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Yoongi places the blade against the skin of his hip, carefully chosen where his underwear would cover the marks—the only place he can hide them when living his life in front of stylists, managers, fans, and six other boys.
He presses the metal into the skin, dragging it slowly. His hands are still shaking. The pain is sharp, almost burning, and he traces a short line—two inches long—unable to risk going too far or too deep. His skin is patterned with other short lines, thin and white. A few darker lines cut through the webbed design—wider, harsher. The result of worse nights than this. This is just maintenance, a way of fine-tuning his system.
He watches the thin line of red rise to the surface in the wake of the blade's pressure then places steel against skin again, pressing just a little harder, holding his breath against the sting. His hands are still shaking, but his heartbeat is slowing—his feet resting against the bathroom floor, no longer jiggling and twitching with the urge to run, kick, jump, something. His lungs are less tight.
He lets his breath out and pulls the sharp edge along its short path, the tingling burn following. He lifts the blade and waits, playing with the handle of the scissors between his fingers as he watches another line of red swell into existence.
A bead collects, and a trickle of blood breaks from the line to run down his hip. He catches it before it reaches the side of the tub he's sitting on—catches it on his finger, then rubs a smear across the pale skin of his thigh, tracing a useless, curving letter that means nothing and too much.
He drags the blade again, and this time he uses the drops of blood to trace stark slashes across the insides of his arms, pretending that it's enough. Pretending that the sight relieves the twitching under his skin that tells him to cut harsher, cut deeper, cut where they can all see and fuck the consequences. He lets the blood dry there. Ignores the burning in his wrists. Ignores the faint lines of white that only he seems to see. Or maybe he's not ignoring them. Maybe they're already gone, and he's the only one who can't forget. Who still remembers the way it felt to trace red designs so close to his veins, so close to the cuffs of his sleeves, so close to crossing the line that would end it all.
Yoongi wonders if he's forgotten. Forgotten the way he spotted the thin red lines under Yoongi’s sleeves in the practice room, or if he remembers the way he'd taken his elbow when Yoongi had tried to escape that look that knew too much. Waited until everyone else had filtered out, and Yoongi had thought he was going to get yelled at, get accused of risking the safety of all of their success, risking the happiness of everyone—get reminded of everything he already knew from the one person he never wanted to hear it from, who he'd never wanted to know just how fucked up he was.
He wonders if he still remembers the way he hadn't said anything for a long time, just held him, hands running over his back and through his hair. Yoongi thinks he probably should have cried, wonders if that would have changed anything. But the burn under his sleeves and in the skin of his hips where they were pressed together kept him dry-eyed and stiff-limbed. Everything he'd ever wanted in a way he'd never wanted. He wonders what would have happened if he had given any reaction when he'd pulled back, when his hands had come down to loop loosely around his wrist, to trace the back of his hand.
“Please don't anymore. Please don't do this to yourself.”
He wonders what would have happened if he’d told him this was the best thing he could do to himself. He could heal from this. The alternative was worse.
He wonders what would have happened if he had made the slightest gesture when he'd finally pulled away, eyes sad in a way that made him look too old where he never looked old enough.
He hadn't mentioned it again, not even when he'd found a red-spotted tissue Yoongi hadn't hidden well enough. His gaze had traced bare arms with almost invisible white lines, eyes confused. Then he'd looked down, traced the way Yoongi was holding his arm at an awkward angle to avoid reopening the marks on his hips and making the scarring worse. He’d turned away, and he hadn't said a word.
Yoongi traces another line into his skin, then another. His head is spinning again. When he runs out of room in his allotted patch of skin, he moves to his other hip and starts over, tracing slow lines.
A knock on the door startles him, his hand twitches, and a thicker line of blood rises to the surface and begins to trail down his skin.
“Shit.”
Sheets of tissue paper go between his skin and his underwear. The scissors go into the waistband of his pants, loose shirt tugged down to cover it. He forgets to flush the toilet before he opens the door.
Seokjin looks startled for a moment, then his eyes jump over Yoongi’s shoulder. He looks at the unused toilet, at the dry sink, the dry tub. His eyes come back, and Yoongi realizes he’s tired. So incredibly tired. Too tired to feel anything.
His hands are no longer shaking.
They look at each other, and, for a moment, he thinks Seokjin is going to turn away again, walk away for a third time. He doesn’t. He places a gentle hand on Yoongi’s shoulder, maneuvers them both into the small space, closes the door.
“Why?”
Yoongi shakes his head. No response. There isn't an answer he would want to hear.
“Tell me. Please. Make me understand.”
Seokjin is looking at him, eyes clear, chin determined. When was the last time he'd looked at him like this? All the eyes on him all the time. When was the last time Yoongi had felt seen like this?
His throat feels raw. “I need it. I can't—It's just too much sometimes and I just—I just can't. But I don't have a choice. As long as I'm alive I have to keep going, but it's just too much. I want it to stop, but it just keeps getting—just more and more until everything is going to explode. A bomb under my skin. I have to let some of it out. Release the pressure until it's quiet and I can breathe and think. I just need to make it stop. Just for a while.”
Seokjin's staring at Yoongi’s hands. Yoongi doesn't know when he started twisting them together, violently wrenching his fingers in jerky movements that are anything but the control he needs. Seokjin reaches out, takes one. A ripple goes through Yoongi, a tremor under his skin. He drags in a breath he didn't realize he was missing. He squeezes back, and Seokjin doesn't flinch. He holds on.
“Does it stop?”
Yoongi blinks, looks up from where he's staring at their hands, from where a heat is spreading through his veins, warm, but not burning. He forgot to wash the blood off his arm.
Seokjin’s eyes are closed, and Yoongi has no idea what he’s thinking. He could walk away or reveal him to everyone at last. Tell the world that he doesn't deserve this, that he shouldn't be here because he can't handle the pressure.
“Sometimes. For a while.”
Seokjin is so still. Yoongi's afraid to breathe until he breathes first. Seokjin’s hand twitches, then tightens, and Yoongi swallows his breath as Seokjin blinks like he’s coming to the surface.
“Okay.” His hand twists, fingers slipping between Yoongi’s own, slotting them together. “Okay.”
Yoongi doesn't understand. He doesn't know if this is real. Red lines sting, and he can feel the tissue sticking to his skin, but he doesn't understand any of this.
“What?”
And then Seokjin’s embracing him, face pressed into his hair and it's like he's in his memories again. His hand feels empty. He curls it into the hem of Seokjin’s shirt.
“Okay. But not alone anymore. Not a secret anymore. Not from me. From everyone else if you can't tell them, but not from me.”
“Why?”
Seokjin pulls back, looks him in the eye. “Because I need you, and you need me.”
He's shaking his head before Seokjin finishes, tries to pull back only to find his shoulders trapped by strong hands. “No. Don't fuck with me. Don't fuck with me because I'm fucked up enough. Don't you dare fuck with me.”
Seokjin’s eyes are too bright. He opens his mouth, then closes it, stares for a long time. His hand lifts from Yoongi’s shoulder and carefully sinks into his hair, strokes down his neck. Yoongi realizes his head is still shaking, the movement jerky and uncontrolled. It hurts.
Seokjin strokes again, fingers tangling in Yoongi’s hair just enough that he's forced to stop the motion. He chases the pressure, instead, pressing against Seokjin’s palm.
He presses back, fingers massaging slowly. “Okay.” Yoongi still doesn't know what that means. “We won’t talk about that. Not now. Okay. But not alone. Don't do this alone. I don't care what reason. Don't do this alone.”
He's so tired. His skin prickles under his shorts. But there's a warmth from Seokjin’s palm that spreads through his skin and relieves the itching. He leans forward, the action unconscious, and his face finds Seokjin’s shoulder, turning and seeking the warmth of his neck. Seokjin’s hand convulses in his hair. His face turns to press into Yoongi’s messy tufts. Yoongi feels a warm rush of air, and it travels down his spine, a trickle spreading through his limbs.
“It's okay.”
The words mean nothing, but there's no static in his brain for the first time in so long, and Seokjin’s scent replaces the lingering metallic tinge of blood. Yoongi doesn't argue.
Seokjin’s free hand comes up and wraps around his back, and there's no more space between them, and the sting from where their hips meet reminds Yoongi that this isn't a dream, even if he doesn't understand anything that's going on.
When a knock on the door startles Yoongi, Seokjin slides a hand down his arm as he jerks back, taking his hand and squeezing it, making Yoongi look up, make eye contact. His eyes look a little red, but his smile is so soft and warm that Yoongi’s heart slows, and his shaking stops before it can begin.
When Seokjin unlocks the door and guides him out of the bathroom to make room for a wide-eyed Jungkook, he doesn't let go of Yoongi’s hand. He holds on tighter.
“We'll be okay.”