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It’s three am and Yoongi’s thinking about Hoseok once again.
The atmosphere is strangely comforting, familiar. Faded noises of a once bustling, now serenely tranquil city stream through the thin curtain that sways slightly as the breeze catches it. It’s strangely silent, save for the drizzle of raindrops that collect against his window, and the metallic whirring of the fan beside his bed.
It’s unbearably warm in Seoul now, and it seems to get worse at night when there are no distractions to pull away from the onslaught of impossible heat, to simply forget about the discomfort every movement causes.
Still, the fan raises goosebumps against his skin at every pass across the room, even as he sweats against the silk of his bedsheets. There’s something about the tranquil rawness of the night that forces you to remember. The reality that there’s nobody around to put on a facade for, to distract from the harrowing difficulty that is accepting simple truths. The night gives you no choice but to reckon with your demons.
Yoongi knows. As of the past few weeks, staring up into blank space at stupid hours of the morning while nursing nostalgic thoughts of an ill fated relationship that could never be has slowly worked it’s way into Yoongi’s daily routine.
A relationship that could never be, will never be, because Yoongi wouldn’t let it be.
Couldn’t let it be.
Can’t let it be.
It’s addictive, scrolling through frozen pictures of warmer times, watching their smiles grow impossibly larger as the slideshow flickers under the light of his eyes and knowing it’s a past he can’t relive. Yoongi thinks he’s developed a twisted addiction to the hopelessness that strikes whenever he sees his face. Otherwise, why would he knowingly feed the clutter of jumbled, sore memories. Wasted space.
Yoongi only ever thinks about Hoseok at times like these, if he isn’t already occupied with the accompanying invasive feelings of helplessness at his own incompetence for letting a good thing skip between his fingertips.
Losing Hoseok slowly replaced the childish happiness, contente, with a dull feeling in his chest that's not quite sadness, but leaves him damaged all the same. He thinks about how it's always there, buried in his heart. Yoongi thinks a lot.
He thinks about his cowardice, his overwhelming fear that ambushes any glimmer of hope in his life. The insecurities that dash any promise of slight happiness, because who would want Yoongi, the empty shell he’s slowly becoming, the way he says the wrong thing at the wrong time and upsets everyone. The way he just leaves.
A thought worms it’s way into Yoongi’s mind, and his fingers itch with the urge to contact him, to hear his voice.
But he’s way too sober to call Hoseok, to feel the calloused ridges that line his fingertips, to see the way his soft smiles extend into half moons in his eyes, to relish in the warmth, security in his embrace. He wants to relish in his ethereal beauty, to relinquish in the way Hoseok knows his body so well, how he knows exactly where to press to make him shake in pleasure, exactly what he needs, how to take care of him. He wants it all, and it’s just barely in reach.
But he just can’t.
He doesn’t love himself enough to blindly commit to a lifetime of loving somebody else. Hoseok would probably blame his parents for his festering internalised self-hatred, but Yoongi doesn’t need anyone else to cast shame on.
Not when he could have been blameless himself.
He could have been normal.
He could have loved any other person on the planet, could’ve fallen for soft curves instead of hard lines and lean muscles, hair that sways elegantly in the breeze instead of unruly, short, black waves.
He didn’t have to fall for a voice so deep it sent shivers down his spine, whether it was whispering sweet nothings during lazy, early mornings, or dirty praises at ungodly hours. He didn’t have to fall for stupid jokes and bright smiles, for blind consideration even when Yoongi was forcing them to hide, to crumble.
Familiar opening notes trickle out of his phone, and he grips it tighter as he’s overcome by emotion. It’s a slow song, packed with sharp words and hard hitting beats, a complete juxtaposition. Meaningful lyrics worked by his own voice, as the emotional background plays out. Hoseok’s style.
He shouldn’t send it, it’d be dumb to send it, to uncover the hourlong, years long cesspool if hopeless love that he’d poured out into three short minutes, when he’s already forced himself through the sheer agony of pushing the only person he’s ever grown to love away for no reason but to preserve himself. It’s a backwards step, but he just can’t help himself.
The seen indicator lights up just as Yoongi prepares himself for another night of self loathing, of realising that he deserves the lack of response he’s always met with, that he’s alone entirely due to his own conduct. He turns over, ignoring the tear that steadily runs a delicate path down the side of his face.
Yoongi can’t turn off the voices in his head, but maybe he isn’t meant to.