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Silken.
Soft to touch–petals dappled in the hum of the gallery. A pale blond, almost silver in the dim lighting. He can’t help but admire it; the delicate curve, almost sculpted. How it resembles his hair, a flaxen shade so sickly it appears ashen amongst the curl of the shadows and embers of paintings. Ethereal.
It scares Taehyung. How easy it the malevolent place seems to cripple him, charring his translucent skin with the carelessness of paintbrushes disguised as arrows. How Yoongi melts against the portraits as if each blank stare is a caress. How he flits along the halls, each step stuttering with loneliness. Pretty, pretty Yoongi. Soft hands clasped together, feet prancing over this living graveyard as if it was a home.
Dragging him forward.
It was his gaze. Taehyung was sure of it. If he peered into their metallic depths, he could see it–raw blisters festering in a bruised mind. It made him pout. Want to wrap his arms around the elder’s delicate frame and sing a lullaby. He knew Joonie didn’t like it; that he distrusted the twitch in the pale boy’s pastel fingers and the flash of silver behind the puff of his sleeves.
But it was Yoongi. Tapered fingers and pallid skin, disguising a boy made of glass. Fragmented glass spun from cracked sand; Taehyung wanted to piece each fissure together and run his fingers against his unblemished complexion. Even when Yoongi made him want to shrink into Joonie and drape himself in azure. Shrivel into a cloak of blue and a deep lullaby, comforting against his ears.
It was happening more often. Taehyung could feel it, the cracks meandering through Yoongi’s veins. The incessant flashes of grey against dull brown stripes. An unhinged giggle, pushing him closer towards the bespectacled man beside him. His glass boy was unravelling and it unsettled him, sinking past the down of his jacket and into his bones.
He knew that Joonie noticed. It was in the way he let his fingers rest on Taehyung’s shoulder, the faint pressure both a reassurance and a warning. How he stalked the passageways, agitated. Rose clenched to his chest like a prayer. Or a sacrifice? A frown tugs at his lips. His Namjoon shouldn’t be scared. He was tall and graceful–gait like a panther, armed with a steel rose.
A giggle. False and jarring. It startles him out of his thoughts, the sound dissonant. His frown deepens as he watches his glass boy weave through the flickering lights, languid steps careless. So lonely. Why? Taehyung observes how it drowns Yoongi. Bruises his pallor with spite–cold, cruel arms tugging on light strands.
Taehyung aches. For the boy who revels in their eerie prison? For the man whose thoughts spill into the space around them, too much heart behind his guarded façade? For this lifeless, greedy expanse which spins them in circles until they are left dizzy from their own devices? It weighs on him as he stumbles forward, wrapping soft arms around cool fabric.
Don’t be sad. He murmurs the phrase with his fingertips, tracing them on capped sleeves. Motion hesitant as Yoongi stiffens against him.
A pause. He feels Joonie tense, eyes focusing on the pair. Protective. He wants to caress the words the man feels but never speaks, each utterance devoured by the white noise surrounding them. Taehyung yearns for something more.
He grips the boy, his glass boy, tighter. Yoongi relaxes against him, yielding to his embrace. He senses his sweet Namjoonie relax, his relief palpable. I’m sorry for worrying you, Joonie. The apology is tainted by petals, artificial and aquamarine. Exhaustion washes through Taehyung, but he persists. His glass boy is fading.
“Tae,” Yoongi rumbles in his ear. For all his delicacy, Taehyung thinks Yoongi’s voice was born out of an earthquake. Out of a palette of earthy browns and sweet chocolate. He nods into his velvety shoulder, fatigued. “You won’t leave me. Right?”
The words are blanched with insecurity. Yet, he witnesses the tinge of wonder before it fades into the aggravating nothingness. He closes his eyes. Inhales.
No, he mouths into Yoongi’s shoulder. Relaxes his grip. We’ll all go together. We can be happy. All of us.
He ignores the flash of iron beneath the promises disappearing into worn velvet. Cups capped sleeves as he pieces his glass boy together. Oblivious to the collapsing walls in his quest to close everlasting cracks, punctuated by a mocking smile.