Work Text:
when he is not cooped up in the studio, snarking at yoongi, or simply reading the day away, he tries experimenting.
it begins with pencil upon paper.
with the material gripped tightly in the space separating his fingers, namjoon attempts to compose the restless thoughts dwelling within his brain into a physical shape. he's in a completely irrational state of mind, and he does not allow himself to stray far from the comfort of logic if he can help it.
three curved strokes.
the horizon of the stage. a dazzling smile. the light that reigns down, basking him in undeserving glory.
cheers from an endless sea of fans.
a group of seven.
the leader was more than fond of the talented men his career had prospered alongside. he loved them all. he truly did, with every part of his being. namjoon could almost, but not quite, recall a time when he felt the love was returned. their praise and kind words would ease the tension from his shoulders, but were not able to lift the weight off his heart or shake the vines from around his lungs.
he wasn't enough for them. it took him far too long to realize this.
the presence of their love was never permanent, here now, and gone the next moment. namjoon seemed to know it was limited, and he spent the majority of his time within the studio, drifting about. the few occasions that they stayed and watched over him only spiked his anxiety. he would never know when the love would fade and eventually never come back. he treasures the few intimate moments he had with them the most. he tries to tell himself it wasn't just for an interview, he attempts to convince himself that it was real.
the love fed him, kept him living and breathing and dying, he grew desperate for it.
he begins to draw. seokjin's bangs. long weaves of shadow, providing escape and comfort. he had always admired them. yoongi eyes always mystified him. he could never properly discern what the rapper was feeling. namjoon presses into the parchment, trying to properly create their combination of soft and hardened lines through graphite. interactions between the elders were always filled with stone-faced platitudes. he wills himself to not think about his loved ones.
another familiar voice arises from the depths of his mind and contributes to the upcoming pandemonium.
have you ever pondered on how they truly perceive you? namjoon. NAMJOON.
i have.
talentless. desperate. worthless.
the tweets he used to read daily still haunt him, voices loud and clear through the thin screen that separates them.
he often wonders how they all came together in the first place.
seven.
namjoon is no fool. it's marketing schemes in the most basic form. he knows of the company's obsession with personal prosperity, and he was well aware of the festering dark side to the idol life long before he auditioned. he could've been anything his heart desired. an engineer, an entertainer, someone important. someone worth the world.
so many years of education yet no one taught him how to love himself and why its so important.
the pencil, nowadays, is considered an antiquated tool of sorts. the proper position that had once come natural to him now feels rigid and tight. this discomfort brings him out of his focus. the stiff, wooden chair. the flickering light on the uneven slant of the desk. he could not afford to be distracted.
draw.
write.
focus.
a scribble.
what was he to draw?
he reaches into his mind, searching endlessly, desperately. he wants to close his hands around something relaxing, something soothing, and grasp it tight. he's sick of watching the sand of hope slip through his fingers.
microphone and pressed powder. no.
specks of silver suspended in the air, tailored suits rustling in synch. no.
seven...
seokjin, yoongi, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, jungkook. the ones who had shaped him into the man he is today, the ones he both admires and trusts. the ones whose criticism hurt him more than any anti could dream to hidden behind a screen.
he had stood in the studio one day after practice.
petals rested beneath his tongue, the act inevitable.
NOW.
tears start forming in his eyes, but they never seem to fall.
i love you all.
it’s too late. his mind shrieks, his breath hitching in his throat. blood pools into his head as his mind swarms of countless suppressed thoughts. his tongue is dry. it is as though he is suffocating under layers and layers of constricting vine. he still feels the distinct pang of hurt throughout his chest with each of his painful breaths.
dull eyes blink at him through a mirror. the curved line isn't on the parchment, but instead it takes the form of the frown on his face. he's sad.
the groan of the wood as he scrambles out of the chair. a stumble as his feet attempt to steady himself on the surface of the carpet.
no—
he kneels directly beside the toilet and waits.
only dry heaves come. there was no food to be emptied. the painful stirring in his stomach does not end.
petals.
they fill the bowl.
breathe...
breathe.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... 7
when he is eventually able to haul himself into his bed, he allows himself to take note.
the leader vows to stop at six next time.
even his own eyes fight against him as he lies under the covers, body shrouded in darkness.
he doesn’t open them until the promising light of morning.
///
"hey, hyung. you don't look so good."
a pause. irritated from the sudden interruption, namjoon shoots a pointed glare towards the intruder from the safety of his bed.
"thank you," he retorts, voice low and gravely.
jungkook enters the room and kneels to his level, concern swimming in his eyes. "are you sure, hyung? stay right here, i'm going to get you something to eat..."
namjoon can only stare distrustfully towards the receding back of the teen. why would the golden maknae offer to help him? he thought he had successful built up his rigid persona of independence and wisdom. yet, the teen remained. chatting with him. concerned for him. jungkook has more substantial things to be worried about and better things to spend his time doing.
namjoon knows he can't create lyrics that are deemed adequate. he knows his face isn't considered handsome, his body is too tall and lanky. he knows he will never fit society's image for him, and despite knowing it was foolish to believe so, he couldn't shake the insecurity from his psyche. this pain, the unrequited love, the petals; it will always be a part of him.
snapping out of his thoughts, he finds jungkook staring at him with a grin plastered on his face.
“what's on your mind, hyung?”
“nothing concerning you,” namjoon says with a scowl.
“yeah, yeah. you keep telling yourself that. here, eat up.” jungkook pushes the bowl of food towards him.
namjoon scrutinizes the bowl then slowly looks back up at jungkook.
“what? i'm not leaving ‘til that bowl’s empty.”
at some point, taehyung had also entered the leader's room. he feels the edge of the bed dip down slightly as the vocalist sits beside him.
namjoon grumbles. using the chopsticks jungkook gracefully provided, he takes a small bite of the rice dish. his hunger reappearing suddenly, he begins devouring the bowl at an impossible pace.
“slow down, hyung,” voices taehyung, light and playful.
“...apologies. that was disrespectful of me,” namjoon tries to recompose himself. he hadn't realized how little he had been eating lately. for once, his stomach is not aching with hunger. "thank you for the meal... guys.” he gazes up at both of them.
jungkook's eyes go wide for a moment before he lets out a laugh, his whole body visibly shaking.
namjoon sits there, bewildered. he dutifully ignores the pang in his lungs at the soft melody of the youngest' aughter. he can't bring himself to cough up petals, not now. not in front of them.
“what is it?”
jungkook stops laughing almost as soon as he started, and he smiles, white teeth gleaming.
he leans over, closer, and flicks a grain of rice off namjoon's chin.
“what would you do without us?” taehyung asks with one of his boxy grins.
“die. i'm guessing.”
///
watercolours.
it is certainly peculiar. as his brush paints more strokes, he can’t deny the feeling of serenity that passes over him. it is easy enough to leave the colourful marks, but his mistakes are undeniably visible.
the blend of pigments drip..
drip...
trailing down the page.
he doesn’t know what he’s making. no plan, no procedure, no rules. it’s discomforting, but manageable.
instead of letting his mind decline into darkness, he controls the brush with slow, undeliberate strokes.
it doesn’t get him anywhere peaceful.
namjoon looks down at the sheet and frowns.
the colors start to blend into a blurred and smudged grey, and accidental drops of color dot the blank space.
the paper he’s using is probably not properly cut out for this type of paint, he admits to himself.
one color was still somewhat vibrant against the peeling grey. a bright red.
it was useless to resist. his thoughts always seem to come back to his band mates.
hoseok, a blur of motion and vibrancy. like the rest, hoseok was a ray of sunshine and spent most of his time who knows where.
even though namjoon's movements were unpredictable and quick, it was still done with grace, colors seeping into the paper's fabric to represent the dancer's energy.
concerts was a constant. constant events against the changing world, a designated sequence of events of which he could find solace in preforming.
namjoon needed them, but they didn’t need him.
after all this time, no one was particularly fond of namjoon, himself included. he made sure to give everyone the appropriate amount of respect, but other than that, he had nothing to say. his mind roared with feelings and thoughts, but he couldn’t ever put it into words.
an insignificant, specific memory was brought to mind.
they were behind stage.
namjoon, get us the scripts!
...alright.
he stood up, retreating from the group huddled on the coach and made his way towards the hall.
thanks, namjoon, we can always count on you.
the words were unsaid.
when he returned, they were all gone.
he, in turn, adjusted his microphone.
sweat fell down the sides of his face as he pushed the curtains open and stepped out.
no problem... it’s fine.
it was a simple moment, but it was the first time where his suspicions were confirmed. he could've stayed behind the curtain, alone and forgotten. he's so insignificant and helpless to fix it. he's always left to deal with things alone when he wants nothing more than to unload his problems on others. he hates himself for it.
namjoon ended up rapping more aggressively than he originally planned to, discontent as he forced the lyrics out of his throat, stubborn and calculating eyes meeting the audience. he could see yoongi shooting him an odd glance in his peripheral vision, silencing demanding to speak with him after the concert came to an end.
you preformed well today, namjoon.
i have nothing on you.
namjoon couldn’t help but to smile at yoongi's curt demeanor.
petals filled up his mouth, hidden behind his teeth as he smiled deeply.
namjoon blinks.
tears once again form at the corner of his eyes, but they don’t fall.
he sighs.
his… painting lies on the table, its transversal beauty unchanging throughout namjoon's flashback.
the red is a little muddier, he decides.
///
they are in seokjin's room one night.
namjoon can not think very clearly. his mind is in shambles, clouded by the large amount of alcohol in his system.
seokjin seems to handle namjoon like a fragile vase, but he can’t bring himself to struggle and complain against the elder.
besides, the man’s embrace is… nice... for lack of a better word.
“oh, joonie.” seokjin looks down into namjoon's watery eyes, facial features pinching in ill-concealed concern.
“mhm.”
effort. precision. agility. insight. sleepy... hyung..
“you don't know how much you mean to me.”
seokjin's sincere tone snaps him out of his haze.
i don't understand.
seokjin sits down on his bed, still cradling namjoon throughout his drunken state.
their lips touch.
and just like that, the tears flow down.
a sniffle escapes him.
the tears don’t seem to stop.
“h-hey, what’s wrong?” seokjin's voice falters.
“sorry, i'll—,” seokjin begins to pull away from him.
namjoon desperately grasps back onto his arm, fingers burrowing into the elder's flesh. “no, no, no, no.”
“please... don't go,” namjoon admits, eyes glassy and voice breaking.
namjoon continues to cling to seokjin, tears still spilling from his eyes.
“joon, you're okay.”
“it's okay.”
it's okay.
deep down, namjoon knows he will never be deserving of seokjin.
it's a ploy; an act.
he knows this to be true because the petals won't stop.
you're using him.
his time here is limited.
///
the next weeks come in a blur.
namjoon—distracted by thoughts of seokjin… again.
after the incident, they haven’t really been together often. but seokjin still smiles warmly at him whenever their eyes meet.
it was nice to have the man to think about for his mind to dwell on. he feels guilty about reducing seokjin to some life form he leeches on to feel better about himself. but, seokjin enjoys his company as well… right?
he should have been keeping a watchful eye on the rest of the boys as well.
he was the leader. the band depended on him.
namjoon's focus was compromised, and it was all his fault.
the only thing he’s good for, the only thing people ask of him.
you're the leader.
a failure.
always ending up breaking everything you touch.
he could only watch as jimin fell weakly to the stage floor one night.
a shriek of raw pain.
he wasn't sure who it had came from.
“joon..?”
darkness.
///
blood.
namjoon spends his last day locked in the bathroom.
huddled in a corner, strength deteriorating.
on occasion he'll cough out a bout of petals. he does have the energy to look at them.
they'll flutter momentarily in the air before landing upon the surrounding tiles.
the door is locked.
no one comes, but namjoon doesn't expect them to.
the mere thought of them seem to trigger his sudden capability for producing tears.
this time they just won't stop.
he can't bring himself to suppress these feelings any longer.
yoongi...
hoseok...
jimin...
taehyung...
jungkook...
seokjin...
how do you call yourself their leader?
you are a pathetic excuse of an idol.
his eyes open, lashes laced with new tears.
more petals fall into his palms.
it's a beautiful array of colors, reminding him of the sunset in his hometown.
get out.
GET OUT.
do it for the sake of the group.
...
you can't do this to them anymore.
...
namjoon, you need to love yourself.
...
i wish...
i wish i could.
...
or you'll continue to wilt away.
namjoon gets up.
there's not a pencil, but a knife is in his hand.
he looks in the mirror and sees a shell of who he once was. bloodshot eyes. hollowed cheekbones. an empty smile that was once basked and nourished in an undeserving light. the constant ache spreading through his bones as his body struggles with each minor movement.
he kneels in front of the sink and pauses.
bangtan,
army…
his last words.
“i am sorry.”
he isn't sure what compels him to do it now, but raises the blade and drags it across the milky flesh of his throat.
and as the deep crimson gushes out in uneven spurts,
sinking deep into the fabrics of his garments,
thick torrents dripping upon the surface of the floor,
namjoon can’t help but admire the image.
the dark red weaving into the cold, pale, ceramic tiles.
a reprehensible enigma is left on the floor. it's namjoon's final gift to this world.
the blood from the wound continues to spread, splattering color into the blank canvas of his life.
his best work.
better than any song he could dream to compose. it's more complex and metaphoric than any string of lyrics he can conjure. it's pure, unfiltered, misery. it's a fake love nearing its final stretches, tainted by the media and exploited by the ones he holds dear.
it is truly a masterpiece.