He didn't know when it had started.

The stress, the troubles with falling asleep, the constant tiredness. He didn't know when the amount of make up he used daily had increased in order to cover the dark grey circles running under his eyes. He didn't know when he had started snapping at his band mates, he didn't know when he had started preferring the loneliness of his room to the company of his friends.

But he knew when it came crashing down.

"You need to pose shirtless for the Super Show VCRs" they had said. He had stared. He faintly remembered the others snickering, punching each other's arms lightly and giggling. He remembered asking: "excuse me?"

"Yes, Jungsu-ssi. You need to be shirtless for the Super Show VCRs, as we just said." He also remembered the feeling of multiple pairs of eyes sliding up and down his body, a tight t-shirt stretched over his chest and stomach.

"You're not exactly in Bonamana shape any more, Jungsu-ssi" they had stated. Casually, coolly – but there was the tone behind it. He knew that tone. It was used when saying something straight to their faces would be rude, but they wanted something to happen anyway. He knew what it meant.

And that was why he found himself on the kitchen floor when the dorm was empty. He leaned on the cupboards, his breathing shaky and uneven. He tried to breathe, he tried to inhale deeply, only to end up choking on air. He coughed, sobbed – dry, broken sobs, and he clutched his chest, curling around the hand gripping the fabric of his shirt on top of his heart. It hurt, it ing hurt, and he was so empty, so hollow, and it hurt so bad.

He was empty, and worthless, so unnecessary, ugly and unable, not fit to lead Super Junior, unable to take care, unable to organize, worthless, so worthless, and he hated himself. He hated worthless people. Worthless people shouldn't exist, they were a burden, nothing else, and he wanted something bad to happen to people like that.

That was when it came to him, like first snow on a cold winter day, everything clouded but still so crystal clear, and so beautiful, and it felt right. Worthless people should be hurt. He was worthless. But what if he hurt a worthless person? That would make him a little better, wouldn't it?

And so he turned around, reached towards the shelves with shaky, cold hands. Opened them, one after another, yanking them open in his frantic search. Where were they, where did they keep them...

When he found it it was beautiful, so perfect, all black, polished wood and silvery metal, and cold, and sharp, and perfect, perfect as it slid across the top of his wrist, just barely breaking the skin but still hurting a little. He wouldn't slit his wrists from the under side, of course he wouldn't – because who was more worthless than a person who killed himself, leaving nothing but a mess or two after for others to clean up?

It was perfect, and he hurt, and for a moment he didn't feel so hollow as the pain filled his brain.

And he kept doing it.

He kept doing it, making neat slits on his skin, watching as some blood trickled down his skin. It hurt. Good, he thought, I deserve to be hurt. It was sick, his reasons were sick, and somewhere inside his mind he knew it, deep inside he knew he was sick, he needed help.

But all the help he saw was the glint of metal against his skin.

Ugly.

Slash.

Worthless.

Slash.

Unnecessary.

Slash.

Unable.

Drip.

Ugly.

Drip.

Ugly.

Drip.

Fat.

Drip.

Obese.

Drip, drip.

Was he so unable to even control himself that he had let himself get out of shape?

He reached out and brushed his tongue over his wrist, over the cuts, tasting blood mixing with salt. Disgusting. For a moment, it was clear in his mind: he was sick, he was sick, he needed help. He needed help before he did something serious. Sick.

Sick.

Sick.

He threw himself to the toilet just in time when it all came out of his mouth, the sounds of retching and gagging filling his ears and making him vomit harder, and harder, to get it all out, to get all the impurities and sickness out of him, harder, harder, until he felt empty and even sicker than before.

Sick.

Sick.

Sick.

Help.

He needed help.

So empty.


They started becoming suspicious. They asked if he was all right, if there was something bothering him, but he smiled. He smiled, and hid everything, buried it deep down, and the first snow had turned into a blizzard, clouding everything and freezing him all the way to the core, and he couldn't find his way out, couldn't see where he was.

Home.

He wanted to go home.


They took Sukira away. 'Schedules' they said, 'too busy', he remembered. But he knew. Ugly, too ugly, he was not supposed to appear on the camera with anyone perfect. Had his voice turned ugly, too? He didn't want to sing any more. Sukira, his Sukira.

He couldn't find his way home.


He was supposed to be alone. Alone with his salvation, alone with his imperfections and impurities, alone with his blood on the white tiles of the bathroom floor, alone with his ugliness. The front door was not supposed to open, a high voice was not supposed to call out for him.

How long had he been there? Hours, hours, he was sure about it, but how many? Shaking, cold, so empty, hollow, so hollow, so worthless, useless, ugly, ugly, ugly, so ugly.

"Hyung?"

No.

"Hyung, are you there?"

No, I'm not. This is not me.

"Hyung, I'm coming in."

Please, no, don't, don't bother, I don't want you to bother-

"Jungsu-hyu- oh my God."

Go away.

"What happened? Jungsu, what happened? Hyung, do you hear me?"

No, don't look at me. Your eyes will get dirty. Don't. I'm-

"Hyung, look at me!"

Perfect, I need to be perfect, I-

"Hyung! Hyung, look at me, oh God please look at me, Jungsu-hyung, talk to me!"

I'm sick.

And it was then that he reached out, a slightly bloodied hand that clutched at the white, pure fabric of the shirt, and he felt so dirty, so ugly, so unclean, and he begged, begged for help, for salvation, for an angel, because he was not worthy to be called one any more.


He had no idea what had happened, but the next thing he knew was the cold. The freezing cold that seeped through his clothes. But although his body was cold and cramping, his cheek was warm, and a spark of something ran lazily down his spine when he recognized the movement and pressure on top of his head.

A hand – a slender, cool hand, running down his head, his hair, caressing his face from time to time. So good, it felt so good, and so wrong. He shouldn't be touched, his angel would get dirty, he didn't want that, no, never, never, he couldn't do that, no, he couldn't, horrible, ugly, worthless, unnecessary, fat, ugly, ugly, ugly, so ugly-

"Hyung." Such a soft voice, how could he corrupt anyone so angelic?

"Jungsu-hyung, please look at me." He obeyed, turned his head, his eyes now meeting the big dark brown orbs of someone he knew. A hand cupped his cheek, a thumb ran over the skin right under his eye.

He choked on the name he tried to call, unable to finish the word. His voice, when had it become so ugly? When had it become so dirty? He couldn't speak the name of someone so pure and kind, so sweet, he couldn't make it dirty.

"Tell me, hyung" he whispered. "Tell me everything.

And he did.


As he stopped, a sigh filled the room. He promised to be back soon as he got up from the cold floor, leaving his leader a mess on the floor, just to return with a small object in his hand. He sat back down to the floor, and took one of the slender, abused wrists.

"Look, hyung" he softly murmured, uncapping the pen and pressing it's tip gently against the light skin on top of the bluish veins. And he looked, he watched, as the pen traced curves on his wrist, leaving a thin line of black after it. Curves, shapes, and it suddenly made sense.

"Tell me the first friend's name that comes into mind right now."

And he answered, without thinking, choked out the name of a person he held very dear. The pen traced lines under the previous picture, forming syllables, a word. Then it was gone, the slight pressure on his skin, and he stared at the picture on his wrist, confused.

"Hyung, this butterfly has Heechul-hyung's name. It's him now. You can't cut." He looked up, confused, looked at the sadly smiling boy that held his face between his hands. "If you cut, you kill Heechul-hyung. You don't want to kill Hee-hyung, right?"

A shake of head.

"Good. Now, every time you want to harm yourself in any way, I want you to draw a butterfly on your skin. Then, name it after a friend. If you cut, you kill all of them. You have hurt your friends too, not just yourself, if you do that."

A nod.

As thin arms pulled him into a warm, desperate embrace, it felt like the blizzard had calmed down.


He thought about Heechul that night, thought about the beautiful male as he traced the butterfly with his fingertips. He knew Heechul would help him be stronger. He knew Heechul would pick him up, with force if he had to.


With trembling hands he flung the knife across the room, wincing as it hit the wall and clattered to the floor. He fumbled around, desperate, knocking objects over in his frantic search. As he found it, he drew, tried to make it pretty and delicate, but it came out ugly. Just like him.

Taking a deep breath, he drew the name. First Sung, then Min.

Sungmin would cry, he would cry and hold him, he would do anything to simply cheer him up and make him smile.


Ugly, ugly, so ugly. He felt disgusting as the VCR kept rolling in his head, over and over, and he reached for the pen, desperately grabbing it and drawing the butterfly with almost violent . This one needed to be extra special, someone very loved, someone that would take it all away, and he didn't hesitate as he drew the syllables Dong and Hae.

He had promises to keep.

And he wasn't worthless enough to break his promises.


He earned a smile in the van as the ink stains on his shirt were noticed. He turned to stare out of the window.

The smile didn't fade.


'Hyukjae' read his skin as he tried to calm his breath, tried to keep everything in, tried to prevent himself from throwing up on the carpeted floor. Hyukjae would smile at him and point at himself, and say, "hyung, look at me – compared to this, you will always be beautiful" and he would forget all about himself in the rush to make the dancer understand that he was perfect, and loved, and he loved him the way he was, and he would do anything to prove it.

He slept with his wrist clutched against his chest that night, feeling his heartbeat thump against the newest butterfly.


The blizzard had turned into simple, thick snowing.


He couldn't sleep, couldn't get a peace of mind from the plagues of himself, from all the filth swirling inside himself. He could feel it, he could feel it filling everything, every single being, and he wanted to throw up, to let it out, to bleed it out-

'Han Geng' said the one under the almost faded Heechul-butterfly. Geng would be the water against Heechul's fire, he would hold his leader after the diva would have shaken him awake from his sell-shocked state, he would make it all soft and smooth again after the raging flames of the diva's desperation and worry.


He wanted to fling the plate of food at their manager's face, how could he ask him to eat trash like this, did he not know how much calories this had in it, did he want to make him miserable- yes, that must be it, their manager was a good man, he realized unnecessary trash like himself should be punished-

The syllables under the next pair of wings were Shin and Dong. Shindong would pat him on the shoulder and say there was nothing wrong with good food – that it only made him happier. And he was never able to argue.


It hurt. He had scraped his wrist against the street as he had tripped on his own feet and tumbled down. Panic welled up inside him, and with the slightest amount of pleasure came the sickening feeling. He didn't want to be sick any more, he didn't want to be any more imperfect than he already was.

He whispered the syllables as he drew them. Ki, and Bum. Kibum would look at him and smile, all secretive but understanding eyes and perfectly shaped features. He would say something simple, something smart that wouldn't sound comforting to someone that didn't know him, but would still make him feel better.


There were only light traces left of Heechul and Sungmin's names and wings on his skin.


He earned another smile.

This time, he answered it.


Lost, he felt lost. He had screwed up with their schedule, and their manager had been terribly angry at him. He was afraid, afraid that he would be kicked out, out of Super Junior, away from his friends, away from everything-

Siwon, he murmured as he hastily traced the name on his skin with the pen. Siwon would embrace him, he would lift him up and tell him God would guide him. He simply needed to have faith.

And he did, he had faith. Not in God, though, but the smiling man that told him to believe.


He was breaking down. Girls' Generation had passed them in the Golden Disk Awards voting. They needed the award, the disk daesang, they needed it, they deserved it, they had worked so hard. He would be letting everyone down – s, his friends, his fans – what would E.L.F. Say?

It was hard, grabbing the pen instead of the blade, drawing the syllables, but he did. And he knew, that as his name appeared on his wrist, Youngwoon would be proud of him.


The blizzard had calmed down permanently.


As a thin figure entered the room, he raised his head, and was the first to smile. The expression was returned, and they stood there, facing each other, his words of "I'm okay" fading to the gentle silence surrounding them.

"Who?" smiled the beautiful young man, and he opened his palm to reveal the last butterfly. He nodded. "He would be proud of you, hyung."

He stepped forward, slightly hesitant as he reached towards the other, and it didn't take them more than a few steps to get to each other, to wrap their arms around thin figures, holding each other in the pale afternoon light flowing from the window.

"Ryeowook-ah" Jungsu whispered "I'm home."

"Welcome back, hyung" Ryeowook answered, a single tear making its way down his smiling face.