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he’s up there, drowning in lights and screams and pressure, and he’s not okay.

you can see it in the way he moves. it’s subtle, but you know him. the slight missteps in choreography, the way his hand keeps twitching by his side when it should be relaxed. the way his chest rises too quickly even in moments of stillness. the sheen of sweat coating his face. not the usual kind, but the cold, sick kind. like his body is trying to fight something off and failing.

your boyfriend is currently performing for thousands of people, and he looks like he’s one gesture away from losing his fucking consciousness on stage.

and you can’t do a damn thing about it.

you warned him before the show. when he came up to you ten minutes before call time, pale and quiet, and told you his chest felt tight and his breathing was off.

you told him to sit it out. just once. just this one performance.

he looked at you with that stubborn fire in his eyes. told you how there’s ‘no way he’s letting everyone down.’

fucking hell.

you love him, but sometimes you want to shake him until he learns to love himself half as fiercely as he loves his goddamn job.

“five minutes till wrap!” someone yells behind you. one of the audio techs.

your fingers are halfway to your mouth, biting at your nails.. a habit you’d kicked years ago but came clawing back the second he stepped on stage tonight.

you’re so far past nervous it’s not even a word anymore. you’re fucking terrified. because you’ve seen idols collapse. you’ve helped catch them, wipe blood off their faces, call ambulances in the middle of chaos. it’s not glamorous. it’s not romantic. it’s horrifying.

and right now, you’re watching the person you love edge closer to that line every goddamn second.

he hits the last note of the final song and drops into the ending pose. the crowd erupts.

you don’t care.

you’re already stepping forward, motioning to the crew behind you.

“get the towels, the fans, everything. as soon as they’re down, we need cooling stations ready.”

someone nods and takes off running. another follows.

your eyes snap back to the stage when you hear his voice through the microphone. his goodbye speech.

it’s short, too short for jungkook. no jokes, no long winded thank yous. just a few sentences and a forced smile plastered on his face. his voice is hoarse. shaky. his grip on the mic is loose.

and then..

he drops.

not all the way, not unconscious. just to one knee. like his legs gave out and he’s trying to play it off as part of the exit.

your stomach sinks so fast you feel sick.

you take a step forward, ready to run, when a hand grabs your wrist.

“he’s okay,” one of the makeup staff mouths, eyes wide. “he’ll be okay.”

if your heart weren’t threatening to detonate inside your chest, you’d scold yourself for brushing her off with barely a flicker of acknowledgment.

but you don’t even notice.

your mind is too consumed by desperate pleas for jungkook to reach the back of the stage without collapsing. without the crew being forced to surge forward with first aid.

jungkook forces himself up. stumbles. jimin’s hand steadies him for a fleeting moment before the seven of them bow towards the huge crowd together, fingers interlaced.

but the way jimin clings to jungkook, and the sharp look hoseok casts his way makes it clear. they need to get off that stage right now, before it’s too late.

every second stretches into eternity for you.

one by one, the boys slip from the glare of the lights, descending the steps that lead backstage where the entire team waits.

namjoon passes you first. then seokjin, yoongi, taehyung, hoseok.

and then, finally, you see him.

fuck.

the sight of jungkook leaning heavily against jimin as though he’s the only thing keeping him conscious nearly unravels you.

he’s barely standing.

you rush toward them before anyone else can, faster than thought. faster than light. before you can speak, before you can even acknowledge jimin and how fucking exhausted and worried he looks next to him, your boyfriend collapses into your arms as if by instinct. as if it’s the only place he can rest.

“fuck,” you breathe, arms wrapping around his waist as he sags against you. “baby- ”

he’s burning up. drenched in sweat. breathing ragged into your neck.

“you’re okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “you’re done. it’s over. i’ve got you.”

he doesn’t answer. just grips the back of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. groans.

“someone help me!” you shout. “we need water, cooling pads, anything!”

people rush in, for both jimin and you. three staff members carefully lift jungkook from your arms and ease him onto the couch in the center of the dim room. you’re immediately beside him, ignoring protocol, ignoring boundaries, ignoring everything but him.

you press a damp towel to his forehead. someone else brings an oxygen mask to his parted lips. the chaos around you, the shuffling of staff, the frantic voices of the other members only makes your pulse pound harder. jungkook lies slumped on the rough sofa in front of you, his eyes refusing to open, his skin so alarmingly pale it sends fear tearing through you.

your hands cradle his burning, damp face, desperate to coax any reaction from him as you gently tilt his face toward yours. some staff members hold fans and water bottles around him. some watch the two of you like a deer caught in headlights.

the members are all gathered around you, their faces etched with worry and exhaustion. namjoon lowers himself onto the seat beside the two of you, absentmindedly resting a hand on jungkook’s leg, which is stretched out across the table. you’re far too fucking terrified to even notice.

“jungkook,” you call.

no response.

“jungkook, look at me.”

he groans, eyes fluttering open just enough to look around in a daze, until his gaze finally locks on yours.

you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

“move,” namjoon snaps at the crowd of well meaning staff hovering too close. “back up. give them space.”

they back away. most of them, at least. it isn’t like namjoon to raise his voice or speak to the team with such sharp authority, but there isn’t a single thing normal or composed about this situation. he doesn’t even register the edge in his own tone.

jungkook drags his tongue across his dry, colorless lips, eyes half lidded and heavy with exhaustion as they remain on yours. his sweaty, inked palm comes to rest over your hand where it cups his cheek.

his lips part. “i’m okay,” he whispers. barely, but it’s enough.

you close your eyes for a second and press your forehead against his.

“you idiot,” you whisper, voice cracking. “how could you do this to yourself? you scared the shit out of me.”

he lets out a weak, breathy chuckle.

“m’sorry.”

you swallow down everything you want to scream at him and just breathe. your fingers rake through his hair, pushing the soaked strands back from his forehead. his hand finds yours once again and rests it against his chest like he needs to feel you there.

he tugs gently, silently urging you closer, and you obey.

his head falls to your chest, arms looping around your waist, and you hold him like he’s the only thing grounding you to the earth.

his breathing evens out slowly. the tremble in his hands stops.

you close your eyes and press your lips to the top of his head, arms wrapped around him as the chaos of post show cleanup continues around you.

and for the first time all night, you let yourself breathe.