Chapter Text
Jimin’s body is here, but every other part of him is somewhere else.
The emergency room’s checkered tile squeaks annoyingly under his feet, making him flinch each time, and the part of his brain that’s still working knows the quick fix to that is to stop pacing, but he can’t. He’s not in control of his body right now, barely in control of his mind. With his fingers gripping his scalp so hard it might bleed, he watches his shadow sway back and forth, trying stupidly to decipher if his vision is blurry because of the glare from the harsh, fluorescent hospital lights or his tears.
There’s something in his lungs—ash, maybe—keeping him from taking in a proper breath. He hasn’t inhaled in two hours and his ribs are begging for relief. Something is so heavy in his chest, piling up into his throat, and it’s suffocating him, he’s suffocating, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He wants to reach down his throat and scoop it out onto the floor but he can’t because his fingers are paralyzed in his hair, a death grip on his roots, giving himself a migraine.
It would be better if Jimin had more information, if he had something solid to attach himself to instead of letting his thoughts spiral, but he doesn’t. All he has is car accident and going into surgery and please come if you can, so it’s impossible for his sanity to stay intact.
The ash keeps piling.
Another part of Jimin’s brain registers that his phone is ringing. It’s vibrating in his jacket pocket, and it’s impressive that he can even feel it over the way his heart slams in his chest. But maybe his body is sensitive to it now, a trauma-like response, because it was his phone ringing an hour and a half earlier that flipped his world upside down and dropped it on its head.
Jimin keeps mentally replaying it. The way his caller ID dragged Seoul National University Hospital across his phone screen and his heart stopped. How his brain was instantly too overwhelmed to think straight, to think anything at all besides it’s Taehyung, it has to be, it’s Taehyung, it’s Taehyung, so his body reverted to autopilot mode. He had answered the phone like a ghost. Breathed, “Hello…?” and then, a voice already much more stable than his said, “Hello. I’m calling for Park Jimin.” He was numb and his hands were starting to shake but he managed, “Yes.” Then, “Speaking.” Their next sentences were flat out: “You’re listed as the emergency contact for Kim Taehyung. There’s been an accident.”
That’s when the first tablespoon of ash was poured into his lungs. It hasn’t stopped since.
Jimin doesn’t answer his phone.
▸
Two hundred and seventy-three days.
Jimin hasn’t seen or spoken to Taehyung in two hundred and seventy-three days, but he dropped everything without question to catch the first train from Suwon to Seoul. And within those near three hundred days, Jimin did his best to forget every and all things about Taehyung. But as Jimin’s filling out the stack of forms he was handed—because there’s no one else here to do it, they called him, Taehyung listed him—he realizes that he was pitifully unsuccessful at erasing Taehyung from his brain. Because Taehyung’s birthday was the password to his phone for three years straight and they still share the same insurance until the new year and Taehyung’s address is—was—Jimin’s address. He knows Taehyung’s height, his allergies; knows his blood type and his weight. He knows that he’s never had surgery before, but that he broke his wrist at seven riding a skateboard. Jimin knows it all, better than anyone else would, and his chest hurts and his tears are going to make the pen ink smudge.
They haven’t had contact for almost three hundred days, and while nothing is the same anymore, nothing is different either. So when the papers ask for a list of Taehyung’s family contacts, Jimin wipes his tears, writes his own name, and leaves the rest of the lines blank.
▸
“Is there… is there anyone we can call?”
A motherly-looking nurse is squatting in front of Jimin with a tightness to her grin that lets him know he must look as lost as he feels. Her scrubs are pink, matching the natural blush to her cheeks, and she has honest eyes. Her tone tells Jimin this isn’t the first time she’s asked him. He must not have heard her before, too lost in his head.
“Um,” Jimin thinks aloud emptily, slowly returning to his body. It’s too cold in the waiting room and the chair is uncomfortable and everyone is sad. He blinks and his eyes burn. Too much crying, too much rubbing.
She must think he needs help. Her eyes soften as she suggests, “His family, maybe?”
“I’m—I’m his family,” Jimin stammers, eyebrows furrowing and face twisting into something almost mean. Like she should know better. But his mouth is moving faster than his brain, faster than his internal filter. It comes out reflexively, automatically. All of Jimin’s nerves and emotions are too raw right now.
What he means to say is that Taehyung doesn’t have anyone else. Jimin feels his stomach twist in on itself, acid snaking up his esophagus when he remembers Taehyung’s parents died in a car crash when he was small. His family was no one, and then, when he got to university, his family was Jimin and their friend group. No one else. It’s still Jimin and their friend group and no one else—even if they aren’t together anymore.
She nods sympathetically. “Anyone else, then? This is a lot, you might want someone here with you.”
Hoseokie-hyung, Jimin thinks automatically. Because there’s a part of him that will never stop wanting his hyung when he’s upset. And Jeongguk. And… and—everyone.
“Um,” he says again, tongue feeling too dry and too heavy in his mouth. No one deserves an impersonal phone call from a stranger at the hospital the way he did. He’ll call them all; it’s better that way. “No, I’ll—uh, I… I got it. I’ll call.”
She walks away from him the way a parent would a toddler on their first day of preschool: slowly, with caution, and an apparent reluctance sewn into the lines of her put-on smile. A polite bow is all she leaves him with, but she walks back to her post behind the nurses’ station in a way that says I’m here if you need me. Jimin appreciates that. He realizes too late that he forgot to say thank you.
There are four missed call notifications sitting on Jimin’s home screen when he unlocks his phone, a pile of text messages too. Coming over tonight, right? the first one reads. Can’t wait. Been missing you. Then, about two hours later: Hey, just checking in—are you ok? I know you have a bad habit of being late, but… ㅋㅋ call me. Then, with the anxiety seeping through the words: Seriously, are you okay? Kinda gettin worried here. I keep calling but it goes to voicemail. At least text me back so I know you’re okay. And then, angrier: Did you fuckin stand me up?? Jimin bypasses them all to scroll through his contacts. He can’t do this right now.
Jimin decides to call in the order of most likely to pick up at this hour. Right now he knows nothing and he doesn’t want to scare them any more than is necessary, but the nurse is right, he needs someone here with him. He doesn’t think he can do it alone if it’s bad, so he starts with Hoseok.
Honestly, Jimin doesn’t really know what he says. Hoseok picked up on the second to last ring, let Jimin scramble through half-sentences and unsteady breaths, and somehow remained calm throughout the whole thing. Jimin can’t remember the conversation now that they’ve hung up. All he knows is that Hoseok is on his way (“I’m coming, okay? I’m—I’ll be there soon. Hyung’s coming.”) and that he's calling everyone else (“Am I the first you called? Yeah? No, I’ll do it, I’ll call them, just—Taehyung needs you. Focus on him. I’ll call them.”)
It’s childish the way Jimin clings to the idea of his hyungs coming to save him, to carry some of the burden, but he can’t help it. He can’t breathe properly and his eyes burn and he doesn’t know anything about anything. He needs help.
When Jimin’s phone slips out of his hand, a small wave of relief washing over him knowing he doesn’t have to make that call again, he doesn’t even hear it hit the floor. There’s cotton in his ears and his eyes are still burning, but at least he won’t be alone for long.
Jimin doesn’t let himself dwell on the fact that it’s been nearly three hundred days since he spoke to everyone else too.
▸
By the time anyone addresses Jimin again, his thumb has been chewed at the corner, so there’s blood on his tongue now, and he’s ignoring the sharp pain in his knee from bouncing his leg too hard for too long. He thinks he’s been here for over an hour, which means Taehyung has been here for three—in surgery for three—and all Jimin can think is it’s bad, it has to be, it’s been too long.
But then—
“For Kim Taehyung?”
Jimin’s body is still on autopilot, numb. He stands so quickly the room tilts, and then he takes four unsteady steps forward. He can’t feel his feet inside of his boots or his hips working to move his legs. Despite that, he must’ve managed a whispered yes, something barely pushed out through the spaces between his teeth. Or maybe it’s the deer-in-headlights look he knows he’s wearing that lets the doctor know he’s the one to speak to.
“So,” the doctor starts, exhaling. He makes a gesture toward Jimin and there’s the faintest smile tugging at his thin lips when he says, “The surgery went well.”
And that’s good news, it’s good news, but for some reason it doesn’t make Jimin feel better. He has the very apparent, very loud and relieved thought of he’s alive, but it doesn’t make his breaths come any easier and it doesn’t stop the ash from piling up. He thinks about all the movies he’s seen when there was some tragedy, and how the doctors always start with the good news first. So he clenches his teeth so hard it sends zigzags of lightning up to his temples as he prepares for what he knows is coming: the bad.
Jimin’s voice sounds distant and foreign to his own ears. “Which…?” And Jimin doesn’t even know what he means to say, but the doctor keeps talking so it doesn’t really matter.
“He arrived with two fractured ribs, a severely damaged spleen, a fractured shoulder, head trauma, and bruising to his midsection.” The doctor speaks so slowly, so calmly, Jimin is both envious and annoyed at his composure. How can he be this indifferent to Taehyung lying broken in some hospital bed? Like Jimin’s world isn’t collapsing in on itself more and more by the second right in front of him?
Jimin holds his breath and tells himself to focus, to process everything properly because he’s going to have to relay this to—to everyone. But his brain rejects this, his entire fucking being rejects all of this. Taehyung being hurt in any way has never been something Jimin’s been good at handling. Their friends used to poke fun at the way he’d helicopter over Taehyung when he had a cold. So he’s way over his limit right now; he feels like he’s drowning.
“Okay,” Jimin manages, because that’s all he can say. That’s the only word his brain can form. His chest hurts when he speaks.
The doctor pauses and it’s just for a second, just half a heartbeat, but Jimin feels it, and a wave of nausea unsettles his stomach. Just tell me, Jimin wants to scream, I can take it. But he doesn’t even know if that’s true.
“We were able to reset his left shoulder. Rib fractures, they tend to heal on their own over time; rest and pain medication. It was apparent he was experiencing some internal bleeding due to his spleen that ruptured on impact, so he received a splenectomy.”
And Jimin is too busy trying to filter through his limited amount of medical knowledge to reassure himself that yes, people—Taehyung—can live without their spleen and that it wouldn’t have been taken out if they couldn’t, that he tunes back in a little late. The doctor is mid-sentence.
“…to see exactly how much and where the bleeding was. But—”
Jimin blinks and holds his hand up. “Wait. I’m sorry, um.” He swallows around nothing, eyes squeezed shut. He feels dizzy with his eyes closed, like the world is spinning too fast, so he opens them with furrowed eyebrows and asks, “What’s… Sorry, uh, what’s bleeding?”
And again, the doctor speaks too calmly. “Well—his brain.”
“His brain?”
The nausea returns. Bubbles up hot and threatening in the pit of Jimin’s stomach during the stretch of silence that comes. It’s nothing more than the barely-there moments between a sharp inhale and a frantic heart, but it lingers, Jimin feels every millisecond of it in his veins. It burns, it all fucking aches, and Jimin thinks maybe he needs to sit down. Needs a minute to breathe and process and calm himself, but the doctor keeps talking. He’s overexplaining now in words that Jimin isn’t nearly prepared to attempt to comprehend. And even if he was, his heart is beating so loud—too loud—in his ears for him to focus on anything but that.
Jimin’s vision is blurry at the edges and there’s pulsating pressure against his eardrums; he has to squint to see the doctor clearly. Between the erratic tha-thump, tha-thump of his heart, Jimin manages to catch bits and pieces. Desperately, he clings to words like hematoma and torn blood vessel and stable now and tries to make them make sense. He weaves these mismatched words together until he arrives at an understanding: Taehyung hit his head. Hard. Not hard enough to need surgery to drain the blood, but hard enough to need monitoring. Hard enough and serious enough for hospital staff to call his emergency contact, to call Jimin, because he needs someone here for him—to speak for him.
Hard enough for the only slip of emotion from the doctor being when he tells Jimin he’s unsure of when Taehyung will wake up.
“But you can see him soon,” the doctor tries to soothe. He almost dares to tilt his lips up into something like a small smile, but he rethinks it and keeps his expression neutral. “The nurses are almost done.”
Jimin doesn’t speak. He can’t speak.
“I’ll have someone come get you as soon as he’s ready.”
Silence still. Jimin stands there, his eyes locked on the little speck of something—blood?—on the doctor’s white coat. His thoughts are seesawing between wondering if the blood is Taehyung’s and when Hoseok will get here. Because yeah, no, Jimin can’t do this alone. He can’t. He can’t, he can’t.
“Okay,” the doctor whispers, mouth barely moving. He uses it as an ending to their conversation, lips twitching to flash the beginnings of a sad type of humorless, awkward grin that has I’m sorry written in it. Jimin thinks it’s meant to be comforting, but it’s not. He offers Jimin a courteous bow, hands politely at his sides, and then walks away.
Jimin stays there, frozen, while the rest of the hospital buzzes all around him.
▸
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Jimin’s stuck standing outside of Taehyung’s room, staring at his room number, and he’s caught somewhere between the nausea that never left and an upsurge of manic laughter. He’s losing his mind in the hallway of this hospital.
And it doesn’t matter that they’re not together anymore. Doesn’t matter that the last time they spoke they screamed their throats raw and said too many things they shouldn’t have. Doesn’t matter that Jimin angrily packed a bag and stormed out, too good at keeping his promise never to come back. What matters is that Taehyung’s lying unconscious on the other side of the door and he needs someone, he needs Jimin, and Jimin knows that but he can’t move.
Can’t move because he and Taehyung haven’t spoken in almost a year, but he’s here at god knows what hour anyway—because Taehyung needs him—and his room number is their fucking anniversary date. 1108, November 8th. It’s a joke, it has to be, but Jimin isn’t laughing. It’s not funny and his heart hurts and he can’t open the door.
So he stands there and waits a little longer. Stares and stares at the numbers until they blur, salty tears brimming his eyes, and they turn everything in Jimin’s vision to nothing.
▸
The thing about breaking up, especially for a love like theirs—a love like they had—is that it isn’t the equivalent to falling out of love. It would’ve been easier, actually, if that were the truth. Because if they had fallen out of love, Jimin would’ve been able to stand sharing a city with Taehyung after they ended. Wouldn’t have felt the overwhelming need to get as far away as possible for his own sanity, terrified that he’d run into Taehyung at the store or the bar or a random parking garage. If they had fallen out of love, it wouldn’t have taken Jimin three months to change his phone password, and he wouldn’t have spent too many mornings forgetting, for just a split second, that he’s waking up alone. If they had fallen out of love for certain, Jimin wouldn’t still be Taehyung’s emergency contact and Jimin wouldn’t be standing here right now bordering the most devastating version of hysteria.
But it’s two in the morning, and Jimin is here, and Taehyung’s room number is their anniversary. It’s a compulsion, he reads it over and over despite the bile in his stomach churning.
That’s the thing about breaking up but not falling out of love: the universe never lets you forget it.
▸
If it weren’t for the gentle nurse with the soft hands and the sweet voice that prompted Jimin with the faintest squint of her eyebrows, “You.. you can go in, sir,” he thinks maybe he’d still be outside of Taehyung’s room, terrified for too many reasons to go in. But while her gaze was sweet, the confused judgment behind her pupils was enough to snap Jimin out of his trance and make him move.
So now he’s inside Taehyung’s room, frozen for brand new reasons, and everything is white. The shiny tile floor, the stiff-looking bed sheets, the thick cords spidering from the backs of machines, the deafening noise inside of Jimin’s ears…
…Taehyung’s face.
“Fuck, Taehyung-ah…” Jimin exhales under his breath, vision going blurry again with tears, chest too tight to say anything else.
He looks so pale and Jimin wants so badly to blame the unflattering lighting or the papery hospital gown they’ve slipped onto him, but no. Taehyung’s face is the whitest Jimin’s ever seen, like all the blood has been drained—(collecting somewhere in his skull instead, apparently)—and he’s sporting emerging bruises on his right cheekbone and jaw. There’s a bandage only a few shades whiter than his skin taped to the right side of his forehead, up by his hairline, and there are little knicks littered over his face. Jimin imagines they’re from glass shattering. Taehyung has a split lip, some bruises on his collarbone peeking out from under the gown, and more scattered cuts on his hand.
Jimin’s too afraid to touch, because Taehyung looks like he’d break some more from just a gush of wind too strong, but he wants to. Caught somewhere between trying to process and wanting to provide comfort, his hands twitch at his sides to ghost his fingers over all of Taehyung’s face, to somehow will the pain out of Taehyung’s body and into his own. Because he’d still do that—would still take all of Taehyung’s pain for him. Wants to place two fingers, feather-light and so, so gentle, under Taehyung’s chin and press a slow kiss to his forehead the way he used to, murmur ‘I’m right here, sweetheart’ the way he used to.
But there’s an echoing voice in Jimin’s head reminding him that they’re not together anymore, that he’s only here because the hospital called him, and so he stops himself. Instead, he just stares.
He stares for too long as he counts Taehyung’s breaths between the slow, consistent beeping of the machine mirroring his heartbeat. Jimin tries really hard not to dwell on the mint-colored thin tube that branches off to jut into each one of Taehyung’s nostrils, helping him breathe; and tries not to overthink the IV in his arm, or the blaring difference between being asleep and unconscious etched into the lines of Taehyung’s face.
And his body must still be moving on autopilot because he doesn’t remember grabbing a chair or placing it under his body, but he’s sitting now and Taehyung’s hand is in his and nothing makes sense. Between the whooshing of the oxygen oscillating with the rhythm of the heart monitor, Jimin feels locked in an air-tight container. Just him, Taehyung, all of their broken pieces, and machines to keep score.
“I’m here,” Jimin whispers anyway, voice wet and wobbly. Because he can’t keep it back anymore, because he can’t have Taehyung thinking he’s alone. Even if Taehyung were conscious, Jimin thinks maybe he said it too softly to be heard. So Jimin says it again. With his thumb petting over Taehyung’s hand, ignoring the pulse ox on his index finger, he tells him, “I’m here, Taehyung-ah.” And so many things are left unsaid—I’ll take care of you and I’m not going anywhere and I love you... still— but they remain just that: unsaid.
So he sits, and he stares, and he counts.
▸
(They’re twenty-one and neither of them are morning people, but Taehyung has booked them a flight departing at 5 a.m. He tells Jimin he wants a bird’s eye view of the sunrise, and Jimin has never been good at protesting Taehyung’s decisions, never been good at telling him no. So here they are: waking up with the sun, groggy but happy, and so, so in love.
Jimin gives Taehyung the window seat and watches him watch the sky with so much wonder in his eyes it makes Jimin forget the world has evil in it. Because Taehyung sees life through a lens that makes it softer, kinder, and Jimin hopes he never loses that. Jimin thinks maybe he decides right then and there that it’s his job to protect it.
There’s crisp yellow-maroon spilling through the tiny airplane window and Jimin catches himself in awe at how breathtaking Taehyung looks bathed in dawn’s first light. Like he was made to be up here in the clouds, weightless like the air. If there’s a heaven, Jimin knows it opens its gates every morning and begs Taehyung to come home, their earth-bound angel.
It’s subconscious the way Jimin slots his fingers with Taehyung’s—warm and secure, tight in his lap. Like he’s afraid the sky will notice Taehyung and his blinding golden aura, and realize the brightest star doesn’t belong to it after all. But Jimin has always been a bit possessive, likes to keep what’s his, so he brings Taehyung’s hand to his lips, telling the sky no, he’s mine as the sun takes its first full breath.
Taehyung gasps then, small and cute, yell-whispering, “Look, Jimin-ah, do you see—? Look at the sun!”
Jimin tells him, eyes trained on the curve of Taehyung’s cheek as he smiles and the excited flutter of his eyelashes, “I see, baby, yeah. I’m looking.”
And it wasn’t a lie, they were both looking at the sun. Jimin’s was just brighter.)
▸
At first, the announced rhythm of Taehyung’s heartbeat was intimidating. It echoed tauntingly off the plain white walls and reminded Jimin over and over that they were in a position in which a machine was instructed to make noise whenever his heart pumped blood—that it was necessary to keep track.
But eventually, the sound faded into something that buzzed low in Jimin’s subconscious and brought him comfort. Hypnotized him a little, maybe. A pocket watch swaying back and forth with each beep, persuading Jimin to settle into something close to calm. It whispered in his ear second by second he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive. Jimin holds onto Taehyung’s limp hand almost as tight as he holds onto the mantra.
Jimin’s lost somewhere deep in his mind, swimming in memories much brighter and much sweeter than their current reality. Like a projector rolling, images play over his vision in black and white, moving in slow motion so he can take it all in. Jimin sees he and Taehyung on their first date, sees their first kiss. It was so cold that night, but they kissed in the alleyway behind the restaurant where they shared sushi and infatuated looks. Jimin remembers thinking that Taehyung was warm despite the frigid air, always so warm, and his lips looked soft, inviting. Taehyung was pressed against the brick wall, Jimin’s hands confident but nervous on his chest, and he was smiling as Jimin lessened the space between their lips. Taehyung had giggled right before Jimin kissed him and said—
“You’re… still here?”
Wait, that’s not right. Jimin’s confused.
It takes him a half second too long to realize someone is here in the room talking to him. Although Jimin must’ve only been alone for a half an hour or so, it felt like forever. He grew accustomed to the silence, to his thoughts taking up space in the room. The rubber band-like snap back into reality stings, it fucking hurts. Jimin feels it burn his cheek like a smack to the face, leaving a tingling heat in its wake. He blinks once, twice, three times, before his brain catches up to recognize the figure in the doorway.
With a shrug in response to Jimin’s silence, Yoongi follows up with, “Just figured you would’ve, I dunno, left by now, is all,” as he enters the room.
He’s dressed in all black with his hands tucked into the pockets of his bomber jacket. It’s oversized, so he’s swimming in it. The bottom skirts just above his knee. Jimin can tell he came in a rush, threw it on over a sleep shirt and wrinkled joggers. He drags his feet lazily in his slides. He’s barefoot despite the bitter cold outside; he forgot his socks. With messy hair and tired eyes, he almost looks meek, but his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are squared like he’s preparing for something.
Jimin doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know what Yoongi means by that because—where else would he be? So he just says, in a conscious effort to keep his tone steady, “‘Course I’m still here.”
Yoongi hums at that. A noncommittal yet indiscreet type of hum, with just a hint of sarcasm in it. Yoongi turns his attention to Taehyung before Jimin’s brain can properly process, before anything about that can kickstart the confrontational side of Jimin. The side that would ask first, “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” and then regret it later for making a scene.
Gently, Yoongi’s hand ghosts over the bandage on Taehyung’s head and then surveys the rest of him solemnly. He does what Jimin was too afraid to do, leans over and lets his lips press to Taehyung’s forehead. Murmurs a comforting, “Hyung’s here now,” into his hairline, eyes closed. And that feels like it’s meant to mean something too. So Jimin’s nails dig into his own palm, keeping himself quiet, keeping himself from giving into the nonsensical urge to push Yoongi back.
“How… how bad?” Yoongi’s talking to Jimin now, timid fingers on Taehyung’s shoulder. Jimin blinks, opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t have words.
Swift footsteps enter the room all at once. And then, an annoyed voice saying, “They won’t fuckin’ tell me anything, what the fuck.”
Hoseok’s bright and calm at all times except for the ones in which he’s dark and panicked. Sunshine swapped out for rain clouds, sweet words replaced with sour ones. He’s the latter now, clearly and rightfully rattled by all of this, an angry worry to his eyebrows.
If he notices the tension in the room between Jimin and Yoongi, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he squeezes Jimin’s hand as a hello as he passes him to approach the bed. Then, something about it feeling too distant even in crisis, he turns around and pulls Jimin into a hug. Cradles the back of Jimin’s head, lips to his ear, telling him, “Thank you.” And Jimin doesn't ask, but he’s pretty sure he’s thanking him for being here, for staying, and he wishes everyone would stop implying he’d be anywhere else.
“What’d they tell you?” Hoseok asks, all in one exhale, hands on Jimin’s shoulders. There are remnants of recently shed tears in his eyes, red rims and tired lids. It’s always jarring seeing cracks in his hyungs’ armor; he likes it better when he can pretend they’re impenetrable. Jimin’s chest tightens at all the desperation and helplessness Hoseok is doused in, and has to look away to collect his thoughts.
It’s robotic the way Jimin keeps his eyes averted and recites what he remembers Taehyung’s doctor saying. But he has to detach himself to repeat it, because it’s overwhelming and it’ll break him if he allows himself to feel the heaviness of the words. When he’s done speaking, when he’s told his hyungs all he knows about the accident and Taehyung’s injuries, Jimin tastes bile on his tongue. He exhales hard through his nose like a bull, heart slamming in his chest. Jimin needs to sit back down.
Hoseok’s fingers slip from Jimin’s shoulders, his eyes a little dimmer now that he knows what Jimin knows. The worry is heavy on his back; it noticeably weighs him down as he goes to Taehyung. Jimin watches him press two kisses to Taehyung’s head, and then he whispers something too soft for Jimin to hear.
“Namjoonie and Jeonggukie are on their way,” Hoseok tells Taehyung in a wobbly voice. “Seokjinnie-hyung, too. They’ll be here soon.”
“Yeah, we’ll—we’ll all be here,” Yoongi adds.
And there Jimin is, at the foot of the bed, watching as Yoongi takes Taehyung’s hand. Hoseok settles in Jimin’s seat without hesitation, as if Jimin sat in it prior for the sole purpose of warming it up for him. They hover over Taehyung like shields, like two wolves sheltering in place, protecting their wounded until the rest of their pack arrives. Jimin is nothing more than an onlooker now, but he thinks if he gets too close they’d bare their teeth and snap at him.
It’s clear he’s not part of the family anymore.
▸
There’s a small charcoal-colored couch in Taehyung’s room that Jimin has no choice but to acquaint himself with. It’s tucked away in the corner just like him, useless until deemed useful. He’s scrolling mindlessly on his phone, just switching from one app to another, ignoring his missed calls and the gentle murmurs from the other side of the room.
It’s become a habit for Jimin’s eyes to dart over to the door whenever someone passes, simultaneously hoping and dreading it being Taehyung’s doctor with an update. But this time, the figures that catch Jimin’s eyes aren’t hospital workers that carry medical charts, but instead Jeongguk and Namjoon.
Jimin sees them before they see him. Jeongguk is leading, left arm extended behind him to tug Namjoon along. He’s taking big, panicked strides down the hall, dodging workers and patients, his thick-soled sneakers scuffing the shiny tile. In a white hoodie and black joggers, it’s only Jeongguk’s bed head and red nose that give him away. He looks put together otherwise, calm in a distraught type of way.
“Is he—is he okay?”
Despite Jeongguk’s expression being near stoic, his voice is drenched in anguish. His words are fragile, breaking as soon as they hit the stale hospital air. He shakes free of Namjoon’s hand and rushes to Taehyung’s bedside. Hoseok gives up his spot without question, settles behind Jeongguk with a hand on his shoulder.
Jimin watches the same pattern repeat—a kiss, then a whisper. His heart hurts.
“We’re still waiting for another update,” Hoseok tells him, then peeks over his shoulder at Namjoon. They nod at one another. Continuing, he says, “We don’t know much yet.”
Yoongi’s more precise. “Two broken ribs, a broken shoulder, a splenectomy, and some pretty bad bruising.” He exhales slowly and adds, “Mostly worried about his head. Doctors said there’s, um—bleeding. Like bruising or something.” Yoongi’s eyes drop. “Still waiting on the tests to know more.”
From where he’s sitting, Jimin can’t see Jeongguk’s face, but he knows him well enough to picture fresh tears swelling in his round, doe eyes. He sucks in a shaky breath through his teeth and asks like he’s terrified of the answer, “But… he’s gonna wake up, right?” And then, when no one responds quick enough, a quiet surge of panic, “Hyung, right?”
“We’re waiting on the tests,” Yoongi repeats, calm and consistent. Despite that, he still glances over in Namjoon’s direction for help.
“But—” Jeongguk starts again, stubborn because that answer isn’t good enough, of course it’s not, but it’s all they have.
“Baby, that’s… that’s all they know right now,” Namjoon cuts in from across the room. He’s standing next to Jimin, remaining there after hugging him hello. But the greeting felt too impersonal—strained, like distant cousins pressured into niceties at a family gathering.
Jeongguk’s eyes meet Namjoon’s for only a second, because then they pull to Jimin and stay there. Many emotions dance across Jeongguk’s face in flashes—desperation, surprise, confusion—before one sticks: disgust. For too long, Jimin and Jeongguk lock eyes from across the room and all Jimin sees is pure disgust in his pupils.
And although Jeongguk’s jaw remains clenched, he parts his lips as if he were going to spit something like ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?’ through his teeth. Jimin hardens his jaw too, tilts his chin up, preparing for it. Because he’s feeling too many emotions right now and they can all boil into anger if Jeongguk wants a fight. In fact, Jimin’s starting to think yelling for a while might feel pretty damn good.
Namjoon’s hand brushes cautiously against Jimin’s forearm, stopping anything before it starts, just as Seokjin enters the room. His arrival forces the tension in the air to dissipate, something hardwired in all of them to straighten out when their eldest hyung is there. Best behavior, calm bodies.
Seokjin is balancing two cup holders in either hand, both stuffed with lidded styrofoam cups, and there are takeout bags dangling from his wrists. He puts everything down on the windowsill, telling everyone he brought coffee and rice with sides for anyone who needs it, and then, when he takes Taehyung in fully, sighs sadly and approaches his bedside. Same pattern: a gentle kiss to his head, then the murmurings of something comforting. Jimin’s guilt climbs with his secret of being the only one who didn’t do that.
“Do we know anything about the asshole who hit him?” is Seokjin’s first question. Just like the eldest, he always wants a name for the cause of their pain, someone or something to blame, so he can make it regret disturbing even one hair on any of their heads.
Everyone looks at Jimin. And Jimin wishes he had an answer. Wishes he could take them all by the wrist and point out the person to them. Say this person right here, they did this to him. But in the whirlwind of it all, Jimin hadn’t asked, hadn’t investigated in the way he should’ve. He has no idea whose car Taehyung’s collided with or where Taehyung was going or even the exact time it happened.
Disappointment and shame stirs in Jimin’s gut and makes his face hot. He shifts from one leg to another, keeping his eyes somewhere near Seokjin’s sneakers when he admits, “No, I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“You were focused on Taehyung, it’s fine,” Seokjin soothes; he doesn’t even let Jimin get it all out. “That’s what you were supposed to be doing, don’t be sorry. I’m just—” He takes in a deep breath full enough to puff his chest. Jimin sees his hand curl into a fist at his side. “I’m just… angry, that’s all.” He exhales all the air in his lungs and it deflates his shoulders. And then, before Jimin can even process it, there are arms around him and a kiss to his hair. Seokjin whispers to him, “You did a good job. I know it was scary being here alone. You did good, Jiminie.”
Maybe it’s the whiplash of temperament—from Jeongguk’s bitterness, daggers all but projecting from his eyes, to Seokjin’s unexpected warmth and softness cocooning him—but Jimin feels cemented in time, paralyzed, and unable to decipher his feelings. Stays still as Seokjin holds him, unable to get his arms to move to hug back.
And Jimin thinks he could’ve stayed there a little while longer, feeling safe in his hyung’s arms, like he was protecting him from the world even if it was just for a moment. But then there’s a knock on the doorframe pulling their attention and Taehyung’s doctor is there, asking to speak with Jimin.
“I can—” Jeongguk starts to say, untucking himself from under Namjoon’s arm and approaching the doctor in a worried hurry. He just wants answers. “You can tell me.”
The doctor—Dr. Dokgo, his name tag reads—gives Jeongguk a sympathetic half-smile, then turns toward Jimin. He asks softly, “Emergency contact on file, right?” to which Jimin nods. And then they step away from everyone so they can talk.
Even in the trenches of heightened mixed emotions and anxiety and the lingering helplessness, Jimin gets it. He does. He’s the ex no one planned to see tonight, the one that was there one day and gone the next. Jimin sees it in their stare that he’s not really welcome here, not fully, but Jimin isn’t here for them, he’s here for Taehyung. He’s here because the hospital called him first.
Jimin ignores the twisted expressions in the room as Dr. Dokgo pulls him aside. They don’t go far, Jimin stops in the doorway so that everyone else can listen in. Doesn’t allow his pettiness to gatekeep from them in the way it seems they would from him, because this is about Taehyung’s health, not about who is dating who anymore or how long it’s been since they’ve all been in the same room.
“Some good news,” Dr. Dokgo starts. And just at that, Jimin breathes a little easier. Nods, shows he’s listening, and then tries to take it all in. Dr. Dokgo tells Jimin that after reviewing the most recent scans, he can confirm Taehyung doesn’t need additional surgery for the bleeding spotted in his head. It’s minor enough that it’s anticipated to resolve on its own over time.
“Just medication and monitoring for now,” he says, flipping through his papers. “We see brain activity, which is a great sign, of course, and the anesthesia from the splenectomy should be wearing off soon.”
When Jimin speaks, his voice is weak. “He’ll wake up?”
He needs to hear it directly, can’t infer right now.
Dr. Dokgo takes in a breath, lets it out slowly. “Prior to this, he was a healthy young man. That’s going to work in his favor. We’re hopeful.”
“Hopeful,” Jimin repeats, voice falling flat. He wants the doctor to hear his own words back and understand why ‘hopeful’ doesn’t provide the relief it’s meant to.
And there’s that grin again, the one that’s meant to be comforting but isn’t. The doctor tells Jimin, cliché but true apparently, “It’s up to him now. Whenever he’s ready.” He bows at Jimin, just the slight tilting of his upper half, and then departs.
▸
Jimin can remember too vividly, can remember tauntingly, the time in his life when the seven of them being in a room together wasn’t awkward. When there wasn’t thick tension and hostility. When the elephant in the room wasn’t Jimin’s presence, and eyes didn’t cut at him from sharp angles, and whispers didn’t make him shift uneasily in his seat.
They used to be happy—the seven of them, they were happy together. They used to fit the way arms link with one another: sturdy and unifying and comfortable, but not restricting. It was easy to break away into pairs or trios, and then return as a whole, as seven.
Jimin knows he’s blamed for breaking them, when he left Taehyung he left them too. And he’ll take that blame; for them, he will, because he doesn’t want to fight. Not here and not now. Not with Taehyung lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Jimin has priorities, and it stings like a familiar bruise that Taehyung is still at the top of his list. That won’t ever change, Jimin thinks, even after everything they’ve been through.
“He’s gonna sit there the whole night?”
Jimin’s ears burn.
“Baby, shh, it’s—it’s fine, okay? Stop.”
“It’s not fine, it’s—”
“Stop.”
Jeongguk and Namjoon aren’t quiet. Jeongguk isn’t trying to be, it’s apparent, and it’s a little unsettling to Jimin to have this side of Jeongguk’s personality directed at him. It’s rare, this hardened and protective edge to Jeongguk’s voice and his stare, everything knife-sharp.
With his molars clenched to square his jaw and his eyebrows pinched, he’s Taehyung’s self-appointed guard, and his mission is to keep him safe. Jimin tries not to let it seep under his skin that he’s the threat Jeongguk is trying to protect Taehyung from. Because if that gets into his veins, it’ll infect him from the inside out, and then he won’t be able to think straight. So Jimin ignores them. Because he has to, it’s the only way to remain focused.
Instead, he occupies himself by running a gentle finger up and down Taehyung’s hand. He traces the same path over and over, from the tip of his pinky to his wrist and then back again. He’s synched it to Taehyung’s slow breathing. Inhale, up; exhale, down. Sometimes Taehyung falls out of pattern, taking just a fraction of a second too long to inhale, and a nauseating wave of terror hits Jimin’s stomach each time. Eyes shooting to the monitors, air held tight in his chest. Jimin feels the tendons in his knees pulse in preparation to spring to his feet. But then Taehyung pulls in a breath and Jimin’s heart rate drops from the 200s so fast it makes him dizzy.
It’s the hand on Jimin’s shoulder that makes him jump, yanks him right out of the trance he set himself in. A firm yet gentle grip on his shoulder, massaging an apology now into his tense muscles.
“Sorry,” Namjoon says. His voice is soft. It’s weird, he seems more apologetic for the words he hasn’t said yet. He moves his jaw oddly, like he’s adjusting marbles in his mouth he’s unsure if he should spit out, and then asks, all in one exhale, “Can we talk? Um, in the hall? Can we—” He gestures over his shoulder toward the open door.
For a longer time than he should, Jimin just stares up at Namjoon. And then, when the words sink into his brain and make sense, he looks back at Taehyung, then at Namjoon again.
“Jeongguk can—he’ll sit with him,” Namjoon assures. He presses his words on quickly like a bandaid, but Jimin still feels the sting. “It's okay.”
It’s not okay, actually, because the last place Jimin wants to be is anywhere that isn’t right here by Taehyung’s side. But there’s familiarity in the way Namjoon’s eyes plead at him. Silently, he begs please and just for a minute.
So Jimin allows himself to be guided to his feet by a hand under his arm. His legs don’t quite feel like his own as he follows Namjoon toward the door. Jimin’s eyes catch Jeongguk’s and they hold each other's gaze, like they both have something to prove, until Jimin finally exits. He knows that Jeongguk is in his spot and he hates that it doesn’t bring him the comfort he knows it should.
Jimin can’t make himself go any farther than five steps away from Taehyung’s door. There’s an invisible string keeping him within a certain distance. He stops and cements his heels into the tile when it pulls taut, then crosses his arms. The hallway is too bright, Jimin squints.
“What did you—”
“How’ve you been?”
Their words overlap in a way that doesn’t fit, Jimin’s impatience colliding hard with Namjoon’s awkwardness. Jimin’s mouth shuts with a click of his molars and his eyebrows furrow, confused. Namjoon called him out here for—this? Small talk?
Namjoon exhales through a chuckle that Jimin doesn’t take part in. Jimin watches him shift from one foot to the other. Namjoon scratches at the back of his head, and then smiles again. There’s an inner dialogue he must be having with himself, one that’s encouraging him to keep speaking even though he clearly doesn’t want to.
“I mean,” Namjoon tries again. “How’re you holding up? All of this is…” he inhales through his nose hard enough to make it scrunch, “…it’s fucked up. It’s a lot, just—how’re you?”
And then there are Namjoon’s pleading eyes again. Like he needs Jimin to humor him through this part so he can warm up to what he really wants to say. So Jimin does. It causes him physical pain, but he does it anyway.
“I’m… I’m here, hyung,” Jimin says and he hates the way his voice cracks to let the helplessness seep through. He hadn’t realized his hands were out by his sides until he felt his fingers straining.
That's all he can say. Because he’s not okay, none of this is okay, so he refuses to sugarcoat this with an automatic, empty answer. The truth is that he doesn’t know how he is, the truth is that he’s so fucking numb right now he doesn’t feel anything at all. But Namjoon doesn’t need to know that. All he needs to know is that despite it all he’s here.
“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees, but it’s hollow. Then, like a thought just occurred to him, says, “Thank you, by the way. I dunno if… if anyone’s thanked you, so…” Namjoon lets his sentence trail off messily and doesn’t try to tidy it up.
With his chin, he gestures over Jimin’s shoulder toward Taehyung’s room and it makes Jimin feel a little homicidal. He has to bite down on his tongue to redirect his spike in anger. He doesn’t need another person thanking him for coming when the hospital called, for getting in contact with everyone else, for staying. He doesn’t need thanks for taking care of Taehyung like it doesn’t still come as natural to him as breathing.
“You live in, uh, Suwon now, right?” Namjoon asks. “It’s like, what, an hour away?” He’s carrying the conversation and it’s apparent. It’s awkward. Jimin hasn’t said a word in too long for this to be considered a friendly, comfortable interaction now. His arms are crossed again and his eyes are dark. “You’ve been here a long time,” Namjoon continues, and Jimin doesn’t like the tone of voice he’s falling into, “I know you must be tired. You can… you can head out if you want. We got it from here.”
It’s the “we” that clearly excludes Jimin that pushes him over the edge. Especially when all of this is so thinly veiled now that Namjoon is only out here to pacify Jeongguk. That he and everyone else wants Jimin to go because it’s weird for him—as Taehyung’s ex—to still be here right now. He’s their ex too in a way. They promised to always stay together, to be a family before they’re anything else, and he broke that promise without warning.
Jimin blinks hard. Says, “What?”
Namjoon’s voice is almost apologetic. He speaks in choppy, unsure sentences. “It’s just—yeah, you must be tired, right? It’s late. It’s like—shit, it’s like three in the morning? Maybe four, I dunno. You can—we’ve, y’know, we can handle it. From here.” And then, like he’s just remembering his manners, he puts a hand on Jimin’s arm and says again, “Thank you for… y’know, coming. For calling Hoseok. All of it.”
All of it. Like Jimin has done them all a favor and here’s where they part ways. He’s talking to Jimin like he’s a stranger who did them a good deed but has overstayed his welcome. It feels alienating. It feels infuriating.
Jimin looks down at Namjoon’s hand like it’s foreign, like maybe it’ll start burning him soon, and he has to blink a few times to make sure this is reality. That they’re really here outside of Taehyung’s hospital room where he lays unconscious, all broken and bruised. And that it’s now of all times that Namjoon is using some pitiful version of reverse psychology on him to get him to leave. To imply something as stupid as a breakup means Jimin no longer cares. That he can know what he knows now and just go home because he lives an hour away and it's late and they’ve got it from here.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jimin’s voice is darker than usual, weighed down by his anger and his disbelief. He speaks slowly and with finality because he doesn’t plan on saying this more than once. “And if you think I’m going anywhere before he wakes up, you’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”
Quickly, Namjoon is backtracking. The creases in his forehead as his eyebrows pinch together lets Jimin know he regrets even suggesting it, even allowing himself to say it out loud to Jimin’s face, but Jimin doesn’t care. It’s been said and now it’s all out in the open that they’d prefer Jimin gone. Too bad.
“I get it, but—”
“We done here?” Jimin cuts him off, sarcasm and venom dripping from his lips. He doesn’t wait for Namjoon to answer. “Yeah, we’re done here.”
Jimin walks back into Taehyung’s room, ignoring the heat from Namjoon’s stare warming the back of his head. He tries to ignore Jeongguk’s stare too, but it’s impossible, because Jeongguk is still sitting in Jimin’s seat, Taehyung’s limp hand in his. There’s a dare in his eyes, taunting Jimin to say something to him about moving so he can have his seat back.
Without speaking, Jimin walks back out of the room, brushes shoulders with Namjoon in the process who’s still in the same spot, clearly a bit dumbstruck, grabs a chair from near the nurse’s station, brings it back into Taehyung’s room, and plants it firmly on the other side of Taehyung’s bed.
Jeongguk has Taehyung’s good arm, the one not in a sling, so Jimin can’t hold his hand right now and that pisses him off too. It pisses him off but he keeps his voice steady as he puts a gentle hand on Taehyung’s hip and whispers to him, “I’m back. Sorry for leaving.”
Jimin has no plans of letting it happen again.
▸
Time somehow passes in blinks although it doesn’t feel like it’s moving at all. The only way Jimin can describe it is how it’s portrayed in movies. The clock in Taehyung’s room spins and spins and spins, and the people around him transition from one place to another in blurs, but he and Taehyung stay still. Everyone else moves, but they don’t.
It’s silently decided that everyone is going to stay. Everyone. All six of them. And while Jimin is sure they’re breaking some kind of hospital policy, some maximum capacity safety issue or something, no one tries to make them leave. Jimin’s sure it’s because it’s apparent that suggesting it would have resulted in a bigger problem. The air had a particular thickness to it, bordering uncomfortable, tension waves bouncing off the sterile walls. Hostile, almost.
Instead, the nurses who came in periodically to check on Taehyung saw them all squeezed onto folding chairs and couches, piled onto each other like puppies, and just gave them a sympathetic look. It was clear that Taehyung’s injuries weren't the only thing broken in the room.
By the time the minute hand on the clock had completed two rotations, shifting the hour hand down twice with it, most of the food Seokjin brought had been picked at. Take-out containers and chopsticks now littered the room. Yoongi offered to get more drinks, always showing his love by doing for others, since the coffee Seokjin provided was already gone, and returned habitually with seven cans of soda.
“Seven?” Hoseok had commented, the weak slant of his mouth being the only thing to show he was making an approximation of a joke.
Truthfully, they only needed six cans at best considering Taehyung wouldn’t be having one. Five, if Yoongi had read Jimin’s body language for what it was: intentional self-exclusion. He didn’t want a soda.
He hadn’t done so much as lift his head when everyone, needing to do something but at a loss for what, began distributing the food. He had grunted a refusal when Seokjin waved chopsticks under his nose, a silent invitation to join in, and tried not to flinch, annoyed at the sound of chewing and the scraping of wood on paperboard, while they ate.
And while he could understand it, even though he knew their eating was strictly anxiety driven, it still made him almost irrationally angry. He wanted to ask how they could stomach the cabbage and rice and meat right now? How they swallowed it without the fear of their body rejecting it?
The minute hand pushed on, taking the hour hand with it, and while other people moved, Jimin and Taehyung remained as still as the two untouched soda cans on the window sill.
▸
Taehyung’s hospital room is bathed in the light of a new day, oranges and pinks, as the sun dutifully rises and takes its place in the sky. And that pisses Jimin off too. Because the only sun Jimin’s ever known is taking a sick day today, lying in the bed in front of him, machines still monitoring every sign of life his body signals. It doesn’t seem right that time still moves, that the sun still rises and the earth continues to orbit it, if Taehyung doesn’t get to experience it the way he’s supposed to—the way he did just yesterday morning.
The room is quiet and still now. Someone had closed the door, and with everyone asleep now, Jimin can almost pretend he’s alone.
Yoongi has transformed the hallway chairs into a makeshift bed for him and Hoseok. Jimin vaguely remembers him saying he was setting it up only for them to rest their eyes, but they’ve got their jackets draped over their chests now and Hoseok’s head is on Yoongi’s shoulder, their breathing slow and nearly in unison.
On the other side of the room, Seokjin is slumped in a folding chair, arms and legs crossed, head tipped back against the wall. He’s beside Namjoon and Jeongguk who have been allotted the couch. It took a lot of coaxing and reassuring (“Lay down, baby, it’s alright. You’re tired. Just for a minute, okay? I’ll wake you up if anything changes. Promise.”), but eventually Namjoon got Jeongguk to lay his head in his lap, to close his eyes and sleep. Namjoon has a protective arm slung over his middle—to keep him close, to keep him from falling, to remind him he’s there as he dreams. And Jimin almost gives into the urge to blurt out, “Hyung, how do you trust it? That when he closes his eyes, he’ll open them again? Aren’t you scared?” He looks away from them instead, refusing to infect Namjoon’s mind with his irrational thinking.
It’s not easy, but Jimin ignores his fatigue, refuses to acknowledge it. He’s terrified that the moment he allows his eyes to slip closed, it’ll be the moment something important happens, and he rejects that thought. So he forces his eyes to stay open, and he traces Taehyung’s features like he’s drawing him in his mind.
Over an hour into this roomful of silence, and Jimin’s anxious thoughts start to torment him. Terrifying thoughts that have escaped the dark room in his brain Jimin tried to chain them in since he got the call. So he stares at Taehyung and tells himself that he’s just sleeping. It’ll be alright because he’s just sleeping. He’ll wake up soon because he's just sleeping.
But Taehyung doesn’t look like this when he's sleeping. Is never this still when he's sleeping, never this pale.
Jimin’s delusion is quickly shattered and the glass shards knick his skin all over. His eyes blur with fresh tears and he's happy there’s no one to see him cry, because he doesn’t have it in him right now to wipe them away and pretend to be strong.
▸
Although the temperature outside is chilly, the day drips away like melted ice cream in summertime. The hour hand rotates just as dutifully as the sun rises. They pass the time with small talk and nervous hovering over Taehyung, avoiding eye contact with one another out of fear that someone will break and say what everyone is thinking: It’s been too long, right? Almost twenty-four hours. Isn’t that too long?
It’s late in the evening when, per Yoongi’s directive and against Jeongguk’s protests, they settle on leaving in pairs or trios to shower and eat. He adds in something about them getting a few hours of sleep in their own beds if they want, but even he doesn’t look like he believes his own words. Forty-five minutes tops is how long any of them will be gone. A shower and a change of clothes, that’s all, Jimin hears Namjoon promise Jeongguk.
Jimin sits with a hand on Taehyung’s hip as he listens to them debate.
“Okay, oldest to youngest,” Hoseok decides. He puts a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder and gestures to Seokjin with his other one. “You two. Hyung, you can just go to ours—everyone can, really. It's the closest. Take or use whatever you need.”
Hoseok and Yoongi have lived together for as long as Jimin has known them. Seokjin used to live with them too, but a promotion at his work led to him finding his own place. He had to work farther south, out of a different building for his new role, so he found an apartment closer to lessen his commute. Jimin wonders bitterly if Namjoon suggested for Seokjin to leave too, because—well, because he lives forty minutes away now and he must be tired and everyone else can handle it. Somehow, Jimin fucking doubts it.
Jimin’s only listening to the conversation as it unfolds because he has no choice. Hears Seokjin counter, “No, let the younger ones go. Namjoon-ah, take the babies, okay? We’ll go after you.”
And Jimin’s stomach twists, it aches, at the casual term of endearment that slips from Seokjin’s lips. At the nickname so tethered to the life they all had a year ago, it physically knocks the air out of Jimin. He blinks and then stares hard at the floor, eyes expanded, heart slamming. It’s no mistake, Jimin knows Seokjin is referring to him and Jeongguk. He always has—Jeongguk, Taehyung, and him—the babies, as far as Seokjin is concerned. I’m still your hyung, so you’re babies to me, he used to tell them with a teasing smile whenever any of them would remind him of their age.
“‘m g’nna—yeah, no, ‘m g’nna… stay,” Jimin manages when Seokjin’s urging him out of his seat, promising the quicker he goes the quicker he’d come back. It’s the first thing Jimin and Jeongguk agree on in what feels like too long. Jeongguk pulls free from Namjoon’s grip and proclaims, “Me too. I wanna stay, too.”
There’s a conversation that Jimin tunes out. He doesn’t really hear what happens, but he watches two shadows drag out of the room, so he figures someone got Jeongguk to go anyway. No one insists Jimin change his mind, and while that should ache a little too, the lack of effort to make him budge, he’s mostly grateful for it.
They can all leave; he’ll stay.
▸
Silently, Namjoon hands Jimin a small black duffel bag upon his return. Jimin takes it timidly, confused, and sets it on the floor. When he peeks inside minutes later, he sees clothes—two pairs of sweats, two t-shirts, one hoodie. Yoongi’s, he’d guess, considering the size. There’s deodorant in it too, a bottle of water, a phone charger, and a protein bar.
Jimin looks up and catches Namjoon already looking at him from across the room. He nods at him, a small thank you, and Namjoon nods back.
▸
The doctors and nurses keep repeating that sometimes no change is good. And while Jimin can agree that sure, no news is better than bad news, it feels like bad news to admit that it’s been two days—two—and Taehyung still hasn’t woken up.
There have been whispered reassurances that fell from wobbly lips, dampened by tears that trailed down tired faces: “He’ll wake up. Soon. It’ll be soon. Just a little longer.”
There have been fears disguised as flat jokes, desperate attempts at injecting humor into a humorless situation: “This is right on par for him—stubborn. He’s loving this right now, I know he is, all of us here waiting for him. What a brat.”
There have been attempts at distraction. Namjoon to Jeongguk mostly, who has become more antsy and anxious than Jimin has ever seen: “Do you need some air? Wanna go outside?” Namjoon keeps trying and trying. Says, “Want me to get you some water? Let’s—come with me, baby, let’s go for a walk.” And, while Jeongguk cries on his shoulder, one hand carding through his hair and the other blindly fumbling through their shared duffle bag, “‘m gonna put your headphones on you, okay? Maybe the music will help. Shh, I got you, I got you.”
And during split-second intervals of time when Jimin finds himself alone with Taehyung, when everyone is elsewhere, at places less important, there are confessions: “Baby, I’m—I’m scared,” Jimin tells him, voice wobbly. He doesn’t care anymore about technicalities or paper boundaries. He calls Taehyung what he’s always called him, the only thing that feels natural.
Jimin has taken his seat back, the one he let Jeongguk occupy for too many hours, and so he’s holding Taehyung’s hand. He kisses it, feels a warm tear snake down his face, and admits again, “I’m so fuckin’ scared that you’re not gonna—” He stops himself, mentally redirects. Don’t do that, he tells himself, don’t say it to him. Instead, he says, “Can you open your eyes for me?” Jimin whispers it like a secret, the for me heavy on his tongue. Taehyung remains as still as he’s been for too long now; no change.
Again, Jimin kisses his hand. “Baby… please? Please? I can’t—” and it’s selfish, Jimin knows it is, but, “—please, because I can’t do this much longer. I need you to wake up. For me, please, baby.”
Jimin doesn’t go into the pain he feels that mirrors a knife in his chest or that his heart breaks more by the hour or that he can’t breathe, hasn’t breathed, since he got the call. He doesn’t tell Taehyung that it’s a literal need, that his body feels like it’s deteriorating, disease-ridden, and the only cure is to look into Taehyung’s eyes with him looking back. It’s too much. All of it is too much and Jimin feels it threatening to overtake him.
No change. Taehyung is still and quiet and limp.
So, Jimin tries a smaller request. He brings their interlaced fingers—his grip firm, Taehyung’s grip slack—to his lips again. Jimin dares, “Baby, if you can hear me just…” he takes a deep breath and holds it, “…just squeeze my hand, okay? That’s all, just squeeze my hand so I know.”
He waits, exhaling slowly.
And he waits, and he waits, and he waits.
More tears paint Jimin’s face in sorrow and desperation. He nods, accepting because he has to. Says, “That’s okay. It’s okay. You’ll do it when you’re ready, right?” Another kiss to Taehyung’s hand as his face dampens. He tries to take in a deep breath, tries to calm himself, but the inhale is shaky. “It’s okay, I’ll wait.”
It’s not an exaggeration when Jimin thinks he’d wait forever if he had to. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Taehyung. Jimin’s learning the hard way that that’ll never change.
▸
Days three and four blur into one another, like salty tears smudging fresh ink. Time is meaningless; yesterday is today and today is tomorrow. Jimin’s body regresses into something like autopilot, shutting down. He walks when he has to, talks when he has to, but he sort of always feels like he’s watching himself from outside of his body.
He’s present enough to do the things he needs to—he calls his work, tells them there’s been a family emergency and he cannot come in, and he forces himself into Taehyung’s bathroom long enough to splash water on his body, to scrub bar soap on places he needs to, and slip into clothes that aren’t his but are clean. When he’s not sipping coffee or mindlessly chewing on a snack someone puts into his hand, he’s with Taehyung, right by his side.
It’s a weekday, Jimin knows that, but he isn’t clear on which day for sure. The others come and go, off to work Jimin assumes but doesn’t ask. He makes small talk when he has to when someone (Seokjin, Hoseok, Namjoon, the nurses) speaks to him, and tolerates the heavy presence of others (Jeongguk, Yoongi) when left alone together.
The sun rises and sets, visitors come and go, the doctor checks in, the nurses tend to Taehyung’s injuries and keep him clean, the hands on the clock spin and spin. Everything and everyone moves.
Everything and everyone—except for Taehyung. For him, no change.
▸
Jimin has a headache. He just got off the phone with his boss. And while he was kind and understanding of Jimin's current situation, he was calling to see about setting Jimin up to work remotely.
As head of finance, Jimin’s role is integral—at least that's what his boss claims. He wants to be able to have Jimin work on some things while he’s away, checking over reports and responding to emails. Jimin couldn’t say no, not really, and the thought of having to split his time now—having to give something or someone else besides Taehyung his attention—made him feel nauseous.
“Fuck,” Jimin exhales, hand pushing his hair back, as he paces in front of Taehyung’s door. Everyone’s here. Jimin has no idea what time it is, it must be evening time, but they’re all here.
Their presence is familiar, it’s comforting, even if Jimin is feeling too many things at once to admit it to himself. Something inside of him feels calmer when they’re here, a safety blanket he took refuge in just a year ago. And after five days of this—of waiting anxiously, of rotating schedules with each other to sit with Taehyung, of crying together—Jimin only feels a little less guilty when he pops his head into the room and announces to anyone who hears, “‘m gonna get a coffee.”
Only a little, because it still feels wrong to leave Taehyung with anyone who isn’t him. He trusts them all, of course he does, but they're not him, so he hates it. Guilt sits heavy on his shoulders as he walks down the hall.
Over these past few days, Jimin has become dependent on coffee. Besides the snacks he forced himself to eat from the vending machines or the takeout containers Seokjin pushed into his hand and demanded he take a bite, coffee has been his only form of sustenance. The caffeine keeps him as awake and alert as he’s going to get running off of sleep that lasts no longer than two hours at a time.
He spaces out in line at the hospital cafe, doesn’t even remember if he ordered anything in his coffee or if it’ll be served to him black. A warm paper cup is handed to him by a short girl with long, shiny hair and a smile. He knows it’s only polite to smile back, but he can’t bring his face muscles to pose in a way that replicates hers. He’s pretty sure he nods a thank you and begins making his way back upstairs, all the faces and furniture he passes on the way remaining nothing but an unacknowledged blur.
In the elevator back up, Jimin takes a sip of his coffee and realizes he can’t taste it. Can’t feel it either. He sees that it’s hot, steam floating through the mouthpiece, but the heat and flavor doesn’t register. He’s too numb, just going through the motions of everything. He could be burning his mouth for all he knows right now. The elevator doors open and he steps out, expressionless and lost.
Taehyung’s room is by the nurses’ station, toward the middle of the floor, and the only thing that catches Jimin’s eye is that there’s a lot of people. His brain is moving too slow to process it all, to make it make sense. But as he gets closer, he realizes there’s a crowd by Taehyung’s room—in Taehyung’s room—and that must mean something happened. Something’s wrong.
It’s panic that propels Jimin through the crowd and to the front. He discards his coffee on the random dinner tray outside of the room and physically asserts himself to the front, mumbling, “Move,” and “Let me through,” and “Outta the way.”
Jimin feels like he’s swimming. He pushes and pushes through the ocean of bodies until he’s at the front, but even still, he can’t see Taehyung. Jeongguk, Hoseok, and the doctor are hovering over him, all of their heads blocking Taehyung, and Jimin almost yells in frustration. He thinks he hears someone ask, voice soft and gentle, a tone they’d use to talk to someone who’s scared, “Can you… can you say something?”
“I called you,” a voice tells Jimin, he thinks it’s Seokjin, but it’s just noise right now, he doesn’t process it properly either. Jimin doesn’t even know where his phone is.
But at that, Jeongguk and Hoseok look over their shoulder at him, and it’s like the opening of a gate. They swing sideways and that’s when Jimin sees Taehyung. Sees Taehyung and he’s—god, he’s awake.
Taehyung looks groggy and disorientated and overwhelmed, but he’s awake, he’s fucking awake, and Jimin almost drops to the floor. His heart is permanently lodged in his throat, can’t speak, too many secondary emotions flooding through his veins after relief. Positive feelings—hope and elation and gratitude.
But then he remembers. He remembers the last time he and Taehyung spoke was a screaming match, remembers that they’re on terrible terms, remembers that he’s probably the last person Taehyung wants to see right now. Reality smacks Jimin like a fucking brick and his nausea is back, frozen with the thought that he’s going to upset Taehyung, that he’s going to be angry to see him and tell him to get out.
And even though Jimin understands all of that, he just wants one good look. Just one. Wants to see it for himself—Taehyung awake and talking and breathing on his own. Seeing Taehyung’s eyes open and knowing that he’ll recover will carry Jimin through the rest of his lifetime if it has to.
But when Taehyung’s sleepy and sluggish eyes lock on Jimin’s, they don’t turn dark and unwelcoming. The opposite, actually. Jimin sees a tiny light in them sparking, a comfort washing over him before he whispers, voice hoarse and tired and not sounding like his own, “There you are.”
He’s talking to—to Jimin? It must take effort for him to keep his eyes trained on Jimin, but he does it. Keeps looking at him and looking at him and looking at him. Jimin feels everyone else looking at him, too. Confusion twists their expressions into something almost mean, because—Taehyung’s talking to him?
“Taehyung-ah…” someone calls, trying to get his attention. Yoongi. But either Taehyung doesn’t hear him or he ignores him. He reaches his good hand out instead, weak fingers gently shaking in Jimin’s direction with the strength it takes to do such a small gesture.
Still, Jimin doesn’t speak. Still, he feels like his body is on autopilot. But this time, it’s as if his body is resetting back to a previous version of himself. Because the only thing his brain is telling him is he wants you, go to him, he wants you, go to him, he wants you, and Jimin can’t ignore that. He steps forward, takes Taehyung’s outstretched hand, and holds it.
When Jimin is close enough, Taehyung speaks again. Looks up at Jimin like he could fall back asleep any second, but murmurs to him anyway, “I w’s lookin’ f’you.”
Any other time, Jimin would’ve had to strain to hear Taehyung. He’s barely opening his mouth to speak. But it’s dead silent in Taehyung’s room now, save the monitors that beep and chirp right along. A pin dropping could be heard, everyone too stunned or confused or nervous to speak.
Jimin is stuck, still hasn’t said anything either. He isn’t even sure if he’s taken a breath this whole time. And he doesn’t even really mean to do it, but he shoots a distressed look at Taehyung’s doctor just as Jeongguk is asking Namjoon, quietly, but loud in the silent room, “Looking for him? ”
It doesn’t take long for Dr. Dokgo to pick up on the fact that something is apparently wrong here. Typically family and friends are overjoyed when their loved one wakes up, but the atmosphere in the room is tense. Jimin knows he doesn't fully understand. He doesn’t understand that there’s no way that Taehyung, who hasn’t seen or spoken to Jimin since they’ve broken up, would be acting like this. And while Jimin is happier than he can put into words that Taehyung is awake and talking, something about this terrifies him more.
With just a flick of his wrist, Dr. Dogko clears the room. A moment later, it’s just the seven of them, Taehyung’s primary nurse, and the doctor. Taehyung keeps looking up at Jimin, confused and a little scared now. He keeps squeezing his hand, and Jimin keeps squeezing right back. As always, they need each other, even if they shouldn’t—even if that’s not supposed to be the truth right now.
“Son,” Dr. Dogko calls to Taehyung gently. It takes Taehyung a delayed second to realize he’s talking to him. His eyes peel away from Jimin to look at him. When he has Taehyung’s attention, the doctor continues, “Can you tell me your name?”
Taehyung’s eyes close for a second, exhaustion clearly etched in every pore. Jimin feels bad. Wants to put his hand out and say, “He’s tired, we’ll do this later,” but he doesn’t because he knows where this is going.
“Wh’t hap’ne’d?” Taehyung asks first, voice slow and broken, so clearly confused it hurts Jimin to see him like this.
The doctor speaks before anyone else can. Responds calmly, “You were in an accident, remember?” It’s a ‘we-just-told-you’ type of remember, not a ‘can-you-recall-when-it-happened’ remember, Jimin can tell, and it makes him nervous. They must’ve already had this conversation. Continuing, the doctor says. “Now, can you tell me your name?”
There’s silence for a moment, like Taehyung’s trying to collect himself.
“Kim Taehyung,” he murmurs, forcing his eyes back open. And it’s so simple, it’s just Taehyung saying his name, but Jimin feels himself smile for what must be the first time since he stepped foot in the hospital. He squeezes Taehyung’s hand again, silently telling him good job.
The doctor continues, asking Taehyung to tell them where he thinks he is, the year he was born, what city he thinks he’s in, and to name a few people in the room. Taehyung names Jeongguk and Hoseok when the doctor points, says they’re his friends, his family, really, and then—
“What about him? Who’s that?”
Dr. Dogko is gesturing to Jimin and Jimin feels his heart kickstart. It beats so hard in his chest he’s sure it’ll break free from his rib cage and fall onto the shiny hospital floor. Jimin holds his breath.
“‘s J’minie,” Taehyung slurs sleepily but easily. He tries to open his eyes again, but he must catch the light first. It’s too bright for him, he makes a small sound, a pained sound, and closes them again. But then, following suit with the categorization, he adds without prompt, sounding so sleepy, “m’boyfriend.”
Jimin’s eyes bulge, eyebrows rising, as the breath he was holding gets kicked out of his lungs hard. He clenches his molars together, tries not to outwardly react, and when he looks over, he can tell everyone else is too. But their body language, their odd non-response to that question, prompts Taehyung’s doctor to dig more.
It’s impressive how calm he’s able to keep his voice, and Jimin wonders how often he encounters things like this, whatever the fuck this is. He nods encouragingly at Taehyung and asks, “Okay. Can you tell me what year we’re in?”
Taehyung makes another wounded sound. He whines softly, “‘m head hurts.”
He’s asking to stop, and it’s Jimin's pure instinct to want to protect him. He still can’t speak, doesn’t trust himself to, but his thumb pets over Taehyung’s hand automatically. I know this is a lot, baby, I’m so sorry. I’m right here. I’m here. It’s hardwired into Jimin’s brain to be Taehyung’s caretaker, to comfort him. He shoots a sharp look at the doctor, a look that says, we’re done for right now, back off, but Dr. Dokgo ignores it because he has to. This question is important.
“Just one more question, honey,” Hoseok promises, voice soft and hand softer on Taehyung’s shin. “You’re doing so good. Hyung’s so—we’re all so proud of you. Last one, okay?” The first one to speak up and god, he’s so good. He’s always so good no matter what, Jimin missed him so much. Just hearing Hoseok’s gentle reassurance makes Jimin’s shoulders loosen too.
Just one more question.
“Taehyung, what year is it?” the doctor presses. He squints his eyes a little, leans in, showing he’s focused and attentive.
Again, more silence. A stretch of it so long Jimin starts to think maybe Taehyung drifted back off to sleep. He wouldn’t blame him, this is a lot for just waking up. Jimin can’t imagine how ambushed he feels, how much pain he’s in, the way his brain must be spinning so fast he’s dizzy. Jimin wants to kiss him. Wants to bend down and kiss his forehead and tell him it’s okay if he doesn’t want to answer, that he can do it later when he’s ready, and that he did such a good job with everything else.
But then Taehyung’s pretty eyes—fogged with exhaustion and painkillers, cluttered with confusion and strain, but pretty always, nonetheless—flutter open and his eyebrows furrow a little as he thinks.
He opens his mouth slowly, jaw loosening and tongue unsticking as he says, “Um…” and doesn’t get any further. He exhales the way he does when someone asks him to do something he doesn’t want to do, and the familiarity of it almost makes Jimin smile again. It’s cute. It’s always so cute. Jimin’s heart hurts again.
“The year,” Dr. Dokgo says again and Jimin bites his tongue, swallows back an automatic, stop fucking rushing him.
Taehyung sighs again. He tilts his head so he can cut his eye up at Jimin like he needs him to tell him the answer, and honestly, Jimin almost does. Almost mouths, “Twenty-twenty-two,” to him with no shame at all. But something else keeps him silent still. Something tells him he shouldn’t do that.
“Um…” Taehyung starts again. He looks nervous now, unsure of himself, when he says slowly, “Twenty… twenty?”
It’s a reflex the way Jimin squeezes Taehyung’s hand again, his brain going haywire at the fact that Taehyung’s answer is off by not one but two years. Jimin can’t bring himself to look at Taehyung, so he hopes he takes his reaction as a comforting good job and not an alarming why the fuck don’t you know what year it is?
Everyone’s looking at Dr. Dokgo. Everyone. Because they all need answers and he’s the only one that can supply it right now. Jimin watches him take in a slow deep breath, shoulders rising with the inhale, and hold it. And that’s not a good sign, the fucking professional looking alarmed. But then he swallows and resets himself, smiles politely at Taehyung, tells him thank you, and then shifts his gaze to Jimin.
“Can I talk to you in the hall for a second?” he asks as casually as he can, keeping his tone light and unsuspecting for Taehyung’s sake.
Jimin hears Taehyung ask, voice small and nervous, “Is that wrong?” And no one answers him, and Jimin knows that’s bad too, knows it’s terrible, but no one knows what to say.
“You did good, Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi supplies, speaking up when no one else is able to. “You can rest now.”
Still, Jimin hasn’t said a word. He just nods at the doctor, a stiff lift and drop of his chin, looks down at Taehyung in a way he hopes is reassuring, gently releases his hand with a pat, an I’ll be right back somewhere in his touch, and follows the doctor out.
Jimin knows his stride is too quick and too panicked to be normal, and he hopes Taehyung isn’t watching him. He tries to swing the door shut as he leaves, but he can’t, because Jeongguk is on his heels and Namjoon is on Jeongguk’s. Jimin doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything besides Taehyung. The last one out closes the door, Jimin doesn’t know who it is, he doesn’t look back to see who else has followed him.
There’s nothing but panic shooting through Jimin’s body when he asks—demands—with his voice breathy and broken but still ferocious, “Why the fuck doesn’t he know what year it is? What’s wrong with him?”
And he doesn’t like the look on the doctor’s face as he takes in a deep breath to begin to explain.