#i hate match days. so much. all of the streets become clogged and a three minute underground train becomes a forty five minutes struggle

[koishua]

"no dw he's super friendly!!" after i was pounced on by a massive dog that im not familiar with 🧍🧍

[dapper-ships-herself]

Reunion

Takes place during and after the alliance negotiation in season 2

---------

"They say that evil expects evil from others. I don't like the idea of allying with you either."

"Are your memories of the port mafia really all that bad?" Mori asked. "You must have some good memories. Like... Oh yes, you had some good friends, didn't you? I recall you had a small quintet you'd go drinking with. Don't you remember?"

Dazai's eyes narrowed "I remember." He said. He'd never actually discussed those times with Mori, but he didn't wonder how he knew.

"You certainly musr remember them fondly. It's such a shame, what happened; it's not often you find friends like that. Gillian was part of your group, wasn't she?" It wasn't really a question. "Poor dear. I know she was so sullen after you took off. Hardly spoke a word unless ordered to for at least a month."

“That’s too bad. I do hope she’s better now.”

“I believe so, although you don’t have to just take my word for it.”

Beneath Mori, his shadow twisted and darkened, and from it a silhouette rose. Wispy pieces of darkness fell off on the wind, and the form of Mori’s personal guard, the living shadow of the port mafia, Gillian was revealed.

“Isn’t it nice? Reunions are always so special. How about it, anything you’d like to say to your oldest friend?” Mori glanced down at the girl beside him.

She frowned, and the ice in her eyes was enough to freeze a lesser man solid. “I have nothing to say to him.” A simple statement, but packed with quiet venom.

“So harsh, dear!” He laughed and patted her on the head. “Come now, not a thing to say at all? Dazai, what about you?”

Dazai bit the inside of his lip, a barely noticeable shift in expression as he felt the myriad of feelings rise within him. Of course he’d known all along that she’d be here, there was no way Mori would allow himself to be even a little vulnerable without his petite bodyguard, it would have been a naïve hope to think she wouldn’t be there. Knowing and seeing are two different things, though. It was obvious Mori was trying to rile him up with this, perhaps even attempting to use Gillian as a tool to entice Dazai back to his side, so he was careful in making sure his expression didn’t change anymore. There was no way he would give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d affected him.

Mori sighed exaggeratedly and clicked his tongue “Kids these days. It's been nice talking to you lot. I do believe we'd best be on our way.”

Gillian turned in step with Ogai, but in that moment, her eyes bore into Dazai’s, an incalculable depth glaring into his very being. A typhoon of thoughts swirling in the icy blue, all centered on him.

The mafia group walked away, the agency watching until they were swallowed by the distance.

---

Dazai walked down the empty side walk, the setting sun casting long shadows all around him. A wall, just between shoulder and waist height, stood alongside his path. Tall trees rose from behind the wall at regular intervals, their shadows spilling out over the barricade.

He passed one of those trees, and stopped short.

Behind him, Gillian sat on the wall where she hadn’t been just before, right in the middle of the tree’s thick shadow.

Dazai didn’t turn around. Neither said a word.

The silence stretched until Gillian tilted her head back to the sky and said “Hey.”

His lip twitched up for just a second at the simple greeting. “Hey.” He said. He'd missed her soft voice. Even that single word danced through his ears and into his core like a whispered caress.

“Can you believe that was the first time we’ve been face to face in four years?”

“Seems like just yesterday we saw each other nearly everyday.”

“And yet it also feels like a lifetime ago.”

Dazai turned around so he faced Gillian “I thought you had “nothing to say” to me. What brings you here, so chatty all of a sudden?”

She shrugged, still facing the sky “I lied earlier. Truth is, I have so many things to say to you that none of them will come out, certainly nothing to be saying in front of the company we had.”

“Is this where we have that conversation, then?”

Her eyes flicked down to look into his “I thought if I ever saw you again, I’d burst out with everything I’d felt since I saw you last. I thought I’d scream at you. Now, I’m just kind of numb.” Only half a lie, the numbness was created by her sorrow and anger all fighting to get out, clogging her throat and stopping anything from getting through.

“If you’re not here to yell, what were you hoping to accomplish by following me?”

She didn’t respond, her eyes going back to the sunset. When she spoke again, it was to say “Did you know I actually did see you once before today, after you left?”

He raised an eyebrow “Did you, now?”

“It was about a year ago. I was on my way to an assignment, and suddenly there you were, across the street, strolling so casually next to a blond man in glasses. You smiled, and you said something that made him mad, and that only made you smile more. You looked so natural, like that had always been your life, like the mafia had been a bad dream. It made me furious; an awful roaring rage right in my gut, my whole body shook. I think I cracked the brick of the corner I was gripping just to keep myself in place. I’d wanted to storm across the street and make you feel that rage through blood, even if I had to do it without my ability. I ran into the shadows before I did anything regretful. Really, I ran, isn’t that shameful? The living shadow doesn’t run from anyone, that’s not how I was trained. Yet, that’s what happened that day when I saw you.”

“So, you do hate me after all. I kind of figured.”

“Hate... What I hate is that I can’t say yes to that. All these feelings, I wish they were so simple. Really, I might even be a bit jealous of you. Since the moment I joined the Port Mafia, there has been nothing I want more than to quit. You were always content with you place, you even seemed to relish in your position at the times you didn’t just seem bored by everything. You didn’t understand my feelings about the mafia, couldn’t have. I thought one day you might even become my boss, I never thought you’d leave. Without so much as a good bye, even.”

“I did leave a note.” He said.

“A blank piece of paper with just your name signed on the bottom left in the middle of my bed doesn't count as a note, Osamu.”

“I guess it was just like you said, I had so many words to say that none of them would come out.”

Gillian just shook her head at Osamu’s response. “What a loud of crap. Do you remember the last time the four of us were at Lupin’s bar together?” She changed the subject.

“How could I forget?”

“Do you remember how I asked you guys if you wanted any souvenirs from my job? I promised I’d bring you each back something special. None of you gave me a very good answer as to what you wanted, Ango and Odasaku just said whatever, and you said I should look around for any interesting black market poisons, so I said I’d just pick something out. On my very first day there, I was walking around to familiarize myself with the area, when I caught sight of something in a shop window. It was an absolutely adorable set of charms, and something about them just reminded me so much of our little group. I bought them, also because I thought it would be funny for mafia members to have matching keychains. I was so excited to give them to you all…” She reaches into her pocket, and when her hand emerges there are four charms hanging off her fingers. “Ango wouldn’t let me give him his,” She taps one, a small brown cat with an unamused expression on its face, “Oda…” She taps another, a wolf with light gray fur sitting tall, “This one is mine,” She taps a third, a small weasel with eyes that stared deep into a person, and then a fourth, an orange fox with eyes suggesting a sly smile “and this one I picked out for you.”

“It’s very cute, and I must say I can see the resemblance.” He says. His tone is light, and he smiles, but the hand shoved in his pocket is in a tight fist.

She hops down from the stone wall, and in the same motion tosses one of the charms to Dazai, who catches it easily. “Here.”

It’s not his charm she gives him, it’s hers.

He looks at it, cupped in the palm of his hand, for once at a loss for words.

“Why this one?” He finally brings himself to ask.

“Because you may have been able to move on and forget me with ease when you left, but each of you took a part of me with you. I can never let you three go, no matter how much I want to. So take my charm, let it be a reminder, of what you, of me. If I actually ever meant anything to you, that is.” She turned her gaze away from him, towards the path with its ever increasing shadows cast by the day’s setting sun. “It’s getting late; the boss will be expecting me soon. Take care, Osamu.”

Dazai found himself unable to move, the adorable charm in his hand a great weight, burning his skin with a searing pain. Its soft texture may very well have been needle sharp. His head swam, his throat dry. These feelings…

Dimly, he heard her foot step as she turned her body away from him. His head shot up, a look in his eyes bordering on desperation, very unlike himself, a sudden inexplicable emotion taking over. He needed to touch her, needed to say so many things in that moment. The charm branded him, pulled out the twisting, roiling feelings he’d pushed aside and locked up with a delicate key. He hadn’t wanted to leave her, he had to. He would have just lost her anyway if he’d tried to take her with him, everything he values was always taken from him. It was best for her to forget him. He needed her to understand. Dazai hardly considered himself to be a man to make excuses and try and defend himself to others just to please them; Gillian though, he needed, he needed her to understand. He could never forget her. His hand shot forward. He'd held it all in, but the thought of her leaving with all these things left unsaid after so long drive him forward. “Wait!”

His hand passed through a dark haze and was left with air, her ability already taking her into the shadows before he could make contact. He was alone on that stretch of side walk once again.

Slowly, he brought his hand back to his side, watching the place she’d stood, shoulders sagging. The desperation left him as quickly as it’d overtaken him, leaving him with a numb acceptance.

He turned on his heel, and continued on his way, leaving the shadowed path behind.

[fkjeon]

ignite the flames within me | i

○ pairing: yoongi | reader ○ genre: angst + fluff ○ words: 6,373 ○ warnings: none

⊱ a/n: HAPPY SUGA DAY! i had this in my drafts forever, and luckily it’s ben sitting at a few thousand words lmao. i really hope this is/was worth the wait. honestly, i had no plan with this, so it’s really not that story-line based. idk, i’m really trying to hone my writing skills, and i know i need to practice regularly. but nonetheless, pls enjoy this mess of work! and yes, part two shall be coming, idk when tho. any feedback is highly appreciated!

The ivory keys lay untouched, collecting dust overtime.

A passion left to waste; the zeal, once at its peak, now tucked away behind tired eyes and an aching heart. Min Yoongi had always loved the piano. The melodious notes that could be poured out from the slightest of movements, the sheer emotion that one would be able to express through the keys, the pace that one would set, whether it be light and cheery, or dark and dramatic.

There was so much to love about this immaculate instrument, yet his interest would slowly deplete, leaving the pallid clavier to rot through the scorching heat, and feisty winds. His love for music would not be ignited, yet he felt some sort of longing to, once again, be in tune and be able to show himself and his identity through every note played.

The wintry winds flew through the air, slapping him across the face with icy despair, as he walked through the quiet streets. The past few days had been extra bleak, matching the detachment that Yoongi had been feeling for the longest time. He really did not know what he wanted to do; walking around seemed like a good enough distraction at the time, but what he didn’t know was that he would be left with the roaming thoughts that he had tried so hard to control.

The sun had been hidden behind the murky clouds; his hands in his pockets, as he walked into the dimly lit coffee shop that he had taken a quick liking to over the past few weeks. The cashier would nod at his presence, giving him a questioning look that read, 'the usual?’, to which he acknowledged with the slight dip of his head. Yoongi had always liked his coffee quite strong; bitter, in fact.

Sitting at the far corner of the store, Yoongi was left alone with the rapid current of his thoughts that seemed to overwhelm him quite quickly.

‘Failure.’

‘Good-for-nothing musician.’

‘Wow, my three-year-old daughter could compose much better than this.’

He scoffed at himself, sifting through the large pile of insults that he had come to terms with a long time ago. He found himself smirking at the best ones.

‘Are you sure you can even play the piano? It seems as if you just bash the keys repeatedly.’

‘This is worse than when they called that damn shade of blue art!’

The waiter seemed to notice his distress, adding a little croissant on the side on his order.

“On the house,” the waiter assured him with a small smile. He returned the gesture, but the grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Yoongi had always hated sweet treats.

☇

It was no particular Thursday morning.

The sun shone through the sheer material of his curtains, reminding him of another day that he dreaded to see. There was a sort of sickly heat that hung in the air around him, making the fabric of his clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin. Beads of sweat had already begun to form and he grimaced at the sudden light that had found its way right onto his closed eyes.

Deeply sighing, he pulled himself up, throwing the white covers onto one side, and walked over to the window. Even with the heat, there was still a sliver of a breeze present, kissing his wet skin with the slightest of a touch. He stared through the glass, eyeing the zooming cars and the people who seemed to be chattering away.

Still feeling empty, he forced the window pane down, shutting out the heat that seemed to quickly overwhelm his room before retreating into the bathroom and getting ready. He wasn’t even sure why he was getting ready, as no occasion called for it. However, he didn’t want to feel as if he were that useless.

Pulling his cap closer to his eyes, Yoongi strolled along the concrete path, keeping his head low. It wasn’t as if someone was going to recognise him from his musician days. After all, it had been much too long since he last sat on the stool and played his heart out. He sauntered to the park, sitting at a bench that no one occupied. These days, Yoongi had nothing better to do than to mope around.

It was funny how fate could change someone’s life within seconds. Here Yoongi was, sitting on a park bench, hands in pockets and earphones in. He hadn’t noticed the girl who spotted him from across the path, immediately recognising his facial features from watching his performances, one too many times.

☇

You had just finished your morning class, which meant that you had the rest of the day to yourself. Not knowing what to do or where to take yourself, you decided on having a little walk within the small park that was located just outside your apartment block.

You had always loved the park; the playground that seemed as if it was always occupied, the couples that would wander through — holding hands and sweet smiles, those motivated individuals who always seemed to be able to go on a run, no matter what day it was.

Holding your still-cold bottle of ice tea, you walked through, examining the bright green leaves that flourished from the beating sun. You noticed the daisies and canopies that littered the ground bought a spark of colour from the already dried-up grass.

As you were walking along, you had passed the man that was seated on the bench, yet from the corner of your eye, you swore his presence deemed extremely familiar to you. Upon closer inspection, you had realised that it was your all-time favourite musician, one that hadn’t been active recently. Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach as your legs froze. You failed to conjure up any thoughts, as your mind was numb with nervousness.

You were conflicted — should you approach him, or should you just walk away?

Min Yoongi had always been your favourite musician, ever since you heard a sliver of his beautiful composition that he had played at a festival. You could tell that he poured all of his emotions into each note, and that just made you adore him even more. You had strived to become like him; cool, composed, all the uneasiness melting away as you struck each chord, head swaying along to the beautiful rhythm that you had created.

You heart swelled as you saw his form, arms outstretched, as if embracing the fierce heat that surrounded the two of you, yet you were much too jittery to notice that your drink had already become much too warm for your personal liking.

You cursed under your breath and decided to just, ‘fuck it,’ taking long, yet hesitant, steps towards the man who you thought was sleeping at first. Your heart rate had picked up dramatically, the wave of confidence that you had just experienced, deteriorating much too quickly and you found your steps faltering the closer you had got. By the time you were a few inches away, you had begun to second-guess yourself — asking yourself too many questions that could not be answered within the span of a few seconds. The few seconds in which Yoongi had noticed the shadow over his head, and got up to face the current stranger that seemed to look much too confused.

You hadn’t noticed the boy staring up at you, until the false confidence that you wore as a mask decided to show up again. However, it all came crashing down as soon as you noticed Yoongi’s lingering eyes. Your cheeks blazed with the burning crimson and you could barely meet his gaze.

“Um… I— I ju—,”

The lack of words on your end made it even more embarrassing for yourself. Here you were, walking through the park that you passed almost daily, and somehow fate decided to place your absolute favourite musician here, right in front of your very eyes. Though, you weren’t able to get a single word out. They were there, you were sure of it, but the phrases that you choke out, were clogged within your throat — the lack of tenacity not helping.

“May I help you?”

And his voice was as smooth as you had imagined. Deep and velvety, the words ringing through your ears, repeating itself on a constant loop, as your mouth gaped open to stare at him. You felt as if his piercing eyes could see right through you, read your every thought and movement, yet you felt oddly comfortable. Opening your mouth a few times, you took a deep breath to compose yourself and challenged his stare with one of your own.

“Y— You’re Min Yoongi right? The famous pianist?”

You could see his face drop considerably, and you were taken aback by his sudden change of emotion. No longer was the shooting gaze, instead being replaced with the diversion of his eyes. The silence that grew between the two of you had become much too awkward, and you found yourself fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“I— Um… I just wanted to say how much I really love your compositions. You’re actually one of my favourite musicians—,”

“Don’t call me that.”

His tone had changed to one of bubbling anger, the pent-up frustration from years of harsh criticism had all unravelled itself unknowingly.

“I— I’m sorry, I didn—,”

“I’m not a damn musician. I know that, everyone knows that, so I don’t need someone like you telling me something that isn’t true. What? Is it because you want an autograph or something?”

The sudden temper, that had somehow been triggered from your apparently unwise choice of words, had you taking a step back. You had never meant to offend him, and the literal praise that you had sent his way, was meant to make him smile, meant to make him bashfully look away, meant to make him stare at you with glee. So why was he now yelling with such an outrage that you had to move away in order to get him to calm down?

You frowned, eyebrows furrowing from his constant rambles of how he 'wishes he never got into music’ and how much he 'hates the damn piano’. It saddened you immensely to see someone who was so in touch with their creative and musically active side, to throw it all away, all because the criticism got too much.

You would never fully understand Yoongi, an amateur like yourself could never garner the amount of attention he would get whenever he played one of his compositions. So you could only stare at him, guilt and pity brimming along the surface of your lungs, as he slumped onto the bench in defeat.

A part of you wanted to walk away, tear down his posters and throw away the records that you had collected over the years, but you knew that the regret would be too much for you to handle. Instead, you faced him and bowed, apologising for stirring up unnecessary emotions. He looked at you with tired eyes from a slouched position. You couldn’t read him, there was no sense of anger within his eyes, instead, a sheer nothingness had glazed over his eyes, giving off indifference. It seemed as if he was used to giving off this expression to countless people.

☇

The rest of the day turned out to be dreadful. After the awful encounter with Min Yoongi, you were welcomed home with the mess of your house that you had just left because of the frantic morning that you had. Amidst your worries, your luck had blessed with a broken fridge and a mountain of food that had to either be eaten or thrown away. You couldn’t be more frustrated.

You decided to call up one of your close friends to see whether or not he would have liked to join you on your lovely adventures. Dialling his number, you held the phone to your ear and prayed that he would pick up.

“Hello?”

“Oh my god, I was hoping you’d pick up.”

“What’s up? Why do you sound so worried?”

And that was how you ended up with Seokjin on your couch, practically devouring all of the leftover foods that you weren’t able to stomach. Seokjin had been one of your closest friends for the longest time; he was always there in your times of need, offering advice or just ‘blessing you with my presence’, as he liked to call it. The two of you were a funny pair — the complete opposites that somehow managed to fit perfectly like two puzzle pieces.

Seeing how you were moping around, rather than engaging in the random jokes and weird topics that Seokjin and yourself liked to engross yourselves in, he began to interrogate you until you caved.

“Come on Y/N, I know something’s wrong, don’t even try,”

“Nothing! I just had a bad day,”

“I’m not a boyfriend where you can just pretend that everything’s okay and then get mad when they brush it off,”

You laughed at his stupid comment, “Okay, okay. You got me there. I just— I bumped into Min Yoongi—”

“Wait, Min Yoongi? As in the guy in your bedroom and the one you talk about like every single minute of your life like he’s the love of your life or something?”

You sighed, reminiscing over past conversations that you had with Seokjin that featured Min Yoongi.

“Yes Seokjin, that guy. Anyway, I bumped into him, and I told him how great his compositions are and that he’s a great musician and, I don’t know, he was kind of standoff-ish? Like, I wouldn’t call it rude, more so like, confrontational? I don’t know, it was nothing,”

“So what you’re saying is that he basically brushed you off and acted all high and mighty? I swear, if I ever see this guy, I’m going to show hi—”

You flicked Seokjin’s forehead, glaring at him with your piercing stare, as if to warn him in case he did anything stupid.

“No! It was nothing, I only liked him for his music anyway,” but it seemed as if you were trying to convince yourself, rather than convince Seokjin.

The rest of the day was more relaxed; the two of you preoccupied with random games and aimless puns that had you clutching your stomach in laughter. Seokjin always knew how to brighten up a dull atmosphere, and today was no different. He allowed you to forget about the horrid experience you had had with your role model, and had distracted you enough to keep you from dwelling upon the events that had occurred previously.

It was laughable really — you meeting your idol, and it turns out that he’s a dick. A complete opposite to the way his slim fingers would play each note, his mouth parted from concentration, and if you looked close enough, you could see his eyebrows furrowing, as the composition became deeper, more emotional.

The fact that you had invested so much of your time on someone who could easily act as if you didn’t even exist, baffled you. It made you realise how different people could be, and that made you sad— no, disappointed. You weren’t disappointed in Yoongi, there was no way you could have seen his true colours from the endless performances that you had watched over and over again in the confines of your bedroom walls.

No.

You were disappointed in yourself for assuming that you knew him well enough. You were disappointed in yourself because you had romanticised his performances in such a way, that you allowed your eyes to be blinded by the notes that he played. You were disappointed because you had fabricated him to be someone who you thought, not who he actually was.

After Seokjin had left, the silence hit you like a breeze on a cold day. It was unexpected, and took you by surprise, but as you walked into your bedroom, you could feel the chills beginning to rise upon your exposed skin as you looked around, your gaze landing on the numerous posters that littered your beige walls.

You could only smile bitterly at the fond memories that you had made — lying upon your bed, as you streamed performances instead of working on that essay that was due in a week’s time. It was ambivalent; it felt as if you had just broken up with your boyfriend, but you weren’t too sure what you were currently feeling.

Was it regret? Sadness? Anger?

☇

Ever since Yoongi had encountered you, he couldn’t stop thinking about the word that you had used.

‘Musician.’

There was nothing appealing about that word. Min Yoongi was not a musician — not anymore. He could not fathom the word, why people would choose to call him that, despite retiring from the music scene entirely. It wasn’t as if people liked his music anyway. There was too much criticism, and despite putting up a strong front, in the end, it all got to him.

However, he couldn’t help, but feel a little guilty. Guilty because he was too hostile. You were just someone who approached him, a stranger, yet the way he shut you down, as if you were one of them, made him feel bad. It just hit him a little too strongly because it had been such a long time since someone had come up to Yoongi to tell him something positive, to support him, and to tell him that they actually liked and enjoyed the music that he had written himself.

He sighed deeply as he lay atop the ruffled bedsheets that he had no intention of making. Yoongi’s mind was running at full speed, drilling through thoughts that he had no plan of dwelling upon.

As he sat up, his eyes fell on the glazed wood of the grand piano, shining radiantly because of the sun. He would be lying to himself if he said that he hadn’t thought of, once again, performing upon a stage — whether it be five or five hundred people watching. It was a thought he rarely had, and whenever he did, Yoongi would shut it out as quickly as possible; the urges disappearing, as he continued on with his daily life.

The world had gone quiet, the only sounds audible were the occasional chirps of the birds that had nested upon the tree outside his window, and the zooms of car that would drive past. The apartment he stood in was suffocating, and Yoongi felt that if he didn’t get out, he would choke on the poison that were his thoughts.

So that’s what he did. Yoongi threw on his shoes, and decided to escape reality for a while.

At this time of the day, the bar was usually empty, except for the sporadic day drinker that would lurk within the darkness of the venue. Flinging the door open, he was surprised to find a number of people sitting in the booths at the back of the room. As soon as he walked inside, he was greeted with the wafting stench of alcohol, something that he still hadn’t gotten used to.

“Yoongi! It’s been a while since you’ve been here,” the man that stood behind the bar exclaimed. He had blond hair that lay messily atop his forehead and a smile that could brighten this dimly lit room. The man was busy pouring drinks to already-drunk customers rambling and slurring about something that had gone wrong in their life.

“Hey Hoseok. Just needed to get away for a bit,” Yoongi replied, strolling over to one of the free stools before taking a seat, “thinking a lot.”

Hoseok understood. After all, he had been close friends with Yoongi ever since he had begun his music career. Being a prime supporter helped Yoongi stay on track, but even then, it all became too much and he decided to cut ties.

“The usual?”

A nod was all that was needed to get Hoseok working. A concoction of various alcoholic beverages had been mixed and placed in a small shot glass for Yoongi to down, and he did, feeling the satisfactory burn as the liquor passed through his throat, only to sit heavy within his stomach. It had been a while since Yoongi had drank, so after a couple shots, he was already feeling light-headed, and his words had begun to slur, much like those who were sitting close to him.

“A— And she came up to me,” Yoongi pushed back his hair, only to have it fall over his eyes again, “and I b— basically… Basically, I told her something like, what was it again? Oh! It was like, ‘fuck off’ or something.” Hoseok just stood, listening intently as he filled up glasses to his customers’ request.

He could only console Yoongi through his actions, as he was rambling for far too long. The amount of secrets that he had spilled surprised Hoseok, as this was a side of Yoongi that no one had ever saw before. Hoseok pitied him, feeling empathetic for his friend who had dealt with so much for far too long. He thought that Yoongi would be happier now, especially since the comments had long gone away the moment he stepped away from the keys that seemed to haunt him.

However, that was not the case. Yoongi had never been more depressed — living his day-to-day life in absolute misery, hoping for something, or maybe even someone, to come and change that. Yet, Yoongi was notorious for pushing people away and letting them leave his side had never been easier until very recently. He was sad; angry at himself, but found excuses to put the blame on other people.

Whilst in the middle of a sentence, Yoongi halted, quietening down, before breaking into a fit of tears. His head lay upon the countertop, while he sobbed, letting the tears cascade and form into a puddle beneath him.

☇

It had been a few days since your encounter with Yoongi.

A part of you hoped that you would be able to bump into him, to see him once more, and apologise for offending him; for assuming something that you shouldn’t have. Yet, another part of you was glad that you may never have to see Yoongi again. You didn’t want to have to deal with the repercussions of meeting him again, of having to embarrass yourself once more, just to make sure that he didn’t think of you with such a negative stigma.

You let out a breath, closing your eyes for a mere second, before throwing your head back in frustration. You needed to apologise, the guilt slowly eating away at you, even though you knew that you had done nothing wrong. Quickly throwing on your sneakers, you made your way out, praying that fate would be able to lead you to him.

You roamed through the same park where you had first found him. As you passed by the bench, the feeling of defeat was beginning to crawl its way into your mind, but you pushed it aside and carried on, thinking long and hard about where you might be able to find him. Searching near and far, you were just about to give up when you saw a very familiar figure stumbling out of a bar up ahead.

Your mind was blank for a few seconds, but upon realisation, your legs began to pick up their pace and without thinking, you started to run towards him. There was something that had compelled you to stop him before he left; before he disappeared back into the darkness, never to be heard from again. The thought scared you, so you were not going to let him go again, not before you apologised, that is.

“Y— Yoongi?” His name had been caught up in your throat, and you made a pathetic attempt to speak to him, you voice coming out wavering and full of nervousness.

“You again?” he was slurring, and it made you uncomfortable, “What do you w— want?”

You took in a breath, but just as you were about to speak, you could see Yoongi on the verge of stumbling upon the car-ridden street — an accident waiting to happen. Instinctively, you caught him before he could fall, but the look of offense and disgust made you quickly retract your arms, clearing your throat, as you remembered the reason as to why you were here.

“I— Um… I just wanted to apologise for the other day, you know. Offending you and all. I didn’t mean it, I just wanted to thank you for your music and how it changed my life and everything—,” you were beginning to ramble, something you did a lot whenever you were feeling burdened. You had to consciously stop yourself, but as your eyes fell upon Yoongi, you couldn’t help the sense of hopelessness that had surrounded his figure.

You pitied Yoongi. For too long had he hidden between the shadows, hiding wads of regrets and anger towards himself. He had secluded himself, letting himself become unknown to the horrid world that he was living in. There was so much sadness, so much anguish hidden between the specks of chocolate within his eyes. You could see — could feel the aura of bleakness and hatred he had for himself, and you pitied him. You wished you could take some of it away.

“I’m sorry too.”

The words took you by surprise. You were not expecting any sort of response, let alone an apology. Looking up, you noticed that his eyes were glued to the concrete that lay beneath the both of you.

“I’m sorry for being a complete fuck-up. You just wanted to say thank you and there I was, shutting you down because I was scared. I was scared that the comments would come back. I just wanted to run away from it all, and I thought that by losing everyone who I cared for, and everyone who cared for me, it would fix everything. But I was wrong. I just— Fuck, I was so damn wrong.”

The tears, that Yoongi had tried so hard to keep in, fell immediately, marking the grey concrete below. He couldn’t look up; much too embarrassed to face the stranger that he had wronged. So he kept his eyes on the ground, and tried to blink away the tears, but to no avail.

You didn’t even notice that your eyes had started to well up. It was as if you could almost touch the sincerity that he was pouring out of the depths of his hidden heart. With hesitation, you reached out and placed your hand on his shoulder. He didn’t back away or flinch, instead, welcoming your arm, and the radiating comfort that you expelled.

After a few minutes, the crying stopped and Yoongi quickly wiped away the last of the droplets that seemed to be caught within his eyelashes. He smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and you could only stare at him with such a pain etched into your eyes. You were in such a pain because of the way he smiled, the way he was able to change his expression, as if he was so used to it.

Yoongi turned on his heel, albeit a little carelessly, and was about to walk away, when you spoke up.

“Thank you,” you murmured, “for everything.”

☇

The next couple of weeks had you brooding. You had replayed the second encounter with Yoongi, vividly remembering the exact words that he had relayed to you, and the evident heartbreak in his tone of voice. You hadn’t been able to focus properly, instead, your thoughts were overwhelmed with such disarray that you had found yourself to be completely distracted from all aspects of your life.

You weren’t too sure why it had affected you so much. Yoongi didn’t even know your name; you were a complete stranger to him, so why did you feel obligated to help him? You were a mere fan, but you had never felt more connected to him.

You knew you were going to regret your decision, but you were so determined that you didn’t even pay any attention to the part of you that was against your idea. So you made your way back to the park bench — to the first time you had ever met Min Yoongi.

The streets were quiet, a sharp contrast to the usually loud roads filled with zooming cars and loud chatter. Instead, the wind blew through you, sending chills down your spine, as you strolled to the exact location that you had avoided all of this time.

The sun was still high, hidden by a sheet of clouds that covered the hues of blue, instead painting it with strokes of grey, a murky comparison. As soon as the park was in your sight, a feeling of hope had enlightened your senses. You found yourself to be walking faster and faster, until the bench came into sight, and your entire body slouched in defeat. The sense of hope that had been running through your veins had halted; escaping your body entirely, as you approached the bench with such sadness.

Sitting upon the wooden planks, you placed your hands in your lap, fidgeting and playing with your fingers. As soon as you saw the empty bench, your heart dropped and you had just wanted to turn around and walk back home, but you had convinced yourself to stay, just in case Yoongi would walk by.

It was a sliver of a small chance, but you were willing to take it. You were willing to wait here every single day, just to be able to see Yoongi genuinely smile and now dwell upon the negativity that he had been placed right in the middle of.

After hearing his confessions, you had just wanted to ensure that Yoongi was feeling okay, and that he was able to pick himself back up, especially after looking so rough when he had come out of the bar. You were concerned, even though you were in no place to be. Still conflicted, you looked around, but there was no sight of him. Giving up, you stood and stretched your legs before making it back home. You were determined to see him once more.

☇

The next few days had you going back to the same bench, only to be met with the company of the dancing tree that stood grand behind you.

Yoongi had noticed you from his apartment window; the view clear of any obstacles. He felt guilty upon seeing your form sitting upon the bench, but Yoongi couldn’t bring himself to come down. There was something that kept him from facing you again. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the sudden spillage of emotion that he had shown to you, or if it was because he was just too embarrassed to see you. After all, he didn’t even know your name.

Drawing the curtains back, Yoongi sat upon the cushion; his head in his hands as he thought about what he could possibly do. He didn’t want to get too close, didn’t want to hurt your feelings, didn’t want you to continue whatever it was you were currently doing. Yoongi just wanted to be alone, to live his life in the shadows instead of having someone by his side.

It was better off that way.

And so, Yoongi would stare at your seated form, your fleeting eyes, and your still hands that would sit quietly upon your lap, wondering if keeping away and letting you forget about him was the best idea. Yet, he didn’t notice the fiery determination that had begun flickering within your eyes. There was no way you were going to give up, not after seeing Yoongi so helpless. Instead of the burning passion you had come so used to seeing, you were met with despair, forlorn and powerlessness.

You knew he knew.

You knew that he was able to see you, and that he could come down at any moment that he pleased. You knew that he was waiting for you to leave, but you weren’t going to give up. Not today, not any other day. Yoongi had another thing coming.

After sitting upon the wooden planks for what felt like centuries, you recalled the past encounter that you had had with Yoongi at the bar. That area of your city was somewhere that you weren’t necessarily familiar with, but had travelled to on specific occasions. The walk was moderate, allowing you enough time to familiarise yourself with the current surroundings that stood before you. It also gave you enough time to plan your course of action if you were indeed to “stumble upon” Yoongi once more.

Having walked for what seemed like kilometres, you finally reached the section of the city that you had found Yoongi in. Unconsciously, your steps had begun to quicken in pace and your heart was beating an unusual, frantic speed. You stopped right in front of the bar that Yoongi had collapsed out of; your breath jagged from the hurried momentum that you had undertaken. Calm, yet nervous, you composed yourself before walking inside, only to be hit with the strong odour of cigarettes and alcohol.

Ignoring the way your nostrils burned, you looked around — eyeing each individual that either stood near or sat upon a booth within the small room. You must’ve looked extremely lost because before you know it, you’re sitting upon one of the stools and having a relaxed conversation with the bartender, whom you had no idea knew Yoongi.

“You alright there, Miss? Looking a little bit lost, if I say so myself,”

You could only smile and nod politely, continuously looking around and clenching your fists in anticipation.

“My name’s Hoseok. I own this bar, and from the looks of it, you seem to be looking or waiting for someone. Got a name or anything? I know all the regulars that frequent this beauty!” Hoseok opened his arms wide, swirling, as if to bask in the building’s beauty. It made your heart swell because of his passion and genuine happiness that he seemed to experience.

You bit the bottom on your lip, wondering whether telling this stranger the name of a man you were so desperate to locate. At this point, you would appreciate any help given by any person, so you shrugged your shoulders, ‘why the hell not?’

“Y— Yeah actually. Yoongi, Min Yoongi? He’s just someone I know,”

Hoseok’s eyes seemed to widen at the mention of his name, and you quirked a brow, “You know him? I mean of course you do, he’s a pretty famous musician and all. Anyway, I’ve been looking for him for a few days now, and I saw him stumble out of this bar and—,” you took in a breath before continuing, “I was just wondering if you knew where he was or could give me an address or something that’ll help me find him. He just— he seems so lost, and I want to help him.”

Your sharp stare of pure persistence had Hoseok smiling. It had been such a long time since someone had asked about, or even cared to mention Yoongi. Yoongi had become a no-one; irrelevant and frequently choosing to shield himself within the shadows of society. All the attention that he had once garnered, dissipated within time, and soon, he was one of us. Someone that ordinary people could not care less about.

He didn’t mind, hell— he could not be happier about it. A chance to bury his fame, a chance to live as someone that walked through the streets without having comments being thrown at him. It was a new life, and he was ready to live it to the fullest.

However, the life that he had expected had hit him from another direction. Yoongi was not prepared for the countless obstacles that he had had to encounter, the brutal comments murmured behind whispered lips and preying eyes, the quick zip-up of his hoodie and endless fidgeting of the cap that sat upon his head far more than he would have liked. Breathless chuckles left his pursed lips often, and his eyes did not glint with happiness, instead, with indifference.

It had been a while since Yoongi was as shaken up as he was after meeting you. The effect that you had had upon him, even after the two, not-so, pleasant encounters. Yet, the pure aura that surrounded was like a breath a fresh air; something that Yoongi so desperately needed. It wasn’t sexual desires, no— all Yoongi wanted was someone to confide in, someone who could help him rekindle his passion and love for music — and for some reason, Yoongi had felt as if that someone was you.

After numerous shocking and quite embarrassing stories of Yoongi (that almost made you choke on your drink a few times), you had decided that it had become late enough to leave. Still, there was no sign of Yoongi, and you couldn’t help the speck of disappointment that had taken over your mind. Obviously, you were not someone of importance to him; you were a stranger. Yoongi certainly had no obligation to come and you were in no place to demand for his presence.

Thanking Hoseok, you pushed open the bar door to be greeted with the crisp wind that flew through the thin fabric of your shirt that you had, regretfully, thrown on. Rubbing your arms to try and produce some sort of heat, your eyes wandered to the beautifully painted sky; thick clouds that conquered the sky, oranges and pinks peeking through, as if it were sunlight penetrating the canopy of leaves in a forest.

You took a few steps, your attention directed upon the irregular shapes of the clouds and the various colours that you could point out, that you couldn’t see a figure walking towards you. Upon impact, you immediately apologised, only to be greeted with a hand on your shoulder.

“Your name?”

[ecotone99]

A Painted World

Before you read this, know it is completely real and I have not included any names or over specific loctions for this reason.

I suppose it was a Friday in March when he died, or maybe a Saturday. It doesn't really matter if I am being honest with you. He’s no longer breathing, but I am still here and so are you. As far as we are all concerned, he never existed. Shut away in a grave somewhere among the countless headstone, his name means nothing to us; for all but a few, his epitaph might as well be blank. I never knew the poor man, hardly a man at that. He was no older than I am now at the time of his execution.

The sky was draped on that day by a blanket of ominous clouds on the verge of releasing its payload upon the city, quite average for an early spring day in Chicago.

I was fourteen years old, about to graduate from middle school and move onward with my life. I was not terribly excited for high school if I am being honest, but least of all did I want to stay in middle school for the rest of my life. So I braced myself for the change that was to be high school. I studied a bit more often, worked out a little more here and there, and got more involved with middle school activities, which lead me to join my grade school’s academic team. The premise was simple, as a team we would go to rival schools and answers Jeopardy style questions in science, math, history, and literature to try and get more points than the other schools. I was pretty good, and so was my team; to say the least, we were pretty excited for our final match, we wanted to go out with one last win.

The sky darkened further and rain began to beat down like artillery strikes. We waited in the parking lot of the local high-school for the match to start, but we were the only school to show up, all the rest were caught in the storm. An hour passed and I was so bored that wanted to kill somebody. So, I gathered some people and we set out into the storm to go get some food from a donut shop a couple blocks down. After the first block, I regretted that decision so goddamn much. I was completely drenched, not a single square inch of my clothes remained dry. But, we couldn't turn back, we were already halfway there and I was already soaking wet, so I figured, why not? We walked in the shop, dried ourselves off with towels the highschool aged employee was nice enough to give us, and made our way to a recently disinfected table. We threw a few of our bags down to save our spots then all went up to go order. As we all walked up, I split from the group and headed to the bathroom to take a piss.

As I walked down the dimly lit hallway to the bathroom I noticed some streaks of wet red paint on the floor, I figured the store was repainting somewhere and one of the workers absentmindedly spilled some paint. But, there was a lot of it. As I walked closer to the bathroom, there were more blotches of red paint on the floor, but I shrugged it off and continued to the bathroom door.

I swung open the bathroom door and stepped inside, but it was far too dark. The back-light of the hallway was too dim to let me know where I was going so I began to sift around in the darkness for a light switch of some sort. For the life of me I couldn't find anything that resembled a switch. As I padded around slowly and cautiously in the dark not to touch a urinal or toilet seat, something kept squishing and sloshing under my feet. The first thing that came to mind is, “God I hate people so much.” When you walk into the public bathroom of an inner city donut shop into a wet sticky substance, you always assume it's either toilet water, piss, shit, or any mix of the three. After what felt like minutes stumbling around in the dark, but was more like seconds, the sensors detected my presence and lights flickered on.

I wish I could say I felt horror in that moment, but whatever I felt is still a mystery to me. As far as I’m concerned, I felt nothing.

The first thing I did as the lights turned on was look down to assess the damage that the shit water inflicted on my shoes. But, the floor was caked in not excrement, but more damn red paint, which pissed me off even more. How the hell was I supposed to get paint off my shoes? I furiously turned to the sink of the one person bathroom with the intention of trying to wash off my shoes and then I stopped. “Hey” I said to myself, “Why is there more paint in the sink, in the toilet, on the walls, and on the mirror?”

The floor was slick with blood from one corner to the other of the small one toilet bathroom. It was thick and viscous like melted ice cream. As I picked up my foot the blood almost strung from my feet. The sink was clogged with a mixture of paper towels soaked in blood and gore. I stared into the damn basin as the blood seeped out of the overly soaked towels and into the porcelain sink, but it would not go down, it just would not move no matter how long I stared at it. There were spurts of blackish red blood shot across the mirror dripping down onto the top of the sink. It was almost as if the mirror was cracked with blood. I gazed into the mirror and could barely see my own reflection through the maroon haze. The toilet was overflowing with the same dark blood and what I think might have been vomit, I don’t know what else it could have been. God I wish it was vomit and not lumps flesh or something like that. The mixture leaked out of the top of the bowl and down the front and onto the floor. I looked behind me and saw that a splattering of blood was thrown back against the back wall and dripped slowly down onto the floor to join with the mixture coming from the toilet.

I grabbed a few towels that were left in the holder and wiped down the bottoms of my shoes, but that paint was stubborn as all hell. I wet one of the towels and that seemed to do the trick quite well. I swung open the door once again and walked out of the bathroom. I approached my friends and suggested that we take our food to go because the other teams may show up at anytime. So we went back to our table, gathered all of our bags, and set out into the rain one more time. It was raining just as much as before, if not harder. It difficult to see more than a meter or two in front of me.

We passed by the alley adjacent to the donut shop and I knew what was in that alley. I did not want to look because I did not want the paint to become something different. My friends continued down the street and without their notice, I turned down that alley way to my own dismay. Not more than twenty meters into the alley was a kid around nineteen or maybe twenty lying face down in a pool of his own blood. The rain beat down on him just as hard as it beat down on me. It washed his blood down the road into the nearest drainage grate. I moved in closer, but not close enough to touch him. He was dead, there was no doubt about that. I’m surprised he even made it into the alley way. Thinking back, he must have lost at least three fifths of all the blood in his body in that bathroom. I don’t know how many times he was shot, but it must have been more than once or twice to produce all that blood.

I never knew the kid, nor did most people. He died alone, face down on the cold concrete, in an unrelenting thunderstorm. Maybe he did something to deserve this fate, maybe he didn’t; at this point, that doesn’t really matter now does it? He’s dead and we aren’t. At least, I think that’s the case. I do not think of him much, why would I? I did not kill and there was nothing I could do to save him, so it goes. But, I find myself every once and a while being reminded of him. I walked into the bathroom of my dorm the other day. As I stepped inside, my foot landed on a wet towel and my first reaction was shock that I came across another body, which then prompted me to remember the bathroom drenched in blood and the young boy face down in a pool of his own blood in the alley, first body I ever came across.

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