My name was Yoongi

                                                                                                     Now it’s Suga

                                                                                                                                                                                           There’s a difference

                                                                                                          Trust me

     She didn’t

                                         Look where we are now

                                                                                                          So trust me

                                                                                                                            There’s a difference

                    In the name                        

                                                              In the words I say

     In the things I do

                                                                                                                                                                                                      In the person I am

                                                                                                       Trust me

                                                                                                    Yoongi’s gone

Bian’s POV

I first noticed it in the bedroom.

In the bed.

While he was in me.

Yoongi had a rough side; he had a kink in his low-key attitude that was, well… .

It wasn’t often, but often enough to make me curious every time he kissed me hard, kissed me in that way that just oozes ‘I want you;’ curious as to which Yoongi had been : the passionate one, or the one whose passion was making me beg for the former.

Yoongi was never boring.

But as for the first time I noticed it, he made me a little too curious.

It was different, that time; too different to ignore.

He was making me hurt in a way that wasn’t pleasurable, but painful.  He was making me beg for him to stop, for real; ‘for the love of God’ real.  And he wasn’t stopping.

It only got worse when he bit my neck, because while that wasn’t all too uncommon, the number of times he ever drew blood was downright never.  He wasn’t like that.  He made me feel good and made me want to make him feel good, but he never hurt me to do it.

Ever.

So when my blood dribbled onto the pillow and he shook the bed much too hard for my liking, I knew something was wrong.

But in hindsight, it kind of made sense.

The bedroom is where fur flies, where beasts are unhinged.

Where demons are let off their leashes.

The second time I noticed it, we were in his recording studio.

To make this clear, I was in the studio, with him; that never happened.  He liked it quiet and I was a distraction, ‘however sweet.’  He didn’t mind my company anywhere else, he promised, but in the studio he needed to be completely and utterly himself, and around me he was someone else, someone that strove for different things for different purposes.

“Then you should stay away from me altogether,” I’d say, “because I never want you to have to be anyone but yourself, whether or not I’m around.”  He usually smiled, smirked, and leaned in to give me a peck on the cheek with his own response.

“But I like that me, and I love you; so I think I’ll be keeping you around a little longer than you think.”

In return for his musical solitude, he let me go on business trips with my close work-partner, Jongin, and share hotel rooms.  Different beds, obviously, and only conjoined rooms, obviously, but it made me feel better that I had his permission.

Besides, it was cheaper to buy the rooms like that.

But as to the second thing to tip me off in that studio, it was his behavior.

Yoongi was quiet and pensive and a bit rambunctious at times, and while I had never seen him working on his music like this, I had a certain idea as to what he was like; an idea that wasn’t all that different from everyday inspired Yoongi.

Yoongi, in that studio, on that day, was the very definition of different.

He strutted and wore a perpetual smug grin as he sidled around the small room.  I didn’t know why he’d invited me, but he said it was important and he was important to me so I went.

I felt awkward, though, standing there; like I was invading his soul space.  He often made jokes about me marching into his heart and taking over, about me parading into his head and distracting him with banners and balloons and bright colors.  He said that was love.

But being with him in that studio didn’t feel like love.

It felt like infringement.  And I was the criminal.

When he wrapped arms around my waist and kissed me deep, it was shallow, it was different; it wasn’t him.

I guess in hindsight it made sense for him to bring me there, to let a little of his true colors fly in a place I was insecure about.

Because I let it go when he said that was how he always acted while working on music; I let it go because I wanted to accept everything about him; every little thing that was him I wanted to love with every little bit of myself.

Too bad there was just so much of me looking for Yoongi in that studio, and so little of Yoongi.

The third time?  A close call to say the least.  We were in an argument.

Our arguments consisted of either huffing scuffles or puffing fights.

In scuffles he would it up and listen to me before spitting back a small retort and calling it quits, running a hand through his hair and retiring to our bedroom to simmer down.

In a fight, he would blow the house down with his voice.  I was always the same in either category: loud, obnoxious, annoying.

We might’ve been independently intelligent, personally talented, but we shared a temper and when one blew, the other was no doubt bubbling up and over.

Scuffles were uncomfortable and fights infuriating, but what we had in that kitchen was something far beyond any of it.

It was pure fury and it was dangerous.

It was scary.

And he terrified me.

“The was that?” he asked as I escaped from our bedroom into the kitchen.  I wasn’t in the mood for another round of punishment ; I didn’t think I could take another night of torture; frankly, I wasn’t sure how much more my body could take.

“I’m not up for it, Yoongi,” I growled, trying to get the image of his black eyes and shackling hands out of my head.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not ing you!”

“What?”  He looked so pissed, not surprised, not hurt by my snapping, just angry, that I felt another spark of nerves burst in my gut.  “Why?”

“Do I need a reason, Yoongi?”

“Yah, because I want one.”

“ you.”

“ you, too, Bian.  I don’t know what your problem is lately.”

“It’s-” It’s you.  But I was too afraid.

He wasn’t.

“It’s what?”  He stepped closer and I stepped back.  I was scared and he was scaring me and what he did next sent my stomach into a flip and my heart into panic-attack mode.  And all he did was smile.

Smile at my fear and push me up against the fridge, arm blocking my windpipe and free hand holding one my wrists at my side.  My other hand was scrabbling at his grip, but he was strong and I wasn’t, and he was taller.

“Let go,” I wheezed, and he did, only to slap me.  I spun into the counter this time, elbows on the granite and fingers on my smarting face and eyes on the cupboard in front of me; I couldn’t look at him any more than I could convince myself that this was Yoongi, that this was the man I fell in love with and made love with and grew to know love with.  It just wasn’t.

“You’re lucky I’m a nice guy,” he snapped, and left.  He didn’t come back until later, after midnight, after I’d fallen asleep on the couch knowing there wasn’t enough room there for him to sleep with me.

I was tired and tired of dealing with the he’d been pulling.  I wanted Yoongi.  He wasn’t Yoongi.  He wanted me.  But I wasn’t his.  I found that he didn’t like me thinking that.

The fourth time was the last time because it was when Yoongi was himself.  It was when he was honest-to-God Yoongi, words and actions and love though and through.

But it was the last because he told me what was going on, and I knew there could never be a fifth.

We were in bed, sleeping.

A week after he’d slapped me, I was hesitantly coaxed back into sleeping with him, bought with promises and light kisses and other things I hadn’t gotten in a while.

I was deeply sleeping, tossing and turning in the grips of a nightmare, when hands on my arms awoke me.  Sweating and panting from the dream, I looked up into his face nervously, where he was positioned above me, but stopped short.

His eyes were filled with tears that were plunking off his nose and onto my chest, and he shook with such a tremor that I momentarily thought he was having a seizure.  But then he dropped onto me and tucked my body close to his, arms holding me tighter than even they’d held me to the fridge.

“I love you so much,” he mumbled fast, speaking quicker than he ever did.  “I love you, I love you, Bian; I love you so much.  I haven’t been able to say that for such a long time.”  I frowned against his chest, remembering him saying it just hours before.  “Bian, I love you more than anything in this world.”

“Yoongi,” I began, but he hushed me, pressing his mouth to mine and in a deep breath through his nose.  There was such a passion in his lips and eventually his tongue, that I forgot about everything that’d happened in the past couple weeks.

He broke away to allow me to breath, just like he always used to do before he began to prefer me light-headed.  He rested his forehead against mine and kissed me again, teeth clinking against mine in his desperation.

“Yoongi,” I moaned as he pulled back, feeling for the first time in a week.  He didn’t kiss me again, though; instead, he began to push me out of the bed.

“You need to get out of here,” he urged, but I was too dizzy from the kiss to move on my own.  “Now, Bian.  You need to leave.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’m breaking up with you; I’m kicking you out; I’m asking you to kindly not pack anything before you head out.  So leave, Bian.  Get out!”  He sounded so urgent, that I almost missed the bit about breaking up.

“What the Yoongi?  You kiss me and break up; where the hell’s the logic?” I shouted, and he tried to shush me, holding out hands and ducking his head complacently and pressing fingers to his lips and everything else he could think of doing to quiet me.  He breathed heavy before looking back up at me.  He was crying.

My Min Yoongi was crying.

“You can’t stay,” he rambled, “I don’t know when he’ll be back, but I haven’t been let out in a month.”  He wasn’t making any sense, especially not to my muddled brain.  “He could show up any moment and you can’t be here when he does ‘cause he’ll know I told you and you aren’t safe.  I saw what he did to you all those weeks-” Yoongi broke down as he uttered that, and I swooped in to caress him, to embrace him.  “-I could only watch as he, as he…  As he hurt you and used you for his own pleasure, and when he almost choked you I shouted and shouted but he ignored me.”

“Yoongi, what are you saying?” I whimpered, now crying nearly as much as he was.  He looked down at me and cupped my cheek gingerly, more tenderly than he had in so long, and I leaned into his touch willingly.

“It means there’s someone else in my head with me,” he whispered, and the hairs on my arms rose.  “It means I think I’m being possessed.”

Silence.  Staring.  Being scared.

“Yoongi?”

“Not for long, Bian,” he muttered, pushing me away and towards the door.  “Soon I won’t be me anymore and I’ll be him, and you need to leave before that happens.”  I was at the front door, and he was giving me the keys.  “Suga is worse than you think; he can hurt you more than he’s ever hurt you before and he can make me regret ever loving you.”  Yoongi smeared away his tears and shoved me down the sidewalk and to the car.  “He’ll do that by doing things to you, things I won’t be able to not see, and I’ll start to wish I never met you and never asked you to move in and never fell for you, because you wouldn’t be in all this if I didn’t love you.”

“Yoongi,” I cried, “I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.  Where I am supposed to go?”  He didn’t seem to hear me.

“Bian, I don’t ever want to regret loving you.”  He pressed me against the car and kissed me one last time, deep and zealous and devoted, all things Min Yoongi was.  All things I never wanted to live without.  “You’re the best decision I ever made, and Suga will make a mess out of you.  He’ll chew you up and spit you out and step on you while he walks on past.”

“Yoongi I love you,” I called out as he stuffed me into the car and jerkily handed me the keys.  “I won’t ever regret loving you.  I’ll be back for you, I promise.”

“Don’t tell me where you’re going Bian, and you can never come back.”  He closed the door and back away, tripping and falling on his .  He breathed a broken breath and waved for me to leave.  I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t okay with accepting anything that was happening, but thinking about it would only make it more difficult, so I pulled out of the driveway and tried to see through the tears in my eyes.

“I’ll be back for you,” I promised before driving away from Yoongi, from us; from Suga.

I could barely wait a day before going there, only cruising past, not stopping, but doing exactly what he told me not to.  I couldn’t stop myself, though.  I had to see the house at least, our house.

Suga’s house.

He had no right to it and it pissed me off more than I thought possible, but the house was seemingly empty.  It took me two drive-bys to spot the note on the grass, soaked and stained with bleeding pen.  I cautiously got out of the car and approached it, picking it up to read the blurry words with a fluttering heart.

~

I couldn’t deal with knowing that I posed a threat to you.  I’m going down to Nettle’s Bridge, knowing it’s your least favorite place in town.  I don’t want to ruin a happy place for you with my suicide.  You might hear about it in the paper and you might not; if they find my body, I’m not that important to many people here, and I might not make the news.  I want you to know that I love you more than most would find reasonable.

Loving you will never be something I regret, don’t you worry, babe.  I’ll love you forever.

Forever yours,

Yoongi

~

Suga’s POV

That other bastard had been annoying, that was for sure.  But he was gone, so that was good.

By gone, I meant dormant; Yoongi apparently couldn’t deal with it anymore, and a proper beating to his mental determination really set him back into his place.  Especially after trying to kill himself; who gave him the right to take them both out.

I was free to do what I wanted now, though, and I really wanted a smoke, but I didn’t have an ID after I’d gotten the Hell outta Dodge; the stunt the other one had pulled was cruel and had earned him something terrible.  I didn’t trust the girl not to return with law enforcement, and I didn’t want to spend time in a cell.

Bian.

Yoongi had liked her, and in turn I did too.  We shared some similarities after all.  After spending so much time in his head, slowly turning it into mine, I’d kept some of the finer things around.  Like .

Yoongi had great taste in women and Bian was pretty desirable, even from a demon’s perspective; I’d appreciated those nights we spent together, sweetened only by knowing that Yoongi shouted and screamed from his cage every time she flinched or gasped or tried to push me away.  I’d loved those nights.

Running for a week without proper meals had done a number on his body, and despite not feeling tired, I knew I’d have to give him a rest before he collapsed and brought me with him.  I stopped and sat on the curb, thinking about her, about what she was doing.  I knew where she was, of course, but also knew that nothing would be the same now that she knew.  She’d put a stop to me somehow, and I didn’t want that.

So I settled for knowing that Yoongi’s suicide note was driving her up a wall, driving her up and down the river, driving her out of her mind.  That made me happy, and I made note to tell Yoongi when he woke up.

He’d appreciate just how badly she loved him, just how badly she wanted to be with him, despite the risks.

I knew he’d get a kick outta that; he’d go ballistic just knowing I knew where she was, and I’d taunt him with it for a bit before moving on to a new girl, or girls.  It depended; I wasn’t too prone to cheating, but it happened sometimes.

Yoongi would hate that, hate feeling himself inside other women, hate knowing he was trapped for however long I wanted.  But he would get over it, and he would learn to deal with it, I knew.  If you don’t believe me, trust me.  It’s happened before so many times I can’t even keep track anymore; for a millennia I’ve gone back and forth, and it’s all the same.  Humans are all the same.  Trust me.

I was human, I was mortal once.  Immortal is so much better; demonic is so much more entertaining.

Trust me.