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He shouldn't be doing this.
Bile spills between his fingers, and Namjoon just barely has time to yank his hand out of the way before it's stained. He knocks his knuckles painfully into the stall wall, a mark blooming over grazed knuckles, but he ignores it, ignores everything outside of the throbbing of his head; tears push past his tightly shut eyes with how hard he's straining himself, because there's nothing in his stomach and nothing will come out.
The vomit is clear, rancid and sour but empty, and he tips to rest his head on his arm, coming up to brace against the side of the toilet bowl. He breathes deeply, trying to calm the rattling breaths and pounding heart and focus on the rapidly building headache that pushes at the base of his skull. He has enough of a headache already, courtesy of a long and busy day, and he doesn't need this.
He shouldn't be doing this.
He pushes himself up onto his knees once he's caught his breath, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a moment to regain his balance. He had learned, in the early days of this nasty habit, that standing up too quickly resulted in blacking out--blacking out resulted in being late, which meant his friends came looking for him, which meant they found either the evidence of what he'd done or had an opportunity to poke at his straining ribs. Standing up too fast was bad. He takes his time.
The thing is--he knows he shouldn't do it. He's smart. He knows how many ways this could go wrong, how easily he could spiral downwards, how slippery of a slope it is. He shouldn't do it.
But he does.
Rising to his feet seems to take hours, and once he's there, he tips his head back and breathes deeply. The smell of vomit and public bathroom isn't at all appealing, but he needs the air, or he's going to fall. He's already depriving his body of one thing, he's not sure he's strong enough to take away two.
Slow steps, careful movements. He shuts the toilet lid and flushes down the mess, unlocks the stall and steps out with measured paces, breathing deeply. The smell becomes bearable. A sick sense of relief settles low inside his empty stomach at the thought of being clean again, of getting away with it.
The hot water is a relief against his skin, and he takes an extra moment soaking it in despite knowing that he's being waited on, that his friends are all sitting in their booth, no doubt becoming rapidly aware of his absence. If he doesn't hurry, then one of them will wander in. Ask what's taking so long, smell the air, his breath before he can get back to the mints in his bag. They'll know, and they'll drag him back out, demand to go home; just like they did before, when Namjoon promised that he would stop. When they told him they were scared of losing him.
He shouldn't be doing this.
He rinses his mouth with water as a precaution, because what if he bumps into someone on the way, what if the mints aren't strong enough, what if--
The door creaks open, and he goes rigid with nerves. A stranger wanders in, reflected in the mirror, and although there's surely no way he could know what Namjoon's done, why he's here, Namjoon withers when their gazes meet regardless, shrinks into himself and casts his eyes back down. Feels as if the man knows, must know, must have seen or smelled him before he could clean well enough--and it hurts, it weighs on his shoulders and head and sinks into his skin because why is he so useless--
The man gives a curt nod, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge him. Doesn't peel him apart, or call him out, or degrade or harass him. Namjoon finishes washing his hands quickly, wiping them on his jeans as he rushes out of the bathroom, goosepimples raising on his skin as a gust of cold air hits him. He's already wearing two sweaters, it will be odd if he asks for a third--especially when most of the patrons are in tees or button downs, casual spring attire.
Jeongguk is the only one waiting for him at the table when he returns. Namjoon looks at him, confused. Tries to ignore the sinking, cleaving feeling in his gut, insisting that he knows, he knows, he knows--
"They went to get ice cream, since we were all pretty much done. I offered to wait." He smiles, faint, and holds up a polystyrene box, neatly closed with his name scrawled over the top. "We boxed yours for you."
"Thank you." He's never going to touch that food again. He wonders if there's some place he can ditch it on the way home without any of them noticing. "You don't want ice cream?"
"We can get ours together, Hyung." Jeongguk says, and for a moment, for a horrible, awful moment, Namjoon looks at him and feels--guilty. Like he's betraying him, forcing him to sit by and watch Namjoon destroy himself, making him take on more responsibility than he's due because Namjoon is too weak, Namjoon is sick, Namjoon is--
"Hyung." Jeongguk's fingers close around his wrist. He's not smiling anymore. Round eyes narrow out, lips pressed into a flat line and voice low. He takes a step closer to Namjoon, opening his mouth twice before he finally speaks. "I know what you're thinking, okay? Just. Stop. Don't think. Let's get ice cream and go home."
He knows it's hurting Jeongguk. He's hurting him. Namjoon is his leader, his friend--Jeongguk looks up to Namjoon. Admires him in all aspects, is ready to jump in and lend a helping hand when Namjoon doesn't even need it. Namjoon would even believe his friends' accusations of Jeongguk having a crush on him, were he more confident.
He knows it's hurting Jeongguk, because Jeongguk always knows what he's done. He can see it in the younger boy's eyes; in the way he carries himself, the delicate sort of way he handles Namjoon's easily bruised skin, because he wants to be subtle but he can't erase the obvious concern when his fingers circle and touch around Namjoon's wrist. Jeongguk always knows, but he never speaks up. Never forces Namjoon to face himself. A sick part of Namjoon, the part he no longer listens to, wishes that he was better--that he was healthy, stable, because Jeongguk is cute, and he's sweet, and if opportunity were to present itself..
Jeongguk tugs him out of the restaurant without another word, smiling reassuringly, and Namjoon doesn't fight him when he keeps their hands close together, fingers loose around Namjoon's wrist, ready to pull away at a moment's notice. He almost appreciates the delicacy with which Jeongguk handles him. Almost, because the latent part of Namjoon recognizes this as enabling, and although he loves Jeongguk, he loathes this type of behaviour. Loathes his own. Can't bear the thought of dragging the other down with him, of having him face the blame and consequence when Namjoon inevitably doesn't wake up.
The rest of the group is waiting for them at the stand, already sporting their own treats. Jimin is quick to point out their interlocked hands, and Jeongguk pulls away under the teasing and catcalling that comes soon after, and someone hands him his favourite cone in the midst of it. He smiles, broad, touched, and gives the ice cream an obedient lick when he spots Seokjin eyeing him. Proves that he's eating, that he's fine. Tells himself that Seokjin doesn't know, he doesn't know, he doesn't know--
He tips his cone into the trash and spits the bite he's taken out as they start walking, too in a rush to get the melting cream off of his tongue to make sure none of them see him do it. Jeongguk's wide eyes are on him when he joins the group again, guilty, knowing, but silent; he looks away.
He really shouldn't be doing this.