Namjoon followed from a distance, eyes glued to his feet as he put one foot in front of the other. Repeat, repeat, continue forward, silent against the yellowish vinyl flooring. There was a part of him – rather masochistic, he thought, but well, what else was new – that was desperate to hear everything going on up ahead, from Seokjin’s distraught crying, to Yoongi’s feeble attempts at comforting him when also he was trying not try break down sobbing, to Hoseok’s silence broken only by sniffles. Some kind of self-imposed punishment for everything that had happened, he supposed.

The other part was scared less.

“Your friend is currently in the ICU,” the woman had said, kindly. “He was brought in immediately. A team of doctors and surgeons are doing their best to save his life as we speak.”

, this wasn’t what was supposed to have happened.

When they reached the end of the corridor, with the imposing doors leading into the ICU in front of them, Seokjin headed straight for the closest chair and seemingly just collapsed there. “Oh, God,” he croaked, wiping away tears with his palms. “Oh my God.”

“He’ll be all right,” Yoongi said, sinking into the seat next to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. Hoseok plummeted onto a chair opposite of them and immediately dropped his face in his hands. Something that sounded like a sob escaped him, as if everything were slowly dawning on him, now, here, in front of the ICU.

Namjoon hesitated, wringing his hands as he took in the miserable lot before him, before slowly sinking down beside Hoseok. They were the first ones here. Small mercies. Namjoon didn’t think he had it in him to stick around for when everyone else would arrive. He couldn’t handle seeing how distraught those he cared for were.

“He almost died,” Seokjin wailed, eyes bloodshot from all the crying as he looked to Yoongi for – Namjoon didn’t know. A miracle? Like Yoongi could do a thing about this. It wasn’t his fault. “They said he – that he wasn’t breathing, that his heart had stopped beating. Oh my God, oh my God.”

Seokjin sounded so crushed that Namjoon was seconds away from walking over and wrapping his arms around him, but – but.

“He’s strong, remember,” whispered Yoongi. He did what Namjoon couldn’t, gathering Seokjin in his arms and hugging him tightly. “And the doctors are professionals, yeah? He will survive this, and we will be there to help him overcome this. He’s not alone, and he needs to know that.”

“I can’t believe this,” Seokjin sobbed, smearing tears and snot into Yoongi’s shirt. Yoongi seemed not to mind. He probably didn’t even notice. “If I had known – I thought… I didn’t think he would…”

“No one did,” Yoongi said. “It’s not your fault for not noticing. It’s no one’s fault.”

Namjoon looked down on his hands in his lap, picking at the skin around his nails. It was not their fault, no. He hoped they didn’t really believe that.

Hoseok remained eerily quiet by his side, albeit Namjoon caught the minute trembling of his shoulders. He was crying, too. Everyone was crying.

Namjoon dropped his head in his hands as his own tears overwhelmed him finally, the dam he had put on his emotions no longer able to withstand the pressure.

God, what he would give to turn back time, to do this over.

This shouldn’t have happened.

-

The heart monitor’s steady beeps filled the hospital room, at the time being the only noise to break the stifling silence. Namjoon had always hated this particular silence, with nothing to keep the doubt and self-loathing at bay. Music usually helped, but there was no music to drown out the noise in his head.

He hated the quiet.

The steady beeps weren’t helping, acting more as a metronome for the thoughts, keeping them coming in a steady, predictable rhythm.

It was late, around four in the morning, Namjoon reckoned. A nurse would probably come by for a routine check within the next hour, like they had yesterday. He didn’t feel tired despite the late hour, didn’t feel much else but grief and regret, but all of it was dull, as if he had smothered those feelings in a heavy blanket inside. More than anything, he felt empty, oddly numb. Next to silence, this numbness was almost worse.

But, he supposed, it was still better than feeling too much of everything. It was still better than feeling worthless, hopeless, miserable, still better than feeling smothered by every thought and every emotion. For a second he wondered, again, why he hated the numbness so. Sometimes it seemed more like the only solace he had left, like the last friend he could turn to.

He had friends, of course. Not that he could turn to them for help. Not after what had happened.

“Mr. Kim has been through a lot,” a doctor had explained, as if they didn’t know. “For now he remains comatose, and we will continue to monitor him closely.” The doctor had continued talking for another minute or so, but Namjoon had tuned out, looking towards the bed everyone had gathered around instead.

It was in the middle of the room, pushed up against the white wall, with white sheets. So clean, sterile. Several machines occupied the space right beside the bed, monitoring vital signs and administering blood and fluids through dreadful tubes. Everything worked like clockwork, mechanical, smooth, from the beeps and clicks of the machines, to the drips of the IVs, to the rise and fall of a chest.

He had quickly looked away.

He hadn’t really moved from his spot on the floor despite having sat there for – hours. He didn’t want to move. Why should he? He was fine here. He would probably move when someone entered the room. Probably.

He recalled Jeongguk and Jimin’s tears when they had arrived, back in front of the doors to the ICU, when Seokjin had launched from his seat like a man possessed and gathered them both in his arms. Hoseok had joined them, Yoongi, too, and Namjoon had stayed behind, wringing his hands and picking at the skin around his nails, feeling like he didn’t belong. He didn’t belong.

Everyone had been crying. So many tears, too many – Namjoon had left. Had returned a little later, had listened to the doctor, looked at the white sheets on the bed, had left, again. When he came back, everyone was gone. He had been alone, and even now – despite everything, the grief and frustration and misery, it had consumed him, his own thoughts turned against him. He was useless, so completely useless, why was he still here?

His thoughts had quieted down since, drawing back to allow the numb to take hold. Why did he consider it an enemy, again?

“Why are you like this?” he asked the air, asked himself. Looked at the bed. “Why are you there? You shouldn’t be there. You were supposed to die.”

He closed his eyes, sighing. He shouldn’t be here.

-

In the morning and up until noon, the only visitors in the room were nurses, checking that everything was as it should be, changing the bags of fluids, tidying up, leaving with no words spoken, albeit Namjoon had seen a couple of them look in his direction, their expressions a little helpless, a little at a loss. Not that it meant anything.

Namjoon left the room to walk futilely down the corridors in the afternoon until dinnertime, and when he came back, no one he wouldn’t want to face was there. There were people he couldn’t look in the eye, people he wished to avoid, no matter how many hours he had to walk up and down the corridors of the hospital. There was nothing he really wanted to do, nothing he really could do. So long as he wasn’t in the room when they were there, it was fine.

Seokjin tended to save his visit for evenings. Namjoon would be there with him, sometimes next to him at the bedside, sometimes standing awkwardly near one of the walls, sometimes sitting with too much distance between them. If Namjoon were Seokjin, he wouldn’t want to sit near him.

The first evening Seokjin had sat by the bed, holding a pale hand tightly between his. Namjoon could almost feel it, feel Seokjin’s hands around his own. He had sat by the wall, too anxious to choose the empty chair next to Seokjin. The first evening had been spent in silence, mostly, with Seokjin not even sparing him so much as a glance, his eyes fixed on the hand between his as he tried not to cry. (He eventually did.)

Namjoon wouldn’t want to hold his own hand, either. He had scratched distractedly at his wrists whilst he watched Seokjin that first evening, and when Seokjin eventually had stumbled to his feet, legs probably numb from spending two hours in the same position – Seokjin hadn’t looked at him then, either.

In the days that followed, passing by at a snail’s pace, Namjoon continued avoiding the room in the hours between noon and dinnertime, coming back only when he knew it was safe to.

He had nearly walked into Yoongi and Hoseok on one occasion, Jimin and Jeongguk on another, exiting the room quietly. It was all he could do to stand his ground, to keep walking. They never really looked at him, either, as he slipped past them, back into the room. Namjoon didn’t blame them. He’d hate himself, too. He did hate himself. But it was fine, really. After all, if someone turned to him, he would have too much explaining to do. He didn’t want that. He preferred this, the silence that on most days was his worst enemy, on some days – not. A friend? Perhaps a friend was stretching it. Silence was still crueller than numbness.

He felt out of place. Out of sorts. An itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t reach no matter how much he scratched. It was infuriating. He wished he could shed his skin.

What a laughable thought.

It was the fourth day, and Namjoon had dared sit next to Seokjin this time, despite the urge to fiddle with the sleeves of his sweater, the urge to look at Seokjin, the urge to look away. God, he was a mess. No wonder everything had gone to . He was useless.

“The nurse said there were no changes,” said Seokjin quietly, holding that pale hand between his own again. He did, always, every evening. Namjoon’s heart ached. Perhaps he could claw it out. He would almost definitely not succeed.

Namjoon shook his head, slowly, looking at the hand between Seokjin’s palms. He couldn’t look further, couldn’t make himself drag his eyes along the length of the arm and up, up, to a face obscured by an oxygen mask.

“No. None so far,” he murmured in response. Worried his bottom lip. Looked away when Seokjin squeezed the hand between his.

“What are we going to do with you?” Seokjin asked quietly.

Namjoon remained silent.

Seokjin talked a little now and then, random observations, random thoughts, memories. Namjoon answered some of them. It was horribly awkward. Namjoon considered leaving.

He didn’t. Seokjin did, eventually.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, getting back on his feet.

Namjoon’s eyes were glued to that pale hand as Seokjin gently laid it on top of the covers, on top of the chest rhythmically rising and falling with breaths granted by the oxygen mask. He nodded absently.

“I’ll be here.”

-

“They miss you, you know?”

Namjoon watched Seokjin from across the room, listened to the sombreness of his voice, caught between wanting to be near him and wanting to run away. Far, far away. As far away as his legs could carry him. It didn’t matter where he ended up, he just didn’t want to be here.

(The noises in his head ridiculed him for such thoughts. He had tried, before, and look at where that had gotten him. Stupid, stupid, stupid –)

Seokjin, unaware of the turmoil inside Namjoon, continued talking, absently caressing the back of that pale hand. “The kids miss you a lot. We all do.” He was quiet for a bit, and when he spoke next, he sounded a little choked up. “Won’t you please wake up?”

Namjoon shifted on his feet, lifted his arms to wrap around himself. He glanced out the window, at the buildings out there. This tiny hospital room felt suspended in time, at odds with the lights and activity he could see outside, where the rest of the world carried on undisturbed. It always would, no matter what happened in his life. He knew that. He did.

His eyes found Seokjin again when his voice, once more, filled the room. Never loud enough to deafen the grating beeps, but always soft enough to hurt. “Do you remember a couple of weeks ago? We were together, all of us, eating and goofing around. You smiled a lot that day, almost every time I looked at you.”

Namjoon remembered that day. It had been fun and had filled him with a kind of energy he had long since lost, slipping between his fingers despite his best attempts. He had been unable to stop it, and it was just another thing he could add to his list of things he couldn’t do. That list was long.

Seokjin suddenly chuckled, albeit Namjoon supposed it resembled a snort more. “I talked with the doctor yesterday. She said that patients in comas can hear what you say, and that, if I wanted to, I could do that. Talk to you, I mean.” There was that odd snort-laughter combination again. “So that’s what I’m doing. But it’s so hard.”

He straightened his back, squeezed the hand between his, and continued where he left off. “It made me happy to see you happy that day, you know? It always makes me happy when I see your smile, and I know the others feel the same way. We just want you to be happy, want to lighten your mind a little. I guess we failed spectacularly at that, huh?”

“It’s not your fault, hyung,” Namjoon said quietly, sincerity bleeding into his words.

Seokjin shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “I know Yoongi said it wasn’t our fault, but I can’t help – I can’t help but blaming myself a little. I should’ve noticed. And I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, but – a little, maybe, but – couldn’t you have thought of us? Just for a second? Or your parents, or your sister, or – or – or everyone who cares about you? You have a lot who care about you, did you know?”

This time his laugh was definitely self-deprecating, like the ache in his chest had come to a head and burst from his throat. Namjoon wanted to cry, wanted to bury his face against Seokjin’s chest and cry his heart out. It used to help, a little. But he fought it, this time. There was no way he could do that now.

“I guess you didn’t know,” Seokjin muttered, wiping away the few tears that had spilled. “I should’ve done a better job, shouldn’t I? We all should have.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Namjoon whispered again, blinking away his own tears. Really, he had no right to cry when things had gone the way they had. With effort, he pulled himself up, slowly coming to sit by Seokjin’s side on the empty chair, because he couldn’t help himself. He refrained from reaching out for his hands when he saw the way his expression twisted in anguish.

Seokjin in a deep breath, trying for a smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was fine. It was enough to be genuine. “I wonder what you dream of. I hope the nightmares are leaving you alone. Let me know if they aren’t, okay? I’ll come running and chase them away for you.”

Namjoon hadn’t dreamed in a while, but the nightmares – the nightmares had seeped into his daytime. They just wouldn’t leave him alone. He didn’t know how to tell Seokjin about them, even if he had the strength to do so.

“It’s getting late,” Seokjin said after a glance on the clock hanging on the wall. “Visiting hours are over soon, so I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll see you then, okay? Perhaps you will be able to give me a smile, then. Or squeeze my hand back.” He squeezed the hand between his palms, a last attempt, before getting to his feet.

“Tomorrow,” Namjoon croaked, closing his eyes against the onslaught of tears. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hyung.”

-

That night, Namjoon curled up in a corner and wept.

“Why didn’t you just die?” he asked the still form in the bed.

Life was so unfair.

-

By the sixth day, Namjoon had mapped down pretty much the entire hospital in his head, as well as memorised the names and faces of the staff. Some still evaded him, but he had time to get them right. Probably.

It was upon returning to the hospital room that he saw Seokjin and Hoseok standing outside, talking quietly. It struck Namjoon as odd. It was nearing eight pm, so wasn’t Seokjin supposed to be alone? And why were they standing in the corridor when they could be talking in the room instead?

Seokjin answered that for him.

“They are talking with the doctor, I think,” he said, eyeing the door. “I didn’t want to impose. It’s their son in there, and I… They said I didn’t have to leave, but they need time alone with him. Perhaps their voices will wake him up.”

Oh.

“Of course,” Hoseok murmured. “I would feel… wrong-footed, somehow. They’re… It must be tough for them. I can’t imagine.”

“What if he doesn’t wake up?” Seokjin whispered, as if saying the words themselves would bring them to fulfilment. “What if –”

“Hyung,” Hoseok said, grabbing Seokjin’s arms firmly, anchoring him. “Don’t say that, please. Have faith in him. He’ll wake up, and he might not – might not be well, might not remember us, might not want to – but we’ll be there, we’ll help him move past this. Okay? Please, hyung. It’s hard on all of us. You – we mustn’t give up. He could wake tomorrow or in three days, or three years, but we can’t give up, hyung.”

“Yes, right, yes – I know.” Seokjin sniffed. “I know –”

What else he said after that, Namjoon didn’t catch. He had already turned and walked away.

He only returned when he was sure no one would be there.

-

Sometimes, Seokjin sang a lullaby or one of his favourite songs. Seokjin’s singing voice had always been pleasant to listen to, Namjoon thought. He tended to hum when he cooked or cleaned, loudly – and not as careful to reach a certain note – singing along to various songs on the radio with the kids. It was one of the few things these days that actually made Namjoon smile with genuine amusement and fondness.

Inside the hospital room, Seokjin sang quietly, like he was afraid of breaking the silence, or afraid of breaking something else. Namjoon could still hear the beeps, but at least he could tune it out and focus on Seokjin’s voice instead, letting the sharp rhythm of the machines work as a kind of metronome.

Besides singing, Seokjin had been oddly quiet since entering the hospital room today. He had taken to talking about everything and nothing in the hours he visited, but for some reason he hadn’t spoken much this evening. Namjoon couldn’t help but wonder, but then, it might be a bad day.

He left half an hour earlier than usual, and Namjoon was alone, feeling hollow and wrong and miserable.

It was probably his fault that Seokjin had left so soon.

-

It was the tenth day when Namjoon learned what had been on Seokjin’s mind, something he had been ignoring in favour of doing other things, of functioning.

At least it answered the other question he had also guiltily been pondering: Why had Taehyung not come to visit?

“Taehyung went to see you with your parents yesterday,” Seokjin said. “They said he broke down when he saw you. He has been so angry since he found you, and – damn it, I wish Taehyung hadn’t been the one to find you. He still has nightmares, for God’s sake. He’s just a kid.”

Namjoon’s breath caught in his chest, staring wide-eyed at Seokjin. “Taehyung – Taehyung was the one who found me? Oh, God.”

It was selfish of him, so selfish, because he knew someone would have eventually found him. But he – if all had went according to plan, he would’ve been dead, and he wouldn’t have known who, and – oh, no, why had it been Taehyung? He hadn’t allowed himself to give much thought to who would find him, but of anyone, he had hoped it wouldn’t be one of the kids.

“I can’t imagine –” Seokjin cut himself off, looking pained and glancing at – at the bed. At the face Namjoon couldn’t look at, because it made him feel nauseous to see himself like that. It made him angry and miserable, knowing he had failed so spectacularly and was dragging everyone down with him. “Has anyone even told you? That Taehyung found you in the – the bathtub, with your wrists slit and – and your head underwater, and he gave you CPR until the ambulance arrived and the paramedics took over. Did you know? When they took you away, you – He performed CPR on a dead person for five minutes, and you still weren’t breathing when they arrived and –”

He broke off, this time with a sob, as he dropped his head in his hands, still holding – Namjoon’s hand, the bandages wrapped tightly around his wrist. The sight made Namjoon want to scratch his – , he didn’t even know what he was at this point. He wasn’t dead, he wasn’t dead, so obviously he wasn’t a ghost. Not yet.

Though it was not from a lack of trying.

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon whimpered, fighting the urge to reach out, knowing he couldn’t.

“Namjoon, why did you do it?” Seokjin wept. “Why – why didn’t you stop to think of what it would do to us to find you like that? What it would do to your parents and your sister to know that you tried to commit suicide? God – what it would do to Taehyung. What it would do to me, to Yoongi and Hoseok, to Jeongguk and Jimin. Taehyung called me after he called your parents, Joon. Just – why?

“I knew you were – depressed, that you weren’t well. I tried to be there on your bad days, as much as I tried to be there on your good ones. It was hard, sometimes, but I love you and I –”

Namjoon’s heart dropped at the words. Seokjin loved him?

“– have always wanted you happy. I wish you had told me, Namjoon, that you had allowed me more glimpses of what is going on in your head. If I had known you suffered this much, enough to think that – that killing yourself was the answer – I would have tried to help. I would have listened. I have always listened.”

Seokjin loved him?

“Did anyone ever know, really know, what burdens you walk around with? Did you ever tell anyone? Did you tell your therapist, at least? Just, please, please don’t let me find out that you told no one. Don’t you trust me?”

He could be lying. Of course he loved him. Seokjin loved him just like he loved the kids and Hoseok and Yoongi, a love that ran deep, thicker than blood, but purely platonic. It had to be. Because Namjoon would have seen it. As much as Namjoon truly loved Seokjin, had loved him for so long, he would have seen the signs, but – who knew if he were only saying that he loved him because Namjoon had tried to take his own life?

“For how long have you felt so alone?” Seokjin continued. “For how long have you been alone with all those thoughts in your head? I wish you had told me. But – but I’m being unfair. I’m – I am angry with you, but I’m more angry with myself for not having realised how much pain you were actually in. I knew you were hurting, just – I never knew how much. Not this much. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be,” Namjoon said miserably. God, what had he done to deserve listening to this now? He had not thought of what would happen after. He hadn’t wanted to know. “Please don’t be sorry when I’m the one who did this.”

“When you wake up, I’ll be better, okay?” Seokjin promised, grimly smiling at the Namjoon who lay unresponsive in the hospital bed. “I’ll be more attentive. And I hope you will talk to me more. Or, if not me, then someone else. I love you, and I just want you to realise that you are beautiful and smart and kind, and that you deserve to be happy, to feel loved. I will tell you this every day, so just wake up soon, all right? Just, please, wake up.”

Whether he wanted to wake up or not mattered little when Namjoon didn’t know how.

-

He had worn his favourite sweater, that day. It was old, worn, but he loved it. It was cosy and a little too big on him, hadn’t always been, and sometimes it had managed to defeat the cold spreading from the tips of his fingers to his toes, clamping around his lungs and making it a little harder to breathe.

On the day that he had numbly filled the bathtub to the brim with water, he had decided to die with his favourite sweater on. He had pulled up the soft sleeves and run the blade across his wrists, blood colouring the water red. And then he had sat back and waited for the darkness to wrap around him, for death to finally take him into its arms, away, away, away from everything that hurt.

He couldn’t remember sinking into the water. He must have lost consciousness before that.

In this existence between life and death, or whatever it was he was experiencing, this punishment for trying to do whatever he had done wrong (everything), he wore the clothes he had worn on the day he had planned to die. His sweater was still as worn and soft as it had been on that day, but there were splotches of blood on the sleeves, stains he couldn’t make go away.

It didn’t bother him too much. The sweater was still his favourite.

-

Another day of avoiding his parents, another day of aimlessly wandering the halls of the hospital. Another day of wondering how it would have been to not be stuck like this, to have just died as he had wanted to.

There were new flowers in his hospital room when he came back, a vibrant contrast to the white everything. He didn’t know what sort of flowers they were, but they were pretty. Oranges, reds, yellows. Bright. Happy. Hopeful.

But Seokjin, when he entered through the door, looked crestfallen, eyes red and swollen. He made way for the chair beside the bed, sinking onto it and grabbing comatose-Namjoon’s hand straight away. He brought it to his mouth, and Namjoon could almost feel the touch of lips against his knuckles. Almost.

“Please, Namjoon, wake up,” he sobbed, cradling Namjoon’s hand tightly between his as he let his head fall. His tears fell on the bedding. Namjoon, standing by the flowers, so close to Seokjin, close enough to touch, longed to do so. He wanted to cry himself, seeing Seokjin like this. Who up there decided to make him suffer like this? What deity up there thought this was all right?

Was there anyone up there, at all? Namjoon’s prayers to a God he wanted to have faith in had never been answered, so, he supposed, maybe not. Or maybe he was just not worth it. (He wasn’t.)

“Can’t you squeeze my hand back?” Seokjin sounded so frail, so distraught. “Or just wiggle your little finger. Something, Namjoon, to let me – us – know that you’re still in there. That you’re not gone. Please, Namjoon.”

“Please don’t cry,” Namjoon whispered, moving to stand beside Seokjin. He lifted his hand to Seokjin’s shoulder, but hesitated. He wanted so badly to touch Seokjin, but didn’t know if he could. He didn’t think he could touch anything else than inanimate objects. A stool, a table. Not humans.

“Please, wake up,” Seokjin moaned. “Please, or they’re going to take you off life support. They’re going to let you die.”

Namjoon’s hand fell, missing Seokjin’s shoulder entirely.

Oh.

-

The doctors didn’t believe in a recovery. They had sat down with his parents just hours after stabilising his body to explain what brain-dead meant. His body could be kept alive probably for years, but he would not wake up, so it had been up to his parents to decide where to go from there.

It would be better to let him pass, they had said. There was no reason to keep him like this. He wouldn’t wake up. But they had given his parents time to come to terms with everything, and had told no one else the details before a decision was made.

Namjoon hadn’t expected it to hurt quite as much as it did. After all, this was what he had wanted.

Right?

Alone in the hospital room with only his own body in the bed as company, he fought to breathe against the spikes of anxiety. There was no one to calm him, no one to tell him everything would be all right, no one to tell him to breathe, Namjoon, just breathe with me.

He tried to imagine his mother holding him, tried to imagine Seokjin telling him to breathe, tried to imagine him drawing shapes on his wrist to ground him whilst whispering, it’ll be okay, Joonie.

The walls seemed to close in on him, and he sobbed, burying his face against his knees, covering his ears with his hands.

It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.

Just breathe.

-

It took a day of evading everyone he loved, stuck in his head as he thought it all over, to, the next day, stay in the hospital room after noon. It took everything in him to not run out of the room, fought tooth and nail with himself to stay. He had to do this.

His mother looked haunted, more frail than he remembered her, thinner, paler. His father looked much the same, dark circles underneath his eyes, a hunch in his shoulders, like he was moments away from crumpling under the weight of everything Namjoon had done.

His sister, his sweet sister, was already in tears when she entered the room with their parents. She hadn’t combed her hair, hadn’t put on makeup, didn’t seem to care about her appearance at all. She looked exhausted.

Namjoon burst into tears within the first thirty seconds of laying eyes on them, of taking them in, and realising he was the reason they were like this. He was a terrible son. A terrible brother. He turned his back to them as he fought to breathe between the sobs, to get a hold of himself.

“Hello, sweetheart,” his mother’s sweet voice sounded behind him, and he pressed his hand against his mouth to stifle another sob. Not that she would hear it. Not that anyone would. “How are you?”

Namjoon slowly sank into a crouch, hating himself for doing this to them and to himself. God, he had never hated himself more than right now.

“We miss you,” said his father. “I hope you’re well, wherever you are now.” There was a pause, a breath. “We don’t want you in pain, Namjoon-ah. You know that, right?”

“We only want what’s best for you,” his mother continued, sounding close to tears herself. “And if… If that’s…”

“We don’t want you to suffer like this,” said his father softly. “The doctors said to think about it, and we have, for more than a week. As parents, to have to sit down to make a decision like this… But if there’s nothing to be done, no hope for your future, we will not force you through it. We love you very much.”

“Do you?” Namjoon blurted, painfully aware that he would get no answer to his questions. “You’re giving up on me, aren’t you? You aren’t supposed to –” his voice broke, “– to give up on me. You’re my parents. You’re my family.” He whimpered. “You can’t give up on me.”

But the anger was misplaced. He had done this, he had been the one to give up. Even as he said the words he knew how unfair it was of him, but damn it, he was so scared.

“Please don’t hate us,” his sister sobbed, and Namjoon lowered his head. He needed to see them, but working up the courage to turn around was no easy thing to do. He felt so guilty for making them cry. “Please, please don’t hate us.”

“He won’t hate us, especially not you,” their father said gently.

“I could never,” Namjoon whispered, slowly turning around and looking up at them. He sat on the floor, watching his mother and sister cry, even his father. “I would never.”

“If you can hear us, dear,” his mother said, holding Namjoon’s hand tightly between hers, “please don’t feel sad. Don’t feel guilty. Don’t feel angry. Know that we’re not angry or disappointed with you. We love you, and if saying – if saying goodbye to you is what we must, we will. In return, promise us to find happiness wherever you end up. Promise us to try. I want you to be happy, sweetheart. We all do.”

“I promise,” Namjoon said brokenly, not bothering to wipe away his tears. “I love you. I love you, and I’m sorry. Promise me to be happy, too.”

“We love you.”

-

Time was ticking, but Namjoon still had a few things left to do. He had to face everyone before there was no time left.

After his parents, he waited for Taehyung. He prayed for Taehyung to come by his hospital room, just once more, so that he could apologise for everything he had put Taehyung through. He couldn’t change the past, and Taehyung wouldn’t be able to hear his apologies, but he had to do something.

Thankfully, Taehyung came over later that day, together with Yoongi and Jeongguk. Namjoon realised he had less time than he had thought. Less than twenty-four hours before he could finally close his eyes and be free. Less than twenty-four hours before he had to let go of everyone he loved.

Yoongi and Jeongguk stayed outside as Taehyung took a seat next to the Namjoon in the bed. He looked miserable, haggard. His voice cracked as he said, “Hyung.”

“Don’t be mad at me,” he said. “I know you – you wanted to die, but I f-found you and – I couldn’t just let you die, hyung. I’m sorry, because now, because of me, you’re like this, and they’re going to let you die anyway, and – and –”

“Taehyung-ah,” Namjoon said, but Taehyung continued undeterred.

“I don’t want to say goodbye, hyung,” he sobbed. “You’ve been such a good hyung to me and I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon whispered.

“I’m sorry I didn’t find you in time. I’m sorry I found you at all, when you didn’t want me to. I need –” he hiccupped, “– to say goodbye, I know. And I need to do it – now, because I can’t watch you die again. Please forgive me, but I just can’t be there tomorrow.”

“I’m not mad,” Namjoon said. “There’s nothing to forgive, because you’ve done nothing wrong. I’m the one needing forgiveness, from you. Everyone. I’m so ing sorry that it was you who found me. I would have never wished that upon you. So forgive your undeserving hyung, if not today, or tomorrow, then sometime, after I’m gone. I hope the nightmares will release you soon, that the others will be there to make you smile again. I hate seeing you cry.

“I’m so sorry, Taehyung,” he whispered, wishing there was something he could do to comfort Taehyung as he sobbed. “I hope you will forgive me.”

-

He bid the others goodbye, as well, one by one. Everyone except Seokjin, for he was the only one amongst his friends who would be in the room with him when he passed. His mother, father, sister, and Seokjin. And a doctor and a nurse. Six people would be there with him in his last moments.

He couldn’t remember ever crying this much. There had been bad – horrible even – days in the past where he had hidden in a corner or buried himself in his bed and cried until his head hurt and his eyes were sore. His head didn’t hurt now, nor were his eyes sore, but he knew, still, that he had never shed this many tears in less than twenty-four hours.

It hurt to say goodbye like this. It hurt to say goodbye to people he had always adored and looked up to, people who couldn’t hear him, didn’t know he was there with them while they said their parting words and cried with him. Considering he had tried to leave them without any words of goodbye at all, this was a bittersweet curse.

He hated himself for causing them so much grief, but he was also relieved to finally find peace. This kind of existence where he was only himself, forced to look at everyone from another world – it was painful. He was happy it would be over soon.

No matter what he did, there would be regrets left behind, regrets he would carry with him to death. Regrets he would hopefully not have to shoulder in a new life. He regretted letting everyone around him down, regretted putting them through this torture of not knowing what would happen to him, regretted not telling Seokjin his true feelings, regretted not getting the chance to actually be with them one last time.

He regretted saying goodbye like this, when this existence of him didn’t exist for them.

He wouldn’t regret dying. He loved them all, and knew, despite everything, they loved him. But it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. They weren’t enough. He hated that, knowing nothing of it was enough – but. He was so tired.

He just wanted this to be over.

-

In the dark hours, he sat in the corner, watching his own form on the bed while flexing his fingers, over and over. Waiting for a reaction from his physical form. Kind of almost hoping for a reaction. Something to tie him to the comatose-Namjoon on the bed.

(Trying his damned hardest to wake up, wake up, wake up, to make his physical body do something. Something to convince him he wasn’t a lost cause, that he wasn’t brain-dead. After all, he was fine like this, wasn’t he? How could he be brain-dead when this existence of him was fine?)

He screamed.

Once.

Twice.

Too many times to count.

He grabbed at things, to no avail. He wasn’t able to throw them. They were stuck in another dimension, another time. He was trapped in this existence.

The sun was peering through the window by the time he had finally given up, head thrown against the wall as he cried.

He cried until his family entered the room, and then he started screaming again.

No reaction. Nothing.

He collapsed against the wall, sobbing together with his parents and sister who didn’t know he was here with them.

-

Eventually, Seokjin came around. Namjoon’s hysterics had reduced to soft sniffles, and he looked up when he entered, looking crushed. Namjoon’s mother, upon noticing him, rushed over and pulled him into her arms, which broke the fragile mask Seokjin had put on. He returned the embrace, sobbing against her shoulder and apologising for acting like this when it was their son –

She just shushed him, silent tears trailing down her cheeks. “Don’t you dare apologise, dear. Bawl your heart out if you need to. This is just as hard for you as it is for us.”

Seokjin had nothing to say to that. Namjoon’s sister came over to join the hug, and eventually Namjoon’s father also moved to comfort the trio.

While it pained him to see his family and dearest friend suffer like this, he was comforted to know they could support each other.

They didn’t move for a while. Namjoon didn’t know how long it was before a nurse peeked inside to see how they were doing, and his father cleared his throat.

His mother wiped her eyes, smiling valiantly at Seokjin and Namjoon’s sister. “It will be okay,” she assured them, even if her eyes were tearing up again.

The doctor entered with the nurse behind her. Namjoon joined his family and Seokjin, fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater as he looked at himself in the bed. He wished they didn’t have to say goodbye to him when he looked like this.

“We will turn off the respirator,” the doctor explained kindly. “Mr Kim is not able to breathe on his own, so when we turn off the machine, it will be a few minutes before his heart stops. I assure you that he will not suffer through this. When you are ready, we will proceed.”

“We just need a few minutes,” Namjoon’s father said. “You can stay. We just need to say goodbye.”

The doctor nodded, stepping back together with the nurse.

“We love you,” Namjoon’s mother said, squeezing Namjoon’s physical hand. Namjoon fisted his hand, wishing he could’ve touched her one last time. He was crying again, but he was calmer than he had been earlier. He supposed he was ready. As ready as he could be.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t know how many times he’d said that, only that he hadn’t said it enough. It would never be enough.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you about… about everything,” Seokjin said quietly. “I don’t know if it could have helped, and I probably shouldn’t wonder… But I can’t help it. I can’t help but wonder about every little thing I did and said, every little thing I didn’t do and didn’t say. I will miss you dearly, my friend.”

“I will miss you, too,” Namjoon said, “and I’m sorry, too.”

His sister was crying, but she managed to say between her sobs, “I’ll miss you, oppa. Please be happy.”

“I’ll try,” Namjoon whispered.

“We will always love you,” his father said, patting comatose-Namjoon’s shoulder. “And we won’t forget you. Everything will be all right, I promise you.”

There was a minute where no one said anything, and then Namjoon’s mother straightened her back and nodded at the doctor, holding a hand to . Namjoon’s father pulled her into his arms as the doctor and the nurse stepped forward.

Namjoon spent his last minutes walking up to each of them and hugging them. They may not feel it, like he couldn’t feel them, but he felt a little better. His tears wouldn’t stop, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that everyone he loved would finally be able to let go and move on, and he wouldn’t be stuck like this anymore.

“Be happy,” he whispered. “Please.”

He was, in the end, surrounded by those he loved the most. It felt, in ways, better than dying alone in a bathtub. God, it hurt, but there was something about them being there that eased the pain a little. He attempted a smile through his tears, didn’t quite succeed, but that didn’t matter. He was trying.

The last thing he heard, before he died, was quiet.

Peaceful, blessed quiet.

Namjoon is my bias in BTS. I love him, I swear!

Hahahaha… I’m sorry. I can’t resist angst and tragedy. With that said, I’m writing another BTS fic. Yay? Pffft.

Many thanks to my beta for, you know, betaing this one!

I’m pretty pleased with how this turned out, but I have had a lot of concerns. I hope the emotions are believable, and… yeah. That everything is all right. Sigh. But I hope you liked it! Upvotes and comments are worth a fortune to me, and may save characters in the future <3

Until next fic, dearies!