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Not every night under each roof is pleasant, filled with arguments and the broken dreams of aspiring artists held back by parents either having no faith in their child’s talent or, if they acknowledge it at all, in a future pursuing a dream. A mixture of the two continues to kill the aspirations of the black sheep of the Min family, a delinquent deemed a pyromaniac by the ignorant eyes that solely know how to shallowly judge. However, the open-minded individuals who can see beneath the tough exterior will be met by a musical genius who is forced time and again to give up the sole reason to live.
Music.
The piano.
‘I don’t have a dream. Besides, what’s the point in having one?’ Those words have become a steady statement to make whenever the conversation turns to what can be done after leaving behind six good friends and dropping out of high school. Whether any help is needed, in any regard, because a girl ran away from home herself is more than knowledgeable in how hard it can be to survive without anything to fall back on.
Though eventually a safe haven was offered freely by the actual leader of our little band of troublemakers guarded by a mistress of lies, another runaway living in a train yard outside of town.
Withal, tonight a new worrying addition is spoken after a habitual check-up text sent from Joon’s refurbished container after patching up Taehyung’s latest wounds inflicted by a raging drunk of a worthless father. The boy with the curious square smile stubbornly continues to hide the true cause of the physical and mental pain despite his fellow graffiti artist having hinted multiple times at wanting him to open up about the issue. Notwithstanding, it would seem the real cause of the harm will only be entrusted to the boys’ confidante, the guardian angel helping tattooed aqua locks keep the rabble in line.
For as far as that is possible.
‘They take everything from the inside and throw it away.’
‘Who is they?’ Throat constricted by concern at this new detail, fingers stop combing through caramel locks finally fallen asleep after grunting through the medicinal care while precariously avoiding making eye contact with Monie.
‘Everybody.’
‘I don’t, I would never. Neither would Jungkook, Jimin, Taehyung, Hoseok, Namjoon and Seokjin.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘No, it’s not!’ No response, the last text remaining to be noted as read. ‘Yoongi?
‘Yoongi, answer me! You’re not gonna do anything stupid, you hear me?
‘Yoongi, please!’
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
‘Oh God.’ The exclamation comes out on a short breath, panic rapidly overtaking as thoughts refer to the past.
‘What?’ Namjoon looks up from designing a new piece of art to place somewhere on a bare city wall, an eyebrow curiously cocked.
‘I- I need to go.’ Gently, Tae is laid down on the mattress. Futilely, the unconscious boy tries to wrap arms around the upper legs to pin them where they are before moving away. They have to, because time has become precariously precious again. Hence, all that the sleeper gets is a quick platonic peck on the forehead. ‘Right now.’
‘What’s going on?’ The leader notices the distress, turning halfway on the worn seat and about to get up.
‘It’s Yoongi. He’s not responding anymore and I think I know why.’
Shredded paper, beautiful notes turned awry thanks to disregard by the public, compositions torn apart to be hauled through a shredder or be burned in the next fire leading to an arrest.
Scarlet.
Glistening metal.
More silver lines added to the ever-expanding canvas on pale thin limbs.
‘Honestly, why doesn’t he just come here? We’ve both said multiple times he should.’ Honey digits remove the simple beanie to run through blue short strands, defeated in the wager as to why the pianist remains on the flight instead of retreating to the home we have created.
Regardless of the severity weighing heavily on shoulders moving towards the door, a sympathetic smile can be managed to put Joon at least somewhat at ease. One person carrying the burden of Time is more than enough and if someone should be to blame for being too late, it should be the guardian angel. ‘Because he can’t see the point, the good it’ll do him. He doesn’t know he has a home.’
It should be me.
‘He’d rather see his dream burn than move in with us.’ A mutual deep sigh erases the only sign of comfort that can be given at the moment as a hand reaches towards the latch. ‘One of these days I’ll drag him here myself and just lock him in. It’ll be full house, but I’m sure we could figure something out.’
‘Good luck with that, Monie. I’d help, but I value my life. He’s a tiger. One that’s hopefully unharmed by the time I reach him.’ Because, once more, it are solely the black wings engraved into the back which know the truth while the rising bird is kept in the dark regardless of begging in silence for the last sliver of complete trust even telling of hardships they do not know about. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Gritting gravel surrounding neglected railways beneath open twilight gradually transforms into asphalt broken up by holes in the districts ruled by crime and smooth steady ways in good neighbourhoods forming the residence area of families of which the children will either become something akin to the grandness of a doctor or a nine-to-five, if not worse, office worker. And it is here the phone put into the pocket of the denim jacket buzzes, the screen lighting up thanks to a new message that is a blessing and a curse at the same time. ‘Not home. Ran away. Warehouse. Roof.’
‘When did you run?’ The answer might seem fairly obvious were it not for the memory of the first time created melodies were destroyed by the paper shredder and parents furiously yelled at the aspiring producer to actually go back to school and get a proper education.
A good life.
Meant for someone else.
Not for an artist.
These same bordeaux Puma sneakers stormed through the front door and up the stairs after mister Min opened up, about to ask who in their right mind came calling around midnight. Absolutely not giving a damn about the consequences and solely focused on reaching a familiar door hiding ignored hardship.
Truth be told, none of us ever has.
Because we live.
Young, wild and free.
Or so we will, after all of us have escaped the judgmental cage created by a society looking down on creative souls trying to make a change. To leave a worthy legacy meant for generations to look back on and learn from.
After feathers break free from the egg.
But more than a single care was given upon warily approaching the figure in the secret studio least of all serving its original purpose of a bedroom, crawled away from the door to hide in the corner while clutching anxiously at freshly bleeding cuts. The knife was put aside, undeniably used and cruelly lying on the ground beside us.
Instead of directly speaking, we merely sat across from each other in a heavy hush wherein confidence was regained by calmly waiting for dark eyes to make contact. Which they eventually did, trembling bloody palms removing the white headphones given as a collective birthday present together with Joon and Hobi. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’ Regardless of knowing what was meant, locks nevertheless tilted to the side in feigned wonder because any direct reference to the difficult situation would lock the oppressed musician up immediately.
And invite the cruel blade upon leaving.
‘For being so fucking worthless. For making you come all the way here, just to see this good-for-nothing criminal.’ Unjust cracks appeared evident in the barely composed raspy voice of salt-streaked tears. Crimson fingertips plucked at baggy clothes concealing the frame that had become ghastly thinner due to the stress placed upon young shoulders forced to see dreams burn over and over again.
As always, helpless heavy-weighing playfulness was resorted to in the quiet hope of brightening the mood enough to break through the impenetrable walls which are always built when Yoongi is put down. ‘Shut up.’
Colourless irises, the passion sucked out of them until all they knew was how to cry, looked up in a sharp sneer. Or so it wanted to be, but could not due to an inner voice constraining the harshest negativity which turned the expression grave rather than judgemental. ‘It’s true, Y/N. You know it is.’
‘No, it’s not.’
A shift of subject made it more than clear the current topic did no longer serve any purpose, completely disregarding the smeared headphones and fresh cuts. Curiously, it changed to inquire about the well-being of the equally, albeit not to the same degrees, abused boy with whom often arguments were started merely because of being followed. Followed by the one who looked up to him, the rebel who will one day fully make the right decision and flee from beneath this harming roof permanently. ‘How’s Tae?’
A resigned sigh gave into the shift reluctantly, a tiny sliver of gladness spreading warmth throughout the limbs grown cold at the miserable sight and calming a rapidly beating heart unable to not worry about the wounds. ‘Bruised ribs, split lip, a cut on his cheek and an ugly bruise beneath the left eye.’
‘Please tell me he’s crashing at Namjoon’s.’
‘He is, as always. Mended for as far as possible and asleep.’
‘Good.’ Absently, as if drifting off into the forcefully created crumbled world once more, Yoongi nodded while repeating the confirmation under sharp breath. ‘That’s good.’
‘You, on the other hand, aren’t doing so great.’ It could not be helped, the dark carmine droplets staining ashen sweatpants creating hideous murky brown stains could not be ignored. Ugly yet alluring ghosts tempting the eye into being looked at. ‘You could have come to the train yard.’
The subtle suggestion resulted in the habitual denial of all help, any former softness sharpened like a dagger and flowing from a snarling tongue. ‘I’m fine. Just go.’
‘Where’s the first-aid kit?’ It had always been part of the dynamic, ignoring what the composer said in favour of a better outcome or serve as the company that was wanted but the wish of had never been explicitly stated. Withal, the guardian angel would triumph once more due to the trump card of iron determination, speaking in a tone that would not let anything of the pain due to the confrontation with self-destruction filter through.
‘Go.’ Sullenness preceded, as per habit, the fierceness of the tiger beneath the skin. Stained fingers moulded into fists gripping at oversized clothes, trembling with rage but trying incredibly hard to contain it to not do something to regret in the second after rashness.
‘Where?’ The characteristic raised sarcastic eyebrow was not appreciated, still only so on very few occasions nowadays.
‘Just fucking go!’
The lashing out would have chased away any of the other guys, but not the girl merely scoffing at the show both minds knew was nothing except fakery. ‘Have it your way. I’ll look for it myself.’
As expected, it was stored away in the lower compartment of the bathroom sink adjacent to the small bedroom, thus leading to the swift return to a cherry-haired tiger meticulously observing every movement from a safe spot. Withal, without shrinking as if wanting to melt into the scenery. Instead, he stared on in wonder of the help coming to the rescue of both a friend and a precious bond.
‘Give me your arm.’ No response at first, even at the beckoning hand any other might mistake for being impatient yet was all but that. It was desperate, frightened to death by the flowing carmine. ‘Yoongi, arm.’
Despite not stating it outright, the mere act of putting it in the cross-legged lap calmly without grumbling said more than words could at the moment. Henceforth, a tense though comfortable hush descended while cleaning the wounds after disinfecting them, checking up on an expression continuously returning to stoicism with every hiss.
Notwithstanding, in spite of missing the change betraying bodily hurt that by no means outweighed the mental burden of both parties, there was a fascinated warmth in irises drained of life time and again as digits bandaged the visible part of the damage up.
‘There, that’s better.’ Glad hands put down the first-aid kit as the last freshly carved scar had been concealed by ivory linen, sighing in calming relief. All in all, it did not take long to patch the musician up but the pressure of time flowing away made the instance appear longer than it really had.
‘Why?’ Furrowed brows regarded the first step to physical healing, almost as if uncomprehending of how it would help. Of course, it would not aid mental stability but it did allow for the rescue of a soul who would have gone too soon.
‘Because we’re friends and I won’t let you fall. I’d never let you down.’ Trembling in hesitance, the palm of a barely recovered from the shock voice reached out to a pale cheek, the thumb languid in caressing the denied tears away. ‘You’re an incredible musician, Yoongi. No matter what anyone says or whether you believe me, it’s true. We, the guys and I, think so. No, we know so.’
‘You speak of them as if they’re my friends too.’ Had the genuine broken persona living beneath the skin of the rebel kicked out of school been unknown to the girl sitting across from him on the floor, the end would have happened right then and there. However, the opposite was the truth and thus the sneering tone was disregarded in favour of establishing at least a sliver of conviction of reality.
Something to believe in.
Something to hold on to.
‘They are. They disregard the fact you don’t contact them at all because, as I said, they know you’re going to make it big someday. They still continue to support you. None of them has forgotten about you.’ Lips pursed in careful contemplation, calculating the impact of each word which wanted to be said without angering the only temporarily subdued tiger. Eventually, such an argument was formed in good faith. ‘And you haven’t forgotten about them either because you wouldn’t have asked after Tae if you had.’
‘Still, you’re the only one here.’ A pale palm folded perfectly over the one on the salt-streaked cheek, the broken dreamer leaning gratefully into the touch with lashes fluttered shut and a voice as if drifting off into slumber. A blissful place away from cruel reality. Away from here. ‘You’ve always been.’
‘That’s not tr-’ The protest was cut short by an unexpected kiss, lips meeting in soft urgency. A whirlwind of emotions kicked up at the suddenness of the action, Reason and Fancy at war due to never having thought the tiger would do such a thing.
Nor expect to hear a new level of despair in the whisper temporarily breaking up the kiss, sounding strange as it was caught between genuine clarity and relieved sobbing begging to not be left behind. ‘It is. Only you love me.’
Thus, the truly vicious cycle began of coming to the rescue both mentally and physically only to end up in the sheets to fully calm down. See to it Yoongi can rest easy even while one heart falls deeper and deeper into chaotic love.
It has been for the past two years of denial.
But it cannot mean anything.
It should not.
Because, once it does, it becomes a passion.
A dream to pursue.
And that is forbidden and therefore it will shatter or be burned like music.
Until all there is left are merely ghosts.
The only type of changing the meetings of scared hearts have undergone is a shift in location after the rebel dared to run away again the day Jungkook almost ended it all on the edge of the highest skyscraper. Barely in time could the youngest of the chaotic band be rescued, the man like an older brother pulling the maknae by the back of an ivory and rose checkered blouse and holding on to the boy until both had regained enough breath after spilling tears of frustrated relief. After all, Yoongi had sworn during the last meeting with the entire group beneath a nightly sparkling spring sky to be a support pillar because he knows what living while feeling useless is like, vouching to do so while Kook rested on his shoulder. Through the high-rising flickering amber flames of the fire pit, the two seemed content at last.
For a little while, everything was okay.
We would be fine.
Would be.
But tonight, on the roof of the abandoned warehouse in the harbour where on the lower floor stands a dusty brown piano, we are not. The damaged knuckles and chafed skin beneath sullen irises tells of barely escaping another arrest after being kicked out a bar again and drunkenly searching for a fight, the scent of cigarettes indicating music has been burned again because the pieces were not good enough.
They never are.
Not to society.
But, to the girl approaching a wild tiger, they are everything.
Though the producer is blind to see it.
‘Yoongi?’ No reaction to the greeting comes as the heavy door to the roof closes and bordeaux Puma sneakers pad with a heavy heart over the asphalt still warm due to the day’s heat. They come to a halt a mere step away from the brooding tiger. ‘You never answered me over text and make me come all the way out here to get a response.’
‘Does it matter?‘ Without so much as a sideways glance, entwined damaged slender fingers maintain a steady melancholic gaze over the dark quiet waters of the harbour. A mocking grin tugs at the corners of the mouth but does not form completely, essentially as joyless as the denied dreamer.
‘It does! It fucking does!’
For once, please believe me when I tell you that you’re not nothing.
‘To who, hm?’ At last, colourless irises grace a worried soul with a challenging look but at least attention is pulled enough to actually listen and not simply hear.
‘To the guys.’ A palm slaps against a rapid beating heart in a constricted chest as lips tremble and a cracking voice rises in volume. ‘To me.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘No, it’s not. We care, Yoongi, all of us.’ The last bit of distance is breached as a hand naturally folds over a frozen shoulder clad in a military green jacket, resting there without being violently shrugged off.
A sign of listening.
And thus the argument is pursued on a calmer and more steady yet equally urgent tone. ‘What about Jungkook? You promised to be his supporting pillar. Taehyung is over at Joon’s again, beaten up by his dad and you know it hurts you. Just as much as it hurts us.’
Upper arms are enveloped as briefly locked gazes break up, ashen strands hanging low in stubborn ignoring of the guardian angel crouching in front of them. ‘Us, Yoongi. The Bangtan Boys and me. Our family.’
‘I have no family. They were the first to destroy it all.’ Regardless of being unable to see it, lips are undoubtedly pursed in a fight to prevent new tears from falling. Woven digits tremble in barely suppressed crimson nicotine anger, vision blurring with tormenting memories of refusal.
‘But we build it up together, didn’t we? You know you aren’t-’
‘Shut up.’ An arm lashes out to undo any contact, the impact of the action causing a fall backwards. Nothing but agonizing exhaustion radiates off the snarl on the handsome face that has become loved as more than a mere friend.
Even while it extorts another for pleasure.
A means to forget.
It means nothing.
‘I’m tired of speaking. Tired of thinking. We both know where this goes anyway.’ Each sentence is accentuated by a firm demanding kiss sealing off any chance of protest after being roughly helped onto two unsteady feet, the tables turned as it now are the arms of somebody trying to help which are grabbed tightly.
Held dear and cherished in an incomprehensible manner.
But it is better than nothing.
‘We can’t keep doing this.’ Had this been pure desire, the shape pressing hotly against the thigh would have been appreciated in a whole different way. Interpreted in a manner not remotely close to the reality of us because it is not sensual wanton craving.
It is pent-up frustration coming to a boiling point.
Fruitless.
A wandering ghost.
A heap of ashes.
‘Shut up.’ The hands creating an abyss by pushing against a sturdy chest are given other purpose. Nevertheless, the meaning of the distance remains: foolishly to be able to be filled with sincerity.
One hand is placed on the hip and the other below, simulating a laughable imitation of actual craving as another kiss adds to the poor fancy. ‘Just do what you’re told for once.’
Lips connect once more in saltwater carrying broken wishes and all the dreams that cannot be because of emotions warring with ideals, the correct way of life stained by nicotine and the sharp yet sweet tang of cheap soju.
Trembling fingers envelop damaged cheeks as slender musically gifted hands tug at the edge of pants, beckoning them to lie down before undoing the belt fastening bleached ripped jeans only to be warmly welcomed again by the palms that only get to hold the face they love in this repeated loveless lovemaking. Knowing the impatience of the tiger, any restrictions to allowing the heated wantonness pressed against the thigh earlier have been removed before wiping away returned tears and lovingly caressing ashen brown locks.
Don’t get your hopes up. It won’t mean anything. It’s just a means of comfort.
Everything is familiar, a piece of the past tainted by crimson and smoke to cling to.
The warmth spreading throughout as separate souls effortlessly become one, unprotected in wordlessness and thus letting actions say all that tongues cannot.
The speed of snapping hips, uncaring about pleasure and merely wanting to fuck the pain away.
The agony of the tug on each tendon keeping the heart inherently belonging to the occasional groan breaking through heavy breaths whispering into the side of the neck.
The urban scent of cigarettes, ashes and blood.
The possessive iron-like grip on the waist, desperate to be grounded in the moment or simply an anchor into this world while the mind it belongs to tries to flee.
The chase after temporary oblivion together, though one soul remains a step behind to not frighten the other into love.
After all, it has no meaning.
None of this.
It is a ghost we keep.
Preventing us from finding happiness together.
The chance to hear three simple words spill at least once before or after a troubled mind finds brief peace in the arms of the woman he said, no, knows loves him. Nevertheless, Yoongi cannot return the affection.
Cruelly, the hope remains even while lying on the warm concrete, the heat seeping through dishevelled clothes covering the upper part of the body, and embracing the musical genius drifting somewhere in a pleasant ignorant limbo. The same state of being that lashes turned to a beautiful sparkling sky did not reach again and never will during these meetings. Still, it is not minded for this is a more meaningful type of contentment.
Simply lying here among the ashes.
But it cannot mean anything.
It should not.
Because, once it does, it becomes a passion.
A dream to pursue.
And that is forbidden and therefore it will shatter or be burned like music.
Until all there is left are merely ghosts.