Work Text:
“Tae-”
Beomgyu’s voice cut off rather abruptly, making his small gasp stand out in the otherwise quiet bathroom. The older stared at Taehyun with wide eyes, highlighting the disappearance of the smiles they shared only seconds ago.
They had been drinking, celebrating , one might say, for finishing a long stretch of stressful, albeit successful , promotions. They had done well, receiving lots of praise from fans and critics alike. So, taking the night off to de-stress now that everyone was of legal drinking age was something everyone was looking forward to.
The night had been filled with a mixture of easy-going games, and low-stress competitions. Before long, the five of them had managed to get pretty tipsy, laughing louder than their neighbours appreciated, and just having an overall fun time without the stress of cameras looming over them.
After a couple of drinks, Taehyun could confidently say his normal composure was slipping, making his words a little looser, and his actions a little clumsier. Right as Kai screamed something about karaoke, his bladder decided it was the perfect time to act up.
“Imma go to the bathroom,” he announced to no one in particular, already walking down the hallway, then Beomgyu jumped up, tripping as he ran to walk beside him.
“Me too, I gotta go.”
“What the heck, wait your turn.” Taehyun’s words were facetious and kind of slurred together, so he frowned only slightly when his arms failed to stop Beomgyu from following him into the bathroom.
“Beomgyu, I’m going first.” He held onto the counter with one hand as a wave of dizziness passed over him, shaking his finger towards his friend. He looked at Beomgyu with what was meant to be a certain face, but, before he could move, Beomgyu cut past him in the imaginary line.
“No, fuck you, you’re too slow.”
Taehyun made a face towards his hyung before turning to fix his hair in the mirror. Something about drinking made everything feel cloudy, almost as if a haze was glazing over every decision, limiting his ability to think clearly. He knew he was looking at himself in the mirror, but, he would say he was processing the absolute bare minimum.
“You swear too much when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk, I’m completely sober.” Tsked Beomgyu, making Taehyun scoff in return.
“Don’t even start. We both saw you tripping down the hallway on your way to the bathroom.”
Beomgyu zipped his pants and flushed the toilet, pushing past Taehyun to wash his hands.
“Please, you’ve already fallen flat on your ass like three times tonight, and it's not like you were doing anything special either... you were literally just walking.”
“Yeah, well both of our tolerance levels are shit, so don't act so innocent. You fell too.”
“Yeah, okay, true. But , Yeonjun only got a video of you falling, so..." Beomgyu shrugged while a smirk covered his face, continuing with a grin, "I’m the only one with blackmail.”
Taehyun scowled innocently at Beomgyu as he walked towards the toilet, pushing past his hyung before unzipping his pants.
Looking back, Taehyun would recognize that his mind was completely void of caution at this moment. The thoughts he had while drunk about hiding his scars were laughable compared to how he acted when he was sober.
The alarm that should’ve been blaring in his head as he exposed his skin was deathly silent.
It was at this moment that Beomgyu turned around to dry his hands, freezing in his tracks as he saw the innumerable scars that covered the younger’s hips. Scars he wasn’t supposed to know about, scars he wouldn’t have seen if Taehyun was sober.
There were layers of lines covering the small area of skin that was constantly being covered by clothes. Some cuts were white and freshly healed, while some were dark with lighter lines overlapping them, some were even covered by bandages, with no-doubt fresher cuts hidden underneath.
“Taehyun,” The older repeated, but the younger was quick to flush the toilet and zip his pants, hiding the angry red lines from view before Beomgyu could get a better look.
A cloud of fear washed over Taehyun. He didn’t want to know what his face looked like as he assessed the panic that was constricting his chest. No doubt his eyes were as wide as Beomgyu’s, making Taehyun understand the seriousness of what had just happened.
“Beomgyu, don’t . It’s not what it looks like.”
Taehyun pushed past his hyung to wash his hands, trying to avoid catching his hyung’s knowing eyes as he scrubbed his hands. After drying them, he turned around and locked the door, eliminating any risk of someone else walking in.
The few minutes that had passed completely sobered them, eliminating the fuzzy go-lucky feeling that had settled over the duo in the living room.
“Leave it, Beomgyu, forget about it. Please, I’m not even kidding, this doesn’t leave this room.”
“Tae, I-" Beomgyu paused, taking a deep breath before he continued, he wanted to make sure he had the younger's attention. "What’s going on, you can talk to me."
Taehyun's eyes mirrored the internal struggle he was having as he listened to the words slipping out of Beomgyu's mouth. His hyung knew, Beomgyu KNEW. He found out about the scars, and now he's going to find out about everything else.
Taehyun has thought about talking with his members hundreds of times, running through more scenarios than he could possibly count, this however, was never supposed to happen. This is the part he would've kept secret. He'd tell them about the anxiety, the exhaustion, the need for it all to just stop, but he'd keep the self-harm a secret. A secret he NEVER wanted them to uncover, especially not like this.
“No, I'm begging you, hyung, just let it go.”
Beomgyu stared at him for a second, empathy evident in his eyes. Taehyun could see the gears turning in Beomgyu's brain and hated with every fiber in his body the look he was receiving.
“I- I, I can’t, Taehyun. I need to know if you’re a danger to yourself. Just tell me how bad it is, we can help you. Tae, we can get help if you don’t want to talk to us, we can do anything , I just- I can’t ignore this.”
“I don’t need help, I’m fine.”
Taehyun’s voice was more serious than Beomgyu had ever heard before, and the scared tone that slipped through made the older’s chest ache, but he stood his ground.
Taehyun’s jaw started shaking when he realized Beomgyu’s stance wasn’t budging, and he quickly broke eye contact when he realized his hands were fidgeting so much they couldn't stay still. He turned his back to Beomgyu as his hands curled into fists, fingernails breaking the skin of his palms as he became more and more frustrated with himself. He cursed himself silently when he realized Beomgyu stood between him and the door, trapping him inside the bathroom.
“God, I’m so fucking stupid . How could I be so fucking STUPID? How could I let you see that, like OH MY god , we were drunk, I know that, but that doesn’t-, dammit, let me out . Let me out right now, I’m not- I’m not talking about this.”
“Taehyun, please stay. ” Beomgyu spoke softly, his voice calming in a way that made Taehyun feel like the option to leave was still on the table.
“Please, just let me help. I want- I want to help.”
Taehyun turned to look at him. His lip trembled as he watched his hyung’s sincere eyes, and the growing lump in his throat was becoming too big to ignore. He slumped down against the side of the tub, holding his head in his knees as his shoulders shook.
Beomgyu squished down beside him, wrapping a warm arm around the younger’s shoulders. He pulled him close and ran soft hands through his hair as he spoke a mantra of calming words.
“I don’t even know where to start.” The younger whispered between hiccupping gasps and sniffling his nose.
“Well,” Beomgyu said softly. “I’m not going anywhere. Take your time, it’s okay.”
Taehyun muffled a cry as he dropped his head against Beomgyu’s shoulders, feeling a sense of comfort as the older draped a heavy arm around his back.
“Okay.”
~~~~~
The first time cut himself, it surprised him .
He’s seen the horror stories of self-harm and how easily it could destroy someone's life, so he never thought he’d be the one putting a band-aid over a self-inflicted wound.
It wasn’t anything specific that tipped him over the edge, just pent-up frustration over the never-ending anxiety that filled him whenever he tried to do anything .
Like, God , could he seriously not even do his own laundry anymore?
I mean, he could , but not like he used to.
Now, whenever he tries, it’s filled with danger and fear because even touching his own clothes leaves him with a need to disinfect his hands to the point where they’re red and hurting. And, to top it all off, even though it gives him unimaginable anxiety to do it himself, he can’t ask anyone else for help either. Because his stupid little brain managed to convince himself that his clothes won’t get clean unless they’re washed in a very specific way, with hand washing and clean laundry baskets between every step.
Even though laundry was only one of the everyday, simple tasks that left him too anxious to function, it was the tipping point that made him draw blood for the first time.
He was sitting on his bedroom floor sorting his dirty laundry to make sure everything was right-side-out, (because his brain convinced him it won’t get clean unless it’s right-side out!) when he abruptly stopped, unable to continue.
He hated doing laundry, not because it was a chore, but because it scared him.
Everything about laundry scares. It’s gotten to the point where he lets his laundry pile up in one specific corner of his bedroom (not touching anything else), until he literally runs out of clothes. While this is super inconvenient (and makes one corner of his room literally untouchable), he’s convinced himself it's easier to subject himself to one day full of laundry, rather than forcing himself to step back into that mindset every couple days.
On bad days, he finds himself throwing away clothes he deems ‘too-dirty’ and putting some clothes through their 10th-cycles because no matter how many times he tries, they’re never clean. He knows he’ll probably end up throwing them out at some point (because of his stupid brain) , but some of these pieces are his favourite clothes. Even though he knows realistically that nothing about them can hurt him, he can’t bring himself to put them away into his clean closet.
This particular afternoon, he found himself sitting on his floor sorting his dirty laundry into acceptably-sized piles when he froze, unable to continue. He held his hands out in front of him, tears piling up and falling silently onto his cheeks that he wasn’t able to wipe them away. His hands couldn’t touch anything, couldn’t wipe his tears, couldn’t touch the clothes he was wearing, couldn’t touch the floor to stand, couldn’t touch the door handle to leave his room, because then everything he touched would be dirty too.
He found himself sitting criss-cross on his floor, barely moving a muscle in fear that it would force even more anxiety through his body. So, he sat there. Salty tears streamed down his face relentlessly for a good half-hour.
Then he noticed the pen.
The ball-point pen he had used for homework the night before that he had no motivation to find when he dropped it, was now the only thing making him move.
He thought back to all the posts he’d seen about self-harm on social media, and how one way to stop cutting was to draw lines on your skin, preferably in red, so that the sensation of leaving red lines was still there, but a step towards recovery.
He moved to grab the pen, knowing that touching it with his extra-dirty-hands would make it impossible to disinfect, so he’d have to throw it away when he was done.
He started drawing a line on his shin. It started off as a small, faint blue streak, then he continued going over it again, and again, and again, feeling almost like autopilot.
Near the end, it was pretty deep.
The ink was blue, so it wasn’t like it was mimicking blood, but he’d never cut before. He didn’t need an escape from cutting, he needed something to distract his brain from tearing itself apart from the inside out.
He kept drawing the line on his skin.
Going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, not stopping.
He kept going until a moment of clarity passed through his brain.
‘What the hell are you doing, this is going to leave a mark???’
He noticed that the anxiety from sorting the laundry had dissipated, leaving him looking around his room almost confused about how the anxiety had left that easy. Feeling the dread of having to continue sorting laundry was gone, replaced by the realization that he could abandon the laundry to wash his hands.
He maneuvered to a standing position, dropping the pen in the garbage on his way, then walked towards the door. He managed to open the door with the sides of his arms, successfully avoiding directly contacting any surfaces with his dirty hands, then scurried through the hallway until he reached the bathroom door.
He pushed open the door, thankful it hadn’t been closed all the way, then nudged the tap onto the hottest water he could handle without burning himself.
He soaped up his hands, scrubbing up to his forearms until the germs finally felt like they’d gone away. It took a long time, almost 20 minutes to be exact, but he didn’t cut the time short. Realistically, he knew his hands would be clean after the first or second pump of soap, but that’s not how his brain understood it. His hands weren’t clean until it felt right, and he was going to keep washing them, washing them, washing them, until he could leave the room without anxiety.
However, instead of leaving the bathroom when he finished washing his hands, he dried them on a clean towel, then grabbed a washcloth to clean the pen from his leg.
He could see the blood mixing with the blue ink, but it wasn’t dripping or pooling on his skin, so he thought it’d be alright.
He soaped up the washcloth and managed after a few minutes to rid his shin of blue.
He was left with an angry red line of something akin to a deep scratch. (A deep, self-inflicted scratch that bled and looked a little too straight to be caused by running into something.) So, he cleaned it up with some rubbing alcohol, then plastered a Band-Aid on it, successfully hiding it from the rest of his members.
~~~~~
If he could still see the scar littered on his shin nearly a year later, he knew it wasn’t from walking into his bed frame like he told his members.
He’s walked into his bed frame hundreds of times and never received a scar like this, and definitely not this dark.
~~~~~
The second time he cut himself was nearly six months later.
The long time between the cuts was because he told himself he couldn’t do that again, he couldn’t leave visible scars like that on his body. He had to avoid scars fans could see, that people could notice.
He couldn’t do that, it had to be something else.
He ended up finding himself pulling his hair a lot, pulling tufts and tufts at a time, somehow wanting it to hurt. He was careful not to pick too much though, and never from the same spots.
Bald spots and scars would mean the same thing, and they’re both no-no’s. So, if he does something to hurt himself, it can’t leave a mark.
That’s how he got into the habit of smacking the heel of his palm against his head. Sometimes it’s not hard at all, just a reminder for his brain to shut up and to work like a normal person, and other times it’s so hard he fears it's going to bruise.
That’s why he usually ends up aiming for his hairline, making sure that if it were to bruise, he’d be the only one to know.
That works for a while, helps ease the anxiety attacks he sometimes got from doing the laundry, walking in a ‘bad spot,’ shaking a stranger’s hands, or being forced to take out the garbage and consequently standing too close to the scary-danger-no-no dumpster.
He’d rather jump out of a moving plane than touch the dumpster, so he 99% of the time manages to avoid it, or you know, does whatever he can to stop an anxiety attack whilst most likely killing all his skin cells in boiling-hot-shower water.
Huh, maybe the too-hot showers and incessant, painful, dry skin counts as self-harm too?
Anyways, the second time he cuts himself is because no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much hair he pulls and times he whacks his head, the anxiety won't stop.
He uses a pen again this time.
It worked last time, so why wouldn’t it work again?
He sat against a wall in his room, drowning out the silence with a song he wishes he could skip, but curses the fact that his hands aren’t clean enough to touch his phone, so he’s forced to deal with the trashy remix.
He takes a pen and colours a line on his forearm, close to his elbow, but at a decent enough spot that a Band-Aid wouldn’t crumple from the bend of his arm.
He really hates this song, hates everything that is going on right now.
His brain is screaming at him, repeating over and over that the anxiety won’t go away, that nothing’s working, it’s there, it’s there, it’s there.
He’s trying, trying so hard to make it stop, but nothing is working. So, here he is, drawing more deep lines across his body.
It’s been months since the last time he did this, but he remembers it like it was yesterday. He felt so much shame after the first time, he swore he would never do it again. He didn’t want to become dependent on making himself bleed just so that he could stop his brain from screaming at him for hours on end for what he thinks is OCD, but is too scared to ask for help or to reach out to his members.
He did some research. Lots of research, actually. He’s been feeling this way for almost two years now, non-stop anxiety, fear and aversions towards things normal people shouldn’t be scared of, even hiding away in his bedroom to the point where Yeonjun pulled him aside one day and asked in concerned words if he was depressed. To which he LIED THROUGH HIS TEETH, and said he was fine, but what the hell was he supposed to say?
‘No, I’m not depressed… Actually, no wait, I definitely AM depressed, but that's not the main problem. I’m too scared of germs and contamination to function like a normal human being, and that makes my brain go to not-fun places and think things like ‘It’d be easier to just stop breathing.’’
Yeah, like he’d admit that.
He knew something was wrong, but he didn’t want to go around saying, ‘Guess what hyung, I think I have OCD.’ And then just be laughed at and ridiculed because, ‘no, you don’t have OCD, you’re just looking for attention and making life harder on yourself.’
Just stop, STOP washing your hands for twenty minutes at a time, stop having debilitating anxiety attacks if your bag touches a garbage can, STOP freaking out if one of your members tries to hold your hand when you're having an especially bad day, and STOP yelling at Kai and Soobin if they try to bring your clean laundry from the dryer to your bed.
Like, GOD, you don’t have OCD, you’re just being dramatic. Seriously, just stop .
STOP, STOP, STOP.
He lifted the pen from his skin.
The moment of clarity came back, but this time, it made him realize that the cut was a little deeper, a little wider, and a little bloodier.
More blood pooled on his skin, but it wasn’t enough . He still felt the urge to keep going, to not stop, to make another one, to make deeper ones.
He thought about it, he really did, but he tossed the pen across the room and pulled his knees to his chest.
The blood on his arm wasn’t stopping, so he grabbed some tissue from his desk to hold it over the cut until he calmed down enough to clean it properly.
He did that, he really just did that. He cut himself, for a second time, and it would most definitely leave a scar.
He was scared, he was terrified. He didn’t-, he couldn’t... God, how do you even deal with this?
What scared him the most though, was that he knew it worked.
~~~~~
When Soobin asked where that nasty scratch on his arm came from, Taehyun said he walked into a counter.
“Jeez, since when have you been the clumsy one.”
Taehyun just faked a laugh.
~~~~~
The third time was a little different.
His anxiety was acting up, but it wasn’t to the point where he was having an anxiety attack, his brain just wouldn’t shut up.
He needed to get some work done for a verse he’d been asked to take a look at, but his brain couldn’t focus.
He kept getting distracted by the almost silence in the room. No one was awake, so there wasn’t any noise of people talking or walking, but it wasn’t silent because water continuously dripped from the kitchen faucet, and the bathroom fan had been left on, and the fridge was making a weird humming noise, but he couldn’t bring himself to fix any of it.
Getting up to turn off the tap would mean touching the metal. Turning off the bathroom fan would mean opening the bathroom door, and touching the switch with God knows how many germs on it. Then the fridge, what the hell was he supposed to do about the fridge? He can’t just shut it off, it’d spoil the food. No matter what he does, his hands will constantly be dirty, everything has bacteria on it, so what’s the point?
What’s the point in any of this?
He’ll never be able to shut up his brain because his hands will never be clean.
It would all be easier if everything just stopped.
If he stopped worrying, stopped obsessing, (stopped breathing...) but that thought process quickly scared him.
That’s when he untangled the paper clip that had been used to hold the lyrics together.
It was closer than any pen, so it would have to do.
He took a second to consider where he should mark this time, but it didn’t need much thought. Ever since his first time, he knew that if he ever continued, he’d have to put it somewhere no one could see. That’s why he avoided cutting in the first place, however, he did come up with a few spots no one would ever notice.
His hips.
No matter how short his shorts were, or if he was wearing a crop top, tank top, shirtless, etc. No one would ever see. He could always keep his hips covered.
Simple as that, haha, outsmarted the system.
He was wearing a pair of loose joggers, and it was easy to pull them down until the bone of his hip jutted into view. He made a quick glance down the hallway just to make sure no one was coming, and he pressed the paper clip into his skin.
He ran the clip in lines back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
He didn’t stop at one though like he did on his shin and forearm, he kept going. He had four, deep, red lines by the time he felt like he could breathe again.
It was like he was in a trance, unable to stop until it felt right again. Unable to pull away after one cut because that wouldn't be enough, it'd only be one scar, and one scar wouldn’t work anymore.
The moment of clarity he had this time was littered with the scary realization that he did it again. This time, four lines stacked on top of each other, hidden in the waistband of his pants.
No one would ever know about these lines though, no one would ever see them.
It scared him that he did this, but it scared him even more that he could see himself doing it again.
He could see himself doing it again because after he cleaned up the cuts and plastered them with Band-Aids, putting pressure on the lines cleared his mind too. He found himself holding his hips a lot the following days, it helped ease some anxiety.
Somehow the pain effectively stopped his determined brain.
~~~~~
His other hip now sported matching scars, four stacked on top of each other, one noticeably darker and deeper, like the skin that had been scratched away never fully grew back.
~~~~~
After the 6th time, he added razors to the rotation. It was easier, faster, drew more blood, but sometimes he still reached for the pen or the paperclip, searching for the pattern of going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, that he never could get with a razor, so he rotated.
He rotated until his hips were littered with scars stacked on scars, and he hid the discarded band-aid packs from his members as well as the the bloodied paper clips, pens, and razors that sometimes filled his garbage can.
He hid his anxiety from them.
He kept everything secret, not sharing with a soul the fact that sometimes he thought it would be easier to end it all, easier to finally stop living like this because he couldn't handle his brain anymore.
His stupid brain that blared danger signals constantly and incessantly at every little thing, making him scared to leave his room some days, scared to exist .
He was exhausted, but he couldn't talk to his members about it.
He feared they wouldn't understand, that they’d tell him to just stop and deal with it as any normal person would do.
Washing your hands once makes them clean.
You’re not going to die if you touch the door handle after me.
God, we literally live together, why do you scream like a banshee if I touch your bed?
What’s wrong with you, you don’t need to use so much soap?
You’ve already put that load of laundry through, why do you need to restart it?
Why is your favourite hoodie in the trash?
How many times have you changed your bed sheets this week?
Why do you always wait for me to open the door? You have two feet.
Why?
Why?
Why?
~~~~~
The crying from the bathroom was loud enough for Soobin, Yeonjun, and Kai to be huddled outside the door.
Frankly, they’ve been huddled outside the door for nearly half an hour now, listening to Taehyun as he shared something that hurt them so much it felt like their hearts were being ripped out of their chests.
“Do we do something?” Kai asked quietly, practically whispering to his hyungs as Taehyun's cries ripped through the eerie silence of the rest of the dorm.
“Not right now, let’s give them a couple of minutes.”
~~~~~
“Taehyun? Tae? Please, listen to me.”
Beomgyu was desperately trying to reach Taehyun, to wrap the younger in tight loving arms, and to hold him and tell him that everything was going to be alright.
The younger was still crying puddles into Beomgyu’s collarbone, so Beomgyu kept running a soothing, comforting hand over the younger's back.
It had taken a while for Taehyun to start talking, but once he did, it poured out of him in fast sentences and drowned him in tears.
He had to take breaks to breathe multiple times, and even as they heard the music from the living room shut off, and the quiet footsteps of the rest of their members huddling around outside the door, he didn’t stop talking.
He spoke loud enough that the three members outside could hear the main ideas of what Taehyun was talking about, but Beomgyu heard all the little whispers and afterthoughts as well. The quiet words that Tae couldn’t muster the courage to say any louder, and the deafening confessions that made Beomgyu hold Taehyun a little bit tighter in his comforting arms.
“Tae, we would never say those things to you. We’d understand, I understand. Listen to me okay, the way you’re feeling isn't your fault, you didn’t ask for any of this, okay. O.C.D is a disorder, just like diabetes. Would you get mad at someone if they needed insulin? I don’t think so, just like none of us would get mad if you needed help, or therapy, or medication. Okay? Taehyun, we love you. We just want to see you happy again, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen you genuinely smile. I miss you, I miss you so much, okay. We can get through this. If you want help, we can get help. We would do anything for you, okay? Just trust us.”
That made Taehyun lean even further into Beomgyu’s chest, desperately wanting the comfort only his best friend could offer.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you, we’ve got you.”
~~~~~
Taehyun’s tears slowed down to hiccups, then after nearly fifteen minutes, he passed out in Beomgyu’s arms. The older wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep or not for the first few minutes, so he didn’t move for another five.
He quietly pulled out his phone and texted Soobin.
“How much of that did you guys hear?”
“We heard enough to understand. Is he asleep?”
Beomgyu rested his free hand on Taehyun’s head and replied to his hyung.
“Yeah, he fell asleep. Can you guys help me bring him to bed?”
“Of course, unlock the door.”
Beomgyu maneuvered his arm so that he could reach the door handle without shaking Taehyun awake. He turned the lock, then shuffled the two of them around so that the rest of the members would be able to open the door.
Soobin scooped Taehyun up in a quick motion, then carried the younger boy exceedingly carefully down the hallway, setting him down lightly in bed. He pulled the covers up over his chest and shut off the light before closing the door.
He found the rest of the members huddled together in the living room, Yeonjun with an arm around a crying Beomgyu.
“How could we have been so stupid? We knew something was going on, and that he wasn’t okay, so why did we let it get this bad? Why didn’t we ask him if he was okay sooner?”
Beomgyu’s words got choked out by a quiet sob, and he pulled away from his oldest hyungs grasp to frustratingly wipe the tears out of his eyes.
“We’re supposed to be his best friends, his family. How could we have been so… so stupid ?”
Soobin spoke up, sitting on the coffee table directly in front of the trio of members seated on the couch. The purple L.E.D lights were really unfitting for the emotions going through the room, but no one moved to shut them off.
“We could have done more, we should have checked up on him more often, we should have done a bunch of things differently, I’m aware of that, and I’ll probably be stuck in the thought process for a long time, but it’s not our fault, okay. And, it’s not Taehyun’s fault, that’s not what I’m saying either. I’m saying these types of things are really difficult to bring up sometimes. You heard what Taehyun was saying, about why he felt like he couldn’t tell us, and how he was scared. It’s scary, okay. It’s scary asking someone if they need help because you don’t want to push them away. The important thing to remember now is that we need to help and support him every step of the way, letting him know that everything’s going to be alright and that we’re not going anywhere. He’ll be okay, alright. We’ll be okay, we just need some time.”
~~~~~
The next morning, Taehyun woke up squished by a too-warm Beomgyu, smothered by a mountain of blankets they didn’t need in the heat of spring.
He felt a pain in his head, and with a jolt, he remembered everything.
He remembered the drinking, the party games, the music, and laughter, then he remembered the trip to the bathroom, the revealing of scars and crying, and the confession of secrets.
Taehyun felt his breath catch in his throat and knew immediately everything was going to be different.
God, could they kick him out of the group for this? If the media got a hold of this it would ruin their reputation, “Idol crippled with OCD, resulting in self-harming.” Jeez, kiss their fame goodbye, all because he’s a stupid little immature child that can’t control his brain from screaming at the worst possible moments.
He hated himself.
Hated this, hated everything, especially the fact that he couldn’t stop the stupid tears from falling down his stupid face anymore.
As hard as he tried to be quiet, he knew the sound of him crying would soon wake up Beomgyu, and he couldn't bear doing that too.
He stood from his bed to leave his cramped bedroom before he could risk interrupting his friend's sleep, then found himself stumbling down the hallway until finally reaching the couch.
He wanted it to be empty, but to his surprise, Yeonjun was sitting in his favourite corner seat, scrolling mindlessly through his phone.
“Taehyun,” the older said in his voice that made everyone joke about him being their mom, while opening his arms in a welcoming style.
Taehyun fell into him but immediately felt guilty for accepting the older's comfort. This was his problem. He’s an adult, he should be able to deal with this on his own. He’s not even the youngest, for God’s sake.
He tries to pull away, to stop acting like the baby they probably already think he is, but Yeonjun doesn’t let him. He keeps him close with comforting arms, rubbing calming circles in his back until the tears finally stop.
“Taehyun, it’s okay. You can talk to me.”
Taehyun pulled away from Yeonjun’s hold and stared at his oldest hyung with bloodshot eyes.
“No, I can’t , okay. None of this was supposed to happen, you guys were never supposed to find out. And now I’ve gone and ruined everything because my stupid-drunk-self couldn’t keep a secret for a single night . I’m sorry, okay, you guys shouldn’t have to deal with this, deal with me. I’m an adult, this is a me problem. I never wanted you to know. I never wanted anyone to know because other people knowing makes it real. And when other people know, they'd just tell me things I’ve already been telling myself for years. To ‘just stop’, or to ‘calm down’, or to ‘stop overreacting’, and to ‘get over myself’, but none of it works , and if one of you guys started saying those things to me, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I needed to keep this to myself because it was contained like that. Yes, it was growing and I didn’t have any control over anything my brain was doing or saying, but at least I knew you guys were still normal and treating me the same. I- I couldn’t do this anymore if you guys stopped being friends with me.”
“Taehyun, friends are supposed to help you with these kinds of things. We’re family, you’re my brother. I would never do anything like that to you, okay. I will support you and help you and sit with you when your anxiety peaks, and I would never make fun of you, or get mad at you, or anything like that, for something you can’t even control. Taehyun, we love you, and we always will. This doesn’t change anything. Wait, no, you know what, this does change something, it changes because we’re going to get you some help, set you up with a therapist if you want, get you an appointment with a physiatrist for possibly starting some meds, and we’ll notice all the improvements together, and get through this together, okay. You’re not in this alone, and you never will be.”
Taehyun fell back into Yeonjun’s arms, feeling the comfort and warmth that accompanied his oldest hyungs words.
He knew at that moment he’d be okay again.
Someday, sometime , he’d be okay.