi.”

The request was heard, but no one made an attempt to move besides Jisung, who Carefully lifted his right foot to step on the first step. It took him a second to push the rest of his body up there, but he managed, holding onto the railing.

“Jisung-ah,” Chan tried. “Do you want help?”

Jisung’s smile faltered as he shook his head. “No thanks. I wanna try on my own.”

“At least let me spot you,” Chan tried again, but Jisung shot him a warning look, almost begging.

Don’t take this away from me.

Chan stepped back, and waited for Jisung to get about four steps above him before he started the trek behind him with Minho next to him, Changbin on the rear.

It really had been six weeks. Six weeks of days blurring together as he slaved over beats and rhythms that he didn’t even need to make. It had been six months of heading out of the apartment at 8AM, and returning at 3 (on a good night) with an extra ache in his chest. It had been six fucking weeks of everyone getting better, and Chan hadn’t been there to see any of it.

He had been too focused on his own escapism; his own fear and self loathing, that he had missed these milestones. He had missed when Hyunjin removed his cast; when minho downgraded to a brace, when Jisung had started not only walking, but inching his way up the stairs again.

Guilt pricked at his chest like the shrapnel that had broken his ribs six weeks ago, but he had a sneaking suspicion that this would not be able to be picked out with tweezers. This was absolutely going to be a sinking regret; a scar on his life and his memories, but Chan couldn’t think about it when he had Jisung hobbling up the stairs in front of him.

Chan couldn’t help his relieved giggle when Jisung made it to the main floor. The others looked shocked, a little surprised, even, but they all waited in bated breath to see what Jisung’s reaction was going to be.

To Chan’s surprise (and delight), Jisung cracked a smile, chest heaving a little from the exertion, but also the excitement. His eyes grew wide and round, just for a moment, before they folded into downturned crescents of pure joy. “I… I did it.”

He did. They all just saw him actually do it, on his own. Han Jisung, who had been given an eighteen month recovery estimate, was climbing a flight of stairs within six weeks.

Felix stood up straight, his bright smile almost blinding as he rushed over with excited cheer. “You did it! Oh my god, Jisung-ah, you actually did it!”

Chan should have expected the hug that followed, starting just between Felix and Jisung, but then Seungmin was standing up, and scooping Jisung up from behind, followed by Jeongin, Changbin, Minho, himself, and Hyunjin.

It reminded him of the end of Tangled, when Rapunzel met up with her parents, and they hugged so tight and sunk to their knees, and suddenly Eugene was tugged into the hug as well, regardless of whether or not he felt he deserved it. 

Chan didn’t. God knew didn’t, but he did really miss them, and if they were willing to look past his absence in the name of self destruction, who was he to tell them how to feel?

The only difference between the scene in front of him now and the end of the movie was that no one was going to let Jisung fall. No one was going to crumble to their knees and cry. Not when they were all so absolutely fucking proud of how far they had come, especially in such a short time. They were safe. They were okay. They were recovering and getting better.

Six weeks ago, Chan would have guaranteed that it was the end.

Now, he was almost positive that it was the opposite.

It was a new beginning; one that called for some serious introspection, but optimistic all the same.

He figured that, maybe he could start now.

Of course he waited until they were all sat around the round dining room table, bowls of bulgogi and rice in front of their faces, happily chatting about what they had missed from each other. Hyunjin was talking about how Changbin was a much better artist than anyone gave him credit for, which had Changbin pinching the skin on his good shoulder to get Hyunjin to stop. Felix was talking about how he and Seungmin had tried their hands at writing their own songs, which immediately got Jisung’s attention. He was very interested in what they had come up with, but Felix and Seungmin suddenly got very shy when put on the spot. 

Chan understood. Maybe, when things calmed down for a little bit, he could invite them to the studio; see if something stuck. He wanted to have every one of his members feel safe and comfortable enough to come to him with new creative ideas. Felix had been one of the creatives behind what became one of their most beloved international songs (even if Jisung always stole the show). He was a brilliant writer and vocalist. Deep end constantly came on Chan’s shuffle when he was listening to their softer songs in his sleep, and while he tried not to ache every time he heard it, he was absolutely proud of Felix for how far he had come.

He didn’t worry about Seungmin’s creativity at all. Ever since Stars and Raindrops, Chan had been begging him to write more, but it was always met with the same noncommittal shrug, and a knowing look with Jisung.

Those two would always be a unit, Chan feared. It was great for Jisung, as Seungmin would be there to bounce ideas off of; ready to give whatever feedback came into his mind. Half the time, when Jisung came in with new songs, having absolutely nothing the session before, he’d answer Chan and Changbin’s shocked stares with a little shrug. “Seungmin helped me.”

So to hear Felix and Seungmin had been collaborating, had Jisung as leaned in as he possibly could be while healing a mortal stab wound and third degree burns. He was smiling brightly, asking for more and more details until Felix rolled his eyes and shared the concept; a song about a person feigning a happy face in light of a dire situation. 

Chan expected Jisung’s smile to falter, but it only widened. “I love that. Yes, okay, so, chord progression wise—“

Minho gently punched Jisung’s forearm, shaking his head. “This is family dinner, Jisung-ah. We will not be working.”

“But this is exciting!” Jisung exclaimed, eyes wide in shock. “They are writing! This is good! I want to hear all the ideas.” He was borderline whining when Minho leveled him with a look.

“Ah, Lino-yah,” Changbin hushed him, “let him have his fun.”

“All we do is work.” Minho crossed his arms, careful of his brace as he stared down at his bulgogi.

“Ah, no,” Jeongin shook his head in response, “all you do is work.”

Minho raised his eyebrow, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he shrugged. “A broken wrist does not negate my ability to do most dances. I’ve been keeping in shape .”

“Which is work,” Jeongin retorted.

“Let’s not talk about work.” Felix decided for the table, taking another bite of bulgogi, “Let’s talk about anything else. Like all the art in here. You said Binnie painted this?” He pointed at a painting on the fridge, which was a little better than an unrecognizable blob. It looked like a flower pot.

Hyunjin beamed. “Yeah! That’s what I’ve been saying. He’s actually really good!”

“You’re the artist, Hyunjin-ah,” Changbin insisted.

“And the artist thinks you’re just as good.” That was Seungmin, eyeing Changbin with a dangerous grin. “I’d listen to him if I were you. You know how Jinnie gets when he disagrees with you.” Seungmin’s eyes travelled to Jisung, who was mid bite of rice.

Even through his puffed up cheeks, he spoke clearly. “I learned to dance better.”

The table erupted into laughter, some of them absolutely wheezing in response to Jisung’s nonchalance. Hyunjin was blushing hard, but his smile was evident on his face. Jisung was smiling, too.

And for the first time since Chan had seen Jisung wake up, he realized his grin was just as wide; just as genuine.

This was right. This was real. This was what was meant to be.

—

And then everything was wrong.

Jisung had been texting Changbin, since they managed to get Hyunjin to take a deep breath and allow the screens back into their lives. It was needed, since it’d been a week since the schedules of the somewhat-able-bodied people started up again. Chan, Jeongin, Seungmin, Felix, and Minho all were starting up their busy lifestyles again, doing shoots, promotions, interviews and whatever other things they had been made to put off during their hiatus. It had been a public announcement that, while Hyunjin, Changbin, and Jisung were recovering well, they would not be joining the group for the foreseeable future. 

Obviously. A K-Pop idol that was still majorly bound to a wheel chair or a walker was a horrible image on the company, and while Changbin was doing okay, he had made the executive decision to feel out how he was going to navigate his new disability in the safety and private of his home. Hyunjin still had major physical therapy, plus three more weeks in the sling to even begin to think about assimilating back into society. If they had to be out in public, there was too much that could go wrong for him to feel safe.

The arrangement worked out. Most days, it was only four of the aforementioned five who had a schedule. Most days, someone had been stuck on Jisung duty, which was painful and embarrassing to know just how much he was holding them back, but he slapped his smile in all the same.

Jisung had realized two weeks into his recovery that it was going to be a long one, and he made the decision to keep a happy face on through all of it. There was no use in being miserable when he couldn’t change anything overnight. He was lucky to be alive, and he wasn’t going to waste that luck feeling sorry for himself. 

So, Jisung lived.

He lived through sharing fun photos of the birds outside his hospital room. He lived by writing until his hand ached and he had to ask for a new notebook within a week of receiving the old one. He lived by chatting with Stay on bubble, letting them know that he was okay; that he was recuperating and he was going to be alright.

Han Jisung lived, because the other option was absolutely not acceptable.

That fact led to Chan trusting him enough to be alone for the first time since the accident. Jisung had sworn that it was okay when he had showed up at his door, absolutely panicked. There had been a scheduling issue, and Minho couldn’t have been rescheduled for a later date like they had initially planned. It made it to where the man had just as packed of a day as the other members. 

Jisung had assured them it was going to be fine. He even demonstrated that he could get to the restroom and the kitchen; the fridge and the microwave, and if anything happened, he would call 112, and promised that he would be sure to call and text them all periodically throughout the day.

Jisung was fine. He truly was. He had made it to around 4PM, just mindlessly scrolling and liking videos, posts, articles; whatever he found entertaining. He had started with a movie, then moved to his phone when he lost interest. That was the true enemy of his recovery: boredom. Jisung was so bored . He couldn’t do anything but hobble around his apartment and wait for his friends to get home, so he found solace in reading up public updates about his friends on twitter.

Felix had recently done a beautiful photo shoot. Seungmin had posted a produced cover of some English song. It was absolutely beautiful. Chan had been out doing interviews and damage control. Minho had been dabbling in some modeling, and Jeongin had been bouncing around, doing a little bit of everything. They were all doing well. They looked good. Jisung smiled, seeing pictures of his friends all managing, doing well. He was so proud of them.

Until he scrolled too far, accidentally refreshed the page, and saw a link under a shocked tweet.

[stayseesu983929193: you’re telling me THIS is what happened two months ago and they’re back doing schedules? that’s fucking insane.

twttuser032518: this is genuinely the most terrifying thing i’ve ever seen in my life.

jjstaystay__: im gonna be sick. no wonder han changbin and hyunjin are still on hiatus.

bbokarianator584937393: there’s no way jyp actually has them back working this soon after this? what the actual fuck? i hope they sue.]

Jisung stared at the thread, people replying to the post, some shocked, others telling the original poster to delete it, but Jisung couldn’t stop himself, even if he knew what he was going to find.

Clicking the link, it took him to a google drive folder, with six files in it.

Two of which looked to be security footage, from the thumbnails, and the others seemed to be recorded videos from inside the hospital.

Jisung had chosen to live, not because he wanted this, but because he knew what came with death. Nothing. Nothing but cold, aching, unfeeling death, and, frankly. Jisung didn’t want that.

He had no idea why he knew what it felt like until he (against his better judgment) clicked on the first video.

It was cut right before the explosion, the camera trained on the stage, as if it was backing up for some of the larger stream cameras that they used for the concert. Jisung remembered the heat on his back; the split second before he had started running towards Felix in a panic. He remembered almost every moment until that godforsaken thing exploded, but the rest was a faded vision; one he couldn’t tell was real until he watched it unfold.

He watched his family crumple like ragdolls on the stage, Jeongin crashing into Changbin, Changbin’s head hitting the stage under the terrified Maknae. He watched Chan fly a few feet back, watched his torso hit one of the raised speakers, his arms slung out over it. He watched Seungmin’s head move as if he had gotten shot, his hand flying up to his ear as he hit the ground. He watched Hyunjin nearly flip from the force of the blast, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as he landed flat against the stage. He watched Minho dive forward, his wrist being crushed under the weight of his chest. He watched Felix hit the ground as Jisung himself was pushed forward, flipping over his dongsaeng and landing first on the edge of the stage, then ricocheting off of it, onto the concrete floor below. 

And then he watched as it all unfolded. A disoriented Felix scrambling to the closest member: a sobbing Hyunjin. He watched as Chan woke up, confused, scrambling around to find his members. Jisung could practically see the headcount, and he saw it get completely abandoned when Jeongin screamed for Changbin to wake up. He saw a horrified Seungmin pop up and join Felix; Minho stumbling around, begging for a medic as if it was the only word in his vocabulary.

He watched as he was utterly forgotten, the trail of blood only growing beneath him.

It had to be at least five minutes before Felix’s eyes widened in shock. Another thirty seconds before Chan understood what he was saying, another twenty-five until he had emptied his guts as much as they would be emptied.

And then Jisung heard the first in a long line of anguished screams of his name.

If someone had been with him, they absolutely would have snatched the phone out of his hand; told him to stop watching, because what the hell was he doing? 

But Jisung was enthralled. He was invested, as if this was some television show and he was just an episode away from figuring out how it ended.

He already knew how it ended. He was living proof, but Jisung had to see it in every little detail, knowing that the memory that his mind supplied had constantly left something to be desired. This way, he could know. This way, he could see and feel and know exactly what happened, so he could empathize with his family. So he could apologize for putting them through what he was seeing.

Jisung watched as Chan stumbled mindlessly to his side, listened as he screamed again, watched Felix abandon Hyunjin with Seungmin the minute he heard. He heard Minho scream his name. It was all happening so fast. Jisung could barely keep up. They pulled some sort of, like, bait and switch, next, because then Seungmin was sprinting down after Felix, Jeongin taking over caring for Hyunjin, whose wailing had turned shrill and panicked at the sounds of the other members’ distress. 

Jisung tried to listen to the conversation that was happening in front of him. He tried to decipher what exactly his friends had been saying to him, even as they all visibly bristled at something he had said. It must have been something stupid, to garner that sort of reaction, but Jisung wasn’t necessarily the brightest bulb in the hardware store. He likely genuinely said something dumb.

He managed to catch the movement beside Minho, the determined way Changbin sat up, even with half his face covered in blood. He scooted to the edge of the stage, Minho following sluggishly, and fell to his knees at the bottom next to Jisung.

He didn’t need to be trying too hard to hear Changbin’s shocked: “What the fuck.”

It did make Jisung laugh, honestly, because even in the wake of an agonizing concussion, staring down the near inevitable death of his best friend, Changbin had managed to still be Changbin, through and through.

Then, Seungmin was getting up, helping Jeongin and Hyunjin to the edge of the stage, and Jisung honestly didn’t remember what happened after.

He vaguely remembered Hyunjin’s screaming, Jeongin telling him that it was unfair; that he was being stupid and that he didn’t get to do that.

But then he saw himself shrink away, so he tension and shock forcing his muscles to tense finally easing up, as he slumped over, unmoving.

“Jisung!”

“Han-ah!”

“No, no, no, please! Please, hyung, please!” 

Hearing their maknae scream like that had Jisung growing nauseous, but he persevered through it, unable to take his eyes away from it.

Changbin had reached out, was cradling his head in his hands, gently wiping the blood from his cheek, his own heavily bleeding head lost to him. Jisung couldn’t see his face; too obscured by his hair and the blood matted within it, but he could see the trembling of his hands; the way he cried out when his fingers gently slipped to Jisung’s neck, the horrified screech that followed.

“He’s not breathing!” Changbin had screamed. “He… there’s no pulse—Han-ah! Han Jisung! Come back!”

He noted how Hyunjin’s screams echoed through the venue, almost blowing the tinny microphone on the security camera out. He was trembling in Chan’s grip, while Chan looked just… absolutely lost. He looked like he was shutting down; his lips almost blue from where he was sat. Jisung wanted to scream; to cry and beg him to get help for himself, because he knew what was going to happen after, but all he could do was watch his friends; his brothers, huddle around him in agony.

Felix’s screams were the worst.

Felix was always the group’s optimist. He had always been the person to cheer any of them up at any given moment. He was kind and accepting of everyone; didn’t care about past mistakes. He would always hold onto his friends, his hyungs and dongsaengs, and squeeze them tightly whenever they needed it. Jisung swore he had never truly seen him break. Not even onstage when he felt so much. Sometimes Changbin would poke fun at him for it, emphasizing how he would cry for hours, but Felix would hit him with a teary smile, and state how lucky he was to be able to feel so freely.

Jisung wished he couldn’t, now.

His voice was shrill, hands trembling as he tried anything to bring Jisung back. Honestly, Jisung was surprised when he saw Felix’s hand curl into a fist and push against his sternum. He had been first aid certified early on in their career, just so he could feel useful. He knew a little bit, to check for ABCs, which he had promptly taught to the whole of his dorm, and how to often rouse an unresponsive patient with a sternum rub.

Now, as he did it, Jisung could see Felix sinking further into a panic.

It only grew when Jisung offered nothing in return.

“Please!” Felix looked horrified. He sounded even worse, his screams tearing at his throat that made Jisung almost swallow in empathy. “Please, Sung! Please, come back, It’s… It’s my fault, I’m sorry, please don’t leave!”

Paramedics showed up after that, and everyone was quick to move out of the way as they transferred Jisung onto a stretcher, and pushed him out despite the absolute terror of the boys next to him. Chan had gotten up to follow, stumbling behind them like they were his last hope of escaping the hellscape that had unfolded. He wasn’t listening to anyone when they told him to step back. Not until Changbin stood up to follow as well, and promptly took two steps before collapsing back onto the concrete.

Chaos erupted once again as half of them frantically surrounded Changbin. Chan stood between, watching Jisung get wheeled away. His head was on a swivel between his boys (Chan didn’t have favorites, but 3RACHA was the heart of Stray Kids, and both of them seemed to be in grave danger). He took a step towards Changbin, reaching out, before Seungmin’s head snapped up and he shook his head, saying something Jisung couldn’t pick up on the recording.

Chan then nodded, and stumbled out of the venue, after Jisung.

The video ended with Changbin waking once more, groggy and confused, and Hyunjin trying his hardest to stay steady enough to soothe him.

Jisung felt like he couldn’t breathe, but he scrolled to the next, only to find the most horrifying thumbnail he had ever seen.

The video was taken from the emergency department waiting room, by someone who almost certainly was going to go to prison if they ever found out who it was, but Jisung couldn’t care less about the person behind the camera as he pressed play.

“23 year old male, unresponsive, cardiac arrest, blast injury, severe burns, chest trauma, probable broken ribs, puncture wound to the lower right quadrant. No history of past trauma or physical illnesses. He’s been receiving fluids and cardiopulmonary resuscitation for approximately six minutes.”

Jisung saw himself on a stretcher, a paramedic straddling him, pushing on his chest. He saw another squeezing an ambu bag against his face. His eyes were closed, and before he could even get a look at himself; his condition, he was already behind a set of double doors.

But the video didn’t stop.

It kept going. It kept going as Chan stumbled in with the help of an EMT, who looked incredibly worried about his condition. She was supporting his weight as he stumbled, trying to follow, but she shook her head.

“Sir, we have to check you over. Your friend is in good hands.”

“Jisung—“

Three things happened near simultaneously that made Jisung nauseous. 

One: Chan stumbled, his steps stuttering as he tried to make it behind the door that Jisung had just been wheeled through.

Two: the doors opened to reveal another stretcher, carrying a disoriented Changbin, followed by Seungmin and Felix, who let go the moment they were told to.

Three: Chan dropped like a ton of bricks, and a shrill scream filled the waiting room. 

The fact that these videos hadn’t been released as it happened had Jisung questioning a lot, because that seemed insane to him. How on earth was this going to happen, and it be saved from being the top story? A little part of Jisung wanted to believe that it was humanity; the emphasis on not showing the worst days of these peoples’ lives, but here he was, two months later, watching it all unfold like a treasure map.

The treasure had been discovered two months ago, when every tabloid Jisung could see had mentioned the accident. There were obviously no interviews with the members, but some staff members had spoken to the press in exchange for a pretty penny and the promise of anonymity. Most of them were venue workers, though, so they couldn’t really be kicked from their staff. Jisung didn’t want that, anyway. He wanted everyone to know what had happened, and that they were doing well in spite of the incident.

That was going to seem a lot more like a lie, now, as Jisung watched doctors and nurses rush over to Chan, nearly pushing Felix over, who was holding his elder Aussie’s face in his hands. It took until the last ambulance had arrived, with Hyunjin, Minho, and Jeongin, to get Felix to back away and let the professionals do their jobs.

The rest of the files were members waiting on their mortally injured friends, just for a little bit, because Jisung knew they were going to be moved to private waiting rooms almost immediately. There were some people offering help, some in scrubs, some offering sympathetic looks, but nothing could stop the haunted looks of the non-mortally injured four as they were swept into a hallway that was clearly labeled as staff only.

Oh.

So that’s what happened.

Jisung had spent the past eight weeks only slightly apathetic as he couldn’t be too upset (see: choosing to live ). He had just been a little frustrated, in all honesty. Some days, he wished he didn’t need a babysitter, because they all had their own ways of driving him up a fucking wall.

Minho would give him space, but Jisung swore he could see his shadow outside of his bedroom door. Jeongin was like an extra sticky barnacle, only to his bed and his belongings; never to Jisung himself, lest he hurt him. Chan pretended everything was normal, even if his smile was tight and regretful, talking to him about writing and sharing new beats he had made so Jisung could spitball lyrics. He was so hesitant, though; so afraid of stressing him out. Seungmin came over and sat in silence, his usual excitement pushed away, even when Jisung suggested watching one of his favorite movies. Changbin would bring him food, and they would pick at the rice in silence, not knowing what to say to each other. Hyunjin would come over and complain, telling him how bad his arm hurt, hust to make Jisung feel a little less alone.

And Felix… Felix tip toed when he tried to show up. He was there, obviously; ready to help and make sure Jisung felt his best, but he didn’t have that usual smile that deemed him Jisung’s partner in sunshine. He was reserved; careful, didn’t do anything that could in any world be deemed as unsafe, and Jisung felt like he had single-handedly taken the light from his sun, and eclipsed it.

He thought he had ruined everything. He didn’t know what had happened. He thought that they were going to walk on eggshells around him forever, because it couldn’t have been that bad, in order to ruin his relationships this badly, right? 

But it was. It had been, and Jisung felt his heart clenching in realization that, while he was coping, he had never truly accepted what had happened to him.

After all, living in spite was not living in the present.

Jisung felt his chest tighten even more, the trembling in his head making a show of itself exhibited in his hands. He couldn’t even look at his phone, too afraid of what the senseless notifications were. The videos were out there, now, for the world and everyone to see, and Jisung hadn’t even been able to remember half of the trauma that was going to haunt him and his family for the rest of his life.

He was positive his family was texting him, having heard and known. His parents, early on in his recovery, had flown in from Malaysia just to see him, but Minho had assured them on their way back home that he was going to take care of him, and they trusted that.

Jisung had no doubt in his mind that he would have if he could have, but the universe had other plans; plans to make him alone and afraid on the day that his world came crashing in on him. 

The situation was bad, but fighting it was worse. He didn’t want to explode on Minho when he came home. He knew that Minho was stressed, too, but things were getting better. He knew they were. Maybe… fuck, no, it was four. Minho was mid filming. Chan had sent the schedules that all the others had had.

Changbin had a doctors appointment. Hyunjin had physical therapy. Minho and Chan were filming— he didn’t know what to do.

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

Jisung’s phone buzzed, but not with a notification. It was a steady, rhythmic sound, unlike the spam of frantic people in light of the new situation. Jisung found comfort in the sound of the vibration, so he picked it up, almost deflating in complete relief when he saw that it had been a facetime call from Seungmin.

Jisung was not going to decline it when he felt like his chest was cracking open.

“Min.”

“I know, Jisung. Breathe, for me.”

Seungmin was in a car, clearly in some sort of camera ready makeup, but he didn’t seem to be headed anywhere important with the way he was running his hands anxiously through his hair.

For a moment, he saw the scar on his temple, the way that his hair refused to grow around the mark of the old stitches, and he remembered seeing the way his head jerked to the side; how if he had been standing even millimeters from exactly where he had been, the piece of shrapnel that sliced the flesh next to his ear would have pierced his skull, killing him instantly,

He shouldn’t think like that. He knew that. He had chosen to live, to try , and he was letting the situation beat him right now, but he had no idea what to do.

“Jisung. Pay attention.” 

Seungmin’s voice was kind, but firm. He was not going to let him spiral while he was alone.

“I’ve got Felix and Changbin with me. We’re headed over there. Just give us five minutes, okay? Is it okay if we all come?”

Jisung mulled it over. It wasn’t like he didn’t have panic attacks in front of the others, but frankly, Seungmin was the only one who had seen the extent of how bad it could get. Sometimes, Jisung wondered how he knew how to help; how his deep breathing exercises had been acquired, or how the sensory hell that came with a bright practice room was almost always dulled to a silent, dark one the minute Jisung’s breath started to tremble. The only other one who knew what helped was Chan, which was why he would sometimes bring colorful lights into the studio to warm up the space for Jisung. 

Absently, he figured that Chan had seen Seungmin get closer to Jisung, and had told him what helped when his mind played tricks on him. 

“Jisung?”

“All of you,” he replied, chest heaving slightly. “Everyone, eventually, just— all of you.”

“Okay, Sung. Breathe with me.”

He tried. He really did, but Jisung was trembling even while listening to Seungmin’s deep breaths over the phone. He was getting better, but his body was still shaking when he heard the hum of the motor get killed on the other line, and Seungmin’s door was slamming (along with another three). Jisung wanted his friends, right now. He really did, so he was thankful when he heard the voice of their manager on the phone fade into the background.

The call ended the moment Seungmin pushed his way through the door, followed by a frantic Felix and Changbin.

“You—your schedules,” Jisung hiccuped, which earned an eye roll from Seungmin in response. 

“I finished early, Sungie. Felix did, too. We were getting Bin from his appointment when he said you hadn’t texted back.”

Oh, fuck.

His chat with Changbin had consisted of cat videos, gamepigeon, and memes, but they had gone hours without going more than five minutes without texting each other.

Jisung didn’t mean to ignore him. He didn’t mean to worry him.

Jisung was next to him in a second, Seungmin on the other side while Felix busied himself in the kitchen grabbing bottles of water for them. Jisung had nowhere to run. He had nowhere to go, and the videos of him being wheeled into the hospital; both Chan and Changbin collapsing; the explosion— it replayed in his head like some sick lifetime movie that was dedicated to agonizing anyone who dare chose to consume it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Jisung—“

“I’m sorry,” he repeated between sobs, firmer than the first time. “I… I’m sorry that I didn’t warn you sooner. I’m sorry that I didn’t help. I’m sorry I made you blame yourself, Yongbok, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, Hannie, no.” Felix seemed to have materialized in front of him, a water bottle in his hands. It was chilled, cold to the touch, and he didn’t let go when Jisung took it in shaky fingers. It was grounding. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”

“You all— you— “ He looked to Changbin, who shook his head.

“I was worried, Han-ah.”

“You were hurt. ”

“And I got better.”

Changbin said it so nonchalantly, so matter-of-fact-ly, that Jisung was snapped out of it, just for a moment, to stare back up at him.

“You have seizures.”

“And you have panic attacks.”

“That’s not the same, Changbin.”

Changbin snorted, sipping from his own bottle of water. “Who says it isn’t?”

Seungmin gave Changbin a confused look, but his hands were still rubbing tirelessly over Jisung’s back. 

“You can’t control it.”

“Neither can you.”

Jisung opened his mouth to retort, but the words got stuck, because he knew that, in some sort of roundabout way, Changbin was correct.

Generalized anxiety disorder was in no way a chronic illness or disease. Jisung knew that. It had no identifiable cause, and didn’t pose a specific threat to his physical health (other than the occasional panic attack where he would dig his nails into his arms, squeeze the skin on his biceps until it burned, or felt the urge to bang his head against a wall). All he did was cry. All he did was cry and hyperventilate and sometimes pull at his hair because it all got to be too much, but he could control it.

At least, until he got to a safe spot to break. He could keep it at bay.

But when he felt an attack coming, it was inevitable that it was going to happen. He often walked into the studio with a look of regret on his face, and Chan would clock it immediately. Those were the days where it became cozy in the room while 3RACHA produced, and when Jisung broke quietly in the corner, Chan would move from his desk chair to the couch, dim the lights, and draw Jisung into his arms while Changbin ordered comfort food. 

They understood. They all understood that he needed time. He needed time and touch and community to pull him out of the exhausting hate spiral that plagued his head, but Jisung would have never compared it to a seizure.

But he thought about it; neurons misfiring, his body taking over in this horrible state stuck between fight and flight, and he realized he couldn’t answer Changbin’s question.

Because he couldn’t control it. He couldn’t tell himself not to panic. He couldn’t force the feeling away. He could postpone it until he exploded into a sobbing, blubbering mess, but in the end, it always came out.

The panic always won.

“I should have protected you.”

“Jisung, the fucking stage exploded.” That was Felix, who was staring at him with shocked, exasperated eyes. “You can’t save anyone from anything in that situation.”

“I saved you.”

“And look what it did.” Felix’s voice cracked, hands shaking softly as he finally let go of the water bottle in order to grab at Jisung’s shoulders. He gently shook him, hands moving to grab his face and force him to stare straight into his soul. “Jisung, if saving us means losing you, then we don’t want to be saved.”

Jisung gaped. That was not and would never be allowed. “Felix.”

“ Jisung .” Felix leveled him with a look. “I need you to listen to me. Clearly. Take a deep breath, and just listen. ”

Jisung did so, holding tightly onto the water bottle, the cold grounding him. 

But Felix didn’t say anything. Instead, he stood, gently scooted between Jisung and Seungmin, and placed one of Jisung’s trembling hands on his chest.

“None of that,” Felix began, gesturing to the phone which was still exploding with notifications, “was your fault, Jisung. This is. Only this.” He leaned into Jisung’s palm, making sure he could feel the thrum of his heart against his skin. “And I am so thankful, but I… I felt the same thing stop. Changbin felt it stop. Can—can you imagine if it was one of us? If you were in our shoes?”

Jisung shuddered, head too cloudy to think. If he was a little more coherent, he would have seen the way Seungmin gave Felix a confused, near concerned look, but all Jisung could focus on was the steady thrum of the pulse beneath his fingers.

“I need you to know this, Sungie. You are just as important as everyone else on this team, so when you’re hurt, or afraid, or in a bad headspace, we want to know. We want to help. Please don’t turn us away because you think you don’t deserve it. I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.”

With that, Jisung felt himself crumble. The months of denial, the fake smiles and faux normalcy that he hadn’t even realized he had been faking shooting out of his body like a volcano, leaving nothing but the debris and a half functional mound of a human being enclosed by all of his friends.

It was like he was Mount St. Helens, showing signs that he was hurting, in pain, but saving face until it all became too much. This explosion was foreign, though, because he hadn’t seen it coming. He didn’t know that he hadn’t been processing what had been happening to him until this very moment, and the event was cataclysmic.

 He couldn’t breathe. Every time he did, he thought back to that day, the ache of the fire on his back, the screams of his members all coming back to him in a moment of clarity that Jisung could barely keep contained to a sob instead of a wail. His hands gripped at his hair, trying to pull the thoughts from his head, remembering Felix’s huge eyes, the fear and hope in them as Jisung told him it was going to be alright. He could remember the blurry vision of Jeongin screaming, the shrill, but not tinny, absolutely real voice of Minho screaming his name. It was like everything was kicked into overdrive, the memory of the event pouring into his brain and sticking into all the parts that he couldn’t scrub clean.

He must have stayed like that for hours, not able to pull himself out of the sheer panic that engulfed him. His chest hurt, his knuckles hurt from clinging so tightly onto his hair that they were white and achy. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t breathe.  

In. One, two.

Hold. One, two, three, four.

Out. One, two, three, four. 

They were exercises that Seungmin had taught him, when he couldn’t stomach the thought of closing his eyes and forcing himself to count items around him. He had to breathe, he knew he did, because there was this little voice in his head, telling him that he was worrying them, that he was making things worse.

Jisung only came out of it when he felt strong arms wrap around him, and, half expecting Chan, he squeezed back on impulse.

“Yeah,” a voice whispered in his ear. “You’re okay, Hyung. It’s okay.”

Jisung stiffened, flashes of of Jeongin’s face violating his memory, but in his vision, all he could see was dark hair, and a toned back over the shoulder that he had found himself nestled in.

“Innie?”

“We’re here, Hyung,” Jeongin replied. “Can… can you breathe?”

Jisung tried to take a deep breath, but it stuttered in the same way it had when he was laying there against the barricades, bleeding; dying.

“You can.” That was Seungmin’s voice. Jisung recognized those comforting circles around his back anywhere. He hadn’t moved. 

Everyone else had shown up, somewhere during Jisung’s horrified breakdown, and if he had it in him, he would have been mortified. All of his friends had filed in, and taken a stance around the original four. Jisung could make out Hyunjin’s hand patting at Jeongin’s back. He could see Minho out of the corner of his eye, and somehow deduced that the hand running gentle circles through his hair had been his. He could see Chan between them, careful, his hands on his knees,’presumably, as he sat unwavering. He looked out of his element, but he was still there.

Absently, Jisung remembered that it had not only been his experiences broadcast to the whole world. Everyone who had crammed into this apartment had the worst day of their lives shown as public domain, yet they were all here for him.

Guilt pierced through him, but one look at Felix’s concerned eyes had him remembering the words that had triggered this, and he fought the thought away with a stick. Metaphorically. In his head.

Instead, Jisung took a deep breath, and nodded, his shuddering breath blowing some of the strands of Jeongin’s hair back.

Instead of explaining, he snaked his head around so he could look at Jeongin’s face. “You hate hugs.”

“You seemed like you needed one.”

Everyone knew that there would be no admission of Jeongin ever needing one, himself, but Jisung didn’t let his arms move as he nodded. “Thank you.”

“Of course, hyung.”

Processing what had happened to him was going to be hard; quite possibly the hardest task that Jisung was ever going to have to face, but he realized in that moment, with everyone around him, that he was safe, and he didn’t have to do it alone. He didn’t have to pretend anymore, so he broke again, tugging on any limb he could grip onto, to cover him from the world.

Only once they broke apart did he hear anyone speak, and, surprisingly, it was Chan.

“I got our schedules cleared for a few more weeks. How about a movie?”

And for the first time since he had woken up in the hospital, Jisung well and truly smiled.

“Sounds great, Hyung.”