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Immediate, searing pain travels up Martin’s spine faster than he can form a coherent thought.
The blade held in his grip clatters to the bathroom floor. He yanks his hand back, clumsy and uncoordinated as he knocks his elbow against the tile wall. It echoes in the silence of the late evening.
“Oh–fuck–” It comes out thin, more air than voice, and then he goes very still.
For a second, there’s this strange, suspended silence where nothing quite connects. His brain lags behind his body, slow to catch up, like he’s watching it happen from somewhere outside of himself.
It hurts. A lore more than he meant it to.
That’s the first real, coherent thought that manages to stick outside of the rising panic bouncing from corner to corner. It hurts, stings, flesh split open in clean lines. He swallows, throat dry, and forces himself to look.
A vignette, a black halo around his vision. The room spins, tilts at a 45* angle and if he wasn’t already sat against the wall, he’s concerned he would collapse completely. The pain sings a current up his thigh, down to his shins, radiating from the blood oozing in rapidly pooling streaks across the pale expanse of his skin. It’s coming fast–spilling out of him in thick rivulets. It gathers along the seam of his boxers, pulled up and across where the fabric is bunched at the jut of his hipbone. His stomach drops, a cold, bone-deep nausea cutting clean through the dull, detached fog he’d been sitting in for what felt like hours before.
He brings his hand down instinctively, pressure along the wound. It only makes things worse. It smears under his palm, slippery, sensitive, the spread of shallow, scabbing sores searing as they’re pressed and prodded. The flow doesn’t slow, smearing into the creases of his knuckles, under his nails, the trail slicking down his knee until it’s staining the distended waistband of his joggers.
This wasn’t—This wasn’t what he meant to do. He wasn’t trying to do this. He’d come in here to throw up. That awful, coiling nausea had been bubbling in his stomach all day, creeping higher with every passing hour until he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He’d dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, cramped in the limited space, hands braced on either side, breathing through his mouth and waiting for something to give.
It hadn’t. The feeling just… stayed. Big and shapeless in a way that didn’t make any sense, because there was nothing he could point to and say was actually wrong. Today had been bad, sure. Long. He’d fucked up more times than he could count during rehearsal, slowing everyone down, drawing too much attention, too many eyes on him in none of the ways that he preferred. Cameras in his face, in the corner of every room, that little red light blinking. Conversations he couldn’t track, expectations he felt like he was just barely keeping up with. But none of that was catastrophic, none of it should have led here.
A problem without a solution. If nothing is really wrong, then there’s no clear way to fix it. No way to ease the pressure that sat directly on top of his sternum, the endless weight making it harder to breathe the longer he let it sit there.
He’d needed something else. Anything else. Something tangible. Something he could control.
He thinks of the summer he turned twelve, the last summer before he became a trainee. In the nicotine coated walls of his grandparent’s house. The whole place smelled like tobacco, like mildew and mothballs and old people. His grandfather stopped smoking inside years ago, his mom had said once. The whole place still reeked of it regardless.
He always found it hard to sleep there. They would put him in the guest room at the back of the house, near the train tracks. The trains didn’t come often but every time they did they would shake the windows with the force of it, and Martin would sit cowering under his blanket, shaking like a leaf, terrified for no good reason that the walls would suddenly collapse around him, the whole house leveled. When it would finally pass, and the roaring and squeaking of the rails would finally cease, Martin would be so worked up he could barely control his breathing.
He remembers sneaking out the creaking metal door, onto the wooded stoop of their back porch. The smell of summer air, of the creak down the road that reeked of fish on the hottest days. The black of the night as it stared back at him, distant glows from radio towers and the occasional star that shone bright enough it cut through the light pollution. The empty tracks not ten meters away where a beast large enough to level homes had passed through just moments before.
He remembers rifling through his grandfather’s ashtray in the dark, being mesmerized by the glow of the fire as he flicked the lighter to life. He remembers the first time he hovered the tips of his fingers over the flame, the heat as it kissed his skin and the sudden, heady rush of adrenaline when it finally blistered. He would sit there, playing with the flame, letting it lap at his skin in the dark just to ease some of the pain. He remembers how his grandmother would scold him, ice his fingers when she noticed him sucking the pads of them into his mouth but never questioning why he had burns on them to begin with.
The first few times he’d done this, it had been enough. Hesitant, shallow little gashes with a blade torn from his razor. Enough to sting, enough to pull his focus somewhere tangible for a second. Enough to make the noise in his head quiet down, just a little. Enough to invoke that same feeling of comfort, like sitting in the dark, flames licking across the delicate skin of his fingertips.
That was all he wanted, today. Now. Something to bring him back. Not–
His eyes sting as he forces them open again, blinking away the tears pooling on his lashline. The bloodflow hasn’t slowed. If anything, it's worse now. A wave of panic breaks at the forefront of his mind. He shifts forward, awkward, frantic, reaching blindly, rifling under the sink for something–anything that might help. A towel, gauze, something to clean it, to cover it, to make it stop. He finds a wad of cotton balls, a box of bandaids with colorful little designs on them that James has taken to wearing lately. The trembling in his palms makes it almost impossible to wad the cotton balls, and they soak through almost completely by the time he manages to get a single bandage unwrapped.
The next coherent thought that sticks—One that makes nausea pool in the base of his throat again. He needs help.
He can’t call a manager. That thought slips by in passing, dismissed entirely. James? No. James would help. Of course he would. But then there would be the after—questions, a conversation, a long look and a suffocating kind of silence. Consequences Martin doesn’t think he can handle right now, not on top of everything else that’s pressing in on him.
Juhoon, a flicker. He’s got the best head on his shoulders. He would probably be the calmest, the most rational. But Martin has seen the scars on the inside of his thighs, and knows deep down that Juhoon would think he’s dumb, stupid, really, for doing this to himself.
It’s not an option to burden Keonho with this. He would panic so bad they’d both end up bleeding out on the bathroom floor.
There was only ever really one option. Seonghyeon. Sweet, gentle natured Seonghyeon. Who won’t make it bigger than it already is. Won’t ask more than he has to. Won’t tell anyone.
Seonghyeon, who already keeps all of Martin’s secrets—has always kept them, in ways big and small, stacked and compounding over the years.
Fourteen, a bottle of wine shoved into his backpack, stolen from his parents’ fridge with shaking hands, and Seonghyeon practically falling to the floor when Martin pulls it out between them as they sit cross-legged doing homework, both of them dissolving into giggles that get louder the more they try to quiet down, drinking until they’re too tipsy to stand, kicking their feet against the floor and talking over each other, both of them glancing toward the door every few seconds, hoping his mom doesn’t get curious enough to come check.
Fifteen, sitting through a meeting he’s barely processing, being told it might be the debut song, don’t tell anyone until it’s confirmed, and Martin nodding along like that’s something he’s capable of, only to call Seonghyeon the second he steps out the door, words spilling over themselves, and Seonghyeon crying so hard on the other end he gives himself a headache, showing up the next day with an energy drink and a bun stuffed with pork from the restaurant down the street from their school, and it was always obvious he would be the first person Martin tells.
Sixteen, LA, an airbnb that's packed with staff, Keonho already halfway out the door insisting it’ll only be an hour, calling him a baby when Martin hesitates, running worst-case scenarios over and over in his head as they walk nearly three miles down a stretch of unfamiliar road in the middle of the night just to get to a food truck Keonho won’t shut up about, the tacos only decent, Martin paying for all three of them, and Keonho working himself into a fit on the walk back because he’s convinced he saw a coyote—but Seonghyeon staying beside him the entire time, close enough that their pinkies brush with every swing of their hands, a steady presence that makes it feel like maybe they won’t get caught after all. They don't, somehow, even when James drags them to the very same food truck the next day.
Seventeen, three days before debut, the studio lights too bright and the hours too long, running choreography over and over until his body just… gives out, the floor coming up fast, and when he comes back it’s Seonghyeon there with that same scowl, hovering, doting on him in all the ways Martin never likes but never quite pushes away either, not asking questions, not calling anyone else in, understanding without being told that this stays between them.
It’s always been like that—the way Seonghyeon knows what not to say, what not to share. The kind of trust Martin has never had to explain.
Martin swallows hard. The tile is cold against his palms and his thigh radiates an intense, searing heat as he forces himself to move. He yanks his pants up just enough to keep the slipping bandage in place.
The walk back to their bedroom is agonizing, weight on the fresh wound slowing time with each step. He crosses the threshold on unsteady legs, just the shift from bathroom tile to laminate on his sock-clad feet. The dim outline of two sleeping figures, the steady rise and fall of Seonghyeon’s form in the dark.
“Hyeon,” Martin whispers, reaching out to shake him. Gently, at first, then harder. “Seonghyeon. Wake up.”
Seonghyeon stirs, half-awake, blinking at him with a confused scowl turning his lips down. “What–?”
He’s too loud. Martin raises a hand, panicked. Seonghyeon stops. Opens his eyes wider, and Martin doesn’t know what he looks like right now but he knows it can’t be good. There’s blood on his palm, he sees it as Seonghyeon does. Something in his eyes snaps into focus, and the sleep drains from his expression all at once.
“Can you–” Martin swallows, dry and scratchy. “Can you come to the bathroom with me? I need help.”
Seonghyeon sits up just as fast, pushes himself up right and out from under his blanket, already moving as Martin stalks backwards into the hall/
“What’s wrong?” Seonghyeon asks. It spills from him more than anything, really, a vocalization of the familiar panic that Martin has welling in his own throat. “What did you do?”
Martin doesn’t answer, just keeps walking. His eyes flicker across the hall, to the cracked door of James and Juhoon’s room. “Shh,” he hisses instead, glancing back once to make sure Seonghyeon is still trailing him. “Not so loud.”
Seonghyeon falls silent. The bathroom door shuts behind them with a soft click. Martin bares his weight against it, weight sagging, the pain a series of shocks deep down into his marrow.
Seonghyeon is staring at him now, confusion in every tense line of his face. He raises an eyebrow, opens his mouth, doesn’t say anything.
“I fucked up,” Martin manages to breathe out, eventually.
“You’re scaring me.” Seonghyeon’s voice is thick with concern. He’s stood very, very still. “Why are you covered in blood?”
Martin’s next exhale is shaky. He drags the hand not coated in his blood down his face, down until he’s reaching for his waistband. He’s clumsy, awkward as he shuffles the fabric down his thighs, careful to not drag the bandage down with them.
There’s a brief, agonizing stretch of seconds where Seonghyeon just watches. Processing. Not quite understanding what Martin cannot bring himself to put into words right now.
There’s a trail of blood down his thigh, oozing still and barely held up by the soaked through cottonballs. Seoghyeon stares for a long second, blinks wide, once, twice. And then, it clicks.
“...Oh.”
Seonghyeon looks pale, like he’s seen a ghost. Shame, a beast. Martin slinks into himself without meaning it, wishing he could melt into the floor. He thinks about being twelve, terrified of everything with no way to ease the pain, the smell of dead fish and tobacco and the pitch-black of the night, reflected back to him now in the blown out stretch of Seonghyeon’s pupils.
Martin drops his gaze. Seonghyeon crouches down, then, hands hovering uncertainly before he finally commits, shifting closer to get a better look.
“Shit, dude–” He draws his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes fleeting across the cuts scattered along Martin’s thighs. “This is… bad.”
Martin sinks down, back to the wood, the hem of his shirt riding under the small of his back is pressed to it bare, head lolling back. “I don’t know what to do,” He admits, small and shaky in a way that finally betrays what he’s been trying to keep contained.
Seonghyeon huffs out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Knee to knee, neither of them can look each other in the face. Seonghyeon is staring at his thighs, at the wad of cotton pressed to the wound and the dozens of other cat-scratch scabs that litter around it. The shame eats Martin whole, swallowed completely by it. He’s glad, at least, that Seonghyeon doesn’t have any questions. Or at least none that he feels the need to voice.
It’s sweet when Seonghyeon starts rummaging under the sink, pulling out the same box of James’ bandages and cotton calls that Martin had managed earlier. He frowns at them, tosses them to the side and glances hesitantly at the still seeping wound.
“There’s—There’s stuff here.” Martin has known him long enough to know when he’s putting on a front, the same soothing voice he uses when they play with animals, or talk to small children. “James showed me. Remember when my feet would get messed up really bad? When we first moved in here?”
Martin nods, trying to follow. Seonghyeon had a terrible habit for a while, wearing thrifted shoes to practice for hours and hours on end until they were covered in blisters and bruises. He’s always struggled with taking care of himself, as long as Martin has known him. Never been good at knowing what he can tolerate and what’s genuinely bad for him.
“He helped me, once.” Seonghyeon has found a packet of gauze, a tube of some kind of ointment that Martin can’t read the label on. “I didn’t know how to deal with the blisters. He sat me down and made me soak my feet. Wrapped them for me. He’s the one who made me buy the Nikes, when we were in LA.”
“Oh,” Martin isn’t really following, but talking seems to be keeping Seonghyeon calm, and in a way, it’s calming Martin too. He’s always liked to listen to Seonghyeon speak. He puts a hand between Martin’s knees, tugs the fabric of his pants loose from his feet and spreads his legs to get between them. His fingertips are cold when they brush across Martin’s skin, and Martin winces as he begins to tug at the edge of the bandage.
“James said I was dumb, for letting it get that bad before I asked for help.” The cotton balls fall to the floor in a clump. Seonghyeon stares at the gash with comically wide eyes, hands shaking where they hover. “Said I need to learn to take better care of myself.”
“Sounds like James,” Martin swallows despite the dry weight of his tongue in his mouth.
“He can be kind of an asshole, sometimes.” The cut burns as Seonghyeon spreads the ointment across it, a tacky, medicinal smell that fills the room as the tips of his fingers dig into the flesh. “I don’t think this needs stitches, at least.”
“Sometimes,” Martin agrees, clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth together and tastes blood in the back of his throat. He can’t stop looking at Seonghyeon’s face, cataloguing the way he stares at the cut, at Martin’s legs, at the place where his shirt rides up and his boxers ride low and he knows the marks on the sides of his hips are just barely in view. Seonghyeon studies him in a way that makes him feel terribly exposed, terribly understood in a way he never wanted to be. “That’s good. I can’t do–ah–a hospital. Managers would kill me.”
Seonghyeon pauses, frowns, looks at Martin with a painfully sincere expression. He regrets it instantly. “They would send you on hiatus.”
It’s shaky, sad, he flicks his gaze down again and Martin doesn’t have a response. That same snake of shame slithers down his throat again. He instead bores a hole into the opaque glass of the shower door. A wet rag presses across the bloodsmear, Seonghyeon cleans him up while he can’t bear to look. He wipes along the trail down his knee, across the top of his thigh and dabs at the stains on his boxers with tentative, shaking fingers.
Seonghyeon’s hands are thinner than his, delicate and long and Martin has always found them pretty. He grabs Martin's thumb, opens his palms one by one and wipes the crust away with as much care as he can manage. Martin holds his breath the whole time. The silence is thick like molasses and it’s clear neither of them want to be the one to break it.
Seonghyeon drops his hold on his hands, letting Martin press them into tight fists at his side again. He tears the gauze with both hands, rips open a bandage on one end.
“Hold this,” he says, pressing the wadded up ball of gauze directly to the wound, and Martin listens, reflexively, instinctually, even as it burns and the cut feels like it’s being torn open. Trust in Seonghyeon is implicit, a trained response from the years they’ve known each other, overriding all of Martin’s better judgement. Written into his better judgement, Seonghyeon’s voice in the back of his mind.
“He was right, though,” Seonghyeon uses a small collection of James’ bandages to hold the gauze in place, adhesive directly on top of the scabs of the older cuts but it’s probably the best it’s going to get, sans any actual medical treatment that they both know Martin would refuse.
“Hmm?” Martin’s head feels heavy, clouded, exhausted when Seonghyeon finally sits back on his heels. Their knees brush, Seonghyeon’s pajama pants against Martin’s bare skin.
“James was right. I should have asked for help. Before it got that bad.”
Martin is a lot of things. Overeager, often. Obtuse, sometimes. Anxious, constantly. One thing he would not consider himself, though, is stupid. He knows immediately what Seonghyeon is getting at. His head falls forward, chin to chest, gaze dropping to the floor for the upteenth time tonight, to the soaked cloth and the trail of dried blood that follows a line out the bathroom door.
“I know.” Martin lifts his head, mustering courage, and finds Seonghyeon already staring at him with that same terrified expression. It makes tears well in his eyes for an entirely different reason. Something like regret. Something like terror in equal measure. “I know, I’m sorry.”
Something cracks in Seonghyeon’s expression, then. He stands, offers Martin a small smile and an outstretched hand. It’s sympathetic, coated in a warmth that Martin feels entirely undeserving of, considering everything he’s put Seonghyeon through tonight.
Martin takes it, letting Seonghyeon pull him to his feet even when Martin knows he probably would have been better off standing on his own and the bathroom is so small that their thighs knock as Martin regains his balance on trembling legs.
They don’t say anything else. Seonghyeon wraps an arm around the center of Martin’s waist when he wobbles, eases the door open and half-carries him back to their room. He tucks him in with an awkward sort of care, pulling the blanket up, smoothing it down where it creases. He stands there for a while, after. Even with his eyes pinched shut, Martin can feel the heat of him as he hovers.
He listens for movement as Seonghyeon makes his way across the room, the soft shift of weight as he climbs back into his own bed. He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, bites down on it hard enough to sting. It’s moments later Martin hears him starting, quiet sobs muffled into the creases of his pillow. It makes his chest hurt, makes the wound on his leg ache deeper and a pit like dread sits in the base of his stomach.
Seonghyeon’s crying doesn’t stop. It dips, quiets, then catches again, like he’s trying to swallow it down and can’t quite manage.
Martin stares at the ceiling, unblinking. He knows he won’t tell anyone. Knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his bones, that this will stay exactly where it is—between them, folded into all the other things Seonghyeon has kept for him over the years.
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. All of it.
The thought doesn’t comfort him the way it usually does. It makes that ugly serpent of shame constrict in his chest. He relies on Seonghyeon to keep his secrets, and in turn, Seonghyeon has to bear the weight of that. Of taking care of Martin, and in turn, Martin puts him in impossible positions. And still—
He should have asked for help before it got that bad. Should have trusted Seonghyeon before it became this—whatever it is he’s found himself slipping back into again. Should have known better: That it wouldn’t just be his to carry.