Chapter Text
Yoongi's going to fucking kill Hoseok. If he's not already dead by the time he gets there.
He tests the bonds at his wrists, swearing under his breath when they hold fast. The room is small, cluttered, probably full of sharp objects if only he could get to them. But his head still aches from whatever they gave him, and admittedly he's not at his usual level of quick-wittedness. Again. Hoseok. Yoongi blames him entirely.
A few rays of light battle their way through the closed blinds. Whoever this room belongs to is not going to be happy with the long scratches the legs of the chair are leaving on the concrete floor; the thought makes Yoongi smile to himself. Even if he doesn't manage to get untied, at least he'll go out with a bang.
His eyes rake the surface of the dusty bookshelf, the low desk in the corner. They've left the door open, actually open, promising a way out if he's smart enough. They're mocking him.
That just makes him more determined to get out of here and back to where he needs to be. Sweaty strands of hair stick to his temples as he drags the chair around, half-standing and half in an awkward crouch. For a ridiculous moment, he considers just leaving, but he can't exactly rush in to save Hoseok with a chair tied to his ass. He needs something more heroic. Besides, he's not even sure if the chair will fit through the door.
He's getting distracted. Again. His head gives a particularly nasty throb, and he sits back down with a huff of irritation. His arms feel like they're being pulled out of his sockets; how long has he been tied up here? It was sometime in the early hours of the morning, he remembers, and it's probably around... nine? Ten?
On second thought, Hoseok is definitely dead by now. He's not even sure why he drags himself up again, or why his eyes sweep the room with increased speed. There's no point getting out of here if there's no hope.
Finally, he collapses into the chair again. He can't even reach up to push the hair out of his eyes, or touch that stupid necklace Hoseok gave him hours ago. Back when they were sure he'd see that smile again.
"Fuck!" His voice comes out wrecked, maybe he'd been yelling something when he was half-conscious, and sweat isn't the only thing streaming down his face now. "Fuck this, fuck all of you - "
He gives the ropes another wrench, slamming the side of the chair into the rickety table leg hard enough to leave bruises, rocking back and forth with something unpleasantly like desperation. Nothing works, and his throat seems to have constricted to the size of a tiny straw. Hoseok is dying out there and he can't escape a room with the door open. He's been in worse scrapes.
He's been in worse scrapes.
He bites his lip, tasting the iron tang of old blood on his tongue. He's not going to let panic get in the way.
Breathing slowly through his nose, he scans the room again. Same desk. Same bookshelf. Only now, there's something silver glinting on the floor just a few feet away.
His heart races into overdrive. It hadn't been there before; there's no way he could've gone without noticing it. With a flash of clarity, he realizes he must have knocked it out from under something in his... frenzy.
That doesn't matter. What matters is getting to the object. Bracing himself, he gets to his feet again before his knees slam hard into the concrete floor. He stifles a gasp as the shock radiates all the way up his spine.
Laboriously, he bends until his forehead is brushing the floor, then manages an awkward crawl. The weight of the chair digs into his back, and it's almost impossible to keep his balance without his hands. They'd better not have cameras – the last thing he needs is for there to be a record of Min Yoongi grubbing around on someone's dirty floor, practically kissing concrete.
Well, he does what he has to do. This is no different. Except it is, because it isn't just his life at stake.
When he's a few inches away from the object, he sits back on his heels and analyzes it. A nail clipper. It's a fucking nail clipper.
He stoops further and clamps his lips around it before he can stop himself. Every instinct screams at him to drop it, to find any other way, but there isn't one. Somehow, he manages to get one foot underneath him and hoist himself up again.
One, two breaths through clenched teeth. In one fluid motion, he spits out the clipper and tosses his head back. Silhouetted against the window, it flies in a slow-motion arc above his head before landing neatly in the palm of his hand behind him.
He grins, and it pulls on his split lip. He must look insane, but he's clearly not lost his edge yet.
He makes quick work of the rope, sawing back and forth until he feels it fraying and frees himself with one last twist. There are red marks on his wrists from the coarse fibers; he doesn't even stop to examine them before he's running.
The front door bursts open with a bang, flooding his lungs with cold, clean, energizing air. His jeans are, unfortunately, even more ripped than before, fully exposing the mess of yellowing bruises and raw skin on his knees.
He takes off down the street, arms pumping at his sides and each breath tearing at his lungs. It only takes him a minute or two to get his bearings. The warehouse should be a little more to the right, he veers between honking cars, hurrying down a side street and –
The door is already hanging off its hinges. Not a good sign. But right now he can only focus on one thing, and his vision narrows around it.
The burning stitch in his chest flares. "Hoseok!"
The small crowd gathered in the center of the cavernous room parts slightly, revealing a figure crumpled at the base of the wall. Yoongi is kneeling before he even remembers pushing past anyone, and they're all stock-still. They might have known he was brave to the point of stupidity, but they definitely don't know how stupid. And they know he's cornered anyway.
His hands, pale and scabbed at the knuckles, run over Hoseok's body, categorizing the injuries. Broken rib, probably. Some kind of head injury, judging by the dazed look in his eyes. His shirt has ridden up slightly, revealing a nasty-looking bruise spreading across his stomach.
When he gives Yoongi that dazzlingly bright smile, his teeth are covered in red.
"Why are you – what – " Yoongi's throat works furiously. "Stop fucking smiling at me! I thought you were dead!"
"You wish." A mildly pained look crosses his face.
Just as infuriating as ever. Yoongi pushes the hair off Hoseok's forehead and helps him sit up. "No, I don't wish!"
"You're... mad." Hoseok coughs, then groans and presses a hand to his side. "You look really bad. How are you feeling?"
Now that the adrenaline's wearing off, he has to admit he isn't feeling that great. The lines where the rope cut into him feel like they're on fire, and he's so tempted to slump over on the floor.
He manages his best incredulous laugh. "I'm fine. You?"
The answer is obvious, but what Yoongi wants to know is what Hoseok will say instead. He tends to speak like that, in winding riddles and half-truths you have to untangle. It's a test of wit, and Yoongi's got enough of that to last a lifetime.
His hand goes unconsciously to his necklace, dangling against Hoseok's shoulder.
For when you need a piece of me with you.
Hoseok was right. As always. If he hadn't had a piece of him, a piece of hope, he's not sure he could ever have convinced himself to pick up a nail clipper in his mouth.
Hoseok lets out a few slow, rattling breaths. Smiles again. "Me? I feel like a million bucks."