Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘I think I'm the only one still writing these regularly.

I know that the others do from time to time when a hard day hits, and they need a bit of relief. But not like me. They have a place to go when it gets cold. I only have this - pen on paper. I haven't missed a single day in a year.

A year, Kookie. It's so hard to believe. It's been a whole year since I've seen you and even more days since all of our other cherished memories. 

It's funny - remember when I said nine months ago that I hoped that one day I could write a beautiful memoir? 

It's been a year, and I still can't even try.'

———

If Kim Seokjin had been told a year and only one day ago, that from then on, he would be forced to live a life without Jeon Jungkook, the first words out of his mouth would've likely been, 'how in the world am I meant to do that?'

Not what. Or when. Or why. Only the how because apparently, the choice had already been made for him. He didn't have a choice. Jungkook would be gone by nightfall and then Seokjin needed to compile the strength to make the sun rise, from everyday then on.

In this dark and dreary world. 

Fast forward to a year and one day, the star was still stuck at the time of dusk, not yet shining, yet not so dim. The exact hour of the day in which decisions had to be made. To sleep in or to throw one leg after the other and begin the morning brew. At some point, he had begun to prefer coffee over tea. 

Everything had changed since that night. Bangtan had decided to stay together, for however long they could manage. And while that brought a sense of normality - schedules, fans, shows - there was an obvious difference. He noticed that difference everywhere. Sometimes it was invisible, other times clear. He saw it in himself, as he looked in the mirror. In the color of the sky. Even in how the birds chirped and children laughed. Life was . .

Life was different.

A year had gone by, and honestly, he couldn't recall any part of it. The past had become blurrier than before. If he tried to think back, he found himself in a blank room, staring at a calendar on the wall, watching as the pages were ripped and the days went by.

February 18th. It was Hoseok's birthday. They had all gotten blackout drunk. He vaguely remembered crashing on the couch.

March 9th. Yoongi's. Things were a bit better then. Maybe. Maybe not.

June 12th. Things were not so good.

September 1st. Not good at all.

And then it was November 10th, again, and Seokjin wondered if he had even blinked. The devastation that hit him the moment he awoke that morning momentarily convinced him that a day hadn't passed at all. It was November 10th and his last day with Jungkook. 

But remembering that he passed that night, not morning, reminded him that it couldn't be. The chance to jump into action was long gone. Jungkook had been dead for a year and it hurt like he had only just slipped through the back door.

See you soon, Jin-Hyung.

The prolonged effects of losing him almost intrigued him. A part of him, the portion with the strongest grip of reality (that Jungkook would never come home) became infatuated with understanding what grief was. An odd thing. An unpredictable burn or a gentle breeze.

He had spent that day wandering, lost. Couldn't even visit his grave until sun fall. Couldn't even look at the posts on their social media. Couldn't bear the trends and the fans. Here he was, and here he wasn't. And then November 11th came and he went into work. 

That's how life wasn't different.

It kept going. 

Seokjin thought himself to be a stronger person. Older. Not so much wiser. He found the strength where he couldn't before, in any obstacle thrown at him. His logic being that time was short and he had to make the most of it. Some people couldn't do what he avoided. Perhaps he was a bit distracted. 

Picking up a new hobby every week could be normal for some. Not everyone had the chance to try pilates. He was no one special to waste those precious hours. Now, he had the power to endure it. Patience that could last a lifetime. Until it didn't. He was running out of time.

Besides this, there was little that could bother him. Pet peeves that riled up his every nerve fell right off his back. While the rest of the room was tearing their hair out of their scalps, he sat back in his chair and laughed silently. What a waste of time, to boil your blood. There were worse worries in the world. 

He was running out of time. 

At first, he supposed that nothing could take him by surprise, but, there were things that he didn't expect. The sudden triggers that set off an alarm of his head, starkly catching him off guard and causing him to pause in whatever moment he was in - Jungkook, and suddenly a normal day was changed because that song had begun playing in the restaurant.

Time froze like it could afford to. A passerby's cologne, a strangers laughter, a stray conversation- it was incredible how death could switch someone's perspective on life so easily. Things he never even considered before, hardly even noticed in their busy life - all leading back to his dongsaeng, lost a whole year ago. Sometimes he didn't even know why he was overwhelmed with a sudden wave of grief, and nausea, until hours later, when he remembered that he had looked right at his shoes, still on the shelf.

Then there were the times where he finds the urge to share something with him. Laughing aloud at a video, thinking, hey, Jungkook would find this hilarious, and copying the link, getting as far as pasting it into the text box -

Only to remember that he couldn't. 

He came to know a phenomenon in which he just simply forgets that Jungkook is dead, for a solid, peaceful, moment, only for it all to come crashing down when that second passes. A tick of a clock is all it takes. Reality came rushing in, and it didn’t look back to see if his head was still above water.

The little things hurt more than everything else. Like passing by his room every day, and knowing that no matter how hard he looked, he wouldn’t ever be behind the door. 

———

It took long after the funeral for the autopsy report to come back in full. Jungkook's body had sustained so many injuries, completely battered from the force of the impact, that the morticians couldn't figure out what exactly had caused his death. The file supplied the extensive list that the doctors had to decide from, finally concluding why the group wasn't allowed to see Jungkook's body at all.

They didn't want to. They understood very quickly, reading the report, and never pondered it again.

Head trauma. Out of the crushed organs, shattered bones, bleeding wounds, and bruises, all of which would have likely left Jungkook unable to walk, much less move, if he had survived, it was the head trauma that had killed him. Severe enough that it was concluded that he was knocked out upon impact, and didn't feel anything else after. 

It was necessary reassurance and weeks of nausea afterward.

Out of everything else that occurred, Jungkook being nothing but a mangled mess was the hardest for Jin to comprehend. The disturbing part of his mind tried to visualize it, yet even it couldn't come to any conclusion.

Jin was once again thankful that none of the witnesses had walked up to the car and peered inside. Those who had seen Jungkook in that state were medical professionals only, who had likely already seen worse, and regarded his condition as an emergency, not a skepticism like anyone else would have.

For that reason, no photos of Jungkook were taken at the hospital, nor in the morgue, in case they got in the wrong hands and suddenly Jeon Jungkook's bloodied corpse was printed all over the Internet. His car wasn't so lucky. Only a few hours after it was confirmed, the whole world got to see where he had been found and left to imagine how a human body would look under such force.

Jin never looked at the report again. Nor the copy of the death certificate. He tried his best to stay away from Jungkook's name on the Internet, whenever the words 'accident' or 'car' were placed next to it. He didn't need his thoughts to be plagued with thoughts of the maknae in such a terrible state. They were soured enough, already.

It was yet another unexpected blow for the rest of the team, reading exactly what had killed their youngest. Jimin was sick for the rest of the night, gagging whenever it intrusively crossed his mind. Yoongi and Taehyung shoved off into their rooms; later on rescued from their sorrow by Namjoon and Hoseok, dry-eyed, amid shock with the distressing information.

But it was only a stepping stone of grief. In the days following, things once again returned to a less than easy life, but bearable one. They knew, now, that Jungkook didn't feel any pain, and if he had - at least they knew.

When the time finally began to move, and returning to work became a common thought, and the boys began to be spotted out in public, shamelessly always with another and clinging for comfort, life began a brand new pattern. It was complicated, twisting and turning and full of dead ends, a maze that had sealed off the entrance for encouragement of dedication, and sometimes, Jin felt like it simply wasn't worth it anymore.

Until it was. Until he found another thing to keep him going instead of Jungkook, who couldn't stay around forever as a person, and who shouldn't, as a spirit. Jin carried on, trudging through tough terrain and hails of bullets, because there was no other option but to. He had to move on. Even if that meant leaving Jungkook in the past.

Hard days outweighed the good, at first. Nights that ended up in tears, divided between anger, stress, and inconsolable sorrow. Working again, without a whole team, ignited new tensions and furthered the process of the changing dynamic between Bangtan. With each member taking up new roles and positions, Taehyung becoming the main vocalist and Hoseok the center, and all six having to make up for the lack of one, simple disagreements would somehow explode into an argument. Their team grew annoyed often, when they refused to fill his position in a choreo, or re-record songs without his voice.

The latter of which angered them more intensely. Choreography could be understood. Performance quality was always a high priority, and in a few instances, it wouldn't look right at all without all seven. But wiping out Jungkook's vocals was nearly as disrespectful as stomping on his grave would be. Jin had never seen Namjoon fight in such a way, face to face with a dumbfounded manager, foaming at the mouth, until him or Yoongi would pull him back and out of the room.

Those were only a few of the hundreds of tribulations. Careless questions spat by heartless paparazzi, supposed fans, and ignorant interviewers almost caused a few violations of contracts. Fighting to keep his name good, and clear, reassuring that they weren't going to add a new member, or snuff him out of their image completely every other week. Facing the other idol groups, regarding them with pity filled eyes. Finding the motivation to somehow drive past that intersection every single day and night. Finding clear motivation in general. 

And above all of this, it never felt right. 

It would never be right if Jungkook wasn't there. Listening to every finished song left them on the edge of their seats, eventually met with the gut wrenching disappointment when his voice never filtered through the speaker. Performing new choreography with only six, one pushed to the back here and there to create a true center, something that they had never done before. Jin always volunteered to be that one, and staring at the back of his dongsaeng's head, never felt right. 

The first performance, five months after he had passed, in Korea's largest stadium, in front of thousands of heartbroken fans, nearly ripped his heart out there on stage. The fan chants of his name, the sounds of his members struggling to keep it together, Taehyung missing his cue and allowing the crowd to sing the words he now had responsibility for - it was almost too much. 

That was the first serious time Jin ever considered quitting. The next morning, he was almost at Bang PD's office door, reciting the words that he was done on his tongue, a fist raised to knock.

But he couldn't do it. A manager found him a bit later, crumpled up on the floor. 

It didn't feel right, either.

Even if it never would sit right within him, Jin decided then that he would never quit until it was a unanimous decision. It was what Jungkook always wanted, what he always wanted, before it all had to go and change. 

Eventually, the good days followed. It was hard to force himself to grieve when it would be so out of place within his pride, and happiness. Some days, he'd be filled with such euphoria, that he wouldn't think about him until the next sun rose. He was guilty, then.

Mostly because those were the best days. 

Because, apparently, there was happiness in a world without Jungkook. There was celebrations, and perfect songs, and meaning in days that Jungkook wasn't around to see. Their popularity soured to insane new levels, shattering records that were just out of reach before.

Jin knew that his death was a large part of that now; but it was hard to be bitter when they bathed in accomplishments and number one albums. Thinking of Jungkook only dampened the sky, filling his thoughts with storm clouds on an otherwise sunny day. He was happy, on the good days and during those beyond, and after what he had gone through, what they all had gone through, true happiness seemed like a long away dream.

He wouldn't deny himself the feeling, through the guilt that came along with it. It was too sacred, and addicting, to be shunned. Jungkook was dead, and he had to find a way to move on with his life. 

Though, some nights it felt as though he was still searching. 

———

"Taehyung?"

Seokjin's empty water cup nearly spilled out of his hands, him jerking backwards as he caught sight of a dark form in his peripheral. Almost nothing against the blackness of the kitchen. 

Flinching in surprise, Taehyung's hands frantically dragged at his eyes, which was the only movement Jin could decipher. When he spoke, he couldn't see his lips move.

"Oh, sorry, Hyung. I didn't mean to scare you."

He could hear the strain in his voice clearly, though.

Flicking the light switch upwards, the younger squinted at the sudden flash of brightness, keeping his head down. The ends of tear tracks still obvious on his chin. 

Seokjin treaded carefully. "It's okay. What are you doing out here?"

Taehyung's voice lowered, a mere mumble, as he curled in further in himself. "I don't know. I just couldn't sleep."

When the elders hand landed on his shoulder, he stilled. Crooked fingers massaged gently. "You could've came into my room."

There was a tender shake of fluffy hair. "didn't want to bother you."

At that, a fondly bitter smile spread against the frown of his lips. "You can never bother me, Tae-Tae. Whats keeping you up?"

Jin already knew - always knew. But he still played dumb, allowing Taehyung to believe that he wasn't an open book and that Jin could be oblivious to his internal thoughts. 

Taehyung let out a breath that fluttered in the air around him. As if someone was pushing down on his chest. Dark, sad, eyes met Seokjin's, clearly homesick and terribly lonely. 

"I miss him." His voice was small against the silence. "More than usual. I miss him really bad right now." 

Jin wrapped his arms around him, lowering to place his head in the crook of his tanned neck. Almost immediately, Taehyung's body began to tremble, soft sniffs and cries emitting from his lips and nose as tears rolled down his cheeks. Shielded by the darkness, intentionally in place so that no one could see, Jin comforted him in the only way that he could.

Hyungs couldn't fix every problem, no matter how hard they tried. 

"I always miss him," the younger said meekly, hardly a whisper. Jin squeezed tighter. "Everyday."

He almost let it slip, but caught it at the last moment. 

You always will, Taehyung-ah.

But there was not a way to console that. He didn't know how to say that he would never forget the feeling, or him, or that night. Letting him down easy wouldn't even be the most difficult part. It would be watching as he struggled to contort the rest of his life around it.

Taehyung wasn't that flexible. 

Seokjin's heart cracked a little more at every body shaking sob. After it all, he had gained a new sense of protection for the younger. He couldn't fail this maknae. He wasn't sure if he could survive it. 

They weren't whole. Figuratively, and literally. There was nothing in the world that could replace the hole that Jungkook had left behind. Not words, not hugs, not mindful obliviousness.

Yet there are parts of the body people can live without. 

"Come on, Tae," he gently prompted him upwards, out of the chair, "Come to bed with Hyung." 

Jungkook was still there, in every creak and corner, but memories were to be made, to gently lower a blanket over the past. 

———

Seokjin stood in a completely blank room. Not even white. Blank. He could not understand what he was seeing - if he was seeing anything at all - but could feel his feet solid on the floor. His only other sense active was sound.

He heard his blood move through his veins. The room, unnaturally silent, stripped him of everything else.

"Come forth."

He couldn't move. The voice was not masculine or feminine. Loud nor quiet. It came from nowhere, but everywhere.

"Come.'

Still nothing. There was clear demand in it's tone, and as much as Seokjin suddenly wanted to step forwards, he remained frozen. 

"Hyung?"

The dream shattered.

———

Chapter Text

'I've tried to erase your contact number so many times now. I think, what's the point? and press the delete button -

And theres that little sign that pops up and asks 'are you sure?'

I always say no. I'm not that strong. I don't think I'll ever be.'

———

It wasn't the only song Min Yoongi had created regarding the tragedy. 

There was one, about the bittersweet reminisce he felt when dusk fell over him. Then next about the denial, begging on his knees. The acceptance. And of course, the anger. 

He knew full well that he could've sent any of the others in and they would have likely been green-lighted - but anger is what he remembered feeling first. Instant, blinding, rage. 

The media had been wanting a story. Now they had one. He was all too pleased to hand it over.

But it wouldn't be the first to be released.

Life Goes On, which was originally planned to be released a little over a week past the day Jungkook died, was gifted on their eighth anniversary. It's one of Jungkooks final songs with them. The music video was a complete tribute to him.

Yoongi almost found it humorous. They had made the song to promote healing, growth, with no idea what it would mean. Now it made perfect sense. Fit a story they had no control in writing. Of course, it instantly became the song that the world grieved with. It won a few big awards. It even sparked wild conspiracies that Jungkook's death had been planned, a grand scheme to either promote that song or cover up some sort of political scheme.

People had too much time in the world. 

Yoongi hadn't listened to it since their anniversary. What came with that song was not the memories of Jungkook recording his lines in the studio, how he smiled at them whenever he knew he killed it, how he still had the habit from he was fifteen asking with wide eyes if he did well every time. 

His mind was a lot darker than that. But he didn't see that as a flaw.

That was simply who he was, now, and that's what the song did to him. He wouldn't lie and pretend his lips curled into a fond smile and he thought of a high-pitched cackle and low satoori. Why lie? These were his emotions. This was the consequence of grief. Every one pitied the tears yet thought the glares were obscene. 

He firmly believed there was no wrong in accepting that.

Everything in his life seemed to always circle back to the media. Would the same media who begged for interviews and spread rumors about his supposed mental breakdown claim his song to be obvious seek of attention? A slap to the fans face? Couldn't he just get over it? 

Everyone wanted the angst until they had it, and suddenly, a major crime had been committed. BTS was now exploiting Jungkook's death for a number one song. Couldn't he just get over it?

"You don't look too good."

If he was ever so lucky to create his own company, label, his number one rule would permit all staff to have the least bit of sensibility. 

"If you ever need time off, ask. But . ."

The second would mean no buts. Especially if the words after sounded something like 'we would rather you be here and make money.'

"Try not to look too sad. Smile a bit."

And compassion. It seemed that with Jungkook, left all the world's supply of it.

Grief was too stigmatized for his liking. He couldn't say he wasn't surprised at how many people backed out of his life, or tiptoed around him. The worse and the best came out of the  ones you thought were the best and the worst. That was something people needed to know, too, before they experienced the everlasting pain of a loss. He wanted to speak for everyone whose throat was too tight.

His therapist had told him that it was a manifestation of his guilt. Whatever that meant, he found no wrong in it. She was well educated and good at her job, but, hadn't gone through anything close to what he had. There was always a bit of distance between them because of it. She had no idea of what thoughts ran through his head whenever he looked at his phone, and saw a notification of a news article splayed across the screen. 

Sometimes he found himself thinking that he'd be better off without her. Sometimes he hated how her voice would suddenly speak up when she caught him coping in a way he shouldn't, thinking against the things she taught him. It was hard to crack himself open for someone he hadn't known very well, who he only saw up to three times a week. Mouth shut and eyes up were all he had been taught to deal with emotion. People should know how hard of a habit that is too break. 

But she had never told him to get over it. His doctor had worked with him through every emotion that he had gone through the previous nine months. She was kind, and understanding, but upfront and straight when needed. It took a while before he felt truly comfortable in her presence, in her clean office, and on the soft couch, but eventually, he was able to lay his heart out on the table for her and allow her to inspect it from a distance. She'd look at it like it was human and that meant more to him than he could ever admit. 

They started with navigation. Then healthy coping mechanisms. Then accepting the shock and suddenness. Only a month ago had they gotten to the future, when he told her they were preparing for a comeback. They talked about his career, marriage, kids, retirement. It truly hit him then that Jungkook was in the past. She talked him down from trying to travel back. 

She said it was because we always find more to do when we don't have the time.

Whatever that meant. 

———

It shouldn't have been that serious. 

It happened all the time. They were even lucky their music was considered in comparison to dozens of groups out there. Even lucky that they had a say in anything. 

They could've done it harshly. Yoongi reminded himself of the hell he had gone through years prior. It wasn't even remotely similar. He probably should have expected it, anyway. 

Yet he couldn't shake off the feeling of rejection. He felt as though his entire being had been pushed aside, shoved into a corner where the damaged goods lay. Perhaps to be sold off for a few extra bucks. Yoongi's insides shriveled at the thought.

"It's just a song, Yoongi-ah."

Just a song. Just layers of beats and singing and rapping voices. There were so much worse things in life to get upset about. He was right. Just another song. 

But it felt like the world had ended all over again. 

They had tried to sit him down and say politely, in a careful yet condescending tone, that the duo had simply lost their touch.

Of course, it isn't your fault - we just believe that you are not yet ready to put your work back out yet. It's not complete. You are still struggling, and it's obvious in the song. Maybe next time. Maybe you should wait a little longer.

Maybe you should have disbanded when you had the chance. 

He thought they deserved it. After months of putting on their biggest smiles, fighting the tears and the anger for the sake of the camera, pretending so perfectly that they were okay all the damn time, the least they deserved was a chance to say out loud and clear - we are still hurting.

"It's so depressing, Yoongi-ah. The fans. . . they don't want to hear this. They want to believe that you guys are okay. This will just . ."

The bass was angry - the beat, aggressive. Lyrics describing every intimate part of their pain, yet their voices somehow soft, almost weak. Cracking and choking. Personal memories of each member holding themselves together to cough out the last line. Jungkook dying, at the end of every verse. Jungkook dying, at the start of the chorus. 

"Just hurt them some more. You don't want to hurt them. They need something bright, and happy, if not bittersweet. You owe them that much."

But what did they need? Didn't anyone care to ask what they needed?

Wasn't there someone out there who cared that they hurt? 

The fans wanted Jungkook. They needed him. Needed him from the moment the group was formed and the second he was gone. All that was owed was the permission, a nod of the head to say -

It's okay.  

He couldn’t remember when that word didn’t have and strings attached.

"You want me to make something happier?" He spat defensively, "How in the world am I meant to do that?"

The man in front of him shrugged, a careful look in his small eyes. "You've done it before."

"Well that was before, wasn't it?"

There was a heavy silence.

"Then perhaps someone else will make that worth something."

His chair let out a dignified shriek as it shot back, Yoongi standing, towering, fists quivering with rage. 

"I'm sure they will. I'm sure they'll also make us blow air kisses and shake our asses. You're welcome for putting food on your table, by the way. You better hope we'll still be around to do it by the end of this."

There were very few times he had ever stormed out of a superior's office, most of which occurred after a more intense conversation. He'd usually return with his head bowed after some time and accept the punishment. But this time he had no voice in the back of his head worrying about the consequences of his mistake. 

True anger was once a stranger. It was now his neighbor, who asked for sugar and for him to tone it down every so often. It was the desk next to his in class. It was that song, which was him, which was them all. 

All the progress they had made towards respect collapsed the moment Jungkook died. Everyone around them saw a group of vulnerable, hurt, boys once more, not the resilient men they had become. They knew that they were under their thumb. Knew they would do anything for his memory.

But Yoongi had only one thing in mind. Jungkook's death was a tremendous loss of life. He had to remind the world that he was taken so brutally and far too soon, that it was a cruel decision by the universe. That anger was reasonable when everything about the situation was unreasonable. In a way, it was something for the fans, for everyone who had grieved and mourned and burned. What did people who didn't know grief think it was? The whole world would have their eyes on them now. He could fight for everyone who couldn't say goodbye.

It was the least he could do. And now it was being stripped away, just like someone he once knew. 

For all that they had given, Yoongi wanted to know if there would be any remorse for what was taken.

———

Poor Namjoon had no idea what was coming to him as he read the ending line of a page, before flipping it. Yoongi almost wanted to turn around and leave before he ruined his moment of peace. The lines between his brow were softer, in fond concentration rather than complete bodily strain. He hadn't seen him look so relaxed in a long, long, while. 

He almost looked like the man he knew before.

He couldn't remind himself that his own brows never used to furrow in time before he spoke, shattering the other's quiet tranquility.

"They rejected it."

Namjoon didn't so much as flinch at the sudden voice, but, made a sharp physical reaction to the words themselves. The novel was discarded at a moment's notice. Yoongi caught a glimpse of the cover and saw it was some self-help book. 

"What?"

He maintained a resigned expression as the tension between Namjoon's brows instantly returned, and it was present time, again, speaking as though it wasn't his song and his devastation. "It's too depressing, apparently. We owe it to our fans to release a happy title track."

The youngest jaw fell open. "You're kidding. I thought that they said-"

"They decided otherwise," Yoongi cut across, before realizing it was only them two, and suddenly the pain from the wound began to seep in. "Fuck, Namjoon-Ah. That's our song. It's . . that was our boy. How could they take that from us?"

Flinching at the crack in his Hyung's voice, the way his eyes filled with hurt, he quickly placed out placating hands, heading past Yoongi towards the door. His face was hard, but not unkind. "I'll get it figured out. I promise. They promised."

Yoongi sighed and rubbed his forehead. "They always promise."

"I always promise. There won't be a comeback without that song." 

And before Namjoon could push open the door and make headway to the executives, Yoongi spoke clearly.

"Would he have wanted this?"

Stilling, the leader remained there frozen in time before turning slowly, right as Yoongi also turned his back, and suddenly they were face to face with nothing but the silence between them. One who always fought fell to his knees in defeat, in a way Namjoon hadn't seen since their early years. It sent a chill deep into his bones. 

"Would he have wanted a song like this?"

He looked at him, and he back. 

They both knew that he wouldn't.

If Jungkook was around, he would forbid them from ever doing such a thing. He would tell him to write a goodbye instead. Maybe even recommend the company's bright, happy, song. Namjoon smiled a sad smile. Yoongi felt like throwing up. 

"As much as we try, we can't do everything for him. We're still our own persons, Hyung. We have to do something for ourselves."

He swallowed the bile in his throat and forced himself to understand. Namjoon was always right, anyway. Namjoon knew what was best for them. It was stupid of him to even reconsider. Jungkook wasn't around to dictate what they did with his memory. 

Even as the crease of his forehead faded with his soothing voice, Yoongi couldn't recognize him still. Something stood in between them; they were never looking at each other. 

"Right." And he nodded his head to convince himself further, craning his neck to see around the wall. "Should . . I tell Hobi?"

Namjoon's face fell further, guiltily. "He's already got the choreo figured out, yeah?"

Yoongi thought to the last time he saw the man in the practice room. "Well. He's trying."

He seemed to understand without any further words. He pulled the door open once more, pointing a sturdy finger at the older, determination set in his eyes. "I'm getting that song back on track. Just tell him comeback might be pushed back a little. Give him a break."

If he noticed Yoongi's voice warbling, he didn't bring attention to it. "Gotcha."

Namjoon left with another reassuring smile that likely dropped off his face the moment he was out of sight. The silence in the studio overtook him in a second. He had never felt so lonely in his life. 

Such a familiar feeling, it was almost comforting.

The walls of the studio were tight and closed. He wished there was a window so he could reach out to touch the sky. Yoongi suddenly became aware of the framed photo on Namjoon's desk. It had been taken years prior, before this nightmare took over their lives. Jungkook was at the right end, younger, happy, alive. Suddenly he forgot his hesitation as an ache in his heart seeped back in. The song was him. 

He stared at his smiling face, the crinkle of his eyes, the bangs fluffed over his forehead, Jin's arms wrapped around him from behind.

Jungkook did not stare back. 

Yoongi blinked the wet out of his eyes and closed the door behind him.

———

Yoongi stood in a completely blank room. Not even white. Blank. He could not understand what he was seeing - if he was seeing anything at all - but could feel his feet solid on the floor. His only other sense active was sound.

He heard his blood move through his veins. The room, unnaturally silent, stripped him of everything else.

"Come forth."

He couldn't move. The voice was not masculine or feminine. Loud nor quiet. It came from nowhere, but everywhere.

"Come.'

Still nothing. There was clear demand in its tone, and as much as Yoongi suddenly wanted to step forwards, he remained frozen. 

"Hyung?"

In a flash of a second Yoongi was in full sprint forwards, backward, he couldn't tell. Jungkook's voice was a distant lullaby. "Hyung?" More certain than before. "Hyung?" A bit more confused.

His legs pumped. The room around him grew and grew until he was sure he was running in place with Jungkook's voice whirling around his head.

"Hyung!"

Panicked.  

Suddenly there was a black door and Yoongi swung it open, Jungkook's voice right on the other side.

He was wholly unprepared for the sight in front of him.  

Yoongi gasped awake. 

———

Chapter Text

‘I wish I understood what life is now. It feels like everyone and everything moves without me, and I'm stuck somewhere that I don't want to be anymore. Can't you help me hold on? Do I have to do this so alone?'

———

His reflection looked more worn than he thought he was. He almost couldn't recognize himself. He didn't look particularly older. His hair hadn't been dyed or bleached long enough for his natural color to fade back in. 

If anything, he looked like how he did when he was a trainee, and not yet famous. The return of his youth came at the price of who used to keep him young. If he could find the fountain of youth, he'd bargain his own, instead, and ask if it could bring life back into someone who had lost it.

Hoseok sat with his crossed legs pressed against the mirror, panting heavily. Beads of sweat dripped down his glowing forehead. His heartbeat pounded and echoed off the empty practice room walls. Exhaustion sucked every last bit of energy out of him, but he remained awake, pretending he was preparing for the next stage. 

The door suddenly opened, swung open with ferocity, but he didn't startle. Yoongi stalked in, eyes immediately latching onto his. "Hoseok-ah?" He asked as if he looked busy. Hoseok knew he didn't, but, appreciated the concern, anyway. 

"Yeah, what's up?" He managed through puffs of thin air. Yoongi walked up next to him, eyes grazing up and down his slumped frame. 

"Namjoon-ah just told me comeback might be delayed a little. If you want a break, you can take it."

Nothing about Yoongi's casual demeanor prepared him for the news. There was definite talk that there would be room to breathe, if any one of them suddenly broke under the pressure, the guilt, but Yoongi spoke as though he was telling him what was for dinner. He didn't know whether to be concerned or comforted.

"What's wrong?"

"They don't like the song."

"They don't like it?"

"Well - they don't think it's appropriate."

Hoseok thought back to the song. The same song that had been keeping him up every night since he heard the finished version. The song tore his insides and spilled blood from his skin. That brought him back to the moment he knew that Jungkook was gone. And despite the fact that he knew Yoongi had to be upset under his layer of controlled clarity, maybe even heartbroken, Hoseok found himself agreeing. 

"Okay."

Yoongi's face cracked and his eyebrows soared up to his forehead. Immediately realizing his mistake, Hoseok took a step back for Yoongi's sake, even though he didn't really understand how he could find comfort in those lyrics. Nor could he understand how everyone else, did, too. But he pulled himself to his feet and pretended that he understood because it was easier that way.

"I mean, we're gonna fight it, obviously," it wasn't a lie, but felt like one rolling off his tongue.  Like signing up for a war he didn't believe in. "What do they want to do instead?"

Yoongi response was short. There was no fire in his eyes. "Happy."

"We can't do that?"

A bittersweet smile turned the corners of his lips. Hoseok wanted to peel his skin away so that he could tell what he was thinking. Sometimes it felt like he never knew anymore.

Sometimes it felt like he was still pressing the gas pedal parallel.

"We wouldn't want to lie to our fans, Seok-ah."

Happy was an odd word. Happy insinuated a lot that he didn't have. But he knew that he loved performing, especially when it was a happy, upbeat, song. The definition wasn't so blurry when you sang it loud for a stadium full of people. 

"Yeah. You're right. When will this get figured out?"

"Hopefully soon. I just told Namjoon-ah, and he went straight over, so."

"Okay. I'll take a break."

Maybe he knew he was only agreeing for the hell of it, maybe he didn't, but the silence that came after was off. Not awkward - they had known each other for too long for that. Off like there was plenty to talk about but no way to start the conversation.

Yoongi shifted on his feet, face twisting as if he wanted to say something, then thought otherwise, and left. 

He had probably come and told first because he was supposed to have a choreography figured out within a three-week deadline. Hoseok didn't know how to say that he couldn't even press the play button whenever he saw the file name splayed across the screen, even though that would likely be considered a major setback. At least he had been thought of. At least it was going to be figured out. 

He just wished that he understood.

———

Jung Hoseok wasn't known for a quiet personality. It embarrassed him when he was younger and his teenage friends thought maturity came in the form of quiet. But as he got older, and the silence around him came from the loss of passion instead, he found it to be his best feature. There was no one else quite like him and he knew it.

It became his moral duty to maintain an energetic, cheery, aura in a room as soon as the group was formed. All six of them would look to him for a smile, a hug, a laugh. He generally enjoyed being the epicenter of happiness. It made his heart happy, knowing that the people he loved saw him as a place to run to when the clouds turned grey. 

He could be loud, eccentric, out of the box. His stage presence was said to be otherworldly. Hoseok could laugh, and laugh, and laugh . .

And then Jungkook died, and silence swept over his life like a blanket of snow.

There was no reason to even speak, anymore. All that became of life was quiet hours spent lost and alone. He was ruining his hearing, how he blasted music at full volume into his earbuds, but all his ears could pick up on was a sad, slow, whisper.

Losing him tore away his laughter, and Hoseok thought that there was no worse life to live. He badly wanted to be able to gasp for air as he used to, without a care, with pure joy. It made him restless, awaiting the one joke that would set things right. There had to be someone out there in the world who could make him happy again. He thought wrong when he believed that maybe, just maybe, because he still had five of his brothers, things couldn't be all that different. A changing point had to come. 

Then he wondered if all of his fuss wasn't truly about a forced chuckle. He wasn't sure when he began to realize it, but it hit him hard. 

He was beginning to feel a little bored.

Every single day was more or less the same. Even the conversations he and others had were repeats, minds lagging and out of tune. Before, there was something new to learn every day. Being wise was the most isolating feeling in the world.

Sometimes there were moments filled with spice. Parties, awards, friends. But it seemed like Bangtan had been worn thin. None of the members showed particular interest in doing anything out of whim, anything extravagant. They were quieter. The greatest comfort was found in remaining close and calm, despite the consequence of giving up half of themselves.

No more was the spur of the moment decisions, let's ride our bikes around town and pray we don't get recognized. Their estranged relationship with recklessness broke off completely. There weren't empty bottles and broken glass from nights before. No pretty smiles and eyes connecting from across the room. 

There wasn't a Jeon Jungkook to suddenly break into song and rile the entire dorm into chorus. 

From the moment the dust settled, life set a steady, simple, pace. He'd wake up, eat breakfast, and dance. 

It had been the longest they had gone without a comeback. There wasn't much to rehearse that he didn't already perfect. Few interviews, photoshoots. Far in between concerts. His workload had gone from near exhausting to close to nothing. He danced until his legs fell out underneath him to compensate for the uselessness that took him over. 

There was a lot of comfort in it. Even in the deep past, whenever he danced, he felt all of his worries fade away. Nothing matter when he focused on keeping clean and maintaining energy. Not a single thought could work its way through his brain when the music blared and echoed off the walls. He could hear it then, when he knew the whole dorm could, too.

He mostly danced whenever he found himself thinking about him. He danced every single day. 

That became his thing. Not like it was before. Hoseok began to notice the things his members had, what he did after he noticed his first. A few of them made sense, but the others didn't. He tried vigorously to notice as often as possible; wanting to look into their mind and feel what they were feeling, to understand the drought better. 

Seokjin stopped for single second just to shake his head vigorously and curse himself as he walked away.

Yoongi scribbled feverishly into his notebook most hours of the day, well into the night, only for a single page to be filled.

Jimin tried to fix even if nothing was broken. 

Taehyung's eyes glazed over and he went elsewhere. 

Namjoon did a headcount, like always.

 Hoseok watched as his face dropped every time he stopped at five, repeated once, and then remembered. He saw in his eyes the gut-wrenching realization, swearing to himself he wouldn't do it next time. 

He always did.

The conclusion made was that these things were what were destroying them from the inside out. The fear of setting them off driving them into a corner. He almost found it hypocritical - the way he was scolded for his form of coping only for them to begin to drive themselves insane. 

Perhaps he did dance. But he had it under control. He knew what it was and what it did. It wasn't like Taehyung's smile slowly becoming less and less alive. He heard that grief changed people but the change was becoming out of hand. 

It was the new normal. 

That thought terrified Hoseok because he wasn't sure how many nights of coming home to such change he could handle. Everyone else failed to notice. It was like he had missed so much more than he thought, away for those first few months. Catching up scared him, but staying behind was lonelier. 

He always seemed to be two steps behind them.

He felt extremely guilty. It wasn't any of their faults for becoming this way. He knew that if they could reverse it, they would have a year ago. But Hoseok was not meant for silence. He was meant for pools of laughter that would fill in all the hurt. Jungkook's name was a wound carved into his back that still hadn't been disinfected. He craved the easiness of a meaningless conversation so badly he knew that he wouldn't hesitate to jump right in, forcing himself to stay just below the surface, even if it killed him.

Because the more he got used to normal, the more it would burn when it inevitably changed. 

———

It was close to midnight when Yoongi remembered what he was going to say. By then, Hobi had finished the entire Idol choreography in the living room and was slumped on the couch, catching his breath. He made the mistake of thinking.

He was forgetting how he laughed.

His eyes were closed with exhaustion, with grief, but when he opened them, he was surprised to see Yoongi's face peering down at him, grim with a touch of concern in his brow. 

Ask if I want to get a drink, Hyung, he wanted to say, tried to say with his eyes. Let's go ride our bikes around the city and pray we don't get caught.

"You okay, Hobah?"

He felt himself fall further into the couch, which was right underneath him, but also a million miles away. The concern was gentle, a light brush of fingers across his skin, but for a reason unknown to him, he wanted Yoongi's fingernails to dig in.

"Yeah, I'm alright." 

Yoongi's lips pressed hard together, and then he sat close next to him, unbothered by Hoseok's sweat-covered skin touching his. Hobi avoided his eyes, and that was enough confirmation for him to press forwards. "You wanna talk about it?"

Whether he truly did or did not, he spoke, anyway. A switch turned on inside of him without his consent, exhaustion weighing it down. He was unbelievably tired of mourning a new part of him every day. There was almost nothing left, and that was somehow scarier. 

"It sounds weird, but, I kinda want to . . take a vacation."

Yoongi's lips upturned, not in a mocking sense. Hoseok could tell he was expecting something else. The last reserves of his energy pushed him upwards so he could defend himself with a bit of dignity.

"After comeback, I mean. I guess I'm kinda tired of the same thing every day. I just want to. . get back into the world."

He couldn't deny his fear. After staring at ceilings and enclosed walls for so long, he couldn't imagine what it would be like to see the sky. He couldn't remember if he could reach up and touch it. Couldn't remember what grass felt like under his feet. He was born anew; born with immeasurable grief, and sorrow, but most of all, the desire to feel the sand between his toes.

The world was cruel, but it was theirs.

And Yoongi needed that big blue forever, too. "I'll go with you."

If Hoseok had long, floppy, ears, they would've perked up in surprise. The older's face was sincere, vulnerable. It felt like the day he had first met him. Hoseok didn't know him at all, anymore, but he could remember that discovering every single detail of Min Yoongi had been the most beautiful experience in the world. It was a topic he could relearn and learn all over again for the rest of his life. "Really? You'd go?"

"Yeah." He shifted in his spot, cheeks blushing red. Min Yoongi flustered easily. "If you want."

Having to keep himself from lunging onto the older with pure excitement was a difficult task. Hoseok had never wanted to go alone. He realized his biggest fear was that he would have too, the reason behind his confusion, and dancing until the soles of his feet bled.

Having to begin again wasn’t ideal, but there had to be a start, somewhere. 

"I'd like that. But you don't have to.”

Yoongi only smiled. "I know."

The two men smiled at each other for a few moments more, before settling further into the couch, staring up at the ceiling above; now patiently waiting for the day it was a cobalt filled canvas. 

"Where should we go?"

"I don't know. Anywhere."

"Close?"

"Far."

"New?"

"Familiar."

"What," Yoongi chuckled, "then somewhere like home?"

Hoseok's mind drifted to mountains that didn't know anything but snow, rain, and the sun. Then to a laugh he desperately tried to follow, disappearing down an echoing hall. 

"Almost."

That was all Jungkook had left, anyway.

———

Hoseok stood in a completely blank room. Not even white. Blank. He could not understand what he was seeing - if he was seeing anything at all - but could feel his feet solid on the floor. His only other sense active was sound.

He heard his blood move through his veins. The room, unnaturally silent, stripped him of everything else.

"Come forth."

He couldn't move. The voice was not masculine or feminine. Loud nor quiet. It came from nowhere, but everywhere.

"Come.'

Still nothing. There was clear demand in its tone, and as much as Hoseok suddenly wanted to step forwards, he remained frozen. 

"Hyung?"

In a flash of a second Hoseok was in full sprint forwards, backward, he couldn't tell. Jungkook's voice was a distant lullaby. "Hyung?" More certain than before. "Hyung?" A bit more confused.

His legs pumped. The room around him grew and grew until he was sure he was running in place with Jungkook's voice whirling around his head.

"Hyung!"

Panicked. 

Suddenly there was a black door and Hoseok swung it open, Jungkook's voice right on the other side.

He was wholly unprepared for the sight in front of him.

Jungkook's reflection was in the practice room mirror, but his body was not actually there, no feet squeaking on wooden floor. Draped over his body were the same clothes that had been bleached free of blood. He was dancing. And though he was on the other side of something Hoseok couldn't understand, he was so close and so real that the room began to spin. 

He reached out and placed his palm against the glass right as he rolled his hips, and swore he could hear his breathing. Jungkook was so close, but so far away. And completely oblivious that the end of his life would come in just a few hours, only around the corner.

Suddenly he stopped, and then a smile bloomed across his face, and it felt like watching the universe being born. "Okay," his voice giddy, knees weak, "I think I got it. I'm going to head home, now."

Hoseok was left to scream and bang against the glass as Jungkook wordlessly gathered his things, and walked out of the door.

He met the floor of his bedroom hard.

———

Chapter Text

'Remember when I said that I thought I had a knack for crocheting? I was wrong. I got my finger caught so tight I had to cut it off. The thread, not my finger. I guess I was never one for the visual arts. 

Anyway, I listened to this new album today. It was an English one, but really good. I think I heard you talk about the artist once or twice. If that's correct I see why you liked them. I've also been really interested in taking a trip somewhere in Italy. I think alone, but I don't know. Flying kind of scares me, now. 

.

.

I miss you so much.

But anyway . . ."

———

The grass had not been allowed too, but if it were, it would have been nearly overgrown by now, perhaps covering the dates and sentiment. 

He had a neighbor, too, who was not there before. Another life gone, another funeral, another lifetime of grief. Flowers that had been left there fed sprouting mushrooms. Colorful ribbons aged from the sun. 

Namjoon and Jimin couldn't see their reflections in the stone. Polish had not been applied for a long time, now. Winter and deep snow had come, soon before a quiet spring, and then a sweltering summer. Three seasons, and now they were almost finished with the fourth.

Award show season was around the corner, but they had nothing to be considered. Their first English release had a birthday. Namjoon noticed that a few rows down, a cross had lost half of one of its arms. 

That was how long Jungkook had been dead. The earth had made a complete cycle around the sun, from the day he had gone. 

They were exactly where they started. 

Jimin sat next to him in the trimmed grass. He read the inscription over and over again. Sometimes his eyes would flicker downwards, and a look would cross over his face as if he could not understand that Jungkook was beneath them. He looked back up and read again. 

He hadn't spoken much, but, there was a flash of a memory and his lips twitched upwards. 

"Remember when he got so drunk he called Twice and asked to become the tenth member?"

Besides himself, Namjoon smiled. "And Nayeon said he had to buy them all Chanel bags to get in."

Jimin almost snorted, looking towards the sky, remembering the giggles and the slurred words.

"And then for their anniversary, he ended up buying them, anyway."

Generous. Generous, kind, caring. Always with us, forever. 

"They sent some flowers."

Namjoon's throat was suddenly tight. He managed to respond after a heavy swallow. "That's nice."

"They posted, too, isn't that brave?"

He was blurting out a sentence before Jimin spoke the last syllable, the significance of the day finally catching up to him. It had been an entire year since Jungkook - 

"Can you even believe this?"

There came a moment of silence. The younger's eyes were hard on his cheeks. Belief still came uneasily. 

"No. I can't."

Namjoon made a noise that was almost like a whimper, pushing his hair back, clasping his hands together, distress written on every inch of his face. His body searching for a comfortable position on the hard ground. He wondered how Jungkook could sleep underneath it. 

"It almost makes me feel sick. It's been a year since I got to hug him. Or see him. Or hear his voice."

Tears rained out of his eyes, all previous composure lost within moments. The ground below suddenly became cold tile. And when he blinked, he saw the doctor's face, twisted in shame. 

"I can't even - I can't even remember if I said bye to him that day."

He had been so ready to go home, to have the rest of the night to himself. So excited that he gathered his things and was the first out of the door. Mind preoccupied with what he had planned - eat, shower, write, study . .

His checklist did not include losing Jungkook. The shock from his death blacked out half of the night.

He might've just walked out without a single glance back. 

Did he know? The question still rang around his head. Did he know how much he loved him? Again and again, it circled, slowing in speed as the weight of the words brought it down. Then it laid there, still, and would not budge out of his mind. 

Jimin seemed to understand this, quickly pressing himself against his side, whispering. "He knows. He knows."

On his arm was the handprint from when she had touched him. Taehyung's wail tangled in with the autumn wind. Jimin's comfort was like a bottle of water against a forest fire, that had burnt every mile Namjoon had walked since that night.

"I just want to tell him. Right to his face. Why couldn't I do that?"

"One day, Namjoon-ah. One day."

That day could not come any slower. An orange, dried, leaf, fell into the grass in front of him. 

———

With the announcement of their pending return, came the kind offers of service. Producers, writers, choreographers. Maybe they weren't so kind and they saw the opportunity of connection. 

He had to dismiss them. This was a chapter of Bangtan that could not be touched by outside forces. Their own torn pages, only kept in place by the firm hug of the novel frame. 

Because no one else could ever understand it.

They could never understand how it felt to hear the words fall out of the doctor's mouth, ending a short life and immediately beginning a new, confusing, terrifying, one. They could never understand how it felt to return home that night as six instead of seven. They would never know the thoughts that ran through his brain as he stared at Jungkook's door and realize the fingerprints on the handle were his and could never be replicated. 

There was not a single other person in the world who could understand his urge to toss flour onto the metal, encasing the final bits of him, trying desperately to remember every single curve and line. 

Bangtan Sonyeondan had always felt like the odd ones out. Perhaps that was a common emotion between idol groups. Each wanting or hating that feeling of special. 

Now it was undoubtedly true.

In the span of one night, they had gone from global superstars, barreling towards the list of icons, to the group that had lost a member in a car accident, because he was too incompetent to consider waiting for the rain out. 

They could create the biggest song in history. The best-selling album of all time, Korean or not. And none of it would matter - they would always be BTS, who had everything going so good for them until it was such a shame. 

And he refused, refused, to let the world take this as an opportunity to gain one up on his members. A missing hole meant the media would immediately try to fill it with whatever they could - rumors, drama, explicit harassment. Anything to get someone to slip, proof that BTS had declined the moment Jungkook had died. 

They had. But Namjoon would never let the press know. Not when it wasn't just their image that was on the line.

This was their only shot at some sort of redemption. Was that what they were even looking for? Maybe stability was the better word. We're still here. We're still together. We're also still hurt. Was that the deal-breaker or the new appeal?

The world would either feed off of their grief or always regard them with wary, pitiful, eyes. Namjoon accepted that none were the better option.

Which is why he stood with complete confidence in front of his superior, not bothering to sit in the seat Yoongi had. For an odd reason, it felt wrong to tamper with his body heat. 

"It's this song or nothing at all."

The man looked up from the file in front of him. 

"Pardon me?"

"This is the only song we'll do. Either this or we cancel comeback completely."

He seemed to know that Namjoon was fighting this alone, and that sent a chill down his spine he couldn't shake off. "We?"

"You can't have a comeback without us."

There was a look in his eyes he couldn't quite describe. He set everything in front of him aside, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. 

It suddenly occurred to Namjoon that this man was so new to their staff, that he had never even known Jungkook. Had never met him, never shook his hand. The knowledge that there were people in the world who never met him made his mind go blank.

Leaning across the desk, he clasped his hands tight together and kept his sight trained onto his. "Please try and understand, Namjoon-ssi, that it's in our interest to save BTS' image. I don't have to tell you what you're already known as, compared to what you were before."

The ones who had it all. And then nothing at all.

"Talk is just starting to go down, besides yesterday."

#foreverinourhearts

#foreverlittleone

#wemissyoujungkook

#restwelljungkook

Fans of K-pop group BTS mourn as they mark one year since member Jungkook's passing.

Today the number one trend was discussing the weather.

"This song will bring back everything all over again. You must remember how the media was."

When he tried to think back, he could only recall the unbearable pain.

"Terrible." He answered when he saw that Namjoon couldn't. "It was terrible. And this time you'll be back on stage." His voice was genuine. "Namjoon, you must understand that this song will ruin you. Maybe next year you can. But something happier will tame the waters."

The waters felt like a high tide around his ankles right then. He paid no attention to the way the man looked at him and then sighed into his hands.

"If you won't do it then I guess there won't be a comeback."

"I guess not."

"We can't do that song, Namjoon."

"I know you can't."

"Well, you have three days to decide whether you wanna do this or not. Talk to them tonight."

Knowing that he had to be the one to begin the conversation felt hauntingly like walking back into the front room with the knowledge that Jungkook had left an hour ago. 

———

"I heard the song."

And Namjoon had heard the CEO's steps come in closer, and closer. But like the other, they said nothing and listened in silence. Sometimes there was nothing to say. 

"Please don't try and convince me."

"I'm not." His voice was plain, and words short, and he stood next to him without looking his way. They stared at Jungkook's portrait. "It's a sad song, though. Heavy."

"That's the point Hyung wanted to get across."

Jungkook's smile was bigger than he could remember. He slipped father through his fingertips day by day. 

"What's the point exactly?"

With his mind planted elsewhere, his heart spilled out, landing at their feet. Anyone could walk by and step right on it. But he wouldn't feel the difference, staring at Jungkook's smiling face. 

"I think everyone expects this to be us starting fresh over. Getting over Jungkook. But it's not. We can't just . . comeback like it was just a hiatus. We won't ever get over him. Why can't we just say that instead?"

"Is that the problem? You feel like you're being forced to move on?"

"I feel like we're being forced to pretend like moving on isn't the hardest part," Namjoon replied with a grim smile, unable to explain why he forced it, knowing the other man was fixated on a much happier one. "It's not colorful clothing and fun choreo." 

"No, it isn't. I hope you know that this is the hardest thing I ever had to do, too." 

Reality hit him all too fast. They were truly going forward with a comeback. Jungkook truly didn't have any lines, or center time, or styled outfits. He thought to the most insignificant thing he could at the moment; how the makeup brushes would never swipe across his soft skin again. He was nothing but bone, and they were going back on stage. The music video would come out and he wouldn't make a sultry face that they'd all tease him for later on. Army would sing along, never to his voice, to his high note. 

Like he had never existed. 

But along with reality came back that passion that had been shattered only an hour prior. Jungkook had existed. Not everyone knew that in the world, now. There were countless babies born within the last year who witnessed a day Jungkook didn't, and as time went on, that number would add up, as those who saw the same nights dwindled and dwindled until there was none.

Yet Namjoon existed, in present time. So did his hyungs and remaining dongsaengs. He'd known every little crevice of Jeon Jungkook, and he'd die with such shame if he didn't spend the rest of his life shouting that out to the world. 

He promised that he would maintain his legacy. He just hadn't expected it to be so hard to stop the world from forgetting.

"We don't want to do any group photos. No official ones, anymore. It's not right. He's not going to be written over," he spoke with sudden strength, confidence. "And - and we're gonna post old videos and pictures every day from now on. Everything we have. And when we run out we'll share every story."

Shihyuk finally looked his way. His face was curious. "What are you trying to prove, Namjoon-ah?"

Swallowing heavily, he subconsciously reached for his opposite wrist to feel his soft pulse. Life was a confusing, fragile, bitterly beautiful thing. 

"That we didn't die with him."

The silence that followed allowed for Namjoon to think about his declarations. Yes, he could manage to dig up everything. He knew many would appreciate it. Certain memories he knew were photographed came to mind, and besides wishing he was right back in that moment, he found himself wishing he could cherish the past like he cherished strings tied to nothing. 

"Is it possible to just . . not grieve anymore?" 

His tongue wet his dry lips. "To get it all out. To have cried enough that you washed out all of the pain. Is that possible?"

Shihyuk's thoughtful silence either meant he was humoring him or understood him in full. Namjoon hoped he didn't sound crazy.

"Do you still miss him?"

"Yes."

"Then no. It's not."

Namjoon's shoulders slumped. "Why can't it be?"

The elder shrugged. Even he, so much older and wiser, couldn't explain the easiest parts of grief. "What do you want from it?"

"I just . . I don't want to grieve anymore. I just want to think of him the same way I did before he went. I want to think of everything in the same way."

The CEO smiled sympathetically, sadly. "It's only been a year, Namjoon-ah. You'll get there."

Jimin's similar words filtered into his ears. An orange leaf that signaled the end of a season, the fragility of life, the brutality of a second winter, the call to shrivel until spring day arrived. "Sometimes it feels like it's not coming fast enough."

"Well, if it was too fast, then Jungkook didn't mean that much, anyway."

Namjoon had no words. Sometimes it was easier that way.

———

Namjoon stood in a completely blank room. Not even white. Blank. He could not understand what he was seeing - if he was seeing anything at all - but could feel his feet solid on the floor. His only other sense active was sound.

He heard his blood move through his veins. The room, unnaturally silent, stripped him of everything else.

"Come forth."

He couldn't move. The voice was not masculine or feminine. Loud nor quiet. It came from nowhere, but everywhere.

"Come.'

Still nothing. There was clear demand in its tone, and as much as Namjoon suddenly wanted to step forwards, he remained frozen. 

"Hyung?"

In a flash of a second Namjoon was in full sprint forwards, backward, he couldn't tell. Jungkook's voice was a distant lullaby. "Hyung?" More certain than before. "Hyung?" A bit more confused.

His legs pumped. The room around him grew and grew until he was sure he was running in place with Jungkook's voice whirling around his head.

"Hyung!"

Panicked. 

Suddenly there was a black door and Namjoon swung it open, Jungkook's voice right on the other side.

He was wholly unprepared for the sight in front of him.

Jungkook's reflection was in the practice room mirror, but his body was not actually there, no feet squeaking on wooden floor. Draped over his body were the same clothes that had been bleached free of blood. He was dancing. And though he was on the other side of something Namjoon couldn't understand, he was so close and so real that the room began to spin. 

He reached out and placed his palm against the glass right as he rolled his hips, and swore he could hear his breathing. Jungkook was so close, but so far away. And completely oblivious that the end of his life would come in just a few hours, only around the corner.

Suddenly he stopped, and then a smile bloomed across his face, and it felt like watching the universe being born. "Okay," his voice giddy, knee-weakening, "I think I got it. I'm going to head home, now."

Namjoon was left to scream and bang against the glass as Jungkook wordlessly gathered his things, and walked out of the door.

Before he could crumple to the floor in complete agony the walls were blank once more. Except when he looked up, there was the night sky, clear and beautiful but all he could think about was Jungkook walking away, oblivious to the end of his own life, how he was smiling his last smile. He had never felt such greater pain in his life.

"A mistake has been made."

A mistake? What mistake could there be? The only mistake Namjoon had ever made was standing by Jungkook from the beginning. If he hadn't, he would've gone home at fifteen, and then he'd still be alive. 

"A mistake has been made."

The voice was everywhere. Here, there, inside of his bones. Where was Jungkook?

"Fix the mistake. Fix the mistake."

He tried. He tried until he bled himself dry.

"Fix the mistake."

The dream ended and stole the last of his sanity.

———

Chapter Text

"You know, I think I'm kind of glad you're gone, oddly. 

You don't have to deal with the stress of our lives. You don't have to deal with anything. I'm glad you went quickly. I'm glad that you didn't feel anything. I'm glad that you are somewhere safe and happy.

I wish I could've come, too.'

———

When Park Jimin first discovered his love for dance, he was thirteen years old; uncoordinated, unconfident, and unsure of where exactly to place his limbs. That particular weekend night, moving along to a song he kept hearing on the radio, he saw the moon for the first time; his tranquil, bright, moon. He tripped more times than he could count. Went to bed in frustration every other night. Compared himself to every YouTube video and every other classmate in his school. 

For a long time, that doubt never went away, but it was only a slightly dirty window separating the Earth's satellite and him. His love for dancing grew and grew until he knew he had no choice but to find a future for himself. 

As a trainee, there was a cloud of insecurity that hung over his head each lonely day in Seoul. For a long time, it was the only day. He thought, when he finally debuted, that it would disperse and he would see the moon again. Instead, he saw a thin crescent, and somehow, the car window only got dimmer, and dimmer. He felt like he would always see himself in a wide, floor-length, mirror, and never not tell himself that he could do better. 

Thirteen-year-old him might've had something to say about that. He knew that he danced like the people in those videos he'd stay up all night watching. He might've told him that there was always room for improvement, that he was the best he ever saw, but he didn't know how what it felt like when the twenty-nine and a half-day rotation was up and all the night sky was dark matter. He didn't know the desperate way he'd cry out for the last sliver to stay, because he wasn't sure if he could survive another night of black. 

And even he didn't know, age twenty-six. Because Jimin hadn't danced since he was twenty-five. 

Hoseok was facing the practice room door and raised his brows when he pushed it open, without a care of how loud the slam against the wall was. He stood there in silence as Jimin approached him, holding out his phone until it was shoved underneath his nose. Then, he made a small noise of question.

"I want to finish this."

The older dancer took a moment to register what video was playing, but Jimin witnessed the dark shadow fall over his eyes when he did. Just by the audio, he knew Jungkook was at a specific twirl that twisted his insides. Every single sneaker squeak implanted deep into his mind. 

"I want . . I think he would want me too." He shook his head, spitting his sentiment out, knowing that he could never know. "I don't know. I just want to. Please, help me."

Hoseok stared only long enough to let Jimin pull together a reason. 

"Why do you want to do it?"

"It's his last piece of work. He deserves that much." Tears built up in his eyes as he looked back down at the screen. The video restarted, keeping Jungkook alive for only another minute thirty seconds. "He was such a good dancer. He was getting so good."

The brunette pursued his lips, prodding gently, head tilting to one side. "Any other reason?"

Jimin knew exactly what he was looking for. Saying it out loud felt as terrible and relieving as he imagined it would.

"It's my song. I want my song back."

Like he had been expecting the answer, Hoseok smiled and stepped closer, gently pushing his outstretched hand into his chest. The song and puffs of breaths hummed against his heart. 

"That's not selfish, Jimin-ah," he mended, wiping a stray tear away. His fingers were soft against his cheek. His smile even silkier. "You're right. It's your song. It's been months since you've been able to listen to it."

He hated his resentment towards Jungkook. It made no sense for him to be angry when it was a beautiful gesture, a gift he couldn't wait to share. But he was. All of those what if's and why's never stopped coming because Jimin was the last member he ever heard. Filter, one of his proudest accomplishments, became nothing more than the last song Jungkook ever listened to. 

He lost him, again and again, every time it played, every time the melody randomly crossed his head, every time he came across the lyrics. Sometimes he wanted to scream-sing it at the sky loud enough for the clouds to collapse on top of him. 

Despite this raging internal fight, Jimin dropped his eyes submissively under Hoseok's knowing gaze. "It's not like he ruined it . . it's just . ."

"He ruined it." He glanced back up with a slight pout. Hobi petted the bottom of his chin, face mixed between fond consolation and no room for argument. "But that's not his fault. If you want to take this part of your life back, take it. It's yours to take. I'm positive that he would understand."

Jimin wasn't positive if anything was his any more, but he wasn't anyone important enough to dispute such wise words. He stood on his toes and wrapped his arms tight around the older's neck, feeling equal pressure slide in at his waist. There was no blood spilled.

Only heavy weight applied on bruises that had never healed. 

"Thank you, Hobi-Hyung."

"Always, Jiminie," the reply came with a kiss to his head. "I can't wait to see you dance again."

"Yeah. But can we not do it in here?"

The practice room was avoided like a plague because he was here. A year ago he was in this room entirely oblivious to the end of his own life. Jimin took a look around and wondered where death would meet him if he would be able to take its hand if he would be alone. Standing in it brought back memories he didn't have, so it was best that he didn't. Only when Jungkook left would he step in, and take his place.

"Yes, whatever you need. Hyung just wants to see you dance again."

Jimin burrowed his face into a tan collarbone and willed himself to not speak, not to disappoint. Someday the hard conversation would come and he'd have no choice but to come clean. Maybe then he could drag Hoseok's finger across the scar on his lip and ask if it ever stopped bleeding. A sigh filtered down his back and he wished he was everything they needed him to be. 

———

Jungkook's room wasn't exactly how he left it.

His bed had been made, the floor tidied and vacuumed, his laundry put away. Once broken, the seal couldn't be fixed. They left tiny pockets of his last movements inside, but it now looked like a room that belonged to someone long ago. 

Jimin had to hold back his tears every time he entered, which wasn't often. Jungkook's presence wasn't in there like he expected it to be. When he walked in, it felt like goodbye. Yet at the same time, it was overwhelming, seeing what he once was, where he used to lay his head. Some days an empty air freshener meant absolutely nothing but others it was thoughts that maybe it was the last thing he had ever smelled. 

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Namjoon, they stared at the sunlit space. It was odd that this was a room they passed every day, one that they had known for years, yet it felt like a lonely hotel room in some country they had only stopped by in. Treated like one, too. Without Jungkook, it was just a room. 

Jimin no longer expected to find him on the bed. A year had gone by, and Jungkook never came home. Life could be so cruel.

"I want to try and go through his closet." 

Namjoon smiled softly, his face tight with suppressed emotion. "Go ahead."

He vaguely recalled times when he would parade in, throw open the door, and grab the first hoodie he could find simply because they smelt nice. Now his hand trembled as they brushed along the racks, too many thoughts running through his mind. He stopped at a particular burgundy strip, and gently pulled it off its hanger. The hoodie was no longer as Jungkook left it. 

A sad smile slipped onto Jimin's lips. Soft fabric caressed his fingertips, the dark color so incredibly nostalgic. Namjoon's hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

Jimin held the hoodie in his hands, flushed with a million memories. When there was once a body to fill the frame. He wondered if the jacket missed him, too. 

Bringing it to his nose, and inhaling deeply, his eyes stung like the scent was strong. It was only faint, and sparse, but it was there. His heart slowed, fondness warping in with the remnants of grief, sometimes forgotten but always present.

"It still smells like him."

Namjoon's chin rested where his hand was prior; the appendage now moving to grip the material alongside Jimin's smaller fist. "Terrible?"

A wet laugh was able to break through the brewing sadness. As it always could, now. A step out of the fog just as easy as a step in. "Like his cologne. Shampoo. Him. Do you think it'll ever go away?"

His question, innocent, brought out the maturity in Namjoon, who shook his head as best as he could lodged in Jimin's neck. "Only if you forgot how he's meant to smell."

"Never," Jimin's voice was firmer than before. He sniffed softly, the muscles in his neck burning. "Never."

"Then it won't ever go away." 

There was something else hidden in Namjoon's words, but Jimin let it be. This hoodie was his. Neither time or wear could ever replace that. Threaded into the layers were his skin cells, and hair follicles, that were already dead, like him, but eternal. If it were to ever catch flame he would become the ash and the fumes. Then Jimin could chase the floating particles through a field of inscribed marble slate and granite until he was right back at home, old and sick. Jungkook's epitaph the final words leaving his frail lips. And still, throughout all of this, the burgundy hoodie would be his.

Not everything had to change. It couldn't. He wouldn't. And if he worked hard enough, it shouldn't.

———

There was a photo of Jungkook on Jimin's nightstand that he reached for some nights. 

He held it against his chest in the darkness, unable to see it, but, feeling it all the same. When it was pressed against his heart, he swore that he was there, and could feel his breath puffing against his skin. 

It's a vivid memory of when it was taken. Jungkook's 20th birthday. There was a portrait from his 15th to his 23rd. Then that tradition was cut short, and now that a year had gone by, it was time to find a new one. 

He tried to think of one before the first came around, but, allowed himself some room to breathe as his chest caved in on itself. He gathered himself back together and spent the next whole morning thinking of what he could do.

September 1st wouldn't ever go away. It was a day they would inevitably reach for the rest of their lives, and though it pained him greatly to think that with each year that passed Jungkook's history would be older, and older, he got himself through it by remembering that time simultaneously meant he'd be getting closer and closer to seeing him again.

Jungkook had always deserved the world. Now that he lost the chance to hand it over, all that was left to do was hold it tight in his fists until the day he could. 

There were simple ideas like leaving out candles on the window sill so the wind could blow them out. Enough to show him, where ever he was, that they still cared and remembered. Eventually, they would hold large-scale celebrations, maybe even a celebratory concert. Jimin began planning years, writing his scripts for as far as his thirtieth and fortieth. He thought about the guest lists and the songs, maybe even special appearances. He knew that every year the attendance would get smaller, and smaller, but if even a dozen showed up in five or six decades, then he'd done his job; a dozen people would remember that Jeon Jungkook had existed.

Ones first death was the moment they took their last breath. Their second was when the last person who knew him took theirs. The conscientious was determined to guarantee he only went once. Once was enough.

While Jungkook hadn't necessarily died alone, instead in a hospital room surrounded by staff, Jimin had accepted that he had died the moment he spun out of control. His last conscious state was alone, and that was a good enough reason to conclude that he woke up in the afterlife reaching out for someone's hand.

His guilty conscience forced him to assure that if life took another stab at them, none of his members would die alone, again. Nor would they die alone in their heads. That constant reassurance filled up all of his free time and every thought. 

The ultimate truth was that he was too wrapped up in mending that dancing had slowly slipped his mind. At first, it was grief, but as the grief got easier to manage, he found there were more important things. Learning a choreography took up too much time he could spend holding Taehyung close and telling him how he loved him over and over until his mouth went dry. 

Surprisingly, he felt no anger towards himself. Years of aching muscles and sleepless nights down the drain was no different than eight years of friendship gone in a single night. He had no control over either. If he lost his grip, then it couldn't have been saved, anyway. 

Finishing the cover would reignite the flames that died on November 10th, 2020, and it was pure retribution. After that, he'd go straight back to holding Taehyung close, and plan what he would do every September 1st. 

Jungkook had painted him gold and then left. Reapplying dull layers wouldn't heal what hurt, but it was enough to prevent chipping.

———

Jimin stood in a completely blank room. Not even white. Blank. He could not understand what he was seeing - if he was seeing anything at all - but could feel his feet solid on the floor. His only other sense active was sound.

He heard his blood move through his veins. The room, unnaturally silent, stripped him of everything else.

"Come forth."

He couldn't move. The voice was not masculine or feminine. Loud nor quiet. It came from nowhere, but everywhere.

"Come.'

Still nothing. There was clear demand in its tone, and as much as Jimin suddenly wanted to step forwards, he remained frozen. 

"Hyung?"

In a flash of a second Jimin was in full sprint forwards, backward, he couldn't tell. Jungkook's voice was a distant lullaby. "Hyung?" More certain than before. "Hyung?" A bit more confused.

His legs pumped. The room around him grew and grew until he was sure he was running in place with Jungkook's voice whirling around his head.

"Hyung!"

Panicked. 

Suddenly there was a black door and Jimin swung it open, Jungkook's voice right on the other side.

He was wholly unprepared for the sight in front of him.

Jungkook's reflection was in the practice room mirror, but his body was not actually there, no feet squeaking on wooden floor. Draped over his body were the same clothes that had been bleached free of blood. He was dancing. And though he was on the other side of something Jimin couldn't understand, he was so close and so real that the room began to spin.

He reached out and placed his palm against the glass right as he rolled his hips, and swore he could hear his breathing. Jungkook was so close, but so far away. And completely oblivious that the end of his life would come in just a few hours, only around the corner.

Suddenly he stopped, and then a smile bloomed across his face, and it felt like watching the universe being born. "Okay," his voice giddy, knee weakening, "I think I got it. I'm going to head home, now."

Jimin was left to scream and bang against the glass as Jungkook wordlessly gathered his things, and walked out of the door.

Before he could crumple to the floor in complete agony the walls were blank once more. Except when he looked up, there was the night sky, clear and beautiful but all he could think about was Jungkook walking away, oblivious to the end of his own life, how he was smiling his last smile. He had never felt such greater pain in his life.

"A mistake has been made."

A mistake? What mistake could there be? The only mistake Jimin had ever made was standing by Jungkook from the beginning. If he hadn't, he would've gone home at fifteen, and then he'd still be alive. 

"A mistake had been made."

The voice was everywhere. Here, there, inside of his bones. Where was Jungkook?

"Fix the mistake. Fix the mistake."

He tried. He tried until he bled himself dry.

"Fix the mistake."

Jungkook's frantic voice overlapped the ominous one. Acid leaked down from Jimin's eyes, his chest physically throbbing from the torture of being unable to do anything to find him, to kiss his wounds, to hold him close and whisper that everything would be okay. He thought of him trapped in a mangled car, so afraid and confused, only able to call out for Hyung, slowly losing his life alone and soaked in the rain. 

"Jungkook," he sobbed out, "Jungkook . ."

Choking on his sobs, he woke up tight in someone's arms. 

———

Chapter Text

‘Today was a hard day. Maybe they're all hard but I just don't realize it, mostly. But it was hard nonetheless. 

It's just - why'd you have to take everything but leave so much behind? Why does it always get more difficult? Why'd you have to go, Kook? Didn't you know how much we needed you? Didn't you realize that I couldn't do this without you?

You didn't even get to realize it. You might even be as angry as I am. I'm sorry. Sometimes it gets to me. Your Jin-Hyung loves you so much. I'm so sorry.’

———

Seokjin's voice sounded like water in his ear as he pressed his phone, upside down, backward at first, to it. His hand was set to a static channel, pins, and needles poking but not drawing blood. He could hardly make out his name being called over and over again.

"Taehyung?"

"H-Hyung," he stuttered, slurred, the head rush blurring his sight. The emotion tugging at Jim's voice had his stomach dropping before he could sit up completely. "Yes - yeah?"

"Where are you?" Jin reprimanded, less desperate than before but still worked up. "You said you were gonna be on your way three hours ago."

Taehyung's sleep-hazed mind rushed as quick as it could to the early past. He glanced at his phone screen, seeing it was closer to noon than it was dawn, which he hadn't expected. Vaguely, he remembered texting the group chat announcing he'd be there soon, receiving a flutter of short replies. Then, after that, nothing. Blacked out the moment he decided it wouldn't kill to rest his head a bit.

To pretend that he wasn't beginning the second year of life without Jungkook. 

"Oh." That was all he could say.

"Oh," Jin repeated, hints of frustration bleeding into his tone. Taehyung winced, knowing the heavyweight of his mistake, the undeniable meaning of the keeping of time.

"I'm sorry, Jin-Hyung, I just - I fell -"

On his nightstand the pill bottle mocked him. What was only simple white plastic had reigned complete control over his life ever since the previous November. His lie, or half-truth, faltered from his lips, and he froze at the sight of it like prey to a predator. 

It was the rudest awakening call of his life that he couldn't just quit what was his security blanket, his safe place, his bomb shelter. 

The members had supported him throughout his withdrawals, slip-ups, and counseling. He'd never understand why they still loved him when the pills had turned him into a completely different, irritable, hollow, person, but they loved him anyway, falling to their knees next to him when he tripped. The problem was that he kept tripping, and tripping, that he feared their knees would become too bruised to follow. His main motivation for detachment became not falling behind. Slowly, slowly, the dosages decreased, the withdrawal symptoms less and less painful; the broken pieces of Taehyung slowly formed back together. 

And he had been doing well for almost three weeks. The one-month mark called for celebration. For the first time in a year, he was excited about a future event. For the first time in a year, Taehyung was proud of himself, and now that was all gone because November 10th wouldn't stop and wait for him. Admitting this to Jin, who had held him as he sobbed and heaved his way through a panic attack, tore his healing heart again clean in half. 

Something told him that the progress would never right itself again.

"It got hard to wake up this morning."

The silence was devastating. 

Seokjin shuffled on the other end of the line, probably running a hand down his face, probably texting the others first asking who had told him where the bottle was stashed - (It was no one.) "Are you okay?" He asked after a long minute, softer than before. 

"I don't know."

"How many did you take? Do you think you need to go to the hospital?" Jin had been on the edge ever since he found Hoseok in the garage. "I'll leave right now if you - "

"Just a few," Taehyung cut across. "I'm okay. I'm sorry, Jin - Hyung."

"No, don’t apologize,” Taehyung could imagine the sympathetic draw of brows, “you're doing good. You're doing so good. It's okay to slip up a few times."

He would've been comforted by this if he hadn't already heard it a few hundred times. "I know."

"I'm really proud of you, Tae-Tae."

"I know, Jin-Hyung. Thank you."

There was more between them than distance and cellular connection. It went unacknowledged like most things in life were. The smell of powder and the rattling of a million tiny pills engulfed him. Jin remained oblivious, or silently aware, from miles away, across an intersection that the city considered shutting down. 

This time Seokjin was definitely speaking to someone, a hand over the speaker muffling the conversation. Since no one immediately came and stole the phone away, he figured it wasn’t any of the members. Between the bars of his cell, his arm retracted from where it reached out for freedom. Seokjin’s back did not turn from where he bargained bail. 

He sunk back into a place of utter ruin and didn’t bother to say goodbye. 

"You can stay in if you want. We'll be home soon."

"Alright."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

When the call ended, there was nothing better for Taehyung to do except to fall back into his bed and miss him. 

———

Kim Taehyung thought that he had his life planned out for him.

As his career progressed, he'd work hard. Always maintaining a steady passion and delivery. For the people around him, he’d be a role model, a brother, a ray of hope.

Eventually, he would find someone he loved and settled down, once the spotlight wasn't so intense. They'd create a big family together, and he would be the best father he could be, and alongside that, he would continue music forever.

He'd remain kind, and supportive, and abstract. He'd try his best to understand others a little better. Learn to set his boundaries all over again, once the walls of fame became less claustrophobic. 

He'd be a good person.

And suddenly he found that all of those dreams grew distant. They no longer fit together perfectly; they lost their appeal. He could still see them, a hazy future, but the details were fuzzy and exclamation marks shrank into periods.

Everything in the past, present, and future, had changed. 

He couldn't call himself a bad person. No, he hadn't done anyone wrong. He wasn't perfect, but he tried. Only now he tried less. 

He found himself bitter, more inclined to anger. Even though the six had learned a harsh lesson in the importance of managing your time, he grew distant and antisocial, away from everyone he might lose. His previous hobbies were bleak and old. Weekends spent at home. Phone calls and messages went unchecked. 

He began to hate conversation. They either only wanted to talk about him or avoid the topic at all. When they wanted to talk about him, he hated it because thinking of Jungkook tore a hole straight through his chest. But when they avoided him, he hated it because Jungkook was so much more than a touchy subject. No midpoint could be reached. It wasn't like there was anything that they could ever say that would be right, either.

I'm sorry for your loss. They were better off saying, I'm sorry that he has died, that he is gone. When the word lost was used, it insinuated that whatever was missing . . 

You could find again.

In a year the only thing that he had found was that the most difficult and confusing part of his life was now figuring out what to do next.

While he had accepted that Jungkook was gone, he didn't prepare for the steps afterward. Almost as if he expected the world to end the moment he decided he found even a tiny bit of peace in the situation, there with Jin by the river. 

All he held was a dim candle on the dark path towards the future. It could be blown out by a small gust of wind. The wax-coated and burned his hand. Taehyung was expected to find the end of the tunnel even when he had no idea which state of mind he would be in tomorrow.

Jungkook was his only dongsaeng. He hadn't realized that he identified so powerfully with being Jungkook's youngest Hyung. 

With his death, a large part of himself had died. His purpose. What had died was short pep talks between sets, and pats on the head, and the bursts of maturity when he came to him with tears in his eyes. Strangled hugs and kisses. A small voice asking for Hyung. Moments of swelling pride, and nostalgia, and love.

He had lost a branch of his career. His teenage years and young adulthood. His Seoul. 

Big doe eyes and feet that dangled off of the company roof. 

These were all things that couldn't be found, either. He simply had to cope with the fact that half of his soul had been permanently taken. Taehyung no longer had the responsibility of his younger brother and his working, calloused, hands grew smooth. 

The hope for the future had died because none of it mattered when Jungkook wouldn't be there to spend it with him.

———

Never once did he ever think the hardest decision in his life would be to stay in bed or to go have dinner with his members. It frightened him, here and there, how heavy his limbs could be. Sometimes it felt like he would wake up to find his hands and feet cuffed, and he would only have the energy to close his eyes and drift back off to sleep. It would be too late, and him too far gone, before he realized the key was dead center on his chest.

He listened to the clatter of dishes, voices, vague questions, and commands. He felt the affection in his chest, hearing their specific voices and whether they were smiling as they spoke or not. But there was a dark vein of roots crawling over that sprout of love. It couldn't be whacked, or poisoned, or picked. It would only grow bigger, and bigger until it was all he was. 

He stumbled down the hall, anyway, leaning his entire weight onto the wall. Their familiar noise became louder and louder, yet somehow farther away. Out of the blinding lights of the kitchen, his Hyung's came into form, like angels, like saints, but Taehyung couldn't remember when he last prayed. 

Their reactions varied when they saw him. Individual sparks of personality he knew well. 

Jimin's smile was warm, albeit tired, as he pulled Taehyung into his side. He relented, leaning his weight against the older, who rubbed soft circles on his arm.

Namjoon gave him a dimpled smile that didn't quite reach his swollen, empty, eyes. 

Hoseok came and pressed a loving kiss to his temple. Then he stared out the window and mindlessly stirred the pot.

Yoongi set the seventh set down, in the seventh spot. It was his quiet little act. 

Seokjin winked playfully, but he was sad. It had been quite a long time since he had looked Jin in the eyes and found happiness there instead.

Dinner went along without any questions. The food tasted like nothing in his mouth, but he ate to soothe the dull ache in his stomach. Everyone else seemed to enjoy it well enough. He didn't know who cooked, who's idea it was for the meal. He almost asked but thought again, figuring it was a worthless question. When the salt was passed his way, he didn't bother to sprinkle a bit on. He almost asked what the point of it was. Jungkook always preferred pepper.

(The pepper shaker hadn't been filled for a year.) 

He thought that Namjoon asked him a question but all he could do was stare at the damned salt shaker. 

Laughter erupted and Taehyung laughed along, though he wasn't sure what the joke was. 

A discussion started about who could jump the highest. Instead of chiming in, he pondered the existence of tomorrow and the day after. The idea that perhaps life would simply end because he wouldn't pick himself back up again. 

All six sat and ate together, and if an outsider had walked in and watched with no idea that there was a missing piece, they would've thought that it was the epitome of what home looked like. That the empty chair was just an accidental purchase. Not that devastation had claimed its stake inside. The mask Taehyung had been wearing for eight years of his life took a different shape, meaning, and yet hung loosely off of his face. He made no move to adjust it because the fear of exposure was gone like everything he ever knew.

Under the table, Jimin's hand squeezed his tight. He knew that they all knew why he never came into work. The shame was momentarily cured by the affectionate graze of his small thumb. Within the gentle touch spoke a promise that he'd never have to fight alone. Taehyung found himself believing it as Yoongi smiled softly at him from across the table.

This was home; a disfigured, broken, fractured one, but home. If it was ever lost, he knew exactly how to find it. Yet he wondered if they'd continue fighting if he gave up. If he decided he couldn't anymore. He was squinting to see the thin outlines of the next morning.

Jimin kissed his knuckles. And still, it seemed like there was absolutely nothing ahead. Maybe there wasn't. Maybe like Seoul, and rooftops, and hope, Taehyung had died with Jungkook, too.

———

Taehyung stood in a completely blank room. Not even white. Blank. He could not understand what he was seeing - if he was seeing anything at all - but could feel his feet solid on the floor. His only other sense active was sound.

He heard his blood move through his veins. The room, unnaturally silent, stripped him of everything else.

"Come forth."

He couldn't move. The voice was not masculine or feminine. Loud nor quiet. It came from nowhere, but everywhere.

"Come.'

Still nothing. There was clear demand in its tone, and as much as Taehyung suddenly wanted to step forwards, he remained frozen. 

"Hyung?"

In a flash of a second Taehyung was in full sprint forwards, backward, he couldn't tell. Jungkook's voice was a distant lullaby. "Hyung?" More certain than before. "Hyung?" A bit more confused.

His legs pumped. The room around him grew and grew until he was sure he was running in place with Jungkook's voice whirling around his head.

"Hyung!"

Panicked. 

Suddenly there was a black door and Taehyung swung it open, Jungkook's voice right on the other side.

He was wholly unprepared for the sight in front of him.

Jungkook's reflection was in the practice room mirror, but his body was not actually there, no feet squeaking on wooden floor. Draped over his body were the same clothes that had been bleached free of blood. He was dancing. And though he was on the other side of something Taehyung couldn't understand, he was so close and so real that the room began to spin. 

He reached out and placed his palm against the glass right as he rolled his hips, and swore he could hear his breathing. Taehyung was so close, but so far away. And completely oblivious that the end of his life would come in just a few hours, only around the corner.

Suddenly he stopped, and then a smile bloomed across his face, and it felt like watching the universe being born. "Okay," his voice giddy, knee weakening, "I think I got it. I'm going to head home, now."

Taehyung was left to scream and bang against the glass as Jungkook wordlessly gathered his things, and walked out of the door.

Before he could crumple to the floor in complete agony the walls were blank once more. Except when he looked up, there was the night sky, clear and beautiful but all he could think about was Jungkook walking away, oblivious to the end of his own life, how he was smiling his last smile. He had never felt such greater pain in his life.

"A mistake has been made."

A mistake? What mistake could there be? The only mistake Taehyung had ever made was standing by Jungkook from the beginning. If he hadn't, he would've gone home at fifteen, and then he'd still be alive. 

"A mistake had been made."

The voice was everywhere. Here, there, inside of his bones. Where was Jungkook?

"Fix the mistake. Fix the mistake."

He tried. He tried until he bled himself dry.

"Fix the mistake."

Jungkook's frantic voice overlapped the ominous one. Acid leaked down from Taehyung's eyes, his chest physically throbbing from the torture of being unable to do anything to find him, to kiss his wounds, to hold him close and whisper that everything would be okay. He thought of him trapped in a mangled car, so afraid and confused, only able to call out for Hyung, slowly losing his life alone and soaked in the rain. 

"Jungkook," he sobbed out, "Jungkook . ."

His eyes were forced open. For a fleeting moment, he thought that the youngest would be there, but instead, all five other living members stood by him in a circle, and Taehyung had a strong feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.

The first thing he thought, awake, was that Jungkook needed him. For a forgetful second, he almost stood and walked to his room.

———

Chapter Text

He awoke to his entire front soaked with sweat. The room, darker than before, startled him, his eyes used to a blinding light. Seokjin sat upwards before he could register that he was conscious, gasping a wet and heavy breath.

Reality slowly dawned on him as his heartbeat settled. His bedroom walls confined him, and his soft mattress underneath kept him from falling through the floor, yet he couldn't ease into his familiar surroundings. A string tied him to a reality beyond his imagination, and it was tugging hard. 

Jungkook's voice danced around his head. 

"What the fuck?" He swore into his palms, rubbing at the tear tracks on his face. His entire conscience had been there. His body. He felt the ground beneath his feet, how his eyes squinted, how the voice echoed through his ears. 

Nightmares weren't uncommon. But none had even been so real, so unnerving. Calming down felt like relaxing from a real-life experience, not just a short, abstract, dream. 

This wasn't like before. It wasn't like tire wheels squealing and hospital waiting rooms. Jin had been there, as possibly as he could. Something unexplainable had happened and a searing headache was already beginning to develop behind his eyes. 

He cried for a few minutes, remembering what it sounded like - Jungkook's actual voice calling for him. A sweet, melodic, tone. He thought about how he'd drop whatever he was doing to respond, to help. Sometimes he'd be greeted with a mischievous smile or sad, doe, eyes. No matter what it was he'd bend over backwards for that silvery song, meeting expectations or going beyond just to see his smile widen.

But that was in the past, he reminded himself bitterly. Reminiscence wouldn't turn the clock back. He needed to digest, and allow for the dream to fade into scraps and pieces as they all did. 

Knowing sleep was far off, he stood on unsure legs, heading into the living room. There, his mind would clear, and he'd be able to come to terms with what he had seen, and then he'd crawl back into bed. A familiar cycle for nights like this. Hurt, heal, fall asleep, and hurt a little quieter. 

He glanced at his watch. An hour after midnight. He'd need to be up in five due to his schedule - if that was still intact. If his mind was still intact. Jin thought about the other voice, unfamiliar, foreboding. Not like anything he had ever heard. He wasn't sure if he had even heard it - felt was the better word. His back slumping and the urge to fall to his knees in some sort of beg for mercy. An indescribable sense of power.

Jungkook's voice was like a god to that king.

But it was only a dream. Seokjin had a creative mind. Perhaps everyone had an experience like this at one point in their lives. In the past, he heard vague stories of lucid dreams, though the basis of that was that the dreamer would be in control. What had happened had felt like the opposite. For no reason would he ever submit himself to that torture. But it was in the past, now a memory, and he could forget it. That meant he was fine, and everything else, was ultimately fine.

"Hyung?"

Despite none of his Dongsaeng's voices sounding remotely similar, the imitation knocked the wind out of his chest. Yoongi stood a few feet away, a figure in the dark, arms wrapped around his middle. Jin let out a small gasp of surprise, his next quick words breathless. 

"Yoongi-ah," he shifted his slumped body upwards, "What - what do you need?"

He felt a suspicious pair of eyes. "Why are you out here?"

Forgetting that it was not a casual occasion to be found alone in the dark, sat upright, without any form of entertainment, Jin scrambled for an appropriate answer.  "I was just . . I had . ."

"A dream?"

His spine reacted. He suddenly realized Yoongi's voice had been shaking the whole time. 

"Yeah. A dream."

Sometimes, they just knew each other. Even if they didn't, it was the most reasonable explanation. Jin had just had a dream, and Yoongi had just known. Everything was fine. 

"I'm gonna sit out here, too."

He sat and neither spoke. If any light was on, the elder could've seen how the producer's hands trembled. How sweat plastered his shirt to his chest. How a single word danced around his head. 

Despite this, Yoongi asked first, anyway. 

"You okay?"

Jungkook's voice echoed and echoed. 

"I don't know."

Silence resumed. He closed his eyes and saw white, so he tried to blink as little as possible. Thoughts of a fifteen-year-old sitting with his back straight and eyes wide. Suddenly his eyes began to burn, and it was not from prolonged exposure to air. Forget, Seokjin, he told himself. You have to forget. 

Light flooded into the room, catching both off guard. Without a word, Hoseok marched from the hallway, straight into the kitchen. A glimpse of his face showed an agonized expression. "Hobi?" Jin called, but the dancer did not reply. The faucet began to run, water splashing down the drain, then into a cup.  

Yoongi managed a strangled smile towards his older brother, his eyes puffy. "Seems like everyone's coming out in order."

Appreciating the light joke, Jin smiled in return. "If Namjoon-ah is next, I'm going to get freaked out." 

As if wasn't still trembling and betraying himself with how hard he was holding onto Jungkook's fraying call. 

Both thought that he hadn't heard Jin speak, but, he replied as soon as he settled down next to Yoongi, bare chest glistening. His eyes remained miserable. "I didn't plan to. I haven't dreamt for a long time."

Seokjin tried not to think of blank walls. 

Instead, he thought of how he could coax all three of them back into bed without acknowledging anything about the odd timing, and without asking any questions. They had a schedule tomorrow, anyway. Hoseok had simply had a dream. 

He almost thinks to himself that it's normal - Jungkook died only yesterday. Then he remembers that it's been a year and something inside of him crumples and wilts. Instead of herding them up, he stayed a sheep, picking at his nails as Hoseok turned on the T.V and flickered through channels, purposely avoiding all news stations. (All they delivered was tragedy, anyway.) He settled on an action movie with enough noise to drown out everything in their heads.

Even as luxury cars crashed and exploded, and the hero saved a screaming pretty woman, a mosquito hummed Hyung, Hyung, in his ear. The flower within him attempted to bloom again but the season was all wrong. 

"This movie sucks," he chuckled, receiving a few murmurs in reply. "But I think Jungkook would've like it."

He didn't say the last part aloud. It didn't matter because Jungkook wouldn't appear curled in next to him and beg him to make popcorn. He found himself tracing imaginary tattoos on his arm as he waited for the movie to end with a kiss and dramatic drive into the sunset. 

The first loud thump he paid no mind to. Could've been anything, the house settling, one of the younger's accidentally kicking the wall in their sleep. The next, which sounded more like a muffled shout, perturbed him some, yet, he definitely had heard more concerning things in the night. Seven - no, six - people in one house called for interesting circumstances. 

It wasn't until a third noise, a wail, that he raised his head. His immediate thought was Yeontan, having to use the restroom. Yeontan hadn't been over often because Taehyung could hardly take care of himself, he remembered, right as Namjoon's emotion-filled cry of 'no!' filtered straight through his room walls. 

Seokjin's stomach landed heavily at his feet. "Is that Namjoon?" Yoongi's voice held a thousand layers of concern. Never had he heard the leader, who usually spoke with a deep tone, so shrill, terrified - a wounded animal couldn't replicate its desperation.

The two oldest flew on their feet with bursts of adrenaline, thoughts of demented stalkers and hands wrapped around throats rushing through their minds. Yet Namjoon was alone, still in his blankets, but not at all okay. Spotting the telltale symptoms of a nightmare, Jin intrusively thought that he might've preferred a midnight attack. 

Namjoon, trapped inside of his mind, let out choked cries and fought. Seokjin dodged the uncoordinated swing of his arms, knowing that his uncontrolled strength could knock him clean off his feet. 

He thrashed like a man burning alive. Yoongi flew into the bed next to him, throwing his body hard on top of his. There was a significant size difference, but Yoongi had the advantage, pinning the younger and larger down. Close to still, Namjoon's tears were now clear on his face. Seokjin reached down to wipe them away, and then roughly shook his shoulders, repeating his name over and over until his eyes shot open. 

Seokjin would like to say that seeing Kim Namjoon cry was a rare occasion, but it wasn't. At least not anymore. He sat straight up, throwing Yoongi off of him in the process. Almost immediately after locking eyes with them both, he began to cry into his hands, pulling his knees up to his chest. His sputtered hiccups prompted Yoongi and Jin's hearts to stop beating with adrenaline to instead slow with shared pain. The eldest put a hand on his neck and brought his face into his stomach, paying no attention to the wet that gathered on his t-shirt, and the wrinkles that would develop from where Namjoon's fist clutched the fabric.

Seeing the usually calm and collected man in complete shambles, sobbing and clinging like an upset child, sprung tears in Seokjin's own eyes. The seams of his body began to tear and all the two could do was pinch the skin. 

"Hey, hey, Namjoon-ah," he stroked a messy head of hair, "it's okay, it's okay." 

"He was - he was there -" Namjoon spoke frantically, lifting his head to show a terrorized demeanor. "He was - "

His fingers paused their movements. "Who was there? Who?"

"Kookie."

Seokjin sucked in a deep breath. He swallowed, irritating his dry throat. The room suddenly became engrossed in silence. His eyes met Yoongi's, who looked a moment away from collapsing. 

Everything was fine.

"It was just a dream, Joon," in the darkness he searched and found his hand, squeezing it gently, and then pulling upwards. "We'll help you calm down, so you can go back to sleep." 

"He was there," Namjoon repeated, firmer, surer, but the two simply led him out of his bed and to the living room, using all of their strength to hold his weight up. He did not try to argue it further, and that was taken as a sign that it all could still be forgotten. 

Hoseok was already waiting with a fresh glass of water, a blanket, and a sympathetic expression. Namjoon lowered himself onto the cushion without assistance but accepted the arm Hoseok wrapped around his shoulders. The blanket rested on his lap. When he drank the water, it was clear his throat was in dire need of the replenish. It wouldn't have been surprised if all the hydration in his body evaporated from every pore. 

Seokjin knew Yoongi's eyes were on his cheek, but he played ignorant, inspecting Namjoon intently. He did care to look him over as he calmed, except he wasn't all that focused on watching his tears dry. His tongue moved inside of his mouth, deciding on the correct thing to say. Hoseok had not grasped what they had, yet, and if he was able to send the younger two back to bed before he did, there would be no time wasted on the unimportant.

He almost told himself that everything was fine. He decided otherwise. 

"Don't cry, Namjoon-ah," Hobi nurtured when the rapper convulsed with a sob. Sadness pulled his features downwards. "Hyung doesn't like when you cry."

The final sparks died out upon Namjoon's golden skin, his breaths evening out. Seokjin could tell he was pulling himself together with sheer force, his eyes peeking out from behind his fingers to judge what the older three were thinking. No judgment on their end. Embarrassment on his.

"God, that felt so real," all knew well enough the shaky laugh he exhaled was a quick, strategic, coping mechanism. "I don't remember the last time I even watched that video, but I guess I still know the choreography." 

He may not have had any idea what Namjoon was talking about, but Hoseok certainly did. Seokjin certainly did not want to know. He tried in vain to reach his eyes, to give a signal that zero discussion was to be allowed, but the dancer stared at the crown of his head so heavily he wondered how the rapper didn't notice. 

Any other circumstances and it would've been comical. Namjoon pulled a tissue from the coffee table, wiped the proper parts of his face, and readjusted his body to breathe properly, posture straight. Hoseok stared. Namjoon turned to toss the balled-up tissue in the trash and accidentally elbowed him in the ribs. He only stared. 

"What are you all doing up, anyway? It's so late." 

"It's just been a hard week, Joon," Jin answered before anyone else could. Namjoon's lips closed, his eyes averting downwards. In the mess of his mind, he forgot a very important thing, and he relived it all within half a second. 

"Oh," he mumbled, and their short-lived conversation ended. 

The train began to pull out of the station before the wheels had a chance to cool down. A scene straight from the action movie no one was paying attention to, Hobi's words sucked in all their breathing air, a climactic plot twist Seokjin had been dreading, but ultimately expecting.

"What did he say right before he walked out?"

Namjoon froze. Seokjin did not want to know, he knew he didn't, but he leaned forwards, anticipating the answer. What did he say? Jungkook's sweet voice echoing a chilling call was all he could hear. Namjoon reacted as he finally detected Hoseok's dark gaze, and then settled into a state of disbelief. Seokjin leaned forwards until he almost toppled off of his seat. What had Jungkook said? 

Namjoon's mouth finally pried open. Whatever lay on his tongue would shatter every bit of Seokjin's imaginary hope for a better tomorrow, yet he watched the beginning syllable roll off his tongue like it was the last word that would be said before the world ended. 

Jimin's scream echoing down the hall shattered the moment. Yoongi was on his feet, sliding in socks before Jin could even think. 

Unlike the previous dongsaeng, Jimin was awake, kicking the blankets off of his body wildly. It was easier to avoid his shorter limbs but a caution nonetheless. Namjoon took the brunt of a ferocious kick, stifled his groan, and then ignored it completely.

"Jimin - ah!" He softened his voice after the dancer winced in surprise, "Jimin - ah."

Soon after the jolt, his voice melted into relief. Seokjin could barely make out the scene with his eyes blinking rapidly, adjusting to the darkness, but knew Jimin was reaching a hand out to someone blindly.

"Hyung," he choked out the word, "Hyung -"

Namjoon, the closest, immediately took a step forwards, completely ready to pile the brunette into his arms -

Yoongi roughly shoved Namjoon out of his way, another thing that would've been funny without a heaving Jimin and the rest of their current circumstance, wrapping his arms around the younger, shielding him from the rest of the world. Jimin's small form disappeared behind Yoongi's back, and his whimpering became muffled into the thick fabric of his blue hoodie. 

Seokjin let out the breath he had been holding. His heart did not like finding his dongsaeng's in peril. He could barely stand it when they sniffled from a cold. Jimin, cuddly and cute, especially. He wasn't pathetic, but seeing him cry was similar to adopting a puppy, raising it, and then watching it die in the street. 

Heart-wrenching, to say the least. 

"Did you have a dream, Minnie?" Namjoon asked without a tremor. He hadn't yet figured out the puzzle, too consumed with worry to piece together the obvious ends. Jin decided he'd leave him to it. 

Jimin's reaction couldn't be seen because Yoongi still cradled him close to his body. Yoongi lifted an arm to show a thumb; his answer was yes. The hand lowered and began stroking his head.

"It's okay, it's okay. Breathe. You're okay." Following the gentle command himself, he matched his breathing to the one he held, a therapeutic tactic. "You're safe, everything's safe."

"I saw him. I saw him."

None of the present men had the guts to ask who he was. Namjoon looked between his three Hyungs, the realization slowly dawning on him. The concern bled out of his eyes and in its place came fear. Careful to not upset Jimin any further, he lightly tapped Yoongi's shoulder, chin jutting out in that familiar sense of urgency. 

"We're home, Jiminie." The pale rapper ignored the beckoning, shrugging the fingers off. "It's just us here."

"But I saw him," he protested. There was no response, he was simply pulled to his feet. "I saw him."

"I did, too," Jin said, but his voice was too soft to be heard. He watched the three men's backs as they walked out into the hall. He wondered if anyone would listen if he screamed. 

Hoseok was once again waiting with a fresh resupply. Seokjin stopped short when he saw the look on his face. Dark, and heavy. In the gleam above his pupil, Jin caught a glimpse of himself. Dark, and heavy. 

"I'm going to check on Taehyung - ah."

Nothing was said as Hoseok led out a visibly shaken Taehyung from his room. 

Seokjin spread open his arms and after sparing him a small frown of hurt, Taehyung crawled into them. On his opposite side, a calmer Jimin moved in until he was right against him, already muttering soothing words into his ear. Jin held him tight and forced himself to stop shaking. Taehyung was already doing enough for both of them. 

All six took a few minutes of silence. Jin's eyes slid over to the hall, and almost expected something that he shouldn't.

The youngest sniffled. Out of all of them, he seemed to be the one handling it levelheaded. The tears running down his face were already drying. Jin felt younger, less wise, watching his face pinch in a calculating expression. By then close to fourth-five minutes had passed since his rude awakening, his apparent domino effect setting into place. 

Impressively quick, the vocalist's heart rate returned to a steady pace. None of the five knew what if Taehyung understood the significance of the situation. Trusting that he didn't, which would ultimately help the next few minutes go a lot smoother, Namjoon clasped his hands together, speaking in a low voice. He had been impatiently waiting, unable to hold it in any longer. 

"Taehyung. . wanna talk about it?"

He swallowed. His words sounded dry. "Um, yeah. Just give me a second."

"Of course," Namjoon allowed, waving his palms to show a lack of urgency, leaning back into the couch. His bouncing leg betrayed him. Taehyung glanced to the limb, raised an unimpressed brow, and Seokjin felt even younger.

Jimin’s face held a plethora of evocative emotions. Their intricate bond and it’s tender growth had been witnessed for many years. Jimin practically wrote Taehyung’s DNA. In other words, he had the largest impact on who he became, starting from a lonely, wide eyed, seventeen year old, too. .

 Whoever he was now. Jimin tried desperately to understand, and Seokjin saw his heartbreak piece by piece with every second that he couldn’t. 

It came suddenly when he spoke. He made no physical movement to prepare. Even Jimin was caught off guard. “I was just in this room." 

Somehow, Seokjin's stomach dropped even further. If it wasn’t a mess on his feet, he’d willingly accept it was six feet below. 

"I couldn't move or do anything, and it was really quiet. I could hear my blood flowing, that's how quiet it was."

Taehyung had no idea how rooms were silenced when he walked in. All five hung onto his every word, dangling from a single, weak, thin rope off the side of a cavernous hole of absolute bafflement. At the bottom lay sharp rocks, organized in neat rows that spelled out a name they once all responded to in unison. 

"And all of a sudden this voice just started telling me to come. I couldn't move until it was -"

"Jungkook. Jungkook asking for Hyung." Taehyung's lips parted. Jimin stared with eyes beyond his age, nodding, confirmation for the disintegration of a year's worth of servitude. 

"And then all of a sudden you could run and you ran as fast as you could to where he sounded from. And when you got there -"

Namjoon sliced the reply in half. “I was at the dance studio. And he was dancing. Then after a few minutes, he said goodbye and -"

"He left."

Hoseok, haunted and grief stricken.

"Then you're back in that room except the roof is open and you can see the stars. And that voice is back and telling you that a mistake was made."

Namjoon, failure a stain covering his insides.

"Jungkook's still calling out for you." Jimin. Like Seokjin had never seen him. "When you look back down and around - what happens? What do you -“

"All of you are there."  

Taehyung. Kim Taehyung.

Gathering that his illusion ended far earlier than the rest of his members, Seokjin supposed he had no reason to not believe them. They always struggled with coordinated lines - frankly, most of them were not the actor type - yet the bouncing of parts flowed smoother than any speech, event, video shoot ever proceeded. What would possess them to consider such a cruel joke? It must have been real-life because Namjoon certainty didn’t have time to master a perfect mug of destitution.

"This is fucked,” an uncharacteristic, arduous, swear, “What the fuck?"

Speaking for the first time, Yoongi aimed for justified reason. "He's been on our minds heavily lately. Maybe it's just -"

Namjoon’s leg thumped quicker. At it’s impressive rate it almost sparked flame. “I get it, our subconscious, but all of us? Dreaming the same thing?"

"Maybe we spend too much time together." Seokjin managed a small smile along with the joke, which wasn't really a joke, but a pathetic attempt to liven the mood. If the air was any heavier his spine would have crushed it on itself.

"We've spent all of our time together for eight years now," Jimin paid no attention to the humor in his sentence. "This hasn't ever happened before."

"He sounded so scared. And confused.” Taehyung meekly whispered, focusing in and out of the conversation around him. 

"But wait,” Jin straightened his spine with sudden urgency. “What did he say? What were you two talking about?"

The youngest four glanced to one another. Silently, it was decided, and Hoseok’s words rendered Jin speechless in a way he hadn’t been in, well, a specific amount of time marked off daily in decorative calendar boxes. 

"Okay, I think I got it. I'm gonna head home, now."

There was a world out there where Jungkook had come home. In the back of his mind, for a brief moment, the idol caught a glimpse of it. He was sleeping peacefully. His tongue sprang free from his mouth and he disconnected from the conversation, cutting the cord, unplugging the Internet, turned off the lights. He whispered goodnight into the darkness and heard it reboot in reply. 

A terrible moan broke out from Jimin’s lips; he placed his head in his hands and all previous composure crashed. “He was coming home."  

Their leader stood with the sense of authority only used during the direst of situations. On rare occasions did Namjoon need to command their attention and discipline. From the couch, he was as tall as the highest reaching skyscraper, with the weakest foundation. 

"It was just a dream.” He emphasized the word with distaste. “A fucked up one, but a dream. Look at us - we’re all here. We’re all talking about it. And it all ended. It’s over with.”

Despite everything, despite Jungkook's voice and dance and his casual goodbye, he was right; it couldn't have been anything else. All open mouths shut, for the reason of the existence of reason. Under the artificial lighting of their dorm, there were no shadows to hide and believe in. Jungkook was dead. Jungkook had died a year and two days prior. "Let's just go back to bed, and forget about it. What else can we do?"

Namjoon looked between them. No one answered, but no one argued, either. This was what he wanted, Seokjin reminded himself, to head back to sleep and forget, move on, an ability he couldn't harness where it was needed. Suiting up came close to putting on a hundred layers of clothes. Within an hour, life had changed completely again, and the blessing could compare to a molding slice of victory cake in his hand.

He bitterly admitted it didn't surprise him that much anymore.

"Okay." The leader clasped his hands together, setting his mouth in a firm line. "We're gonna forget about it. We have a schedule soon, let's get some sleep, please."

One by one, the group dispersed. Hoseok folded the blankets and placed them back in their respected space, set the cups in the sink, and bid them all a gentle goodnight before returning to his room. Whatever he did next was unknown. So was Yoongi's hidden actions after he waddled away, softly rubbing in between Jin and Namjoon's shoulder blades when he passed. The shortest member was entirely too good at a poker face. Hoseok once was the worst. Seokjin wasn't confident he knew when that changed.

Taehyung grabbed Jimin's hand, wordlessly asking for company. Seokjin watched them disappear with a growing cloud of loneliness forming over him. But it would've been weird if he asked to join - three grown men in one small bed, and he knew he'd probably end up awkwardly hugging one's back if cuddling occurred. Droplets pattered on top of his head. His soulmate was gone, anyway. The rain would come, the storm would never pass, and it would be rude to impede on their alone time, anyway.

When it was only him and Namjoon, a compromising moment came when neither made a move to be the last to leave. Seokjin wasn't sure why he stood in place and looking at Namjoon, he wasn't, either. Eventually, after a few awkward shuffles, Namjoon left, and it was only the oldest, moonlight peeking through the curtains and blinding one of his eyes. He didn't go and look at the stars. He listened to the hum of the air conditioning, and a distant cricket. He didn't follow his younger members, either, for too long of a time. He wasn't positive he was even touching the ground. 

But he figured he was when he walked across the tile and down the hall, his footsteps muffled and only soft patterns. He stared at his feet whilst he walked, purposely avoiding glancing up at the only door that hadn't been opened. Subconsciously he pictured a sleeping, sprawled out, form on messy bedding. Moonlight shining down from behind curtains and illuminating handsome, delicate, relaxed features. If only Jungkook was just sleeping. If only he could open the door, crawl in next to him, and share a too-small bed; not having to be the third wheel, wrapping his arms around a thin singular waist.

The reality he created split when he stood in his room, which was somehow darker and even more quiet than the empty living area. He kept his floor clean so he didn't worry about stepping on anything. Though he still somehow hadn't got the hang of avoiding the sharp edge of his dresser. There was also his phone, which may or may not had fallen to the ground in his frenzied wake-up. When the sun rose half-mast, it would be light enough for him to find it. Perhaps it would be a little higher than the day before. 

Doubtful. He made a couple of mental notes for when he awoke. Consult Taehyung, comfort Taehyung, convince Taehyung of the beauty of life. Yet he did not look at the stars. Look outside of your window, and you'll see, Tae - look how pretty the stars are. Jungkookie used to talk about the stars so much, you remember that? He used to say how badly he wanted to touch them. We were playing around once, right after we debuted, and I lifted him and told him to reach as far as he could. 

Maybe I held him too high. 

A sudden urge. Jin's eyes flickered to a spot where magic was created, and destroyed. The urge was hungry, itching, and pounding. One he couldn't deny any longer. It wasn't shame that infected the blood in his veins but it was something close. Black seat padding began to tear from usage; a trashcan to the side was filled with dried-out pens and crumpled-up paper. Do it, Kim Seokjin, his brain chanted. Why haven't you done it? Why hadn't he done it?

Why do you feel that you've nearly run out of time?

He sat down at his desk and flipped open his notebook. Suddenly he was right back in that night. Mint began to swell into his nose, and he knew, deep inside, that something was wrong.

———

Chapter Text

Yoongi really shouldn't have been all that surprised when he sat up so fast he nearly somersaulted off his bed, stumbled into the living room, and found all of his members already gathered in various states of distress. 

But he was. His mind ran overtime for an answer, a logical answer that would soothe them all and allow them to drift back off into a peaceful, uninterrupted, sleep; yet there was nothing. They looked up to him with wide, fearful, eyes, hoping he could provide stability, wondering what he had to say if he was going to speak. A wave of terrible deja vu hit him with such force he could do nothing but lower himself onto the floor, praying he had no news to deliver. 

The confusion from earlier faded. He knew exactly what they meant when he left when he banged and begged against a glass mirror that would not shatter no matter how much force he applied. The strain on his heart remained ever consistent. 

No one was crying, like before, and though they were upset, confusion lined their features more prominently. Almost curiosity in Namjoon's eyes, as he ran a shaky hand through his sleep tousled hair. Yoongi glanced to Hoseok's phone, on the coffee table and lit with a notification, and saw two hours had passed since he had first awoken. Soon, the sun would rise. If their next discussion went right, Jungkook's fearful voice would fade when morning came, along with every question they could possibly ask. 

"What the hell is going on?" Namjoon rasped, clawing the fabric of the couch. 

"Are we all drugged, or something?" Seokjin, standing and shifting his weight from foot to foot, felt his forehead for fever whilst speaking. "Did someone slip something into our drinks?"

It was a genuine concern. None had ever luckily experienced such an attack, but the threat still loomed. Jimin checked his heart, pulse, head, unsure where the symptoms would lie. "I don't know. I feel - fine, for everything that's happened. I've felt fine all day. That felt too real, though. I obviously don't know anything but I'd think that a drugged dream would be a lot more surreal."

Yoongi didn't know a lot about drugs. However, he was leaning towards one hundred percent positive that no pill or powder existed that caused their specific, coordinated, entirely mind-breaking symptoms. At least without any other indications. Nonetheless, if anyone with enough bottled anger to pursue the action was able to get close enough to succeed, he figured that they would aim for something more dangerous, possibly life-threatening, instead of disrupting a good night's sleep. 

Hoseok shook his head, quick to deny. "That felt real. There's no way that wasn't."

"How would it be? We were dreaming. You can't go anywhere when you're dreaming." Despite the bite in his voice, Namjoon's eyes flickered back and forth between them all, unsure. "We're all still here, in the dorm."

Taehyung, soaking up the leader's body warmth, nudged his shoulder with his own. Namjoon avoided becoming trapped in a pair of professional-grade puppy eyes. "Yeah, but - but how do you explain this? Have you read a book on this or something?"

Yoongi decided it was his time to speak before everyone went off in different directions. Obviously, because they had started in the exact same room, then they needed to begin from the exact same position. Compasses were only useful if you knew which way you needed to go. Together was the only pathway. 

And he had no news to deliver, he reminded himself. He hadn't ran, hadn't gotten thirsty, and hadn't checked his phone. This was no time for reliving trauma. 

He pushed himself to his feet, hands out in placating a position, and ignored the rush of a rainy breeze his mind falsified. "Okay, everyone, okay. Take a breath." First guaranteeing he had the whole group's attention, he maintained a calm tone of voice. "Did everyone reach the end?"

Hoseok nodded. "Yeah, it went by a lot quicker this time. It actually felt like I was in control this time."

In sync once more. Comforting, but not exactly relieving.

"I saw all of you guys," Taehyung added. "Again. But clearer this time. Did you see me too?"

His mind cracked open. The scene of all six of them standing in a hexagon replayed. Clear as he was seeing them then, every familiar curve and shadow of face. 

"You looked at me and mouthed my name." Jimin pointed to Namjoon, "Hobi-Hyung was reaching out to Seokjinnie-Hyung."

Yoongi could remember that, too. That and 

Jungkook's voice becoming increasingly more panicked, echoing around them like the suspense-filled background of a horror movie. 

"We were all wearing white, too," the small dancer added on, "like pants, and long sleeve shirts."

That didn't come as clearly, but certainly, he had seen them clothed. He would've remembered quite vividly if they weren't. Probably would've laughed in their faces.

The eldest was last. "I saw grass, I think. Like, at least green below us. I think I was looking down. I might've been barefoot."

Yoongi hadn't been looking down. Instead, he recounted that he had felt tickles beneath his feet. Smelled something fresh. Knew that above him was the sky, and so logically, below him had to be the earth. Logically. He almost laughed at himself. 

It was Jimin who broke the next period of silence, his voice a small whimper of fear. "I don't want to go back to sleep."

Yoongi wasn't entirely on either side. He had always been the type of person to push instead of pull, but he was dragging the rope towards him, investigating how long it went, where was the end - who or what was the heavyweight tied there. He vaguely knew that regret would swallow him whole if he didn't at least try. If all of them were there, live and in person, completely conscious and aware, couldn't there be the possibility that maybe . . 

"Me neither." His words had none of the tender falter Jimin's were characterized by. He felt his blanch slowly rejuvenate into a pale, rosy, color. "But . ."

"But?" Hoseok raised a brow, prompting him further as he trailed off.

"I feel like we have to."

Attention Yoongi handled like a burning hot plate. He stuttered attempting to defend his sanity. "This - This isn't a coincidence. Somethings happening to us. I feel like we have to figure it out."

Fortunately, he was not alone in his thoughts. Taehyung straightened his back, nodding his head in earnest. There was a fire sparkling in his eyes. "I agree with Yoongi-Hyung. He's right. This isn't happening for no reason."

Whatever Taehyung said, typically went. 

Seokjin came around first. Maknaes were his biggest weakness. "Well, how would we figure it out?"

"What would we figure out?"

"I don't know, why we're all there? Why - why Kook was afraid - " From his peripheral, he saw the panic building in Namjoon, everything around him falling out of his calm control. "Maybe we just need too. . ."

Tae aided him once more. "Fix the mistake." 

"There's no mistake!" All jumped at the sudden outburst from the leader. The anxious stress that he hid beneath a layer of tough skin he could take no longer. "We did everything we could for Jungkook. And even if there was, you can't just fix mistakes. You have to live with them. That's what we've been doing, I don't care what they said." 

Was it fear, Yoongi wondered, that he failed Jungkook in some way, and this was his punishment? The intentions behind Namjoon's emotions were found by picking at the holes in skin through tweezers. His skin was smoother than a child's. A needle in a haystack. 

Taehyung turned his face to him, a slight pout on his lips. "Jungkook sounded like he needed us."

"He doesn't," Namjoon cut across sharply. "He's dead. He's gone. He wouldn't - how could he -"

But Taehyung was dedicated. He clung both of his hands upon Namjoon's forearm, his shiny eyes piercing into his. Jungkook used to be able to pry anything out of any of them. His name held the same power.  "He needs us."

He had him seconds away from becoming putty in his grip. Namjoon faltered, slowly layering their hands. "What could he need? He's gone. He can't - he should be somewhere happy. What if he isn't?"

"Of course he is." Yoongi mended. "But . . "

He could be begging to come home. Afraid that we were never coming to find him. Yoongi knew he stood on a tightrope convincing the others. Creating terrible scenarios in their minds wasn't the way to go.  "I just want to know why he's calling for us." 

His face must've contorted into something credible. Seokjin waved a prompting hand. "So what do you propose?"

"I think we fall back asleep. And stay asleep. Just until we see where it's taking us." 

"I don't try and wake up, I just do." Jimin frowned. 

"Subconsciously maybe you are," Hoseok squeezed the inner part of Jimin's thigh. "It's so real, there, it almost feels like I could stay if I wanted to."

All eyes landed on Namjoon, found remarkable interest in the floor. His knuckles were white in the tight clasp of his hands. If it was from genuine engagement or not wanting to be left behind, Yoongi guessed he would never know.

"It couldn't hurt to try." He ran a hand down along his tightened jaw. Smirked without humor. "Knock on wood." 

Hopes soaring, the rapper nodded his head towards their bedrooms. "Sleeping must be a requirement."

"I'm too worked up to fall back asleep." Namjoon's posture spoke for itself. 

"I'm not that tired, anymore, either." Hoseok's energy supply began to burn at the oddest of times, for an impressing but infuriating amount of time. 

An idea flashed through his mind and spilled out of his mouth before he could bite his tongue. Desperation stole morality quicker than sanity.

"There's Taehyung's pills."

He stared in horror at his stomach at his feet. 

"Yoongi." Jin was equally abashed, shocked, and angered. Very rarely was that tone of voice ever used, the one that reminded them all that Seokjin was indeed the eldest. Yoongi was only three months younger than he, close to his thirties, and yet shrank under the reprimand. The rest of the group averted their eyes, knowing the extent Jin went with his protectiveness over the younger Daegu native.  

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he sputtered out the apology, the heat slowly building on his face. It wasn't fair, but he avoided glancing at Taehyung's face, fearing the look of betrayal. "I just - I didn't mean to say it. I just thought - what other choice do we have?"

"It's okay, Hyung." 

Yoongi's ears were clogged with remorse. All his mind could conjure was Jungkook, the hope that he was there, the possibility of a promise of seeing his smile again, beaming, bright, childlike - "It's Kookie. He's calling out for us and -"

"It's okay, Hyung." 

Taehyung raised his voice loud enough to stop Yoongi's rant short. When he looked at him, Taehyung's eyes were already on Seokjin's cheek, not having to repeat, but creating the understanding that he meant it for both of them. The blank cast on his face was icier than the autumn air outside. "Yoongi-Hyung is right. It's Kookie." 

Taehyung disappeared into the hall. Yoongi spent the few minutes where he was absent avoiding Seokjin's disappointed gaze. 

(He looked too much like Jungkook, sometimes, anyway.) 

Instead of returning with the bottle, he had half a dozen or so little white dashes upon his large hand. The length of his appendage understated them further from what they already were. 

"They take about twenty minutes to maybe an hour to set in. You guys are clean, so, it'll probably hit you guys really fast. Don't go on your phone or anything, it'll keep you up longer."

It both intrigued and frightened Yoongi that such a small thing could shift the trajectory of entire lives. Guide someone promising, intelligent, good-natured, into run-down alleyways and strained family connections. He never harnessed a prejudice towards addiction, but a wariness of the strength of his own judgment. There was no guarantee that he was resistant to temptation, to recklessness. He imagined himself to suffer silently. And here Taehyung was, handing them out like candy. 

He feared the implications of nonchalant behavior more than the confusion, hopelessness, and obsessiveness he witnessed before.

Jimin swallowed his with the water Hoseok filled him immediately after receiving it, refusing to glance at it even once. Fortunately, he didn't seem to harness any grudge against Yoongi. Namjoon, who had a terrible gag reflex, crushed it in his hand, diluted it in water and drank the liquid down like a shot of liquor. His left eye twitched at the taste. 

Hoseok and Yoongi waited. Taehyung turned to hand Seokjin a pill. They locked eyes and a million words were spoken. Seokjin apologized with his pupils, while raising a flattened palm, then lowered it as if the tiny white pill resting in the creases weighed a hundred kilograms. 

Taehyung didn't swallow his few in their presence - probably the best option. For a long, lonely, while, it was his dark secret, and he had difficulty bringing it to light, even with them. Opening up and asking for help was a monumental task, and Yoongi deemed himself the worst Hyung in the world for exploiting that trust. 

But God, Jungkook was there. He needed to apologize, and would without hesitation, except he had to know, first. Know exactly why Jungkook had been there.

He could blame his next actions on his nonexistent impulse control that early, sleepless, morning. He was grieving, after all. He couldn't be any more of an asshole than he already was.

"Are we really doing this?" The eldest dancer asked, trying his best to keep up. "Going back there? What if it works?"

Yoongi pocketed his phone, unable to keep the smug smirk off his mouth.

"It better. Cause I just tweeted the link to the song."

A flash of panic crossed Namjoon's face, before settling into a satisfied, slightly exasperated, grin. 

"You used to have restraint."

"I used to care."

At that, Namjoon's sharp eyes dropped, and Yoongi deliberately ignored the thought that crossed his mind. 

There was apprehension still in the air. Not one made the first move to leave. Even himself. At first, he thought that maybe it was lasting hesitation, but Yoongi realized that they were all waiting on him. Of course - he was the one to convince them into this. A teasing smile was developing on Jimin's lips, and he wouldn't allow the younger to have anything on him, of all nights especially. 

No wonder he hadn't been chosen for leader. "Guys, it's okay. If it works, we'll all be there. And we can figure it out together."

Silence. Uncharacteristically, silence irked him some, now. 

"Goodnight, I guess," Namjoon chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. 

"Yeah, goodnight," Hoseok's lips twitched.

"Night."

Yoongi winced at the iciness in his Hyung's farewell. It was effortless to imagine the freeze over his dark, large, eyes. 

Seokjin threw the pill into his mouth, dry, something he was known to hate. Likely a show of his discontentment. He left the room with haste; Taehyung sighed, frustrated, and followed. Shame wasn't enough to describe what crawled around Yoongi's consciousness. 

For the third time since nightfall, the group dispersed. 

The two closest in age to he left together, separating into their own rooms, but continuing reassurances all the way there. Jimin stroked his neck, offering a smile of reassurance. Easy enough for him, who would return to Taehyung's room. Yoongi stood alone in seconds. He swore that a million hours passed, but looking at the cable box, less than thirty minutes had gone by. 

Time continued to catch him off guard. 

A short series of gentle taps on his shoulder turned him around. His eyes trailed up a tan figure until they reached Taehyung's. Again, tears were falling from his eyes, slow like molasses, bitter instead of sweet. 

His voice was quiet when he spoke. Yoongi suspected he was afraid and didn't want the others to overhear. And that if Seokjin was the reason behind his sorrow, he'd strangle him on the hypothetical green grass.

"What if Jungkookie really needs us?"

Mouth twisting with fondness, he put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed firmly. "Then we're going to him. Together."

Tae personified urgency. "Promise you'll be there, Hyung. Promise." 

"I promise."

Yoongi responded remarkably confident, and Taehyung had no choice but to believe him. His features relaxed, anxiety bleeding into less extreme worry. 

"I want to do it - I just, I don't want to be there alone." 

"You don't need to worry. All of us will be there." And then he sighed, rubbing the exposed skin of his arm, contemplating how he would word his peace offering. He knew his conscience would be too bloated to rest, even with a high dosage tablet. And to protect the backside of his head, on the off chance Seokjin was eavesdropping. "I'm sorry. I'm really, really, really, sorry for . . I know that you were doing so well. It was out of line and there's no excuse for suggesting it, even with everything going on."

Taehyung smiled, mildly amused, as though he saw no reason for the situation to drag on any longer. "It's okay, Yoongi-Hyung. I would've brought it up if you hadn't. I want to try as badly as you do." A flicker of grief, not the mourning kind. in his brown eyes. "I don't think I'm meant to hold a streak, anyway."

Yoongi's hand gave the feeling of falling through the man's body. Just as though Taehyung became a spirit in that single moment of quiet after his casual declaration. Like he had finally given in. 

Luckily, Taehyung wasn't touching him. He would've felt the tremor bloom from his chest. 

"I love you, Taehyung, you know that?"

"Yes, I do, Hyung."

"You're meant for a lot in life." Yoongi reattempted the articulation that worked before, raising his brows, daring him to test it. 

Yet Taehyung shook his head. The tears that spilled conceived a painting from his handsome face, and the abstract quality of the liquid sadness with the smile he easily formed.

"I was meant to be a Hyung. I don't think I'm meant for anything after that." 

Yoongi had always wanted to understand the deepest depths of Taehyung. He was as open as a book could get, but, some of his pages were written in a cryptic language he couldn't decipher.

A few years back he figured that if Taehyung wanted anyone to know what it said, he would translate. People needed to meet halfway when it came to breaking one's soul apart. Now he stressed that he was counting on nothing. Perhaps the distance he created formed thoughts within his head that his poems were the ones that no one could read. If his face was set in oil in a museum, not one passerby could understand the emotions he was presenting.

They had lost Jungkook physically, but what if they lost Taehyung to the sky, to the sea, to the places people went to disappear? 

Yoongi, permanently disturbed, only forced himself to his room knowing that Taehyung was with Jimin, and Jimin would take good care of him. Jimin would anchor him with a cuddled arm and whisper those sweet compliments Yoongi never got the hang of. Grief had made Jimin an even better person; Yoongi continued to not do what he couldn't.

Burning with guilt, he shoved the pill in his mouth and swallowed with a small sip of the water he kept on his nightstand. 

Twenty minutes. Yoongi could fall asleep in twenty minutes. His record was under two, after an exhausting few days of work. He figured that like natural sleep, focusing on the function of sleep itself would only delay the process. He'd let his mind wander where ever it chose to, so long as it kept within certain boundaries.

He lay there still, on his back, for five minutes without any indication of sedative in his system. He grew impatient. Jungkook was waiting, he knew that much, and there was no time for digestion, regulating in the liver, and entering of his bloodstream. He considered eating something sugary, hearing before that the resulting effect increased medication processes. Then, ten minutes passed, and he swore to himself he'd never take any of that high of dosage again. 

A wash of sleep caused him to shiver, brought a bout of nausea. He'd never had prescription medication for insomnia, only tried the natural, over-the-counter, less intense oral items. It wasn't like exhaustion. Pieces of his mind drowning in water, his limbs going numb. Maybe it was like dying. He continued to focus on the lull of sleep, and the things that forced him to escape, ignoring panic as his legs became too heavy to move. 

He thought of lyrics because he frustratingly always found spurts of inspiration when he was too tired to manifest it. For a while, he tried to envision their choreographies, but he wasn't much of a dancer, and that annoyed him past relaxation. Then he considered the sky, and how much he suddenly feared it. What if it meant nothing? What if it wouldn't cure his hurt? What if it became a reflection of the earth, the senseless people he was trying to avoid? 

He thought of Jimin and Taehyung falling asleep, limbs entangled, content without his presence.

He thought of Seokjin who's entire attention was devoted to the destruction of coerced sleep. He thought of Hoseok who he related with but did not understand. He thought of Namjoon and the look of relief on his face as Yoongi broke contract rules. And he thought of Jungkook, who he loved so strongly it broke all rules of common existence. 

I promise I'll do you right. I promise I won't let them forget you. 

Another wave languished over him. Time wavered. He signed a contract - with the terms darker than even a typical idol's. The chorus of the song played out as his body surrendered into the scientific impossibility of a world where Jungkook was. 

Maybe he would've preferred spiked Gatorade. Strawberry Kiwi.

———

He was in a completely blank room, and he ran, even before the calls began. 

The pounding of his footsteps drowned out the flowing of his blood. His pants of breath were loud but real and full of the air he was used to breathing. 

"Hyung?"

Like when he had a question. Or when he wanted to sleep in his bed. 

"Jungkook." He found he could use his voice with no restriction. Desperately, he tried to outrun the voice that was falling further away, picking up his pace by l stretching his short legs out as far as they could reach. 

"Jungkook!" His voice echoed around the walls - were they even walls? - and right back into his ear. Pain burst at the volume, yet he called out again, and again, desperate for a different answer. "Jungkook-ah! I'm here!"

I'll bring you home. I'll bring you home.

"H-Hyung? Yoongi-Hyung?!"

Then he tripped, almost fell flat on his face, and the blankness was replaced with whistling wind and splashes of dark colors as he was falling, falling through an infinite hole. All of the air was slammed out from his body, and he fell limp, unable to brace for impact.

The voice, not masculine nor feminine, and with natural, insistent, superiority, returned.

"What would you do to bring Jungkook back?"

The answer slipped from his lips. Nothing more than a breath.

"Anything."

Everything froze. He could not brave enough peel open his eyes, but knew that he was suspended freely. 

"Very well."

Rudely, he slammed into an unpadded floor. It didn't necessarily hurt anything but his dignity, peeling his face back, one cheek now covered in black dirt.

Dirt. He stilled. Underneath his palms pushing him up, small, fragile, blades of grass tickled the skin. The greenest he had ever seen a plant before. His sleeves were pasty white. Warmth from sun-heated his back. And logically, if the ground was below him, then . . 

"Hyung?" A familiar voice said from above.

But it wasn't Jungkook. 

It was Jimin, staring down at him with a gaped mouth, dressed in white clothes, and the blue of the sky behind him. 

"Holy shit."

"Holy shit," Jimin repeated in an incredulous tone, reaching a handout. Yoongi forgot how to take it. His entire body grew rigid with shock, fist gripping and pulling grass from moist, cool, dirt, sprinkling across his hand. 

Jimin couldn't pry him up from the floor because his other hand was occupied with Taehyung's, standing behind him with an awestruck smile that would've had Yoongi fond, if Taehyung wasn't standing there behind Jimin, smiling with the bright, burning, sun positioned above his head.  

"Wait - wait, are you okay? Are you all okay?" Namjoon kicked into maximum leader procedure, face the epitome of worry. He gripped the two maknae's shoulders, then helped Hoseok stand where he was laying flat against a groaning Seokjin. 

He stopped upon sighting Yoongi. Yoongi put a hand on his chest. The quick pounding of his heart played a complex melody.

"I feel . . myself. Jimin -" the dancer clasped his small hand around his. "Oh my god. Oh my god, I feel you, too."

The beginning of a wondrous smile worked onto his lips and then fell back into a serious line. He looked angelic, all things are taken into consideration. An angel with absolute purpose. 

"What would you do to bring Jungkook back?" 

Easy, simple, effortlessly.

"Anything."

Jimin relaxed and released his increasingly tight grip. He shut his eyes, grinning towards the sky, a charming habit whenever he was overwhelmed with positive emotion. 

"Yeah. Anything."

The field they stood in went on until it hit mountains, a good enough distance away they were a gorgeous, purple-gray, blur of color. Natural habitat, flowers of lilac, cyan, pastel yellows, deep reds. Clumps of trees, in their summer uniform. Rock strong against the gentle wind fluttering the vibrant leaves. He couldn't spot any wildlife, but listened closely for a moment, and heard the distant twittering of birds. 

If this place existed in their known reality, Yoongi already guessed they would've filmed a music video there. It was beyond gorgeous, the most peaceful, untouched, organic glimpse of nature he had ever seen. Untouched by civilization. Humanity would put a limit on how high the grass could grow and plow for resources. There was unparalleled beauty in the rawness, in the serenity. Yoongi felt guilty for even standing there, albeit barefoot, but also never wanted to part. 

He wondered if this was where Jungkook went. He pictured him running through the grass and climbing trees, making friends with animals that didn't know what man was. "You have dirt on your face, Yoongi-Hyung," Taehyung grinned, using his thumb to clean his plush cheek. Yoongi allowed himself to be pampered, Jimin coming from behind to smooth down his hair, and considered the beauty around him.

"Welcome, Bangtan Sonyeondan."

The ground below them rumbled with the sudden thunderous conversation opener. Yoongi gasped, clutching Namjoon's bicep to steady himself. Birds fluttered out from the tops of the far-off forests, while the members desperately caught their balance. The voice did not wait for their full attention, expecting to already have it.

"I understand this is an abnormal experience. However, I'm inclined to believe that you are prepared to handle it."

"What's going on?" Namjoon called out fiercely, the field settling, his voice panicked and eyes wide. "Where's Jungkook?"

"Jungkook is dead, Kim Namjoon. You know that as well as we all do."

The voice had hints of character, unlike before. Slightly amused, not in a detrimental way. Excited. Yoongi's body trembled, the situation finally dawning upon him. They were speaking from the sky, but unless they were blue pigment, had no face or features. Not as foreboding, either. Closer to speaking to the boss on your first day of a new job,  rather than being a peasant on your knees in front of an emperor.

Yoongi had never been more terrified in his life.

Namjoon blinked slowly. All five relied on his weight to steady themselves, holding onto various parts of his body.

It wasn't just physical stability they were seeking. 

"Then . ."

"You're here because you accepted the call. You all did. Anything - you all said anything. Was that a lie?"

Snow would blanket in hell. Namjoon quickly spoke for them, swallowing thick discomposure down his throat. 

"No, no - anything. We'll do anything."

When the voice breathed, the top layer of the earth followed, rising, and down. Yoongi suspected it was merely for show, and if they truly had to breathe, the world's supply of oxygen would be gone with a few long breaths. The birds did not seem to mind, anymore, disappearing into their homes.

"Jeon Jungkook's time on earth was decided from the moment was born. He would live twenty-three years, one month, and nine days. I understand that it's been just over a year since his passing, hm?"

What a cruel amount of time. Twenty-three was no age. Yoongi felt sore thinking about all the things Jungkook would've - should've been able to do. All of the hopes and dreams he longed for were torn from his tiny hands before he could even babble. 

"Everything went according to plan. Jeon Jungkook passed in a vehicular incident on November 10th, 2020. He was twenty-three, one month, and nine days old. But well-thought-out plans make room for change. Backtracking. What goes perfectly is not always perfect."

Now was about the time most would reconsider their answer of 'anything,' and begin negotiating the way home. Yet Yoongi's blood was rushing with interest, adrenaline-pumping alongside it. 

Namjoon narrowed his vision, pursuing his lips. Five pairs of fingernails formed tiny crescent moons into his tanned skin.

"What - What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that the universe admittedly made a mistake when Jeon Jungkook died." 

Yoongi didn't need a voice coming from the sky to believe it. Though he had to admit it eased his conscience.

———

Chapter Text

"A mistake."

Hoseok considered Jungkook's death a lot of things, but mistake was never a word that crossed his mind. Tragic, terrible, unjust, shocking, heart-rendering, yes. Mistake what was he used when one tripped or trusted their bad judgment. Mistake was a simple, everyday, word; Jungkook could only die once.

Annoyance treaded through him. He never liked when anyone outside of those close to him talked about Jungkook's death, or fundamental being, for that matter. Despite his worldwide fame, he preferred to keep him hidden, a little secret that no one could touch, or harm. The pretty seashells that appeared and disappeared with every wave that splashed against the shore. Here this unnamed, faceless, formless manifestation was speaking formally, without compassion, egging them on for a proper answer. 

Although if the mysterious voice was insinuating that bad judgment had led to his passing, then, yes, he would consider it a mistake. The biggest mistake in the world. If this was their way of apologizing, he would see red before he considered accepting. 

Jimin glanced at him with mild trouble. Hoseok's flat pronunciation suggested a mere glimpse of the anger brewing hot underneath his skin. Jungkook, his Jungkook, was ripped from them due to negligence. He did not care about whatever abilities the deity harvested, he wanted to explode with all the pent-up frustration stored in his body. 

However, no mind was paid to his impoliteness. If anything, the voice seemed pleased.

"Yes, a mistake. Humans define it as a misguided action or judgment."

Hoseok hated the feeling of speechlessness. He reasoned that as long as he was there, under the mercy of the sky, he would have to withstand the embarrassment.

"If there is nothing else any of you need to say, I will now begin to explain to you the reason why you are here."

Like schoolchildren to their teacher, they finally obeyed and fell into silence. Their panic was not extinguished, but for the moment, subdued. Listening never turned once turned him the wrong way, after all. 

"When someone is born, they are given a specific amount of time. Their choices pertaining to how they spend it are entirely up to them. Jungkook's 23 years of life were completely under his will. Respectfully, the universe did not anticipate the impact Jeon Jungkook would make with his life. Nor the impact of his death."

Hoseok could not fathom how anyone who met Jungkook could ever think he wouldn't do anything great, much less those who created him. 

His opinion on knowing Jungkook's death was simply ill-fated was hazy. Not even unlucky. Only what stick had been pulled at the beginning of his life. 

He pondered what he would think if he had known prior. Beg an unknown deity for mercy? Hold Jungkook so incredibly close, in case he couldn't leave for a second, in case he'd miss the sensation of his last breathe slipping away. Anger was so useless. The emotion wouldn't have mattered then and didn't matter, there stood in the greenest of greens.

The last part was accurate - Jungkook's death caused shockwaves across the globe. Maybe it was his eyes, but all color dulled a shade. Korea lost a cultural icon. Major renewed emphasis on the importance of safe driving. The Idol industry shifted, some companies taking advantage of Bangtan's hiatus, some idols retiring, forced to understand the importance of life, and others striving to replicate the significance Jungkook once held. It was like reality fell out of place, no one the same as before. 

But why was this being discussed, there, in a different world? The voice paused. Longer and longer the silence went as if they were purposely dragging it along for proper dramatic tension. Hoseok shifted his gaze from above to the others.

Taehyung's eyes began to widen. 

"Admitting to its own misjudgment, it has decided to give you six a chance to restore his life."

Hoseok didn't want to believe it. But he was captivated before his mind could process. The air shifted with great haste, even the wind anticipating the turn of events. Believing would make him a fool.  He couldn't afford foolish decisions, anymore.

Bangtan detached from Namjoon's firm stance. All functions wiped out from the innermost parts of their bodies. What a terribly cruel joke it would be, if they suddenly awoke soaked in sweat, spread atop their bedsheets. Hoseok waited for a merciless chuckle to drop the faux screen of green, hopeful, summer, revealing a dry, dead, midnight desert. 

Hoseok was nothing but a fool. 

No take-back came. The stillness stretched until it became awkward. Someone had to say something; the voice refused to carry the conversation further. Their spokesman's, Namjoon, mouth was agape, face pale, clearly unable to form any coherent sentence.

He could have tried, himself. But his sanity relied on the promise so heavily that he refused to accidentally sputter the wrong thing. Eventually, the second eldest managed. The birds sang a distant song.

"Um - who - who are you?" Yoongi asked with a mild stutter, quick breathing able to be spotted from a mile away. 

"The message."

"The message?" The rapper relayed, tossing them a confused glance. He mouthed, "what the fuck?" only a tiny fraction of the profane words that fit their perplexing, anxiety-inducing, situation. The message chuckled, the way that a storm would let out a rumble of warning before a strike of lightning.

All but one could speak no longer. When he did, it was as though an entirely different person than who they knew stepped forward, and pleaded. 

"Are you serious?" Taehyung stared up at the blue ocean above, confident, like speaking to an old friend. "About the chance? We can bring Kookie back?"

"You're here, aren't you?" A different tone. They were fond of Tae, unlike how they were amused by Hoseok and Namjoon's attempts at defense, and casual with Yoongi. 

And yes, they were. The six of them were conscious, grounded, and if he closed his eyes and pictured a familiar setting, it would be no different from Seoul. Breathing in new life, Hoseok was, becoming accustomed to the crisp freshness of the air and gradually believing in what he should know wasn't possible. 

It hit Hoseok with renowned virtue that this was the mistake they were told to fix, a bullet to his unprepared chest. Pressure collapsed his shoulder girdle.

Like the rational Saint he was, Namjoon regained enough composure to prevent any further exploitation of his member's soft, neglected, resistance. His sharp tongue tinged with ice. "People can't come back to life."

"How would you know?"

Namjoon took a step back, visibly struck by the sass. 

"Be - because they don't. That doesn't happen."

"Not from your perspective, no. Not yet."

Those last two words broke the remains of his progressing spirit. Namjoon retreated into his shadow, dropping his head, drooping his shoulders. Not yet. Like there was a chance. Hoseok's heart leaped out from his chest and clung around that chance, as vague as it was. Namjoon's ice melted into a meek puddle spelling out the word mercy. 

"Please don't give us false hope."

Finally having pity, language was spoken that Namjoon understood. "I don't waste my time with lies."

"Time is wasted when you aren't paying enough attention."

"Perhaps it is. Perhaps time is wasted even when you do."

Namjoon's head rose. Diamond tears were welling in his eyes. His posture screamed that he didn't want to believe, that like Hoseok, he could not afford the hope that their Jungkook could be back in their arms. His face betrayed him. All that shone was prospect. Risk taking was embedded in their nature, and this was a game they could not ignore.

"Are you interested in bringing Jeon Jungkook back to life?"

Their leader scanned each of their faces with attention to the most intricate details. Hesitance was what he was searching for, the slightest sign that even a singular member who wished to wake up right back at home. Some, like Yoongi and Jin, were stoic, but not in objection. The other three, including Hoseok, nodded their approval. 

Jungkook was all that mattered. 

Bound in each other's hands, they stepped off the edge of the cliff. 

".  . yes."

The color of the sky shifted, becoming a more cobalt blue. Hoseok found it gorgeous, but could not appreciate the earth (betting that was where they still were.) The darker shade meant prices were about to be exchanged; he was not ignorant to the way life gambled over the littlest of things. Ten thousand, one million, ten million, he'd hand it over in a heartbeat. The surrounding noises quieted, all but the birds, still enclosed in perfect harmony. Listen to me, very clearly, what was remained unsaid. 

"The universe is capable of handing out life, as well as taking it. There is no rule that life can't be handed twice to an individual, however, that blessing is used sparingly." How many tragedies could have been reversed? How many lives that should not have been taken remained that way? Bile rose in his throat, thinking of the hundreds of massive catastrophes that could have been easily forgotten. 

"Those who die are usually more content with it than most think. Sometimes they're better off the way they already are. Sometimes the world is pitied for what they have lost. In your case, Jungkook wouldn't be opposed to his resurrection."

There was a multitude of ways Hoseok could have interpreted that. Jungkook wanted to come home. Jungkook had been waiting patiently all this time. Louder, the birds picked up at the chorus, and it may have been a sad song they were singing.

"There is no indication that Jungkook can not have his life returned to him. He was a good man, and never caused harm to anyone. His general impact was positive," Hoseok smiled, beaming with pride, "however. . " His smile dropped, along with his stomach, and the easy fantasy he was creating.

"Regeneration does come at a high cost."

Millions in Won was not the price the message was asking for. He could scramble for a checkbook and write out his entire bank account, but monetary value meant nothing in the uncivilized world they existed in.

Hoseok picked up the non verbal indication that they could speak. "What . . cost?"

"Three tasks. The each of you will complete three tasks."

(His flight or fight senses were already preparing to kick in.) 

"The tasks you all will have to endure are not easy. They are specifically designed to test, if not, break you. You have to prove the importance of Jungkook's life, how far you are willing to go."

Anywhere.

"They are beatable. But you must be aware that the consequences of failing these tasks may be devastating, and they are easier to lose than to win."

Devastating - that was a word he knew well, and applied to most of the past three hundred sixty-five days. Devastating - waves of angry water rushing over your body, paralyzed on the shore, helpless to turn back time. The cryptic, wordy, instructions quickly clicked into place. 

"You're saying we could die."

"If you wish to be so blunt."

Cold was all that Hoseok felt. Namjoon looked seconds away from being sick. Seokjin's skin blanched, and Hoseok was pretty sure he was sick. Yoongi froze and did nothing to confirm he even heard the material. Jimin looked as though he was readying to argue, to deny and deny. Taehyung's face did not change. Hoseok was only cold. 

"There will be a way to leave these tasks, but that will be counted as an automatic forfeit. There are only three finishing options. Success, failure, or death."

A third of a chance, two-thirds on the opposite side. The odds stacked heavily against them. Hoseok was no mathematician and he doubted that was the proper way to explain their chances, but it was a 33 percent chance - imagining it lower and he wouldn't have had the strength to ask again. 

"Will we be alone? Or with each other?"

"A blend."

(Somehow, that was even worse.)

"You may discuss."

Namjoon turned clean around, as though his wide back shielded the entire sky from listening in. "How much do you guys believe this?"

"Do you not see where we are right now?" Seokjin waved sporadically, going for the dramatics with a spin. The adrenaline pumping through his veins was practically visible, a fluorescent glow amidst the pale shade of his skin. "This obviously isn't a dream, or hallucination, anymore. We're here. And Jungkookie is somewhere out there, too."

Yoongi swallowed, his jaw lightly trembling. He could not maintain eye contact with any one of them, opting to focus on the grass between his toes, instead. His voice nearly lost itself to the thin wind. 

"I don't know. I don't want to convince myself it's true and then have it not be. I want to find him, I want to bring him home, but I can't do that. That would be like losing him all over again." 

Jimin's lips turned downwards into a frown, his small hand gently rubbing Yoongi's back. As he spoke his eyes maintain fixated on his down-facing features, warped in concern. "I believe it. I don't believe that we really have much of a chance." A mild shrug. "We aren't exactly survivalists."

"But we have a chance." Hoseok countered. "One-third of a chance. Is this legit? Could we really -"

"Yes," the younger dancer breathed in a modest breath of air through his nose. "But they said -"

"Consequences. Failure." Namjoon reiterated, emphasizing his point clean in front of them. Death was not something to meddle with. "I don't think we should risk our own lives for a third of a chance -"

"I want to try." 

The group turned to Taehyung, who declared it soft and low. A pause.

It was as though the youngest waved a magic wand and now all we're leaning towards the same side. 

"Well," Seokjin raised his thick brows, "what if we did?

Jungkook would run into their arms and thank them for saving him. Jungkook would smile and cry and ask if he could really come home. Vividly nostalgic pictures bloomed in their minds, delicate, velvety, like the most vibrant flowers. They enhanced, further, and further, until they were able to lean in closer, and smell the fragrant scents emitting from Jungkook's face pressed against their chests, strong arms embracing with a year's worth of pent-up love. 

Yoongi snapped himself out of the delusion, twitching his nose and shaking his head. "No, no - What if one of us dies and Jungkook stays dead?

There would only be night for the rest of their lives. All good in the world would cease to exist for a second time, but the flowers would never re-bloom. They'd shut down completely, retiring, going off the grid, unable to face what their eagerness had done. 

The utter despair of failure rendering them completely useless to do anything but grieve. Plainly, it would kill them. Not even knowing that Jungkook was no longer alone could ease that ferocious guilt. 

But how could he look at himself knowing that he had given up a chance that millions of others would take in a heartbeat? He would be ungrateful. A coward. Jungkook would've done it for him. 

"I can't lose anyone else." Yoongi finished with an attempt to clear his throat, to tame the welling emotion. 

"What if we don't?"

Hoseok couldn't track back to where the sudden courage appeared. For a fleeting minute, death was an afterthought. It was not a forever feeling, but it was enough to glaze over how his voice was a pathetic tremor as he spoke. 

"What if we get Jungkook back? With everyone alive. "What if we do it?" When no one opposed, he continued, staring directly into the wetness of their widened eyes. "Think about it. We could hug him, and see him, and tell him everything that we couldn't. He could be ours again."

The visions flooded back into their minds, bright, beautiful, promising. He hadn't needed to say more; it was unspoken knowledge that Jungkook was all that they could ever ask for before they knew him, and a year after they lost him.

"I want to try," Taehyung repeated, in a medium ranged pitch. The simple confidence, lingering with longing, continued to infect them with growing motivation. Strength. All they could rely on was on their strength, which proved itself in ways they never imagined, in the worst of their dreams. Yoongi's head lifted. 

"Do you - do you think we could? We can get Jungkookie back?" And Hoseok knew that time he was asking if they'd be able to prevail. Faith glistened in his brown eyes, a tribute of the fight he had never given up on. 

"That was him," he fixated his stare onto his elder, reassuring with all that was left in him. "That was his voice. He's here, somewhere. He's calling out for us like he wants us to try, too."

"I want to try. I want to try." Taehyung's voice raised with urgency. Namjoon held the side of his neck to calm him, gesturing his free appendage downwards to cease conversation.

"Does everyone want to try?"

A series of small nods, nonverbal agreements, spread through the group like sickness did in their shared space. The scent around them was thick with desperation. A melody of twittering the only sweet in their sour taste of fore coming battle. All that was needed was war paint to personify the intensity of their situation.

"For him?" Jimin nodded, squinting his eyes. "Yes."

So it was decided. They'd gamble for lives for the possible entertainment of whichever ageless beings were observing. Gladiators fought for glory, Hoseok differed, and they were fighting for the epitome of beauty itself. It was different. He admonished skepticism for the last time. From then on, he swore to consider emotion for what truly mattered. Beauty itself. 

Gathering the knowledge that your life was in imminent danger prompted a series of emotions most did not feel at ages as young as theirs. He was young, but not overly so. He was not the member with the greatest popularity. He did not think his death would be considered a tragedy like Jungkook's was. Glancing about, none of the others thought differently. He had no idea how to say that their mere existence was as devastating as Jungkook's was. 

"Hey," Seokjin unexpectedly slashed the breathing period with a stern voice. His usage of it twice in a single night was almost as rare as an occasion of being summoned by the universe itself. One glance into his eyes diminished the idea of genuine impatience. He was exhibiting fear in the only, embarrassment free, way he knew how. "None of you - I mean, none of you will die. I will be so mad that I'll empty the kitchen trash all over your bed, do you understand?"

"Yes, Jin-Hyung," a chorus of five, bemused, voices.

"Promise that you will not die."

"I promise, Jin-Hyung."

"AndthatIgetfirstdibstohugJungkookie-"

"That's not fair!" Hoseok protested, among a series of outcries, but Jin gave a charming smile and wink, beaming with pride with his esteemed wittiness. 

"Don't die," he sang. Then his face strained. 

Namjoon stepped in closer, causing an instinctual chain reaction for them all to close into a tight circle, arms slung over shoulders, heads bowed and some tilted to press temples together. They left a single empty space, right between Namjoon and Seokjin. 

"Okay, okay, listen to me." His pep talk burrowed inside of Hoseok's chest. A yearning to remember it explicit enough to recount when he inevitably shrunk in on himself from fear. "We got this. We can do this. We've made it through everything - including losing Kookie. If we can survive that. . we can survive anything."

Just barely, Namjoon forgot to add. Just barely had they survived. 

"We have each other and that's all that matters. Even if we are separated, do not forget that, no matter what is thrown at you or what you have to go through. We will wait entire days for you to make it to the end, got that? We'll be there. And we'll do it."

"For Kook," Jimin's silvery voice became gold with determination. 

"For Kook," Namjoon repeated, warmth flooding into his voice, and face. It paralleled how he smiled upon catching sight of Jungkook for the first time, shaggy hair frantically disappearing into a nervous bow. Hoseok stood behind them. He wondered how long he would last, and, how soft his hair was. 

One, two, three - six hands into a pile - "Bangtan!" His legs trembled with nerves,  he psyched himself out, manipulating himself to believe that they were simply preparing for an important show. He focused on the non existent choreography and promised to do his best; for the team, for the fans, for everyone who missed Jungkook, too. 

They cracked their formation but their hands remained tightly locked. There was no guarantee they ever had privacy, though Hoseok appreciated that they weren't interrupted. 

"Very well, then. You all are in agreement?"

Granting Namjoon a break, for it was his own fault that they were walking through a precarious door, Hoseok answered. "Yes."

Dimmer the sky became. Like a warm summer evening. His bones would not stop rattling, trapped in winter that had never existed.

"These are the terms. You complete the tasks, Jungkook's life is restored. You fail, and Jungkook remains in the afterlife. Depending on the severity of your failure, someone else may join him. I understand that's probably rather inviting."

It was so inviting that Hoseok almost asked for early admission.

"But it will not be for those who will remain alive."Seokjin, whose large hand was connected to his, tapped the back of his palm with his thumb, a firm reminder. Endearing and terrifying it was when he demonstrated his two years superiority. "Any purposeful attempts to end one's life will be intercepted. Not all are required to complete these tasks in order for Jungkook's resurrection. Even if only one finishes, they will be the singular one rewarded." 

Feeling Yoongi freeze up beside him, Hoseok whispered gravely, loud enough that five pairs of ears could catch it. "Not happening. We're not explaining that to him."

"Once the tasks are completed, said winners, or winner, will return to Earth along with Jungkook. It will be November 10th, 2020, all over again. The rest of the world will never know. More importantly, Jungkook will not know." His Hyung's grips became achingly tight. "He will be entirely oblivious, and arrive home, as though nothing happened."

No more was necessary. They wouldn't have the luxury of forgetting; Hoseok pushed that to the back of his mind.

"Do you agree to these terms?"

Taehyung must have squeezed Namjoon's hand because he replied without hesitation. "Yes, we agree." 

"Very well. You will be given three tasks in total, one right after the other. Prepare yourself for the worst. Unfortunately, the price of life is high."

Namjoon squinted his eyes, calculating every word. 

"You sound disappointed."

"If I could, Kim Namjoon, I would give him to you right now."

The definitive intonation left them no choice but to accept it as truthful. The message was not their enemy, yet not their closest friend. For a moment, he was comforted, but then disturbed; something else was leaving them out for the dogs to eat. 

"Any questions?"

Many, too many. Unexpectedly, Seokjin was the one who confronted, unlike himself. Although when Jungkook was the question, it was second nature.

"Is Jungkook safe? And happy? Somewhere?"

"Yes, he is."

"Is he aware of this?"

"No, he isn't."

"Then why was he calling for us?"

"The universe created manipulation. Don't you think it would use it? Don't be worried, Bangtan. He's been fine all this time."

Hoseok was rapidly developing a grudge against his creator. Though relieved Jungkook was not in peril, his stomach slowly sank into a river of unease.

Deep inside, he knew the teasing acted as a hint to what was coming ahead. The universe created all the big and little fears. His personal tasks would not consist of small spiders and flying bugs. 

They'd tear him apart, alive.

"Your tasks will begin in sixty seconds. Speak what you must now. Good luck, Bangtan." The message and its ominous presence faded. Sound and original color were restored yet it was background scenery all the same.

"I love you." Hoseok turned and the sentiment rolled off his tongue. "All of you. I love you."

Jimin broke into his bright and charming grin, running into his arms for a quick hug. Hoseok squeezed his waist tight, thinking of the promised danger ahead. He couldn't lose Jimin. He couldn't lose any more of them. A minute was not enough to say what he needed to, to hold them all the same way he held Jimin. 

Then again, anything was better than the half-assed goodbye he tossed Jungkook's way. He wouldn't spend the minute he had longing for more.

Turning from his chest to face the others, Jimin spoke earnestly next, genuine love and emotion bleeding onto his face. "I'm so grateful for all of you. Really. You're my best friends, I don't know what I'd do without you."

Namjoon placed a hand on Yoongi's shoulder, and the other on Taehyung's. The worry lines in his forehead momentarily smoothed, likely the last time he'd experience peace until they reached the finish line. Anyway, with unrestricted adoration in his eyes, he enunciated the truth within his declaration. "I'm so proud of you, of us. I always have been. I wouldn't choose anything else." 

It was always you, and you, and you, Hoseok's mind ran at full speed. Fifty seconds, or forty. There was no other option for me besides you. 

When was the last time he thanked Namjoon for all that he had done for them? Their gratefulness was almost always the silent type. Hadn't he learned his lesson?

"Thank you. For everything." Hoseok wouldn't outright denounce his quietest Hyung for his lack of elaboration, but he longed for more. He wanted to hear Yoongi's low voice speak a million, mindless, words, ranting about his passions and the smallest details of all of his opinions, in the exact sense he did in those hidden moments of security, pouring his heart out and trusting Hoseok would handle it with care.

There had to be a lesson in his madness. What he had was never enough, so long as it wasn't forever. 

Time was wasted even when you do.

"I wouldn't change anything about you guys," Seokjin's smile was that rare one fans loved dearly - the gentle curve of his full lips, the slight bow of his head. Then it twitched into mischief. "I love all of you."

He managed a smile at Jin's corny joke. They'd always throw an arm over their eyes and groan whenever he tossed one out. He never told him how great he enjoyed them in secret when he was alone and affectionately considered the silly character of his Hyung, when the lights were low and he repeated the punchline, laughing softly to himself. He feared it was too late. 

Taehyung refused to tame the fire in his eyes as he spoke, disallowing his conviction to falter. "I love you." There was no goodbye. Simply a confession. Had they all been layering their admissions with farewells? Hoseok's mind spun. This couldn't be their end. He tried to convey the message with his eyes, this won't kill us, I won't let it. 

Yet they studied each other's features as though they would never be able to again. I won't forget that freckle, that scar. I won't forget what you told me and the look in your eyes as you said it. There had to be less than twenty seconds left, and Jimin still hadn't let go. If anything he was locking in closer.

Fifteen. He felt the rush of fear and how it blinded all of his senses. Ten. The unsaid words rested on his tongue, burying a shallow grave into the tissue with their own shovels. Five. He already forgot which eyebrow Seokjin preferred to raise.

Was he ready to die? Was anyone ever ready to die? He avoided the question, but life perpetually pushed him into a corner where he had no choice but to consider. He remembered his first experience with death - a pet dog that came down with a sudden illness and was gone by the time he returned from his second-grade class. All he could recall was asking his mother how someone couldn't simply come back. He filled the food and water dish for two weeks after, his innocent heart learning the grievances of life every time he found it just as full as he left it. Since then death became a part of the life he could not escape. He considered himself someone who escaped often. Yet it was the only promise in life, a road with no speed limit, pushing you faster to the end, and it was here before he could prepare a greeting. It asked him if he was ready and he asked if he had a choice. If he was impending on his own set amount of time.

But for Jungkook he was. He knew that much. 

Seokjin gently thumbed speckles of black dirt left on Yoongi's cheek, and the rapper made no move to wipe his hand away, grumbling while he flushed. Instead, he leaned into the touch and shut his eyes, focusing on the soft thumb, and not the goodbye silently whispered between them. Jimin, who had moved to Namjoon's side as the seconds dwindle, said something he couldn't catch even from the short distance; Namjoon's face twisted in grief and he squeezed his waist tighter, tighter until Jimin began to lose his solidity, disappearing through his fingertips. 

The last thing Hoseok saw before everything went white, was Taehyung's fading face set in determination. He found himself thinking that if it was the last thing he ever saw, he was the luckiest man alive. He realized that the song the birds had been singing was their own. Everything went white.

———

Chapter Text

Namjoon opened his eyes and Yoongi stood across the newly developed room, small eyes, merely dots from the distance and head rush, but surely piercing into his. 

He took an immediate step forward, momentarily disregarding anything and everything around him, including the nauseating dizziness and the glaze over his sight. "Hyung -"

"Wait, wait!" He froze. Yoongi's palms were open and out, his face panicked. Once certain Namjoon was stuck in place, he took in a breath and relaxed his tense posture. "Don't move. Not yet."

Like his first instinct should have been, Namjoon swiveled only his head, judging his surroundings. The both of them were indoors, in a small, humid, dingy room. Vision still fuzzy, he tried to make out anything else besides the immediate coloring, musty smell, and Yoongi, who was also a somewhat vague form. 

To his right was a mic stand, dead center, and clear enough that he recognized it with a shock that felt like electricity joking through his body. 

Because it was theirs. Of course, it had been discarded years ago, replaced with the best money could buy, but it was theirs - they had recorded their first four albums with the tacky thing, whose head fell off from time to time and whose neck held dozens of nicks from being toppled over. 

Namjoon squinted, taking in steadying breaths. Next to the microphone was a makeshift desk, actually a foldable table he remembered PDogg borrowing from his cousin, yet never returning. Economical familiar, equipment strewn across, wires tangled and chewed from the mice they couldn't trap. Out of place yellow dining chairs, fabric worn and unclean, in a corner next to a white, unexpectedly broken, fridge. A messy array of stacked cabinets and drawers, filled with paperwork that was probably already decades old by the time they debuted. 

Namjoon couldn't decide if he was relieved or unnerved. Out of all the possibilities, he and Yoongi had been sent to their original garage studio, exactly the way it was in summer 2013. 

A flush of memories washed over him. The first flood was the bad, the sleepless nights, the budget that was never enough, the stress sweat worsening the lack of airflow. Then came the good, the feeling of euphoria whenever the finished product played, laughter echoing off the dingy walls, a certain pair of eyes glistening with adoration, huge against a small body curled up in a chair. 

Finally, the varnish cleared, and if Namjoon had noticed he was floating an inch or two off the ground, the landing wouldn't have taken him off guard. He kept his balance as best as he could, respecting Yoongi's wishes to stay in place, and waited obediently. 

Yoongi did not make it known what he was waiting for, but he took a single timid step and was satisfied with whatever did or didn't happen. "Okay. I think we're good."

Namjoon followed the example. When the floor didn't fall out from underneath his feet, he beelined straight for the older, who met him halfway. The two of them were in the same white attire, besides blinding shoes perfectly sized. Touching his arm, neck, and hair, assuring that he was okay and alive, Namjoon quipped a dry joke.

"You really let the place go."

Yoongi preferred to keep his studio organized. The day debut year Suga walked in on the sight beheld in front of them, would have been the same day he filed for contract termination. The freezer door hung loosely off its hinges, the ceiling light flickered every so often, and the putrid smell of moss wrinkled his nose. The type of foul odor that would never wash out of clothes.

They were never the cleanliness of groups, but it appeared as though a tornado had swept through the place. However, the mess was nearly perfect, strategic, the natural disaster designed a meticulous path of destruction; Namjoon realized a scene was taking place, and the studio was a set of some sorts - evidently not the real thing. 

"I wouldn't be surprised if the others were here before us. Looks like someone tried to rob this place." That was nearly as comical as Namjoon's joke itself. The most expensive item within the garage could likely pawn enough to pay half a car payment, perhaps a night at a well-reviewed restaurant. 

"I don't think they were. I doubt we'd have to do the exact same thing." The duo, in awe, sentimental, mildly bewildered, continued to revisit the studio.

"Please don't tell me that's blood."

Namjoon's head snapped to where Yoongi was staring. Across the fridge doors thick, red letters spelled out 'IM NOT CRAZY!'  Somehow, he hadn't noticed before, but quickly concluded that it wasn't, stalking over to graze his fingers across. It appeared to be sharpie, not rubbing onto his skin, not moving out of place. "No, it's not."

He went to the shutter door. A blaring red button rested on the tiny sliver of the wall beside the aluminum. "This must be the forfeit button," he relayed back to Yoongi, taking cautious steps away. "Try not to touch it." 

The actual entrance and exit they used held a new accessory, too, on the handle. A keypad asking for four digits. Above the door was a clock, blinking zeroes as it awaited its purpose. He felt an urge to try the handle, yet sedated himself. Impatience could kill anyone in normal life, and he couldn't risk the chance, here.

An escape room. Maybe not the family-friendly kind, but an escape room all the same. He had never done one himself, despite his close friends and members telling him over and over he'd excel. Still, the basic principles weren't a formidable task to memorize. Find the password or key through a series of hints and clues, escape within a certain time limit.

What lead him towards the conclusion was the comical, animated, aspects as well. From what Namjoon knew, escape rooms were generally fun and harmless, following a certain theme. It explained why Yoongi's keyboard was about five times the size it actually was, a resignation note from a fed-up janitor on the scratched-up entryway, dozens of rent notices piled up on Yoongi's old desk. Also, the ominous threats were drawn across the walls in red marker, scattered papers, CDs, and signs of thorough panic.

Even on the walls, a few giant, mechanical, roaches stuck to the paint, antennas twitching and legs skittering in place. Namjoon smirked, funny. 

Most notably, the microphone had been sized up. The head was larger than Namjoon's, and as tall as he. Despite the oddities, he felt comfortable. This was a place he knew well, overlooking the years spent away.  

He studied the tiniest of details, desperately clouding his mind before it turned intrusive. Here he could die, but here he also once listened to Jungkook's sweet voice sing, and he focused on that, instead.

Yoongi crossed his arms and pressed his lips into a flat line, finished with his surface inspection. "I didn't expect to be somewhere we know. But I guess we know our way around. Should be easier that way."

"An escape room," Namjoon confirmed if Yoongi hadn't figured it out already. "Jin-Hyung's good at these, whoever has him is lucky."

Right at his words, the clock set, alerting them with a shrill buzzer. It did not begin to count down, yet.

"One hour. Can we do this in an hour?"

"Of course we can. We know the place, after all. I still remember that there's a crack in the wall right over there, under that poster." 

He pointed to the J-Cole poster, likely from the early 2000s, ripped and torn at the edges. Yoongi smiled. "That's funny. We were so young when we worked here. I wonder what I would've thought if someone told me where we'd be, now."

His smile flickered, then faltered, then fell. "I wonder what I would've said if someone told me the reason why we're here, again."

A painful stretch of silence languished over the garage before the buzzer screeched again, and the hour began to slip away, one digit at a time. He distanced himself from the grips of emotion and propelled his mind into complete focus.

Yoongi walked to the keypad and did what Namjoon couldn't, fiddling with the buttons, tugging at the chain. The thin black screen glowed yellow, thankfully not red. "It says we have one try."

"One?" 

Yoongi nodded, dropping the lock, which clanged against the door. His face twisted into something uneasy. Typically, electronic locks allotted three, maybe four, missed chances, before punishing the user in some way. One chance gave zero room for error, but like he was trained to do, Namjoon looked towards the bright side, what they knew for certain.

"Okay. One try, one hour, this can't be too hard. I don't understand how this can be deadly."

"I have a vague feeling you're gonna eat those words."

"Probably." Namjoon shrugged, simultaneously humoring him and hoping to undo the jinx. "Let's look around, for clues, I guess. An hour will go by quicker than we think."

Yoongi went to the desk, while Namjoon turned to the cabinets. He pulled at one drawer, finding it locked; odd because he indistinctly remembered that none of the drawers had any locks, and if they did, the key was long missing. Noting that, he tried a few others before Yoongi spoke up behind him.

"I found something."

In his hands was an open pamphlet, fire truck red. "It was beneath all these papers," he gestured to the clutter below him. "You were right; it is an escape room." Looking to him, he raised a brow of permission, and Namjoon nodded.

"Welcome to Bangtan Escape Rooms! You are currently in Escape Room One: Suga's Dilemma. 

Underground Music Producer Suga has an intense passion for music and has been making songs for years. However, his studio has become infested with roaches, and the toxins he is using are slowly going to his head. Tensions with other producers have since been rising through his manic attempts to out write, rap, and perform other inspiring stars. Baseless allegations have been spreading throughout the community of his sanity, plagiarism, various crimes, and illegal activities. You, his sworn enemy, an Underground Rapper known as Rap Monster, have been invading his studio space in search of items you believe to have been stolen from your own. Find three specific items, as well as the keypad combination, in order to escape the room. Try and do so without alerting any of Suga's security systems."

Hint #1 :

Wisdom lies within one's brain, however, functions lie beyond the head."

The comical plot soothed his nerves, and he stifled a laugh. Clearly, the universe had a sense of humor. Yoongi deliberately ignored Namjoon's chuckles, the humor, staying on-topic but glossing over the flush on his face, a habit he observed whenever he was the center of embarrassing attention. "Head is underlined. Sworn enemies, eh?"

"I knew you always took my stuff," Namjoon teased, hinting at their past bickering nature. Yoongi avoided his eyes and grumbled something under his breath.

"We have to concentrate. I don't even want to look at the clock. Kookie depends on this." Namjoon returned to his state of professionalism, clenching his jaw at the thought of failure. "Let's go through these, first, all these papers, to see if there's anything else."

Yoongi handled half of the notices to Namjoon to skim through. They were short and void of any real legal questions and concerns, and carbon copies, minus the sparsely placed handwritten notes at the bottom of a few. In Yoongi's handwriting. 

"He's watching me."

"I know what he's planning. I'll do it first."

"A roach whispered something to me today. I couldn't hear it, but I'll keep you updated if I can tomorrow."

Halfway between entertained and disturbed, Namjoon finished his half and tossed them from whence they came. 

"These don't seem like clues. Just props, I suppose, stuff to add to the dimension of the storyline."

Yoongi scowled to himself, at himself. "Why would I ever write these things? Why am I the insane one? You're the one who nearly knocked yourself out with bleach, once."

"That wasn't me!" Namjoon bristled with offense. "You know how Hobi-Hyung gets when he cleans, sometimes. I just happened to walk in before it aired out completely."

"Whatever, whatever," Yoongi waved him off, "just go start looking. Don't break anything."

Namjoon certainly wouldn't break anything. His interested re-peaked at the microphone stand once more, the mystery surrounding it. He wondered how the group had the passion and strife to make music in their early years, considering the garage and its depressive air. It was odd that one could never truly understand themselves, even past selves. Elders used to tell him that one day, everything would make sense, but nearing his thirties, he knew less, and less.  

"I remember when we recorded here," he smiled fondly, struck with an image. "I remember when Jungkook was small, and he would go after me, and I'd always forget to lower the stand, so he'd have to stand on his tip-toes. I never understood why he didn't fix it himself or say anything."

Yoongi swallowed thickly. "Because he didn't want to accidentally break it. Or bother us because we looked busy."

A pang of gut-churning guilt sank his placid mood. Sometimes he wondered why Jungkook always expected punishment, anger on their behalf. When he saw him again, he'd tell him that he never did anything wrong, ever. His conscience deserved that much. 

"Did we ever do anything that made him think like that?"

Yoongi shook his head. "No. I think that's just the way he was. He had a lot of high expectations for himself, and I guess that made him suspect that we did, too."

You were perfect from head to toe. He'd say it over, and over. You were everything to us. 

Bringing his attention back to reality (if that's how he could describe it,) he glanced to the clock and saw that a little under seven minutes passed. He'd allow himself another minute to probe, then move past.

He gently prodded at the foam, pondering why, out of all things, it received such special attention. One moment he thought about the faintest sounds it could pick up clearly, and the next, the head toppled off the stand, bounced on the floor thrice, before landing with a resonating thunk.

Namjoon scrambled to catch it, but by the time his hands were in position, it had already hit the ground.  Cheeks flaming, he met Yoongi's flat gaze, no hint of surprise in the twitches of amusement.

"Um - good thing it's not real, right?" He sputtered a weak laugh, bending to lift it. Yoongi's ability to become nonchalant was one he envied greatly. He stopped at the sight of a small piece of white paper. "Oh. Hey, Hyung, I think I found a clue."

Sending a dimpled smile his way, Namjoon flipped the paper over and read the sentence aloud.

"The pipeline to insanity begins with a feeling of unjust - whatever that means."

The producer visibly stiffened. Namjoon read it twice over, unsure which parts were the dramatic tension, and which was the hint. He advised the wisdom presented - the unhinged he, unfortunately, came across had an unrighteousness complex in common - and connected it to the plot. Suga felt wronged by the accusations and RM's burglary. Tying this together, he concluded that the concept of insanity was the storyline, and would not directly contribute to the items they needed to find. He communicated this inference to Yoongi, who found it immensely plausible. The theatrics were too clear to be the hidden truth.

"Seems like Suga's really going through it," he offhandedly remarked, folding and pocketing the hint into his back pocket.

"Yeah," his Hyung said, uncommitted. Namjoon's brows drew in with worry that the scene was slowly going to his head. The universe conjuring a drama in which you lost your sanity, within a place held dear to your heart, was a mind-breaking experience. He'd pay close attention. 

"Pipeline, pipeline," he repeated the word in a soft mutter. "That word sticks out to me."

Like a domino effect. One thing after another that divulged one in darkness. However, the pamphlet information stated that toxins were the cause of his mental condition; all the rest flowed in afterward. There was no hidden, philosophical, meaning, there. But the word would not settle, fidgeting silently, unable to shout out its importance. 

"Pipeline, pipeline," he dragged his eyes around the room, across the floor, along the roof. "Pipe . . Pipes! Pipes!" 

Losing all volume control, Namjoon alerted the entire pseudo neighborhood of his discovery. The right wall held the water pipes, leading into the underground. He felt the lines of connections up the first, second, and third before the fourth's highest point caved in under his touch, which was nearly out of his reach. 

"Hyung," he snapped his fingers, not to his member, but his desired object, "bring me that chair."

Yoongi sprung into action, dragging the seat over. Namjoon thanked him, and carefully stood atop the cushions. The extra foot of height allowed him to easily slide the top pipe out of its place. Peering inside of it, he discovered a lodged thin blue object. After a few rough pats on his palm, it slid out, and judging by the unplaceable relief filling through him, he had found object number one.

"Deodorant."

A cheap, old brand that was surely discontinued now, but one Namjoon was particularly attached to in his early twenties. 

"You accused me of stealing that."

"The length of the grudges you hold beyond impresses me," Namjoon retorted, carefully stepping down. "This has to be one of the items."

"Is there a hint or something anywhere on it?" Namjoon turned the stick around, judging the outside appearance. The label was exactly how he remembered. "Try opening it."

He popped open the lid, and low and behold, a thin object nestled deep the white chalk. He deliberated the best option to unearth it, ultimately twisting the knob until he pulled the chunk out of place, and snapping the antiperspirant in half. The pressure of the item easily split it. 

"A key." Bronze, simple, without any design. He rubbed the remnants of the stick off on his pants.

"Too bad, it's a keypad," Yoongi lamented, absentmindedly walking as he glanced about the room. "Where in here would a key fit? Oh shit -"

Trap wire - was that even legal in Korea? - sliced into the sliver of skin between the bottom of Yoongi's pants and the top of his shoe, leaving nothing but a thin line of red, but sending the rapper to slam into the metal shutter. Namjoon's assistance was not needed as he stabilized himself, leaning his back against his savior. "Are you alright?" Namjoon asked a bit worried but not overly so. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," Yoongi tapped the top of the nearly invisible wire with his toes. "Watch out for that, it probably goes to the other side of the room."

A minor inconvenience. Nothing that could seriously throw them off course. Suga was written out to be paranoid, anyway. 

The thought of one of the finishing sentences on the instruction pamphlet crossed his mind a moment too late. 

A disturbing whistle, similar to what the dramas used when the Hwarang's unsheathed their glistening swords, cut through the air. Yoongi's muscles ceased all movement.

Close enough to his abdomen that the side of his top was torn, a blade nearly as long as Namjoon's hand protruded from the shutter, its source invisible.

All entertainment was lost, the humorous fine points, props, turned and revealed a side as dark as the night. Namjoon and Yoongi commonly spoke with their eyes, but at that moment, either could not describe the faintest thought.

"Hyung," Namjoon's throat felt too heavy for his body, "Hyung, step away. Step away from that."

Yoongi did not move. He dared not to breathe. Namjoon could not gather any coherent logic besides moving him away, from the wall, from the blade, from anything that threatened harm, as quickly as possible.

He lunged forwards, gripped onto his bicep, and pulled him with a single, strong, jerk until he was full against his chest. The younger rapper backed the two of them away, unsure if there was any place of refuge, but knowing that the spot against the door, certainly wasn't.

He wanted to hug him there in silence, wanted to cower or digest or maybe cry. Yet in the back of his mind, where his second pair of eyes lay, the clock ticked lower, past the forty-five-minute mark. There was no time to even scream. 

"Hyung, we have to keep going. We have to get out of here as quickly as possible, okay?"

He gently shook his shoulders when a reply did not come. "Okay," Yoongi garbled, peeling himself back to center his shaky weight. "Key. You have a key. Where," he faltered, "where do we put it?"

Namjoon's mind blanked. His eyes drew back to the polished metal, mocking his sensibility with every glint under the cheap yellow light. Breathe, he reminded himself, you have to get out of here. 

"I don't know. Let's look around, and - and we'll find something. Then we can get out of here."

Yoongi looked hardly comforted, but it was sufficient; he went to the fridge and rummaged through the cardboard props. Namjoon walked without purpose, ending up at the desk as if Yoongi hadn't thoroughly explored it. Turning on a computer was easy. Turning on a computer was what he did nearly every normal day. Turning on the old, outdated, desktop, brought him into a plane of escapism, within the minute it took it for it to reboot. 

Cling. Metal out of place, jutting from the fabric of the chair where they used to catch up on sleep. If one of them had been sitting down - Namjoon closed off his demented passageway of thinking. He covered the sight with his body so Yoongi couldn't see, although he knew that the sound was as distinct as one could be.

"The computer works," he spoke before Yoongi could whimper, gasp, yell. "Slow, but it works." 

The rapper went to where he once put together their entire career. There was a snapshot in Namjoon's mind of a younger, rookie, Suga hunching over the table. Yoongi looked a lot different, then, and the only similarity was the bead of sweat falling down his temples. The past, stress, the present, fear. Ching. From the fridge door, where he was standing a mere thirty seconds prior. 

"Password. I need a password," he typed, and his fingers were shaky, "I can't remember it. It's been years since I've used it."

"Try all the combinations you remember," Namjoon offered, "we have forty minutes. If you don't get it in five help me start looking for another hint." Ching. "Be careful, Hyung. . that one came from the floor."

With wide eyes, he swiveled and stared at the dagger standing like a peering prairie dog, not far from the door. "Holy fuck." 

"Don't look at it! Don't let it freeze you up!" Yoongi's eyes snapped back thrice more before he gathered his movements under control. Typing, typing, typing. The clatter soaked Namjoon's thoughts whilst he double-checked the other half of the room.

"Namjoon. Talk to me."

Yoongi was not requesting a filler conversation. His brain during a time of distress could only spew what his true thoughts were at the given time, and lodged right beside the panic surrounding stab wounds, pertained to Jungkook. Because a part of his psyche always belonged to him. 

"I'm . . I'm kind of worried. I am worried. For when we finish all this and get back to how life was. If we remember all of this, will we . . will anything really change?"

How was he expected simply to go on, during a rainy November night he lived and died through once, with clinking knives painfully fresh in his mind? Everything would be altered, and better, but grief was not a smudge that could be painted over. Only highlighted, by the brightest of days. 

"We'll have Kookie," Yoongi tried, failing to hide the strain. Eyes remained on an illuminated screen and fingers clacked against dusty, thick, keys.

"After losing him."

Preparing for Yoongi's question was out of his control. He tried the last combination and then his eyes were uncomfortably searing into his. "Are you gonna send me to therapy again?"

Faster than the first blade managed, the air shifted. As though the room itself turned over. The question held aggression, but the layers of Yoongi's voice set off alarms in his head. Discontent, at the very least. 

"What?"

Namjoon's features contorted into bewilderment. By then the mist circled his knees. The rapper in front of him had many talents but eye contact was not one of them. By some means, he managed to stare into his soul. 

"It just seemed to solve everything. And like you said, we don't know how things will be."

Sounding clinical did not lay the heaviness of the discussion to rest. It awoke a beast from a hundred-year hibernation.

"I never sent you to therapy. I just told you it would help." Confidence wavered. "I thought it would help."

"I didn't."

An argument emerged because of these conflicting views, ancient enough that both hands could not count the months since. Yoongi appeared further perturbed every time Namjoon opened his mouth. 

"But it's helping, right? It's helped you."

"That's not really the point."

"Then what's the point?" He enquired, dodging around pushiness and cornering, yet Yoongi reacted like a dog who had seen too much, reacting with fire in his eyes and bark in his throat. 

"The point is -"

Interrupted by an unanticipated, showy, arrival of metal, Yoongi paused. Whether he was contemplating his anger, where the blade appeared, or his hurt, Namjoon didn't know. Like a dog who has seen too much, he backed down, even though no fists had been made. 

"You know, this is stupid. We shouldn't be talking about anything but getting out of here."

This time, he did not prohibit his move towards the other. "Hyung-"

A sharp gasp of realization halted his progression. "Try the drawers."

The drawers. He nearly slapped himself for forgetting. Knives sharp enough to tear atoms in half aiming for his heart, gut, and neck, was certainly no excuse. 

Comparing the size of the key to that of the lock, he pushed into the slot of the tallest, smallest, drawer. He heard a click, but there gave no indication it meant anything. 

Instead, the hiss of pressure releasing activated every goosebump on his tanned skin. He whipped around in time to see white gas begin to breached through the floor, the pipes, the ceiling, in slow, thin puffs. 

"What the fuck is that?!" Yoongi yelped, lifting his feet, covering his mouth and nose with his hand. "Is it poisonous?!"

"I don't - I don't know what that is." His ankles were swimming in the vapor. His skin did not burn or become irritated. Breathing in, because he had no other choice, no immediate effects hit him. But it was ominous; the longer he stared at his hidden feet the worse his intrusive thinking became. What if when it cleared, his lower limbs would be gone? What if the universe planned for them to slowly suffocate to death, clinging onto each other in the pale screen of failure?

He decided that they would not stay long enough to find out. Twenty-five minutes. Without a word he turned and jammed the key into the middle cabinet, praying it was possible to outrun the consequences if he was wrong. This time, the key locked into place and he pulled the drawer open. A tin bottle rolled around inside, which he grabbed with urgency.

"Don't focus on it," he coughed out, turning the item over, "we can't focus on it. We need to get out of here. Hyung, this is bug spray. It's another one of the items."

"Is it empty?" Rattling the bottle, feeling a significant weight, and hearing the pea rattle around, he said that it wasn't. "No hint?"

"Just the regular label." The halfway point of his calves tickled slightly. "Pretend they're clouds, Hyung. Don't let it psyche you out."

"We have to do something with that can," Yoongi fanned the gas, but it simply reformed as soon as it dispersed. "Wait - spray the roaches! On the walls!" Namjoon followed the panicked demand, cling, from the drawers he was leaning against a single second prior, heading to the colony, aiming for the largest one.

He angled his face away and applied pressure to the nozzle. As a real one would, the roach squirmed and shivered, before its shell fell open and it ceased movement, dead. Rolled up in a tiny compartment, a white slip of paper read - TaehyungIsCute. 

Namjoon looked to Yoongi. Yoongi's cheeks had the nerve to flush, disregarding the precarious situation, and the computer accepted the password input. 

"That was the password?"

"He put it, not me!"

The blush fought for the other side, but, a mere argument in the war they battled time in. At a frustrating speed, the computer opened up, revealing the background screen - a group photo from 2012. His heart refused to become fond. He had to remind himself every second where he was and why he was there. 

Maybe this had all been an extension of his dream. He knew how dreams could repeat, intimately well. Waking up in tears was second nature, and he was sure that he would do that again, here, because he still had so much he wanted to do. He couldn't die where his biggest achievement was simply a daydream. He felt eighteen, again, terrified of the city, of the demands. There, in the cheapest studio known to mankind, everything he loved was so far out of his reach. What if he never made it there, again?

"Namjoon." Snapping back to reality, Yoongi's grave disbelief yanked the remnants of his sick stomach down. "There are over ten thousand files on this computer."

A blade in the middle of the walkway to the desktop. Ten thousand - he remembered when made that much in a single day. Another damn metaphor to suffering; the universe never failed to rub salt in the wound. "Are there any other apps?"

"Calendar. What the hell?" Yoongi's eyebrows furrowed. "Namjoon, did you keep the dates of when we argued?"

Namjoon second reaction was to say that this wasn't his computer, after his first, which was to question the sanity of the real Suga in front of him. "What? No. What does it say?"

"February 12th, 2013 - fight with Yoongi-Hyung." Accusatory, he received a glare. A roach impaled in his peripheral.

"I didn't journal all our disagreements," he rolled his dark eyes. "That has to be a clue, for something. It doesn't fit the plot of the story. Hyung, move, let me stand here. You've been in one place for too long."

Yoongi walked to a portion of the room already littered with blades, hanging onto the hope that lowered the chances of recurrence. Rigid, fearful, posture, or relaxed, calm, leisure, it didn't matter. A knife would pierce through his soft body easily no matter what mindset he forced himself into. 

When Namjoon settled into place a sudden notification appeared on the screen. Colorful and bright, a pop-up ad. Out of reflex he went to click it away, but stopped himself, patience his virtue. 

'This computer has detected a virus! - mIsPæclED 0bJeCT.'

"You misplace a lot of objects," Yoongi replied, without humor. 

"It's a single object. The last one." Namjoon flew through the files, reading the cryptic names. Random numbers, letters, more manic promises, fears, insanity, insanity spelled backward. He played one and immediately turned it off when heavy breathing sounded.

Hunched over, the table infuriatingly low, Namjoon's face was where clouds were blooming, a little above his hips. From this height, where the keyboard faded away, half of Yoongi's face was blanked. It punched Namjoon straight in his gut. Not a single hint of a feature could be distinguished. The night did no justice to the camouflage. Another hit, another, another, each piece of detrimental information stealing away his sobriety. 

The purpose of the smoke was not to poison or harm. It was to strip them of their senses, their ability to look across the room and find relief in the fact that the other was there. Within a few minutes, Namjoon would be completely and utterly alone. A torture method designed specifically for him and his fear of loss.

"We can't see where the knives are. It's not to poison us, or anything. Just to separate us and our eyes. Me and you."

At Yoongi's resulting silence, he switched directions, unsure whether he should have kept his mouth shut. Two pupils burned holes into his scalp.

"It must be related to our debut days. But I can't remember what I exactly lost."

"Because you always thought I purposely hid your shit." There it was, that resentment, that resided in a broken, abandoned, house. He twisted to face him, but ice chilled his blood blue, because the gas had engulfed Yoongi's entire height. Mere seconds later, and Namjoon knew blindness. 

Stillness, the veil stealing the hum of the desktop and the arrayed, settling, noises. If he panicked now, forfeiting would be the sole option. He still had his touch, hearing, and previous intimate knowledge of the area. Yoongi and he needed to be on the same page, the exact sentence, to continue forward. Swallowing the last of his clean air reserves, he remained calm. 

"Hyung, are you still upset over what we argued about? That was years ago." 

"No," a lonely ghost within a foggy night, "it's not that."

"Then it's the therapy. Tell me what you're upset about."

"It's not important, Namjoon! Look at where we are! Look at what we're doing!" He couldn't. He couldn't see an inch in front of him. The sudden shouts propelled adrenaline pumping straight to his heart. 

"Together!," his cry of desperation, a plea for Yoongi to understand there was only each other, amidst the sadistic field of steel flowers. "We're doing this together!"

"We've been together for ten years, now!"

"No, we haven't been. We haven't been since Jungkook died. I can't see you now and I haven't since he died."

Why was this easier to admit when he was hidden behind a curtain? Maybe that was cowardly, but it was easier. After all this time, he merely wanted it to be easier. 

Yoongi's breaths, soft, in and out, filled up the garage. Then they thickened, tight, rigid. Namjoon trembled with anticipation, waiting until his anger reached boiling point, and splashed over his body. For all that was he was expecting, being accused of treason wasn't on his list. 

"You betrayed me, Namjoon. Do you think I didn't see the look on your face at dinner?" The fragments snapped into place. "You gave up. You gave in. I know this because you were relieved when I tweeted it. You didn't even try to stop me. You already knew that it wouldn't be released." His mortifying shame, tangled in the smoke, writhed. "You're so wrapped up in trying to make things okay and giving up to make things easier even though it's not. It's not okay. It's not easy. And I am so tired of keeping quiet for the sake of avoiding conflict."

Yoongi's voice broke off with a slight crack. It was a tight rope between beautiful, and dangerous, how one could grow to care so much for another that a simple thing like a split second of childlike emotion reduced all they were to nothing at all. 

His mouth must have made a small smacking noise when he opened it because Yoongi detected he was about to speak. "I don't want you to apologize. Don't apologize, Namjoon."

Yoongi had only disappeared for all but a minute but Namjoon missed him. He missed him the same way he missed him when he left a room in frustration or closed the door behind him in defeat. It was not the distance, the silence, or even the wall of colored air. Even if all the knives retracted and the storm clouds cleared, he'd still miss him.

Yoongi left in more ways than physical. When he was gone, his time was bought with pennies he'd throw into fountains. The prettiest flowers he'd allow to dry in the sun, finding beauty no one else could see. Namjoon knew all of him yet also had no idea who he was. He only knew that loneliness was a two-way street.

"I know it's not easy. I've known since day one. I have no choice but to give up because no one is there fighting with me. You used to wait outside of the door. Why don't you fight with me anymore? We used to do this together. You were with me for nine years and now I'm alone, Hyung. It's so hard to fight alone."

Something in his confession broke all resolve. "I never left, Namjoon. I'm right here." 

"Then why can't I see you?"

"You don't have to to know I'm here."

Namjoon closed his eyes. Yoongi's voice was in the black of his eyelids. Reverberating through his chest, and spine, and into his soul. Yoongi engulfed him, wrapped around his body, became his foundation. He felt only him. He stopped reaching out blindly, and simply felt his words, his soft intonation, the fundamental being of the magnificent person that was his lifelong friend. 

Namjoon couldn't see him. But he was there. Suddenly the panic bled from his body. Suddenly nothing mattered but the single belief that Yoongi had never left him. He had just been a little blurry. 

"Okay. Okay."

"We have to find the last item, Namjoon. We're running out of time." His eyes flickered to where he last remembered the timer being and found that the artificial light shone through nearly as clearly. The computer was no different.

"Not us, though, right?"

"No. Not us."

He shuffled, bumping the blades with his toes. He reached out slowly, with the back of his palm, recalling every piece of safety advice he'd ever been given. Aimlessly, he searched, relying solely on muscle memory. 

Personal items were often left behind in studios. The producers would toss them out of no one came to claim them in time. The problem was that this was Suga's studio, not Bangtan Sonyeondan's. Suga would withhold RM's possessions because he regarded him with hatred. Hide them in the obscurest of places. 

Once more, Namjoon lost a lot of belongings. There was no indication as to which one he was in search of. Like bullets, that dreaded sound effect sang in rapid-fire.

He squeezed a ball of crumpled paper. Trash, most likely. And maybe he would have remembered then, if an interruption hadn't thrust from the fridge handle his right hand rested on, slicing his hand to the bone.

Namjoon vaguely registered the immediate throb. Unable to see any of his limbs, he couldn't pinpoint where he felt the warmth pooling, or why he stumbled, faint.  

It was the type of warmth that was not like a soft blanket or a mother's kiss. More intense than the burning of embarrassment and the heat of anger. Namjoon thought hard, amid shock, and still, not one description came to mind. But it was warmth that ran down his arm and plopped onto his leg, warmth soaked his sleeve, and warmth was all the evidence he had that he was wounded.

He was spared, for the time being, his nerves slashed. But eventually, the remnants world catch on, relay to the already panicking brain that there was a significant lack of pain to the rushing waterfall of blood.

Sparsely aware of his minute-long silence, Yoongi's shouts registered gradually, each panicked cry louder than the one before. "Namjoon! Namjoon, answer me!"

He managed a gargle of acknowledgment. "What happened?! Are you okay?!"

His tongue too heavy for his mouth, he swallowed around the dry muscle. His hand was bleeding and yet he was thinking strongly about the sunset he witnessed before he fell asleep in a soft, safe, room. Suddenly that was the only thing that mattered. Remembering the sun, because there were no windows, in the garage. 

"Namjoon!"

"Yes, yes, I'm okay - I'm okay. It cut my - my hand. My hand is cut."

A pin dropped and ruptured eardrums a mile away. 

"How bad?" The question answered itself. "Holy shit - is that your blood dripping?"

Rushing out of the jagged strips of skin like a flash flood plowing through a desert. 

"Yes." 

Losing his right hand meant he'd have to relearn basic tasks all over again. He should have been in a frenzy fighting to preserve it. Yoongi took up that empty occupation whilst he stood there dumbfounded. "You're still there, Hyung, right?"

"Y- yes! I'm here, Joon. Try and put pressure on it, find something to wrap around it."

Finding his own two feet was a surmountable task. Thawing his paralyzed limbs a level higher. A puddle of himself pooled on the concrete floor, which he only knew because the tip of his shoes began to soak. 

"I need my other hand right now. I'll . . I'll be fine."

"Namjoon, you're bleeding! Terribly!"

"I know. But we don't have time. I'll be fine."

Shock allowed anything to slip from one's lips. Sometimes those unconscious words managed to sound completely confident, even with a gaping hole of bloodied meat. Yoongi accepted it, without a choice. Seven minutes. 

"I'm going to kill you, Kim Namjoon," the producer growled under his breath, surrendering begrudgingly. His jaw quivered as he addressed the battle plan. "Okay. February 12th - that was a day before one of our examination days. What would we have argued about then?"

Copper thickened in the air. His head spun. Each step stole a hefty fraction of his perception. 

"I can't feel my hand, Hyung." 

"Music." Yoongi refused to allow acknowledgment of his alarm. "Anything, because of stress. But music, mostly. It has to be music-related. What if . . Namjoon, your headphones. Maybe it was your headphones. You lost them in here, once."

"Yeah. Yeah. You're right. I did. That was . . our debut year." His voice went airy without warning. 

"Are you going to faint?"

"No. No, I won't." Dedicated to upholding that assurance, he managed to peel his top off his body singlehandedly, clumsily knotting it over his wound. The knife was there, he swore, pushing from the inside out, tearing him from within. "I can't remember where they were."

"Think. Focus on nothing but remembering, Joon."

Blood was thick. Thicker than he expected. Not even fifteen seconds passed before he touched the fabric and felt it damp. Bleeding out was not the way he expected to go. But life was cruel. He forgot that too often. They say nothing was thicker than blood but Yoongi's voice became a formidable opponent. 

"Where were the headphones Namjoon? Come on, Jimin teased you for days about it!"

Jimin. He loved Jimin's smile. Especially when he amused himself to the point where it was broad, blinding, spread into a grin. Jimin teased him often because he knew Namjoon never opposed. Namjoon paid no mind because he loved Jimin, and he loved his smile. What had Jimin laughing that day?

As the pain seeped in, poisoning his innocence, tarring the edges of all reality, he channeled the agony into the deepest parts of his brain, charging against layered, trauma forgiving, walls. He stumbled to the trash can, under Yoongi's feet, and kicked it. Out fell what was once his prized, most expensive, possession. 

"I found them! I found them!" Euphoria shattered into despair. Black dots painted the canvas. "I can't see anything clue. Hyung, I can't see any clue. I think I'm losing too much blood." 

A sob echoed, swirled around his head. "We - we fought. The day you lost them. That was one of our fights. Because of the headphones. Because we were stupid."

Black always had the appeal white didn't. Black couldn't stain with dark liquids, like blood. Namjoon wanted to say that stupidity was not a trait people grew out of.

"Namjoon, please, answer me."

Bitter, meaningless words, tossed like crackles of fire. They burned but never scarred. Manifestations of frustrations in colorful firecrackers, exploding purple, blue, red, only amusing from distance. They burned, up close - but they never scarred. 

"1165. You said that I probably only spent 1165 won on them."

Yoongi sniffled, and then sobbed, "I'm sorry." You're not crazy, Hyung, Namjoon didn't have the strength to wheeze. Furious typing followed, and a few clicks, and then the smell of blood in the room was second in thought.

The file played - the starting beats of the first song the duo had ever made together seeped into the cracks of their hearts, sealing the ends together with a honeyed glaze. 

They couldn't stay for the demo lyrics, for the timer lowered from two. It didn't matter, they knew them by heart, by mind, by everything in between. The door became visible and Namjoon blindly grabbed Yoongi's hand with his clean, one. They went to the exist without rush, typed in 1165, and walked hand in hand into a red hallway. Because Yoongi promised they weren't running short on time. 

If there was anything to say, it was left in that blood-soaked garage, locked away into a past that would haunt but never hurt, again. He could cry about the experience later when he proved to the sky the strength of his endurance. For a short few minutes, peace wiped away the tears.

"That was - that was a lot of blood." He purposely hid the appendage behind his back, chuckling weakly. Because he was alive, and he could. 

"Sounded like it." Namjoon's heart stuttered when Yoongi's eyes bounced around anything but him until he realized he was not keen on sighting the injury any time soon. For his sake, the wounded turned.

Namjoon braved a look at his hand. To his surprise, the fabric was returning to its original clean color. The throbbing was gone, along with nausea, and hazy vision. Unraveling the makeshift gauze revealed his palm, without even a scar to prove his 'I lived to tell' ice breaker. 

Yoongi appeared just as relieved as he. Namjoon, of course, was appeased knowing that he hadn't seen the pools of red. It made it feel like it never occurred. A memory that slipped his mind by morning.

Given a sense of privacy when staring brown eyes averted, he pulled the shirt over his head, and traumatized tanned skin hugged the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Namjoon's throat was hoarse from shouting, from holding back tears. He did not want to speak. Yoongi said all he needed to. He did not want to argue, anymore.

Shameless, purposely ignoring the slight awkwardness of it, Namjoon pulled the shorter man into a hug, embracing the guilt, anger, desolation, and telling it that it was home. No household was perfect, but feeling his lungs inflate, heart pump, Namjoon concluded his Hyung was the exception. 

"I'm sorry, Hyung."

"It's okay. I'm sorry, too."

They won. Officially, they were two checkmarks away from becoming whole. Right outside of the door, he assumed, was the second task, a lion growling lowly in its cage. He repeated his own words; he could survive anything. 

Yet even in the glory of their victory, Namjoon's heart refused to settle. Because he knew that somewhere, his four other members were battling death, and elsewhere, far, away, his fifth was wandering, waiting, always short of his fingertips.

———

Chapter Text

Smooth floor against his bare feet was a forgotten pleasure like no other. He lived for the cool touch, the squeaking from sweat, the glint of the polish wearing from use. Dying pressed against the same floor would indeed be a callous example of irony, Jimin thought, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, back to his heels. Callous indeed. 

Hoseok twisted the handle of the wooden door, finding it locked. Walking failed to produce the same heavy echo they were unknowingly used too. A classroom sized space was not a school gymnasium. Already, the walls felt too tight. All laws of reality stated that there was no possibility for one to return to the past, yet there he was, with Hoseok, in BigHit's first practice room, with the door, of course, locked. 

"Don't break it, Hobi-Hyung," Jimin warned, "we don't know if we need that there or not."

Hoseok sighed, dropping his hand. For the world renowned list of fears he had, the choreography appeared to be assessing the situation with a survivalist's attitude. Jimin didn't know if he was doing it for his sake, or had a side of pure endurance when facing genuinely trying situations, because he had no other instance to compare it too. "Yeah, well, I guess we're stuck here."

In their early days, the walls of the studio would constantly be lined with items, besides their dance bags and personal possessions. A lack of storage space. He'd accidentally jammed his toes on a thick stack of files more than once in his career lifetime. However, the room was completely empty. Jimin stared at himself in the mirror, feeling much smaller than ever before. He wondered what his younger self would think if he saw him, under eyes dark with insomnia, skin paler than ever before. Younger Jimin would certainly fail to believe he standing before an international celebrity. Older Jimin would wonder how he ever thought he knew stress, before. 

Circling back to the unbelievable size, Hoseok chuckled, claiming that even their dorm was larger than where they created their stages. No wonder they knew struggle like the back of their hands. Seeing cramped walls wherever you looked killed passion, creativity. 

"Out of all places? This is kind of cool, though. I don't think this even exists anymore." Assuming the building hadn't been sold to an aspiring businessman or woman, deconstructing and transforming it into something beautiful, and clean, benefited the world more than a vacant lot sitting to rot. The thought perturbed Jimin some. He hadn't considered the state of the establishment since schedules set thinking aside, yet, he spent greater hours here in his youth than in his own home. Dancing. He danced all day and night. The coolness under his feet became warm with his body heat, and he a firm reminder came, exactly why he worshipped avoidance.

"I can't believe we used to practice here," Hoseok laughed, all too awed. "How was there any room for all of us?"

"There wasn't," Jimin's lips twitched, his Hyung's positive demeanor sipping away at his worries. His repeated movements slowed. Like the excellent example in front of him, he also had the responsibility of competing. Beating around the bush with casual conversation wouldn't do him any good. "I wonder what we're meant to do. Maybe that voice will come back to tell us."

"What do you think of them?" He paused, thinking. Hoseok was staying off topic, avoiding the questions, no matter how inevitable they were. Jimin kept that in mind. 

"I think they want to be on our side, but can't. Either cause something is stopping them, or, they don't have that emotional capacity." Shrugging, he uncrossed his arms to allow his lungs to inflate to full capacity, taking in long and languid breaths. The old company logo reflected in the long mirror. What a ways they had come. Maybe there was a metaphor in all of this that Jimin would figure out later. Maybe the universe wasn't that clever.

Hoseok stepped forwards, hand outstretched to touch the glass. The details of the foreboding dream threatened to spill back in his mind, until Hoseok's bare foot touched down, and the floor lit up with a shamrock green cube in response.

"Woah," he stumbled, taken aback. An array of nine boxes, a foot in diameter, appeared, beaming, perfectly arranged in three rows. Something between a laugh and a choke of surprise bubbled from his throat. He pressed the tip of his largest toe down in the middle of the lowest right box, which pulsed a bright shade in response. "What is this, an arcade game?"

Curiously, Jimin went to his side, hesitantly inspecting. From his toe, spreading up into his legs, his torso, his head, energy vibrated through his senses. The energy, positive, certainly made it feel like a game. But Jimin knew better. The second he let his guard down anything could lunge for his throat. Preferring to preserve his ability to sing, he glanced up instantly sighting movement.

"Hyung, look." Jimin tapped Hoseok's shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other. Words written in black marker formed upon the mirror, capturing their attentions, fit with tiny squeaks with every straight line. Admittedly not the strangest thing Jimin had ever seen. 

'Don't make a wrong move.'

As though an eraser swiped at the glass, the words smudged, then faded.

'A wrong move results in consequence.'

There it was. Consequence was a heavy word in itself. Hoseok's foot left it's position.

'Consequences begin minuscule but layer upon continued mistakes.'

Room for error; a better deal than he thought they'd be given. He learned true discipline within this very room. Simply standing there his posture was perfect. Inwardly, he wondered if the creators of himself had the advantage here. 

'Don't answer questions incorrectly.'

In school, he never studied for his exams. Never did he think that would rendezvous in a way that benefited him, but at the moment, he'd take whatever he could. 

'Wrong answers are set at a high punishment.'

Not yet the kicker. Jimin waited for the kicker, the, by the way, one finger or toe taken for every mistake. Odd relief would come when it did. 

'Answer question correctly, receive move.'

It was not the kicker, but it clicked in his head all the same. There was an absence of relief. Callous, indeed. 

'Place moves all together, create dance. Finished dance, and correct questions, results in victory. Answer and dance well.'

Crystal clear once more, the mirror had nothing more to establish. Hoseok straightened beside him, rolling his neck to one side. Jimin remained frozen; had been since the final statement.

"Okay. Okay, that's easy." Hoseok lowered himself to the floor, began stretching his limbs out. "We're dancers. We can answer questions, too. We can do this."

One too many usages of the plural pronoun. The cracks and pops of joints beneath him tightened the noose around his neck. It was easy; on the surface, the general synopsis, was an undeniably easy task. For a dancer. For someone who dedicated hours and hours of time into perfecting a single spin, aching and bruising and grinning by the end of a harsh session. Like Hoseok, who couldn't keep the excitement off his face, universe catering to him perfectly. Unlike someone who set things asides, claiming everything but the truth. 

"Hyung," Jimin shivered, a chill of anxiety spreading up his spine, down to the legs that forgotten flexibility. "I haven't danced in a year."

Hoseok immediately stood, face careful and concerned. "You can still dance, Jiminie. You might be a little rough around the edges but your talent hasn't gone anywhere."

"What if being rough around the edges is why we lose?" He emphasized, worrying his bottom lip, heart pounding with his irrational mind's teasing of failure. 

Instead of an immediate answer, Jimin was gently place on the floor. Without a word, Hoseok helped stretch his limbs out in his previous same forms, working with intention at the joints underneath his skin that hadn't been properly kneaded in months, and then gentler where he habitually knew Jimin went sore. Thankful the universe was allowing the moment, even if the time used ran on excessive, he untwisted the contorted parts of his conscience, discerning between what was unreasonable, and what was practical to move forwards with. Leaving disbelief behind, he could not seem to let go of dread. 

Hoseok's fingers threaded into his lengthy hair, scratching at his sensitive scalp. Jimin writhed as tingles spread down his back, to which prompted a chuckle airing out behind him. 

"Remember when you and Jungkookie used to spend hours in here after school, catching up on the missed hours?" Exhausted out of their minds, still having math homework to do, but needing to finish a certain section by midnight. "Think about that. That's all this is. You're just catching up, again."

His mouth twisted with fondness, with memory. But fear was all too persistent, kicking down every door he gradually closed. "But the consequences. Hyung, it can't be my fault. You can't get hurt because I can't dance anymore."

Jimin considered himself a strong willed person. He did not shy from emotion, yet there were few things that genuinely broke his fortitude. Members in pain, suffering, distressed, shattered his heart in an instant. 

Suddenly turned and facing the other, who brought on a cloak of superiority, large enough to fill the room made for argument, he slumped his shoulders, anticipating defeat. 

"I can make mistakes too, Jimin," Hobi's face had a tendency to unmask all his emotions; even if bitter, and tense. "I make a lot of mistakes. It's not any of our faults. We're doing this for Kookie." He gabbed his chest with a stern finger. "That's all that I care about - how hard you fight for him."

He knew he wasn't being scolded, but he pouted all the same, tracing the patterns of the wooden floor. Avoiding eye contact, he mumbled his truth, trusting in the empty room to echo it loud enough. 

"I'm scared." 

Hoseok's pointer finger curled around his.

"So am I."

And for a moment, it was humane, and sensitive, and warm.

Harmonious, they straightened their spines, because one had to be brave for the other. Jimin felt indebted and forged newfound confidence, standing first and then pulling the other up with him. 

"I'm wondering why they put us together," he managed to joke through a clamped jaw, "when we're just two big scaredy cats."

Hoseok's pretty smile blossomed. "Maybe because they know that being together means we'll be too busy checking on each other to realize we're pissing ourselves."

Jimin didn't think the universe was that considerate, but it was a fun thought, nonetheless. With a last reassuring nod, Hoseok moved back to the glowing green lines, stepping into the middle cube. He embodied a million war stories in a single action.

The ink reappeared, red this time, the characters twisting and pulling at their emotions. He expected a complex math question to appear, and then immediately accept defeat. That did not happen.

'Question One, Hoseok - what is Jimin's favorite color?’

In the mirror he could see Hoseok's reaction, furrowed brow, parted lips, head titled as though expecting it to turn out to be a trick question. He tried, in his confusion, bewilderment at the elementary level quiz, to find the dark intention, but Jimin came up short handed. His favorite color. The universe knew his favorite color and somehow expected that Hoseok didn't.

Maybe that was the dark side of the moon. Their honesty. The knowledge that their biggest weakness remained each other. His nose twitched, detetecting a faint foul oder; expired ink. 

"Blue," Hoseok gently returned, "light blue."

'Correct! Right step, right middle row.'

Relieved, elated, laughter bubbled from his chest, and Hoseok followed the instructions, stepping once to the right. Underneath his touch the green ignited, this time confirming his triumph. He twisted his torso around, grinning brilliantly. "See? This is easy."

Jimin let out a breath. It was perhaps the easiest thing he had ever witnessed. These were facts that basic fans would know, on their best days outscore the members on. With all the excess time he spent with the group over the previous twelve months, a favorite color was preschool knowledge.

‘Jimin, take Hoseok's place.'

Hoseok stepped to the side, guiding Jimin into position with a hand between his shoulder blades. Two feet spread apart, his conscience picked the lock at the dance specific door he locked a year ago. He considered if the physical entrance two meters over acted as a metaphorical example.

'Question Two, Jimin - how old when Hoseok when he joined Bighit entertainment?'

Jung Hoseok's company. Namjoon and Yoongi's immediate impression the moment the music began and his limbs shifted. Already there, the memories flowed, greeting him with a needless friendliness, forming a specific single answer.

‘Fifteen.'

‘Correct! Right foot return to middle, left foot left middle row.'

For half a second Jimin froze. Then he centered his weight, checked his balance, and swiftly switched form. Unable to believe it, he stared at his feet, waiting for the green to turn a blazing red, and for to suddenly be a few inches shorter with a swipe of a blade. 

"Good job, Minnie."

A flush spread over his cheeks, warm like the soft fur of a dog, and he smiled softly. "Thanks."

Calculating the back and forth sequence, Hoseok returned to the original position, smoothly connecting his task and Jimin's together, speeding it up to match an imaginary beat, one that felt right. Jimin admired his footwork silently.

‘Question Three, Hoseok - who is Jimin's favorite celebrity?’

For a terrifying moment he thought that the well known comedian would joke that it was himself, resulting in their cruel and unusual death, but he played fair. "Usher."

‘Correct! Left foot left back row.'

Easy question, easy step, after easy question, easy step, the repetitive pattern continued for close to ten minutes, without any incorrect answers or missteps. Sometimes they'd take a little longer to answer an oddly specific inquiry, but no time limit was apparent. About thirty seconds of a dance developed with each other and the mirror as the only witnesses. His body relaxed into the timing, the details. Jimin poured in less focus than Hoseok, silently watching him perfecting technique in the clear areas as he awaited his challenge. If he cared enough about the execution, he could have picked out every flaw of his own, but there was no added requests for better attention, so he brushed those thoughts aside. 

Instead Jimin was becoming increasingly unnerved at the fact that nothing was happening. The questions were simple, never straying from the topic of each other. It was a subject Jimin could ace in school. Move it to Math or English and he'd falter; the universe must have known that. The moves hardly required a second thought, remaining at a constant lower level difficulty they long since passed. Dancing felt like returning to an ex he never stopped loving but had to start over with, anyway, yet that hesitance was not prodded at poked at, despite it's vulnerability. He was showing a bloody wound off to a wolf, and not a nip in response. 

Hoseok stepped to the side from another successful rotation, visibly pleased with himself. Jimin talked about that flavor of cake often enough. Duplicating the previous scene, Jimin patiently waited, polite for the sake of being polite.

‘Question thirteen - what is Hoseok's worst yet smallest fear?’

In other words, what left him a screaming mess but was not a significant problem in the grande scheme of all things frightening. "Bugs," the word fell gracefully from his lips. Judging by the odd angle it was left in, he readied his ankle to switch position.

'Incorrect.'

Jimin gasped, stumbling backwards. Before he could even process the gravity of that word the tiles burned a flaming red, illuminating the soles of his feet. Hoseok caught him under the arms, pulling his back against his chest, and swiftly maneuvering him to his side. 

They backpedaled as though retreating to the opposite wall would render them any less susceptible. "I'm sorry," Jimin breathed. An ache swirled around in his chest, guilt, fear, anticipation. 

His eyes squeezed tight. The childlike belief that all the monsters and bad guys disappeared behind your eyelids his pane of thick glass in a window he could pull the curtain shut over. He prepared for everything. Hoseok's grip was deadly on his forearm, but, he supposed that crescent shaped scars did not matter upon a corpse. The others will reach Jungkook, he reminded himself, attempting to heal all regretful wounds, they'll lie and say I gave it my all. His hand found Hoseok's, and he called himself lucky for not dying alone. 

And then nothing happened.

No knives swung down from the ceiling, their ankles weren't suddenly bound with barbed wire. At the bare minimum they weren't shocked or flicked. Somewhere in between, a burn, shallow wound, nonexistent. He freed his sight, squinting to check for rabid dogs. He only found a perplexed Hoseok, checking their bodies for sudden lacerations. 

Their eyes met. "Do you feel any different?"

"Besides like I'm gonna shit myself? No, I'm fine." He felt his heart, pumping too fast for it to be healthy, but fortunately working. The light returned to the indulgent shade of grass. "I guess it said they'd start out small. I expected at least something, though."

Scoffing, the older dancer ran a hand through his thick hair, wearing a smile that wasn't happy, more or less aghast. "That was a bit dramatic of us."

"I thought we were going to die!" Jimin defended, easing into the bickering. "Besides, you were killing my arm. You grabbed me, too."

Hoseok huffed an embarrassed laugh, rolling his eyes heavenwards. "Yeah, yeah, sorry about that. It's needles, by the way."

"You react to everything you hate the same, that was a dumb question." 

Jimin remained vigilant. Regardless of how unnoticeable it may have been, something had to have altered. If it wasn't within them, then, the room held secrets not yet revealed. The emptiness gave few clues, and options, of it's location. During one of his Hoseok's calls, he tried the handle of the door, which remained locked, and inspected the tiny corners. 

He apologized profusely when the other placed his foot down an inch over the illuminated border, distracted from his investigating, and this time, could have bet money that their practice round had finished and now the roof would fall. Nothing occurred. 

The realization twisted all of his insides and forced them up his throat. He was stepping away from the door, when an odd glare from the mirror caught his attention. Upon closer inspection, he found that tiny cracks were aligning the edge, originating from some sort of pressure pushing heavy on the fragile exterior. 

Oddly, the frame of the glass had been hidden. His stomach turning, he briskly walked to the other side, where a replica of the scene awaited him, taunted his arrival. By then Hoseok was waiting for his dose of comprehension. He had no idea how to deliver the news lightly, the words spilling out like his cheeks were full of burning water.

"The walls are moving in."

He allotted no time for adjustment, for the surprise to melt into serious understanding. "Hyung, look," he tapped rapidly on the impending surface, "it's cracking the glass. That's the punishment. It's going to crush us."

"It's my fault," he continued, voice breaking with emotion, unexplainably intense fear bubbling within him. "It was my mistakes, and I distracted you, and now it's going to crush us -"

Hoseok rushed forwards, tugging him away from the mirror with a firm grip. "Jimin, Jimin, it's only a few inches. It's barely noticeable." His jaw was having trouble staying shut, yet, Hoseok's rationality was convincing. "We've gotten through a lot of questions, and almost have a dance. We'll be out of here before anything can happen."

Jimin had no reason to believe it, but he also had no reason not to believe it. He couldn't slow Hoseok down, couldn't afford to psych himself into a mistake. Jungkook, and everyone else, was counting on him; the weight slumped his shoulders but he carried it with pride.

"It was one question. You're doing so well. We got this."

On shaky legs, he held himself up in front of the glass, that would crack further, and further. He listened to the advice he thought Namjoon would say to him, if he were there; focus on the amount you have left, and not the amount you don't. For now, the fraction was heavily outweighed, allowing him to fixate easier.

‘Question nineteen, Jimin - what hotel did Hoseok stay in?’

Whenever he caught a glimpse into that disastrous past, Jimin developed a headache. All the known circumstances of the drunken, distressing, situation formed a lump in his throat. Since then he constantly lack the nerve to pick apart every word needlessly spat, the emotion swirling through the air. The event blemished years worth of friendship. He had the scars to prove it. 

How he immediately knew, he couldn't say, and Hoseok was not ignorant, either. "What the fuck?" He swore, equal parts outraged and nervous. 

"I don't - I don't know," Jimin's stutter wavered, refusing to accuse or castigate. However, he needed an answer, eyeing the approaching sides tentatively. "Hyung, I don't know, you never told me."

‘No answer.’

Jimin'a head snapped to the door. If he hadn't been staring he wouldn't have noticed it's movement, like before. But it certainly was crawling in closer. A thin, long, line cracked across the glass, outstretching towards him, a skeletal hand to take. 

"It was a three star in Yejang," Hoseok muttered, as if he owed Jimin the response. Did he? Jimin didn't care to ever ask. He didn't think it mattered. 

Jimin took his turn and the question held no connection to the events of that bloodied night. Wondering and worried that a target lay on Hoseok's back, he kept his personal feelings at bay, focusing on reassuring the other that he was better than his questioned integrity.

‘What is a major concern when a vehicle is activated within a garage?’

Jimin remembered when they all learned of the event. Of course, they were horrified, torn between believing Hoseok's denial of knowing, and facing the knowledge that they were one bad night away from becoming five. Jin, specifically, had trouble sleeping for days after. Tensions between them and the lone rapper reached peak destination, before their trust was won with the return of the daily sight of his smiles, appreciated no matter how worn or thin. 

Hoseok's shoulders slumped. Defeat he wore a size too small. "Carbon Dioxide poisoning."

Jimin cleared the emotion on his features the second before he turned. It wouldn't have mattered. Hoseok's eyes were pinned to the floor. The game became undoubtedly clear.

"Why does everything always lead back to this?"

The younger caught his shoulder before he brushed passed, prompting his head to tilt up in question. "Because it's a task surrounding us, Hyung. They're trying to mess with our minds. They know all our problems, our fears - they're using it against us. But they can't do that if we don't let them."

Quirking one side of his top lip, the older member scoffed, fond. "You sound like Namjoon-ah."

A top tier compliment, Jimin flashed a charming grin. "I learned from the best." He refused to allow himself to worry the others current circumstances when the thought came to mind. Each had their own positive list of traits that banded together towards prosperity, and he had two bodies to bother his sympathy, already. 

The universe remained hellbent on doing more than attacking them physically, furthering the intrusive synopsis of the fated night. 

"On his lip," Hoseok gnawed the bottom muscle absentmindedly.

"On his temple," Jimin felt a pain develop in the acknowledged juncture. 

Scars were meant to thicken the skin, further the protection, but the array of tiny pink marks along his lip formed armor, far beyond typical defense. Pollution was blooming in the clean atmosphere between them. Hoseok guessed the number of empty bottles wrong, Jimin the number of bandaids, right. The positive response granted nothing, a pretty bird breathing in the smog. 

‘Question twenty-five, Jimin - who initiated the argument?’

It didn't occur to him the possible repercussions of answering honestly, without a moments hesitation. Hoseok made sure they cleared their throats. "Hy-"

"What? No, I didn't." Brimming with offense, he pointed an accusatory finger at the back of Jimin's head, who watched his reflection cautiously. 

"Well, you did -"

"I didn't start that fight. You pounced on me the moment I walked through the door." Hoseok spoke as though he was the only one to know truth. Jimin, half defense, half completely startled, tried to articulate without fueling the sparking fire. 

"Cause I was getting all the bank notifications while you were gone. Of course I was going to confront you. It doesn't mean I started the fight."

"So how was it my fault?"

"Because you were getting defensive. You wouldn't answer me straight, you were drunk out of your mind. Told me I was being irrational. Plus you were the one too. . ." Leave in the first place. Jimin did not finish his thought. If he did, he didn't think he would have been able to stop. 

An antagonizing moment of forever passed, bringing along a flat object for Jimin to sharpen his tongue on, just in case. Hoseok remained insulted, confident in his memory. Whilst he would take responsibility for his personal grievances anyway, Jimin couldn't be convinced that he was the perpetrator. After all, it was his name and money used. Previous scandals forced him to become keen on avoiding further backlash ever again. He could have fought it further, but, skipped around arguing. 

"Whatever," Hoseok huffed, waiting for an argument that never came. Ashamed at his blunt answer, the younger turned in time to read the resulting message.

‘Trick question.’

The dragging of the walls brought a horrible screech of struggling labor. Muffled, glass shattered, falling into the oblivion behind the set. He supposed he was meant to say neither of them did, or the fault laid in between. Callous. 

Jimin's dance was significantly stiffer. He did not misstep, but overstepped, clear out of the boundaries. "I'm sorry!" He yelped, immediately anguished. Hoseok extinguished his frenzy; half of his words drowned under the squeals and creaks. 

From twenty-five to twenty-six, the direction of blame flipped one hundred eighty degrees. The tension, previously blanketed by necessary comfort, returned full fledged. 

‘Hoseok, what was your initial post course of action?’

That intrigued Jimin far past his guilty conscience. He knew he was staring heavily at Hoseok, pressuring the answer, but hardly checked his own bearings. The entitlement to understand the growing mess of remorse on his face outplayed the moral obligation.

Pressure made oil. Thick, sappy, oil, blackening the waters they waded in. Jimin splashed the heterogenous mixture, alerting to his growing impatience, the invisible clock ticking down. Perhaps he was looking for an incriminating piece of evidence, perhaps he was worried about becoming flattened. 

"I was . . I was going to find another hotel to stay in."

"Wow." The way Jimin interpreted the confession, whilst he was bleeding, and crying in Jin and Namjoon's arms, Hoseok had been readying for another round, another night on the town. The older dancers resulting flinch from the punch of the single word brought him mild satisfaction, and he welcomed the sadistic response with pleasure. "You're a great friend."

That was the truth. Hoseok was a magnificent friend. It made more sense to pretend that he wasn't, arguing the easiest choice of distractive conversation. He kept his chin upright, passing by, refusing to give him the satisfaction of checking his shoulder. Betrayal set flame to the spilled slick, burning like the anger he remembered reflecting in dilated eyes. No matter if it was above its primary extinguisher. Sometimes passion flew clean over tranquillity. 

‘What actions did you nearly pursue that night?’

What goes around, comes back around a hundred times heavier. Immediate, like a hand acting on reflex to catch an incoming object, his heart took refuge on the floor. How was it shameful to admit to an action you never did? It was when you knew it would have slashed deep wounds. He had excuses, reasons, a million ways to blame, yet they were darts that hit the bullseye and then fell; pointless. 

"Jimin, answer the question," Hoseok spoke in such a way that revealed he had no suspicion. Jimin willed for that not to change, feeling like the biggest, but emotionally secure, hypocrite.

The ignorant mist cleared. Features darkening, he repeated himself, voice leaving no room for argument. "Jimin."

Could he hear his heartbeat? See the sweat pooling on his warm skin? He gathered in on himself, becoming smaller, and smaller, until he disappeared.  The room was the only thing lacking in original size, and the reminder broke him clean open. 

"What did you do, Jimin." Not a question, not a demand. Sheer disappointment, that stung worse than the previously mentioned.

"I was upset," began a pitiful explanation he knew wouldn't lessen the blow, but his conscience begged for the plea deal,  anyway. "And hurt. And angry. And I thought that you were being selfish and not caring about the others, so I -"

Foolishly, his breathing was timed incorrectly. A single slow, leveling, intake of air, and he flushed away priceless trust. 

"Before you came back, I almost called to get the charges taken off."

Hoseok propelled forwards, stopping right before he stomped onto the sensors, the only thing stopping him reaching out and strangling Jimin. "You almost got me investigated for credit card fraud?"

"I'm sorry!" He burst, throwing his hands up in surrender. A thousand times he created scenarios where he came clean, each with a thousand different mature apologies. He stuttered out something that would convict him guilty. "I don't know what I was thinking. I was upset, okay? It was a crazy night and I wasn't thinking."

He was being addressed as though he was a young misbehaving child, caught with the same red ink sprawled across the walls stained on his hands. "Jimin, do you understand what that could have done? If the police got involved? If that got out to the media?" 

"Don't start scolding me! You were the reason why we were in that situation." Deflecting, curving the blame, suddenly unable to take the stand. "At least thank me for getting my head straight!" Hoseok's shocked expression sank into a deep scowl. Jimin's heart pounded in his ears.

"Somebody had too." The bitter addition concealed the shame pulsing through his veins. 

‘Correct! Arms raised and crossed above head, step top left, right top.’

Pyrrhic victories were never his style. He wasn't sure when casualties overstated triumph, but guessed the number was far higher than morally acceptable. He looked anywhere besides his current enemy, refusing to be charred from the flaming glare fixated on his flushed skin. 

Hoseok checked his shoulder. 

‘What realization did you make?’ 

An inaudible mumble. A slightly more audible whisper. A pathetic half response. At first, it appeared Hoseok didn't have the answer on hand; eventually it became clear he held it all along.

"What?" Jimin spat, rapidly growing impatient, sweat dripping down his temples. The repercussions of yet another failed answer he did not want to wait out and know. "Hyung, say it. We don't have time."

Once more, hushed. Except he corrected himself, clearing his throat. When it rained over Bangtan, it poured.

"I noticed that it was your card."

Eyebrows soared to his scalp, arms dropped to his sides, it was cinematic, the unraveling of secrets, how the air became impossibly thicker. He long had enough of being the tragic hero. 

"Are you serious?" Unlike Jimin's immediate defense, Hoseok took to humbled explanation.

"I was . . I was already kind of tipsy and I . ."

"Noticed it was my card."

"Yes."

"Why the hell didn't you do anything? I mean, anything? You should've known how much that would have bothered me."

Back and forth, the blame went. Unfortunately for Hoseok, Jimin was not ready to let this go for the sake of development. He retraced every footstep they traveled that led to their position, all that could have been avoided, if he had considered the significance a few purchases would become. 

"Did you just not care?"

Quicker than fingers could snap, his fight disintegrated. A negative answer would have hurt less than the potent silence.

An oh moment that had all the bitter, and none of the sweet.

"You just didn't care."

"I didn't not care about you! I didn't care about the consequences. I didn't care about anything. My only concern was getting drunk enough to forget Jungkook, and pass out." 

"I thought you didn't care. You were gone all the time. You still have no idea what we went through. I barely saw you for three months and then you told me to get off your ass."

"Taehyung cried to me once telling me how much he missed you. Do you know how hurt someone has to be to cry about something other than . . than what happened?"

"You're acting like I wasn't in pain, too. I didn't leave all the time because I wanted Taehyung to cry. I couldn't be home, and walk past his room, and see his stuff." Hypothetical memories sprung tears in his eyes. There was pain even in places they had never stepped foot in. Grief persisted hardest when ignored. "Jimin-ah, I'm sorry. I've always said I am."

Resolve cracking, like a dam, like the rehearsal room mirror, Jimin faced what he avoided; not bravely. Cowardly, for his breath stuttered.

"I just don't understand, Hobi-Hyung."

"Understand what?" The Hyung he adored returned, escaping from the clutches of anger, speaking softly, carefully, and all it succeeded in was breaking down his constructed composure further.

"I don't understand how everything's still so different. We've done so much to preserve his memory, to clear his name, to move on. But everything we lost that night still isn't back. I don't even understand why skin scars, anymore," his thumb wiped the tears on his cheek, and rested on his lip. "Can't it just go away?"

The odd thing about grief is that it doesn't. No matter how long he scrubbed them, the amount of soap he used, his hands would still be soaked in blood. I should've never made that song. I should've annoyed him about his secret until he broke. A second odd thing is that two can grieve the same forgotten life, and still fail to understand why broken skin scarred. 

Hoseok, who failed to comprehend, who fell victim to silence, always knew what differences intended to stay. The ones he formed, specifically.

"I don't know, Jimin-ah."

There was nothing cold or dismissive about the response, but Jimin's lips locked shut, rejected without any of the usual circumstance. 

"Right. I'm being stupid," a hand waved the puffs of truth out of their immediate area, "I don't even know what I'm saying."

"That's not what-"

"We have to get out of here. These walls are getting to our heads. If they move in any closer I feel like I'm gonna faint."

For a long time, minus the squeaks of shifting feet and their statements, silence stretched between them. Jimin stumbled twice more. Hoseok said nothing; treasonous, his reflection revealed the growing sense of worry in his eyes. 

"Stop being spiteful, look what it's doing." The words were spoken through bitter teeth. Jimin was younger but bristled at the disrespect to his character.

"I'm not being spiteful! I just didn't know!"

"I've liked that flavor for years," he reiterated the question of ice cream, nothing compared to the prior    inquisitions. Despite the redundancy, the flash of pain striking across his face was the bloodiest. Jimin dropped his murder weapon and it clattered by his feet. No longer did he have the energy to defend, growl, disagree. He held the prime piece of evidence up to the judge, indifferently requesting a life sentence. 

"I didn't know."

Ten feet of room. Miles between their priorities. An inch separating their toes, about to dip into depths never explored before. Jimin performed the nearly completed dance that could have been beautiful, stage worthy. Hoseok typically monitored their performance, arms crossed, face pinched in skepticism. He only appeared sad. The bottoms of his pant legs dampened. 

"When I said I wanted to see you dance again, it wasn't like this."

Pleasant was not the word for it. Simple effective phrases worked instead. Stalked by a predator. Cornered by everyone who you cherished. Cramming in a years worth of knowledge into one test that determined everything. He shrugged. What was once passion had become temporary determination, fading as the ultimate goal became blurry. 

"I won't have to do that cover anymore. Jungkook will be back, and he can finish it, like he planned too." Jimin asserted his words with a nod. That seemed right. That seemed like the way things should have been. If his heart hadn't caught up, it would, once everything settled back into place.

"Well, aren't you going to continue dancing, though?"

"It's my job."

"That's not what I meant."

"Hyung," Jimin rubbed at his eyes, unexplainably tired, "just answer the question."

But he had stalled too long. Like a gear shifting into place, the room spawned the sound of machinery, and then the ground growled, disturbed from it's slumber. Unlike the pause and play advancements, the walls started; and continued, without fear of impact. 

"Woah, woah, woah!" The younger let out a strangled gasp, nearly loosing his footing. Hoseok bravely ran to the incoming left wall with a surge of adrenaline, pushing against it. Five, ten, fifteen seconds passed of constant speed. "Why isn't it slowing down?!"

"We - we must have made too many mistakes," he reacted oppositely, stepping into the center of the rapidly enclosing room. Too much saliva filled his mouth, tasting like terror. "There's still questions. Hyung, it's yours, answer it! We need to go, now!"

The sensors on the floor disappeared. Hoseok sputtered out his answer, admitting to stealing Jungkook's apartment key. Jimin didn't have the nerve to be surprised, breaths as sharp as a Michelin knife. 

Jimin spoke his reasoning for his dancing hiatus. Legs that still held acres of potential faced the epiphany of their destruction. "I wanted to help everyone else. I didn't want to focus on me. And I don't regret it. I'm sorry, but I don't regret it."

"It was yours, Jiminie," the reply came from a jaw scared stiff. "You didn't have to give up yourself for us."

He couldn't acknowledge that he listened further than a nod. What do you wish for every night? The question must've been, for Hoseok choked out, "I want to wake up and see Kookie, in the kitchen. He'd say good morning. I'd ask . . I'd ask something. And everything would be okay." 

Wouldn't that be a world. Far, far, away, from the tight space they were trapped in, suffocating in, dying in. 

Then there was five feet of space. Too much, too little, his senses malfunctioned. All he knew was the force pushing against his back and smooth floor under his bare feet. 

Against his will, Hoseok closed in on him, pressing his heels into the floor as though his legs were able to slow the force of moving bricks. The desperate squeaking reverberated around Jimin's spinning mind. Barely was he able to read the question, accustomed to the thinning space by being written vertically, through his watery eyes. "I want to say sorry. I want to sit down and say sorry."

Hoseok's gaze epitomized devastation. His lips opened to promise that they could, they would, but the words filtered in his throat. Wouldn't it be better to die in a pleasant lie? Or was there consequences beyond, repercussions for using your last breaths to deceive?

"I want to catch up. I want to know what I missed." 

Nothing much, Hyung. I wouldn't want you to see me like that, anyway. Less than an arm's length separated their soft bodies, without a tough shell to absorb the force. A majority of him desired physical comfort, Hoseok's hands to clamp around his, a firm reminder that he was far from alone. Somehow it was lonely, spitting out answers too fast to digest their philosophies, even as they inched closer. He couldn't shake the feeling of betrayal; he trusted the sky that he'd live long, happy, satisfied. Fighting for that justice cost him all remaining despondent energy 

And still, their efforts remained redundant. 

He fell boneless. Couldn't even blink. Couldn't even fight against it. Couldn't even tense. Couldn't even squeeze out a goodbye or a last 'I love you.' He was going to die. His body realized it almost tenderly, almost unsurprised, but his mind betrayed the acceptance and panics, thriving off the only certain instinctual habit; the urge to survive. When that urge is unfulfilled, it's a cruel, depressing, death.

And it's callous. All of it is callous. Hoseok gave the best hugs, and there he was, about to be crushed to death against the chest he smushed his cheek in, where he felt rumbles of laughter. 

Lost within a thick fog of fear, he thought to himself that maybe, it wouldn't be too painful if he pretended it was only another tight embrace. Hoseok's shirt was soft when he reached out and touched it, gently holding the rim. His thumb and forefinger pinched, and it's easier, focusing on the clean white instead of thinking of two types of blood that would soon mingle.

Hanging onto the thinnest thread of hope, Hoseok turned his chin, awaiting a savior. Glass continued to fracture, small shards bouncing off their skin, refusing to draw blood because it was meant to be spilled between bricks and dry wall. 

Just like a hug.

He did not turn to read the question, but knew of it's existence, it's meaning, when Hoseok answered in a breath.

"Leaving."

Their chests grazing, Jimin lost his balance like the renewed rookie he was, falling in further. All that was happening so fast, halted, and his body remained prepared for nothing. Hoseok caught him, able to worm an arm around his waist in the tight space. Neither dared to breathe until positive the walls had ceased.

They held their breaths even as the wall opposite to the shattered glass opened, revealing a safe haven. Hoseok wormed them inch by inch, refusing to allow any distance between them, even if it cost him personal space already stretched impossibly thin. Jimin's legs were weaker than jelly.  

The moment they were on safe ground, they separated, falling back without a care to set up landing gear. There was pure relief in stepping back, and back, and finding more and more empty room. Finally, his knees surrendered, and the plush carpet below caught his vulnerability, hugging it between soft fibers.

He sucked in the largest, longest, breath of his life. His lungs spasmed for air as if they had never felt it in their entire existence. Then he laid on the floor and stretched his limbs, pretending to make a snow angle, appreciating the space surrounding him, even if it was only a decent sized hallway. It felt like the entire sky. 

Staring at the ceiling and seeing an entire galaxy, Jimin joked, for the hell of it.

"I never want to see this place again."

Hoseok laughed with a tremor from wherever he laid, or sat, or stood in post trauma shock. "Luckily, we will never have the chance."

"I guess we did it," he thought his throat would be dry. Instead it was hydrated, smooth, like what he perceived the journey to Jungkook to be from then on. "We survived."

A familiar form stood over him, tall, friendly, guilty. Jimin pushed himself into a seated position, meeting the middle ground. (With much needed consent.)

"I love you. And I'm sorry."

"I love you, too. And I'm sorry, too."

They did not hug, tight spaces the devil and room to breathe a luxury. The distance was purely physical. Jimin smiled at the smile that nearly blinded him. Hoseok hadn't needed to embrace him into submission for forgiveness; it was merely there, in the clean air, and Jimin met him, willingly, halfway. 

"I am so glad you didn't make me a criminal."

"I can't hug you if you're in prison."

"Knowing you, you'd try."

And that made sense. In the mess of the unexplainable, Jimin understood that perfectly. For his Hobi-Hyung, he would. Jimin had yet to come to terms with the entire event, but there would be time for that, later, when everyone was home, safe, and alive.

Maybe they would never unravel the reasons why Hoseok danced until his feet bled and Jimin turned off music whenever it played. For the first time, it was enough to know that forgiveness did not require leveled platforms.

"Let's hurry, see if the others are finished. Jungkookie is waiting for us." He grew giddy, nearly nauseous from the excitement. "I have so much to tell him. We're almost there."

Hoseok led them to the door, pressing down on the handle, not yet pushing, face wistful. "I have so many hugs to give him. I'm going to hug him for an hour every night." 

A list continued and continued, and he was sure that Jungkook would be sick of them within a day, but an irritated Jungkook was better than no Jungkook, than a deceased, far gone, Jungkook. He prayed to himself, pushing down the shining gold doorknob, that on the other side is his members, alive, unharmed, moderately okay, because he was not sure what he would have done, otherwise.

———

Chapter Text

The sole similarity was that of the adrenaline rush a concert gave. No matter how his limbs ached, the amount of sleep he'd gotten the night before, how alive the crowd was, his beaten body found the energy to move, and move, and move until he fell into an exhausted heap once the platform lowered and the encore faded out. Like a strike of lightning, Taehyung crossed the threshold of their dorm and was analyzing the puzzle set up at the door, tenacity coloring his blood. 

"These are weights. We have to find stuff that's the correct amount of weight, place them on these sensors, and then the door will open."

Seokjin, left in his dust, stabilized his balance, still in the midsts of recovering from their transportation. "Taehyung, wait," he reached out, gesturing for him to return to his side, "we should check for anything harmful, first. Especially before we start digging into everything-"

Taehyung left the entrance but did not listen to the wordless command, instead turning to the hallway. "I'll take the kitchen and bedroom. You take the bathroom and living room. I'll take the first four weights, you take the second, and we'll figure out what the last one means together."

Aghast, the eldest moved after him, taking awkwardly large steps to avoid hypothetical hazards on the floor. "Taehyung, wait, there could be something that could hurt you -"

"If all of our old stuff is here then it's probably those things. Or Kookie's. His have to be here, too." One moment his hand was reaching for the bedroom knob, the next, his wrist was clutched in Jin's grip, who strictly led him back into the dingy living room, taking what little control he could gather.

Taehyung could see Seokjin's attempts to convey the seriousness of their situation through his gaze, not an everyday look of his. It grounded him through sheer demeanor. 

"Please, slow down," tinged with desperation, Seokjin sucked in a long breath. "This isn't our dorm. It looks like it is, but it isn't. We have no idea what's really in here."

An uncomfortably long silence passed, Taehyung deliberating between smoothing those lines between Jin's brows, and continuing his mission mercilessly. Eventually, the Angel inside of him finished the debate with a solid point the devil could not contest - he couldn't finish alone, and wouldn't want to, anyway. 

"Sorry," he apologized sheepishly, rubbing the back of his burning neck. "I got ahead of myself. It's just - Kookie. Because he's the prize, I don't want to stop for anything."

Appreciating the easy communication, Jin patted his shoulder, allowing his hand to rest there comfortably. "It's okay. I'm excited, too. I want to finish this as quickly as possible, but I'm not finishing without you, so please, keep yourself alive."

It's an odd feeling, standing in a place you swore you would never be in again. Sort of like deja vu, sort of like a vivid dream, but a certain type of whiplash that sends unwanted shivers.

Before all their glitz, and glamor, and billion won residences, Bangtan began from the dirt beneath the industry's feet. It was a zero hero story that certainly was viewed as impressive, awe-inspiring before a lightning storm changed their course of glory. Only from the outside was it ever a fairytale. Looking back, he could appreciate the remarkable outcome for all their strife, but struggle wasn't anything easily forgotten. 

Young and impressionable Taehyung certainly was not expecting to share a single apartment with six other boys when he arrived at a fascinating new world that was Seoul. A wake-up call tougher than the shrillest alarm. 

The very sight of the dorm was a killer of passion within itself. He studied the stained walls, ragged furniture, cheap lighting, suddenly feeling seventeen again, blissfully unaware of what pain awaited him. So eager he had been, diving headfirst into deluded opportunities. He wondered how he even survived. 

Seokjin wore an amused smirk, glancing around, without trust but with perspicacity, seeing through the layers of nostalgia. "They're trying to mess with our minds. Don't get comfortable. We're not here to be comfortable."

He counted on himself not to. This was only ever home because of who was inside, and at the moment, he only had Jin, and not the Jin that he lived with, then. Like their bodies, they outgrew the space, the clutter, the bitterness, long ago. Akin to wandering, dreaming, teenagers, they were foreigners on uncharted land. 

"It's so small," Taehyung exemplified, running his hand over rough couch fabric. "I can't believe we all used to fit in here at the same time."

"Barely. It was nice our schedules were all over the place, though. We did get some time alone." 

At times, even their current luxurious apartment felt too small, during tragic episodes of needing to feel completely alone. It especially felt limited when emotions reached the ceilings and the outside world consisted solely of cameras and invasive fans. He found a single chip of righteousness; remembering how big his life felt, then. Seoul had been never-ending, as well. Now it ended at every street corner. Now there was no passage of escape. 

"What do you think is in here that's meant to hurt us?" He brought it up casually, not wishing to disturb the shared steady beating of their hearts. 

Jin visibly swallowed. "I wish I knew. If your socks are still here, probably that."

A grin spread across Taehyung's lips; everything around them may have been a false reincarnation, but Seokjin's joking tendencies were real, and he allowed his sanity to hold onto that. The drumming of adrenaline under his skin grew louder, impatient, and he quickly swallowed the tart taste on his tongue; all of his past, remained in the past, and there were pressing matters on hand.

"Okay. It's up to find out. Come look at this thing." He walked to the door, expecting Jin to follow. Placed just below the knob, a table extended outwards. On top laid eighth t-shaped podiums, all of which set at different heights. A ninth, with something already on display, was at the farthest left end, a chapstick set atop. The platform was lowered completely to the table. Taehyung recognized it as a brand Jimin wore often, even to the present day. 

"This seems easy enough. Do we just have to find stuff that weighs the correct amount? I'm guessing the higher the stick is, the more it weighs." 

"Yeah," Taehyung nodded, straightening from his bent position. "But we have a lot of stuff in here." He gestured vaguely to the piles of coats, shoes, random askew objects one of them was bound to step on. "There aren't any insurrections to differentiate between what's important or not, so we need to guess and check everything. At least until we find a pattern."

"I like when you're determined. You get all smart, it's cute." Taehyung rolled his eyes at the teasing, gently shoving at a broad shoulder.

"Okay, okay, come on, Hyung. We got to focus.

You want to separate or go through everything together?"

"Together," Seokjin answered a beat too fast, realizing it with widened eyes and quick additions. "That way one of us won't miss anything. And it's probably safer."

The younger grinned lazily. "You could just say you want to stay with me."

Turning away, the older's posture was rigid and the tips of his ears burning red. "It's called strategy! I'm thinking strategically."

Choosing to grant him mercy, Taehyung walked towards the hallway. "Let's go to the bedroom, first. That's where I at least remember most of our stuff being."

Opening the bedroom door, he was torn between impression and disapproval as the universe managed to capture the stench perfectly. Exactly how one would expect a room stacked with seven young, constantly physically active, men to smell. He remembered Yoongi having given up on budgeting out expenses for air fresheners. 

Three bunks aligned in a row, with a singular equally sized bed horizontal. They fought wars for that space, as though it was any larger than the rest. Not even a nightstand could fit within the space, leaving them to keep their belongings in personal bags stored beneath the bunks. Taehyung reached up and pet a stuffed animal hanging from Hoseok's place of rest, soft to the touch. 

Worming around the ladders, squeezing through tight walkways, he stood at his and Jungkook's bunk, staring at his second-level bed. Memories of after practice talks, whispering into the darkness, trying to make sense of the stress and the expectations and the world so intent on oppressing prosperity. His insides began to slowly twist. 

"He was so young when we lived here," he reached an arm over the protective bars, perched on the edge of the lower bed. He felt the pillow where Jungkook used to lay his head, the indent still in place. "He was the only one who could fit in these beds comfortably."

"He was pretty much a baby," Jin's voice sounded strained, "he barely reached my shoulders."

"Then he could throw us over his shoulders without breaking a sweat." He didn't hesitate in dropping to his knees and reaching under where he knew Jungkook's bag rested, pulling the weight with both hands. As a group, they'd always joke that it was bigger than he was, leaving the Maknae to defend him with fervor, claiming he'd grow taller than all of them, soon enough. How true that statement almost held up to be. As it wasn't difficult to touch the bag and caress his sheets, it surprised him when his hand fumbled to pull at the zipper. 

It took the breath out of him. It took the peace. Opening the duffel bag was a reminder that fifteen-year-old Jungkook had died, too. Invasive, he wanted to ask for permission. Tragic, a fifteen-year-old with no idea he'd only live half his age longer. Whatever was waiting to pounce, aimed for his throat. 

His previous urgency stepped aside and allowed paced recollection to take its place. He couldn't overexert himself with emotion. Seokjin's fingers threaded through his hair, a delicate push to endure. "It's okay, Tae. It's not actually his things. We have all of them, at home. Take your time."

"Let's pretend that they are. It's better if I think they are." The zipper filled the saddened quiet in the room. "If they are, then, they still have parts of him on it. Maybe we'll be lucky, and find a hair."

He did not receive a response. Blindly, he reached into the nearly overflowing sac, freeing a cloth item from its claustrophobic prison. Conceding that he hadn't already cried himself dry, he would have burst into tears at what he unfolded. 

"This was his favorite shirt. He used to wear it all the time." 

The wrinkled black tee held no prestige besides the '97 written in bold white letters, and the fact that it was his, and Taehyung pictured it stretched across his body. 

"I'm going to look through my old things."

Jin wasn't facing him when he turned back; quietly admitting that he couldn't look at the shirt and imagine Jungkook standing proudly in it. Allowing him his peace, Taehyung gently smoothed the folds out over his knee, cleaning the unearthed artifact with the concern of a veteran archeologist, preserving its greatness. He tried to think back to when he last remembered it being worn, but his memory failed him. Again, fifteen-year-old Jungkook slipped away.

He placed it open on his mattress. Reaching in once more, he felt a solid, rectangular, object. "Ah, look, Hyung! Our family photo. We were such babies, even you. I'm older than you were in this. And you're like, twice the age Kookie was in this. This is somewhere in our dorm or our company. I can't remember, though." 

Unbothered by the lack of response, he continued to eagerly dig through the maknae's belongings, picking out socks, cologne, hair product, clothing, placing them out in an organized array, as though building him up from what he left behind. Stacking up blocks until they could call out his name. Only did he stop when Jin shook him out of mania. 

"We should start weighing things, now. Starting with his stuff."

Taehyung regathered his senses, agreeing. A single item was left inside the duffle. Something like love bloomed in his heart once he recognized what it was. 

"Hey, he still has this," he held the small white teddy bear, with a pale pink nose, up. "This is still in his room." 

Full lips pursued. A hand reached out to touch but pulled back halfway. "Yeah, you're right. It's on his bed." Without sparing a warning, tears flooded into Jin's full eyes. He hastily covered the trailing liquid with his hands. "Fuck, Taehyung, this is so hard. I didn't expect it to be this hard."

Springing to his feet, he gathered his Hyung in his arms, managing a majority of his width. "It's okay, Hyung. Jungkookies just around the corner. It's . . It's going to be okay."

His subconscious wondered if that was wishful thinking, for he was clutching the bear until its eyes bulged. 

Jin gathered himself together. The only evidence of his sudden breakdown was tear stains on his cheek. He always seemed to be able to reset his emotions in a minute. "I'm going to scold him so bad, for doing this to us."

Taehyung knew he was bluffing, lightening the mood. He gathered up all of Jungkook's items, placing them neatly inside. "I'll make sure to support you."

The contraption was simple. Simultaneously, a final exam. Searching for items became a search for the fountain of youth when victory determined the trajectory of your life. 

"We don't even know which one to try," Seokjin sounded uneasy, unable to bite back exchanges of problematic theories. "What if one of them is a trap?"  

Deliberately ignoring the question, Taehyung licked his lips. "I'd assume it's the next one over." He delicately placed down a bottle of hairspray, which used to reduce thick bangs to plastic. In acknowledgment, the platform lowered a centimeter, then bounced up.  "Yeah, see?" He examined the example. "Wonder why Jiminie's chapstick is here."

Their efforts were redundant for long, frustrating, minutes. Nearly every item of Jungkook's was tried, to no avail. "If we keep going like this, we're gonna be here for ours." Jin lamented, worry growing in the furrow of his brows. "We have so much stuff here." 

Taehyung shook his overgrown bangs, refusing to allow irritation to run his mind wild. "No, there has to be a reason behind all eight of these things. Why would we be placed in our dorm, and the items not have any significance? Once we figure it out, it'll be easy from there."

Seokjin nodded, enlightened with reason. "Should I check the room for things we didn't see?"

Taehyung grabbed the forever-lasting bear, running low on reserves. "Yeah, maybe -"

Surprised by the sudden movement, the two men stumbled backward. A second after Jungkook's bear sat, the platform lowered with a congratulatory thump. 

"Oh my god," the awed man behind him breathed after a moment of disbelief.

"We got one!" Taehyung's face exploded into a grin, and he fondly petted underneath the toy's chin. "Jungkookie's little bear."

Suddenly bursting with confidence, Jin whirled on his heels, eyes bouncing rapidly in search of a dignified area of focus. "Okay, that's great! Um, what's - what's next?"

Taehyung glanced downwards. "I wouldn't think it's all of his things. That would be too easy. There's no mystery to it."

"Well, this wasn't just Jungkook's dorm. It was all of ours."

Even between the kitchen, and living area, where their hundreds of options to choose from. Kitchenware, key chains, scattered notes, and ink, all of which were theirs, and free to reclaim. The lack of attention aimed at Jungkook allowed Seokjin to understand their piece in the game of chess. 

"So, we should try all of our stuff?"

"That's all I can think of. All of this is our stuff, anyway."

Staying true to their previous agreement of unification, the two remained within the front half of the dorm, tackling the spots deemed as honorary 'drop and go' places for when they were late to a schedule or too exhausted to correctly dispose of. It was not rare to find someone's shoes atop Jungkook's homework, which was resting upon someone else's monthly examination. One of these areas was the coat rack near the door, where only half of the space was demonstrating its designated use. 

The pile was not pretty. Taehyung wondered why they never considered investing in storage containers, proper organization. Certainly, it would have made their shared space feel an arm's length wider. But he could not be disdainful, knowing the one presented here that had fallen behind in their luxurious lifestyle made a world of difference. In a disturbed, minuscule way, the mess felt more like home than home did. Relying on that feeling, he acted as though he knew the layers to the junk, as though he was grabbing a jacket to head out to an early morning practice. Judging by how many were already in the fateful stages of wear and tear, he knew that majority of the elements were long tossed and insignificant. While on the surface, that made it easier, he couldn't exactly be certain. He was able to gather that the weight needed to be symbolic, but by sheer chance had he glanced at Jungkook's bed often enough to know he kept the bear. 

With the others, he may have been a professional at this a year prior. But all had shifted, and now, he dug for nothing, in particular, hoping he was able to strike gold. 

He gasped. Half hidden by the bulk of dark-colored padding, a bright red sleeve poked through. He maneuvered the hood off its hook, holding the NorthFace jacket in his hands, wrinkled, dusty, but newer and bolder in hue than what was hanging in the deepest points of his closet. 

"Oh, wow," he murmured, fascinated by the level of the detail the universe knew personally. 

"What is it?" Seokjin asked from the kitchen, where he had been disrupting the quiet harvesting with his clatter. 

"This is the jacket my mom bought me when I first moved here." He held it up, noticing how it likely would've fit tight, now. "It's somewhere in my closet, still."

Jin gestured to the door. "Try it, maybe."

Taehyung eyed the size of the platforms, compared to the covering, not close in diameter, unconvinced. "It's a little too big."

He only shrugged, turning back. "Yeah, but, couldn't hurt." Moments after bending down and reaching under the rusted oven came to an incredulous cry. "Why are there socks everywhere?"

Peering down upon the weights, he noticed that the third one from the left, after Jimin's chapstick and Jungkook's bear, was a bit larger than the rest. Loosely folding, assuring the sides wouldn't fall over and activate the wrong sensor, he placed the jacket over the designated podium, blatantly ignoring the awkward fit and hoped the universe would, too. 

Taehyung was struck with an epiphany. The jacket, appearing to magically do so, lowered with another congratulatory thump. "No way," he spoke loud enough for Seokjin to overhear, eager to share his hypothesis. "Hyung, maybe the pattern is that its things we still have, that mean something. Kook still had that bear. I had this. Jiminie still uses that chapstick brand."

Exiting the kitchen, Seokjin thoughtfully nodded, looking pleased to be gifted a sense of direction. "That makes sense. And lowers our options down a lot. I don't think I kept much of any of my old stuff, though, and I already looked through my bag."

"It doesn't have to be in your bag," he pointed to his jacket for reference. "Just look around. Not like the place is huge."

He continued to dig through the coat rack for a few more minutes, the four or five remaining members in mind (for they were unable to conclude whether the chapstick was Jimin's item or merely an example.) The eighth starting empty spot also had to be deciphered. Only Seokjin could immediately know his part upon first sight. 

Taehyung's mind was working at a rapid pace, far quicker than the near dormant stage it had been set at before their harmonious dreaming, but a leisurely smile grew across his face. The progress had come at no cost besides a bit of their time, and patience. Soon he would have something whole, and not bits and pieces of torn memories. Zero thoughts of anything besides earning Jungkook's life, and going home as seven; true, the situation itself was a bit overwhelming but better than what his brain wrapped around prior. 

"Tae, Tae, look what I found."

Seokjin held out a cheap, bright pink, dog tag that screamed BFF across its front, in an equally blinding electric blue. It was the perfect amount of ugly to remember instantly. Taehyung took it from his pinched fingers, struck with nostalgia. 

"I remember that. I gave Jimin that. I think I got it from some arcade." He had lavishly offered it to him, as though proposing, and guessed that after the giggles and jokes, it had been simply tossed or lost before the night ended.

"Yeah. It's probably his item."

"There's no way he still has that." He looked at him through his lashes. "Does he?"

"He has it on a necklace. Haven't you seen it?" 

He hadn't. But the thought made his heart do a cartwheel and him grin like an idiot. There were simple things Jimin always did to remind him of his love, and after a decade together, the size of his heart still managed to catch him off guard. He suddenly missed him. Wondered where he was if he was okay.  Nevertheless, he knew he needed to see that accessory, and get one of his own. 

Jin, watching his skin flush with a flat expression, spoke monotonously, falsely impatient. "You two are insufferable. Please, hurry." 

Jimin's tender attention scored another point, leaving five pedestals standing. Before returning to the bedroom and scooping through their bags, they decided to search the immediate area from top to bottom, first. A few minutes after the fact, Taehyung's attention was alerted with a tap on the counter. 

"Look what I found. Inside the fridge." Namjoon's high school I.D dangled in all its glory, each twirl flashing the face of a tan, dimpled, boy, a stranger to the confident leader they knew. 

"Why would he keep that?"

"He has a lot of things from school," Jin appeared to perceive minor details frequently. "Watch, I bet it works." 

And it did. After sharing teasing giggles at his photo, Taehyung inspected the living room, and Seokjin braved the storage closet, where the stacked inside items threatened to tumble over at any moment. Besides the furniture, television, and gaming console, there wasn't much clutter. Simultaneously, they all decided to keep the area as open and clean as possible, to allow a bit of room to breathe. 

In between the cushions unearthed nothing but coins, stale food, the remote, and crumpled up bits of paper with rejected lyrics. Under the couch, dark forms of lost objects were visible, but he decided for the concern of his health, to not touch. 

He grimaced when he stood, the sound of liquid sloshing under his feet throwing his mind into a disturbing spiral of possibilities. Piping issues? Overflowed toilet? 

He looked down to his feet. He was not standing in a puddle. Instead, the entire carpet glistened, turned a muddy deep grey. The tiled floor reflected under the beaming kitchen lights, a spotlight on the unmistakable layer of liquid spanning the entire area. 

From the front door to the couch Taehyung stood near, water gathered an inch high. Before his very eyes, it rose another inch, chill seeping through the material of his shoes. It was cold; the type of cold that could drive one insane. When he tore his eyes away, he swore that the apartment had become dimmer, the colors grayer.

Their eyes immediately connected. Seokjin let out a smoky breath, white fog dancing by his lips. His white-clad form contrasted against the depressing atmosphere. Angelic, without his handsomeness in question. How vulnerable were the purest? 

"It's cold. It got colder in here, suddenly." 

Taehyung went to the thermostat. The dorm temperature had dropped a few degrees. Pressing the upward arrow did not alter the flashing number. "Just like before. It never worked."

The water kissed his unprepared ankle. He seethed as the lips bared and teeth sunk into his skin, drawing blue, hypothermic, blood. Seokjin's eyes were growing in horror. He touched Taehyung's exposed wrist, his fingers not as warm as they should be. He thought quickly. "Put on a coat." 

Seokjin grabbed the largest one in immediate sight. When it came to Taehyung, he hesitantly lifted the immortalized outerwear off its flattened throne. The system did not reset so Seokjin tossed it his way. As he guessed, he had grown out of it, but, did not ask for another. He thought of his mother, pulling up the zipper, that reflected the frigidity of the air. From his peripheral, he saw the number drop another digit. 

Deathly serious, the older took his dignified position, demanding obedience. His foot began to numb, near completely submerged.

"We need to hurry up. This water is going to keep rising, and . . I don't think it's going to stop."

There was no guilt in their raid, considering the other four were alive, and not present. Belongings polluted the rising ocean, tossed overhead, and deemed worthless. They clawed with fervor, Seokjin sat upon his top bunk, high above their slow approaching predator. He begged Taehyung to follow, but, he claimed he needed to be closer to the ground to quickly reach the weights. Taehyung was situated on the open bed, clawing through Yoongi's duffel.

Nothing rang any bells inside his bed. The tip of his nose, ears, and cheeks lightly burned, sensitive areas without any sort of cover. Seokjin tossed him astray clothes of his, a beanie, mittens, another jacket. "Don't you need these, Hyung?"

"It's okay. It's okay, Hoseok probably has some." His assurance was betrayed by the shivers he was unable to contain. "Just stay warm, Taehyung."

He pulled on the black beanie, thankfully covering his ears and preserving his brain's warmth, the most necessary of organs. Stray fibers from his protected hands unexpectedly clung onto similar fabric. 

"Look, look, this is one of Yoongi-Hyungs beanies! I swear he has this, still."

His Hyung, acting the role with tender concern, eyed the ground wearily. "Okay. Try it. Taehyung," he called before he could swing a leg over, "run."  

He managed to bite down his throaty yelp upon contact with the water, and further noises, as the feeling of his muscles spasming occurred horrifyingly vivid. Barely was he able to speak loud enough to be heard, affirming his inference. Seokjin yelled for his return. 

"All we need -" a sudden, aggressive rush of Siberian wind stole his breath. "All we need is you, Hobi-Hyung, and - and that last one."

Since Seokjin had the dancers bag up with him, Taehyung could do nothing but sift through the floating objects, in case any happened to be of importance. A few undersides were gradually freezing. Indescribably sharp, he cried out when he wiggled his toes, causing Jin to sputter out disapproval's and beg him not to try again. 

Hoseok, Hoseok, what would Hoseok have held onto throughout eight years? Out of all of them, he was unsurpassable sentimental, holding onto memories in any way shape, or form. Meaning any of his possessions could still be in his custody. His hand's movements through the water became sluggish.

"I think I got it. It's this CD, remember, from when he danced underground?" Taehyung shrugged, unable to confirm, so Seokjin clambered down the ladder and took off to the front room alone. Taehyung stared at his mattress, soaking up the intruder, and wanted to crawl in, sleep like he was seventeen and so incredibly hopeful. "It worked!" He wanted to dream in youth forever. 

A presence swiped through, stealing a layer of skin at a time until they depended on their bones for warmth. Jin asked him to check the bathroom, not impolitely, but short, 

The metal doorknob was icy, burning his palm when he grasped it. The bathroom had always been cold; Taehyung remembered pulling socks to brave the chilled tile. Stepping in, winter overtook his senses, he stumbled through a blizzard, tugging his coat further. Except when he came to the sleeve of his too-thin too had gotten wet, and, the air nipped it at readily. 

With the water level nearly to the low sink, the cabinets were unattainable, opening would only wet whatever was inside. He went to the shower, nothing of importance. He almost grabbed a hanging towel to wrap around his shoulders, but, overlooked its usefulness.

He opened the medicine cabinet, expecting to find a causal assortment of pain medication, dental floss, random expired skincare. Expectations were charred within moments, within the sight of an orange bottle and white cap.

He reread the label twice, three times, waiting for it to make sense. Kim Seokjin. 100mg. Refill half scratched out but certainly ending with 2013. Hw thought that maybe, this was a setup, to throw him off course, and when he'd show it to Jin demanding an answer, he'd be given a worried look and asked if he was feeling warm because it was vitamin tablets. 

A thousand scenarios and none eased his exploding headache. Of course. Of course, unwritten history repeated, returned with an uncontrolled vengeance. 

Seokjin's impending arrival announced itself with sloshing water. It would have been easier to become angry, turn and face him with a betrayed expression and accuse of hypocrisy, deceit. Instead, there was something akin to sadness running over and through his skin. Like knowing it's no one's fault, but unable to shake the feeling that it's your own. 

"Tae, did you find anything?" 

The urgency of his question, how his voice quivered with frost, rendered Taehyung conflicted. Confrontation at one's weakest points made a villain out of someone. He did not want to corner Seokjin, nor did he want to pretend he had never come across the prescription. 

"Tae?" He turned slowly, to not pounce, to not dismiss. For a terrible moment, he existed, with the bottle in his hands, across from his Hyung, who he swore he knew.

There was only one another time Taehyung had ever witnessed blood drain from his face. A rainy, November night, and a gut feeling. He could see his mouth go dry, the apology immediately flash over his eyes, but his tongue without the lubricant to let it slide off. 

Breaking icicles hanging from the roof of his mouth when he spoke, he asked for answers, because strength was hard to come by. Taehyung should have kept moving to keep his blood from freezing. Neither even twitched. 

"Why didn't you tell me, Hyung?"

Seokjin had the sense to be shameful, answering evenly, honestly, with his eyes downcast.

"I didn't think it mattered that much."

He blinked a few times to free his lashes from ice, and also to activate the decelerated cogs in his mind. Incredulity seeped into his cracking and dried skin. "But these are what - these are - you had these types of pills?"

Lower, quiet, his response came. "I had trouble sleeping away from home. My mom suggested that I get prescribed some, to help with all the hours we had."

The story was eerily similar to his, yet common. Most of the two contrasted. Taehyung never dwelled on their differences. But their likeness, he became engrossed with. 

"We're you . ." A million different ways he could have finished the sentence. Like me? Addicted? Struggling? There were two possible replies and neither would have brought the conversation to rest. 

"No. No, I didn't."

He shifted his weight on his feet, crossed and loosened his arms, searching for a position that felt right. None did. Opposite in a way he never considered, in his wildest withdrawal dreams.

"I don't get it. Didn't you think it would've been good for me to know?"

Jin did not directly answer the question, yet worded his response in a way that Taehyung had no choice but to accept, couldn't find anything wrong in. "I know how easy it can be to rely on them. That's why I've been supporting you. Because I know how easy it is to turn to them when you're struggling."

"Do you still have them?"

Black, guilty eyes stared into him. Swift as he could through the mid-thigh level Arctic ocean, he brushed past him, into the hall, to the door, when he placed the half-filled bottle on top of the second to last platform. The lack of protest told him all he needed before the lowered weight was confirmed. 

"Yes. Yes, you do."

The silence teetered on awkwardness, but Taehyung was not adding dramatics. He was thinking, heavily, brows furrowed and eyes fixated on the bottle. His vision began to spin when Seokjin spoke, unable to handle the quiet tension. 

"Taehyung, are you upset-"

"No. I'm not upset at you for, I don't know, needing them. Or not telling me, I don't know if that would have helped. It's just . ."

He licked his severely chapped, close to bleeding, lips, and turned, analytical. "How often did you take them, Hyung?"

"Most nights, I think."

"For how long?"

The accused's eyes flickered to the upper left. "Each fill was three months' worth. I think I got them refilled once."

Taehyung's pride hadn't existed for a long, lonely, time. Yet the knowledge he had been chosen by the sky for a remarkable task, one he was clearing through with ease, sparked a bit of dignity. The adrenaline formed a body that could move, and move, and now, he felt his legs weaken, threatening to collapse, halfway through the show. Self-esteem had no preference of how it was perceived. 

"So it's just me."

"What?"

"I'm the problem."

Features shattering into sympathy, Seokjin drew closer, an arm reaching out and then faltering halfway, discouraged by the rigidity of Taehyung's demeanor. 

"Taehyung, no. You're not the problem. You were never the problem. You were struggling, and coping."

"So were you."

"Not like that. I think I would've had the same outcome if he had died while I was using them, too."

Jin wasn't bluffing because he couldn't know. But he didn't know. Taehyung read through the lines. 

"You didn't have any trouble getting off them, did you."

"I had to slowly spread the dosages out, and a few sleepless nights."

"But you weren't like me. You didn't have any problems."

Seokjin's breath puffed up into his face as it quickened, conscience-stricken. "Taehyung, please. Don't do this to yourself."

Frustrating tears pricked at his eyes, freezing before they could fall, a disturbing metaphor for his hibernations away from winters of hurt. 

"I almost forgot it, you know. How much I fucked myself up. This entire time, I was focused on doing this, and now I'm right back here again."

Right back in your bedroom.

"Hyung, don't be mad at Yoongi-Hyung-"

Seokjin had been in his room, pacing, with barely contained fury weeping from the sweat on his forehead. Taehyung did not catch the impatient memo and flinched at the sudden yell.

"How could I not be?! He shouldn't have even considered that idea!"

"This is more important, Hyung. We have to figure this out."

"But what about you? What about your health?"

His well-being was not in his own consideration. Jungkook's panic consumed him. The dissolving pills under his tongue tasted terrible, though he forced any indications of discomfort down.

"I already failed, this morning. It doesn't really matter anymore."

All the threads of the warm blanket Seokjin was snapped. 

"Of course it matters! You think we want to be burdened with this forever? Getting you clean is all that matters. I don't understand how you don't see how much of a problem this is."

The soft skin of his hips toughened, wrinkling, under the sudden wet change of surroundings. At this point, it was becoming a challenge to step forward, his feet, the first victim, losing circulation. 

He opted to alter his body horizontal, into a position between wading and swimming. It failed to be conceived, but Seokjin begged for a reply for three, four, minutes, with zero acknowledgment of his close-by presence. 

"Taehyung! Kim Taehyung!" Attempts to be stern thwarted by fear, full-body shivers. "We can't do this, now. Answer me, please!"

If his fingers weren't stuck in place, he would have reached up to wave the pesky mosquito out of his ears, continuing the ill-fated search. Consequences refused to be perceived. The turn of spring refused to come.

Seokjin's hand landed heavily on his shoulder and twisted him backward. Frozen tears were on his cheeks, tinged blue. 

"Taehyung, we're not leaving the conversation there."

"Who cares? I'm just burdening everyone with this."

He could have reached out and slapped him clean across the face and received the same reaction. "What? Who told you that?"

Emotion, the sole reason they managed to speak in harsh whispers. "Hyung, y-you did! You said that to me just, I don't know, an hour ago?!"

Seokjin inadvertently revealed he hadn't forgotten when he answered immediately. "Taehyung, that's not how I meant it. Why would I ever say that to you?"

"But you did."

His other hand gripped his unoccupied shoulder, grip tight, fingers unable to keep from unconsciously clenching. "I said that this entire situation is burdening us. That this all is a problem."

"That's not how I felt it."

"Why - Do you think you're burdening us?"

Defeated, his shoulders rejected posture. A needle pricked his skin and all his blood flowed out. 

"I can't even stay away from some little pills, Hyung. I don't know how I'm supposed to keep being V, in our group. You guys work so hard to help me and I can't do one thing, I can’t even make it a month.”

Drawing him closer, Seokjin’s spine straightened, the water reaching and biting at his lower back. “You're dependent, Taehyung. That's what happens. It happens."

Seeking comfort, the warmth that came from his embrace, Taehyung moved in further. Something within him withered when he felt no exertion of body heat. The point of everything dulled. 

"So you don't think it's a burden? Y - you don't think it's a problem?"

Jin attempted to caress his face but couldn’t pull his hands away from his scapulas. “Of course it's a burden. It's something none of us like or want. But it's ours to take care of, and that's what we're doing, and will always do."

Call it death bed confession; as his organs constricted, sea level at his chest, the words he hid underneath his struggle freed. 

"But what if I can't?"

It wasn’t like he meant to cause Seokjin’s horror, but there was no easier way to say it. His brain-to-mouth filter failed, chattering teeth chopping the individual phrases, yet they were clear like his honesty. Something in the cold coerced truth out of him. 

"What if I can't fight it anymore? What happens then?"

Refusing to allow the white flag to unravel, Jin pinched his features as tight as he could manage. His thick lashes were frosted, and beautiful, and dying. “We fight it for you."

The water breached through his lips, from a gentle splash, and it tasted like rain. 

"Then what if I'm not here to fight for?"

Winter covered his eyes. He thought that hypothermia would drive him mad before it manage to subdue, but it all happened too quickly for the mania to drive through his skull. He was tired, physically, and from the bottom of his heart. 

There was a form of pride in admitting what you couldn’t do.

 “I think I've already lost, Hyung. I'm sorry."

Seokjin breathed in sharply through his nose. There was not a hint of acceptance, even as the younger’s fluttering kicks began to weaken, dipping his chin into his killer. “No,” he began firmly, “no, I'm not letting you give up, Taehyung. I don't care what you think. You're not giving up until I say you can."

"Hyung . ."

Through his sleepy blinks, he saw Jin turn his face, clenching his jaw, shaking his head, and glancing about. Each movement threw his body about, kicking up droplets of water, six hundred types of muscles reduced to working as one. “What's our last item? What else do we still have?"

"I don't know.” His voice was quieter than a mouse. “Hyung, I'm sorry."

"Stop, Taehyung, you're not doing this! Not here, not ever! Jungkook's just around the corner, we can’t let him down.” The hand wrapped around his thick neck tightened, and words came at the price of sharp coughs. “I’m not letting you let him - let him - let him down.” 

"I miss him so much, Hyung."

Seokjin opened his mouth, but his voice failed him. His eyes flashed with an apology after realization struck him, and then he disappeared beneath the water, right before Taehyung's very eyes. His hand slipped from his, though Taehyung never realized it was there in the first place.

A light flickered on inside of him. Emergency red. 

"Hyung?!" Water splashed from his quick, shocked, movements. "Hyung! Jin-Hyung, no, no! What are you doing?!"

His head did not pop back up. All trace of him disappeared, without any promise he could be found. 

His eldest Hyung he adored without a second thought. From the moment they met, he knew that he would need him, forever, love him even longer. He was not oblivious to the tragic sacrifice in the making, yet, could not react. He continued to adore but thought. 

He thought of the times he witnessed him pinch himself till he bled to uphold the act of contentment. He thought of the times he held back his tears and did whatever the others couldn't manage, couldn't bear. He thought of all the quiet between them that could have been filled with words, aching to be said, to be heard. He thought of a world where they never would.

With the deepest breath he could muster, Taehyung dove into the water, fully knowing that by the time he rose back up, there would be no surface to breakthrough. 

Seokjin disappeared into the hall. Kicking and striking with all his might, Taehyung followed, knowing nothing about the beyond, the consequences, only that he was not afraid. 

He pondered death. Thought of it like it was a book he read when he was eight, a dog he saw when he was thirteen. To him, it was the tenth thought, far behind reaching his Hyung, who had yet to emerge from the bedroom. His spine could not manage the turn, so he waited, slowly suffocating. Death moved back two spots.

Because he died when Jungkook had and did so quietly enough that no one pumped his chest and pinched his nose. 

But he didn't want Seokjin to die. The imagery flashed through his mind; the members stumbling across their floating, bloated bodies, pinching his nose and pumping his chest, the blue coldness of skin unmistakable. They noticed, but at what cost? Was there satisfaction in your pain being acknowledged if it had to be so cruel, spiteful? Was he not like those who danced around Jungkook's name or spoke so obnoxiously if he were to be so oblivious to their pain? 

He didn't want Seokjin to die. He didn't want someone so intent on living life, moving ahead, to be cornered and forced to his knees, executed stylishly. Finally, finally, the tips of his fingers appeared through the doorway, begging for assistance. 

Taehyung reached. 

It violently occurred to him that even if he intertwined their fingers once more, right before becoming claimed by death, the water would not allow for eternity. He'd reach the afterlife with cramping fingers, tightening around comfort that had drifted away. 

So he gripped his forearm tight, tight as he could, and promised that neither would go anywhere if not together. 

The two of them kicked off the walls, propelling themselves through thin plates of ice. Something was in Seokjin's hand that Taehyung could not see. Time slowed to a complete stop under the surface, but somehow, he knew they were running out of it. 

From the hall to the door, the distance could have been a mile. His lungs writhed. To not open his mouth and habitually breathe in, he squeezed Jin's wrist and allowed his teethe to penetrate his tongue. His blood was cold. 

Jin placed the object down on the final empty place, and it would have been a perfect last sight.

The family photo, that may have been in their dorm, may have been somewhere in their company building, may still have been tucked away in one of Jungkook's drawers they never found the strength to open. It was nearly completely encased in ice, like a prehistoric creature taken off guard by unforgiving clouds, forever preserved in panic. The frame cracked under Jin's sustained grip. 

The air bubble the weights had magically been preserved in was not pure oxygen, but it was enough to keep black from shuttering over his sight. Slowly, all too slowly, the platform level. Without a pause, the lock of the door clicked, and Jin twisted the knob. 

Taehyung decided he had nothing left to lose, and snatched what he thought would be a nice find for archaeologists, happening upon a once in a lifetime find.

Except the two breached and the water did not follow. With grunts, they landed on carpeted floor, muscles seized in place and unable to react to catch themselves. Eyes still of use, Taehyung looked to the door; nothing else was allowed to exit, trapped parallel to the frame. The door closed. 

Undoubtedly the softest and warmest blanket he had ever felt landed over his body, one on Seokjin, too. Instinctually, he knew the danger was gone, and he shut his exhausted eyes. 

His skin dried first, regaining its natural warmth, maintaining the correct amount of moisture. Next, his clothes puffed around his body like clouds, instead of sticking uncomfortably, staining his dermis blue. Eyelashes, eyebrows, hair came last, fluffier than when he entered. Jin underwent the same process without a word, still flat on the ground, gulping oxygen as though it was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. There was vulnerability emitting from his unmoving form, exposed and wide open. The trust-filled, liberating, kind, path of life Taehyung could never follow himself but admired greatly, from afar. 

"I'm sorry." He propped himself on shaky elbows, moving before likely safe and necessary. "I didn't - I didn't mean to freak you out. It was getting to me. I shouldn't have let it get to me."

"It's okay, It's okay," his words were soft and barely louder than a whisper, yet silenced all hurried apologies.  "You did good. You did perfectly. I'm sorry, too, Taehyung-ah."

Resting his parietal against the door, he kept his eyes upward, not wishing to witness worried reactions to his confession. Somehow, he looked and found nothing ahead. It was as though the chill of the water shook the tightrope of deliberation he balanced on and allowed him to free fall. He could only know which side he toppled over into from a flip of a coin. 

This was always the hardest part; the experiences that were meant to open your eyes and force you to see the good, the beauty of the unknown, only reminded you of how easy it would be to not have to, anymore.

"I wish I could tell you that I think I can."

Jin was careful with his reply. "But you're trying."

"Yeah," he shifted, because he was alive, and that meant he must have been. "It's easy too. When I have you guys. But sometimes everything gets a little blurry, and I think that maybe it wouldn't matter. The world went on when Jungkook died. Why would it matter if it was me?"

He appreciated that he was not suddenly bombarded with rehearsed verses of his unlocked potential, told to voice what he would miss if he were to run off into the sun. Their eyes weren't connected. It felt as though all of him was still being seen.

"You know that we're all rooting for you. We're all supporting you." 

"I know. And I don't want to let you guys down."

"You never have. We would go down with you, anyway."

Jin began to push himself up but fell back with a grunt, suddenly pressed with 62 kilograms of Taehyung. 

A wheezy chuckle pushed out from the lung Taehyung's elbow was savagely stabbing into. He could adjust it later after he got his point clean across; I'm never going to let you fall. 

Without looking at his face, Taehyung could tell Seokjin was contemplating, tearing himself apart over something that no one believed, especially not himself. He had to learn, one day, why humans latched onto anything to grieve. There was too much existing pain to create your own. Or maybe pain only existed because we let it. Either way, contemplation was a killer, and habits die hard.

"Hyung's not as strong as you think he is." 

"Yes you are," he swiftly denied, finding his hand and squeezing it tight. "You're one of the strongest people I know."

Daring to believe, Seokjin managed a compressed breath. "Am I allowed to disagree?"

"Nope."

Despite being the first to cringe and writhe under the pressure of confessional emotion, he did not disagree, and both found it easy. To simply say it, without distress pushing it, without sympathy, without reassurance. 

"I love you," the elder caressed his hair.

"I love you, too," the younger one closed his eyes. 

"Can we get off the floor?"

Taehyung simply nuzzled into his warm chest. "But I like laying on you."

Seokjin surrendered underneath him, relaxed remaining tension, forgave himself with a sigh. He supposed another minute couldn't hurt.

"Okay. That's okay."

———

Chapter Text

Taehyung held his hand tight, crushingly tight, but Seokjin couldn't find the heart to ask him to lighten up. His own grip was not gentle, either; he had no room to complain. After nearly witnessing his dongsaeng freeze or drown to death, whichever attempted to consume first, the concept of 'letting go' he declared treason. The blood flow would have to work around their holds. 

"Do you think our next task is behind this?" Taehyung nudged the bottom of the door with the toe of his shoe. "Or the others?"

"Hopefully the latter," Seokjin hoped his voice didn't sound as unsteady as he heard it in his ears. "I can open it now if you're ready for either scenario."

If he was with anyone else, he would have expected a few more moments of peace. Despite just having gone through an intensely traumatic experience, Taehyung straightened his posture and nodded, courage dilating his pupils. He walked into spring as though winter hadn't wiped out his will to preserve. "Okay."

Jin's free hand barely twitched.

"Hyung."

"Yeah?"

"The door."

"Oh, yeah." He felt himself flush; as the older, he was expected to be the one prepared to barrel into the unknown. "Taehyung, stay behind me."

He pulled the handle to a point where it clicked, internally begged for prolonged mercy, and followed it open. 

And eerily mirroring his actions near perfectly, Namjoon's face fell into relief, shock, and close to tears all at once. The sight of his visibly exhausted dongsaeng, who he swore he hadn't seen for years, reminded him profoundly of the sacrifices they were all making. He suddenly felt great guilt for his hesitance. 

Behind Namjoon hurried in Yoongi, pale and hiding the worst of his upset, but appearing relatively unscathed. Before any of the four men had a chance to speak, another door swung open, in between their entrances. Hoseok's face poked out timidly, then he gasped at the sight inside, and tugged out a wide-eyed Jimin.

As expected, Jimin and Taehyung took one single look at each other before abandoning their escorts, making the first movements and slamming into each other with an emotional-filled embrace that the dramas could never recreate. 

"Are you okay?" Jimin asked worriedly right as Taehyung peeled them apart and looked up and down his body- "Are you hurt?"

The timing broke the tension shortly as they chuckled, alleviation fluttering through their everlasting humor. The two brothers inspected each other further, more eyes than hands, jaws tight in fear of suddenly being torn away once again.

Jimin frowned, noticing the dried tear stains across his cheeks. Taehyung disregarded the concern with a shake of his head, and though remaining silent, Seokjin's conscience shamed him heavily. He told himself he would have to sedate their past soon, ahead of possible lasting tension. His fault weighed more than he could carry, and after a year of avoiding the whole truth, his shoulders ached.

Namjoon had him enclosed in his arms before he was prepared. He did not know his own strength and squeezed the breath out of him. Maneuvering his limbs under the unrelenting embrace, Jin expressed his relief as well, sighing out blessedly. "I'm so glad you're okay, Namjoon-ah." 

Tears were falling over that dimpled smile as he pulled away, but Seokjin let them be, knowing Jimin would become his personal handkerchief the moment he saw. Hoseok hugged him next, savory, returning to the center of the rounded room afterward, equal distance from each of the pentagonal walls. 

With Yoongi, he had to initiate, though he was hardly opposed. The usually calm rapper trembled like an autumn leaf moments away from falling to the chilly ground, unprepared, afraid of the landing. Jimin ran into his arms like it was a goodbye. He wanted to lean day and say gently that it was a greeting. However, he knew this was merely a waiting room. No time for falsified hope. 

Rubbing at his eyes, assuming his natural position that didn't seem fair in normal life and their current situation, Namjoon cleared his throat and used it. "Is everyone okay?"

"Yeah," came a chorus of responses. There was a solid lack of enthusiasm and a pure absence of certainty. Seokjin, wishing to share the responsibility, spoke next. 

"Anyone hurt?"

"Not anymore."

His eyes snapped back to Namjoon. Under the heavy gazes of four with horrified bewilderment and one with arduous sorrow, the man shifted awkwardly, finding great interest in the floor. 

A spark of rage ignited in his veins, the thought of his members going through something incredibly traumatic, as distressing as his own experience. Harmful, he knew it had to be bloody, by how Namjoon appeared increasingly sick mentally recalling. 

Maybe one day they'd discuss it, have a sit-down meeting, and detail how what horror they endured. Time decided there was no time then. 

"Well done, Bangtan. You have all completed your first, and easiest, task."

Seokjin looked upwards but only found the ceiling. Within the enclosed area, the voice had no need to be ground-shaking loud, yet still sent chills throughout his body and demanded proper attention. 

Easiest. Like dominos they reacted one after another, slumping, shutting their eyes, wincing as though they talked down their throats. The universe would have to jump through hoops to surpass the devilish mix of unresolved trauma, mind-breaking cold, and a repeated realization that you could do nothing to stop what was harming yourself and one of the ones you loved most. He loosely gathered that the other two pairs underwent something similar, in general terms. 

"Your next tasks await beyond that door. All of you will tackle it together."

Together. The greatest relief. The laugh that breathily left Jimin's throat was not filled with humor, though he leaned his weight onto Yoongi, relaxing his guard. No, the first couldn't be triumphed. He tucked that sanity-saving knowledge away for later.

"The best of luck. Enter whenever you please."

Something about the generous lenience only persuaded him to move hastily. Reverse psychology or gut intuition, all the same, Seokjin readied his legs. Not a part of him sore. His brain still reeling from the lung-clogging events. A perfect condition for life-threatening games, he awaited a team cue. 

The others seemed to harness the remaining sense. They planted their feet and waited for roots to sprout. When Taehyung immediately reached for the handle, Yoongi gasped, lunging for the neck of his shirt. Baffled, Taehyung looked back to the shocked audience before him.

"What? Come on, guys. After this, there's only one more task. Jungkook is still waiting."

Owing to the group a much-needed explanation, Seokjin leaned down to Jimin's ear. "Taehyung's eager. Watch him, he'll run straight into anything."

The dancer nodded, troubled, and took a large step to meet the other 95 at his side. Jimin had always been attentive, nurturing Hyung; simply too much love for only one dongsaeng to bestow it on. When you asked for a guard, you received an armed force. 

A breeze flushed their skin upon first contact with the outside world. Orange and yellow fallen leaves crunched under their feet, mingled with twigs and dry corpses of summer fruit. Autumn greeted the group, a cool quiet evening, how it did that morning, unremarkable dawn. But the seasons were not altered by circumstance, or scenario, or grief; they simply came, and went, meaning that there was nothing to be assured by the familiarity. Familiarity lunges at the vulnerable skin. It was Autumn, as the autumn it was the night before Jungkook died, and an unprecedented storm was rolling in to alter the interpretation of the breeze forever. Seokjin shivered and crossed his arms.

Cobblestone wall extended right as far as he could see, and left, as far as he could see, except for a large entryway with an arched top, welcoming those entering. The beaming moon, full and outshining the speckled array of stars, alit the mossy, chipped wording. On the walls of the visible pathway, torches guiding their way. If he didn't know any better, it could have been a scene straight from a Halloween movie, before a group of oblivious teenagers waltzed straight to their deaths. Far from the greatest thing to place in his head. 

Taehyung made headway - Jimin attempted to stop him, but ended up getting dragged along, through the archway, and along the path, which appeared to be a dead-end, until Taehyung leaned his head left, disappearing into the unknown turn. "Is this a maze?"

Prompted by the safe advancement, the older members followed, catching sight of the two options to continue on. "I think so," Namjoon's feet stuttered, though he managed to turn down a path from the original right. "Yeah, there's a dead-end right around here, but this way keeps going."

"Isn't it a thing where if you keep your hand on the right wall it'll lead you all the way through?" Hoseok demonstrated his theory, grazing his hand over the rough wall.

"I've never looked into it," Namjoon returned, "I suppose it could be right, but, we're not exactly in a haunted corn maze right now. Any laws of physics could be broken."

Spoken much belated. Seokjin didn't know how to digest the information. An abundance of the unknown could camouflage within a maze, especially one as large as the outer walls proposed. 

Namjoon clicked his tongue, coming to a refined decision. "We'll stay together. No matter what, we don't separate, not even to check opposite ways. We do it all together."

"Hyung, lift me, let me see how big it is." Namjoon stood behind Jimin and placed his large hands at his waist, hoisting him up with a muffled grunt. Jimin caught himself at the top of the easily seven-foot wall and peered over. 

He said not a word of what he had observed, but the unusual pale across his features spoke enough. 

"Let's get started."

Staying together meant they maintained a median pace. Taehyung itched to run through, entertained the idea of separating momentarily at multiple overwhelming locations, whilst Hoseok voiced that they were moving too quickly, perhaps right into something they wouldn't want to be caught off guard with. Next to Namjoon, Taehyung led the way, while Hoseok stayed in the back, promising to watch their six o'clock. 

At the beginning of their trek, Jimin claimed that they couldn't overthink any of their decisions. Because there was no way to tell which was right in the end, anyway, burdening themselves would disorientate unnecessarily. 

Easier said than done. Knowing that each small input either defined a ten-minute run or hours spent trudging along with stunted proper judgment. 

Seokjin felt oddly disassociated. He gave no input, listening to the blurred conversations ahead, conflicting, agreeing, swearing that they had been at this corner before. His mind involuntary focused on the back of his head, the steps already taken. The wind whistled incomprehensible words, all but begging them to turn back before the consequences took control. He witnessed Jimin become smaller, smaller than the length of his calf, and Namjoon grew to twice his height, far above the walls that had eyes, watching as they passed, and if this was insanity, Seokjin hoped something genius blossomed, crystals emerging through the cracked surface of his mind.

So far, it felt a lot like holding the ropes that controlled your life and watching them snap, one by one. An easy metaphor because he already lost all direction in his life. 

Eventually, he fell to the end of the group, Hoseok surpassing him sympathetically. There, his mania furthered. Every crunch of twig he swore was an unseen presence making itself known. 

He could not put his finger on it, but something was off, beyond his paranoia. Expecting easy was a dead man's wish.

Seokjin was momentarily thrown off guard with Yoongi's sudden appearance next to him. He, too, appeared unsettled, eyes shifty and breaths stuttering.

As to not strike a match of panic, Yoongi spoke so only the two could hear. "It feels like we're being watched."

His madness being validated should not have been satisfactory. "I know. There's no way we're alone in here."

"This is all really unsettling. I don't know what your and Tae's task was like, but there's going to be some fucked-up twist here soon. I don't know what to expect."

Seokjin almost indulged into his thoughts, heavy and less than comforting, then caught the glimmer of fear in Yoongi's dark eyes, and decided to keep them internalized until they stopped raising the hair on his arms. Comfort was what Yoongi stepped back for, nonverbally pleading with the worried wringing of his hands. 

"We're all together," he stated firmly, knowing the undeniable truth. "That makes it harder on them."

Glancing to their rear, Yoongi mumbled noncommittally. "Yeah, how long will that last?"

'Not long,' replied the wind, and unable to lie, Jin opted to assure his support, regardless of its longevity.

"You want to hold hands?"

"Hyung," Yoongi looked away, whine echoing. He thrust his hand towards his. 

Thirty minutes of nothingness passed, each minute felt and slowly dripping into the next. Not a single feature about the borders changed at any point. The rational part of his brain inferred that their pack's movements trampled the dirt below, meaning that their footsteps would be spotted, and therefore they were making progress. Then he looked behind and saw that the trampled ground reformed once assuming weight lifted. Hysteria prospered in the unexpected.

It came as a spoiled surprise, the first real evidence of a threat. Presumably emitting from a wall over, he perked up at the sound of light, quick, footsteps. Receding just as fast as they ascended.  

No zoologist, he could not identify what could have possibly run past. Whatever it was, it was too fast, and silent, to be human. The implications dimmed darker than the night above. 

He looked to Yoongi. Their physical contact had succeeded in keeping him grounded, but his feet left the dirt floor, disturbed euphoria at his validation. The other man did not appear to have been listening as intently, busying tearing the skin of his lower lip. Seokjin squeezed his hand, urging him to pay close attention, to listen. 

"I don't think that's the right way, Hyung," Taehyung's distant voice traveled into his ears. "We've taken five right turns already, that'll lead us straight against the side."

Namjoon, whose patience had been thinning with every molasses minute, held back the worst of his snap. "Maybe that's the right path, Taehyung. There's plenty of mazes that go around the edges." 

"But this one looks like it goes down all the way."

"To what? A dead end?"

"Namjoon-ah, please, relax, we shouldn't be arguing right now. We're doing fine, and you've been leading us, fine."

Hoseok soothed the argument with his lesser sense of authority, more appeasing, than commanding, but authority all the same. Their group ceased in their movements as the argument unsnarled. Seokjin swiveled his head back, too often of an occurrence that his neck began to ache.

Half hid by the dim lighting, a pair of violet eyes pursued a new home in his, widening impossibly big, sending a rush of roaring blood to his brain. 

The width of the path narrowed. His sight followed. Ringing exploded in his eyes, and still, the eyes grew larger. All Seokjin knew was the hypnotizing trance of the glare, beckoning him closer, a little closer, a jaw adjusting for his height-

Yoongi began moving. Seokjin's lax body allowed itself to be pulled along, and the hallucination disintegrated. A warning scream failed to expel from his unhinged jaw. Ahead, Jimin and Taehyung's fingers were still intertwined. Hoseok and Namjoon's were, too, and the beauty of the scene did nothing to smooth the shock smeared into his features. Purple was theirs. Now the vision stained into the back of his eyelids taunted him, mocking their helplessness against the universe's will. 

Whatever was wanted, was stolen, and he supposed a healthy mind had sufficient monetary value. Reaching a dead end, the group turned, muffling their complaints under Hoseok's strict zero-tolerance dispute policy. Scratching of long, sharp, nails, etching intimidation into the cobblestone followed them out. 

Panting. Sniffing. Lip licking. Quiet grumbling. The sounds circled his head, clashing together often, creating a messy melody that stimulated his creativity whilst he painted an unpleasant picture. Yoongi tossed him worried glances, his walking became slow and unstable like toddlers, forgetting muscular function, expectations soaking up all his instinct. 

His feet began to drag. "Do you need a break, Hyung?"

"No. I need you to listen. Listen. You hear it too, right? You hear it too?"

Don't look at me like I'm crazy. "I don't know what you're talking about, Hyung. I don't hear anything." I'm trying to keep you safe.

He caught his obsession in a lucky grasp; far behind came a low growl, purring threateningly, rolling off the walls and straight into his waiting palms. Seokjin whirled on his heel, Yoongi pivoting not a second after. 

When they turned back to the younger members, he realized he had been caught by his toe, instead. Where a lengthy aisle once stretched, a sharp turn angled. All signs of human life evaporated. 

His internal organs could not have dropped heavier. 

"Guys?" He waited a handful of seconds for a response. Snapped from disconnection, he ran to the corner, which opened up aisles of possibilities, none with his members present. "Hey, guys, where did you go?! Namjoon-ah! Seok-ah! Jimin-ah! Tae-ah!"

Each call reverberated, yet not adequate to reach the receiver. Redialing, he screamed louder, desperation rising with every unreturned message. The slowly igniting detonating cord reached the place of origin, and his mind exploded, debris was strewn across the line between rational discussion and induced, destructive, panic.

Sheer terror drained Yoongi's face deathly pale. He ran to the wall where their dongsaeng's stood not a minute prior, pressing against it as though he could single-handedly push it aside. "We turned around for one second, how did this happen?!"

There were levels of cruelty and the maze had skipped past the first two and went to the top third, stripping them of their sole valuables. Without the rest, Seokjin's hands already grew clammy, everything else ice cold. How could he have let them slip away? The ceasefire had ended. Guns were being loaded and grenades unpinned, and all six were unarmed, vulnerable, isolated. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," each swear punctuated disbelief, distress, and frustration. None of which appeased their situation or Yoongi's alarm. Emotions worked best when not in use at all. He cleared his throat and forced himself to think in the simplest form. "Okay. We- we're all heading to the same place, anyway, right? If we keep going we'll all meet up back there eventually. We just have to keep going."

A glimpse of brilliant genius. The rapper stabilized three breaths, enough to manage a single question. "And if the rest of them got separated?"

Then the inability to communicate came with a reason. They wandered, without a clue of the native inhabitants. 

"Then we need to get to them. They'll know what to do."

In other words, they had no other choice. Without five familiar backs, the trail ahead appeared dimmer, uninviting. Neither could slip to the back and follow along. Seokjin had many talents; leadership was not one. He had no idea how to guide others through high-pressure situations.

But I know how to protect, he thought, I can do that much. 

Yoongi held onto his hand without faux reluctance, arm muscles overworking in order to sustain their refusal of separation. If they were to be torn apart, one of their arms would leave with the other. After a few minutes of navigating twists and turns, he began to shout out for the group, chin angled up to the sky. Seokjin nearly followed his example, and then hurriedly urged silence.

"No, no, don't do that." He dropped his tone to a whisper. "There's something in here. We shouldn't . . we shouldn't be loud."

Yoongi understood, yet did not take it lightly, finding the quickest hole in Jin's plot. If anything, he was pressured further to scream out. "We're always loud. Especially them. Hyung," distress reached a new peak, "Hyung, they probably don't know."

Constant fault did no good for his soul. Forgoing wrenching a response from his dry throat, Seokjin picked up his individual pace, forcing an intertwined Yoongi to follow suit, hoping his uncertainty isn't obvious and all the younger could see was the shaky bits of determination. 

Inhaling chilled air felt like stabs to your chest, he remembered all too late, and for the second time that night, wished he could be bundled up, sipping on a warm drink. Was he truly hypothermic, from past events and the current? He felt like stripping bare, and running wild, and antagonizing those who antagonized him. The reoccurring noises flew around his ear, a swam of tiny mosquitos resilient to every form of pesticide.

One left, two right, one left, another left, all leading to a dead end, where they would retract their steps, follow a new pattern, and end up in greater confusion. Maybe the walking wouldn't have cramped up their calves if they hadn't been inactive for a year, spending time lost in space rather than in the practice room working on stamina. Energy ran low eventually. Resting was never specified as impossible. Stopping would slow their efforts and decrease the distance between them, and, what resided in the shadows. Continuing, despite the hour already accounted, had no guarantee of prosperity, either. 

His mind couldn't differentiate any further benefits and obstructions with murmurs expelling from the surrounding silence. Immediately, he knew it was not one of his members. No human could speak that low, unearthly. Unlike the message and its mile-wide serenity, hints of empathy, this was underground and devious.

A language he had never heard. A distant bark, half between a strangled yell - Yoongi did not even flinch. He was overcome with the urge to throttle his shoulders, demand him to communicate perception, swing him back and forth until his eardrums bled with consumption. 

"Hyung?" Came Yoongi's tender concern, calculating something on Jin's face invisible to his own eyes. "Hyung, what's wrong?"

"Be quiet!" The snarl, hypocritical, dangerous, unhinged, brought a film over his sight. Violet. 

Bewildered, Yoongi slowed to a stop. "Hyung, I was whispering -"

"I have to listen. You have to listen."

"Hyung, I believe something is in here, but there is no noise. I've been just as quiet as you have been."

"No, no, you haven't!" He jerked his body wildly, nearly bringing Yoongi into the dirt. "It's been here, it's been following us, it's going to kill us! I'm trying to keep you safe - listen!"

A long, shrill, drag of claws. 

Every bone in his body snapped, one by one, cracks and fractures detailing a demented series of sketches up his legs, torso, arms, until his skull came last, emitting a sick groan as his poisoned brain broke free. 

Two great mistakes altered everything; Seokjin pulled his hand out of Yoongi's. Yoongi held a blink a second too long. Catastrophe ensued.

Jin, patience shattered and logical objection lost at a dead end, went right to where the garble projected from, fearlessly speaking in a loud, irritated, voice. 

"What is that?!" He banged a furious fist against the cobblestone, paying no attention to the jagged breaking of his skin. He slammed his foot, injuring a few of his toes. What is that?! Yoongi-ah, do you hear that? I know you hear that." He whipped back to explain savagely if alone in his disturbance, and all confidence, disorder, undignified violence, dispersed into bits of specks of dust in the air.

Seokjin stood completely alone, surrounded, by what continued to scratch at the walls and smell for flesh, and the November chill tinting his lips a raw red.

———

Yoongi swore that he didn't move. Seokjin's tantrum sent a rough wave of shock that sent him stumbling back, but he caught his balance, and his feet replanted firmly in the ground, not a foot away from his start. The singular voluntary muscular function he exhibited was a drawn-out, sole blink, to process the sight he was seeing, or perhaps dilute the hallucination into nothingness. 

Opening his eyes, it appeared that all had returned to normal, silent, without a hysteric Jin kicking and shoving at the impenetrable wall. Except without a calm and rational Jin at his side, hand firm in his. The harrowing silence confirmed the conclusion his mind was already drawing to.

Seokjin did not stand next to, behind, or in front of him. All evidence of his existence gone, following the rest, washing away to an unknown location in a storm that poured for only a minute. 

"Jin-Hyung?" He asked in a shaky voice, as though he did not already expect the answer, or lack thereof. "Hyung!" No response floated over the seven-foot divider. "Hey! Fuck!"

His emotionally wrecked body dangled between sobbing, screaming, or sprinting, all that would leave him sore and breathless. Alone, the walls were higher, the distance between a corner and the next longer. The breeze became sparse gusts of wind, his responding goosebumps borderline painful with the constant stimulation. Something shifted towards intimate; his understanding of the maze. 

It's a horror plot. All seven somehow getting separated, running from an unknown assassination, figuratively and literally lost, sprinting for the sake of it. Meant to completely rearrange their responses in the face of danger, force a reminder of their uselessness as one, instead of seven - six - and it hits him all over again. What it was like being pent up in the same dorm but ultimately independent, existential confusion driving them mad in all different directions. He thought back to Namjoon's bleeding hand, his utter helplessness. Witnessing the strong foundations of his dream life crumble under its own weight. It all came swinging back in a cold-blooded metaphor, venom spiking his blood; you are defenseless against the world, all its beauty, all its cruelty. Sit back and watch or get burned. 

He tied composure down and forced it to stay. Beginning with slow steps, he continued the way they both had been heading. Seokjin's prediction was his motivation. They'd all continue, loop around, and meet at the end. He repeated until he believed it. 

Fulfilling his missing Hyung's wishes, he kept his lips tight together. If any of the members passed by, his excessive breathing would alert them regardless. The maze was playing him. He'd have to learn how to play it right back. 

Ten minutes passed and he didn't make much ground. He cautiously peered around every corner, stopped whenever he thought he heard something, and occasionally had to blink away frustrated tears in his eyes and remind himself that the members would be upset at his upset when they formed back as one.

Without Jin, the hand that he had been sharing clenched and unclenched around nothing. 

Yoongi did not gather confidence, but composure started to adjust to its prison, relaxing. He wished that he had asked Namjoon to lift him as well, to get an idea of where the exit would be. If it were in the middle, he could have been going in circles, and it being located at an edge or along the border meant there was a specific series of turns he needed to make to arrive. But his primary goal was to find the others. He wouldn't step a foot outside without all five in check. Considering the logical aspects made sense of the unexplainable. There was underlying reason to all; even if it was only cruel intentions.

His worry for Jin continued to plague his more or less clearing mind. The moments before their split, his behavior did not belong to someone who should be left unattended. He had greatly insinuated his plan to confront whatever had been anguishing him, and on the off chance that thing did not exist, all of that anger would ultimately recycle back into him. Somehow, the latter was the further distressing scenario.  

All hypertension alleviated when Jimin's voice sounded out, not a specified word, but a mangled howl. Yoongi tensed, "Jimin-ah! Are you there?!" And yet no further cries came. He figured it was a paradise in desert, for Jimin's voice hadn't cracked like that since his youth, and was not that deep, rough, or raw - unless he was exhausted, and crying. Yoongi tried not to think about that too much. 

Then it repeated. Taehyung, this time, managing a word close to his name, then crashing into familiar, chest aching, coughs. "Taehyung!" He was unable to bite back the fullness of the call, cringing at the echo. "Tae, are you there?!"

He moved forward, swearing he heard it there. But that didn't seem right, so he backpedaled, and there felt redundant, too. A voice inside his head told him to let the urge to follow pass. Not rationality; the level above. It told him in all seriousness that he needed to continue and withhold from looking back. 

Taehyung's voice was famously low. Never hauntingly strangled. 

When Namjoon's call of his name filtered through the sky, closer to reality, yet still undeniably unlike any of his tones, Yoongi's paced footing sped to a mild rush. Namjoon had all the desperation from the previous task, but without the sincerity, trust, and humanity. 

Hoseok sobbed for assistance, "Yoongi-Hyung, please, help! I'm over here!" Korean spoken as though a foreigner, or toddler, had learned the day before. How could one cry void of emotion? Hoseok was never shy in expression. Yoongi's legs trusted forward one after another, awkward, for he didn't know which direction would offer him cover. 

Seokjin took him off guard in a way the others didn't. 

"Yoongi?" The man of the hour halted, slamming his internal break, gifting whiplash his breath. A child's innocence, guilt, fear - fake, he knew it was all fake - prematurely learned manipulation. Sociopathic. Yoongi's best choice was to ignore. "That's you, right? Yoongi, I'm sorry, Hyungs sorry. I - I didn't mean to freak out on you. You know I get a little crazy when I'm stressed?" A weak, strained, fake bit of laughter. "Please, I don't like being alone. Come to me, come find me."

It felt like kissing the lips of someone you know wouldn't die for you, the promise you whispered dying upon their lips. The remorse, the sobriety, too similar to the Hyung he knew. He missed, his hand clenched, his body leaned towards the unforgettably familiar sound, promising warmth, an escape from the overwhelming loneliness. The presumed lover's affection was all of those things, but false, ultimately deception, and Yoongi had to pull away, to save his precious breath from being wasted. The response died on his tongue. 

Something had learned the folds of their vocal cords and reshaped their own, and now was tormenting Yoongi with what kicked behind his knees; his members in peril.  

What bellowed for Yoongi's help was not human. 

He considered this with his past revelation, working through the immediate panic. They were quickly learning the details of human empathy, studying emotion, retaining their memories and individual personalities. How they received that information, he couldn't comprehend. The possibility of another him roaming in search of a victim was as high as the impossibility of it all - and, his heart dropped, knowing that the others, like the youngest two, would not hesitate to come when called, especially with added despair.  

He simply could not let that be. 

Leaving Seokjin, who was not Seokjin, behind, he disallowed guilt to crawl into his system. Now he had a second purpose. Disallow his vocal clone, a siren, to persuade. 

The duplicates continued, intent on luring in a victim. Jimin reintroduced himself with Busan dialect, shockingly precise. Taehyung even responded, and the two had an airy conversation, back and forth. "Jimin-ah, I'm over here!"

"Tae-Tae, stay still, I'll come to you!"

"Please, hurry, please, please!"

He covered his ears. His heart reacted with tender concern, completely bypassing the rationale of the situation. Jimin and Taehyung's special friendship being unlawfully exploited produced a virus in his gut, churning his insides in a meticulous swirl. 

Jimin and Taehyung faded out, the end of a mind-numbingly sad song, right into the black metal scream of Seokjin, moving at an impossibly fast speed through the corridors, slamming into the dead ends and crying out bloody murder all the while. Yoongi's blood cowered. All at once, the episode finished, and excruciating pain was told in sobs that colored the sky's pearly mist. 

"Yoongi-Hyung, are you still mad.? . . Is that why you're walking away?"

Not a line was left uncrossed. Namjoon had to have enough sense to know Yoongi was never mad - not at him. He betrayed himself with an intrusive thought, that Namjoon was out there pondering this, for the words had to originate from somewhere. Bitterly, luckily, his train of thought came to a lowered crossing indicator. 

"Jimin-ah?" Hoseok, brimming on panic. "Jimin-ah, no, no, no, no! Somebody help, please! Guys, please, he's hurt!"

Inconsistent. Jimin had been only meters away from Taehyung, and if Jimin was hurt, Taehyung would be right there, alive or dead. "You're okay, Jiminie, Hyung is here. I got you. Everything will be okay - please, open your eyes."

Illogical. If Jimin was injured and unconscious, he would not be okay. Drowning in their voices, Yoongi attempted to circumnavigate past Hoseok's stationed script reading, leaving behind pieces of his sincerity; for the better. That instinct to thrust harm into a receding wave would be his killer. 

It was the proximity that slowed his feet. He gathered that the event took place on the opposite side of the wall he pressed a hand against, feeling the vibrations from frenzied, heavy, movement.

Mangled, rabid, growls, snarls, emitting deep from large, animal, throats. He couldn't count the amount, the choir messy. Dogs came to mind, but the presumed size, from the clamor and the occasional thump of a body against the surrounding surfaces, was beyond the known breeding capability. Wolf may have been the better description. 

The excitement was occupied with distinct tearing. He had never witnessed such brutality before, yet he figured the equation with an intense dose of nausea. Skin, muscles, tendons, ripped from the source, picked from killer rows of teeth, spread around like party decorations, hitting the floor with sickening drips. Animals hardly dined finely, but the pleasure in barbarity prevailed as unmistakably evident beyond his soul-preserving denial tactics. 

He never doubted Seokjin's belief of a stalking force. He wished he had. That way, his mind would be too preoccupied with deciphering the inhuman presences to immediately jump into the 'what if's?'

Because what if that was Jimin, deceived by limping and puppy eyes, too concerned, too distracted, to notice the looming pack, right in the perfect spot for the kill. What if it was Namjoon, the remnants of his sacrifice, pushing the others out of harm and begging them to go. To Hoseok, it had happened too fast for him to comprehend. Taehyung obliviously ran straight into the ambush. Seokjin had lost all hope for the world and offered himself with wide arms. 

The edges of his vision blackened. He stumbled back and fell through the bottom of the earth, horror draining the blood from his body. All chances of defense were eliminated alone. A desperate whimper escaped his throat, pressured by the instinctual curiosity to know, to confirm or deny the worst of his fears. Not again. We can't do this again.

The feast continued. Festive and savage. Yoongi knew that those noses would eventually penetrate through the thick, sickening, scent of blood, and find his scent, alone. He knew that he could be the next victim, reduced to dog chow. It was stupid of him to stay as long as he did, transfixed by an unconfirmed belief, but an emotional response no one outside of the situation could understand. 

He needed to leave. In order to pick one foot up, he swallowed around the lump heavy in his throat, forcing his paralyzed motor units to obey. Namjoon's blood had engulfed his senses, but the amount on the other side swallowed him whole. Even whispering an apology posed a threat. His escape had to be perfectly silent. The tears rolling down his face received the memo. 

Yoongi moved back until the copper scent began to disperse in the air, each movement painfully slow. Emphasis on the pain. Two halves of him clashed, one begging for him to save himself, the other shaming him for cowardly leaving his brother for dinner. The creatures had not yet noticed his presence, and that time of peace would run out once all the meat was picked off the bones. Minutes. Seconds. A decade flashed before his eyes, ending there, behind a mossy wall covering the scene of the crime. 

Swallowing down burning, sorrowful, vile, he turned on his heel and ran.

Every nerve in his heart objected, but he ran, compassing through disdainful tears, hearing the eager yelps become louder even as he gained distance. Yelps that weren't all dogs. Pure sadism, polluting the clear sky with sprays of blood particles, painting the inside of his skull, staining his skin with a memory that could never be wiped away. 

He ran without direction. Defying probabilistic thinking, the maze became larger, stretching out miles upon miles. His body neared exhaustion, at any moment, he feared he would collapse, and thoroughly he was unable to pick himself back up. I'm sorry, salty tears coated his teeth, I'm sorry. 

The puzzle he had even piecing together began to fall apart, and lose its comprehensiveness. Corners were forced into middle spaces, how could he have left them behind? The puzzle was that of the maze, every corner cataloged, his distance traveled track. All it had taken was the possibility of being an inch too high for a frustrated hand to slam down and induce a whirlwind of disaster. 

"Yoongi-Hyung, where are you going?! Help me, please, help me!" 

"No, getaway! Get away from me!"

"Jungkook-ah! Where are you, Jungkook-ah?!"

"Open your eyes, Jimin-ah, please, open your eyes. Come on, Jimin-ah!"

"I'm sorry, Hyung, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to. Please, don't leave me here."

Meddling killed. If he had meddled, he would have been slaughtered, and he knew that. Don't touch fire; he'd been taught the lesson since he could comprehend it. It's beautiful, bright, but it burns, and blisters became scars, and scars couldn't be bandaged. 

All his senses disabled, minus his ability to perceive sound, and he crashed into walls, blind, felt the wet fall into his lips but could no longer taste it, and the copper scent finally left, along with the claustrophobic proximity of everything else. But he still heard the calls and cries, and so desperately wanted to give in and turn around, into the arms of whoever beckoned him, even if it was not Seokjin or Namjoon, to make it stop. 

And still, even blind, he understood his captor, because he understood power, and the lengths individuals traveled for a taste, morals be damned. 

The maze wanted him to surrender, thrived off the callous victory. Don't touch the flame. From his eyes, the world was blurry, but the color white was always clear. It never resembled a raised flag admitting defeat. Only tranquility. His battle armor. He remembered that he was still clad in that color, covering every inch of his skin, and resignation ceased to exist. 

Yoongi had been choosing to touch the flame since November 10th, approximately 7:30 p.m, standing face to face with the doctor, demanding her to recant her statement, pulling all the strings he would never have done if fire wasn't so addictive. He played with embers when his pen touched the paper, dropping names, detailing his refusal to comply. Every charged response, gas intertwined question, detrimental to his reputation but had tasted so sweet on his tongue. Even dull fire was still fire, and could still scorch. He dulled when fatigued, defeated by the extinguishers of those telling him to get over it, to calm down, a little. But wasn't fighting still fighting when on defense? Hadn't he kept his promise, with every uncharacteristic argument, each act of reluctance? 

And nothing about the situation was in any way okay. In neither of the realities he knew, existed relief. He acknowledged that he accepted it, picking it apart to rebuild it, memorizing its structure and many systems. 

At the most inappropriate time, his mind traveled back to the argument with Namjoon, fear-driven but inexplicably sincere. Namjoon had been trying to distract him, comfort him, promise their safety when there was no guarantee that they would make it alive. It drove him insane quicker than the fog. When he finally opened up and admitted his concerns, the anger came rushing into Yoongi as a full-fledged ambush.

Because he hated knowing that Namjoon had chosen to suffer silently all those months, and consequently, let go of what was theirs; mutual perspective.

So what was the benefit of claiming that anyway, your glass was not full? Yoongi realized with a start - he came to a quick halt. Perception came flooding back in and the walls were shorter than he remembered. He felt tall enough to climb out. He realized that he wasn't in the arms of a creature with Jimin's voice because he knew that it was too good to be true.

He hadn't stayed behind at the bloody scene because he knew that he had seconds of a chance to escape. It was no miracle he had survived for as long as he had alone. 

He was in hell. He had been in hell since a November day etched in history, and claiming Heaven, sunk him a few levels further. 

The walls were shorter. He was almost at the top. Paradise was an arms reach away. 

No one is going to tell me it's okay, Yoongi swore, because I won't let them. Because it's on my terms to decide. He'd tilt the pitcher and quench his thirst, and dine alone. His body was covered in burn scars, and he cherished them, highlighted their quirks, because each breath he gave kept Jungkook's chest pumping, from the grave.

Forgetting constant movement, he pressed his back to a wall, slid to the floor, and breathed. Slow, languid breaths, taking the time that wasn't his. Tears flowed in graceful streams down his cheeks. His body expressed all the terrible mixtures of emotions, dutifully, short of shame.

He dared the universe to take advantage of his vulnerability. Only a single drop of gasoline could begin a forest fire too powerful for all the rain the sky could pour. 

Yoongi breathed until it paced involuntarily, pleased his oxygen debt, and the pain in his lungs soothed. The maze went completely silent. He felt oddly respected. There was more than one way to conquer, and he had done it with philosophy. The maze could not touch him, even as he existed inside of it. It could not dig into his soul.

Namjoon, Hoseok, Jimin, Taehyung, and Seokjin were fine. Nothing attested, nor contested, and so the middle ground was nothing at all. 

After psyching himself out, he singlehandedly psyched himself back in. Already, his taste returned, and on the tip of his tongue -  oblivion.

Victory would come soon.

Leisurely, he stood, wiping the loose soil off his pants, uncaring about the stains rubbed in deeper. He studied his hands. Besides his palms marked with red crescents, they were clean, most importantly of blood. He hadn't known why he expected otherwise, but it was a relief to see. 

Mazes required no specific skill besides patience. All other emotion had since bled out of him. It was easy to take things lightly. Rejecting invitations of adrenaline, he let his ill insides rest, even as he began down the corridor. 

Distantly, Hoseok demands grew aggressive, and Namjoon cursed him for his contract threatening decision from that early morning. Yoongi chuckled to himself, indulging in a background entertainment.

His reflexes surprised him, but not as much as the object flying straight past his eyes, whistling shrilly. He jerked back, forceful enough to pull himself to the floor. The thin object drilled through the opposite wall from its presumed origin of the fire, and there weren't many things in known existence capable of doing such damage. The cobblestone cracked under the sudden pressure, fracturing into a web. 

Archery had been a sizable fraction of Korean culture for centuries, and he had grown up well immersed in its history, the lore, the stories of the greatest hwarangs, and their victories won with a single glorious shot. He was not an avid fan. Yet he knew his way around a bow, and arrows who could pierce through unprotected skin, targets, and not much more.

A stick and sharpened metal tip should not harness power equivalent to the highest caliber bullet. Yoongi's eyes dragged from the offender to the parallel wall. There, its origin of fire hung on the wall, level to his temporal bone. Every two feet or so, the next spot of defense awaited an oblivious passerby. 

Feeling invincible, like a teenager on top of the world after stealing their parent's liquor, he stood and stepped forwards with little causation, keeping his sights locked on the metal glinting from a thin slit in its black box of a home. Trusting he could live without a hand, he held his fingers out, and an inch away from lining up, the arrow fired, whizzing past. Except, this time, four or five seconds after, the next arrow went off.

He returned to the first arrow. It took less than a second to cross from one to the next, and theoretically to the one after. The fifth arrow came perhaps half a second sooner than the third did, after the fourth. Hypothetically, the seventh would be a whole second less.

Probably better suited for the more athletic members. Or devised specifically for the one who dedicated one hundred percent of himself to every task assured he could not perform.

Yoongi returned to the starting line and dug his heel into the earth below. If the maze wanted to test his speed, endurance, or math talent, he could not argue. Only aim for the highest grade. 

Sometimes teenagers were caught by the alcohol on their breaths. Other times, they unlocked their windows in advance and chose the bottles their parents barely reached for. Liberating the teenage rebellion he never preferred, always had primary excessive responsibility, he calculated his chances; at the very least, he knew he could live without a hand.

———

Chapter Text

The greatest horrors in life are often unexpected. Hoseok usually thought of horror movie jump scares, sudden pressures from behind, and short-lasting bursts of intense music. However, there was no written rule that the unexpected needed to be quick. 

The greatest horror Hoseok had ever witnessed lasted agonizing minutes, and the build-up was anything but abrupt. 

He caught their movement from the corner of his eye, the second before he passed by an opening. Before then, he had been maintaining general composure. (The tear stains on his face might have been debated.) 

The creatures were luckily, a sizeable distance away, and did not appear aware of his relative proximity. Hiding, or forgetting his curiosity and running as far as possible, would have been the better course of action. But he froze, like a man with a death wish, in place.

Masses of matted dark fur hunkered themselves over a distant wall, strong and capable, but struggling mildly due to their incomprehensible size. When the leader stilled at the top, sniffing the air, Hoseok could see its facial structure was similar to that of a wolf, and that muscle protruded, not only a thick coat. The first beast dived to the floor, landing at a perfectly executed angle, bringing enough weight with it to rattle the ground.

Following the example, four nearly identical dogs clambered over, some with patches of brown, some with gray, but all with piercing violet eyes. They seemed in search of something, sniffing the ground, back to the air, even each other, though the scenting did not appear affectionate. Their posture showed trust, but impassive, at best. 

Then, a sixth, smaller than the rest, appeared and promptly fell with a sickening crunch, and cry that stung Hoseok's eyes with tears. The wounded animal attempted to stand, but a back leg dragged limp behind, and it collapsed after a few moments of pathetic limping, laying its head down in defeat. 

The first, which now showed itself to be the largest, walked over without a hurry, the others waiting on its command. It lowered its snout, sniffed the whimpers, the fractures, and then the throat.

Without a single warning, a jaw opened, and snapped down, clean through the esophagus. All the runt could do in response was let out a strangled, gargled, yell, stiffening and turning its head back for a show of defense, and then slumped, not yet dead, but fully accepting its inferiority, imminent ending,

Hoseok held in the vomit pooling in his mouth, body completely solid and unable to perform the necessary gagging to expel the bile. The four onlookers quickly took their picks, lunging for specific sections, as though scheduling their attack in advance. 

One pulled away from its jagged tear on the stomach, a trail of purple intensities following, dripping sappy internal fluid and black blood, flooding into the paw prints pressed into the floor. Another, held its spine proud in its jaw, flicking off pieces of meat with rough shakes of its head. 

The excitement rose. The dogs began to let out yelps, and barks, raw and rough around the edges, stacking on top of each other, louder and louder, as the corpse's skull peeked through and tufts of fur flew through the air, like confetti, like party decorations, the occasion great enough for their best howls and running kicks off the walls. 

Hoseok's body trembled, the emotion he had never felt before strong, and overwhelming, finding refuge into the pores of his skin, no written plan of departure. He trembled under the mercy of the universe, bestowing upon his glory, glory he had never seen before, the murderous, sanguine, glory he thought only existed in the grisliest of neighborhoods from the hands of God's most corrupted. 

Evil danced a football field away, and a dark cloud formed over the moon above. Light dimmed. Hoseok didn't think it would ever brighten anew. 

The jaw power left teeth embedded in bone. In as many seconds he could count on his hands, the runt was unrecognizably mangled, and yet, the pack had continuous plans. Each nail was torn from four unresponsive paws. A tendon hung around one's neck, pinched together, stylized as a mucous necklace. A tail dipped into the pool of purple and rubbed against the walls, painting a single scratchy line. And all the while, the song went on, loud, erratic, repeating a chorus of sadistic joy. 

Though difficult to pinpoint, Hoseok eventually gathered what the worst part was. 

The wolves weren't feasting. They were chewing up, spitting out, throwing, playing, devouring but not digesting. All the gore was pure entertainment, because of a mistake, that they all could have made. Hoseok had stumbled upon a twisted ritual, which promised to keep a few steps behind him, for all eternity. 

The muscle paralysis faded. But horror drawled on. The corners of the world's mouth slipped, declining into senility. Hoseok's youthful body tilted on its side. Deathly pale, he retreated his head. The noises did not cease. 

Hoseok recalled his days of prowling, when he was the predator, stalking, filled with emotions begging to clamp down on the side of a passerby's throat. He remembered tossing undeserved glares, bumping shoulders, downing bottle after bottle. His liver became his first victim. A rib or two after a drunken fall the next. Jimin, the third, and his final re-emerging from a life of crime and desperately attempting to assimilate back into normality. He paid no attention to the fact that he no longer belong until it grew too heavy, and obvious. Down came the karma, scalding, ruining the skin he bought brand new once sophisticated.

It was strikingly different being on the receiving end.  Somehow something in his legs pressed start and propelled, down a direct path away from the bloody. Out of flight or fight, generally, he leaned towards flight. Like this, the option disintegrated. He picked his battles well, and the limits were blaring sirens and signs. A thousand pounds weighed each dog at the least, and he could not compare to a single thigh. 

He knew that it wouldn't be quick, like Jungkook's delayed goodbye. Instead of a moment of color and then eternal black, he would hear his death inch closer. Silent, at first, to not alert of their presence, but as they closed in, their snouts would be unable to silence their hungry pants, excited paws trampling at full speed and forgetting elegant leaps. He would reach a dead-end, cornered, and nails would scratch against the surrounding walls. He would have thought full of clarity; I am going to die. One has that awakening twice in their life. First, when they are young, and nativity falls behind, and in either brutal fashion or gentle communication, they will realize that the big, wide, world, would cease to exist - from their perspective, anyway.

And second. 

When the medication was not helping anymore, when a simple cut crippled with infection, when the body handed in its resignation letter, short and shaky, for the fingers could hardly twitch. You are a minute away from death. Hoseok, at the least, would be conscious long enough to feel a limb be torn from its origin. Watch his blood spray across fur so intensely dark that it swallowed all light. 

They'd strip him clean for fun. Probably peel away the layers of his skin, and drape it over their backs, twirling and raising their chins high. It probably would be a glorious occasion. 

He figured that all would go wrong eventually. Shamed past recognition of pride, he expected extravagance - the rotten kind. The first trial hadn't killed him, so compensation was in need. The universe was giving him a deeper taste of its possibilities, and Hoseok gagged, the flavor incomprehensibly terrible. Fruit of offering - the rotten teeth - stuck between the thin gaps of his teeth. Here's this (Jungkook,) and also this, (a thousand new liabilities.) 

Hoseok did not concentrate on escaping. His new fixation converted to distance, the largest possible. Then, he realized, this is exactly what they want. So he went to turn and then remembered his fellow prisoners, unafraid to assert their dominance. Distance unraveled all his progress. Proximity unraveled his tendons. 

Hoseok's right hand became raw within a few minutes. The cobblestone was not at all smooth, close to dangerously jagged in certain areas. There was no way for him to tell whether the trick would work correctly at his distance within the maze, but it was something he could press his nerves onto, even if redundant at best. 

His speed only worsened the scrapes. Fear only knew zero or a hundred, and he went one-fifty, swirling through the places he'd already ventured. The thought of it all made his mind want to lose itself. So much land covered and not a single glimpse of his members. Adrenaline had a pretty name, no face, and manipulative tendencies. But without it, he would have stalled, and he would have been eaten alive. 

And that was his fatal flaw - he thrived off of cardio. Each drop of sweat dripping down his temple soaked the autopsy papers under they were too heavy to float. 

Sweat fermented into swift swallows of alcohol he took by the dozen, nothing less. Lactic acid burned yet reminded him he was alive with every sore movement. 

He tried to picture what the scene looked like from above. An aerial view, like a drone flying over a concert. A tiny, little, test experiment, running wildly throughout the place of conduction. The thought made him feel small. Incapable. Perishable. Like a lab rat. It surprised him with its ferocity, the sudden wave of realization, that life was intensely fragile and he was no outlier. Insignificant. The world never stopped turning. The gas kept burning. The conflict kept stirring. 

The universe had plenty of its sick ways. Hoseok faltered. He was running when it didn't matter.

Like when he was driving full speed to someone who was already gone. 

And as a damned rat does, he had not been expecting for the trap to clamp down. 

A rope wrapped tight around Hoseok's ankle, violently tight, immediately sending him flying overhead. Upon impact, a sickening crack sounded out, accompanied with a pain beyond excessively sharp his vision went white, and hell, deja vu hurt like a bitch. 

Adrenaline managed to deploy before the shock. Hoseok dug his palms into the ground and pushed himself up, barely getting into an upward-facing dog position when his calf registered rough material drilling into the skin. 

Panic throbbed. He managed to sit on his knees, and this time, witnessed the white snakes eject from seemingly nowhere within the left wall, latching around his wrist, tugging aggressively downwards.

Hoseok's elbow connected with the floor -  pain-filled tremors shut up to his shoulders. He kicked, thrashed, his legs spreading in uncomfortable opposite directs, then slamming forwards, kneecaps bouncing off of one another.

His immediate reaction was to stand upright, appeasing the patellas and preventing further dragging on the cold earth. With a single free hand, he displayed tremendous strength, channeling his core, rising to his feet in one swift movement.

The resulting cry he couldn't have predicted. The internal battle raging inside of his ankle did not know the meaning of the word surrender. Hoseok instinctually shifted his weight away from the forbidden area, with unwelcome help.

His calf went first and his body followed, slamming hard into the stone. No mercy for the unprepared. Invasive, corrupted, conjoined fibers slithered his way, from the top of the wall, the bottom, a few from the middle. 

Hoseok finally let out a mangled cry for help. No one answered. Another offender circled his left thigh, up to his pelvis, shoving him down to the ground. On the ground, his helplessness was magnified. He fought to stand, thrashed, and the redundancy of his efforts brought bile up his throat.

Without struggle he was prone, cheek smashed on the ground, damp with fear. His lower body became engulfed into subjugation, making it impossible for him to rise. His heart pounded in his ears - struggle only induced contractions. Warnings, at first, giving hints of what they could do - pull into his limbs snapped in half. Then more aggressive. Hoseok writhed in useless attempts to escape the pain. 

His arms were forced flat against his sides. But before, his torso fell victim. He let out a gasp, surprised, mangled, sharp, his lungs squeezed to a point where he swore they would pop. The violent compression to his stomach discharged acid up his throat; he sputtered bits out, heaving in healing air that would disperse in him as quickly as it gathered. 

"Help!" The singular word barely formed. "No, no, help!"

The throat used to scream met an early demise. An inhumane sound wrung out from Hoseok's rapidly paling lips, the moment a pretty bow tied around his neck and tied tight enough to assure it wouldn't undo before Christmas morning. 

Then room for a fight was filled. Hoseok gargled on spit and bile. Instincts reacted till the last second. Hoseok's seconds ticked down, seconds without oxygen and nasty rope burns, and impulses pulsed with zero way of reciprocation. 

Against his skin, he could feel the tension of the fibers, individually thin, but together, strong. They weren't long - he was dead center of the path, only four or five feet wide. To extend from the wall, and wrap around his body, the serious strain was necessary.

Mummified, Hoseok could do nothing with this information. Black dots danced around his vision. He had already given up on gasping for air. 

This is it. I am going to die. This is the end of my life.

Picturing yourself dying alone kept most up at night. Proceeding with it? Hoseok wheezed in and out pathetic breaths, twitching for solace in the nightmare surrounding him, suffocating him. There was standing silent as the world conversed around you, and there was this. All the parties and clubs emptied and the music continued to blare, suffocating him. 

The blood in his body had nowhere to go but his head. The first rush dizzied him. But the second had unprecedented effects.

A thought sparked in the emptiness of his mind. Things broke under overexertion. Things snapped. 

He maneuvered, pitifully slow, onto his back. Unexpectedly, he could hear the stretching of his captors, and through heavy blinks, sight the tremors of stress. He turned onto his side. 

Synergy reflected and all were affected, all clung to his skin, desperate, clinging for reprieve. Tighter, the pressure around his throat became, but in a way that wasn't purposely homicidal. His jaw locked painfully, yet he managed a full rotation, planting his face back down. He subconsciously associated the position with rest, nearly melting into surrender, but forced himself to continue, the resistance strong, his will to live miraculously stronger.

Hoseok turned with the thought of cogs on his mind. A machine that kept working until a switch was flipped. If he gave into that voice inside of his head declaring exhaustion, dancing would have been tossed aside years prior. Just like dancing, he turned, teeth grinding and veins bulging blue. The excess of force trampled down on him, Atlas, holding the sky, Hoseok, holding onto tiny strings of life. 

He prayed for the same endurance.

When the first snapped, snug throughout his left thigh, the rest followed. Fading in and out of consciousness, Hoseok vaguely heard the storm of the ropes giving way, some breaking at the root, others where they connected to him; he felt the sharp licks they left, a final nip to his sensitive dermis, even a slap to his cheek that left the area stinging. He moved not a muscle. Flickers of Jungkook's face flashed.

Then everything went silent. Not in the wondrous, first snowfall, type of way. February and sludge and dead Christmas trees lodged in dirty alleyways. He was bare, naked, and yet, his skin would never be his again. December would pass like the sick and elderly. 

Hoseok laid still for a long while. The restraints were gone, but he held onto gulps of air until pure carbon dioxide circled his mouth. His lungs had been squeezed to half of their size. It would take time for them to inflate, ultimately pressing against sensitive skin the color of a storm cloud. He couldn't escape his insides, but they certainly tried to escape him, and he knew it was because they were the purest.

His eyes had seen death. His ears heard dying screams. His skin had itched at the sight. His organs were healthy and constantly protected, by his skeleton, which absorbed shock waves and cracked and crippled for the protection of his soul. They did not know outward struggle. Souls must reside distant from the heart. That way, if one shatters, the other is safe, still. Nothing he was thinking made sense. Pure organs, and distant souls, felt biblical, though. 

Religion had never been a constant in his life. Often, he found solace elsewhere. But when he needed to place something that sat too heavy inside of him on an empty shelf, it was easy to say that it was beyond this world and put it down, where it could collect dust, and fade from acknowledgment. 

Pure organs and distant souls were out of his reach. He agitated every muscle in his core, back, shoulders, and neck, pulling himself into a sitting position. His throat was dry. Hydration had been wrung out of him. 

The rumpled sleeves of his shirt showed the embedded bracelets around his wrists. He could count each individual imprint of fiber. 

He did not anticipate the sight meeting him on the walls, nor how it would affect him. 

Hanging like corpses, abandoned toys, remaining ends of the topmost ropes swayed with the bitter breeze. Their color had grayed, almost the way flush drained with the last breath. Like how the runt had gone limp. Hoseok felt mourning was the appropriate option, though he did not know what to mourn. 

The last bits of your innocence.

Growing up was in itself immoral. Becoming a man - no greater sin. 

Every inch of his body was bruised with a vengeance. Most bruises, you touched and seethed. These deep, and black, swellings reacted under the kiss of the wind. They wouldn't let him forget, even as his attention remained on the dangling deceased. An idea sparked that his body would adamantly oppose. 

Since when did sinners care?

He wrapped a hand tight around one bundle of fibers. It ended where his pelvis began, most of the way from the rim. Not ideal, but sufficient. 

Hoseok scaled the wall, gritting his teeth, refusing to give in to the screams of his beaten muscles. He'd been trained mercilessly for years how to keep upright during the worst of conditions. As a perfectionist, even with zero pairs of eyes on looking, he refused to falter. A vantage point was his sole beneficiary. 

The climb was awkward, for he could only press the toes of one foot down; the other hung uselessly, disturbingly limp. He ended up on his knees, able to fit with a squeeze, and waited for an immediate repercussion. Cheating seemed to be tolerated. Maybe he hadn't been expected to survive and this was his round of applause. 

Trusting the balance he had perfected through years of rigorous discipline, he slowly stood and shifted his weight to his uninjured leg. 

The sight that met him was less overwhelming than excepted. The amount of time that had passed told him already about the size. He noticed the walls were slightly curved, indicating a circular formation, prior. 

The indigo blue walls caught his eye. To estimate, he supposed he was a fifteen-minute walk away, account that he took all the right turns, and didn't have an inhibitor. Looking down to his swelling ankle, he doubled the time. When he took another one over, he thought that he might've seen shadows of movement. Thin, and tall. Yelling out for the members remained a no-go, but it comforted him, nonetheless.

A smile teased his lips. They soon faded, without noise, without noticing his looming prescience, but Hoseok's smiled remained in place. He found all the good in the world in the absence of light. 

I'll figure out a way to you, he promised, but did not say. I'll crawl if I have to. 

He blinked back the tears he didn't want them to see, thumbing the escapees away. Just get there. I'll figure it out. 

In the hypothetical, it would have been possible for him to walk across the rims to the finish line. Unfortunately, in reality, he couldn't, for he would need to hop, and the gruesome funeral served as a warning label for the potential fall damage.

Once he scaled down the ropes, and his foot made contact with the ground, his knee buckled involuntarily, the unexpected stab of pain throwing him under. He slowly flipped himself over, doing so with the offender raised in the air. His perfect fit of a shoe suddenly squeezed like a size four. He managed to nudge it off, tossing it aside, without a plan to force it back on. 

Masochism wasn't his thing. The sock clung to dried blood and freshly broken skin, harming him much more significantly. He let it rot next to his shoe. 

As a dancer, he knew enough about muscle, tendons, injuries of the leg, to pass as a med student receiving average grades. He also knew how a single misstep could end an entire career. 

Hoseok looked to the sky. His ankle throbbed and would not go unignored, but he tried, to focus on the sky. Mentally, physically, logically, technically, scientifically, not a molecule of him could survive the sight of a demolished ankle, a demolished career, mounds of demolished opportunities. He evaded the moment though it was a run through a hall of mirrors. 

Mentally, physically, logically, technically, scientifically, primarily, his ability to outrun bloodthirsty predators should have been a priority. Yet, he'd be a fool to believe he could, even with two fully functioning feet. What there was no doubt against was that dance was all that was a guarantee, so long as he kept moving, kept himself healthy. 

Accepting the end of his career he would have to do. But not so soon. Hoseok bit his tongue to hold in salty tears while bending over and rolling up his pant leg. He always hated wounds, on him, on anyone. But the unknowing was less tolerable. He prodded with shaking fingers.

Sprained. A nasty one, at that. Unpleasant, but, less terrible than a complete shatter. All things considered, Hoseok thought himself lucky. He could manage a weak limp with measured pressure on a certain part of his foot he needed to conduct gruesome trials and errors for. The thought of less than one-sided weight made him queasy, but his urge to escape prevailed, coupled with crossing paths with his shifty shadows. 

He lowered his sleeves and fixed the collar of his shirt, as too not worry, though he guessed he couldn't camouflage full-body contusions for long; not with his specific bunch of shifty shadows. He pictured his tight grin as they reunited, a member running up to squeeze him in an embrace that felt like chains, him biting back a million swears and a hundred tears whilst every inch of him writhed in agony.

Walking refused to come easy. Though his left ankle was the one on fire, meaning he could hold the right wall, and support himself via his right ankle, and Hoseok had a new lucky half of his body. He stumbled often, muffling his cries with knuckles shoved in his mouth. Pain blacked his vision from time to time.

He continued; because it was all he really knew how to do. He apologized, for not knowing anything better. He apologized for never being on time, in harmonization. It was worthless, and no one was listening, and that was his fatal flaw -

He always kept moving. 

———

The tension in his body exploded outwards onto the force slamming into his chest. Namjoon merely stumbled, but the unknown assailant tripped over its feet, landing hard on the ground below. Eyes that went white with surprise refocused, lowering to where Taehyung unexpectedly stared up with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, bottom pressed down into the dirt.

Namjoon, who was panting with exertion, thought that he would have immediately knelt and scooped him into the tightest hug of his life, however, the clear imagery of Kim Taehyung underneath him sat oddly within him. He could not instantly comprehend his luck. 

Taehyung had less of a struggle, managing a single word within moments. "Hyung." 

Then he began to clamber to his feet, already stretching his arms out towards his leader. Namjoon regained enough sense to bend over and meet him halfway, hauling his body vertical with a strong grip on his forearm, and Taehyung's tension reverberated clean through him, rattling his rib cage and everything laying inside. 

Namjoon, faltering a few seconds, wrapped him up in the promised embrace, breath tangling with the flowery scent of his shampoo. Despite their conflicting frames, Taehyung's body slotted up perfectly into his. Mimicking a possessive, eager, dog, he rolled around in the familiarity, the easy relief.

"Oh, thank god," he sighed, deflating like a pricked balloon, resting his weight where he knew Taehyung would carry. "I am so glad you're okay."

The younger reply was muffled in his neck, choked with emotion. His breaths were warm puffs of marshmallowy air against the risen hairs on skin. "I was so scared, Hyung, I thought something might've happened to you."

Namjoon gently smoothed rebellious clusters of hair, shaking his head. "It's okay, I'm okay. Nothing happened." Taehyung pulled back, wiping the back of his hand across his wet face. His large brown eyes glistened. "I don't know how the hell we got separated."

"I don't know, either. Jiminie was right next to me." After Seokjin and Yoongi disappeared within a blink of an eye, Jimin and Taehyung were next. Namjoon pleaded for their eternal union, especially since he and Hoseok spun around and found themselves alone. His hopes proved to be null with Taehyung's admission. "I thought something snatched him up."

He believed that now, all six of them were running wild, alone. Danger hadn't met him at a crossroad, but his luck was not to be widely expected. "You seen or heard the others at all?"

"No, nothing, sorry. I haven't been yelling out or anything. I didn't think it was a good idea."

"Neither have I," Namjoon squeezed his shoulder, showing what little support he could gather. He felt a bit more capable with Taehyung by his side. He led well, but that advantage was worth nothing solo. "Can I lift you? I need to see how close we are. That's probably the best place to start."

Taehyung already bent his elbows and raised his arms, positioning himself parallel to the nearest wall. The determination flickering back to life in his eyes was as fierce, and dangerous, as before. "Yeah, yeah."

Namjoon's arms struggled and trembled, although Taehyung alleviated his grief by holding the rim and digging his toes into the rocky ridges. The younger head swiveled; he didn't need to see his face to know he was overwhelmed. "Okay. Okay, um, we look close. This place is massive. I can't see anyone." He tipped himself over further. "I think we're a little over half of the way. It's not an exit. Just the center. The walls around it are dark blue."

Lowering his feet to the floor, Namjoon ignored the acid burning in his biceps. The information was useful, Namjoon centered his thinking around it, around the center in mind. "Okay, that's good. Jimin knows that, too. He'll know to find the middle."

Taehyung gave a fond smile of appreciation for Namjoon's subtle reassurance. "I hope Jin and Yoongi-Hyung are still together."

"They were holding hands last I saw. They probably haven't let go."

Taehyung smiled once more. "Cute. I bet Suga-Hyung acted like he didn't like it."

"Maybe. Or he was the one who asked."

"Maybe he asked differently. I think we should pay closer attention to him."

Their quiet moment away from the world lasted briefly. The lily pads they hopped across towards each other sunk. Conversations with Taehyung felt alike too reaching for a coat and finding a feather boa. They felt like taking a train anywhere. When they died off, questions remained, and ending statements were the only source to study. 

Namjoon gestured his chin to the way in which he came. He felt wallowing guilt, for their previous disagreements. He thought that he could have paid better attention to everyone if he had stepped aside, even only an inch. 

"Should we continue my way, or yours?"

Taehyung shrugged, pointing a thumb back. "Everything this way was a dead end."

"I've been so focused on finding you guys that I haven't been paying attention. I'm fine with turning around, though." 

"Okay. We'll go your way, then."

The two ventured side by side. Namjoon's arm constantly brushed up against his, a repetitive guarantee that he remained parallel to his body. He wanted to mimic his two eldest Hyung's and reach for his hand but couldn't find the nerve to initiate. Not when Taehyung's arms were crossed, and he stared where nothing existed. 

Namjoon figured that he was coping. Yet to shut down with ordeal, he guided them with nonverbal cues. Peeking his head around every corner, angling his body in the desired direction a few steps before the turn, nodding once or twice in affirmation. The vocalist followed, without much to say. Thoughts were swirling Namjoon already knew he would not be able to comprehend. 

With him, he surrendered personal responsibility. He did that often. Like parents, the members would come up and rub his shoulders, passively begging for him to take better care of himself. They'd ask questions, how long he had been sitting there when he last ate. They'd end it with saying that he didn't need to look out for them light years in advance. All would be handled together, when it came, on time. 

But they didn't understand the urge. It started out small when he was barely eighteen and arrived in Seoul with only what was on his back. By the time Jungkook arrived, fifteen, Busan in all his little details, he found great satisfaction in watching over, affectionate, worried, with a frown tugging at his lips. Not an interpretation of a hawk - the opposite. He shielded before the bird could swoop. 

Naturally, this continued to grow. Through hell and back, Namjoon put himself on the front lines. Somehow simultaneously holding back and baring teeth. With Jungkook's death, all finessed restraint lost its order. He had never been so ungovernable in his life, and yet, submissive. Nights were spent in frantic crams and days he bowed his head.

Maybe that was what Yoongi had offensively meant. Risking all necessary for that high. His veins throbbed for the thrill, and long-term abuse left him utterly helpless to deny. This was all he was created for. You're all that's left of me. You're all that I have. 

If anything was keeping him up at night, Namjoon wouldn't blindly poke until it came to the surface, raging. 

He'd redeem honor and coax it patiently until it eventually emerged, and coughed all that polluted out. With gentle fingers, soft sincerity, and delicate pride. 

He looked to Taehyung, to the side of his face, titled up thoughtfully. The second before his eyes slipped closed, Namjoon saw that they were anything but. Torment dilated his pupils. Everything must have been incredibly blurry. 

"Are you tired?" 

He did not jolt out of surprise, registering Namjoon's voice as casually as he would if he had watched his mouth open.

"Not really. Just thinking."

"Is it something eating you up?"

"Kinda. Kinda feels like it's just sitting there."

Namjoon could have asked a million questions. Inside where? How much does it weigh? Is your breath inhibited? He inquired one.

"Is it regret?"

"Something close."

Taehyung opened his eyes, slowly, while the glaze dissolved. He seemed to have come to a decision. Namjoon readied his weaponry. His posture relaxed; I have nothing left to lose.

"Jin-Hyung and I almost froze and drowned to death."

Namjoon couldn't hold onto a single molecule of air. He stared, horrorstruck, At Taehyung, who regarded it evenly like it was only a bump in the road. Ahead was the ditch he prepared anticipation for. 

"I barely did anything to stop it." He tilted his face downwards, critical, assessing whether Namjoon made the connection. He was lagging a few moments behind. Taehyung wasn't one to stall. "I was going to let it happen."

It was one, terrible, thing to lose a loved one. It was another, heart-rendering, thing to have them look you in the eye and say that they want to go missing; explicitly didn't matter. The fatigued, serious, droop of his features spoke a million words Namjoon could endlessly avoid. 

He stared. Taehyung didn't like when people stared, but Namjoon stared, running the scenario through his mind. Seokjin and Taehyung were trapped within an area in which dangers consisted of low temperature and water. This Taehyung, who so bravely led the way, opened the door, pinched a brow of confusion at safety concerns, had surrendered all will to live. His Taehyung, sensitive, emotional, but above all, strong, almost chose to cease to exist. 

But he thought that maybe, he didn't know his dongsaeng anymore, for the level of horror bleeding from his eyes did nothing to break the blank pane of cloudy glass staring back. 

His tongue felt like tire rubber in his mouth when he spoke. "Is - Is that what you regret?"

Taehyung responded as though Namjoon's question was inherently redundant. Not agitated. But a little tired. 

"I don't regret anything but worrying Hyung."

His Taehyung. Namjoon caught a glimpse into the world without his Taehyung a year prior. No matter the member, the results were all the same. One, Namjoon couldn't handle, two, Namjoon couldn't comprehend. Why must you always surprise me, Kim Taehyung? Why can't I understand you in the way that makes this all better? 

"It just made me wonder if Jungkook would have let it happen." There were sinister details in his detailed landscape of a mind. A corpse floating in the shiny lake. "I thought about it right now, cause, I was thinking of him to keep calm. Now I feel more lost than ever."

He was a balloon floating towards the sun and Namjoon jumped for the thin string. "What's the answer your afraid of?"

"Both. Cause, if he was, then that's wrong. He shouldn't have thought that way." Namjoon wished he could be the mirror he always wanted to be. "He had so much life ahead. But if he wouldn't . . then why would I want to give up my life when he couldn't avoid it?"

Why would you? He knew better, but he wanted to scold. Shoo those rancid thoughts of his mind with a firm voice and disapproving waves of hands. Then he thought better. Tried to become that mirror. Yet Taehyung was tinted glass, and he was cloudy. Hazier stared at his shortfalls. He could only answer the question Taehyung bestowed upon him, and not give life-altering advice that cleared the path out of the gloom.

"You're a different person. Everyone has different views on death, what they think they'll do, what they anticipate." Only acceptable because he had no idea what Jungkook would have done, either. "You've gone through a lot, Tae. I don't - I don't misunderstand your decisions."

I just don't know how to accept them. 

The next reply slipped out easier. 

"Would you miss me, Hyung?"

"I would miss you for the rest of my life."

Taehyung pressed his lips closed and kept them that way for a long minute, or two. Namjoon counted only his breaths, to guarantee that he was not an illusion, that his inhales did not mimic desperate gasps for air. His exhales weren't finales. In the midsts of contemplation, there was an excess of question in his next words, and it was a blunt force to Namjoon's heart. The younger's mind was blank.

"What would I miss?"

How to explain everything to someone who knew nothing. 

"Everything that's kept you alive so far," far too hastily, far too incomplete. "You're alive. You're here. That must mean something is keeping you here."

His fired bullet only stunned him momentarily. Namjoon rushed out another thought before he regained function, remembering why they were in the situation in the first place. 

"And Jungkook. You would miss Jungkook."

The maze could move around them in the time it took for the silence to finish. Namjoon thought it did, the way he suddenly felt disjointed.

Taehyung gave a sheepish smile, finally breaking through the stone crusted over his face. 

"I guess I should have thought about that."

Namjoon returned the soft upturn of lips, knowing he looked less like concession and more like a pained wince. There was nothing permanent about the peace treaty signed before them, but he bathed in the light returning to Taehyung's eyes. In the future, he'd have to do better. He'd guarantee he'd never felt this alone and helpless again.

Even if it made Taehyung hate him - allied with a certain Hyung of his. 

"I'm glad I put it into your mind, then."

All at once, their smiles dropped. Off in the distance, what sounded like the collapse of something heavy threw them off balance. It came from behind, perhaps anywhere from a quarter of a mile to a half away, but still, hearable. 

Taehyung's demeanor switched within milliseconds, transforming from leisure and vulnerability to intense fixation. Tae, to Kim Taehyung, brilliant and brazen.

"What was that?" His voice cut through the following silence like hot iron through the ice.

Namjoon's jaw clenched unconsciously. Uneasiness settled within him. "I don't know."

The second wreck deepened their distrust. It sounded a hair closer than the first. He managed to decipher that the presumed debris was light; the echo magnified the actual damage. 

"Are the walls falling down?"

"No, I don't think so. I think they'd be heavier."

With that, Namjoon took ahold of Taehyung's wrist and promptly turned on his heel. Taehyung stumbled for a beat and then paralleled his movements. The equal length of their legs kept their pace impressive. 

Taehyung suddenly paused. Namjoon tugged his shirt, urging him onward, but he resisted and bent down, placing a hand on the ground. His eyebrows furrowed.

"The floor. It's the floor."

Namjoon followed without grace. He pressed his palm flat down. Underneath, tremors vibrated against the skin. He twirled on his knees and felt the wall. Indeed, the floor was animated. When he squinted his eyes, barely, he could spot visible movement a way down. 

"If an earthquake is about to strike, we need to get out of here, likely now."

"Earthquakes don't really come with a warning. But this is a warning." He pinched a bit of dirt between his forefinger and thumb. Before he could come remotely close to considering staying to test the limits, Namjoon pulled him to his feet by the back of his shirt, and Taehyung was surprisingly heavy. It may have been tricks of his mind. But reluctance weighed abundantly. 

"Come on," he struggled for substantial support, "Jimin-ah is probably still searching for you. And you know Hoseokie - Hyung doesn't like being alone."

Taehyung relented, although the creases of his forehead deepened. "I know. Hyung, I don't like that sound."

"Neither do I. But the farther we get away from it, the better." He whirled them around a turn, dropping his hand to his wrist. "Look ahead. Don't look back. It's behind us, it doesn't matter."

Everything is behind us. All we have is the future. Stay there. We all will meet there. Another crash. Namjoon listened and waited for the impact - because the first blast reminisced better of uprooting - silence. 

"We should have stayed."

"It's better we didn't."

"How will we know?"

"We won't."

"Is it getting closer?"

"No." Namjoon cringed at his prompt, patient-less, lie. "I don't know. If you freak yourself out about it, it sounds like it is."

Taehyung's voice inclined with barely contained offense. "I'm not freaking out about it. I know what I'm hearing."

Namjoon sighed out an apology. "We don't know anything here, Taehyung." His brisk swear bounced between adjacent walls upon reaching a dead end. "I don't mean to dismiss you, but, my main concern is getting you - the both of us - out of here." He complied with Taehyung's by stopping, yet countered with his futile words, emotion bleeding out of his face. "Please understand that I won't let you turn back."

Taehyung dropped his eyes. Namjoon hoped that it was only because he didn't want to give in to his puppy eyes, wanted to agree on his own accord. "Alright. I understand. But running away, when we don't know where we're running, isn't going to help us much."

The universe, overly fond of the vocalist, backed up his argument with another clatter, ultimately, closer than the rest. "Hyung, that was right over there."

Namjoon reached for his wrist. Taehyung evaded it without sparing a glance down, turning his back, but stopping himself from taking off. "Let's wait here. Just a moment."

"Taehyung, that could be anything. We can't afford it. You should know by now how dangerous these places can be."

"Of course I know," the response was a bark over his shoulder, "but we're also stuck here, and it's not going to go away, especially cause we're not at the end and we still have to find everyone else."

Namjoon's anxiety spiked with every clap of thunder, pace quickening, a lightning strike one after the other. "And what if it kills us?"

"Then I'm glad I'm not alone."

Barely, he could spot it, but the sudden concaving of the floor revealing nothing but black was a sight hard to miss even with a number nineteen less than twenty. The phenomenon materialized at the end of a daunting hall they turned into. Taehyung step forward. Namjoon stepped back. "Hyung, it's definitely coming closer."

"Yeah," Namjoon grabbed his collar once more, angling his body to depart swiftly. He realized the floor was falling. Below his feet, everything shook. "I got that."

When an owner chased a loose dog, the dog only ran faster, excited at the game. The two fled and the floor sped up to follow, to catch up. Namjoon had nowhere near perfect running posture but his sharp-angled, and the center of his hips, the angle of his elbows, propelled him forwards at impressive speed.

The animal inside humanity rarely displayed itself. Namjoon displayed the run from death all had coded inside them. The crackling of the falling debris motivated the extension of his legs. Flaming torches whipped by, panoramic sparklers, and Taehyung's breaths tangled in with his. Oblivion reached for his feet.

"How long is this fucking hallway?!" Taehyung screamed, unnaturally unhinged. 

Rapid fire, the boulevard gave way to rush hour traffic, the stampeding of their feet doing more harm than good, shattering the ground early. Namjoon pushed himself to go faster. His teeth grounded together in a vicious bare, himself absolutely refusing to die anywhere but a warm bed, a safe home. He hadn't known his thirties, forties, yet. He was not yet wise enough to comprehend what the void held in it's clutches. 

He remained adjacent to his dongsaeng, flying above the convulsing foundations. Dust clogged his lungs from the equally effect borders, centuries of architectural history unearth in a historic natural disaster. 

And right when he thought for sure that they were outrunning the beast, took the distance advantage well, Taehyung faded from his peripheral. His feet fell out of unison. Namjoon fell out of rhythm. He glanced back once -

Taehyung's legs were slowing. Everything within him was dwindling. He was only a foot behind but the black matter was four. Namjoon glanced back twice. In half a second he calculated a gut-wrenching equation.

Taehyung was not going to make it. He had missed a step or two and life would be the price. He had been condemned to float through space and time for all eternity.

Namjoon simply couldn't have that.

He stamped a foot hard into the ground, heel positioned on the piece of cracked ground, waited till Taehyung was a mere few inches ahead, and lunged forwards, wrapping his arms tight around his waist, and thrust themselves through the air, into a painful couple thuds of a roll, right into the ending wall. The effort gave him not less than ten feet of space, but clouds in the rapper's head cleared enough for him to roll like a tumbleweed into the open, left, path.

The corner of the angled wall was the dedicated endpoint. The game had concluded. Both had gotten to their feet's in a frenzy to keep running if necessary, but it wasn't, and they were strays.

Namjoon's hands landed on his knees, whilst he hunched over, catching his breath so violently he was halfway in a gag. Not even the hardest of concert setlists had rendered him so enervated. His lungs required Arctic ice to soothe their burns. It had lasted all about forty-five seconds, though he was not surprised at the rate life could chance, anymore. Merely grateful he had the time to learn to understand it.

Taehyung mimicked his coughs, though leaning against a wall, head dipped into the corner of his elbow. His knees visibly trembled. So soon, he spoke, and apologies were out of season.

"I wasn't going to. I wasn't slowing down on purpose."

Namjoon closed his eyes. 

"I couldn't take any chances."

"That's all we're doing here, Hyung. Take them with me."

Trust me. He wished that they didn't always have to be so inexplicit. 

Rest well earned, the two slumped to the steady ground and remained there for uncounted minutes. When it became excessive, the younger stood first, swallowing heavily as he peered over the edge, curiously examining the dark obscurity. The leader wanted to but didn't grab ahold of him. He said he wasn't going to; Namjoon had to believe, and ultimately, trust. Simultaneously, he also wished that the black was not a glimpse into what waited ahead, what the beyond consisted of. 

"It's just black."

"Don't think about it, too much."

"All our conversations sound the same."

"I know. But they're ours. I wouldn't have use of logic if you weren't always testing it. What would any of this matter?"

Taehyung came to his side and held out a hand. He spoke when Namjoon took it. "Talking to you kind of drives me insane, sometimes."

"At least we have something in common."

Taehyung embraced him and Namjoon fell into it thinking about how tired he was. Without his physical body in mind. When they pulled away, there was still a million miles of maze. It drained him and he felt no guilt in relenting responsibility, for the first time in eight years. 

"You want to take the lead?"

"But you're the leader."

"And you're better at this than I am."

Taehyung opened his mouth to reply, and then the life that they had barely begun adjusting too, became something incomprehensible. Jimin's throaty, pain-filled, scream came with the wind as its escort, floating over their heads, and circled twice, thrice, before Taehyung yelled back, and promptly took off, shouts bouncing off the walls. 

Then began a new life. Namjoon had aged a hundred years and wasn't even thirty.

———

Chapter Text

Stop, drop, and roll. He learned that, in kindergarten, when a few burly firefighters came into his class and lectured on fire safety. Don't use the stove without a parent on watch, when you're a bit older, remember to turn it off. Fire extinguishers are located within seventy-five feet of every building by law. Remember to stay in a single file line if the entire school starts to burn fucking down. 

Jimin never expected to apply that notion of rubbing your peeling skin along the floor to prevent further nerve damage. He'd never touched an extinguisher before. Only forgot to turn off the stove a handful of times. The most severe of blisters came from mindlessly placing a hand down on a hot surface or a tear in an oven mitt. Their trusted pyrotechnic team ran dozens of tests before shows.

Stop, drop, and roll - Jimin felt the orange flames trailing up his back lick at his skin. Without provocation he fell to the floor, immediately beginning to wildly flounder around, uncaring of how intact his sanity appeared. 

In the first seconds, all the action did was push the flames closer to his skin, and he gasped, arching his back instinctually. However, the sting relented, becoming a buzz of his neurons transmitting signals to his white blood cells to go on defense. The ground reached up to smother his attacker, and Jimin rolled, and rolled, long past the last flickers. The smell of burnt cotton aroused him further, surprisingly similar to burnt paper. 

Between thoughts knotted in distress, he prayed his sole protection wasn't as fragile. 

He paused only when he coughed out a bit of dirt. He was prone, held up by his elbows, and waited to detect any further heat. The wind lifted the end of his shirt, speckled with black ash, and left a long, languid, kiss on his pink skin. All that remained was heat without a constant source, remaining him he was, bitterly so, alive and continuing to experience hell. 

He lay there, fisting handfuls of cool dirt, wishing he could pack it over his rear and wait for the prickles to fully settle. The pain was bearable. He figured it was one of those wounds that were mild the first day and required three dosages of Tylenol the next. He couldn't rest, not for long. Black ash landed on his dirtied sleeves. Every delayed minute made room for ten minutes of peril. Fiery, fiery, peril. 

He had been heading down an unassuming corridor when a torch exploded behind him, sending particles of flame and sparks in every major and minor direction, pinching the back of his neck. Within seconds, the adjacent glorified candle stick combusted in on itself, burning the edges of his brows and the tip of his lashes. Jimin stumbled, tripping over feet once deemed grateful. He broke into a stabilized run a mere second before the next burst, right where the top of his scalp had been. 

After evading becoming a slab of roasted meat, he underestimated when he was in the clear - the last torch had caught him as he slowed, strapping itself to his skin like it had earned the right. Jimin's mind immediately raced back in time, to primary school lessons he thought he had forgotten the next day, and made contact with the hard ground.

Jimin had a strong feeling that had no logical place. He'd long lost count of the minutes alone, the approximate amount of steps taken since he last saw Taehyung, felt his hand slip from him as he turned back to call out their eldest Hyung's name. The two had disappeared silently. Then went Jimin himself, who turned back expecting familiarity and finding strange corridors that he didn't want to know, and began an alone search of indigo walls. The first he saw of them, they were a mere blink of color he caught by chance. He felt that all was coming to a close. He'd take a turn and there the ending would be, magnificent pillars and a doorway, hypothetically golden because there was nothing more valuable than finish lines, and he'd begin to cry before calling out the other's name to alert them if they happened to be passing by.

He caught his own mistake much later after it occurred. He thought he did, but never relayed that their destination was a middle spot of color. In best interest was spreading any sort of knowledge to the others, though that was thinking preferred for the past. He hadn't predicted the situation they would end up in. His guard would've remained in position, sparing him most of the guilt. The best he could do to alleviate his conscience was to become the lighthouse guiding them home, to him, to the next level of hell. 

Jimin got to his feet. From top to bottom, dirt, splinters, and ash blanketed him. He rubbed away the grime tickling his nose but left the rest of him as was. His wounds did not appreciate the premature movement, yet, he was void of concern for anything besides beckoning strays inside. The shadows of the dark behind bled into the light ahead, fading the further he went. Soon, he turned his head and the ash had stopped floating down from the sky, the repugnant after taste of firecrackers losing its intensity. It reminded him of the end of a show - the platform below lowering them backstage, the scent following them as they walked to the dressing rooms, to the vans, all the way to the hotel. That funny lost feeling hanging overhead. He remembered who brought it up, first able to describe the mixture of forlorn emotions - Yoongi, sometime after Jungkook had died. He said that was how life felt, words tainted with liquor, like walking through discarded confetti. They cut him off before the night weighed more than they could lift. He hadn't remembered his rhetoric the next morning, likely believed it was still a secret, likely thought he had everything under control. Jimin felt wronged, thinking of the inside of Yoongi's mind, and shoved the thoughts aside. He kicked aside the confetti. 

"Oh, fucking - shit." 

The universe thought he still had it in him. Falling in and out of unprioritized deliberation, his eyes were glazed over and he did not notice the ladder in front of him until his nose made an impact, a light bump of cool metal and flushed skin. Taking befuddled steps back, the size of the black structure caught him off guard; it rose to heights above the borders, already impressively tall. Once reaching a height close to fifteen or so feet, it arched over nearly twice that length longways, coming to a close with a downwards slope. Jimin reached out to tentatively grab hold of the bars, stable, stiff. Monkey bars, to be exact, he noticed when he peered under the curvature. In ten or fifteen years the closest he had done to climbing across a playground necessity was pull-ups at the gym, a few random workouts to test his core strength squeezed in between cardio and lifting. He knew his capacities well. There was no part of his body stronger than his core. This was easy. His earliest dances had required more strain, and oh, his confidence failed, fell right from underneath him, he had no idea what his inner systems still knew. 

Thirty feet of dangling, relying completely on his upper body, was no simple task for any age. He studied the structure, finding nothing out of the ordinary besides its sudden appearance, odd location, and strategically hidden meaning. Then he waited. Jungkook came at a higher cost than abdominal discomfort. When was the last time he defied gravity without an assisting hand? Long, long, before he paraded through the maze. The ladder stood silently without an abnormally dark shadow. Jimin had not danced for a year, yet, he was still fit - his muscles had remembered how to center weight back with Hoseok even though he had stumbled through every point in life leading up to it. He grabbed a higher bar with his free hand, gingerly placing down a foot on the lowest shaft. He flexed his stomach. Jungkook would have already flown through the obstacle. Jungkook would have never stopped dancing in the first place. 

He applied his weight down to the makeshift step and when his opposite foot left the ground, it began to rumble. Jimin flew off the ladder, flung back with self-afflicted force, watching in horror as spikes penetrated from inwards to outwards, in countless numbers, shapes, and sizes. They unearthed viciously, cutting through root, rock, deforesting tufts of dead grass. Within ten seconds movement had ceased and they sat still, glinting and glimmering as the moon took interest in their unprecedented, grand, arrival. 

Jimin's reflection stared back at him in a large, forefront skewer, slightly deformed, his chin elongated and eyes droopy. Stricken with all things evil, he turned and scrambled to his feet, only to realize that behind him, was dark and piles of ash. 

He crouched low, knees failing him. Frustrated, hot, tears burned in his eyes, though he attempted to hide his face in his hands, as if someone was looking on, judging, waiting for his surrender. 

Control slipped by. Jimin reached for it desperately but fell short. Not a molecule of his makeup wished to partake in the cosmos cruel games any longer. He did not know a feeling deeper than the dastard cavern collapsing around him. 

There was one a million miles into the ground - the thought of failing Jungkook. Yet from the top, where he peered down, it appeared bottomless. As though if he were to jump, he wouldn't feel a thing. Shame ceased to exist in the abyss, Jimin could bet on it heavily.

It thrived, though, above the tectonic plates. 

Frankly, he had no other choice. 

 Jimin faced the contraption, a rock caught in his throat. Back on his feet, he floated, instead of falling dead weight. There was no in-between, no constant balance. It seemed he always leaned towards either and could never find equity. This time, his weight did nothing to alter the situation. On shaky legs, he climbed to the highest vertical point, grabbing hold of the bars meant to support his weight, which appeared convincingly incapable, the closer he inspected them. From here, he was above the spikes, staring directly down to their pointed tips. He did not need to prick a finger to estimate the extent of their bite.   

The distance between the highest tips and the overhead appears to fit exactly to his height, although an extra foot authorized for the space his arms would need, stretched out. He considered simply climbing on top and dragging himself along to the end, but, could not risk a backup plan, in other words, consequence, for the loophole. The universe was wise and all-knowing, while he was a pawn in its game. Courtesy and honesty were one of the first lessons he was taught - on the off chance the above cared for those traits as sincerely as his parents, he was one to avoid lectures.

Shutting his eyes tight, pictured at the end, Jungkook waved wildly, Jimin clutched the second bar, remembering that it was the playground trick for a proper outwards swing, and suspended

Only for a second. He sucked in a tight breath, kept his vision starless, and reached for the fourth, sixth, clambered through in such a way that he convinced himself that Jungkook was there, waiting, and Jimin refused to be left behind. Not again. 

Almost immediately his shoulders responded, the first to growl and catch flame. The muscle built on his deltoids had decreased over time, and he could not pull himself higher, forcing him to rely on his core, bending himself nearly in half to raise his legs. It was unnecessary, the lighter the weight the quicker it sped, and curling in on himself only made him less of a projectile.

However, he'd rather leave his abdomen trembling than have the soles of his feet anywhere near the shiny silver spikes below. He reached for the sixteenth, maybe eighteenth, and his left hand slipped, misjudging its proximity.

Jimin gasped, invisible hands around his throat, wringing him of oxygen. His eyes burst open as his body swung in reverse, and the first sight he perceived was the aerial view of lethal cones. He scrambled upwards, something pinching in his side at the unprofessional demonstration of a maneuver. 

There was only so much air he could climb. Only halfway, he resignedly conceded, reaching for the eighteenth, maybe twentieth. This time his eyelids were stapled to his brow and cheek, forcing him to watch the distance between him and the end close, painfully, unbelievably, slow. 

His spine expanded, unraveling his lower body. Twenty-sixth, twenty-eighth. Any less resistance and the tip of his shoe would be caught. His brain lost the ability to clear out unwanted thoughts. Visions of burgundy rivers flashed through his mind. All the softest places impaled. His eyes, his throat, his wrist, his stomach. Thirty seconds, thirty-fourth. The wobble of his bicep could no longer go unignored. 

Was he psyching himself out? Jimin was no stranger to overthinking. He considered that and attempted to bend his elbows. Didn't he know his body well? The limits were clear as he failed. Forty-fourth, forty-sixth. 

Fifty. As pretty as the word was, it was far from sixty, which he thought was the final count. His breath synced with his quivering arms. Fifty-five, he could no longer stretch for the evens. 

The sweat gathering on his palms, close to calloused and rubbed raw, loosened a life or death grip. Fifty-seven, Jimin's lashes managed to lock together, himself lowering, lowering, and at fifty-nine the cuff of his pant split. 

Distant playground cheering.

Jimin landed, and without a breath, left the structure in his deep past. 

The manic simulation he was dreaming in set maximum speed high. He ran unchained. Physics would disagree but he was soaring, faster than a thoroughbred, speeding through a level of a game with an impressive cheat code. 

A low rumble pressed pause. It was mechanic, inanimate, both soothing immediate concerns of angered creatures and igniting new questions of what machinery suddenly started. Jimin pressed play and held his breath - the hum could be drowned out by the smack of lips.  

He followed but it appeared it had no origin. He reached a T-shaped crossway, judging between the three possibilities. Directly across was an obvious dead end, no use of tricks of the eyes. He gambled between right and left and chose left, only, stopped halfway down and turned back, with unknown reasoning. Except he faced a wall. The dead-end had opened up. 

He made a daunting realization. As they were moving within the maze, the maze was moving around them. His and Tae's, Yoongi's and Jin's, Namjoon's and Hoseok's, separations had been perfectly executed with due credit to the incredibly smooth transitions of direction. Before his eyes, the paths he had planned on taking turned unattainable. Not so different but different from what he had imagined, what his internal compass had set on. The arrow spun out of control and he crossed through magnetic fields littered with dying daises. 

He managed the first few changes with subsequent patience, knowing that what already happened couldn't be reversed and new paths opened new options. 

But his composure became sinister. He had decided that he wanted to turn there - the option was ripped away yet his mind refused to forget his verdict. Thoughts swirled through his mind; what if that was the way? What if I now have to turn all the way around? What if I'm further than ever before?

Swears pitched from his lips, ricocheting off walls that did not reply. He looked insane. He didn’t care. After so long, he no longer cared. 

All he wanted was control. Not the evil, greedy kind. Wanted to feel the wind drift around his body instead of drying his eyes. What he lost from the beginning and what continued to swoop by every so often. The desire to have the world accommodate for his every request built from years of submitting to things that were hidden disdains; fame, fortune, first place. 

The value of his accommodations he did not know but he'd sell it all, there, would relinquish all his talent and net worth for a restart. If the gift of talent was the trade for the inevitable loss of Jungkook, Jimin would be reborn incompetent.

Dancing was nothing but what kept the birthday cake candles burning. 

Indigo flashed between two shifting ends and Jimin nearly fell to his knees for the hundredth time in absolute relief. Right over there, right beyond six or seven walls, the end waited to be received. 

Everything was shifting right. A random opening along the length of a wall offered a shortcut one over. Braving his fears, he slipped through, and right then, another gap pulled apart, paving a way for a grand exit. He accelerated, fearlessly jumping through breaks like an alley cat through broken fences, waiting for that magnificent color to greet him with open arms. 

And suddenly, everything went wrong.

He was abruptly stopped, and forced to drop - Jimin attempted to roll, and the resulting stab of anguish shooting up through his spine stapled his spasming body in place. He changed his mind. He screamed and changed his mind.

———

Jimin's birthday was less than three months before Taehyung's. They had always been close, in that sense, in every other, enough so that Tae had never needed to refer to him as Hyung. He never asked for permission - it simply formed between them, one moment, they were strangers, and the next, he was his Jiminie, and Taehyung was so unbelievably enthralled with him that questions of honor were thrown clean out of the discussion. 

Taehyung fondly remembered when they were trainees, exhausted, constantly stressing, and above all, young, and fragile. He had been there for the worsts of Jimin. Jimin had been there for the worsts of him. Something implausible formed within those few months of monthly exams and seven a.m walks to school. Nine years on, even when he laid awake at night and allowed his thoughts to run free, vulnerable moments where everything within his mind was pure clarity, he'd never once come close to understanding the cacophony of love and trust between them. 

When he thought of life, he thought of it as a mural. Slowly filled in as time went on, as lessons were learned, as love was learned and lost. Before Jimin, the others, there were a few lines, few splotches of paint, and after . .

There were too many layers for the human eye to comprehend. Life began with him, and he supposed it would end there, as well. He once could picture a beautiful ending, with them all, his hand painting in bright lights and interlocked fingers. 

He loved and lost, and the black mass of spilled paint in the middle said everything that he couldn't. 

The mere thought of Jimin in peril, pain, made Taehyung sick. Whenever he saw the older wince out of the corner of his eye, he'd be by his side the next second, checking him over. Asking for reassurance until it was borderline annoying. When they were trainees and Jimin often cried in the bathrooms alone, Taehyung made it a mission to be there every time he could, after the first time he tripped over his curled up form. Not a tear would be shed if he wasn't there to catch it. 

And that promise held. Taehyung's hand twitched for Jimin's, knowing it was waiting to be held. His head was likely on the ground, waiting for a lap, where it would be held. Taehyung felt the layers within him wither away. He needed to be there, his purpose called out, every footstep pushed him into a sort of oblivion where all his previous concerns were lost. An aching body needed to be held. 

Whenever Jimin was, he had to be there. To at least hold his hand.

Vaguely, he heard Namjoon's calls to him, to slow down, watch where he was going, which eventually bled into asking if he saw Jimin yet. Jimin was all that Taehyung's lips could form, even as he swore he was attempting to respond to his trailing Hyung. 

Jimin's scream was single. Taehyung overestimated its proximity, growing distraught when after gaining at least five hundred feet of ground in its assumed direction, no sight of the older came, and no further yells followed. 

"Jimin-ah! Jimin-ah! Jimin, please, where are you?!" He twirled as he shouted, to send his calls out in every direction. "I'm here! Say something!"

Taehyung broke into another sprint. No acknowledgment returned, but he took it as he needed to move in closer until he was in earshot. He shook his head affirmatively every time intrusiveness crossed it. A sole scream did not mean a death that took one by surprise. Only that the pain was blinding.

Neither settled his alarm. 

And then finally, finally, a small voice filtered back, cutting Taehyung's words in two. The wobble, apprehension, fear of untimely relief, tore into the canvas, right where the light began to bleed back in. 

"Tae?"

"Jiminie?!" Taehyung responded with an excess of commotion. 

"Tae!" Millions of won in reprieve. "Tae, I'm here - please, find me!"

He nearly missed him, when he did. By chance, he dragged his eyes to the floor, and there, found ahead of brown hair, wide eyes, and a parted pair of lips. 

He expected him to clamber to his feet and meet him halfway, despite his presumed injuries. But Jimin laid there, with that wide-eyed look, and remained still. Taehyung, losing the glow of delight, stalked closer, the realization that something was wrong - worse than his wildest thoughts - dropping over him dead weight. Jimin leaned up as he closed in, and let out a short cry, returning to one elbow and one full-length arm, a position of defeat. 

"Tae," he breathed out, voice wearing with fear and anticipation, as the younger's eyes trailed further up his prone body, all the way to his leg.

Crushed between two halves of a wall.

Ironically, his hands could hold everything but the pieces of his heart together.

Jimin stared up at him, chin trembling the slightest bit. He couldn't smooth the wrinkles of his brows, a windowpane into his misery, even as he tried to remain placid. "Come down here, please."

His legs melted. Taehyung fell to his knees and then onto his hip, curving his body around Jimin's head protectively, blocking out the rest of the threatening world. He gathered his head into his lap with extreme gentleness, lifting his chin so he could look him in his pained eyes, wipe away tears that kept falling. Jimin's small hands gripped onto his pants, visibly fighting the urge to use him to pull himself further into his makeshift home, resting in the best way he could manage - with his shoulders down and head held. 

"Hey." Taehyung's baritone voice cracked high. Beautiful relief ruined by fear.  

"I missed you." Jimin's lips whispered softly against his palms, his tenderness, despite being straddled in a situation appropriate enough to wildly scream and shove, added further anguish to Taehyung's already aching heart. He was simply too good of a person. Stuff like this shouldn't happen to hearts like his. 

"I'm sorry." The younger dropped one hand from his face and held his. The other moved, assuring he held every part of his upper body that he could. Jimin's leg was being crushed and his priority upon being saved was to tell Taehyung that he missed him. Justice and equality ceased to exist.

"I can't move."

Viscously snapped back into full, black and white reality, where Jimin let out low, troubled, whines, and his leg was being crushed, and he knew nothing about handling serious injuries, Taehyung struggled to maintain a grip on responsibility when he was full of Jimin. 

"You're okay, you're okay." He moved in closer, placing a hand on his warm neck, preventing him from turning a taking a peek. Jimin graciously buried his head into his stomach. Namjoon turned the corner, skidded to a stop, and let out a gut churning gasp. "Oh my god." His breathy words shivered. "Hyung - what do we do?"

Jimin lifted his face, catching sight of their leader, and oddly stiffened further. Reality appeared to be bestowed back into him, with every molecule of pain. "Namjoonie-Hyung. I can't move. It hurts. I can't -"

"You don't need to." The leader rushed forward, dropping to a knee, opening placating palms before Jimin tried to wiggle and injure himself further. "You don't need to. Just stay here, just stay still."

"The exit," the edges of his voice were broken, wet, void of hope. Taehyung held and held and the tears still dropped. "It's right over there. I almost made it, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," his best friend brushed a thumb over his lip. Smiling encouragingly, praising where he found areas empty of pride. "You found it! You found it first! We wouldn't have without you." 

"But I'm still sorry."

"For what?"

He hid his face in undeserved shame. 

"I could have made it."

Namjoon stood, then. Taehyung could feel his emotions swirling, a category five hurricane forming in their panic-induced heat. He walked slowly backward. When Taehyung turned his head, he saw deluded concentration. His jaw slacked and then jutted. Do what you can to help, fall to your knees and comfort him, maintain responsibility, fall to your knees and cry at the unjust. He went to an opening between the two and the corner they appeared from, peeking his head in. 

Jimin's hand found his again and squeezed tight. He rocked slightly from side to side, whimpering at the breeze brushing his shattered bones. Taehyung had yet to take a proper look. He couldn't, not while Jimin was in dire need of consolation. One brisk sight of blue and purple skin and he'd be down for a week, coma-inducing derangement. He sounded unlike his Jimin, unlike he had ever spoken before; a child, confused, and hurting, whimpering to make sense of it.

"I'm scared, Tae."

"You don't need to be," he wished he could blanket his shivers, "I'm here. I'm not leaving you."

Namjoon caught Taehyung's attention with a snap of his fingers, pointing down the path Jimin's limb was trapped in. "I'm going to go around here."

They waited for the diagnosis in silence as their leader trudged down and then knelt in a position adjacent to Taehyung's, only, on the opposite side. His shadow spilled over the mangled calf, further obscuring it from sight. 

Screams couldn't have been louder. 

"Just say it, Hyung," Jimin snapped, without malice, drenched in grief.

Namjoon's throat acted as though it hadn't spoken a day in its life. "It looks bad."

Taehyung tried to meet his eyes as his face poked into view, hovering over the limp appendage, from the four inches of space. "Is there any way to get it out?"

Half of Namjoon's lips moved. One eye told a horror story for the ages. "Unless we move the walls. I don't want to risk pulling him through. If that makes them come in closer, or hurt him more."

"I don't think it could hurt more." Jimin gasped, struck with forgotten explanations. "They move the walls. That's how . . that's how we got separated, I think. It happened so fast."

Taehyung held him down, disrupting movement with potential consequences. "Could they move apart again?"

"I guess. But I don't know when. I don't know if."

If was a price too high to gamble on. Jimin knew that intimately. Tears the size of pennies rolled down his dirtied cheeks. "I don't wanna be stuck here."

Namjoon answered where Taehyung couldn't. "We'll find a way to get you out."

"Namjoon-ah, is that you?"

Yoongi's unexpected, oddly hesitant, question rang clear through the air. Namjoon choked, standing abruptly. "Hyung!"

Jimin and Taehyung listened to the sounds of their reunion. The elder rapper voiced all his pleasure. Their bodies thumped together with a firm embrace. "I thought something terrible happened." Jimin trembled with guilt, knowing, all that delight would crash and burn the moment the situation dawned upon Yoongi. 

Together, the rappers came into the zone of medical assistance. Whilst undeniably elated at the arrival of another missing Hyung, only a thin smile could be managed across Taehyung's lips. "Hey, Hyung."

"Tae-ah." 

His awed chocolate eyes moved from him to the head resting on his lap, to the leg, shunned from view, all over Jimin, trapped. The light shattered within.

"Oh, Jimin-Ah. Oh no."

"Hi, Yoongi-Hyung."

Yoongi moved in, reaching out and then pulling away, glancing wildly from the three of them for a supportive answer. As the color drained from his face, his connotations became heavier, damp with disorientation then soaked with horror. "Oh no. Jimin-ah, oh no." 

Taehyung tugged him down by the rim of his shirt. Yoongi came compliantly, this time allowing his fingers to land upon his skin moist with sweat and tears. His features twitched, flashes of his internal confusion, guilt, grief, and fear.

"Are you bleeding?"

Jimin snapped free from his delusion, likely a bright scene of a smiling, angelic, Yoongi emerging from the light and pulling him free with ease. Yoongi's hair was frazzled, his eyes haunted, the picture of innocence a ripped Polaroid. He came from the dark.

"I don't - I don't think so. I think it's just crushed. It's crushed."

"He's not," Namjoon confirmed in a barely audible tone. 

Jimin leaned into Yoongi's gentle graze across his temple the way he did with all of them, absorbing in the affection, a sponge for all things bright and all things undeserved karma. His eyes began to droop, and he spoke dreamily. 

"You found us."

Yoongi's smile emphasized pained. "Yeah. Of course, I did. I wasn't going to leave without you."

"It really hurts, Hyung."

Taehyung couldn't bear to watch the way Jimin's face crumpled with every inevitable acknowledgment, each time worse than the other, as though the adrenaline was dispersing and leaving nothing but disrupted nerve endings. He glanced away, steadying the features of his face. For a brief second, their eyes met, and Yoongi's were full of unshed tears. 

"It won't forever. I promise we'll get you out of here." 

Taehyung hunched protectively over Jimin at the start of a shout, Yoongi following suit, bracing for impact. Namjoon straightened his posture and his eyes hardened defensively, taking an initial step forward.

"Guys, guys! It's me!" 

How Hoseok was able to spot them before coming into view, none of the four knew, but the molecules of excitement flying through the air kept questions at bay. Yoongi and Namjoon went to greet him, as he was moving oddly slow. Taehyung remained in place. Jimin's tears dampened his pant.

Hoseok's grin was brighter than every star in the clear night sky. He stumbled once, twice, and eyes flew to his legs, realizing there was a problem down south. The eldest member of the rap line put an abrupt end to his inelegant movements, and still, his glowing demeanor refused to fade. 

"Hobi - what happened, why are you limping?!"

"I sprained my ankle. I'm okay, though, I'm okay -"

How ironic was it that the main dancers had to be the two victims of bottom injury. Namjoon hooked one of Hoseok's arms over his shoulders and supported his weight - useful because he nearly collapsed the moment he saw Jimin. 

Customarily, the dancer would greet them with hugs, teasing voices, sometimes a friendly kiss or two. Jimin stretched out his neck like a tortoise searching for water, yearning for those affectionate interactions. Hoseok applied monumental pressure down to his injury and didn't even flinch.

"Say something. Do something. Touch me, or something."

Hoseok all but lunged forward. Namjoon attempted to catch him, yet he opted to crawl, hands and knees over to the dongsaeng in peril, and Taehyung had to wonder what they endured alone, in the first task, why there was torment where it shouldn't be - swirling in Jimin's compassionate eyes.

Hoseok's expression contorted into desolation. Jimin seemed desperate to clear clouded air, finish sentences he didn't say before, and Taehyung wanted to close his lips and tell him he had forever to speak, that rush wasn't necessary. 

"Hobi-Hyung, I changed my mind. I want to finish it. I want to keep dancing. I want to keep trying."

He did not know the context. It didn't make the insinuation any easier to swallow. The two managed a hug, Jimin's head in his shoulder with Hoseok's head just over his. 

Taehyung held his hand.

A shuddered breath alerted their senses. Seokjin stood behind them all, looking as though he had run through all the layers of hell, his eyes simultaneously staring a thousand yards and directly into Jimin's battered soul. 

He was not like the group had ever known him.

"Jin-Hyung!" Both Yoongi and Namjoon went to the newest arrival, but Seokjin followed a path straight to Jimin, unbelievable conviction etched across his face. 

"What can we do? What can we do?" Taehyung heard him mutter as he got to his knees and began petting at Jimin, stroking all the places the other's hand had already been. There was more of their DNA on Jimin than his own, but he bathed in it, closing his eyes and dutifully accepting. 

No matter the level of affection they offered, the pinch of pain remained in his brow, and Taehyung's hope drained with every passing second where it stayed. 

"Hyung will help you," Seokjin spelled out the dedication to his promise in every caress. "Hyung will get you out of here. Don't worry, Jimin-ah."

Jimin curved his head further, shutting his eyes, begging without the dramatics. "Please, Hyung. Please get me out." 

Yoongi was impatiently finished with greetings and unfulfilled promises. "Can we push the walls? Can we do anything?"

"I don't know," Namjoon pushed the wall which did not comply, 

Taehyung furrowed his brows. His ears registered an unknown production of noise. It started muffled, passable as a faraway rumble of thunder, and then embellished. 

Dogs were the last creatures he expected to hear.

Namjoon stared to the left, assuming its direction.

"What is that?"

Taehyung glanced back. "Do any of you know what that is?" Hoseok caught his eye, for his renewed horror differentiated him from the rest. He implored him with a brow raise, delayed answers undesirable with Jimin immobilized.

"It's - they're - they're dogs! They're giant dogs!" His words clambered over one another, echoing the twisted symphony of commotion. "They - they'll kill us. We need to get out of here."

"But we can't!" Yoongi rested his hand on Jimin's nape, who had gone still beneath them. "What about Jimin?"

Hoseok glanced down and then away, back to where 

"We have to figure it out, then. You don't understand, they're - they're evil. They're insane. They'll kill us all in a second."

Jimin squirmed in Taehyung's hold. The news sat well in none of their stomachs, but especially him; they could run, fight - he couldn't. Even if he was miraculously freed, he couldn't run, walk, do anything but crawl. His incapacity grew as the deranged wolves harmonized, magnifying the reach of their voices. Howls were typically mysteriously beautiful, forlorn, what the moon would sound like if she had a voice. All this gave was chills he didn't think would ever depart.

Taehyung held his hand. 

Jimin knew better than to try himself, however, his composure was slipping, and no one wished to be caught between a pair of strong jaws. "Try and pull me through. Someone try and wiggle it out from the other side." 

Namjoon swallowed, denying, even as he inched closer. The distant snarls pushed opposite intentions. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm already hurt. It'll be fine." 

Namjoon and Seokjin went around. Hoseok and Yoongi knelt by Jimin's knees, almost parallel. No one asked, but Taehyung would've refused to move from his position. He finally garnered enough courage to see exactly where he fell unlucky, just below his right knee.

"Oh, Jiminie," Hoseok breathed, concerned, with his cheeks tinged green. 

"Okay. I think we should be able to maneuver it out. But it's going to hurt, Min."

Jimin craned his neck in an attempt to see behind him and meet Namjoon's eyes, layering his reassuring tone. "I know. But it's better than whatever those things are."

One of the hidden two apprehensively took hold of his ankle. If Hoseok and Yoongi were to pull from his thigh, then, the lower half of his leg needed to sit at an appropriate angle to have it go along, rather than slide and further rearrange the bits and pieces inside. Taehyung listened to the four discuss, scratching at Jimin's scalp, virtually unswayed by the logic thrown about. He found it difficult to comprehend with barks swirling in his ears.

Seokjin warned lowly. "We're going to try and move you, now." 

The second that their hands bent his leg, a strangled mess of screams left his lips and his body instantly jerked away, only causing the second round of cries as he wrenched at his leg, straining tendons already bruised and flinging fragments of bones. Yoongi scrambled to steady him, taking hold of his waist, however, Hoseok then lifted his thigh and placed it down an inch away. Jimin reacted as though his limb had been picked apart and spread apart a whole mile. 

Taehyung had never heard pure agony, never once pictured Jimin the one to mime it. "Stop it, stop it!" He brought his sobbing face in closer, demanding panicked, and harsh. "Hyungs, stop! Stop!" 

All four let go as though burned, only Namjoon out of pace. The four catapulted apologies but none could be heard over his cries, not in Tae's ears, not in a million microphones.

They listened to Taehyung's frantic muttering and his wails until they became mellow shushes and whimpers. Namjoon choked out the first words of explanation.

"Your leg is what's keeping it apart. The more we move it, the tighter the walls get. We can't move fast enough."

Jimin could not be removed. Their carnivorous nightmares advanced. 

"Fuck," Yoongi placed his elbows on the offending wall and his head in between, fist-clenching as though desiring to punish. Namjoon and Seokjin returned to their side, the older of which raked his fingers through Jimin's hair the moment he was in reach. 

"We can't stay here."

"We got that, Hyung," Namjoon responded sharply to Hoseok, still frantic and pacing.

The eldest rapper gasped. "We can forfeit! There's a way to forfeit!"

They all froze, minus Seokjin, who turned.

"But - we're almost there."

Yoongi wiped at his cheeks, acknowledging the sacrifice with a heavy blink and nod. " I know. We can't get all of us there. What's the point? You know what I mean. We can't - we can't lose someone at the price of another. That's just, that just doesn't do anything for us. We can all forfeit."

There was a probable sense in his words. And Taehyung - Taehyung held his hand. 

"No."

All silenced and looked to Jimin, his solid tone unforeseen. Along with the resignation in his eyes. 

Even the wind stopped to listen.

"Guys. Just go."

Taehyung nearly lost his grip. 

"What?" Hoseok snapped and drew closer, disbelief written over his face. 

Jimin sniffed, bringing himself to rest on his elbows, wincing with every minor adjustment. "You have to go. You can't miss the opportunity. You can't miss getting Jungkook. Just leave me here, please. Just go."

Namjoon shouted, outraged. "Are you insane?! We're not leaving you here!"

Yoongi approached gentler, yet not understanding, not with an inch of empathy. "We're finishing this together. What's the point of having Jungkook if we lose you?"

Jimin shook his head. The action brought forth a dust storm that left them all blinded, unable to find and pull him out from the self-sacrificial character arc he was set on. His form was there for a moment, then enveloped in the sand the next. 

His hand slipped free, but Jimin was imprisoned, asking for the death sentence. 

"You can't finish at all with me here. All of this will be for nothing, please, go." 

Not one of the seven was convinced. Jimin furrowed a brow when his words went unreceived and pushed where it hurt, where the button of touchy subjects was. 

"He deserves a chance at life."

Yoongi frowned and held his face with all the world's tenderness, fighting back releasing the inner turmoil plain in his eyes. "And what about you?"

Jimin leaned into his touch. Achingly, like it was the last time. 

"I had mine. And I'm giving it up. I'm giving it to him."

The youngest had not twitched a single muscle. Until the final declaration of seceding set despair firm in stone, whispered with a slight nod, his body already beginning to shrivel.

"Tell him that I love him, okay?"

Taehyung forgot his careful touches and wrapped him in an embrace he couldn't worm out of even if he had the strength. He held him. He held him against his heart to feel it beating through him, pumping steady. He held him and checked his pulse to see if it was still throbbing. "I won't leave you. I won't do it. You're my best friend." He held him before he lost sight before there was sand in his eyes. "I won't leave you. I can't do this without you. I won't let you."

There's no such thing as me without you. It's us. It's always been the two of us. "Who would I be if you were gone, Jiminie?" He whispered softly enough so that it was a special, devastating, secret. Their quiet moments away in tide pools and underneath overgrown trees. All those memories shattered. Spring picnics became barren snow. Their beaches were polluted, he searched for a dog tag in insurmountable garbage. "You promised you'd always be there. I won't let you do this." 

Taehyung knew grief. Unlike the lucky ones, he knew how to barely survive in days that were never like the one before. And if there was no foreseeable world without Jungkook, there was no universe without Jimin. There was nothing. 

Absolutely nothing.

Jimin shared his tears, clutching onto him hard, and Taehyung knew that he didn't want to die, didn't want to watch them stand up and leave him there to do so. 

But what they wanted never mattered.

Wanting was all they had studied, and never learned.

The decision was simultaneous, not a word needed to have been said. Never leaving one behind was nonnegotiable. 

At the very least, Taehyung smiled bitterly, they’d be seven. Contradictory to how they expected it to begin anew. Exactly how the universe intended. 

When the barks became deafening, he lowered his face into the crook of Jimin’s neck and listened to the pounding of his pulse instead. Oddly, his heartbeat went quiet. The world ceased to exist.

Except peace went disturbed by a rumble.

In his peripheral, Namjoon dashed to the end of the corridor. There were shouts between the older members that Taehyung couldn’t make out. Then he made something out of it. 

". . . They're moving. They're moving again!"

Seokjin spoke into his ear, and though the younger couldn’t decipher, he let himself be pulled away from Jimin, relying on the sense that a miracle was about to occur. Their eyes remained locked onto each other for a moment before Yoongi obstructed their view.

"We're gonna pull you, out, okay? We're gonna pull."

“On three!” Namjoon screamed, halfway between their side and the next. “Pull hard on three!”

“One,” Yoongi grabbed hold of his arms, “two,” Seokjin his hips, “three!” Hoseok his leg. 

The slam as the wall opened up and promptly sealed covered all other sounds. Taehyung stood, needing to see, needing to push past his Hyung’s to guarantee that he didn’t let go for no good reason. 

Jimin gazed up at him, starry-eyed, and free. 

"Pick him up! Hurry!"

Namjoon bent low and swung one arm underneath Jimin's uninjured leg. The other hung limp, bending abnormally at the knee. There was no use in preservation. 

Every step appeared to invoke nearly intolerable pain. Jimin held in only every other sob, muffling the escapees in Namjoon's shoulder. The six couldn't slow and console. The wolves had finally closed the distance, and Taehyung could hear the pounding of their paws, a stampede waiting to run them flat. 

He fell to the back of the group without meaning to. It was natural. Last place. Namjoon had Jimin weighing him down, and they needed to be accommodated too. Hoseok had his ankle, which threatened to snap with every step. Yoongi and Seokjin were supporting them, a hand on their lower backs.

The routine they always fell into. A circle of support that Taehyung was never a part of, not in the harmonious, easy, practice. The outlier unable to recuperate. The one who dampened the sunniest of skies. Marathon runners pass by with posters waiting for them at the end, with charities to fulfill, reasons to continue and break through the ribbon. He slowed, falling into last place because there was nothing ahead.

It would be the easiest on you guys. We're even now, but we were always better off odd. 

Blue coloring, the same as he recalled from ages ago, broke through the constant gray. Yelps and barks the soundtrack to their victory. Taehyung maintained his pace on behalf of his Hyung's, who needed to make it first before he crossed the threshold. They hurried.

Seokjin thrust open the golden door and Namjoon flew in first. Yoongi gave Hoseok a firm shove, a silent promise to apologize later, and went forth.

And then Jin made sure Taehyung went fifth. 

A second after the door fell shut, came the unmistakable sound of a body slamming into it, then frustrated snarls and growls, violent scratches, and after thirty seconds being frozen, it went wonderfully silent, except without the wonder.

Merely fully silent. 

Namjoon lowered Jimin carefully under Seokjin's pestering, stating that they needed to assist him in any way they could. The dancer, by then, was in the midsts of reveling from the jostling, coughing out false statements of his well-being, usually attempting to raise the appendage. The worst of it remained hidden, only by his pant. Veins of purple poisoned his ankle. 

Taehyung knew any attempts of aid would be fruitless. Jimin needed a doctor, proper treatment, splints, crutches, pain medications, all that they could not offer. Within the circular room, they were sheltered, yet not spoiled. Assistance ran as far as mild instructions. 

"Is there anything we can do? Any way to make this easier for him?" Seokjin looked a moment away from enrolling in school for twelve years and paying millions in debt drowned tuition. 

Namjoon and Yoongi looked at one another. They were the only two placid. Taehyung suspected they knew something the rest didn't. Before their very eyes, Jimin's calf reformed, straightening, filling up the pant leg with proper bone structure. Tension bled out from his face, the highest point of relief featured as his nerves canceled pain signals. He fell onto his back, closed his eyes, and laughed the tiniest bit. 

"Oh, thank everything in this world," Hoseok breathed, rubbing his hands over his reddened eyes. Taehyung smiled fondly down at his best friend, who looked his best when unharmed, safe and secure. His stance wobbled with fatigue. 

"Congratulations, Bangtan. Only one individual task separates you, and your maknae."

Taehyung slumped against the wall. He understood the other's apprehension at the beginning of their most recently accomplished. Suddenly, he wasn't eager. The point began to become blurry.

But one. Only one. One meant one away from zero. Only one.

"Seokjin, please, step through the door. Your task awaits you."

And one was all it would take. And take, and take. 

Taehyung stood before he realized he was standing. He was the only one to move, as the rest froze. "No," came his immediate denial. He paused a moment to await further instruction. All of you will follow within the next few minutes. "No, wait, no, you're going alone?"

Seokjin had beautiful, pale, skin, but it wasn't beautiful at the moment. Taehyung pictured it splashed with blood, without helping hands stitching it up. He pictured it blue and cold and never touched with kindness and love ever again. 

Only the edges of Jin's delayed reply were coherent. "It's okay." 

"Wait, wait, can't we change this? How can he go alone?" Namjoon.

"That's not right. We're all tired. We need to do this together." Hoseok. 

"Guys . ." Seokjin, his age showing. 

"We can't let this happen. We're seven. We stay as seven." Yoongi.

"Hey. It's okay." Seokjin, breathing in slowly, searching for peace at its source. 

"I'm not letting you do that." Jimin. 

"Hey." Seokjin, firm, breathing out his grievances, deciding to assume his karma, showing an age he wouldn't reach past. Fully silent.

"I can do it. I'll do it. It'll be okay."

Namjoon appeared offended, as though he had dived into their star-crossed fate, and hadn't found this scene anywhere, perhaps hadn't reached that chapter yet. Yoongi's features smoothed. Hoseok's hand went slowly to his mouth, thumb and forefinger grazing the sides of his lips, thinking thoughtlessly. Jimin stayed put on the ground, where his heart fell to. 

Taehyung thought of their last hours alone together and sobs prepared for firing. He said nothing that he would look back on and think, I did by him right. He regretted cutting himself clean open. Maybe, if he had lied, Seokjin wouldn't want to stick it to him, wouldn't want to make that sacrifice. "No, Hyung, no. Please."

He smiled warmly, bitterly, morphing his features into the face that he wanted them to remember. Taehyung saw through him like glass. "It's okay, Taehyung - ah. It's my responsibility. I can do it."

All that conviction was painted over dread because his arms were open and around him before Taehyung was fully against his front. They pressed into each other tight, testing the limits of physics, waiting for one to explode with a transaction of energy. Taehyung's heartbeat picked up as he felt Seokjin's rapid pace signal the organ through their intertwined nerve ends. It came with a message that Taehyung couldn't read. What was it Jin was communicating, if not goodbye, if not sudden ended apologies?

"I'm sorry," Taehyung breathed in his homey, safe scent. "Would that make it better? I'm sorry."

Jin said nothing until they were forced to pull away - Namjoon coming to pry Taehyung off, Seokjin encouraging the leader over his head. The rest were unable to speak, do nothing of the same sorts. The roots of regret began to grow where hope should have. Taehyung searched and could not find where his faith had hidden. 

"If anything happens - take care of each other, alright? I'll see you soon."

Omens repeated as history does.

Without a care of overlapping consequences.

He opened the door, hesitated for only a moment, and then stepped through, closing it behind him. Taehyung was never more proud, nor terrified, in his life. He'd never before thought that those moments would ever coincide.

It tasted like nausea.

———

Chapter Text

'This is it. The moment we've both been waiting for. This is the grand memoir that you deserved from the night you left us. 

Why am I writing this so suddenly? It's been a year. Just last morning I acknowledged I wasn't ready for it. But for some reason, I feel as though I am. Or that it's my only chance. It doesn't matter. I'm writing it. 

God, where to begin? Not even from the beginning. The distant past and the one that is just a year away have merged all together into one big memory of you. Jungkookie filling up every blank space of the last decade of my life. 

I can't believe that there was once a time where you and I were only friends, merely acquainted trainees. You were so much younger than me so I never assumed that it would work out that way. Not like it way it did. I was always five years older than you - now I'm six. That still doesn't make sense to me. It doesn't make sense. 

You were my moon, my sun, my stars, and my everything, and I can't believe that I ever had the privilege to call you my best friend, my brother, in my lifetime.

You were like a dream. A god that walked with us. Someone that was beyond all known facts and logic. A person, maybe more, who became all that was good in life. Standing next to you, despite being taller and older, I felt so small - you were electricity and I was static, trying so hard to be like you, trying to emit that same shock and light. I got addicted to your spark, and that's how you became my best friend.

But you were so humble. You still bought from the clearance and wore the same clothes. You were so unaware of your power that you'd jump through barricades to say thank you to our fans. Entire rooms would draw a breath when you'd walk in and you'd go straight for the snack table like you hadn't caused a traffic jam. It was so inspiring. I always wondered if you did it on purpose.

I found so much fun in every little thing we did. No matter what the occasion we found the energy to bicker and touch and giggle. I don't have anyone to do that with anymore, so I stand quietly - but I think about it often. I think about our stupid jokes and our silly games.

One of my greatest achievements ever was raising you. You weren't that young, but still growing, and I was so excited to witness you grow into the possibilities I knew were inside of you. One day you were this skinny kid with big eyes and the next you caught up to me in size. No one will ever understand what it was like realizing that you had grown up before me, growing more confident and sure, but your eyes and smile and laugh and personality had always stayed the same. You weren't so little anymore, but you were still my Kookie. I think back on those early days and wondered what I would've told you if I knew that I'd love you so much, and miss you so terribly, the first time we met. Would I be afraid? Would I know that I couldn't let that chance pass by? You were so young, then, but you were still young when you left, too. You'll just keep getting younger and younger as more years go on.

Watching your talent grow is part of that honor. I used to beg you for so long to sing for me. (Some nights, that's all I want to hear again.) Suddenly all you did was sing, and it was pure bliss for my ears. I was in heaven. Your voice made me feel things - it made me want to be better. It made me want to work harder. It made me want to show off to the world that you were my brother, the most talented man in the world, my best friend. You had the most beautiful voice that the world will ever know. I hope everyone knows that as well as I do. 

One day I will have kids, and I will make sure they know you deeply, the way I knew you. I will make sure they follow your model, listen to the advice you had to give the world. They'll know that time is precious. They'll know that Uncle Jungkook loved them very much, even if he was never around. I know that you'll help them when times get tough when I can't be there. Thank you in advance. 

I still turn to pinch you or slap your thigh, only to remember that you are not there. I can't hide the pain on my face when that happens, and it's been caught on camera many times. But I still do it anyway. 

I still walk into your room and fight back my tears. I still read all of our texts. I still think about the last words you said to me, and how I let you go so easily. I still think about what I could've done to save you. 

But a lot of the time I don't have to think - I just feel. I know you're still here, right next to me. 

Sometimes, you feel so close, that I forget that you're not here on earth with us. 

The truth is, I've learned a lot about grief. That it's not just mourning what once was, but what will never be. 

I know that I long and grieve for the things that we will never be able to do. I cry because you will never marry, or have kids, or grow old with someone that you love. I grieve for the memories we will never make, for the songs we will never sing, for the nights alone we won't get to spend talking and talking. I long for the parties we won't attend, the friends we don't get to make. And I long for everything that you should've been able to do - I long for you, and only you, in this mess of a world. Grief starts as this burning pain and then turns into this indescribable loneliness, where you are face to face with the knowledge that there's no one to fill that void. There never will be.

We learned a lot together in life. Alone, I am faced to learn things I do not understand. The first thing I learned is that I know almost nothing about life if it's not a life lived with you. Here I am, living, without you. I learned it the hard way. I learned it when I never wanted too. But I’ve accepted it. I’m living with it. 

I know that I will think of every time that was perfect for another I love you, a hug when I should've said something, for the rest of my life. I burn for those missed opportunities.

I know that life goes on (ha,) regardless of whatever tragedy occurs, and eventually makes up for its grievances with beautiful sunsets and happy nights. That there is always a reason to continue, something or someone to remind you that there's meaning in the endless tomorrows. 

I know that you are a part of my soul. I know that the members are parts of me, too, and that I am always what they are, and they are always me. 

I know that it hurts like hell sometimes.

I know that I forget bits of you every day. 

I know that I accepted long ago that this is my life now. But I won't ever understand. Or feel at peace with it. Maybe I know what peace is, maybe I have felt it at times, maybe that's all you know - but it's almost insulting when people ask if I've found it. 

At times I wonder what our lives would be like if you were still here. I hate that I can only imagine it and that I'll never truly know. There comes a point in grief when you take comfort in the hurt, the hurt that means you loved that person so much, that it still hurts, even after all this time. You can do incredible things with that hurt if you try. You can think of things that will never happen. You can create things you never thought you had the talent for. You can write beautiful memoirs and get through them without wetting the ink. 

I still hurt for you because I love you. And because you were Jeon Jungkook, and it's impossible to fathom that anyone could ever stop hurting for you. You better take that as a compliment, because it is. All it means is that you left such a big print on my life that your death completely changed the rest of it. You were so good. 

I will still be lonely at times. I will still cry here and there, and I will still grieve, even when I am old and Bangtan is nothing but a memory.

I will still get a tiny burst of hope every time someone knocks at my door, thinking that it's maybe you, wanting to cuddle. I'll still feel that hurt when it was only a figment of my imagination. 

But I know that no matter how deep the water is, you will always be at the shore, guiding me towards a better future, and one day, straight into your arms.

I love you. We all love you. We love you beyond words and with every part of us. And we'd do anything to get you back, right where you belong. 

And so that's it. I have nothing more to say. I will have more, tomorrow, but perhaps one day I won't. I will have gotten it all out. I will have no more memories to reflect on, no more what-ifs and wants.

When that time comes - I hope that life takes me then. 

I hope that you are doing okay. I hope that you've been happy. I hope that you're reading this and feel the truth in every word. My love for you is the one thing that is endless in a world where everything ends. Forever and ever.  

My brother, my maknae, my best friend, my Jungkook, my everything - we are always together. We always are one half of the other. And we will always be connected no matter how much distance and time separates us. I will spend the rest of my life missing you. I'm sorry for all that I couldn't do or say in person, but if you're seeing this, then I guess that has to be enough. 

To the one that will never see this - I'm sorry that we ran out of time. I promise I will make it up, if we are so lucky to meet again. 

Your Jin Hyung.'

———

Seokjin was not used to being alone. 

He wasn't a stranger to feeling alone, but as one holds onto their phones, their keys, their wallet, his members had always been there around him, brushing against his shoulder, smiling from across the room, reminding him that no matter how deeply he felt, he was never alone.

He stood at the edge of a muddy shore, feet sinking into the wet mossy patches, and stared out at a dark, cold, swamp that went to the horizon line. He was alone. 

Mint, strong, relentless, mint, slammed into his unprepared senses, seizing every part of his body, ripping his conscience from the assured, calm, stare he performed for the boys, and turned into ugly, petrified, grief.

He grieved. He stood there alone and grieved. 

The swamp ahead epitomized rank. Not an inch could be seen past the surface of the water, cloudy and a dusty brown, which covered the vast majority of the visible area. Even if it were to be a crystal blue, a layer of dull moss covered the outermost layer. Oak trees bloomed from the muddy, humid, despairing outlines, but not prettily. Their accessories of tangled vines and patches of mold trailed up their trunks, magnificent only in size and perseverance, where then leaves and branches exploded out, inwards, instead of towards the sky - which Jin could not catch a glimpse off. The only implication that the sun was risen and shone was a few speckles of pure light, and light that illuminated the back of large exotic leaves. 

Besides that, night was no different. Within a few minutes of silent, mournful, standing, his clothes began to stick to his skin. He glanced to his ruined shoes and pant cuffs, feeling himself continue to slowly sink in. Inexplicably, he felt remorseful for the rest of his white attire would stain. There was no perceivable reason to care when they were hand-me-downs when the marshland's stillness provoked a headache. But it was easy to care. Easy to latch on everyday concerns instead of . .

Instead of whatever this was. Seokjin brought upon his dizziness, refusing to breathe until he was on the verge of tipping over. Mint, mint, mint - he'd never stepped foot in a swamp before yet didn't need a degree to know mint was not the usual aroma floating around. He'd rather pungent moss, no matter the intolerability. 

A chill spread to each of his bones and warmth was completely out of the question. Alone, there was too much insecurity in being alone. The maze had been different. He was going mad and wandered, solo, yet knew in the back of his perplexed mind that the members were within the same borders as he. Now whole realities separated them. Countries he had explored alone and continents they had distanced, and Jin never liked it, never accommodated. 

Driving home without Jungkook belting lyrics in the passenger seat; mint brought him back there. He'd walked through rooms of sweaty men and toured lavish perfumeries and nothing compared to the intensity. His eyes watered, half from the particles attacking his pupils and half deriving out of the flashbacks of stormy nights crossing when he blinked - a lightning flash, while his nose stung. His tongue tasted it. Christmas time, the candy canes and stocking stuffers, and the first as six, sitting around shattered ornaments and stray needles from a discarded tree Seokjin shoved in a fit of remembrance.

The trauma response that contracted his muscles allowed for relaxation, though, it was melting into the acid pooling in his stomach. He'd never associated his phobia with trauma before but supposed that was what it was. Trauma held the corners of their tasks together. He'd never feared water in his youth, nor as an adult. Now he eyed it wearingly. 

As though any moment Taehyung's bloated body would surface and his assignment was to fish it out. 

His legs were stone. Seokjin was no longer driven by to need to protect; his members were not present. He had dirtied pennies of everything else. Like the currency, his shine had been rubbed away. Nothing was pushing him beside the promise of the universe, that he believed naively, because resistance went, first.

He stepped forwards. His shoes had been removed from his feet, thus the temperate mud squished in between his toes. Only a few feet separated him and the water, and every inch the ground become wetter. A single sinkhole and all was done for. There was no hand to grab. Jin thought of other hazards from the brim of his mind. Alligators, crocodiles - he didn't know the difference and what naturally lurked within the ecosystem. Drowning, too, with a single misstep. His lungs weren't burning from the primary mission but it would take little to reignite. 

Mint could be a killer as well. With a preference for a slow death. He had been dying a little bit every day for a year-long decade. The circumstances were perfect and he was entirely helpless to poison. He reached the opaque liquid, barely greeting him with weak waves. 

It was warm, enveloping around his calves in a sickly embrace. Like embracing a distant relative claiming to know you well. As well as incredibly lusterless. His limbs appeared to have been severed right past where they were dry. He sauntered in deeper, fists clenching in search of outside support to lean his unstable weight on, but there was an absence. His left foot quickly found refuge a couple of inches deeper than his right. His view tilted a bit. Seokjin thought that he'd soon reach an angle that would send the whole world spinning.

He maintained a steady eye on his surroundings, in search of something without a name. His hand dipped into the murk, and because of a feeling, he lifted it to his nose. A mint lake, perhaps the ocean, overtaken by shrubbery the same shade of green that plugged his nostrils and covered his eyes during apocalyptic nights. Seokjin whipped it away, held his breath, and willed himself to forget.

But that knowing feeling had never gone away. And made a return, here, as his gut whispered fervently. When he was waist-deep, the ground plateaued underneath him. There was some relief in avoiding needing to swim, yet, not sufficient to compensate for the concept of water itself. How a mixture of chemicals could fill the body and kill it slowly. Besides his soft splashes, no birds sang, no bugs chirped. His feet stuck and stuck. His heart grieved and grieved. 

He wished that there was some form of beauty. Even a half bloomed lily pad would have sufficed. A tiny reminder of what life hid away whilst corruption took center stage. In the absence of it, the disgrace was emphasized. When a rose wilted all that was left was the thorns. 

He only thought this philosophically at his worst. That midnight morning, floating back to his room, holding a pen tight in his hand, his notorious insanity ripened into insanity. Perhaps, it was all those wise words he pushed aside to make room for silly faces and jokes seeking vengeance and bleeding out when he needed logic, and rationale. Maybe his mind knew better on how to protect itself. Possibly he was destined to fall apart at the seams.

This was number three, he had to remind himself. The grand finale. He lost his mind twice and nearly thrice because the cosmos beckoned his inner, tormented, self. The first he was filled with adrenaline that managed to overtake and the second only the sight of Jimin wounded broke him free. He was alone. He wouldn't survive another mind break. 

Being the oldest, the cardinal, civic responsibility was all that he was ever given and nothing had ever been more important than being there at the end, when the next member crossed emotional boundaries and broke even in their contract, finishing at their weakest and in desperate need of support. Nothing would ever surpass reaching his Maknae to say all the things he never said. 

Time for hesitance had run out. He was racing a clock ticking for tranquility.

If he failed, died, or went home empty-handed, he would never rest again. His time to come to terms had exhausted, but Jungkook's could be reset. Jungkook could have all the time that he wasted. Enjoy the youth brutally stripped away. Surpass Jin in every major, minor aspect, and then some. 

Mint was there when he died. Wouldn't the sun come out, after centuries of darkness, if it still mingled in his nose when he was alive? 

Seokjin brushed past the sunken greenery scratching at his ankles. Upon his quickened pace, his splashing increased. At first, it put a dent in his action plan for the fear of drawing attention from a creature he did not want attention from, but there was no loophole. He'd have to be the star of a psychotic show. 

The swamp came alive, motivated by his energy. Suddenly birds began to sing a hollow, eerie, song, a constant whistle instead of staccato chirps. Life rustled in the trees, shaking leafs loose that fell over his head, grazing his nose, lashes, and ears. The obscure, slimy, vegetation touched him back, with intent more malevolent than a Venus flytraps bite. 

When the swamp water sloshed, its terrible scent stirred up, completely rejuvenated. A vigorous shake of a perfume bottle. Tears fell freely from his eyes with no resistance. His features were tight, except for his eyes, wide, and slack. He slashed through cutthroat, molars grinding. 

He traveled with no tourist attractions on the way. There were only swamps, for miles, and miles. The greenery was thicker. Out of nowhere, the first detour tickled his ankle, a single second warning, before the blood circulation to his wrist was sharply cut off.  

Seokjin let out a mangled shout, dragging to the left like the fish he hooked, except he always let them go. There was no indication of his release. Not when his offender entangled his arm, pressing deep enough to leave bruises - (odd, he thought, like that pain is familiar in the most foreign way possible) - his immediate defiance brought no benefits. The bounds tightened. The first punishment of refusal whipped back and with a crack of air forever tarnished the skin of his waist.

The pain, the sting, was all too intense that he couldn't even scream. His body contracted, instinctively pulling away but with no place to run. He forfeited the moment he reacted. The minute of shock was enough to place him at a disadvantage he couldn't crawl on his hands and knees out of. There's no point. Didn't I already lose you?

And then from out of the sky, a voice that came straight from the folklore of a magnificent hero, whispered by a mother in the depths of deep history, fell into his ears. "Hyung!"

Seokjin froze and his muscles clenched, keeping him in place as a vine tugged harshly. That voice. That boy. The magnificence of it all. Jungkook was not here and that was not anything he needed to consider but he was close and waiting, and Jin reacted violently at another strain. With all the strength within his body, he found the closest tree and clung to its mossy trunk, the spongey feeling the right type of uncomfortable under his fingers and against his cheek. Prophesied scent harsh. 

Jin reached to the nearest branch, face going red and frowning with the strain, and snapped it jaggedly when his grip was secure. It weighed no more than five pounds but was a legend in his hands, wrapped at the base. The air whipped as he stabbed it down, executing the vine slithering around his waist. 

He grabbed it with his right and whacked it hard, over and over again, until the parasite clinging to his left forearm fell limp, floating lifelessly. Vice versa was awkward but no less vicious. Seokjin had killed a couple of dozen flies, mosquitos, a handful of beetles, less than three months, and nothing close to a mammal. He guessed that cruelty was in everyone, hidden, more often than not.

The guilt simmered and went cold before it could boil. He trudged on, letting the sap-covered weapon fall. 

"Hurry, Hyung! I've been waiting for so long!"

His heart kissed his rib cage, yearning to break free and land on the owner of that voice, further beyond the farthest. Undoubtedly Jungkook remained past the horizon. He'd never speak with that cadence. The universe knew some but would never know Jungkook; not like he did. He figured he ached because it was close. Close enough to instill that instinct to respond and assist. Eight-year-old habits die hard - a slow, agonizing death. Too much of this, too much of that, all he had was too little. 

A clear cry of a crow echoed down from the sky. Seokjin tilted his head up in time to see the one, diving towards him, multiple into twos, fours, sixteens . .

Jin barely ducked and covered his precious lobes in time before his scalp was being pinched with dozens of nips and smacked with hard swings of feathers. Roused caws traveled down his eardrums to his brain, rendering him unable to process anything but the beating of wings and the claws clutching to tufts of black hair. His eyes were protected by the inner part of his elbows, blinding him, amplifying the experience to new levels of horrors. 

He struggled to process the attack, jerking and twitching away from pain straight into another bloodied beak. The birds fought for a landing spot, turning half of their anger onto each other, but Seokjin remained in between the conflict, the main dish. They ate as though they'd never known food in their lives. 

In between this, he found the mind to ask for the security of his amygdala as his scalp was being taken apart, hair by hair. Take my language, sight, senses, emotion, but don't take our memories. Don't force me to forget him. 

It's all we have. It's all I have.

Jungkook filtered through the chaos. "I'll do better! I'll be better! Just make it here!" 

Amidst a muscle command half in transit, his arms swung out wildly, swiping birds into the unforgiving swamp with messy, harsh, strokes. Wet feathers were all that remained after they were sucked under, forgotten. The tweaks then ran along his veins, tearing through his sleeve. He thrashed until he fell back in an unceremonious douse. The moment the crows sank they disintegrated into a mess of black; he felt their particles, vaguely.

But mostly the bath in November 10th, 2020, 6:56 p.m.

Jin emerged heaving a wet gasp for air. Immediately, his wounds stung, irritated by the baptizing. A fire burned up and down his scalp, to the tips of his eaten ears, to the v-shaped bites along his arms. His left eye fluttered shut, a blink interrupted by a steady stream of blood falling over, a stray from the pool sitting above. Yet when he was stopped in movement, his feet sank, and the mud knew exactly when to refuse to let go.

"Don't let me go, again. Don't leave me alone."

I won't. I won't fail you again.

He continued, leaving spots of deep red as bread crumbs. Jungkook continued, as well, the white noise stained with red. Dripping with it. 

"Hyung! Jin - Hyung!"

"Kook - ah!" He managed to reply, doing what he couldn't before. Respond. Intervene. His movements were borderline frantic, though remarkably coordinate, even though the possibility of bits of his brain poking out were high. "Hyung's coming, Jungkook!"

"Promise?!"

"Promise!"

Without apparent origin, his legs weighed ten pounds heavier. He thought it was exhaustion, but he wasn't tired - not in that way. Another weighty step and his foot found a thin resistance, suspending it momentarily even as he took solid stomps. 

Seokjin cupped his hand, submerged, and when it broke surface, watery bits of gel slipped through the cracks of his fingers. Mint jello. Fearing the implications, maybe tricks of the eye, he dropped his hand back down and the substance had better form, a more solid shape, sitting still in a wet clump.

The swamp was solidifying around him. Too quick for a plan to be made. The struggle was immediate. Energy drained from him like gas from an old car, acid building in his legs from the twenty-five extra pounds of pressure, rapidly increasing, until the gel teetered on solidity - clusters of ice freezing over. 

He reached up to wipe at the blood in his eyes. The few moments of distraction rendered his foot caught in place, something akin to drying concrete settling around his ankle. He yanked thrice before it gave way and by then, he was already behind. The odds slipped past. There was not a physical way for him to outrun the reckoning - it was already over his head.

Jungkook went silent. There was nothing left to fight for, except for everything. Except for himself. Somehow, the quiet invoked something in him greater than the noise. He did not want to die in silence, caught under his coffin before his last breath. Much less, alone. He could grieve behind locked doors and into a plate of uneaten food but there was a limit to his poise, shattering with the sight of a red and white striped candy.

His limit had never made itself more clear. 

Jin clawed through the mass, cracking through the hardening stone, kicking whenever he was caught, scrambling to reach the surface before he was trapped - in mint, in swamp, in time. He knew he was tragically desperate and fought to fall in deeper, make amends with everything that was a lost cause. 

He fought with all of the hurt that did not have the chance to become something beautiful, that had run out of time, that was nothing but shadows in the brightest of lights.

All the tears no thumb wiped away. Every spark that died before it could light. Dozens of dried-out pens and ink stains. 

All those terrible dreams, bodyweight next to his as he laid alone. Nights filled with uncontrollable sobs and gut-wrenching pain, squeezing ghostly hands, waiting without patience for soon to arrive, for the sun to come out, for the flowers to bloom again. 

They had happened, they had torn him to pieces, and Seokjin fought for their justice. 

It's all we have. I'm the only thing left of what we had.

The vision ahead flickered. The swamp was not endless; only appeared so with a screen, faltering before his eyes, giving way to the scene on the other side. A clear sky. Baby blue ocean. Ashore, distant, but closer than the two separated ends of his mind. 

Seokjin drew towards that hallucination. On the tip of the tongue, he tasted the salty seawater, felt the grains of sands rolling along his gums. He stumbled atop of the slippery surface, falling and bruising his knees until they bled, but continued, with everything left inside of him. 

He guessed he was making a point.

He broke through the muck and vines, and the chokehold of that damned spice, and yet, the weight inside of him did not lighten. The parasite draining his perseverance remained. His immune system ceased its fight. Clean water bounded him and the difference was immediately felt, a few degrees cooler, however, the muck washed from his body and his soul went with it, suspended in swirls. 

His wounds were violated by the salt component. His body wanted to react, flinch away to the concept of pain, yet his nerves had been broken. He swam until the burning numbed, the thoughts falling to the back of his mind like the waves that pushed him forward. 

As he floated away, the mint faded. But he did not forget. Days would rise and nights fall and he would remember, eternally.

There'd always be a world in which nothing could be saved.

His arms and legs were weakly paddling until they weren't. His chin was raised before dipping down, liquid salt breaching his lips. The warmth from the sudden appearance of the sun-kissed Seokjin's skin before a cloud floating by.

And he knew that he was sinking. He knew that there was no fight left within to pull himself up. Somehow, it did not frighten him. It occurred naturally. A body shutting down at old age, a light inside flickering until it went black. His eyes slowly closed, limbs surrendering to the soothing pressure of cool water. The sun heated his face, his corpse, and behind his eyelids, burned was the irony of it all.

The boomerang one flung always came back to another. 

To say goodbye to the sky, he peeled his lids open to a thin slit. 

He could've sworn there was something at the shore; a far away, dark, figure standing in the sand, a hand outstretched.

All that was, was blue.

———

Gritty sand smashed into the pores of his cheek. Under his palm, he felt the rough texture, clenching and relaxing to reassure his barely conscious self that it was not muck. When slick did not ooze over his fingers, his danger-sensing instincts returned to their cave, awaiting their future calling. 

He laid there for a long minute, or two. The sand was warm, like the heat-generating on his back. Exhaustion overwhelmed all two hundred and six bones in his beaten body. Fearing the repercussions, he refused to twitch, avoiding aggravating the murals of bruises painted under his skin. It was better to lay there, and maybe, sleep.

His peace was rudely interrupted by water sloshing against his foot. Finally lifting his head, he looked behind him, recognizing the remarkably clear ocean he admired from afar.

It was day when he was last conscious. Of course, he had no way to tell if the sun truly rotated where he struggled, but it was day, still, and he took what comfort he could find in that. 

Gathering himself to his feet, he found with mild surprise his white clothes were still a perfect bleach. Lifting his top, prodding where he sorely remembered his waist injury, he discovered all his wounds had been healed. He felt his clean scalp and a full head of hair. Seokjin was physically exactly how he was when he agreed to debate his life.

His eyes trailed up the beach shore until they reached thick, green, grass, and then a modest-sized white house. Art, of all kinds and colors, decorated the front porch, some drying, some simply hanging. From the distance, mingled with his fatigue, he could not make out what the subject matter was.

For an unknown reason, he did not care. Seokjin pivoted on his heel, taking his time, to face the water, because he assumed that now, he had it.

Three tasks. He had survived three tasks. Three was a small number, but so was seven, and so was twenty - three. No longer was the air mint - it was sea. He desperately needed a drink.

"Hyung?"

The air inside his body evaporated, taking the saliva from his tongue, and the steady rhythm of his heart along with it.

He knew that voice.

He didn't just know that voice. There was so much attached to that voice, but all he could think at that moment, feet planted in tickling grass, was that he knew that voice. 

The voice was truly, unmistakably, his. Jin had only heard it over recordings for the last year, forced to remember its exact pitch and its many tones through videos and voice memos, but there was no doubt that it was his. Jin could hardly ever forget its relative sound, even if he hadn't had those physical memoirs. No matter how much time had passed, or if it got a bit different to recall how it sounded when he just awoke, Jin knew that beyond all the grief, and pain, and sorrow, that Jungkook's voice had sounded out behind him, immediately healing all the wounds, mending the shattered glass, and stitching the ruptured ends of his heart back together - and he knew.

He knew. 

His body, eager like a lost puppy returning to its owner, turned slowly, his mind racing to catch up with the movements. The promise behind him sucked him in like a black hole, but the mature knowledge that promises can easily be broken stuttered his speed and he couldn't get his hopes up beyond nostalgic recognition. 

Until he turned.

He stood on the porch, right at the top of the short staircase, dressed in all black. Jin could've snorted at that. Weren't spirits supposed to wear white? But it was fine because Jungkook stood there with short sleeves, tattoos freely exposed, muscled arms lax in shock. 

His face was just as he had left it. But even younger. Likely the effects of living in a stress-free environment. Dark, fluffy, locks toppled over his head, dripping down into his eyes, his big eyes, even wider with surprise. Pink pouty lips slightly apart. A chest moving, breathing, and a nose twitching with anticipation.

"Jungkook-ah?"

Seokjin's voice cracked, clearly exhausted, but he paid it no mind. He couldn't move, unable to process the fact that he was staring at his dongsaeng, after so long. 

At his call, light pooled in Jungkook's eyes. Before, they were confused, hesitant, and unsure, as if he was also debating whether Jin was truly only a few arm lengths away. All another sign that Jungkook was alive, and hadn't changed at all.

"You're here."

Jin was moving. Like a Hyung moves to a Maknae who wasn't expecting their arrival but was so clearly needed it. Jungkook clambered down the stairs, a smile warping into his confused features; they stopped a meter away.

"Are you - what - you're here -" Jin coughed out, his pulse quickening as the realization continued to slowly dawn on him. He had traveled through hell for this goal, gone through the craziest experiences of his life, but he hadn't realized his expectations for victory were so low.

But it didn't matter. Because Jungkook was here.

"You're real." He breathed, in awe, their proximity allowing him to see every small breath, every tuft of hair. Every smooth pore and long eyelash. His voice quickly grew wet, but he refused to let his vision blur.

Not this time.

"Are you real, Kook-ah?" His arm extended, reaching out to him at a stubbornly slow pace, terrified to phase through energy; Jungkooks figure disintegrating, floating away in ash. "Are you really real?"

A beautiful, gorgeous, terrific smile bloomed across Jungkook's face. "Yes, Hyung, I'm real -"

Jin touched him. His shaky fingers, against his exposed forearm, touched warm skin. 

His knees went uncharacteristically weak. 

"You're real. I'm touching you right now." His voice followed the weak movements of his body, now melting into pure, unadulterated, relief. "Jungkook - you're so real - "

Jungkook bit his bottom lip, and then pulled Jin into an embrace, and Jin thanked whoever was listening for allowing the younger to keep his strength because he nearly collapsed then. 

"Oh, Jungkook-ah," he mewled pitifully, wrapping his arms around his waist, pushing his face into his neck, reaching up to touch his cheek, and hair, and eyes, wanting to feel every single part of him and becoming looser and looser as waves of intense familiarity crossed over him. Like his body had never forgotten each individual part of Jeon Jungkook. "My Kook-Ah. ."

Jungkook was holding him back just as tightly like he was afraid to let go. Jin stopped breathing completely, which didn't mean much, as he found out pretty soon that wherever they were, oxygen wasn't a necessity. Which in turn meant he could say as much as he wanted without passing out. 

"I love you. I love you so much, Jungkookie. Hyung loves you so much." 

It wasn't much. But it was the one thing he had truly wanted the chance to say again. 

The reply was beautifully unexpected. 

"I love you, too, Jin-Hyung. I missed you so much."

Jin burst into tears, immediately convulsing into true, ugly, sobs. He suddenly forgot the overwhelming love radiating from his chest, and remembered an ache - the one when he thought about his poor, poor, Kookie, pitifully.

Because before this moment he could not fathom that maybe, Jungkook missed him back.

They could've stayed like that for hours. However long it took for Jin's sobs to turn into hiccups. Jungkook was patient, and by then, fighting back another onslaught of silent tears, and his own shaky knees from caving in.

It just felt so nice hugging his Jin-Hyung again.

He needed to look at his face again, the need suddenly there and pushy. Detaching his face from his neck, unsticking like Velcro, Jin's eyes eagerly sought Jungkook's, who was already gazing at him fondly.

His Jungkook - face to face with his Jungkook. A common, everyday thing that he took for granted. He took everything for granted. Seokjin cupped his cheeks, sighing in pleasure as their foreheads touched. That feeling quickly failed to satisfy him, too, so he pulled back and pressed his lips in the same spot, too messily for Jungkook's usual liking. But the younger did nothing to wipe it away, only breaking into that charming, oh so familiar smile. Jin's heartfelt was too big for his body.

A thought visibly flickered over Jungkook's eyes, and that beautiful smile faded. He still looked ecstatic, and teary around the edges, but the inevitable questions reached the front of the line. 

"How are you here, Hyung?" Gone was the wonder, replaced with hesitant skepticism, growing horror. "You didn't -"

"No," Jin cut through, denying the question. He didn't think he had died. There were a million consequences if he had, but, at the moment, holding Jungkook's small face between his hands, he couldn't care less. "We - were given a chance, Kook-ah. All of us. To bring you back to us."

Jungkook's eyes could grow to double their size if impressed enough, and they went triple. "What? You mean, home? I can go home?"

"Yes, we can bring you home, Kook-ah. Like all of this never happened."

"Was it that voice?"

"You know that voice?"

"It's what led me here."

Even if he had the energy to, he wouldn't have asked any more questions about supposed guiding deities. Absolutely nothing else mattered. Seokjin thanked whoever was listening and brought Jungkook back into a crushing hold, feeling his strong back, the smooth fabric, thick hair. Skin without scars, skin without blood, soft skin that was untouched and harmed.

"I thought I'd never feel you again. For so long. I almost feel like throwing up."

Jungkook chuckled weakly. "Please, don't, Hyung."

"Oh, shut up. I haven't seen you for a year. I'm allowed to throw up on you for compensation."

They laughed together, the sound of a thousand-person choir, and Jin pulled away. With him again, it wasn't awkward, or uncomfortable. In a way, it felt like no time had passed at all. 

But it had. Seokjin's tongue went dry. Jungkook, with a glint in his eye unknown before, took his hand and turned them around, so they were both facing the sea, and then sat. Jin followed. Jungkook scooted closer until there was not an inch in between, and rested his head on his shoulder. 

The stars realigned. Seokjin gathered a few comprehensible thoughts.

"What is this place, Kookie?"

"It's where I live, now. Kinda my happy place. I can come and go whenever I please. But I live alone."

Seokjin did not know what to think about what the afterlife was like. Nor the fact that he was there. For one who had been engulfed by death, more so the urge to understand, this affected him very little. As though existence ceased to matter with him by his side.

That was the thing about love. 

"Oh. Where have you gone?"

Jungkook spoke with a smile in his voice. "So many places. On earth, and here. It's like there are a million different planets I can go to just by the thought of it. I met so many people - like my ancestors, Hyung. Some other celebrities who are gone, too, presidents, veterans, even army, Hyung. They're here, too. They're always so happy to see me, but I get kinda sad seeing them. I wish they had gotten longer."

With all these spirits he spoke of, Jin wondered why he lived without another presence. "You've been okay?"

"Yeah. I am. Everything's so stress-free here. I can paint all day. Eat whatever I want. I don't have to worry about anything."

His vision blurred, and he could not do anything to prevent it. 

"When night comes, I can reach up, and touch the stars." Jungkook nudged his shoulder lovingly. "Remember when we used to play like that? I think that was one of my blessings. That's how I remembered you. That was ours, and I have it, here."

Ours. 

A wave crashed onto the shore. Jin watched as it stole the top layer of sand away, simultaneously replacing it with another, neither new nor old. The crystal water receded. The land began to dry. Then it returned, and drowned the shells and scuttling crabs. Again, it receded.

His heart throbbed.

"It sounds nice, Kook-ah."

"It is," Jungkook shifted against him, taking a moment to find his next words, as though anything he could say would be wrong. "But . . I miss home, a lot."

Jin stilled. "Home?"

"Being back on earth. In Korea. With all of you."

The water lapped at the tips of their toes. 

There was no smile, this time. 

"I miss seeing you guys every day. I come down to visit, but I can never stay long. It's not the same, you know? I can't talk to you. I just watch you guys work and talk to each other. . ."

". . I miss performing. You guys have done so great, now, but I can't watch you guys perform. I miss it so much."

He went on. And on. As though he had no one to speak to for three-hundred and sixty-five long days.  Jin knew Jungkook, at least, knew who he was when there were five years in between and rainy days were rainy days, and he was one to turn away when overwhelmed with pain. His body leaned in further, pushing against his side in a doomed attempt to latch their skin together, to fall in him, forever. He spoke with no filter and regard for exposure. Seokjin feared that now, he knew nothing at all. 

His Jungkook was gone. This was him, but with sadder eyes. 

"And my family . . all my friends . . mostly, it's you guys. I feel kinda lonely sometimes, you know? It's quiet. It's like being in my apartment back at home . . I never really liked being there, alone."

The ways their lives constantly overlapped failed to please him any longer. They had become curses.

"I also felt guilty. I put you guys through a lot. I have everything I want up here, and you had all that happened. That wasn't fair, and I'm sorry. You should know that I'm sorry." He did not once pause to breathe. His Jungkook breathed. "Were you okay, Hyung? After all, that happened?"

The chance laid itself out for him. To blame where he couldn't blame before. Jungkook would take it with a bowed head because that was his fundamental being. There was no one to bear witness. 

His knee fit snugly in his hand. Time would change anyone, yet, could never change the memories stored in hidden corners within the two's minds. Waiting to be rediscovered, dusted, and framed, when they stumbled across a song, a stray conversation, a strangers laughter. Together. 

"Eventually." He emphasized the word with a squeeze. "Eventually, I was. It was just . . hard. I'm glad you were happy up here all this time. I never want you to feel what we did, Kookie. Not ever."

Each time their eyes locked the breath was knocked out of him. He could not speak. His tongue twisted over confessions that he swore to reveal the moment this day came. 

"I had so much to tell you the moment you left us," Seokjin laughed without humor, licking at his dry lips. "Now that you're actually in front of me . . My mind is blank. I just can't believe I made it . ."

"I . . actually wrote it all down. I -" Jin's hand unexpectedly found paper. A stack as thick as the lining of his throat. He brought it to his front and what was left inside of him dropped. "Oh."

Jungkook peered into his lap, a curious tick to his brows. "What is that?"

Everything that you put me through. 

"All of my letters."

"You wrote that many?"

Everything I cannot forgive you for. 

"I've written one every day since the 3-week mark. There's about 300 here."

"Can I read one?"

Everything. You're still everything.

"Of course. They're yours, anyway. Uh - oh. This is the one I wrote today." Seokjin drew in a breath, eyeing him as he straightened to properly read his grand memoir, leaving remnants of his warmth on his body. "You know it's been. . . it's been a year."

Jungkook kept his eyes on the beginning words. His expression fell indecipherable. 

"I know."

He rubbed his thumb over the dried ink, speaking something about the familiarity of Jin's handwriting silently, yet voicing another thought. "We only wrote letters to each other when we were told. Why didn't we do this on our own?"

Jungkook paused. Seokjin picked up where he left off. "I thought we had time."

They stared with an unreasonable amount of longing for two right besides each other. He missed him. He didn't know why he still missed him.

Jungkook eventually broke away and began to read, a slight pout to his lips. Almost immediately, his eyes watered, forcing him to blink rapidly to not miss a single syllable. 

As he continued, his composure chipped away. A crease in his forehead dipped, and smoothed, when he read a line twice. He'd be satisfied for a mere second until he returned, reading it twice more, occasionally glancing to Seokjin as though to convince himself that the author was the same man who first greeted him kindly all those years ago, who he bickered and pinched with between schedules, who he'd never seen inconsolable until . . .

Imagine how it felt to write it. Imagine how heavy the pen was in my palm. 

When he finished, he turned to Jin with a quivering lip caught in between his teeth. His eyes glistened, pupils dilated with emotion he had no idea how to process. His fingerprints embedded into the paper in fault of his tight, frozen, grip. Seokjin selfishly wished him terribly empathy and still apologized unprompted, handing out a soft smile. 

"This is the saddest thing I've ever read."

"I'm sorry."

"Do you really love me this much?"

"From the bottom of my heart."

"You think all of this?"

"I only wrote it today, Kook."

Jungkook's skin turned rapidly pale. He looked from the tip of Seokjin's toes, then up to his hairline. 

"You . . you're here."

The air in his lungs was expelled as the younger dived into a strong embrace, wrapping his arms right around his waist, placing his face against his stomach, and wrenching out words from an overflow of the tears he'd been holding in.  

"I love you, Jin Hyung. I love you. I love you."

"I love you more," he replied in a thin whisper into his hair.

"Please don't be sad anymore. I'm not leaving again."

"No, you're not." 

He breathed in the scent of beach perfumed into his scalp, all the clarification he could need.

 "You're never leaving me again."

Jungkook rested there long enough for Jin to consider what was next. He did not know how to say that the others were competing for his life with their own. He could not reveal that for himself, either. The youngest would not attempt to find the flattery in that, and, for all that he had gone through, Jin decided that the conversation would be saved for later, or never. Jungkook wouldn't be able to understand because he didn't know. His sacrifices, his sanity, were all to remain secrets hidden in dusty drawers and behind closet clothing racks. 

Jungkook wouldn't understand that they were all that was left.

"What did you have to do?" He asked once slightly composed, drawing away to look up at his face. "To find me?"

Seokjin took in a long, relieved, at the least, content breath, lips twitching upwards.

"Swim through a mint swamp."

Then, following the handwritten checklist of morals, he breathed the sigh out, and let it wither.

It took everything within him to say it. He easily could have been selfish, but that wasn't who he was, and that wasn't the Hyung Jungkook loved dearly, in his past life. Jin had never seen him in a state of pure peace. He spoke with wonder, with what dreams were made of. Their life, their earth, would kill that fascination with the same brutality present at his death. No mercy for the biggest of eyes. There was no desire to leave empty-handed, but his bloodthirsty vengeance had run out of fuel.

All that remained was guilty conscience.

"I missed you, Kookie. I truly, truly, did. But . . this place looks amazing. And . . I understand if you want to stay - you don't have to come back - this is enough for me -"

"I'll come back."

Seokjin's breath stuttered. Jungkook straightened out and stared at him with all seriousness. "What?"

"I'll take the offer."

The older stared blankly until he smiled, and looked fondly between the house, to him, and the ocean, but returning to Jin in the end. 

"It is great up here. But not better than being with you guys. I don't know if I can wait any longer for all of you to join me."

Jin still harbored a bit of selfishness.

"Okay. That's okay."

Jungkook smiled once more, though, mostly to himself. Seokjin couldn't make any assumption of what he was thinking. But it looked good. All of it, the future, appeared good. Minus the remaining five tasks, there was nothing else to consider. For the first time since they were separated, his ears were cleared, and he could hear the birds singing, distantly. 

Without reason, everything began to hurt.

Jin stared at his side profile as he stared out to the sea, making sense of his jaw, his nose, his lips, but no sense of the pain, the truth, the reality that Jungkook and he were separated. Never were they separated. Seokjin had always been right there, by his side, except when he needed to be, except when he could have kept him company. 

There came a profound, excruciating moment, gazing at his rounded features, where he realized how young he was. Still so young, and dead. Young and dead. Two words that didn't make sense. 

Jungkook was beautiful, and he was young, and he was dead. He opened his mouth and out came the clicking of a pen. 

"Suddenly I have more to say."

He turned to him, thoughtful, content, and still, twenty-three, still stuck in time. There must be something about that age. There had to be a reason why it had to be that age.

"Then say it."

———

Chapter Text

Behind his eyelids, he knew that soft imitation lighting warmed the color of his skin. Beneath his feet, the ground was solid, yet not smooth. Plush, like carpet. The sound of an air conditioner kicking on confirmed his suspicions. He reached back and his hand found the edge of a desk.

Yes, he was inside, and perhaps that was better than the outdoors, perhaps there was more stability to share between four walls and a roof, but he only knew of one place that burned that specific candle, because lavender was meant to be the prime example of aromatherapy. He took a step forward and his calf met a coffee table he knew was rich mahogany and stained with tears and tea rings. He knew that if he lowered a hand he'd find balls of yarn, a tissue box, fidgeting toys, and other miscellaneous objects with pleasing textures. The desk behind him had a notebook, somewhere, with his words written from another's hand. On the opposite side of the table, a deep blue couch's cushions sank in and the olive blanket laid over the back had hugged the deepest winters. He knew all of this without opening his eyes. He knew it like the back of his hand, like the scar on his index finger's knuckle.

He knew it like he knew sorrow and pain.

Therapy was a sore subject for many. A very thin line between an objection and a quick surrender. He was never one against it. He was closer to an advocate - telling his friends, family, fans, to seek the help that they needed, to speak clearly when one needed to be heard. But it's different, being the trusted friend, the role model, the one gently guiding a shoulder. It's different from when your shoulder is the one being held, and the hand on top is heavy, words all soothing but the weight pushing you into the floor.

He never realized even the most careful concern could be a walk to the gallows. Not until he stared up at the noose. Until it stared back.

Standing in the session room invoked familiar emotions. Like when he was on stage and he exploded into a confident, carefree, blend of loose limbs, or when he walked through his family's house door and leaned into his mother's touch and obediently did as told, a different side of him emerged. Immediately, the defenses set in. He readied himself for a grueling hour of facing pain he thought had blown away, until he was broken down, and didn't want to leave. Was too scared to face the outside world. Except he opened his eyes and his doctor was nowhere to be seen. 

She was older, twice as many years written in her skin as he, and only somewhat looked the part. In the fine lines of her face, maybe, but not the glint in her eyes. As though there were always magnificent secrets waiting to be found. 

He waited. She never seemed to share.

Her history was not all that tragic. A failed marriage, divorced parents, a bully in high school. Yoongi thought it to be ridiculous. She, who knew nothing about hospital floors and the echoes of a mostly forgotten laugh, was meant to counsel him, an all-knower. Possibility appeared to be out of the realm. No strings were attaching them except an insurance number and an NDA. 

Except she managed to know him better than he knew himself. At every dead end, she'd find a door. With every stutter, she'd form crystal. He was enthralled; eager to know how a few years of school prepared one for it all. She said it was experience, but when he asked if he was like any other, she said no. Yet all his emotions were connected to a name, catastrophizing, all-or-nothing, minimizing, and no longer were they foreign, strangers that knocked at his window and door. They were abstraction, down the hall, overgeneralization, downstairs, black-and-white, upstairs. All except for one. They were a mystery across the road. 

Why he loudly proclaimed his independence in the face of flames but cowered at the sight of a falling snowflake. 

If he rubbed the carpet harsh enough, he could bet that it would release the tight smell of despair. How many tears had he shed, here? How many thoughts manifested straight from his lips? How many times was he told about death, reminded of its permanency, only to end up there again, destined to reverse it?

The last time he had been in there was not more than a few days prior. I know that the anniversary is coming up, she said. I use the word anniversary for celebrations, he replied. What would you like to call it, then? She was unbreakable. She had no fears. She was built with the strength he wish he had. Maybe it's better if we just call it a year, and then two, and three. Then it's almost a year, she leaned back into her chair, which was empty a few feet away from where he stood. What do you think about a year?

I think that it doesn't matter what I think. It's never going to be anything but a year.

But it's his, and yours. It's yours.

No, not anymore. He's gone. It's gone. It's ash, now, and I'm burning everything else so that I don't know the difference. 

The office was nothing more than a hole in the wall on the outskirts of the city. He couldn't risk being seen at a skyscraper in the heart of Seoul, couldn't handle the flashing lights and screams any longer. Outside of the session room, there was a lobby six feet wide at best, with two cushioned chairs to wait in, a small desk, sometimes with a teenaged secretary who only showed up on the days her nails were painted, and soft music. Yoongi never saw anyone enter or exit in their time together. It made him wonder if this was all a dream. Maybe he awaken. He never did. He went to the door, to strengthen his assurance of his presence, and what was on the other side only threw him off the earth's axis. 

The hallway was the whitest white he had ever seen, insulting his corneas until they settled. The ceiling, walls, floor, were all made of the same, concerning perfectly, material. He figured that there were turns, and openings, however, there were no shadows, or grays, resulting in a completely blank slate ahead. Driven completely by curiosity, Yoongi ventured forwards, leaving the door ajar behind him, the only pop of color in the monochromic reality. It contrasted so greatly that it appeared to be a black hole, something devious when the real murmur of sinister intentions laid within the soft echo of his footsteps. 

He only knew when to turn when he caught sight of something other than white - black, in his peripheral. Along the opposite side of the hall wall, a desktop sat atop a small, slightly grayed, desk, and when he squinted, he saw the outlines of an office chair, pure as the floor it stood on. Next to it, and across, were two identical cubicles, down to the position of the mouse. The sight was nothing less than unsettling. If humanity was meant to exist in this place, he guessed that they would be 2D, and upon their first sight of the sun, would shrivel under the light. He didn't bother to try and load the computer up - there were no connecting wires, much fewer outlets. He did touch. Every piece was plastic.

Yoongi couldn't think much of anything in the first place. Unlike her office, teaming with personality, this was blank. An entire city wiped out from a storm. He knew without a doubt that he wasn't meant to exist here - he was an exception, thrown across realities. Yesterday he would have confidently stated that there was no worse hell than earth. Then the sun fell. 

Keeping note of the general location of his therapy office, he ventured out, seeking a pop of color. Hopefully, an indication of his task. It was easy to forget that he had a purpose, that there was purpose, in everything he was doing. He had to go on. If there was no fight he had to make fists at anything that caught his eye. 

Jungkook was his purpose. He didn't know how to be in the area that he mourned him in and simultaneously fight until his bones bled. All the thoughts inside of his head jumbled and tangled and he knew he was making close to no sense to even himself. He was desperate for something that was beyond his reach, always had been. 

His pace was his own, but the doubts came crashing in, doubts of whether it was quick enough. If he had already been left behind. 

Whatever the hell that meant. 

He walked for a mild five minutes, slowly, and keeping his eyes set on his blind spots before being assured that there was nothing to seek. It was expansive, but not necessarily set up like a maze. The rows were evenly spaced, a long line of cubicles breaking off a few feet from the room walls. Within, the same plastic setups. He realized that they had no shadows. 

Yoongi took in a low, deep, breath. He was either completely alone, or not, and both possibilities were equally terrifying. But already, he was lonely, hand twitching for another to hold. 

"Is anyone there?"

He didn't realize how quiet the room was until his words ricocheted. No reply came, and he gave up that hope and tried to find some consolation in desertion.

Then, from behind, came a soft shuttle. Yoongi turned, his heart rate immediately quickening to a nauseating pace.

He held his breath until his cheeks went red, awaiting another sound. The moment his guard settled, and he thought that his brain might have been creating something in the vast nothingness, an unmistakably lively clatter of plastic spiked his blood pressure once again. He was no longer lonely. 

He had a sliver of an idea. The only rational, though nothing about his situation was close to rational, connection. The possibility of him being correct encouraged him to speak louder than a whisper. On the heavier, less forgiving, chance that he wasn't, it was a deadly flip of a coin to even let out a sigh. 

"Noona?" 

The shuttering ceased.

"Oh, Yoongi-ssi, come in. Where have you ran off too?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Yoongi turned on his heel, beginning a brisk pack back in the direction from which he came, back to the hole in the wall. Indescribable relief pulsed through his body. On a high, he did not stop once to placate the pounding in his chest that screamed impossible.

Except she wasn't inside of the office. Perhaps she had came out in search of him, and now was waiting, so he wouldn't lose his way. Yoongi exited the room for a second time and went to the end of the hall. 

She was in the open space on the other side he hadn't ventured on.

Her back was to him, and she was a strikingly vivid contrast. There was affectionate recognition at the dark yoga pants, long maroon cardigan, loose bun at the base of her head, her black hair streaked with grey. 

But the way she was standing was off, and the sight refused to settle well within him. She did not turn, only remained frighteningly still. Something warm drained out of him and something cold came as a quick replacement. 

"Noona?" He repeated, voice rising in concern. 

Not a twitch of acknowledgment. Thirty seconds ticked by and Yoongi was beyond perplexed, shifting uncomfortably. Had her voice been a hallucination? Was she one as well? He opened his mouth to call out again, yet the words went dry. 

A feeling fell into his hands. 

There's something instinctual about it. Shriveling in terror minutes before the jump scare even occurs. That claimed sixth sense for disaster. He's never been psychic, only felt that gut-churning fear after the concern was presented by someone better inclined until he noticed that her torso was not slightly rising and shrinking with the proper motion for breathing. In his ears began that nearly unintelligible horror movie music designed exclusively for peaking heart rates. It grew colder. 

Whatever it was in front of him, it was not his therapist, and it was not human, either.

The first movement was Yoongi's, his body finally catching up with his brain's orders a minute after the realization and breaking into a badly paced, poorly executed, sprint the opposite way.

And then came the chase. 

Harsh, determined, footsteps began fifty feet away and then somehow close behind at ten before he could gain another inch. Her small height and slim stature revealed its deception; the ground rumbled under her step. 

The fear inside warped his surroundings together until they were a blurry mess with no place to hide, nowhere to go. The continued pattern of the office rushed by, not fast enough. 

Terror like this was previously unknown for Yoongi. You're not moving fast enough. Your murderer is on your heels. Those breaths in your ears aren't even your own. 

He noted before the size of the office but now everything seemed too small. And he was still not fast enough. His brain felt like it rattling in his skull, cohesive thoughts scrambling, he'd forget his own name if asked. Nothing made sense but the urge to escape. How long since humanity required that instinct? Too long. He wasn't built for this. Modernized behavior caused an itching for a weapon that did not exist. 

She was there - her hot breath on his neck. A putrid strength emitting, netting around him, marking him for the kill. He had never smelt death before but it had to be that on him, burning his eyes, breaking through his skin. 

She was not human. She did not lose that predatory instinct. She was the weapon and hurling herself straight towards the softest parts of his skin. That ten feet of leeway was part of the game she could end anytime.

Perhaps she was one to play with her food. 

She remained there no matter how hard he pushed himself. He was fit but the sloppiness of his form, all loose limbs flailing to reach higher speeds, rendered years of stamina training worthless. Their chase was a straight shot for the longest minute of his life. Possible refuge never showed its face.

There was nothing but him, and her. 

Yoongi was completely helpless. She was the one who always helped him. He didn't understand why it turned out this way. 

He had to turn eventually, unless the room went on forever and forever, and there wasn't much relief in that, either. What if he turned here, suddenly, throwing her off if she expected him to wait till he was forced? With too little time for deliberation, he turned at a sharp angle that left a pinch in his side. 

It wouldn't have mattered. Ten feet did not waver. Yoongi flew by the plastic furniture and out the other end, turning, pinching his right side. 

Only then did he get a glimpse of her front, nothing more than a passing glance, but enough of a startle to make the distance nine as he stumbled. 

Not human at all. 

It appeared that her flesh was rotting and nearly peeling off the bone. Her skin, a golden flush, turned a seasick green in the areas of mild decay, but black where time had run its course. Her eyes were lifeless. Solid night. The most alive part of her was the way she followed - with pure dedication. The only program set in her body - kill. She did not run, posture and legs too straight and arms flat at her sides, but her speed was impressive all the same. The room grew cold. 

And then it was eight. Yoongi didn't know when he lost his pace but his backside began to burn from proximity. Her presence was toxic. Every inch closer he felt something he felt his system wearing. The fumes melted his brain until the only thoughts were 'run,' the least prolonged action he could do. 

The effects of fatigue were beginning to wear at his body and every breath he punched out set fire to his lungs. Not a part of him wished to slow but the lethal knowledge that he couldn't, even to glance back, was draining the precious adrenaline in his blood. 

He needed to stunt her chase, gain any amount of time. Before it was seven. And then six. Physical power was clearly part of her specialty - he could not outrun her nor maintain his pace much longer. If he were to weigh his chances of winning an altercation the scale wouldn't even register the cue to reset. 

There was a particularly strong intrusive thought that maybe, he was simply doomed. If he was gone at least he'd never be wronged again. But it was intrusive for a reason. He did not wish to die, would not lay down and accept it. Stronger than the abyss was the light. 

He had only one piece of knowledge in his favor. She was not human. He was. He had systems beyond the urge to hunt. Could likely outsmart her in anything but her own game. Had nearly three decades of life experience and an insistent will to live.

He had to at least try.

For Jungkook.

Yoongi made another sudden turn. One that she didn't expect, for he heard an extra few backtracking steps. It only offered him a second more time. He snatched it greedily, with the same fervor as the chair he took previously tucked under a pale desk, lifted in the air, and swung around with every bit of strength he owned. 

Too late did he remember that the furniture was all plastic.

The chair connected with the side of her head, and though she flinched, it was only in mild surprise. All that occurred was a weak thunk sounding out upon contact, and then a series of clatters until it settled lifelessly on the floor. They both paused in their movements. 

Silence.

Her lips spread, skin cracking and bleeding, into a demented smile that reached cheekbone to cheekbone. Yoongi wondered what would be left of him. 

Stuck in over assumption of his own abilities, he tried to sprint, again, betting on that single-second delay predators had. But she wasn't a backyard dog who went inside for kibble every night, had never tasted raw blood. Nor a lioness with a grass obstructed view of the long-legged antelopes. There was nothing flawed about her tactics. There were no advantages that weren't her own. 

He made it five whole steps away.

A shockingly steel grip on his forearm held him firmly in place whilst he screamed, kicked, desperately tried to pull himself away, then those pleas morphed into a single agonized cry as the claws that had been teasing the hairs on his skin sunk inside. 

They burned through his skin and muscle like knives dipped in flames. Yoongi continued to thrash wildly as the thick smell of iron hit his nose, fighting a lost cause. His body was resisting but one by one the sections of his mind closed shop, cutting off the hormones pressuring his escape. It was inescapable. The more he cried for mercy the larger her pupils swelled. Chunks of dead skin littered the floor as she decayed further, falling apart before his eyes, but still high on the catch. 

With the strength of a dozen grizzly bears, she pulled him in closer, slowly, that bloody grin never fading. A switch inside of him flipped, staring directly into the cold winter in her eyes, and he fell paralyzed. He came without resistance. Not a thought ran through his mind even as his skin began to irritate once more with their proximity. Her stench continued the tracks of tears on his face even as his eyes stopped contracting. 

She opened her mouth and spoke with a voice drenched in malice, flashing rows of teeth razor sharp. He accepted the unknown; not his death, but what would come after. He accepted that he did all that he could.

"That song did nothing for him, anyway."

He did not remember making a fist but likely would never forget the rush of rage that blacked out the world around him. Somewhere between when she gargled out those words and when reality resettled his knuckles had connected with the side of her sunken in head. The decomposition had played in his favor. 

The pain went unnoticed but his ring and middle finger were both snapped. He heard the echo of the impact, but not the initial sound. It echoed twice. She crumpled to the floor and her claws slowly dislodged from his wounds, who were also holding their breaths. The hit did not steal her consciousness; instead, a bloodied hand rose to rest where slivers of brain spilled out, and there was silence. 

Yoongi wasted no time. Without sparing another look back he left her where she fell, sensing that the dead didn't bleed for long. 

Relying solely on a sinkhole of color away from the headache-inducing white he bolted in the direction he swore he began in. It felt like days had passed since he'd been there but it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. 

He slammed the door with such ferocity that the frame came loose. Then he pushed the couch until it became a barricade, nothing strong, but not weak, either. Already the walls began to shake with her incoming presence and he needed to think fast, faster than the swing of his busted open fist. 

He looked around. All of her items were meant to soothe, not to harm. Very quickly a large majority was useless. Her nails began to drag against the hallway wall and the shrill sound pierced the silence he created. All silent except for the clock above the door that began to tick. 

The voice said that all the tasks were beatable. He succeeded twice now, despite the fleeting moments where he thought it would be over. He had a chance, even if it was slim. If he could not physically overpower her, then the universe must have given him something to compensate.

He flinched hard when the door was suddenly assaulted, splinters flying every which way under the force of the fist piling down. Once she tore an entryway in, he would be cornered. That would be the end. 

The large lavender candle was warm in his palm, and heavy, but a single shot only worthwhile if his aim was sharp enough. He didn't trust it. He set it back down and the flame wavered but did not die. 

He considered her chair but did not trust his luck with the piece of furniture anymore. He looked upon the wall and none of the photos had any thick frames. The shelves had only books and trinkets. He looked back to the entrance and saw her veiny arms reaching through to break off the jagged ends of wood. Yoongi reconsidered the chair.

The entire room shuddered as the remaining pieces of the door were ripped into two. Something familiar tucked underneath the coffee table rolled out and bumped into his foot. 

A metal baseball bat. 

The office did not have cameras, much less proper security. She explained that whilst she did not believe a criminal would think the place was worth robbing, anyway, there was always the possibility. One strong swing and she'd buy herself enough time to grab her notebook and escape. Yoongi was endeared. Yoongi thought of that often. 

Yoongi held it over his shoulder and waited until the moment was right. His hands trembled. 

Instead of being bothered by the couch she grabbed ahold of its back and used it to pull herself through, immediately perking her head up to find his eyes. He wasted no time. He had already wasted so much time. Something held his eyes open as he swung down, though his sight was hindered by the spray of flesh. 

The first swing was immediately devastating, a direct hit to the most rotted part of her head. The skull caved with a series of sickening cracks, collapsing on top of her brain, shriveled and not worth even a single won but full of tissue and juice that burst. 

She fell nearly limp yet not still. Again the weapon crashed down, beating and tearing until his arm fell to his side. Defeated. A shoulder had been cracked, an ear lost in the fleshy mush, and brain torn from its cord. It should've been over. Nothing continued to go right. 

She wasn't dying. She was hindered and hardly twitching but he could hear the strangled breaths leaving her lips and the mess of her eyes kept blinking. What was whispering to him that he couldn't destroy her, that he needed to take more? 

He fell to his knees. Began to pray to someone he didn't know existed. "God, please." Like the millions of times before the reply was lost in transit. He believed that still because the knowledge that the world might be alone scared him more than accepting that he wasn't a favorite. 

He was lethargic as he crawled over her body, sitting atop of her lungs, too exhausted to alleviate his weight. The gesture wouldn't have mattered; would've been the same as setting flowers over a grave and then spitting on it.

His hands were coated in glimmering red, deep and sappy. Over her throat, mostly clean, they were unmissable. Nothing could dispute what he was about to do. He pressed down and in and the world stopped turning.