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"we thought it would get better, mom," taehyung begs, and he hates it.
the nagging monologue his mom continues as if he didn't say anything, something about responsibilities and bills and how she misses him, fades into a high-pitched, unpleasant murmur in the background as he presses the phone into his shoulder. his neck hurts, a twenty minute call already straining his patience and muscles.
"i know, eomma. i'm sorry. i'll visit you for chuseok, and i'll bring yoongi. yes, i promise," he tries to calm his mother while folding a shirt and putting it into his suitcase.
taehyung's mom is not satisfied. her satoori is becoming louder, as if to prove a point.
"yes. no. no, that's — yes. ok. what? no, don't worry, we won't need a whole — dak galbi and youngyang chaltteok for yoongi will do just fine? yes, i'm sure." he sighs. "please, mom, just — i have to go. but don't worry, we'll handle it. it's gonna get better. i just gotta pay off — no!"
he nearly drops his phone when his mom starts another round of how he has to come home, how the bills won't be paying themselves, how they'd be able to chip in to make end's meet. the shirt he had folded drops onto the pile of hoodies and sweatpants and underwear messily as he scrambles for his phone before it's able to slip from his ear and shoulder with all the sweat and movements.
"mom, no, please — stop. listen, i gotta go, yoongi's waiting for me. i'll call you tomorrow, ok?"
and before she can say anything further, something undoubtedly dumb that does nothing to soothe his aching heart, he hangs up and tosses the phone into the bag. it slips between a pair of blue and grey checkered pajama pants and yoongi's favorite oversized yellow hoodie. then he grabs it again, unlocks it, texts yoongi.
to: baby (derogatory)
i'm omw, be there in forty
he responds almost immediately, while taehyung throws his charger, jacket and house slippers into the bag, not minding the unfolded shirt on top. it'll be crumpled as hell.
to: loser (lovingly)
yea u better speed i'm starving
at that, taehyung hurries to the fridge. he almost forgot the chocolate pudding he intended to smuggle in, along with all the high-calorie milkshake powder and the chicken sandwiches he had prepared.
to: baby (derogatory)
sorry mom called and wouldn't stop her "taehyungie baby u gotta come home u need someone to take care of u not the other way round" shit
to: loser (lovingly)
she knows damn well i'm the only one allowed to call u baby
square up mrs kim
to: baby (derogatory)
yoon she's my mom
to: loser (lovingly)
repectfully prepare to fight ma'am
taehyung snorts. then he looks around the apartment once again, checking if he's got everything. the heater is turned off (it's august anyways), cold water too, one window's tilted open a crack, plants watered. he packed clothes, headphones, books, a light jacket for august rains, pencils and yoongi's drawing pad. he got his keys, his wallet, phone, subway card, beanie.
he really got everything he needs for two weeks out of the apartment.
as soon as he locks the apartment door behind him, he texts again, one hand on his phone, the other gripping his bag as if his life depends on it.
to: baby (derogatory)
u can fight her on thanksgiving
i told her u would come
actually no don't fight her u wouldn't stand a chance
to: loser (lovingly)
ok rude i am the pinnacle of health
to: baby (derogatory)
give me some credit i'm worried abt u
to: loser (lovingly)
u r just worried bc i'm the only one who gets u free cake
to: baby (derogatory)
i work hard for that cake stfu
to: loser (lovingly)
wouldn't consider cuddles as hard work but go off i guess
then he's underground, in the subway. it swallows taehyung's thoughts, and he has to lock his phone for a moment to gather himself and not think. about what exists between yoongi and him that they don't talk about. things that might be there or not. he doesn't know, actually. about what will happen, about what will be, and about so many other things. he hates it.
across from where he's sitting, a boy of six or seven is picking his nose before grabbing his father's hand. taehyung grimaces and focuses on the girl on the dad's other side. she's nine or ten and reads a book with a black crown on the cover, something that looks just like the fantasy novels he had devoured in his spare time from age eleven to nineteen. now, at twenty-five, he only reads for work. and to yoongi.
then he gets off the subway, two stops after the father with his kids left in the direction of the central station.
when he unlocks his phone, five messages pop up.
to: loser (lovingly)
anyway get ur ass in here asap and entertain me
hope u got my books
and my headphones
and the yellow hoodie
to: loser (lovingly)
ok u r in the sub text me when u r here :]
there's something warm and soft living in his heart.
"do you think they saw you?," yoongi asks as they sit on his bed and eat chocolate pudding.
taehyung shakes his head. "they don't have time to pay attention to me, honestly."
yoongi groans, full on moans, as he swallows another spoonful.
taehyung grins like an idiot.
"have i told you how much i love you today?"
"you did," taehyung says dryly, shoving the spoon into his mouth. "but i wouldn't mind if you did it again."
yoongi acts as if he's thinking very hard about important things, the best businessman-frown he can manage on his face, which is not very good.
"first you have to tell me what's for dinner," he teases.
"i don't know, what is for dinner? don't you have a cafeteria here?"
yoongi pouts, shoving taehyung's shoulder. he acts hurt, mortally wounded, for dramatic effect. "you know as well as me how inedible this cafeteria shit is," he grumbles, "wanna go to mcdonalds? they got that chicken burger for two dollars." his eyes are hopeful, his lips in an adorable pout, and taehyung swallows his reminder that a) the chicken burger from mcdonalds probably contains more antibiotics than yoongi's whole medication plan and b) he can't leave the hospital as long he's on a drip, which is 23/7, and he's not finished with today's infusion.
"should i go and get you some?," he asks as yoongi subtly leans back in his pillows. he is hyper aware of how sitting upright for a whole milkshake-and-pudding meal exhausts yoongi, even though the older tries his best to hide any evidence of weakness, as he always does.
yoongi fidgets with the tube in his arm, where clear nacl solution is flowing through it and into his blood. the white bandages around the needle are worn out already, after only six or seven hours.
"yes," he finally murmurs, and taehyung gets up without any hesitation. the next mcdonalds is only two blocks down the road, one mile away tops, and he couldn't ever resist these cat-like eyes literally pouting and turning yoongi into an actual golden retriever.
"chicken burger with fries, sour cream and coke zero?," he makes sure, his boots cold after an afternoon in yoongi's bed.
yoongi nods, hands trembling almost imperceptibly as he picks up a book from his nightstand. "thanks babe."
taehyung does his best to smile brightly. it hurts.
"see you soon," he chimes and is out the door in seconds.
when he passes the nurse's rooms, a break room with kitchenette, sofa, and a bed for them to nap and rest, sister hannelore approaches him. her spiky short hair glows unnaturally bright under the neon lights of the corridor. the platinum blonde looks a bit green.
"taehyung-ah, hi," she waves and smoothes her scrubs a bit. the wrinkles around her eyes got deeper since he last saw her, and not even the dark mascara and eye shadow can mask the exhaustion she carries.
"hanni!" he can't help but grin, disregarding the honorifics for the older woman on purpose, much to his mom's disapproval (granted she was here to judge his sloppy behaviour). it's good to see sister hannelore again, especially after she had taken a sabbatical to care for her mother, an old lady nearing the nineties who used to bake the best tangerine cake. "how is the family? hope the kids behave. your mom is doing okay?" the worried tone in his voice is obvious, but since the wrinkles are so present, he thinks it's justified.
"nah, everything's okay. they cause trouble as usual, it's nothing new. got a letter from the school last week, but we've taken care of that," hannelore laughs. "granny is fine. she's complaining all the time, so we don't really have to worry."
he remembers hannelore's mom well, sturdy and with a bad back pain most of the time, but an awfully potty mouth and an attitude. phew. the day she stops complaining will be a dark one for hanni's family.
hannelore furrows her brow, and taehyung knows what's about to come.
"listen, taehyung, i'm sorry, but i wrote the new prescriptions for yoongi, we just need the doctor's signature. but the insurance doesn't cover about one third of them, you know that."
she doesn't say what's implied. you'll have to pay that part yourself. plus the prescription fees. 13,000₩ per order, about eleven or twelve orders per month. good luck with that.
taehyung lets out one shaky breath. "yes. i'm just waiting for this month's paycheck and i'll be on track again, i'll handle it. don't worry, please." he'll work some more shifts at the company, overtime, maybe even on holidays and weekends, to get some additional bonuses. he'll pay for yoongi's therapy, his medication, for everything he needs and for what the insurance doesn't pay for for some obscure reason.
hannelore pats his shoulder as he murmurs something about going for a walk before the hospital closes its gates for the night, and smiles sadly. she wants to say something, he knows it, but she doesn't, so he turns around and continues down the quiet hallway with green and orange doors on both sides. silence follows his wake like a loyal puppy.
when he's in the elevator, pressing the button for going down, hannelore shouts after him, a grin in her voice.
"yah! get me a happy meal as well!"
taehyung turns around to see her jump once, despite her constant whining about old bones, and the hannelore-like mischievous smile, wondering when yoongi and him became so predictable.
"aren't you a little too old for a happy meal?," he shouts back, a little more quiet to not disturb the patients behind closed doors, and watches the fake fury on her face.
"be careful what you say you punk, or i'll call your mo—"
the doors close with a ping and down he goes.
he barely makes it back on time, the porter already moving to close the door when he slips through, three bags of burgers and drinks and fries in his hands.
"you're late," the porter grunts while locking the gate.
taehyung rummages through the bags and hands him the usual large fries and black coffee. "there was a line," he shrugs and waves goodbye.
somewhere halfway to four or five in the morning, yoongi's heart monitor goes off, beeping that familiar monotonous rythm indicating heart failure.
taehyung snaps awake, his body feeling like a overstreched spring, ready to go and do — whatever, his heart immediately thumping in his throat. what if it's too late, what if he's dying this time, what if his time is up, way too early, what if there are complications, what if he's in pain, what if —
yoongi next to him reaches for taehyung's arm, grasping his wrist like he's in pain. his fingers are cold, despite the uncomfortable august night heat.
two painfully long and endlessly stretching seconds pass until taehyung's eyes are more accustomed to the darkness around him, until he understands what yoongi is trying to tell him, showing him dangling from his lean fingers.
taehyung relaxes immediately, releases a trembling sigh and wills the tears threatening to spill to go back to where they came from.
the band aid securing the sensor intended for surveilling yoongi's pulse and the oxygen saturation in his blood had slipped off his finger during the night, causing the machine to release a series of violent beeps and alarms because obviously the patient has zero beats per minute and is, in fact, dying.
hannelore rushes in, already wearing her jacket and purse, ready to go home after another tiring ten hour shift.
yoongi waves her goodbye after they assured her nothing's wrong and she's applied another band aid to yoongi's finger to keep the sensor in place this time.
then she's gone, lights turned off again, and yoongi turns to taehyung in the one-person hospital bed they're sharing, struggling with the mess of tubes for a moment.
a first streak of faint sunlight filters through the closed blinds and paints yoongi soft, soft, soft.
"break up with me," he says once he's sure no line is obstructing him, his honest eyes locking taehyung's, his cold hands between taehyung's, his short legs entwined with taehyung's.
taehyung snorts.
"no."
yoongi closes his eyes. a small smile makes its way onto his face, something relieved and incredibly sad.
then he whispers: "thanks."
they go to sleep again.
taehyung's heart hurts.
the next few days, yoongi is in pain, says it feels as if someone is sitting on his chest. they don't know why, can't figure what causes the pain in his chest, can't pin down one medication or any combined side effects, but they know he starts to breathe more shallow. it's only natural for him to adjust the way he's breathing to the hurt, an only natural subconscious reaction for his body to avoid discomfort, but it leads to even more respiratory problems. the oxygen saturaion in his blood drops slowly but steadily.
he forces taehyung to go to work, threatening to kick him out of bed or sending him home into their empty apartment if he doesn't go and work, says he needs his yoongi-time in between therapy and exercise as well, and taehyung obliges.
he hates how calm yoongi is about his own pain, going on with his day as if it's nothing, and how he's right.
it won't stop him from complaining though, sending yoongi whiny texts from work all day, a blurry selfie when he takes a short mid-morning break outside, and a picture of his lunch (one yellow popsicle he can't recognize the intended flavor of — something fruity —, two frozen mars bars he had forgotten in the freezer last week, and a can of lukewarm red bull to counter the heat ruling in the office) with equally pathetic captions.
he can't concentrate at all, half-asses his tasks, considers going back to yoongi every five minutes, but stays, because he knows yoongi hates when he changes his schedule for him. plus, he had specifically requested some solo time, and taehyung won't disregard yoongi's wishes.
when he's finally free to go home in the evenings, leaving his cluttered, damp cubicle and wishing his colleagues a good evening, he rushes to the hospital as fast as possible, only stopping to pick up food.
days pass, and yoongi doesn't get better.
upon opening yoongi's door at the intensive care unit on the fourth day, he immediately knows why yoongi had been so adamant in sending him to work.
"i brought tteokbokki," he says flatly and tries not to stare at the transparent nasal cannula in yoongi's face and the two dark blue bottles of oxygen sitting in a backpack at the foot of his bed.
"i didn't want to upset you," yoongi murmurs, avoids taehyung's gaze and stares at his drawing pad instead. "you would've insisted in staying. it's not that bad."
the following silence weighs heavy on both their shoulders.
"i love you," taehyung finally says.
"come here," yoongi finally says.
they sit in bed together and talk about sweet nothings until the tteokbokki is cold.
(yoongi tells him, while they eat cold tteokbokki with even colder chicken sandwiches taehyung had prepared in the nurse's room the day before, how it took them (the doctor, nurses and him) three hours to decide what to do, when the newest painkillers began to fade and he still couldn't breathe properly. he tells him how the doctor, a woman only a few years older than him, with a soft voice and careful hands, told him he has to take the cannula out for the night, as a part of the 16/8 plan. he tells him how bored he got between adjusting the oxygen percentage every now and then and going to physiotherapy before official dinner time.)
the night after that, yoongi wakes taehyung at 3:13 am. or rather — taehyung is shaken into consciousness by yoongi's absence and some kind of worry about the cold next to him. he's awake in mere seconds, although he, at first, doesn't quite know why.
the door is cracked open, the yellow neon light from the hallway filtering in and throwing a singular ugly, yellow smear of light onto the blue bedsheets where yoongi's supposed to be asleep next to him.
he doesn't think much of it — maybe he went to the vending machine right outside the station's doors to buy some late-night snack or icy cold water, or maybe he went to chat with the nurses. he likes to practice his charm, because he "doesn't want to rust". or maybe he just tries to fill the space between them, the silence surrounding them all, with other people, some nurses or patients or anyone, basically, or drown himself in silence. he does that sometimes.
he still goes on and looks for yoongi.
taehyung can't find his shoes, maybe they slid under the bed earlier, so he goes barefoot. out of the corner of his eye, he spots yoongi's blue slippers next to the nightstand, and the portable oxygen bottle for the nose cannula, carelessly left behind.
down the corridor, he peeks into the nurse's kitchen, into the open living room for the patients with its couches and bookshelves and tea tables, into the small waiting room for families and friends. it's all empty, empty and quiet, and the linoleum floor echoes loudly with his footsteps.
taehyung has never felt so small in his life, never quite so vulnerable and lost as in this particular moment, when he searches for yoongi in a vast silence filled with wide sweaters in august and painkillers and loneliness. it's something about the hospital at three am, something about strangers sleeping behind coloured doors and fighting their own battles, something about the lightning and sterile and colors that makes taehyung think and hope and dread. it's unreal. out of place.
taehyung turns around after glancing through the glass doors at the end of the hallway, showing nothing but another hallway, eerie lit and empty. the vending machine is dark. noone's here.
okay, maybe he does get a bit nervous now. the station isn't that big, only about ten or twelve rooms, and yoongi's not supposed to leave while his infusion is not finished. so where is he. did he fall, too filled with pride to call for help, or did he leave to wander around the hospital, too lost in his own head again? is something wrong with his infusion? the medication?
yoongi once read something on the 'net, maybe on that hellsite tumblr dot com he adores, and shared it with taehyung, something about how some cats tend to get close to their caretaker and sleep in their bed with them once they feel their end creeping close, and dogs doing the exact opposite and isolating themselves, and as dumb as it sounds — taehyung fears that maybe, maybe, maybe yoongi will do the same thing a dog might do. he fears yoongi will shy away from him once the moment nears, and will block him out. so what if?
when he passes the nurse's room again (hannelore and two other nurses, both around taehyung's age maybe, sit on the couch and drink a cup of coffee together. he wishes them good night again and closes their door to not disturb them more), he continues down the last part of the intensive care unit.
his eyes barely graze the dark bathroom door, but then he does a double take. there's light coming out from under it, and okay, that doesn't have to mean anything, since it's the only bathroom here and about twenty people share a singular room for their needs, but at the same time it means so damn much, he doesn't have to knock and hear yoongi's voice mumble something unrecognizable to open the unlocked door.
"stay out," yoongi croaks upon taehyung's entrance, and he glances up at him from his place at the floor before a heavy coughing fit forces him to turn toward the toilet bowl again.
yoongi vomits.
taehyung's heart drops heavily into his stomach.
"here." he rips several paper towels from their package and wets them in the sink, crouching down next to him and the drip pole for his infusion and wiping his mouth clean. there are tears on yoongi's face.
"should i call hannelore? she's on duty," he whispers and drops the wet ball of soaked paper into the toilet.
yoongi shakes his head, a weak attempt at pride.
"just side effects." the words tumble down his tongue, slurred together, a little hasty, a little anxious. filled up with dread and fear of what might come, and taehyung gets it, he thinks.
he's seen it before, the way the combination of so many pills and antibiotics damages his stomach lining, his liver, kidneys, pancreas. he's seen before how yoongi coughs and nothing comes up but blood and red mucus, but it doesn't make it less terrible.
taehyung's heart — he doesn't know what happens, really, it hurts and hurts and longs, and it cracks, and he can't do anything except swallowing it down, because he doesn't know what's happening or what to do. he's so helpless.
later, when they lie in bed again, yoongi freshly showered and tucked into taehyung's chest, they whisper. about anything — the cold linoleum on this floor's floor, their poor unwatered plants at home, taehyung's latest project, yoongi's days in the hospital, how there are hoards of mice living in the park down in the courtyard, the only tv channel they're able to turn on being a children's bible channel, and taehyung loves how he's able to make yoongi laugh, a low, rough, cracking sound that warms him through and through.
still, the jacket over the chair in the corner weighs on taehyung's stomach as he taps a calming melody onto yoongi's back, watching him drift off to hopefully sweet dreams.
the small black box in the right pocket contains his heart, and yet it seems to race in his chest, right beneath where yoongi's head rests, peacefully asleep.
yoongi spills his love in the most innocent ways.
for example — not a single week passes without yoongi sending taehyung at least two or three songs, mostly accompanied with variations of "made me think of you, loser". he honestly doesn't know how yoongi knows so many songs, how he still manages to find new ones for him, how he's able to know so many small gems and how he shares them with such ease. sometimes, when inspiration strikes, the tracks he sends are something self-made, something hastily recorded with the shitty cheap equipment he had collected over the years, or hummed into the microphone of his phone, or played on the keyboard he somehow always misplaces.
(most of the time, it's just sitting between the cushions on the couch, right where he had left it, but yoongi never wears his glasses. it's always taehyung who plops onto the couch after a long day or in the morning, before his first coffee, and hits his elbow or back or ass on the cold edges of the keyboard while yoongi whines about not being able to find his precious baby anymore.)
for example — the afternoons when yoongi's sad, or feeling small, or when the apartment is too crammed and too big and too clean and too dirty for him, or when yoongi's heart is too messed up and filled with emptiness, and he doesn't know what to do with his fidgeting hands. then he sidles up to taehyung as soon as he's home, still hesitant after all these years, to ask him if he could paint. paint, that means taehyung lies on the living room floor or on their bed, and yoongi collects all his colours littered across the apartment, straddles his hips, and paints taehyung's back with the most intricate patterns and replicas of famous paintings and his own drawings. sometimes he just messes around and draws words and sentences and taehyung has to guess. mostly memes.
("make out? no thanks, i'm saving these lips for the sweet kiss of death," he writes one day, and taehyung is offended, because he didn't guess it right until the last three words, and then they ruin the bedsheets and make a mess with hues of red and orange and green.)
for example — with the smallest gestures, because yoongi's always better with smaller and softer, always been. he's better with making coffee the way taehyung likes it, better with recapping a show or episode taehyung likes but missed, better with holding taehyung's hands, because he does it as if they're incredibly fragile and his last saving straw at the same time. yoongi is best in all his laid back ways, in his sacred silence, quiet reassurance, his careful hands, it's so yoongi.
still, yoongi's the best with words. or, maybe he's not, but taehyung is worse. taehyung teases, he's funny and charming — parents like him — but he doesn't know how he does it, and he's always a clown, somehow, even when he doesn't mean to be. that's why he doesn't talk much when it's serious. he can't shut up in ever, but as soon as things get deep and meaningful and important — speaking: relationships, feelings, validation — he can't open his mouth, because he would make a fool of himself, blurt out silly jokes, and hurt someone in the process. it's always been like that, him having no control of his mouth when he gets nervous, so he prefers it shut at the slightest hint of real talk.
yoongi is kind of the same. at the same time, he's not, but whatever.
yoongi also clowns. he always has something to say, vines and dumb, stupid shit, just like taehyung, blurting out the most random, crazy stuff when taehyung's around, things that might send the both of them to a nuthouse if anyone else heard them say it, but he's also kind of shy most of the time. laid back. or maybe he's just lazy, but the point is, he doesn't talk that much.
yoongi is more mature. taehyung figures it comes naturally, with illness and the responsibilities he's burdened with, like a sick and twisted pay-none-get-two–deal.
any way, yoongi knows when it's necessary to talk, he senses how they kind of hover around each other, unaware of their need to talk and sort things out, and then he knows they need to talk, and he's a thousand times better, more skilled in this sort of thing than taehyung. that doesn't mean he acts on it, though, and he often doesn't, because he's anxious and worried and a nervous wreck sometimes and can't talk at all.
but once he does, he's so unbelievably good at it, calm and peaceful, and he's direct and he keeps things short. he never says something not thought through wholly, he thinks before he talks, then, filters out the rest, and he's collected, soft, reassuring. loving with every syllable, word, sentence, pouring adoration into his heart and threatening to let ot spill over.
so yoongi is good in communicating with him, and at the same time he isn't. just like taehyung. only different.
taehyung asks yoongi to marry him, and it goes something like this:
three days before yoongi's supposed to come home again, taehyung takes him outside.
hannelore had agreed to wait a little bit longer to hook the new satchet of antibiotics onto the cannula in his arm, for their private celebration of dismissal, and taehyung helps yoongi up the stairs, onto the roof, because he always wanted to go up there and take in the view.
he carries the bag with oxygen for yoongi and holds his hands in a firm grip to prevent him from falling, because he's grown awfully weak over the course of five weeks, and taehyung doesn't want to wipe yoongi's big, sexy brain off the stairs.
outside, on the roof, it's hot, it's like a bag of bricks against his chest after the cool, too-well insulated hospital walls, and it sticks to their skin and hair and clothes like a warm, chewy, flavourless gum bubble that popped and covered them whole, and they sit down at the edge, exactly three stories above yoongi's room, and let their feet dangle.
taehyung is set back on his elbows, yoongi on his back and staring up into the cloudless, overwhelmingly blue sky, and it's quiet except for the distant honking of cars, the loud, colorful city life in full bloom, and the silent, monotone fwsh of the metal bottles helping yoongi with his oxygen saturation and breathing.
"how do you feel?," taehyung asks the same moment yoongi says "are you okay?".
they laugh, yoongi's quiet rumble harmonizing with his own, and it feels just like a few months ago, when yoongi was doing alright and they went to the beach together — the sky the same unsettling blue, the air carrying the same intense summer around them, their hands entwined just the same way, yoongi pressed against taehyung's side just like now. laughing about nothing, just like now.
the only difference was that the air smelled like the ocean then, thick with salt, and now it smells like nothing, just bland city air, and how yoongi wore his black swimming trunks with a short-sleeved shirt that covered the feeding tube scars on his stomach, because he thinks they're ugly.
"i wish i could help you," taehyung mumbles into yoongi's hair. it smells like honey. "i wish i could make it better for you, take some of it, i mean."
you don't deserve this, you don't deserve this, you don't deserve. you're too good for any of this. you're the best thing, person, whatever, in this godforsaken city, you deserve to be worshipped and cared for and spoiled stupid. you deserve the golden first everything and the onyx last everything and anything starlight in between.
but he doesn't say any of it, because he had said it countless times before and it only makes yoongi cry.
yoongi pushes himself up, away from his side, and grabs taehyung's thigh to steady himself, and to assure him.
"you do, baby." he pauses. squeezes taehyung's knee. breathes a shaky, weak breath. "means everything to me, that you're still here. with me."
and that's all it takes for taehyung — the honesty in yoongi's dark eyes, his calloused guitar player hands on his leg — to blurt out the question he had carried under his tongue for too long.
shit, how much time he had thought about it, nights and days and weeks; he had practiced it in his head, silently in front of the mirror, repeated the sentences he wanted to gift to yoongi, repeated the love he has to give, presented on a plate of everchanging words, only to make the moment perfect.
now he can't think of anything, just yoongi sitting next to him on the roof of a hospital in the hottest august summer sun, thighs barely touching, yoongi in that awfully hot yellow hoodie and the cannula in his small button nose, yoongi with obstructed lungs and a barely-functioning pancreas, and he can't remember for the life of him what he had wanted to say. he just —
"marry me?"
his fingers tighten around the box in his right pant pocket, his body tensing in the weirdest way, contrary to his relaxed pose, eyes trained on yoongi and him alone.
and taehyung will never forget the expression on yoongi's face, the utter disbelief and then, finally, joy that make their way onto his face, will never forget the seconds it takes for yoongi to understand what he just said and think about the question, will never forget the tight grip of his hand on his pants and the way his own hands are curled to fists inside his pockets only an inch or so away. he will never forget, or maybe he already did, how his head is empty and not a single thought makes it through, just an endless stream of yoongi yoongi yoongi.
"of course," and taehyung's world is upside down, inside out, all messed up, in a good way.
it's as if he's drunk, his fingers buzzing just like when he's drunk, and it feels as if someone snuck into his head and moved the furniture one and a half centimeters to the right. it's as if he's sitting on his childhood home's roof with yoongi again, on the night of taehyung's nineteenth chuseok, and they're drunk from two bottles of disgusting raspberry soju he had stolen out of his visiting granddad's hidden family supply, and he stares into the sky — or maybe it's just yoongi's eyes — and tries to find the culprit who dared to move his brain furniture.
"really?"
yoongi laughs, grins, gifts him his brightest gummy smile that turns his eyes into twin crescents and taehyung's chest into a pathetic puddle of adoration, and he can't possibly —
the next moment, he lunges forward, upward, sideways, reaches out for yoongi, and their lips meet, yoongi's cannula in their way, both of them sweaty and somewhat uncomfortable in their skin at the edge of the world, messy and all, and it's the best possible moment.
"are you asleep?"
"too happy to sleep. you okay?"
"do you love me?"
"most of the time."
"i mean, you have to love me if you want to marry me."
"of course i love you."
"do you think it'll solve our problems if we marry?"
"no."
"okay. thank you. i'm glad."
"i'm too."
"can i ask you something?"
"yeah, pop off."
"why do you love me?"
"because you get all excited over baking shows."
"jerk."
"okay, sorry. it's really because you know all the crucial lines of the last harry potter movie by heart."
"i'm putting you up for adoption, no cap."
"i don't really have an answer. i just do. why do you love me?"
"touché."
"wow, you're cold. i don't even get a half-assed 'because you suck at driving'? give me back that ring."
"fuck off, that's mine now."
"calling the cops right fucking now."
"filing for a divorce. i take the kids."
"are we through all family-related instances yet?"
"yes."
"do you mean it? kids?"
"sorry, i just — i can't. adopt kids, i mean."
"oh. yes. i remember."
"i'm sorry. shouldn't have mentioned it."
"don't be, it's okay."
("you brave wonderful man."
"shut up with these cheesy dumbledore quotes you bitch."
"fuck j. k. rowling."
"you brave wonderful man, you've never been sexier."
"guide 101 on how to date an activist, bestseller of the year, i'd say.")
"are you crying?"
"yes."
"do you want to talk?"
"no."
"okay. well, i'm here."
"okay."
"why do you put up with me? i don't really understand."
"you're worth it."
"i can't give what you deserve."
"doesn't matter. you're enough."
"but i can't even — i can't even kiss you all the time like you deser—"
"listen. please. i don't care about kisses or anything. i even care less about not having kids, or not getting a credit, or paying the bills. i just want to be with you. for as long as possible."
"but maybe you care about all that in the future. i can't hold you back all the time."
"then i'll tell you. if anything changes, if my wishes aren't the same anymore, i'll tell you. promise."
"i love you."
"of course you do, i'm funny and beautiful."
"are not."
"am. and you're a liar. i love you."
"no homo tho, am i right?"
"?"
they fight the night he comes home.
it's dumb, it really is.
yoongi can't even remember what really started their argument.
the day had been slow, every second dripping with that unsettling kind of energy he's filled up with every time he's about to leave the hospital after being there for weeks and weeks on end. he bid his farewell to hannelore and maria and the other three nurses that took turns in caring for his meds and infusions, got the discharge papers from the doctor, they packed their things, and left the hospital.
the first step out the doors had been... weird, because he had gotten used to push the drip pole around with him, and now it was gone, and his arm was sore and untrained from hanging uselessly at his side for weeks. august came to an end and the sun seemed to fight for every droplet of sweat running down the necks of millions of people, and it was weird how yoongi was suddenly able to wear a shirt again instead of big sweaters. it was still hotter than inside the hospital.
when taehyung had sat down next to him on the subway and took his hand in his own, yoongi had almost started to cry.
the feeling of simmering august air on his skin, the sticky summer subway heat in his hair, the stinky, sweaty august people smell, he had missed it not a bit, but now that he's outside again, he almost cries because even though he really did not miss it, he realizes how isolated he had been in the hospital. how he was once again ripped out of his carefully constructed surroundings, his routine, his life.
they walk to their apartment once they get off the subway, a seven minute walk that takes them around twelve now, because he can't so his usual speedwalk anymore, with carrying the oxygen bottles in the august summer heat and everything.
the disgusting feeling in his chest won't disappear. it's here, and it itches under his skin and grates through his chest, works its claws into his flesh and love, yoongi wants to puke.
he should be overjoyed, euphoric, being able to leave the hospital once again, being free to go wherever he wants to, and he is, because he'll be able to sleep in his own bed again, with taehyung next to him without having to worry about crushing his arms or any kind of tubes with his weight. but this feeling — it doesn't stop roaming inside him, wagging its tail almost playfully, and breathing into his throat from within. it talks and whispers and it makes his skin crawl with disgust and hate and anger.
they step over their doorstep on the third floor, yoongi's breath awfully short and the oxygen flowing through the cannula is burning in his nose.
they close the door.
yoongi knows, or rather suspects, that they're both exhausted behind every reasonable point, and they are home now, where no nurse or patient has business in passing their almost always opened door, where they don't have to be careful what to say, because every wall has nosy ears, and they're constantly in public. they're home, and nobody judges and they're both incredibly tired.
taehyung because of work and not sleeping through the nights in a small hospital bed, which is yoongi's fault, and the constant worry, which is his fault as well.
yoongi is tired of it all.
and then they fight, over something so irrelevant he doesn't even remember anymore, and the fight grows bigger and bigger and devours them whole.
it starts small, he can't remember anything of it anymore, but it continues with yoongi wanting to take a nap and taehyung furrowing his brow, saying it's too early for bed, is he feeling okay? is it the medication again that makes him all tired? and yoongi gets angry because taehyung acts like he's a child and not like he's a fully-grown human being exhausted from therapies and a body giving out on him, wanting to nap the august air away.
taehyung counters he's worried about yoongi because he loses weight although he eats the four to five prescribed calorie rich meals a day and takes all his meds properly, and because he'll grow too dependent on the oxygen bottles that damage his airways, and because he's still not wandered up the transplant list, not even one spot. yoongi says he's sorry, for burdening him, and that he wishes it would be different, but taehyung is not his mom, and he doesn't have to take care of him, because it's not his fucking job and yoongi has some dignity left, after all. he can take care of himself and he doesn't need a caretaker, but someone loving him. taehyung tells him to shut the fuck up and stop with the fucking apologies, because nobody is to blame for any of it, and that he didn't realize what he did to him through his way of caring and worrying, and that he'll try and turn it down a notch, because he doesn't want yoongi to feel uncomfortable. yoongi curses and throws at taehyung how he didn't ask for any of this happening and that he's so grateful for taehyung and that he loves him so much, and then taehyung cries and yoongi leaves the apartment because he can't handle the silence between them, and he wanders around the neighborhood until way after the sun had set.
the ring on his finger is heavy in a pleasant way, pulling him down to earth and grounding him in reality.
he had gotten into his own head too deep, too fast, again.
after that, the thing in his chest sleeps.
when he returns to their apartment, taehyung didn't prepare anything for dinner, and yoongi's glad.
he throws together a decent meal, although it takes longer than usual, and it's nearing midnight when they finally eat, but they both are okay again.
they talk again, and yoongi is happy. taehyung holds his hand and smiles like an idiot, just like himself, and they sit on the couch afterwards and watch a dumb romcom flick and talk in a hushed voice and sort things out.
the suffocating grip on his heart lifts for the first time in weeks.
and it's taehyung's doing.
so he's happy.