Archive of Our Own ^beta

“So many songs. So many curses”

Jiho sighed as he sat on the bed of his disgustingly expensive 3 bedrooms apartment.

There was his room, with only a bed with crumpled sheets and his wardrobe full of brand new clothes (yet now he was wearing his pijamas at noon because who was he kidding? He could barely look at himself in the mirror with branded clothes on) in it. 

Then there was the guest bedroom, which hasn’t been used in years- if quick sex was what Jiho was looking for he’d end up in a shabby hotel room with a stranger, surely not in his polished yet plain apartment.

Now that he thinks of it, the last person who had used that now useless room is Kyung right after the lockdown had ended.

Oh, Kyung. He hasn’t seen his childhood best friend in months. Jiho hoped that he could still call the man that way, things between them were….complicated to say the least. They were so close back then. Of course they still were, just in a different way, now Kyung had become only another thought piercing the Block B’s leader mind.

Oh, Kyung, Jiho thinks yet again and again….and again. Because there’s never a single pure thought when it came to the curly haired man. 

That spare bedroom. That night when they where both intoxicated and somehow got back to Jiho’s apartment. After that night Jiho knew how Kyung sounded, the way he clenched the sheets with his hands, the way he said-

Jiho groaned as he stood up, forcing the memories out of his brain. He didn’t deserve kyung, not now, not ever. Fuck, why was he talking like a damn teenager who hasn’t seen his crush for a few days?

He walked into the polished kitchen, he never used it, when he wasn’t out he’d order takeout and viceversa, he couldn’t even try to find the motivation to buy groceries, let alone cook. It made him both want to laugh and cringe because hell, how pathetic has he become over the years?

After looking for he doesn’t even know what in the cabinets for a few minutes, he somehow finds some Buldak ramen that’s way past the expiration date, but he couldn’t care less.

Having set up the kettle, stared at the boiling water for a few minutes and poured the it into the noodles cup, Jiho waited. And waited.

He waited like the BBC were probably waiting for a Block b’s comeback (the same one that P.O announced without his knowledge on the stage). He wanted to laugh at the situation, did he even look in the conditions of having a comback after what? Eight years? No way in hell, he was an idol (someone would care to disagree), not an actor, he knew damn well that his members noticed that he wasn’t in his top form even months prior (he looked like a zombie).

He had to push away his thoughts that screamed at him that he was a coward as he slowly started eating the ramen (that tasted like trash). Why was he eating again? He genuinely didn’t remember why he got up from his bed in the morning to eat some expired food.

Whatever. Back on to the fucking main subject. The last room in Jiho’s apartment was his studio, that’s where his ideas came to life, of course. Music. He loves music, it makes him breathe. He hathes the industry because some people in it wished he could stop breathing, but it’s not like he cares (liar).

The unwanted thoughts barrel into him yet again, his breathing picking up and his hands shaking ever so slightly. Next thing he knows he’s sprinting down the hallway and kneeling down next to the toilet bowl, spilling his “lunch” into it.

Damn, how did he get to this point? What was he even doing still alive?

Was the hate getting to him? No, he can’t afford to break down, he never cared about that. 
Then what the fuck was his problem, he asked himself, as he slumped to the floor, leaning against the cold wall.

He closed his eyes attempting to send away the nausea, the feeling of puking made him want to throw up again, in some sort of twisted hope to clean himself from the inside, then maybe, just maybe, the haters would like tolerate him a little more.

He opened his eyes and stared at at the shower in front of him, then he tilted his head in the direction of the bathub and his eyes glinted with a strange yet strong light for the first time in years.

Sure, he liked the fame, but more than everything he liked sharing his thoughts, his lyrics, his art (yet people insisted he loved being part of  scandal that makes him disgusted even by only thinking about it)

”I’ve never seen a video like that, swear to God”

Yes, because he’s an artist, he thought as he shakily got up and turned on the feezing water to fill the tub.

Zico is an artist, but Jiho is just a tired man. 

As the bathub filled, Jiho opened the cabinet next to the sink (after getting scared by watching his reflection in the mirror, because since when he looked like this?) and took the razor in his hand, looking at it as if it was both the love of his life and a sworn enemy of his.

”So many achievements. So many prejudices”

He hesitantly took out the razor blade (nearly slicing his ring finger in the process), and glances at the now half filled bathub.

“Maybe the drop zone will be the cold bare ground”

He zoned out. He doesn’t know why and for how long but he surely did because he got snapped back to reality by the sound of water spilling on the floor.

He sighed and finally, finally won against his cowardice as he stepped into the tub fully clothed, wincing as he sunk into the cold water (is it really a win though? Is it, Woo Jiho?).

”I hit and crash without a safety device”

It’s not like someone will miss him. Hell, maybe he’ll make the haters happy at last.

One second he’s just shivering even if his newly bleached hair is just half wet, the next thing he knows is that he’s feeling a sharp pain in his left wrist and the water is turning a shallow red (Kyung’s favourite color was red, he hazily thought).

The dark engulfed him, and for once Jiho allowed himself to close his eyes and stop caring.

Literally.

”I skipped the chorus. I’ll leave the rest to you”