Chapter Text
There was a suffocating silence that consumed them, each in their own usual spot of the living room. Yoongi risked a quick glance up at the others, only to see the entire maknae line quickly avert their gaze to the floor. The ultimatum, the contract, was their savior within the industry, had protected and guided them, had been their way of life. But it was also their chains, a prison that had been decorated with spacious apartments and generous royalties. The latter was clearer than ever as they sat on designer couches, still dressed in the brand-name suits that had been part of their latest photoshoot.
They were all thinking the same thing, and yet it was still spoken as if it hadn’t been on their minds for years. “This isn’t what we wanted when we debuted.”
Jimin arched a brow at Jungkook. “Isn’t it? We wanted fame, money, thousands of people listening to our music, too many awards to hold. To get onto the biggest charts, create hit albums. We wanted to dance, produce, write, and sing.”
“But now we have millions of people watching our every move, and even more waiting for us to make a mistake! We have hundreds of awards, topped every chart, and sell millions of albums every year. We wake up every morning, dance according to what the company wants, produce what the company wants, write what the company wants, and sing what the company wants.” Jungkook glared at Jimin, anger-hurt-frustration radiating off of him in waves. “Maybe that’s what you wanted, hyung, but I never did. And I used to think that we had the same dream.”
“I’m realistic, I don’t believe in childish dreams,” Jimin snapped. “The company uses us for profit, so we do what they say, and we stay at the top.”
“This was never about being the best!” Hoseok cut in, shooting a warning look at Jimin. “This was about making music that we’re proud of! We all dreamed of being artists!”
“We wanted to be known, to have loyal fans, to reach goals since debuting. Not all of us dreamed of being idols,” Seokjin protested.
Yoongi shifted uncomfortably. Other than himself, only Seokjin and Taehyung had ever dreamed of something different, apart from becoming an idol. A producer, an actor, a farmer. Barely scraping by, ignored in favor of other siblings, without any obvious talents. It had been torturous, learning that he would become part of an idol group, in front of crowds when he had only wanted to sit behind a computer. Having Seokjin join the dispute meant that he had to choose a side.
Yoongi cleared his throat. “We did want to become something more than just another idol group. But some of us had other dreams, too. I think that our goals and viewpoints have shifted over time, but also that we maintain the same values as before. It’s only that our lives have changed, and we’ve accumulated more experience than when we were rookies.”
“We didn’t expect to become this famous, or have this large of a fanbase. We didn’t know that our names would be in the newspapers, plastered on billboards and inescapable on social media.” Namjoon paused. “But we’re here now. And Big Hit Entertainment is no longer a small record label. We’re under HYBE, and the company has hundreds of groups under its name. It’s no longer about what we want, but how to maintain their success. We’re just cogs in a massive machine, and they’re going to make sure we pull out the maximum amount of profit for them.”
“What are you insinuating? That we terminate our contracts? We’d lose everything,” Jimin pointed out. “They own almost all of the official recordings, even the name ‘BTS.’”
“I’m not saying that we should leave the company. I’m saying that we have control over one branch of HYBE, Big Hit Entertainment. If we can renegotiate our group contract to secure our music and copyright claims under Big Hit, but separate from HYBE, it would also allow our future music to be controlled more by us, and less by the HYBE managers. We generate anywhere from 70~97% of the label’s income, even if we include the groups under other sections of HYBE. Hyun-ssi and TXT’s contracts allow them to keep their music with the same group of producers and lyricists. We could do the same.” Namjoon took a deep breath. “Losing all of the music we’ve made up until this point—excluding the few that Yoongi-hyung has the copyrights to—it won’t be something we could just bounce back from. We’d lose hundreds of royalties, the right to perform our music, to be BTS. It would be the end for us. We have our fans because of all the music we’ve made thus far, there’s no guarantee they would support us if we never performed those songs again.”
“ARMY won’t leave us,” Jimin argued. “We could just follow what the company says, and make everyone happy.”
“What about our happiness, hyung? What about our dreams, our hopes, everything that’s led to this moment? Are you seriously going to throw away your morals for the sake of following a corrupt industry?” Jungkook bristled, beginning to rise from his seat before being stopped by Seokjin.
The eldest put a finger to his lips, scanning over each of them before speaking. “I understand that we all have different ways to deal with this. I know why you think staying in line is the right thing to do, Jimin. But we have to consider why ARMY thinks of us so highly. It’s not only because of our music, but because we speak up for what we believe in, amidst an industry where people wear masks.”
The group fell silent, processing what their mat-hyung had said. It was rare for Seokjin to take such an active role in their usual discourses, but when he did, they all listened to what he had to say. Perhaps the eldest wasn’t the most talkative when it came to their everyday lives, but he always knew how to comfort, or cheer, or manage them.
With the perfect timing, Yoongi’s stomach growled with a volume that had everyone startled, turning to look at the rapper. He shifted uncomfortably, leaning against the couch’s arm as he feigned nonchalance. And he pretended to not notice the worried looks they shot him. It was fine. It was just a diet.
“We’re going on tour in a few days, we can’t negotiate terms with the company in that amount of time, right?” Jungkook asked tentatively, looking towards Namjoon for reassurance.
“We would have to wait until after the tour is over, likely around the time our contracts end,” Namjoon confirmed. “Although we’d have more leverage renegotiating now, it’d also be helpful to be near the end of our contracts to make any major changes.”
“So, we have to be their puppets for a year?” Hoseok raised a brow. “How much more of our music would be controlled by them during that time?”
“We have SoundCloud. Weverse. Spotify, even. If you want to have the fans listen to a song, you just have to play it. It doesn’t have to be official, or published, or even available to stream online.” Namjoon shrugged.
“The company–”
“We’re trying to go against the company, p*ssing them off for a year doesn’t seem like that bad of a trade for them trying to control our music,” Yoongi pointed out.
“Language,” Seokjin said automatically, sending a warning look at Yoongi as the rapper shrugged in response.
Yoongi absently considered telling the members about the dizziness that seemed to follow him everywhere. Even he had to admit that it was getting out of hand; the occasional fall in the middle of the night had devolved into leaning against the wall whenever he could, afraid that his legs would give out on him. And…it was starting to sink in, how real the consequences were becoming.
When had something as simple as brushing his hair in the morning turned into carefully picking up thin strands of hair that had fallen out? When did his evening routine change from watching stupid rom-coms with Seokjin to quietly throwing up in the bathroom? When had his life become an obsessive loop of starving, binging, then purging?
It was terrifying, because he didn’t know. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt okay with himself, with his appearance, his weight. Everything had fallen second to his vanity, his love of thinness, perfection, beauty. He hadn’t noticed when his worry had turned into obsession, and now he was paying the price for it.
Yoongi was loath to admit it, but he loved it. He loved every kilogram lost, every rib showing, all the dizzy spells, the way his stomach felt perfect and empty. He couldn’t imagine how ugly he had been before, considering he looked back at those pictures, those ones from weeks, months and years ago, with a hatred so strong it was frightening.
It felt like the transition to becoming a monster, despite the warning signs he had convinced himself were just proof that he was getting closer to his goal.
“Yoongi-ah!”
The rapper startled at the loud voice, nearly falling over himself as he turned to look at his hyung. Seokjin pulled the sleeve of his sweater around his hand, carefully dabbing at Yoongi’s face while he sat still in confusion until the elder pulled his hand back.
Seokjin’s sleeve was stained bright red, a shade of rouge that had soaked the fabric. “We should go to the bathroom, get you cleaned up.”
“I can just–”
“No.” Seokjin’s voice was kind, but stern. “We need to talk.”
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Looking back on it, Yoongi realized that there hadn’t been a moment in his life as Suga in which he wasn’t thinking about his appearance. Even before debut, there had been a looming threat that his weight wasn’t what it should be, that he didn’t fit the standards of typical idols. He had been terrified of losing his one opportunity to become a rapper, and had listened to what everyone had been telling him.
Compared to debut, his weight in their first eras had been a rollercoaster of starving and bingeing, a vicious cycle that made his weight more unpredictable than his depression. He felt like some uncontrollable beast, unable to suppress its hunger as it consumed everything around it. But when it seemed like the spotlight was beginning to focus more on their message and less on their appearance, just like they’ve been wanting for years, he had forgotten just why he had been so worried.
He should’ve known that trying to ignore it wouldn’t work, just like every comeback during their early years, but he had gotten used to ignoring the thoughts. Until they began to consume every part of his life, until all he could think about was the edge of a blade and hunger.
He hated to say it, hated to admit how weak he was, but he loved it. Loved it so much, to the point where he would die for it if he had to, and even if he didn’t. Because it would never be enough, and that was precisely why he was addicted. From the very beginning, he knew deep down that ten wasn’t enough. Or twenty. Or thirty. He kept running and running until bruises decorated his knees and the last stubborn trace of fat disappeared, until he stopped sweating and his heart beat slower.
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“Yoongi-ah, why are you doing this?”
“I love it.”