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The night before the concert, Min Yoongi has a dream.
About himself.
This surprises him, becase he's never considered himself particularly narcissistic – in fact, he's quite the opposite. Being too hard on himself seemed like something that was a given; the idol industry never allowed much room for error. He's seen the articles. He's seen the comments on the videos, saying that Bangtan would have been better off without him.
Once in a while, when he had one of his spells, he'd allow himself to think so, and it would almost break him.
It would come so, so close. He would sit, alone, as he usually would, and sometimes there would be tears – silent tears, because he didn't like being fussed over, and he could always count on Jin-hyung to fuss.
He could always count on Jimin to be there with a handkerchief and a shoulder to lean on, and even cry into. He'd only ever done that once, and when he tried, fumblingly, in his own Yoongi way, to thank the younger, Jimin had only smiled and waved him off.
He could always count on Taehyung to be there with a special Taehyung-edition hug, and a marvellous rectangle smile that would warm the inner part of his chest. The first time he'd met Taehyung doing his Taehyung thing, he'd thought the boy crazy. And he was, and he loved it.
He could always count on Hoseok to sit by him on the curb of the street at the strangest hours of the night for however long it took for him to look up and see the roses, and forgive the thorns. Without talking, of course, because when the stars came out, there was no need for words.
He could always count on Namjoon to pull him, by the hand, into his studio next door to Yoongi's, and lecture him about not taking care of himself properly and not relying on the others more – as if he wasn't already – and then he'd give, and he'd wrap the older in a hug and cry for him.
He could always count on Jungkook to lend him an ear, and an earphone, and play his favourite music until they fell asleep together on the floor of his studio. And then they'd wake up, stiff and unbending, and then they'd all eat breakfast together, like they had for the past three years.
But most of the time, there would be no tears. Just an empty, hollow feeling of helplessness.
Those times, he would stumble to the bathroom like a boneless, demented ghost, and he'd look at himself in the mirror and he would tell himself that he was Yoongi, My name is Min Yoongi. I am twenty-four years old. I lived in Daegu with my parents when I was a boy. My name is Min Yoongi. I am Min Suga.
The person in the mirror never really felt like him, though. White skin. Bleached platinum-blonde hair, made frail from too many years of hair-dye. Dark, sleepy, half-lidded eyes. Dry, chapped lips. A sharp jawline and a sharp tongue to match. A lanky body that was, all things considered, just an extension of his hair – sickly, decaying, worn from years upon years of traversing a mountain with no peak.
And so he knows that the black-haired, white-skinned boy standing opposite him, looking out of the window with eyes that look like smoke-filled corridors, is Min Yoongi.
The first thing he notices is that they're – he's? – in a corridor; a dark one, with shadows crimping and flexing in the corners of his eyes.
The second thing he notices is that he's been in this corridor before.
"Who are you?"
Yoongi finds himself standing beside himself, pale hands resting gently on the windowsill. The window offers no spectacular view. The sky is grey, the sun is white and everything else is outlined in murky blackness that eats at the meagre light cast by the great searing circle in the sky.
The boy turns to stare at him, and the look in his eyes – inky nothingness and broken windows and nights spent alone, lying on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor – makes Yoongi shiver.
This was me.
"I'm Min Yoongi," says the boy.
Yoongi's eyes curve upwards, but he doesn't smile.
"My name's Min Yoongi too."
The boy's lids flutter momentarily, like the soft twinkle of the hairs on a butterfly's wings, and then he starts to walk away. He does it so suddenly that Yoongi doesn't realise he's gone until he's on the other end of the corridor.
Yoongi follows him.
"You seem like a fun person," says the boy, hands stiff at his sides. "I hate fun people."
Yoongi stops a pace behind him, hands in pockets. "Yeah. I know."
And he does. He really does.
"And I hate people in cliques."
"Because it feels like they're inadvertently rejecting you."
"And I hate break time."
"Because nobody ever sits with you, and it feels like you're so alone."
"And I hate doing the same thing over and over again, every day."
"Because it feels like you're achieving nothing, and maybe your parents are right and you aren't cut out for music."
"And I hate doing promotions."
"Because it feels like you're doing something worthless. You feel like you're dragging them down, and they're never going to make it big with you around."
"I hate the managers, too. They always make me do group work with the other trainees."
"I know. It makes you feel out of place. And you especially hated the fansign events, because nobody really knew you, right?"
"They don't know who I am. They don't know what I'd done to get there. They don't appreciate me. They only like me for my looks. I hate seeing the other trainees, too. They're always better than me at everything."
"I know," Yoongi says. "I know."
Like all those other times, there are no tears. Just him, and himself, and the past that he'd never really had the courage to talk about.
"Looking back on it, there wasn't anything that you didn't hate. And you used to think all the time that it would be better if everyone else just disappeared."
The boy still has his back turned to him. Yoongi wishes he could see his face, but he knows, at the same time, that there'd be nothing there. He'd grab his shoulders, tear away the skin. See the mask beneath the mask, and another beneath that one. It'd go on forever, if the boy wanted it to.
"Nobody needs me."
Yoongi closes his eyes. Doesn't breathe, because there's no breathing where there's no air.
He knows what's coming next.
It had been there too, during the darker hours of the night. The crowds of faceless people, blurs of motion with great, gaping holes for eyes, looking and yet not looking at the same time, for how could one see with no light?
"Can I just die?"
Yoongi smiles. Gently, because he remembers how much it hurt to see others smile.
Gently, because that's what usually happened when he was left alone with his demons.
"No," Yoongi says, leaning against the wall, bumping the side of his head against the window. "I don't think you should do that."
The boy, Yoongi realises, is wearing a black shirt. A black shirt and a black sweater and a pair of black pants that reaches far past his ankles. His eyes are also black, but now, but now, Yoongi can see something in those eyes. He's not sure what it is, but it's somewhat gratifying, and so he listens, and he waits, because there's only one way he could ever let this end.
"Why not? They'd be better off without me. I'm just a hindrance, right?"
Yoongi moves forward and wraps the boy in a hug. He knows how much he hated people, and contact, but he does it anyway, because there's nothing else he can do. The boy stiffens, and Yoongi can feel him trying not to shout and push him away and run until the soles of his feet began to cry their crimson tears.
Red smiles making up for the smiles that he'd never smiled.
"You might not have anyone right now. In fact, I know you don't. You're Min Yoongi, and you're so alone that sometimes hurting yourself feels better than falling asleep without dreaming."
"You're always comparing yourself. You're always looking down on yourself because your songs never make sense and your dancing is barely up to par and you can never say what you want because there's always someone else who deserves it more. You're just yourself, and you can't help that."
"But very soon, you'll make six new friends. They're all annoying, and loud, and sometimes you wish they'd shut the fuck up, but then you'll begin to realise that maybe the dawn right before the sun rises is the darkest, and the sun's just beginning to clear the horizon."
"One of them will be there all the time, fussing like the goddamn mother hen he is. All the time, nagging and cooking and cleaning. You'll find him annoying, at first. Then you'll find that he can't dance, but boy can he sing, and he's so genuine that sometimes it'll make you feel like you don't quite deserve to know such a pure person. But you do. You do, because suffering is redemptive and there's so much more ahead of you that you can't even begin to fucking imagine."
"One of them will be a little bit like you. He smiles all the time, but then he'll go back to his room and he'll wonder why he's even there when he's surrounded by so many incredible people. He'll stop eating, because he thinks he's ugly. Sometimes, he'll stop smiling, and those days are the worst. But he'll cry, and you're going to be there to pick up his pieces, and to pick up your own. And it'll be so fucking worth it, because you love it when he smiles."
"One of them is just outright crazy. His voice is amazing and his smile is amazing and he's amazing, but his rap... well, we don't talk about it. Everybody loves him, and one day, you're going to look at him and you're going to realise that your heart always had that little bit more space for love. Sometimes, his light shutters off. Sometimes, it's just not there, and you'll know and you'll take his place, smiling until he finds his own smile again. It'll take time. Be patient."
"One of them is everything you're not. He's cheerful, and energetic, and so fucking good at dancing that sometimes you do feel inadequate, you do feel like you're the only outlier. But all you have to do is ask, and he won't hesitate to stay up with you, practising and practising and practising until you're both lying on the floor of the practice room, gasping for air. Just ask. Asking for help doesn't make you weak. It makes you so, so strong."
"One of them is an idiot. He's an idiot, but he thinks like you, and he's the best fucking leader you could ever wish for. He raps like you. He sings like you. He dances like you, which is probably not a good thing, but you'll improve. He'll sit in his studio next door to yours and he'll complain about how loud you're playing your music. But he knows it's the only way you can deal with the demons when they come out at night, and he'll let you play your goddamn music."
"One of them is a genius. He's a genius. He's young. He can sing. He can rap. He can dance. Sometimes he looks like a fucking Calvin Klein model. He's a superhuman, and everyone will adore him. But he's also just a boy. He's just a boy playing make-believe, and when he comes to you, you'll listen. You'll listen to him. You'll understand that perfect people aren't real, and real people sure aren't fucking perfect."
"Look, I'm not even sure why, but people will learn to love you despite who you are, even if you're an asshole ninety percent of the time, and you're gloomy, and you're never honest."
The boy is crying. He's crying too, and the tears feel like the first breath of air after a lifetime of being underwater.
"You'll see," Yoongi whispers, tilting his head up to stop the tears from spilling over his eyelids.
"I fucking hate crying. What the fuck."
The boy smiles. He smiles. The tears taste so salty and so real.
"I know."
"What the actual fuck."
"Can you promise me?"
Yoongi smiles.
"They'll come. I promise."
The boy closes his eyes and bites down on his lip to stop the tears that are already rolling down his face.
"If that's true, then I..."
The morning before the concert, Min Yoongi wakes up with tears on his face and a dream on his mind.
Because the dawn right before the sun rises is the darkest,
Even in the far future, never forget the you of right now.
When the dark night passes, a bright morning will come.
When tomorrow comes, the bright light will shine.
So don't worry.
BTS - Tomorrow