“I’m really worried for you, hyung,” Yoongi heard Namjoon’s sigh from the phone. “First, it was two vertebral fractures– and I believed you when you said it was nothing you couldn’t handle– but now it’s a full blown spinal displacement . I understand that you’re not some wine glass that could shatter at any given moment but you’re not durable either. So, I hired–”
Yoongi jammed his finger against the stop button. Stupid Kim Namjoon. Yoongi had explicitly told his friend that he didn’t fucking need a caretaker. He didn’t! He was fine on his own. Truly, he couldn’t even feel the pain while sitting at his desk chair, listening to the slew of messages on his receiver. Granted, he wouldn’t have to sit and listen to them if he was able to get out of bed to answer the phone in the first place.
Pushing off with his legs and rolling off to the opposite side of his bedroom, Yoongi suavely snatched his pill pouch. Funny how his body was being kept physically stable by the colorful capsules within. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror and groaned audibly. For a world–renowned music mogul, he looked pathetic. He felt pathetic. Yoongi always felt pathetic.
“–a caretaker,” Yoongi continued the message, popping his meds and drowning them down his throat. “I don’t know when you’ll be able to move, but right now it’s Sunday midafternoon. His name is Park Jimin. He’ll be at your doorstep Monday evening. That’s tomorrow evening. Be nice. I’ll see you soon. Don’t die.” Yoongi scoffed at that last bit.
“Death could have had me many a time, Joon,” he muttered to himself. “Life doesn’t want to let me go because of how entertaining my suffering is.”