Collision

Chapter 82

There were hands. He could feel them. Delicate, touching him as if made of glass. He knew those hands. They cradled him when the nights got too long, and he was too cold. He knew the fingers that brushed back his bangs, thick with sweat.

"-attacked-"

"-the beta, Hoseok-"

"-feral wolf-"

"-he just healed on his own-"

"-Namjoon collapsed-"

"-not waking up-"

"-scent's are weird-"

"-his scent-"

"-I know his scent. I know his scent, and it's changing-"

"-presenting-"

Yoongi fell back under the waves. He didn't even try to pull himself back. He let the torrid heat lull him to sleep.

He was hot. Too hot. His skin was burning. Things were assaulting his nose. Pine, he knows the pine scent. It's thicker now, heavier. Laced with worry, heavy with fear. The morning dew is like mildew.

There was something else too. Sunflowers, wilting, mixed with sweet, overly ripe oranges. It clashed together perfectly, unable to tell the difference between one scent and the next.

Sage and ink, unturned pages and words unwritten. It is thick too. Heavy. Sickly, as if he had sweated a little too much. A more delicate scent hovered near it. Too sweet. Rose and citrus, but it was too sweet. There was another- a babe.

Peppermint and fern. A vivacious scent. Pleasant and bright, sharper that spoke of rougher times. It was the faintest. A mere whisper along the walls.

Sounds. Voices. Clinking pots and pans. The sounds of the birds echoing loudly, their songs vibrating within his ears.

There was so much. Yoongi couldn't breath. His skin was too hot, and whenever something cold touches his forehead he would turn to face the pine and morning dew scent, so sweet. So delicate.

"I'm here, Yoongi. I'm here."

He fell back under the waves.

When Yoongi finally swam up, breaking the surface, he gasps as he manages to peel open his eyes. There was silence. He could only hear his own steady breathing, his body being cradled by his bed as if greeting a long lost lover.

Blinking, Yoongi stares up at the familiar ceiling of his bedroom.

Except, that wasn't right.

He could see his bedroom ceiling. Each grove, each line engraved within the logs. Each break between the wood. He could see stains there, though Yoongi wasn't sure what the stain even was or how it got there.

But there it was. Crisp, blotting the log a murky brown instead of the cherry wood that it was supposed to be. Laughing at him.

How could he see that? How could he see any of this? He wasn't supposed to be able to see his ceiling. Colors were the only thing that he has been able to make out for years.

Lungs halting, Yoongi raises his hands. And sees them. Sees the tiny white scars from who knows what. Sees the blue veins lining the back of his hands, flowing down into his wrists, providing lifeblood.

Panting in disbelief, Yoongi drops his hands and stares down at his body. He could make out every detail of his bedsheet, each line and stitch of the thick, dark fabric, and could see his own body. See each muscle, every inhale and exhale.