where the hurt went. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ [ j.sc x p.wb ]
chapter three— marks that don’t show on camera.
cw. : addiction. substance use. toxic themes. emotion abuse. implied physical and mental abuse. relapsing. overdose.
shooting day six — 3:14 p.m.
the scene wasn’t supposed to be romantic.
it was scripted as a confrontation — two characters with too much history and nowhere to put it. but somewhere between take five and take eleven, it shifted.
maybe it was the way sungchan’s jaw clenched when he stepped into frame. maybe it was how wonbin wouldn’t meet his eyes at first, or how his fingers trembled when he shoved him.
maybe it was the silence between their lines, the air thick with things neither of them were allowed to say. cut.
the camera operator muttered something about “undercurrent” and “chemistry” and “jesus christ, are they doing this on purpose?”. by the twelfth take, the director had stopped giving notes. he just watched. “take it from the mirror scene,” he said eventually, too softly.
wonbin sat on the edge of the hotel bed prop, hands limp in his lap, fake blood still smeared at the corner of his mouth from a stunt punch gone too hard. sungchan stood across the room, hands fisted at his sides, the reflection of his expression distorted in the glass behind wonbin’s head.
“i don’t know how to help you anymore,” sungchan said, voice low.
“you were never supposed to help me,” wonbin snapped. “you were supposed to leave.”
long enough that someone off-set dropped a pen and it echoed like thunder. sungchan walked across the room slowly. sat down next to him. not touching. not yet. he reached up slowly and brushed a thumb under wonbin’s eye. not scripted.
wonbin didn’t flinch. also not scripted.
the room seemed to freeze.
“you were bleeding,” sungchan said. not the line. not even close.
wonbin blinked. his mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
instead, he leaned into the touch. barely. just enough to be noticed.
“let’s break,” the director said, almost dazed. “jesus.”
shooting day six — 7:42 p.m.
they didn’t talk during dinner.
wonbin sat on the floor of his trailer, back against the wall, microwaved rice bowl untouched beside him.
sungchan stood leaning against the kitchenette counter, arms crossed, his reflection fractured in the metal cabinets.
“you didn’t have to do that,” wonbin said eventually, quiet.
“touch me like that. in the scene.”
sungchan didn’t move. “it felt right.”
wonbin finally looked up. his face was unreadable, like he was trying very hard to keep something in. “do you ever get tired of pretending it’s all just acting?” he asked.
sungchan opened his mouth. closed it again. “sometimes.”
wonbin stood, slowly. stepped toward him.
“you ever wish we could stop?”
sungchan’s voice was rough. “define this.” but before wonbin could say anything— there was a knock. not gentle. urgent. a voice from outside: “wonbin. you need to come. now.” wonbin’s expression dropped. he looked back at sungchan, something unreadable flickering in his eyes — fear? guilt? or worse: familiarity.
“don’t.” sungchan said quietly. “not again.”
but wonbin was already reaching for the door.
wonbin’s fingers hovered over the handle for just a second too long. not long enough to change his mind. just long enough for sungchan to see it — the hesitation, the war going on behind his eyes. like his body had already made the decision but his mind was still screaming not to.
he opened the door. the light from outside sliced through the room like a blade, catching both of them in harsh contrast. a P.A stood there, slightly out of breath, headset askew. someone was speaking into her earpiece, tinny and frantic.
“there’s been a—uh something happened. the director’s asking for you. now.”
wonbin nodded. no questions. no reaction.
just that mask again, sliding on like a reflex.
sungchan stepped forward. “wait. what kind of something?”
the pa’s eyes darted between them. “he didn’t say. just that it’s urgent and—look, can you both come? he said sungchan too, actually.”
that surprised them both.
but not enough to slow them down.
shooting day six — 7:54 p.m.
they arrived at the production tent to chaos. phones ringing. a script supervisor crying quietly in the corner. the director pacing with a cigarette that wasn’t lit.
“we have a problem,” he said. wonbin was already folding in on himself, shoulders drawing up like armor. sungchan asked the obvious. “what kind of problem?” the director didn’t answer. just picked up a tablet and turned it toward them. a paused video. pixelated. grainy. from a security camera.
sungchan leaned in. the footage showed someone stumbling out of a black van behind the set lot. wonbin.
or— someone wearing what looked like his hoodie, his gait, his everything. except in the footage, he didn’t walk like someone leaving work. he staggered like someone barely conscious. behind him, another figure. face blurred. a hand on his back. pushing? guiding? the timestamp was from last night. 2:03 a.m. sungchan felt his stomach turn cold.
wonbin said nothing. but his hands… were shaking again.
“tell me this isn’t what it looks like ” the director said. “please.”
wonbin didn’t meet his eyes. “it’s not.”
“but you won’t say what it is either, were you out using it again again ?” sungchan muttered. wonbin looked at him then. really looked at him. like he wanted to say help me but couldn’t say the words out loud without them collapsing in on themselves. the silence stretched. then someone stormed into the tent.
it wasn’t a crew member. it was the showrunner. and she was holding a manila envelope. “everyone out,” she said. “except sungchan and wonbin.” no one argued. when the flap of the envelope opened, sungchan saw the photos. high-resolution. not from a security camera but from a telephoto lens. a tabloid leak.
wonbin, slumped against a car. someone else, holding him up. an unlit cigarette in his hand. a split lip. a glaze in his eyes that sungchan hadn’t seen since three years ago.
the showrunner didn’t yell. she didn’t have to.
“i need to know ” she said, voice calm.
“are we about to have a scandal on our hands?”
sungchan’s heart was pounding.
the silence that followed lasted exactly seven seconds. then wonbin said quietly:
“it’s not a scandal if my addiction never stopped.”
“we traced the metadata,” the showrunner said. “whoever leaked these sold them to a tabloid in seoul under an anonymous license…we've got it under control. payed them to dust in under the rug.”
sungchans gazed flickered up to wonbin’s. and then to the showrunner. "can we get some time alone?" he asked.
the showrunner stepped out with no words in protest shutting the door as she left.
sungchan finally spoke: “it’s him, isn’t it? the man in the footage? “
wonbin didn’t look up. “does it matter?”
sungchan stopped walking. the trailer felt smaller now. “you’re not going vanish this time and expect things to be like before when you return.”
wonbin let his head hit the wall behind him, like it might knock the memory loose.
“he caught me after the shoot. asked if i wanted to ‘feel real’ for a second. said no one had to know. that i deserved something easy. something warm.”
sungchan let out a bitter laugh. no humor in it.
“but that’s the thing, sungchan. he doesn’t know the difference between warm and burning.”
“you could’ve called me.”
“i did. once. before i got in the van.”
sungchan froze. “i didn’t get a call.”
“he took my phone. probably ended it before it even rung. ” a pause. “he always did that. back then. when he thought you were becoming more than a threat.”
sungchan didn’t move. just listened.
“i didn’t go with him because i missed him,” wonbin whispered. “i went because… i missed who i was before he broke me.”
sungchan’s jaw clenched. but still — silence.
“and maybe… maybe i thought if i went back there, just for a night, i could drag that version of me out.”
he stood up slowly, unsteady but not falling.
“but he’s not there anymore. just ashes. just the echo of every time he told me i was nothing without him.” a long beat. breath like static.
“but you looked at me like i was someone, sungchan. like i could be.” and then — quieter, but steady now:
“it’s over. him and me. the pull. the pattern. all of it.” he stepped closer, eyes locked on sungchan’s like it was the only anchor he had left. “i’m not clean. not yet. but i want to be clean again but this time not for the headlines. not even for the music.” his voice dropped, raw and shaking:
“for you. for me. for whatever this is.” he didn’t reach for sungchan.
but he didn’t run either. and that — that was the difference. this time, he stayed.
3 years ago — somewhere in downtown L.A
he wanted to be. he’d tried. but alcohol had stopped working on him around the time he stopped knowing who he was off-camera.
the loft he loved in wasn’t filled with energy. it vibrated with the kind of desperation only the rich and deeply unsupervised could afford.
sungchan was there too. that night. not supposed to be, but there. six months after the show in shibyua six months after the mess wonbin had created and he'd still shown up when he called.
“you shouldn’t be here,” wonbin had said, breath fogging in the cool spring air behind the building.
“you called me. texted me the location even.”
“you weren’t supposed to come. not after what happened.”
“to see if the number still worked.”
wonbin was wearing sunglasses at 2 a.m. he hadn’t been on a tour in almost months. not since the incident. not since the industry had eaten them up along favors and rehab recommendations that were all optics and no help.
sungchan had come anyway. no manager. no driver. just him in a hoodie and a too-familiar look on his face.
“you looked scared,” he’d said.
and then sungchan had said the words that haunted him even now:
“ if you disappear again, don’t expect me to follow and find you next time.”
wonbin wasn’t an actor. he didn’t need the fake tears or perfect lighting. he had stages, sold-out arenas, guitars he’d smashed mid-breakdown on world tour stops just to feel something. he wrote lyrics like confessions and bled into the mic every night.
and then there was lee dohyun.
an older musician. more famous. more reckless. their tour together was chaos from the start — fire and gasoline in leather jackets. fans shipped them. tabloids stalked them. no one saw what happened when the lights went down.
dohyun loved to own things. people, too.
he’d tell wonbin to change his setlist. his outfit. his tone. he’d criticize him, then kiss him onstage. say it was part of the image. “rockstars don’t fall in love,” he said once. “they crash.” wonbin thought they had something. he really did.
later dohyun had found out. about wonbin and sungchan.
not officially. not publicly. not enough to name it. but he saw the shift.
saw wonbin smile at his phone after rehearsals. saw the way he stopped flinching when dohyun raised his voice. stopped apologizing for speaking first in interviews. stopped letting himself be edited out of his own songs.
and dohyun—older, sharper, brutal in the ways only the jealous can be—cut him down with precision.
“ you’re only special when i let you be. “
“ don’t start thinking you’re worth more than what i made of you”
“does your new boyfriend make you feel this important too?”
wonbin denied it. of course he did.
because they weren’t together. not really.
but dohyun didn’t need proof. just the suspicion. just enough leverage to start pulling strings.
he started rewriting setlists. cutting wonbin’s verses from songs without warning. humiliating him onstage with “jokes” that weren’t jokes.
and when that didn’t work, he tried the old tricks—the backstage whispers, the pills, the drinks, the lines drawn on hotel bathroom counters.
just enough to push sungchan away when he called again.
just enough to disappear.
and when wonbin finally walked away — two weeks before their final joint show — the fallout was brutal. dohyun leaked demo tapes. leaked pictures of him and sungchan. the ones where wonbin was clearly high. accused him of ghosting the band. rumors of overdose spread faster than facts.
wonbin disappeared for six months. until one night he decided to call sungchan.
and now he was back. sober. solo. and, somehow, standing on the set of a drama that was supposed to be a comeback, not a relapse.
“you sure he’s done with you now? if you keep in contact he’ll take you down with him. again.”
wonbin met his eyes finally. “that’s not the point.”
sungchan’s voice was flat. “did he ever hurt you?…..physically? emotionally?”
wonbin stared at sungchan and then answered “it wasn’t curiosity, sungchan,” wonbin said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. “it was dohyun. he gave me my first pill, told me it’d help me sleep. help me perform. help me forget. and by the time i realized what he was doing, i didn’t know how to be okay without it didn't know how i'd be okay without him and then came in the bigger deal. rolled papers, powder even.”
sungchan stepped forward. “so why not tell everyone?”
“because no one believes a rockstar wants to be safe,” wonbin said. “they believe we want chaos. drugs. sex. scandal.” he paused. “and maybe sometimes we do.”
sungchan looked at him for a long time. then, softly: “you said that scene yesterday — the one where i touched you — wasn’t just acting.” wonbin nodded.
“neither was this,” sungchan said, reaching out. thumb brushing gently beneath wonbin’s lip, where a tiny scab from a guitar mic still lingered.
“you’re not afraid of me,” sungchan said. “no,” wonbin breathed.
wonbin’s breath hitched. “you don’t get to say that anymore.” sungchan’s face twisted, pain, disbelief, something else he didn’t want to name.
wonbin stepped closer. “you don’t.”
there was silence. and then sungchan whispered, “you called me.”
“back then. that night. you say it didn’t matter. that i shouldn’t have found you . but you called me.”
wonbin looked away. “it was a mistake thought u didn't use the number anymore. thought you had blocked me after what i put you through”
“no, you meant it. you knew i'd never block you.”
“you didn’t want to be alone.” sungchan was so close now. closer than scripted. closer than he’d allowed in three years. and then—
he was always like this — unreadable in the ways that mattered most. a master of with holding. of knowing exactly how much distance to keep between his heart and the camera.
wonbin used to think it was control. now he wasn’t so sure.
he laughed, once. bitter. “things happened exactly what dohyun said would happen if i ever decide to leave him alone.”
wonbin didn’t miss it. “yeah. he knew. he always fucking knew. he was the reason all of this unfolded in the first place.”
three years ago — downtown berlin.
the night everything cracked. wonbin hadn’t meant to go out that night. he was supposed to be in rehearsal — prepping for the last leg of the tour, doing press photos, sitting in a chair while stylists made him look more alive than he felt.
“come to the studio. just for a minute. i need you.” and wonbin—
wonbin had never known how to say no to him.
the studio was a penthouse loft in downtown berlin that someone’s label paid for. it wasn’t soundproof, not really. it smelled like expensive incense and cheaper liquor. dohyun was already high when he opened the door. “you’re late,” he’d said.
“i wasn’t coming,” wonbin answered.
by midnight, the fight had started. nothing dramatic. just hands that gripped too hard. words that cut like glass. a push. a stumble. the sound of something breaking—
a guitar? a lamp? wonbin’s chest? no one remembered.
dohyun had been spiraling. jealous. paranoid. he’d seen the grainy fan photo from tokyo, from that rooftop, from that afterparty. wonbin and some actor sitting too close.
knees touching. smiles too soft.
he’d laughed when he saw it, then thrown a bottle. “he’s nothing,” dohyun had hissed. “he doesn’t know you like i do.”
“you don’t know me at all,” wonbin had snapped .“you kept me around cause you liked the control you had on me and now you're scared that i might go against you, say no when you force me into things again.”
dohyun’s voice had gone cold: “you’re not a person, wonbin. you’re a product. and i made you sellable again.”
that was the last thing he remembered clearly.
wonbin stumbled out into the alley behind the building. barefoot. dazed. bleeding from somewhere near his temple. he didn’t have his phone. didn’t have his wallet. didn’t even have his name, really— just noise in his head and shaking in his bones. he hit a wall. literally. collapsed against it. slid down. someone found him there. not a stranger.
he wasn’t supposed to be there. he’d flown to berlin for a commercial shoot. hadn’t told anyone. but he’d gotten the text. from wonbin. one line. no punctuation.“if i disappear don’t look for me like last time.” he’d gone anyway. when he found him, wonbin couldn’t speak. just looked up at him like maybe he’d imagined it. “you came, i fucking told you not too.” he croaked.
sungchan crouched beside him. jacket already coming off. “you shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“i wasn’t,” wonbin whispered. sungchan didn’t ask what that meant he couldn’t, wonbin had blacked out.
the emergency room. they told sungchan he wasn’t allowed in. he stayed in the waiting room until sunrise. no one from wonbin’s team showed up. by 7:00 a.m., a label handler arrived. cleaned things up. signed forms. called it “exhaustion.”
wonbin was moved to a private recovery clinic in malibu. sungchan was told, gently, to go home after filling out the patient form.
sungchan sat in the vinyl chair wonbin had gifted him, cold coffee in one hand, sleep crusting at the edge of his eyes when his phone buzzed. unkwon caller ID. he answered quick. he had thought it was the hospital calling him.
“you need to come back. now,” his manager’s voice was sharp, tight. “the photos are out.”
his spine straightened. “what photos?”
a beat. then: “you and wonbin. from his tour back in tokyo. the alley. someone followed you.”
his throat went dry. “who leaked them?”
silence. then static. like even the air didn’t want to carry his name.
“are you sure?” sungchan asked, already knowing the answer.
“his handler confirmed it to our legal,” the manager snapped. “he sold them. probably out of spite. or desperation. or both. they were timestamped barely an hour after he texted wonbin. this was planned.”
sungchan felt the words like glass beneath skin. of course it was him.
“does wonbin know?” sungchan said, voice low.
wonbin stared at the window. he couldn’t see the ocean from this room. just hills and glass. too clean. too quiet.
the nurse had given him his phone back.
two texts. both from sungchan.
a knock at the door. his therapist. soft-spoken. new. “we received something you might want to see,” she said, and placed the folder in his lap.
inside: the leak report. compiled by the label. metadata. security trail. timestamps.
and at the center of it — dohyun.
wonbin didn’t breathe for a full thirty seconds. just stared at the page. at the name. at the evidence.
“he leaked it,” he said. not a question. just… grief in a sentence.
“he sold the footage. he sold me.”
he remembered the photos. how they’d blamed sungchan. how they'd turned his kindness into a headline.
the cigarette. the bruises. the van. the blurry shots of sungchan crouched beside him like he was the one doing something wrong.
and all this time, sungchan had said nothing. just stayed. just carried it.
wonbin’s hands shook as he gripped the edge of the folder.
“he didn’t deserve that,” he whispered. “i—i should’ve told him not to come. i should’ve never dragged him into this. he tried to help me and i made him a fucking target.”
his voice cracked on target.
“he stayed with me that night,” he went on. “he took me to the hospital. he held my head when i couldn’t even lift it off the pavement. and he got burned for it.”
his nails dug into his palms. he didn’t cry. didn’t scream. he just folded, smaller and smaller, like maybe if he curled up tight enough he could go back in time and fix it all.
“this is my fault,” he whispered. “he lost everything.”
he opened the texts. two messages.
“they know it was dohyun.”
“i’m still here.”
wonbin stared at the screen for a long time.
his throat closed. he didn’t open them.
because of course sungchan was still here. of course he was. stubborn. unwavering. stupidly kind.
and that’s exactly why wonbin couldn’t answer.
not now. not after what had happened. not when his name was still tangled with sungchan’s in headlines like a noose.
sungchan had done nothing wrong. and he’d still been dragged through the mud for it. his name unblurred. his face circled in red on gossip blogs. called reckless. called careless. called his.
and wonbin couldn’t watch him burn for it again.
he shut off the phone. shoved it into the drawer by the bed.
if he replied, sungchan would come.
if he called, sungchan would run.
but this time… he couldn’t let him.
he closed his eyes. let his head fall back against the wall. exhaled, slow and painful.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered. not to anyone in the room.
just to the silence where sungchan’s voice had been.
“but you don’t deserve another storm.”
not because he didn’t care.
the kind of care that keeps you quiet when all you want to do is beg them to stay.
the other end of the phone went silent. and then a beat later his manager replied “he does. omw to you apartment right now. see you there.”
sungchan leaned back in his chair, but the words weren’t landing. his hand fiddled with his phone. eyes drifting back to the last text he’d sent wonbin.
“i’m still here.”
read. no reply.
minutes later, the door opened. his manager slid in beside him, tablet in hand, face tight.
“you’ve been off all morning,” his manager shot back. then sighed. “look, i didn’t want to do all of this today but—”
the manager hesitated. then:
“the agency’s made a call. given everything… the photos, the press, the way your name is now tangled up in all this—they think it’s best if you don’t interact with him anymore and keep your low the damage has already been done.”
he didn’t answer. didn’t need to.
his manager continued, voice lower now, almost gentle. “they’re blaming you. and there's no way the agency can prove you’ve got a clean record, a reputations crumbled. you can't be near him-
“—you’re going to fall into a deeper pit with him you already have.”
a pause. longer than it should’ve been.
sungchan’s jaw tensed. “you think i care about traction right now?”
“i think you care about him. and that’s exactly why this is hard.”
“they’re asking you to step back,” the manager said. “not forever. just… until it settles. until he’s clean again. until people forget.”
sungchan’s grip on the script tightened, paper creasing under his knuckles.
“he’s not a phase to wait out,” he said quietly. “he’s not a scandal to ride out.”
and then sungchan looked out the window. jaw set. voice flat.
but he didn’t say he’d listen.
because he wasn’t sure he could.
────── back to the present.
when sungchan looks at wonbin now — all sharp edges and practiced calm —he sees that night under his skin. the version of him no one else ever got to hold. the one who asked for help. he sees blood. and broken glass. and an apology that never came.
he sees a boy who texted:
“don’t look.” and hoped someone would anyway.
wonbin sat down like his knees gave out. “so what now?” he asked. “your agency thinks i’m a scandal. the tabloids have footage. the director’s ready to pull the plug.”
“i don’t care what they think,” sungchan said. “i care about you and besides they have dealt with the footage” it was too late and too early for confessions. and yet — it hung there. real. raw.
wonbin looked at him, expression unreadable. “you’re three years too late,” he whispered. sungchan stepped closer.
“then let me be early for whatever comes next.” a breath. then another.
knock knock knock. a voice from outside, not urgent. just… tired.
“they need you both. final blocking for tomorrow’s shoot.”
neither of them moved. wonbin closed his eyes. just for a second.
sungchan didn’t argue. but before they stepped out, he reached for wonbin’s wrist.
not to stop him. just to touch.
to remind him: i’m still here.
and this time, wonbin didn’t pull away.
masterlist. | prev. | next.
[ 🪼 ] started writing this as “what if an actor and a rockstar had a messy confrontation” and accidentally made it gay & i also somehow managed spiral it into three years of unresolved trauma, backstage breakdowns, and more yearning than a mid-2000s indie film soundtrack. wonbin has main character trauma, sungchan is just trying to keep him alive and he prob needs to kiss him gently in between takes. dohyun is the human embodiment of red flags with a guitar. there is enough tension in this to power the entirety of berlin’s nightlife. thank you for reading my thoughts about messy healing, late-night confessions, and emotionally repressed men who whisper “don’t touch me” while leaning into the touch. if you made it to the end of this chap congrats— you, too, may be eligible for emotional damage compensation 👅 !
