The room is bathed in just enough illumination courtesy of the gap of the bathroom door, taking the hard edge off the darkness that otherwise ades it. He looks in the mirror, hands unconsciously circling his body as his eyes trail the expanse of skin. He can feel his fingers unconsciously digging into his flesh as they drag across his form, leaving faint pink trails in their wake, a physical representation of his unvoiced dissatisfaction. He slowly lets his eyes meet his twin’s tired ones in the glass, contact breaking almost immediately as his gaze is once more drawn towards his body. He feels like one day, he will disappear into the depths of darkness – the liquid blackness slowly seeping into his tanned skin, material oozing languidly as it invades every fibre of his being, before finally dragging him into the forgotten corners of his room, leaving all but a faint whisper of words that lays forever trapped in his constricted throat. He struggles to hold in a shuddering breath, and closes his eyes, arms still wrapped around his body – almost as if trying to mimic the embrace of an imaginary protector. He tucks his chin into his sharp collarbone, partially thankful for the dull throb from the occasional grind of his bones. He didn’t think it would get worse when he became an idol: adolescent aversion towards his physical self resurfacing after years of imprisonment in the deepest corners of his psyche, forcing a feeling of heavy sickness to nestle in the bottom of his abdomen, their tendrils of disgust snaking down the paths of his veins, and piercing the heart of his very being. He hates it. He hates how an adult like himself is reduced to a crumbling mess of insecurities by the mere mention of it. He hates how the years of conditioning from when he was a teenager have been so easily unravelled by the forked words of (sometimes unconscious) vicious poison from the tongues of both friends and foes alike. He hates how even at the end of a long day, his mind becomes a prison filled with echoes of self-loathing, and whispers of growing insanity, rendering his already tired form almost delusional with fatigue the day after. He hates how day after day, he feels like he has to repeat the cycle of feeding the same demons – his hopelessness an eternal fuel to their furnace of hatred for him, motivating a strange degradation of will that has since created an almost willing servitude of sacrifice. His nails dig uncomfortably into his flesh, and he unconsciously drives them deeper when he feels the sharp bite of pain.

He doesn’t notice a figure enter his room – mind deafened by continuous demented cries, and blank eyes too focused on how his skin looks against the ghostly glow from the bathroom. He notices the movement in his peripheries, but can’t tear his eyes away from the stark contrast between his skin and the white glow; he instead focuses on the growing ball of revulsion slowly rising in his throat, coupled with the intense burning hatred in his stomach. He feels his grip tighten and his nails dig deeper, and his muscles begin to tremble from stress and soreness. He has begun unconsciously grinding his teeth in sheer determination to not explode –especially not when he has an audience–, the constant motion strangely therapeutic despite how taut every nerve in his body seems to have become. He flinches when he feels warm skin contact his clammy own. The hand slowly, but firmly, draws circles on his back; the touch a sudden anchor to reality – pulling him roughly from the downward spiral he was forced into, and causing the dense fog clouding his brain to gradually dissipate. He feels the deafening throb of his pulse in his ears, finally drowning out the ugly cries that have plagued him for the better part of the night. He shifts his position slightly, straightening his back and unfolding his legs to give his constricted chest some reprieve. He attempts to fill his tired lungs with fresh gulps of air, but only succeeds in sending himself into a series of hacking coughs that leave his form more sluggish than before. The hand never once leaves his back, and instead manoeuvres his compliant form into a loose embrace; warmth from the other a comforting presence amidst the cold darkness and faint wisps of fading nightmares. He curls back into a ball against the other’s chest, almost as though willing the action to be replicated in the recesses of his mind. Fingers thread gently through his damp strands, tips leaving imprints against his sensitive scalp, their lingering presence a nonverbal reassurance. His shaking slowly subsides, reduced to the occasional hiccup and strangled intake of air, and he realises that he has been crying. Broken out of his stupor, and the remnants of adrenaline now exhausted, he feels the bite of cool winter air elicit a blanket of goose bumps against his bare skin. He then becomes aware of a soft material being draped over him, the smell familiar and safe as the wool falls comfortably against the contours of his body. He feels his heart rate finally settle, and his breathing even out, the rise and fall of his chest unconsciously in sync with that of his protector. He can feel the other’s eyes on him, but chooses not to meet them out of shame and fear. Body more relaxed, and mind a lot lighter, he sighs softly, and intertwines his stiff fingers loosely with that of the other before shifting into a more comfortable position. “You are beautiful, Hakyeon,” the other man murmurs. He feels his breath hitch – a tender warmth that has grown too foreign gradually blossoming inside him, only to be sharply interrupted by a prick of bitterness injecting a newfound tension into his muscles. The other man notices the change in demeanour, and chooses to close the distance between them; warm breath partially abating his gnawing anxiety. There is no hesitation when the other man leans down to place a series of fluttering pecks along his bare shoulder – the action patient and deliberate, almost as though placing each kiss to erase a blemish of doubt, leaving behind unvoiced sincerity and love to heal the wounds that should have never been opened. He feels the corners of his eyes prickle, and nuzzles further into the soft wool to quell any further reactions, but not before whispering, “Thank you, Taekwoon,” in a voice so soft that it almost melds into the silence. They remain this way for the rest of the night, neither taking the initiative, and both thankful for the temporarily respite they have been granted.

A/N: Thank you for reading this unpolished piece of mine! I do apologise if the entire thing feels a tad heavy (courtesy of both subject matter and my writing style), but just seeing all the white-washed photos of Hakyeon, and hearing stories of fans still asking him about his skin tone make me both disappointed and mad. (He looks gorgeous with tanned skin, especially since it makes him look sporty and healthy!) As for stylistics, I tried to avoid using specific names and other personal indicators until near the end of the fic to create a sense of him vs. the other to highlight how personal a struggle this entire thing is for Hakyeon. Although I didn't try harder to alienate Hakyeon, I threw in a final they in hopes of showing that maybe Taekwoon is of some support to Hakyeon in the end. (I'm so sorry if this has confused anyone! He, his, him all refer to Hakyeon, and the other, the protector, and all non-personal pronouns refer to Taekwoon!) And no, I didn't really expand as much on the disorder as I'd have liked (i.e. showing how prolonged an obsession a sufferer has with said defect)... /flails at how badly I've failed; runs and hides/