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Jimin is lying on his bed. It’s hot outside and his room doesn’t have a fan, so he’s sweating. But he doesn’t care. Nothing matters in this moment.
He opened his window earlier today – when he still had the strength and motivation to actually get out of bed. It’s nearly ten pm, but he can hear his neighbours talking. They’re sitting on their balcony, laughing. They’re probably joking around. Jimin can’t understand what they’re saying, the sound of their voices a distant humming in his ears. A dog barks in the apartment next door. He doesn’t care.
Today is a bad day. Jimin doesn’t know what exactly made it so bad. Maybe the heat. Maybe his friends being busy and not having much time to talk to him. Maybe his boyfriend being stuck at work. Maybe it was nothing at all, maybe his brain simply decided to be sad today. It doesn’t matter anyways – even if his friends or boyfriend were here, they probably wouldn’t be able to cheer him up. Today is a bad day after all.
He’s been staring blankly at the wall for hours now. His throat hurts. He knows he should get up to get a glass of water, but the task seems impossible. There’s an insurmountable wall in front of him – he’s tried climbing it before, but the cracks in the mortar are too small, he can’t grasp them, his fingers slip and he falls and falls and falls–
And then he drops.
That’s always the worst part. Because he knows that after dropping onto the ground, everyone will tell him to get up again. To stand up, wipe the dirt from his shirt and keep going. They will tell him to pretend he didn’t fall in the first place. To ignore the pain that still lingers, long after his initial fall. To smile and laugh and work and talk and be happy.
But what if he can’t? What if he’s unable to get up, to smile, to pretend he’s okay when he’s anything but? What if all he can do is lie down and hug his knees to his chest and cry and scream until all his tears are gone, his tear ducts empty, his voice raw and painful? What if he can’t function in this world, where so many people have so many different expectations of him? What if he’s broken, too damaged for repair?
His limbs are sore, a bone-deep ache that he can’t seem to get rid of. It hurts to move, hurts to even think of moving. His legs are heavy, like the flesh turned into lead, weighing him down. His head feels heavy too, like it’s filled with water, drowning him, making his ears ring.
Jimin breathes in deeply, the air hitching in his throat when he tries and fails to supress the tears. He exhales shakily, clutching the rabbit plushie Yoongi once gave him tighter to his chest. He’s curled up all around it, his chin on the rabbit’s head, soaking the poor thing with his tears. He liked it better when he felt empty, when his eyes stung from not blinking enough and not from crying too much. He liked it better when he was simply staring at the wall. At least he wasn’t thinking then, his head blissfully quiet. But the quietness disappeared – it always does. And now his mind is filled with screaming voices that all sound like him. Some are yelling about what a failure he is, what a screw-up, what a waste of space. Others are simply screeching, raw, primal screams that are giving him a headache. He just wants them to be quiet, why can’t they be quiet?
His thighs itch.
“No,” Jimin whimpers. “No, no no, no, no, no–“
He doesn’t want to. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. It’s not only a bad habit, it’s a dangerous one. It’s painful and messy and it stings.
But at least the voices will be gone.
“No!” Jimin is screaming now, loudly, not thinking or caring about his neighbours hearing him and speaking badly of him and judging him and they all judge him why do they always judge him?
“No! No! No!” He’s still screaming, his throat aches, he should stop screaming, he needs water, he needs to get up but it’s so hard.
He squeezes the rabbit again, mentally apologising to the plushie for hurting it. But he’s hurting too. And if he can’t hurt himself, then he’ll hurt the closest thing to him. He vaguely registers relief flooding through him, relief that Yoongi isn’t home right now – he doesn’t want to hurt his boyfriend. He would never forgive himself if he did.
His screams die out, all the pent-up energy leaving. The tears stopped now, but his breathing is still too fast. Noticing this makes it speed up even more, panic coursing through his veins until his chest feels too tight and his vision blurs. He remembers his therapist’s words suddenly, how he has to ground himself when he feels like he’s dying. He closes his eyes tightly, squeezes his plushie even tighter, feels how soft it is, starts rubbing his hands up and down, listens to his owns breaths and tries to regulate them, starts sucking on the soft ears of his dearest rabbit – and he instantly calms down. He’s still breathing heavily, but now that his mouth is occupied his nose is forced to breathe in and out deeply, forced to stop the short, shallow breaths he was taking before. His chest still feels tight, but when he opens his eyes, he notices his vision is less blurry, his eyes focussing on the patterns on the wall again. Then–
Blissful calmness.
Jimin keeps sucking on his rabbit’s ear, the motion soothing. He clenches and unclenches his fists, focussing on how it feels. His palms are sweaty, so he wipes them on his bed, then starts clenching and unclenching them again. He distantly notes that his limbs feel normal again, the heaviness leaving the more he sucks.
Then he hears keys in a lock. The sound of the front door opening. A voice. “Baby, I’m home!” Dangling keys. Footsteps. The same voice, softer this time: “Oh, baby.”
Arms wrap around him and even though it’s still hot, Jimin doesn’t mind at all. “Did you have a bad day, angel?” Yoongi whispers, before pressing a kiss on the back of Jimin’s neck.
Jimin nods. He might not really remember why Big Jimin felt so bad, but Little Jimin can still feel the after-effects. He doesn’t know how to put it in words, so he hums softly.
“You want your paci?”
He hums again. Yoongi lets go of him, making Jimin whine. His boyfriend quickly shushes him. “Daddy is just getting your paci, angel. I’m still in the room.”
He feels the bed dip, then Yoongi’s hands are on him again, softly turning him to face the rest of the room instead of the wall. “There’s my baby,” Yoongi whispers. Jimin looks up at him to see him smile, but there’s obvious worry in his eyes. He takes the ear of Jimin’s rabbit and pulls it softly out of his mouth. He then quickly replaces it with Jimin’s pacifier. “That’s better, hm?”
Jimin nods, the movement barely visible, but Yoongi still sees it. His daddy always sees him.
“Let’s have a nice cool bath. I bought you some new finger paint so you can make pretty drawings. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Jimin’s reply is to let go of his rabbit and to stretch his arms towards Yoongi, clenching and unclenching his hands. Yoongi quickly catches on and reaches for Jimin, picking him up carefully. “My angel,” he says, fondness clear in his voice. “My little prince. Daddy’s here now. Let’s make my baby happy again, hm?”
Jimin feels his eyes tear up again. He can practically hear Big Jimin think he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve Yoongi and his kindness. But Little Jimin doesn’t want to agree, because he does deserve his daddy. He deserves to be happy. His daddy said so and he would never lie to Jimin.
Yoongi takes them to the bathroom. He puts Jimin down on the floor, back leaning against the wall, and starts to fill up the tub. The cool tiles feel good against Jimin’s skin, the heat finally leaving his body a little. He’s getting excited for his bath. His daddy said he could paint and he’s excited for that too. He’s glad Yoongi came home when he did – after Jimin had already slipped into his headspace. This way Big Jimin doesn’t have to explain why he felt so bad – because he doesn’t even know how to – and Little Jimin finally gets to spend time with his daddy.
When the bath is filled up, Yoongi leaves the room to quickly get the finger paint he bought on his way home. Jimin whines when he leaves, but he’s back soon enough, softly shushing Jimin. “Let’s get you all clean, sweetheart. Do you want me to get in the tub with you, or should I sit here and keep you company?”
Jimin doesn’t have to think about it too long. He’s craving human touch – the innocent, comforting feeling of Yoongi’s arms wrapped around him. He pouts and looks up at his daddy. “With me,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse from all the screaming he did earlier and it hurts. Jimin winces.
Yoongi smiles at him. “Okay, I will. Let me get you some water first.” He walks out again, but Jimin doesn’t whine this time – Yoongi left twice just now and came back both times, so he trusts him. As he’s thinking this, Yoongi walks into the bathroom again, holding a sippy cup with water in it. He hands it to Jimin, who grabs it and greedily drinks it, the water soothing his sore throat. When the cup is empty, he hands it back to Yoongi.
“You want more?”
A shake of his head.
“Bath time?”
He nods.
Yoongi smiles again and helps Jimin undress. When he’s naked, Yoongi helps him into the tub. “Hold onto the tub for me, will you?”
Jimin nods and Yoongi gives him a kiss on his forehead. Then his boyfriend undresses and Jimin stares at him, fascinated by his pale, smooth skin. No blemishes. No marks. No scars. Yoongi’s skin is perfect, unlike Jimin’s. He averts his eyes, suddenly feeling self-conscious about his body. He had told his boyfriend about his scars before, about his past that still haunts him sometimes, about the bad days. He felt embarrassed the first time Yoongi saw him naked, asking him to turn off the lights. But Yoongi always tells him how beautiful he is, over and over, how Jimin’s scars don’t bother him, how they’re proof of how far Jimin has made it, how strong he is. So why does he still feel so weak?
Yoongi steps into the bathtub, the water sloshing around as he sits down and pulls Jimin towards his chest. Jimin leans on him, needing that touch, that confirmation that his boyfriend is still there.
“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Yoongi suddenly asks, breaking the silence.
Jimin shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“That’s okay too. Do you want to paint something, my little prince?”
This time Jimin nods. Yoongi leans over the bathtub so he can grab the finger paint he left on the floor. The paint is made specifically for the bathtub, easily cleaned with water. Jimin feels a small spark of excitement at seeing it, wanting to make a pretty painting for Yoongi. As his boyfriend opens all the little pots, he thinks of what he’s going to paint. Maybe the sun, warm and bright like his daddy. Or some flowers, pretty and delicate like his daddy. Or maybe a tree, big and strong like his daddy. Maybe all of those. He nods to himself. Yes. He’s going to paint all of that.
“You tell me the colour and I’ll hold the pot for you, all right, prince?”
Vaguely Jimin realises it’s an attempt to make him talk more, to get him out of his own thoughts and focus on the present. It’s a trick his therapist gave him, which Jimin then gave to Yoongi in return.
But Little Jimin doesn’t care. He just wants to listen to his daddy and make him happy. “Green,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Good choice.” Yoongi holds out the paint for him like he said he would and Jimin dips his finger inside. It feels funny and he smiles a little – not a full smile, only the corners of his mouth lifting up.
Yoongi presses a kiss on Jimin’s shoulder. “I love you, angel. And daddy would do anything to make you happy. You know that, right?”
Jimin hums. He knows. He really does. So he turns his head, trying to look his daddy in the eyes when he says: “I know.”
And then he keeps painting. His body no longer his canvas to express his pain – he has learned how to use alternatives that aren’t harmful. And his boyfriend doesn’t magically make things better, no one can, but he makes it easier to deal with the aftermath of bad days. And he’ll still have those bad days for a long time, but they’re easier to handle knowing he has support at the end of this dark tunnel.