colour crimson in my eyes: II
focus: youngjae-centric, ot7
rating: pg-13
warning: allusions to eating disorders, self harm
summary: because the only ones who can hurt your heart are those already close to it, right?
part I
005. in·ad·e·quate: inapt, incompetent; incommensurate; defective, imperfect, incomplete
Youngjae hates it when people talk about him behind his back.
Mark sits across him during dinner that night, watching him carefully, wearing that mysterious, pensive smile that makes all the fangirls burst into excited, blushing giggles during fansigns and performances. Jackson must’ve tipped him off or something because he’s monitoring Youngjae’s plate like a hawk, quiet and observant and slipping in choice words here and there about how it seems like Youngjae hasn’t actually eaten a single thing since the meal began.
Mark, their flying member, who’d come from California with nothing and still managed to rise to become one of the most popular, most talented members of their group. Mark, with his gorgeous skin and beautiful eyes and inexplicable ability to make fans swoon just by existing.
Why do you think he became so popular, Youngjae? He works hard on his tricking. He kills himself practicing rap. He practices those faces in the mirror.
Not like you. Not disgusting or lazy or ugly. You only know how to eat and laze and you still think your singing will ever be able to match up to talent like his?
Jaebum’s on the other end of the table and Mark’s refusing everything Youngjae tries to give him, and Youngjae’s beginning to panic because everyone else is finishing their plates off and it’ll be too obvious if his own bowl is full.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
It’s so like Mark to be so direct, so completely unaware of how his quiet words are slicing clean through Youngjae’s heart, because of course someone as perfect as Mark wouldn’t understand, of course someone as loved and talented and strong and steady as Mark
would ask you WHY you aren’t eating, because he doesn’t need to try to have everyone need and love him.
Youngjae can feel the discreet burn of five other pairs of eyes on the two of them, despite the fact that conversation is carrying on as per normal, and forces a smile, before raising a shaky spoon of rice to his lips.
Mark doesn’t let up on his stare.
So he eats another. And another. And another. Till almost half the plate is finished. And he’s staring at the sight of a half empty plate, feeling the weight of meat and rice in his stomach like lead, as the rest get up from their seats, joking and laughing and oblivious.
By the time he gets back to the dorm that night, Youngjae feels absolutely disgusting.
There’d been rice. Carbohydrates. Meat. So much fat, glistening over the clammy surfaces of the slices. Vegetables practically swimming in pools of oily gravy.
And Youngjae had eaten it all.
He sinks into his own depressed thoughts, unaware of how the atmosphere feels lighter, relieved, almost, emanating from the six other boys in the dorm. By the time almost everyone’s done showering and getting ready for bed, he’s come to a shaky resolution.
It’s not messy and uncontrolled at all, contrary to popular opinion, in fact, it’s structured, methodical, tried and tested, Youngjae reassures himself. He’d researched before, looked up blog posts teaching the proper way to do it. He’ll be alright. He’ll be better than alright.
Youngjae steps into the bathroom when half the boys have fallen asleep, locks, unlocks and relocks the door to make sure. He takes off his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them near the sink because he’s heard that the smell never washes off once it’s on.
He washes his hands, then kneels in front of the cistern, heart palpitating madly and palms cold and clammy.
He slides one finger in first, grimacing at the salty scrape of fingernails against the back of his throat, recounting the steps he’d read up carefully, before pushing the fingers deeper in. He waits, waits for the violent twisting sensation in his gut, the sickness that swells and erupts like a volcano from his stomach, before pulling them out and closing his eyes as all of it comes out.
Once isn’t enough- not according to the posts he’s read, so he does it again, and again, feeling half-digested bits of food, rough and uneven and chunky, come out, hitting the white porcelain and washing away. He can’t breathe, his throat burns and his insides feel like they’ve been mutilated, but the stabs of happiness and relief afterwards, knowing it’s all out, that it’ll never turn to the disgusting fat that’s hung on his body for too long, makes the pain pale in comparison.
Youngjae drags himself up after recovering, knowing he can’t take too long without Jaebum getting suspicious about why he isn’t in the room yet, wiping the cistern and seat down and flushing the toilet. Then he rinses out his mouth, showers, and he’s out again, breath shaking in his lungs but a smile on his face.
You’ve got the perfect solution now, don’t you?
He eats after that, every night during dinner, lulling the rest of them into what he hopes is a false sense of security, shrouding the pain and sickness in confidence and smiles.
Only Mark isn’t convinced.
“Air freshener?” Youngjae turns, quashing the fact that his heartbeat’s picking up in fear with an amiable smile, to look at the eldest member, holding the dispenser Youngjae’d bought and placed in the bathroom after that night, to ensure his tracks were well and fully covered.
“Yep!” Youngjae shrugs, as though there’s nothing to it. “Why? If we’re gonna be stuck here for whatever period of time, might as well make the place smell nice, right?”
Then he turns, laughing along with Jackson about how they need it, with seven of them in the dorm and all, ignoring the way Mark’s dark eyes travel slowly from the dispenser in his hand to Youngjae’s figure, meticulously piecing different parts of the puzzle together, till something clicks in the dark orbs that looks a lot like repressed horror, evident only in the slight furrow of his brow and the way the lights in his large eyes flicker out silently.
006. pen·i·tence: showing sorrow and regret for having done wrong
Youngjae falls one night and can’t get up.
It’s not like he’d been dancing, or even running, for that matter. He’d just been getting up from the couch, following the rest of them as they filed out, when his knees had given way and he’d stumbled, tumbling onto the ground, cursing as he fell.
He notes the lack of laughter that’d usually ricochet around the room when he falls- instead, the rest of them are turning, eyes wide and anxious at the sound of his body hitting the floor, when usually, such a thing would warrant nothing more than a derogatory remark from Jackson about having two left feet and Bambam’s hyena laughter.
Youngjae feels someone’s arms around him before he can gather himself- soft, gentle, the way he remembered them even before he’d started trying to get his weight down, and he looks up into Jinyoung’s concerned eyes, shuddering at the worry shining uninhibited from them.
“I’m fine, sorry,” he laughs, hoping it covers up for most of it, and someone- Yugyeom, maybe, laughs along uncertainly. “Just tripped over my own feet again, I guess.”
He gets up on his own, trying his best to ignore the gentle touch against his skin, offering to help him up, and that seems to kick start the group’s engine again, as they get off to a sluggish start to the company canteen.
Jinyoung stays by his side all the way to the canteen, smiling, making casual small talk about their new choreography and making Youngjae laugh at his impersonations of their replacement dance trainer. It’s weird, because he’d usually be with Mark or Jackson, laughing at jokes and adding his own snide remarks, if not with Jaebum, discussing things in soft undertones, and though Youngjae knows it’s with good intentions he can’t help but feel it grate on him a little.
What is this? Pity? Because he knows you’re so pathetic on your own that he has to do something to ease his conscience so he can sleep well tonight?
But it feels so nice.
Youngjae can’t remember the last time someone’s stayed by his side, the last time someone’s given him a smile and slid a hand around his shoulders out of friendship, and it feels good, it feels so good, and Youngjae’s never realised till now how starved he’s been for someone’s touch.
And Jinyoung’s always natural, always effervescent in the way that isn’t overbearing or desperate, like he’s radiating a sort of quiet joy that Youngjae can’t help but thirst for. It’s what attracts them all to him as the stand-in for their mothers who can’t be here for them right now, someone who cares enough to nag and picks up after them and swoops in like a dove to shelter them when they’re sliding down into a depression no one else has noticed yet.
And then, all too late, Youngjae realises what’s happening. He realises he’s missing them. Despite the pain and the anger and the bitterness that burns within him at them and himself, for the hypocrisy, for the superiority, he misses them.
It’s stupid and ridiculous and it hurts because even after all these months, he’s still waiting like an idiotic child for their approval, still craving for their smiles and affection and friendship, though they’ve done nothing but prove over and over again that it’s something they just can’t give him.
And who can blame them? With something as repulsive and ugly as you around, I’m surprised they don’t beat you up and leave you to die.
Why would someone as perfect and warm as Jinyoung want to be around someone like you? Don’t you think he’d be much better off taking care of someone else, someone who’s actually deserving of his affection?
Not someone like you- so ungrateful and lazy and so unbelievably ugly it’s a wonder you’re even here.
So Youngjae listens, so he carefully drifts from Jinyoung’s protective wing as soon as they enter the cafeteria, squeezing himself between the wall and Yugyeom, refusing to turn around for a second glance at the momentary confusion and hurt that flashes through the other boy’s eyes when he leaves.
One day, Youngjae promises, when he’s better at dancing, when he’s better looking, when he’s sure he’ll charm every heart out there, he’ll come back, he’ll come back when he deserves Jinyoung’s affection, when it isn’t something temporary and transient and given out merely to some broken child in need.
So why does he feel so badly like he needs to apologise?
007. guilt: culpability, self-condemnation; iniquity
Youngjae’s almost there. Almost. Promotion’s just over, and he’ll have all the time away from public eye to lose all the weight he needs to, to push his voice to its limit, to spend all the hours he needs slaving away on his dancing skills so when he comes back, the fans will have to notice him.
The new, improved Youngjae, who’s able to slide on charismatic glances better than Jackson and sing better than Jaebum ever could. Who’s thinner and cuter than Bambam and as mysterious and charming as Mark. Who’s more dynamic than Jinyoung and a better dancer than Yugyeom.
The thought still hangs, as tantalising and sweet and almost ethereal as it’d been the first night, but there’s something different about it. Something colder and sharper and emptier than he remembers, that tinges his dream with bitterness and regret.
It’s just because you’re closer to it than you’ve ever been before. Why? Chickening out now? Where to? No one loves you back where you came from, remember?
So Youngjae steels himself and braves on, despite the little red flags that spring up cheerfully in his day-to-day life. He ignores the way his knees tremble after short periods of practice, which prompt Jaebum to stop for breaks more than they used to, ignores the sickness in his stomach every time after he eats that make him wonder if he can keep the food down until he at least reaches the bathroom, ignores the way cold prickles on his skin more than usual, the way bruises blossom easily on his skin even if he’s just lightly bumped the area against another surface.
He stares at himself in the mirror, carefully monitors the shadows in his cheeks, runs his fingers along his ribs and feels stabs of relief at the uneven ridges of bone that protrude under the flesh, comforting and real and the only thing he can fall back on to assure himself he’s worth it, that he deserves to be here with the six of them, even if they are more talented and better looking and work harder than he does.
That’s what he tells himself when he senses Jaebum approaching him that evening as they’re packing to leave for practice. The others file out silently, but Jaebum stops Youngjae with an imposing hand on his shoulder before he can follow. The younger boy blinks when he realises Jaebum had probably already told them before this to leave them for the night, to leave the two of them to talk.
He wonders what else they’ve been talking about behind his back.
Jaebum waits till they’re all gone, till the door is closed, before he folds his arms across his broad chest, staring down at Youngjae, who tries his best to look as politely confused as possible.
“What’s up with you?” Jaebum’s voice is low, and Youngjae knows that the leader is giving him a chance to explain himself. He doesn’t take it, doesn’t go down that road, because it’d mean losing everything he’s worked so hard for till today, so he smiles and cocks his head, a questioning look on his face.
“What do you mean, hyung?” he asks. He’s been playing this game for the past few months now, and it’d be a shame if he hadn’t learned some tricks along the way. “If you’re asking about the dancing, I’m sorry, I guess I’ve just been under the weather for these past few days.”
“Weeks,” Jaebum corrects sternly, and Youngjae winces. So they’d noticed. “You’ve been acting funny for weeks, you’ve been losing weight and it’s been affecting your dancing and the group dynamic. So now I’m asking you to tell me what’s wrong, and we’ll work this out together, okay?”
Youngjae wonders if Jaebum knows what he’s saying, as if everything wrong with Youngjae could just be worked out together, as if he hasn’t been trying to work everything out together with them before this, till he realised they weren’t ever going to be there for him. He struggles to suppress the urge to snap at Jaebum, instead pulling the most docile expression he can manage, to lower Jaebum’s suspicion.
Jaebum, who’s their fearless leader, the perfect idol with the perfect background of a shadowy, tragic past and a twisted temper he’s had to struggle through to get to where he is today, whom Youngjae’s been nothing but a burden on ever since he’d come here. Of course he wouldn’t possibly know how it feels to want to kill yourself because of everything everyone’s been forced to do for you, because he’s the one who’s been doing everything for them.
“You shouldn’t worry too much, hyung,” Youngjae tries to swing the topic away, pushing it to Jaebum. “You’re always picking up on small things about us, when you should be taking care of yourself.”
“This isn’t something small,” Jaebum refuses to be sidetracked, the look in his eyes unwavering. “Youngjae, I understand you might be facing some personal issues right now, but you have to realise that whatever you do doesn’t only affect you, it affects everyone around you. We’re all feeling the repercussions of whatever you’re going through. So just-…” he exhales here, grimacing slightly. “Just tell us what’s wrong, okay? That’s what we’re here for, we’re here to help each other.”
Liar. Where was he when Jackson was laughing at you? Where were all of them when you were getting humiliated on national television?
That’s right. They were laughing at you, too.
So Youngjae shrugs with a careless smile. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, hyung. If you’re thinking of having a serious talk with someone, it should be Bambam, just yesterday he was-…”
“Youngjae, this is serious!” Jaebum’s voice crackles like thunder, taking a step forward, and Youngjae loses it.
“AND I’M TELLING YOU, I’M FINE!” Youngjae snarls, shoving Jaebum back, and though he barely manages to move the leader an inch, the shock reflected in his eyes is equivalent to that if Youngjae had slapped him or attacked him with a weapon.
All too late, Youngjae realises what he’s done, and tries to steady his breathing, pulling the smile back on. “I’m fine hyung. I’m better than ever, right?”
Then he sidesteps Jaebum, walking towards the door, increasing his pace when he hears movement behind him, and to his surprise, he gets all the way to the company canteen, still with that pained smile on his face.
Jinyoung looks surprised to see him alone, and asks where Jaebum is, to which Youngjae shrugs.
Youngjae tells himself he doesn’t care, that he couldn’t care less where any of them were, what they’re doing, because it’s obvious they would never do the same for him, and he almost believes himself this time.
Maybe it’s the reason why he feels sicker that night than usual.
His stomach feels like jelly, fluid and shaky and knotting uncomfortably, and a sweat’s breaking out on his forehead though his skin feels like ice. He huddles into his sweater on the couch, so he can avoid being in the room alone with Jaebum, tugging the excess fabric that hangs off his frame like a curtain around his limbs. There’s an eerie silence that seems to cling in the air that night- the six of them are quieter, all but tiptoeing around the dorm, voices hushed and movements wary, as though frightened of something, someone, that Youngjae can’t see.
It becomes apparent, though, after a while, even to Youngjae. Jaebum had been the safety net, both the first and final line of defence for the rest of them, and from what the rest of them had seen today, he’d failed.
He’d failed to get Youngjae back on track.
And so something had snapped, had shattered into irretrievable pieces across the floor, between Youngjae and the rest of them, because if Jaebum failed then none of them could succeed. The thought gives Youngjae a surge of ecstasy, that he’d won, he’d beaten them all at their own game and would finally be able to stand amongst them with his head held high, but at the same time it sucks him into a frigid emptiness, an isolation that freezes him over, and the sickness in his gut increases tenfold.
His stomach is already twisting violently by the time Yugyeom gets out of the bathroom, and he stumbles in, a hand pressed to his mouth, the other hand fumbling with the lock. He doesn’t even have the time to take off his clothes before he’s bent over the toilet bowl, loosing the contents of his guts onto the ceramic white surface.
It hurts more this time- it hurts so much Youngjae almost doesn’t notice the soft knock against the bathroom door, the awkward shuffling of feet outside. Immediately, bolts of fear zip down his spine like lightning, and he lifts a hand up blindly to pull at the tap so the sound of rushing water covers for him a little, at least.
“Jae?” It’s Jaebum, his voice quiet and solemn, and even though it’s muffled by the door, every word sinks like iron weights into Youngjae’s soul. “Youngjae, I know you’re probably going to avoid me the moment you get out, so I’m just going to talk to you through the door, okay?”
Another wave of nausea, and Youngjae’s throwing up again, knuckles white against the toilet seat, and it hurts, it hurts so much. The burn in his throat feels worse than usual, like thousands of serrated knives disfiguring the soft tissue, acid searing the already abused skin. His arms are shaking when he looks up at the white cistern, and something that feels a lot like fear starts to bloom within him.
This isn’t what I wanted.
“I just wanted to say I was sorry for today,” there’s no mistaking the gruff sorrow in the leader’s voice, and Youngjae almost chokes up at the sound of it. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. It’s just-…we’re all so worried about you, you know that?”
Youngjae coughs over a chunk of what feels like rice, or it could be meat or vegetable, he doesn’t know, it all feels the same when it comes back out. This spurs another wave, and when he rises for another breath again, tears are running down his face, mucus smeared across his nose and cheeks.
It almost sounds true when he says it like that.
“You’ve no idea how hurt the rest of them have been these past few months, Jae,” Jaebum’s voice almost shakes over those few syllables. “You know Yugyeom cries into his pillow worrying about you? And Kunpimook hasn’t laughed properly once this entire week. Jackson goes quiet whenever we talk about you, and Mark can’t sleep thinking about what might happen to us. Jinyoung’s killing himself over not being able to do anything for you.”
Something warm, something real and tangible and piercing, grips Youngjae’s very soul then, and he lets out a wretched sob. The jolt forces him over the bowl again, till he’s dry-heaving, acid sour and stinging against his tongue. Something else joins the acid- something metallic and hot and before long, the white surface is splattered with red.
And all of a sudden Youngjae’s staring now, white spots blossoming in his vision, head light and limbs like dead weight, at the blood dripping from the seat, onto the floor, registering the slick trail that’s ebbing down his jaw.
“Jae?”
Youngjae lets out a whimper, one hand struggling up to knock the tap handle down, so the water’s shut off. He hears the suspicion starting to rise in Jaebum’s voice, and can almost visualise the leader tensing up, straightening, leaning in against the door.
This isn’t what I wanted.
“Youngjae? Are you okay? What’s happening in there? Talk to me, Jae.”
Youngjae picks up faintly on the worry that’s steepening in the leader’s voice, inhaling to try and steady his thoughts, to work up a response, but all it does is make him choke on the red fluid, till he’s coughing again, more violently this time, bright, red blood spraying onto the floor and cistern like some sort of gruesome painting.
“Jae? Jae! Shit! Open up, Youngjae!”
The sound of the door handle jiggling, the pounding of fists against the door, the urgent approach of a variety of other footsteps, go unnoticed, because Youngjae’s trying to regain his breath, trying to still the trembling in his hands and legs.
“Jackson! Jackson, help me get the door open!”
There’s a slam against the door that sends yet another dizzying whirlwind of pain into the maelstrom of emotions raging within Youngjae’s mind, and he realises slowly that they’re trying to break the door open. Another slam, and Youngjae’s already tipping to one side, forced to reach out with one hand to steady himself. Another spurt of blood decorates the floor, leaving stains in his clothes he knows will never wash out.
Finally, there’s a loud burst of sound, like a muffler’s just been torn off a speaker, a mixture of yells and cries that all blur into one, and Youngjae turns slightly, blinking at the shapes and bodies all moving too fast for him to see.
Someone grabs him, sobbing into his ear, and though he’s never heard the other boy cry like this before, the softness of his embrace is telling enough, and Jinyoung’s face slowly slides into focus, along with the blood that’s staining his pyjama shirt from where he’d pressed himself against Youngjae. Jackson’s shouting on the other side, swearing in English and Cantonese like he’s never heard before, and one look at the wildness in his eyes, the way he’s tugging at his hair, crying out why, why did you do this? is enough to make Youngjae sob shakily, cueing another splash of blood onto Jinyoung’s clothes.
He looks up, and even from where he is, he can see Jaebum shouting down the phone, maybe at Manager, maybe for an ambulance, pacing furiously within the tiny space, and Mark’s at the doorway, keeping the two younger ones out, though his own eyes are filled with a dark loss and grief that tears at Youngjae’s already mutilated heart. He can hear Kunpimook shouting out his name from outside, can hear Yugyeom crying, and he’s never felt more like a monster than he does now.
You asked for this, Choi Youngjae. And you got it.
000. com·mit·ment: a pledge or vow; obligation
Youngjae remembers something that sounds vaguely like a promise.
A promise made between seven boys to be there for each other through thick and thin, to plaster up each other’s wounds and take the bullet for another if needed.
He paints that promise like a banner in his head, even if he tells himself over and over again that he’s a fool for still believing.
Do you need them to call you ugly before you reali-…
“I can’t believe you’re finally home for real,” Kunpimook sighs, upside down and sliding his feet up on the sofa beside where Youngjae’s seated, whining when Jackson bats them down as he walks past, making Youngjae laugh. “Rehab’s a pain in the neck,” he continues gravely, as though he’s been through it before, and Jackson rolls his eyes.
It’s not like any of them care, and neither does-…
“We’ve been saving up like loads of stuff to do for when you get back!” Yugyeom bounces excitedly on the adjacent seat, almost falling off when Kunpimook “accidentally” swings his legs into him as he gets up. He’s saved by Mark, who slides easily onto a bean bag, reaching for the remote to turn down the volume of whatever’s playing on television.
You think it’s going to be enough-…
“Yeah, these kids wouldn’t shut up about baking cookies and playing games,” Jackson retorts, and Kunpimook sticks his tongue out at him, still upside down on the couch. “I’m glad you’re finally back for good so I won’t have to stand another day of should we do sugar paste or marzipan-…”
Not like you. Not disgusting or lazy or-…
“Not like you kept quiet either, Jackson,” Mark says in the usual steady, calm tone he always uses, a sly grin on his face, and Jackson is making a big show of wanting to go over and mess Mark up when Jinyoung shows up out of the blue, rolling his eyes and grabbing Jackson’s collar and pushing him back down on the sofa, before smiling sweetly at Youngjae, soft hands, just as Youngjae remembers them, reaching over to gently caress his hair, mischievously pinching his cheeks.
Because he knows you’re so pathetic on your own that he has to do something to-…
“All of them were making a big fuss over you coming home,” Jinyoung shoots a look in Mark’s direction, and Mark has the decency to look sheepish, before he turns to look back at Youngjae. “We’re just glad you’re better now, and Manager’s even talking about resuming activities in the next week, or something. Only if you’re up to it, though,” Jinyoung adds quickly, worry returning to his eyes, and Youngjae beams to show his agreement.
“So,” and Youngjae turns, fear springing up in the pit of his stomach at the dry tone, and finally, Jaebum’s emerging from their room, the lines around his eyes a little more pronounced than Youngjae remembers, and he waits, heart pounding in apprehension.
Nothing but a burden ever since you’d come he-…
“Welcome home, kiddo,” Jaebum stands beside Jinyoung now, clapping a hand on Youngjae’s back, eyes tired but still crinkling into the dark crescents that appear whenever he’s truly happy. “You here to stay?”
Then Youngjae’s breath catches in his chest, as he waits for it, waits for a voice which will tell him otherwise, tell him they hate him and to hate himself to fix it, but there’s nothing but a blessed silence in his head. So he smiles, really smiles, feeling the warmth that’d budded ever since he’d come back here start to flower.
“Yeah,” he nods, and six smiles break out simultaneously, eager and hopeful and just a little hesitant, and Youngjae knows then, knows that he’s come home.
“I think I will.”
rating: pg-13
warning: allusions to eating disorders, self harm
summary: because the only ones who can hurt your heart are those already close to it, right?
part I
005. in·ad·e·quate: inapt, incompetent; incommensurate; defective, imperfect, incomplete
Youngjae hates it when people talk about him behind his back.
Mark sits across him during dinner that night, watching him carefully, wearing that mysterious, pensive smile that makes all the fangirls burst into excited, blushing giggles during fansigns and performances. Jackson must’ve tipped him off or something because he’s monitoring Youngjae’s plate like a hawk, quiet and observant and slipping in choice words here and there about how it seems like Youngjae hasn’t actually eaten a single thing since the meal began.
Mark, their flying member, who’d come from California with nothing and still managed to rise to become one of the most popular, most talented members of their group. Mark, with his gorgeous skin and beautiful eyes and inexplicable ability to make fans swoon just by existing.
Why do you think he became so popular, Youngjae? He works hard on his tricking. He kills himself practicing rap. He practices those faces in the mirror.
Not like you. Not disgusting or lazy or ugly. You only know how to eat and laze and you still think your singing will ever be able to match up to talent like his?
Jaebum’s on the other end of the table and Mark’s refusing everything Youngjae tries to give him, and Youngjae’s beginning to panic because everyone else is finishing their plates off and it’ll be too obvious if his own bowl is full.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
It’s so like Mark to be so direct, so completely unaware of how his quiet words are slicing clean through Youngjae’s heart, because of course someone as perfect as Mark wouldn’t understand, of course someone as loved and talented and strong and steady as Mark
would ask you WHY you aren’t eating, because he doesn’t need to try to have everyone need and love him.
Youngjae can feel the discreet burn of five other pairs of eyes on the two of them, despite the fact that conversation is carrying on as per normal, and forces a smile, before raising a shaky spoon of rice to his lips.
Mark doesn’t let up on his stare.
So he eats another. And another. And another. Till almost half the plate is finished. And he’s staring at the sight of a half empty plate, feeling the weight of meat and rice in his stomach like lead, as the rest get up from their seats, joking and laughing and oblivious.
By the time he gets back to the dorm that night, Youngjae feels absolutely disgusting.
There’d been rice. Carbohydrates. Meat. So much fat, glistening over the clammy surfaces of the slices. Vegetables practically swimming in pools of oily gravy.
And Youngjae had eaten it all.
He sinks into his own depressed thoughts, unaware of how the atmosphere feels lighter, relieved, almost, emanating from the six other boys in the dorm. By the time almost everyone’s done showering and getting ready for bed, he’s come to a shaky resolution.
It’s not messy and uncontrolled at all, contrary to popular opinion, in fact, it’s structured, methodical, tried and tested, Youngjae reassures himself. He’d researched before, looked up blog posts teaching the proper way to do it. He’ll be alright. He’ll be better than alright.
Youngjae steps into the bathroom when half the boys have fallen asleep, locks, unlocks and relocks the door to make sure. He takes off his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them near the sink because he’s heard that the smell never washes off once it’s on.
He washes his hands, then kneels in front of the cistern, heart palpitating madly and palms cold and clammy.
He slides one finger in first, grimacing at the salty scrape of fingernails against the back of his throat, recounting the steps he’d read up carefully, before pushing the fingers deeper in. He waits, waits for the violent twisting sensation in his gut, the sickness that swells and erupts like a volcano from his stomach, before pulling them out and closing his eyes as all of it comes out.
Once isn’t enough- not according to the posts he’s read, so he does it again, and again, feeling half-digested bits of food, rough and uneven and chunky, come out, hitting the white porcelain and washing away. He can’t breathe, his throat burns and his insides feel like they’ve been mutilated, but the stabs of happiness and relief afterwards, knowing it’s all out, that it’ll never turn to the disgusting fat that’s hung on his body for too long, makes the pain pale in comparison.
Youngjae drags himself up after recovering, knowing he can’t take too long without Jaebum getting suspicious about why he isn’t in the room yet, wiping the cistern and seat down and flushing the toilet. Then he rinses out his mouth, showers, and he’s out again, breath shaking in his lungs but a smile on his face.
You’ve got the perfect solution now, don’t you?
He eats after that, every night during dinner, lulling the rest of them into what he hopes is a false sense of security, shrouding the pain and sickness in confidence and smiles.
Only Mark isn’t convinced.
“Air freshener?” Youngjae turns, quashing the fact that his heartbeat’s picking up in fear with an amiable smile, to look at the eldest member, holding the dispenser Youngjae’d bought and placed in the bathroom after that night, to ensure his tracks were well and fully covered.
“Yep!” Youngjae shrugs, as though there’s nothing to it. “Why? If we’re gonna be stuck here for whatever period of time, might as well make the place smell nice, right?”
Then he turns, laughing along with Jackson about how they need it, with seven of them in the dorm and all, ignoring the way Mark’s dark eyes travel slowly from the dispenser in his hand to Youngjae’s figure, meticulously piecing different parts of the puzzle together, till something clicks in the dark orbs that looks a lot like repressed horror, evident only in the slight furrow of his brow and the way the lights in his large eyes flicker out silently.
006. pen·i·tence: showing sorrow and regret for having done wrong
Youngjae falls one night and can’t get up.
It’s not like he’d been dancing, or even running, for that matter. He’d just been getting up from the couch, following the rest of them as they filed out, when his knees had given way and he’d stumbled, tumbling onto the ground, cursing as he fell.
He notes the lack of laughter that’d usually ricochet around the room when he falls- instead, the rest of them are turning, eyes wide and anxious at the sound of his body hitting the floor, when usually, such a thing would warrant nothing more than a derogatory remark from Jackson about having two left feet and Bambam’s hyena laughter.
Youngjae feels someone’s arms around him before he can gather himself- soft, gentle, the way he remembered them even before he’d started trying to get his weight down, and he looks up into Jinyoung’s concerned eyes, shuddering at the worry shining uninhibited from them.
“I’m fine, sorry,” he laughs, hoping it covers up for most of it, and someone- Yugyeom, maybe, laughs along uncertainly. “Just tripped over my own feet again, I guess.”
He gets up on his own, trying his best to ignore the gentle touch against his skin, offering to help him up, and that seems to kick start the group’s engine again, as they get off to a sluggish start to the company canteen.
Jinyoung stays by his side all the way to the canteen, smiling, making casual small talk about their new choreography and making Youngjae laugh at his impersonations of their replacement dance trainer. It’s weird, because he’d usually be with Mark or Jackson, laughing at jokes and adding his own snide remarks, if not with Jaebum, discussing things in soft undertones, and though Youngjae knows it’s with good intentions he can’t help but feel it grate on him a little.
What is this? Pity? Because he knows you’re so pathetic on your own that he has to do something to ease his conscience so he can sleep well tonight?
But it feels so nice.
Youngjae can’t remember the last time someone’s stayed by his side, the last time someone’s given him a smile and slid a hand around his shoulders out of friendship, and it feels good, it feels so good, and Youngjae’s never realised till now how starved he’s been for someone’s touch.
And Jinyoung’s always natural, always effervescent in the way that isn’t overbearing or desperate, like he’s radiating a sort of quiet joy that Youngjae can’t help but thirst for. It’s what attracts them all to him as the stand-in for their mothers who can’t be here for them right now, someone who cares enough to nag and picks up after them and swoops in like a dove to shelter them when they’re sliding down into a depression no one else has noticed yet.
And then, all too late, Youngjae realises what’s happening. He realises he’s missing them. Despite the pain and the anger and the bitterness that burns within him at them and himself, for the hypocrisy, for the superiority, he misses them.
It’s stupid and ridiculous and it hurts because even after all these months, he’s still waiting like an idiotic child for their approval, still craving for their smiles and affection and friendship, though they’ve done nothing but prove over and over again that it’s something they just can’t give him.
And who can blame them? With something as repulsive and ugly as you around, I’m surprised they don’t beat you up and leave you to die.
Why would someone as perfect and warm as Jinyoung want to be around someone like you? Don’t you think he’d be much better off taking care of someone else, someone who’s actually deserving of his affection?
Not someone like you- so ungrateful and lazy and so unbelievably ugly it’s a wonder you’re even here.
So Youngjae listens, so he carefully drifts from Jinyoung’s protective wing as soon as they enter the cafeteria, squeezing himself between the wall and Yugyeom, refusing to turn around for a second glance at the momentary confusion and hurt that flashes through the other boy’s eyes when he leaves.
One day, Youngjae promises, when he’s better at dancing, when he’s better looking, when he’s sure he’ll charm every heart out there, he’ll come back, he’ll come back when he deserves Jinyoung’s affection, when it isn’t something temporary and transient and given out merely to some broken child in need.
So why does he feel so badly like he needs to apologise?
007. guilt: culpability, self-condemnation; iniquity
Youngjae’s almost there. Almost. Promotion’s just over, and he’ll have all the time away from public eye to lose all the weight he needs to, to push his voice to its limit, to spend all the hours he needs slaving away on his dancing skills so when he comes back, the fans will have to notice him.
The new, improved Youngjae, who’s able to slide on charismatic glances better than Jackson and sing better than Jaebum ever could. Who’s thinner and cuter than Bambam and as mysterious and charming as Mark. Who’s more dynamic than Jinyoung and a better dancer than Yugyeom.
The thought still hangs, as tantalising and sweet and almost ethereal as it’d been the first night, but there’s something different about it. Something colder and sharper and emptier than he remembers, that tinges his dream with bitterness and regret.
It’s just because you’re closer to it than you’ve ever been before. Why? Chickening out now? Where to? No one loves you back where you came from, remember?
So Youngjae steels himself and braves on, despite the little red flags that spring up cheerfully in his day-to-day life. He ignores the way his knees tremble after short periods of practice, which prompt Jaebum to stop for breaks more than they used to, ignores the sickness in his stomach every time after he eats that make him wonder if he can keep the food down until he at least reaches the bathroom, ignores the way cold prickles on his skin more than usual, the way bruises blossom easily on his skin even if he’s just lightly bumped the area against another surface.
He stares at himself in the mirror, carefully monitors the shadows in his cheeks, runs his fingers along his ribs and feels stabs of relief at the uneven ridges of bone that protrude under the flesh, comforting and real and the only thing he can fall back on to assure himself he’s worth it, that he deserves to be here with the six of them, even if they are more talented and better looking and work harder than he does.
That’s what he tells himself when he senses Jaebum approaching him that evening as they’re packing to leave for practice. The others file out silently, but Jaebum stops Youngjae with an imposing hand on his shoulder before he can follow. The younger boy blinks when he realises Jaebum had probably already told them before this to leave them for the night, to leave the two of them to talk.
He wonders what else they’ve been talking about behind his back.
Jaebum waits till they’re all gone, till the door is closed, before he folds his arms across his broad chest, staring down at Youngjae, who tries his best to look as politely confused as possible.
“What’s up with you?” Jaebum’s voice is low, and Youngjae knows that the leader is giving him a chance to explain himself. He doesn’t take it, doesn’t go down that road, because it’d mean losing everything he’s worked so hard for till today, so he smiles and cocks his head, a questioning look on his face.
“What do you mean, hyung?” he asks. He’s been playing this game for the past few months now, and it’d be a shame if he hadn’t learned some tricks along the way. “If you’re asking about the dancing, I’m sorry, I guess I’ve just been under the weather for these past few days.”
“Weeks,” Jaebum corrects sternly, and Youngjae winces. So they’d noticed. “You’ve been acting funny for weeks, you’ve been losing weight and it’s been affecting your dancing and the group dynamic. So now I’m asking you to tell me what’s wrong, and we’ll work this out together, okay?”
Youngjae wonders if Jaebum knows what he’s saying, as if everything wrong with Youngjae could just be worked out together, as if he hasn’t been trying to work everything out together with them before this, till he realised they weren’t ever going to be there for him. He struggles to suppress the urge to snap at Jaebum, instead pulling the most docile expression he can manage, to lower Jaebum’s suspicion.
Jaebum, who’s their fearless leader, the perfect idol with the perfect background of a shadowy, tragic past and a twisted temper he’s had to struggle through to get to where he is today, whom Youngjae’s been nothing but a burden on ever since he’d come here. Of course he wouldn’t possibly know how it feels to want to kill yourself because of everything everyone’s been forced to do for you, because he’s the one who’s been doing everything for them.
“You shouldn’t worry too much, hyung,” Youngjae tries to swing the topic away, pushing it to Jaebum. “You’re always picking up on small things about us, when you should be taking care of yourself.”
“This isn’t something small,” Jaebum refuses to be sidetracked, the look in his eyes unwavering. “Youngjae, I understand you might be facing some personal issues right now, but you have to realise that whatever you do doesn’t only affect you, it affects everyone around you. We’re all feeling the repercussions of whatever you’re going through. So just-…” he exhales here, grimacing slightly. “Just tell us what’s wrong, okay? That’s what we’re here for, we’re here to help each other.”
Liar. Where was he when Jackson was laughing at you? Where were all of them when you were getting humiliated on national television?
That’s right. They were laughing at you, too.
So Youngjae shrugs with a careless smile. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, hyung. If you’re thinking of having a serious talk with someone, it should be Bambam, just yesterday he was-…”
“Youngjae, this is serious!” Jaebum’s voice crackles like thunder, taking a step forward, and Youngjae loses it.
“AND I’M TELLING YOU, I’M FINE!” Youngjae snarls, shoving Jaebum back, and though he barely manages to move the leader an inch, the shock reflected in his eyes is equivalent to that if Youngjae had slapped him or attacked him with a weapon.
All too late, Youngjae realises what he’s done, and tries to steady his breathing, pulling the smile back on. “I’m fine hyung. I’m better than ever, right?”
Then he sidesteps Jaebum, walking towards the door, increasing his pace when he hears movement behind him, and to his surprise, he gets all the way to the company canteen, still with that pained smile on his face.
Jinyoung looks surprised to see him alone, and asks where Jaebum is, to which Youngjae shrugs.
Youngjae tells himself he doesn’t care, that he couldn’t care less where any of them were, what they’re doing, because it’s obvious they would never do the same for him, and he almost believes himself this time.
Maybe it’s the reason why he feels sicker that night than usual.
His stomach feels like jelly, fluid and shaky and knotting uncomfortably, and a sweat’s breaking out on his forehead though his skin feels like ice. He huddles into his sweater on the couch, so he can avoid being in the room alone with Jaebum, tugging the excess fabric that hangs off his frame like a curtain around his limbs. There’s an eerie silence that seems to cling in the air that night- the six of them are quieter, all but tiptoeing around the dorm, voices hushed and movements wary, as though frightened of something, someone, that Youngjae can’t see.
It becomes apparent, though, after a while, even to Youngjae. Jaebum had been the safety net, both the first and final line of defence for the rest of them, and from what the rest of them had seen today, he’d failed.
He’d failed to get Youngjae back on track.
And so something had snapped, had shattered into irretrievable pieces across the floor, between Youngjae and the rest of them, because if Jaebum failed then none of them could succeed. The thought gives Youngjae a surge of ecstasy, that he’d won, he’d beaten them all at their own game and would finally be able to stand amongst them with his head held high, but at the same time it sucks him into a frigid emptiness, an isolation that freezes him over, and the sickness in his gut increases tenfold.
His stomach is already twisting violently by the time Yugyeom gets out of the bathroom, and he stumbles in, a hand pressed to his mouth, the other hand fumbling with the lock. He doesn’t even have the time to take off his clothes before he’s bent over the toilet bowl, loosing the contents of his guts onto the ceramic white surface.
It hurts more this time- it hurts so much Youngjae almost doesn’t notice the soft knock against the bathroom door, the awkward shuffling of feet outside. Immediately, bolts of fear zip down his spine like lightning, and he lifts a hand up blindly to pull at the tap so the sound of rushing water covers for him a little, at least.
“Jae?” It’s Jaebum, his voice quiet and solemn, and even though it’s muffled by the door, every word sinks like iron weights into Youngjae’s soul. “Youngjae, I know you’re probably going to avoid me the moment you get out, so I’m just going to talk to you through the door, okay?”
Another wave of nausea, and Youngjae’s throwing up again, knuckles white against the toilet seat, and it hurts, it hurts so much. The burn in his throat feels worse than usual, like thousands of serrated knives disfiguring the soft tissue, acid searing the already abused skin. His arms are shaking when he looks up at the white cistern, and something that feels a lot like fear starts to bloom within him.
This isn’t what I wanted.
“I just wanted to say I was sorry for today,” there’s no mistaking the gruff sorrow in the leader’s voice, and Youngjae almost chokes up at the sound of it. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. It’s just-…we’re all so worried about you, you know that?”
Youngjae coughs over a chunk of what feels like rice, or it could be meat or vegetable, he doesn’t know, it all feels the same when it comes back out. This spurs another wave, and when he rises for another breath again, tears are running down his face, mucus smeared across his nose and cheeks.
It almost sounds true when he says it like that.
“You’ve no idea how hurt the rest of them have been these past few months, Jae,” Jaebum’s voice almost shakes over those few syllables. “You know Yugyeom cries into his pillow worrying about you? And Kunpimook hasn’t laughed properly once this entire week. Jackson goes quiet whenever we talk about you, and Mark can’t sleep thinking about what might happen to us. Jinyoung’s killing himself over not being able to do anything for you.”
Something warm, something real and tangible and piercing, grips Youngjae’s very soul then, and he lets out a wretched sob. The jolt forces him over the bowl again, till he’s dry-heaving, acid sour and stinging against his tongue. Something else joins the acid- something metallic and hot and before long, the white surface is splattered with red.
And all of a sudden Youngjae’s staring now, white spots blossoming in his vision, head light and limbs like dead weight, at the blood dripping from the seat, onto the floor, registering the slick trail that’s ebbing down his jaw.
“Jae?”
Youngjae lets out a whimper, one hand struggling up to knock the tap handle down, so the water’s shut off. He hears the suspicion starting to rise in Jaebum’s voice, and can almost visualise the leader tensing up, straightening, leaning in against the door.
This isn’t what I wanted.
“Youngjae? Are you okay? What’s happening in there? Talk to me, Jae.”
Youngjae picks up faintly on the worry that’s steepening in the leader’s voice, inhaling to try and steady his thoughts, to work up a response, but all it does is make him choke on the red fluid, till he’s coughing again, more violently this time, bright, red blood spraying onto the floor and cistern like some sort of gruesome painting.
“Jae? Jae! Shit! Open up, Youngjae!”
The sound of the door handle jiggling, the pounding of fists against the door, the urgent approach of a variety of other footsteps, go unnoticed, because Youngjae’s trying to regain his breath, trying to still the trembling in his hands and legs.
“Jackson! Jackson, help me get the door open!”
There’s a slam against the door that sends yet another dizzying whirlwind of pain into the maelstrom of emotions raging within Youngjae’s mind, and he realises slowly that they’re trying to break the door open. Another slam, and Youngjae’s already tipping to one side, forced to reach out with one hand to steady himself. Another spurt of blood decorates the floor, leaving stains in his clothes he knows will never wash out.
Finally, there’s a loud burst of sound, like a muffler’s just been torn off a speaker, a mixture of yells and cries that all blur into one, and Youngjae turns slightly, blinking at the shapes and bodies all moving too fast for him to see.
Someone grabs him, sobbing into his ear, and though he’s never heard the other boy cry like this before, the softness of his embrace is telling enough, and Jinyoung’s face slowly slides into focus, along with the blood that’s staining his pyjama shirt from where he’d pressed himself against Youngjae. Jackson’s shouting on the other side, swearing in English and Cantonese like he’s never heard before, and one look at the wildness in his eyes, the way he’s tugging at his hair, crying out why, why did you do this? is enough to make Youngjae sob shakily, cueing another splash of blood onto Jinyoung’s clothes.
He looks up, and even from where he is, he can see Jaebum shouting down the phone, maybe at Manager, maybe for an ambulance, pacing furiously within the tiny space, and Mark’s at the doorway, keeping the two younger ones out, though his own eyes are filled with a dark loss and grief that tears at Youngjae’s already mutilated heart. He can hear Kunpimook shouting out his name from outside, can hear Yugyeom crying, and he’s never felt more like a monster than he does now.
You asked for this, Choi Youngjae. And you got it.
000. com·mit·ment: a pledge or vow; obligation
Youngjae remembers something that sounds vaguely like a promise.
A promise made between seven boys to be there for each other through thick and thin, to plaster up each other’s wounds and take the bullet for another if needed.
He paints that promise like a banner in his head, even if he tells himself over and over again that he’s a fool for still believing.
Do you need them to call you ugly before you reali-…
“I can’t believe you’re finally home for real,” Kunpimook sighs, upside down and sliding his feet up on the sofa beside where Youngjae’s seated, whining when Jackson bats them down as he walks past, making Youngjae laugh. “Rehab’s a pain in the neck,” he continues gravely, as though he’s been through it before, and Jackson rolls his eyes.
It’s not like any of them care, and neither does-…
“We’ve been saving up like loads of stuff to do for when you get back!” Yugyeom bounces excitedly on the adjacent seat, almost falling off when Kunpimook “accidentally” swings his legs into him as he gets up. He’s saved by Mark, who slides easily onto a bean bag, reaching for the remote to turn down the volume of whatever’s playing on television.
You think it’s going to be enough-…
“Yeah, these kids wouldn’t shut up about baking cookies and playing games,” Jackson retorts, and Kunpimook sticks his tongue out at him, still upside down on the couch. “I’m glad you’re finally back for good so I won’t have to stand another day of should we do sugar paste or marzipan-…”
Not like you. Not disgusting or lazy or-…
“Not like you kept quiet either, Jackson,” Mark says in the usual steady, calm tone he always uses, a sly grin on his face, and Jackson is making a big show of wanting to go over and mess Mark up when Jinyoung shows up out of the blue, rolling his eyes and grabbing Jackson’s collar and pushing him back down on the sofa, before smiling sweetly at Youngjae, soft hands, just as Youngjae remembers them, reaching over to gently caress his hair, mischievously pinching his cheeks.
Because he knows you’re so pathetic on your own that he has to do something to-…
“All of them were making a big fuss over you coming home,” Jinyoung shoots a look in Mark’s direction, and Mark has the decency to look sheepish, before he turns to look back at Youngjae. “We’re just glad you’re better now, and Manager’s even talking about resuming activities in the next week, or something. Only if you’re up to it, though,” Jinyoung adds quickly, worry returning to his eyes, and Youngjae beams to show his agreement.
“So,” and Youngjae turns, fear springing up in the pit of his stomach at the dry tone, and finally, Jaebum’s emerging from their room, the lines around his eyes a little more pronounced than Youngjae remembers, and he waits, heart pounding in apprehension.
Nothing but a burden ever since you’d come he-…
“Welcome home, kiddo,” Jaebum stands beside Jinyoung now, clapping a hand on Youngjae’s back, eyes tired but still crinkling into the dark crescents that appear whenever he’s truly happy. “You here to stay?”
Then Youngjae’s breath catches in his chest, as he waits for it, waits for a voice which will tell him otherwise, tell him they hate him and to hate himself to fix it, but there’s nothing but a blessed silence in his head. So he smiles, really smiles, feeling the warmth that’d budded ever since he’d come back here start to flower.
“Yeah,” he nods, and six smiles break out simultaneously, eager and hopeful and just a little hesitant, and Youngjae knows then, knows that he’s come home.
“I think I will.”