STYROFOAM [jaeyong]

[styrofoam]

And as you can imagine, this was a constant cycle. Taeyong would do it all over again even after he woke up feeling like he was dying; night after night, drink after drink, and somehow managing to slip out of the several dangerous situations he might've found himself in. He sometimes purposely put himself in dangerous places as long as they had what he wanted.

This was his norm.

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798 - *** - ****

Accept | Decline

Taeyong peered at his phone, merely taking a second glance at it before he immediately hit the decline button. He didn't answer unknown callers, but the thing was he did know who this was. The boy could only assume—she called him from a different number at least three times a week. Each and every time, Taeyong would decline and hit the block button without a single hint of contemplation at this point.

He sat up from the bed, rubbing at his stinging eyes and looking around with little interest at his surroundings.

Taeyong paused.

He gazed at the untouched white sheets he was lying in and then at the rest of the bedroom that was barely decorated, the curtains pulled shut and a stale smell hanging in the air.

Taeyong was a bit shocked that he found himself in his own apartment.

The Korean would've laughed if it wasn't for the taste of blood hanging in the back of his sore throat. This had to of been the first time in months; usually he spent his time passed out in someone's bathroom, in a stranger's bed, or his friends' couch.

Taeyong thought long and hard about what happened the night before, and once his head started to pulse he gave up and simply made the assumption that a person was concerned to see a vulnerable boy stumbling around and decided to make the kind decision to take him home.

That rarely happened, obviously.

But as he slipped out of the comfortable sheets and sat on the edge of the bed and felt the conditioner from the wall across him expose his legs with cool air, as well as the silence of the apartment when the boy was accustomed to chaos, he began to feel more grateful instead of amused. Taeyong deeply inhaled a breath of clean air, the whips of his damaged hair tickling his forehead softly as he did so. He raised his hand to his forehead to rake the baby hairs out of his face and when he touched his skin, he realized it was burning hot.

He had a fever for sure. The boy sighed—this happened often, and he hated it because it made drinking that much more heavy-feeling and uncomfortable. It was like torture going out to party in this state, but of course he found a way to alleviate the side-affects at least for awhile.

That involved 'enough' weed and drugs so he was so high in the clouds that it numbed whatever pain he was feeling. The ridiculous thing is that the thing that is making him sick is also his way of medicating. Honestly, he wasn't sure how he didn't end up in a hospital or had someone force him go to rehab, but nobody cared like that.

Taeyong was a good time and that was it.

His friends weren't really his friends, just drinking buddies. And they were the exact same way, so who are they to point fingers at Taeyong when they're just as bad? Yeah, there was no real way out and as Taeyong would say, "fuck that" and just continue whatever sickening things he'd enforce on himself.