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yoongi’s head is filled with ache, eyes filled with just as much ink as he searches their darkness in the mirror. he’s counting his inhales, counting his exhales, waiting until he hits a safe, even number to stop: to stop being aware of his breath.
(if he stops counting, stops on an odd number, he’s scared he might stop breathing all together.)
his hair is messy, fingers itching for the brush on the counter to fix the stray strands. he resists. his hands are probably unclean too, hands wanting to turn the faucet on and wash and wash and wash. he resists.
(right now, he can resist. and this is good. this is relieving.)
sleep tugs at yoongi’s inky eyes, tracing his pale skin, but he doesn’t move. the sheets on his bed are pilling and his pillow, memory foam, is too conforming, too hard.
yoongi can’t sleep like that. he tosses and turns and kicks the blanket off and then gets cold and -
it’s a process.
slowly, eyeing the sink one last time, he departs from the bathroom, shrugs a coat over his shoulders, and heads for the quiet of his studio.
the quiet nothingness of a productive void calling his name.
in this way, he can push away the thoughts that tell him to wipe his shoes on the entrance mat more than once, can ground himself from flipping the lights on and off until the whisper of need tells him to stop.
it’s hard.
it’s hard to feel safe like this.
it’s hard to feel safe at all when his thumb presses the power button on his computer, and then presses it again, and again, and again.
it’s hard.
♮
move the fork.
it’s crooked, the handle peeking over the edge of the table, pointing towards the floor.
yoongi takes a step forward.
move the fork. it could fall.
no, it won’t, yoongi tells himself. over. over. over. it won’t fall.
move the fork. it could fall. jimin or jungkook could step on it. anyone could step on it. they’d have to go to the hospital.
there’d be blood.
do you want someone to go to the hospital?
no. no.
move the fork.
and yoongi relents, body tugging forward to push the utensil away from the edge. so it won’t fall. so no one gets hurt.
wash your hands. the dishwasher probably didn’t clean it.
there might be germs.
yoongi curls his hands into fists, nails digging crescents into his palms.
he doesn’t need to wash his hands. he doesn’t need to wash his hands. he doesn’t need to wash his hands.
he washed with soap and water and soap and water only a few minutes ago. yoongi doesn’t need to wash his hands again. it’s okay. there aren't any germs and everyone’s safe and no one will step on the fork and he doesn’t have to worry. it’s okay.
wash your -
“yoongi-ah?”
seokjin’s voice breaks through the muddle of his thoughts, interrupting the intrusions, and yoongi's thankful.
“will you eat with us?”
“yeah,” yoongi says quietly to the six expecting faces. he sits beside taehyung, hands folded tightly in his lap.
conversation sparks up. they begin to eat.
yoongi stays still, listening and watching and ignoring the whispers in his head.
he doesn’t end up eating.
he doesn’t want to have to wash his hands.
♮
“that sounds really good, yoongi!” namjoon marvels at the track, “bang pd will love it.”
“thanks,” yoongi says, eyes catching on the bpm and thoughts repeating the chorus of flats. too many flats, too many flats. the bpm is too fast. it ends on an off beat. he’s hoping namjoon will say this.
but namjoon seems to hear perfection.
“it’s perfect, hyung.”
“okay.”
(it’s not perfect. it’s flawed.)
yoongi taps his fingers on the desk, counting each time his pointer finger hits the wood.
one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. t -
“hyung?”
yoongi snaps, “what?!”
he ended on nine, didn’t make it to ten. nine isn't a good number. now he needs to do it again.
the tone of namjoon’s voice softens, “i’m gonna get you a cup of coffee, okay?”
yoongi nods, starts tapping again, eyeing the arrangement of notes and rhythms and it’s not right. namjoon needs to leave so he can fix it. yoongi needs to fix it.
on the way out, namjoon’s foot catches on the frame of the door, making a thump of a sound. he mutters a little, “ow,” and departs.
the sound grates against yoongi’s ears and he growls, getting up and kicking the frame purposely, recreating the sound a second time.
two is an okay number. he can live with two.
his gaze trails to the light switch, and suddenly, yoongi swears he can hear the low buzz of the light, constant and whining and he flips the light off.
off. on. off.
and yoongi’s muscles feel tight, stiff, unmovable.
he can’t stop.
goddammit, where’s his coffee?
he needs to fix the track.
he needs to kick the frame two more times.
he doesn’t know why.
he just needs to.
♮
the music pounds. the floor meets his every step. the lights are dim and the mirror stares quietly back at him.
redo it.
yoongi stops, breath heaving in his chest, and he walks heatedly over to the stereo, pressing pause.
redo it. perfect it.
he resets it. goes back to the beginning. presses play. takes place back in the middle of the practice room.
do it over again until it’s right.
you could trip.
one of the members could fall because you tripped.
they’d have to go to the hospital.
do you want someone to go to the hospital?
get it right get it right
getitrightgetitright
yoongi misses a step, sweat beading down his temple.
do it again.
he’s tired and it’s hard to breathe and hard to think and yoongi wants to stop. but it’s not safe to stop. the only safe thing is to keep going until he gets it right.
get it right.
and yoongi does. and then he trips. and the music still plays and he holds his head in his hands and begs.
he wants to stop.
but he can’t.
so he gets up and does it again. does it again until he gets it right.
♮
“hyung, you alright?” the question comes tenderly, comes as limbs tucking in against his own, a cheek resting on his shoulder.
it’s jimin. yoongi knows it’s jimin, because jimin is the only one who can approach him like this. the only one who can touch him when yoongi’s scared he’ll squeeze the world too tightly and everything he knows will shatter in his grip.
“fine,” yoongi mumbles.
he fell asleep against the mirror, sweat soaking his shirt and exhaustion weighing his limbs.
he got it right, finally.
“sure?”
his voice breaks, “yeah.”
jimin smells good, like lavender and pine and yoongi sort of wants to be held. and sort of wants to leave.
quietly, carefully, jimin brushes the damp strands of his black hair out of his face.
(when was the last time he took a shower? when was the last time he was clean?)
“what was that a couple days ago, huh?” jimin pauses, “with the fork.”
“nothing.”
(not nothing.
it could’ve fallen. someone could’ve stepped on it. someone could’ve gotten hurt. yoongi stopped that from happening. he made sure no one got hurt.
he moved it.)
“and namjoon said you seemed off yesterday.”
“m’fine.”
“yoongi, I know we haven’t been able to spend much time together… but - ”
“stop,” yoongi pulls back from warmth, from comfort, “stop.”
he can’t say it. can’t admit it. won’t let himself admit it. because if he does, then it becomes real. and yoongi cannot let it become real.
(can’t let the tapping and intrusions and counting and obsessions be anything more than a little anxious tapping and counting. and cleaning and organizing and perfecting.)
“hyung-ah,” jimin leans away a bit, understanding, “you can talk to me. okay?”
getting to his feet, yoongi replies softly, feeling a little guilty, a little lost, “i know. m’going home now.”
“i’ll come with.”
“no. i - i’d like to be alone.”
(yoongi wants to add, “if that’s okay?”
and he wants jimin to say no.
but jimin won’t say no, so yoongi won’t ask.
jimin doesn’t push, lets it be. jimin doesn’t urge, keeps at pace. jimin doesn’t be anyone but jimin. considerate and loving and caring. just this once, yoongi wants him to be selfish. yoongi wants jimin to squeeze him tight until all of the thoughts and all of the movements crack in his bones and they don’t bother him anymore.
but jimin’s not selfish.)
jimin’s not selfish.
and yoongi’s not honest.
two peas in a pod, one could say.
♮
his sheets are pilling and his pillow is hard and yoongi can’t sleep.
so he showers instead.
he relents to you’re unclean and turns the faucet to hot and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until his skin is raw. raw and red. he scrubs until all the sweat and dirt and grime and makeup is out of his pores and running down the drain. skin burning and eyes aching, yoongi pushes shampoo through his hair, itching the dry skin from his scalp and he didn’t realize how relieving it would feel to be clean.
fingers prune. skin reddens.
yoongi almost cries from the ease that showering brings.
he dries off with a clean towel, puts on clean clothes, looks at his unclean bed.
(it makes his skin crawl.)
so he showers again.
♮
fingertips bleeding. palms washed raw.
he counts the click of the dryer as the clothes spin and spin and spin.
the coffee mug turns over and over in his hands, washing, drying, washing, drying.
there’s still a blot of coffee dried on the side, having dripped down the handle. it’s yoongi’s fault for leaving it out so long, leaving it dirty and tainted so long.
“yoongi, it’s clean, now.”
yoongi rubs at the stain, hands burning, soap coating every line in his palm, bubbling over the ceramic. the stain doesn’t come off, so he rubs harder, tears brimming to his eyes at the heat of the water against his skin. the brown doesn’t remove, doesn’t wash away with the soap and god, it needs to be clean.
wash it harder.
yoongi listens.
“stop, hyung, please.”
yoongi ignores.
and then arms wrap around his waist and tug him backward from the sink.
“no!” he shrieks, hands reaching and reaching but not touching as the mug clatters from his hold, “fuck, it’s not - not clean.”
he fights and struggles and tries to escape the restraining arms around his middle, but it’s to no use and yoongi cries out.
it’s not clean.
(it’s not safe.)
“yoongi, listen to me,” breath graces his neck, “look, okay? look at that.”
yoongi looks. looks at the water running and the mug abandoned, still stained.
“it's fine. you’re fine, safe. nothing bad happened. you’re safe. we’re safe.”
heaving for breath, yoongi’s knees give.
he’s guided gently to the floor.
“he looks like he hasn’t slept.”
“look at his hands.”
“he’s bleeding, hyung. he’s bleeding.”
“hyung. hyungie…”
“shut up,” yoongi whispers, eyes shut tight, hands shaking. “shut up!” he yells.
“yoongi,” jimin’s voice and jimin’s touch and jimin’s warmth, “yoongs…”
“shut up, shut up, shut up.”
yoongi dissolves into the phrase, dissolves into the thoughts, dissolves into nothingness.
♮
darkness, warmth, quiet.
he’s laying in a bed where the sheets aren’t pilling and the pillows are soft. a hand is carding gently through the strands of his hair, carefully untangling the knots, rearranging the black strands of his fringe.
yoongi’s tucked in close, pressed into a strong chest, tender embrace, even heartbeat, and it’s soothing.
he counts.
(yoongi can’t help it. he counts.)
counts the bu-bump , bu-bump , bu-bump . counts the soft breaths that weave between the sound.
“what number are you at?” jimin asks, other hand around yoongi’s waist pulling him closer, gently. ever gently.
“eighteen.”
“hard week, yeah?”
the sting of his hands is reply enough. yoongi sighs, “i think… i think i might have to go back on my meds… if this keeps up.”
kissing his cheek, jimin nuzzles away a tear hanging off his nose, “that’s okay.”
“doesn’t…” yoongi breathes in lavender and pine, “doesn’t feel okay.”
“it is, love. it is.”
and yoongi cries. cries and counts.
jimin holds him, kisses his hands, kisses his hair, holds him together now that he’s shattered the world in his grasp.
(yoongi’s not okay. even with jimin by his side, he’s not okay.
but he will be.
it’ll take time but...
yoongi will be.)
jimin’s soft voice lulls him back to sleep, and soon enough, all his worries are dispersed by dreams.