yan! popstar ✘ manager!reader . . .
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ LU/KA, what was heroin to his beloved manager? ‧₊˚♪
note—another shitter. just wanted to get something out ( • ᴖ • ｡) apologies for inactivity the past month, currently trying to get back into the feel of writing :ccc.
yan! popstar, who hadn't realized, until now, just how bad it had gotten.
How saliva would pool on his tongue and coax the acid what his stomach churned, when his skin—smooth and sheened by sweat—coagulated a chill beneath the flesh within the bone, something serious, fatal.
yan! popstar, who felt his knees buckle under the intensity of the stage lights, hyper-sensitive to the way it brewed his blood and boiled the surface of his skin, left him panting like a mutt.
All because he didn't have you with him.
yan! popstar, who had tried every drug on the market, legal and illegal alike. Waltzed into every pharmacy, every therapy institute, every psychiatrist office. Benzodiazepine to heroin, none of it soothed him like you did.
yan! popstar, who needed his dear manager present with him continually if he were to be functioning.
You were the only one to soothe his troubles, pacify the pound of his heart. Wheedle euphoria like no other by mere presence, even when the thought of performing threatened vomit.
yan! popstar, who lived for moments when it'd all be too much and he'd wreathe his gloved fingers into yours backstage—to which you'd reluctantly accept—and all would be made right again. Too often, you'd scold him for his reliance on you, but, truly, this was his best attempt. He had half a mind to bring you on-stage with him, but alas.
yan! popstar, who's dependency not only now seeped into the fissures of his career, but the facets of his life. No longer could he fathom an existence where you weren't fettered to his side, he needed you. When he performed, when he ate, and if it were up to him: when he slept.
For he had trouble simply closing his eyes without promise of your lull to console him to rest. How every night, he'd lay with the bitter company of his silken sheets, haunted by the agony of your absence. How every night, it'd almost kill him.
yan! popstar, who couldn't help but fantasize domestic life with you. The home you'd share, beachside maybe. Lazy mornings supervised by the lap of the sea and the love he'd nurture so delicately. Or maybe a sheltered cottage up north, and when came the cold winter months, there'd be his arms to warm you.
A fantasy so intricately curated he was physically wounded at the inevitability what was reality.
yan! popstar, who'd, more often than he'd admit, find himself wailing shamelessly up into the solitary hours of night and all throughout the hushed ambience of morning. Nothing but white wine down his throat and silence for solace. He'd call you—once, twice, a hundred times and then more. Until his battery died and he'd move onto his landline. Until the scorch in his chest dwindled.
Until you came home.
yan! popstar, who did away with any morsel of indignity and shame when you stumbled upon his front door, all disheveled and sleepy. Like you always did, you scolded him. Something about boundaries, his image. His dependency. He couldn't bring himself to listen.
How could he? No matter how he wept and sobbed, you never seemed to understand. Neither his career nor his fans meant anything in the face of you. His costly manor was nothing more than a hollow husk of wood and metal without you in it. His beauty only vain if it weren't you who gazed upon it.
An eccentric one he was, but you accepted him and all his flaws, and so wholeheartedly. So, how could he?
yan! popstar, who couldn't will himself to tell you he relished when your co-workers would joke the two of you were dating—how greatly he wished for you to assume that role in his life. He couldn't say he'd purchased your fragrance and showered it along his pillow to delude himself of your presence, or that his skin would break out into hives when you weren't in his line of sight, in his range to touch.
He couldn't say that he loved you.
But so long you continued to be there for him like you did, he could wait a little longer. As long as you'd continue to indulge him of the little things to keep him going, keep his withdrawal at bay. He'd be okay.
Like a junkie to a bottle.
‧₊˚♪
