Ship/Member: Jihoon Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: N/A Permission to remix: Yes
***
Jihoon spends a lot of time thinking about things he shouldn’t do. He’s mildly famous for it, even, with his artwork at his studio. Jihoon doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t have any piercings or tattoos, and his untouched body is moulded carefully, artfully, with a strict gym regime and bland diet that lets his creamy white skin mimic the stone Grecian statues of heroes and gods.
There’s a lot of rules Jihoon applies to his life. A lot of guidelines that govern how he lives.
These are limitations in addition to the already restrictive lifestyle of an idol, a very specific type of cocoon Jihoon has found himself in that is almost entirely removed from the mundane reality of average life. He rarely shops by himself. He doesn’t know how to book a plane ticket. Jihoon can’t be seen to date, hold hands, even publicly have friends that happen to be girls.
Sometimes, the weight of what Jihoon can’t do rests so heavily on his shoulders he feels himself sinking slowly through the ground, pressed downwards, crushed by the expectations and limitations.
Days like these, Jihoon gorges on his one vice, his continual gluttonous habit he has always secretly encouraged and found himself helpless towards resisting. The reason he lets himself become nothing more than the blank space leftover by what he is not.
He drifts towards Seokmin, lets himself be fondled and man handled and kissed sloppily. Jihoon can’t even muster a fake protest to the skinship: he basks in the kindness, the goodwill that emanates from Seokmin’s bones. From his soul.
He slumps next to Junhui, who shifts his phone so that Jihoon can see the webtoon Junhui is reading. It’s in Chinese. That doesn’t matter. Jihoon breaths the same air as Junhui, and he knows when it’s funny because Junhui’s shoulders shake silently.
He’s caught by Jeonghan, who laughs at Jihoon’s dour expression, starts telling Jihoon a silly little story that Jihoon doesn’t believe is 100% true. Jeonghan’s small, straight teeth are white and gleaming, and Jihoon knows that if he reached out, just lent over and ran his dirty finger over Jeonghan’s clean, sharp teeth, Jeonghan would let him. Encourage him.
Joshua smiles sweetly at Jihoon when he stumbles over, asks Jihoon to tell him what he’s been working on. What anime he’s been watching. What his current gym routine looks like. Joshua skates a palm over Jihoon’s forearm, light and fond, with no expectations at all, and Jihoon finds his chest isn’t as heavy as he thought.
Seungkwan finds him, later. He’s brought some vitamins with him, some powders and some pills. He very seriously tells Jihoon that Jihoon needs to be more consistent with his self care and management. He tells Jihoon he’s worth taking care of. Seungkwan makes Jihoon feel like maybe he is worth being taken care of. Seungkwan makes Jihoon feel like even his worse self is a self worth liking. He always has, even when Seungkwan was an insecure teenager who hid his fears under a thin veneer of brash confidence, and Jihoon hid his quickly growing love with prickly distaste. Seungkwan has always liked Jihoon more than Jihoon has liked himself.
He finds each one, all twelve, and draws them close individually. He smells their sweat, their now expensive cologne. He catalogues their expressions, their clothes, how they’re holding themselves.
His members, his beloveds. He binges on their time, their love, until he’s sick. He eats their habits, he grows weak from their familiarity. Dizzy from his continual, unending, chasmic greed for their approval, their love. They’re sticky rice grains, glued together. He cannot have enough. He could never be satiated.
Once, a few years ago, when Seungcheol had been sick, had gone away for a few months that seemed unending, Jihoon had confessed to him.
Jihoon hadn’t meant to. He was ostensibly visiting to check in on Seungcheol, to see how he was going. But it was awkward, at first. Sitting on a couch opposite Seungcheol, who looked so pale. So drawn. His eyes were huge, limpid, dark. The circles underneath were heavy, filled with sadness and grief and Jihoon felt intimately responsible for them. The creator of Seungcheol’s misery.
He’s known Seungcheol for longer than anyone else apart from his parents, and Jihoon couldn’t muster the courage to ask Seungcheol how he’s going. Jihoon didn’t know how Seungcheol was going. When he’s coming back.
It’s been eating him alive, not knowing. Not having Seungcheol close. He took Seungcheol for granted - he assumed it would always, always be them.
Now, the looming reality of Seungcheol’s absence had Jihoon waking in the night, when he did manage a few meagre hours of sleep. Had Jihoon struggling to write, create music.
His fear, his very great fear, that he has done this, that he is the reason Seungcheol cannot smile or sing or be with them, has Jihoon dropping to his knees in front of Seungcheol, bowing his head.
Jihoon begs for Seungcheol’s forgiveness, for not being enough, for wanting too much. For needing him, his leadership, his steady guidance and bratty childishness, so much that it overwhelmed Seungcheol. For taking taking taking, each taste of Seungcheol spurring his hunger onwards, upwards. Jihoon is always aching, ravenous. He always needs the same surfeit completion. How could Seungcheol have anything left, when Jihoon has greedily taken it all for himself?
Seungcheol didn’t understand at first. Had been defensive in his confusion. But then he got it. Comprehension melted over his face slowly and sweetly, and Jihoon had felt his fingers dig into the plush firmness of Seungcheol’s thighs as he relaxed in Seungcheol’s shared shame.
Me too, Seungcheol whispered down to Jihoon. Me too.
[FILL] Re: Rice
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: N/A
Permission to remix: Yes
***
Jihoon spends a lot of time thinking about things he shouldn’t do. He’s mildly famous for it, even, with his artwork at his studio. Jihoon doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t have any piercings or tattoos, and his untouched body is moulded carefully, artfully, with a strict gym regime and bland diet that lets his creamy white skin mimic the stone Grecian statues of heroes and gods.
There’s a lot of rules Jihoon applies to his life. A lot of guidelines that govern how he lives.
These are limitations in addition to the already restrictive lifestyle of an idol, a very specific type of cocoon Jihoon has found himself in that is almost entirely removed from the mundane reality of average life. He rarely shops by himself. He doesn’t know how to book a plane ticket. Jihoon can’t be seen to date, hold hands, even publicly have friends that happen to be girls.
Sometimes, the weight of what Jihoon can’t do rests so heavily on his shoulders he feels himself sinking slowly through the ground, pressed downwards, crushed by the expectations and limitations.
Days like these, Jihoon gorges on his one vice, his continual gluttonous habit he has always secretly encouraged and found himself helpless towards resisting. The reason he lets himself become nothing more than the blank space leftover by what he is not.
He drifts towards Seokmin, lets himself be fondled and man handled and kissed sloppily. Jihoon can’t even muster a fake protest to the skinship: he basks in the kindness, the goodwill that emanates from Seokmin’s bones. From his soul.
He slumps next to Junhui, who shifts his phone so that Jihoon can see the webtoon Junhui is reading. It’s in Chinese. That doesn’t matter. Jihoon breaths the same air as Junhui, and he knows when it’s funny because Junhui’s shoulders shake silently.
He’s caught by Jeonghan, who laughs at Jihoon’s dour expression, starts telling Jihoon a silly little story that Jihoon doesn’t believe is 100% true. Jeonghan’s small, straight teeth are white and gleaming, and Jihoon knows that if he reached out, just lent over and ran his dirty finger over Jeonghan’s clean, sharp teeth, Jeonghan would let him. Encourage him.
Joshua smiles sweetly at Jihoon when he stumbles over, asks Jihoon to tell him what he’s been working on. What anime he’s been watching. What his current gym routine looks like. Joshua skates a palm over Jihoon’s forearm, light and fond, with no expectations at all, and Jihoon finds his chest isn’t as heavy as he thought.
Seungkwan finds him, later. He’s brought some vitamins with him, some powders and some pills. He very seriously tells Jihoon that Jihoon needs to be more consistent with his self care and management. He tells Jihoon he’s worth taking care of. Seungkwan makes Jihoon feel like maybe he is worth being taken care of. Seungkwan makes Jihoon feel like even his worse self is a self worth liking. He always has, even when Seungkwan was an insecure teenager who hid his fears under a thin veneer of brash confidence, and Jihoon hid his quickly growing love with prickly distaste. Seungkwan has always liked Jihoon more than Jihoon has liked himself.
He finds each one, all twelve, and draws them close individually. He smells their sweat, their now expensive cologne. He catalogues their expressions, their clothes, how they’re holding themselves.
His members, his beloveds. He binges on their time, their love, until he’s sick. He eats their habits, he grows weak from their familiarity. Dizzy from his continual, unending, chasmic greed for their approval, their love. They’re sticky rice grains, glued together. He cannot have enough. He could never be satiated.
Once, a few years ago, when Seungcheol had been sick, had gone away for a few months that seemed unending, Jihoon had confessed to him.
Jihoon hadn’t meant to. He was ostensibly visiting to check in on Seungcheol, to see how he was going. But it was awkward, at first. Sitting on a couch opposite Seungcheol, who looked so pale. So drawn. His eyes were huge, limpid, dark. The circles underneath were heavy, filled with sadness and grief and Jihoon felt intimately responsible for them. The creator of Seungcheol’s misery.
He’s known Seungcheol for longer than anyone else apart from his parents, and Jihoon couldn’t muster the courage to ask Seungcheol how he’s going. Jihoon didn’t know how Seungcheol was going. When he’s coming back.
It’s been eating him alive, not knowing. Not having Seungcheol close. He took Seungcheol for granted - he assumed it would always, always be them.
Now, the looming reality of Seungcheol’s absence had Jihoon waking in the night, when he did manage a few meagre hours of sleep. Had Jihoon struggling to write, create music.
His fear, his very great fear, that he has done this, that he is the reason Seungcheol cannot smile or sing or be with them, has Jihoon dropping to his knees in front of Seungcheol, bowing his head.
Jihoon begs for Seungcheol’s forgiveness, for not being enough, for wanting too much. For needing him, his leadership, his steady guidance and bratty childishness, so much that it overwhelmed Seungcheol. For taking taking taking, each taste of Seungcheol spurring his hunger onwards, upwards. Jihoon is always aching, ravenous. He always needs the same surfeit completion. How could Seungcheol have anything left, when Jihoon has greedily taken it all for himself?
Seungcheol didn’t understand at first. Had been defensive in his confusion. But then he got it. Comprehension melted over his face slowly and sweetly, and Jihoon had felt his fingers dig into the plush firmness of Seungcheol’s thighs as he relaxed in Seungcheol’s shared shame.
Me too, Seungcheol whispered down to Jihoon. Me too.