Chapter Text
Felix is okay. He’s good, better than good. The mirror shows him a face lined with eye bags and freckles. His breath fogs his reflection from standing too close. With a sigh, he leans back, averting his gaze. He looks tired. A frown lining his mouth, his eyes oddly lifeless even if he’s not feeling like it, not exactly.
Well, there’s nothing he can do, is there?
Outside, the wind howls, so he puts on his coat. Autumn is all great and cool, but does it really have to be like this? He hates being cold. His phone lights up with a message from Chan. Felix looks it over but doesn’t answer. It’s not that he’s mad, but he knows what Chan did yesterday, despite their promise, despite all they’ve gone through in these past months, and he doesn’t want to talk to him right now.
Especially not after what happened. That voice-
No. Better not think about it. Whatever made it appear in his head, if he stays strong, sober, it’ll disappear. No need to break his head over it.
Felix slips on his backpack and goes off to fail his history exam he didn’t learn for. Who cares about history anyway? Who cares for grades? He knows he should, but he can’t make himself. Between trying to stay sober with Chan around, trying to keep Chan sober while trying not to lose his friends, he’s exhausted. Too much for learning or caring.
A last look in the mirror makes him see himself as he was two years ago for the blink of an eye, but it fades right back into the shell of a person he‘s become.
Fuck it.
The door slams shut behind him; he makes his way to campus, even though he might as well not go at all. Wouldn’t change the grade he’ll get, but if he won’t go today… Hell, he might never go again.
Right on time, he enters the hall, seating himself in one of the arranged rows and all too soon, over ten double-sided pages of unnecessary questions lie in front of him. He could just sleep, but… he’ll try. Maybe he can get at least one answer right, maybe even two. It’s better than nothing, right? Felix snorts, silent and unheard to everyone. As if. Who’s he even trying to fool? He knows shit. This will be zero points once again.
Leisurely, he pages through the stack, finding nothing he can answer. Most topics he heard vaguely at one point, but the knowledge questioned here doesn’t exist in his head. Still, he fills out the first three pages with his best guesses and stories pulled out of his ass. Maybe he’ll get a point for effort. He’s about to write a fantastical story about a war-plan made of intrigue and prostitutes, his mind already rallying with a story when-
It's wrong. This is all wrong. A deeply annoyed, rough voice scolds him. You’re tilting me so hard. I can’t fucking watch this anymore.
Felix’s fingers twitch with the odd sensation of the sound in his head. That’s it. This is the fucking voice from yesterday. Oh god, is this it? Is he finally going mad? He knew his withdrawal had been too easy. This must be-
Erase that. All of it.
Dread settles with an unpleasant wave of cold sweat forming on his arms and shoulders. He’s crazy. There’s a voice in his head that scolding him. He’s scolding himself.
What are you waiting for?
Impatience lines the words. Felix doesn’t know what to do, not with easily fifty people and a handful of professors around him. He swallows, eyes the room with scant hope, but no one hears this voice. No one acts weird, looks around, it’s only him.
Only him.
I know you can hear me, I said, delete it.
“No.” The word slips out of his mouth louder than intended. The student before him turns for a moment.
Yes. Just do it.
“I said no.”
I’m trying to help you; just fucking do it and stop talking. You’re getting everyone’s attention, idiot.
“No. Stop. “
“Mr. Lee?” A professor appears next to him, mustering him with a raised eyebrow, appearing mildly concerned. “is something the matter? You know talking is not allowed, right?”
Told you.
“I’m sorry, I uhm, don’t feel so good. May I use the bathroom?”
At the professor’s nod, Felix all but sprints out of the room, taking a deep breath once he’s outside. Okay, calm. A bit of water. It’ll help, right? Surely. Inside the bathroom, he checks all the cubicles and breathes a sigh of relief when he’s alone. A splash of water later, he dries his face with his sleeves, carding his fingers through the partly wet ponytail.
He's not crazy.
“I’m not crazy.”
Debatable.
Felix pales, his fingers spasming around the faucet. The need to throw up crawls into his throat. He’s going mad, perhaps has been for a time now. Whatever he took in that club, whatever the fuck it was, it must have done something, must have given him some kind of sickness, maybe he-
Are you trying to stare a hole into your reflection or what? It won’t make you look any better, trust me.
“Shut up.” His voice betrays his panic. He swallows, praying the voice will disappear just as easily.
I’ll shut up when you stop messing up your exam.
“Fuck, shut up. What do you even care! Just leave me alone!”
Look, I’d love to leave you alone. Nothing I’d rather do. But your emotions are so loud and that exam so fucking easy it’s triggering to watch you half-ass it. The voice sighs, the sound sends a cold shower up his arms.
What does that even mean? His emotions are loud? What the fuck…?
This isn’t good, and he’s got no fucking idea what to do. His pulse is quicker than it should be, and staying here forever isn’t an option. Perhaps he should go home. Yeah, just leave, take a long nap and he’ll be good again. Right, that’s it, that’s a plan.
The door opens, his professor halts in the doorway with a worried frown. “Are you all right? You’ve been gone for a while and following your… outburst. “
Great, that’s what he needed.
“I’m fine.”
The professor’s eyebrows rise in disbelieve; Felix can’t say he blames him. The man nods, but doesn’t leave, instead stands in the doorway in a way that tells Felix he’ll wait for him. With no other choice, Felix follows him back to the hall and all too soon, he’s sitting in front of his messed-up exam once more. For a solid minute, he stares holes into the paper and doesn’t touch the pen.
Staring doesn’t solve your problems. The voice continues to sound annoyed, but sighs, and when it speaks next, it sounds less like it’s attacking him. Look, just… open a side you have written nothing on and let me tell you the correct answer. I’ll go afterwards, okay?
It’s not okay, but Felix is aware of the eyes burning a hole into his back. As long as it’ll truly go afterwards, it’s fine, right? Right. He would do anything for not being crazy. The pen feels foreign between his clumsy fingers as he opens a page. He didn’t fill yet and listens to the voice in his head listing him all the answers. Page after page, he fills them out, not knowing if they’re right, but it sounds right, makes sense, the things he writes.
When he finishes, there’re still fifteen minutes to go. The pen lies neatly next to the papers – his fingers itch, his arm hurts. He never wrote as much in an exam before. In his head, there’s silence as promised, but it doesn’t ease his worries. No, it eases nothing at all. A nap will help. It has to. Or a hug, maybe from Chan. He should ask again what happened, make sure that this is not something to do with that night.
With noisy worry, and the constant fear of the voice reappearing, he goes home. The door falls shut with a click. His backpack lands in its corner. With a look in the mirror, he makes sure he’s still Felix, and he is. Pale. Freckles. Dark eyes and bags that are too deep to be healthy. His hair is messy from the wind, but otherwise acceptable. He leans in close, then back again, licking his lips.
“I’m okay.” The words lose themselves in the room's emptiness. He gets no answer.
“I’m okay.” This time with more confidence, though his mind can’t quite follow up the statement with the emotion.
With no more confidence than earlier, he walks through the hallway to his living area. It’s warm inside, the couch a pleasant, dark blue as always. The curtains drawn, letting in only a fraction of brightness. His coffee table clean, the remotes neatly aligned, while the kitchen counter overflows with dirty dishes he’s been too lazy to clean.
He can’t bring himself to care about it. With a quick glance of his cupboard and the photos lining the top, he disappears inside his bedroom and closes the door. Within minutes he sheds his clothes and buries himself in the queen-sized bed under warm sheets cold against his skin. He’s cold. Perhaps he’s getting sick. A fever, that could be it.
Soon enough, he drifts off in wonky ignorance.
A forest. Pleasant sounds that soothe his soul. Someone plays a flute; it echoes with muted intensity. Low whisper mill with the quietness of the moment, with warmed air brushing his skin. When he opens his eyes, he sees a reddish fire bristling merrily before him. He shifts, silken blankets pool around his hips. They’re pleasant against his skin. From outside, steps approach, the flap of his tent opens. A warm light shines inside as someone handsome enters. His cheeks round, smile earnest. His mind reels in recognition.
“Binnie? Oh, sorry. Didn’t know you were resting. You okay? Is- “The questions fade, the dream dissolving to nothingness. When he opens his eyes next, the ceiling of his apartment greets him. The dream lingers in his mind, stirring his memory with something he can’t grasp, but that face… he remembers it from somewhere. It’s a shallow itch, and he’s certain he never met it. Still, seeing it had been pleasant. Like seeing a loved one, someone he cares for. He can’t deny feeling it. That’s just stupid, isn’t it? It was a dream, nothing more.
Alone with himself, his thoughts and the rapidly returning fear of voices appearing in his mind, he bites the bullet and calls Chan. Fuck being angry.
The voice doesn’t return that day, or the next, or the one after. The dreams though, do.
The days blur together after that. Felix finds himself caught between two competing impulses—the desperate need to prove he's fine, and the growing realization that he's anything but. He throws himself into studying with manic intensity, as if perfect grades could somehow validate that the voice in his head is helping rather than a sign he's losing his mind.
Two weeks of relative stability end the moment Chan texts about a party. Felix stares at his phone for twenty minutes, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could say no. Should say no. The smart choice, the healthy choice, would be staying home with his textbooks and the voice that's been unusually quiet today.
Instead, he finds himself getting dressed.
This is a terrible idea, the voice says as Felix checks his reflection.
"I know," Felix murmurs, but he goes anyway. Because sometimes the fear of missing out on normal human connection outweighs the fear of what might happen when alcohol is involved.
The music resonates with his chest; intense bass, the speaker’s fuzz, the high notes too much to handle. His friends dance the night away, the alcohol sweeping aside all their worries, while Felix can only sink back to his seat with a defeated sigh. Whether it’s dancing or partying, it’s just not as fun without alcohol.
He eyes the last drips of Chan’s beer, swirling it around the plastic cup. He tried, but ever since that night he just can’t bring himself to drink anymore. He’s scared something will happen again. That he’ll wake up with another voice in his mind, or worse. Bits and pieces from the pain and anguish he felt return in a form of nightmares occasionally, and he’s not fond of reliving it in real life again.
He sets the cup down, eyeing Hyunjin and Jeongin, who dance close to each other, hands touching and lingering in innocent looking places, but the glint in Hyunjin’s eyes is telling. The tension between them is palpable, the smiles full of affection of a kind he wished he would experience himself.
When was the last time someone looked at him not just with lust but with longing?
Can you stop sulking already?
He freezes, but it only lasts a second. After the initial quietness following his bathroom-outburst, it’s been quiet, but that changed after almost two weeks of blissful normalcy in which he believed to have had a bad dream. Soon enough, the voice returned. He still remembers that day.
He had been at a club much like this one, not drunk either, but desperate enough to agree to the first person eyeing him in a way that could only mean one thing. Back then, he didn’t care for the strange taste of whiskey on those lips, or the one of cigarettes. That the hair was shorter than he liked and the clothes ripped and unfitting for the place they were in. Not that it mattered, nothing had that evening. Felix thought he was normal again, that only an aversion to alcohol had stayed and that everything else would be just as it was.
They disappeared in a dark corner, all eager hands and exploring fingers until Felix froze right where he was.
Are you that desperate? The voice had asked and Felix was about to bite something back, but he kept himself in check. Maybe it’s because those words resonated inside of his skull, a bit like his own thoughts, just with a rougher voice. It prompted him to open his eyes, to take in the person he’d been ravaging.
The ripped clothes, the short hair, the dark eyes and dilated pupils that did nothing to him. His fingers stopped their touch, retracting from a toned stomach, from warm skin he desired to explore just a moment prior. The guy’s shirt stayed adrift, his gaze confused as Felix redid his belt, keeping his eyes fixed to the chest opposite of him, avoiding judgement. His head blown empty of thought, this situation one of a kind he hadn’t brought himself into before.
He swallowed, took a step back, already hating himself for this. The other’s kissed lips gleamed in the low light, the taste of whiskey lingering on his own tongue. He swallowed again, but the taste stayed. With his sleeves he rubbed away the lingering wetness from his lips, turned and left. His hair probably looked all over the place, but he couldn’t seem to care. With his hands he combed it back, licked his lips, eyeing the people he walked past with passing interest.
He had been desperate for a distraction, but not that desperate. It’s true. It’s just been as always when he did things with little thought, when he went along with a feeling and not his head.
It was confusing to remember the buzz of short hair under his finger’s hours later, followed by an odd curiosity of what would have come after, but no regret. Not as much as he would have felt after sleeping with him.
Ever since that day, the voice became a constant, but Felix's relationship with it shifts like weather. Some mornings he wakes grateful for the commentary, even the harsh bits, because it means he's not entirely alone with his thoughts. Other days he spends hours trying to provoke it into silence, picking fights with his own head until his throat is raw from arguing with empty air.
In the beginning he guessed he had gone crazy, maybe some kind of mental illness. He still thinks that, it can’t be normal to have a voice inside his head after all, can it? Still, he can’t deny listening to it. No matter it’s harshness and the number of times he yells at it to shut up, it’s a constant. It’s almost… comforting.
An anchor his life had been void of for too long.
With a sigh, he returns to the present. He shoves his fingers into his hair, rubbing his skull to ease the conflicting thoughts without success.
Is that always what you do in clubs? Either shoving your tongue down someone’s throat or sitting like a grump in a corner?
“Shut up.”
Or else what?
Felix exhales, eyes flying through the room for an escape he won’t find. There’s no way to run from being crazy, is there? But he might find something to drown it out for the time being. He gets up, eyes settling on the bar.
You’re pathetic
He ignores it.
"All right, for the last time. What's wrong with you lately?" Chan slides into the seat next to him, bringing the smell of alcohol. "You keep saying you're fine, but you don't drink, you don't talk, and most of the time you look like something's on your mind. Someone bothering you?" Chan throws a suspicious look through their group, eyes stopping at the guy that's been undressing him with his eyes all evening.
He's not a problem in particular—he's used to people looking and undressing him with their eyes. No, the problem is the entire group they're with today. Felix dislikes these people with a passion, but when his friends want to invite him, how can he deny them? They're all he has.
With his eyes he follows a drop of water sliding down the frosted bottle of half-emptied vodka. Usually, he would be drunk by now, would have consumed most of the alcohol because it solves his problems for however short. It's always been a relief, a reprieve from too many thoughts. Given in to the warmth of it, and the warmth of someone's body right after. He yearns for it, for this blankness, the short-lived excitement with no hooks and consequences.
Yet since that night, drinking has become problematic. It's all fun and games until the liquid is in his glass and he holds it. His hands refuse the movement, his mind rejects the thought, and so he doesn't. Hasn't since that day. It's good, he shouldn't be mad about it and yet he is. Without this reprieve, there's less joy and no way to blow off steam. He's tense, yet he can't de-stress. All that works is him arguing with that stupid voice inside of his head.
"It's nothing, just not in the mood for a party."
Chan scoffs, downing his shot. His fingers settle warm on Felix's knee, squeezing the ticklish area with his fingers.
"You've not been in the mood for anything lately. Drink some, c'mon. Loosen up, let old Lix come back for a while."
The smell of Chan's favorite, overly sweet liquor hits his nose. Chan's finger brushes his lip where he presses the glass to it, but he can't bring himself to open. He doesn't want to drink. Part of him would love to, wants nothing else, yet another tells him this is bad. It'll make it worse again. The voice, his fears, and… hadn't he promised himself to stop drinking, anyway? Stop drinking and doing drugs. Follow his dreams again, study and maybe even start dancing again. Isn't that better?
Felix can't help it when he backs off, finding Chan's eyes, trying to say something that makes sense, but no words come over his lips. It would be laughable anyway, trying to tell Chan all this. He's a simpler person than Felix, he doesn't care for the seriousness of life, only the fun sides and—
Chan's brows rise, the lopsided smile slips off his face. In mere seconds, the shot disappears between the other's lips, a glint in those eyes he knows all too well, something he saw in moments deeply buried between highs and excited dizziness. Their lips meet as part of him expected, a tongue pushed between his lips as he responds more out of habit than anything else. The liquid is sweet and warm, tasting like strawberry and smoke. The kiss is as short as can be, Felix swallows awkwardly, the alcohol leaving a burning trail down his throat.
Chan leans back with a smirk, wiping a trail of the sweet liquid from his chin and lips.
"There wasn't so bad, was it?" He winks, fingers letting go of his knee with a last squeeze before he leaves Felix with another shot altogether.
You're disgusting. The voice breaks the silence in his mind.
Part of him agrees, the other addicted and finally satisfied one says fuck it. He takes the next shot, eyes lining up with the guy opposite him, the one that had been watching him all night with a kind of hungry look he can't help but want now.
His stomach burns with the umpteenth trickle of alcohol reaching it. The vodka strong enough to make him feel it, make him come alive after having been in stasis for god knows how long. With little thought, he drinks, laughing at things that aren't funny. The stiffness in his shoulders vanishes, the buzz inside his head gets heavier, making clear thoughts impossible. Not even half an hour later, the spot next to him gets taken as the one opposite empties.
You're going to poison yourself. The voice insists as he lifts another shot to his lips, he ignores it in favor of concentrating on the lips exploring his neck, the hands fumbling with his clothes and the telltale heat settling low in his abdomen.
How they end up in Chan's bedroom he doesn't remember, not that he cares. His clothes disappear, hastily brushed off with fumbling fingers touching warm skin.
Everything excites him, spikes the heat burning. The air is scorching, punctured with groans and sighs from meaningless kisses, harsh bites and uncaring motions. All he hears for moments to come is the slapping of skin, heavy breathing and grunts breathed into the space between them. He's lost in this moment's bliss, in the alcohol and the want, until—
Are you really this cheap?
His breathing stagnates, eyes fluttering open with the sudden sense of anger filtering into his veins. As if someone snapped their fingers, the alcoholic buzz dwindles out of him, the heat in his stomach shrinks, the face above him is no longer attractive, the sheen of sweat disgusts him and the lips sucking love bites into his neck make him want to throw up. The moment startles him, makes him halt, a whine of discomfort slipping out when the other climaxes, he feels it, the body falling into his and the heated pulsing inside.
The bedsheet is warm between his fingers. He digs them into the mattress, suddenly unsure of what to do. This is something he had done time and time again and yet… All he wants is to push him away, make him disappear, clean up and forget. He feels sick because the rush of excitement, the want, it had been there, shallow, not filling him as it should. Lost in his desperation, in his bad habits and his weaknesses. He hoped to forget for just a night, and yet… the regret comes earlier than usual. The alcohol in his blood gone—must be, because he's not supposed to be tearing up with someone's dick inside his ass.
"Let's do that again sometime."
The guy, blind to the thoughts ripping him apart, nibbles on his lips in a way that promises more for another time, slips out of him, gets dressed and leaves with not much more than a fleeting look to his still naked form. Felix keeps staring at the closed door, cold creeping up his exposed body, but he can't bring himself to do much more than drag the blanket half-heartedly over himself.
The silence in his head is deafening. For the first time in weeks, there’s no commentary, no sarcastic observation, no cutting remark. The absence feels like judgment in itself, or maybe disappointment, and Felix finds himself craving even the voice's harshest words over this hollow quiet. At least when the voice was berating him, someone cared enough to be angry.
That's it, isn't it? All that he's good for?
A quick release, someone to use, and Felix let him. Had let many do this. There's no love, no affection, merely a raw lust to be satisfied. He's not to love, he's to be used and discarded. Had always been, hadn't he? The realization carves a hollow feeling into his heart. There's a reason he normally gets drunk enough to forget. To truly forget.
Chan doesn't come look for him, neither do any of the other two. The minutes pass in the silence of his spiraling thoughts. It's dark, he's on the bed and naked with tears crawling down his cheeks. They shouldn't be here yet, not with the alcohol, but they are. Laughter rising from the adjoining room makes him want to scream, makes him want to shut them up. He can't help it, feels insulted when it isn't meant for him. Somewhere between a dull pain settling in his lower body and the apartment becoming quiet, he falls into a daze of half-sleep and pained thoughts.
The bed is cold, stays cold. He's cold too, outside and inside. With his fingers he searches for his phone, running them over the smooth bedsheets, under the pillow and around his body, but he can't find it. Frustration swells in him, thick with anger and a desperation he can't explain. The dried tears shoot right back into his eyes.
Next to your head. The voice says.
Felix wants to ignore it, but his phone is really there. A pleasant weight in his hand. It's shortly after midnight.
"Thanks."
He gets a grunt in response, one of the voice's favorite methods of answering him. Maybe it's the familiarity of it, or just the realization that he's not alone, but it's soothing. After a moment of gathering himself, he slides out of the bed to clean up in the bathroom. Every step hurts, makes him cringe; that guy hadn't been gentle with him at all, and Felix can't even blame him for it. When he's clean and halfway dressed, he glimpses his face in the mirror, taking in the red eyes, pale face sprinkled with freckles and the mess he calls hair.
You look terrible. A pause. Get some sleep.
Felix nods, averting his eyes. A small part of him hopes that someone's still awake as he peeks out of the bedroom door, but that's not the case. Instead, his three friends cuddle on the couch, with Chan taking up most space, Jeongin in his lap and Hyunjin hugging the latter's feet. It's outrageously cute, it truly is, yet seeing it is like a stab. It's not jealousy, not exactly. He could've been there too, but he got too shitfaced to think straight. Like always, and yet that's exactly what Chan wanted to happen. For him, alcohol or drugs are always the solution. That's just how Chan works.
Felix always falls for this trap. This shit isn't a solution for him, it makes him stupid, turns off his brain. His addiction isn't as heavy, as uncontrollable as others', but it's enough to make him stumble again and again. He can live without all this shit, but once someone introduces it back to him, it's game over. Like today.
And it'll lead him right here, standing in a doorway with a yearning for something true. Genuine affection and touches with a meaning, with love. He can't remember if he last truly loved someone. What books and movies tell him always seems so fake. Genuine love and touches that make your heart flutter, eyes that you want on you just because of the attention, because of the affection in them. All these things, he never experienced them this way, as if his feelings are muted. Maybe he can't love, or maybe people cannot love him. It's either or both.
The doorknob slips from his fingers after he retreats to the bedroom. He's incapable. Especially with the wetness in his eyes and the sinking, queasy uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Before long his mouth waters, and he barely makes it in time to the bathroom before he empties the contents of his stomach.
Why does he have to be like this?
It lasts for a minute or two. He doesn't feel better after, not with the sweat on the back of his neck and the burn in his throat. His try to spit the taste out of his mouth fails, so he goes to brush his teeth. The reflection remains unkind to him. He averts his eyes.
Told you.
"Shut up, I don't need my head reprimanding me."
Good that I'm not your own head then. The voice sounds angry this time, matching the emotion in Felix's words.
"Can you just leave? My life was so nice without you."
Was it, truly?
It's a rhetorical question, Felix doesn't answer. He spits the toothpaste into the sink and rinses, before laying back down in Chan's bed. The sheets remain cozy, Felix cuddles into them, but can't seem to get warm. Maybe on the outside, to the touch, he remains warm, but on the inside? There's a coolness born from deep within. From loneliness and helplessness. He would give much to join his friends outside, but he can't. They don't need to see him like this. It's stupid—they know something is wrong. They know, so why...?
You should lie on your side, idiot. Imagine if you throw up again, and—
"Please, just… shut up." He's crying, but refuses to let out any sounds, instead buries his face in the blanket.
It's quiet for a long while, and even if he asked for it to be like this, it makes him anxious. Saying shut up, but not meaning it. Not now, when he desperately needs someone with him. May it be just his brain talking, it's better than nothing.
I will shut up, if you lie on your side, you idiot. You're a danger to yourself, do you know that? Move, come on.
"It hurts." Felix says despite himself, so low and silent, it renders on gibberish. Another brief silence, punctured by a sigh.
It won't, I promise. Just... do it.
He struggles a bit, but relents eventually. Cautiously, he shifts to his side and true to the voice, it doesn't hurt. A quiet corner of his mind wants to question it after the hell that was moving earlier, but he forces the urge down. True to its words, the voice quiets. Everything is silent, just his thoughts aren't. Still, with time and repressed memories, he slips into a restless sleep.
That night, he dreams of the forest again. It's dark there, the outsides of the tents lit up by an orange fire. Handsome face is there, hugging someone else, a dark-haired guy with a fine face. No one speaks, and all he hears is the quietness of a bristling fire and swaying leaves.
.
.
.
"Where have you been, Ji?"
Jisung stiffens, fists clenching around the wet bundle of clothes in his hand. Curse his bad timing. Can't he be lucky for once? His eyes find Minho's, black pupils burning into his with a question he doesn't want to answer. A twitch of his fingers makes him realize some of the redness has dried, flaking off to disperse in the air.
They both know what happened.
Minho's lips thin, his eyes drifting to the wound spanning across his cheek. Warm fingers follow the gaze, a careful touch sending a shiver down his spine. It aches, but the resulting warmth of it mixed with the soft glow of magic vanishes the pain. He swallows, catching Minho's hand as it falls away. Presses his lips into the palm. They're silent even though there are so many things he wants to say.
"He has no choice." Jisung eventually settles on, fingers tightening as he thinks back to the fleeting beauty of death. Minho's eyes trail down his face to their clasped hands drenched in blood. There's no choice, yet Minho's eyes tell him it's not as simple as that.