skye ⭑

the backstage area of the arena was a chaotic storm of pre-show adrenaline and heavy mechanical noise. bass frequencies vibrated violently right through the soles of your heavy combat boots, and the air smelled like a suffocating mix of hairspray and the expensive cologne the boys had drowned themselves in. you were well-versed in the frantic ritual of getting stage-ready.

but tonight, the weight of the concept felt heavier. the theme was a high-concept, futuristic cyber-punk—sleek, metallic, and sharp. it required a level of effortless, dangerous confidence. and lately, you had been struggling to find that in yourself.

being the late addition to an already established, powerhouse boy group meant battling a silent, constant voice in the back of your head. a voice that whispered you were always a step behind. martin was the perfect leader, juhoon was a natural prodigy, seonghyeon’s presence was commanding, keonho’s energy was magnetic, and james... james was an absolute force on stage. 

and then there was you. sometimes, you felt like a placeholder. a piece added to a puzzle that was already complete without you. the boys tried to make you feel less like that, but the doubts still crept up on you sometimes.

that deep-seated feeling of never being ‘enough’ naturally bled into everything you did, especially the one thing that was entirely yours: your art. secretly, you were a chronic, almost compulsive artist. back home, your bedroom drawers were a literal graveyard of billions of unfinished sketchbooks, crammed with intricate, breathtaking designs that you hid away like a dirty secret. you never finished them because the moment a drawing near-completed, you’d convince yourself it was messy, uninspired, and completely unworthy of being seen.

but tonight, the cyber theme had triggered a rare, persistent vision in your head. a desire to feel like you belonged to the concept. an hour before the show, while the venue was still running sound checks, you had quietly slipped away into a dimly lit corner of the dressing room. resting your left arm flat on the vanity table, you pulled out a pouch of ultra-fine, waterproof black liquid liners.

painstakingly, you began to trace sharp, razor-thin, neo-tribal cybersigilism lines starting right at the curve of your shoulder joint. you let the liquid ink weave down your bicep in aggressive, elegant geometric webs, wrapping tightly around your elbow, cascading down your forearm, and splitting into fine, thorn-like wires that tapered off perfectly at the very tip of your middle finger. to make sure it survived the intense choreography and your own sweat, you had completely drenched your entire arm in three heavy coats of industrial-strength makeup setting spray.

when you finally stepped out into the main styling lounge, your jacket draped loosely off your left shoulder, the head stylist stopped dead in her tracks. she gasped, dropping a pair of safety pins, and reached out to gently hover her fingers over your bicep.

“oh my god, yn-ssi,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “wah, look at this sleeve! where on earth did you buy it? the mesh matches your skin tone so perfectly, i can’t even see the seam at the shoulder. did you order it from that new techwear brand in japan?”

you let out a soft, slightly awkward laugh, instantly pulling the edge of your jacket up a fraction to dismiss the praise. “oh, uh... yeah, something like that. just found it online while scrolling through a random site. it’s actually kind of cheap up close.”

“it looks incredibly realistic,” she muttered, still inspecting it in awe before getting pulled away by a frantic assistant. “make sure it doesn't snag on your wardrobe!”

you stared at your arm in the mirror, a familiar twist of self-doubt hitting your stomach. 

the lines on the forearm are a little shaky, you thought, instantly picking it apart. the stylist is just being polite. if it were actual art, it’d look cleaner. 

to you, it was just a temporary distraction from the pre-show anxiety. you figured keeping the ‘mesh sleeve’ lie alive was just easier than admitting you’d spent an hour drawing something that wasn’t entirely perfect on yourself.

it didn’t take long for the boys to notice.

“whoa,” martin said, pausing mid-sentence as he adjusted the heavy straps on his utility vest. he walked over, his eyes locked on your arm. “honestly, that fits the concept so well. is that for the show?”

“yeah, it looks completely badass,” juhoon added, leaning in so close his nose was practically an inch from your forearm. “the graphic styling is insane. it makes you look like some sort of cyber-assassin. where did wardrobe find that? why didn’t we get those too?”

seonghyeon nodded in approval from the couch, sipping an iced americano. “it works. definitely elevates the silhouette. you look like you belong in a sci-fi film.”

belong. the word twinged in your chest. 

“it’s just a cheap sleeve, guys,” you said softly, offering a tight, small smile. “it’ll probably look totally different under the harsh stage lights anyway. don’t look too closely.”

james, who had been sitting quietly while a stylist tamed his blond hair, caught your eye through the large vanity mirror. a slow, incredibly warm smile spread across his face, but his eyes narrowed slightly at your tone. he knew that tone—he knew the exact texture of your voice when you were trying to shrink yourself down. he didn’t say anything right away, but the intense, unwavering look in his eyes made your chest tighten with a different kind of heat.

then, the illusion shattered.

keonho was hurriedly downing a bottle of water, his mind clearly racing through the opening formation, when one of the stage managers accidentally bumped into his shoulder. keonho stumbled forward, a sudden, heavy splash of water flying straight out of his bottle and landing directly across your forearm.

“oh! shit, sorry! yn, i’m so sorry—” keonho panicked, immediately grabbing a rough paper towel from the table and lunging forward to wipe it dry.

“wait, don’t touch it! don’t wipe!” you gasped, your instincts entirely taking over.

before he could smear it into a giant black smudge, you snatched a soft tissue, slapping it onto your wet arm and rapidly, delicately dabbing at the skin, trying frantically to absorb the moisture without ruining the hour of fine-line work you had put in. but the setting spray could only do so much against a direct splash and panic. when you pulled the tissue away, a section of the razor-sharp lines near your wrist had visibly smudged, leaving a distinct, charcoal-grey streak across your skin and transferring a dark print onto the white tissue.

the dressing room went dramatically silent. keonho’s eyes went completely round, his jaw literally dropping. martin stopped pacing. juhoon physically bent over, staring at the blurred ink on your actual skin.

“wait a second…” seonghyeon blinked, putting his coffee down with a loud thud. he stood up and walked over, his sharp eyes scanning the edge of the design. “that’s... that’s actual ink. you’re not wearing a mesh fabric.”

“yn,” martin whispered, his voice laced with pure shock. “you drew that?”

“you didn’t buy a sleeve?!” keonho yelled, his voice cracking slightly as he looked from the smudged ink to your blushing face. “are you telling me you hand-painted an entire, highly detailed tattoo sleeve on yourself?! and i smudged it?”

your cheeks instantly flushed a deep, burning crimson. a wave of intense humiliation washed over you. you felt exposed, like they had just caught you trying too hard to be impressive. you stared down at your boots, your voice dropping into a defensive, hurried whisper.

“i mean... yeah. just with some liquid liners i had. it’s really not that great, seriously. look, the symmetry near the inner elbow is totally warped, and the lines are way too thick near the top. it’s kinda messy. i only did it because i felt like my stage outfit was missing something and i wanted to fit in better, but i ruined it anyway, so—”

“‘not that great’?” james’ voice cut through your frantic ramble like a knife. he had completely abandoned the styling chair, walking past the hair stylist to stand right in front of you. a disbelieving, breathless laugh escaped his lips, but his eyes were entirely serious. he reached down, his fingers warm and steady as he took your left hand, lifting your arm up into the vanity lights to inspect the sweeping, intricate cyber-vines.

“yn, look at this,” james said, his voice firm, forcing you to look at him. “the line weight, the shading, the tracing... this is breathtaking. you’re a literal genius.”

“seriously, the line work is completely insane,” juhoon whined, his voice a mix of awe and absolute betrayal. “why on earth have you been hiding this from us? you’re so talented! i didn’t even know you could draw like this!”

“i’ve seen professional tattoo artists with shakier hands than this,” seonghyeon murmured, leaning in to track a line that wrapped perfectly around your wrist bone. “this takes serious technical skill. to do this on your own arm? it’s amazing.”

“i’m sorry i splashed it,” keonho said, looking genuinely remorseful but completely amazed. “but oh my god, yn. you’re like... a master artist. why did you lie and say you bought it?”

you swallowed hard, looking at the floor. “because... it’s just a doodle. it’s not perfect yet. you guys are great at music, at dancing, at everything. i didn’t want to show off something that wasn’t actually good.”

martin stepped forward, placing a heavy, grounding hand on your shoulder. “hey. look at me. stop that. this is beyond good. you are a part of this group, and your talent is insane. if anything, we should be bragging about you.”

the boys crowded around you in a tight circle, completely burying you in a wave of loud, genuine praise. they didn’t just think it was a cool gimmick; they genuinely loved it because it came from you. for the first time in months, the loud, critical voice in your head was drowned out by the voices of the five boys who genuinely cherished you.

suddenly, martin’s face lit up, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “wait. we have about twenty minutes before our final lineup. yn... can you draw on us?”

“oh my god, please!” keonho begged instantly, thrusting his left arm forward so fast he almost hit you. “we need to match! think about how insane it would look on stage if the whole group had matching custom tattoos on our left hands. it perfectly binds the whole concept together! it makes us look like a real unit!”

“yes! do mine first, please,” juhoon chanted, hopping from foot to foot.

you looked at their eager faces, your chest swelling with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. they wanted a piece of your art on them for a major concert. they wanted to wear your work on stage.

“okay, okay, sit down!” you laughed, the last remnants of your anxiety melting away. “stop crowding me! i can only do quick ones on your hands or wrists, we literally do not have time for full sleeves.”

the next fifteen minutes turned into a chaotic, incredibly sweet bonding session. you perched on the edge of the leather sofa, uncapping your fresh liners, while the boys practically formed an orderly queue. they watched you work in absolute, uncharacteristic silence, completely mesmerised by how steady and precise your movements were.

“don’t move, mars,” you murmured, anchoring his hand with your fingers as you drew sharp, geometric bands mimicking cybernetic rings around his knuckles.

“i’m not moving, i’m not even breathing,” he whispered back, staring intently at your hand. “this is an honour, honestly.”

next was juhoon, who got a sprawling, sharp digital starburst across the back of his hand. “this is so sick,” he whispered, turning his hand back and forth in the light the second you finished. “i’m never washing this hand again. it’s an official cortis artifact now.”

“you have to wash it tonight, juhoon, you have skin oils,” seonghyeon chided calmly, though he was already holding out his own wrist. you gave seonghyeon a sleek, minimalist cyber-bracer that looked incredibly elegant. for keonho, you drew aggressive, venom-like spikes creeping up from his palm to his forearm, which had him flexing in the mirror instantly.

“five minutes to stage, cortis! final wardrobe checks right now!” the head manager shouted, banging loudly on the open door.

the styling room erupted into motion. the backup dancers were lining up in the hallway, and the other four members were already hyped up, high-fiving each other and aggressively showing off their matching left hands to the wardrobe staff, who were all murmuring in disbelief.

you stood up, capping your pen, a small, genuine smile on your face. but a gentle, firm hand caught your wrist. james pulled you into the quiet, shadowed space behind the heavy wardrobe racks, away from the rushing coordinates and shouting managers. the soft smile on his lips had deepened, but his dark eyes were intensely focused on you, holding a depth that always made your breath hitch. he held out his left hand, turning it over to expose the clear, bare skin on the back of it.

“my turn,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that private, low register that was reserved solely for you. “can you draw something specific for me? something that reminds you of... us?”

your heart gave a violent, familiar thud against your ribs. you looked down at his bare hand, then up at his face, the old insecurity trying to rear its head. “james... we only have like two minutes. what if i mess it up? yours should look the best, and i don’t want to give you something ugly right before we go out—”

“hey,” he interrupted softly, stepping closer until his chest practically brushed your shoulder. his right hand came up, his long fingers gently cupping your jaw, forcing you to stop looking at his hand and look into his eyes. “look at me.”

you looked up, your breathing shallow.

“stop doing that,” he whispered, his thumb softly brushing over your cheekbone, careful not to ruin your makeup. his expression was a mix of intense adoration and a slight, protective frustration. “stop talking about your work like it’s a mistake, and stop acting like you’re lesser than anyone else in that room. do you have any idea how brilliant you are? you sat out there and completely transformed the group’s look in fifteen minutes because you’re incredibly talented. you are more than enough, pretty girl. on this stage, in this group... and with me. do you understand?”

a small, breathless lump formed in your throat, but the sheer sincerity in his voice washed over your insecurities like a wave, putting them to sleep. you nodded slowly, a genuine, tear-tinged smile breaking onto your face. “okay.”

“good,” he murmured, his eyes softening as he released your jaw and held his left hand out again. “now, be fast. i want a piece of your art on me before we walk out there.”

taking a steadying breath, you pulled out your finest brush pen. you held his hand securely in yours, your fingers interlocking slightly to steady his palm, and began to ink his skin. but instead of the purely sharp, aggressive cybernetic lines you had given the others, you let your hand flow into something far more intricate.

you drew a striking, stylised butterfly. its wings were composed of sharp, futuristic shards and dangerous, metallic spikes—fitting the concept perfectly—but right at the center, weaving the dangerous wings together, you hid a microscopic, delicate infinity loop. 

it was a silent promise. a hidden symbol of the way the two of you had evolved together, growing wings but staying entirely bound to one another amidst the deafening, chaotic noise of your idol lives.

as you lifted the pen, finishing the final stroke, james looked down at his hand. the contrast of the edgy, futuristic art against the deeply tender meaning behind it made his expression soften completely. his breath hitched slightly, his fingers trembling just a fraction.

“it’s beautiful, love,” he whispered, his eyes lifting to lock onto yours, burning with a fierce, unwavering pride. “truly. it’s my favorite thing i’ve ever worn.”

“cortis, let’s go! stage doors are closing!” coco, your manager’s, voice boomed from the hallway, followed by the deafening roar of the crowd through the monitors.

james didn’t care about the rush. his right hand slid back to the nape of your neck, pulling you in firmly as he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. the kiss was deep, lingering, and full of a quiet, possessive love mixed with adrenaline. it sent an electric jolt right down to your toes, completely wiping away any leftover traces of your doubt.

he pulled back slowly, a breathless, confident smirk playing on his lips. he slid his fingers down to your left hand, intertwining his fingers tightly with yours. your matching, hand-drawn cyber art aligned perfectly, skin against skin, ink against ink.

“come on,” james whispered, tugging you toward the roaring light of the stadium. “let’s go crush it, pretty girl.”

© hyuneskkami ❦