UNIVERSE / BTS.

84: cataclysmic / yoonmin

CATACLYSMIC

WORD COUNT 1.8k ( shoooort sorry :( )
OVERVIEW there's a fist sized dent in the bathroom tiles.

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THERE'S A FIST-SIZED dent in the bathroom tiles. once clean and unblemished lavender porcelain is now tilted inwards, cracks spiderwebbing outwards from the centre, a smidge of red from a knuckle cracked open on impact a new addition to the colour scheme.

there's a boy sat in the bath with that dent right above his head. cradling his bruised hand — the wall did him more damage than he did to it —, cursing, and chasing away tears because boys don't cry, do they, yoongi?, they have to be strong and pretend they don't have emotions until those emotions bubble and boil and come pouring out in a cataclysmic turn of events that end with a fist hitting the wall.

and it's not even his goddamn house.

great. now he's got another thing to explain to jimin's dad, jimin's lovely dad who's taken him in free of charge and now he's punching holes in mr park's walls like some... some juvenile delinquent and that's gonna be one hell of a conversation once they both get home. it's not like it's the first time yoongi's destroyed things — in fact, he's pretty good at ripping things, people, relationships apart like paper aeroplanes that got caught out in the rain —, not the first time he's put his fist through something but it tends to be something less painful than a wall, usually a pillow, but sometimes his head gets the better of him.

his cheeks are ruddy with mottled pink splotches made by embarrassment and tears that are of hurt and nothing else, his mind is spinning like a tilt-a-whirl at the riverdale carnival every year and yoongi remembers that one time he and jimin — back at the tender age of five before popularity decreed they couldn't be friends —, that time they went on it after three syrup-coated cakes from the colourful carts and they hurled afterwards but it was so fun it didn't matter. with his forehead resting on the bony part of his knees, legs too awkwardly long and skinny, he hates the feeling of nostalgia that washes over him like the sea.

it's a sticky autumn day outside, the sun just warm enough to be uncomfortable, but there's rain in the horizon, grey clouds bordering their little town, signaling a night storm. yoongi stares at his right knuckles, two of them bleeding out iron-scented blood, throbbing like hell. jimin will probably fret over him, like he just does; yoongi should clean himself up.

he climbs out of the bath and goes to the sink, ignoring the mirror and instead opening the cabinet concealed behind it, grabbing out the rubbing alcohol and a roll of gauze tape. after watching jimin bandage his own fists after his weekly punching bag session, it's second nature to yoongi, and the routine of it is nice; wipe away the blood, feel the sting as the cotton pad of alcohol cleans the broken flesh, stretch your fingers out and carefully apply the gauze, held down initially with a band-aid, and then wrap, wrap, wrap, four times for good measure, before taping the end down. then make a fist, feel the sting of what you've done weigh upon you, and go lie on the camp bed on your best friend's floor.

yoongi lies like someone dropped him. that's what jimin says, anyway. he's all sprawling limbs and weird angles, like a kid's ragdoll tossed from a window in some game where she's the evil witch no one wants around. yoongi won't argue with that. with his legs stretched out and off the corners of the mattress and one hand behind his head, the bandaged one resting on his chest, he stares at the ceiling.

jimin's room is sloped, the top of the house coming down to form this weird little triangle room just big enough for two. painted in two different shades, muted tones of grey and blue, with posters tacked up on the wall that slopes, and a large windowsill housing jimin's american football uniform when he's not using it, poison apple red varsity jacket with park 03 on the back hanging from the end of his bed. sporty boy.