Soulless

le écoeurement

His mouth is basically shriveled. He drapes himself, strewn across the toilet bowl which he clings so closely to him, emptying what little food he felt like eating into the water. He heaves a breath, spitting whatever remains in the same place where his breakfast now lies and groans into his hands.

The lights are far too bright. Still, he tries his best to blink through the fluorescent gleam, to try and stand up though his chest feels as if it weighs a ton. His arms shake as he grapples himself on the rusted sink, slowly he lifts himself to face the mirror. Swaying in his place, he leans forward, grimacing at the state of his features.

Jimin's eyes are sunken, his mouth cracked and dry, blotches of discoloration litter under his eyes, and around his nose. He's terribly pale, his once golden skin now a saddened shade of milky white. Ghostly, he stands.

He looks dreadful, and he feels worse, much worse than his appearance leads on. He moans from deep in his chest, the vibrations stirring discomfort in his lungs, causing a flurry of coughs to erupt.

"Angel..." Somebody calls.

He recognizes the voice, so familiar, and yet the holder's name slips his mind. Lately, he's been missing a presence that has seemed to have rooted itself in Jimin. He constantly feels like he's homesick, or that he needs to go look for something he's forgotten, left behind. The tingle in his chest never leaves, never ceases, only sometimes it lessens its intensity for a few seconds.

The person calling out to him doesn't sound right. The man's voice is too high, too smooth, it's missing the rough, gravel texture Jimin is craving to hear so badly. The hand lightly smoothing over his shoulder is too soft, it feels slimy and wrong. He misses a calloused hand, roughly bitten nails tracing under his eye, he longs for the long, pale fingers of a man he is too delirious, too sick to name. The feeling, the yearning for him is all the same.

"Jimin, c'mon let's lay you back down."

Only when Jimin turned around, did he finally realize who was talking to him. The voice came muffled, making Jimin cringe like it was out of tune and scratchy sounding, this wasn't the voice he was longing for.

"Myung." He whispered, the name tasting sour on the tip of his tongue.

"I'm here Angel," the man smiled softly, running a hand through his hair, "Let's get you back to bed."

The pet name didn't sound right coming from those lips. And it made his skin crawl.

Once he was settled, the thick blanket draped over him doing little to cradle the chills that violently shocked through him, he turned to the side and closed his eyes. Myung settled a warm hand on his hip, his thumb tracing small circles as he hummed a familiar tune. Everything felt so itchy and it was unsettling.

Jimin always felt good with Myung. Whether it was just a conversation, holding him close, whispering risqué promises down his neck, Jimin never felt uncomfortable when he was with the man. Jimin and Myung have known each other for a long time, Jimin trusted him, Jimin liked him and was quite fond of the things they would do together.

Myung would sing to Jimin often when he would hold him close. He would kiss down Jimin's sweating shoulder, nipping along the purple blemishes he decorated Jimin with that night, and hum him into relaxation. Myung was one of the only soul connectors Jimin knew, making it very easy to seek out physical satisfaction in him.

It was mutual, their hookups. Myung liked Jimin and Jimin fed off of it. It wasn't often he felt desired and was able to indulge himself in that kind of temptation, so he took advantage of his college friend, with a good body and the knowledge of how to give pleasure.