PICTURESQUE. | MYG

ii

The first thing you see when you look at Yoongi is the scar. He got it from you. You accidentally hit him on the cheek with the back end of a pool stick when he was teaching you eight years ago. You were a college student then, and he was a struggling musician just trying to scrape by. You remember it like it was yesterday. He took you to a bar on your fourth date, and it ended with a trip to the emergency room for seventeen stitches just below his cheekbone where you busted open his skin with your slightly too aggressive wind-up for your hit. He had joked about how he still didn't regret standing behind you. You remember his long fingers pressing the bag of frozen peas you had given him back at your place to his cheek, and his eyes that seemed to smile more than his actual lips did. Of course you remember, how could you forget?

How could you forget the boy that loved you, especially when he, the boy that you had loved once, too,  was standing right in front of you? His skin is milky and as pale as you remember it, but makeup lines his dark eyes. Piercings decorate his ears, and his hair is now bleached blonde, sticking up in directions you didn't know were possible but still managing to look good. He was still thin, but you can see strength and lean muscle beneath the black leather covering his shoulders. He's slightly taller, but not by much, and his lips are parted in a state of shock. They move.

"Y/n." He says, this time, more of a statement than a question. Your name on his lips sounds just the way it used to, and it sends an dull, aching pain to the pit of your stomach. You snap out of your daze, knees still slightly weak. You never thought you'd see him again.

Not after what he did to you.

"If you could come stand in the frame, please." You say curtly. Your voice waivers, and you curse yourself for showing any sign of weakness. The hope in his eyes hardens into an unidentifiable emotion. His eyebrows furrow at you. His footsteps are languid, his demeanor thoughtful. He does as you say, though, you can tell there is something on his mind, words on the tip of his tongue. Words that he doesn't say until after you finish his screen test. Five minutes of near silence, true quiet being defied by the voices and music wafting from the dressing room.

"So, this is how we're gonna be?" He says, shoving his hands into his pockets. You roll your eyes. "We're gonna be those exes? The passive aggressive ones?"

"Yep." You say, forcing a cynical smile at him as your fingers press buttons on your camera a little too hard. Yoongi nods slowly, muscles in his jaw pulsing. You're pissing him off now, you know that. You've pissed him off too many times not to know how he looks when you do. Every muscle in his body gets tense and tight, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his tongue peeking out to lick his lips, as if preparing them for whatever smartass comment would roll off his tongue. With a ticked off Yoongi, a smartass comment was always involved.

"What has it been, seven years?" He asks. The pain you felt suddenly flares in the pit of your stomach, morphing into anger. Whatever good mood had possessed you earlier is gone now. "You haven't moved on, grown up?" He continues. Your blood practically boils with his audacity.

"Oh, trust me, I'm over you. You're just clearly not over being an asshole." You bite sarcastically. Yoongi's tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, nodding slowly. He always hated how you could take his words and spin them, throw them back in his face. You could practically see the cogs in his mind turning behind his eyes.

"Mm, why don't I believe you?" He asks, offering you a sardonic smile. You think of Sejun, and a giggle almost escapes your lips. You were tempted to tell him that you really were, in fact, over him, but letting him figure it out on his own seemed more entertaining. He has somehow edged himself closer and closer to you before he finally comes eye to eye with you, the only thing separating you two being the tripod.

"Good question, maybe you should ask yourself." You snark, and quickly snap a photo, the flash right in his eyes. Yoongi startles and rubs his eyes, plump lips forming their signature scowl that decorates his handsome features most the time. Suddenly, a chorus of dress shoes clicking on hardwood floor fills your ears. You shoot Yoongi a look. "If you value your eyesight, you'll keep your mouth shut." You don't have to specify about what, he knows.

"Wow, I'm so scared—" Yoongi begins sarcastically, but before he can finish you bombard him with a series of flashes as you take photos in a rapid-fire succession. Part of you feels bad when he lets out an annoyed and somewhat pained hiss and covers his eyes. This same part wants to be civil and kind, wants to be happy for him that his dream came true. This part of you wants to get lunch with him, catch up, talk about everything you've missed. But the other part of you—the dominant part of you—that part won't let you. Part of you thinks he deserves the little sting of the camera's
flash, that it's an adequate form of punishment for all the pain he caused you. And it's this part of you that's operating your actions when you turn around, Yoongi still partially hunched over, to greet his remaining bandmates.

"Hi, everyone. I'm Y/n. If you haven't gotten screen tested yet, line up over here, please." You say.

You smile, but it's not the smile Sejun painted on your lips this morning. It's one drawn on for the sole purpose of masking the truth; a truth you're not prepared to face. You've actively tried not to think about it for years, and never did you ever think you would have to face it. It's what keeps you up at night, and what plagues you when you do sleep. You know the truth all too well.

But Yoongi doesn't. He has no idea.

And you're planning on keeping it that way.