Pretty | Yoonmin (DISCONTINUED)

nineteen

The sound of the doorbell jerked Yoongi from his peaceful and terribly warm sleep. The muddled spell he'd fallen under ebbed away slowly, still pressing against the edges of his brain even as his eyes fluttered open. It had been somewhere strange. His mind he meant. Usually, it was either in the darkest depths of itself, his own torturous psyche conjuring vivid images to frighten him, to torment him, or it was utterly blank. Dreamless. He had always fought this battle against himself. Being surrounded by a war zone while one raged inside of you...the oceans breaking, and breaking and the sun falling down to burn him alive...it was hell. He preferred the dreamless nights, longed for them actually.

But this...it wasn't bad either. In the dream, everything had been muffled, barely there, barely present. Everything existed in shimmering colors, ones that were there one minute, and then twinkled out of sight the next. He was hardly aware of his body, hardly aware of anything. He didn't even know where he was. Until his hand. He could feel his hand-or more accurately, the hand holding it. It was subconscious, his fingers, as they squeezed the small ones tangled between them. Squeezed them in reassurance.

It's okay, it's okay, I'm right here.

Somehow, he heard that, even without words. Without seeing a face as he turned for the source, searched desperately for the one clutching him so tightly, like he could disappear, and that them being alone, so horribly alone without him was terrifying.

He knew the hand...it was not his sister's. He would know. He always knew. Hers were lithe and just a little smaller than his own. Her fingers were long. Like they could trace your whole chest, your arms, while barely moving her wrist. Thin too. They slipped between the cracks in doorways, underneath the bed, so easily, it left him gaping.

Rough, even though the rest of her was soft. Rough, because life had made them so, and scarred.

But not this hand. It was tiny and gentle as a breeze in summer. Light, really, really light. Woven from pastel skies and cotton sweaters. Warm.

He still couldn't recognize the face. It was just a blur, a smear on a insubstantial world, yet somehow he knew those hidden eyes were begging him to stay.

And that was it. No fear. No pain. He didn't wake up gulping down air only for it to fall right out of the holes in his chest, in his skin. He didn't wake up with his clothes plastered to his body by cold sweat, but feeling naked and vulnerable and terrified. He didn't wake up stifling a scream that choked itself in his throat, every cell in his body splitting into pieces. His limbs frozen. Eyes wide open. His heart slamming inside him so furiously he wished it would just stop all together.

This one was nice.

And even stranger, he didn't rouse from sleep, but rather continued to rest uninterrupted. Until now. When the doorbell rang.

There was a weight on his chest. It rose and fell with each slow thud of his heart. Warmth ghosted across his collarbones, filling its crevices as though it were a physical substance. It left heat blooming beneath his skin, just from its presence against him. He blinked blearily.

And the blonde head of fluffy hair came into focus. He was pressed flush against him, all crumpled up. His legs were wound around his waist, cold toes tucked just beneath his elbows and underneath his petite frame. He had curled up into a tiny being entirely dependent on Yoongi's presence. His limbs found every available space to slide into, and then hugged him tightly enough to press his heart into his rib cage. Yet, it was kind of cute. The blanket was draped over one soft shoulder, but dipped off the other, dragging over the carpet every time the boy shifted. His arms were wrapped around Yoongi's chest, grasping unconsciously at the fabric of his sweater. He was intertwined with him in nearly every way, so tightly it was a wonder he was able to breathe properly. But it wasn't uncomfortable. His arms were like pillows, and even though his feet were cold, Yoongi couldn't bring himself to be annoyed. He just wanted to run his clothed palms over them until they too, were warm.