Chapter Text
September 10th, 20XX.
.
.
.
A date Mingi wished he could erase from his mind forever.
It was the date of an anniversary, and Mingi was knocking back soju bottles like water. It was a yearly tradition to drown himself in alcohol, in hopes of easing the melancholy. Mingi downed the last of the alcohol left in his hand, throwing his head back as the soju trickled down his throat. Clink. The bottles knocked against each other in the plastic bag he held in his left hand. Mingi had bought extra soju bottles from a random convenience store. He had been chased out of multiple pochas; nobody was willing to serve a drunkard like him anymore. He had nowhere else he could go. Could he go home?
Mingi didn’t know where the fuck he was at this point. He was far too many soju bottles in; he didn’t know what he was aiming for or hoping to do. Nothing was right in his head. He wanted to wash himself away from everyone. He stumbled mindlessly, unable to differentiate his left from his right foot. His feet took him wherever the wind would guide them.
He hummed a familiar tune to himself, a song etched in the waves of his memory. It was tranquil, a song that always put him at ease, but to others he surely looked crazy. Mingi noticed all the passersby who strayed far from his path.
The autumn air suddenly hit Mingi's face. He blinked, his eyelids heavy from the alcohol in his system. He found himself at a bridge. Where was the bridge? He didn’t fucking know. There were too many damn bridges in South Korea, and they all looked the same to him in that moment. His stomach grumbled, his mouth suddenly too watery for his liking.
Ah fuck.
Mingi hurried over to the edge of the bridge as he hurled out his insides. On top of drinking God knows how many bottles, he barely ate that day. With no food in his stomach, all that came out of his mouth was liquid. Mingi threw up for what felt like forever before his stomach finally decided to give him a break. His hand gripped the railing of the bridge, catching his breath from what just transpired. He covered his stomach with his palm in an attempt to soothe the aching.
Mingi leaned on his elbows, breathing in the cool air. He sobered up a bit after that—but this wasn’t a day he wanted to be sober. Opening the bag, Mingi popped open another bottle and took a swig.
It was late now; the sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and red. Mingi looked up in awe. It was a beautiful day. He pressed the bottle to his numb lips once more, taking in another huge gulp.
September 10th, 20XX.
The anniversary of his beloved boyfriend's death.
Today marked five years since Jongho passed. Five years since Mingi was left all alone, five years since his whole life went to shit.
Mingi didn’t believe in God. But he was sure his boyfriend was somewhere in heaven, or maybe even reincarnated as a bear. Mingi laughed to himself at the visual imagery he created in his head. Jongho looked just like a bear, all round, and cute, and lovely. He hoped that Jongho really was a bear; he would be a free one, one that wasn’t held captive, roaming freely, doing whatever he pleased; far, far, far away from him.
Mingi felt raindrops on his arms. He looked up at the sky, but it didn’t seem like it was going to rain. The sky was clear with no clouds in sight. Where did the droplets come from? He raised his hand to his face; his cheeks were damp.
"Mingi, you’re such a crybaby."
“Fuck. I know, I know,” he said while he wiped his tears with his arm. “I know I’m a crybaby, I know I’m a shitty boyfriend, I know I’m a drunk bastard.”
He sniffled. Through his tears, Mingi took the half-finished bottle and pointed it towards the body of water.
“This one’s for you. I know how much you probably miss drinking." Mingi poured some of the soju over the bridge. Once he was done, he realized there was just a bit left in the bottle. Mingi finished the rest after his toast.
...
Mingi bit his lip to stop it from quivering. He put his head down, resting it between his arms. He exhaled deeply, his tears running down in front of the sunset.
Mingi's ears picked up the sounds of birds chirping as they soared past him. He lifted his head groggily, looking up to the sky with his tear-ridden face. His eyes widened at the mixture of colors, trailing down till he was looking straight ahead. The sun was touching the water, painting it in beautiful crimson colors. The sunset gave the ocean an illusion of a body on fire. The ripples looked like flames; blazing, bright, and eternally consuming.
Mingi's thoughts ran in his head.
.
.
.
Should I just die?
He had nothing going for him. Mingi had gotten into it with loan sharks, he was sure if he didn't die by his own hands, they would get him sooner or later. It was cruel. No friends, a failed business, a mountain of debt, he barely talked to his family. How funny. Mingi was treading through life, hanging on by the rope of death that always seemed to look at him cruelly—laughing in his face at his fate.
Mingi looked down at the body of water pitifully. Maybe just maybe. If he were to jump into the sparkling serenity, it wouldn’t hurt as badly? Sure, the water would be cold, but it was pretty. Mingi knew he didn’t deserve to die a pretty death, but at least he could find comfort in the water that looked like a fiery watercolor come to life. Perhaps the colorful ripples could wash over him, give his life color once again, even if just for a moment.
Mingi couldn't recall the number of times he’d tried to kill himself over the years. All his attempts ending in huge failures.
He was a coward.
Whenever he got close to finally letting sweet death take hold of him, he would back out at the last second. Mingi didn't want to admit it, but he was scared. He was scared of permanently disfiguring himself if he were to fail; he was scared of the pain; he was scared of where he would end up. For someone so committed to dying, it’s ironic how terrified of death he truly was.
A couple of attempts landed him in the hospital, where his poor friends would come running over in a panic. His friends, the ones he barely kept in contact with, came to see him. He felt guilty at the sight of their terrified, teary faces. Mingi hates being a burden—he didn’t want to put them through that again; he couldn’t do that to them. So, he’d stopped his attempts for a while.
But even the act of living made him feel like he was dying. Every damn day, hour, and second was excruciatingly long. If this was what "living" meant, Mingi would rather be dead.
He was alone; Jongho was dead. Mingi lost the light of his life, the apple of his eye. This life held no meaning without him. How was he supposed to move on when the person who was at his side since the very beginning was gone? All that was left was regret that no amount of healing could fix. He was broken beyond repair, as if he was scooped from the inside— his body a hollow husk.
He was trash. Trash deserved to be thrown away. Maybe in Jongho’s next life, he could meet someone better. There was a lot he had to apologize for, a lot of things to repent that would take several lifetimes. Then maybe, once they cycled through a couple of lives, they could meet again. And Mingi would grovel at Jongho’s feet, treat him like the treasure he was.
Mingi set the empty bottle at the edge. He slowly took off his sandals and set them aside. His bare feet touched the cold metal rail of the bridge; it felt like ice against his skin, sending a cold shock through his body. He lifted himself as the wind hit him at just the right angle.
....
Mingi's eyes filled with the orange light. The sun was now setting, bringing the night to its beginning. This view… This view was something else; Mingi couldn’t describe it. He had been feeling down for what felt like eons, but this feeling filled him with something indescribable. It’s not like he suddenly regained his will to live, however. He closed his eyes, breathing in the last of the day's oxygen. He couldn’t explain it. He felt full for the very first time in a long time. This feeling was exhilarating.
"_____!!!"
It seemed Mingi had been standing on the railings of the bridge for too long. He heard voices and gasps from behind him. He turned his body, a large crowd formed, and the onlookers held expressions of terror on their faces. Some of them were on their phones, more than likely with the police or recording him. Mingi's head felt heavy, and his body turned cold as the voices grew fainter and fainter until they were almost a whisper.
Fuck. Mingi, you've done it again.
You failed in killing yourself.
He didn’t want to traumatize any onlookers just cause he wanted to die. He stepped down from the railings, slipping his sandals back on, stomping off in embarrassment.
The sky was fully dark now. Mingi missed his golden opportunity, and for what? Was it all just an excuse? Why on earth could he not die? He'd been living in agony for so many years; why couldn't he have just taken the leap? Just what was he so afraid of? You suck. He berated himself in his own mind. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid Song Mingi.
Mid walk, a heavy shoulder slammed right into Mingi's side. He stopped in his tracks, pivoting on his heels.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going." It was a man much smaller than Mingi, who retorted to him in such a snide voice.
“Me?” Mingi hiccuped. He walked straight into the guy’s face, pushing his finger to the smaller guy’s chest. “How about you watch where the fuck you’re going. Do we have a problem?”
“What the fuck did you say?!” the man yelled.
“What the fuck did YOU say, punk?!" Mingi retaliated.
Thwack.
Mingi stumbled back. He clutched his face; the taste of iron filled his mouth. He licked the side of his lip; it hurt. This fucker just-
“Did you just fucking punch me?” Mingi scoffed.
He spat out the blood that piled in his mouth. His focus zoned in onto the guy in a big effort of concentration. The man stood with a twisted, smug look on his face. Mingi scowled, he wasn't a violent person; he was the type who was unable to watch fights on TV because violence and blood scared him. Jongho sure had his fun laughing in his face about his innate empathy for strangers.
But, with his freshly failed attempt combined with the many soju bottles in his system, all his rationality was thrown out the window. Right now, Mingi wanted nothing more than to pummel the guy who landed a hit when he was off guard.
In a split second, Mingi lunged forward, and the man threw another punch at him. Mingi leaned out of the way—using the newly open space he landed a nasty left hook, sending the man tumbling backwards. Mingi could tell by the way the man struggled to stand up on his feet that he was also intoxicated. Mingi didn’t let up; he used the man's momentary confusion and lunged forward again, using his height to his advantage. He slammed the guy onto the ground. Mingi got on top of him, straddling the man as he mindlessly threw punches in a fit of blind rage. He missed plenty of times, his fist making contact with the concrete instead of the face in front of him.
The man punched him in the ribs, knocking the wind out of Mingi. Mingi tumbled off the guy and landed on his side, clutching his ribs. The man got on top of Mingi this time, throwing punches as Mingi shielded his face. He, too, was lazily throwing his fists around, just barely missing Mingi's face by mere centimeters. Mingi gritted his teeth, wrapping his long legs around the man, and he threw him off to the side.
Once Mingi was free, he stumbled on his feet to stand upright before rushing straight to the man and kicking him square in the gut. The man let out a wet-sounding gurgle as Mingi's foot made contact with his abdomen. The man curled into a fetal position before he leaned over, throwing up. The sight made Mingi's throat flip in knots. Mingi put a hand to his mouth at the sight, he raced to a nearby wall. Before he, too, began hurling.
It was a sight. Two grown men, all bloody and beaten up, throwing up together at a random street. Mingi finished puking his guts out before eyeing the other man. Mingi scowled once they made eye contact. He lifted his bloody fist to his face.
“Do you want more?” Mingi threatened.
The man scrambled to his feet before he scurried away with his tail wrapped between his legs.
“Hah,” Mingi sighed. He plopped to the ground now that he realized it was safe. What a shit fucking day. He failed at dying, fought a drunk man, and was now lying on a street in the middle of nowhere. Figures.
Mingi should leave. Find a way back to his empty apartment before someone finds him and tries to traffic his organs. But he was too tired. He was tired of everything; his adrenaline waning low as his body and fists ached due to his injuries. Fatigue seeped into his legs, his arms, and his feet. His eyelids felt heavy, and he finally let his body succumb to exhaustion.
He wished he'd never wake up.
***
A sharp beam of light struck Mingi right in the eyelids. Even though his eyes were closed, the light still burned. He raised his arms to shield himself. He heard people talking and the scent of morning air. Morning air?
Mingi rubbed his temples; a dull throb pounded in his head. It felt like his veins would pop out of his forehead. What the fuck, why did it feel like his head was about to split in half? He groaned; wearily opening his eyes. Fuck. He was never drinking to this extent ever again. Mingi rubbed at his eyebrow, feeling a bump underneath his touch. He looked at his fingers; there was dry blood. Mingi recalled everything in an instant.
Oh yeah. That’s right…
Mingi fought a drunk guy the night before. He scratched his head at the thought.
Sheesh Mingi. Pull yourself together.
Mingi shifted his body; a jacket was placed on him. Did he bring a jacket? He couldn’t recall. Mingi looked to the right and left. Did someone take pity on him and give him a jacket so he wouldn't be cold? Oddly generous. The majority would usually ignore a drunk man sleeping on the streets. He grabbed the jacket, and a piece of paper fell out. What the hell was this? Mingi reached for the paper, and he held it in his hand. The paper had writing on it; it was a note. It was a note written to him, seeing as his name was addressed at the bottom.
“Be thankful you can't remember the shit I did to make this happen. I hope it works. Just don't fuck it up this time, future me."
- Song Mingi
Mingi blinked. He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids till he saw stars. He opened them again, the piece of paper still in his hand, as if he expected it to disappear. Was he still drunk? There’s no way. Then… Was this some sort of prank? He didn’t understand what kind of prank this was, though. Was he too old to understand this generation's sense of humor?
He looked at the piece of paper; it was his writing. It was his handwriting and his signature. Nobody knew his handwriting well enough to copy it, though, except for Yunho and Jongho. But Yunho hasn't spoken to him in years, which automatically ruled him out. And it couldn't be Jongho, he was gone.
Mingi turned his body to look around once again. He sat beside a block of stores. The store he was outside of was red and yellow, and his eyes scanned the unfamiliar characters. The headboard was decorated in red letters. The characters seemed to be… Mingi narrowed his eyes. Chinese. He fell asleep in front of a Chinese restaurant. Maybe he could find something to cure his awful hangover here? But first, Mingi hoisted himself up. He winced, his body still sore from the beating yesterday.
Mingi sighed. He crumpled the piece of paper, stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans. He stretched his sore body uncomfortably. If he failed to die yesterday, maybe he would find another day. As of right now, his top priority was to fill his belly.
Throb.
And a cure for this hangover. Fuck I'm never drinking again.
Buzz.
He had his phone? Mingi was surprised it didn't fall out somewhere. But who could even be messaging him at this hour? He had no friends. He cut off whatever friends he had when Jongho passed away, and many left him once he turned to alcohol.
Mingi begrudgingly rummaged through his jeans pocket for his phone. The first thing that caught his eye was the phone model. Was his phone really this old? Mingi wasn’t the type to replace his phone often, keeping it until it ran out of juice before getting a new one. He turned his phone over in his hand, thoroughly examining it.
Was he seriously that drunk that he couldn’t recognize his own phone? He turned his phone over again, his lock screen facing him.
Mingi paused. He had multiple missed calls and dozens of messages; his vision blurred as the words appeared like incoherent blobs. It felt like the world flipped inside out the moment he read the sender of said messages.
"Hah!" Mingi scoffed. He put his phone down in disbelief, poking his tongue against his cheek. What sort of fucked up prank is this?
Buzz buzz. His phone started ringing, a call coming from the other line.
It’s fine. It’s all fine; it’s probably someone you owe money to. His chest tightened, and Mingi slowly raised his phone, peeking at the caller id.
His heart sank.
“My 🐻❤️ is calling…"
...
What the fuck? That was how he had Jongho in his contacts. He put his ID name as "Bear" because Jongho reminded him so much of one. He later added a red heart after Jongho saw his contact name. In Jongho's words, he was; "too embarrassed if his emoji was only a bear."
But how was this possible?! Jongho is dead!
The phone call ended, and Mingi's lock screen went into full view. The lock screen showed a sunset. Mingi remembers taking this picture back when he and Jongho were together during their university days. That day, he gave Jongho a promise ring. Of course, he remembered that day; he set his lock screen as that picture and never changed it again. He only changed it back when—Mingi paused as the realization sank in.
It was when Jongho passed away that he changed his lock screen.
It felt like Mingi's body was hit with the weight of a thousand tons. The world felt as if it paused, and Mingi was the only one conscious and breathing. Slowly, he craned his neck to look at the date on his phone. A cold chill went down his spine, his heart sinking even more as his eyes scanned the forbidden numbers.
July 15th 20XX.
It wasn't fall anymore. The seasons changed.