It was a well known fact that Yoongi, unlike the others, was most likely found pen and paper in hand, earphones hung around his neck in the odd hours of the night. While soft snores escaped from behind closed doors, a heavy blanket of lethargy would remain draped over furniture and inanimate objects shrouded in black in the absence of light. A single lamp would remain alight through the night, quiet taps and the occasional hiss as the hunched figure let slip stray sounds unbeknownst to the rest.

If any of the others asked, he claimed it was because his thoughts were most lucid with the hour hand on the curling characters of 2 and 3 as the rest of the city remained drenched in a quiet darkness. He told off his dongsaengs, a heavy frown settling itself between his brows, Show some respect and let your hyung work in peace, he needs the creativity.

What he rather conveniently avoided mentioning was how creativity never really arrived unaccompanied, that there had to be an equal exchange made with its partner in order for ink to flow smoothly over paper and words and syllables to fall into a certain cadence and lilt. That was the reason why he found his fingers closed fast over pens that scribbled on blank paper, demarcating clear notation in stark black and white. It was why his hands reached forward for the singular cup set against the table, droplets of water condensed against plastic and clinging on in beaded chains that dripped and pooled against wood. The iced Americano was sipped gingerly, the coffee going flat as the seconds proceeded their march past the slow hours of the night.

The jolt of awareness was welcomed with relish, images trapped beneath his eyelids dispelled once more.

Because beneath eyes barely held open, oblivious, Yoongi saw twisted outcomes and a claustrophobic smothering nothingness closing in. There would be a lurch, a fall, a moment when ache worked its thin fingers over his bones and tendons were strung taught over them. The misery seeped in, ran fluid beneath translucent skin to leave limbs limp at his sides as his gaze trailed empty white listlessly.

There would be a momentary pause, sight regaining sharp focus as the thudding emotion pulsing through veins mapped beneath his pale skin was pooled. His mind worked as a clean slate, the pooled emotion ink and chalk as he translated them into characters and raw syllables. Escape seemed to lie in pebbles collected through words polished and sanded over time, images and fantasies built brick by brick, mortar added to bind within his mind, to potentially be translated into words crafted into a steady rise and fall.

And as the clock hands inched towards five and the midpoint till six thereabouts, his fingers would stop, words petering to an incomprehensible mass of letters as black faded into white and lines and curves melded into one another through a hazy vision.

But the images by then would have seeped from beneath his eyelids to be pressed onto webbed fibers catching graphite. And that was enough. It would be.

And as the pencil or pen was finally placed on the table, a head of careful brown would peek in to briefly glance over stray post-its marked in red and bolded in neon liquid, dried stains of brown, traces of a bitter sweet scent, at the bottom of the now empty cup.

“Morning. Want me to wake you up when breakfast is ready?” The careful hands picked up the stray cup soundlessly, picking up scattered stationary and returning it to the wooden surface soundlessly. Yoongi only caught glimpses of a broad shoulder and concerned creases pulling in perfectly trimmed brows but he knew enough to respond with a ‘thank-you-Seokjin’ released in a semi-grunt, sound deflating against his throat. The mild ‘tut’ of disapproval he waved aside as heavy, leaden limbs were shaken awake, numb pinpricked legs making heavy footfalls against parquet.

“Hey Yoongi?” His back was turned yet he stalled.

“Mhm?”                                                                                                                               

“Don’t work yourself too hard. Get some sleep. You can’t keep this up forever.”

“Don’t you get yourself worked up Princess Peach hyung. I’ll be fine. But thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”

But as he picked his steps across the artfully sprawled figure of Namjoon having rolled off the sheets and the stone heavy snores of Jungkook, the lopsided tilt of his lips faltered ever so slightly beneath the slow shadows infused with the pale orange of gently lightening skies.

Because vivid paintings in words never did write themselves across blank paper of their own accord, they always arrived slipped between slinking shadows and sharp probes beneath his skin.

It seemed misery was the unlikely companion of his inspiration, lone visitors beneath overhanging cold and chill winds.