JULY 23

.

Minho expected to spend his entire shift absolutely dreading the appointment. Begging the clock not to budge. Struggling to keep it together for eight hours as he served tables. But in reality? Remarkably little was going on in his brain, all day long.

He didn't even have to put effort into keeping a neutral face as he waited, keys in hand, for Jisung to return back downstairs and put on his shoes so they could go.

"Sorry," Jisung blurted, shoving his feet into sneakers, chuckling, "Went to make sure Chan hyung didn't fall back asleep and wreck what little of a sleep schedule he finally has."

As his lips twitched amusedly, Minho glanced casually at the clock. "You're good. Still got a few minutes."

Before Jisung had finished tying his second lace, Chan appeared, rubbing the remnants of his power-nap out of his eyes as he hurried downstairs to say:  "Hey, Minho! Good luck." He smiled broadly, coming close to nudge Minho's arm. "I'm so proud of you."

Not quite sure how to feel about that, Minho just turned the corners of his lips up in response. "Thanks."

With Jisung preoccupied with selecting music to play in the car, it was rather quiet, until: "...You nervous?"

Breathing a shallow sigh, Minho pushed his lips to one side in consideration. "Honestly? No?"

and the funny thing is, i feel kind of insecure about that.

i keep getting told that it takes so much strength to even think about doing therapy. jisung, chan... they keep telling me they're proud of me. that i'm brave. and maybe i could believe that if i were actually afraid to do this. and it seems like something i would be— should be— afraid of. but i'm not.

why am i not?

my brain wants to tell me that it's because all of this has always been an act. that, even though i try to convince myself that it's the last thing i want, i bet all i've ever truly wanted to do is talk about my feelings; to whine and complain about the things that upset me like a crybaby and have someone go 'there, there. you poor thing'. that i'm just greedy—hungry for more and more attention, and i'd go so far as to pay through the nose for a licensed professional to sit there and give it—to soothe my growling stomach's hunger pangs.

because i'm not afraid, and it seems like it won't actually be that hard for me to do,

Jisung didn't say much more for the rest of the ride. Not that it was long. He simply hummed along to the music, fingers playing an air guitar, forming chords. Minho was just driving. It was chill.

And then they walked inside an unfamiliar room. Waves of sound immediately filled Minho's ears, originating from white noise machines placed in corners. The room was neat and free of clutter. Just a few chairs. A table. Like a doctor's office, except, missing the dozen or so bored, waiting people. Minho was here. Like. Actually. Here. At a therapist's office. 'Going to therapy' was no longer simply a concept; it was reality, and it only sunk in just now.

Oh! There's that dread and panic that Minho had been expecting. Fashionably late. How chic.

Yeah, no, nothing was fashionable or chic about the way Minho's eyes darted around the room and his breathing started to grow heavier and his legs began to tremble. How Jisung had to take hold of his arm to bring him to the chairs. And to write out the answers to the questionnaire form for him, because his hands were shaking so badly.

It was just how Minho remembered feeling as he waited for a checkup when he was tiny— knowing he was about to get a shot. Knowing how much he'd cry and cry, and whoever was with him, either Mom or Dad, would shake their heads, roll their eyes, and pinch their nose-bridges after telling him for the nth time that he would survive. That it wasn't that bad. That he was too old for crying and whining like that at three-going-on-four.

Now, at twenty-going-on-twenty-one, he made no sound, cried no tears— but still his body quaked and his stomach tied itself into knots as voiced echoed and rattled around his mind.

"What a baby."

But that was the very thing he was so worked up over: the thought of being treated like a baby; like he was helpless. To Minho, when people spoke as if his emotions were valid and important, it made him feel like they thought less of him. People only pay attention and assign value to your feelings (and especially feelings of being safe or not) if you're a small child, right? Mature adults are above that, aren't they?

And sure, Minho was at the point where he'd realized he really wasn't anywhere near a "mature adult", according to those standards, but was did he feel ready to go and explain why and how to another person?

Absolutely not.

In theory, it wouldn't be that impossible to tell a total stranger— and especially someone who did this for work— about his struggles, his past, and his feelings, right? Wouldn't they be hearing much worse, all the time? Wouldn't it not matter what they thought of him? He wouldn't even have to see them outside of this. He wouldn't be a real person to them. Just a client. That helped. It should help.

He shouldn't be scared. Even though he'd just been beating himself up for not being scared earlier, now that he was scared, shaking, breathing heavy, and everything, he was mentally slapping the shit out of himself for it.

At last, the door opened, and Minho's panicky motions stopped, right on cue. The protective mask— the one that only came off when he was alone— fell over his face; pieced him back together

It was at that moment that Minho realized, with a flash of shock going off like a bolt of lightning in his brain... that being with Jisung was his new (and vastly improved) 'alone'.

Unfortunately, he didn't have the time to process the incredible weight of that realization at the moment. Right now he had to worry about... meeting the gaze of the stranger suddenly standing in front of him.

This man immediately looked at Minho as if gazing into his soul; perceiving things that Minho did not want anyone to perceive so quickly. From the first sight, it was Jisung all over again— but with a professional precision this time. Oh, and he was staring expectantly—questioningly. Prompting him. Waiting for him to— oh, oh shit. i was totally not listening to anything he just said.

It was only when the man extended an open hand toward Minho that Minho put two and two together.

"Oh... yeah, hi. I'm Minho." With the smallest of gulps hiding itself deep in his throat, he pushed through the discomfort and forced himself to put his social skillset to use. "Nice to meet you." Good. Polite. Lies.

Minho wanted to run. Minho did not want to shake his hand. Minho did not want to follow him.

Minho stayed right where he was; accepted the hand reaching out to him. Shook it like no big deal. Listened and took a deep breath as he caught a tiny break due to the eyes shifting away from him as it came Jisung's turn to introduce himself. Hearing Jisung's voice alleviated about five percent of his anxiousness and made it possible for him to drag his reluctant feet along to follow the man down a hallway into a small room, around which his eyes darted, surveying it in a split-second. He tensed as he heard the door shut behind him and Jisung. As he searched to find the expected course of action as quickly as he possibly could (for the sake of avoiding any extra awkwardness), Minho noted a few things.

The room was configured so that there were two chairs facing each other— plus an extra chair that had clearly been dragged over for the sake of the extra visitor (Jisung). Minho wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that this configuration would make it impossible for him sit right up against Jisung (unlike the stereotypical 'therapy couch' he half-expected to see would have allowed for). Would the comfort of Jisung's close proximity and touch be greater than the discomfort of being observed whilst being comforted?

Not that it mattered either way, because this was simply how it was, and Minho was sure as heck not going to ask for anything to be done about it. He couldn't afford to feel any more pathetic at the moment.

the fact that i'm here, needing this, feels pathetic enough. i just need to behave maturely and keep myself collected as i spill my guts. that's all i want.

As much as he most definitely did not want to, Minho sat in the chair like a civilized human.

Discussion of confidentiality and insurance policy came first, and gave him a second to chill out and compose himself. A second to be... a little closer to comfortable, since he was fully equipped for this sort of thing (sitting and listening to someone talk business), with nothing a polite, attentive expression and a continual nod. Somehow, his mind had been conjuring images of his therapist expecting him to jump right into spewing vulnerable secrets from the get-go. It was silly, really. Of course, a licensed professional would try to trick him into lowering his guard before attempting to pry his secrets out of his hands.

It was incredibly unsettling to know that the man across from him was deliberately trying to get to know him— that he had the goal of understanding him in every way possible. As deeply as possible. To get into his head, rather than to simply be polite by making polite conversation, which was all Minho was used to.

When asked about his current living situation, Minho had to take a deep breath and remind himself that this poor man was simply doing the job that Minho was paying him for, and that he wasn't up to anything shady or sinister. "...I moved out of my parents' house this summer. I um, got a room in the house my friends were renting."

"How has that been for you?"

"Um..." Minho wanted to curl his lip, but he forced it to stay down. "Pretty good." He glanced to his side— to Jisung— and suddenly found himself wanting to smile. ...A little. Not that he even could right now, with his face involuntarily set in stone.

"Yeah. Much better than being at my parents' house." He felt a twinge of guilt at the way he'd set up that sentence, because it stunk of attention-seeking... because it was the kind of thing that would prompt someone asking, why's that?

And then the only logical thing to do would be to tell them his whole pathetic little tale.

but this is a therapist. he is supposed to ask why. i am paying him for this. all i'm doing is making his job easier.

...if only that made the guilt for repeating it all again go away.

"What's different?"

Minho sighed. Especially as he made attempts to speak, his eyes went up, down, side, side. Avoiding eye contact half the time, but allowing it the other half, because if he didn't maintain it at least a little, that would say something about him. It would show how nervous he was. And that would be pathetic.

"I don't feel so much like I'm being watched. And judged."

"For what?"

Minho turned his head to the side. It was easier to watch Jisung fight to keep his mouth firmly shut— drumming his fingers over his pressed lips— than to look into the therapist's eyes.

"...Anything, everything. I don't know. It's like, they're always on the lookout for weakness. And if they find it, suddenly..."

oh man. i'm already tired.

"Well, in the past, I would've been worried that they'd think less of me. But... they've never thought anything positive of me. They've never liked me or wanted me around... so why would I worry? I don't think anything positive of them, either." Minho shrugged. "I don't care about their opinions anymore. If they wanna think I'm weak, then they're welcome to it."

"Are you sure you really believe that?"

"...No." Minho was so fucking disappointed in himself because it just wasn't true. "I wish I could. In my head, I always think I don't care about them. I wouldn't care if I never saw them again."

"And in your heart?"

"Well... I feel like I hate them... and I want to hate them... but do I really? I don't know."

"What makes you think you don't?"

"I..." Firmly shutting his mouth, Minho simply shrugged, as if that bare-minimum answer would conclude his turn to speak, already. That's all he had to offer.

But his therapist just nodded slowly, once, twice. Waiting for him to continue. Dammit.

The room erupted in silence, and the heaviness of having such an expectant gaze on him was excruciating. It must have been punishment for his cowardice. It was so much; too much for him— please, please make it stop.

i don't want to do this. i don't wanna i don't wanna i don't—

Just to make it all stop, Minho coughed it up. "T-they got in my head, telling me I was overreacting and that I didn't have it that bad when I was upset, so now I doubt everything I think and feel. I never know whether my emotions are real or just things I conjured up to justify myself or to get attention."

Drip.

Minho's attention was suddenly stolen away by something cool and wet falling onto the back of his hand. He glanced down at it.

what.

you have to be kidding me.

Minho did not like what was happening to him. It was the fact that he felt the waters rising and the dam bulging. The fact that he could have reinforced it, had he tried just a little bit harder. The fact that he let it slip so easily. The fact that he started fucking bawling.

All the while, he felt more or less... fine inside. Calm. (Aside from the fact that alarms were going off in his brain— you're crying in front of a stranger! )

On the outside, it must've looked like he was having a whole entire panic attack, but, no. He wasn't. He knew what that was like— the way his insides would feel like a rushing, untamable whirlpool, sucking him in; so loud that he couldn't hear a single rational thought. And that's not what this was. Minho was just crying his eyes out right now, that's all. For little to no reason.

Inside him, the materials to build the dam back up were ready and waiting. He just hadn't picked them up yet, because, for a brief moment, he didn't have the motivation to, so the water was trickling out at a steady pace. But though his breathing was unsteady, and at the moment, he wasn't quite able to keep it from hitching the way he wanted to, he still knew he had it all under control.

Everything was fine, and he knew that. If he were just given a few moments, he could most certainly collect himself; he didn't need anyone's help or comfort.

It was only when the man began saying such things as "Just take a deep breath," that Minho wanted so badly to reach out for Jisung's hand and squeeze it, and only to keep himself from getting out of his chair and slapping the man across the face. It did nothing to help— it just made him angry. The calm sea inside him felt incredibly patronized by the slow, 'soothing' voice that his therapist was using— because he wasn't a fucking baby; he didn't fucking need that.

If only his exterior matched it. If only he could make it shut up and sit still just a few seconds sooner.

If his voice weren't sure to wobble and crack pitifully, he would've certainly insisted, "I'm fine; keep going." As it was, they were just wasting time.

But instead, he was simply left grasping to summon up the power to stop the water running out of his eyes and the quaking of his body that was growing increasingly more violent and noticeable with the amount of pure anger pulsing through him. Anger for the silence, broken only by utterances of guidance and reassurance that made him want to rip his ears off— for the way he was being stared at as he fell apart. If it hadn't been for that, he would've easily composed himself by now. He was only still crying now because he felt completely humiliated.

It was then that he noticed Jisung's hand slowly moving towards him, palm up and simply offering itself.

oh fuck it. fine.

Despite the fact that it'd make him appear even more pitiful and helpless, Minho took and squeezed Jisung's hand. With him so painfully aware of the fact that he was being observed, Jisung's touch didn't feel as soothing as it normally did. But it still helped. With the strength with which he gripped Jisung's hand, it was as if he were insisting, 'I'm not helpless.' And that helped, too.

He blocked out the far-too-soft, murmur-like sounds coming from the man's mouth, simply pretending he wasn't hearing them. Forcing in a sharp inhale, he scrubbed his face clean with his free hand and tensed his shaking muscles with all his might, then relaxed them all at once. Then he cleared his throat. "Sorry. I'm fine. We can keep going."

;

Another day of searching.

Jeongin's eyes were glazing over. He was certain that if he just looked hard enough, he'd find something of use, but there were at least a half a dozen of these reports with roughly the same scenario— court cases dismissed due to the lack of living witnesses. No follow-up from the police. No real efforts to solve their murders— only newspapers even dared to label them as such.

Today, he was trying a new angle: looking into the victims' personal records. But how long would it be until they found something useful?

"Jeongin?" Seungmin suddenly called, halting his paper-sorting.

"Mhm?"

"You're free to tell me if you think I'm smothering you. I know you're more than capable of handling yourself. But... I have a question."

Jeongin looked up to meet Seungmin's eyes, listening attentively. "Yeah?."

"Are you gonna continue regressing? Have you thought about it? Like... I still don't know exactly what you're planning, but hypothetically, say we're neck-deep in this and there are thugs chasing us down, and then boom, Little Innie suddenly makes himself present," Seungmin chuckled.

Jeongin hummed pensively, taking a moment to pull together a reply. His mind was still with empty courtrooms; injustice.

"Obviously, when it comes down to it, you're the one who has to decide what's true of your own personal experience. But I've... kinda spent a long time reasearching this, and, it seems like most people that regress have to do it consistently. And if they resist their headspace for too long, it backfires. So, do you want to keep slipping or put that on hold for the time being?"

"Yeah, um..." It was still just a bit awkward to openly discuss his headpsace, so Jeongin let his eyes drift back to the pages. "I think I want to keep going. It feels like I'm starting to have a little more control over it, but—"

"But?" Seungmin prompted, when Jeongin's moment of silence stretched out into several.

Finally having pieced together a bit more of a story, Jeongin turned a few sheets of paper to face Seungmin. "Sorry, I just... Look, this is the first case. The suspects are acquitted. Abruptly. Then the prosecutor dies the next day under "mysterious circumstances.". The trial for the murder is dismissed almost as soon as it begins, for no apparent reason, looking at the report. The suspects go free and then attend the victim's funeral."

"What the heck..." Seungmin got to catching up on the reading while Jeongin pulled out his phone. Because physical records are easy to destroy, and a bit harder to copy. But online? That's difficult to get rid of.

And what Jeongin managed to land was a photo or two of the suspects in question— a couple that stared into the camera with stern, sharp faces and crossed arms. He'd look at the birth certificate and public school records connected to their names in a minute, first he just wanted to say—

"This guy kinda looks like a thirty-year-old Changbin hyung,"

"Lemme see." Seungmin reached for Jeongin's phone. "Dude, he does."

"I'm gonna see if I can find more info on this family. Keep an eye out for anything that says 'Seo'."

"Uh..." Eyes widening, Seungmin stared at him.

"What?"

See, Jeongin had never learned his friends' surnames. From the get-go they had all just been introduced to him causually, as his hyungs, and he'd never had occasion to ask. Since then, he'd picked up on a few of them, mostly through overhearing the others' bantering; full-name-calling.

   "...That's Changbin hyung's surname."

.

"If you really were going to all these 'lengths' to seek attention, then great. You needed that. That's healthy."

While Minho was busy trying to process these unbelievable words, all of a sudden, for the first time in a half-hour a welcome, familiar sound filled Minho's ears: Jisung's voice. His gaze, far more comfortable than the one that had been fixed on him for the duration of this... thing, shined on Minho for a moment. "See!? Didn't I tell you that?" Jisung turned abruptly to the man across the room, insisting: "I told him that!"

And then realization set in, and Jisung retracted back into his seat. "Oh— I'm sorry." He covered his mouth with his hand, resuming his work of sitting quietly and being a silent, supportive presence.

But Minho was just so incredibly grateful for the opportunity to laugh in this incredibly awkward, uncomfortable situation. Even if it was sparing and very obviously consumed with nervous energy.

It was over quickly, though.

"As humans, we all have a need for connection. It's easy to see that that's true when we're talking about small children, who depend on their parents for absolutely everything. But as we grow up, and figure out how to feed ourselves, drive cars, make money... we can sometimes forget about that need, or we can think it no longer exists."

With the residual shake in his core never letting up, Minho listened, straight-faced.

"But if you look back on your life, with an open mind, I'm sure you'll find that it never actually went away. And that goes for you, for me, for—" The man gestured to Jisung. "...Your friend?"

During the brief, questioning pause, Minho and Jisung glanced at each other.

"I'm sorry, remind me of your name?"

"Jisung," he filled in, smiling kindly.

"Ah, right. Thank you." He turned his gaze back and forth between the two of them as he returned to the topic. "So, do we agree on that?"

Both of them nodded, but Jisung's nod was immediate and assured, while Minho's was... Minho's. He was long past the point of denying that.

"It can be hard to tell when you're in need of something intangible like connection, because unlike physical needs such as food, water, sleep, etc., the symptoms aren't as easily identifiable. It's not hard to tell when you're hungry, thirsty, or tired, because you notice quick and drastic changes in your body, but when the needs aren't physical, the lack of them sort of creeps up on you. And it's easy to get used to that."

Minho gave another slow, hesitant nod, enjoying his nice, long break from speaking.

"Picture this: you didn't have much for breakfast, then you skipped lunch, and now your stomach is growling and it feels like all you can think about is food. Would you judge yourself for digging through the fridge?"

"Not really, no."

"Right. It's a good thing that you want to eat. Fulfilling that desire will keep you alive. In the same way, seeking attention can actually be very healthy, when it's you trying to get yourself the 'fuel' you need to survive."

Minho's head was spinning so much that he didn't really hear the concluding words. All he heard was: "Alright. Good to meet you. I'll see you next week."

"Thank you," felt like a lie, but he said it anyway.

Then he was finally free.

Jisung took the driver's seat. Minho didn't protest. "So... home? Movie?"

"Yes, please."

Well... that was something. Though, thinking about it now, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest, it was still one of the most uncomfortable experiences of his life, and Minho was looking forward to a peaceful evening at home to calm down.

However, as they walked inside they were met with... very disruptive shouting.

,

Seungmin, having the ever-itchy-trigger-finger, fired at Changbin first. With Jeongin's phone in his hand, shoved at Changbin's face, he thundered, "What is this?"

"Huh?" Changbin took a moment to glance down at the photo Jeongin had thrusted at his face. "Um... those are my... parents? Where on earth did you get that picture?"

"Public records," Jeongin filled in. Tone icy. "Got the name from a court case."

"Wait... what?"

"Seventeen years ago. Your mother and father were put on trial for suspected involvement in the drug trade. They were acquitted. Next day, the prosecutor died mysteriously. Your parents were dragged back to court, this time on charges of murder. But the case was dismissed, and the cause of death was later renamed 'suicide.' "

  Changbin just blinked slowly, speechless. Murder? No way... He didn't remember a thing about any trials. Nothing of the sort. Not that he had many early-childhood memories of his parents, anyway... those damn workaholics. They did come and go a lot. Extended "business trips" were frequent, and they always left Changbin to the care of his uncle during those times.

Jeongin didn't seem pleased by his silence. "Are you part of the fucking mafia?!"

  Jeongin. Angry. Those words didn't seem like they fit next to each other. Jeongin's voice and 85 decibels (or something close to it). Those definitely didn't seem like they fit next to each other. But here they were, with Jeongin shouting, fuming, in the middle of the house.

"...No."

   "You're not convincing me here. You know something about this." There was stinging bite, sounding hauntingly akin to betrayal to that last sentence.

    Changbin closed his eyes for the moment, not allowing the shocking state of Jeongin's voice and expression to get him riled up. Seventeen years ago. "Listen, seventeen years ago? I was like... five! You think I was involved in... whatever this is?" He forced himself to keep it cool; keep his voice low; keep going. "Who was the victim? What was the date?"

   "Chun Jinwoo. November 23."

   "Oh. That was my mother's brother... and the day he died."

,

I KNOW IT'S BEEN LIKE A MONTH... SORRY

i got slapped upside the head  with writer's block, started a new book, then finally came back and  suffered through it... and now that it's done, i'm just gonna say, i  hope you enjoy this chapter more than i currently do. <3

btw, if you wanna check out that other book...