the boy with the dragon tattoo - yoonmin

chapter eight

Yoongi doesn't go home straight away. He stomps back to the dorm with irritation and anger still sizzling in his veins, that he was attempting to walk off before he got back. Fuck myungdae and especially fuck Junhyun, he hopes junhyuns nose was fucking broken. But yoongi didn't get a good look at him, he only saw a flash of red on the concrete before he was turning and storming away with myungdae yelling behind him slowly fading into the distance. He knew the older wasn't dead, which was unfortunate, fuck yoongi wished he was.

But something uncomfortable crawls inside him at the revelation that as he swung his leg back to crack against junhyuns face, he had wished for a split second that his shoes had metal toes, like his fathers, just so he could do a little bit more damage. That didn't sit well with him.

But yoongi shakes his head and tugs the hood over his face down more, avoiding the small amount of people around him as he bustles between the streets of a now dark Seoul. When he sees his dorm building looming in the distance he almost wishes it were further away, because his veins still sizzled with the aftermath of his rage, and he didn't want to act out in front of his members because he knew that sometimes he couldn't help it. Most of the time yoongi was calm, collected and even seemingly cold, but every now and then he couldn't help the anger that swelled up inside him like something alive. It scared him.

Yoongi sighs as he pushes open the foyer door and adjusts his duffel that was swung around his chest. But as he gets into the elevator he doesn't click the sixth floor, he presses the thirteenth. Yoongi stares at his exaggerated reflection in the stainless steel doors as the elevator moves upwards, like he always did. But something seemed different in his stretched face, something he hadn't really seen before. Maybe he was projecting. Yoongi looks away just as the doors ding open and he steps out into the windy roof, the cold air pushing his hood off his head and pressing against his cheeks until they tingle. He drops his bag and walks towards the edge, linking his fingers through the chain fence around the perimeter and wishing, not uncommonly, that it wasn't there. Not because he wanted to jump, but because he wanted to sit on the edge like he used to at his home in Daegu. It was his only escape, his only reprieve from his fathers tyranny. The roof. He would sit on the very edge of his concrete, white and grey unfeeling mansion of a house and just let the breeze brush through his hair. His feet dangling off the edge. He remembers thinking back then that if a particularly strong gust of wind were to knock him off and send him careening down towards the ground that he wouldn't have minded. He wasn't going to go to the effort of jumping off, but he wouldn't mind if he had been given a push. Yoongi still felt the same today, that feeling and never really gone away, but at least before it was pushed down where  he couldn't feel it as much anymore. But now, he could feel it pushing back to the forefront of his mind, constantly reminding him that it was there and it could morph into something more. Something worst.

Yoongi sits down and feels the cold ground bite through his sweats but ignores it to stare out past the fence, and down to the ground. People swarmed like ants below, bustling about in their normal, everyday lives. He wonders if any of them were feeling how he was, wonders if they could see him. He watches a tiny woman run down the street and disappear into a convenience store, what was she in such a rush to get? He watches a tiny man walk his tiny dog. A woman push a pram. A group of teenagers in school uniforms bump each other's shoulders and throw their heads back to laugh, but yoongi can't hear it, it gets carried away by the wind. He was too far away.

Yoongi closes his eyes and breathes in so that the cold air flows in his nose, and then comes out through his lips, warm and gentle. It reminds him that he's alive. But he doesn't know how he feels about that.

Yoongi imagines his old home in Busan. It had been in varying tones of white, grey and beige. Modern and sleek with no room for dirt. Everything had a place and everything was placed perfectly. He had been scared to move across the sleek white floors in case he'd dirty then just by being there. Then his father would have been mad. The only times he'd ever seen his house dirty was when there had been his own blood strewn across the floor in bright liquid red on white, like an impressionists painting. He'd remembered thinking it was nice, having some colour added to the monotone. Even if that colour was from his insides. But every time yoongi would awaken, or come back down, the red would be gone. Cleaned before it'd even had the time to darken, by faceless maids that yoongi hadn't really ever seen. But they always left him there, like he wasn't even worth cleaning up. Like he wasn't even a human.