#Raindrop Prelude fucking gets me man

[revenantghost]

Okay I'm tapping out, I can't do Signalis with these volumes anymore, I'm too weak, back to Twangyhop to lessen the load

[thygoddessouijathicc]

NFR AU Chapter 1: Prelude

(Disclaimer: NFR!Jack is not doing well. He also has a history of murder and identity theft.)

I am sitting in a somewhat rough chair, across from me is some strangely dressed man with a phone for a head.

Even though he has no eyes I can’t help the feeling he’s staring at me.

This is not my first job interview.

I have worked at 12 other locations before… right? 12? Where did I get that number, I’m sure it’s not 12… how many was it?

The phone stares at me, his gaze is ripping me apart.

I imagine myself post mortem being examined by a group of chimpanzees in lab coats. They are not doing a good job.

I itch at my skin. The orange paint is rather itchy, furthering the discomfort of the skin itself.

I start picking at my skin, trying to pull it off.

The phone interrupts me and tells me to focus.

I forgot he was there.

“What was the question?” I ask.

“Do you have any criminal record?”

“I started both world wars.”

“Ah so nothing serious.”

“No not really.” I admit, I need to up my game, I’m disappointed with my abysmal record.

“Do you have any ID?” He says suspiciously. Or at least I think he does.

I pull out a plastic bag and root around, picking out a card and placing it on his desk.

The card has blood stains on it, a small cut out picture of me glued on and slightly peeling.

The phone man picks it up… he doesn’t seem to buy it, but he also doesn’t seem to care. “Mason Foster?” He asks.

I nod vigorously.

“What’s the blood from?”

“Oh well you know how it is.” I smile, way too wide. I have a bad habit of that, it led to my cheeks getting ripped.

“Yeah sure…” if he had a face I’d say that he looks suspicious of me. “I want this conversation done so you’re hired.”

“Wait a moment phoney, what am I being paid.”

“Tokens.”

“I want cash!”

“And I want to see my family again, we don’t always get what we want.”

“Well if I’m not given cash you’ll never see anything again so you see our conundrum?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He hisses. “Now sign the contract.”

I glare at him for a moment before signing.

Almost as soon as I do my vision blurs and I fall onto the table.

…

I wake up in a wide open expanse of nothing, a road in the middle of the desert. The road ahead twists and curves unnaturally and water is seeping out from the ground and rising into the sky like raindrops.

“That asshole better not have put me here or he’s fucking dead.” I snarl.

I barely dodge out of the way as a large deer hoof smashes the ground I was on. I look at the creature. It’s a towering 9-legged amorphous beast of smoke, looking down at me with glowing eyes.

“HEY ASSHOLE!”

Its neck extends so it brings its featureless face down to me, I stare into the eyes.

“I WAS STANDING THERE JACKASS YOU CANT JUST DO WHAT YOU WANT, WATCH WHERE YOU’RE FUCKING GOING!!!!!!!!”

“Esimed elbativeni sdrawot gnihcram lla era ew.”

“Save your fucking excuses you almost killed me!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Yawa gnitsaw flesruoy leef uoy od?“

“Yeah I’m calling my goddamn lawyer. You can’t-“ I am kicked away by the creature. That asshole.

I land inside a tower, inside is an elderly version of myself rocking on a rocking chair violently while knitting. 

I pick him up and throw him out the window.

An eye appears where the window once was.

“DO YOUR JOB. FUFIL YOUR SINGULAR PURPOSE SO YOU MAY CEASE TO BE. THE BEAR MADE A MISTAKE DECIDING TO CREATE YOU. I HOPE YOU CAN AT LEAST TRY TO BE LESS DISAPPOINTING.”

I hate it when these things talk to me. I punch the eye and my vision fades again.

…

“EMPLOYEE! EMPLOYEE WAKE UP!” The phone yells. I get up off the table.

“The fuck did you do to me?” I ask.

“I didn’t do anything I just… you just FELL ASLEEP ON MY HECKING DESK!!!”

“Fine, whatever, lie to me and see how that works for you.”

“Just get to work!”

(Note: NFR!Jack is feral.)

[fanaticfangirl001]

What Do You Say, Queenie?

John Bender x reader

Author’s note: Kids don’t smoke. Also sorry for the Freddie Mercury mention but like it’s the 80’s. Also I’m trying to not describe the reader as much. I hope it’s okay.

Warning: Swearing but done by me to describe John.

Request: Hi, please could I request a John bender x reader imagine where the reader always has to take care of her younger siblings (her parents are never around), she’s driving home one night in the rain with the kids and sees John (who she has a crush on) on a bench because he’s got nowhere to go, she lets him stay with them. He’s amazed that she’s able to look after them all and he gets along well with the kids and eventually John and the reader kiss and get together is this okay? Sorry it’s so long💚 

@10blurredsmoke10

Song Recommendations: Bad Reputation by Shawn Mendes, Somebody To Love by Queen(Had to, sorry not sorry) 

Most of the teenagers that go to Sherman High, prefer the front parking spots for easy access to the building but Y/n is a little different. She prefers the parking spot by the dumpster. Mostly for the view. The view of one “immoral” delinquents that leans against the fence beside the dumpster as he smokes. Her tinted car windows hide the fact that she’s staring at him. His lips curl around the cigarette and Y/n could imagine his lips doing something else.

She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. Y/n had made a huge change, regarding her hair. It was a risk using a picture of Freddie Mercury for his wavy shoulder length voluminous hair, but Y/n wanted a change. She had just had her braces taken off and her teeth were beautifully straight and pearly white. No longer did she have a picket fence mouth.  No longer could stuck up female dogs named Claire tell her how she’s unattractive and could never find a man. Your father’s law firm, is Mr.Standish’s favorite to use, whenever he needs one, which is often. Your and her father were close professional relationship.

As long as your concerned is fine, as he’s always paid your father more than enough. Between yourself, and three younger brothers, neither of you have ever wanted for anything. You wanted records, you got records, you wanted concert tickets, you saw Queen three times and with every hip shake Freddie preformed you swooned like the other women in the audience. But would records and concert tickets make up for countless days and nights alone. No one to hold you after a nightmare. You were that person for your brothers just as your mother had been for you before she was sick and passed away. Your father’s second wife, the one he was sleeping with while your mother was in the hospital, is only a few years older than yourself and  often away getting manicures and massages, leaving you picking up her sons, triplets, aged 3 years old, and caring for them until she gets home late at night.

You check your bright red lipstick in your car’s mirror. Slinging her backover over her shoulder Y/n starts walking away when someone starts following her and appears beside her.

“That color doesn’t suit you.” A feminine voice says from a car beside where Y/n is walking.

Y/n doesn’t look beside her, she doesn’t need to. It’s Claire.

“Screw off, princess.” A familiar voice says and following him a cloud of smoke.”Only room in this school for a Queen.” John gestures to Y/n.

“You screw off.” Claire retorts getting out of her car and slamming the door, shoving past the both of them.

“Morning, Y/n,” John nods, then runs past Claire making her skirt flip up.

Y/n couldn’t help but laugh a little at Claire’s red face after what John did. I should probably tell him that I can handle Claire myself, wonder why he cares and called me Queen. It’s probably the hair, he recognizes it. Fuck he’s going to make fun of me.

History, English, Math went by very quickly. Gym class drags on most days. . You were sitting on the girl’s side of the gym while John was on the boys.

“Alright, boys and girls, pair up. We’re doing a dance unit.” The gym coach screeches.

John’s scan over the girls, most were trying to find guys except for Y/n she stood off to the side, Andrew starts walking over to Y/n.

‘Nope,’ John thinks,’ Not on my watch.’

Long legs are John’s only advantages over Andrew, and the fact that John nonchalantly tripped him before he could ask Y/n to be his partner.

“So Y/n.” John leans against the wall. “ Guess we’re only two without partners.”

“I uh guess so, even if you did trip Andrew.” Y/n says trying not to blush.

‘Dancing involves hand placement,’ Y/n thinks. He’s going to have his hand on my waist.

“I didn’t trip him, just helped him to the ground, with my foot.” John gets off the wall as the coaches are herding teenagers onto the middle of the gym floor.

“Very considerate of you.” Y/n laughs as she pulls John to the group.

John’s moving slowly allowing himself to be pulled by Y/n and still being a little shit.

“Today all of you are going to learn how to ballroom dance. Because all of today’s dancing is hip thrusting, and gyrating.” The coach begins the lesson.

“Ooo, hip thrusting.” John whispers. “So sinful.”

Y/n stifles her laughter with her hand.

“Mr.Bender, and Ms. L/N, would you two like to demonstrate the hand placement, since this is very humorous to you.” The coach says.

John says “ We’ll give it a shot.,” He looks at you,” What do you say Queenie?” ,

“Uh, sure.” Y/n and John go to the front of the gym.

The silence of the gym is overtaken by whispers and wide-eyed stares. You were known as a rich quiet girl with braces with attached headgear and suddenly you’re wearing tight jeans,snakeskin top, red lipstick, and hair modeled after a man that wears women’s clothing and flounces around on stage.

Y/n expertly holds John’s hand and puts her other hand on his shoulders. John smirks and puts his remaining hand in her back pocket, only for her to pick his hand out of her pocket and place it on her waist.

“Can’t blame me for trying.” John laughs.

“Mr.Bender, since you find this so entertaining, why don’t you demonstrate a box step.” Coach says messing with the radio.

“I think everyone knows how to step forward, sideways, and back.” John retorts.

Y/n eyes widen, she wasn’t expecting John of all people to know what a box step is.

“Indulge me.” The coach says.

John rolls his eyes, and steps forward, sideways and back making a little square on the floor, and then twirls Y/n around.

The coach makes John and Y/n go back to their spot on the floor, and turns the music on so other couples can practice.

As Y/n follows John’s steps, she asks “ How do you know how to dance?”

“Dancing’s a prelude to sex, and I have a lot of that,so.” He answers.

“And you wanted to dance with me?” Y/n tries to flirt.

“Don’t think nothin’ of it, just didn’t want Andrew to crush your feet.” John answers coolly not recognizing that Y/n is trying to flirt.

The dancing class ends and the rest of the day continues with same pace of the morning classes. The bell of the last class rings and students run out of the building as the dark grey sky begins to open and pour down rain. Y/n runs to the back off the school near the dumpster to her car and tosses her backpack into the passenger seat.

She drives home and tosses her bag in her room and cleans up the kitchen and living room. The playroom can be cleaned up later. The pick up time for the preschool that her half-brothers are at, is at six but with the thunder storm she decides to pick up the boys a little early. With her homework finished, she packs up the car and heads over to the preschool.

Aiden, Freddie, and Michale wave with the owner of the school at the car.

Y/n grabs the umbrella from the car and brings each of the boys to the car. Once everyone is buckled Y/n starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. The darkening sky and heavy rain cause her to drive slowly as her brothers in the back seat raced raindrops. Freddie’s raindrop was wining and Aiden didn’t like this and didn’t want to play anymore so he looked out the window.

“Sissy, there’s a hobo in the grass.” Aiden yells.

Y/n’s slows the car to a stop beside the stop sign before their neighborhood.

    She looks out the window,” That’s not a hobo, that’s..John.”

She pulls off the road and steps out of the car with an umbrella.

John sits up completely drenched, his jacket wrapped against his shoulders like a makeshift umbrella. The white shirt clings to his chest and torso.

“What are you doing outside?” Y/n asks holding the umbrella over him.

“Nowhere to go, Queenie.” John shot back. “You’re getting wet now.”

“You like kids, John?” Y/n looks back to the three boys with their faces smushed against the window looking like little piglets.

“Never met any.” He shrugs standing up.

“Get in. “ Y/n opens the door for him.

The three boys start giggling as John sits down and the car starts moving

“Boys, be nice, this is John, a friend from school.”

“Do you like our sissy?” Aiden asks getting down to brass tacks.

“Uh she’s nice.” John answers a little taken back by the child’s bluntness.  

“Please ignore them.” Y/n says pulling into the driveway.

Once she turns off the car, the boys are out and running to the door.

“You take care of them.” John asks once the boys are inside and run up the white stairs in the middle of a fancy house.

“Yeah, my uh stepmom isn’t the most maternal, and doesn’t like being around her kids or me for that matter .” Y/n sits on the couch.

John sits by her. “ That’s messed up, what happens when you leave?”

“I don’t know.” Y/n shrugs.” I can’t abandon them.They’re my brothers.”

“Half.” John reminds.

“If I don’t take care of them, than a nanny will, and you know what that means.” Y/n leans towards him.

“They become emotionally constipated.” John answers.

“No, well yeah but worse, they become spoiled brats and then become lawyers.” Y/n smirks.

“Ew.” John says.

“Yeah ew.” Y/n nudges him. “ Help me make dinner.”

*45 minutes later*

“So you put them to bed too?” John asks.

“Yup. I normally read them a bedtime story but..” Y/n gestures towards the two of them.

With the upstairs lights off and three little boys sleepily closing their eyes, Y/n rejoins John at the bottom of the steps.

“Queenie, I’ve been thinking.” John starts and gently pulls her down when he realizes she’s still standing.

“Go on.” Y/n says with a small smile, “ I’m listening.”

“What do you say, Queenie, be my girl?” John asks looking up at Y/n awaiting her answer.

She doesn’t answer, Y/n grabs John’s collar pulls him closer and kisses him.

[this-is-a-love-story-fleabag]

Love is awful (2/5)

More Fleabag fluff. 1168 words. Also available on ao3.

All chapters: prelude 1 2 3 4 5

The priest let out a good-humoured groan. He was sprawled happily over the grass with a preposterously large fishing hat over his face and a cold tin of M&S G&T in one hand. He was wearing her favourite of his t-shirts, the one with the little buttons at the neck and long sleeves that he’d pushed up over his forearms. God, his forearms. “Leviticus is cheating,” he said, indistinctly. “That man had some serious problems.” “This book is the word of God, you can’t just pick and choose which parts of it to take seriously.” He lifted up the hat to peer at her, incredulous. “You’re really not at all familiar with the history of Christianity, are you?”

Somehow, the brilliant blue of the sky, the moth-eaten tartan blanket that they’d taken from the rectory, and the sun beating down on Hampstead Heath elevated a box of cafe leftovers and some cans of pre-mixed cocktails into a genteel picnic. She lay across the blanket on her stomach, wearing a white sundress, already marred by several severe grass stains, kicking her converse in the air as she studied the book in front of her. “Thou shalt not let thy cattle gender with a diverse kind,” she read aloud, “thou shalt not sow thy field with mingled seed; neither shall a garment mingled of linen and woollen come upon thee.” The priest let out a good-humoured groan. He was sprawled happily over the grass with a preposterously large fishing hat over his face and a cold tin of M&S G&T in one hand. He was wearing her favourite of his t-shirts, the one with the little buttons at the neck and long sleeves that he’d pushed up over his forearms. God, his forearms. “Leviticus is cheating,” he said, indistinctly. “That man had some serious problems.” “This book is the word of God, you can’t just pick and choose which parts of it to take seriously.” He lifted up the hat to peer at her, incredulous. “You’re really not at all familiar with the history of Christianity, are you?” “How do you think Jesus would feel about poly-cotton?” “Sweaty and itchy, the same way everyone feels when they wear poly-cotton.” “How about labradoodles?” “You’re missing the point,” he said petulantly, propping himself up on one elbow and abandoning the hat entirely. “What is the point of forbidding mixed crops?” “The point is, fuck off!” “This is some nuanced theological discourse, Father.” “You have not entered into this discussion in good faith. I should confiscate this,” he said, jabbing the bible with an accusing finger. “It’s just giving you ideas.” She closed the book with a snap and waved it at him. “I do not permit a woman to teach or exercise authority over a man,” she recited from memory, with her best approximation of an obsequious face. “Rather, she is to remain silent. Is that right?” “Don’t you point that thing at me!” He narrowed his eyes. “Have you been memorising bits of the bible just to annoy me?” “Yes.” “Well that’s… a lot of commitment,” he said with a laugh, deflating. She made an undignified snort of amusement, and he flopped the fishing hat over her head. “How do I look?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes and adjusting the hat to a rakish angle. “Beautiful,” he said, after looking at her for a long, appreciative moment. “I never thought I’d get you doing Bible study on a Saturday.” “In a pure and virginal white dress, no less,” she added, “100% cotton.” “Plus about 10% grass stains.” “Yeah, I had to catch a frisbee. I don’t think that’s explicitly forbidden in the bible.” Their conversations mostly went like this, verbal sparring that degenerated into good-natured bickering. Every now and then, he would look at her, suddenly completely helpless and lost, and he’d have to press her up against a wall and kiss her, even if they were in the middle of cooking dinner, or stuck on the Tube, or listening to a Very Serious Feminist Talk. It would be inconvenient, she thought, if it wasn’t so nice. On cue, he rolled over on the grass and nudged at her face with his nose, asking for a kiss. She pretended to consider it for a moment, then brought her fingers to tilt his chin upwards and pressed her lips to his. He made a happy little noise and rolled back, pulling her on top of him and into a bear hug, eliciting a squeal. She melted a bit, despite herself, and peppered his face with (embarrassing, sappy) kisses. She was feeling sixteen again, in some ways - day drinking in the park, free and unfettered under a blazing sky - except she wasn’t excruciatingly aware of her own gangly awkwardness, there were no bottles of suspiciously blue alcopops in the vicinity, and the boy she was snogging wasn’t trying to grow an ill-advised pubescent moustache. Acting like a teenager was much better, she mused, when you were actually an adult. “We should graffiti something,” she said into his chin, “or listen to melodramatic music then jump over a ticket barrier.” “First of all, I don’t want to get shot, and second of all, what?” “Nothing, never mind. Are you hungry?” “For food?” He was smiling his third-dirtiest smile. She waggled her eyebrows. “Do you want a slice of my pie, Father?” “Oh God, that actually sounds really good,” he realised, groping behind his head for the picnic basket. She pulled herself upright to pull the basket closer and retrieved a couple of takeaway boxes. “Mushroom or goat’s cheese?” “Surprise me.” The afternoon rolled by, slow like treacle, as they ate and talked and threw crumbs at each other. He strung together a daisy chain and laid it lovingly over her hair. She blew a dandelion clock in his face. It was nice. English weather being what it was, however, after a while the sky clouded over and fat raindrops started to land on their skin. “Did you bring an umbrella?” she asked as she scooped everything higgledy-piggledy into the basket. “Nope, you?” “Nope.” “Fuck. Time to run!” He grabbed her hand and dragged her along after him, giggling like an idiot. They sprinted across the park and took shelter under an awning, damp and shivering. He rubbed her arms to warm them up. “Do you think it’s going to let up?” he said, peering hopefully at the sky. “Well, eventually.” He drew her into a warm hug, resting his chin on top of her dripping hair. “I think you’re making me wetter,” she said into his shirt. He drew back. “Sorry, sorry.” “I didn’t say to let go!” She scouted the area, assessing their options. “Bus!” she cried, spying one that looked like it was going the right way. She pulled his hand and they set off at a run, waving the rolled-up picnic blanket madly at the driver as the bus approached the stop. They piled into a seat, flushed and panting a little, and laughed at their mutual dampness. “You look like a drowned thing,” he said, ineffectively patting at her damp head with his equally damp hand. “You look like an aftershave advert,” she said truthfully, taking in his muscles under his translucent t-shirt and his handsomely tousled hair. “Unfair.” "Fuck, you're freezing," he said, taking her hands in his. "It was your stupid deity that made it rain." "Well, he does sometimes like to do me little favours." "Favours? You're just as wet as me." He waited until they were about to step off the bus before responding. "I can see your nipples through your dress," he whispered, then sprinted away before she could punch him.

Next chapter ->

[inktae]

the raindrop prelude

↳ pianist au

◇ pairing: yoongi | reader ◇ genre: angst and fluff ◇ word count: 14.859 ◇ warnings: implied smut, mentions of alcohol ◇ author’s note: this is a revamped version of a story I wrote ages ago, which some of you might have read already (was simply titled raindrop back in the day). the plot remains the same, only the writing was heavily tweaked, almost entirely rewritten. If you did not read it before, I sincerely hope you enjoy!

Since music is a very important part of this story, I suggest playing the songs on this playlist whenever they’re mentioned. :)

You feel exhilarated.

You would never be able to describe such feeling properly, and you are sure other musicians would agree. Being up there, hands surfing above the keys while the music floats seamlessly, turns your body weightless and takes your mind away from it, faraway from the dullness of reality. It drifts and glides away smoothly, silently, towards a remote place where you can finally shine.

Your senses are still heightened and your heart is still pumping vigorously as you leave the stage, fingers starting to tremble. They feel numb and sore after torturing them for almost ten minutes, and the pleasing sound of applauses still rings in your ears as you trudge in the direction of the bathroom.

You did it. Be proud. The cutting words are deafening in your head, mixing with the echo of the melody your hands conjured up only a few minutes ago. That voice, both sharp and unrecognizable, faintly resembles that of your best friend, your colleagues and your teachers, but you are unable to believe them. You just can’t.

The tears sting in your eyes as you wash your face, looking into the mirror and glancing at the carefully placed hairstyle, at the modest but elegant dress that still makes you wince and shrink every time you remember the price. You look okay, but all of that is overshadowed by the eyes full of resentment, the furrowed brows and the flushed cheeks and ears that burn with frustration.

“That fucking sucked,” you breathe in a strained voice, and for a slight moment you sound like your mother and father. You echo their voices perfectly, their eyes shining through your disappointed, angry gaze and their sternness transparent in the pursed lips that show everything but happiness.

They were unable to come, but you know that’s what they would say. You know it with a conviction that only leads to an unsurprised sigh when you look at the results a while later, your name clear on top of the white sheet, written below two other pianists.

Up on the stage you almost felt like glowing, but it will never be more than a mere illusion.

/

“You beat seven contestants. Seven,” Taehyung repeats, lifting his mug of hot chocolate and taking a sip. He flinches right away, hissing as he puts it down. “Fuck, that’s hot. Really, don’t be too hard on yourself. You should have seen the audience, they were completely entranced—”

“Tae,” you warn him, lifting your hand to stop his ridiculously rapid speech. You’re usually able to decipher his fast-paced words, but your darkened mood and muddled thoughts have narrowed down most of your senses to barely functioning levels.

“I know, I know, the conservatory,” he says, voice lowering as he looks at you intently, with that gaze he tends to wear when he is raking his brain to comfort you. “The judges are awfully strict, you know. Do you want me to tell you again how they rejected me? It always makes you crack up when you’re drunk.”

“Don’t,” you crack a brief smile, the gesture quickly disappearing. “You know how badly I want to get in. You also know that the person who got first place has a big chance. Maybe the second one too, if they keep trying hard. But third place? it’s a terrible spot. It’s like they’re telling me hey, you’re not bad, but not good enough either.”

Taehyung sighs, his eyes dropping from your fallen expression to stare at the steaming brown liquid. The coffee shop is bustling with sound, alive and cheerful and it’s probably the sunny, cloudless day that’s making everyone smile more than usual. It’s beyond frustrating, how everyone is able to see something you cannot perceive — the colors are dulled in your vision, dimming down to scales of grey as you drown yourself in the destructive thoughts that keep popping up.

“What am I not seeing, Tae?” you wince at your own frail tone, weakness easily blossoming through the brief silence. You have always found it easier to put on an angry veneer, but it seems like your subconscious has different plans today. “What is it that I don’t have and they do? I practice just as much as the rest. I… I don’t understand.”

Taehyung shakes his head. “You’re not missing anything. You’re really good, and I wish you could see it the way I do.”

“Then tell me. Tell me why I have never gotten first place after so many years of working my ass off, even when my parents—”

“I have an idea,” Taehyung stops your self-pitying rant, eyes suddenly wide as he presses his hands against the surface of the table.“Would you like to get extra piano lessons?”

“I— we already go to a music academy,” you frown. The school you’re both attending is not exactly the greatest or the most reputable, but it’s the best you can afford. Taehyung is most definitely aware of that, being a broke student himself. “Spending more money won’t make me get first place.”

“No, no, listen to me—” Taehyung’s mind seems to be reeling, eyes growing more and more excited by the second. You cannot help but lean back, suddenly intimidated by the fire of determination shining through. “They’re not normal lessons. This pianist I know— he’s… remarkable, but I think he’s retired. I’ve heard his classes are very cheap. I have his number, I can give him a call if you want.”

“I don’t know,” you bite your lip, silently dwelling on his words as he stares at you closely, as if begging for your permission. Taehyung may not be a pianist, but you know him well enough to trust  his judgement when it comes to musicians. He has an exceptional ear to notice real talent, and you know not to underestimate the weight of his words.

You hate the way your curiosity has been piqued already, especially after hearing the word remarkable come out of his lips.

“At least give it a try?” Taehyung tilts his head, giving you strong puppy eyes and a charming smile. “I promise he’s unlike any other pianist we’ve met before. Maybe a fresh opinion will make you figure out what you think you’re lacking.”

You barely have to say a word before he notices the resignation shadowing your face. His smile is subtle but triumphant, eyes glinting as you formulate the question.

“How cheap are we talking about?”

/

Your feet halt in front of a foreign house, and the frigid silence that expands across the unfamiliar neighborhood almost makes you turn around and run away.

Holding back a loud sigh, you glance at Taehyung’s text again, making sure you’ve got the right house number for the tenth time before lifting your hand to ring the doorbell.

The man’s name is Yoongi, and he is probably the cheapest piano teacher you have come across in your entire life. Had he not been recommended by your closest best friend you would have backed away in fear of being scammed — it is simply too good to believe, as not even children lessons are offered at such price, and the fleeting thought almost makes you take a step back. It would not be too farfetched if he actually thought you were a young, inexperienced kid looking to learn for the first time, which would undeniably lead to a very embarrassing moment once he takes one long look at you.

You’re beginning to consider leaving for good when he suddenly opens the door, and you can almost feel the floor tilting under your feet when you find dark, hardened eyes staring back at you in heavy annoyance.

“Are you Taehyung’s friend?”

His voice is gruff and tight, and it sounds even deeper in real life. You know it all too well — you have easily watched more than fifty videos featuring him.

Holy fuck.

“Suga?” you can’t help but ask, voice wavering as a thick rush of nerves stirs under your skin. You can feel the goosebumps raising all over your body as he narrows his eyes at you, showing nothing but stark aversion at the word.

“I don’t go by that name anymore. Are you a crazy fan or Taehyung’s friend?”

“I’m… yeah, I’m Taehyung’s friend,” you swallow, trying to get rid of the sudden lump settling itself in your throat. Your thoughts keep switching between holy fuck and I’m going to kill Taehyung, because he definitely knows you have been obsessed with Suga’s pieces and interpretations for quite a while. The fact that they are even friends is too outrageous to comprehend.

You keep your mouth shut, holding back the swarm of questions that threaten to leave your mouth. Wide eyed, you cannot help but gape as Suga — Yoongi — takes a step back, allowing you to enter his house. His house.

“Are you coming inside or not?”

You nod swiftly, walking so fast you almost trip over your own feet. Your heartbeats are quick and thunderous against the back of your ears as he closes the door shut, and a leaden and slightly awkward silence follows as he leads you through a darkened hall. Your mind finally calms down, the only remnant a subtle fury that stirs weakly as you remember Taehyung’s words over and over.

He was never clear about Yoongi’s identity, and you perfectly know why. After Suga retired five years ago for unknown reasons and disappeared for another couple of months, he decided to start giving piano lessons, an opportunity many prodigious young pianists jumped at. Everyone wanted to become Suga’s pupil, to be taught by one of the most talented pianists of the modern age and to receive a trifling piece of his immeasurable wisdom.

You remember the exorbitant prices, numbers only affordable by rich, snobby kids that went to the best academies of the country. You remember the number of students growing smaller as the months went by, and hateful hearsay about Suga’s heinous attitude started running wild across the music world. According to the rumors, students were forced to quit after enduring weeks of harsh, rude advice that even made some of them stop playing piano altogether.

You remember his name and popularity slowly fading, and even the burning gossip vanished as Suga’s reputation dwindled and shrank, until all that was left were the alluring memories of his past. They were only kept alive by a handful of pianists who desired to be like him during his peak, still unforgettable despite the scandals.

You’re one of those pianists, and now that you finally have him in front of you, the only thing you can feel is absolute terror.

Yoongi leads you towards a wide room by the end of the hallway, its walls bare and lifeless and painted in faint turquoise. There are no signs of homely decor or furniture, and only one thing stands out among the emptiness: a black grand piano, placed next to large windows that allow the intense light of the afternoon to drench over the shiny, dark surface and the white and black keys that are begging to be touched. The piano looks absolutely pristine, as if it has not been used in ages.

He drags a wooden chair out of its hiding place against one of the corners of the room, placing it next to the piano. Utterly silent, he takes a seat, a look of absolute boredom on his face as he lifts his eyes to your anxious ones.

“Sit and play.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he sighs, full of exasperation. “Play something. I need to see if you’re worth my time.”

“Oh,” this was a terrible idea. You struggle to keep your thoughts at bay, trying not to let them cloud your judgement as they threaten to make you forget every single piece you know by memory.

Yoongi is eyeing you with clear disinterest, gaze opaque and emotionless. His hair is slightly unkept and his eyes are bloodshot, as if he hasn’t gotten enough sleep in weeks. And even if he looks dangerously close to passing out at any second, his stare is still hard and attentive, following your every move as you sit with the right posture in front of the piano.

You gulp soundly as your fingers hover over the keys for a couple of seconds, foot barely touching the pedal as you try to find your focus. You force all of your worries away, and the silent presence of Yoongi helps you give your entire attention to the soft melody your fingers start to produce, a sound that is almost enchanting within the eerie quietness of the room.

Aeolian Harp. You immediately feel yourself getting lost in the music, body swaying almost imperceptibly as the song grows more intense and the melody changes into something hopeful, nostalgic, like a long lost promise that has jumped back into your life. Your fingers follow every technique perfectly, smoothly dancing on top of the keys and successfully masking their shakiness.

But your usual frustration comes back at full force, and you can almost hear it crackling as you press your fingers a little too sharply over the keys. You do not let it stop you, arduously focusing on the beautiful melody as the song finally reaches its end, gradually becoming softer until you finally play the last notes.

You try not to freak out when the music vanishes into the thick silence, slowly directing your gaze at Yoongi with trembling hands.

His expression is completely neutral, showing absolutely nothing. Firm gaze on place, he stands up.

“Get up.”

You blink confusedly, heart racing. Maybe he’s kicking you out already, which would not be too surprising, but the thought still makes you freeze all over.

“What?”

“Get up.”

You swiftly do as he says, eyes following him as he takes a seat where you were seconds ago. Not sure of what to do, you sit where he was before, watching in awe as he places his slender fingers above the keys. It’s a beautiful sight, one you never thought you would be able to see up close, and it keeps you engrossed even through your soaring nerves and slight shakiness.

Then he starts playing, the same song you chose. A gasp involuntarily escapes your mouth as the melody starts to float around you, enveloping you in a warm embrace as he closes his eyes and allows his hands to do all the work, as if he does not even need to direct them.

You don’t know how, but it sounds completely different. Your eyes drink the sight eagerly as your ears pleasingly soak in the perfect melody, so full of him, and you can’t help but tear up as your chest swells with raw emotion. You have since calmed down when he finishes the song, heart beating placidly and muscles entirely relaxed.

The Suga persona completely disappears the moment the song ends. His sharp stare comes back just as easily as it left, features deadly serious as he looks at you again.

“And that’s how it should sound. Notice the difference?”

You nod quietly, feeling your throat tighten. He only sits there, glaring at you as if struggling to convey how terrible you truly were.

“Playing an etude on your first class with me was brave, I’ll give you that,” Yoongi gets up, averting his eyes from your shaken up figure. “Well, you’re free to go.”

“What— oh,” you feel your heart sinking as you realize the meaning behind his words. It should not be disappointing — if anything, you should have expected this outcome, but the pain throbs all the same, one you know very well. You do not bother hiding it this time.

You get up, not meeting his eyes as he leads you back to the main entrance of his house. You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you imagine the look on Taehyung’s face, his eyes wide with pity and a frown in place as you quietly tell him about the humiliating rejection.

Yoongi opens the door and you nod silently, still not able to look at him straight in the eye.

“Thanks for the opportunity. Goodbye,” the awkward phrase only meets silence, and you start walking away from the door before he can say anything to your face.

“See you next week,” his curt words make your feet halt, and you almost lose your balance as your befuddled mind tries to process their meaning. “And try to think about the difference between your interpretation and mine, I won’t forget to ask.”

You turn around briskly, but he has already shut the door close. Yoongi misses the wide grin you direct at his house, face bright and full of hope.

Maybe you’re not a lost case, after all.

/

“You look happy today.”

“Hello,” you sing cheerfully, a vague blush heating your skin as your smile meets Yoongi’s signature frown, scowl never vanishing as he allows you to walk inside. “It’s because I figured it out.”

“Oh? You finally know the reason you suck?” Yoongi asks flatly as he walks in front of you, not turning around. Your smile vanishes, but you try not to let his dry words jab painfully at your chest. He saw something in me. Do not let his words bring you down.

“I… I know, yes,” you clear your throat, entering the music room. You gaze lovingly at the piano before sliding your eyes towards Yoongi, who takes his seat on the chair placed beside it. He signals at the instrument, making you stride in his direction before sitting down.

“Well?” he lifts an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue.

“Oh yeah, uh, it’s because I always hurry to finish the song,” you explain, glancing at the keys as you slide your fingers over them. They’re cold against your skin, and the itch to press down is making your fingertips tingle. “That makes me screw up the tempo. My teacher doesn’t agree, but I don’t think he’s right—”

“Stop, stop—” Yoongi lifts a hand, and the sigh that leaves his mouth is heavy with frustration. You bite your lip in apprehension. “Your tempo is good. It’s more than good, actually. Your technique is perfect, do you hear me? it’s fucking perfect.”

“Oh,” you can only stare at him, mind completely blank. You know your technique is good, but to hear that it’s perfect from none other than Suga himself—

“And even with all of that, you still suck,” he spits his words with a harshness that forces you to look away, hands tightening on your lap as your breath hitches. “Do you know why that is? It’s because of your attitude. You’re this sad, little girl that pities herself all the time, that thinks she deserves to be praised because poor her, look at that shy girl that never gets first place. She deserves better. The thing is, you’re not outstanding, there’s nothing going on in your personality that makes people really listen to you. There’s only… boredom and fear and nervousness in your music, in the way you carry yourself. And people can see that, can hear that. When I listened to your song, I heard nothing but insecurities. And you can only rely on your techniques, because you’re scared you’ll suck if you allow yourself to let go. And damn you’re right.”

You loathe yourself for crying.

It’s impossible to stop the few tears that slide down your cheeks and drop on your lap. There’s a tightness curling around your throat that keeps you from taking normal gulps of air, and all there’s left of you is a silent, weepy mess with unshed tears threatening to fall under reddened eyes.

“How do you even know about me—”

“You think I don’t do my research? I need to know who my students are.”

“Well, you know me, and I also know you now,” you are able to lift your eyes this time, humiliation quickly turning into seething rage as your gaze hardens. You can only see his blurry face through your tears, but you are still able to make out the bored look on his face. “You’re a fucking asshole that hates himself, and the only way he can deal with his crappy self is by being a dick to others. I’m done here. Good luck trying to find more students that are desperate enough to want to get your useless help.”

You’re pleasantly surprised to see a flicker of emotion cross his face, slowly snapping out of his lackluster daze. He does not say a word, though — as always, he only stares in petrified silence as you get up on wobbly feet.

“You say I pity myself, but you should look at yourself in the mirror,” the jaundiced words leave your mouth before you turn around and leave the house in a quick sprint, face hot and flushed with restrained anger.

You call Taehyung as soon as you go back to your house, and you all but explode into a frenzied, graceless rant that leaves you short-winded and more enraged than before, if possible.

“Holy shit. I’m so, so sorry. I knew he was an asshole but I didn’t know he’d be like that—”

“Fuck him. And the worst thing of all is that he’s completely right, Tae. Every single thing he said.”

And that is the reason why it hurts. The fact that he could see through your facade so easily, even though he barely knows you, is like a merciless punch to your chest, making all the air fly out of your lungs and leaving you painfully breathless.

“You’re not going back, are you? I’ll have a word with him, but if he made you feel too uncomfortable to face him again then you should definitely stop showing up. We can figure out something else, don’t worry.”

You open your mouth, ready to agree with him, but the unexpected thought that springs to the front of your mind makes you stop for a moment, lips parted in quiet awe as the idea grows inside of your head.

“Hey. Are you still there?”

“Oh, I’ll show up,” you blurt out, feeling strangely confident. “He’ll regret taking to me like that. He might be one of the best pianists of this country, but that doesn’t give him the fucking right—” you have to take a deep breath the moment your voice turns sharper, stopping yourself before your previous anger blinds you again.

“Calm down, tiger. Well, you do what you need to do. Should I be scared?”

“Not really. You’ll see.”

The following week is a hasty blur. You do not leave the house and you’re aware it’s more than worrisome, keeping your entire focus on your piano as you practice from the first glimpse of the sun to the second the moon replaces it. Your fingers get used to the incessant glide over the black and white keys and your ears only hear the sounds they forge, ignoring the keen ringing of your phone that faintly reminds you that you are human and that you need to eat if you want to keep going. You can only be thankful for the thick walls of your narrow room, forbidding the sounds to filter outside and keeping annoyed neighbors at a safe distance.  

You’re almost a shell of your former self when the day comes. Even though you’re a bundle of nerves, you keep silently wishing for the lesson to actually last more than an hour — after all, you paid him one month ahead, which should not go to waste.

You are aware of your worn out appearance and sleep deprived eyes the moment Yoongi opens the door to his house, looking at him through droopy eyes and muttering a hello in a coarse voice.

He probably looks even worse than you. The bags are heavy and dark under his eyes as he looks up in half-hearted incredulity, slowly taking in the sight in front of him. You can only smile dryly, stepping inside and prancing towards the music room without him as a lead.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

You turn around, frowning. “I paid, didn’t I? I’m here for my lesson. And I hope I get a real one today.”

He seems about to burst, eyes full of spite as his own frown strengthens. “How dare you show up after you spoke to me like that—”

“You insulted me, I insulted you,” you bite back without a second to spare, words already formed on the tip of your tongue. “I think we stand on fair ground here.”

Yoongi cannot form an argument against that. He broods silently as he follows you towards the piano, movements clearly tense as he takes a seat on his chair. He stares in his usual unnerving silence as you prepare in front of the intimidating instrument, taking your time and breathing deeply.

“I haven’t even told you what to do yet.”

“I’m going to play a song I’ve been practicing all week,” you declare, keeping your eyes on the piano as you gently place your fingers on top of the keys. “You’ll probably tell me I suck again, but I want proper advice this time.”

You cut the conversation as your fingers press down, and the room is rapidly overcome with the soft, beautiful melody of the piano. Liebesleid has always been one of your favorite pieces, one you know you could never do justice, but it does not hurt to try your best as you allow your frustrations to pour out. You can imagine them uncurling under your chest and surging through your arms, reaching your fingertips as they eagerly slide across the keys.

The technique is decent, probably close to perfection as Yoongi pointed out, but that is not what you want. You wish to see in him something other than his usual boredom, a spark in his eyes like the one you saw when you talked back to him last week.

You’re probably the first one to call the music prodigy Suga an asshole, so you cannot feel too surprised at that kind of reaction.

The song finishes and you’re breathing slightly faster than before, hands aching as you turn to him expectantly. You try not to feel too disappointed the moment you meet his neutral gaze, lips pursed before he sighs deeply.

“That wasn’t—” he stops himself at the way you’re looking at him, his eyes suddenly turning wary. “Look, you need to treat the keys softer. You looked like you were about to punch them sometimes. And you still looked tense. Your posture is right, but you can allow yourself to relax a little…”

His advice is actually helpful, and you earnestly absorb everything he says even if a few sharp words slip out here and there. Just like last time, he shows you how the song should sound like, leaving you in quiet awe all over again. You still have a hard time believing how easily he merges himself with the piano, as if he and the music were one, face softening and resembling the Suga you use to know and admire. As soon as his fingers press down he leaves that grumpy, tired person behind, allowing the passionate musician to replace him and shine in all his splendor. He looks absolutely entrancing and beautiful.

The natural lighting of the room seems a little duller than before once the song comes to an end, and his frown and pursed lips emerge back in an instant. The magic vanishes and it’s impossible to drag it back, gone so fast you start wondering if it was all part of your imagination.

You keep practicing under his guidance for the rest of the hour, struggling to stay collected under his sudden bouts of annoyance. You can tell he is trying to control them, though — continuously swallowing back his brusque words before they are able to go too far, which you are silently thankful for.

You feel widely satisfied when the lesson finishes, and the smile you give him is genuine when he takes you to the door. You have to hold back a laugh as he shuffles uncomfortably on the spot, obviously not used to such a gesture from a student of his.

“Well, thanks for trying. You were almost nice, I appreciate that.”

He narrows his eyes at your amused words. “Yeah, right.” he grumbles, looking away. “See you next week. Remember to practice the song I told you, I’ll notice if you don’t.”

“I know, I know, you’re the genius here,” you roll your eyes, and for the briefest second you see the ghost of a smile threatening to curve his lips.

You cannot help but think you would like to see a real one someday.

/

“So. How’s it going with Yoongi? A little bird told me you’re improving at the academy.”

“Oh?” a subtle, proud smile takes over your lips. “Well, he’s still a bit of an idiot, but he’s actually being helpful, so I can’t complain.”

You don’t miss the frown that settles over Taehyung’s forehead. You’re both lounging around the usual coffee shop, relatively close to the music academy you both attend every week. You can get a glimpse of his saxophone case lying against his chair, which he likes to take almost everywhere he goes — according to him, it makes him feel a confidence he does not own otherwise, and you can vaguely relate with that. If you could carry your piano everywhere, you would probably do it as well.

“Still, you shouldn’t take any shit from him. Remember that if you feel too uncomfortable you should just—”

“It’s okay, really,” you wave your hand absentmindedly. “I might have cried that first time, but I can handle him now. He knows I don’t put up with his bullshit.”

He lays back against the chair, staring at you with deep curiosity. You feel like averting your eyes, getting steadily flustered at the thoughts that might be running through his head.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s just… interesting. Never thought you could handle him like that,” he muses. You shuffle awkwardly, letting out a nervous laugh.

“Ah… it’s nothing, really. I guess we’re kind of… getting along?” you wonder, hating the way your tone shifts away from its previous casualness, pitch involuntarily high. Taehyung’s knowing gaze is blunt and unwavering, but he does not keep pressing on the subject, fortunately.

Almost two months have passed since your first class with Yoongi, who ended up being one of the pianists you have admired for years. He is still as grouchy and bad-tempered as ever, but there is a softness in his eyes that was not there before, one that particularly glows when you play a satisfying piece that has him nodding silently, as if he wants to acknowledge your improvement but decides to hold himself back.

You suspect that is just part of his peevish personality. No flattery has ever left his lips, and his mouth has never curved up in a smile whenever you’re around, but you do not allow yourself to feel any sort of disappointment. It only makes you want to keep working harder, to prove him he was not wrong when he saw a sliver of potential in you.

It will all be worth it once you finally manage to pull out a compliment from that reticent mouth. Praise from none other than Suga himself would vanish all the doubt that makes your hands falter when they shouldn’t, would give you the final push to go up that stage in the conservatory auditions and would actually make you believe you are deserving of a spot.

You know you should not rely on his opinion, but you doubt you could ever reach a point where you can feel confident all by yourself.

Not yet, at least.

/

It’s during the ninth class when it happens.

You ring the doorbell, struggling to hold the songbooks against your chest with your free hand. Today is the day he is finally teaching you something new, a moment he delayed until he felt somewhat satisfied with the songs you already know by memory.

You’ll be learning an emotional piece, he said, striking against your weak point. You have always had trouble expressing emotions through the piano, and you genuinely wonder how can something like pouring your heart into the music be taught. It is a foreign concept to you, and you have always thought of it as a skill only a lucky few are born with. Being able to weigh all sorts of sentiments in the melodic sound that flies smoothly out of the piano is simply too otherworldly.  

Yoongi does not come to the door right away, which makes you frown. Taking a step closer towards the door, you finally hear it — the sound of his piano.

It is with brimming curiosity that you press your ear against the cold, wooden surface, barely breathing as you try to let the faint music sink in. You immediately recognize the song as one of Chopin’s pieces, one you have never learnt but always respected. It is simple yet haunting, a song that is mildly challenging but could turn incredibly difficult if you do not express yourself correctly.

For a while you simply stand there, listening with full intent as you close your eyes and let the melody transport you somewhere faraway, a place full of delicate colors that slowly start turning dark and somber. Even though the melody is dimmed down by all the surfaces separating you from the music room, the sentiment is still as clear as day, utterly gentle in the way he produces every single note with care and attention. More than playing it, it is as if he’s living the song.

By the moment the song ends your heart has risen to your throat, forming a tight knot. It takes him no more than five seconds to come to the door, barely allowing you to compose yourself before he opens it and stares you down with hooded, darkened eyes. He analyzes your features in pure confusion, as if he completely forgot you were showing up.

He seems more disheveled than usual, wearing sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt that looks slept on. His hair is one tousled mess, and it is easy to tell he only got out of bed mere minutes ago.

“Fuck— okay,” he mutters, mostly to himself, as he runs a hand through his blond hair. “Come in.”

You keep to your spot as you look at him curiously, wide eyes still gazing at his bedraggled form. He lifts his eyebrows questioningly, taking a step back as he waits for you to move. Clearing your throat, you nod mutely, passing the threshold as he closes the door shut behind you.

“Are you okay, Yoongi? We can just… if you can’t teach today—”

“It’s fine,” he mutters brusquely, not meeting your gaze. “I told you I’d teach you a new song, didn’t I? We’ll do that today.”

You follow him through the familiar hallway until you reach the music room. As always, it is only occupied by the clean, dark piano and the chair, already positioned next to it. Yoongi takes a seat in front of the piano, not uttering a word as he waits for you to sit next to him on the chair.

Your muscles tense up as you feel the atmosphere thickening, nerves gradually rising. Something about his attitude seems off, a shadow clouding his brooding eyes that makes him look shakier than usual. The strange sensation only grows stronger as he positions his fingers on top of the keys, lips forming a straight line.

He looks at you then, eyes intense under the natural light pouring through the windows. The way he locks his gaze with yours does not allow you to look away, heart beating wildly as you wait for him to move or speak.

It feels like an eternity passes when he finally blinks, clearing his throat as he looks back at his hands. You notice they are slightly trembling.

“The song I’m about to teach you is called Raindrop. Do you know it?”

“Chopin’s Prelude, Op 28, No. 15, yes.”

“Did you hear me play it before?”

“Yes,” your voice comes out smaller than before, a whisper that is too loud in the uncomfortable silence of the large room. “It was beautiful.”

“But do you really know what the song’s about?”

He looks at you questioningly, voice gruff and heavy with an undecipherable meaning. You nod, watching intently as he starts to play the first notes.

“They say it’s called Raindrop because of the repeating A flat, which can be heard constantly throughout the first section. It sounds like the gentle patter of rain, don’t you think?”

Yoongi plays smoothly, naturally, and the feeling of reverence strikes again as you perceive the melody much closer now. This time you are able to catch subtle details that you missed before, making goosebumps rise all over your skin as his fingers slide carefully over the keys.

You have witnessed him play the instrument for two months now, but it always feels like you are listening to a new side of him, one that’s more tender, softer, full of a sentiment he keeps tightly locked down. This time he seems to be playing with something resembling fear, hands moving with the kind of care that reminds you of a mother and her newborn baby. Like the song is particularly precious to him, and he feels undeserving to be the one producing the sounds.

The song rapidly turns darker, and his deep voice mingles with the somber melody.

“It’s said that Chopin wrote this song after he dreamt of death and drowning, in a day filled with raindrops after a storm that made him worry for his loved ones. He composed it during the night, inspired by the sounds of nature, creating a melody full of loneliness and contemplation.”

The song grows stronger and immensely sorrowful, and you are almost scared at the way Yoongi pushes the keys. It is as if all the pain buried inside him is finally leaving him, and your eyes widen when you see sudden drops fall on top of the keys.

He continues to play, the song finally slowing down and softening into a resigned, drowsy melody, like he has finally accepted the sadness inside of him. The last notes are high and melodious, but there is something in the way he plays them that still holds a deep melancholy, one that has your eyes watering involuntarily.

He finishes the song, so softly the sound is barely audible, and he’s crying.

Despite the wetness on his face he does not let his guard down, keeping painfully silent and closed off. For a while he allows the tears to stream down his face and you are not sure of what to do, feeling utterly clueless as you forget about your own unshed tears. You blink, vision becoming clearer as Yoongi hangs his head low in what must be quiet embarrassment.

You bite your lip, hesitantly lifting your hand to place it on top of his arm. Your movements are tense, unsure. You do not know how to show him comfort — the man is still like a closed shell, one you have not been able to open yet despite the tentative friendship you have formed over the past months.

Your touch seems to bring him back to reality. He gets up hastily, shaking off your hand in the process.

“Sorry about that. Let’s switch places, you are going to learn that song now.”

You slowly take his seat in front of the piano, eyes settling on the few keys that remain humid with tears.

“Yoongi…” you murmur, swallowing.

“I’ll be right back,” he leaves in a sprint, not giving you a second look. A long sigh rushes out of your mouth, unable to ignore the way your heart constricts under your chest. It mixes with the frustration of knowing you will probably never get a glimpse of what’s going on inside that head of his, troubled with pernicious thoughts he might as well never share.

The fact that you’re hurting for something — someone — you cannot understand is just as maddening, if not more. And just like you always do whenever your heart feels heavy, you place your hands on top of the keys, and begin to play.

When Yoongi comes back you are already learning the song, slowly but surely. The melody is clumsy and unsteady as you slowly drag your fingers through the keys, nodding to yourself as you stare intently at the sheet. Your focus is broken the moment you feel Yoongi’s hand on top of yours, his fingers softly arranging yours.

“You had two fingers wrong,” he points out softly, and you nod, unable to say anything. He continues guiding you throughout the rest of the song, and you can’t deny that it is more difficult than you previously thought — it requires every ounce of energy and concentration to get the tempo right while pouring the right amount of emotion in each section, one more sorrowful than the other.

“Come on, feel the melody, let go,” he murmurs, tough demeanor long gone. It is what you always wanted, for him to let go of his fiery tone and hot-tempered presence, but it only manages to spike a heavy twinge of worry. He sounds void, as if the song washed away all of his emotions and left nothing of value inside.

His guidance is tough to follow, but you manage to learn most of the song after what feels like ages. Yoongi sighs in silent resignation when he decides it is more than enough for the day, getting up and looking at his watch.

“You’re not focusing, it’s useless to continue,” he mutters dryly. You hold yourself back from opening your mouth and letting him know it’s because of him, keeping painfully silent as you follow him to the front door.

The second you walk out a sudden thought sparks inside your head, one that might not be too reasonable considering the current situation — but it makes you stop and turn to him all the same, wide eyed as he returns your stare questioningly from his spot on the threshold.

“Do you want to come with me?”

He frowns. “What?”

The heat that takes over your face is strong and violent, and there no way he misses it. “I mean— Taehyung and a few other friends from the academy are going to meet up with me in a bit, and… I don’t know, you look like you need—”

“I don’t need anything from you. You’re just a student. What the hell are you implying?”

You take a step back at his harsh words. There’s a tightening in your chest that makes your heart jump painfully, pursing your lips at the stinging feeling.

“Forget it. Nevermind,” you force out a smile, feeling more embarrassed by the second as you turn around to walk away from his house.

“Wait,” his voice is almost inaudible, but you hear it. Looking back at him, you take note of his sheepish gaze that struggles to meet your own — it is almost endearing, if not for the still somber shadow that clouds his expression. “Wait a moment— I guess… Taehyung will be there, right? I guess I can show up for a bit. Just… give me a second.”

Your eyes widen and you try to contain the way your face lights up, though your hopeful voice gives you away. “Sure! Sure. I can wait.”

He lets you in again as he flees upstairs for a change of clothes. You let your smile grow once you’re all alone, and it’s a feeling that reminds you of the time Yoongi accepted you as his student. Maybe his shell is not as unbearably tough as you believed.

Fifteen minutes later you’re walking down the road, side by side, and your heart stirs in a nervous gallop as you shoot Taehyung a quick text explaining the situation. In mere seconds your phone is bombarded by his astounded replies and long strings of shocked emojis that make you snort discreetly, but you choose to ignore him. You focus instead on the silent steps of the person walking by your side, a dreamy expression in place as his eyes look up lazily at his surroundings.

The tiredness is more present than ever in his droopy eyes, and his lips have not conjured up any kind of smile yet — but there’s still something beautiful about him, something that is not just about his soft, attractive features that broke many hearts when his celebrity status was on its golden age.

You cannot pinpoint what it is, but it keeps you strangely engrossed. You can almost hear the melody of the raindrops pouring out of him, loud and clear and broken, and your chest swells with a feeling you’re not sure you want to dig into.

/

“Sir, it’s an honor.”

Hoseok gets up, and you hold back the urge to hide under the table. He kneels in front of Yoongi, completely shameless, and holds his hands reverently — as if he’s touching polished diamonds with his fingers.

“Pianist hands. Suga’s hands,” he mumbles, looking up at Yoongi in exaggerated admiration. You swat his hands away, flushing furiously at his boldness. He simply gets up with an easy smirk, not showing any sort of embarrassment — you faintly envy him for that. Taehyung and Namjoon are holding back their laughter, quietly sitting on the booth of Hoseok’s favorite bar the four of you regularly visit.

Yoongi looks beyond uncomfortable, and you decide it’s time to step in.

“I’m sorry about that. This is Hoseok, he plays the bass,” you intervene, giving said boy a warning look. Hoseok takes Yoongi’s hand again, shaking it gently this time.

“Sorry man, I was only joking. I’m Hoseok, nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, sure, same,” Yoongi replies awkwardly, clearing his throat. You lead him to the booth, taking a seat in front of your three friends. Taehyung smiles gently, seeming to notice the thickening atmosphere and Yoongi’s still shaken up demeanor, which almost makes you sigh in relief — the boy could be too overwhelming if he wanted to, and you are sure that’s the least Yoongi needs right now.

Namjoon takes Yoongi’s hand calmly, smiling politely. “I’m Namjoon, drums.”

“I’m Yoongi—”

“We know,” Hoseok interrupts. You kick his leg under the table, making him grumble.

“So, beer?” Taehyung wonders, making everyone nod. Yoongi is the one most enthusiastic about it, probably eager to forget about the disastrous afternoon you both shared earlier. Hoseok and Namjoon take it as their cue, leaving empty handed and coming back with five beers in their hands.

The passing of time loses its meaning as the atmosphere gradually lightens up, mainly thanks to the drinks that slowly but surely disappear. Hoseok’s voice grows louder and Namjoon’s laughs become too boisterous, and other people present in the bar start turning their curious eyes to look at the group of musicians that seem to be talking too loud over the music.

You inevitably keep glancing back at Yoongi, a warm feeling expanding all over your chest as you watch his features start to relax and the tiniest glimpse of a smile curve his lips. It’s small, but it’s there, and that’s more than enough for today.

Hoseok and Namjoon get up three rounds later, reluctantly saying their goodbyes as they have band practice early in the morning. Their dazed, shiny eyes show a glimpse of tipsiness, cheeks flushed with the mix of heat and alcohol.

“I should go too, guys,” Taehyung clears his throat. He looks noticeably more affected by the beer than the rest, which does not come as a surprise. He has always had low tolerance, and you cannot help but grudgingly agree when he gets up.

“We got a long day tomorrow, Y/N,” he slurs, glancing at his phone confusedly as he tries to write his password. “You should go too.”

You feel your skin flushing even more as you give Yoongi a quick glance. He does not look entirely drunk, but not too sober either. “Ah— I think I can stay a while longer.”

Taehyung glances between the two of you, the hint of a smile making his lips twitch. “Okay. See you tomorrow. Goodbye, hyung.”

Yoongi waves his hand, not saying a word as the two of you watch him leave. The air shifts in the blink of an eye, thickening with something that makes your breaths hitch.

You stare silently as Yoongi slides out of the booth you were sharing before, deciding to take the seat right in front of you. His pale face is dusted in a faint pink, mouth turned softly upwards in a barely there smile that still manages to make your heart race.

“Well, I should thank you.”

His words, deep and soft, make you raise your eyebrows. “Thank me?”

Yoongi nods, letting his back drop against the plump surface of the booth. “I needed this. Today… is not a good day,” he sighs. He grabs one of the beers Taehyung didn’t finish, drinking whatever was left.

“Can I ask why?” the question is so hesitant Yoongi seems to notice, gaze connecting with yours and making you want to jump out of your skin.

Yoongi snorts. “What is it with you and the piano?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem to love it, but there’s something that is also making you hate it. I don’t now what it is, but I’ve always been curious. Ever since I met you, I’ve always wondered why…” he lets his voice fade away. His eyes start searching inside yours, rummaging with a boldness that has you leaning back, as if he’s trying to read your thoughts. You squirm in your seat, breaking the connection and trying to breathe deeply in the sudden heavy air that surrounds you.

“My parents… they— they always wanted me to become a piano prodigy. But I could never make their dreams come true,” you laugh, voice lacking any humor. “And even though they still want me to play the piano, it’s been a long time since I saw anything close to pride in their eyes. What can I say, I’m just your average pianist.”

“Bullshit,” Yoongi’s word makes your eyes snap up, and the sudden anger that boils in your blood makes you open your mouth, but he never allows you to speak. “It’s your fear of disappointment that’s stopping you from becoming whatever you want. I need to ask a question, though,” he drinks from another beer again, emptying it in a matter of seconds. “Do you really want to become a pianist?”

“Of course I do,” the words jump out of your mouth instantly, not needing to think them through. They feel natural on your tongue, an indelible truth you have known since the beginning of your memories. Something about your tone seems to convince him, nodding silently in that familiar way that shows quiet appreciation.

Nevertheless, you are not prepared for the bomb that Yoongi suddenly drops in the already heavy atmosphere.

“My girlfriend died in a day like this, five years ago.”

Your mind turns blank. You gape at him, a bit shamelessly, as your chest constricts under a foreign swirl of emotions. Yoongi’s eyes settle on the surface of the wooden table, his mind somewhere far away.

“Raindrop… it was her favorite song.”

You try to come up with something to say, but you fail miserably. Not even a quick I’m sorry, not even a word of comfort. Your ability to form sounds have vanished from your throat entirely, as if your vocal chords suddenly stopped functioning.

You and Yoongi leave a few minutes later, the daze of the alcohol long gone after the heavy words he uttered, still clear and sharp and forming a cloudy wall between your bodies. He walks beside you towards your bus stop, and his gaze finally finds yours when he notices your shy, curious eyes that continuously keep going back to him.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve accepted it already,” he blinks as he stares at you, making you aware of his sudden closeness. You’re fully conscious of his body heat now, almost overpowering amidst the strange atmosphere. “Worry about yourself. We have to prepare for your audition in two months, don’t we?”

Your heart jumps at his tone, surprisingly tender. You nod mutely, and then his mouth does something you never thought you would see so soon, almost blinding you as the strange feeling you have been trying to avoid finally bursts in your chest and expands all over your body.

He smiles. A true, honest smile, wide and flaring with hope and quiet contentment. And just for a fleeting moment, gone in the blink of an eye, you can almost see that mesmerizing, hopelessly romantic pianist back in his eyes. It is even more beautiful than you imagined.

Your brain is barely able to process the way he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek that lingers on your skin for the rest of the night.

“I believe you can do it,” the words get lost in the chilly air as your bus shows up. He is gone in a matter of seconds, still smiling as he disappears in the darkness of the night.

The rest of the night dissipates in a weightless daze, your feet barely touching the ground as you head home. You manage to fall asleep quickly, but Yoongi’s smile and mellow words ground themselves in the depths of your dreams, mixing with the painful sound of raindrops in a storm.

/

Something changes during the tenth week.

You grin the moment Yoongi opens the door, but you’re only met with hardened eyes. Any trace of the hopeful, tender pianist you saw last week is now completely gone. He lets you in without a word, and your mind starts racing with worry as you follow him to the music room.

“Have you practiced Raindrop?” he asks without so much as a glance, voice lacking any spark or interest. He sounds bored, just like the first time you two met.

“I have—”

“Then get on with it.”

You part your lips to snap back at him — after all, you believed you two had come to the silent agreement not to speak rudely to each other; but the look in his eyes is as stern and glacial as you have never seen it. Something in the way he looks, like a tickling bomb that is about to burst, tells you that maybe today is not the day to fight back, and that his inner turmoil is probably more than enough for him.

The class is painful, and so is the next after that one, and the next. There is only one month and a week left until your audition, and it’s as if your improvement has met a tall, infinite wall that does not allow you to move on, one that is just as sharp and resilient as this new, unwelcome semblance  of his. He only becomes more irked and irritable as the time goes by, only spewing short and hurtful sentences that only manage to numb your supposedly emotional performances.

There is one month left until your audition when you finally break.

That week you arrive early, and it is no surprise when he receives you with his usual glare. It still feels like a sudden pressure on your chest, swirling uncomfortable and tightening your lungs as the hopeful feelings that rose the night he smiled at you continue crumbling down, vanishing like dust.

“New song,” he spats as you enter his house.

You follow him hurriedly, eyes wide as you stare at the pack of his head. “What? I thought I’d be playing Raindrop at the audition—”

“You can’t,” he sits on the chair, pointing at the piano. “New song.”

“You know what? Fuck you, Yoongi,” you hate the way your voice wavers, eyes immediately blurring with angry tears. He shows no sentiment as he acknowledges your shaky form. “I’ve tried to keep up with your bullshit— I don’t know what tantrum you’ve been pulling, but it’s been four weeks now, for fuck’s sake! Whatever it is that’s troubling you, deal with it, and don’t use me as your punchbag. It’s not fair…” your voice fades, and a couple of tears finally fall and roll down your cheeks.

It is through a teary gaze that you see Yoongi getting up, confidently striding in your direction until he’s right in front of you, and then he’s holding your face between his hands and pressing an insistent kiss on your lips—

“No,” you push him away, heart beating so hard it almost jumps out of your chest. You exhale a shaky breath, cleaning your eyes hastily to stare at him clearly. Your thoughts halt when you find his eyes — there is something raw and intense in them that takes you aback, but it is not enough to stop the anger bubbling in your chest.

“How dare you? after everything I’ve put up with— how can you expect me to suddenly forget about your shitty attitude—”

“You’re right, you’re right,” he interrupts, voice hoarse. “Yes, I was an asshole. I just… I don’t know how to deal with… this,” he looks so lost, so troubled — and you have to contain yourself from walking up to him, hands turning into tight fists at your sides as your nails dig painfully into your skin.

“What do you mean?” you ask, not sure if you want to know the next words.

He finally looks at you directly in the eye. He looks small, vulnerable. “Well, you.”

He comes closer again, and this time you let him take one of your hands. It is almost scary— the way he’s looking at you straight in the eye, gaze surprisingly open, not hiding himself anymore.

“This is the first time I have… feelings for someone after what happened five years ago, and I don’t know how to deal… I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I know I keep fucking up… I just don’t know how…”

“It’s okay, Yoongi,” the way he sounds breaks your heart. It is proving harder for you to just stand there, only able to hold his hand tightly as he tries not to drown in his thoughts.

“Do you want to take a walk?” your sudden question makes him snap out of whatever reverie he was dwelling on, confused eyes staring down at you. “Let’s get some fresh air.” you give him a tentative smile as you gently tug at his hand, feeling inevitably afraid of his rejection.

Yoongi nods, and your breathing feels a little less tight. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He leads you to a small, quiet park near his house, where the winds are strong and make you shiver. But the slightly biting air falls to the back of your mind thanks to Yoongi’s presence, inevitably comforting as he gradually calms down. He takes a seat on a bench that’s located in front of a small, shallow pond, and you join him as both of you stare curiously at the family of three that feeds the ducks at the other side.

“I keep losing my composure around you. It’s embarrassing,” Yoongi snorts after a few minutes of stillness. He’s staring down at the water, peaceful except for the soft waves left by the trail of ducks. “Meeting you only made me realize how emotionless I’ve been for five years. Times goes by so fast…”

You allow the silence to stretch between you for a few seconds, taking a deep breath before talking, your voice as soft as the wind. “Is that why you quit? Because of her?”

Yoongi nods, looking down at his hands.

“She was also a musician, a very talented one. She was the one that believed in me when no one else did,” Yoongi explains in a low tone, eyes glazing as he gets lost in his memories. “Suga wouldn’t have existed without her, and when she passed away… I just couldn’t find another reason to continue being that person.”

You nod, understanding. A million thoughts are running through your mind, some more sympathetic than others. A small, loud part of you is begging you to reproach him for shutting himself down like he did, but you remind yourself how useless it is to voice them out loud. The past is the past, and he probably knows that already.

“I’m glad you’re feeling something now,” those words are the only ones you’re unable to keep inside, escaping your lips and making you lower your head in slight embarrassment.

You don’t meet his eyes, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah, me too.”  

Time flies that evening as the conversation flows, exchanging mindless words as the somber topic of his ex-girlfriend fades away. He listens intently as you talk about music and friends, and you smile in quiet amusement as he mentions the highlights of his past. For once, Yoongi’s words are not tight or constricted.

You know it is too soon for him to free himself after so many years of inner conflict. Even so, a minuscule part of you hopes that maybe he is not going downhill anymore — and that you are the one helping him take a step forward, closer to the sunlight. Down a path inevitably filled with ups and downs, but leading him where he truly deserves to be.

You leave when the sky starts to darken, with the promise of seeing him again that weekend. It makes your heart beat fast and loud — for once, you will not go to his house for a stern lesson of repeated practice. You will go to see Yoongi, the quiet, sensitive man hidden under the hard shell of a pianist that once was as great as the sun.

/

“I want to show you a song.”

“What? I thought this wasn’t a lesson—”

Yoongi shakes his head, containing a smile as he lets you inside his house. “It’s not a lesson. Come with me.”

You walk through the already familiar path towards the music room. You were not sure of what to expect for today, but Yoongi sitting in front of the piano and signaling for you to join him was definitely at the bottom of the list. You were sure he would want to do something different than the usual, but his eyes are glinting with something special and his smile, though small, looks strikingly earnest.

And instead of the chair, he pats the spot next to him on the bench.

“Oh, I can just stand up, don’t worry—”

“It’s okay, I want you to sit with me.”

The nerves begin to spark, heightening your senses as you join him on the bench. His right thigh and arm brush against your side when you sit, muscles tense as you watch him position his fingers over the keys. He takes his time, touching them lightly and delicately, as if they were made of glass.

“Every year, around this month, I play Raindrop until I can’t feel my fingers anymore,” he says in a soft voice. “But… it’s different this time. It’s truly amazing, how meeting you taught me that maybe it’s not wrong to want to move on.”

He begins to play, and you recognize the melody immediately — it’s one of your favorite pieces by Handel, Chaconne in G Major. The melody starts happy and cheerful, full of hope. For once it feels light and joyful, which is strange coming from Yoongi’s fingers, as his songs have always been tainted with melancholy and a dark heaviness weighing over his fingers.  

You smile in surprise as his fingers dance above the keys — like they’re playing a game, one he is actually enjoying as his body sways softly to the music.

The switch is almost confusing when the song suddenly changes its tone. Even though you know the melody by heart, you’re still taken aback — the sadness is there again, and you hate how well Yoongi is capable of transmitting that grief, your heart clenching as the distressing melody spreads across the room.

You feel completely engrossed in the music as it slowly changes again, tempo gradually growing. The switch is not immediate this time, but you can still perceive how his feelings start to change through the music, from sorrow to anger and frustration, to finally reach its cheerful melody again.

The melody permeates all over your chest and roots there, rapidly overwhelming as the song transforms into something new and powerful, hope bursting and seeping out of his fingers as the piece finally reaches its end.

You can only stare as he puts his hands on his lap, long fingers tightening above his thighs.

Finally looking up at him, you find yourself at a loss of words when you meet his radiant smile.

“Do you like that song?”

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites. At first it took me a few listens to realize how… intense it is.”

“It reminds me of you.”

The confession almost makes your heart burst, skin heating up pleasantly as you try to hold back a blissful smile.

“I know we were practicing Raindrop, and that it was probably going to be the one we’d be taking to your audition, but I think this one fits you better. It has a happy ending, doesn’t it?”

You nod, still smiling impossibly wide. Feeling suddenly bold, you take his hand, lightly squeezing. He clasps it tightly, and a sudden need to bring him closer numbs your senses.

You are not sure of when or how it happens, but then his body is completely flush against yours, in a hug so tight it almost leaves you breathless. It is almost painful — how desperate he seems to hold you against him, as if he were too afraid to let you go. Still, his closeness feels like heaven, arms encaging you in a comforting embrace.

You lose all restraint as you press a soft kiss against his cheek, heart hammering against your chest when he turns his lips towards yours, slow and hesitant, as if waiting for your lead.

He is asking for permission, and your heart grants it to him.

The kiss starts slow and deep, almost languid in the way he softy parts his lips to flick his tongue against yours. The pace is slow, unhurried, like you have all the time in the world to kiss and get to know each other’s bodies. His warm hands caress your back under your shirt, making you shudder against him as his lips move smoothly, lovingly.

It does not take long for your movements to become insistent, and your thoughts turn fuzzy and erratic as long sighs and brazen touches are exchanged. You are only able to focus on how hot your skin feels and how alleviating his fingertips feel against it, and it is with intimate smiles that you both get up so he can press you against the piano, the sudden, clangorous sound of the keys making you chuckle against his mouth.

Outside of the music room the sun starts to melt, and the glowing colors of the sunset drip inside as clothes fall to the ground and gasps of pleasure turn headier. Strong hues of orange and purple reflect on your sweaty skin as you both get lost in each other; and for once, his fingertips leave no bitterness in their path.

By the time you both come back to reality the sun is long gone, and you stare at the darkening sky in a silent daze as he presses soft kisses against your lips. You can only smile lazily, allowing him to help you get down the piano. You hiss when you feel your lower back starting to hurt, a pain you had not noticed before.

“Are you okay?”

You nod, looking up at him with a glazed look, still soaking in the deep contentment. Yoongi leans in for another kiss, but the shrill noise of your ringtone breaks the moment. You grab your phone amidst the heap of clothes lying on the floor, cursing in surprise when you see the time. You start putting on your clothes hurriedly, berating yourself under your breath.

“Oh god, have more than two hours passed already? I’m late, I’m so late,” you mumble frantically. Turning to Yoongi, you flush when you realize he is still completely naked, staring down at you as his eyes flicker from your face to your phone repeatedly.

“Hoseok and Namjoon have their first stage with the band tonight,” you sigh. “I promised I’d go. Um, you can come if you want—”

Yoongi shakes his head, giving you a tender smile that does not manage to reach his eyes. “It’s okay, go ahead.”

You stare at him for a few seconds, trying to find anything in his expression. “You sure?”

Yoongi nods. He is still smiling reassuringly, giving you one last glance before he picks up his clothes to cover himself.

“I… I’ll go, then,” you approach him slowly, pressing a timid kiss against his lips. He barely moves as you step away, your eyes completely fixated on his as you start walking away.

“It’s fine, go,” he insists, making you nod as you finally turn around and head to the door.

You walk with a heavy heart towards the place of the concert, not knowing the origins of such an unsettling feeling. It keeps pressing down your chest, tainting your thoughts with a strange darkness that does not allow you to think freely of Yoongi’s touches, still fresh and lingering on your skin.

You try to ignore it, even though the nagging voice never quiets down from its spot in the furthest corner of your mind. It almost reminds you of the darkened melody in Chopin’s prelude, mixing with blurred nightmares during the night.

/

Three weeks go by, and your nerves gradually grow as the days pass. Not that long ago the day of the audition seemed minimal and faraway, but as your fingers become familiar with the melody of Chaconne the date slithers dangerously closer, almost palpable under your worn out hands.

Yoongi is, fortunately, earnest in his continuous support — his strict behavior has long since softened into subtle smiles and longing stares, which eases your anxiousness into a manageable amount of fear. Nevertheless, there is still something not quite right stirring the air, a tenuous feeling that makes you frown when he is not looking and keeps you awake most nights, struggling to find something under every word that leaves his mouth.

Yoongi has been keeping his distance for a reason you cannot comprehend, and he never bothers to hide it. Pecks never turn into real kisses, and his touches are so quick and faint you wonder if they’re only part of your delusional mind. You force yourself to believe there is are no ulterior motives to it — it is probable that he is only holding himself back so you can keep your entire focus on the audition. He is seeking it as badly as you are, after all.

Those three weeks easily dwindle into one, and it is terrifying to think how in seven days you will be proving worth in front of an intimidating, experienced jury that has already seen more pianists than they could ever count. The day of your final class with Yoongi is a cloudy one, sky filled with dense, dark clouds that forbid the sunshine to wash over the ground and your gradually freezing body.

That uncanny feeling you have been trying to push down is not as subtle this time. His eyes are hooded and turbid looking, features downcast and clearly lacking hours of sleep. It makes you wonder if he played the piano all night — which he admitted to doing quite frequently — or if he simply lied down on his bed and stared absentmindedly at the ceiling, until his eyes closed on their own accord.

“Hey,” he gives you a quick smile, lips dry and slightly cracked. “You can go ahead and start practicing, I need to go upstairs. It’ll be five minutes.”

You nod, walking inside as he closes the door. You watch in hushed apprehension as he strides up a set of stairs that lead to an upper floor you have not seen yet, eyes glued on Yoongi’s disappearing form.

You release a loud, weary sigh, looking around the hallway before heading to the music room. A surge of curiosity zips through your body the moment you spot the opened door of the living room, not giving it too much thought as you walk inside and look around in silent wonder. It serves as a good distraction — you are pretty sure your hands would not work with the same fluency as usual right now, not while knowing that Yoongi seems to be dealing with an internal turmoil again. Chaconne would probably turn into a messy, vacant melody if you obliged your hands to play.

The living room is wide and tastefully decorated, in a simple yet detailed style. It is not very colorful, but fresh and clean thanks to the high windows that grant full access to the natural sunlight. You walk around, eyes sliding through the shelfs full of trophies and pictures of the past. Many first places occupy his memories, shades of striking gold many pianists would be envious of. In most of the pictures he is seen alone, except a handful where he is accompanied by two older people that hold a faint resemblance to him — his parents, probably.

You continue wandering until something out of place catches your attention: a picture frame left forgotten on the couch, with a folded white paper lying on top of it.

You are not a noisy person, but it is as if your feet move on their own accord. Quickly approaching the couch, you keep your senses awake and searching for any noises outside of the room as you grab the paper first.

There are only a few lines written, but only one makes your eyes read it over and over. The words are full of pain, palpable in a way that almost stings the tip of your fingers, and it is with trembling hands that you put it back, the phrase resounding in your head over and over.

You pick up the picture, not surprised at all when you see a beautiful, glowing face staring back at you, with a wide and happy smile stretching her kind features and honest eyes twinkling with mirth. She looks young and brimming with life, and the thought aches your chest mercilessly — for her, for Yoongi, for the mournful words he wrote for her.

I’m sorry. I love you.

The sudden realization hits your body and weakens your muscles, sending a cold, uncomfortable shiver through your frozen limbs. You are only making it worse for him — even if Yoongi believed he could move on, looking into your eyes is probably bringing back wistful memories of the girl he loved, of the girl he loves.

It all makes sense now, if you really think about it. The confusing feelings that are leisurely growing between you both are only ripping his heart apart, not sewing it back. Being with you is making him forget her, and you can only imagine the struggle he is probably facing — it makes your own heart break, for him and for yourself.

And you cannot be the one that pushes him down a path he is not ready to take.

You leave the house without a second thought, even though your own mind is screaming at you to stay. It’s for him, you think in earnest as you look up at the cloudy sky. Just like you, it looks like it may start tearing up at any given second. He doesn’t need someone like me in his life right now.

/

“Hello?”

“Did I wake you up, hyung?”

Phone against his ear, Yoongi blinks up at the ceiling of his bedroom in a sleepy daze. The room is dark and he can barely see through the murky veil, but one look at the curtains tell him that the sun is probably high in the sky on the other side. He slowly tosses around, yawning as unconsciousness tries to drag him back again.

“What do you think?” Yoongi grumbles, sitting on the bed grudgingly as he runs a hand down his face. “I’m awake now. What do you want?”

“Always so lovely,” Taehyung coos, sounding too lively for Yoongi’s current state. “Well, I’m glad I woke you up. Get ready, I’m picking you up in ten minutes.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Taehyung waits a few seconds before answering. “Y/N’s audition is today. Didn’t you know?”

Yoongi can feel the uneasiness start to settle in his stomach, finally walking him up as his free hand grabs the sheets tightly. “Of course I know.”

“Then get ready. We’re going.”

Yoongi sighs, sounding completely spent. He does not want to talk about it, not when the thoughts have been piling up inside of him all week — letting them out would only be bothersome and draining, and he is already too worn out to deal with that sort of thing. “She doesn’t want to see me, Taehyung. Just… let me sleep.”

“I swear to god, you two are way too dramatic,” Taehyung mutters, almost sounding as exhausted as him. “She’s been sulking as much as you, hyung. Can’t you just get out of that bed so we go and see her? I’m sure it would mean a lot to her.”

“She’s been avoiding me all week. And I’m pretty sure you know how I’ve been trying to reach out to her, I don’t want to stalk her.”

Taehyung lets out a distressing sound, making Yoongi wonder if he had a similar conversation with you already.

“I don’t know what made her act like this, but one thing is clear: you’re the one that actually made her think she has a chance today. Even if she doesn’t want to talk to you, I’m sure you’ll give her even more courage if she sees you.” Taehyung’s words are strong and serious, a tone Yoongi rarely hears on his voice. “Please, hyung,” he finally adds, and something in the way his voice softens makes Yoongi’s resolve start to waver.

He sighs, allowing the static silence to take over for a few seconds. Taehyung is dangerously good at convincing others, which is one of the reasons he has Yoongi’s number in the first place. He tries to sound annoyed when he replies, blatantly ignoring the fast beating of his heart.

“I’ll go get ready.”

Almost half an hour later he is finally staring up at the facade of the conservatory with a restless Taehyung by his side. Yoongi feels inevitably sheepish as people around him start to recognize his face, throwing not so subtle glances that make him lower his head automatically.

“Sorry, forgot that could happen,” Taehyung snickers, grabbing his wrist and dragging him towards the stairs that lead towards the tall, intimidating entrance doors. “Ignore them, let’s go.”

Taehyung seems to know his way around, which Yoongi thanks immensely — he is suddenly overcome with countless memories and a heavy dash of nostalgia, sounds and images flashing past his sides at full force and overloading his senses. The tall boy drags his limping form through the mighty hallways, once a second home to Yoongi but now buried deep inside his bright past.

They find the backdoor of the auditorium in no time. Yoongi restlessly waits for Taehyung to open the doors, frowning when he notices the younger doing the same.

Taehyung is staring at him pensively, a look Yoongi does not like. He nods towards the door, waiting for Taehyung to move.

“I’m not going in,” Taehyung finally says, in quick, nervous words as he takes a step back. “I think she’s the third one—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re her best friend,” Yoongi interrupts, befuddled.

“She already knows I can’t stay. In fact, I need to go right now,” Taehyung pats Yoongi’s back, who is still staring up at his friend in silent indignation. “She will appreciate you being here a lot, hyung. Don’t worry.”

“Taehyung— for fuck’s sake— come back here!” Yoongi blurts, a little too loud for the steady silence. Heads turn to him as his eyes follow Taehyung’s retreating form, almost running away from Yoongi as he waves back with a brilliant smile on his face.

Yoongi can feel his breath quickening already, heartbeats frantic and thoughts running wild.

He is here already, isn’t he? Even if your abrupt decision to disappear from his life makes his chest ache, he still desires to see your performance today — that never changed, and he doubts he will ever turn back an opportunity to see you play again. He is not nervous about you failing. He trusts you can do it, that you can shine above every other single contestant.

He still wants to see and hear the magic fly from your fingers, at least one last time.

Yoongi takes a seat far away from the stage, carefully choosing a secluded spot where no one will be able to spot him. All the lights are focused over the piano and the judges, and the nervousness oozing down the tall, jagged walls is both familiar and contagious. He stays completely still as he watches the first contestants, valiantly stepping under the spotlight before sitting in front of the piano with notable confidence.

Yoongi can’t lie, they are good. Yoongi follows their interpretations critically, aware of their flawless techniques and raw talent as they sway to difficult songs that show off every single one of their strengths. They remind him of you that first day you came to him — bursting with practice and talent but void of emotion, only focusing on following the music sheet as perfectly as they can. For him, it is perfectly clear that the only thought in their heads is to get it over with, eyes glazed with images of their future triumph and not their present.

Your turn finally comes and Yoongi shuffles in his seat, eyes intently following your every movement. Even if your steps are slightly nervous, you still look radiant, even more than usual, face glowing with determination as you politely smile towards the judges. You do not notice Yoongi’s presence.

You sit and place your fingers on the piano, and when you start to play, the air completely leaves Yoongi’s lungs.

It’s not Chaconne. Yoongi gapes and listens, completely still as his fingers dig into the fabric of the armrest. His heart is beating too fast, too painfully, and he wonders if you can hear it through the soft but unmistakable melody of Raindrop.

It sounds completely different from any interpretation he ever performed of the song, which he has done countless times. The melody is tender and fresh under your fingertips, and Yoongi can see the tinctures and variations of the music surrounding you, bright and pale and so calm he can almost notice the judges in a trance, just like every other person present in the room.

The melancholy is there, deep and palpable. While Yoongi always mixes it with sorrow and regret, yours is almost filled with a strange sort of contentment, like a sad memory you’re gingerly transforming into something beautiful, something that deserves to be remembered with a smile and not tears.

Yoongi feels completely engrossed, easily forgetting where he is as the melody glides over the auditorium. His throat unavoidably tightens and his eyes burn with tears he does not want to let out, quietly listening as the song approaches its end. Even through a teary gaze, he is unable to contain the gentle smile that curves his lips.

There is no other way he could describe your performance. Gentle and beautiful, like the hope under the sorrow, the dawn that rises over the darkness.

And for the first time, he feels moved.

/

I did it!! Oh my god that was so fucking scary. Call me as soon as you’re free.

You send the text to Taehyung with trembling fingers, letting your back fall against the wall of the empty hallway as you clean your clammy hands against the fabric of the dress. The adrenaline is still hurtling through your veins and your breathing is ragged, but you could care less about your knackered appearance right now — it’s over. It is over and you’re happy, relieved, feeling weightless after having carried the unbearably heavy nerves all week long.

Someone calls your name, then — a familiar voice that makes you snap your head up in disbelief. Your wide eyes find Yoongi’s shiny ones and you almost drop your phone, heart speeding up again under a very different kind of nervousness.

“Yoongi? What are you doing here?”

He hides his hands inside his pockets, seemingly timid as he takes a tentative step in your direction.

“Well… Taehyung tricked me,” he admits, giving you an embarrassed smirk. “I didn’t want to come, afraid I’d bother you even more— but after listening to that, I can’t regret that I came.”

“Oh,” you can feel yourself flushing hotly, fingers tightening around your phone. You know you should be annoyed at Taehyung, but you can only focus on Yoongi’s acute stare as he looks at you with something that resembles reverence. “Yeah… Raindrop.”

“Why did you change the song?” Yoongi asks, light curiosity in his voice.

You smile softly, even though the gesture is tinted with sadness. “You don’t even know why I left, do you? I’m sorry about that— I found your letter last week.”

It takes Yoongi a few, long seconds to realize, lips parting in recognition. “Oh.”

You nod. “It’s okay, though. You still love her, and it was silly of me to think I could have a chance with you—”

Yoongi frowns. “Hey… that’s not—”

“Wait, let me finish,” you interrupt, voice sounding a little strained. “I found the letter and the picture. She was beautiful, Yoongi,” you smile genuinely, and he can only nod, listening intently. “I… decided to do some research about her after that, and learned that not only was she beautiful outside, but inside too. It was admirable— all the things she was doing for herself and others. All the campaigns, all the people she helped. I don’t know how I didn’t hear about her before.

It kinda bothered me, how a lovely person like her is not recognized among musicians. I felt so inspired, I just… decided to dedicate my audition to her. It had to be Raindrop, of course,” your smile grows. “But I didn’t want to make it painful. I wanted to celebrate her life, to turn the sadness of this song into something beautiful, just like her.”

Yoongi parts his lips, but nothing comes out. He finally figures out what to say after a few laden seconds. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay, I wanted to do this. I hope it wasn’t painful for you. I…” you take a deep breath. “I’ll go now. See you around, Yoongi.”

“You got it all wrong,” he says before you’re able to leave. He’s chuckling, and the lighthearted sound takes you aback, your eyes finding his as he takes another step closer. “That day, with the picture and the letter… I was planning to take it to the cemetery later. Yeah, I was feeling a little shaken, but I was not mourning— I already did plenty of that back in the day. I was just saying goodbye,” he explains, words rushing out of his mouth. They make your body feel light, the confusion making you frown.

“What do you mean?”

“What you hear. I was finally ready to take a step further with you— only if you wanted to, of course,” he clarifies, eyes intent and voice as clear and confident as it has never been. “I was only saying goodbye. And I love her, of course I do. But I’m not in love with her anymore.”

The meaning laced in his words is deep and transparent, making your heart flutter in sudden realization. His words fall into place like the missing pieces of a puzzle, finally vanishing any doubt that ever grew inside your head.

He loves her, but he is willing to open up again — and he has granted you the honor to lead the way for him.

You can only take his hand, giving him the biggest smile you can muster.

“Come with me, then. There’s a song I want to show you, and it kinda reminds me of you…”

[abigail-w-gabble]

BDRPwrimo Day Fifteen -- No Words Necessary Playlist

Abigail’s Favourite Instrumentals

An instrumental playlist for a character or a relationship (with descriptions for each song). 10 songs minimum.

Tracklist:

Symphony No. 7 in A Major, Op. 72 II. Allegretto - Beethoven

Nocturne No. 3 - Liszt

Prelude in D Flat Major, Op. 28, No. 15 “Raindrop” - Chopin

Rêverie - Debussy

Arabesques, CD 74, L. 66: No. 1, Andantino con moto - Debussy

The Seasons: Op. 37a: VI. June - Tchaikovsky

 Moonlight Sonata (1st Movement) - Beethoven

The Carnival of Animals: Aquarium - Camille Saint-Saëns

The Carnival of Animals: Pianists - Camille Saint-Saëns

Carol of the Bells - Mykola Leontovych, Rousseau’s version

Link to the playlist on Spotify!

Symphony No. 7 in A Major, Op. 72 II. Allegretto - Beethoven

Not gonna lie. I know so little about classical music, that I am just giving Abigail my favourites as her favourites because that is just easier. And this is my favorite of all my favorites!! It plays in the beginning of one of my all time favorite movies: The Fall (starring Lee Pace, seriously watch it if you haven’t.) This song immediately grabbed me and I think the same things I like about it, Gail would too. It’s kind of playful, but a bit morbid. The strings really be out here doing SO much work in this song and I love it. It is super long, but worth the listen because it evolves.

Nocturne No. 3 - Liszt

A piano piece! I love Liszt. After Debussy, he might be my personal favorite overall. I think Gail would like him too. His pieces can be rather simple, but there is a sweetness to that simplicity a lot of the time. Something about his music sounds very earnest to me and I think Gail would really tap into that. 

Prelude in D Flat Major, Op. 28, No. 15 “Raindrop” - Chopin

This one is a bit lighter, reminds me of springtime. I think, while Gail has a bit of a morose personality, she likes lighter music. Happy music and floaty kinds of music. This one has a lot of great little trills in it, and something about it sounds a bit sad too...or maybe just hesitant. I really love it.

Rêverie - Debussy

I just discovered this one today and oooh man, I really love it. It’s name translates to “the dream” and it definitely gives me those vibes. It is so light and airy and pleasant. I fell in love with it from the start and I think it might be one of Gail’s favorites to play. 

Arabesques, CD 74, L. 66: No. 1, Andantino con moto - Debussy

Not back to back Debussy! Yes! We stan! I know fucking Twilight made us all laugh at Debussy and Claire de Lune, but Edward and Bella picked him for a reason. Debussy slaps and I will stand by that! This song is like a lovely ballerina dancing across the stage. Those soaring aerials! The twirls! You can picture it in your mind’s eye and it’s just so lovely. 

The Seasons: Op. 37a: VI. June - Tchaikovsky

This is a moody song, in my opinion. It kind of reminds me a bit of something that might be in a Miyazaki film. It has that melancholy kind of sound to it. And I also chose it from all the Seasons operettas because Gail is a June baby! It seemed fitting and I could totally see her playing this one all the time. Especially that minor cord transition towards the end?? We love to hear it. 

Moonlight Sonata (1st Movement) - Beethoven

Moonlight Sonata is one of my favorites. What can I say? I’m a basic bitch and so is Gail. We love the classics. It doesn’t get any better than Beethoven. Gail definitely plays this one a lot. It is so...dark and lovely. Really giving me those haunted, spooky girl vibes.

The Carnival of Animals: Aquarium - Camille Saint-Saëns

Okay this one is a bit of an Easter egg. It’s actually the song that inspired the opening to Beauty and the Beast. (It will come back around in a moment.) But this is definitely one with a really fun and beautiful piano piece. It reminds me of raindrops and magic and I just adore it!! Something about it is just so incredibly enchanting.

The Carnival of Animals: Pianists - Camille Saint-Saëns

I cheated and used two Carnival of Animals songs. I love this whole opera though! It’s so cheeky and fun. It’s supposed to be humorous and is in 14 parts, each part a different animal. And he included pianists because it’s funny! This is actually just the scales that pianists do to warm up, but in kind of a tongue and cheek way. I’m sure Gail plays this all the time before she starts playing something else.

Carol of the Bells - Mykola Leontovych, Rousseau’s version

And to get us in the mood for the Christmas season, I have included Carol of the Bells! Probably Gail’s favorite piece to play for Christmas. I bet Adelaide (and Ber, lol) is thrilled that Gail is happy to play all the Christmas songs this season for them. This will always be her favorite.

[also watch this bc im obsessed w it] 

[mei-totoro]

love my bones (i)

✄ love my bones (i)

✄ pairing: anya (narrator) x wonho, anya x jungkook

✄ genre/warnings: angst, mature language, graphic content, futuristic, fantasy and slight romance

✄ summary: In the world Ulia, there live Holders and non-Holders. Holders are born with the ability to control one of the four elements in nature: water, earth, air, and fire. After years at the Academy of Holders, Anya has not yet unlocked her element. However, one day - after a series of unpredicted events - she unlocks her element and finds out the secret behind her family’s death.

✄ words: 2.6k

♔ prelude

“Honey, my baby, I love you much. Don’t forget who you are, the blood that runs through your veins and secret of your ancestors.” My mother took off her necklace and hung it around my neck. “Now be a good girl and get out of the house, I’ll get your brother and meet you in the front!” She screamed at me in the midst of the burning chaos. The heat of the fire threatened to burn my young tender skin, the smog crawled into my lungs, the dry heat created hot tears as I grabbed my coat and ran out of the burning house. Panting, I stopped in the front yard waiting for my parents to come out with my brother. From the loud cracking noises and the sounds of sirens in the distance, I heard a baby’s cry. It was a cry of pain, fear, and sadness.

“Mom?! Dad?!” I screamed helplessly at the burning house.

The sounds of cracking became louder, the flames engulfing the wooden posts of the house grew larger, the smoke spread more violently, the cries turned to shrieks. I covered my face in my hands to wipe away the tears. But the moment I looked up: the house collapsed.

I gasped, sitting upright while grabbing a fistful of my blanket. Another flask back. Sweat rolled from my forehead down my neck as I gulped audibly in the dead of the night. Flipping my sheets over, I rolled out of the bed. My feet grazing the icy cold floor sending chills down my spine. I snuck my way out of the dorm room and downstairs to the common room. Grabbing one of the blankets and pouring a glass of water, I curled up on the sofa and looked out the tall glass window. The moon shone on the sleeping woods, where even wolves slept soundly and the lake which acted as the moon’s mirror at night by reflecting its elegant and beautiful features.

I laughed to myself - the moon never fought with the sun for its power, because it was content with its beauty, the sun was never jealous of the moon’s beauty because it had power. Why couldn’t people live like the sun and the moon? They balance the world, bring peace, and are content with what they have. If people were not so cruel, maybe I’d be living happily with my parents and younger brother…

- ~ -

The sound of the sliding door woke me up. The infamous languid authoritarian footsteps of the Dean echoed in the empty room. He snickered, shaking his head, “Tsk. When will she learn that the common room is not her room. Right, the poor orphan was probably never educated properly. If she wasn’t a Holders, she would probably be rotting with the commoners.” He proceeded by walking up the stairs to wake the others up. ‘If that asshole wasn’t the Dean, I would have already thrown him over the wall to feed the wolves.’ I kicked the blanket off and hurried upstairs to change and prepare for class.

The girls in my dorm room were already up getting ready for the day. Slipping into suits before securing the buckles of the armor, they headed out of the room - some fixing their hair while others applied discrete colors to their lips. The hexagonal plates on their sternums lit in all colors: blue for Water, red for Fire, white for Air and green for Earth. Those were the four divisions at the Academy, and the only ones left in Ulia. Apparently centuries ago, there used to be Holders from hundreds of different division in the world. However, when people were poisoned by greed and corruption, the world fell into a huge bloody mess during the fight for survival. Ultimately, only the masters of the four divisions remained to rebuild the world and reintroduce peace. Of course, I don’t know how much of it is true, but that’s what every citizen is taught in Ulia - Holder or non-Holder.

I changed into my suit before braiding my hair. As usual, my plate didn’t light up. It never has, and I never know whether it will ever light up… Am I really a Holder? Did the Lynx of Ulia read my blood incorrectly? What if I really don’t have powers to unlock? Sighing, I tuck my mother’s necklace into my suit and head towards the field.

- ~ -

“Hut, two, three, four - hut, two, three, four… c’mon, run along! No one is going to wait for you to finish your fucking laps. Run along.” Mr. Duff, on of the academies oldest professors yelled at us. The old man was a sixty year old, bony, grumpy, divorced man with no children who had probably gone through tens of midlife crises; yet he never failed to muster the energy to whack a lagger with his “magic stick.” Anyone hit by this “magic stick” will be graced with weeks of beautiful purple and blue bruises. After yelling at us, he turned away to sit inside the cool shed in the shade.

“The old man is fucking insane.” I heard a voice behind me say, “I can’t wait till he retires.”

We continued to run around the field, greeting the rising sun every time we completed a lap. The calm of the morning was disturbed when an Earth Holder, Edgar, in front of me accidently bumped into a Fire Holder, Wilson, causing him to trip.

“Watch where you are going, clumsy troll.” Wilson yelled mockingly joined my laughter of other Fire Holders.

“How the fuck was it my fault? You were running into my space!” Edgar hollered back venomously back up by other Earth Holders.

“Ha, how dare you accuse me of such immaturity and clumsiness. Unlike your type, Fire Holders are known for their agility. Watch me light up your sorry ass.” The nimble Fire Holder sent a blast of fire towards the Earth Holder who blocked it by creating a wall of earth. Sparks of scorched dirt rolled around, causing the crowd of students to back away.

“Hell, now you are asking for this. Don’t blame me if you end up a chunk of dirt in your foil mouth!” Then, the fight broke out. Edgar stomped four boulders from the ground and sent them flying to Wilson, who whipped out a ring of fire - blasting the boulders to pieces. Some students fled far away to avoid the chunks of soil and sparks of flames dancing in the sky while others watched the fight - egging them on.

Shortly, several professor, the Dean and Mr. Duff rushed to the scene. An expression of anger and disappointment painted on their faces.

“Edgar and Wilson!” The Dean cried. “Stop this childish quarrel right now or I will sentence you both to 2 months of bathroom cleaning duty!” The field quickly died to complete silence. The two Holders lowered their head in shame. “Now if you two gentlemen are ready to behave, follow me to my office. We have a few things to discuss.” The Dean said before turning his heels, whipping around his long coat and walking away.

The teachers, dispersed the crowd and told everyone to head to their morning classes.

- ~ -

Out of the many useless things the Academy taught us, one of them was “Weather Reading.” It was considered one of the oldest forms of art in Ulia and its traditions had to be passed down. The administrators claimed that as Holders, we were a part of nature and that also included being able to understand the environment around us and weather changes. On top of the utter uselessness of the class, it was also one of the hardest classes at the Academy. The different shapes of the clouds, the speed of the wind, the humidity, the shape of the moon and the intensity of the sun were all the little miniscule details one had to learn about to pass the class. Despite its difficulty, I chose the class because it is one of the only classes that allows Holders to leave the academy and enter the depths of the woods.

“Anya!” One of my close friends Thatiana called, “Do you know what the humidity of the soil is?” I knelt down to dig up a handful of the soil, feeling it in my hand before it fell apart through the cracks of my fingers to the ground.

“Hmm I think it is around 70 to 80% humidity, the soil must be near a body of water since it is impossible to reach that humidity with the recent dry weather.” I concluded as I let Thatiana record the numbers on the tablet. “Hey,” I stopped and turned to her, “you are a Water Holder - shouldn’t you be the one to decide that? Why do you make the non-Holder do it?” I stated lightheartedly.

“Hey! I may be a Water Holder but I’m no fan of digging my hands into dirty soil - it will get my nails dirty. And also who says you are a non-Holder! You are… but maybe your element is just a little stubborn … like your personality!” She retorted while laughing.

“Ah!” I hit her shoulder. “How can I possibly be more stubborn than you!?” I said teasingly while running away from her.

“Hey, you two! Get back to work, you have to finished taking all the measurement by the end of the hour.” Professor Whum hollered our way. “I know reading the weather is fascinating but don’t get too distracted.” She winked at us before skipping towards another group. Professor Whum was one of the weirder teachers at the Academy. She wore a pair of round glasses that resembled goggles, always had dirt on her face or in her hair and wore mismatched boots everyday. She was a simple representation of a blatant mess.

“Yes Professor Whum,” I reassured her with an artificial smile.

“Don’t worry,” Thatiana snickered, “We don’t have too much fun looking at the clouds.”

I headed further into the woods until I felt a raindrop on my nose. I looked up at the forming clouds, but my vision was limited due to tangled branches of the dense forest.

“Thatiana, wait here. I’ll climb a little higher to get a better view of the sky.” I said before hiking up the steep hill to the rocks. A large dark gray mass of clouds precipitated ominously towards our direction, expanding widely and rapidly.

A strike of thunder roared loudly from afar. The light drops of rain grew in number. A sense of fear and uncertainty washed over me. Screams erupted from below, as my classmates gathered their materials and fled back towards the school. Professor Whum hurried everyone to return to the Academy and back into its gates. I turned back to the sky. ‘Why is there suddenly a thunderstorm? We had been closely watching the weather for the past few weeks and Ulia’s Weather Reading masters have never been wrong - today was supposed to be a sunny day. What in the world is going on?’ Another strike of thunder interrupted my train of thoughts as I flinched.

“Anya! Anya! Where are you? We have to go back now!” Thaliana voice laced with terror rang from below. Rain began to pour more violently, soaking my hair completely. Beyond the overwhelming fear that sent sparkles coursing through my limbs, there was something about the way the rolling opaque gray clouds picked up speed, engulfing more and more of the forest in darkness. As if darkness was suffocating the last rays of light, I reached my hand into the light, watching the cloud’s shadow roll over my hand. I turned around to watch the darkness approach the gates of the Academy as small figures rushed through shielding their heads from the rain.

A source of warmth blossomed in my gut. A type of energy that was unexplainably nostalgic yet foreign - almost like the feeling of home and belonging. I raised my hand to cup a few drops of rain - ‘Was is the rain?’ The warmth grew and filled the whole expanse of my chest. I exhaled the breath I held for too long - a zap. I fixed my attention to my fingers. Zap. Crack. A dedicated thread of electricity formed between my thumb and index. The warmth traveled down my arms and spread through my hands. More sparks. Breathing deeply again, a tingling feeling flourished from my palm - creating threads of electricity between my fingers and across my palm. At every breath and contraction of my diaphragm, the energy multiplied.

From a distance, I sensed a growing bundle of energy in core of the clouds. In a split second, strike of thunder bolted down towards me - striking me. As if the clock had slowed down, I watched the lively shifting bolt approach and lung towards me. My palms caught the wild and heavy impact of the thunder as I watched the electricity spiral and encircle my arms and body. The heat became stronger and stronger. My arms and legs were covered in fluorescent white threads. The zaps multiplied by the second, getting louder and louder. I concentrated on my breath and brought my fists together. The electricity began to weave a sort of dome over my head. My body suddenly felt light, as if my body had forgotten the whole notion of gravity. The soles of my feet left the rock. The web of electricity wrapped further down to my hip and legs. The sphere wrapped neatly underneath my feet shutting me in.

I had created a force field of electricity around my body - protecting my body from the rain and the wind.

Sparks of electricity dance around my body as I floated higher and higher off the ground. For the first time, I felt free and invincible. While I watched my classmates through blazes of fire across the training room and soak each with whole tubs of water - I stood by the side patiently waiting for the day I would be able to unlock my element. Happiness coursed joyfully through my body. I was a Holder! I really was! I don’t know what kind but if I can control something - I am a Holder. I played in the force field, enjoying the new lightness of my body. Touching the bubble of electricity sent literal sparks through my arm. I closed my eyes and relished the warmth of the electricity prickling and tickling my skin.

As I floated higher and higher into the sky, I failed to realize another strike of thunder building up. When I saw a crack of light form in the distance darkness: I panicked. I raised my arms to cover my head but the thunder hit the force field, cracking it open instantly. The power of the bolt flung me violently across the woods. As if gravity finally woke up, my body turned heavy and was pulled downwards. Fuck. I flailed my arms in order to slow down my fall but all efforts were in vain. I fell on the thick branches of a big tree because falling flat on the hard ground.

“Anya! She is over here!” Thatiana screamed from a distance. As I laid completely limp and lifeless on the dirt, ropes of electricity spiraled around my body zapping periodically. After several violent zaps, my vision turned black.

a/n: idk if anyone will actually read this BUT im just putting this out here ha. since I got nothing to do in my spare time, I think im going to write again hehe c: idk when chapter 1 will be out but look forward to it :3 Jungkook and wonho will come in next chapter sorry haha