Chapter Text
April, 2011
Perfect. He's perfect.
That’s all Yoongi can think the first time he sees him onstage. He’s sweating like a pig, droplets of it rolling down his face and it should be gross, he shouldn’t look good, but he does. He looks mean, focus razor sharp as he spits rhymes and phrases, dancing all over the beat with the kind of ease Yoongi longs for.
It’s not rap, it’s poetry.
Yoongi is good, fiery and chaotic, knows how to make a crowd go wild. But this man is... controlled. He doesn't spark a flame, he demands attention. It's almost calm, the way his tongue rolls lazily over his lyrics. There’s ice behind his eyes and confidence in his stance and Yoongi feels overwhelmed, small, like he could walk right on stage and strip down to his underwear and no one would even notice.
Yoongi hates him.
He hates him for being good, for being everything Yoongi wants to be. No, for being everything Yoongi is but... better. The feeling of envy builds up inside of him, turns insecurity into distaste and admiration into burning anger. He glares at the man on stage, wishing nothing but misfortune upon him, and grits his teeth. Then, suddenly, the man is turning, looking out into the audience, and his eyes fall onto Yoongi.
He feels caught, frozen by the way the man’s eyes bore into him, filling his heart with quiet rage. He narrows his eyes and the man raises an eyebrow, an amused expression on his face. And then he… he fucking smiles. Yoongi freezes, stiffens, then clenches his fists. He grinds his teeth and turns on his heel, pulling his hood over his head and beelining toward the exit.
He steps outside and loses it, kicking an empty bottle which lays in front of the doorway and crouching down on the pavement, threading bony fingers through his hair and pulling hard enough to hurt. He’s angry and confused, an irrational sense of hatred spreading throughout his entire body, and Yoongi knows it’s all his fault. Yoongi swears then and there, that if he accomplishes nothing else in his life, he would beat that man. He would tear him apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left but that stupid smile and the memory of a few decent lines.
He walks home slowly, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, with one name leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
Fucking Runch Randa.