Pretty | Yoonmin (DISCONTINUED)

thirty four

"I still can't forget...I'm sweetly spinning around...I didn't know it was a dream, star..."

Jimin's singing was a dream.

As soon as they'd hopped into the car, the younger had connected his phone to the bluetooth speaker and began blasting a song by Suran-someone Yoongi had heard of, but didn't know anything about. The movement of the vehicle gliding along the road had only been contributing to the nausea forming a thick knot inside Yoongi's stomach. Blurring colors flew past his vision, his distorted eyes struggling to focus on one aspect of the world when his reality was slowly coming loose.

But Jimin's singing was a dream. His fingers twitched with tremors between the crevices of his knocking knees, and he could feel his palms growing clammy, slicked with salt stained fear. It was easy, oh so easy, to lose himself in the twisted recollections of his mind, in the bile coating his throat, in the wild beating of his ruined heart. He felt a mere moment away from disaster, a mere moment away from ripping his seams out, a mere moment away from slamming his head into the window until unconsciousness took him, because a mere moment was all it took for him to toss himself over the edge of a bottomless pit. But it was as though Jimin knew that, understood that. Maybe he saw Yoongi's flesh turned gray with every bump along the roads. Maybe he felt the way his small body shivered, and shivered, the strain of his thoughts too much for it to handle. Maybe he saw the familiar darkness blot out his eyes again, the way his fear seeped in splotches of black and blood red through his gaze, and his brain, and soaked itself into every corner of his being.

Because he had decided to sing at the top of his lungs to a melody that Yoongi didn't know, and his singing was a dream.

Dreams had often proved to be illusions to Yoongi throughout the years of his life. Shimmering fantasies that promised him safety, crystal skies and warm air that welcomed him like a loving embrace, but ideas that would shatter before he brushed a finger along its surface. He lost himself in slumber, hoping to dream of something beautiful, only for his imaginings to turn sick and monstrous when memory bled through the edges. Dreams were just that...dreams. And they were insubstantial. They were cruel, and deceitful, and fleeting. He would never touch a dream. He would never see it become a reality.

And yet, Jimin's voice was sweet. It was made of moon kisses, starlight, faerie dust, and heated sugar, and it did dangerous things to Yoongi's heart. It was soft, just like his flushed cheeks, his rice cake skin, his honey hums, and it was high, lathered in wisps of clouds and pieces of sunset stained sky. He loved Jimin's voice. It splashed his skin in shades of warmth, in thousands of gentle colors that he did not know the name of. It left him buzzing with heat, and breathing in mouthfuls of magic. And even though Jimin was just being silly, it felt like he'd taken Yoongi to a dream with his voice. A dream that didn't fade away, at least not immediately.

A dream that he could trust, if only for a few seconds. And despite the cold freezing at his warped veins and the panic flooding him in bouts of terror, he felt flushed, listening to Jimin sing.

"I'm wandering...maybe I'm just dizzy...you're asleep...don't say anything...I'm already used to our maze..."

Yoongi clutched his fingers, forming a tangled, frigid mess with his sweaty hands. His fingertips were sweetly stained with soothing canary, but his palms were dark and sorrowful. He turned his head, and found the sight of Jimin, bending cheekbone dusted in poppy, and smiling lips. He was wearing casual, pastel pink clothing. Leggings and a shirt with strawberry milk carton drawn like a cartoon on the front. It brought out the brightness of his skin, the soft blush of joy thrumming beneath his flesh.

He briefly remembered Jimin mentioning a style of dance called contemporary, and that he only had to wear comfortable clothes for the class. If Yoongi had been into dance, that probably would have been his favorite. He didn't like dress codes and uniforms.