WOW there are so many warnings for this chapter!!! Tell me if you think I should rate this, I don’t really know if it’s descriptive enough for that, but yeah… Anyways, let’s go:

WARNINGS FOR DESCRIPTION OF SELF HARM, ESPECIALLY CUTTING.

WARNINGS FOR MENTIONS OF ATTEMPTED SUICIDE.

WARNINGS FOR MENTIONS OF NON CONSENSUAL /.

BUT MOST OF ALL, WARNINGS FOR DEPRESSION TRIGGERS SUCH AS THE THINGS MENTIONED ABOVE BUT ALSO GENERAL DEPRESSION MENTIONED IN THIS STORY MIGHT MAKE YOU UPSET IF YOU SUFFER FROM DEPRESSION! PLEASE DON’T READ IF YOU ARE IN ANY RISK ZONE FOR SUICIDE OR DEPRESSION ATTACKS!!!

October, 2015.

There is a man sitting in Hakyeon’s seat in the van. His hair is bleached to a silvery grey and his eyes look back at Hakyeon from inside the cell phone screen with a dark, soulless tint. Hakyeon tries to remember when the happy boy that danced around the dorm in his underwear died, and this man with a serious face and an even more serious outlook on life took his place. When did he become this grey reflection of his former self?
He shakes his head, soft grey curls bouncing slightly as he does so, and then looks back at his cellphone. He takes a selca, because that was why he picked up the phone in the first place. In the picture, his eyes don’t seem as cold, and his smile doesn’t seem as fake, so he opens twitter and posts it, adding a cute text and tagging Ravi, who can be slightly seen sleeping in the back. Then he locks the phone and pushes it back down into his pocket. He doesn’t want to see his reflection any more, doesn’t want to see that man that is supposed to be him.

“Hyung,” Hyuk calls from the back of the van. “Can you turn on the radio?”
Hakyeon looks up and sees Taekwoon, who’s sitting in the front to get more room for his newly sprained ankle, looking out the window with his headphones on, completely unaware of the maknaes request for the radio to be . So Hakyeon unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs slightly across the midsection so he can reach the radio. He still has to stretch to reach the button, and as he does so, the sleeve of his suit is too short to cover his wrist. The cufflink slides softly against the inside of his wrist and he’s painfully aware of the feeling of cold metal against his scars as each one is exposed to the sunlight streaming in. He reaches out that final centimeter, the tip of his fingers barely gracing the on button, not quite reaching. And then theres another hand right by his, fingertips sliding softly down his palm and pressing the button firmly, filling the car with the sound of low music. Hakyeon pulls his hand back, as if burned by the touch, and sinks back into his seat. He can feel cold sweat already starting to form on his forehead as he looks up at Taekwoon, who’s looking back at him with an unreadable expression. Did he see?
Taekwoon raises an eyebrow at him.

“You okay?” He asks, and Hakyeon realises how weird he must look. He has shrunk down into his seat, feet kicked up against the driver seat and body pushed back as far away from Taekwoon as he can get. He’s also holding his wrist against his body, as if it had been badly burned by fire everywhere that Taekwoons fingers had touched. Now, he tries to relax, and he even smiles. He laughs and it sounds fake even in his own ears, but it seems to fool Taekwoon.

“What am I even doing?” Hakyeon laughs and tries to play it off as just a weird reaction. Taekwoon scuffs, totally buying it. He turns back and puts his headphones back on, leaving Hakyeon to frantically pull his sleeves down to cover his wrists. No one was supposed to see. No one was supposed to know.

November, 2015.

They walk out on the stage, bright lights blinding them and loud screams echoing in their ears as they dance. Hakyeon knows every step, every move and every wink by heart. He feels like a machine, performing what he has been programed to. He moves on the exact right beat, and he can feel the air around him moving one second too late as Ken does the move slightly after him. They are supposed to move together, so Hakyeon makes note to tell Ken to hurry it up a bit for the next performance. Then he moves to the front, and he sings his own part perfectly, not a single note out of tune. Still, he reminds himself to practice more before going back to the dorms, because the fans aren’t screaming as loud as he’d like them to. Maybe he had to wink more? Or maybe he should raise the pitch of his singing just a little, to make it cuter?
The first song is over as he dances back and makes a cute face at the camera. His knees immediately hit the ground, ready to perform the next song, and only then does he realise it’s raining. The water on stage soaks through the knees of his dark dress pants. It feels cold against his skin, but he pushes it away as he can hear the first notes of Error playing. He calculates the changes that had to be made, the stage floor slightly to evaluate how slippery it was. He had to be careful not to slip, but he was sure he could do it. He was the best dancer in VIXX. He could do this, had to do this, because if he couldn’t dance there was nothing he could do. He moves, dances just the way he’s supposed to, and he knows the others are slipping, feels the vibrations of their bodies hitting the floor. But they all continue to dance. Hakyeon is the only one that can tell them to stop, and he’s the only one still to fall. He does it all just as he’s practiced, and he moves to the center to do the second part of the chorus. He knows exactly what he’s supposed to do, and his feet move without him telling them to. So when he suddenly loses his foothold and slips, he’s not prepared for the impact. His head hits the edge of the stage first, and he can hear the crack echoing through his skull. Then his wrist meets the floor, and the weight of his body comes rushing down on top of it. He feels the bone in it cracking and breaking and he can feel a blood freezing scream vibrate through his body. But it doesn’t reach his lips, and he’s up on his feet before he knows it, effectively stopping any attempt to stop the performance. Hakyeon is VIXX’s main dancer, and so he dances. He can’t see, and he can’t hear, but he feels the vibrations of the bassline, so he follows that and dances the steps. And when it’s over he smiles and bows to his fans, through the pain and the fog that’s blinding him, before hurrying off stage.
He grabs his bag from their manager and hurries to the bathroom, locking the door behind him and pushing the trashcan up against it. Only then, as he’s alone, does he let himself feel the pain. He can’t hold it in any longer, and so he screams in agony, and he falls to the floor holding on to his wrist. He knows it’s broken. There is simply no way it couldn’t be. Several newer scars have been ripped open as well, and there’s blood on his sleeve and running down his fingers. He tries to clench his fist, but the fingers won’t move. Every time he tells the muscles to make them bend, a shot of pain runs up his arm and he has to bite his lip not to scream. So he gives up and pulls himself off the floor with his good arm. The fog over his eyes is clearing up, so he can see again. His head seems fine, other than being wet and having eyeliner smeared under his eyes. Hakyeon grimaces at himself in the mirror. How did he get so… ugly?
He cleans his wounds, almost an expert on how to do it without much pain by now, and then he