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“Last chance,” Yoongi warns as he pauses at the front door - key in hand - and turns back to look at you from under the brim of his cap. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
Even to Yoongi, his voice sounds stern, but at least this way you can never say he didn’t give you fair warning. He’s given you plenty of opportunities to cut and run - plenty of warnings you’ve done nothing but ignore.
“Jesus christ, Yoongs,” you laugh, snatching the bunch of keys straight out of his grasp and shoving him to the side with a bump of your shoulder against his, stumbling off the path straight into a patch of petunias. “Since when did you get so dramatic?”
“I’m not being dramatic.” Sulkily, he steps back onto the path and takes great care in scraping off mud from the bottom of his shoes against the edge of the concrete as you fiddle with the keys, unsure of which one belongs to the front door. “I’m being realistic.”
“Pessimistic, you mean,” you interject, trying one key and then another, jiggling them in the lock.
“Whatever,” Yoongi grunts, “But I mean it - I’m not stepping foot out of here ‘till it’s done.” Yoongi can’t help but smile behind your back at how adorably exasperated you’re getting, huffing noisily as yet another key proves to be the wrong one. “I’m gonna be grumpy. Aloof. A grade-A asshole.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, then,” you snark back, and god, Yoongi loves it when you bite back. “A-ha!” You throw both hands up in the air without delight as the lock successfully clunks open, spinning on the spot to fix Yoongi with a dazzling smile that’s so cute it just about makes up for the smug gleam in your eyes.
Picking up your bag from where you’d dropped it on the doorstep, you sling it over your shoulder before approaching him, planting a kiss to Yoongi’s lips that’s so firm it almost knocks him off his feet.
“Like it or not, you’re stuck with me,” you inform him, and Yoongi’s forever grateful that you’ve no idea the way that makes his chest tighten to hear it. “Besides,” you smirk, “Who else is gonna keep you from driving yourself mad?”
You might have a point there - not that Yoongi will ever admit it.
“Fine,” he grumbles, tipping his head forward and peering down at his toes as he steps across the threshold of the front door so that you can’t see the smile that’s tugging at his lips. At the sound of you cooing at your surroundings, however, Yoongi automatically looks up.
Admittedly, if it were his first time seeing Namjoon’s place in the flesh he might well be a little awestruck, too. As it is, Yoongi’s already well acquainted with the high ceilings and open plan living space that make it so impressive to your eyes, and whilst you look with open-mouthed wonder, Yoongi just toes off his shoes with an expression so neutral is borders on bored.
Don’t get him wrong; Namjoon’s done an amazing job with the place. Looking at it now - stuffed to the brim with expensive soft furnishings and carefully selected pieces of art - you’d never believe it was the same burnt-out shell that Yoongi had called his best friend insane for buying not three years prior.
It’s amazing what a little money can achieve, hmm?
“Man… I really picked the wrong friend, didn’t I?” you say wistfully, whistling through your teeth as your head tilts back to admire the elaborate light fittings. Yoongi just rolls his eyes, thankful that jealousy is one of the few weaknesses he can profess not to possess.
“Tell me about it. You think this is impressive, you should see his dick.” One of your eyebrow rises at Yoongi’s deadpan statement, a playful curl to the side of your mouth as you follow after him towards the stairs.
“Oh yeah? Missing out, am I?” The wooden staircase creeks under foot with every step that he ascends, smiling as he goes.
“We didn’t use to call him ‘monster’ for nothing.” Your ringing laughter only makes him smile all the wider; happiness bubbling away in his stomach.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway splits off in two directions. The branch to the right leads to Namjoon’s bedroom and a sizeable bathroom, and down the hall to his left, a guest bedroom and the room in which Yoongi predicts he’ll be spending most of his time over the next few weeks; a fully equipped - and fully soundproof - home recording studio.
That’s the reason he’s here, after all. Being in the same business, Namjoon fully understood and empathised with the ‘creative block’ Yoongi had begrudgingly admitted to be holding him back some weeks ago. Being the supportive friend that he is, Namjoon hadn’t hesitated to invite the less fortunate rapper to come and take advantage of the benefits that success has brought; his very own private studio to use whenever he may please in a gorgeous house out on the very edge of the suburbs. Namjoon had used it as the perfect excuse to take a much needed vacation; a change to go and ‘find himself’ for a while.
Yoongi had rolled his eyes when he’d said that. How nice it must be to have the cash to be decide to do such things at but a moment’s notice, hmm?
Still, he’s grateful for the offer. It’s not very often he gets to work in such calm and beautiful surroundings, and Yoongi figures if he can’t make some progress here - away from all the hustle and bustle of life’s everyday distractions - then there’s not very much hope of it ever getting done at all.
“Isn’t this Namjoon’s room?” you ask as Yoongi pushes open the door to reveal the bright white walls of the room inside, stepping over the threshold. “I thought we were sleeping down the hall?”
“You can, if you want,” he retorts, slinging his bag from off his shoulder and dumping at the end of the bed on which he then proceeds to throw himself, landing with a bounce atop of Namjoon’s surprisingly firm, yet supportive, mattress. “I’ll be here, enjoying Egypt’s finest cotton sheets.” Yoongi can practically hear you raising your eyebrows at him as he spreads himself out like a starfish, exhaling a contented sigh, but after a second or two more he hears your bag being placed on the floor too and he grins, eyes closed - triumphant.
A few seconds more and you’re crawling onto the bed to join him, resting your head on his extended arm and curling into his side until he’s no longer able to resist the urge to roll over and hold you properly, chest to chest, nose to nose.
“Comfy?” Your eyes remain closed despite his query, and Yoongi supposes that’s all he needs to know. When your lips purse into a pout and you give the back of his shirt a needy tug he’s quick to cover them with his own, smiling into the kiss you share and threading his fingers into your hair to keep you extra close.
“You know,” you murmur between the pressing of your mouths, “Sleeping in his bed is one thing, but I’m not sure Namjoon will be too happy if we go doing much else in it.”
“Who says he has to know?” Yoongi smirks, stealing another kiss. He’s disappointed when you squirm away from his attempts to roll on top of you, pouting as you slip off of the bed and back onto your feet with a benevolent smile.
“Later,” you tease, and Yoongi feels no shame at the hope that runs through him from that one little word of promise that passes your lips. “Right now, there are suitcases in the car that need fetching, and a lunch that needs making.”
“Ugh.” Yoongi grimaces, flopping onto his back and allowing himself five more seconds with his eyes closed before wrenching himself back upright, hands dangling between his gangly legs at the end of the bed. “Fine, but I hope you’re gonna make it worth my while.”
“Oh, I will,” you sing-song as you walk away, sashaying your hips from side to side in a tantalising display that has Yoongi licking his lips in anticipation.
Lucky for him, you prove to be a woman of your word. The two of you make good on your promise not just once but twice before the evening is through, and as Yoongi falls asleep with you in his arms later on that night - exhausted in the most pleasant of ways - he muses to himself that this might not just be a productive stay, but an enjoyable one, too.
***
The first week of your stay within Namjoon’s not-so-humble abode proves to be one of the most productive Yoongi can remember having in a very long time. He’s not sure if it’s just the change of environment, having access to state of the art equipment, or simply just the crisp countryside air that’s doing it, but somehow all the old, worn of beats he’d been agonising over at home somehow seem fresher when he looks at them again in the comfort of Namjoon’s studio. For the first time in what feels like forever he feels inspired, and it shows in the music that he creates; the melodies his fingertips weave whilst sat at Namjoon’s grand piano.
For that first week, everything seems perfect. Even his relationship with you has never seemed stronger, and he finds himself delighting in waving you off to work every morning with a cup of strong coffee in hand and then feeling your arms wrap around his shoulders to press a kiss to his cheek once you get home. He imagines he could get used to this; being a well-kept house husband who has nothing more to care about than the songs he whistles out between pursed lips.
It surprises him, actually, how little he finds he cares to leave the house. He’d thought he might get cabin fever after a while but Yoongi finds himself feeling almost the opposite. Sat in the studio, away from the rest of the world, Yoongi finds both happiness and peace.
So contented, is he, that he doesn’t even really notice the way that you’re starting to insist on keeping the lights on all over the house at night time, or think much of the way you’ve always got the radio on whenever he finally joins you in bed at something-o’clock in the morning. They’re little things - inconsequential things - that completely pass him by.
It isn’t until part way through the second week of you stay that Yoongi feels as though his initial spurt of creativity starts to wane. His productivity is still better than when he first arrived, of course, and he’d figured it was inevitable that eventually he’d start to run a little dry as time went on but… still. It frustrates him that it’s not quite flowing as well as it once was; that he’s starting to have to stay up later and later to make the same kind of progress.
During the middle of one such night, stood barefoot in front of the coffee maker amongst the mod-cons of Namjoon’s kitchen, Yoongi lets this frustration out in the form of a ragged sigh. That sigh soon turns into a yawn so wide that it makes water leak out from the corners of his eyes which he wipes away with the heels of each hand, leaning back against the shining marble counters.
He hasn’t bothered to turn the lights on. Why would he when the moonlight shines so beautifully through the windows to reflect off every shining surface; every metallic kitchen appliance? The house is quiet, too, save the gurgling of the coffee filter, and after it lets out two high pitched beeps that echo through the ground-floor to signal that it’s done, Yoongi’s quick to pour himself yet another mug of liquid joy.
How many is that today? He’s not been keeping count, lately. You always tell him he drinks too much caffeine - always frown worriedly when you see him suffering with the withdrawal headaches that he tends to get whenever it’s been just that little bit too long since his last fix - but this is the life of a tortured artist, he tells you. He has to have some sort of fix, and better it be coffee than any other vices; sex, drugs or alcohol.
Padding back from the kitchen and into the living room, Yoongi’s eyes close as he takes that first, blissful sip. With his habit of taking his coffee black it’s always a little too hot to begin with, but Yoongi doesn’t mind. His years of impatience have given him a tongue he often likens to asbestos; able to tolerate heats other mere mortals couldn’t hope to stand.
This’ll be the last one for tonight; the cup that’ll see him through to the end of the bridge with which he’s struggling. He’s sure of it. If he can just find a way to-
An ear-splitting scream has Yoongi’s eyes popping open wide; his heart rate rising at such a rapid rate that it feels as though the organ is about to explode in his chest.
“Jesus fuck!” he shouts, not even feeling the heat of the coffee that’s now pooling around his feet, his mug laid shattered across the floor. All he can focus on is the ghostly white of your face directly opposite him - starkly illuminated by the moonlight - and the way you’re clutching at your heaving chest, gripping your heart as if you fear it might burst forth through your ribs at any moment.
“Yoongi!” you gasp, the slightest hint of relief dispersing across your features as you take him in and try to catch your breath. “Oh my god, you scared the shit out of me!” He can’t even bring himself to reply to begin with, taking a moment to compose himself by running a hand through his hair as he wills the frantic bounding of his pulse as it roars through his ears to calm, and as it does so it’s then that he notices the rapidly cooling pool of murky brown liquid that’s seeping between his toes, peering down at it glumly.
“What a waste,” he muses, and when he looks back up at you he’s glad to see that your terrified expression has now softened into one of mild surprise rather than abject horror.
“Should count yourself lucky I didn’t wallop you with something, appearing out of nowhere like that.” With short and breathy laugh, you release your pyjama top and let your hand fall back down to your side, and when Yoongi bends to start picking up the pieces of broken china off of Namjoon’s hardwood floor, you bend with him to lend a hand.
“I’d thought you were already in bed,” he comments, collecting the shards in his palm and then standing again once it’s all cleared, jutting his chin towards the room from which you’d emerged at the bottom of the stairs. “What were you doing in there, anyway?”
“I was, but then I heard you playing and I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
Yoongi pauses on his way back towards the kitchen, frowning curiously as his feet fall still.
“Playing?”
“Yeah.” As you register the confusion in his tone you come to a standstill too, a few steps ahead. “I mean, I’d rather you didn’t wake me up with it at 3am, but at least it sounded good.” You flash him a grin over your shoulder, completely missing the growing bewilderment in his eyes.
Yoongi wets his bottom lip, glancing down at the pieces of china in his palm.
“I haven’t been in there since this morning.”
“Huh?” Now it’s your turn to frown, turning around to face him properly. “But I heard you.” Your frown deepens when Yoongi shakes his head, exhaling a laugh.
“You must’ve been dreaming, babe. I’ve been in the studio all night - just came out to get a refill.” He watches as your eyes glance nervously towards the door that now lays behind him; the study in which Namjoon’s illustrious piano sits.
“I could’ve sworn I heard…” You trail off, falling silent before your gaze finally slips back to meet Yoongi’s, an unsure smile tugging at your lips. “I guess you’re right; must be hearing things in my sleep.”
“Must be,” Yoongi chuckles, and when he steps forward to close the distance between you and press a loving kiss against your forehead, the remaining worry that was etched on your face seems to melt away and your body relaxing against him.
“Sorry about your coffee,” you sigh quietly. Yoongi feels your breath blow across the base of his neck as you speak, and when he pulls back he sees that your tired eyes have already fallen closed.
“Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses, leaving your side to enter the kitchen, deposit the remains of his broken mug in the bin and grab a roll of paper towels to clean up with. “Maybe it’s a sign I should just call it a night.”
“Probably,” you smile, taking a handful of sheets from him. “I did tell you to do just that about - oh - three hours ago?”
“Hm, so you did.” Quietly, the two of you clean up the puddle of coffee that remains at the bottom of the stairs - nothing but the quiet tick of Namjoon’s grandfather clock to fill the silence save the groan you exhale as you stand, hands on your knees - and as Yoongi discards the coffee soaked paper towels into the bin on top of yours, he feels those same hands come to lie upon his waist; a kiss pressed to the back of his shoulder.
“So, are you coming to bed?” you ask, and as Yoongi turns in your hold and sees the hopeful smile that’s curving your pretty lips, he’s already given in.
“How can I resist?”
***
“Are you coming to bed, baby?”
Yoongi’s doesn’t look away from the computer screen at your question - index finger of his right hand busily clicking away on his mouse - and even though he hears you he waits until you’re actually stood behind him and removing his headphones yourself before he manages to respond.
“Not yet,” he answers shortly, tutting his tongue against his teeth and scowling back at the software he’s using when he spies the mistake he’s made; the beat that sits slightly out of place amongst all the others. “Gotta finish this.”
He wishes he doesn’t hear the disappointed sigh that falls from your lips. He wishes he wasn’t so aware of the way you’ve stopped fighting him about this anymore, either; simply giving up, placing his headphones around his neck and stepping away, hands falling limply to your sides.
Yoongi hasn’t fallen asleep with you in his arms since the night that you’d scared the hell out of each other, and it’s been ever since that night, too, that his concentration has continued to wane. It’s like he can’t seem to get anything done during daylight hours; waking up late and sitting down at Namjoon’s computer as soon as his tired body will allow him to move. Bleary eyed and irritable, he’ll try to make progress the whole afternoon through - nursing a never-ending cup of coffee - but it’s only once the sun goes down that he can seem to make any kind of progress, and even then it’s slow.
By the time you’re creeping up the stairs to announce that you’re going to bed it’s never enough, and though he notices a lot of things as the days pass by, Yoongi remains oblivious to the gradually increasing hopelessness that taints your voice every time you ask whether or not he’ll be joining you.
He wants to; he really does. Yoongi wants to fall into bed with you at a decent time, not just when his eyes are so tired he can barely even see. Sometimes you’ve already left for work by the time he’s pulling the blankets up to his chin; grimacing and restless even in his sleep.
“Will you at least eat the sandwich I made? It’s going stale.”
Sandwich? What sandwich?
For the first time in what feels like hours, Yoongi blinks and turns his face away from the screen. It feels as though there’s sand caught beneath his eyelids, and as he focuses on the sandwich sat on the edge of his desk - two triangles of neatly sliced white bread - he wonders how long it must’ve been sat there before you’ve finally distracted him enough to notice it.
Not that he’s even really felt hungry.
“Sorry,” he laments with a sigh, and when he sees the worried furrow of your brow where you loiter at the side of his chair, he really does mean it. He picks up one half for good measure, taking a simultaneously enthusiastic yet joyless bite and chomping it down, forcing a grin when you beam in reply. “I’ll get it down, I promise.”
“Ok,” you acquiesce, sufficiently mollified by the second mouthful he takes, smacking his lips when the peanut butter sticks thickly to the roof of his mouth. “I know you’re busy, but just…” Your frown returns for a moment, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you fold your arms across your chest. “… Just try not to push too hard, ok?”
“I’ll try.” Placing the remains of his sandwich down, Yoongi swivels round on Namjoon’s plushy computer chair and extends his arms out to you, beckoning you into his lap, and it’s with an eager smile that you hurry over and flop heavily into his embrace, burying your head in the crook of his neck. He can’t quite fathom the desperate way in which you cling to the front of his t-shirt, nor why you seem quite so determined to snuggle in as close as is physically possible.
Has he really been neglecting you quite so much?
“Maybe…” you begin after a few quiet moments, fidgeting with the fabric of his t-shirt between your fingertips, “Maybe we can go to the movies or something this weekend? It feels like forever since we went anywhere together.”
Out of the corner of his eye Yoongi can see the cursor on his desktop blinking, and as he replies a ‘maybe’ into your hair the lie makes his stomach churn; guilt weighing heavily on him. Saturday is only two days away and he knows he won’t have things finished by then - knows he won’t want to leave the house unless every part is done and dusted.
He can only hope that you’ll understand when you ask again and he has to tell you no. That you’ll understand that everything he does - all this hard work - is all for the two of you, so that one day you can both live in a house like this rather than your run-down apartment building, and Yoongi can afford to buy the ring you keep hinting is missing from the third slender finger of your left hand.
“Go on, babe,” he finally says, disentangling himself and gently encouraging you up and off his lap despite how comfortable and contented you’d made yourself. “Go get some rest.” Obediently, you head towards the door, pausing once you get there to lean your head on the frame and bid him goodnight with one final, hopeful plea.
“Come to bed soon, ok?”
“I’ll try,” he repeats again, and pulls his lips into a tight smile as he waves you out of the room.
It slips off his face as soon as the door is closed behind you, and as he turns back around to face the luminous glow of his computer screen, Yoongi exhales a heavy sigh.
He has to get this done soon. He just has to.
***
Despite his best efforts, Yoongi wakes up on Saturday afternoon no further along with his work than he had been two days ago. He’d spent hours and hours staring at the same damn bars of music and just… nothing. Nothing.
He can’t understand what’s changed. He’d felt so invigorated when he’d first arrived here! How could that feeling have disappeared so fast?!
In a mood so foul that it has him clenching his jaw from the moment he awakes, Yoongi stalks across the upper-landing hall from your bedroom to the studio without pausing to change out of the sweatpants he’s slept in or take a shower. He’ll sort himself out later, he reasons, after he’s figured out whatever it is that’s missing from this verse. There’s something missing. Something… something…
“What the fuck?” he grits out, scowling angrily at the computer tower from which his USB seems to be missing. He’d opened up Cubase to get started only to realise all his files are seemingly absent, and now - running his hands frantically over Namjoon’s desk space, that USB is nowhere to be found. “Where the fuck’s it gone?!”
This can’t be happening. It can’t! It’s bad enough that he can’t seem to even string a simple beat together anymore, but if he’s actually gone and lost everything he’s done so far, he may as well just pack up and call it quits now. Yoongi may as well kiss his dreams goodbye.
Pausing, palms pressed flat to Namjoon’s desk, he desperately tries to calm himself. Logically, he knows it can’t have gone far. There’s only so many places it could be - so many places it could’ve gone missing.
In amongst the deep breaths he’s taking, Yoongi suddenly hears the sound of you clattering around in the kitchen below and his eyes spring open, head turning to face the door a split second before he’s running through it, descending the steps two at a time in his haste. You don’t seem to notice the harrowed look on his face when he abruptly enters the kitchen; too busy sat at the table stirring the fruity contents of your yoghurt around and around and around.
It’s when he says your name - pacing towards you - that you notice his arrival, smiling wide.
“Hey sleepy head!” you greet cheerily, likely surprised that he’s even shown his face downstairs. Save to play the piano, it’s been a rare occurrence just lately, and you’re so pleased to see him that you don’t even give him chance to open his mouth before you’re running yours, jabbering excitedly. “So I’ve been looking at the movie showings like we said and - this is so cool - they’re doing this whole Stephen King-athon thing tonight! They’re showing IT, Carrie, The Shining, all the-”
“Where’ve you put it?” Yoongi demands impatiently, cutting you off with a frustrated exhale that’s so hard it makes his nostrils flare.
Blindsided, you blink.
“Where’ve I put… what?”
“My USB. The little green USB I keep all my music on - it’s missing.” You blink again, your eyes completely devoid of any comprehension, and Yoongi can feel his temper starting to flare at how utterly oblivious you’re acting. “Look,” he barks, stepping forward and laying one hand flat on the kitchen table so abruptly that it actually makes you jump in your seat. “I didn’t move it - I wouldn’t have moved it - so you must’ve done.”
“Yoongi, you know I don’t touch your work stuff…” You glance away, licking your lips, and even though - deep down - Yoongi knows he’s being unreasonable, for some reason the gesture has suspicion rearing its head like a poisonous snake, worming its way through his insides. “I wouldn’t even know what I was looking at!”
When you meet his gaze again and recognise the iciness contained within it, your self-deprecating laugh abruptly ceases.
“If you took it-”
“I didn’t!” Your indignant protest has Yoongi clenching his jaw and closing his eyes in an attempt to keep his temper, speaking his next words through gritted teeth.
“But if you did, it’d be better for both of us if you just tell me now - not later.”
Yoongi uses your answering silence as an opportunity to count to ten with each inhale and exhale, but by the time he opens his eyes you’re still staring back at him just as blankly - just as infuriatingly.
This clearly isn’t working. Even if you do have it, knowing how stubborn you are you’ll never admit it if he just keeps coming at you like this.
Sighing, Yoongi decides to try a softer approach.
“I know you’ve been wanting to get me out of the house.” He rounds the table, closing some of the space between you. “But you can’t just take my stuff to make it happen. If something happens to that USB, I’m screwed.”
“Yoongi…” you say softly, turning your head to look up at him where he now stands hovering over you, head tilted to the side. Chin wobbling, you bite your lip, and Yoongi’s more convinced of your guilt than ever when he sees the wateriness of your widened eyes. “I really, really didn’t take it.”
It’s always just like you to crack out the waterworks whenever you’re in the wrong. Just like you to play the victim. He’s the one that should be crying! He’s the one that -
“Well who the fuck did then?!”
He’s never yelled at you like this before - never seen fright flash through your eyes at anything he’s ever said or done - and the remorse that overcomes Yoongi is as immediate and instinctive as the way you’d flinched away. He’s horrified by the way you seem to be holding your breath as you look up at him; disgusted at himself for speaking to you in such a way that those tears that were threatening to spill are now tumbling unreservedly down your cheeks.
“Fuck!” Yoongi hollars, spinning on the spot and carding his hands through his hair before turning back to you and cursing again; soft and low. “Sorry,” he croaks out, his throat raw with the venom that’d just ripped its way through it, “Babe, I’m sorry.” You say nothing; too busy pressing your lips together to hold back the sob that’s already shaking your shoulders.
God, he hates himself for making you look this way.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” Yoongi unwinds his fingers from his hair to hide his face in his palms instead, grimacing into them. “I’m just… I’m just stressed and I’m not sleeping and I just-”
“I know,” he hears you say, and the understanding in your voice makes him want to start sobbing into his hands with how grateful he is to have you and how utterly undeserving of your kindness he is. “I know you’re working hard.” You’re worrying your lip with your front teeth when Yoongi finally uncovers his face, flashing you an apologetic smile that looks more like a grimace and is just as pathetic as he feels.
“But that’s still not an excuse.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets rather than reach out and touch you like he’s longing to, his gaze following the tracks your tears have left shining down your face. He doesn’t deserve to do that, either, especially when the tips of his fingers brush against something small and solid the moment they enter his pocket.
Pulling the mystery object out, Yoongi actually laughs as he uncurls his fingers to reveal the USB nestled so innocently in the centre of his palm, but it’s not a laugh of relief or happiness. There’s a slightly manic edge to it - just a hint of delirium - and Yoongi think he really must be sleep deprived if he can’t even remember taking the damn thing with him to bed.
Why would he even do that, anyway?
“Jesus christ, I’m an asshole.” Yoongi can’t even bear to look at the thing, shoving it back into his pocket with far more aggression than is required and then finally braving a look at you, thankful for the way his messy bangs are hanging in front of his eyes to hide some of the emotion roiling through him.
“Yoongi…” You release a worn sounding sigh as you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands and then shake your head, refusing to meet his eyes.
“You can say it; I’m an asshole,” he persists because in all honesty, Yoongi wants you to get mad at him. It might help aussage some of the guilt that he feels if you do, even though he knows it’s not in your nature to scream and shout and it’s probably selfish of him to want that in the first place.
“Yeah, you are,” you admit, finally lifting your chin long enough to meet his eyes, and Yoongi’s surprised when just a moment later the corners of your lips start to twitch as if you’re holding back a smile. “Though I had a stronger word in mind there, for a second or two.”
“Well whatever it was, I’m that too.” A moment of silence settles between you and in the time in which he spends looking down in your eyes, Yoongi wonders how he’d ever let his temper run away with him so badly that he’d ever thought such unkind things about you.
He knows that all you ever want is the best for him; all you’ve ever wanted. Underneath your teasing little jibes and snarky smiles, you’re soft and sweet and kind (almost to a fault) and that’s what Yoongi’s always loved about you. You keep him on toes, but if he were ever to fall off balance you’d be right there to catch him.
“I really am sorry,” he repeats, slipping his hands out of his pockets and allowing himself just enough forgiveness with which to reach out and cup your face in his hands, wiping away the remaining moisture that lingers in the corner of your eyes.
“I know you are.” You tilt your face into his palm as a mischievous smile starts to stretch out your lips. "Are you going to make it up to me?“ Yoongi can’t help but smile now, too.
Taking your hands in his, he pulls you to stand against him.
"Why don’t you come here and find out?” he murmurs, already leaning in to brush his nose against yours, lips barely touching, and not even a second goes by that his mouth lingers there - his eyes sliding closed - before you’re already giving in. He feels your arms wrap around him, your palms flat against his back, and when Yoongi returns your gesture and clutches you to him, crashing his mouth against yours, your fingernails press into his skin through the fabric of his shirt.
Fight forgotten, it’s all too easy for Yoongi to get lost in you. You don’t seem to care that he hasn’t brushed teeth or yet had chance to shower; just as eager as ever to open up to him and yield to the insistent probing of his tongue. Perhaps it’s testament as to how much you’ve been missing him that you give yourself over so easily and the two of you practically trip of yourselves in your haste to ascend the stairs and tumble across the threshold into Namjoon’s bedroom, bodies tangling on top of the sheets.
He’s too impatient to get inside you. Usually Yoongi would spend an age watching you fall apart on his fingers or his tongue, but there doesn’t seem to be time for any of that today. He wants, he yearns, he craves, and from how wet you are between your legs he can only figure that you long for him just the same. You may cry out when he thrusts his way inside, his head buried in the crook of your neck, but the way you wrap your legs around him and dig your heels into his buttocks tell him you love it all the same.
And you do love it. You always have. As Yoongi buries himself in your heat over and over again you shout his name until your throat sounds raw, tearing at his hair as he bites and sucks bruises into your tender skin. He finds catharsis in it - in making you scream. Every little bit of frustration that’s pent up in the last few days he uses to spur him on, to fuck you even harder, to pin your wrists above your head and grit his teeth and make you beg for him never to stop.
“Yeah,” he pants out, sweat dripping down his brow as he watches you tilt your head back into the pillow, your mouth hanging in soundless pleasure. “You love it when I give it you like this, don’t you? Love it when I fuck you this hard.” The tear that slips out from the corner of your eye makes his chest rumble with satisfaction as he licks it off of your face. “You want it harder, baby?”
It’s only incomprehensible sound that he’s met with in reply. That, and the clenching of your vice-tight walls around him, so Yoongi gives you exactly what he knows you need - slamming himself into you with such ferocity that the exertion makes it feel as though his heart is gonna burst through his chest.
By the time Yoongi meets his end, he’s covered in you. The evidence of the two orgasms he’d demanded from you have soaked his crotch and his back is littered with scratch marks, his mouth full of the taste of yours, and when he finally rolls off of you - breathing hard - he can’t tell if its your sweat that’s shining across his chest belongs to him or you. He doesn’t care, quite frankly.
For just a little while he feels satisfied. For just a little while his mind falls quiet, and despite the fact that he only woke up less than an hour ago the post-coital peace that washes over him has Yoongi’s eyes drooping with sleep before he’s even managed to kiss you.
“Ok, babe?” he murmurs out, his left hand groping across the sheets to find your hand and squeezing when he finds it.
“Yeah…” you answer hesitantly, and if Yoongi were still awake he might’ve had the chance to notice the way your shaking fingers brush over the bruises he’s left behind, or how you wince at the ache between your thighs. The worried look in your eyes. “Yeah… I’m fine.”
***
“For fuck’s sake!”
Unfortunately, the serenity that Yoongi had found in your arms wasn’t meant to last. When he’d woken up later that night to an empty bed it’d been to a sense of distress so intense that it’d felt like a physical weight pressing on his chest; guilty for wasting so many hours of what should’ve been productive time.
Almost forty eight hours have passed since then and Yoongi has been sat at Namjoon’s computer for almost the entire time, determined to get back on track and becoming more and more frustrated when only the opposite seems to happen. Even his older, completed tracks don’t sound right anymore, and instead of working on new material like he’s supposed to he’s ended up pouring over the old, guzzling coffee and chewing his fingernails right back to the bed.
He can’t figure out what’s wrong with him - why this just isn’t working as it used to. Have his songs always sounded this stale? Has he always been this talentless? If that were true surely he would’ve given up by now, but as Yoongi sits with his head in his hands he’s struggling to even remember what it felt like to take pride in the things he creates.
Maybe he’s always been this rotten. Maybe that’s why Namjoon has succeeded where he’s always failed. Maybe that’s why -
Yoongi looks up sharply at the creak of a floorboard behind him, yanking off his headphones, and when he swivels in his chair he sees you stood in the doorway with a nervous look on your face. You’d obviously tried to enter as silently as possible, your body going rigid as you realised you’d failed, and as Yoongi turns back around he hears you exhale the shaky breath you’d held behind him.
He can’t understand why you’re acting this way. He’d thought things were ok between you after the argument you’d had and the making up that’d followed, but even he’s noticed that ever since then you seem increasingly on edge and that the bags under your eyes have seemed to grow and darken.
Regardless, Yoongi hasn’t got the time to deal with whatever grudge you’re holding or pander to your childish sulking.
“Why was there a lamp in the trash this morning?” Yoongi asks, his voice coming out low and hoarse from lack of use over the past couple days. Realising you’ve moved forward, he glances sideways. “Namjoon’s not gonna let us stay again if - what’s that?” He reaches out and grasps your wrist, holding it still where it’d been reaching across the desk towards the untouched sandwich sat beside his computer screen and frowning at the way you flinch the instant his fingers meet your skin.
You won’t meet his gaze when he tilts his head to look up at you with concern in his eyes - chewing your lip - so he turns his focus back to your arm instead and very gently slips up your sleeve to reveal what it was that had originally caught his attention: a series of small bruises around your forearm. The way they’re placed they look just like fingerprints; like someone has grabbed you similarly to the way he is now.
The very thought of someone manhandling you makes Yoongi’s blood start to boil inside his veins and when he speaks to you again his voice is as sharp and as cutting as a blade.
“Who did this?” he demands, and the response that you give isn’t one that Yoongi would ever expect to hear. You give a short, incredulous laugh and yank your wrist away from him, rolling your eyes when his own widen at your unexpected behaviour.
“Same person who broke the damn lamp, Yoongi,” you say, and now he really is confused. No-one’s been in the house except the two of you, but he didn’t… he doesn’t…
You pull down your sleeve to cover up the marks (though the ones on your neck are still just as deep) and pick up the sandwich as you’d originally intended, holding it close to your stomach. Huffing an exhale, you lock eyes once more and ever so slowly Yoongi sees the anger and frustration seems to fade from your expression. It transforms into concern; worry for the utter bewilderment Yoongi presumes must be written all over his face.
“I don’t understand,” he mumbles, fingers twitching where they’re still hovering in mid-air after you’d wrenched yourself away. It sounds like you’re saying that he’s the one that’s responsible for this but how can that…?
“Do you…” You hesitate, struggling to comprehend. “Do you really not remember?”
“Remember what…?” he replies quietly, feeling the words catch in his throat on their way out. Yoongi can feel his heart start to beat harder in his chest, his pulse bounding under his skin because he just doesn’t understand and there’s a rising sense of panic within him that’s making him feel very, very sick.
“The other night. You-” You cut yourself off, seeming to search his eyes once more before continuing, weight shifting from one foot to the other. “- I was watching TV downstairs and you’d… I think you’d deleted some of your work by accident or something and you were really, really mad and-”
“Did I…?” Yoongi interrupts in a whisper, eyes focusing on the spot on your arm where he knows those bruises lay, and now the panic that’d gripped his stomach is ascending into his chest and it feels like he can’t fucking breathe.
“No!” you quickly assure him, stepping forward and placing the sandwich back on the table. “Not really, no. You just… grabbed my wrist when I’d tried to calm you down. You’d already broken the lamp and you looked like you were going to go for the computer next and I know you wouldn’t have forgiven yourself if-”
Yoongi’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to forgive himself anyway, after all this.
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, baby. A-as soon as it happened you stopped. Straight away.”
No wonder you’ve been been avoiding him. No wonder you’ve been tiptoeing around the house.
Yoongi gasps for breath, tears spilling from his eyes.
God, what’s the point of him even being alive?
“No, no no, Yoongi.” You rush forward, falling to your knees between his and taking his face into your warm hands. “No, don’t cry baby, it’s ok. I’m alright.”
Why are you even bothering to comfort him? He’s pitiful, worthless - pathetic. He doesn’t deserve the kisses that you’re smothering him in, the little presses of your lips all over his cheeks and lips to try and kiss away all the pain that’s choking the breath out of him.
Why can’t he remember? How can something like that happen and he not remember? What’s wrong with him? What’s happening?
“I’m so sorry,” Yoongi sobs into your hair having leant forward and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, his chest heaving with the weight of each cry, and he is so - so, so sorry - for something that he can’t even recall.
He’s frightened by the gaping hole in his memory, terrified that there might be something that else that he’s missing; some other atrocity that he’ll have committed but could never name.
“It’ll be alright, baby. You’ll get things finished soon and then we can just go home, together, ok? It’ll all be ok, “ you comfort, but as a feeling of foreboding - dread ice cold - runs it way down Yoongi’s spine and freezes bones within the warmth of your arms, he’s really not sure he believes a word you say.
***
Yoongi wakes with a start, gasping down gulps of air as he scrambles for purchase across Namjoon’s desk, his headphones tumble to the ground along with his pens and scattered papers. As he does so often these days, Yoongi struggles his way back to consciousness with the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck and all the hairs on his arms stood on end, and the pitch dark of Namjoon’s studio does nothing to soothe the uneasy feeling that’s festering right down deep in his gut; a fear that he can’t quite put a name to.
Quickly reaching out for the computer mouse, he gives it a shake to illuminate the room with an artificial glow that immediately helps to quell some of his nerves - enough for him to rest his forehead on the heels of his hands and try to catch his breath.
He’s not sure how long he’s been sleeping for. He doesn’t even remember feeling himself start to drift, but Yoongi’s relieved when he checks the time of his last edit and sees that it was only an hour or so ago. It’s not like he’s got the time to waste; Namjoon’s due home in a week or so, and then whether he’s finished or not the two of you will have no choice but to leave.
Yoongi’s just picking up his headphones from where they’re dangling off the edge of the desk when he suddenly hears your voice drifting into the room from across the hall followed by the sound of your gentle, lilting laughter. It makes him smile at first, but that happiness is a fleeting emotion that quickly turns sour.
He can’t remember the last time he heard you laugh like that for him. Who is it that you’re speaking to that’s managed to revert you back to the woman you were before either of you ever came here? Before you started regarding him with guarded eyes, folded arms and so much silence that it hurts his ears.
Yoongi’s feet start to carry him before his brain has even made the conscious choice for him to move; creeping steps across the darkened hallway to loiter outside of Namjoon’s bedroom door where it stands slightly ajar. He can hear you clearly, now - can hear the easy way in which you converse back and forth with whomever it is on the other end of the line - and god, it makes his stomach twist and turn with a jealousy he never even knew he was capable of.
“Wow, that sounds amazing,” he hears you gush, “You’re so lucky.” A pause follows and the sound of you shifting across the sheets, making yourself more comfortable.
“I’m glad you’re having fun. You deserved a break.” Is it your sister that you’re speaking to, perhaps? Yoongi knows that you’ve had to entertain a lot of stressed-out phone calls from her over the last few months; a side effect of the promotion that had been thrust upon her so unexpectedly and added her to the list of just another person in Yoongi’s life that’s been blessed with far more fortune and success than he has.
“Oh yeah… no, we’ve made ourselves at home. It’s beautiful. Really peaceful.” Yoongi tunes back into the conversation and works to relax the clench of his jaw. "We’re… we’re doing alright.“ For the first time since he’s been listening in, Yoongi hears a note of hesitation enter your voice. There’s another pause on your end and he leans closer, straining his ears and wishing he could hear what the other person was saying in reply. "To be honest, Joon….. he hasn’t really been talking to me much about it.”
Ah. So it’s Namjoon that you’re talking to, is it? Yoongi doesn’t realise that his fists clench tighter when he hears his friend’s name pass your lips but they do, pressing crescent-shaped marks into his palms as that jealousy flares again, burning its way up his oesophagus like bile.
“But you know what he’s like… usually when Yoongi isn’t talking that means that there’s a problem.” He hates how well you know him. He hates how no matter how hard he’s tried to hide it you’re still all too aware of how badly he’s struggling. What a failure he is. And now… now Namjoon’s going to know all about it, too.
“I’m…” Yoongi holds his breath at the pause you take. "I’m really worried about him. He’s not been himself since we got here. He’s not sleeping, he’s barely eating… he’s starting to look… ill.“ Another emotion rears its head as Yoongi listens to you speaking about him, and it’s a lot darker than the jealousy that’d been lurking within him before. He’s getting angry, now. Angry that you’re bad mouthing him to one of his best friends. Angry that you’re making him sound so pathetic. So weak.
"No… I mean… I know he gets like this sometimes when he’s really been really stressed out but Joonie this feels… this feels different. There’s something not right about him, and I’m not sure it’s just about the work anymore.” Yoongi tastes blood the next time his tongue moves along the inside of his cheek, his jaw so tight that it’s starting to make his bones ache. "To be honest… I’m really looking forward to you coming home.“
You jump out of your skin when Yoongi throws open Namjoon’s bedroom door to reveal his silhouette stood in the doorway, his shoulders heaving with the weight of his breaths. He doesn’t care that the handle will have slammed into the wall and likely chipped some plaster, all he cares about is the expression that you’re wearing - the fright that he mistakes for guilt - and when you hasten to end the call, rambling nonsensically to Namjoon some shit about needing to get the dinner started it only gives more weight to the irrational questions that are turning over and over in Yoongi’s mind.
Why do you seem so upset about having your intimate little conversation overheard? What would you have gone on to say if he hadn’t have made himself known? Would you have incriminate yourself even further? Would you have told him that you missed him? Perhaps you would’ve confessed even more than that…
He remains deadly still in the doorway, a complete contrast to your restless fidgeting at the head of the bed
"Yoongi-” He takes one step closer to the bed and you abruptly stop talking.
“Having a nice little chat about me, were you?”
You must’ve meant it back when you said that you’d picked the wrong friend, he thinks, and no matter how much it hurts to acknowledge Yoongi can’t even find it within himself to blame you.
“Joon just wanted to know how you were getting on,” you tell him quietly, wrapping your arms around the pillow that’s held in your lap and squeezing it to you, avoiding his eyes.
Why wouldn’t you prefer Namjoon over him? He’s taller, fitter and more handsome; smarter, richer and far more successful. Everything that Yoongi’s ever struggled for has always come so easy to Namjoon - everything but you - and now his so-called friend is out to steal you from him too.
“Oh I bet,” Yoongi snaps out, venom behind his bite as he steps forward again. “And I bet you just couldn’t wait to tell him what failure I am, could you?”
“What?” Your eyes widen incredulously, clutching the pillow even tighter now, “No!”
“Been having a good laugh, I bet. Min-fucking-Yoongi - such a pathetic mess he can’t even finish a single fucking song.” Namjoon must’ve loved to hear that, he thinks. How creatively impotent he is. He probably thinks Yoongi’s dick doesn’t work, either.
“It was nothing like that, Yoongi!” you deny, and the shrill pitch of your voice makes his head feels like it’s going to explode, clutching at his ears as you rise up onto your knees and shuffle towards him. “Why are you acting like this?!”
Why? Why?!
Why wouldn’t he when you’ve been so keen to go spilling his inadequacies to anyone and everyone who’ll listen? When you’ve been been hassling him, nagging him, demanding more and more of the time he’s so desperately lacking!
“Don’t fucking touch me!” he hisses when you reach out to close your hand around his forearm, shaking you off so vehemently that you fall backwards, sprawled across the sheets with a yelp of fright. “Did you tell him about those, too?” Yoongi demands, jutting his chin towards the bruises on your arm.
You shake your head, no, and Yoongi sneers, scoffing out a short and derisive laugh.
“Should’ve. You missed an opportunity there; Namjoon’s always loves to play the hero. Might fuck you out of pity if you ask him nice enough.”
Yoongi wonders if it should concern him how utterly unphased he feels as he stands over you and watches as begin to cry, the elbows that you’re supporting your weight on trembling along with the rest of your body. He knows he wasn’t always this cold and indifferent towards you but lately he just can’t seem to find the will to care.
He’s tired - so tired - and he has far more important things to worry about than giving a shit about whatever you might think about him.
“What’s happened to you?” you ask him through tears, your chin wobbling as Yoongi just rolls his eyes. “Do you just want me to go? Is that it?”
“Do what you want,” he says flippantly, turning his back just in time to hear you choke back a sob. “Maybe I’ll finally manage to get some work done without you here sitting on my back.”
Yoongi’s sure as he pulls Namjoon’s bedroom door behind him he hears you begin to brokenly sob but still, he feels nothing.
Resignedly, he re-enters Namjoon’s studio - both his safe haven and his prison cell - and relaxes into his chair with a contented sigh. He’s sure that now, with you gone, he’ll finally make some progress. He’ll be truly free from distraction; just him, his thoughts and the music. The way it’s supposed to be.
He’s impatient to get started as he starts up Namjoon’s computer and signs in, eagerly tapping his fingers against the edge of the desk as he waits for Cubase to load and as the screen lights up and he accesses his files, Yoongi is forced to do a double-take.
All his files…. They’re missing. Every single one of them.
Frantic, he looks to the computer tower and checks that his USB is, indeed, still in place, and when he sees that it is so begins a manic search through every folder and file that he’s ever accessed whilst living here at Namjoon’s. It’s not even as though the USB isn’t being recognised! The drive’s there, plain as day, but it’s empty. Completely… and utterly… empty.
“No,” Yoongi whispers to himself, gradually gaining volume with the more hysterical he becomes. “No. No. No! Fuck! No!” He stands up from his seat so abruptly that it falls to the floor behind him and leans so close to the computer that his nose is mere inches away as he searches again and again and again from folder to folder, forward and back as though the tracks might magically reappear.
Not now. Not now he was so close to finishing. Not now, not now, not now!
He was finally going to get it done now you’re gone - now that all the distractions have finally been gotten rid of!
This is your fault.
This is your fault!
If you hadn’t been interrupting him - if you hadn’t been so willfully obstructive coming into the studio all damn the time - this never would’ve happened. He must’ve deleted the files or… or there must have been some sort of corruption that he hadn’t noticed, or - or -
No… wait.
Double-clicking back into the drive of his USB, Yoongi lets out a choked laugh when he sees a singular file sat waiting for him inside. It’s not one he recognises, the name ‘Redrum’ completely unfamiliar, but he’s so glad to find something - anything - that he opens it without thought, loading it onto his workstation and slipping his headphones on without even realising that there’s tears spilling from his eyes.
Yoongi stopped paying attention to his body’s cues for anything other than caffeine a long time ago.
As he starts to play the track, he chews compulsively on the stub of his thumbnail and prays that somehow all of his work has been mysteriously compressed onto his one, singular file, his knee bouncing up and down underneath the flat of Namjoon’s desk.
Thirty seconds in, however, and there’s nothing. Nothing. Nothing but static, white noise and his own heavy breathing; abrasive against his eardrums. His chest starts to heave faster and faster as every second goes by - sucking in oxygen so greedily that he starts to get light headed and has to rest his head in his hands and close his eyes to ward off the fuzzy monochrome lights that are swarming across his vision.
But then - at his very lowest moment - Yoongi hears it; even though he doesn’t realise what it is to begin with.
Eyes springing open, he scrambles to alter the audio balances to try and bring the mystery sound to the forefront of the track, diminishing all the rest of the static. His fingers shake and his heart pounds as it starts to get clearer.
The thing that he’s been missing. That something that has been lacking from each and every single track, and a smile tugs at his dry lips and cracks them as he hears it, a laugh ripping from his throat as he tips back into his chair and throws his head back with delight.
You. Your beautiful voice but twisted and warped into a litany of screams. Crying, sobbing, begging for your life; a chorus of blood-curdling sounds pouring out from your lungs.
Yoongi’s never heard a more beautiful sound.
This was just what he needed.
***
“Are you actually kidding me?” you whisper to yourself, pausing with your hands hovering in mid-air holding a half-folded t-shirt above a hastily packed overnight bag.
As if you weren’t already bordering on having a complete and total breakdown after tonight’s events, now life has decided to throw a power cut on top of everything else just to push you further towards the very edge of your sanity - to test you even further.
With jittery hands, you grope in the darkness for your phone in your back pocket whilst your eyes adjust to the light and use then its screen to illuminate Namjoon’s bedroom, nervously glancing towards the door at the creek that comes from just outside the door. It’s likely just the floorboards, but you can never be sure.
In this house, you can never, ever be sure.
Yoongi hasn’t noticed all the odd little happenings that’ve been occuring around you both with ever increasing frequency since you’ve been staying here. Ever since that night where someone - or something - had been playing the piano downstairs. He hasn’t shared a bed with you enough to notice how often you awake during the night covered in goosebumps. He hasn’t been with you all the nights you’ve sat in front of TV and jumped at the whispers of a man’s voice brushing against the shell of your ear.
Of course he hasn’t noticed. You wouldn’t have expected him to with how wrapped up in his work he’s been. And yes, staying here frightens you -has terrified you so much over the past week that you’ve barely been able to sleep at all - but not as much as the idea of leaving Yoongi here on his own has scared you before now. Before this last, final straw.
There’s something wrong with this house. You’re sure of it. No matter how stressed out Yoongi has been before he’s never acted like this. He’s like a ghost of his former self these days; a pale and sickly wraith who seems to care even less for himself than he does for you. He’s never been this bad. He’s never been unkind. Grumpy, yes. Temperamental, most certainly. But he’s never raised his voice to you as he has so many times in the past couple of weeks.
He’s never, ever hurt you before.
Even so, you don’t want to leave, but you’re at a loss of what else to do. Staying doesn’t seem to be making anything any better - if anything you’re being here only seems to be aggravating him more. Perhaps when Namjoon gets back he can talk some sense into him… perhaps when he has to stop he’ll realise how far things have gone wrong.
You’d forgive him in a second - you know you would. You’d forgive your Yoongi if only he’d come back to you from wherever it is he’s gone - however buried deep down he is…. But first things first.
Glancing down at your phone, you purse your lips together with worry when you see that you barely have any of your battery left. Three percent won’t last you long - not with your flash on - and you’d rather not be trapped in this house in the pitch black dark if you can help it. You’ll have to resort to more archaic methods of illumination, for now.
You try to forget all your fears as you pause at Namjoon’s bedroom door, ears straining to detect anything that might be lurking outside, and after a few seconds of listening to nothing but silence, you carefully take a peek. There’s nothing but the long dark hallway to greet you and the black hole at the bottom of the stairs that awaits, and as you creep out onto the landing you’re more thankful than ever for your phone as its faint glow lights your way.
It strikes you as odd that Yoongi hadn’t burst out of Namjoon’s studio in a fit of rage once he’d realised the power was out, but honestly you’re a little thankful for it. The tears staining your cheeks have only just started to dry, and you’d rather not risk another argument. All you want right now is to get away - get out of this house and its poisonous atmosphere once and for all.
When your phone vibrates in your hand as you make your way down the last few steps you nearly fall down them, grabbing onto the handrail to save yourself and biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from shouting out with fright. The screen that’s juddering in your shaking palm displays a message from Jungkook that promises he’s only five minutes away, and as you realise that your battery is now at two percent and falling, you thank your lucky stars that you’d thought to message him sooner rather than later after your row with Yoongi had taken place. You’d have been stuck here all night otherwise, and you’re not sure you can face even a single moment more in this god forsaken place.
All your senses are on high alert as you pad silently in Namjoon’s kitchen and begin searching through his drawers for the candles you’d seen stashed away next to the sink. You waste no time in lighting one on Namjoon’s gas-powered stove as soon as you find it, and you breathe a sigh of relief when its pretty orange flame flickers into life, illuminating the palm of your shielding hand as you turn to head back upstairs and quickly pack the rest of your things.
Unfortunately, your relief is short-lived.
You shout in pain as candle wax drops onto your hand when your body leaps a foot in the air at the sight of Yoongi stood not six foot away from you, shrouded in darkness and totally still. He’s holding your bag in one hand, hanging limply at his side, and when he realises he’s gotten your attention he lets it drop heavily onto the kitchen’s linoleum floor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, voice pitched quiet and low and his face downturned to hide his expression.
You take a step backward, back bumping against the edge of the counter as you try to ignore the sting that the candle wax burn has left behind.
“You said you wanted me to leave,” you reply quietly, frustrated by the way your voice quivers and shakes along with each breath that you take, “So-” You attempt to bolster yourself, standing up a little straighter. “-I’m leaving.”
Yoongi looks up when you say those words, and as his face rises into view the glow of the candle light highlights every angle of it from from below and takes your breath away.
“Like hell you are.”
He doesn’t look like himself anymore. Yes, these are Yoongi’s features but they’re twisted in an expression that doesn’t belong to him - like someone’s wearing him from the inside and that someone has the darkest, most sinister eyes you’ve ever seen before. His gaze sends a chill through you and a tremor up your spine, terror weakening your knees and making you grip onto the counter behind you just in case your legs give way from underneath you as they’re threatening to do.
“Over my dead body am I gonna let you go running to him.”
What’s he talking about? Go to who?!
Does he think you’re leaving him for Namjoon or something? But Namjoon’s still in Rome… how could he-
“Don’t you dare try standing there with that stupid fucking look on your face!” Yoongi suddenly yells, taking a step forward with his fists clenched at his sides, “Trying to act innocent! Trying to act like I don’t know exactly what you’ve been doing whenever my back’s turned!” You’re frozen to the spot as Yoongi abruptly closes the gap between you, slamming his hand on the counter and standing so close that the candle you’re holding is trapped between the rapid rise and fall of your chest and his - steady as a rock.
“Fucking whore,” he snarls venomously, tilting his head to the side to inspect your face with nothing but disdain in his eyes. With his free hand, he takes a hold of your chin and squeezes till you’re whimpering through puckered lips, too frightened to do anything but stare back like a lamb awaiting the slaughter. “How’s it work, huh? You get a good tip for sucking his dick? Throw in an extra ten if he gets to make you choke on it? Another five if you swallow?”
Yoongi’s words aren’t making sense anymore. His anger seems misdirected, misplaced, like he’s mistaking you for someone that you’re not - or rather whatever is inhabiting him is. It doesn’t make his fury any less real, though, nor any less threatening.
“You’re disgusting, you know that?” Yoongi taunts, tutting when you close your eyes to avoid his and fresh droplets of tears roll down your cheeks, salty on your tongue as you pant and gasp for breath, terrified.
You try to repeat in your mind that it isn’t really him - it isn’t your Yoongi saying these awful, hurtful things - but it’s so hard to convince yourself of that when every other sense is telling you otherwise. The devil wearing an angel’s face smells just the same as he’s pressed up against you and his body is just as warm.
He tastes the same, too, when he assaults you with a kiss and sticks his tongue inside your mouth. For a second you’re so convinced that it’s him as he threads his fingers into your hair and presses himself into your hip that you kiss him back, sobbing between presses of your lips until he takes one between his teeth and bites down so savagely that he breaks through skin, laughing as you cry out in pain and instinctively shove him away.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Yoongi asks softly as you side-step along the counter, your blood on his teeth as the smirk that’s tugging at his lips turns into his signature gummy grin. “I thought you liked it rough?”
You take a breath, heart pounding, and then you run.
Candle still gripped tightly in your palm, you dart around the kitchen island and make a break for the door, grabbing at its frame as your socks skid along the floor and almost make you fall, and as you throw yourself through it Yoongi is right behind, each thud of his footsteps right behind yours.
Through the living room he chases you until you’re throwing yourself against the front door. Frantically turning the latch, tugging and pulling and shaking the handle but god it just won’t open! Screaming when he grabs the back of your shirt and yanks you away from your route of escape, cursing after you when you manage to slip away and then laughing when you fall up the stairs that you so desperately climb.
“Where’re you going baby?!” he calls after you as you scramble up like an animal, using both your hands and feet, candle held aloft in some desperate hope that it might stay lit despite your careless haste.
At the stop of the stairs you risk a look behind, and now that he’s realised you have nowhere to run Yoongi seems in no hurry to race after you, stood at the bottom with a grin on his face. It’s almost as if he waited for you to look - like he paused for effect - because the moment your eyes lock he’s after you again, laughing maniacally as he charges up the stairs two at a time and snatches out at your ankles as he nears the top, running after you as you flee in the only direction you can think to take, towards Namjoon’s bedroom.
You try to slam the door shut behind you when you get there but it’s too late. Yoongi’s too close, too fast and too full of fury to allow you to slip from his grasp so easily.
He throws open the door with a strength so great that you’re flung from it, screaming as you fall back onto the bed and your candle flies from your hand, burning a dark mark into Namjoon’s bed covers as its flame steadily begins to grow, unnoticed by either of you as Yoongi mounts the mattress with murderous intent in his eyes and a smile spread across his face.
You scramble backwards away from him, glancing over his shoulder towards the door, and it’s at the very moment your eyes meet again that Yoongi choses to make his strike. He leaps on top of you, knocking you onto your back, a strangled cry leaving you as his hands wrap around your throat and squeeze down on your windpipe, closing off your air.
Kicking out with your legs, you tug frantically at his slender forearms, scratching and hitting and lashing out until you’re too dizzy and lightheaded to keep going, and all the while he smiles above you without a hint of regret upon his face.
It’s the happiest you’ve seen him in weeks, you absentmindedly think.
Your vision starts to spot and fuzz black and white but down by your feet you can feel the heat of the flames as they start to grow and spread, rising up behind Yoongi’s silhouette like some kind of hellfire ready waiting to consume you both. Your once frenzied hands start to slip from around Yoongi’s arms as his only grow tighter, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks, body twitching and jerking weakly.
…
Banging at the door.
Someone yelling out your name.
Yoongi’s hands letting up their chokehold for just a second and oxygen - oxygen flooding back into your brain like the sweetest kind of drug.
It’s enough to give you strength - enough to make you fight - and lashing out, your nails carve gouges into Yoongi’s face. He roars in pain, releasing you to press his face into his palms and that’s enough too, to give you time to struggle out from underneath him and roll off of the bed, up onto your feet, away from the fire and to the window, throwing it open and screaming - screaming for Jungkook as the flames roar behind you and smoke pours out into the cold night air.
Two different voices simultaneously call your name; Yoongi behind you and Jungkook below, panic stricken, and glancing back, you see your once loving boyfriend already climbing off the bed to come after you with his teeth bared and blood running down his face and you know, then, that your only hope is to jump. Jungkook beckons you to do the same, standing with his arms open wide below the window is readiness to catch you as you climb up onto the windowsill and start to squeeze through the frame.
“No!” Yoongi screams, lunging for you and grabbing at your ankle even as you kick out at him as the flames burn brighter and brighter at his back. “No!” he coughs, “You’re mine!”
Perched on the outside ledge just outside his reach, you try to speak as the black acrid smoke burns your eyes but your damaged throat won’t let you, sobbing silently against the wind.
It won’t let you tell him that yes, you’re his and that you always will be. It won’t let you tell him that you still love him - that you’ll always love him - before he snatches out for you again and you’re forced to let go and fall heavily into Jungkook’s waiting arms. The two of you crumple to the ground in a heap as Yoongi lets out a roar of rage above, and then Jungkook’s grabbing at you, sitting you up, hands running you all over as he frantically asks if you’re alright despite being able to see very clearly that you’re not.
“Yoongi!” you cry out brokenly, his name feeling like broken glass as it passes through your throat, and together the two of you look up just in time to see the bedroom window slam shut and Yoongi’s fists pounding at it from the other side, his expression morphed into one of absolute terror.
Jungkook runs for the front door as you stagger to your feet, but no matter how he hard he tries to get it open - throwing his full body weight into it - it just won’t give and you can do nothing but watch on as the room behind Yoongi fills with more and more smoke and flames till it’s almost all you can see save his face and palms pressed against the window. There are tears sliding down his cheeks and though you can’t hear him you’ve seen his your name on his lips too many times to not realise it’s you he’s calling out for, crying for you till his body won’t allow him it anymore. He doubles over, coughing, too weak to do anything but lean himself against the window with one hand pressed to the pane.
Through it, he stares at you, and mouths his final goodbye as slowly, but surely, he’s consumed by the flames.
***
The inspection of the house that takes place in the weeks following the fire leaves no room for any doubt; there’s no way that anyone could have survived the fire that’d slowly ripped its way through entire structure before yours and Jungkook’s eyes as he’d held you - shaking and sobbing - on Namjoon’s front lawn.
They’d never recovered Yoongi’s body, but had theorised that given his proximity to the fire and how long it’d taken to be put out that it’d simply burned away alongside everything else.
You still haven’t decided if it were better or worse that whatever had seemed to held Yoongi in its clutches had seemed to let go at the very end - that in those last final moments, Yoongi was himself, just for a little while.
Either way, the thought hasn’t served as much comfort. Nothing much has since you’ve come back home to the apartment you once shared; not the smell of him lingering on your pillows nor all his clothes that you can’t bring yourself to even begin contemplating throwing away. You find yourself spending hours listening to all the old songs you find stored away on his beat up laptop - still in the unfinished state that they were in when you’d first arrived at Namjoon’s and all of this had began. It helps a little, remembering him as he once was rather than dwell on the person that he’d become.
The greatest comfort that you eventually receive is an email from Namjoon’s that appears in your inbox months after Yoongi’s passing. Attached to his long and rambling lines of prose of sympathy and regret is a sound file - a finished track that he tells you that Yoongi had sent to him in the first few days after your arrival - and it’s clear, right from the start, that every note and every word was written for you.
With bittersweet tears streaming from your eyes, you listen as from beyond the grave, Yoongi’s deep voice detailing all the ways in which he loves you.
It’ll never make up for his absence, and it’ll never bring him back, but it’s something. A declaration of love from the man you once adored… who you’ve always adored, even at his very worst. A soothing balm to help ease some of the pain his absence has left behind.