𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱

ⓒⓗⓐⓟⓣⓔⓡ ⓕⓞⓤⓡⓣⓨⓣⓗⓡⓔⓔ

He could not help but stare at his razor, especially at the blades in between the plastic. It made him think of him. He knew what happened in that locked bathroom. He had heard it, and yearned to see it with his own eyes. How beautiful must the Master have been, torturing and killing his victims, completely lost in the moment yet in such control. To see his blood stained, angelic features glow in the faint red light of the room, to see his rigid hands do whatever they were best at. As well as he knew the Master was good in bed, he could not help but imagine how incredible he was at killing. The mere thought of it was… intoxicating.

Stop. He closed his eyes and frowned, a single tear seeping out from his eye. It’s over. He nodded as he looked back up, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It’s over. He glared at his face, hating every single part of it. His eyes were too slanted, his nose too low, his lips too big, his face too small. He was too short, too lean. He was not enough. He was not him.

Yoongi sat at the empty table, staring, lost in thought, at the wooden chair in front of him. The unique light of the cramped room flickered twice, making him groan in displeasure. He was not one to be easily scared, but he was surely made uncomfortable with settings such as these. He tapped his fingers on the rusted metal table, the sharp sound resonating on the torn up walls. He sighed loudly and leaned his head back, ruffling his hair with his hand. He winced when a hair got stuck to his rings, but then quickly shut up and looked back in front of him as the door slowly creaked open. He immediately got up, taking a deep breath, not sure if he was ready to face the man that creeped in.

“Look at you,” the man scoffed, extending his arms in front of him.

“Hey, Dad,” Yoongi answered, embracing his father in his arms.

He smiled as the familiar scent of alcohol and heavy cologne hit his nose, reminding him of the complicated childhood he had spent accompanied by this man. They broke off and sat on each their own end of the table, a somewhat uncomfortable silence settling in the room. As probably as it would have been, Yoongi did not hate his father for how he had been during his sparse childhood. He was mature enough to understand that everyone had their flaws, that nobody was perfect: even your parents. He had forgiven him for the lack of attention he had lived, for the fucked up shit he had gotten into because of him. They were past their differences now, and Yoongi felt as if he was the more wise one of the two.

“It’s rare that you ever come and see me,” his father mumbled, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his leather jacket.

It was true. Yoongi rarely ever communicated with his father, and for a reason. The older man was part of a very notorious gang of bikers, but an unstoppable one at that. They were loyal down to their bones; Yoongi had heard it was impossible to get one to talk or snitch in any type of situation. As much as it was somewhat respectable to be a part of that group, Yoongi wanted nothing to do with them, especially since he had joined Jungkook’s team. When you entered that world, you never got out. It was a difficult, dark business to live in. It changed you; chewed you up and spit you back out when you were not useful anymore. Members had to constantly prove themselves, prove their loyalty and fealty to the leader to stay in the gang. Yoongi was aware of all of that, having seen it through his own father. He had heard many stories, but not from his own mouth. As much as his slight curiosity made him wonder what his father had done to be a part of that group, he was too scared to even begin to imagine what it could have been, even more to actually know.

“What do you want?” the man replied, knowing his son well enough to deduct he needed something from him.

“Your help,” Yoongi replied bluntly, extending his hand for a cigarette.

His father took one out for himself then one for Yoongi, offering his lighter. Yoongi motioned that he was good, getting out his lucky lighter out of his own leather jacket. It had been a gift from Jungkook; a golden lighter with his initials carved into the surface. He pushed the cap off and put the cigarette in his mouth, but was interrupted by his thoughts as he glanced up at his father. It was weird how similar they were, even if they had not spent that much time together. The way they dressed, the way they spoke, even the way they sat down. The apple never fell far from the tree.

“Go on,” the man pressed, inhaling deeply from his cigarette.

Yoongi explained the situation roughly, skimming over details for a matter of time, not lack of honesty, basically explaining how he needed the gang to look over the club, make sure that they were protected from others. His father listened quietly, nodding at his son’s words, reflecting and thinking about what he was saying. Yoongi explained how the gang would be paid very well, as the club made a big profit, and how he might just be able to get them a cover for their drug trade.

“I thought your boss was not a big fan of drugs?” his father asked, tapping gently on his cigarette to shake off the excess ashes.

“I can talk to him,” Yoongi replied.”I don’t know if I can convince him, but I can sure try.”

His father continued nodding, frowning as he thought of the offer. It was not his call if they would accept or not, as he was not high enough in the ranks to make such a decision. He had to, however, filter out the propositions he received. Offering a dumb deal to the boss was insulting to their gang, and he would have to think this over many times and formulate it in a way that would interest the higher ups. A lot of money was on the table, which he knew would most definitely intrigue the boss enough for him to consider it.