Work Text:
Kim Woonhak does not fall back. Obstacles are just hurdles he needs time to vault over, and tears are useless so long as he knows they're necessary. There's no such thing as taking time to rest; if he can find the strength to push through, then he'll keep running. He doesn't overthink, doesn't fall into rabbit holes of am-I-enoughs, doesn't succumb to insecurities when they come knocking on his door.
But he's also crying into his pillow right now, so there's that.
For as much as he'd like to call himself mature, Woonhak has to admit that he's got quite a few shortcomings. It would be easy to say, They're just feelings I need to overcome, but the truth is that saying it doesn't equal putting it into practice. There's lots of strength to be derived from self-confidence and the belief that he can achieve anything with enough effort. Just not enough strength sometimes. Or maybe it's more fitting to say that it has to catch up to him at some point. In those times, he ends up thinking, It's normal, nobody can be positive and progressive all the time, but that's sort of a flimsy comfort at the end of the day. If anything, it just lets him reassure himself that the breaking down is healthy, that it's not a sign he's spiraling into whatever pits he sees the other members spiral into.
Healthy. Yep. Crying into his pillow in the middle of the night is healthy.
That thought makes his stomach curl in on itself. The members like to say that he's loud with everything he does, wailing whenever an emotional event occurs and laughing boisterously at any joke. Woonhak would like to argue that he can be quiet when he wants to be—like now, when it seems as though the only way to cope with bubbling discomfort is to cry.
In hindsight, it's not Dongmin's fault. Woonhak knows that; he's not naive, nor is he foolish, and he's actually quite fond of reflecting on moments that upset him. They've been slaving away at the new album for weeks now. Frustration is bound to get the best of at least one of them, and Dongmin hadn't even lashed out—he hadn't even said anything remotely rude (which was surprising, given that that always seemed to be his first reaction under stress)—but somehow, that makes it worse. Somehow, Woonhak feels like maybe it really isn't the new album or the schedules or the stress. Maybe it's just him.
He sighs into the pillow, more tears making their way out. Seems like he has a knack for tearing his heart into tinier pieces.
The day was rough from the start. He'd had a difficult time getting out of bed, fought with Jaehyun over food (a sensitive topic to begin with), mulled that over until Jaehyun came to apologize, screwed up a few times during their schedule, knocked over Sanghyuk's drink (which the latter didn't blame him for, but he also remained silent, which made Woonhak feel worse about it all), and had really just wanted some peace and quiet. Not the kind where he was totally alone (because while he did value his alone time, something about the recent hecticness had drawn him closer to the comfort of his hyungs), but the comfortable kind; the kind where he could be held, coddled a little, pretend to hate it and pretend like he didn't feel as if the world was suffocating him. At least, he'd wanted something normal.
Normal doesn't have a good definition in their books. What's considered normal is days packed with schedules and work and exhaustion. But the normal they've sort-of agreed on using is the normal of their rare breaks, the ones where it really does feel like they're just six boys, ordinary in all sorts of ways. Woonhak just wanted to feel ordinary. Feel loved like ordinary.
Maybe that was his goal when he crawled into Dongmin's studio that night. Maybe that was why when Dongmin ignored his call of, Hyung, shrugged off Woonhak's hand, evaded his touch, and told him, I'm working, he'd felt—
Woonhak hiccups. He buries his face further into the pillow, ignoring the way his snot smears over the fabric and his face, and tries not to recall the way Dongmin had looked at him, exhausted, exasperated, not mean but just blunt. Like, I'm working, was all he needed to say to Woonhak. Like he didn't want to say more, like he didn't want Woonhak there, like he didn't want Woonhak's touch, his comfort, his seeking of comfort or any mess of emotions Woonhak brought to the table. It's all a bunch of likes, a bunch of examples and unfinished sentences that Woonhak could come up with hundreds of answers to. He usually takes pride in his vivid imagination, but it's a bit of a burden now.
It feels as though Dongmin had meant to say a million things with a few simple actions. The worst part is that Dongmin usually does—he usually hides meaning in actions. It's impossible to assume that his ignoring, his brushing off, his avoiding and raw words were impulsive more than anything. So while it's not Dongmin's fault, it's not Woonhak's fault either. He doesn't overthink, doesn't fall into rabbit holes of am-I-enoughs, doesn't succumb to insecurities when they come knocking on his door, but all of it seems reasonable once confronted with Han Dongmin.
He's in the middle of repeating to himself, It's fine, it's fine, you just cry out these last few regrets, wake up with puffy eyes, and then move on with your life, when he feels the bed dip beside him. The weight of it is familiar; the rustling that comes after is familiar too. Even before an arm curls around his torso, Woonhak knows that Dongmin has tiptoed up the dorm stairs and into his room once again.
"Hey," Dongmin whispers. He tangles his legs with Woonhak's, bringing himself closer until rough hair strands and careful breaths are pressed to Woonhak's nape.
Woonhak doesn't respond. He knows Dongmin knows he's crying, but he still tries to suck in the rest of his tears. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work—he ends up gasping into a sob, a little louder if only because Dongmin's presence hurts him in a way he hadn't been hurt before.
Dongmin holds him tighter. He doesn't ask about it—doesn't ask why Woonhak's crying, doesn't ask what's wrong, doesn't ask why Woonhak didn't come to him instead. He doesn't even ask if he's allowed to occupy the space next to Woonhak. He already knows the answer to all of those questions, probably. What he does do is rub his face into Woonhak's back and say, "Hyung's sorry."
Woonhak digs his fingers into the pillow. "It's okay," he says snottily. The words are muffled against the fabric, and even he knows they're not true. Somehow, confronted with the idea that Dongmin is here out of guilt, Woonhak feels like he's the one who has to provide reassurance.
Dongmin doesn't say anything for a moment. Then: "I didn't mean it."
"I know." A part of Woonhak had always known—the part that thrums with Dongmin's love, the one that really understands their dependence on one another. It's just that it hadn't been loud enough to drown out the mess of his thoughts.
"I mean-" Dongmin sighs as if that wasn't the answer he was looking for. "It's been tiring. I just needed some time to myself."
"I know," Woonhak repeats, hollow. Of course he knows Dongmin values his space. Despite the latter's growing affection for group activities, he's clear with the lines he draws. He's especially clear with them when it comes to work. Woonhak gets it, he really does—composing takes time, builds frustration, and sometimes it genuinely isn't good to have someone around—but it doesn't make it hurt any less. He tries to ignore that.
"It's not your fault," Dongmin finishes lamely. "You know-" he cuts himself off, then continues quietly, "You know, it's always about you. But never when it comes to that. Never."
A few tears make their way down the line of Woonhak's cheek. He tries to digest the words, swallow them whole, cherish them because they truly mean everything in the world of Dongmin. And maybe it's enough to hear just that, to know that he's the center of Dongmin's world, but still, selfishly—
"Hyung," Woonhak chokes out, and his heart aches in his chest. He wants to rub at it, maybe attempt to soothe it, but a part of him knows that there's only one way his heart can rest: "Can you tell me you love me?"
"I love you," Dongmin says immediately. He says it so fast that even he seems surprised, freezing against Woonhak's skin. Then, unfreezing, he pushes against Woonhak's waist in an attempt to rotate him. Woonhak complies; his back falls to the bed as he faces the ceiling, which quickly becomes Dongmin's face when the older moves to hover above him.
Woonhak blinks at him. Suddenly, he's embarrassed that he cried, that he overthought things, that he dared to wonder if Dongmin held any feeling other than adoration for him. Of course Dongmin speaks in a different love language than him. And of course he is unhesitating to translate, to soothe Woonhak in this way, to give him not the semblance of normalcy that he wants but rather the reassurance he needs.
"Hyung loves you," Dongmin whispers. He's not good with sincere physical affection, not usually, but he brings a hand up to Woonhak's cheek anyway, brushing away the last spare tear. Woonhak tries not to cry more at the tenderness of it. "Hyung loves you so much, Woonhak-ah."
Woonhak knows what he should say. He should return the sentiment, whisper back, I love you too, tell Dongmin that he's okay now. But he's not okay, not really; he's better, not healed, and somehow that means more. Like a wound whose surrounding skin didn't magically mend itself back together, instead pierced through, stretched taut, pulled into stitches: the best attempt at reassembling. Not normal, but not bleeding.
In the end, their definition of normal is nowhere near the real normal, and the real normal is nowhere near what normal is supposed to be. Feeling loved like ordinary is impossible. They can only feel loved—they can only love—in their odd, jarring way; not a miracle, nor a mundanity, just Kim Woonhak and Han Dongmin, never completely healed but filling the gaps between them with stitches anyway.
Woonhak raises his head to kiss Dongmin, and hopes that it says everything except, I'm okay now.
"What are you thinking about?" Dongmin asks when they take a momentary break from kissing.
"You," Woonhak answers, and then, deciding that sounds too cringe, "or, well, um. Just stuff. Idol stuff."
"Mhm," hums Dongmin, not sounding particularly convinced. He leans in again, cradling the back of Woonhak's neck as if by kissing him he can pry out all his secrets, carve into his heart, make a place for himself there. Woonhak kisses back to tell him that he already has.