20-Dawn
"We are still compiling footage and assessments regarding the recent break-in. We've determined that there were four intruders, who were delivered supposedly from an auction house. We have them on camera but so far there are no matches within our database. They killed twelve personnel and stole at least one subject from the holding cells. The ventilation system shows some evidence of tampering, suggesting that they were in the archives, but at this juncture we do not know if they were able to access any data. As per your instructions, we are tightening our security measures and will also refrain from reporting this to the crown."
- Excerpt from a report by the Seoul Institute Chief of Security to its director, Choi Nayoung
_ _
He's dying, he must be. The pain has eclipsed everything. It lances through his chest with each trembling inhale and his entire lower half is a mess of fire, sparking with each minute shift of his body against these stained sheets. A face blocks his blurred view of the ceiling and he recoils, trying to push a whimper back down his battered throat.
Third Master smiles at him. "So obedient now, aren't you?"
Yes, yes, he is, he will be. There's no use fighting back, he's learned his lesson, please gods he's learned...
Fingers in his hair, combing through the messy strands. "It's good you've remembered your place. I don't think Kim Namjoon's been training you properly, has he?"
Kim Namjoon? The name pings distantly as one he should recognize, but it's not important. He doesn't need to know—the emptier his head, the better. No more defiance, no more stupid notions of holding onto whoever he was before, only numbness now. If he keeps himself blank, maybe the end will come faster.
The fingers tighten and pull. He gasps, tastes blood on his tongue from his bitten, torn lips. "I asked you a question, pet."
He shakes his head, hoping that'll be enough. It isn't, the grip tightens more, and he wheezes out, "no, no, he...hasn't."
Third Master hums and releases him. He coughs, tries to stay as quiet as possible. Pets don't make noise, pets don't talk, pets don't disobey.
"It's almost sunup, but we have a little more time left," Third Master says and the fingers are moving—a hot trail that sparks more fire all the way from chest to stomach to the epicenter between his legs. He chokes on a sob. "I think you can take more, can't you? Think you want more."
No no no no...
"Yes."
The fingers dig into his upper thigh, pressing against a fresh wound, and lava erupts from beneath his skin. "Beg me for it, then."
"Please ... I want...." stop stop stop stop... " more. Fuck me. Use me...however you want, master, please...."
"Good pet," Third Master says with a cruel laugh and settles on top of him.
He reaches desperately for a safe place, trying to construct the edges of an apartment and the contours of a dear face, of the man he loves who will hold him close and soothe the agony. But it dissolves as Third Master spreads his legs with rough hands, and there is only the fire, consuming everything.
He screams. Third Master laughs.
And the fire roars.
_ _
Somewhere in the night, Hoseok moved to the couch with Namjoon and managed to sink into a fitful doze. He wakes with a start now, squinting at the sunlight streaming through the window onto his face. The city looks annoyingly pristine from this high up—all golden buildings and pastel sky. He wonders if Yoo Minseok has an apartment like this, a view like this. Does he show it to his companions to flaunt the freedom they'll never have? Laugh at the fact that they can never escape from this tower unless he—
Stop. Stop.
He sits up, running a trembling hand over his face. His mouth feels like something died in it and his head aches with the weak echo of a hangover. Namjoon is still asleep next to him, dressed in his fancy clothes from the party. Hoseok stares at the tear on the sleeve of his shirt, the tense lines of Namjoon's face, and tries to figure out what he feels—what he needs to feel.
Namjoon loves Yoongi, it was obvious even before he blurted it out last night, and Yoongi ... finds safety in him. Comfort. Things Hoseok may not be able to offer him anymore, which stings, aches, but he isn't going to cling to that pain. He's not so selfish, he'd like to think. Yoongi comes first and it's almost ... nice, to be facing this impending dawn with someone by his side.
Him and Namjoon are in this together now, united by grief and love and heartbreak.
As if he can hear Hoseok's thoughts, Namjoon stirs on the couch and sits up with a low groan. His shirt slips a little, exposing the vertical scar on his clavicle that he explained last night came from Yoongi stabbing him.
"What time is it?" he asks, also glancing towards the windows instead of the clock on the wall.
"Dawn," Hoseok says, grim.
Hopefully, Yoongi will be back with them soon.
Namjoon nods and stands with another sound of protest, stretching out his long limbs. "I'm going to go change."
He retreats into his bedroom, closing the door behind him with a faint click. Alone in the gratingly peaceful living room, Hoseok carefully straightens out his bad leg and massages it, trying to work out some of the sharp ache. This wound and the one in his side have finally closed, but they're red, angry scar tissue now, slowly ossifying. He might never have the same level of mobility he used to, and he's filed that under Things Not to Think About.
That box is starting to overflow, straining at the seams from everything he's shoved inside: Jimin as a companion, whatever Taehyung and Jungkook are up to, Seokjin's trustworthiness, Yoongi on his knees, his own uselessness, what might be happening in the outer sectors now...
He just wants enough pieces of himself and the people he loves to survive this, and he hates how weak and flickering that hope has become.
The bedroom door clicks open, signaling Namjoon's return. "Do you want anything to eat?" he asks when he stops by the couch.
Hoseok looks up at him—now dressed in rumpled, loose-fitting clothes with his hair free of product and all the makeup from the party wiped away. He looks exhausted, a sickly pallor to his skin, but Hoseok doubts he looks much better.
It's still strange to him: these casual offers of food. The idea that you can have as many meals as you want in a day and never run out. His stomach rumbles, reminding him that he can't remember the last time he ate, in spite of Namjoon's full cupboards, but he can't really stomach the idea of a meal right now.
"I'm fine."
"Hoseok—"
A knock on the door cuts Namjoon off. He stiffens immediately, as though his spine has been pulled taught by an invisible string.
"Hide," he hisses and Hoseok is already moving, shifting off the couch to curl up on the floor, out of view. Risky, but he refuses to shut himself up in the guest bedroom again.
He listens as Namjoon crosses the apartment and pulls open the door.
"Good morning, sir," says an unfamiliar voice, polished and free of the rougher dialect Hoseok hears in the outer sectors—that spills out of his own mouth in times of anger and distress.
He chances a glimpse beyond the edge of the sofa and watches as Namjoon steps back to let the man enter. He's tall and thin, bordering on gaunt, with a narrow face and stern features. Behind him is another man dressed like a driver and carrying what looks like a body bag. Hoseok's lungs seize in terror and he's halfway to pushing himself up to his knees when the thin man speaks again.
"Please be assured, your companion is fine. This delivery method was for discretion only."
"I'm assuming your employer kept his promise?" Namjoon asks as the driver sets the body bag on the floor
"See for yourself." The thin man gestures to the bag. "I will admit my employer might have gotten ... a little carried away, but your companion will recover. He's resilient."
"Speaking from experience?" Namjoon's voice is jagged, sharp like a knife.
The thin man coughs and says nothing. Hoseok can't see anything besides Namjoon's back as he leans over the bag and unzips it, but he hears the subtle catch of Namjoon's breath. Watches his head jerk back up like those strings are yanking him around again.
"A little carried away?" he snaps and the thin man actually looks apologetic, if only slightly.
"Minseok-nim ... has never been good at controlling his impulses. I apologize for—"
"Get out," Namjoon cuts him off. His gaze has dropped back to Yoongi and Hoseok's stomach is making a valiant attempt at climbing up his esophagus. "Get out of my apartment. Tell Minseok that he's never allowed to touch what's mine again."
The thin man has the sense not to argue further. He bows and leaves without another word, the driver scurrying behind him like a nervous ant. As soon as the door closes, Hoseok is staggering to his feet—the pain in his side and leg distant and unimportant as he rushes to Namjoon's side, to Yoongi.
Yoongi.
A shocked sound escapes him, punched from his throat, when he finally sees the contents of the bag, the state of the man he loves—though Hoseok barely recognizes him beneath the mess of blood and injury. Dimly, he's aware of the harsh floor against his knees as he crashes down beside Namjoon, and someone making an awful keening noise. It takes him far too long to realize the sound is coming from him . That Namjoon has gone silent from horror and he's the one venting his fury and grief.
Stop it, he tells his body, his shredding heart. Stop it.
Rational. He needs to be rational, to think. Yoongi needs a calm head right now and Hoseok has to give that to him.
So he shuts down as much of himself as possible and looks again, trying to catalogue with clinical eyes. Yoongi's naked and Hoseok can barely find any unmarred skin. There's even dried fluid in his hair that Hoseok suspects might be semen, and a strong smell of urine burns Hoseoks's nose, further suggesting at the indignities Yoongi's been forced to suffer over the course of the night.
A scream lashes against his teeth and he clenches down harder, shoving it back. Tries to take stock of the injuries that they're dealing with:
Shallow cuts along Yoongi's side, made by a knife. Burns on the inside of his arms, circular, like they came from a cigarette. More in his pelvic area, close to his cock. Bruising along his jaw, little tears at the corners of his mouth that are still smeared with blood. Deep red welts on his wrists, cutting into the black of the seals. Dark bruising around his neck, framing a red line that's probably from a ligature of some kind. Marks sucked into his neck and collarbones, harsh enough for skin to have broken, showing off faint remnants of teeth sinking in.
"Hoseok," Namjoon finally rasps, pulling the edge of the bag back a little more. "Hoseok."
Hoseok freezes his macabre inventory and follows Namjoon's gaze down Yoongi's body to his thighs, which are covered in red lashes and ...
Another sound finally makes it out, something between a sob and a wail—oceans of grief and heartbreak compressed into a single note of agony.
Because seared into the skin of Yoongi's upper thigh, still weeping at the blackened edges, is a brand. The royal insignia, the mugunghwa, with a snake twisted through its petals. It's nearly the size of Hoseok's palm, were he to place it over the wound, and looking at it, Hoseok can feel something break inside him—irreversible, shards of glass cutting into his ribs and lungs.
"I said no permanent damage," Namjoon whispers, sounding just as broken.
"And you expected him to listen?" His voice is cutting, all those shards lining his tongue, and Namjoon flinches, hiccups on a stuttered breath. Guilt rushes in. They don't need to be fighting right now and blaming Namjoon isn't going to help anything, Hoseok reminds himself.
"Sorry," he murmurs.
He takes a deep breath and reaches for his calm again, sinking back into survival mode. They need to get Yoongi cleaned up and fully assess the damage. He's probably going to need stitches and if the mess of blood and fluid between his legs is any indicator, he might have internal damage as well.
"Come on," he says to Namjoon. "Let's get him into the bathroom."
His still-healing injuries prevent him from carrying Yoongi, so he leaves it to Namjoon to lift him gently out of the bag. Yoongi's limbs flop and his head lolls lifelessly. If it wasn't for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Hoseok would think him dead. As it is, he still looks like a strange doll in Namjoon's arms, and Hoseok looks away, unable to bear the sight of it or the blood that is seeping onto Namjoon's shirt. He shuffles ahead of Namjoon to the bathroom and starts the bath running, shedding his clothes as the tub fills. Once he's down to his underwear, he climbs inside and turns to face Namjoon, holding out his arms.
Namjoon carefully lowers Yoongi into the tub, resting him against Hoseok. Hoseok gets a glimpse of his back and has to weather another lance of pain at the red welts covering it, along with more cuts and burns. There doesn't seem to be a safe place to touch Yoongi, but Hoseok tries, cradling him against his chest—Yoongi's head resting on his shoulder. Namjoon's eyes are wet as he kneels next to the tub, though he seems to be stubbornly keeping the tears from falling.
"Come on, Namjoon-ah," Hoseok still says. "Help me."
"Sorry," Namjoon says and forces himself into movement. He fishes a clean sponge out from a supply under the sink and slowly begins to wipe the dried blood and come from Yoongi's skin, starting with his neck and shoulders and working his way down.
Yoongi stirs when the sponge brushes his cock, startling Hoseok with the faint whine he lets out.
"Shh," Hoseok whispers, petting his still-messy hair. "Shh, baby, it's okay. It's okay."
Yoongi makes another low sound of distress, unlike anything Hoseok's heard from him before, but doesn't try to get out of Hoseok's hold. He just eases his legs further apart for Namjoon, in spite of the tremors running through his thighs. Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut and presses a hand to his mouth, like he's trying to force a sob back with physical pressure. Hoseok kisses Yoongi's temple, wishing desperately that he could reach inside and scoop out every wounded, hurting piece of Yoongi in order to bear the pain himself. He'd bleed for years if it meant that Yoongi never had to suffer again.
"It's okay," he says, not knowing what else to offer. "I've got you, jagiya, you're safe now."
He doubts Yoongi can hear him. Wherever Yoongi has tucked himself away is far from here.
Namjoon keeps going, cleaning down Yoongi's legs and then back up with a muttered apology to brush gently around his hole. Yooni whines again, pure misery, and a few tears slip down his cheeks. Hoseok wipes them away with a shaking hand, kissing his cheek.
"Jagiya," he says helplessly. "Jagiya, I've got you."
Namjoon, clearly desperate to comfort, too, presses a hesitant kiss to Yoongi's knee before he draws back to get the shampoo. He has to lean further into the tub to work the soap into Yoongi's hair and Hoseok helps prop Yoongi's head up so Namjoon can reach, kissing his jaw to soothe him when Yoongi lets out another distressed noise. His heart is still breaking, smaller and smaller pieces with each new crack. He's never been this angry or this helpless, not even when Taehyung came home one night with haunted eyes and tear-stained cheeks and said they're gone.
Namjoon rinses the shampoo from Yoongi's hair and sits back on his haunches. "We need to move him to the bedroom. I'm going to call Seokjin."
Right. Seokjin, the almost-doctor. The one who apparently saved Hoseok's life in that dingy warehouse in Sector 5.
"Okay." He combs Yoongi's wet bangs off his forehead. "Hear that, baby? We're going to move you, but it'll be okay."
Yoongi doesn't respond and Hoseok stamps out the cold rush of fear that runs through him, focusing on helping Namjoon lift Yoongi out of the tub. Namjoon tucks Yoongi protectively against him, one arm hooked under Yoongi's knees and the other braced beneath his wounded shoulders.
"You'll be okay?" Namjoon asks and Hoseok nods, touched by the concern.
"Get him to the bedroom, I'll be right behind you."
Namjoon disappears and Hoseok grits his teeth through the pain of levering himself out of the bath—side and leg protesting at the action. He sheds his wet underwear and redresses in the baggy pants and sweater, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. When he reaches the bedroom, Namjoon has Yoongi toweled down and settled against the pillows. The wounds stand out even more starkly now that Yoongi's skin is clean—red flares against pale flesh.
"I called Seokjin," Namjoon says without taking his eyes off Yoongi's prone form. "He'll be here soon, and he's bringing Jimin with him."
Hoseok winces. He doesn't want Jimin to see this, and he doubts Yoongi would either, if he was coherent enough to understand what's happening. But he also knows that it would take an act of the gods to keep Jimin away right now, and there's little he can do but accept it. He'd feel the same, if he was in Jimin's shoes. He'd need to see it all, every last painful thing, because that's one of the ways they've always loved each other. No hiding, no turning your face away from darkness or suffering. You bear witness to it, even if that's all you can do.
Hoseok sits down on the bed and takes Yoongi's hand. Aware of Namjoon hovering, awkward and scared, he reaches out his other hand and takes Namjoon's, too, threading all three of them together.
"He's a survivor," Namjoon says, sounding like he's trying to convince himself just as much as reassure Hoseok. "He's the strongest person I've ever met."
"Me too," Hoseok says. "He always has been."
Even though he's never seen Yoongi hurt like this and he's terrified. He's believed in Min Yoongi since they were kids in the orphanage, dreaming of escape, and he's not going to stop now.
On the bed, Yoongi stirs and his eyes crack open. Hoseok sucks in a sharp breath and hears Namjoon do the same, feels Namjoon squeeze his hand.
"Jagiya?" he asks, leaning closer to Yoongi and watches Yoongi's gaze slide slowly to his face. It's unfocused, distant.
"Hoseok-ah," Yoongi slurs. "Seok-ah."
"I'm here, love," Hoseok says, letting go of Namjoon's hand so that he can cup Yoongi's cheek. "I'm right here."
"Hurts," Yoongi gasps. "Hurts so much."
Hoseok wills himself not to cry. "I know, my love, but it's going to be over soon. You're safe now."
Yoongi shakes his head—a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. "He'll ... come back. Always ... comes back."
"He won't," Hoseok promises. "He won't hurt you anymore, jagiya."
Namjoon steps closer, hovering over Hoseok's shoulder. "Hyung," he says and Yoongi flinches, cringes away.
"No more," he whimpers. "Please ... no more, 'm good, 've been good."
Namjoon's mouth drops open and he looks like he's just been backhanded—eyes wide with shock and betrayal. Hoseok shoots him a sympathetic glance and focuses back on Yoongi, petting the side of his face and pressing soothing kisses to his forehead and temple.
"Shh, shh, Yoongi-yah, he's not going to hurt you. It's only Namjoon."
Yoongi's eyes unfocus further, stuck somewhere in the last twelve hours. "Namjoon ... he ... he didn't train me right."
Namjoon makes a distressed, heartbroken sound.
"But 've learned," Yoongi mumbles. "I learned, please, 'm good, I'll be good...."
"I know," Hoseok croaks, finally losing the battle with his tears, especially as he hears Namjoon trying to muffle his crying behind them—hand pressed back over his mouth and long fingers digging into his cheek. "You're so good, jagiya. I want you to sleep now, okay? Go back to sleep."
"Hoseok," Yoongi rasps but the rest of whatever he was going to say dies, compressing into a pained wheeze.
"Sleep," Hoseok repeats. "Sleep now."
And finally, Yoongi listens, though it might just be his body losing the battle it's already been fighting to stay conscious. He sags back against the pillows with a faint sigh, once again going limp. Hoseok breathes out, shaky and wet, and hears Namjoon flee the room—door closing loud behind him in his haste.
Left alone, Hoseok gives in to his tears, hunched over Yoongi and sobbing into his hair. What if Yoongi never comes back from this? What if he doesn't, either? What if all that's going to be left of them, after all these years and all these battles, are just two broken messes impossible to piece back together again?
What then?
_ _
Namjoon makes it to the kitchen sink before he throws up—alcohol and bile searing his throat. He wants to go back to that party, to a mere twelve hours ago, and hesitate. Ask Yoongi to find a different way. Hell, offer himself up instead—surely a sadist like Yoo Minseok would revel at the chance to break in a fellow elite. Anything to keep Yoongi free of his grasp. To prevent the weeping he can hear coming from the bedroom as Hoseok breaks down or the words echoing in his head like clanging bells, drowning out every thought he tries to form.
And since he can't dial back time, he wants to find Yoo Minseok and kill him. Slowly, painfully. He wants to replicate every cut and burn and lash and bruise on Yoongi's skin, right down to the horrific brand. He wants to watch the life drain from Minseok's eyes and doesn't think he's ever felt hate like this before.
It's the cost, maybe, of loving someone.
He stares down at his sweater and blanches when he realizes that it's still stained with Yoongi's blood. Here, at least, is something he can fix. He changes for the second time today in his bedroom, pulling on a black shirt and pausing to touch the scar on his clavicle. It seems like such an inconsequential thing now. He almost wants to hand Yoongi a knife and ask him to cut more, until Namjoon can share some of the pain.
So many desires, all of them pointless. He tries to tamp them down and focus on the things he can do right now. Seokjin is going to need hot water to sterilize his equipment, so start there.
He has a pot on the stove and is blankly watching bubbles slowly form along the bottom when the door chimes. Seokjin, thank god.
He hurries to open the door, gratitude on his lips, but freezes at the sight of his cousin. Seokjin looks ...
His mouth is swollen and bruises are darkening along his jaw. A long, thin cut runs under his right eye—like a scratch from a nail—and he has a ring around his neck that nearly matches Yoongi's, just visible above the collar of his shirt.
"Hyung," Namjoon says, stunned.
Seokjin shakes his head and brushes past him. Namjoon barely registers Jimin trailing behind him, looking like he's stuck somewhere between fury and despair.
"Hyung," Namjoon repeats, reaching for Seokjin's arm.
"It doesn't matter," Seokjin insists, cutting off all the questions Namjoon wants to ask before he can form them. "Not right now. Where's Yoongi?"
"Bedroom," Namjoon says, caving to his leadership as usual. And Yoongi is more important right now. Somewhere, it feels like a clock is ticking and with each drumbeat second, Yoongi might be slipping further away from them.
Seokjin adjusts the medical kit he's slung over his shoulder and nods, heading for the bedroom without a backward glance. Jimin rushes after him and Namjoon is left to trail in their wake—terrified of seeing Yoongi again but unable to remove himself. Still, he hangs back as he enters the room, in case he scares Yoongi.
From this vantage point, he can see everything. Can see the horror and rage and remorse tear across Jimin's face one after the other until Jimin is stumbling towards the bed, shaking. Hoseok catches him with an arm around his waist—dried tears on his cheeks and steel in his eyes.
"Stop," he says, tangling his fingers in Jimin's shirt. "Don't you dare feel guilty about this, Jimin-ah."
Jimin shakes his head. Namjoon's never seen him cry and it's strange to witness it now. It's a messy affair, just like he suspects that Hoseok's tears were. Jimin's face crumples and contorts and the sobs sound like they're coming from somewhere deep within him, wrenched from his core by an invisible hand.
Hoseok tuts, letting go of Yoongi to pull Jimin into his side. "It's gonna be okay," he murmurs with a voice full of so much confidence that Namjoon almost forgets about the breakdown he suffered only a short while ago. He's as strong as Yoongi, Namjoon's coming to realize, just in different ways.
Jimin fists a hand in Hoseok's shirt and squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to get himself back under control.
Seokjin, though, is all business. "Namjoon-ah, where's the water?"
Shit.
Namjoon rushes back out to the stove and sees that the water has started boiling. He turns down the burner as Seokjin joins him, unpacking his medical kit on the counter.
"He's probably going to need stitches," Seokjin says, in doctor mode. "Did you notice any internal bleeding?"
"Some," Namjoon says, remembering the red tint to the water and the torn skin he felt beneath his fingertips when he cleaned Yoongi up. "There were fissures around... around his rim."
Seokjin drops several needles into the water. "Let's hope the internal damage isn't too bad, because I can't perform surgery in your guest bedroom."
Namjoon stares at the red band around his neck, stomach churning. "Hyung..."
"We're still not talking about it," Seokjin cuts him off as he pulls antiseptic out of the kit and arranges it next to the salve on the counter.
"You're hurt." In a way eerily similar to Yoongi, in a way that he's never seen before.
"I'll get better," Seokjin says, dismissive. "Yoongi's more important right now."
Namjoon knows better than to argue, especially when Seokjin's right, so he lets the matter drop, resolving to pick it up again later. Seokjin has never liked sharing the vulnerable pieces of himself, and it's been that way for as long as Namjoon can remember. Whenever Namjoon's tried to press in the past, Seokjin's always made an excuse about how he's the hyung and therefore he doesn't need to burden Namjoon with his problems. Namjoon's never managed to get it through Seokjin's head that it shouldn't always work that way.
"What do you need me to do?" he asks now and gets a sad smile in return.
"No offense, Namjoon-ah, but stay out of my way and don't panic. You've done good already, cleaning him up. I'll take it from here."
Namjoon hates the idea of sitting by and doing nothing while Yoongi's injured, even if he also hates the thought of watching Seokjin stitch Yoongi up, listening to Yoongi in distress again.
"Are you sure?" he presses. "You need a hand, his injuries are—"
"I'll help him," Hoseok says, materializing in the doorway. "I'm no medical student but I do have first aid experience."
And I won't freak out, is the underlying message. It stings, but it's accurate, so Namjoon can't judge Hoseok for it.
"Fine," Seokjin says and nods to the sink. "Wash your hands and get a pair of gloves on."
Jimin slips back into the living room, gaze red-rimmed and face haunted. Seokjin glances over at him and his expression goes soft in a way that startles Namjoon. He doesn't think he's ever seen Seokjin look at anyone like that, least of all Park Jimin. The last he recalls, the two of them were not speaking and before that were at each other's throats. Something monumental must have happened last night. He wonders if it's connected to Seokjin's injuries or if it's something else entirely, but he holds the questions in his throat.
He doubts he'd be able to get them out past the chant of Yoongi Yoongi Yoongi still filling his mind, anyway.
"You too," Seokjin says to Jimin. "Stay out here."
Jimin's face twists predictably. "I..."
"Listen to him, Jimin-ah," Hoseok says. He's adopted Seokjin's stoic manner and his voice is clipped and professional as he scrubs his hands in the sink and accepts the gloves that Seokjin hands him.
And then they're both gathering the medical supplies from the counter and disappearing into the bedroom, leaving Namjoon and Jimin out in the living room. Jimin lets out a frustrated noise as the door clicks shut and rakes a hand through his hair. Namjoon's skin prickles uncomfortably. He hasn't really been alone with Park Jimin since he got a gun pointed at his face, but he can sympathize with the guilt and anger that Jimin is radiating.
He drifts to the cupboards and pulls out a plate. It's fine china, passed down from his long-dead parents, and Namjoon doesn't think he's used it once in all his adult life. He suddenly hates the frivolity of it.
He holds it out to Jimin, who frowns at him in confusion.
"You can break it," he explains. "You look like you need to break something."
To his surprise, Jimin laughs, short and sharp. "Yeah," he rasps. "I really want to break something but I don't want to startle them." He nods to the bedroom door and right. Namjoon should have thought of that.
He sets the plate on the counter (it's useless, even in this) and drifts into the living room, sinking down onto the sofa. From the bedroom, he can hear the blended murmur of Seokjin and Hoseok's voices, but fortunately no sounds from Yoongi. Maybe they've found a way to sedate him.
The couch dips as Jimin joins him, folding himself up into a tense ball that reminds Namjoon of Yoongi.
"Tell me about him," he blurts. "About Yoongi."
Because he doesn't want to think about the brand on Yoongi's skin or the way Yoongi tried to placate him, tried to insist that he's been good. Doesn't want to think about makeup streaked down Yoongi's skin after a party or the grit of his teeth as the seals flared or the way he shook in Namjoon's arms in the aftermath of a nightmare. He wants to know the Yoongi of Before, the Yoongi that he'll never get to meet. The Yoongi that someone as lethal and storm-laced as Park Jimin regards with so much devotion.
"He saved my life," Jimin says now, quiet and almost soft—a fondness creeping into his voice that surprises Namjoon. "When I was a teenager and me and Taehyung were starving on the streets. I tried to rob him and he took me in instead. Took us both in when he didn't have enough already and he didn't think twice about it. Didn't demand anything in return."
Jimin traces his fingers over the seals. "I think ... he taught me what love's supposed to look like. Taught all of us. Maybe ... maybe taught a whole sector. Do you know how they talk about him out there?"
Namjoon shakes his head.
"Suga is ... he's a hero and a legend, and he showed every Marked that they could be something. That we could pick our heads up out of the dirt and hold them up with dignity. That hope was important to cling to. He kept people from starving in the winters. He hid people from the police. Get back up, he told everyone until they did. He was incredible." Jimin glances at the closed bedroom door again and his voice drops to a softer murmur when he says, "he is incredible."
Namjoon thinks of the Yoongi whose eyes still burned in the auction house, in spite of the wounds on his skin; the Yoongi who fought back when he thought Namjoon was going to kill him; the Yoongi who refused to run when the chance was offered; the Yoongi who said give him me without a moment of hesitation, fully knowing the nightmare he was about to endure.
"He is," Namjoon says, voice wet with renewed tears.
"I failed him," Jimin says, drawing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.
"I don't think he'd see it that way," Namjoon argues.
Jimin shakes his head. "It was my idea to do this. Be a companion. I had to convince him, assure him I could handle it. Only I couldn't fucking handle it and now..." he trails off with a hitching breath.
Namjoon wishes he knew what to say to comfort him.
"I don't think blaming yourself is going to fix anything," he ventures hesitantly. "What's done is done and we can't change it."
Jimin snorts. "Easy for you to say. That's ... he's my family. I love him."
So do I, Namjoon manages to keep from saying. Confessing to Hoseok was bad enough, and somehow he doubts Jimin will take it in stride like Hoseok did. He'd rather not be gutted like a fish in his own living room.
So he sighs and leaves Jimin to his private storm, sensing that nothing he says is going to get through. Jimin doesn't want advice from an outsider, from the person that handed Yoongi's leash over like it was nothing.
Needing something to do with his hands, he empties the pot of water into the sink and sets it aside on the rack to dry, then puts the useless plate back in the cupboards with all the rest of the finery he barely touches. That hardly takes any time at all, though, and now he's adrift again. He floats, almost aimless, over to the piano in the corner of his living room. He can't even remember why he bought it. He'd been a teenager and living in his own apartment for the first time, after his grandmother insisted that he could no longer stay at his family home. He didn't mind in many ways—was tired of feeling the ghosts of his parents lingering in the empty rooms, seeing them move in the corner of his eye after dark.
But maybe he still wanted a few tokens to remember them by. His mother used to play, in his distant, foggy memories. Maybe that's why he bought it. Or maybe he made up that fact about her and he just wanted a stupid piano.
He sits down at the bench now and lifts the lid covering the keys. They gleam, untouched. He played a few random chords when he first got the thing and then never looked at it again. He doesn't even remember the chords now, or which notes are which.
"Yoongi plays," Jimin says from behind him as his hands hover uselessly over the keys.
"He told me."
Jimin's voice has gone soft again, laced with memory. "There was a shop, a few blocks away from our apartment. General salvage—things pulled from the condemned zone. All those Old World buildings crumbling into nothing. Anyway, one of the things the owner had for sale was this beat up piano. Somehow, he'd managed to tune it but who the fuck was going to buy a piano in Sector 10? So he just stuck in the corner to collect dust. But Yoongi, he was always finding things—out in the condemned zone. Him and Taehyung had a knack for it."
Jimin laughs, a little less bitter than before. When Namjoon glances over his shoulder, Jimin's staring at the ceiling, clearly watching the memories play out across it.
"He found a music book. Made from that special paper, you know? That doesn't tear or decay? And he decided he wanted to learn how to read it. So he bargained with the merchant—a few extra ration cards here and there, exclusive look at any valuable salvage he managed to find, and in exchange he could play the piano."
Jimin drops his gaze back to his knees and shakes his head, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I don't know why he was so adamant on learning. It wasn't like Yoongi, to make deals like that. Waste time on frivolous things. But I think it brought him a sense of peace ... playing that piano. He'd disappear there for hours sometimes, when things were really bad. When he needed to breathe. It was almost ... sacred to him."
Namjoon looks back at his piano. In all the months Yoongi's lived here, he's never once touched it. Now, Namjoon wonders if a part of Yoongi—the cautious, skittish part forced into him by monsters like Yoo Minseok—was too afraid to take such a liberty, no matter how much he trusts Namjoon.
... he didn't train me right.
Namjoon bows his head, willing himself not to vomit again.
"I'll let him have it," he whispers, more for himself than for Jimin. "When he's better. He can play as much as he wants."
Jimin makes a noncommittal noise of agreement and the silence stretches, prickling uncomfortably. Fortunately, Namjoon's saved from having to fill it by the chime of the door. He frowns in surprise but Jimin stands and strides towards it expectantly.
"Taehyung and Junkook," he explains in response to Namjoon's confused expression.
Right. Jimin must have notified them and they've returned from ... whatever adventure they embarked on last night. Namjoon gently lowers the piano cover and rises to his feet as he hears Jimin greet the new arrivals and usher them inside.
They both look worse for wear. Not as bad as Jimin or Seokjin, but their faces are streaked with dirt and their bodies slumped with exhaustion evident even through their baggy, mismatched clothes.
"What happened?" Taehyung asks in his rumbling voice, glancing over towards Namjoon before focusing on Jimin.
Jimin's facade begins to crumble once again, trembling at the edges. "It's ... it's Yoongi," he forces out. "Yoongi's hurt. Bad."
Alarm immediately wipes out the exhaustion in Taehyung's and Jungkook's faces and spines. Taehyung jerks, starting for the closed bedroom door, but Namjoon blocks his path.
"You can't," he says in response to the glare Taehyung aims at him. "Seokjin and Hoseok are ... working on him. Patching him up."
"What happened?" Jungkook asks and Jimin crumbles further, wrapping his arms around his waist as his spine bows.
"You were right," he rasps, eyes on the floor. "You were right, Kook, I didn't know. I didn't know and it's my fault."
Jungkook's eyes widen, but instead of pressing further, he closes the distance between him and Jimin and pulls Jimin into his arms. Namjoon backs up, watching as Taehyung crowds in, too, wrapping his long arms around both of them. He feels, suddenly, like he's intruding. This living room is too small and he doesn't want to hover at the edges of it, invisible, while Taehyung, Jimin, and Jungkook grieve together.
But his own bedroom is too far away from Yoongi, too cut off. So he settles for pulling a random book from his shelf and folding up into the armchair near the window, trying his best to tune out the other three as they shuffle over to the couch and sink down in a still-tangled pile of limbs. None of them are speaking and the crackle of each turning page of Namjoon's book seems too loud in this sad hush that's settled over everything.
None of the words register—he doesn't even know what kind of book he's selected—but he keeps going on autopilot as time crawls by with agonizing slowness.
Finally, finally, the bedroom door opens and Seokjin emerges. He looks dead on his feet—wounds standing out stark against pallid skin and blood streaked across his shirt and arms—but he manages a weak smile as they all crowd around him, desperate for answers.
"Is he going to be okay?" Jimin asks.
"Physically, yes," Seokjin says. "Fortunately most of the wounds are shallow and the internal damage isn't bad enough to require surgery. We'll need to be careful, but he'll heal. As for the rest?" His face contorts briefly in sorrow. "I don't know."
"Can we see him?" Taehyung asks and Seokjin freezes when his gaze slides over to him and Jungkook, as though he's just now registering their presence.
He rallys himself quickly, though, and shakes his head. "He's sedated. Please just let him rest."
"What happened to you?" Jungkook blurts, staring intently at Seokjin's bruises and the red indent around his neck.
"Nothing important," Seokjin dismisses and then continues to speak over Jungkook's answering noise of protest. "It's been a long night. I doubt any of us have slept. We all need rest, we can reconvene in the morning." He blinks over at the sunlight streaming in through the window. "Or ... later today, I guess." He pushes himself off the doorframe. "Namjoon-ah, I'm taking your bed."
"Of course," Namjoon says and watches Seokjin pause in the middle of the living room, eyes locked with Jimin's.
They seem to be having a silent conversation that Namjoon can't interpret—doesn't know what to make of the uncertainty in Seokjin's expression or the sadness, almost pleading nature of the look Jimin is giving him. After a moment, Seokjin shakes his head again and continues on to Namjoon's bedroom without looking back. Jimin sinks onto the sofa and buries his face in his hands.
To Namjoon's surprise, Jungkook darts after Seokjin this time, following him into the bedroom and closing the door. Meanwhile, Taehyung curls back up on the couch with Jimin—arms wrapped around him and forehead pressed to Jimin's shoulder.
Namjoon takes a fortifying breath and heads for the guest bedroom. The sight that greets him is an expected one, but still painful: Yoongi now dressed in soft pajamas and moved under the protection of the covers and Hoseok, slumped at his side.
"You should sleep too," Namjoon murmurs as he stops next to Hoseok, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the tremble in his hands. He can't look at Yoongi for too long, at the bandages and the bruises and how still Yoongi is.
"Can't leave him," Hoseok whispers. He's holding Yoongi's hand again, stroking his thumb over the back of it in gentle sweeps.
"Then sleep here," Namjoon says, nodding to the bed. It's big enough to squeeze three to four people on it, which means there should be plenty of room for Hoseok.
"When we were in Sector 10 together," Hoseok says, ignoring Namjoon. His voice is distant, flat, fills Namjoon with a strange, creeping dread, "and things would get really bad, sometimes we would kick the kids out and have the apartment to ourselves for the day. And Yoongi ... he'd want to get out of his own head, you know? He carried so much inside of him that he barely let anyone see and I think it ate at him. And he wanted to be able to let go. So I'd..." Hoseok's voice catches and stutters before he pushes on. "I'd be rough with him. I'd tie him up and..."
"Hoseok," Namjoon says urgently, sensing where this is going. He curls a hand over Hoseok's bony shoulder, absorbing his flinch. "It isn't the same thing. You're not the same."
"It feels the same," Hoseok hiccups, on the verge of tears again. "Right now, it feels the same. And I keep thinking that no wonder he doesn't want me to touch him anymore, he..."
"No." Namjoon squeezes Hoseok's shoulder. "I've spent my whole life around monsters, Hoseok. Around people like Yoo Minseok. And you are not one of them. Yoongi doesn't see you that way, either. I know he doesn't. You're the one he recognized today, you're still a safe place for him. Don't doubt that now—you can't."
Hoseok wipes his free hand over his eyes and shakes his head, but doesn't argue. "You're right," he croaks. "We should sleep."
He stands with a low noise of discomfort and then lays down in the space he was sitting, curled protectively against Yoongi's side. Namjoon backs up a step, debating if he can manage to sleep in the armchair or if he should just camp out on the floor here.
"Where are you going?" Hoseok asks, squinting wearily at him.
"I was going to find a place to sleep."
Hoseok nods to the space on Yoongi's other side. "There's a place here."
Namjoon tries not to let too much of his shock bleed onto his face. "I ... you're sure? I don't want to scare him."
"You're a safe place too," Hoseok murmurs. "He just needs to come back to himself a little more. And I ... you should be here. I want you here. Lie down."
Namjoon has no idea how to cope with that declaration, beyond a sudden tightness in his chest, so he just swallows and shuffles around the bed, climbing in carefully and settling on Yoongi's other side. He presses his face to Yoongi's hair, ignoring the lingering sharpness of antiseptic, and then dares to drop a tender kiss to his temple, aware of Hoseok's eyes on him.
But Hoseok doesn't call him out on the kiss, or get angry, just reaches across Yoongi to take Namjoon's hand. He settles their joined hands gently on Yoongi's stomach and it feels like they're forming a shield together—anyone else who wants to hurt Yoongi has to go through them.
Sleep, though, is still a long time coming.
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