It started before he even woke up.
The dream felt real. The level of detail was uncanny, from the buildings lining the streets to the wind biting into his skin. He was walking somewhere, somewhere he hadnât been in close to six years but that he still remembered exactly how to find. His old dealer lived in Daerim-dong, a short walk from the nearest subway station. A twenty minute ride from his old apartment. An agonizingly long time, to someone in full-blown withdrawals. And he could feel it in the dream. The cold sweat. The ache that reached down into his bones. By the time he climbed the staircase leading up to Taehwanâs apartment, his legs felt almost too weak to carry him. His hands wouldnât stop shaking. Even inside, with Taehwan retreated into the next room to give him privacy, he couldnât calm down enough to steady them.
He woke up the second the needle pierced his skin.
And it haunted him all day. Being denied that high â even just an echo of one, even just a memory. It would have been more than heâs had in months. Itâs maddening, the slow trickle of chemicals heâs allowed. Methadone is fucking useless. He wants a high that will hit him like a tidal wave. He wants it to wreck him. Heâs seething with it, and at the clinic he stares them all down, daring them to pick up on it. How close he is to disaster. But they only smile at him as they hand him his dose, vacant and impersonal, and send him on his way.
He doesnât need a dealer anymore. He is the dealer. (And Taehwan is a corpse rotting somewhere, unidentified.) He has more than enough. Enough to kill him ten times over. No one would notice a little missing.
Only one thing standing in the way of his plan. Because itâs a plan now, one that began in the vapors of a dispelled dream and solidified into concrete steps by the tenth time that image intruded into his mind (Taehwan dead, unrecognizable). Because if heâs doing this, thereâs only one way to do this.
Ten o'clock finds him breaking into a nervous sweat under the fluorescent lights of the pharmacy down the street. Heâll never be able to show his face in here again. He wants to tell the pharmacist heâs a diabetic, just to throw the accusation in his stare into doubt, but he canât bring himself to speak. He checks out without a word.
Ten-thirty finds him in the midst of an old familiar ritual. Heâs taken his time getting prepared. Dragging his feet. Summoning the nerve. He starts with a quarter-gram â conservative if he were still using, but now, heâs not so sure. He doesnât know how high his tolerance is anymore. He doesnât know enough about methadone to estimate the equivalent of his daily dose. But heâs come too far to back out now.
His heart is beating out of his chest. He can see his pulse through the skin, in the vein he zeroes in on. Even under the overhead light, he can barely see the old marks. Theyâve almost disappeared and here he is making new ones. It doesnât matter. Nothing matters but the slow push of the plunger, slow and steady so it doesnât hit him too hard. He waits. And waits.
Itâs something very close to panic making his hands fumble to cook up more. Filling the same needle over again, because it doesnât matter if it hurts going in. All that matters is the rush heâs been dwelling on all day.
Heâs slammed an entire gram by the time he decides itâs a lost cause.
He could go look it up, but he doesnât bother. Itâs the only thing that makes sense. He remembers what they told him, before officially registering him as a patient at the clinic. About using while in the program. Donât even try. Heâd taken it for a general warning against relapse, a threat itâd get him kicked out. He never would have thought they meant Itâs a waste of heroin.
Eleven o'clock finds him retreating to bed, completely defeated. Heâs failed twice â failed in his sobriety, and failed to make it worth it. Start to finish, this day has been Hell. Heâs done.
his lips are stained with blood.
SOOHYUK: Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my fucking Jesus fucking CHRIST
SOOHYUK: Heroin overdose. Overdose. Cocaine overdose, opium, charcoal, ipecac, narcan, naloxoneâŚnaloxone. Thatâs narcan. Narcan. Narcan.
SOOHYUK: Please work oh my God oh my God you canât die Sungjoon you canât fucking die -
his ribcage is clattering. he shakes, he trembles, his whole body is clumsy as he scrambles to the sprawled body on the floor. thatâs Sungjoon. thatâs Sungjoon. thatâs SUNGJOON, for FUCKâS sake, wake the FUCK UP, please, please, please... - please, please, please... -
he watches the needle plunge through cold, pallid flesh. watches the blued veins rush eagerly to the surface, the subtle twitch of his pulse, counting down to the last goddamn millisecond for Sungjoon to open his eyes. please, please, pleaseâŚ- please⌠his breath hitches and he jerks back when the body doesnât move. thatâs just a body. itâs just a body. no, thatâs SUNGJOON. thatâs SUNGJOON, you FUCK, you crawling piece of SHIT, heâs DYING and you canât even HELP him - please, please, pleaseâŚ- please⌠please, pleaseâŚ-
he folds into himself, small, terrified, looking wide-eyed at the man: heâs still. so, so still. and heâs so scared, heâs so scared. Sungjoon canât die. Sungjoon canât die. Sungjoon canât die. not him, not him - fuck - not him. anyone but him. the apologies run through his lips like a babbling stream as he rocks back and forth, fingers tight against his skin, seized by such pure, unadulterated terror. cries falling from his open mouth.
SOOHYUK: Please, please, please, please, pleaseâŚ- please⌠pleaseâŚ- please⌠-
[ you just let him die, man! heâs dead! heâs dead! dead! dead! dead! dead! dead! dead! dEAD! DEAD! DEAD! DEAD! HEâS DEAD! SUNGJOON IS DEAD! SUNGJOON IS DEAD! SUNGJOON IS DEAD! thatâs just a body, thatâs just a BODY! a BODY! HEâS DEAD! SUNGJOON, OH MAN! HEâS FINALLY FUCKINâ DEAD, BABY! ]
SOOHYUK: Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please - please -
A good hour for mischief.
(IT) knows where to go. These footsteps are automatic, but theyâre not his. With his hands in his pockets, a cheerful tune drawling through his parted lips, Soohyuk (but itâs not him. itâs not. itâs - ) takes casual strolls towards the apartment his body is most familiar with. A building heâs kept watch of for so, so long, that even its address is an old nursery rhyme heâs repeated to himself at night to help him sleep. A mantra, a spell for comfort. Watching for that motherfucker -
He (IT) clears his throat. Among all things, itâs most important to stay calm. To stay steady. To stay stable. Otherwise heâll find himself trying to drag out that bastardâs vocal chords with his own bloody fuckinâ teeth - the anger, oh it burns so, so slowly. His name sears in his throat, imprinting itself in bold, thick strokes: a brand -
[ iâm going to fucking KILL that bastard. iâm going to rip out his eyes by their sockets, make him choke on them, piss all over his GODDAMN face and slash his gut fuckinâ wide OPEN, iâm going to chew him up and spit him out. heâs going to KNOW my name, KNOW who the FUCK he should never have crossed, know that Sungjoon is MINE - heâs MINE - heâs MINE - ]
Among all things, itâs most important to stay calm. To stay steady. To stay stable.
Thereâs new shoes on his feet. He walks with patterned taps - up the stairs, hand trailing along the railing - turn left at this corridor. A few stories up. The echoes bounce around the walls and spiral downwards as heâs ascending, the ring on his fourth finger rough against the rotting wood. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Clink, slide, tap. Tap. Tap. Clink, slide. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The door. Itâs locked, but he knows the way in. He brushes the debris from his fingers, clinging to each line on his palm as he steps into the room.
Thereâs a part of him that panics, instantly - spilled traces of powder on the floor, a lighter - a spoon, liquid on the floor - a syringe, pulled half-way. Bubbling. A ripped bag.
[ heâs dead, isnât he - heâs dead, isnât he - heâs dead, dead, dead, - DEAD, - oh my GOD heâs DEAD isnât he heâs DEAD, heâs DEAD, heâs DEAD, ISNâT HE? ]
Among all things, itâs most important to stay calm. To stay steady. To stay stable.
Something in him (not him - just, this weak, quivering body) aches. Itâs begging him, screaming for him to - to what? Check up on him? Make sure heâs not - DEAD? And if heâs dead, whose fault would it be?
[ itâs YOUR fault, itâs YOURS, he is YOUR responsibility - ]
Soohyuk bends down and wipes some of the powder with his fingertips. He rubs it against his thumb, lips slightly pursed. His heart is beating quickly, and somewhere in his mind thereâs shrieking - but heâs calm. Heâs steady. Heâs stable. (Not him, IT.) He puts his hands back into his pockets as he walks past the hallway, to a door heâs thrown open before. A room heâs torn apart in a frenzy, looking for -
Heroin overdose. Overdose. Cocaine overdose, opium, charcoal, ipecac, narcan, naloxoneâŚnaloxone. Thatâs narcan. Narcan. Narcan.
oh my God you canât die Sungjoon you canât fucking die
And there he is, face white as snow. Pale as itâs ever been, slight beads of sweat drawn against his hollow cheeks. His eyes are sunken in. Itâs been so long, but his lips ajar and the clothes heâs wearing are loose. And -
[ that FUCKING BRAND - the FUCKING BULLET]
âSungjoon,â Soohyuk (no. itâs not him. itâs not him.) says. His voice is low, drawled, ghostly. He crouches next to the bed, mouth half-cocked, a few inches from his face.
âSungjoon,â he repeats. A hand reaches out to gently touch the manâs face, fingers pressed against gaunt bone. âYou look like absolute shit.â