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Jisung likes to stare up at the sky. Even when it's pitch black, all the stars are hiding behind clouds and the moon can no longer shine...Jisung thinks he prefers it that way.
It's comforting, truly comforting, to stare at the endless sky through the confines of his fogged-up window. Even upon this wintry day, when he's all bundled up in sweaters and relying on the whispered promise of the stars, Jisung looks out into the distance.
He runs his hand down the glass, gelid fingertips yearning to reach out and grace the embrace of the moon. But that isn't possible, and it will never be possible, so Jisung's heart aches at the unrequited love.
Oh how his little heart aches, the stuttering organ frosted over in misery and dejection.
Jisung only wishes he could be as perfect as the moon and the stars. He often wonders what that would be like. Something inhuman, something perfect, something that would rid him of all his flaws and humanity.
Oh how he hates being human. He despises it, truly truly despises his existence.
He runs his frost-nipped hands up and down his arms, mourning the loss of comfort he never had in the first place. Jisung feels lost...lost in his own head, wandering the endless forest of his miserable mind with no light to guide him out of the dense foliage. There is nothing to guide him out of this madness.
The stars...they do not shine for him. And the moon...it does not glow to bring him any solace.
In fact, nothing brings him the reassurance he so desperately craves.
No one cares enough to do that. No one ever has.
However, there is one thing that can comfort him. It may bring nights of regret and twisting turmoil, but Jisung doesn't mind. He never minds. It’ll be a problem for future him to deal with.
He sidles off of his windowsill, wincing as the cold floor sends gelid chills up his legs.
He wonders if this is what death feels like. The never-ending cycle of dreading waking up, forcing yourself to make it through the day, working yourself to the bone and then going home just to do it all again. Life is so utterly draining, he's a slave to his existence, and there's only one thing that can make it all bearable for Jisung. It's not pretty, not healthy, not anything good. He knows that it shouldn’t be any of those things, and yet, sometimes it is.
Jisung doesn't care about the consequences, at least not now.
Between the sleepless nights where he drowns in the very sheets he spends hours tossing and turning in, and the burning itch in his fingertips to paint himself red, Jisung feels as if he's already six feet under.
Maybe this sickness is an addiction - a dependence and obsession that he desperately craves to fill that hole of loneliness and misery in his soul.
His soul that is made of glass.
It would take very little to make him shatter, the shards lost in the winds of this hell he calls life.
He walks along the corridor, feet plodding softly on the hardwood floor. These walls have seen many things. They've seen that vacant look on his face many a time, the one he wears each time he spirals. They've also seen the blank stare he dons when he returns from the bathroom, wrists bearing the consequence of his suffocating sorrow.
Like always, the walls watch silently as Jisung makes his way into the bathroom.
He doesn't bother turning the light on, preferring to sit in the darkness. The dark nightfall envelops him in a frozen embrace, but he doesn't care. All he cares about right now is silencing his deafening thoughts.
The blade feels perfect in his hand like it was moulded to go just between his fingertips.
With the ice-cold metal now in his fingers, he rolls up his sleeve. He hesitates for a second, not quite sure why. Maybe it’s guilt, the guilt of hurting himself and then seeing the disappointment on everyone’s faces.
But…why should he care? They’ll always be disappointed in him no matter what.
He drags the blade across his skin, face emotionless as he sees the blood seep out.
It’s pretty, at least he thinks so.
The lines…they’re so controlled, so delicate, a visual reminder that this is his body and he’s doing whatever he wants to it.
It gives Jisung control, control over his existence. That’s all he wants.
Just some control over this disaster he calls life.
So he keeps dragging that damned blade across his skin, waiting for all those rampaging thoughts to leave his head like the blood seeps from his wrists.
With each line, each perfect little line, he feels his shuddering heartbeat in his chest. A part of him feels as if he should cry, maybe sob, as he does this to himself. But…he feels nothing. It’s cliche, he knows, but he truly does feel numb.
Something tells him he should be a little more distraught about this, that there should be tears streaming down his cheeks as he wallows in his misery. That’s how it’s always done on tv when some shitty main character loses it because something doesn’t go their way.
But, he’s not a character, he’s human.
And so he sits here on these icy-cold bathroom tiles watching in silence as crimson blood seeps from his wrists.
His arm throbs where the cuts are the deepest, but he doesn’t mind. It’s just further proof that he’s doing this to himself and that he’s in control.
This is Han Jisung being in control - and that truly is perfect.
He glances down at his arm, the skin ravaged and massacred as blood starts to dry on his ashen skin.
It’s beautiful, in some twisted macabre way.
His shuddering heart starts to slow, and his breathing returns to normal. A quick glance out the window tells him it’s still the dead of night (and that he ought to get back to bed).
Jisung grabs some toilet roll from the hook on the wall and makes a makeshift bandage. He hasn’t the faintest idea where the first aid kit is, the likelihood being that Chan has it stored away in his room and Jisung doesn’t want to go searching for it now. So, the toilet paper will just have to do.
He wraps it around his wrist, tucking the end in, and shakily stands up from the floor.
Peering into the corridor, Jisung tiptoes along the wooden floor. A wave of guilt passes over his heart, but he pretends it doesn’t wash over him. Who really cares if he cuts himself? Why does he feel guilty for cutting himself? It makes him feel better, it helps still his quaking heart, so why is this guilt contaminating his thoughts?
He’d like to say he doesn’t know the answer.
But he does.
It’s because, deep down, he knows he isn’t in control and this is just a temporary fix.
And well…he just refuses to acknowledge that.
Sighing, Jisung opens the door to his room and slips inside. God, he’s so fucking tired he can’t wait to sink into his sheets and-
“Morning.”
Jisung flinches, banging his elbow against the wall.
“Jesus fucking Christ-“ he exclaims, hand slapped over his chest in fright.
He flicks the light on, despite already knowing who is there.
“Minho hyung?” he whisper-shouts, “What are you doing here at like four in the morning?”
Minho shrugs, “I missed you.”
Like that’s enough of a reason…
“Where were you?” he asks, pulling the stuffed quokka Jisung keeps on the bed onto his lap.
Quirking his eyebrow, Jisung sucks in a deep breath. God his heart is beating a mile a minute in his cadaverous chest.
He gestures vaguely to the corridor, swallowing thickly, “Bathroom.”
Where did Minho think he could possibly be? He isn't getting out of bed at ass 'o'clock in the morning to go on a midnight walk through the streets of Seoul.
“You were in there for a while.”
Jisung tucks his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie, “I was on my phone.”
Minho raises his eyebrow and points to Jisung’s desk, “Your phone is still on your desk.”
A quick glance at his desk tells Jisung that Minho is in fact very correct, it's still sitting there charging. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, averting Minho's calculating gaze.
He stares at the floor, then stares at the wall, and then at his desk. Anything to avoid looking Minho in the eyes. But then Jisung runs out of things to look at.
Minho sighs, eyes dull. And Jisung knows that Minho knows .
When their gazes meet, Minho's eyes turn soft. No wonder, it's obvious to anyone with a pair of working eyes that Jisung is miserable. There are dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, his skin is grey and ashen, his hair completely unbrushed, and he can't help but feel tears gather on his lashes. There's no point in lying to Minho, he looks like he has a pretty good idea of what Jisung was doing in that bathroom judging by the crestfallen expression on his face.
As long as Minho doesn't say anything, as long as he doesn't do anything, as long as nothing happens Jisung will be perfectly fine.
“Sung…” Please not that voice. Anything but that voice. He sees Minho outstretching his arms, and then he hears the familiar “Come here" that never fails to make his resolve splinter.
Jisung clambers onto the bed, and leans into Minho’s chest. He feels a gentle hand stroking his back, and then another one on the top of his head. Why is he so heavyhearted, so miserable, when he has someone to hold him so lovingly?
“Jisung, sweetheart,” Minho starts, voice loving and gentle, “I think you know what I’m going to ask.”
Why is it that Minho is so gentle with him? Like saying one wrong word could make his soul shatter beyond repair. Maybe it could actually, Jisung has always taken things to heart. Words that hold no venom become cruel and suffocating when they reach his ears, his heart crushed at even the slightest criticism.
God he really is pathetic.
Then Minho asks the dreaded question.
“Did…" he sucks in a breath, "Jisung did you hurt yourself?”
Tensing, Jisung bunches the back of Minho's hoodie in his hand. Jisung doesn’t give him a reply. He can't. He just can't. He doesn't want to admit it, doesn't want Minho to be disappointed in him. He can’t help but search his face for that very look of disappointment.
Minho stares into his eyes, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. He thumbs over Jisung's cheeks, ready to catch any of the tears that are threatening to fall. Jisung doesn't see the point of wiping them away when more are sure to come. But then again, Jisung doesn't see the point in anything. Much less in himself.
Minho tries to give Jisung his most comforting smile, and yet it never reaches his eyes. Jisung knew it, Minho has lost faith in him. He’s lost all hope that Jisung could ever get better. Jisung just has to go and fuck everything up doesn’t he?
“Did you at least clean them?” Minho asks softly, wiping away a silent tear.
Jisung doesn’t reply to that either. And he knows that Minho's smile is fading, he needn't pull away and see for himself. His brain sends him that mental image of Minho's look of disappointment - so thanks for that brain. That makes things so much better.
“I’m sorry,” he finally whispers, stomach sinking further than he thought it ever could.
“Don’t be sorry Sung, I understand.”
But he doesn’t understand, does he? He’ll never understand. Nobody will ever understand. And my god does that make Jisung feel wretched, his soul beaten black and blue. He's so close to the edge. He's so fucking close.
“Can I…can I see?” Minho whispers, “Can I help?”
Jisung doesn't have it in him to say no. He doesn't have the strength to refuse. So, he just mindlessly nods as Minho guides him off the bed and into the kitchen. The walls keep staring at him, judging him, assessing him. Jisung feels trapped. He really really does.
Why won’t everything just fucking stop!
He stares down at his hands, pretending he doesn’t see them shaking. He’s so pathetic, so worthless, so absurd, so nonsensical. God, Jisung will always fail to understand why Minho loves him so.
There’s the familiar click of the first aid box being opened, and Jisung can hear Minho gathering bandages and that stupid stupid stupid antiseptic cream that hurts more than cutting himself did in the first place.
“Sung can you lift your sleeve up?” Minho asks him gingerly. Minho says his name so carefully. Minho is so careful with him.
One wrong move and Jisung will break.
When Jisung doesn’t move, Minho timidly pushes the sleeve up himself. He tries not to show his alarm, and yet at the sight he sucks in a sharp breath.
“Hyung…” Jisung murmurs, his bottom lip wobbling.
“You don’t need to say anything, Hannie. It’s okay, you’re okay.”
Minho tries his best to smile, but it must come out strained and awkward. It falters as he grabs the cream.
“It’ll sting,” he tells Jisung, despite the fact they both know that already, “Just a little.”
“Mm...” he hums, well aware that it stings but unable to voice a verbal response.
His mind is too foggy, too clouded to think properly. Minho’s fingers are so gentle and warm as he wipes away the blood and dabs on the cream.
Jisung really fucking hates that antiseptic cream. Really fucking hates it.
He winces, eyes watering.
Minho glances up at him, worried, “You okay?”
That’s a stupid question.
Of course he isn’t okay. Nothing is ever okay. When will Minho finally see that Jisung is a living nightmare and brings nothing but misery and despair to everyone and everything around him?
“Why do you - why do you care so much?”
Minho blinks, tensing. It seems that’s not quite the response he was expecting.
He looks defeated, eyes glossy, “Why do I care so much? Why do I…”
He stops. Minho just stops. The whole world fucking stops and Jisung fears he’s said something wrong. He always says something wrong. Always does something wrong.
Jisung is wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Oh Jisung…” Minho mutters, voice ever so close to breaking, “Oh my god Jisung, darling, how can you ask me that?”
A tear falls over his cheek. Minho is…Minho is crying.
“I’m sorry-“ Jisung rushes to say, head thumping in his chest.
Minho cups his face, gazing into his eyes like they’re the brightest stars in the sky.
“I care so much because….because you mean everything to me. Jisung you’re my whole world, my sky and my moon and my stars. And it - it hurts me, no it destroys me to see you hurting like this. I can't imagine my life without you, I don’t want to imagine my life without you.”
“Hyung,” Jisung whimpers, “I’m not that important. I’m really not worth all of this.”
Minho looks like someone has just slapped him across the face, “Jisung why do you feel this way? Why don’t you understand how important you are? I just…I…I never know what’s going on in your head and that terrifies me.”
Jisung doesn’t know what the fuck is going on inside his head either.
Swallowing thickly, Minho finishes tying the bandages around Jisung’s wrist. First aid always feels like an act of such loving care, of reassurance, of quiet comfort. And all of that, all the quiet concern and condolence, made everything bearable.
“I love you Jisung,” Minho whispers, voice shaking.
“What?”
He blinks up at Minho, eyes lost. Why is it…that Jisung is lost in his head?
“Jisung, you’re my best friend. You know that?” Minho utters, “And…and…I’m proud of you.”
“Proud of me?” Jisung repeats, confused.
Why on earth would Minho be proud of him? Why would anyone be proud of him?
Minho nods, taking a hold of his hands.
“You let me help you, and I’m proud of you for letting someone close enough to do so.”
Oh…Jisung has never thought of it like that.
Jisung pulls away his hands, eyes quivering. No. Minho can't be proud of him. He can't love him.
No. No. No.
This is all wrong.
Jisung is wrong.
Nobody should love him. Never. They can never love him, they’ll only get hurt in the end. Jisung never wants to hurt Minho.
His soul…it is too wicked, too sinful for anyone to cherish him so.
Nobody can ever hold a soul made of glass with their caring hands…for should you hold him too tight he’ll shatter.
And Minho would only bleed as he picks up the broken pieces of glass.
Jisung doesn’t want to hurt him.
“You should be proud of yourself Sungie,” Minho continues, shutting the first aid kit, “You try so hard, you try so fucking hard. And you’ve slipped up, that’s okay. That’s fine. That’s normal. I know people tell you that this recovery process isn’t linear, it’s not simple. It’s not, it’s not a straight path. But…it’s so much more isn’t it?”
It is. Of course, it’s not a linear process nor is it simple. It’s more like…a maze. It doesn’t matter what he tries, or which path he takes, Jisung always ends up lost and hurt.
How much longer will it be until he reaches the end of the maze? How much more can his soul take before it’s nothing but broken shards?
Minho wipes at his eyes with his sleeve, trying to hide the glistening streaks on his cheeks. He doesn't want to cry, not in front of Jisung. He knows that crying isn't weak, nor does it leave him powerless...and yet he doesn't want Jisung to see him break down.
It doesn't matter. All that he cares about right now is Jisung.
Minho pulls down Jisung's sleeve for him and then offers his hand to help him off the counter.
And of course, Jisung takes it.
Minho’s hand is warm. Like the sun.
Jisung’s hand is not.
Jisung doesn't know why he's so cold. It's as if the furious winds of winter blow from inside of his very bones, his skin frosting over and eyelashes catching snow. He's cold. Jisung is cold. And he only wonders that...if his soul was to shatter and he were to leave this earth would he be cold much longer? How much longer is he going to be cold and helpless?
Although, perhaps a better question would be, how much longer will his soul be able to survive this ever-lasting winter?
“Hyung?” Jisung mewls, his thoughts too loud in his damned head.
Minho hums, squeezing Jisung’s hand, “Yes?”
Jisung doesn’t know what to say actually. He stays silent, unable to collect his thoughts. There are too many, too many to control.
As they enter his bedroom once more, he sighs.
They both sit on the bed, the faint scent of the sickly floral detergent Minho likes to use embedded in the blankets. It smells like home - because home is where Minho is.
He can barely bring himself to look into Minho’s dark and glossy eyes. Yet, he does.
In those starry eyes is the kindled warmth of a golden heart, as if they were crafted by the very stars in the sky. But Minho shines brighter than any star.
Minho thumbs over his hands, fingertips smoothing over Jisung’s bruised knuckles.
He's sitting right in front of Jisung, and yet there's this overwhelming sense of abandonment curdling under Jisung's etiolated skin. He can feel it in his chest, drowning his lungs and clawing at his bones.
One day, Minho might not be here to pick up the broken pieces of his soul.
What if Minho leaves him?
What if Minho disappears?
What if Minho becomes tired of Jisung?
What if?
What if?
What if?
“We’ll get through this Hannie.”
Jisung doesn't know if he believes him, because there's always a chance one day Minho won't be here anymore.
“And if we don’t?” he asks, voice teetering and ever so close to breaking.
Minho leans ever closer, “Then we try again until we do.”
He smiles, smiles as wide as he can as the tears start to cascade down his cheeks once more. He shudders, hands shaking and yet he never once drops his smile.
In that smile is all the love Jisung could ever need.
There’s a gentle kiss pressed to the very tip of his nose, and Minho gently draws him onto his lap and pets Jisung's soft hair. It doesn’t matter how many times Jisung’s soul shatters because Minho knows exactly how to put him back together. Jisung lifts his head from the crook of Minho's neck, his solemn gaze landing on the bandage tied on his wrist. Not many people would do this for him. And...Minho doesn't break his promises. He won't leave.
All they have to do, is keep trying.
Jisung thinks he can do that.
He’s so lost, and only Minho can find every shard of his soul because he has become so very wary of the world around him. The only safe place he has is with Minho, and that's the only one he needs.
“Thank you,” he whispers, Minho’s arms wrapping around his shoulders.
Minho presses a delicate kiss to the top of his head, he needn’t say anything more.
Jisung understands perfectly.