This is a work of fiction. The content was made for entertainment purposes, no more no less. BTS members are only a visual representation of the characters created by the writer.
The following content might be triggering for a certain audience. Proceed with caution.
Mentions of drugs consumption and alcohol are to be expected.
English is not my native tongue.

You've always loved popsicles, always had that lame ritual where you squat on the lounger and exchange kisses with the sun while pouring love on the sweet treat. You found it inspiring, a shitload about love and betrayal, and, honestly, anything that floats your boat. You'd open one eye and keep the other closed, the popsicle clutched between your index finger and thumb, an unhealthy amount of sugar and food coloring dripping down your wrist. You'd lick at the leftovers, roll your tongue and hum appreciatively, but the sound would spark higher when you would grab your pen and jot the missing lines, going over the one you've chosen to discard with a heavy amount of charcoal ink.

Lips would pop, and you would sigh, airy and heavy but not tired. See, it was again your same shitload crap that explained the number of orphaned popsicle sticks - may they find peace in your belly and you in the restroom afterward. The endless banter with Jimin led to you to convince yourself before him of the nonsensical explanation you'd made up to justify your indulgence. "Fuck your non-existent sense of art. What the fuck do you know about poetry, anyway? Dusty ass."

And after hearing such outrageous accusations multiple times and reading the results of your work, he began to believe that maybe, just maybe, you were right and popsicles sweetened the lines, made them sparkle with sugar and pink and orange hues of goodbyes meant to remain secret between the sun and the horizon but caught in mid-act by your Bic and your overused notebook.

And that perhaps became an assertion, a reality, when one of your pieces was bought by a priest who married it to melodic rhythms depicting the lost soulmate and loving, faithful husband you wished you'd found too. Preferably as soon as possible.

It is said that poetry is the language of souls who felt love and dealt with it differently. A population that had different words and a difficult alphabet, but even though you were the impostor who neither experienced the different love nor felt it in an ordinary way, you were bilingual in the language; you'd be mistaken for a native if one didn't know better.

And the one loyal customer who kept buying your work and, sometimes, went as far as to request custom pieces, was one who obviously didn't know any better. Jungkook had warned you several times, telling you that the guy seemed to be a creep from the first analysis of his pseudo that appeared under his email address and at the bottom of every email as a signature that sealed your deals, but you shoved a chicken drumstick on his mouth, seeking peace in his silence and fleeing the lack of admiration for your work.

Jungkook wasn't a lost soul or a hopeless romantic; he was your opposite, the wheels that made your approach to the ground seem bumpy at times, but necessary nonetheless. Otherwise, you would run out of fuel while flying through the vast horizon of unrealistic feelings. So when he kept hitting you over the head with his assumptions about the buyer, you finally gave in and decided to ask him for a sample track, justifying your request with curiosity about how the words you wrote with the intention of publishing them in a book would look and sound in something so different from a book: a CD.

The days passed and with the passing of time, you realized that you had lost your only buyer and admirer of your work, all because you allowed pollution to taint your ear. Fucking Jungkook. And every time you checked your balance in online banking, you cursed him more, because the numbers went down with every visit, and the landlord was neither the patient type, nor someone you could convince with your bullshit about money being substantial but non-essential.

And when your curses became the greeting every time you opened the door to your friend, Jungkook saw fit to make up for his mistake and offered you the position of CLO at his sports bar, his artistic passion that you so often degraded when he so often insulted yours. And the very next day, you walked into the store, dressed in power and gray uniform with the name of the place written in horrible fonts, without taking off your sunglasses, which served no other purpose than to make your condition a little more ridiculous.

Hooray! The Cleaning Lady Officer is entering the palace, peasants. This is the admirable position he's offered you: the CLO, aka Cleaning Lady Officer.

It was an exhausting job, with all the responsibility it entailed and the souls that depended on you to keep them safe from germs and, God forbid, an illness that led to imprisonment in the bathroom. But by the end of the first month, you paid the landlord and saved your apartment, which made up for any discomfort you might have felt waking up at stupid o'clock every day.

It was on that sweet night that the stars baptized with holy water that you decided to open your laptop after days of avoiding it like the plague for fear of the emptiness of the blank page. As soon as the device was connected to the Wi-Fi network you had been secretly using without the knowledge of the tenant on the floor below you, a storm of notifications appeared on the panel. Some of these were from the millions of dating apps you'd subscribed to, and others were ads from websites you'd visited with the intention of shopping but ended up filling the cart without passing on the order. These brands weren't made for people like you anyway. Why would you swap Shein for Celine? Does that make sense for you or your wallet? Jesus!

So the cleansing began; your Google Mail trash cried out for mercy, but you kept sending one piece after another until your eyes spotted an email that looked less like an advertisement and more like a malicious file - at least that's what your intelligence thought. The [email protected]. Good God, this was that person, your one and only buyer. He sent an email, and not just any email, but a request. A fucking request for further collaboration. Jackpot!

This time Jungkook could go on and twist his dick so it could reach his ass and self-do the deed. You were going to take this deal, and you didn't care where your lyrics ended up or what industry they were used in. They could be used in the soundtracks of porn movies for all you care. It. Doesn't. Matter.

Good day, Popsicle, I'm writing to you about a project I hope you'll take on. I've just created a beat that I think needs your touch to be complete. It's a slightly slow tempo at 104 beats per minute - andante. I was wondering if you could create something romantic - the usual, but with a hint of hidden bitterness.If you're interested, let's discuss your price and get straight to it. I'm in a bit of a rush. Yours sincerely, GeniusLabs.

You wanted to curse your stupidity because you never thought to do a Google search with his pseudo. That would have saved you the trouble of asking Jimin and Jungkook, the ignorant cockroaches who have no idea about music or art. But now that you've been enlightened by the Almighty, you've done just that. You spent a good twenty minutes on intense profiling, but the waste of time was just that, a waste of time. Nothing came of it.

You sent a polite reply that matched his professional email and went through your notebook and some untitled documents you'd left incomplete and untitled. There were many good pieces, but also many that meant nothing at all, but you had confidence in your abilities. Did he want romance? Well, romance is your forte, anyway.

The morning after, you weren't just the cleaning lady at Jungkook's gym, you were also the scarecrow. Dark circles were up to your neck, and if a Guinness representative showed up at the store out of the blue, your name would surely be included in this year's statistics. "My days! Why are you coming to work when you've smeared ink all over your face, for heaven's sake?"

"Good morning to you, too, boss. Have a disgusting day." You concluded with a respectful bow.

You didn't care about his tantrum; you stuck your AirPods in your ears and covered his annoying voice with Chase Atlantic's. You basked in the lyrics and the melody that gave you mixed feeling about wanting to end your life next to a green flag and cut the misery short, and live it to the fullest with the brightest red flag ever to exist.

You would have called it a day if the treadmill hadn't still been occupied by the gym junkie, who obviously hadn't realized the place was about to close. It was half past ten at night, and the fucker was keen to burn the turkey he'd eaten for Thanksgiving in 2007. "Sir, I'm afraid we're closing now."

"Oh! Sorry, the time just slipped away." He left the machine and bowed before turning on his heel. As you started spraying Clorox on the garment to sanitize the machine, he spoke up, "The owner, I mean - is Jungkook still busy?"

Of course, he was one of Jungkook's buddies who had the audacity to stick around after closing time. "He had a private session that I believe just ended. He must be in the changing room."

Speak of the devil, and he shows up. His hair was still dripping, and his shirt was on backward. "I'm sorry, my friend, for keeping you waiting." You thought the apology was for you, as he'd obviously kept you waiting too - better he pays that overtime - but no! Just as you were about to open your mouth to say that it didn't matter as long as he took you home, he ignored your entire existence and gave his friend a high five. High five? What were they? Toddlers. Ew!

"At last you're gracing my store with your presence. The great Min Yoongi has finally registered in my parlor. What an honor."

Hmm! Finally, a decent person in this sucker's pack.

The Yoongi he was laughing with and ignoring your existence was a flag you liked to color blue. And it was his behavior that made you choose that color. He was quiet, the total opposite of the loud Jungkook and the shrill Jimin. Now that you were paying attention, he gave you the vibe of Into It by Chase Atlantic, so loud that you looked at your phone to see if the music was still on. It wasn't on. You were in the land of hallucinations. You never thought long, jet-black, sweaty hair was a thing, but apparently, it was, and it tickled your sensibilities in a way that reminded you that you were single and needed a good dose of testosterone. You didn't like that feeling. Um-no; not one bit.

But oh God, you liked him. Him, as in Min Yoongi.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep going, and you won't see me here again. That would be really good for my balance."

Mamma Mia, the voice. Holy trinity!

You stayed quiet, lurking in the background like an invisible ghost while they shared pleasantries and sour jokes. And when you'd lost hope of being introduced, 'cause Jungkook clearly never heard of a thing called ethics, you resumed your cleaning duties until your eyes fell on Yoongi's unlocked tablet, still resting on the treadmill's handle.

Good day, GeniusLabs, I intend to accept this order. Please give me more information about the deadline and the topic. I will make sure that I follow the instructions. For the payment, you can transfer fifty percent to the same account as the last deal. The remaining amount shall be transferred after the project is completed.Yours sincerely.Popsicle.

One-one second. What!!!

This cupcake, hot meal sauce platter, this unhealthy snack is GeniusLab. What in the cosmic universe and constellation is this?

Mouth remained open, breaths heaved, and chest rocked. The Clorox-soaked garment fell to the floor, and luckily, the Clorox spray bottle itself was already on the floor; otherwise, it would have stained his black pants.

Yoongi brought you back from that distant world you had traveled to with a "Are you okay?" But soon, his gaze followed your eyes, and he hurried to lock his device.

"Oh, I forgot to introduce you," Jungkook spoke up - just in time for once - "this is my girlfriend, Pia." What in the world is this curse again? "P, this is Yoongi, a good friend of mine who just got back from the States."

You wanted to banter and bring a vocabulary to define girlfriend, but that wasn't what mattered at the moment, though the looks in Yoongi's eyes were curious and kind of intrigued by the whole dynamic you have with his friend. It was true that Jungkook had always been protective of you, a promise he'd made to your late father, and he'd always maintained - credits where they belonged, but now just wasn't the time for this.

"I'm sorry," you interrupted their conversation about unimportant things you didn't care about, catching Yoongi's attention before Jungkook's, "I think we already know each other," you stepped forward, stretching your hand for a handshake, "Popsicle; nice to meet you, GL."

That day marked a new beginning, a new friendship, and a very tangible partnership. Yoongi's studio became a second house that you found yourself, more often than not, missing your uncomfortable mattress and the breeze on the roof terrace, where many barbecues had already taken place. You had finally heard how the words you had scribbled and sold to a stranger sounded when combined with the right tones and tempo. Figured where his nickname/pseudonym came from, too. The man was indeed a genius, a bit broke and unknown, but a genius nonetheless. And you believed in him when he promised that one day your names would soar high into the sky and onto the billboards. You blamed it on his sparkling eyes when he envisioned your future, when he sat on the lounger on your roof and the stars found a home in his onyx orbs. And he believed you when you came running into his studio out of breath and stole a mugu-mugu to quench your thirst before telling him you'd come out with a piece to mark your debut on the market.

But no one ever explained to Yoongi that you weren't Jungkook's girlfriend - that, in fact, you'd rather become a nun than be his girlfriend. Not that he cared, of course, but a tiny, very tiny little bit of curiosity and maybe disappointment? No, no, that certainly wasn't one of the feelings that always overtook him when he watched your dynamic with Jungkook; it was just curiosity. Simple as that.

Honestly, you had forgotten about that fake presentation with all the sundaes you devoured while watching Yoongi record the words you wrote and the melodies he birthed. And every time you tried to bring this up when your brain wasn't drunk on the sight of him, he'd ruffle your hair like you were a brat and take the ice cream from your hand into his mouth, confirming that he sees you exactly as he calls you: a brat, never a woman.

"On the count of three, Yoongles. And one, two, three! The beat is on."

"Don't count so loudly on my ear, brat. Just signal it with your fingers. Jeez! Go again. Let's do it right this time, shall we?"

"Yeah, yeah, Eminem. Let's do it right."

You wouldn't have thought the heat of summer would swap places with a rainy, cold afternoon. No blames. The studio was in a banjiha that saw no daylight. So you both stood outside the entrance to the building, frozen in shock and cold, wondering how the hell you were going to get to the bus stop, which was a good ten-minute walk away. Your white Marlboro slogan shirt became see-through less than two minutes after you decided to join the run. Yoongi, the lucky bastard, had his hoodie to warm himself up a bit, even if it was more of an accessory to emphasize his style than actual warm clothing.

You didn't expect him to act all gent and give it to you, but to your surprise, he plucked it from his chest and handed it to you. It was a sour sight for him, really. Your t-shirt was already disgusting and a criminal act of terror against fashion, but now that it was wet? Well, now it has become a nuclear bomb. Yoongi thought eye infections were nothing to be afraid of until the blue bra you were wearing made an appearance when your shirt went see-through. Yoongi would swear that not even his grandmother would opt for such a horrible bra, but he decided to leave room for doubt.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" You asked the obvious while examining his hoodie like it was an alien object.

"Take a picture with it. You may not know, given," he scrutinized you with a look of pity and slight disgust, "well, your questionable fashion sense. But this is a very trendy piece."

"Questionable means it has personality, so I'll take it as a compliment, GL. Thank you." You darted your tongue mischievously before leaving him behind and turning to continue your trip.

And you wore it. You fucking wore his hoodie, still damp from his sweat and drenched in his perfume, pine, wood, and fabric softener, mixed with wishes and what-ifs and reprimands that smelled of stale tar and blonde blend.

Yoongi knew at that moment that he had messed up. That he'd been sucked into a centrifuge that would dry his soul and eject him at the other end, where betrayal, greed, and the unforgivable awaited him, arms wrapped around their hips. Yoongi knew he was a goner, had always been from that first eye contact, the first hi, and "nice to finally meet you," but you only sent him further into the goners' land with the high-definition image of his daydreams and wild chimera, a sample vignette of what it would be like to be his and have his scent in the cracks of your skin, what it would be like to wear his sheets too, and his jaw clenched, fists too at the mere illusion because it was betrayal and he wasn't a traitorous son of a bitch.

"This hoodie, Yoongi, my man, will never touch your skin again." But you smiled as you announced the theft, and he found himself on the verge— no, he was willing to let you steal his heart and lifespan in exchange for another glimpse of your pearly whites. "Ahh!!! It smells so Yoongi. So good." And as you stuck your nose to the fabric, eyes closed to enjoy the softness of the cotton and the warmth of the scent of the owner, Yoongi swore that his sanity fled far away, to where it would never be captured, but when you looked him straight in the eyes after that, hand resting on his forearm and breaths making out of his scent your scent, he realized that he was never sane, because if he ever had been, he would never have allowed himself to desire the forbidden. "Thank you!"

"Don't look at me with those eyes." Voice was strained, vocal cords tired of speaking sense into his mind that went ignored or unheard. Yoongi's eyes were reminiscent of winter nights and lustrous stars, shining so brightly that they burned through your skin with such intensity that you felt scared, but so was he - scared of you.

But even though he was afraid, Yoongi was very true to his name and never dusted it with shame. He was brave indeed, brave because he didn't waver, didn't create distance, even though he knew full well that was necessary to keep him away from the flames. Yoongi was brave, synonymous with his name, and toward the fire, he got near, closer, closer, so fucking close that all he had left was a prayer to the heavens and to his name to not lose the bravery now that he can just close his eyes and meet your lips. He prayed, and God only knows he prayed more for restraint and patience than reckless bravery, though that was tempting.

"You'd better wash it before you give it back, brat. So don't look at me like that's going to convince me to give up a limited edition Fear of God that I paid a fortune for. Just don't."

"In your dreams." You shouted as you ran away, far away from him and the need to be close to him that you wanted to live out, to forget the dubious voices in your head and just lean into his embrace and fuck it, kiss him like there was no tomorrow and like yesterday never happened. You ran and ran, but behind you he was, and the bus stop was forgotten, as were the borders you had both painted in red paint in your head, and you basked in the night and in freedom, reveling in youth and in love and in everything you thought you would never feel beyond the blank pages and the characters you had created.

The night clashed with loud American-style bars and lively Irish pubs. An amount of beer that turned the crimson in your veins golden, and an unhealthy amount of weed that served two purposes that stood out from the contrast: Intoxication and inspiration.

The clouds of chemical paradise made you describe Yoongi as the sir who lit the cigarette the lady in your imagination held in your favorite bar: Carpe Diem; and he hushed your dreams with a quite serious smoking endamages brain cells. You had retaliated for the interruption and sudden contact he forced on you with reality with a kick to his shin that served to bring him into your fantasy world instead, and he graced your night with pouting lips that turned into a coy curl as you shared more of your thoughts.

Carpe Diem. Oh, Carpe Diem.

It was THE place. A dream born the day you picked up the pencil and let the letters become sounds, people and emotions. A place like a vignette from the 30s with the style of 30 years later, and there, in this divine jazz bar, tonight - almost like every night - Yoongi was there. With you.Not only in the wildness of your chimera but also in the vibrancy of real life.

The scenarios you came up with sucked, Yoongi described, and you told him that no one around cared about his unsolicited opinion. You had left the bar, and with the night and the bare sky, you shared your thoughts. The more he talked, the more urgent the urge to seal his mouth with a kiss you'd been wanting to share with him ever since you'd spent more time than necessary emerged and became pressing. He told you that he was going to buy a big place and make you bring Carpe Diem to life, feed it from your soul, and you made him promise that he would play the piano there every night.

He chuckled, looking at you with a gentle gaze and brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and you swore your breaths were faltering, lacking oxygen saturation, and you wished he'd believe the rushed breaths were due to the amount of weed you'd smoked. "I never thought you'd like what I play."

"I do," and the sound came muffled by the way you leaned into him. It wasn't a deliberate move, but it was welcome nonetheless. Yoongi detected a sense of warmth in your nearness that spurred his patience, threw it out the window - or threw it at the Han for the sake of accuracy. Because you stood there, looking at the scribbles that were meant to change the minds of people who had gone too far, rather than undo a decision that had already been made. You read them, they were indeed inspiring, persuasive to push through the suffering and give life a second chance to see what it offers, and you wished yours would offer Yoongi until eternity was over. "You do," he repeated in a husky voice, a reticence that slowly dissipated just as the space between your forms disappeared.

He kept tucking your hair behind your ear, a movement that hid the fact that he was in fact, caressing the strands, very much in love with the softness, the color and the gentle scent that emerged victorious from the battle against the smell of tar and weed. And poof, the distance disappeared, and his scent enveloped you in a way that made you wonder if it came from his hoodie, which you still wear, or directly from its owner. But the answer was found in the heavy lids of his eyes, in the warmth of his breath and in the rapid beats of his heart, and you found yourself mimicking it all without knowing it, a prisoner of the moment, a worshiper of such captivity.

"This is wrong," he asserted, more to himself, and the words made your gaze move from his chest to his eyes. They traveled across your features, a trip of several stops from your lips to your eyes and back again. Yoongi knew he'd lost the saddle and the horse was running off to parts unknown, but he's always loved freedom, and perhaps that's his flaw. Your noses touched, breaths mingled, and only when curiosity and patience reached their limits did you speak, "What's so bad about two adults being attracted to each other?"

Yoongi always admired your character, your carefree spirit, but he didn't know you had it in you to be blunt. He liked it, enjoying it a little more than necessary that a smile tickled his lips, "the fact that you have a boyfriend, for a start?"

Scrap that; Yoongi didn't only like your candor, he loved it. He would make it his religion and worship it the way he had always imagined worshipping you in the folds of his bed, between damp sheets and dim lights. And that conviction was confirmed when you tiptoed to his neck, wrapping your hands around it before making his lips your prisoner. It took him a moment to realize it wasn't a dream, and when he did, the moment was over, "Jungkook? Did you believe his bullshit? Tsk, I thought you were smarter than that."

And that was all it took for him to forcefully grab you by the waist and pull you up to his height. Before his words came a hug. It was domestic, very much Yoongi-coded. But it ended, and with it the giggles that came from your chest, like the soft melodies he created with you in his studio. He set you down, closed the space that separated you, looked into the depths of your eyes and only then did his voice speak up, "I love you, P."

But even before he could hear your confession, your lips were at his mercy. They were between his, tasting the aftertaste of the many JDs he'd had and the sour taste of the blend you'd shared. He savored the kiss, keeping it at a slow pace until it was you who quickened the pace, eager to feel his tongue, to choke as you shared what little oxygen was still keeping you alive, and only when your words became more eager than the will to sustain a kiss that could go on and on did you say, "I love you too, Yoongi, and I have from the first time we met. I love you so so much."