Seulgi doesn’t think that anyone notices, but Irene does.

The older girl notices the way that Seulgi turns around to hide, muffling her coughs in that fluffy fur jacket of hers, doing her best to keep herself silent— the second-eldest has never been one to want to worry the staff or her other members. 

Irene feels her heart break, because she knows that Seulgi, even if she’s dressed up to look like a million won, is feeling anything but. And she suffers in silence, lungs burnings, chest hurting from her illness.

(What Irene would do to give Seulgi some of the air stuck in — she’s been breathless ever since she first noticed the main dancer struggling.)

They get through the required music show recording with relative ease; nothing out of the ordinary except Seulgi’s small cough into her mic that had Irene casting worried glance after worried glance her way, even after Seulgi had apologized to the sound staff profusely and murmured a small I’m fine, guys, to the rest of her members.

To their credit, they were all worried. But Yeri and Joy had been quick to believe Seulgi, the unnie-dongsaeng mentality between them strong. Wendy had pestered her into taking some medicine, and was satisfied only after watching her best friend down two pills with a swift gulp of water.

Irene had been left the only one left twiddling her thumbs, not believing that Seulgi was fine for a second. She’d known Seulgi the longest, had witnessed the way that she’d endured seven years of trainee (despite only having been at Seulgi’s side for five— the fruits of labor were evident), had come to understand all of Seulgi’s habits, both good and bad.

Seulgi doesn’t like to trouble people— a good habit. Seulgi doesn’t like to “trouble” people— a bad habit.

Irene is more than aware of how Seulgi bides her struggles within, keeping to herself, never opening up. Seulgi likes to let the troubled waters pool and sit, growing and bubbling until they overflow at the tipping point— Irene knows because she is the same.

But Seulgi is Seulgi, and she is also different than Irene. She’s more open, more trusting, more than willing to try and pry through a hard exterior— Irene knows because she has been on the receiving end of Seulgi’s soft love before, and still is.

Irene wishes that she was more like Seulgi, wishes that she could learn to be like Seulgi. But then she supposes that she wouldn’t be Irene.

Still, that didn’t mean she can’t try to be a bit more forward. Baby steps.

—

“Seul,” Irene murmurs, gazing gently at the red-eyed girl on the couch. It’s way past midnight, and the rest of the girls are sleeping (judging from the snores echoing throughout the dorm.)

“Where are you doing awake, unnie?” Seulgi asks, just barely managing to cover up a hoarse hiccup. She doesn’t meet Irene’s eyes, can’t meet Irene’s eyes.

“I should be asking you that,” Irene says softly in return.

“I just needed a glass of water.”

“Are you allergic to water?”

“I—“ Seulgi blinks, finally tilting her head to look up at the older girl standing a foot away from the couch. “What?”

“If you’re not allergic to water,” Irene says slowly, “then why are your eyes red?”

“I’m okay, unnie,” Seulgi insists, the desperation in her tone heart-wrenching. She says so, Irene notes, in a way that made it seem like if she wished hard enough, it would come true.

“I don’t think you are,” Irene counters, her voice still quiet, but firm. Meanwhile, Seulgi gapes at her wordlessly. “You need rest, Kang Seulgi. I already asked the managers to push your photoshoot tomorrow back to next week.”

“Why?!” Seulgi asks in alarm, eyes going wide, and she stands up from the couch abruptly. “Unnie, I don’t want to cause the magazine trouble—“

“They were more than willing to push the shoot back when they were told that you were sick and needed rest,” Irene states, and Seulgi clamps shut. Irene shakes her head with a small smile. “I know that you don’t want to stir that pot, Seul, but you have to understand your worth. There are people who are willing to put your health in front of the superficial. Tomorrow, you’re going to get well here in the dorm with the rest of us.”

Seulgi exhales shakily, and Irene swears she can see the relief in Seulgi’s eyes as she sits back down on the couch, gesturing for Irene to join her.

“Thank you, unnie,” she whispers as Irene decreases the distance, choosing to sit right next to Seulgi instead of at the other end— they’ve never known the meaning of personal space anyways. Almost instinctively, Seulgi has an arm around her shoulders, and Irene reclines into the crook of Seulgi’s neck.

They sit comfortably in silence, Seulgi absentmindedly rubbing circles into Irene’s bare arm, and Irene playing with the fingers on Seulgi’s free hand.

“I want to hear her stories, and I want to tell her stories, and I just want to take care of her,” she had said once. It’s long past the time to hold tight to her word.

“When I was younger,” Irene says, breaking the silence. She feels Seulgi nod slightly, chin bumping the top of Irene’s head, “when I used to cough up a storm, especially during the winter, my mother would make me tea to warm me up and melt the cough away. I’m going to make you tea in the morning.

“Can you tell me a story, Seulgi?”

The thumb rubbing circles into her skin stops momentarily, only to start up again a moment later. Irene can picture Seulgi’s small smile.

“I used to cough a lot when I was a trainee, back when my voice gave out and I thought I’d never sing again. You used to cry with me because I couldn’t even call you ‘unnie,’ remember? You looked so sad, and so I decided to try harder.”