Between two worlds | Chanlix

Two sides of the world

The room was quiet when Chan opened his eyes.

Sunlight filtered softly through sheer curtains, falling across the messy sheets and onto the floor where Felix's shirt lay crumpled. The scent of last night still lingered—warm skin, cold air, alcohol, smoke. It pressed against Chan's chest like an ache that hadn't settled.

He turned his head slowly, half-expecting to find Felix staring back at him.

But the space beside him was empty.

He sat up, brushing his hand over the sheets where the warmth was already fading. He could still see Felix on the balcony, standing barefoot against the skyline, fragile and defiant. Chan had carried him back inside, calmed him down, held him like something precious—and he hadn't moved until sleep claimed them both.

He could've stayed longer. He wanted to.

But reality always arrived faster than morning light.

Chan pulled himself out of bed and dressed quietly. Before leaving, he grabbed the notepad by the minibar and scribbled a message in his rushed scrawl.

"Call me if you need anything. Take care of yourself. — C"

He left it on the nightstand beside the half-empty bottle Felix never finished. A soft exhale escaped him as he closed the hotel door behind him.

Work was the only place Chan could put his head down and let structure silence his thoughts—but today, even that didn't help. The new album was in motion, schedules being printed, artists rehearsing, vocals being tweaked—but Chan couldn't focus.

His body was there.

His mind was somewhere on that balcony still, watching Felix spiral and trying to figure out if he'd helped or just made it worse.

He was pouring another cup of coffee in the studio kitchen when Han entered, his usual energy slightly muted as he watched Chan quietly.

"You look like hell," Han muttered.

"Thanks," Chan said, hollowly amused.

Han stepped beside him, bumping his elbow. "What happened?"

Chan opened his mouth—but it wasn't one sentence. It wasn't one thing.

So he sat.

And he told him everything.

Not just the hotel, not just the kiss or the collapse—they'd seen each other in pain before. But this time it was the guilt. The confusion. The weight.

How he'd promised himself he wouldn't get pulled into Felix's storm again—only to realize the storm had been inside him all along. How it felt like helping Felix would mean losing himself, but letting Felix go would destroy them both.

When he finished, the silence was thick in the room. The coffee on the table was already cold.

Then Han let out a long sigh.

"Well, shit," he said.

"Yeah," Chan muttered, shoulders low.

"You've been carrying all of that alone?" Changbin's voice came from the doorway as he entered with a bottle of water in hand, dropping onto the couch across from them. "You idiot."

"Excuse me?"

"You absolute emotionally constipated idiot," Changbin continued, his tone soft despite the teasing. "You should've told us."

"You think I knew how to?" Chan replied, voice tight. "There's no guidebook for—whatever this is."

"No," Han agreed. "But you're not alone. Not in this, not ever."