Chapter Text
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Chan isn't sure what to expect, staring at the giant fuckass house his father pulls up to.
His dad whistles. “This is your new housing?”
Chan double checks the address in the GPS, double checks the address in the KakaoTalk chat, and then checks both once more for good measure.
“Would you believe me if I said yes?” Chan replies, and his father gives him a look , and then they both burst out laughing. He continues, “It’s crazy though, right? Why is it so…large?”
The private furnished room and bathroom Chan had rented in an attempt to be closer to his new school and save money was apparently situated in a giant, sprawling manor, a house Chan had never heard about until this very moment. Which, if he thought just a little harder about, would be weird, considering its novel size and location. It was surrounded by land, sure, but it still stuck out like a sore, squat thumb between the towering glass buildings boasting penthouses and offices. In his defence, the listing had only included pictures of the room inside.
Not that anything about its appearance was hard on the eyes or anything. Chan’s jaw stayed unhinged in shock as he and his dad (mostly his dad) unloaded his bags, eyes tracing what he could see of the floor to ceiling tinted windows, the ornate stone detailing, the lush groves of trees just visible above the fence.
“Well, Chan-ah,” his dad says, huffing slightly as the last bag, a giant duffel filled with Chan’s unwashed clothes (he was not very prepared for this move, okay) was placed tenderly on the curb. “Call us if anything happens, okay?”
His dad opens his arms for a hug and Chan throws himself into it, squeezing tight and trying not to do something embarrassing, like crawl into the trunk and throw a tantrum. “Okay, appa.”
“And if anything doesn’t happen,” Chan’s dad continues.
“Yep.”
“And try to come visit us on weekends, you know the train is only an hour.”
“Uh huh.”
“But don’t come back too often, you should focus on school.”
“Mhm.”
“Make sure to sleep and eat well, Chan-ah.”
“Yes, appa.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
The pair stand in the embrace for another second, before Chan reluctantly lets go. This is how it’s supposed to be, he thinks. His father, unready to part with his baby son, and him, ready to fly from the nest at backbreaking speeds.
He blinks back the surge of tears. No, he thinks. Your back breaking speeds! C’mon, Lee Chan. After the mental reassurance he bids his father goodbye with a wave, watches the car shrink in the distance. Then, he turns to face the imposing front gate.
Nowhere to go but forward.
The doorbell is a stark, modern thing, compared to the rustic oak door. Chan presses it firmly and the intercom crackles to life.
“Hi, this is…Lee Chan? I’m the one who rented the room,” Chan says, hesitant, after the initial pause makes it clear that whoever’s on the other side is not going to say anything.
The door soundlessly swings open. “Chan-ah!” The stranger on the other side exclaims. “Welcome to the house!”
The stranger is a young man, around Chan’s age, with excitable eyes and dyed-blond hair. He’s sporting a bright orange hoodie with tiger stripes that swallows him whole, an eclectic mix of necklaces and bangles, and a cute grin that squeezes his eyes into tiny lines.
“I’m Soonyoung,” the tiger-man says, friendly. “I live here.”
“Nice to meet you,” Chan replies earnestly. “I was told to ask for a Jeonghan? Or a Seungcheol?”
“Hannie-hyung!” Soonyoung shouts into the depths of the house. “Choi Seungcheol!” It’s deafening. “Here, let me help you with those bags.”
With Soonyoung’s help, Chan manages to herd his meagre handful of bags (once again, he was not very prepared for this move) into the house’s entryway. The first thing Chan notices is that the house smells of something distinctly floral or herbal, a mix of green plants and citrus and something smokier, almost…burnt sugar-like in nature. It’s not bad, Chan thinks, reveling in it for a minute. The back of his neck tingles. The second thing he notices is that the inside is somehow larger than the outside, boasting twelve feet ceilings and windows that spill warm sunlight like it tripped and fell, scattering light beams willy-nilly.
“Woah,” he breathes. The scent of sugared leaves curl in his nose. “It’s so… nice.”
Soonyoung gives him an undecipherable look, before his face slips back into its seemingly-default grin. “Right? Seungcheol-hyung inherited it. Here, wear these.”
Chan slips his feet into the proffered house slippers (green, with dinosaurs across the top) and makes to follow Soonyoung as he walks further into the house.
“Wait!” Chan hesitates. Soonyoung turns around, eyes wide. “My bags…should I…?”
“Nah, just leave ‘em for now.” Soonyoung’s smile turns a little mischievous. “Mingyu loves to fetch.”
Chan blinks, wondering who this Mingyu character was and why Soonyoung’s voice had curled around the vowels of his names like an inside joke.
“You’re from Iksan, right?” Soonyoung asks, walking and gesturing for Chan to follow him. Chan nods. “Have any siblings?”
“Just one,” Chan replies, wondering just how far Soonyoung would lead him into the belly of the house. “A younger brother.”
They pass doors, some closed, some wide open, each one mysterious. There’s photos on the walls, group ones filled with smiling faces, candids, landscapes, even canvas art, clearly originals. The brushstrokes are free from dust. It’s all clearly well cared for.
Soonyoung takes a sharp right. “How old are you, Chan-ah?”
“Born in ‘99.” Chan twists his fingers into the hem of his t-shirt. A tiny voice in the back of his mind insists that Soonyoung is someone to impress, for some reason.
With a twirl and flurry of motion, somehow Chan is supporting the weight of Soonyoung’s arm, casually slung around his shoulders. The smell of burnt sugar intensifies. “Dongsaeng!” Soonyoung crows excitedly. “You can call me hyung, Soonyoung-hyung,” he tells Chan, who can only nod. His voice suddenly drops both an octave and a decibel as they approach an entrance way that clearly led to a den, or living room. “Hyung’s gonna warn you, Chan-ah, there are devils living in this house.”
Chan feels his face twist in confusion (horror) and his stomach drop to somewhere around his ankles in fear. “What?”
A resounding crash answers his not-really-a-question.
Soonyoung escorts (read: pushes) Chan through the rounded entranceway, into a room with a giant U-shaped couch fit for at least ten people, a bazillion-inch wall mounted TV that’s playing some drama on mute, a sturdy wooden coffee table littered with stuff, a couple armchairs, and two grown men rolling around the floor, half growling, half laughing.
They’ve bumped into a side table, evidenced by the spill of dirt and the plastic planter laying askew on the hardwood floor, but neither are paying the mess any attention. Chan watches as one of the men gets the other in a headlock, grunting with effort.
“Mercy!” The one with black hair exclaims and whimpers. “Hyung! Mercy, please!” He wiggles his body around futilely.
The hyung, the guy with silver hair and bulging biceps, only giggles cutely, completely at odds with how firmly he’s holding the other in the crook of his elbow.
It almost reminds Chan of how his uncle’s dogs used to tussle, he thinks.
“Guys!” Soonyoung calls. “Chan’s here.”
The two freeze, snap their gazes to Soonyoung and Chan immediately. It prickles, Chan thinks, their stares both assessing and calculated. They have gone from playful to guarded so fast that Chan feels thrown.
It lasts for barely a second, before the silver haired guy springs up quickly. “Oh!” he exclaims. “Hi, sorry, I didn't notice you coming in, I was a little distracted .” He shoots a dirty look at the other guy, who was slowly pushing himself up off the ground. “I’m Choi Seungcheol.”
“Hi Seungcheol-ssi, I’m Lee Chan, we talked over KKT,” Chan says, painfully formal, remembering a Seungcheol who typed in cutesy tones and kekeke’d at nearly everything he wrote. It’s an almost jarring juxtaposition with the buff man in front of him now.
The other guy sticks his hand out for a handshake, a blinding grin on his face. “I’m Mingyu. I also live here.”
Ah, the fetcher. Chan takes his hand. Mingyu’s grasp is warm, solid, a little sweaty, but Chan won’t hold it against him. “Hi, Mingyu-ssi.”
“You’re younger then, like, everyone here, so just call everyone hyung, okay?” Soonyoung pats his shoulder reassuringly, reminding Chan that the man was still draped over him like a cloth.
It’s nice, Chan thinks. Burnt sugar makes its home comfortably in the back of Chan’s throat. Soonyoung’s tiger zip-up is soft, and Chan needs the grounding reassurance to prevent him from running back through that giant oak door and away from these beautiful men with gorgeous smiles.
Because it’s true, okay? Chan has never denied himself the pleasure of finding men attractive and he wasn't going to start now, but Jesus. Between Seungcheol and Mingyu’s giant, sparkly brown eyes, Seungcheol’s thick arms and wide chest, Mingyu’s broad shoulders and perfectly sharp jawline, hell, even Soonyoung’s feline-like features and soft cheeks, Chan’s poor brain was having a hard time trying to find a respectable place to put his eyes.
“Everyone?” Chan repeats faintly.
Seungcheol grins, takes pity on him. “There’s twelve of us living here. I don't know how much Jeonghannie has told you yet, but yeah. Let me call them down so everyone can meet you.” He produces a phone from some pocket, and starts texting rapid fire.
Chan gulps. Lord, he thinks. Give him the strength to make it through nine other introductions.
“Channie!” A melodic voice trills. Another unfairly gorgeous man in blush-pink silk pajamas sweeps into the room from a doorway behind the couch that Chan hasn't even noticed. “You made it! And even survived meeting the muscle twins in peace!” He sidesteps the spill of dirt and forlorn planter like its second nature.
Mingyu pouts. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m Jeonghan,” Jeonghan continues, completely ignoring him. He was Adonis come to life, Chan thinks in a daze, with pink lips, calf-long eyelashes, and a dainty, sloping nose. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Hi, Jeonghan-ssi,” Chan offers, letting himself be swept into a hug. He feels Soonyoung’s arm slide like water from his shoulders and briefly misses it, before Jeonghan encompasses him, his silk pajama set cool and whispery against his skin. Jeonghan smells like lilies and bluebells, like the early spring days that Chan favours, when the wind and sun battle and combine into the perfect temperature.
“Ay,” Jeonghan tuts. There’s a mystical melody to his voice, one that makes Chan feel weirdly uneasy that he had made Jeonghan sound so disappointed. He flicks shoulder-length black hair away from his face with a graceful move. “Soonyoung said to call us hyung, didn't he? C’mon, Chan-ah, let’s hear it.”
He holds Chan at an arms length, eyes expectant.
“Jeonghan…h-hyung.” Chan stumbles over his words, feeling clumsy under beautiful Jeonghan’s beautiful gaze.
The man lights up, his smile dazzling and revealing just enough of Jeonghan’s teeth to be sweet. “Good, good. Here, sit.”
Chan is forcibly pressed down into the middle of the couch. Jeonghan has surprisingly strong arms for such thin wrists, Chan discovers. The couch dips as Jeonghan seats himself next to him. Soonyoung takes a seat on the coffee table in front of them.
“Mingyu, get Chan’s bags from the entranceway. He’ll take the empty room beside Hansol’s, you know the one.” Mingyu nods, obediently padding out the entryway Chan had come from. Suddenly, Chan understands Soonyoung’s comment. “Cheollie, can you bring Chan some fruit? Chan-ah, would you like anything to drink?”
Chan quickly finds himself under three stares, and finds himself shaking his head like he has a spring in his neck. “Water is fine.”
“Hm,” Jeonghan purses his lips. “Soonyoung?”
Soonyoung, who had been fiddling with his bracelets (which, Chan can now see, are numerous and all distinctly different) cocks his head. “Get the Pocari Sweat, hyung.”
Hey, that’s my favourite drink , Chan thinks distantly.
“Got it. And the fruits?” Seungcheol pads to the doorway Jeonghan had come from, behind the couch. He stops and squeezes Jeonghan’s shoulder; it’s painfully obvious that it’s a practiced gesture.
“Yes, bring that out too,” Jeonghan orders. “So, Chan-ah. Tell me more about yourself?”
Chan is suddenly glad he’s sitting down, because his knees go weak, whether it be because of Jeonghan’s sly smile, like he knows something no one else does, or the way Jeonghan lays a delicate, cold hand on the nape of Chan’s neck.
“Well, um. You kinda know most of it. I’m going to SNU for dance, starting in the fall. That’s why I, y’know, I contacted you about the room. I transferred this spring.” Chan swallows. “I have a younger brother, and parents, back in Iksan.” He hesitates. “I don’t—Is there anything specific you want to know?”
Jeonghan regards him for a heartstopping second. “Mmm, I guess everything we need to know will be revealed in time.”
Chan blinks. Um. Right. “Um, right,” he says aloud. “Sure.”
“Maybe it’ll be more useful for us to tell you about ourselves,” Jeonghan considers. “Seungcheol and Mingyu you’ve already met, and Soonyoungie was kind enough to meet you at the door for me. Let’s see, we also have Junhui, and Myungho. Joshuji and Jihoonie and Wonwoo as well.” Jeonghan counts off on his fingers, and Chan feels vaguely sick. “Seokminnie and Seungkwan make up the rest of the sunshine trio, along with this tiger here.” Jeonghan nods at Soonyoung, who only giggles. “And then Hansollie, who was the baby up until you showed up!”
Chan’s head is whirling, and he can only manage a faint nod and a polite, airless chuckle.
Jeonghan’s smile takes on an edge of pity. “It’s a lot. It’ll be easier to remember when they’re down here, don’t worry.”
“What do you, um,” Chan starts, daring to ask a question. “What do you do, hyung?”
He thinks he hears Soonyoung stifle a snort, but when he looks, the only evidence is the glittering mirth that's semi-permanent in Soonyoung’s eyes.
“I do my best, Chan-ah.”
Silence falls over the room, Chan bewildered, Jeonghan expectant, and Soonyoung amused.
“He leeches off my generosity,” Seungcheol’s voice says from behind. His tone is fond despite the words. He rounds the couch, holding a tray overflowing with fruits, bottled drinks, including two dripping-with-ice-cold-condensation Pocari Sweats, and a pitcher of barley tea.
Jeonghan gasps. “How dare you, Cheol-ah. I do very well for myself, thank you very much. Here, Chan, have some fruits.” He arranges some fruits in a bowl Seungcheol holds out, which is strange, because Seungcheol shouldn't have had the hands to bring in cutlery along with the tray.
“Oh, thank you.” Chan accepts the bowl gratefully. He chooses a watermelon cube, pops it in his mouth, and is blasted with the juiciest, most refreshing taste of watermelon he had ever encountered.
“Seungkwan grows a lot of stuff in his greenhouse, and in the backyard,” Soonyoung explains. “He’s a veritable green thumb.”
“Woah,” Chan says around a mouthful of juice. “It’s really good.” He pops a ginormous green grape in his mouth and is nearly bowled over by how sweet it is.
Jeonghan smiles. “Seungkwan will be glad to hear that.”
“Seungkwan will be glad to hear what?” A new, defensive voice rings out. A man with ink black hair and a green sweater vest walks into the room. He’s got round cheeks and a forlorn pout on his face. He’s adorable.
“Ah, Seungkwan-ah! Hyung was just introducing Chan to your produce.” Jeonghan gestures for Seungkwan to come over with a delicate wave of his hand. “Chan is our renter for the next year, you remember, right?”
Seungkwan’s pout disappears, and is quickly filled in with a bashful smile. “Ah, it’s nice to meet you, Chan.”
“Hi, Seungkwan-ssi. The fruits you grew are really, really good.” Chan can’t help but glance down into his bowl, already craving another grape.
Seungkwan’s shy smile blossoms further, until Seungkwan is grinning widely and filling his corner of the room with a metaphorical brightness. “Really? I’m glad. It’s been pretty touch and go with some of them, ‘cause of—a freak frost, but I’m happy they’re still delicious.”
Chan nods up at him, cheeks already bulging with peaches. “ Really, really good,” he repeats.
Jeonghan chuckles from beside him, and then a wet napkin is being pressed delicately to the corners of his mouth. “No one's fighting you for them, Chan-ah, slow down.” With soft motions, Jeonghan wipes the sweet, sticky juices from Chan’s cheeks. “And I thought I told you to call us hyung,” he continues, chiding.
Chan ducks his head, feeling a hot blush spread across his face. He hopes his bangs can cover it.
Seungkwan gasps, and then a warm body settles into the couch beside him. “You’re younger than me? When’s your birthday?”
“1999,” Chan replies.
Soonyoung snorts. “I don’t know why that’s even a quest—” Seungcheol smacks the back of his head, shoots him a look.
Guess Seungkwan is touchy about his age, Chan thinks. He files that away under things to not bring up around his new housemates.
“Ey,” Seungkwan chides. “Hyung is fine, okay?’
“Okay, hyung,” Chan agrees. He’s not arguing with someone who can grow the sweetest produce on this side of the Han river.
Seungkwan makes a strangled noise, and grips Chan’s wrist lightly. His touch is bird-like, delicate, warm—everything about Seungkwan is warm, Chan quickly learns. “You’re so cute, Channie.”
Chan feels his blush, which had previously been shrinking, come back tenfold, spreading down his neck. “Th…thank you?”
Seungcheol takes a piece of pineapple and shoves it into Seungkwan’s mouth. Over Seungkwan’s indignant spluttering, he reprimands, “Don’t tease him. Where is everyone else?”
Seungkwan, with a nasty glare, swallows the fruit in his mouth. “Who knows?” It’s taunting, and Chan almost worries for the inter-house dynamics he has walked into.
“Seungkwan’s always like this, with almost everyone,” Soonyoung, as if sensing Chan’s internal turmoil, leans over and confides at a completely normal volume. “He’s what they would call a brat.”
Seungkwan flings a grape at him. “Hey!”
“Wow, I can’t believe you would waste your precious grape-babies like that.” The tone makes it clear that Soonyoung is mocking something Seungkwan has said.
“You—!”
The two bicker as a pair walks into the living room.
One is Mingyu, sporting a happy grin, and the other is yet another handsome stranger. He’s got sleepy eyes, tan skin, blond and blue hair, and two fistfuls of pebbles.
“Jun’s back!” Mingyu crows. Then, he adds, significantly more subdued, “And he’s brought more rocks.”
“Junnie-hyung!” Seungkwan extracts his hand from Soonyoung’s hair (Chan swears that it was not there the last time he looked, but. Alas.) and jumps up from the couch.
Jun lets Seungkwan hang off his shoulders, bearing the extra weight with nary a glance. “Hello, stranger,” Jun says.
It takes a minute for Chan to realize that Jun—Junhui, Chan strings together the dots—is talking to him. “A-ah, hi. I’m Chan.”
“The renter?” Jun deposits his pebbles on the table with a muted, extended clatter. Then, he reaches into his hoodie pockets and pulls out three more handfuls. They’re various sizes and colours, some still glistening with a sheen of wetness, heaped in a formidable pile next to the fruits.
“Yeah,” Chan replies, distracted by the rocks in front of him. Okay, he thinks. I guess…some people…really appreciate nature. “Um.”
Jun notices his (frankly unabashed) staring. “Oh! These aren’t for me, they’re for a friend.” He waves his hand, as if to say ignore the pile of rocks I’ve brought home, they’re nothing.
That answers no questions. Chan just nods, unsure how to respond.
“Jun likes to hang around the river a lot," Seungcheol says in way of explanation.
“Ah.” Chan is still confused. Whatever. “It’s nice to meet you Jun—” four pairs of eyes whip to look at him. “—hyung,” he finds himself finishing out of fear.
Jun doesn’t find it at all unusual, because he shoots Chan a quick, polite smile. “Nice to meet you too, Lee Chan.”
“I left your bags in your new room,” Mingyu says, looking at Chan with those giant, earnest, puppy-dog eyes.
“Thank you!” Chan dips into an awkward seated bow. “You really didn’t have to, I would’ve brought them up if I knew where it was.”
Mingyu waves him off, taking a slice of apple from the table and sitting beside Jeonghan (Jeonghan, who’s subtly squeezing the back of Chan’s neck, almost subconsciously). “It’s no biggie.”
Chan almost misses the faint pinkness spreading across Mingyu’s face, if it weren’t for the way Seungcheol laughs at him quietly, pushing at his shoulder.
In the commotion (Mingyu shoving at Seungcheol back, Seungkwan going limp in Jun’s arms, Soonyoung shoving half a dragonfruit into his mouth, pink juice pouring in rivers down his neck, Jeonghan chiming in laughter as he holds Soonyoung’s face for Jun to take pictures of) Chan almost misses the next additions to the party.
They were comically juxtaposed, he thinks, one tall and one tiny, but both had the same shocking paleness and broad builds. The taller one is wearing a black zip up and black-rimmed glasses, pale knees poking out from worn gym shorts. The shorter one had chunky headphones slung around his neck and an irritated look on his face.
“Who changed my ringtone to police sirens?” The shorter one complains. “What did I say about touching my stuff?”
“It was Wonwoo,” comes a chorus of replies, fingers pointing to the tall guy, who simply flashes a fox-like smirk.
“Wonwoo—” the shorter guy starts. The pair simply look at each other, and Chan senses that there’s some communication happening that he isn’t privy to. The shorter guy just sighs. “Do you know what it’s like to get spam texted by Seungcheol and your studio sounds like the middle of a car chase?”
“I think you do,” Wonwoo replies cheekily.
The shorter guy looks ready to wind up again, but Chan shifts in his seat, and his head snaps over to the couch at an almost inhuman speed.
“Jihoon, this is Chan.” Jeonghan intervenes. “The new guy.”
Jihoon rocks back on his heels, clearly feeling awkward to be caught out in the middle of the catfight. “Ah. Hello.”
Chan waves back.
“And that’s Wonwoo,” Jeonghan nods at the taller guy.
“Hi, Chan,” Wonwoo smiles. It's cute. Chan would let him get away with anything, he thinks.
The two of them look like siblings, Chan thinks, with their matching ink black hair, smooth cheeks, and cute button noses. Because yes, these guys just had to be hot as hell too. Chan takes a minute to wonder if there were any unattractive people living in this house.
After four more introductions, Chan has to admit to himself that he might be the only unattractive one in the house, which is fine, because yay diversity, but also how in the fuck did Choi Seungcheol find eleven other mindnumbingly hot men to share his house with him? What were the freaking chances of that?
From Vernon Hansol Chwe’s calm, stoic handsomeness, to Xu Minghao’s (“I’m Chinese, but Myungho’s fine, it’s the Korean version and what everyone but Junhui calls me anyway.”) elegant, pointed, delicately elven features, to Joshua’s (“I’m American! Like Vernon.”) gentle, sparkling eyes and mischievous smile, and finally, Seokmin’s radiant grin and strong jawline. (“Yeah, I’m from…Seoul,” Seokmin reveals, leading to laughter that Chan can’t help but get swept up in, laughing until the corners of his eyes hurt.)
It’s dizzying.
Chan’s head is whirling with names, jobs, hobbies, and the faces of twelve of the most attractive and successful men he had ever talked to for longer than three minutes. He learns that Jihoon and Seungcheol are big-name music producers, and that Jeonghan co-owns a handful of clubs in Itaewon, and Seokmin does theatre, both globally and locally. He’s offered bits of Mingyu and Joshua’s dishes for their next catering event (“It’s word of mouth only, so it’s very exclusive,” Jeonghan divulges, winking as Chan tries not to drool over the tastes exploding in his mouth.) and his eyes bulge when Wonwoo reveals that he’s WonShotWonKill, faceless streamer that had everyone swooning over his confident gameplay and consistent wins. Chan has to press his tongue to the back of his teeth to prevent the words “I watch your streams when I should be working!” from spilling from his mouth.
When Vernon finally leads Chan to his room, the promise of a house tour and family dinner ringing faintly in his ears, Chan feels like he’s lived several years in the last hour and a half.
“It’s a lot, I know,” Hansol says, echoing the words Jeonghan said to him earlier as they pad up the stairs. “I remember when I first came here too. The hyung’s were already so well established and secure, you end up feeling small next to them.” Vernon shrugs. “It took a bit to adjust, but I’m glad I stuck with it.”
“Did you move here for school too?” Chan asks, curious.
He doesn’t miss the way Hansol’s eyes flash, as if a joke had been told. “Among other things, sure.”
Chan only hums, looking at the corridor they’ve arrived at with wariness. Some rooms are clearly labelled, such as Soonyoung’s, the chalkboard on the door covered in doodles of tigers in different styles. Some are more subtle in the communication of the owner, such as guitar decal on one, most definitely Joshua’s, who had confessed to be unable to keep his hands from a guitar if the opportunity arose. Some are blank slates, and Chan finds himself wondering what personalities lay behind the doors.
“This is my room,” Hansol says, guiding Chan over to a door left half-ajar. He walks past it, opens the door on the left. “And this is your room.”
Chan gasps. There should be a scientific study on the level of flabbergasted-ness this house and its inhabitants leave on the average person, because Chan’s certain it’s not normal or healthy. The room that’s now his (his! His! His internal voice squeals) is huge, larger than the pictures on the website suggest, outfitted with a queen bed, a desk, and a giant, empty, oak bookshelf Chan hadn’t seen in the photos. There’s a window on the far side, one that overlooks a part of Seungkwan’s garden, a lush collection of various greens and pinks and yellows. A mirrored sliding door, perfect for practicing his choreos at home, hides a closet, and the ensuite bathroom boasts a sleek, modern tub that he cannot wait to soak in. His various bags are waiting for him by his desk; his backpack, in particular, thoughtfully placed on the desk chair instead of the ground.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, running his hands through the silk sheets. “How—Wh—How much money does Seungcheol have?” Enough to outfit the spare room with luxurious amenities.
“We all make a bit more money then we know how to spend,” Vernon shrugs. “So we sink it into random stuff.”
“Like this room?” Chan doesn’t dare sully the pristine bed with his clothes, so he sinks to the ground onto the plush rug.
“Like charities and scholarships,” Vernon corrects. “Your room was a necessity.”
“God,” Chan breathes. He has to put his head between his knees to ward off the rushing blood in his ears. He gets it now, what Vernon was saying. How, standing in a giant room in a giant house, living off the generosity of one Choi Seungcheol (because how else was the rent so cheap that even Lee Chan, who did well on his own but was no veritable millionaire, could live comfortably within these walls?) could make you feel impossibly tiny and underdeveloped.
A warm body settles on the floor beside him; presses against his side. Vernon is quiet, simply waiting for Chan to come back to his senses, and Chan finds that that's what he needs. With every breath they take together, a strange sense of calm settles over him.
“Sorry for freaking out,” Chan chuckles, not a trace of humour in his voice.
Hansol only hums. “It’s overwhelming, I know, but I hope you find a home here. I think you’d make a great addition to our family.”
Chan half-expects another near-panic attack but all he feels is… calm. The scent of burnt sugar is strong even here, and Chan unconsciously inhales more of it. “Thank you,” he replies earnestly.
“And,” Hansol continues. “It’s nice to have someone younger than me in the house.” He grins, rustles his hand in Chan’s hair.
Chan can only laugh, comforted both by Hansol’s warm words and the affectionate head pat. “Thanks, Hansol-hyung.”
“Anytime. I’m just next door if you need anything, okay?” Hansol gets up, extends his hand out which Chan takes gladly. “Take your time unpacking—oh! Here, give me your number, I’ll text you everyone else's."
After Hansol ducks out from his room with a, “Mingyu will shout when dinner’s ready, so keep your ear out, okay?” Chan finds himself alone in his new room, in his new house, with his new housemates.
He saves everyone in his phone meticulously, and then immediately rustles through the suitcase he knows has his pajamas inside. A quick shower later, and Chan is refreshed and smelling like lavender and much more relaxed about everything (who knew lavenders could have such an immediate effect?). He decides that it would be the perfect time to unpack.
The clothes he has are dwarfed by the size of the closet, his meagre belongings engulfed by the sheer size of it all. He squints his eyes at the way his puny collection of hung-up jackets and shirts seem out of place, the negative space glaringly contrasted. Well, he’ll fix that later.
He sets up his laptop, plugs in the charger, loads up his school website, and checks the start date of his classes, just to make sure they didn’t move them without Chan knowing (they didn’t). In ten days, Chan thinks, he’s about to start—like really start—the new stage of his life.
It should be nervewracking. It should give him hives, the way it has for the last month he’s thought about it. Going from business major— not his first choice, but the choice he begrudgingly allowed himself—to dance, the way he had always dreamed, was scary enough. Moving to a whole new city for it? Pursuing it academically, to be graded and challenged on the way he moved? Puke-inducing.
He’s laying on the bed, half disassociating and half considering if he should call his family, when a knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” Chan calls out, sitting up. His damp hair flops in front of his eyes, sending a draft of lavender into his nose, and he brushes it away with an irritated shake.
“Hi.” It’s Minghao, poking his head in with wide, curious eyes. “Mingyu told me to come tell you that dinner’s ready.”
“Already?”
Minghao treads in, coming right up to the edge of Chan’s bed. “Mhm. How’re you finding everything? Need anything?”
Chan musters up a smile, finds that it’s easier than he thought it would be. “I had a little bit of a freak out with Vernon-hyung, but it’s all cool now.”
“I’m glad. I know it can be really loud, y’know, twelve people at once. When I first moved here, I barely spoke Korean, and even with Junhui, the language barrier was like the Great Wall of China—literally.” He lifts a hand up and slowly, with enough time for Chan to move away, brushes damp strands away from Chan’s face. “I adjusted though. I wouldn’t change anything. I hope you can find that solace, too.” He smiles, a small, warm thing.
Chan smiles back, grateful, and presses into Minghao’s gentle touch. Minghao seems—otherwordly, to say the least, and it pulls Chan in like a star’s undeniable orbit. He had gentle eyes but a strong voice, and carried himself with an almost unnatural grace. “Thanks, Myungho-hyung.”
Minghao’s eyes scrunch as the corner of his lips lift another centimetre. “Mm.”
“Mingyu said I should call you guys down for dinner.” Seokmin pokes his head in, and then Soonyoung, stacked on each other like peas in a pod.
Chan doesn't miss the way Minghao’s face twists into annoyance. “What did he think I was doing up here?”
“Yeah, but it's taking so loooong,” Soonyoung whines.
Seokmin winks at Chan, and Chan’s stomach and heart switch places. “And we’re all waiting on the guest of honour.”
Chan’s cheeks could be used to sear wagyu. Or at least a nice Hanwoo steak. “Aish, hyung, don't exaggerate,” he brushes off with a playful scoff.
“CHAN! DINNER!” The almost comical timing of Wonwoo’s deep voice cuts through the moment. “AND BRING THE OTHERS WITH YOU!”
Soonyoung and Seokmin snicker. “See,” Seokmin teases, reaching out to playfully tap at Chan’s shoulder. “Wonwoo never gets that loud.”
Minghao snorts, eyes glimmering with an untold joke, but Chan is already being whisked away by Soonyoung’s insistent hands before he can comment.
Distantly, he notices that his hair has somehow dried preternaturally fast.
The dinner table is covered in dishes, steaming fish and glossy chicken, rich stews and bright veggies. The fragrant smell hits Chan quickly and he has to clamp his mouth shut against the drool threatening to overflow. There’s some people already there, setting up utensils (Vernon) or lounging around (Jeonghan).
“Woah,” he murmurs. “It looks really good.”
Mingyu, clad in a bright pink, frilly apron covered in Hello Kittys, places down the last plate of jeyuk and beams at him. “Thank you! We didn’t know your preferences or allergies, so we just made a bit of everything. You don’t have to worry about peanuts though, ‘cause Vernon’s allergic.”
Chan is guided to a seat in the middle of the long, rectangular table. “No allergies,” he confirms. “And I’ll eat anything you put in front of me. Especially if you cook it.” Chan feels like he’s stepped into that scene from Spirited Away, where the parents pig out on luscious looking dishes stacked to the ceiling. He says as much, and everyone laughs.
“It is a lot of food, isn’t it?” Jeonghan agrees. He’s sitting next to Seungcheol, who sits at the head of the table. “We don’t often have family meals of us all together. Thirteen men means twenty-something portions of everything.”
“Especially with these appetites,” Seungkwan laughs, meaningfully shoving at Mingyu before taking a seat next to Hansol at the other end of the table.
“As long as it’s not enchanted to turn me into a pig or anything like that, I’m grateful,” Chan snickers.
“No, no pigs,” Jeonghan reassures, eyes sparkling.
Chan misses the glances Seungkwan and Vernon exchange.
“Do you want plain rice or fried rice, Chan-ah?” Joshua asks, sweeping into the dining room from who knows where with a collection of steaming bowls of rice. He’s also donning a cute apron, blue with flying Cinnamarolls and soft white clouds, his cheeks steamed pink and glowing from the kitchen heat.
Together, Mingyu and Josh make an absolute adorable pair of cooks.
“Anything is fine,” Chan hastily makes room for the bowl of rice plopped down in front of him. “Thank you, hyung.”
Joshua doles out a quick shoulder pat, before handing out the rest of the bowls. The seats fill up in no time, drinks are passed around, and finally, Seungcheol is standing with a beer glass in one hand, Jeonghan’s fingers clasped in the other.
Seokmin whistles, cheering. “Seungcheol-hyung’s giving a speech!”
The others whoop, Soonyoung pumping his fist in the air and making siren noises.
Seungcheol just grins, boyish, and waits for the noise to die down. “Alright, okay. I just wanted to give some formal words of welcome to Chan.” Seungcheol locks eyes with him, and Chan melts. His gaze is steady, warm, happy. Chan wants to drown in it. “We’re all really excited to have you here with us now, and let me be the first to say that I hope you find a home, and friends, with us here, the way we all have.” He smiles, and Chan feels his insides turn ooey gooey.
Minghao protests, “I said that already!”
“Hansol said it before any of you did!” Seungkwan complains, defending the boy next to him, who just gazes up at him with soft eyes.
“Who cares who said what, when,” Jihoon says over everyone. He swirls his wine glass around, the dark red liquid inside sloshing with the force of his words. “Let’s just eat!”
The others cheer, and glasses are clinked and drinks are drained. Chan feels buoyed, light, and it’s not just because of the somaek Mingyu had poured him. Seungcheol sits down, a pout already forming on his face that Jeonghan and Joshua both laugh at.
“I thought your speech was very impressive, Cheol,” Joshua placates. He deftly places some rare steak on Seungcheol’s plate.
Seungcheol laughs, his entire mood suddenly shifted by the sweet praise Joshua gives out like water. “Right? I thought so.”
Chan is both fascinated and amused by the clear puppy-dogness of his new, oldest housemate, and he says so to Jun, who’s on his right.
Jun snorts into his rice. “Trust me,” he says, laughing. “You don’t know half of it.”
“Sooo,” Mingyu starts, drawing Chan’s attention away. “Hannie-hyung says you’re starting school soon?”
“I’m actually transferring into SNU.” Chan nods as the table ooh’s. “I went from business to dance,” he explains.
“That’s so cool!” Seungkwan gushes. “Do you have any videos?”
Chan digs his phone out from his pocket, thinking about what he wants to show. He finds the video of him in his dad’s studio with a couple of his friends, weeks before he got that fateful email that shifted his whole future about two hours north. It’s laidback, fun, their laughter and cheers sometimes drowning out the background track entirely. Chan misses it with an ache that can’t exactly be pinpointed.
“You guys are really good,” Minghao comments, chin bumping against Chan’s shoulder as he huddles closer. Some of them had gotten up to crowd around the small screen, while others kept still, simply smiling and laughing at the reactions.
“Myungho would know,” Mingyu says, slinging an arm around Minghao’s shoulders. “He used to b-boy.”
Chan twists so he can look up at Minghao. “You used to b-boy?”
Minghao, unexpectedly, blushes lightly and giggles. “Yeah, a long time ago. I can show you in the studio later.”
Chan contorts his body fully, and finds himself reaching out to grab the sleeve of Minghao’s sleeve. “You have a studio?!” he hisses, eyes wide.
“It’s in the basement.” Minghao nods. “Me and Soonyoung use it when we feel like it.”
Chan has a feeling that a sore neck is in his future as he whips around to stare at Soonyoung, who is on the edge of the huddle. “You dance too?!”
Soonyoung lights up. “Mhm! For fun, usually learning K-pop choreos n’ stuff. Sometimes my dance friends ask for help choreographing and I lend a hand.”
Chan settles back into his seat, once again in disbelief about how perfect this house, and everyone in it, is.
“Aish, stop gawking, Channie,” Jeonghan tuts, the smile curving over his face as pretty as the sunrise. “Eat a shrimp.” He leans over the table to shove a peeled piece of shrimp in Chan’s wide-open-in-shock mouth.
“Ack–ah–” Chan almost drops it, but saves the morsel at the last moment. “Thanks, Jeonghan-hyung.”
The others laugh, and the cloud of people disperses around him, everyone taking their seats again. The dinner commences without much other fanfare, and Chan soon finds himself at the receiving end of both questions and the best pieces of food, dropped right into his bowl—or even his mouth.
“Have you ever been to Seoul before?” Wonwoo asks as Mingyu sneaks the luscious cheek meat of the steamed fish into Chan’s bowl.
“What was school in Iksan like?” Seokmin questions as Seungcheol tops up Chan’s glass with the best beer on the table.
“Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon?” Soonyoung interrogates as Seungkwan makes a whole fuss about gifting a cracked open and peeled crab leg to Chan.
Yeah, he doesn’t know what to make about that one either, but he finds himself cackling about it anyway.
He starts to notice a pattern. One hyung will ask a polite question (or in Soonyoung-hyung’s case, something straight up bizarre) and another will put food in his bowl, or mouth, or glass, and the double attack leaves him so flustered that he can barely do much else other than accept it.
“No, no, it’s alright, I can do it,” Chan tries to protest against Joshua’s prewrapped bossam.
Joshua shoots him an exasperated look, one that speaks of years of practice shoving food at his dongsaengs.
“Ah, yep, okay, thank you,” Chan quickly demures, holding his bowl out and his neck at a forty-five degree angle to show his gratitude. He even leans into it, pretending that he’s a mere subject receiving an honoured gift. “Your Majesty, this lowly one cannot thank you enough,” he simpers.
It makes Joshua, Jeonghan, and Minghao giggle, and the bubbly sound is enough to push past any humiliation he’s feeling about his performance. Not to mention that it makes Seokmin, who was getting up for some reason or other, clasp a firm hand around Chan’s neck in approval.
“Yeah, you’ll do just fine here,” he assures, laughing with glee.
Chan can’t help but grin, the warmth blossoming in his chest and rapidly spreading outward.