Ggghh

The day had begun with a sharp, dissonant note that refused to resolve. It started at 5:00 AM when Jongho’s alarm failed to go off, leaving him with exactly seven minutes to wash his face, dress, and sprint to the van. He had tripped over San’s discarded gym bag in the hallway, stubbing his toe so hard he was certain the bone had cracked, though he had only allowed himself a muffled grunt of pain before hobbling out the door.

Practice had been a grueling marathon of perfectionism. Their choreographer was in a foul mood, and for the first time in months, Jongho’s foundation felt shaky. His center of gravity was off, his landings were heavy, and every time he missed a beat, he felt the burning gaze of the mirrors mocking him.

Then came the vocal recording. Usually, the booth was his sanctuary, the one place where he held absolute control. But a scratchy dryness had taken root in the back of his throat—a souvenir from the cold wind during their last outdoor shoot. He had missed the high note in the bridge three times. It wasn't a catastrophic failure, but for Jongho, who prided himself on being the group’s unbreakable pillar, it felt like the sky was falling.

By the time the sun dipped below the Seoul skyline, Jongho was a walking bruise of exhaustion. His muscles ached, his throat stung, and his mind was a chaotic loop of his own mistakes. He wanted to disappear, but more than that, he wanted the one thing he rarely allowed himself to ask for: to be looked after.

The dorm was unusually quiet when he finally pushed the door open. The smell of savory stew and sesame oil wafted from the kitchen, momentarily easing the knot in his stomach. He kicked off his shoes, not even bothering to line them up neatly, and trudged toward the living room.

He found Hongjoong and Seonghwa on the sofa, huddled over a laptop, likely reviewing schedules or demo tracks. Yunho and Mingi were on the floor, engaged in a quiet, intense round of a mobile game.

"I'm back," Jongho muttered. His voice was smaller than he intended, a raspy shadow of its usual resonance.

Hongjoong looked up, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. "Oh, Jongho-ya. You’re late. Did the recording run over?"

"Yeah," Jongho said, dropping his bag by the coat rack. He stood there for a moment, waiting for someone to notice the way his shoulders were slumped or how his eyes were rimmed with red.

"There's soup in the pot," Seonghwa said, his eyes still fixed on the screen as he typed something. "Make sure you heat it up properly. We already ate, so don't leave the dishes in the sink, okay? I’m exhausted."

A cold lump formed in Jongho's chest. It wasn't that they were being mean; they were simply busy, tired in their own right. But today, the independence he usually wore like armor felt like a lead weight. He didn't want to heat up soup. He didn't want to do dishes. He wanted someone to look at him and realize he was falling apart.

"I'm not hungry," Jongho said.

"You have to eat, Jongho," Yunho chimed in without looking up from his phone. "You have a long day tomorrow. Don't get cranky because of low blood sugar."

Jongho didn't respond. He turned on his heel and walked toward his room, the silence of the hallway feeling suffocating. He threw himself onto his bed, face-down, not even bothering to change out of his jeans. The darkness of the room pressed in on him. He thought about the missed note, the stubbed toe, the choreographer’s disappointed sigh, and the way the hyungs hadn't even looked him in the eye.

He wasn't a crier. He was the "Manly Maknae." He broke apples with his bare hands and carried the climax of their songs on his back. But as he lay there, a single, hot tear escaped and soaked into his pillowcase. Then another.

A soft knock at the door startled him. He wiped his face frantically against the fabric, sitting up and clearing his throat. "Who is it?"

The door cracked open, and Wooyoung’s head poked through. He wasn't wearing his usual mischievous grin. He looked uncharacteristically observant. Behind him stood San, clutching a stuffed Shiber under one arm.

"Hey," Wooyoung said softly. "You didn't come out for water. You always drink a liter of water when you get home."

"I'm just tired, hyung," Jongho said, his voice cracking on the last word.

San pushed past Wooyoung, his eyes narrowing as he scanned Jongho’s face in the dim light. He walked straight to the bed and sat on the edge, invading Jongho’s personal space without a hint of hesitation.

"You've been crying," San stated. It wasn't a question.

"I haven't. My eyes are just dry from the contacts," Jongho lied, looking at his feet.

Wooyoung shut the door behind him, clicking the lock. He walked over and sat on the other side of Jongho, sandwiching the youngest between them. "Jongho-ya. We saw the notes from the vocal coach. And we heard the choreographer was being a jerk today."

Jongho bit his lip, his composure fracturing. "I messed up the bridge. Three times. I couldn't even hit the B-flat."

"So?" Wooyoung nudged his shoulder. "You're human. Even the strongest engine needs a tune-up sometimes."

"It's not just that," Jongho whispered, the dam finally breaking. "Everything went wrong. I’m tired of being the one who's always fine. I’m tired of being the one everyone expects to just... handle it."

The admission hung in the air, heavy and raw. San didn't say anything at first. Instead, he simply reached out and pulled Jongho into a crushing hug, burying the younger boy’s head against his shoulder.

"You don't have to be the pillar tonight," San whispered into his hair. "You're our maknae. You're allowed to be small."

Jongho tried to stiffen, to regain his dignity, but the warmth of San’s embrace and the familiar scent of his fabric softener were his undoing. He let out a shaky sob, his fingers curling into the fabric of San’s hoodie.

Wooyoung moved in closer, wrapping his arms around both of them, his chin resting on Jongho's other shoulder. "We're sorry we didn't notice right away. We were so caught up in our own stress. Seonghwa-hyung feels terrible, by the way. He realized as soon as you walked away that something was wrong."

"Is he mad about the dishes?" Jongho sobbed out, the absurdity of the thought making him hiccup.

Wooyoung laughed, a soft, melodic sound. "He’s currently in the kitchen making you fresh honey-ginger tea and threatening to hit anyone who makes noise near your room. He’s not mad, honey. He’s worried."

As if on cue, the door unlocked and opened again. Seonghwa entered, carrying a steaming mug, followed by Hongjoong, who looked uncharacteristically sheepish. Behind them, Yunho and Mingi hovered in the doorway like giant, anxious puppies.

"Move over," Seonghwa commanded gently.

San and Wooyoung shifted, making room for the eldest. Seonghwa sat at the head of the bed, leaning against the headboard and pulling Jongho’s head into his lap. He began to run his fingers through Jongho's hair, a rhythmic, soothing motion that made the younger boy’s eyes droop.

"Drink this," Seonghwa said, holding the mug to Jongho’s lips. "It’ll help your throat."

Jongho took a sip. It was hot, sweet, and spicy, cutting through the irritation in his chest. He felt the tension begin to bleed out of his limbs.

Hongjoong sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, resting his hand on Jongho’s ankle. "I'm sorry, Jongho-ya. I should have checked in on you at the studio. I saw you struggling, and I thought you wanted space to work it out. I forgot that sometimes, space is the last thing you need."

"I just felt invisible," Jongho admitted, his voice muffled by Seonghwa’s sweater.

"Never," Yunho said, stepping into the room and plopping down on the floor next to Hongjoong. "You're the center of this family. When you're quiet, the whole house feels empty."

Mingi squeezed in next to Yunho, reaching up to pat Jongho’s knee. "I'll do your dishes for a week. And your laundry. Well, maybe not the laundry, I might shrink your favorite sweaters. But I'll do the dishes."

Jongho let out a weak, watery laugh. "You'll break the plates, Mingi-hyung."

"A risk I'm willing to take for our maknae," Mingi declared with a grin.

For the next hour, the room was filled with quiet conversation. They didn't talk about choreography or upcoming tours. They talked about nonsense—Wooyoung's latest cooking disaster, a funny video San had seen, and the ridiculous things their manager had said that morning.

Slowly, the weight that had been crushing Jongho’s chest began to lift. He wasn't just a singer, a dancer, or a "power vocal." He was a younger brother. He was loved not for what he could do, but for who he was.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the day caught up with him in a different way. His eyelids grew heavy, and his breathing slowed. The voices of his hyungs became a gentle hum, a protective barrier against the rest of the world.

"He's falling asleep," Seonghwa whispered, his hand never stopping its gentle stroking of Jongho's hair.

"Should we go?" Yunho asked softly.

"No," Jongho mumbled, his eyes closed. "Stay."

He felt them adjust around him. Hongjoong and Yunho brought in extra pillows and blankets, turning the floor and the bed into a massive nest. San and Wooyoung didn't move from his sides. Mingi stretched out on the rug, claiming he was "guarding the door."

As Jongho drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep, the last thing he felt was the warmth of his family surrounding him. The bad day hadn't disappeared—the missed note was still recorded, and his toe still throbbed—but it didn't matter anymore. The golden apple was heavy, but he didn't have to carry it alone.

He was Jongho of Ateez, but here, in this room, he was simply their Jongho. And that was more than enough.