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Yoongi is a ghost drifting in and out of the city. He feels almost like a part of an abstract painting. He is becoming the red brick of the lonely city he lives in. He can hear the hum of engines buzzing in his ears and smell the smoke. Sweet and intoxicating. It is nothing like the pictures he takes. There is no truth in his eyes when he half closes them and squeezes down. There is beauty lingering in the stills of naked boys and the sleeping city. Black and white romance. It looks so much better in his head.

They are beautiful, Yoongi thinks, drunk past midnight as he fiddles with his camera and smiles emptily at his subjects. They are splayed on his bed sheets. Flat surface beauty not art in themselves. He is trying to make them into something they’re not. Their pale skin tastes better on his tongue than photographs. It takes the night to clear his head. There is only his bed that is stained with aftermath and littered with electronics.

I know you’re there. He doesn’t answer. Not until he’s had three cups of coffee and a shower and then he texts Namjoon back with a “hey” and two overexcited emojis.

It hurts to lie, even though it never reaches past his skin.

Can I come over?

Yoongi takes a look around. A sharp “no” declares itself inside the walls of his mind.

No.

It’s one word and it feels like everything.

The usual then?

Namjoon never questions him. Not like his other friends. Namjoon understands. He has his own shit slaughtering his head.

Yoongi meets him, them, at a bar they frequent too often. It’s almost as familiar as his apartment walls. He doesn’t want to drink, not when he feels like this, but he does anyway. Taehyung talks him into it. It’ll be fun. It doesn’t seem like fun when the room is spinning and his head is throbbing and all he wants to do is grasp the cool seat of a toilet and empty the contents of his stomach. It seemed like good idea two hours ago. A voice reminds him. The bar is slow and cool. His skin a shade of blue he’s never seen before under the lights. His eyes belong to him for a second. This stranger that screams familiarity before disappearing into the crowd.

“Are you alright?” Yoongi swears he hears Jin ask.

Yoongi nods, “Just had too much.”

The outside air is a relief.

Yoongi sees him. This kid, can’t be more than fifteen, with his hoodie up and his hands buried in his pockets and the pavement eating into his sneakers. Ripped skinnies, oversized sweatshirt and beanie that look like more money than a kid like him could afford to buy. Broke down eyes, dark circles, an unwillingness to smile.

“Hey kid you should go home to your parents,” Jin says.

“Hey pretty baby,” Jimin smiles, voice laced with alcohol, when the kid doesn’t reply.

“Leave the kid alone,” Yoongi says. A sharpness to his tone. There is something about the boy… The way he moves, the way he replies with his eyes. He himself is art and Yoongi wants to study him.

“Go on ahead I got this,”

“Are you sure?” Jin asks. Tense. That’s how Yoongi would describe Jin. Not that he’s much better.

“Seems your type,” Hoseok teases. “Have fun–” Yoongi hates that smile. That fleck of fire in his eyes that flickers out into the dark of his unsaid words.

“Come on I’ll take you home. Where do you live?"

"Nowhere, everywhere,” Lips licking up into a smirk, “I could live at your place for the night… that is what you want isn’t it?"

It isn’t surprising. Yoongi knows these type of kids. They have no family, at least not any they can return to. They do what they have to.

’"Don’t waste much time do you?"

"Why would I?” His eyes seem to dance. They are black and cold and Yoongi wants to swim in the depths. They are like the night sky above. Heavy with pollution and lacking the pale caress of his smile. There is daylight in his smile.

Yoongi stays quiet. There is enough sound under the gaze of the stranger’s eyes. The walk back is brisk as he soaks in his features. His eyes digging under the surface of his almost flawless skin. It’s immaculate, really, and Yoongi wants to drag his tongue down the nape of his neck and suck his flesh into his mouth. The taste of him fresh on his tongue as he presses his fingers into his skin until they leave marks. He isn’t even in his bed and he can already hear the sounds he makes when he comes.

“What’s your name?” Yoongi asks when they reach his place. He twists the key to his lazy apartment that smells like unwashed clothes, sex and alcohol. It’s a familiar smell. Almost welcoming.

“Jeongguk,” The boy answers.

It’s a nice place, Jeongguk decides. Black and white furniture against the offset of brick walls. No trinkets, no family photos, no “personal touch.” Jeongguk doesn’t expect anything different. He’s used to this. He probably has another place. A much nicer place with a wife and kid and walls that are littered with evidence of a life. This place has no memories. This place only smells like loneliness and that is the nature of his business.

“You’re freezing–” Yoongi says, voice light and it shouldn’t be, as he extends his hand towards him. His fingertips almost touch his shirt. “Clothes, I’ll wash them.“

Jeongguk strips in front of him. Yoongi’s eyes roll down his body like beads of water. He hands Yoongi his jeans and hoodie.

“Tomorrow,” Yoongi says when Jeongguk inches towards him with intent in his eyes.

“I could be gone tomorrow.”

“You don’t have shit tomorrow, you just have me.”

It’s true, but Jeongguk just smiles with his eyes. Yoongi is pretty and kind and doesn’t have to pay for it and yet Jeongguk knows he always pays for it.

“You can sleep on the couch.”