If you would like to read this as Yongguk of B.A.P, feel free to read it here~! n_n

You watched the boys practice their routine for what felt like the hundredth time that day. All of them were shiny with sweat, chests heaving violently. They stopped, tossing their wet hair to the sides of their faces and scrambling to you for the drinks of cool water you extended to them.

Frequently you would use your days away from work and school as an opportunity to assist the group and managers. It was a chance to spend more time with the group, your closest friends.

You enjoyed watching them practice when you had a span of time to kill, but were often saddened to see the group push themselves so far to their bodies’ limits.

“Are you alright?” you asked your boyfriend. “You look like hell.” He smiled weakly, giving a rapid nod of his head. Beads of sweat sprayed from his hair in your direction.

“Ugh! Stop!” you complained, wiping your arms. “That’s gross.” Your boyfriend laughed with an obnoxious grin on his face.

As he and his group returned to the practice, you continued to stare at his exhausted face. He had dark purple rings pooling underneath his dry eyes, his head hanging weak and limp. Even his performance was dwindling, his dancing weak and voice scratching and low.

After a few more run-throughs of the songs, the manager stood up and walked toward the door. They grabbed their towels hurriedly, getting ready to follow him out of the room.

“What’s next?” you asked, concern in your voice.

“Recording for about two hours and then a TV performance. Ready?” You nodded, grabbing the bags of supplies you always carried as an assistant. There was no time for the boys to sleep in the car, as they rehearsed answers to interview questions for the important press conference they were attending tomorrow. By the time they arrived at recording, your boyfriend’s face had turned a pale shade of white.

“Are you good to record?” you asked, whispering in his ear. “You look really, really sick. I’m not kidding.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“I’m fine. Just tired. I didn’t sleep last night.” You looked at him, mouth open wide.

“At all? What were you doing?” you asked. He sighed, frowning heavily.

“I had to record the variety show! It’s been a horrible week, we got overscheduled a bit.” The stylists swarmed around him, trying to hide every sign of his diminishing health. He looked ready to cry.

The director was extremely particular, re-doing scenes with attention to every little detail.

“Could you help me spread some more sand on the set?” a friendly designer asked while the boys had sweat wiped from their eyes by stylists.

“Sure!” Helping out on video sets was your favorite kind of assistance. Over the year, you had been able to climb giant scaffoldings, spray graffiti on concrete, and decorate a number of strange scenes.

After a few minutes break, it was time to record again. You worried further upon noticing the state of your boyfriend’s condition. Even with his makeup, you could see the pale tint in his tired face. His hands were shaking, although he kept them pinned at his sides. The look in his eyes was vacant and dead.

You weren’t the only one who noticed. His manager stopped the recording, hurrying to put a hand on your boyfriend’s forehead.

“I really think you need to stop. You feel really hot. Are you sure you’re okay?” Your boyfriend looked to you, and you could see the guilt flash in his sad smile.

“I’ll be fine. Just sleepy.” From across the room you glared at him, not pleased with his insistence. He tugged his hand away from the manager, looking sad and defiant.

“Really, I’m okay.” The boys recorded for a few more minutes before the band members were given another water break.

“You need to go home,” you told him, tugging on his sleeve with a frustrated whine. He turned around to protest, but no words left his mouth. Like a broken doll, he collapsed, falling quickly to the ground. You tried to catch him, but were overwhelmed by his staggering difference in size.

A crowd of people rushed to his aide, pulling him off of you and trying quickly to wake him up from the fall. Your boyfriend opened his eyes with a shiver shaking his spine. He tried to stand, but was forced back to the ground by several pairs of hands. His manager snapped when he asked to continue recording.

“Are you crazy? No! You’re going home.” A few of them helped him to your car, his arms wrapped around their shoulders. He sat in your passenger seat with his head leaning to the side. It worried you, seeing him look so overwhelmingly ill. “If his condition isn’t better in the next hour, take him to the hospital and call me, okay? It seems like he just needs some rest for a few days.” He turned to your boyfriend. “You’re taking a rest, understand? No work.”

You drove to your apartment in silence, your boyfriend groaning softly with heavy eyelids. When you arrived at the apartment, it was a difficult effort to safely drag him to your door. He could hardly walk, stumbling like a drunk over the concrete. You kept your arms tight around his waist, ready to do what you could if he fell again.

Once inside, he staggered to your bed, falling face down on the mattress. You helped him kick off his shoes and remove his jacket, brushing his sweaty hair to the side and leaving a soft kiss on his forehead. He reached forward, pulling you on top of him unexpectedly.

“Stay here,” he urged, tightening his arms around your waist like a child would a teddy bear. “It’s better this way.”