Chapter Text
Hanbin wakes up in someone else’s dirty bathtub.
He forces his eyes open to a world of blinding tiles and suffocating air. There’s a strange puddle of brown liquid on the floor, some stains of it on his jacket, and he guesses things ended the usual way— he’s puked his guts out before blacking out.
He’s not alone. It doesn’t matter when the few other bodies are passed out as well.
There’s a part of him still unawaken and unable to have a solid grasp of the situation, begging him to close his eyes and doze off. Nevermind the aching joints, the stiffness of his back, the rumble of an empty stomach, nevermind it all. Hadn’t it been for the timid buzz of his phone in his pocket jolting him awake, Hanbin would’ve slumped back into his not-so-comfortable position and gone the fuck back to sleep.
It takes every last bit of his remaining strength to find the device and muster enough braincells to remember the code to unlock it. Hanbin frowns, swearing it’s the last fucking time he drinks his way to an early grave, like he always does. Whatever.
hannnbbbiibnnnshgugeg
where the fuck are you
whatever Idc anyway just dont forget getting the stash 4 tonight
idk when junes gon be round but meet up @ his 7pm
The texts are from Jiwon. Shit. Junhoe’s birthday party is tonight, but the thing has completely and utterly slipped out of his still smoke-filled mind. Before he locks his phone, the screen flashes 3:48 pm on the screen.
He’s had one too many chemicals substances injected into his body to deal with this right now, but he has to.
When he turns his head, he sees a girl suddenly straighten up and throw up all over herself, eyelids fluttering open and close before flopping back on her own plash of vomit – Hanbin realizes he did the whole waste of space, fuck-up junkie thing his dad kept blabbering about again.
☘
It has been raining for days, now. Old people think it’s bad omen, gods finally cleaning society of all its filth – meanwhile the youth is just pissed it can’t go out and do its thing anymore. It just doesn’t stop, as if the skies broke open one day and decided to pour down every last bit of water they contained.
Hanbin doesn’t give a shit either way. Qu’il vente ou qu’il pleuve, his mother used to say when he felt down and low, rain or wind, Bini, never stop chasing your dreams. Bless his mom’s heart— qu’il vente ou qu’il pleuve, he’d get his goddamned pills one way or another.
The streets are clear, abandoned, not a single soul outside but Hanbin. His windbreaker keeps water from soaking him wet although his converses don’t. It doesn’t bother him as much as it should: he hums quiet tunes to himself, counting stars inside his head.
He was supposed to be at Junhoe’s twenty minutes—shit, an hour— ago. But exiting the stranger’s house and staggering through the city, trying to get inside Jaewon’s apartment from the balcony, showering and stealing his clothes – it had taken more time than what he anticipated.
Now, here he is – late and soaked to the bone.
The surprise party or whatever Jiwon decided to come up with for his boyfriend went sideways before falling promptly apart. They didn’t have enough food, enough alcohol, enough pills, enough anything. Time ran a lot quicker when you’re high, Jiwon’s used to it – he just never learns. No one even knows whether Junhoe is available tonight or not, but they still have to make some sort of efforts, just try – at least by their clique’s shit standards.
Hanbin walks fast in puddles of water drenching his socks until he reaches the local supermarket.
As doors open in front of him, his phone rings. Some old British pop tune echoing through the empty mall. He accepts the call, but doesn’t bring the phone to his ear. Still Jiwon’s complains are loud, piercing through the phone’s speakers.
What the fuck is taking you so long, fuckwit? Goddamnit, Hanbin, motherfucker, when are you? The fuck have you been doing, what the hell is wrong with you –
One ear, and right out of the other one.
Then, out of the blue, another voice. “Good evening.”
Hanbin’s eyes flicker to his right. Dead and lonely, just like the rest of the town, but ever so different. There, a single cashier. Smiling, eyes forming crescent moons he’s never seen before. Hanbin’s lips twitch, and he doesn’t give greetings back. He doesn’t linger around much longer either, rather dives inside the southern aisle of the shop. The air smells like bleach, everything where it is supposed to be, everything as he remembers—expect the cashier.
His fingers dart forward, running over some canned articles as he feigns looking for food.
There’s an itch on the back of his neck when he brings the phone to his ear, speaks with his mouth tugging down. “Your boytoy isn’t there today.”
“The fuck,” Jiwon groans. The line goes quiet for a moment, sounds of rustling and loud footsteps instead of growling. “He said he’d be fucking there. Shit. Then who’s there?”
Hanbin dares a quick glance behind his shoulder. The cashier’s still grinning but this time, not looking at him, features wistful yet boyish under the harsh lightning of the store. Dyed neon green hair, one eye blacker than black and the other cold as ice, lollipop carefully lodged inside his right cheek. Blurry edges like he’s from another distorted reality, mismatched clothes and colors which should never be worn together. He catches his eyes in seconds, and Hanbin looks away like a kid caught red-handed.
“I don’t fucking know who that is,” he replies begrudgingly, hissing words through his teeth. His fingers twist the etiquette of the first product they find, and he breathes deeply once, twice. He’s good at this, knowing the streets and its filth, pinning sob stories over faces and reciting names at the top of his head. He’s supposed to be. “Never seen him around.”
The thudding of the rain falling outside is growing louder. It’s the first time in weeks it’s happened, the loud and deafening sound of lightning strikes. Hanbin’s still looking pointlessly at food the whole town knows his stomach can’t handle.
“You think he knows?” Jiwon asks, careful, grinding his teeth together. He can’t see him, but he knows he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, the way he always does when anxiety blooms under his skin.
Hanbin is quiet at first. Moves around a bit, from one aisle to another, enjoys having the whole place for himself. The convenience store isn’t big, but it isn’t small either, and logically, it should have more than one employee working at time. Logically. His thumb pierces through the plastic covering a pack of water bottles. He doesn’t like abrupt change, spontaneity, things he hasn’t been told beforehand crashing down on him.
And he doesn’t like the new cashier either.
“I don’t know, Bobs.”
Jiwon’s reply comes right after a long, long sigh. “Junhoe said he’d be there in one hour,” he says, just above a defeated whisper, probably biting down on his fingernail. “How m’I supposed to get all the stuff in one fucking hour?”
Hanbin’s eyes meet the cashier’s again. He’s usually good at reading people, but the man behind the counter is written in alien language and it makes Hanbin’s skin itch and burn in ways he isn’t used to. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the smirk playing on the edge of the guy’s lips, the knowing glint in his eyes. He catches glimpses of dark lines on his collarbones when the cashier moves—tattoos— and draws in a breath without realizing it.
Does he know? About the convenience store’s strange ways and stranger owner, the prescriptions pills and cheap drugs hidden away in very specific packaging of food. A certain type of cereals for white powder, packs of gum or cigarettes depending on the pills one would take. Does he know, about the previous cashier? Jiwon’s ex, Jiwon’s personal soul to torture and order around as much as he likes because the guy’s just that dumb and still loves him to hell and back. Hanbin feels the tiny hair of his nape stand, shivering slightly.
He fucking hates new.
“We’ll manage,” he grumbles, dismissively. Jiwon’s protests cut off suddenly when he ends the call without warning, shoving the phone in the pocket of his jeans. Hanbin pulls at the mask covering his face, tucking it under his chin, then reports his attention to the food surrounding him.
Birthday parties. They have half the booze, half the junk and actual food (Chanwoo promised to cook some edibles too, so there’s that). He reckons he’d just have to grab whatever for good measure and appearances.
His phone rings again, Jiwon being desperate and anxious as always even though Hanbin told him not to smoke without taking his medication first. The thing is still blasting the decade old song he set as ringtone when Hanbin’s at last facing the green-haired cashier, dropping the few items he’s picked up along the way for the sake of it. Up close, the cashier somehow looks substantially less like one of Hanbin’s bad trip and a lot more real, clear lines and smooth skin. Round eyes, full lips curved into a vile little thing, a thin choker around his neck and nails painted black.
He has to know, Hanbin thinks. He has to, when he’s looking like he’s walked right out of a MDMA-induced hallucination himself.
Song Yunhyeong, the nametag reads.
“Didn’t know people still willingly listened to The Who.”
Hanbin startles a bit, but catches himself quickly. Song Yunhyeong’s gaze is heavy and avid on him as he beeps articles mechanically. He’s smiling, has doubtlessly not stopped doing so ever since Hanbin’s walked his tired limbs inside the store. Unease settles on Hanbin’s still itchy skin, clinging to him like a damp shirt – but there’s also more to it, soft flames licking at his insides, a strange feeling toying with his guts he doesn’t want to think about. So he keeps to himself, doesn’t reply to the man.
“Kinda weird, average at most.”
He’s got his own issues, but others have never been one. Kim Hanbin is a people kind of person, vibes easily with the world, a smooth talker and heart healer, able to catch the slightest glimpses of emotion in faces, flickering lights in eyes – senses exactly what’s going on in your mind. The reason why he’s always the one scoring them good deals, using sweet smiles and feather touches to have more than he can afford. Kim Hanbin does well with people, but Song Yunhyeong is made of hieroglyphs and Hanbin’s magic is crumbling down fast.
“Well, I guess some bands will never die.”
Before he knows it, his stuff is paid for and the cashier bows his head a little. Hanbin suddenly wants to ask him if he believes in the far side of the moon. The blue of his contact lense feels hot while the black is empty, yet calm in a threatening sort of way. Song Yunhyeong’s ghost of a smile sends chills up and down Hanbin’s spine and he doesn’t like it at all. Do you know?
“See you round, love.”
Hanbin doesn’t realize he has been holding his breath until he’s back under pouring rain with two plastic bags in one hand, while the other clutches at his windbreaker as he exhales deeply.
☘
“You’ve got the stuff? Say.”
Jiwon’s practically cooing at him, bouncing up and down with an unlit fag dangling from his lips. He speaks fast, chewing on his syllables and not making much sense, with a smile you’d see on a five year old’s face when it’s time to open the presents under the tree. All things considered, it does feel like Christmas anyway, and Jiwon is, in a lot of ways, a kid stuck inside a grown-up’s body. Hanbin kicks off his pumps, hands over the bags full of groceries, but doesn’t have the heart to tell him no, I ain’t got the pills. He circles around a few boxes lying here and there, surely for the party, sheds from his soaked clothes as he makes his way towards the living room’s expensive leather couch.
Junhoe’s apartment is a chic and constant reminder of the gargantuan gap between their financial situations, with an imaginary, big marble-sculpted board hanging on each wall telling them no matter how hard they try to believe it, they’ll never be a part of it. He lives in the core center of downtown Seoul, where most the fun and the coke is, and Hanbin isn’t quite sure half of the people supposed to be here can locate the block in the first place. Scratch that – if they’re even allowed to throw parties in such luxurious apartments. Every piece of the flat looks like it costs millions of wons, all made of velvet and silk. Hanbin throws his feet over the armchair and doesn’t bother taking off his wet, dirty socks.
“Oh my god, you did,” he hears, a muffled cry of joy from Jiwon, already stuffing his mouth with chips.
“The fuck,” Hanbin growls, shooting a confused look towards his best-friend. “I didn’t—”
“And you brought June’s favorite! Bro, I could suck your dick right fucking now.”
His protests die in the back of his throat the second he sees Jiwon happily revealing the three packs of cigarettes, showing them with a dazzling, toothy grin. Two Chesterfields for PCP, one Camel for opioids. Hanbin’s mouth goes dry in his mouth, heart tripping on itself. He doesn’t remember asking for them, doesn’t remember the green-haired cashier smuggling them in the bags without him even noticing.
You did know, Song Yunhyeong.
Suddenly, Chanwoo’s head pops out of the kitchen’s doorframe, cheeks full. “What’s up?” he sputters, chunks of food flying all around. “Hyung bought the stuff?”
“Dude.” Jiwon snickers, tip-toing over the wet floor freshly moped with a handful of bags until he’s reached the youngest of them. “We’re going to have so much fucking fun.”