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yoongihan · 4 months ago

Text

well, my eyes welled up.

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧, 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞?

part five of the velvet opiate series. part one. part two. part three. part four.

pair. rockstar! hyunjin x fem! reader (+ felix, minho, chan) | genre. visual gothic rock band, romance, hurt/comfort, toxic skz, set in the late 90’s-early 00’s | warnings. profanity, smoking, drug and alcohol abuse, mature themes, mental health struggle, mention of self harm, use of pet names, flawed characters, unprotected sex, blowjob | word count. 9.9k

a/n: guys! the love on the previous chapter was insane 🥹 thank you so much, there’s no amount of words that can describe what your support on this story means to me. i wrote this story high off NANA, and to this day it remains my favorite thing i ever wrote, only for what i did with hyunjin’s character. i’m ashamed it took me this long to find it in me to finish it, but it never once left my mind or my heart. hope you enjoy, and don't be shy to lmk what you thought! 🤍

tags. @ughbehavior, @marshmallow12435, @hyvnfilms, @adoreweb, @yoongihan.

The day the girl goes into labor, Hyunjin locks himself inside his childhood bedroom with a bottle of Chardonnay, a hair clipper, two grams of heroin resting in the pocket of his jacket like some sort of twisted inside joke, and—

Felix. Felix who dropped everything and followed him here.

It had been three years since he last stepped foot in this house. His actress mother and her prized trophies, her golden awards tucked away in shelves Hyunjin could never reach, would’ve never tried to. A place had been carved out for him there, and it had always been far away from her, even as a child, perhaps most especially as a child.

Jealousy and self-loathing turn him inside out, make him sick with agony, shivering all over, bile rising up his throat again and again and again, head begging for a momentary taste of the relief it once sought out and found so easily.

Felix is there to deny him every single time. When a whole night passed like this between them, then and only then, did Hyunjin trust himself enough to lay his head on the singer’s lap without the intention of offering himself up as collateral. The line has been blurred, but it has never been crossed. It needs to stay that way.

(It will not.)

As he stares up at the face bursting with a thousand constellations, expression soft and honest, another angel defiled, he understands Felix’s love would only carry him so far.

He’s utterly alone in this body. Him and his inside pocket. Five steps away.

To see everything again, through the eye of a needle. To pull out his heart and feed it to anyone willing. When he dares to fall asleep, popped vessels burning red with blurry vision, he sees you protected—protected—from him, arms of a man that will never be important enough over you, perpetually pulling you away, his house on the hills, his house the red terror, and his life screaming, burning alive on a pyre of his own making.

So, his lifeline abandoned. She is near but she is away. She does not want him, not the way he wants her—her words, her doing— cannot bear to stare at the scars on his arms, refuses to talk about the ones on his neck, now that she knows, now that the shadows cannot hide him anymore, and he has to live with this. Has to live, when he desperately seeks to crawl back to the familiar hole, enveloped by the crimson walls, under that staircase where he found the light he’d been looking for all his stupid onerous life.

This is it, then. I’m losing my fucking mind, he thinks.

Things slip away; they melt when they should not, and freeze over like hell, a place he remembers almost dying in, being saved from. He barely makes any sense half the time, and he sleeps the rest of whatever day it is. He can’t stomach anything but cigarettes, and his fingers picked up a piece of coal at some point and haven’t stopped smudging themselves black over empty sketchbooks that manifested themselves as if summoned.

It was similar ones his mother burned in front of him once, in the garden, a mother he remembers beautiful he remembers ugly, her glutinous ambition and poisonous appetite for more, always more more more; she punished her son for existing when he should not, then walked herself back to her powders and her pills, in that cursed bedroom with the men walking in and out, in and out, constantly, like customers in a grocery store, getting whatever they needed and leaving at once, open doors and greedy hands.

His mother had been a popular actress once, this simple fact was never to be forgotten, repeated, and after him—

This, whatever it was. The pink room. The money. The doctors. He got sent away for nothing. Punished for much less than that. When his crayon pictures turned to embers in the wind, as he watched them fly away from him so easily in the summer heat, he decided:

There really must be nothing in this world that would stay for him.

This was beyond anything. Beyond all. Hyunjin without his drug was something unrecognizable, something that needed to be fiercely guarded and pinned down, sharp words that cut through steel, wretched sobs that shook foundations and shattered everything standing.

Minho was right. This was not something Felix could just do on his own. He’d never locked himself in with the demons and stayed, he merely left Hyunjin stranded and prided himself on remaining safely on the other side, where nothing ever reached or touched him, a comfortable distance that allowed him to retain his light. I found him twice, he tells himself desolately, but he might as well have been sleeping. What you did was, you called an ambulance. What you had was a version of the man you wanted that had nothing to do with the man in front of you now, and each time he chipped away, you convinced yourself you loved him a little more, because he couldn’t do it himself.

And that has been enough for you.

Felix, will you ever drop your choking hands from your own neck to realize you loved only as far as you could see? A selfish love, a petulant, bitter need. When Hyunjin kissed you, he meant you’re my soul, as I recognize it. My other half, hidden. When you kissed him, you tried desperately to drag him to your side, wailing notice me, notice me. I’ve been standing here. If my flesh is strange and unwanted, skin me alive.

When he eventually looks up from the sketches littering the floor, three days later, a dark, dark nightmare with seemingly no end, there’s clarity in his gaze, a realization that makes him bubble over with terrible laughter that quickly brews into a category four storm, threatening to damn everything in its wake.

Felix kneels beside him and takes his face in his hands, the only way he knows how, and pushes lifeless blonde hair back, clearing a path for the destruction to occur, no intention of damage control. Nothing he could’ve done differently.

“I can’t stop being that boy drawing those pictures,” Hyunjin admits roughly, staring right through the singer. “My mother’s son.”

“This is yours,” the light soothes. “Your talent, your sketches. She had nothing to do with it.”

With a shake of his head, he’s erased every word Felix ever uttered. With a single touch he lit him on fire. And when his mouth, dry and pale, presses against his neck in hiding, there’s not a single fucking way Felix wouldn’t die for him.

“My talent is useless. I’ve drawn her over and over, and she still won’t come to me.”

Chan takes a seat at the chair provided for him, and slumps forward, hands meeting in front of him. He’s clearly nervous, the apprehension of his first solo interview since his band’s hiatus dawning on him all at once.

The questions had been reviewed already, he knew this. It would all go by quickly and then it’d be official. Velvet Opiate parting ways with their label.

Bang Chan was now owner of all the rights to their recorded music and their name, though that credit belongs entirely to Hyunjin. Still, his band members were not with him at the moment. In fact, they refused to be anywhere near each other, except the ones that couldn’t seem to survive without the other.

The twins had been MIA for a month now. Minho had disappeared off to some private island, his last phone call letting Chan know—letting, not asking—about his two cats, and the whereabouts of their food in his very secluded house in a gated community that he will have to drive four hours to get to, never mind the fact he doesn’t even fucking like cats, never has—

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bang, I’m a big fan,” the interviewer stood in front of him, hand extended, polite smile.

Chan refuses to shake hands without looking at faces. So, when he looks up, he doesn’t expect to get the living fucking lights knocked out of him. This woman standing in heels in front of him—

He’s fucked her. He remembers.

“The pleasure is all mine,” but as he says it, he can make out the mischievous glint in her eyes, the taunting curve of her lip.

The way she’s going to dig through him with a shovel.

��Let’s start with the most recent news. Your lead guitarist, Hyunjin, is expected to have a baby boy any minute now. Congratulations are in order, from everyone.”

Chan lifted an eyebrow, but nodded. “I’ll pass it on.”

“I can’t help but ask, though,” he noticed the scorpion tail before it stung, “why instead of spending his time with the mother of his child, he chooses to haul himself up in his childhood home with Lee Felix?”

In retrospect, it could’ve been worse. They could’ve learned about the heroin, or the overdose. Yet, somehow, the public trying to tear Felix away from Hyunjin seemed a death sentence on so many levels, that all the red bells in Chan’s head went off at once, blazing angry and loud.

He had no idea how to answer that, and storming off was not an option. Not one he could afford anyway, not after the shitstorm winter had been.

“I wasn’t aware gossiping had become so audacious. My team chose you based on reputation. Are you trying to change our mind?”

The interviewer’s eyes flashed. “If the public wants to know, Mr. Bang, we have to oblige.”

“This isn’t public information. If you want the exclusive, contact my band member about it.”

Chan defended. That’s what he did, all his life, for all who were close to him. But even in his fight to do so, he couldn’t help but also wonder—what was Hyunjin doing staying as far as fucking possible from his newborn son? His flesh and blood?

When was he finally going to deal with his life head on, as it happened?

“Understood,” the woman concluded, in a clipped tone, clearly disappointed she couldn’t get a rise out of the drummer. “So, then, what is the new direction for you?”

Chan could definitely answer this one. The words felt so good simmering up his chest, a fuck you to all the years of tour buses and depressing hotel rooms, a goddamn dictator making all the decisions for him, for all of them—

“A fucking break.” Finally, finally.

It’s to the news of his son being stillborn on TV for everyone’s entertainment that Hyunjin grabs the clippers and shaves himself bald, the blade nearly drawing blood. When his eyes fall on the jacket, he thinks, surely now. Surely this time. The phone starts ringing. Felix answers to Chan in miserable tears. Yes, he’s here. No, not yet. How did they know so fast? How did they fucking know?

The faux halo descends in yellow strands, no longer attached, deaddeaddeaddead, the harvest of a two year effort, the metamorphosis of a charlatan. I was never meant to have anything. Just as well. I know this. His arm moves over and over, until the top of his head is smooth, until his roots are once again dark and recognizable, originating from the mother, the constant ache of abandonment.

He smiles in the mirror when he’s done, your necklace bumping against his collarbone, heavy and desolate. Passes his palm over the nakedness, feels the scratch, the itch, the relief. Again, and again. And again. Again, again, something’s wrong now—

“Stop, what the fuck—stop, fucking stop!”

There’s warm liquid trickling down his forehead, where he smashed his head against his head. Felix runs over, curving around him, attempting to grab his arms and restrain him, all the while pleading and reasoning. The guitarist slumps and falls to his knees, immobilized, glass digging into translucent skin, but still, the hands don’t stop, they hit wherever they find, whatever they reach, even if it’s Felix, especially cause it’s Felix; Felix who won’t leave him alone, Felix that came with him despite the rift between them, Felix that has this disgusting notion of love for him and has convinced everyone it’s real, and that it’s enough.

How can it possibly be? How can it be?

“If you had even an ounce of self preservation, you’d leave right now.”

Two chests rising and falling together, breaths synchronized. They’ve never been left this close, never witnessed how well they fit together. Someone must’ve seen this. No one ever said anything. Cannot cross this. Will not do it. Hyunjin swallows metal and rams his elbow at the black haired boy’s ribs. There’s no sound made, no retaliation, no indication of pain. He always took whatever Hyunjin gave. The desperation used to make him sick.

Felix only let go enough to grab him by the nape and crush their mouths together. Hyunjin flashed his teeth like a cornered animal and spat his tongue out, pushing at him roughly and punching him square in the jaw. The singer knows this very well. The violence. The denial. If it meant it kept Hyunjin alive for a little fucking longer, he’d do it. He’d go through it a million times.

“I know what you brought with you,” Felix wipes at his mouth, as he watches the taller man scramble to his feet, furious and disoriented. “Bring it out. I wanna see.”

“Over my dead fucking body.”

In his bloody state, Hyunjin had to lean his head back against the wall for balance, hands balling into fists, coming to cross one over the other. This was familiar, the game between them. Felix brought his legs up, arms hanging over the knees, exhausted from sleeplessness, heartbroken by his twin’s reaction to the news. As fucked up as it sounded, he didn’t think it was so much the loss itself—more like what it meant, and what he had to let go of in the process.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” A challenge. “If I wasn’t here.”

Hyunjin had no reaction to the accusation of death. He’d wanted it for so long, after all. “You should’ve never come in the first place. I’m not myself.”

The singer hums, chuckling to himself, looking up with defiance. “And what is that?” He asked, feigning naivety. “Yourself? Is it the shit you carry in your pocket? The black stains on your shirt? The anger in your fist? What the fuck is it, Hyun?”

The man on the other side shuts his eyes, lets the shame wash over in intermittent waves. Perhaps, he’ll drown. Perhaps, there's some other way to do this, to end it. He wonders if his mom still keeps her tool satchel in the last drawer of her desk. Thinks it impossible that he’d remember that, when the features of her face are wiping themselves clean from his memory.

No way out of this without hurting the boy at his feet. A mistake.

“Let me be, Felix,” Hyunjin’s voice is but a faint whisper, raw with barely contained emotion. “Let me be.”

“No.”

“We’re done. The dream is over.”

The quiet resignation pinches at Felix’s heart, warning him there’s something very final about the way he says that. He thinks back to the tour, all the self destruction then, the all consuming need for this funeral of a life, for it to get as dark as possible. Velvet Opiate fed on this misery, it was true, but what the singer hadn’t realized—it all stemmed from Hyunjin himself.

He had been the ultimate muse.

And this was the true curtain call, on his terms, stage one.

“There’s no dream, darling,” Felix coaxes softly. “It was all real.”

The blood has dried by the time Hyunjin reaches for him. At first he thinks nothing of it, as his hand extends, as he brings him up at eye level. Hyunjin’s face has always been delicately hand drawn, meticulously sculpted. There’s not one thing that’s changed about that, nor about the way Felix marvels at the sight of him, the organ tirelessly pumping, tightening the size of the very same fist that has hit him thrice now.

When he connects their lips this time, it’s nothing like all the times before. This is the one where Hyunjin shows him that he wasn’t crazy. That it could be possible, that it was never fake or wrong or one sided. Desire courses through him unfettered, and would it be so bad to drop dead right this moment? For all the fight of survival, all the big talks and the things left unsaid, the images that haunt day and night, Felix suddenly cannot find a single good reason for it. This will never happen again. Never again.

Hands twisting around fabric, hips digging into hips, arousal evident, and the walls are closing in, they’re shrinking, the room spins—Hyunjin crashes Felix up against his childhood dresser—now empty, no more than occupied space in a ghost house—and the wood sighs, as they do, into each other, panting, foreheads resting together, gazes smoldering; as the buzz cut scratches at Felix’s jaw when lips suck at his throat, and when a hand, a hand, Hyunjin’s hand travels down and buries itself deep within, when it wraps around and pumps and stops time itself.

What did Felix know? Maybe this was a dream, maybe it’s been nothing but a dream this entire fucking shitshow, cause why else? Why else would this be happening? Hyunjin has never done more than kissing. He’s never even—

“I love you more than I could ever love myself,” imperceptible almost, except the singer is so tuned into the man consuming his soul it would be impossible to miss. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lix.”

Like a shadow, Felix watches his bandmate rush for his jacket, long limbs and silver piercings, dressed in all black, the earliest possible image he’s had of him, eternally captured to look like this; ready for the proceedings, the burial, the six feet under at any moment—he watches as Hyunjin never looks back once, as he grabs whatever he can, and slams the door shut, turning the key forever, locking Felix away, but taking the demons with him.

Every.single.one.

It plays in slow motion up until the door, when Felix finally resuscitates and runs to rage against the wooden surface, screaming, filled with seething betrayal:

”Don’t fucking do this, Hyunjin. Don’t fucking do this to me!”

And if Hyunjin hears him—he has no tears left for anyone anymore.

Thirty-two steps to the office. Forty-eight for the front door. Him and his inside pocket, reunited once again.

For the last time.

Hyunjin will never not destroy himself, not ever. It’ll always be one thing for another, no matter how harmless, how insignificant to someone else. He locked that door. He kept the angels away, he drowned in that house.

Help is right outside, left inside, knocking softly, whispering patiently, and he curses it every time. Doubt. He’ll never be able to see this fucking thing through—getting clean, being sober. Doubt is his secret lover in this alien hotel room. He hides it well, holds it near his chest, cultivates it with alcohol and paint brushes, speaks to it after everyone has gone to sleep. The terrifying images he draws stare back at him from every corner, faces cradling their heads in sorrow, open mouthed girls forever stuck in the loop of screaming bloody murder.

This isn’t normal, even by his standards. And despite the madness, despite the sickness nesting in between his bones, your soft voice is heard again beyond that veil where he can never reach you, relentless, gentle, a ravaging fire spreading through his veins—

“You’ve no more left, huh?”

A screeching giggle, pulling him abruptly from the gates of Heaven, away from you. He doesn’t even react to the voice, just keeps flicking the useless blue lightning painted on his forearm, teeth pulling tighter on the rubber tube, willing it to work, to absorb faster so that he can crawl back between your legs, bury his head in your soft mound, beg for forgiveness, exorcize the thought of another man, a better man, one that doesn’t need to shoot up diluted shit in his bloodstream to feel any goddamn sort of emotion.

Don’t fucking crash. Don’t you fucking crash.

He feels fingers running down his face. He didn’t realize when he slipped off the couch. A hazy arrangement of human body parts is cooing at him, pretending to care. He’s had this one for too long, he thinks absentmindedly. He should kick her out . . .

“Poor baby, it’s okay,” she mumbles against his earlobe, sucking cartilage in her annoying mouth. “Do you have any leftovers for me? I’ll make you feel good afterwards, I promise.”

The hands are everywhere now, like a thousand little spiders, crawling over his abdomen. Where did his shirt go? Hyunjin blinks slow, attempting to gather his thoughts, to push the woman off and find his cellphone, to call you, to call—

“Leave me,” he rasps, reaching for a half empty bottle of Merlot next to him. “Please.”

No more needles, selfish prick . . . The words mangle in his brain, out of reach and rotating. He’s not quite sure if they were said or thought, and that makes him laugh. Is he deaf now, then? Or able to read minds? He’d read yours like the Bible; pore over every sentence, memorize it, learn it by heart so that he’d be useful to you, so that you wouldn’t even have to waste a single breath trying to explain—he’d already know.

If only he had more time with you, and not these handful of memories, straining themselves thin for his selfish pleasure. Love has always punished Hyunjin. It hasn’t offered itself freely once, not even with Felix.

Felix—

“But then who would you have left, hon?” The woman is sliding down the carpet, pulling the rest of his clothing off him. He distantly thinks he’s not in the mood for a blowjob, his cock doesn’t get hard when he’s this high, he’s not even really in the room right now. . .

“You’d be all alone,” he hears, clearest of everything.

Alone. His hand, somewhere else, someone else’s, wraps around the padlock. He’d never be alone again. The key. The key to unlock him—it’s around your neck. You hold the missing piece, the thing for all other things. That singular thought spurned a million others, but before he even finished speaking your name, a hot mouth had started working his length, a manicured hand pressing down on his stomach, the other pumping his shaft.

Something stirred low inside him, but it was hiding behind a wall of numbness. He couldn’t feel anything. Hyunjin struggled for breath, bucking his hips reflexively. It took five whole minutes to realize there’d been a cigarette in his left hand, burning itself dead, ashes falling all over the girl’s hair.

He shoved her head down his cock until he heard the familiar choking sound, and further still, until she was hitting against his thighs, until her nails were scratching his skin raw, and she was turning blue.

He came to the sight of her humiliation, drool dripping down her chin, face red, makeup smeared, eyes glazed. Now she was as pitiful as him, a good for nothing whore that thought she could play a rockstar out of his drugs and money and get away with it by keeping him compliant with sex.

He’s lost too much to fool himself again with that narrative.

Hyunjin ordered her to get the fuck out, out, now and lit himself another cigarette. Feeling was starting to come back to his body, which meant it was over already. The emptiness that followed this part of his life was the loudest it’s ever been, worse than his mother leaving, worse than the look in Felix’s eyes as he left him behind in a house he did not know—

Close to that night in the alley with you.

You can’t pretend it’s rock bottom again, if you’ve been there already. You should know better.

The Merlot smashes against the balcony door, the sound a lot like sharp relief ricocheting inside his chest. Dizzy, he walks over to the glass barefooted, and stares at the mess of broken shards, before crouching down to pick the biggest one.

The blood is immediate, thick and dark, and everywhere.

Huh.

Chan’s never been to Red Lights before.

When Felix brought him here, he thought Hyunjin had reverted back after the news. That they’d have to drag him away from a gruesome scene, or find him buried in an empty bottle of something or other. Chan had grown accustomed to the myriad ways of dealing with pain.

Chan had hope, despite the hollow expression on his bandmate’s face. They went through the worst of it, there can’t possibly be anything worse than that. What Chan can’t understand is that there is more than one death.

And then, Felix spoke, after the deafening silence in the car. And he crushed any belief he’d ever held.

”I don’t know where he is,” he admitted, disconsolately. “But it’s not anywhere good. And he’s back on it.”

Back on it. Back on it? After everything? Nothing could’ve prepared the drummer for the resentment that grabbed ahold of him right then. It was unlike anything else.

He almost turned his back.

Almost.

“And we’re here for her,” he concluded. “Because he hasn’t put her through enough bullshit.”

Felix pretended to be guilty easily enough. “She broke it off with him. Brought a different fucking man to our concert, front fucking seat, messed with his head. She has a part in this as much as anyone.”

“He’s our responsibility, Felix. Ours!” Chan grabbed the singer by the shoulders, exasperated, trying to shake some sense into him. “You’re being fucking petty. We need to leave this girl alone, and deal with it ourselves like how we always have.”

The black haired man glared daggers at his group’s leader. Chan could blissfully put it all into perspective and carry on with his structured fucking life, but Felix was reckless and heartbroken and scared fucking shitless. They’d never lost track of Hyunjin’s whereabouts so colossally.

Every nerve connecting him would not settle until they found him again. And they would. Find him. Even if he personally had to call every single hotel in the city. Even without you.

“He’s gonna really do it this time, you know?” Felix casts a single look at the bouncer, who immediately recognizes him and opens the door for them to pass through. “No more of this. Not here.”

The establishment remains the same as it always has, though it’s evident it’s a slower night tonight. Chan looks around once while the singer goes straight for the bar, requesting you by name. The bartender blushes bright pink upon realizing who he has standing in front of him. The neon lights hide everything.

“Right there,” he points to his right, in a booth deeper than Felix has ever sat at. Chan is already making his way towards it. “Hey, are you the dude from Velvet Opiate?”

The unearthly thrill of excitement that rushes through him everytime he gets this exact moment will never stop feeling like the very first time. In the frightful abyss that being in love with Hwang Hyunjin is, it’s easy to forget sometimes—that Lee Felix shines brighter than anything. That his name alone can incite this type of reaction.

So, Lee Felix slaps a hand on the counter and brings the guy’s neck level with his mouth, then gives him an open mouthed kiss, the gesture electrifying.

“Yes, the fuck I am, baby.”

And don’t you fucking forget.

At the table, the drummer excused himself and prodded for your attention. You looked away from your client to face Bang Chan in the flesh, after all these months.

“There must be trouble in hell to come all the way over here.”

Chan chuckles, nodding for you to follow him somewhere more private.

“There’s always trouble,” he commented, indulgently. “We‘ll pay your boss generously for your time. Please.”

You patted the curious man’s thigh twice, whispering something in his ear, before slipping away from the booth and extending a waiting hand towards a staircase. The music boomed sultry and slow, the bass hypnotic.

“We can talk upstairs,” you motioned with your index finger. He arched a brow, and turned for Felix, who was barely coming over.

Your eyes avoided him as soon as you spotted his presence. Chan could not help his gaze from traveling down your tight body. Little black skirt, breasts spilling over an even tinier shirt. No wonder Hyunjin was this enamored. No wonder he’d damn himself to the furthest edge of the world.

Chan cleared his throat, noticing Felix’s amused stare and pointedly staring at his shoes for the rest of the way.

When you open the door to an old office, he slips right in and leans against the desk, arms crossing over his massive chest. You still have your professional expression on. He appreciated your work ethic. It can’t be easy working at a place like this, being as beautiful as you.

“What did he do now, then?” You get straight to the point.

Felix draws in a sharp breath, shoving both his hands in his jeans’ pockets. Chan sighs, gathering he’ll have to be the one to explain.

“First things first—I do want you to know that we’ll understand if you want nothing to do with this. Hyunjin is—”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “There’s nothing you could say that would make me turn away. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Felix jumped at the chance to be an absolute fucking asshole.

“He’s using again.”

Necrotic silence. It looked like you got punched in the stomach, but the hard lines on your face were trained against such things. Both were accustomed to this look. It was very abrupt, the force with which they discerned which parts made you stand out to Hyunjin, the importance of you. Why you’re familiar to them, although they’ve never spoken a single word to you.

Your sighing breath carried such unfiltered sadness. You looked so small to Chan, then. Tired. Foolish, even, in the way you cared, just like the rest of them, without cessation, just one constant line, perhaps since before you even met the guitarist. After all, weren’t you also a victim of your heart? Didn’t you also act against your better judgement?

The drummer respected you at that moment. You reminded him a lot of himself, strangely.

“How long did he keep his promise?” You ask very politely.

Chan feels sorry for you.

Felix scoffs, lifting one side of his mouth, the bitterness churning his face. “There’s no such thing—”

The well built leader slaps the back of a hand against his vocalist’s chest, measuring him with a crafted look the band submits to every time. “How long was he clean, you mean?” He addresses your question. “Longer than he’s ever been before. Almost two months.”

Your gaze shifted to the blinds covering the single window of this cramped space. You blink at it for a long while, before you nod once to yourself, slowly, like a newly awakened child, coming to a mutual agreement with your heart's terms and conditions. Such an open book, Chan thinks. It’d be so easy to love this one. It was all right there, staring them both in the eyes.

He dialed their driver’s number and brought it to his ear, ordering him to turn around and be up front in five minutes.

“What if I called him?” You ask, your hands trembling.

The twin bristles, head tilting in savage outrage. “This crosses your mind now?”

“Felix.”

“No!” He shouts, overtaken with incredulity, lunging for you. You gasp and cower away from him, backed into a corner. “No. She had the choice to fucking stay. If she’d stayed, he’d be sober. He told me,” his eyes turn back to you, turbulent and severe. “The night you gave him that cursed lock. If you won’t have him, he’d—and he did. He fucking did, and I thought okay, that’s the fucking end of it, surely, now, we’re done, this is the last time,” he laughs to himself, and rubs a hand roughly over his mouth in irritation.

“But it wasn’t,” he continues. “Because of what you did. Because you played him, and thought yourself innocent,” his hand reaches for your arm, nails digging into your skin with the intent to hurt. Your face freezes in fear. Chan shoves between you, and brings you behind him, but there is no stopping Felix now, the hate and jealousy pouring out of him like a nasty rainstorm. “He was so happy after you left his room that day. It nearly killed me, but I—at least, at least,” his face is wet, his mouth contorted, “I’ve never seen him smiling like that. Never. I thought if that’s what he wants, fine. Fine.

“With that same smile, he told me you ended it. But you loved him, I thought. I thought—do you know how much I love him? How long I’ve waited?”

“Felix, that’s enough,” Chan’s authority cuts the tension in two, makes his bandmate bite his tongue and storm out the office at once, rocking the door frame behind him with the force. “Enough,” he repeats to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose, before he turns to witness your sobbing shoulders, shaking with enough guilt to flood an entire city.

“He’s right,” you say through choking breaths. “He looked at me with such honest relief, and I only thought about myself. I thought if I walked away then, I would be able to control the damage before it was too late. The man—the man doesn’t matter, he was never important,” your fingers shoot-out to hold onto Chan’s jacket, something to tether you back to earth. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

The drummer puts his arms around you and holds you as you cry yourself dry.

“You wanna know a secret?” He murmurs at the top of your head. “I’ve never let myself admit it, because I want to see him fight this and win it. More than fucking anything . . .” Chan braces himself, closes his eyes. “If he’s meant to go that way . . . If we’re the ones holding him back, then . . .”

You shake your head vigorously against him. He nods, accepting the terrible truth and shoving it back down in the deepest, darkest parts of him. Then, he pulls back and stares into your bloodshot eyes, beautiful and scared. His fingers around your arms feel like they’re holding you up entirely, like without this small, comforting touch, you’d cave to a heap on the floor.

“If you think you can handle it, call him,” he implores you. “I know he’ll answer if it’s you. Just—”

”I know,” you reply quietly, wiping at your cheeks, but you meet his gaze steadily, and you nod. He nods back. “I’ll come down as soon as he tells me where—”

“Anything,” Chan corrects, taking a step back, a little more confident in your strength now. “Come as soon as you hear anything. We’ll be in a black van, parked in the back.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats, more to reassure himself. “Thank you.”

When he pushes the door open and climbs into the vehicle, Felix is drinking cold tequila straight out the bottle and doesn’t spare him a single glance. His anger is palpable.

Chan sighs, leans into the leathery seat and extends a hand out; a truce.

Felix obliges.

What you’re doing is irreversible. You know this, and yet you press the buttons anyway.

He’s never been sober with me. He’s promised me a thousand things, and they’re all worth as much as nothing. And yet, you love him just the same. You couldn’t love him any less, any more. Because he saw you when you didn’t. Because he came back and his soul had already introduced itself to yours. Because he’s never once been selfish with you, when all else has done nothing but demanded.

He’s hurt you, and he’s let you go twice. Because his song broke your heart. Because it’s impossible to move on from someone who’s claimed you whole.

These are the reasons you stay on the line. You slide down the wall by the door, and bring your knees very close to your body. You’re cold all over. This is a Hyunjin you’ve never met, one with no mask, one you cannot look in the eye and determine his lies from his truths, so this will be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.

Above all, you want him to be okay. You want him to be conscious and you want to hear his voice, despite your refusal to be near him. Please. Please. Please be okay.

“Angel?”

Your tears are instantaneous. They come in an avalanche, and there’s no way to stop them. Your fingers cling onto the key hanging from your neck, hugging it tightly, thanking whatever god is listening for the raspy voice on the other line.

“Angel, why are you crying?” His worry murders you. It pierces through your lungs and sends you into anaphylactic shock. You think, I won’t make it downstairs. I won’t make it anywhere.

“Are you okay?” You manage to choke out. “Hyunjin, are you okay?”

You’ve never heard such empty, suffocating silence. It makes you want to throw up.

“I’m alone,” he responds, finally. He sounds exhausted, drained of all that made him glow on stage, all that made him indispensable. “Sweetheart, I think I’m dying.”

Your heart stops. Your body pins itself straight. No. No—

You scramble to get up from your miserable place on the floor, trip over the carpet and throw open the door, running down the stairs, the siren blaring, blasting, red red red. You see nothing, you hear nothing else, your feet take you through the bar, through the back room, towards the exit sign, the big, heavy door—

“CALL 119!” You scream at the abyss that greets you. The neon lights do not reach this part. You’re blind walking towards the men waiting for you. “Please, he’s—he’s—”

Chan tosses the door open, staring at you wide-eyed, mouth opening in horror, sensing what you’re insinuating, sensing it’s bad. Felix treads behind him, phone already in hand.

“Hyunjin, please, please t-tell me where you are,” you stutter helplessly, frozen in the middle of the parking lot. “We’ll get you help, okay, you’ll be alright, what—what’s wrong? Hyunjin, what’s wrong? Please.”

“Listen to me,” he says calmly, like he’s come to terms with something, like this is somehow going according to plan. “I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

You can’t help the wretched sobs that wreck through you. Can’t help the sheer terror that grips you.

“I want to see you,” you beg. “I missed you so much. I want to see you. Please.”

Hyunjin’s breath catches, labored. You hear rustling of sorts, like he’s adjusting or moving.

“Not like this,” he refuses you, for the first time. Something collapses in your chest. “Not like this.”

You tug at your hair, desperate, and look at Chan. He seems to be hanging off every word you utter, close enough to hear if he strained, but far enough to give you a semblance of privacy. The singer isn’t blinking.

“I don’t care! I don’t care, Hyun, please. Please let me. I love you. Tell me where you are.”

His deep voice cracks, and you hear him laugh breathily. It must be the heart breaking, the thing banging inside you. It’s stubborn, in distress. It’s frozen you solid.

“Finally, I get to hear that,” he rasps. “It sounds nice.”

You cry harder, your knees giving out. Chan runs.

“If you die now, how will you get to hear me say it in person? I’ll say it as many times as you’ll accept it. Because I do. I do. I love you. I was born to find you, to meet you under the stairs, to have you live inside me. I need you, Hyunjin. You can’t die on me, you—”

He’s crying. The breathy moans are tears. You’ve no voice to say such a thing to anyone. This is for you only.

“ ‘I tried so hard to bear it . . . I even put out my hand . . .’ ” His singing is for you, too. The raw way in which he utters the words, like they’re physically heavy to carry in his mouth. You sink into his broken voice, let it drift you ashore. “ ‘But what it all comes down to is; Let me hear your voice more . . . I still want to be here.’ ”

Relief floods you weak. You drop your head and cry out, laugh, then cry some more. His band members stare at you confused, anxious. You don’t know in what state he’s in, but this, this changes everything. He wants to live. He admitted it. Which means he’ll fight, which means he’ll try, over and over and over, no matter how many times he fails.

”I only want you,” he says quietly. “I only ever wanted you, angel.”

You nod to no one, you do it again and again. Your heart beseeches to reach him, to reunite with his once again, to never part as long as you both live.

“Tell me where. I’ll be there.”

A hotel six minutes away from you. You don’t know how to keep the guilt from eating you alive. Felix doesn’t know what to do with himself, after he’s informed the ambulance of the location. He meets your gaze once, his expression shuttered and astray. Chan calls security and gives them strict orders to not let anyone go up that room until you’ve talked with Ηyunjin yourself. Regardless of the situation. He does not argue with the singer when he passes past you and goes back inside the bar.

A jacket brushes your shoulders, smelling of birch tree. You look at the male left behind.

“I’ll take you and stay outside till the paramedics go in,” he says. Chan is older than you, but at that moment he looked older than anything else on this earth. You two communicate silently for a few moments, his gratitude and your conviction battling not to overspill, before his arm prods your body forward gently. “Come on.”

In the car, new fear shakes you.

What if you don’t have six minutes?

Minho is found dead in his indoor swimming pool eight hours before your time zone.

Gun in his mouth, the maid walked into something horrible, something she could not begin explaining to the American officers. I had spoken to him on the phone yesterday, she said in her testimony. Normal day. He was very kind. He said not to worry about coming into work today, but it’s my job, you know. I clean. I make sure everything is tidy. I didn’t know anything like this would happen.

No note, no messages to anyone, no indication.

Except the rings on his nightstand. The engravings:

I’ll find you after, on one.

I’ll be waiting, on the other one.

What he never managed to give to her.

The next day, newspapers all around the world print,

‘ LEE MINHO, bassist of VELVET OPIATE, DEAD by SUICIDE, aged 26. ’

There’s a lot of blood in the bathroom. Even more in the tub, where you find him.

His hair is buzzed and bleached, piercings that hadn’t been there before. The staff that opened the door for you is on standby, along with a security guard Chan brought here, both standing right outside the suite. You hadn’t noticed your attire, your uniform being second skin and unimportant, but the woman’s eyes had drifted and they had judged.

No one knew what was happening in here, only that medical help might be needed. A lot of girls like you must’ve come and went through these doors, to get a condescending look like that, and you don’t even want to think about the accidents that must’ve already occurred.

You don’t dwell on it. You can’t.

Hyunjin is shirtless and smoking, cradling a torn up arm and sporting a busted eyebrow. His eyes are closed, like he’s sleeping. You go to him slowly, moving quietly so as not to disturb him. He’s a painting, even like this. Unreal. Untouchable.

You love him so heart wrenchingly, you think you might be the first one to die, after all.

”Hello, angel.”

Your eyes meet. Cigarette hanging limply from his mouth, he opens his other arm wide, smiling softly, a man patient for a hundred years, acrylic. You smile back and get in the tub with him, kneeling between his legs, letting the blood soak through your clothes too, all to feel his arm finally wrapping around you like all those times before.

Times not as hard as this. Times that will never come again.

“You made me wait,” he mumbles, the smoke curling above your heads.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He kisses the top of your head, and settles you better on top of him. Your ear presses against his heart, the tune sounding a lot like home, a drum beating rampant in your ribcage as well. Could’ve done this from the beginning. He would never let it near me.

“Don’t apologize. You’re here now.”

He smells like wine and metal. You lean into the smell, allow yourself to relax, to close your eyes. The fluorescence of the light overhead enters through your lids, shadows dancing.

“Hyunjin?”

“Hmm?”

“What happened to your arm?”

A brief pause. He takes a long drag of the stick in his mouth, exhales, his fingers threading through your hair, bringing you closer if that’s possible.

“I cut the ugly part off. The one you don’t like,” he says.

You’d have to ruin this perfect peace, and betray his trust. You couldn’t postpone it any longer.

“It doesn’t hurt?”

Long fingers moving on your scalp, back and forth, back and forth, his jaw a puzzle piece on the crown of your head, his smoke and his rings. Too familiar. Achingly so.

“I don’t feel it anymore,” he shrugs it off. “You’re here.”

You open your eyes and look up at his face. His lips are pale, chapped. Nevertheless, he’s handsomer than ever. Just a little lost. A little sad. When he feels you staring, he lifts his head and stares down at you, gaze impossibly intense, burning with a hunger you’ve never truly realized.

“You keep saying that,” you break the trance, shy under his scrutiny.

Hyunjin sighs and it reverberates down your entire body. His bloody hand comes to lift your chin up, to inspect and clarify as only he ever does.

His eyes drop to your mouth. You blink.

“A dream, isn’t it?” He rasps. “You’re not real.”

You humor him. It’s better this way.

“I’m not real.”

His smile is most beautiful then.

He fists your hair and brings your lips together.

The cigarette falls.

Hyunjin on stage in three, two, one . . .

Good evening, we’re Velvet Opiate!

No. Wrong place. Must go back.

Before you call Chan, you check the drawers, pockets and pots; under carpets, the mattress, inside pillowcases. You smash his phone and flush all the powders found down the toilet. You clean up the glass, and make the bed.

You throw the satchel with the tube tied around it away, and you wipe the blood from his face as best as you can. Then you do the same thing to yours.

He wakes up as you bring the cellphone to your ear, and scatters out of the bathtub to stop you, long legs bumping, a scary sight painted in crimson. The look on his face is terrifying, like he can’t believe you’d ever possibly deceive him.

The words lodge themselves in your throat.

“What the fuck did you do?” He demands, your phone snatched, taken hostage behind his back. “Sweetheart, who were you calling?”

Your face crumples at his tone. “Chan,” you whisper. “We called an ambulance . . .”

Hyunjin rubs a hand over his face, lightning flashing in his dark eyes as he restrains himself from reacting and answers the call back, turning his back on you.

You remain still, holding your breath. You remember—quiet—as the paparazzi snapped pictures of the two of you, all those months ago, the violence with which Hyunjin had erupted then, a part you haven’t been introduced formally to until now, and you’re sure you want nothing to do with.

“No fucking hospital. Do you hear me? You want them to send me to looneyville? ‘Cause that’s where the fuck I’ll end up once they see these holes in my arms . . . The doctor, Chan, the one we pay for, remember? Don’t fucking give me that shit, I’m fine.” His head turns your way slightly. “She’s here. Look, just—no hospital. Send them away, make up a fucking excuse. Call Park.”

He throws the phone in the sink behind you, and walks up to you in two long strides, making you back up against the tiled wall. He looks more awake than he did earlier, like the high has worn off completely now.

His palm comes to rest above your head, eyes boring into yours. Something shifts immediately and the danger is gone, replaced by a tenderness and longing that twists like a knife between your ribs.

“Please, don’t ever do that again,” he murmured, connecting his forehead with yours. “I can’t lose you now. I won’t fucking stand it.”

You nod, understanding the implications.

“I didn’t know what to do when you—we thought you were—”

He shushes you, hand coming to caress your hair, to silence your fears. “I know, angel. But you called. You called before I did anything else. My highs get bad sometimes, I—it feels a lot like death. It’s . . . Nothing you need to worry about.”

You hear all that he does not say. “Tell me,” you plead. “Let me in, Hyunjin. You can’t keep me at arms length. I’ve seen you now. I’ve seen everything.”

He went to pull away, gaze torn, but you kissed him before he could move any further.

You weren’t exactly sure what happened then. Hyunjin groaned in your mouth, and lifted you in the air, wrapping your legs around his torso, walking out the bathroom with his teeth grazing your neck, his hold possessive, his need ravenous.

”I’ll disgust you,” he says, jaw clenched, as he lays you down on the bed. “You’ll run.”

”I won’t.”

”You will. No part of me should touch you. I don’t deserve a single fucking inch of you.”

His fingers move your skirt up, your panties to the side. You moan when he laps the wetness between your lips, sinking his middle finger in your tight hole once, twice, three times, mouthing kisses on your breasts, repeating your name like a prayer.

It doesn’t take him long to bury himself inside your cunt. He’s done it before, taken off the same clothes, touched between the same thighs. This time it’s primal, it’s pure need and self-hate that drives him. You welcome him with open arms, wrapping around his shoulders, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust. He fucks into you with vigor, like he missed you, like maybe he won’t get another chance at this.

You want to show him. Want to tell him. Want him to understand.

“Hyunjin . . .” You trace the lean muscle, the beauty marks, avoid the chopped skin of his forearm. “I love you.”

He shakes his head and bruises your lips purple, lifting one thigh over his shoulder, the position unbearably deeper, his cock ramming the same spot over and over, until you can do nothing else but chase after the release, after what he gives you—look at you, look at you, taking me so good, so fucking good, angel, come on, let me see you, open your eyes—your hips move of their own accord, meeting his halfway, aching hole squeezing around him, all the distance and pain transforming into blinding orgasm.

“There you go, sweetheart, fuck,” hand coming to push sweaty hair out of your face, to lay on your cheek, mouth on yours, over and over, two points connected, and him, so beautiful, so so beautiful, pistoning into you harder, faster, head dropping, voice thick, groaning as he shoots ropes of white cum inside your awaiting pussy.

“I love you,” you say again, expecting he’ll not accept it.

He pants heavily, his weight a steady reminder he’s here, he’s alive, he’s alright. You pass your own hand over his buzz cut, find you don’t miss the long hair one bit, now you can see his face better, his eyes, the way they look at you, like you’re the only moving thing on this standstill planet.

“Are you okay?” He asks, concerned. “I was selfish with you, I should’ve—”

You press a finger against his lips. “It was perfect. Don’t ruin it.”

He pulls you to his chest, cock still nesting inside you. You’re careful not to rest on his wounded arm, even as he doesn’t seem to mind it. For a long time, it’s only your breaths in the dark room, the white of the bathroom the only source of light. Your mind replays the events of the past hour, and cannot process any of it.

It feels surreal.

Hyunjin senses you slipping from him, and kisses the side of your head, bringing your body over his, the stretch inside you incredible, his length twitching and hardening.

He ignores it.

“I’ve never had anyone say those words to me before,” he admits in your hair. “No one. You’re the first.”

Your heart breaks all over again. “Is that why you don’t want them?”

His mouth lifts. “I want them. I want all of them. All of you.”

“You have me,” you say confidently. “You’ve had me all this time.”

He begins making love to you again, slowly this time. His eyes are unfathomably sad, incredibly tired, dark circles prominent. Risen from the dead and given himself another day, another chance.

“But you won’t stay unless I quit for good,” he whispers, a lover’s whisper. “And I don’t know how to do that, angel. It keeps pulling me back, no matter what I do.”

You bite back your moan to answer him. “I’ll stay,” in his ear, the best kept secret. “I won’t leave again.”

Hyunjin fingers the key dangling around your neck, wrapping it around his digits tightly. “My lifeline. I swear to you. I swear.”

You meet him in the middle like this too. And when you cry, he cries too and hugs your entire frame to him, breathing in what he has missed so. A melody builds in his mind, fingers suddenly itching for his guitar strings.

And then you say, “I want you to live, Hyunjin. I want you to live.”

And it rages against his entire being. The replenished rejoicing of a beating heart and the rest of the world. Despite death, despite death, despite death.

In spite of it.

The remaining members of Velvet Opiate organize a concert in memory of their lost friend.

Forty thousand people show up. Chan cannot get through any of the songs, Felix refuses to sing a single word. But it doesn’t matter. Hyunjin perfectly executes all his riffs and solos. He moves around the stage, commanding the crowd and thinks of the way Minho would surely curse the other two for acting so fucking sappy.

He knows this best of all. Death is a reprieve, it should not be feared. Saying that, he refuses to bow down to it yet. He can mourn and touch the casket, he can even throw the dirt on top of someone who he would follow into a burning house and not picture it was himself instead, for once—this is the kind of person Hyunjin is becoming because of you.

Steadfast, determined. He cannot get stuck again. He will not live in darkness anymore.

They do all the popular songs, and even some fan favorites, speaking in turns about Minho’s legacy and his quiet resilience. Chan mentions his womanizer ways which have caused many scandals for them over the years. Felix talks about what a pleasure it was to record material with him, how he’s never met anyone more professional than him, a real fucking spirit.

Hyunjin saves his memories for last.

In front of the same people who may have spat at him before, he rubs his newly bleached hot pink head of hair, and fidgets with the pick between his fingers. The dome is lit in red, the cheers resounding.

“Minho was a troublemaker by nature. He did whatever the fuck he wanted unapologetically. He loved fiercely, and he did it all while playing some damn good bass for this band,” he looks at his own guitar, the void it had created in his gut when he wasn’t able to play. “He never questioned a day in his life, he was the best one out of all of us—Bang, don’t look fucking offended, the guy is dead—” Chan lifts his drumsticks in defeat, and chuckles.

“He’ll pay you a visit for that one,” Felix jokes, tears streaming down his glittery face.

“He saved my life,” Hyunjin continued with a bittersweet expression. “Countless fucking times. And I think that calls for the only song he never got sick of playing, yeah?”

Sound all around. Chan started, followed by Felix’s new accessory—Minho’s customized bass and all that it entailed to keep rhythm during a song of theirs. He practiced day and night, stayed in the studio to learn all the minor tweaks and complexities the late bassist embellished the tracks with. He had a long way to go, and it’d never be the same, but the band refused to hire a new person.

It didn’t feel right. No one could replace a Velvet boy.

Hyunjin joined after the intro, leaning into the mic, looking out at the sea of fans and really seeing them, for what felt like the first time since they started having shows. Truly sober and present. It hasn’t clicked for him quite yet—how he’ll be able to keep this up, to not fuck it all up and lose everything from under his feet.

Minho’s passing shook him like nothing ever had. If he tilts his head a little to the side, and looks out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he can make out the familiar impassive expression, his best friend, the flickering of his fingers over the thick bass strings. Like before.

But there’s nothing there. Not really. If he trails his gaze backstage, though, past their new manager and staff, the light shining there gathers all his attention, and he sees—

You.

“This next one, I wrote . . . dying.”

Looking back at him with shiny eyes, an emotion he’s not yet ready to decode.

It wouldn’t matter, either way. He’s dedicated his entire life to you now.

“I met someone in a dark room, and molded around them. She decided I was worth knowing to the bone, defenseless and naked. So I wrote this for her.”

Can’t see anything but your sweet face in that tub smearing his blood with yours, hear nothing but the way you whisper his name in the dead quiet of night, as he makes you cum again, and again, and again.

He brings the silver padlock around his neck to his lips, and kisses it. He calls out your name.

He plays the new song he wrote for you.

You run to him. He waits, arms wide open.

All is still.

#i will reblog this again in the future with some better thoughts #better words #just a freakin saga #i think i felt every emotion possible?#these poor poor kids #my heart breaks for them #hyunjin fic rec #stray kids fic rec

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