Chapter Text
Kim is fine.
His days are more structured now than they’ve been in months. In the aftermath of the attempted coup, even his father’s all-reaching hands have retracted inward – focused on mending the damage wrought by the minor family’s attack. In his absence, Kim can afford his career more steady attention than he’s given it in a while.
No more missions.
No more unexpected injuries leaving his styling team scrambling for options.
No more sudden cancellations and rearrangements and apologetic lives for fans.
No more detached numbness clouding his attempted writing and recording sessions.
His days start early. Between events, photoshoots, studio time, and other networking obligations, the hours are packed. By the time he gets driven back home, whether evening or late night, he’s exhausted.
But Kim is fine.
He’s scrawled lyrics to at least a dozen songs across every surface in reach – notebooks, napkins, receipts, his own skin (to the chagrin of his makeup artist). The melodies to match come at different times, sometimes together, sometimes weeks apart. A few have made it through a rough recording stage, awaiting mixing and mastering, maybe some retakes.
If the subject matter is a bit different from his earlier work, he can shrug it off. Artists evolve, and he’s always been a storyteller. The looks his manager sends him in planning meetings are piercing, but they hold no threat to him. Their worries are brushed aside thanks to the exuberance of the higher ups at the record label, who have been pushing for an album release and subsequent tour for nearly a year now.
And Kim is fine.
He knows this peace is temporary. It always is. He wants to take advantage.
(This is what he tells himself. If his new more ambitious mindset keeps him out of his apartment for as much of the day as is physically possible, then well, that’s just a coincidental side effect. He’s fine making a few sacrifices for the sake of this push after all. For Wik. For his fans. For–)
Kim’s relationship with sleep has always been fraught.
As a child, he remembers Mama sitting at the edge of his bed, stroking a hand through his hair. She would hum or sing to soothe his frenetic energy, read or make up fantastic tales to occupy his racing mind, whisper sweet nothings until everything else faded into the darkness around them. His father must have thought the sometimes hours-long ritual ridiculous, but Mama never let him hear a word against their time together.
After Mama–
Things were harder. He remembers bullying his way into his brothers’ beds for a stretch shortly after. When he was still allowed to grieve. His father saw a stop to that after a time.
Memories comforted him, while they lasted. When Kim found himself forgetting the exact cadence of Mama’s voice, the smell of her favorite soaps and perfumes, the feel of her fingers parting and smoothing the strands of his hair, he shut it all down. Imperfect memories hurt more than pretending he had none left at all.
Tiring himself out to the point of collapse became his only reprieve. He supposes now that old habits die hard, considering his current work habits. Running his body and mind ragged day in and day out, never really imagining an end to it.
Still, Kim is fine.
On the rare occasions he lets himself be forced into taking time off, Kim tends to stay in. Outside of work, he finds he doesn’t have much else he truly wants to do.
(This is what he tells himself. If the tabs he still keeps on everyone he deems important back at the main house tell a different story, then well, that’s just reading too deeply into things. He doesn’t act on any of that intel, and that’s what makes all the difference.)
Kim is reluctantly on one of these enforced breaks now. His manager insisted on extending it even more than usual this time, leaving him a full five days of nothing before his next official schedule. At least this one will be a performance, rather than a brand event or photoshoot. Imagining the small, intimate show to come makes the waiting a little more bearable.
In his self-imposed isolation, Kim spends an unfortunate amount of time with his thoughts. Try as he might to shut them out – with music, movement, mindless entertainment – they become a near physical presence in the rooms with him. At times they weigh upon his shoulders, dragging him down and leaving him immobile in bed, looping endlessly. Other times they’re more fleeting, seeming to dance around the space surrounding him, darting in to taunt and tease before flitting off sooner than he can grasp their form.
It’s exhausting. More so than any physical exertion can make him feel.
Yet, Kim is fine.
On the final day of his break, trying to muster the energy for a much needed shower, Kim pulls a familiar box from his dresser drawer. He takes it in careful hands, padding out to the main room where he’s made preparations. A warm mug of tea, a fluffy blanket, a sweet he doesn’t often let himself indulge in, and a small stuffed cat he’s made sure no one knows he still owns.
Settling himself on the edge of an armchair, Kim puts the box on the table ahead of him and props the lid open. He sucks in a controlled breath, staring down at the first photo atop the stack inside.
“I miss you.”
He takes a sip of his drink, giving himself a moment before continuing. His eyes burn a bit, but he pushes the sensation away for now. He flips to the next photo.
“I want us to be together every day.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Seeing the two of them together always makes him feel a little better, for a moment. Kim pulls his legs up on the seat, tucking them under himself and quickly unfolding the blanket to drape around his shoulders. He feels a little more secure as he flips to another photo.
“Can I give you a hug?”
And just like that, a frown mars his features. No matter how many times he does this, he can’t seem to stifle his own reactions as he often would.
Tearing his eyes away from the photo, he feels them burning again. He grits his teeth, blinking harshly a few times. This is too ridiculous.
His eyes scan the space around him, searching for anything else to focus on, just for a few moments.
There–
His gaze lands on the cat, still resting on the floor next to his seat. His fingers clench and unclench. A small pit takes shape in his stomach.
Kim looks to the stack within the box, reading the top message to himself once more.
He’ll take what he can get. The cat finds its spot beneath his arm, and he allows himself one tight squeeze. The persistent burning in his eyes gives way to tears. Silent but for shaky breaths, Kim lets it happen. No one is around to see him now.
Polaroid photos, movie tickets, silly handwritten notes and doodles, colorful punch cards left incomplete – all are safely kept within the box, to be pulled out time after time. Memories play in his mind as he flips through them one after another, bittersweet down to their foundations.
At the bottom of the box, one final photo rests–
“I love you. I’m so lucky to have you.”
A small, choked whine rips through Kim’s throat, piercing the otherwise quiet bubble surrounding him. Before any other sound can be wrenched from him, he shoves the box and stacks of mementos across the table and curls downward over his knees. In one hand he clutches the cat plush tighter, now to his stomach. Shivers wrack his frame despite the blanket still somehow draped over him. His other hand finds its way into his hair, clutching the limp strands tightly.
He’s never quite sure how much time passes after he reaches this point. The angle of light shining through barely parted curtains creeps across the floor, just visible when his eyes dart out ahead of him. He’s not aware of much else for this stretch of time.
Eventually, he gingerly uncurls with a slight creak to his straightening spine. Without looking at anything closer than he must, he shuffles all the items from the box back into order, packs them away, and carefully shuts the lid. He wipes his face, gentle for once if only for the sake of making things easier for the following day’s event.
Kim takes the plate with his treat of choice and eats slowly. The sweetness feels cloying on his tongue, despite knowing it’s something he’d usually enjoy. It doesn’t matter to him at this point. He takes deep breaths as he goes. When the treat is gone, he gulps down what’s left of his now cold tea with a grimace.
Ritual complete.
Kim stands to properly clean the space and himself. He feels both lighter and heavier than he did before settling in. The lightness gives him the energy he needs to complete the extensive nightly routine that he’s been neglecting since his break began. The heaviness helps keep him more tethered in his body than he’s felt for much of that same time.
He goes through the motions of the rest of his evening. His mind finally feels a bit calmer. Not quite empty but not buzzing out of his control anymore either.
When he settles down to sleep that night, it comes easily.
So Kim is fine.
Truly fine.
He brought this on himself after all, didn’t he?