It’s been three months.

Three months since you walked out of my life; since the day you turned away and never looked back.

He feels nothing. No pain, no anguish. There’s nothing but an overwhelming and complete numbness, like a sort of anaesthesia that washes over you; that covers you with a blanket of deep, deep sleep. Except… except he’s awake. He’s awake and walking and alive but— he’s not really living. Sleep is meaningless to him. Fatigue is nothing but a word. How long has it been since he’s last slept— 70, maybe 90 hours? He’s not entirely stupid. He sees how dark the circles under his eyes have become; feels the worried glances the coordis share between them as they brush on yet another layer of concealer, and use a little more foundation on his slowly withering complexion.

It’s not lying when he says he feels fine, really. In fact he’s not feeling much at all, he’s about as hollow as the abyss; as empty as a bottomless pit that never gets filled, no matter how much time and effort is put into even attempting to. s are concerned; he sees the way Rome peers curiously at him; notices the hushed whispers of Minwoo and Jaejun whenever he passes by, but at this point he can’t even bring himself to care. The single most important being in his life is gone. Not gone for good, though. They still had to perform together, work together… exist in each other’s presences and smile like everything was alright even though things were far from normal.

And now, bundled in a scarf and jacket, he trudges through the howling winds on his way back to the dorms; he’d vaguely heard their manager mentioning something about a storm being headed their way, and a tilt of his head towards the darkening grey skies was proof enough. He sighs, squinting against the breeze as he lifts his arm, checking the ticking arms of his watch. It’ll be another while before he makes it back home, he figures. The better part of him tells him he should hurry along his way; reminds him not to get caught in the rain… again. Heaving another quiet grunt, he ignores the thought and lets his feet carry him down the next path, taking a turn through the dirty alleyway. Immediately he’s greeted by a heavy wave of musky, nose-wrinkling stench (he’s guessed that much from the piles of garbage littered at his feet); the cracked brick walls are covered in graffiti and old soot that he barely registers in his trek for the other side – it’ll probably lead to another tiny intersection preceding a bunch of twists and turns before he’s on familiar ground – it’s difficult to tell when the next opening is merely a faint glimmer of light in the distance. There’s a sudden drip that lands on his nose from above; he looks up at the now-completely black horizon and, not surprisingly, there’s more where that one came from.

Drip. Drip.

Silence. The fading of distant honks. Tires screeching on the wet pavement. Silence.

Drip, drip, drip.

It’s not long before the slow, soothing rhythm of the initial droplets have quickened in their pace, each individual pellet now doubled, tripled in size; the sparse, dripping clinks on the metallic rooftops transition into a steady beating pitter-patter that starts to pool on the surface of the hard concrete under him. The woollen material of the scarf around his neck feels heavy now; he shivers at the cool, gradual wetness seeping through his socks (because of course he’d be wearing cotton on a rainy day) as he steps between the puddles and only just manages to brush his drenched fringe back. “Stupid,” he mutters, and he does his best to keep up with the beating of heaven’s drums – the squishing and sloshing of his sneakers can be heard echoing through the alleyway alongside the rain that’s only gotten stronger.

He’s finally at the opening, now, he can tell by the stark contrast of the previous path against the flittering light particles within the storm before he even lifts his head – though, when he does, he realizes he’s not in an area he recognizes at all. He catches the shadowy outline of a nearby floral shop’s awning through his hazy, slowly blurring vision (the round, transparent beads hanging at the ends of his lashes are really, really annoying), and decides a ten minute break for shelter wouldn’t hurt. Well… he thought.

The pounding of his heart is about just as loud as his footsteps. It’s quiet… too quiet for his liking. There’s a clank from behind him and his head whips around, eyes wide. Breathe. It was only a stray cat, knocking over a trashcan before it leaps into another dark corner.

Step. Exhale.

Where was he going? Right, the awning. He takes a couple more steps; his eyes seem to register the slim figure standing around the corner before his mind gears in and tells him he knows that figure. He pauses, and dodges behind the next store’s cardboard cutout before he’s noticed. Oh, does he ever know it… slender waist, broad shoulders, slim fingers curled around – wait, and then his gaze slides over and there’s another one. He doesn’t know this one. The one whose arms are wrapped around that same, wet torso… those dark eyes were burning with lust and the smile that face held looked too bright to be natural. He can’t quite make out what they’re saying; the other male’s voice was much lower but when his lips part, those dirty, slightly chapped lips, the figure leans forward to brush his lips along the petite boy’s earlobe (, he was disgusted to the core); he mutters four single words – the very four words that ruin him, every time, and Kangjun hears them all the same.

“I love you, Ray.”

There’s a pause. Then comes the same reaction he’s expecting – the same reaction he’s always gotten – a giggle and a hum, probably followed by a nod that he can’t see from this position.

Another shy laugh.

“I know.”

It’s horrifying; it makes him want to pounce out onto the other because no, you don’t love him, you bastard, and he almost has to force his tears down because the next moment all he sees is that… that lanky older male leaning in again and his lips are there and waiting and all of a sudden they’re connected to the next pair of soft, pink ones and his first thought is – Oh.

Oh.

This is a dream, this is nothing but a damned dream and he’s going to wake up any second now; he’s going to open his eyes and Ray will be in his arms and tell him that it was all a big nightmare just before he kisses him and tells him to go back to bed. He starts stumbling blindly away; still undetected by the other two and he just runs, hair plastered to his forehead and tshirt clinging to his back; his head is throbbing and he can still hear Ray’s soothing voice in the back of his mind, vowing his promise that he’ll always love him, only him, but then his foot gets caught in an oddly-angled water pipe and he’s falling, the world becomes a blur and he lands on his hands and knees and the gravel digging into his palms hurt and he realizes oh, no… none of this was a dream.

He runs. Nowhere in particular… anywhere but here. A couple shops here and there line the street; a convenience store here, a gas station there, and then his eyes land on a bar’s slightly ajar door; his feet take him there before his mind has time to say no. Before he knows it he’s seated uncomfortably in one of the stools; no one pays him much heed except the bartender because you order something or get out, so he hastily calls for a shot of anything, anything that can make him forget the world and that guy and if he can still think then he hasn’t had enough. The bartender hands him a small glass of clear liquid – he doesn’t bother enough with asking what it is – and he downs it. He cringes, as anyone would, but the way it burns his throat as it trickles its way down is kind of nice, he thinks.

And so he gets another, and another; by the fourth or fifth shot his head is spinning. His arms are draped across the bartop and his mouth hangs half open in an attempt to sooth the burning; his eyes are wide and unfocused but this… this is oddly relaxing. He lets his mind wander, now, and unconsciously the images start flashing within him. Those lips, the delicate lips that once belonged to him, are slowly being tainted with the breath of another man. At that, he breaks. The images grow clearer and the disapproving voices in his mind crescendo into torturous screams and then they turn into trembles and he cries. The tears are uncontrollable; the strange, judging gazes pierce his back but the sobs keep coming; the shudders course through his frail frame and he lets go completely, each new sound of misery taking tiny shards of his soul with them, letting them flow out of his body with the salty tears that have begun to decorate the smooth marble counter.

His entire being is queasy – no, that’d be an understatement – he is hammered. Someone slips him another drink, then. The bottom rim of the glass is pressed into his palm and he’s not sure if it’s someone else lifting the cup to his lips (this one is dark, sort of amber; it’s much too bitter but it doesn’t burn as much and he guesses he could live with it), and in another minute his fingers are curled around a bottle of something – soju, it might’ve been, and the tears remaining sting at his cheeks before he remembers how to breathe. The colours outside are clearing up a little, but from what he sees through his lidded, barely open eyelids, it’s still raining and the ding of the cowbell hanging above the entrance develops a more regular pattern as the bar fills with customers, all soaked to the bone and seeking refuge in the cozy neighbourhood shops.

I should probably go, he thinks; he’s risked enough for himself and the group by showing up here so blatantly, and he really should be grateful the press hasn’t found him yet. He fishes in his blazer pocket for the stash of bills he always carries around; they’re crumpled and soggy and he counts, pulls out the amount his drunken mind tells him is correct and leaves. Or, well, attempts to leave. The black and white checkered tiles of the bar are suddenly at his nose, he hears a deep voice and a few mumbles and the arms that are struggling to hold him up, but he grabs onto the doorframe and looks back with a weak smile; tells them he’s perfectly okay and that he’ll manage the short walk back home.

Bells chime. He pushes open the door and a gust of wind fans over his face, the bar patrons behind him melding into a sea of hushed murmurs as everybody turns back to their own business. One hand clutches at his stomach, the other grasping the side of his head as if the force will make the migraine go away. Outside, the temperature had cooled to a mild, placid breeze. The precipitation has slowed to a mere drizzle now; it would have been comfortable if not for the fact that he was drunk out of his mind.

He watches his shoes cover the ground. It takes him, slow and steady. Left, right. Left, right. Right… left… left… right… his knees buckle under him and he collapses, barely able to catch himself as he lands painfully on his right shoulder with an incoherent grunt. He drags himself slowly into a hunchback position, face scrunching in agony; nonetheless he pushes off the ground and forces his feet to shuffle forward – which way was up again? The other side of the road is in his line of sight, just a few more steps and he’ll be well on his way home. Left, right…squint. Blink. Right… left.

He sees the blinding lights before he hears the frantic honking. He looks up, stopping in his tracks. He turns his head and the lights come closer; everything in his vision gets larger. More honking… he catches the expression of the one behind the wheel just as he feels the ground connect with his head. He’s not scared, though the sober Kangjun might have been pissing his pants at this point. There’s no more sensation in his lower half; he squirms in the rapidly pooling warmth all around him, but he’s smiling as if this is what he’s been waiting for all along.

Euphoria.

So this is what it feels like. All the stories he’s heard; all the things he’s remembered from those lame movies Ray always watched – oh yeah, Ray. He’s happier without you. This is so much better than he could have ever imagined. He’s floating; he’s weightless and buoyant and just had an entire boulder lifted off of him. Heck, he’s got wings and he’s flying and – are those angels? Yes, they’re there, in their pure white gowns and halos, and they’re calling out to him and he tries to stretch his arm to reach out to them and then something grabs it and… and Heaven is real. Something’s shaking him now; there’s an on-and-off pressure where his heart is – that must be God, lifting his soul from within; instantly relieving him of all worries… all burdens… all emotions. He hears bells; jingling, glowing bells are guiding his way into the light and the beautiful, ageless angels beckon him forward. He smiles; starts to move towards the promise of eternity. Closer…closer… His headache is gone. His vision is completely clear. More heavenly voices; the bells keep swinging and the angels keep singing. Closer still. He looks back again to see a wide, fluttering pair of wings extending. He’s really here. How much longer now? He glances down at where his feet once were; old sneakers are replaced with a long, flowing robe as his spirit trickles out from beneath his soles; leaves everything behind as he reaches for the gate. Closer… almost there. Step. All the way now, and then he’s bathed in a golden envelope of warm, welcoming light.

-

"Certified."

-

He stands at the burial vault, a single red rose in his hand. You've always hated how cliche they looked, but bought them for me anyway, because I liked them, he thinks bitterly, a hollow smile in place and eyes swollen red with tears.

I've never really let go.

The pastor says his final words and the rest of the members join him in the front again, solemnly bowing their heads. Each had something different on his expression though the loss was unbearable for all.

His mom is crying, begging for her son back; pleading to switch places with him and his dad sits with her, looking as if the life had just been out of him.

Ray looks away; tosses the rose onto the gleaming mahogany finish of the casket. He watches as the grave workers begin to fill the cavity, and allows himself to shed one more tear.

"I love you, Kangjun."

--

A/N: So this was a lot more.. Kangjun-centric than I had originally intended. Whoops? I didn't want to kill him off either, I swear ; ; Um.. um.. angst angst angst. Brick me now, if you must. T^T Hope you still enjoyed? <3

I love you all~ even you silent readers ;w; LOL look at me, pretending to have readers