Chapter Text
No one has ever scolded you for being childish, have they?
Seungkwan had said that to him once, late at night in the quiet of their In the Soop cabin. A soft, sincere reassurance.
And it was true.
Wasn’t it?
Chan had nodded back then, let the words settle somewhere deep in his chest. Because he knew what Seungkwan meant. That the hyungs never saw him as immature. That being the youngest didn’t mean being lesser. That even if they teased him, laughed at his mistakes, ruffled his hair after a bad day, it was all out of love.
He knew that.
He believed it, too.
After all, hadn’t he learned to embrace it? The fans loved him for it. They called him their strong maknae, their future of K-pop, their powerhouse performer. They loved the way he rolled with the teasing, the way he played into the youngest role with an easy laugh and a quick comeback.
And his hyungs—they loved him, too. He knew that.
Hadn’t Na PD himself told him?
"I’m grateful you’re the youngest."
He had said it with a grin, ladling hot broth into Chan’s bowl, the warmth of the meal settling into his bones as easily as the words.
And Chan had laughed—bright and genuine, because he was grateful, too.
He had struggled, at first. Adjusting to a role that he hadn’t always had. As a trainee, he wasn’t he youngest. At home, he was the eldest sibling. But he had adapted. He had learned. He had grown.
Hadn’t he?
Chan exhales, rolling his shoulders back as he pushes open the meeting room door.
Inside, the conversation hums around him, overlapping voices, quiet laughter, the scratch of pens against paper. He spots Seungcheol and Jeonghan near the head of the table, deep in discussion with one of the managers.
He slides into his seat, greeting the others with a nod. The room smells like coffee, like the familiar weight of schedules and responsibility. Chan leans back, tapping his fingers against his knee, letting the familiar rhythm settle his thoughts.
Of course he had grown.
Of course he had.
A shiver runs down his spine. The meeting room is too cold.
The air conditioning hums softly overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzing just enough to be irritating if he focuses on them too long. The members sit around the long table, some slouched, some leaning forward, others idly fiddling with bottled water or phone cases.
Chan sits between Jun and Mingyu, hands folded in his lap, pretending he’s listening. He is listening. Mostly.
The managers are running through schedules, talking about upcoming performances, concept meetings, promotional cycles. There’s nothing he doesn’t already know. He’s heard it a million times—who needs to be where and when, what time they’ll wake up, what time they’ll eat (if they even have time for that).
Chan shifts in his seat. There’s a stiffness in his back from practice last night, a dull ache behind his temples. He rolls his shoulders, pushing it away.
“Caratland is the main priority after promotions,” one of the managers says. “You’ll have some time to rest after, but make sure to pace yourselves. It’s gonna be packed.”
The room hums with low murmurs. Someone sighs, someone else cracks a stiff joint, and Jihoon scribbles something down in his notebook.
Chan nods absently. He’s used to busy. Busy is good.
Their manager shuffles through papers, skimming the schedule. "Chan-ah, your schedule’s packed this month—Danceology’s coming up soon, and we’re finalizing the concert setlist."
Chan perks up immediately. "That’s fine! I’ll make it work. It’s for the fans, after all."
The manager chuckles, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Of course. Our hardworking maknae never complains, huh?"
It’s casual. Harmless. Just an offhand remark. A familiar one.
Chan laughs automatically. "Gotta keep up with the hyungs, right?"
Mingyu snorts. “Forever a baby.”
Chan shoves at his arm, grinning. “Don’t act like you’re so much older, hyung.”
Mingyu just ruffles his hair in response, shaking his head.
It’s nothing. Just teasing.
He glances around the room, but no one else seems to think twice about it. The conversation moves on, Soonyoung is asking something about setlists, and Jeonghan is half-asleep against Joshua’s shoulder.
Everything is normal.
✧✧✧
The practice room is buzzing with energy.
The speaker plays a faint beat in the background, sneakers squeak against the hardwood floor, and Soonyoung stands in the center of the group, demonstrating a movement with sharp precision.
Chan follows without thinking. He’s always been good at that—watching, mirroring, learning.
They’ve been adjusting formations for the past hour, shifting people around, tightening transitions. The choreography isn’t difficult, but it’s one of those routines that demands sharpness, precision. No wasted movements.
“Chan-ah,” Soonyoung calls.
Chan straightens, waiting for feedback.
Soonyoung gestures for him to move slightly left. “Try coming in from this angle instead. It'll balance the shape better.”
Chan nods and resets.
The music starts again. He moves into position, body adjusting naturally, instinct kicking in. When the routine finishes, Soonyoung claps once, satisfied.
“You pick things up fast, Chan-ah.”
It’s casual—a compliment.
Chan grins, sweat clinging to his skin. “Of course.”
Soonyoung ruffles his hair before turning back to the others.
Chan should feel proud.
And he does.
But there’s a small, nagging thought at the back of his mind—so quiet it’s barely a whisper, but still there.
Fast.
Not strong, not impressive, not the best in the room.
Just fast.
It shouldn’t bother him. It doesn’t.
✧✧✧
Dinner comes after a long practice.
They’re all exhausted—the kind of exhaustion that lingers in your bones, settling into every step, every slow blink. Muscles sore, skin still damp with sweat even after a quick rinse at the company building. It’s a familiar kind of tired, the kind that feels earned.
And yet, here they are, crammed around a table, voices overlapping, laughter spilling over bowls of steaming jjigae.
Chan loves this.
Loves the warmth of it, the easy rhythm of conversation, the way the tension from practice fades into something softer. The way his hyungs, despite their aching bodies, still lean into each other—Jeonghan throwing an arm over Joshua’s shoulder, Soonyoung stealing bites off Jihoon’s plate only to get swatted away.
Even Seungcheol, ever-responsible leader, is pretending not to refill his own soju glass every time he thinks no one’s watching.
Chan isn’t drinking much—just a few sips, letting the warmth settle under his skin, letting himself exist in this moment.
It’s rare, having everyone like this. No pressure, no cameras, no setlists to memorize. Just the low hum of conversation, the clink of chopsticks against bowls, the warmth of familiar company.
He lets that sink in.
Just laughter, the smell of delicious jjigae, the sound of Soonyoung dramatically declaring that Jihoon is his favorite member tonight.
Chan smiles into his drink, exhaling softly.
This is home.
“Channie, pass me the kimchi,” Seokmin says, tapping his arm.
Chan reaches for the dish, but before he can, Mingyu plucks it up with one hand and drops it onto Seokmin’s plate instead.
“Look at those tiny hands struggling,” Mingyu teases, voice looser than usual from the alcohol.
Chan swats at him immediately. “Hyung—”
Jeonghan grins, eyes sharp even after three drinks. “Mingyu-ah, be nice. Channie’s all grown up now.”
“Yeah,” Chan says quickly. “I’m not a baby anymore.”
The table erupts into laughter.
“Not a baby?!” Seungkwan wheezes, already tipsy, giggling into his sleeve. “Channie-ah, you just pouted at Mingyu-hyung a second ago!”
“I wasn’t pouting!”
Soonyoung, who’s been halfway draped over Jihoon for the past five minutes, lifts his head. “Aigoo, our Channie is all grown up! But don’t worry, maknae. You’ll always be our baby.”
Chan forces a laugh, even as something inside him shifts.
They’re just tipsy. That’s all. It’s fine.
But the conversation doesn’t move on.
Joshua, chin resting on his palm, hums. “Can you even imagine him not being the youngest? Like, what if we got a younger member? You think he’d baby them?”
Chan grabs onto that immediately. “I totally would.”
Jun smirks. “Yeah? What would you do?”
“I’d—I’d ruffle their hair and make them get me food,” Chan says, straightening his posture. “I’d tease them all the time.”
“You mean like we do to you?”
Chan opens his mouth. Closes it.
Seungkwan bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, he just realized!”
Mingyu leans on him, physically crushing him with his weight. “See? You’re not built for the hyung life, Channie. You’ll always be the maknae.”
Chan pushes at his arm, but Mingyu doesn’t budge.
“I’m serious,” Chan insists, trying to keep his voice light. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
Jeonghan coos at him. “Aigoo, he’s getting defensive—”
“Hyung.” It comes out sharper than he intends.
Jeonghan stops mid-sentence, blinks at him.
For a moment, Chan thinks the teasing might finally die down.
Then Minghao snickers. “Did he just try to use his scary voice?”
The whole table loses it.
Chan exhales through his nose, grabs his drink, and downs the entire glass in one go.
It’s fine.
He knows they don’t mean anything by it. They love him. They’ve always treated him like this. It’s just their dynamic. He shouldn’t—
But the words still stick.