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Yoongi was barely five when his mother took him to a psychiatrist’s office for the first time. Tiny hands gripped the sleeves of her wine-red jacket, feet dragging over the perfectly clean carpet, and he begged her to go home. She didn’t listen, of course. She never did those days. And so he was forced to sit on a chair too tall for him, legs hanging out while he answered pointless questions until the old man spat out a big, fancy name at his face.
It all changed from there, except for the regular visits to that same office, one hour and a half, every month. Instead of simply not listening, his mother started to yell at him, voice painted pink and blue, every time a bad word slipped through his mouth. Soon enough he learned to remain quiet, even when the words clung onto his teeth, begging to be released. He wrote them down instead, messy handwriting spreading through the pages of his small dictionary as he tried to find out which normal words fit better the colors in his head.
It was his seventh birthday when he finally threw the book away. His mother looked proud of him for the first time, cotton-candy lips curving up in a beautiful smile. On that same day, he discovered that the outside world that usually scared him during the day was rather peaceful at 4am, when most of the lights were off and the stars dusted the midnight blue sky. He learned a new normal word, too, one that quickly became his least favorite in the world. F-R-E-A-K. These five letters burned into his brain, repeating themselves over and over, glowing brighter in black and yellow every time he closed his eyes. As much as he tried to convince himself that his beloved aunt didn’t mean it like that, he couldn’t quite shake the bitter, almost metallic taste of her voice from his mouth.
It only truly disappeared after a long time. More specifically, on the same night he met a strange boy with dark brown eyes. But not the ugly shade with sprinkles of green that tasted like sour candy; no, his eyes were more like the earth after a long rainy day. That night, Yoongi told him how purple and red, with the tiniest bit of grey, he felt and, much for his surprise, the boy didn’t yell at him. Didn’t call him a freak. Instead, he nodded, eyebrows furrowed in a frown, butterfly lips disappearing under his teeth.
“Do you get it?,” Yoongi asked, eyes tinted lilac and cream -- was it hope? He was never sure.
“I think I do,” he nodded one more time, warm, hot-chocolate voice barely a whisper.
Yoongi went home hours later, feeling all kinds of shades of orange.
Things started to get better for him after that day. His mother met a nice boy, too, who took her and Yoongi to eat at pretty restaurants and knew how to build amazing pillow forts. She didn’t need to yell anymore, because, thanks to his new-found friend, he now knew a bunch of normal words that weren’t exactly right, but worked nonetheless. His visits to the psychiatrist became shorter and he ended up getting used to them. For once, he was happy, just like his old dictionary used to say.
Four months after he became ten years old, his mother fell ill. It started with a couple coughs here and there, nothing to worry about, as she constantly reassured him, tired smile on her lips. He should’ve known better, and maybe some part of him did, but he was too blinded by the cyan-purple-pink that took over his life to believe it. But when she collapsed to the floor one day, her favorite cup smashing against hard concrete and spilling tea everywhere, the colors faded away, leaving only pitch-black darkness behind.
When he met up with Namjoon that evening, he couldn’t stop shaking. They were in the middle of summer and yet he had never felt so cold, so empty.
“It just won’t go away, Joon-ah, it won’t leave. And it’s like… smoke. But so, so heavy.” He buried his head on his knees, hands holding them firmly against his chest.
Namjoon took his time to answer, arms loosely wrapped around Yoongi’s frame and a contemplative pout on his butterfly lips.
“You know, black isn’t really a color. White too. They’re just… shades,” he explained, digging into the ground with the tip of his shoes. “If you look really closely, the colors are still there, it’s just harder to tell them apart.”
Yoongi bit his lip, turning his head slightly to meet those rainy-day eyes he grew so fond of. “Can you help me?”
“I’m not sure. But I can try.”
And so Yoongi was finally able to take a proper breath as he convinced himself that it was enough.
And it was. Even when his mom started spending more time at the hospital than home. Even when the same aunt that called him a freak buttoned up a dark dress shirt against his chest, tears shining in her eyes, black and yellow. He cried too, but not until he was hiding in the rooftop of his soon-to-be old apartment.
It was enough, even when he moved to the other side of the town and couldn’t see Namjoon as often. It was enough because every time he needed, he would run until his legs were sore, only stopping at Namjoon’s doorstep. And he would be standing there, waiting for him with that shy smile that sounded like the last three seconds of Yoongi’s favorite song.
When Yoongi turned sixteen, his feet were dotted with tiny scars. Just like the sky was dotted with stars at 4am.
“Really, the only difference between a scar and a star is a letter.”
Yoongi sighed at that, mouth twisted in a small smile, because he was thinking the exact same thing.
They were lying side by side, back against the soft cotton sheets of Namjoon’s bed. Butterfly lips reached out to touch his own, tasting like late october, and, suddenly, Yoongi was filled with red. And green, and orange, and purple, and every bright color.