Wonshik calls him sometimes; Taekwoon doesn’t
answer, but at least he knows he’s there.

Alternatively; Taekwoon always seems to be falling
apart, but Wonshik’s voice is his needle and thread.

Maybe it should drive him insane or make him outrageously mad. The phone never seemed to stop ringing, or at least when he’s like this, Taekwoon can't remember the times where the phone wasn't ringing.

It reminded him that maybe he should try being grateful to the one person who apparently hasn't given up on him – not that he really understood why. He hasn't made any move to express his (desperate) appreciation, so why would Wonshik stay up and call him in the middle of the night? Especially the time when it was at its worse and Taekwoon was curled in the center of his large bed, rocking himself back and forth and small whimpers escaping his bitten, chapped lips.

No one wanted to deal with that. Taekwoon didn't even want to deal with that.

But the phone would keep ringing. Auto-playing voicemails had become the soundtrack to his nights, its verses low-pitched, with worry and sadness that would make Taekwoon scramble out of the messy sheets and rush to the other side of his apartment, only to get there and stare at his phone with fear, like it might explode if he touched it.

And what if he did touch it? What if he picked up and let Wonshik know that he was okay? What if he just started lying? After all, lying was an easier path to take than facing the truth – facing himself. Wonshik would drop him like that. No more calls in the middle of the night, (soothing) deep voice cracking and rasping with worry and choking back tears because Taekwoon was just a mess and on the verge of letting himself drop off the ledge all the time.

He couldn't believe how good Wonshik was to him. He felt guilty, like maybe he was just leading the younger man on somehow, like he was taking advantage of his kindness. Wonshik had a life too. Had friends. Had a job. Had things to do besides stay up until ungodly hours, calling Taekwoon at least three times every night, leaving silly messages that he thought might take Taekwoon's mind off the fact that he was constantly falling apart.

Sometimes, Wonshik succeeded.

But only sometimes.

Taekwoon fell to his side on his large bed and curled up into himself more. His chest heaved up and down and his throat burned and tightened up as he tried to hold himself together. The seconds dragged on as his seams popped loose, one by one, but just before he lost it, from the other side of the apartment, his phone shrilled.

He didn't move, but he stopped gasping.

"Hyung, it’s me again." Wonshik's deep voice murmured.

Taekwoon uncurled himself slightly. The voice began talking and he could feel himself slowly being sewn back up.

At least for now.