Chapter 25

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Jimin’s POV

My phone starts ringing from where I’ve shoved it into a drawer in my desk, while my head’s bent over a text book. I’m meant to be studying, sure, but nothing I’m reading is actually processing in my mind. I scan my eyes over the empty words and pick up the phone.

My heart leaps for a second. Could… could it be Jungkook? Have I been able to convince him to come back to me? I unlock my phone, and it, Yoongi’s calling. I internally groan and slide the white phone symbol to pick up the phone, preparing myself for the wrath of whatever he wants to complain about this time.

“Yoongi, now’s not a great time-”

“You ing bastard!” he practically screeches over the phone, so loud his voice crackles and I wince in surprise. I hear Namjoon in the background, telling him to calm down, be quiet, people will stare. I can also hear Taehyung’s distinct wailing sobs and Hoseok comforting him. I have no idea what’s going on—are they high? Drunk? Tae’s an emotional drunk, I know that from experience. And Yoongi’s a mad one. So I brace myself, ready to tell him the usual. Yoongi, you’re drunk. Shut up.

“I’m going to ing slit your throat, you son of a ,” he continues yelling. I bite my lip. He’s never this harsh with words. “Y-you just w-watch me… you’ll be dead when I find you, Park Jimin…”

“What the hell?” I snap. I’m not putting up with his drunken , not now, when I have finals soon.

“Jungkook’s in a coma, and I’m ing betting on you having something to do with it.”

As soon as the last word rings loud and clear over the reciever, the phone drops out of my hand. I hear it thud on the floor, hear the sound of cracking glass as the black iPhone screen spills over with the telltale spiderweb of cracks. I’m not even breathing.

. .

* * *

I nearly crash my car five times, have to slam the breaks after every single turn and dash past all the red lights, regardless of the law. I need to get to Jungkook. I need to.

Almost tripping over my own feet, I sprint through the doors of the hospital and to reception.

“J-Jeon Jungkook, I’m h-here to see him,” I breathe out in a rush of words that I’m not sure make sense, and my whole body is shaking uncontrollably. The receptionist nods, calm, and points me to the direction of the A&E ward. I leg it down the cold, clinically white corridors while the scent of antiseptic stings the inside of my nose. I’m practically choking on air as I burst through the door into the room, 242.

By now, my heart’s beating so fast the reverbration tingles from the front of my chest right up to my ears, has my hair standing on edge. My chest is heaving, trying to straggle in as much oxygen as it can, because holy .

The room looks like the aftershock of a deadly explosion, or an earthquake. Taehyung, as expected, is sprawled out across two chairs next to each other, body twisting and turning with sobs, his hoarse cries echoing, bouncing off the high ceilings onto the pristine wooden floor. His face is bloated and red with streaks of tears—dried, fresh, dripping down miserably from his chin to the front of his shirt. Hoseok looks pain-stricken two, and sits beside Taehyung, his hair, trying to be calm for Taehyung’s sake, but I see his fingers visibly trembling. Seokjin looks absolutely drained and is perched on the edge of Jungkook’s bed. He is looking at Jungkook, face etched with creases of worry, and is running his hands through Jungkook’s dark hair tenderly. Namjoon, has completely lost his cool. I can tell from his posture, frantic, helpless. He looks like he’s about to rip out his hair and is muttering to himself, something I haven’t seen him do since his younger brother was jailed for manslaughter. And then there’s Yoongi.

Yoongi’s been crying too, I can tell. And he never cries. He didn’t cry when his grandmother passed away, when his pathetic drunk of a father smashed a vase over his head right in front of our faces. Now, he sits, hunched over, head in his hands. Broken.

He’s the first one to notice my presence, and tilts his head up. His glimmering eyes immediately harden, and he stands up out of his seat and starts marching towards me with obvious malice. I cower back, only slightly, because I know I deserve whatever’s coming to me. I close my eyes, turn my face away, wait for the impact of the blow. But it never comes.

I open my eyes, only a crack first, my heart still thumping against my chest madly. Yoongi’s fist is raised, eyes like daggers, except Namjoon has his wrist in a firm grip so that he can’t move.

“Don’t, Yoongi,” he says, quietly.

“ you, Namjoon, he deserves to die,” Yoongi growls, struggling to free himself, twisting his torso around until he finally manages to overpower Namjoon. Then he curses, spits something foul out at me, and white-hot pain sears through my cheek. He slapped me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Then he slaps me again.

“Yoongi, stop now,” Seokjin says from the bed. Yoongi eyes me with disgust before shaking his head and returning to his position on the chair, head back in his hands with a guttural groan low from the bottom of his throat. Taehyung looks up.

“Jiminie?” he croaks weakly. He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know what I’ve done to Jungkook, how I come into this. He probably doesn’t have the slightest clue as to why Yoongi just struck me across the face twice, but he knows not to question Yoongi. Taehyung also doesn’t take sides,  not when he isn’t involved in the argument. Namjoon, of course, doesn’t know much either, but has obviously pieced certain things together. Hoseok knows a little bit, and doesn’t even bother to look at me. Seokjin is trying to keep some peace, though I know he’s absolutely wrecked with anger inside, and Yoongi, of course, is visibly fuming.

Then I finally have the courage to slide my eyes over to Jungkook’s unconcious form, wrapped up in thin white sheets on the hospital bed.

His entire face is blackened with bruises, varying across the entire colour spectrum from deep, mellow plums to angry, raw red. Nothing, luckily, is entirely misshapen, but there’s a sickening gash burned into his skin from just under his browbone to his upper lip. Of course, I can’t see all of his body, but both his legs are coddled in casts and so is his right arm. And he looks thinner, more vulnerable than ever, as if he hasn’t eaten i