𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝐦.𝐲𝐠 ✓

Chapter 15:

Pushing through the anxious crowd of teenage girls and their not-too-thrilled parents, you make your way to the backstage of the large venue, flashing your VIP pass to each security guard that blocks an entrance.

When a staff recognizes you, as you most likely resemble a lost antelope in a flock of lions, the short lady dressed in black guides you to a place giving you a side view of the stage.

It's just starting. The lights dim and the audience, that can't be seen from your angle, goes completely wild. Their cheers only enhance when the electronic music begins.

You think your eardrums might burst in a matter of seconds, not from the loud bass that sounds from a nearby speaker, but from the boisterous shouts and chants coming from the intense crowd.

Then Yoongi appears. He's dressed in some sort of fancy suit that almost replicates an army vibe. The audience screams even louder and more ear piercing. You can't help but smile and giggle a little. All those people, probably demolishing their lungs, just for the guy with mint hair. Why aren't you surprised?

You've never been to a concert before but you can now confirm that this will not be your last. Throughout the entirety of the rap songs he'd performed, your excitement virtually peaked. The amount of times you fought the urge to breakdance was innumerable. He truly is amazing. You can tell by his constant smirks that this is more than a passion to him. This is his lifestyle.

Yoongi jogs backstage, his face gleaming with layers of sweat and exhaustion.

The staff members parade around the soaked man— like how ants would gather around a crumb—with towels, makeup brushes and sponges, combs and other hair tools etc. you name it, they had it. They were prepared. And by the looks of it, time was their worst enemy.

You watch with anxiousness as the 5 ladies practically slam into him on all sides, waving around their vanity tools and pulling his hair and suit every which way. His thin body is easily yanked with it.

You freeze in your tensed position, your hands sweatily rubbing against each other with great pressure. You try to coerce the most genuine smile of how proud and impressed you are of his performance, but what happens behind the scenes is what creates a lodge in your throat. A lodge so large that it cannot be cleared with a simple cough or swallow.

The way the staff hastily grab and drag him around. Tugging carelessly on those soft locks of minty hair that you adore so much—those feathery strands that deserve to be gently combed tenderly with loving fingers.

The way they practically rip his clothes to shreds, adjusting them and pulling him closer so that they can get a better angle at his face makeup. The same clothes that deserve to be petted affectionately in the midst of a warm hug.

The way they jab and prong at his half closed eyelids and face, bristles grazing the whites of his eyes in the most painfully slicing sort of way. A face that deserves to be endlessly jabbed and pronged with careful and compassionate lips, and possibly a caressing hand or two just along the outline of his cheek or jaw. Eyes that deserve to be stared into with lust and admiration, and bristled lightly with endearment.

But you smile anyway, weakly, but a smile nonetheless. You can't help that the front your brows divot into the inner corners of your eyes in a worrisome manner.

Is this really what he has to go through?

From a far, things don't look so bad—touching up makeup and hair, ensuring his stage presence is sub par—but up close, very close, those touch-ups turn into disrespectful condescending acts. Acts that make a person feel like an object, and no more than that.