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.
"Yoongi has gone straight into surgery," your coach murmurs, voice trembling like a thing shivering from the flu. "We know that there was... a lot of blood-loss. But he– He'll be okay. I'm sure he'll be fine–"
"Don't say that," Minah whispers before you can. Her voice is as hollow as a dark tunnel. "We can't be so sure. Don't set us up with false hope."
Seokjin pulls away at that, though one of his hands remains on your shoulder, while the other rests upon Minah's. His face is patchy with splotches of pink; the whites of his eyes match. "You're right, I'm sorry. Come and sit down while I go get us some coffee, okay? It's... it's going to be a long night."
Minah mumbles an agreement. You sense the numbness settling in. Seokjin lingers for a moment, staring at you with devastation written in his eyes, and then Minah is gently tugging you towards the cushioned chairs of the waiting area. You scarcely register the faces of the others who are wailing and whimpering—a distant part of your mind knows that if Namjoon is here, then Park Jimin and Kim Taehyung must be among the crowd. But before you sit down, your eyes become fixed on a man and a woman holding each other with heaving shoulders, looking like a single organism as they sway and howl like they are losing everything and they cannot control it.
Yoongi's parents.
And it is only there, as you feel Minah slowly draw you onto your seat by your wrists, that you realise this is the first time you have been to the hospital since your accident.
❄︎
Everything is ruined.
Laying on the hospital bed, you stare at the cast around your calf and ankle as if your gaze has the power to revert time. Anger bubbles like a brook throughout your entire body. If circumstances were different, you would be at your competition, right now. You would be putting your all into every spin and twist for the coaches and scouts, who would be sitting alongside the judges and determining whether you are fit for the Olympic team.
But you are not doing that at all. The doctor says it will be at least a year before you can even step back onto the ice, let alone skate competitively. And those facts narrow down to a single conclusion in your mind...
You will never become a teenage Olympian, and it is all because you decided to appease the selfish demands of the person you have always trusted most.
As if the sheer thought of him has acted like a distress signal, there is an almost imperceptible knock against the door of your hospital room. It opens painstakingly slow, and before Yoongi has even become physically discernible within its frame, you have shifted your eyes to the wall at the end of your bed. You know it is him—you knew he was coming. Out the corner of your eye, you can see that he holds a bouquet of baby breaths and lavender, as if such a thing could ever serve as an apology and surmount what has occurred—what will no longer happen, because Yoongi shattered your ankle in three places.
When Yoongi seems to realise that you are refusing to look at him, he approaches your bedside like you are some nasty, feral creature that is just waiting to tear at his throat. He may not be entirely wrong, but it is not like this is something that he does not deserve. He has earned every single inch of hell that you are plotting to give him until the day you die.
Yoongi places the bouquet on a table already overflowing with them before he sits on the nearby chair, placed right at the edge of your bed. The one that has been occupied by your distressed parents ever since you were rushed to the hospital three nights ago, who are now sipping bland coffees in the cafeteria, waiting for this visit to be over. You are sure that they are expecting this to last for an hour, at the very least.
But you will be damned if you have to be in his presence for any longer than five minutes.
"___, hey," Yoongi murmurs, followed by a very wet sniff. Oh, is he crying? Good. "Hey. I just. God. I... I don't even know where to begin. I'm so sorry for this, ___. From the very, very bottom of my heart, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have made you do something so reckless. I should've been so much more careful. I only wanted to make you happy—to make you smile. I-I thought it would be something fun and m-memorable and I..." He chokes on a sob, hanging his head. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'll n-never be able to apologise enough to you f-for this. I'm so sorry. H-Hey. Please, ___... please look at me..."
You keep your eyes trained on the wall, not daring to cast them his way. You refuse to let him think that he even has the slightest chance at forgiveness. This is unpardonable, even for the boy that you once believed could never hurt you—who you believed you could never despise with every cell of your being.
"Please, baby, talk to me..." Yoongi sniffles, fingers creeping across the thin hospital sheet. You snatch your hand away before he can reach it, and he jumps at your sudden movement as if you are a statue come-to-life.
"You did this to me."
Yoongi blanches. "I–I... I k-know and I'm so, so, so sorry, ___. I'm really so–"
"Get out," you whisper, still staring at the wall.
In your periphery, you can see the hurt that flashes across Yoongi's face like a slap. It is exceptionally satisfying, like washing a burn with cold water. "W-What–"
"Get out of this room," you say, louder, resolution firming your tone. "Get out of my life. I don't ever want to see you again."
"B-But ___, please–"
It is only then that you snap your bloodcurdling stare to him, and you hope that he can see the newfound contempt that you have for him burning up in your eyes. A forest being devoured by wildfire. "You've ruined us, Yoongi. And most of all, you've ruined me. You've ruined my future, because you're a selfish fucking asshole. Get. The fuck. Out."
There is a moment of silence, as stark as a white spot on a black canvas. As quick as one can snap their fingers, every single lick of emotion drains from Yoongi's wet face like a straw has sucked it out of him. Without uttering another word, without sparing you a final glance, he robotically gets to his feet and turns, leaving you. Just as you had ordered him to.
Yet, when the door slams behind him, it feels like your ankle is breaking all over again.
❄︎
A long arm suddenly wraps around your shoulder. Minah's palm is rubbing frantic circles against your back. Seokjin is whispering into your ear, telling you to breathe. Tissues are being pressed to your face, and a faraway part of you notices that you are shaking so hard that it feels like your teeth are going to fall out.
"H-He can't die," you gasp, digging your nails deep enough into Seokjin's wrist, where he holds the tissues up to your face, to make him noticeably wince. "I-If he dies, I–I don't know what I'll do!"
Silently, both Minah and Seokjin curl themselves around you, as if their bodies can protect you from the reality of the situation. Your throat feels like it has been scrubbed at by a wire sponge. Every single one of your limbs is heavy with exhaustion; aching with agony.
"We'll deal with that if it happens," Seokjin hums, clutching at your hand and giving it a squeeze of reassurance. "I know you don't want any false hope, but I believe in Yoongi, ___. He's as stubborn as you. He won't let this be the end."
You have no idea how much time passes until the doctor emerges from the emergency room and calls for Mr. and Mrs. Min. All you know is that every minute has felt like it has stretched on for an hour—the seconds pulling and twisting into endlessness. But the doctor finally comes, and when Yoongi's parents rise, so do you and Namjoon, alongside who you realise are Jimin and Taehyung. Neither of the Min's make an objection to the presence of any of you as the doctor leads the group into a quiet hallway. Mr. Min gives your shoulder a weak squeeze, and Jimin, who you have hardly ever spoken to, grabs your hand like you are a stable pillar in a raging flood.
The doctor's expression screams bad news. And for a fleeting, harrowing second, you really think that he is going to say Yoongi has died.
"There was a weak point on his helmet," the doctor solemnly speaks, hands clasped behind his back. "The impact caused it to collapse. Because of this, there was little protection for Yoongi's head, which took most of his weight when he was thrown back."
Then, you hear the words "coma" and "we are unsure of when he may possibly wake up" gently slipping from the doctor's lips. Everything that comes after that is an incomprehensible murmur, as if spoken through a wall of ice.