Mark messed up.

Mark messed up so bad.

He messed up so, so bad.

He should’ve…he should’ve eaten that granola bar. If he did, he wouldn’t be here right now, staring pointedly at the wall, nestled comfortably in Donghyuck’s bed. A flood of shame rushes through him at the thought; he’s inconveniencing his only confidant by doing this. Donghyuck has his own problems, he doesn’t need this heaped him on top of him too.

Mark’s supposed to be the one who everyone can turn to, can confide in, and he used to manage it all so well and now it’s just slipping out of his fingers and—

Oh god.

He still remembers what happened on set today. Taeyong’s wild, desperate eyes locked on his own—his pleading gaze—and Mark just wouldn’t tell him and everything went to hell. And it’s not like he doesn’t want to, it’s just…he can’t, at this point. Mark did this to himself. He deserves to suffer for making a mistake like that.

Taeyong is…Taeyong is everything Mark wants to be. He’d thought, before, that he was at the lowest point he could reach, but Mark was wrong then. Mark’s always wrong, these days.

There’s nowhere to go, but up.

Once, this inspired him, but now it’s just like something’s weighing him down more and more, the harder he tries to resist. Like a current—tides carrying him away—only there’s no end to this. Mark’s drowning, but nothing ends. It’s only the deep dark, and him. He used to break out from under the depths, occasionally, for air, but now there’s nothing to pull him back up except for—

“Taeyong hyung was just here.” Donghyuck’s standing at the door, watching Mark with cautious eyes.

“Oh?” He rolls over onto his back, muscles protesting even for the slightest movement, “What…what did you say?”

He hopes it doesn’t sound as uncertain as he feels, because if Donghyuck were to tell him, Mark doesn’t know what he’d do. Taeyong can’t find out how insufficient he is. How inadequate.

“Told him you were asleep.” Donghyuck shrugs nonchalantly, but Mark can hear the disdain in his voice, “He’s worried about you, y’know.”

“I guess.” Mark can’t believe it himself, but every time he thinks about it, he remembers the dizzying rush of emotions in Taeyong’s eyes, from before, “But there’s nothing to be worried about.”

“Shut up.” Donghyuck bites out, bed dipping under his weight, “You looking like absolute , is entirely not okay. We call you the Golden Boy, but that doesn’t actually have to mean anything.”

Doesn’t have to mean anything. Just like you.

“Look, Hyuck, just drop it, okay?” Mark groans, shielding his eyes with his arm; he doesn’t want Donghyuck to see the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

“No, I won’t.” Donghyuck moves closer; Mark can feel his weight moving around, but startles when slender fingers are placed against his cheeks, “And I know you’re crying, Lee Minhyung, don’t you dare deny it.”

“I’m not c-crying.” Mark disagrees, even as they trail their way down to meet the tips of Donghyuck’s fingers, “I’m just—”

“Sweating?” The younger boy offers dryly, “From your eyes.”

Mark rolls over, smushing his face into the pillow. He feels like a baby again. He’s not a baby, though, so he shouldn’t cry like this. Like some weakling.

He hears Donghyuck sigh.

“Look, you aren’t doing yourself a favor by doing this.” The vocal says, and Mark wants to squeeze his ears shut too, because stop talking, just stop, “We want to help you!”

“I can solve this on my own, okay!” Mark finally snaps, sitting up, back straight. He isn’t thinking clearly, as he glares at Donghyuck, the brunette staring back in obvious surprise, “I don’t need your help, nor anyone else’s!”

“What the hell!” Donghyuck retorts, eyes glaring daggers back, “I’m worried about you, you idiot! You can’t keep overworking yourself like this, and—”

“Shut up!” Mark finally screams, eyes shut, fingers digging into his scalp, “Shut up, you’re wrong!”

There’s only silence, save for Mark’s heavy breathing, and it’s only then that he realizes what he’s done, what he’s done, what has he done.

He looks up, hesitantly, only to see that Donghyuck’s features seem eerily calm.

“I’m wrong.” He finally says after a while, and Mark flinches back, though he knows he deserves it, “I’m wrong.”

He shakes his head, then, backing away, and Mark reaches out an unsure hand, wanting to stop him but—

It’s too late.

The door clicks behind him, and shrouds the room in darkness. It shrouds Mark in darkness.

For the first time, Mark actually feels what it’s like to be alone. He hates it.

“Hey, Mark?” He looks up from his touchpad, the next day, to see Jaemin hovering at his side uncertainly. Mark feels a stab of guilt at seeing one of his friends acting so weird around him (and it’s all his fault), so he plasters on a convincing smile—as good as he can get, anyway—and raises an eyebrow.

Not convincing enough, it seems, from Jaemin’s hesitant features, but Mark ploughs on anyway.

“What’s up?” He asks as casually as he can, “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, but I…” Jaemin pauses, eyes trailing over Mark’s features, biting his lip, “I don’t know, hyung, you look kind of busy. I’ll let you get back to your work!”

He scampers off, leaving Mark on his own, confused and, unsurprisingly, remorseful.

Mark lounges on the couch, that very same evening, flipping lazily through TV channels. Jisung’s at the other end of the couch—normally he’d be right at Mark’s side—and the space looming between them has never seemed so huge. He wants to say something, but Jisung beats him to it.

“Hyung,” He says slowly, “You’re not okay, are you?”

Mark’s breath catches in his throat, and before he can even think to deny it, he’s interrupted.

“Everyone can see it, y’know.” Jisung pokes absently at the loose strings of his blanket, “We’re not stupid, hyung.”

For a 15-year-old, Mark thinks, he’s pretty perceptive.

“I’m fine.” He brushes off Jisung’s concern, before leaning closer, “Is something up with Jaemin, though?”

He remembers the uncertainty in the younger boy’s face, his unwillingness to divulge to Mark. He’s being a bad leader, isn’t he?

Jisung hesitates.

“Yes?” He says it like a question, before shrugging, “I don’t know? Jaemin doesn’t usually tell me stuff, you know that.”

“Jeno, then?” Mark bites his lip.

“Probably.” Jisung shrugs yet again, and he’s frowning—did Mark annoy him again, he’s always annoying everyone—when he gets up to leave, “Don’t talk to us until you get yourself sorted out first, hyung.”

Mark is left gaping uselessly at the door, watching his retreating back. The internal chant of not good enough comes back at him, in the voice of the very same person who instilled that phrase into his mind; not knowing what to do, Mark’s body moves on autopilot, putting on some old shoes and grabbing a coat in case it would get chilly outside.

There’s no Donghyuck to hold him back.

He doesn’t even think of where he’s heading, feet moving all on their own; and, as he reaches the dance studio, he thinks to himself that this is a terrible idea—that he shouldn’t be doing this.

His hand reaches for the door anyway.

By the time he’s done, Mark’s panting heavily, on his knees. He manages to crawl his way to the mirror panels lining the wall, back slumping against it as he tilts his head back in exhaustion. A quick glance at his watch tells him the time: 10:45PM.

It hasn’t been long, right? Mark squints at his watch, trying to remember when he came. Well, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he improves. That he does everything right. That he is the SM Golden Boy, or whatever they call him.

(even though he isn’t, he isn’t even close)

Mark has never liked to pretend, yet it looks like he’s going to have to anyway. He doesn’t want to get kicked out.

He contemplates going back home. And, as appealing as that sounds, his limbs feel too heavy to move. He pushes himself off the mirror wall, lying on the ground instead, letting its cool surface press against his heated cheeks. He blinks, mouth parting in surprise when he sees a familiar snapback tossed to the side: it’s Taeyong’s.

He must have practiced too, right? That’s why his hat’s here, thrown carelessly to the side. That means Taeyong puts in a lot of effort to be so perfect. Which means Mark should as well.

Mark tries to get up, but his legs buckle from under him, making his eyes widen. An involuntary yelp leaves his lips as he comes crashing down, the side of his hip bearing most of his weight.

Pain, pain, pain, hurts—

Mark gasps as he gingerly presses a hand to the jut of his hip, eyes clenching shut at the throbs of pain sent tingling down his spine. He’s going to have to walk strange, and no, how’s he going to dance, he’s already useless?

They have a practice scheduled for tomorrow, and he’s going to have to dance. Meaning he’s going to need to distribute his weight in an uneven way, and that’s going to put a ton of pressure on his bruised side.

He’s such a up.

Mark presses a shaking hand to his mouth. He can’t cry, especially not now. Not when he’s got to think straight for one moment in your stupid life, Lee.

Their practice is first thing in the morning, at 8 or so. If Mark isn’t wrong, everyone in the Dream dorms should be asleep, now, so he doesn’t necessarily need to go back. No one’s going to notice, anyway. Eyeing the empty room, Mark gives himself a nod, eyes steeling in determination.

He can make do with this.

As he props himself against the wall again, Mark breathes heavily. This is taking a lot more out of him than he thought. He should’ve brought his phone or something, he could’ve called someone—

No. He’d just burden them.

He tries closing his eyes to go to sleep instead, but every time he does, he can only see Taeyong’s worried gaze staring into him, and the familiar weightlessness of the fall. It’s burned into the back of his eyelids, like a permanent mark. Isn’t that funny?

Mark doesn’t get much sleep, that night.

He’s awoken to the feel of hands roughly shaking his body, making a pained whine leave his lips out of reflex. His side throbs.

“Wake up, kid!” A familiar voice hisses in anger, “Did you come here to slack?”

It’s only then that Mark’s scattered ideas form a cohesive thought, and he balks, eyes flying open to come face to face with him.

Instructor Kim is staring down at him with those disappointed eyes, and he curls in on himself out of reflex. He feels small again, like he does with Taeyong sometimes, but this is different. He feels a pinprick of actual fear this time.

“Well?” The man demands, eyes narrowing, “Aren’t you going to get up?!”

Before Mark even gets the chance to explain himself, let the man know that he’s starting to get re-oriented with everything again, the instructor nudges Mark with his foot. Hard. In his thigh.

He can’t help the whimper of pain that leaves his lips, hand flying to cradle the injured area, body turned inward to shield himself. Everything hurts, and he can hardly focus now, brain only ringing with cries of pain, pain, painpainpain—

“Get the hell up!”

Mark gets to his knees, teeth grit together in effort. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead at the effort, and he doesn’t bother to wipe it away. Instructor Kim’s right. Mark can’t be lazing around, especially when he’s got so much to catch up on.

He manages to stagger to his feet, and pants heavily when the movement sends jolts of more pain along his thigh.

“Could I…” He winces at the taste in his mouth, clearing his throat before continuing, “Could I go brush, sir?”

“No.” Kim frowns, “Practice starts in 10 minutes.”

“I’ll make it quick!” Mark tries, desperately; he can’t focus like this, “Please.”

“I said no.” Mark startles when his hands come down on Mark’s shoulders with bruising force, flinching back at the intensity in the man’s dark eyes, “You don’t need to do that. It’s okay to skip it for one day. You don’t want to get left behind, right?”

The tone makes it clear he wants an answer, and Mark drops his gaze, the familiar curl of shame flushing through him.

“No sir.” He says quietly, eyes glazing over.

“In that case.” Instructor Kim breathes heavily, “Dedicate yourself. Don’t slack off like you always do.”

“I won’t.” Mark whisper. His head’s numb.

“Good.”

He stumbles slightly when he’s pushed back from the loss of contact, but quickly regains his footing—and just in time, too, because the door flies open, and Donghyuck comes strutting in.

His eyes meet Mark’s glossy ones, before they snap away and he goes over to the other side of the room. The rest of his group marches in behind him, and Mark can see their unease as they glance between him and Donghyuck. The tension in the room is palpable, and he stiffens when Jeno trains his eyes on him, like a hawk.

He tries his best not to limp as he collects his hoverboard and steps on. It’s harder to contain, as the song progresses, and he keeps needing to shift his weight from one side to the other. He’s stupid though, because he ends up veering slightly off, and nearly misses his time, and even almost collides into the other members.

Not to mention that when they move on, practicing the moves for My First and Last, he actually knocks into the other members, and the near failures from the previous dance pale in comparison to the discord he creates again. And he feels terrible, but he can’t help, because there’s very little he can focus on to take his mind off the pain.

It garners him some dark looks too, mostly from their instructor—he swallows over the lump in his throat at that—and a few from Donghyuck. The latter’s stare, though, is less piercing, less harmful. Mark feels safer, somehow, when Donghyuck looks at him but that’s ridiculous, he shouldn’t burden anyone like that.

“Mark, stay back!” Their instructor calls, arms crossed disapprovingly, “Everyone else can leave.”

He sees Jaemin and Renjun hesitate, but at Mark’s subtle nod, they too turn to leave. It hurts, though, when Donghyuck doesn’t even look back before leaving, Jisung doing the same. As the door clicks softly shut behind them, Mark doesn’t look up, already anticipating what’s next.

Anticipating it, though, doesn’t help, and Mark cries out when his arm is wrenched up, pinned by the wrist against the wall. It matches the slow thump his hip makes.

“Are you ing deaf?” Kim hisses, eyes flashing terribly, and Mark wants to disappear, “Did you not hear a word I said today?”

“I’m sorry.” Mark’s mouth is sandpaper dry, “But I hurt my hip yesterday, and it’s been throwing my balance off—”

“Again with the excuses!” Mark wrist bursts into pain when it’s squeezed even harder, “How many times do I have to tell you this: your pain. Doesn’t. Matter.”

Mark isn’t sure what to expect, now, but he certainly doesn’t expect the man’s hand to drop to Mark’s side and no—

“No, no, it hurts!” Mark’s eyes tear up at the pain, as the man’s hand brutally digs into his injured hip; he’s breathing unevenly, and his vision blurs as his head drops into the man’s shoulder, chest heaving, “Stop, stop it, please!”

“You think this hurts?” He doesn’t even move his hand, leaving Mark writhing in agony, stabs of pain racing along his side, “This is nothing compared to the pain you’ll feel when you get kicked out.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark cries out, sobs finally breaking through his throat, “I’m sorry, please make it stop!”

He struggles to breath as the hand leaves his side, instead carding through his hair in a parental gesture—Mark feels sick.

“I’m sorry I had to do that.” Their instructor hums, even as Mark continues to shed his tears, hip numb from the pain “But you need to understand. I only want what’s best for you.”

“Y-Yes sir.” Mark hiccups out, cheeks damp, “I under…I understand.”

A non-committal pat, and a “Good.” Then, the man’s gone, door swinging shut behind him.

Mark remains behind, now slumped against the wall, on his , knees drawn protectively to his chest to hide his face as he cries. His hip stings, again, but more viciously, making his head pound from the pain.

Mark can’t do this anymore. He can’t, he can’t, he doesn’t care if he gets kicked out anymore, he wants this to end, please. He’s scared, he’s so scared, please take him away somewhere, please.

“This is nothing compared to the pain you’ll feel when you get kicked out.”

But even that is nothing in the face of what he’s feeling right now. He can’t do this anymore.

He doesn’t know what he needs. He wants warmth, needs it. He wants to burrow himself someplace safe, wants to find that one ray of light. He needs someone, anyone to help him, he’s so desperate and god, he can’t move, everything hurts so much, why isn’t anyone here to help him?

His fists curl loosely as he pulls into himself, vision beginning to darken. His body can’t take any more of the stress, starting to shut down. And that’s when he starts to get an epiphany, with a startling sense of clarity, and it makes his eyes water some more, even with the black spots dotting his sight.

He doesn’t need something, he needs someone, he needs—

“Hyung.” He claws weakly at his thigh to keep himself awake, but his eyes begin to slip shut even at his feeble resistance, “Taeyong hyung.”

His hands tremble as they try to grasp at someone who’s not there, and the world fades away.