misfits. bts ot7

six

yoongi stayed back in the truck when the rest of the boys left to get souvenirs.

hoseok stayed with him.

"so what's been going on with you?" yoongi asked, taking a sip of his coke.

"drugs. you?"

"i don't know. the usual."

"are you feeling okay lately?"

"i don't know."

"you want to talk about it?" hoseok looked at him with those eyes; those bright, breathing, starry eyes that carried galaxies and planets and fucking magic inside of them. "talking helps."

yoongi wasn't sure if he wanted to talk.

talking had never been his forte. he liked listening, preferred it over talking by a mile.

but hoseok's eyes where focused on him, expecting and begging him to say something because hoseok knew that what he was keeping to himself was rotting away at his insides and his mind and soul, and he needed to let it out before he took a pair of scissors to his own goddamn throat to pull out the truth from his vocal chords, piece by fucking piece.

"he'd tell me to suck it up."

a breath.

some air and aerosol into his lungs before he continued.

"i'd be sad and struggling and having a hard time with something. so i'd try to talk to him about it, because i needed to let it out somewhere." yoongi was talking. he was talking. "but he'd tell me to just suck it up and stop acting like i was doing the hardest thing in the whole damn world." he smiled bitterly. "he'd tell me i was being selfish, because there's people who have worse than me. he'd tell me to shut up and stop crying and just suck it up, and i guess that's what i should do." another bitter smile, except this time, it was through tears. "but hoseok, if i can't talk to my own parents when i'm having a hard time, who the hell am i supposed to talk to? where do i cry and let things out and let myself fucking break for once?"

he had wanted to break for so long.

he had wanted to cry and crack and rip at his seams like this for so long. he had wanted to scream for help, wanted to show everyone his scars and tears and burns and tell them all he wanted to take a gun and put it to his head and pull the goddamn trigger.

i want to die!

i want to die!

i want to fucking die!

"i get it, hoseok! i fucking get it that i was an ungrateful fucking kid and i should have been okay with what i had!" his voice broke between every syllable, sobs tearing through each and every letter, ripping the words themselves to shreds. "but why was i so sad? why was it so hard for me to suck it up and be happy? why did it hurt so much that my parents didn't want to listen to me? why did i ever put a fucking razor to my own skin, oh my god, why? fucking why?"

his facade was broken. shredded through a shredder and run over and kicked and thrown away.

he was crying. sobbing. he was ugly.

crying wasn't pretty.

the movies with petite, pretty little actresses made it look beautiful and glorified. but real crying was ugly.

real crying was tears running down both cheeks like waterfalls, snot dripping down a bright red nose and taking a sleeve and wiping away the snot with it because there weren't any tissues anywhere. crying was shaking and swollen eyes and a bright, stop-sign-red nose from rubbing at it with scratchy sweater sleeves. crying was screaming and ugly noises like those of a kicked, whimpering dog because that's what happens when you're trying to not make a sound and it isn't  working.

crying was ugly, and yoongi was crying.

and hoseok was hugging him close and whispering reassuring words into his ear, his fingers reaching under yoongi's sleeve to brush over the scars, old and new.

yoongi thought crying was ugly, and yoongi thought he was ugly. but hoseok didn't.

hoseok thought he was still beautiful.

hoseok thought crying was ugly, and hoseok thought yoongi was beautiful.

yoongi was broken, and he was still beautiful.