keys // yoonmin

ten

jimin dozed off fairly fast after a glass of warm milk, mumbling incoherencies about being 'lost' and 'doomed', but yoongi decided against prying.

the boy beneath his palms (curled up, hands balled into fists against yoongi's folded thighs) was a far cry from the same one that made lewd comments and remarks in front of his own mother, unashamed and unabashed at his actions, and it made yoongi think. at 5am, that really wasn't the smartest of things to be doing, but it was unavoidable.

yoongi thought of the stark contrast of jimin's personality. how at times, he was nothing more than a pest—words from his mouth sounding like something out of a poorly directed, x-rated 80's movie—that yoongi couldn't seem to shake. his vocabulary was broad and vast, vulgar and forward; certainly a shock coming from a 17 year old, who happened to also be the 'nation's flower-boy'. 

his soft side—this side, that yoongi was witnessing as he slept peacefully on his lap—was entirely contradictory. poles apart. with his gentle words and slight stutter that made his lips curl barely noticeably, he seemed like a different person; a different jimin. the 17-year-old in him was apparent, baby fat on his cheeks and a rosy flush dusting his entire face, lips parted minutely to allow a slither of teeth to show. yoongi could see how he won the entire country over with a smile.

with delicate touches, yoongi brushed a loose strand of hair from jimin's forehead, noting the slight fever the boy was running. stress, he mused, drawing the blanket that he was cocooned in down a little so that it was no longer practically strangling him.

clearly, jimin was a light sleeper, as his eyelids fluttered open at the motion and adjusted to the position he was in.

"yoongi, why the fuck am i in your lap?"

yoongi let out an airy chuckle. evidently as soft jimin woke, the other jimin slept. "no funny business, i promise," he mumbled, voice low from disuse. "how're you feeling?"

jimin twisted his head so he was now facing away from yoongi, the fast-fading hickey on his neck now in full view. "like shit." a few breaths, "what time is it?"

"uh," the brunette leant forward to reach his phone, clicking the home button to read the LED numbers screaming at him in the otherwise dim-lit room. "just gone 5:30. you've got a lesson today, but i doubt you're in a state to d—"

"i want to do the lesson," the teen interrupted, adamant in his desire (as always). "anything to take my mind off things, you know?"

yoongi nodded; he knew.

as a teen, his piano was his lifeline—his way out. if there was ever any problem in his life, whether it be an overdue assignment, a particularly rough argument at home, a scuff on his favourite pair of white trainers, he knew that there was always one thing that wouldn't fight him back, and it happened to be the keyed instrument in the abandoned church down the street. a fine, varnished dark oak (definitely had seen better days if the aged, yellow ivory of the keys were anything to go by) drew him to it instantly in a time of need, a period in his life where his only solution was to run and hide, and even when things had calmed down enough for him to return, he found himself unable to let it go.

coming from a family with a less-than-ideal financial background, yoongi had never been lucky enough to take extra, non-compulsory classes, despite begging insistently along with scrimping and saving every last penny he could find or earn. (sure, cleaning the neighbors dogs wasn't really his idea of fun, but neither was math or science, or subjects that drained him of all the natural creativity that was thrumming through his veins.) there had been one, solitary time, wherein yoongi had managed to save up enough cash to pay for a single, group lesson on 'basic composition', but things never did go his way, and the funds were stripped from him in a cruel twist of fate that ended up in him having to pay for his own food for the month. and the following four, too.