Work Text:
His shoulders are tense, filled with knots, so he holds the stretch a little longer than necessary. It’s an uncomfortable one, his bicep presses against his throat as he deepens it, threatening to cut off his airway. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes in case they should blur. He stands up. It doesn’t make a difference, but now he feels a little more ready; just a tiny bit more like he’s about to do something.
He tightens the hold of his wrist, contemplates growing his nails out some more. Contemplates going out for a run. Contemplates never doing anything, ever again.
He’s worked through the series twice now. He could have put more energy into it, knows it too. Didn’t know how, though.
There’s an empty studio down the hallway. He goes there, without any faith in the notion of productivity, of creativity. It’s just out of his reach, he thinks, as he opens a file that reads ‘last edited: three weeks ago’. He skims through it before closing it back down.
When he leaves he feels both better and worse than he did before. He wishes he was back in the practice room, choking.
The dorm is empty, the time is early; he wants to leave again the second he steps in. He doesn’t. He makes himself a late lunch, eats it by the kitchen counter, cleans everything. Not a spot, the kitchen is cleaner than it was before. Hoseok is left with trembling hands, a mind which he tries too hard to empty, and no more excuses.
He knows the neighbourhood like the back of his hand, which is why he speeds up, why he doesn’t look at the familiar shops, the familiar people. Some people are different, they always are, and Hoseok doesn’t look at them either. The mixing signals are no good to him.
He breaks into a run when he reaches the river. He runs for a long time, but he can’t run forever. Even if he could, there’s an ocean and a border, waiting to cut him off. He feels trapped.
There’s a convenience store on his right. It sells alcohol, it sells cigarettes, but he walks past it without doing more than entertaining the thought; it would screw with his cardio, he thinks, and hates himself for caring.
The dimly lit streets are a blessing; he continues, spurred by the street signs telling him that he is succeeding, one way or the other.
His phone vibrates but he ignores it and speeds up instead. He could have dumped it in the river, but he’s not that bold, and this, even this will get old at some point. He will give in, he knows so, but he’s not ready yet.
The neighbourhood is a bad one, but there are no cameras anywhere, and the pawn shop in front of him has a huge window. He picks up a stone, weighs it in his hand. Adrenaline rushes through him and he yells; not throwing, but not letting go either.
When he does throw it, it’s at a brick wall instead, and he hits the nearest immovable object before curling in on himself, dropping to the ground.
His phone vibrates again. He would do most anything to have it make him break down completely.
The road back is shorter than ever and dread makes him go numb as he approaches the building. He won’t be able to sleep. Maybe if he were hungry it would do something to him, but he’s not; he saw to that too.
His eyes are prickling. He indulges himself, shakes a little more than necessary. Regrets it as he does it, stops when a single tear is forces to the surface.
He opens his phone, more out of habit than to check the time. He has five messages. Two less than last time. He closes it down again and walks faster, willing the whole ordeal to come to an end. Willing in to never have happened.
He knows that he can’t deal with the others, so he doesn’t. He heads straight for the shower, turning it on at a comfortable temperature. He’ll turn it up gradually, he knows that he’ll fail to endure it if he turns it up too high right away.
He’s twelve minutes and forty seven degrees in when the bathroom door opens. There’s rustling, and then the shower opens. A body presses against his; Jimin, he knows, instinctively. He holds him tight. Hoseok waits for words, but there’s none and he’s relieved beyond saying. The water is coming down on Jimin now, too. He hisses quietly, as if he didn’t mean to. As if he values the quiet as much as Hoseok does.
The tears come, finally, properly, as Hoseok turns down the heat. Red skin and damp air is not a distraction anymore, but his tears disappear with the water anyways, and Hoseok revels in the feeling of not having to force anything. It’s liberating, in a sense, as he lets himself melt into Jimin; as Jimin rubs small circles into his back, he thinks that maybe it could be alright.
Jimin stays with him, takes him by the hand as they head into their room. He doesn’t let go when they reach Hoseok’s bed, sits next to him instead, humming softly, unsurely. As if he doesn’t know if he should or not.
Hoseok wills him to continue; he doesn’t, but he does creep underneath the covers with him when Hoseok starts shaking again.
Breakfast is a little more stifled than usually, but no one has the time to be tense for long, and so, they aren’t.
Hoseok acts normal, doesn't know how to do anything else. When his eyes meet Jimin’s he smiles, not a happy smile but a grateful one. The one he gets back is timid, a little unsure, and Hoseok wants more than anything to change that.
He just can’t and so, what he does will have to enough.