Chapter Text
Seungmin starts weighing himself. He buys the newest digital scale, one that’s shiny and clean with acrylic glass over bright blue numbers. It’s even one that needs to be charged, that’s how nice it is, highly recommended by Korea’s best health professionals.
Now, Seungmin wouldn’t have even needed to buy himself a scale had there already been one in the dorm. But, with his oh-so leaderly foresight, Chan had already disposed of every single one back when they were in their old dorms.
It’s no problem. Even if the leader had the sudden urge to scourge their rooms for contraband, it’d only be Hyunjin or Felix that he’d confiscate a scale from. Seungmin is almost sure of it.
Besides; his is just so nice. Spotless glass without a single scratch on the metal plate as he steps onto it. A cold he can feel even through his socks, and-
Seungmin’s giddiness dies down almost immediately. Suddenly, there’s a number flashing on the screen of the scale in big, bold letters, burning behind Seungmin’s irises as it’s confirmed.
He steps off the scale. The number goes away.
What?
Did he purchase a faulty machine? It had good reviews on Amazon. It has fresh batteries, ones that went in not even 20 minutes ago.
Seungmin pulls the scale off the floor, hands shaking ever so slightly. He- he must have messed up the set-up. It’s just not ready, that’s all.
Taking a deep breath, Seungmin pulls the batteries out of the machine. He goes over to his bedside table, takes out new ones where he has them waiting. Presses them into the slot, paying extra attention to the direction they’re supposed to be facing. Places the device to the wooden floorboards once more.
Another breath. Seungmin steps over the scale, and a number flashes.
It’s the same as before.
Dread claws its way up Seungmin’s gut. An energy builds in the pit of his stomach, and he’s reaching down to his pockets then, pulling out his phone and dorm keys. He sets them down somewhat unsteadily on his bed, drawing his eyes to stare down at the scale once more.
It doesn’t even go down half a pound.
Something frantic starts to swell in his throat. Quicker than he’s comfortable to admit, he’s jumping back from the scale, pulling his sweatshirt and tee over his head in one go. His shorts go next, a hefty denim he’s sure must weigh at least a few pounds.
Seungmin considers for a moment, then shrugs off his socks, too. His watch, once it’s slipped off, ends up on the bedside table.
Adorned in nothing but threadbare boxers, Seungmin steps over the scale again. The number flashes, and he thinks he feels lightheaded.
It only goes down two and a half pounds.
See, Seungmin didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly isn’t- this. A number just drastically higher than the last time he checked, not even a year ago.
Has he really let himself slip this far?
Seungmin catches his own reflection in the mirror on the other side of the room. Even if he wasn’t as fond of fashion as Jeongin or Hyunjin, he had been happy when the dorm came with such a useful accessory.
Looking in the mirror now, Seungmin sees something unfamiliar. His body is practically contorting, a different image each time he squints. There are deposits of fat in places he can’t believe he’s failed to notice until now: a pouch over his stomach when he exhales, a gathering of fluff around the sides of his arms.
Looking in the mirror, Seungmin sees something ugly.
—-----------------
He doubles down on his schedule. It’s inevitable, really, with how much work he needs to make up. With how far he let himself go.
Why didn’t you catch yourself sooner, Seungmin?
His meals grow exponentially smaller. Not too little, no, because Seungmin’s not one of those people obsessed to the point of starving themselves. He makes sure he keeps all his vital nutrients, everything he actually needs to survive.
An egg at breakfast (toast is just unnecessary carbs). An apple, a cup of yogurt at lunch. If he’s being extra good, he can skip dinner, too. Not too often, though, because he knows it’s still important to eat three meals.
Especially since skipping food is harder with how often they all eat together.
Harder, but not at all impossible. Seungmin feels like he’s been revived, reveling in the high of keeping his habits to himself.
A secret. Seungmin’s never had one, something as special as this. Something perfect, coiling low in his stomach. Wrapping tight around that deep pit of dread in his abdomen, sucking away the fat and disgust it holds.
Perfect.
Seungmin feels perfect, too. Feels like he’s finally done something right, something worth sharing and bragging about.
He doesn’t need to brag, though. Everyone does this occasionally. Just because Seungmin’s planning something more long term, something a little better, does it really mean he’s any different? Isn’t he still the same as all the other members, for having his own system?
And this secret, it’s not something that’s hard to hide. It’s the easiest thing, really.
Anything Seungmin eats, he makes sure someone’s watching. He chews his apples loudly while talking to Jisung, waves his spoon around and bothers Felix when he has his yogurt cups.
It’s simple, really. Seungmin marvels at how easy it is, going unnoticed when you’re constantly surrounded by such active people.
Speaking of active…
“Hyung?”
Minho spins around when he hears Seungmin’s voice, eyebrows raising in question. His gym bag slides halfway off his shoulder, one foot out the front door.
Seungmin watches him from where he stands, dressed in his baggiest shirt and shorts. “Can I come with you?”
Minho’s eyebrows shoot even higher if it’s possible, before his lips tilt upwards ever so slightly. “Oh? Puppy’s first time at the gym?”
Seungmin’s nose scrunches, and he resists the urge to shoot something smart back. He’s asking for a favor; he needs to be well behaved. “No. Can you, you know, show me?”
“What?” Minho’s head tilts, catlike. He hikes up his bag with one arm.
“You’re going to box… right?” Seungmin looks down at his shoes. “Can you teach me?”
Regret starts to reach him the moment he looks up to catch sight of Minho’s face. His hyung’s eyes are wide, amusement dancing in his pupils. The beginnings of that evil, evil smirk bloom across Minho’s face.
Seungmin sighs.
—---------------------------------------------
“Foot forward. You keep letting it slide back. Try again.”
Seungmin pants, readjusting his stance, before hitting the punching mitts Minho’s holding again. Minho doesn’t move back even the slightest bit, and Seungmin’s throws have long lost their power.
They’ve been here three hours.
Seungmin doesn’t know how Minho does this. The younger’s exhausted, hair slapped to his forehead, pathetically throwing weak punch after punch as the older critiques.
“You let your left foot slip back again. Left, right. Your legs and arms are both attached to the same body, are they not?”
Seungmin looks up at Minho, frowning through the frustration. He’s not in the mood for this right now.
He hits the pad harder, and Minho raises a brow when it sends him taking a step back. The smirk returns. “That’s it? All you got?”
Seungmin shoots a glare Minho’s way, and gathers himself with a deep breath. He’s here to improve. On a physical level, to become stronger, gain muscle. Stronger on a mental level, too. To work something beneficial into his routine.
This time, when Seungmin punches the pad, Minho stumbles a whole two steps back. The dancer immediately stops, straightening to take the younger in.
What does he see, Seungmin wonders? On the surface, the stuttered breath, perspiration dripping down his neck? Or is Minho looking deeper? Can he see the concave dip of Seungmin’s stomach, or only the swell of the full meal he let himself eat two days ago?
Suddenly, something questioning flicks across Minho’s face, and he drops the mitts from where they’re raised. “Minnie?”
Seungmin looks up at Minho through his bangs, sweat filtering through to his eyelashes. He doesn’t reply.
“Okay.” Minho frowns ever so slightly, and then he’s abruptly heading to his gym bag and throwing a towel Seungmin’s way. “We’re done for today. You- you did good.”
Seungmin squints, dragging a hand to place across his heaving chest. Is that- is that the honest truth? Has he really done enough?
Okay.
He can always come back. It’s fine.
“Thanks, hyung.” Seungmin whispers, but Minho’s already walking away. If the way the dancer’s ears begin to tinge red as he leaves the room are a sign of anything, Seungmin’s sure the older’s heard him.
One thing he hasn’t messed up yet, at least.
When they arrive back at the dorms, Minho heads straight for the kitchen. And sure, Seungmin doesn’t think much of it at the time. Minho likes to cook. It’s what he does.
But when Seungmin emerges from the shower, skin rubbed raw of the gym’s grime, knuckles still red from the workout, Minho is there. Sitting across the dining table, eyes snapping up as he sees Seungmin come in.
At the other end of the table, where Seungmin usually sits, there’s a steaming bowl of… something. And stepping closer, Seungmin sees that it’s seaweed soup. Homemade seaweed soup.
Minho isn’t even looking up from his own bowl when Seungmin glances at him, eyes questioning. It’s not like- it’s not like it’s his birthday. It’s not like Minho was cooking for all the boys at once, because Seungmin knows that they all ate while the both of them were gone. He wasn’t planning on this. Wasn’t planning on Minho coming back to his dorm with him in the first place, wasn’t planning on being offered up this kindness on a silver platter-
Wasn’t planning on eating dinner in the first place. Can’t. Shouldn’t, really.
But Seungmin takes his seat across from Minho. Across from his hyung that does these little things all the time, and somehow still continuously catches Seungmin off guard.
He can’t. Shouldn’t.
(He does anyway.)
—------------------------
Seungmin doesn’t sleep that night. He doesn’t feel like he’s supposed to, lying in bed with the weight of a body over his chest. The hollow, comfortable crater in his stomach is gone. The relief of the workout is gone, too. It’s like he never stepped into the gym at all, like he hasn’t been working hard to manage everything for almost two weeks.
Naver tells him that the soup could have been a healthy meal, but Seungmin’s sure Minho didn’t substitute the oils that bring most of the flavor. Naver tells him the calories, too, but he ignores that for now. He doesn’t need to be counting them, that’s unnecessary. It sounds like something Hyunjin used to do, something Felix still does every now and then before he’s caught and reprimanded.
Unnecessary, and not needed for Seungmin. He’s not on a diet; he’s working on a new lifestyle.
The soup, though, settles as a physical weight. Seungmin’s sure it’s water weight; it has to be.
He also knows the salts will keep it on him until morning, so there’s absolutely no point in weighing himself right now.
He does anyway, of course.
He’s getting faster at undressing, faster at shedding the excess layers, and his new scale is just so damn pretty. It’s inevitable really, he thinks, stepping up to the dial. Just another checkpoint.
Seungmin smiles. He feels like crying.
The kindness, his hyung’s mindless, delicious kindness, sits at over two pounds in his stomach.
—----------------------------------
There’s no specific reason that leads to Seungmin reading about the adverse effects of malnutrition that night. No reason for him to scroll Naver till the early hours of morning, to find post upon post from people describing systems much more effective than his own.
Okay. Maybe those are justifiable reasons. He’s trying to improve, after all. To grow, to correct.
But-
Even if that’s the case, Seungmin knows there’s no reason for him to be looking at the pictures that come with some of the posts he finds. Sprawled across various websites, image upon image of what is clearly the pinnacle of malnourishment. Of starvation.
Seungmin finds himself unable to look away. Some of them -some of them, because Seungmin isn’t stupid, he can tell when someone’s gone too far- are even… appealing. Pleasant on the eyes, he supposes it’s better to say.
There’s a guy a little younger than Seungmin, his jawline like a square edge of glass. Sharp angled shoulders wrapped in a thin layer of skin, vestigial wings of flight.
There’s a woman Seungmin pauses on. Her arms, snaking and cording, seemingly under a centimeter of skin to the bone. He wonders how many times she could tie one of Felix’s hair ties around her wrist.
For a fleeting moment, he wonders what it would be like to have a body like hers. To bring hands up to his own collarbone, to rest entire fingers within the crevices.
Then Seungmin scrolls down on the page, and nearly throws up. His eyes widen, his throat dries, because her weight, the numbers themselves, are written right there. Openly, plainly, as if the digits aren’t boasting diabolical malnourishment.
Seungmin closes his laptop. This isn’t helpful for him. The goal weight of a random woman on the internet isn’t relevant to his goal weight. He doesn’t even have a goal to begin with, only moving forward blindly with his to-do lists and possibly-successful workouts.
Not that he needs a goal to begin with, that is. All he needs is to know what’s too far, and when to stop. And he does. Seungmin has boundaries. He hasn’t even seen any progress yet- he has a long way to go.
A bubble of frustration builds up in Seungmin’s gut. It’s almost akin to the simmer of discomfort he had felt earlier, watching his figure in the mirror. Because it’s unreasonable, sure, but he’s impatient. It’s been two weeks, and Seungmin already wants results. He wants it so, so bad. He’s pictured touching perfection, at this point. It’s so clear in his peripheral, and Seungmin wants it wants it wants it now.
—-----------------------
Seungmin decides it doesn’t matter. His system, the schedule, is all useless in the grand scheme of things. If he wants to see and feel change, he needs to be a little drastic.
(Safe, of course. A bigger step, but one with manageable consequences.)
So Seungmin gets through a day and a half of fasting before he’s caught.
Okay. Not caught, exactly. But they’re at dance practice, and Jisung is standing in front of him with a bag of chips, and Seungmin, Seungmin-
“Seungmin?” Jisung shakes the bag playfully. “You like this one. You can pay me back later, pabo.”
The audacity, Seungmin thinks. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Jisung’s brows furrow. “Why? You’re so picky about only having these.” Seungmin watches as Jisung opens the bag, his surely grimy fingers pulling out a perfectly-shaped pretzel.
He chews it obnoxiously. Seungmin practically cringes at the sight, Jisung so obviously being unsavory simply for his own pleasure. Or Seungmin’s displeasure, either one.
Disgusting.
He doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud till a second later, suddenly having to dodge a rapidly flying pretzel chunk. Seungmin groans dramatically, shrugging away from Jisung’s laughter to move across the room. He’s light on his feet when he stands, too. So deliciously, pleasantly light. Dizzy, too, but barely. A spin when he turns, a few spots when he blinks.
And it’s a strange feeling too, because for some reason he- he loves it. Seungmin smiles to himself, at the lure of his own success. At his own genius, too, because why hadn’t he done this earlier? Just stopped eating entirely, stumbled around dance practice with a beautifully empty stomach?
Seungmin’s smile grows so wide and insensible that he’s oblivious in his entirety to the way Chan suddenly stands before him, only noticing the older when he almost crashes right into him. Chan’s shoulders are a fortress, steading Seungmin as he blinks away the black from his vision.
Then he’s embarrassed. Seungmin is so, so embarrassed, because he has no idea what he’s doing. No idea how to manage himself, clearly, if he’s falling face forward into his hyung’s arms.
Can’t control his face either apparently, because the stupid smile lags just a moment too long. Chan lets out an aborted laugh, hands coming up to grip Seungmin’s shoulders. “In a good mood, huh Minnie?”
Seungmin can only nod dumbly, straightening his posture and adjusting his gait. He can’t even see Chan’s face clearly, not really. What?
He takes account of himself, and multiple things shift at once.
Chan’s face grows slightly blurred at the edges, Seungmin’s vision suddenly acting up. He doesn’t know what’s happening, not entirely, but he can feel the way his whole body tilts on its own, Chan’s hands tightening around him. Would also be able to see the way the older’s smile suddenly drops, the way he says something quickly that Seungmin can’t hear.
But no, for a fraction of a second, Seungmin can’t hear anything. His heart beats a throbbing base in his chest, blood gushing over his eardrums, and it’s so much, loud, loud, loud, and-
Then it’s gone. As quickly as it had come, the moment of weakness fades, and Seungmin finds himself blinking back to reality. Chan’s staring right at him, dredges of panic leaking into his irises. Behind him, Minho stands with his arms crossed, the other boys in a stunned huddle further back.
Great. Just great.
Seungmin laughs, abrupt, sudden, shrugging off the warmth of Chan’s hands lest he melt into the floor. He wishes it’d open up wide, swallow him whole. He wishes he were as invisible as the premise of progress he’s been attempting to achieve.
“Seung-” Chan takes a step back too, and Seungmin watches as hurt sends the smallest of shockwaves through the older’s pupils. How does he keep messing up? “Seungmin. What was that?”
Seungmin shrugs, blinking rapidly to stave off the brewing discomfort in his gut. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to ruin anything after these two perfect days. Doesn’t want to ruin how good he’s been.
“That’s- that’s not an answer.” Chan’s voice has taken on an authoritative lilt, and Seungmin burns with embarrassment. This isn’t what he wanted.
“Nothing,” he shoves out, and oh, he sounds pathetic. “Nothing. Did I scare you, hyung?” He laughs uneasily, bringing a hand up to scratch at the back of his head. “I stood up wrong before.”
He hasn’t convinced anyone, clearly, not with the way he hears Changbin- or was it Hyunjin?- clear his throat, awkwardly making space in the silence.
Seungmin opens his mouth, letting the stale warmth of the air tap across his tongue. It tastes starchy, fake. Like gas-station rice.
Two hundred and fifty calories in a cup of white rice. Two hundred and twenty five for brown, unless-
“Aish,” Minho appears then, suddenly stepping in front of Chan. Seungmin’s dizziness is long gone, only heady tension left in his shoulders, easing and then spiking as Minho leans down to his ear-
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten, hmm?” The dancer whispers a cold draft down Seungmin’s neck. “You think you go unnoticed?”
Minho pulls away and Seungmin’s jaw pops askew, eyes widening to blown saucers. No way.
Chan’s gaze darts between him and Minho. They must be quite the sight, Seungmin thinks.
“What?” The older questions then, the unease only strengthened in his voice. “What am I missing?”
There’s a pause, then- “Calm down, hyung,” Minho says plainly, clapping Chan across the shoulder. “I’ll handle the rest of practice. Take Minnie out for lunch, will you? He’ll tell you.”
Chan blinks, seeming to process for a moment, before he’s nodding absentmindedly. Seungmin just stands in shock.
What??
There’s no way Minho knows about his… system. No way he knows what Seungmin’s been doing, about how hard he’s been working. It’s only been a few weeks.
Was he really that bad at hiding?
He doesn’t have time to ponder, because before Seungmin knows it, he’s being carted away by Chan, a warm hand to his lower back. He can just imagine it, the way in a few short moments, the boys will break from their silence in a fit of restless whispers. How Minho will brush it all off like it’s nothing, force them all to continue practice.
Practice that Seungmin would be a part of, had he not interrupted. Had he been as focused as the rest of them, as dedicated, as true to a plan that-
“Seungmin.” Chan’s hands are on the wheel, whiteknuckling as he stares ahead at the road. They’re moving. They’ve already started driving, and Seungmin didn’t notice.
“Seungmin,” Chan says again, just as the younger’s contemplating how quickly he could throw himself out of the car. “What do you want to eat?”
Eat?
Seungmin feels bile build up in his throat. He swallows, glancing over at Chan quickly before shying away to the view outside the passenger window. He shrugs, a noncommittal sound escaping the dry of his mouth.
His mouth. Empty, clean. Pure.
Chan makes a sound too, a confused tut clicking across his tongue. Seungmin can feel, without even looking at him, the way the older’s face must be creasing into a frown.
“Okay…” Chan says, voice cautious. “I’ll pick.”
They pull into a place eventually, a Chinese restaurant not 15 minutes from the studio. Seungmin follows Chan out of the car silently, trailing behind him like he’s been reprimanded.
He hasn’t been, yet. He will be, if he’s caught.
They slide into a booth, and Seungmin smiles awkwardly at Chan. He doesn’t know what to say, what the older’s expecting him to admit.
Chan orders a big plate of kung-pao chicken, and Seungmin settles for wonton soup and spring rolls. Not that he’ll have them, though. It’s been almost two days. He’s been so good.
“Okay.” Chan says, and then he’s leaning over the table, crossing his arms as he looks Seungmin dead in the eye. “You’ve been off for weeks, Min.”
Seungmin frowns. Oh, really? “What makes you think that?”
Chan huffs under his breath, pulling his glass of water closer. “I know you. You haven’t been spending time with us, Minnie. You’re always holed up in your room, writing god knows what in your journal. You’re not coming to our weekly dinners. Jeongin says you haven’t spent time with him outside of practice. Lix said you’ve been ditching him at dinner to go to the gym!”
Seungmin huffs. So, okay, he’s pulling up an entire list. “That was one time-”
“That’s not the point, Seung. What’s up with you? Did something happen at- at home? Did we do something? Please, if that’s true, then-”
“God, no.” Seungmin cuts Chan off, exhaling through his nose. The older looks genuinely concerned, eyes worried and oh-so fond.
Seungmin could shed a tear if it went on much longer. Two tears, maybe.
“You’ve done nothing,” he starts, taking his own glass of water. “None of you have.”
Chan watches him carefully. “... Okay. Then what’s wrong?”
Seungmin shrugs. “Nothing.” Help. Take the shovel from me before I dig a hole too deep for me to climb out of. “Seriously, hyung. You’re overthinking.”
Chan sits back with a huff, looking thoroughly unconvinced. Seungmin downs half his glass. He opens his mouth. Should he say something? Theoretically, could his new habit develop into a problem?
Maybe it’d be good to have someone helping him. Chan wouldn’t stop Seungmin’s diet completely, would he? It could be good to have someone watching, someone making sure he’s doing everything safely.
Not that Seungmin isn’t safe. He is, he’s just systematic as well, choosing to be effective over-
The pungent stench of something disgustingly savory slaps Seungmin across the face. His train of thoughts comes to a halt, and Chan sputters in shock as Seungmin suddenly gags over the table.
“Min? What’s wrong?? Are you sick?” Chan frantically throws a clump of tissues over the table, and oh, embarrassment burns across Seungmin’s face. He only coughs once, twice, looking up nervously to find the source of the scent.
There’s a waiter standing a foot away from the table, her eyes wide and surprised, plate in one hand and bowl in the other.
Oh.
It’s not some sour, flavorless ejection of stench. It’s their food. Their perfectly normal, highly-rated meals, that Seungmin just gagged over in some sick mockery.
His entire neck bursts up in flames, and he moves quickly to clear the table for the meal. Seungmin already feels better, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. The waiter looks confused, rightfully so, placing down their dishes, and Seungmin writes himself a mental note to leave a sizable tip.
When she leaves, Seungmin scratches the back of his head, eyes locked to the steaming bowl before him. He looks up.
Chan is watching him intently, tissues still in hand, lips pulled down in a thoughtful frown.
Seungmin tries to grin awkwardly. The older’s frown worsens.
“Okay…” Chan puts down the tissues. There’s a moment of silence. “Seungmin. What the hell was that? Are you nauseous?”
Is he? “No?” Seungmin shrugs, eyes darting away from the intensity of Chan’s. “I don’t think so.”
Chan straight up laughs under his breath, and Seungmin feels the embarrassment char its way through his gut.
“Did the food smell bad to you?” Chan quips, still watching Seungmin like a hawk. The older leans over the table to Seungmin’s bowl. He pulls away Seungmin’s ladle, swallows down a whole spoon of the younger’s soup.
Chan hums. “It tastes great. Try it.”
Try it?
The mere thought has acid burning holes in the lining of Seungmin’s stomach. He feels unwell, and he doesn’t know what to do. On top of that, he’s so bloated. How is that even possible, when he hasn’t eaten in almost two days? When he’s been so, so good?
Chan’s still watching him. And Seungmin knows, he knows, that the concern is boiling down to suspicion. Was he really going to get caught, just two weeks into his new system? Was he really going to let it all go, just like that?
So Seungmin eats. He takes his spoon from Chan, scoops a full mouthful of the wonton soup. It’s warm on his tongue. Delicious, really.
(Rancid down his throat. Poison, coursing through his bloodstream, warping the gas holding space in his stomach.)
Seungmin looks down, and his bowl is empty. Seungmin licks his lips, and they’re strong with the taste of sesame. Seungmin looks up, and Chan’s jaw is dropped in shock.
No. Did he-?
No, no, no. No, he-
“Min?” Chan’s waving a hand in front of his face, and for a moment, Seungmin balks. Chan looks more concerned now, and ohh, Seungmin messed up. Messed, up, up, made a mess. He is a mess.
Bad, bad, bad. Why? How could he-
“Okay,” Chan sounds a little frantic now, apprehension taking over his tone. “Why don’t we- why don’t we go wash up, yeah? Come with me.”
Seungmin stands shakily, a fawn on fresh legs. His heart is fast, his blood is loud in his ears, and he swears- he swears, he’s still holding his spoon. How are his hands so cold?
Chan gathers him up in his arms, one wrapping protectively around Seungmin’s outside shoulder. The younger is so, so glad the restaurant isn’t crowded.
The bathroom is empty, too. Chan takes him over to the farthest sink, wets a paper towel. He places it tight to the back of Seungmin’s neck, and the boy startles. There’s a drip of cold fluid traveling down his back now, and he shivers.
“What?” Seungmin shies away from Chan’s touch. His voice still shakes. “What are you doing?”
Chan exhales, balling the paper towel up in his fingers. “You’re out of it. Where’s your focus, Seung? It’s been gone for a little while, really.”
Seungmin frowns. “You’ve said that already. In all honesty, it’s none of your business.”
Fuck-
Chan’s eyes widen. Hee takes a step away from the younger, and Seungmin’s blood rushes faster.
What have you done now?
“Isn’t it, though, Min? Your health affects all of us. Your business is my business.” Chan looks hurt. Seungmin wishes he could transfer it to himself.
Too late.
“Can you leave, hyung?” Seungmin says roughly, taking another step away from Chan. “I’ll wash my face and come back to the table.”
“What?” Chan’s brows furrow. He closes the distance between them, and before Seungmin can move away, there’s a cold hand to his forehead. He shivers. Cold. It’s cold, he’s cold, everything’s just bitter.
“You’re not warm, but you could still be sick. What’s wrong? Please, Minnie. I’m worried.”
Seungmin feels something nasty build up in his gut. He’s angry suddenly, and there’s something in the way Chan steps back that tells him it’s clear across his face.
He doesn’t care.
Who is Chan, to worry about something Seungmin has full control over? To think he’s sick, when the only thing sickly is the foul swell of his stomach?
Seungmin knows that the nasty feeling is becoming anger. He knows, he feels it, but he’s careless to stop himself as he throws all caution to the wind.
“Worried? Worry about yourself. Who are you to make me come in here, hyung, when I told you I’m fine? Can you not just worry about yourself?” Seungmin’s snapping, lips wet with the force of his words. “I didn’t ask for you to be so fucking intrusive.”
Chan’s eyes are blown wide. He doesn’t say anything.
Seungmin shuts up, then. He’s a wild animal. He’s rabid. Rabid animals should be put down.
“Okay, Minnie.” Chan says, and oh, he sounds wounded. Should Seungmin cry, or scream? “I’ll wait at the table.”
Chan leaves, and the younger watches him go. Watches the door swing shut behind him, feels the gust of wind that slaps him across the face with the action. Look at that, Seungmin. You’re alone.
Alone. Alone with himself, the empty stalls, the two sets of sinks. The big, tantalizing mirrors across the tops of each of them, where Seungmin can clearly see the disgust splayed across his own features.
What’s disgusting, Seungmin? You, or what you’ve done?
He supposes from there, he only watches as he becomes one with the destruction. Nothing he can do to stop time but watch the hands as they pass, watch the clock tick down his last seconds.
Nothing Seungmin can do to stop his own hands from plunging down his throat, from crooking his fingers until he’s gagging, from suddenly losing every last drop of soup he had just eaten.
It’s in his nature, Seungmin supposes, wiping the scuff off his sleeves as he curls into a ball on the dingy floor of a stall. It’s inevitable, if he wants to be disciplined, for him to cheat sometimes. Doing it the hard way’s not that simple.
It can’t be. Life’s not simple, and it’s only human nature that makes it look that way. It’s spending a lifetime digging into a pile of rubble in the hope of finding a hand.
Seungmin found the hand, and it’s his own. He’ll be the one to dig himself in- something beautiful will come of his destruction, should nature will it.
Seungmin stops. Wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, stands up abruptly. Lets his back crack, stretches his arms wide above his head. Pulls himself out of the rubble himself.
He clicks his stall door open. Seungmin pads over to the sink, and the bathroom’s still empty. Cruel, that it was made to be that way. That nobody’s here to mock him.
Too far gone, Seungmin.
In the mirror, his eyes are bloodshot, drool clinging to his lower lip. For a moment, time freezes. The Seungmin of four, five, six years ago watches him through the glass with apprehension.
Younger. Younger, smarter, prettier.
Skinnier.
Seungmin splashes water across his face, and the image distorts. He wishes the water was scalding. He wishes for his face to melt and mesh, wishes with everything he has that he had the power to take up the skin and mold it himself.
Something drops in his stomach. Seungmin looks again, and he isn’t sure what he sees.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chan is waiting for him at their booth. Seungmin slides in across the older, pulling his sweatshirt down past his wrists. His throat hurts. His stomach feels more bloated than before. He wants to cry.
Chan watches him cautiously. He looks tired, enough so that Seungmin just feels so, so guilty. How ugly is he on the inside, too, that he has to make people feel like this?
The older clears his throat. Seungmin doesn’t bother looking up at him.
“Your sleeves are dirty.” Chan comments, voice unsure.
Seungmin moves his hands down, shielding them between his thighs. “I know,” he replies.