Jiho feels like he's going to explode, really and truly.

He's so tired, so tired, feels like his skull is trying to shove his eyeballs out of their sockets with the force of his headache, stomach aching with day-long emptiness. 

Now it's midnight, the world is black outside of the studio, and he can't help but feel like his only source of light has dimmed.

Taeil isn't hitting any of the notes he's supposed too. He's flat on one and then sharp on the one immediately after. He develops a growl to his tone from the long practice and has to take a break to hydrate, which sets Jiho back twenty minutes and leaves him twitching at the soundborad, itching and fighting to keep from yelling at Taeil to get over it and get his back in the recording room.

Taeil is irritable as well, always is whenever he can't make his voice cooperate with him, and every snippy reply he gives Jiho is more kindling for the inferno in Jiho's head.

Jiho deletes another take from the desktop, steam practically shooting from his ears as Taeil flubs yet another line.

He's trying to keep his mouth shut, he really is and he hates when he's like this, but he's so ing strung out at the moment he feels like his mouth tears open on it's own and his words are forced out by the violence of it.

"Whatever is making you up every take, fix it." He snarls into the mic.

Taeil is quiet for a moment, silence through Jiho's head set, before his furious voice spits back through, surprised enough to make Jiho flinch.

"Don't tell me how to do my job, Jiho."

Jiho feels his frustration shrouding him, dark and impenetrable.

"I wouldn't have too," Even Jiho is surprised by the gravity of his voice, "-if you'd do it yourself."

Jiho hears an abrupt clatter a moment later, sees a flurry of motion through the recording room window as Taeil throws his own head set down and makes for the door. He slams through it with his shoulders hunched and his hands white-knuckled in front of his chest. He's not looking at Jiho, Jiho knows that Taeil hates to get mad like this, but he can't even feel bad about it because he's so angry himself.

Taeil paces for a moment, steps sharp and robotic, but he eventually loses the battle and turns to Jiho, face pinched and red.

"I'm trying."

Jiho can feel his upper lip lift, can feel the creaking plastic between his fingers as his grip on the computer mouse threatens to crush it.

"If you were really trying then we'd be done by now, don't make excuses." Jiho knows he's taking this too far, he can see the warning signs flashing in his mind and in the subtle hurt on Taeil's face, but he can't stop.

He's so stressed, feels like his breaths aren't coming in fast enough and his chest isn't expanding enough and his hands tremble like leaves, even in their fists.

"Why are you being like this? You know that this isn't fun for me either, stop being such an !"

"I wouldn't have to be an if you would just do as you're ing told!"

Echoes, around the small space.

Jiho's chest is heaving, his eyes are wet and it's so ing stupid because he's angry, he's pissed, why is he crying?

Taeil's eyes have slipped from him again when he's dared to look back up at him, and his arms are limp at his sides.

When he finally moves, his sneakers on the hardwood ring out like a gunshot and Jiho can't contain his flinch at it's harshness. 

He doesn't look up, can't, his neck is so strained his can feel the tendons standing out against his skin, but he hears the rustle of Taeil dragging his coat up off of the couch, and the sound of his hand hitting the door knob.

There's silence again, for a moment, the type of pregnant silence that comes from empty air sitting in someone's mouth as they try to find the words to speak.

But there are none, not this time.

Taeil pushes the door open, and leaves without a word.

Jiho feels a tear roll down his cheek immediately after the door clicks shut and practically slaps himself to wipe it away, a scream of frustration choked off by his throat swelling around it. He can't stay sitting, immobile, vulnerable, when he stands his chair is sent rolling away with a clatter. He stalks in tight circles around the tiny space, bombarded with images of Taeil, eyes wide, bretrayed, wet, hands small and fisted around nothing.

He feels overcharged, a battery with too much acid, an animal prodded too many times and his muscles bunch before he can stop himself, his fist flies into the wall before he can pull it.

A fisure of pain splits and bleeds in Jiho's knuckles and his wrist and his elbow and his back, blood stains a shallow crater in the drywall and he can't even focus on it because his mind is spinning so quickly that his feet feel like they're smoke, insubstantial, his whole body dematerializing until he's just a brain and blood and fragile bone and when he falls onto the sofa behind him he wishes that it were true.

His face obscured by his hands, he starts to fight the war in his head.