ONE SHOTS🍒| STRAY KIDS

51. Ruination

Ship: JeongChan
Top: Jeongin
Bottom: Chan
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The flowers died on Monday.

Chan didn't notice at first. He rarely noticed much outside the soft glow of his laptop, the endless playlists of half-finished tracks, the scribbled notes littered across the table. The vase sat only a few feet away, placed on the counter where Jeongin had insisted it would "brighten the room." Now the water inside was stagnant, brown and sour-smelling, withered petals collapsing inward as if the weight of neglect was too much to bear.

But Jeongin noticed. Jeongin always noticed.

He stopped in front of the counter, his shoulders tense, his expression unreadable as his eyes fixed on the ruined bouquet. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, fingertips gliding along one of the curled petals until it disintegrated at his touch. The fragment drifted down into the foul water like ash scattering into a grave.

"You forget to take care of things," Jeongin said at last. His tone was soft, almost gentle, but there was something underneath it, something sharp, like a warning hidden in silk. He rolled the broken petal between his fingers before letting it fall. "Bad habit."

Chan glanced up at him, squinting against the dim glow of the screen. A tired smile tugged at his lips, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "They're just flowers," he murmured, like the explanation should be enough, like the death of something so small couldn't matter.

Jeongin didn't move. His hand remained on the rim of the vase, knuckles whitening slightly from the pressure. His gaze didn't shift either, fixed on Chan with an intensity that made the air in the kitchen feel too heavy.

"Not everything survives neglect, hyung."

He said it slowly, deliberately, each word weighted as though it was meant for more than the vase, more than the shriveled bouquet.

And for reasons Chan couldn't name, his chest tightened. The words hung there between them, suspended in the stale air, more dangerous than the silence that followed. He opened his mouth as if to reply, but no words came. So instead, he looked back at his laptop, pretending not to feel Jeongin's stare burning through him, pretending he hadn't just been warned.
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At first, it seemed obvious who was dangerous. Jeongin's touches lingered where they shouldn't, grazing the curve of Chan's shoulder, the small of his back, fingers tracing patterns that felt like both warning and invitation. His eyes followed Chan relentlessly, across rooms, along dimly lit hallways, over scattered papers and instruments left unattended, over Chan himself, as if memorizing every inch of him. Even the quiet moments backstage, when the world thought they were invisible, Jeongin's gaze pressed into Chan's skin with a weight that was impossible to ignore.

And then there was his voice, low and intimate, the kind that curled around Chan's spine in the dark, soft yet edged with sharp insistence, almost pleading, but there was a hunger in it, a heat that made every nerve ache to respond.

One night, the air in the kitchen was thick, heavy with the scent of stale coffee and lingering rehearsals. The fridge hummed quietly, casting a narrow shaft of light that painted their faces in stark contrast. Chan froze when Jeongin stepped closer, too close, blocking the exit with a body taut and deliberate.

Jeongin's hand shot up, gripping Chan's jaw with a firm, unyielding pressure. His thumb pressed into the hinge just enough to ache, enough to make Chan tilt his head into it without thinking, against his will yet compelled. The sharpness of Jeongin's gaze bore into him, holding him in place, dominating him entirely.

"Tell me to stop," Jeongin whispered, voice low and jagged with tension. "Say it... if you really want me to."

Chan's mouth opened, a shallow gasp caught between desire and hesitation, but no words came. His pulse hammered violently against his ribs, blood rushing to his head, making every nerve alive and raw.