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Yoongi goes to physical therapy twice a week. They promise that prosthetic limbs take a while to get used to- Yoongi’s just taking more time than usual. No big deal. It’s really fine. It’s fine.
Yoongi goes to psychological therapy once a month. He lays down on one of those massive chairs and stares up at the blank ceiling and wishes it would crash down on him.
Maybe you should try meeting people, Doctor Kim Namjoon advises, sitting with his legs crossed on an atrocious red armchair, clipboard in hand, pen at the ready, in case Yoongi finally finally decides to say something.
But he doesn’t.
Yoongi clomps down the streets, cane weilded in front of him like a sword, scowl on his face and a dull ache in his ankle- his only ankle.
He steps into his home, a small apartment paid for by the military, one of their generous compensation packages, along with a measly monthly stipend and a medal, thanking him for his service, you served honorably, Seargant Min Yoongi, we thank you for your valour in combat, and pack him away, back to Seoul, back to a place where they wouldn’t have to think about him again.
Yoongi half starves himself the first few months, saving up for production equipment. He keeps them spread out over a desk in the corner, and he just sits there, staring at them, when he’s feeling especially glass half empty about the world than normal, and drowns out the sorrow, drowns out the nightmares and the blood and the screams and the tingling below his right knee where his leg used to be.
You should talk to people, Doctor Kim Namjoon insists, and shuts Yoongi down and tries to explain that yes, Jungkook is a person, but no, your brother doesn’t count.
Maybe if you met someone you would be able to write again.
But he can’t. He doesn’t do much of anything anymore. Or so he tells his therapist.
Yoongi doesn’t tell Namjoon that he spends more than a little time at the coffee shop down the street, doodling images of impending doom across the paper of his notebook, and maybe not so discretely observing the cute barista who works from seven to five thirty on weekdays.
Cute is an understatement, Yoongi thinks, as he watches the tall, wide-shouldered brunette greet customers with a bright smile on his full, pink lips, eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes down orders, deep voice booming through the shop when he calls out a name.
He’s heavenly, Yoongi decides, eyes drinking in the man’s sharp jawline, the deep cupid’s bow mouth, white teeth, nice back, and a whole assortment of saccharine things before promptly tearing his gaze away before he needs to add diabetes to the ever-growing list of things already wrong with him.
And it continues for months and months and months, Yoongi just staring at the man- whose name he figures out through not eavesdropping is Kim Seokjin- and no, it’s not fucking weird as Jungkook so likes to put it when they talk on the phone.
Yoongi has vivid nightmares. And he can’t close his eyes, or else he’s suddenly seeing the mangled bodies around him, feeling the ground tremor with bombs exploding, breathing in the debris and his ears ring until he screams, wrestling himself out of bed, because for a moment, just a moment, he’s whole again, he has his leg, and he sets his feet down, giddy with excitement, before crumpling down to the floor because no, he’s not whole. He is incomplete.
And the only thing he can think to do is walk to the coffee shop in the morning, bleary eyed and more than a little snappish, sinking into his usual seat and staring out the window- he can’t think straight enough to write anything.
Here, a voice says one day, and Yoongi looks down at a mug of steaming liquid set in front of him, before trailing his eyes up to see Kim Seokjin, smiling down kindly at him.
What is this for? Yoongi asks, and his voice comes out too gruff, too mean.
You come here every day. You never order anything, you just sit there. I thought you could some tea, he explains, and his voice is just as kind as his eyes.
I can’t take this, Yoongi tries to push the cup away.
It’s on the house. Please drink it, it might make you feel better. And with that, Kim Seokjin is gone, leaving Yoongi baffled, staring at the steaming mug until he takes it with a tentative hand, heart thumping wildly in his chest. He sips at it, and it’s the best fucking thing Yoongi’s ever tasted. He slinks into bed that night, mind at ease, skin tingling, and he doesn’t dream of anything. Not once.
This goes on for a week, and after the third day, Kim Seokjin finally officially introduces himself.
I know, Yoongi blurts out, and he curses himself to the high heavens as the man’s eyebrows shoot up.
Well then, I might as well learn yours, he replies, smile open and sincere, and Yoongi mumbles it out almost begrudgingly.
On the seventh day, Seokjin accidently spills the burning liquid on Yoongi’s leg, and the man apologizes profusely, looking just about ready to cry, until Yoongi, figuring he needs to ease the situation, hikes up the leg of his jeans, revealing the metal prosthetic.
Oh thank god, Seokjin sighs after staring for a moment, face sinking into his hands in relief, and Yoongi just stares for a moment, mind not processing the fact that Seokjin didn’t even blink at the fact that Yoongi was a cripple, more focused on the fact that he didn’t give him a first degree burn.
And then Yoongi laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs because he thought Seokjin would be disgusted, never look at him the same way again, but he didn’t even fucking blink.
But Yoongi is wrong about one thing- Seokjin does look at him differently. As time goes by, the kind, bright looks turn into something more tender, more soft, and suddenly, Seokjin’s whispering words of love in Yoongi’s ear and he thinks it’s one of his dreams, but he couldn’t ever dream up the feeling of being in Seokjin’s arms, being held close, being able to hear the man’s heart beat against his chest.
And Seokjin is gentle. He is so so gentle, and Yoongi didn’t know he needed it until he had it.
Yoongi goes to physical therapy twice a week. You’re acclimating well, they say, and Seokjin practically beams with pride as Yoongi finally shoves his cane into the closet, no longer necessary.
Yoongi only goes to physical therapy a few times a year- sometimes he still has dreams. Sometimes he wakes up, thrashing and screaming, but Seokjin’s always there, stroking his face, murmuring soft words in his ear until the only thing he knows is the smell of Seokjin’s neck, the feeling of soft lips against his skin.
Yoongi walks down the street, and Seokjin holds his hand tight, smiling proudly as though Yoongi, the broken creature, the cripple, is the most beautiful thing in the world, the most precious thing, and only his.
And when Yoongi falls, it’s into Seokjin’s arms, tight around him, and maybe, just maybe, he can make his music again.