Work Text:
He pretends not to see the way the others are looking at him. Cautiously sizing him up like he's a skittish animal within a caged perimeter, skirting along the edges of the ceiling-to-floor glass mirrors of the practice studio without making eye contact with anyone.
Seungkwan's fine. He's absolutely fine. It doesn't matter that he'd gotten into an argument with Jeonghan before leaving the house this morning. It doesn't matter that he'd skipped breakfast, and dinner the night before, and hadn't had time to stop for coffee because of the morning traffic. It doesn't matter that he'd uncharitably snapped at Mingyu for bumping into him at the door, or that he'd ignored Seungcheol's call of his name from across the room during their break.
(It doesn't matter, because he deserves it.)
Days like these aren't out of the ordinary for him, but they're unexpected when they come. He'd gone to sleep, chest numb with some strange, unhappy emotion that'd come out of nowhere, and woken up feeling heavy. As if that very same numbness had sunk straight into his limbs, permeated his bones, washed through his bloodstream and made its home in the flesh of his body.
Every movement is a chore. Every decision is the wrong one. Every thought is an unwelcome one that digs under his skin and attaches itself there like a horrid, ever-growing leech. Seungkwan pinches at the crook of his arm, choosing to look away from the pale, unsmiling reflection that awaits him in the mirrors.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. He can't stop making mistakes. He's too much and not enough all at the same time. That's why he's here, and the rest of them are there.
Looking through the glass. Not close enough to touch, to feel.
Until—
"Sit down," Jihoon says, appearing next to him like a ghost. He brandishes a bottle of water at Seungkwan, and Seungkwan only has the capacity to blink at him as Jihoon takes his hand and folds his fingers around the bottle. "Come on. Listen to hyung."
Seungkwan sits, because what else is he supposed to do?
Jihoon steps closer, blocking his view of the rest of the room, and says, "Look at me." And then, he puts his hand on Seungkwan's head, the same way he'd done so when they'd been trainees and Seungkwan had went through a day just like this one. He didn't realise—he didn't know Jihoon remembered it too. "Kwan-ah," he says, voice far softer and gentler than before, "you trust hyung, right?"
Seungkwan nods, feeling Jihoon's fingers brush through his hair as he does.
"Then," Jihoon says, "trust me when I say that this day will pass, and you'll be okay."
He doesn't know that. Not for certain. He doesn't know it the same way that Seungkwan knows the way the panic in his mouth tastes, or the way that deep, dark sadness lingers when he's left alone for too long. It comes now, squeezing its tight fingers around his windpipe, crushing the words right out of his throat.
Seungkwan says nothing in response. But—neither does Jihoon, who continues to pet his hair like nothing's out of the ordinary. And slowly, the gentle, constant affection wears the numbness down. Seungkwan begins to remember what it's like to take full breaths, and what the hardwood floors feel like under his fingers, and how warm Jihoon's hands are when he deigns to do something like this.
Unselfish and kind. Seungkwan's eyes abruptly fill with tears, and he ducks his head to hide them.
Jihoon doesn't pull away.
Finally, when he feels a little more tethered to reality again, Seungkwan unsticks his words and whispers, "Thanks."
Jihoon's hand ruffles his bangs, and slides down to rest on the nape of his neck. "Jeonghan got you an einspanner and pastries from Oats," he says. "And Seungcheol spoke to Hyelim-ssaem about cancelling the rest of practice while you weren't looking. And Mingyu's been hovering on the other side of the room waiting to give you a hug, because he knows you wouldn't have said that to him earlier without reason."
Seungkwan's eyes focus on the rest of the room now. The others no longer look like spectators through glass—but his members, waiting patiently for him to return. Waiting for him to allow them in again.
"Put them out of their misery, huh?" Jihoon says casually, as if he's not asking Seungkwan the biggest question of the day. Let them in, won't you?
Seungkwan gives him a little nod, and the others flood the space around him, dam broken. "Seungkwan-ah," Seokmin says, getting down next to him to tug him close. On his other side, Hansol's already sat down to quietly take the water bottle out of his hands to open the cap for him. Seungkwan could cry again.
But he doesn't—because Jihoon is still holding onto Seungkwan. So are the rest of them. His friends. His little family.
(Seungkwan is fine. He's fine because he does matter, and they will never stop reminding him of that no matter what.)