quiet ➫ yoongi-centric

1.7

August passes by in a blur of endless practices and staring at his computer in his tiny studio until his eyes loose focus on the vague beats on the screen. September feels relentless, Yoongi feels like he's lived through four lifetimes in the past three weeks.

The Yoongi in the mirror remains a paradox, forever changing yet frozen in time.

Their first concert tour approaches closer, promoting their school trilogy and marking the beginning of a new era. An era beyond the rebellion and fire of youth, an era of nostalgia and melancholy. While the school trilogy embodied the criticism of those who refused to conform to the mechanical ways of the system, the new era would symbolize the fleeting infinity of youth - to be so carefree and yet so burdened.

The monotony of his days begin with the beats of Danger, before slowly transitioning into War of Hormone as they make their way through the decided track list. As the strenuous dance practice would end, the group splits up into vocal and rap practice. And as the sky dulls, him and Namjoon find themselves spending their nights in their small studio, revising lyrics and beats which were soon to finalized for recording. They'd only finished recording one song by now, a song they'd named I Need U. Yoongi had wanted to capture the desperation of young love, love which was willing to fight against the world, the idealistic type which existed in YA novels and fairy tales. Sometimes, as he wrote these songs, he'd find himself wondering. Wondering if a love so sincere existed for him, if someone would ever look into his eyes and find beauty in the greyscale. If someone would turn his endless rains into a rainbow when his blues would blur his days. Someone who would understand the words he'd never say, someone who'd fills the crack in his soul. Someone who would hear him when he sits in the silent darkness of his studio. And sometimes he'd indulge himself, in the thought that someone was out there. That one day his music would not be his only outlet, only way to express what he felt, only way he could let out the vulnerability without the terrifying ordeal of having to actually bear his heart to those around him. So he stays up late as he waits, composing beats and writing lyrics, of hopes and dreams he buries deep inside, of fears he won't acknowledge, of the occasional happiness and lightness which find him on rare days.

Sleep, these days, feels like a luxury and a chore simultaneously. The rest was essential, he doesn't deny, and yet, waking up often fills him with a sense of dread he never properly places. Almost like he woke up into a nightmare he hadn't realized yet. On somedays, he'd sit and think about his dreams, although most days they'd fade away as soon as he'd wake up. But somedays, he'd remember.

Sometimes, he dreams of being reborn as a dandelion, growing through the cracks in the concrete by a road mapping the hill. Sometimes, he's a fish, floating past species he isn't sure actually exist. The water is always blue and clear, so so clear. The corals around him are so beautiful and there's a soft humming coming from somewhere, but he's never felt more alone. There's so much and yet there's nothing.

He's still in a world bursting with movement.

Sometimes he dreams of darkness, of nothingness. There's nothing there, not even his physical body. But the darkness feels so alive, feels so real, wrapping its tendril around his metaphorical self and slowing tightening. He suffocates so slowly, not even realizing when the gentle pressure starts to choke him, leaving him breathless and tired. On those nights, he wakes up gasping for breath. There's always tears streaming down his face, his hands shaking and even the soft glow of his computer seems blinding.

But the dreams he hates the most are the ones where he isn't alone. It starts the same, him in a small room. The room baren and the walls a faded white, he stands in front of a door and distance voices echo from the other side. Sometimes they laugh, sometimes they cry, sometimes they whisper words Yoongi never deciphers. In these dreams, he doesn't move, only watching as smoke begins to leak into the room from under the door. He listens to his own voice, screaming, begging, crying but he never finds his mouth moving. The flames grow bigger, slowly peeking from under the door, eating away at the wooden edges. And the fire spreads, the walls suddenly a bright burst of orange and yellow, anger red threatening to nip away at him. And the smoke burns, burns his throat and eyes and lungs and it all feels so real, the heat on his skin, the shortness of his breath and the sudden revelation of the finality of death and in those moments before he wakes up, he forms only one coherent thought - I don't want to die.

Waking up leaves him feeling shallow, as if he were nothing but a shell.

So he does what he does the best, he writes. Not just lyrics, but ideas, concepts of the burning room. Of death and destruction, and the new beginning it unleashes. Of ashes and smoke and of nothing and everything. On somedays the smoke is a beginning, of a passion spreading like forest fire. And on some days, its the remnant of who he used to be, like the smoke of a funeral pyre. The book he writes in isn't the same as the one which contains lyrics, these aren't songs. They contain an essence of him too deep to be commercialized.

It's a simple book really, one with leather covers fraying at the edges. And it's a simple hiding place, under the mattress of his bed. One easy to reach but inconspicuous. And really, ease is one the top priorities of his when he has those nightmares. Of course, he's thought about what he'd do if some one ever found out but the funny thing about people is sometimes they don't notice the most obvious things if they don't actively look out for it. He used to spend long hours thinking of excuses he'd give but in the years where so much of him has gone unnoticed that he'd grown relaxed, carefree.

But life's always been funny that way. Because one day he wakes up with short breaths, his skin still warm and sweat dripping from his brow as he feels the slight acidic taste of smoke on his tongue; and finds Seokjin staring at him with the book clutched in his hands.