My Leader Was Breaking Down in the Studio, So I Gave Him More Than Just Comfort

The same four bars of music bled into the silence of the studio for what felt like the hundredth time. A synthetic melody, sharp and clean, layered over a beat that was just slightly off-kilter. To anyone else, it might have sounded fine, passable even. But to Bang Chan, it was an abrasive failure, a grating reminder of his inability to get it right.

From his position on the worn leather couch, Felix watched him. He’d been watching for hours, the screen of his phone long since gone dark in his lap. He knew this version of Chan intimately. It was the version that surfaced in the dead of night, fueled by too much caffeine and an unforgiving perfectionism that bordered on self-destruction.

He saw it in the rigid line of Chan’s shoulders, hunched over the glowing mixing board as if bearing a physical weight. He saw it in the agitated way his fingers tapped against the desk before darting out to tweak a dial by a millimeter, only to undo the change seconds later. Every few minutes, Chan would drag a hand through his hair, his blond locks already a mess from the repeated motion, and a quiet curse would escape his lips. The words were always in English, a private language of frustration Felix had come to understand as a prelude to a crash.

“Fucking hell,” Chan whispered, the sound barely audible over the hum of the equipment. He hit the spacebar, and the four-bar loop started again.

Felix’s chest tightened. He recognized the signs of burnout as clearly as he recognized the freckles on his own hands. This wasn’t just creative frustration; it was a deeper exhaustion, the kind that ate away at Chan from the inside. The leader who carried them all, who had hand-picked each member and promised them a future, was slowly being crushed by the pressure of that promise. Felix had seen it build over the last few weeks—the skipped meals, the dark circles under his eyes that no amount of concealer could hide, the forced brightness in his smile during interviews.

Now, in the sterile sanctuary of the studio, the facade was gone. There was only Chan and the flawed piece of music he was trying to bend to his will. Felix remained silent, knowing that any offer of help would be perceived as an indictment of Chan’s inability to solve the problem himself. So he waited, a quiet, steady presence in the corner of the room, hoping his being there was enough of an anchor to keep Chan from drifting too far out into his sea of self-doubt.

The track played again. And again. Chan leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching the cool surface of the monitor, his entire body a knot of tension. The air in the room grew thick and heavy, charged with the leader’s silent, desperate battle against himself.

Suddenly, the music cut off. The silence that rushed in was more jarring than the repetitive beat had been. Chan’s hand, which had been hovering over the mouse, balled into a tight fist. With a guttural sound of pure rage, he brought it down hard on the desk.

BAM.

The sound was explosive in the small, soundproofed room. The empty coffee cups rattled, and Felix flinched on the couch, his heart jumping into his throat. The violence of the act was so unlike Chan’s usual contained frustration. This was different. This was the breaking point.

The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. Chan didn’t move. His fist remained pressed against the hard surface of the desk, his knuckles white. His head was bowed, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together.

That was it. Felix couldn’t just sit there any longer. He rose from the couch as quietly as he could, his movements deliberate. He’d brought the small container of brownies he’d baked yesterday for this very reason, having had a premonition that Chan would push himself into this state. He padded over to the small kitchenette nook, grabbing a mug and pouring some of the hot water from the dispenser over a chamomile tea bag.

He approached the desk slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. Chan still hadn't moved, his entire being locked in a state of furious defeat. Felix carefully placed the plate with two fudgy brownies next to the keyboard, the rich chocolate scent immediately filling the air. He set the steaming mug beside it, close enough for the warmth to radiate towards Chan’s frozen hand.

Chan flinched slightly as the items entered his peripheral vision. His gaze, however, remained glued to the unforgiving lines of the audio wavelength on the monitor. A full ten seconds passed before he spoke, his voice low and gravelly.

“Thanks, Lix.”

It was a reflex, a ghost of his usual manners, completely devoid of warmth. He made no move to touch the food or the drink. His focus was still chained to his failure on the screen.

Felix gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, even though Chan wasn't looking, and retreated back to the couch. He didn't push. He didn't say, "You need a break," or "It sounds fine, hyung." He just returned to his silent vigil, offering his presence as a quiet, unwavering anchor.

But something in the room had shifted. The scent of chocolate and chamomile began to cut through the sterile smell of electronics and stale coffee. It was a scent of home, of care. It was an intrusion Chan couldn't block out, a quiet insistence that he was not just a producer failing at his work, but a person in a room with someone who cared about him. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, but the rigid set of his shoulders eased by a fraction. The simple, undemanding kindness was a small, warm pinprick of light in his all-consuming darkness, and it was beginning to spread.

For a long moment, Chan remained perfectly still, a statue carved from tension. But the gentle scent of home kept wafting over him, a soft, persistent question he couldn't answer with logic or code. It was too kind. Too gentle for the violent frustration churning inside him. It was a kindness he felt he didn’t deserve, and that single thought was the thing that finally broke him.

With a sudden, jerky motion, he shoved his chair back from the desk. The wheels screeched against the polished floor, a sharp, ugly sound that tore through the quiet. He dropped his head into his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. His fingers dug into his scalp, pulling at the roots of his hair as if he could physically extract the failure from his brain. A shudder wracked his entire frame, a tremor of pure, undiluted defeat. His shoulders, which had been rigid with tension, now slumped forward, his spine curving into a question mark of despair.

“It’s garbage,” he whispered, his voice muffled by his palms. The words were choked, broken, each one a painful admission. “It’s all just… garbage. And I can’t fix it.”

The confession, quiet as it was, landed like a physical blow. Felix was on his feet before the last word had fully faded, crossing the room in three silent strides. He knelt beside Chan’s chair, his own heart aching with a fierce, protective instinct. He didn’t speak, not at first. He just brought his hand up and laid it flat against the center of Chan’s back, right between his trembling shoulder blades.

The warmth of Felix's palm soaked through the thin fabric of Chan's t-shirt, a steady, solid point of contact in the swirling chaos of his mind. Chan flinched, a sharp intake of breath, but he didn't pull away. He leaned into the touch, a nearly imperceptible movement, a silent surrender. The tension in his back seemed to coil tighter under Felix’s hand before beginning, very slowly, to dissolve.

Felix kept his hand there, firm and grounding, rubbing a slow, gentle circle over his spine. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and soft, the crisp, familiar vowels of their shared accent wrapping around Chan like a blanket. The formal Korean honorifics and the pressure of leadership vanished, replaced by the sound of home.

“Hey. Chris,” he said, the name a deliberate, intimate choice. “It’s alright, mate. Just breathe for me. C’mon.” He leaned in closer, his own head bowed near Chan’s, creating a small, private world for just the two of them in the vast, silent studio. “Just breathe.”