Work Text:
Yoongi is in the middle of a meeting at work when his Bad Day symptoms get triggered. Those symptoms are as follows: 1) the feeling that there’s too much oxygen in the room and every breath gets him drunk and dizzy, his blood oversaturated with a chemical that should be keeping him alive, not threatening him with 2) the lightheadedness that makes him think he’s going to pass the fuck out right there in the middle of the break room of the music store, and 3) the overwhelming urge to blink and blink and blink in an attempt to clear the vignette-dark edges of his vision back to clarity.
Yoongi feels these three things and tells himself to sit tight, to stay calm as he slides the tip of his pen up under his left sleeve and presses as hard as he can against the hidden skin below his inner elbow, a macabre imitation of real self-harm. This is real self-harm, his head says, and he ignores it and presses harder to keep himself sane. It’s not healthy, Yoongi knows, but the pain grounds him back to the present, to the way his boss is going on like no one ever made any sort of passive-aggressive comment about how no one wants a technician who looks homeless and whose services aren’t worth the money it costs to hire him. Yoongi detaches himself from the feeling that everyone knows it’s Yoongi who’s being talked about. He feels like shit, and he thinks his coworker is probably right, but it’s okay because he’s paying for his incompetence with red scratches carved into his arm, a silent entreaty to the universe for forgiveness.
The pain of a dull pen tip isn’t much, but it’s enough to get Yoongi out of the meeting and through the rest of the work day, and it’s enough to get him home and into bed before any of his housemates get back so that he can take not-a-nap and practice deep breathing and hope he somehow manages to pull himself together before anyone finds him. Such are the perks of life for Min Yoongi on Bad Days, which are for the most part blessedly few and far between.
Someone finding Yoongi having a Bad Day wouldn’t be the end of the world; they all have Bad Days in varying degrees of frequency and intensity, and they are all also in the bad habit of hiding Bad Days from each other—all except Taehyung, because Taehyung’s Bad Days involve chain-smoking on the patio while Jeongguk guards him like a silent sentinel keeping watch over his charge, the love of his life, his soulmate. Taehyung’s Bad Days often culminate in hysterical tears in the kitchen or the living room or, one time, the backseat of Yoongi’s car, and no one ever bats an eye. They just wrap themselves in around Taehyung and whisper comfort to him until he calms down, and then everyone goes on with life. There is, in their friend group, an unspoken yet esteemed understanding that Bad Days are to be accepted without question and without judgment, that they are not to be taken lightly but that they are not the defining feature of anyone. That they are not a sign of weakness, and that even if it feels like they are, then it’s okay to be weak, because you are still you, and you are still loved.
No one in their group ever turns away from one of their own having a Bad Day.
Nevertheless, Yoongi hides out in his room while he’s home alone, and he sighs into his pillows when he hears the front door open and then there’s Jeongguk’s voice calling “Hyung?” Yoongi is always home from work by the time Jeongguk gets back from his Friday classes, and they usually hang out on Friday afternoons, which means Yoongi is about to get found out.
“Hyung?” Jeongguk says, and he’s knocking on the door and peeking his head in now, and Yoongi rouses himself from his not-a-nap to sit up in bed and blink bleary eyes at the youngest housemate, Yoongi’s head aching now that he doesn’t feel like he’s about to pass out. That’s pretty par for the course when it comes to Yoongi’s staved-off panic attacks.
It’s 5:13 p.m., according to Yoongi’s phone, and the dim light creeping in around the curtains dusts everything to grayscale like those Instagram filters Seokjin likes. Shadows cloy at the edges of the room the way unconsciousness had threatened Yoongi earlier, and everything looks sooty and worn even though Hoseok had cleaned the whole room the previous weekend in honor of the coming spring.
Yoongi tears his eyes away from the darkness and focuses on Jeongguk, who’s hovering in the doorway because he wants to come in but won’t until he gets an invitation. The slant of gray light across his cheeks along with his hesitance to enter makes him look like a skinny, nervous baby vampire, and Yoongi doesn’t have to fake the affectionate grunt that escapes him as he collapses back against his pillows and gestures Jeongguk inside with a wave of his arm.
“You can come in,” Yoongi says, and the door creaks open and then shuts before Jeongguk’s stockinged footsteps cross the room to the double bed in the corner.
Jeongguk falls into bed next to Yoongi and cuddles up immediately, his chin hooking over the ball of Yoongi’s shoulder so his forehead is pressed against Yoongi’s cheek. It’s nice having Jeongguk like this, on his side and curled around Yoongi like Yoongi is a teddy bear. It’s nice because Jeongguk might be younger but he’s taller and more muscled than Yoongi, and it’s nice to feel safe like this, even if Yoongi won’t ever admit it.
“Hey, what’s up,” Yoongi murmurs, carding a hand through Jeongguk’s hair. They all do that almost automatically when Jeongguk is nearby, because Jeongguk’s hair is the least bleach-fried out of everyone’s and they all love feeling it pour thick and soft through their fingers. Jeongguk releases a little sigh but still doesn’t speak, and Yoongi’s brow furrows. “You okay, Gukkie? Are you having a bad day? Or—like, a Bad Day?”
Jeongguk just hums. Yoongi is sure the kid has heard the difference in rhythm that differentiates “bad day” from “Bad Day”, the tight snare-snap of the first and the weighty bass-thump of the second.
“No,” Jeongguk says after a second where he’s thinking so hard Yoongi can practically hear it. “No, I’m not. But you are.”
Yoongi lets out a resigned little chuckle. “What are you talking about?”
Jeongguk shakes his head where it’s resting against Yoongi’s and tucks his nose into Yoongi’s collarbone. “I could tell when I came in the house. I don’t know. I’m probably just crazy.”
Yoongi’s fist tightens in Jeongguk’s hair, because he knows Jeongguk takes comfort in certainty, in clear-communicated intention. “You’re not crazy. But really, I’m fine.”
“Hyung—”
Before Jeongguk can continue, the front door opens and slams shut, and then there’s the sound of some bags and probably shoes being tossed haphazardly to the ground before light, rabbit-quick footsteps fill the house. It’s Taehyung, then, and he’s running through the house calling “Hyungs! Jeonggukkie! Who’s here!” as he searches for whomever is home.
“Hey!” Taehyung yells as he throws open Yoongi’s door, and his face utterly lights up at the sight of Jeongguk and Yoongi curled together in Yoongi’s bed at 5:30 p.m. on a Friday, all the lights still off even though darkness is falling fast and it’s almost too dark to see.
Taehyung scampers over to the bed and climbs around until he’s snuggled up against Yoongi’s vacant side, and Jeongguk’s head comes up so Taehyung can press a quiet, lingering kiss to Jeongguk’s lips. It’s just a peck, but Yoongi can see the intensity of it, the fire that licks through each of them not with lust but with love, and desire for closeness—desire to be one, to be whole.
Taehyung draws back and turns on the lamp on the nightstand, and then he settles against Yoongi’s side and starts playing with Yoongi’s fingers.
“You okay?” Taehyung asks as he pushes up Yoongi’s sleeves. Yoongi lets it happen, because Taehyung’s delicate fingertips feel like a healing balm against his damaged skin. “What are these?” Taehyung asks, casual enough that Yoongi is almost convinced that Taehyung wasn’t looking for anything at all when he started examining Yoongi’s wrists.
Yoongi knows better.
“I’m fine, Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi says. Jeongguk makes a mewling noise on his other side, and Yoongi realizes the youngest is studying the raised, red skin with something like curiosity, his gaze accepting as ever even as he catalogues the welts, the imitation of something Yoongi knows he shouldn’t be doing, that he hopes no one else in the house ever does.
Not that any one of them is the picture of healthy coping mechanisms. Yoongi knows better than to get his hopes up that he’s the only one who’s ever engaged in self-harm of this particular variety.
“What happened?” Jeongguk asks, but Yoongi shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“There was a trigger, though?” Taehyung asks.
Yoongi closes his eyes and nods. “Yeah. But I’m fine. I just got upset at work. A coworker said something rude about me in front of everyone, and—it was really passive-aggressive, which you know I hate.”
“Ew, I hate that. I hate your coworker,” Taehyung says.
Yoongi huffs. Jeongguk tightens his hold around Yoongi’s ribs.
“You wanna just be quiet for a while?” Taehyung asks.
“Yeah,” Yoongi says, and Jeongguk and Taehyung snuggle themselves in closer, their joined hands resting heavy and comforting on Yoongi’s chest. They stay like that for a long time.
Namjoon gets home at 6:30, just a few minutes after Yoongi and Jeongguk and Taehyung have pulled themselves out of Yoongi’s bed so they can start on dinner—well, actually, so that Jeongguk can start on dinner while Taehyung and Yoongi bicker over the playlist and drink some of Seokjin’s wine straight from the bottle. Taehyung and Yoongi are not allowed to cook by Seokjin’s own orders. These orders also extend to Namjoon and, to a lesser extent, Jimin, because Jimin sometimes has trouble around food and therefore they try to keep him out of the kitchen before he can get overwhelmed by the prospect of choosing his own meals. He does a lot better when someone just puts a plate in front of him and then ignores him once everyone else is already eating.
“Yo,” Namjoon says as he comes into the kitchen, his hair perfect as always even though he looks tired, his collar unbuttoned, his jacket kind of wrinkled.
“‘Sup!” Taehyung chirps. Yoongi inclines his head and steals the wine back from Taehyung.
“We have wine glasses, you know,” Namjoon says with a dimpled grin. “We live in Seokjin-hyung’s house.”
“Yeah, and Seokjin-hyung is the only one who wants wine glasses,” Jeongguk says, despite the fact that he’s not even drinking the wine. Taehyung nods along, resolute. Namjoon shrugs and snatches up the wine, taking a long drag and then grinning at the boxy grin on Taehyung’s face.
“Wow, that is some shitty white wine,” Namjoon says, passing the bottle back to Taehyung. Yoongi stays quiet, and Namjoon looks over at him and tilts his head. “Yoongi-hyung? You okay?”
Yoongi rolls his eyes, because he really, really is. Mostly. Kind of. “Yeah, Joonie. I’m fine.”
Namjoon doesn’t look convinced. “Come with me while I water the flowers. Jimin and Hoseok will be glad you helped, and I wanted to talk to you about this track I’m having trouble with.”
Yoongi rolls his eyes. “You can just say you want to make sure I’m not a complete basket case right now,” he says.
Namjoon laughs. “Well, I guess you must be okay if you’re making jokes about it. Humor me anyways?”
Yoongi nods, because Jimin and Hoseok really will be happy if Yoongi helps with the flowers, and because he’s always liked talking one-on-one with Namjoon.
The garden is dim in the half-light that lingers just after sunset, the yard small enough that Yoongi thinks he could lie down with his feet against the house and stretch his arms up and touch their back fence. It’s nice—serene and blue-purple and cool but not cold, the colors dulled by the approaching dark but not rendered gray, not like Yoongi’s bedroom had looked earlier. Yoongi takes a breath and thinks about having a cigarette, and thinks about how he wants to live, and doesn’t.
“Seokjin wants us all to go out tonight,” Namjoon says, cutting straight to the chase. It’s about a 50-50 shot with Namjoon, whether he’ll hit an issue head-on or dance around it for hours of intellectualized monologue before he finally admits to whatever’s on his mind. Apparently this is one of those times that he’s just going to go for it.
“That’s fine. Taehyung will be delighted. He’s been a little manic all afternoon. Probably needs to blow off some steam.”
“Will you be okay?” Namjoon asks.
Yoongi nods, accepting the full watering can Namjoon hands him and heading towards the small bed of flowers against the fence. It only takes him five steps to get there. “I’m fine, Namjoon. Seriously. I got upset at work earlier, but it really wasn’t a big deal.”
Namjoon looks over at Yoongi long enough that the second watering can he’s filling starts to overflow. Namjoon only notices when the water starts to puddle against his bare foot. “Fuck.”
Yoongi snorts. “Classic.”
Namjoon laughs at himself and shuts off the water, and then he joins Yoongi to pour water at the bases of the petunias and the daisies and the azaleas. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Yoongi says, and he is. There’s still a weight in his chest but it’s going away now that he’s home. He can go to a bar and have fun with his friends, two of whom are his boyfriends, and isn’t that still just a little bit crazy when he thinks about it, but—“I want to go,” he says, and he really does, and Namjoon recognizes that and nods.
“Okay. Great. As long as Hoseok and Jimin are cool with it, I mean.”
Yoongi nods. “I’ll text them right now.”
“Yoongi-hyung!” Jimin’s voice shouts from the kitchen, and then the screen door is sliding open and Jimin and Hoseok both are practically jumping on Yoongi’s back with how aggressively they’re hugging him, and Namjoon laughs.
“Well, I guess I won’t, then,” Yoongi says, looking at Namjoon over Jimin’s bubblegum hair. Hoseok is nuzzling into his neck from behind, and both of them are squeezing him hard.
“You guys wanna go out tonight?” Namjoon asks.
Yoongi can hardly hear his own still-pounding heart over the excited cheers of Hoseok and Jimin, his boyfriends, the ones he loves.
“Let us know if you need to go home,” Namjoon says to Yoongi, but then he steps inside and leaves Yoongi and Jimin and Hoseok to exchange kisses and whispers in the garden before they head back to the rest of their friends, and Yoongi knows that this is Namjoon’s way of supporting Yoongi: by trusting Yoongi to make his own decisions about what he can and cannot do.
The sentiment of it rings clear and true in Yoongi’s heart.
They eat dinner once Seokjin gets home, and then they walk to the bar and order their usual drinks and slide into a booth, and everything is okay until it’s not.
They’ve been there for about an hour and Yoongi has been feeling progressively worse the whole time when it hits him—it’s weird that he’s sitting on the right side of the table with Namjoon and Seokjin, because Hoseok and Jimin are squished in on the left side with Jeongguk and Taehyung. It’s weird because Yoongi is across from his boyfriends instead of next to them, or in between them. It’s weird because Hoseok and Jimin are off in their own little world like no one else exists. It’s weird because they’re probably not intentionally but maybe, maybe, kind of ignoring Yoongi.
It’s weird because Yoongi is still having a Bad Day.
“Yoongi,” Seokjin mutters into Yoongi’s ear. “Yoongi-ah.” Whatever he wants, it must be important if he’s calling Yoongi “Yoongi-ah” now, because Seokjin hardly ever does that with Yoongi (or with Namjoon, but that’s another story). Yoongi takes a long swallow of the drink in front of him and meets Seokjin’s eyes.
“What,” he says.
“You okay?” Seokjin asks, searching Yoongi’s eyes with the dark stare he always pulls out when he thinks one of his housemates is hiding something. Yoongi glances around the table, but no one is paying them any attention. Namjoon is fucking around on his phone, and Jeongguk and Taehyung are as wrapped up in each other as they ever are. Hoseok and Jimin are whispering and giggling and drinking everyone’s drinks except their own, their hands pressed together above the table with their fingers intertwining and then pulling apart for a second only to tangle again, differently, like they’re exploring all the ways their puzzle pieces fit together.
Yoongi drags his gaze away from Hoseok and Jimin to refocus on Seokjin, and when their eyes meet again, he can see the way Seokjin’s lips purse in recognition of the upset oiling its way through Yoongi’s stomach.
“I’m fine, hyung,” Yoongi says, taking another swallow of his drink even though the alcohol is probably just making things worse.
“Don’t,” Seokjin says. “You’re not. Yoongi, they’re just drunk, and you are a little bit, too. They would be acting like that with any of us.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi says, because Seokjin is right. Hoseok and Jimin both crave physical contact, even if Jimin is more willing to speak up about his need for touch than Hoseok is. They’re even worse when they’re drunk, and Yoongi knows they are, which means he also knows they’re just seeking out physical comfort from someone nearby. It doesn’t really matter, though; despite his best efforts, Yoongi doesn’t sound convinced.
Seokjin fixes him with a disapproving look. “Just go over there. They’ll be all over you.”
“How?” Yoongi asks. “Everyone else would have to stand up to make that happen.”
Seokjin raises both eyebrows. “Make everyone else stand up. No one will mind.”
“Yoongi-hyung!” Jimin’s voice suddenly comes from across the table, and Yoongi looks over as surprise and hope flood his chest. “Come snuggle us,” Jimin demands.
“We miss you,” Hoseok says, his mouth twisted into a drunken pout.
Yoongi has to admit that he’s a little bit gratified.
“Five of use won’t fit on one side of the booth, though,” Taehyung says. “Yoongi-hyung, crawl under the table and Jeongguk and I will go around!”
“What—” Yoongi says, but Taehyung and Jeongguk are already standing to cram in next to Namjoon and Seokjin, and Yoongi’s only viable recourse is, in fact, to duck under the table and find his way up between Hoseok and Jimin on the other side. They both grin at him and lean heavily against his either side, and. Well. Fuck. That’s kind of really nice.
“Hey,” Jimin says, switching the drinks around so that Yoongi won’t accidentally sip Taehyung’s ridiculous strawberry daiquiri.
“Hey,” Hoseok says, quieter.
“Hey,” Yoongi says, because apparently they’re all kind of unoriginal.
Hoseok’s grin goes from blinding-bright to over-fond and sentimental, and he leans in without preamble and presses his mouth to Yoongi’s all soft and way too sweet for a public bar in Seoul. When he leans back, his expression is so sincere it almost hurts to look at.
Yoongi swallows. “What was that for,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush his thumb across Hoseok’s lips. Hoseok grins, lips twitching against Yoongi’s skin, and then he ducks his head to rest it on Yoongi’s shoulder, both of his hands wrapping over Yoongi’s left and playing with his fingers under the table. On Yoongi’s other side, Jimin coos and kisses his cheek.
“Fags.”
Every one of their heads jerks up, seeking out the source of the slur. It’s some tall, preppy guy with his equally tall, preppy friends, the group standing maybe six feet away at a high table without chairs. They’re big and intimidating, probably older than Seokjin, and they’re laughing and making rude gestures, joking with each other as if Yoongi and his friends won’t have heard them.
There’s a moment where Yoongi thinks maybe they should just leave it, that the poison of a word filled with such hate won’t have an effect if they pretend hard enough not to have heard it. But the air feels too toxic to breathe in, and Yoongi’s earlier disquiet is surging to the front of his head again, and he takes one look at the other side of the table and knows that Seokjin and Jeongguk and Namjoon and Taehyung will never, ever let something like this slide.
“What,” Seokjin says, his voice gone deadly on the kind of anger that strikes fear straight through Yoongi’s heart. Seokjin is terrifying when he’s genuinely mad. It’s a pretty rare occurrence, but Yoongi has been on the receiving end of Seokjin’s wrath once and he never wants to be again.
(To be fair, Seokjin had been 100 percent in the right about the argument they’d been having, which was over Yoongi’s poor life choices at the very beginning of college. Yoongi had known it then, and he still knows it now. Kim Seokjin is not in the habit of being wrong.)
“Seokjin,” Namjoon says, looking helpless and frustrated because of how he’s sandwiched into the booth. Jeongguk stands up to put himself between the four guys at the other table and his own group, and when one of the guys steps forward towards Jeongguk, Jimin leans harder into Yoongi and whimpers.
“Leave,” Jeongguk says, and he might be the youngest, but he’s well-muscled and tall and kind of imposing, or at least he looks that way right now, standing his ground even though the four preppy guys jeer at him and mutter to each other.
Taehyung stands up to back-up Jeongguk, which lets Namjoon out of the booth, and then Seokjin stands up too, and the four preppy boys register the look on Seokjin’s face as something that every single person on earth should fear, and they take a collective step back. The leader raises his hands in a gesture of placation.
“Hey, I was just kidding, man,” the guys says.
Seokjin regards the group with his iciest look. “Apologize.”
The preppy guys exchange amused, kind of irritated smirks.
“Whatever, man,” a new guy says. He turns to his friend. “Don’t apologize, dude. They’re really threatening with their cotton candy hair and all that eye makeup.” The preppy guys hoot, ignoring Seokjin.
“Listen here, you piece of trash—” Seokjin starts as he takes a menacing step towards the guys, but Namjoon is grabbing Seokjin’s arm and uttering a gritty “Seokjin” before Seokjin can do anything. Taehyung and Jeongguk are rocking forward on the balls of their feet, and Jimin is hiding his face in Yoongi’s shoulder, and when Yoongi looks, Hoseok has gone pale and frozen beside him, like all his light has been extinguished. It makes Yoongi’s chest hurt to look at him.
“Yeah, that’s right,” the first guy says. “Keep your bitch on a leash.”
Taehyung is the one who tries to punch the guy in the face. Jeongguk grabs him just in time to save Taehyung a trip to the hospital for a broken hand, because even though Taehyung could probably do some damage to their abusers, it would undoubtedly result in Taehyung’s own injury.
This doesn’t stop Taehyung from spitting all over the guy’s shoes.
“Jesus,” the second guy says. “What the hell, man?”
“Leave,” comes a voice from near the bar. It’s the bartender—an imposing guy maybe five years older than Seokjin. Taehyung looks terrified at the sudden attention, but the bartender shakes his head at Taehyung and then looks at the preppy guys. “You guys. Get the fuck out of my bar. I don’t serve homophobic douchebags.”
The first guy sneers, but the bartender crosses his arms and tilts his head in a gesture made threatening by its nonchalance, and the preppy guys scurry out of the bar.
“Sorry,” Taehyung says to the bartender, but the bartender just grins and shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it. They deserved way worse. And my boyfriend, Jiyong, has gotten into a zillion fights over that sort of thing. I’ll give you guys another round if you aren’t too shaken up, or I can owe you one next time, if you want to head home,” the bartender offers.
Jimin lifts his head off Yoongi’s shoulder with a look of determination with his eyes and nods.
“I don’t want to leave. I don’t want them to win,” Jimin says.
Namjoon looks around the group, and Taehyung and Jeongguk and Seokjin are all nodding too.
“Yoongi? Hoseok? You guys okay?” Namjoon asks. Hoseok still looks shaky and a little bit pale, and Yoongi can feel himself about to start panicking from the weight of everything that’s happened today and—
Fuck. They’re out at a bar to have a good time. It’s not about what Yoongi wants or needs.
“I’m fine,” Yoongi grits out, staring at Hoseok. “Hobi,” he whispers, leaning in closer to the boy beside him. Hoseok is so beautiful, Yoongi realizes, just like he realizes it every time he looks at Hoseok. Hoseok is so delicate and yet sculpted from marble, smooth and stunning and sometimes so blank, the walls around him impenetrable even to those in Hoseok’s inner circle.
Yoongi pushes away the disappointment he feels as he eyes Hoseok and cannot read him. The vacancy in Hoseok’s eyes makes Yoongi want to bundle him up and tug him all the way home and force him into bed with some tea while Yoongi and Jimin hum lullabies into his red hair, their eyes meeting over the top of Hoseok’s head every few minutes to reassure each other that they’re doing a good job of comforting their boyfriend.
“Yeah,” Hoseok says. “Let’s stay.”
Yoongi doesn’t push, because now is not the time to push Hoseok’s walls down, and because he understands what Hoseok is doing: forsaking his own needs to empower their youngest by staying and being strong, because Jimin and Taehyung and Jeongguk look like they need that.
It’s not what Hoseok needs.
Yoongi understands, because it’s not what Yoongi needs, either. There’s a numbness creeping into Yoongi’s chest that aches like fermented apathy and weighs heavy like sticky-slimy terror, and Yoongi looks down into his lap and finds his hands shaking, hard.
Hoseok is still too intentionally blank to notice, and Jimin is too fiery and determined in a way that always surprises Yoongi with its ferocity. Jimin might be generally regarded as the softest in the group, but moments like these make Yoongi wonder.
Namjoon turns to the bartender and nods, making small conversation that Yoongi doesn’t pay attention to. There’s too much to feel, not emotionally but physically, the way it always is when Yoongi gets really overwhelmed, like his amygdala can’t process anything. He feels almost manic with the flood of sensations through his nerves: the way his jeans tug at the hair on his legs, the way his collar is a little too high against his throat, the way his hair is tickling the back of his neck. He fixates on other things, too: the too-loud hum of the bar around them, the too-bright lights glittering and blinding him, the too-much cologne the guy in the booth behind them is wearing which assaults Yoongi’s head with its spicy, sticky sort of pine.
“Fuck,” Yoongi says.
Hoseok nuzzles his hair, but the motion feels rote. The actions of an automaton. “I didn’t like that,” Hoseok says, which is honest at least, even if Yoongi knows Hoseok is forming the words from old scraps of “Things You Should Say When Something Bad Happens” lying around in his head rather than from actual desire to share emotion.
“Me neither,” Yoongi says.
“Hyung,” Jimin says, eyes glowing brown-gold with determination and fixed on the set of Yoongi’s jaw. There’s a moment where Yoongi is sure Jimin is going to press just the way Yoongi didn’t press with Hoseok, but maybe Jimin doesn’t realize anything is wrong or maybe he decides (like Yoongi had) that right now isn’t the time. Either way, Jimin resettles himself against Yoongi’s side, obviously aiming for comfort even if the gesture just makes Yoongi feel all the more hollow.
Hoseok brings an arm up to wrap around Yoongi’s shoulders, and Yoongi presses a kiss to Jimin’s forehead. The bartender brings over a tray of new drinks, but the atmosphere is sobered until Jimin finally starts giggling over the way Namjoon keeps missing the straw in his vodka-cranberry when he leans forward for a sip, and then—it’s not like everything is fixed, or anything, but it is at least better.
Or, at least, it’s better for everyone else.
Yoongi’s panic is mounting the way it always does when he feels trapped or targeted or taken advantage of. It’s residual panic he’s collected all day, tucked dutifully into the basket of Panic Things in his head that he adds to each day but usually doesn’t actually fill up before he can reset it with some sleep. Yoongi’s panic is from this morning, from his coworker’s cruel-intentioned criticism. His panic is from the way it had felt to see Hoseok and Jimin all snuggly and warm with each other while Yoongi had watched from the sideline, wishing to be noticed. His panic is from everything, and his panic is from nothing. His panic is not receding.
“I’m going for a cigarette,” Yoongi mutters into Hoseok’s ear, standing forcibly from the tangle of limbs on their side of the table and stepping over Jimin to get out of the booth. Hoseok gives him a concerned look, and Yoongi sees the walls in Hoseok’s eyes flick down for a second but then they go firmly back up, so Yoongi nods his resolution to invite a slow death into his life because he’s maybe about to have a real panic attack if he doesn’t go get some air, and there’s nothing Yoongi wants less than to collapse into a shaking mess on the floor in public.
Especially considering Seokjin is the only person here who’s ever actually seen one of Yoongi’s panic attacks.
“Want me to come with you?” Jimin offers, but Yoongi shakes his head.
“Nah, stay here with Hobi, okay? You’re pretty drunk,” Yoongi says, because it’s true—Jimin is a little bit gone right now. Not blackout drunk or even falling asleep, but still definitely too drunk to accompany Yoongi outside without stumbling around and probably having a cigarette of his own, which Yoongi doesn’t like because even if Yoongi is a fan of killing himself slowly, he’s not a fan of watching the people he loves do it to themselves, too. “I’ll be back in, like, five minutes. Just gotta clear my head,” Yoongi says.
Seokjin watches Yoongi with a furrow between his brows, but he doesn’t say anything as Yoongi walks away. Yoongi slips out the door and ducks into the alley next to the bar, his cigarette lit as soon as he’s out of direct view of the street.
It’s cool and dark outside, and the low rumblings of nightlife are muffled from Yoongi’s spot. The first drag of the cigarette does little to calm the rapid beat of his heart, and he leans back against the wall before he falls. He’s lightheaded and spinny and a little drunk and the nicotine doesn’t help, but it does quell the shaking in his hands just a bit even as Yoongi remembers—
No. Stop. There’s nothing down that road but anxiety and terror and shame and all the things that have turned Yoongi’s thighs into the latticework of silver scars that they are today. There’s nothing but dark places, mania juxtaposed with sorrow too deep to combat. There’s nothing except the temptation towards self-destruction even more pointed than Yoongi’s existing bad coping mechanisms, nothing but ruination and falling and raw sobs muffled into a pillowcase stained black with eyeliner and blue with hair dye.
Yoongi again shoves away the rising panic and hopes for the best as he lights a second cigarette, dragging and dragging and praying that the chemical ash will soothe the molasses-slow drag of blood through his veins, the way his muscles are clenching and unclenching in spasms and shivers like fever, the way all his clothes feel like they fit wrong and his spine feels broken and his joints feel like they’re cracking and shattering beneath his skin.
Then he hears the laugh.
“Well, if it isn’t one of the fags from earlier.”
Yoongi startles off the wall a little. Sure enough, it’s the preppy douche squad that had gotten kicked out of the bar, all smirking and crossing their arms and blocking the mouth of the alley.
Yoongi’s focus goes razor-sharp. “You still have Taehyung’s spit on your shoes,” he says, because he’s always been better at hawking insults than he is at keeping himself safe. He’s gotten beat to shit more times than he can count—before school, after school, at school during junior and senior high. In the nightclubs he used to frequent at the start of college, the dirty corners where he could suck a dick and get shoved into a wall so hard he thought he was concussed and hate himself even more. Yoongi is great at inciting violence, especially when he’s about to panic.
“At least the princess-y one is kept under control,” Douche Number Two says. “Taehyung needs someone to put him in his place.”
“I bet they take turns tying him up and spanking the disobedience out of him,” Douche Number One says, and the rest of them laugh.
Yoongi drops the remains of his cigarette and clenches his fists and reaches carefully into his pocket to fit his keys in between his fingers like he’s Wolverine. For self-defense, Yoongi tells himself, even though he knows it’s because he wants to shove the metal into Douche Number One’s eyes until there’s blood on the keys, blood on the street.
Then Douche Number Two speaks. “Nah, Tae-tae doesn’t seem the type to get off on punishment. I’d say that’s more for the one you like,” the guy says, nodding at Yoongi. “The small one, with the chubby cheeks.” The words are calculated and sharp, meant to provoke.
Even though he knows this, Yoongi raises his fist with the keys threaded through it to take the first swing.
“Yoongi,” a voice says, and then there’s a figure stepping in front of Yoongi who wasn’t there a second ago, and there’s another shout and then a yelp as Yoongi’s metal-fortified fist meets a cheekbone at a weird angle that jolts pain up Yoongi’s arm. The figure before him collapses to the ground, and Yoongi sees something unexpected and stunning: Yoongi sees Park Jimin smack the shit out of Douche Number One and then shove Douche Number Two hard into the opposite wall of the alley, a snarl on Jimin’s lips, his biceps flexing with the strain of taking on someone practically twice Jimin’s size. There’s a moment of silence, and then all four of the Douche Brothers turn and stumble off, groaning disbelief at each other as Jimin’s shoulders heave with the obscenities he screams into the cool night air.
Yoongi looks down and sees Hoseok collapsed on the pavement in front of him, not moving.
Yoongi looks at his keys and sees blood.
Yoongi stumbles over behind a dumpster and throws up like he’s spilling his soul right out of his body and onto the crumbling asphalt, slimy and thick like tar and just as black, black, black.
“Fuck,” comes the moan from behind him, Hoseok’s voice slurry on alcohol and pain and hopefully not a concussion, because fuck. Fuck. Blood on the keys. Blood on the street.
“Look at me.” Jimin’s voice, commanding and low, none of the shrill terror from his earlier screaming audible in his tone, and Yoongi is too dizzy to look.
“I’m fine,” Hoseok’s voice comes, the syllables still kind of muddled, and Yoongi hears it and pukes again. Pukes and thinks he might fall face-first into it with how violently his head is spinning.
“How many fingers?” Jimin again.
“Three. Go help Yoongi.” Hoseok.
A hand on Yoongi’s back. The cool-clammy press of a palm to Yoongi’s forehead, fingers sliding sweat-slick bangs away to steady his swaying and seep up some of the heat pouring out of him in waves. Yoongi’s vision is blurry with how exhausted he feels, his ears ringing and his limbs too loose where they connect together (is that even a thing?), his tongue thick and disgusting in his mouth.
“Hyung,” Jimin’s voice whispers in Yoongi’s ear. “Yoongi-hyung.”
Yoongi stops puking and feels light, but not in a good way. He feels like he might float away. Maybe he would, except that Jimin is holding him to the ground.
(Not safe, whispers the panic.)
“Fuck, you have a mean right hook,” Hoseok says, and he sounds like himself again. Better even than he had in the bar before Yoongi had gone outside. “It’s a good thing I got in the way or you would’ve taken one of their eyes out.”
Blood on the keys blood on the street blood on the keys blood on the street.
“Hobi-hyung,” Jimin says, and Hoseok walks over with his hand pressed to his cheek, a mean red splotch already swelling under his fingertips. Yoongi can barely manage to stand up let alone crane his neck to examine the injury, but Hoseok leans down and pulls his hand away to show it to Yoongi, and it’s not really bleeding that bad. There are two jagged slices just under Hoseok’s cheekbone, but neither one is more than a centimeter long, and they don’t need stitches.
“You’re fine,” Jimin says, carding fingers through Yoongi’s hair. There’s something powerful and sleek about this side of Jimin, and Yoongi trembles where he stands.
“Like a guardian angel,” Yoongi says, which isn’t at all what he meant to say but his brain doesn’t feel like his own, his amygdala still struggling to handle the overload of terror, his pre-frontal cortex drowning in adrenaline and too overworked to process. “Mercy. Overwatch. Jeongguk like Overwatch. Taehyung is bad at Overwatch.”
Hoseok and Jimin look at each other.
“Hyung,” Jimin says, quiet and careful.
Blood on the keys blood on the street blood on the keys blood on the street.
Yoongi’s knees give out and Hoseok is the only thing supporting him, arms tight around his waist as his vision goes almost black, his stomach clenching painfully around the lack of a soul in his chest, light but not in a good way, black tar thick and oily and squishy in the hot summer sun, terribly malleable, compromised, spit up onto the sidewalk. Blood on the keys. Blood on the street.
“What’s happening to my head,” Yoongi says, because he’s had his fair share of panic attacks but this part is equally disorienting every time, the word salad in his head that might be coming out of his mouth like the alcohol and his soul came out earlier behind the dumpster. Hoseok and Jimin are looking more and more confused and concerned with every word Yoongi says and Hoseok is scooping Yoongi into a bridal-style sweep off his feet as Jimin says something about getting Namjoon and runs out of the alley, pink hair glowing under the streetlights.
“Hobi—what’s happening—blood on the street—you’re bleeding,” Yoongi says, head lolling onto Hoseok’s shoulder and as he reaches up a clumsy-fingered hand to stroke through the blood beading on Hoseok’s swollen cheekbone. Yoongi brings his hand down to look at the crimson staining his fingertips. Hoseok’s blood. Red like Hoseok’s hair. Red and settling (staining) in near-microscopic rivulets through the creases of Yoongi’s fingerprints, arches and loops and whorls filled in with Hoseok’s red soul, and it’s beautiful and terrible and makes Yoongi think of spitting his own black-tar soul out like poison.
“He keeps saying something about blood and—I don’t know, I think, like, tar?” Hoseok says.
“Who are you talking to?” Yoongi asks.
“Yoongi, it’s me. Yoongi, do you know me?”
“Namjoon,” Yoongi tries, but it tastes wrong on his tongue.
“Get out of the way.”
“Me?”
“Namjoon.”
“Tastes wrong.”
“Yoongi, look at me.”
“Who’s talking right now?”
“You are.”
“Shut up, Namjoon.”
“No, no, no. Blood on the keys. Blood on the street. Hoseok’s soul. I spilled it. I’m sorry. Who’s talking?”
“Seokjin—”
“Is it me talking?”
“Yes,” someone says, grabbing Yoongi’s chin and jerking so he’s faced with an expression that can only be formed on the very specific and very commanding features of Kim Seokjin.
“Seokjin. And me.”
“Who are you,” Seokjin says, voice so strong and commanding that it makes Yoongi shiver with sensory delight.
“Yoongi,” Yoongi says. “I’m—I know, I’m Yoongi, I’m—I know. I know,” he chants, because he does. He knows. He knows who he is, and he knows who Seokjin is, and he knows who’s talking because he knows how conversations work.
Seokjin shakes his head, just once, his brown hair shining glossy in the streetlight filtering into the alley. “Tell me again.”
“Min Yoongi,” Yoongi recites, ever dutiful to Kim Seokjin. “I’m Min Yoongi. You’re Kim Seokjin.”
“Do you remember what happened this time?”
Yoongi thinks back through the past ten or so minutes. “I think so.”
“Tell me.”
“I came out for a cigarette. The guys from earlier came back. I tried to punch one with my keys in my hand but I hit Hoseok instead, because he and Jimin came out. Jimin hit the leader and pushed the other guy into the wall, and they left.”
“Why were you chanting?”
“Blood on the keys, blood on the street,” Yoongi murmurs. “Maybe I’ll use it in a song.”
“Why were you chanting?” Seokjin repeats. Seokjin never lets Yoongi off the hook when this happens, which is why Yoongi is unable to entertain the idea of ever voluntarily emancipating himself from the care and keeping of Kim Seokjin. Even at 25, Yoongi cannot and will not function without Seokjin. Even at 50, he thinks. When they’re all old and gray. The others might leave; they might filter out through the years, but Yoongi never will. Yoongi will stay with Seokjin through the end.
Yoongi is happy because he thinks Namjoon will, too, and if Seokjin is the one who takes care of Yoongi, then Namjoon is the one who takes care of Seokjin, and this might be the most important job in the universe.
(Also, he doesn’t really think any of the others will ever leave, either. But that line of inquiry is for an over-sentimental, not-currently-panicking Min Yoongi.)
“Got it stuck in my head. You know, like a song, but just the one phrase,” Yoongi says. “Before I threw the punch, I wanted to hit the guy in the eye. Like—like stick my key through his pupil.”
Seokjin nods, serious but not judgmental. “Why did you want to stick your key through his pupil?”
It makes Yoongi’s stomach sour a little bit to hear it parroted back to him, but there’s something cleansing about the transparency, the refusal to hide. “He kink-shamed Jimin. And kind of Taehyung,” Yoongi says, and then he can’t help the little giggle that bubbles out of his chest. It feels much better than puking up his black-tar soul.
“What did he say?” Seokjin asks, his eyes leaving Yoongi’s for the first time to flick up to Jimin and Taehyung, who are standing a couple feet behind Seokjin along with the rest of the group.
“When did I sit down?” Yoongi asks, looking around, and Seokjin smiles from where he’s crouching in front of Yoongi. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it just looks kind of disappointed and tight.
“Hoseok had to pick you up because you couldn’t stand. Jimin came to get Namjoon, but—I’m sorry to give you away like this, but I knew I had to be the one to handle it or you might not come back as easily. I had Hoseok-ah set you down here so I could talk to your easier.”
Yoongi nods. “Sorry, hyung. I guess I don’t remember all of it. The ending is just a blur.” There’s a pause, and then Yoongi shakes his head a little to clear it. “He said Taehyung needs to be tied up. Put in his place. For spitting on his shoes. And that Tae probably likes it. That we take turns punishing him. And then the other guy said Taehyung doesn’t seem the type. That Jimin does.”
Jimin swallows. “We don’t do that. You don’t do that to me,” he says, sucking in a breath that makes his chest sound creaky and fragile. But Yoongi thinks he’s probably just imaging that, because there’s no way Yoongi would be able to hear that all the way over here.
“But even if we did—you can’t shame people’s sexual desires or practices that way,” Yoongi says. “Kinks are a part of intimacy. You negotiate them. They’re not something you can use to insult someone.”
Jimin nods. “Okay, hyung.”
Everyone exchanges furtive glances and nods, because even if they’re not about to go spilling whatever kinks they may or may not have all over the ground of an alley like how Yoongi has already spilled his (and Hoseok’s, red red red) soul all over it, they’re also the type of friends who will acknowledge their unconditional acceptance each other at every opportunity.
Seokjin stands up and extends a hand to Yoongi, who takes it and lets Seokjin practically lift him to his feet. His legs are still wobbly as he slides out of panic and into the dazed aftershock that feels all floaty and kind of like he’s drugged. It’s the effect Seokjin has on him. Yoongi always feels calmer after he talks to their oldest, the one he’s known the longest: a two-word exchange in the kitchen early in the morning when Seokjin looks like perfection and Yoongi looks like hell, a soft goodnight as one of them retires with their respective boyfriend(s) after a night of laughter and Taehyung’s terrible movie etiquette, a word of thanks for doing the dishes as one of them heads out the door for work. Seokjin is Yoongi’s rock (Seokjin is everyone’s rock), and Yoongi (everyone) cannot help but soak up all the attention and support Seokjin gives him (them).
But after Seokjin tugs Yoongi to his feet, there’s another set of hands settling around Yoongi’s waist and grabbing at his left hand, and then someone is pressing into his right side and leading him down the street. Seokjin gets wrapped into the embrace of his own boyfriend, his brave and brilliant and clumsy and long-necked Namjoon. Yoongi smiles, because his brain is still making everything a little flowery and sweet with too-sugary adjectives and this blur of senses that feels like what Yoongi thinks synesthesia might be like.
Yoongi isn’t really sure, though, because Yoongi doesn’t have synesthesia. Yoongi has really bad panic attacks, and Seokjin helps him through them. Except maybe that torch is being passed off or at least shared, now, because Hoseok is on Yoongi’s left and Jimin is on Yoongi’s right and they’re walking him home, they’re whispering into his ears and keeping him upright as they traverse one block and then two and then three. Namjoon and Seokjin are whispering to each other up in the front. Jeongguk and Taehyung are surprisingly quiet in the rear, and when Yoongi steals a glance back at them, they’re walking a careful foot apart, hands in their pockets, faces downcast as they steal glances at each other when they think the other isn’t looking.
“What’s wrong with you,” Yoongi says to them, a little bit harsh, because Yoongi’s brain-to-mouth filter is always shot after a panic attack.
Taehyung and Jeongguk startle up from their dejected slumps. They both gulp and don’t say anything, and Hoseok tugs Yoongi back around to face forward as they walk.
From behind him, Yoongi hears Taehyung’s deep, dreamy voice slip over slurry-slushy syllables as he says, “Jeongguk is afraid that I’m mad at him for pulling me back from punching that guy.”
Jeongguk makes a soft noise of affirmation. “Taehyung is afraid that I’m mad at him for trying to punch that guy.”
“Are either of you mad?” Yoongi asks over his shoulder. Jimin grunts as Yoongi stumbles, his weight careening forward so Jimin sways with him. Jimin might be well-muscled, but he’s still kind of drunk. They all are.
“No,” Jeongguk and Taehyung say at the same time.
“There you go,” Yoongi says, and then he pauses, because something about their answers was weird. “Wait, you just answered for each other. Which means you both already knew the other wasn’t mad.”
“Yeah,” Taehyung whispers.
“We know,” Jeongguk says, equally soft. Yoongi can imagine them looking at each other in that punch-drunk dreamy way they have, the one that makes them look exhilarated and serene at the same time. The one that makes them look beautiful and young and in-love.
“We were just waiting,” Taehyung says, and now his voice is a little bit lighter with the tremor running through it. “We want to cry about it when we get home. But we have to hold it together until then. I don’t wanna cry right now.” Taehyung hiccups, and Jeongguk hums a note of comfort that switches to the strange melody Jeongguk always hums when he’s helping one of them get to sleep (and he’s hummed it for each of them at some point or another on quiet nights after Bad Days, Yoongi knows). It’s the one that’s like a lullaby but too sorrowful, the chords following a pattern Yoongi can’t ever quite predict, the only words Jeongguk sings or presumably knows going “dream, dream, dream”.
“Are you okay?” Hoseok whispers in Yoongi’s ear. Jeongguk’s hum saturates the air so it’s like the seven of them are in their own delicate bubble of a world, and Yoongi has visions of an angel in white, a building out of a story told long ago and by accident referenced now, open land, water, sunlight. Youth, invincibility. Pictures being burned. The destruction of forever with the flick of a thumb across the top of a lighter. The loss of freedom that awaits them all. Sinks and crushed gravel and a medium-sized coke please. Bathtubs and bridges.
“I want to go home,” Yoongi says.
“We’re almost there,” Jimin whispers, and Yoongi can feel the way Jimin looks at Hoseok over the top of Yoongi’s head.
“It’s okay,” Yoongi says. “I can wait a little longer.”
They make it back to the house and Seokjin unlocks the door. They all stumble out of their shoes and jackets. Namjoon hovers next to Seokjin with a hand gentle on Seokjin’s lower back, and Seokjin tips his head onto Namjoon’s shoulder and lets Namjoon direct him down the hall to the room that has in the past month become theirs. They pause to wish everyone else a goodnight, and then they pass through the door, disappearing into whatever magic dimension they occupy when it’s just the two of them alone.
Jeongguk and Taehyung aren’t crying, but they’re still holding themselves a careful distance apart from each other, and Yoongi rolls his eyes.
“Go have your whole ridiculous kiss and cry or whatever they call it. In, like, ice skating or whatever.”
Taehyung brightens. “You mean like in Yuri!! On Ice?”
Yoongi snorts, and Jimin coos next to him.
“Come with me,” Jeongguk says, finally grabbing Taehyung’s hand. “Please. Tae.”
Taehyung’s attention is immediately captured by the boy with cute rabbit teeth and pretty black-purple hair and more piercings than any of the rest of them. The boy who paints his nails black sometimes and paints Taehyung’s pink while he’s at it. They boy who makes Taehyung look exactly how Taehyung looks right now. Happy, and safe, and home.
They disappear down the stairs together, and then Hoseok and Jimin and Yoongi are alone.
“Come on, hyung. We’re home,” Hoseok says. “Your room or mine?” Right, because Hoseok has the room to himself now that Namjoon has given up the pretense that he’s a proper gentleman who will make an honest man out of Seokjin before presuming to sleep in the same bed with him.
Maybe that’s just because Namjoon has figured out that they all know Namjoon has already made Seokjin an honest man in every sense of the phrase, even without the sanctity of the law. What kind of sanctity is that, anyways, Yoongi thinks, and tugs Jimin and Hoseok down the hall to his room. What kind of sanctity indeed, when they all know Namjoon is in it for the long haul, that Namjoon is everything Seokjin wants and that he still strives to be more. What sanctity has the law, when there is the sanctity of Namjoon’s heart, and of Seokjin’s, on full display for all of them. What sanctity has the law, when they can all see the truth of it with their own eyes, the eyes of friends who are by the same sanctimony family. Yoongi is sure that if there is a god, that god would never question the purity of the love that Namjoon has for Seokjin, or Seokjin for Namjoon, or all of them for each other.
“I love it here,” Jimin says after they’ve all three finished brushing their teeth and washing their faces with Jimin’s special charcoal scrub. They’re curled up in Yoongi’s bed, and they’re all wearing Hoseok’s clothes because Hoseok is the tallest and he can’t wear Jimin’s or Yoongi’s clothes as easily, and they all want to share.
“I love it here,” Jimin says, and Yoongi starts to cry. Sandwiched between Jimin and Hoseok and all three of them soft-skinned from Jimin’s facewash, wearing Hoseok’s clothes, lying in Yoongi’s bed: Yoongi starts to cry.
“Hyung,” Hoseok says, which catches Yoongi off-guard because usually it’s Jimin who comforts with that particular word. Yoongi cries more.
“Yoongi, hyung, talk to us,” Jimin says, nuzzling into Yoongi’s shoulder. The lamp on the bedside table is still on even though they’re all curled up like they’re going to sleep. The night is still young. It’s only 11:00 o’clock.
Yoongi wipes away tears and looks at the red lines on Hoseok’s cheek. Has a sudden mind to grab Jimin’s hand and check for damage there, too, and when he does, he finds that Jimin knows how to throw a punch. He’s bruised, but nothing is broken.
“Does it hurt?” Yoongi says, brushing his fingers over Jimin’s purpling knuckles.
Jimin shrugs, and then this little mischievous grin crosses his face and Yoongi falls in love all over again. “I’ve always kind of wanted to do that. After Hermione punched Malfoy in the face in the Prisoner of Azkaban.”
Hoseok lets out a little hooting laugh, and Yoongi cracks a smile and buries his face in Jimin’s shoulder.
“Nice one, Jiminie. He deserved it,” Hoseok says.
“No one deserves violence,” Jimin says, and they all three sober a little. “But. He did. He did, kind of, a little.”
They all giggle, and Yoongi squirms down under the covers until his head is squished between Jimin’s and Hoseok’s stomachs.
“What are you doing, hyung,” Jimin giggles, and Yoongi looks up into both of their smiling faces and can’t help but smile back—the big, embarrassing gummy one.
“You guys look pretty like this. You guys look pretty all the time,” Yoongi says. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
Jimin worms his way down next to Yoongi and presses his nose into Yoongi’s hair, an arm wrapping around Yoongi’s chest, and then Hoseok wraps himself around them from above, and Yoongi has never felt more vulnerable, or more safe, safe, safe.
“I love this. I love being here,” Yoongi says. “Not just here, but—like, here here. In this house. With all of us. Right now, while everything is beautiful and Seokjin is like an Instagram model and Taehyung is so weird and captivating and Jeongguk loves him and Namjoon loves Seokjin.”
“You’re being really rambly tonight,” Jimin says, just the hint of a giggle creeping into his voice.
“It’s because of the panic attack,” Yoongi grumbles, and Hoseok stays silent and strokes fingers through Yoongi’s hair and then switches to Jimin’s, and Yoongi is reminded of how paralyzed and closed-off Hoseok had been in the booth when the preppy guys had first started yelling at them.
“Seokjin knew what to do,” Jimin says. Yoongi hums.
“Yeah. He’s helped me with them before. You guys—like, any of you, even Namjoon—had just never been home when they happened. It’s not often. And I can usually fend them off for a while if I have to, but—Seokjin caught me one day, like, years ago. A couple months after I first met him. We worked out a system. That’s why he was harsh with me at first, when I was saying stuff that didn’t make sense. He knows how to cut through the panic.”
“We can learn,” Hoseok says. “All of us. Just in case.”
Jimin nods. “Yeah, hyung. We’ll learn.”
Yoongi closes his eyes. “Hey, Seok-ah?”
Hoseok swallows the way he always does when Yoongi calls him “Seok-ah”, almost like he’s scared and too self-conscious to accept the obvious affection.
“Yeah?” Hoseok manages after a silent second.
“Why did you go all closed off in the bar?” Yoongi asks. “I thought you might let your guard down if I pressed you,” he admits, and Hoseok lets out this gruff little sigh.
“I know. I know you know I would’ve broken if you’d pressed me. Thanks. For not.”
“Can I press you right now?” Yoongi asks.
Hoseok smiles a rueful, broken grin, like he thinks they’re going to kick him out of the bed for not sharing or something equally ludicrous. “Not yet, Yoongi-hyung,” Hoseok says. “Jiminie. Sorry. If you want me to—yeah, I don’t know, just—not ready. Not quite yet. Is that…okay?”
“Yes. It’s okay, hyung,” Jimin says.
“Yeah. Of course,” Yoongi says. “Just let us know. Whenever you’re ready. Or never.”
“We trust you,” Jimin says, reaching up with the arm across Yoongi’s chest to twine his fingers with Hoseok’s. Their joined hands come to rest on Yoongi’s stomach, and Yoongi’s heart aches with how good it feels to be in between them like this. Like how it had felt earlier that day, a lifetime ago, to be between Jeongguk and Taehyung, only all the better for how full the room feels with love and the naïve desperation to be closer.
“We trust you,” Yoongi says. “Hobi and I trust you, too, Jimin-ah.”
“And we trust you,” Hoseok finishes.
“Yeah. We all trust each other,” Jimin says. “That’s why this works. We can’t ever lose that, or we’ll lose all of it. I’ve—I’ve had my heart broken by that enough times to know,” he says, and Yoongi turns on his side to press his face to Jimin’s stomach, because Jimin doesn’t often bring up his past relationships, the polyamorous ones or monogamous ones. All of them had ended in heartbreak. Better to let bygones be bygones, or so Jimin always claimed.
“I wish Jeonggukkie would come up and sing to us,” Jimin says out of nowhere. “He used to hum to me and Tae all the time when I still slept in the basement. Tae and I would always fall asleep in the same bed, and sometimes when we woke up, Jeongguk was there, too. It was so warm.”
“This is warm too, you know,” Yoongi teases. “Hoseok is like a human space heater.” Yoongi very specifically does not say that Hoseok is like the sun, even though (because) everyone thinks that. Hoseok might be a burning-bright ball of energy most days, but he doesn’t like the pressure he feels when people put the “sun” label on him.
“I bet he would come up. He and Tae. If we wanted,” Hoseok says.
“You wanna ask? I think we’ll all fit,” Yoongi offers.
Jimin smiles like he’s thinking about it, and like he’s remembering some fond memories, but then he shakes his head. “No. Leave them down there. They’re probably telling secrets and dyeing each other’s hair.”
“I always expect people to say they’re probably having sex, because with, like, anyone else, that would be the expected activity. I mean, maybe not always for us, right, because we all know Seok-ah is ace, and whatever. But, like, for a lot of people. Like, even for Namjoon and Seokjin,” Yoongi muses.
“Except you have to say ‘making love’ with them,” Hoseok reminds him.
Yoongi nods, staring at the cracks in his ceiling all dark against white plaster lit eggshell with the tint of the light. “Yeah. Even with them, though. Like, they’re probably making love right now. But Taehyung and Jeongguk…it’s, like, weird to say that. It’s just more natural to imagine them doing funny best friend stuff. Like, their loves manifests itself that way.”
“Not that I think they’re not at least sometimes having sex,” Jimin says, “Because they definitely are. But, yeah. I get what you mean.”
“Yeah,” Hoseok says. “But also, ew. Namjoon and Seokjin are on the other side of that wall.” He gestures to Yoongi’s far wall, where some of the pictures Taehyung prints out are taped to the wall. Yoongi hadn’t even been the one to put them there. Taehyung had just taken it upon himself to tape up pictures fucking everywhere one day, and Yoongi’s private room did not escape unscathed. Yoongi can’t find it in himself to really mind.
Yoongi rolls his eyes, feeling more like himself again. The weird, surreal adjectives bouncing around his head are settling back into more grounded observations. Interpretations that make sense. No more visions of trucks and deserts and scaffoldings over the bay. Jeongguk’s voice echoes in Yoongi’s head: dream, dream, dream.
“Sing me a lullaby?” Yoongi asks, and Hoseok smiles and starts to hum. Jimin sings harmony over him, and it’s not the song Jeongguk always sings: it’s something softer and a little less sad, a little more predictable, one that’s definitely meant to be a lullaby. Yoongi knows this one; it’s one that all Korean kids know, even the ones who grew up without moms, like Yoongi. The ones who grew up without dads, like Hoseok. The ones who grew up with both until they revealed themselves to be only imposters, in a sense, like Jimin.
Yoongi hums some harmony and then sings along for a few bars even though his lines are gruff and almost more spoken than sung, especially in comparison to Jimin’s lilting timbre. Alone, no one in the house is a bad singer, but together, even with just three of them, they sound so, so much better. Fuller. Complete.
“You think Jeongguk would teach us his?” Jimin asks when they finish.
Yoongi keeps his eyes closed, and Hoseok turns off the light. “We probably already know it. We could try, if you want.”
They all three start to hum, and the chord changes are unexpected and not quite right, but it doesn’t matter, because they gets the word right, the only word they know:
Dream, dream, dream.
Yoongi falls asleep between Jimin and Hoseok, his face pressed into Jimin’s side, Hoseok’s arms holding him tight, secure. Yoongi falls asleep.
Dream, dream, dream.