Jiho is frustrated. Taeil can tell.

His hands are twitchy where they flit across the soundboard, shaky fingers making the cursor on the computer monitor dance madly around whatever button he's aiming for.

His free hand is supporting his heavy head, fisted around one of the massive ear pieces of his head set. Taeil watches as it flexes and trembles with very mistake that Jiho thinks he's making, every failure that blooms in front of his eyes only.

Taeils hates it. Hates it like he's hated few things before, and his own hands ache to comfort, to assuage and dampen and push away the flames into Jiho's brain like only he can.

Taeil goes to him once it becomes too much to silently bear, making sure that his steps can be heard, and puts his hand over Jiho's on the mouse. He flinches away, bats Taeil's hand off with a surprised curse. He looks back at Taeil, glares, and takes the head set off.

"What?" He snaps.

Taeil doesn't let Jiho's annoyance get to him, he's been through this too many times.

"Stop for a bit, Jiho? You're not going to get anything done like this."

Jiho just keeps glaring, but his fingers curl beneath Taeil's palm. A split in his lip colors his tongue crimson.

"You know I'm right." Taeil's voice isn't condescending, but practiced. Learned.

There's a second more of tense silence, Jiho trying his hardest to keep that damned front up, but he's never once been successful with that when it came to Taeil, and he's not going to break his streak now. His breath whooshes out of his lungs with force, his rigid posture deflating inch by inch until his shoulders are no longer up by his ears, and his hand has turned up, to meld with Taeils.

Taeil tugs him up, pulls him to the couch pushed up against the back wall, and sits down, waiting.

He doesn't have to for long.

Jiho fidgets for only a moment before falling next to Taeil, turning on his side to octopus himself around his much smaller boyfriend. His arms circle Taeil's shoulders, his legs curl across Taeil's lap, and his face goes to Taeil's neck, nose cool against his warm skin.

His breaths are shallow, cold, and Taeil rubs over and over his sharp shoulder blades, traipses across the hills and valleys of his spine, and falls over the orchestra of his ribs.

Jiho is getting thin again, Taeil notes dully.

He cradles Jiho closer to him, his hair course and unwashed and stiff under his hand. He hasn't shaved in a day or two either, and his jaw scrapes across Taeil's skin as Jiho fights to keep from losing it.

Taeil knows how much pressure is put on Jiho, he's confronted with it's side effects every day. He might not understand it, in the same way that Jiho doesn't understand Taeil's responsibilities as eldest, but he does understand when and how he needs help, and is more than willing to administer. As the leader of a group constantly fighting for it's place, an underground star trying to keep himself from dimming in the light of idol life, a son and a brother and a friend and a partner, Jiho most certainly doesn't have it easy. Often times his seemingly endless burdens conflict, overlap, or heads, and Jiho is left in the crosshairs of a weapon that can fire at any time.

Luckily, Taeil can tell when the trigger's been pulled.

Wet on his skin, hot trails and small bitten-off noises; Taeil doesn't speak.

He simply pulls Jiho closer to him, and does his best to mend his hurts.