SKZ - oneshots (completed)

Chansung

⌦ 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑔
⌦ 𝑡𝑤𝑠: 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑔 𝑢𝑠𝑒
⌦ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠: 1214

***

Jisung looks outside the window. Honestly, the city looks the same as always and it's not changing any time soon. The dirty streets, dreary looking buildings and people. People who come and go, walk and walk, making their way home right now as it's almost 4 pm, one of the rush hours of the day. Rushing, hurrying, trying to get somewhere, accomplish something, be proud. Something Jisung hasn't been in years.

They all have some sort of a part, a role. They have rules to follow and some sort of a goal, some sort of a point in what they're doing. They have other people to please, not leaving any room for disappointment. In that case, you're out of the game. As a failure, as a disappointment. As someone lost. Jisung is lost. He lost a long time ago, in this same city, never being ended up far away.

He sighs as his eyes keep wandering. The people, black little figures, look like ants, wandering aimlessly around but still doing their own things.

The leaves left the trees a week ago. The dead leaves are covering the asphalt now as people step on them. It's kind of upsetting but life has to go on, repeat its cycles, also in a form of an autumn.

Tye sky is gray and plain. Nothing to see, nothing to admire. It's been days. Maybe the clouds are stuck, unable to continue on their journey towards unknown. Just like Jisung is.

He snaps out of his head space as the front door clicks open and then shuts with a thud. He hears distant shuffling, keys being thrown onto a wooden surface, heavy foot steps coming closer and closer until they're right behind this room's door. Jisung waits silently, eyes locked to the closed door.

Then it opens slowly, creating a squeaky sound as it slides open, revealing none other than Chan. The older man is on his phone, typing, head hanging down and eyes being glued on the screen. His blonde hair's looking a little greasy, the curly strands getting longer and longer each time Jisung looks at them. The man looks stunning though, Jisung must admit. With the board shoulders and all.

He looks as Chan stands there and types. Then he stops. He takes a deep breath as he walks into the room and tosses the phone on the unmade bed, sheets messed up, one pillow on the floor. He looks around.

"You haven't cleaned up? I told you to tidy up, this place it looks like a landside fill, for fuck's sake" he says with a raspy and low voice.

And Chan is right. The room, the whole apartment looks like a tornado would have had come to visit. There's dust everywhere, empty cans and bottles, litters and white power on the level surfaces, for example on the bed side table. The place looks like everything is out of its place.

Jisung hums. "Yeah, sorry, I haven't been feeling that great today" he adds, a bit sheepishly even though he knows there's nothing he can do to help it. Nothing stops the eating feeling inside of him though, guilt and disappointment. The feeling of failing.

Chan sighs and rubs his face with his hand. He starts to pick up some clothes on the floor, holding them up in the air to look for any visible stains or dirt. Then throwing them onto the bed, making two separate piles. Jisung watches the other man from his place by the window.

"Have you looked for jobs?" Chan then asks but doesn't even look at the other, only keeps on sorting out the clothes, sometimes taking a sniff as well.

Another reason to hate himself, Jisung thinks, because no, he hasn't looked for jobs either. Like he said, he hasn't been feeling well. Abd he can't help it. He can't help himself. He can't bring himself to. He feels a little helpless, like the smallest and weakest ant of them all.

"No..." he admits out loud. He watches the other man take a deep breathe, still standing his back facing to Jisung. Jisung starts to fiddle with his ice cold fingers, bony, pale and trembling. Nothing stops the anxiety either, eating hin alive from inside. "I'm sorry" he adds, anxiously.

The older man keeps tidying uo the room a little, assorting the clothes. When he has two, messy looking piles on the bed, he takes one of them in his arms and turns around.

"Fold those and put them in the wardrobe" he says simply, tone plain and void of any emotion. Jisung can only know that the older is pissed, stressed and disappointed. He still doesn't look at the younger, making his way out of the room.

Chan already does so much for Jisung. He goes to work, earns money, buys food and Jisung's meds, pays the bills and takes care of both them. And what does Jisung do? Lays around all day, looks outside the window and mourns. Chan is already over working and doing his absolute best. He's already stressed and tired. And Jisung does nothing but is still overly tired, dead.

Jisung has his highs and lows but this time this one low episode seems to have taken a toll on him. Not letting him rest, not leaving his mind at peace, not making him feel anything like alive, like a functioning human being who has feelings. He feels dead all the time. A disappointment. To absolutely everyone. To Chan.

Jisung gets up and makes his way wobbling into the bathroom. The white fluorescent light does nothing but makes his migraine even worse, pounding behind his already bloodshot eyes. He squints his eyes, trying to get used to the light.

He makes his way to the sink, trying to avoid looking at himself through the cracked mirror. He can't stand seeing himself, his face, his eyes. He can't stand himself. Just a disappointment.

He quickly opens the cupboard's doors and goes through the shelfs. He pushes aside the empty and half empty packages and jars of pills. There's a pack of razors, a few bills, a comb, two toothbrushes and finally, in the back of the top shelf he sees the thing he's looking for.

A little plastic bag, very small, a size to fit in any pocket. It's light as he picks it up. He opens it with his trembling fingers which have almost lost all the strength in them. Then he pours some of the white floury substance onto the white porcelain surface next to the sink. He quickly grabs a razor blade and carefully makes a straight line out of the white substance. He puts the blade aside and grabs a bill, rolling it into a roll. He does his business carefully, with trembling fingers and a trembling body, but he manages. He finishes and exits the bathroom, leaving it like it was before, closing the door.

Happiness is happiness, even if it's temporary euphoria that makes his toes curl and creates a silly smile on his lips. He feels good and it feels like he deserves it. Head in the clouds, body floating and light. He feels at ease. No guilt, no disappointment. No nothing.