Chapter Text
Jisung could have called a ride, maybe Minho to come pick him up, but he decided the fifteen-minute walk from work wouldn't be too bad. Maybe some fresh air and a steady walk would clear the thick fog blanketing his head.
It hasn't, not in the ten minutes he's been walking.
Today was rougher than most. Dance practice was frustrating, his vocal lesson left his throat raw, but his recording session with Chan had been the worst of it. His voice kept cracking and giving out and he swore he was going to scream, maybe tear the lyric sheet in half. Chan had taken pity on him and cut their session short, gave him some water, and told him, “There's always more time to record. Go home and rest, today's been a long day.”
Chan was right on one thing—it had been a long day. But, he was wrong on another: there's not more time to record. Promotions are in two months, the rest of this week is reserved for editing, and deadlines are coming up. With how things have been going recently, Jisung’s starting to believe he’s not going to get his share of work done in time.
Dragging everyone behind with him has become more of a habit these days. He’s almost positive Chan stayed late just to help him catch up, only to be left with nothing to show for it. Just like dance practice today, when the whole group had to wait for the instructor to correct Jisung at least four separate times, and by the end of it, he was still stumbling and struggling on the footwork.
He tries to focus on the music playing in his ears, but his mind keeps drowning it out. He has to record tomorrow after dance practice and edit it directly after, spend all night in the studio.
He'll have no time to breathe, let alone regress.
Jisung shakes his head, like the thought alone would split him down the middle. He can't.
He spends the next ten minutes running through the bits and pieces of tomorrow’s schedule, and it's not until he's face to face with the dorm that the chatter in his mind finally goes quiet. He kicks off his shoes, tugs off his mask, and steps inside.
A show murmurs from the TV, probably Felix’s pick, judging by the rapid-fire English he can’t quite make out. He peaks around the corner and, to his surprise, sees Minho sitting beside him.
"Hey, Sung-ah. Recording go well?" Minho says, eyes still focused forward. Jisung has no idea how he knew it was him.
"Not really. Scrapped it all—gonna try again tomorrow." Jisung mumbles.
"Tomorrow will be better." Minho finally glances over at Jisung. "You're all sweaty—you walk home?"
Jisung nods. "Yeah."
Felix turns to look at him, sporting a bright smile under obviously-tired eyes. "You wanna sit with us? We're watching a movie."
Jisung shakes his head, though the idea is tempting—curl up on the couch with his friends, try to read the captions that are flickering across the screen faster than he could even try to process. But, he’s exhausted, and if he’s being truthful… teetering. Like the moment he lays down, he’ll be five again.
"I’m gonna call it a night before it gets too late. Thank you, though."
═ ∘♡༉∘ ═
Jisung sighs when he finally hits his sheets. They’re cold—soothingly so—against his sticky, tacky face. Eight thirty at night and it was still warm and muggy from the rain hours earlier in the day. He flips onto his back and tugs off his jeans, trading them for sweatpants he found on the floor. He thinks they’re Minho’s from this morning, but he’s too tired to care, so he pulls them on and curls up facing the wall.
His body sinks so far into the bed he swears it's swallowing him whole. Chan would scold him for sleeping without showering first, but he just can't move. There's this ache in his chest. This weight. Today was so draining, and tomorrow won't be any better. Dance practice for hours, record until it's perfect, and edit until his eyes glue themselves shut.
He swears something is crawling on his back, burrowing into his skin, making his head all fuzzy. Something, maybe that crawling feeling, makes him regret lying down. Exhaustion, yearning, whatever that something is, is making Jisung sick. To his stomach.
He wants to go sit with his bandmates, talk their ears off. What he normally does. But that something. That crawling, skin-tearing ache—that is what is gluing him to his bed. He wants to sit with his bandmates and talk their ears off and watch a movie and cuddle up on the couch and babble and suck on his thumb.
Just wants to breathe for a moment. Wants to let go without it all falling apart.
He wills the thought away, wills away all the fuzzy-soft edges that come with it, too. Not tonight, and definitely not with other people.
He's been without it for how long now? Three weeks? Four? He doesn't know. But what he does know is that he does not need it. Not in a house with other people. Not when he's been doing so well.
Well. Not so well, but he's still breathing, right?
He's close, but distant. With his bandmates, he means. Hanging around when he's fine, when he can handle the pressure, and drifting off when he can't keep up. When the calm waves turn into skin shredding spikes, ice cold. He knows it's time to leave when smiles from his bandmates and gentle eyes from his hyungs make him squeamish. When his knees buckle under his own weight and the need to be a damn two-year-old is too overwhelming.
And he knows he's drifting off. Like he's lost at sea. And that something—that need—is pulling him out.
An outsider. Jisung determines he’s an outsider, and he reiterates to himself, for the upteenth time, that they just wouldn’t get it.
═ ∘♡༉∘ ═
Minho's breath catches as he walks in the room. He softens his voice to a whisper and murmurs a goodnight to Felix, closing the door behind himself.
A discarded pile of clothes lies by Jisung’s bed, lying all crumpled, barely a toss away from the laundry basket. He’ll scold Jisung about it in the morning—nicely, maybe, if he’s in the mood for it.
It's no secret Jisung's been restless as of late—it’s in his eyes. In his shoulders, even when he finally does fall asleep. It’s in how he speaks and how he doesn’t speak, like there’s something he’s meant to be saying but refuses to do so. He knows Jisung. Knows him like how the sea knows saline. Like the back of his hand.
What Jisung's been keeping to himself, he has no idea. He usually has a guess, like the time Jisung was having night terrors and absolutely refused help from the older. Jisung would wake up, stumble out of the room, and would come back twenty minutes later with his eyes all glossy, body shivering. Minho asked if he was having panic attacks at night, nightmares, anything disrupting his sleep, and before Jisung could even respond, Minho was coming up with ways to help.
'Maybe background noise? We could turn the TV on at night? When it happens, do you want me to be there?'
It was all met with 'No, no, Hyung, I'm fine.'
Minho had known better than to believe it.
Just last month, Jisung had something going on. A nightmare, maybe—Minho’s still not really sure. Anyway, they had been watching a movie a few hours earlier and fell asleep in Minho’s bed, and when Jisung started stirring on his side of the bed, it wasn’t with his usual groggy, slow drag into consciousness, but with a quick jolt. When he tried to say something, Jisung just shut down. Looked at Minho like he wasn’t quite sure where he was or if he should be there, hiccuping in quick, unsteady breaths.
Minho’s seen Jisung cry before, but he’d never looked so… confused. Scared. Like one wrong move from either of them would crack him down the middle.
Minho stayed put at first, watched Jisung sniffle and fail to fight back tears. Then, he reached for the blanket left crumpled at the end of the bed and draped it over the both of them.
“Why—? What’s wrong?” Minho murmured. Jisung was frozen—another unusual thing. He’d usually give an awkward laugh, maybe huddle in for a hug if he really wanted, but now, he was just staring, like he was waiting for Minho to tell him what to do.
Minho didn’t understand, still doesn’t, really. His behaviour wasn’t matching up to any previous nightmares he’d woken up from. But, even while trying to piece it all together, he’d known better than to just let Jisung sit there all stunned. He pulled him in and let him cuddle up, and watched as he quickly faded back into sleep.
All Jisung needed was a cuddle buddy. Someone to hold on to when he couldn't hold onto himself.
═ ∘♡༉∘ ═
Minho slips into bed. His mind wanders for a bit; are the nightmares back? Is he stressed about the upcoming promotions? He has been coming home late and going to bed without a word. That usually means something's up. He's been so different recently—he always comes home and checks on his bandmates, blabbers about whatever happened in the studio or during his lessons. And more than just 'Today didn't go well.'
And it can't just be stress. He usually talks about that, too. Usually on nights like these, when he comes home late and can't fall asleep, mind too busy with whatever thoughts he can muster. Usually rants to Minho about it. But he's been silent. Not even a 'Hyung, this is stressing me out' or a 'Hyung, I can't fall asleep.'
Minho wonders if tonight will be a repeat of last month.
"Ji?" Minho asks, hushed, in case Jisung’s managed to fall asleep.
Jisung stirs a bit, then hums.
"Need a cuddle buddy?"
Minho can practically feel how that affects the younger. A few beats pass, then quiet footsteps make their way across the room. The mattress dips beside him, and a warm, faltering body presses against his side.
"Talk to me." Minho tries, recieving no answer. "I know something’s on your mind."
Minho twirls a tuft of Jisung's curls between his index and middle fingers. The company finally let Jisung get the perm he's been wanting, yet he's been wearing it in a hat.
"You've been off recently. Quiet. I know that’s not a good thing when it comes to you." Minho begins tracing heavy-handed circles onto the small of Jisung’s back. As if on cue, Jisung’s shoulders drop and he presses his face against the older's chest. "You can always come to me, Sung. Whatever it is, I’m here."
Minho falls silent for a few beats, hand still moving in slow, steady circles across Jisung’s back. Jisung sinks into it, into the hair twirling, the back rubs, the comforting speech. Let’s it all wash over him in his tired haze. It feels so good it almost hurts, like Minho’s pressing on his brain itself without meaning to. The longer they sit in this silence, the longer Minho keeps himself awake to practically tend to Jisung, the more Jisung’s chest starts to hurt.
He’s taking too much, letting Minho coddle him over some stupid slump he’s in. He wants to say something to push the situation away, but the words die in his throat. He shifts around to will himself out of Minho’s dangerously comforting hold, but Minho pulls him in and runs his hands through his hair, sensing his want to flee.
He curls his fingers into Minho’s shirt before he can stop himself. It’s like he’s fighting with himself whether he should leave or keep sinking.
"Whether it's something stressing you out or there's something you're hesitant to tell me about, I'm all ears. Even if it's something you can't quite name, even if it makes no sense. You can always brain dump to me. I know a lot goes on in there." Minho places a gentle finger on the boy's head, combs his fingers through his hair, and presses a kiss to the top of his forehead.
Jisung’s breath catches as a lump forms in his throat. He’s going to cry—he can already feel his brain flipping the switch. He gives a fleeting attempt at swallowing it down, but Minho keeps whispering to him, coaxing him out like he’s trying to lure a skittish cat from underneath a roaring engine. He sniffles before breaking out in tears, body trembling with the force of it. Minho pats his back, patient.
A few moments of muffled sobbing passes before Jisung turns his head to the side, gasping for air. He hates himself for even getting in bed with Minho. For taking the easy way out. Ever since he came home he's been fighting his regression, and Minho is unknowingly coaxing him into it.
He mumbles through tears, fingers bunching and releasing the fabric of Minho’s shirt in restless, little bursts. Minho's fingers continue to card through Jisung's hair, and Jisung can't help but melt right back into him, burrowing into the divot between his shoulder and neck.
Minho's eyebrows furrow; he's being... odd. He’s sure Jisung just said a whole lot of nothing. Something about Jisung’s behavior is so… foreign—the silence, the restlessness. It’s like he’s seeing something he’s not meant to.
He rests his hand on the back of Jisung's head, like he's trying to probe at his brain, maybe mold his own muddled confusion into something clearer.
"What'd you say, Sung?"
Jisung shuffles around as an answer. The sobs have reduced themselves to faint, little sniffles solely from his nose, like his mouth is blocked. With how dim the room is, Minho can’t inspect with his eyes, so he brings a hand around and feels around Jisung’s face. Tries to read what his eyes can’t.
He feels the crook between Jisung's palm and his thumb, then the first knuckle, and before he can get to the second, he's stopped by the soft plush of the boy's lips. His jaw is just barely moving—is Jisung… kissing his finger?
"Sung, are you..?" Minho trails off as he fumbles for the lamp’s pull string. Light floods the room, and with a clearer view, his suspicions are confirmed—Jisung has his thumb in his mouth.
A muffled whine escapes from behind it, and Minho just stares, confused and unsure. He's never seen Jisung act like this before. Not when he's stressed, not when he's upset—never.
He runs an unsteady hand through Jisung's hair and down his jaw, a shallow attempt at gaining his attention. Jisung grumbles and stirs before looking up at Minho, and in an instant, all the life drains out of his face.
Minho barely has a chance to blink before Jisung is up and down the hall.
"No— Sung, wait—"
Minho chases after him without a second thought, tugs on the back of Jisung's shirt before he can round the corner and make it into the bathroom.
Jisung shakes him off and slams the bathroom door, meeting the cool tile walls as he sinks to the floor. He wills himself to be bigger—older. Minho should not have seen him like that. In what fucking world would he be so careless?
Yeah, great fucking idea—curl up in your hyung’s bed after a hard day and let him rub your back; definitely won't cause any adverse reactions.
God, he's so fucking stupid.
Maybe if he closed his eyes, it would all go away. Maybe if he hid in the dark corners of his mind, he wouldn't have to admit he is less than he is.
He jogs his mind for what went wrong. How long was Minho staring at him when the light turned on? How long had he been like that? All he can think of is opening his eyes and catching Minho’s face—flat and unmoving and… No—he had something laced in his expression. Shock, disgust…
The thought of Minho being grossed out by his most vulnerable state makes his chest squeeze, and then he just can't anymore. Can't keep holding on.
Heaves tear out of him, sharp and deep within his diaphragm, and he swears he chokes on a mouthful of salt water. The door swings open before Jisung even had the chance to force it shut again.
Minho is standing right in front of him. He knows he should shove him right back out the door, he knows he should, but he just can't.
"Hyung—" Jisung gasps, "Hyung, I–I—"
"Oh, Sung," Minho gets on his knees and pulls Jisung in so their chests are flush together.
A rough, empty bundle of air rasps out of Jisung's chest. He gasps, weak and rattling, attempting to speak, but nothing comes out.
"Alright, breathe with me, now, Ji," Minho murmurs.
Jisung shakes his head. He can't. Can't breathe, not how Minho wants him to.
He falters again and again, chokes on air between unsteady gasps, pushes Minho away before pulling him right back in.
He leans back against the wall and spreads his palms on Jisung’s back. On each breath out, he presses firm against his ribcage, coaxing the air from his lungs. On each breath in, he loosens up a bit to allow his lungs to fill back up. He repeats this process, over and over until Jisung’s ragged breathing becomes more uniform.
They’ve been through this routine many times now. Nights before comebacks, mornings before recording sessions, a few random instances in between sets on stage. Never like this, with Jisung stuffing his face in the crook of Minho's neck, pulling Minho closer like they share a heartbeat.
═ ∘♡༉∘ ═
Minho has found himself entirely accustomed to the bathroom floor. He's sure there's an imprint on his ass from the tile and his tailbone is aching, but he continues to rock Jisung in his arms regardless.
Jisung's choked breathing and loud wailing has reduced to quiet sniffles and shaky apologies. Minho keeps reminding him that there’s nothing to be sorry for, that everything’s okay, but he's relentless. He's been silent besides the apologies—it's like it's the only thing he can say.
"You don't have to explain anything tonight,” Minho murmurs, “It can all wait until you're ready."
Jisung drags in a stuttering breath. "I don’t— I’m sorry," he huffs.
Minho pulls Jisung back, just a bit, to look him in the eyes. Jisung looks anywhere but his eyes, takes to looking at Minho’s damp shirt collar instead. He can't tell if it's tears or snot or drool—probably all three. “No more of that, Sung. You don't have to be sorry.” Minho says.
Jisung wants to say something back, but the words die in his throat before he can even figure out how to arrange them. He rubs crescent moons in his eyes and continues staring at Minho’s shirt.
“You want some water?” Minho offers.
Jisung shakes his head and lets a whine die in the back of his throat. God, he’s like a toddler.
"Okay," Minho hums. He shuffles around like he’s going to stand, and Jisung grasps onto the collar of his shirt so quickly it nearly makes Minho startle. He sits back down, though he hasn’t exactly moved yet.
Jisung’s quick to protest, this time actually whining.
“I don’t wanna go,” He mumbles, quickly, like he's in a rush to not go anywhere.
“You don’t want to go to bed? I can stay with you, if that’ll make you feel bett—”
Jisung cuts him off. "No, ‘cause then I'll be like that a–" he’s interrupted by a shaky inhale, "again.."
Before Minho can think about his next words, he's already blurting out questions, though he said he wouldn’t. "Like what?" he asks, “What do you feel?”
Jisung finally makes a split second of eye contact before answering.
“Small.”
He can see Minho’s gears turning, can practically hear it clicking as he starts running his hands through his hair. Jisung shrugs him off—that’s what got him in this position in the first place.
"Small like... younger? You feel younger?" Minho murmurs, as if being wrong would burn the younger. Moments later he’s sure he hit the mark because Jisung doesn't reply, just buries his head in the crook of Minho's neck and sighs.
Minho gives an airy chuckle and Jisung’s stomach drops so far down there must be a giant crater in the earth. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” A light kiss is pressed to his forehead. “Does it calm you down?”
Jisung nods, slow and unsure.
"Then let's go calm down."