Work Text:
in·som·ni·a
noun
inability to obtain sufficient sleep, especially when chronic; difficulty in falling or staying asleep; sleeplessness.
Jihoon stares at his phone screen, trying to make sense of the words. He’d read somewhere—although his fuzzy brain can’t remember exactly where—that too much screentime can lead to difficulty sleeping. Something about blue light making your brain think it’s daytime. Or something. He’s a little hazy on the details.
But he’d already tried putting his phone away, set to Do Not Disturb on top of his dresser all the way across the room. And all that succeeded in doing was making him anxious about what time it was, whether or not he’d set an alarm—and what if an important text or call came in the middle of the night? He doesn’t know what about, exactly, but what if—?
He might be a little delirious.
He doesn’t think he can be blamed, if he is.
This is his fifth night of near-sleeplessness in a row. His fifth night of too hot, too cold—and the blankets are on the floor now. Had he replied to that email? Had he replied to that text? He’s thirsty. His head hurts. He’s probably dehydrated. He drinks water, lies back down—now he has to pee. Had he brushed his teeth? Might as well, he’s already in the bathroom. The minty taste of toothpaste is suddenly overwhelming. The lights are overwhelming, too. He turns them off.
His head hurts.
He should take something for his headache. He should drink more water. It’s so hot in here, but now he’s shivering. His body is tingling with what feels like electricity.
Is he even tired?
He’s already awake, so he should probably try to get some work done. He opens his laptop. The blinding light of the screen makes him nauseous. He slams it shut, puts it on the bedside table. His heart is pounding, and his head hurts. He realizes he’s gritting his teeth. He’s sweating through his t-shirt—he should change. He gets up. He’s dizzy. He changes his shirt, and now he’s nauseous again. He lies back down. His head hurts so badly he could cry.
He lies still, eyes closed. Breathes in…out…in…
He’s so, so tired, and the most awake he’s ever been.
He thinks he might be stressed.
Tonight, he’s googling insomnia for the twentieth time. He needs to know how to fix it.
This isn’t the first time in his life that something like this has happened, but his thoughts are too muddled to remember what he might have done to combat it in the past.
Scrolling past the part about limiting screentime, he looks for more suggestions.
‘Take a warm bath or shower.’ ‘Read a book.’ ‘Keep to a regular sleep schedule.’ ‘Set the temperature in your bedroom to be comfortably cool.’ ‘Eliminate all sources of light.’
‘If you can’t fall asleep within an hour, get out of bed so you don’t begin to associate your bedroom with difficulty sleeping.’
He sighs, closing his eyes. After taking a moment to muster up the willpower to move, he stands, grabs his pillow, and trudges out to the living room.
Is he supposed to sleep out here now? He really doesn’t know. He scrolls back through the article.
‘Try returning to bed once you start to feel sleepy.’
Okay, so…never?
Plopping his pillow down on one end of the couch, he tries to get comfortable. He lets his eyes fall shut, but his body feels incredibly restless all of a sudden. Lying on his back is suddenly unbearable, so he turns onto his right side, then his left. Then onto his stomach, which only results in him smothering himself with his own pillow. He rolls onto his back once more.
He feels like he could bore holes into the ceiling with his eyes, were it not too dim for him to choose a fixed point. He doesn’t know why he’d want to do that anyway. He closes his eyes again.
He thinks he dozes.
Then his breath catches on what might be the beginning of a snore—his stupid nose is stuffy now, among a thousand other complaints—and he jolts awake with a start.
Fantastic.
Suddenly there’s a lump in his throat, and he realizes he’s getting emotional, of all things.
Fantastic.
He knows with this insomnia—this pervading exhaustion pulling him down like concrete in his bones—he knows he’ll have to tell someone. He’s going to collapse, or go crazy, or both at the same time, and wouldn’t that be something to see?
He snorts.
He’ll tell Seungcheol tomorrow, he thinks. More than anyone, Seungcheol will get it. Seungcheol will know how to help—or at least, he’ll know who to ask for help—because Jihoon definitely needs help. Some kind of intervention—anything, really, to get him to shut off his brain for longer than the short naps he’s been taking to sustain himself.
It hasn’t even been that long, but he doesn’t think he can hold out for much longer.
He’s in the middle of pondering his own helplessness when he hears a door creak open. Lifting his head to peer toward the hall, he sees Jeonghan emerge from his bedroom. Jihoon is surprised by how hard his stomach twists at the sight of another living human at this hour. Jeonghan makes his way into the bathroom and shuts the door behind himself with a soft click.
Jihoon sits in silence for a short time before he hears the toilet flush. The sound of running water follows, and Jeonghan emerges a moment later.
Jihoon almost lets him go without a word.
He probably should.
But then a sharp, aching loneliness bubbles up from deep within his chest, and he forces out a, “Hyung.”
Jeonghan turns, squinting in the dim light. “Jihoonie?”
Jihoon nods, although Jeonghan probably can’t see him, and manages, “Hi.”
“Hi…” Jeonghan responds cautiously, “Everything okay?”
Yes. Everything’s fine. Just wanted to say hi. Go back to sleep.
“I—” god, Jihoon feels like the most pathetic creature on Earth as he admits, “I can’t sleep.”
“Oh,” Jeonghan pauses outside the bedroom door, waiting for him to continue. When Jihoon says nothing, he adds, “Well, just…try to get some rest, okay?”
Useless advice.
He’s been trying.
Jihoon nods helplessly, again knowing Jeonghan can’t see him.
Jeonghan steps over the threshold. “Okay, goodnight Ji—”
“Hyung,” Jihoon’s voice comes out as more of a squeak than anything else.
Jeonghan stops.
Jihoon can’t think of what to say.
Jeonghan waits another beat, then sighs. “Yes, Jihoon?”
Jihoon feels himself shrink.
He doesn’t know what he’d wanted out of this exchange, but Jeonghan’s ire was absolutely not it. Jeonghan is tired, just like Jihoon—just like all of them. He needs rest. Jihoon has no right to deprive anyone of that. He doesn’t know what Jeonghan’s plans are for tomorrow, but all he’ll be doing is heading to the studio. This is his stupid problem, his stupid brain that won’t turn off. He needs to deal with it himself.
He realizes Jeonghan is still waiting for an answer.
He realizes too late that his cheeks are wet.
“Sor—” his voice cracks.
He doesn’t finish the word.
The sound of blood rushing in his ears as he buries his face in his hands overpowers the sound of Jeonghan’s approaching footsteps, and he jumps when the light flicks on and there are suddenly hands on his shoulders.
“Jihoonie?” Jeonghan’s tone is stricken, “Oh, no, I’m sorry—I didn’t realize. I thought you were out here playing games.”
Jihoon shakes his head, frantically trying to shove his feelings back where they belong. Where is all this even coming from, he doesn’t—
“Did something happen?”
Another head shake. He scrubs roughly at his eyes with the back of his wrist.
“You didn’t fight with anyone?”
No.
“You’re not hurt?”
No.
“You just can’t sleep?”
Yes.
Jeonghan sits properly beside him now, running a hand up and down his spine. “Are you sick?” he asks, bringing his other hand up to touch Jihoon’s forehead, “You’re kinda warm.”
Not up to speaking, Jihoon just shakes his head again. His headache is worse than ever and his face is hot with embarrassment, but he doesn’t feel physically ill—not in the way Jeonghan means.
“Okay…” Jeonghan sounds like he doesn’t quite believe him. Jihoon can’t fault him for his skepticism. “You’re just that tired, huh?”
So, so tired. More tired than he can say. More tired than he can ever remember being, although he knows there have been worse times. His thoughts are soup, he doesn’t feel like himself, and he can’t sleep. He tries to voice some combination of these ideas aloud. In the dim light, Jeonghan looks concerned, but Jihoon can’t tell if it’s because of what he’s saying or because he’s making no sense at all.
“You’ve been kinda—I mean, for the past few days, you’ve seemed—” Jeonghan pauses, then asks, “How long have you been awake?”
“Uh…” he somehow hadn’t expected this question, “…I napped this morning…in the car?” He has a vague recollection of dozing off against Seokmin’s shoulder.
“For like twenty minutes, Jihoon,” Jeonghan interprets. “What about before then?”
Jihoon grasps at mental straws, trying to piece together his collection of cat naps from the past week. Suddenly he doubts his own memory. “Um…” he can’t think, can’t think, “…what’s today?” he eventually asks.
“Okay,” Jeonghan breathes.
Jihoon feels heat blooming behind his eyes again.
“Hey, shh,” Jeonghan soothes, “you’re okay, you don’t have to be upset,” he rubs Jihoon’s back. “You’re a mess, come here.”
Jihoon leans into the embrace, burying his face in Jeonghan’s sweatshirt. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying anymore, but he wishes it would stop.
Jeonghan holds him, rocking him back and forth in an attempt to comfort him. He feels like a baby—it’s humiliating, ridiculous, but it’s also working, and he isn’t sure whether that makes it better or worse.
“My head hurts,” he mumbles once he feels slightly more in control of himself.
“You said,” he can feel Jeonghan’s nod, “twice, actually.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Jeonghan pats his back, “it’s okay. Do you feel any better now?”
He feels like he’d been shaken upside down, but he knows that isn’t what Jeonghan is asking. “A little,” he replies, wincing at the scratchy feeling in his throat.
“Good,” Jeonghan says, pulling back enough to look at him. “You’re all puffy now,” he observes, reaching up to wipe away a lingering tear with his thumb. “Why don’t you go wash your face, and I’ll make you a cup of tea?”
Jihoon obediently heads to the bathroom. It’s hard to avoid looking at himself in the mirror, so he simply pretends not to see the state of his face as he splashes cool water onto his flushed cheeks and swollen eyes.
He smiles despite himself when he steps back out and sees Jeonghan in the middle of dropping two ice cubes into a steaming mug of tea.
Jeonghan turns at the sound of his footsteps. “For you,” he presents, pushing the mug into Jihoon’s hands. “It should cool pretty quickly. Herbal—no caffeine.”
Jihoon takes it and makes his way back over to the couch. The tea is slightly sweet, but he doesn’t recognize the flavor. He drinks far too much coffee to be bothered with tea most of the time.
Another habit he should probably try to kick.
Jeonghan follows behind, sitting close enough to be comforting without crowding. “I’m making it my mission to get you to sleep,” he announces. His tone is light, but Jihoon knows he’s being sincere. “Have you tried anything so far?”
Jihoon nods, taking another sip of the tea before responding, “I tried making myself get up and go to bed at normal times. I tried not taking naps, but that was kinda impossible…” he trails off for a moment. “I tried cutting out caffeine, and taking a warm shower, and not eating before bed, and making the temperature of my room cooler, and putting my phone away, and—and just—” frustration grasps his thoughts, and he cuts himself off.
This is ridiculous.
Jeonghan doesn’t interrupt, giving him a moment to collect himself.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“The other thing they say is to leave bed for a while if you don’t fall asleep right away, so…” he gestures vaguely toward their surroundings.
“Got it,” Jeonghan says. “And this…nothing has helped so far?”
It isn’t accusatory. Jihoon nods.
Jeonghan thinks for a moment. “Do you want to lie in my bed for a while?”
Confused, Jihoon tilts his head to the side. “Why?”
“It’s different than your bed, but comfier than the couch. Change of scenery might help you relax?” Jeonghan shrugs.
Jihoon would be willing to try anything.
“Okay,” Jeonghan says at his answering nod, “Go ahead and finish your tea, plug your phone in, do anything you need to do, bathroom, whatever—do you want to take something for your headache?”
Jihoon thinks about it. It sounds like work, more steps to what already feels like a big process. He shakes his head.
“Are you sure?” Jeonghan asks, “It must hurt—you’re squinting.” He reaches out with a gentle touch right between Jihoon’s eyes. Jihoon realizes that he is squinting, and forcing his face to relax makes his eyes water even in the dim light.
“Oh, um,” he closes his eyes with a wince, “Okay, I’ll take something.”
Jeonghan gets up, disappearing and returning a minute later with two Tylenol. Jihoon downs them along with the rest of the tea, then begins readying himself for bed.
Again.
It doesn’t take long, but he’s weirdly anxious as he hovers by the edge of Jeonghan’s mattress. He sets his pillow down, looking to his hyung for further permission. He hates the strange, timid feeling gripping his heart.
“You can lie down,” Jeonghan says, clearly sensing his trepidation, “Or do you want me to lie with you?”
Jihoon doesn’t give himself time to overthink. “Um—yeah, can you?”
“Sure,” Jeonghan agrees readily. “Here, give me that,” he reaches over and snags his own pillow from the middle of the bed, gesturing for Jihoon to climb in before him.
Jihoon does, placing his pillow against the headboard and sliding beneath the blankets. Jeonghan quickly follows suit.
“I’ll leave the lamp on until you start feeling sleepy, okay?”
And Jihoon is hit with a sudden, intense wash of guilt.
He knows Jeonghan needs a quiet, still, dark environment in order to sleep well, and his stupid restless everything is absolutely incompatible with that.
But he needs attention, needs affection, needs a distraction, and he hates needing any of those things at all.
“It’s alright,” Jeonghan says as though reading his mind, “I can nap tomorrow, don’t worry. You rest.”
Jihoon rolls onto his side, away from Jeonghan. He wants to wallow in his personal shame. But when Jeonghan scoots close behind him, he surprises himself by how quickly he melts into the contact.
Jeonghan has a reputation for cunning, devious actions, but while there’s more than a grain of truth there, this is how Jihoon knows him. His very dependable hyung, who somehow knows what to do before Jihoon himself even knows what he wants. Jeonghan’s skill for getting into the members’ heads has impressed in multiple episodes of Going, but more often than not it’s during these smaller, private moments when it’s truly at its best.
Jeonghan is lazy, but he likes to help. He’ll wait for you if you wait for him. It’s the push-and-pull of their second eldest—there exactly when you need him, and not a moment sooner.
Jihoon realizes abruptly that he’d unwittingly become the little spoon. He huffs a small laugh—unbelievable.
This, Jeonghan does misinterpret slightly. “Should I leave you alone?”
“No, it’s—” Jihoon is surprised by the vehemence of his own tone. “It’s not that, it’s—I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. Just—stay?”
“Okay,” Jeonghan says, and Jihoon can tell he’s choosing his words carefully, “But I just told you not to worry, and now I can feel you worrying,” he chides gently. “You’re ridiculously tense. Take some deep breaths, you’re gonna make yourself sick.”
Jihoon can feel the tight knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach, so he does his best to follow the instructions. It’s more difficult than he would have assumed, and thinking too hard about it only makes him feel worse.
“Jihoonie—hey, Jihoon-ah,” Jeonghan is patting his stomach, trying to get his attention. He’s breathing too fast—not quite panicking, but stressed nonetheless. The patting turns to rubbing as Jihoon forces himself to slow, breaths shuddering when he fights too hard against the pace. “That’s it,” Jeonghan praises, “you’re alright.”
This is so humiliating. He wishes he could sink down through the bed, then the floor, and never be seen again.
Instead, he rolls onto his other side, waits for the world’s most important words—“Okay, come here”—and presses his face tightly against Jeonghan’s chest.
He’s so frustrated.
But this is better, somehow. This is what he needs—to be grounded, held almost-but-not-quite too tight. Comfortable. Safe.
He breathes.
Jeonghan’s hand is rubbing circles on his back. It feels nice. Jihoon mumbles as much.
“Good,” Jeonghan says, “focus on that instead.”
He does. Only now is he realizing just how achy his entire body feels. His lower back is the worst—too much time in his studio chair, no doubt—but his upper back also hurts, along with his shoulders and his neck. His arms and legs, too, and his stomach, and even his ribs—why? From breathing too fast? From holding his breath?
He quickly tires of taking stock. The Tylenol should kick in soon.
In the meantime, this is fine. This is nice. He’s warm, but not too warm. Protected, but not too protected. Held, but not too held. Coddled, but not—
Well.
He’ll worry about that tomorrow.
He focuses on breathing, the feeling of Jeonghan’s hand on his back, the smell of Jeonghan’s laundry detergent, the cool pillowcase against his cheek, the—
And Jihoon realizes suddenly, far sooner than he ever would have believed, that he’s actually starting to feel drowsy.
Not tired, not miserably exhausted, but drowsy.
He doesn’t know nor care why. His most pressing concern is that the feeling will disappear as soon as it came. He needs to avoid chasing it away, but he also needs to let Jeonghan know, just in case he’ll want to make a break for it before getting trapped beside his sleeping dongsaeng.
“Hyung,” Jihoon murmurs, trying not to break the spell.
“Hm?”
“M’sleepy.”
“Already?” Jeonghan sounds surprised, but Jihoon thinks he can hear him smiling.
He nods.
“Are you comfy?”
Another nod. Talking suddenly feels like a lot of work.
“Good,” Jeonghan says softly. Then, all of a sudden, his hand pulls away from Jihoon’s back.
Then Jeonghan himself pulls away from Jihoon entirely.
Wait—a spike of adrenaline makes Jihoon’s breath catch. He bites back a sound that might be a whimper. He can’t—he’s so tired, and he’d been so close to sleep. He’d intended to let Jeonghan go, really, but he now realizes his mistake, and Jeonghan is—
—turning off the lamp on the bedside table.
Oh.
Before Jeonghan’s hand reaches the switch, he glances back toward Jihoon. “What?” he asks, sounding genuinely puzzled, “Do you want me to leave it on?”
Jihoon shakes his head, but Jeonghan is still staring at him funny, so he swallows hard against the tightness in his throat and answers, “No, it’s—you can turn it off.”
He does, shimmying back down beneath the covers as soon as the room is dark. “Okay?” he asks as Jihoon curls against his chest once more.
Jihoon nods, trying to will the adrenaline away and bring back the warm weight of sleep that had been so close.
But then Jeonghan continues, “You’re sure?”
“Mn?” Jihoon’s brain is not alert enough for more eloquent replies.
“You’re shivering.”
He’s right.
“Sorry,” Jihoon apologizes. He wants to feel embarrassed, but he can’t quite work up the energy. He’s used up all of his allotted emotions for today, he thinks.
Jeonghan doesn’t prod further, just pulls Jihoon a little closer and resumes rubbing his back.
“Go to sleep,” he commands.
“Okay.”
“You mean it?”
“Mhm,” Jihoon agrees. Something about the soft, subtle tease in Jeonghan’s voice is reassuring. He hates this…whatever this is. But he figures maybe—just maybe—he’ll be able to make better sense of it all in the morning.
He’s tired.
He presses his nose into Jeonghan’s sweatshirt. Again, the smell of laundry detergent. Jeonghan rubbing his back. Heart rate back to normal after the world’s most anticlimactic scare. He’s comfortable.
“You’re okay,” Jeonghan says, maybe unnecessarily. Jihoon knows he’s okay. He doesn’t feel okay now, but he’s pretty sure he will be.
He nods.
Then, after a moment, Jeonghan adds, “And I got you.”
Jihoon believes him.