a/n : i'm of the opinion that jun gets (at minimum) 93% cuter when he's sick.
"Alright, where is he?" You sigh, scanning the brightly lit dance room for any sign of your boyfriend, frowning when you come up empty-handed. Seungcheol peels himself from the floor, sweaty and winded.
"He's down the hall, I'll show you." the leader says before calling back to the rest of his members. "Once I'm back, we'll start again from the second verse, so rest up and be ready." All he gets in return is a chorus of groans.
You say your goodbyes and quickly follow Seungcheol down the hall, just a few doors down. "Sorry to call you all the way over here," he whispers, stopping just before he opens the door. "We tried to get him to let staff take him home, but he insisted we call you."
You shrug, "S'okay, I wasn't doing much anyways."
Seungcheol nods and carefully peers inside before letting out a snort. "I think he's still passed out."
Sure enough, there's Jun, tucked into a corner on the floor, despite the perfectly good couch available, with his knees pulled all the way up to his chest. He sits beneath a mound of jackets, presumably belonging to the other members, eyes half-lidded and lips parted. You can not fathom how he could possibly be comfortable with how his head lolls to the side. If he weren't obviously sick, skin pale, and heavy bags under his eyes, you'd take a picture for future blackmail.
"You gonna need help getting him to your car?"
"If you could."
Seungcehol nods, "Yeah, not a problem, it'll give the guys a bit more of a break."
You quietly tiptoe over to the bundle that is your boyfriend and crouch down. "Jun, baby," you call. He mumbles something incoherent, shifting beneath his cocoon.
"Jun, come on baby, it's time to go home," you coo, reaching out to cup his jaw, his skin clammy and feverish. He lets out a pitiful hum, barely regaining consciousness as he tries to blink himself awake.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, I'm here, sorry it took me so long."
"S'fine," he mumbles, making you smile. It's hard to be mad about your day off being interrupted when sick Jun is this adorable, red nose, puffy eyes, and all.
"You ready to go home?" Seungcheol's deep voice resonates behind you. He's already stepping around the mess of winter jackets and vests, hovering over the two of you with his hands on his hips.
"Yes, please." You think he tries to nod but just ends up bumping his head against the wall behind him. His face scrunches up at the contact, though you will say, he looks a lot more awake now.
"Alright, up you go," Seungcheol grabs Jun's wrists, pulling him to stand, albeit wobbly, on his feet. The jackets crumple to a sad pile on the floor, getting trampled as Seungcheol leads Jun to the door, arm hooked under his armpit to keep him upright. You're not sure you've ever seen Jun this sick, not even when he got the stomach bug and spent three days hunched over your toilet. It makes you worry, and not even the sweet smile Jun musters up as he thanks you for coming reassures you.
All in all, it takes about five minutes to walk Jun down to your car, and another fifteen for you to drive. Which should have only been ten, but you had to slow down tremendously when Jun started mumbling about feeling nauseous. Now, your only challenge was getting him up two flights of stairs to your apartment without the aid of Seungcheol.
He tries, rather unceremoniously, to climb his way up the first flight. He's mostly successful, gripping the railing and hoisting himself up one by one even though his legs move as though they're made of lead. However, there are only a few more steps when his toe catches the lip of the next and he nearly face-plants onto the landing. You're lunging for him in a second, grabbing his shoulders and steadying him with cat-like reflexes.
"Sorry, dizzy," he mumbles, taking a moment to shut his eyes and regain his bearings.
"Wen Junhui, what am I going to do with you?" You mumble, guiding him to conquer the few remaining stairs so you can unlock your door. "You can go lay down in my room, I'll be there in a minute."
You wait until Jun trudges through your living room and out of view before you busy yourself in the kitchen. Brewing a special immunity-boosting tea Minghao once gifted you and grabbing a sleeve of salted crackers, then a bottle of cold and flu medicine.
When you return to your room, tea, medicine, and crackers in hand, you're met with a similar sight as to when you picked up your boyfriend from dance practice. Cuddled up with about three of your blankets and nested amongst your many pillows and stuffed animals.
"Make yourself at home there?" You tease.
Jun's face softens into something akin to a smile. "It's cold."
You answer by handing him the tea with the cold medicine, which he gladly takes after digging himself out from his burrow enough to sit up. He sips slowly, taking small nibbles of the crackers in between.
Jun, unlike most, is actually the picture-perfect patient when he's sick. Doesn't fuss or argue when you're shoving medicine down his throat, listens when you tell him to rest, rarely asks for much, and is adorably clingy. The worst thing he does is pout and occasionally complain through sniffles about his head hurting. Really, the only downside is that you usually end up bedridden a few days later. Because Jun has a bad habit of claiming, "I don't want to get you sick," while simultaneously clinging to you like a koala.
There's a slurping beside you, Jun's head tilted all the way back and the mug practically upside down. He hands it back to you with a large grin on his face, muttering out a thanks that's significantly less raspy than his voice has been. You make a mental note to thank Mingaho for the tea.
"Feeling any better?" You ask, taking a seat next to him and brushing his hair back to feel his temperature; still warm. "Do you need anything else? More blankets, water, soup, maybe?"
He shakes his head, looking up at you with that same dopey look he always weaponizes before trying to persuade you into joining his antics. "A kiss."
"Not so fast, patient zero." You turn your head when he leans in, only for him to pull back with a look of utter betrayal, because how dare you deny him kisses when he needs them most.
"Come on," he whines. "Just one? For me? Please? I promise I'll take care of you when you're sick."
"No, Junhui."
"But what if I die? Then what? Then you'll never be able to kiss me again, is that what you want?"
"Really?" You dead pan. "You're gonna make this as difficult as possible, aren't you?"
He just puckers his lips. You sigh, internally cursing yourself for being born with a spine that has the structural integrity of a Twizzler. You give him a quick peck, then a second when he inevitably chases after for another, which seems to please him greatly. And because you're but a victim to Jun's charm, you press an extra long kiss to the crown of his head, earning a pleased hum from the boy in question.
"Happy now?"
"Very, you take good care of me."
"Yeah, well, take notes. Cause I can already feel your germs infecting me."
ꨄ PAIRING: actor!wen junhui x f!reader | ꨄ WC: 2.0K
ꨄ GENRE: angst, post-break-up au | based on stick season by noah kahan
ꨄ WARNINGS: alcohol consumption, partaking in marijuana, (1) big fightꨄ
A/N: dedicated to @studioeisa who said in response to "to love is to be changed": "and to not love anymore is to catalogue those changes" | thank you to @lovetaroandtaemin for the beta!!
Jun taps the edge of his mug three times and feels you like a bruise under his ribs.
The tap echoes in the green room, a soft, hollow sound swallowed by the hum of the heater. Outside the window, rain snakes down the glass like veins. Inside, Minghao flips a page of his script, glances over with a lazy lift of his eyebrow.
“You good?” he asks, voice casual, almost bored.
Jun gives a lopsided smile, presses the tip of his thumb to the rim of the mug once more before letting it go. “Yeah. Habit.”
Minghao shrugs and turns back to his lines, but Jun sits there, staring at the faint tremble of the tea inside his cup.
You used to do that – three taps before you drank anything, even water.
“Lock it in,” you’d say, tapping the side of your glass, tapping his head lightly after. “Seal the good stuff in, lock the bad stuff out.”
He had teased you then, easy and warm, nudged his shoulder to yours as he mocked your words. But later, when he found himself making your tea, he’d catch himself doing it too.
Now he can’t stop. Even when the good stuff is long gone.
It started stupid. It always does.
A half-forgotten anniversary. A missed text. A dinner burnt black in the oven because he forgot to set a timer.
You were already fraying at the edges, pulling tight, trying to hold the two of you together.
He was too busy pretending he didn’t notice, nose buried in his newest script.
“You don’t care,” you cried, voice cracking, shoulders drawn so tight it looked like it hurt. Your keys hung from your fingers, swinging, like some part of you had already decided to leave before you even spoke.
“You’re overreacting,” he said, sharp, automatic – because he didn’t know what else to say, because admitting you were right would mean everything was already broken.
A coffee mug hit the floor. A sharp sound, a scatter of white shards across the kitchen tile. His heart jumped in his chest.
(Jun realizes later that it was your favorite. Spent hours trying to fix it, long after you had left, long after he knew you were never coming back. The cracks felt a little like his bruised heart.)
“You never fight for me!” you shouted, raw and shuddering, your hands curled into fists at your sides. “You never even try anymore! You miss everything. You come home late and smell like a place I’ve never been. You fall asleep before I can even tell you about my day.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing good came out.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he snapped, defensive and cruel in a way he wouldn’t understand until later.
You flinched like he’d hit you.
“No,” you murmured, voice so quiet it was louder than any scream. “You’re not. You’ll leave again tonight. And then you’ll do it again. You don’t even see it anymore.”
He could feel the words settling into the walls, into the floorboards.
Permanent.
You hand shook as you threw the keys to the apartment on the table – a small, brittle sound that would haunt Jun for the rest of his days.
“You promised,” you said again, voice thin and tired. “You promised you’d come back to me. But you never do.”
For a second, he thought you might stay anyway.
That maybe, just maybe, you’d both cry, and yell some more, and somehow crawl back to each other through the wreckage and ceramic shards.
But you didn’t.
You turned.
You walked.
And when the door slammed behind you, it rattled every picture frame on the wall.
He didn’t fix them.
Not then. Not ever.
Instead, he stood there, staring at the crooked frames on the wall and the mess at his feet, like if he stayed still long enough, he could pretend none of it had happened.
But love changes you.
And when it leaves, it doesn’t give those pieces back.
It only leaves you with the catalog: the things you picked up along the way, the things that still move through you like ghosts.
Later, when the shoot moves outside and the wind tears through the courtyard, the stylist’s hair whips free of its braid. She curses under her breath, struggling with cold fingers.
Jun fishes a hair tie from his jacket pocket without thinking and holds it out to her. “Here.”
She blinks, surprised, but takes it gratefully, twisting her hair into a knot.
“You always carry one?” she asks, laughing, a little incredulous.
Jun shrugs, busies himself with a piece of invisible lint on his sleeves. “Force of habit, I guess.”
The first one he ever carried sat in his pocket for three days because you forgot it at the park.
When the stylist quirks a brow, he looks away pointedly. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t say anything about how you sprawled out on the grass, grinning at the sky, tossing a dandelion at him and pressing lilac-scented kisses against his neck.
Doesn’t say anything about how you looped the hair-tie around his wrist three days later when he finally fished it out from his pocket.
“Now you won’t forget me,” you’d whispered, and he hadn’t – not even now.
He had started keeping hair ties in his jacket like keys or wallet or phone: essential. Automatic.
It’s muscle memory now. Loving you still is, too, though he tries not to think about it.
The rain has gotten worse by the time they’re breaking for dinner. Jun pulls his hoodie up, stuffing his hands into the front pocket, and walks the perimeter of the set just to keep moving.
A song plays low from a crew member’s speaker, almost drowned by the weather – an old song, easy guitar and voice that scratches at something raw inside him.
He hums before he knows it, lips moving around the familiar rhythm.
Then he stops, the sound catches like a burr in his throat.
He sees it:
You barefoot in his kitchen, hair shoved up in a messy bun, singing loud and shamelessly off-key.
You, burning the rice, laughing as you chased the smell with lavender spray.
You, grabbing his hand, tugging him into a clumsy dance among the piles of laundry and unpaid bills, both of you drunk on nothing but each other.
“My cooking tastes best with music,” you used to say, pirouetting badly and knocking over a chair.
The memory slams into him harder than the wind, and for a second he forgets where he is. Forgets who he’s supposed to be.
He stops humming, presses his tongue hard to the roof of his mouth like it might stop the shaking.
It doesn’t.
The rain gets heavier as they set up for an emotional scene. Heavy dialogue, heavy lighting, heavy everything. Jun feels it on his shoulders.
He doodles in the margins of his script between takes – small suns, fat flowers, cartoon dogs with lopsided ears.
Seungkwan leans over, peering at the doodles. “Cute,” he says. “Didn’t know you could draw.”
Jun shrugs and forces a laugh, dragging a pen harder until it tears the page.
“I can’t,” he says, flipping the page before Seungkwan can see the little heart tucked between the flowers. The one shaped like you used to draw them – crooked, like it was falling over itself.
You once said messy hearts look more real that way.
He never argued. Still doesn’t.
Somewhere between weeks of filming and months of pretending, Jun forgets whether he started biting the inside of his cheek before you or after you.
Whether he said be safe instead of goodbye because he loved you or because it was easier than saying please come back.
He passes a coffee shop one night, rain slicking the pavement. His reflection blurs in the window: hair damp, hands stuffed into his pockets, a ghost in his own city.
Inside, two people laugh over steaming mugs. The kind of scene you used to pull him into, back when home was a place and not just a memory.
For a stupid second, he thinks he sees you. The shape of you at least – your hands wrapped around a cup, your head tipping back in a laugh.
It’s not you, obviously. It hasn’t been for a long time. But he still tastes the coffee on your lips from when you leaned over the table to press a giggly kiss against his mouth.
He turns away before the lump in his throat chokes him.
Christmas creeps closer.
Mingyu throws a party. Someone’s strung fairy lights across the mirrors of the studio, and they’re blinking like broken stars. There’s leftover pizza curling at the edges on paper plates.
Jun drinks enough to feel something close to warm. Laughs at jokes he can barely hear over the pounding in his chest.
Hansol’s yelling over the music, arm slung loose around Jun’s shoulders, laughing at something Jun didn’t hear.
Jun smiles, hollow, and lets himself be pulled deeper into the crowd.
Someone passes a bottle. Someone else passes something else.
Hansol jams a clumsily rolled joining into Jun’s hand, laughing so hard he almost drops it.
“C’mon man, it’s Christmas,” Hansol slurs, grinning, his cheeks pink from heat and beer.
Jun shakes his head at first, instinctive, automatic – because you hated the smell, always wrinkled your nose and burning your face in his chest if you passed someone smoking on the street.
But you’re not here anymore.
He turns the joint between his fingers, the paper crinkling.
Hansol whoops, someone cheers, the lights blur, the room spins.
And really – what does he have to lose?
He lights it with a borrowed lighter. Breathes in too sharp, coughs once, twice, the smoke burning down his throat like regret.
The world dulls a little.
The laughter warps, stretching thin at the edges.
He tries to close his eyes and let it carry him somewhere softer.
But the memories don’t blur.
They sharpen.
Your laugh, high and wild, ringing down the apartment hallways.
Your face, turned toward him under streetlights, breath steaming between you in the winter air.
Your hands, warm against the back of his neck, grounding him when everything else spun too fast.
He exhales, smoke curling around his fingers like ghosts.
The taste clings to his tongue, acrid and bitter.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing ever does.
He sleeps like falling down an endless flight of stairs – jerking awake and sinking back again, too heavy, too tired to fight it.
And somewhere in the tangle of dreams, you’re there.
Not the real you – not the memory of slammed doors and broken ceramics – but a softer version, blurry at the edges, golden in the way only dreams can make someone.
You’re sitting across from him at a tiny kitchen table, bathed in morning light.
Your hair is a mess, your sweatshirt’s slipping off one shoulder, and you’re laughing at something he’s said. The sun dips you in gold.
There’s coffee between you, steaming gently, and you reach for your mug – tapping the rim once, twice, three times.
He mirrors you without thinking, hand steady.
You look up, catch him watching, and your smile curves slow and easy across your face.
No hurt. No anger. No distance.
“Stay,” you say, your voice soft, like you’re asking and promising all at once.
“Okay,” he says, and he means it with everything he has.
He wakes up with the shape of your smile carved into the back of his eyelids.
The morning is grey and heavy, the heater rattling in the wall. His throat feels dry, and there’s a bruise blooming somewhere deep in his chest where your ghost pressed her hand to his heart.
He gets up. Brushes his teeth. Eats eggs he doesn’t taste.
He doodles in his script margins. Taps his mug three times. Tucks a hair tie into his pocket just in case.
Piece by piece, you are stitched into the fabric of him. A patchwork life.
*ೃ༄Genre/Trope/Au: horror, established relationship trope,
*ೃ༄Rating: R rated
*ೃ༄Warnings: mentions of death, violence, hallucinations, mental health, meeting in the afterlife
*ೃ༄Word count: 920
*ೃ༄Credits to @kitsunecafe
*ೃ༄Synopsis: one minute she was breathing, then she wasn't. But Jun can't accept that he is the reason because of it. And she seems to make it her endless goal for him to realise it.
"Shut…just shut up already!" Junhui yelled as he stared at her, her legs crossed as she sat in the chair in front of him, the same chair that many people had died in at his own hands. A twisted smile playing on her lips, causing the grip on his hammer to tighten. This has happened every single day since this incident happened. "You're not real…you're not real!" Your laughter bounced off the walls of his hideout. 'Not real not real' his mind screamed over and over at him. The grip on the hammer became even tighter at the sound.
"Then why can you see me? Why can you hear me? If I'm not real, what does that make you?" She tapped your nails against the armrest of the chair. "Insane. But you knew that already right? Fucked up freak who enjoys seeing others in pain and completely at your mercy." She mocked playfully.
"I'm not insane! Don't fucking call me that! Those people deserved what they got." It's true, Junhui was a killer yes, but he was a killer of reasons, taking down those who caused pain to others and got away with it. He wouldn't kill without reason…right?
"Or what? You'll kill me again?" She snapped this time, the playful tone in her voice gone completely now, causing him to flinch. His Nana never raised her voice at him. It was one of the things he loved about her, always kind and gentle but never angry, this was not his Nana. "Did I deserve what I got? Did you enjoy making me rot in the ground? After all the fucked up shit I did for you? Bring them assholes to you so you could play god?"
"I-I didn't..I didn’t kill you!" There were blank spots on what happened the day Nana died, he remembered two main things. They fucked in the morning and argued in the afternoon and then…blank. One moment she was there and the next she weren't.
"But you did KILL me Junhui! with that exact hammer in your hand. Like you did with all the other people you brought down here..THAT I BROUGHT DOWN TO YOU. And that's the thanks I get? Putting my neck on the line for your fucked up fantasies as some fucked up justice warrior? All because I said I didn’t want to do it anymore." Shehissed. "Because I wanted us to flee and start somewhere new and finally be a normal couple! A happy couple!" He remembered her pleas for him to stop that day. Stop killing, stop yelling…stop the swinging of the hammer until eventually it was her who stopped. Stopped pleading, stopped crying, stopped moving…No, that's fake too, he would never do that to her. It never happened.
"You're lying." He gritted through his teeth. "I'd never- I would never kill you darling!"
"But you did! You did and this is what has become of you. Lying, denial, desperate little psycho who still gets his rocks off on killing others. You're so fucked up and so deep in you'll kill the ones you love in a fit of rage and all because they wanted a normal fucking life!" She screamed.
"FUCKING STOP!" That was the last straw as he threw the hammer, eyes closed and directed at you. Causing a loud thug as it made a connection, eerily like the sound of when it hits a skull. Once his eyes opened again, a smile quickly turned into sinister laughter. Nana was no longer sitting in the chair, instead it was a now headless mannequin, which he likes to practice on before actually committing his crimes, yet somehow always becomes the image of you. He laughed so hard he cried. Tears of hurt? Tears of anger? He could never tell.
He cleaned up the mess once his episode had ended. Looking around his murder room. As if checking she was still lingering there. "I told you…you're not fucking real." He mumbled before turning the lights off on his way out.
It was a warm evening with a slight breeze as he reached the empty car park, or what he thought was empty. He saw how the stars seemed extra bright which was unusual for the area he lived in. He remembered how much Nana loved the stars, on the nights he didn't have a kill on the mind and they both could be a normal couple, and how she would talk about the constellations that could see even though he wasn't interested in them, but more her passion for them. He was so invested in the memory he didn't realize the car speeding right towards him.
A cry of his name was the last thing he heard before the impact. before it all went black. When he woke up she was the first thing he saw, dressed in a white and a rose was in his hand instead of the usual weapon.
'Darling?'
'You're here..I thought you'd keep me waiting.'
'You were waiting for me? Even after what I did?'
'You're a psycho Junhui.' She hummed as you moved closer. Taking the rose from his hand. "But my Psycho. And maybe this was my only way to have a peaceful life with you. I just had to be a bit more patient.' Her lips met his and his body relaxed for the first time since that day. After two years after losing you. He was finally at peace.
