Breaking Point | BTS | M.YG 【🌳】 ✔︎

Chapter 1.2 ✔︎

Thank you to everyone reading for getting the story to 3K reads, it may not seem like a big number to some people, but to me, it's more than I ever thought I would get, so thank you.

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"Be quick," Seokjin told the younger, who replied back with an 'okay' just before the door slammed shut for the second time that day.

"Hyung! Wait up!" Jimin called after Yoongi, but the elder continued walking, eventually turning a corner and disappearing out of the younger's sight. The singer sped up his pace so he could close the distance between them, but the elder only seemed to get further away.

"Hyung!" Jimin yelled but Yoongi still didn't respond. The hallway was empty and there were no other sounds than their footsteps so the other should be able to hear him clearly. Was his hyung ignoring him?

Yoongi had heard Jimin call after him and he felt bad for ignoring him, but the humiliation he knew he would feel if he stopped walking and let the younger catch up to him was greater than the guilt. Originally he had been heading for the nearest toilet because the nausea swirling around in his stomach had started acting up before he had gotten to even take 2 steps out of the practice room, but then the singer had left the others to follow after him and he'd had to change his course because the bathrooms weren't soundproof and he didn't want the other to hear him throw up as that would only further cement it to the younger that he wasn't fine.

He could see the door to his studio in the distance but could also hear Jimin's approaching steps behind him, the noise of the other's feet slapping against the floor sounded deafening to his ears as his heartbeat climbed to match the rhythmic pulsing behind his eyes.

The moment he stood in front of the door he didn't waste a single second before hastily punching the code in on the touchscreen. The door unlocked with a deep clang as the deadbolt retracted and he pushed the handle down, swinging the door open just enough for him to snake his way inside, and flung it shut again the moment he had gotten both of his feet over the threshold.

His studio was quiet, not even the low humming of his computer was present, instantly making him realize how loud and heavy his breathing was. He tried to take a step forward so he could close the second door, but his legs refused to move. He resigned to not having the strength to do anything and leaned back against the door, eyes closed with his head tilted slightly towards the ceiling and shoulders drooping down low so it would be easier to breathe.

His head was feeling heavier as the seconds went on, but the pain didn't leave. He could feel his hands shaking by his sides where they hung limply. His mouth watered.

He'd had less than a second to fully comprehend what was about to happen before his legs buckled under him and he fell onto his knees harshly enough that it would have left him with abrasions had he not been wearing track pants. His abdominal muscles contracted, and then the food he had managed to eat that morning – despite the nausea he had been experiencing since the evening before – was forcing its way back up his esophagus and onto the floor of the studio.

He didn't know how long it had gone on for, but he had stopped throwing up a couple of minutes ago – his body being unable to expel more because there was nothing left in his stomach for it to bring up – and were now just kneeling on all fours, hands planted firmly on the wooden flooring far enough away from the small puddle of sick that there would still be plenty enough space between the extremities and the half-digested food if he spread his fingers. His throat and nose stung because of the stomach acid and there was a bad taste in the back of his mouth.