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Yang Jeongin is exhausted.
It’s strange, honestly. He has been tired before. He has known exhaustion like the back of his hand since he was thirteen auditioning for the company; multiplied exponentially when he debuted, and he wasn’t even part of the hardest workers in the group. He isn’t Chan-Hyung, or Changbin-Hyung or even Jisung-Hyung, hauled up in the studio for hours past when the others got home. The most extra work Jeongin ever did was help them record guides for the approved tracks for each comeback, and even then, Seungmin and Minho did that, too.
Jeongin did his job like the rest of them. He showed up to every rehearsal, learned every dance move, ran it until his muscles burned and his bones ached, but even after a long day at the studio, maybe even with a gym trip to finish it off, Jeongin has never been this exhausted.
They just performed. Jeongin’s been guzzling down water bottles like they were his lifelines, his thirst insatiable. Chan-Hyung made sure to keep extra on hand, because Jeongin sweats a lot, and he’s almost always dehydrated. Especially lately. He doesn’t know what’s been going on. His last checkup was six months ago. He needs to go in for another one, soon. He knows that, but he had to make it through comeback season, and then all of the promotions for his brand ambassadorships, and genuinely, Jeongin just does not have time to get checked up before the yearly company mandated check in.
It’s not like he doesn’t take his health seriously. Jeongin is one of the most obsessive health nuts in their little cohort. He diets, rests well, adequately stretches, works out every muscle he can think of with little days marked out in his planner with the work out and meal plans. He’s been helping Minho with meal prep, cutting carbs, trying his best to hit his protein goals and trying even harder to stay hydrated. He’s healthy. He’s well fed. He is so goddamn thirsty.
Yeah, his desperation for a good old fashioned bottle of water seemed to become his new obsession. His rehearsal bottle went from a refillable liter to a two liter bottle that he rinsed out after Chan-Hyung had finished a bottle of soda. It was not practical, and likely leaked microplastics into the already abysmally filtered company water from the fountain down the hall, but Jeongin knew he would be missing way too much rehearsal if he didn’t have the giant bottle to guzzle down two to three gargantuan gulps every time they ran something.
Frankly, he sucked at drinking water before the claws of thirst came and yanked him back down into the hellscape that was being dehydrated and hyper aware of it. Jeongin would go through entire seven hour rehearsals and still have half a water bottle at the end. He remembers one time Changbin sat him down in the studio after dance practice and basically force fed him liquid IV before he let him into the booth to record guides. Jeongin remembers hating him at that point, because liquid IV is gross, and he stands by that, but it did stop Changbin from pinching the back of his hand for forty seconds, just to see if the skin would stick up. “Not enough water in your veins,” Changbin had told him, to which Jeongin had scoffed.
“Water doesn’t go in veins, Hyung. Blood does.”
The memory is fond, now, because Changbin did not wind up punching him (likely because Chan had chosen that moment to walk through the door with Jisung in tow), but it feels strange to look back on, because Jeongin is just… one thirsty motherfucker now.
Which is why now, as stage lights fade and the cheers of fans become background noise, Jeongin is practically bowling over a couple stage hands just to get to their dressing room. It feels like a labyrinth, halls extending far and wide with identical doors only distinguished by the little slips of printer paper on each door with group names on it. Jeongin loves variety shows, truly, but he desperately needs water and he desperately does not want to have to read every door to find the one he’s looking for. He needs a neon sign. A big lightbulb shining directly onto their door, guiding him to the precious cooler in between his and Yongbok’s dressing room chairs. Seriously. If he doesn’t get water now, he is convinced he is going to keel over and die.
Jeongin is floundering, walking as fast as he can, even if he’s stumbling around like a baby deer, because one of these doors has to be his door. He just needs to find it, but the fonts are thin and Jeongin’s vision is blurring because he’s so goddamn tired and so goddamn thirsty—
An arm wraps around his shoulder. Jeongin stumbles; whimpers.
“Ayen-ah,” Minho’s voice coos. The grip on his shoulder tightens. “Where are you going? Our dressing room’s that way?”
…What?
Jeongin turns to face him, mouth opening and closing, like a fish out of water, desperately gasping for air. A fitting metaphor for his current predicament, but he doesn’t really have time to think about that right now.
“I dunno,” he breathes. “‘m thirsty.”
“I figured,” Minho responds. He uses his free hand to gently shove a water bottle into Jeongin’s trembling hands, and Jeongin could kiss him, genuinely. Maybe. After he emptied this bottle of everything in it. He accepts it greedily, breaking the seal of the cap. He pays no attention to the cap as it falls to the floor, because Jeongin’s already pressing the bottle to his lips and reveling in the sweet, sweet relief of water after being parched for so long.
He doesn’t even realize Minho bends to pick up his cap until Jeongin is suddenly bending with him. He didn’t realize how much weight he was actually putting onto Minho. He tries to right himself, but Minho’s already under him, so when Jeongin stumbles, instead of having the coordination to put one foot in front of the other, he steps completely wrong and crumbles to the ground, half of the water bottle spilling onto the concrete floor beneath him.
A waste, really, but Minho’s picking him up immediately, and Jeongin’s still stuck on spilled liquid.
“Yang Jeongin,” Minho says, his voice leaving no room for error on Jeongin’s end. “What is going on with you? Are you feeling okay?”
Jeongin stares at Minho for a second, his eyes hazy as he tries to understand how he got from the floor to being held up by Minho. His shirt’s wet. Jeongin is soggy.
“Tired,” he admits, because he is. He used up the last of his energy and coordination on that stage they just performed. He can barely shuffle alongside Minho as his hyung all but drags him back in the direction of their dressing room. “Thirsty.”
“I know,” Minho relents. “Let’s get you sitting down, so you don’t fall over on your next water bottle. How about that, hm?”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Jeongin says, because he frankly has no fight left in him, and he wouldn’t want to fight it, anyway.
So, Jeongin pads along the path that Minho takes him down, shuffling his feet as he leans into his hyung’s side for support. Something’s wrong. Something is terribly wrong and Jeongin is starting to get a bad feeling about how he is feeling, but he persists. He can maybe get a day off soon, and maybe when that happens, he can manage a checkup, make sure that everything is in working order, maybe even get some IV fluids, because those can help with dehydration. That’s like, all saline is used for, right?
He does not feel well. He feels so unwell, in fact, that the water in his stomach is starting to twist and turn uncomfortably. Jeongin feels the first twinge of nausea take hold of him the minute that Minho turns them into their dressing room. He opens the door rather abruptly, Jeongin thinks, because the second he can focus enough to make out that everyone else is, in fact back, and are in various states of getting un-ready, they’re all already staring at the two.
“Woah,” Kim Seungmin says. Jeongin wants to shake him. “What happened to you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jeongin mumbles as Minho sits him down in his chair. Another water bottle finds its way into his hands, and Jeongin thanks the good lord above for Yongbok, who keeps his hand over him for a second too long after making sure Jeongin’s grip on the bottle was adequate.
“Why are you wet?” Felix asks. Jeongin retracts his thankfulness.
“None o’ your business,” Jeongin slurs, but Minho talks directly after him.
“He fell on his water bottle in the hallway.”
Jeongin glances up at Minho, but does not glorify the truth with a response, because he’s halfway done with the bottle in his hand, the plastic crunching unnaturally as Jeongin sucks the water out of it with the airtight seal of his lips. He is thirsty. He’s thirsty and bone tired and not feeling very well and he would like to go home before something else happens that adds to whatever clusterfuck shitshow this night is already turning into.
Jeongin finishes the water bottle. The plastic clatters to the floor, echoing through the room as Jeongin exhales. “More, please.”
Chan is suddenly on the floor in front of him, handing him a water bottle from the cooler in front of him. Jeongin takes it greedily, cracking it and raising it to his lips before anyone can tell him to slow down. He can’t. If there isn’t water moving through his mouth at all times, his mouth becomes saharan. He needs it so bad he swats at Chan’s hand when he reaches up to attempt to slow him down.
“Jeongin,” Chan tries, but Jeongin cannot focus on him. The bottle is almost empty. “Can you tell me why you fell? Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Jeongin gasps, dropping the bottle to the floor as it is nothing but empty plastic. He takes a couple deep breaths. His head hurts. His body hurts. He’s so tired and he has absolutely no clue why, but all of that means nothing because Jeongin is still fucking thirsty. “More.”
“No,” Chan murmurs, running a soothing hand up and down Jeongin’s thigh. Jeongin almost shies away from it, but Chan looks so concerned. Even when he whimpers in response, Chan holds strong and leans forward. “I don’t want you drinking too much.”
“It’s water,” Jeongin wails. He leans over in his chair to reach for the cooler, but Chan stops him.
“Iyen-ah,” he frowns. “One more, okay? Pace yourself.”
“I will.” Jeongin nods. Chan hands him another bottle from the cooler, and Jeongin stares at it, opening the bottle with slow, shaky hands. His mouth is bone dry. He craves it, but he’s being cut off. He wants to imagine he’s like Jisung-Hyung, getting cut off at the bar because he’s a lightweight, but Jeongin wasn’t being cut off from beer or shots. He was being cut off of water. The elixir of life. There shouldn’t be anything wrong with him staying hydrated. This wasn’t fair.
Still, he took it slow, eyes closing as he took little sips. They were cold. They were refreshing. They were hitting the rest of the water in his stomach so quickly that he barely had time to register his stomach gurgling. It twisted; the nausea that made itself known just minutes before, and each new sip added onto it, like a little electrical jump, until the nausea was rearing its ugly head. “Hyung—” Jeongin didn’t know who he was speaking to. He moved his arms to protect his stomach, trying not to gag.
“Here, Jeonginnie,” Hyunjin’s voice sounded, and suddenly there was a trash can in front of him, being held up by Chan and Hyunjin if he had to guess.
Jeongin snatched the bucket from their grasps, and proceeded to spill his guts into it.
Jeongin hated vomiting. He hated the taste. He hated the sensation. He hated all of it. Every last bit of the sensation, but he was lucky, this time, because instead of the mix of bile and food that he would have gotten, Jeongin vomited the only thing left in his system: water.
He’d thrown up before the performance, but that was private, in the bathroom across from their dressing room, and he had managed to bum a breath mint off of Jisung at the beginning of the day, so by the time he was getting his makeup touched up by the stylist noona, no one could tell that Jeongin was honestly, horrendously sick. Even Jeongin himself had forgotten about it until this very moment, the muscle memory of his abs clenching, bringing up whatever was left in his stomach forcing the thought into the center of his mind.
Jeongin breathed through it, his face stuck in the trash can, eyes half lidded as he stared at his reflection in the water. The exhaustion was taking over again. Jeongin was fighting for his life to keep the bucket in front of him in his arms, but he was also, once again, so thirsty.
One of Jeongin’s hands moved on its own, trying to find the water bottle where he had discarded it next to him. It floundered frantically by his side until he felt the cool plastic grace his palm. He grabbed it, lifted his weary head, and whimpered as he nodded to the bucket.
Chan got the message, pulling it off of Jeongin’s lap. Jeongin almost collapsed forward, but was able to keep himself upright for long enough to sip at the water bottle again.
“Ayen-ah,” Jisung’s tentative voice broke him out of his water bottle obsessed haze. “Do you have a fever?”
Jeongin almost responded, until he felt Kim Seungmin’s big ass man hand press against his face. He leaned away, shooting Seungmin a glare while Seungmin shook his head. “No. He’s not warm. He’s just clammy.”
“How long have you been feeling sick?” Changbin asked. “This seems sudden. Did you push yourself too hard onstage, Yang Jeongin? Lino-Hyung made sure you ate well today, did he not?”
“I threw it up.”
“What?” Minho’s voice cut through the nervous silence. Jeongin wanted to crawl into a hole with twenty-seven water bottles and either drink them until he died, or drowned. “You… you still performed?”
“‘s not a big deal, Hyung,” Jeongin whispered. “I felt better after I threw up. I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been tired lately,” Changbin noted. “Jeonginnie, I think you should see a doctor.”
“No time,” Jeongin mumbled into his water bottle. “I—I managed. Been managin’.”
“Yang Jeongin,” Chan warned, voice low and serious. Jeongin felt bad. Chan-Hyung had to parent them too much, but never really Jeongin. Jeongin’s always been good. He’s always kept his head down and done everything right. He hates being the one who messed up. “How long has it been since you started feeling tired?”
Jeongin blinks, eyes glassy. He takes a deep breath, then another, trying to search through his brain fog for something that wasn’t thirsty, tired, thirsty, tired, thirsty, tired— “Oh. Um… about… about four months.”
Jeongin wished he could have covered his ears in preparation for the chorus of Jeongin! that assaulted him at the admission, but he could barely keep his eyes open, honestly.
It was just exhaustion. Jeongin didn’t understand what the big deal was. Everyone got tired. That was par for the course in this industry. He knew that.
Just… not everyone got this sick.
“Changbin-ah.” Chan hushed their worried murmurs with the command that followed. “Could you get one of the medics? Tell them one of our members is sick.”
“‘s not necessary,” Jeongin whimpered, but Chan shook his head.
“You are sick, Yen, and that’s okay. We’re gonna get someone to help you out.”
Jeongin whimpers, swatting in his general direction. “It’s fine.”
“No, Jeongin, we are getting you checked out.”
“I just wanna go home.”
Jeongin doesn’t realize he’s crying until his voice cracks. He brings a hand to his cheeks. They come back wet. Jeongin, for a moment, thinks it's the water from the hallway, but he touches his face again, and realizes that this water is warm.
Pathetic. He’s crying over a stomach bug.
A four month stomach bug, but a stomach bug nonetheless.
“You can go home soon, Yennie,” Chan murmured, gently reaching forward to run his hands through his hair. Jeongin leans into the touch, closing his eyes and his mouth as another wave of nausea wreaks havoc on his body. He doesn’t have enough water in his stomach to vomit again, but it doesn’t stop him from gagging slightly as he leans into Chan’s touch.
He doesn’t feel good. He feels so sick and all of his friends are staring at him like he’s a ticking time bomb and Jeongin just wants to go to sleep. He knows he should be worried. He should be concerned about how disoriented he is, but he can’t find it in himself to care much, really. He’s sick. Big deal. He’s gonna nap about it and maybe get his friends to stop looking at him.
Or maybe just… stop being aware of it.
His eyes are closed for about three seconds before there is a frantic hand on his shoulder, shaking him, sending new waves of nausea through his stomach. He whimpers, face screwing up in pain as he glances at Yongbok’s frantic eyes. His friend looks terrified, and Jeongin hates that he is the reason for such an expression, but Jeongin genuinely cannot help it.
“Don’t go to sleep yet, Yennie,” Felix says.
“I’m tired. I wanna sleep it off.”
“Maybe we should let him,” Hyunjin mutters, and Jeongin would thank him if he had the mind for it. “He’s really not looking too good.”
“We need him to be responsive for the medic,” Chan explains. Jeongin wants to fucking explode.
Fuck the medic. Jeongin isn’t even sure he could get much from the medic, outside of some zofran and more water. He’s tired. He’s still in his stage clothes. He wants to go home.
The door opens and Jeongin whines again, hearing Changbin’s unusually soft voice drift through the room. “I brought the medics,” he announces.
Jeongin hates this. He hates that a couple members of the medical teams dedicated to the performers were entering their dressing room. They should be out backstage, keeping an eye on those who still had to perform. People could fall, or hurt themselves and they would need them standing by, not back here with him.
Either way, Jeongin tears his eyes open to be met with the kind faces of a man and a woman. They both had black shirts on, and he was pretty sure they belonged to the venue, but either way, they were there for him, talking to him, staring at him like he was some sort of fucking display. Jeongin wanted to scream.
The woman approached him first, reaching into their shared bag of equipment to pull out a manual blood pressure cuff. Jeongin rolled his eyes. He’s always had good blood pressure. He’s always been in perfect condition. He takes his health fucking seriously, yet they’re still treating him like he’s some sort of basket case. It makes him want to fucking explode.
He’s fine. He accepts when she wraps the cuff around his bicep, relaxing his arm so she can squeeze the air into it and read whatever she needs to. She doesn’t seem to care what he thinks, though.
The man is talking to Chan, asking about symptoms; when this started, if he thought the performance brought it on. Jeongin fully believed it did not, because he was sick before the performance, It just got a little bit out of hand, here.
Jeongin inhales, closes his eyes, exhales and opens them. Everyone in the room is in a different position. His mind is cloudy. His body hurts. His head hurts and he’s staring at the back wall in an attempt to keep from throwing up the bile that had managed to make itself known. He’s trying so hard, but he’s still gagging, and before he knows it, the bucket is back in front of him and Jeongin is letting out a pitiful cry as he vomits into the already disgusting bucket. It doesn’t taste like much. A little more bile in with the tiny amounts of water he’s managed to take.
Jeongin breathes. He breathes and he cries. He cries into the bucket, his tears mixing with the liquid inside of it. His heart is racing. His mind is racing. His hands are shaking and Jeongin wants to scream but he doesn’t have the energy.
Suddenly, someone’s grabbing at his hand. Jeongin doesn’t even have time to think before his finger is pricked. He whimpers, feeling something pressed up against his fingertip as that same person squeezes it. He manages to use his free hand to set the bucket down and force his head up to glare at the man, who is holding some kind of machine that’s testing his blood.
He’s done that before. He does it once a year, just to make sure he’s okay. His glucose was a little high at his last checkup, but they attributed that to stress. Jeongin was a busy man. There was a lot on his plate and maybe that had him a bit stressed, but the numbers weren’t too out of the ordinary. Jeongin didn’t know they had those machines here, though he supposed it made sense.
The machine beeped. Both the man and the woman looked at the screen, and then back up to Chan.
“Are any of your managers here?” The man asked. That was a good question. Jeongin swore he’d seen Seojun-Hyung hanging around before the show, but they were probably getting ready to establish transportation back to their dorms, and he probably went out to make sure the route was secure for them. It made sense in his head, and made even more sense when Chan relayed that information back to the medics.
“You’re probably going to want to call your team, Bang Chan-ssi,” the woman frowned. “He needs a hospital.”
“What?” Jisung shrieked, clamboring to his feet as Jeongin whipped his head in his direction. Everything was blurry and harsh and Jisung’s loud, obnoxious, frantic, caring voice was not helping to soothe him in the slightest. “Why? What’s going on.”
“His blood glucose is high,” muttered the woman, and Jeongin could focus just long enough to make out the name on the little name tag sticker that was on her shirt. Yeri. Her name was Yeri, and Yeri was saying that his blood sugar was high.
Oh well. Twice was a group under their company, not a pattern, right? He’ll just drink more water. Get everything all flushed out of his system. Maybe go keto. He’s been bulking too much lately. Maybe he could shed a little and live off of meat and veggies for the foreseeable future.
“Th’t d’sn’t matter,” Jeongin slurred. “Was… was high at my checkup too.”
“It was what?” Minho hissed. “Yang Jeongin, you told us you were in perfect health when comeback preparations started.”
“Th’ Doctors were not concerned,” Jeongin hummed. “Said it could be stress. So I took it easy. Did everything right, Hyung. I’ll just… just take it easy again.”
“I.N-ssi,” the man frowned. Jeongin narrowed his gaze onto his name tag as well. Yongbin. He laughed a little to himself. That was like if someone took Yongbok and Changbin and smooshed them together.
No. Focus. They’re talking. Jeongin has to keep up.
“I don’t think you understand. These numbers are… dangerous. If this goes on for any longer than it already has, it can cause serious complications. This is not a matter of just taking it easy.”
“Y’re not a doctor,” Jeongin pouted.
“I’m the closest you’re gonna get until we get paramedics here. Yeri, do we still have an ambulance on standby?”
Yeri nods. Jeongin blanks.
An ambulance? Why the fuck would he need an ambulance? It’s just… he’s just a little sick. He can make it to the hospital on his own, or—
Serious complications.
For some reason, Yongbin’s words processed very late in his brain. Jeongin’s going to blame the mystery illness. The mystery illness that, if left unchecked, could cause serious complications.
Ambulance.
Is he fucking dying?
Jeongin does not know what it’s like to have a near death experience. If this is it, it’s kind of underwhelming. He feels like ass on a stick, or however that vine went, but it doesn’t feel like he’s necessarily dying. He’s tired and thirsty and nauseous and thirsty and—whatever. It’s the same shit he’s been feeling for weeks. It’s not fair to put pressure on it now that there’s tangible evidence that something is wrong.
Jeongin ignores it; closes his eyes and tries to get some sleep, only for Yongbok to shake him awake once more. This time, he’s holding a water bottle just centimeters from his face. Jeingin almost short circuits as he grabs it. The nausea is at a low for the time being, so he grabs it and gets as much water in his system as humanly possible. He finishes it in what feels like two gulps, and then draws in another deep breath.
The world’s blurry. Jeongin hates it. He hates everything and he doesn’t know how to express it. Not as his members come up to him; try to talk to him and keep him talking to them. Not as they shake him, hand him water, tell him jokes. Not as paramedics bust through the door, bright orange uniforms assaulting his eyes. Not as there’s a pinch in the back of his hand, and someone forces him to stand. He stumbles a little, but it’s only two or three steps until he’s crashing into something both hard and soft. He feels Chan’s steady presence at his side, trying to get him situated as the strange object materializes in his mind as a cot.
Oh, he thinks.. Oh, shit. I’m on a gurney.
“Hyung?” He asks again, still genuinely unsure of who he’s asking for.
“We’ve got you, Innie,” Chan’s voice sounds, and Jeongin is instantly soothed. “I’m right here.”
Jeongin allowed himself to be reassured, and finally, even through all the pain and confusion of the past few days, let the colors of the world blend together, because he trusted that his hyung would be there when everything snapped back into focus.
—
“Diabetic?” Jeongin gaped at the physician standing in front of him. “No. No, that can’t be right. I eat well. I exercise, I… I’m twenty-five.” This could not be happening. Genuinely, Jeongin had no clue how they could come up with such a diagnosis, but he was positive that whatever diagnostics they ran; whatever tests needed to be run again. He was not diabetic.
“Not that kind of diabetes, Jeongin-ssi. You have type one.”
“I don’t care what type it is, you—you’re wrong.”
“Ayen-ah,” Changbin calls from the corner of the room. He’s flanked on either end by Jisung and Felx on the chairs. Seungmin and Hyunjin are standing next to them on one side of the chairs, Chan and Minho on the other. Jeongin regrets letting them stay here for this. He is making a damn fool of himself. “She’s a specialist.”
“I don’t care,” Jeongin hisses. He grabs the paper thin hospital blanket and squeezes at it, the fibers catching on the dry skin of his hands. “I… I’m not… I take care of myself. There’s no way I let it… this can’t be right. How would I not have noticed?”
The doctor purses her lips, shaking her head. “Jeongin-ssi, it is not your fault. The type of diabetes you have is an autoimmune disorder. It can present itself at any time, and has very little to do with lifestyle choices. It seems like it came on pretty fast, considering how far you deteriorated from your previous checkup with your PCP, but again, this is not your fault.”
“What, so it just happened?”
She sighs. “Sometimes, things just happen. It’s alright, though. It’s treatable. It’s manageable. Most diabetics live long and healthy lives. It’s just a few lifestyle changes have to be implemented for that to happen.”
“Like what?” Jeongin could feel his heart pounding in his ears.
“Mainly, just taking insulin at meal times, as well as long acting insulin once a day, if you don’t plan on going for an insulin pump. Even then, we will probably have you on lantus or tresiba until you can get approved for one.”
“An– an insulin pump?”
“It’s a machine, to act as your pancreas, essentially. Since your body is attacking the cells that make insulin, you need to administer synthetic insulin, which is what lantus and tresiba are. Well, those are the long acting. Those on insulin pumps do not have to take long acting insulin as they can set basal rates, basically micro-doses of insulin to be given every hour. Those not on pumps have long acting to do that dosing for them. Does that make sense?”
It kind of does, but Jeongin’s head is spinning and he can feel the tears coming back before he can even give her an answer. It must be obvious to everyone else, too, because suddenly Kim Seungmin’s big ass man hand is snaking into Jeongin’s, rubbing his thumb with his own. “It’s okay, Ayen-ah,” he whispers. “Between all of us, I’m sure at least someone’s taking mental notes.”
“And physical,” Jisung pipes in, gesturing to his phone. “I’m writing it all down, don’t worry.”
“That isn’t necessary,” The doctor replies. “I have prepared some comprehensive care instructions for when he gets released.”
Jisung pouts. “I cannot decipher medical jargon. These notes are the dumb version.”
The room laughs. Even Jeongin cracks a smile. It’s so like Jisung to be so locked in on something so incredibly inconsequential. Jeongin almost has the courage in him to thank him.
The doctor then sighs, checking on her clipboard. “For now, though, Jeongin-ssi, we are going to keep you for observation until the ketones are flushed out of your system. Hopefully that will be within the next couple days. Be sure to drink water and let a nurse know when you have to use the bathroom, okay?”
Jeongin winces. He hates that. Some poor underpaid nurse having to come in and stick a stick in his urine to see if he’s still got the results of that aforementioned irreparable damage floating around in his system. That part was explained to him as soon as he came to. He did not like it at all.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Of course. Do not hesitate to call if you need anything.”
Jeongin nods; watches her turn. She’s almost out the door when his brain practically kicks into overdrive. “Wait!” He nearly shrieks.
She turns back, tilting her head at him to let him know she’s listening. “Yes?”
“My… my work. I’m an idol. Will I still be able to work?” Please say yes. He is begging. On his knees. He needs to be able to do his job or any self worth he has will be shoved down the drain. This is what he was meant to do. He is already where he is meant to be with who he is meant to be with. He doesn’t want to start over from scratch now.
To his surprise, she smiles. “I would suggest you take a little break to heal from this episode, Jeongin-ssi, but as long as you stay on top of your health, this should not affect your ability to do your job much at all.”
Jeongin sighs. Relief washes over him like icy water. His fingers and toes tingle a little bit. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Jeongin-ssi.”
He watches her leave, the door closing behind her, and lets out a shaky breath. His eyes are wet. Seungmin’s hand is still in his.
He can stay with Stray Kids. He won’t have to quit.
He cracks a smile as the three in the chair stand up. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly his members have decided it time to descend upon him like a hoard of touch starved zombies. For once in his life, Jeongin accepts his fate as he’s blanketed in in a bunch of nervous, worried members.
“You hear that, Yang Jeongin?” Minho whispers as his hand falls into his hair. Jeongin squints as he ruffles it. “You’re gonna be just fine.”