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Min Yoongi has never believed in fate. He’s never bothered to waste his time in thinking about whatever higher powers lies beyond the sky and he frankly doesn’t give a shit. What’s the point in believing in a God who is supposedly merciless when he’s the cruelest thing to happen to mankind ever. So, no, Yoongi has never given himself the time of day to stop and thank God, or whoever is upstairs, for the things he’s gotten in life, the accomplishments he achieved, and definitely not when he had Jeon Jungkook wrapped in his arms. He’s never once sent a small thank you.
That’s probably that exact reason why things have happened the way they have.
His eyes are focused ahead, as though he’s actually seeing the mess around him, blank and red rimmed and honestly not even focused on anything in particular. The skin of his cheeks feel stretched and cracking under the dryness of tears he’s long since stop shedding. It’s pathetic how, even after three months, he can’t pull himself together enough to finish dressing without the thought of the younger boy popping up or a memory resurfacing.
He couldn’t help it, not when his eyes had landed on the suit that had been hanging up next to his own. The tie, a red and black floral patterned, ( something he knew Jungkook would have loved despite his hatred of suits and ties ) draped next to his own striped one. He gotten matching colors for the two of them when Jungkook told him to just get whatever because he didn’t know what was ‘professional’ and ‘ I don’t want to make you look stupid when you conduct, hyung ’. Needless to say, Jungkook had loved it and he had received a night full of kisses and thanks.
He remembers how the morning after, Jungkook had woken him up by leaning onto his chest and used his arm to jostle the older a little. He’d lifted an eyebrow in his sleep, gentle shaking the other’s arm off as he hummed.
“Hyung, wake up, I’m hungry.” It had taken all of Yoongi’s willpower not to roll his eyes despite them being closed. Instead, he let his eyes flutter open momentarily to eye at the younger boy. His heart had thumped sharply against his ribcage at the sight that greeted him, the air in his lungs frozen in his throat as he took Jungkook in. He’d always been a sight, pouting or smiling, but Yoongi felt that mornings waking up next to the boy would have been his favorite.
His hair stuck up in odd angles, a mess of fluff that couldn’t be contained unless Jungkook went and wet the strands. His eyes, though not riddled with sleep this time, large and almost doe like, his irises a deep brown that Yoongi swore was the prettiest shade of brown ever ( or maybe he was just highly in love, he honestly didn’t care ), and lips so pink and plush–– he just considers himself lucky to be the one to feel them against his own.
Yoongi remembers how Jungkook had pointed out he was staring again, that he was definitely an old ahjussi and how he had wrapped his arm around the other’s neck with a small ‘aish, this kid!’ before pulling over his body to ruffle at the bird’s nest that was his hair. The laughter that spilled from Jungkook’s lips was enough to wake him up that morning.
They had spent the morning lounging in bed; something of a lazy morning that they both had been looking forward to. He still remembers how hours after have laid ther, Jungkook requesting for Yoongi to show him how to conduct despite the boy having literally no interest in ever conducting.
( “You said that you hate wearing suits and now you want to conduct?”
“I hate the suits, hyung, not the music. Plus you look super hot in a suit, so I’ll just leave that to you.”
“Yah! Do you want me to push you out of this bed? Stop being dirty.”
“I literally said that word ‘hot’ and you think it’s dirty? You really are an old man.”
Jungkook had ended up on the floor, tinkling laughter slipping from his lips the whole way to the floor. )
Thinking back on it now, Yoongi can still feel the way he had settled up behind the other, guiding his arms into position, showing him how to move his wrists in certain little ways, and how gentle he needed to be, yet firm. He had even showed him how to bounce his arms abd certain ways to conduct before he had called it good and let his arms slip around the other slender waist and peppered his back with opened mouth kisses.
Yoongi lets his eyes slide to the bed, a dull ache blooming in his chest at the sight of unkempt sheets and the echoing sound of tinkling laughter.
He needs to leave. Now.
He’s not sure how but he manages to push himself to his feet, as shaky as he is, and drags in an even shakier breathe as he pushes his way out of the room. He’s not worried about his suit being dirty from the ground, can’t bring himself to care about it, and makes his way to the hallway and towards the front door. He’s in no state to be driving, he knows, but he needs to get to the concert hall and Yoongi isn’t in the particular mood to call Seokjin for a ride and have the other’s eyes trained on him in concern.
He’s old enough to take care of his fucking self and it’s been three months since he’s lost Jungkook and he’s not a fucking child that needs to be cared for. At least, that’s what he tells them all, what he puts off, but even saying that he knows that his friends will still worry because he lost Jungkook and just even remembering that has his knees wanting to buckle and fall to the floor to fall apart again.
Instead, he grabs the keys and heads to the car, getting in and taking off to the concert hall. He doesn’t pay much attention to anything on the drive there, can’t focus in all honesty on anything but getting to his destination. It’s silent on his drive, because Yoongi can’t be bothered to mess with the radio. That had always been Jungkook’s job. That or singing if there was nothing good on. His tongue would have stuck out from his lips as he tried to find the perfect song. It would have taken him forever to settle on one and it would irritate him to no end, causing Yoongi to just shut if off and request for the other to sing something. Jungkook would get so flustered, a soft dusting of pink over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, it was a huge distraction for Yoongi when he drove, but his boy would do it and Yoongi would fall in love with the boy all over again.
The memory makes his heart ache again, eyes burning with tears he thought he’d used all up, and Yoongi’s grateful that he pulls up into the parking lot at the moment. He turns the car off and just sits in the seat for a moment. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to breathe and it’s painful to remove himself from the vehicle and head towards the back entrance instead of to the other side of the car and open the door for Jungkook.
It’s a habit he knows he’ll have to break and the reminder is another stab to his chest.
When the door opens, Yoongi is greeted by a flurry of his friends and staff in a panic to get him set up and force a baton in his fingers. It weighs his hand and for a split second he wants to turn around and walk right back out into the cool night air and forget about this all. But he thinks of how Jungkook would scold him for being dumb, tell him that he’s dreamed of conducting something like this forever, and probably be disappointed in him. It’s probably the only reason Yoongi hasn’t walked out.
Taehyung is the one who senses his mood ( he must because he’s ushering everyone to hurry to their seats and telling staff to go set things up ) before he turns to the other with knowing eyes, a gentle hand coming to rest on the older’s arm.
“Hyung, your eyes are red,” he points out and Yoongi just hums, not trusting his voice to not crack. Apparently it’s not the right thing to do because the younger gives his arm a squeeze and pulls him into a hug.
“You know Jungkook would be so happy for you, right? He’d be so proud that an ahjussi like you can still lift your arms past your shoulders.” It’s a poor attempt at humor, at lightening the mood, and Yoongi appreciates the effort but the mention of Jungkook has him slumping slightly and patting at Taehyung’s shoulder.
“Thanks, Tae, but I just want to be alone before I go up. Please.” He doesn’t beg, normally, but Yoongi doesn’t want to fight with the younger about this and he knows that word will get him to leave. And it does. Taehyung nods, understanding swimming clear in his eyes, and he leaves with a soft ‘good luck, hyung’ and Yoongi is alone again. Alone, alone, alone–– something he’s felt ever since he opened the door to a policeman with a look of apology splattered across his features.
Since the words, “ Are you Min Yoongi? We’re sorry, but we’re here to inform you there’s been an accident.”
He was making dinner that night, a recipe he’d stolen from Seokjin, when the knocking had pulled him away from the task at hand and towards the front door. The flashing lights should have been an enough indicator of who was outside, but he still pulled the door open to the officer, confusion settling upon his face after they had asked him if he was, indeed, Yoongi. It was that night that everything had come crashing down to a deafening silence and he had broken down inside.
“We’re sorry to inform you that Jeon Jungkook has been in an accident.”
No, no, no, God please no. His fingers had gripped at the doorknob, knuckles a shiny white from the force he held it.
“He was hit by a car and… And he didn’t make it, Mr. Min. We’re sorry for your loss, sir.”
It was a blur after those words, he knows that, because he doesn’t remember anything specific, except changing up the symphony he wrote and handed it back to the concert hall for the change only a month after the night.
He doesn’t know how it sounds, if he’s going to be completely honest. He can’t bring himself to listen to the instruments closely enough to figure out whether the song is perfect.
( “It’s beautiful, Yoongi-hyung,” Namjoon tells him after he stopped by one practice to see how it was going.
“It’s sad, though. I can’t place my finger on it exactly, but it sounds hopeful, but… Sad.”
Yoongi nods, because, well, it probably does. )
He shakes all the memories away when a staff member comes over and ushers him to the stage, whispers that they’re going to pull the curtain back in five so he needs to get ready.
Yoongi pushes down a wave of sadness when the thought that Jungkook won’t be in the audience washes over him and strides over to the small conductor's podium and settles atop it. His eyes glance over the orchestra, takes in their forms and the way they ready their instruments. The baton still weighs heavily in his fingers and he tightens his grip on it, the soft sound of curtain being pulled back making it’s way to his ears.
He knows it’s time to start, and gives a small signal with his free hand for the piano to start, and the man plays the few notes to begin.
It's a constant, numbing silence ringing in his ears even as the violins begin to play and the piano keys are pressed in time with the tempo once more . The cellos are starting up, he can see from the corner of his eyes as his hand raises the baton. The music is building with the raise, he knows because he wrote the damn crescendo; the drums are pitter-pattering and building, building, building––
His hand dips dangerously quick and everything comes to a numbing silence again. How fitting, he thinks, that life is cut off just as quick.
He gets lost in conducting the piece, has a certain faith that even while performing the orchestra won’t mess up ( they haven’t yet ) and directs them with ease. It doesn’t make his heart stop thrumming in pain, or the way his eyes glaze with unshed tears. Conducting and composing doesn’t give him an escape, not close, but it does give him a way to express things he knows he can’t fully do.
His hands falls once more, the final chord, before everything comes to a halt, silence ringing across the whole room for 1, 2, 3 seconds before he hears the faint roaring applause from the audience ( so soft in his ears it’s almost like he’s too far away to really hear). He waits for the players to stand, watches as they set their instruments down or hold them close with care, before he lets himself turn, ready to bow with them.
Yoongi expects to see smiling faces, people standing with their hands coming together rapidly to clap for the song. He’s expecting to hear whistling and see the smiling faces of his friends cheering for him in their ridiculous suits and ties. He’s expecting to see a lot of things, to finally hear a lot of things.
He’s not expecting to see the area empty, Jungkook in the middle with a tear slipping down his cheek as his hands clap softly. His lips are pulled in the faintest smile and Yoongi swears he sees his boy mouth ‘ I’m so proud of you ’ to him.
He blinks.
Jungkook is gone, replaced with a crowded audience still looking like they’re roaring with whistles and applause. It leaves Yoongi disoriented for a split second. He knows it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but the trick was welcomed, and Yoongi feels something unwind from his chest a little and he knows that things will get better. Maybe not now, or even in a few months, but they will.
He knows because he can finally hear the audience around him.