2.14 ARTIFICIAL LOVE: Three-story drop

Beomseok gets so drunk he doesn't even know what's left and right. He sings loudly and the moon struggles to greet him through the clouds. He's laughing and he's crying. And everything is a bad idea because it's only a matter of time before he will stumble off the cliff edge.

It's only about a three-story drop so Beomseok probably won't die if he falls and that's the only thing that keeps him from leaping. Or something?

The logic faculty in his brain is malfunctioning because he's on his back against the cold grass, muttering a familiar tune.

Why won't the moon come out to greet him? He wonders through the muddle of nausea that punches him deep in the gut. He's lying down with his feet dangling over the edge while his arms are spread out.

Breathing hurts. It churns the poisonous brew in his gut and he knows he needs to throw up but he also doesn't have the energy to.

Beomseok rolls over because alcohol poisoning is knifing him in the gut and he wonders. If he dies would he finally be able to meet his mother and apologize to her for being a shitty son?

Would he finally figure out why his life is so damn cursed?

The ground is damp and it's freaking cold but Beomseok is so numb that he can't even answer the question 'one plus one' correctly.

There's still the funeral to take care of.

His mom's belongings to sort through.

But it's all wrong and it's a terrible nightmare because she's supposed to be there and they're supposed to bond and reconnect and, and, and…

"I'm sorry," he says to one one in particular, voice choking as bile sits on his tongue, thick. 

"I'm sorry…" he says again, curling in on himself. His stomach protests and he lurches, head spinning round and round. The alcohol burns through his throat, coming up his esophagus and he can hardly hold himself up.

Beomseok is so dazed that he washes down the aftertaste of vomit with more vodka but the motion of raising the bottle to his lips only makes him feel more sick.

"Ugh…" He's a failure, he realizes. He's a failure unlike Yeju. He's such a failure that he can't even bear the thought of seeing her off. Such a failure that he's selfishly lamenting his own loneliness when his mother is dead.

She's dead.

She's dead.

The words are a slow working poison that sinks its claws into his heart. He lays his head down. It's cold and he's shaking but Beomseok has nowhere to go so his eyes close.

There's a hand that gently brushes against his cheek and Beomseok wonders if it's an angel or a devil that comes to visit him in his throes. 

"Ge—" A familiar voice says. 

Beomseok doesn't know why he responds with, "Mom?" But his eyes are decidedly shut and he cannot peel them open no matter how much he tries.

Someone hauls him up, "Let's get you back home." 

Beomseok groans in protest because it makes him feel sick. He wants to puke again. "Stop, Yejun, you ass…s-stop." He presses a hand against a solid chest and hangs his head. A comforting hand trails over his back and encourages him to puke.

"You're doing well. Go on, get it out of you."

Beomseok feels his stomach lurch and empties it onto the grass.

It's not Yejun's voice, Beomseok thinks absently but the person is so warm and comforting and Beomseok basks in their presence nonetheless. He's lonely. He sways in his steps and his body collides with solid warmth. Beomseok rests his head on a wide shoulder. Hair tickles his face and there's a hand around his waist that holds him close.

"I got you, don't you worry about a thing." Sweet words are spoken but Beomseok's consciousness is in shambles. He barely registers sound.

Next thing he knows he's in a car.

Or maybe he's just in a dream.

Because Beomseok has no idea how he wakes up the next day.

He's tucked neatly in bed but sunlight assaults his eyes even through his closed eyelids. When he groans the whole world sways and Beomseok momentarily forgets what's so good about alcohol. Even though the thought passes in his mind he reaches and searches for half emptied beer bottles that he might have left around the bed. He almost forgets that he's in his old childhood home and therefore there aren't any beer cans left around the bed.

"…"

Beomseok deflates, disappointment ripe as his hand falls from the countertop next to the bed because there's nothing but a bottle of water. He doesn't want water, he wants beer.

"…" He loiters in bed for a moment or two longer before finally relents and goes for the water to soothe his parched throat.

It's only then that Beomseok realizes that something's wrong.

Because no, he did not leave his bedroom clean. He was drinking beer, wasn't he? And left cans about.

He furrows his brow in thought, lips pulled down in a frown. Wait, he thinks, how did he even get back home?

Parts in his disjointed memory don't make sense because he remembers going on a long walk and getting piss drunk. Miracles can be worked in the city, where there are buses that run 24/7 and taxis with experience handling drunks. It's different in these rural parts. Beomseok still remembers when his mother used to drive around town, searching for her drunkard husband who would pass out on the side of roads.

Beomseok vaguely remembers a car and frowns.

"Yejun…?" Beomseok rubs his temple, remembering being stuffed into a car and carried but someone…male. Yeah. That chest was definitely male.

But it doesn't feel right, there are too many pieces missing and he's more confused than anything else.

Beomseok grimaces and fights back a blaring pain in his head as he gropes around for his phone, where there are likely answers.

To his dismay, his mobile is nowhere to be found. It's not in its usual spots behind his pillow. He tosses the blanket off, searching for the device in the sheets. But it isn't there. Hm, in his pants pockets then. But when he scours the floor, where he usually discards his pants when drunk, they aren't there.

The fuck?

Beomseok starts to feel a bit impatient, frantic even because he's terrified at the idea of losing his phone. Tt's totally possible after getting blackout drunk and fuck, fuck, fuck.

The sharp twist of nausea is ignored in favor of jumping out of bed. Beomseok sways and stumbles on his feet and he kind of wants to throw up but he fights the pain to search desperately for his damn pants and his damn phone.

He looks under and behind the bed, thinking he might have accidentally kicked it somewhere weird. He even looks behind the wardrobe because who the fuck even knows and goes through the closet too because he's done some pretty weird shit drunk before.

All of this is for naught because his pants are neatly folded on the chair that's placed against the wall between the desk and the bedside counter.

"…" The fuck? That definitely wasn't Beomseok who did that. Yejun then? If not him then who else?

Beomseok tears through the pockets and finds his wallet and bits of change, an empty cigarette pack, and two lighters. But his phone is nowhere in sight and his heart sinks. Fuck, no, shit, this can't be happening to him. Except is it really fate if he's the one fully to blame for this fuck up?

Dread pools in his belly and he can feel the self-hatred crawl up his throat. Beomseok needs to think. Fuck, think. Where could his fucking phone be?

Where was he last night?

He needs to find the person who brought him home.

He needs to find Yejun. But without a phone, he doesn't know how to contact his little brother. Heck, he doesn't even know Yejun's number by heart.

With curses tumbling out of his lips, Beomseok throws open one of his suitcases and puts on the first shirt and pants combo he finds; black on black just a sweater and sweatpants. He wastes no time to leave his room but before he could rush out the door, a needed visit to the bathroom happens first.

He heads straight to the toilet and drops to the floor, head curled over the seat and the last bit of fluid in his stomach leaves him. 

"-seok." He thinks he hears someone call between the sound of lurching. "Beomseok?"

Wait, is that Yejun's voice? It doesn't sound like him.

"Give me a sec!" Beomseok hollers at the voice that seems to be coming from downstairs. His mind is too disorientated for alarm. After a few heaving breaths he grabs some toilet paper and wipes his lips. There's thankfully a good amount of mouthwash left and Beomseok takes three damn gulps in attempts to wash away the vestiges of vomit and alcohol. It works but only partially.

"Beomseok?"

Beomseok freezes.

That voice…is it part of his imagination?

He hears footsteps against the wooden floor.

"Beomseok are you okay?"