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Yoongi pulled down his sweater cuffs nervously. There were so many people here. The club was packed with people, all waiting to hear the night’s performers. He was beginning to regret putting himself on that list. He wanted to share his music, yeah, but he hadn’t been expecting this many people to show up. This was supposed to be a relatively quiet place, with a few regular performers and a small crowd.
He didn’t do well with crowds, or people in general. It was why he’d shared his music online originally, but the response had been more than decent, and people kept urging him to perform live. It wasn’t something he’d actually considered doing before, which was stupid because, of course if he did well then he’d have to get out from behind his computer screen, but it was a thought he’d stubbornly refused to entertain before now. It was fear that had held him back before, and it was fear keeping him hidden in the back now, too.
It was easy to explain his feelings through his raps, because he wrote them for himself first. It didn’t matter whether he planned on sharing his tracks afterwards or not, he just needed to get the feelings out. He took all the frustration and anger, the pain and the darkness, and turned them into lyrics. He imagined, as he spit them into the mic, that his words were swords he used to fight against his problems. He wrote himself as the hero fighting against evil, brave and strong and confident. As soon as the song ended, though, he lost all of those things. He was just Min Yoongi again, lost and alone and nothing. It was okay, though, because he had said what he needed to and it helped to lift some of the weight off of his shoulders.
It didn’t take it all, though. Nothing did. As hard as he tried to push away the pain, he could only hold it at arm’s length for a while. It was always there, trying to take him down anytime his guard lowered. He wasn’t sure why it was there, because he’d ben raised in a pleasant enough environment and he didn’t have any awful tragedies to blame it on, but it was there. He fought, he really did, but he just didn’t have the strength to fight the tide that was constantly trying to bring him down; Not entirely, anyways, not with just his music.
He tugged his sweater cuffs down again, holding the edge of the sleeves in his palms. He couldn’t do this right now, not here. He needed to get it together, at least long enough to get through tonight.
“Hey! You’re Suga, right?”
The words were yelled into his ear from behind, and he wasn’t sure how that was possible when he was practically against the wall already. He turned around and saw a boy standing just barely between him and the wall, grinning at him beneath the red club lights.
“Uh, y-yeah. That’s me.”
“Awesome!” The boy grinned wider, and in the coloured lights, he looked like a stained glass window, all soft and sweet and angelic. Yoongi swallowed, because he wasn’t sure what to say now and the boy’s face was very distracting. He wanted to reach forward and stroke it for some reason, and he had to hold his sweater sleeves tighter to resist the urge.
“Do- Uh, Do I know you?”
“No,” the boy laughed. His laughter sounded like rain, deep and steady and beautiful, and Yoongi wanted it to cover him completely. “But I know you. I follow you, you know? I love your music.”
“Oh. I- Uh, thank you?” He found words very hard to reach right now. He was thankful he’d even been able to respond.
The boy nodded and turned to the stage, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially into Yoongi’s ear. “You’re much better than him,” he spoke in a low voice, referring to the rapper performing right now.
Yoongi blushed. He didn’t really disagree, because this particular rapper had a problem with enunciation and word flow, but he was popular in the underground scene and had a bigger following than “Suga” did. He was surprised, and a little embarrassed, to be told he was liked better than the other. “He’s good,” Yoongi said weakly, to move the conversation on before he had to get into this topic.
“Yeah, but not as good as you.” The boy leaned in even closer as he said it, still grinning at him as he placed a delicate hand on Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi had no doubt it was meant to be comforting, but he was so close, and he smelled like hazelnuts or something else rich and delicious and beautiful, and he was looking at Yoongi with so much warmth and expectation. People never looked at him like that, and he had been glad, because the lower people’s expectation, the less chance you have of disappointing them. Except the way this stranger was looking at Yoongi made him want to please him, to be the reason behind the boxy grin and crinkling eyes.
It was too much, too soon, and Yoongi needed to get out of there before his head popped off. “Excuse me, I need to- I have to- I’ll be back!”
Without waiting for a response he bolted. He weaved his way through the crowd, head down as he tried to break through the tangled mess of bodies on the dance floor. When he finally made it to the bar he stopped to take a breath, as his lungs had seemed to have shrunk three sizes on the journey. Each rattled breath brought with it a new wave of panic as those around him gave him side-long glances.
He waved the bartender down, ordering a shot of whiskey to calm his nerves. It’s just because it’s your first live performance, he told himself. Of course he would be nervous, it was only natural. He was fine. He was fine.
As he waited for his drink he over-heard the conversation of the people next to him, discussing the current performer. They seemed to love him, which was all fine and good, because people could like whatever they wanted, but then the conversation steered down a new path he couldn’t ignore as easily…
“Yeah, but Suga? Really? Why would you let them both perform? It’s like having a tribute band and the real thing. Plus, Suga sounds fake, and stupid, and everything I’ve heard from him has been terrible.”
“I agree. He sounds fake. As if we should believe those lyrics.”
The bartender returned with Yoongi’s shot and he threw it back before getting the fuck out of there. He couldn’t handle this, not right now, not here. He just… he just couldn’t. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He wanted to go home, to leave this place and never look back. He tried to make it to the door, but a new performer was going on stage, and the crowd went ballistic. Loud cheers and claps sounded from everywhere and he couldn’t fit through the crowd now that it was packed tighter. He began to panic. The claps seemed to play like a soundtrack for the words he’d heard, and they kept getting louder in the already deafening noise.
He gave up and went for the bathrooms instead, because he felt the breakdown coming and he couldn’t be here, surrounded by all the people who wanted him to fail, when it happened. He needed to get away, anywhere else, anywhere he could have a moment alone.
He burst through the bathroom door, shoving past a drunk guy wearing a fedora, and hurried into the very last stall. He slammed the door shut and dropped onto the toilet seat. His breath came in uneven bursts and he pushed his fists against his eyes, as if he could grind out his own inadequacy with the motion. He was falling again, dropping into the void that threatened to eat him every time he slipped.
He didn’t want to be here, alone and cold and scared. He wanted to run away, far away, into his music and forget this part of himself, but he couldn’t. He was stuck in this body and this life, bearing the burdens and everything else that came along with it. He was playing second fiddle to his own problems, and he was so tired. Tired of the pain, of being lost, of wanting to be somebody else.
He had never meant to start hurting himself. He’d always seen cutting as something people did for attention. Everything he saw in the media and on T.V. led him to believe it was something you did because you wanted people to notice. That was the opinion he’d held for a long time. He hadn’t meant to change it either, but one night things had just become too much and, out of desperation, he’d cut his arm. It had just been a test of sorts, him clutching at straws in an effort to tell himself it wouldn’t help. It had, though. Having an outward pain to focus on had distracted him, and he’d been oddly transfixed on the bright, crimson line. Now he viewed it as a way to take the pain he felt inside and funnel it out a bit. It didn’t erase it entirely, but neither did his music, because they were just ways to express his pain, not treat it. He didn’t know how to fix it.
He sat there, clenching his fists and trying to give himself a reason not to. Of course, his brain was fighting for the other side right now so it didn’t last long. He didn’t want to be here anymore but he was trapped, and he might as well help himself through it, he reasoned.
With trembling hands he took his wallet from his pocket, slipping out the small blade he kept behind his ID. He exhaled shakily, upset with himself for letting himself fall again but resigned to his fate. He knew he would keep falling, because there was nothing to hold him up.
He pulled his sweater sleeve up, revealing the scarred skin beneath it. Most of them were healed, the newest scar having faded to a light pink already. He’d been doing well, before... He sighed, because why did he even care? He had known it would happen again, because sometimes he just needed to feel okay, even just for a second.
He didn’t even have a chance to bring the blade down before there was a light knock against the stall door. “Suga?” He was too shocked to process the slight swing of the door. A second later it was pushing open. “Are you o- Oh….”
There stood the angel boy, looking down at him and the blade, shock etched all over his features. Yoongi quickly drew the blade into his hands, hiding it in his fist, although he knew it probably didn’t matter. The boy had clearly seen it, but maybe he would pretend he hadn’t?
“Uh, I- I wasn’t feeling well and, uh- I needed the bathroom.” His lie was obvious, to both of them, but he hoped the boy would take it as an excuse and leave him alone.
It was quiet for a moment. Yoongi could hear the quiet drip of a faucet, leaking into the basin repetitively. It was as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence. He found himself wondering why the music couldn’t be heard in the bathroom, and why the room was soundproofed so well for a club when it was a useless thing to do, anyway.
“Don’t,” the boy said suddenly. His voice, where it had been soft before, was now strong and almost demanding. He looked down at Yoongi almost in pain, as if what Yoongi was doing was somehow hurting him.
“Sorry, what?”
“Don’t do what you were going to do,” he elaborated. It wasn’t really much of an elaboration, actually, but Yoongi knew what he meant anyways.
Still, he decided to play dumb one last time, in the hopes this kid would back off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The boy rolled his eyes and sighed in frustration. He began to move. Yoongi didn’t realize what he was trying to do at first, because maybe the boy had been planning on leaving and Yoongi had succeeded (he hoped), but no, that was not it. The boy wrapped his hands round Yoongi’s and gently pried his fingers apart. At this point Yoongi knew what he was doing, but he was too in shock to act.
“This,” he muttered. He looked down and frowned, and Yoongi followed his gaze, also frowning. He’d clutched the blade too tight, and there was a thin line of red on his palm. He hadn’t felt anything before, but now, as the boy took the blade from him, he could feel it as he flexed his hand.
“Whoops,” he said awkwardly.
The boy snorted, tossing the blade into the trash. “That was what you planned to do, right? So you should be happy.” He sounded more angry than anything, and that made Yoongi angry.
He stood up, pushing past the boy and going to the leaky faucet. “What does it matter to you? We don’t even know each other. I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m Taehyung,” he said as he followed after Yoongi. “So now we know each other, will you please tell me what’s going on?”
It was Yoongi’s turn to snort now. “Just because I know your name doesn’t mean I know you, and just because you know mine doesn’t mean you know me.” He was being rude, and he knew it, but it was the only defense he could come up with right now, and he had to be defensive, because he had a nagging feeling this boy would be able to get to him somehow otherwise. He couldn’t afford to let anyone close, even if they were the cutest person Yoongi had ever laid his eyes on.
“Are you always this argumentative?” The boy- Taehyung crossed his arms and glared at Yoongi through the mirror.
“Maybe,” Yoongi shrugged. He turned the water off, now that he’d washed his palm, and grabbed some paper towel. He turned to face the boy as he dried his hands. “But you don’t know me, so how could you know if I’m lying?”
Taehyung’s eyes flashed with something, annoyance or frustration maybe, Yoongi wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t think about that anymore because then Taehyung did possibly the most surprising thing he could have: he hugged Yoongi.
His arms were small but strong, wrapping around Yoongi’s back and crushing their chests together. Yoongi was frozen, his eyes flying open, along with his mouth, and staying that way. His brain seemed to short circuit, and all he could think was Wow, he smelled even better this close.
“I don’t need to know you to care about you, and I definitely don’t need to know you to try to help you.” He squeezed tighter and somehow Yoongi’s arms found their way to Taehyung’s back.
He was confused, and shocked, and too many things to understand. A few seconds ago he’d been fighting Taehyung but suddenly, he didn’t really want to anymore. Taehyung’s body was warm and soft, and somehow Yoongi’s problems wanted to melt away when in his arms. He wasn’t consciously aware he did it, but he hugged Taehyung back. It was just something about the boy that made him feel good, like coming home after a long day. He just had this feeling about him, something calm and relaxing and safe.
And so Yoongi did something he had never done before: he allowed Taehyung in. He didn’t push him away like he would have normally. He decided that for all of the bad thoughts he had, he should let himself have some good ones, just for a night. That was how he ended up accepting Taehyung’s offer for a coffee and some conversation. They left the club together, and Yoongi didn’t care he was abandoning his gig. He felt like tonight could be something special, and he needed a little special in his life.
They talked for hours, nestled in the corner of a little twenty-four hour café. They talked about life, loss, their dreams and their downfalls, everything under the sun. Taehyung didn’t make fun of him when he talked about the rough times, of the overwhelming darkness that settled over his head like a rain cloud sometimes. For the first time in Yoongi’s life someone understood him, and he couldn’t believe how good it felt.
The next time he pulled his sweater sleeves down it was because he was nervous, trying to hide the blush on his cheeks behind his hands. Taehyung cooed at him, and he called the boy a brat, and Yoongi was happy.