Himchan turned the shower on and stood beneath the spray, letting the water wash over him and clear away the dried sweat and dirty rain. The heat seeped into his skin, relaxing the knots in his muscles until he found himself leaning forward, forehead pressed against the cool tile and water cascading down his back. He could feel the mess between his thighs slowly wash away, leaving all traces of the previous night gone.

Good.

He let out a long, slow breath and closed his eyes, then immediately opened them again. In the darkness behind his eyelids were images of red tinted tattoos, thick lips parted and glistening tan skin. He shook his head viciously, wet hair flicking the walls with droplets that hit the tiles loudly. He straightened himself up and put his face directly beneath the jet of water, eyes closing once again.

Soft eyes gazed at him in the darkness, wide and shining with awe. He felt a jolt of heat between his legs and slammed his hand down on the temperature dial, dropping it to freezing. The cold water blasted him like a wall of ice scraping over his skin. He stood there under the vicious freezing spray until he was shaking with cold and fingers going numb.

Shower off and towel wrapped around him, he marched the walk of shame to his bedroom. He hadn't slept in his own bed the previous night. He'd ended up curled up on his sofa with a half-empty bottle of wine, wrapped in his dressing gown and feeling thoroughly miserable about life. Now he stood outside the ajar door and gazed into the dimly lit room.

The air was stale with the heavy smell of . He brushed his way across the floor and tore the curtains apart, throwing the windows open as far as they would go to let in a cold early-spring breeze. The cold air prickled his skin and made him shudder. He turned slowly and his eyes landed on the mess of the bed.

The sheets thankfully weren't stained, but as soon as he lifted the duvet a strong musk wafted up to him and consumed his senses. Despite his very core insisting he shouldn't, he pulled the material up to his face and inhaled. The rich stench of cologne and sweat filled him, making him momentarily cuddle into the duvet. He threw it away with a jerk, letting out a sharp gasp.

He shook his hands and let out a heavy breath, then stripped the bed as quickly as he could manage and bundled everything up. He strode through the house and shoved the sheets straight into the washing machine, turning it on and leaning back against it. He pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes and shook his head, then went back upstairs.

Loose tshirt. Sweatpants. underwear. He scraped his still damp hair from his face and stared into a mirror. His reflection stared back, barefaced and pale.

His breath hitched. Once, twice, lip trembling. He blinked a few times, eyes glistening a little in the light. He raised his hands to wipe his eyes, rubbing them vigorously, and swallowed. The solid lump in his throat stung and scraped, making it hard to breathe. He inhaled, making a dry wheezing sound, and let out a long shaky breath. He moved his hands up to scrape through his hair, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. After a moment, he opened his eyes again. His eyes were slightly red now, the skin around raw from being rubbed too hard. He looked away and swallowed the lump.

Grabbing his desk mirror, he positioned himself on his bedroom floor by the window and scattered his products out around him. Carefully measuring each squeeze, he rubbed scrubs into his face and then applied various creams, massaging the skin with measured pushes of his fingers. His skin softened and glowed under his touch, each stress line and patch of worried skin fading beneath his ministrations. He reached out for the last bottle and went to pop it open, but the lid was jammed.

He struggled for a moment, nails slipping on its wet lid, then it gave way with a pop so forceful his hand jerked back and slammed against his own jaw. He cursed at the ache in his face, then saw that the expensive liquid had spilled out across the floor, staining the carpet and leaving barely a few drops left.

He stared at the mess. There was a huge dark streak across his carpet, soaked in too deep to scrub out in time, that stank of fruits and chemicals. The now mostly empty bottle had cost him a lot of his savings and should have lasted him years. He'd only had it a few months. He carefully put the lid back on without using any of what was left and set it down.

His throat burned again and he swallowed. Deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

Mechanically, he gathered his products up and set them back in their respective places before heading to the kitchen. He filled his arms with various cleaning products and carried them upstairs before getting to work. He gloved his hands and grabbed a cloth to scrub at the stain, spraying carpet cleaner into it. His arms ached with the effort of his cleaning and he could feel his nails being damaged.

Breathe. In the nose. Out the mouth.

The fumes burned his eyes. He eventually relented and left some foam on the stain to sink in, hoping it would lift the worst of the stain. He took everything back downstairs and spent a moment staring at his nails in the kitchen.

He located a file and carefully worked on shaping his nails to accommodate the way they'd bent and chipped. He shaped them carefully, precisely, each one as neat and even as the next and then buffed to perfection. The new edges shone smoothly. He opened a bottle of varnish and went to apply it, but found his hands were shaking too much, so he pressed one hand against the counter and breathed slowly as he carefully, more carefully than he'd ever done before, spread the clear liquid over his nails. The other hand was just as difficult, if not more so, but he managed to get a good even cover. He admired his work and let out a satisfied sigh. Everything was in order again.

He waved his hands as he walked through his house, encouraging the varnish to dry. He caught his reflection in the mirror of his sitting room and stopped, then stepped back to look at himself.

He looked exhausted. His eyes were red and the lines on his face had come back with a force. The bruise on his face had swollen and deformed his jawline in a horrible blue lump, making the rest of his skin look washed-out. A sheen of sweat had built on his forehead from scrubbing and running about his house, and despite his nails being back in shape his hands looked stiff and red. Locks of hair had fallen out of place, hanging over his face or sticking out at awkward angles.

He blinked. He blinked again. His eyes were stinging and he kept trying to blink them clean but somehow his vision was going blurry. Something hot was burning his cheeks and he raised his hands, finding them shaking viciously as he wiped his wet face. He gasped, throat sore and thick. More tears rolled down his cheeks, escaping his angry hands as more flowed before he could wipe his face dry. His skin felt raw and stiff from the salty trails and his palms kept catching the bruise, making it ache more.

His knees shook and gave way, sending him sprawling to the floor in a heap. He shuddered, breathing erratic as he tried to gain control of himself. No matter how many times he tried to calm himself down, mantra after mantra spilling in garbled messes from his tongue, he couldn't control his heaving chest or the gasps and sobs that wracked his body.

Images flowed through his mind. Hands, large and rough, grabbing his body as he struggled to run. Yongguk's look of confusion and hurt as he dressed himself. The dark bedroom in his ex's apartment. A leering stranger in a bar. Yongguk's stern gaze as he took his hand. Meals crafted to perfection, each calorie counted to the exact number, weighed and stripped of fat. His reflection in a bathroom mirror, cheeks hollow and ribs showing through his too-large shirt. A pyre of books: diet books, lifestyle books, healthy living books – burning in his garden. Gangs of men in the dark shouting at him from across the road.

And there it was again. Yongguk's gaze of awe and wonder, as though he'd never seen anything better in his whole life. The memory smashed through Himchan's defences, boring deep into his core and nestling itself firmly among his vulnerabilities.

Somewhere, something was buzzing loudly.

His phone.

He managed to pull himself back up, blindly making his way to the source of the noise and half tearing his jacket pocket as he rummaged for the device. He clicked 'answer' before he could see who the ID was.

“Himchan!” Jongups voice shouted down the phone, “I called you all last night but you didn't answer! I was wondering if you had-... Hey are you all right? What happened?”

Himchan blinked blearily a few times as he tried to understand what his young friend was asking him, when he realised he hadn't actually stopped himself from crying before he got the phone. “Fine,” he choked out, “I- I spilled one of my most expensive products everywhere. It cost so much money and I'm- I'm just really frustrated about it.” He let out a weak laugh.

“Hmmm.” He could hear Jongup's doubt in that noise alone. “It's that guy you fake-date, right?”

“What? No. Who are you talking about?”

“I'm coming over with chocolate and DVD's now.”

He laughed again, genuine and relieved. “Thanks, Uppie. You're the best.”

Soundtrack: Rick Astley - Lights Out