Work Text:
Effect and affect are two different things that people often confuse. Effect is an influence. Affect is something that has been influenced.
Min Yoongi’s life has been greatly affected by a guy he met when he was on his last year of high school.
On a normal day, a person interrupting Ms. Kang’s class would be absolutely uninteresting. But that day was different. Because this kid with long hair and messed up uniform walked so rudely into the class—so loud, so bright, so charismatic, so him—claiming to be a new student and, without even waiting to be corrected of his mistake, he proceed to talk about how the city was so big. Between the amusing story he was telling of how he loved to take care of his grandmother’s chickens on the farm he used to love, on the outskirts of some city that Yoongi didn’t care about, the kid realizes he didn’t tell them his name.
Kim Taehyung, from that day on, has been Yoongi’s rollercoaster ride buddy.
Even the snarky voice of one of Yoongi’s classmates, poking fun at him and telling him to scram, this is not kindergarten, didn’t bring his mood down. Taehyung just pouted and frowned, looked at the teacher—she gave him a solemn nod and a small shrug of shoulders, probably biting back the string of scolds she wanted to let go of—and he just said, “Oh, well. At least you all know me now,” and walked out of the classroom, with a particular bounce on his step and this bright blue backpack strapped on his shoulders.
Later, Yoongi couldn’t forget the way he so proudly talked about his cows and horses and this field of watermelons, in front of all these city kids that probably had a better life than him (not on Yoongi’s side, that’s for sure, but the others.)
He would never regret approaching the younger kid on recess. Apparently, he was only a few years below him—two, to be exact—and shared the same free hours as his senior class. Yoongi would never regret tapping his shoulder, smiling at him—something rare—and telling him his name with the thought that maybe he could call him hyung, and then asked to hear more of his farm-life stories.
And that was the untangling process of a chain made of lucky strikes and happy moments filling his dull and, admittedly, quite sad life.
To this day—four years later, with Yoongi standing on his twenty two years of life and Taehyung barely grazing the twenty—he remembers all the things Taehyung told him back them. He remembers everything Taehyung tells him. Yoongi thinks his interesting and cute stories help drowning the terrifying and lonely moments that he seems to be destined to.
Often, Yoongi wonders if Taehyung might see it unfair. Unfair because Taehyung has told him about all his life stories (the nice ones, to bad ones, the sad ones—everything that there ever was to know, Yoongi stores in a place on his mind), and Yoongi just keeps everything locked up behind his lips and buried deep in his throat. Unfair because Taehyung trusts him enough to let him know that he likes both boys and girls—which is something that not even his grandparents know about—and Yoongi hasn’t even told him that his favorite color is green.
But Taehyung never pushes. Not even back then, when a hyper sixteen year old Taehyung talked to him for the first time and questioned the reason why his backpack was all patched up and almost empty if it weren’t for the single notebook and lonely pencil thrown in it, only to get a shrug and a I don’t really know as a response. Not even when Taehyung wondered why he always walked back home, and why he couldn’t give him his phone number (“It doesn’t matter if you don’t have a cellphone, it’s just that my dad bought me my first cellphone and I’m kinda giddy. You can just give me your home’s,” “Maybe some other day, Tae,” And that day never did come.)
He couldn’t just tell him that his house was a mess, from the corner of the first block to the backdoor that directed to the backyard. Everything was destroyed. There were always broken glasses and the echoes of unresolved fights resonating against the walls. Bad memories splattered on the wine tainted carpet and questionable decisions buried deep beneath the cushions of the dusty sofa, muted by the buzzing of the television. He couldn’t just tell him that his house was not a home, but more of a battlefield. A battlefield where bad men always won, because they had throaty laughs and loaded guns, and threw threats at a nonexistent family that might as well just be dead, and the only refuge Yoongi could find was in the back of a wood closet and a pair of hands pressed against his ears.
Because his father’s choices had certain effect on Yoongi’s growth and the way their family turned out. Because the first time his father came back home—it was still considered a home—reeking of tobacco and gun powder, his loving wife didn’t question him and just kissed his cheeks, the tip of his nose, the middle of his forehead, and the both of them went to check on his beautiful, soundly sleeping, son somewhere around two in the morning. Because the last time his mother ever said “I love you” was to him, and never did she speak to anyone again. Because her body was still there, but her mind was buried deep within her husband’s pocket, where he hid his gun. Because, later, he had to attend to the funeral of the woman that loved him at last, and had to accept the heavy weight of his father’s hands on both his shoulders.
“It’s not my fault, Yoongi. You know it isn’t.” How could he shake off the husky, dangerous voice speaking only to him? It haunts him. “Whose fault was it?”
And his mind recalls the way his arms shook, and how his eyes remained stuck on the spot where his mother’s body would soon turn into dust and rotting bones, and how the venom slowly ate away at his youth—how it ate away fourteen years of happiness that later turned into curiosity that then turned into preoccupation that now has become hatred.
“Not yours,” Yoongi remembers how he didn’t want to continue with the answer, how he didn’t want to take on his father’s mistakes. But he did, anyway. Because that’s what good sons do. “But mine.”
Taehyung couldn’t know that. Taehyung couldn’t know that the only reason why Yoongi’s skin was cold to the touch was because there is nothing underneath it that wants to keep on warming up. He couldn’t find out that Yoongi’s head was covered why the flying bullets and the steps of strangers on the street.
What’s more embarrassing: Taehyung can’t find out that the reason why Yoongi is studying at college is because of him, because he makes him feel like he has some kind of higher purpose but, truly, what he is—and always will be—is the shadow of his father and part of a mafia that he never wanted in the first place.
Because Taehyung is his best friend—the only person he really trusts, the only person who isn’t sketchy and ready to kill him as soon as he makes the smallest mistake—and he doesn’t want to lose him
The truth being out would have a bad effect on his life. And, truly, Yoongi’s life has been affected by bad things enough.
“Hyung, what are you doing after classes? My dad sent me this foreign movie. It looks cool but it’s in Swedish so if I’m going to watch it, I might as well be confused in company.” Beaming at him, Taehyung nudges him with his elbow and wiggles his eyebrows. “What do you think?”
Inhale. Exhale. “Can’t, I gotta work today.”
“That job of yours is really annoying me. It’s taking my best friend away from me.” He pouts. “If you need the money so badly, that’s going to be your birthday present this year: a bunch of money.” Taehyung hums. “How does 6.000.000 won sound?”
“It sounds like I’m going to buy a small island.” Yoongi lets out a small, appreciative smile.
With Taehyung, things flow easily and he feels this warmth erupting all over his body. It’s inviting and protective, like some kind of shield that keeps the problems from stinging his scars and shutting out the repetitive yelling that replays over and over in his mind.
Chuckling, Taehyung slings an arm over Yoongi’s shoulder. In high school this would have been impossible. But things change. Taehyung is taller and his weirdness has dissipated a bit. Yoongi feels ten years older and a little more tired each day that passes.
“Hmm, double birthday present, then?”
“Wipe that smirk off your face, kid.” He pushes the younger boy’s face away and lets the feeling of not feeling lonely wash over him.
To him, Taehyung is also like some kind of guardian angel. What would he do without him? Taehyung is something like sunshine peeking through the curtains of his dark and dirty room, inviting him to visit the outer world, to see how beautiful everything is.
And sometimes—and only sometimes—Yoongi allows himself to get even sadder, to feel dirtier, more like a sinner, on Taehyung’s presence because yes, everything is beautiful. But everything beautiful gets destroyed and stepped over by him or people he knows and he doesn’t stop them.
Right now, Yoongi is on a neutral mood. It all depends on Taehyung. Everything depends on him. Whether he’s feeling mischievous or peaceful, happy or mad (because, after moving to the city, Taehyung promised himself he would never be sad again. He told Yoongi this.) All depends on Kim Taehyung and Yoongi feels like a little kid. So dependant and weak and sad when there’s not a hand he can hold onto and he’s left by himself in the dark.
“So, are you not coming home with me?” Yoongi shakes his head. “Alright, my mom was actually looking forward to your visit, though. She said you look adorable eating rice.”
He feels bad. He’s stained with all things wrong and the walls of his mind are splashed by dried blood and white powders and that family is letting him walk all over their shiny, shimmering floor with his filthy shoes and dirty their carpets. “Tell her I’ll come over sometime soon. I do like eating her rice. It has something—”
“Speaking of which, did your mom the porridge we made her? Is she feeling better now?” Yes, she’s been feeling just peachy buried six feet underground for the last eight years.
“Actually, she is. She’s feeling much better and even complimented the porridge—you know what, maybe she’s feeling worse. You made that porridge. Your cooking is terrible.” It’s actually not; Yoongi thought it was phenomenal just the same day Taehyung made it as he ate it all by himself in his room, listening to the loud clashes and throaty laughs in the living room.
“You’re so mean to me, hyung.” Taehyung frowns and links his left arm with Yoongi’s right one. “But I still love you.”
I still love you. Those words wouldn’t have left Taehyung’s lips if he knew exactly what kind of person Yoongi is. But he doesn’t. That’s the thing. He doesn’t know anything at all.
The words affected his heart greatly. It’s thumping so fast, and the blood is pumping in his ear, and his throat is clenching and his eyes are itchy. He hasn’t heard those words for eight years. And the first time he hears them again, they sound so honest.
He hopes Taehyung is completely oblivious to the tear that falls from his eye, that he wipes away as he pretend to scratch the tip of his nose. “I love you too, but I have to go now, Tae.”
“See you, hyung.” He exclaims, walking faster and brightly, and waving at Yoongi with a smile on his face.
(On his way home, Taehyung still recalls the single tear rolling down Yoongi’s smooth cheek and the way he could feel something radiating off his body; the shock, the sadness, the memories slapping Yoongi’s face as soon as he said the words, bearing a pair of wide eyes as he wiped away the tear. He’ll always remember.)
There are just few things that terrify Yoongi: loneliness, darkness, death—death staring at him after he hears the rumble of the shooting and the smack a lifeless body generates as soon as it collides against the ground—and losing.
His father just causes this wave of disgust and shivers and annoyance to hug his body with its cold figure, leaving fingerprints on his arms and whispering soft words in his ear that remind him of the life that was and the life that could have been. Just, not fear.
It’s wrong of Yoongi to deliberately try to arrive late to “family meetings” but, the thing is, the mafia might be a family but it sure as hell is not his. Not even his father is his family, not anymore. He’s just another face with a name and the burden of looking out for him when he gets in trouble.
But he’s not a father.
“Late, are we?” The snarky voice of a young boy, close in age to him, speaks as he crosses the gates.
They’re underground. There are hundreds of people walking over their heads right now, probably picking up desperate phone calls from their significant other or pondering about their existence, completely unaware that they’re walking over hell.
“Shut it, Hoseok.” Yoongi throws his backpack on the ground, near the entrance. An architecture book and a sketchbook peek out of the opening, but neither of the young men pays any attention to it. “You damn well know that I don’t want to be here.”
Hoseok chuckles and Yoongi wonders how someone like him—so positive and bright and strong minded—could end up in the same place as him. “And so does everyone else. Seriously, you and your father need to keep your voices down. The office is not soundproof.”
Yoongi shrugs. He honestly couldn’t care less whether people heard his discussions with his father. Somewhere deep in his heart he knows he wants them to know how he feels, how he didn’t want to be linked to people like them—he wants them to know how fucking disgusted he finds them and what they do and what they turned him into.
“You all can just ignore us. We’re not making any of you stick your ear to the walls and listen to us, do we?”
Hoseok is sick. Yoongi can see it in the frown he gives him. He’s sick of his attitude and how he got brought in like he was some kind of mafia prodigy when, really, it took him three months to properly use the easiest gun. “If you weren’t the boss’ son I would have kicked your doll face to next week as soon as you stepped in here. Too bad for me, you have privilege.”
“Just do it. I don’t think he’d get mad at you or anything.” Yoongi smirks. It’s a bitter one. Hoseok knows this kind of expressions all too well. He sees them on his brothers’ faces all the time. It was always a dispute going on in his house. “In fact—”
Analyzing has been Hoseok’s favorite thing to do since he was old enough to understand that a smile not always means okay. But, sometimes, he’s too late to read into things. If he were faster, he would have noticed the way Yoongi clenched his fist as he spoke. He would have noticed and dodged the flying punch directed to him.
But he didn’t.
“Now you have an excuse to wreck me.” Yoongi’s eyes turned dark, somewhere between his pause and his fist connecting with Hoseok’s face. Hoseok recognizes this look as the self-pity look. “I started this. You end it.”
And Hoseok does.
And, if Yoongi had to tell, he would say he fought back with all he had.
But he didn’t.
Taehyung has always been an outgoing person. He blames his grandparents for this. Always boisterous, cheerful and ready to take on any challenge they faced, a smile was always stuck on their faces. They spoke so loudly and explained things so excitedly. It rubbed off on him.
He likes to share his likings with his friends—but he never had any. Living in a small town, where there natural smell invaded people’s noses, never really did help him on becoming acquaintances with anybody. Home-school had held him back from being a bubbly social butterfly with people, so he just was bubbly with the animals that he grew up surrounded by.
But when he got to the city—after sixteen years of living in a farm, hearing the cackles of chicken first thing in the morning and recognizing the smell of manure as the smell of nature—he knew he had been missing out. He had been missing out on all the tall buildings and the smell of gasoline and the sounds of frustrated people. It was all so new and fascinating.
He even forgot the reason why he got there on the first place.
He forgot that his parents wanted him to be with him after—to separate him from his grandparents—they wanted him to have a life in the civilized part of the country, where he could make friends and impress everyone with his knowledge on plants and animals. They wanted him to meet his little siblings. To recuperate the family that they never really had a chance to start, with him in their lives, now that everything was okay.
And Taehyung cried.
Because, how could they just leave him for sixteen years, only reminding him that they existed by calling on special occasions and emailing him pictures of their house and their dog and their unrecognizable faces, and then expect him to act like they’ve been living together for those sixteen years? It was a long time that he spent running to his grandmother when the animals went wild because the storm was too rough and earth-shattering. A long time that he spent on a horse racing his grandfather at 4PM, to see who got home first—home, a long time he spent calling that farm, full of nature and with a view to the beauty of trees and the sound of animals, a home.
And they just wanted to take him away.
“Taehyungie, I know this is going to be difficult, baby.” His grandmother spoke to him so softly, so sweetly, so lovingly. How would he ever forget? It haunts him. “But you’ve got to be strong. The city—Tae, the city is beautiful. It’s full of people that will like you. And you’re so smart and charming. They are going to love you.”
His grandfather smiled at him and placed a strong hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. “And if they don’t—which I doubt will happen—you can always come back here to us.”
As soon as he got on the plane that day, he wanted to go back. Who would help his grandmother to get the medicine from the top shelf? His grandfather could not stretch that high anymore, his hip was old and weak. The worries accumulated in his throat and kicked at his eyes, and lulled him to sleep.
He dreamt of black and white shapes. He dreamt of nothing at all.
The ride towards his new house was nerve wrecking. It had his stomach tied in knots and his tongue numbed by the anxiety of not knowing whether he would fit in his parents’ picture-perfect idea or if he would feel just like an intruder.
“Guess you’ll have to find out.” He told himself as he stood in front of that mansion.
It was so luxurious and big and so not what he expected, Taehyung already knew he wasn’t meant for this life.
And, to this day he admits, that the moment his mom wrapped her arms around his body, he cried. He cried so hard that his parents were panicking and his little siblings were staring at this complete stranger that was bawling his eyes out on their front porch and his heart was crumpled up and had been tossed to the side because he felt like every little piece had been put together correctly, but there was still a small space left empty.
The first words he heard his mom say to him were, “You’ve grown so big, my little Tae.”
He swears, as he stares at the picture stuck on the refrigerator with a magnet that writes FAMILY, that he will never forget the feeling of that moment.
School was something else. He never assisted to school. His teacher had always been his grandfather, teaching him what he used to teach to other kids at school three years ago. Taehyung made sure to store every fact that his grandfather had taught him very well in his mind. He preserved his knowledge.
And he comes to think that knocking on the wrong door and barging on the wrong classroom had been his best mistake.
It led him to Min Yoongi, in the end.
Yoongi, a senior by two years, listened to his stories and looked utterly fascinated by everything he said. He was quiet, keeping to himself, never telling Taehyung what was on his mind or what he wanted.
Taehyung grew used to it.
Two years later, he still doesn’t know whether Yoongi is lactose intolerant or not, he doesn’t know if Yoongi likes action movies over comedies or if he’s just a horror movie kind of guy. Taehyung is in the middle of nowhere when it comes to facts about Min Yoongi.
All he knows is one simple thing: Yoongi is his best friend.
He accepts him just as he is. Yoongi didn’t question him when he told him that he’s bisexual. Yoongi doesn’t come to him for financial issues, always telling him that he can manage. Yoongi always supports and protects him. Yoongi is always there.
“Son,” his mother speaks to him, snapping him out of his thought. His eyes were still fixated on the picture with five smiling faces and a big house in the background, a dog wiggling its tail at the feet of the youngest people, but he makes her know she’s got his attention by humming out a reply. “Your grandma called. She wants to know if you want to visit them this weekend.”
A smile breaks its way on his face. “Yes, of course. Can the kids come too? I’m sure they’d love to ride the horses and see the cows. Besides, grandfather said he’d like to meet them someday before he died.”
Taehyung lets out a little laugh. He doesn’t think he’d be sad the day one of his grandparents passes, because he experienced so many great things with them. He was loved by them for sixteen years. The memories would only make him happy.
“I’m sure they’d love that.” She gives him a small smile and walks over to him, to seat next to him on the empty stool on the counter. Taehyung feels her eyes on him and he turns to look at her, raising an eyebrow. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Tae? Lately you’ve been… you know.”
He does know. He’s been distant at home. He doesn’t pay that much attention to his siblings anymore. He can’t blame college anymore. It’s something weighting on his back, making him stumble and fall and cringe. “I suppose I’m just—a little worried about Yoongi, mom.”
“Worried? Why would you be worried about him?” She looks wide eyed and preoccupied and Taehyung feels warm at the thought of his mother looking out for Yoongi that way. “Is there something wrong with him, is his mom okay?”
Taehyung nods. “Yes, he told me she felt better now but… I don’t know mom. He’s just so secretive about everything. It’s been four years since we’ve known each other and I barely know him.” He lets out a tired sigh. “I’ve never met his parents—I don’t know if he looks more like his father rather than his mom, I don’t know if he likes the beach or if he prefers staying inside. He’s so neutral and quiet and—yes, he’s always there for him and he always listens but he never talks, he never releases any of his worries to me—he never puts any worrisome thought in my head and that right there worries me itself.
“Why does he have to hide everything from me? I’ve revealed myself to him. He knows things that you and dad don’t know, and that’s saying something. He knows things that my grandparents are completely unaware of. Do you see where I’m getting at? And I just don’t know him.”
“Taehyung,” a soft touch is placed on his forearm and the finger stroke his skin and he feels the motherly love soothing his worries for a moment. “From what I’ve been able to see, Yoongi is someone who likes to keep to himself. Maybe it’s my psychology degree speaking, but perhaps his behavior is due to some traumatic experience. Maybe it’ll take him eight years to tell you what’s his favorite TV show. What you can do is wait for him. Because I can see that he thinks you’re his best friend too.”
“You used many technical terms in there. You never say “due” or “behavior” in normal conversations with me. It’s definitely your degree speaking.”
She snorts at him and her hand leaves his forearm to pat his hair. “What I’m trying to say, son, is that Yoongi will come around eventually. But, just know, that he’s being completely honest with you, in some kind of way.”
He knows his mother is right. It’ll take time. And, maybe, Taehyung can push the clockwork a little faster.
Yoongi supposes being part of this could be worse. He could be one of the hit-men, bearing guns and doing the dirty job for the actual men in charge. He could be one of the watchmen, shooting at every living soul that dares to knock the incorrect code on their door. He could be his father, sending people off to kill others just because he can and he’s scared.
But all he does is make sure every gun is loaded and every knife is sharpened and that every importation-exportation plan is well made. Basically, everything relies on his hunched over shoulders and exhausted mind. He guesses that’s better than the other positions. He’s powerful, but not too powerful. Dangerous, but not dangerous enough to be feared of because he might take out a gun and shoot you in the head. Yoongi decides that, if he had to like it, he would.
He’s been doing it for the last eight years. A kid that had to become a man in front of others, only looking for some place to find security and protection; forced to be something higher than that.
One day his father told him that, soon enough, he’ll be ready. For what, Yoongi never knew; until now.
“My boy,” firm hands place themselves on Yoongi’s shoulders, shaking him slightly, back and forth, making his hurt head spin. He’s still slightly dizzy from the round of punches that he and Hoseok shared (or rather, the punches he received from Hoseok.) “We’re having a meeting. Leave those guns there. You’ll finish later.”
Later; later when? He wants to ask. The clock on his phone says that it’s already past midnight and he’s supposed to wake up in six hours so he can be ready in time for college. His morning lessons are important. They’re the ones he shares with Taehyung.
He keeps quiet and just nods, throwing carelessly the weapon on his hand to the table in front of him. Tiredly, he rubs his eyes. The lighting in that room is terrible—all dark, despite the three lamps hanging from the ceiling, illuminating with fluorescent yellow light over him.
“What do you need me for?” That, he dares to ask because he’s never been needed for anything like this before; what could he possibly be useful for now?
The throaty chuckle that his father lets out almost scares him. “You’ll see when we talk it over.”
Thing is, Yoongi doesn’t even want to know.
The people standing in the room—that’s just as poorly lightened as the one that Yoongi was in before—look intimidating. They’ve always had this air of utter hatred deep within their gazes, looking down on him and spitting foul words. Yoongi doesn’t like the idea of being in the same small space as them.
His father does, apparently.
“So, now that we’re all here, why don’t we give it up for my wonderful son first? Always the mastermind behind every small detail, looking out for us by making sure our guns are loaded and never sending us off to a plan that isn’t deemed as fruitful.” He speaks so proudly of him, but there’s some kind of mockery behind it.
Claps fill the air and Yoongi catches the eye of Hoseok, looking smugly at him as he studies the bruises on his face and the split lip he wears.
There has never been a moment in his life where Yoongi had felt so exposed and uncomfortable before.
The final clap belongs to his father, who proceeds to speak again. “Son, you’ve always been a hidden gem in this great family. We want you to understand that we do appreciate you. Our Hoseok here—” Yoongi knows this isn’t good. “—personally took the task to deliver your worries to me.”
What.
“He told me that you felt useless in here—but that’s not it—you’re our biggest help.” The words he’s hearing make him feel lightheaded out of sudden. The walls are closing in on him and his chest is hollow yet heavy at the same time. “So, after talking it over, we decided to send you on your first mission.”
They want him to get tainted like them.
“Father, there’s no need to—”
“—ah, but there is! I’ve always thought that you didn’t like it here. Our small argument made my suspicions increase, son. But Hoseok—ah, our good Hoseok—made it all clear.” For the first time since his mother passed, Yoongi recognized this as his father’s first proud smile caused because of him.
The disgust just keeps spreading.
And Yoongi—Yoongi hates Hoseok so much. Who does he think he is? Why does he want to keep fucking him up—always in a different way?
“Sure. He’s really nice for this kind of thing.” A tight-lip smile is what Yoongi gives to his father as he barely mumbles the words. He wants to spit them at their faces, just like they throw their insults at him.
Ignoring him—or just not listening to him—his father chuckles and beckons one of his men to come forward. “This is Namjoon; he’s going to train you.”
“I’ve already been trained.” He feels like a dog.
“Trained to shoot a gun, yes; trained to kidnap? No.”
Kidnap. They want him to snatch someone away from their home. What for? He’s just even sure he wants to know.
The sound he wants to make—a vowel, a consonant, anything—gets stuck on his throat and he feels like he’s asphyxiating, so he just nods.
“Hoseok is going to help you, too. He’s our Black Horse, after all.”
The aforementioned winks at Yoongi, giving him a smirk and a glare that just tells him he’s going to get more than just a few splatters on him. He’s going to get filthy.
The disgust turns into rotten thoughts and the fear of losing himself.
“Don’t look so excited, doll face.” Hoseok snorts as he makes his way to Yoongi. The crowd had dissipated and the only ones left were Yoongi, the Namjoon guy and, unfortunately, Hoseok.
When the slender hands that had harmed him earlier that day made its way to his body, Yoongi recoiled from the touch. He didn’t know where he was directing them. He just didn’t want to be felt. “Don’t touch me.”
“Snarky, are we?” His voice is pissing him off in more ways that he can count and it makes him feel suffocated.
He wants to go home. But where is home? Does he even have one anymore, with Taehyung and his family? Or is he, perhaps, all by himself like a lonely astronaut after traveling for several months to a planet, hoping to get away from humanity, only to discover that it means to lose his own humanity?
Another voice booms before Yoongi can even think of another retort. “Jung, leave the boy alone, would you? You’re annoying me too, and you know that I don’t have that self-control that he has.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” Hoseok salutes and just stands there. “So, are we going to explain the plan to him now, or…?”
Namjoon calmly shakes his head, only to look at Yoongi. His eyes transmit something peaceful yet void of emotion, like an important part of him—the one that makes him him—has been missing for quite a long time. But he doesn’t even look that much older than Yoongi. “Let him decide.”
“Really, now,” Hoseok deadpans. “You didn’t let me decide when you trained me. You put all these plans and sketches in front of me and told me: “learn them, you asshole.” And let me by myself for, like, four hours.”
“That’s because you’re annoying and useless. Yoongi, here, is—”
“—the boss’ kid. Got it,” the reprehensive way Hoseok says this reminds Yoongi that he doesn’t deserve being here. Not because he was brought in like he was Leon the Professional, but because his father completely tore apart everything Yoongi hoped to get back after a few months.
“I was going to say not annoying. But whatever helps you sleep at night.” Namjoon shrugs. “So, what do you want first: plan or training?”
Being quiet, Yoongi realizes he accumulated the anger in him. “I want to kill him first,” he points at Hoseok, who looks wide eyed for a second and then back to his smug self. “And then I want to kill my father, so I can go home and sleep.”
“Not an option. Now—”
“—“now,” nothing; being brought him when I was merely fourteen years old was not an option either. If you think I want to do any of this because that rat said so, then, I’m sorry, buddy but you’re a little bit too delusional to be part of South Korea’s most dangerous, secretive mafia.”
“I repeat: you’re so snarky.” Hoseok chortles. “Kinda turns me on.”
Yoongi cringes. He can’t help the shudder that travels down his spin to the tip of his toes. “Sorry. Don’t swing that way.”
“Hmm, too bad, I’m pretty sure I would have made an excellent cock-slut.”
“You’re gross.” Namjoon says, frowning at how vulgar Hoseok was being. “Stop it. You’re making him uncomfortable.”
Hoseok grins. “He’s probably imagining it.”
“No. I’m pretty sure I’m just not into sex talks and descriptive sex images.” Yoongi grumbles. “And we’re not here to discuss sex, either. Just, train me and then tell me the plan. Don’t think I could do anything knowing what I’m supposed to do or how.”
Hoseok hums and decides that they’ve chatted enough. “Alright, topic has been closed. Mr. Namjoon, what do we do next?”
“Well,” Namjoon looks a little disgruntled at the name he had been called. “We move to the camp.” He looks at Yoongi. “You know how to shoot a gun, but do you know how to move?”
Taehyung is faced by a tired and bruised Yoongi the next day when he steps into the lecture hall, being the only people in there at the moment.
His older friend has his arms sprawled on the desk and his head resting on them. Taehyung looks at his closed eyes and even breathing and sees that he’s clearly sleeping, but that doesn’t stop him from alarmingly interrupting his quick nap by letting his backpack fall heavily on the desk next to Yoongi’s and tenderly grabbing that latter’s face on his hands.
“Hyung, what happened to you?” He knows his eyes are filled with worry, but that’s the only thing he can feel about Yoongi right now. It’s the only thing he’s been feeling bout Yoongi for a long while.
Sleepily, Yoongi opens his eyes. The bags under them feel like they’re pushing and pushing in his face until he gives in and cries out in pain, but he doesn’t, the numbing purple on one of his eyes makes it impossible for him to feel any more pain. His lips are busted at the corner, the scar always tasting faintly of blood whenever he licks them. The sleep consumes every part of his brain and it mentally hurts him.
But he’s there for Taehyung.
He doesn’t mind that it hurts more than it’s supposed to because being with Taehyung makes it feel a little bit better.
The stupor he was in makes him a little slow to reactions, so Yoongi just hums and hopes it suffices.
Not surprisingly, it doesn’t.
“Hyung, what the hell happened yesterday? Did you get in trouble, Yoongi-hyung?” Taehyung has pretty eyebrows. They’re a dark shade of brown and perfectly groomed. They even look pretty furrowed in the angsty feeling of not knowing why his hyung looks bruised and drained.
Before replying, Yoongi stretches and yawns, then smiles softly at his friend. “Nothing happened, Tae.”
“Nothing, of course, the bruises and the cut in your eyebrow just appeared because that’s normal. Yoongi-hyung—”
“Tae, really, nothing important happened. One of my neighbors upstairs was having a party for some reason. He had the music too loud. I asked him to turn it down. The dude was too drunk and probably pissed because his girlfriend broke up with him three days ago in front of the whole neighborhood. He got mad and punched me. I got him back. Don’t worry.”
With Yoongi, Taehyung could never know whether he was telling the truth or not.
He decides to believe him, but he knows that’s not just it.
Sighing, Taehyung gets a hold on Yoongi’s face again and stares. Just stares at him, through him, past him. And Yoongi can feel his heart quicken its pace in fear that Taehyung might see further than he truly wants him to. “Take care of yourself, hyung. I believe you—actually I don’t—but, I’ll just leave it like this. Just take care of yourself.”
“For you, anything,”
Yoongi doesn’t smile at anyone the way he smiles at Taehyung. He knows that. The quirk on his mouth is only for Taehyung to see. The twinkle in his eyes is only for Taehyung to see his reflection in. The warmth spreading on his cheeks is only for Taehyung to smile at.
The way that Taehyung smiles at him is kind of unique, too. Because he does it so effortlessly and quick and big and Yoongi can only love that smile a little bit more the moment he loses himself.
“No, hyung,” Taehyung presses a quick kiss to Yoongi’s cheek. “Not for me. For you,”
Yoongi ignores the flaming in his cheeks and decides to go into sleeping position again, to hide the redness on his face and the small smile that took over his features. “Alright, then,”
“Sleep, hyung, I’ll wake you up when the professor gets here.”
“Thanks, Taehyung.” He doesn’t think he ever said words so softly before.
Yoongi admits architecture is interesting, even if he gave Taehyung the stink eye when he told him that that’s what he wanted to study. He used to think that it was just drawing lines and eternal headaches. Turns out, it’s more complex than that. Relaxing, even, at some points when Yoongi doesn’t know what to do with his complicated self and so he finds himself sitting in front of his desk with an A4 paper sheet in front of him and a sharpened pencil tracing the millimeters of the scale, making up the perfect household for him. It’s always changing.
Coming out of the lecture hall with Taehyung marching next to him towards their next class, Yoongi forgets all about the purple, blue and green paintings splattered on his face and the tickling feeling behind his eyes because the class had been really interesting and Taehyung is talking to him about this crazy design he made two days ago of a mall.
“When I graduate, I’m going to look for a job and they’ll absolutely love it.” Taehyung comments excitedly. “I’m going to build that mall and it’ll be so unique and ingenious that I’ll be known worldwide as that cool architect dude with crazy sketches.”
Yoongi laughs—whole-heartedly, loud, raspy—and throws his arm around Taehyung’s higher-than-Yoongi’s-height shoulders. “Or, you can tell your dad you want to build something and, boom, there you go.”
Taehyung pouts and childishly frowns at him. “You know I don’t like using our money like that.” He sticks his tongue out at him.
“Yet here you were yesterday offering 6.000.000 won and a small island to me. Unbelievable the hypocrisy in you, Kim Taehyung,”
“You’re bullying me, hyung.” Taehyung looks away from Yoongi and crosses his arms over his chest. “My mom says that I shouldn’t be friends with people who bully me. She says it’ll ruin my view on myself and end up hating myself.”
Ruffling his hair, Yoongi hugs—in his own way—Taehyung and laughs. “Impossible. If I don’t hate you, no one else can.”
Taehyung smiles sweetly at him. And then the smile turns into a grimace and Yoongi frowns. “What,”
“Yesterday,” Taehyung sighs. “I was thinking that— that you never tell me anything. And I don’t want to push you into doing so,” he rushes out and shakes his head along with his hands. “But, you know, it’d be nice to know at least the smallest thing about you. Mom said that maybe you went through some traumatic event that made you keep to yourself like this but, hyung, it’s been four years.”
So he does find it unfair.
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, Tae, okay?” He turns to face him. They’ve completely stopped walking, standing in front of each other; Taehyung looking down at Yoongi, Yoongi looking up at Taehyung. “I just don’t want you to know.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does, too! Because, let’s say I want to tell you something—and I do tell you—but I don’t want you to know because you might push me away after you understand what it means.” Yoongi says. He’s trying to explain the best way he can, and he just feels like he’s making everything a lot more complicated than it’s intended to be. “And, Tae, I don’t want to lose you at all.”
“And you won’t.” With his hands on Yoongi’s shoulders, squeezing them softly, Taehyung looks into his eyes, almost pleading. The touch—the weight—is so much more different than how it feels when his dad does the same action, Yoongi realizes. “I’m not telling you to tell me something life changing—like, I don’t need you to tell me your darkest secrets, hyungs. I just want to know you.”
“You already do.”
“No, I don’t!” Taehyung outright shouts, the desperation and worry oozing from him and Yoongi nearly hates himself for making him feel like that. “I know your name and how old you are and that you live with your mom but I don’t know anything else. You know enough about me to sell it to magazines and expose me to the world but you haven’t, in the four years of being your friend, done anything to wrong me. So you can’t be as bad as you think you are.”
Yoongi is frustrated because he wants to tell him. The words are almost digging their way out of the grave he buried them in, and Yoongi can feel his eyes starting to well up. How does he tell Taehyung that, out of the things he knows about him, one is a lie and the rest is just darkness and disaster and wrong-doings?
“One day I will, Tae, I promise.” Yoongi mumbles. “Just not today,”
Taehyung doesn’t push it anymore. But he doesn’t talk either. He walks with his hands in his armpits and looking to the side or forwards instead of looking at him.
Yoongi feels like he just killed a little firefly, exterminated its light and life and broke its wings midflight.
And he can’t bear it, so he does what he does best.
“I’m sorry, Tae.”
And, just, walks away.
Some hours later, Yoongi finds himself buried in that same poorly lit room where the smell of gunpowder impregnates the air and there are monsters lurking in the shadows, watching carefully his every step, ready to make him stumble and fall into a deep and endless dark void.
He’s sniffing and his face is wet before he can finally realize he’s been crying for the past twenty minutes.
The picture of a mad Taehyung invades his mind as soon as he seems to forget.
Why does Taehyung make him feel human when, in reality, he’s just as full of marks and scars as the rest of the people he’s been surrounded with?
“Stop crying,” a deep voice speaks from the doorway. “We’ve some more training to do.”
Taehyung doesn’t feel sad. He just feels violent. He wants to wreck everything in sight and there’s nothing that’s stopping him from doing so.
The perfectly made bed he saw this morning before leaving has been one of the victims of his madness. The trashcan is rolling—lightly to the left, lightly to the right—and the crumpled up pieces of paper surround it. His desk has been thrashed, the pencils and sketchbooks falling dully to the ground, the metal rulers clanking against it in a deafening collision and it just fuels his anger.
He’s breathing heavily and he can’t quite see what he’s doing or what his hand is hitting against but it’s hard and it brings pain to his closed fist and small specks of blood start to drip and he’s just afraid because he loves Yoongi so much and he wants to protect and help him, but he doesn’t let him.
Everything had been so loud and wild and it had been a crazy frenzy from the moment he violently closed his bedroom’s door that his mind muted everything and just focused on the strenuous sounds that he was causing himself, that he doesn’t notice the presence of a smaller person watching him from his bathroom’s door with a terrified stare and whimpers coming from her mouth.
His little sister looks so scared of him.
“Baby, I didn’t mean to startle you. Please don’t cry.”
She sniffs and looks at his bleeding hand. “Oppa, you’re hurt.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Or so he thinks.
After a long session of punches and jump scares and avoiding bullets, Yoongi knows two things: one, he is ready for whatever it is he has to do to whoever it is he has to do it; two, Kim Taehyung is not on his mind anymore. At least, for the time being, that is.
“Now that we’ve—wrecked you—” Hoseok grins. “I would say it’s time for you to know the actual plan.”
Yoongi winces as he sits down. “You make it sound like the two of you fucked me into next week’s Monday.” Holding up one finger, he stares at Hoseok. “You didn’t.”
“But I sure as hell would have loved to.” Yoongi rolls his eyes and decides to focus on Namjoon, who’s wrapping his hand with a white bandage and paying no mind to either of them.
“Alright, so tell me. What do I have to do? I want to get it over with already.” Yoongi picks at a lose string on his ripped blue jeans. “Maybe, if I do well enough, my father would just let me go.”
Namjoon snorts at him, “As if that were possible. You’re stuck in this until you either die or move out of the country, and even then, you’d somehow end up in some shady businesses.”
“How’d you know?”
“My ex-boyfriend did it.” Oh.
“Hoseok, start hitting on Namjoon instead of me then,” the reactions are mixed between Namjoon’s gross and Hoseok’s oh god, no. “Just a suggestion,”
“That you might as well shove up your ass,” Namjoon hands him a file that had been lying on top of one of the shelves when they got to Yoongi’s cramped, little office. “That’s your file. You don’t lose it. You don’t give it to anyone else. It’s yours so you carry it. I’m not gonna wipe anymore messes.”
Yoongi says “aye, captain,” before opening the file.
And everything freezes.
“That’s who you’re gonna take. Name’s Kim Taehyung, twenty years old, plenty of money in that family of his. You get him, we extortion them. If they don’t comply, kid’s dead. Easy.”
Namjoon’s words feel alien to his ears as he reads over the ten paper sheets on the file. His eyes can’t process the words and they get stuck on many paragraphs for a long time, but he doesn’t understand what’s written on them.
“Never will understand why rich people agree to get their family names on magazines and even spill some family information.” Hoseok snorts. “They’re so fucking stupid.”
He’s pretty sure the information in there, is something that Yoongi already knows.
Taehyung tells him everything.
They’re best friends, after all.
Yoongi comes to reason that a loaded gun shouldn’t feel this heavy on his hand. It almost feels like it’s trying to drag him down, make him fall face-first on the ground and keep him anchored there. Honestly, he’d love for it to be like that.
Truth is, men are clapping him on the back and congratulating him for finally being one of them, pushing him closer and closer to the shady black car that he’s supposed to drive. Namjoon is looking at him proudly, and Yoongi feels some kind of feeling getting to him. Hoseok is giving him thumbs up and a harsh pat on the back along with a “don’t fuck this up,” and it makes him want to puke.
He doesn’t want to hurt Taehyung. He doesn’t want him to be underground, tied up to a chair and being tortured in ways only one can imagine. He doesn’t want Taehyung’s mom to get a phone call that announces Taehyung’s a captive now, and that she’ll have to give them money to see him again. Yoongi knows she will. But he doesn’t want her to do it.
“Off you go, my son. Come back with that kid, and you’ll be as respected as me.” The vile is making its way up Yoongi’s throat. In what world would he like being like his father?
A tight-lip smile is what Yoongi could offer as he made his way outside.
Namjoon grabs him by the arm and looks into his eye. “You can do this, Yoongi. I know you can.”
“Thanks.”
He can’t.
Being submerged in the immense darkness of his room is the last thing Taehyung wants at the moment. It makes him feel like he’s being watched and lonely and exposed and even more when he can’t sleep because his thoughts have been plagued by Yoongi and Yoongi only.
The questions vary from is he okay? To why must he make everything so complex? And it is just so hard for him to fall asleep because he’s so worried and scared and he needs Yoongi.
He never believed in something like mental connection but getting a text message from Yoongi that read “I’m outside. Do you want to go for a drive?” Surely meant something greater, like they’re friendship is so strong that they already know when one needs the other. But, that has never happened the other way around.
Typing a quick “Sure,” Taehyung puts on some pants and slips on his shoes before grabbing his jacket and tip-toeing downstairs. The last thing he wants is for his mom or one of his siblings to wake up because of him and stop him from going out at 3AM.
He feels nervous just because.
As he opens the door and finds a restless Yoongi, looking to the sides with his head in his pockets and the wind hitting his face from every direction; it doesn’t manage to blow away the nervous smile on it, though.
“Hey,” Taehyung greets, eating the anxiety taking over him and spitting it to the side. He doesn’t need it. “Good to see you.”
Yoongi shrugs, the gesture so gentle that it almost looks like it didn’t happen. “I hope you weren’t too deep in your sleep.”
“I wasn’t,” even sleeping at all. “Why’d you wanna see me?”
“It looks like we’ve got some talking to do, don’t we?”
Driving had never felt this difficult to Min Yoongi. He knows the position his hands are supposed to be in, that his rearview mirror is perfectly adjusted, and that he and Taehyung both have their seatbelts on. Everything is so secure, but at the same time it’s not and Yoongi just feels trapped.
“Before, I start, Taehyung just know that I love you so much. You’re the best friend anyone could ever have. And after I’m done talking, I want you to do what I say. It sounds selfish, but it’s just for tonight.”
The younger boy nods and waits for him to speak up again. “I’ll tell you in a bit, don’t worry.” But Yoongi knows Taehyung is being eaten away by the worm-like worries and the thoughts of what ifs and the infinite scenarios that might happen, because Yoongi is like that too at the moment.
He stops the car, after driving for twenty minutes, in front of a small house. The paint on the walls is peeling off, the garden is dried—every plant lifeless and brown and fallen and sad—with a bulb on the front porch’s ceiling, illuminating in orange-yellowish light, making the street look darker than it actually is. Yoongi hears Taehyung’s gulp and immediately is met by shaky hands and stuttering breaths.
He has to do this.
“Where are we, hyung?” He sounds so scared and that’s the last thing Yoongi wants.
This is when he starts to show his true colors.
“This, Tae, is where I live.” He turns off the car and opens the door to exit, Taehyung hot on his heels.
Yoongi stops on the front porch and turns around to face him. “I live here by myself. My father sometimes comes around, but that’s nearly never.”
“Your mom—”
“She died when I was fourteen. We buried her on the cemetery a few blocks away. I mourned her, my father put the burden on my shoulders.” Little by little, the truth just finds its way out and Yoongi doesn’t want to stop it.
He turns around and continues to open the front door. The house smells like humidity, dust, unpaid water bills and the memories of what used to be. “That hole in the wall, one of my father’s friends made it when they were too drunk and thought their guns weren’t loaded. That’s when my mom and I found out what my father was for a living.”
“A hit-man,” Taehyung asks startled as he studied every corner of that sad house. He feels the tears in his eyes because Yoongi decided to show him his true self and he was scared that he might push him away. Yoongi could be so silly sometimes.
“No,” he chuckles. “He’s part of a mafia. There is more than one around here, you know?”
No, he didn’t. Taehyung’s breaths hitch when he sees Yoongi is looking bitterly at every possession in that house. Mostly the couch—it’s nearly torn apart, the fluff showing on one of the armrests, from his spot, Taehyung can smell the dust and misery it emanates.
“Mom and I used to sit there on the weekends and watch whatever movie was playing. After she passed, my dad used it to make business when he didn’t trust the other person. He nearly killed someone there.” Who, he doesn’t tell. Yoongi wants to come clean, but he doesn’t want Taehyung to have the image of him being choked to death by his father on his fifteenth birthday.
He doesn’t dare to look at Taehyung anymore, in fact, he just feels like talking to the walls and the floor and the ever living ghost of the past that haunts and clings and calls but never comes.
“He dragged me into his business. Made me fucking count the guns and load them. Then made me revise the plans like I was some mastermind with the power of knowing when danger was approaching, but I was just sixteen years old, you know? To him, I was an assistant that had willingly agreed to help. But, Taehyung, he made me do it. He made me learn how to shoot, he made me learn how to kill and now he’s making me—”
When he doesn’t finish his thought, Taehyung rushes him. He can always quicken the clockwork.
“What is he making you do, hyung?”
“Nothing, forget the last part. Just—what else did you want to know? Ask away. It’s an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Taehyung ponders for a while. What does he want to ask him?
“Did you seriously think I would run away from you, hyung?” It’s a question that sounds dumb in Yoongi’s ears. Of course he did. He would have run too, if he could. “You’re my only friend. How could I ever leave you?”
Yoongi smiles; it’s sad, it’s empty, it’s almost too faint to be a smile. “You know, I tried my best, Tae, to not get tainted like them. But, they’re just too powerful. They want me to be like them, covered in mud. So they threw me in it.” He steps closer. “My hands are dirty and full of filth. I don’t want to stain you like that.”
“Well, you won’t.”
“Yes, I am. It’s not something that I can control. I have to do whatever they ask me to.” Yoongi bites his tongue. Is he supposed to tell him everything? “Taehyung, I—you know I love you, right? You know I value you way too much to harm you on purpose, right?”
A timid nod and an honest smile are all Taehyung offers, and the sense of shame engulfs Yoongi. So he engulfs Taehyung in a hug.
“I’m so sorry, Tae. They want me to kidnap you.”
Taehyung is angry. He’s filled with blinding rage and explosive emotions. It makes him angrier that all he does is pull Yoongi closer, hug him a little tighter, not wanting to let go.
The toxicity in his body travel to the tip of tongue and it feels acid and numb and present, and Taehyung can only just cry because he’s so mad. He feels cheated on. Not by Yoongi—he’s crying, he’s sobbing, he’s choking—but by life itself.
He can’t help but wonder if this is meant to be; if he was supposed to leave the farm and move into the city because his fate was to meet Yoongi to end up in this situation at the end. It’s wicked and painful and Taehyung wants to believe it because he guesses it’ll hurt less to put the fault on fate and life and the way things are supposed to go.
“So, do it.” He whispers in Yoongi’s ear. The gun that his friend carries on his jacket’s pocket has a thick outline that presses against Taehyung’s gut. “Take your gun, point it at me, and tell me to move. Take me away.”
His voice is desperate. He starts shaking because Yoongi doesn’t move at all. All he does is sob and cry and say no repeatedly and pull him even closer while shaking his head. Like he can’t bear the thought of Taehyung sacrificing himself—being serious over something like that; he should know by now that Taehyung would do anything for him.
“I can’t do that, Tae. You know I can’t.”
Everything happens too quickly for Yoongi to process. One minute he’s holding Taehyung close to his body and pressing his forehead to his shoulder and the next Taehyung is pushing him away, holding out a gun for him to take.
It’s macabre and awful and terrifying and Yoongi is afraid of losing Taehyung.
“Take it, hyung. I don’t care. Just fucking do it.” Taehyung presses the gun to Yoongi’s shaking hand, making him wrap his fingers around the trigger. Then he lifts the gun and presses it to his forehead. “Just push me, tell me to move. I’ll do it.”
Yoongi has read stories like this. Usually they happen between lovers that have a codependency problem. He always thought them to be beautiful in a dark way—to have one sacrificing themselves for the other’s wellbeing while the latter is conflicted. But, experiencing it, Yoongi finds it to be burdening. It makes him feel cold and horrible and unrealistic.
However, his finger is pressed against the trigger and the barrel is pointed at Taehyung’s forehead and Taehyung is pleading to be taken away.
It’s all too real, too raw, too everything.
It makes him wonder if they have a codependency problem, too. Could he ever imagine himself living without Taehyung? No. Could he imagine Taehyung living without him? Yes.
Throwing the gun to the wall, Yoongi decides he’s had enough of this. “No. I won’t fucking do it, Taehyung, you get me? Because you’re my best friend and you don’t deserve to have this scar on your mind. At least, I know I won’t be able to live with myself if I know that something happened to you. I won’t be able to stop them from doing what they want. You’re not the first they’ve taken. Trust me, please. Don’t make me do it. Don’t be like them.”
“You have to do it. What if they take it out on you because you didn’t bring me back? I can’t let them—”
“I’d rather it be me than you!” Yoongi’s throat feels a vivid color of red. It feels explosions and rawness and it hurts but it is okay because that way Taehyung will understand. “Goddammit, you don’t understand that you do actually have a future ahead of you? I can study my whole life, but I will never have a choice.” Taehyung isn’t crying but his eyes are glassy and his face is bloated and there’s something broken in him that Yoongi doesn’t think he’ll be able to fix. “You made me go to college. You gave me something to see when I thought things couldn’t be tougher. Taehyung, you’re something beautiful and I need you to understand that I can’t destroy you this way.”
Taehyung is at loss for words and that’s when he breaks down. “And you don’t understand hyung! You can’t let me go. They can do something to you. You—you—you have to come with me, if you let me go.”
“And do what, Tae? Be a burden in your family, a burden to you? No. That’s not how things are meant to go.” Yoongi bends to pick up the gun and cocks it. Taehyung jumps on his place. “Just go, please. I’ll think of something, just—”
“—don’t do anything too extreme, please.” His eyes travel from the gun to Yoongi’s face and the older boy thinks he can see what’s going through his mind. “I’ll go, but don’t you dare hurt yourself.” He walks towards Yoongi and pulls him in.
The hug is like the last they shared. It’s full of crying and there’s this tense feeling hanging between them that just tells them everything is about to end for the both of them.
“I’ll run, but know that I’ll be expecting to see you, someday soon.” Taehyung looks into his face before kissing his cheek and hugs him even tighter.
Yoongi’s heart feels constricted when he forces himself to pull away from Taehyung. He captures his features in his mind: the mole on the tip of his nose, his brown puppy eyes, his soft skin, the way his hair is always a mess. He will remember that forever.
“Just go, Tae.” Yoongi whispers.
“I love you.”
Taking in a shuddering breath, Yoongi knows that’ll be the last time he’ll hear those words (so honest, so full of feeling, so real.) “I love you too.”
And Yoongi cries when he’s left by himself in that old house that now holds more memories that it intended to. There’s the spirit of a young, lively woman laughing and spreading warmth all around her. There’s the spirit of a man who once knew how to love and how to be loved. There’s the spirit of a fourteen year old boy crying on the couch and hoping to mend his broken heart and avoid the loneliness. There’s the spirit of a friendship that felt too honest, too full of feeling, too real.
There’s the spirit of a twenty two year old lying on the ground, staring at the ceiling and wondering if it’s even worth it to move forward.