Work Text:
's been a long day, long week, long year, long life.
Jisung feels like he's been running, nonstop since he first stepped foot in the JYP building. Between training, debuting and now, promoting, it feels like he's lost himself along the way and his lungs burn with every breath he takes. Countless song lyrics, choreographies, beats that he has taken part in; people love it, and yet, it feels like he burned himself out and is now nothing but an empty shell - a corpse, slowly rotting from the inside, in the cramped studio.
He's an idol , for fuck's sake -- a rapper, a singer, a dancer, a producer and that's all people ever see, completely ignoring that he's barely 18, a child who lost the most precious years of his life by running and fighting and working.
The studio that once felt like his second home feels like the worst place on Earth right now.
Right now, where it's so late the line between late and early is blurred and everyone in the room is dying to finish and get their work done just so they can go home and sleep , Jisung finds himself getting agitated.
Everything's too loud suddenly; the distant music coming out of Chan's headphones, the sounds of Changbin furiously tapping on his laptop, even the goddamned clock on the wall. Jisung clenches the pen tighter in his hand, breathes out through his nose, and imagines what it would feel like to break his hand.
He's far beyond stressed and upset, he's furious . Anything he writes comes out wrong and all he wants to do is stab himself with the pen he's holding, but in the end, settles on angrily crossing out everything he's written so far.
It isn't often that Jisung gets like that -- so lost in his own anger it starts getting to him, making violent images come to his mind and making his skin itch with the need to rip himself open. But now, when it's been so long since he's written something useful , so long since he really slept for the whole night, so damn long since he felt like anything he does is worth it.
God, Jisung is so exhausted.
The stress that comes with being an idol is a feeling he's long grown accustomed to, and he knows that once he focuses on it it will send him spiraling into panic. So, instead, he ignores it and focuses on the anger quietly bubbling inside of him. And it's not that Jisung is particularly angry at anyone -- no, everything is good , his bandmates are amazing, the company isn't as bad as it once was -- but he's pissing himself off just by simply being . He takes a deep breath in order to calm himself down.
In. Out.
Chan hums under his breath as he listens to the beat he's working on.
In. Out.
Changbin mumbles lyrics to himself, still tapping on the desk.
In. Out.
Jisung thinks about cracking his skull open and dying.
He taps the pen against the page of his notebook, writing a few words and then scribbling them out almost instantly. His leg bounces against the floor impatiently and he fights the urge to rip his hair out.
The clock on the wall ticks quietly. It makes him want to break all his fingers, one by one.
If someone talks to him, he feels like he's going to snap; he's going to break and start yelling and throwing things around the studio because he's sick and tired and stressed and with every second that he's awake, he just turns more and more violent. He thinks about the faded scars littering his thighs and hips, small burns all over his hands and fingers and briefly considers tearing them open.
In. Out.
Time passes agonizingly slow.
Jisung stares at the page of his notebook; tattered and torn, full of scribbles and not actual lyrics, bites the insides of his cheeks so hard he tastes blood.
In. Out.
He rips it out, perhaps a bit too angrily, and gets up from his chair. The sudden movement startles Chan and Changbin, who both remove their headphones and stare at him worriedly.
The look in their eyes makes him feel sick. He brought this upon himself, and now he has to deal with it. He doesn't deserve their pity.
"You good?" Chan asks, and it's obvious that he sees right through him. He's known Jisung for so long , but has not seen him at his worst. Jisung has cried and broke down in front of him, sure, but this -- this is awful . It's not something Jisung wants anyone to see.
It's disgusting , the things his mind can come up with, the things he's capable of doing to himself. It's the one thing he'd rather die than have anyone see.
"Fine," Jisung answers, and his voice sounds strained. He grabs his notebook and his backpack, and moves to leave the studio, jaw clenched. "I'll be back in 15."
He walks fast, clutching the strap of his backpack like it's a lifeline, trying not to think about how much of a failure this night has been. He's seething , every muscle aching with need to do something , to hurt himself, make himself bleed.
In. Out.
His hands are shaking when he opens the door after reaching the rooftop and steps out into the cold winter air. The wind almost hurts against his overheated skin, and he slowly makes his way to the railing at the edge of the roof and sits down. He stares at his awful lyrics and thinks about how his body is going to look like after he jumps f f.
In. Out .
If he can't even write lyrics-- when it's the only thing he's supposedly good at-- he should just break his fucking hands, cut his fingers off, just end it all for good--
Jisung slams his fists against his head in frustration, breathing deeply. The pain was a temporary distraction, but it doesn't stop the thoughts, just makes him spiral deeper into the thoughts and makes him imagine things even worse; cutting himself open and letting every rotten thing out, breaking all his bones and hearing every single sound, fuck --
In. Out.
He hits his head again, tugs at his hair sharply, breathes through the nausea that suddenly overtook him.
Grabbing his backpack, he decides to dump everything in there on the ground, hands too shaky to properly find anything. He grabs the crumpled, falling apart carton and a lighter, fumbling to get the cigarette in between his lips. Not a healthy habit for an idol - for anyone, in that matter - to have, but there's nothing that soothes Jisung's nerves the same way. He's sure the others know; there's no use hiding it with how much time they spend together.
When he flicks on the lighter, he thinks about holding it close to the flesh of his forearm and watching the skin melt.
In. Out.
Jisung inhales slowly, closes his eyes, tries to ignore his brain telling him to slam his head into the concrete he's sitting on so hard his skull cracks.
In. Out.
He drags his nails down his arms, the sting temporarily shutting his brain up. He knows it's going to leave marks, knows someone's going to bring it up, knows he's going to have to talk to someone about it.
He can do that; without mentioning all the violence, that is.
In. Out.
Everything is so still and quiet around him, so quiet he can hear the cigarette burning when he takes a drag. It replaces the static in his brain, and slowly, he feels the anger dissipating.
In. Out.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he picks it up hesitantly, the cigarette hanging limply in between his lips, making him squint against the smoke going in his eyes.
[from: channie hyung ^__^]
it's been 25 minutes
everything okay?
Jisung sighs, puts the cigarette out against the ground and flicks it off the roof, uncaring as to where it will end up.
[to: channie hyung ^__^]
all good, just needed some time alone
heading back now!!
Rummaging through the mess that is the contents of his backpack, he fumbles around with the packaging and pops a piece of grape flavored candy in his mouth to get rid of the lingering taste, more out of habit than anything else. He throws everything back in, tucks his worn notebook under his arm and makes his way back to the studio slowly.
Everything hurts, he realizes belatedly. His muscles are starting to get sore from tensing up so much, the scratches on his arms are throbbing with pain, and there's a headache forming inside his skull from all the hitting. Exhaustion sits deep in his bones, the only thing left after the anger burned out, leaving him with just that; the tiredness and the stress.
Just thinking about going back to the studio and having to sit there for another eternity, unable to write anything, makes him want to cry.
In. Out.
The anger died down and left behind the stress and the fear. It's a vicious cycle; he turns to anger when the stress gets too much, and when that gets too much, he turns to stress. He tries not to think about the lyrics and the slowly approaching comeback preparations too much; it makes his heart pick up and his eyes sting with tears at the sheer helplessness that fills him.
He needs a break, desperately, but so does everyone else; they're all tired and all stressed and yet, he's the only one breaking down. Pathetic.
In. Out .
His fist slams against his skull again. Jisung clenches and unclenches his jaw, takes a few more deep breaths, opens the door to the studio and sends his two friends a smile. His chest hurts, God, his whole body hurts, but he sinks down into his chair and stares at the blank pages. He feels the frustration getting to him again, and he absentmindedly grips at his hair again, tugging slightly to distract himself.
His eyes burn, from the exhaustion as well as the tears clouding his vision. He can't stop the endless litany of he's disappointing the entire team, the weakest one out of all of them, can't even go for more than a few weeks without breaking down --
The first tears drip onto the paper, and before he can stop them, more follow. His breathing stutters, and before he knows it, he's crying into the blank page, grabbing his hair so roughly he's sure he's going to rip it out.
"Jisungie, hey, what's wrong?" Chan is there almost immediately, crouching in front of him. His voice is heavy with exhaustion, and the bags under his eyes are worse than usual, and yet, this is the only thing he focuses on.
Jisung shakes his head over and over again, chest heaving as he can't seem to get enough air in his lungs. "I'm sorry," he hiccups, free hand crumpling the notebook page. "I'm sorry, hyung, I'm just…"
"I know, Sungie, I know," Chan cuts him off softly, standing up. He places his hand over Jisung's fist, makes him let go and smooths down the hair. "I'm sorry, I should've noticed sooner." He says, bending down in order to wrap his arms around Jisung.
Taking a deep breath in attempt to steady himself, Jisung buries his face in the fabric of Chan's hoodie and cries even harder. It's the first time he broke down this hard, since before debuting. It's all the stress and pressure from months of running, months of trying to silence his own mind, months of feeling burned out , filling him up and spilling over.
There's a faint clicking sound in the background, all devices buzzing for a few more second before the studio becomes quiet, the only sounds being Jisung's loud sobbing and Chan's quiet reassurances.
"It's been a long night," Changbin comments, walking up behind them and placing a hand on the back of Jisung's neck, gently stroking the short hair there. "Let's go home, yeah?"
Jisung wants to refuse, to say that he can still write tonight, that he's still worth something, but the words won't leave his mouth; he ends up just shaking his head instead. He pulls away from Chan hesitantly, wiping his face with still shaking hands and tries to smile to show that he's okay -- it comes out more of a pained grimace.
"It's late," Chan looks at him, speaking softly in that special tone of voice he only uses when someone is upset; his eyes harden when he catches the raised red lines on Jisung's arms. "We're all tired and we're not going to get more done today. Especially you."
Nodding in defeat, Jisung lets out a shaky sigh. There's no use arguing with any of them; especially not now, when he still can't calm down fully and he already made the other two so worried. He walks away to pack the rest of his stuff and put on his coat wordlessly, still sniffling and wiping his tears with a free hand, then leaves the studio to wait for the rest.
His hands are still shaky when he brings them up to run through his hair and get it out of his eyes, the lingering smell of tobacco making him oddly nauseous. No matter how hard he tries, he still can't get the last of the violent thoughts out of him.
It'd be so, so easy to run out of the company building and throw himself under one of the buses.
In. Out.
"Let's go, Jisungie." Chan says, linking their arms as Changbin finishes locking up and they leave the company building. It seems to be even colder now, and the wind feels way too harsh on his still wet cheeks.
The walk back to the dorms is agonizingly slow, and with every step he feels the exhaustion seep deeper into his bones, weighing him down. He focuses his eyes on the tips of his sneakers as they drag against the pavement, the sound way too loud on the otherwise quiet street. Chan's arm is solid around his own, and Changbin's shoulder brushes against his own every once in a while, and, for a few minutes, everything is okay.
But then, they reach their destination, and Chan opens the door silently, and as he walks into the living room, dead silent and still in the middle of the night; the pressure becomes crushing.
Jisung's okay for a while; he patiently waits for Chan and Changbin to shower first, and only lets himself break down once again when he's alone with the scalding water cascading over him. He thinks about the rest, sleeping in their beds, thinks about how hard they all work, and remembers how he's been stuck for what seems like an eternity. He digs his nails into every patch of skin he can, scratches at his skin so hard he almost draws blood, thinks about drowning himself right there and then.
In. Out.
Only leaving the bathroom when he's sure he's going to be okay again, at least for a few more minutes, he goes straight to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water.
He stands there, hunched over the counter, breathing through the vivid images of breaking the glass and slitting his wrists open, leaving his body to bleed out in the moonlight.
God , this is so fucked up.
Footsteps approach him slowly, and he doesn't have to turn around to know who it is.
"So, what's up?" Chan asks casually as he leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He's studying Jisung's expression carefully.
Jisung shrugs. "I can't sleep." He mutters in response, taking a sip of his water. It's way too late to be having this conversation, he thinks.
The older raises an eyebrow at that. "You know that's not what I mean." He's looking at Jisung now, picking at every inch of his body; the red and puffy eyes, the red marks on his arms, the slightly faded scars on the backs of his hands.
"It's nothing," Jisung sighs in annoyance, setting the glass down harder than he intended to. "Can't you just leave it?"
Now that he's said it, made himself annoyed again, it feels like a flame has ignited in him, and any filters appear to be nonexistent. He might as well do it, tell his leader how he feels, see how that plays out.
He's sick of himself.
Chan steps closer to him, and when he speaks it comes out harder; not angry, but stern. "No, I can't just drop it." He says, and even though the height difference between them isn't big, he towers over Jisung in that moment. "Have you seen yourself? You look like you're about to drop dead at any second. You left in the middle of writing, came back and broke down crying , Jisung."
"I don't wanna talk about it." Jisung answers, stubbornly. He's running on purely anger and adrenaline right now, and he sees Changbin hover in the doorway cautiously, and he knows , deep down, that if Chan keeps pushing he's going to snap.
"For God's sake, Jisung." Chan sounds tired, way too tired for someone his age. "You've always told me when you weren't doing well. What the hell makes this time different, huh?"
Jisung almost slams his hand on the counter, but then remembers how late it is and stops himself. "I hate myself, hyung," he whispers, struggling to keep himself from raising his voice. "Is that what you want to hear? That I can't handle sitting in the studio because I know it's useless? That I can't listen to songs I've made because I know I won't ever be able to do something better? That everyone expects me to constantly keep getting better , but I've been stuck for the longest time now and I'm sick and tired of disappointing everyone and I'm sick and tired of being me, and sometimes I wish I could just--" His voice cracks and he trails off, staring at the wall with his jaw clenched. The tirade made his chest heave with short breaths, and his chest ache with the knowledge that they know .
He doesn't have to look to see the shocked expression on Chan's face.
Chan sighs. "Look at me, Sung," he speaks softly, worry tinting his voice. When Jisung refuses to do so, shaking his head, he grabs his arms gently. "One writer's block doesn't immediately erase all progress you've made since I first met you, okay? I understand how stressed you are, and I wish I'd noticed sooner." He stops for a while there, brushes Jisung's hair out of his eyes, and puts on a reassuring smile. "I get it if you don't want to talk about it, however , this is your breaking point, Jisungie. You're going to work yourself to death if you don't stop. Whenever it starts getting too much, I want you to come to me, hell , you can go to Woojin, or Changbin, or Minho -- I don't care who, but I want you to come to someone -- and tell them. Can you do that for me?"
Jisung nods shakily, despite still refusing to look Chan in the eye. He feels arguments already rising inside of him, but it's silenced by Changbin walking up to them and grabbing his wrist.
"There's nothing wrong with admitting you need help," he says, idly rubbing his thumb over the scratches on Jisung's wrist. "All of us break at some point, okay? Even if you don't see it. I don't want you to feel like you need to resort to hurting yourself because there's nothing else you can do."
Already feeling his eyes watering, Jisung hangs his head low. "I'm sorry." He whispers, although his brain is yelling that he's stupid for telling them, worrying them for nothing, stupid, stupid, stupid--
An arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him close against a warm chest. "It's okay," Chan whispers, pressing his lips to the top of Jisung's head. "You'll be okay."
His face crumbles, and he clings to the front of Chan's shirt, exhaling shakily. "I'm so tired ," he sniffles, knowing that the other two know he's not talking about the physical exhaustion. They know he means the sleepless nights, the blank pages, the breakdowns in the bathroom.
And he knows that Changbin's right, too -- he's definitely seen some of the other members having to spend some time by themselves or with Woojin or Chan when the pressure gets too much. And yet, his brain still manages to make him feel ashamed and guilty for spending the entire night like this.
The world seems to have stopped around them; nothing feels real this far into the night, only the moonlight spilling through the window and the arms around him, swaying side to side gently.
"Do you think you'll be able to sleep?" Changbin asks softly, hand tightening over Jisung's own.
Jisung nods a few times, only wanting to sleep at this point. His eyes are burning with exhaustion, head pounding from both him hitting himself and crying for the past hour.
Perhaps he'll feel better after he sleeps for a few hours. He has to, for the sake of others if not for himself.
"Let's go, then." Changbin slowly leads them out of the kitchen, Jisung still tucked under Chan's arm securely. He finds himself confused when they walk past his room, but then remembers they shouldn't risk waking his roommates up.
The bedroom is even more still and quiet than the rest of the house; but in that moment, it's more comforting that anything. Jisung feels Chan squeeze him one last time before letting go, and lets Changbin pull him down onto his bed.
Now, Changbin isn't very affectionate towards Jisung -- at least, not as affectionate as he is towards other members Jisung's age. He doesn't baby him that much, treating him almost as if they were the same age. Which is why Jisung had learned to appreciate those rare moments of comfort - when he can bury his face in the older boy's chest, feel the low rumble of his voice as he talks to Chan about something unimportant.
It silences his brain; usually swimming with useless verses, his always racing thoughts, all blurring together into white noise that makes it impossible for him to fall asleep some nights.
That night, Jisung is lulled to sleep by the exhaustion clouding his mind and a hand running through his hair; he feels lighter than he had in months.