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It doesn’t always start the same way. There are warning signs: a headache, a tightened stomach, the thrumming in her veins that feels like a lack of blood sugar. Dry lips, shakier fingers.
They’re all allowed to have bad days. Han Jisung presses her forehead against the window of the van and closes her eyes, its cool, smooth surface a relief for her overheated skin. Her clothes wrap around her in waves, drowning her in their soft fabric. Her headphones are on but she’s not listening to anything, trembling apart into scattered, selfish little pieces.
Dinner smells good. This habit is fairly new– once a month, or whenever they can, they gather in the maknaes-plus-Minho dorm for a shared dinner, one that forces them to exist outside of work, outside of their personas. Changbin is loudly arguing with Hyunjin in the kitchen over whether or not they need to wash a utensil with soap if they only used it to stir liquids together, and Jisung’s skull throbs as she sinks further into the couch and stares at her phone.
Beneath the safety net of her hoodie, she can feel her stomach distending and sticking out over her tight sweatpants. The sensation makes her want to crawl out of her skin, to squeeze her abdomen until it lies even and flat, the way it only does half the time.
She scrubs at an eye, smearing mascara over her knuckle and no doubt darkening her skin with little flakes of makeup. Jisung rests her head on the arm of the couch and lulls herself to sleep.
She wakes up with a hand gently petting through her hair, hood lowered and bunched around her neck. “Hannie,” says Chan, so tenderly, “get up. Dinner’s ready.”
Lack of hunger aside, Jisung nods out of habit, nonverbal and disintegrating. Chan bends and presses a kiss to her bangs, sweaty and a little greasy from old product, before moving to the table and pulling out a chair for herself.
It smells incredible, like meat and vegetables and paprika. Rising from the couch in a shaking mass of bones and skin, Jisung slouches into her regular seat next to Minho and wordlessly reaches for her hand beneath the table.
She can’t bring herself to look at Minho. Always, always, it’s been Minho– paradoxically, guiltily. She’ll catch the love in Minho’s eyes and twist it into something perverse, something it isn’t supposed to be. Jisung will dream of Minho’s thick thighs and strong jawline until she’s ready to burst with emotions she isn’t allowed to feel.
Minho twines their fingers together and squeezes, tight, tight, tighter still. Seungmin curls herself into Jeongin’s side and coos as the youngest member dishes them both up, all skinny wrists and exposed collarbones. Abruptly, Jisung feels nauseous, but she breathes through her nose and clenches her tongue until it subsides.
She eats just enough to not draw suspicion, her hand never leaving Minho’s as she does so. She silently thanks Minho’s ambidextrousness, watching through glossy eyes as the other woman’s left hand works chopsticks as easily as her right hand would have. Her right hand, clenched around Jisung’s, sweaty and sticky and crawling with ants.
There’s a word for girls like Jisung. They all know it.
Actually, there’s a couple. They mix together and curdle into something sour in her stomach, fraying braids and spoiling fruit. There’s a single grain of rice clinging to the corner of Minho’s perfect mouth– she imagines kissing it away, and then stops thinking altogether.
Jisung doesn’t help clean up after dinner. Nobody asks her to. They let her sit on the chair, legs pulled up to her chest, playing sudoku on her phone until her eyes cross.
“Sung-ah,” says Changbin from beside her, once the dishes have been washed and the table has been wiped, a careful hand on her shoulder, “are you coming back with us? Or are you staying here?”
When was the last time she spoke? Better yet, when was the last time she said anything? “Unnie?” she asks instead, voice raised to the bare minimum of being heard, her eyes darting toward the kitchen.
Minho’s expression is unreadable. “You can stay here,” she says, because she knows, she always knows, “it’s alright.”
Changbin nods. Her hand falls and her thumb rubs over the bony knob of Jisung’s elbow, through the oceans of fabric she has covering it. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” she says, and then she and Chan and Hyunjin are gone.
They give her a wide berth, though not for very long. Felix– sunshiney, genuine, flawed in none of the ways Jisung is– digs her fingertips into Jisung’s sore spine and hums. “I’m gonna take a shower,” she says, the timbre of her voice low and soothing, “if you wanna hop in after me.”
The fan in the bathroom kind of sucks. You can run it for half an hour and it still doesn’t clear the condensation from the mirror. Jisung nods, trying for a smile, her heart constricting when Felix immediately returns it.
Abruptly, Jisung remembers the Felix from before their debut. Stammering, struggling with grammar and phonemes, tan and scrawny and terrified. Jisung remembers the way her fight would drain right out of her whenever she looked at Felix, the way her lashes would clump together with tears and her nails would leave crescent imprints in her skin when they hugged. Felix always hugged like she wanted to fuse their bodies together, like she needed something Jisung had.
Jisung liked playing with bugs as a kid, but only very specific kinds. Once, a ladybug had landed on her forearm when she was walking home and she had sobbed for blocks. Ticklish legs, a radiant pattern.
Later, after her shower, she does her skin care through the foggy mirror. The humidity of the room makes her feel blanketed, body unsure of where it ends and the air begins. It’s nice. She clears her throat and rubs at her temples, synapses firing a little faster, her vocal chords waking up.
She steals Minho’s clothes as she always does, watching Seungmin and Jeongin wrestle on the couch for control of the remote. Seungmin wins, and Jeongin pouts, and Seungmin stares at her like she wants to kiss her. Undisguised, unapologetic. They’re both smiling.
How could something like that be wrong?
Even later, she crawls into Minho’s bed. The sheets are already warm, Minho’s body heat driving away that persistent chill. Her headache is mostly gone, which is a relief, and she gives a huge sigh as Minho rolls over and pulls her into her arms.
“You’re okay, jagi,” says Minho, oh-so-quietly. Her fingers dig into the base of Jisung’s skull, massaging slow and hard. “I’ve got you.”
Jisung doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the light of dawn that cuts through Minho’s blinds greets her with compassionate touches. The buzzing is gone, and her stomach gives a loud growl. She kisses a slowly-waking Minho’s cheek as quickly as she dares before dragging herself out of bed, feeling lighter than air, in search of water and food and caffeine.
She’s on the up-and-up. Unlike the day before, there are no photoshoots– just practice and then time at the studio, scrawled lyrics and aching limbs. She tears into some doenjang-jjigae for lunch and moans, pornographically enough that Changbin collapses into cackles over her own bowl, endlessly amused. Jisung loves her so much that it chokes her– she loves this so much. When she sneaks off into the bathroom to cry, there’s no makeup to run down her face, and she feels so joyous that her heart threatens to pop right into her mouth. Who could tell her that things aren’t right the way they are?
She’s put on a bit of muscle in her biceps. She watches it flex in the mirror as she lifts her arm, the tension sliding up and down, a satisfying tennis ball of strength. Jisung laughs, and she looks at herself, and she is.
When Jisung kisses Minho– really kisses Minho, that is– it’s almost by accident.
A week or so has passed, since the too-harsh lights and the too-tight jumpsuit and the cameraman’s wandering eyes. She’s tucked into a slice of cheesecake that Minho had slid her after practice, and the sugar welcomes her with familiar ease. They’re sitting cross-legged on the practice room floor, alone, and Jisung holds her fork aloft so that Minho can take a bite.
Perfect lips, a perfect soul. Jisung doesn’t blink as Minho chews and swallows, a piece of crust stuck in the corner of her mouth, taunting. Inviting.
Jisung sets the cheesecake aside and leans forward, giving Minho enough time to pull away, before she presses their lips together and kisses her.
In here, it’s quiet. Minho breathes in through her nose and pulls her closer, one hand on her waist and another on her cheek, dragging Jisung in until she can clamber into her lap. It’s nothing like what Jisung has dreamed of for years because there are no fireworks or breezes in their hair or tears, there’s just the gentle parting of their lips between kisses, Minho holding her tight, keeping her close.
Jisung is greedy. “Unnie,” she whispers, both hands bunching in Minho’s freshly-blonde hair as the older woman pulls away and decorates her softened jawline with kisses, “is– is this real?”
Minho looks up at her. Her eyes are dark, huge. “It’s real, jagiya,” she says, thumbing over Jisung’s cheekbone, “I promise. It’s always been real.”
There’s nothing stopping her. Jisung leans in and kisses her, again and again, tasting nothing but flavorless lip balm and love.