quiet ➫ yoongi-centric

1.6

The whole concept of time was an absurd thing. 

Seconds could stretch out to eternities and sometimes, forever was only a minute long. The Danger stage was barely 5 minutes long yet it felt longer than the entirety of Yoongi's life. 

He doesn't think he'll ever get used to it; the blinding lights, the screams from fans, his own voice resonating in his mind as he raps. A voice so unlike his own, loud and bold. A persona foreign to even himself, something which exists purely for him yet will never really be his. Perhaps, this is why he does this; for the few moments of invincibility. Because when he is on that stage, no one can hurt him. Yoongi may be weak but nothing stops Suga, not the sun nor the moon. 

There's a hand on his shoulder backstage as they walk back to the waiting stage; sweat soaking through his cotton shirt and his jacket. The black clothes under the heat of the flashing lights do no favours to him as he jumps around the stage, his enthusiasm bursting through every step. He doesn't even notice he's panting until the hand guides him to a stray chair in the waiting room. As shallow breathes escape him, his eyes dart around rapidly. Jimin and Hoseok crowd around the monitor which shows a replay of their performance, Namjoon is talking to one of the managers while Taehyung sits next to him, equally out of breath. He hears something about Jin and Jungkook going to the washroom as a flurry of staff swarm around them. Someone hands him a water bottle while another pair of hands work on getting the chain around his neck off. They have another schedule he remembers, but it doesn't matter. 

In the few moments of silent chaos, lead fills up in his chest. The adrenaline wears off and the weight of being Yoongi rip his wings off once again. The plastic chair digs into his back, the water does nothing to remove the dryness in his throat. Jungkook is back in the room and Taehyung is getting up to go to him. Yoongi has never been the shortest really but tucked in the corner of the room he's never felt so small. His phone vibrates in his hand and real-time reactions of their performance come pouring in on twitter. He doesn't open them, but he reads the first few. It's positive, thankfully. Their fanbase is small but supportive, fiercely loyal and protective. Criticism will come in slowly, he knows but for now, he'd like to pretend he lives in a world where the majority adores them. 

The collar of his shirt feels too small, too tightly wrapped around his throat. He tugs at it as his eyes scan over the tweets from his lock screen. There's praise for their charisma, someone talks about the song's beats, a few comments talking about how Taehyung looks better than ever. There's some wonder about how young and cute Jin looks, something around Namjoon's flow, something about Hoseok's dance. His thumb is scrolling faster now, his eyes rapidly scanning words. He's bitting his lower lip gently, his eyebrows scrunched up before he notices he's searching for something. Himself. 

But there's no mention of him, not a single one. Of course, if he actually opens the app he might find some, but from the notification tab- there's nothing. The top tweets talk about the maknae line, rare tweets awe at Jin's beauty and Hoseok's dance. Heck, there's more talk about the song itself but none of him. Not even his rap. 

And for a minute, he wonders how is he going to survive the next schedule if he feels like drowning. He waits for the tingling numbness to kick in and he gets up to escape to the toilet. Flowing tears are harder to explain when he, himself, doesn't understand why he's so sad. Yet, oddly it never comes. The wave of sadness never hits him, rather something else floods in. 

He's always been an easy-going person, someone who prided himself on being calm and rational. Yet rage has never felt so familiar before. His shirt collar tightens around his neck, his chest feels like it's shrinking and his ribs push through his skin. His discomfort is going and a soreness in his throat seems to be spreading. His footsteps grow louder in the empty hallway leading to the toilets, thundering. By the time his leg is kicking the toilet doors open, his nails leave crescents on his palm. The toilet is too small for the storm raging in his fingertips, his body too small to contain the violence blooming in his soul. Everything is too quiet and he's never craved destruction more. The urge to get into a car and just wreak havoc on a highway is overwhelming, and the reflection of himself in the stained mirror is not someone Yoongi recognizes. 

Red brimmed eyes, a scowl carved in a porcelain face;  the eyeliner is smugged, his jacket hanging off his shoulder. He's never been a thing of beauty, elegance and grace. He's always been sharp, like the jagged edge of a mirror shard. He's always seen himself as someone in the eye of the storm. Yet the boy in the reflection, he is the storm. He is the soft violence who destroys everything, he whispers bitter words in his honey-sweet voice and he smiles at blood and pain. He's something Yoongi has never seen in himself before; something which has been a part of him for as long as he can remember. 

The Yoongi in the mirror breaths heavily, a single tear escaping. His hands are clutched his shirt, pulling and tugging like a wild beast. The cloth rubs against the back of his neck but he doesn't feel anything. The Yoongi in the mirror is brimming with hatred and fury. He burns with a fire so bright, the heat gets almost unbearable. He is red, bursting with bright oranges and peeking yellows and he swirls around in unfathomable patterns. The sun quivers before him, before his uncontrollable rampage. Like an exploding star, his destruction has never looked so beautiful. A supernova, lighting up in the siphoning darkness of the universe. 

Yoongi has never felt anger this intense, his feelings alternating between numbness, sadness and the rare moments of joy. He's used to giving and getting nothing back, he's used to always looking in from the outside He's used to being universes apart from those right next to him. He's used to the smooth confidence of Suga, he's used to the tender vulnerability of Yoongi. He's used to a million other things of what constitutes his soul. He's been angry before, of course, frustration tethering at the edges. But he's never seen this part of him, and he can laugh at the irony of how amazed he is at seeing this side of his own personality.  

In the few lifetimes he spends staring at his own reflection, he finds himself trying to name it. Identifying his new persona. The Yoongi in front of him is pain, suffering, a fight to always come out on the top, an ode to being better than everyone around him. 

He is a war which can never be won, a war which knows no beginning, a war against no one and the whole world at the same time. 

hi, its been a long time, hasn't it? things have been hard lately, my grandma passed away of brain cancer in march. i hadn't seen her since 2019 and now i'll never see her again. but i've not cried that much, i've not even felt sad as much. im just angry because i would have graduated next year, because i still had so much to show her, i had so much to tell her and she just left like that. there's no one i can tell this to irl so yoongi's going to be my only source to let it all out. i'm sorry this chapter isn't really anything good, im sorry i back after so long with nothing to give. i've not written anything in really long, i think ive lost my ability lol. 

hopefully, there wont be a longer wait for the next chapter, if there's anyone whose even reading this.