Taehyung

Taehyung thinks he may be dying.

Okay, maybe not dying.

A slight panic attack maybe (a cosmic-sized mental breakdown)? He doesn’t know for sure, all he knows is that his insides feel twisted, and he wants to throw up.

Also, is there no air? Why’s there no air?

He looks up and the door seems to have grown ten times the size it was a moment ago (that can’t be normal, right?). He feels almost like Alice in Wonderland after eating from the wrong side of the caterpillar’s mushroom: he has shrunk while the world around him has stayed the exact same size. Taehyung knows that nothing had changed, that none of this is real, and all he has to do is reach out and turn the handle, but… he can’t.

He just can’t.

“I can’t do this.”  The silent hallway echoes the words back as though confirming his statement.

Taehyung turns to leave and but remembers why he’s here, or rather, who made him come.  He can’t go home. He’d have to face Jimin and explain why he didn’t walk through the door.  A sigh escapes Taehyung’s lips and he realizes he’s trapped, stuck in the hallway between his oversized imaginary door and the exit sign. He stands for a moment trying to gather his thoughts, the play button having been pushed in the video player of his mind as his conversation with Jimin begins.

***************

“I don’t wanna,” Taehyung whines and considers stomping his foot, but then Jimin wins for sure, and he’s determined not to let that happen (again).

“You need this, Tae. Do you want to be a doormat forever? How many more times are you gonna come home exhausted and depressed because of something that happened at work or with your so-called friends, all because you’re too timid to speak up?” Jimin hits the enter button and just like that Taehyung is registered for a (very creatively titled) How To Manage Conflict class.

“Doormats aren’t so bad; they keep dirt out of your house. Oh, and they come in cute designs, and—”

Jimin cuts him off, “And nobody takes them seriously. You are going to this class Taehyung, no more arguing.”

He should’ve stomped his foot (he would have gotten something out of losing).

***************

The irony of being strong-armed, literally (Jimin wrestled him for the laptop)  into a conflict resolution class because “you shouldn’t be forced to do things you don’t want to do Taetae” isn’t lost on him.

Taehyung stands alone, nervous (and possibly hallucinating) - forced, okay, sternly encouraged into something he really doesn’t want to do, but probably should, he turns once again to face the door and his fears. This time, the distance between the threshold and where he stands seems prohibitively far; the door is a tiny speck, the walls stretch high over his head, and he isn’t entirely sure he’s even breathing (and seriously, his imagination needs to take a vacation). He can’t do it - he doesn’t want to.

He’s not ready to face his issues.

His life’s not so bad. Lots and lots of people depend on him, need him. Like his boss who needs his nonfat, extra light, no foam cap. And his coworkers who need him to do all the crappy, menial things they don’t want to do, and - who’s he kidding? Jimin’s right. He needs this.

He looks at the door with determination in his eyes. He can do this. Taehyung puts one foot in front of the other and repeats the process till the door in view is the right size, and the path to get there is no longer impossible.

Now all he has to do is step inside… just step inside; that shouldn’t be so hard, right?

Wrong.

So very wrong.

****************

Yoongi

It’s not that Yoongi hates his job. It’s not. He loves it actually; who wouldn’t? He gets to visit far away, exotic places like Milwaukee (don’t knock it till you’ve been) and deal with cranky, old people and screaming children, all while being locked in a big metal box at thirty thousand feet in the air. It’s a dream job. And he’s ing good at it, most days.

Most days he can deal with the tiny spawns of Satan disguised as adorable children, who can compete with (and possibly beat) any Opera singer for depth and range. Most days he can deal with people asking for water, soda, or tea over and over and over again, like your least favorite song stuck on replay. Most days he can handle nagging, irate passengers demanding to be given a seat in First Class because their legs don’t have enough room.

Well , when you booked the flight it said Economy, right? You ing got what you paid for then! (Yoongi knows better than to say it out loud)

Most days he can manage it all with a sweet smile and years of perfectly honed, poignant sarcasm passed off as charming and witty banter.

Most days.

But not that day.

The day that has him at this moment sitting in his car looking up at the big, appropriately-depressing, brown building. The day when the passenger in seat C4 made it her sacred duty to destroy his perfectly constructed façade and break him of his silence. The day that his coworkers now refer to as Tentacles Day.

****************

Tentacles Day

The day started out normal enough. The flight attendants had boarded the plane sometime before the passengers for preflight setup, and to prepare the cabin for departure. Yoongi is in a relatively good mood; his self-weather forecast states: sunny with precipitation at fifteen percent (he’s a realist, no one’s bright twenty-four seven).

His current state is not just because this flight will be taking him home (he misses his bed), but also because a certain steward with thick thighs, pouty lips, and possibly the sweetest most sugary smile Yoongi had ever seen is working the flight as