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it starts like this.
with felix curled up on his thigh, eyelashes fluttering, his eyes closed, softly snoring. his phone is slack in his grip, half-falling out of his hand, onto the couch cushions.
chan’s already pulled a blanket over him. already pushed the strand of fried blonde hair out of his mouth and instead behind his ear. has already carded his fingers through felix’s hair and massaged the behind of his neck, just to hear the quiet snorting huffs of pleasure felix lets out when he does.
it’s the sort of sounds that chan stores in the corner of his brain and brings out only late at night, works himself up over those sounds but also trying to not
think
about felix—but not right now. chan shakes his head, like he can shake those thoughts away.
he shouldn’t think about that right now, with felix curling into his side, so trusting. he’d batted his eyes at chan and asked if he’d
mind
that felix was tired, and fell asleep half-laying on his thigh, half on the couch. chan didn’t say no, didn’t mind.
felix had smiled at him, said he was so
nice.
chan isn’t nice. not really. he’s greedy. that’s why he says
yes
to felix when he should say
no.
why he waits for felix to fall asleep in his lap before reaching for felix's phone, to calm the burning in his chest, the lurch of emotion in his gut he hasn’t been able to shrug off.
chan breathes in. his heart pounds, a beating in his chest that belays the way his stomach turns. felix sighs into his thigh, rubs his head into him. the touch is
electric.
he plays with the ends of felix’s hair, sighs at the little snuffle felix lets out, as if in response to chan’s touch.
it’s not like there’s anyone here to see this. no cameras, no managers, no seungmin. It’s just them.
just them, so chan lets himself rest a possessive hand on felix’s hip, lets himself toy with the hem of felix’s shirt. well, technically chan’s shirt, but felix stole it, and chan never bothered to take it back. that felix is curled up to him wearing chan’s shirt and his own boxers is a temptation he has to ignore, push to the back of his head because felix isn’t
his.
well. he is. really, all of them, all his boys, are. they’re his boys.
but felix is especially—his. he’s greedy, maybe, too greedy, but it’s fine, so long as felix doesn’t
know
about it. he knows some, a little, but felix doesn’t know the
depth
of it all. doesn’t know he saved chan’s life, like the other’s, but more. doesn’t know that chan needs him sometimes in a way that makes his chest ache, to the point that chan can’t
speak
about it. he barely tries to think about it. (instead buries it in a corner of his brain that he only lets himself think about when felix is
asleep
like this.)
so really,
it’s not felix’s fault that he doesn’t know.
chan doesn’t want him to know.
felix doesn’t need to be burdened with the knowledge really. of being
wanted,
not by chan. (well that too.) but wanted by
others.
(outsiders.) there are the people chan trusts around felix, his members, their families, their management (reluctantly), their dancers.
but not
everyone.
and certainly not a
japanese boxer who posts far too much
about how much he loves
chan’s
felix
.
not a japanese boxer who only posts felix’s solo work in his instagram stories, who walks out to one of felix’s songs. (chan’s seen the video. how could he not?) and not a japanese boxer who refuses to stay out of felix’s dms.
even if felix doesn’t even reply. (which is like maybe, probably, 75% percent because of chan’s actions. but really. felix would if he wanted. he doesn’t. chan knows this.)
it’s not felix’s fault—that chan’s like this. felix is lovely. too lovely.
chan is a lot of things to felix. he’s his
hyung,
his australian brother, his leader. only that. because that’s all he can be, because he can’t be more, buries those thoughts and
wants
deep in his brain.
felix’s phone hits the couch cushion with a muted
thud.
too tempting now, the dark screen against the grey couch, felix’s phone almost slipping between the cushions. careless really, but felix has never really
cared.
it makes the burning in chan’s chest worse, with the knowledge that felix probably wouldn’t
mind.
all chan needs to do is
check.
he just needs to see.
it’s his duty really, as a leader. (it’s not.) (it really isn’t.) (chan just can’t help himself.)
chan huffs, toys with the hem of felix’s shirt, one last time, touches the exposed skin of his hip bone. and then—like an addict, he eyes felix’s phone. just laying there.
when he grabs it, he can rationalize it’s because he doesn’t want it to drop in between the cushions or on the floor. (felix drops it all the time, so it won’t break. probably. but—why risk it?) chan reaches out. gently, carefully, as to not wake felix, tugs it from between felix’s two fingers and the couch.
it’s warm, in his hand, felix’s phone looks small. because it’s always with felix, and felix has tiny hands and it makes his phone look big. intellectually, chan knows this. his sweet, slender, felix. graceful and lithe, delicate bird bones, and curled in chan’s arms, against his bulk, he looks even more slender.
he needs to be
protected.
really, it’s chan’s job.
he’s the leader. felix is his
member.
he’s the hyung, felix is his dongsaeng.
chan’s just—being a good, responsible leader, a good hyung. (at least that’s what he’s trying to convince himself of. But deep down he knows, knows he’s overstepping, that he shouldn’t; that he should
stop.
he hasn’t. he can’t.)
chan clicks the side button, watches the screen turn on.
one last chance to turn back—but he won’t.
he already knows it, fingers hovering over the screen, keying in the numbers that have been burned into his brain from all the times in the past week he’s been checking. in the studio, when felix leaves his phone on the couch,
chan’s
couch. in the dance practice room, when felix left his phone in his hoodie that he threw over the desk where the computer-sound system is. the restaurant, when felix went to the bathroom. when felix was in the shower.
chan can rationalize it (maybe.) it’s not like felix would mind (he leaves his phone unlocked
most of the time in the dorms, when they aren’t around cameras, in private.) and if he did, well, felix has never been able to keep his phone password from chan. he alternates between like, three, and chan knows all of them.)
felix’s phone opens with the instagram app already up. He’s mid-watching a reel, and chan casually mutes the sound. for the sake of felix’s sleep. (it’s not. really. because felix wouldn’t mind—probably—but chan can’t risk it, can’t risk him waking up to his phone in chan’s hand.)
he navigates to felix’s dms on autopilot, body moving before he can start thinking too hard about how he’s doing this instinctively. scrolls down, past
nicolas,
who is firmly just a friend to felix, brands, messages from different members of their dancer team.
he’s barely scrolled past three people before he seems him: kota miura. verified. a mma fighter. he’s not shirtless in his profile picture, not anymore. five instagram stories. chan’s seen them already, with his throwaway account. knows that the man’s used unfair twice in the past 48 hours. he’s
desperate
for chan’s boy.
chan’s felix.
chan notes that with the same mild amusement he has when a group that was talking shit about his boys struggles to get into the top 100 on melon. it elicits the same kind of emotion, really. after all, felix ends up spending time with
chan
regardless. (chan makes sure of that, if he can’t have felix—well no one else deserves felix either.)
felix groans into his thigh, a soft sound, legs moving slightly. chan hums, runs his left hand through felix’s hair even as he taps onto the dms from kota miura. sighs to himself.
unread: there’s ten. chan exhales, breathes through his nose, licks his bottom teeth with his tongue.
chan does smirk, just a little seeing that they’re all unread. it’s not like felix even uses his instagram dms, ever. but he would have seen the notifications. that he didn’t click on them—well.
felix never ignores
chan.
ever.
that he hasn’t looked at a single message this
kota miura
has sent, well, it just proves that he isn’t interested.
good.
if he was, well. chan has his ways, honed in the years after their debut, when felix was the sort of
young
pretty that made sunbaes look at him and
flirt.
but he doesn’t have to do that.
but that doesn’t mean that chan will just
leave
the messages there. unread or read. he thumbs the first one he sees, some
yellow
hearts. deletes it.
felix prefers blue. not that
kota miura
would know that.
the next message a polite sounding request if felix is ever in japan if he’d want to go out for lunch or dinner. chan deletes that with a mental note to remind their managers that they
need
to disclose to him when his members are out when they’re abroad. just for their protection. so he knows.
scrolling up the next few messages are pretty tame. full of
hellos
and
saw your performance
and
wish i could go to your tokyo show.
chan deletes them anyways.
scrolls past more, past a text in japanese, then english, then korean. deletes all of them, doesn’t even linger on them.
clicks his tongue reading a message that goes
hey if you ever wanted to come to one of my matches you’ve got a permanent invite.
chan grits his teeth at that. debates the merits of flying to japan just to punch the
fucker
in the face. (he can’t. but he wants to.)
it’s not a rational thought. but chan isn’t really thinking rationally right now.
if felix wants to watch someone box he has
chan
for that. not
kota miura.
chan grits his teeth, tongue pushing against his cheek. looks down at felix—traces the curve of his brow with his left hand, the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheek. felix is with
him.
the thought soothes, even if there’s a twisted feeling in his stomach as to why. protectiveness, not love, chan tries to convince himself—that’s all it is. he’s just doing his job. as the leader. as the eldest. felix shouldn’t be going to mma events, meeting men for dinner that chan doesn’t know by himself. that’s
dangerous.
he breathes out.
deletes that with even more vigor than he would normally—freezes when felix’s head moves against his thigh. his mouth opens, red-pink lips popping open in a soft sigh, tongue licking the corner of his lip.
“uh,
chris,”
felix’s voice is low, gravely, thick from sleep. chan places his hand on his head, cards his fingers through the long strands of hair, “d-didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
chan clears his throat, “it’s okay, little one. i don’t mind.” felix’s face is still buried against his thigh.
chan looks down at him, smiles. then back to felix’s phone, where he presses on one last message saying
nice post
or something lame like that, and presses delete on instinct. (there. done. something in chan’s chest untwists.)
and felix grumbles. quietly, the sort of sound he makes when he wants chan’s attention. he rubs his head into chan’s thigh, like a particularly needy cat.
“chris,” he sighs out in english, “what are you doing?” the words slur together, “is that m’ phone?”
“hmm?
oh,
nothing,” chan smiles at him, closes out of instagram, “it just almost fell. that’s all, lixie.”
“mmhm—okay, channie hyung,” when felix looks up at chan he blinks, his freckles are scattered across his cheeks like stars. chan doesn’t feel guilty. (well—the lingering annoyance in his veins from
kota miura
beats out the guilt, crushes it.)
he places the phone back into felix’s hands. felix hums, rubs his head into chan’s stomach. the touch makes chan
burn.
it always does—felix’s body touching his, the deliberate press of it. now that felix is awake—chan banishes the thought away.
the way he always does. he’s just
hyung,
just leader, just
chris.
that’s all he is to felix.
(all he can let himself be. right now. chan can’t let himself think otherwise, the what if, not when felix is awake. laying on him.)
felix sighs out, picks up his phone from the couch. when he opens it back up, chan peers over his shoulder. can’t help himself, really.
felix opens instagram. if he notices something—he doesn’t say anything. he curls up closer into chan though.
chan rests his hand on felix’s shoulder. breathes out.
“feel better, channie hyung?” felix murmurs, chan hears the faint sound of a reel, a volume button pressed, “you seemed…worried. earlier.”
chan huffs, “yeah. you always make me feel better, lixie. my little sunshine,” his heart pangs a little at just how
true
that is, the layers to it that felix doesn’t know, shouldn’t know. (chan hopes he doesn’t know.)
that’s chan’s burden. his—
want
for felix. his greed.
even if he doesn’t want to admit it, think it. that’s what it is. maybe. eventually. chan buries the thought back down, until the next time felix is asleep in his arms.
"good," felix grumbles out, "don't like it when my channie hyung feels that way."
chan hums an acknowledgement, heart beating just a little faster. runs his hand through felix’s hair. felix’s lips brush against his thigh, and the touch burns. chan is greedy, oh so greedy for it. but, he can’t. they can’t.
felix sighs, further relaxing into chan’s arms. tugs one of chan’s hands towards his hair, a silent demand. chan complies, keeps running his fingers through felix’s hair, caressing him.
and maybe it’s fucked, maybe just a little to think it, but if chan can’t let himself have felix—well. no other man, and certainly not
kota miura,
can have him either.
chan leans down, kisses felix’s forehead.
felix smiles up at him, bats his lashes, and in a high, gremlin voice, goes "'nother one, chris. please?"
chan is helpless to say no. and maybe felix does know what he's doing to chan, just maybe. chan kisses his cheek. right over his freckles. smiles back. felix squeezes his thigh.
and chan lets himself be content. with just, this.