Jimin POV:

“Hey guys!! How are you guys?” I beam into the camera, smiling to myself as I see the excitement-filled flood of comments streaming through the chat. “Has everyone had a good day?” I inquire and hundreds of “It was good”, “AMAZING” and “Alright I guess,” messages appear right in front of my eyes. It’s really hard for me to imagine that each tiny row of text is a real person watching me, a real life that I am directly influencing. I still don’t really understand how music has caused this audience but I love it nonetheless. The next 20 minutes are filled with random anecdotes, terrible jokes and a wide variety of questions for me to answer from the people that listen to our music; overall it is an incredible feeling. Though, my happiness is soon shattered.

________________________________________

I try to ignore it; I really do – after all people can tolerate much worse pain without making a scene. But the feeling is sudden, and takes me by surprise, a somehow sharp but dull pain spreads through my abdomen, a hazy mixture between the two sensations with the occasional added cramp. I bite my lip and focus on the camera in front of me, the words slightly blurring but I can just about manage to read them. I carry on through another 10 minutes of strenuous torture, the feeling occasionally subsiding but re-appearing a couple of minutes later with a crashing wave of a throbbing soreness. As I speak my hands begin to tremble and a cold rush flows through my body causing a violent shiver to ripple through me. But most of all, my energetic live-show mood was slipping away from me, I can almost feel myself getting more irritable, tetchy and sulky as the minutes drag by. Not only is the irritating, exasperatingly slow ticking of the clock on a mission to leave as much time between the ticks as possible, each click seems increasingly loud. Every, snap pummelling into my head and hammering into my skull: I squeeze my eyes closed, and keep them locked a moment too long to attempt to relieve the pain, and when I open them; I am greeted by the blinding light of the screen in front of me, the light that burrows into my head that’s beginning to pound and throb. A sour taste forms in my mouth and my stomach lurches a bit as the smell of my burning candle on the table interrupted my thoughts; it was too sweet, too sickly.

________________________________________

Yet, I don’t say anything. I believe a couple of viewers have noticed something off about my personality, but there is not such an overwhelming amount that the regular flow of comments is interrupted, at least – not at first. At a particularly bad stage where my constant concentration on not throwing up the contents of my stomach was high and the pressure in my stomach hit me with a stabbing pain, most of the inbox was filled with concerned messages. I’ve become increasingly aware of the fact I can’t struggle through this for much longer, my urge to vomit was getting too high and concentration was slipping and sliding all over the place. “Yoongi,” I call weakly across the flat towards my Hyung, who I think is currently editing a track, “can you come entertain the people for a minute?” I’m proud of getting through the sentence without stuttering to be quite honest, the shivers and flickering pains spreading everywhere throughout my body. Mild aches are forming in my leg muscles and back, a cause unexplainable, but it was a pain all the same.

________________________________________

“Why?” he responds, strolling across the room with a concerned smile; at any other time, I would have stared, found him cute and funny, but now? I need to leave the room as quickly as physically possible oblivious to my queasiness and excruciating headache. I manage a weak smile at him before clamping my lips shut.

“I need to pee,” I rush, before hurriedly planting the camera on the sofa and exiting the room. As soon as I’m out the door, I clasp my hand to my lips, cringing as a small amount of acidy vomit rises in my throat in the hallway. Disoriented and dizzy I stagger towards the bathroom, throwing open the door and not bothering to close it before collapsing onto the floor and heaving up the insides of my stomach, momentarily relived at the loss of pain and decreased tenderness. It is only me and Yoongi at the flat; everyone else is at the studio practicing, so I don’t need to worry about worrying people. My throat is intensely burning from the acidic touch, and my whole body writes in another agony-packed movement. Leaning against the toilet, the bathroom seems to spin, I’m dizzy and nauseous and I feel reluctant to relieve myself of this comforting position against the cool surface. Tears are streaming down my face as I feel another whirling sensation in my front and gag, spitting out an excessive amount of saliva my mouth has managed to produce and groaning.

I’m weary, aching and practically feeling like death; but the live-show is still in progress. I try and clamber to my feet but I’m greeted with a strikingly bright, white flash and I sink back down clutching the sides of my head and rubbing my temples to ease the pain. It’s too much to cope with. My urgency is increasing and my desire for human comfort is too much.

________________________________________

“Hyung, end the show!” I instruct loudly, hearing a startled shuffle from the lounge.

“End it? There’s still 15 minutes left,” he says uncertainly, and I can almost see the way he’s squinting at the clock in confusion. The walls around me wobble and I suppress another heave of the stomach.

“Yes! End it now and please get your in here,” I groan and I hear him gasp slightly at my abruptness, and quite possibly the chat will be blowing up with “Did Jimin just say !?!?!?!?!:O” messages, but quite frankly, I don’t care. Now isn’t the time for my innocent persona.

“Are you alright Jimin…?” He hesitates, and if I had the energy, I’d yell at him for his idleness and dawdling responses.

“Do I sound ing okay!?” I snap, keeping my voice low enough that the chat wouldn’t hear, or so I think…

“Okay, coming!” he exclaims loudly, his priorities and importance finally in the right order, clicking a button and putting the camera down. “Where are you?” he questions worriedly, and I don’t blame him – after all it is rare for me to leave early from a live-show, normally I would be working hard to give my viewers an entertainment-filled hour.

“Bathroom. I kind of got sick…” I trail off feeling slightly stupid for needing his reassurance. I feel as if I’m incapable of functioning by myself sometimes.

“Oh ! Oh my God. I’m sorry! How did I not notice?” He mumbles from the door, before jogging down the hallway to retrieve a glass from the kitchen and returning to my aid. He fills the glass with water before dropping down to the floor to join me and handing me the cool liquid.

“Are you alright? You need anything?” he asks softly, running his fingers through my hair and pulling it back from my face. I close my eyes and shake my head, the movement producing a rise in my discomfort. He lays a supportive hand on my upper back as I retch. It’s disgusting, vomiting in the presence of somebody else, and it’s never a situation I’m comfortable with. But I have to accept I need somebody with me right now, I’m a mess.

“Can you stand up? You need to get to bed-”

“No, I can’t.” I gasp, gripping the side so hard my knuckles transition to a ghastly white shade and my fingertips become red. “I need to…” I once again gag but nothing comes up.

“You feel like you need to throw up?”

“Yeah.”

Yoongi sighs, placing his head in his hands. “I’ll grab a bucket, you need to get to bed,” he soothes, rubbing circles on my upper back before gently placing his hands securely on my shoulders and guiding me to my feet. With no sudden movements and a considerate grace, he chaperons me towards my bedroom and assists me to my bed where I feel a deep comfort as I collapse into the soft, cushiony atmosphere. Bucket and his laptop in hand, he sits in next to me, wrapping his arms around me in a reassuring, supportive hold as I tremble and shake.

“I’m sure you have better things to be doing right now,” I sulk, sipping the water to trying to rid my mouth of the sour taste that invades it.

Yoongi chuckles, “Why do you think I brought my laptop, , also, as much as I enjoy watching you throw up - but I care about you so I’m staying.” He answers with a half light-hearted, half determined attitude.

“Thank you.” I whisper staring up into his deep, brown eyes. “But you should go, you might get sick.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well I do, I don’t want you to go through this – its hell.” I grumble. All of a sudden, a thought crosses my mind, “wait, what about the live-show!?” I ask, my eyes widening

“Shush, don’t worry about that,” he calms me, “It’s okay – I think a few people clocked on the fact you were sick, but it’s all okay, they understand.

“Okay,” I reply, closing my eyes, leaning against his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat, inhaling his scent and feeling right at home, despite my distress and hostile immune system.

“Thank you, hyung.”

“No problem.”

________________________________________

When everyone else finally came home, I was told that they walked in on the most adorable sight. They all took photos of the unfortunate situation and from what I could see, Yoongi was asleep and I was sleeping on his chest. Needless to say, Yoongi blamed me for that and refused to talk to me for the rest of the week.