Chapter Text
A Compulsive Urge to Find Fault
/Cacoethes Carpendi/
THE RISING OF THE MOON shone enough luminosity for Namjoon to walk in the shadows of buildings around the sector of Novus Seoul where signs of life weren’t much welcomed. It was about forty-five meters away from his standing point, the government underdogs’ headquarter. He can almost envision the orphanage behind and couldn’t deny the shiver his spine experienced, nostalgia rendered him unpleasantly cold rather than the icy wind biting his cheeks and exposed hands.
It will be a matter of time before his presence to the forbidden radius would alert the officials, Namjoon needed to activate his exceptional photographic memory in use. He’d been doing this for weeks after two and a half months of being the leader of their three-member group; observing from a distance, draw an outline, memorize the structure and create an educated blueprint according to his gathered information about the headquarters.
He wasn’t looking while walking beneath the elevated tracks, immersed at how his sketch was improving as weeks passed by. Some of the illustrations had accurate measurements he would’ve been proud to what his brain was capable of providing. And then his feet hopped on the fallen streetlight, balancing on it before glancing back at the main scenery in front of him.
Such fools would be doing a makeshift hour and yet, Namjoon saw no single soul patrolling or guarding at where he was observing. A blind spot perfectly selling itself to him. After a long thought, he crouched all the while twirling his holographic pen between his fingers before scribbling something on his mini hologram.
Concrete notepad was not his style, more of Yoongi’s. He would sometimes joke how primitive the older man was. In return, Yoongi flipping him a finger; get lost. Thick smoke of the chilly night escaped his mouth, parting mostly while his thoughts geared up to ideas and jumbled algorithms. And in a few long minutes of his stay, something worth imprisoning to memory happened.
A movement to his left line of vision, he quickly tapped his card and the hologram blinked out before ducking on the road, now hiding behind the fallen streetlight. Palms scraped the uneven asphalt. He pulled his arms and rested it on his knees. The patrolling started and it was past one.
Or so Namjoon thought until he peeked through the holes of the broken post but what he saw confused him. The silhouetted figure was not in the mode for duty. Namjoon knew the actions better along with Yoongi and Jungkook than anybody else. It was too familiar to be mistaken. It was a sign of breakout.
Another fled from the inside. Seriously the security sucks.
He let his eyes followed the figure, up on the high walls which barricaded with barbed wires ‘til it decided to dropped without reluctance on the ground. Namjoon unconsciously acknowledged the spirit of whoever was this underdog absconding in the middle of the night. He presumed it was an underdog according to the black bulletproof vest it wore and a rifle hanging around its midsection and of course its noticeable underdog uniform under the white moon radiation.
When the figure stood with difficulty, it didn’t waste seconds to run into the casting shadows of the abandoned buildings, away from the headquarter, away from Namjoon’s sight which the latter allowed his confusion delved into further chasm when he found his own feet running after the escapee. He has a rifle. He’ll never think twice to shoot me when caught, Namjoon thought. But he doesn’t have time to sort this through.
Curiosity was elected as the leader in an engagement like this.
They passed a cluster of buildings which created asymmetrical pattern in the landscape of the dark sky, sewers overflowing with wasted waters, haunted power lines collapsed in the exposure of the stretched road. More abandonment, more ghostly remnants of a town grim with despair. The escapee did not miss a chance of en route delays, running with speed of military practice but fueled with eagerness to be further away from hell in the city. Except, he was being followed.
Under the desolated bridge was a railroad track which led to the alleyway that framed by bricked walls of patchy shapes and aged paint. A sizzling glow of a diffused sign board on its corner, blinking every five seconds, has a faded Carpe Diem on it and rotten junks with insects swirling around. The figure headed out to the dim passageway and stopped for breathing.
Namjoon backed up a wall opposite the mess, careful to minimize every noise he made as possible. His chin up to the sympathetic moon, thoughts performing technical glitches and surprisingly turned blank. But after a moment, he was jolted by realization to what he had done. As if reaching the surface of the sea, the leader had awakened to something out of his ordinary zone. Following a military underdog meant sitting on Ripper’s couch and waiting for the touch in the shoulder that would surely equals to evaporation.
“Who’s there?!”
He heard two deafening gunshots after the voice and had one arm shielding the side of his face on impulse. So much for tactful pursuing. Namjoon should’ve come up with a better strategy but curiosity got out of that IQ box he had stored inside his brain. He has to deal with it with a level close to average before considering drastic measures.
“Reveal yourself under the authority of an underdog from your Imperial Government!”
The voice seeped impatience, highly cautious and steady but Namjoon caught a hint of fear clouding the silence with thoughts of recited line and trained intonation that was most likely from textbooks. Perhaps, it was always what underdogs were taught. Imperial? Government? Those bastards don’t deserve gold ears from hearing this everyday.
He regulated the words, actions and formulated a solution for this condition. One wrong move and he’ll really see the other side of life, one misplaced word and one miscalculated formulation will have Namjoon question his position as a leader. He forced himself to concentrate; eyes closed, jaw set, and exhaled smoke of breath into space.
Few seconds were all he needed.
Perform Operation.
“I command you to reveal yourself!” a click of the rifle was lifted.
Before the echo faded away, Namjoon appeared with both hands beside his head; admission of defeat. There was a pause. He can’t decipher the underdog’s expression. Partly because of the gloominess of the place and lack of light, reek of decayed entrails swayed under his nose had him scowled at the exact moment a question being asked.
“Name?”
The blonde decided to speak calmly, “I am unarmed.”
“State your name!”
Uncharacteristically, his idea involved submission—he doesn’t have any weapon on him— and stepping back to where luminosity shown and hopefully he would catch a glimpse of the silhouette in front of him. Apparently, his decision had him on suicidal operation because,
“Don’t move! Stay exactly where you are!” the man advanced with the weapon on his trained arms, rifle pointed directly to the blonde; stance ready to fire.
The warning doesn’t have any effect on Namjoon, wasn’t in the situation to disagree but neither was he in the position to take orders from the government’s underdog. He has his own reputation. Hence, does his plan.
“Moon…light—We can talk out here. Out in the open.” He tried, gesturing to his back and once again carefully pulled his legs so he was taking steps backwards. Come on, follow through. Our curiosities should be settled if you just read the atmosphere and follow me here in the open. His thoughts urging to be transmitted to the other man.
At the same time, a bang was heard. Namjoon’s ears were ringing from the aftereffect of a gunshot four inches away from his right foot. He stood still, throat dry. Hesitation wasn’t in the glossary of the underdog and Namjoon clearly understood that. There was an adrenaline rush poking him in the mind; telling him to formulate plan B or C or else fight or flight response will be activated.
It was tempting but he didn’t listen. Wouldn’t give a damn even if the underdog decided to fire another shot near his left foot so he could just stubbornly stay on the ground. A pricking sensation when he decided to stop to his preferable destination and lowered his arms.
“One more step,” the man said with vigor in his tone, keeping a steady stance as he moved forward to where the blond was, “and I will end the life in—”
That’s better. You can see me.
Now that the underdog’s statuette was out, Namjoon saw recognition in the man’s wary eyes. Followed by contemplation when brows furrowed and his hold to the rifle loosened a bit but not enough for trust. Something told the man that he saw the blonde’s face somewhere and it was oddly familiar he just can’t put a finger on it.
Blessed with enough shoulder length—the man finally slackened his posture—, burgundy locks depended on the inclination of the head and the amount of light available Namjoon couldn’t really tell, the man’s still studying his face same as to where Namjoon’s eyes travelled down his vest. There on the left chest pocket.
UD.KIM.SEOKJIN
“Jeon…Jeongguk. Min Yeonki...Ah! You’re Kim Nam something! Uhm…BTS! Right? The young rebels who took the whole government by shock! Orphans with the mind of their own.”
Namjoon was, as to say, astonished by the sudden glee he can hear in Seokjin’s voice. His concentration did a rewind until it halted on the period of the beginning of his own theory before the confrontation. He was grateful he didn’t listen to temptation of formulating plan B because plan A was a perfect operation. Couldn’t really account to perfect ‘til the final step was initiated, could it?
Seokjin’s eyes glittered with delight, pacing in between the sufficient distance they have and huffing air while murmuring mostly to his self, “Is this even real? How did—why—dang luck!” because what a magnificent coincidence to bump into a member of BTS! His whole life picturing out on how to run, how to claim his own life and prepared himself to cross the city in order to find BTS’ lair and beg them to let him join. All those scenarios worth procrastinating over, all those concerns and those late-night thoughts and the totality of confidence he invested in himself before actually escaping. It was beyond priceless.
“I see. You did your research but let me correct you—”
“Kim Namsoon! Right? I don’t know but you guys created a massive uproar and i-it’s not that really hard to recognize you. You see, it’s mandatory to learn the percentage of rations we will get when we afford to deliver you to your deathbeds—Top priority, that is. The promotions and upgraded ranks,” he patted his weapon to emphasized, “you would not imagine how those underdogs salivated.”
“Okay,” Namjoon has to stay calm in dealing this current situation, rubbing the side of his hair, the shaved part. He didn’t need anything detailed as to what Seokjin has shared. Everything was on place and legitimate in his theory. Thanks to Seokjin he found out—reading between the line and the latter’s knowledge— that him being the leader wasn’t yet on the chart. Soon, they will know but at this point, BTS was ahead of them.
“Earlier, you said some stuff about authority, imperial government? Remember? So I am guessing you’re just a great actor and I’m having conversation with a spy. Like any minute now, you would go shoot me in the leg and drag me to the headquarters to meet my deathbed. And you’ll have those promised percentage of rations and promotions.” He was shrugging when Seokjin’s eyes widened, hands waving in disagreement.
“No! Absolutely not! I’m not a spy and I won’t do anything stupid! I don’t—”
“If you ask me, killing a fugitive and a promised civilized life in return makes more sense and easier than joining revolution that has no guarantee of making it out alive. No guarantee of succession…yet. Why will I believe you not choosing the former?”
Accusatory, the sense was. No matter how Seokjin listened to it, separating the real bite of the words and the intention into the syllabus of purely questioning, suddenly his vision backtracked to him sitting on a chair. Across him was the Panacean, asking why he didn’t participate in Top Priority lane of crawling underdogs. Everyone seemed too hyper for a competition of who gets to accomplish the deaths of BTS. Everyone with the exception of Kim Seokjin.
He answered in a monotone manner that his skills were still lacking, wanted to focus on underground training and possibly be a candidate of accreditation in the medical field. Has his interest in a subject where he has a vast knowledge of. The Panacean wasn’t impressed and said that he’ll keep an eye on him because there’s something wrong with you not being like the other orphans’ dreams of being promoted.
Did he care? Fuck the system of Novus Seoul’s society. He will rather run away than associate himself to the government’s demands. And then there was a frigid silence, a tapping of a pen, scribbling negative diagnosis before he registered the Panacean calling it a day. He left the room with a glance and saw a shake of head. Except this time in front of him, it was someone from BTS, the group of rogue orphans that inspired him for a change in his destiny.
“Oh, right. Why would you believe me? Of course, no one will. What did I,” Seokjin unstrapped the belt connecting his rifle to his torso, making the weapon dropped on the pavement, “against all odds, what did I expect? Freedom? Faith? Co-companionship?” His knees gave out, head hanging low above his intact shoulders, dampened by his own comprehension.
“I am a nobody. I just thought…well, earlier huh. I thought a fellow underdog followed me and by instinct, the proper way to address anyone with your gun is to include stupidity like imperial government. Anywhere. Important house rule.”
Namjoon listened to Seokjin’s exasperated tenor, watching intently at what was unfolding five meters away from him. This was what he needed, a convenient evidence of frailty and honesty. The man may be crisp and sturdy and, obviously, a well-trained underdog with features close to feminine—Namjoon shouldn’t comment about this blame his eyes—but the hopelessness he showed and desperateness at the brink of his slouching posture made it lucid to the leader’s assessment that, positively, there was nothing threatening about Kim Seokjin.
He’ll recruit this one. Namjoon was determined to explore any lengths just for BTS to evolve into something of an expertise that would warranty the government’s catastrophe.
“It’s alright. Go on, leave now. I’ll have my moment. Don’t worry I am not to speak as a witness of our encounter. I ain’t going back to that hellhole. Just…go.”
Instead of granting Seokjin’s declaration, the blonde man deliberately scooted closer until he was staring at the top of the underdog’s head. A feeble wind passed them, danced around Namjoon’s extended hand, died when his fingers clasped the kneeling man’s shoulder. Synthetic scent evaded his nose like the smell of the infirmary he used to have regular visits when Yoongi had suggested for regular treatment, credits to the bullies, during their time in the orphanage.
Upon the contact, Seokjin lifted his chin. Alluring eyes resembled starless night met Namjoon’s that spoke with a mixture of confusion and expectation. He crouched and his first proper look at Seokjin had his brain told him that the underdog was actually good-looking. It was a rare case especially when their lives were seized by the stupid government and stupid rules and forced training education. They don’t bother to look good in general. Not everyone was born with effortless looks. In Namjoon’s case, not everyone was born with high intelligence. He was also a rare one.
He managed to maintained eye contact without breaking his purpose even with the unnecessary observation. When did he get distracted? Kind of proud that he kept his cool and didn’t shy away to assemble his thoughts under their close proximity and shared warmth. “What contribution can you offer in the field, Kim Seokjin? You do realize what you are getting yourself into, am I right?” His voice subdued just enough for the both of them to hear, confidential.
An opportunity was waiting to be noticed. Seokjin doesn’t need to bat an eyelid when he knew it has presented itself for him to grasp. “I-I can stitch you up! Aid you and the other members when you’re physically distress and wounded—wounds! Yes wounds! I’m good at handling those. I’ll even spill everything about the government’s dirty tactics and plans—everything! Isn’t it enough? That I’m an ex-underdog? I know a lot of crucial information.”
With a bob of the head here and there, Namjoon pretended to consider the offer. In actuality, he had seen this coming. It was a part of his operated plan and it was going the way he wanted it. So he allowed himself to proceed to the climax of his operation.
“Hmm. Sure you do. Would you mind playing doctor in our group?”
Seokjin heard it, the proposal knocking loud in his ears. He saw the dimpled smile the blonde directed to him and the subtext that showed are you willing to join the revolution? He knew he was gawking but he can’t help it. It was really happening, him being recruited. At this rate, he can feel the mist forming around the corners of his eyes.
“And by the way, it’s Kim Namjoon. The one and only leader of BTS.”
卍 卍 卍
“I think he’ll die sooner if he keeps saying ‘it’s easy, man’ every time I teach him new techniques.”
Yoongi’s head snapped at the entrance of a bristled maknae. He was reading an article from his hologram type of a tabloid while adding important fraction in his created blueprint when the younger male busted in, tugging his shirt that soaked with sweat out from his trunk so he could change for a clean one.
It has been six weeks since Jungkook was appointed as the Novice’s trainer and all he did was to grumble at how Jimin was speaking to him like they were at the same channel, how he found it annoying when Jimin did every method he instructed with difficulty but soon with ease, and begrudgingly how the Novice actually tried enjoying every session they have just to elevate the tension they had since the initiation.
“Yeah. Must be because you’re so strict he tries to win you over.” Hoseok pointed out, sprawled on Jungkook’s favorite dreary couch inside Yoongi’s office. The youngest doesn’t like the fact that he was seeing this hyung occupying one of his self-proclaimed territories. By the time his hand was done with fastening his jacket’s metal zipper, he attached his left ankle into Hoseok’s crossed feet and yanked it out of the coiled spring futon, leaving a room for him to sit.
“Aish, disrespectful bastard.” The other mumbled, scrunching his facial muscles directly to Jungkook but the latter played dead ears, flopping onto the given space and continued his complaint. His everyday experience as the trainer was giving him much headache than Hoseok’s usual muttering.
“He fucking shot one of the punching bags by accident! Now it’s down to two. How idiot can he get? I’ll kill him when he sleeps.”
He shouldn’t have said that, the last part. He should’ve considered his audience because the least person he wished would hear his vindictive attitude was the pale man. Like rain spitting after gray heavy clouds, he saw his feared expectation quivered to life.
Yoongi’s sheer warning.
“Jungkook.”
How can a warning be that powerful with just a name? His fingers skimmed his hair, strands in disarray as he let his head fall back before closing his eyes. Through clenched teeth, Jungkook exhaled his words. “Scratch that. I’ll have him hang up while I punch a hundred in his stomach as replacement.”
“Wooh. Look at how fast you change your mind. Why? Can’t kill him? What’s stopping you?” Hoseok raised a pointy finger to Yoongi’s direction, “Him?” When the youngest doesn’t respond, he barked a laugh.
“Really? Aye, that’s ridiculous. You’re the trainer not him. Jimin is under your supervision. You can hella do whatever you want. But! As obvious as Namjoon’s special treatment to Seokjin hyung, someone is keeping you at bay. Right, Jungkook-ah?”
“That’s none of your business.” The maknae folded his arms, uncomfortable with the truth that flaunted out of Hoseok’s lips. He couldn’t think of a coherent retort, backing down from this argument seemed like the proper way to avoid further humiliation.
“You’re not denying it.” Hoseok fondly brought back his bared feet just to give light kicks to the younger’s thigh, mouth making horrible noises that the crease in Jungkook’s forehead was evident. It was simpler to dismiss the vibrant guy’s antics and endurance was one of Jungkook’s proficiencies.
Unfortunately, it was not to Yoongi.
A depleted sigh and then he was frowning towards the only moving human being in the room. “Ah, shut up. Do you want me to order Taehyung to be tomorrow’s firing target?”
Hoseok’s grinning face fell when the words sunk in. His eyesight focused to the red-haired man across him, antics forgotten. He felt his jaw hardened, eyes turning into glaring, a menacing expression. Hoseok was a man who can go from full of crap to a precise assassin if provoked. Either his hyung was practicing a humorless joke or asking for a cheap sparring, he wouldn’t understand. But his dialect was poisonous when he spat.
“Don’t you dare.”
“You know I can, Jung Hoseok.”
Deep inside, he knew that Yoongi doesn’t practice jokes and wouldn’t ask for a cheap sparring unless something really pissed the older man to an extent. He knew the difference between Namjoon and Seokjin, Taehyung and him pairings to Jungkook and Yoongi’s relationship. They can all tell how the maknae’s attachment to the pale hyung wasn’t reciprocated the way the two pairings had.
It was somewhat a complicated relationship that Hoseok could see the anguish on their eyes. Mainly because of Jungkook’s one-sided affection and Yoongi was burdened by guilt that he can’t provide what the younger needed the most. Plus the burden of being insensitive that he took responsible for. But nobody deserved to be forced against their will. All of them strongly believed in that notion. Exactly whose fault was all the trouble?
So Hoseok doesn’t opt to make things worse. He casually stood up and yawned. Stretching his arms above his head, he smiled wryly.
“Oh, you’re no fun.”
The conversation died down when no one pretended to laugh anymore.
卍 卍 卍
An insignia of an artistically drawn BTS was floating in a holographic form Yoongi remembered staring. It was just a sample, nonetheless, it was impressive. He turned his head to where the boy was hunched over his scribbling pad. Jungkook halted, pen sitting in his taut fingers, suspended at the curve of the letter S. The calligraphy was almost gossamer of a knitted scarf one could envisage the amount of sophistication and carefulness it had received from a virtuoso himself.
Yoongi was beginning to wonder what disturbed the maknae’s fifth logo sketch when all of a sudden he heard Namjoon presenting his recruit, Kim Seokjin, an ex-underdog, blurry language along the line of they needed his experience, of an aider, an informant, and mostly an addition to the group. He saw their leader smiling, eyes crescent like an imprint of fingernails that translated to I did a good job, praise me!
This, Yoongi doesn’t have any qualms about it, he strongly believed that whatever Namjoon’s decision was, it may be something beyond their comprehension. Above all, he trusted Namjoon to what he was doing. And to what they had discussed, welcoming was on their hands as formality.
With brief introductions that should’ve ended smoothly, but Yoongi had sensed it all. His mistake was, he didn’t act fast enough to refrain Jungkook’s unleashed beast. He didn’t warn Namjoon that he sensed the youngest bizarre behavior ever since the leader stepped inside their lair with a recruit sticking behind. He didn’t ask what the hell was wrong with Jungkook when he heard a low growl from where he saw him supposedly scribbling.
“Why is that here? Of all people. An underdog?”
Promptly, all of them suffered from the consequence of Jungkook stabbing Seokjin’s chest with the pen. The impact of the younger jumping on him had them somersaulted each other on the floor. If not for the bulletproof vest the recruit had worn, he could be leaking with blood. The moment when their bodies smacked the desk, struggles came into a seconds break, Jungkook retrieved the pen, this time, went to stab Seokjin’s neck where the carotid was throbbing red. The latter used all his strength to grab the younger’s forearm, tip dangerously close to his artery, and face grimacing with the wrestle he had to win to save them both.
“Jungkook! Fucking calm down!” Namjoon dived in, locking the maknae’s head by his arms and tried to drag him away from the older. When he pulled them on feet with force, Jungkook pivoted on the balls of his heels, violently attempted to strike back using his sort of weapon.
Something passed their visions, in between Namjoon and Jungkook that was so rapid both boys didn’t notice Jungkook’s left cheek bleeding. A profound cut, skin sliced wide open that it seemed a fountain of tepid liquid slowly descending until it dripped from his chin to his blouse. Namjoon froze with furrowed brows, Seokjin’s panting served as a fading background cacophony, and Jungkook felt the numbness ebb away replaced by a prickling sensation.
“Stay down, Jeon Jungkook.”
It didn’t take long for them to registered Yoongi standing a little far from where the pandemonium took place. Retrievable bo-shuriken glinting in its glory in his right palm which was linked to the chain that was tightly clutched by his left hand. The blade was covered with fresh blood, dark red and angry but it was nothing compared to Yoongi’s smoldering glare, syllables hissing when he reprimanded.
“You are not to kill a member of our group. Understand?”
He remembered Jungkook dropping the pen and the boy kneeled over, screaming and apologizing, Yoongi watched him coming to his senses. He still plainly remembered how Seokjin volunteered nursing the maknae’s incision that left a scar of reminder to the four of them. That time too, where he accidently saw Seokjin bandaging Namjoon’s forearm with tenderness and apprehensive gazes he felt as if he was interrupting something intimate. Before he knew it, Yoongi walked away from the doorframe, didn’t bother telling the leader that Jungkook was sleeping for almost two days.
Five months top, they’ve met Hoseok and Taehyung when the news about a massacre in the Southern 41st Avenue of the metropolis glowed in the headlines. The text doesn’t make any signification to Yoongi but Namjoon ordered him to venture out there and search for any data they could utilize against the government which he was 200% convinced was behind the incident. He didn’t question Namjoon’s prying nature so he travelled to that Avenue along with Jungkook.
They’ve returned at dawn, Namjoon woke up facing two strangers with blood stained shirts; one has a drained expression, hand holding the other boy’s whose eyes were as good as dead. Ah, the witnesses of such melodramatic slaughterhouse. Namjoon gave formality in a heartbeat, learned that their names were Jung Hoseok and Kim Taehyung. The only survivors of the massacre.
Yoongi swore he could see himself listening to the duo’s story but the image refracted into his nineteen-year old self, played out in slow action and varied in a kaleidoscope of his former residence. It was spinning around the edges, making him dizzy and he badly wanted to puke but a butcher’s knife was digging on his abdomen.
He was aware of it, felt his palm desperately applying pressure to the injury, the other free hand was seizing some kind of a bicep. When he glanced up, he saw his father’s pained expression. “It’s for the best, my son. Forget us.”
Yoongi shook his head, “B-but…Mom—”
“She’s gone. And soon, I’ll leave too.”
“N-no! P-please…don’t—”
Even as his father was slipping away, Yoongi tried reaching, hands flailing in the air. Nothing to hold, no one to pull him up from his shattering soul. The only thing he understood was his pleas and him begging not to be abandon repeating in a colorless frequency of sound waves. He was afraid, anxiety swallowing him whole.
Everything, in this soiled chasm, was too damn excruciating.
“Please, hyung.”
A soft voice strangely penetrated through the walls of defense he was busily rebuilding. He was confused, had his neck craned to where the sound came from. But all Yoongi could see was the wall. In a division of seconds, he dismissed the voice. Mishearing was no foreign to misconception.
“If you’re hurting, let me know.” The voice was consoling, sincerity soaked with weight of devotion.
Who says I’m hurting?
And then it clicked when he wheezed a breath of consciousness, he was dreaming. But the dream wasn’t a dream at all. It was the memories he could hardly forget, hoarded as the foundation of his vulnerability and anchored him down in the unfathomable ocean of defeat.
Yoongi was now fully aware of the absurdity the wall he created, so he stopped. He paused with a brick in his hand. Contemplation was to be expected but as soon as the brick was freed from his palm, plunged to the half-way done defense, everything crumpled unto dust.
For the first time in two and a half years, Min Yoongi cried.
卍 卍 卍
Jimin found him lying on the ground, under the escritoire, beside the chair he saw the older man was working earlier. He mustn’t realize that he had fallen when sleeping. The backbone of the group was giving his best rearranging the strategies about their mission which was scheduled in a month. Perfectionists, both of them—Namjoon and Yoongi.
He bowed low, observing Yoongi’s features; nose scrunching up briefly, lips parted with consecutive sighs of normal breathing, head resting on his folded right arm and body in a fetal position. How peaceful the older looked that Jimin doesn’t find the courage to wake him up and tell him to sleep properly in his room.
No one attempted to wake every single person inside this lair except if that no one was Taehyung. Who always managed to ambush Jimin’s sleeping state, and had the nerve to ask if he was really sleeping or was he pretending.
Jimin chuckled. The passion of youth does not know how to wither.
Time ticked and he thought he saw Yoongi shivered from the cold. The red-haired male wore light layers of clothing so Jimin was about to stand up, his mind already ahead of him; thinking on barging in to Taehyung’s room and snatch his blanket and drape it over to Yoongi.
His limbs were settled for the sequence but the idea extinguished as soon as he heard whimpers coming from the sleeping male. Perspiration patent on Yoongi’s face, rolling on beads to his neck, his fingers were trembling and blindly clutching into something Jimin couldn’t see.
He knew one thing for sure and it was the pallid man having a nightmare.
“Please, hyung.” Jimin squatted, sight tracing the sufferings unraveled beneath his own eyes. He was here, witnessing a rarity side of the infamous Min Yoongi. He had wished to know the older better but at this moment, all he wanted was to stop whatever it was that’s hurting him.
Their distance was nearer because the younger copied the fetal position, faces towards each other, like a full-length mirror tied to be reflected by someone in front of it but bounded to be on the opposite side, forbidden to be exactly the same.
“If you’re hurting, let me know.”
Jimin placed his hand in between them, close enough to Yoongi’s fist but not touching. The whimpers increased, puff of heated breaths fanned over Jimin’s face and he continued to observe, to scrutinize every angle so he could commit it all to memory; the internal conflict, the details of the highly respectable backbone of the group, beautiful in a way he proved to be a wounded human being. Just like everybody else in BTS.
For the first time in Jimin’s stay, Min Yoongi cried.
“It’s alright. You’ll be alright.”
He saw tears coming out from the corners of closed eyes, flowing gracefully and leaving trails to where another droplet took place and another again and again. A smear of rosy blossom decorated Yoongi’s cheeks from the exertion his muscles wasn’t accustomed doing.
Jimin doesn’t defy the prospect of fragility when he saw one, lived and alive. Especially when the subject was none other than the hyung he thought wouldn’t break on its own. How lucky he was to be nearby. Perhaps it was destined for them to be nearby to one another.
It was the ragged breathing and hiccups every two seconds gap that alarmed Jimin. His impulse booted in, supplying him the spirit he needed to curl his fingers around Yoongi’s delicate wrist, stroking soothing circles in it. He wouldn’t admit this and vowed to bring it with him to his grave but the pale man’s wrist was something, he has a fixation for.
The younger smoothened down Yoongi’s fist to an open palm, planting it directly to his chest, to where stuttering beats transformed in to rhythmic murmurs, vibrated from his ribcage and connected to the red-haired.
“Yoongi hyung, stay with this rhythm.”
Stay with me.
“You’ll be alright.”