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extralargebubbl · 7 days ago

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Baby's Worst Interview

Behold, my fanfic hiatus has been broken!

Word Count: 6228

Summery: Not long after coming to the human world, Baby gets a nasty cold from fans at a meet-n-greet. He's forced to participate in a magazine interview the day after and plays up his babyish act to get out of it, only to inadvertently end up regressed. Jinu steps in to look after him.

Baby is finally going to kill Jinu.

He’s contemplated it several times since Jinu came to them with his demon-boy-band idea. During the gruelling months of non-stop dance lessons; when Jinu explained what a ‘maknae’ was and that he was going to be one; and dancing while dressed in infantile clothes for crowds of hundreds to see. But this time, sweaty and plastered to his mattress, head aching and sinuses full of mucus, he’s actually going to do it. Just as soon as he musters the energy, Jinu is a dead man.

Just two weeks topside and he’s contracted the plague. No doubt something he picked up from the meet-and-greet the night before; forced to cuddle up to all of their “adoring fans” for pictures and shake their sticky hands. He remembers the girl who kept lisping spit in his face through her braces and the particularly charming fellow in desperate need of a shower, and shudders. Or maybe those are chills.

He goes to roll out of bed, but when he stands up a wave of dizziness rocks the room and sends him stumbling sideways into his nightstand. He catches himself, but not before the sharp corner jabs into his thigh and he has to bite back a curse. Stupid Jinu, stupid weak human meat bag, stupid— argh! He rights himself slowly, breathing through the throbs of pain coming from his head and his leg, and half-limps over to his closet to get dressed. It’s too early to be wearing his day clothes, but his pyjamas are damp with sweat and he would rather feel itchy than disgusting.

When he’s dressed and feeling slightly more alive than when he woke up, he toes on his slippers and shuffles out to the kitchen.

Where they’re staying, he’ll admit, is nice. It’s more luxurious than anything that exists in the demon realm, and while he lived in relative comfort during his human life it’s nothing compared to the modern amenities they’ve come to enjoy as idols. They all share the top floor of some prestigious hotel, each with a private room to themselves. It was almost mesmerizing when they first arrived, but right now the shiny modern tile that covers just about every surface hurts his eyes and makes him want to skulk back into the darkness of his bedroom. Unfortunately the meat bag requires food, yet another thing he’s been forced to reacquaint with since coming up from the demon realm, and so he slumps into one of the stools at the kitchen island where Jinu is making breakfast.

“Good morning,” Jinu says, squinting at a box of mix in one hand and stirring something in a bowl with the other. “Sleep well?”

Baby blinks like a lizard while his thoughts lag behind for a second. “…Sure, whatever.” The sound of his own voice catches him off-guard. He sounds rough to say the least, and his throat scolds him for speaking.

Jinu winces and looks up at him. “You look awful. Are you sick? How did that happen?”

“How do you think?” He rasps, “Your stupid fan-meet.” A trickle of slime begins to drip from his nose, and he loudly sniffs it back in for emphasis.

Jinu wrinkles his nose and goes back to stirring. “Gross.”

Baby scoffs and leans over to rest his forehead on his arms. His head feels like a boulder and his eyes feel just as heavy, drooping down, down, down in the darkness his arm-shield provides. He’s just about to doze off again when a large hand claps him on the back and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Mornin’!” Abby yawns like a middle-aged father and slides into the stool beside Baby. He smirks. “What, still asleep? Awe, sorry to interrupt nap time.”

Baby turns to glare at him and feels just the slightest bit vindicated when Abby’s face screws up in disgust. He can feel a bit of snot on his upper lip and crust in his eyes, and he knows he probably looks like a warm corpse.

“Ugh. Dude, what happened to you?”

“What happened to who?” Romance glides into the room like a model on a catwalk, looking so well-rested that Baby wants to strangle him. Mystery follows close behind, rubbing his eyes under his bangs.

“Baby’s sick. He thinks he caught something from one of the fans at the meet-n-greet yesterday.” Jinu explains, pouring what Baby now sees is pancake mix into a pan.

Romance raises an eyebrow, “Sick? Like..?” Then catches a look at Baby’s face. “Oh, ugh—“

Baby rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, ‘ew’. What are you, childre—?“ He cuts himself off with a fit of wet coughs that have him hunched over the counter. He shudders as a ball of slime shakes loose in his throat and he’s forced to swallow it. Gross, gross, gross.

Mystery comes up behind him and pats him between the shoulder blades a few times like he’s helping, then turns to Jinu. “…So what does this mean for the interviews, then?”

Baby barely suppresses a groan. The interviews. As a part of the fast rise to fame their plan requires, Jinu has their schedule jam-packed with back-to-back events. Performances, live streams, photoshoots, and today, an interview with a magazine publisher. Every medium, Jinu said. They needed to be anywhere someone could see them to reach the most souls, and that included books. Or rather, ‘tabloids’, as they were called. Baby had picked up a magazine or two from the room’s provided selection, and they didn’t really seem like they could be called books.

“—fine. Right?”

They’re all looking at him. “…What?”

Jinu frowns and slides a plate of pancakes towards him. He can’t even smell them. “I said the interview shouldn’t be too difficult. You’ll be fine, right?”

The idea of putting up with fans, invasive questions, and maintaining his stupid cutesy persona while he feels like this almost makes him want to give up on the whole thing and waltz back to Gwi-ma, but it’s just one interview. He’s dealt with worse than some cold nearly every day since becoming a demon, and as much as it pains him, he has a role to play.

He stuffs a forkful of flavourless pancake into his mouth as more snot drips from his nose. “Yeah. But you owe me later.”

By the time the stage director gives them their five-minute warning, the overhead light in the greenroom is making Baby want to gouge his eyes out. During the limo ride to the studio he picked up a chill he hasn’t been able to shake, even after layering long shirts underneath his fuzzy pink sweater. There are goosebumps running down his arms and legs that send shocks of sensitivity through him whenever they brush against his clothes, and his throat aches every time he so much as swallows, which he has to keep doing because the stubborn mucus in his throat makes him feel like he’s constantly on the verge of gagging. He can’t remember the last time he felt this uncomfortable, and frustration is simmering with the fever under his skin.

The others are avoiding him, both because they don’t want whatever he’s managed to get and because they’re smart enough to know he’s about ready to snap at them if they say anything. They’ve all agreed that Baby will participate as little as possible in the interview, for his sake and for the sake of the Saja Boys’ reputation. They’re also trying to keep his illness on the down-low. Jinu doesn’t want the producers to insist on cancelling because a member isn’t feeling well in the interest of getting the article published as soon as possible.

He turns back to the mirror to do some final touches to his makeup, which is doing most of the illness-hiding heavy lifting. Foundation is concealing the flush spread across his nose and cheeks and pulls his complexion back from the brink of death, concealer colour-corrects his purple eye bags, and eyeliner helps him look awake and cooly-neutral instead of tired and irritated. He’s got a package of convenience store tissues in his pocket and a rehearsed excuse about seasonal allergies at the ready. He’s about as prepared as he can be.

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and lets out a small groan. His brain feels like sludge.

“Alright, we’re ready for you now!” The stage director calls from the doorway, loud and chipper. Baby hates her. “Please follow me.”

To his dismay, the interview stage is even brighter than the greenroom, and it just about makes his eyes water. Bright white lights are beaming directly onto the set where they’ll be sitting, and behind them Baby can just barely make out multiple cameras and a small crowd of fans who’ve come to watch. He forces a calm, smily expression as they all take their seats on a big yellow couch. He’s the last one in the line so he gets a seat on the end, which he’s grateful for. Because he’s the smallest of the group he’s usually crammed in between Abby’s hulking muscles and Jinu’s broad shoulders, and he doesn’t think he could handle that right now. He sits and immediately tucks his knees up to his chest. Jinu gives him a look, but he just smiles sweetly back. It’s a happy coincidence that the position he wants to sit in because he feels awful is also the most childish way he could sit for the cameras. He rests his chin against his knees and puts on a wide-eyed curious look for the interviewer.

She’s a short young woman who looks too eager to get started, and Baby quietly prays to whatever good might still be watching over his soul that she channels that energy into the other members.

“Okay!” She begins to the camera, “My name is Miya Yoo, and today I have the honour of interviewing the fastest rising stars in Korea, the Saja Boys!” She turns to them, “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. The fans and I have lots of questions we’ve been dying to get the answers to, so I suppose we should get right to it, then? So first—“

The interview is slow and meandering. Most of the complicated questions are directed to Jinu, who puts on his good-boy leader act and fawns for the cameras, repeating the backstory they made up and rehearsed together. The interviewer is eating it up, prodding for little details and going off on tangents. It mercifully keeps the heat away from Baby, and he only needs to chuckle or nod in agreement every now and then to keep up his participation, but it also leaves him with nothing to focus on but how he’s slowly starting to feel worse. There’s a pressure building in the bridge of his nose that’s steadily ramping up his headache, and the multiple layers under his clothes are starting to feel damp. It’s irrational, but he’s starting to feel uneasy, like he’s trapped on the set, trapped inside his own body as it slowly betrays him.

He takes a deep breath through his mouth, because his nose is completely plugged, and tries to ignore it. It’s just a cold. He can do this.

As they slog on past the two-hour mark, Baby is beginning to regret telling Jinu he could do this. One minute he’s so cold he has to grip the sides of his arms to keep himself from visibly shaking, and the next he’s so hot he thinks he might pass out. He feels all… wrong. Unease has mutated into an anxious buzz pushing out against his ribs and he can’t sit still, constantly squirming to find a position that doesn’t feel like someone is sitting on his chest. As he wriggles again and every nerve bristles against his clothes, his wandering gaze accidentally catches one of the set lights and his headache turns into a sharp spike through his temple. He could have taken the heat for bailing, but this. He can’t handle this. The feeling of slime, of sweat, of everything is completely overwhelming.

Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he catches Romance giving him a concerned look. There’s no doubt he’s noticed all of his moving, but Baby can’t really force himself to care. He’s not focusing on anything but keeping himself together and upright. Keeping up appearances has fallen by the wayside in favour of staring a hole into the interviewer’s earrings so he has some hope of looking like he’s paying attention. He doesn’t even know what they’re talking about right now.

Then, the inevitable happens. The interviewer turns her attention to him. “Baby Saja, fans love your adorable fashion sense. Tell me, do you have any outfit inspirations?”

It’s a simple question; easy, but his mouth doesn’t move. He can’t focus, and thinking feels like wading through thick mud. Everyone is looking at him, and the longer he’s silent the more expectant and confused their faces become. Against his will, his vision blurs over. He can’t do this. He never wanted to leave the hotel today or do this stupid interview or answer any questions. He just wants to go home, he doesn’t wanna be here anymore.

He feels disgusting. He feels all hazy and weak and—

An idea suddenly occurs to him. It's mortifying, and his dignity and reputation will never recover, but right now he doesn't care. Jinu wants him to be a maknae? He wants him to be a baby? He can do that. So he sniffles, which he needs to do anyway because he can’t breathe, then lets a tear roll down his burning cheeks.

The interviewer looks stunned. “Oh! Are you alright? Is something wrong?” She frets, and Baby shakes his head and scrubs at his eyes.

“N-No, I-I’m okay, just…” His voice cracks and wavers. Crying hurts even more than swallowing. He turns sheepishly to the group who are all staring at him with wide eyes, and in his best baby voice mumbles, “I-I’m really not feeling g-good, can I p-please..?”

The interviewer doesn’t even let him finish, already fussing. “Oh my, of course, of course. If you’re not feeling well, please don’t feel like you need to push yourself! Would you like to go back to the greenroom? The crew can help you if—“

“No, I’ll take him.” Jinu volunteers, “Thank you for having us for this interview. Please feel free to continue.” He bows to the interviewer, waves to the crowd, and then holds out his hand to Baby to help him stand up.

Baby’s head is pounding and his vision is swimming as Jinu guides him off the set and back to the greenroom, brushing off any staff that try to intercept them. Tears are still coming down his cheeks, but it’s hard to feel them between the fever and the red-hot humiliation of the stunt he just pulled. Once they’re back in the green room with the door shut behind them, Jinu releases him and he stumbles onto one of the couches where he flops over and rolls onto his front.

He’s off the set, the act’s over, but he can’t seem to calm down. His head is so hot and blurry and all he can do is lie there as a fuzzy feeling he despises crashes over him like a wave. He doesn't mean for it to happen, especially not here, not now, but he doesn't get a choice.

A hand rests on his shoulder. “Hey, look at me.”

Shamefully, the only response he can get out is a whine. It scrapes against the raw flesh of his throat.

“I need to know, did you just do that to get out of the interview, or are you actually that sick?” Jinu’s voice is firm with an edge of irritation. Like he’s accusing Baby of messing up the interview on purpose, like he wasn’t trying to keep it together the entire time. It’s not fair.

Just then his body switches from inferno to freezing again, and his head gives one last throb that tips him over the edge. He shudders, and with it comes a sob. One miserable little sob, and then he can’t stop. He feels awful and for once he actually wants to be treated like the stupid baby he pretends to be. He wants to be held, he wants someone else to make it better because he’s too overwhelmed to even think straight.

The hand squeezes. “Alright, okay, I got you. I’ve got you. I’m going to go find a cloth, okay?”

Jinu winces at the sound Baby makes when he pulls away, but getting something to cool him down is more important. Baby is covered in a sheen of sweat, and under regular lighting he’s very obviously pale, even beneath his makeup. It’s been a long time, but he’s certain that whatever Baby’s temperature is it’s far too high. He goes to the sink and runs a nearby face cloth under cold water, but when he comes back and tries to roll Baby over, he thrashes and shoves his hand away.

“Stop, get off!”

Jinu holds up his hands in surrender. One second Baby doesn’t even want him to stand up and the next he’s pushing him away? “We need to cool you down. What’s wrong?”

Baby is crying, silently but hard. His entire body is trembling with the force of it, and there are long stretches of silence where he just isn’t breathing. When he’s finally forced to take a breath he’s so worked up that he starts to cough between gasps for air, and Jinu is worried that he’s going to pass out if he doesn’t start to calm down soon. “It hu-urts, Jinuuu!”

Jinu feels severely out of his depth, because Baby is clearly very out of it. His stoic and dry outer shell has been stripped away to reveal something raw underneath, and Jinu can’t help but feel that he’s seeing a side of Baby he wasn’t meant to. Regardless, he presses. “What hurts?”

Instead of answering, Baby wraps his arms around the back of his own head and kicks his feet with a cry of frustration. He’s obviously trying to say something, but it’s muffled into the couch and almost completely incoherent. It reminds Jinu of a toddler, too upset to communicate and throwing a fit instead.

He already feels like he’s playing a guessing game, so he switches tactics. “Does your throat hurt?”

Baby hesitates and then nods a little bit, but Jinu doesn’t think that’s the real problem. “What about your head? Does your head hurt?”

That gets him a much more enthusiastic response, and he finally has something to work with. Now the only question is what he can do to about it. He looks at the way Baby has his arms pressed tightly against his head, constantly shifting to pull them closer, tighter, then looks up at the overhead light. During their short time on the surface Jinu has become acquainted with a few headaches of his own; terrible pain that internet tells him is called a ‘migraine’. When he has one, the first thing he wants is a dark, quiet room.

“Are the lights bothering you? Do you want me to turn them off?”

Baby nods frantically. Stepping over the mess of clothes and bags that Abby and Romance have left on the floor, Jinu quickly tracks down the switch by the door and flicks off the lights. Immediately, he hears a quiet sob of relief and watches as the lump on the couch slowly releases the death-grip he has on his head and tips onto his side. And to his relief, Jinu hears him manage a proper breath now that he isn’t smothering himself in the couch cushions.

He gingerly navigates back to the couch and nudges Baby’s shoulder the rest of the way down so he’s lying flat, then carefully places the cloth over his forehead. Baby whines and shivers under his hands but doesn’t try to take it off. Good.

Jinu drops down onto the floor next to the couch and lets out a long exhale.

Slowly, Baby slowly starts to settle beside him, taking big hiccuping breaths that sound more like wheezing. He sounds so much worse than he did at breakfast, and Jinu wonders how they hadn’t noticed.

As the wheezing slows, the whining picks back up again. Baby is twitching in place, letting out discontent little huffs every few seconds. He looks uncomfortable. Then Jinu takes a closer look, and squints in confusion. Baby wears his knitted pink sweater as a single layer. It’s thin, made for all-day wear including performances. He shouldn’t be seeing anything underneath the collar, but instead he sees the edges of a second shirt. And then a third. He reaches up and runs a hand down Baby’s arm, and as he suspects, he doesn’t feel skin underneath. Instead the sleeves feel thick, like they’ve been padded.

Well no wonder. Jinu gives Baby’s shoulder a gentle shake in an attempt to cajole him upright. “Hey, all of those are making you too hot. You have to take some of them off.”

Instead of moving, Baby groans and swats halfheartedly in his direction. With no alternative option, Jinu sighs and wraps an arm beneath Baby’s back, and hauling him up into a half-sitting position. Baby doesn’t like this, and begins to thrash the second Jinu tries to move him, but eventually Jinu wins the battle.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, but we need to take some of these shirts off.” He explains, pulling Baby’s sweater over his head and dodging an elbow as he starts to work on the second shirt.

Baby grunts and tries to squirm away from his hands. “‘Cold!”

The second shirt comes off and Jinu cringes when he discovers that the next one is damp with sweat, and the last layer, a white tank top, is almost completely saturated. He’s just barely able to wrestle off the last two layers before Baby twists out of his grip and shoves him away, shivering like Jinu's just dunked him in ice water. Jinu lets him swipe his sweater back, because it’s thin enough and he’s shivering so hard that it would be cruel not to, and the rest of the soiled shirts are thrown on the floor.

If looks could kill, Jinu would be dead one hundred times over. Baby is glaring daggers at him, but his puffy red cheeks and scrunched-up form take away most of the bite. Jinu has to restrain himself from smiling. “Hey, I said I was sorry, okay?”

“You s-suck. You’re stupid a-and ugly and I h-hate you.” Baby chatters, flopping back down and burying himself back into the cushions.

“Well that’s not very nice.” He deadpans, teasing. He can’t help it. The way Baby’s acting is undeniably childish, and for some reason the longer it goes on the more Jinu has the urge to indulge it. The way Baby is curled up and moping reminds him of a bittersweet feeling buried deep down in his memories, and selfishly, greedily, he wants to feed it. Accepting the possibility that this might get him a punch in the face later, he reaches out and starts rubbing gentle circles into Baby’s shoulder with his thumb. Baby makes a noise halfway between a whine and a sigh, and melts further into the couch. It’s almost sweet.

But not as sweet as it is… confusing.

He’s seen a lot during his four-hundred years in the demon realm; all manners of pain and suffering and all of the ways a mind tries to cope with a situation as hopeless as an eternity under Gwi-ma, but the demon realm is no place for weakness. The demons that cry, that plead, that shrink in on themselves and beg for their mothers are crushed and stepped over. The strongest demons are the ones that dominate ruthlessly for their place at the top of the pile, and the Saja Boys know that better than anyone. After all, they are the top. The idea that Baby has such a soft underbelly, and one that was seemingly coaxed out so easily by human illness no less, is almost unfathomable.

As Baby leans further into Jinu’s touch, his back naively turned to him; an intrusive thought prods at Jinu. He can’t help but wonder; despite witnessing Baby crush lesser demons under his boot without so much as a blink, despite knowing Baby’s background as a feared and cunning tactician; how Baby’s managed to make it as far as he has?

When underneath, he was so weak.

The venom of his own thoughts makes Jinu flinch, and slimy guilt blooms in his chest. But as his hand retracts Baby chases it, tipping back into his palm enough for the light creeping under the greenroom door to catch the reflective cat-like sheen of his eyes. They’re half-lidded and hazy, pupils blown wide, but without a hint of uncertainty. Jinu sucks in a breath at the realization that Baby isn’t afraid of what Jinu might do. Not at all. Because underneath this strange childish haze, Baby is still a tactician. Still thinking; assessing. And Baby trusts him.

Something warm pokes at the ugly, tangled mass that’s been festering under his ribs for centuries. It gently works at the edges, unraveling the strangle hold some of the knots have around his lungs. It’s… pleasant. Soft.

Then, without warning the greenroom door is pushed open and blinding white light pours into the room. Baby hisses in pain and hides his face away again, moment dashed, and Jinu brings his free hand up to shield his eyes.

“Oh— sorry!” A woman’s voice squeaks.

As his eyes adjust, Jinu sees that it’s a member of the stage crew. Huddled behind her are two more, nosily trying to get a peak inside. The girl is holding a small plastic box, and holds it out in offering.

“I heard that Baby Saja wasn’t feeling well, so I figured I’d bring some medication down. I don’t know if he’s taken anything already, but we have stuff for headaches, nausea, congestion—“

As she continues her list that goes in one ear and out the other, the word ‘medication’ gets stuck and stutters around in his brain. Of course! Medicine! The human realm didn’t just provide them with big-screen TVs, video games, and froyo; they also had access to modern medicine!

“—indigestion, upset stomach, dia—“

“Yes! Yes, medicine would be great, thank you.” Jinu cuts her off, “Here, just… give me the box, I’ll find something.”

“Sure, sure, o-of course!” The girl stammers, rushing over to hand him the medicine box before speed-walking backwards towards the door, eyes fixated on the two of them. Jinu’s pretty sure he catches her staring in awe at the place their fingers touched during the handoff.

Just as she’s about to go, she looks at the light switch. “Oh, um, it might be kinda hard to read the labels in the dark. Do you want me to make the lights dim instead, if they’re bothering him?”

Jinu doesn’t tell her that he can read the labels just fine in the dark because that isn’t a human thing to say, and nods instead. “Yes, please. Thank you for all your help.”

The girl makes a guttural sort of squeal and adjusts a dial near the switch. When she turns the lights back on, they’re a dim yellow glow instead of blindingly bright. With one last hypnotized look, she hurries out of the room, very quickly but softly closing the door behind her. Jinu rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to Baby.

“Are the lights okay like this? They aren’t too bright, are they?”

Baby rolls over and cracks open an eyelid hesitantly. When he doesn’t immediately wince in pain, he opens them both and lets out a garbled hum that Jinu interprets as ‘this is fine’.

The box really is full of medicines of all kinds, and looking at it, Jinu wishes he actually listened to what the stagehand had been saying. He doesn’t know a Tylenol from a Robatussen from a Pepso Bismol, especially because a lot of the packaging is covered in English. He starts sifting through them, scanning for the directions on each one and muttering them out loud to himself. Eventually he finds one that should cover almost everything. It’s labeled as both a painkiller and a fever-reducer, and comes in a little plastic bottle. There’s only one slight problem.

The cap of the bottle will not come off no matter how he twists it. It moves from side to side but won’t go all the way in either direction like the twist-off caps on other bottles seem to. With a growl of frustration, Jinu gives up on trying to keep the thing in one piece and snaps the lid clean off. He tosses it aside and looks into the bottle. It’s full of little red things, and the bottle says they’re ‘extra strength’, which means Baby only needs to take one for the next six hours. That’s great, because Jinu doesn’t think either of them have ever had a ‘pill’ before. The label says they’re meant to be taken by mouth, but not chewed. You’re just supposed to swallow them?

He tips a capsule out into his palm, and after turning it over a few times holds it out to Baby. “Swallow this, but don’t chew it, okay? It’ll help you feel better.”

Slowly, Baby wriggles so he’s sitting up a bit and clumsily takes the pill from his hand. “…Candy?”

“Medicine.” Jinu clarifies, “But who knows, maybe it tastes like candy?”

Baby slowly puts the pill into his mouth, and after a few seconds pulls a face. “…Can’t chew..?”

“That’s what the bottle says.”

Jinu watches as Baby visibly struggles to swallow the pill; bracing himself, hesitating, then trying and failing to gulp it down. Then he suddenly cringes in disgust, flaps his arms up and down, and spits the half-dissolved pill onto the floor.

Jinu grimaces and nudges it away with his shoe. “So it doesn’t taste like candy, then?”

Baby slams a balled-up fist against the couch with another frustrated cry and kicks his feet harmlessly but angrily at nothing. Jinu can see a fresh line of tears forming in his eyes as his breathing picks up again, fast and heavy. Another tantrum is brewing, and quickly.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry. You’re fine. Uh, how about…” He scans the room for something Baby can wash the pill down with, and spots a colourful sports drink on Abby’s vanity. He stands up and grabs it. The label says ‘Watermelon Burst’, and the name alone sounds sweet enough to work.

“Here,” He uncaps it and offers it to Baby along with a new pill, “Try it with this.”

Baby rubs at his eyes and pouts, but accepts them both with shaky hands. He glares down the drink and takes a wary test-sip first, and his foggy eyes sparkle for just a second, wide, as the sugar hits his tongue. Jinu expects a bit more pushback, but to his relief Baby immediately pops the pill into his mouth and chases it down with a few big gulps of the drink. It occurs to him that with such a high fever, Baby is— and probably has been— very dehydrated.

And Baby probably would have finished the entire bottle in one go if he didn’t suddenly break into an ill-timed coughing fit, spraying watermelon juice all over himself, Jinu, and the couch.

Jinu quickly takes the bottle from his hands before he can spill any more and sets it on the side table, wiping sugary droplets of disease from his face. “Well that’s… disgusting.”

Baby sits frozen, shell-shocked, as watermelon seeps into his sweater and drips off his face. For a moment, the room is still. Then his lower lip trembles.

“Hey, no, please don’t cry again—“

Baby sobs into his sweater sleeves, and Jinu sighs. Whatever restraint Baby had earlier seems to have dissolved, because Baby is crying openly now, and not very quietly. The odds that someone hears him and comes running is going up by the second, and that can only make everything worse.

What if the press gets ahold of this? Or the fans? Lucid-Baby would slaughter him. His eyes dart around the room for something, anything he can use to calm Baby down, and snag on a box of props in the corner. They were set out by the studio for the photoshoot meant to take place after the interview, which definitely isn’t happening anymore. There probably isn’t anything useful inside but he doesn’t exactly have any better ideas, so he runs over to the box and starts digging through it.

Most of the props are just summer-themed items; sandals, soda bottles, and deflated pool floats; but there’s a few persona-specific props for each of them. Foam weights for Abby, a light purple leather jacket for Mystery, a rose for Romance. And then he spots them. There are three things obviously meant for Baby to use in the box; a bag of colourful hair clips, a stuffed bear, and a light blue adult-sized pacifier. Jinu thinks they’re a bit much even for a ‘baby’ persona, but…

He picks up the bear and the pacifier and gnaws at the inside of his lip. If Baby were feeling like himself, Jinu knows he would positively loath their very existence, and the implication that he was some helpless infant. But as Baby continues to cry and as his behaviour— the whining, the pouting, the lilt to his voice that was undeniably young— finally begins to come together into one picture, Jinu feels like what he does next is justified.

He returns to the couch, kneels down to Baby’s level, and pushes the pacifier between his lips.

The room goes silent. Baby’s eyes are wide like saucers, stunned, and Jinu doesn’t dare breathe. He waits for Baby to snap out of it, to yell at him, for the crying to start again, something. But Baby is still.

Then the pacifier bobs once, twice, like he’s testing it with his tongue. Baby’s breathing slows as he’s forced to breathe through his stuffy nose, and gingerly, he brings his hand up and touches it. His fingers brush the shield carefully, like he’s confirming that it’s really there, then curl around the handle. Round, wet eyes drift to Jinu.

Jinu gives him a small wave. “…Hi. You alright?”

Baby doesn’t respond verbally, but he visibly relaxes, eyelids fluttering and shoulders slumping forward. He lets out a big breath, and snot bubbles from his nose. Jinu winces.

“Hey buddy,” The nickname slips out naturally, “Can you give me the tissues in your pocket? We need to wipe your face. Here, I’ll even trade you.” He holds out the bear, and Baby eyes it with barely-concealed interest. Normally he has nothing but contempt for the mountains of stuffed animals he gets from fans, but this softer side of him doesn’t seem to share it. Eventually, he takes the bear and hands over the unopened pack of tissues from his pocket.

The bear keeps Baby distracted as Jinu uses the tissues to clean the tear stains and snot from his cheeks and nose. Baby is holding it like it’s something precious, turning it over in his hands and fiddling with the fluffy paws before tucking it under his chin. Looking at Baby, cheeks flushed, pacifier bobbing in his mouth and teddy bear clutched to his chest, Jinu can’t help but think that the magazine would have a field day with this. Not that they’ll ever find out.

The last used tissue goes into the nearby trash can. “There we go, all done. Now, no more crying, okay? The medicine will help you feel better soon, so why don’t you try to rest for a bit?”

Baby seems to be one step ahead of him, already sliding back down and rolling onto his side. He’s blinking slowly, and each one is getting longer by the second. He must be exhausted, and Jinu can’t blame him. After that mess, he’s tired.

Having long since accepted any future consequences, Jinu’s hand finds its way into Baby’s hair, gently combing the damp strands out of his face. As Baby pushes into the touch once more, finally dozing off, a memory, vivid and warm, washes over him. For a moment, Baby’s hair is black, his body is tiny and frail, and it’s his sister’s flushed face pressed against his palm. It hurts. It makes his chest ache, but he doesn’t pull away. Because the selfish part of him needs this, just as much as Baby needs him.

He’ll have to explain this to the others when they get back; and avoid the press that will no doubt be clamouring for pictures of a sleepy-eyed Baby cuddling a stuffed bear; and of course, he has a few questions of his own; but that can all wait. For now, he’ll let Baby be, well, a baby; and let himself be something he thought he would never be again.

A protector.

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