Notes - Yoonmin

2

Yoongi found himself with a small white packet in his pocket and short Swiss knife in his right shoe. Under any other circumstance he would've been delighted, almost excited. Right now, however, he trudged his way to the second floor's bathroom tediously, finding sudden interest in the stairs he had climbed thousands of times before.

It had been a long, tiring night, which began with the glimpse of a school roof and a half-eaten sandwich.

______

Creaks echoed through the air as the metal door was pushed open, groaning in pain. The steady footfall of his sneakers fell heavily onto the cold concrete ground and rough pants resonated throughout his eardrums, like a desperate chant of a strange and dire whisper. He stared at the small expanse of the flat grey roof, and skimmed the borders of the short iron fences, but found nothing.

Immediately, he turned to the closed-off part of the school. 

He knew he was there. He had to be. God, he remembered how much he liked the rotting bricks and the moss and the serenity of it. He had always loved the soft breeze that caressed his face and brought with it the faint scent of marigolds and paperwhites and honeysuckles, which peppered the garden around, now solemnly ashen. 

His eyes flashed over the limp flowers, then up. The sky began to darken, and he ran. His breaths became faster, stronger, and his chest heaved in scarcity - out of sprinting desperately or out of raw, unconstrained panic he did not know. Then it drizzled. And without any warning the clouds started weeping.

They were crying. The angels were crying; lamenting, sobbing, howling. 

Water droplets dripped down the side of his face as his hair matted down, wet, and his clothes felt heavier with each stride. Murky puddles formed at his feet, speeding through flickering images of dark tree trunks and whistling pine-green canopy; the ground below him swayed and blurred. He kept on going.

And paused for a lingering moment.

Ivy covered the beaten-down stone walls of the small cottage. The roof slanted to one side, having given out completely altogether by the side of the wooden window frame, where a sturdy, tall pine tree extended its bushy branches out. Bare mapples littered the clearing. 

And a shadowy figure stood by. 

It was him.

He gasped for air and dashed towards the shorter boy. Closer and closer until his fingertips kissed the curve of his shoulders and nuzzled the tight expanse of his back, his head slowly turning towards him; mouth parting as incomplete words tried to push themselves off his tongue and out of his rose lips.

Pattering rain and low wind stroked his black hair; fluttering leaves whirled around them. And just then he lifted his gaze.

God, he was-

Cold. Shivering. 

Yoongi was laying on his small bed - now wide awake -, the white sheets askew and the window fully open over his head. 

He cursed loudly, ignoring the slight pain in his chest, and pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes forcefully and immediately slamming shut the fun-sized glass, secure against the grilles in the wall, the wind dying pitifully. He clutched his bare stomach.

Silence filled the tiny room, but his mind was roaring and his heart drumming wildly. The arch of his pink lips and the soft dark hair churned his insides, twisting them painfully like the cruel promise of an untrue love, and making his brain spiral into a frenzied turmoil - a tornado, a hurricane. His very stance powered some unadulterated sort of desire within him, or more so a type of deep longing for the boy; to hear his voice and see his hidden face.

Whatever it was, it was creeping onto Yoongi, making him shift around the bed and latch his arms around himself. And yet, somewhere deep in the confused mumble of his thoughts, he found a sense of familiarity, of closeness - he knew those lips. He knew that boy. 

But he couldn't remember him.

As much as he racked his brain for an answer and as much as he tried to recall the face of the boy in the dream it kept billowing away, disappearing farther away from his grasp the more he reached for it. And the farther away, the more frustrated his heart grew, abruptly standing up and pulling on a crinkled t-shirt, putting his old sneakers on and marching out of the bent door.

Where to? Anywhere.

Which is how he got to an alleyway. And how, without much thought (and a lot of stupidity), he shoved a drunk boy out of frustration, took whatever he found in his pockets and ran for his dear life.

He sprinted along the poorly-lit streets, the stolen things in his fisted hands. Rounding the corner with the closed bakery shop, towards the small apartment complex with the bright graffiti, and then left, past the town's pubs where two women in glittery drag were hunched over, vomiting the alcohol they'd been taking all night long. And sometime after all of that he had finally stopped, breathed and looked back. It was empty.

The boy let out a breath of relief, his shoulders sagging and his hands relaxing in their grip. He then stared at the stuff in front of him. A disgustingly used tissue paper, a clip, a small coin... a sleek red Swiss knife and a tiny plastic container with white powder inside. Tiredly, Yoongi scrutinized the packet. Cocaine? He pinched it. Definitely. 

Jackpot!, he cheered.

Throwing away the clip and the paper in the nearest bin, he strolled through the narrow street, the Sun rising and basking it in a soft light, and hid the left-over items; the knife in one of his beaten-down shoes, between the sole and his foot, and the packet in his front jean pocket. Soon enough his heart had calmed down, and returned to its normal beating, recovered from both the startling dream and the exercise. The storm in his mind had also seemed to dwindle down. It was even peaceful. 

"Fancy seeing you around here, Min."