the devil skates on thin ice ∙ myg ✓

15 ↝ the remembrance

Red.

Blue.

Red.

Blue.

Red.

Red.

Red.

"Stop speeding; it won't make a difference," you find yourself whispering, fixated on the blurry mass that is the ambulance zooming ahead. It becomes further away with every passing second, until the only hint that it is there comes through the stark red-blue, red-blue flash of its lights against the darkening night.

Minah releases a shuddering breath. The car noticeably slows to match the pace of the surrounding traffic. For once, she does not argue with your demands. "Okay. We're almost there."

You close your eyes, breathing deeply through your nose. Yet, no matter that, the inescapable red of the lights paints the backs of your eyelids like a spilled bucket of blood.

Like Yoongi's that had pooled on the ice.

❄︎

Silence. Awful, terrifying silence.

Yoongi is on his back, sprawled out and motionless. Everything is still. Too still, like someone has pointed a remote at the world and pressed pause. Like the fleeting eye of a hurricane before the storm comes charging through.

But in the instant that something so dark and horrible and wrong, wrong, wrong grows like a halo around Yoongi's head, the stadium lunges into a chaotic flurry of horrified gasps and screams and, "Oh my god, call the paramedics!" "Help him!" "No, don't move him!" "Stay back!"

And you are shoving your way down to the front row of the seats, slamming your fists against the viewing glass, shrieking his name in the precise same way that Yoongi had yelled your own when your leg had fallen through the ice. Like the end of the world was coming and neither of you had he power to stop it.

But the puddle of blood continues to grow. There is no use. He cannot hear you. There is nothing you can do. There is nothing you can do. There is nothing you can do.

Yoongi is slipping through your fingers like cold water.

You are losing him, because the universe knew that you never deserved to have him back.

❄︎

Contrasting your actions at the stadium, you calmly stride towards the hospital's entrance after Minah has hastily parked. She grabs your hand halfway, squeezing tight and murmuring something that you do not catch. It sounded like a question, but the nearer you come to the sliding doors of the administration room, the more that the world and your senses seem to become less real. Everything is smudged and warped at the edges; a disturbing sensation rolls solid and heavy around your stomach like the pit of an avocado.

Entering the waiting room is like flinging yourself right into the heart of a war. There is a near-constant drone from the commotion of at least ten people in various states of panic and tears; the administration staff and a handful of nurses are flitting around the clustered space like bees between flowers. You spot Seokjin's blonde hair seemingly at the same moment that his eyes land on you, and he whispers into the ear of the person beside him, who is hunched over and has his head in his hands. You only realise that it is a distraught-looking Kim Namjoon by the time that Seokjin has crossed the waiting room, and is wrapping both you and Minah into a hug.