There were times when Yoongi found himself staring at his palms under the pale yellow illumination of a table lamp, turning them over to trace the blue lines mapped across pale skin and felt the blood rushing through them. It would echo in his ears as the thundering claps and shouts that enveloped him each time he stepped across polished glass and steel before a million faces and eyes directed at him. He heard it in the clamor of his heart as he fought to remember, to be careful, to not place a single step out of line that might shut the blinds on hopeful eyes. He couldn’t afford to, not when they peered on with expectation, disappointment veiled quickly behind a smile drawn on in an instant, words of encouragement and certainty in his ability passed on without hesitation. He could do anything in their eyes, the caricature they had sketched in their minds eye drawn too large in clean edges he was supposed to fill in.

But it was difficult, so ing difficult because he found missteps and crooked lines running across each of pitch black he made upon his slate.

His fingers reached forward for the plastic casing, deliberately slow as he pushed the knob up to reveal the thin razer. There was a tremor running through his bones, fingertips vibrating of their own accord as the pounding in his chest intensified.

He could never be what they wished for.

The pad of his thumb pressed into the thin metal as he slowly increased the pressure. His heart slowed, the night falling silent once more as his breathing evened out. There was a sharp sting as the razor drew blood but it was a welcome relief as the nausea subsided and his thoughts slowed to the lulling rush of a stream. He lifted the razor cautiously, pausing before methodically making small nicks across his fingers and arms, the sudden burn evening his breathing.

They wouldn’t know.

The studio had fallen silent some 3 hours ago, Namjoon being the last to leave at 12 after he’d managed to convince him that he’d catch some sleep sometime over the night. It wasn’t unusual but if Namjoon noticed how it was becoming more frequent, he didn’t comment. He’d only left canned coffee on the table before leaving, what Yoongi translated to be I understand and take care.

The rapid pounding in his chest only intensified.

As he ran his finger over the slowly reddening marks, he tried to rationalize the impulse in his fingers to dig deeper, to see violent red stain his skin. There were cracks he saw forming, knees buckling as he fought to give more, do better and reach higher only for his fingers to brush past the cold metal of the rungs as his fingers slipped and he found himself falling against the wind hurtling past him. There was a hollow ringing in his bones at the empty cords he’d dragged across the screen and in a single swipe he cleared. The notes were still playing in his mind, discordant and out of place much like his thoughts at the moment.

He made another nick, this time across his forearm where it would be easily hidden beneath the sleeves of his hoodie.

Not enough. Never enough.

There was a compelling urge to free the air expanding within his chest, breaking against his ribs as it fought for release through a raw shout into the silence permeating the air. He considered each missed stage, each note out of place in the recent arrangement and the weeks of no progress piling. They gave him time but he wasn’t blind to the question hanging off their lips, the doubt in hesitating eyes and bound, restless pacing.

What if he couldn’t? What if it would never be good enough?

His fist struck out, coming into contact with harsh wood as his knuckles throbbed and reddened. There was a tension strung out across his limbs, tied to strings that bound him to the stale air. He leant forward against his palms, feeling the crushing pressure against his shoulder, the struggle to breathe returning with a vengeance.

He could feel himself chipping, dust and broken bits carried away by the wind till all that remained was an incomplete model of what once was.

There was a sudden shuffle, the sound of footsteps in the corridor that had him scrambling to slip the razor back into the holder, fingers lax against the keyboard. The door swung open and he turned to see a bleary Jimin, still in his singlet and shorts standing with a plastic bag at the door.

“Hi hyung. Thought you might want breakfast.”

“It’s 5a.m.”

Jimin only shrugged, making himself comfortable on the seat next to Yoongi and he was close, a bit to close especially when Yoongi wasn’t wearing a sweater to conveniently drape across his arms. He felt his arms tense again waiting at any moment to be called out, something, anything to happen.

“You probably were awake all night so you need the food. It’s your favourite.”

And Yoongi swore Jimin’s eyes considerably widened as he leant over him to place the food on the table. He could already hear the question forming in Jimin’s head, the concern that was almost regrettable.

“Hyung you scratched yourself. That look’s really bad. Did you fall or…”

Yoongi swore his breath stopped, eyes flitting to the razor safely in its regular place before waving the question off noncommittally.

“There was a broken end on one of the drawers. I must have scratched it when I turned or something. Nothing to worry your off about.”

And Jimin only nodded, getting up out of Yoongi’s sight and Yoongi felt his breath returning at the lack of questions or doubt. A few moments later, Yoongi noticed Jimin returning to the seat soundlessly, hand easing Yoongi’s arms away from the keyboard. He felt the cool press of alcohol against split skin that had him hissing as he fought to recoil but Jimin had always been stronger and his arm remained held in place.

It was only a whisper but Yoongi caught the words before the still air enfolded them.

“Hyung, broken wood doesn’t cut like that. Blades do.”

But just as soon as he’d said it, Jimin packed away the first aid kit, eyes smiling in gentle crescents before chiding even as Yoongi just stared on, lips dry.

“Don’t be so clumsy hyung or we’ll have to extend dance practice next time. See you at 10 ok? I’ll be going now. Finish up the food or Jiin hyung will shove it down your throat. His threat not mine. Bye.”

And the door swung open and shut in a whisk, leaving Yoongi to stare at the neat bandages across the deeper cuts with a sour tang across his tongue at the inevitable disappointment that would flood warm crescents if he admitted the truth.

He just had to remain quiet.