Death is Warm; Han Jisung Centric

Death Seems Comforting

A/N:        I'm so sorry about this! I got really sad and wrote this up. Sung's feelings are genuinely what I was feeling at the time, so it might not make sense. I've been trying to finish works for you guys, but school is literally making me a mess. Not to mention I literally don't even feel like I'm living, to be honest. I'm just sitting there, breathing, but not necessarily breathing. It's like breathing with no purpose, just like breathing underwater, where you know you're going to die if you do it, but you can't stop. Like you physically can't stop. It's like I'm being forced, which is a feeling that is worrying, but I can't bring myself to care. I don't even know, I know I need help but how can I get it? I have no clue to be honest, but just enjoy this drabble! I might continue if you guys want, but I don't know. We'll see how it goes! 

          Also, I cross-posted this on Ao3 like always. I did briefly mention W00jin, so please keep that in mind. Now to the actual story!

          Jisung's breathing became labored. The tears he had been trying for weeks to keep at bay were finally overflowing. He never thought that he would be in the situation that he was now when he finally broke, but here he was, sitting on the couch, with nowhere to hide. He had no place to go, to be honest, when he was like this. He never wanted to wake up Jeongin, but he thinks he would prefer that to being in the open like he was at the moment. Hyunjin was in the bathroom washing up, and so instead of going to his main (and only) crying place, he somehow ended up on the couch, vulnerable to any passing person's eyes. He sure hoped no one stopped to look at him.

          He was supposed to be the sunshine, always happy, not bawling his eyes out. He had always made sure his cries were silent. He never had allowed himself to make any noise anyways, so he knew that he would be mostly quiet anyway, but he still needed to watch himself and make sure he was silent so as to not alert his members. The only tell-tale sign that would tell them he cried would be his red and puffy eyes.

          He slowly let his thoughts consume him, the limited oxygen coming through was making it harder and harder to breathe as he tries to conceal everything. His eyes looked down at his hand on his thighs, although he couldn't see anything. His mind relayed every moment that made him want to scratch his ears off and eyes out. All the pain he felt before was coming out in waves which only made him feel worse. Crying always made him feel weak, his everything hurt, and it just made the tears come out faster. He dragged his hands up to his face, the heel of his palm pushing into his eyes. When it started hurting, he pushed harder. He was losing his grip and he knew it. He sniffed,and wiped his eyes. Whatever, he'd deal with that in the morning. He tried to quit crying, but he accidentally let out a sob. "Shit," He thought, "That wasn't supposed to happen." He covered his mouth just in case any of the disgusting sounds decided to come out again. He turned in body sideways and pushed himself into the couch, concealing himself a little better. Anything was better than just being out in the open. That made him feel even worse.

          He cried, and cried. Eyes hurting, body hurting, mind hurting, him hurting. Maybe he shouldn't close his feelings off if this was what he was gonna have to deal with. His stupid, stupid eyes were going to be closed up, his cheeks were going to be red and even more annoying than before. His nose was already irritated from swiping at it, and he knew his lips were going to be scabbed up, his ugly, ugly, ugly teeth tearing them up as he thought. Why the hell couldn't he, too, be perfect like his band mates? Like his friends? They weren't sensitive as he was. "That's why I'm weak," He thought. He just wanted to vomit all of his feelings out, but his head was going so fast, he couldn't focus. He still couldn't breathe, airways now closing more that he thought about it. Maybe he would just die like this. "I don't want to die though! What about the boys?" His voice rang in his head, the unwanted thought on how one person had left them already, but he tried to clear that away the best he could. That person was bad. No need to overthink that situation, he deserves worse than what he got off with.

          More thoughts of that he, himself deserves worse too. He cried and scratched his stupid cheeks. Why couldn't he just think? Why was everything so difficult right now? It was like he was underwater. How does breathing go like again? What does Chan tell Minho when he has those- What are those called? It goes in 1, 2 , 3, 4, Out 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, right? Is he doing it right? Is he counting too fast?

          He doesn't know anymore, he can't breathe. He feels the hands of death grip him, he tries to thrash around, but he is enveloped in the warmth. It seems like dying, but why does it feel so good? He felt the warmth grumble a bit . "What is that? Why does it feel so", He still fails to come up with words. Maybe he should just die. It feels this good, so what's the problem? No! His members, his friends, his crushes NO he can't leave them! Struggling harsher, he tried to break out of the grasp that had him pressed against some sort of soft wall. The hands let go in surprise. Yes! He would return to his boys, they wouldn't even know he almost died, everything would be fine! He fell back from where he was on Death's lap. Different arms caught him, and all his hope vanished. They were shorter and felt like warm nights surrounded by candlelight, but No! He was gonna die if he let himself be taken by these arms! They felt comforting too, though. What was he supposed to do? He sobbed and quit fighting. Maybe that was his fate. To die in the warm, cozy, pretty smelling arms of his killers. Yes, maybe that was fine. His boys would be fine without him. He's sure of it.

           His mind ran 30km a millisecond but he snuggled closer anyway, breathing was now hurting worse. Whatever, he again thought, some sleep would do him great. Hopefully they'll still be here, I hope I don't need to wake up. Similar thoughts filed his head. Here, all responsibility was gone, maybe he didn't need to do anything anymore. This was death, right? He sure hopes so, it was so comforting. He drifted into a fitful slumber, mind never shutting completely off. Eventually he quit listening to the jumble of thoughts, only taking notice when he thought the warmth left, which made him whine. He didn't want to leave death yet, or ever. They, whoever they were, seemed nice enough, letting Jisung crash his whole life on him, just so they could take it away. It seemed so beautiful. He never wanted to wake up. Ever.