Jongin is fine. His head isn't pounding and he is not dehydrated. His knees aren't ready to crack and his waist is perfectly fine. His heart isn't thundering in his chest, and his lungs aren't heaving trying to breathe in what they cannot. Jongin's brain isn't swimming with 500 thoughts he cannot decipher, and his hands aren't tapping incessantly at the cold, hard floor of a studio he shouldn't be in this late.
Jongin is fine.
His bracelet echoes each time it connects with the floor, each time his finger taps in an effort to stop the flood of things screaming through his mind and his breaths are loud and harsh because his lungs refuse to take in the air he needs. Jongin holds his other hand, the one that hangs loose on his thigh up to his head and lets out one long shaky breath, feeling the way his tongue sticks uncomfortably to the top of his mouth with a lack of water, feeling the way his leotard sticks close to his legs, tightens around his crotch.
The material isn't made for someone like him. The costume, the outfit in which Jongin feels real, feels like himself in the dark hours when he can't understand his brain and feels like passing out, isn't made for him. Jongin stares at his reflection, refusing to see the bags under his eyes, refusing to see the way his posture slumps from the sharp, stabbing pains in his lower back, refusing to notice anything but the too-small tutu that sits around his waist, the v-necked top that sticks to his skin.
Jongin giggles. He's okay.
He stands up, ignoring the aches, ignoring the way his vision blurs momentarily. He suffers because he has to. Every inch of self loathing, of physical pain, of mental denial about everything he is is worth the moments when he can twirl and see himself in the mirror, feminine and graceful.
Jongin pushes his hair out of his eyes, sweat soaked fingers making him cringe more than the pain of overworking himself, more than the tiredness of dehydration. Not feminine enough.
He finds his phone tucked into the slopes of his worn workout bag, lit up with a missed message, a worried response because he'd poured out some paragraph that made no sense, had tried to speak the thoughts that go round and round.
are you okay?
Jongin is fine.
He thinks of the skirts hidden at the bottom of his underwear drawer, and the photos in his camera roll of dresses, of curled, long wigs. That's fine. They're fine. (You're disgusting).
Jongin takes a long drink of water, lukewarm with neglect and collapses onto his bag, breathing slower but still heaving. He thinks of the soft hands that know nothing about him, and wonders if they would still want to touch him if he was a girl.
I'm glad one of us is
Jongin panics, thoughts stronger with the emotion of another. Soft hands that should feel no pain.
He doesn't answer the text, selfish guilt joining the things he doesn't feel as he rushes into his normal (boy) clothes, wiping the sweat from his body with a cloth, grimacing each time it touches him and reminds him that he's disgusting.
The sound of a violin can be heard from down the hall, but Jongin knows by now, that it isn't the one he wants to hear, is played by rough hands that belong to someone unimportant. A girl.
why? Jongin answers, legs curled underneath him on the bus stop bench, knees shrieking with pain that he ignores. He is fine, he is used to it.
i had this super spicy noodle haha its nothing Jongin shrinks back against the cold metal frame of the bench, filled instantly with regret, with self hatred for feeling too much, for thinking that Baekhyun could ever actually say something serious.
you're not even friends. you're working together.
It's fine, though. Jongin is used to being in pain. He forgets that some others aren't used to it, that some others like Baekhyun with his soft hands who cares for nothing, aren't used to being broken everyday.
lol He types as his bus pulls up. don't be such a girl
because being a girl is disgusting right?
haha aren't u the girl here Jongin turns off his phone, because he's fine and nothing hurts, especially not his heart. The thoughts are coming back, intrusive and unstoppable and dysphoric, ripping apart his concentration and pausing his breathing.
Jongin stares out the bus window with dull eyes. He'll be home soon.
onyu you're up :D I made it two rounds without skipping what a miracle who is proud I know I am