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one thing Jiung’s come to notice slowly throughout his career is that he’s the most disposable person in their small group.
of course, he has those percentages, the ones that make up a small number of their fan base that are solely rooting for Jiung’s success. He’s okay with that—he thinks. It’s not one of those things he thinks about a lot. (Again, he thinks.)
He’s not even all that bitter about it, he recognizes his friends are good at these things—probably even better than him. He would never admit that.
He gets that he’s not exactly a visual like Taeyang, or can sing a ballad at the drop of a hat like Keeho—hell, he cant even dance anywhere up to par like their younger members can. But he knows he doesn’t suck at it—so he’s just endlessly stuck in the middle.
There are times where he thinks about his friends in a bitter light—usually totally in vain because he always ends up telling himself why are you getting so worked up about something you can’t control?
The thing is, he guesses, he can.
———————
It’s Taeyang that really gets him. He brings out that bitter, unruly dark energy unfurling from his chest. He just thinks Taeyang’s so much better than him at everything. Better at singing, better at dancing, better looking.
(a piece of him rationally berates himself for thinking these thoughts—but the other piece of him bares it’s ugly teeth and it begins to quiet down.)
Jiung thinks—Taeyang doesn’t get it. Sure, they’ve all been subjected to varying levels of hate from social media—but Taeyang especially has gotten the least load. He didn’t get bullied for his smile like Jongseob, or get dragged for his past like Keeho—
(that rational part of him decides he hasn’t gotten bullied for cutting his hair short, or being repeatedly told to lose weight from those bitter netizens online—)
That’s another thing, too. The diets. Even newly adult Shota and 17 year old Jongseob still have to go through the careful diets the company has given them. It hasn’t really been affecting the group as much—at least he didn’t notice until Taeyang dropped 7 pounds in less than a week and a half. that’s when it started to get a little more serious. He realized Taeyang began to skip more and more meals, and spent that borrowed time in the recording studio or practice room.
(and for him, he found himself following Taeyangs lead. If Taeyang was so perfect, then he would just do whatever he did, then maybe he would be as perfect as him.)
He could also see it when they began to treat Taeyang so much more carefully—like he was a piece of delicate china that would break if handled too roughly. He was happy, though, if he could just keep the members off his back for just a little while longer.
————
It was a sullen night when that bitterness for Taeyang that plagued his figure really came out to play during dinner in their dorm. It was some gross rubbery chicken with a side of assorted vegetables that Jiung had been put off on the minute he simply smelled the food being cooked.
He picked at it with his fork before pushing the plate away from him and pulling his chair out from the table.
“Hey, I’m gonna go lay down for a bit, if that’s okay with you guys.” He said, clearing his throat. Various heads turn to him. He sees Jongseob look away from the app he was tapping away from on his phone, and Shota carefully put the fork he was scraping the porcelain with down.
“Are you okay?” Keeho asks, looking up at him with those curious eyes of his. He swallows.
“Yeah, just not feeling well.” He says, turning away, but not before Taeyang commented with a scoff.
He hated it. It sounded so condescending, so fake. It just made him want to scream and rip his hair out—and he was really debating on doing that. The lack of food was really started to get to him, and he was getting more irritable by the second.
“What?” He asked lowly, a bit of venom bleeding into his voice. It seemed so natural to him but it must’ve been too cold for everyone else, because Intak’s dark doe eyes snapped up to his in a millisecond.
“Nothing, nothing.” He mumbles, and then Jiung’s really had it.
“Just spit it out, Taeyang!” He said, his voice raising a bit at the end. Keeho looked between them like a ping pong match. Taeyang merely narrowed his eyes at him.
“I was just gonna say you never seem to eat anymore, geez.” He said, voice tapering off near the end.
“Yeah, and what about you?” He said, that irritably really taking over then.
“Can we just chill out, please—?” Jongseob pleaded with them, pulling his eyes to look at the both of them fully.
“What about me?” Taeyang says, sitting up a bit straighter, a bit more rigid. He’s becoming defensive he thinks.
“Oh, don’t even act all innocent, Taeyang. how about the fact you’ve dropped 10 pounds in two weeks, right? Of course, it’s okay when you do it, because Taeyang just needs to be so perfect for his little fans, but suddenly when I do it, it’s such a problem?” Jiung says, heat bubbling through his core like when they do intense choreography practices. Taeyang stands up then, sharply and suddenly, making the four of them still sitting jump.
“Are you kidding me?” He hisses out, staring Jiung dead in the eye. There’s this—awful feeling threatening to crawl out his chest through ripping his heart out and leaving a plunging hole in its wake. Theo’s eyes are just like his. Void of any emotion, dulled from the endless nights of staying awake ignoring the hunger pangs because you just have to go a little while longer and it’ll all be worth it. He sees it—and Jiung realizes a little muted Taeyang does understand it, he always has. But it didn’t really matter to him in that moment, so he just hissed out
“What? Your little secrets out now?” He says, and it brings him satisfaction when Keeho stands up too. He hopes maybe that he’d say something to the both of them, but instead it goes a little along the lines like
“Taeyang, is that true?” He says, and Jiung feels his heart cracking a little bit when he says it. Taeyang in front of him gapes like a fish, grappling for a defense. Instead he just looks down, squares his shoulder, and without looking up again he mutters a hope you’re happy and stalks off to his room. Jiung stands there, wide eyes looking at him, as the embers of the argument began to sizzle and steam, being put out for the night, the fire inside him dulling, leaving that painful, empty achiness in his core.
“Jiung—“ Intak starts, the first time he’s spoken all night, and Jiung sees the unshed tears brimming in his eyes—and even if it hurt a little too much to admit, he just turned and decided to lock himself in their community bathroom.
———
Jiung doesn’t let himself break down that often. He especially has issues with even communicating these emotions like other people can. And when he cant convey these emotions, he cant sleep, either. It’s why, when he’s awake to witness the stuttered and muffled sobs of the room next door from Taeyang, and it makes his heart clench painfully in his chest out of regret, but his fists clench suddenly out of anger, he finds himself needing to calm down. He pretends not to hear when Keeho walks back in, feeling the stare on his back as the other figure retreats into his bed. That inability to sleep carry’s on, all the way to when the sun began to rise over the clouds, and the inky black of their room slowly becomes that familiar dusty gray.
——————-
dance practice is kind of awkward the next morning, at least for the others. Jiung’s in a pretty good mood.
It’s one of those better body days, one where he can safely look in the mirror and not want to gauge his eyes out at what he sees. Also, the fact, that he’s officially one hundred and five freakin’ pounds is a little bit crazy to him, because back when he debuted his was a sickeningly 140 pounds
(again, that pestering little part of his brain yells at him that it’s normal for that weight—it’s healthy. he was healthy. the other part doesnt listen. it never does.)
he believes he’s doing good, there’s no room for screw ups on his part— until he does, and badly.
it’s just a stupid dance practice, where they go over simple moves. however, he just can’t seem to shake this dizzying feeling that accompanies spotty vision and a shaking, trembling body.
(is he floating? he feels like he’s floating.)
he’s not floating, he realizes, when his body comes into contact with the wooden floor. Keeho’s on him in an instant, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder as he tries to regain his wits about him.
“Jiung, are you okay?” Keeho says, softly, comfortingly. The rest of the group surrounds them, and so does the choreography. He crouches down next to them, eyes softening.
“I think you need a break, kid.” He says, but the idea is immediately dissed by Jiung, who sits up a little too quickly for his liking, watching back dots dance across his vision.
“No, I’m fine, seriously!” He says, waving his hands around. He can’t afford to lose a whole day of practicing just because he’s stupid and doesn’t know when to quit.
“Just stop.” Taeyang says, pleading with him. He intercepts Keeho and places both hands on his shoulders.
“I’m sorry for what I said last night, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself!” Taeyang says, shaking him slightly. He realizes, Taeyang’s words are mere warnings. Tinged with slight panic and desperation. His breath is labored, and he can’t even speak, so all he does is nod. Then, he sits on the sidelines, and he can practically see his career sliding down the drain.
That night Jiung dreams—which is different, because he never dreams. When he does, they’re usually far and in between. This dreams weird, though.
It starts with him in the morning how he usually does. 5 minutes for skincare, 15 for a shower, 2 for brushing his teeth, none for eating, of course. and then that rest of the 30 minutes he’s given is spent picking at his ivory skin in the mirror.
That’s where it starts, but it’s not too long before the scene begins to change. Suddenly, he’s watching himself from outside his body—but he can still see himself. And on the other side of him—is a bright purple blob with no distinguishing features other than a blue ribbon that wraps around it.
He looks at it in confusion, for a moment. and then it speaks. It doesn’t have a mouth, but he can hear a voice in his head. Soft and methodical, flowing through his ears like honey.
“have you always been this unhappy?” the blob says. It startled him, and he tried to speak, but nothing seems to come out.
“have you always deprived yourself of ingredients mixed to create a cocktail of flesh and blood?” It continues.
“have you always despised me so much in the mirror to the point you can’t take it anymore? as you watch the glass shatter and crack and fall and break. have you always hated the mirror this much? have you always cut into my flesh and break and battle the despondency that flows through our figure?” it’s voice is rising slightly, and he can feel all the anxiety and panic and self deprecating thoughts hit his body at full force.
“have you always cried into late hours of the night—watching shadows dance across your vision in an attempt to keep yourself sane? have you always tossed and turned in a futile attempt to bring yourself closer to the edge of sleep?” Jiung hates it—because everything it’s saying is true. These endless questions are asking an answer-less question. Deep down, he knows it all too well.
“why do you not understand the importance of me—i am the reason you can walk miles everyday. why do you do this to us?” his eyes wander and well up in great rainfalls of salty crystals that fall with heavy drops. he can feel them trail down his face.
“why do you weep?” the blob asks.
“because i do not like you.” his mind whispers, and then he realizes that blob is just a simple manifestation of his subconscious—like his mind and body have been severed to create two beings.
he wants to apologize to his body, the one he teas down and ruins. the one he constantly will set up for failure. the one that brings him miles but he has yet to see the beauty in it—if there is any, at all. hes sorry—to himself, to his friends, to his family— sorry to the body, for never believing it was good enough.
That’s when he sees himself—truly sees himself, for the first time. He sees the skin clinging to his bones in a gruesome attempt at covering his ivory frame that threatens to crack and break under the pressure. he feels his chest tighten and the room becoming darker and darker.
In the blink of an eye Jiung wakes up, likes he’s just slept for an endless amount of hours. The birds outside chirp, and the sun blinds him through their curtains. He realizes well into the minutes he woke up it’s the first time he’s slept fully through the night in a long, long time.
———-
he gathers them in the living room, and he’s sick, he’s going to throw up, but he has to do this, he thinks hard.
“So….” He starts, voice breaking off, he doesn’t even know what to properly say. How does he go about this? How does he say sometimes i wish i could cut my face off and sew on a new one. sometimes i wish i could pick apart my skin and eat away at my flesh. sometimes i wish i could snap my bones and crumble them into fine dust that sprinkles over the earth. sometimes i wish i could rip out my own hair—chunks of scalp and flesh and strands of hair that fly off and snap and break. i am made of straw—that sways and bends in the wind. i am made of fine china, and one wrong move will have the whole thing collapsing. i have become a shell of myself. you do not understand how much i wish i was someone else.
He doesn’t know how to convey that, so instead he starts small.
“I…I have an issue.” He says, and it feels like the right thing to say, because Intaks eyes find his, and Keeho slowly nods.
“I—I just…I’ve been dealing with things lately…and it’s getting really hard, and really scary—“ He cuts himself off, choking on his own saliva. He feels like he’s drowning when tears well up in his eyes. It takes less than 4 seconds for Taeyang to cross the room and wrap his lanky arms around him.
“It’s okay..” He whispers, he kind of sounds like he’s out of breath, like it took everything in him to say those simple words. Jiung realizes he gets it. Him and Taeyang are not on two different levels—they are the same. One in each other. Taeyang gets it. He always has.
Then it’s Keeho who joins in, and after that it’s Intak. Then it’s Jongseob and Shota, and it’s not long before the six of them end up in a puppy dog pile on the floor.
He realizes they must look a little silly. five young adults and one teenager, with varying levels of gangly limbs and different issues all in a heap on the floor. He can’t help the smile that etches onto his face, even as Taeyangs own tears begin to wet his shirt.
He realizes muted and slowly that he’s one of the most important people in his group, that he’s not disposable. Because they are six, not five. Recovery isn’t linear. He realizes that when Keehos face finds its way into the crook of his neck, and Shota’s hand finds its way to his hair, to pet it in delicate strokes. He realizes it too, when Taeyang shoulders shake as he realizes he’s never been alone.
Jiung realizes it too, that even if the work is tough and the diets are even tougher, he will always have them. This group, his family, are his sun, moon and stars. He realizes it a lot along the way.
He’s got a lot of realizations lately, but the biggest one he’s had—one that’s stuck with him, it’s that he will never be alone. Not when he was this group of 5 boys who have burrowed themselves so deep into his heart. That’s a lesson he’s learned from the moment he became an idol—it just took a while for his shitty mind to recognize it.