Chapter Text
Chan glimpsed his first shadow of what would one day be Stray Kids years before debut in the form of a bright-eyed new kid with round cheeks distorted into a snarl, blocking the way through the company halls.
“You don’t belong here,” was ringing in Chan’s ears as he turned the corner and stumbled into a fight between younger trainees.
“Excuse me?” the boy whose name Chan would soon learn was Jisung said.
“You don’t belong here,” the other trainee said. “Come on, man. It took three times as long in that dance practice because you didn’t know what you were doing. And look at you! You don’t even care.”
“Don’t tell me what I care about,” Jisung spat.
The trainee snorted. “You won’t last with that attitude.”
“Yeah? I’ll show you when—”
“Whatever,” the trainee said, turning on his heel, “just stop wasting my time.”
It was a fight Chan had seen happen again and again in the practice rooms and back at the dorms. Stress from their training bled into annoyance at small things others did, and before long, those insecurities were put out on display. The words may be the same, the complaints the same, but there was something more in this argument. Chan didn’t know either of the trainees, but by the tone of their voices, it sounded more personal. More raw.
Before Jisung could go after the kid, fists clenched and sharp retort hanging on his tongue, Chan reached out, grabbing the sharp curve of his thin shoulder. Jisung whipped around, glaring at Chan.
“What do you want?” Jisung snapped.
Chan stopped in his tracks. It was years before their first step out, far before anyone from the company had approached Chan about leading his own project group, but here he was—a fire in his eyes and a magnetism Chan couldn’t deny—Chan’s very first Stray Kid.
“Hey,” Chan said, hand still on Jisung’s shoulder. “I’m Chan. You want to come with me?”
Back then, Chan was still obsessed with the idea of becoming exactly who the company wanted him to be. If he trained enough, dieted enough, just did better, he’d become JYP’s perfect tool and they would have to debut him. He’d already seen his seniors, his friends, leave one by one to go on stage or to disappear from the spotlight completely. He knew he had what it took, but he needed to show them that. Chan didn’t want to disappear.
But something about meeting Jisung and watching him perform at monthly evaluations and late night practice sessions made Chan realize that he would never be the perfect idol. He could only suppress his own creations for so long, the endless stream of beats and demos filling up his computer threatening to spill over. His harmless smile was breaking, his innocent facade. Chan wanted more, wanted to be surrounded by more. He saw that something more in the way Jisung saw the world.
Jisung moved through company like a loner, nervous and on edge, prone to biting comments and small spats. But he was good. Not just in the raw talent he had in the diction and speed of the raps that had gotten him into the company, but in the creative instincts he fell back on when his memory for lyrics and choreography failed. That was what gave Chan an idea.
“What’s up Hyung?” Jisung said as he met Chan in one of the vocal practice rooms one night.
“Oh, so you did get my text,” Chan said, pulling up a chair next to him.
“Sorry,” Jisung said, scratching the back of his neck. “I slept in again.”
“Up late?”
“Trying to get my evaluation piece ready but…” Jisung shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“That’s actually kind of what I wanted to talk to you about,” Chan said. He brought his computer out of his bag, flipping it open. The editing software was still up on the screen, three projects in different tabs. “You do better with your own stuff than you do with covers. I mean, the covers are a great way to show off your voice, sure. But they’ve heard it by now. It isn’t new, it’s just getting by.”
Jisung frowned. “What you mean, getting by?”
“It’s normal. What everyone does. You’re a great singer, but that isn’t your thing, is it?” Chan said.
“I—” Jisung started, but then shut his mouth, glancing at Chan’s laptop. “What are those?”
“Tracks I’ve been working on,” Chan said. “You’re a lyricist.”
Jisung’s frown wavered. “Nobody’s ever called me that,” he said.
“You’re a lyricist,” Chan repeated, “and I make tracks. How about we work together this month? I’ve been itching to hear someone rap over this and I can’t get it to sound right on my own.”
Jisung swallowed, looking between Chan and the screen. “I—I mean—You can’t actually—”
Chan smiled. He saw it there, again, the fire in Jisung’s eyes. The determination to be more than what others expected him to be, and the fear that he would fail. It was everything Chan felt but had ignored until he saw it reflected in this other kid’s dreams.
“Please say yes,” Chan said. “I made these for you.”
Jisung looked like he wanted to protest. To say that he’d gotten so used to watching everyone else interact from the edges that he no longer knew how to work with others. But instead, he smiled tentatively and said, “let’s hear them.”
3Racha was what Chan wanted. It is creativity and independence. It is another path to the goal he’d cherished for so long. After Changbin joined company, he became the writing partner Jisung needed to bounce ideas off of, a peer to push Jisung to do better.
Jisung and Chan made some good stuff when it was just the two of them, but despite Chan’s presence having a somewhat calming influence on Jisung’s character, he was still too volatile alone. Jisung was all or nothing—felt everything too hard and too hot. He teetered between angry tears, furious pen notes on the margins of notebooks, and the silence of days under covers without returning texts.
That energy was what spurred Chan on for months, but it got too much to handle by himself.
Changbin was steadier than Jisung, more grounded and more willing to make practice the way to work at a goal than waiting for inspiration to strike. That more constant presence coaxed Jisung out of his room more often and encouraged him to finish projects more often than he had before. The healthy rivalry they forged through audio notes and exchanging lyrics was the foundation of 3Racha’s growing discography.
A growing discography that made them quite well-known at company.
“Where’s Jisung?” Chan asked as Changbin joined him in his dorm room.
Changbin sighed. “Hiding,” he said. “Again.”
“Hiding from?”
“I don’t even know his name. Some guy in his dance class, I don’t know. ‘Sungie just called him, face too pretty for his own good when he texted me.”
“Okay,” Chan said, slowly. “What happened with pretty face?”
“Probably nothing, but he never tells me these things,” Changbin said. “I saw it once, last week. Different guy I think, ‘cus this guy’s visuals, well—anyway, this guy made a comment about our last release and he just lost it. Walked out of class entirely. Teacher was pissed.”
“Jisung said himself there were things to work on with that release,” Chan said.
“Yeah,” Changbin said, “but that’s very different from his classmate saying so.”
“Did you talk to him?”
Changbin made a face. “He thinks it’s a personality trait, to be an idiot.”
“Bin—”
“There’s something he doesn’t like talking to us about,” Changbin said. His voice got softer, the way it did when he was deep into writing lyrics and asking about how best to express his emotions on the page. “And then he thinks he needs to hide behind whatever version of himself is under his covers right now.”
Chan felt it too. The hesitation he sometimes noticed when they performed their songs in front of others and the defensiveness that came out whenever his work was questioned. It wasn’t just ego. It was as if Jisung didn’t see himself as an idol, for whatever reason. He was a performer backstage, a songwriter on the credits, but in front of the gaze of others he crumbled.
“He just needs space,” Chan said.
“No,” Changbin said. “He needs someone to knock his fucking head in.”
The thing was, Chan didn’t think either of them was that someone.
In just a few short years, Chan had a true vision of what Stray Kids would become. The awkward students, the misfits, the ones whose dreams were too big for the roles that JYPE had assigned to them when they arrived. Chan found it was easy to pick out the trainees that were a step or two outside the norm. The ones who felt what it meant to be different and who performed like they had something to prove.
There were a few meetings with upper management by then, discussing what the next boy group to debut would be, and how Chan could be the leader of this project group. They talked like suits talked, choosing members based on outward appearances and skills that complemented each other. “It’s about what the group looks like to the public,” one creative director was saying. “Aesthetically, everyone needs to fit. I’ve made a list of dance and vocal specialists that PDnim has been keeping an eye on and which combinations do well with focus groups…”
It was infuriating, but Chan kept his mouth shut during these early meetings. He couldn’t be too loud or too opinionated because this opportunity to peek around the curtain would be taken away in an instant. He was still a trainee, next to nothing. But PDnim liked him, so he was given a chance to be an experiment.
But the further he went along and the more real this project group plan seemed to become, Chan’s confidence grew. “Jeongin works well with Seungmin,” he said during one meeting, trying not to make it clear in his voice how insulting he thought the way they were talking about the boys was.
“Their voice quality is entirely different,” one of the directors said. “They won’t blend.”
“What makes you think I want them to blend?” Chan said. “They’re individuals with unique sounds. The fans will see them like that too.” He didn’t say that the real reason they work well together was what he saw when the directors weren’t there. The way Seungmin helped Jeongin and the way Jeongin made Seungmin relax. The way they laughed as they practiced and encouraged each other. They improved, together.
It wasn’t what surface-level matching bullshit the company wanted to see up on stage, pieced together like a convoluted puzzle that would work in three or five years. It would be the way they leaned on each other backstage, head fitting on each other’s shoulders. The way fears could be whispered into each other’s ears.
It was why he was fighting for Jisung, who still didn’t quite know how to hold himself in front of a crowd, but made the most brilliant music when nobody was watching. And Hyunjin, who was more than just the pretty face Jisung had once claimed he was, working harder than anyone to prove he belonged. Chan was fighting for them both, and the way they found a secret relief in each other’s company.
“They’re two very different centers,” the director was now saying about Jisung and Hyunjin. “They’ll take the spotlight away from each other and it’ll look messy.”
But these suits didn’t see how they made each other smile. At dinner, just the other day, they had devolved the whole table into hysterics, exchanging one-liners and dramatic impersonations of their teachers. After, Jisung had followed Hyunjin back to his parents’ house, and for the rest of the night, Chan got dog photos and descriptions of their midnight snacks sent to his phone.
“He’s like me,” Jisung said the next day in that way that was saying everything and nothing at all.
Chan thought he might know what Jisung was talking about, but didn’t want to push. He was already treading the line between fellow trainee and management and what Jisung wasn’t comfortable telling him wasn’t always because of him.
“Is that why you argued so much?” Chan asked instead. “Or, why you stopped?”
“Both,” Jisung said. “Probably. Though I don’t think either of us knew.”
Chan nodded, not knowing what to say. Not knowing how much of a confession this was for Jisung. All that mattered was that Jisung was smiling, showing more of his heart to others than he had before. He was more willing to put that heart into his music as well.
“I want to debut with him,” Jisung said. Pleaded, without those exact words. It was a wish put into a request to the only one who could do something about it.
Chan remembered those words now that he sat in on this meeting, choosing which battles to fight. “They work better together than they do apart,” Chan said, holding his ground. “I want them both.”
“Chan-ssi, we want your input, but you need to be reasonable,” the director said. “Friendship isn’t good enough—”
“With all due respect, sir, you don’t see them how I do,” Chan said. “If you like Jisung’s writing, his raps, you have to understand where it comes from. If you want our true voices up on stage, you have to let us have a voice here first.”
“And you think Hyunjin helps give Jisung a voice?” another director asked.
“I think there are a lot of things Jisung has to say,” Chan said. “And Hyunjin makes it easier for him to say many of those things.”
A manager made a note on his computer and a director leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Okay,” the director said. “Prove it to us. Let’s see how they work together.”
The project group was real. It may only be called Stray Kids in Chan’s head, but the kids were the ones he had picked out one by one. His kids. His group. Their music.
But something was still missing. Something still felt unbalanced. It wasn’t obvious, nothing screaming out at him when he watched them practice, but more of a nagging feeling. Like when he was working on his beats and kept going over a single section again and again, unable to find the missing element.
Maybe it was just that they were new, and would grow into what Chan pictured they could be. Maybe.
But Chan kept seeing the gaps. Especially with Jisung.
On the surface, Jisung’s stage presence was improving immensely. He knew how to draw the audience in, flaunt his cockiness, and awe with his technique. The teachers praised him and the directors wrote in their little notebooks positive evaluations. Afterward though, when they made it back to the dorms, Jisung would retreat back into himself.
Chan started to put things together after they did a trainee showcase and 3Racha was asked to meet with some of the executives after the show. All the confidence and energy that Jisung had just minutes before drained away in front of those men and women. The whole time, Jisung looked at the ground, wringing his hands and staying quiet as Chan and Changbin exchanged small talk and answered questions.
“Jisung-ssi,” one of the executives, a middle-aged woman with a sharp haircut but soft eyes, said. “I heard the second song was one of yours. I loved the chorus, tell me where the concept came from.”
Jisung glanced up, fingers tensing in a knot. “I—uh—there’s—” His eyes flicked to Chan’s, searching.
“We all have input on every song,” Chan said. “But yes, that song was Jisung’s original concept. He said he thought of it when calling his brother on his birthday, didn’t you?”
“Right,” Jisung said. He didn’t speak up again.
As they stepped out of that meeting, while Changbin was whispering about one particular executive whose hair reminded him of a rather unflattering anime character, Chan didn’t take his eyes off of Jisung. Jisung, who looked so small and so much younger than he was. Jisung, who was doing everything in his power to look even smaller.
When Changbin asked if they wanted to get something from the convenience store to eat, Chan declined, following Jisung back to the dorms instead.
“Hey,” Chan said when they were alone. “You okay?”
“What?” Jisung said, trying to put distance between him and Chan. There was a half-hearted effort to sound tough, a stage voice full of bravado, but it didn’t quite work. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me, ‘sung.”
Jisung ignored him.
“It isn’t just the company higher-ups, is it?” Chan said, jogging a few steps to catch up to him. “There are more situations that make you feel uncomfortable.”
“I said I’m fine,” Jisung said.
He wasn’t. Chan could tell what anxiety looked like, he’d seen it reflected in the mirror enough to match the heart-racing sickness to the lines that formed on his brow, and there it was etched into Jisung’s face. Chan didn’t notice at first, what set Jisung off. He thought it was random, or just the normal trainee nerves before going on stage, but it wasn’t. It was when Jisung met new people, or was forced into a crowd. It was when he had to give too much of himself to people he didn’t know—show his heart and have nowhere to hide. And this idiot, instead of saying it bothered him, pretended nothing was wrong. He packed up his fears and held them close to his chest, ducking under the covers to pour over them alone.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” Chan said. He was tired of running after him and tired of getting ignored. He grabbed Jisung’s arm. “Stop!”
Jisung whipped around. “What the hell?”
“I want to make it better for you,” Chan said. “But I have no idea how.”
“Not everything is your problem to fix, hyung.”
“I’m not trying to—ugh. Jisung, look. We all have things we need help with. I couldn’t do half the things I do without you and Changbin backing me up. You know I’ve had my fair share of not so great mental health,” Chan said. “It doesn’t even have to be me. You can talk to anyone. Jeongin? Hyunjin?”
“Jeongin is too stressed with his vocal lessons lately to even go to dinner with me lately,” Jisung said. “And Hyunjin? He fucking loves showing off in front of new people. Like he’d understand my—” Jisung cut himself off, like he was surprised at what was coming out of his mouth.
“If you said you needed help,” Chan said, “your friends would help you.”
“Stop patronizing me, hyung,” Jisung said.
“I’m not.”
“You’re telling me what’s good for me,” Jisung said. “Like you always do.”
“I’m—”
“Don’t.” Jisung turned away, done with the conversation. “I’ll be better for the next meeting if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll smile and answer their stupid questions and it won’t matter, okay?”
“I don’t care about them,” Chan called after him. “I care about—”
“I don’t believe you,” Jisung said. And the way he said it broke Chan’s heart because the anger had bled out of his voice and there was nothing but defeat in his words. “This project is everything to you and I just can’t believe you don’t care about them at all.”
With that, all of Chan’s will to follow him fled, and he watched Jisung march away into the dark Seoul streets.
And that was the crack in their facade—the Stray Kids that Chan hadn’t yet named out loud. Something was missing, something Jisung could feel too, but Chan didn’t know how to find what it was.
Jisung didn’t talk to him for a couple of days after that fight. It wasn’t because either of them was particularly mad at the other, grudges between them fizzled out quickly as was necessary for their working relationship, but neither could break through the awkwardness of their last encounter. Chan didn’t know how to say anything encouraging without being accused of babying Jisung, and Jisung didn’t offer any solutions in return.
So, a stalemate.
Instead, Chan did his best to stay back and watch. He watched Jisung, watched the group, and watched how each member moved through the world. He thought about himself and how he fit in as a leader, and what made someone trust his guidance.
He wondered as he did this if he was enough.
Chan imagined himself, on the days he felt better about the grand plans that had not yet gone to shit, to be good at what he did. He found a balance between discipline and joy, finding and bringing out the best in others. Other days, he wasn’t so sure.
In those days of observation, though, Chan saw something he hadn’t before. Or, at least hadn’t paid much attention to.
There was a new trainee, not young, but very fresh to the company. He’d only joined a month prior, if that, and Chan had only spoken to him twice. He was a dancer, for what Chan knew, but only ever had any training in dance. His rap and vocal skills were nonexistent, and Chan had assumed he’d be slated for a later debut purely based on training.
“Minho was a dancer for BTS,” Chan heard Seungmin explain during lunch. “He’s really good. Already passed the basics.”
“Already?” Chan said. He wasn’t wrong, was he? Minho had only been at company for a few weeks?
“Weird guy though,” Seungmin continued. He chuckled, gesturing. “You can tell by who he hangs out with.”
Chan turned to where Seungmin was pointing, following his finger to where two trainees just entered. The first he recognized was Minho, dressed in a button-down shirt tucked into jeans, a backpack hanging off one shoulder. The other, trailing behind him with a small smile, was Jisung.
Chan watched as Jisung grabbed food, chatting with Minho the whole time. He didn’t look like the Jisung who bit his tongue and swallowed his words in front of strangers, or the Jisung who yelled at him to leave him be. This Jisung was carefree, tilting his head to the side to hear whatever Minho was telling him over the din of the cafeteria, before gesturing wildly with his free hand, getting lost in his reply.
“You really think he’s weird?” Chan said.
Seungmin shrugged. “As weird as any of us, I guess. Odd, kind of distant. That’s what Felix thought too.” He took a bite of his rice, then stole a glance at Chan. “I mean, not in a bad way.”
“Is he nice?”
“Nice? I guess so, yeah,” Seungmin said. “He helped me on one of the dances we had to learn last week. Good teacher, didn’t have to do that. Why?”
Minho and Jisung sat down at a table near the windows. Minho stole a piece of beef off Jisung’s plate, but Jisung didn’t protest. In return, Minho pushed his cup of fruit toward Jisung.
“Do you think he’ll work well with the others?” Chan asked.
“Hyung,” Seungmin said. “He just got here. I know PDnim likes you and all that, but isn’t that pushing it a bit?”
“You said so yourself,” Chan said. “He’s good enough to pass the basic dance that quickly. Think of what else he can do.”