𝔸𝕔𝕣𝕠𝕤𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕥

twenty three

For the first time in what feels like forever, Yoongi questions his intelligence.

That was a lie, Yoongi was constantly questioning whether he was good enough, smart enough. But that was based on the fact that he had never been told that he was smart or good and therefore he never believed it to be true.

This, however, was... different.

Because here he stood, left hand on the door handle, right hand gripping tightly to two glass bottles full of alcohol. His fingers are long so he's able to hold onto them tightly - if his hand had been any smaller he probably would've had to use both of them. Through the widow, Yoongi can easily see the keys that lay innocently on top of the desk. Yes, he feels like an absolute idiot.

But who could blame him for forgetting that the automatic and complex system that Jungkook insisted they install onto the door automatically locks after closing hours? His mind had kind of been preoccupied. Yoongi feels a drop of water splash against his nose, and then against his hand, and then against his cheek and he groans. The universe had decided that this was the perfect time to make the sky cry. Just his fucking luck.

"Fuck me." Yoongi sighs. He looks down at the pavement which is quickly changing to a darker colour of itself as the rain begins pouring more steadily now. Maybe in the morning, he would've been more worried about ruining his brand new jeans but, now, he plops himself onto the ground without a second thought. They were black, anyway. Who cared? Not Yoongi.

Yoongi pops one of his two bottles open. He made extra sure to purchase ones that didn't require any of those openers; he couldn't keep track of how many times he had brought bottles that did need openers. Unfortunately, as he was a very normal person, he didn't really carry those around.

Yoongi nods to himself. Yes, very normal. He thinks, taking the first sip of his drink whilst sitting in the pouring rain outside the store he managed to lock himself out of. He doesn't make to savour his drink, downing it down as fast as he can and before he knows it he's already three-fourths his way down.

One thing Yoongi can admit is that he has a horrible drinking habit.

But the alcohol works as an agent to numb his buzzing mind, so he doesn't stop. Once the first one is all but empty (Yoongi had made sure to get every last drop) he moves on to the next one. As the anxiety washes away, he's left with an ever-growing sensation of raw fury.

He had thought these thoughts a thousand times over but this time they burned to think. They burned his heart and mind. Red hot tears trail down his face and are warm against his skin, so much so that distinguishing between the rain and his anger is painstakingly easy. The rain is cold, it should work to cool him off but it only makes it worse.

He cries some more. His father had been nothing but the forefront of his mind but now he thinks of his mother. He thinks of her judgment. It was a lot quieter than her husbands but in a way, it hurt more. He remembers a time way back when she used to be encouraging. Hopeful. Proud. Perhaps that's why her disappointment cut deeper. Yoongi had always strived to make his father proud because he never had been before. But with his mother, it was like losing it. Yoongi found that it was harder to miss something than it was to want something.

The bottle in his hand is becoming lighter a lot faster than he would like it to. His head hurts like hell and he knows that he's the direct cause of it. By now, the rain had gone from a light drizzle sprinkling down to the equivalent of someone holding a bucket over Yoongis head and tipping it over. Maybe that's what he needs. His clothes and hair stick to his skin and make him hyper-aware of that sickness that still has an iron grip over his stomach. The alcohol makes it bearable but it simply isn't enough. Yoongi thinks that he should've gotten something stronger. Something to completely erase the pain. However, he also thinks that a pain this strong can never be erased.

He has less authority over his thoughts now - no doubt thanks to the alcohol - so they wander elsewhere.

'Elsewhere' just so happens to have bright pink hair and a stupidly pretty smile and eyes that turned into crescents when that smile did appear and always went over the top with his winter clothes and has an annoying obsession with flowers and doesn't know how to mind his own business and likes to make bets with his best friend and likes to make that his problem and just so happens to go by the name of Park Jimin.

Park Jimin. The fucking bane of Min Yoongis' existence.

Recently, however, he had been surprisingly reasonable. Or maybe suspiciously reasonable. Should Yoongi be suspicious? Should he cut Jimin out of his life forever? Should he accept this change in behaviour and go with the flow? Then, Yoongi remembers that it probably doesn't matter anymore, all too aware of the notice that sits snuggly next to his keys. He wants to scream. He's already crying. He wants to sleep.

Graduation day. People laughing, talking, shouting. Names being called. Standing on stage. Diplomas being handed out. Eyes on him. Specifically two sets of eyes on him. Judging eyes. Harsh eyes. Mean eyes. Cheering. Cheering but not for him. A stupidly pretty smile and crescent eyes. Hatred blooming. Tears forming. Everything collapsing. His life-ending. Graduation day.

("And the valedictorian is...!" And the valedictorian is...

Yoongi and Jimin were equals. They had achieved top grades in all their classes. Choosing a valedictorian this year would be difficult. "How about we give them both one more test on general knowledge or something?" Suggested the assistant headmaster.

"Park Jimin, congratulations!!"

"Thank you so much!" His speech was long, probably, Yoongi wouldn't know.

He was too busy crying in the bathroom.

Fuck Park Jimin.

-

On the report Yoongi had received in the mail he saw it. He saw the specific grades he achieved for everything. Including the extra test the school made them take.

Min Yoongi - 89/100

Park Jimin - 90/100

That was the moment Yoongi realized. He would always be second place. In theory, he should've realized it sooner. He should've realized it when Jimin got a gold medal in their elementary school talent show and he was left with silver. He should've realized it when his father would frown at his grades. He should've realized it when people flocked to Park Jimin like he was light and they were moths. He should've realized it when he was constantly making everything he did with Park Jimin a competition. He should've realized it when he was standing on stage behind Park Jimin as he spouted his ridiculous (probably) speech.

He should've realized it when Park Jimin walked through the classroom doors on the very first day of school and Min Yoongi couldn't help but think he was the prettiest person he had ever seen.

Yoongi was second place. But in the immortal words of his father: "Every place behind first place is last place." Yoongi was last place.

... Fuck Park Jimin.)

Yoongi brings the bottle up to his lips again but nothing falls out. It's empty. He tosses it aside and perhaps if he had been in his right mind, he would've awed at the way it didn't smash. Instead, it rolls a couple of inches away from him before hitting the other bottle, creating a light metallic sound before settling into its position on the cold, wet ground.

His senses are all over the place. The alcohol warms his skin but the rain makes him feel like he's freezing. He feels like he's sweating but maybe those are just his tears. His vision is distorted and blurry and in a moment of pure adrenaline he picks up his phone. Perhaps his brain had clocked out for the night or perhaps it had been hurt at the way it had been labelled as second place but there was absolutely zero thought put into his next action.

His finger hovers over the call button, perhaps he was finally thinking - hesitating - but then it's all thrown away as his skin makes contact with the screen. His phone rings. It rings again. And again. And again. And again.

"...Hyung...?"

His voice feels like a punch to the gut.

"I hate you."