Fine {DoTae} | complete

Ten

The concert starts and the caffeine makes Doyoung jittery and talkative and unable to sit still, so he paces the dressing room while the stylists gossip. The beat of the music pulses through his veins and rattles his thoughts until he can scarcely think straight. Time drags, but he thinks that's just him.

"Is there something on your mind?" A stylist asks. Doyoung shakes his head and sits down.

The fight with the sasaeng is on his mind. His tension with Taeyong is on his mind, because he still hasn't properly apologised and, although he knows Taeyong isn't expecting an apology, just a reassuring conversation and a plan for moving ahead, he thinks he owes him one. Either way, he's being a terrible boyfriend. He hopes the concert is taking Taeyong's mind off it. When Taeyong comes backstage for a five-minute break and outfit change, he smiles at Doyoung, but Doyoung watches it melt off his features to leave a distorted frown that makes him realise the idol is still very much thinking about it.

After the second break, Hyunseok approaches him. Doyoung switches off his phone.

"I suggest you maybe keep your distance from Taeyong in public," he says. "I don't know if... this girl... if she's going to post about it or not, but just to make sure we don't have any more incidents, okay?"

Doyoung nods. "Okay."

"Thank you." He leaves, and Doyoung goes back to his phone, only this time he can't type and sends a string of incomprehensible letters to the college friend group chat, and Mark replies with concern. Yuta laughs at him. Sicheng is thoroughly confused, so the laughter turns to target him instead.

Talking to his friends has been helping massively. Their jokes give him the thrill of having to mask a laugh in the middle of a meeting, like an immature kid all over again, and he's learnt that, no matter what time or what day, if he messages the chat someone will reply, and they can talk. About anything. It doesn't have to be deep or interesting, just general gossip about their day is enough. He keeps his own stories vague, and it fits with the old image of boring Doyoung so no one questions him. He considers telling them he's on tour with Taeyong, even types the start of a message, but deletes it yet again, guilty for having accused them of spreading the pictures. He wonders if any have seen the articles about him. They must be suspicious that something is up, at least.

He sighs and pockets his phone, tries to follow the stylists' conversation, but can't because his mind is always drawn back to the fight. He punched a fan outside their hotel. Granted she has attitude and a bit too much money to spend on the wrong things, but no one knows her next move and Doyoung's slip up could damage Taeyong's career, or even end it. He nibbles his lip to push through the urge to check Twitter like an addiction.

The least he should do is offer ways to help Taeyong. But he doesn't know what to say. Whenever he thinks about it, goes to speak, he chickens out. He's weak, unable to admit his mistake, and the voices remind him every hour of the day. He could hardly focus during rehearsals and had to take up the offer of a second coffee. Sipping on his fourth, Doyoung rests his head back on the sofa and pulls his knees to his chest.

"Taeyong's your boyfriend. He's not scary," Doyoung tells himself. "It's only Taeyong."

But he's an idol. That's scary, especially since you've gone and fucked up.

"It's only Taeyong. He always understands. Just talk to him," he hisses.

"Come on, you can tell us," the stylists say. "It doesn't have to be now, but you can always talk to us." The three of them nudge each other and giggle, then sink back into their own conversation again.

Doyoung thanks them and leaves the room. Talking is not available to him right now. Nonetheless, he mutters to himself as he walks through the corridors, pushes open the side door, the metal bar cold and resistant to his efforts, and steps outside. The door shuts, and the music fades quieter yet remains burrowed in his chest. He tells himself to watch the time, then wanders to a bench.