Xixi

The harsh, fluorescent hum of the dressing room felt like it was vibrating inside Hongjoong’s skull. It was a chaotic symphony of hairspray hissing, the rhythmic clicking of heels against the linoleum, and the distant thrum of the stage speakers being tested through the walls. For anyone else, it was the sound of a successful comeback day. For Hongjoong, it was the sound of a looming sensory collapse.

He sat rigidly in the swivel chair, his fingers gripping the armrests until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. In the mirror, his own reflection looked back at him—sharp, feline eyes framed by freshly dyed black hair, skin perfected by layers of foundation. He looked like the formidable leader of Ateez. He felt like a live wire stripped of its insulation.

"Hongjoong-ssi, I’m just going to fix the inner corner of your left eye," the makeup artist, Min-ah, said softly. She hovered her hand a few inches from his face, waiting.

Hongjoong took a shallow breath, grounding himself. "Okay. Thank you for asking."

Min-ah was one of the few who had actually listened when he’d pulled the core styling team aside two weeks ago. He had been polite but firm, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. *I need you to ask before you touch me,* he had told them. *When five people are reaching for me at once, I can't breathe. Just a verbal heads-up is all I need.*

She worked quickly, her touch light as a feather, before stepping back. "All done with the face."

Next came the hair stylist, a younger man named Ji-hoon. He held a bottle of sea salt spray and hesitated. "Leader-nim? I need to texture the bangs now. Is that alright?"

Hongjoong nodded, offering a small, tight smile. "Go ahead."

The respect for his boundaries felt like a cooling balm. It allowed him to maintain his composure, to keep the rising tide of anxiety at bay. He could handle the noise and the lights as long as he felt like he had agency over his own physical space. He was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this day wouldn't end in a panicked retreat to a darkened closet.

Then, the door to the dressing room swung open with a violent bang.

Sora, the lead clothing stylist, marched in with a heavy garment bag draped over her arm. She was a whirlwind of frantic energy, her brow furrowed in a permanent scowl of professional stress. She didn't look at Hongjoong’s face; she looked at his silhouette as if he were a mannequin made of plastic rather than a man made of nerves.

"We’re behind schedule," Sora snapped, not addressing anyone in particular. "The red carpet starts in twenty minutes and the leather trousers haven't even been fitted properly. Hongjoong, stand up."

Hongjoong stood, his muscles tensing instinctively. "Sora-ssi, remember what we talked about? Just let me know—"

She didn't let him finish. Before the words were even out of his mouth, she was in his space. She didn't ask. She didn't warn him. She simply lunged forward, her hands cold and smelling of industrial detergent, and began tugging at the hem of his silk shirt.

Hongjoong flinched, his shoulders hiking up to his ears. "Sora-ssi, please. Just tell me what you're doing first."

"I'm fixing the line of the waist, what does it look like I'm doing?" she muttered, her fingers brushing harshly against the skin of his stomach as she tucked the fabric into his waistband.

He felt a jolt go through him, like static electricity. It wasn't just a touch; it felt like an invasion. His breath hitched, turning jagged in his throat. He tried to step back, but she followed him, her hands moving to his shoulders to pull him back into place.

"Don't move, you're making the pleats uneven," she commanded. She reached down, her hands moving with clinical efficiency but zero warmth, patting down his thighs to smooth out the leather of his pants.

Hongjoong’s vision blurred at the edges. The room felt like it was shrinking. Every place she touched felt like it was being branded with a hot iron. He could feel the eyes of the other staff on him—Min-ah and Ji-hoon looked uncomfortable, shifting their weight, but no one dared to correct the head stylist.

"Sora-ssi," Hongjoong said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a desperate kind of authority. "I asked you to stop. Ask me first."

"I don't have time for 'Mother, may I,' Hongjoong," she retorted, her tone dismissive. "This is my job. If you look messy on camera, it's my reputation on the line, not just yours. Now, hold your arms out."

She didn't wait for him to comply. She grabbed his right wrist, pulling his arm upward to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.

The contact was the breaking point. To Sora, it was a sleeve. To Hongjoong, it was a shackle.

He yanked his arm back with a force that startled her, his chest heaving. The air in the room felt thick, like he was trying to inhale wool. He could feel the sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, and the familiar, terrifying sensation of his skin crawling began to take over.

"Don't touch me," he whispered, his voice trembling.

Sora rolled her eyes, reaching for a heavy silver chain on the table to drape around his neck. "Don't be dramatic. You've been doing this for years. You know how it works."

As she stepped in again, the heavy metal of the necklace swinging toward his throat, Hongjoong felt a wave of pure, unadulterated panic. It felt like he was being strangled before the jewelry even touched him. He stumbled back, his heel catching on the leg of the vanity chair.

"Whoa, Joongie! Easy there."

A pair of strong, familiar hands caught his elbows from behind, steadying him. Normally, a sudden touch from behind would have sent Hongjoong into a full-blown fight-or-flight response, but he recognized the scent of the cologne—sandalwood and citrus.

Seonghwa.

"He's okay," Seonghwa said, his voice calm and resonant, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. He didn't let go of Hongjoong, but he didn't grip him tightly either. He held him just enough to provide a physical anchor. "Give him a second."

Sora sighed, tapping her foot. "Seonghwa, tell your leader we have ten minutes. I need to finish the accessories."

Seonghwa looked over Hongjoong’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing slightly. He had seen the way Hongjoong’s hands were shaking. He had seen the way his eyes were darting around the room, looking for an exit that wasn't there.

"He asked you to give him a heads-up, Sora-ssi," Seonghwa said, his tone polite but laced with a protective steel. "It only takes two seconds to say 'I'm going to touch your neck now.' It takes a lot longer to recover from a panic attack. Which one fits your schedule better?"

The room went silent. Sora opened her mouth to argue, but the look in Seonghwa’s eyes silenced her. Even the most seasoned staff knew that while Seonghwa was the gentle soul of the group, he was fiercely protective of his members—especially their leader.

Hongjoong leaned back slightly into Seonghwa’s chest, closing his eyes. He focused on the rhythm of Seonghwa’s breathing, trying to sync his own erratic heart rate to it. *In. Out. You're okay. You're in control.*

"I’m sorry," Hongjoong murmured after a moment, his voice barely audible. "I just... I need space."

"You don't have to apologize for having skin, Joong," Seonghwa whispered near his ear.

Seonghwa looked back at the stylist. "Hand me the chain. I'll put it on him."

Sora looked like she wanted to protest, but she handed over the necklace with a huff. "Fine. But the jacket needs to be adjusted too. The shoulder pads are sitting too far forward."

"Tell him what you're doing," Seonghwa repeated, his voice firm. "And wait for him to say yes."

Sora took a deep breath, clearly annoyed, but she realized she wasn't going to win this round. She stepped forward again, but this time, she stopped two feet away.

"Hongjoong," she said, her voice clipped. "I need to reach for your shoulders to shift the jacket. Can I do that?"

Hongjoong took a final, grounding breath. The fog in his brain was starting to clear, replaced by a dull exhaustion, but he felt more stable with Seonghwa standing right behind him.

"Yes," Hongjoong said, his voice steadying. "You can do that."

She moved, and though her touch was still brusque, the fact that he knew it was coming made all the difference. He didn't flinch. He didn't feel the urge to bolt. He stood his ground, a leader once more, enduring the necessary intrusions of his profession because his boundaries were finally being acknowledged, however grudgingly.

When she was finally finished, Sora gathered her things and headed for the door. "Five minutes until the lineup. Don't sit down, you'll wrinkle the leather."

As the door clicked shut behind her, the heavy atmosphere in the room lifted. Min-ah and Ji-hoon went back to their stations, pointedly giving the two idols their space.

Seonghwa finally let go of Hongjoong’s elbows, stepping around to face him. He didn't say anything at first; he just searched Hongjoong’s face, checking the color in his cheeks and the clarity of his eyes.

"You okay?" Seonghwa asked softly.

Hongjoong let out a long, shaky sigh, his shoulders finally dropping. "I hate that I'm like this. It’s just clothes, Hwa. It’s just people doing their jobs."

"It's not 'just' anything," Seonghwa countered, reaching out to gently squeeze Hongjoong’s hand—a touch Hongjoong welcomed because it was familiar, safe, and asked for in the silence of their shared history. "Your body is yours. Even when we're on the clock, even when we're 'idols.' You're allowed to have a say in who touches it."

Hongjoong looked down at their joined hands. The black polish on his nails caught the light. "She thinks I'm a diva now. I could see it in her eyes."

"Let her think it," Seonghwa shrugged. "I’d rather have a 'diva' leader who can perform comfortably than a 'polite' leader who’s falling apart backstage. Besides, the rest of us have your back. If she tries to manhandle you again, she’ll have to go through Mingi. And you know how loud he gets when he’s upset."

Hongjoong chuckled, a genuine sound that finally broke the last of the tension. The image of their giant, deep-voiced rapper scolding a stylist was enough to bring him back to reality.

"Thanks, Hwa," Hongjoong said, squeezing his hand back before letting go. "I mean it."

"Always," Seonghwa replied, checking his own reflection in the mirror and smoothing his hair. "Now, let’s go out there and show them why we’re worth all the trouble."

Hongjoong straightened his jacket, the one Sora had so meticulously adjusted. He caught his reflection one last time. The sharp eyes were back, the posture was commanding, and the black hair was perfect. He felt like himself again—not a mannequin, not a victim of sensory overload, but Kim Hongjoong.

He led the way out of the dressing room, his head held high. As they walked down the narrow hallway toward the stage, the noise grew louder, the lights grew brighter, and the bustle of the crew intensified. People brushed past him, equipment was moved, and the chaotic energy of a live show swirled around him.

But this time, when a stagehand reached out to guide him toward the wings, Hongjoong held up a hand.

"Just lead the way," Hongjoong said, his voice calm and authoritative. "I’m right behind you."

The stagehand blinked, nodded, and stepped back.

Hongjoong took a breath of the cool, recycled air and stepped into the light. He was the leader of Ateez, and he would set the pace—on stage and off.