Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Yeah, I’ve considered killing myself,” Yoongi confessed to Jimin, years ago on a starless evening when the world felt too small, like the air itself might crush them under its immense weight. Jimin was a reliable confidant before their romantic relationship had even started. Back then, he exposed his ugly truths on these hopeless nights. Days would tediously span on and success seemed to rarely cross the horizon. Yoongi felt at the time, in all honesty, that his depressive response was warranted.

They didn’t have much to lose in the beginning. The possibilities stretched onward for miles, conceivably out of their reach despite how quickly they ran towards it. Yoongi would outstretch his arm, gasping and breathless, only slightly hoping he could graze the vague promise of a future. Always an inch or so too far behind. And he would trip, stumble, and start all over again. That was their reality, Yoongi’s reality, for so long.

But then their hard-earned success did arrive. They worked for years; long nights and endless days led them to this. Within a blink of time, their tiny, nobody band had achieved every goal on their list and more. They were selling out stadiums and world tours. They were topping charts, domestic and international. They were thriving within their industry. They were a prime example of where hard work could get an artist.

Yet, the depression lingered. Quiet, subtle, and aching within the deepest parts of Yoongi’s chest. For a long while he held it down with pills. He muddied his doubts to push through their busy schedule. He worked and climbed and found everything he’d ever dreamed of simply falling into his hands like wayward stars. So why… Why was he still crashing back down to earth? His reality was supposed to be brighter than this. Greater, grander, more tolerable.

Maybe his brain didn’t know how to cope with happiness, Yoongi mused. Perhaps the depression was simply his form of a security blanket. It was that old, familiar friend he fell back on when the stress was overwhelming—when that wave of emotions, all of it, came crashing back into him and swept him ashore.

“But you’ve got so much left to live for,” Jimin had murmured in response. And Yoongi could merely nod, because it was true.

“That’s the terrifying part of it.”

Suicide was that glimmering exit sign, continually blinking in the back of Yoongi’s skull. It was his last resort; an ever-present reassurance that he had an escape. There would be a day when everything went to shit, Yoongi was sure of it. He could only wonder if, when that day came, there would finally be enough anchoring Yoongi to his life. Because living really was such a fickle thing. It was enjoyable in one moment, and excruciatingly unbearable the next. Yes, there were people who made it easier, Jimin being an obvious example. But there were also so many uncertainties.

Yoongi’s world could flip on itself at any moment. All those negative emotions he’d stored within his darkest depths could come spilling out, flooding his body and mind. He’d stumble around without breath, in some sort of oxygen-deficient haze. Then maybe he’d rush past that glowing green exit sign in search of any solution. He’d fix it all before he could drown in his own thoughts.

That was the extreme scenario, though. The grand “what-if” that Yoongi had yet to face. Despite how often he stumbled back into the noose of his depression, he’d never attempted to take that ultimate leap. He always had bills to pay, lyrics to write, dongsaengs to care for. His personal burdens were not theirs to carry.

Therefore, his first reaction was irritation when he felt the telltale heaviness against his eyelids one unfortunate morning. They’d returned home from a long tour only weeks ago, and were starting up promotions for a new collaboration. Rationally speaking, Yoongi didn’t have time for this. Unfortunately, rationality rarely won his control over.

Sleep called to him like a siren, his previous dream world a welcomed relief from his daily stress. Yoongi buried his nose in the pillow, incapable of moving much else in his body. His legs were still numb, arms and fingers weighed down. His lifeless limbs did little to coax him into the waking world, and it was all too easy to surrender to the dull thrumming in his head.

So he drifted back into sleep, well aware that he had no time to waste. Namjoon and Yoongi had a full day ahead of them in the studio, but what harm could one vacation day do, really? At least, that was Yoongi’s line of reasoning. In his opinion, being productive didn’t compare much to a whole day in bed, considering his sudden utter lack of motivation. Reality could wait. Yoongi wasn’t capable of considering the consequences at the moment, anyway.

Yoongi wasn’t feeling much better when he was roused again by Seokjin later on. In fact, the situation had descended into more dangerous territory. Yoongi’s brain felt foggy, and his heart ached for an unexplainable reason. There was that lingering sadness clutching at his ribcage, closing in tighter and suffocating him with each passing moment. His breathing became slightly labored, and the sunlight glaring against the back of his eyelids only attributed to his discomfort.

“It’s past noon, you should be up by now,” Seokjin stated, shaking Yoongi’s shoulder again. Yoongi mustered a grumble, then burrowed deeper into the sheets. The remaining tendrils of sleep held him captive, pushing into him as if the weight of the world outside was too much for his body to bear. The intense numbness in Yoongi’s veins coaxed him further, dragged him under.

Seokjin released his hold and hesitated, reassessing the scene before him. “Did you stay up too late?” Jin cautiously prodded.

God, Yoongi thought, has his voice always been this annoying? He loved his roommate, truly, but Yoongi was in no mental state to be interrogated. It was difficult enough uttering a weak, “no.” Just a mere syllable, and he felt his small energy stores depleting.

Seokjin glanced toward the door, biting his lip as the worry welled up. He’d dealt with grumpy Yoongi, and he’d dealt with depressed Yoongi. The difficult part was figuring out which he was confronting. How serious was this? And more importantly, if this was the latter, how long would the episode last?

Seokjin wasn’t as concerned with schedules as Namjoon and Hoseok were, but he was well aware of their micro-managing tendencies. If Yoongi had fallen into a problematic situation, Jin was going to need to explain the circumstances on his behalf. And that was a whole other mountain to tackle. “Can you get up?” Seokjin gently inquired, starting slow in hopes to gauge Yoongi’s mental state.

Yoongi exhaled shakily, then shook his head, already feeling Jin’s intense gaze boring into him.

“Do you want to get up?” He asked, still feeling it out.

Another silent affirmation of “no.”

“Okay,” Jin sighed, running a hand through his hair, a million solutions whirring through his head. “So I guess we’re dealing with a bad day, huh?” He didn’t require a response this time. He started pacing, lip caught between his teeth. Meanwhile, Yoongi cracked open an eye, a little irked his roommate hadn’t left already.

“Yeah. Now go away,” Yoongi grumbled hoarsely, wincing at the scratchy tone of his voice. He sounded as rough as he felt, and honestly he’d rather not be conscious to experience the mess that was himself.

Seokjin frowned and halted. “I’m choosing not to take offense to that. Um, I would stay home and take care of you, but I have a recording session today. Although I think—” he paused, brow creasing. “Jimin should be able to stick around. Are you going to be fine if he hovers?”

Yoongi groaned, the gears in his brain moving much too slowly. Jimin, your boyfriend, he reminded himself, taking nearly a full minute to make sense of Seokjin’s words. “Sure,” he finally mumbled. Jimin was rarely a bother, and he supposed he could use the doting.

Yoongi was rather useless in this mindset. He felt like a car stalled on the side of the road, idle, rusted, with steam hissing out from beneath the hood. He was a hazard to passersby, an inconvenience to the cognizant world. He was left waiting for an indeterminate amount of time, hoping to find someone or anything that could repair him, get him into any state of operation again.

He was a faultier model than most. He broke down quite often. His brakes malfunctioned at precisely the wrong moments. He had too many dents from previous crashes. Damage from head-on collisions, rear-ends from occasions that he simply wasn’t moving quickly enough. Because really, he was slower than most also. He was late to the gas pedal, was still learning how to read the street signs. Yoongi required a lot of patience from both himself and those around him. It was a basic matter he’d learned to accept.

So he didn’t protest when Seokjin meandered out, or when Jimin curiously peaked his head in minutes later, hair a bit unkempt. He’d clearly been messing with it again; a nervous habit.

Yoongi was already drifting back into that blissful nothingness when the mattress dipped beside him. Jimin didn’t cause a commotion, merely wrapped his arms around Yoongi’s waist and nuzzled between his shoulder blades. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” Jimin muttered, hugging Yoongi tighter as the elder heaved a sigh. “It’s okay if you sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Jimin was a reliable comfort, the steady embrace when Yoongi had no one else to turn to. He was present, compassionate, considerate, and simply there. Emotionally, physically, and spiritually there. Being around others caused a tension in Yoongi’s limbs, set him on edge in indescribable ways. Yet, Jimin was oddly unique, in that his mere presence eased Yoongi’s nerves. His warmth, his touch, pulled Yoongi into a temporary lull, a distraction from the incurable pain in his chest. And Yoongi… he really couldn’t resist taking advantage of that. He leaned back into Jimin, heart content for the moment.

It was easier to block the bad out when he was overwhelmed with a gentle, calming love. Jimin shut off his terrible, awful brain. And Yoongi was so very grateful.

The difficult reality of depression was that it was a hindrance, more than anything else. It wasn’t an immovable object, or an unstoppable force. Yoongi wasn’t blindly ramming into it in hopes of getting himself to budge. Rather, it ate at his motivation, sucked out his energy in an unnervingly and undeniably gradual manner. And of course, it hit him at the worst times. Always when there was work to be done.

Yoongi’s depression wasn’t a complicated problem. In actuality, it was frustratingly simple. It was an anchor to his ankle, constantly reminding him how much effort the smallest actions required. Because if he left his bed, that would mean standing, holding his body upright. If he left his room, aside from a brief trip to the bathroom, that would entail appearing presentable. And that is precisely where the most tedious matters got even more irritating.

For Yoongi to be presentable, or at least tolerable to others, he would need to take a shower. And showers required undressing, managing his time during the action, and dreadfully drying off after. Then came redressing, and somewhat styling his hair. There were also the options of simply washing his face, or brushing his teeth. But again, those required insignificant, yet immeasurable tasks. The water had to be a decent temperature, he needed to retrieve the soap or tooth paste. Then there was the long, enduring action itself… and that meant actually engaging in the task. It was all too easy for Yoongi to space out, to get lost in the winding wanderings of his mind.

Because once he was awake, once he had astoundingly roused himself from bed, the rest of the day truly began. There were meetings to sit through, bandmates and interviewers to socialize with, managers to listen to, routines to uphold, melodies to be worked on, chores to be completed. The list was endless, expanding into the next day, and the next, until the end of Yoongi’s miserable, drawn-out life.

Yoongi often felt like a weary old oak tree caught in too many storms. No matter how diligently he braced for the impact, the onslaught of rain, hail, and harsh wind never failed to send him leaning back. His bark would creak and his roots would snap. Yoongi almost wished he’d topple over already and get swept up in the flood. Then at least matters would finally be out of his hands.

But life wasn’t as clear cut as his analogies. There were people to consider, loved ones that loved him in return. If Yoongi gave up the fight, where would that leave Jimin? His family? The band as a whole?

It was tough placing it all in perspective at times, weighing certain aspects against each other. Menial tasks became ridiculously hard, yet the struggles he overcame though the tasks were what made success feel somewhat satisfying. It’s impossible to move forward without jumping hurdles. Yoongi’s hurdles were merely… taller than other people’s. And, unfortunately, greater in number.

Yoongi still vividly recalled the crash that accompanied his impromptu love confession to Jimin. The initial elation quickly turned south, and Yoongi helplessly plummeted within a matter of days. Jimin was confused at first, attempting to wrap his head around why their budding relationship would cause such a harsh decline in Yoongi’s mental state. But all Yoongi could think about was how fitting the situation was. He really shouldn’t have hoped for any better, Yoongi mused. Of course, I couldn’t have a single goddamn week of joy.

Now Jimin had learned to anticipate Yoongi’s metaphorical missteps, just as the latter had long ago. With every positive, the negative was sure to follow. Yoongi couldn’t revel in a good day without considering how bad the next could be. After all, the following descent to the bottom could very well be his last. He would have to entertain the possibilities until that green light blinked out. And even that notion seemed like an impossibility, despite the happiness held so readily within Yoongi’s grasp.

Depression was a steep and unavoidable slope. Yoongi might as well get accustomed to the ride down. His bruises only lasted longer each time, reminding him of just how high he’d managed to climb. How much farther he could fall. Yet, he poked at his own wounds, too hopeless to care much about the lasting sting.

On the second day, Seokjin made pancakes, and Jimin brought some to Yoongi, then proceeded to struggle with him in attempt to force him to eat. Yoongi was too tired to put up much of a fight, and begrudgingly pushed through his lack of appetite. He chewed very slowly, grumpiness only eased by Jimin’s head on his shoulder. He rambled through a conversation he’d shared with Taehyung recently, idle gossip that Yoongi wasn’t paying much attention to. At the very least, it filled the silence.

Jimin absently played with the fingers of Yoongi’s free hand, his own short digits eventually intertwining with Yoongi’s longer ones. Yoongi really loved Jimin’s fingers. He found them endearingly adorable, and he especially loved the rings the latter would adorn himself with. They were coming up on their second anniversary together, and Yoongi briefly entertained the idea of buying them a set of promise rings. Nothing too obvious or gaudy, of course. Just a small item they’d share, reminding them of a brighter future. Namjoon and Seokjin had always joked about eloping in the States. Jimin suggested that he and Yoongi might as well do it too someday. Yoongi didn’t particularly disagree.

Yoongi was roused from his quiet musings when Namjoon opened the door. “Time to go, Jimin,” he reminded, sparing a glance toward Yoongi, who was at least propped up in bed. He was well aware of his messy hair and overall lackluster appearance.

The band had an interview that day, and Yoongi found it easy to cancel his own attendance. Their managers stated that Yoongi had fallen sick. Illness was an easily digestible excuse. No further questions or skeptical looks. Being sick was “real,” visible, physical. It was better than saying Yoongi was “feeling down,” or, well… telling the basic truth of the matter. Because frankly, people didn’t like to hear the word depression. They weren’t sure how to handle it. It didn’t slide down smoothly when swallowed. It stuck in people’s throats, choked them up and sent a flush to their cheeks. It was prickly to the touch, and impossible to fully grasp. So no, they couldn’t simply say “Yoongi can’t get out of bed” or “Yoongi can’t get dressed” or “Yoongi can’t stomach a full meal” or “Yoongi can’t say more than five words at a time” or “Yoongi can’t function—”

Because that was truth of the matter, right? He was dysfunctional, but not in a standard manner expected of physical illness. At least when he had a cold, he could suck on some cough drops. At least when he had a headache, he could pop a couple pills. But this problem was too intricate, too sensitive to the ears.

So that’s where they left it.

“Are you going to be alright for a few hours?” Jimin softly asked, already climbing off the bed and retrieving Yoongi’s plate of half-eaten pancakes.

Yoongi merely nodded, tracking Jimin’s movements across the room.

“Okay. Well, call if you need to. Hopefully we’ll wrap up quickly, then we can… we can do something tonight. Maybe play a game?” Jimin pushed his hair back, a glimmer of hope in his irises.

Yoongi took measured breaths, subduing the momentary panic at being left alone. He could handle a few hours. “Yeah, that’d be fine,” Yoongi whispered.

Jimin’s grin lit up the entire dim bedroom. “Cool. I’ll see you soon,” he said. He paused at the door, smile still lingering on his lips. “I love you, hyung.”

“Love you too, sunshine,” Yoongi murmured. He could always muster enough energy for that, at least.

Yoongi burrowed back into bed as soon as Jimin was gone, releasing a long held sigh into the stagnant air. Days somehow felt longer when all Yoongi could manage was drifting in and out of sleep. Reality and dreams intermingled, becoming one bland, incomprehensible mass as he shifted between varying states of consciousness.

His mind played tricks on him too often, merging his own nightmares with the short passage of minutes and hours. By the time the others returned, Yoongi wasn’t quite certain of what had transpired. He was aware of the heavy pit in his stomach, but that was the extent of it. Remaining in one room for days on end also didn’t aid the issue. How could Yoongi determine between his mind’s own fiction and reality when the background remained constant? Every solid line was blurring behind Yoongi’s eyelids, only intensifying his focus on the throbbing dullness within his arteries.

“Hyung, what’s wrong?” Jimin asked, his worried tone shaking Yoongi awake with a short gasp. For just a moment, his throat loosened up, and the tendrils of depression wrapped so tightly around his limbs had eased somewhat.

“Fuck, I feel like my brain’s trying to eat me from the inside out,” Yoongi groaned, rubbing at his face as he sat back up in bed. Meanwhile, Jimin was counting on his fingers, an expression of sudden delight crossing his features.

“Wow, fourteen words. You must be feeling better, huh?”

Yoongi furrowed his brows and stared up at his giddy boyfriend. “Were you not listening? I still feel like shit.”

“But now you have the energy to tell me you feel like shit,” Jimin elaborated, throwing himself onto Yoongi, squeezing him in a crushing embrace. “That’s definitely progress.”

Yoongi only grunted, more concerned with the breath being squished out of his lungs than Jimin’s observation. It was true, however. He was getting somewhere, no matter how slow the process was.

“Are you hungry?” Jimin questioned.

“Not really.”

“You should still eat.”

“Why did you even ask?” Yoongi grumbled with a short roll of his eyes.

“C’mon, I’ll help you get up and ready, then we can get something from the kitchen. Just a snack if you want,” Jimin prompted, batting his lashes for added effect. He was really trying to screw with Yoongi’s force of will.

His limbs still felt heavy, but the longer he was awake, the less lifeless they became. It took him a long while to reacquaint himself with movement whenever he wanted to get up. Usually there was the promise of a quick return to the bed, though. This time he’d have to deal with actually being out and conscious. He’d have to attempt to be a functioning human being again.

“Fine,” Yoongi eventually sighed, watching Jimin scurry off to grab a hoodie. Yoongi felt most comfortable when he really wasn’t visible, and Jimin knew that all too well. He threw his first find at Yoongi, and the latter pulled on the hood right after tugging the article over his head.

He and Jimin then compromised with Yoongi’s sweatpants. After all, Yoongi was leaving his comfort zone. He shouldn’t be required to get fully dressed. Jimin did make him put on deodorant, however. For public consideration purposes.

And then they were facing down the dreaded door. It was one thing being watched over by Jimin and Seokjin. They were two of his closest friends. But going out into the rest of the dorm, into open scrutiny made Yoongi more anxious than he should be. But he knew he was in absolute disarray, physically and mentally. He still couldn’t hold a conversation. His thoughts were a bit muddled, his emotions were still frantic, erratic, running rampant. The tightness in his chest had yet to let up. He was overall sluggish, an inconvenience to be around—

“Breathe, hyung,” Jimin whispered, snapping Yoongi out of his rambling thoughts. “It’s just family out there. We’re all vulnerable with each other. They’ve seen this before. They’re not going to be judgmental,” he assured, grasping Yoongi’s hand and giving him a gentle squeeze. “And if Tae starts asking too many questions, I’ll shut him up. I promise.”

Yoongi glanced over at him, speechless, hoping desperately that Jimin understood the words behind Yoongi’s expression that he couldn’t yet voice. Jimin smiled, picking up on Yoongi’s subtle expression. He fondly kissed the elder’s cheek, and Yoongi shut his eyes for one more moment. A second of peace, then they opened the door.

Yoongi and Jimin played a few quiet rounds of Mario Kart that evening, Jungkook joining in not long after they started. Yoongi had yet to regain his appetite, but Jimin continually fed him handfuls of popcorn until Yoongi began to irately protest. They were spilling kernels everywhere, and Seokjin wasn’t above scolding them all like an overworked mother. So Jimin begrudgingly let up on the tossing game he’d involved them in, resuming a more civilized manner of eating with a slight pout.

And that’s how their obscenely long day ended. Only slightly chaotic, and less tense than the beginning. Yoongi’s breathing was still irregular, heartrate spiking as he quelled his own temporary bursts of panic. But even the small things would return to normal soon. His version of normal, at least. And that was reassuring. That was progress.

Before the pair returned to bed—Jimin promised to sleep with him for safety and comfort purposes—Yoongi hesitated in front of a window, looking out at Seoul’s city lights. The same starless sky loomed in on them, ominous and gray. Jimin closed in behind him, and leaned into Yoongi with a curious expression. A matter of seconds ticked past, the two absorbed in their minimal embrace, until Jimin said, “You ever think about how all those lights look like stars? Kinda like the world’s been turned upside down.” The comment was a bit silly, stated in a mirthful tone. Yet, Yoongi couldn’t help agreeing, tilting his head to view the scene from a new perspective.

So they watched for a little longer, caught in their own moment of reverence. Together, they observed a world turned on its axis. A fascinating reality where Yoongi had yet to drown. And with that notion, his heart felt oddly weightless.