Chapter Text
"Ah, Jimin-ah, you dropped this." Yoongi bends down and scoops up Jimin's pencil that rolled off the desk. Yoongi's pulse pounds painfully in his temples as he leans down, the headache that he's been fighting off all morning flaring, and when he straightens up, his vision swims black at the edges for a moment. When his eyes clear up, Jimin is already disappearing out the door, knocking shoulders with a few students in his haste to leave.
Yoongi tries not to, but his shoulders slump, too heavy to hold high any longer. He lowers his gaze to the floor, feeling small and yet too big all at the same time.
Taehyung places a hand on Yoongi's shoulder. "Ah, Hyung, Jiminie's probably just eager to get to dance practice. You know how he gets before showcases." He offers a smile, but it's an awkward one, like not even Taehyung believes what he's saying.
"What did I do wrong, Taehyung?" Yoongi swallows hard to clear the knot in his throat.
Taehyung shakes his head emphatically. "You didn't do anything wrong, Yoongi-hyung."
He huffs a laugh. It's an empty thing. "It's been six weeks. He hates me." The words scratch his throat as he says them, but it feels like a sweet caress compared to the sharp pain that stabs in his chest.
"He doesn't hate you. Jimin could never hate you, Hyung!" Taehyung pouts his lips and his eyes grow wide, as if giving Yoongi his best puppy eyes will make his words more believable.
But Yoongi just shakes his head. He accredits the pressure behind his eyes to a new development in his headache.
He goes to leave, suddenly feeling exhausted, but Taehyung stops him to pull him into a gentle hug, enveloping Yoongi in his sweet scent that always gives the visual of a Funfetti cake. Yoongi's chest is too heavy to push him away.
"It's not your fault, Hyung, I promise," Taehyung whispers in his ear. Taehyung pulls back, but keeps a grip on Yoongi's shoulders, holding him at arm's length. "I promise," he repeats, locking his gaze on Yoongi's.
Yoongi looks back for only a second before his eyes find the floor again. "Then whose fault is it, Taehyung?" Yoongi's whisper sounds hollow even to his own ears.
As much as Yoongi would like to believe Taehyung, believe that Jimin doesn't hate him, that Yoongi did nothing wrong, that this is just Jimin's normal pre-showcase behavior, he knows it isn't.
Yes, Jimin becomes hyper-focused on his dancing before showcases, putting aside socialization and even basic self-care to dedicate every last second to preparing, but this isn't that. Yoongi has asked their friends. Jimin still hears them when they speak, still smiles and waves when they pass in the hall, still responds to their texts.
Jimin doesn't look over their shoulders instead of at their faces. He doesn't turn to walk in the opposite direction when they approach. Their calls don't get immediately rerouted to voicemail. Their texts don't get left on read.
So, it was something about Yoongi specifically that was causing this behavior. Yoongi's spent countless sleepless hours wracking his brain, trying to remember if he said or did something to hurt Jimin's feelings or make him mad, but he always draws a blank.
Yoongi sees Taehyung bites his lip in his peripheral vision. "Jiminie's just... going through some things right now. He'll get through it."
Taehyung knows why Jimin's ignoring Yoongi. Of course he does—Taehyung and Jimin tell each other everything. They know more about each other than most people do about themselves, so of course Taehyung knows. So maybe Taehyung's assurance that Yoongi did nothing wrong and that Jimin doesn't hate him should hold more weight, but it really doesn't. Yoongi wants it to, but it just... doesn't.
His headache is getting worse.
"We can't always help how we feel," Taehyung murmurs. "Give it time. He just needs to adjust."
Ice coats Yoongi's stomach in an instant. We can't always help how we feel. He needs to adjust. The words are so weighted they tumble around Yoongi's head with a painful crash.
Is that it? Is that why Jimin suddenly can't stand to be in the same room as him, can't bear to acknowledge him? Did he piece together what Yoongi meticulously tried to conceal? Is he disgusted by Yoongi now?
His throat tightens like his scarf has suddenly turned to a boa constrictor and his meager breakfast sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach.
It isn't until Yoongi takes a deep breath that he notices his breathing has become shaky.
"I'm going home," he mumbles, his eyes staying stubbornly on the floor, blinking harshly. He pushes Jimin's pen into Taehyung's hands. "Make sure he gets home at a decent time."
He goes to leave, but Taehyung pulls him into another hug. He doesn't say anything, doesn't try to convince Yoongi that he's not hated or at fault, and Yoongi appreciates it. He's heard it so much in the past few weeks it's starting to sound like static.
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The walk home is not a pleasant one. Usually Yoongi doesn’t mind the light walk, taking the time to listen to music or audiobooks. But today he hates it. His head pounds with every footfall, like someone is banging a war drum in his skull. And if that weren’t enough, he spends the whole walk fighting back the heavy shadows that linger in the edges of his mind, slowly trying to creep up on him. The shadows are hard to fight because they’re so wispy, intangible, but no less present. The shadows have voices, too, whispers that take herculean effort to ignore and push aside.
By the time Yoongi gets back to his and Seokjin's shared apartment, Yoongi's headache is worse than ever, and even the familiar and safe smell of his and his hyung's scents, so different but so nice together, permeating the place does nothing to sooth it or the heaviness in his chest.
There’s another scent lingering in the air, the smell of soft, tanned leather. Ah, so Namjoon is here.
“Yoongi-yah,” Seokjin’s voice calls from the kitchen, much too loud in such a small space. “You’re back.”
Yoongi just hums in greeting, throat thick as he discards his shoes by the door and rounds the corner, storing his coat, scarf, and beanie in the coat closet. He ignores the slight tremor in his hands as he hangs up his coat.
Just follow your routine , he tells himself. Just stick to your routine. The routine helps.
The kitchen now in sight, he sees Seokjin in their kitchen, knife in hand and cutting board laden with vegetables set out in front of him. The sound of Seokjin’s knife against the board times perfectly with the pulsing pounding in Yoongi’s head.
Namjoon is, indeed, there, sitting on a barstool across from where Seokjin works.
Namjoon turned to look at Yoongi with a dimpled smile. “Hey, Hyung, how was—“ His words cut short and his smile disappears at the same moment the sound of Seokjin’s knife against the cutting board halts.
“Yoongi-yah, what happened?” Seokjin asks, vegetables forgotten. “Your scent is all bitter.”
Yoongi has to swallow three times before his throat clears enough to answer. “Headache.” Why is his breath still so shaky?
Seokjin frowns, and points with his chin towards one of the cabinets. “Take some meds and then go lie down. I’ll wake you up when food is ready.”
Making his way over to the indicated cabinet, Yoongi shakes his head. “I can’t. I have homework.”
“It’ll still be there when you wake up, Hyung,” Namjoon says. “You’ll probably get through it faster after some rest anyway.”
Seokjin nods in agreement. “There’s no sense in trying to focus through homework when you look dead on your feet.”
Whether his lack of reply is due to the pills now in his mouth or his inability to argue against their points, even Yoongi doesn't know. He pulls a bottle of water from the fridge to take a sip.
Namjoon has always been well-meaning but clumsy. He would rise to help Seokjin bring snacks into the living room and trip over the leg of the coffee table and knock an open soda all over the floor. He would spot a friend in the hall at school and smile and wave enthusiastically, only to hit someone walking by in the eye with his flailing hand. Namjoon makes such a good-intentioned blunder now.
“How’d it go with Jimin today?” he asks. “Is he talking to you again?”
Yoongi freezes, bottle half-way to his lips. Hearing Jimin’s name has all the shadows stirring again, eager, writhing like a nest of snakes.
Closing his eyes, Yoongi forces himself to take in a deep breath for four counts, hold it for five, and slowly release it for another four. The breath comes out shakier than he would like. He tries to breathe in a second time, but his throat is too tight.
Yoongi doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to. His silence is answer enough.
Seokjin and Namjoon’s scents dim a bit, but they say nothing. There’s nothing to say that they haven’t already in the past six weeks, and they know Yoongi doesn’t want to hear it.
He takes small sips from his water bottle to try to clear his throat and distract himself from the shadowy fog that is slowly building up in his mind. “I’m gonna go lie down,” he mumbles. Maybe that’ll keep the shadows at bay.
☕️🪷☕️🪷☕️🪷☕️🪷
Yoongi wakes with a fever. He’s uncomfortably sweaty, but his quilt and three blankets don’t seem to be enough to keep him from shivering. His head still pounds, though not as intensely as before.
He’s about to roll over and try to go back to sleep, homework forgotten, when his door opens quietly.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Seokjin says, his sweet pink lemonade scent wafting over to Yoongi, a small comfort. Yoongi used to think lemonade and pink lemonade smelled and tasted the same, the only difference being in color, but after meeting Seokjin, he realized how wrong he was. He could never think of his hyung smelling like lemonade. It was pink lemonade through and through, and when Seokjin got embarrassed or flustered, his scent sweetened to be what Yoongi could only describe as “pinker.”
His scent is slightly pinker now, and faint notes of Namjoon’s leather lingers on him, but Yoongi can’t detect Namjoon himself in their apartment, which means Namjoon likely just left and said or did something to make Seokjin flustered, if the red tinging his ears is any indication.
“Dinner is ready,” Seokjin says. “You slept through lunch. You should eat something.”
Nodding, Yoongi sits up and stretches, but immediately stops when the blankets fall around his hips, exposing his skin to the air. He shivers violently and burrows down into the blankets again. “S’too cold,” he grumbles into his pillow.
With a heavy sigh, Seokjin is about to say something when the sound of someone entering their apartment cuts him off.
“I’m home!” a bright and cheery voice calls, followed by a bout of laughter.
Yoongi’s brows furrow. “He doesn’t even live here.”
“You’re the one who gave him the emergency key.” Then, turning over his shoulder, he calls out, “Hobi, come talk some sense into Yoongi.”
The bright laughter echoes through the apartment again, and it’s followed by Hoseok appearing next to Seokjin in the doorway with a perpetual heart-shaped grin plastered on his face, his light beta scent of fresh linen following.
“Aigoo, Hyung,” Hoseok says when he sees Yoongi buried under his bundle of blankets in a tone that one might use to coo at a cute puppy. “Any more blankets and you’ll start compressing into a rock.”
Seokjin snorts inelegantly. “Yah, you’re supposed to help me get him out of bed, not tempt him into staying!”
“S’too cold,” pouts Yoongi, pulling the blankets tighter around himself when a violent shiver pulses through him.
Hoseok laughs brightly, as he always does.
Pulling his knees closer to his chest, Yoongi tries to tuck the blankets tightly around him to not allow any cold air in. “M’not hungry.”
The words, simple and common enough, make Yoongi freeze as soon as he says them. He’s been on the receiving end of such words more times than he can count. It prompts the question in his head, Has he eaten yet? If Hoseok is here, that means dance practice is definitely over. He should be home by now.
Without thinking about it, Yoongi’s arm snakes out of his blankets to grab his phone off his nightstand, tuning out whatever Seokjin is saying. His fingers move swiftly and automatically, open up his message history, and select the one he’s looking for. The message, “Have you eaten?” is typed and sent before Yoongi can even register what he’s doing.
Yoongi wishes he didn't. Because if he didnt, he never would have seen the words that make his heart drop so heavily into his stomach he nearly pukes: Message not delivered. You cannot contact this user.
Yoongi stares at the message, uncomprehending. He knows what it means, but some part of him doesn’t want to believe it.
“Hyung?” Hoseok’s voice, laced with concern, is faraway and muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. “Hyung, what’s the matter?”
Yoongi’s always had shadows in his mind, clouds that feel thick and heavy. Sometimes the shadows are manageable, like a morning mist—a little hazy, but possible to navigate through. Other times, though, the fog is so thick and so dark brushing his teeth felt like an applause-worthy accomplishment.
Yoongi works hard, very hard, to keep the clouds as thin as possible. He takes his meds daily, even when he doesn’t want to, and never misses an appointment with Dr. Nam. He lets his friends drag him out into the sunlight for a few hours a week. He drinks every water bottle handed to him. He even lets Jungkook and Namjoon drag him to the gym every once in a while.
But despite all his efforts, he’s felt the shadows brewing at the edges of his mind for a long time now. They’re always there in some capacity, but in the past weeks they’ve gotten thicker, bolder, refusing to be ignored. And when Yoongi turns slowly to look unseeingly at his friends, his eyes burning and throat dangerously tight, and chokes out, “He b-blocked me. J-Jimin blocked me,” the shadows descend upon him like a pack of ravenous beasts.