Lovers in Tokyo | taegi

4

This time Yoongi carefully gathers the love he has grown inside himself throughout the years, picking them out one by one into a bouquet, sprigs of wildflowers and the brightest peonies and too-short stems of calla lilies.

This time he pours the love outwards into his melodies, holds tight the lilting of piano keys so much like the deep baritone of Taehyung's midnight voice, so warm like the mugs of green tea they'd hold as they rest against one another on the couch with their arms and legs grazing, so light like the air in the snow-covered park where Yoongi's right knee drops to the ground in plea of Taehyung's hand in life.

Yoongi thinks this is it. Maybe this is what healing feels like.

I'm over him, he'd tell himself, pencil scratching at sheet notes, loops drawn in parts that need further editing.

I'm okay now.

His hands sift through scattered papers, the moon rising and falling and the sun dipping back up, and still Yoongi is awake, crescent purples shading his eyes, preparing for his debut that's looming ever closer.

I'm writing songs so I can move on, not because...

Yoongi's breath hitches as his songs draw to a close, as the arrangements start to stitch themselves into place, as the concert tickets start to sell.

...not because I want to remember, or - or -

The empty bottles of energy drinks start to litter his room and his flatmates buy him dinner every night so he can keep focusing on his songs and the four walls of his bedroom is closing in a little too fast. Three days. Then two and a half, and Yoongi's fingers are frozen. They're frozen numb, like hanging frostbites. His parents keep calling to make sure he's okay, tells him he'll do fine, apologizes that they'll have to miss it but will come to his next one. (Yoongi doesn't have the nerve to say that there might not be another one if he fucks this up.)

or because deep down, the hurt hasn't really left;

When the day comes Yoongi thinks the frostbites have spread to his entire body. Can't really feel his chest, can't really feel his anything but the sharp beating of his heart. He sleeps late, wakes up too early and the sun's still a purple dawn haze, and starts to go over his songs again. Finds small errors, scribbles out reminders in the margins, head stuffed with clouds and his feet won't stop wriggling as he finally walks to the recital hall in the late afternoon. It's fine. It's fine, he thinks, it'll be quick. Ripping off a band-aid.

I am not writing this for Taehyung

Before Yoongi knows it, he'd flown through rehearsal and make-up and the opening speech of his Juilliard professor introducing him to the crowd. There's a crowd, Yoongi thinks in heady disbelief. There's a crowd out there, is all he thinks as he waits backstage, knotted in nerves, static noise in his mind. His professor ends his words, tilts his head at Yoongi, and that's his cue. He tries to inhale, but it's shaky, his body near paralysed.

and god forbid, I am not writing this for us

The bench is too hard under his body, foreign to his touch, and the spotlight cuts into his eyes. Yoongi thinks his heart might jump out at any moment. He gulps, forces himself to breathe through his nose, and, without looking at the crowd because if he does he doesn't think he'll be able to play, he thinks go, now start now and somehow his fingers rest on the keys and somehow they know exactly what to do and somehow there's music, a little too soft at first, before it grows louder and more insistent, music that is a love story under Yoongi's quick fingers, music that soars and twists and lilts through the air like it's never belonged anywhere else but here and at some point in time, maybe his first sonata or his third love poem or his last set piece Yoongi does not know.

and I am not writing this for the time we cannot get back, all the years spent apart

But at a certain note Yoongi stops thinking and starts being. He hears the music clear as day, breathes in so deep his lungs feel ocean-heavy, sees the memories pressed against each chord like dried flowers between the pages of a diary, and all of a sudden it's five years ago, all of a sudden he's back in the tucked-in bookstore two streets away from campus and he's wearing slightly washed-out blue jeans and a hoodie that fits in odd angles and he's facing a boy, backlit by the sun, and he's looking into a pair of hazel brown eyes that would start it all, would start their story just because of the way they had looked, those eyes - bathed in the golden hour of the six p.m sunset, beguiling and utterly charming and completely unprecedented as they widen at the sight of Yoongi's book in his hands, and his lovely mouth curves into a delighted smile and goes oh my god that's my favourite Paulo Coelho, I love it so much, have you checked out his other works, and Yoongi hadn't known how to respond to such a sudden question by a sudden boy with sudden eyes, and he'd stuttered a little like he's off-balance and says uh, no, this is my first, actually, I don't know which book to start with, and those kind eyes had beamed and his cheeks had flushed dusty pink as the boy offers to help, and so it had started.

I am writing this for me because I am over him

Right there, in a bookstore, with the sun setting behind them. And Yoongi stops thinking of the audience, and how scared shitless he was, and the music soars into a crescendo as the audience holds its breath and the notes hit a high;

and I am not writing this for the time he left me, I do not miss him, I do not

When the final note rings and the music dies, Yoongi is crying.

I do not miss the way he makes me feel, like I can see and be seen in return

The audience hangs onto the silence. It starts like a murmur. And then they clap, and the hall comes alive with thundering claps and standing ovations and shouts of encore. Yoongi's hands drop to his lap, his joints aching and his fingers trembling. He feels relieved, slightly dizzy, like he'd either stepped out of his body or had filled it in too much.

I do not miss the way he loved me once, like I come with no conditions, like I come as I am

Out of habit, Yoongi turns his head to look at the roaring crowd, his vision now blurry from tears, and in his mind he searches for Taehyung, and he knows it's hopeless, he's never there he won't be there what are you doing –

Taehyung smiles at him from the third to last row.

And I am lying to myself

Yoongi feels his breath go out of him, a sharp impact. He stands quickly, jerks upright too fast. Stars swim in his eyes, but he keeps his gaze pinned at Taehyung, fervent, questioning, is that really you are you really here? He bows a bit too fast, and when he resurfaces he's scared that Taehyung might've blinked out of existence, but he's still seated, still smiling, still warm and honey-glazed and real, he's real.

I am lying to myself, I know now

Yoongi stands in disbelief in the middle of the stage, staring at Taehyung still, and his tears slip down his cheeks. Taehyung stares back, his smile turning wistful, sad.

I still miss you, I still do

The curtains fall with a heavy thud.

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this was one of my favorite scenes to write; i hope you liked it too! if you've taken the time to read, please know you've made me happy, and now it's time to make you happy - go drink some water, eat if you haven't, and try your best to be kinder; both to yourself and other people. i love you, thank you for reading & drop some feedback if you have time! ily x