It’s the ungodly hours of the morning. An hour when the world functions beneath flickering streetlamps, car horns and the occasional disturbance from drunken yobs. Light pollution drains the stars from the sky, leaving the city with a vibe more artificial than was first intended.

A cigarette is propped idly between Oh Sehun’s long fingers, withering slowly as he takes long drags. White smoke twirls from the ends, with some more jagged exhalations lingering on his lips, diffusing through his hair and clinging to the fibres of his clothes.

He pays a minute glance to the older boy at his feet. Then looks up again; not because it hurts him to look, but because he is revolted by the sheer pathetic attitude. ‘Leave him, Jongin.’ Is all he says. A simple statement, but it packs a punch. A lead weight colliding with Jongin’s heart.

‘He already left me,’ Jongin almost whimpers, a just-audible sniffle slipping out between the syllables.

‘Did he, now?’ Sehun’s tone is leering, unsympathetic and stoic. As always. ‘All you told me was that he cried and told you to get out of the house. That’s not necessarily a break-up. And with how weak and pathetic he is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he begged to take you back. Because of course, he will.’

Jongin feels guilt sweeping through him from head to toe. Cold at the ends of his fingertips, between his ribs, in his stomach. Cold, and shivering a little, shoulders shaking up and down as he chokes out a dry sob.

‘And then you have a choice,’ Sehun continues, dragging once on the cigarette and inspecting it as though it holds some sort of interest to him, ‘You can leave him. Or I will leave you.’

Nausea now wriggles its way into the cold, and Jongin feels restricted, unable to breathe. It should not be a hard decision. Stay with Kyungsoo, his heart pleads, yet his head throws turmoil to the situation and suggests that Sehun is a better lover. . He almost winces, screwing up his face in a very unattractive manner. Silently, he is grateful that his head is turned to the floor of the dance room and his arms shield his face. Sehun would probably laugh if he saw him this way.

Sehun sighs. And it holds no emotion. Empty and dismissive, even verging on bored. He looks around at the empty dance studio. The place is deserted, the entire building in fact; only the two of them remain there so early in the morning. Sehun only used his keys to unlock the place when Jongin had called him around midnight, desperate and lonely. It’s not that Sehun was worried, more like he pitied him. Besides, he was awake anyway and paying a visit to the studio could do no harm. Now, the lights were still off, all but one in the corridor which spilled light across the floors. A few beams ricocheted off the mirror on the wall, allowing a little more vision in their secluded space. Jongin sank to the floor as soon as they arrived, Sehun leaned casually on the mirror. Five minutes later, he regrets saving Jongin. The boy is a blubbering, cowering mess, and Sehun does not enjoy dealing with those things.

It’s too early in the morning to care about the emotions of broken toys, Sehun decides. He steps forward and yanks Jongin to his feet, holding the collar of his jacket harshly. Jongin stumbles, but Sehun catches him, smoothly spinning him and slamming his body against the mirrors. He winces, feeling the shockwave ripple through him. Angry eyes glimmer, meeting Sehun’s head on. ‘Baby,’ he growls, voice deep and low and soaked in lustful intent. Jongin notes that there’s a threatening note to his voice, and tries not to flinch. ‘I want you to me. Right. Now.’

Jongin struggles, but Sehun is strong and keeps him pinned in place. Thoughts race through Jongin’s mind. Over and over and over and over and over and over. It hurts and it feels wrong, but the light catching Sehun’s face makes him look so good, and Jongin wants to avoid admitting it at all costs, but he wants him. Not even the image of Kyungsoo crying and collapsing can stop these thoughts. Something is screaming at him, begging him not to give in to carnal desire. Thoughts are whirring and his chest is beginning to hurt, his head is pounding and everything is growing out of focus.

Sehun crushes their lips together, forcing his tongue into Jongin’s mouth, and the boy slumps suddenly into submission.

**

It had been almost a year, maybe two, since Jongin had begun his career as a professional dancer. He loved it. He loved his job, and he loved the way dancing allowed him to lose himself. A beat, a rhythm, gentle instrumentals flowing into the air, sometimes followed by lyrics that melted into the tune softly, like waves rolling between the grains of a sandy shore. Contemporary was his favourite, fluid yet precise, conveying emotion in the most simplistic of forms.

And the best part of Jongin’s life? Kyungsoo. Jongin had barely expected them to stay together for a month, on account of Kyungsoo dumping him for someone better – more intellectual. Yet here they were: Jongin dancing his heart away and Kyungsoo pouring his soul into journalism. They were happy, remarkably so. Not to mention, the older boy was so supportive of his boyfriend that it was almost ridiculous, probably due to his altruistic outlook on life through those big eyes of his.

Sehun joined, then, and it was hard not to take note of his devilishly handsome features, smooth jawline and deep eyes, milky skin and audacious smirk. But Jongin was faithful, and did not consider touching Oh Sehun.

Kyungsoo began to collapse under the sheer weight of his own mentality and the pressures of such intense thoughts and his unfortunate position on the emotional spectrum. And that’s when Jongin’s thoughts began to stray. Rigid, stiff, and guilt-ridden, he refused to look at Oh Sehun for a long period of time. That was, until the younger boy ambushed him after dance practice one evening, throwing him harshly against the wall and forcing their lips together. Jongin never fought. He stopped fighting long ago.

Long nights of rough ing and clutching at bedsheets followed. “Sorry, I’ll be home late”s and “our new choreography is difficult, I’m helping out the newcomers.” Kyungsoo never protested; he barely even suspected. Guilt soon drained out of Jongin’s vocabulary, yet the taste of Sehun was still bittersweet on his tongue whenever they kissed. Not once did they make love. It was always rough tugging, nibbling and biting here and there with vicious to make up for whatever Jongin was missing out on. He was nothing to Sehun but a chew toy. Yet, neither of them seemed to care.

**

Kyungsoo finds that the house he shares with Jongin is choking him. Suffocating him slowly. So he leaves. Regardless of the youthful hours displayed on the nearby clock, he takes his jacket from its hook and walks straight out of the door, with no clear intention of where he is going. He figures that it no longer matters, because with no family left and Jongin gone, his death probably wouldn’t even make the news.

Wispy clouds of exhalations spiral out into the night air, puncturing the darkness with grey ghosts here and there. Cold air penetrates through his jacket, and his shirt, and clings relentlessly to his skin, lifting the hairs on his arms and enticing shivers from his every muscle. The bar is where he decides he wants to go – a place he rarely visits, as he did not fall into the ordinary writer’s trap of alcoholism. He mutters nonsensical words under his breath, something along the lines of, “how could he do this to me?” and “how could I not notice?” All rhetorical questions for which his mind sought the answer, yet he knows he will never conclude. Closure. Closure is what Kyungsoo craves, round eyes focused dead ahead as he aims for the bar.

Rarely visited, yet familiar, with mood lighting set to various hues of blue and purple, strip lights and wall lights and a smooth chrome bar. The place lacks the usual crowd of yobs, to Kyungsoo’s surprise, but he relishes the fact that it is more or less empty. Enough people to call it an ordinary bar, not enough to pin it as a happening place. Kyungsoo aims for the bar itself, manned by a friendly man in his forties and his son. A curt nod from the older man, who recognises the owl-faced boy slipping onto a bar stool.

‘What can I get ya?’ He inquires, voice grating against his vocal chords as he strains to speak, the side effect of however many cigarettes have hung from his lips. Cigarettes, Kyungsoo thinks bitterly, and almost scoffs.

‘The strongest thing you’ve got,’ he replies, trying to hold his voice though it wavers slightly somewhere between “strongest” and “thing.”

‘Starting off heavy, eh?’ The man stabs at poor humour, turning to prepare the drink.

Kyungsoo likes this bar. Drizzled saxophone beats cuddle the room in their easiness, notes tapering to infinity with the utmost perfection of a recorded performance as warmth seeps into the room, and the background noise blurs to a comfortable ambience, familiar and easy. Kyungsoo likes this bar because the lighting is dim and polite to the senses, and the decor is caught somewhere between cutting-edge modernism and delicate antiqueness; nothing about it is too obstreperous.

Glass clinks against metal as the bartender hands over his shot, and Kyungsoo takes no hesitation before tipping the liquid down his throat. It tastes like lighter fluid, he decides, and considers the fact that if he can stomach this, maybe he can stomach some bleach. It burns his throat, threatening to make him gag on impact, and he makes a hoarse noise just to suppress the rising feel of vomit as a fiery warmth settles in his belly. Bartender quirks an eyebrow at him. Kyungsoo holds up his palm, an insistence of his wellbeing, but anybody could tell that Kyungsoo is virtually dead inside.

‘Looking good there, buddy,’ someone remarks. Although he lacks appreciation for the comment, Kyungsoo graces the stranger with a glance. He hates himself for thinking that this boy is attractive, with a cute little face and perfectly pink lips. But he says nothing, because there is no possible reply to the boy’s observation when Kyungsoo knows that it is perfectly true. He turns back and requests another shot, to which Bartender eyes him with concern and suspicion. The stranger leans closer, setting out a hand, ‘Byun Baekhyun.’

‘Do Kyungsoo.’ He responds out of politeness, begrudgingly shaking his hand. Trembling hand meets a much steadier one, and Baekhyun meets his eyes head on with Kyungsoo’s. Suddenly the handshake feels like less of a matter of etiquette and more a deliberate judgement, a test, an evaluation.

‘What brings a guy like you here on a night like this?’ Baekhyun inquires, taking the hint that it is acceptable to ask questions now, given that his acquaintance’s shoulders have slumped into a more relaxed posture.

‘A guy like me?’ He thinks aloud, wondering whether it is too abrupt to answer a question with a question.

Baekhyun pauses, estimating gaze passing once, twice, three times over Kyungsoo. Over his face, down his body, back up and over the length of his arms, down to the tips of his fingers which idly spin a shot glass round and round.

He hums a little, confirming to himself. ‘You seem... innocent.’

Kyungsoo snorts.

‘Forgive me. I’m not good with words. What I mean is, you don’t seem familiar with this. Being in this place is putting you on edge, because you’re not used to ordering drink after drink. You aren’t drinking yourself to death.’

‘And you are?’

A shrug, and a contemplative smile brushing his lips, ‘I guess you could say that.’

Quiet and respectful, Kyungsoo wonders whether to pry. Baekhyun sees the expression on his face and cuts in regardless, ‘Long story. But to cut it short, I’m broke and my business just failed.’

‘Ah,’ Kyungsoo wants to sound sympathetic, but really he knows nothing about the situation. ‘What business?’ He waves a hand, willing him to elaborate.

‘Well, you see... I’m from a rather wealthy family here in Seoul. They pushed me to go to university, because my dad is adamant that I have to become a lawyer and continue his oh-so-prestigious law firm. But I’ve always had a much simpler dream. It sounds dumb, but I’ve always wanted to own a coffee shop. Just a small business. With parents like mine, dreams aren’t allowed. I was forced into law school, and it was there that I met this guy. Park Chanyeol. And well, I fell in love.’ He pauses, wondering whether Kyungsoo’s disgusted stare will interrupt, but the boy barely blinks twice, so Baekhyun continues, ‘I didn’t mention anything to my parents. Chanyeol pushed me to go for my dreams, and when I finally bought a little place to start my business, my dad threatened to kick me out. That’s when I told him that I’m gay. And now I’m disowned. And then Chanyeol moved away to China, because I never actually confessed to him. And now I’m broke, without a family, and in a week’s time I’m going to be homeless.’

Attentive, Kyungsoo leans on his palm as he listens to the story intently. He gives an appreciative hum followed by a sympathetic frown, ‘Sounds like you’re having fun.’

‘What about you?’

‘Depressed, bored, going insane. And then I find out that my husband is cheating on me.’

‘Husband?’ Baekhyun repeats, ‘So that’s why you didn’t mind when I said I was gay.’

Kyungsoo just smiles, and Baekhyun recognises beauty in the cracked lips and the falseness of it all. Just a glimmer of something behind the plasticity of his mask.

‘Looks like we both have it bad,’ Baekhyun smirks wryly, raising his bottle before tipping it to his lips and draining the last of the fluid. ‘Where’s your husband now?’

Kyungsoo shrugs, ‘Probably with his new boyfriend.’

‘. Do you miss him?’

A nod, tears forming in dry eyes.

‘Why don’t you call him?’

‘Why don’t you call Chanyeol.’ Kyungsoo retorts.

‘We still talk sometimes,’ Baekhyun shakes his head, ‘Turns out that Chanyeol is gay. He has a boyfriend. Called Kris. Oh, he’s tall dark and handsome, alright. I missed my chance. Maybe you shouldn’t miss yours.’

Kyungsoo sighs, tugging his phone from his pocket and he sees the messages on his screen. Three of them. Baekhyun leans over and peers at it. Something about Baekhyun screams that he can be trusted, that Kyungsoo is safe here, with him, and that it is perfectly okay to show him the phone. So he does, tilting it so both of them can see.

From: Jongin

Kyungsoo... I’m sorry

From: Jongin

I ed up. I slept with him again and I’m so sorry

From: Jongin

Please, Kyungsoo. The guilt is eating me alive. I ended it with him, just please can we try this one more time?

Kyungsoo looks expectantly at Baekhyun, eyes perfectly round. The other shrugs, ‘It’s up to you, my friend. There are just two things to consider. Firstly, are you going to let what you love go, or are you going to fight for what you love. Secondly, are you willing to sacrifice your mentality for him, or will getting rid of him cleanse your mind?’

A hesitation, dragged out to last several moments.

‘Tell me, Kyungsoo. What do you do for a living?’

‘I’m a writer,’ he confesses.

‘Ah. Does he help or hinder your work?’

‘He doesn’t even care.’ Kyungsoo laughs dryly, more of a choke than an actual laugh, as he buries his head in his hands and massages intently at the bridge of his nose.

A stranger approaches, patting Baekhyun on the back and giving an abrupt greeting. Kyungsoo remains hunched, back broken and brow furrowed, nervous and on the verge of a tear tsunami. The stranger nods in his direction and looks at Baekhyun expectantly. ‘Oh, that’s Kyungsoo.’

When his name is mentioned, he finally raises his head and pays a glance at the newcomer, slightly chubby cheeks and an amiable smile. Baekhyun introduces him as Minseok, Baekhyun’s former business partner, and quickly explains Kyungsoo’s situation.

‘Well, if I were to advice you,’ Minseok muses, ‘I would say give him a week. One week. And if nothing changes, then it’s never going to change. And just figure things out from there.’

As Minseok ends his sentence, the phone on the counter buzzes. Three pairs of eyes turn expectantly.

From: Jongin

Kyungsoo call me. Please

No second thought, not a chance to regret. Kyungsoo picks up the phone and dials.

---

They meet in a place away from home, because Kyungsoo decides that it may be unwise to let Jongin approach him somewhere so close to his heart. Not yet. He is less comfortable here, away from the cosiness of the bar and subjected to an alien environment; a twenty-four hour coffee shop serving pancakes to drunkards at four am.

Two broken people stare at each other with foreign, empty yet emotionally compromised eyes, attempting to find something in each other that wasn’t really there. Both of them are hurting, and neither knows what to say. So much emotion built up and ready to explode, yet when it comes to the time there are no words. All the words have balled up into a weapon of self-destruction, finding its way into Kyungsoo’s heart and puncturing his emotional centre. He feels all numb, apart from that one part of his chest. He wonders if Jongin feels the same.

'Was he better than me?’

‘What?’ Jongin is startled.

‘Was he better than me? In bed?’

Jongin pauses, and that is all Kyungsoo needs. He scoffs and looks down at the pancakes Jongin bought for him.

‘Did he give you what you wanted emotionally?’

‘No,’ he mutters weakly.

‘Oh, so he just had a bigger than me? Jesus, Jongin. I really thought you were ing better than that. I thought you loved me.’

‘Kyungsoo, please. Can we not talk about this?’

‘I’m not just gonna ignore this, Jongin! I can’t just pretend you never did this to me!’

Jongin sighs in defeat, knowing there is a ring of truth to his words. But one last fight in him urges him to say, ‘Come on, hyung.’

Kyungsoo’s facial muscles tighten all at once, a picture of rage and irritation and pure, concentrated disappointment. ‘Hyung?’ He repeats with poisonous emphasis, ‘HYUNG? Are we back to ing formalities now? I don’t even know you anymore!’

‘No... I didn’t mean... Kyungsoo don’t... I’m sorry.’ He’s choking on every syllable, feeling the lump in his throat that blocks his every word and threatens to strangle him. To suffocate him in negative, pent up emotion. Anger, guilt, regret, sadness, pain. The pain is killing him most of all. ‘He was nothing to me, Kyungsoo.’

‘And neither was I,’ he spits bitterly, refusing to give into his tears and show all his weakness. Jongin wants to argue, but he knows that it is useless.

‘I met someone tonight,’ Kyungsoo says, more softly this time.

Jongin’s eyes snap up.

‘He said that I should give you one week. Just a week to change. Do you think you can do it?’

Jongin wonders for a moment, and then shakes his head. ‘I love you, Kyungsoo.’

‘No, you don’t. You just thought you did. I don’t mean to you. You dance because you’re numb. You can’t feel anything, Jongin. You never could. You dance because you want to feel something, and you only convinced yourself that you loved me because you’re so desperate to feel something. But you ing can’t. You’re broken, Jongin.’

‘So are you!’ Jongin yells, drawing the attention of the three staff members and single customer in the store. ‘You’re just as broken as I am! If not more! You’re ed, Kyungsoo! You’re already dead and if I leave you’re just going to ing kill yourself.’

Tears are streaming down his face, stained with the deathly colour of a dying man. Kyungsoo cannot reply, because he is far too dumbfounded. The implication of his suicide is too much, because Kyungsoo then stands and slaps Jongin across the face. Hard. ‘How dare you?’ He demands. ‘How dare you?! It’s you who ing broke me in the first place, Jongin? I was just your plaything. Just ing get out. Forget the one week deal. I never want to see you again.’

A beat. Two. Three. More. Hesitation, resistance, rebellion. An apology forming on the lips but words never leaving the mouth. Crack, as Kyungsoo slaps Jongin again, tears now rolling freely and sounds scraping the back of his throat. Whimpering, sobbing, heaving ribs and everything just hurts.

‘GET OUT!’ Kyungsoo screams this time, strong and defiant without a single crack in the words. And that’s how Jongin knows he has to leave.

Chewing on his lip for comfort, just to feel some sort of pain to puncture the numbness, Jongin leaves. Kyungsoo collapses. Back into the seat, head in hands, sobbing deeply. A punch of awful sounding laughter to interrupt the monochromatic depression. He suddenly knows how Baekhyun must feel – what the hell is he supposed to do now?

In his car, Jongin slumps in the driver’s seat. He slams the key into the ignition a little too hard and pulls out. No intention or direction, just driving. It begins to rain, then, and Jongin feels that the weather is some pathetic fallacy; an ironic twist just to remind him how worthless his life is. Raindrops pelting the window, and Jongin can barely be bothered to switch on the wipers. Salty tears on his face, and Jongin takes his hands off the wheel to wipe his face.

A beat. His heart slams into his chest. A beat. Pounding against his ribcage. A beat. Killing him from the inside out. A beat. Nausea rising in his throat. A beat. His head is throbbing. A beat. Jongin can’t see anymore.

Blurred streetlamps, and he squints through the windscreen. Jongin has had one problem throughout his entire life – whenever it gets dark, he never bothers to look for the light switch to brighten everything up again. And now, in the black night, with rain obscuring any visibility left, Jongin forgot to switch on the headlamps.

A beat. And suddenly the street lamp in front of him morphs into a car. Headlights. A beep. A screech. Rubber burning into tarmac, failing to find a purchase. Jongin’s mouth falls open, and he opens his mouth to scream.

            Crash.

WRITING THIS CHAPTER HAS BROKEN ME OH MY GOD IM DEVOID OF ALL EMOTION NOW IT HAS KILLED ME I AM SO NUMB.... but I hope it at least sparked some emotion in you guys, too.

I love you all, please don't hate me for this (there will be a happy ending I swear)