Chapter Text
The front door bangs open so loudly, it makes you look up from your laptop and pull back your headphones, focus immediately pulled out of the task of trying to come up with another topline for one of your upcoming singles. Sounds like Mira, you think as you get up from your chair and slowly, almost carefully make your way to the hallway. There she is - make up hastily rubbed off to the point of angering her skin, mumbling to herself as she tries to fight her way out of her clothes. It doesn’t take you more than a second to realize she’s probably overstimulated from her solo schedule.
“Hi bub”, you speak into the space between you two, loud enough for her to be noticeable but not loud enough to actually scare her, “need help?”
She grunts before she stills and lets herself fall onto her ass, like a petulant child that’s overthinking her current tantrum to get what she wants faster. It works and frankly, you were born for this. Taking care of overstimulated autistic women who go non-speaking after a long day at work, obviously. Amongst other things. Not the point, you think before you shake your head to clear your mind and move closer to the pink haired woman, still sitting on the floor with the deepest, yet cutest pout on her exhausting looking face you’ve seen in a while.
“Today was shit, hm?”, you ask softly as you squat next to her. You let your hand rest on your knee, palm upwards and waiting, as you fall silent and wait until she lets you know whether it’s okay to touch her in this moment. The entire team talked about it after one of her first openly meltdowns; the visual had to stay behind after a photoshoot to redo some of the poses the photographer wasn’t super happy with and that, combined with the noise and people and that goddamn tag at the back of her neck, were enough for her to attack an assistant. Well, she tried to swing at the girl before she stormed out of the room, sobbing and leaving behind a bewildered team, a worried manager and a best friend that’s seen her like that before.
🐈⬛
You ran after her and for the first time ever, she wouldn’t let you bear hug her. It’s what usually helped her calm down, so you just stand there, brows furrowed and fingers antsy as you try to think of something – anything, really – to help her. That’s when she starts to claw at the clothes she was forced to wear for today’s photoshoot and you understand.
‘It feels like wanting to claw my skin off’, she once tried to explain the physical aspect of overload to you because while you get the spiraling thoughts you barely pulled yourself out of day by day, you luckily never had to deal with the feeling of your skin being on fire.
‘Can I-‘, you ask when you try to reach out to unzip the top she was forced into and the older whimpers, hunched over and looking like a beaten dog before she nods and tries to stay still. Her body wouldn’t stop shaking as you slowly pull down the zipper and help her out of the top without any more damage to it or the photoshoot.
A part of you was proud back then; proud of the fact that you knew each other so well you could help her through such a scary experience and, of course, proud of her for accepting help. You know how hard it is for her to openly accept her flaws, knowing all too well they’d be weaponized against her if people looked too closely, paid too much attention to how she ‘doesn’t fit in’.
‘I’m a fuck up’, she said.
‘I love you’, you thought and took her hand in yours, squeezing it gently, letting the lingering touch do the talking and she seemed to get it, judging by the way her fingers curled around yours, as if they were searching for your warmth.
And even now, her hand finds yours, timidly at first and you immediately know how badly she must be hurting right now. Yet, she manages to slowly drag her finger across your palm. Your heart bursts with love for her.
🐈⬛
“I’ll help you”, you whisper as slow fingers take their time to unzip the dress she’s still wearing, slipping off the sleeves and within seconds, her posture changes. Tension leaves her body and the stoic need to stay still vanishes into thin air, making her curl into herself.
“Are you cold?”
She shakes her head.
“Can I get your bathrobe or do you need me to sit with you a little bit longer?”
She thinks for a second before tapping against your palm once. Bathrobe it is, you nod to yourself before you carefully squeeze her finger and get up to move to her room, grabbing the bathrobe, her eye mask as well as some water from the fridge on the way back. You feel useful and for once in your life, not too much. Because too much is exactly what she needs right now. Care she’d never gotten as a child when she had to deal with internalized meltdowns that would leave her banging her head against the wall over and over again until she was crying and silently begging for the pain to stop. She didn’t understand what was going on, why the clothes her nanny picked for her hurt her body like burning needles were piercing into her skin or why she didn’t understand why the other kids didn’t want to play with her when she tried to approach them, noses turned up and away and she just stood there, lost and confused. She told you about her childhood and how isolated and lonely it was; the fact that no one would come to check in on her filled you with so much rage, you punched out five new songs in just one night (at least that’s more productive than spiraling and planning murders you unfortunately cannot commit, you tell yourself).
That’s when you swore to yourself you would do everything in your power to make sure she’d never have to be alone during anything causing her distress. It doesn’t always work out, of course, especially when she’s on solo schedules or overseas but you work well enough for her to reach out in times of need. Usually it’s just emojis or stickers on KakaoTalk but you can tell they still help her feel better. That’s all that matters to you.
You exhale softly as you help her into the bathrobe and get up together before you tie the knot of its belt loosely around her waist. The dress she wore before is pooled around her feet and you chuckle softly at the sight. Your leader would scold you for that, a good designer dress she was allowed to keep after a photoshoot on the floor? Yeah, let’s not tempt fate today, you think as you lean back down and she immediately steps away to let you pick up and straighten the dress before you wrap it over your forearm. And since there are truly no words needed between the two of you, you give her a look and she shrugs which is her way of saying ‘Sure, why not’. The fluffy bathrobe must’ve helped with her sensory overload if she’s back to her nonchalance again – even if she’s still non-speaking. You’d like to think of it as preserving energy and not some sort of punishment. Besides, you know each other well enough to understand what the other needs. It’s weird, though, you never thought you’d find someone like that.
She seems to sense your shift in mood and tilts her head to ask what’s going on in that brain of yours. But you just shake your head with the tiniest tight lipped smile before your gaze falls onto the dress in your arms.
“I love you, y’know that, right?”
You can hear her exhale softly and she steps a little closer before she leans into your side, her cheek pressed against the top of your head. It’s hard not to feel emotional when your favorite person in the world loves you so much, she would rather ignore the burning sensation under her skin than let you be sad. You clear your throat as you lean away to avoid wrapping your arms around her middle and burying your face in her chest until it gets easier to breathe again. Now’s not about you, you can wait. It’s okay.