COMFORT PLACE | bang chan.

[ 10 ] sleeves of my sweater

Chan picks up on the second ring.

He sounds tired, horribly tired, my name a question on his lips.

I do my best to collect my thoughts as something in my heart clenched terribly in my chest. My breath is shaking, my head is spinning, but I force myself to get it together.

I'm leaning against the railing of my apartment balcony that leads into the living room, the moon high in the sky, partly obscured by a few stray clouds. It's the dead of night, not a sound to be heard other than the sound of my heart drumming loud in my ears and Chan shuffling with his things on the other line.

I hear the clicking of a few doors, opening and shutting, the jingle of keys, and the sound of a backpack thumping onto the floor.

"Why are you up?" Chan asks me, and I can hear the worry lacing his thick and gravelly voice due to lack of sleep. He's talking in a hushed tone, aware of his members sleeping in their rooms. "It's one in the morning."

"I waited up for you," I tell him timidly.

"You waited up for me?" Chan asks, startled. His surprised tone slowly begins to turn wary. "Why?"

I bite my bottom my lip and urge my heart to stop beating so hard against my ribcage. Chan is the type of person who cares too much about others. He's the type of person who's easily sweet and caring. But sometimes, I realise, he can't help the harshness of his voice when he gets worried. He's hard on those he cares about, who he wants to get better, who he wants to protect.

But I've had enough. Because if Chan is going to be like that, if Chan is going to be harsh on those he cares about, then he's going to expect someone to do that for him. Because he's worth protecting too. He just needs to know that.

"You stayed up late again."

At my words, I hear Chan almost immediately sigh. "I was working," he slowly states, his voice dipping to caution. He knows where I'm starting to get at.

My vision begins to cloud, and my fingers are shaking when I tell him with all the courage I have, "You're always working."

Chan has the audacity to huff in annoyance. "I told you, I can't help it."

"I know, Chan," is my reply, and I wince at the way I'm starting to sound desperate. "You tell me almost every day. You're overworking. It's not healthy. You know that, right?"

The sound of Chan breathing sharply through his nose as he tries to control his anger makes me shiver. "Look, I don't want to talk about this right now."

"Of course, you don't." I swallow past a lump in my throat, willing myself to push away my reluctance and just go out and say what I desperately want him to hear. What he needs to hear. "You never do."

This is where something in Chan snaps, but the annoyance bleeding into his tone doesn't surprise me as much as I thought it would. "You're kidding me, right? I'm just creating music, I'm writing lyrics, I'm doing this because it's my career. Why don't you understand that?"

"I know it's your job, Chan, but it's important to take breaks. You never take breaks," I tell him, voice shaking as I start to sound more and more exasperated. "Why don't you understand that? You're not taking care of yourself, Chan."

And it annoys the absolute shit out of me that he just doesn't get it. Sometimes I think we should be more honest with Chan. We shouldn't be tiptoeing around him as much as we do — we have to rip off the band aid at some point. He needs to know that what he's doing is not right.

Whatever the words Chan wanted to say die on his tongue, and he ends up making a small noise from the back of his throat instead. He's obviously caught by surprise at my statement, and even I am startled at how frustrated I sound.