Chapter Text
The air in Room 307 had lost its battle. The sharp, intrusive smell of antiseptic that had dominated for weeks had finally been worn down, replaced by the flat, recycled scent of the hospital’s ventilation system and the quieter, more personal odor of spent flowers and untouched food. It was the smell of waiting. Forty days of waiting. Jimin stood at the narrow window, his fingers pressed against the cool glass. Behind him, the soft, efficient rustle of fabric was the only sound as Hoseok helped Yoongi dress.
Jimin didn’t need to watch to see the careful, clinical choreography. He knew it by heart: the way Hoseok’s hands, trained for this, would support Yoongi’s lower back just so, the way Yoongi would brace his own weight on his trembling arms, the hissed intake of breath that always followed any significant movement.
Forty days. A lifetime measured in the beeping of cardiac monitors, the hushed, technical murmur of doctors outside the curtain, and the terrifying, bottomless silence of a coma that had stolen Yoongi from him twice—first on the rain-slicked asphalt in a violent instant of metal and glass, and then again in this sterile bed for a seemingly endless stretch of days where the only proof of life was the mechanical rise and fall of his chest.
He died. His heart stopped at the scene. They brought him back.
The words were not thoughts; they were cold, polished stones that lived permanently in the pit of Jimin’s stomach. He carried their weight every moment.
He made himself turn. Yoongi was sitting on the edge of the stripped bed, clad in a thin hospital gown, staring at his own left wrist. His focus was absolute. On his pale skin lay the stark white plastic hospital band, its edges frayed from weeks of wear, the black printed letters of his name and birthdate faded but still legible. With a sudden, sharp motion that held more vehemence than anything he’d done in weeks, Yoongi hooked a finger under the band and pulled. The plastic snapped with a brittle sound. He held the broken circle for a second, his expression unreadable, then opened his fingers and let it fall to the linoleum floor. It was a small, definitive rejection of the identity the building had given him: Patient.
Hoseok, who had been laying out clothes on the visitor’s chair—soft gray sweatpants, thick socks—paused. His eyes met Jimin’s over Yoongi’s bowed head, a flicker of understanding passing between them. He said nothing, simply picked up the sweatpants and knelt. “Left foot first, hyung,” he murmured, his voice deliberately neutral, a professional calm that Jimin both envied and resented.
Yoongi complied, his movements slow and disconnected, as if he were operating his body from a great distance. He lifted his leg a few inches, enough for Hoseok to guide the fabric over his foot and up his calf. The right leg followed, the process identical. The paralysis wasn’t complete; there was movement, but it was weak, uncoordinated, and drowned in what Dr. Laurent called “neuropathic pain”—a constant, fiery storm in nerves that were damaged but screamingly alive. Getting the pants past his knees required Hoseok to do most of the work, his hands firm and sure. Yoongi’s jaw tightened, a single muscle leaping in his cheek, but he made no sound.
Next was the hoodie. Hoseok held it up—the oversized, heather-gray one Jimin had stolen from Yoongi years ago and had brought from home the day before. It was soft from countless washes and still carried the faint, comforting scent of their laundry detergent, a ghost of their old life. As Hoseok guided Yoongi’s arms into the sleeves and pulled the fabric over his head, the collar gaped. For a second, it revealed the upper portion of the scar.
It began at the base of Yoongi’s skull, a pale, raised line of healing tissue, and traveled a short way down the back of his neck before disappearing under the hoodie’s fabric. It was still pink in places, a lurid testament to the emergency surgery that had relieved the swelling on his brain and stabilized his shattered cervical spine. It was the reason he was alive. It was the reason he couldn’t walk. Jimin’s breath hitched, a visceral reaction he couldn’t control. He’d seen it during bandage changes, had helped the nurses clean it, but it never failed to feel like a physical blow—a brutal signature written on Yoongi’s skin by the violence that had taken their daughter.
Hoseok gently smoothed the hoodie down, covering the scar again. “There. Better, yeah?”
Yoongi gave a single, shallow nod. His hands lay in his lap, fingers curled loosely inward. He was looking at them again, as if they were unfamiliar objects.
Dr. Laurent’s final check had been an hour ago, brisk and thorough. “Physically stable. Vital signs strong. The contusion to the spinal cord is showing signs of improvement, but the road ahead is long. The motor weakness and pain in the lower limbs will require intensive, long-term rehabilitation. Outpatient physiotherapy starts next Thursday. Here are the prescriptions for the nerve blockers and the anti-anxiety medication. Use the latter only as needed for acute episodes.” Jimin had nodded, his mind cataloging each instruction like a sacred text, building a mental checklist of this new, fragile reality. “ Stable “ That was the word he clung to. Yoongi was stable. He was here. He was breathing. He was coming home.
The concept of ‘home’ now felt abstract, like a word in a foreign language he’d once known.
“All set?” Hoseok asked, breaking the silence. He’d already packed the few personal items—a toothbrush, the book Jimin had brought that remained unread, a charger—into a small duffel bag. The only thing left in the room was the temporary wheelchair provided by the hospital, parked ominously in the corner like a waiting vehicle for a different kind of life.
Jimin moved toward it, his shoes squeaking on the floor. He unlocked the brakes with a firm press of his foot. The sound was too loud. He wheeled it to the side of the bed. “Okay,” he said, his voice coming out softer than he intended. “Let’s get you settled, and then we can go.”
The transfer from bed to chair was a ritual they had all perfected. Hoseok positioned himself as the anchor, one arm bracing Yoongi’s back, the other ready under his knees. Jimin stood ready to guide and support. “On three, hyung. One, two, three.” Yoongi pushed with his arms, his face paling with the effort, and with their combined help, he pivoted his weight into the chair. A sharp, punched-out grunt escaped him as his body made contact with the seat. Jimin flinched, his own muscles coiling with sympathetic pain. He quickly arranged Yoongi’s feet on the footplates, his hands lingering to ensure the position was right, wasn’t causing more pain.
“I’ll get the car,” Hoseok said, picking up the duffel. “Meet you at the main entrance.”
The journey through the labyrinth of white corridors felt like a solemn procession. Jimin pushed the chair, his grip too tight on the plastic handles. The wheelchair was sleek and modern, but it was a declaration. People in other rooms, visitors milling about, nurses at their stations—their eyes would flicker to Yoongi, then quickly away, a mix of pity and polite avoidance. Yoongi stared straight ahead, his profile a stark, beautiful mask of nothingness. He showed no reaction to the familiar path to the elevator, to the cheerful *ding* that announced its arrival, to the bright, noisy bustle of the main lobby where life continued in ignorant, vibrant contrast to their silent bubble.
Hoseok was waiting outside under the portico, his sensible blue Citroën already running. The transfer from chair to passenger seat was another careful, silent ballet. Jimin hovered, his hands uselessly outstretched, catching every minute wince, every tremor in Yoongi’s arms. When Yoongi was finally settled, seatbelt clicked into place, Jimin folded the chair with clumsy hands and stored it in the boot.
“I’ll follow you,” Jimin said, his voice rough.
The drive back to their terraced house in the quiet, tree-lined suburb of Ixelles was a study in muted terror. Jimin’s eyes were constantly in motion: checking his mirrors for Hoseok’s car, glancing at the clock, watching the slow blink of his turn signal. But his primary focus was the rear-view mirror, angled to capture the passenger seat of the car behind. He could see the top of Yoongi’s head, the dark hair that was growing back in soft waves from where it had been shaved. He could see the slump of his shoulders. Every red light was an eternity. A primal, irrational fear coiled in his gut: “What if he just stops breathing? What if this is all a dream and I wake up to that phone call again? What if I look away and he vanishes?”
They turned onto their street, a row of neat, three-story brick houses with small, manicured front gardens. Theirs was number fourteen. The lavender bush by the door was overgrown. The paint on the window frames looked dull. It was just a house. It looked back at him, utterly ordinary and completely alien.
Hoseok pulled into the short driveway. Jimin parked at the curb behind him and was out of the car before the engine had fully quieted. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the smell of damp earth and fallen leaves. He unfolded the wheelchair on the pavement, locked the brakes with a solid *thunk*, and turned, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.
Yoongi was looking down, his gaze fixed on a specific crack in the pavement—a flaw Jimin remembered Yoongi pointing out years ago, saying he needed to fix it before winter made it worse. He’d never gotten around to it.
“Ready?” Hoseok asked, already opening the passenger door. Together, they guided Yoongi through the reverse of the earlier transfer. Yoongi’s body was stiff, uncooperative, his movements those of a man moving through deep water. When he was seated in the chair again, he still didn’t look up at the house.
Jimin’s mouth was dry. He took the handles, his palms slick. He pushed the chair up the shallow, removable ramp they’d had installed weeks ago in a fit of desperate, forward-thinking energy. The front wheels bumped over the threshold, then the back ones. They were inside.
The silence that greeted them was profound. It was the deep, waiting silence of a place frozen in time. The hallway was dim, the blinds on the front window drawn. Dust motes danced in the weak stripes of light that snuck through the slats. Everything was exactly as they had left it in their frantic, nightmare-driven rush forty days ago. A jacket was slung over the banister. A pile of unopened mail lay scattered on the floor where it had fallen from the slot.
And halfway down the hall, a door was open.
It was the second door on the left. From where Jimin stood, he could see a slash of sunny yellow paint on the far wall. On the floor, just inside the room, lay a small, white plush rabbit, one ear flopped over.
Jimin’s blood turned to ice. He hadn’t thought to close it. In the chaos of that night, with the phone ringing and the world collapsing, closing a door had been the furthest thing from his mind. He’d run from this house and hadn't looked back.
He swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the chair handles. He aimed for the living room archway to the left, pushing forward with more force than necessary. “Let’s get you comfortable in the living room,” he said, his voice too bright, too thin.
But as the wheelchair rolled forward, passing the open doorway, Yoongi’s head snapped up.
His hand shot out, his fingers clamping around the rubberized rim of the right wheel with shocking force. The chair jerked to a sudden, shuddering halt.
“Yoongi?” Jimin whispered, panic seizing his throat.
Yoongi wasn’t listening. He was staring into the room. His eyes were wide, unblinking, taking in the mobile of felt stars and planets that hung motionless over the crib. The neatly folded pastel blankets on the nursing chair. The single storybook on the small shelf.
His chest began to rise and fall in quick, shallow hitches. A low, wounded sound, like air escaping a torn bag, leaked from his lips.
“No,” he breathed, the word ragged. “Close it. Jimin, close the door.”
“We will, we will, just let me get you—” Jimin tried to push forward again, but Yoongi’s hold on the wheel was immovable.
“Why is it open?” The question was a guttural rasp, torn from a place of raw, unbearable hurt. It wasn’t directed at Jimin; it was an accusation hurled at the universe. “Why did you leave it open? She’s… she’s not… she’s…” He couldn’t form the words. They disintegrated into a choked, suffocating gasp. His free hand came up and clawed at the fabric of his hoodie, right over his heart.
“Yoongi, look at me. Breathe. Just breathe.” Hoseok was there in an instant, kneeling in front of the chair, trying to block the line of sight to the nursery. He placed a steadying hand on Yoongi’s knee.
The touch was a catalyst. Yoongi recoiled as if electrocuted, a full-body spasm that sent a fresh wave of agony through his damaged nerves. A sharp, animal cry of pain ripped from him, and with it, the last vestige of control shattered.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” he screamed, the sound raw and deafening in the silent hall. He batted Hoseok’s hand away, his own hands now fisting in his hair, pulling at the roots. “Get away! I can’t… I can’t be here! I shouldn’t be here! This is wrong!”
“Yoongi, you’re home, you’re safe now,” Jimin pleaded, hot tears blurring his vision. He moved around the chair, trying to get into Yoongi’s line of sight, to be the anchor.
“SAFE?” Yoongi’s head whipped toward him, his eyes blazing with a grief so profound it looked like madness. The scar on his neck strained against the skin as he screamed. “She’s GONE! She’s gone because I took her out! Because I was driving! And I’m here? In this house? Looking at her empty room?” His voice broke into a sob, but the words kept pouring out, scalding and true. “They should have let me go! Do you understand? I was already dead! My heart stopped! They should have let me stay dead! Why did they bring me back to this? To this… this punishment?”
Each word was a hammer blow. Jimin felt them land in his own chest, knocking the air from his lungs. This was the unspoken poison that had been festering in Yoongi’s silence for forty days.
Yoongi was gasping now, great, heaving sobs that robbed him of air. His face was contorted, drenched in tears and a sheen of agonized sweat. He tugged violently at the collar of his hoodie, twisting the fabric. “This… this wasn’t saving me,” he choked out between wrenching gasps, hitting his own chest with a weak, hopeless fist. “This was a curse. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it!”
His energy spent, his body folded in on itself. The screams dissolved into silent, convulsive shaking, his shoulders heaving, his forehead dropping toward his knees as he fought a losing battle for breath. He was drowning in plain sight.
“Jimin. The clonazepam. Now.” Hoseok’s voice was a steel cable in the storm. His own face was pale, eyes bright with unshed tears, but his training held. He gently but firmly pried one of Yoongi’s hands from his hair and held it in both of his, grounding him with the pressure.
Jimin’s hands were trembling so badly he could barely unzip his jacket pocket. The small orange prescription bottle slipped from his fingers, clattering on the hardwood floor. He snatched it up, fumbled with the child-proof cap, and shook out a single white pill. He dropped to his knees in front of Yoongi, his vision swimming.
“Yoongi, hyung, please, you have to take this,” he begged, his voice thick with tears. He held the pill to Yoongi’s lips. For a terrifying second, Yoongi kept his mouth clamped shut, his eyes squeezed tight against the world. Then, with a shuddering surrender, he parted his lips. Jimin placed the pill on his tongue. Hoseok was ready with a bottle of water, guiding it to Yoongi’s mouth, helping him take small, managed sips.
They stayed there, kneeling on the floor of their hallway, as the medication began its slow, chemical mercy. The violent tremors gradually subsided, leaving behind fine, continuous shivers. The desperate, air-starved gasps softened into ragged, hiccupping breaths. The terrible, active anguish receded, leaving behind a devastation so complete it was hollow. Yoongi’s head lolled back against the chair, his eyes closed, tears still seeping from beneath the lids to track through the sweat on his temples. The fight was gone, extinguished, leaving only utter exhaustion and the glaring truth of his words hanging in the air.
Hoseok checked Yoongi’s pulse at his wrist, his fingers pressing gently over the faint red mark left by the torn hospital band. He let out a slow breath. “It’s slowing. The worst is past. He’ll sleep soon.”
Wordlessly, they moved. Jimin, his limbs heavy with a grief of his own, took the chair handles. Hoseok steered from the front, guiding them away from the yellow door. Jimin didn’t look at it as they passed. He pushed Yoongi down the hall to their bedroom at the back of the house.
The room was dark, the bed neatly made. It felt like a museum exhibit. Together, they transferred Yoongi from chair to bed, the familiar dance now imbued with a new layer of heartbreak. Yoongi was pliant, a dead weight. They got him under the duvet. Hoseok adjusted his pillows, ensured he was on his side—a habit from the coma days to aid breathing.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight,” Hoseok said quietly, gathering the duffel bag. “Call if you need anything. For anything.”
When the bedroom door clicked shut, Jimin was alone with the silence and the shattered man in the bed. The echo of Yoongi’s screams seemed to vibrate in his very bones. “They should have let me go.”
He stood there for a long time, just watching the slow, deep rise and fall of Yoongi’s chest under the blanket. Then, moving as if in a dream, he walked into the ensuite bathroom. He ran warm water over a clean washcloth, wringing it out carefully. He returned to the bedside and sat on the edge of the mattress.
With a tenderness that felt like an ache, he began to wipe Yoongi’s face. He smoothed the cloth over his brow, his temples, the salt-damp trails on his cheeks. His touch was feather-light, an apology and a promise. As he brushed the cloth along Yoongi’s jawline, his thumb strayed, just once, to the very edge of that raised, pale scar where it met his hairline. He traced its terminus, a silent acknowledgment of the brutal cost of the life still breathing in the bed.
He then stood, undressed mechanically to his t-shirt and boxers, and turned off the lamp. In the profound dark, he slid into the bed, leaving a careful space between them. He lay on his side, facing Yoongi, listening to the deep, even breaths of drugged sleep.
Just as his own eyes were beginning to grow heavy, he felt it. A shift in the mattress, then the slow, seeking slide of a hand. Yoongi’s fingers, cold and devoid of their earlier violence, crept across the cool cotton sheet. They didn’t fumble for Jimin’s sleeve this time. They found Jimin’s wrist and wrapped around it, their grip surprisingly strong. They held on, anchor-tight, over the pulse point where Jimin’s own heart beat a stubborn, frantic rhythm of fear and love.
They clung to their separate ends of the same, frayed thread, in the quiet house that held all their ghosts, waiting for a dawn neither of them could yet believe in.