Chapter Text
to hell, together
prologue
74 A.F.
Three-hundred seventy-six.
Three-hundred seventy-seven.
Three-hundred seventy-eight.
It goes on and on, steadily increasing, cheek resting in his palm with his elbow on his desk, lips pressed together and eyes almost struggling to stay open. So much to do, so much to focus on, almost too much to do anything other than daydream out of the window, hoping for something different to happen that would shake up his routine. Anything will do, anything would make for something exciting.
The breeze picks up a little, prompting a few of the tree branches to knock against the window, as if the world outside is only feeding into his whimsical desires of a life outside of the classroom; knocking, calling his attention, wanting him to abandon the rules and responsibilities that he must obey while in the classroom. There’s a whole world out there, most of it untouchable by the likes of them, but there is so much of him that is desperate to see it, yearning for it. To explore beyond the walls of their holy city, to see more than anybody else has since the event that wiped out most of humanity.
It’s strange how he can say that so easily, like it wasn’t something so devastating that it changed the world in a mere blink. It took almost seconds for the world to go from what it was to what it is, wrecking so much of what they as a society once knew that it would be almost impossible to get back to that idyllic picture. Except, the world before was far from idyllic. Only now is it expected to be the euphoria, the haven that it always should have been. This is the goal, this is what life should be like, there is no reason for any fighting.
Min Yoongi thinks differently, though he would never say that aloud. Such a thought would get him in far more trouble than it’s worth.
“I pledge my allegiance to the city,” are the words that leave his mouth every day, standing with the rest of his classmates with his hand on his chest, the emblem of their sixth city displayed on the board in front of them, rows of students deemed so smart and intelligent they could very easily be considered amongst the city’s elite. . Yes, Min Yoongi would pledge his allegiance to the city every day, forever wondering what would happen if he refused the words but too afraid of the consequences to do so.
A fear that perhaps he shared with many citizens of the city, but one never spoken out loud.
He shouldn’t be thinking about it. It wouldn’t surprise him if they had developed some sort of technology to read your mind and pluck out all thoughts that would be considered ‘treasonous’ against their oh-so-perfect and oh-so-holy city.
...he pledged his allegiance to this city.
Four-hundred nineteen.
Four-hundred twenty.
Four-hundred twenty-one.
If he keeps counting, the day will go faster. That’s his theory, anyway. And it’s not that he doesn’t like the academy - all of the free study sessions means he gets to focus on what he wants for most of the day which is one of the more exciting parts of it all - but nothing beats when the alarm rings and he can finally remove that mask. He’ll get to go home, he’ll get to go home and work on his report, he’ll get to go and see--
“Yoongi-hyung!”
He knows by the voice who it is who calls for him. Taehyung smiling at him is only the final piece of the puzzle that he needed to make everything make sense. Boxy smile, full cheeks, scrunched nose and all. Yoongi knows why he’s here. He wouldn’t dare be late.
“Hey,” Yoongi greets. “How did your presentation go?”
“I easily topped the class,” Taehyung answers with his nose up in the air, dropping rather unceremoniously in the seat in front of Yoongi’s. His chest is puffed up, his smile almost mistaken as something cocky if nobody knew him any better. Thankfully, Yoongi does. “They want to put me in your class, hyung.”
“Mm, maybe you’ll take my spot.”
“As if,” he scoffs, as if the whole notion is utterly preposterous to him. Perhaps it is. Taehyung has always placed almost too much value on Yoongi’s opinion, on his standing, influenced by his behaviour, yet remarkably independent and clutching to something that makes him so distinct. Utterly distinct. There truly is nobody like him. “I’ll be coming for top dog though, just watch.”
“Am I supposed to bark along with you?”
Taehyung grins. “Woof woof.”
The antics pull the slightest laughter from Yoongi’s chest, bubbling up in his throat, and the oldest of the two shakes his head. It bubbles from his core, fizzing up like soda poured too quickly, spilling before anybody can put the lid back on the bottle.
He’s been feeling like that a lot lately. Like he’s holding so much inside of him that it’s going to burst. It will all disappear soon enough. Feelings will go as soon as the next part of their program starts. Simply put, his workload will increase so much that such emotions won’t be able to be felt, he won’t have the time. The next part of the program is the important one. He will become the robot that they’ve always wanted him to be. Obedient, quiet, does as he’s told.
If he’s accepted into the Gifted class, the freedom he will receive will be incomparable. All if he sacrifices the next five years of his life to his studies.
The sheer number of doors that open for them means that… maybe his mother will never have to work again.
The benefits for being in this class are already substantial - the Bureau continually pays for their accommodation, their food and bills, Yoongi’s computer and technology in order to complete his work - so he can only imagine just how far these benefits will go.
“You’re going to come home with me, right?”
Taehyung asks him with those big brown eyes and his hands drawn together, tanned skin decorated in an array of coloured bands and a watch his grandmother bought him, and Yoongi nods. A firm nod, a singular one, but even the slightest action makes his best friend practically glow, smiling so wide that he’s sure it must hurt his cheeks.
If Yoongi was to give Taehyung a colour, it would be yellow. Happy, mellow, bright. Something that reminds him of the sun.
The rest of the city would be grey. Filled with pastel colours that all eventually bleed into grey when it starts the rain, as if the paint hasn’t dried in time for its mask to remain. It melts away as the water drags it down, leaving a ruined illusion instead. The city would be grey, except for the few people Yoongi values in his life.
Maybe that’s why he waits to leave so eagerly. It’s why he waits for his program to finish, waits to move past the Elite program too, ready to board the trains and venture to the rest of the world.
There are three other cities. Three more places for him to go to. That’s three whole, brand-new adventures for him to take.
Four-hundred eighty-nine.
Four-hundred ninety.
Four-hundred ninety-one.
It’s at exactly five-hundred that the alarm rings, sounding through the building to signal the end of the day. He knows his routine so well by now that it’s almost funny.
Except it’s not.
“...happy birthday to you!”
The singing voices of Taehyung and his grandmother have become an annual occurrence for Yoongi, always singing the happy birthday song as they sit opposite him at their kitchen table, clapping their hands together along with the tune. Yoongi smiles in turn, filled with the same awkwardness that comes with every birthday song for everybody - like seriously, where do you look, do you sing or clap too? - but that awkwardness goes hand-in-hand with appreciation. Honestly. Because he knows Taehyung’s grandmother never has to go to the hassle of getting a cake for somebody who isn’t even related to her and throwing a makeshift party for him, but she always does.
“Thank-you, ahjumma,” he bows his head, hands pressed together. He hears laughter in return, and when he lifts his head, he blows out the candles, taking a moment to cement his wish to whatever or whoever may be listening.
“Open your present, hyung!”
Taehyung is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, his boxy grin overtaking his features, his nose scrunching as he does so. He is… excited, which makes Yoongi wonder why as he reaches for the box. He’s not one to particularly question it - seeing his friend makes him feel happy too - but it does leave him intrigued, wondering what it is that has got him so excited. He doesn’t have to think too hard, nor for too long, before the surprise is over.
The box is made out of a thin, grey cardboard with one of the corners a little knocked in and a bow taped onto the top.It’s filled with soft tissue paper hiding an even softer sweater underneath. Coloured a darker grey with a zig-zag purple line through the middle, wrapping around the waist. The colours the reverse of--
“See! We can match at school now!”
Taehyung, for all it’s worth, looks so pleased and excited at this fact that it only makes Yoongi smile that much brighter. He gestures to his own sweater, the opposite of the one Yoongi has received in the box, and his hyung knows how much his clothes mean to him. So, he turns back to Taehyung’s grandmother, and bows his head once again. “It’s amazing, thank you, ahjumma.”
Kanna smiles at them both, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a bag attached to the side of her wheelchair containing her well-used knitting needles and a ball of wool, her next project already underway. Sometimes, he wonders what it will be like when he’s her age. What job he would have done, if he would have gotten married, if he’s still at No. 6 or if he’s run away--
He can’t think like that. Not right now. All those thoughts do is create roots, keeping him planted, keeping him stuck.
It doesn’t matter anyway. As soon as that thought pops into his head, it is interrupted by a loud sound that echoes around the room, almost shooting through him like a jolt of lightning. It brings an emotion, it brings a tightness of his chest, ripping the breath of his lungs and leaving him staring out the window at the darkening sky, at the lights in the far off distance.
“The Moon Drop,” Taehyung’s voice quietens immediately, perhaps out of respect or shock, or whatever it is.
Yoongi finally inhales. “It’s crying.”
The Moon Drop resides in the middle of the city, perhaps the most well-known landmark in their hometown, with it’s honeycomb-like casing in a cold metal, rounded at the top. If anything, it reminds Yoongi of half a pill capsule, that sort of shape, with lights on the edge of it.
When the weather is bad like this, when there is a storm in the air, the Moon Drop cries. Loud, shrieking wails in the form of alarms.
God… he can’t wait to go home.
It fascinates him more than he can even begin to explain. The Moon Drop is a mystery, something he has to solve, something he has to unravel and learn about. There are so many secrets that he wants to find the truth to, almost too many, but it’s one of the many reasons Yoongi remains in No. 6. At least for now.
The sounds bring an indescribable comfort to Yoongi. He can’t even begin to think of the words to describe why he feels this innate attachment to the Moon Drop. Hearing its sounds is like having something inside of him scream out in response, perhaps as a call for help or something else.
He’ll have to leave soon. It’ll take him a little longer than usual to get home considering the weather, but he can’t help but feel the slightest bit guilty that he’s leaving so soon. From school, it’s just a fifteen minute ride on the tram, but he has his bike, and Taehyung’s house is along the edge of the city itself, closer to the wall yet still surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns and flowerbeds. Perfect being the optimal word right there.
“Don’t stay too long, Yoongi,” Kanna’s voice pulls him out of his train of thought, turning over his shoulder to look at her. “You don’t want to get caught in the rain and get sick.”
“It doesn’t matter if he gets sick, halmeoni,” Taehyung interjects. He speaks with his chest puffed out, a smirk on his features, close-lipped and the corners turned up to the side. Confident, settled in his knowledge of the world around them. “I can look after hyung.”
Understandable. Yoongi finds that he’s shaking his head out of affection more than anything else. His own abilities and his own knowledge are surely nothing to ignore. He knows himself just how smart Taehyung is. It wouldn’t surprise him if he really did overtake Yoongi one day.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
“Should I pack up the cake to take home with you?”
Yoongi immediately shakes his head. “You both should have some too. I’ll just take a slice with me to have during my homework.”
“You always work so hard, Yoongichi,” Kanna reaches for the cake box, holding the cake knife delicately in her fingers. “Would your mother like some cake too?”
“Ah, yes, please.” How could he forget?
He takes his time packing the new sweater away, not wanting to ruin the shape or crease up the material as he places it carefully in his bag, the box a little bit squished. Kanna makes sure to pack two slices of birthday cake safely, while Taehyung is watching the window, his eyes fixating on the clouds that are beginning to roll over No. 6, making their way toward them. Dark clouds, ones that rumble and flash up in the sky with hidden lightning, unspoken thunder.
The perfect birthday present from the world. He couldn’t have asked for anything better.
A small voice inside of him was saying how it wasn’t for him, but somebody else. That there is a person amongst the citizens of No. 6 who doesn’t belong, and this blip in the weather was nature calling out to them, giving them the perfect welcome to the perfect place.
Perfection is a disease. It’s something that has to be pulled out of someone from the core, ripped out from the stem, roots and all.
“Here,” Kanna holds out the slices of cake to him in a small plastic box, and he packs it into his bag too. “It’s a shame you couldn’t stay as long today, Yoongichi.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, ahjumma,” Yoongi smiles. “I have to make sure Taehyung doesn’t get in any more fights on his way home anyway.”
“Hey!” Taehyung protests with a pout on his face. “They asked for it!”
“In your defence, they kind of did.”
Taehyung crosses his arms over his chest, and Yoongi only ruffles his hair in response, trying to placate him for the meanwhile. It almost works, Taehyung’s expression shifting enough that he’s not pouting as much as before, but Yoongi figures he can make it up to him in the morning.
“I’ll meet you at school tomorrow, alright?”
“Have a safe journey home, hyung.”
The silence over the dinner table is almost stifling, suffocating him with two large hands wrapping around his throat, one covering his mouth and nose for good measure. With the subtle sound of utensils clinking against the china of the dishes, Yoongi waits for something to break the silence. His mother has always been quiet, keeping to herself most of the time and allowing for Yoongi to get on with his work, though she never struggles to speak about him. How proud she is of what he’s doing, where he’s going in life. All things that Yoongi finds make his cheeks burn, but he wouldn’t take it away from her.
Still, perhaps he seeks a little bit more life from this. From her. From the house they live in. It’s government issued, not something that they picked for themselves but something assigned to them the minute Yoongi passed all the right tests. And because of that, it’s practically empty. Of course, there’s furniture and the odd family picture, a shelf of trophies that Yoongi won a few years ago, but nothing like the homes described in books from before, no clutter or sign of them being human as opposed to machine.
Sometimes, he wonders if he is human at all, or if the world he lives in is just some simulation.
“Did you do anything interesting at school today?”
The same questions, they only make him believe in the simulation theory a little more. He shakes his head, still looking at the bowl of jjajangmyeon that sits in front of him on the table. He’s barely touched it, not out of anything such as bad taste or not being hungry, but there is so much on his mind that he can’t fully enjoy it. He only wishes he could do something about it, instead of allowing those thoughts to run around and around in his head. Controlling him more than he could control them.
“You’re quiet today,” she comments idly, holding her bowl in her hand as the chopsticks gather up some of the noodles left at the bottom of the dish. She, of course, remains primarily unaware of the turmoil going on inside of her son’s head. “Did something happen?”
“No,” he answers, shaking his head at the same time. “I just have a bunch of homework to do, so I’m trying to think about how I want to tackle it.”
“How is that going for you?”
“It’s going well. I’m working hard. My teachers are pleased,” Short sentences are the best way to do this. Small phrases and simple clauses, keeping things simple, trying not to dive deeper into conversation. He loves his mother, he truly does, but the storm is almost calling him, the cries of the Moon Drop so loud he can hear them over the sound of the television in the background, a news programme on the display.
He just wants to go to it, even when almost every cell in his body is at war with himself. Telling him to go, commanding him to stay.
She hums. “I’m pleased. Very proud of you.”
The smile on her face is warm, and that should be indication enough that she’s happy with him. Happy that her son, her youngest son at the very least, is making the family proud. Ever since--
He’s not thinking about it. He won’t think about it. There are very few things that Yoongi refuses to think about, let alone talk about, but his brother is one of them.
“Thank-you,” he whispers, more into his bowl of food than out loud to his mother, before a loud chime comes from the television behind them. His mother pauses, but she moves without hesitation, tapping on the keypad on the side of their table, displaying a monitor between them both. Partially transparent, only the shadow of his mother visible as opposed to the details of her features. Instead, the Bureau’s insignia is displayed right in the middle, their name spiralling around the circle like it’s orbiting a planet.
‘This is an emergency broadcast. On this evening, March 9th of our two-hundred and seventy-fourth year, there has been an incident involving V.C. one-zero-three-two-two-one resulting in their escape. The Security Bureau are currently searching for this individual in the further districts of our city--’
“How scary,” his mother comments, but Yoongi cannot look away from the screen. Instead, he is utterly fixated on the image presented to him; what looks like a mugshot of somebody his age, sharp eyes and a strong jawline, slim. Lips pressed together and eyebrows furrowed, more anger in his expression than should be possible at that stage of life. Hair brushing the bottoms of his ears, dark brown.
‘---We are urging all citizens to remain in their homes during this time. V.C. one-zero-three-two-two-one is violent and should not be approached, no matter what. Any sighting should be immediately reported to the Security Bureau. The city will protect those in her care.’
The monitor shows the insignia one last time before it turns itself off, its image flickering for a moment. When it’s gone, Yoongi lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, looking away and back to his food.
“A V.C. in our area… we should be watchful, Yoongi. Make sure to close your windows.”
“I will, don’t worry.”
“There’s supposed to be extreme weather too. Promise me.”
“I promise…”
The Moon Drop cries again, the sound getting more and more frequent. Louder and louder. As if it’s calling to him. Yoongi exhales, trying to bury all of these notions, all of these emotions, trying to get rid of them. But that is certainly a lot easier said than done. He looks down at his bowl one more time, pushing it so gently away from him that it clinks against the table.
“I’m going to go and finish my homework. I have a lot to get on with.”
“Would you like me to bring some cake to your room in a bit?”
Yoongi shakes his head. “No, it’s alright.”
He was getting kind of sick of birthday cake anyway.
Running.
Running.
Running.
Always running, he’s always running, he’s been running for so long that his legs do it automatically, pushing his body forward without even thinking about it. There is no need to consciously think about running, no need to want it; it happens. Like breathing, his bare feet hit against the ground, toes digging into the dirt, the rain soaking through his clothes and through his skin, into his bones.
Into the very thing that keeps him alive. Each cell, each vein, each muscle eagerly pumping and thumping and vibrating until everything just stops. Maybe everything will stop soon enough, maybe he should stop running.
His arm hurts. Upper arm, perhaps the bullet cut through a little deeper than he first realised, the blood seeping through his fingers, undoubtedly leaving a trail for his hunters to catch him. But they like the game. They like the chase, the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline that runs through them as the most addictive drug there is.
He feels sick. The blood should have clotted by now, he’s been running for hours. At least, what feels like hours upon hours upon hours, a never-ending cat-and-mouse game.
He is the mouse. He is the Rat. He is the thing everybody wants locked in a cage. He is the thing the holy city fears the most.
No. 6 is a parasite. A blood-sucking leech. He knows that better than anybody.
He rests against the wall, the roof of the alleyway keeping him safe from the torrential rain for the time being. It’s enough for him to catch his breath, to look at the small cuts on the bottoms of his feet, the bloody stains on his clothes enough for anybody who sees to close their eyes. Who would help somebody so clearly on the run?
He is a Rat to them. He is the vermin. He is the thing they close their eyes and see after watching something scary, he is the thing they tell their children about to make them do their homework and eat their vegetables and tidy their bedrooms.
His heart hammers so hard against the walls of his chest that it amazes him that it hasn’t given out quite yet. He can hear the beats in his ears, the sound the only thing he can hear. Which is not good. He needs to listen, he needs to know when they’re coming for him, he needs to know when they’re going to kill him.
They will kill him if they find him. They will lock him up in darkness for a thousand years, pulling out a shell of a human being only to strike the killing blow.
He takes a deep breath, pushing his fingers a little closer to the wound in his shoulder and when he pulls his hand away, he has to almost stop himself from laughing.
Anti-coagulant. He should have known. They wouldn’t think to give him a chance, not at all.
It hurts. It throbs and stings at the same time, sending something sharp down to his fingertips and up to his neck, as if a line of thorns is wrapping around his throat, squeezing. Spikes digging into the flesh, causing cuts and bruises and all sorts of pain to run through his body. It hurts. But that’s already been established.
Above him, footsteps thud against the concrete, combined with the monotone call from one to the other, announcing that they haven’t seen a sign of him yet.
Then the last call is one that sends ice down his spine, “Find him. Dead or alive.”
They really couldn’t contain their hatred for him, could they?
He takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the building pain in his arm as he moves to look above him, trying to see where the soldiers went. And when he sees where they went, he goes the other way.
Towards the edge of the city walls, towards the end of No. 6. Towards the end of this hellscape.
But the rain picks up. It gets heavier and heavier, a loud sound coming from the middle of the city, and he stops, looking over his shoulder for a moment, as if he could identify where it’s coming from with his naked eye. Of course he can’t, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try.
If he leaves this part of the city, the space is far too open for him to make a clean getaway. If anything, he would be a sitting duck, waiting for somebody to make that fatal shot. The storm is doing well to hide his trail, if only he could steal some clothes or an ID bracelet, he would surely be able to escape a whole lot easier.
If only things were simple. There’s too many ‘ifs’ for his liking.
He slumps a little more against the wall, looking up to the hills of houses nearby, surrounded by perfect roads and perfect yards, not even a strand of grass out of place, not that he can even be surprised. Houses that look like they’re made of glass, held together with cracks in the foundations; it is a wonder they haven’t collapsed, whether that’s due to some sort of architectural issue or the fucking audacity of it all is beyond him.
His chest feels tight, his eyes feel heavy, it’s like his skin is burning. Set on fire from the inside.
Glass houses with hollow people. Hollow houses with glass people. Paper-thin, easily broken, easily ripped apart. How he longs to see No. 6 crumble and fall.
How he longs to see the very thing that has caused so much pain and anguish to others collapse. How he wishes to see it be fucking ruined.
He should go. There is no point in him being here, lingering around what is surely about to be his grave, but he looks up. He looks up at the sky, at the dark clouds that trap him to the earth, and he blinks.
Then he hears a scream, and he smirks.
Perfect timing.
Yoongi is screaming.
Hands wrapped against the railing of his balcony, the rain hitting his skin like a million pins against him, the sound of the Moon Drop echoing his cries. Yoongi is screaming, loud and long, until his throat hurts and his voice cracks and he feels as if he’s being pulled apart; cell by cell, atom by atom, ripped into shreds until there is surely nothing left. Nothing left of the boy once called Min Yoongi. Nothing left at all.
He screams with the cries of the Moon Drop, pouring his heart and soul into the sound, pouring his entirety into it.
As the sound leaves his lips, he gasps for breath. His heart hammers so hard in his chest that it feels like it might rip itself from his body, trying to pound its way out from inside. The water licks at his skin, sticking to him like glue, leaving the flesh almost shining against the streetlights nearby.
Having everything leave him in a single sound is like popping a balloon; he can finally breathe, he can finally be himself in a world where he can do nothing but hide behind a mask. This mask is almost fully stitched to his skin now, pressing against his flesh until there is hardly a gap. Another scream rips through him, in time with the Moon Drop cry.
Yoongi takes a step back, slowing his breathing, trying to get himself to calm down if only just a little bit. His hands are cold, but the rain itself is warm. A tropical storm, his mother had said when he got in, make sure to keep the windows closed. Yet here he was, balcony doors thrown open and the papers inside of his room scattered, his report for school probably lost in the wind.
( Yet when Yoongi had looked at the picture, he didn’t think they could be dangerous at all. Now being faced with them, seeing them in person, he can believe the Bureau’s fear a little bit more than before. )
He’s faced with the same predicament now. Even as the rain seeps into his clothes, a warm shower and his bed mere metres away, he can’t help but stare at the person that is on his balcony with him.
Is he supposed to be afraid? Right now, it’s almost like he’s just breathless, heart pounding and a shiver settling into his skin quickly, tongue caught in his back teeth.
Head ducked, hand clutching a bleeding arm, legs shaking. Dressed in loose clothes that stick to their frame as the water drenches them.
Yoongi can’t focus. Yoongi can’t breathe. Yoongi can’t do anything other than stare.
What does he say to this? What does he do? He knows the protocol, he knows what he should do; the tablet on his wall, the one attached to the home system, is only a few feet away. He should report the V.C. on his balcony. He should tell the Bureau. That’s what’s expected of him. That’s what they asked of him. That’s the law.
His socks are wet, and so are the rest of his clothes, making everything stick to his skin, leaving an awfully uncomfortable feeling. He went out without his shoes on. Funny how that’s the thought at the front of his mind at that moment.
“I--” He reaches forward, hand outstretched, but it’s as if the person is a spirit, moving faster than is physically possible, knocking him inside of his room and slamming a hand against his throat.
“Be quiet,” the person - certainly not a spirit judging by the warmth of his hand and the stickiness of the blood that now stains Yoongi’s skin - hisses low in a whisper. Breath warm against Yoongi’s cheek, eyes so dark that he feels as if he’s staring into some sort of pit. He gulps, an action difficult to do at this point. “Not a word.”
Yoongi presses his lips together, blinking slowly, trying to not move too much. Like an animal trapped in a cage, a deer caught in headlights, as if the slightest movement will lead to him having his throat ripped out by this stranger’s bare hands. He doesn’t know what he wants from him, he doesn’t know what the V.C. is even doing in his room but it’s an undeniable fact that he is. And if he doesn’t report him, he’s going to get in more trouble than he could even admit. Breathless, goosebumps smothering his skin, Yoongi feels like this must surely be his closest brush with death.
He could die right here. This stranger could kill him, he can feel it, and he would be utterly powerless to do anything about it. His hands and feet have pins and needles, almost going numb, when the monitor next to them starts to ring.
His mother.
“I have to answer it--”
“I said be quiet--”
“--my mother. She’ll come in if I don’t.”
It’s an almost-plea, perhaps trying to appeal to this stranger’s better nature, or rather to convince him that it’s better for them both if he answers. There is a moment, a pause. Whether it be of hesitation or deliberation, Yoongi can’t be certain, but he knows it certainly means something, considering the other lessens his grip the slightest bit and nods his head at him. That’s all the invitation Yoongi needs to tap against the screen with the knuckle of his forefinger, starting the call with, “Hey, mom.”
“Is your window open, Yoongi?”
“Oh, my window?” He feigns ignorance to buy himself more time to breathe; he feels as if his chest is being crushed under the largest weight. “Yeah, I opened it just a little for some fresh air. I couldn’t think.”
“Please close it soon,” she sounds exasperated; he doesn’t blame her. “You’ll get sick. Plus, we still don’t know if the V.C. is in the area.”
Mother, he knows where the V.C. is. He’s standing with his hand wrapped around his throat, readying to kill him in an instant.
“Of course, I’m sorry.”
“Would you like me to bring some cake to your room?”
There is a flash of something in the other’s eyes, something that Yoongi cannot quite describe. All he knows is that it’s something cold, reminding him of steel, the same substance of the walls of the city. It’s icy. It makes him feel like he’s being stared at by a predator.
“It’s alright, I’ll come get some once I finish this report.”
“Alright. Work hard, Yoongi.”
The call ends with a quiet beep, but the V.C. doesn’t move. Like a statue, he remains still, unmoving, waiting for the best moment to strike and perhaps tear Yoongi’s throat out. It’s like dealing with a feral animal, unable to predict their movements, unable to know when the moment they’re going to lock its jaws in your flesh and tear you limb from limb, until there is nothing but bone and muscle. Nothing at all.
“I can treat you,” he whispers, catching the attention of the other once again. “You’re bleeding. I can fix it.”
“You’re a kid, what can you do?”
The accusation in their voice - in his voce - bleeds out almost more than the wound does. Yoongi tries to push through it, determined to lend a helping hand even if it means going against the city. So much for pledging your allegiance, whatever the hell that means anymore. “I’ve done classes. I have medical supplies. At least let me try.”
This time, it is unmistakably hesitation. A deep breath, one that makes the stranger’s chest puff up and his shoulders rise and a wince to cover his features before he relents, slowly pulling his hand away and allowing Yoongi the freedom to breathe properly.
“Come on, it’s in my closet.”
“You think we can both fit in your closet?”
Yoongi walks over to the other side of the room, taking off his wet socks as he does so, throwing them in the laundry hamper that rests against the wall, sliding open the doors to his closet. He wouldn’t like to say that his room is necessarily extreme - it’s pretty simple - but he can recognise that it’s certainly bigger than most would have, the only thing that has made them deserving of it being Yoongi’s test results. That’s all.
If he’s ever dropped from the Gifted program… he doesn’t want to think about it.
Inside, it’s mostly shelves filled with trophies he won when he was younger, and drawers and rails of clothes, a majority of which he’s never worn. They don’t feel like they’re his. Something about them is stiff, strange, not at all what he’s used to.
But thankfully, he has a medkit here, and that medkit could be the very thing that has saved his life at this point.
Not just his, but perhaps this stranger’s life too.
“Just in here,” Yoongi keeps talking, trying to fill the air and stop anything from becoming awkward. lips pressed together, mouth dry, too anxious to go up and grab the cup of staling coffee that remains at his desk. The lights are soft, meaning that most of the features from the stranger are hidden , but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel his glare digging into his back like a pair of knives. “What happened to cause you to get injured?”
“I got shot,” he answers, voice practically monotone.
“But I thought only the Hunting Club had access to firearms,” Yoongi muses aloud, but that is soon interrupted by a sharp bark of laughter.
It’s him. He’s laughing. “I mean, it’s not far off from hunting, I suppose,” his voice turns sinister, colder than before, if such a thing was possible. “Though perhaps it’s just humans hunting other humans.”
“But they could have killed you.”
“That’s kind of what they want.”
Such a concept is unfamiliar to him at the very least. He moves silently over to one of the drawers in the closet, picking up the box from where it has remained since he got it, trying to muster up his courage before he does so. He struggles for a moment, hands shaking that little bit more than usual, uncertain in so many of his actions right now that it is almost as if he’s going against his very nature. He takes a second, he takes a second before he turns back to look at him, offering a small smile. “You wanna sit?”
The stranger raises a brow at him, only to sit down, legs crossed but hand still holding onto his arm. Blood has seeped through his fingers now, coating his skin and staining the groves of his knuckles, jaw clenched, whether out of discomfort of the situation or pain, he can’t quite tell. Yoongi can see how his teeth grit together in the way that he gulps and swallows; maybe it’s nerves, maybe it’s pain.
Yoongi presses the button on the medkit, its lid popping open with a quick hiss of air, everything clean and disinfected. Spotless, even. He uses some of the spray to disinfect hands too, making sure to get between his fingers and up to the delicate bones of his wrists, picking up a pair of scissors. “I’ll have to cut the sleeve in order to access the injury.”
A tilt of his head to contribute to the raised brow. As if he cannot believe Yoongi at this moment, as if he cannot believe his tone, or his choice of words, or perhaps what he wants to do. However, he doesn’t fight it, instead slowly moving his hands down, his grip going slack. The material of his shirt is red, dark and grotesque when thinking about its origins, and it looks almost brown under the warm light in Yoongi’s closet. Yoongi himself takes a deep breath, trying to keep that smile on his face, though whether it is to comfort himself or the stranger is yet to be found out.
“Why are you helping me?” The stranger asks, Yoongi’s fingers pinching the sleeve of his shirt as he cuts the end of it, removing it right at the top of his shoulder so he has better access to the wound. “You don’t even know my name.”
“You don’t know mine,” Yoongi says, but he catches sight of the smile on his face when he says that.
“It’s Yoongi, isn’t it?” The stranger beams. “Your mother said it.”
“That’s right,” is it bad he sounds almost a little deflated? “So, what’s yours?”
“Jimin,” he answers, looking down at the way Yoongi finally removes that part of his shirt, putting it into a small metal bin. He admits it a lot easier than Yoongi had anticipated. “But people also call me Rat.”
“Rat?” Yoongi echoes; the word feels a little bitter on his tongue. Almost too harsh, almost too uncomfortable. “...can I just call you Jimin?”
“That’s why I told it to you.”
Yoongi makes short work of cleaning the wound, making sure the skin around it is clear of all of the blood in case there is any sort of debris that could enter and make things worse. It's deep enough for blood to still be trickling out, no doubt due to the fact it's been disturbed and whatnot, but it looks like he got clipped, as opposed to something going into the body and staying in there.
Like a bullet. A bullet is what would have gone into Jimin's body, a bullet would have stuck between the flesh and the bones and the muscle, making it awfully difficult to be removed.
At least he doesn’t have to fish for a bullet. The thought of doing so makes him feel a little green.
He bites his tongue. This whole thing is strange, this whole interaction is stranger than he would even begin to care to admit, but that doesn't mean he's going to stop. He has no reason to.
Well, that's a lie. A blatant one, perhaps one he's not quite willing to admit to himself, but Yoongi has a choice here. Or rather, he had a choice. Maybe that's been pulled away from him, maybe he's lost that by even going this far.
If that's the truth, at this point, it doesn't matter to him. He's made his bed, he may as well lie in it with all the confidence and all of the bravery he had when inviting the V.C. into his home instead of doing what was expected of him. He pledged his allegiance to the city, he pledges his allegiance every day, yet here he is, disobeying an order by sitting in his closet with a bleeding boy who won't stop staring at him with his dark eyes.
Dark, dark eyes that have Yoongi convinced that they've seen something that nobody their age should have to see.
He could ask. But right now, he wants to make sure Jimin isn't going to bleed out on his floor. Now that really would be something difficult to explain.
Yes, mother, not only did he allow a V.C. in his room because he left the window open, he tried to treat him for a wound, only to fail and end up with a dead body in the middle of his closet. Whoops.
"I think you're going to need stitches. Here," he presses some gauze to the wound, watching as Jimin scrunches his nose in discomfort. "Hold that there for a moment."
"Like you know how to do stitches," Jimin responds, rolling his eyes but still doing as he's told. His fingers press the gauze against the wound, the anti-coagulant must have gone by now, though even he has no knowledge on the practices of No. 6. What they do, why they do it—
Because they're monsters. That's the reason. Because they want to do nothing but cause pain for others, pain for people like him.
"Actually, I have a pretty good knowledge on how to do sutures," Yoongi looks through the medkit, grabbing a needle and a small bottle, carefully putting the needle itself into the liquid and drawing it up, filling the vial it is attached to. When he taps the nail of his index finger against it - to rid it of any air bubbles of course - Jimin visibly pales.
"What the fuck is that?"
Yoongi blinks at him, a little shocked at the sudden expletive. "Local anesthesia..." When Jimin just stares at him, he slumps a little. "I have to numb the area or else it's just going to hurt."
"It already hurts."
"But it'll make it hurt more!"
There is a huff, complete with a scowl on his already bored expression; there is an idle thought in Yoongi's mind that maybe he's already regretting his decision, maybe he wants to leave and get out of here before anything else can be done. Even if Yoongi is trying his best to stop the bleeding, to help the last person in the world that he should be helping.
Here, in the small space of Yoongi's closet, with carpet beneath them and warm lighting above, he never anticipated that he would be put into a situation such as this.
Yoongi begins to prep the needle, pulling on the pair of gloves that the medkit provided, making sure that everything was ready to seal Jimin's bullet wound. Deep breath. There's nothing for him to be afraid of. There's nothing for him to worry about. This is, at the very least, something that he tries to keep in mind.
What could go wrong when stitching the wound of a fugitive?
"Why are they looking for you?" He asks. Hoping that some sort of conversation will stop whatever emotional turmoil is beginning to build itself up inside of him. "Like... why were you—"
"Why was I a prisoner?"
"Where were you kept?"
"You have a lot of questions, don't you?" He has the slightest wince when the needle presses into his skin, Yoongi so mindful of what he's doing that he doesn't notice the subtle change in Jimin's expression. It doesn’t last too long though, that brief display of weakness. He stares back at him, equally as intrigued with him as Yoongi is with Jimin. "I can't answer all of them. I'd be here all night."
Lips drawn together, the tip of his tongue poking out the slightest bit, focusing whether on the flesh of Jimin's arm or picking only one question out of the hundreds he must surely have... Jimin hopes it's on his shoulder. He doesn't fancy some kid playing dot to dot with the small moles that cover his skin yet that seems he has no choice at this point. Yoongi is the only one stopping him from bleeding out, and even if he could make it out of No. 6, the hunters are more like bloodhounds; they would find him easy if he left a trail of blood behind him. If anything, he is sure they would revel in the fun of hunting a bleeding animal as opposed to a healthy one.
The pain, the thrill of it, the parts that make Jimin want to be sick, they find joy in that.
"It should be numb by now," Yoongi says instead, letting go of the million questions he has, instead allowing Jimin a few moments of peace and quiet before they go through the next part of the oh-so-delicate healing process. "It might feel a little uncomfortable, do you want to squeeze something?
An innocent question. From anybody else, he would appreciate the sentiment, the almost compassionate he can trick himself into believing.
Jimin shakes his head. He's dealt with far worse pain before.
“You have really tacky taste, you know that, right?”
Yoongi watches coffee drip from the machine’s spout into the cream-coloured mug, staining the side of the china before it stops with a rhythmic beep. Three times it sounds, to which he takes his cue and immediately takes it, careful in the way he holds it. Careful not to burn himself. “Mmhmm,” is all he says in response, placing another cup in place and pressing the start button once again. “Whatever you say.”
He earns laughter in response, combined with the subtle creek of floorboards as Jimin moves around where Yoongi’s bet sits. Ah, that makes sense. It must be the sweater.
He doesn’t pay too much attention to Jimin, to the way he seemingly likes to comment on almost everything he’s presented with like his critiques have been asked for. Yoongi tries not to pay too much attention to it, not wanting to pay too much attention to Jimin. If you reward a yowling kitten with head scratches, it is certain to seek more.
Jimin is, in this analogy, a yowling kitten licking its wound and being rather loud about it.
“It is pretty soft though.”
Yoongi smiles, “My friend’s grandmother made it. She’s really good at that kind of thing.”
“She sews clothes and you sew bullet wounds,” another snide comment from Jimin, combined with the sound of his mattress creaking as the other promptly dropped himself onto the bed with the loudest hum. “You two make a pretty good pair. Keep the lights off.”
The sudden request is… sudden, coming out of nowhere, but he makes no motion to go against what he’s been told, instead carefully stepping away from the coffee machine and trying to find his next destination.
“Stop being weird,” Yoongi heaves a sigh, walking up the few steps to the platform where his bed rests, holding out one of the cups of coffee to him. “Here.”
Jimin opens one eye before he sits up, reaching with both hands for the cup. “Smells good.” He takes a sip, just as Yoongi goes to warn him of the temperature, but he only swallows it with an almost serene smile on his face, eyes closing once again. “Mm… tastes good too.”
Oh. He’s kind of cute like this.
He doesn’t realise he’s staring until it’s too late, eyes soft as he leans against the barrier. It hasn’t quite dawned on him, the nature of the situation. Even in the darkness of his room, he can see the subtle details of his features. Fill lips with soft cheeks, small nose that’s slightly turned up at the end, eyes that look so… bored. So bored. Never quite matching the smile on his lips, never quite reacting the way one would expect.
Jimin doesn’t move for a while, not much anyway. Only just lifting the cup to his lips to sip more and more, Yoongi decides to do the same. His report, his school work, his responsibilities all remain abandoned in favour of watching the cute boy on his bed drink coffee from Yoongi’s favourite coffee cup.
Chest tight, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, dazed until Jimin finally meets his gaze.
“Have I got something on my face or what?”
Yoongi tries not to visibly recoil at the blunt sentence, only shaking his head with the tiniest squeak coming from his lips. “Sorry.”
“You’re weird, Yoongi,” Jimin comments idly, placing the now empty cup on Yoongi’s bedside table, screeching out on Yoongi’s bed once again, the hem of his shorts lifting above his knee and the sweater showing a sliver of tanned skin on his belly. “Who opens their balcony door for a fugitive, hm?”
“Shut up,” Yoongi grumbles, turning away as he feels a certain heat hit his cheeks.
“What were you doing out there, anyway?”
He tenses. “Nothing.”
Jimin laughs. “That’s a lie. You were screaming.”
“Shut up, Jimin.”
“It’s like you were deranged or something,” He cackles like a hyena, the sound not reaching his eyes, whatever joy that he’s experiencing in teasing Yoongi just that little bit. “I just want to know why.”
“Not your business,” Yoongi orders in a dull tone, hiding his expression by taking another sip of his coffee.
Jimin, however, doesn’t relent, not even the slightest bit. Instead, he pulls himself up onto his feet, grasping the railing of the platform, feet spread shoulder-width, taking in a sharp inhale. Then, just like that, he copies Yoongi’s screams from before.
Loud, shrill, echoing, Yoongi cannot help the way his face begins to burn so bright red at the sudden noise, at the way he’s being mocked. It’s embarrassing, it’s humiliating, and it takes all of the energy he has in him to surge forward, trying to nudge Jimin at the very most.
“Hey! Knock it off--”
The very second that his fingers brush against the material of the sweater, the one that Taehyung and his grandmother had given him for his birthday, the air is knocked out of him. It’s only with that delayed response does he release that Jimin’s fist has hit his torso, right where his diaphragm is, pulling the breath from his lungs and leaving him dazed. Before he can do much else, before he can even process what is happening, Jimin has moved, kicking Yoongi’s legs out from underneath him and pinning him on his stomach to the bed.
He can’t breathe. While his lungs can inflate and he can take in air and physically breathe, he’s stunned. Grasping a pen from Yoongi’s nightstand, Jimin holds the tip to the stretch of his neck, pulling his hair back while Jimin’s knee rests on his lower back, keeping him down. utterly pliant, utterly pacified. One hand in his hair, the one wrapped around his wrist. There is no point in him trying to fight him, trying to push himself up; Jimin is the stronger one in this situation.
After all, Yoongi is the one who let a V.C. into his room, treating his wounds and giving him coffee, it stands to reason he would end up like this.
“Slice,” Jimin says in a cold voice, drawing the nib of the pen against Yoongi’s neck. “You’re dead.”
“How did you do that?”
Jimin blinks, his brows furrowing. “...huh?”
Yoongi runs his tongue over his lips, “You displaced my center of gravity really well. Was it in the use of your weight against mine or the way you kicked my legs out work in your favour? And the punch to stun me--”
There is the slightest splutter, the slightest sound before Jimin dissolves into laughter, eyes closing and head thrown back, easily the biggest display of emotion that Yoongi has seen from him. The laughter continues, its owner moving off of Yoongi’s frame and lying down on the bed on his back. Still giggling.
“You’re so weird.”
“I know,” Yoongi whispers back, his nose scrunching. Jimin’s hand slips from his wrist to his palm, their fingers linking, and that’s when he notices. A frown overtakes his features, and he shifts closer, moving Jimin’s hair out of his face and pressing their foreheads together. “...you have a fever.” He sits back a little bit, resting his weight on his forearm.
“Mm,” Jimin’s eyes stayed closed, that smile still on his face, though it is very slowly beginning to shrink. The tension in his frame sinks away, as if he is sinking into the mattress, everything becoming a lot more lax than the few minutes before. “...guess I do.”
Yoongi swallows through the building lump in his throat. “I can get you some ibuprofen, you should take them.”
“No,” comes the immediate argument, his hand tightening around Yoongi’s, keeping him next to him. And Yoongi, well… he can’t help but stare. “I don’t care.”
“But you’re sick--”
“Just…” Jimin interrupts him again, shaking his head, holding Yoongi’s hand a little bit tighter. “...living people are so warm.”
Just like that, Yoongi relents. Instead of pressing on the subject, instead of asking for a million more answers to the million more questions he has, he lets it go. The racing of his heart slows down, and he watches as Jimin falls asleep, his breathing calm, and peace on his features for the first time since they have met.
Screaming on the balcony, crying with the Moon Drop, there are things that Yoongi would have expected, could have expected, but this is not it.
He knows he should have reported him - the Bureau said he was a threat, that he was dangerous and shouldn’t be approached, let alone taken care of - but now it’s too late. He’s definitely not about to throw a sleeping lamb to the wolves, though maybe Jimin is the wolf. Maybe Jimin is what he’s supposed to be afraid of.
Despite those things, despite the nature of Jimin’s origins, despite everything coming up as some huge red flag, Yoongi cannot find it in himself to even consider turning him in.
Yoongi isn’t sure when he fell asleep, but when he wakes up, Jimin is long gone.