G

The fluorescent lights of the dressing room felt like needles pressing against Jongho’s retinas. Everything was too loud, too bright, and far too fast. Outside the heavy soundproof doors, the muffled roar of the crowd still vibrated through the floorboards, a relentless reminder of the energy he no longer possessed.

Jongho sat on a rolling chair, his head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest. His throat felt as though he had swallowed a handful of crushed glass and washed it down with acid. Every time he tried to swallow his own saliva, a sharp, white-hot spark of pain shot up toward his ears.

It had been three weeks of relentless promotion. Music shows, fansigns, variety recordings, and late-night dance practices had bled into one continuous, grueling cycle. As the main vocalist, the burden of the high notes—the soaring climaxes that defined their discography—rested solely on his shoulders. Today, during the final chorus of their third performance of the day, something had simply snapped. Not a physical tear, but a total exhaustion of his vocal cords. The last note hadn't come out as a roar; it had emerged as a thin, desperate rasp.

Now, he couldn't even manage a whisper.

"Jongho-ya, we’re heading to the vans. Can you move?"

Jongho looked up blearily. Yunho was standing over him, a look of deep concern etching lines into his forehead. Jongho tried to nod, but the movement made his neck muscles protest. He opened his mouth to say he just needed a minute, but only a dry, clicking sound escaped his throat.

His eyes widened in momentary panic, his hand flying to his neck.

"Hey, hey, don't try to talk," Yunho said quickly, reaching out to squeeze Jongho's shoulder. "We know. Manager-nim said the doctor is meeting us at the dorm. Let’s just get you home."

The ride back was a blur of city lights reflecting off the window and the low murmur of the other members. Jongho leaned his head against the cool glass, his body aching in places he didn't know he had muscles. His knees throbbed from the choreography, and a dull tension headache was blooming behind his eyes. More than the physical pain, however, was the hollow feeling in his chest. He felt like a soldier who had lost his weapon. Without his voice, he felt strangely invisible, even to himself.

By the time they reached the dorm, the adrenaline had completely evaporated, leaving behind a bone-deep lethargy. While the other members scattered to shower or scavenge for food, Jongho hovered in the hallway, feeling untethered. He didn't want food. He didn't even want sleep yet. He just wanted to feel safe.

He turned toward the room shared by the two eldest members. He didn't knock—he didn't have the energy for formalities—and simply pushed the door open.

Hongjoong was hunched over his laptop at a small desk, headphones around his neck, while Seonghwa was folding a stack of laundry on his bed. Both looked up as the door creaked.

Seonghwa’s expression softened instantly. He dropped a black hoodie and stood up. "Our maknae is here."

Hongjoong closed his laptop, turning his chair around. His sharp eyes scanned Jongho from head to toe, noting the slumped shoulders and the way Jongho was clutching his own elbows. "You look like you’ve been through a war, Jongho-ya."

Jongho took a step into the room and tried to speak. "I—"

A harsh, wet cough cut him off, followed by a wince that crinkled his entire face. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hand covering his mouth.

"Don't," Hongjoong commanded, though his voice was laced with tenderness. He stood up and walked over, placing a hand on Jongho’s back to guide him toward Seonghwa’s bed. "We heard what happened on stage. You’ve pushed too hard. No more talking for the rest of the night. That’s an executive order."

Seonghwa cleared a space on the mattress, patting the duvet. "Sit down, sweetheart. Have you taken anything for the pain?"

Jongho shook his head, sinking onto the bed. The softness of the blankets felt like a sanctuary.

"I'll go get the warm compress and the tea the doctor recommended," Seonghwa said, glancing at Hongjoong. "Can you get him into something comfortable? Those stage pants look like they’re cutting off his circulation."

Hongjoong nodded, already moving toward Jongho’s wardrobe in the other room to grab a pair of oversized sweatpants and a soft cotton shirt.

Left alone for a moment with his thoughts, Jongho felt the sting of tears behind his eyelids. It was the frustration of the day—the missed note, the exhaustion, the feeling of letting the team down. He hated being the one who needed taking care of. He was the strong one. He was the one who broke apples and carried the others.

Hongjoong returned, tossing the soft clothes onto the bed. "Here. Change into these. I’ll turn around."

Jongho moved slowly, his joints feeling like rusty hinges. Once he was changed, he felt marginally better, the soft fabric a relief against his sensitized skin. He sat back down, leaning his head against the headboard.

Seonghwa returned a moment later carrying a tray. He set it on the nightstand, the steam from a mug of honey-ginger tea curling into the air. He also held a soft cloth soaked in warm water and essential oils.

"Lean back for me," Seonghwa whispered.

Jongho obeyed, closing his eyes as Seonghwa carefully wrapped the warm cloth around his throat. The heat seeped into his strained muscles, dulling the sharp edge of the pain.

"I know it hurts," Seonghwa said softly, his fingers lingering at the nape of Jongho’s neck, massaging the tension there. "And I know you’re frustrated. But you did so well today. You finished the set like a professional."

Jongho opened his eyes, looking at Hongjoong, who had pulled his chair closer to the bed. The leader reached out, taking one of Jongho’s hands in his.

"Don't do that," Hongjoong said, reading the guilt on Jongho's face. "Don't think about the high note you didn't hit. Think about the twenty you did hit earlier in the day. You’re human, Jongho. Even the best instruments need to be tuned and rested."

Jongho reached for the phone in his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly as he typed into a notes app. He turned the screen toward them.

I feel useless like this, the screen read.

Hongjoong sighed, a sound of weary affection. "Useless? You think your only value to us is your vocal cords? Jongho-ya, look at me."

Jongho looked.

"You’re the backbone of this group. Not because you can hit a high C, but because you’re you. If you never sang another note, you’d still be our maknae. You’d still be the person we rely on. Now, stop being dramatic and drink your tea."

Seonghwa let out a small, melodic laugh, reaching over to ruffle Jongho’s hair. "He’s right, even if he’s being blunt. You’ve spent the whole year taking care of us in your own way. Let us take care of you for one night."

Seonghwa picked up the mug, blowing on it before holding it to Jongho’s lips. Jongho took a sip, the liquid coating his throat in a soothing layer of sweetness. It hurt to swallow, but the warmth was a welcome trade-off.

As the minutes ticked by, the heavy atmosphere of the day began to lift. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the soft sounds of the dorm. Hongjoong didn't go back to his laptop; instead, he climbed onto the bed on Jongho’s other side, propping himself up on some pillows.

"We’re staying right here," Hongjoong said, grabbing the remote to the small TV in the corner. "We’ll put on that nature documentary you like. The one with the deep-sea creatures. No talking, no singing, no worrying about the schedule."

Jongho felt a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with his injury. He shifted, sliding down until he was lying between the two of them. Seonghwa immediately adjusted the blankets, tucking them around Jongho’s chest, while Hongjoong allowed the younger boy to rest his head on his shoulder.

"Comfortable?" Seonghwa asked, his voice a soothing balm.

Jongho nodded, his eyes already beginning to flutter shut. The scent of Seonghwa’s laundry detergent and Hongjoong’s familiar cologne acted like a sedative.

"You did so well today, Jongho-ya," Seonghwa whispered, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to the top of Jongho’s head. "Sleep now. We’ve got you."

Jongho reached out, his hand finding Hongjoong’s shirt and gripping it loosely. He didn't need his voice to tell them how much he needed this. He didn't need to apologize for his exhaustion. In the sanctuary of this room, with his hyungs flanking him like twin shields, the weight of the comeback season felt manageable.

As the blue light of the television filled the room, depicting the slow, rhythmic movements of jellyfish in the deep ocean, Jongho’s breathing finally evened out. The pain in his throat receded into a dull hum, eclipsed by the warmth of the bodies beside him.

Hongjoong looked down at the sleeping maknae, noticing the way the tension had finally left Jongho’s jaw. He looked so much younger when he was asleep, stripped of the bravado and the stoicism he wore like armor during their performances.

"He really pushed it to the limit this time," Hongjoong whispered to Seonghwa over Jongho’s head.

Seonghwa nodded, his eyes full of a fierce, protective love. "He wants to be perfect for us. For the fans. He forgets that he’s already enough."

"We'll remind him tomorrow," Hongjoong said, shifting slightly to make sure Jongho wouldn't wake up with a stiff neck. "And the day after that. As long as it takes."

Seonghwa reached across Jongho to squeeze Hongjoong’s hand. "We will."

The night stretched on, peaceful and still. For the first time in weeks, the silence wasn't something to be feared or filled with rehearsals. It was a gift. Jongho slept deeply, cradled by the two people who knew his strength best, and who loved his weakness even more. The silent note of the day had finally found its resolution in the quiet harmony of home.