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'Annyeong haseyo, Beast imnida!'

Kikwang held back a sigh as he straightened up and grinned, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, and his posture slack. There were dark circles beneath his eyes that not even make up could conceal properly. His fist was clenched far too tightly and his smile was strained as they made their signature greeting, all six of them facing the camera.

He was stiff throughout the entire video, his mind blank and his body screaming from lack of rest as he unattentively listened to Doojoon talk about their upcoming album. He shifted, once, twice; he was restless. His smile was gone and his eyes were once more lifeless, brows furrowed unconsciously at the dull throbbing pain at the back of his head.

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It was past 5 PM when they wrapped up with filming, and Kikwang was quiet as he made way to the van with the other five boys, hands in his pockets and gaze lowered. His bandmates threw curious glances at him, before looking at each other, silently shrugging it off after a while because this was no new occurrence for Kikwang to suddenly become withdrawn and secluded. It was the way he was, and over the past few years, the others had come to accept it the way it was, the way he was. They gave him the space he needed but never asked for, the solitude he seemed to want, and the distance they thought he wished for.

And it showed sometimes. It showed during their performances, when Kikwang would stand off to the side, brows furrowed and aura antagonistic. It showed when the others seemingly brushed past him and threw their arms around each other and played with each other and made the crowd roar. And something about that, something about the monotonous thundering of the audience made Kikwang uneasy and more than a little frustrated.

It made him wonder why he couldn't do that, why he couldn't get the attention everyone else so easily seemed to attain. The only time the fans seemed to cheer him on would be when his shirt came off, or when he'd dance in a way that only he could, hips and legs moving almost sensually to the music in the background. But then Hyunseung would come up, and he'd dance as well, and dear lord, he'd dance so flawlessly, so effortlessly, and so perfectly, that Kikwang would once again feel reminded of the fact that the stage was not meant for him. He'd once again be pushed aside and into the shadows, his smile fading and gaze darkening with disappointment in himself for not being good enough – for never being good enough.

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Kikwang hummed softly to himself as he glanced out the window, head resting against the cool glass as he listened to the soft, but steady pitter-patter of rain against the van. He'd been silent for days now, only talking when spoken to, and occasionally smiling and laughing when someone said something funny during an interview. His face had become thinner, his body leaner, and his once perfect skin was now dry and pale. He smoked more often, drank more often; he took pleasure in the way it left him feeling buzzed, content. It allowed him to stop thinking for a while, to just sit back and relax and watch the world play itself out before him.
 

And when he felt drunk enough, he'd set his bottle aside, warn the other members to not finish it, and stumble off to his and Junhyung's shared bedroom before collapsing on the floor, a faint smile playing on his lips as he wearily shut his eyes and welcomed sleep.

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Sleep.

He couldn't sleep anymore. Most nights, he'd stay awake and stare up at the ceiling, mind working steadily and continuously, and God, sometimes it felt so agonizing and exhausting, but he just couldn't bring himself to fall asleep on his own. He'd spend the hours thinking and wondering and picking everything apart in his mind before putting it all back together and trying to make sense of it. He thought about work, he thought about his fans – Ha, their fans – and his family and how they never called anymore, just like he never did either. He thought about how angry his father had been the last time they'd spoken, how disappointed his brother had been, and how his mother had looked at him when he'd broken down and cried at the dinner table. His mother.

Kikwang's eyes softened as he thought of her, his heart easing and clenching at the same time. Bless her; only she could look past everything, every wrong decision he'd made and mistake he'd done, and look at him with the same love and care and worry in her eyes as she had over twenty years ago. She'd been his support, his main pillar over the years as he struggled with his inner demons, his fears and anxieties. When he'd been training for Cube, when he'd stay out late and practice until it was nearly 1 AM, he would always come home to her welcoming arms, her concerned face and her sympathetic tears as she laid him down and pressed his feet, his eyes barely open and his skin pale and hot. He'd find her there whenever he needed someone to sit by him or hold him or wipe his tears away without questioning him, and he missed that. He missed home, and his mother, and even his father and his brother.

He missed his bedroom and his bed and the familiar scent of his bed sheets and the musty curtains he'd had in his room since he was five. He missed the way he always knew where he was and what he needed to do, and what place he held in the small group of people in the household. He missed the familiar cooking, the way the sunlight fell past the windows just so, the way the air smelled when he opened his windows, and the way he didn't feel like he was being judged if he ever wanted to be secluded.

But here – here, Kikwang felt lost. The bed wasn't familiar, the food was almost always lacking something in flavour when the members tried to cook food on their own, the sun was too bright in the morning, and his heart felt heavy when he woke up in the morning and fell asleep at night.

His chest ached and his head throbbed and his muscles felt strained from overuse, and extended practice. He pushed himself to the limit, worked harder and harder, ate less, slept less, strived to be the best at just something, anything, but he just couldn't seem to perfect himself. He couldn't dance as well as Hyunseung, rap like Junhyung, laugh like Dongwoon, communicate like Doojoon, or sing like Yoseob. He couldn't make people laugh, he couldn't perform, he couldn't breathe. He felt suffocated, closed in, and pressured to try harder. Harder in dancing, harder in singing, harder in variety; he couldn't even talk without making things awkward.

Kikwang flinched at the memory of the video of their third anniversary Google+ hangout with the fans. His jaw clenched at the way he'd looked, the way he'd been looking around, dazed and in his own world as always (stupid, the fans would call him so stupid). He frowned at the way he'd clung to Dongwoon, and then to Junhyung, and then to Yoseob, and he'd replayed the video only to catch the small, lingering glances they'd thrown his way, clearly a little annoyed and just a bit put off by his incessant flitting about. He'd seen the pause in the video when he'd mustered up enough courage to talk normally, his voice loud and eager as he gushed on about Chris Brown, and Usher, and this and that, and God, how could he not have noticed the awkward silence after every attempt he ever made at a 'joke'?

Except sometimes...sometimes, he did notice. And it hurt him. It hurt him because he didn't believe in himself, didn't think he was good enough, didn't need to feel like everyone around him thought he was stupid, because he felt stupid enough. The 'idiot' jokes – the 'muscle idiot', the 'dancing idiot', the 'dumb eye candy' – it all hurt him. It hurt him and it put him down, and he couldn't do much besides laughing it off and quietening down, nodding along to everything his friends would say.

Needless to say, he felt inadequate. And this made him more withdrawn, more irritable, more quiet and dazed, and often, this would make him unappealing to the audience. They followed him less, loved him less (or so he felt), and he was slowly starting to feel a little ignored, a little lost.

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And yet, through it all, Yoseob knew all of this. He knew how Kikwang felt, saw the envy in the younger's eyes when they were all on stage, saw the disappointment on his face when they were all in the practice room, and his heart reached out to the other boy.

Yoseob had watched him change over the years he'd known him, watched him struggle and attain mediocre fame, and watched him struggle again until they reached fame together. And he felt guilty sometimes, honestly, he did. If it weren't for him, Yoseob would probably have never found his way to such a successful career; if it weren't for Kikwang, Yoseob would've had the chance to feel so loved, so confident, so sure of what he wanted to with his life, and for that, he was thankful to him. He was thankful to Kikwang for the opportunities he'd presented him, and he was thankful for the fact that the younger had never expressed any bitterness or ill-feeling towards him.

In fact, there was a bit more than just gratitude and deep respect in Yoseob's heart for his friend; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't deny the fact that he maybe, possibly, very much loved Kikwang. Kikwang, and the way he worked so hard, with so much determination; the way he tried and struggled to be unbiased and loving and caring, despite being awkward around people. He loved him, and what he meant to him, and he knew, he knew deep down inside that his feelings were mutual.

He'd seen the way Kikwang would gaze at him when he thought no one was looking. He didn't miss the lingering smiles, the protective touches, the occasional hand on his back and shoulders and leg. He didn't miss the way he would lean especially close to whisper in his ear, the way he'd brush his lips seemingly accidentally against the elder's skin as he pulled away and turned to Dongwoon again, the way his own heart would speed up and hammer beneath his ribs almost painfully as he fought back a blush and struggled to keep his voice steady as he sang his lyrics and brushed his hair back, fingers shaking ever so slightly.

And it was this, this and the unmistakable pinch he felt in his heart whenever Kikwang looked upset, that made him walk up to the younger and offer to watch a movie with him, to talk to him, to listen to him, or play a game with him. It was this same feeling that made him ask Junhyung to switch rooms, so that he could be there during the nights when Kikwang couldn't sleep, and when he'd wake up crying from another nightmare. It was this that made him change beds at night, made him lie down beside Kikwang and hug him close and kiss his lips, and promise him that everything was going to be okay, that Kikwang was, and always will be perfect; that he could love him enough for the both of them, that Kikwang didn't need to feel sad or lonely or imperfect anymore, because he had Yoseob and Yoseob thought that Kikwang was so, so beautiful.

And so, Kikwang learned to slowly adjust. He smiled a little more, he talked a little more; he still complained, he still sulked sometimes, but he didn't pressure himself so much anymore. He didn't watch videos of their performances, didn't criticise himself as much, didn't waste time on thinking negatively of himself because Yoseob seemed to think he was perfect, and who was he to prove him wrong?

Annyeong haseyo, Beast imnida~!

Kikwang smiled, more genuinely this time, as he bowed, one hand in Hyunseung's, the other in Yoseob's, and he felt his heart soar and his smile widen as Yoseob squeezed his hand reassuringly.

Maybe, maybe now he could finally rest. Maybe now he could just sit back and let himself be loved, instead of striving for something that was unreachable.