#so every goddamn bitch calls at thr same time and you never get through

[binch-i-might-be]

trying to reach the doctor's office via phone is the most difficult task of my entire life I think

[jimlingss]

Brass & Strings [9]

Episode 8 - Episode 9 - Episode 9.5 OR Episode 10 Words: 5.2k Genre: Fluff, Humour (?), Slice of Life, Music!Au, College!Au Summary: Have you ever wondered what happens to the mean girl after high school? Where do they go, where do they end up? More importantly, what happens when they get mixed up with the classic nerd that's always too nervous to answer 'no'? Things become a lot more complicated when Kim Namjoon encounters you. They dub you as 'bat-shit insane' and you're not ashamed.  Notes: This part is inspired by this which actually inspired the entire series.

Cr.

[3 Years Ago]

The cold nips at your skin and you shiver in your thin clothes, shaking in your bones while the dim light of the lamp post is the sole luminescence. For a mere moment, a sickening dread washes over you, causing you to become nauseous to your very core. Did he leave you behind?

There’s no way.

But you can’t help looking down the road, teeth sunk into the bottom of your lip, rocking back and forth in your dirty shoes. No. You believe in him. It’s impossible that he’ll go against his word. He won’t abandon you…..

He’s the only one you have left.

“Fucking finally!” You shout aloud, stomping up to the dingy car as it pulls up on the curb.

It sounds like it’s running on rocks, making chugging noises and barely holding on. The vehicle is a stark contrast to the luxurious neighborhood. The boy inside winces when you get in and slam the door harsher than necessary. “Hey! You’re going to break it, brat!”

“Where the fuck have you been?! I’ve been waiting for twenty goddamn minutes!”

“There was traffic, you ungrateful piece of shit! I nearly got ticketed for speeding here. Do I get no thank you’s?!”

“No,” you huff out while crossing your arms, turning your head to look out the window. Your house stands behind the gate and in the middle of your noisy argument, the lights inside flicker on. It’ll be any moment now that your parents will look out the window and realize where you’re going or more specifically, who you’re with. “Just drive!”

The nineteen year old grumbles and shifts the gear into place, leaving the street behind you.

Yoongi doesn’t speak a single word. You don’t either, leaning your forehead on the cool window, staring out at the passing nighttime sceneries and the other cars who are most likely making their way home. No one at midnight would go anywhere anyways, except for the two of you.

“Why have you been so catty?” Your cousin finally pipes up, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

You’d turn on his radio but it’s broken. “As if you care.”

“Just tell me if you’re PMS-ing so I can avoid you for the rest of the night,” he chides in a sassy tone that has you scoffing with a smile.

“Bitch...fine…” Your arms are still crossed but you sit up straight, peeling the bright paint off of your fingernails. “I’m going to run away.”

His eyebrow perks and he steals a glimpse of you before focusing back on the road. “Oh?”

“My parents want me to go to their university or whatever after high school. But I’d rather die than work an office job for the rest of my life or teach damn science to a bunch of dimwits.”

Yoongi chuckles, “yeah...you don’t really fit the whole professor narrative.” As a seventeen year old, you’re already surprised that you made it this far through high school without dropping out or getting expelled. “What are you planning?”

You shrug. “I’m probably going to pack up a suitcase, withdraw like a good few thousand dollars.”

“Where are you gonna stay?”

“I dunno.” You’d never admit it to him but you haven’t thought up all the details yet. “Maybe I’ll take a plane out of this shit ass place and I’ll stay at a hotel for awhile. You know, I hear a lot of wealthy folks like to pay young people to go on dates with them.”

“You’re not pretty enough for that.”

You fake a gasp. “Wow, fuck you, I’m gorgeous.”

Your cousin exits the highway, making a left turn and you know you’re getting closer to where the underground concert is. Sometimes it’s a rock show, other times it’s a rap or dance battle. Nonetheless, you enjoy watching the different types of performances. It’s not exactly your kind of scene but it’s different from the usual classy and high-end places that you frequently visit.

“You know, Y/N…..I actually think you should do music.”

There’s a long silence.

You burst out into laughter, slapping your knee, wiping away the water that wells up in your eyes as your stomach squeezes. “And here I thought we were actually having a semi-serious talk. Thanks, asshole.”

“No, I am being serious.”

For once, you know he’s telling the truth. There isn’t a hint of humour or mirth in his voice and Yoongi’s expression is stern, despite you only being able to see his profile. “I think you should do music.”

You scoff, laughs dying down and he continues, “believe it or not, kid, I’ve heard you play and you’re not half bad. You’ve got a really good ear for this sort of stuff. Running away...it won’t do you any good after a while. Take it from someone who’s tried. You’re better off pursuing something decent and actually building a future for yourself.”

You roll your eyes. “You sound like my dumb teacher.”

But you’re secretly hanging onto every single word of your close cousin. He’s in his first year of university after all, having fought with his family to major in composition. If you attended the same place as him, you’d at least have someone with you. “...do you really think I could do it?”

The side of his lip tugs. “I really do.”

“How would I pull it off? My parents would never let me major in music.”

Yoongi’s smile becomes a smirk and his grip on the steering wheel tightens, completely aware of your manipulation skills that’s only getting better as you age. “Oh, I know you’ll figure something out.”

[Present Day]

It’s not surprising that Yoongi doesn’t pick up. He tends to ignore your phone calls and texts, unfazed when you blow up his mobile device. What is shocking, however, is that he actually seems busy.

Aside from grumbling about how early he has to wake up to head to the radio station, his shitty shifts at the music store, having no direction in composing, then he’s complaining about having less than ten hours of sleep. In other words, usually Yoongi isn’t that fucking busy.

But he always has time to talk to you. He’s always there.

You don’t think much of it until you drop by the music store after a particularly nice date with a well-off, rebellious gentleman. Maybe you’re lucky your cousin wasn’t there. He’d certainly ask questions about who the person in the red sports car was.

His co-worker raises her eyebrows, “There’s been a pretty girl dropping by lately.”

One foot is out the door but you’re paralyzed, turning around. “A girl?”

“They come and leave together a lot. I think they might be dating. Did you not know?”

Okay. Whatever.

Yoongi isn't involved with your business. You’re not involved in his. It doesn’t matter to you.

You shouldn’t poke your nose where it doesn’t belong anyways. It’s a mutual relationship of respect and trust. That’s what you remind yourself except-

“What the fuck?”

“Wh-what’s wrong?” Namjoon is immediately on alert, darting his head around to where your eyes are. Your arm slowly lifts and you point straight at the girl sitting in her seat next to the window. “Jennie?”

The concertmistress is innocently writing notes down into her notebook. She colour codes, draws diagrams and has a pencil case full of chubby highlighters. She studies on her rose gold laptop, no less than a real-life doll in a television commercial. But what has shaken you to the very core, caused Namjoon to become worried and concerned is that-

“That’s Yoongi’s sweater.”

//

It’s unmistakable. The white sweatshirt of the band he followed in high school, the black marker signature at the back that your cousin literally dived on stage for. He had taken you that day, snuck you out of your house when you were fifteen for a breath of freedom and during the last performance, Yoongi threw himself to the keyboard player, some Richard guy that you can’t recall completely.

“Y/N.” Namjoon tugs on your arm, forcing you to halt. “What are you going to do?”

You ignore the harpist, shaking off his grip. The suspicions that had slammed itself inside your skull, that made you follow the concertmistress for the past half hour, it’s all confirmed when your eyes pin to the two people across the street. They’re laughing and giggling to each other in broad daylight. Yoongi almost looks...happy.

But you can’t let it happen. “Y/N!”

Your feet cross and they’re still talking to each other until the violinist turns her head. Then, her mouth drops and her eyes enlarge, soaking in your angered expression. “Y/N-”

You rip them apart, shoving her and she stumbles back. Your arm lifts to send a ricocheting slap across her face, one that’ll knock some sense into the bitch but Yoongi instantly covers Jennie with his body.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He shouts, trying to push you back when you try to tackle her again. “Y/N! FUCKING SHIT! You’re psychotic!”

“Let go of me!” You scream at the top of your lungs when your cousin restrains your limbs but you manage to dig your nails into the girl’s scalp, dragging her hair with you. “You bitch! Stay away from him!”

“The fuck?! It’s none of your business!”

“Like hell it is!”

Jennie sobs out and as she reaches up to your hands, she accidentally scrapes her own nails along your skin. The sensation burns and you give a tug on her scalp. Yoongi’s strength is immense, pushing you away but you kick his shin as hard as you can. He falls down and you roughly grab Jennie by her arm, shaking her and pulling on her hair. “Leave him alone! Go find someone else, you bitch!”

There’s a crowd that’s drawing in, murmurs and phones being pulled out. But before mayhem can truly break loose or the police can be called, strong arms curl around your waist.

You’re elevated meters high, feet no longer touching the ground. “Let go of me!”

Namjoon throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and he bows, calm and collected despite your fists pounding on his broad backside. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The harpist begins to jog away from the confused horde of people and your bruised up cousin is left with his date. “Kim! Namjoon! Put me the fuck down or I swear to god-”

“You’ll what?!” He retorts with a huff. “What will you do?”

“I-”

“Don’t you know it’s not nice to curse out loud in public? There are children around. It’s not nice to beat up other people either. You can get arrested for that. Didn’t your parents teach you some common courtesy?”

“Namjoon!”

He finally sets you down at some random park where there aren’t many wandering eyes, two full blocks away from where you originally were. “Are you still mad?”

“Yes.” You spit out, flickerings of red appearing in your vision. Your chest heaves and the bruise at your lip, the scratches on your arm don’t faze you. If Namjoon wasn’t Namjoon, you probably would’ve smacked him already for manhandling you like that and for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

“Use your words.” The dimpled boy commands, putting his hands on your shoulders to stop you from marching back there. “You’re an adult, not a toddler throwing a tantrum. Tell me what’s wrong using your words and not through violence.”

If only it were that simple. You don’t know what to say. There is nothing your tongue can spit out that would make the pain any easier.

“He’s my only family.” You inhale, eyes red and stinging. “Families protect each other. And-and….”

Yoongi is the only one you have.

“I hate her.”

He’s your only family. He was once your best friend as well, the brother and ally that you never had. But you’ve been lied to. You were betrayed by him before. While you looked up to him your entire life, aspired to be just like him...he never once solicited your advice, never once talked to you about his own suffering.

Out of the blue, he dropped out of school and abandoned the one thing that you two shared and loved together, music.

You don’t know him. Not the way you thought you did. Your admiration and the bond you thought you shared was one sided. Now, he was dating your enemy. As childish as it seemed to be upset, every single bone in your body screams out in agony.

“I hate her...I hate her…”

“You don’t.” Namjoon somehow manages to soothe you, dissipating your anger away. The red spots in your perception begin to disappear. “She’s a good person. You and I both know that.”

“No!” You push away the boy in front of you, trying to breathe. His presence suffocates you. You want to feel angry, you want to feel rage. Those emotions are less painful than sadness.

“You don’t get to fucking pretend to be my counsellor and try to make things better! You-...you don’t get to stand here and tell me what’s right and wrong. You don’t understand shit about me, Namjoon! Stop….stop trying to act like you care.”

You’re shaking. Namjoon takes a step forward. Your head downcasts to the ground. The kind boy reaches out to hold your hand in his. Teardrops fall like rain from your eyes, wetting the cement by your feet.

“You don’t know what it’s like to have no one.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, sobs crashing through your mouth and you hate how weak you are, how vulnerable you’re making yourself. “Y-You don’t know w...what it’s like to….to be left behind.”

You’ve been left behind.

The people around are scared of you. They’re frightened. You can’t even get anyone to stay without threatening them, without being forced in a setting or in a room. Your suitors only care about your exterior, the smile that you plaster on your lips. They don’t know what your major is or your birthday, your last name - the meaningless things that add up to make you who you are.

They don’t care. No one does.

You have no friends, no family, nobody.

You thought you had Yoongi - you’re wrong.

“I...don’t have anyone, Namjoon.”

Your shivering frame is cloaked by his warm body. His arms hesitantly wrap around you before they settle, tapping your back gently. You’re thankful that he’s holding onto you, allowing your tears to drip from your eyes onto his shoulder. It would be humiliating for you if he watched you break down.

“You have me.”

You sniffle, looking up at the sky to stop your sobs. “That’s not true. I made you stay.”

“No.” He smiles, wondering why it was that you felt so fragile in his hold. “I could’ve left a long time ago but I didn’t. I chose to stay.”

There must be three minutes of silence. Maybe more or maybe less.

Once you’ve calmed down and realized the amount of stares you were getting, children who were snickering behind their hands and shielded their eyes, bitter single folks mistaking you two as a couple, you speak up. “Namjoon.” Your voice is hoarse. “You can let me go now.”

“Oh.”

He releases his arms and you quickly dig in your bag for your sunglasses. Namjoon still manages to catch the redness under your eyes and the swollenness before you shield them away. “Are you feeling better?” He smiles to himself as you clear your throat awkwardly.

“Much.” You cross your arms, beginning to walk again. “Let’s never speak of this again.”

The harpist isn’t sure if he can keep that promise but he appeases you anyways. “Okay.”

//

If you aren’t dynamite, then you’re a ticking time bomb. The mere thought of Jennie standing next to your dear cousin still makes you nauseous. You wonder if this is what it feels like in those stories and movies with the older brother protecting his little sister against his own friends.

But in your circumstances, Jennie is someone you already detest.

“We’re just going to run through a few scales and exercises together as warm up before the conductor arrives. Is everyone ready?” The concertmistress lifts her arms and everyone raises their instruments with her motion. The violins are propped on the shoulder, the percussionist holds their mallets and the bassoonists wrap their lips around their reeds.

A little giggle interrupts the session and a few people turn around. “Y/N?”

You’re on your phone, scrolling through some messages and answering some texts. Your instrument is nowhere in sight. The trombonists beside you lean away from your menacing aura. “Hmm?”

“Are you going to participate?”

“Whose authority are you doing this on?” Your pupils flicker upwards, smile void on your lips.

Everyone puts their instruments down. Jennie drops her arms. “I’m the concertmistress.”

“Huh.”

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Your classmates swallow hard, averting their gazes and they can sense the fire that is about it ignite. “Will you participate with us?”

“I will but I’m curious as to why you’re the concertmistress.” You look at your nails, flicking off a speck of dirt under them. Your legs and arms are crossed, sitting back in the seat.

“I-”

“Rebecca?” You take a glimpse of the girl in the second seat. “Aren’t you a better player than she is? You’ve been playing for longer and you’ve had more workshop experiences as well. I see you in the practice room a lot. Do you not feel like you are more deserving of Jennie’s position?”

The girl that was dragged into the conversation opens her mouth and closes it. “I-”

Jennie takes a step forward. “Y/N.”

You interrupt all of them. Rose is gaping at you, having no opportunities to interfere and Namjoon is utterly baffled at your disobedience and rudeness. It reminds him of when the both of you first met each other. You were intimidating, unnerving and sharp, a tongue of venom and words that stung of poison. He wonders where the sweet girl he knew went, if she’s hiding underneath the mask.

“Has no one ever questioned the concertmistress before?” There’s silence as your mirthless laugh echoes across the room. You scan the surroundings and the pale faces of all your classmates. “Like, I haven’t ever seen her practicing. If she doesn’t put in the hours, then is she deserving of her seat? It’s kind of odd now that I think about it. How did Jennie get her position? And why do so many professors favour her? Maybe it has to do with her legs being spread-”

“That’s enough, Y/N.”

You look directly into Jennie’s eyes, locking your gaze onto hers. “You pretend to be all innocent and naive, as if you’re a helpless little girl. But you’re really running behind people’s back, fucking their relatives.”

There’s a roaring gasp. People cover their mouths with their hands to stifle the sound. They look around at each other with widening eyes, a simmer of murmurs filling the background. Jennie nibbles on the bottom of her lip, looking like she’s about to weep. Rose stands up but the violinist stops her. “Y/N. Can I talk to you outside?”

“Are you my mother?”

“Y/N.” Her voice does not quiver, does not shake. You’re slightly startled by the stern tone, unable to believe that she had it in her. “As the concertmistress appointed by the conductor for the past year, I require you to step outside the room immediately.”

A flow of curses leaves your mouth in mutters but you follow her. The door is shut and the pair of you face each other.

“You’ve disrespected me in front of our peers. You disrupted the session, insulted me and disregarded my authority.” Jennie inhales, “I know we have private issues but those are private. You are in a professional setting so act like it. If you want to talk to me, curse at me, hit me then do it. I don’t care. But it has to be after practice. In that room, I am your concertmistress. You must respect the position I am in and if you don’t want to, then you can leave.”

She continues to stare at you and you don’t waver. After a second, you notice her pupils shaking. You decide to be merciful. “Fine.”

When the two of you enter the room, it is dead silent.

//

He pushes his glasses up, staring out the lense to the bustling dining hall. “You look miserable. Is there trouble in love town?”

Namjoon raises a brow towards his friend, Taehyung. “What do you mean?”

The saxophonist grins mischievously in response. “Nothing.”

They both sit down together at a table and the harpist asks the other how he’s been doing. Things have been busy lately and they haven’t been able to keep up to date with each other much. “There are some euphoniums who are thinking about dropping out and there’s a competition soon.” Taehyung groans and moans, hitting his hand on the surface of the table. “I’m the section leader and I have no idea what to do! The stress is eating at me, Namjoon!”

The boy gobbles up his sandwich, faking a sob and Namjoon tries his best to encourage the man. There’s a bit of peace as they both chew and the other conversation next to them reverberates down.

“Have you heard?”

“Oh my god. I was there! Y/N totally flipped out. There’s a bunch of rumours and talk going around now.”

“Jennie’s dating Y/N’s relative, right? What a small world. Y/N’s insane though. She totally went bat shit crazy and Jennie had to pull her out of the room. If I were Jennie, I think I would’ve pissed myself. Y/N’s such a bitch. I hope she gets thrown out.”

“Well I heard that it’s not just any relative.” The girl sips on her juice box. “It’s Y/N’s cousin, Min Yoongi.”

“What?!” They dramatically gasp, huddling closer together in murmurs that are all too loud.

“The Min Yoongi?”

“Oh my god.” The third girl appears confused with a frown, hence the other nudges her. “You don’t know who he is? He’s older than us by two years and he dropped out last year. The genius composer.”

“Didn’t he tell off a conductor and then he was put on academic probation because of it?”

The fourth male student who has joined their group nods. “But it turned out the conductor was actually wrong. The school was embarrassed and they didn’t do anything about it, so he dropped out.”

“That’s cool of him,” one whispers out. “Sticking to his guns like that. I wish I had that much courage.”

“You idiot.” The girl hushes her friend. “It was a dumb move. Now he’s out there wasting his talent. I heard he’s homeless and eating garbage. He should’ve just sucked it up. His pride ruined him.”

“I can’t believe Jennie is dating someone like him.”

There’s a ringing screech. They all turn around, ready to berate the person who scooted back their chair so loudly but then their mouths drop yet again. “Are you done?” More people whirl at the sound of your voice and the gossiping group avoids your piercing eyes, gathering together and shutting their lids tight.

You take a step forward but your arm is held back. Namjoon pulls you away and out of the dining hall, abandoning his lunch and poor Taehyung who is completely bewildered.

“Will you stop? It hurts!” Your lie on his gentle grip causes him to drop his hand curled around your wrist. “You’re so fucking annoying! Stop interfering! Dragging me away from places isn’t cute, Namjoon. Can’t you mind your own goddamn business?!”

The students from different majors and faculties glance over from the shouting but they quickly scatter away.

“No. I won’t.”

“What?”

The wind blows through your hair and the blue sky blinds the back of your eyelids. You wish it was dark out or filled with grey clouds, raining perhaps. The nice weather feels like it’s mocking your existence.

“I won’t mind my own business.” He goes on a frenzy, the most serious expression you’ve ever seen on him. “I care about you too much to not, not stick my nose in your business.”

“Who asked you to care about me?!”

“I don’t know, okay?!” The timid boy’s voice is booming and it occurs to you how much taller he is, shadow overtaking your body. “Don’t ask me that. I’m here asking the questions. What were you going to do back there? Were you going to beat them up?”

“I-”

He retorts in a single statement, “you’re childish!”

You stomp your feet, shocked at what he’s yelled out. “Am not!”

“You are! You’re immature. Are you in high school? Do you know it’s assault?! You’ll be put onto academic probation, thrown out! Maybe even arrested! Everything you’ve worked so hard for will be all for nothing. It’s no wonder your parents had such a tight leash on you. You’re a wild animal!”

It’s difficult to refute him when you’ve never witnessed Namjoon lose it. Your entire mouth fills with cotton and you’re aware there’s some truth to what he’s sprouting. You only manage to scream, “that’s rude!”

“What did you tell me about my hand? You said to me that we become nothing without our hands and here you are, swinging it around recklessly! Fighting people and throwing temper tantrums is not cute, Y/N.” It’s unbelievable how he’s used your own words against you. “You’re an adult.”

You feel like you’re being lectured by your parents. But Namjoon doesn’t waver. His pupils don’t shake. You hate it even more because he’s right.

“Fine. I get it.”

//

“What are you doing here?” Their faces dim and Yoongi immediately covers her. “Go away.”

It hurts to be treated like a monster, like the evil dragon. Your once dear cousin is now treating you like a beast, protecting his princess which in reality is some chick he’s met for about a month now. It’s insulting how he threw family out the window for ‘love’. It boils your blood but perhaps you’re being a bit more dramatic than necessary.

“Are you serious?”

“Well if you’re going to start throwing around punches, then yeah.” There’s a slight tug on his lips as he presses his palm to his cheek. “You scratched up my pretty face, brat. It fucking hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re both experiencing all kinds of pains, aren’t we? But I’m not here to talk to you, dumbass.” You point your finger at the shy girl behind him. “I’m here for her. We’re going to deal with our private matters once and for all.”

He looks back at her for any sign of reluctance and she slightly pushes him away. “It’s fine.”

The two of you walk off together and Yoongi’s left beside Namjoon.

“I’m sorry.”

You spit it out without looking at her, though it’s still genuine. “I-I don’t know what to say aside from that. I’m childish, I know. You’re the concertmistress after all. I was rude and you were right about leaving private matters outside the classroom. I should have been more professional.”

“Okay.” Jennie smiles. “Apology accepted.”

You’re shocked at how easy it was. A frown mars your face. “That doesn’t mean I like you or I’m approving of…” You make a gesture wildly, “whatever you and Yoongi are doing. I still hate you very much.”

“That’s fine too.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“I’m just happy.” She merely says, looking over to the children climbing on the playground apparatuses. “I never thought you would apologize to me. So...thank you, Y/N. I appreciate it.”

You two sit down at the park bench, silence filling the spaces.

You break it with a question. “When did it start?”

The violinist reminisces. “A few days after the charity event. I called him...and yeah…”

“You’ve only been seeing him for a few weeks?”

“Yeah.” There’s suddenly an onslaught of guilt that heaves upon your shoulders. When the relationship was already delicate and new to begin with, you had tried to tear and break them apart. If Yoongi had true feelings for her, you were ruining his happiness.

“Do you like him?”

It’s a foolish inquiry but one you ask nonetheless. “Yoongi?” She hums, “I do. I don’t know if I love him….I guess time will tell. But I enjoy his company and I think he’s brilliant. I’ve listened to his recordings, Y/N. I’ve seen his composition work and it’s amazing. He makes me feel warm and I feel inspired just sitting beside him.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling.” You nod. “Are you...serious about him?”

“I am.”

You lean back, exhaling a long breath. “This is gonna be pretty cliche of me but Yoongi’s my only family. If you hurt him, I’ll probably set out my path to destroy you.”

Jennie laughs lightheartedly to your threat. “Okay. I’ll take you up on that offer.” You match her smile and as you get up, she tugs on your limb. “Friends?”

You scoff. “You wish.”

The both of you still laugh together, having made amends properly. It isn’t like high school where you’ll hold it against her, spread rumours, go out and attack her. You’re an adult now and everyone can make their own choices, bear the consequences themselves. It’s no use brooding about something out of your control.

It feels better this way. Namjoon isn’t wrong. The bright sky isn’t as unbearable anymore.

//

It’s extremely awkward between the two males. They’re standing in front of the music shop, watching people enter and listening to the ringing bell chime when the door opens. As Namjoon coughs, he apologizes and Yoongi waves him off.

“Sooo…” He draws out the syllable. “Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?”

“No!” Namjoon protests with a yelp, waving his hands. “I’m not. We’re only friends.”

“I kind of find that hard to believe.” Yoongi smirks. “Are you really just Y/N’s friend?”

“Y-Yes. There’s nothing going on between us.”

“Then….how did you do it?”

The harpist tips his head to the side, confused on what your cousin means. “Pardon?”

“I find you interesting...Kim Namjoon, is it?” The other man nods and Yoongi continues, “if I’m not mistaken then Y/N’s currently resolving her issues by her own initiative. Of all the years I’ve known her, since we were in bassinets together, I have never seen her take the first step before. So let me repeat my question-”

Yoongi’s irises twinkle in curiosity. “How did you manage to control that barbarian?”

“I..” He stutters, “I don’t really know if you can call it controlling…”

“Treat her well. She’s a lot more sensitive than she leads people to believe.” Yoongi pats Namjoon’s shoulder, looking up at him with a proud expression. His impassiveness is spoiled. “I’m glad she has someone around for her. I don’t think I’ve ever been the best influence or mentor for the kid. She’s gone through a lot as well. Try to understand.”

Namjoon quickly pushes up his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nods, making a verbal promise to.

Yoongi muses that the timid college boy who is naive and innocent is quite clever himself. The master manipulator has finally found her match and neither have realized it.

[iamnotthedog]

ST. LOUIS: FALL 1999

Once I graduated from high school, I had been reading road books and travelogues pretty much exclusively for quite a while. After I read On the Road at Jim’s place, I caught the travel bug, and read Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night, Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Bashō’s Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which came at the suggestion of Mrs. Frame, who really knew me better than just about anyone at the time. Those books all lit a fire under me, and I couldn’t wait to get out of Morrison and experience more of the world, as well as a whole new life out from under my parents’ roof.

I wanted to travel more than anything, but I was determined to go to college first, and I sort of ended up fucking that whole thing up, to be completely honest. I mean, it wasn’t bad or anything, it just isn’t what I should have been doing. I got accepted to a writing program at a private school called Webster University.1 Webster’s a nice school and all, I just say that I fucked up because of all the places in the world that I could have gone after finally getting out of Morrison, I ended up in a suburb of St. Louis, which isn’t exactly the most exciting place in the world. I mainly ended up there because I was lazy with the whole “preparing for college” thing, and I hadn’t even applied anywhere else.

All that aside, I was excited to meet some new people when I arrived at Webster for the first time—as most college freshmen are. But then my first roommate in the dorms at Webster was a total dick. His name was Brett or Brent, and he was one of the several people on my floor who had barely even put their suitcases down before they started complaining that Webster University was too small, and threatening to transfer to UMSL (“threatening,” as though any of us would actually care if they left), where they could live downtown and go to football games and frat parties and chug beer out of holes punched into the sides of cans and maybe even videotape themselves fucking somebody.

That wasn’t my scene. Sleepy Webster Groves with its narrow tree-lined streets and long-haired, grey-bearded writing professors was more up my alley. And after about a week in the dorms, I managed to find a few like-minded people to spend some time with. I met the friend I would eventually end up taking to California with me—John—and John’s roommate and lifelong companion (at least up to that point), Marc.

I was walking down the hall completely aimlessly one afternoon when I heard Bob Dylan crooning through a door that was open a crack, and I smelled incense, so I gave a little knock. John came to the door and peeped out at me with his red eyes, his long brown caveman hair and unshaven chin. He was wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt with a stretched out collar, and baggy sweatpants with a bunch of pockets on the legs. And he was barefoot. He looked at me skeptically, furrowing his brow. “Yes?” he said.

“Hey,” I said, awkwardly. “Uh...what’s going on?”

He opened the door a little wider. Marc was behind him, sitting on a futon with long red hair flowing down over his pale, shirtless torso and a fuckin’ three-foot tall glass bong in his lap. He lifted a lighter in a sort of wave.

“Nothing much,” John said. He kind of tilted his head to the side a little and looked into my eyes. He still looked skeptical.

I stuck a finger in the air in an attempt at pointing at the music playing, as people do. “Blonde on Blonde,” I said. I wasn’t exactly sure how to accomplish what I wanted to accomplish. Then I saw a couple guitars in the corner of the room, back behind Marc. “You guys play? I can play pretty much this whole album.”

That seemed to work, for whatever reason.

“C’mon in,” John said.

John and Marc lived in their own little hippie heaven there in the dorms. Their walls were plastered with tapestries and black light posters and pictures of Led Zeppelin and the Doors and Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead. They always had incense burning and music on the stereo. They would sleep to some of the weirdest shit, too. If you walked by their room late any night—say you were stoned and wandering down the hallway to hit up the vending machines for a Snickers or whatever—you could often hear some Miles Davis piping out through their door. It was the weird Miles, too. Not Kind of Blue Miles, but Bitches Brew or sometimes even On the Corner Miles. Even being a huge Miles Davis fan, as I was at the time (and still am), I couldn’t understand how anyone could actually fall asleep to On the Corner.

After I started hanging out with John and Marc, I ended up spending a hell of a lot more time in their room then my own. The amount of drugs those two smoked was comical. They would literally wake up in the morning and smoke opium. Opium! At, like, nine o’clock in the goddamned morning. Then they would go back to sleep for a couple hours, wake up, and smoke some weed to start their day.

John and Marc were great for me, though—at least at the start—because they were from St. Louis. Born and raised. They were the first people to take me out on the town and show me around. They showed me where to buy my weed—which was actually pretty hilarious, because they got all their shit from a fat black dude named Q who worked in the drive-thru of a local Steak ‘n Shake—and they took me to see shows at the local venues, and they’d drive me out to Marc’s parents house in the outer ‘burbs, which was huge.2 We’d have parties out there whenever Marc’s parents were out of town, which was actually quite a bit because they were getting ready to move down south somewhere, and were always going down there to look at property.

The thing was, though, that after a while John and Marc’s circle of high school buddies that were always hanging around started to wear on me a little—I mentioned that earlier. They had all that history together—all those inside jokes and anecdotes and all that loyalty that seems really nice at first, but really ends up making people lazy and afraid of change after a while. I started to feel like I had actually never left high school myself. So I started seeking out other circles with which to insert myself. These guys who came around to Marc and John’s room every once in a while to score some weed were pretty laid back, and they lived on the floor above us. Their names were Phil and Isaac. Phil was a California boy who had grown up in Salinas, on the Pacific coast, which prompted all of us who had never travelled west and had our ultra-idealized fantasies of California in our heads to ask him why the hell he had come to the Midwest. (His mother worked for the university and got him a really good deal on tuition, or something like that). As for Isaac, he was a classic cinephile type, born and raised in St. Louis, and he resembled the Dude from The Big Lebowski—always stoned, always in sweatpants. He even drank White Russians almost exclusively.

Anyway, I started hanging out with Phil and Isaac more, and Phil and I totally hit it off. He needed a roommate, as his previous roommate was not unlike Brett or Brent—one of those jock types who decided that he needed to drop out of Webster and go to a school with a fraternity and more “loose chicks.” So I said sayonara to Brett or Brent, and I moved into Phil’s room.

Phil was a handsome kid with a neatly trimmed goatee, a friendly smile, and a southern California sense of style. He and I started cruising around together in his tricked out BMW with black lights under the dash, flashy rims, and a lowered suspension. I was at the height of my adolescent kleptomania at the time, and when I got off work at this little deli I had been rolling burritos for, Phil would pick me up and I’d go steal us a big bottle of good liquor from the local big-box grocery store down the street, Schnucks.3 We’d bring the bottle back to the dorms and have some drinks with a joint or two before hitting up some of the other kids on the floor, seeing if they wanted to go drive around and find some shit to get into.

It was around then that I met Leah.

Leah lived right down the hallway from Phil and I, along with her friend, Lilith. Lilith and Leah were both into a lot of the same music as I was, and they were down to party pretty much whenever Phil and I were. The first time Leah came around to my room alone, I was probably listening to some Bob Marley or something cliché like that and working on a paper for one of my classes, and she came in wearing this tight tube top without a bra. She totally took me off guard.

“Hey,” she said, leaning on the doorframe in the open door. I looked at her tube top, her pale, flat stomach, then quickly caught myself, shifting my gaze up to her eyes and smiling.

“What’s going on?” I stammered. “What...uh...what are you doing?”

I had already thought Leah was cool and everything—she was hyper smart, funny, and had great taste in music and books and all that—but after that entrance—after she stood right there next to me and leaned over me and asked about my paper, with her nipples in my face and her sweet breath surrounding me—well, after that she had my attention pretty much all the time. Then one night, we were alone in her room listening to records, and she asked me to give her a massage. She slipped my hand down between her legs and put her hand between mine, and then she got me up into her bed and unbuttoned my jeans and slipped off her shorts and took my virginity. Just like that. It took all of three minutes, tops. I made some excuse that she was way too good and that my last girl had been a dead fish, but in all honesty, I had never even come close to getting laid in high school. My high school experience, as I mentioned earlier, had been nothing but one long dry hump.

So after that night, Leah and I were pretty much attached at the hip for the next few weeks. She was all I needed, really. But we weren’t even one month into our relationship before the honeymoon ended—as they do—and things got real.

It turned out that Leah was clinically depressed. She managed to hide it from me for our first few weeks together, but then she just couldn’t do it any more. It started to show itself—mostly in her retreating to her room, turning the lights off, and refusing to come out for anything.

It always happened the same way. A couple weeks into the semester, Leah had moved out of the dorms to the university apartments where kids with rich parents could afford to live. I’d go over there and Leah would turn off the television. We’d sit on her couch and smoke a bowl. I’d put a record on. She’d walk to the kitchen, right there in the same room, and put on a pot of water for tea. Then she’d come back over to me, stripping some of her clothes off, and we’d mess around a little, go into her bedroom for a while, and then take a nap or shower. Then we’d be talking and thinking about going out and finding Phil or Lilith or something and she’d turn off. Like someone pulled a plug.

And those were the good nights. On the bad nights the plug would get pulled far earlier. Sometimes before I even got over to her apartment. Sometimes I’d be walking around the black asphalt parking lot on that white cement sidewalk around those neatly trimmed bushes by the hot tub that Phil and I used to break into after hours, and I’d be all excited to see my girl, and then I’d look up at her window and see that it was dark and the shades were drawn. After a while I learned to not even try knocking when that was the case. She’d be in her huge bed with her thick white down comforter up over her head, and she wouldn’t come to the door for anyone.

On those nights, I would get so down on everything that I would avoid everyone and leave campus altogether. I’d walk for hours down Big Bend Boulevard, through Richmond Heights, and sometimes all the way through Forest Park to the Central West End—a good twelve miles round trip. I would just walk and maybe smoke some weed, and I’d think of all those travel books and all my favorite characters, and I’d think about how as soon as I just couldn’t take school anymore—as soon as I started to get bored with everything—I’d just get up and leave. I thought about how I had to do that at some point—how I had to do it while I was still young, before the university life managed to scoop up whatever was left of my spirit and funnel me into the downward spiral of some sort of career pursuit or another. What was I in school for writing for, anyway? Screw being taught an art, I wanted to turn myself into art—make myself into the project I would work on for the rest of my life.

I would think about all that while walking and seeing the city at night—piece by piece, building by building—and I loved those walks, even if the part of the city I was walking through was just boring ol’ Richmond Heights. Back on campus, though, I have to admit that I’d always walk by Leah’s place before walking back to the dorms. Sometimes her light would be on, and I’d go over there and we’d run our whole routine, just a few hours later than usual. Other times, though, she wouldn’t even come to the door. And sadly enough, thinking back on all that now that I am more than a dozen years removed from the situation, that depression is still what I remember most about Leah—the way it would consume her, over and over again.

 Webster University is named after the place in which it resides—a mellow, inner-ring suburb of St. Louis called Webster Groves. It’s got a nice campus, with lots of old buildings and trees—some nuns founded it as a Catholic women’s college in 1915 before the first male students were admitted in 1962. ↩︎

 When Marc’s parents finally sold the house, they ended up selling it to some hot shot rookie for the St. Louis Cardinals. ↩︎

 When I say I was “at the height of my adolescent kleptomania,” what I mean is that it was pretty bad right around then. I would have never stolen from an individual person, or from a mom and pop sort of store, but big box department stores and grocery chains were like all-you-can-eat buffets to me. Nothing was off limits. I actually used to go into department stores in the mall or wherever and take like five t-shirts into the dressing room, put ‘em all on, then put my own shirt on over ‘em, cover up with a jacket or a hooded sweatshirt, and walk right the fuck out. I’d never have the balls to do that sort of thing nowadays. ↩︎