DICHOTOMY. － q.kun

ONE

His skull was a nest and his thoughts the frenzied hornets within, stirring and buzzing, constantly but savagely bashing themselves against the interior with no way out when particular things happened or at particular times. Though, perhaps they'd clash so fervently with the knowledge that they would find freedom eventually, be it from a breakdown in the shower where the sound of gushing water drained out choked cries, from overworking the body they inhabited until the very bones that held it upright felt to be made of twigs held together by rubberbands, or through the food they forcefully emptied from its stomach, acid burning at the tormented tongue and throat as tears pooled in dimly lit eyes.

It was an infestation Kun could never rid himself of － it had been for years.

Sometimes he'd go months without more than a couple stings, birth a newfound hope that maybe he was healing, and then he'd stumble and snap, silently pleading for help he didn't truly think he deserved.

His good months had passed, he came to understand as he begrudgingly left WayV's dorm feeling a greater discomfort than usual. He could have sworn his joggers were tighter, that his once faintly toned stomach was then soft and beginning to curve over the sides of his pants' waistband, that his thighs looked fuller and his hands less defined, his cheeks rounder and jaw hidden.

Kun looked fat. So fat. He could see it in the mirror.

That morning he'd almost caved and pulled out the secret weight scale he'd kept hidden under his bed and until then briefly disregarded, but he reined in his desire to expose himself for the pig he believed himself to be and blinked away his tears of frustration.

He and the other members would be practicing all day, if he even stayed behind and did a bit extra, he might shed some calories. It was that notion that brought mild comfort and for him to faintly smile, heading out ignoring the repeated twinge in his stomach that had begun to whine the night before, empty save for the water he'd drunk and half an apple he'd allowed himself to ingest.

"You're finally here!" Dejun briskly greeted from his seat in one of the vans, glasses balancing perilously on the slope of his nose, the haze of sleep evident in his eyes that cast a frustrated look the leader's way.

Kun merely huffed with a strained smile and proceeded to climb into the group's van, nestling himself between Sicheng and YangYang, both of whom welcomed him with fond and grateful looks upon seeing that he carried the small bag he always used to bring the food he prepared for the members in his hands.

"I didn't notice you cooking this morning," Sicheng spoke up, nudging his head in direction of the bag, "I would have tried to help out, otherwise."

It was typical of the younger to say something so sweet with little to no other motive beneath it, simply earnest and sincere, but it always brought Kun's heart to mildly stutter for whatever reason.

Maybe being the bearer of dozens of responsibilities and chores had worn him down enough that every kind gesture made his pulse quicken. That is to say, the members did pull their weight, but mostly when they felt like it or when Kun was particularly overwhelmed enough that it was visible. He didn't mind, of course, he had no right to. They all worked hard and deserved to rest when they could. They were all valuable members of the group, be it for their skill in rap, song or dance, their spots within the structure were untouchable.

Kun's was flimsy, replaceable, dismissable. If he didn't make himself useful in whatever way he could, then his presence truly would have served no purpose whatsoever.

"It's fine," He replied in mild delay, sight flickering from his lap to Sicheng who remained gazing at him, the engine revving and the vehicle quivering to life, "I couldn't sleep last night so I prepared the food then."