#it still fucking sucks. have had like. 4 nosebleeds today

[running-in-the-dark]

ah. I just realised that the new antidepressant is probably also what's making my nose bleed more often (again). I knew it causes dry eyes and dry mouth so I looked it up and yeah. it can totally make your nose dry too. so at least that's that solved I guess lol

[youdontknowwheretogofromhere]

Tuesday, September 14, 2024 9:58

so, hi guys

i wasn’t gonna write anything today but i started thinking about my bf and got pissed off

on the toilet rn

so, I’m sorry i guess, i misremembered the conversation that upset me. but it pissed me off just thinking about it so i looked up the actual convo and this is what was said verbatim

(context: he told me he liked to romantically while we were flirting or something)

him: nooo i literally have romantic feelings for you so much

me: yesss i super super like you romantically

him: but like i really do, i wanna be with you

me: i thought we were already together (◎_◎;)

him: well not officially are we? i feel like if we were official we'd text more

you know now that i read this i feel a little dumb. I’m still mad tho cuz then when does it become official???? idk this is my first relationship and i thought “taking it slow” was code for a casual relationship but maybe I’m just a fucking idiot

anyways I’m. not mad at him cuz he just sent me a really sweet message today so :)))))

also i had to go to school today and almost passed out in first period. i had the worst fucking nosebleed of my life when my mom drove me to school it was awful. i had the pull out this blood clot that was like as long as my finger out of my nose and it kept breaking so i couldn’t breath. then my nose stopped bleeding but because I’m sick, i still had to blow my nose and when i did a giant thumb-sized clot landed on my grey shirt and it left a stain all day

it sucked. anyways, i’ve been sad the last couple of days because no one is picking up my calls

i only call 4 people, my mom, my sister, my brother, and my boyfriend. my brother never picks up anyway so idc about that. but i call my sister all the time and i feel like she only ever talks to me to complain about her problems but never listens when i talk and it makes me sad sometimes. and i told her about it and she was like “oh, okay.” then like stopped responding when i was talking and it felt like she was mad and we haven’t spoken since even though i text her every day. and my bf skipped our weekly call( its weekly cuz im tired after school so we call on the weekend) I’m not mad at though cuz he just told me he has some things going on in his life(didn’t specify) and he was like “ we’ll definitely call this week or next week, i’ll never forget you, i promise. “ and my heart was so warm. idk but it was very romantic to me

okay i have nothing else to complain about

maybe i’ll talk about good things. maybe if i feel happier. i’ve kind of been in a kind of miserable rut but like i don’t really give a shit. like I’m sad but it’s all in the background so i can laugh all the time and shit but be really

omg i got out of the bathroom and forgot i was writing this for like 20 minutes. i started eating a cooking. it’s now that good cuz it’s like bittersweet chocolate instead of just milk but

anyways, i love you. i will always love you. i hope you love me too

(ive played the game like 8 times and have never been to boom town lol”

10:35 pm

[hood-ex]

For the post about plot bunnies for short fic about Dick and Jason! 1) Dick and Jason going train-surfing before his death and after his return. 2) 1st time one of them got the other a birthday gift. 3) Jason finding out that Dick was the one who finally took down the memorial case in the Batcave and realizing his brother hated that thing as much as he did. 4) Bonding over ranting about Dad. 5) Jason lowkey trying to get Dick and Kory back together cuz he shipped them hard when he was younger.

@bigskydreaming​ These are all great prompts! I decided to take a whack at #2. I might write for some of the other prompts though. Anyways, hope what I wrote is somewhat satisfying lmao. 

Link to read on AO3

Jason’s so glad the 250 pound goon he was fighting earlier decided to leave him with a brand new spankin’ set of bruised ribs. Really, truly, he shouldn’t have given Jason such a nice gift for his birthday. The goon should’ve been embarrassed though. Giving Jason the same gift his dad used to give him? Tsk, tsk. Tactless.

Jason sucks in air through his teeth, mentally preparing himself for the pain, and then tries to sit up. He barely raises himself up three inches before sharp pain shoots up his torso and forces him to thunk back against the rooftop floor. Yeah, okay, he really doesn’t want to try that again.

This is just great.

He sighs. There’s nothing that says happy birthday quite like staring up at the smog that keeps him from seeing any of the stars he’d normally wish on or the fact that he’s probably lying on heaps of bird shit. Alfie is definitely going to give him the stink eye for the latter.

A shadow crosses over the corner of the rooftop. It doesn’t look distinctly Batman shaped.

Jason tenses and reaches for the smoke pellet in his belt. Normally he chooses fight over flight, but he doesn’t want to take any chances with his ribs this time. Creating a distraction and then using whatever adrenaline he can muster to get the hell away is probably the smartest decision. That’s what Batman would say, anyways.

Whoever is creeping around is being way too quiet. Goons don’t usually bother being quiet around Jason. They just see him as a small kid in a costume. An easy target. The whole Robin getup is good for creating that kind of misconception.

“Hey, shorty,” a somewhat familiar voice drawls right before a guy in a blue costume flips into Jason’s view.

Black hair. Plunging neckline. A collar somewhat akin to the cone of shame.

Nightwing.

Jason relaxes his muscles, relieved, and stares at Dick in surprise.

Dick’s got a big stupid grin on his face. The niceness of it is what throws Jason off. He’s still not used to people smiling at him and shit. He’s used to grins that are meant for mocking or that are sleazy and spell trouble. Dick Grayson’s grin is none of those things. His is all playful and good-intentioned. Something about it feels safe, and safe’s not something Jason feels a lot outside of the manor.

“Hey, Old-Timer,” Jason says, “fancy seeing you here.”

He suddenly remembers how much his ribs hurt when he tries to sit up again to see Dick better. He can’t help the small sound of pain he lets out as he settles back into his original position. God, bruised ribs are such a bitch.

Jason can’t see Dick’s eyes because of his mask, but he just knows Dick is looking him over from head to toe, mind probably tripping over itself to analyze Jason’s situation.

“You good?” Dick asks, already kneeling by Jason’s side.

“Oh, totally,” Jason says. He tries to adjust his position without hurting himself more. “Sometimes I just come up here by myself to stare at the smog. Just contemplating the rampant amount of pollution in the city—ow fuck. I don’t know if Bruce told you, but I’m an environmentalist first and Robin second. I’ve always been that way. Since the womb.”

Dick frowns and presses his fingers against Jason’s pulse point. “Have you been drugged?”

Jason smacks Dick’s hand away. “No, I haven’t been drugged! I got my ribs busted by some Hulk Hogan wannabe.”

“Ouch,” Dick winces in sympathy. “Been there, felt that.”

“Yeah, well, how about you give me a hand so I can stop rolling around in bird shit.”

The worried furrow in Dick’s brow melts away and is replaced by an amused grin. God, Jason needs to learn how to become immune to Dick’s stupidly genuine face. It’s stuff like that that makes it easy for Jason to see why Bruce has such a hard time letting Dick go. And if he’s honest with himself, he’s a little bit jealous that Dick can warm people over so easily. If Dick is the gooey middle of a s’more then Jason is the hard-coated graham cracker that takes a little time to chew through.

“I’m going to lift you up a bit and then I’m going to come under your arm so you can stand up, capeesh?” Dick says, moving just beside Jason’s right shoulder.

“Capeesh?” Jason grunts in pain as Dick levers him upwards. “Who are you? Uncle Jesse?”

While Jason’s torso is off the ground, Dick positions himself under Jason’s right arm and then quickly, but gently, helps Jason onto his feet. Jason squeezes his eyes shut and takes a few deep breaths while he waits for the pain to calm down.

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” Dick assures him softly, draping his arm over Jason’s shoulders.

If anyone asks, Jason totally does not lean into Dick for support, he does not. He just. Trips. Into Dick’s side. Yup. That’s what happens. The bird shit is witness to it.

“Would this be a bad time to tell you that I got you a birthday present?” Dick asks suddenly, taking Jason off guard.

“Birthday present? What birthday present? How did you know today’s my birthday?” Jason demands, leaning closer to Dick’s face so he can stare into Dick’s… eyelets.

Dick places a finger on Jason’s forehead and gently shoves him backward.

“O ye of little faith. Give me some credit. You think your big bro doesn’t know when your birthday is?”

Jason stares at him with a knowing look.

“Alfie told you, didn’t he?”

Even though he meant it lightheartedly, he’s a little surprised to see how Dick’s mouth tightens into a frown.

“B sure as hell didn’t,” Dick grouches in a tone Jason’s come to associate with Dick and Bruce’s yelling matches.

“Yeah,” Jason drawls, “I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.”

Dick’s expression levels back into a neutral look. “Right, yeah.” He gives Jason’s shoulder a squeeze as a silent apology. “So do you want your gift or not?”

Thank God for Dick’s ability to smoothly change the subject.

“You know you’re not supposed to ask stupid questions in the field,” Jason says in mock horror. Dick makes a bitch face at him and Jason cackles. “Too bad Poison Ivy isn’t around to give you some aloe for that sick burn!”

Dick stares at him before walking towards the edge of the roof.

“Wait!” Jason says, quickly snagging Dick by the wrist. His ribs only scream a little bit, but honestly, who’s paying attention to that kind of thing when the person with his present is about to disappear into the night. “Fine, fine, fine. I’ll stop being a brat. Although, for the record, you’re an asshole for even pretending to leave me all alone with my busted ribs.”

Dick’s stupid grin makes a reappearance.

“An asshole and a brat walk into a bar—”

“Shut up,” Jason says, shoving Dick away from him. “Are you going to make me stand up here for eternity or can we get to the whole gift-giving thing.”

Jason’s not sure what he expects the gift to be. From what he knows, Dick’s not exactly rolling in money, so he doesn’t expect it to be something as extravagant as what he received earlier in the day. Alfred gave him six new books and also made him a buffet of breakfast food. Then Bruce had given him a new bookcase for his room, an insanely gaudy watch Jason doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do with, and an entire set of baseball equipment for him to play with in the yard.

Compared to his other birthdays, the gifts he got this year are almost too much to comprehend. Hell, the price of the watch alone will probably be enough to put him through college. The gifts are nice but… overwhelming. Honestly, Jason doesn’t think he deserves shit that nice. It’s not like he can refuse them, though. It’ll make him sound like an ungrateful little snot, and Jason doesn’t want to give Bruce that impression at all.

“I’ve only been in your room once,” Dick says as he pops open a compartment on his glove, “and I saw a Poison Idea poster over your bed. So—” he brandishes two blue rectangular pieces of paper in front of Jason.

Eyes wide, Jason snatches them from Dick’s hand. “Holy shit—”

“I got you two tickets to their concert,” Dick finishes with a smile.

Jason stares at the tickets and reads the print on them over and over again. Hands shaking, he throws his arms above his head, ignoring the sharp pain it causes.

“Shut the fuck up! No way! No waaay, dude!” he chatters. He grabs onto Dick’s arm and shakes it in excitement. “You’re not allowed to be this cool! Dude, what? Are these real?”

Dick’s sudden laughter only fuels more excitement in Jason’s chest. He shoves at Dick again.

“Don’t even tell me these are good seats, dude. Like. These are nosebleed seats or something, right?”

“Nosebleed?” Dick squawks indignantly. “These are VIP tickets! You get access to the venue before general admission and you get to meet the band backstage.”

“What!” Jason yells, genuinely shaking now. “Di—Nightwing! Are you serious?”

Dick laughs again and grabs onto Jason’s shoulders to squeeze them. “Yes, I am completely serious.”

There’s a feeling in Jason’s chest that he’s not sure how to describe. It’s a weird mixture of excitement and gratitude and… awe. It’s something he only feels rarely. Kind of like the first time he went out as Robin or like the time he got to work with the Titans. Special moments like that.

Jason reads the print on the tickets one last time, unwilling to vocalize just how touched he is that Dick’s given him such a personalized gift. He didn’t expect to get anything from Dick at all. Hell, he didn’t even expect a phone call, knowing how busy Dick is. And now that Dick’s given him one of his favorite gifts he’s ever gotten, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Doesn’t know how to act.

All he can think of is to extend his fist and to blurt out a quick, “Thanks.”

Luckily for him, Dick’s had a lot of time to adapt to emotionally inept people. Dick extends his own fist and bumps it against Jason’s.

“No problem. Happy birthday, Little Wing.”

Notes:

I don’t know if any of you have ever hurt your ribs before, but I’ve bruised mine, and trying to move was a bitch. My mom had to help me sit up because it was too painful to bend my torso. I don’t know why in fics people constantly break the batfam’s ribs and then have them running around like it’s no big deal. So that’s why Jason is like I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up.

In comics, Robin Jason called Dick “Old-Timer” and Dick called Jason “shorty” and “Little Wing”. So I incorporated that into the story.

Jason referring to Dick as Uncle Jesse is a reference to the TV show Full House. On the show, Uncle Jesse asks “capeesh?” a lot when he’s talking to his nieces or sons.

Poison Idea is an actual band that Jason used to like when he was Robin. In comics, he had a Poison Idea poster on his wall and I thiiink he might of also had a shirt with their name on it. So yeah. Jason is a punk rock bitch.

[mypassionfortrash]

Do More of What Scares You (Part 13)

You're shocked to find out how Roger's been living since you left him - and since the end of Queen's American tour. But you're also determined to find a way to bring your relationship back from the brink. Will it work? 💡Catch up: 1&2 ~ 3&4 ~ 5&6 ~ 7&8&9 ~ 10&11 ~ 12💡

Notes: Thank you so much for reading! This is the penultimate chapter of this, with the final chapter going up tomorrow. It’s also the first Queen fic I’ve ever finished... it’s only taken me ten bloody months! How will it end? It's anyone's guess! Enjoy.

Roger resembled nothing of the man you fell for. His once vibrant blue eyes were weighed down by dark purple bags; his grown-out dye job left him with matted, unwashed tresses topped with inch-thick roots and his pyjamas hung around his frame like a sack. He was always lean, but now, he looked like a gust of wind could topple him. Standing in his doorway, he swayed with determination to keep his eyes off of you as he uttered a feeble, almost inaudible: “What’re you doing here?”

You sucked in some air, feeling the pressure of the words you needed to say threaten to choke you. The trembling wasn’t far behind.

Roger contorted his face into a scowl that twisted with every second of hesitation.

“I-” you began. The words stung. You couldn’t get them out. 

“I don’t want to see anyone right now.” 

The scene unravelled in slow motion. The door was a mere inch from being slammed in your face before you caught up.

“Wait!” you piped up, thrusting your foot between the door and the frame. “Jim came to see me.”

Roger stretched the gap in the door again - enough for one tired, sunken eye to peer out. His voice was still obscured by a sheet of oak. “I need a break. From Queen. It’s not good for me. I can’t see you right now.”

”I don’t know why I’m here,” you implored. “I thought things were getting easier since I got back. But it’s been hell.”

Roger emerged from his house, on to his porch for the first time in weeks. He sagged against the wall and folded his arms. He gawked at his feet. He gnawed at his lip. 

You couldn’t be certain whether he was grasping anything you said or simply bolstering himself against the autumnal nip in the air.

“I thought I was ok. And then Jim showed up,” you continued, your tone softening. “And I don’t even know how I got here. That’s the worst part of all this! I guess I just wanted to make sure you’re ok.” Your speech faltered. “I still care about you, even if…”

Roger peered at you through his lashes, through you. “Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“And you’re starting to sound like me. That’s no way to live, Roger.”

Roger’s shoulders softened as he pulled his focus back to you.

“Can I come in?” you asked.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

Roger trailed off as you swept past him and into his home. Wandering through the dim, dusty hallway, you recalled him mentioning that a maid would visit him twice a week when he was here. However, judging by the stench of mouldering rubbish that permeated the place, that hadn’t happened recently. The living room was a splendid space, tastefully furnished and filled with photos of Queen in their heyday, and Roger’s mother and his sister, and pop culture posters neatly framed and hung from the dark crimson walls. Ornate gold lamps lit the high-ceilinged room and illuminated the flecks of dust that danced around you as you ventured further into Roger’s personal cesspit. He had made a nest on the plush looking sofa in the centre of the room; a bundle of blankets and books sat on the soft leather seats, and empty bottles of wine and pizza boxes lay strewn on the floor around it. This was the spot where he whiled away the weeks since the tour, trapped inside his head.

The scene made your soul ache and a numbness claw at your bones as your brain bleated on about how you did this. You were to blame. 

Roger stood in the doorway, fumbling with his hands as he witnessed you getting to grips with how he had been living.

“I did some shopping today,” you croaked. “I can cook something if you like? While you clean yourself up.”

“What’s the point?”

“Because we need to talk, and I don’t want you to be alone.”

Roger sighed and stopped his anxious handwringing. “Ok.”

You moved closer, trying your hardest not to startle him. “Take a shower. Take as long as you need,” you said, pushing your fingers through his hair and down his chin. “I’ll tidy this place and fix you something to eat. You look like you’re starving.”

———————————————————

Egg and chips.

Two plates of egg and chips sat on opposite sides of Roger’s dining room table as you paced the length of the room, waiting for him to join you. You wracked your brain for something to say to him. Something to make it all better for both of you.

None of this was your fault.

You repeated it over and over again above the crippling fear that, actually, you were to blame. You wrestled with your brain to convince yourself otherwise.

The door creaked open, interrupting the conversation your brain had with itself.

Roger slipped inside. He had changed into another t-shirt and another pair of pyjama bottoms; both drowned him. He folded in on himself as he took his seat the table. But at least he didn’t stink. You could bow to the urge to give him a cuddle without the possibility of vomiting over him. That was a start.

Sitting down at your food, your stomach growled. And yet you lacked the strength to pick up your cutlery. As soon as you had them in your grasp, your fingers let go. It was like they weighed a ton.

Roger, on the other hand, was ravenous, wordlessly devouring his food, but at the same time, getting no pleasure from it. It was just a function to keep him from dying. Nothing else. He kept his eyes on his plate.

“Are we going to be ok?” you asked.

He winced in response.

“Because I miss you.”

Roger put down his knife and fork and hardened his posture. “You left me.”

“I felt like I had to. I didn’t think there was any way out. You hurt me.”

“I know,” Roger grimaced. Then he finally looked at you. “And I’m never going to forgive myself for that.”

“We need to find a way to move on. Either together or apart. Because this-” you began, swinging your hand in his direction, “isn’t sustainable. For either of us.”

“I just needed time to think straight.”

“But you’re not going to find any answers festering here on your own. And I don’t want to go back to going out on awkward dates, or having my friends try to set me up with people who don’t even understand me. It’s humiliating. I don’t want it.”

Roger’s eyes glossed over. He enveloped his arms around his torso, clawing at the hairs on the underside of one of them. “You’ve been on dates since…”

You nodded. “Alex set me up with her boyfriend’s brother. Dragged me out to some Greek place last night. All three of them were a nightmare,” you explained. A scowl flitted over your features as you recalled the rest. “He works in finance. What a fucking catch.”

“How did it go?”

“How’d you think it went? I climbed out the bathroom window and legged it home.”

Roger smiled for the first time in weeks. An innocent, childish smile. “That sounds like something you’d do.”

You shook your head at the thought of the stunt you pulled. “Do you know, I never once felt like that with you?”

“That’s because I never worked in finance, so I’m not fucking boring.”

“Touché,” you giggled, settling back into your chair. “Touché.”

The air between the two of you grew cold again as that line of conversation died. You and Roger searched for something else to say. Something kind, or familiar.

“How was the rest of the tour?” you asked.

Roger exhaled with a pained laugh. Then he shuffled forward. “On or off stage?”

“Both.”

“Fucking awful. I don’t remember any of it. I can’t even remember how I got home - I just woke up here at the end of it all with a headache and a nosebleed.”

“Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?”

Roger shook his head. “S’just what happened.”

“You know you’re supposed to be in Munich tomorrow?”

“You know people jump off the roof of that fucking recording studio? How depressing is that? I can’t spend four fucking months holed up in there.”

“Jim’s worried.”

“He should be. There’s too much out there. I might…”

“What are you saying, Roger?” you asked, leaning in.

“I’m saying, I don’t want to go there while I’m in this state.”

“But the label-”

“Fuck the label.”

“Maybe we should just focus on getting you in a better headspace.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Both of us… in a better headspace.”

Roger nodded.

“It’s not going to be easy. But we need to talk about it,” you continued. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach at the lightning speed of your conversation. You and Roger - finally together and singing from the same hymn sheet.

“What do you want out of all this?” Roger asked.

“I want to feel better. And to have you back.”

“Would you really have me back? After everything?”

“In a heartbeat.”

—————————————————————————

“I don’t think I’ve ever slept over at yours,” you mumbled, attaching yourself to Roger to block out the sunrise slicing into Roger’s bedroom through the curtains.

“Hm?” he purred. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and pulled you even closer. “Hopefully we can do this more often.”

“I’d like that.” Your fingers curled through the soft smattering of hair on his chest as it rose and fell steadily. “Are you going to Munich?”

His movements stilled. “I’m tired of it. Everything… I’m just glad to have you back.”

“There’s still a lot we need to work on, though. You know that.” The wires in your mind untangled as you thought all of this through. Maybe he was right. Maybe going to Munich wasn’t a good idea.

“What was that?” Roger asked.

“What was what?”

“If you don’t want me to go to Munich, then I totally agree with you.” 

You were completely unaware that you had verbalised your inner monologue, but you could hear the smile behind Roger’s words. “Did I just say that out loud?” you giggled. “I just don’t want you throwing all of this away for me,” you continued, rolling on top of him. “I made you happy once. But if you decide to abandon this - if you get tired of us - what’s to say you’re not going to resent me for it? That’s all I’m saying.”

He hummed in response while his calloused fingers rubbed contemplative circles over the small of your back. “The parties would have to stop, for starters. And I just… don’t want to go to fucking Munich. All there is is cocaine and strippers and those god awful clubs. And touring’s a fucking drag these days anyway. We’re getting old. Due a rest.”

“Maybe not now, but you’re going to have to go at some point. Your friends are relying on you for some drums,” you grinned, slapping his chest.

“Mmmm,” Roger sighed, flopping his head back down on to the pillow. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

“You don’t have to go to the strippers. Or the clubs. Or snort all the coke under the sun.”

“No coke. No clubs. No strippers. Got it.”

“Have you apologised to Freddie?”

Roger groaned.

“He’s your best mate.”

“He’s my best mate who left my girlfriend for dead outside one of those seedy little knocking shops. If anything, I think he owes both of us an apology.”

“But he was so kind to me, otherwise. And I don’t think it was his fault. You know how he gets carried away. And I’m a bit of a flake on nights out. You know what I’m like.”

“When I see him again, I’ll make sure he apologises to you.”

You rolled your eyes and prodded his chest: “Roger…”

He fluttered his lashes, looking down at you and acting oblivious. “Yes, my love?”

“Please?”

“Oh, alright!” He huffed, squeezing you in his arms. “But can we agree on one thing?”

“What?”

“Munich’s out the window until further notice?”

You nodded, burrowing your face into Roger’s chest. You missed this. “Can we just stay like this for a bit?”

“How do you feel about a holiday? Just the two of us? Where no one can bother us?”

You glanced up at him, feeling a wave of excitement course through your body. It made your heart thud. “Where to?”

“Anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“We could get on a plane in an hour and go anywhere.”

“But I haven’t even packed a suitcase,” you giggled, getting on to your knees.

“That’s the beauty of it.”

You sighed. Not a pained, exacerbated sigh, no. This was a content, over the moon sigh. The kind of sigh you might give when everything just falls into place and you just go along without a care in the world. Fuck your job. Fuck your friends. Fuck the life that had beaten you down for so long. 

It was time to take a risk - a bigger one than ever before.

“What do you say?” Roger grinned, squeezing your hips. “Anywhere you want.”

——————————————————————————————

The last time you found yourself inside an airport, you could barely navigate your way through it. Your body was so wracked with sorrow, guilt and shame.

But now, every thing was ok. Roger clutched your shaky, sweaty hand and led you out on to the tarmac where a private plane waited. 

The pair of you were bound for the south of France, but who knew where you’d end up? No plan, no luggage, no worries.

All that mattered was that Munich was on the back-burner. You wouldn’t have to go on any more forced, awkward dates. And you and Roger could finally be together in peace for a while.

Fuck everything else.

[baepsaetan]

Inkarnate

Summary: Hoseok is a film student looking for muse, and Yoongi is a tattoo artist looking for money. When they meet, the two find that they could give each other far more than creativity and cash, but soulmate isn’t spelled p.e.r.f.e.c.t, and Yoongi’s tattoos cover up more than just his skin.

Chapters:  pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7, pt.8, pt.9, pt.10, pt.11  -> read on Ao3

Genre: Soulmate! AU, Angst

Warnings: Smut, main character death, swearing, implied alcoholism, implied past abuse, seriously a lot of angst, cancer.

Length: 8k

A/N: Another one! Already! Ideally this frequent posting will become a Thing but if we’re being honest Maybe Not. Still, hope some people have a chance to read this! Also shout out to @samwithham​! It really has been a hot second, but I’m grateful you’re still reading <3 

---

The last short finishes with a melancholic flourish that’s a little campy but still effective, and applause fills the theatre. Unlike at normal showings, there’s no immediate mass exodus; almost everyone stays to watch the credits, and even as they roll to a close, only a few people drift out. A low murmur arises from the crowd, and Hoseok hears snatches of opinions on the piece.

“Can you believe he said that?”

“… still caught me by surprise. I liked the depiction of family as…”

“Weren’t you crying? I thought…”

They wash over him, and he drowns in the ideas and impressions bleeding their vivid colours into existence even after the film is done. It doesn’t matter that the lights are coming on, that the screen is black, that people are slowly finding their feet and their car keys and getting ready to leave. There’s something comforting about his satisfaction, something tangible and unquestionable and honest, and Hoseok wants to bury himself in that emotion until he can’t see or feel anything else, forever.

He wants to, but he can’t.

During the presentations of the films, especially as they’d gotten into it, he’d managed to submerge himself in the experience, yet now that it’s over, Hoseok is drained, exhausted. Yoongi had kept hold of his hand for most of it, they’d eventually banished the arm rest and curled up together, and if the artist had dozed off once or twice during the four hour showing, well, Hoseok isn’t in the mood to hold it against him. At least he’s awake now, watching the black screen with a furrowed brow that makes Hoseok think he might be creating some tattoos off of what they’ve seen.

Hoseok eventually rises from his seat, unexpectedly stiff, and Yoongi is much worse, cursing and standing up so slowly he may as well have claimed a senior’s discount. Watching the grumbling sight, against his inclination Hoseok smiles.

“Such an old man,” he comments gently.

“That’s not what you said last night,” Yoongi replies, and laughs at the instant flood of red across the face of the other man, the quick glance to see if anyone heard.

Once he’s sure there’s no one within earshot, Hoseok relaxes, though he’s not necessarily keen on keeping up this line of conversation. Not in public, anyways. As they file for the exit, he asks, “What was your fave? Film, I mean.”

Yoongi pauses by the garbage at the entrance and throws out the wad of Kleenex he’d shoved into his pocket when his nosebleed had ended, a few minutes into the first film. “The one with the girl who gets lost,” he replies. “Though it’s fucking bullshit she never finds her way out.”

Hoseok chucks away the now-empty bag of candy that his boyfriend had impatiently refused every time it had been offered. Remembering the picture Yoongi’s talking about – the editor had gone crazy with the light filtering, but the tracking shots were gorgeous – Hoseok frowns. “You’re calling the ending bullshit but it’s your fave?”

A shrug. “I think we’re supposed to be pissed off about it. Mad no one helped her or something. It being bullshit is the point.”

That… is deeper than he’d expected Yoongi to go, and Hobi probably shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. It’s not like his boyfriend isn’t a thoughtful person – not in the least, actually – but he tends to get impatient trying to explain what he means, and it isn’t often he sounds so calmly certain about a point he’s trying to make. And Hoseok finds himself agreeing. There had been something demanding about the end of the short, about the way the camera spiralled away in an ever widening shot, something that asked why she was left standing alone in that barren space.

“Didn’t look at it like that, but I think you’re right,” Hoseok says quietly, and can’t quell the swell of guilt that washes over him. Had Yoongi been able to see it so clearly because he feels equally abandoned?

The other man glances at him, eyebrow raised. “I’m glad a soon-to-be famous film director agrees with my theory. Maybe I should publish a thesis paper or something.” Sardonic, but lightly so, and Hoseok may or may not be imagining the searching concern hidden behind that sarcastic gaze.

“You can put my name on it, if you want.” Hoseok smiles as he says it, but turns away from the worry his conscience might be making up. If he’s right – if any of the thoughts skittering through his head are right – it isn’t Yoongi who should be looking at him with that veiled compassion. If he’s right, he thinks his heart might just break under such a look.

“I’ll take you up on it,” the tattooist promises. “Until then… what was your fave, Mr. Expert?”    

Did he even have one? It’s not that he can’t remember them all individually, but it’s as though Hoseok had tried so hard to submerse himself in the films that he had accidentally pushed too hard against them, smudged the colours and details of their wet-paint newness into a blur. There’s nothing that truly stands out, and that’s… well, that’s just a shame.

“They were all so good. I’m not surprised any of them were included in the festival.”

Head ticking to the side, Yoongi sucks on his spit, opens his mouth, seems to think better of it. He looks down as they push their way through the doors and out into the early evening, his hands crumpling the beanie he’d taken off long ago into a tight ball before shoving it into his hoodie pocket. From the corner of his eye Hoseok catches him chewing on the inside of his cheek, the motion almost savage. Throwing up a hand to shield from the sudden sun, eventually the artist mumbles, “I just – I hope you enjoyed it, yeah?”

“Of course!” The reply is immediate, fervent, because Hoseok can’t bear the tentative way he asks that question. “Especially – man, that you thought of me at all. That you got the tickets for me. That’s so cool, Yoongs.”

The other man relaxes. “Well, like I said, they were free. Really wasn’t much.” That had been such a relief the first time Hoseok heard it, and even hearing it again has him sighing gratefully. He knows Yoongi doesn’t have money to spare – he makes a respectable amount tattooing, but almost everything goes into the rent for Born Tiger – and the thought of him paying had put Hoseok’s throat in knots. At least Yoongi had set that straight during the first intermission between showings.

It suddenly occurs to Hoseok that he knows that Yoongi isn’t lying about getting the tickets for free. Knows, not assumes or believes. It’s like knowing a fact is true because he’s seen it for himself. Where does that certainty come from? Where did–

He jerks his thoughts to a hard stop. He’ll figure it out, one way or another, but for now… for now Yoongi is watching him with gentle, tired affection, and if his eyes are bruises and his skin too blanched, at least he looks happy. Hoseok would do a hell of a lot more than play dumb to keep that expression in place, if only for a little while longer. They stop a little way down the street, keep out of everyone’s way. “You wanna get something to eat?”

Yoongi considers that for a moment, but eventually shakes his head. “I don’t want to take too much of your time – it’s already cool you agreed to spend some time with me today.”

“Y’know, I’m not a celebrity just yet. It’s not like my time is worth gold or anything.”

“Nah,” Yoongi replies with a wry twist of his lips, “just worth something else. Let me start paying you?” Then he reaches over, catches at the back of Hoseok’s neck, and Hoseok is already grinning at the familiar joke, but his smile becomes softer under his boyfriend’s mouth.

This kiss is quiet, almost too timid, so he throws his arms around the other man, pulls him closer, anything to cement their contact. His boyfriend responds with a low hum, the sound a reverberation of appreciation that pulses through Hoseok’s bones, replaces his marrow with a contentment that’s too airy to hold the weight of everything else. But – for a moment, it can manage. And it does, as they break off and Yoongi presses his face against Hoseok’s chest, though not quickly enough to hide the expression on his face, so tender it appears a mere breath from falling apart. Tightening his arms around the small man’s shoulders, as though that alone could hold them both together, Hoseok kisses the top of Yoongi’s head. Was there a way, some magic of filmography he hasn’t found yet, to extend this moment forever? Not freeze it like a photograph, but just… keep it going, keep all the affection and warmth and the way the sun burnishes Yoongi’s blonde hair into feathery gold?  

“I love you,” Hoseok murmurs, and for once there’s no anxiety in those words, no uncertainty or fear of rejection. He and Yoongi – together, like this – is so right. Maybe only for a minute or a moment, but for as long as it lasts, he can close his eyes and feel that rightness like music in his ears, like honey on his tongue, like a shot of some view you’d climbed miles to see.

For a long time, there is simple quiet in response, but Hoseok is aware of Yoongi’s shoulders trembling as he struggles to draw in breath after breath. Eventually the artist clears his throats, whispers shakily, “Yeah. I love you too, Hobi… so much,”

They stay as they are for several minutes, secure, linked by touch and something so much heavier, something Hoseok can’t name. Eventually though, Yoongi stirs in his arms, eases himself away. His mouth is a reluctant slash when he looks up, but nonetheless he says, “We should go. You got too much shit to do to be standing around.”

In more ways than one, he’s right. Hoseok can hardly think about the various project deadlines and exams coming up in the next two weeks, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. And besides, if he’s actually going to make himself go through with the plan…

It’s his turn to take in a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I’ll drive you home first.”

“It’s not that far,” Yoongi snorts dismissively, already turning to walk away.

Hoseok catches his wrist. “You set all of this up for me. It’s the least I can do.”

“Aish… okay.” The surrender comes quickly, more quickly than Hoseok expects it to, and he finds himself wondering at it as they begin to stroll to Hobi’s car. For all of Yoongi’s dismissive tone, it is a pretty far walk to Born Tiger – is that why he’d agreed so promptly? Because a walk like that is hard for Yoongi nowadays?   

Jiggling his keys to keep the electric tension at bay, the warmth dissipating like water through his grasping fingers and leaving something cold in its wake, Hoseok can’t stop himself from chatting as they walk, but his heart isn’t in it. Neither is Yoongi’s, to judge by the distracted responses, and he keeps expecting there to be a sudden crack, a sudden halt, a sudden outpouring of whatever is welling up inside the both of them. It never comes, though. The thunderous clouds just swell without rain, and he’s no god to know how to change this weather pattern.

He has to try, though.

By the time they’ve slipped into the car and Hoseok has pulled into rush hour traffic, that knowledge has hardened into resolve. When the other man takes out his phone and starts fiddling with it, he glances over – probably too intently – and asks so casually that it’s not casual at all, “Are you gonna call your doctor for an appointment now?”

Yoongi fumbles the device, drops it into his lap. “What – right now?” he asks, picking it back up.

“Not everyone works ‘til two in the morning, Yoongs. Pretty sure doctor offices close soon.” His companion is frowning at him, and Hoseok just hopes Yoongi assumes he’s nervous about bringing up something that was close to starting an argument a few hours ago. Which he is. Amazing how even a lie can rest on a foundation of truth. Clearing his throat when the other says nothing, he coaxes, “It’ll only take a moment.”

“And you get to see me doing it,” the artist observes flatly.

Hoseok flinches, can’t deny the implicit accusation. But neither can he backtrack, so he keeps his eyes on the road and sits a little straighter. “You put this off a lot, Yoongi. I’m just – I’m trying to help.”

A violent exhale from the man beside him, and Hoseok flinches again, more from the guilt of what he isn’t saying than anything else. After a moment of fraught silence, another sigh, considerably softer than the first. “I know you’re trying. I’m trying too. It’s just, this,” he touches his nose like it symbolizes all the misery he’s been going through, “this ain’t anything until someone tells me it’s something y’know? And I think I would have preferred… I mean, that I’d prefer not knowing. Easier.”

“But not necessarily better,” Hoseok says quietly, and wonders how much of this is real and how much is just more of the same.  

“Maybe…” A few seconds pass in torn silence, and then abruptly Yoongi snorts. “Fuck. I guess it doesn’t really matter, does it?” Without waiting for a reply, he scrolls through his phone, has it up to his ear before Hoseok can doubt if he’s actually going to call. “Hello? Dr. Cho? Yeah, this is Min Yoongi calling. No, not – not about that.” It’s impossible to miss the tension in Yoongi’s voice, the coolly impassive look plastered across his face when Hoseok risks a glance, but Hoseok can’t make out anything the person on the other end is saying, just hears an incomprehensible voice.

“No, I don’t want that. I just wanted to schedule another appointment….” A pause as he lets the other person talk, and if anything, Yoongi’s expression grows colder. Or maybe not colder, maybe just… rigid. Eventually he seems to interrupt. “I know all that. Thanks. Like I said, just want an appointment. Some time next week? Yeah, sure. Uh huh. Mhm. Yeah. See you soon. Thanks.” His hand drops to rest limply on his thigh, and it takes several more seconds before Yoongi hangs up the call.

He turns to Hoseok. “Three o’clock on Tuesday. You satisfied?”

Refusing to rise to that combative tone – it’s obvious this call has unnerved his boyfriend, and in between his guilt and his pity, Hoseok can’t feel anything else – the film student just smiles as brightly as he can. “Sounds like just what the doctor ordered. Thanks, Yoongs. Seriously – thanks.”

His voice has lightened into something closer to grumpiness than anger when he replies. “Yeah, whatever. Now I get to spend an hour having her rip into me for not scheduling sooner.”

“Do you not like her?” Hoseok asks in surprise. He’s always assumed Yoongi’s aversion to getting a checkup was an internal issue, but maybe it was partly his doctor’s fault? That makes him hope. Maybe he is overreacting. Maybe it really is as simple as that. Maybe…

Yoongi grimaces. “It’s not like that. She’s just… pushy. Doesn’t like putting up with my bullshit.” His laugh isn’t very amused. “Guess that makes two of us. Anyways, no, I’ve had her for awhile now. She’s fine. I’m just being a bastard.”

“Good to hear.” Although it isn’t, not really.

They don’t talk much for the rest of the trip, Hoseok sweating over somehow giving himself away while Yoongi seems withdrawn and comfortable staring out the window without speaking. When they pull into a spot a short distance from Born Tiger, Hoseok feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. Hands pressing into the steering wheel until they ache, he almost doesn’t manage to make himself do it. Yoongi’s gathered up his stuff, hand on the door, before a surge of desperation rips the words from Hoseok’s tongue.

“Uh, hey! Could I borrow your phone for a sec? Mine’s dead.”

“What do you need it for?” Yoongi asks, but he’s already handing it over, nothing but distracted amusement on his face.

“I forgot I wanted to text Jimin, tell him I’m just gonna grab some fast-food for dinner. Ask if he and the other guys wanted anything.” The pads of his fingers are sweaty, and he has to try a few times to type Yoongi’s password – genius – before getting in. He hovers for a moment over Contacts, struggling to make himself move.

Meanwhile, Yoongi scoffs. “Dunno why you even need to ask. Tae and Kookie would eat out of a garbage bin if someone told them it was free.”

Hoseok cracks a weak smile. “Probably not out of it.” He still can’t make himself do what he’s been planning since before the films.

“Yeah, you’re right. They’d get plastic plates first.” It’s the fondness in Yoongi’s voice that does it. Pushes him into leaving Contacts untouched and pressing on Phone History. Because that gruff, protective affection for the younger boys… Hoseok can’t lose it. He can’t stop having those rough, secure words in his life, not when everything before Yoongi was too smooth to hold onto. He just can’t. And if this isn’t what he dreads it might be, well, Yoongi will be pissed, but he’ll also be forgiving, sooner or later. Haven’t the last few months proven that?

Phone tilted away from the other man, Hoseok taps into the most recent call, made to a Dr. Cho Jiyoo. Moving his fingers like he’s texting, he just stares at the number there instead, committing it to memory to the best of his ability. A few seconds later, he actually goes to Jimin, sends the message, and then hands the cell back to Yoongi with an empty hollowness in his stomach. It’s a good thing his boyfriend has his own things to worry about, because Hoseok isn’t exactly doing this with picture perfect guile.

It doesn’t take hardly any time at all for Jimin to reply, which is a blessing. Hoseok can only repeat the numbers in his head for so long before he’s bound to mess them up, especially while encouraging Yoongi to do most of the talking.

Breaking off a story about a guy who fainted dead away within five minutes of his first ever needle, the artist checks his vibrating phone. “Jimin says Taehyung is eating with Jin, but he and Jungkook could go for something.” Another buzz of an incoming message, and he barks a laugh. “Jungkook votes for McDonald’s, so I was right; he would eat out of a dumpster if it was free.”

Shaking his head at that – 4, 53, 67, 32, 08 – Hoseok asks, “Did Jimin get a vote?”

“Subway. You roll with the most high-class people, hey?”

“Oh, ‘cause your choice would be so much better.” When Yoongi opens his mouth, Hoseok adds, “Starbucks isn’t that classy, Yoongs.” 67, 32, 08…

“You would know,” Yoongi shoots back, with a gummy smile that’s nothing short of breathtaking, and it lurches through Hoseok’s throat until he almost lets go of the numbers and plan altogether. He can hardly breathe through his shame about not speaking honestly to Yoongi, and with that trusting grin right in front of him…

“Yoongi,” Hoseok says, and the man across from him dampens his smile at the strangled tone, leans forward a bit.

“Yeah?” the artist asks quietly, brows furrowing in miniscule tension.

Please tell me the truth. The words are so easy – so impossible to say. What is the truth? What is the nagging feeling that drags like oil across Hoseok’s brain whenever he looks at his tattoo? What is the crumpled expression Yoongi wears when he thinks no one can see him? And what the hell could Hoseok do if Yoongi refused to answer any of those questions?

And what if he didn’t?

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, and when he can’t get them to stop, Hoseok wrenches them off, buries them in his lip. He smiles, or tries to. “I’ll call you later tonight, okay? You can listen to me cry about how behind I am with everything.”

“My favorite mixtape,” Yoongi jokes, though the furrow across his forehead doesn’t really disappear. “I’ll be expecting that call. Don’t skip out.” His way of saying that he’s around to listen, that he doesn’t want Hoseok to keep it to himself. If they don’t get away from each other soon, Hoseok really is going to start crying.

Keeping his breath shallow, he shakes his head. “I won’t. Don’t worry. I’ll see you later.”

He’s actually relieved when Yoongi doesn’t make any move to kiss him goodbye. It’s not the usual – just another signal of how off things are between them – but Hoseok’s pretty sure if they touched right now, everything would come spilling out. Not necessarily through his lips, but maybe through his skin, or his head, or his heart… or wherever this aching connection is anchored, somewhere beyond his mere body.

Hand against his neck, Yoongi hesitates before he opens his door. “Happy belated b-day, Hobi,” he says, and the humour is so pale it might as well be invisible. All Hoseok can do is incline his head and murmur a tight thank you. Fingers still stroking across his neck, there’s another breathless pause before Yoongi shuts his eyes and heaves himself out of the car, movements stiff and pained. “I’ll see you later,” is his low promise, and then the door is thudding closed between them.

Because the spikes of restless agony are threatening to drive straight through him if he doesn’t move to avoid them, Hoseok doesn’t wait to watch his boyfriend walk to Born Tiger. Because there’s something ripping him apart already and anything added will splinter him into even smaller pieces, he doesn’t look in the rear-view mirror once he’s beyond the other man. Because the only thing he can do right now is go forward, Hoseok doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around, doesn’t go back. He sets his jaw, looks up a number and an address on his almost fully charged phone, and puts it into the GPS.  

---

The office looks as conventional as any medical company Hoseok has seen, at least from the outside. Short and insistently rectangular, the building is painted a sandy brown, while the double doors of the entrance are white, and plenty of windows dot the squat structure. There’s a little bed of flowers and some potted plants out front. It doesn’t look like a place where people go to learn they’re dying.

But it is. This isn’t the doctor’s office Hoseok had expected when he looked up the name and the number he had taken from Yoongi’s phone. He isn’t really sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t an oncologist’s office. The CL Courage Clinic is, according to the website, a specialty cancer clinic that deals with various kinds of chronic leukemia. There aren’t all that many cars in the parking lot, but then again, it’s kind of late. He wonders if Dr. Cho is still here. He wonders what he’s doing here.

His pulse is thrumming in his throat, and when Hoseok swallows it feels like his heart is about to burst through his trachea. He knows what the doctor looks like – the website had all of their pictures – but there’s a layer of static over everything he sees and he’s not altogether confident he’ll even be able to recognize her. Breath so harsh he can’t hear the music playing on the car radio, eventually Hoseok shuts it off, anything to reduce the unrelenting everything that’s crushing him into a panicked nothing.

What am I doing here? He’s falling to pieces so quickly he can’t put himself together again. Am I really about to– He can’t think about it, he can’t, he can’t. He has to do it.

He has to, but for a long time Hoseok just sits in his car, shifting constantly, rubbing his fingers raw against anything that comes under his hands. He’d thought he’d go into the building, ask for the doctor, but now he’s starting to wonder if maybe he should just wait for her out here. Maybe she’s gone home already. Maybe the thought that has him caressing his collarbone and then jerking away as if stung is more ridiculous than anything else he’s managed to think up. After so many months – after what feels like a lifetime – would Yoongi really not have told him?

By now, Hoseok isn’t really sure what he’s talking about, even within his own mind. Told him what? About sickness? Or soulmates? Or are they somehow the same thing, now?

Minutes pass and doubts churn trenches through Hoseok’s head, ruthlessly treading the same paths over and over again until it feels like there’s no way to think outside the ditches, no way to leap beyond their bounds. He thinks, and only manages to dig himself deeper into paralysis.

For the seventh or eighth time, the clinic door opens, and someone steps outside. He looks towards them, empty of expectation. That might be why it takes him a moment to recognize the lady in a flora summer dress as she hitches a purse over her shoulder and walks with quick, short strides. When he does, everything… collapses. The fear, the doubts, the shrieking, formless anxiety, they don’t disappear, but they contract into a place somewhere just behind his sternum. It’s almost as though the sheer weight of his breakdown has finally ripped a blackhole into existence, and it’s dragging his heart and lungs and stomach into a mangled mess of impossible heaviness. What emotions could escape the gravity of such dread?

He forces his door open too hard, has to wrench it back to avoid smashing into the truck he’d parked next to. Clambering out of the luxurious car feels like a confession of sin, and his jerky steps are quick to leave the sleek vehicle behind.   

“Dr. Cho. Umm, Dr. Cho!” The second time he calls she hears him, turns his way. His immediate impression is thinness – thin black hair, thin lips, thin eyebrows, thin shoulders… thin patience, if the expression on her taut face is any clue. He’s not sure how old she is – maybe fifty, though the exasperation makes it harder to be sure.

“May I help you?” she asks, in a slow way that suggests she’s hoping the answer is no. He can’t entirely blame her, given the time and the way he’s accosting her outside her work.

Bouncing his weight back and forth from foot to foot, Hoseok nods several times as if the motion alone might shake some words from his head to his too-dry mouth. It doesn’t, but the compression in his chest hasn’t managed to swallow his tongue quite yet, and so he manages to push out a quick introduction. “Uh, hello, Dr. Cho. My name is Jung Hoseok. We haven’t – I saw you on the clinic website, and I, umm, was hoping we could talk.”

If anything, her eyes narrow even further. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jung, but I generally only meet by appointment, and only during office hours. You could have phoned the clinic and scheduled a time to talk.” ‘Should have’ is more than implicit in her words, but the doctor’s displeasure hits his chest and – dissolves. It can’t gain any purchase in the flattened landscape of his feelings.

“I’m really, really sorry, but I couldn’t – I only just, uh, found out I need to talk to you.” Because I’m stupid. Because I’ve failed him.

Dr. Cho sighs, adjusts the purse on her shoulder. The motion makes her seem less annoyed and more… tired. “Did you receive a referral from your family doctor? I know it’s always very terrifying to receive a possible diagnosis, but it really would be better to schedule an appointment, so I have the opportunity to look at your information and –”

“I’m sorry,” Hoseok interrupts, the pressure mostly squeezing embarrassment into oblivion. He doesn’t even flush at accidentally giving her the wrong impression. “It’s not about me, it’s about one – one of your patients.”

Immediately her back is a little straighter, her brow a little more creased. “One of my patients?”

“Yes. His name is Min Yoongi. He’s… I think he’s been seeing you recently?”

She mouths the name, not as if it’s unfamiliar, but rather as though it surprises her to hear someone mention it. The tightness behind his ribs contracts even further, to the point of pain. He’d thought – hoped, prayed, begged – that she wouldn’t know what he was talking about, but she definitely knows Yoongi. Everything had suggested that she would, but if it had been a misunderstanding, if he’d gotten the wrong doctor… It’s getting a bit hard to breathe.

For a second, it looks as though curiosity might impel Dr. Cho to speak further, but the inclination is quickly suppressed, and her wariness comes back. “We’re not permitted to discuss our patients without their permission. It’s best if you ask him about–”

“He won’t tell me.” Even to his own ears, the toneless certainty is too flat to be anything but despairing. Hoseok tries to picture it – tries to imagine a conversation between he and Yoongi that leads towards them understanding each other more, and not breaking apart – but he can’t. He believes Yoongi loves him, but now, with the open chasm of truth before him, Hoseok knows his boyfriend would do anything to avoid pitching him into its consuming blackness. That must be why. It’s the only reason he can think of for why they haven’t taken this plunge together.

It doesn’t make him feel better – if anything, it just makes it worse. He had thought honesty was white, was open, was a bridge between two trusting people, but this – this isn’t that.

Her eyes flick to his face and then quickly away again, embarrassed or uncomfortable with whatever she finds there. When the doctor speaks, her voice is kind but without an inch of give. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you with this. It seems best that you talk to him directly. If he gives permission for me to disclose information…” By the way she trails off, Hoseok isn’t the only one who knows that won’t happen. How long has Yoongi been seeing her for, that she’s so aware of that fact?

Straightening her shoulders, expression apologetic in face of his hopeless silence, Dr. Cho inclines her head. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I hope everything works itself out.” And with that she moves to leave.

It turns out there’s one thing strong enough to escape the blackhole nestled in his chest – desperation. “Wait!” Hoseok reaches out, jerks back his hand before he catches her. Nonetheless, she pauses. Hardly knowing what he’s doing, he finds himself scrabbling at the high neck of his shirt, yanking it down with enough force that it sounds like the fabric is ripping. Ignoring that, he pulls it even further, baring the wilted flower there. The way her eyes widen, the way she leans forward with a mixture of revulsion and reluctant fascination, tells him it’s exactly as it’s been for the last few weeks.

He knows what she’s wondering as her gaze traces the withered lines, the tones that smudge more towards ashen rot than any real flower would ever experience. Why would someone get a tattoo like this?

Why did he get a tattoo like this? And God, doesn’t he know the answer?

“This belongs to him,” Hoseok blurts out, still only half sure of what he’s saying.

She doesn’t look away from the decaying image, but there’s no dawning awareness on her face as she replies, “Yoongi is a tattoo artist, isn’t he? He did this?” Can he blame her for not understanding? How long has it taken him to finally grasp what’s been hovering over this mark? How many times has he been on the verge of holding it, only to let go at the last moment, afraid that comprehension will make it into a reality too heavy to carry?

He takes too long to respond, grappling with what to answer. Dr. Cho straightens, finally pulls her eyes away. “It seems you’re good friends, and he’s obviously very talented, but that… I still can’t help you.”

“No, I don’t –” Just what is he trying to say? The pressure crushing his insides is finally too tight; cracks are ribboning through the blackhole, fissures of agonized acknowledgement that his whole existence isn’t enough to suppress. Guilt, terror, rage, grief – what are those words in the midst of the detonation blossoming it’s frenzied heat up his throat?

His hand finds the tattoo, presses against it. Too hard, his nails digging into the skin, but the heat remains, and so does the flower. It will continue there. He can’t rip it off. Nothing can. Nothing can separate the mark from the flesh. Hoseok finds a sudden, bracing relief in that thought, as though, with everything spiralling out of his hands, this alone will remain as it is. No matter what he says, no matter what he does – this bond is going to remain.

He breathes through his clenched teeth, as if the air burns his lungs, but there are a few words that haven’t been immolated in the fire. “This tattoo belongs to Yoongi,” Hoseok repeats, his tone almost too shrill. “It belongs to him, because–” There is a small falter, another hard inhale, before he continues, voice picking up force and certainty. “Because he belongs to me.”

Caught up in the torrent of his declaration, Dr. Cho understands what he means immediately, and her expressive eyebrows jump up in startled incredulity as she takes an involuntary half-step back. He almost wants to do the same, with the words still searing his tongue and blistering his lips. Saying it feels like releasing a spell, like casting some kind of dreadfully powerful incantation that he couldn’t undo even if he wanted to. At the same time, there’s a shuddering throughout his whole body, as if his muscles and bones are snapping into their proper places, for the first time in forever. He belongs to me. Hoseok wouldn’t unsay that, even if he could.  

This time, when her gaze lands on the mark, it tears along the lines like a surgical knife, trying to separate the bleak colours from the skin, to see it in a different light. And see it she does, as the understanding settles into something deeper, sorrowful realization mingling with heavy pity. Hoseok doesn’t want to see that – he wants to shut his eyes – but that won’t stop the sensation discharging through his arteries and carrying liquid anguish to the rest of his body.

“You two are bonded?” Dr. Cho all but whispers, and it’s so easy to ignore the way his eyes are aching and simply nod instead, as though he’s known all along. So easy to acknowledge that blood is red, tears are clear, Hoseok has a tattoo, and he and Yoongi are soulmates.

Why is it so easy? After months of refusing to believe, embracing this truth feels like holding onto Yoongi; light, warm, and altogether too real to be doubted. Hoseok finds himself mouthing the words, though he can’t quite say it yet. We’re bonded.

The doctor’s lips twist, her head tilting slightly, but nonetheless her examination doesn’t let up, body angled unwillingly forward to get a better view. “It hasn’t always looked like this?” she finally asks, and he wonders suddenly if there’s some kind of medical practice that takes the condition of soulmate tattoos into consideration. If she could have used this earlier.

It’s not so easy to shake his head, but Hoseok forces himself to do it anyways. “No, it hasn’t. Just – just recently. It’s always been – it’s never been absolutely perfect, but never this bad.”

“He really hasn’t told you anything?” Her disbelief hurts him, ashes and cinder burning along his throat as he’s reminded of how wrong this is.

Swallowing the embers, he replies, “No, he… I didn’t ask him enough. I should have pushed harder. I should have…” There’s too much to write in this column, not enough ink to jot it all down. He should have, he should have, he should have. “Please, I don’t know what else to do. Please, just…” Help me. Hoseok doesn’t know how to say that to this stranger, this woman who may well have been keeping his soulmate alive, who is undoubtedly judging him for his severe deficiencies now.

But if Dr. Cho is judging him, that judgement doesn’t overwhelm her sympathy. Eyes rising from his tattoo to meet his frantically imploring stare, the thin woman taps her forehead, where thoughtful creases have appeared. She doesn’t seem like the type to agonize over a decision for very long. And sure enough, far before the apprehension can do more than constrict his throat, the doctor turns away, begins to walk back to the clinic. Hoseok stares after her, not daring to expect anything.

Over her shoulder, she calls words that give him the barest hint of a reason to hope. “Come. We should discuss this in my office.”

Injected with something resembling relief – but not that, never that, not while Yoongi’s reality is still so twisted from what it should be – Hoseok hurries after her.

---

He’s collapsed on the couch, back pressed into the armrest, knees drawn up, a sketchbook resting on his abdomen and balanced against his legs, his coloured pencils on the table next to him. Yoongi is hunched over the drawing, almost curled around it, as though it’s an open wound that needs protecting. And maybe it is. He’s made several dozen strokes of his pencil along the page, but they’re just aimless slashes, split seams with nothing in between. He’d wanted to put his feelings down – on paper and otherwise – but his ideas keep slipping away, and if Yoongi knew what he wanted to draw when he sat down, he certainly doesn’t know now.

Hoseok’s face keeps intruding. That isn’t unheard of – and typically it’s more of a pleasure than a pain – but today is different. The sun without its rays is stark. Hoseok’s face without its smile is bleak.

Today had gone so fucking wrong.

I am so tired of this fucking bullshit.

It’s true, but it’s truer to say that Yoongi is tired of his own bullshit. Whether he means his body’s slow deterioration or his constant lying to hide that decline depends on the day – hell, it depends on the hour. Right now, he pretty much means the lying part. Pulling himself together enough to accompany Hoseok to the film festival after the news Dr. Cho had given him hadn’t been all that difficult – even Atlas had to get comfortable with the world on his shoulders, sooner or later – but had it even been worth it?

More and more, when Hoseok looks at him, Yoongi senses that the other man is… searching. Looking beyond the barriers he throws up, even looking beyond the concrete comfort that they feel when they’re together. His sun tattoo has been looking off recently, too. The colour isn’t draining, but the rays of light have become sharper, more defined, almost painfully distinct. Little spikes of anxiety. The overall tone has also shifted to a redder hue, more like a dying sun than a brilliant one.

Brushing his thumb over the inside of his elbow, he can’t stop the twist of his lips. Today, with Hobi all but demanding he call the doctor, Yoongi wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss him or smack him upside the head. The concern is touching, a heart-hurt that he can only be grateful for, but it can only lead one way, the one way Yoongi can’t accept, and he suspects they’re getting closer to that path.  

In fact, as Yoongi had shut the car door and walked away, that feeling solidified into certainty. Hoseok found something. That’s what his demand was about, that was why he was acting so shady. The realization had been all altitude and dizziness for Yoongi, and even now, there’s nausea cringing at the corners of the artist’s stomach, like he expects the floor to collapse at any second and send him plummeting straight down. What had Hoseok found? Which secret? Any? Or is this just paranoia stacked on pain?

Another rough line added to the rest of the strokes, and it’s still a mess. Nothing clear. No answers. Just the wild apprehension teeming like termites through his wooden brain. Mumbling to himself, Yoongi tears out the page, holds it in his hand for a moment before, with a low exhale, he casts it aside.

He can’t start over anywhere else in his life, but isn’t that half the appeal of what he’s doing now?

This time, when Yoongi begins to draw, he has a better idea of where he wants to go. He’s borrowing from the film he’d liked. The concept, not the actual image. A single stem of soft blue orchids, floating in a black expanse that’s barely discernable as water. It looks more like ink. Some of the flowers are already partially submerged in the dark substance, the gentle petals streaked with oily shadows. There’s no ripple across the water, no sign of movement or change. Just the orchids, alone, slowly sinking.

It takes him a couple of hours, and during that time he can pour everything into the long funnel his focus creates, splattering the page with his loneliness. The fear, the anger, the guilt, the grief, it’s all there in that limitless lake of black. It’s nothing more than a sketch; he needs a table and a better setup to draw something worth showing to others. It is what he wanted to draw, though. As he finishes he knows that, yet… when Yoongi looks at it, his pencil falling into his lap, the itching, frantic feeling is already beginning to squirm to life again. He can’t exorcise it with this torrent of truth.

What if Hoseok does know? What then? Where is the beaming man in this picture?

Yoongi glances at his cell, checking the time. He’s only a little surprised to see that it’s a bit after 7. Time is a construct, after all, and it’s especially unstable when creativity and emotions come out to play together. A direct quote from Namjoon. Yoongi scoffs at it even as fondness makes him smooth the page against his knees with more gentleness than he might have done otherwise. The despair is demanding he crumple paper and shatter glass, but the artist shoves it down. Remembers the look on Hoseok’s face when he saw the theatre and realized where they were going.

His pencil – a yellowy gold tone – hovers uncertainly over the corner of the drawing. Can he add this? Does he deserve to add it?

Before he can make up his mind, there’s a knock on the entrance downstairs. Hard. It comes again, and then again, no regularity to the sounds. Again, like stuttering breaths or crippled steps. The pounding sets his nerves alight, and against any rational thought, Yoongi freezes, his fingers curling into fists. It’s probably some drunk messing up where they are; there are enough of those on Skymont, even if it is kinda early. Or maybe it’s a customer who forgot something, even though he’s meticulous about cleaning the studio and hadn’t found anything recently. It’s probably nothing. Maybe he doesn’t even need to answer.

It isn’t any kind of rational thought that has Yoongi casting his eyes down, half-flinching at a new round of knocking. It isn’t even intuition, the kind you laugh at during the day and heed while walking down dark streets. Something more forceful, inexorable, makes him drag his gaze back to the tattoo he had been considering only a few hours ago. A tattoo that is, before his eyes, slowly but surely dissolving through a slew of sickly colours, like diseased flesh across his skin. Yet, even as Yoongi watches in numb, detached interest, the form begins to solidify in an explosion of brighter, harsher tones.

As it does, he hears someone call in a voice stripped to its ragged core, “Yoongi!”

The sun loses its colours, finds them again, shot through with waves of distortion that look like a mirage. Repeat. And repeat.  

The entire process takes about five minutes, and the knocking doesn’t stop, and still Yoongi can’t make himself move. He watches the tattoo, waiting for it to fade into nothing, or at least go dead and black. It doesn’t, the jumbled swirls of colour continuing, but the person at the door calls again, “Yoongi! Yoongi – open the door.”

Yoongi’s complained about his thin walls before. Hoseok knows that he can hear. It wouldn’t even matter if he hadn’t. The tattooist – feels his soulmate. All the time, yes, but more so now, the awareness closer to a deafening noise than any kind of conscious recognition. And the wavering lines of the tattoo mean… just exactly what he’s suddenly terrified that they mean. The numbness is washed away in a flood of ice through his stomach, and Yoongi realizes that he’s trembling.

Almost too hard to make it down the stairs, hand on the wall for balance.

Stumbling off the last step, the artist makes his way down the hallway, through his tattooing parlour. The scents and sights of his chairs and equipment aren’t reassuring; he’s alienated from them, as though he’s become a ghost, just drifting through an existence that’s no longer his. Each knock jars him further from reality. He can’t seem to formulate any thoughts. No words or excuses or apologies to set his slanted world back on its straight axis.

The dread is a far stronger impression than anything else, coppery on his tongue, and by the time Yoongi gets to the front of the store, he can even feel it coating his fingertips. Lifting a too-heavy arm, he pauses at the lock, watches the way his hand shakes in front of it, and abruptly feels contempt. He’s so afraid. Does Hoseok deserve such a cowardly person?

“…Yoongi?” Quieter now, as though he knows how much closer Yoongi is, Hoseok’s voice wedges into the icy fear, sends little cracks shuddering through it.

His other hand comes up to press against his neck, almost hard enough to cut off air and dread altogether, and in the same motion, Yoongi throws the bolt. He can’t make himself open the door. He doesn’t need to. The other person must hear him fumbling with the lock – or maybe they just know – and a second later the door is jerked open.

The bell rings. Yoongi flinches. Hoseok doesn’t.

His crumpled mouth hurts more than even the red, frantic eyes, though those are hard enough to meet. It’s just, Yoongi hasn’t ever wanted to be the reason Hoseok frowns like that, like he’s going to crumple at any second. Hoseok is the most beautiful person on the planet when he smiles, and right now his mouth looks like it will never remember how to smile again. Yoongi caused that misery one too many times already, and he’s literally sacrificed everything to avoid doing it again.

Looking at Hoseok’s foundering expression becomes too painful and he wrenches his eyes down only to see his hands, running feverish tracks along the seams of his jeans. Faced with the silent, screaming pain of those fingers, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say.