Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Backwards

Day -67

Jisung squatted on the ground, careful to keep his balance as to not risk pressing his knees or hands into the glass scattered across the floor. Red was already staining the edges of his shoes, frustration filling his chest. Keeping good care of his shoes was something he prided himself on. Clean and well maintained. Not stained with red wine because of a customer who didn’t even bother to let anyone know they’d shattered a bottle across the floor. A Sunday evening – far enough into his shift to be exhausted but not far enough to be inching toward the doors, ready to escape. Instead, he would spend the next three hours with stained shoes, smelling of cheap alcohol.

As he carefully picked up the larger pieces of glass and placed them in the dustpan he’d grabbed from the back, he heard footsteps approaching him from behind. He hoped it wasn’t a customer coming to comment on unfortunate accidents or laugh faintly as they tell him all first jobs are awful. As if he needed another reminder of his circumstance by someone who was not squatted over a puddle of wine. The volume of a wine bottle never seemed like much until it was on the ground.

“Are you sure you should be doing that? I can do that for you.”

Jisung recognized the voice of his coworker. A teenage boy he could never remember the name of even after months of occasionally overlapping shifts. He tried to never speak to his coworkers unless absolutely necessary. Something about the boy made Jisung want to be around him even less. Something about the boy, as if Jisung didn’t know exactly what it was. The watching. The staring. The subtle comments anytime they happened to be near each other. Anytime Jisung was doing anything involving physical labor, something his job often required, and the boy saw him, he would approach as ask if Jisung should be doing that. Not because it wasn’t part of Jisung’s job description, it most certainly was, but because it was Jisung doing it. Jisung the pretty boy. Jisung the thin feminine thing shoved into the unfortunate store t-shirt. A good man like himself couldn’t stand by and watch someone as pleasing as Jisung push carts across asphalt or break down empty boxes or clean up wine.

“I’m fine,” Jisung said, not bothering to stop what he was doing, hoping the boy would take a hint and leave him alone.

“I can take over if you want,”

Jisung had no desire to sweep up glass and mop up red wine, but he had even less desire to give into whatever ridiculous notions had been raised into the boy, “I’m fine. I think they need you up front.”

“You can head up front, and I can finish this up.”

“No. It’s fine. I’m almost done anyway. I don’t mind cleaning it up.” Not at all a fair assessment of the situation, but it didn’t really matter, not when they both knew he was lying.

“Okay, well, if you want to switch, let me know.”

He walked past Jisung, stepping to avoid the liquid, and rounded the corner out of the isle. Letting out a slow breath, Jisung grabbed for the broom leaning against the shelf, and began to sweep the smaller glass pieces and consequently some of the wine into the dustpan. Rolling a cart over the wine left on the floor, Jisung stood and headed to the back to dispose of the broken glass. He pushed past the plastic, swinging doors and walked carefully to the dumpster-like bin they had in the back. He knew it wasn’t really safe to dump the glass loose, but they didn’t have a proper disposal for broken glass.

Leaving the broom next to the shelf of cleaning supplies for the store, Jisung grabbed a thick role of paper towels and some of the generic cleaner in an old plastic bottle which had been refilled many times and a plastic garbage bag. The isle was still empty when he returned. Rolling the cart off the puddle, he unraveled paper towels and let them fall to the floor, soaking up the liquid. He squatted down again, pushing the paper towels around in a clump. Saturated with the wine, he added more, trying to ignore the sweet alcoholic scent seeping into his nostrils and clothes. He’d probably smell like wine for the rest of his shift. Still years away from being able to drink legally and stuck cleaning up spilled wine.

He was getting paid at least.

It didn’t make up for anything. His family wasn’t desperate for money. His parents were doing okay with the jobs they worked which kept them from being around enough to actually act like parents. He only had this job because they thought it would teach him responsibility, because they thought it would teach him to grow up. Wasn’t he grown up enough? He did everything for them. Cooking and cleaning and marriage counseling. Laundry and gardening and watching over his brother. He was a stand-in husband to his father and a housemaid to his mother. But he wasn’t grown up enough.

They didn’t know anything about him besides the fact he was their pretty, perfect little son. Silent and compliant and easy to manipulate. Nothing else mattered. He was there to take care of them while they bragged to their friends about how great of parents they were for raising such a well-behaved son.

At least they would miss him if he was gone. They’d have no one to cook dinner for them.

Jisung balled the glob of paper towels up and shoved them into the black plastic trash bag. They were soaked through, dripping wine onto the floor, and staining his fingers. He should have grabbed gloves, but he didn’t know where they were and didn’t want to ask. It was a lost cause. He was already going to smell of cheap wine regardless of what he did. It could have been worse. Last week someone had dropped a glass jar of caramel sauce in the middle of one of the isles. It had ended up on his clothes and in his hair. A middle-aged woman had stood by and watched as he’d done his best to clean it, saying nothing, but getting her daily entertainment in. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she was the one who’d dropped it.

Jisung sprayed the ground with the pungent smelling bulk cleaner they kept in the back and used the last of the paper towels on the roll to wipe away the remaining red. The white linoleum needed a mopping as well, but luckily that was not part of his job description. The store paid a cleaning crew which came in most nights to handle the more in-depth cleaning so employees like Jisung were available to do productive things like pack groceries while adults stared at him and retrieve the shopping carts pushed far beyond the parking area of the store.

He threw the bag of wine-soaked paper towels in the shopping cart and pushed it toward the back of the store. The wheels squeaked, one of the back ones turning in lose circles instead of touching the floor as it was meant to. He wanted to kick the cart into one of the shelves, yank off his walkie, and watch it shatter into pieces. He wanted to press his hands to his ears and scream. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t do it. Weak weak weak weak.

He was making more than minimum wage so it was worth it. Spending money, right? That’s what all teenagers wanted. Money in his checking account so he could afford gas to drive the forty minutes back and forth to work. Money in his checking account so he could afford the coffee he had for lunch every day. Savings growing for a future he didn’t even want to have. That’s what it was all for. The future he couldn’t see hidden behind the curtain. New clothes. Shorts to show off his legs and a low-cut top so the people around him had somewhere to look beside the empty pit of his eyes.

Jisung tossed the garbage bag into their large trash and parked the cart next to some of the others abandoned in the back, too overwhelmed by the sound of the broken wheel to bring it to the front of the store where it belonged. He put the cleaner back to its shelf. Voices of other employees echoing through the open space. The scent of cardboard and artificial cold spilling from the walk-in freezer and refrigerator. Laughter. Laughter from someone whose day wasn’t obscured by smog and a sun so bright it blinded him to everything else. He wondered if the person who broke the bottle of wine was laughing at him or were they simply too embarrassed to apologize. Maybe they were in a rush and hadn’t spared a thought to the employee who’d end up bent over shards of glass and the sickly sent of cheap alcohol.

Jisung wandered back toward the front of the store, the overhead fluorescent light buzzing like a swarm of flies, laying eggs under his skin. He could feel them hatching, burrowing deeper, fighting for whatever nutrients was left. With everything inside him, he wanted the day to be over. Not for his shift to finish but for the day to be over. He’d get home at seven. Too late for dinner (he’d prepped something in the morning instead, knowing no one else would take care of it), but not too late for the rest of his family to be in bed. He’d still have to sit with them, talk with them, listen as they described how awful their day was and tell him he was lucky. Lucky he was so young. Lucky his job was easy. Lucky he didn’t have any responsibilities.

He wondered how much it would hurt if he swallowed the bottle of ibuprofen in his bathroom. He wondered how much it would hurt if he drug the old blade hidden in his tampon box through his wrists. He wondered how much it would hurt if he let go of the steering wheel on the drive home.

Sneakers against the floor tiles, the background noise of the chattering customers and the song on the radio. A child screaming in some isle. He walked through the frozen dinner section, stepping around a couple quietly arguing. The woman had her hands gripped around the bar of a grocery cart, knuckles white, voice low as the man in front of her rolled his eyes. Jisung didn’t want to know. Jisung didn’t want to hear. There were enough arguments in his life without having to overhear strangers.

Jisung let himself into the small area where the employees stationed up front could leave their water bottles. It was a small area surrounded by special display stands in which they stored supplies and the dry ice cooler. He wished it offered him a place to hide, but it wasn’t a real breakroom. The other employees and customers could see him as he twisted the cap off his water bottle and drank greedily. Anything to give him a thirty second break from interacting with anyone else.

Cornered and helpless, the other teenage employee approached him again. Waiting, clearly, he’d been waiting, as he let himself into the small area, the same condescending look on his face. It was impossible to escape him. Doing his job seemed to be secondary to following Jisung around every time they had overlapping shifts. There was nowhere for Jisung to run in the oversized box of a store. Chained and locked in place as everyone else seemed oblivious to his discomfort.

“Is that a rainbow sticker on your water bottle?”

Jisung tipped his head back down, screwing the lid back onto the beat-up water bottle. It was an old silver thing he’d had for years. A variety of stickers splattered over the metal, collected from various trips and hobbies. Along the bottom edge was a sticker, color beginning to wear off, that was a thin line of rainbow hearts. He honestly wasn’t sure of where he’d gotten it.

“Yeah, I guess,” Jisung responded not knowing what else to say.

“What, are you a faggot or something?”

Jisung froze, fear clawing through his chest so suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Ripping his insides to shreds as he tried not to blink. No emotion. No reaction. He couldn’t… he couldn’t… he couldn’t say anything – because he wasn’t! He wasn’t gay. He was just an ally. That was all. That’s the reason he’d gotten the sticker in the first place. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Because it wasn’t safe. It wasn’t safe for it to mean anything. And it didn’t matter that it wasn’t safe because he wasn’t gay. He was dating Minho. Minho was a guy. His best friend. He wasn’t gay or bi or anything else. He wasn’t.

“No, it’s just a rainbow.” Jisung heard himself say, voice echoing through him like the walls of an abandoned church. Desolate and wronged and full of unanswered prayers.

“I mean,” The boy flicked his eyes up and down Jisung’s frame. “You don’t look it, but you can never know nowadays I guess.”

Black skinny jeans and the grey store t-shirt. A pushup bra and mascara because he was supposed to look good always. It was safe. It was safe that way. No one noticed him for the wrong reasons. Young and pretty and skinny like he was meant to be. He couldn’t wear anything else because it would be wrong, because people would ask questions, because then he wouldn’t be the perfect, silent boy anymore.

“So, you support them?”

Jisung blinked, thoughts trapped in the molasses of his melting mind, “Huh?”

“The LGB-ABCDE or whatever the hell they call themselves. You support them or something? Is that why you have a rainbow sticker on your water bottle?”

He should have known better. He did know better. The little line of rainbow hearts always made him glance back, the sickly ball of fear which never left the pit of his stomach churning, reminding him that it would be so easy for something to go wrong. It would be so easy from someone to ask a question he couldn’t answer right and then everyone would know – there wasn’t anything to know but they would think. They would think things that weren’t true. What if someone told Minho? What if Minho asked and… and obviously Jisung supported gay people, Hyunjin was one of his best friends, but it was different. It was different because it was him and he wasn’t like that. He wasn’t.

“Yeah, my friend is gay.” Jisung muttered.

The boy snorted, “You didn’t strike me as the kind to be friends with fags, but you’ve got that delicate, soft-hearted look about you so maybe I shouldn’t be too surprised.”

What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to say?

“I don’t mind them I guess; I just don’t understand why they insist on being in the public eye all the time, you know? Like keep your perverted kink shit private. They’re trying to normalize being gay like it’s okay and not an issue, but it is. I’m not religious or anything, but come on, if being gay was normal than people would have always been like that. They got the right to marry each other. What more do they want?”

The buzzing of the overhead lights. Maggots crawling beneath his skin robbing him – robbing him – of what little good was left in his bones. Digging down to the bone marrow and silently sucking him dry while the world turned around him. A mother handling too many young children. An elderly couple touching every apple on the display. A coworker filling up helium ballons at the floral counter. Everyone around him. Wriggling in his muscles, the itching of wings as they readied themselves to burst free. Shredding, shredding, shredding every part of him left. Dignity and safety turned to rot.

“Is your friend, like, one of the ones who insists on bringing their boyfriend with them to dances and shit? I know two or three people who did that last year at prom. And the fucking school board won’t let the principal tell them no because it wouldn’t be fair,” Taunting, smirk stuck on his lips as he squatted down to try and sneak a hit off a vape he kept tucked in his pocket. “God, I wish the school would grow a pair. No one wants to see them there. It ruins the mood. Trying to get a girl to put out while some fucking faggots dance around you is impossible. If there are lesbians its better because its hot, but guys, ugh, fuck that.”

Jisung was going to die, and no one was going to notice. In the middle of a grocery store, at a job he despised, unanswered text messages from his boyfriend sitting in his phone. Everyone around him was carrying on like nothing was happening. Couldn’t they hear the flies beating against the inside of his ribcage? Couldn’t they hear the static filling every inch of the cavernous store?

Again, the boy’s eyes scraping over Jisung’s skin, examining every inch like he was an item on display (he was an item on display), “You though, I wouldn’t have any objections if you had an interest in girls. I can think a few you’d look really good with.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

A boyfriend. Jisung had a boyfriend, elsewhere, working his part time job and training for dance. Responsible and calm and perfect. Jisung hadn’t answered his good morning text before going to work. He’d seen it and not answered because he hadn’t wanted it to be morning. He hadn’t wanted anyone to acknowledge that another day had passed, and he still had to get up and go to work. Jisung had a boyfriend, and he was standing in a grocery store being eaten alive with rainbow hearts on his water bottle.

“I think I’ve seen him before. Doesn’t he meet you during your break sometimes?”

Wriggling maggots and the legs of flies pressed against the soft mucosal lining of his sinuses. Paper thin wings fluttering against his tonsils. Burning pressure in his face, eyes filling with tears, white eggs budded along his lash line. Bloated fingers and swollen lips. Gums shriveling and pulling away leaving his teeth shaky in his jaw. Belly button piecing drooping from his skin, tearing through the pale flesh. Rotting. Rotting. Rotting. Rotting.

There was broken glass in the back. Thick and jagged. He could reach in and dig it out of the garbage. Dirty edge as he opened himself up. Fingers digging through the tendons, flayed muscle twitching, as he scooped out the foreign creatures making his body their home. He wasn’t good enough for that. They deserved something better.

And he would keep digging and digging because it would never be enough. All anyone would find was rot and emptiness covered in congealing blood.

“Shannon is glaring at us,” He snipped. “God, she’s not even the floor manager, why does she care what we do?”

Jisung set the water bottle down. He would remove the sticker when he got home. It was something he should have done months ago. He should never have put the sticker on at all. It detracted from his point of existence – it would ruin the illusion that there were no thoughts behind his grabbable body and empty eyes. He knew better.

“I’ll go collect carts,” Jisung tried to push past him, but the boys stopped him, laughing, with the placating, flattering smile he liked to wear whenever Jisung was around.

“No, I’ll go collect carts. You stay inside where it is nice and air conditioned, okay.”

Jisung didn’t bother with an answer. He walked away, laughing again, and left Jisung standing, insides being shredded to pieces as mucus and maggots dripped from his nose. The lack of conviction in his voice, the pale lips, and shaky hands. There was no way the boy didn’t clock something being off with Jisung’s response to his accusation. He should have laughed, should have joked back, should have done something other than stand there. He would think… he would think Jisung was gay or bi or something. Something he shouldn’t have been. Something he wasn’t.

But he had a boyfriend. No one could argue with that. Perfect little femme Jisung with his strong boyfriend. That was enough, wasn’t it? Or did he need to prove it? People saw them together, sure, but Jisung could count on his fingers the number of times they kissed in public. Minho didn’t shy away from appropriate PDA, but Jisung always froze. People would believe him if he kissed Minho more. People would believe him if he let them go all the way – let Minho have sex with him and tell his friends about it. Then everyone would know. Then he would be safe.

Everyone thought he was a prude. Or a lesbian. Or broken. Even his parents expected him to put out. His mother had bought him a small package of condoms and told him to be safe and to come to her if he needed birth control or anything else. What was the point of him being beautiful if he wouldn’t let anyone fuck him? All he had to do… all he had to do was lay there. Minho would handle the rest. Make faces and sounds as Minho pushed into him, the latex of the condom and the artificial lubrication, breasts exposed as Minho’s hands trailed over his body—

The water bottle clattered against the floor, metal clanging echoing through the store, and Jisung scrambled to pick it up. He could feel the eyes of customers and coworkers burning into him, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the tightness exploding through his chest and nasal passages. He was going to die right there in the middle of the store leaving behind a boyfriend who never got to fuck him and a family with no one to properly feed them. The maggots were in the back of his throat, crawling over his uvula and the roof of his mouth. Squirming between the gaps in his teeth. The flies weren’t far behind. Legs grasping for purchase in his spit-slick throat.

“Excuse me, can you help me?” A woman asked from outside the small staff-only area.

Jisung nodded, twisting his lips into a smile, and hurried toward her.

“I have this specific brand of pasta sauce I am looking for, but I’m not sure if the store carries it. It’s vodka sauce, in a glass jar, kind of orange in color, but I don’t remember the brand.”

He wanted to lay down. He wanted to go away. He wanted to be someone else.

There was still glass in the trash can. He wondered what would happen if he took it into the restroom and tore himself apart. He wondered what would happen if he smuggled it home and pressed it through his cheek, into his nasal cavity. He wondered what would happen if he wasn’t pretty anymore. He wondered what would happen if he slit himself open down below, ruined the part of him meant for things to be put in.

It would create too much of a mess. The last thing he wanted to do was be a bother.

Forwards

Day 61

Jisung leaned awkwardly against the window of the bus, scooting as far away as he could from the man in the seat next to him. He’d wished he stayed standing, but there had been a lot of open seats when he’d gotten on. There were still a few open seats in the back, but someone had chosen to sit next to him anyway. It was fine. It didn’t matter. The nervousness in Jisung’s chest was of his own making. The man didn’t care about him. He hadn’t even glanced twice. It was fine. Jisung was no one. He was almost to the stop where he’d need to get off and hesitantly ask the man to move out of the way. Then he’d be done with the horrific experience of public transit for a few hours.

A car rattled by the window as Jisung dug his nails into the backpack on his lap. Chan’s yearly Christmas/ New Years/ Holiday party wasn’t really the kind of event he needed to bring a bag to, but he couldn’t help himself. Having his favorite water bottle and supply of anxiety medication made him feel safe; plus, his laptop if he was completely desperate for a distraction. Chan always let Jisung put his belongings in his bedroom so they would be protected from the dozens of other friends milling about the house. Changbin was visiting his parents, Hyunjin had some kind of dance job keeping him busy, and Seungmin and Jeongin were on a trip someplace warm (he’d already forgotten where). The only people he would really know were Chan, Felix, and Minho. Jisung had met a lot of Chan’s other friends and work acquaintances before, but he wasn’t comfortable around them. There were always so many new faces. Jisung had no idea how Chan kept up with so many people. Jisung could barely handle the few friends he had.

They were good people. Chan was particular about who he let get close to him and even more particular to who he invited around his other friends, especially Jisung. As much as it pained Jisung to admit, he was the sensitive one in the friend group, always had been. After one incident in college where Chan invited someone over who made some not-so-friendly comments to Jisung, everyone allowed in his vicinity was thoroughly vetted. It wasn’t something Jisung asked of him, it was simply something Chan insisted on. Jisung hadn’t even told him when the incident occurred. Changbin simply happened to be within earshot and reported back to Chan as soon as he could.

Their love was wasted on him. Every time he saw them, their soft smiles and gentle touches and calm understanding, he was reminded of simply how much they had to give and how much he took. Because he took everything. Always. Endlessly draining everyone around him as his bottomless soul ate greedily. It was never enough. He was still broken. He was still tired.

He’d told them so many times to go away, to move on with their lives and leave him behind, but they refused. Since the day they laid eyes on him, a scared college freshman trying to figure out how to pass his classes without shattering to dust, they refused to leave. It didn’t matter what he did. It didn’t matter what he said. He was theirs through and through.

The bus jerked to a halt and Jisung gestured frantically, silently asking the man next to him to stand, and let him out before the bus driver decided he was tired of waiting for people to make their way to the doors. The man looked up from his phone long enough let Jisung pass, not sparing a second glance. Jisung stumbled as his feet hit the curve, the back doors of the bus emptying out onto a patch of dirt and bushes instead of the actual sidewalk.

He shouldn’t have come. Standing in the doorway of his apartment, keys between his fingers, shuffling his feet as he focused on breathing – he should have listened to the fear in his belly and stayed home. The only thing the evening could lead to was disappointment. Disappointment from his friends that he isn’t capable of being something other than a black hole and disappointment in himself that he can’t hold it together for a few hours.

Jisung started down the sidewalk, hands coming up and grasping the straps of his backpack like a schoolgirl. Time, time, he needed more time. The fear, the panic, the overwhelm. It was already rising in his belly, spreading through his chest. White hot and icy cold, racing through his nerves. The tips of his fingers were already tingling and numb. He would ruin it. Ruin it.

He could see the house. Cars were parked out front and across the street, annoying to the neighbors, but they didn’t live so far out of the city that people complained about things like that. Jisung enjoyed his vehicle-less life perfectly fine. The only reason he traveled outside his apartment was for food and to occasionally see his friends. Someone he didn’t recognize was standing at the front door, fist raised, knocking to be let in. Another person he would have to make introductions to. Another person slotted into the long list of people he didn’t want to know.

The holiday season was endless and soul crushing. One thing after another after another. It was one of the busiest times of the year for work and the most demanding socially. He could wriggle out of traveling to visit his parents due to his workload, but he couldn’t get out of the constant phone calls and text messages. The guilt tripping of him not ‘coming home’, of not loving his family enough, of being ungrateful. Ungrateful? Ungrateful? He spent his entire life being perfect for them until it nearly killed them, but it still wasn’t enough.

He owed them his life because they gave him his.

Why did he owe them a thank you for something he never asked for? Why did he owe them a thank you for inescapable suffering in a world going to shit? They’d been young and selfish and following the rules of society. How was any of it his fault?

The front door was open, and Chan was peeking out. The stranger had already escaped inside. Like some sixth sense, Chan locked his eyes on Jisung’s approaching form and stepped outside into the cold. His bare feet on the wood of the porch. It was ridiculous and endearing and Jisung wanted to throw himself into traffic.

He sped up his steps, not wanting Chan to be in the cold for a second longer than necessary. It didn’t get freezing in their city, it was too wet for snow, but the wet cold tended to seep into bones and stay for hours, though it was a problem Chan never seemed to face. He was a furnace. It wasn’t uncommon in the college days for Jisung to curl up against Chan while they were at the apartment like he was a space heater. It had made Jisung feel loved, and Chan feel useful.

“Are you cold?” Chan asked predicably as Jisung neared. “You’re not wearing a jacket.”

“I have a long sleeve on under the sweatshirt. I’m fine.” It wasn’t really the truth. He was cold from the frigid outside air that always filled the bus in the winter, but the idea of bringing a coat on top of his backpack had been too overwhelming so he had simply forgone it.

Then the door was open, and he was being ushered inside. He was late. Not his fault, the bus had been behind, but he still felt bad. Objectively, Chan didn’t care what time Jisung arrived, but it still made him feel as if he’d broken some sort of promise. The party, or get together, as Chan referred to it, was also in full swing. No easy way to ease himself into the people and noise. No way to carve himself out a corner to squat in before anyone else had the chance.

“You can put your things in my room if you’d like,” Chan said, as if Jisung needed a reminder. It was the promise made to Jisung every time he came over – Chan’s room was a safe space. Somewhere no one else could enter but him, Chan, and Changbin.

Jisung nodded and bolted for the stairs. A few of Chan’s coworkers smiled politely as he passed by, acknowledging his existence. Somehow that was already too much. He wanted to be the ghost in the room. Silent but ever present. There in the lives of the people he cared about and no one else. Listening but rarely speaking. It was easier that way. He wished he could exist in a universe of his own. Someplace soft, someplace forgiving, someplace removed from the history traced over his skin.

Twisting his body around two women talking at the base of the stairs, he hurried up them and pushed into Chan’s room, closing the door behind him. He slipped the backpack off his shoulders and rested it on the bed, opening the zipper and pulling out the bottle of his anxiety meds. He took three out (the dose his psychiatrist recommended when he was overwhelmed) and swallowed them with a gulp of water from his water bottle. He should have taken the pills before he left his apartment, but some part of him always hoped he would be better than he was.

His fingernails gently scraped over the metal of the bottle grasped in his hands as he took slow breaths, trying to ready himself for the party below. He didn’t have to stay long; he just wanted to stay long enough to show Chan he cared. It wasn’t that Chan was forcing him, he wasn’t and never would, it was about Jisung. He wanted to be able to show up for the things his friends cared about. He despised himself every time he couldn’t.

Setting the water bottle down gently on the bed, Jisung took one last deep breath, let his eyes flutter closed, and tried to force calm through his limbs. He let himself out of the bedroom, latching the door closed, and glancing up at the paper taped to the wood – private please don’t enter. Chan’s gift to Jisung even though it was his party. And it hurt, deep in his chest where he would never be able to reach. He loved them. That was the worst part. It wasn’t that he wanted to ruin their evening, that he wanted to abandon them, that he wanted to be the friend who dropped out of their lives. It wasn’t that he wanted it; it was that it was the best course of action for everyone.

Downstairs was loud but not unbearably so. Yes, it was a party, but a calm, grown-up party, not like the Halloween party Hyunjin, Felix, and Minho had thrown. Christmas music was playing in the background. Everyone was chatting and mingling, the drinks in their hands in glasses instead of disposable cups. It was the kind of party Chan liked to host. He could buy expensive alcohol (not that he would drink any of it himself) and cook whatever holiday themed finger food he’d found on Pinterest.

“You’re here,” A voice announced from his side, startling him.

Minho was staring at him with his soft eyes. He was in a dark green sweater, the kind of green that reminded Jisung of wreaths and Christmas trees. A thin silver necklace hung around his neck, almost a choker, a small bell resting between his collarbones. It made him look uncannily like a cat who’d been transformed into a human. It was a joke they’d made when they were younger, how much Minho looked like a cat. Jisung had been a chipmunk. His chubby cheeks were a feature he’d hated at that age, believing they made him look not-thin, but he’d never told anyone that. So, they were a joke. The cat and the chipmunk. Minho chasing Jisung.

Jisung hummed in acknowledgment, smiling politely. Minho was the person who was somehow always too close yet too far. Just out of reach yet tied to Jisung like an unrelenting anchor. Jisung wanted to split himself open and spill himself onto Minho, let him see everything, let him dig his finger in and take all that was left. Jisung wanted to cut out his own tongue, bury the years of unsaid things in his rotting flesh. If only he could fix it. If only it had never happened.

“Do you want a drink?”

Minho had a bottle of beer in one hand, condensation trailing down and pooling on his fingers. The brand was something Jisung didn’t recognize, most likely from a local brewery or some specialty beer. It wasn’t an area Jisung had a lot of knowledge in. He knew he shouldn’t take Minho’s offer of a drink as he wasn’t supposed to have alcohol with his antidepressants and anxiety medications, but he wanted something else to help him relax. With his alcohol tolerance, one or two drinks would have him properly tipsy, but not enough to give him a hangover.

“Sure, yeah,” And then Minho was leading him to the kitchen as if Jisung wasn’t as familiar with the house as he was his own apartment.

Winter and New Years themed treats were set on trays across the countertop. The hard liquor and wine bottles were stacked next to the refrigerator along with a display of cocktail glasses, regular cups, wine glasses. Felix was standing next to the sink, washing his hands while humming along the music. His hair was in a half-up style with a small, twisted braid bun at the back of his head and he was wearing red and green plaid pants with a white button up. He was far more festive and well-dressed than Jisung, but it wasn’t surprising considering Jisung was in baggy grey jeans and an anime hoodie.

“I didn’t see you come in,” Felix squeal and threw himself at Jisung, wrapping him in a hug, hands still dripping with water. “Chan said you might not show up, but you did! Do you want something to eat? Or a drink? I’ve been trying to make cocktails, but I am not very good at it.”

“Sure,” Jisung couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh. Felix’s warmth had a way of rubbing off on everyone around him.

“Chan got the stuff for a hot toddy and a yule mule, which is mule with cranberry and orange instead of lime, and a figgy spritz and, um,” Felix glanced down at a paper with a list of drinks and their ingredients. “A cranberry paloma and spiked hot chocolate and a peppermint martini. Or if you have another cocktail in mind.”

Jisung blinked, overwhelmed by the options Felix threw at him. He drank so rarely he didn’t know what most of the drinks named would even entail. As long as it was yummy and the taste of the alcohol wasn’t too strong, he would be happy. The way Felix was peering at the paper and the bottles on the counter did not give him confidence the drink would even come out as intended.

“Lix, why don’t you let me handle the cocktails?” Minho suggested gently.

Felix nodded, relief on his features, as he stepped aside and gave Minho full access to the drink crafting supplies, “Chan was supposed to oversee drinks – I was in charge of making the treats – but he keeps getting distracted by everyone. I want to let him mingle though. He was so excited to introduce me to everyone he hasn’t yet. Apparently, he shows off pictures of me at work, so everyone already knows who I am.”

“He’s obsessed with you. Of course he shows you off at work,” Minho said while looking over the instructions for the cocktails. “Sung, did you decide what you want?”

“Oh, um, the peppermint one sounded good.”

“It has white chocolate liqueur and peppermint schnapps. Are you okay with that?”

He hummed in conformation as Felix held out a cake pop covered in light blue melted chocolate and snowflake shaped sprinkles. Jisung grabbed the white stick and took it into his hand. He wasn’t really hungry, but he knew he should try and put a little bit of food in his stomach to balance out the medication and alcohol. It had been a solid eight hours since he ingested anything. The smart thing would have been to eat dinner before leaving his apartment, but he’d been too overwhelmed to force himself to cook and eat. Anyway, he knew there would be food at the party, even if it wasn’t the most nutritious.

Minho opened the freezer and pulled out a martini glass with melted chocolate covered in crushed candy cane frozen around the rim and at the bottom. He acted as if it was a totally normal thing to do, as if having prepared cocktail glasses resting in the freezer wasn’t an insane amount of dedication to a chill holiday party. Jisung didn’t even know Chan owned martini glasses. Next, he scooped ice into a cocktail shaker and measured the liquor and cream before pouring them in as well.

“Oh yeah,” Felix laughed at Jisung’s shocked face. “Minho used to work as a bartender in college and for a while after too. He’s really good at cocktails, way better than I am. Were lucky he’s so nice or you’d be stuck with my attempt.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jisung replied quietly.

“The hours were awful, but I made good money. The tips were great.” Minho said before shaking the container.

Jisung winced at the sound of ice against metal, but after thirty seconds Minho stopped and poured the mixture into the glass. He held it out and Jisung took it carefully with the hand not occupied by the cake pop. It looked like milk, but he could smell the peppermint and his mouth started to water. Chocolate and peppermint were always a weakness of his.

“Do you want something too?” Minho asked Felix.

“Can you make me the same drink? It looks so good.”

Minho smiled and started the process over again.

“Him being a bartender was great because he always gave Hyunjin and I discounts on drinks,” Felix continued. “The drinks there were fun, and they always had specialty themed ones. It was a gay bar, of course, none of us would go anywhere else. Uck! They had a drag show almost every weekend. It was the best place in town. And Minho raked in the money because the guys thought he was hot, and the girls thought he was sweet.”

“Oh,” Felix slapped the counter, bouncing with excitement. “When the bar would have amateur nights, sometimes Minho would do drag. It was so much fun. You should have seen him! He was so good. I told him he could have been a professional drag queen, but he always said he didn’t have time.”

“I didn’t have time. I was either going to classes or working multiple jobs.” Minho butted in.

“Wow,” Jisung took a second to let the thought of Minho in drag solidify in his brain. “I wish I could have seen that.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Felix reassured him. “Once the party is over, I am going through my old photos and sending you a ton. Minho’s backup career was drag and stripping—”

“All of our backup careers were stripping,” Minho laughed. “I’m pretty sure every dance major considers it at some point.”

“We both would have made amazing strippers,” Felix declared happily before pausing the conversation to let Minho shake and pour his drink into the candy cane incrusted martini glass. “High-end Vegas strippers. Fancy shit.”

“Did you have a fun backup career plan when you were in college?” Felix asked, turning the conversation back on Jisung.

“Oh. No, not really. I didn’t even have a career plan until my senior year, and I only had that because of Chan and Changbin.”

“You do freelance graphic design, don’t you?”

“Yeah, kind of. I work mostly for youtubers. I add special designs and edits into videos. Stuff like that. It’s nice. I like it. I can work from home and my schedule is whatever I want it to be.”

“Ugh, jealous, jealous. Nutcracker season is awful. I am either performing or practicing nonstop from Thanksgiving to Christmas. We get a bit of break now at least. My body is dead.”

“December is usually a busy time for me as well. Lots of creators post more and do special challenges around Christmas time. I don’t mind it. Keeps me busy and gives me an excuse not to visit my parents.” Jisung shrugged, eyes falling to the floor as Felix and Minho shared an uncomfortable look between themselves.

Minho had been subjected to a dinner with his parents since Jisung fell back into his life, exposing him full well to the complicated relationship, but Felix had no such experience. Jisung’s parents were always kind and friendly when his friends were around when they were in high school. Felix and Hyunjin always held a very warm opinion of his parents. They always smiled and offered snacks. Minho had known somewhat better. He’d listen to the comments Jisung would occasionally make, under his breath, afraid that if he spoke them too loudly his parents would sense his betrayal.

“Are you going to visit them after the holidays?” Minho asked cautiously, sipping from his glass.

“Yes. I haven’t picked out the exact dates yet, but I can’t get out of it. February was the last time I went down and visited them, almost a year ago, so they are pretty insistent. They get upset if I don’t visit them every few months.”

Minho wrinkled his nose, “You’re an adult. They shouldn’t expect you to travel and visit them multiple times a year.”

“Try telling them that,” Jisung muttered.

He took a swallow of the martini, the bitter burn of the alcohol almost masked by the peppermint and chocolate. They didn’t want to look at him and he wanted to stop talking, but he couldn’t help the jabs spilling from his lips. His parents didn’t deserve it. Or maybe they did. Either way, it didn’t stop him from being a bad son. Spoiled. Ungrateful. Rotten.

The grimace on Minho’s face made his stomach twist. His opinions of them were more biased. He only got Jisung’s side of the story. They struggled. Raising him was difficult. Finances were difficult. Life was difficult. He was supposed to make life easier for them, but it was never enough. He never did enough. He was never enough. It was his fault too. It wasn’t like anyone wished for a child like him when they daydreamed about starting a family. Minho could tell him a thousand times he deserved better, but that didn’t make it true.

“I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you,” Felix said, ever the optimist.

Minho hummed and sipped on his beer, eyes roaming around the room. Jisung, muscles frozen, half-smile stuck on his lips like a little plastic doll, he waited. Distraction. Distraction. Distraction. Something else would come up and they would move on and Jisung could slip it back into the recesses of his mind. He needed time. He needed quiet. A breath and then it would be okay again. His medication was settling in his stomach and soon enough the chemicals would be in his bloodstream replacing the panic with the numb, dizzy sensation.

The aftertaste of the chocolate and peppermint liquor were bitter on the back of his tongue. The sweetness was already settling a peach fuzz on the enamel of his teeth. Neither sensation was pleasant, yet he couldn’t stop himself from taking another drink. The warmth trailing down his throat was pleasant, almost painful, but still soft. Felix copied his action, eyes lighting up as he took in the Christmas-esque flavor.

“Ah, hello,” A woman said as she stepped into the kitchen. “The drinks are in here, right?”

“Yes, they are,” Felix started, moving aside to help her browse the drink selection.

He was in hosting mode even though he technically wasn’t the one hosting. It was Chan’s get-together, but it seemed more of a joint effort. Jisung was glad, especially since Changbin wasn’t around, and he was the one who usually helped Chan. Jisung helped sometimes, mostly with set up or clean up, never with the social aspect of hosting. Or the cooking. He did what he could which was never a lot. Chan never blamed him or asked him for more, but it was still frustrating to look around and see everything he should have been capable of.

“Are you Chan’s boyfriend?” The woman asked Felix.

“Yes, I’m Felix, nice to meet you.”

“He shows everyone in the office pictures of you from the ballet,” The woman went on, chatting politely, Felix making conversation with her the way only extroverts could do.

Jisung shifted toward the edge of the kitchen, away from the stranger. Minho seemed to sense his desire to escape, and slipped out of the space, nudging Jisung along to follow. Jisung did as he was instructed, brain too far offline to make any proper decisions. Somehow, he’d almost finished the drink Minho had made. The alcohol on top of his various medications was already notably affecting him. The world was unsteady, fuzzy around the edges, and the tightness in his chest had loosened. The air felt thick but not suffocating. He still wanted to be away, but it was no longer a desperate need to scratch his skin off.

What the fuck was wrong with him? He wanted to be the fairytale – closeted trans kid who finally comes out and everything is smiley faces and rainbows – the picture-perfect reason why people should be allowed to transition. He wanted to be a good representation of his community. Yet he was still mental illness and self-harm scars and bottles of anti-depressants, simply existing in a body that felt less like a prison. Maybe that was the reason his parents never seemed to truly believe he was trans, not even after top surgery. Some part of them seemed to believe that one day he would wake up and tell them it was a phase, that he was confused, that it was something he grew out of. If he pretended hard enough for everyone to believe in the fairytale maybe strangers wouldn’t try so hard to strip his rights away.

“Are you alright?” Minho asked.

There was a Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. Chan wasn’t religious, but celebrated Christmas still, as did most people in America. The tree was decorated with carefully placed bulbs. They looked expensive, probably were. Chan cared about things like that. Wanted things to be pretty and perfect. Jisung didn’t have a tree in his apartment. He’d gotten out of the habit of celebrating any kind of religious holidays once he lived on his own. His parents always wanted him to come for Christmas. They weren’t overly religious, but Christmas was still an important day to them. He’d gotten out of visiting the last two years due to work contract obligations. They hated it, but what could they do? It was his life after all, regardless of whether they agreed with the way he was living it.

“I’m fine,” Jisung said.

Minho had led them to the base of the staircase. It sat along the edge of the living room. The guests were civil enough not to travel up the stairs to the part of the house not unintended for them. Jisung was the exception, of course, being Chan and Changbin’s best friend. Jisung sat on the third stair up, knees buckling into an ungraceful landing. He swallowed the last of his drink and set the glass next to him. Minho watched, looming above him, eyes blinking rapidly. Jisung could tell he was contemplating what to say. Jisung was the kind of person who made it difficult – made everything difficult. Every meeting between the two of them Jisung did nothing but boil alive in the depths of his brain. He wanted to offer something better. He wanted to be better.

“Do you want another drink?” Minho asked finally.

Jisung knew better, but he agreed anyway. Minho picked up his empty glass and disappeared back toward the kitchen. How could he be – Jisung didn’t deserve him. Jisung would ruin him. The begging, begging, begging blackhole in Jisung’s chest wanted Minho so badly, so fucking badly he could hardly breath. Jisung could remember sitting outside his parent’s house, summer sun burning his shoulders, knees grass stained, looking at Minho’s smile and crescent eyes thinking he is supposed to be with me forever. It was before romance, before their first kiss, before shaky heels and grapefruit vodka in the high school parking lot. It was before everything went wrong, when Jisung’s mental illness was no more than scratches on his thighs with a nack and hiding food in the trash can. How was he supposed to put together the pieces of who they were then and who they were now?

There were too many things he could never be forgiven for. Too many things he could never forget. There wasn’t anything anyone could do to save him. There was no grand love. No happily ever after. Jisung would live until he died. Minho would go on and find someone whole who could love him. Someone who wasn’t a black hole. Someone without scars and rainclouds. There would be no forever. Maggots and the rotting corpse of a bird in a parking lot. Chipped nail polish and bleeding gums.

Minho appeared again, handing over another peppermint martini as if it were the easiest thing in the world to acquire. Jisung thought that maybe he wanted to kiss Minho. He couldn’t tell. Sertraline and gabapentin and alcohol swirling through his system. Everything tasted sour. Even the sweet white chocolate of his martini. Warmth down his throat and up his sinuses. He was making a mistake.

“I almost didn’t come. I thought about just staying on the bus and letting it take me to some random part of the city.” Jisung blurted.

Minho seemed unsurprised at the sudden confession, “You always take the bus. You don’t have a car?”

“Mmh, no. It’s cheaper, I guess. I live close enough the grocery store. When I lived with Chan and Changbin they forbade me from getting a car and promised to drive me around everywhere instead. When I moved out, I still didn’t get one because I don’t like driving anyway.”

“They forbade you from driving?”

“Oh, yeah. I mentioned once that every time I drive, I get the urge to drive into oncoming traffic or into a tree, and then they wouldn’t let me. I didn’t think they would care so much, but once I stopped driving, I realized how much I disliked it anyway.”

“Oh,”

Jisung shook his head. The tension holding him together always loosened with alcohol and he ended up saying things he shouldn’t. It was as if his ability to lie was switched off. Thoughts simply came pouring out of him whether he wanted to or not, and most of the time he didn’t think about the consequences until after. Sometimes it felt good. To let go. Breathe out and make someone else suffer the horror worming through his brain.

“Sorry,” Jisung said, sipping at his drink.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do though,” Sourness coating his tongue, spilling between his teeth. “After all of this, after everything I did to you, I didn’t get better. I was sick then, and I’m still sick now. It doesn’t matter what I do. There is something in my head that is broken, and I can’t… autism and depression and OCD and whatever the fuck else they’ve diagnosed me with over the years… they aren’t things I can heal from and come out on the other side. I tried. I really tried. I work from home, on my own schedule. I live by myself. I am on meds. I go to therapy. This isn’t my fault.”

“Jisung,” Minho sat on the stair next him, eyes wide and soft. “I don’t blame you for anything. What happened in high school, I reacted like a teenager, too caught up in my own feelings to notice yours. I was never angry. I was hurt, of course, but I missed you so much throughout college. Hyunjin and Felix used to make fun of me for it. I need you to know that I’m not upset with you in any way. You don’t owe me anything, especially some perfect, put-together life.”

Hot tears welled up in Jisung’s eyes and he hated himself for it. So quick to cry. The world was spinning around him. The background noise dulled to a pinprick, everything in his body focused solely on Minho. Minho. His Minho. Calloused palms and soft cheeks and red ears. Safe. Always safe. Not angry. Not bitter. Not exhausted. Kind and mature and waiting for Jisung to open and expose himself. There wasn’t the pressure to rush and spill his guts. No rough demanding of an explanation for the breakup or the disappearing act or showing up as a boy.

“You know you’re a really good person,” Jisung whispered, fingers itching against the side of the martini glass.

“I’m not that good of a person,”

“You are. Yeah. You are.”

“I’m not going to leave you again, regardless of whatever happens.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“I won’t.”

Jisung’s tongue sat heavy and numb in his mouth, lips tingling, as the alcohol made itself at home in his system, mixing bizarrely with his prescriptions. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ingested as much alcohol as was in two cocktails. The professional lightweight, Chan and Changbin liked to call him, because he got tipsy on half a drink. He was sure his ears were flushed a bright red. It was embarrassing, but Jisung didn’t know anyone at the party well enough to care, besides Minho and Chan.

“Would you have had sex with me if I’d asked?” The word’s tumbled from his mouth unexpectedly, a startled laugh following after.

Minho looked at him, face flat and eyes wide in confusion, “What?”

“In high school, I mean, sorry. Would you have had sex with me in high school if I’d told you I wanted to?”

“Oh,” Blinking rapidly, trying to formulate a response at the bizarre, uncomfortable question. “I guess, yes, I would have if you’d wanted to, but we never got close to getting to that level of intimacy.”

“I tried. I really, really tried. It wasn’t that I didn’t want it, I just… didn’t want it that way. I used to lie in bed at night and imagine it, try to talk myself into it. I would get undressed and play pretend that you were there with me, seeing me. On my back, my breasts flat, nipples pointing out. Hair between my legs because I was too afraid to try shaving it. I imagined you leaning over me, looking down at me, hand cupping my breast, and I would start to cry. I would cry until there were tears pooling at my temples and my throat was full of mucus, but I wouldn’t stop imagining you. I would tell you to ignore the tears and keep going, to stick it in and get it over with, because if I let you put it in me then I would finally be a good boyfriend. I could prove to myself and everyone that I was a good boy and that I deserved you.

“I hated it. The thought, the feel of your imaginary hands on me. I knew I would never be able to go through with it if you were looking at me. If you were seeing me. My skin. My bones. Every pretty thing that made me up. So, then I decided that I would be able to do it if I were on my hands and knees and you were behind me. I wouldn’t have to look at you and you wouldn’t have to see me. I could close my eyes and cry and it wouldn’t bother you. I practiced that too. Naked, on my bed, on my hands and knees, imaging you behind me, slotted into me. Hurting. I always imagined it hurting.”

“Jisung…”

“Every time I would cry. These embarrassing, loud, overwhelming sobs. I remember coughing mucus up onto my comforter and spitting up in my trashcan. I don’t know how no one else in my house heard me. Maybe they did. Probably. I realized at some point I would never be able to actually go through with it. That was what cemented it for me that I was incapable of being a good boyfriend. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Everyone expected me to do. Hyunjin asked me one, over message, if we’d had sex yet, said you wouldn’t talk to him about it. He asked when we were finally going to do it or if I was going to keep you waiting. Teenage boy shit. My mother even bought me condoms. I didn’t ask. She gave them to me and told me to be safe. I was sitting in my room with a box of condoms feeling like I was going to throw up.

“Every time we kissed all I saw in my mind was taking it further, your hands cupping my breasts or down my pants. I could almost feel the sensations of being stripped down and opened up. I couldn’t think about anything other than the fact that I was supposed to take it further. I hated kissing you because what if more happened? What if it didn’t? I couldn’t do the thing I was supposed to do to make up for everything else about me.”

“Sung…”

“That’s one of the reasons I got drunk on homecoming night. Do you remember? It was one of the only times I ever remember you being upset with me. I thought if I got drunk it would be easier for me to convince myself to let you go further. I had this whole stupid plan. We would go to the dance and have a good time and then on the way home we would park on the barren street by my house, and you could roll my skirt up over my hips and fuck me in the backseat. I had cuts all over my hipbones, but I thought it would be dark enough maybe you wouldn’t notice. Then that day I was wearing that stupid fucking dress and all I wanted to do was dig my nails into my skin and tear my face off.

“I dumped you not long after right? I don’t remember very well. That time is all blurred and black in my brain. I wanted to say sorry. I ruined your night. I ruined everything. I just wanted it all to stop. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think. It hurt so much all the time and all I could do was sit there and be pretty.”

Jisung stopped, panting, spots speckling his vision. He wasn’t crying or on the edge of a panic attack. It was something else entirely. He felt like a glass of water which had accidently been tipped over. Minho was staring at him, lips parted, ears red. Horrible, horrible things he’d just said. What could it possibly accomplish besides traumatizing Minho?

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I’m kind of drunk.”

“Okay.”

Jisung knew the party was going on around them, but it had all faded away. His entire world was the drink in his hand, the stairs under his butt, and Minho. A part of him wanted to believe it was fate: the falling out and finding each other again years later. A love story. A second-chance romance. Something with a happy ending, like the kdramas he watched. He knew it wasn’t. Not with a lead like him. Still, sometimes it was nice to pretend there was a chance he could get a happy ending.

“I think I should leave.”

Minho’s face twisted into a grimace before quickly settling back to his flat features, “You haven’t been here long. Stay and enjoy the party. There is no reason for you to leave.”

“If Chan talks to me, he is going to know something’s wrong and he’ll worry. I can’t filter anything when I am drinking. I’m a burden enough as it is. He doesn’t need to hear anything else.”

“You’re his best friend. You aren’t a burden. He worries because he loves you.”

Jisung didn’t want to respond. He’d had the same argument with Chan and Changbin a hundred times. They could say everything in the universe and none of it could ever convince Jisung he was anything other than a black hole. He didn’t want to have the same argument with Minho. He’d traumatized him enough already. He was lucky Minho hadn’t turned and walked away. What right did Jisung have to say such awful, disgusting things unprompted?

“I’m sorry,” Jisung repeated, tongue not able to sound out anything else.

“I know.”

It was so obvious Jisung never meant any harm. Everything he did was followed by endlessly repeated apologizies and clenched fists and snot. He was a victim of his mind too. It didn’t make any of it hurt any less. He would never forget the look on Changbin’s face when he pulled him out of the street. He would never forget Chan’s tears dripping onto the blanket as he covered cuts with colorful bandages. They would never forget the sight of his blood on the bathroom floor. He had carved a space into their hearts and filled it with tar. A rotten, festering scar which would never heal.

He was sorry and everyone knew. He was sorry and everyone was trapped. He was sorry and there was food rotting in the fridge. He was sorry and there were blood stains on his jeans. He was sorry and Chan couldn’t go twelve hours without hearing from him without a panic attack. He was sorry and Changbin was always tense at cross walks. He was sorry and there was multiple first aid kits stashed around the house. He was sorry.

Over and over and over again. He could keep saying it, but that didn’t take away anything he’d done. He could choke on it, tears in his eyes, suffering and suffering, but that didn’t take away the pain he’d inflicted on everyone else. His life was gaping hole. He was a vacuum moving through the days, draining the air and light from the world around him. He didn’t understand how anyone could bare to be in his life, let alone sit next to him, let alone care about him. It didn’t make any sense.

Jisung set the martini glass next to his feet and dropped his head into his hands, fisting into his hair, “I hate drinking. I say too much and always the wrong thing and make everyone upset. I’m not supposed to have more than one drink.”

A noise came from the back of Minho’s throat, “Why did you let me make you a second one?”

“Because I am nervous. And stupid. And I hate myself.”

“Would water help you feel better—”

“I found you,” Felix materialized in front of them, smile splitting his face, glass still in his hand. “I thought you had run away like at the Halloween party.”

“No. Still here.” Jisung didn’t take his head out of his hands.

“Oh. Are you okay? Min, is he okay?”

A beat of silence, a chance for Jisung to answer, before Minho did instead, “I think he has had a little too much to drink. I was going to get him some water.”

There was some shuffling as Felix replaced Minho next to Jisung on the stairs. Minho picked up Jisung’s discarded glass and walked away, headed toward the kitchen. He hoped Minho wouldn’t run into Chan and tell him what was going on. Chan deserved to have one good evening without Jisung choking him with worry and care. He shouldn’t have come. He knew better, but he let Chan convince him anyway.

A hand rested on his back, making him tense. It was one of the first times Felix had touched him since high school. Small, warm hand between his shoulders. Soft and gentle. No wonder Chan liked Felix so much. They matched energies perfectly. Both so caring, even if it showed in different ways. The sun and moon crashing together, breathing the same air. Soft and sweet and orbiting each other forever.

“Do you feel sick?” Felix asked softly.

Jisung shook his head, “I was talking too much. I was saying things I shouldn’t have been.”

“That’s okay. It happens, especially if you’ve been drinking.”

“I don’t say… okay things when I can’t stop talking. Everything that comes out of my mouth is awful,” Jisung turned his head to look at Felix. “There are things that should never leave my head. I am a bad person.”

“Hannie, you are not a bad person. I’ve known you since we were little kids and I’ve never once thought you were a bad person. Do you think Chan and Changbin would have stayed with you if you were a bad person?”

“They stayed because they felt sorry for me.”

“They don’t feel sorry for you. They want to help you to have the best life possible. They love you so much. Chan talked about you so much before he introduced us. I was so excited to meet you and even more excited after I knew the Jisung he talked about was the one I grew up with.”

Jisung shrugged Felix’s hand off his shoulder, skin suddenly burning and itching. The noise of the room echoed through his ears turning to an overwhelming static. Everyone was happy. Everyone at the party except for him, hunched on the stairs, mind unraveling from a handful of prescriptions and two cocktails. He was supposed to be happy but instead he was collapsing in on himself.

“I’m not the Jisung you grew up with. You grew up with Jisung, and he was a cunt who broke your best friend’s heart and daydreamed about killing himself. The person you grew up with was an empty shell who did whatever he was told and let everyone do whatever they wanted to him. It was all pretend. I wasn’t anyone. I’m barely anyone now.”

The color drained from Felix’s face, “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to imply that you are the same as you were in high school. Obviously, you’ve changed a lot – in a good way. You’re not the same person you were then. It came out wrong. I just mean… I missed you. All I meant is that I missed you and wondered what had happened to you. Our parents lost contact, so I had no way of—”

“No, Felix it’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Felix didn’t look any less panicked. “It’s the alcohol. I’m saying things I shouldn’t. I’m overwhelmed.”

“You’re allowed to tell me if I upset you,”

“You didn’t… it’s complicated. I was talking to Minho about high school and already wound up. I’m always sensitive about the past when I’m drinking. It’s why I’m not supposed to have more than one drink.”

“Of course, high school is a sensitive topic. It must have been difficult – more than I could ever understand. I had a really hard time in college when I realized I wasn’t straight. I spent a lot of time… struggling with that and my religious beliefs, growing up strictly Catholic. It’s not something I like to talk about either.”

“I’m sorry,” Jisung was still buzzing, flies wriggling under his skin. “I wish I could have been there. When we were younger, I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it. We were supposed to grow up together. I ruined everything. All those years of friendship gone because I was too broken to keep up a relationship.”

“Jisung, we were sixteen and stupid. You think I don’t regret ghosting you for the remainder of high school? I wish I could go back and change it every day. We should never have left you alone, regardless of whether you and Minho were dating. We were supposed to be better friends than that.”

Jisung hit the heel of his palm against his temple. The dull, repeated pain grounding him as he tried to piece together everything happening in his head. He should have never had anything to drink. He should have never said any of those awful things to Minho. He could never take them back. Coughing up rotten chunks of the past at Minho’s feet. After everything, he’d made them real. Through the fake smiles and long hair and dresses, he’d kept it all to himself, but now, eight years later, he’d made it real. If it stayed in his head at least then the only person it could hurt was him.

“Hey, Sung, don’t do that,” He heard Minho’s voice cut through the static.

Gentle fingers on the back of the hand rhythmically thudding against his head. They weren’t sharp or tugging it away, just enough to bring him back to the reality of the moment. Christmas music and chatter filling the house. The hard wood of the stairs below him. Thick chocolate stuck to the back of his tongue. The tingling, numbness of his lips and nose.

The things he’d said – the things he’d said – the things he’d said.

“I should go home,” Jisung stood, ignoring Minho and the glass of water clutched in his hand.

He’d said things to Minho he’d never meant to say to anyone. Those awful things he did alone in his bedroom. The hours trying to convince himself that all he had to do to be a good boyfriend was to get on his hands and knees and let Minho stick it in. Lying naked on his bed crying into the dirty comforter wishing his mom would hear him and come to check if he was okay. Bad, bad, pathetic things he’d done.

“I don’t think you should take the bus home if you aren’t completely sober,” Minho said, taking a step back and giving Jisung room to breathe.

“I shouldn’t be here anymore. I shouldn’t. I need to go home.”

“I don’t think Chan would want—”

“I don’t need Chan’s permission to leave. I am not a child.” Jisung snapped.

The buzzing under his skin was unbearable. A hollow pit of pain was opening up in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole. One step out of place and he dissolve to smog. Happy voices echoing around him, and his friend’s concerned faces in front of him. This wasn’t where he was supposed to be. This wasn’t where he deserved to be. No part of him deserved forgiveness. Not the sixteen-year-old boy and not the twenty-four-year-old he’d turned into.

“I’m going home.”

Felix and Minho didn’t argue. Stock-still, watching him as if he were about to walk into oncoming traffic. Jisung wasn’t. All he wanted was his bed, to crawl under his heated blanket and turn on a YouTube video, letting everything else fall away. Pretend he hadn’t said those things. Pretend he was a good friend who didn’t bail on a party after thirty minutes. Pretend he was whole and healed.

The peppermint martini still burned in the back of his throat. His fault. It was his fault. It was always his fault.

In Between

It goes like this: The lease is up on their apartment, and they have to find a new one closer to Chan’s job, but still near the university. Jisung trails along to each of the tours but never says anything. He doesn’t care where they end up as long as they are together. He doesn’t have to worry about the details, not with Chan inspecting the kitchens and bathrooms and laundry situation.

They find an apartment at the perfect location with three small bedrooms. Beautiful and new construction. Gym in the basement for Chan and Changbin. It’s on the fourteenth floor. It has a balcony attached to the living room. Big enough for a seat or two and some plants. The street below littered with cars and people milling about. Shops and restaurants and a park on the corner.

It goes like this: Chan asks to leave before the touring agent can finish his spiel about why the building would be perfect for them. They know why. They all know why, even if the agent is flabbergasted. It doesn’t need to be said that Jisung is not to be trusted with access to a balcony higher than three stories from the ground.

Instead, they end up in an apartment with coin laundry in the basement instead of in their unit and no gym, further from Chan’s work than he wants, but it doesn’t have a balcony. Jisung makes his room his own, covering the walls with posters of his favorite bands and shows. Plushies piled on his bed, falling off every night as he tosses and turns in his sleep. It is nice. It is good.

It goes like this: Jisung isn’t allowed to lock his bedroom door. He isn’t allowed to lock the bathroom door. Chan counts the knives in the kitchen every night before he sleeps, not that Jisung is ever tempted to use their cooking knives. Chan and Changbin love him more than he can understand, but their love isn’t capable of filling the black hole in his chest. He’s not a child. He knows how to hurt himself regardless.