Work Text:
Min Yoongi was a visual thinker.
After all, what would one expect from a photographer? He thought in quinacridone magenta, spoke in cyan, and read in ochre. No wonder his captures were so vivid with colorful explosions beyond the frame. The same applied to memories. Each was tied to an image- some absurd, others more delightful. If anything, it would only be faint. He avoided the negative reminders fervently.
But sometimes there were negative reminders.
And then it came crashing down.
He hoped today would not be one of those days. There were 193 days from the threads of the first episode: a horrible, compulsive era. For a year, he spent his life drenched in filth physically and mentally, becoming so close to suicide that the two were like soulmates.
He looked at a plastic bag in the corner of his eye. Seokjin always made sure to leave room for help. A faint smile graced his face. Yoongi could never believe that Seokjin still loved him, hell, even send him help and have hope for the pitiful wreck. He sighed. It had been two weeks since the cleansers in the bag were sent to him in hopes of him actually taking a bath for once.
So he did try.
Five days ago.
Now he considered swallowing them.
Elation bubbled slowly in his mind as he reached towards the bag, viewing the assorted pastel bottles. His hand moved towards the bottle and soon the cap rattled on the floor. He froze, glassy-eyed at the open bottle. Yoongi shook his head and returned to his room. Not today.
Ping. A phone screen brightened.
It was another message from Jungkook, his former protegee and now photography partner.
Jungkook: hey
Jungkook: could you meet me up for a shoot in busan?
min.yg: okay
min.yg: where
Jungkook: it’ll be throughout the city.
Jungkook: part of the collab you promised, right?
Jungkook: a photo album on hometowns
min.yg: okay.
Jungkook: see you at busan station
Footsteps and conversations were his white noise. In his ears, he could hear snippets of idle talk in many voices. A woman with a merlot lip stain whined over a breakup. A student confessed to their friend through small-talk about cheating on a test. Typical, predictable, and nothing special. Eventually, the only noises were footsteps on tile, then the low rumble of the midnight escalator, and finally a cool rush of wind.
Surprisingly enough for a train to Busan, the only things present were an arched, stone-gray tunnel, a few ads with perfect plastic double-eyelid dolls, and the ever-flickering train times. 02:20 flickered on and off in dotted orange print. Yoongi blinked slowly and rubbed his eyes. No one’s up. I’m not surprised.
He unzipped his bag to a pocket-sized notebook and a pencil. After a few flips past discarded writing and doodles, he stopped at a blank, lined page. Yoongi pressed his pencil to the page and soon his hand moved on its own as if disembodied. He sank deep into his mind, trying to find each memory so that it could flow onto the paper. Though black and white, when read, the words were bursts of color with each line.
After a few moments, he paused and looked back at the chaos. He scrunched his face and turned the pencil upside down. Words disappeared with a faded, smudged outline and some eraser shavings. Yoongi tugged his black face mask down and sighed, mumbling something similar to “fuck writer’s block and fuck him.”
A finger tapped him on the shoulder.
He looked up.
And in that moment was a million.
His hair’s the color of cherry blossoms. Feeling the flowery aroma, he was then transported to a park with drooping pink flowers, broken bridges, and lakes. He had black hair, and Yoongi’s head was a soft muted rose. Blinking once or twice, he remembered the turquoise highlights in his hair and he looked back at the pink-haired man’s eyes.
He still uses circle lenses. “There’s no reason for you to wear those,” he said once, discarding a pair of blue lenses. At the time, he reeked of Busan sea salt and sweat. He shivered in the corner of a bathroom wearing a towel, with hollow monolid eyes staring at Yoongi, a recovering pyromaniac who previously licked flame daily and still has had the scars to show it. He didn’t consider his slight chubbiness nor face shape to be beautiful and Yoongi disagreed. He would then cup his hands on his cheeks and tell him “you’re a wonder, a damn supernova” and other compliments except for “muse.” It was corny though he was the only person to fully fit the term.
Obviously, he didn’t take it to heart. His face shape was different, more chiseled. His body gained muscle and he had a defined jawline and his skinniness was down to the anorexic levels of a K-star. To the regular eye, he seemed almost ethereal, but beneath was BB creams and contour and a dozen other products all a drain on the bank for beauty.
Yoongi couldn’t believe he ended up like this.
He shook his head. “He” was a meaningless variable. If he had to get over the damn loops, there had to be a name attached to the ambiguity.
“Yoongi.”
“Jimin.”
The shrill laughter over bingsoo during summer nights, the melismatic voice over the living room piano…
“What are you doing here?” Jimin asked, clicking his tongue with downturned lips. “God…” The pink-haired man grumbled and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Daegu’s a large city, but somehow I run into you.” Jimin fidgeted with his sleeve and it was then evident that his foundation was thrown sloppily. Red patches appeared on his face and his eyeliner trickled at the edges. Jimin ran a hand through his hair. “2.5 million people and we happen to be side by side waiting for a two o’clock train.”
Yoongi nodded stiltedly, feeling the lump in his throat. He blinked twice and a drop fell. “I-I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Jimin said, his voice hollowed and husky. “The damage has been done.” After pausing for a moment, he looked up at his ex, eyes like glass onyx beads. “Is there any other train you can take?”
“My partner’s coming to pick me up.”
“Well then…” His eyes narrowed and he frowned. “Good luck with them. Bet they’ll treat you better.” Jimin walked away from Yoongi, the magenta splatters on his bomber stark and vibrant against the station lights.
In an instant, Yoongi’s eyes widened and he took out his phone, typing furiously.
Min.yg: hey jungkook
Jungkook: hey
An ear-splitting siren seared through the station and reverberated off the tunnel walls. A white blur zoomed past, then slowed to metal doors and glass windows.
Min.yg: i have an idea for the project
Min.yg: how about sunsets?
Air released from the doors in a high-pitched sputter, and the metal panes parted to blue benches and yellow poles.
Jungkook: don’t tell me this is related to him, is it?
Jungkook: you photographed a lot of sunsets and sunrises when you were with him.
The pink-haired man zipped his jacket and walked towards Yoongi with a lowered head.
Min.yg: yeah, i know.
Min.yg: that’s kinda the point.
Jimin stood next to Yoongi and placed his arm on where the doors slid. “After you,” he cracked, barely making eye contact with the black-haired man. He skidded slightly over the metal ridges, almost tripping until someone firmly grasped his arm. Yoongi steadied his balance and looked down at his arm, where a small hand grabbed his sleeve. It slid down into his palm and Yoongi clutched it. Jimin blinked rhythmically with a rising chest. A watery black tear slid down his face.
Jungkook: Wouldn’t it remind you of him?
Min.yg: it’s ok
A female robot announced the departure. Jimin stood before the shutting doors clutching two broken hearts and soon became smudged in motion.
Min.yg: he’s in the past.
He swore he saw Jimin wave.