the boy with the dragon tattoo - yoonmin

chapter thirteen

His father hadn't even blinked.

Yoongi tries not to listen to the thunking up above him. Tries to will himself to move to another part of the basement where he won't be able to hear it, but his aching body won't allow him to do much else but move his neck. So he lies there and listens to it. Listens to his father give orders and yell in a way he never did to yoongi. His father rarely yelled at him. Like he didn't think yoongi was worth raising his voice over. But somehow his stoic, cold monotone was worst. He would just tell yoongi all the awful things he wanted, straight to his face, and wouldn't even need to yell to get his point across. Somehow that made it all worst, because if he didn't need to yell it just be fact then. Right?

Worthless. Hopeless. Good for nothing. Disappointment. Pathetic. Cry baby. You deserve this you deserve this you deserve this you—

Yoongi holds his breath when the thumping of steel toed boots pounding into flesh stops, his father orders someone to do something in a muffled yelling kind of voice, and then it's silent again. He knew his father has taken a rival home to teach them a lesson. But yoongi tried not to listen, tried not to care.

That is until the basement door opens only minutes later,ever so slowly spreading white light into the darkness. It travels down each step like a zigzag until it reaches Yoongis face, and he squints up in confusion because his eyes had already adjusted to the deep darkness he'd always favoured, and that white light was blinding him like someone was shining a torch directly in his eyes. He sees the dark outline of muscular legs, stark against the light and feels fear claw at his entire being. His father couldnt be back again.

Not again.

But the sound of heavy boots and metal answers any question swirling around in Yoongis quickly fear seized mind, and his eyes widen in horror.

Not again
Not again not again not again not ag—

Yoongi gasps and sits up, immediately drawing his hands to his chest to clutch at the fabric there instead of clawing against his bare skin like he wants to do instead. He sits there and closes his eyes again, panting through the aftershocks of his flashback dream whatever the fuck. Yoongi had had these kinds of nightmares a lot when he had first left, they would wake him up in a cold sweat and sometimes to the sound of his own screams echoing in the darkness of wherever he had fallen asleep. Sometimes he'd even get them when he wasn't asleep, he'd fall into a daydream and succumb to the memories like falling into a deep hole head first, and he'd come out crying and panting like he hadn't been breathing the whole time, which or course would then turn into a panic attack. But he hadn't had one in a long while. A year, maybe. Instead of memory filled nightmares or randomly triggered flashbacks, he'd somehow trained his brain to cope by just throwing him into a panic attack instead. Somehow it was better. Harder to hide, but better. Even if it made him pass out and gave him terrible migraines every time he was triggered, at least it was better than reliving anything he didn't want to ever see again, even in his subconscious.

Yoongi takes a deep breath and remembers how much he hated this feeling, the aftermath of such fear and hopelessness always set everything out of wack inside. Yoongi staves off the tears threatening to fall, and slows his breathing back down, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. Fuck his father. Fuck him.

Yoongi jumps and has to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop the yell of fright leaving when a soft groan interrupts the silence. He turns to see a head of dark messy hair rested against his pillow like a halo, long, dark eyelashes shadowing soft cheeks and full lips parted and letting out quiet breaths. Jimin. He'd fallen asleep next to Jimin. This was the first time yoongi had ever slept next to the younger and had a bad sleep. Yoongi wipes away his sweaty fringe and lies back down as gently as he possibly could so as not to wake the other, who had somehow stayed asleep despite being an incredibly light sleeper. Yoongi faces him, and his delicate beauty makes yoongi not ever want to look away. It draws his thoughts away from bad places and brings calm to his aching mind, but still the fear crawling up his spine persists. Like his father was hidden in his closet, was the boogeyman under his bed, the sleep paralysis demon in the corner of the room shrouded in darkness waiting to attack. Like someone yoongi could never escape, even in his sleep. Even in death. Perhaps that was Yoongis biggest fear.

He stares at the gorgeous man asleep beside him, stares at his adorable cheeks and soft looking hair and feminine eyelashes, at the soft dusting of barely visible freckles and moles on his face and the dip under his plump bottom lip, watching the pink orange light from the window peaking through his curtain travel across the bends and creaks and curves of jimins skin, all the while resisting the urge to wake him. Or perhaps just not having the courage to. Who was he to disturb an angel while they slept? Just to he can have a little comfort and a little reassurance and a little help to stave off the tears gathering in his eyes — fighting against his willpower to let them flow? Who was he? No one.

Yoongi sits up again, giving Jimins soft beauty wrapped up in yoongis dark bedding one last glance, before he's gently manoeuvring himself around the sleeping beauty and walking himself to the bathroom. He closes the door so silently he wonders for a moment whether he even had, double checks, and then sits down on the side of the bathtub to stare at the white tile. This was a slow kind of anxiety, a creeping kind, a stalking kind that was coming up behind and ready to pounce. Ready and waiting with a knife in hand to stab and then twist in your gut and pull out to let you slowly bleed out. As the minutes ticked by where yoongi stared at the white tile and it started to morph under his persistent gaze, yoongis anxiety rises and rises until he's sure he can hear a kettle screeching from the middle of his chest, and he's sinking down to the floor and clutching at it.

Yoongi can feel the slight bumps under the fabric of his shirt, if he presses hard enough. The bumps of years of abuse and torture and cruel beatings. Maybe some he'd done on himself, just to try and maintain some form of control over the pain he was feeling, some kind of relief. But all of it the proof of his trauma and neglect, all displayed out there on his skin like a fucked up piece of cracked porcelain. White and long or pink and short, but there. Scars. Everywhere. The ugliest on his back, black and stark between his shoulder blades. Dragon shaped.

Yoongi ducks his head but no tears come, and when he tips his head back to rest on the cold bathtub behind him, his breathing has already receded.

Then a soft knock startles the silence, and draws his eyes to the door. Yoongi is surprised to see Namjoon standing there, looking just as surprised. He'd obviously just knocked by principle, not actually expecting to see anyone inside. Or much less, on the ground.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't think anyone was in here," Namjoon mutters, his eyes still looked sleep shot because surely it was too early for him to be up. Surely it was too early for yoongi to be up, and Namjoon seems to realise that too because his eyes scan over yoongi on the floor, eyebrows raising in concern.

"Sorry." Yoongi says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Namjoon doesn't reply, just moves into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. Yoongi watches the younger as he puts down the toilet seat and sits in it, watches as Namjoon leans back calmly and stares down at him, and yoongi tries to find the willpower to get the fuck off the floor but he can't. Namjoon doesn't look at him with judging eyes or overly confused or concerned looks, doesn't scrutinise or criticise or anything, he just looks kind, and understanding, and all of a sudden yoongi wants to cry.

"Why are you on the floor, hyung?"

Yoongi doesn't want to tell him. Doesn't want to admit that the reason he's on the bathroom floor at five in the morning on a Thursday is because he had a flashback of his father beating him and throwing him down a staircase at thirteen, doesn't want to talk about why he'd gone to the bathroom of all places after that to hyperventilate and let himself get consumed by anxiety and sadness and a craving to hurt himself that he hasn't gotten in years. Doesn't want to say anything. But doesn't want to be left alone, either.

Namjoon seems to get it, or maybe he doesn't, but he moves off the toilet and sits down beside yoongi on the floor anyway, leaning himself against the bathtub, and waits.

"I don't trust myself, joon." Is the first thing yoongi thinks to say, but really there was no thinking involved because it had slipped out before yoongi could stop it.

"Why?" Namjoon asks, staring at the side of Yoongis face that yoongi resolutely keeps turned away. "About what, hyung?"

"Just... just stay here with me, for a bit. Just—just a little while, and I'll be okay again, in a minute."

Namjoon doesn't say anything and just sits there, looking away, nodding. "Okay, I can do that."

And then when silence engulfs them, stirs around them like something alive, it isn't awkward or uncomfortable, because they'd asked for it. Yoongi had asked for it, and there it was.

There it was.