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The dressing room is stale with silence.
The kind of silence that hums under the skin, pressed tight between the bones. It’s the kind that doesn’t come from peace—it comes from restraint. From gritted teeth and unsaid things. The kind that dares someone to be the first to breathe wrong.
Seokjin slings a damp towel over his shoulder and moves slowly around the room, wiping sweat from his temples with quick, efficient movements. His jaw is tight. The corners of his mouth twitch like they’ve been biting back words all day.
Namjoon’s in the corner, head down, fingers flicking through papers clipped to a thin black clipboard. Schedules. Outlines. Rehearsal feedback. Seokjin knows the shape of that routine by now.
He watches him. Waits.
Namjoon mutters something under his breath about timing on the bridge choreography. Doesn’t look up.
"You gonna say something?" Seokjin asks.
His voice isn’t sharp yet. Just... tired.
Namjoon doesn't glance away from the clipboard. “Say what?”
“About the shoot.”
“What about it?”
Seokjin tosses the used towel into the laundry bag, harder than he means to. “You didn’t see them shove me out of center. Again.”
Namjoon sighs, still reading. “They adjusted for spacing. Yoongi couldn’t lift his arm in that shoulder piece.”
“Spacing,” Seokjin echoes. The word tastes like metal in his mouth.
Namjoon finally lifts his head. “What do you want me to say?”
Seokjin turns to face him fully, folding his arms. “Maybe say it’s bullshit?”
Namjoon blinks. “We all get sidelined sometimes, hyung. Don’t take it personally.”
“Don’t—?” Seokjin laughs once, dry and humorless. “It is personal. When it happens over and over again, it stops being a coincidence.”
Namjoon exhales slowly, jaw clenched. “It’s not about you. It’s about what works best for the group’s image in the moment. It’s business.”
“No,” Seokjin says, stepping forward now. “You’re using business to excuse people treating me like furniture.”
Namjoon’s voice flattens. “You think they’re out to get you?”
“I think I’m exhausted of being the only one who notices when I vanish from a shoot and no one gives a shit.”
Namjoon sets the clipboard down with a thud. “I’m doing my best, Seokjin.”
Seokjin scoffs. “Yeah? Well, your best sure leaves me feeling invisible.”
Namjoon stands now, squaring his shoulders. “You’re the most visible person in the group, hyung. You have the face, the variety shows, the fans—”
“On stage, maybe,” Seokjin cuts in. “Because I force it. Because I have to be loud or perfect or something, or else I disappear. You think that’s effortless? You think I enjoy screaming to be seen?”
Namjoon’s arms cross tight across his chest. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. You just don’t look. You don’t see me.”
“I see you,” Namjoon snaps, voice rising. “You think I haven’t been watching everyone? I’m trying to keep this whole thing from falling apart, and sometimes that means sacrificing—”
“Me?” Seokjin bites. “Sacrificing me?”
Namjoon pauses. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” Seokjin says, voice low now, eyes burning. “I’ve been quiet for months. I laugh at everything because if I don’t, I’ll scream. I joke because if I don’t, I’ll fucking cry. I’ve been pushing myself until I feel hollow, Namjoon.”
Namjoon opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I need a friend,” Seokjin says. “Not a leader. Not someone who nods and says ‘that’s just how it is.’ I need you to notice when I’m not okay.”
Namjoon’s hands curl into fists. “I do notice.”
“No. You notice if I miss a cue. If my vocals crack. If my mic pack slips. You don’t notice when I stop talking in the car. Or when I fake a smile so hard my jaw cramps.”
“Hyung—”
“You want to know something?” Seokjin says, stepping closer. “I used to think I was unshakable. The ‘strong one.’ But now? Now I wake up and dread walking into meetings because I know I’ll be ignored. I know I’ll be the one left out of the camera frame. And the worst part?”
Namjoon swallows hard.
“The worst part is no one even means to hurt me. They just forget I’m there.”
The words linger in the space between them like smoke.
Seokjin breathes through his nose. Short. Shaky.
“I’m hurting, Namjoon,” he whispers. “And no one even realizes.”
His voice breaks on the last word.
There’s no warning when the tears come. They just spill—like a dam giving out. His chest shudders. His fists clench like he’s trying to hold himself in one piece.
“I hate crying,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Fuck. I hate this.”
Namjoon stands frozen. Watching the way Seokjin doubles in on himself, breath hitching, chest rising and falling too fast.
Because Seokjin doesn’t cry. Not like this. He breaks hearts on stage with ballads but holds his own offstage like stone.
Namjoon’s never seen him fold before. Not like this.
It guts him.
“Hyung…” he says, stepping forward.
Seokjin doesn’t look up.
“Why do I always have to be the one holding it in?” he chokes.
Namjoon feels something twist in his chest—pain sharp and immediate, like guilt with teeth.
“I didn’t know,” he whispers.
Seokjin lets out a bitter laugh, wet and broken. “Of course you didn’t.”
“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve…” Namjoon’s voice cracks. “I thought you were okay. You always act like you’re okay.”
“Well I’m not,” Seokjin snaps. “I haven’t been okay in a long time.”
Namjoon’s breath catches. He takes another step, and that’s when it breaks in him too.
It starts as a tremor. A ripple behind his ribs. Then it’s a wave. A crash.
His throat tightens. His eyes sting. And then he’s gasping.
His first sob comes out like he’s choking on air.
Namjoon drops to the bench beside Seokjin, head in his hands, fingers dragging down his face. The clipboard lies forgotten on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he manages between hiccupped gasps. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Seokjin lifts his head just enough to see him. Namjoon’s always been steady. Even in chaos. But now he’s shaking. His shoulders tremble, chest heaving.
“You’re not supposed to feel that way,” Namjoon says, voice wrecked. “Not you.”
Seokjin stares at him, and it hits him how young Namjoon looks when he cries.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches the man who leads them all, who carries the world like it's his job, come apart beside him.
Eventually, he mutters, “You don’t have to fix everything.”
Namjoon looks up, eyes red and watery. “Then what do I do?”
Seokjin blinks slowly. “Just sit with me.”
So Namjoon does.
They sit in silence. The kind that comes after the storm. When everything is soaked, but nothing's broken anymore.
---
Namjoon breathes in through his nose, eyes red, shirt sticking to his spine. Seokjin's still beside him, legs splayed, elbows on his knees like his whole body’s caved in.
Namjoon sniffles hard, dragging his sleeve across his face like he's trying to erase the last ten minutes of his life.
Seokjin wipes his own cheeks with his t-shirt. “We’re pathetic.”
Namjoon huffs. “We really are.”
They sit there, two fully grown men who just ugly-cried at each other like it was a goddamn drama special. Namjoon shifts slightly. His hip cracks.
Seokjin winces. “Was that your body or the bench?”
“My soul,” Namjoon deadpans.
A pause. The silence has softened, not sharp like earlier. It settles over them like a too-warm hoodie: stifling, but kind of comforting.
“You okay?” Namjoon finally asks, not even pretending it’s casual.
Seokjin doesn’t look at him. “No.”
Namjoon nods. “Me neither.”
Another beat.
Seokjin’s voice comes out smaller. “I hate crying.”
Namjoon chuckles, even though it comes out like a cough. “You do it so gracefully.”
“Don’t flatter me. I looked like a wrung-out rotisserie chicken.”
Namjoon laughs harder this time, real and full-bodied. “That’s specific.”
“You’ve seen my hair after I cry. It flattens.” Seokjin gestures at his forehead like it’s a crime scene.
Namjoon studies him. His eyes are still puffy, and there’s a faint tear streak cutting through his cheek contour. It shouldn’t be funny. But it kind of is.
Seokjin suddenly shifts, catching Namjoon’s staring. “Don’t start with that emotional eye contact shit.”
Namjoon blinks. “What?”
“You’re doing the thing,” Seokjin says, pointing. “Where your eyes go all warm and meaningful like you’re composing a poem in your head. Stop it.”
“I wasn’t—” Namjoon cuts himself off. “Okay, maybe I was.”
“God.” Seokjin slumps further. “We can never tell anyone this happened.”
“Agreed.”
“If Jimin finds out we cried in the dressing room, he’s going to order ‘Comfort Hyung’ t-shirts and wear them ironically for a week.”
Namjoon mutters, “And Tae will write a tragic piano ballad about it and perform it at breakfast.”
They both shudder.
Then Namjoon shifts again, leans slightly closer like his body’s making a decision his mind hasn’t caught up with.
Seokjin notices instantly. “What are you doing.”
“I’m trying to—comfort you?”
“By looming over me?”
Namjoon’s arm starts to raise, a hesitant hover behind Seokjin’s back like he’s approaching a skittish animal.
It’s a horrible excuse for a side-hug. His arm flops like a dead fish across Seokjin’s shoulders.
Seokjin leans away. “That’s not comforting. That’s threatening.”
Namjoon tries again. This time, he sort of wedges his forearm across Seokjin’s upper back, but his elbow smacks into Seokjin’s jaw.
“Are you trying to kill me?” Seokjin glares, rubbing his face. “What the hell was that—are you assembling IKEA furniture on my spine?”
Namjoon jerks back, horrified. “I—shit—I’m bad at this, okay?”
“No kidding.”
“I was trying to be emotionally available!”
“Emotionally available? You’re built like a giraffe. You can’t sneak up on people with limbs like that.”
Namjoon slouches, defeated. “I didn’t know comfort had a technique.”
“Well it does, and it doesn’t involve bone damage.”
Seokjin shifts an inch closer. “Okay. Fine. One more chance. But if you dislocate anything, I’m telling the press.”
Namjoon cautiously repositions his arm. Slower this time. He drapes it over Seokjin’s shoulders, careful like he’s defusing a bomb.
Seokjin tenses… but then exhales. Lets himself lean into it. Not much, but enough.
Their knees knock. Namjoon’s arm is too heavy. Seokjin’s shoulder digs into his ribs. It’s awkward as hell.
But it’s warm.
Real.
Safe.
Namjoon doesn’t know what to do with his other hand, so he lets it hover mid-air before awkwardly resting it on his own knee. “So, uh… this is… comforting?”
“Barely,” Seokjin mutters, but doesn’t pull away. “It’s like being hugged by a space heater.”
“I’ll take that as a win.”
A few more seconds pass. Their breath evens out, syncs.
Namjoon finally speaks, quieter now. “I really am sorry.”
“I know,” Seokjin replies, voice rough. “Just… don’t forget I’m human next time.”
“I won’t.”
Silence again, softer this time. Like something inside both of them has unclenched.
After a while, Seokjin mutters, “If I get a black eye from your elbow, I’m telling the staff you punched me.”
Namjoon snorts. “You would.”
“Damn right.” Seokjin tilts his head slightly, his temple brushing Namjoon’s shoulder. “And you know what? They’d believe me.”
“I hate how true that is.”
Another beat.
Then: “You think the others know?” Seokjin asks.
“That we’re a mess?” Namjoon lifts a brow. “Pretty sure that’s been public knowledge since 2016.”
“No,” Seokjin laughs. “I mean… do you think they know we’re struggling?”
Namjoon thinks about it. “Yoongi probably does. He sees more than he says.”
Seokjin nods. “Tae’s too busy playing philosopher to notice unless you say it with finger puppets.”
“And Jimin—”
“Will bake us apology cookies if we cry in front of him.”
They both hum in agreement.
Jungkook’s name lingers unspoken between them for a second too long.
Namjoon finally asks, quiet: “Do you talk to him? About this stuff?”
Seokjin doesn’t answer right away.
“I used to,” he says eventually. “But it’s hard now. He looks at me like I’m unbreakable.”
Namjoon looks down. “Same.”
“He’d never believe I needed help.”
Namjoon hesitates. “Maybe he’d understand more than we think.”
Seokjin exhales. “Maybe.”
They sit like that for a while longer—two tired men, sharing a silence they don’t have to fill.
Eventually, Seokjin speaks again. “You know what this means, right?”
Namjoon groans. “What?”
“We have to go out there. Faces blotchy, eyes red, and pretend we didn’t have an emotional exorcism in here.”
Namjoon sighs. “God. Do we have any sunglasses?”
“Do I look like I have accessories on me right now?” Seokjin points at his sweat-streaked shirt and puffy face. “I look like I lost a fight to a leaf blower.”
Namjoon chuckles, standing. “We’ll tell them we had allergies.”
“In the middle of winter?”
Namjoon shrugs. “Global warming.”
Seokjin snorts and finally stands, groaning as his knees crack. “We’re getting old.”
Namjoon stretches. “We’re getting tired.”
As they head toward the door, Seokjin pauses.
“Hey.”
Namjoon turns.
“Thanks. For listening. Even if you suck at hugging.”
Namjoon grins. “Anytime.”
Seokjin reaches out and ruffles his hair—messy, but kind.
Namjoon glares. “Seriously?”
“Just returning the awkward affection. Giraffe.”
They step into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind them like punctuation.
It’s still a mess.
They’re still tired.
But somehow, they both feel a little more human.