Especially Loved The Jaemin One - Tumblr Posts

7Dream + Comforting You

a/n: just because I'm having a hard time lol; sorry; I hope this brings other people some comfort too ... tw mentions of panic + OCD + general sadness

Mark Lee

"Hey."

You waddle into Mark's room, and he tears himself away from his daily affirmations book. It only takes one look at you - in your oversized hoodie and stained sweatpants - for him to put his pen down.

"Hey," he responds, equally soft. You sit on the floor, a little bit under him, and blow a shaky breath from your cheeks, mouth opening just a second. And Mark waits, for you to say something, or even move. He slides his palms down his thighs, pausing at the tip of his knees, then joins you on the ground. "Is something ..."

A beat passes, the both of you understanding his implication: is something wrong?.

"I just," you inhale, eyes darting from the wall to the ground, barely glancing at him out the corner of your eye before settling on your twiddling fingers. "I just need some extra support right now," you confess. "I've been feeling a little bit ... insecure." You scrunch your nose at the word, but Mark nods along, nodding into your personal space, encouraging you to continue. He knows that it takes you a minute, sometimes, just to label your feelings, so he tries not to break your train of thought. "You - You don't need to say anything, but ..." You swallow, stifling a little at the conjunction, and look at him. That's when he sees the glassy tinge around your irises. "But can you listen for a little bit?"

Mark brushes messy hairs away from your face with his index finger, holding them back with his palm. Then, he rubs the apples of your cheeks, soothing the swelling already having settled in.

"Of course," he says simply, not wanting to say more, unsure exactly how to support you without knowing more.

And as you get deeper and deeper into divulging your insecurities, you fall onto his shoulder, then into his arms, then against his chest. Mark holds you up, unfolding his legs to bring you even closer. He can smell the cherry blossom shampoo you stole borrowed from Renjun last week. Somewhere along the line, after circulating the same thought, playing devil's advocate against yourself, you trail off and hug his waist.

"I'm sorry. I know how that sounds. It probably didn't make very much sense. I just -"

"I hear you," he whispers, stopping you from starting again. A hiccup in your apology brings you out of his arms, but he grabs you again, by the cheeks, making you look him in the eyes. "You must've been struggling for awhile. It's okay to feel insecure sometimes." Mark slides you back into his chest, comfortably, his lips close enough to kiss the top of your head. "I'm proud of who you are right now. You're amazing."

Huang Renjun

Renjun wanders down the hall to your apartment, entering swiftly with the key you gave him months ago. You were supposed to meet him for coffee earlier but never showed up, and since the café is just up the street, he decided to ask, in person, if you are okay.

He calls your name through the living room and the kitchen, meeting dust and organized DVD shelves. The flowers in the hall on the IKEA cabinet show signs of wilting, the water browning at the surface, and he frowns. It probably should have been replaced yesterday, or the day before. Renjun walks further into your apartment, and he trips on a trail of slippers leading from your bathroom to bedroom, where he finds you, just sitting at the desk, staring at a blank notebook. He walks around you, back facing the window and alarm clock displaying the time: 3:23 P.M. You still have the pen in your hand, blue ink decorating gibberish between your fingers. Renjun grabs your arm, gently turning you away from all the stationery. He sees the veins more prominently in your eyes, the wooly hairs around your ears, the slight break between the seam of your lips. And it's only when he touches your arm that you react; you jolt, sitting up straighter, eyes blinking up to his face.

"I'm sorry." You pull away, into the flexible chair spine, bouncing a bit, then wipe your nose with your sleeve. "Were you waiting for me?"

Renjun nods, small, a few times, and kneels on the ground. "Don't be sorry." He pauses for a second, slowly stuttering his head into your lap, no solid emotion palpable at the moment for him to gauge your actions. But he knows that you like to run your hands through his fluffy hair. "I just wanted to check on you. Is everything okay?"

And he's proven right, to some degree, when you thread your fingers behind his head, crawling down to his ears.

You don't say anything, though, for awhile; Renjun can almost hear the clock tick behind him, but when he opens his mouth, he feels the entire chair shake, and he looks up at you - your bottom lip quivers, and you bite it to stop; your fingers, all ten digits, tremble, and you curl them into fists under your long-sleeve shirt. Still, you nod, yes.

"I have a lot of things to do," you answer him, finally, "and it's just stressing me out a little bit." You meet his eyes and shake your face, giving him a small smile. "Sorry."

Renjun strings his hands with yours. "It's okay," he nods, "Tell me about it. We can do everything together."

Lee Jeno

Maybe two or three weeks have passed since Jeno last saw you, a fault of your misaligned schedules, really. His job keeps him busy from dawn til dusk, sometimes further, and he sacrifices your relationship, selfishly, at these points. But, today, when he goes to your apartment, Jeno finds you laying on the living room rug, back against the couch, hugging a pillow under your chin, and scrolling through random Instagram reels.

Slowly - and quietly -, he takes off his jacket at the front door, hanging it above his loud shoes. He takes long strides toward you, speeding to get close again before he lays on the ground in front of you.

"Hey," he gives you a small smile, mostly through his eyes.

You glance at him, waving your fingers only slightly above your phone, no words communicated. The pillow squishes your cheeks upward, temporarily removing the frown in your lips, supporting an equally small smile that doesn't meet your eyes.

"How was your day?" he tries, scooting a little bit closer, gently reaching out to your elbow.

You clear your throat and lock your phone, blue light fading between the both of you. "Okay," you answer, voice cracking, then bring the pillow closer down your stomach. "How was your day?"

"Also okay," he lies, smoothly. To be honest, his schedule tore down his muscles and threw a tornado in his brain. He mostly looked forward to seeing you tonight, so he's okay, right now, with waiting for you again, sensing that you might need something from him.

You both kind of just stare at each other for a few seconds, until Jeno makes the first move, seeing the quiver in your lip, even with your teeth biting it down. Cautiously, he wraps an arm over you waist and another under your neck, pulling you half-way on top of him. And you sigh on his shoulder, full weight sinking into him, breath shaking your torso.

"It's okay," he whispers, squeezing you tighter. "I'm here."

Lee "Haechan" Donghyuck

"Sorry," you apologize again, pulling a plastic take out box from the steaming water underneath, while Haechan enters your apartment. "I didn't feel like cooking."

Haechan peeks over to your trash can, where other boxes waterfall over the edge, piling up on the ground. "How long have you felt like not cooking?" he asks skeptically, still accepting the dish anyway.

You shrug, offering the unused counter a half-smile, handing him a plastic fork, not bothering to plate the food on ceramic. "Awhile I guess." You sit down at the table first, choosing the mismatched foldable chair - the orange color contrasting against the blue table and its single match.

Haechan glances at the rabokki, cheese melted mostly over the rice cakes, drowning out any color under 560 nm. He looks back to you in the dining room, thinning his lips. Usually stores also give side dishes, but he sees none, so he pokes around your kitchen further, first looking in the refrigerator, then the sink, then the trash; the Styrofoam containers are in the the overflowing bin. Haechan sighs, shoulders deflating, and looks at you again.

Sometimes, the two of you would just eat dinner at the same table, not really together, settling into silence as you individually read or scroll through your phones. Other times, you catch up about the day or on each other, holding hands over a metaphorical candlelight, until he pulls your chair closer. But it's been awhile since he has eaten at your apartment; the both of you either eating out, eating at each other's offices, etc. And he knows that you value a homecooked meal, which is why, as he walks over to you, touching your elbow to break your blank staring contest with the wall, he says:

"This doesn't have enough vegetables. I'm going to cook something for us. Join me?"

You swallow a long noodle, licking the sauce off your lip, retreating into yourself, and whisper, "You don't have to ..."

Haechan gives you a bigger smile, grabbing your hand. "It's for me," he lies and stands you up, guiding you with him into the kitchen.

Na Jaemin

[You, 3:21 P.M]

Can you bring me my inhaler, please?

[You, 3:21 P.M.]

To the bathroom.

The bathroom is literally adjacent to your bedroom. Jaemin, in the living room, is further than you from your inhaler, even with his long height to cross the distance quickly. But still, your odd text makes him comply, and he practically runs from the couch, throwing his phone down on the cushions, to grab the panacea. He knows that you have a hundred placebos laying around your apartment, but he’s never actually seen you use them. Yeah, he made a point, since he’s known you, to mentally know each location, but you never let him in enough to help you.

He knocks on the door first, as a signal that he's entering, to give you time to adjust. And after a beat of silence, he wanders inside, gently calling your name.

"I'm coming in," he announces, loudly, over the bathroom fan and sepia light. He hides behind the door, face looking outward, allotting more time in case you need to kick him out, or hide yourself, but still, he hears nothing, so he looks inside, glancing around eye level, then he drops to the ground, where you have the heels of your palms pressed into your eyes and your chest pumps up and down rapidly.

Gently, he pulls your dominant hand down. Your eyes tighten, crows feet deepening in the corners. Jaemin guides the inhaler, through your palm, into your mouth, squeezing the pump with his larger thumb twice. And you relax, just as quickly, breathing slowing. You uncurl from your knees, unwinding against the shower stall, head banging on the glass. Jaemin sprawls a leg forward, joining you on the memory foam rug (well, on the small space he can sit). He pulls you into his arms, resting your sweaty forehead over his shoulder, as he rubs your back.

"Relax," he drawls calmly, one hand on your chest, above your heart. You wrap a hand around his wrist, drawing your knees into his lap. He can feel your pulse through your fingertips and slows his palm on your back, only dragging his hand downward, then picking it back up to start on your C12. "It's okay," he kisses your head. "You're safe and loved. We can sit here for as long as you want."

Zhong Chenle

He feels bad.

Chenle has cancelled plans on you everyday the past two weeks, mostly at last minute, after you'd gotten to the venue, already waiting for his late ass. So, today, he planned to get to the coffee shop early. He just texted you the wrong thing.

[KHCL, 3:12 P.M.]

Hey. Just got off work. Heading home.

[You, 3:13 P.M.]

Oh.

[KHCL, 3:14 P.M.]

Are we still meeting today?

[You, 3:17 P.M.]

Yeah, but it's okay if you want to cancel. We don't have to go.

His car reads his text, and Chenle frowns, brows furrowing as deep as his lips. So, he spontaneously pulls over to the side of the road, ignoring the line of honks from people to whom he didn't signal. He lowers the music volume, then picks up his phone, holding it with both hands, debating between a text and call.

[You, 3:19 P.M.]

We can reschedule to next week, when you're not as busy.

[KHCL, 3:20 P.M.]

What? No.

[KHCL, 3:21 P.M.]

I just forgot my wallet at home.

[KHCL, 3:21 P.M.]

Did you want to cancel?

[KHCL, 3:23 P.M.]

Hello?

[KHCL, 3:26 P.M.]

Are you okay?

The familiar message dots bubble from your phone to his, appearing and disappearing several times in the same minute, so Chenle makes the decision to call you.

You don't pick up.

So he calls you again.

You don't pick up again.

He calls one more time.

... And you don't pick up that time either.

So he puts his car into drive and speeds down to your apartment. He parks his car just as quickly, running up the stairs. The only moment he gets to breathe is when he knocks on your door, because it takes you a couple minutes to answer.

You open the door, just a crack, and Chenle pushes his way into your living room, first observing the mess, then looking you up and down. You still have your pyjamas on - at 3:30 in the afternoon; hair tangled in the middle, not at the ends. As he scrutinizes you, mouth thinning, you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding the accent wall more interesting than when you first set it up.

"Hey," Chenle calls, softly, crossing the distance. His fingers pad into your cheek, making you look at him. "Are you okay?"

"No, yeah," your voice cracks through the second syllable. "I'm - I'm fine."

"Did you still want to cancel?" He gestures at your attire.

But you shake your head, no. "I understand if you do though. "

Chenle's shoulders drop, and he tilts his head to the side, almost tsking, if you hadn't dropped your cheek more into his palm. "I don't want to cancel," he says, as earnestly as he can convey.

Your eyes shine at him, forehead crinkling a little, as you dart around his face. "Really?"

Chenle nods. "Yes, really," he says obviously. And you slide into his chest, hugging his waist under his long coat, to which he returns automatically, wrapping his arms behind your neck. "Get ready when you want. I'll be here."

Park Jisung

"Hello?" Jisung calls as he walks upstairs to your room.

He arrived awhile ago, for your date at Everland. Sure, it doesn't really matter when you leave for the theme park, since you'll only spend, like, three hours, maximum, before calling it quits and heading out somewhere else for better snacks. But he has been waiting on the couch for you to finish getting ready, since he walked into your apartment almost an hour ago. He knows that you were barely heading into the shower when he arrived (a little too early), and he doesn't really mind; it gave him more time to beat Haechan's high score on kart rider. But as he caught the time approaching 2pm - peak park hours -, he started to get nervous. Neither of you reserved anything, and queuing is hell, so he started peaking around your apartment.

Jisung started with the bathroom, seeing the light still on and hearing the corresponding vent tilling, but his voice only echoed back at him. Then, he knocked on your bedroom door. You didn't respond the first time, so he tried again. And nothing, again. He opened the door, cautiously mixing your name after a greeting, to elicit an answer, but no, just silence. Jisung teetered over his feet, heel-toe, creaking the floor, before pushing through and entering your room.

He found you, standing at the foot of your bed, closet open behind you, your hands crossed over your wrists, fingers clenching and unclenching around the skin. You stare, blankly, at the clothes in overflowing piles, everything pushed to and over the edge - blankets, unfolded laundry, plushies. Jisung crosses the threshold, stepping over the trail of bags and knickknacks coating the hardwood floor, until he stands at your side. He gently pulls your elbow, purposefully untangling your hands (a bad habit he tries to correct), waiting to speak until you acknowledge him.

And you do. Eventually. You take a minute, blinking from eye level with his chest to his face, and give him a small smile, brushing your hair through the middle.

"Hey, sorry," you apologize, smile faltering at your cheeks. "Am I taking too long?"

"No," Jisung shakes his head and lies. He puts a hand on your shoulder, sliding it down your back, pulling you in to his chest. You sigh against him, tension in your shoulders dropping as you hug him by the waist. "I just wanted to see if you needed help or anything." He puts his arm low on your back, deepening the hug. "Do you?" he asks, "Need help?"

You pull away a little bit, just enough for him to see your face, and you bring your hands to your eyes, rubbing a little bit, then blinking rapidly. "No, I'm - I'm fine. Just had some trouble picking out something to wear." You shrug your shoulders at the mess, wincing at how big it's gotten. But Jisung smoothens out the lines in your face with his thumb. "Too many options," you mutter as an excuse before burying your face in his chest again.

"It's okay," Jisung tells you, his deep voice vibrating through his diaphragm as you squeeze him tighter. "I'll pick something out for you."