implausible - woosan

chapter forty eight

i once believed love would be
burning red
but it's golden

wooyoung san

26.09.17

it's his own damn fault, really. for driving as recklessly as he was, like he's invincible.

rather fitting, for him to be going 80mph on a 60mph road, breathing too heavy or not at all, not really all there. the first rule of being on the verge of a panic attack is don't drive, but san does love to break the rules, always has.

all he hears is the beating of his own heart, the loud revving of his engine, until it all comes to a screeching halt. san veers too sharply, avoiding another car, and bam. one moment the road is there, wide open and safe, the next there are loud noises, acrid smells and pain.

thankfully, san's still conscious, a cough racking his chest. he tastes blood in his mouth, metallic, but doesn't seem to be bleeding anywhere. that's good. the car is still upright, and thank god he has insurance, because that burning smell can't be good.

oh. he's aware of his vision slipping in and out, blackness seeping up the edges. so much for being conscious.

•••

there's a machine beeping.

sheets under his sore body, unfamiliar.

ow. san's head is throbbing like a bitch, pounding so loud he can barely focus on anything.

he shuts his eyes, letting sleep take him again.

•••

the next time san wakes up, it hurts marginally less. he allows himself to fully open his eyes, filled with disdain at the bright lights.

honestly, ending up in the hospital is presenting itself as a minor inconvenience to san's discovery. his eyes wonder down to the tightly wound band around his forearm, covering whoever's name is imprinted there.

he's half aware of voices outside the door, but his arm is all he can focus on. the idea nagging at him.

barely registers the nurse, telling him he's fine, it's just a concussion, nothing serious, he'll be fine. his vision is honed on his arm, the rest of it white noise.

in one rapid motion, san makes a choice, rips that safety net, that band, from his arm. reveals a thick strip of milky skin, engraved, emblazoned.

can't suppress the choked sob that catches in his throat.

26.11.1999- that number is unfamiliar, baring little recognition. but that name. jung wooyoung. he knows that name well, knows it like the back of his own hand.

suddenly it all makes sense. like the fast tempo of a song slowing down so you can make out every note and syllable. like coming up for air after being underwater for a period of time. his heartbeat slows down, and his head levels. and everything directs itself; like a compass to its true north, to one clear thing.

but all san can do is cry, cover his mouth with his hands, try to keep it in. shake.

"it's not fine-" he chokes out, biting his fingers, mouth filling with salt from his tears, breathing becoming more and more uncontrolled.