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“It is raining and there is a dog lying
in the gutter and the gutter is filling
with water because the sewer is clogged.
If the dog were alive he would be drowning
but as it is, the water is simply stroking
his fur.”
Seungmin isn’t afraid of the dark, at least not in the way he should be fearful of the monsters that lurk in the lack of light. He’s always done better in the deep corners, away and out of sight, sliding along the edges of other people’s memories. It’s easy, really, in a group filled with so many loud personalities to fade.
That doesn’t mean he enjoys the dark, however. He doesn’t know why it’s so easy to drift into this darkness, to let it envelop him and pull him down. It’s like he’s familiar with it, like an old friend that he never really wanted but can’t quite shake off. Maybe it’s because the darkness is where he’s always found himself—hidden, forgotten, and safe in its anonymity. The world is loud and harsh, full of expectations and scrutiny, and it’s in the quiet corners of the dark that he can escape from it all, even if only for a little while.
There’s a twisted sort of comfort in the shadows.
Still, he stands in the doorway of the kitchen and gazes at the moonlight that weaves through the blinds, casting delicate stripes across the floor that stop just shy of his bare feet.
It should be a simple choice, to step into the light and banish the thoughts that have spiraled and churned within him for the better part of a day. He’s supposed to be past this, supposed to be the steady and sensible person that his members can come to when they get too caught up in their own heads or spend too long looking at comments from people online who seem all too eager to forget that the figures they see on their screen are real people who can see what they say.
Seungmin is meant to be the composed figure who doesn’t need saving.
But right now, he is anything but composed. In the stillness of the kitchen, he battles with the urge to slide back into the shadows he has often steered the others away from. Instead, he’s standing in the kitchen of his dorm, chest heaving as his breath picks up in his panic, trying desperately not to slide back into the darkness that he’s pulled his members out of, that he’s pulled himself out of, more times than he can count throughout their careers.
Seungmin digs crescent moons into his skin with his nails so hard he nearly draws blood. The knives on the counter call to him with a dark allure.
He’s not a scared trainee anymore.
He’s an idol, one who has been doing this job for years. He shouldn’t yearn for the bite of a blade, for the release it might offer as it slices through the skin, letting blood seep out like it’ll take away all his worries. It’s been over a year since he last did this, and he’s worked to find healthier ways to cope—
And yet nothing, absolutely nothing, seems better than getting up and grabbing one of those knives. Seungmin has used those coping mechanisms before successfully, but he’s here now and he feels like he’s losing control of his mind in this kitchen. But he’d be able to control the knife, where he places it on his body, how deep he presses it into his skin. Allow himself to imagine his thoughts pouring out of him in the stream of blood that flows from his cuts. That wouldn’t be out of his control. And oh, Seungmin wants.
It’s pathetic. It’s stupid. It’s not safe or healthy. And still, he finds himself drawn to the counter, his hands trembling as they graze the marble, catching his breath as though he’s completed a full dance practice.
His body aches as if he has. He’s always hurting, it’s part of his job. But the persistent throb of his joints, the sharp pangs deep within his bones—none of these are the pain he seeks. The pain he craves is one of his own making, one he can wield, rather than endure.
Seungmin picks up a knife, its handle cold and unyielding in his grip. He hesitates, the knife poised like a question against his skin. He knows he shouldn’t, and feels a twinge of sadness that he still does.
He shouldn’t be here, especially not now.
Yet, the urge is overpowering, an irresistible force that sweeps him along before he fully comprehends. He rolls up his sleeve, presses the blade to his arm, and—
He exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as the first drop of blood appears, a dark bloom against pale skin. The knife continues its path, and the fleeting relief washes over him, brief but intense. The sensation of lightness is addictive, even as guilt and sorrow constrict his throat in a tight embrace.
It’s good. It’s awful.
Tired is an understatement. Fatigue has seeped into Seungmin's very bones, making every movement feel like a herculean effort. The shadows beneath his eyes are permanent. He shakes with weariness, his body a vessel hollowed out and empty of anything. Despite this, exhaustion has become a familiar companion, one he carries with some sort of weary resignation. His life, especially in recent times, seems to be an unending string of draining events, each one stacking upon the last until he is buried beneath a mountain.
He doesn’t even know how he ended up like this. It’s as if he’s caught in a cycle of spiraling into the darkness, unable to pinpoint the trigger or the reason for his descent. The clarity he once had now slips easily through his fingers, and the only time he's peaceful is when he's hurting himself. He swears up and down to Chan and Minho when they ask that he’s okay, that he’ll ask for help if he needs it, but he’s lying.
It’s all he seems to do these days.
Seungmin stands shakily from his bed, his resolve faltering with each step he takes. Instead of walking out of his room and seeking out the comfort of his members, he retreats further into his brain and locks the door to his room and retrieves a box from its hidden spot behind a stack of books.
Seungmin knows he shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t keep doing this, but he can’t stop.
He sits on the floor, the cold surface a stark contrast to the warmth he’s left behind on the bed. Impatience coils within him, making the act of returning to the bed—or anywhere else really—seem like an insurmountable task. Instead, he opens the box with trembling hands, each movement deliberate and heavy.
Inside, a single razor blade catches his eye. It’s dull, a little rusty from its last use, and its edges are marred by time and use. The memory of the last time he used it floods back—a night when he nearly ended everything, a night that remains a secret to all but him. He had slipped into the bathroom, the blade poised with a desperation Seungmin didn’t want to acknowledge. He hadn’t done it then and refuses to think about it, even now.
He doesn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if he did.
Seungmin picks up the razor blade, its metal freezing against his burning fingertips. He runs his fingers over its surface, picking flakes of blood off the edge. He should really clean it if he’s not going to stop.
Deep down, he knows he won’t. He doesn’t have the energy.
He knows this is wrong. He’s putting his career and the group at risk. But the need is overwhelming, a siren call he finds hard to ignore. His promise to himself to stop echoes in his mind, but it is drowned out by his need to feel something, anything. To feel in control.
He’ll stop after this time.
He doesn’t.
Seungmin is exhausted. The monotony of endless practice sessions and the relentless demands of his life as an idol have left him bruised and battered, his body a canvas of scuffs and tender spots. Each movement is accompanied by a faint ache. His fatigue is not just a product of overwork; it’s a deep-seated weariness that seeps into his bones, leaving him drained like his insides have been scooped out by a melon baller.
He wants it all to be over, but he can’t quite pinpoint what it is. The weight on his shoulders, the heavy blanket of despair, and the gnawing feeling of inadequacy and emptiness within him can’t be articulated easily. He’s slipping away and he knows it.
Everyone else does too.
Still, when he’s with his members, he puts up a façade of normalcy. They notice the deep bruises under his eyes, the exhaustion etched into his features, the lack of comments he adds to group conversations, of course, and they offer their concern and their kindness, but Seungmin knows he doesn’t deserve it and he can’t tell them. They’d be burdened with a problem he knows he should handle alone.
“Hey, Seungmin,” Chan says one evening, catching him alone in the common area. “You’ve been awfully quiet lately. Are you alright?”
Seungmin looks up from his spot on the couch, forcing a tired smile.
“Yeah, just tired. Practice has been intense.”
Chan’s gaze lingers on him, concern evident.
“It’s more than that, isn’t it? You look like you haven’t slept in days. We’re all here for you, you know. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
Seungmin shifts uncomfortably, the weight of Chan’s words feeling like a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“I’m fine, really. Just a bit overwhelmed. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Chan doesn’t look convinced.
“You’ve been saying that a lot lately, Minnie. It’s okay to admit when you’re struggling. We want to help.”
Seungmin’s chest tightens. He knows Chan’s words come from a place of genuine concern, but admitting his pain feels like a betrayal of his own resolve.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to his lap. “You’ve got enough to deal with.”
Chan steps closer, his voice soft but firm.
“You’re not a burden, Seungmin. We’re a team. We’re supposed to lean on each other. Hiding away and pretending everything’s okay won’t fix anything.”
Seungmin nods slowly, unable to meet Chan’s eyes.
“I know. I just need some time and I’ll be alright.”
The conversation leaves Chan visibly troubled, but he respects Seungmin’s request for space.
“Alright,” Chan says, his voice tinged with frustration and worry. “Just promise me you’ll reach out if you need anything.”
As Chan walks away, Seungmin retreats to his room, left alone with his thoughts. The weight of everything presses down on him, and the comfort of his razor blade calls to him, promising a release that seems so out of reach. He knows he won’t stop on his own, and the thought of being found, of being made to stop, feels both a relief and his biggest fear.
Still, he stays in his room, hiding behind closed doors.
Alone.
The tension in the practice room is palpable. The argument ignites over something trivial—a misplaced item, a comment that should have been forgotten—but it spirals quickly, and all of a sudden Seungmin is yelling.
“Why can’t you just keep track of your fucking things? It’s been seven years, we shouldn’t still be having the same arguments we had as trainees,” Seungmin snaps, his voice laced with a bitterness he didn’t intend to display. “It’s not that hard!”
Jisung’s face flushes with anger.
“Oh, and you think you’re so perfect, don’t you? You’re the one who’s been so fucking distant lately. Don’t act like you’re the only one who matters here!”
The words sting more than Seungmin cares to admit. His hands tremble and he can feel the familiar tightness in his chest. He knows he’s been colder and meaner lately, but if they could all see he was struggling, shouldn’t they try to be nicer?
Unless they just didn't care about him anymore. That isn’t too far-fetched with how he’s been behaving.
As the argument escalates, Chan steps in, trying to defuse the situation, but Seungmin’s rage drowns out his attempts. The shouting continues until Seungmin, overwhelmed, storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The quiet that follows is almost deafening, a stark contrast to the chaos he has left.
He makes his way back to the dorm, locking the door behind him, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. The confrontation has left him raw, and all he can feel is this overwhelming sense of failure and isolation. He sinks to the floor, his back pressed against the wall, and locks eyes with the little box on his desk and he’s suddenly overcome with an unsettling clarity.
He reaches for the box, his movements automatic. The blade is still dull and rusty. He never did get around to cleaning it.
Seungmin’s vision blurs as he sits on the floor, the blade held in his hand. His room feels like a cage, the walls pressing in on him as his thoughts spiral. The argument and his neverending need for control, to punish himself and atone, converge in a singular, devastating urge.
He shoves the sleeves of his sweatshirt up and presses the blade to his skin, the cold metal a harsh contrast to the warmth of his tears. The initial sting is sharp, as it always is, but it quickly gives way to a strange, fleeting relief. He draws the blade slowly, methodically, as if carving away the weight of his turmoil along with his skin. Blood wells up, vivid proof of how sorry he is and he can breathe again.
The pain is a paradox—both a relief and a new source of suffering. He needs it and hates it.
As the blood flows, Seungmin feels a hollow satisfaction mingled with the sting of guilt. Everything is drowned out by the physical sensation, but the relief, as it always is, is short-lived, overshadowed by the rising tide of regret and shame.
The sound of footsteps outside his door jolts him back to reality. Seungmin is quick to hide the blade, the evidence of his actions concealed beneath his clothes. His heart pounds as he tries to steady his breathing, a deep sense of dread settling in his stomach.
“Seungmin?” Chan’s voice is soft but insistent, filled with concern. “Are you okay? I heard the argument and I’m worried.”
Seungmin’s breath hitches, and he doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. The silence stretches, punctuated only by a deep sigh and then the muffled sounds of Chan’s footsteps moving away from the door.
He’s mad at himself for not reaching out, for fighting with Jisung.
For everything.
Seungmin is shadowed and silent. He hasn’t left his room since he fought with Jisung and he knows it’s been long enough for someone to get worried, but he’s sitting on the cold floor, his back against the wall, his razor blade clutched in his trembling hand and he doesn’t care. Any warmth he’s ever felt feels like a distant memory now. As Seungmin presses the blade to his skin again and again, he feels a sharp sting, and the blood wells up, deep and dark and blood red against his pale skin, and for a moment, nothing else matters.
The oppressive lack of sound in his room only makes his thoughts seem louder. He should play music, he should apologize to Jisung, he should ask Chan to come to sit with him.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he loses himself in the rhythm of his actions, the blade moving slowly, methodically, as if it could somehow carve away the parts of himself he hates. His breaths come in shallow, ragged gasps and the minutes stretch on, each second an eternity, as he drifts further into the recesses of his mind.
The silence is abruptly shattered by a gentle but persistent knock on the door, followed by Chan’s voice, filled, as it has been for the past weeks, with concern.
“Seungmin, it’s me. Again. Sorry for bothering you, but can we talk?”
The sound of Chan’s voice breaks through the fog of Seungmin’s thoughts, jolting him with a surge of panic. There's the sound of a key being fitted into the lock on his door and Seungmin should scramble to hide what he's done, but he's too tired to even move. The door creaks open, and Chan steps inside, his eyes widening in horror as he takes in the scene.
“Seungmin!” Chan’s cries, voice full of alarm and urgency. “What are you doing? Stop!”
Seungmin’s vision blurs with tears and he starts sobbing. The sight of Chan’s fear and concern makes the reality of what he’s done, what he’s been doing, more real, the blade feeling heavier in his hand and he relaxes his grip on it, the sound of it hitting the floor loud in the quiet room. He’s frozen, caught between the urge to hide and the hope that someone will finally save him from himself.
Chan rushes to his side, his movements filled with frantic energy as he carefully pushes the blade aside. It’s slick with blood and leaves bright streaks against the floor, and Chan’s hands are unsteady but determined. Chan wraps Seungmin’s arm with the hem of his shirt, applying pressure to the wounds with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the panic in his eyes. The care with which Chan handles him is both comforting and disorienting.
“Seungmin, look at me,” Chan pleads, his voice breaking. “You need to stop this. Please, just look at me.”
“I didn’t know who to talk to,” Seungmin whispers, his voice trembling. “I didn’t want you to find out. You don't need to deal with me.”
Chan’s eyes fill with tears, and he looks exhausted and every bit as old as Seungmin’s ever made fun of him for being, and Seungmin is just so sorry.
“You’re not a burden, Seungmin. We care about you. I don’t want you to go through this alone.”
Seungmin cries harder and curls into Chan’s arms and Chan holds him.
Seungmin doesn’t even pause to wonder when he’s guided into the bathroom and told to undress. With a sense of mechanical obedience, he peels off his jacket, wincing when it catches on his arms, and navigates the cramped space with deliberate care, avoiding the cluttered edges and sharp corners.
Before he can truly grasp the situation, he finds himself seated on a stool, Chan’s fingers threading gently through his hair. The scratch of nails against his scalp sends a wave of soothing warmth through him, and he feels every muscle in his body relax.
Time blurs.
When he comes to, he is immersed in the bath, the steam rising from the hot water surrounding him. Chan sits across from him, fully clothed, but still in the water with him, the heat painting his skin in a rosy pink, his damp curls clinging flat against his head.
Chan's careful smile meets Seungmin’s gaze, and Seungmin, in turn, does his best to return the gesture. He searches for words, feeling a sudden, urgent need to hear Chan’s voice amid the heat and the haze that surrounds them.
Ultimately, it’s Chan who shatters the silence. His voice is soft, and gentle, like he always is with everyone, like he's been with Seungmin for the past few weeks.
“Are you doing okay?” he asks, his tone mindful of the quiet.
Seungmin’s mind stumbles, words caught in his throat. He shakes his head, unable to form a coherent response. Chan’s frown deepens, and a realization dawns on Seungmin—Chan loves him. He’s always known, on some vague, subconscious level, that Chan cared for him, but the full gravity of it hits him now. The love that he feels for Chan is mutual and the weight of Chan’s concern is undeniable.
It seems absurd to realize this so late. Chan has always been there—checking in before meals, seeking him out for games, or just being around. It’s Seungmin who he’s sharing the bath with, and it’s Seungmin that Chan is taking care of right now.
The silence around them deepens, punctuated only by Seungmin’s own ringing ears and the persistent ache of his body. He isn’t sure if Chan keeps speaking; the moment feels suspended, and he wonders if he is crossing a boundary. Summoning the last of his strength, he leans forward and places his head on Chan’s chest.
Chan flinches slightly, but before Seungmin can even think about pulling away, Chan has already brought his arms up to rest against Seungmin’s spine, his fingers running up and down his back.
Though the bathwater is warm, Seungmin feels frozen like glass against the intensity of Chan’s touch. Still, he lets his longer, slender fingers rest in the crooks of Chan’s arms and listens to his leader’s heartbeat.
The urge to speak fades, but Seungmin doesn’t feel any panic this time. Words are not necessary.
Seungmin steadies his hands, his heart, his breath, his mind, and Seungmin lives.