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it’s oppressive.
it’s warm and it’s cold and it’s scalding and it’s freezing.
jungkook presses his hands against the sides of his head.
it’s too goddamn loud.
“you’re okay,” jimin whispers.
he’s four feet away. four miles away. he’s outside of jungkook’s bubble, giving him the space he needs. he wants him closer, but that might be too close. his presence is reassuring, but it’s not enough. or maybe it’s too much. maybe it’s both.
“go away,” jungkook hisses, squeezes his eyes shut.
the fucking titanic is sitting on his chest, on his lungs. there’s an anvil on each shoulder. fuck, he needs to lay down.
he’s in the fetal position, and he can hear screaming. it’s his own, but his mouth is closed. it’s his inner monologue. his throat is getting raw, but it’s dry from underuse. why can’t he get the right words out?
“it’s too loud,” jungkook gasps. his lungs are closing, aren’t they? he can’t breathe. what happened to all the goddamn oxygen?
“how do we quiet it?” namjoon asks.
jungkook shakes his head rapidly. “you can’t. it’s always there.”
it feels like a mockery. his mind never shuts off; he never gets a break. there’s a ten-foot tall clone of himself standing in the recesses of his brain, shouting obscenities and insults, and jungkook has no way of getting rid of it. but is it even possible to get rid of the darkest, most disturbing parts of yourself?
his skin feels wrong—two sizes too small and shifting around, like a latex bodysuit lined with bits of sandpaper. jungkook moves his hands to his upper arms and starts to scratch. he feels each of them grab his wrists, but he fights them.
“don’t fucking touch me!” he shouts, jerks and squirms and tries to get away. the part of his brain that’s desperate not to hurt them in his panic is cut off and shut out—focused on a mantra: go away, don’t touch me, go away, don’t touch me.
they’re only there to help. somewhere in his mind, he knows that. but every point of contact feels like a pinprick and concern, and it’s an overload his brain can’t handle right now.
go. away. don’t. touch me.
“yoongi-hyung!” namjoon calls out, a little panicked, because they all know jungkook is strong. especially now, a million miles away from earth and terrified of everyone and everything.
there’s weight on his legs, pinning them down so he can’t kick out. a gentle hand finds his chest, adding gentle pressure that eases the ache just the tiniest bit. like he’s guiding the titanic away from the iceburg. like he’s maneuvering a crane to lift the anvils away.
“open your eyes, kook-ah.”
he does.
yoongi’s in his lap, brows furrowed together with worry. the others are here too, some sitting behind him on the bed, some standing around him. they all look worried. they must have come in when yoongi did.
“i’m sorry,” he says, choking on the words as he comes back to reality. how long has he been panicking? “i didn’t mean to.”
“we know, baby,” hoseok says. and he approaches, like he always does, to rub circles on jungkook’s back, but there’s hesitation hiding in his movements. did he hurt them? did he scare them? it all happened too fast. the tears well up faster than jungkook can control them, and he worries he’ll spiral again before he’s enveloped in a tight hug from behind. it’s oppressive in a different way, and he can tell taehyung is trying to squeeze the hurt and pain out, as futile as the attempt may be.
“do you want to talk about it?” seokjin asks.
jungkook shakes his head, sits up and leans forward to rest his forehead on yoongi’s shoulder. they let him cry, loosening their grips on him, waiting for him to be ready. he hasn’t had an episode this bad in a while, but things haven’t been this bad in a long time.
his skin still feels wrong. he wants to scratch, wants to tear this outer layer away until it fits right. but he knows they won’t let him. instead, he squirms. wonders if that’ll shift it into place, make it feel like it belongs to him instead of making him feel like an empty shell of who he’s supposed to be.
“hyung,” he murmurs, feels all their gazes immediately land on him. the thought makes him want to giggle—they’re all his hyungs—but it comes out a whimper instead. they wait, patiently. always so patient with him, so caring, so understanding. even when they’re scared of him, scared of how scared he is, they worry about him.
“what is it, baby?” namjoon asks.
“water?” he asks. can only manage a word or two, really. he’s exhausted, can feel that yoongi’s holding the entirety of his weight now.
three people move at once, but he doesn’t see who they are.
“baby,” jimin says, “do you want a glass or your bottle?”
oh, jungkook thinks. he’s always been so intuitive, able to catch onto his needs before he knows, himself. jungkook hums. “bottle?”
it’s one of those nights, he can tell now. he hears jimin get up and pass the information to the others. hears commotion in the kitchen as they search for the bottle he hasn’t used in a while.
“do you want to change?” hoseok asks. jungkook shakes his head.
“do you want to lay down?” namjoon adds on. “want your teddy?”
jungkook doesn’t answer, just goes to move to the top of the bed, yoongi shifting to accommodate. he tugs yoongi along with him by the front of his shirt, and the older goes without complaint, lets jungkook curl against him with a sigh. a few moments later, his bottle is pressed against his lips. jimin climbs in on his other side, maintaining some distance, just in case. jungkook reaches behind him and grabs a part of his shirt, loosely pulling on it. jimin scoots closer.
“naptime is an hour, okay, baby?” taehyung says. jungkook nods; he remembers the rules.
“will you be big again when you’re done napping?” namjoon asks.
jungkook manages a shrug, but he doesn’t think so. he feels better already, always feels safer with them and always feels a little better once the episode passes, but he knows from past episodes that he won’t be big again for the rest of the night, not with how intense it was. he’s exhausted.
“can you look at me, baby?” seokjin asks. jungkook stops chewing on the nub of his bottle and turns to the older. “when you wake up, i’ll be making your favorite, okay? i want you to watch cartoons with taehyung until dinner. and at dinner, if you’re ready, we’re gonna have a big boy talk, alright?”
“yes, hyung,” he replies around the bottle. seokjin smiles fondly and walks to the side of the bed, leans over yoongi to give him a kiss on the forehead. he shuts his eyes as four more follow, plus a kiss on the back of his neck.
he feels better, but he feels like a burden. he loves his hyungs, and he knows they love him, but aren’t they tired of this? aren’t they tired of him?
shut up, he thinks. wants the bad part of his brain to go away, to cease his existence. then he sends a silent apology to his hyungs for saying shut up, even though they’ll never know.
he’s so tired. how are they not?
“i can hear you thinking,” yoongi says quietly. “sleep, baby. i know it’s hard, but you can do it.”
jungkook whines, gnawing on the nub of the bottle as he buries his face in yoongi’s chest. jimin scoots a little closer, pressing another feather-light kiss to the back of his neck. he loves them so much. he wishes he could articulate that right now, wishes he had the energy to show them somehow. he loves them all so, so much.
“tomorrow will be better,” yoongi whispers. his voice has that rasp to it. it’s soothing, like a lullaby. coaxing him to sleep. “it’s hard to think it when all you feel is bad , but tomorrow will be better than this. tomorrow, hyung will take you for ice cream. and we’ll watch cartoons all day if jin-hyung lets us. sounds good, right?”
jungkook hums, and he hears jimin’s breathing even out to the sound of yoongi’s voice. yoongi keeps going, voice getting softer, and soon, jungkook dozes off too.