#Felix Westwood | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hh0320 · 2 years

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫, 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞;

part four of the velvet opiate series. part one. part two. part three.

pair. rockstar! hyunjin x fem! reader (+ felix, minho, chan) | genre. visual gothic rock band, romance, hurt/comfort, toxic skz, set in the late 90’s-early 00’s | warnings. profanity, smoking, mature themes, drug & alcohol abuse, violence, descriptions of drug use, mental health struggle, use of petnames | word count. 10k

a/n: i want to apologize for taking so long with this chapter. i had no idea so many ppl would message me about this story, begging me to continue it. i never abandoned the velvet boys, they’re always in my heart, i’m always thinking about them even when i’m not writing. anyway, this one is a wild ride, so i just want to mention that i don’t associate the boys with these behaviors, nor the language spoken. this is purely fictional, these are just characters. one more chapter to go. thank you for reading! feedback is always appreciated 🤍

tags. @ughbehavior, @cb97percent, @adoreweb, @j-0ne25, @streetlight-s.

Hyunjin hadn’t seen you in two and a half months.

Hadn’t had heroin for more than that, nothing to numb him, the pain, the voices, the fucking train wreck his band had become after the ‘biggest rock scandal in ten years.’ So they’d slept with a couple groupies—big fucking deal. But it wasn’t just that, was it, because apparently one of them was now fucking pregnant and demanding for the father to recognize the child, to compensate for his doings.

It wasn’t just that, because it was the slut Hyunjin had fucked. A big fucking deal because Minho has been exposed for his cocaine indulgence, and has had to answer to the authorities, to pay bail and do community service or go to prison for a year. Chan wasn’t talking to them. Felix had been violent with Hyunjin for the first time since they met, beating the shit out of him outside their hotel, paparazzi gathering like crows to feast upon their rotting flesh.

And now Velvet Opiate was going on a national tour, press for before and after their album release. Thirty dates, over the course of winter. The label thought it wise to ride this wave of unprecedented publicity to the cost of their demise. The band was in shambles, Hyunjin was absolutely certain they’d break up before this year came to an end. They’d fucked it all up, let fame get to their head, let the cash control them, lead them to the brink of destruction.

Here they lay, clowns in a circus, with new hair colors, and an upgraded wardrobe, Westwood Spring collection ‘00. A new fucking century ahead of them with nothing to show, the world coming to an end. His mind was a dark place, darker than ever. There was no escape from this, no light at the end of the tunnel. Hyunjin would have to walk in the nine circles of Hell for all eternity, regretting ever being alive. Such was the fate of an unloved child.

No Felix, no you. Just him and his pathetic druggie ways, a vessel full of holes, loveless, poison in human form. You’d know by now, he’s sure, after all, every channel in the country is reporting on the news, another band flying too close to the sun, blinded by arrogance and ambition. A fucking cliché.

A day before they were to mount the tour bus, Hyunjin went to look for you at the club you worked at. If you were even still there, he didn’t know, he wasn’t able to contact you, wasn’t allowed to, and after everything, was too ashamed to try. His angel, his pure girl; he’d tainted you now, had dragged you into his bullshit life, spread the plague, and possibly lost you forever. But you were still his, his lifeline, the only exit, the only beginning he ever had.

Hyunjin would explain, he would beg, he’d get on his knees and kiss the fucking ground if you so desired. If it meant you’d stay with him. Felix saw him leave, bangs covering his tired eyes, leather jacket a few sizes too big on him. His friend had stopped eating a while ago, was now stubbornly relying on nicotine and alcohol for survival.

His friend but always more. The rings wrapped tight around his middle finger, heavy. Ivy luring him deep in its vines, drowning down under. Twins no more, they whispered to him sometimes. Felix would look in the mirror and see black, would think of Hyunjin and dream of a blade digging into his very chest, by his own hand. Honeycomb locks on his shoulder as he cried, as his knees gave out, death greeting him with a cold handshake.

You’re losing something important, his mind would say. You’re letting it slip right through your fingers. Just the night before, a nightmare like no other. The corpse of him lying next to his lover's. A suicide, a sacrifice.

“In a rush?” He calls out to the knife. Let it do its killing—it is fate, after all.

Hyunjin jerks, didn’t expect to hear Felix’s voice. A week had passed like a decade. It had been loneliness rendering him sleepless, lying on a bed that wasn’t his, no one to calm him down, to bring him back to reality.

Hyunjin also had no voice, had screamed it all out in his alcohol induced breakdown, had smoked it gone. He tried to reply anyway, wouldn’t miss the opportunity of mending things with his twin, his best friend. His equal.

“Never—for you,” he rasped, words broken in half.

They move closer like magnets, and the tension suffocates the blonde, makes him want to dip his head in ice water, freeze his brain, shock himself into a heart attack. This is what it feels like meeting Felix in the middle—like electrocuting yourself.

“I don’t want your fucking flattery,” Felix snarls, but he means none of it. Pay attention to me always, come to me at long last, no more of this torture.

Hyunjin flinches, fidgeting for a cigarette. “What do you want, then?” It is a whisper, because it is the question that matters most.

It is the truth that will ruin or make him.

They stare at each other, light and dark, black and gold, and a single moment passes before they both reach for each other, fingers grabbing onto fabric, pulling closer. Hyunjin’s bruised eye still hasn’t healed, and his cut lips sting as Felix presses him own on them. The fight is evident, because it’s them and they will never truly attest to this, to what runs between them, cocks too proud, bond stronger than bodily pleasures.

Still, hands push, mouths devour. In public, for anyone to see, under security cameras. Does it even matter at this point in their career, so beyond fucked over by their choices and decisions?

“What will your girl say about the bitch you knocked up?” Felix mumbles into the kiss, and Hyunjin growls, pins him against the wall between their rooms.

“Keep her out of your jealous fucking mouth.”

“What will you do, Hyunjin?” And that’s it. Like nothing happened. “You can’t keep her; you can’t let her go. Don’t go.”

The taller boy pulls back, straightens his jacket, lights a cigarette. Black stares, lips swollen, angry, hurt.

“If I don’t see her, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stay clean this time, Felix. I say this to you as a cry for help. So no one can say shit to me.”

His friend sighs, and wipes at his mouth. Hyunjin looks at the rings on his finger, then at his own identical ones. “What if she refuses you, then? You’re gonna have to marry this girl, Hyun, do you understand how fucked this is?”

“I can’t do this right now, Lix.” With a press of his forehead against his twin’s, Hyunjin turns and goes straight for the stairs, descending in a hurry.

The more time he wasted, the less likely it was you’d forgive him. Felix kissed him, that was all that mattered—one good fucking thing in the world. He wishes he could say the same for the itch.

It was back. And it was stronger than ever.

Red Lights remained the exact same, an aching constant to Hyunjin's stormy life. In reality, nothing much had changed, nothing at all—except him. Drunks still occupied the bar stools, powder was still being snorted off the sinks in the bathrooms rendered in neon hues, the booth he frequently reserved was empty, off limits to anyone but him and his chosen company. His manager still paid a percentage to the club, the bartender still asked if he needed the ‘White Lady.’ Out of habit, perhaps. Hyunjin knew better than most—habits were fucking hard to break, even harder to quit.

“It’s our favorite guitarist, everyone!” You exclaim from behind him. “Jisung, give him a shot, quick. He has plenty to celebrate these days, it seems.”

He can’t turn around fast enough, and you give him no time to do so. You ignore his outstretched hand, ignore everyone’s gasps as they recognize the familiar face that’s been playing on every TV in the country. Jisung gives him the clear shot hesitantly, eyes drifting between the golden-haired man and the waitress he’s worked with for the past year. He’ll be damned. But it doesn’t matter; none of it does. You’re all red and black, smoky eyes and sweaty skin—furious with him, and understandably so. All he wants is for you to look at him, to give him a chance to explain.

Hyunjin feels very much like the prey now, standing in the middle of the bar as you circle around him in your leather skirt, the same skirt he’d fucked you in all those nights ago. You carried a different light then, you seemed brighter, more innocent. A sweet angel trapped inside the wings of the Devil. This time there were no wings, no sweetness about you. He’d cut his own freedom off and had sucked you dry—what he does best, what ultimately ended up happening to the one person he tried so fucking hard to keep clean, good.

He sensed the red poke under his skin, bleed onto him, take over his mind. He drank the strong liquid, tasted it on his chapped lips. His eyes followed your every movement silently, like a small child waiting to be reprimanded. Be angry with me, angel, yell at me, hit me, kill me if you must—anything but this. Please.

“Give me my bag, won’t you, Han?” you address the brown-haired man again once you come back from the table you’re serving. The music should drown you out, but Hyunjin has never heard anything clearer in his life. He’s clinging to your words by a thread—the cursed lifeline.

When your gaze falls on him, he almost breaks down right then and there. “Come on, Hwang Hyunjin, soon-to-be father, and a married man I’d assume. Let’s end this once and for all, shall we?”

“Angel, for fuck’s sake, don’t do this—”

You’re the biggest storm he’s ever had to endure. Your eyes are lightning that strikes him dead. He’d die by your hand, he’d die. He would. He knows this, he swears it.

“I’m going on break,” you call out and turn to walk away towards the back door. Hyunjin is out of breath, scared out of his body, doesn’t know what else to do other than follow.

So he does. Hitting the nails on his own coffin, delivering the eulogy for his funeral. Knife, the song he wrote for you, the title track available everywhere at midnight, the lyrics repeating in his head, a mantra, a wish, a prayer. He was never religious, but if one single God was willing to listen—let me keep her, let me keep her, let me have this one thing, this one girl, please, the only girl that matters.

You pass the threshold of the exit door first, Hyunjin holding it open for you, the proximity of your bodies stirring the darkness inside him. He’s been unfaithful to himself, not just to you. Even if nothing had been official between you; he’d proved you right, the words you threw at him that first night. He broke your trust, and didn’t even have the goddamn decency to, at least, tell you. The fact he’s getting any sort of ending is a fucking miracle. Mercy from an angel that could never belong to him.

“You changed your hair,” you comment coldly, keeping as much distance from him as possible.

He closes the metal door behind him slowly, leans on the coolness of it, the wet pavement glistening underneath his boots. He swallows, biting on the inside of his cheek. Then his fingers reach for the cigarettes again. Fucking habits.

“It wasn’t me,” he replies, and he wishes that’d be enough for other things too.

The man that fucked that girl, it wasn’t me. Anything that’s ever happened to him because of his addiction, it wasn’t him either. It couldn’t be. The lead guitarist on stage that tries to be cool, cigarette smoke clouding his vision, any time he’s doing interviews and says all that pretentious shit he’s rehearsed a thousand times over—he’d never be Minho, or Felix, or anyone besides a fake. A clown. An actor in a bad movie.

But the boy who paints alone in his temporary rooms? He likes to believe that’s him, or it could be. That somewhere inside, he had the potential of leading a peaceful life, with small happy moments like finishing a sketch, or writing a song. The person that came up with ‘Knife,’ the person he is with Chan and his notes, when they write melodies in the older members' makeshift studio. That’s who Hyunjin wishes most of all to be, to become. Someone worthy, someone able to provide happiness for others, not just for himself. Even a little.

“I wrote you a so—”

“I’d got you this to celebrate the conclusion of your recordings. Before… everything.” You move towards him to give him a black box, the familiar cross-topped orb surrounded by a ring logo he’s been wearing for most of his career staring back at him. You move back before he can keep you there, close, closer.

You slip away, again and again.

“(Y/N),” he looks at the box, then at you. The smoke burns his eyes. “Please, I can’t accept this.”

Despite your hard facade, he notices the slight flinch at his words. You turn your face away. Hyunjin panics, thinking he’s somehow offended you, so he quickly opens your gift, balancing the cigarette between his teeth. The silk encase contains a heavy metal chain with a locket hanging in the center of it, his name engraved on it.

“No,” he mutters, unable to control his body anymore, unable to control fuck all for that matter. “Angel, no, listen to me—”

You’re relentless, frozen in that fucking place of yours, so far away, suffocatingly too far. He forgets about what he should do, how he should respect your boundaries, your wishes. He lunges forward and grabs your wrists, turning your palms to him. He gives you the locket, as if the mere box touching his fingers burns him, gives way to fire and ruin. It does. It does.

“Put it on me,” he pleads, gripping at your delicate skin. “You got it for me, give it to me properly.”

You shake your head, and there are tears falling on his knuckles now. He sees them roll away, scorch his fingers, seep through his pores. Hyunjin shakes you, doesn’t know how else to convey his want. He wants to kiss you, wants to take you away, slip inside you, forget the shitshow that won’t stop happening, even then, especially then, because that means he’ll have to come back from it, from the special place, a place he never wants to escape from, the peaceful place he’s been dreaming of all his life.

Your fingers open the clasp as he leans forward, hands wrapping around your waist, and he inhales your scent, wishing this chain could interlock with another, so he can in turn wear it around your delicate neck and keep you close to him forever. It doesn’t last long, this daydream. The lock falls heavy against his sternum, and you pull away slowly, avoiding to touch back, to feel how real he feels under the tips of you. Because he is—real. He has been since the first day he locked eyes with you. You brought him to life, pulled him in, showed him his own heart.

The bag hanging from your shoulder drops to the ground, the thud of it a closing, an ending. He doesn’t accept it, he realizes he’s hurting you, that he should fuck off, leave you alone, he’s embarrassing himself, he’s pathetic in his attempts–Hyunjin has never fought for someone to stay. Has never had to, his life so full of people willing to leave, birds lingering on his branches before flying off, a moment of rest, somewhere to lay their burden, before they’re gone again, free, weightless. He’d accepted his fate, had made his peace—before you, all of it before you, and for every day after that never the same, nothing after you.

“I have no hold over you, rockstar.”

He blinks. For one goddamn second where human nature takes over and his eyes close—you jerk away from his touch and drop something in his hand. A small thing, something so mundane. A key. He blinks again, but it’s blurry this time, everything is. His heart has stopped, it seems, shop shutting down, system hijacked. Out of service. Hyunjin is crying. And it’s a first in the way that he’s never cried for love, not really, has never really known what it is to weep for it, even with Felix, because that was a different love, not this, not you, not you, not you—

“No,” the heaviest word he’s had to push out his lungs. “No, you’re wrong.” He searches for your eyes, he tilts his head, your gaze, he just needs that small connection with you, his body is on fire, his soul is decemating, he will die tonight, it hits him like a ton of bricks. If you walk away from him, he will die.

And it’s not blackmail, it’s not a manipulation tactic to get you to stay—you won’t know this, you won’t be aware, he won’t do that to you. You know nothing about that part of him, you never will. You’ll leave him behind and go back to bleeding red, and he’ll remain there, as he was, with his key and his engraved name and the itch that will take over once and for all. Maybe this time no one will find him, no one that can bring him back to a reality where he has no other escape other than death; no twin, no music, no band, no you. No you no you no you, fuck him fuck fuck fuck fuck—

Hyunjin doesn’t register his feet moving, his boots splashing in the rain puddles. He must look fucking insane, but he runs with all his might, as fast as he can—and then he throws that goddamn key away, never to see it again, never to be rid of this locket, of this weight that signifies your existence to him, whatever ounce of love you’ve felt for him. He wants all of it to lay on his back and push him to the ground, shove his fucking face in the mud and scream at him—I was here! I was here once and you shunned me away! You don’t deserve me.

An inhuman voice tears from his throat, a sound alien to him, he doesn’t recognize it. He looks around, surprised, awakened. He can’t breathe, and when the fuck will he stop crying? It’s two weeks ago all over again. He’s out of control, mad with grief.

“Hyunjin, you’re scaring me. Please stop. Stop!” Your hands on him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

There is no gravity holding him, nothing tying him down. He kneels, neck exposed to you, your gift. He stares at your stomach, as all fight escapes him. Nothing to lose, already lost. He sings, the lyrics that bloomed inside him once, now sung barely above a whisper—

I tried counting her smiling pain… I’ve lost my dreams and my love; lashed by the rain, I’m crying, I’m crying, I’m crying…

“What do I need to do, to be able to live as I am, without dressing myself up?” Hyunjin stops and looks up, at your tear stained face, a mirror looking back at him with nothing to say. He’ll say it for you, he’ll admit to the one truth he can. “I’ll wear this till the day I fucking die. I swear it, angel.”

Your beautiful face scrunches in pain, trying so hard not to break down, wanting to let him go, but holding on to him for dear life. “You don’t owe me anything,” but it’s not true. It’s not true.

He’s never been more sure of anything else— “I owe you my fucking life.”

Can you lose yourself two times over? He’ll never apologize for feeling so intensely, for getting fucked over for his heart. This is his show, his little play up on that stage he put himself on, and the curtains aren’t drawing just yet. The last act hasn’t yet began.

He doesn’t see you again until his birthday, half a year later.

Minho wipes at his nose.

Take his pixie dust away and he’ll resort to his absolute last option—pills. Anxiety pills, to be exact, forcibly prescribed by his former doctor for his unhinged nerves; former because the son of a bitch thought he’d try his luck with the ruthless bassist. The only way he’d be able to finish the tour, and go the fuck back into hiding at once, away from all the goddamn crazy people—their supposed fans—and their accusatory fingers.

If there was one thing, Lee Minho never pretended to be anything other than what he was. Who he was. An orphan. A loveless person, someone that had lost all hope, not just for himself but for everyone else, too. Part of him had died in that accident a few years back, and the rest of him had no intention of trying to revive whatever remained. There was no reason.

So, crushing and snorting Lexapro had become the new normal, the temporary solution to making it through shows and press. Getting rid of all evidence was proving to be quite the task, though, and it was taking a major toll on the purple haired man, only second to his and his band mates’ insomnia problems. The cause—obsessive stalker fans that seemed to monitor their every waking moment, waiting for a sliver of an opening to bring them down, to destroy them once and for all.

It’d started with a fucking mistake. As most things do. A split second of weakness, a lack in judgement. He should’ve known better, as should’ve Hyunjin. Because of this, all were to suffer until their heads were on flaming spikes on national television for the world to witness. Minho would rather slice his wrists open and bleed to death in the crammed tour bus bathroom, than answer to the public for his private life.

He was hurting no one. And he was certainly done with slip ups. One more show, he kept repeating putting on the outfit laid out by the stylist for tonight. One more show and I’ll be free. He thinks this until it’s time for soundcheck, and the lead guitarist is nowhere to be fucking found. Minho doesn’t even have to look at Chan to know.

The arena was empty, stretching enormous from ground to ceiling, the echo great and deafening as the staff tuned the instruments in the background. Rows upon rows of empty seats, exit lights shining brightly on each side. Felix sat on the second aisle, smack in the middle, boots propped in the seat in front of him, red plaid pants with buckles and zippers making him stand out amidst endless grey.

“Why fucking bother?” He calls out to the drummer, words resounding. “He does this shit every single day.” Black strands of hair fall in his eyes, and Minho doesn’t miss the bitterness of his tone.

“People paid to see us, Felix,” Chan replies, making his way from his drum set. His bulky biceps flexed as he pushed his hair back, the black sleeveless shirt accentuating the muscles further. “We owe it to them to at least have all four members on the damn stage.”

“Do we now,” Minho mutters under his breath. Fleeing, lately, had started to sound like a sane idea. A small mercy, even.

“You tried the waiting room?”

“I just came from it.”

The bassist clears his throat, descends the stairs from the stage. “Someone’s providing him with it—I’d check the staff’s bus’.”

Chan whips his head towards him. “I thought Joon had checked every motherfucker during the hiring process.”

“Rats can slip through cracks, Bang.”

Wasn’t that the truth. It was, after all, how he’d managed to survive all those years. He knew better than most about sneaking around; killing yourself with the help of others—people that would benefit from your downfall, because that way they could sell you out, make profit out of your misery.

Velvet Opiate fed on misery. They relished in it.

Minho was about to call for security to go and find Hyunjin, discreetly and without fuss. As was the way of such awful situations, where no one particularly wanted to get their hands dirty—or find a rotting corpse in a random parking lot in a city entirely too far from home. He informed them of the alleged whereabouts, but just as the two men were walking away, Chan cursed loudly and smacked his hand on the back of a seat, expression furious, exhausted, worried.

“I’ll go my goddamn self. Fuck this.”

Felix shot up immediately, hand reaching to halt his older friend. Chan avoided it swiftly, and walked determined to the nearest exit, set on figuring this out on his own—again. How many chances till they pronounce you a lost case? Minho wonders. A cursed battle.

“Chan, wait!” Felix tries to follow.

Minho holds him back. “Don’t. You’ll only make it harder for yourself.”

The boy’s eyes were wide, anxious. In love. For the longest fucking time, and despite, which was a curious thing. What we can do for it, suffer endlessly in loops—for someone to hold our hand, wrap themselves around our bones. Minho had it, once. Never again after that.

“He doesn’t know how to deal—”

The bassist sighs. “And you do? Yongbok, you insist on this torture and for what? You’re soft and blinded by selfishness. Love,” he chides. “Hyunjin doesn’t need someone like you.”

He sees the pretty hands balling into fists, the snarl of the younger’s lip, the hate burning in his button eyes. It does nothing for him.

“You’re wrong,” he spits, and there’s pure venom laced in his words. “None of you understand him, you’ve never tried to. He shoved needles in his fucking veins, Minho, do you think he cares about himself when he does that?” Tears gather, and fall. Minho remains silent, bites his tongue. “Motherless, lost in the world, clinging on a girl that’s long abandoned him… what the fuck, man. What’s it gonna take!”

He’s running before the older boy can stop him again. Pushes the heavy door open and disappears into the bright sunlight, leaving the bassist behind. The only one unshaken by the possibility of the events. It wasn’t indifference or coldheartedness that kept Minho grounded in the arena; it was calculated compassion. No one wants to hear a story twice—how he, too, was motherless, lost in his mind and in the goddamn world, clinging onto remnants of a girl half forgotten—no one cares, because a story told too many times is fucking reality, it’s been-there-done-that, it’s no big deal.

But Minho wasn’t someone that complained a whole lot, if ever. And he isn’t letting his friend die because it’s a hassle to get involved; he does it because addiction doesn’t stop unless there’s no one around to grab onto. No help, no second third fourth fifth chance. Hyunjin needs a fucking wakeup call harsher than nearly OD’ing. No one coming. His worst fear slapping him in the face.

“That girl of his figured it out faster than his own band,” he muttered bitterly to the emptiness staring at him.

The bass greeted him in melancholy.

Outside, Felix caught up to the leader, eyes panicked, searching the parking lot maniacally.

Chan’s anger was calmer, a sea storm felt deep within him, bubbling but contained for the meantime. It took nothing for him to lash out at strangers, but to family? He had the patience of a hundred old oak tree, unyielding, the roots having roots, having roots…

They took upon searching the buses themselves, Felix climbing up the stairs and yelling at everyone to tell him if they’ve seen Hyunjin. Some were still getting ready or having a late breakfast, but all looked at him dumbfounded, confused.

“He’s not with you?” A light technician asked dumbly.

Felix rolled his eyes and walked back the way he came from, ignoring the musty smells and disgusting underwear on the floor. “No, I’m asking ‘cause he’s right outside.”

“Are you giving me snark, boy?”

The black haired boy turned around so fast he saw stars. Two men standing near him widened their eyes and backed away in surprise, but the older man only pressed further, his nose stuck high in the air.

“Do you wanna fucking go?” Felix asked, riled up. “Cause I’ve been itching for a fight, bro, so don’t fucking play with me.”

No one expected it to escalate that fast, but before anyone could even blink, the two men were at each other’s throats, punches midway. Everyone jumped in just before the assistant stage manager could land his fist on the rockstar’s face, and that’s when Chan showed up, his loud voice making the singer stop and look.

“What the fuck are you doing?” It boomed down on all of them and shook the walls of the bus. “Are you fucking serious with this bullshit?” Breathing labored, stare wild, sweat dripping. “Come help me find my goddamn friend!” He barked. “All of you or you’re fucking fired, you hear me?”

And with that he stormed out, not caring to diffuse the situation, whatever it was. He couldn’t give a shit at that point. Hyunjin could be dead, and everyone seemed to care for their ass and their fucking pride. Fuck out of here.

“He’s not here,” is the only thing he’s heard so far, but just to be sure, he personally took a look around the bunks and in the bathrooms, keeping an eye out for any drugs or alcohol while he was at it. They’d been warned against any harmful shit for this tour; one strike and you’re out, special orders from the drummer. For their sake, it was a good thing he’d actually found nothing.

“I’ll call the hotel. Maybe he somehow found his way back,” Felix says and moves away from him, phone against his ear.

Chan doubted it, but it didn’t hurt to check. “I’m losing hope here, Hwang,” he mumbled to himself, quietly praying the tall boy would magically appear right in front of him, safe and sound. Highly unlikely; matter of fact, the possibilities of that happening were so slim that he wanted to laugh at himself for even considering it, but the desperation was so far etched in his brain, that he seemed to be hanging firmly from some sort of daydream. ‘October men and their maladaptive dream states,’ he had a girl tell him once, and he’s never forgotten it since.

“How’d you know when I was born?” He’d asked stupidly, as if this chick wasn’t a fan that had just attended his concert.

Her smile was the sexiest thing on her. “Hon, you wear ‘please love me I’m a good boy’ on your forehead.”

“Found him! Fuck, Chan!” Felix’s voice took him out of the bittersweet memory.

What did the brown-haired boy expect to see—not this. Anything but this. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out, could come out, and his head turned the other way immediately upon witnessing his bandmates state. Felix was on his knees next to him, completely on autopilot—Chan could see it from his dead eyes, doing what he did the last time he found him like this. Calling an ambulance, his other hand on the barely responsive guitarist, shaking him, keeping him awake.

“Fuck you for doing this to me twice, Hwang Hyunjin. Fuck you.”

Honeycomb hair over dilated, dark eyes, the pale man smiled a Cheshire smile, back sliding off the wheel of the bus. The leader actually whimpered seeing him do that, so completely lost in his high, his mind tripping over itself. The boy he knows used to be quiet, yes, introverted and thoughtful, but creative—so fucking creative, and animated. Full of life. Not this, whatever this was. Never this, and God fucking damnit when did it happen; when did he lose his best friend, the boy that came to him with a guitar and said he wants to play in a band? It all just seemed such a fucking lifetime away now.

“They’re saying they’ve already dispatched a vehicle to our location—” Chan sees Joon running up to them, a few of the staff he saw earlier in the venue behind him. It was only then that he noticed the siren going off in the near distance. “What do you mean, this is my first time calling you—”

“Minho called them,” Chan concluded, arms hugging his chest sadly. His cheeks were wet. “He already knew this would be what we’d find.”

The singer paused, looked up at him. Chan nodded sympathetically. Hyunjin’s head was dropping towards his twin again, but his lips were moving, his expression relaxed.

“The fucking asshole.”

“A realist,” the leader corrects. “Truly, Felix what did you think? That he’d be off buying us waffles or something? It’s his birthday and he’s falling off the side of a fucking bus, needle in hand. I can’t fucking do this anymore!”

"How much time do we have?" their manager asks roughly. "I told you, Bang. I told you if I ever found him doing this shit again, he's out!"

The drummer felt fire rush through his body, his fist rising in the air, all eyes on him—before connecting with the man's jaw, knocking him back, the sound violent, breaking. And fuck, did that feel good. It was a long time coming, the last fucking straw. He was done with it, the entire goddamn thing, taking orders, getting yelled at for situations completely out of his hands, the micromanaging, the sacrifices that lead to nothing—

Everyone was miserable. Everyone was hurting. Everyone wanted out.

"I'm sick of you putting words in my mouth. Sick of your fucking watch ticking like we're always running on your schedule. Look at him!" Chan croaked, the rage in his voice unbearable. "Fucking look at what your isolation did to him! Own up to your goddamn mistakes, you fucking coward!"

"Chan..." a dissonant sound behind him, coming down on him like a loved one from Heaven. "You got my back, Chan. Don't you?" a raspy laugh, not quite all there. "You got my back..."

Felix moved away, a supportive hand at the back of his twin's head, watching him with a crumpled gaze. Was the euphoria passing? If so, the best of the high was over. A life wasted for fifteen minutes of numbness. Of chemical happiness. The singer couldn't seem to keep the tears from running—and they ran, those useless things, hot, stinging, burning. What good did they do? Look at his love, watch as he's ruining himself on the dirty floor. He wasn't strong enough to even touch that goddamn needle, always hated getting shots, ever since he was a little kid. How could he bear taking the only thing that provides relief from his better half? His mirrored self? Even knowing it's a dead thing, even knowing it's not really that, that does the hurting.

It's the heart. The stupid heart.

"Why don't you kill me, then?" the honey dipped boy asked, paralyzed. Adrift. Broken. "Why don't you kill me?" A tear. Another tear. A pit of Hell, a mimicking nothingness. "Let me die, Chan..."

There are some words you don't say aloud. That make the monster real, that shatter the illusion. The leader could face the cold, hard truth—that the best guitarist he's ever known, the one that puts his soul in his music, in his fingers, his delicate hands—that person is a drug addict. That he uses needles to inject his liquified powders, and that his highs usually last three hours. That his friend has the deepest dark circles for a person who sleeps the most out of all of them. Sometimes, he has to slap him awake, force his eyes open. These are all truths, easy to digest, not-so-scary sentences that he's used to by now. That he's had to live with, in order to keep his band together.

But this? The fact of it? Who can face this? Who can be the bearer of the cross?

"Not me, Hyun," he replies, devoid of any emotion but sheer will for life. "Try in the next fucking life. I like having your sorry ass around a little too much."

Kintsugi, the Japanese called it. Repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. It treats breakage as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise. There was no fixing Hwang Hyunjin. But maybe they could start to respect that, instead of desperately trying to cover it up, to get angry with it.

"Huh..." A crack of a smile, much like porcelain. "Is it still my birthday, Lix?"

Felix sniffled, rubbing at his nose, huffing out a devastating laugh. "It is, you goddamn menace."

A sheepish nod, soft golden bangs hiding beautiful, closed eyes. "Then we have a concert to attend, don't we?"

"I think so. You need a cigarette?"

A hand falling on top of his. An eclipse, the moon and the sun meeting, at long last. A celebration of the dark side.

"You know it." Then a hum, as his soulmate in male form lights the stick for him, taking a drag to get it going, then putting it between his fingers. A hum that turns into a familiar melody. "I just went through so much hell, went through so much, darling... I'm the warning, burn...burn..."

Chan nears his friend, extending an arm for him to take. The younger man peeks an eye open to it, inhaling smoke until his lungs know nothing else. He assesses the gesture, knows it means no more sulking on the pavement, no more gut-wrenching pain. Alone no more. Perhaps never alone, though not always clear.

He took it.

"Cancel the ambulance, don't let the crows anywhere near," the drummer tells a security guard. "We don't need this. It's our last show today."

As for Velvet Opiate, the curtains were drawing. Indefinitely.

Felix would love to say that their last concert was a hit, a success by label standards, and that everything went according to plan, but—well, that would be a fucking lie, wouldn't it? The setlist consisted of twenty songs, excluding the encore, most of which fell on him to pull through, and with twenty-nine shows on their back, plus countless radio shows and interviews for the album, his voice was completely and utterly fried, hanging on by herbal tea every night, and vocal rest—never. He liked to believe he took care of himself, definitely better than the others, but was that really true, or just default when pitted against an addict, an almost convict, and an insomniac?

It wasn't judgement. It more so felt like pity. What was Lee Yongbok's thing? What did he offer except deep, cave-like vocals and front man looks? Wasn't that just the bare minimum? What set him apart, what was the deciding factor for his status in the Rock scene? The poster outside the arena had him positioned in the center, newly dyed black hair pulled back in a half ponytail, standing next to Hyunjin, resting an arm on his naked shoulder as the guitarist smoked a cigarette and looked down at his Ibanez RG550. Always together, never apart. Out of everyone, it feels like he believed it the most. Is he worth nothing besides this? He didn't want to be petty anymore, have this green intent to turn everyone away from his moon, because he knew it wouldn't realistically get him anywhere. What was his twin above all?

Straight. To Felix, the line would always be bent.

Alas, he wasn't a realist. But he also wasn't an asshole. As soon as that spotlight shone on him, he noticed you in the first row, still as death, big arms wrapped around you, a man much taller than him hugging you from behind. Did you come to haunt? A ghost unable to find its way out of the body, destined to float about the living world until someone set it free? Was it closure you were seeking, so many miles away from home, and on the day Hyunjin had decided to play ridiculously fucking high?

If so, why rub salt on the wound? Why bring hemlock to a man so willing to die? He wished for many things then; for Hyunjin to go blind and never notice you, ever again. For that padlock to magically open itself and fuck off back to where it came from, because where Chan had never heard the blonde begging to die, Felix had to physically stop him from ending it all, that night he came back from you. He still remembers stealing all sharp objects from his room, and locking the boy in the bathroom, hearing his banging, his pleading, his tears through that white door, relentless, haunted haunted haunted, until the early hours of the next day.

When would Hyunjin escape the ghosts? Jesus, fuck.

"Good evening, we're called Velvet Opiate," he spoke in his baritone tone. The one he had to force. "Welcome to the Knife Tour. There's nothing left to fucking bleed. Let's go!" he screamed, as the intro to 'Liar' played by Minho, a bass-heavy tune that he'd written himself.

During the first three songs, Chan kept his eyes entirely on the lead guitarist. He wasn't quite stumbling, just sort of...balancing on his legs like they were sticks, with that famous cigarette that never seemed to burn out. He made no mistakes, kept up with the tempo, and generally looked fine, so the drummer decided to return back to his instrument and quit babysitting.

The first bottle was thrown when Hyunjin locked eyes with you. It smashed right next to him, and nearly scraped his cheek. Felix froze, but continued singing, turning momentarily to check on his bandmate. If he saw it or not, it wasn't written anywhere on his face, instead seeming to be entirely hypnotized by the inevitable standing mere feet away from him.

"I saw your face, I saw your face...and the light," the singer drawled dreamily, as security found the person responsible and dragged them away.

There seemed to be a group of them, all gathered on Hyunjin's side, and some of the fans took notice of that, yelling and pointing at them. Felix showed the problem area with his hands to the remaining staff, but not before a different person managed to throw another one, this time hitting the microphone stand. He maneuvered around it, grabbing the mic and walking to the other end of the stage, crouching to sing to a fan that was screaming her lungs out, reaching her arms out to him.

“I’m gonna please you, please me, please you, please me.” The lights turned a deep red color, staining everything in the arena, as Felix jumped to the barricades and sang the words close to the girl’s mouth, staring into her eyes. She went ballistic and started crying immediately, so he petted her hair and moved away quickly, hand in the air to collide with open palms.

On the stage, Minho was studying the crowd coldly, waiting for that one last fucking straw that’d make him lose it and get on the first plane back to Tokyo. He’s had enough—of this forsaken tour, of the aggressive fans, the bullshit that came with fame. They’d sold one million copies in their first week, for fuck’s sake, why do they need to tour the entire nation? It was a goddamn cash grab, nothing but a circus, and they were only getting forty percent of it.

Well into the set, Hyunjin looked like Hell. While Felix had taken it upon himself to speak and interact before introducing the next song, the guitarist sat down by the stairs and lit a cigarette, his naked, sweaty torso glistening under the intense lighting. Minho watched as he took his earpiece out and motioned to a staff to come to him, leaning to say something, before the person ran off to do whatever he was instructed to. The blonde hair was sticking to his neck, but it also blended in with the paleness of his skin, making him appear angelic, or something close to it. Ironic, considering, the bassist thought.

Still. Something was bothering him; it was clear to see. And it wasn’t the high.

“Every time I remember…nails dig into my heart,” Felix sings, then pauses, hearing the rest of the words being sang to him. “Oh, what lovely voices! But do they sing it as good as our lyricist?” He turns to the boy on the stairs, currently hunched over smoking, guitar on his back, his eyes never leaving your figure, as yours don’t either.

A man? In his show? While he’s bound by your chains? How cruel of his angel.

“Oi, Hyunjin. You wanna sing this one? My throat is fucked, lover boy,” the main singer waits for the request to register in the guitarist’s ears, before a sound person appears out of thin air to pass him a microphone. “Doesn’t he look fuckable today? Such a shame there’s no one to warm his bed…”

Twenty thousand voices joined to yell, “I can!” Even Minho couldn’t help chuckling to that.

Hyunjin checked to see if the microphone worked, shyly, taking the cig out of his mouth slowly, exhaling smoke like a goddamn fireplace, before bowing his head slightly to the crowd, and introducing himself.

“Hello, I’m Hyunjin of Velvet Opiate,” he mumbles, pushing hair out his eyes with his thumb. The fans went insane.

It was no secret he was the most popular member, despite never wishing to be. The label always promoted him as a sort of Jim Morrison character, brooding and quiet. Which he was—but not because of reasons the public might think. He was surprised no one had picked on the fact he was high as a fucking kite. Himself, he thinks he’s about the highest he’s been in a long time. Nothing spins, yet everything moves.

“His first baby,” Felix meant the song, but Chan inwardly facepalmed. “Most likely,” he added, humor to lessen the tension. “Acapella, Hyun?”

“No,” he replied. “This is ‘Knife.’ For the girl that breathed life into me then broke my fucking heart.”

The eerie melody started playing, the musician they’d hired to be on the keys specifically for this song following after. Taking a deep breath, and a long drag of nicotine, Hyunjin joins in a gentle, hard voice, a reprimanding tone, watching his girl in the arms of someone else—

“If I can have something from you… I have nothing, I’m so sad…I can’t take being alone. Every time I remember, nails dig into my heart…”

They must hate him now. Or resent him. Once the adrenaline of the concert, of the music passes, they’ll turn against him once more, prey for their headlines and magazine articles. Just a product made specifically to be taken apart, forced to turn itself into a thousand pieces so there’s enough for everyone. He’ll gladly be their doll, he thinks. You seem to hate him too. In fact, you do, don’t you?

Something he can’t take. He won’t.

He got up and walked down the remaining steps, all the while keeping the same breathy, heartbreaking tone that had you limply hanging from your date’s arms, gasping for air. He wasn’t the best singer, he was nowhere near one, to be completely fucking honest, but no one could sing that song better than him, in that specific moment, as you’re staring at his face like he’s the one that tore you apart.

The lock is still around my chain, angel. Until I die. I told you.

“Let me hear your voice more, I tried so hard to bear with it…the knife turns, my heart spills, blood mixed with tears…it must be my love. Here lies my love…”

Chan brought the drums to a crescendo, while Hyunjin gave his mic to a sound staff standing nearby, and brought his guitar around, feeling the strings under the tips of his fingers, eyes falling closed, his only purpose in life taking ahold of him, guiding him through, keeping him afloat. The rush is the same, he muses bitterly. Strumming chords, being in your presence—it equals his spoon, his lighter. His needles. Every time his soul is empty, he simply picks another addiction.

How truly fucking pathetic.

He plays for you, then. Stands right in front of you and that fucker, and pours his cursed, goddamned heart out, until nothing is left—the last of the poison outing, finally, finally, ridding him of humanity, of the filth and the shit, and his own weak attempts at pretending to understand life, and living, and why that fucking thing just has to keep…beating.

For what? So, he can witness with his own two eyes that for the one time that truly mattered—that he cared, that he loved, whatever the fuck that meant, he was abandoned? Again? And again, and again, and again. Lead guitarist/songwriter, Hwang Hyunjin, they’d said, is caught up in another scandal. Sources say the girl, twenty-year-old so-so, was receiving treatment at so-so hospital, when a pregnancy test came back positive. She alleges, that the baby belongs to the superstar, member of the controversial band Velvet Opiate.

A baby. His karma for betraying an angel. He expects to be buried six feet underground and never go anywhere, neither up nor down. Scum of the earth, and so he will remain. For his bones to decay, for his flesh to rot.

“How cynical you’ve become, my beautiful boy,” his mother would say, before leaving him alone once again.

Are you proud of your boy now, mom? He asked the crowd silently, fingers creating sound, creating art. His legacy of dust. Beautiful but never loved. Talented but immobilized.

“I tried counting her smiling pain… I’ve lost my dreams and my love; lashed by the rain, I’m crying, I’m crying, I’m crying…”

Bangs cover wet eyes. Fingers bleed on the smooth wood of the guitar, Ibanez RG550, always, but Hyunjin feels none of it. Not the heartbreak, not the injury. What does he feel?

Jealousy. How heavy his lids are, how sweaty his chest is. Unusually. Almost…painful?

He looks down. There’s blood everywhere. There’s glass all around him. He looks up. You’re freeing yourself from the arms, you’re screaming at him, you’re jumping the barricade. High as a fucking kite, huh? Must’ve been one of those beer bottles from earlier. Keep talking, Hyunjin, keep thinking, keep thinking!

A big noise on the stage. Minho smashing his guitar to smithereens. Minho walking out. On them. On him. On him.

“Who the fuck threw that?” Felix’s deep voice vibrates through him. “Who the fuck threw that?!” Louder. Angrier.

Life played out in slow motion after that. Like in the movies Hyunjin would watch as a kid. The lights would whirl, twirl, move move move, the people’s faces would melt off, their voices like a rewinding cassette, and his body would be floating, above all, nothing happening to him, nothing at all. He’d like for something to happen to him, he thinks, for once. He’s been too isolated, too cuddled.

Even dying requires a pass, a question for every attempt, hand raised, waiting patiently for something that never comes, that is never allowed.

The soundtrack to his life? His own digits playing the intro to their next song, unaware that he’s bleeding out in front of thousands of people, one member down, at long last the much-anticipated clown circus, coming in your town!

Don’t miss it!

He jostles out of sleep, sitting up at once, eyes wild, searching in the dark, chest heaving, needing air where air cannot be found. He'd blacked out again. He rubs his face, comes back to life, focuses on the one fixture of light, a bright hope on the other side of the tunnel. Hyunjin squints, tilts his head, tries to understand how a lamp has a head, and arms, and beautiful legs.

It walks, too. The light looks a lot like you, he thinks. Am I still high? Or am I finally... has the time come? Am I dead? Am I dead? He realizes he says this outloud, but his mouth doesn't stop moving, the shakes won't wear off for a little while still, and his cheeks are wet again.

When will he stop being so weak? He saw an angel and begged for death, instead of redemption. He's sick to his stomach, he can't stand himself. It's you, it's you, there, right there, coming over to him like you'd never left, never turned away, never abandoned—like a mother would come for her child, except he knows nothing about that, not how it feels, not how it looks.

Hyunjin jumps from the bed, long legs clad in black kicking off blankets, limbs reaching out, strands of yellow covering his vision, shielding him from reality, holding him in the in-between, a place where he gets to hold you again. To hold you. He's sketched your body so many fucking times, a hundred, a thousand, a mess of paper and coal, fingers stained for weeks, and then he's brought the drawings close to his heart, closed his arms around it, held it and prayed for sleep, cradled you, shushed you, sang to you, eyes closed, empty rooms. Always alone. Always half-mad.

When his bony arms wrap around a corporeal body this time, when there's flesh under his touch, a rush of blood, a beating pulse—he hugs it tight, God, he hugs it. You. The lifeline, the angel, the sweet thing that wanted to see him again, and again, so long ago now, it seems. For whatever damned reason, somehow, you've deemed him worthy enough to come back for him, and won't you please take him away this time? Won't you end his misery, stop refusing yourself to him?

"Your wound!" You exclaim, but there's no wound for him, no pain in your presence. Only pure euphoria, the brightest kind. He's overwhelmed, intoxicated, harnessed.

He bumps you against chairs, against desks, and smashes lamps, never once leaving you, never once caring for the destruction, the consequence, only wanting to be part of you, skin of your skin, the breath inside your lungs, so that he never has to part from you again. And he cries; he cries hard, ruinously, like a little boy would, and you let him, because he looks like he's travelled through Hell and back, twice over. He's pale, malnourished, injured, and hurting. So visibly hurting, despite his numb reactions to it. If you wonder, or if you know, you never say. You hold him back, because he leaves you no choice. Because there is no other choice.

When the heels of your shoes hit the nightstand, he collapses on his knees, and takes you down with him. He doesn't mean to, you see; to sink so deep, every time, to bring you too, but he can't help it, he doesn't know any other way, any way out. He really just wants out, and could you show him? Could you at least tell him? He's missed you. He's missed you so fucking much.

"I can't do this, Hyunjin. I'm not."

"I wanted to see you," he says quietly, like he's ashamed. In all of the rain and the thunder, this one thing, he whispers it. Like he's afraid to disturb it.

"God, it doesn't matter," you croaked, but you were crying, too. You wept with him, for him. "It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter..." you repeated, shaking your head against his shoulder, losing oxygen.

He was squeezing the life out of you, he was everywhere. His blood was on your clothes. Make it stop, make it easier, make it last.

"Your song," he pulls back just to stare at your face, to search, to see. "Did you hear it? I wrote it for you."

You nod, and you smile, but it's a sad thing. Your hand caresses his cheek softly; your porcelain boy, trapped in a living body. "I did, rockstar. I did."

The genuine curve of his lips made you hide your face, your tears. You couldn't break. If you broke, it'd be ten times worse for him. But how to be strong, when your heart still beats the same for him? When you've never been a good liar.

"Happy birthday," you sniffle, and wipe at your eyes. "I brought you a gift."

His gingerbread eyes look at you like you've just told him something incredible. You're not sure if you want to know what it is.

"You're the gift," he mumbles, playing with your hair. His touch burns you. You want it as much as you want nothing to do with it.

"Hyunjin..." You reach up, at the desk, and pull your bag down on the floor with you. He watches, angel features in full mode, and you think blonde hair suits him a lot. "I went back to find it. I searched for hours."

It was the key he'd thrown away. His expression shattered at once. You rushed to explain, scared, terrified he's misunderstood—

"I know you don't want it, but I felt so bad about how it ended, that I just... couldn't leave it alone," you pressed your lips together. "So, I put a chain through it. I thought if you were to wear the padlock forever, I should do the same thing with the key. I wanted you to wear it on me."

His fist closed around your open palm, and he smashed you against his chest with one arm, breathing in your sweet scent. He'd never be alone again. That one thought was enough to get him through anything. There would always be someone out there holding a piece that can unlock him, a piece more important than death. I love you. I love you with whatever's left of my heart, and my soul. I'm yours entirely. All he had to do was seek them out, like he'd promised.

His fingers unclasp the necklace, and you hold your hair up and out of the way, exposing that pretty neck he tasted once, a million years ago. The taste on his tongue never faded, he never let it. He swore to himself he wouldn't touch another woman, ever again. He'd do his duty, and suffer silently, as he was meant to.

But seeing the key fall above your breast, it was too much. How would he let you go this time? You'll take everything. Everything.

"The band is going on hiatus," he admitted. "The girl is about to give birth; I bought her a house outside of the city. It's—I'm having a boy." Where the fuck were his cigarettes?

"I bet he'll be beautiful," you comment, putting a finger under his chin to lift his face. "Like you," you smile. "But you need to stop, Hyunjin. You need to stop."

You wait as he looks for his pack, as he brings the lighter close to his mouth, as he inhales, and drops his head again. "You knew?" he asks, embarrassed.

"Not till today." You gently lift one of his arms, the damage on the skin answer enough. "I can't get back together with you, rockstar. But I'll be there, if you need me."

Hyunjin huffs out a laugh, smoke coming out of his nostrils. "I'll always need you, angel."

You grin, bumping your knee against his. "Then I'll always be there."

There they were again. The angel eyes. The ones from your first meeting. They looked straight through you, those. Watercolor eyes. God's eyes.

"You have cursed me, sweetheart. I can't see anything but you." Full circle, with an open ending.

Like his words from before, they cut deep. They made a house in you. You would never separate from him, you think, not ever.

Love tormented, love purple and blue.

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