Chapter Text
Jisung picked at his scabs.
He knew it was a horrible habit. They often resulted in scars that were unsightly; made him look like he had been swarmed by bees, or had chicken pox, but that was simply how he existed. His mother used to tell him that picking his scabs invited evil spirits into his body; allowed it to be tainted, like a spiritual bubonic plague. Jisung hadn’t believed her when he was little, but now that he was here, in a place representative of many mental demons, Jisung felt the need to apologize to his mother and beg for her forgiveness. Maybe he had invited all of this in.
Jisung tried to pick at his scabs.
His ankles and wrists were wrapped with what Jisung had to describe as the most annoying material he could ever, ever describe. It was sweaty and itchy and annoying and he swore he was fucking allergic to it, if how much it itched had anything to do with it, but he wasn’t able to take it off, or else he’d have time added.
He had gaped at Dr. Kim when she had explained it to him. Seungmin’s mother was a very kind woman. Jisung had enjoyed going to her home as a child, after long school days with Minho and Seungmin. They’d always walked home, did their homework (which Minho would help with, being a couple grades above the others), and would sometimes stay for dinner. It wasn’t until a couple years ago where Seungmin’s mother would let her work slip in front of the boys, and by then, they didn’t give two shits about the world of clinical psychiatry.
Okay, maybe Jisung did, but none of his friends needed to know that. He had kept his monthly therapy sessions away from his friends; as far away as he could have, truthfully, but he had always listened in a little when Seungmin’s mother would explain away a bruise with a soft smile towards her son.
“Do not worry your little head, my love. Patients have bad days. That’s all this was.”
Jisung remembered the way Seungmin had frowned, before turning back to his homework, his bowl of kimchi fried rice completely forgotten.
People like that are crazy, Jisung remembered thinking, I’ll never be like them.
That had been two years ago, and he was surely eating those words, now.
Jisung didn’t know where it had all gone wrong. Not really. He was happy. He was with his friends. Minho had gotten into a good university. He had called them every day. Jisung and Seungmin got free time to study music, towards the end of their schooling. They even joked about starting a band, or auditioning for a company, or traveling the world; literally anything. His best friend had been so excited to do it all. Jisung had been excited to do it all.
He simply wondered when that excitement had shifted; had turned and festered into something sinister; something angry. This.
He’d had everything. He had a support system, a family, friends who loved him. Hs had his art and his music, poetry, songwriting. He had thought they had all been wonderful coping mechanisms, even when the hole in his chest grew bigger and bigger.
Seungmin’s schedules had changed. Minho’s facetimes had moved to only Monday and Wednesday, as he had classes in university every other day. Jisung swore it was fine, because he never missed their calls. Seungmin would find him at lunch and tell him about his classes. Jisung still had them. He knew it.
And yet…it felt like he was losing them, and thus, himself.
He hadn’t been able to pinpoint it, but the minute he had left school a few days ago, Jisung felt the cold vice around his chest.
It had been Thursday. Seungmin had work at the local convenience store. Minho hadn’t answered his texts, and Jisung didn’t have enough scabs to satiate his need for the picking.
He didn’t have enough of them. Of his friends. He knew that came with growing up, but the only thing that had stopped him from ripping his skin off from the start was the way that Seungmin and Minho stuck around. He and Seungmin had made a pact on the playground, over a skinned knee, that Jisung would never be left behind, and he had believed him.
For some reason, that thought had slipped his mind that fateful Thursday.
It was exam season, his family was up his ass about doing well on his exams and applying to top universities. He was feeling the pressure, so much so that the days had blended together and his meds had been left abandoned in his medicine cabinet. He knew he was lucky that he was even able to have them. Having a therapist and a psychiatrist was something he seldom took for granted, especially when the science seemed so… experimental, and it implied that something was very wrong with the patient.
But he hadn’t been like that. He had worked up the courage to create a power point presentation—with the help of Minho, Seungmin, and Seungmin’s mom—and his parents were… receptive.
All this to say, Jisung was lucky, and he still took it for granted.
That Thursday, Seungmin had found him in his bedroom after his shift; having climbed the tree outside his window so he could sneak in for movie night, and promptly called 112.
He wanted to kick himself, thinking back on it, because Seungmin had been so scared. Waking up in the hospital to see Seungmin crying, curled up on the chair with a textbook in his hand, and Jisung being unable to reach out and hug his friend, had been probably the worst experience of Jisung’s life.
He really fucked up, this time.
As Seungmin and Minho and his family had told him over the course of the next few days. Jisung had assured them that it was a fluke; that he was just stressed (and he needed scabs to pick). He didn’t want to die. He swore, he just wanted a break.
That was how he wound up here, staring at the harsh powder blue bandages over his wrists and ankles, trying not to pick under them, because he wanted out.
Once Jisung was stable enough, he had been taken upstairs, into an office. It was warm; inviting, with throw pillows and blankets on a plush couch, a table in front of it with several different trinkets and knick knacks that Jisung had busied himself with almost immediately. His favorite had been a little hourglass, made from water and oil. If he shook it up, the colors would merge, and he could pay attention to the way they would slowly separate instead of the fact that he was going to be stuck here for three whole months.
“Sertraline, 75 milligrams,” Dr. Kim had asked, “That still working for you, Jisung-ah?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he’d replied, terrified of what would happen if he said no.
“Clearly not,” he’d thought he heard her say.
Jisung had looked; had genuinely searched for any sign of the woman that had all but raised him, during his debrief, but there was nothing that showed her as anyone but Dr. Kim. Seungmin’s kind, sweet, nurturing mother had not been not in the room with him. Jisung had picked up on it quickly.
From there it was the rules of the floor. No fighting, all meds had to be taken when called, all food had to be eaten or exchanged for something of similar nutritional value, no outside clothing or personal belongings, and, perhaps most mortifying of all: Jisung was never allowed to be alone.
Not when he used the restroom. Not when he showered. There always had to be a staff member watching out for him, just a few feet away, even while he fucking slept.
Any violations would result in time added to his stay, and Jisung figured out from the very second he had been escorted out of Dr. Kim’s office, that this was the last place he had wanted to be.
That was how he got here, shivering in the corner of a room with three beds, arranged to be pressed up against each wall. The only one that wasn’t slightly missed was pressed in the corner, next to a window with thick, almost distorting glass. Jisung had peeked out of it, staring at the city below, and realized that there was absolutely no way someone of his size and stature could break it and escape. If he had tried, he’d probably get another fucking week added to his stay.
Jisung could barely breathe after twenty minutes.
He had to be conscious, now. He had to watch every little thing he did, from the way that he sat to the way that he coped. He couldn’t squeeze his arms in an attempt to soothe his need for touch; pressure. He couldn’t pick at his scabs to busy his fingers. He couldn’t bite his nails, or he would get time added.
He needed out. He needed out now, but the panic settling in his chest would not be attended to. Not by a long shot, because he would not allow it to manifest. He had to find some sort of outlet; anything. Jisung didn’t care what it was, where it was, who it was. He needed to get out of his head and out of his racing thoughts.
He picked at the paper scrubs wrapped around his trembling frame, fingers shaking as he tried to tear a piece off. It didn’t work. They were slightly better manufactured than what he had imagined. It was like a double layer of those sheets they put on your chest at the dentist; irritating and scratchy and downright uncomfortable. The sensation on his skin sent lightning up his nervous system, misfiring and tensing his body until he was frozen, stuck in the middle of a glorified tissue.
Fibers stuck to his fingers, catching on the hangnails left by the impromptu manicure he’d been subjected to. His nails were nubs, anyway, but any line of white had been snipped off, in case he was going to use his nails to hurt himself.
He couldn’t even access the scabs to pick.
The fibers continued to stick, catching every time he moved his hand across the material, like it was wool. It was agonizing, feeling the way specific points on his fingers would tug back. It hurt more than the ache beneath the bandages. It felt like, with every tiny tug, Jisung’s nervous system was being lit on fire. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear off the clothes and curl up in one of Minho’s hoodies and try to forget any of this ever happened; how badly he had fucked up, but he couldn’t, because that would be more fucking time added.
“Oh, shit!”
A voice tore Jisung from his panic, forcing his eyes up at the door, where he assumed the source of the noise was. His vision was blurry, but he could make out the frame of a boy. He was thin, and short, and he had this look in his eye that Jisung couldn’t decipher. Jisung couldn’t truly decipher anything besides the way the boy’s mouth twitched upwards, and he turned back to call down the hall.
“Chan-hyung! New roommate!”
Jisung froze, suddenly remembering that there were two other beds in here, both of which obviously lived in. One of the blankets on one was crooked, and looked haphazardly tucked into the bottom of the smooth metal bed frame. The other looked pristine, other than the fact that it had clearly been sat upon, with the way that the blanket ruffled a little in the center.
Three beds. Boy at the door. Calling to someone else. Fuck, Jisung was going to be living with complete fucking strangers.
Jisung gulped, shrinking further into the corner, his socks catching and gripping onto the metal of his own bed frame. He looked despaired; trapped; wounded.
“Hey, dude, it’s alright,” the boy suddenly spoke again, moving a little closer to Jisung. When Jisung didn’t respond, the boy trudged over to the bed that had the messily-tucked blankets, and smiled when he sat down. “Nothing to worry about with us. Channie-hyung and I always take good care of our roommates.”
Jisung’s eyes were saucers, but his shoulders slumped in relief. “Okay.”
“He speaks!” The boy bellowed, his bright smile almost catching Jisung off guard. It was kind; genuine. It made Jisung want to smile in return, even if it was haphazard and little. The other boy only nodded at him. “Good. See? You’re good, dude.”
“Changbin-ah,” A new voice chided from the door. “You’ll wake up the whole floor.”
“The situation was dire.” The happy boy—Changbin, Jisung’s mind supplied—replied. “Look at him.”
The boy at the door turned to Jisung, eyes inquisitive as he checked over his frame. Jisung felt like he was on display, like he was some sort of spectacle; like this was a zoo. He did not like it. He did not like it one bit, but the door boy must have picked up on it. He let his blonde fall into his face, and blew it up by sticking his bottom lip out and huffing a breath of air. It was something so small; miniscule, that Jisung wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the way he could see those clearly-not-blonde eyebrows raise at him.
“You’re scared,” Door-boy said, matter-of-fact-ly.
Jisung stayed silent.
“First time?”
Jisung could barely nod.
“Ah,” Changbin nodded, “makes sense. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He paused, eyes flicking between Jisung and Door-Boy, who was very quickly becoming Clean-Bed-Boy, with how he confidently strode into the bed up against the wall perpendicular to Jisung’s. He sat down like it was easy, lifting his feet up to cross them in front of him, like it was some sort of meditation. Jisung could see the way his body perfectly fit back into that messed up part of the blanket, and absently wondered how long they had both been here, for it to come so naturally.
It wasn’t like the beds were the most comfortable. They were a thin cushion on top of a plywood base, and Jisung could feel the hard plastic under the sheets. They reminded him of the bunks at his summer camp, which, somehow brought him a little bit of comfort, even if the bones in his pelvis ached from sitting against the hard cushion.
“Anyway, what’re you in for?”
The question was so, so stupendously out of the blue that Jisung’s head popped back to with a fervor that almost snapped his neck. He felt nauseous, thinking about it, because while it was so casual, Jisung knew how loaded of a question that was.
Before he could even open his mouth, Bed-Boy tossed his pillow at Changbin. “That is not appropriate, Bin.”
“Channie~” Changbin sang out a whine throwing his head back against the wall like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “It’s not like we aren’t gonna find out sooner or later. Everyone’s gotta tell it at group.”
Jisung stiffened, eyes going wide at the words. Before he knew what he was doing, his mouth was opening, and he choked out a frantic, “I’m—I’m sorry, group?”
“Oh, you really are a first timer,” Changbin cooed, tossing Chan’s pillow back to him. “They should’ve explained it to you. Group therapy. It’s by room number, I think. They change it up every time, but we’ll always be in the same group because we room together.”
“I… I was told there would be therapy,” Jisung iterated, at a loss for words.
“Yeah. Therapy.” Changbin blinked at him. “Sessions with Dr. Kim and group therapy sessions with whoever they have on rotation that week. Therapy.”
“Why?” Jisung sniffed, hands shaking. He was prepared to divulge his innermost feelings—or lack thereof—to someone he had known for a while and trusted. Not a room full of lunatics. “Why group?”
“It’s supposed to build up a support system,” Bed-Boy—Chan—supplied. He had a calming aura around him; one that gave Jisung a little bit of comfort in amongst the chaos of being thrown into the deep end. “So when you get out of here, you have, like, psych ward BFFs.”
“Oh,” Jisung whispered, eyes falling back onto his toes. “What if you already have a support system?”
“They must be a pretty shitty one of you wound up here,” Changbin quipped.
“Seo Changbin,” Chan hissed, “you are not helping,”
“Hey! I’m trying to be funny!”
“He’s scared, you imbecile.”
Jisung sniffed, eyes flicking between them, half in panic, half in understanding. These two reminded him of his friends back home, always giving each other shit, beefing with each other for dishing it. Jisung couldn’t count on two hands the amount of times he had to talk Minho out of saying something stupid, or Seungmin out of doing something dumb. They were similar, somehow, and Jisung was suddenly very thankful that he was at least with people who seemed comfortable and knew what they were doing.
Jisung had no clue what he was doing, but that was fine. As long as he could distract himself, he was going to be fine.
So, he focused on Changbin, who challenged Chan with a joint in his eyes that reminded Jisung of Seungmin when he knew he was right. Changbin’s heavy bangs came to a point, almost, stopping just between his eyebrows. Seungmin would have said it made him look Vulcan (nerd shit), but Jisung found it a little charming, especially when it contrasted with his sunken cheeks.
Upon closer inspection, Jisung noticed Chan’s hair was incredibly and obviously bleached, sticking up in a wild halo around his head. Dark roots were growing in; around two weeks worth, of his hair grew at a similar rate to Jisung’s, but Chan didn’t seem to mind. He was fit, from what Jisung could make out under the T-shirt and sweatpants that the other had on, and there were no obvious signs of anything wrong with him.
Jisung felt a pang of confusion hit him, followed promptly by a cacophony of guilt.
They seemed so normal. Why were they here?
His thoughts seemed to echo around the room, because soon, Changbin was turning back to Jisung, brow quirked in curiosity. “Group therapy practice. Name, age, why you’re here. I’ll start.”
Jisung gaped at his enthusiasm, but let Changbin sit up straight. “My name is Seo Changbin, I’m seventeen, and I have an eating disorder.”
“Dude, you’re gonna freak him out—“
“Your turn, Chan-hyung,” Changbin chirped, not caring about Chan’s protests, or the way Jisung’s eyes widened in shock, then a little bit of understanding.
Chan rolled his eyes, tossing the pillow back at Changbin once more, and shook his head.
“Fine. I’m Christopher Chahn Bahng, but please call me Chan. I’m eighteen, and I can’t sleep.”
Changbin arched a brow, holding up the pillow that had just been tossed in his direction. “I don’t know, hyung. Maybe if you took better care of your pillows, that wouldn’t happen.”
“Bin.” The look in Chan’s eye was a warning, but Changbin simply kicked his feet and smiled, turning back to Jisung.
“Your turn, new roomie,” Changbin hummed. “What’s your deal? What’s your name?”
Jisung was stuck like a deer in the headlights, staring across at Changbin like a lost puppy, but the other boy did nothing but stare back, a reassuring smile on his face. He nodded at Jisung after a moment, waving his hands toward him as if telling him to go on.
And, well, Jisung was already here. He was already staring down at least a week of this place. The least he could do was at least try to make friends.
“Um,” he squeaked, internally kicking himself when his voice cracked. “I… My name’s Han Jisung, I’m sixteen, and I…” He swallowed the lump in his throat, his knees pressing closer to his chest as he fumbled over what words were to come out of his mouth next. He didn’t want to say it, because in his heart it wasn’t true, but if he had asked any of his friends; his family, they’d all tell him the same thing.
“I tried to kill myself.”