Work Text:
He listened as the last bit of cold coffee dropped unto the wet, tiled floor, powerless to do anything but lay there and watch it happen. He’d been sprawled out on that godforsaken beige couch for the better part of an hour just watching the brown liquid spill from his large metal water bottle, each drop igniting an already flaming contempt inside of him.
Bang Chan hated himself.
Or maybe not. Hate was a strong word, yet it wasn’t strong enough.
The deep sense of worthlessness that settled like razor blades in his chest, made it increasingly hard to breathe or see over the eternal blurriness that plagued his eyes.
He wanted to die.
Yet, he was too weak to even attempt to stand up. He didn’t know what had possessed him to put the unfinished track on repeat but as it started again and again, an endless cycle of torture, he just wanted to claw his ears off so he wouldn’t be faced with his shame.
Bang Chan was only good at one thing and even at that, good was an overstatement.
There were days where he’d strike upon luck and actually make something decent for himself or whoever he was working for but on the rest, the darker times, he was left to repeat and rewind, cut and replace, over and over until his fingers cramped up and he felt like his ears would bleed.
Holed up in the small space of a windowless studio he’d come to hate, he would forget about everything and strive to achieve perfection for days at a time, skipping meals that he didn’t even care to take, surviving on water, coffee and more coffee.
Words badgering around his head that he wouldn’t dare say aloud, words that pushed him to do more and more than he was capable of.
He knew, on the first day when scratched his skin so hard it bled, when his eyes flitted over sharp objects and lingered, when he had to persuade himself with double the amount of effort to not that that godforsaken step to the edge of the bridge, he knew then, that if anything were to kill him, it would be himself.
He needed help.
But the pride, no fear, of burdening people with his problems in the age where everyone had their own, always held him back.
Sometimes, he would stare at his band mates, all seven of them, and the overwhelming urge to just break down and tell them how much he wanted to die would pester his throat, but he always held back because he didn’t want to be selfish.
Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.
Well, his selflessness had brought him to his current position. Immobile, weak from lack of food and proper rest, slipping in an out of consciousness, almost too sure he was about to die and not dreading it in the slightest.
The ringing in his ears mixed with the eternal loop of the haunting music playing from his speakers. He wanted to swallow but his throat was immeasurably dry and it was too much work. So he just lay there, counting the hours and reminiscing the drops of coffee that was the only thing keeping him awake.
Wondering if his bandmates worried about where he was. No, he knew that they knew. He hadn’t been home in almost three days but they’d come to visit more times than he could count, neither of them ever successfully persuading him to come home, rest.
Dying alone in the place he’d grown to hate most, or at least feeling like it. That was where his selflessness had gotten him. He would’ve smiled at the irony, if he had the strength.
And then the door opened.
Truthfully, Bang Chan hadn’t realised there were people calling for him until he was shaken awake, he hadn’t realised he was sleeping either.
Hands, all over him, propped him up gently so he was in a sitting position but Chan couldn’t hold still, he was weak and felt like falling over. He did but was supported back up by a warm feeling.
He blinked slowly a number of times, not quite making out the smudge of black and more black coming into view, worried faces, frantic yelling.
The ringing in his ear slowly reduced in intensity and he could hear again, or as much as his brain allowed him to take in.
“..an! Chan! Can you hear me? Chan!”
Oh, that voice sounded familiar.
Chan closed his eyes shortly, almost giving into the need to sleep before he reopened them, struggling to be aware of his surrounding.
“Jisung?” He muttered.
“Yeah! Yeah, it’s me. Are you alright? Can you keep your eyes open for me?” Jisung sounded frantic.
If it were in better circumstances, Chan would’ve laughed about how cartoonishly funny the crease in his brows were, wide mouth, large eyes. He looked adorable.
But it wasn’t and Jisung’s voice was breaking, as if he wanted to cry but knew he shouldn’t, at least not in front of Chan, anyway.
“Don’t cry, Ji.” Chan managed to whisper softly, head lolling back and forth in pure exhaustion.
“I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Binnie’s gonna be here any minute. You wanna see Binnie, yeah?”
Chan nodded softly. He always wanted to see Changbin.
Frantic footsteps and the sound of a paper bag resounded minutes later then Chan could distinctly make out the sound of someone locking the door. His head, or eyes, were spinning and he struggled to keep his consciousness afloat.
He breathed softly through his nose. Bang Chan was so tired, his throat was incredibly parched but he couldn’t go to sleep because he wanted to see Changbin. For some reason after Jisung had mentioned it, he was sure needed to see Changbin.
Soft hands grabbed his face so that his head was steady and he was soon looking into the concerned eyes of the man he was fantasizing about. Chan smiled softly and Changbin did too.
“I’m hungry.” Bluehead declared gently, nodding over to Jisung who had a hand over his mouth. “Ji is too. Wanna eat with us?”
No. He didn’t.
The mere thought of food had Chan feeling like he was going to throw up. Still, it was Changbin asking.
“Thirsty.” He shrugged softly.
Changbin’s eyes seemed to glow as he removed his left hand from Chan’s face and motioned over to Jisung who ruffled through a paper back and handed him a large cup filled with green liquid.
“Well then, you’re lucky because I happened to stop by a coffee shop and buy you this. Your favorite.”
The sweet smell of mocha filled Chan’s nostrils and he was extending his weak arms moments later. The blue haired man who was kneeling in front of him smiled.
“I’ll take care of it.” Changbin offered, piercing a straw through the plastic cup and bringing it to the redhead’s lips.
Chan had never felt such relief from a cold drink in his life. In that moment, he almost cried. And he wasn’t even sure why only that after he’d taken a sip of cold mocha, he felt like utterly breaking down and being selfish for once.
Changbin was patient, waiting for him until he finished the entire drink one sip at the time and then he finally disengaged from his squat and joined Chan on the chair.
“You’re okay?” He asked kindly.
A nod was all Chan could muster as he rested his head on the bluehead’s shoulders. Changbin rested his head on Chan’s and the older man felt a wave of content in that moment.
“Gonna eat now, okay? Can you do that for me?”
Chan thought on it for a while before he gave a slow nod. Food didn’t sound so bad in that moment and god, he didn’t realise he was so hungry.
Jisung, with his red, teary eyes, joined Chan on the other end of the couch so he was sandwiched in between and he began to rummage through the brown paper bag to retrieve the items that Changbin had bought.
It was only light food but Chan still needed some encouragement to finish it. He didn’t feel better the moment he did but Jisung and Changbin’s did bring some sense of relief. He was coaxed to sleep, finally and Chan had never felt better.
He woke up about three hours later feeling like he’d slept for days. The moment his eyes opened, he noted how energetic he felt and how the throbbing pain at the back of his head seemed to have subsided.
Muffled talking had caught his attention and he turned to find Changbin and Jisung, sitting on both of swiveling chairs and facing the recording equipments. The beat that had him feeling incompetent was playing but more than that, Chan could the hear a hint of a symphony, melody. They’d tweaked it to be better as always.
“How long was I out?”
His voice was tired, underused, gruff. A couple of hours prior, he would have wanted to cry at the sound but he was strong enough to keep the tears at bay, if only for that moment. He shifted in his seat so they were only inches apart. They’d turned around, brows curved downwards, lips sucked in.
It was funny. They’d always joked about how Changbin and Jisung had the same expression for everything — worried, confused, angry. It was funny, too, that most of these days, those expression were directed at Chan.
“Four hours.” Changbin supplied, trying but failing to hide the quiver in his voice. He only ever indulged in his emotions when the danger was over. “The sun’s almost up.“
The sick one nodded, turning his head away so he wouldn’t have to look into their eyes, so he could ignore the pain swimming inside of them.
“We, uh,” Jisung breathed in sharply, rubbing his thumb against his lower lip as he gestured to the equipment behind them. “We kinda worked on the beat. It was good.”
“But you made it better.” Chan nodded softly, swallowing past the emotions bubbling up inside of him.
Jisung’s eyes resembled saucers. “We shouldn’t —? I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have touched it?”
“You’re fine, Ji.” Chan let out a mix between a scoff and a short laugh. “I wouldn’t have been able to do it anyway. I’m good but everyone else will always be better.”
“Chan—” Changbin started but his voice failed him.
Chan’s eyes turned to the clock on the other side of the room. He knew he would have to start working again soon, reaching for something that everyone else would always have in greater value — perfection. The cycle would repeat, over and over and over, until he either passed out again or eventually ended up dead.
“You’re better, too.” Jisung tried.
But those weren’t the words Chan needed to hear. Jisung, he tried, he really did — his very best. But he was never good at any of it and he always ended up subconsciously making it worse.
Chan winced and Jisung tried but failed to retrace his train of thought.
“Fuck, Chan, what I meant was—“
“I don’t need you to comfort me.” Chan interjected, knowing Jisung’s next words would just be worse. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you do. I don’t want—” he stopped because he didn’t know.
“Then what the fuck do you want, Chan?” Changbin finally exploded, just like Chan was expecting. “To die? Because news flash, with how you’re going, you’re heading in that direction at an alarming rate!”
Chan sucked in his bottom lip, cocked his head to break eye contact and said nothing. It took Changbin a full minute.
“Chan…” his voice was unbelievably broken and Chan just hatedithatedithatedit. “You don’t want to die, do you? You do want to stay here, right?”
Silence.
Changbin shuffled off of his chair, panicked hands clasped around Chan’s shoulders, shaking him violently.
“Fucking answer me, dammit! You want to stay! Tell me you haven’t been disregarding yourself on purpose! Tell me it’s work!”
He didn’t even know when the tears had gathered in his eyes but he know the first one slipped in tune with Jisung’s loud sobbing and he knew, as always, he felt deep contempt against himself for it.
So he looked into the eyes of one of the seven reasons he’d been alive that long and he knew what he needed to do. Faking a smile, as always, Chan nodded.
“It’s work.” He whispered, pained. “It’s work, Changbin.”
His frame was encased by the warmth that naturally permeated from Changbin and their bodies shook together. Like his hands, heart, soul.
It’s work. He whispered to himself.
He lied.
And two weeks later, he was at the studio again, confronted by the same problems, a little too numb to everything around him. Yet another unfinished, godforsaken beat was playing on loop and that same beige sofa carried his body.
To be fair, Chan wasn’t strong. And he knew it’d happen one way or another. The motionless static in his head and ringing in his ear had grown to be too much. Ironic.
It’s work. One of the only things he loved in life and it’s work that took it all away from him.
He listened as the last bit of warm blood slipped from his open wrist and unto the wet, tiled floor, powerless to do anything but lay there and watch it happen. He’d been sprawled out on that godforsaken couch for the better part of twenty minutes, unable to do anything other than watch his life seep out of him, one drop at a time.
Finally.
He managed to turn towards the clock at the other end of the room as everything faded from him — the looping beat, his quaking heart, the ringing in his ear, the static in his mind.
It was already morning. The sun would be up. He couldn’t see it from his windowless confinement but Chan smiled as his eyes finally closed for the last time.
He knew it would’ve been beautiful.