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his limbs were pinned down by the weight of his dripping clothes, soaked through with rainwater, dragging down his thin shoulders and shuddering limbs, pulling towards the floor at gravity’s stern insistence. he blinked until the number on the old wooden door came into focus. could almost hear the screech of the rusted hinge in his head, a scream resembling the crack of thunder just outside the dusty stairwell.
yoongi stood, shivering, in front of the door. checked and re-checked the number painted in gold, chipping at the edges. his loose curls sopped against the back of his neck, spilling cold water down the back of his shirt.
he could hear frantic wails of the sky inside his head, reverberating through his shuddering bones. he looked around at the familiar stairwell, the dull blue resembling the melancholy weather. the walls were bare, holes in the wall covered up with white plaster. the stair railings stood out against it’s worn surroundings, having been installed not long ago. silver shining against the warm yellow light of the lightbulb and occasional strikes of white from lightning outside the window emphasising the gold numbers on each door.
thunder sounded again, startling yoongi from his avoidant admiration of his surroundings. his heart jumped, pressing against his ribcage. his lungs expanded, then deflated with a hiss. he turned back towards the door, his neck creaking like styrofoam against linoleum, the golden numbers taunting him. his heart grew teeth and gnawed at his ribcage, settling deep in his stomach once it made its escape.
he reached forward, fist clenched, pale fingers turning white under the force. he knocked on the door, the sound accompanied by the flicker of the light and the beating of rain against the dirty window.
time moved like a thick jelly, yoongi’s ankles threatened to give up on him, to leave him a puddle of despair spilled over damp office carpet. the ceiling gave in on him, his skin slept and sensation died on his flesh. tiny transparent bullets cut his cheekbones as the slid down his face and dripped onto the wet carpet that was tickling his bare feet. it took him a moment to realise the ceiling had not been damaged—had not rained down on him, crashed into his chest and crushed his ribcage, or pierced his lungs.
he was crying.
the door opened with a familiar cry, and inside stood a stranger. a stranger swimming in familiar clothes that he knew almost didn’t fit him, a stranger with piercing, deep brown eyes, boney shoulders, thin fingers.
it was raining in earnest now, drowning out the buzzing of the fluorescent lighting and quieting the creak of the door. the two strangers stared at each other in silence. a loud silence. a screaming silence. silence louder than the thunder making the ground beneath them shudder, louder than the pounding of yoongi’s heart that had replaced his stomach.
“i’m sorry,” yoongi whispered, voice shaky, sounding like radio static in his own ears. he felt bile claw at his throat, a sob birthed stillborn on the roof of his mouth.
he could feel his own breath on his lips now, could feel hot blood pulsating behind his leaking eyes. his heart was bursting against the confines of his stomach. it wasn’t enough. it wasn’t enough. it wasn’t enough it wasn’t enoughitwasn’t
“hyung… there’s something wrong with me.”
yoongi was met with warm arms around his cold body, like walking into an open flame. he wrapped his own small arms, littered in third-degree burns, around the familiar body of warmth.
cold water mixed with warm blood, trickling down the flesh of yoongi’s calves, pooling at his toes and sticking stubbornly in the carpet beneath him.
his heart screamed over the creaking of his ribcage, the hissing of his lungs, the pounding of his thoughts hitting the bones of his skull.
it’s enough.