SING ME TO SLEEP, woosan

67

wooyoung has loved san's laugh since forever. it's almost ridiculous — the way the high, giddy sound clashes with his criminally irresistible appearance. his eyes form a pair of pretty crescents if wooyoung's comments are funny enough, always an endearing sight, and sometimes, if he's really, really funny, san loses his physical composure and his head collapses into his hands or he doubles over.

they're in san's car right now, surroundings a blur of greens and greys wooyoung can't discern. he doesn't find that to be an issue, however.

a song reverberates throughout the small vehicle, the cars' speakers connected to san's phone which, of course, is playing a loona track. the angelic, feminine voices sound somewhat distorted to wooyoung's ears, but that doesn't matter to him.

san has a hand on the wheel, the other resting on wooyoung's knee. occasionally, he'll slide his thumb through the rip of the younger's jeans, and the warm feeling of san's skin on wooyoung's own makes him smile subtly to himself.

wooyoung's head turns to san when he says something. he can hear san's voice, not his exact words, just his voice, his mouth shifting from one shape to the other, as if he's miming. then, he laughs at something — wooyoung doesn't hear that either, the usual airy sound, but he can tell from the way san's eyes crinkle and his head tilts forward and his chest shakes. but nothing here is wrong, nothing is out of the ordinary, and so wooyoung just laughs along.

he says something witty in response to san's remark, like he normally would, and san is laughing even louder this time, even harder, his hand lifting from the steering wheel to cover his teeth.

wooyoung loves making san laugh like this.

so when an abrupt and atrocious screech replaces the empty sound of san's joyous laughter, followed by a series of screams and wails as the vehicle topples onto its side, revealing the nightmarish sight of san, motionless and bloody, so, so, so unspeakably bloody, wooyoung screams ear-piercingly, a dreadful beg to be let out.

it works. somehow.

wooyoung's ceiling is foggy, and his lashes itch at the scorching hot tears brimming his eyes. his fingers jerk horrifyingly at— at that.

wooyoung is sobbing way before he realises it wasn't real. that san didn't actually— that san is okay.

but that doesn't help anything.

he's crying a wrecked mess into his sheets, loudly, uncontrollably, and nauseously, his hand clasped over his eyes as if that'll stop the images in his head. he rasps a long, taut exhale as if that'll help the fast, trembling breaths from his suffocating chest. he grips the duvet tucked over his chest, the material sticky with tears and snot, as if that'll stabilise the relentless quivering of his figure.

but it doesn't help wooyoung. nothing can.

flashes of his dream, his nightmare, relay in wooyoung's mind, like a monster taunting him with his worst fear. they aren't far off. san's blindingly pearly teeth, san's limp figure, san's gaping, pouring wounds. everywhere.

all because of wooyoung. all because wooyoung wanted to see san happy, because wooyoung wanted to see him laugh and smile.

all because wooyoung loves him.

it's not fair, because this time, he can't run away. wooyoung can't leave, abandon san, tell him, lie to him, that it's for the better. he's been there and he's done that, and it was one of the worst decisions of his life. he was unhappy. most importantly, san was unhappy.

but nor can wooyoung do this, nor can he cope, he doesn't know how. he doesn't know if it's possible. seeing san look like— look like that, it's not— he can't do it. he can't. it fucking ruins him, swarms wooyoung's heart with poison so dark he feels like he's decaying, the pain, ruthless and agonising, thrashing into him as if it wants him to crumble until he's nothing but millions upon millions of soulless shards.