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If Yoongi was sure of anything, it was his ability to produce music. The ropes that solidified his existence to him were pulled taught on the ability to knock beats and blow melodies into his pale fingertips, pencil gripped as he waved spells of lyrics and cascading notes into his worn piano keys. From the dark and musty Daegu streets hidden away from public eye, to the pulsing beat of the golden exhilaration of singing his own compositions he had so tightly held onto from his dark and painful teens, Yoongi was certain that music was his redemption and salvation.
When Yoongi had slept yet again with an empty stomach and emptier heart, he had tightened his fists, grasping on desperately to his dreams, the once twinkling silver strings he had knotted between his fingers had dulled and rusted, slipping through his weakened mind and soul, questioning his dreams, as eyes stared at the dirty ceiling of his crumbling bedroom.
And when Yoongi had entered the doors to BigHit, being asked to dance, instead of produce, another string, dulled into the ashes of gunpowder, had flown out of his grasp, tangling with the drops of rain that fell from the sky, mirroring the ones caught in his lashes, that he hid away from public eye.
When Yoongi had stood on stage for the first time, heart thumping in beats of sandy taupe and waves of pale pink, he questioned himself again, as he stared in wonder at the backstage doors, thinking of belonging rather than performing.
Being given a studio, small, cramped, over heated and dark, Yoongi had sat in the old leather chair, staring at the familiar keyboards and computer screens, hiding his shaking fists in his pockets, strings of silver dreams and hope swaying in hesitation, as Yoongi closed his eyes to think of the tunes he sung when his shoulder was crushed in an accident that had broken past his quivering resolve.
But the moment that old ashen strings had twinkled in glittering gold and rich saffron petals, was when Hoseok had smiled, clapped Yoongi on the back, and told him how proud he was of his hyung. Yoongi had been so ecstatic with the response of Hoseok; he had hugged him tight as he spoke of how much he had suffered in his young ages, struggling to eat and struggling to live.
Hoseok was known to be the bright sunshine of BTS, always having a bright outlook to any situation, with enough energy to put the sun itself to shame, but to Yoongi, who preferred to stay still and enjoy his solitude, the relationship he shared with Hoseok had changed him in ways he hadn’t even realised himself.
***
Yoongi was exhausted. After countless hours of filming for his mixtape music video, he was ready to drop to the floor and sleep for an eternity, sleeping beauty be damned. His legs ached; mouth was sore from lip-syncing again and again, even the roots of his hair hurt from the fresh bleach that had once again taken any pigment away from his hair. Despite the physical tiredness, the lethargy that dripped from his swaying steps in ocean teal, his heart swelled in blooms of emeralds and pearls, his own music video, for his own music.
Slow steps took him to the quiet dorm, arriving in the early hours of daybreak saw cracks of saffron dusted with rouged pink, velvet cream clouds and the soft birdsong peek through curtains, as he dropped his heavy backpack on wooden kitchen table, already toeing off his shoes and leading himself into his shared bedroom.
Yoongi then threw his heavy winter jacket onto the end of his bed, and was about to crawl into the encompassing warm sheets, but opened his eyes more as he saw the shock of bright orange hair resting on his pillow. Releasing a soft sigh, while clouds of pale yellow fluttered across his vision, he pulled the cotton covers up to Jimin’s chin, and silently left, closing the door to a warm wine red, as he pushed another door open, tired eyes hooded, and cheeks puffed out. Without second thought he walked over in steps of sandstone, the taste of roasted almonds strong on his tongue as he whispered “Hobi, move over”, and proceeded to lay down next to said member and push against his side. Covers drawn up tight and a warm arm thrown over his exhausted form had canary petals and sprinkles of sugar lulling him to sleep.
And if he had felt a glowing warmth in his heart when Hoseok had brushed a hand through his sore blond hair and gently whispered how proud he was of his hyung, he didn’t show it, choosing to paint yellow jades in patterns traced onto Hoseok’s arm instead.
***
The day Yoongi had released his mixtape, he had spent the night biting his fingernails and bouncing his knee as the world was exemplified in neon twirls and flashes, his heart squeezing as familiar grey strings appeared to knot around his heart, lungs, and thoughts, despite his body being a nervous ball of neon rich anxiety. Yoongi himself, was sitting in his studio, the cramped room that always smelt of stale coffee beans was the most comforting space Yoongi could know, the cracks in the walls and weakened floor boards were home, here Yoongi could be himself, here he could create, make and write stories into songs, he could be Min Yoongi, not Suga, and not Agust D.
He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around the rough material of old sweat pants, beanie pulled low, as he waited in breaths of ochre and burnt sienna, waited as his brothers, people he loved and adored listened to him spit words of his struggles and pains, despair to salvation.
Yoongi felt his mind running faster, quicker, in hypnotic sensations of fuchsia to amber, questioning if he had done the right thing, berating himself in mahogany as he remembered all the years he had waited for this moment. Mind flickered to grey dusty nights spent rapping on top of upturned trashcans underground, desperately trying to make a name for himself, if only his younger self could look where he was now, and look where he would go.
His ramblings and thoughts were brought to a screeching steel halt, with a loud, frantic series of knocks from the doors. Cascading torrents of spilled rainbows splattered into gravel, rough and solid, as Yoongi gently unfolded himself and took shaky steps to the door, taking a shuddering breath as he opened to door slowly, and was nearly tackled to the ground as the person launched himself at Yoongi, arms tightening across his back, as he was wrapped into a tight embrace, his head pushing into the latters shoulder, as he breathed in and looked at Hoseok.
“Hyung, you did it… hyung, you did it!” repeated Hoseok, as he pressed himself tighter against Yoongi, his voice breaking into a whisper as he rocked him.
Yoongi felt his eyes dampen, breath knocked out of him as warmth filled his fingertips and crept into his chest. Strong webs of sunflower petals breezed into fields of sun loved tulips and sepia toned leaves. The taste of his mothers lemon cough drops coated his teeth as tears stained his eyes and rolled onto Hoseok’s age softened shirt.
“Did what Hobi?” replied Yoongi, his lips catching on the sunflower filter the world had become drenched in.
Hoseok pulled away slightly, Yoongi held tighter, not wanting to let go of his warmth, a smile dusting Hoseok’s lips, as he looked down at his hyung, and he shook his head in a loving manner, one that spoke of acceptance, and pain, not knowing how much Yoongi had struggled with his dream and struggled with himself.
“Min Yoongi, producer, rapper… survivor” Hoseok replied, pulling Yoongi against himself once more, pretending he didn’t feel the quivering sobs that Yoongi tried so hard to silence.
***
Yoongi had decided, that out of all his teammates, Hoseok was the best at hugs, and the warmest out of them all. Even when dance practise left the seven of them a sweltering mess of panting breaths and sweaty skin.
But today, not even hugs from his best friend could tease away the tiredness that bled deep into Yoongi's bones, instead he leant on the mirrored wall, slow waves of pinecone and sycamore bark, tangling roughly in lethargic blooms of aged clay pieces. Yoongi was just so tired.
His bones bled ice, fingertips tingled, eyes too tired to remain focused. Tiredness was weakness. It allowed thoughts to loosen, puddles of colour to drench Yoongi’s feet, as his mind floated in tandem with the soft clouds outside. Tiredness, indeed, was an enemy. Yoongi liked control. Control over his life, his decisions, and himself, so when azure sprays of exhaustion painted his irises brightly, he scowled as he scrambled to find something more calming.
Legs buckled gently, as Yoongi hit the floor with a soft thud, a break would do him good, and he rest his head on bent knees, thick swirls of roasted hazel nut slowing his thoughts as music filled his sore ears yet again.
With a defeated navy shrug, he looked up to see if he could salvage another few, precious minutes of a break, but soon found twinkles of ripe autumn leaves brushing trails of stardust into his vision, butterscotch smiles and drops of rum flooding his senses. Hoseok moved so, so smoothly, his arms bursting with ripe swells of papaya, feet hitting in beats of mango, and rhythm pounding with a sharp lemon staccato beat.
This, Yoongi thought, was pure passion, intense, rapturous, and unstoppable. Lashes of saffron fire painted skies with sunset gold, raw flecks of precious citrine, unbreakable and shimmering danced in the wildfire, as petals of orchids and marigolds joined the hurricane, blinding, and seeking, with splatters of pineapple crunching on his teeth. This was Hoseok, a fiery storm of utter devotion and adoration, his art a form of his own, his beauty a tornado of sunset skies and glittering eyes.
And Yoongi felt the warm taste of excitement running through his veins in starlight sparks, as inspiration burst supernovas into tired eyes once again.
“Hoseok” Yoongi whispered, as another star erupted from the sun once again.
***