Spreading Our Wings

lie;

He wished he could escape.

That night, a solitary man lay on his haven of a bed. There were no sounds except for Hoseok's steady breathing (for once, he didn't snore!) and Taehyung's incessant mumbling. The latter was, as usual, positioned very dangerously on the edge of the bed, as if he was going to fall and hit head-smack on the ground (well, even if Taehyung didn't, the man definitely thought he, himself, would). In contrast to the silence, the man's thoughts were a pandemonium. After all, the night was the best time to muse over important matters (such as the unexpected events in his life), away from the pressure of the public.

What will I do tomorrow? A useless question, really, when he already had a routine scheduled for him. Training, fan meetings, performances, variety shows—the next day, the day after the next and the day following that will be the exact copy-pasta of the previous twenty or so hours. If he was lucky, maybe he could catch one or two more hours of sleep. He surely needed them. Not that he minded such a life anyway; if anything, that routine was what defined his whole entity (which was long undecipherable by himself).

What will I eat tomorrow? Well, his group, BTS, had been doing pretty well then, so perhaps their manager would be kind enough to treat them to something. Mmm, something like meat or kimchi stew would be a delicacy. The man swallowed the saliva that was accumulating at the appetizing imagery forming in his mind. It wouldn't do him good to drool all over his bed and face.

But... what will I be tomorrow?

That forbidden thought somehow managed to roam out into his consciousness, in the midst of the crowd of distractors he had already set up within the arena. He didn't want to think about that thing that constantly loitered like a pesky dustball. Brooding about it would just make him doubt and fear himself, and the more he questioned, the more he was lost in that twisted maze.

Nevertheless, it marked him as its prey and caught up to him everytime, no matter how hard he tried to run away.

I will be Park Jimin, of course.

Duh. He is and was always Park Jimin. That name rooted in his every action, every word and every feeling... Was it a name that displayed breathtaking beauty, or distasteful taint? He recalled his image in front of his fans—the charismatic performer on stage who would transform to a cute beagle offstage, flashing his signature eyesmile and brightening the atmosphere instantly. Every part of it painted vibrant colours in the name Park Jimin. That being said, it only revealed glimpses to the beauty in him, but rarely to the carelessly hidden ugliness. Surely, all humans preferred to admire a picture of perfection, rather than a picture embodied with taint.

And he was right. The moment those people caught notice of his ugliness, they struck him down with spears.

He wished to escape.

But hiding was so very hard. So very painful. And even though he so very wanted to budge free from the dustballs that were engulfing him, he couldn't—because more than the pain, he feared to come in terms with his own ugliness. So he remained trapped in this vicious cycle, where both options of escaping and staying tortured his cowardly players.

Finally, the abyss of doubts and worries swallowed him whole. As he fell into deep slumber, he also fell into that hole. Only three hours of sleep left, before he woke up to look at the ugliness of his own self.

The next day, he rose with bleary eyes and disheveled hair.

Awake. Was he, or was he not?

The sky outside was totally pitch-black; there wasn't even a single trace of light from the stars. It wasn't even dawn yet. Did he only sleep for two hours, at most?