Ship/Member: Jeonghan/Seungcheol Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: panic attacks, eating disorders, jeonghan being emotionally constipated and seungcheol showing him it's okay to be vulnerable Permission to remix: ask!
whew so sorry about the content of this one.
***
Jeonghan’s a firm believer of keeping his emotions to himself.
As one of the oldest, and thus being looked up to as a reliable hyung to their gaggle of misfits, he’s learned to tamp down the feelings that threaten to overflow, to burrow them deep down until they’re the last thing on his mind. He has better things to worry about anyways, like how much weight the company wants him to lose for the comeback, or putting his all into a dance move that would’ve put him on his ass a year ago. (And even still, present day, sometimes still puts him on his ass.)
That’s why, the first time Seungcheol breaks down in front of him in the studio, Jeonghan doesn’t know what to do.
It’s not a gentle sob, a little venting of frustrations, no. Seungcheol’s crouched down before him in a pathetic ball of tears, fingers buried uselessly in his bleach-fried hair. Jeonghan blinks dumbly, staring down at his shaking leader with one question on his mind.
Why me?
There’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that tells him to get to Seungcheol’s level and wrap him up in his arms, so he does. Seungcheol melts into his hold with a shuddering sigh that makes Jeonghan’s chest hurt, unfolding himself to cling to Jeonghan’s jacket, like he’s afraid he’ll leave. And, honestly, Jeonghan doesn’t blame him; Seungcheol’s head buried in his shoulder, muffling his sobs, makes a quiet part of him tense up with the urge to leave the room.
His cries eventually quiet down to the occasionally sob, tears staining the fabric covering his shoulder, and Jeonghan remains in his spot, vaguely aware of the ache in his knees from where he kneels. Seungcheol’s grip on his jacket eases up slowly, eventually releasing to scrub at his reddened, tear-streaked face. His arms leaving Jeonghan’s middle makes him hyper-aware of their position, sharing the same breath in their proximity, and Jeonghan nearly eats shit trying to stumble back to his feet.
Strong fingers curl around his wrist before he can get too far — the devil on his shoulder whispers about how his wrist isn’t thin enough, isn’t fragile enough in Seungcheol’s hold, that the diet isn’t working, and Jeonghan wants to scream — and Jeonghan stops, now looking down at their fearless leader who’s still recovering from sobbing himself hoarse into the crook of Jeonghan’s neck.
Neither of them exchange words, they don’t even look at each other. Jeonghan swallows thickly, wondering which one of them will be the first to break.
“Don’t run,” Seungcheol rasps, easing himself to his feet with more grace than Jeonghan could ever dream of possessing. His free hand brushes over Jeonghan’s jaw, guiding him to look him in the eye. His eyes are puffy and red, looking a bit pathetic in Jeonghan’s opinion, but something cracks behind his ribs all the same.
He looks like he wants to beg Jeonghan to spend the night in his apartment, keep him company through what Jeonghan’s sure is a restless night full of nightmares to come for his leader, but he must see something on Jeonghan’s face that begs him otherwise because he drops his hands, lips in a thin line. “Don’t run,” he repeats, firmer this time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jeonghan says quietly, wincing at the venom in his tone.
Seungcheol scoffs, turning away to collect his things from the couch. “Never mind,” he bites out, and shoulders his way out of the room.
The next time Jeonghan’s privy to Seungcheol’s meltdown, they’re gathered in one of the company vans, having just returned from a promotional event. Seungcheol seemed fine during the event, if a little stiff, but Jeonghan was admittedly a bit distracted with the way the waistband of his slacks dug into his stomach, his brain insisting that they didn’t accidentally give him someone else’s pants, that he’s actually put on a horrendous amount of weight.
Jeonghan slumps against his seat with a sigh, popping the top button of his dress shirt. The flashing lights of expensive cameras and shouts of press left him with a throbbing in his temple, ready to shed his clothes and curl under his covers. He looks over his shoulder to where Seungcheol had crawled into the back, a comment on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t expect to see Seungcheol with his face buried in his hands, frame shaking like he’s trying and failing to even his breathing.
“Cheol?” he whispers, mindful of the partition separating them from their driver. The van kicks into gear, pulling away from the side of the street, and Jeonghan swears softly, catching himself on the armrest. It digs uncomfortably into his abdomen, reminding him of his earlier turmoil. “Hey, Seungcheol-ah, what’s wrong?”
Seungcheol doesn’t offer him a verbal answer, shaking his head with a trembling breath. There’s that question again. Why me? He doesn’t know what else to do besides watch Seungcheol make an effort to take slow breaths, chest rising and falling as he works himself through whatever it is he’s dealing with. Jeonghan bites his lip, gnawing on a patch of dead skin until he tastes iron.
“Fuck,” Seungcheol finally groans, rubbing at his face like he did all those nights ago. He lifts his head, revealing that he hadn’t been crying this time, but his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy like he’d been close, cheeks flushed.
Somehow, Jeonghan finds himself following Seungcheol to his apartment, and Seungcheol doesn’t question it. He gestures for Jeonghan to enter first, and lets him take the first shower too. Jeonghan hesitates, and Seungcheol must catch onto his concern, because he says, faint smile playing on his lips where he’s settled down onto the couch, “I’ll be okay. I promise.”
Jeonghan feels that same hitch in his chest from before, and rubs at the space between his ribs with a frown. He shuts himself in the bathroom and doesn’t look in the mirror, washing himself clean of the day perfunctorily. His shower is a lot shorter than usual, and Jeonghan doesn’t think about it.
Seungcheols’s still on the couch when he comes out in borrowed pajamas that swallow his thin wrists and bony ankles, patting the seat next to him in an invitation. He holds a hand out that Jeonghan lays his own on top of without comment, letting Seungcheol brush his thumb over where his wrist protrudes the most, eyes downcast.
“I told you before,” Seungcheol murmurs, not meeting Jeonghan’s curious gaze. “Don’t run.”
“I’m not running,” Jeonghan says.
“There are some things we can’t help,” Seungcheol continues, like he didn’t hear him. “It’s okay to be vulnerable. I want to be there for you like you’ve been there for me, so please. Don’t run.”
Jeonghan frowns. Seungcheol stops touching his wrist, but he doesn’t take his hand back. “I’m not running,” he repeats tightly.
“Jeonghan-ah.” And, oh, there’s that shift behind his ribs again, threatening to drown him in an emotion that Jeonghan’s not strong enough to acknowledge now. Or maybe ever. “Let me be there for you.”
Worrying his lip between his teeth, Jeonghan huffs in mild annoyance, averting his gaze from the caress of their hands. He doesn’t offer a response, but Seungcheol seems to be pleased with his stubborn acceptance, giving his pale hand a squeeze.
“Why me?” Jeonghan finally asks, echoing the question that he’s been dying to know.
Seungcheol laughs softly, like what Jeonghan said is funny. Jeonghan wants to fuss at him for it, but Seungcheol just shakes his head, playing with Jeonghan’s fingers.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says, vague as all hell, and Jeonghan thinks he just might want to stick around long enough to find out.
[FILL]
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: panic attacks, eating disorders, jeonghan being emotionally constipated and seungcheol showing him it's okay to be vulnerable
Permission to remix: ask!
whew so sorry about the content of this one.
***
Jeonghan’s a firm believer of keeping his emotions to himself.
As one of the oldest, and thus being looked up to as a reliable hyung to their gaggle of misfits, he’s learned to tamp down the feelings that threaten to overflow, to burrow them deep down until they’re the last thing on his mind. He has better things to worry about anyways, like how much weight the company wants him to lose for the comeback, or putting his all into a dance move that would’ve put him on his ass a year ago. (And even still, present day, sometimes still puts him on his ass.)
That’s why, the first time Seungcheol breaks down in front of him in the studio, Jeonghan doesn’t know what to do.
It’s not a gentle sob, a little venting of frustrations, no. Seungcheol’s crouched down before him in a pathetic ball of tears, fingers buried uselessly in his bleach-fried hair. Jeonghan blinks dumbly, staring down at his shaking leader with one question on his mind.
Why me?
There’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that tells him to get to Seungcheol’s level and wrap him up in his arms, so he does. Seungcheol melts into his hold with a shuddering sigh that makes Jeonghan’s chest hurt, unfolding himself to cling to Jeonghan’s jacket, like he’s afraid he’ll leave. And, honestly, Jeonghan doesn’t blame him; Seungcheol’s head buried in his shoulder, muffling his sobs, makes a quiet part of him tense up with the urge to leave the room.
His cries eventually quiet down to the occasionally sob, tears staining the fabric covering his shoulder, and Jeonghan remains in his spot, vaguely aware of the ache in his knees from where he kneels. Seungcheol’s grip on his jacket eases up slowly, eventually releasing to scrub at his reddened, tear-streaked face. His arms leaving Jeonghan’s middle makes him hyper-aware of their position, sharing the same breath in their proximity, and Jeonghan nearly eats shit trying to stumble back to his feet.
Strong fingers curl around his wrist before he can get too far — the devil on his shoulder whispers about how his wrist isn’t thin enough, isn’t fragile enough in Seungcheol’s hold, that the diet isn’t working, and Jeonghan wants to scream — and Jeonghan stops, now looking down at their fearless leader who’s still recovering from sobbing himself hoarse into the crook of Jeonghan’s neck.
Neither of them exchange words, they don’t even look at each other. Jeonghan swallows thickly, wondering which one of them will be the first to break.
“Don’t run,” Seungcheol rasps, easing himself to his feet with more grace than Jeonghan could ever dream of possessing. His free hand brushes over Jeonghan’s jaw, guiding him to look him in the eye. His eyes are puffy and red, looking a bit pathetic in Jeonghan’s opinion, but something cracks behind his ribs all the same.
He looks like he wants to beg Jeonghan to spend the night in his apartment, keep him company through what Jeonghan’s sure is a restless night full of nightmares to come for his leader, but he must see something on Jeonghan’s face that begs him otherwise because he drops his hands, lips in a thin line. “Don’t run,” he repeats, firmer this time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jeonghan says quietly, wincing at the venom in his tone.
Seungcheol scoffs, turning away to collect his things from the couch. “Never mind,” he bites out, and shoulders his way out of the room.
The next time Jeonghan’s privy to Seungcheol’s meltdown, they’re gathered in one of the company vans, having just returned from a promotional event. Seungcheol seemed fine during the event, if a little stiff, but Jeonghan was admittedly a bit distracted with the way the waistband of his slacks dug into his stomach, his brain insisting that they didn’t accidentally give him someone else’s pants, that he’s actually put on a horrendous amount of weight.
Jeonghan slumps against his seat with a sigh, popping the top button of his dress shirt. The flashing lights of expensive cameras and shouts of press left him with a throbbing in his temple, ready to shed his clothes and curl under his covers. He looks over his shoulder to where Seungcheol had crawled into the back, a comment on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t expect to see Seungcheol with his face buried in his hands, frame shaking like he’s trying and failing to even his breathing.
“Cheol?” he whispers, mindful of the partition separating them from their driver. The van kicks into gear, pulling away from the side of the street, and Jeonghan swears softly, catching himself on the armrest. It digs uncomfortably into his abdomen, reminding him of his earlier turmoil. “Hey, Seungcheol-ah, what’s wrong?”
Seungcheol doesn’t offer him a verbal answer, shaking his head with a trembling breath. There’s that question again. Why me? He doesn’t know what else to do besides watch Seungcheol make an effort to take slow breaths, chest rising and falling as he works himself through whatever it is he’s dealing with. Jeonghan bites his lip, gnawing on a patch of dead skin until he tastes iron.
“Fuck,” Seungcheol finally groans, rubbing at his face like he did all those nights ago. He lifts his head, revealing that he hadn’t been crying this time, but his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy like he’d been close, cheeks flushed.
Somehow, Jeonghan finds himself following Seungcheol to his apartment, and Seungcheol doesn’t question it. He gestures for Jeonghan to enter first, and lets him take the first shower too. Jeonghan hesitates, and Seungcheol must catch onto his concern, because he says, faint smile playing on his lips where he’s settled down onto the couch, “I’ll be okay. I promise.”
Jeonghan feels that same hitch in his chest from before, and rubs at the space between his ribs with a frown. He shuts himself in the bathroom and doesn’t look in the mirror, washing himself clean of the day perfunctorily. His shower is a lot shorter than usual, and Jeonghan doesn’t think about it.
Seungcheols’s still on the couch when he comes out in borrowed pajamas that swallow his thin wrists and bony ankles, patting the seat next to him in an invitation. He holds a hand out that Jeonghan lays his own on top of without comment, letting Seungcheol brush his thumb over where his wrist protrudes the most, eyes downcast.
“I told you before,” Seungcheol murmurs, not meeting Jeonghan’s curious gaze. “Don’t run.”
“I’m not running,” Jeonghan says.
“There are some things we can’t help,” Seungcheol continues, like he didn’t hear him. “It’s okay to be vulnerable. I want to be there for you like you’ve been there for me, so please. Don’t run.”
Jeonghan frowns. Seungcheol stops touching his wrist, but he doesn’t take his hand back. “I’m not running,” he repeats tightly.
“Jeonghan-ah.” And, oh, there’s that shift behind his ribs again, threatening to drown him in an emotion that Jeonghan’s not strong enough to acknowledge now. Or maybe ever. “Let me be there for you.”
Worrying his lip between his teeth, Jeonghan huffs in mild annoyance, averting his gaze from the caress of their hands. He doesn’t offer a response, but Seungcheol seems to be pleased with his stubborn acceptance, giving his pale hand a squeeze.
“Why me?” Jeonghan finally asks, echoing the question that he’s been dying to know.
Seungcheol laughs softly, like what Jeonghan said is funny. Jeonghan wants to fuss at him for it, but Seungcheol just shakes his head, playing with Jeonghan’s fingers.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says, vague as all hell, and Jeonghan thinks he just might want to stick around long enough to find out.