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The inner works of Dylan Zhou have been a mystery to a lot. Not only the public, his members, but himself, too. He just doesn’t know when to stop. Or, how. If it even is possible.
It hasn’t been long since they’ve left ONER, only a few months of independence under their fingertips; A few months of restrictions off their backs and a few months of MARS’s bond strengthening by the minute despite them living separately now.
Thame has moved out and straight into Po’s apartment. It’d be bizarre to learn that a couple who’s only been together for a handful of months were living together already, but it’s Thame and Po – The kind of thing that just makes sense. They’ve made Po’s apartment fully theirs– matching cups, clothes and even their utensil sets; mismatched socks that got mixed with each other during the laundry; weekly movie nights of the couple that became a regular joke in their friend group. They’ve learned how to stick to each other enough to only require one blanket on the couch, and though irrelevant to many, seeing Thame in that atmosphere and dynamic was nothing short of endearing for the other MARS members.
Pepper and Gam reconciled shortly after their devious concert sabotage, and they’ve been sickeningly sweet ever since. They were like that before, too, but now with the others knowing about their relationship again, they’ve been sweet all up in their faces – Which is admittedly adorable to watch, but for the sake of keeping up their appearances, someone fakes a gag every once in a while. The two lovebirds live in an apartment close to their new office space, their own corner that everyone loves to visit from the sheer peacefulness it radiates, having Gam’s graceful touch all over the interior. It’s close enough to their new office space that they host weekly dinners for the friend group no matter how tired they might be if they have a schedule on that same day, now with Po with them, too.
Dylan had the most trouble letting go of their old shared house, but it was needed for everyone, and the house being in their contracts with ONER, he had to come to terms with it quite quickly, too. He lives with Nano, now, as the two have been the most balanced duo of the group since the very beginning – Nano’s bouncy nature mashed well with Dylan who spent his days sitting in a chair that may be giving him scoliosis at this point. Being opposites in nature, one would think they’d fight the most and wouldn’t get along, but settling into a rhythm of their own was quite easy in their apartment previously owned by Gam, who recommended them to the owner after her lease was up and she moved in with Pepper.
Busy being the production of their group, Dylan couldn’t ask for a better roommate than the one he’s currently with – The one who gets it. Though Nano might as well be a workaholic himself, he’s the one with the best work-life balance and tries to involve Dylan in it, too, but he also gets it when Dylan just can’t seem to leave the studio in their office sometimes.
Jun was the only one who was living alone. He lives closest to their work space, a fifteen minute walk, so he’s the one who spends the most time in the four walls decorated with their mess that they’ve come to call family. Therefore, Jun living alone wasn’t much of a change from before. His apartment was mostly bare, different from the other three, only decorated with movie posters that felt impersonal, with MARS’ own ones on the wall behind the couch like trophies. He had a wall designated for photos in the living room, too, the one next to the MARS posters – Himself, his family, and the group; friends outside of the group. He tended to look at them when it got too lonely, reminding himself that wasn’t his reality.
Long story short, MARS were at a good place. Their next comeback, second after cutting ties with their previous company, was scheduled in two weeks. Despite being cut from the chart-obsessive nature of an entertainment company, this was still something they wanted to do, their profession they’ve worked too hard for. So, even if the pressure from the higher-ups was gone, the pressure from the world and the industry still fell heavy on their shoulders.
Even then, it felt good. The flur of emotions, the creative freedom, the adrenaline of it all – MARS were more motivated than ever for their next comeback.
Dylan was the one that benefited the most from their cut-off contract, now having the free will to release his– their own music to Spheres instead of facing the rejections over and over again. Thame was by his side again, available anytime unless head first into the documents with Pepper, peering into the computer over his shoulder and giving that proud smile when he liked a melody, again; giving his opinion and writing lyrics in the seat next to him, again. It was healing.
However, in the flurry of new found freedom, Dylan started to lose himself in it too much. Not the way he lost himself when they were on the verge of disbandment– the ugly feeling that drowned his subconsciousness alive the longer it lasted, to the point he couldn’t recognise himself. A stranger living in the skin Dylan fought hard to understand as his own.
No, it was different. This time, Dylan lost himself not in the emptiness, but the fullness of the situation. The suffocation.
Producing was his safe heaven. A tool to project, to distract, to process and just something he loved with his whole heart. He thought about lyrics, beats and syncs just as often as he breathed, only short of when he was asleep deeply enough to stop the music that flew in his head constantly any other time.
It came with its downsides to be the producer of the group with no other huge obligation. He could fully immerse himself in the creation, direction and he adored planning the recordings, too. The control of everything going his way when it came to their songs was an intoxicating feeling. A thrum under his fingertips that more often than not was insistent enough to leave him etched to his chair till the ungodly hours of the day.
He’s heard it from Nano, who’s taken in charge to pull him out of extreme degrees of self-neglect when necessary, dragging him back to their house and promptly discarding him in bed to sleep. The nagging that landed as comfort, realising someone was there when he couldn’t be for himself each time it happened. Their bond was fierce with love and care, quiet one from Dylan’s side, but loud enough for Nano in the casual routines of affection he’s grown familiar with from the older.
He’s heard it from Thame, too, but it was hypocritical when thought about too long. Thame, the same kind of workaholic as he is, spending nights at the desk in the main room, surrounded by documents, and phone calls. He’s taken to managing their promotions himself, booking and calling and asking. Thame was carrying a burden of not letting them fall that deep ever again, and Dylan was happy he had Po to pull him out of that mindset day by day. Thame’s nagging was one Dylan responded with a raised eyebrow to, prompting Thame to chuckle each time, recognising the absurdity of the worry coming from someone who wore an expression mirroring the tiredness in the older’s expression to the T.
He’s heard it from Pepper as well. The familiar knocks on the studio door before leaving the office, asking if he’s heading out soon, and when getting an answer he was already expecting, he’d assure. It felt like a gulp of fresh, spring air each time. It’s bewildering how a simple “Take it easy on yourself, yeah?” could warm his soul within seconds, but Dylan thinks that’s just the natural effect of his friends – Healing. He’d smile, and Pepper would smile back, fond exasperation on his face and Dylan chuckles at how Spheres’ jokes about Pepper being the one holding them all together by a thread was true in all ways un- and completely imaginable. Dylan could see the eyebags under Pepper’s eyes more often than not, too, and made sure to shoulder some of the load from both him and Thame in those days.
Jun was the one that hadn’t nagged Dylan, and he wasn’t expecting it. Not when with Dylan in the studio, Jun was right there in the room next door, sorting through everything and creating plans that lessened everybody’s work, especially of Thame and Pepper, as he couldn’t do much about Nano’s choreographies, or Dylan’s songs except from suggestions here and there. They worked in silence typical for their work hours– “Somewhere from the sunrise till the next one.”
Dylan first noticed the pattern shortly after they finally got settled in the space, when he found the light coming underneath the door, noises of existence filtering through his headphones, when everybody should’ve been home already, done for the day. He walked out cautiously, brain jumping to the worst conclusion as he lowered the device on his neck, whispering a curse under his breath. He opened the door to find Jun in the hallway with a bag of snacks in his hand, taking off his jacket to hang it on the hanger they put next to the main door, soaking. They looked at each other for maybe ten full seconds in silence, Jun stuck in an awkward pose at being ‘caught’, before he spoke up.
“What’s..up?”
It snapped Dylan out of his thoughts wondering what Jun was doing there at ten o’clock at night. He quickly snapped to deflect, “Be quiet, can’t you?” before shutting the door again in slight panic.
What he panicked about, goes beyond him, but it’s been a routine ever since. Jun comes back when everyone is long gone, or should be, with snacks to sustain him, and sometimes one or two for Dylan as well, and they spend their nights together in the rooms next to each other, working for what they’ve deemed their family, and those included under the name.
They’ve never talked about it, but Dylan has been leaning in the comfortability of knowing there’s a presence close by, one of those he cherishes no less– even if you wouldn’t pull that information out of him for the life of him. It was welcome, comfortable. It was familiar, too, from their group house days, and way back from their trainee days as well. Jun has always been there, whether Dylan has liked that fact all throughout the experience, or not.
And it was another one of those nights tonight, too.
Headphones around his head were a cherished weight against the skull, it always meant peace of mind; Shall it be during a group outing that’s too crowded, or loud, or in the silence of the studio like today, added assurance.
It was suffocating. Every beat that entered his ears felt like a dagger stabbing straight through them, painful. A pressure against his temples was something that he’s grown accustomed to, as it comes often with his late night sessions and early mornings due to responsibilities. But ever since he got stuck on a track three days ago, it’s been a hammer against bone with every bass that played through the wires.
A migraine is something Dylan was acquainted with, a friend that visited on especially hard days, and stayed for a whole, and sometimes even two, or three days. This didn’t feel like a mere migraine he could will away with a prescription and devoid of sunlight. The feeling in his chest was something much more complicated, and with it came a pressure against his eyes that intensified every time a tune didn't come to his liking.
It was one song. Dylan has written more than a hundred, maybe even multiple, and fully produced at least a few dozen– not to count those productions he had to stop halfway through. He could do it in his sleep, so why was this one song so difficult to work with? To spend three days on a song was a personal record. He distracted himself halfway with another song, a supposed B-side in the new mini-album, but the song he was stuck on was their title track. The song they relied on to push them through the promotions, a song he could not struggle with.
Nano had to have the song done by the day after tomorrow, to start choreographing. He couldn’t fuck this up, not now when things were finally looking up and they had Sphere’s attention again. He couldn’t scrape it either, it was a song others have approved, discussed and rooted for; based their expectations on. If Dylan fucked this one up, he might as well fuck the group up entirely.
And that would be typical of him, wouldn’t it? To sabotage the thing that’s finally good, something he loves whole-heartedly. It wouldn’t be the first time, and remembering the said first time, makes the thoughts in his head grow louder than the instrumental playing obsessively through his head on full volume as he was trying to hear what’s wrong with it, even if he ended up with nothing, his ears grew accustomed to the bursting volume. Even if it made his moves a little frantic and anxious, a little disoriented from the raging headache against his forehead.
Sabotage is a casual word in Dylan’s vocabulary. A word he’d come to associate with himself since he was a child, learning it in third grade in the first complicated reading lesson they had. The list of what Dylan had sabotaged throughout his life was lengthy, and each time there was a possibility of a new entry, the whole list tended to flash inside his eyelids.
He’d sabotaged his mother, as he heard her say it one too many times with her friends: Maybe if she didn’t have him, she wouldn’t be stuck with a lousy husband and a son she never wanted, a life she never craved and the unfinished degree collecting dust in a pile basket on the last shelf of their bookcase.
He’d sabotaged his father, too, as he complained one too many times with his words drenched in bourbon, leaving barely open lips with a rasp that mirrored the one in Dylan’s own voice people around him had grown to love: Maybe if he didn’t have son with a whore of a mother like his wife, he’d be able to ascend the ladder at his job, without dead weight family hanging on his neck.
He sabotaged their marriage, as a whole, like he heard them hiss on the divorce hearing at court, a place he didn’t want to visit ever again. Being twelve and his face synched in a frown that seemed to be woven eternally in his facial features, he could only keep his head down as they argued about assets, never him. Whoever he went with, it was a chore, and not a priority to get him for themselves. He wishes his parents had a habit of emotionally manipulating each other instead of him, so maybe they would’ve fought over him, too, even if it would be to gain an upper hand on the other.
He sabotaged his seventh grade spectacle, closely after the split of his parents, by tearing up standing in front of the crowd, supposed to sing about how lovable life was, trying not to think about the urges he never gave in to in the dark of the night in his bed everyday – he quite detested his life by that point on, feeling betrayed by his ‘purpose’ on the earth. Even though his teacher was very understanding of the stage fright, he had a cheek red till the next morning once he got home with his mother who felt ashamed sitting next to all the other mothers. That was another thing he sabotaged that day – His mother’s reputation.
Everything else adds up small things, not relevant enough to tally individually on the bigger scale, even if they haunted his wake separately on their own.
Next on the grand list is how he almost sabotaged the reunion of MARS.
A sore spot, something he never wanted to live through, but thought about every night in bed when being away from the studio didn’t magically make him fall asleep instead. When he lay awake in the middle of the night, turning against the sheets, he thought about the dead look in Thame’s eyes that he caused and how he managed to sabotage the thing he once said he’d protect – The sparkle in their leader’s eyes that made him look so innocent despite the hardships. He thought back to the disappointment in Pepper’s eyes and anger in Jun’s as they watched Thame lose against that lunatic of a man, and the betrayal that burned hot when they saw him step up there, seemingly about to destroy what they were working to achieve. Them.
It stung to think they thought he’d sell them, sell Thame, but after all, that’s what he made them think. That’s what he planned to do after all, feeling just as betrayed and hurt at the break up of the group.
So, yeah, Dylan had fucked up a lot in his life, but this one he couldn’t. He tried to concentrate on the track again, blinking away the turmoil and the wetness in his eyes, but it just turned to a jumbled mess. A beat too long, a bass too loud, a drum too sharp and Dylan found his breath shortening, his chest heaving harder. Nothing was up to his standard, nothing was good enough, nothing was right–
The buzzing in his ears, a not-so-subtle shrill got the best of him, ripping his headphones off his head with a mess of limbs and throwing in on the keyboard in front of him. It jabbed a few clicks and fucked up a recording, and with his face burning in shame, Dylan startled, his fingers flying across the keyboard to retrieve it back, but it wasn’t working, nothing was working. It wasn’t coming back, wasn’t recovering, a twenty seconds of backtrack deleted off the track and it was the one he didn’t save a copy of. Of course, it fucking was.
And yet again, Dylan managed to fuck up another thing.
“Fuck!” He yells, kicking the desk and rattling the whole set up, “Shit,” he hit the table and the sting in his hands was only a second-long enough to numb his mind, before it came all crashing down and he buried his head in his hands propped on his knees. He scrubbed his hands up and down his face, before slapping his forehead and gripping his hair, muttering curses under his ragged breath.
He doesn’t know when the tears start to fall from his eyes, but he feels a sob rip out of his mouth before being followed with another yell. His chest feels heavy, a knot he hasn’t felt in a while settling deep inside and squeezing his heart tight enough to make him scoff in despair, trying to get rid of it, set free of the pressure, but all it does is hitch his breath, loud cries spilling out of his lips without a filter and it hurts. His head burns where it’s stuck on the body that's actively destroying itself.
He doesn’t hear the door open, nor the frantic steps, a murmur of his name, then a louder one. He doesn’t register another person in the room, till he kneels in front of him, hands hovering in the air awkwardly before softly landing on his own, gently separating them from the strands of his hair and Dylan sobs again, vision blurry but the chestnut coloured hair a comfort in the haze he’s stuck with.
“Dylan, hey,” makes its way through the shrill still present in his ears, and he whimpers at the sound of something other than music, something familiar, “Can you hear me? Hm?” He sobs again, unable to form words, but the way he unconsciously squeezes Jun’s fingers threaded between his is enough of a tell for the other.
“Focus on my voice, okay?” It was a little too thin, a little too emotionally loaded, but Dylan found himself clinging to it like a thread holding his life, “Come on, I believe in you, yeah? Focus on me,” he brought his hands together, rubbing continuous circles with his thumbs for stability and it made Dylan cry just a tad bit louder from the softness of the touch, something he hadn’t known he craved.
“Dyl, can you squeeze my hands again?” Jun asked quietly, “If you’re with me, just once?”
Dylan does, and he hears the relieved sigh that fell from the other’s lips, gaining a bit of stability himself, processing. Then a hand let go of his own one, and the sudden of it made his sobs subside a little to instead whimper at the loss, unwilling to let go yet, before he felt a warm caress on his face instead, grounding. Jun’s finger wipes the tears that fall in silence, not stopping despite the force behind them dimming significantly. “Hey, Dyl,” he smiles, and Dylan’s vision is just slightly clearer and he sees it, immediately screwing them shut again and falling straight ahead into Jun.
The position is more than uncomfortable for his back, but the sting in his spine is nothing compared to the stab in his heart, so he lets his forehead fall onto Jun’s shoulder, sobbing into the shirt that felt a little too rough on his skin but like a soft blanket to his brain. A hand that was on his cheek comes to rest right above his nape, fingers tangling into his hair, petting. “It’s okay, it’s okay, hm? Let it out.”
The gentle tone is something he wasn’t much of a recipient coming from Jun, but it felt so right, and Dylan wills himself with the little energy he has to slide towards the floor, chair spinning away as he fully falls into the embrace. The one hand still holding his hand lets go and comes to wrap around him, as his own hands grip on the back of Jun’s shirt. It feels safe and he clutches the fabric like a lifeline– and it probably is. Most definitely.
“Jun..” he mumbles between his cries and the boy’s heart squeezes, first time seeing his rapper in such distress, calling out to him in such desperation. It was so much different from the proud, and snarky, sharp and teasing variations of his name he’s heard from Dylan’s lips, but not this– it made the protectiveness he held for his close ones spread through his chest like a wildfire, pulling him even closer.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, and hears Dylan let out a strangled sound, hands tightening in his shirt, “It’ll be okay, Dyl, I promise,” he pets his hair over and over again, the soft strands a comfort to his own mind. He doesn’t know what exactly it is that has Dylan in this state, but he’d be damned if he didn’t fix it. He always keeps his promises, especially the ones he makes to his members.
“I can’t do it, Jun,” Dylan mumbles, “It’s not working. Nothing’s right, it’s not working,” he hiccups, words tumbling without much thought, his mind on loose, “I can’t do it, I can’t– It’s ruined, I’m messing it up again, all of it.”
It breaks Jun’s heart all over again, but he forces his words to come out leveled as he asks, “What’s not working, Dyl?”
“The songs,” he sobs, “Me, I’m not working again. I can’t do it anymore, I can’t,” His breath picks up and Jun shushes him lowly, hand soothing up and down his back. “It’s over, Jun, I ruined it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he states, firmly despite swallowing tears with all his might, “It’s going to be okay.”
“I ruined it,” Dylan repeats, a broken record of self-distruction, “I ruined MARS. I ruined us, I’m going to ruin us.”
Jun blinks away the wetness in his eyes as he pulls Dylan away with his shoulder, taking a second to observe him. His face is puffy, cheeks stricken with fresh and dried tears and his cheeks are flushed from all the forceful rubbing he did in hopes of rubbing off the failure off his skin. His eyes are bleary and filled with water that drips downwards steadily seemingly with no end. It’s the worst thing Jun has ever seen and he doesn’t think he could ever live through witnessing it again.
He takes a hold of his face with both his hands, trying to ground the rapper, repressing a sad smile as Dylan leans into the touch and physically winces like it hurts to be embraced.
“Listen well, silly,” he chuckles when despite it all, Dylan seems to have come down enough for his nose to scrunch at the innocent insult. He looks so innocent in that moment, and Jun can’t imagine what could be bad enough to strip the prickly rapper off all his thorns. “You didn’t ruin anything, more so MARS. Dyl, you got us here,” he sees Dylan open his mouth to speak with a frown and starts caressing circles on his cheekbones, “You’re the reason we’re still standing, you know that, right? You’re the one who makes our music, the music that keeps us to what we are, allows us to still do what we love to do. Together. You’re the reason we’re still MARS. Our own genius producer.”
He knew his voice dripped of affection he’d stump to the deepest corners of his heart, but he didn’t care. Dylan had to hear it, and if it meant Jun had to wear his heart on a sleeve for a little while, then so be it.
“But I couldn’t make the song, I-,” he hiccups a breath, “I messed it up, we’re going to have to record again. And then I’ll have to edit, and tweak it. What if it’s still not better then? What if it’s not good enough?! What if–,” his voice got louder, growing more frantic by the word, and sensing another impending breakdown, Jun’s hold grew more firm on his face, though no less soft, as he made Dylan look him in the eyes.
“It’s okay,” he breathes, and Dylan stops to look at him, eyes boring into his as he pants, shortness of breath and the intensity of the rant catching up to him. “I’ve heard the song, Dylan, it’s amazing. Maybe you don’t think so, but it is, because everything you make is nothing short of fascinating,” Jun’s voice grows softer, a whisper in the small space between them, “If it’s not working, then screw it. We’ll figure out something else, but never think that you’re a destruction just because you’re tired, Dyl.”
Dylan stares at him, before he closes his eyes again and leans further into the touch before slumping over again, all the energy draining out of him like a switch once the words made their way to his brain, burning deeply into the cells of his being. Who could’ve thought he just needed the right words?
“I’m tired,” and it feels like a confession to the heavens, “I’m so tired, Jun.”
He feels Jun’s hand on the back of his head again, scratching lightly before settling, a solid presence, “Let’s go home for the night, yeah?”
Dylan can’t bring himself to overthink what Jun meant by ‘home’ when they both live in different houses as the man in question picks him up gently off the floor, picking all his essentials before walking him towards the door. The air comes a little easier into his lungs once he steps out of the dark room. The overhead lights of the hallway are too bright to the point he has to scrunch his eyes shut and keep his head low, his migraine immediately triggered as his eyes burn from the pressure again, his forehead feeling like it’s on fire.
“Wait a second, I’ll get my jacket,” Jun says, already away from his side before finishing a sentence and Dylan hears violent shuffling that makes him smile a little, all the defenses down with his energy levels. Jun emerges with his jacket in hand and guides Dylan with a gentle hand on his back out the door, stopping for a little to lock the main doors behind them.
The air of the night hits Dylan’s face and he shivers in his place, his hoodie feeling too thin on his frame, but really it was the fatigue making him extra sensitive to temperature. He sighs, about to cross his arms to preserve some warmness when he feels a jacket drop on his shoulders. He looks up at Jun to see him smiling lightly from his side, the garment in his hands now draped around Dylan, and he doesn’t question it. Dylan feels the sudden fright of breaking the spell like a thunder in his chest, so he doesn’t question it, doesn’t comment on it. They walk silently with their shoulders brushing, and Dylan just follows wherever Jun goes.
They end up at the latter’s apartment building, nodding with a small smile to the night guard who grins back tiredly, promptly returning to his magazine at hand as they wait for the elevator.
They don’t speak, but it’s not tight, weird or wrong. It’s comfortable, warm and everything that nobody would use to describe them. Everything opposite of what their interactions usually are– charged, bold and laced tight with sarcasm, pride or cynicism, depending on the day. Everything opposite of what they are now as they stand in the elevator, ascending to the seventh floor, still silent and still comfortable. They enter the apartment and Dylan’s shoulders sag at once, relieved to be in a space he’s comfortable in, familiar with.
They take their shoes off, wearing their designated sleepers– In each apartment of MARS’ members, there are four additional sleepers for each of them; In Pepper and Gam’s home, they even have their own drawer for their shoes. Dylan goes to hang the jacket on the hook, and feels himself miss the warmth just a tad bit more.
Before he starts overthinking after that point, Jun speaks up, taking a hold of his wrist, “Come on, we’re sleeping.”
No delays, no interruptions, just Jun guiding him towards the bedroom. Dylan stoops when they enter, “Where’s the futon?” He remembers Jun having at least four for each of them despite his pull-out couch in the living room.
“No,” Jun simply replies, standing in front of him, and Dylan notices the heavy eye bags under the singer’s eyes that mirror his own, something wretched sneaking into his veins as he starts to feel ashamed for his outburst, knowing how hard Jun also works.
“Huh?” Now what is he on about, Dylan thought they were going good.
“Dylan, I’m tired,” Jun says, a slight pout forming on his lips as he tilts his head to the side like it’s too heavy to hold up and shame burns hotter in Dylan’s body.
“Yeah, exactly,” he says, more confused than before, head pulsing with a headache that makes him blink a few times to get a hold of his thoughts to articulate his sentences correctly.
“Exactly,” Jun mirrors, then takes his wrist again, “So, come on.” He tugs at him again, closer to the bed and Dylan doesn’t know whether to feel awkward, or not, to take up space on Jun’s bed.
“I can sleep elsewhere,” he says, standing at the edge of the bed with Jun.
“Don’t be silly, there’s space here and it’s four o’clock in the morning, Dyl,” Jun sighs like this little argument they’ve found themselves in is merely an inconvenience of no need, “Just lay down, please, I’m tired.”
Dylan can’t argue with that as he subtly glances at the clock and chooses to simply slide under the blanket when Jun circles to get on the other side, doing the same. They just lay there for a second, with Dylan screwing his eyes shut when the lights become too direct. It clicks off effectively from the switch on Jun’s side of the bed.
He hears a sigh, then a slide of a cabinet and a clank of something, before Jun lights a bedside lamp on low setting. “Here,” he hands out something to Dylan and it downs on the latter that Jun keeps his migraine medicine with him. He takes it and swallows it, followed with a bottle of water provided from the same bedside table.
“How’d you have this?” He asks after downing the water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when a single drop made its way from the corner of his mouth because of the weird angle.
“I keep it in case anything happens,” he murmurs, slightly bashful, “Ever since that Avengers sleepover we had.”
He remembers the Avengers sleepover. It was in their trainee days right before their debut line up was announced, when Pepper expressed he’d never seen a Marvel movie, and other four made it their mission to educate him, immediately declaring a movie-night to binge all of Avengers. He could feel it two days leading up, but brushed it off in the favor of being there, but halfway during the Civil War, Dylan’s migraine got so bad, he burst into tears, and they didn’t have the medication at hand.
Slightly traumatic, to say the least, but Dylan felt his stomach buzz with warmth that Jun still kept up with that.
“Thank you,” he murmured, reaching to put the bottle in the shelf of the table on his side of the bed. He laid back down and didn’t know what to do with himself, clutching the blanket and willing himself to maybe pass out right now?
He heard a click of the lamp, and in pitch black, Jun’s hand reached out to his own, unfurling it from the blanket. Dylan turned on his side to look at him, and saw Jun already looking at him, the same affection in his eyes as the one from the studio and Dylan’s heart twisted tight enough that he decided to throw all his self-preservation out of the window for the night.
He’d already embarrassed himself enough, this is nothing. He moved to clutch at Jun’s shirt again, curling into his chest and he felt Jun take a deep breath before he huffed out something akin to a laugh, wrapping his arms around Dylan and pulling him even closer.
“You’re so silly sometimes, you know that?” He whispered, nose suspiciously nuzzling into Dylan’s hair as the other hummed in response, “You’re so talented, it hurts. But you’re allowed to be tired, Dyl, none of us would be happy if you burnt out just for the sake of not inconveniencing us.”
Dylan felt choked up all over again, but this time, the knot in his chest was undoing itself instead.
“Okay,” he whispered, but it was loud enough for Jun who just tightened his hold on him.
“I mean it,” he added.
“I know,” and he really did.
When Dylan wakes up the next morning, he mourns the best sleep he had gotten in the last year, along with the fact that they slept in their outside clothes– sweats, but still outside– before Jun assures he was going to do laundry today anyways.
And maybe it’s okay to take it easy sometimes.
(It definitely is, as yelled at him for fifteen minutes by all six of MARS members. When did Po and Gam enter that conversation, goes beyond him, but well, just means more naggers on his side.)