Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

ACT IV, PART TWO, STAGE FOUR

BLOOD 

☾

“mic B is switched on, check the main one. i can hear the statics.”

mark, the sound technician, gives instruction to the two kids following around him everywhere, who just seem to be nodding at everything he says. yoongi shifts, uncomfortable, in his seat and the microphone patch attached to his belt makes a screeching sound as a result.

mark’s eyes are immediately on him. “yoongi-ssi,” he says his name in a way that makes yoongi wonder whether he should be annoyed or scared. “please, stay still until we’re done figuring the sound out. we’re almost done.”

yoongi murmurs his apology, nodding and forcing himself to stop moving around. by doing that, he also has to ignore the incessant need of running his fingers through his black hair, now wanting nothing more than back it off of his brow. or the one that screams at him to start biting at the skin around his thumbs. all these anxious, unprofessional quirks of his start coming out all at the same time and they’re unnerving, to say the least. therefore, yoongi tries to channel his focus on something else.

the location the crew has decided to shoot in is quite nice. it’s a cafe at the end of the small studio’s street and it looks enchanted and extreme, just like almost everything made in pastelia.

whimsical, cheery music comes out of the huge red and black speakers, held up in air by a source of a thick, sparkly charmed stream of air but quotes made out of bendable neons and glitter all over is what really sells the place – and also what would make people in charge of lighting lose their minds. it doesn’t happen this time, though, thanks to harin and kyunghu, both master witches of bright and black manipulation, managed to direct and bend the colours just the right way for yoongi’s frame.

that’s a relief since yoongi doesn’t know if he could’ve handled more tension added to the room. according to what jungkook had previously told him, everyone is freaking out about this documentary and, in greater detail, about his role in it.

the crew in charge of yoongi’s fragment consists of a lot of people who never had to handle a project of as big as this one. for that reason, they’re eager to make sure everything looks, sounds, is perfect. plus, jungkook added, half of these people happen to admire yoongi’s work. the awareness of being liked should make things easier, a bit more handleable for yoongi – but it doesn’t.

the black sofa he’s sitting on is extremely comfortable but the feeling of three different cameras pointed in his direction and two big microphones set in front of him makes him anxious.

what doesn’t help is the plant tickling the back of his neck. yoongi wouldn’t mind it, usually. he’d be happy about it. he’d communicate with it as a way to kill the time before the start of the interview, even. but the world has gone so silent since he got sick, the plant behind him can’t do anything but be a painful, too-close reminder of that.

“camera A is rolling but someone fucked up the details of the lenses,” subin says, touching the camera’s screen a couple of times. dohyun, a guy in his forties, cusses under his breath and rubs his eyebrow with his knuckle. yoongi knows them and their names from before, when a kid that’s been following the crew around for a couple of days, bowed to dohyun and didn’t dare contradict what subin had to say. the boy was a vampire – yoongi had recognised that from the intricate webs of veins showing on his neck and face, – but he didn’t show his fangs once and kept his head lowered the whole time he talked to them.

young vampires are known for their lack of self-control but from the way the kid reacted and from how subin and dohyun act and talk, yoongi assumes they’re there in seungmin’s place, ready to direct the crew. subin looks authoritarian, strict. makes yoongi feel pressured.

his gaze travels from her to jungkook, who promptly gives him a bright smile. he’s sitting on one of the stools placed in front of the counter, a baby blue sweater that fits too big and a big drink of what looks like silvery milk in front of him. while yoongi tries to think about what in the Almighty might be in there, jungkook manages to catch subin’s attention. they must’ve known each other for a long time, now, because she gets what jungkook is thinking by just looking at him.

“junseo,” subin calls. junseo, a young faerie, stands at attention as soon as she hears her name coming from subin’s mouth. “bring yoongi-ssi a bottle of water,” subin directs.

she waits, standing next to one of the big cameras. it’s only when the glass of water is placed over the table in front of yoongi, that she continues talking.

“yoongi-ssi,” she addresses him.

“yes.”

“i’ve been informed you already singed the contract and we’ve already discussed the basics earlier,” they did, definitely. yoongi remembers it clearly because it made him feel small and incompetent. “what i care for you to remember is that we’re aiming for a work based on solid, raw reality. no major edits will be applied to your speeches, not now, nor in the future scenes, the only exception made for any of those moments where you might stay silent for too long or repeat yourself.

apart from that, i am asking you to be as transparent as you can. transparency is the main reason we ask our guests to stay around us for a couple of weeks. we will probably shoot the day after you have an episode, or during climatic moments that really show what it is like to live with this illness, especially with your kind. as for now, though, we’ll just start with a relaxed interview with a bunch of basic, soft questions.”

she stops as if expecting some kind of response from yoongi. the thing is, yoongi doesn’t really know what to do. this feeling of being stuck, awkward in his skin even when in a professional situation upsets him quite enough.

yoongi comes to the realisation that nodding is better than just sitting there, staring. so that’s what he does – he nods.

“good,” she declares. “are we ready to start?”

this time, she turns in the crew’s direction and doesn’t wait for a proper answer. she just makes a gesture with her hand, and the cameras start rolling.

it’s a relief to discover they do begin with asking easy questions. yoongi sets the goal of complete honesty and answers showing his best vocabulary, pausing here and there to let his brain process the thoughts, and with sometimes witty comebacks that make the atmosphere lighter.

it really helps that yugyeom, the guy in charge of interviewing him, has a comforting way of talking and puts yoongi at ease. he sits crossed legs in front of yoongi without ever interrupting him. more than once he leans forward and hums in agreement with the things being said. not only it looks like yugyeom is genuinely interested in yoongi’s point of view, but he also makes it possible for the whole interview to feel like they’re two friends sitting in a bar, sharing life experiences, rather than shooting a documentary about chronic illnesses and death.

“so,” yugyeom starts, taking a sip of his coffee. “you moved six years ago in the Capital, is that correct?”

“it is, indeed, yes.”

“you weren’t alone if i’m not mistaken. you moved here with your partner in business and best friend, kim namjoon, yeah?”

all of a sudden and even when sitting on a sofa, yoongi finds himself to be a bit unstable. he understands this is the point where everything will get just a little bit more intense.

“yeah, we moved together even though he finished school before i did. he waited for me and decided to move because we–” yoongi stills, scratching the tip of his nose. “–we never felt like we belong where we were born. it didn’t help i thought i could’ve made better use of my magic in the Capital, than i was doing in the city of lights. even from a business, purely money-based point of view, the Capital is a dream for most people. at least, it was for us it didn’t let us down.”

yugyeom smiles. “i feel like a lot of us here can agree with that, including myself. i do too think of the capital as the brightest, most thriving place of our country. but you said you didn’t feel like you belonged in your hometown. do you feeling like sharing the reasons for that?”

calmly, yoongi cocks his head to the side. he feels like sharing but doesn’t know how to, since the reasons he didn’t feel home where home was supposed to be are plenty, his family being the main one. yoongi looks over at subin and even she seems interested, leather black jacket tight around her small shoulders.

“i guess,” he tries but stops almost immediately, trapping his bottom lips in between his teeth. “my family played a big role, since i never felt a connection with them, but also… see,” he opens his arms, gesturing vaguely at the air with his hands. “the only magic bottled up in me has always been related to botanic only. that wasn’t useful in the city of lights. my kind of magic, i mean. my parents weren’t happy about it, or about how the reason why i managed not to fail school was thanks to namjoon. but even if i didn’t, even if they stopped comparing me with everyone else, i have a feeling i would’ve still moved out. in fact, i am certain i would have. to be honest, i hated it there. it’s…” with a frown showing on his forehead, he interrupts the discourse when realising his sister is going to watch this, frowns.  “…complicated. the city itself is, with its weird mechanisms and very low meritocracy in any setting. you just kind of get used to it, or you let it kill you. feelings, relationships, they are allowed but even then, they must be done only if you have a precise purpose or perspective linked to the people in your life. i cried a lot when i was a kid. i never really got used to that type of style of living. to be so… detached. that wasn’t my thing. growing up, i tried my hardest to put myself in that mindset but it never worked. i couldn’t force myself to stay,” yoongi smiles with just the corner of his mouth. “especially because it’s not like i ever wanted to be there.”

yugyeom nods. “i’ve heard that a lot. i know people can be absurdly cold there. i guess the fact that you caught hanahaki shows even more your inability to be a distant person.”

“no, i think that’s just called being an unlucky motherfucker,” blinking, yoongi stops. “am i allowed to say that?”

the crew around him snickers, some of them laugh but no one corrects him. yoongi makes a mental note of that.

yugyeom laughs as well but doesn’t lose the focus and takes advantage of the moment of distraction to briefly go through his script again. when he speaks again, in fact, he brings the attention exactly where he wants it to be. yoongi recognises his good work. he knows everyone in the room is just doing their job – and he’ll do his, and do it well.

“it must’ve been hard for you, though. to move out having no one to support you.”

yoongi shrugs. “i had namjoon,” and the way he says it – so spontaneous, so genuine, it makes him feel like a bit of an idiot for a second. “it never felt like i had no one because i did. we’ve always been there for each other. we’ve known each other for eight years, now and even if we struggled, we never did it alone.”

“wow. eight years. that’s probably also why you managed to get your name so known in the Capital. not only because of your bond and the great work you guys provide but also because you’ve been there for so long, i feel like.”

“i guess you could say that, yes. namjoon especially made it possible. since he is a marked witch, he was already known when we got there. we were lucky in that sense. plus, namjoon’s family knew kim seokjin’s, so the moment we opened the shop, it was already a major thing because of all these things mixed together. we definitely struggled when we were kids and once we arrived in the Capital, it looked like that was where we belonged all along. the Capital was what we were meant for. and living together, i guess. just staying together, in general. we work well as a pair, so, i guess that, uh. that really did the trick.”

yoongi stops talking and the first thing he notices is how sweaty his forehead is, now, and how saliva tastes like lavender and his hands shake a bit. one of the guys must notice it, because the lens moves, zooming and focusing on capturing exactly that single moment of weakness yoongi has shown.

even yugyeom, who adjusts on the chair, seems to have a more focused gaze. “that’s really important, yes. surrounding yourself of people that can help you grow instead of bringing you down is the most important thing when creating a successful, healthy business. and you said you never felt alone, right? so, how was it to know about this illness and having to tell namjoon-ssi and the people around you?”

yoongi hates how stiffen he is. “see, even though we are pretty known, it’s not like we have a lot of people in our lives. we never really felt the need, you know? so that wasn’t the hard part. the hard part was just having to talk about it, in general. it’s already hard enough to tell someone you’re sick, let alone having to tell them you have a rare, incurable form of a disease. that, i did’t do. it’s– hard. both to admit it to yourself and to the people around you. i told my closest friends and namjoon because i had to. at first, i omitted the part about my form of hanahaki not having a cure. they discovered it on their own when i had a pretty bad attack. it wasn’t easy on me but it wasn’t easy on them either.”

“namjoon especially, i guess? knowing he was the reason why you fell sick in the first place.”

yoongi lets himself close his eyes but just for a second. just enough for his thoughts to stop being so harsh. he doesn’t answer straight away*. instead, he leans over the table, reaches for the glass of water and clutches his hands around it. he hopes that thoughts and petals will be swallowed along with water. it’s pretty naive of him to think it’ll be enough to soothe the pain in his stomach, the increased heart rate, but he has to at least try. “it hasn’t been easy on him, definitely,” yoongi tells. “he’s struggled a lot because of guilt. tried to help me out with his magic. he really,” yoongi’s words die on his tongue. “yes, he really did try his best.”

“cause doctors couldn’t, right?”

“they couldn’t, no. i wanted to have the operation straight away. i didn’t even have to think about it or debate on whether i cared or not about losing the love i felt for namjoon after the surgery. it didn’t scare me because our relationship wouldn’t have changed. having the operation only meant i wouldn’t ever fall in love with him again. this, i feel it’s something i got from my family. the quick thinking, the rationality. and honestly,” he tries and thinks of a way to phrase what he’s about to say next. “i really didn’t want to admit i was falling for him,” he confesses. “and it took me a while to realise what was going on. i didn’t even realise the way i felt until i threw up for the first time. that was the first time i took into consideration that maybe i was looking at him in a certain way. but i couldn’t do anything about it, even when confronting the doctors.”

yugyeom nods in understanding. “but you said namjoon-ssi tried to help you with his magic? didn’t that work, either?”

yoongi scoffs. “of course not. he didn’t study for that. people think that being marked means being almighty, but it’s not. maybe, if he had studied, he would’ve been able to do something about it considering the amount of energy he holds inside him. but it doesn’t work like that. he’s powerful but doesn’t owe a knowledge higher than doctors. it made it worse, really. at some point we–” yoongi stops. the last time namjoon told him there was something else he wanted to try and yoongi had told him no, curled up on the floor– that was what broke both of them. more sweat accumulates on his forehead. “i’m sorry,” he says, when noticing how he stopped talking for the third time in the middle of a talk. “we had to stop.”

“how come?”

“it’s just. it was making things worse. we didn’t know what we were dealing with. i still don’t know. although he wanted to help, at some point it just fucked up things really bad. still, he was trying and that meant a lot for me. to see him try that hard, always try that hard, it… it made it worse, for me and my disease.” yoongi stops.

to see namjoon worry for him, it made yoongi fall more. to see him worry so much he’d always try and help. namjoon had been so scared to lose him, he’d constantly burn himself and his magic out, he’d take care of him, he’d bathe him and help him get up, hold his head when yoongi felt like he was about to die, would let the disease kill as much of him as it was killing yoongi.

“can i have another glass of water?” he asks but his voice isn’t stable and his eyes unfocused. he hates it. he doesn’t know when the illness progressed this much for him to not even be able to talk about it. in the background, subin says: this is why we give bottles. how many times do i have to tell you guys glasses aren’t enough?

there’s the noise of chairs being moved around, someone walking next to him.

“hyung.”

yoongi hears jungkook’s voice but it still takes a second for him to raise his chin and look up. it makes his head spin. jungkook’s notices and hunkers down, right in front of yoongi.

“hyung. there, drink,” he instructs, putting the glass directly in yoongi’s hand, covering it with his and helping him have a grip on it strong enough for him to gulp the water down.

once he has it, yoongi drinks with vehemence and frowns in anger. this disgusting taste won’t leave him alone, these things bottled up in his stomach won’t let him breathe and now won’t let him talk.

“hyung. you want to stop?”

yoongi looks at him, vision blurry.

jungkook puts his palm over yoongi’s knee, skin peeking from the tear of his black jeans.

“you need to stop? we’ll stop. it’s fine. this is how they do it. realness, remember? if you need to stop, they’ll film it. they’ll show what the illness does to people when they talk about their loved ones. so, you’re still doing your job. even if you stop, you’re still doing your job. this is exactly what they need, hyung”

yoongi chews on the words jungkook just said and find the reasons to both dumb and comfortable. like it gives him a reason to get up and walk away. so: “yeah?” he croaks.

when hearing that, jungkook doesn’t answer anymore, nor does he waste time. he immediately turns his head in subin’s direction, giving her a signal with his hand. yoongi swallows down way too much saliva.

yugyeom says: “let’s wrap it up for today, yoongi-ssi.”

yoongi barely nods and his voice is feeble when letting out a whispered okay.

he stares at how yugyeom gets up and lays the sheets on the sofa, heading over for one of the photographers. the cameras aren’t turned off but yoongi isn’t bothered by that. instead, he notices how fast this team reacts to problems, how no one forces him to continue to do anything but still find a way to show how yoongi falls apart when talking about someone who made his insides haunted by flowers.

“hyung,” jungkook calls.

“i’m fine,” yoongi says – but needs help getting up.

yoongi had said just one sentence but right now, music pumping through the walls of his head and blood rushing just a bit too fast in his system, he can’t quite remember what that was. it must’ve had something to do with him asking – a prayer hidden by his croaky voice and just one stolen glance – jungkook to bring him somewhere, anywhere, where the music was loud enough to make the voices in his head sound quiet and the drinks were sour enough to make the sweet, atrocious taste stuck in his throat disappear. jungkook had been hesitant. hyung, he had called, sitting next to him in the car. had given him a quick glance, said: i’m not sure it’s a good idea. yoongi’s eyes were still closed when he’d agreed to that – then begged a bit more.

right now, jungkook sits still next to him and the hesitant look on his face hasn’t gone away. yoongi is sure jungkook is telling him something, but he can’t bring himself to listen, nor to care. yoongi has listened to so, so many words for such a long time and now, for once, he only hears the heaviness of his head, the dizziness in the tip of his fingers and this incredible need to dance. so he does. he’s sure he tells jungkook why he’s getting up and where he’s going, but his tongue feels heavy and his legs move on their own, too fast. so he might be wrong about it.

yoongi gets lost in lights, in noise, in fragrances. in the touch of beautiful strangers with gold marks all over their skin that makes him feel alive and never sick. the fingers on his waist don’t wither when touching his flesh, there’s no repulsion, nor pity in the way these people look at him. usually, he would find all of this annoying but for now, he likes to pretend he’s falling for the magic of the dance floor. at least for a while.

yoongi gets lost and happily wanders and loses track of time. so much that when jungkook appears to recover him from the crowd, yoongi doesn’t understand what he’s doing for a while and genuinely thinks he’s gone there to dance with him.

the first thought crossing yoongi’s mind is that jungkook feels nice pressed against his body. he has a certain steadiness to himself, a strength, his chest so broad and his shoulder so wider than yoongi’s, it’s impossible to not be reminded of namjoon – although jungkook is not as tall.

“that’s good,” yoongi considers, murmuring out loud.

jungkook grunts, struggling to get the both of them out of the crowd. he doesn’t leave yoongi, not even once, not even when almost getting tangled up in a group of faeries that are about to start a fight.

“what is, hyung?”

“that you’re not tall.” yoongi slurs his words, falls over them without caring to do anything about it.

“if i’m not tall, what does that make you?” jungkook asks, a hint of a smile in the question.

but yoongi doesn’t answer, instead: “the fuck is he so tall for,” he complains. he doesn’t have to say the name to feel as if he’s choking again.

“jungkook-ah. let’s go back dancing,” yoongi whines but it ends there.

jungkook’s grip isn’t that tight. yoongi could escape, could go back to the dance floor, but he’s not sure he wants that either. at least it’s nice, here. warm, especially. Almighty, it’s so fucking warm, his sweaty hair gets stuck on his forehead. “don’t you wanna dance?”

“no. no, hyung, i really don’t. what i want is to get us out of–” here. yoongi manages to understand that’s what jungkook was trying to say, just right before cussing at someone.

“look where the fuck you’re going!” jungkook swears, the laughter in his voice having completely disappeared as he avoids a guy that stinks like alcohol but looks incredible, fairy dust all over his clothes. yoongi can’t help but let out a giggle.

“what are you giggling for. that fuck almost ran over you.”

“he looked nice. i wouldn’t have complained.”

in the middle of the club, jungkook stills for a second. “what the fuck,” he whispers, then allows himself to laugh. yoongi follows – and everything goes back to feeling nice. normal. warm.

the ride home is not necessarily quiet. it can’t be, not when yoongi keeps squirming in his seat, not when he lays his head against the window of the taxi’s car and bumps it on the glass every time there’s a hole on the street, not when he whines and blames jungkook for not letting them take a magic carpet.

(“it would’ve been faster.”

“it would’ve been dumb. and you would’ve fallen. and died.”

yoongi doesn’t say it. this time, he doesn’t say he’s going to die anyway. this time, he doesn’t think about it. yoongi feels nice when jungkook is around.

“you’re a bit melodramatic.”

“one of my many charms,” jungkook retorts, then helps him get out of the taxi.)

the first thing yoongi says when jungkook steps out of the car is, like most of the things today, stupid. “this isn’t my hotel.”

“it isn’t, indeed. c’mon, hyung, let’s go.” he turns his back and bows just enough for yoongi to climb over him. if this was another day, another moment, if this was in the Capital, if he had something to care for and about, yoongi wouldn’t do it.

the thing is, today is a bad day and his head feels heavy and he feels alone and he’s never been away from home for such a long time, so he doesn’t think too much of it when he helps himself up on jungkook’s back by grasping his shoulders, leather jacket rough under his palm.

“what is this place?” his voice is muffled by the guy’s hair, where yoongi has just buried his face.

“this place,” jungkook explains, huffing a little as he adjusts yoongi on his back. “is my place. the hotel was too far away. hope you don’t mind. please don’t throw up.”

yoongi doesn’t throw up nor he cares about where he is, all he knows he needs coffee for his head and a bed for his back. he probably should be embarrassed, probably should say sorry for the way jungkook carries him around without complaining and tries to climb the stair with the lightest of the steps, even when carrying a dead weight on his back.
“you’re a nice kid,” yoongi says.

jungkook scoffs. “i’d say you’re not so bad yourself, but you’ve had better days.”

yoongi had indeed. “touché. but still, you’re a nice kid. your parents taught you well.”

lightly kicking it with the tip of his shoe, jungkook opens the door and enters his apartment. yoongi must’ve missed the part of fumbling with the keys and also misses the moment that separates him, sprawled against jungkook’s jacket and his hair is in his mouth, from him, one second later, as he’s laying on the couch.

what he does see, though, is the moment jungkook turns the lights on. a feeling of minion arrows hitting his eyes makes yoongi groan in despair.

“my eyes feel funny,” yoongi scratches them with his knuckles. “i’m funny.”

“you’re drunk, is what you are.”

yoongi stays still and listens as jungkook moves around the room. he doesn’t dare to lift his eyelids. “you’re saying i’m not funny?”

“i’m saying,” jungkook starts, placing a blanket over yoongi’s legs, then moves around and slowly lifts him up from the couch. “you’d be funnier if you could help me with this, hyung.”

yoongi takes a second to register that jungkook is trying to help yoongi out of his jacket. sleeping in a jacket doesn’t feel nice. shit, he’d kill for pyjamas. although he guesses a shirt is always better than a jacket. when he thinks about it, it’s a smart idea. with his eyes still closed, he says: “yes. you’re right. you’re a smart kid.”

“i’m gonna use all of this against you. i’m so gonna use it against you, hyung,” jungkook answers, tugging for the last time at yoongi’s left arm. the jacket falls on the ground. simultaneously, yoongi falls back on the couch.

“unfair. i don’t deserve to be remembered like this.”

this time, jungkook doesn’t answer straight away. the rational, sober side of yoongi’s brain knows why. but it’s such a tiny part, the one screaming at him it’s a sick thing to say when he’s actually dying, that yoongi continues to do a great job not listening to it. that same, delusional part is grateful for jungkook to not acknowledge what yoongi’s just said.

“you want water, hyung? you should drink water.”

“you don’t really want me to drink water right now. i have no idea where most parts of my body are. instead of swallowing from my mouth, i’d swallow it from my nostrils. did i tell you my face feels funny? i think i’ve already told you.”

“you’ve told me, yes. about a million times,” jungkook’s voice is a bit more distant now and the water is running.

“you’re not gonna let me sleep in your bed?” yoongi asks. normally, jungkook would probably panic a bit and probably say sorry a thousand times for not having thought that through. he must be really endeared by yoongi and the way he’s acting, though, because the only thing he does is laughing softly.

“no, hyung.”

“ah,” yoongi mimics a sound of pain. if he had the strength – and the right coordination – he would be a bit more dramatic about it. “you’re crude.”

“let’s go back to ten minutes ago when you told me i was a really nice kid, hyung. here, i’m going to leave a glass of water next to you. please drink. you’re gonna have a bitch of a headache tomorrow.”

yoongi grunts in response. “already have it. check. turn off the lights, please?”

“will you be fine?”

“i don’t know. maybe you should let me have the bed and sleep next to me. just to be sure.”

“sure. scream if you need me. good night, hyung,” jungkook says. there’s a click and nothing pierces yoongi’s eyes anymore, only a ghost of a smile on his lips.

shifting again on his side, yoongi moves on the couch and tries to find a more comfortable of a position. overall, he thinks he’s not doing that bad. he remembers the last time he got drunk but doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt like this. a bit dizzy, yes, mostly unable to think straight, sure, but still. there’s something about this city that makes him feel better. even just in this room, yoongi feels the faint illusion he’s breathing without struggling that much, like the air is fresher. burying his face in the side pillows, yoongi wishes he could feel like this all the time.

death never manages to scare him as much as finding himself surprised in front of feelings as simple as these does. the smell of alcohol in his mouth instead of flowers, a laughter of happiness instead of pain. yoongi can’t recall the exact moment it ended up like this. the two things that always felt like the safest ground, now are a minefield. him and namjoon, what a great pair. yoongi doesn’t try to shake the thought away this time. instead, he bathes in the memory, thinking of how many good things they achieved together, the thought so sweet poisons his mind as he moves a bit under the blanket.

“f’cking tight,” the complaint is directed to the fabric of his black jeans and falls off of his lips as yoongi struggles to get his phone out of the pocket.

“unlock,” he whispers to it. when the screen turns on, yoongi cusses. “for fuck’s sake. lower brightness,” he waits for a second but nothing happens. yoongi blinks, then laughs. “do i need to be polite with you? alright.” yoongi curls on himself, then repeats the command to his phone: “lower brightness.”

the brightness lowers, all at once.

“your majesty,” he jokes but his voice comes out muffled by the pillow rubbing against his face. namjoon was the one who convinced him to get this phone, even when yoongi kept complaining about how weird it’d be to talk to his phone – namjoon argued back, telling him if he’ll ever have a car, he’d have to talk with that too.

(“you get to make a bit of practice with this. not like you’ll ever get a driving license.”

“you know i could have these vines strangle you at any moments, yes?”

“you’d never, hyung. you’d never.”

yoongi doesn’t reply.

he’d never.)

yoongi’s not mad, not disturbed, when he hears namjoon’s voice in his head. there’s so much alcohol flooding his system it doesn’t even feel like a memory.

squinting his eyes, yoongi says: “open texts.”

then, very lazily, yoongi moves his arms and starts quickly typing on his keyboard.

to: kim namjoon(-ah)

you re right id enver. we stiol makej a good team,. lets habve a dirnk when i get back. i miss u

“send,” yoongi commands. he doesn’t feel the phone slowly slipping from his hand right after he hits send. when he dozes off, a smile still pokes at his curved, chapped lips.

the sun leaks watery yellow light in the room, standing tall across the wood floor. the light bleeds through the curtains, dappling the green couch and leading the way for rays of sunshine to stretch out and reach for yoongi’s cheek.

yoongi is sufficiently awake to feel the warmth cuddling him. he stretches his neck in it and tries to process the sounds surrounding the room: a faint whistle, a coffeemaker wailing, the consequential smell of caffeine. yoongi breathes in it and extends his legs just a bit, careful not to let them slip out of the edges of the blanket. because if there’s one thing he knows, that is the awareness of being cold and absolutely wasted. the aftertaste of alcohol sticks to his tongue, every part of his aching body a memoir of a confused, messy night.

in the background, he hears footsteps and a thud followed by a soft cuss. yoongi figures jungkook must be already awake. the nicest thing to do, after the kid has spent the entire time babysitting him, would probably be to get up and thank him. maybe buy him a meal. it’d be the bare minimum since jungkook doesn’t even know yoongi that well, and yet he always makes sure to be a source of moral support and a great friend. yoongi supposes jungkook’s parents really taught him well.

when stretching his arms, yoongi tries his best not to grunt out loud in pleasure. then, he lifts – in a very slow-motion – his eyelids. it takes a moment for him to bring into focus the surroundings and when he does, he gasps under his breath.

the space looks nice, white and clean with the sunlight tapping against its walls, but it’s not that that catches yoongi’s attention.

being still half asleep doesn’t change the fact that, when he looks around, his heart can’t help but clench. even just starting from behind the couch he’s laying, the entire living room he’s slept in is stuffed with plants.

the table set behind him is set with potted plants, then air plants, spider plants, peace lilies and aloes are all together, one next to each other, on the surface. yoongi recognises all of them and moves around enough to take in the most of this view.

climbing plants sit on the two brown shelves in the room and twirl with elegance in the air, their leaves brushing on nothing but creating thick shadows on the floorboards. against the wall on yoongi’s right, sit two stepped herb planters. on it, a bunch of cactus and stools for gardening, two golden watering cans, round black fishnet baskets welcoming more plants and boxes stuffed with old, new, thin and big books. hanging planters serve as curtains, squares dug in the walls with plants placed in them are substitutes of paintings.

“it’s nice, isn’t it, hyung?”

jungkook’s voice comes as a surprise and yoongi’s head snap in his direction. he’s resting against the door frame, the white, loose shirt he has on covered in spots of soil. it makes yoongi think that he was just now caring for his plants and it makes sense, considering how many plants are in this room only.

yoongi can’t answer the question and it’s not because he doesn’t think it’s nice – quite the contrary, actually. the room looks absolutely breathtaking. his silence has more to do with the sting stirring inside of him, the awareness of the silence, than it does with not noticing how pretty everything looks.

“most of these plants i’ve had since i was a kid,” jungkook explains. he gets closer to the egg-shaped planter, just to bend over to the ground and lifting a small Boston.

yoongi snickers. “you’re still a kid.”

“and you’re an old man that can’t even handle a night out anymore, so who’s the winner here,” he says all in one breath. yoongi can’t contradict anything of what he’s just heard.

petting the leaves of the Boston, jungkook takes a step in yoongi’s direction and it takes just a look for yoongi to understand that he’s about to be handed the plant.

“don’t,” the word comes out hurried and strangled, his tone raucous from having just woken up. woken up to this.

it must be the way yoongi’s speak that makes it possible for yoongi to realise what yoongi implies behind that word only. don’t.

yoongi still hasn’t had the way to talk in depth about the effects of hanahaki over his job, but jungkook is clever enough to have at least something figured out. yoongi is known because of his works with greenery and now he’s alarmed when someone tries to hand him a plant.

yoongi clears his voice, sitting up. “they whiter. when i touch them, they– yeah, well,” he croaks. better to be cool about it, that’s what he thought, but it didn’t work. overwhelmed, his voice breaks from anger, from being upset by something he can’t control.

“ah. hanahaki?”

“yeah. hanahaki,” he says but hates to even just acknowledge it. “i’ll buy you breakfast. get dressed,” yoongi suggests but as soon as he tries to get up, his head starts spinning and blocks him from getting up.

“ah, fuck. guess i really am hungover.”

“duh. and i already made breakfast. but save that sentence for another time. i don’t forget,” jungkook smiles, bunny teeth poking out and brushing against his lower lips.

“yes, i never doubt that, you bra–”

“i’ll wait for you in the kitchen!” jungkook chirps and just like that he’s gone, disappeared into the other room.

a smile cocoons the corners of yoongi’s lips but a sigh escapes from his mouth: there’ are plants all around and yet everything sounds so quiet. he tries getting up again and this one ends up being a successful try. yoongi completes his stretching session and lets the sun kissing his back, reflecting on how impossible it’ll be for him to ever get used to this silence.

yoongi is so caught up in his own thoughts he’s surprised when hearing the thump of his phone falling on the carpet. the sequence of actions that thing alone triggers, is quite the shocking one.

for a moment, yoongi stares at the phone, the screen turned to the floor. then, his mind hits him with a sudden wave of with memories of last night. there are one too many drinks, the palm of a hand on his back guiding him out of the club, an arm around his waist helping him out of a taxi. and there’s his heavy head on the couch, his tired voice talking to his phone, his dizzy fingers pressing send.

it’s a bad idea, the one he has after. the one that brings him to his knees too fast, that makes him pick his phone up and unlock it with the violence of a tornado. yoongi isn’t really sure what he’s expecting to find – for an answer, stupidly. for it to be just a bad memory, for his brain to be playing tricks. but it’s not. the text exits and it sits unanswered. a ragged breath escapes his lips.

“fuck,” he says. this wouldn’t make him feel ashamed, usually. it wouldn’t make his skin crawl, wouldn’t make him want to disappear and tight his stomachs in knots. right now, that’s exactly what happens. because not only it feels like he’s texted a stranger instead of namjoon, but it also seems like he has texted a stranger that genuinely doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore.

yoongi should be used to this by now, but when he clicks on the number shown on the display, habit isn’t the feeling welcoming him.

yoongi groans: namjoon blocking his number is the last thing he remembers before he starts throwing up.

ever since he can remember, yoongi’s conception of time has always been the same: time is never enough and always goes by too fast. he got that impression when he was a kid, got angry about it when he was a teenager, managed to accept it as an adult. in the present, though, he’s still trying to figure out a way to make his sick self deal with this reality.

it’s always felt short, but now it feels relative. when he’s alright it runs like a fugitive, jumps away from his hands and leaves no space for yoongi to catch it, no matter how long he fires at it.

when nausea hits him it’s stretched, every minute lasts two winters. jungkook wipes the sweat off of yoongi’s forehead and stays quiet long enough for yoongi’s blood to find its way back to his lips, painting red brushstrokes instead of purple and white.

“hyung,” jungkook murmurs once he’s helped yoongi sit back on his knees instead of having him writhed on his stomach.

“i’m alright.”

“you don’t look alright.”

yoongi takes a moment. then: “you’re saying i look ugly?” he teases, his head spinning a little when forcing himself to turn in jungkook’s direction. he can’t fully keep his eyes opened and the corners of his mouth hurt when he smirks.

“hyung. i’m. i haven’t. that’s not-” jungkook stars and yoongi notices how easy it is for the kid to lose his cool when he’s panicking a bit. it must have not been an easy thing to see, this one, for jungkook. it must have not been pleasant to clean off a bundle of petals, dead butterflies and saliva. it must have not been easy for him to think that’s what he could’ve ended up like.

“i’m kidding. let’s go eat.”

“you don’t look hungry.”

yoongi isn’t, that he doesn’t deny.

“you made breakfast,” he clenches his fists around the fabric of the couch when getting up. “and i’m going to eat it.”

yoongi keeps his word. he keeps it when he really ends up walking toward the kitchen, bare feet cold against the floor, eating a bite or two. when he manages to drag himself from one room to another, day after day and becomes familiar with each one of them.

one week later, he has completely stopped sleeping in hotels and has started sleeping on jungkook’s couch instead. yoongi brings him out for coffee almost every morning and when jungkook can’t, yoongi brings the coffee to him. occasionally, they go back to the place they first ate together. frequently, jungkook feeds yoongi his favourite dishes, smug about his cooking skills. every time, yoongi forces himself to eat, even just a bit. because it’s nice, because jungkook smiles of a smile so genuine yoongi can’t help but grin back. because although the house isn’t familiar, it’s fresh.

he knows his mental health has gotten better because even though he can’t hear them, even if he’s immersed in silence, yoongi arrives at a point where he thinks once again this is what he needs. being surrounded by even just the view of vegetation helps him. ever more often, he thinks if he has to die unbloomed, at least he’s going to do it surrounded by blossoming life.

every morning, he wakes up to the sight of jungkook watering plants, sometimes hidden and completely swallowed from the jungle his house is. every corner disappears behinds plants, every wall has threads of creepers climbing up on it.

in the time they spend together, yoongi learns to recognise jungkook’s small habits. the red flags when he’s angry, the blueness surrounding him when he’s too anxious and he can’t breathe. for example, he learns that for some reason, jungkook relaxes when playing with makeup.

(“it’s going to be useful for interviews.”

yoongi deliberately flies over the word interview. “i never let anyone touch my face.”

“that’s fair. i’m not saying everyone should come near you and be allowed to touch your face, hyung. i’m not coming near you, wanting to only touch your face. there has to be a motif.”

“painting my face is your motif?”

“paint–” jungkook stops, gawking at him. “jesus christ you are old.”)

yoongi lets jungkook win, every time. there’s something about finding himself so used to someone else other than namjoon that helps him breathe better. even if he’s getting skinnier, even when cramps aren’t only cramps anymore but a constant, sometimes quiet sometimes noisy, presence in his life.

yoongi thinks it’s quite the fortune to find in jungkook not only a friend but also someone who somehow shares a piece of his soul and understand his pain, in a certain way.

jungkook is quiet, reads a lot and plays video-games most of the time. he fights with his father on a daily basis and through the cracks of his anger, yoongi sees him for who he really is. a kid who’s dealt with a lot for someone so young but who still clings onto his youth with everything he has. his soul hasn’t been compromised by his struggle, and the thing jungkook does, he does out of kindness or love – that’s why he sticks around yoongi, why he helps him pull through when the shootings get a bit too intense.

(there’s jungkook balcony, there’s him sitting next to yoongi and there’s dust biting at yoongi’s nose when sitting on the balcony. there’s the nice overlook the location offers, right above pastelia’s smallest but brightest neighbour. there’s a lot, but it’s never silent and it’s never dark when they sit out here. and there’s cold air, there’s yoongi freezing even when wrapped in two blankets and a sweatshirt so big it makes him feel like he’s floating.

“i’m sorry you had to go through that, this morning.”

a blink. yoongi staring at the plant sitting in the corner. “i came here for this. to talk about the illness.”

“we didn’t talk about that. we talked about your magic.”

there’s astonishment taking over yoongi’s mind, still. his magic. namjoon only referred to things yoongi did with plants like magic. only he would validate it. “there’s not a lot to talk about.”

“it’s just because you’re sick. i knew you from before, you know? i knew who you were the first moment you stepped in the room. you’re famous for your compositions, hyung.”

yoongi guesses he is. he knows he was.

“still. that’s alright, i didn’t mind it. it’s just the hanahaki making me choke every time i think about stuff that even remotely bring me back to namjoon. fucking absurd.”

“but that’s how it works.”

“and that’s why i’m here. so that i can make the best out of this dumb illness. it’s the only thing i can offer to the world, right now.” yoongi scoffs at something, scoffs at himself and the absurdity of destiny. resentment clings on his throat. “it’s the only thing about me that’s worth talking about.” teeth bite at the walls of his mouth, a thick line of shame makes him shiver. “at least, that’s how it is after people realised i have hanahaki,” and then there’s the attempt to save himself from looking pathetic.

jungkook closes his eyes and lays his head against the wall behind him. “that’s bullshit,” he says. lays his head upon the wall behind him. “there’s a million things about you i could use to fall in love with you.”

finally, there’s a smile.)

two weeks and a half is the time spent without ever going back to the Capital – yoongi manages, somehow. his conversations over the phone with hoseok and taehyung happen almost every day and are something yoongi keeps close to his heart. 

his mind distances itself so away from the Capital, the same city he had dreamt of for such a long time, that his friends’ voices are the only thing keeping him from completely slip away from it and the memories attached to the place.

some part of yoongi’s brain desperately wishes to forget about everything he has ever done next to namjoon – half of his life intertwined with him. the other part, more rational and lucid, fights it off. tells him it’s not the way he should deal with this and maybe he should just stop whining, should actually spend more time reflecting on how all of what he is right now, is because of who he’s been in the past, in the first place. that he shouldn’t let go so easily – all of his dreams now as thin as paper.

most of the time, yoongi’s brain feels split in two. one part of him drifting away and the other clutching at who he used to be even just three weeks before. it’s tiring, it’s scary. but then, hoseok and taehyung call.

(“you’re still staying at that kid’s house?”

“is he even legal?”

“it’s not like he’s fucking him.”

“you don’t know if he’s fuck–”

“stop. stop, he’s legal. and no, i don’t know that because i fucked him.”

“ah. so is it because you want to? you did your research. i’m proud.”

“it’d be cool to meet him. i mean, seokjin-hyung keeps talking about him being the son of this director he’s a huge fan of. we don’t really know who the guy is.”

“that’s because seokjin-hyung is old.”

“well, true.”

“but we really wanna meet this guy who kidnapped you. i can tell a lot from someone’s smell, you know. plus, that’s the least you could do after abandoning us for a month.”

“it’s barely been three weeks.”

taehyung’s tone becomes high-pitched and covers yoongi’s voice. “that’s the least you could do after abandoning for almost a month.”

“when are you coming back?”

yoongi’s words get wiped off of his tongue before they even get there. he’s not sure he has registered the question, yet, when taehyung starts speaks again.

“shit. he’s silent. fuck, you’re not going to come back?”

“of course he’s going to come back.”

“your traits are starting to fade in my mind.”

“you’re just being dramatic.”

a pause. yoongi can see taehyung acknowledging what hoseok just said. his palms must be pointing outwards, now, eyebrows raised. “well, yes. but still.”

“we miss you. everyone does. this entire city is starting to feel weird without you here.”)

for some reason, hoseok’s words don’t leave his mind. instead, they make a nest in one of its corners and repeat themselves from time to time. they start as a whisper when yoongi goes back to actively think about the Capital again and end as a rumble when dohyun, one of the crew’s director, calls him and tells him he wants to meet him.

“this is how we’ll need to proceed before we’re done with your part. which honestly means that once we’re done with it, we’re done with pretty much more than a half of this entire documentary. it’s this one last thing and then we wrap it up and start the post-production process.”

yoongi sips at his Phoenix Fire, a ginger drink, and licks his lips. of course they’d want to do this. what’s bumming him out is not what dohyun just said, it’s the kickback to the reality the words give him.

“so,” yoongi begins. “the last shots you’re going to need are going to be of my apartment in the Capital and the shop i– used to work in?”

“and the greenhouse.”

“and the greenhouse, yes. of course.”

“pretty much, yes. we’re going to take a few other shots but those don’t need a lot of work, nor participation. the reason i’m telling you this is because we need your consent to do proceed, of course. we can’t just force ourselves into your place.”

“yeah. no, i get that,” but it’s not a real answer and yoongi knows it. he sees it in the way dohyun shifts in the chair of the crowded, dim-lighted bar, waiting.

“i promise you: it’s not going to be a lot of work and it’s not going to take a lot of time. after that, we’re done and you can go back to your place. it must’ve been hard, being away from home for such a long time. we get that, yoongi. that’s why we usually leave this stuff at the end. so that’s not traumatic to get away a second time.”

what dohyun just said, that’s exactly the thing that makes it so hard for yoongi to speak. it’s about how it hasn’t been that hard. how the thought of him going back makes him want to rip his rotting insides out, how it threatens to make him cry. it’s stupid, irrational, makes his skin itch from nervousness. it’s not the city he doesn’t miss, it’s not his house or his fucking plants who won’t even fucking talk to him. it’s the tension. the anger, the sadness of being in the same house with someone that seems like the love of your life and acts like your worst enemy.

on the other hand, yoongi doesn’t recognise this process his mind is putting him through. these, they don’t feel like his thoughts. it’s a constant stream of consciousness controlled by emotions. they used to be ruled over by dreams of ambitions and success when he was a kid. insecure, desperate to be anywhere else besides his house, he knew the moment he’d manage to get free, he’d shine. it’s this one thought that shakes him to the core. yoongi crosses his legs and ever so slowly, tilts his head.
“well, not really. this whole experience, it’s been… interesting. it’s sad it’s coming to an end, but work is work. you need to get the shots down, so we’ll get have them down. do you guys already have a schedule?”

dohyun smiles. “we do.”

promptly, he slides a ticket in yoongi’s direction, like it had been burning his pocket the entire time they were talking.

☾

the date of the trip corresponded to the day after the current. that was the first information yoongi had catalogued, his heart doing a weird flip. once again, a reaction that he wasn’t familiar with. heart palpitation and anxiety for something so nice as going back home.

in fact, when yoongi steps into the living room after so many days spent in someone else’s house, a sense of strangeness permeates in him. the apartment looks tidy, almost like it’s never been before.

in the six years spent living with namjoon, yoongi had travelled a couple of times out of the Capital for matters strictly related to business and every time he would come back to stacks of books thrown open and spread over the floor, unwashed dishes in the sink, crystals’ ash scattered all over the now clean, ironed rug.

unfortunately, yoongi thinks he knows what this is about. namjoon knew yoongi would’ve been back today. and he made sure to weird him out even when being at work.

when he walks in, jungkook, yugyeom, dohyun and other two crew’s guys behind him, home isn’t the word that bubbles up in his mind.

“oh god. is this kikimora, hyung?”

jungkook catches yoongi’s attention. kikimora is rubbing up against jungkook’s legs, softly meowing.

“yes,” yoongi confirms, furrowing his eyebrows. “i can’t believe it. she’s greeting you and not me,” he mumbles. jungkook simply laughs and picks her in his arms, agreeing with yugyeom when he coos at the tiny moon on her forehead.

yoongi hears them but can’t bring himself to listen, everything seeming so distant. he knew namjoon would’ve been at work by the time they arrived and that had calmed him down, at least for a bit. but standing here, in the present, he looks around and feels like an intruder in his own home.

before going to pastelia, yoongi had gotten familiar to this aura of awkwardness when walking from room to room, had almost accepted it. right now, though, as he tries to shake off the feeling in order to make the shooting start, everything keeps feeling like too much.

yoongi knows that everything – every second, every word said and second filmed is only leading up to the next moment of the evening.

matter how hard he had prepared for this, it’s never going to be enough. it never was, not even when they’d live together, peacefully at the beginning of his illness. no matter how many times he’d tell himself he’d see namjoon in the morning, that there was no need to freak out, he would.

this time, not only he freaks out, he freezes. right there, in front of him, only a glass door separating him, namjoon sits alone in the shop. he looks different, that’s the first thing yoongi notices. there’s a new fierceness in his figure.

his cloth isn’t his usual one – black, a shield for his insecurities. this one is two-layered, the inner one sewed with planets made out of red strings, the outer adorned with silver constellations. they look familiar, probably inspired by one of namjoon’s astrology books, and they look made for him. the entire firmament must’ve signed a silent agreement to let namjoon rule the universe like he’s the child of it all.

namjoon’s curved over the counter, his neck entirely covered by a black turtleneck.. there’s a gold necklace dangling from it and it follows namjoon every time he makes a move. even his hair looks different. he’s started parting them on one side, the only thing covering his forehead being a grey, soft curl. namjoon looks older like this, more confident.

he sits with elegance over the chair, long legs crossed and the strokes of his pen light as they stain the page, and writes quickly, occasionally taking a look at the shelf to his left, the one where they used to stack both poisons and patients’ treatments.

as he stares at him, yoongi thinks he’d love to meet this new side of him, but ever since it came up, namjoon kept yoongi away from it. cut him out before yoongi could even be in the picture.

“yoongi-hyung,” yugyoem reaches out to him, urging him to do something other than standing still in front of the shop’s room. yoongi should move, probably ring the bell of his own fucking shop but– he doesn’t have to.

namjoon looks up another time, but this time the movement is different from those who preceded it. this time, it’s abrupt. his gaze doesn’t lazily reach out for the shelf. instead, his head snaps sharply up and has a purpose, knowing exactly which road to walk over.

the stars must’ve talked to him.

time freezes when namjoon meets yoongi’s eyes. or at least, that’s how it feels to yoongi, because he loses the moment in between the door clicking open and namjoon standing in front of him and finally, even if sharply, after weeks of silence, talking to him.

he stands tall, a strange look in his eyes. “you’re back.”

yoongi registers the voice and it’s something completely new. the vibration hits him, stone-cold. and yet, if yoongi could shower in a sound, he’d choose this – he’d drown in this. he’d freeze in it, let it knock the breath out of his chest, let it grab his throat until the last, choked gasp.

there’s an intermittence in namjoon’s constellation the same moment yoongi’s hand begin to shake.

yoongi tells himself to do what he used to do when he first got sick and had to be this close to namjoon all the time: clench your fists, look away. but his gaze is locked to namjoon’s, his hands tingling, his heart racing.

there’s too much of everything right now that the taste in his mouth, ten times amped up, is the last thing yoongi pays attention to. he wishes he could do so much, wishes he could tell namjoon to fuck off just to melt in his arms right after, stay quiet, then cry of sounds so sharp they’d help to break the tension between them. he wishes he could do so much. but he can’t, he won’t bring himself to.

“that’s observant of you,” he says, severe in the choice of words, cracked in the tone. but it’s enough. namjoon looks at him for just one more second before breaking this suffocating eye contact. that alone, it’s enough for yoongi to go back breathing. barely, but breathing.

“welcome,” namjoon says to the people behind him and yoongi recognises the tone.

he knows what namjoon’s doing: this his is salesman’s voice and no matter what’s going on between them, work was and still is a different thing. work gave namjoon the opportunity to break free, to look around without being scared. therefore, that comes first. yoongi knows it and it makes him so happy and that much less distant from the man who’s smiling at the guys.

“you must be the documentary’s crew, right?” namjoon says, observing the guys behind yoongi, then their equipment. “ah, i’m sorry. i’ve been letting you stand on the threshold with this cold. come in. take a look,” he shifts aside. yoongi follows the movement of his cloak. he’s the last moving, weakness spreading everywhere in his body. his legs, especially.

the moment has been so intense for his system, his brain, that yoongi forgot about everything in about a couple of moments. that’s why when he hears jungkook’s voice, he leaps.

“hyung. you alright?”

yoongi nods, quickly approaching the shop’s back door – they leave with the sound of voices behind them.

“you’re yugyeom, right?” namjoon asks the interviewer. “i’ve heard great things about you,” he says, politeness sugarcoating every single one of his words. yoongi notices the way yugyeom’s face lights up which makes yoongi mad.

he knows the only thing that talked to namjoon about yugyeom were his stars and now he stands there, smiling and selling it off like yugyoem’s the next promise of television and journalism. this, for example, isn’t namjoon. it’s not a bad version of him, it’s just someone he’s been only ever since they stopped talking. the next thought yoongi has it’s sneaky.

it makes yoongi think that maybe namjoon has always been like this, but for some reason, he’s never allowed himself to be his true self around yoongi, that maybe he had been afraid of showing his true colours. it’s a thought that weighs so much it must show on his face because jungkook turns in his direction.

“hyung.”

“it’s okay. let’s go. the greenhouse is over there,” he guides jungkook. he doesn’t look back, but small teeth and insect legs claw at his stomach.

being in the greenhouse is itself already hard enough. yoongi is still trying to work with his plants completely shutting him out, but being alone in there is different than being there with a bunch of people that can distract him, somehow.

when the guys step in the room, yoongi hears them gasp behind his shoulders and a soft, small smile appears on his cracked lips. before opening the door, the fear of finding the place in a disastrous state crawled in his stomach. but the greenhouse looks as shiny and clean as always. namjoon took care of it and that makes yoongi’s heart lighter.

“this place is incredible. i might have a photographer erection,” dohyun whispers it to bonhwa, the cameraman, but yoongi still hears him and can’t help but scoff.

“hyung, you put up all this by yourself?” jungkook asks. yoongi turns in his direction to find him with his neck up, gaze pointing upwards, right where the vines twist around the ceiling’s white planks of wood.

“yes, but it’s the work of six years, so. not that impressive.”

jungkook doesn’t straighten his neck, he just adjusts his gaze so that he can look at him side-eyed. “hyung,” he says, with that weird, lovely inflection of his. 

yoongi laughs, puts his hands up in the air. “alright,” he allows. he’s about to turn in the crew’s direction, asking for some kind of direction on how they want to proceed, but then jungkook does something that leaves yoongi staring.

jungkook leaves his mouth half open, closing his eyes once again. then, he inhales sharply. his entire chest fills up with the air he’s just breathed and color blooms. “fuck, the air in here…” he stops. “it’s like i never got sick in the first place. this is amazing, hyung. it’s so clean.”

yoongi stares, not quite sure what to say. “thanks?” he sounds hazy, but proudness swells in his chest, that’s for sure.

the fact that even though he can’t feel it, the magic is still in there, gives yoongi the strength to stay in the greenhouse for an hour straight, letting the guys film whatever they want, taking pictures of him right in the middle of the plants.

despite the fact he can’t touch them, yoongi can’t help but reach out for the leaves when he walks in the middle of the tunnel created by the moonflower creepers. he craves to ask if they’re alright, wishes he could get closer, see if their veining is alright, if they’re hydrated just enough. he doesn’t, but he’s been wearing his heart on his sleeves, lately, so his emotions are constantly on display – yoongi catches the guys’ excitement when they capture the moment on camera.

when all this started, it had felt weird. it made yoongi feel stupid, for the most part, guilty even. to let these guys do what they wanted with these feelings of his, to let them tell him what to do in several places just to get the right visuals. it took a lot of conversations with both jungkook and himself to shake those thoughts off, and although sometimes they come back, they don’t when yoongi is in the greenhouse.

everything comes spontaneously. the way he almost lets the petals brush against the rings on his bony fingers. the atmosphere remains calm the entire time, but when yoongi closes the door of the greenhouse, he does it with a heavy chest.

out of all the things he’s now able to get past, getting close to Hesperis isn’t one of them. he didn’t even check her corner. there, the silence wouldn’t feel stranger. it’d be unbearable.

the glass door shuts closed behind them and yoongi finds himself surprised when he notices it’s already dark outside.

“what time is it?”

“it’s nine,” yugyeom answers.

“what.”

it’s confusing. not only because yoongi used to sense on his skin every second going by when he was in the greenhouse, but also because he was expecting a bit of fuss from namjoon. fuss that never came. maybe that anger he had before yoongi took off to pastelia expired. although namjoon is still cold, he doesn’t look like he wants to fight.

he doesn’t follow yoongi nor the crew in the greenhouse, he doesn’t even try. he had said he needed to stay in the shop because the closing hours were far away and that much was true, but to yoongi that still felt like an excuse. an excuse he found to be too comfortable. when yugyeom referred it to him, relief flooded through yoongi.

the idea of not having to pretend everything was alright, of not choking every time his eyes would meet namjoon. the nice, warm idea of a silent truce being made nuzzles in his mind and yoongi indulges it, even when the realness of namjoon blocking his number and every answered attempt to reach him from just a week ago are still there.

however, the concept makes him feel so relaxed, makes his stomach hurt a little less, his balance a little stronger. this idea, this longing only thickens when jungkook speaks up on the porch of yoongi’s apartment.

yoongi had insisted for jungkook to spend the night at his apartment. had said: it’s the least i can do after what you did for me back in pastelia.

it’s a relief, really, to never be left alone with his thoughts when being next to jungkook, who speaks a lot when he’s comfortable or excited. this night, he happens to be both.

“you know,” he keeps on rambling, staying behind him as yoongi fumbles with the keys. “namjoon-ssi told yugyeom he’d be happy to help. if they ever needed an interview or something.”

yoongi stops, the key half-in the lock. “what?”

jungkook shrugs. “yes. yugyeom’s gay was showing. he was over the moon.”

“was yugyeom that excited to meet namjoon?”

“hyung, yugyeom was about to shit his pants when they told him he’d get to interview you,” jungkook explains. yoongi smirks both in disbelief and amusement. “i don’t think you have an idea of how well-known you guys are. namjoon-ssi is a marked witch. i know you’re used to it, but we peasants,” he gestures to him and the air around him. “we really, really aren’t, hyung,” he says, following yoongi in the apartment and kicking his shoes off. “it’s like. i don’t know, some sort of mythological creature, i guess.”

yoongi thinks it’s fair. he’s about to say it out loud when: “a mythological creature, huh?” namjoon repeats after jungkook, his voice coming from the kitchen.

the illusion that plowed through yoongi’s brain, the one trying to tell him namjoon was finally okay with what happened in between them, fades as fast as it came.

jungkook freezes. he looks over at yoongi, who rolls his eyes. weirdly enough, annoyance his the first feeling his brain lists.

“i’m sorry,” jungkook mouths to him.

yoongi takes off his coat and shakes his head. “you’re alright,” he tells him but they’ve both heard the stiffness in namjoon’s voice. therefore, when they step into the kitchen, jungkook starts babbling in panic.

“i’m so sorry. i’m mortified. that’s not what. i didn’t mean it in–”

namjoon lets the chopsticks fall into the ball. “yeah, i’m sure,” he cuts him off, getting up with a snapping, fast movement.

yoongi could decide to spare the question that pops up on his tongue because he already knows the answer. he knows the frantic shifts and steps, knows the annoying way to stop talking and leaving the room. it’s all namjoon’s been doing for the past month. still, he asks: “where are you going?”

“out,” namjoon spits it out like even just talking with yoongi requires too much of an effort. he’s out of the kitchen in a second.

“hyung,” jungkook whines, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “i can. i’m sorry. shit. maybe it’s better if i–”

“no,” yoongi stops him. “you meant no harm and he knows it. he’s just acting like a teenager. this is exactly what i told you about,” he breathes out heavily.

when namjoon comes out of his room, a thick gust of cold air follows him. yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose in between his thumb and index before forcing his feet to move and going after him.

jungkook follows him into the small living room. “i’ll be back in a minute,” yoongi assures – and hopes it’ll be true. the second yoongi is back on the porch, he realises his black sweater won’t be enough to keep him from the cold. he relies on his anger.

“namjoon,” yoongi calls after him. namjoon doesn’t stop. “are you starting this again?” he tries – and it works. namjoon plants his feet on the ground before he turns in yoongi’s direction.

“i’m not starting anything. i just needed not to have strangers in my house after a day of work.”

“that’s great, then. because jungkook’s not a stranger.”

“he is, to me. i’m sorry i don’t want to spend time with someone who sees me as a fucking circus freak.”

“you know that’s not what he meant. you’re just being unnecessarily sensitive. this whole attitude you’ve got going on is getting on my nerves.”

something changes on namjoon’s face. his eyes get darker, his words have a different timing from what yoongi got used to in the last couple of weeks. but it’s so sudden, so quick, yoongi can’t decipher it.

“you know what else gets on my nerves?” namjoon says, getting closer. “being called sensitive. and not being able to rest.”

yoongi shakes his head, tightens his jaw. “we’re doing this again? you’re threatening me, again? you weren’t this unfriendly when you told yugyeom you would be happy helping them out, did you?”

“that’s called being polite. it’s work. and it’s different. and you know it.”

“i do. just like i know this isn’t your house, only. you seem to forget about that too easily.”

the cold stuck in yoongi’s bones until that moment disappears right exactly when namjoon face becomes a grimace. the expression infuriates yoongi in a way that lights him up from the inside.

the night drapes around namjoon’s slim figure, grey hair shining the same shade of his stars when he raises his eyebrows and clicks his tongue.

“it’s hard not to when you’ve been gone for weeks.”

yoongi doesn’t know if he wants to laugh in relief or groan in frustration.

“it’s not like i haven’t tried to talk to you. it’s hard to when you have my number blocked.”

“i didn’t have time. you have any idea how busy it gets?”

“yes. yes, i do. because i’ve worked with you for the past six years before you decided to kick me out. and now you’re coming at me for bringing a friend home.”

“listen, i know you’ve just come back by your little vacation, but i’ve been work. i’ve been working hard and i’m telling you, again, that all i am is fucking tired and it gets on my nerves to come home to strangers.”

yoongi stays silent for a second, just enough for him to take all this in. he can’t help but think he’s so tired of namjoon’s tantrums, of him stomping his feet to the ground in the unreasonable, foolish attempt to make yoongi feel bad no matter what he does.

“alright,” yoongi says. “so you’re so tired but you can still manage to yell at me and go out?”

“i wouldn’t have talked to you if you didn’t follow me!”

“i’m trying to understand, namjoon! i’m just trying to understand what the fuck is going on in your head!”

“the only thing you need to understand is that you need to leave me alone, hyung.”

“just say you hate to see my face and let us be done with this bullshit.”

namjoon stares at him so intensely yoongi isn’t sure he’s breathing, still, his chest rising and falling. then: “i hate to see your face, hyung. i fucking hate it,” it’s the last thing he says. after that, yoongi is only left with the shadows of both of their anger. yoongi’s especially.

it stays inside of him and for a moment yoongi doesn’t think it’ll ever go away. it’s so strong, so sharp it makes the lines of his teeth creak one against the other. yoongi can feel its roots dig into his stomach so hard he can’t distinguish fury from pain.

yoongi thinks the walls of the apartment will fall down as he slams the door closed behind him. he wouldn’t mind, he wouldn’t care. he would spit on the rubble, laugh over the dust.

an urgency to punch the walls, to rip something, anything with his bare hands comes into view. maybe doing one of those things will help ease the violent thoughts in his mind, the blood throbbing in his temples. there are unsaid words on his tongue, raw emotions choking him and shaggy breaths that want to turn into screams. he’s at his wits end with namjoon, so tense he feels like he could snap at any moment. and it worries him. because this isn’t him. this ball of irrationality and hatred is who he used to be but it’s not him as an adult. he doesn’t want himself to go back there’s so much negativity attached to it all, he’s paralysed.

no matter how long he breathes out and clenches his fists, yoongi feels stuck in fury – when he lifts his gaze, though, that’s the moment where painfully, ever so slowly, his senses come back.

jungkook is standing still, right where yoongi left him, his body tense.

he must’ve overheard and it’s shameful, it makes yoongi feel weird. exposed and pathetic to this kid who for some reason cares and looks up to him. and now he’s in the middle of the room, pulling at the right sleeve of his striped black and white shirt. the imagery shakes yoongi off.

seeing jungkook looking at him like he’s doing right now is enough for yoongi to calm down. the decompressing process shows himself through a ragged sound, the hybrid of a laughter and a lament.

“man,” yoongi exhales, lets his slowly arms down his sides. “you hungry?” he asks.

jungkook’s big eyes meander over yoongi, taking in as much as he can just to consider what’s the best thing to say next. yoongi hopes jungkook won’t ask questions, hopes he won’t show worry nor interest.

then: “i’m starving,” jungkook breathes out, carefully. when yoongi laughs, both their shoulders start to relax.

the silence they eat dinner in doesn’t turn out to be a sad, uncomfortable one. it’s one they both use as an opportunity to rearrange themselves since the last hours have felt like an alteration of reality. it’s nice like it always is when he’s around jungkook and yoongi thinks he can shake what happened off of his shoulders.

he’s sure about it when he cleans the dishes, when he changes the sheets and pulls his legs under the covers. the problem of it being a lie only arises when jungkook’s breath gets heavier and yoongi is left alone with his thoughts, trying to scrape off with his fingers and nails the face namjoon made when he told yoongi he could stand him no more.

five times yoongi straddles the covers and moves around in bed – six is the breaking point for jungkook.

“hyung,” he calls, his voice gruff.

yoongi stops abruptly. “shit. did i wake you?”

jungkook doesn’t answer. instead, he rolls over in bed and lays flat on his back, mirroring yoongi. rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, he stays with his eyes closed for a while, before he turns his head towards yoongi’s, his cheek pressed against the pillow.

“is the fight keeping you up?”

yoongi groans, doesn’t find the courage to look back at him. “you’ve heard all of it?”

“well, not–” jungkook plays with the tip of his nose. “okay, alright. yes, hyung, i did. it’s not like i couldn’t, even if i wanted to.”

“we weren’t screaming.”

“you guys were. a bit.”

yoongi groans with more intensity. “it’s not only that. it’s this– whole thing. i don’t get it and i think it’s unfortunate that out of all the people in the world, i not only catch hanahaki, but i also get the rarest form in the entire fucking universe? that’s bullshit. it was weird enough when i got this disease in the first place.”

“what does that mean?”

“it means i’ve never fallen in love before namjoon. not because i think it’s bullshit, just because. i didn’t care for that.”

“or maybe you didn’t have time to even think about it. then you relaxed, found some kind of a stable routine and there: you fell in love.”

“man, i’m one lucky bastard, aren’t i? i fall in love for the first time and the only thing it gives me is a mortal disease.”

“did you want to get the operation done? like, before you knew you couldn’t, did you want to?”

“is there anyone choosing not to get the operation done? what’s fucking worse than dying like this.”

quiet.

“oh. shit. that was rude, i’m sorry. i tend to forget you’re sick, too.”

“i’m not sick. i actually feel great, thank you very much, hyung.”

“you know what i mean.”

“yeah.”

more silence.

“but doesn’t it ever get tiring? having to fall in love with all these people. how do you even do that?”

jungkook scoffs. “i’ve always done that. even before i got hanahaki, i was one of those kids that were in love with the idea of love. i couldn’t go two weeks without falling for someone new. i genuinely have the ability to develop a fondness for most of the people i met. and i don’t mind it, you know. falling in love and having hanahaki.”

“i bet you don’t, that shit keeps you alive.”

“no, it’s not– well, yes. but it’s not only about that. you know how when you have this disease you’re destined to feel everything– i don’t know, ten times more intensely?”

“maybe you meant condemned.”

“yes, that. it can be exhausting but also it’s just– the perception you get to have over feelings specifically. you either live thanks to them or die because of them and whether you want it or not, you will never experience feelings the same way you used to before getting it.”

“how do you experience them, now?”

“i don’t know. i can’t explain it to you. i usually get awkward when talking about it, but it’s like– because i live off of it, my feelings get super intense. like, take having sex, for example. it’s a lot for most people, but since i have this… condition, i know for me it’s even more. and in the weirdest way. if i have sex with someone i really love it’s– god. it’s incredible, it’s like getting high on oxygen and–” suddenly, he stops. jungkook clears his throat, fixes the cover back in place, tugging them up to his chest and changes the subject. “or kissing, that’s a good example as well. and it never, ever feels the same, no matter how many people i kiss. and i’ve kissed a lot of them, especially since hanahaki was diagnosed to me.”

“but different in what way?”

jungkook has to think about it for a second. “it always makes some different flower pop up inside of me or makes me breathe differently. sometimes better, sometimes worse. and even the taste. every person feels different to me. when i look at them i can almost see what they’re going to taste like.”

yoongi regrets what he says the moment he says it. “what do you think i taste like?”

jungkook doesn’t seem embarrassed, though. instead, he rolls on his side and props himself up his elbows to pull himself up enough to look at yoongi. “old.”

“you brat. all the people i kissed in the four more years of life i’ve lived in comparison to you, tend to differ.”

“i’m sure i’d stand by that even if i had kissed you.”

and yoongi doesn’t know if it’s because he’s tired and his mind overclouded, but he quirks an eyebrow up and says: “but you haven’t.”

the air in the room shifts. cautiously, jungkook looks at him. “no.”

“and would you?”

“yes,” he says it slurring but he’s as fast as he’s ever been. in the time yoongi’s brain takes to weigh carefully his words, jungkook gets closer and closer.

“you sure?” yoongi asks, breath saggy. it makes him feel both embarrassed and excited, the feeling of freshness he gets when he’s around jungkook is now being washed off by a wave of heat.

“yeah,” jungkook grants, whispering softly as he stares at yoongi’s mouth. there’s gentleness even in the way he gets closer to him.

jungkook helps him out of the sheets, lifts him up enough to brush his nose against yoongi’s as he gets the both of them into a more of a comfortable position.

at first, he only leaves a couple of pecks on yoongi’s lips – yoongi can’t help but sigh. jungkook’s mouth isn’t particularly soft but he’s been so touch deprived lately, even the slightest contact makes him electric. yoongi stretches towards jungkook a bit more, his palm sliding over his shirt just to get a grasp over his hip. jungkook stumbles on his breath, the covers rustling under their bodies. jungkook is warm, he’s broad and skilled.

he also must like a challenge, because when yoongi reaches for his side, jungkook tugs at his waist and brings him closer, almost with the intention of lighting him up and pulling him on his lap. he doesn’t, though.

he only slides his tongue over yoongi’s lip and it’s enough for yoongi to grab a fistful of his hair, tugging a bit and bringing him closer. jungkook tastes nice and makes a sound so low yoongi can’t help but bite at his lips, blocking it in between his teeth for a couple of instants. the thing is, the moment jungkook begins to wet yoongi’s lower lip with his tongue, is the moment yoongi opens his eyes. in front of him, there’s a good looking guy with a nice body, a good perfume, and strong but pretty features.

yoongi is making out with the same kid that couldn’t manage to get his words in a straight line when he first met yoongi and who would blush when he’d stare for too long, all of this while namjoon sleeps in the other room. the vortex of thoughts that show up in his brain, makes yoongi feel atrociously bad all of a sudden, senseless guilt stirring inside of him. he doesn’t know if his thoughts are so loud jungkook can hear them but something must happen, because jungkook’s eyes snap open as well and they pull back at the same time.

they stare at each other for a second, mouth still red from the kiss – right now, the sound of their laboured breaths and the awkwardness of it all is the only thing filling up the room.
yoongi isn’t quite sure what to say, afraid of breaking the moment and triggering something related to jungkook’s hanahaki, just in case jungkook has had a positive reaction to what just happened. only then, yoongi notices: jungkook’s right side of the mouth is, in fact, curled up.

“so,” yoongi begins, voice hoarse from speaking so quietly. “you want to laugh.”

jungkook looks at him, panicking. “fuck, this looks so bad. seriously, this isn’t what you think it is, hyung. i’m sorr–”

but yoongi doesn’t let him finish, because he starts laughing before even jungkook does.

“shit, i’m so relieved you want to laugh. did it feel weird for you too?”

“it felt twisted. no offense, hyung.”

“none taken. you’re a really good kisser but it felt like i was making out with my younger brother.”

“you’re a good kisser but shit you tasted weird.”

yoongi stops. “okay, now. that worries me a bit.”

“no, i think it’s, you know, your hanahaki. it’s like stuffing my tongue in a bucket of lavenders. felt too personal and too sweet for my likings.”

yoongi agrees with a nod and lets himself fall back on the mattress.

“for a moment there i felt like i was sixteen and curious all over again.”

“that’s the effect i have on men.”

“oh, no. why did you have to say that. enough. enough, shut up. go to sleep”

jungkook laughs, “g’night, hyung. let’s not do this ever again,” he says and turns on his side, still giggling.

yoongi doesn’t move, instead – for some reason, the only thing he can pay attention to before dozing off is the insanity of how fluttered it makes him feel that even when other people kiss him, all they can taste is yoongi’s love for namjoon.

“is it weird if i say i want to adopt him?” taehyung asks, his chin on his palms as he looks over at jungkook who sits in front of him.

“yes, honey. a bit.”

yoongi groans in pain and sinks down the chair of the bar. “this was a bad idea,” he complains, all of this while he’s trying to keep down a smile.

hoseok and taehyung generally have the ability to make yoongi happy when he’s around them, but hoseok, taehyung and jungkook make him joyful.

“i wouldn’t mind being adopted by you guys,” jungkook mumbles, grabbing the food with his chopsticks and smiling at hoseok and taehyung.

yoongi turns in jungkook’s direction, out of words. “so now we’re going along with it?”

“oh my god. i love him. i love you,” taehyung says, leaning over the table, ears twitching in excitement. “i really wanna lick your face right now, but i won’t. just because i’ve known you for less than ten minutes.”

“that means by the end of the night you’re going to have hybrid dog saliva dripping from your cheeks,” hoseok explains, mouth wet by soup and full of carrots. his cheeks are red the way they always get when he eats or drink something that has fairy dust in it.

“i had a dog once, when i was a kid,” jungkook mentions and for some reason, it doesn’t sound offensive when it comes out from his mouth. it sounds genuine, like he really wants to be liked by taehyung and the best way he can think of connecting with taehyung is by letting them know he had a dog, when he was a kid.

“see? he’s basically already trained.”

“yeah, about that, we still have a lot of work to do with you.”

taehyung kicks yoongi under the table. “rude.”

yoongi shrugs, pulling up his hoodie and yanking the strings. he’s about to retort, but jungkook shyly interrupts the interaction with a question.

“how long have you guys known each other?”

hoseok puts the soup ball over the table and wipes the wetness away with the back of his hand. “ever since he moved here. there were rumours about this marked witch and his assistants coming to town and i knew yoongi was a botanic witch. i didn’t give a shit about namjoon-hyung, i wanted to meet him.”

yoongi crosses his arms, stretching his legs enough to touch hoseok’s feet with his. “first thing he says when he says when sees me is i need you to make me the weirdest, most magical fucking composition you’ve ever made, sunbaemin,” yoongi opens his palms in disbelief at the memory. “he was calling me sunbae and all that and i was sitting there, staring at him, thinking i’ve been here for two days, what the fuck does that mean.”

“my request was clear, hyung. jungkook, baby, what would you think if someone told you that?”

jungkook bites at his lips – yoongi can’t help but cringe a bit at the memory of the two of them kissing, just a couple of days ago.

“i don’t know. you wanted to surprise someone? a love interest hard to impress, maybe?”

hoseok stays quiet for a moment, then: “shit,” he says. “i was courting taehyung at the time. see, hyung? he gets it. taehyung, honey, let’s adopt him.”

from there, if possible, things start flowing even easier. they sit at the pub for two hours, just talking, and yoongi can’t stop himself from thinking that maybe he’s dying and maybe that’s a tragedy, but to sit here with these people makes it worth it, a little more bearable.

they show jungkook around the capital, bring him in the smallest, most traditional shops. they don’t miss the herbals one and definitely don’t forget about Le Noriturre Incubus, the smallest club in town who’s always crowded mostly by Incubus and Ravis, mostly.

(when jungkook enters the club and sees the creatures floating, he can’t help but furrows his eyebrows.

“are those gho–”

hoseok is quick to cover jungkook’s mouth with his palm, eyes widening. “don’t, that’s offensive. that’s a Ravis. they’re creatures denied from entering paradise. they come here because it helps them cope and feel them more… alive.”

“ah,” he stops. “and why would they come here out of all the places in the Capital?”

taehyung turns in his direction, smiling. “you’ll see,” he tells him, then gestures to one of the waiters to come closer, whispering something to him. three minutes later, jungkook is smelling the edges of a glass shot.

“what’s in here?”

“rum, honey and fairy dust,” yoongi says and downs the drink all at once.)

jungkook is a heavy drinker, yoongi thankfully discovers, therefore the liquor doesn’t do much to him, it only makes him even more excited about everything than he usually is. the shyness goes away for the most part and as a result, both him and taehyung get loud and almost cry when having to say goodbye.

taehyung cusses at yoongi about ten times for not letting him meet jungkook sooner; when they’re back at yoongi’s apartment, it’s one in the morning and taehyung’s saliva is really trickling down jungkook’s cheek.

“i loved them. you really know how to choose your friends, hyung,” he whispers, winking.

“you’re not my friend. you’re my son, we’ve already talked about this,” yoongi jokes, turning on the lights of the bathroom.

“i lost the count of how many dads i have after coming here.”

“yes, now don’t tell that to your actual dad. doesn’t sound too good.”

a burst of genuine laughter comes from jungkook’s mouth as he splashes water on his face. “i’ve visited the Capital so many times but this one has been the best, hyung.”

“you had any doubts about that, kid?”

“yes,” jungkook answers straight away. as a response, he gets lightly slapped with a towel.

after a moment, he starts talking again: “i’m just– i’m fucking sad about going away, tomorrow.”

yoongi is just about to open his mouth to wash his teeth when the realisation hits him. yoongi pictures himself having to say goodbye to jungkook and the crew, without knowing when they’ll see them again. he sees himself walking down the path to his apartment alone, staying in the same room with namjoon even when they’ve stopped speaking to each other after what happened the night yoongi came back. it triggers something and it’s not positive. it’s a disaster, actually, because one moment he’s coughing and the other one he tries his best to not let the toothbrush fall from his shaking hands as he starts throwing up in the sink.

it doesn’t last long but it’s enough to scratch the corners of yoongi’s mouth when he spits out more butterflies and thorns, and petals and blood. jungkook can only keep his palm on yoongi’s forehead, keeping him from hurting himself more when in the middle of his spasm. jungkook closes his eyes in the meanwhile and keeps his breathing at a minimum, which is risky and unreasonable but the smell is so atrociously sweet it almost makes him gag too.

when yoongi spits out the last petal, jungkook catches yoongi just in time to clean the blood off of his mouth before helping yoongi sit on the floor, back against the wall.

“god,” jungkook says, gathering together the butterflies in a piece of toilet paper just to flush them in the toilet. “don’t they ever finish?”

“don’t make me think about the atrocious number of beasts i have inside of my stomach if you don’t want me to start throwing up again,” yoongi begs, voice croaked.

“it’s disgusting.”

yoongi raises his eyebrows in agreement, then: “i’m sorry you’ve had to nurture me ever since we met.”

“it’s reasonable. you’re in your old age, someone has to care for you,” jungkook jokes,   in an attempt to make yoongi stop feeling guilty, then gets comfortable on the floor next to him.

yoongi’s chest is shaken with laughter but his face is twisted in a frown of pain – however, it’s still something better than seeing him bent over the toiler, choking on cadavers and petals.

“i’m sorry,” yoongi repeats. he closes his eyes but jungkook doesn’t, just as much as he doesn’t miss the shadow behind the door walking away. jungkook noticed it rushing towards the door just a couple of minutes before, right before yoongi started gagging.

“it’s okay,” jungkook says; staring at the room and afraid yoongi might throw up again, he keeps quiet.

three weeks ago, yoongi would have find himself surprised if someone had told him he’d feel this sad about seeing the guys go. yugyeom pats him on the shoulders and thanks him for all he did for them. yoongi can’t bring himself to say he has done nothing but talk, when they took him in, made him feel comfortable, allowed him to say no when he didn’t feel like saying this or that other thing, understood him when he needed more than a sip of water.

yoongi only shakes his head and tells him to come back soon and yugyeom smiles so big he can’t help but smile back. they’re at the station and yoongi is surrounded by this group of people who made his illness more bearable, waiting for the train that will take them all of them back home. it’s already as bittersweet as it gets, but when jungkook looks at him, yoongi thinks he will really have to force himself not to get emotional.

jungkook doesn’t last long before he’s hugging him, tight and without embarrassment. “i really don’t want to cry, hyung.”

“then don’t,” yoongi retorts, but hugs him back, tight around the waist. he’s afraid that if he’ll let go, jungkook will be gone – and he will. “you can come whenever you want, you know it,” his voice comes out weird because jungkook is hugging him so tightly yoongi has his face scrunched up against his shoulder.

“yes,” but jungkook’s voice is shaking and yoongi knows why. they can’t give it for granted, that they’ll see each other soon isn’t obvious. for all they know, yoongi could die at any given moment. it’s a miracle he’s been keeping up this strong for such a long time. jungkook hides in his soul the same fear as yoongi’s. that as soon as yoongi will be left alone, he’ll get worse. that he won’t have a reason to hold on, that he won’t have anyone cleaning after his mess when he gets sick, that he’ll have trouble sleeping and speaking and he’ll deal with it alone.

it’s a stupid thought because yoongi is an adult and jungkook knows, he knows, this is how he’s always done it. that he doesn’t have a family except for namjoon and himself, but still.

“i’ll make sure you’ll be the first person to see the documentary as soon as they have even just a first product. i promise you. expect a call from my dad, alright?”

“alright. you stay in touch.”

“i will. take care, yes? we’ll meet again. we will, hyung,” jungkook stumbles on his words and yoongi feels his throat close at the memory of when they first met.

“of course we will, silly. now go, before you make me cry.”

and they do – once they’re gone, yoongi hears two more trains arrive and leave before he can force himself to stand up from the bench. hands in his pockets, he goes away and gets back, somewhere. the word home still can’t find its way back to his tongue.

that feeling, the one of having gone back wandering in a world too big and crowded to have space for him comes back and doesn’t want to leave. it gets worse and the illness follows at the same pace.

yoongi has started noticing the few signs of hanahaki taking over his regular life two months ago. it began with the smallest things, one of them being the taste of food completely erased because of the sweet taste stuck in his mouth.

when he started losing his appetite, yoongi thought it was because food lost his flavours. then his stomach started stinging whenever he would eat and eventually, that same sting had evolved into ache. doctors told him this would’ve happened. self-defence, that’s what they called it. so that butterflies won’t have anything to feed off of. in the end, yoongi has to choose between starvation or being eaten from the insides. he finds the whole thing to be completely fucking ironic. he doesn’t care too much, though.

at this point, yoongi can’t even have two bites of food without having the immediate need to throw up, the urge so intense it’s been too long since he had his last complete meal.

he was never strong, with wide shoulders or muscular legs, but now it shows. sunken cheeks and collarbones poking at the skin on his chest, it’s impossible not to. yoongi feels his body getting weaker because of throwing up more and more often even when there’s no food in his stomach whatsoever. everyone notices. including namjoon.

(the door of his room opens and yoongi waits for hoseok’s loud voice or taehyung’s steps. they never come, though. that’s why yoongi cracks his eyes open and has to blink twice when he sees namjoon walking in.

“what are you doing?” yoongi asks, gravel-voice.

namjoon takes a moment to answer and gets closer to yoongi’s nightstand. on it, he puts a jar filled with something with a weird color.

“it’s a brew. it tastes like shit but it won’t hurt your stomach. everything is mixed so your body will absorb it as if it’s water. you’ll die if you keep not eating.”

yoongi scoffs. this is absurd. it’s the first proper thing namjoon has said to him since they had the fight. a side of him just wants to catch namjoon from his jeans and drag him closer to him. the other side, though, feels annoyed and repulsed by the fact that namjoon is even pretending to care.

“i’ll die anyway in case you haven’t noticed.”

“you’ll die sooner, then. just drink it.”

yoongi blinks. then: “thank you,” he can’t help but say. namjoon doesn’t answer, just turns his back and walks out the door.

fury comes back, as well as the urge for yoongi to reach out as fast as he can for the basin he now always keeps near his bed.)

more than anyone, though, hoseok and taehyung are the ones noticing. at first, when jungkook goes away, they try and keep him constantly under their monitoring. yoongi doesn’t think he’s ever hanged out as much with seokjin as he has done in the two weeks following jungkook’s departing.

he doesn’t mind it, but at some point he finds himself being physically unable to keep up with it. staying up late isn’t an option, alcohol isn’t an option, making out or having sex definitely aren’t options.

hoseok and taehyung seem to take note of that when yoongi faints in front of them and they try not to make a scene, nor to freak out. instead, they start inviting yoongi over, until he can’t do that anymore as well because it just feels better to rest in bed all day than even having to get up or get dressed. although his body needs to lay down, nothing gets easier.

in fact, it’s so hard he even thinks about getting on his fucking knees, beg namjoon to let him go back working, that it’d make him happier but he knows nothing had stopped namjoon to kick him out when he could walk properly on his legs for more than two minutes, let alone now.

yoongi starts thinking, with a veil of melancholy, about how fast relationships change. namjoon used to be the only thing able to make him experience love and hope and joy all at the same time and now he’s just– a stranger. someone that happens to share the apartment with him, someone that doesn’t listen when he has something to say out loud, when before all this happened namjoon could hear yoongi even when yoongi wasn’t speaking. yoongi knows there’s not much more he can do about it, so much he’s pondered to move.

he could ask hoseok and taehyung, he could ask seokjin. but it wouldn’t help, not now that he’s dying. and that’s a whole different thing, for everyone. hoseok and taehyung, who now stop by the apartment every day, try their best not to look worried, not to say anything about the illness.

taehyung enters yoongi’s room doing always the same things: opening the curtains, the window and cuddle yoongi, licking his face from time to time.

they’re the only thing making it possible for yoongi to distinguish day from night. other than that, the days go by in a blur. yoongi sleeps, rolls around in the cover, texts jungkook and waits for taehyung and hoseok to go by. it’s miserable.

he never feared death, but to die like this– without company, without anywhere to go or a family to come back to. it feels like he’s being abandoned once again.

that was something he had learned to not think. namjoon would always say he’d have his back no matter what and look at them now, with the pieces of this promise all shredded around them. he’ll die alone, soon and without remembering what it feels like to be happy again. fucking dramatic, is all he can think of when he hears himself think.

then, his phone rings. there’s a guttural groan coming out of his throat, but eventually, yoongi reaches out for the phone and answers the call without even looking at the screen. “hello?”

“yoongi-ssi?”

yoongi recognises the voice almost immediately. his eyes snap open and he has to wet his chapped lips, taking a careful moment before answering. “yes?”

“it’s been a while,” seungmin says. yoongi catches a glimpse of a smile in his voice and can’t help but smile back.

☾

the wooden grey floor clangs with each of yoongi’s hectic pat of his shoes against it. he’s sitting on namjoon’s canopy bed, golden drapes covering three and a half of its sides. the more he stays there, in a room he once helped namjoon decorate, the more he thinks this is a bad idea. nevertheless, he doesn’t believe there’s a way for him to be doing anything but this.

he tried to calm down, told himself he’s been doing great at adulting up until this point, but nothing he’s ever said was strong enough to convince him not to do this.

hence why, at nine in the evening, he sits on namjoon’s bed, waiting. that, and also because after weeks spent in bed, his legs would make it impossible for him to wait while standing up without failing him.

it’s been twenty minutes from the moment he got brave enough to open the door and step into the room. it’s messy, like every place namjoon sets foot into. he could clean it with a literal snap of his fingers and yet namjoon chooses this: the tall, black closet with gold round knobs has a couple drawers opened, t-shirts hanging on their corners. on top of it, stacks of dusty books and medallions namjoon used to have when he thought he wanted to practice the magic that would connect him with the spirits.

three pillows on the big, round, red carpet that’s right in the centre of the room, an ouija board hidden in an ajar lockbox, then a couple of other boxes with crystals and samples of different types of incense stuffed it, skulls used to decorate the corners and scrolls scattered everywhere. over the desk, over the mirror’s shelf, over the bed itself.

he’s so immersed in the details and secrets of namjoon’s old-fashioned bedroom, yoongi doesn’t hear him walk in.

“what are you doing here?” namjoon inquires, tight.

yoongi jumps. he has this instinct of getting up and do something weird like saying sorry or greet him with a bow. “hey,” it’s all he says.

namjoon stills on the doorway and stares at him, stoic.

yoongi stretches his legs and knows that’s the only pleasure he’ll get out of this whole meeting. he could still get up, say that it’s nothing and get out of the door but he doesn’t want to. he’s stopped running from situations a long time ago, that much he had promised himself when getting away from his family.

“there’s something i need to tell you. something that happened,” he struggles to find the right introduction. he’s not sure what’s the right formula to get namjoon to listen and say yes, but the way namjoon slides his hands off of the knob while closing the door behind him, that one yoongi considers a small victory already.

namjoon’s face still doesn’t show any signs of emotions, but when he talks he sounds different from what’s he’s been sounding like the past month and a half. “go ahead.”

“i got a call. from seungmin-ssi. the filmmaker, you know.”

namjoon clicks his tongue. “i’m not really helping that yugeyom kid. i only said it out of politeness,” he points out. with a delicate gesture of his hand, he loosens the string that keeps the cloak tight on his shoulders. he gets out of it and walks up to the coat hanger that holds the majority of his mantles and hats.

yoongi clenches his jaw. “it’s not about that. it’s–” he blows a breath. “long story short, seungmin-ssi told me there are some papers i need to go and sign. copyright and privacy bureaucracy. and he also told me they can show me how the documentary is coming altogether, that they already have the structure down and my parts are pretty much done. all the remaining work is only going to be about adding a couple of scenes and color correction,” he pauses. now that he says it out loud, everything sounds stupid.

“if you’re in here to tell me all about that thing, please leave. i’m tired.”

and he looks like it. namjoon looks exhausted. he’s still beautiful with his soft features, but his plump lips are dry and his round cheeks have glimpses of burned-out stars sprinkled on them. it’s not pleasant to see but yoongi feels like he has lost the right to tell him so. to tell namjoon to eat a bit more, to stop sleeping two hours at night, to take care… that just doesn’t feel like his place anymore.

“no, it’s– seungmin-ssi knows i’m jungkook’s friend and he insisted i had the first look at it, since the administration office and the studio are in the same building, and. god, fuck. this address they gave me… it’s back home, joon-ah. the building is in the city of lights.”

namjoon, who up until that pointed had seemed uninterested, stops. his hand hangs in the air alongside with his cloak.  “alright,” and he’s the most careful, most caring he’s been in a long time.

“joon-ah. i have no clue what’s going on between us, i know these months have been rough and i know i’ve said it a million times but if i’ve done something wrong i am sorry. i really am, everything has been shitty but i. fuck, i really need to ask you to come with me, joon-ah.”

“won’t that kid be there? jungkook?”

“this has nothing to do with him. it’s not the same. i don’t know how you feel about me anymore, but i’ve been living with you for most of my life, i’ve grown with you, gone through the worst thing of my life with you. i can’t go there if you’re not with me. i’m afraid i’ll burn when stepping onto that city’s ground.”

namjoon remains with his back turned for a couple of moments. when he speaks, he moves his head only and doesn’t move near yoongi. “what do you expect me to say?”

“i don’t want you to say anything you don’t feel. i’m just telling you because it’s how we do things. and it’d be so much easier on me, to bear it. it’d be easier if i had you,” and it stings as he says it. both from embarrassment and pain. yoongi struggles getting up, a reminder of how the illness is down to the wire. he manages, somehow, and heads to the door. “that’s it, that’s what i had to say.”

namjoon doesn’t answer. if yoongi was in his right mind, he wouldn’t continue, he’d just stop right there. but he’s not. he’s aching all over and breathing is not an option anymore. at this point, he rasps only, coughs on special occasions.   

for that reason, after he’s already opened the door, yoongi adds something. “again, i don’t know what has happened to us, but i swear to the Almighty, i–” he wets his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “you’re still my soulmate, namjoon,” he says and doesn’t look back when closing the door.

turns out, all of that just wasn’t enough. not for namjoon, not for yoongi.

namjoon doesn’t answer his question, doesn’t discuss it, he doesn’t break out of this mask of steel. this is just how much yoongi needs to realise, once and for all, that no matter what they had together, no matter what that was, it doesn’t exist anymore.

for a long time he refused to believe namjoon could be capable of having a change of heart so sudden, but in front of this, he can’t – he won’t.

yoongi got over all the times namjoon made him feel like nothing and begged him. one last time. come with me to the city of lights, he has said. the fear had been obvious, the pain and the illness had carved its way everywhere on yoongi’s body, claiming him.

still, namjoon couldn’t bring himself to even say no, anything to yoongi. he kept ignoring him and if possible yoongi started seeing him even less. it bugs him, it makes him want to get closer to his face for what would be the one-hundredth time and ask him why. why doesn’t he just get out of the apartment if he can’t handle him this much.

for the last time, he had hoped – and had been let down. in addition to that, there’s his own sick self yoongi has to deal with it.

he is careful when sitting down on the couch, quickly reaching for its support. dealing this number breaks his heart, hearing the voice answer the phone kicks his pride.

“hyung.”

“yoongi? shit, man, hi! how are you? i’ve heard the news about you coming here in a couple of days. both jungkook and yugyeom can’t wait to see you.”

“yes, it’s. i’m good, thanks. about that…”

dohyun seems to sense it. yoongi hasn’t said anything but the next thing dohyun says is in a different voice and has a different taste. “what happened?”

“nothing happened,” which isn’t completely true but it’s not even a lie. his death is happening, but other than that everything is the same. “hyung,” yoongi inhales. “i won’t be able to make it there.”

“what?”

“yes. i’m sorry. i’m gonna have to ask you to send me the papers.”

dohyun pauses for a moment. yoongi hears something creak and he can picture dohyun laying his back against the old, leathery chair of his. “shit. yoongi-ah, has it gotten that bad?”

“just enough.”

“jungkook was so excited for you to see this.”

yoongi’s heart breaks a little. “i’m afraid it’ll be a shit show, hyung. i can’t even– fuck, i can barely speak.”

“no, no. i understand.”

yoongi can feel dohyun embarrassment, the loss of words. yoongi wouldn’t know what to say to himself, either.

“we’ll figure it out. we can e-mail the papers to you, yoongi. it’s alright,” after a moment, dohyun adds: “fuck it, we’ll e-mail the file as well. i don’t give a shit what they say.”

yoongi smiles, closing his eyes when feeling a cramp to his stomach. “hyung,” he says again, once he manages to get himself together. “thanks. i appreciate it. i’m sorry i’m causing trouble.”

“you say that once again and i’ll be the one killing you. it’s the least we can do, i’m just– it’s a shame you can’t make it. but we’ll make it work.”

“thank you. i mean it. i’ll stay in touch, let you know if i get the stuff, alright? please don’t tell jungkook about it, yet. i’ll tell him myself if that’s okay.”

“it is, yeah. sure. take care, yoongi-ah” dohyun says, sounding uncertain. yoongi doesn’t blame him. just when he’s about to end the call, dohyun grunts and: “yoongi-ah,” he calls.

yoongi frowns. “yes?”

“i hate to be doing this but– there’s one last thing i need to ask you. it sucks they told me to tell you this, but it’s work.”

“no, sure. i get it, hyung. shoot.”

sighing, dohyun starts to explain. yoongi listens with his brows furrowed and his elbows resting on his knees, back curved just enough to barely block out his stomachache. when dohyun stops talking, yoongi is nodding to himself and biting at the skin next to his thumb. “alright,” he declares, mumbling. “i’ll see what i can do.”

this time, he doesn’t care for the right moment. he hangs up thinking he’s doing this for dohyun, in the first place, who worked his ass off for this, constantly replacing seungmin, always being present and reachable.

he’s doing it for yugyeom, who found in yoongi his first, true interview and had been incredible at doing his job.

he’s doing this for jungkook, especially, who had cared for him since the first moment they met, who’s featured in the documentary, who always gives and gives and never asks for anything back. therefore, when namjoon comes back home, two hours later, yoongi doesn’t have to force his voice out of his throat.

“namjoon,” yoongi doesn’t look at him but can hear namjoon doing something at his back, not even acknowledging yoongi’s presence, nor his voice. yoongi is so angry he doesn’t even wait for an answer. so irked by how he never took a moment to explain himself to yoongi, not even when he kicked him out. right now, yoongi doesn’t care for his words, he cares to be heard.

“i’ve just finished talking to dohyun. i’ve talked about him to you before, i don’t know if you remember. it’s whatever. they’re giving a redefinition to the documentary and there are these scenes–” he stops. “they wanted to shoot these scenes that included you. wanted to ask you a few questions. don’t do this for me, do it for your name. it’d be good for business and you know it,” and that much is true. yoongi knows it and so does namjoon. “i’m asking you, namjoon, with the last shred of dignity i have left, to please do this. i don’t care who you do it for.”

strange enough, namjoon doesn’t wait to answer. “it’s good to know you don’t care, because i won’t do it.”

“and you have a reasonable answer to keep constantly say no to anything i say? shit, i asked you to come with me to that hellhole of a place because that’s what you always said to me. we promised to always be by each other’s side. if you have a problem, i will hear it. i want to, so please tell me in a civil way. just, for the love of the Almighty, stop, stop throwing tantrums at me, namjoon-ah.”

“tantrums? i just don’t feel like it. i don’t have to explain to you why i don’t work with these gold-diggers you keep calling friends. they don’t give a shit about you. they only want to use your illness to make money.”

“that’s exactly how you make money. you’re a fucking healer, namjoon. you make money off of illness,” yoongi makes sure to punctuate every single word with a movement of his hands. he feels his heartbeat starting to race but it’s the least his body could to do him. “and since when you started caring again?”

“i don’t! i don’t care and that’s why i’m not doing it. because i don’t care, not about you, not about this stupid fucking documentary.”

that stings. it stings so much yoongi has to repress the urge to push his palm flat to his stomach the way he always does when the pain increases. he feels the ache, feels sweat form in his forehead and it’s weird but he doesn’t care.

there’s fury in his blood, there are teeth clashing, there’s him standing up and maybe it’s adrenaline, maybe it’s rage but he manages to do it.

“i’m just–”

“christ!”

yoongi’s eyes flutter wildly when namjoon turns, abruptly. he takes a step back even if he's in the middle of the living room and namjoon is close to the door.

namjoon cuts him off with a deep, guttural voice and yoongi doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything like it coming from him.

“stop, stop!, searching for a reason that goes behind what i’m telling you! you think i’m mad? you think i’m sad?” he laughs and it’s twisted, it makes yoongi skin crawl. “let me get this clear, hyung: what i am is tired. of you, of your sickness, of what happened because of you. you think i’m mourning? i wish this had to do with grief, ‘cause that’d be so much less tiring than waiting for you to just fucking die.”

in the past months, yoongi had multiple occasions to think about death. he wondered about how it’d feel, how it’d happen, when would that be and where he would be. one of the things he had found himself wondering the most about, though, was if he’d be able to know it. to realise this is it, and to let the process start. or if he’d just be caught up in the moment.

yoongi now knows he does recognise it. he has a knowledge of what’s happening right now. it’s sudden, but he expects it because the moment namjoon closes the door behind him, something breaks inside of yoongi. and it breaks hard.

it’s almost possible for yoongi to feel all the petals bloom, all the butterflies fly just so that he can experience the moment in which they whiter, in which they die.

somehow, he was expecting this. when the words flew out of namjoon’s mouth, yoongi knew he was going to die. if not in that moment, soon enough – and so it’s happened. in a way, he finds himself to be already prepared to react. he’s ready, quick enough to reach out for his phone. it’s difficult when his mind comes to understand that what he’s feared for the last couple of months is finally happening. panic starts to arise when hoseok answers the phone, faster than usual.

“seok-ah,” yoongi rasps. “i think i’m dying,” he manages to say almost the entire phrase before he starts venting. it feels like the air is sucked out of his lungs, a whip of pain so violent it makes him bend.

“we’re coming. hold on, hold on, hyung. stay with taehyung on the line. we’re almost there,” and that much, yoongi hears it. he doesn’t know how it’s possible for them to know already, doesn’t know how it’s possible for them to be almost there but right now he doesn’t care. not when he has to reach out for the couch’s arm to prevent himself from crushing to the ground. it doesn’t help much, though. his knees still hit it when he twitches, contracts over himself during the first of many spasms.

it’s been months by now and it never gets better, it never gets easier.

the blood pumps so hard, so fast in his head it feels like it’s going to explode by the time he sputters out petals and thorns.

his chest hurts as if someone is ripping roots directly out of it and his stomach. that’s the part yoongi never got used to. he’s sure not even a hundred more years lived like this would help him getting used to the sensation of tiny, sharp teeth biting at his stomach, chewing on his insides.

it’s horrific, it’s macabre and more than anything else it’s painful. yoongi cries out loud and wishes for someone, anyone to be there, to keep his fucking forehead for one last time, to hold him tight enough to stop him from shaking as hard as he is.

by the time taehyung and hoseok arrive, yoongi has kneeled in a pool of his own blood.

“shit. shit!” hoseok cusses, throwing the door open. “towels. we need towels until the ambulance gets here.”

taehyung stumbles into the room and runs for the bathroom and if yoongi weren’t so broken by the splitting pain he’d be impressed by how quickly they’re doing stuff, by how hard they’re trying and he doesn’t get why they’re trying when he’s in front of them, spitting another wave of butterflies and crying in pain and he’s doomed, finished.

right now, he feels every root in his stomach, every petal getting stuck on saliva, every scratch down his throat and everything stings and he can’t breathe he can’t breathe and it hurts so much.

he’s dying.

he’s dying. that’s the only thought his mind can process at the moment.

he’s about to die and the air doesn’t fill his lungs he can’t open his eyes without having tears spilling from them the same rhythm petals have and there’s poison on his tongue and flat, flaccid corpses and nothing will be left of him, his job is gone his plants are silent and everything went the wrong way just because he couldn’t keep himself from falling and Almighty it hurts it hurts and not even namjoon will remember him and it’s already so painful yoongi thinks it can’t get worse than this, that the pain can’t possibly increase – and then it does.

yoongi wishes he could black out at will when a thorny steam pierces through the flesh of his throat and tries to break the skin of his neck as well. his first impulse is to grab the skin around the area but it only worsens the sensation and at this point, his heartbeat is furious his hands are shaking and there’s so much on the floor yoongi feels the urge to throw up even more than he already is.

“don’t you dare die on me, yoongi. don’t you fucking dare.”

yoongi wants to reassure both of them. he wants to say we’ll be fine but he knows they won’t. out of all the ways he had imagined to die, this was the furthest. yoongi had always blamed the petals for his pain, never namjoon. but this night, his death isn’t caused by petals, it’s not about butterflies. namjoon broke him to the core and yoongi can’t do anything but choke on another flood of vomit at the thought.

“they’re here!”

taehyung’s shout is followed by boots banging against the floor, then someone is lifting yoongi and laying him down on the stretcher. there’s a machine beeping in the back, a helping hand getting yoongi out of his shirt and a cold sensation hits his flesh. yoongi he’s sure they’re doing what they first did to him, putting needles in his stomach so that they can’t check his conditions. if months ago he’d been afraid of the procedure because of pain, now he doesn’t care. he’s already as delirious as he can get, so much every couple of minutes he blacks out from how painful all of this is getting.

it hurts his head, making it throb. hurts his body, making it spasm. the last one is the most atrocious, so strong the doctors have to stop putting needles in his stomach. yoongi gags on butterflies and tears spill from his eyes. there’s a hand on his forehead and yoongi tries to grasp the edge of the stretcher in order to keep himself steady, but it doesn’t work. he doesn’t have strength left in his body, doesn’t have anything but a fear of choking on his own vomit, tears to cry and an unsteady heartbeat.

the sirens of the ambulance are loud and the speed is over the top but it still doesn’t seem enough, not when he keeps throwing up and throwing up bodies. these butterflies, it’s like they keep arising no matter how many yoongi is spitting out.

it feels like forever. it feels like it’ll keep going even once he’s dead. yoongi feels out of control. he wants to float away, hide in his mind in a place where it doesn’t hurt, but the ache has his arms and legs tied down and it keeps him aware of most things.

he faints and wakes up each time, hears a voice but struggles to keep up with the conversation. yoongi only gets glimpses of it.

(“i’ve never seen anything like this. this is absurd. we need to operate as soon as we get to the hospitals. check his conditions.”

“how are we supposed to? there’s butt–”

“check his conditions, soyon!”)

yoongi doesn’t know what happens next because he blacks out once again. when he gets back to his senses, he wishes he didn’t. it’s too much. everything feels paralysed by pain and he doesn’t understand why he’s still alive, when will this end.

(“quicker, quicker!”

“i’m–” the woman stops speaking.

“what is it?”

“it’s– doctor, there’s nothing in here.”)

yoongi cries in pain when a machine is pressed over his stomach. and he wants to scream at them to stop doing whatever they’re doing to leave him alone to just let him die to stop this to–

(“all gone. the butterflies, there’s not a trace of them but a couple of dead ones. everything else is roots and petals.”

“let me see. turn the damn monitor, quick!”

“i don’t get it. i don’t get it! someone explain to us what’s happening!”)

yoongi recognises taehyung’s voice, filled with panic and thick with panic. what he can’t distinguish anymore, at this point, is what floods his mouth, if it’s saliva from blood or lavender. he only knows the gauze around his neck, the one the doctors put in order to stop the bleeding, only makes it worse. it gives him the impression he’s choking harder. there’s another cramp, another spasm, another tear shed.

(“how long has it been since he started throwing butterflies?”

hoseok’s voice is shaky when he speaks. “i don’t know exactly but somewhere around a month and a half ago. in the last three weeks, is when it got this bad. how is it possible that there’s–”

“get him out of here, unplug the ventilators and prepare the mask!”

“yes, ma’am.”

the doctor speaks again, her voice filled with both stupor and awe. “this is incredible. he got rid of them. by throwing up. during all this time he kept throwing up butterflies whether they were alive, dead or infected. that prevented others from growing and now he’s thrown up so much there’s– Almighty, we have to operate him before his condition changes, we need a surgery room right now. has something incisive happened with the person who got him sick from hanahaki?”)

when the question is made, yoongi doesn’t heart what hoseok says next.

something clicks in his brain.

maybe he’s delirious, maybe he’s drunk on agony but the moment he hears those words, everything else shuts off. the pain, the thoughts, death itself stops screaming at him. suddenly, he’s in another universe, a dimension where nor space nor time exist. it’s just him and a sudden stream of rationality that blocks everything out.

when he’s left alone like that, in the silence, yoongi thinks: namjoon has done it on purpose.

it’s a single thought but it has a logic to it.

all of it, namjoon has done on purpose. it makes so much sense yoongi can’t help but connect all the dots, fast. out of all of the things namjoon could’ve done, he chose the ones that would hurt yoongi the most. kick him out of the job, rob him of his independence. stopped him from being around the greenhouse. made him feel useless, unwanted. abandoned.

namjoon had thought about it, had been so smart, so precise, like everything else he does in his life that made it possible for yoongi to believe his act.

no matter how weird it had looked to him, no matter how many times yoongi had seen shadows darken namjoon’s face when he’d be rough with him, he never, ever stopped doing it. namjoon never hated him in the first place. he never stopped caring.

he overworked himself in order to keep the illusion real, he kept being rude even when he was seeing yoongi die under his eyes, it must’ve been exhausting and yet– a sob shakes yoongi’s chest and the spell is broken, the pain there once again. but there’s a new feeling inside of him.

a rush of love so strong hits so hard that for the first time since he got sick, for a brief moment yoongi has the thought idea he doesn’t want to get rid of it. he’s dying, he’s aching, but the feeling is so intense, so pure and reassuring, it’s almost worth it.

it makes him want to break free, to get up right now. yoongi knows that this is what jungkook had once described to him. to feel so hard, so intensely it makes you stronger even when your body can’t do it anymore.

at this point, yoongi knows he loves namjoon with such a huge intensity that he’s afraid butterflies will grow back right there and will go back, biting at his throat, choking him once and for all. it makes sense.

it all does sense.

it makes so much fucking sense.

joon-ah, is the last thing his mind thinks, screams, cries.

he’d want to say it, scream it, cry it out loud – but the mask is already on, his senses already fading.

☾

the buzz is gentle, at first, almost confusing. it’s distant, but it’s there. and the more yoongi comes to his senses, the more the sound comes alive, intensifying.

yoongi could distinguish this one even stuck in a jungle of noises. dripping in honey, bathing in chocolate, nothing would ever beat its sweetness.

he doesn’t dare to open his eyes. there’s no other explanation for him hearing the plants’ voice but death.

dead, that’s what he must be, so he might as well drown in the sound as long as he can before he starts dealing with a melodramatic phase where he has to accept the afterlife and goes around wandering like a sad ghost.

it’s been so long, it’s been so long.

to say he’s missed this, to say he doesn’t feel the urge to get up from wherever he is and run towards it, that’d be both a lie and complete madness. he doesn’t dare, though. he smiles, that much he does, but stays as still as he can and listens to what they have to say.

he must be in heaven. it’s sunny, apparently, in here, or at least that’s what the plants narrate to him. yoongi thinks it’s a bit of a cliché but the Almighty went already too hard on the plot twists when he decided to take yoongi with him. plus, if plants are in here, the sun is needed. it only makes sense.

yoongi wets his lips, a bit disappointed to find them to be still chapped. he had hoped not to carry scars as a spirit more than he had hoped to reincarnate in the body of a nymph, but again. he can accept it, as long as they don’t take away from him this sound ever again,

yoongi still wishes things could’ve gone differently, wishes he could’ve said goodbye to Hesperis, wishes he could’ve thanked namjoon for trying so hard. he hopes the Almighty will lift the weight of a guilt so usual for namjoon off of his shoulders. he fought so hard, he tried his best and he didn’t manage to–

“hyung?”

yoongi jumps, his eyes snap open. a white ceiling and hoseok’s voice wasn’t what he was expecting from heaven. the thing is, the buzz is still there. what the fuck.

“oh my– you’re awake! he’s awake!” and suddenly, yoongi’s cheek is wet. by saliva. saliva that smells like taehyung and wet, fluffy ears.

if he tries really hard, he can somehow find meaning in heaven having ceilings, but unless taehyung is dead as well… unhurried and afraid of being hit by that same pain still vivid in his memory, yoongi turns his head.

disbelief and bewilderment hit him at the same time. on the nightstand, next to what might be a hospital bed, yoongi sees, hears, the plants on it. he never hoped for this to happen again, therefore he never even had the time to think about how it’d feel to listen to their buzz again when being alive.

yoongi never forgot the sound but it’s so weird to experience it again, to hear the plants’ chirping needs and thoughts. even the air around him has gotten back to what it used to be like for him when greenery was near him: it’s fresher, makes him feel protected, like he’s under some sort of dome.

yoongi doesn’t know how to take in all of this, all at once. he looks from the plants to hoseok, who sits at the side of the bed. taehyung is curling up somewhere next to yoongi’s left hip, instead.

“i’m–” yoongi stops. clearing his voice, he tries another time: “am i alive?”

hoseok looks at him so intensely, yoongi can’t help but prepare for the worst. judging by the look on his friend’s face and the way his eyes swell up with tears, yoongi is afraid to hear he’s lost a limb in whatever just happened to him.

only, hoseok doesn’t say that. or anything, really. he just breaks down. yoongi stares, bewilder and he’s still not sure what to say, what to do. the only thing he’s sure of is: he’s never seen hoseok like this. he gets closer to yoongi’s bed and holds his hand, then lays it on his forehead and doesn’t stop crying.

“you’re okay, hyung. you’re okay, you’re alive,” he cries so hard taehyung has to do the speaking for him. which is, if yoongi may say so, a bit of a paradox.

“you hear them?” taehyung asks. a sudden change of the subject and a weird strategy.

yoongi looks around at the plants around him. it’s just three but they’re so loud. yoongi can hear them, he probably can even touch them without experiencing death on his hands. the thought fills him up with excitement and a brand new hope.

“yes,” he croaks out.

hoseok only weeps harder, mumbling something about having been so scared and being so thankful. yoongi would like to comfort him but he’s still paralysed, doesn’t dare moving.

“look at him,” taehyung coos, getting up. “look at this huge crybaby.”

yoongi groans. voice as thin as paper, he says: “ it necessary to show this to me two seconds later after i’ve returned from the dead?”

a broken laugh leaves hoseok’s mouth – and it’s enough. he makes room for taehyung to sit on his legs and lets him pet his hair, all of this without ever letting go of yoongi’s hand.

this is too familiar. it’s absurd. he isn’t aware of time, right now, but his last memories are a mixture of pain, blood, tears and now he doesn’t feel anything negative whatsoever.

carefully, yoongi brushes the tip of his fingers on his neck, expecting to find a scar there. when hoseok notices the movement, he scoffs. there are still tears wetting his eyes but he keeps it together, wiping away the ones on his cheeks. he tries his best to pull himself together and act normal. “you really think they’d let you get out with a big ass scar? you’re in the Capital, honey. looking at you right now, i wouldn’t even say you were sick in the first place.”

“say thanks to my beauty for that.”

“what about we say thanks to the doctors, yes?”

“what about we say fuck you for scaring us so much?”

“yeah, it wasn’t in my plans either to almost die,” yoongi grumbles.

even now that he’s completely awake, aware of his surroundings and the sounds, he thinks he must be under some kind of sedative. there’s so much joy inside of him, an incredible urge to laugh but he feels so weak, so tired. ten, a hundred questions pop up in his mind but there’s one that pressures him the most. his need to know the answer to it is demanding, it covers the plants’ buzz, even. yoongi only thinks about it, doesn’t dare to pronounce it out loud, but it must show on his face. it’s both that and hoseok seeing right through him, as always.

“hyung, namjoon couldn’t manage to make it here,” he explains, wary. “he feels–”

“guilty,” yoongi ends the sentence for him.

“yes.”

yoongi looks back to the ceiling. “so it was true.”

“what was true?”

“this whole thing, it worked. what he did to me, it was true.”

hoseok furrows his eyebrows. “you knew?”

“i’ve known the moment they put my mask on. i was repeatedly passing out but i could hear bits of conversation. it kind of clicked when the doctor asked you if something had happened between me and namjoon.”

nodding, taehyung explains: “he never told us a thing. we got a call from him a couple of minutes before you called us, telling us he thought you were about to–” taehyung stops. a veil of tears appears in his eyes. taking a deep breath, he keeps going: “he wouldn’t explain anything to us, he just told us to come to your place because he was too busy. after you got into the operation room, we called him. i wanted to come for his fucking life. i threatened him to never show up once again, that it was his fault you didn’t have a chance. and then–”

“then he started crying. he started sobbing and saying he was sorry, over and over. i think he was having a full on panic attack on the line and taehyung wouldn’t stop saying he didn’t have the right to do so.”

“i didn’t know!”

“i know, honey,” hoseok murmurs, kissing his shoulder. “so he handed the phone to me because he was getting too mad and namjoon said he was on his way already, that he would explain everything once he’d get here.”

“i almost bit him when i first saw him. but then i looked at him. like, i looked at him and dude never looked that bad.”

yoongi closes his eyes. it’s too easy to imagine it. even after all it happened, it’s so easy to see the real namjoon for yoongi.

“he explained to us what he did. said it was the last thing he could’ve tried, at that point,” hoseok tells. “he said all of these things and he wouldn’t stop crying.”

“ugly crying.”

“is there a pretty crying?”

“you’re pretty when you cry,” taehyung smiles at hoseok. “i think namjoon has had more chamomile that day than in his entire life. he wouldn’t calm down, no matter what we told him, he just wouldn’t. your surgery lasted twelve hours and he stayed with us until the end. when the doctor came to us and told you were out of danger he had just calmed down and then– he just started all over again.”

yoongi feels sad all of a sudden. the plants’ buzz becomes stronger and yoongi almost breaks down. if he weren’t this tired, he would, definitely. although the sadness doesn’t go away, it helps to hear them. he forgot how good it felt to have some kind of magical backup.

“enough talking, i’m going to call a nurse. then we can talk some more, yeah?” hoseok says, patting taehyung on the thigh as an invite to get up. taehyung does and lets hoseok out of the room, taking his place on the chair.

yoongi stares at the flower on his nightstand. Chrysanthemum. optimism, joy, long life. she has a nice, comforting buzz and he has to restrain himself another time from crying in relief. after a while, he asks: “does he know i’m awake?”

“he does now. i’ve told him a couple of minutes ago,” taehyung says, putting his phone back in the pocket of his hoodie.

“he won’t come, will he?”

taehyung smiles. “he wants you to take your time. whenever you’re ready.”

yoongi reaches out for Chrysanthemum. he knows he’s ready the moment he thinks about namjoon’s face.

yoongi has known what fear looks like. locked rooms too dark to let him shine.

courage, that one he met once. it looked like fairies tangling a city so big he could get lost in it by just blinking in his eyes.

yoongi likes to think he’s known what love looks like as well. a smart mind and pretty lips with words always too sweet.

right now, when he gently opens the door of his greenhouse, it’s easy for him to find a place for the word home to fit. only this time, yoongi gives it a whole new meaning and a different look.

this time, home looks like the sun filtering through the large, tall windows of the greenhouse and the plants, his plants, stirring all together when yoongi walks in. no orchestra would compare to the sound of their buzz. it’s loud, chaotic, it’s alive.

“you guys,” he murmurs. although it’s not been long since he’s been in here, yoongi looks around and feels like he hasn’t felt in forever. “thought you finally got rid of me, huh?”

the buzz changes its tone – yoongi hears the plants grumble at the comment and can’t stop himself from laughing. he hears them. he hears them.

he takes a moment before he walks further into the greenhouse, his feet begging him to move in just one direction. it requires a bit of encouragement, like all the plants know already where he’s headed. they’re right. calmly, but with anxiety making his hands sweat, yoongi walks towards the furthest table, the one hidden in the right corner of the structure.

yoongi walks slow, then closes his eyes, stopping for a moment. when he opens them and takes the final step, Hesperis is awake.

if the other plants are making an explosion of sounds, if they’re loud, Hesperis finds a way to be, as always, louder. she’s buzzing even if it’s not dark, even when she should be asleep and moving requires double the energy during this time of the day. and in that, yoongi finds joy.

he is overwhelmed with feelings when he hears her again, when he finally can get close to her without the dreadful fear of causing her death, he’s about to say something– but then, Hesperis hisses. with her buzz, she whirrs at yoongi violent.

for a moment, yoongi stills and finds himself scared. a hundred thoughts flash in his mind, the most thundering one of them all being Hesperis not recognising him. he can hear all the others, he can see them shine again, but that doesn’t mean she can. he doesn’t know what has happened after he got sick, if some mechanism changed and it’s heart-wrenching. yoongi is about to take a step back when a splash of water wets the tip of his nose. yoongi blinks a couple of times. looking at Hesperis, yoongi now recognises her.

“Almighty, you haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Hesperis shakes her flowers the way she always does when she’s laughing and she reaches out to him stretching her steam. for the first time since yoongi picked her up, Hesperis places one of her leaves on his cheeks. the feeling is funny, it tickles him a bit and yoongi isn’t too sure he wants to follow her and laugh or if he wants to start crying, right there in front of her.

it’s too much and it’s so unexpected and– and all of a sudden Hesperis is making the heart of each one of her flower flash the way she can do during the night. only, right now it’s ten in the morning.

“stop that, you’re going to get tired. do you want to die? you’re too young to and i’ve just come back. stop flashing your flowers,” he groans. then: “i’ve missed you too,” adds, while bending a bit, just to check on her. the thing is, she doesn’t stop moving. instead, she makes her leaves move with intensity. yoongi looks at her in disbelief.

“what, you stop talking to me for less than two months and now you can do all this shit? what are you going to do next? get out of your vase and start walking?”

water is back on yoongi’s nose but the buzz changes again. she’s yelling at him, but it doesn’t help him because she always yells at him.

“what are you saying?” he asks, exaggerating the degree of drama in his voice. but then, his mouth does something. n a brief period of time, yoongi reconnects the way in which Hesperis is moving to her way of warning him of something. it’s immediate, the reaction yoongi has. he turns around so quickly his head spins but he doesn’t mind it, he can’t bring himself to care.

not right now, not when namjoon walks in, a mug held stiff in his shaky hands. behind yoongi’s eyelids flashbacks of the sixth years spent together, when namjoon would come up with something different for yoongi to drink every night. of course this is the way he would greet yoongi. sweet, considerate bastard.

for a second, none of them says anything. yoongi takes in the feeling of being able to look at namjoon without death wrapping its arms around him, no knives coming for his stomach. namjoon takes a step forward, just one, and puts the mug over the table near him.

“you motherfucker,” yoongi says and his voice is cracking on the edges – and that’s, apparently, all namjoon needs. in less than a second, he’s in front of yoongi and he doesn’t give him the time to fully realise what’s going on because he’s taking him in his arms, holding him so tight for a moment yoongi can’t breathe again.

the moment namjoon had walked in the greenhouse just a couple of minutes ago, yoongi had felt weird, like taking a step back. a reflex action to what happened between them in the past months, the expectation of namjoon snapping at him at any given moment.

this, right now, it’s enough for yoongi to erase it all.

“hyung,” namjoon cries.

this voice, this embrace, this warmth. it’s namjoon’s.

yoongi shakes when he recognises it, him. there’s nothing he can compare the feeling with. finally, nothing is missing. not physically, not from within his soul. it’s all there, now, intact once again.

“i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry, i’m glad you’re alive. i’m so sorry,” namjoon says, over and over and every time yoongi hugs him tighter.

“i’ve missed you, punk.”

“i’ve missed you so much, hyung. i’m sorry. i’m sorry for what i di–”

“joon-ah,” yoongi cuts him off, gently. it’s hard, to untangle these words from his throat but to tell namjoon how he’s feeling, to express his gratefulness, it’s the least yoongi can do. so he does.

he untangles himself from namjoon and looks at him, overwhelmed by how he looks, the pinkness now having bloomed again on his cheeks, a certain type of serenity that wasn’t there before. “joon-ah,” he repeats. “this is just another way in which you saved my life.”

namjoon stares at him for a second just to go back and hold yoongi again, tighter this time. the plants’ buzz increases – the way it always did, always does whenever their magic meets. and that is exactly what’s happening, right now. it’s their magic making the flowers shine, it’s their magic making it possible for each one of these plants to act like there’s no botanical law, it’s their magic making the sun disappear behind the ball of light they’re creating just by touching each other. this, all of this– it’s Them.

in namjoon’s warmth, shiny eyes, stars as bright as they once were, yoongi sees him again – and in that moment, yoongi finds out what blooming truly means.

☆

the greenhouse has never been so crowded and yoongi doesn’t know whether to be endeared or freaked out by all of this. a part of the crew, including jungkook walks around the place, their eyes filled with amazement as they take both as many pictures and video as they can. jungkook had previously told yoongi that it didn’t matter if he had already been in there because now it looked different. more magical, he had said to a smiling yoongi.

the remaining part of the team, instead, is gathered behind the cameras, right in front of the small setting they set up in one of the glasshouse’s corners.

yoongi had called yugyeom a couple of days before this moment and had told him about how namjoon was willing to shoot the remaining scenes, now that yoongi was out of danger. yugyeom had almost screamed. yoongi had heard a muffled sound coming from his mouth, then an excitement so pure coating all of his words that even namjoon ended up getting caught up.

so now, with jimin laying back flat in yoongi’s hair and Hesperis behind them, he and namjoon sit there, in the middle of plants and creepers, waiting for the troop to start filming.

yoongi has stopped being shy in front of a camera many months before, but he hasn’t forgotten how awkward he felt at the beginning, how weird it had been to have all these microphones around him while people film and record whatever he was saying.

there’s a certain pressure attached to this whole thing and yoongi wondered several times about how the people who work in this industry can manage. above all, yoongi hasn’t stopped being connected to namjoon. it’s been weird, it’s been slow, to go back to how things were – but they’re getting there.

therefore, when yoongi glances at namjoon, he notices anxiety in the way he keeps squirming in his seat.

from the whole experience, yoongi thinks namjoon definitely changed more than he did.

the confidence he looked like he had gained, these square, more adult features he had acquired when yoongi was sick, they’re still there, in between a smile and the constellation on his cheeks.

on the other hand, though, there are so many other things namjoon is trying to work out himself, that makes being nervous when shooting a scene for a documentary candidate to the Capital’s movie festival more than understandable. for that reason, yoongi decides to follow his first instinct. he reaches out for namjoon’s, brushing his thumb on the back of namjoon’s hand. it’s a touch so light for a second yoongi doesn’t even think he managed to caress namjoon.

namjoon, instead, acts like he’s been burned. he snaps his head in his direction and pulls back from yoongi’s touch.

it’s surprising, unexpected for the both of them. jimin hasn’t left the nest he’s created for himself in yoongi’s hair but he’s now standing straight, peering what just happened with a frown on his tiny face.

“what is it?” yoongi asks, cautious.

namjoon blinks, looking at yoongi for a second too long before smiling. “nothing, hyung, it’s just– pressure, i think. that’s all” he says, gesturing frantically.

“you sure?”

“yes,” he reassures yoongi. he turns his head to look into the camera, a sense of guilt tickling his stomach.

the thing is: namjoon isn’t sure how else he could’ve explained to yoongi this weird, subtle taste of flowers, much too similar to what Hesperis smells like, that is now blending to his saliva.