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Death came so softly.
Jisung had been drinking, limbs tangled with Minho’s in a desperate embrace, trying to hold onto each other as the last anchor they had before they would float and drift into nothingness, cut off from everything they might once have loved.
Of course, none of them remembered these times. All they knew was each other and the alcohol. If Jisung had cared a little more, he might have wondered how they still had a roof above their heads, how they could afford all the drinking, why there was no one in their lives except for them. But he did not care. He could not even remember the face of the shopkeeper he saw every single night, did not notice it was always the same guy who had once worried about the obscene amounts of alcohol the two young men would buy but had given up on it after a while.
There was no one. Even Chan and Changbin had stopped calling eventually, and so, Jisung never thought of them anymore. He did not need to, anyway. All he needed was the embrace of Minho’s thin, ice-cold limbs, the kisses from his cracked lips and the feeling of lying in his arms seeing stars that were nowhere visible in this city, this house, this room.
Jisung loved seeing the stars. He did not care that they were not real, or maybe he didn't even notice. He would drink until the only thing he could focus on was Minho’s face, his dull eyes filled with emotion only when he looked at Jisung; and then he would wrap his arms around Minho’s ribs, put his head on his chest and watch the stars in front of his eyes to the thumping beat of his heart.
It was one of these nights again. Jisung could barely move, but the stars were so beautiful that he did not want to. Yet after a while, he grew impatient. He wanted to touch these stars, but even when he managed to move his arm, they would disperse and vanish from his sight, only to reappear as beautiful as ever when he lowered his arm again.
Jisung grabbed the next bottle and took a swig, not even wincing at the burning taste of whatever liquor he was downing. He swallowed and swallowed, until he could no more, and heard a chuckling from his side.
“That’s gotta be a new record,” Minho mumbled, lazily tucking a strand of Jisung’s long, unkempt hair behind his ear. Jisung’s face must have been confused, because Minho pointed at the bottle.
“That was full,” he explained, breaking into a fit of giggles all of a sudden.
“And you didn’t even leave me anything!”
“Oh…” mumbled Jisung sheepishly.
“Uh, there’s like… a swig left at the bottom?”
Minho laughed even harder.
“No, silly, there isn’t. But it’s okay. I’ll stick to my wine. Tastes better than this shit anyway. Who in the hell drinks their cheap whiskey straight?”
Jisung shrugged. He felt tired all of a sudden, and instead of saying anything else, he snuggled up on Minho’s chest, breathing in his familiar warmth and heartbeat. The world in front of his eyes became increasingly blurry, and when he closed his eyes, the stars were whirling around him at a speed that made his stomach upset. But he was so tired… so, so tired…
His hands wandered underneath Minho’s shirt, right where his heart was. With his head on Minho’s chest, he slowly drifted off to sleep, quiet, at peace.
“I love you, Min,” he muttered, words slurred almost to incomprehensibility.
“I love you too, Ji,” Minho smiled and ran his fingers through his hair.
—
Minho listened as Jisung’s breathing grew calmer and steadier. He was comfortably buzzed, limbs heavy and brain muddled, sinking into a feeling of bliss as he felt Jisung’s arms around him and his head on his chest. Jisung was so beautiful, and even more so when he was sleeping, for these were the times where he looked innocent, calm and content, as if nothing bad had ever happened in his life. As if he weren’t slowly killing himself.
Minho had wanted to get sober. Or well, he had not really wanted to, but he had realised it was the only choice he had if he ever wanted to have a happy future. Or any future at all. But he had failed, and it stung his heart to even think of the day he’d been so close to death, only to wake up and buy a new bottle at the next corner store at 9am.
No. No, he wasn’t supposed to think about this. Tears were welling up in his eyes already, and the lump in his throat started choking him as he desperately tried in vain to swallow it down. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, but found his breath accelerating almost to hyperventilation. Squeezing his eyes shut, he bit his lip as his hand sought out Jisung’s back and he rubbed the hot skin in a circular motion. Then, suddenly, his hand froze.
Something was wrong.
Jisung’s breathing was flat, but no longer steady. Instead, its intensity was decreasing so rapidly that Minho soon could not feel it anymore. He pulled back his hand as quickly as he could, grabbing Jisung’s wrist where the pulse was far too weak to be healthy or even sustainable.
But it was only when he felt a wetness on his shirt that Minho realised the severity of the situation. He pulled the wet portion of his shirt up, immediately smelling a nauseating, acidic stench. Minho froze and pulled away from Jisung, who slumped back on the couch, his head lolling back without Minho’s support. There was vomit dripping from his mouth.
Minho’s eyes widened.
“Fuck,” he muttered, putting his hands on Jisung’s throat, praying to find a pulse there - but there was nothing. Nothing that indicated the limp form in front of him was alive.
Minho tried taking a deep breath, but it was shaky and a choked sob came from his mouth instead. Frantically, he tried to remember the recovery position he had once learned, but his muddled brain knew nothing, and all he could do was roll Jisung’s body onto its side, where even more vomit, stomach acid mixed with cheap whiskey, spilled from his lips. He was not moving.
“Fuck,” Minho repeated, shaking Jisung’s shoulder to be met with no response at all.
“Wake up, Ji, come on, wake up, please, wake up!”
Minho’s eyes filled with tears as his hands fluttered helplessly over Jisung’s body, trying something, anything to help him, but his mind did not allow anything except for the panic kicking in.
“Fuck!” he screamed, slamming his fist against the couch. If it burned where his knuckles collided with the rough fabric, Minho did not notice.
He had to call an ambulance.
The next minutes were blurry in his brain. After making the call without even remembering what he said, he kneeled down next to Jisung, shaking him again and again. Jisung remained unresponsive while Minho prayed the ambulance would arrive soon. The sooner Jisung received help, the faster he would recover - Minho knew this from himself. But when the paramedics arrived, he watched them shake their heads, standing around without acting.
“Why aren’t you doing anything?” he asked angrily.
“Why aren’t you helping him? Isn’t that supposed to be your job or something?”
The way the paramedic looked at him made an uneasy feeling spread in Minho’s gut, but he did not understand it, nor did he understand why the paramedic laid his hand on his shoulder and guided him towards the kitchen door, away from Jisung.
“Mr…” the paramedic said, looking at him questioningly.
“Lee,” Minho replied, “but I don’t see how that would matter.”
“Mr. Lee,” the paramedic repeated.
“I am unbelievably sorry to say this but your friend… is gone. He asphyxiated in his sleep after ingesting too much alcohol. I am so sorry.”
Minho stared at him. He stared and stared, his eyes wide open, so shocked that no tears would come out of them. He slowly slid down the wall as his shaking knees gave out, apathetic to everything the paramedic told him afterwards. He did not hear it anymore. He did not want to hear it. All that mattered was that Jisung… Jisung was gone. That was all. That was it. Minho hadn’t even gotten to tell him goodbye or help him. He was gone. He was gone. He was gone.
When Minho came to, the paramedics had gone, taken Jisung with them.
Minho was alone.