Laundromat Machine

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Fennel tea was dripping down Yoongi's lip when he came back home, hungry, but only found the rest of tea in a cup and an empty fridge.

He was used to getting just the fewest, what was actually below what he deserved, regarding the things he did and sacrifised for otheres, especially for the one boy on his mind - The one boy who actually brought him in his current condition in the first place, always chasing after rollercoasters, not sensing the trouble within.

The cold air was hitting Yoongi's bare chest like a whip against a horses skin to make them run faster, but he was so cold, he couldn't even feel the pain the cold caused anymore when he laid down in his musty room with that opened window.

Sighs escaped these lips of his and he heard a voice in the kitchen, guessing it must've been his father who always called his grandmother at this early hour.

He listend to the dimmed voice of his father before he heard his steps comming in his direction. Yoongi's arms were hanging down along his bed next to him, quickly he closed his eyes, because he wasn't ready to explain, neither to socially interact with anyone, not even his own reflection.

His dad at this point wasn't completely dumb, obviously getting that his son was odd, something about his behaivour had become oddly different but he couldn't tell since he never seemed to have the best connection to his own flesh and blood.

,,She used to look at me just like that."

He would mumble when his son would annoyed lay his eyes upon him with this slight look of sympathy.

But Yoongi had become a stranger to him.

Sometime Yoongi himself couldn't even remeber who he used to be, all he could tell that he must've been less pathetic, than he was, or at least felt, nowadays.

Pathetic, a small word he used to whisper when he looked at himself in the mirror, understanding that there was nothing he could do, other than getting beaten up and doing the laundry.

Disgusting, this was how he felt in his own skin while the colourful wounds appeared on his pale doll-like skin he had from his mom, but now he looked like modern art. Yoongi was the canvas, so untouched and clear, no mark, until he came across and dragged him with his crimson hands into the cerulean blue chaos and it left him covered in indigo, velvet pain.

Pure, was he in Yoongi's eyes, because he couldn't tell that the foughts he fought for him would never be worth it.

Yoongi couldn't stop, he took in the punches and maybe it was the brain damage he got through it that made his smile suddenly become bigger in Yoongi's eyes. He felt appericated just when the male he adored decided to breath in his presence, when he smelled on his shirts and told him how much he loved Yoongi's odour. The scent of fresh peaches on his shirt as well as this slight undertone of vanilla that used to lay upon on his whole skin.

It kept Yoongi busy with washing his shirts at night because he knew how much he hated the scent of blood stains.