Work Text:
yoongi writes texts and all of them are about one-and-only. ink on his hands formates constellations (they look like stigmas of guilt after infringement — he is not yours, don't touch him, don't even breath on him).
yoongi has draughts between his ribs — they thoroughly blow everything out to leave nothing but emptiness inside.
like he still has something to blow out.
yoongi fills this emptiness with smoke (sometimes not only with cigarette's), lets the draughts inside of him play catch-up. yoongi is a commonplace and his eternal aesthetics are moodboards which are created only with cold-dark hues.
everything is well-trodden/forgotten/groundlessly lost — wasted, to be more specific.
yoongi grins, forces the stump into his notebook, burns out the lines about what burns him out.
yoongi has dust on his piano, dust inside of him, ashes fall right on his black jeans. he wishes he could flick it away but he manages only to rub it in.
he has the exact thing with taehyung and that drives him crazy. it doesn't even make him want to yawl now, only whine (with nothing but his eyes, not to let a noise out) on a frequency that only he knows. so taehyung could neither ever listen to it nor. yoongi expunges 'nor' because he has only one way out of this, and knowing his luck he can't hope for more.
taehyung sleeps on hoseok's laps while the other one is so tired after the rehearsal, barely capable to make a move, tries to put a blanket over taehyung's shoulders. he tumbles because hoseok has trained and rough legs and his knees are so sharp they cause bruises (on taehyung's cheekbones and on hoseok's skin itself).
yoongi writes-writes-writes; all he has in his notebooks are full trash can of thoughts and unfulfilled purple.
hoseok is back-hugging him, tries to support because he knows. he knows too much, he sees too much, hoseok himself is just too much. yoongi wishes he didn't know him but glad he does. that's why yoongi leans to his chest letting warm lips touch a skin behind his ear.
hoseok is too nuclear, too real and vivid, he is wide open and doesn't care about a single shit, he becomes stronger each day. yoongi is slightly delighted with him but. hoseok says:
"let's go sleep, yoongi."
he bites his lobe and lets him go — takes a step away.
yoongi is falling (metaphorically) and crushes (for real). yoongi cuts himself with his own lines and suffocating sincerity, it is everywhere, it leaves a bitter taste and. hoseok catches his hand and shut down his notebook.
"it's enough of fucking ups today."
hoseok knows that yoongi for taehyung — falls/would do anything, he simply crushes on his walls. hoseok knows that yoongi is better to ruin himself that let himself —. hoseok is fed up with all this drama, he doesn't like when everything is vague and makes him nervous, he likes stability. even if it's all cuts and thrusts, even if it breaks in the end, he just. hoseok hates all those cuntsufferings. yoongi has a crush on them (and they are crushing him, pushing him through the road of his non-presence, ripping him apart).
yoongi spits out — blood and lungs — flavor of ashes from his tongue, grins. taehyung on the couch is really fragile and breakable, it's like he is seeking for somebody to break him, but it's really scary for yoongi — to break down after him (or instead of him). hoseok pulls him to himself and forces against his chest.
"he is not yours, let him be."
all the hoseok's truths are simple in the extreme, they make yoongi want to yawn and puke but they are not in the penny dreadful (even if yoongi love cuntsufferings). yoongi looks at hoseok but all he can see are steel and toxic agents. because hoseok is simple in the extreme and so fucking wide open it even scares. yoongi asks:
"and you?"
hoseok looks at him peacefully, he is dead calm inside and has no worries. he deals with solutions, not dramas.
"and I."
and I'm not yours.
and he's not mine.
and we don't belong to anyone.
so why the fuck should we care?
yoongi nods, darts at taehyung one more — never-the-last-one — sight and then brings hoseok to sleep by himself.
on his hands, yoongi has constellations of his own absolutely stupid crush which he'd better forget but. it's like the draughts between his ribs. it's like ashes onto his jeans. it's like he pulls into hoseok's chest all over again.
because hoseok likes when everything is compartmentalized even if it resembles some kind of shit more than a proper construction. hoseok is dead calm inside and has metal in the depth of his pupils.
yoongi throws still not extinguished stump through the window — to be a falling star for someone's head (to let someone make a wish). hoseok has warm hands, taehyung has sharp shoulders and yoongi.
and all yoongi has are cuntsufferings, countless fucked ups, a scattering of ink constellations on his skin and the draughts that can't be kicked away.