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It wasn’t supposed to happen.
If Chan really thought about it, later, he couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment it all started. If he could, he would probably find a way to place blame, but it was neither here nor there. In theory, he could probably blame himself and the kids. It was they who started emptying their water bottles at the crowd during festivals, and then stuck with the pattern during their own concerts.
The first time someone from the crowd pulled out a water gun, he was surprised, and then delighted, because it was yet another way they could be playful with their fans. It escalated fairly quickly over the next couple of concerts - from water gun fights to literal water buckets thrown at the people in the pit. It was fun, even if it created a slip hazard. They were careful, all of them, avoiding the biggest puddles on the stage, and even wiping them down themselves. But they could be playful, interact with the fans, and also find a way to provide at least some of them relief from the heat.
It was amazing, really. Chan loved it.
The crowd was wild that night. Chan could feel the vibration of the bass in his bones, thrumming through his chest like an electric current. The lightsticks swayed like waves, and the endless roar of voices shouting their lyrics back at them made his throat tighten with emotion, like it always did. He took out one of his in-ears so he could hear it better. He was sweaty and already half-soaked with water, his hair plastered to his forehead, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the connections - between the fans, between him and the members - all of them alive and together in this fleeting moment.
There was chaos all around, but in the best possible way. Felix darted across the stage, cackling like a little goblin, his grin wide as he fired a spray of water from his gun into the pit. Minho was chasing Seungmin, drenching him from the side, and the fans screamed even louder once he landed the hit. Chan couldn’t help laughing, so hard that his face and sides hurt, even as he raised his own gun to fire blindly into the mass of hands outstretched from below. The fans’ response was deafening. He loved it, every single second of it, when the barrier between them and the pit felt almost non-existent, as if they were all kids going wild in the same playground.
He turned, catching sight of Changbin just a few steps away, giggling and jumping as he tried to hit Hyunjin. The look on his face was pure mischief, dimples showing and teeth bared in a grin.
It was all normal and safe, the same kind of chaos they stirred up on stage countless times before.
And then the shout came.
“Ah—!”
It wasn’t playful anymore. It sounded like pain.
Chan’s head snapped towards the sound instantly, eyes zeroing on Changbin. The sound he made was sharp, panicked. The look on his face - eyes wide as he recoiled, arm curling protectively towards himself - it all made Chan’s stomach drop.
For half a heartbeat, his mind couldn’t catch up. Like a movie that stopped streaming mid-frame and froze on his screen, he didn’t know what was happening. The lights over the stage were still flashing, the music was still throbbing through the floor, the water guns still fired at the crowd - and yet Chan felt suspended. He only registered that Changbin wasn’t smiling anymore, that he was clutching at his arm for a second before he yanked his hand away with another pained noise.
Something was very, very wrong.
Chan didn’t think - he didn’t need to. His body was moving before he even realized. He lunged towards Changbin, closing the gap between them in a couple of hurried strides, shoving himself between the rapper and the crowd without hesitation. He reached him just as Changbin staggered back, so Chan grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him, and looked him in the eyes - those wide and scared eyes, filling with pained tears.
“Bin, what-”
He didn’t get to finish.
Something hit him in a sudden splash. For a split second, his brain told him it was just water, trailing from his shoulder down his back. It was cool for a brief moment. Then Chan’s breath hitched sharply as the coolness turned into fire, eating into him. It soaked into his tank top. Pain surged through his nerves, spreading fast, viciously biting into him like thousands of small blades.
Chan almost doubled forward in shock, a scream tearing out of him before he gritted his teeth and swallowed it down. He almost fell, but Changbin’s wide eyes were locked on his, and he knew he had to stay up. He forced himself to stand still, even when his mind screamed at him to recoil and get away from the pain.
The noise of the concert went on, almost like time slowed down to nothing. Fans screamed to the song, and music thundered through the stadium. But he almost couldn’t hear anything, only the frantic beating of his heart, and his thoughts scrambling, screaming at him to run. Changbin was saying something, Chan could see his lips move, but couldn’t hear. The rapper tried to squirm away.
It burned like nothing he had ever felt. Worse than fire, almost as bad as the car accident that resulted in him being impaled through the gut. But even back then, his powers tried to heal him and lessen the pain. He had no respite here.
The entire stadium was under a null field.
His body was begging to heal, but the field smothered the instinct coded into his every cell. His knees finally buckled, and he fell, bringing Changbin with him. He coiled his body around Changbin’s, despite the rapper trying to shove him back, but Chan couldn’t let go. He just couldn’t.
Whatever was hurting him, it hadn’t stopped.
Splash after splash. The fire sizzled as it trailed down his back, over his spine, seeping into the fabric of his tank, and then soaking his pants. His clothes clung to his skin, and the soft fabric turned into sandpaper that scraped him raw. He whined, bile gathering in his throat, but he didn’t let go of Changbin.
“Chan!” Changbin’s yell finally broke through the static-y noise in his ear, his voice equally scared and angry. “Let go, fuck, you don’t have to-” The rapped tried to shove him back, but Chan just hunched over him more, shielding him from harm.
He would heal once he got out of the null field. Changbin would not.
Let it burn, he thought. Let it hurt.
The only thing that mattered was keeping Changbin safe.
Every thought dissolved in his mind, his entire being focused on the raw sensation of his skin burning and peeling away. His nerves sparked white-hot with pain before they died and grew numb, and Chan didn’t know what worried him more - the agony, or the sudden lack of it, before the pain spread further.
“Chan!” Changbin screamed into his ear, voice breaking through the tears, “Stop, please, just stop!”
Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing - except the look on Changbin’s face. His wide eyes, the fear in his expression. Chan tried to focus on him, not on the pain, because if he didn’t, the agony felt like it would consume him.
It all lasted longer than he thought it would. Someone finally noticed. It could have been an hour. Could have been ten seconds. Chan didn’t know anymore, because time stopped making sense the moment he stepped in front of Changbin. The crowd’s roar broke and turned into screams of a different kind. It was no longer the playful shrieks of water games or the joyous chaos of a concert. No, it turned sharper and higher. Panicked.
Whatever was hitting his back finally stopped.
Chan wasn’t sure if it was because whoever was trying to hurt them had been caught, or if his nerves had been burned away. But there was a shift in the air. The music stopped. The screams of people in the pits changed from shrill tones of panic into confusion, anger, and something else he couldn’t name. He couldn’t think. The pounding steps behind them multiplied, people running past and barking orders he couldn’t comprehend.
He finally focused his eyesight enough to look at Changbin once more. He was staring at Chan, face pale, lips moving too fast for Chan to catch his words. His mind kept stuttering, focus losing its grip.
He sagged a little, his shoulders trembling, but still didn't let go. He couldn’t. The staff could deal with the source of danger, but Chan’s place was right there, holding the line, making sure Changbin was safe. The pain was everywhere now, spreading from his shoulders and trailing down his sides, the small of his back, and his thighs. His entire body was pulsing with it, and it almost felt like he was being suffocated by it, his lungs refusing to expand.
“Move-” Chan rasped, voice breaking on the word. He forced the rest out between clenched teeth. “Bin, move. Back.”
Confusion flickered across Changbin’s face, panic making him hesitate, but Chan pressed forward, pushing him away. He’d felt the liquid dripping, pooling at his feet, searing through fabric and skin. His grip on Changbin’s arms slipped, but he held on long enough to shove him back, hard. Changbin yelped as he flew back, landing on his ass, and Chan curled more into himself, as if that could stop the pain somehow.
“Don’t touch me.” His voice cracked, barely carrying over the cacophony around them. He didn’t know if anyone heard, so he tried again, louder, tone turning into a pained whine at the end. “Don’t touch me!”
The fans were still screaming and the staff was barking into radios, but underneath it, Chan heard his members. Familiar voices cut through the chaos; Hyunjin called his name. Felix, too, his tone pitched high with fear. They were close. Too close. Hands reached for him; Chan couldn’t tell whose. The staff, maybe? Maybe one of the kids? He flinched hard, a fresh burn screaming when he moved.
“No!” He twisted just enough to look up, his vision swimming. It was Minho, and two of their backup dancers - people who had been the closest to him on stage. “Min, no! Get away!” The words ripped out of him, harsh and ragged. He saw the shock ripple through their faces even as his own vision blurred again.
He tried to stand, tried to steady himself, but his body betrayed him, weight dragging him down. The fire on his back roared hotter with the movement, and the yell that broke out of him this time was raw, uncontained. The stage tilted, his body collapsing under him, the screams around him spiking as his knees hit the ground. Chan’s palms pressed to the floor, barely holding himself upright. His breath shuddered in and out, vision swimming with light and shadow, but his only thought cut through, clear and sharp in his mind.
Better me than them.
Then all the thoughts were gone, and the darkness pulled him under.
Chan’s eyes fluttered open to a blur of shapes and light, his vision swimming as if he had just gotten off the carousel. For a moment, he couldn’t remember what had happened and why he was feeling like he was floating outside of his body, the world around him shifting in a kaleidoscope of colors. But then pain hit him, all at once, wrapping around his chest like an angry snake, coiling viciously around his ribs. He tried to flinch, but there was no running away from it. The fire along his back ebbed and flowed like a wave, scorched skin and damaged nerves flaring up with every breath.
He tried to move, but even the smallest twitch of his arms made agony worse, his back feeling like a mangled knot of bleeding muscle. A groan caught in his throat, and then he gagged as the smell hit him - sharp and biting, metallic and organic at once.
He realized he was being carried. His body felt weightless, only his feet touching the ground lightly. There were hands holding him, but they felt weird, and some part of his brain that still tried to function figured out it was because of the gloves. His body sagged more into their support as he started to tremble.
Voices drifted around him, fragments of sentences that pierced through the fog of his mind, like a radio breaking through the static.
“Be careful… gloves… don’t touch…”
“...hyung, please, please, just-”
“...he’ll heal once he’s out…”
Chan’s mind clutched at the voices like they were a lifeline, though comprehension was beyond him yet. Healing. Out. The words didn’t make sense, but somehow they brought a tiny bit of hope that maybe soon he’ll be able to escape the pain.
Every shaky step, every movement of the people around him made his muscles scream. Sounds layered over each other without making much sense. Footsteps, people talking over phones and radios, someone shouting his name. He tried to sort through the chaos and find some meaning in the words spoken to him, but all he could focus on was the biting, searing pain crawling down his spine.
He could die like this.
The realization came to his mind suddenly, almost like an afterthought. He always knew his powers weren’t infinite, that he wouldn’t be able to survive things like decapitation or a direct explosion. He wasn’t immortal. But here, like this? Stuck in a null field that cancelled out his healing, being slowly eaten alive by whatever hit him?
Acid, probably, his mind supplied unhelpfully. From the fucking water gun.
Was it possible for him to die from pain?
Chan barely registered when the movement stopped, and gloved hands adjusted their hold on his arms, helping him to gently sink down and sit on the asphalt. The hard surface made pain flare up in his thighs and back again, and his muscles trembled uncontrollably, shivering not from cold but from the lingering agony. The scent hit him again, the horrible stench of his own skin burning from the chemicals, and his stomach lurched. The same gloved hands braced him gently as he bent over and retched, and kept his head tilted sideways so he wouldn’t choke on his own sick. His body shuddered with effort, but everything just made the pain worse, and he didn’t know if it would ever stop.
Once he no longer had anything in him to throw up, the hands kept him upright again. Cool air washed over him, and when Chan opened his teary eyes, he realized they were outside, in the parking lot. Their equipment trucks were lined neatly in rows among the scattered crew tents.
At least the fans weren’t allowed in this part of the lot. It was a small mercy.
The hands touched him again, reaching for his tank top. Chan flinched, air escaping him in a pitiful whine as they began to tug at the fabric. Someone kept apologizing to him, telling him it’s going to be alright, and at the same time, causing him more pain. His tank top was stuck to his body - probably fused into his skin, he thought briefly - and they cut it off his back. He didn’t even have the strength to fight, not even when they cut off his pants as well, and the movement made the pain ripple along the nerves in his thighs.
Then came another shock, something wet and cool gently washing over his back. It was almost soothing, but every drop made him jump, stinging on the raw patches where his skin burned off. He screamed, his body confused between pain and traces of relief. He heard someone sob whenever he made sounds, but couldn’t focus enough to figure out who it was.
The world tilted around him, lights from the parking lot lamps flickering off truck windows, shadows of people bending over him, voices giving soft instructions to each other. He tried to breathe through the pain, his body shaking with it. The touches on his body hurt so much, even if they reminded him that he wasn’t alone, wasn’t abandoned in his agony, and that someone was trying to make him feel better.
The hands lifted him again, and this time, he didn’t have any strength left in him to protest. He couldn’t even tell if the movement caused him more pain or not, because his body was one single raw nerve, and even existing hurt. He could hear what was happening around him - staff speaking in clipped whispers, his members asking him to stay awake, his own heartbeat pounding in his chest like a warning drum.
And then, finally, blissfully, something in the air shifted.
It felt almost like a pressure against his skin eased off instantly, his muscles loosening in between one heartbeat and the next. He gasped - or maybe even yelled, he wasn’t even sure anymore - when his body began to respond. It started in his shoulders - a warm sensation that rolled through his nerves, knitting together the shredded edges of his burned skin. The fire eating into his back began to cool, receding almost as fast as it had spread, leaving raw, aching soreness instead. The nausea churning his stomach didn’t go away yet, but the instant relief from the pain - and the endorphins flooding his system - almost made it tolerable.
Chan was breathing heavily, sagging into the support of gloved hands holding him up. He felt exhausted, weak like a newborn kitten, but no longer in unbearable pain. He still tasted iron in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue, and the smell of his burned skin lingered, but the overwhelming fire that consumed his body was gone.
More hands settled on him, firm but gentle, and he flinched instinctively. But the touches were steady and grounding, and brought comfort instead of pain. His members were around him, finally allowed to come close and help. They were wrapping his naked body in blankets, carefully tucking them around him to shelter him from the cold and the prying eyes. It felt like a soft cocoon wrapping around him.
“Channie,” Hyunjin hiccupped when Chan collapsed into him and rested his forehead against Hyunjin’s chest. Felix leaned in from the other side, carefully avoiding touching him without the blanket barrier. The empath’s face was streaked with tears, and Chan wanted to wipe them away, but knew he couldn’t touch him yet. Seungmin brushed the damp hair away from Chan’s forehead, his large hand cradling Chan’s cheek for a moment.
Chan sagged further into the blankets, into their support, letting his body finally release the tension. His muscles still throbbed, every nerve tingling with the memory of pain, but it was tolerable now, softened by the warmth and the presence of the boys he loved more than anything else in his life.
“You’re okay, you’re safe,” Minho said softly, settling behind him to support his back. Even the simple act of leaning against someone he trusted made him feel tethered to reality again. Chan let his eyes flutter closed for a moment, just to feel the warmth, the pressure, the gentle rocking of the blankets as his boyfriends kept him standing. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t yet, because words felt impossible. But the weight of blankets around him, the glances and gentle murmurs, the firm support at his back and sides… It was enough. The world was still spinning, but for now, he could rest, knowing that he had made it through the worst. After what seemed like hours, but probably couldn’t have been more than a minute, he finally opened his eyes when he realized he couldn’t hear all of the members.
He was missing one of his boys.
His gaze fell on Changbin. The rapper was standing to the side, one arm held carefully by a medic as they wrapped a bandage around it. The burn didn’t look too horrible - a blistered red streak across his forearm, already being attended to. Chan didn’t have time to feel relief, though, because the look on Changbin’s face told him everything he needed to know.
Anger. Sharp, simmering anger. His jaw was tight, eyes flashing as he glanced up at Chan, irritation and fear mingling in a way that made Chan’s chest tighten.
“I… I didn’t-” Chan started, voice hoarse and raw. He twitched, like he wanted to step forward, but Minho’s hand on his shoulder gently held him back, reminding him he didn’t need to move yet.
Changbin’s glare softened slightly as the medic worked, but it didn’t vanish. “You idiot,” he spat, the words sharp. “Why the fuck did you-” His voice broke briefly, a mix of fear, anger, and disbelief. “You could have died!”
Chan’s chest tightened further, guilt lancing through him even as his own muscles ached. He tried to meet Changbin’s eyes, tried to explain, but the words got stuck in his throat. What could he even say? He hadn’t thought about it - he just moved.
The medic finished securing Changbin’s arm and stepped back, but not before telling him he needed to go to the hospital for proper burn care. Changbin nodded, and the medic stepped away, already on the phone to call for a car.
Changbin’s attention immediately snapped back to Chan, his frustration visible and his hands flexing at his sides. Chan could feel the weight of his glare even through the haze of pain and lingering adrenaline.
“I didn’t think,” he said eventually, because it was the only explanation he had. “Bin, you… I would heal. You wouldn’t. It’s as simple as that. I would have done it for any of you.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Changbin hissed, and Chan startled at the sight of tears rolling down the rapper’s cheeks - whether they were tears of frustration, of fear, of anger… Chan couldn’t tell. “You’re supposed to be the leader of this clan! But you don’t think, do you?! You just fucking throw yourself in the line of fire and don’t think about the consequences!”
“Bin, that’s enough,” Jisung said, trying to calm him down, but Changbin was having none of it.
“If you die, there is no clan,” Changbin hissed, stepping closer to Chan, almost like he wanted to touch him, maybe poke an accusing finger at his chest, but stopped himself at the last second. “You’re the central fucking point of it, and you are not disposable.”
Chan blinked, taken aback.
“And you are?”
Changbin froze at Chan’s quiet question. His jaw worked, lips pressing together, like he wanted to say something but held himself back through sheer willpower alone. He didn’t answer, just stared at Chan. That silence alone hurt Chan more than the fucking acid ever could.
“Bin, please tell me you don’t still think like that,” Chan’s voice broke the silence, low and rough. “Fuck… y-you’re not disposable either. Don’t you get it? You’re mine. You’re ours. You’re not any less. Not to me, and not to this clan. I will fucking die for every single one of you because you’re my clan. Because I love all of you.”
Changbin shook his head sharply, but the movement looked more like a defense against tears than true denial. His hands clenched into fists, trembling at his sides. “Then stop acting like we won’t die for you, either,” he said, before turning his teary eyes at Chan. “We were in a null field tonight. You could have actually died, you idiot. You don’t get it. You don’t understand what that would have done to all of us.”
Chan’s lips parted, but no sound came. He could feel Minho’s steadying hand on his shoulder, the warmth of blankets still around him, the ache of healing still pulsing faintly under his skin. But all he could focus on was Changbin, fierce and furious, breaking in front of him.
The sound of an engine pulling up cut through the night, headlights sweeping across the lot.
“The car’s here,” the medic announced briskly, moving to cup the elbow of Changbin's uninjured arm. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”
Changbin’s good hand twitched like he wanted to wipe his face, but couldn’t bring himself to do it in front of everyone. He turned half away, shoulders tight, ready to be led to the waiting car.
“Bin,” Chan croaked, his voice still ragged but urgent. “Don’t… don’t leave like this. Please.”
Changbin froze again. For a moment, the only sounds were the murmur of the staff and the hum of the car engine. Slowly, he turned his head back toward Chan. His eyes were still glassy, his jaw still tense, but his expression had shifted - softened around the edges.
“I’m still pissed off,” he admitted, voice rough but steady. “But I love you. We’ll talk about it later when I’m home.”
Chan nodded faintly, throat too tight for anything more. He watched as Changbin let himself be guided away, climbing into the back seat of the car. The door shut with a hollow thud, and the taillights bled red across the asphalt as the car pulled away.
Chan stood rooted to the spot, blankets heavy on his shoulders, the members’ hands still anchoring him. The night air was cool against his skin, but his chest burned with something more than physical pain.
“Come on, hyung,” Jeongin’s quiet voice finally pulled Chan away from his thoughts. “Let’s get you home.”