Archive of Our Own

Taehyung looks down at the body in the coffin and forgets how to breathe.

Funny thing, really. Breathing. He’s done it all his life that he barely thinks about the act at all, but now his mind fiercely talks him through every inhale, every exhale, slow and stumbling as a baby’s first steps. His heart thuds loud in his chest. It feels bigger—heavier—pushing his lungs tighter against the cage of his ribs.

“You’d think they’d actually use the right shade of foundation.”

Dimly, Taehyung agrees. Yoongi had always been pale, almost ashen. Even before death his skin was white as a sheet, so paper-thin that Taehyung feared his bones and veins would pop right out if he so much as stretched too far. The Yoongi in the coffin is a porcelain doll, concealer caked so thick under his eyes to cover how dark they’ve always been. They powdered his cheeks a pretty pink, but Taehyung has never seen Yoongi blush; not even in winter; not even when he kissed him for the first time.

“I told my parents to just toss me in a fire pit and get it over with. Fuck knows how much money they wasted on this bullshit.”

Yoongi gets chatty when he’s nervous; when there’s something he wants to distract himself from; when he’s scared.

Taehyung wants to hold him, wants to tell him everything’s gonna be okay, hyung but he can’t.

Because Yoongi’s dead, lying unmoving in a coffin for all his friends and family to gawk at before he’s pushed into a furnace, but Yoongi’s also right beside him chattering on and on about his own corpse, his own funeral, all the guests and the food and the alcohol and fuck Taehyung I need a drink, can I even still drink, fuck like I care I’m gonna try anyway—

“Hyung.” He says, and he means it to come admonishing, but instead it comes out broken, cracking and thin, and from the corner of his vision he sees Seokjin tense, ready to step in, ready to pull him into his arms and offer comfort like he always has, but Taehyung doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t cry.

-

The night Yoongi died, Taehyung was already asleep.

09:43PM, June 13, 2013 his death certificate says. It was supposed to be just a normal Thursday night for both of them, but Yoongi had been late coming home and Taehyung had been tired from a fourteen-hour shift. He left a wrapped portion of dinner out for Yoongi to reheat, along with a note, promising that he’ll make pancakes tomorrow to make up for not being able to wait up for Yoongi.

It’s a promise he never got to keep.

-

Taehyung wakes with a gasp.

The storm rumbles like a hungry beast, the sound of it sending chills down his spine. Outside, he hears Holly and Yeontan yipping fearfully, scratching at the door. On the bedside table, his phone is vibrating, Seokjin’s name and a hamster emoji on the caller ID. He reaches for it and picks up while on his way to open the bedroom door. Yoongi will kill him for letting the dogs in but his side of the bed is still empty, and his heart twists at their fearful noises. Fuck it, he thinks. He’ll deal with Yoongi’s rage when he gets it.

“Hello?” he answers, in-between shushing the dogs as they rush in and bump his shins, barking incessantly.

“Taehyung,” Seokjin’s voice carries, faint past the interference and the yipping and the next peal of thunder. Taehyung frowns, tries to max out the volume but it’s as high as it can go. The time reads 10:58.

“What’s up, hyung?” he answers, sandwiching the phone tight between his head and shoulder as he picks up the dogs, carries them to the bed where they patter around curiously. Seokjin says something that’s blurred by static and Taehyung’s concern mounts at the sound of his voice. Even through the shit signal he sounds rough, like he’s been crying.

“Hyung, what’s wrong?”

Lightning bathes the apartment in white for a split second and something catches the edge of Taehyung’s vision. His head jerks to the still-open doorway and nearly has a heart attack when he sees Yoongi standing there.

“Fuck, hyung, don’t scare me like that.” Taehyung gasps, forgetting about Seokjin for a moment. Holly barks from the bed and Taehyung bites his lips guiltily, looking between the dogs and Yoongi. “Look, I can explain.”

Just then, Seokjin’s voice echoes from the phone and he puts it back up to his ear, holding up a finger and mouthing wait to Yoongi. His face is blank, but his eyes follow Taehyung as he moves around the room, trying to grasp for decent signal. Well, if Yoongi’s not immediately yelling at Taehyung at the sight of the dogs on the bed, then maybe he’s not upset at all.

“—ung. Taehyung, can you hear me?”

“There! Seokjin-hyung!” Taehyung call out, relieved. He stands at the corner of the room, farthest from the door. “Sorry, it must be the storm. Service is awful in the apartment. What happened? Is something wrong? Do you need us to come over?”

It’s late and he has another hellish shift in the morning, but Seokjin sounds really bad, and if it were Namjoon, or Hoseok, or Jimin or Jungkook calling in the middle of the night sounding a mess, he’d have done the same, and he’s sure Yoongi’s with him on this.

“Taehyung,” Seokjin says, and his voice is clear but still low, still torn up in a way Taehyung has never quite heard before, “it’s Yoongi.”

“Yoongi?” Taehyung repeats, and he’s still standing where Taehyung saw him, unmoving. His expression is different now, brows knotted, jaw trembling like he’s about to cry, or like he’s struggling to say something. The shadows of their rain-dotted windows play oddly over his face, but a soft voice in the back of Taehyung’s mind hisses that those aren’t shadows.

When Taehyung’s next words come, they’re nothing more than a choked-up whisper. “What about Yoongi?”

A pause, just enough for a shaky, wet breath.

“He’s dead.”

The next flash of lightning paints a clearer picture of Yoongi, and if the shock hadn’t gripped Taehyung tight first, he thinks he would have screamed.

-

He was crossing the street and the light turned green and the driver he—he didn’t see him through the rain and by the time he hit the brakes—

-

Thunder roars, and Yeontan barks at the window like he can scare the storm away. Holly only whines anxiously at the edge of the bed, looking at Yoongi, lifting one paw and the other, like he wants to run to him but is too scared to jump.

Taehyung walks slowly towards Yoongi, the static hissing louder the closer he gets.

-

St. Muh-Mary’s. Do you…d’you n-need any of us to—okay. Okay j-just…be careful, alright?

-

Taehyung hangs up the call the moment he gets everything he needs from Seokjin. The mad rush to the hospital will come later. Running into the comfort of his friends’ arms will come later. For now, he pushes down everything: the fear, the nausea, the confusion, the grief, the pain; because Yoongi is right here.

Yoongi sits crumpled on the floor, muffling his sobs with a hand on his mouth. Nevermind all the blood, the baseball-sized chunk missing from the side of his skull, the way his chest caves when Taehyung embraces him. This is still Yoongi, still his Yoongi. Taehyung can smell him, can hear him, can touch him.

Yoongi is right here, and he needs him.

There’s no time or clarity to wonder if any of this is real, or a sick nightmare. Taehyung can’t bear to think too far ahead because he already knows he won’t like any of it. Instead, he holds the love of his life in his arms, careful even though he doesn’t think Yoongi can feel pain anymore. He breathes in deep and slow just to guide him through his crying, even though the smell of gore is thick and dizzying. Yoongi is wet with rainwater, sticky with blood, soft in all the wrong places. Taehyung used to hate how cold Yoongi runs, now he’s so, so grateful, because it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.

Something like a wheeze passes Yoongi’s lips, but Taehyung doesn’t feel the tickle of it on his ear, even though he feels the press of Yoongi’s bloodied lips. He brings a hand to Yoongi’s neck, fights down the bile when he brushes the unnatural jut of a cervical vertebra, sinks his fingers where he usually finds Yoongi’s heartbeat, only to be met with nothing.

He feels foolish for ever hoping.

-

“Did you expect this many people?”

Taehyung keeps his voice low, gaze wandering, trying to look like he’s just mumbling to himself. It’s easy enough. Everyone is giving him a wide berth. The whispers have probably gone around by now: The man outside, by the balcony. Yoongi’s boyfriend. Four years, they say. Lived together for two. He’s not even crying. Poor thing must be in shock.

Taehyung lifts his head and thinks he sees heads turn away, too many and too quickly to be coincidence. He sighs through his nose, takes another gulp of cola. Beside him, Yoongi shakes his head, still looking a little dazed. He calmed down after Taehyung dragged him away from the coffin and out into the balcony, but he’s still leaning heavily on the ledge, flinching away from all of Taehyung’s attempts at comfort. Taehyung knows better than to be offended. And considering the circumstances, he thinks Yoongi is entitled to a lot of leeway.

It’s a blessing that Yoongi doesn’t need to breathe. If he does he’d probably be hyperventilating, grasping at the edges of concrete like it’s his sanity, like it’ll keep him from falling into the abyss of his own head.

But he stands there, deceptively calm, if not for the deadened, haunted look in his eyes. Taehyung watches him, because sometimes he still doesn’t think he’s real, doesn’t think he won’t vanish into thin air. It’s much easier to look at him now that he’s the splitting image of Yoongi in life: none of the blood, none of the gore, none of his bones twisted and cracked out of place. Even just the memory of it makes him want to vomit. He doesn’t think he can bear seeing Yoongi like that ever again.

“They did a good job though.” Yoongi blurts out of nowhere, tone casual despite the touch of hysteria in his voice. “Surprised they could fix me up enough for an open casket.”

“You really shouldn’t be surprised at what we can do with technology these days.” Taehyung responds flatly. The Yoongi in the casket looked pristine, unmarred and beautiful, like he died in his sleep. He wonders how many stitches, how much stuffing and plaster and chemicals it took to get him looking like a doll, like a lie.

Without preamble, Yoongi walks, one heavy step after another, carefully navigating through the sea of people even though he phases through them just fine. Taehyung lets Yoongi wander but keeps an eye on him, watches him drift from person to person, taking the time to stare into their faces. Once in a while he leaves a touch: a small pat here, a hand on a shoulder there. No one feels it, but it’s far from meaningless, especially coming form Yoongi. He was notoriously averse to touch for most of his life. Taehyung wonders if he regrets it now, if he wishes he was more open to these people, all who loved him without him even knowing, all who came on a rainy Thursday evening to see him off one last time.

He respectfully averts his eyes when Yoongi kneels before his mother, places an intangible hand on her arm. He finishes the last of his cola even though it’s more sugar water at this point. There’s not much left to do by himself, except, well…

On the farthest corner of the room sits an L-shaped couch, five people huddled on it, sitting close, whispering in low, heartbroken tones. There’s a raincloud over everyone in the funeral but it’s darkest here, the air almost thicker, suffocating.

Funny. Just a few days ago, Taehyung would’ve given anything to see this. All seven of them gathered in one place.

But not like this. Never like this.

Jimin’s face crumples the instant he sees him. He stands, takes shaky steps to close the distance between them and envelopes Taehyung in a hug, smothering his sob in the folds of his suit. Everyone else is looking up at him too, and Taehyung can’t bear the heartbreak on their faces, the tears fresh and dried on their cheeks. They loved Yoongi, Taehyung knows. They all knew Yoongi, got to see so much more of him before Taehyung even met him, and yet he’s the only one who can see him, the only one who isn’t suffering in the stifling grief that his death left behind. He still doesn’t even know why or how, or if maybe he really is just hallucinating. Just locked in some twisted coping mechanism because he’s never really dealt with loss well and the thought of Yoongi gone forever is just—it’s just too much and maybe this is something his fucked up brain cooked up as a form of self-preservation and—

Suddenly, four more pairs of arms lock around him, caging him in tight and his eyes burn but he still doesn’t cry. Not quite. But Seokjin reaches around and holds his hands and it’s only then that they stop shaking. Hoseok turns his head just enough to press kisses onto his cheeks, his temple, and suddenly he feels warm again. Namjoon tucks his face into his shoulder and Jungkook buries his face onto his back and and for the first time in days Taehyung feels…lighter. Not quite okay, but not as turbulent, not as broken.

Taehyung angles his head at the sight of bleached hair and there Yoongi stands, looking at them like there’s nothing else quite more beautiful, like he wants to take this moment and bottle it up forever.

But Taehyung knows, now more than ever, that there’s no such thing.

Yoongi rushes into the huddle, burrowing into the space where Hoseok’s and Jungkook’s bodies don’t quite touch, settling there and wrapping his arms around them, closing his eyes and resting his head on Taehyung’s shoulder, eyes scrunched shut like he’s concentrating really hard, fighting to hold on to whatever sensation he can, to savor the feel of them under his skin, or whatever passes for it now that he’s—not entirely human.

Taehyung prays, more than anything, that they can at least feel Yoongi too.

-

Taehyung doesn’t ask, doesn’t speak, save for the soft, soothing shushes he presses into Yoongi’s bloodied hair. They’re lying in bed, the dogs whining softly by their feet. Yoongi still hasn’t stopped shaking, even with the blankets, even with how tightly Taehyung holds him. Every snap of thunder has him sobbing anew and Taehyung clings to that sound just as much as he clings to everything else; Yoongi’s scent, the freshwater and mint under the sour tang of blood-mixed-rain; the pressure of Yoongi’s body against his side, the weight of Yoongi’s head on his chest.

Taehyung knows there’s something wrong. This is all wrong. This might even just be a bad dream, but he’s not ready to acknowledge any of that, isn’t ready for whatever future might be waiting for him when the storm passes.

He just holds Yoongi, and waits.

-

Yoongi’s mother comes by two days after the cremation to give him a portion of Yoongi’s ashes.

They designed it to be worn; a metal chain holding a beautifully glass-blown vial in the shape of a teardrop. Instead of a cork, there’s a metal rose welded onto the mouth of the bottle. Beside him, Yoongi groans, and Taehyung wears it then and there just to spite him.

“You made him very happy.” Yoongi’s mother says, after a beat of silence. Her eyes are still red-rimmed, voice still shaky and hoarse. Taehyung wonders if she cries herself to sleep, if she’ll cry after this, if she’ll cry if she knew her little boy is still here, still with them, right there behind her with his arms around her as tight as his incorporeal form will allow.

“Thank you.” Taehyung says, then, “I’m sorry,” because it feels proper, if anything. He doesn’t know how to relay the words Yoongi mumbles into his mother’s dress. He already feels like he’s intruding by being the one to hear them, instead of the one they’re meant for.

Her expression doesn’t change, not a twitch of an eyelash as she unknowingly phases out of her son’s embrace to hold Taehyung.

“If you need anything, anything at all,” she whispers, “let us know. You’re like a son to me, Taehyung, I hope you know that.”

Taehyung hugs her tight, holds her the way Yoongi did, and hopes it’s enough.

-

That evening, Yoongi wraps a hand around his wrist, presses his forehead in the dip of his shoulderblades and stays there for a long time.

“You do, y’know.”

“What?”

“Make me happy.”

Taehyung claimed to hate it, how Yoongi can come it at the most random times with cheesy lines, but what he never says is how those words never fail to get happiness rushing into every crevice of his heart. He reaches up to where Yoongi has a hand on his elbow, curls around it and grips tight.

“Me too, hyung.” He chokes, keeping his eyes on the window where he thinks he can see a faint outline of Yoongi’s reflection. “You make me so, so happy. More than anything. More than anyone.”

-

It’s a solid week after Yoongi’s death that the visits start.

Most of the time it’s Jimin, coming through the door with groceries or take-out or Jungkook. Namjoon comes by just once, on his way to his flight back to America. He mentions a therapist, the one he used to see when he still lived here. Taehyung thanks him for the suggestion, then tosses the business card in the trash the moment Namjoon is out the door.

(He finds the business card on the coffee table, and when he turns to glare pointedly at Yoongi, the bastard has the gall to point at Yeontan)

Taehyung isn’t surprised anymore when the doorbell rings, less surprised to find Hoseok’s warped smile when he looks into the peephole. It’s the sixth visit he had to entertain in the past two weeks.

“Don’t look so disappointed now.” Yoongi says from the dining table. “Weren’t you always the one whining about how they never came by anymore?”

Taehyung scoffs, the sound of it drowned out by the dogs barking at the door. Taehyung knows better. These aren’t visits. They’re shifts. Everyone taking turns to make sure he’s okay, that he hasn’t offed himself in a fit of despair. He can see it in their eyes everytime he opens the door: the flash of relief, the care with which they steer conversations, how tightly they hug him when it’s time to say goodbye, like they’re tethering him, trying to tell him without words to Stay. Stay here. With us. Please Taehyung we can’t lose you too.

Taehyung hates what they’ve become.

And, maybe more than that, he hates that he’s the one who made them this way.

-

“You’re,” Hoseok starts then coughs awkwardly, five minutes into his unwanted visit, “doing well.”

“Better than expected, you mean?”

“Behave.” Yoongi chastises from the couch, from right behind Hoseok and it takes everything for Taehyung to not look at him, not acknowledge him, not grab Hoseok by the shoulder and beg him to look, to see because Yoongi’s right there—right there, hyung, please, tell me I’m not crazy—

The smile slips off Hoseok’s face and the guilt rises up so fast Taehyung thinks he might be sick. He averts his eyes only to be met with Yoongi’s icy glare and he doesn’t know which one’s worse.

“Sorry.”

Hoseok breaks into a smile, but it only makes him feel worse. Typical Hoseok. Always too quick to forgive, even when they don’t deserve it.

“It’s alright.” Hoseok mumbles, turning his attention back to an anxious Yeontan. Taehyung wonders how Hoseok doesn’t notice Holly behind him, seemingly pawing at air when he’s actually swinging at Yoongi’s thigh, demanding he resume his distracted petting.

“I’m actually relieved, y’know.”

Taehyung’s head jerks back, brows knotting in confusion. “What?”

“You’ve been…” Hoseok huffs a breath, hand twitching in Yeontan’s fur like he can grasp the right words in the thick forest of his mane. “You didn’t even cry at the viewing. And everytime I saw you after you just looked…fine.”

“Not that that’s a bad thing. Sorta.” Hoseok hurries to clarify, face soured like he just let a secret slip and is trying to cover it up. “But we all know you’re not fine. And either you’re pretending to be or you’re just…pushing it so far to the back of your head, either way, it’s not good to bottle it all up, Taehyung-ie.” Taehyung flinches at the nickname, because it drags him back to when they were younger, when things were easier, when Yoongi wasn’t— “It’s gonna be awful and it’s gonna hurt but the sooner you let yourself feel it the sooner you can move on.”

He sneaks a glance at Hoseok and he’s looking at him with such sadness, almost…pitying, and Taehyung can feel the slow boil of his blood, fists clenching on his lap.

What the fuck do you know? he wants to scream. They weren’t the ones who saw Yoongi’s dead, gore-ridden body the night he died. They’re not the ones who have to live with his ghost. Sure, they lost a friend but Taehyung lost the man he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with and he wants to ask Hoseok what he’d do if it had been him, if he can fare any better if it was Seokjin instead of Yoongi. If it was Seokjin’s ashes in a vial hanging around Hoseok’s neck.

He thinks of Seokjin, who’s probably working his shift at the restaurant right about now. He thinks of Seokjin, lying on the concrete with a baseball-sized chunk missing from his skull, blood gushing down his face like rain on a windowpane. Seokjin, cold to the touch with a caved-in chest and no heartbeat, no breath, no life in his beautiful, brown eyes.

“Don’t.” Yoongi warns, soft, suddenly so close, hand on Taehyung’s wrist, thumbing the jut of bone. “He means well. You know that. Don’t say anything you’ll regret.”

Taehyung wants to laugh. Three years ago in this very same room, it was him on the other side of this, standing before a raging Yoongi while Hoseok kept a hand on Namjoon’s chest. It came with the eight-year friendship he supposed, issues that were swept under the rug until the pile became too big to ignore. They’d been drinking, and one side comment led to another, then to a fist swinging out of nowhere.

It was always Yoongi with the temper, always Yoongi who raised his fist and spat poison too fast, but now he’s the one telling Taehyung to calm down.

Interesting how being dead changes someone.

He takes a quick breath, stands and shoves his hands in his pockets just so Hoseok won’t see how badly they’re shaking. He thinks he hears him call out his name but everything’s muffled, like he’s behind a layer of glass and Hoseok’s on the other side.

“I think you should go.” He hears himself say. He feels detached from his own body, floaty in an odd, disconcerting way. “Please, hyung, I’m…tired.”

He thinks Hoseok might have protested, but he looks at Taehyung, and Taehyung doesn’t know what it is he sees but it’s enough to get him to back down. He breathes a resigned sigh, dips on his way out to pat Yeontan and Holly.

“Take care of yourself, Tae.” Hoseok says, morose, maybe a little bit apologetic. “It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Taehyung nods. “I know, hyung. Trust me. I know.”

He waits until the sound of the door closing echoes throughout the apartment before he collapses back on the couch, face in his hands. The springs squeak in protest at his rough treatment, but make no sound when Yoongi sidles up to him, his cold touch spreading on Taehyung’s shoulder.

“They’re all worried about you. You can’t blame them.”

“Yeah well they’re worried for nothing.” Taehyung scoffs, “They all think I’ll,” he makes a gesture of looping rope around his neck and pulling, sticking his tongue out in exaggerated fashion, Yoongi huffs a laugh, despite everything, “but you’re right here so, no point in dying.”

“That why I’m here then?” Yoongi chuckles, but none of the mirth actually reaches his eyes. “Make sure you don’t follow?”

Taehyung doesn’t know how to tell him that he might just have, if Yoongi didn’t show up that night, if Yoongi didn’t stay, but he thinks Yoongi knows anyway, because his eyes go dark and sad and Taehyung pulls him into his arms because he never knows what to do when Yoongi looks at him like that.

-

Some days are easier than most, and it’s days like this that Taehyung desperately clings to.

Finding out the limits of Yoongi’s abilities become a fun little pastime for them. He learns that Yoongi can touch, manipulate objects if he concentrates hard enough. Yoongi doesn’t need to eat, but Taehyung puts out two sets of cutlery still, just so Yoongi can fidget with something while he sits with Taehyung over dinner. He helps around the house when he can, but Taehyung doesn’t really mind when he doesn’t. The best part of it all is that the dogs can still see him, and Taehyung can’t explain how his heart swells when he watches Yoongi toss a ball for them to catch, scold them for tugging at the hems of his jeans only to turn right around and feed them treats because he feels guilty for scolding them in the first place. He lets them sleep on the bed now, curled up around each other between his and Taehyung’s feet.

Out there, Yoongi’s dead, but here, in their little corner of heaven, he’s alive. Safe. Happy. Smiling. Huddled up on the sofa with Holly and Yeontan and Taehyung and it’s perfect. Everything’s perfect.

Just perfect.

-

Taehyung has nightmares. Had them his entire life. The night terrors used to be all sorts of things when he was a kid: monsters, shadows, creatures unknown and unseen in the dark. His parents used to understand, bought him a night light and plushies and let him sleep in their room when he got really bad ones, but as he grew older, their patience grew shorter. “You’re a big boy now, Taehyung, you can’t be scared of these things forever.” and just like that Taehyung was left to fend for himself, all alone in the dark, because they took his night light and his plushies away. They thought he’d get over it, they thought he’d get used to it.

“A big boy knows the difference between what’s real and what’s imaginary.” His mother says irritably, one morning after Taehyung comes to the dining table with eyes swollen from crying all night. “It’s not real, Taehyung, none of it is real. You’re getting scared for absolutely no reason. Grow up.”

And he does grow up. Whether he likes it or not he grows up. One day, he wakes up and he’s taller than his father, the fat gone from his cheeks, standing in front of a mirror putting on a nurse’s scrub instead of a high school uniform.

He grows up, but the monsters don’t go away. Instead, they step out of the darkness and sprout faces: the little girl in the emergency room whose ribs broke under his hands during chest compressions, then died anyway; his grandmother, whose hand he hand been holding when she died; Soonshim, who they had to put down, who Taehyung held, his ear to her fluttering heartbeat as she huffed out the last of her breaths.

It’s the newest ghost that Taehyung hates the most: the blond-haired man with a baseball-sized chunk missing from his the side of his skull, standing in the doorway in the dark, just staring, dripping blood on the floor in time with the terrifying seconds Taehyung spends fighting to wake up.

-

One night, Taehyung opens his eyes to the sight of Yoongi standing in the doorway.

The coil of fear around his heart keeps him still, silent, but this is nothing like his nightly terrors. No. He’s whole and well. He’s not even looking at Taehyung. It’s only then that Taehyung notices the thing dangling loose from Yoongi’s fingers.

Yoongi’s ashes.

Taehyung stopped wearing it at some point, chucking it into the farthest depths of the nightstand drawer because he can’t bear the reminder it carries, the reality of what it stands for. He ignores it the same way he ignores the small things: Yoongi not eating, Yoongi not breathing, Yoongi sleeping more and more these past few days.

Yoongi brings the teardrop pendant to the moonlight, watching the blue glow play along the glass, eyes half-lidded like he’s hypnotized.

The chain phases through his translucent fingers, dropping to the floor with a musical clink, and he’s not sure if it’s the curtain of sleep still heavy over his eyes or if he actually sees Yoongi flicker, the edges of his body shaking and blurring like a dandelion on a windy day.

He wants to reach out to him—come back to bed, Yoongi, come back to me—but he can’t move, not even a finger, and he’s left to lie there, watch as Yoongi touches the window, hand against the glass, fingertips toying with the latch, contemplating.

-

He wakes the next morning with Yoongi cuddled up beside him, and he untangles from him to pull his drawer open and find the necklace still there, right where he left it.

“Bad dream?” Yoongi mumbles from his spot on the bed, disgruntled at the rude awakening but concerned at Taehyung’s heavy breathing. His hand rubs firm circles on Taehyung’s back and Taehyung can’t help but remember how that hand pressed flat against the glass in the blue moonlight, casting no shadow on the sheets, staring out into the world like—

“Bad dream.” Taehyung replies, though he’s not quite sure.

-

The silence is still the hardest part.

To be fair, Yoongi was never really noisy. Sure, he had his bursts of hyperactive energy every now and then, but he’s a lethargic thing; on an endless loop of work and sleep and sustenance. Namjoon once joked that it was only Taehyung who had the power to get him out of the house.

Yoongi still naps a lot nowadays, but it’s far more than before. Two to four hours each day, on top of the six to eight he gets when the moon is high. Yoongi only napped then because he worked late into the night, his brain more active once the din and clatter of the city has died down. He doesn’t work now. He has no need to, and it’s almost as if he’s catching up on all the sleep he never managed to get in life.

Taehyung used to watch him, would lose pockets of time just running a hand through his hair, draping a blanket over him, or taking a photo to add to his ever-growing Sleeping Yoongi folder; now it’s more disconcerting than anything. Yoongi’s chest doesn’t rise and fall with breaths, and what with how much paler he’s gotten, he...

He just looks like a corpse.

The thought is stupid, Taehyung reminds himself, because Yoongi’s dead but a part of him still hasn’t accepted that. Especially not when Yoongi, without fail, opens his eyes every morning, after every nap, and greets him with a grumpy grumble but doesn’t pull away when Taehyung gives him a cuddle and a kiss, and suddenly it’s like everything was just a nightmare. Suddenly it’s like everything’s okay, and some days Taehyung thinks he’ll get used to it, that watching Yoongi sleep will stop feeling like he’s twisting a knife into his own gut.

-

“They’re not calling you back at work?”

Taehyung’s chewing slows, chopsticks scraping on the sides of the bowl, accidentally bumping off a pea. Yeontan dives for it instantly.

“They said I could have more time.” He mumbles, swatting Yeontan away when he starts to whine. His supervisor had been very understanding, giving Taehyung two weeks off when he’d signed up for just one, but those two weeks have come and gone. He doesn’t know if they’ve been attempting to contact him because he put his phone on airplane mode. His next few bites come ravenously, head hunched over his meal if only to keep from meeting Yoongi’s eyes.

“Between you and me though, I prefer it this way. Just you and me. ’N the dogs.”

Usually Yoongi would roll his eyes, angle his head enough to hide the smile forming on his lips but now he just…sits there, stares with an vacant intensity and Taehyung frowns. He purposefully bangs his chopsticks against the side of the bowl but Yoongi doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Hyung?”

Awareness finally returns to Yoongi’s eyes but that brings Taehyung no relief. He looks around, like he’s not sure where he is or what he’s doing. He plants a hand on the table, reaches out for Taehyung, fluttery and fidgety like a terrified animal.

He looks at Taehyung and suddenly Taehyung doesn’t want to hear what he has to say.

“Tahyung-ah,” Yoongi says slowly, carefully, “I can’t.”

It’s a vague set of words, strung together with no subject and no follow-up and if this was anyone else he’d probably stare in confusion, but it’s Yoongi, Yoongi who he’s had years to learn how to understand with only the barest words.

No! Taehyung wants to scream, but it’s suddenly so hard to breathe and all he can manage is to stand, too fast and too careless that it sends his chair tumbling to the floor. The dogs jump, backing up into the corner of the room, their little claws clattering panicked on the floor. Yoongi doesn’t let go, his fingers digging into the give of his arm hard enough to bruise.

“Tae-Taehyung, this isn’t...I wasn’t meant to stay this long.” Yoongi whispers, the hoarse edge of desperation in his voice. His grip clenches tighter, trembling and white-knuckled, veins popping so vividly Taehyung thinks they’ll burst. “This wasn’t what I wanted for you. I just-I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Yoongi shakes his head slowly and Taehyung mirrors the act unconsciously, denying reality, refusing to hear the next few words out of Yoongi’s mouth but they come anyway, “I can’t let you keep doing this to yourself. I can’t let you lock yourself away from everyone because of me.”

Yoongi’s eyes have gone wide, bright with fear and Taehyung hates to see it, hates to see Yoongi so distraught but it’s the first real emotion he’s seen in those eyes since that one stormy night and it’s so much better than nothing.

“I tried, Taehyung-ah, I tried.” Yoongi gasps out the words, like his throat is physically closing in on him. “But it just got—so much harder.”

Taehyung’s mind pulls him back to that night, watching Yoongi put his hand on the glass, fluttering in and out of existence, like something out of a TV with bad reception, looking out into the world like he’s a prisoner. The realization sinks solid and sickening. Maybe he is. Maybe all this time Yoongi felt trapped and Taehyung didn’t even realize that he’s the one holding the door shut.

And when Yoongi looks up, Taehyung doesn’t flinch at the blood cascading down his face, the sickening green-gray of his skin. He just stands there, Yoongi’s soft whimpers bouncing off the vacuum of his ears, wondering just how hard it had been for Yoongi to keep up this illusion for him, to keep himself whole and beautiful and looking like the doll in the casket before they burned him.

He doesn’t come any closer, doesn’t hold him, because he’s been holding onto him all this time and it’s done nothing but break him.

“I’m dead, Tae.” Yoongi sobs, forehead to the wood, curled in on himself. “I’m dead. And you have to let me go.”

-

They spend the remaining hours of the day like strangers: never spending too long in the same room, dodging each other in the hallways, Yoongi tries to reach out to him, once or twice, then doesn’t try again.

They still sleep in the same bed, backs turned, inches from the edges and an ocean away from each other. Taehyung hears a sob and isn’t quite sure if it’s him or Yoongi.

-

Taehyung doesn’t drink.

He makes special exemptions for the drinks Jimin makes just for him, blended with ice cream or chocolate milk or coffee, iced tea or soda, all the sweet things that counteracts the bitterness and burn, enough to make him forget that he’s actually drinking, until the alcohol hits all at once and he’s a fumbling, embarrassing idiot for the rest of the night and a vomiting, groaning mess in the morning.

He asked Yoongi once, bent over the toilet with his stomach in knots and only the resigned drag of Yoongi’s hand on his back for comfort, why he keeps poisoning himself with it—straight too. Shots and salt, not even a chaser. Yoongi only shrugged.

“We all have our little bits of heaven, kid. Me? It’s chugging my weight in alcohol. Y’know, just enough to silence all my fuckin’ demons.”

“Is it worth the morning after?” Taehyung mumbled weakly, soft enough to not disturb the delicate balance of the contents of his stomach. He couldn’t quite remember the expression Yoongi had on, but he was quiet for a suspicious while, and then,

“Yes.”

-

Outside and in, a storm begins to rage.

Taehyung barely notices that the other side of the bed is empty. He walks out of the bedroom, make a sharp right and enters a room he hasn’t opened in weeks, the stagnant air rushing to greet him, and Taehyung almost chokes.

It’s unmistakably Yoongi. There’s his freshwater-mint cologne, the remnants of the vanilla-cinnamon candle on his computer table, old leather and smoke, the tubes and tubs of half-empty hair dye.

He squints past the darkness, and there, in the farthest corner of the room, he finds what he’s looking for.

-

“I love you.”

Taehyung’s head is pillowed on Yoongi’s lap, the rest of him cushioned by the soft earth, tickled by the dance of tiny grass and wildflowers. He breathes in but no scent comes to him, not even the freshwater and mint of Yoongi’s cologne. A dream? Perhaps. He was never really good at telling the difference.

“I love you.” Yoongi repeats, voice thin and fragile as lake ice in early spring, lips to his temple, body curved over him in…what? Protection? Penance? “I love you, Taehyung-ah. So much. More than you can imagine.”

“So don’t leave me.” Taehyung says, through the inexplicable pain in his throat. It feels like the worst of a cold, a vice around his neck. “If you love me, why would you leave me?”

“Oh, babe,” Yoongi starts, and he speaks like he’s talking to a child, slow and patronizing but also forlorn, a sadness so unbearably heavy, “if I had a choice I’d stay here forever. I’d stay with you until both our times were up.”

He reaches up to close a hand around the one Yoongi has over his beating heart, clutching it like he can keep Yoongi with him through the strength of his will.

Taehyung knows heartbreak, knows it by the sight of Yoongi lying motionless in a coffin, Yoongi broken and bloodied and sobing through a storm, Yoongi smiling down at him with an unspeakable sadness and shaking his head, pulling his hand away.

Yoongi’s voice carries past his mounting turmoil but he doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to listen anymore. Yoongi’s here with him, and that’s all he wants to hold on to.

-

It’s all bitter; disgusting; acid when it burns its way down his throat, but Taehyung powers through it. Chugs an entire bottle then tosses it aside, the sound of it shattering drowned out by a thunderclap.

He wonders if maybe that’s enough, thinks no, not when he can still think this clearly, not when he can look around and ache because he knows what he’s missing, because he knows Yoongi’s not here to stop him.

So he drinks, drinks until his vision his fuzzy, until the floor feels like clouds and he stumbles into their soft embrace, giggling weakly, then drinks some more.

He drinks until he can’t even stand. 

He drinks until, finally, silence.

-

“Please take care of yourself, Taehyung-ah. You still have your whole life ahead of you. You still have Seokjin-hyung, Hoseok-ah, Namjoon-ah, Jimin-ah, Jungkook-ah. Holly and Tan-ie. They still need you.”

His lips press against Taehyung’s hairline and he hates it. It feels like the last, feels like goodbye, and maybe it is. He keeps his eyes shut, clutching the childish notion that if he doesn’t see it then maybe it won’t happen.

Yoongi’s tears are warm.

“It’s time to wake up.”

-

The flutter of greenery disappears. He’s surrounded by cold and dark, floating and frigid, like he’d fallen into a winter lake. He looks up and finds a light, just beyond the frozen-over surface.

But there is no relief, no frantic flare of instinct, no desperate struggle to survive. 

Taehyung lets the dark drag him under, lets his breath escape in tiny little bubbles and doesn’t take another.

 -

“Taehyung—Taehyung no!”

-

“Wake up!”

-

He takes a breath and it feels like swallowing needles.

He regrets it the second he opens his eyes. The light directly above him sears right into his brain. There’s too much noise, muffled but impossible to ignore, and it only makes the headache worse.

Make it stop he wants to say, but there’s something blocking his lips, pushing his tongue down. He manages a groan, he thinks, but it’s lost in the cacophony that surrounds him.

He tries opening his eyes again, slowly this time, and the light is gone, but there’s a pair of eyes staring right back at him and they go wide when they realize he’s awake. 

Thankfully, lucidity doesn’t last. His eyelids flutter, growing heavier with every slowing breath.

-

Fate disappoints him.

He wakes again, and it’s dark. Nighttime? His swirling vision steadies and all other sensation comes slowly, one at a time. He takes in a deep breath and is hit with a smell he’s intimately familiar with: the scent of disinfectant and pure oxygen. He exhales and his own breath seems to condense over his mouth. A mask, he realizes. Hearing comes next. One beep filters past the vacuum of silence, and that’s all it takes for him to recognize it. Those beeps are a comforting song to him whenever he checks on the patients, occupying the empty moments that small talk can’t fill.

He’s in the hospital, and not as an employee, clearly. He frowns and tries to remember why he’s here, what happened.

“I know you’re awake.”

Taehyung’s gaze darts to the corner of the room, lit only by a desk lamp. There’s a lump on the beat-up couch, curled under a thin blanket. There’s a shadow leaning against the wall, just beyond the touch of the light.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again.” the voice says, and Taehyung recognizes it like his own heartbeat, despite the shakiness of it, roughened by tears and lack of sleep. “Fuck when I got your text I-I had no idea—”

Jimin steps into the light, looking worse for wear, sniffling as he drags a hand over his face. How long as he been here? How long have they both been here?

“Text?” he asks weakly, and it’s pathetic, really. There’s so much he owes: an apology, an explanation, but this is all his addled mind can manage for now.

Jimin scoffs, a ragged, incredulous sound, but he fishes something out of his pocket, tosses it over by Taehyung’s hand and watches him fumble with it, unlocking with Jimin’s laughably predictable password (Jungkook’s birthday) and opening his messages.

There it is, buried under several, steadily-panicked replies from Jimin, but it’s right there.

Help Taehyung

He doesn’t remember sending any text, doesn’t even remember having his phone with him when he stormed from the bedroom to Yoongi’s office, doesn’t remember anything but a bottle in his hand when he collapsed to the floor. He doesn’t remember anything other than the overwhelming fatigue, the all-encompassing desire to just…let go.

Then he remembers the tickle of grass and warm tears on his face, a kiss on the peak of his forehead, a voice piercing through the cold and dark.

A sound tears out of his pained throat and Jimin’s instantly by his side.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, in that soothing, melodious voice of his, all the anger and hurt from earlier gone like it was never there. Taehyung wants it back. He deserves it far more than Jimin’s kindness.

Jimin curls an arm over his shoulders, presses kisses and comfort on the top of his head, helping Taehyung carry everything he’s been bearing alone since Yoongi died.

There’s so much. There’s just too much, tears and pain coming never ending and Taehyung lets himself feel every single ounce of it, finally embracing the emptiness that he never had to acknowledge with Yoongi’s ghost plastering the cracks holding his grief at bay.

But Yoongi’s not here anymore, and he won’t ever be back, and someday Taehyung will see that s a good thing, see that as the first step to his healing but right now it just hurts. It hurts and he’s not capable of doing anything more than crying, holding tight to Jimin and burying his wails in his chest when whatever’s left of his broken heart crumbles to dust.

-

“You sure about this?”

Taehyung nods, squinting past his bangs and the salty wind blowing from the ocean. He leans back to embrace the late afternoon sun on his skin, breathes the cold air long and deep. He feels like a house being aired out, its windows and doors opened for the first time in too long. Somewhere in the distance, a scuffle and Holly’s distinct bark, followed by Yeontan’s responding growl, Jungkook’s hysterical laughter.

The grass crunches with approaching footsteps, the air around him displaced by another body plopping down beside him. Jimin’s knee bumps his and they sit there together, the soundtrack of the dogs and Jungkook and the world playing soft in the background.

The necklace is held loosely in his hand, the pendant cool to the touch. The neck snapped easily under the force of his thumb, and now he carefully plugs the jagged hole with the calloused pad of his finger, just waiting, waiting for the right moment.

Jimin’s presence is a blessing. Just by being beside him Taehyung’ mind is clearer, his thoughts more linear. He shifts his weight and leans on Jimin’s shoulder, breathing in peach blossoms and honey. Jimin hums a meaningless melody, just looping notes together. Taehyung closes his eyes, drags his finger over the jagged edges of the broken vial, not quite enough to cut.

He breathes, feels himself trembling on the precipice of acceptance and denial. He didn’t think he had anymore tears left to cry, but here they are, rushing out of him. Without a word, Jimin wraps his arms around his neck, pillows his chin on the top of his head.

The time comes when the sun dries the last of his tears, when his breathing has evened out and the sky is pink and orange on the horizon. Jimin seems to know it too, because he stands and gives him one last, heavy pat on the shoulder before walking away, his footsteps a slow, clumsy decrescendo in the growing silence of an approaching evening.

He opens his hand just enough to see the teardrop-shaped pendant, half-filled with grey ashes, half-filled with Yoongi.

He thinks back on their apartment, their dogs, his clothes still hung up in the closet, his office, his workstation, the walls and albums and folders of photographs, all filled up with Yoongi, all filled up with the life and dreams and stories he left way too soon. The hurt is still there, thrumming deep in his chest like a wound yet to heal and Taehyung doesn’t think it’ll ever fully go away.

And yet, he takes comfort in that, somehow. That pain and the soft glow of happiness whenever Yoongi’s face slips into his minds eye reminds him that at some point he was unquestionably happy, that he was lucky enough to feel a love so good and strong that it warms his lonely heart even when one half of that love is gone.

He waits for the wind to blow, and when it does he extends his hand, upturns the vial and watches the wind take every single grain on its journey back to the ocean. He watches the ashes flutter and dance until the waning sunlight blinds him and he can’t see it anymore. The empty vial falls to the ground, alongside the silver chain and the metal rose.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, just breathing, thinking of nothing and everything, but when he comes to, the sun has just finished sinking in the horizon, the stars coming alive in the wake of its light. He turns to the dirt road where Jungkook’s jeep is parked, its headlights like lighthouse beacons. Jimin’s silhouette pops out from the window to wave at him. He hears a bark, two, high and impatient, and he huffs a wet, strained laugh and puts one foot in front of the other, breaking off into a slow jog.

The dogs instantly pile on his lap the moment he hops in the backseat, pawing at his chest, barking like they’re scolding him for taking so long. Taehyung cups their little faces, presses apologetic kisses between their eyes and holds them tight to his chest, laughing loud and unabashedly happy in a way he thought he’d never be again.

“Where to?” Jungkook asks from the driver’s seat, his eyes crinkling as he turns his boyish smile at Taehyung. Jimin’s angled to face him too, looking at him like he’s never been prouder. Taehyung looks at them, looks at Holly and Yeontan, their precious faces angled up at him like sunflowers to the sun. Winter is bleeding into the coattails of fall and the night chill seeps through the open windows and yet, Taehyung feels warm.

“Home.”