Pretty | Yoonmin (DISCONTINUED)

forty four

In the aching moments leading up to the awaited arrival of Jimin's friends, the blonde worked himself into a frenzy of chattering teeth and raw fingertips. Yoongi's arms were laced around his waist, thin wrists pressed against warm hips beneath the fabric of Jimin's sweater. And his fluffy head rested on the younger's shuddering chest. He could hear the way he breathed. Sucking bitter air into lungs punctured by shards of glass. His oxygen was all cut up and ragged, and dragged against the walls of his throat every time he gulped down another mouthful. His shoulders flinched with a whirlwind of overwhelming panic, scorching previously fuzzy veins to singed black and filling blood with smoke.

It was Jungkook that was on the brink of destruction, Jungkook choking on decay just as Yoongi had. Except news of his condition seemed to be just as detrimental to Jimin, who's pretty eyes were low and fleeting. Shaking about a battered head. His mouth was bitten to marred flesh and tiny hints of ripped pink and stinging red along plump petals. He gauged them together as they waited, his toes dancing restlessly along the carpet. Yoongi could feel the depths of his mounting anxiety, could feel the seeking cold beneath his honey tinted skin where it was pressed to his own. Everything felt as though it were too much.

His heart was tangled and his mind was raging and warring against him, but Jimin was near shaking, and Jungkook's wailing cries and hopeless pleas rung relentlessly in his ears. It seemed that the world would fall apart if Yoongi dared move, and Jimin's erratic heartbeat was the only thing keeping him grounded. The warmth of their butterfly touches across their intertwined forms was the only thing keeping them both sane as thoughts of bone white hands and bloody lips haunted their thoughts, and sounds of retching and sobbing stung their brains.

Jin busied himself in the kitchen, preparing meals and tea for their visitors and for the two quivering hosts. And it felt as though everyone were so restless, stomachs waiting to eject themselves in dark anticipation.

It was nearly one o' clock in the morning when the doorbell rang. Their bones had cramped and ached, and they'd sat upon the cushions for so long, their legs felt glued to their spots. But the jarring sound they'd all been anxiously waiting for startled their pounded hearts from their sunken chests, and something strange and burning rose within the three of them.

Jimin was up in an instant. His brain felt like soggy cotton and metallic scented scarlet, and it was difficult to think. His irises were layered in sorrowful film, and he was tripping over his feet, wobbling on his legs, waving hands through stifled air. But all he could think of was Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook, and how he needed him. The way he'd wept for him through stumbling heaves, called for him and wished for him to be by his side. The way his piercing sobs drowned out the frantic sound of Hobi's hasty reassurances and Taehyung's soft crying, and how desperately terrified he'd been.

Jimin had promised him he would always be by his side. He had promised that he would always be there when Jungkook needed him. But he couldn't be this time. Because Yoongi needed him too. And he didn't regret being with Yoongi, not in the slightest. But he wished he'd known...wished he'd bothered to check in with him more, now that he couldn't catch those moments of hesitation in his eyes. He should have known when he cut himself off on the phone that something was off, should have realized that choking down words was a frequent thing that occurred around the time of breakdowns.

But he'd been stupid and preoccupied with his own ridiculous issues. And now Jungkook was suffering.

The guilt of it all, of not being there for Jungkook, of not giving Yoongi the care he needed, of shouting at Taehyung, it was all so sickening. It ate him painstakingly slowly from the inside out, gnawing on his too soft bones and turning his insides into ruined tissue. It roiled in his stomach and coated his stinging throat in bile. And it made it almost impossible for his stumbling hands to open the door.