Chapter Text
He’s doing this for Hoseok. Actually, he’s doing this for himself. That’s who he needs to be doing it for, otherwise it isn’t going to work. Otherwise, it won’t stick and he’ll just end up right back where he started. As much as he loves chasing the high, he doesn’t want to die. And he might if he can’t get better.
So, he’s doing this for himself.
He has to repeat this in his head over and over again while trees, buildings, and people roll past in smudged blurs. He thinks about how the world looks like someone tried to erase parts of it with their thumb but ended up smearing everything instead. He’s thankful that it matches how he feels—part smudged, part erased.
Hoseok hasn’t stopped talking since they piled in the car twenty minutes ago and Yoongi stopped paying attention fifteen minutes ago. That’s the drugs—his inability to pay attention for too long. He starts losing focus and drifting off into nothing. It isn’t like how people who aren’t addicts get distracted by other thoughts. Yoongi’s mind is a void, empty and blank. He doesn’t remember what it’s like to think about other things besides getting high.
Even if he hasn’t been listening, he doesn’t mind Hoseok’s rambling. In fact, he enjoys it. It reminds him of the white noise from the fan his mother used to turn on to help him sleep when he was younger. He always had trouble sleeping, and when the fan stopped working, that’s when one of his friends told him about something that might be more effective. He never looked back.
So, Hoseok’s talking puts Yoongi at ease. And the several times he tried to sober him up after finding him with needles in his arms and vomit all over his chest, Hoseok would clean up and talk Yoongi to sleep. It was the only thing that would work that wasn’t morphine or heroin.
Yoongi sighs and looks down at his hands. He hasn’t stopped shaking since Hoseok checked him into the hospital. He knows that’s withdrawal. He doesn’t remember much of it but Hoseok told him that the first day was fine. And then at some point Yoongi couldn’t stop throwing up. It freaked Hoseok out so bad that he took him to the ER until he was through it. Hoseok stayed with him and talked him to sleep every night.
They checked out of the hospital a couple days ago, but he hasn’t stopped shaking.
“The doctors said it should go away, hyung.”
Yoongi doesn’t need to look to know that Hoseok is staring at him. Or rather safely glancing at him, given that he’s driving and does a good job at following the rules with keeping his eyes on the road. Yoongi can’t bring himself to look back. He hasn’t been able to make any sort of prolonged eye-contact with him since they left the hospital, when they fought that day.
‘When are you going to stop, Hoseok?’
‘Stop what?’
‘Saving my life. You should have just let me die.’
‘You’re pissed at me for finding you?’
‘I don’t get why you’re trying so hard. It’s annoying. Did you ever think I didn’t want to be saved?’
’Are you fucking kidding me, Yoongi? You’re going to sit here and give me shit after everything I’ve done for you? After everything you’ve put me through?’
‘I was doing you a favor.’
‘How the fuck is nearly overdosing doing me a favor?’
‘Aren’t you tired of trying? If I died, you wouldn’t have to worry so much about cleaning me up like the fucking Heaven-sent angel you are.’
‘Fuck you. Don’t push your selfish, insecure, addict bullshit on me. Fuck you for thinking my life without you in it would be better. Yeah, I am tired of trying. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up on you.’
Later that night, Yoongi apologized and Hoseok dismissed it as if he did nothing wrong, telling him that it was just the withdrawal.
Even though some part of Yoongi knows Hoseok loves him, there’s a much bigger part of him that fears he hates him. Hoseok has found him on the edge of death and brought him back too many times to love him still.
So, even if he says he’s doing this for himself and it’s true, it’s also true that he’s doing this for his best friend, the one who’s done so much for him without ever asking for anything in return.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening,” Yoongi murmurs, risking a glance in Hoseok’s direction. He’s staring out the windshield, tapping his thumbs to whatever music is playing in his head. That’s the kind of person Hoseok is— always with soundtrack, made up or not. He constantly has a tune in his head. Yoongi loves him for it. Hoseok takes up room with his noise and it makes Yoongi feel less lonely.
“That’s okay.”
He says it so simply but Yoongi’s guilt is all-consuming. He wants to be better. He hopes this will make him.
“What were you talking about?”
“All the friends you’re probably going to make.”
This is also the kind of person Hoseok is. No matter where he is or what situation he’s in, he’s always thinking about making friends. When they were younger, Yoongi followed him around because he was all the things he wasn’t but wanted to be. That’s how they became friends and it hasn’t changed.
Yoongi plays along because it makes him smile, something he doesn’t do very often lately. “Who’s going to be my best friend?”
Hoseok scoffs and Yoongi looks at him. His face twists incredulously. “Uh, me. Even if you’re in rehab, I’m still your best friend.”
This garners a breathy chuckle from Yoongi. “Okay, who’s my enemy?”
“Enemy?!” Another expression of disbelief and offense.
“Yeah, you know. Like at camp, you have your friends but then you have that one kid who you’re always competing with in games. Maybe you have the same crush or you guys tied at the wood carving contest. Whatever. Who’s my rehab enemy?”
“Hyung, I don’t think rehab is like camp.”
“A guy can dream.”
“But if rehab is like camp, do you think you’ll have arts and crafts time?”
Yoongi laughs, “Hoba, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m just saying, if. You have to promise you’ll make us friendship bracelets.”
Yoongi doesn’t bother fighting the grin on his face, “I’ll try my best. We both know you’re much better at stuff like that than I am.”
“I think there’s untapped potential in you as a beadist, hyung.”
The car falls silent.
Untapped potential. Is that true? Yoongi has spent so much of the past few days wondering if there’s anything left for him. He’s been high for so long that he doesn’t even know what he’s good at. What if there isn’t anything? What if an addict is all he is? Yoongi can’t remember when he did anything a normal respectable citizen of society does. What does he contribute? Absolutely nothing besides another number for the drug statistics.
Yoongi doesn’t want to be a statistic. He’s always been afraid of insignificance. When he was a teenager, he got a job at the nearest convenience store doing overnight inventory. It was easy because his mother was never around and he could work until school the next morning. It was easy because he didn’t have to worry about sitting in bed for hours trying to fall asleep. He spent all his money on music equipment in an effort to make something of himself. He wanted to be important to the world and he figured he could if he made things people liked to listen to.
That was before heroin. That was before morphine.
Then he started spending all his money on drugs.
“I’m proud of you, you know.”
Yoongi looks at Hoseok again. He can’t remember the last time he heard those words and they sit heavy in his stomach like a rock. How can anyone be proud of him after everything he’s done? He hasn’t done anything worth merit or pride except maybe surviving way too many near overdoses.
Here comes the guilt again, rearing its ugly head, opening its ghastly jaws, and swallowing him whole. Yoongi can’t seem to say anything.
But Hoseok doesn’t need him to. He never does and Yoongi loves him for it. “I’m proud of you for doing this, for choosing to live and get help.”
Choosing to live. Is that what he’s doing? Yoongi always thought he was walking through life already dead whenever he was sober. He used to believe drugs made him feel alive because whenever he was sober, all he wanted to do was disappear from existence. Heroin painted his world with color.
Or at least he thought it did. Now, Yoongi isn’t sure what he thinks, or if the colors he saw then were even real.
Hoseok keeps going, “It’s hard to do what you’re doing and I just want you to know I’m going to be here with you every step of the way.”
There’s hope in Hoseok’s voice. He’s trying to hold back, trying not to get too excited about the fact that Yoongi seems to finally be getting his shit together. Yoongi wants to believe as much as Hoseok does—in rehab, in sobriety, in him. But his fear is bigger and stronger, because what if it doesn’t take? What if he can’t handle a life sober? What if he’s destined to die young with a needle in his arm?
A headache throbs at Yoongi’s temples and he sighs through his nostrils, leaning his head against the window. Trees and rolling hills that morph into mountains smear past. Buildings grow scarcer and scarcer. Yoongi hasn’t left Seoul since he moved there from Daegu. It’s a breath of fresh air to be out of the city and it’s the first time in awhile that he actually feels his dread ebb. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
“Thank you, Seok,” he manages to say.
“For what?”
He rolls his eyes, mock irritation evident. Hoseok’s fishing for it, nudging him for affirmation. Vocal expression of affection has always been difficult for him, which his best friend knows, but completely disregards. Hoseok is the only one he’ll willingly shower in kind words.
“For not abandoning me,” he says. Simple and to the point. Underneath it though is so much more. Yoongi will never be able to explain just how grateful he is for Hoseok’s persistent love. No matter how far Yoongi runs, he will always chase after him.
Hoseok doesn’t say anything else significant to make it easy on his hyung.
Instead, he fills the car with laughter.
The rest of the ride is spent reminiscing on shared memories like the time Hoseok tried to make steak when they were teenagers and he accidentally caught the pan on fire. When he tried to put it out, the flame just got bigger to the point where it burnt his ceiling. Or when Yoongi bet Hoseok that he couldn’t ask his crush out in front of the whole school by performing an elaborate lap dance. Hoseok won much to Yoongi’s outrage. Or the time they climbed to the roof of Yoongi’s house who ended up falling off and breaking his leg. Hoseok says that when Yoongi was clinging to him for dear life it was like a scene out of a drama. Or Lion King. Yoongi quips back that Hoba’s not rugged or edgy enough to be Scar.
The mountains swallow the sun, casting the world in gold light. Passing trees fracture the rays and bleed into the car. Yoongi has always loved golden hour because of how beautiful it is. That, and it reminds him of Hoseok, warm and bright and full.
It’s only fitting that he drops him off at rehab when the sun sets.
The facility isn’t big, so much as it is long. It stretches out deep into the woods one way and the other kisses the edge of a small lake nearby. Trees envelop its flanks but Yoongi can tell there’s a an open space in the back. He hopes there’s a foot volleyball court around somewhere.
Hoseok parks the car near the entrance but neither of them get out, the younger’s hands still gripping the steering wheel. Silence settles between them like early morning after snow fall. Quiet and muffled and peaceful. They’ve never been very good at good byes—Yoongi too reserved and Hoseok too hopeful.
“Yoongi-ah,” Hoseok’s voice tears through the stillness. He’s already facing him when Yoongi turns to look.
“Ah?”
“Make sure you wear protection.” A bright heart-shaped grin splits his face and swallows his eyes and Yoongi bursts out laughing. He slaps Hoseok who dissolves into giggles.
“Do you really think I’m going to have sex at rehab? I’m seriously concerned about your knowledge of treatment facilities, Hoba.”
Hoseok shrugs and unbuckles his seatbelt. “I don’t know. Have you ever been to rehab? Who knows what goes down.”
“I’m trying to get clean, not my dick wet.”
“I won’t judge you either way.”
The pair climb out of the car and gather Yoongi’s things from the backseat. He packed light with only a suitcase and a backpack. After all, he doesn’t need much else besides a few changes of clothes and his journals. He takes those with him wherever he goes, abandoned apartment to shoot up or rehab. He slings the backpack over his shoulder and follows Hoseok inside.
They approach the front desk together where a receptionist asks Yoongi a series of questions to check him in. She asks him his name, his age and birth date, and about his addiction. It’s difficult for him to answer, which is unusual. Since he’s been sober, his head has been clear enough to think straight and with that comes shame. It clams him up and her questions seem heavier than they actually are. That, and he hates that Hoseok has to hear it all. He has to remind himself with each one that she’s only asking so that they can provide the best treatment and care possible.
“Once you’re finished saying your good byes, we’ll take Yoongi-ssi to his room. Dinner should be available in half an hour. Hoseok-ssi, you’re free to call Yoongi-ssi as well as write to this address here,” the receptionist points to an address she wrote down on a piece of paper. Hoseok takes the address and folds it into his pocket, turning to Yoongi.
He doesn’t wait for him before he envelops him in a hug, his long and lanky arms wrapping around him completely. Yoongi stiffens at first, hesitant to lean into it, but eventually rests his head on Hoseok’s shoulder. He isn’t afraid to bury his nose in the fabric of his shirt, inhaling his laundry detergent for the last time. At least for a few months. Yoongi’s own arms lift up and curl around his best friend’s waist.
“It’ll be good, hyung. You’ll be good,” Hoseok’s voice is gentle in his ear, low and warm. Pressure builds in his head as tears threaten to flow, his fingers clutching handfuls of his t-shirt. He’s hopeful and terrified and heartbroken all at once.
He doesn’t say anything, just nods, and Hoseok lets go. Yoongi presses the back of his hand to both of his eyes in an attempt to squander his tears while his best friend looks at him with a kind smile. They don’t say anything else. They don’t have to.
After Hoseok leaves, the nurse takes Yoongi through a door and down several hallways. The inner guts of the facility are clean but far from cold. When Hoseok first told him about the place, Yoongi pictured blank walls, ugly fluorescent lights, and sunken-eyed nurses. But it’s quite the opposite. Art of all kinds cover the walls and there isn’t a single fluorescent light to be found. There are plants everywhere and it isn’t empty. He’s unsure why he thought the place would be empty but it isn’t. In fact, it’s full of other men and women, even a few teenagers, milling around in door ways and common spaces. Some of them look like they don’t belong here while others do. Yoongi wonders which category he falls into.
The hallway they walk down dumps them out into a bigger common space, full of couches and comfortable chairs, a few large plants, a television mounted to the wall, tables, as well as people. A few crowd around a table, overly invested in a game of cards, while the rest lounge together on two of the sofas. Usually, Yoongi wouldn’t pay any mind to who’s who or what they’re doing but one someone catches his eye.
A man mills about in the corner nearest to one of the room’s windows, his arms crossed, his shoulder leaning against the wall. He’s the definition, or at least Yoongi’s definition, of tall, dark, and handsome. He’s all black in hair and clothes, and everything about him makes Yoongi’s heart skip a few beats. There’s mystery floating around whoever this man is and Yoongi wants to unravel it.
The guy gazes out the window and it looks like he’s chewing on something...Maybe it’s gum. But as soon as the nurse leads them past him, he turns his head to look and Yoongi notices it isn’t gum and he isn’t chewing. Instead, his tongue fondles a ring pierced around the corner of his bottom lip.
Shit.
Yoongi’s breath hitches in his throat and he inhales through his teeth. He glances away as fast as he can, so as not to embarrass himself even further. The fact that he already got caught staring is enough for one day. He feels like the man might be burning holes into the back of his shoulders, though.
Thankfully, the nurse turns a corner and they leave the common room and mystery man behind them.
But, damn, that guy is hot. Yoongi’s heart races just thinking about the quick glimpse he managed to steal. Who knew guys that hot were in rehab? Most of the addicts Yoongi knows are in shambles, falling apart at the seams. They look sick and war-torn and like if someone sneezed on them, they’d probably blow away. But this guy...this guy is hot. Maybe Hoseok was right to mention protection...
No. No. You’re not here to have sex with anybody, especially another addict. That is the last thing you should be doing. You’re here to get help and get better.
But this guy...
“Here is your room, Yoongi-ssi. You will be sharing. Hopefully, you two will get along, but if you have any problems, you can fill out a room request form and we can figure something else out,” the nurse explains as she stops at an open door.
Yoongi peers into the room. It doesn’t look like anything special. There are two beds, two dressers, and two desks on either side of the room. In fact, it reminds him of Hoseok’s college dorm. He takes a step inside with his things and deposits them on the bed that isn’t already occupied.
“Here is your key. The bathroom and showers are down the hall on the left. Welcome home,” the nurse provides a cheerful grin, leaves a key on the dresser, and shuffles away.
Yoongi sits alone. It’s the first time in almost a week and a half that he’s alone. He exhales a breath and closes his eyes, carding his hands through his hair. It isn’t that he hates spending time with Hoseok. It isn’t that all. But withdrawal is one of the hardest, most painful experiences of his life, and with people hovering over him every minute of every day to make sure he’s doing okay...Well, it gets pretty tiring. Yoongi loves his alone time, savors every minute of it. In fact, he hasn’t ever been much of a social drug-taker anyway. He knows that most addicts like to get high together but he’s always preferred doing it on his own, claims it helps him think better.
But now that his body is more or less rid of everything, he’s not sure how true that is. He’s noticed how crisper the world is when his brain isn’t so foggy with morphine. It feels like his brain went through a significant deep-cleaning, similar to the ones Hoseok likes to do to his apartment in his spare time. It’s empty in a good way. Decluttered and clean. Ish.
He’s still ridden with guilt and self-loathing and shame.
Yoongi peels his eyes open and lets them rest on the bed opposite of him. It’s unmade and littered with clothes. Besides that, there isn’t anything else that indicates someone else occupying the other side of the room. Whoever it is either hasn’t been here for very long, doesn’t care enough about being here to decorate, or isn’t planning on staying.
He wrings his hands together, anxiety shooting through him. The only other person he’s ever lived with, aside from his parents, has been Hoseok, who’s learned how to put up with him. Or, vice versa. Yoongi has only ever been able to handle Hoseok. He either never likes anyone long enough to consider them roommate material or keeps to himself entirely. It’s a wonder Yoongi managed to sustain his addiction for so long, given his disdain for people.
Yoongi spends the next few minutes unpacking his bags, placing his nicely folded (courtesy of Hoseok) clothes into dresser drawers. When he’s done, he shoves the bags under his bed and sets his journals on the desk, trying everything he can to make it seem less like rehab and more like a home. It doesn’t work very well. In the end, he props up a photo of him and Hoba and it helps a little.
The dinner call echoes distantly. Yoongi isn’t very hungry but he knows if he doesn’t go and at least try to eat something, he’ll be hungry in the middle of the night. It boils down to his nerves. There are too many new faces, too many strangers to remember, and even though he’s incredibly good at remembering names, he definitely doesn’t want to. He can’t get too attached and if he learns names, he will get attached.
Yoongi peeks his head out of his room, following passersby with round and curious eyes, understanding quickly that in order to navigate to dinner, he must join the crowd. So, he does. He hops into the current and lets it take him downstream.
The dining hall is a lot nicer than he expected and the question of how much Hoseok is paying for him to be here pops into his head. The guilt resurfaces as he takes in the quality of the tables and chairs, the room itself even. Floor-to-ceiling windows make up several surrounding walls, windows that look out into the woods, the lake, and a foot volleyball court. On top of that, there are a lot more people here than he originally thought there were going to be.
Yoongi’s stomach churns. He isn’t supposed to be here. Not just rehab in general, but here, this particular facility. This is too much. He doesn’t deserve all this luxury after everything he’s done. Maybe he can call Hoseok before he gets too far down the road, catch him before he’s in Seoul so that he can turn around and come get him. And then they can put him somewhere much less nicer than this, much more of what Yoongi deserves. He can’t go from squatter’s hideouts in abandoned buildings to this. He’s going to skip dinner and call Hobi and get out of here.
He pivots 180 degrees on his heels but barely makes one step before he’s crashing into the person behind him. Yoongi’s nose collides with the man’s chest hard enough that it brings tears to his eyes. The impact forces his feet a few steps backwards. His hands fly to his face out of pain.
“S-sorry. I didn’t know you were right behind me. I was just-”
When Yoongi focuses his misty gaze to figure out exactly who it is that he ran into, his heart plummets into his ass. He sees the lip piercing first, immediately registering the way the other man tongues at it, before finding dark brown eyes. Dark amused brown eyes.
“Oh, god,” Yoongi exhales into his hands.
This warrants an eyebrow raise from the other man as well as half of a smirk. Yoongi’s heart skips a beat and his head curses at himself. He hasn’t taken his hands down yet. He knows this and he also knows how stupid it looks to keep them up, but he refuses to drop them. Heat burns his ears and cheeks, which means he’s blushing like a tomato.
“That’s not the first time I’ve been called that,” the man snorts.
Oh. So, that’s the kind of guy he is. Yoongi’s school-crush anxiety transforms into apathy and irritation. He’s never been a fan of arrogance. Men like this one aren’t men at all, but rather boys, and they’ve never been good for anything.
Yoongi’s hands fall to his sides and he’s about to bypass the guy completely, make a beeline for the phones, when he catches something that halts him in his place.
“Is that a collar?”
The smirk on the guy’s face disappears. He blinks at Yoongi before subconsciously lifting a hand to touch the object around his neck. As if on cue, the smirk returns. He even cocks a hip. Yoongi has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.
“Yeah. It is. Why?”
“Whoever’s bitch you are needs a leash,” Yoongi snaps.
The other man’s face contorts into an enraged frown and he takes a step towards Yoongi. Despite his efforts to look bigger than he is, Yoongi has no choice but to step back. The man is taller than him, not by much but enough to have an upper hand. Not that Yoongi has ever needed to be tall to be good in a fight. He’s small, but dirty.
Yoongi cocks an eyebrow at him, biting on his lower lip. Do it. I dare you.
“You’re the one who ran into me, dipshit.” The man prods a finger into Yoongi’s chest, who smacks it away with the back of his hand.
“Why the fuck were you standing that close anyway? You were practically breathing down my neck. Makes sense, I guess. It goes with the collar,” Yoongi growls. He isn’t sure why he’s acting so hostile. Maybe it’s the new surrounding, new faces and all of it is overwhelming him. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism. Maybe it’s another lasting effect of the withdrawal. He remembers how cranky he was right after he came out of the worst of it. Maybe it hasn’t gone away. Or maybe it’s all of the above.
“I saw you looking at me when Nurse Doyun was showing you around,” he states before leaning in to whisper, “Don’t worry. I like what I see too.”
Yoongi groans and shoves him back. “Fuck off. Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”
“No. I haven’t made any friends, yet.”
This stops Yoongi again, because even if he complains about people all the time, his heart is too soft to throw away the ones that are hurt or alone. He’s a sucker for an underdog.
When he glances back over at the other guy, he can’t read the expression on his face. He isn’t sure if he’s saddened by the lack of company or indifferent. It fills him with a sense of wariness. Addiction taught him distrust—to never show your cards too early and never wear your heart on your sleeve. He doesn’t trust this guy, not yet, and he doesn’t like his attitude. But he can hear Hoseok’s voice in his head.
All the friends you’re going to make...
Yoongi sighs. It doesn’t do well to pick fights in rehab on the first day, not when he’s here for several more months. He’s here to get better, not worse. So, he can’t cause trouble. And maybe he can try to trust a little bit.
“Well, me neither. Just got here, so...”
An olive branch.
“Cool. Maybe we can be each other’s first.”
Yoongi glances at him with a raised eyebrow.
“That’s not what I meant. I meant each other’s first friend. You wouldn’t be my first anyway.”
“Great. I don’t care.”
Silence. It’s awkward and Yoongi hates it. The guy doesn’t break eye-contact, no matter how many times Yoongi looks everywhere else.
“Well, are we going to sit?”
Yoongi realizes that they’re the only two left standing in the dining hall. No one pays any mind to them but he can’t help the crawling feeling of having the spotlight on him. With tense shoulders, he turns towards the line to get his food. The other follows him.
“Jungkook, by the way.”
“Huh?” Yoongi looks at him as they sit down at a nearby empty table. He still isn’t hungry, moving his noodles around with his chopsticks half-heartedly with no intent to eat them.
“My name. Jungkook.”
Yoongi nods, eyes drifting over him. The longer he looks at him, the more his edges seem to erode. Jungkook isn’t as intimidating as he initially projects, despite the eyebrow and lip piercings, the all black. Maybe it’s the collar that puts him off in Yoongi’s book. He can’t really take him seriously like that. Or maybe it’s the fact that his eyes are so wide and doe-like. There’s an innocence to them that makes it hard to believe he’s an addict.
Or maybe it’s the way that he eats. Jungkook shovels food into his mouth at an incredible rate. They aren’t small bites either.
“Do you ever actually chew your food? Or is it all vacuum suction?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jungkook quips back around a mouthful of noodles.
Yoongi rolls his eyes. How insufferable. Of all the people in this place, it has to be him. Karma really does hit hard.
“What’s your name?”
“Oh, uh...” Yoongi isn’t used to giving out his name. He made an alias when he was younger, so that he could fly under the radar. Suga can pass between the mouths of addicts and dealers, gang members and other unruly characters he ran into, but not Yoongi. After all, he didn’t want to get in with the wrong crowd with his real name. It made it too easy to be hunted down and killed.
But this is rehab. These people are trying to get better, like him.
“Yoongi. It’s Yoongi,” he murmurs into his bowl.
“Well, nice to meet you, Yoongi. I’m sure we’ll get along great.”
Doubtful.