Trigger Warning: depression, addiction, ...the usual suspects

 

Boggs: It is a cold, dark place, Scully. Mulder’s looking in on it right now.

Scully: It may be a cold, dark place for you, but it’s not for Mulder and it’s not for my father.

–“The X-Files”: Season 1, Episode 13: Beyond the Sea (a serial killer sentenced to lethal injection and Agent Scully discuss death)

 

 

 

He had no real perception of time.

Every day he watched how the shadows drifted across the hardwood floor. The clock on the nightstand ticked loudly, and sometimes it was fast and sometimes it was slow. Occasionally, the door would swing open, and someone would shuffle in, and a tray would be set down, and that someone would shuffle out, and the door would swing shut again. 

There were other moments, in between the clink! of a wooden tray meeting a metal TV dinner stand and the shuffling out. The man would hoist him up with his arms firmly supporting his lower back and shoulders. At times like these Jiyong would feel, acutely, how sweaty and disgusting he was. He would want to crumple back on the bed.

But Daesung would not let him.  

He usually spoon-fed him porridge, mashed bananas, protein shakes, rice congee, chicken noodle soup, or chocolate pudding. Whenever he brought that last food, he would send him a dazzling smile that brightened his entire face. Jiyong was struck, in those moments, by how impossibly young his boyfriend was.

“I know it’s not exactly healthy,” he’d say. “But we’ll keep it our little secret.”

                                                                        *****

Even though Jiyong did not always know what day it was—nor did he particularly care—he sensed a rhythm. His friends used to joke that he had a metronome in his brain. Music arranged his thoughts as if it was a composer hard at work in the studio. “The perpetual beat” that guided his life kept order for him: or it used to, before everything ripped apart at the seams.

Fashion used to hold him together as well. There was a pattern in the everyday. His eyes automatically searched out and detected certain colors and combinations with the precision of a computer. He was reliant on his audio-visual perception to an intense degree, but the strength of his tactile, olfactory, and gustatory senses were particularly impressive, especially when compared to the general populace and particularly, other musicians.  

He had been on sensory overload since he was an infant. Decades of over-stimulation had led to boundless, obsessive decadence in his music videos, clothing, lifestyle, and choice of lovers. One repercussion of his abilities was a life spent wanting every beautiful person, place, and thing to be his, and damn the consequences. Jiyong had craved them all so much that he had convinced himself that it was a need. Receiving everything at the click of a mouse or the swipe of a black card had certainly contributed to his insatiability as he continued to pursue the elusive It that would finally satisfy his every whim.  

Daesung had opened his eyes to the fallacious and cowardly nature of his ownership claims.

                                                                        *****

He used to bathe alone.

The tub was as luxurious as the rest of his condo, so Daesung had to wedge him into the corner closest to the chair he sat on just so he could reach him—despite the entire structure taking up the space of a California king bed. He would instruct him to lift his arm or tilt his head, and Jiyong complied so Daesung could scrub his skin with a washcloth or massage shampoo into his hair. In those moments, he imagined himself as a posable doll. Dolls never wanted–or wanted for–anything.

One day Daesung had left to answer the phone in the bedroom. He had only gone for a minute. But when he returned, he found a dozy Jiyong reclining in the tub, almost his entire head submerged underwater, limbs akimbo on the California king-sized basin. He shouted, immediately climbing in and yanking the spluttering man out of the water by his underarms. 

“What were you thinking?” he yelled. “You gave me a heart attack!”

“I was sleepy.”

“Damn it, Ji. I’m serious.”

“Oh. Oh God, look.”

He pointed at Daesung’s boots. He was propped on the side of the spacious tub, skin gleaming, sloughing off water droplets onto the tiled floor where Daesung stood. He extended a long, thin arm towards the sopping wet leather on his boyfriend’s feet. Starring at the destroyed footwear, Jiyong started to cry.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I ruined your favorite boots. I’m such a -up, I so much–”

“Stop. Shh. It’s all right. They're just stupid boots.”

It was a fundamental difference between the two: that he could say such a thing so casually and actually mean it. 

Daesung held him in his arms. His skinny jeans were drenched as well, and Jiyong imagined they would be a right pain to remove later, but he continued to hold the soaked man tightly to his shirt like he didn’t know the meaning of discomfort. He started humming the chorus to “Baby Don’t Cry”, which somehow just made Jiyong want to sob harder.

He shushed his weeping, petting his limp black locks. The ends were still burnt orange. Haircuts were not high on either of their lists of priorities. After a moment, Daesung spoke thoughtfully.

“You never liked these boots anyway.”

Jiyong choked out a laugh. They bathed together from then on, with Jiyong deciding who played the big spoon and who played the little. Daesung wore his swiming trunks just in case. 

                                                                        *****

The feedings and the baths were all a part of the composition: all a part of the pattern. He wanted to zoom-out with his telephoto lens to see the entire thing. That scared him. It was dangerous to want. Because when he started wanting, he never could stop.

At times Daesung would crawl onto the bed with him and turn on the TV. Or he would crawl onto the bed and lie down and stare at the ceiling with him. Sometimes he would heft Jiyong up and set him down on the floor and support him until he made his way to a chair, commenting on how much weight he had lost.

“You need more pudding.”

Then he changed the sheets. There was little Jiyong enjoyed more in terms of tactile sensations then the feeling of fresh sheets against his bare flesh. Whether they be cotton or silk, he luxuriated in the cleanliness and purity of washed linens.

But he was reminded, watching Daesung’s back muscles flexing underneath his thin T-shirt as he threw the new fitted sheet across the thick mattress pad, how much he loved . Particularly, he loved making love to his boyfriend. There had been more than a few regrettable lays with various partners that had ranked way lower in his purview than his body’s communion with fresh sheets. ual encounters with Daesung were not among them.    

Now he tugged at his maroon knit beanie, staring at his boyfriend’s sculpted arms smoothing the comforter over the bed. That old dangerous flame of longing stirred low in his belly. He bit his lip.

                                                                        *****

He first understood that Daesung wasn’t his at Youngbae’s birthday party. Youngbae’s childhood neighbor, Sungmin, was there. He was hanging all over Daesung, who was smiling radiantly and laughing, his hand slung over the back of his chair. He wore a backwards snap cap and a purple V-neck shirt. It was never a good sign when someone’s clavicles were so beautiful that they could elicit envy in Jiyong. 

He did not appreciate the chuckles Daesung gave him so easily, as if they were free. He always worked to make his bandmate laugh. In fact, it was his job. No one else should be reaping the rewards.

So it was with perhaps not the subtlest of moves that Jiyong slipped on the floor while passing and managed to dump his beer all over Sungmin’s V-neck. He could blame the jostling of nearby partygoers, or the sticky club floor, or even the blinding strobe lights, but he couldn’t convince Daesung. His eyes conveyed a rarely expressed, seething rage bubbling just under that easygoing exterior. There was something else there, something akin to terror, but Jiyong couldn’t understand it.

After all, he thought, why would Daesung be afraid?

                                                                        *****

It was a quiet, insular life.

The only other person he saw was his therapist. She came every seven days. The distance between the visits, she assured him, were the same, but he could have sworn sometimes that it was longer. Sometimes, it felt shorter.

“When’s the last time you had ?” she asked.

“With another person? Months ago. Before the breakdown.”

“And when’s the last time you ed?”

“Last night,” he said. “Every chance I get. When I have the energy.”

“Really? Does it bother him?”

“Why would it? We don’t sleep together.”

“I thought–”

“No,” he said, a hint of frustration creeping in.

She jotted down a few notes on her pad. He turned his back to her, curling into a ball on the floral comforter. A soft breeze stirred the curtains on the window next to the bed. He breathed, deeply and consciously.

“He lies down with me sometimes. I like that.”

“And your clothes are on?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no contact?”

“Christ, how many ways can I say this, doc? I’m as celibate as the Pope.”

“Are you ashamed of this fact?”

He fiddled with the corner of his pillowcase.

“I don’t come when I e.”

She took down more notes, pen scratching paper noisily in the practically empty room. He wondered if he ever needed so much space.

*****

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For me rescuing you from that . I knew you were too polite to tell him to go away.”

“Yet I’m not too polite to tell you to go yourself.”

Shaking his head and muttering the word “unbelievable” over and over, Daesung shoved the back door to the club open and headed out into the chilly night. Jiyong followed him into the parking lot.

“So you’re just going to leave Youngbae’s party without saying good-bye? Real nice.”

“You pull this all the time. You don’t have any stake in who I talk to,” he said coldly. “You don’t own me.”

“But I do.”

Daesung scoffed, his breath fogging in front of his face. He continued marching towards his car. Jiyong grabbed his wrist, effectively stopping him in his tracks.  

“Hey–!”

He yanked him close so that they would collide and kissed him hard. Daesung broke away, sputtering.

“What do you think this is, some kind of drama?”

Daesung furiously swiped the back of his wrist against his mouth.

“You have the softest lips I’ve ever felt on a guy.”

He was so angry that he spat.

“You’ve got an addiction to sensations. You’re depressed because you’ll never be satisfied in your quest to physically feel all the time so you can avoid confronting your emotions. You need help, and I’m not a therapist. Don’t you dare use me! Not after all I’ve done for you. And I’m through talking to you.” 

Jiyong watched him drive away. He stayed in the same spot for what felt like a very long time.

                                                                        *****

They were watching a variety show, laughing and commenting upon the technical difficulties of executing certain feats on camera. After all, they had both “been there, done that”. They were reclining on the bed, sharing dessert. Daesung wore striped socks. Jiyong kept rubbing against them with his bare feet. His chin rested upon his boyfriend’s shoulder; Daesung would alternate between feeding himself and feeding Jiyong bites of chocolate brownie fudge ice cream.  

At times like this, they could pretend they were any other couple. They could maintain the illusion of a happy family, just like Daesung always wanted. But it never lasted too long.

“I’m sorry,” Jiyong said. “It can’t be easy, having a boyfriend who has no energy to be a real boyfriend. Who just cries and sleeps and requires feeding and bathing like an oversized baby. Thank God I can still go to the bathroom, right?”

He twined his fingers with Daesung’s. His lover kept his eyes glued to the flat screen.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, around a mouthful of fudge, “That’s fake.”

“What is?”

Daesung gestured uselessly in the general vicinity of the TV with his spoon.

“The bulge.”

“What?”

“I’m telling you. I saw Minsoo in person and his junk definitely did not live up to the hype.”

“In person? As in, rock hard and glistening–”

“Yah! You ! I just meant, you know, we were seated next to each other during a talk show.”

“And you just happened to glance at his package. Who’s the now?”

Daesung ice cream off his bottom lip and shrugged. Jiyong wanted to clean the dot of chocolate off his cheek with his tongue, but he wasn’t allowed. Ever since his meltdown, they had come to a ual truce, in which Daesung could safely take care of his boyfriend without living in constant fear of being jumped. So Jiyong pointed at his own cheek, and Daesung rubbed at his face with his thumb and the chocolate off.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the man was trying to seduce him. But he knew he didn’t need to try.  

“Thank you,” Jiyong said. “For everything.”

He leaned into his neck, breathing in the scent of pine soap that his boyfriend favored. Daesung slung his arm around his back and held him close. On screen, the host laughed at Minsoo, who had wiped out spectacularly in the mud.

“So, what do you think they stuff his pants with?”

“Honestly, I’m pretty sure he’s at least five years younger than me. I would be fine with us never discussing this again.”  

Jiyong laughed.

                                                                        *****

“Stop!” Daesung commanded. “Get off me. You need to leave. Please.”

He sat up and began quickly buttoning his shirt, not even willing to look at the older man who had gained access to his apartment by claiming he “just wanted to talk” but had immediately proceeded to try to ravage him in his living room.

Daesung’s caramel hair was mussed in the back. Dejected and humiliated, Jiyong scrambled off the couch and ran to the door. He grabbed the doorknob: so cold against his sweaty, heated touch that he shivered. He still desired something, and he was going to get it one way or another.

“Wait.”

He didn’t want to, but he did.

“I know you’re going to find some stranger and their brains out. But before you do, I want you to answer me honestly…Can you go without?”

He closed his eyes as tightly as he could.

“Or do you feel like you’re crawling out of your skin because the idea of being alone with yourself makes you sick?”

He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and tried not to make a sound.

“Is it really a need? Do you need that fringed jacket or that summer cottage? Fine. You’re rich. You can afford those. But do you need that girl with the high waisted shorts? That boy with the tongue stud?”

Now his fist was over his mouth.

“Because you can’t have them. You can’t have any of them. You can’t just collect and own people like dolls. That’s too easy, and it’s a cop-out. You certainly can’t make them love you unconditionally for whoever they mistakenly think you are. I already tried. is one thing, but then it’s over, and I just felt nothing inside. The nothing had razors for teeth, and it meant to swallow me whole.”

Jiyong’s shoulders shook. He heard the bedsprings creak. Then someone got off the bed and shuffled over to him.

                                                                        *****

Sometimes Daesung brought him little presents. He liked to surprise him with bizarre knickknacks, like a rainbow-patterned cloth tissue holder, or a fox figurine carved out of a walnut shell. Everyone knew that a Daesung-in-love would spoil his partner. His bandmates used to joke that, as women, they wouldn’t want to fall for him, because they would fall too deeply.

Jiyong was a hopeless romantic himself, and he understood all too well. None of his previous girlfriends or boyfriends knew quite what he liked. They would spend an inordinate amount of money on something he already had or didn’t like, or they would expect him to do all the gifting.

On days when he had a bit of energy, he would write lyrics. They wouldn’t amount to entire songs, but verses, inspired by the man who brought him breakfast (and lunch, and dinner, and dessert, and trinkets, and a boyfriend) in bed.

Today he brought shoelaces that were tie-dyed lime green and neon orange. They would go well with his purple Nikes, Jiyong thought.  

“Thank you,” he said instead.

He slipped a folded paper napkin into Daesung’s palm.

“You know, you have actual paper. In fact, you have so many notebooks that, when piled together, could easily break through your ceiling. That is, if they were made out of titanium or some type of metal that could bust through plaster.”

“I know.”

It was a matter of continuity. There was an indecipherable pattern of time that dictated when he ate, when he bathed, when he discussed his abstinence with his therapist, and when he could watch Daesung watch TV on his bed, but he didn’t compose it. He could, however, take the napkins that he got with his meals and slip them under his pillow, and later remove them and write down all the words tumbling around in his brain like clothes in a washing machine.

He wasn’t being held hostage, his boyfriend explained. He had even given him pink-and-gold stationery with balloon and bow designs lining the borders.

But there was comfort in hiding and writing on the wrinkled napkins and giving them back to the man who brought him his food. That was a calendar he could control.

“I could take these lyrics and sell them on eBay, you know.”

“Sell them on GDae.”

“Stop reminding me that that’s a thing that’s real.”

“It’s on the Internet, so is it really real?”

Blushing, Daesung left, the lyrics This is just half a piece of origami,/I can’t always keep you beside me,/But if you think of me every time you see paper,/You’ll think of me half as often as I do you crumpled in his palm.

                                                                        *****

He kissed him desperately, his hips ing of their own accord. Daesung whimpered into the kiss, spurring Jiyong to rock harder into him.

“Hyung,” he sighed.

His s grew erratic. He s his right hand down and his boyfriend’s , slick with pre-.

“Hyung!” Daesung moaned.

“How does it feel. How does it feel,” Jiyong hissed, his other hand toying with Daesung’s throat.

His nerves felt raw. His body was a bell and he was vibrating all over with the incredible stimulation below and around him. The auburn highlights of his hair, his husky gasps, the damp slide of his smooth skin, the salty taste of his sweat, and the musky scent of his surrounded Jiyong in a haze so strong that he couldn’t think. Just seeing all that bare, glistening flesh had almost sent him over the edge.

Almost.

He wanted to come inside his boyfriend. He wanted to fill him up and make him his. Jiyong knew Daesung didn’t like that kind of ownership talk, which just made the idea more appealing. So he bit and hickeys onto his neck and drove him crazy, and his fingers coiled around his throat like a suggestion.  

“You’re so big, hyung,” Daesung marveled, the way he knew he liked to hear. “You’re stretching me apart.”

His baser instincts made him snarl and drive his more forcefully into the body beneath him. His balls slapped loudly against his bottom: a lewd sound in a large room.

“How are you so perfect and tight,” he grunted, too far gone to stop himself.

“Oh! Oh! I’m going to come!”

His knees rested on Jiyong’s shoulders, backs sweaty and sticking to his skin. Jiyong couldn’t help but turn his head to nip at his toned calf. He slammed his length roughly into his lover’s body a few more times, eliciting the desired groans.

“You’re so hot inside and out,” Jiyong murmured, smoothing his hands over Daesung’s sides.

He took hold of his left hand and brought it to his mouth to bestow an unexpectedly sweet kiss on his palm. Daesung blinked. Then he clenched his eyes shut and let out a throaty, high-pitched wail as his tore through his body. His toes curled violently against his lover’s back.

Continuing his ministrations, Jiyong watched in fascination as pearly white strings of e shot across his boyfriend’s chiseled chest. It was, he thought, the closest thing to God he had ever witnessed. Certain that Daesung would not appreciate the sentiment, he decided against sharing.

“Beautiful.”

Blissed out, Daesung could only smile, his walls clenching uncomfortably tight around his . He bent down to kiss those soft lips. Then he rammed mercilessly into his lover’s heat: lubricant, pre-, and friction combining to create squishing sounds that he personally found arousing (and his boyfriend was too exhausted and sated to complain about).

“Let me finish inside you, please please please Dae, let me come.”

His begging had become a ritualized formality in their games. He had yet to be refused. Daesung wordlessly slid his legs down off his shoulders and wrapped them around his lower back, drawing him in. His hands found his buttocks and pulled him still deeper.

“Come for me,” he whispered breathlessly. 

Crying out, Jiyong surrendered to the pleasurably agonizing spasms that wracked his entire being.

                                                                        *****

The man brought him a tray of scrambled eggs, milk, and toast. That was new.

“I wanted to see if you had enough energy to try solid food. And if you could feed yourself.”

Jiyong blinked. He shifted over, and Daesung sat down. The bed sank under his weight.

“If you try, maybe we could fool around a little,” he said nervously.

It had been, Jiyong reflected, a very long time. For the both of them. There was that familiar hit of guilt at preventing Daesung from coupling with any other human being while he was out of commission, but he pushed it down for the moment.

“Maybe you could choke on my and I could rim and finger your little until you’re ready to get plowed into Wednesday.”

Daesung coughed, attempting to hide his surprise.

“It’s only Saturday.”

Jiyong grinned. It was a very Daesung response. 

“Sounds like a challenge. After this drought, you think I couldn’t do it?”

He sat up, moving his mouth close to his boyfriend’s ear.

“I can’t keep track of time. But I can promise you that I’ve been thinking about it every second of every minute of every day. How you look, how you sound, how you feel, how you taste…your scent drives me crazy. I miss you riding me.”

He wanted to lap at the blush spreading rapidly across his lover’s cheeks. In fact, he wanted to every inch of his body.

“I know you don’t like bribing me with ,” he said. “Because you don’t want to feed my addiction. But if it’s just with you, and it’s not like those marathon sessions we used to have, can we do it again? Make love?”

Daesung’s expression softened. He so unabashedly loved love that it caused a twinge in Jiyong’s chest whenever he saw his reaction to just the word itself.

“Yes. Once you're better, we can certainly try.”

Jiyong reached for a piece of toast.

                                                                        *****

For many people, depression is an ending point. It is either a slow or quick death, but it is never painless. It is a cold, dark, empty, lonely space for the Wretched and the Damned: whether others have thrown these souls into the category or they believe themselves to belong there (usually a combination of the two, with one responsible for the other). There is a gap that yawns wide open, exposing its razor sharp teeth, waiting for you to run in and hurt yourself so badly you can never recover. Depression can be just.

Like.

That. 

 

 

 

But it’s not for Jiyong.