Jongin rises to his toes, only dropping his eyes to monitor his posture.

He can do it. He’s still holding the barre, but he’s en pointe. Girls half his age train and achieve it much sooner, but he’s wanted to learn. It’s ranther unique for a ballerino.

His reflection smiles and raises its arms.

Jongin wobbles and falls on his heels. He frowns at himself. He’s not sure why he fell. One moment, he’s on his toes and balanced, although holding the barre, then he saw his arms reach out, and his stomach swooped for stable balance, but he’d never let go. There was no reason to feel that way.

Weird visions like that have been happening, lately. Jongin doesn’t know why, and he sometimes wonders if he should talk to his doctor, but what is anyone really going to say when he starts talking about visions? He’s overworked, overtired, underfed, just practicing too much. Stress. Prescribe him some pills with a stern warning, because he isn’t about to stop practicing.

Whatever.

Jongin yanks his towel from the near chair. It cracks the air, and he flinches. Maybe he is edgier than usual.

Tossing it aside, he replays a song and goes through the choreography, losing himself in the thrill of pure movement. His body follows something other than himself, and he becomes a passenger to enjoy the experience.

Finally, his gut calls for attention. Its rumbling moans interrupt the beat, and Jongin realizes it actually hurts a little, how empty he feels.

He collapses on the floor and hunches over his legs, catching his breath. After a drink, he feels better and leans back against the mirror. Smears of sweat will probably be left behind; he feels bad for the janitors who clean every night, but he also wonders about the years of literal blood, sweat, tears, and unmentionable fluids that have dropped to the floors in the old studio. Mops can only do so much.

If he wasn’t so exhausted, he might tuck his towel beneath himself, but he’ll be showering eventually. Some extra dirt and grossness will wash away with everything else.

He lets his head tip back against the mirror, eyes closed to focus just on his breathing and heart. It’s tempting to stay there and nap. Fatigue weighs him down, heavier the longer he sits.

“I’ve waited long enough.”

Jongin surges forward, slapping a hand over his ear. Goosebumps erupt over his heated flesh. No one is even in the room, but he clearly heard someone speak. A familiar voice but icy tone, more hiss than human.

He doesn’t notice his boyfriend knock on the door, packed and ready to go home for the night. “Jongin?” Baekhyun crouches beside him, and they both flinch in surprise. He laughs but takes Jongin’s hand from his ear, looking for evidence of some sort of wound. “Are you alright?”

Jongin shakes his head, eyes wide and searching for something. “I dunno. I heard someone, but..” No one was here.

Baekhyun shivers and scowls, rubbing his neck. There must be a crack in the windows. “You’re done, right? Let’s go.”

“I haven’t showered.” The clock reads later than he expected; he’s tired and hungry. As much as he’d love to practice endlessly, it doesn’t pay to be reckless. The practice room isn’t as warm as it had been just moments ago, too. His consciousness is tugging at him, begging
to leave.

“Neither have I. We can stink up the bus and share a seat.”

“Gross.” Jongin takes his hand and is pulled to his feet. Let no one sneer at Baekhyun for his average height; he can throw bigger men to the floor with ease.

“You sure you’re alright?” Baekhyun keeps an arm around Jongin’s waist while he gathers his dufflebag.

“Not really, but it’s nothing. Just a feeling, I guess.”

The sun’s already set. They walk to the bus stop at the corner and lean against one another; Baekhyun always leans more heavily, especially when worried. He can tell Jongin’s tired, and it’s not just a he-danced-until-his-legs-turned-to-jelly-even-thought-he-knows-he-shouldn’t kind of tired. He’s been distracted and a little distant, a sort of mood that comes and goes the way some people are affected by the seasons. There can be weeks into months of Jongin’s usual good humor and easy affection; then there can be solid days of something Baekhyun can only think of as depression, except it’s unlike his friends who experience it. It’s different person to person, he knows, but Jongin will almost slip into a catatonic state and just be very still, like he’s asleep with his eyes open or like an animal patiently waiting for prey.

During those times, Baekhyun’s afraid. If it’s like a waking nightmare, he’s not sure he should wake Jongin. If he’s just thinking, Baekhyun doesn’t want to interrupt him.

Like now, just in the brief wait until the bus arrives, Jongin’s staring into the ad behind the glass of the shelter built over the bus stop bench. He’s physically right beside Baekhyun; he can touch him and even smell his drying sweat a little, but his expression is blank. His eyes are intensely staring but unfocused.

The bus rolls to the curb and stops with a hydraulic hiss. Its doors open, and Baekhyun nudges Jongin. He blinks and looks at him. “What?”

“The bus.”

“Oh.” Jongin mounts the steps and walks to the back of the bus. The seats are half full; they easily find a seat but choose one a little apart from other riders. They don’t actually want to clear the bus.

Jongin holds his duffel on his lap and watches the floor between his feet. Baekhyun watche