a ticket to the sun ∙ myg ✓

10 ↝ sudden stutter

The night at the club is alike any other. Hoseok and Jimin are dancing with more coordination, more momentum than they should be capable of after consuming so many drugs. Seokjin is wedged into the corner of the leather couches, a girl straddling his lap and very obviously grinding against his crotch, while another latches her mouth to his neck, fiddling acrylic nails down the first three buttons of his black dress shirt. Yoongi, as always, lets the numbing hum consume his being. Lets it drag him into the limbo betwixt life and death; reality and imagination; heart screaming against his ribcage while the lights entertain, distract.

He distantly believes he might have taken it a little too far tonight. Forced too many toxins through his bloodstream. Overworking the vessel that has barely kept him standing as it is since she left.

Oh. Oh god, that is right. Her. Herherher. Yoongi can think of her right now in this near comatose state where his body becomes invincible. The knives that stab through his back turn into plastic rather than metal, rebounding against the muscle. Or perhaps, still cutting through, though he cannot feel a thing.

Star-shine smile against a backdrop of pale blue sky. Laughter of the gods. Red dirt knees washed by a backyard hose. Electricity fizzling between joined palms. Lips like vanilla milkshakes and eyes drowning in expanses of infinity.

We will always protect each other.

Shallow insults made out of adoration. A car swimming in the salt of tears. Four hands touching dusty ivory keys and performing the sound of their love in terrible harmony. Blue icy poles licked up from wrists where they drip, drip, drip.

Your laugh sounds like home. Is that weird?

Her tongue, behind his teeth. His tongue, pressed to her cunt. Bloody knuckles cradled in his hands like the truth exposed. A cello and viola, they are. The End of The World by Skeeter Davis. Vicious stench of bleach.

The bleach didn't work, Yoongi.

It's grey, ___. It's fucking grey.

Maybe this means you really will live until your old.

Jesus I hate you, shut up.

You are such a terrible liar.

It feels so good. Yoongi feels exhilarated. Alive. His heart is about to burst out of his ribcage and be trampled by the bodies that push and shove. He wants to die by these thoughts, he truly does. How pathetically unromantic. Hatred tastes like love. Another lie. Could never hate her. She just wears feet that betray the truth.

Wait.

There.

In the crowd.

Yoongi thinks he must be hallucinating, that he really did take it too far this evening. For there is a face across the dance floor that he has not seen, has nonstop thought of, since his feet were rooted to the earth in the shadows of his yard three years ago. When the face was turning away, never to be seen again.

He blinks, grinds the heels of his palms against his bloodshot eyes, looks again.

Has he died?

Lipstick clings like blood to a mouth. Smoky eyes of burned out charcoals, smeared with sweat, reside beneath arched eyebrows. The kind that have always had a querying angle, as if constantly doubting. Thick tresses are styled into a mess that he is all too familiar with; that has stirred his own heart into a whirlwind alike too many times for him to count. The dress that clings to the figure is all black, strapless, dipping in a tempting arrow between breasts and glorifying legs that sheen with sin. Hunched shoulders are cloaked by a leather jacket that screams bad intentions, yet hides a heart of gold.