Chapter Text
Yoongi sits on the edge of his cot, the springs creaking under his weight, and pulls out the jacket. He drapes it over his knees and runs a hand over the newly embroidered oranges, feeling the texture of the threads and the fabric beneath. Each stitch is a small, tangible piece of magic, aetheric energy imbued with a tender care that Yoongi isn’t used to.
He takes one of the oranges in his hand, tracing its shape with a finger. The embroidery is intricate, each segment of the orange bursting with life. As he holds it, the warmth seeps into his skin, a gentle radiance that spreads through his body. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth wash over him, imagining it melting the cold that has settled in his bones.
The jacket is a patchwork of memories, each piece telling a part of his life’s story. The new additions stand out, not just in their craftsmanship but in what they represent: a future, a possibility, a hope. He thinks of Taehyung’s hands, deft and skilled, working the aetheric threads with a love and care that Yoongi can’t quite comprehend.
He opens his eyes and looks around his cramped quarters. The walls are bare, the furniture functional and sparse. It’s a place of necessity, not comfort. He remembers the tailor’s shop, its cluttered warmth and the glow of aetheric light.
With a sigh, Yoongi stands and slips the jacket over his shoulders. He fastens the clasp at his neck and lets the fabric drape around him, enveloping him in its warmth.
He walks to the small viewport and looks out at the station. The Station Seven is a patchwork of modules and walkways, a floating junkyard that somehow manages to stay in orbit. Yoongi has always seen it as a temporary stop, a place to refuel and resupply before moving on to the next job. Now, he’s not so sure.
Days blur together as Yoongi splits his time between repairing his own ship and lending a hand with the station’s ailing infrastructure. Each task he takes on introduces him to new faces and deepens his understanding of the community. He starts to recognize the subtle differences in Seokjin’s humor and Jungkook’s shy bravado, the quiet determination in Jimin’s eyes when he’s repairing a particularly tricky part, and Namjoon’s thoughtful pauses when he’s explaining the system in the hydroponics bay. Hoseok’s ever-present grin becomes a familiar comfort.
The more he invests in the station and its people, the more they give back. A spare part for his ship’s air filters from Jungkook, aetheric advice from Jimin, even a trade deal brokered by Hoseok. Each act of kindness weaves him deeper into the fabric of Station Seven, making the thought of leaving for the next job increasingly difficult to imagine.
Yoongi stands at the entrance to Taehyung’s shop, hesitating. The station’s usual chaos buzzes in the background, but here, a bubble of calm extends out from the doorway. He takes a deep breath, the kind that tries to suck in courage along with air, and steps inside.
The familiar aetheric glow washes over him, and he feels his shoulders relax, the tension melting away like frost in morning sunlight. The shop’s warmth is a stark contrast to the station’s perpetual chill, and Yoongi finds himself drinking it in, thirsty for the comfort it offers.
Taehyung is at his workbench, hunched over something delicate. He looks up as Yoongi enters, and a slow smile spreads across his face.
“Yoongi,” he says, straightening. “I’m glad you came.”
Yoongi nods, not trusting himself to speak. He looks around the shop, like stepping into another world, one where things are soft and kind.
“I hope you’re not too busy,” Taehyung says, moving around the counter. “I thought we could have some tea.”
“Sure,” Yoongi says, and Taehyung’s smile widens.
“Have a seat,” Taehyung says, gesturing to a small table in the corner. “I’ll be right back.”
Yoongi walks to the table, noticing the way the chair creaks reassuringly under his weight. He sits and looks at his hands, at the calluses and scars.
Yoongi’s mind races with the things he wants to say to Taehyung, the unspoken words that hover on the edge of his lips. He wishes to thank him properly for the jacket, to tell him how much the warmth has meant during these cold, uncertain days. More than that, he wants to express the confusion and gratitude he feels for the kindness Taehyung has shown him, a kindness that is slowly unraveling the tight knots in his chest. He thinks about the future, about staying longer, about the burgeoning feelings that are more than just friendship.
The feelings continue to blossom and expand in his chest, like aetheric threads weaving a new pattern in his heart. He imagines Taehyung’s reaction if he were to confess any of this, the risk of changing something that is already so precious to him. Would Taehyung understand, or would he pull away, leaving Yoongi more alone than before? The fear of losing what he has now paralyzes him, yet the hope of something more propels him forward.
Taehyung returns, not with tea, but with a small bowl of oranges. Fresh oranges. Yoongi’s eyes widen in disbelief.
“I thought you might like these,” Taehyung says, setting the bowl down. The oranges’ bright, sunlit color contrasts sharply with the muted tones of the shop, like little pieces of captured forgotten summer. Not a memory, but maybe of a dream of summer Yoongi once had.
Yoongi reaches out and touches one, his fingers brushing the dimpled skin. He looks up at Taehyung, who is now seated across from him, and sees the same warmth in his eyes.
“These must have cost a fortune,” Yoongi says, though he already knows the answer. The station’s hydroponic garden produces only a limited amount of fresh fruit, and it’s usually reserved for the wealthier residents or special occasions.
Taehyung shrugs. “Some things are worth the expense. Plus a friend owed me a favor, so I got a good deal.”
He takes an orange from the bowl and starts peeling it, the skin coming off in long, graceful spirals. The scent of citrus fills the air, cutting through the shop’s usual mix of fabric and aether. Yoongi breathes it in, and for a moment he’s transported to another time, another place, where things were simpler and more innocent.
Taehyung hands Yoongi the peeled orange, and Yoongi takes it, his fingers sticky with juice. He imagines the enchantments woven into the fruit, little bits of aetheric magic that will warm his heart and soul when he eats it.
“Thank you,” Yoongi says, his voice soft, almost a whisper. He isn’t sure if he’s thanking Taehyung for the oranges, or for the jacket, or for something deeper and more intangible.
Taehyung just smiles, and they sit in a companionable silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled with words. Yoongi peels his orange, slower and less skillfully than Taehyung, and the juice drips onto his hands and the table.
As they eat, Yoongi steals glances at Taehyung. The tailor is relaxed, at ease, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—anticipation, perhaps, or hope.
Yoongi finishes his orange and wipes his hands on his pants. “Taehyung,” he starts, then pauses, unsure how to continue. He’s never been good at this, at talking about feelings or intentions.
Taehyung looks up, waiting.
Yoongi takes a deep breath. He studies Taehyung, noticing the way his eyes flicker with unspoken words, the subtle tension in his shoulders. He’s wearing that hopeful expression again, the one that makes Yoongi feel both drawn in and terrified. He knows what he wants to say, but the words stick in his throat like dry rations.
Instead, he lets his body speak for him. Yoongi leans over the small table, his movements slow and deliberate, giving himself time to back out, to rethink, to run. Taehyung doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, just watches with wide, waiting eyes. The distance between them closes, and Yoongi can smell the citrus on Taehyung’s breath, feel the aetheric warmth that always seems to surround him.
The kiss is soft, hesitant. For Yoongi, it’s like stepping into the unknown, a first plunge into deep waters. The taste of oranges is vivid, almost overwhelming, mixed with the subtle flavor of aetheric magic. Time stretches, elongates, and in that brief, fragile moment, Yoongi feels something unlock within him.
He pulls back, searching Taehyung’s face for a reaction. The tailor’s eyes are closed for a heartbeat longer, his lips parted in surprise. When he opens his eyes, they’re filled with a warmth that makes Yoongi’s chest ache.
“I’m thinking of staying around a bit longer,” Yoongi says, his voice steady, though his heart is anything but.
Taehyung’s smile is slow and radiant, like the first light of dawn breaking through a long night. “I’d like that,” he says, his words gentle, full of promise.