TRIGGER WARNINGS: self harm

Jimin was screaming.

He could barely hear Yoongi's frantic knocks on the bathroom door over his own agonized cries, over his own thoughts, which bled and burned, spilling from every corner of his mind, tangling beneath his skin like twisted blades, building up, and having nowhere to go, never escaping him.

And the one thing that he could use to replace it with something else, those silver razors he coated in dark scarlet, leaving him in a pool of crimson red, choking on crimson rose petals, sick with its toxic taste, but god, did it taste better, feel better than this, that had been taken from him.

He could barely bring himself to remember why.

Remember Yoongi's whispered words of encouragement, soft voice purring in his pale throat, his fingers running through Jimin's silky hair, couldn't remember how he was able to believe him, or how he was able to gain the courage to let Yoongi lock all the pills and all the sharp objects in a box only he knew the code to open.

It had come at night, a crushing wave of self hatred, desaturated pain, poison soaked lies, cold fingers wrapping around his neck, constricting his lungs, squeezing, squeezing...

Was there no escape from this shattering glass castle?

He couldn't remember the tricks his therapist taught him, he couldn't "challenge his thoughts", he couldn't do anything but lock himself in the bathroom, tear through every drawer desperately, and when he came up empty handed, sit on the floor, scratch at his skin with his finger nails, and scream.

Suddenly he was pulling down his jeans and yanking off his shirt, as those too felt suffocating, and scratching at his past cuts, the scabs, until he drew blood, until his finger tips were covered in a thin layer of red, and his thighs and arms were stinging, but it wasn't enough.

He was still screaming.

He didn't even hear something jangle in the doorknob, or the door slam open, or Yoongi's worried shout.

"Jimin!"

He didn't hear any of it.

But he did feel it when Yoongi gathered him into his warm arms, and cradled him against his warm chest, recognized the feeling of Yoongi's familiar body pressed to his, his familiar hands holding bandages to his reopened wounds, wiping away his tears.

He felt himself fall into his embrace, felt himself shake with sobs, and felt Yoongi's whispers tickling his ear.

He felt Yoongi lacing their fingers together and tracing words over his bare skin.

And although he didn't know what Yoongi was saying, or what he was trying to tell him over the chaos of his own mind, he knew one thing.

Yoongi's hand was holding his.