Work Text:
Chan shuddered as he downed yet another cup of coffee. It was absolutely disgusting, probably the worst thing he’d ever drink, but it was cheaper than everything else so it’s what he bought. His head pounded with one of the worst headaches he had had in weeks, his hands shook from the new caffeine that was now in his bloodstream, and his vision was growing blurred from fatigue. Everything hurt, whether it was from his lack of sleep or the excessive practice and stress he put himself through, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t just suddenly stop. Work made him forget why he worked. When he hurt he could forget the itch to pick up that razor blade, or disassemble that pencil sharpener, or tiptoe to the downstairs bathroom to get the tiny, devilishly sharp looking pair of scissors that had caught his attention a couple weeks ago. Well, at least he could forget for a little while.
He couldn’t remember the last time he was truly happy or even had the energy to try to appear as if he was. His smiles and laughs were strained and forced, and even those were becoming few and far between. All the energy Chan had came from unhealthy amounts of caffeine and somewhere between one and three hours of sleep a night, sometimes even less.
The bright glow of the computer screen hurt Chan’s eyes as he tried to focus on writing yet another draft of the same song. He’d already written dozens of versions of it but hadn’t been satisfied with any of those either and ended up discarding them. None of them seemed to have any emotion behind the lyrics or choppy background music and he hated how much that reflected his current mental and emotional state, not to mention that his members were bound to notice that something was wrong if he finalized any of his previous drafts.
They always noticed, especially if he wrote a song that resembled how he was feeling even just the tiniest amount, which, unfortunately for him, was always the case. They had particularly noticed with Insomnia and Hellevator, which wasn’t that much of a surprise, but they also noticed the tiniest details like those times when he added smaller, much more somber sounding lines to his parts.
So, naturally, the clear solution to not worrying the rest of his members was simply to not write songs during the times that he wasn’t feeling his greatest. But, there were exactly two problems with this.
The first was that Chan always wrote songs. If he randomly came home early one day without going straight to his studio after dance practice, the others would know something was up; not that they would mind if he actually came home and tried to sleep instead of going back to his studio until ass o’clock in the morning, but they would know something was up.
The second problem with simply not writing songs into the early hours of the morning every day was that it kept him safe. Safe from his self destructive thoughts, safe from the depression slowly catching up to him, safe from himself.
Chan didn’t understand why he was getting bad again. He hadn’t been this bad since the time Felix and Minho had been eliminated, and even then it had only lasted two or three weeks, not almost four months, and even now there was no sign of it getting better any time soon.
There was a soft dinging sound from his phone and the screen lit up, making him flinch from the sudden brightness.
Felix: Chrisss. Where the actual fuck are you. It’s three in the morning and you’re still not back at the dorms. Please don’t tell me you’re working again.
A wave of nausea washed over Chan as he read the younger boy’s text. Why was he still awake? Was he seriously waiting for him to come home?
Chan: Fine. I won’t tell you I’m working again.
Felix: Come home right now. I swear to god, Chan, if you stay awake any longer you’re going to pass out at dance practice tomorrow, you already nearly collapsed today. And if you sleep at your studio one more time I will personally make sure you sleep for 48 hours straight.
Chan: Bold of you to assume I sleep
He knew it was a bad idea, saying things that could make the others worry, but he couldn’t help trying to subtly ask for help.
Felix: Just get your ass home, Chan. We’re all worried sick.
Those words were the ones that always got him. He hated worrying people, but couldn’t really help it when he spent all of his time working.
Chan: Fine, I’m coming.
Felix: I swear if you don’t get here within the next fifteen minutes I will personally slap you.
It was three in the morning. Jeongin was passed out on the couch, draped over an almost equally sleepy Jisung. Seungmin was pacing impatiently between the door to the kitchen and the little coffee table in the living room. Felix was sitting curled up at the other end of the couch, silent panicked tears running down his face, smudging the eyeliner he still hadn’t taken off. Changbin had his arms wrapped around the younger, whispering sweet nothings in his ear, gently wiping stray tears from his cheeks, and peppering him in soft kisses. Minho and Hyunjin were curled up on the floor together, occasionally glancing at the door or checking the time, quietly reassuring each other that Chan would be home soon. Woojin had pulled up a chair to the little window by the door and was gazing blankly out of it, whether he was just tired or lost in thought no one could tell, but it was probably both.
“S’ Channie hyung home yet?” Jeongin slurred sleepily, shifting slightly to find a more comfortable position.
“No, sorry, kiddo.” It was Minho who answered, looking up at the clock on the wall by the kitchen for the third time within five minutes.
“Oh, ok.” The maknae’s voice waver when he spoke and a single tear slipped down his cheek. “Why doesn’t he ever come home with us..?” His breaths were becoming raged and uneven and more tears were gathering in his eyes.
“I don’t know, Jeongin..” Minho lied, not wanting to tell him that Chan spent sleepless nights overworking himself. “Please don’t cry. It’s ok, he’ll come back.” He untangled himself from Hyunjin’s arms and walked over to comfort Jeongin.
It was almost four by the time Chan finally did come home. Minho had brought Jeongin to bed and helped him fall asleep, but apart from that everyone else was still awake in the living room, waiting anxiously for his return. And just as Felix had promised, the moment Chan walked in through the door he stood up from his spot on the couch and tackled him, tears still streaming down his face.
“Why. Do. You. Always. Do. This. To. Yourself.?!?!” He sobbed in a confusing gumble of English and Korean, punching every bit of Chan he could get to. The worst part, in Felix’s opinion, was that the older boy did nothing to stop him. He just lay there, taking every hit without lifting a finger to defend himself. “Why won’t you defend yourself? What is wrong with you Christopher? Why are you so- so emotionless? So dead?” Felix choked out, pulling said hyung into a rib-cracking hug and burying his face in his shoulder. Not really knowing what to do or how to respond, Chan awkwardly hugged him back, glancing at the others who were now staring at them him with varying expressions of concern, anger, pity, and sadness.
“Jeongin started crying and I had to force feed him sleeping medicine to make him calm down.” Minho said eventually, his voice cracking as he finally broke. “None of us can stand it, Chan. We all hate not knowing whether you’ll come home at night. Hate not knowing what to do when you work yourself past your breaking point. Please, just- stop…”
“Why are you all still up anyways?” Chan asked glancing around nervously and avoiding everyone’s gaze as well as, quite obviously, their questions.
“We were waiting for you to come home.” Woojin deadpanned from his spot by the window. He hadn’t said a word the whole time, or moved at all, as a matter of fact, but now he turned and looked Chan right in the eye, silently daring him to try to justify it. After a moment, however, his expression softened and he got up to help the younger to his feet.
“You really didn’t have to-”
“We know we didn’t.” Jisung interrupted. “But we’re worried and couldn’t stand going to bed without knowing if you were going to come home or not. But now that you’re home I guess we can all go to bed. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” Everyone nodded in agreement murmuring a tired ‘goodnight’ or, in Minho’s case, ‘see all you hoes in the morning’. Woojin ended up gently carrying Chan into his own bed, not only because he was standing unresponsive in the doorway still trying to take in the information he’d just recieved, but also to make sure the younger got enough sleep.
Over the next few weeks the other members took turns keeping an eye on Chan, making sure he didn’t overwork himself (worked less), got enough sleep(got more sleep than before), and took good(better) care of himself. And it worked, for the most part anywas. True, he was getting much more sleep than usual, and true he was finally drinking something that wasn’t coffee. But that itch to just pick up anything even a little sharp and hurt himself with it was growing stronger by the day.
“Why do I even bother..?” he mumbled to himself on one of the few nights where he managed to sneak to his studio without anyone noticing. Everything hurt again, but mostly just emotionally, physically, everything was fine. “No one even cares. Why would they care? You do nothing for them,” he whispered, curling in on himself. He stared blankly at his reflection in the full-length mirror. It didn’t look right. It didn’t look like him. The Chan he knew smiled and looked like he could burst from happiness at any moment. The Chan that stared back at him, however, looked sad and broken, as if nothing mattered. The Chan in the mirror was skinny and pale with permanent bruises under his lifeless eyes.
Letting out a bitter laugh the Australian boy let himself collapse on the floor, tears beginning to streak down his face. His thoughts were rushing through his mind, one bitter word instantaneously being replaced by another, more foul one being spat at him. The words ‘useless’, ‘broken’, ‘good for nothing’, and ‘burden’ were only a few of the more common words now staining his thoughts dark, dark red; like blood, or death, or whatever other horrible red things you can think of. But of course there was still that little voice in the back of his head screaming at him to stop and think logically. To recognize that he had friends that still cared, to stop and think about what he was doing before he did it.
But none of it helped. Chan was already reaching around in the drawer by his computer in search of the little blade that had brought him comfort in the days before he discovered that overworking himself had the same effect and also got stuff done. In those days he had always made little, careful cuts on his thighs, only in places they couldn’t be seen.
But now he was reckless. Now he didn’t bother to remember about hiding them. He felt too desperate to hurt himself to care. It was true, what they said. Once you start you don’t ever really stop.
The first cut was a shallow one, just below his elbow, just to get used to the feeling again. The second was slightly longer, just below the first one. The third was deeper, blood welling from the cut quickly and running down his arm. Stop. You’re going to end up dead if you keep doing this whispered a small voice in the back of his head.
“Yeah? So what? No one’s going to miss me anyways. No one cares ” Chan laughed bitterly, screaming the last couple words, only then realising he was crying, his voice going hoarse between ragged sobs.
It took only a quick glance back down at his arm to realize he’d fucked up. Four new cuts now lay parallel to the three from a moment ago. Well, no. They were not parallel to those from before, but he phrased it that way in his head because it sounded better than ‘there were four new cuts just fucking slashed all over my arm’. While the three from before were relatively shallow- well not shallow , per sé, but shallow enough that they weren’t anything to be seriously concerned about- the new ones were impossibly deep, already weeping blood which was starting to stain the hardwood floor.
The last one was the worst. Each of the four new cuts on his arms grew progressively more diagonal, until the last one which was just a single slash running vertically down his arm.
Chan thought nothing of it for a moment, barely acknowledging the fact that if he didn’t do something soon he would most likely die. It wasn’t until dark spots started floating in his vision and the edges of reality started to blur that the tiny, logical part of him started up again, screaming at him to call Woojin, to call an ambulance, to do something . But he didn’t panic, which even he found weird-he had thought that he’d panic if he was dying- but apparently he was in either too much shock or he just didn’t care enough about living. So, instead of being filled with dread, as most people would be, it was a sense of ‘fuck it, if I die then I die, if I don’t die then I keep living’ flooded him, even despite the fact that the dark blur had taken over a good portion of his vision at this point.
Chan stood up from the ground and walked(it was more of a shuffle to be honest) steadily-or at least as steadily as it was possible to walk after having lost what was probably a little over 20% of one’s blood-to the little cabinet in the corner of the room, not really bothering to see how much blood he was getting on the floor and would have to clean up later. In it were a small first aid kit, a couple boxes of cereal bars, and a few water bottles. Chan kept the last two for those sleepless nights spent staring frustratedly at the too bright computer screen displaying the undecipherable program with tired, unfocused eyes and searing headache that accompanied the late hour and excessive amounts of caffeine he tended to consume on the days he didn’t pay attention to how he was treating himself.
The contents of the first aid kit looked innocent enough at first, containing some disinfecting wipes, bandaids, and some gauze. But underneath all the normal stuff Chan had hidden a needle and some thread, just for situations like these. It hadn’t ever actually happened, but he’d always kept it like that so if he went overboard he could simply find the already threaded needle and stitch himself up before anyone noticed.
The repetitive motion shouldn’t have been very hard, and wouldn’t have been, but in the past minute the shaking in his hands had gone from one to a hundred and it was becoming extremely hard to see what he was doing due to the excessive blood now drenching his arm and his vision which had gone fuzzy and dark.
It hurt like a bitch, even though the burning from the initial cuts somehow numbed it to more of an afterthought, and his hands shook alarmingly, but somehow he managed to crudely stitch up the worst of the four cuts, collapsing against the wall on his left the moment he was done biting through the end of the thread to get it off of the needle, cringing at the thought of how unsanitary it was the whole time as he did so.
It was only now that Chan noticed how pale and clammy his skin had gone. Not only were his cheeks still tacky from the tears that had flown down them freely just a few minutes ago, but he was drenched in a cold sweat and was pretty sure his temperature had gone down by at least five degrees (farenheit). He wasn’t exactly a medical professional, but he knew enough to know that his heart rate and breathing was far too fast and uneven to be normal- of course it wasn’t, he’d literally just lost like 25% of his blood and decided stitching his own fucking arm up was the best plan of action.
Everything was too bright, Chan had a splitting headache, his vision was still fuzzy and everything was disorienting. After his moment of panic and everything had started to set in the temperature of the room had seemed to plummet, everything going from hot and feverish to cold and clammy in a matter of seconds.
It was only after about fifteen minutes of sitting slumped against the wall, screwing his eyes shut against the pain of his headache, shivering, and just feeling gross in general that he finally managed to look up at the room again. And just barely managed to not throw up. This was mostly due to the fact that the mirror he’d been standing in front of before was directly across from where he was sitting and he’d just so happened to look up right at it.
Chan thought he’d been pale before but, honestly, he could’ve been a Brazilian supermodel compared to how he looked now. His face looked as if it had been drained of all blood- or as if someone had drawn him on a blank sheet of printer paper and forgotten to add the color. Almost his entire left side had been drenched in blood and he’d somehow gotten some of the dark red substance smeared across his cheek and over his eyebrow. He vaguely remembered wiping some of the blood off his hand onto his shirt and sweatpants, which he confirmed in an instant, although, he hadn’t done a very good job of getting it off his hand and had kind of just smudged it over the light gray of his shirt- there was no way in hell he was getting that out.
Wincing slightly, Chan staggered to his feet, leaning on the cabinet to steady himself for a moment before shuffling over to the bathroom door (thank god his studio had one). At this point he couldn’t care less about how much blood he got on himself or his clothes, they had already passed the point of no return anyways, so he didn’t even bother trying to avoid the sticky puddles on the floor.
The bathroom in his studio didn’t have a shower, so instead he pulled his shirt over his head while trying to avoid smearing even more blood on himself as much as possible because, while he really didn’t care if it got everywhere, he didn’t want to have even more of a mess to clean up, and threw it haphazardly in the sink along with his basketball shorts before grabbing one of the neatly folded black towels from the counter.
It took a while, but ten minutes, half a bottle of lavender scented soap, and three towels later Chan managed to get rid of the blood covering him from head to toe and eliminate the harshest of the metallic stench. The studio, and now the bathroom, floor, however, was another story. The bathroom floor was still okay to work with, the tiles making it easy to scrub off the now dried blood as they didn’t soak up any of it in the first place. But the studio itself had a wooden floor. Wood is porous. Porous things soak up liquids. This was also the case with blood on wood, it simply would not come off.
He was just about to give up and just pour a gallon of bleach on the floor when his phone started buzzing in his back pocket. It was Woojin.
“H-hello?” he answered hoarsely, absolutely terrified to have been caught sneaking out, not even considering the fact that there would be no way to hide what had happened here if Woojin decided to come get him.
“Where the actual fuck are you, Chris.”
“At the studio…” he mumbled, knowing that the older would know if he tried to lie, even if it was over a phone call.
“You walked all the way to the studio in the snow at night?!?! ” Woojin shrieked. “I swear if you get sick, Bang Chan, I will personally end you.”
“Please do.”
“What?”
“Nevermind.”
“No, tell me what you said again, Chan.”
“It was nothing, it’s not important.” He tried to keep his voice even, but he could already feel more tears welling up in his eyes and his voice threatening to break at any moment.
“No, you literally just told me ‘please do’ after I told you I would end you if you get sick.” Woojin said sternly over the phone. “I don’t think that counts as ‘nothing’.”
“Do you seriously not understand fatalistic humor?” Chan asked, willing himself to sound exasperated.
“It didn’t sound like you were joking.”
“Well, I was.”
“If you say so… Anyways, I’m coming to pick you up. There’s no way you’re walking back.”
“Fine.” He said it calmly, but internally he was panicking. What if Woojin saw the crudely stitched up cuts on his arm, what if he kept asking why he’d responded with ‘please do’, what if he noticed the scent of blood still lingering on him and the clothes he was wearing (he kept a spare set in the bathroom for days when he didn’t make it back home from the studio), what if, what if, what if. “See you in a bit.”
He hung up before his voice cracked and forced his tears away before they spilled over, hurriedly grabbing the towel again and absolutely drenching it in bleach. It worked better than he expected, but even though it did get rid of the majority of the blood it also bleached the floorboards (hence the name bleach) an unnatural pale color. Eh, fuck it, he was going to get them replaced soon anyways.
It took about ten minutes for Woojin to get to the studio, but once he did Chan knew that he wasn’t getting away with anything he had said earlier.
“You aren’t leaving the dorms unless it’s with all of us for the next three months. I swear, Chan, if you don’t start treating yourself better I’m finding you a therapist or something. What has gotten into you lately?”
“I’m fine hyung…”
“You’re clearly not.” Chan was about to protest again but the older of the two just kept talking. “Look at yourself, Channie. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, your skin is ice cold, and you’re shaking. You’re not fine, no matter how much you insist you are.”
The pair was quiet for a few minutes before Woojin broke the silence again.
“You smell like blood.”
“Oh.”
He didn’t look over and continued to stare straight ahead at the back of the seat in front of him, Chan did the same.
They spent the rest of the car ride in silence. Chan making sure to keep his arm turned in to his body so the angry red cuts wouldn’t show. Woojin did glance over in his direction with a worried expression on his face every once in a while but said nothing.
After getting back to the dorms and a lengthy lecture about taking better care of himself from everyone Chan finally headed off to bed. But he didn’t sleep. Instead he spent the next four hours running his fingers absentmindedly over the cuts on his left forearm and wondering about what would have happened if he had just not sewn them back together.
“Chan? Why are you still awake?” It was Felix who was silhouetted by the bright light from the hallway.
“Couldn’t sleep.” This was a lie. In all honesty, his eyelids were heavy and his limbs felt like lead.
“Want me to get you something to help?”
“No, it’s ok.” This was also a lie. There was nothing he wanted more than to just pass out then and there, but if he did someone might notice his arm when he wasn’t paying attention and he couldn’t let that happen.
But of course, Felix being the sweet guy he was went to the bathroom and brought Chan two sleeping pills and a glass of water anyways.
“Swallow these.”
“I don’t want to.” Another lie.
“You’re really worrying all of us you know. You’re tired as fuck and still refuse to sleep.”
“I’m fine, really, Lix.” This was really getting predictable. He wanted to shout “No, I’m not fine. I almost killed myself and I don’t even have to guts to apologize for it”, but he couldn’t do that.
“Did you know that ‘I’m fine’ is the most common lie told around the world?”
“Go away. I’m not taking them Lix, I can sleep just fine without them.” Chan grumbled, gently trying to push the younger away. All he wanted to pull the younger Aussie into a hug and cry, let him know that he didn’t try to leave them and that he’d always be there for him.
“But you said you couldn’t sleep like five minutes ago.” Felix pouted. “I’m not leaving until you fall asleep, so you might as well just take them.”
It went back and forth like this for a couple more minutes until Chan finally agreed and swallowed the two little white pills dry.
“No water?”
“Nah.” Why was he doing this to himself he was so fucking thirsty just take the damn water. But he didn’t.
“Ok then.”
“Good night, Lix.”
“Good night Chris.”
Soon after that a fuzzy, peaceful feeling overwhelmed Chan and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
At breakfast the next morning neither of them mentioned what had happened the night before, which Chan was thankful for, not really being in the mood to talk about his sleeping issues. And apart from the fact that all his limbs still felt like lead, his skin was still just as cold and pale, and his hands shook almost uncontrollably, everything was normal. But normal felt wrong.
“What’s wrong?” Woojin asked suddenly, noticing Chan’s confused expression.
“This might sound really weird, but everything seems too normal. Like, there’s nothing to worry about. No one’s complaining about how hard dance practice is, no one’s complaining about having to get up early for performances, everything seems too peaceful,” the younger mumbled, looking blankly at his plate.
“How can something be too normal?” Jeongin asked, looking curiously at Seungmin, who was sitting next to him.
“Chan, is there something you have to tell us?” the oldest of the nine pressed, ignoring their maknae’s question.
“What- no! Everything just feels different.” At Woojin’s half threatening suggestion Chan’s heart rate shot back up to how it had been the night before, not that it had gone down very much since.
“Breakfast is always like this..?” Felix put in. “Maybe it’s just because you got more sleep than usual or something.”
“Yeah, I guess.” But throughout the entire morning Chan just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
Everything seemed to be going fine until Jeongin pulled him aside after dance practice while everyone else was packing up their stuff and heading out to the van. Well, fine was an overstatement. Throughout the short two hour long practice (they were given more free time on weekends) Chan had managed to fuck up at least all the moves no less than two times each due to his body still being weighed down by invisible boulders and the headache that hadn’t gone away yet. Everything was still too bright and he had felt as if he would collapse at any moment the whole time. But apart from that everything was fine.
“Hey, Jeongin. What’s up?” he asked, trying to sound casual and as if he wasn’t having a minor panic attack.
“Well, we were dancing right..?”
“Yeah, Jeongin. We’re at dance practice… that’s how it works,”
“And I just.. Well it’s like… I couldn’t help but notice…” Before Chan could react Jeongin reached down and grabbed his left hand, pulling up the sleeve of his hoodie. “What are these..? And why are they there? Please tell me you aren’t cutting yourself Chan..” The older flinched at the sight of the angry red lines on his arm, criss-crossed with the black of the thread holding the skin together. They looked even worse in the bright light of the dance studio, making want to tug his sleeve back down, but Jeongin refused to let go of it.
“I’m n-”
“Don’t lie to me Christopher! I may be the youngest person here, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know just as much as the rest of you! I literally just said that last part because it was the best way to tell you to stop being an idiot and keeping everything to yourself because it’s slowly killing you and there’s nothing anyone can do if you don’t open up for once, tell me what the fuck is going on!”
“No- Jeongin, you don’t understand, you wouldn’t understand…” He was growing desperate, trying to figure out what to say, what excuse to use to get himself out of this situation.
“How would you know what I do and don’t understand? If there’s anyone here that understands right now it’s me! Why do you think I only wear short sleeves when I absolutely have to?! Why do you think I never change around you guys?! Because I understand you and it fucking hurts , Chan!” Jeongin was straight up sobbing now as he reached down and yanked up the hem of his pastel blue hoodie to reveal dozens of pale scars.
“Jeongin… Why?”
“You know why, Chan…” sniffled the younger, dropping the hem of his sweater.
“How long exactly..?”
“Started when I was thirteen, haven’t for a while now though.” He brought a sweater paw up to wipe away the tears shining on his face now. “Found something worth being patient for. Something to remind me why I don’t do that anymore. Well, actually it was someone, multiple someones. Eight to be exact.” Jeongin gave the older a weak but genuine smile.
“Jeongin…” Chan pulled him into a hug, wincing slightly when the fresh cuts on his arm rubbed harshly against the fabric of his sweater, but not letting go. “Let’s catch up to the others, yeah?” Jeongin just nodded, not letting go of the older.
About one and a half weeks later Chan quietly approached Jeongin after dinner while the others were arguing over what movie they should watch (Fridays were movie nights) mumbling something almost completely incomprehensible.
“What was that?” The younger looked up from his phone, glancing inquisitively at Chan.
“I need help…” He scratched the back of his neck nervously, staring at the ground.
“Hmm? With what?” Chan wore an almost pained expression for a couple seconds as if he was struggling to find the right wording before holding out his left arm and gesturing somewhat randomly to it.
“I… I don’t know how- um.. I can’t- I’m too scared to take them out alone…” he whispered eventually, shame burning in his cheeks, which had only recently begun to regain some of their color.
“Oh… yeah, come on, I’ll help.”
Turns out by ‘help’ Jeongin ment ‘I’ll do it for you unless you just wanted someone to be there with you’ and Chan ended up sitting criss-cross on the bathroom counter clenching his jaw shut and scrunching his eyes closed as tightly as he could.
“Do you want a warning or countdown or something?” Jeongin asked softly, gently resting his hand on the older boy’s shoulder, making him flinch for a moment before relaxing and opening his eyes just a little.
“I… just a general warning, please? I tense up if there’s a countdown…” He tried to sound confident, but all that could be heard was fear and guilt. Fear for obvious reasons, and guilt for dragging Jeongin into the mess he had created, for asking him to do this, for not being more of a leader and figuring things out himself.
“Hey.. I want to help you,” Jeongin murmured, trying to reassure Chan in a way that almost made it seem like he could read minds. “I’m going to do the first one now, ok?” Chan nodded, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw, waiting for the inevitable pain that he knew was coming.
He had tried to take the crude stitches out on his own, but only managed to cut the little loops on top before backing down when faced with the task of actually removing the thread. Now, all that was left to do was pull the stitches out with a pair of tweezers and all would be good.
There was a sudden pain on the inside of his left elbow, startling him and making him open his eyes in shock.
“Wha-” but he ended up cutting himself off with a gasp of pain when a flash of agony shot up his left forearm before it was quickly replaced by the feeling of soft gauze against his skin, only leaving behind a dull ache similar that the one razor blades left behind after a couple minutes. “What?” He finished his question after getting over the initial shock, glancing curiously at his arm, but there was barely anything to see as Jeongin had covered three and a half of the stitched lines with a large wad of gauze.
“Distractions work well if you’re getting used to something,” Jeongin half dead-panned and Chan felt something inside him shatter when he heard how much experience the younger said it with. “Ready for the next one or do you want to wait a bit?”
“No no, I’m good, please just-” He stopped talking before he finished his sentence, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, a little less tightly than last time, but Jeongin understood.
“Here we go.”
Jeongin repeated the action three more times, pinching Chan’s right arm just before he pulled out another stitch.
“Ok, all done,” he announced tapping Chan on the shoulder.
“What- that was four, there were at least seven stitches in each-”
“Oh, no, I did each row all at once.” He held up a pair of those takeaway chopsticks that you kinda just snap apart. Clamped horizontally between the two were still nine slightly bloody black threads. Chan paled a little at the memory of pulling the wickedly sharp needle through his skin, but Jeongin instantly put down the chopsticks and pulled him into a tight hug.
“You’re going to be ok, you’ll get better, I promise. Ok, Channie hyung?” He nodded, not feeling quite so ashamed of asking for help anymore.
“Ok…”
It took a couple months, but eventually Chan got better. The other members seemed to notice the changes in his personality too. His smiles and laughs became more frequent and less forced, his eyes shone again, and he started making all the jokes he did before. Sure, he still overworked himself, but not to keep himself busy or awake. And yeah, he still had his bad days, but they became a lot less frequent. Jeongin also had bad days, Chan soon realized, and told the maknae just to come cuddle up in his bed when he was feeling down, which he gladly did.
About half a year later Chan decided to tell the others, a little scared of what they’d say, but also knowing that they wouldn’t be mad for very long if they were even mad.
He took a deep breath.
“Guys?”
“Hey, Chris. What’s up?” Hyunjin was the first to reply.
“I have something to tell you guys…”
“If you’re telling us you’re gay, we already know. We see exactly how whipped you are for Jisung.” Felix deadpanned, poking his head out from where he was making ramen in the kitchen.
“And we all know how whipped Jisung is for Jeongin.” Seungmin added from the foot of the stairs.
“Actually, you’re all kinda whipped for each other.” Changbin accused, poking his head out from the kitchen just like Felix had.
“Does this have anything to do with what happened like half a year ago?” Jeongin murmured quietly enough so that only Chan would here, wrapping his arms around his shoulders from behind. “Because if it does then you don’t have to be scared that they’ll be mad, because they won’t be. They’re your friends, they’ll support you through anything.” Chan turned his head slightly to look at the younger and smiled a little at the reassurance.
“That is the cutest gay thing that has happened in this house in like forever.” Hyunjin whisper-yelled, making everyone laugh and Jeongin and Chan turn almost matching shades of pink.
“I… It’s more about how I acted… six or seven months ago…” At their leader’s words everybody went quiet. Even Felix and Changbin slowly shuffled into the living room to listen. “I know it’s not really an excuse for being such a terrible leader.. but I really wasn’t doing that well mentally or emotionally. So I tried to overwork myself to forget the urge to.. to hurt myself but then I kinda just snapped and I did and Jeongin found out the next day and helped me get better.” He choked out the last sentence before turning around and burying his face in Jeongin’s shoulder, trying his hardest to hide the tears of something that could only be described as a cross between fear and shame. The maknae in turn tightened his embrace around Chan’s shoulders in an attempt to comfort the older boy, which just made Chan cry even harder at the thought of needing someone so much younger to comfort him. He was supposed to be the strong, protective, caring one, not the other way around. “Can you finish..? Please..?” he whispered to Jeongin, trying not to choke on his own tears. He nodded, circling his fingertips comfortingly across Chan’s shoulder blade as he began to explain.
“Basically, he was doing ok for a while, but then little things started to build up and snowball into bigger things and eventually things just became too hard to handle and he snapped. Chan had pretty bad depression and insomnia when he was like fifteen and it was just a really bad relapse of it and he went a little too far. I saw the next day at dance practice and asked him about it and have been helping him with it for a while now.”
“Oh…” It was Woojin who spoke up first after several moments of sitting in a strained silence. “Was that the night you snuck off on your own in the snow and I called you and when I picked you up you essentially just looked like death warmed up in a microwave for a few seconds? But not even a good microwave- like, a crappy one from like 1957 that you bought from a suspicious looking garage sale for like $5.38.”
“Yes…” Chan whispered into Jeongin’s shoulder, still not daring to look anyone in the eye.
“Ok… and if it’s not too personal, or if it’s not something you’re comfortable sharing, could I see..? Just so I’d know what to expect if you got bad again..?” At this he just nodded, but didn’t move from where he was standing by Jeongin. The younger ended up guiding him over to Woojin who was sitting on one end of the couch.
“Chan? You have to roll up your sleeve to show him.” Jeongin murmured, tugging gently on said sleeve. Cautiously, almost as if he was afraid he would be burned by it, the leader pulled it up towards his elbow, revealing seven long scars on his forearm.
“How... How did you not.. die from those?” Woojin gestured to the four closest to his wrist.
“He stitched himself back up.” Jeongin ended up answering for him again as he jerked his sleeve back down. There was a collective gasp around the room and Felix started choking on his ramen.
“Do you have any more?”
“Yeah… But they’re on my legs. Before those seven I was a lot more careful about people not being able to see them.” His voice was shaky and scared, but when he looked into the older’s eyes he found nothing but sympathy.
“We’re not mad, Chan. How could we be mad at you for something you can’t control? We just want to make sure you’re safe…”
Chan smiled weakly, hastily wiping a tear from his cheek.
“Thank you.”
The room went quiet for a moment, but was interrupted by Minho practically shooting out of his seat. Chan flinched as the other stepped towards him, but almost sobbed in relief as the younger crammed both him and Jeongin into one tight, but comfortable hug. Chan heard a chuckle, presumably from Jisung as the other joined their little hug pile. He wrapped his arms around Chan, rocking him, Minho and Jeongin from side to side.
Chan let out several watery giggles, sniffling and laughing in a teary mess.
At some point Minho and Jeongin detached themselves, but Jisung stayed glued to Chan’s side.
“There’s no need to thank us Channie. We love you, we always will, yeah?” Jisung murmured, pulling away so he was only holding onto Chan’s shoulders. The older nodded, managing a weak but genuine smile in return.