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He can’t help it.
He can’t help his steaming anger.
He can’t help the fact that his fist is in the wall.
“Shit.” Jihoon curses. He’s not supposed to curse. But he isn’t supposed to thrust his balled up fist through the drywall either.
Their room is split perfectly in half. The left side belongs to Soonyoung; the walls are orange and covered in idol posters, tiger pattern sheets adorn his bed, and more of his dance clothes rest on his desk than school work does. Jihoon has the right side. His bed sheets are grey, his desk is tidy, his wardrobe is half empty. Most noticeable of all, however, are the random photos of Taemin taped to the wall on his side of the room.
Jihoon isn’t a fan of Taemin.
Taemin belongs with the other idols covering all parts of Soonyoung’s walls.
Beneath his photos are Jihoon’s fist-sized holes in the wall. There’s half a dozen now with this new addition. He pulls out his fist, his knuckles sting, they’re red. Tomorrow he’ll wake up to bruises.
He leans forward until his head pknocks against the cold wall. It’s icy against his flaming skin, he feels his anger sizzle at the contact.
“Jihoon-ah?” Appa calls out so softly, his gentle knuckle tapping at the door.
It pisses Jihoon off.
Everything pisses Jihoon off. He hates Seungkwan’s incessant singing and he hates the apple juice Appa bought. Soonyoung’s constant tapping of his feet got on his very last nerves. He hates the binder digging into his ribs and the fact that he has to wear a stupid binder in the first place! He despises that he’s filled with this much anger. The fact that he's angry makes him furious.
“Hun, are you okay in there? I heard a loud crash.” Appa sounds so concerned, not even a lick of anger taints his tone.
“I need a minute, Appa.” Jihoon tries not to speak through gritted teeth.
With his index finger, he traces the rough outline of the hole. There’s a smudge of blood.
Appa hasn’t left yet. “Are you safe?”
Jihoon sighs. “Yeah,” he reassures. Jihoon sighs as he knocks off hanging pieces of the wall. “There’s another hole in the wall.”
Appa hums, he won’t be happy. “Take a few minutes to yourself.”
His forehead against the wall begins to ache. Jihoon can hear Appa’s light footsteps walking away.
It’s impossible to pinpoint what pulled the last trigger inside of him. Was it the detention he was given for refusing to change in the girls’ locker room? Was it the fact that he hadn’t been allowed to play on the boys team in sports class? Maybe it was the aunty he bought hotteok from who said she was so pretty.
Jihoon pulls away. He glances at the hole, larger than the others now that his hands have grown. He wishes he would grow as quickly as Soonyoung.
After the destruction comes the wave of upset.
He falls forward onto his bed and groans into his pillow. His body has cooled, no longer flaming and ready to burn everything in his wake.
Being angry makes him mean. That fact alone annoys him, like an endless loop of fury he doubts he’ll ever escape.
Jihoon had snapped at Seungkwan in the car ride home from school. His dongsaeng wasn’t doing anything wrong, he wasn’t bugging Jihoon like he enjoys doing sometimes, he wasn’t singing at the top of his lungs, and he wasn’t blabbering on some nonsense about his volleyball team, yet Jihoon had still snapped at him. Appa scolded him in response. Jihoon, in that moment, didn’t feel guilt or regret, just anger at his dad as well as his little brother.
He feels regret now.
He wishes he were a nicer person. Perhaps he could be kinder if he wasn’t always on edge, expecting the worst from everyone he meets.
He grumbles a response when there’s another knock at the door. It creaks open and then closes. The bed dips, inching Jihoon closer to the newly added weight. Appa’s fingers run through his hair, short and ragged, Jihoon had chopped a fair chunk of it off a few nights ago in a fit of rage.
“What’s wrong, Jihoon?” Appa asks, his voice is so soft and laced with worry.
He keeps his face smushed into the pillow, not wanting Appa to see his red cheeks and glossy eyes. “I don’t know.”
He hears Appa sigh, small and quiet but it’s there.
“I feel like I could explode,” Jihoon quietly admits.
It feels like he’s a volcano that’s always on the brink of eruption. His anger bubbles up inside of him, sometimes escaping in small amounts, but always waiting for the final explosion.
Appa brings up the usual solutions, talking to the school nurse or finding a counsellor for him, but Jihoon doesn’t like either of those options. He doesn’t want more people to know him, to dissect every part of him and blame his anger on his gender, he knows that’s the direction it’ll take.
“Appa? I don’t want to talk about it now,” Jihoon says gently. The eruption has ended but the lava still bubbles.
They spend time in silence. Jihoon pulls his stinging hand away when Appa runs his thumb over his knuckles. He’ll have to remember to take one of Soonyoung’s spare posters to cover the wreckage in the wall.
There’s a knock on the front door, Soonyoung answers it and then half a dozen voices talk loudly. “Uncle Cheol brought take out,” Appa says.
“M not hungry.”
“We’ll save some for you. Would you like me to stay?”
Jihoon shakes his head. He needs some time alone to cool down.
“I love you, Prince, take as much time as you need.” Appa leans down and presses a kiss to his head. Before he leaves, he slots one of the cds into the player, listening to music always works to calm him down.
The melodic tunes calm his racing heart. Finally, he unclenches his jaw and his shoulders relax.
He finds the strength to change out of his uncomfortable uniform to dress in his joggers and sweatshirt instead - the binder remains firmly, preventing him from falling entirely apart. Jihoon lays back down, staring up at the ceiling. Why does he have to be like this?
Jihoon thinks Appa has already come back to bother him when there’s another knock on the door, but it’s Uncle Seungcheol who appears, holding their small first aid kit. His smile is warm, not sympathetic. “Appa said your hand looked sore.” Jihoon stretches his fingers out, and yeah, that hurts.
Uncle Seungcheol pulls the desk chair closer, he sits across from Jihoon. The wipe pressed to his scratched, bloody skin stings painfully, his uncle mutters reassurances. His hand gets wrapped up in a thin layer of bandages, normally they just leave it to heal by itself, or stick several bandaids on and hope for the best.
“You did quite some damage,” Uncle Seungcheol says with an impressed chuckle, “we should sign you up for boxing.”
“They’d put me with the girls,” Jihoon mumbles.
His uncle doesn’t bother to disagree and lie.
“Sport is a good outlet for extra energy,” Uncle Seungcheol says as he zips up the first aid kit and disposes of the wipes in the bin. “You could come on one of my runs.”
Jihoon shrugs. He leaves his brothers to be the sporty ones in the family, music is more his thing.
“Seok has been asking me to play baseball with him, maybe you could come too.” It’s not the worst idea. Seokmin has a bit of limp when he runs, at least Jihoon won’t have to run long or far.
“Okay.”
Uncle Seungcheol looks surprised, but he smiles. “Seok will love that,” he says. “Are you hungry? Mingyu left a space at the table for you.”
Jihoon does end up following Uncle Seungcheol to the dining table. There are hardly enough seats, but Mingyu hasn’t let anyone take the chair beside him, saving it only for Jihoon.
Family time helps to distract his mind. He listens to Mingyu talk about his day and he watches Myungho and Soonyoung show off their dance.
He’s dormant again.