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HE IS THE man who saved the world.
And yet the world does not know him.
That's an arrangement which suits him just fine, as he discovers on the first-year anniversary commemorating the end of the Dark Ages. To his brothers's confusion and surprise, he'd rejected all opportunities to be awarded the status of a war hero. Fame. Accolades. Recognition. Perhaps he might've wanted that in his past life.
But when he's gone through hell and back, he finds that nothing else matters, save for the people he cares about.
She hadn't needed acknowledgement either. It had been made clear to him when he'd read her journal. That book opened a world to him he'd never known before. A version of her he already knew, and then some. Quirky and pensive, a little dreamy, a little sad, painfully honest and frightfully intelligent. Her writings contained random snapshots of her life, some days summarized in a sentence or two, others in exquisite detail—especially where he was concerned.
He could feel her love for him—bleeding through the pages, scribbled in every heartfelt word, his name penned with care in her most elegant font. Through her, he saw himself. Bright and broken, a little tortured, a little idealistic, a resilient and patient man she adored with every fibre of her being.
It was the last entry that stole his breath. Written on the morning of her death, it was as if she knew that he would see it someday. It read like an intimate love-letter—the first and last she'd ever given to him. He'd memorized it until it came to him as easy as breathing, and it had affirmed his belief that she hadn't done what she did for the world.
She'd done it for him.
So he attends the ceremony simply to support his brothers—after all, what kind of brother would he be if he didn't support their achievements? It's their moment in the limelight. As founder of the base in Antarctica and specialist weaponry designer respectively, Seokjin and Namjoon are important (albeit reluctant) guests of this ceremony.
He grabs a seat at the back of the hall, far out of reach from the flashing cameras and brash reporters, and claps for his brothers. Seokjin is polite as always, if slightly dazed by the attention. But he catches Namjoon's subtle eye-roll after the Minister shakes his hand.
At the sight of that, his lips twist up in a faint smirk.
It's all he can manage at this point. A hint of amusement; a crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Nothing more. She's taken away all his smiles and laughter with her passing. Every time he thinks of her, he feels that sharp twist in his chest, like a blade buried to the hilt within him. An emptiness around his sternum; a pinch in his lungs. It's been a year—three hundred and sixty-five fucking days. And yet, sometimes, it feels like both a second and an eternity have passed since.
A sudden movement in his peripheral has him glancing to the right. He's surprised to find his old colleague there. Jimin, all smart and dapper, is the main spotlight of the evening. He almost shifts away, well aware that there are plenty of eyes and cameras on his colleague—and, by extension, him; but the sympathy on Jimin's face keeps him there.
He knows, then. He knows about her.
Jimin opens his mouth to say something, then seems to think the better of it. "This belongs to you as much as it does to me," he says instead, holding up the shiny plaque that the Minister's awarded to him. "You know that, right?"
He understands Jimin's sentiment. Appreciates it, even. But he couldn't be more wrong. "Thank you, but no," he says quietly. "You deserve it, because you worked hard to save the world. All I ever wanted to save was...her."
Jimin nods and sets the plaque down between them. They remain seated together for awhile, until his ex-colleague leaves for his speech. The others come up to him at various points in the evening, each to express their condolences in their own way.
"She's buried at the house, right?" Jungkook asks, when he comes to sit beside him sometime during Jimin's speech. When he nods, Jungkook lets out a quiet breath. "I'll be in town until next month. Maybe we can...build a nicer memorial for her, or something."
"I'd like that," he says, and Jungkook claps him on the back before leaving.
Hoseok finds him soon after, teary-eyed, her death clearly having affected him more than it had the others since he'd actually worked with her. "I'm sorry," Hoseok chokes out, heedless of the strange looks from the people around them. "She was so brilliant and brave, and I knew that she'd help you save the world. But I didn't think...I wish she hadn't...it just doesn't seem..."
He swallows hard. If anything, Hoseok's apology makes him feel worse. It just doesn't seem worth it. Of course it wasn't. It wasn't worth his life in exchange for hers. Guilt threatens to overwhelm him again; he's this close to letting slip what she'd done for him.
"I know," is all he manages to say, before excusing himself.
Ironically, it's Yoongi who makes the evening a little more tolerable. The man stumbles over during the refreshments, his expression dour and eyes glazed from having too much to drink. Taehyung eyes him warily. Of all the men he'd met, it's Yoongi who is the most battle-damaged.
Yoongi sets the bottle down and fixes him with an accusatory glare. "You said you'd find her. I assumed protecting her was part of the deal," he snarls. "You promised."
He hadn't realized he needed this until he hears it. An outward accusation; a direct condemnation for having failed her. The one thing she hadn't done was to blame him—for jumping back in time to attempt to save her, for letting his guard down, for not being able to find a cure. She'd given him absolution when he didn't deserve it, and he'd been left to stew in his guilt in the aftermath.
He lowers his head, settling his elbows on his knees. "I know," he murmurs. "I tried, and I failed, and I'm sorry." His fingers dig into his palms, knuckles turning white. "I'm so sorry."
At his words, all the fire seems to go out of Yoongi. He slumps forward, his shoulders hunching. "I tried, and I failed, as well," he says. "I'm sorry, too."
As Yoongi leaves, Taehyung finds himself letting out a breath. This is what he needs. A tacit understanding from a man who failed the same woman. Even though she hadn't blamed either of them, that didn't mean they felt any less sorry.
He eases back in his seat, an unexpected weight lifted off his chest, as the Minister begins her speech. As she thanks a lengthy list of people who've made significant contributions to ending the war, he stifles a yawn and briefly considers taking a quick nap. He slouches back, extending his long legs in front of him, then leans his head to the side.
He blinks, staring at the empty chair beside him.
"—and we've lost many brave people in this war. Friends, family, lovers, strangers. We were united in our fight for humanity, and lost to the brutality that was Generation F—"
The chair is empty.
Empty.
He doesn't know what triggers it—this flash of pain that erupts within his chest, surging through every fibre of his being. Blood rushes to his ears, his vision blurs, and his lungs tighten with a sudden lack of oxygen. This place is claustrophobic, suffocating, drowning. He bolts up, blindly pushing his way out of the room, not caring who might've noticed him.
Panic attack, some part of his mind tells him. Classic symptom of PTSD.
Oh, he knows what this is. Hardly anyone came out of this war unscathed, anyway. To this day, he still sleeps with his gun under his pillow. But very rarely does he feel like this—this acute ache of missing her that threatens to overwhelm him. His mind fills with white noise, but an echo of the Minister's words pounds in his head.
We've lost many brave people in this war. Friends, family, lovers, strangers.
And that empty chair—that empty chair, taunting him, reminding him that she will never be beside him again. Ever.
He doesn't stop running until he reaches the open field beyond the building. Throwing himself down on the grass, he ignores the mud that clings to his pants and buries his head between his knees. He doesn't register that he's crying until choked sobs echo in the silence, so vicious and sad that his body quakes.
To hell with everything.
Fuck the world, with its revival, and the new Ministry. Everyone is safe and alive and happy, and they've forgotten. In the face of their victory, they've forgotten the grief, the fear, the losing. Eventually, they would forget the ones that had gone with the Dark Ages. And he was the only one who grieved, who loved, who remembered still.
He had saved the world and lost her in the process and, fuck, it wasn't worth it. It wasn't fucking worth it.
Through a blur of tears, he digs into the pocket of his suit jacket until he retrieves a familiar device. The memory wipe. That and the Cypher have never left his person, and he holds it up now, his thumb hovering over the button. He'd done it all before; he can do it again.
I really want to forget. I'm so, so tired. So tired of the guilt, the pain and the ache of losing you.
He lowers his thumb, then hesitates. There is something holding him back. Hadn't he been through this before? He'd wiped himself to remove the memory of having killed her, but in the process of searching for her, he'd learnt it all over again anyway. If he wiped himself now, all he'd be left with was what he'd become at the beginning—an empty shell, still without her.
The only thing worse than a world where he could only remember her was a world where not even he remembered her.
Slowly, he shoves the memory-wipe back into his pocket. It's just as well, too, because footsteps soon draw near. When he looks up, his brothers are heading towards him. The matching looks of concern on their faces make him feel like utter shit. As they come to a halt several feet away from him, he hugs his knees to his chest.
"I–I think," he starts quietly, "I think I might need help."
His voice is unsteady, and he can almost hear his heart thundering in his ears. He's frightened, helpless, vulnerable. But isn't the first step to recovery acknowledging that you're broken in the first place? When you're broken, at your lowest point, maybe the only way you can go is up. In the back of his mind, a soft, familiar voice seeps through the white noise.
Now be your own hero, Taehyung.
He swallows, and looks at Seokjin. "Can I go to one of your trauma recovery sessions?"
Seokjin practically beams; it's clear that he's trying not to be too obvious about his relief. "Of course. And, since we're brothers, it'll be free-of-charge."
"Well, maybe at half-price," Namjoon interjects wickedly. Taehyung turns to him in confusion, and he smirks. "You might be adopted, after all."
Even amidst tears, a chuckle rises out of him. It's low, grating like chewing on nails, and so unfamiliar because he's long forgotten how to laugh. He drags in a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair.
"So when can I begin?"