Chapter Text
Yoongi learns, over time, to trust the bond.
Not blindly—he’s not built that way—but with a quiet, working confidence, like trusting a familiar route home even when the lights are out. The emotions still arrive as they always have. They still bleed through the thin places between them. The difference now is context. Shape. Cause.
Meaning.
Which is how, standing in the checkout line of a hardware store on a lazy Sunday afternoon, Yoongi freezes with a bag of potting soil tucked under one arm and immediately knows that something has gone terribly wrong.
The guilt hits him hard and fast.
Not his.
Sharp, panicked, apologetic to the point of being almost theatrical.
Yoongi exhales through his nose and closes his eyes for half a second.
“God,” he mutters. “Again?”
The cashier glances at him suspiciously. Yoongi schools his expression, pays, and leaves with brisk efficiency, phone already in his hand.
Yoongi:
Did you drop one of my plants.
Three dots appear. Vanish. Reappear.
Jimin:
What
No
Yoongi doesn’t even slow his stride.
Yoongi:
Jimin.
There’s a pause long enough to be incriminating.
Jimin:
Okay listen
In my defence
Gravity is very persuasive
Yoongi snorts, pushing through the front door of their apartment building. The guilt spikes again—hot, miserable, steeped in remorse.
Yoongi:
Which one.
Jimin:
None of them are dead
That is not an answer.
When Yoongi opens the apartment door, the first thing he hears is Seoltang.
Not the content little chirps or demanding meows that usually accompany his presence—no, this is the particular vocalisation Tang reserves for spectacle. A drawn-out, offended sound that suggests betrayal on a cosmic scale.
Yoongi steps inside and stops.
Jimin is kneeling in the middle of the living room with a mop in one hand and a rag in the other, surrounded by a wide, unmistakable spill of soil. One of Yoongi’s sturdier plants—the snake plant, of all things—has been righted and shoved back into its pot with questionable care. Dirt smears Jimin’s sweatpants. There’s a streak of it on his cheek.
Tang sits a safe distance away, tail flicking, watching the proceedings with obvious judgment.
They lock eyes.
Jimin freezes.
Yoongi raises an eyebrow slowly.
“…It fell,” Jimin says, too quickly.
Yoongi sets the bag of soil down by the door with exaggerated calm. “Did it.”
“Yes,” Jimin says, nodding fervently. “But not because I touched it.”
“You’re holding a mop.”
“That was after.”
Yoongi crosses his arms. “After what.”
Jimin opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “Tang was doing parkour.”
Tang meows indignantly.
Yoongi glances at the cat. “You pushed the plant.”
Tang blinks slowly.
“I was playing with him,” Jimin continues, defensive now, gesturing vaguely. “He jumped, I dodged, the plant was just… there.”
“And gravity,” Yoongi supplies.
“Yes!” Jimin says, relieved. “Exactly.”
Yoongi sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That plant survived three moves and a heatwave.”
Jimin winces. “I said I was sorry.”
“You said ‘no’.”
“That was panic.”
Yoongi huffs out a laugh despite himself. He steps closer, nudging the fallen soil back into place with his foot.
“I felt it from the store,” he says. “The guilt. Like you personally wronged me.”
Jimin deflates instantly, shoulders slumping. “I did personally wrong you.”
“That’s implied.”
Jimin looks up at him through his lashes, expression contrite in a way that’s been honed to perfection over the years. “I’ll re-pot it properly. I promise. I’ll watch a video.”
“You watched a video last time.”
“And I learned,” Jimin insists. “I know now that you’re not supposed to water succulents every day.”
“That’s the bare minimum.”
Jimin grins, sheepish. “Progress.”
Yoongi shakes his head, kneels down beside him, and starts scooping loose soil back toward the pot with practiced hands. Jimin immediately mirrors him, careful and attentive, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
“You don’t have to help,” Yoongi says.
“I do,” Jimin replies. “It’s a reparations thing.”
“Is that why you’re still guilty.”
“Yes,” Jimin says promptly. “Also because I lied.”
Yoongi snorts. “I noticed.”
They work in companionable silence for a few moments, Tang eventually wandering over to supervise, sniffing at the dirt with great interest. When Yoongi finishes, he presses the soil down firmly and wipes his hands on a towel.
“It’ll live,” he says.
Jimin exhales like he’s been holding his breath the entire time. “Thank god.”
Yoongi looks at him. Really looks. The dirt-smudged cheek. The slightly wild hair. The familiar emotional residue still humming faintly through the bond—relief now, easing into fondness.
“You know,” he says, dry but not unkind, “you’ve killed fewer plants since we moved in together.”
Jimin beams. “Because I’m supervised.”
“And because you panic less,” Yoongi adds.
Jimin pauses, considering that. The bond flickers with something thoughtful, warm. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “That too.”
Tang chooses that moment to hop into Jimin’s lap, kneading with enthusiasm.
Jimin laughs, tipping backward onto the floor. “Traitor.”
Yoongi watches them, a smile tugging at his mouth.
Somewhere deep in his chest, the bond settles—steady, familiar, affectionate.
He sends one last text to Jimin’s phone, even though they’re in the same room.
Yoongi:
Next time you feel guilty, just say you dropped a plant.
Jimin’s phone buzzes. He looks at it, then up at Yoongi, grinning.
“Never,” he says.
Yoongi rolls his eyes, already reaching for the dustpan.
And the plants, for now, survive.
🪴
Yoongi doesn’t plan the kiss.
This, in retrospect, explains a lot about how it happens.
It’s a Thursday evening, which means nothing in particular except that the city is tired in a way Yoongi understands. The rain has been threatening all day and finally commits sometime around six, a steady drumming against the windows that turns the apartment inward. The lights are low. The air smells faintly of coffee and whatever Jimin burned earlier and insisted still tasted “fine actually.”
Yoongi is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with methodical precision. He’s wearing an old hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair damp from a rushed shower. There’s music playing quietly from his phone on the counter—something instrumental, unobtrusive.
Behind him, Jimin is sprawled on the couch upside down, legs hooked over the armrest, Tang perched on his chest like a warm, judgmental ornament.
“You know,” Jimin says, voice muffled by the angle, “if I die like this, it’s on you.”
Yoongi doesn’t look up. “You chose gravity.”
“I chose comfort.”
“You chose both badly.”
Jimin laughs, bright and unrepentant. The sound travels easily through the apartment, finds Yoongi’s chest without resistance. The bond hums with it—light, content, familiar. Yoongi’s knife pauses for half a second before resuming its steady rhythm.
He’s learned to live with that now. The way Jimin’s emotions arrive already tagged with context. Laughter means Jimin is probably doing something unsafe but fun. Calm means Tang is purring or Jimin has finally stopped overthinking something. Guilt means—well. Guilt means plants, or apologising to strangers, or texting Yoongi “hypothetically” questions that are not hypothetical at all.
Right now, it’s just warmth.
“Dinner in ten,” Yoongi calls.
“Liar,” Jimin replies cheerfully. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“That was an estimate.”
“That was optimism.”
Tang chirps, as if weighing in.
Yoongi finishes chopping, tosses the vegetables into the pan, and turns the heat down. He leans back against the counter for a moment, watching steam curl upward, listening to the rain.
This is what it feels like, he thinks distantly.
Not fireworks. Not destiny shouting itself hoarse.
Just… this.
Jimin slides off the couch with a dramatic thump and wanders into the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie sleeves slipping over his hands. He leans his hip against the counter beside Yoongi, peering into the pan with exaggerated interest.
“Smells good,” he says.
“It’s vegetables.”
“Still counts.”
“You say that about everything.”
“Because everything deserves encouragement.”
Yoongi hums, amused. He hands Jimin a spoon without looking. Jimin takes it, tastes, immediately pulls a face.
“Oh,” he says. “That needs salt.”
“It does not.”
“It does.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I have taste buds.”
“Debatable.”
Jimin grins and reaches for the salt anyway. Yoongi bats his hand away automatically, their fingers colliding briefly. Jimin stills.
They both do.
It’s not dramatic. Not charged in the obvious ways. Just a moment where awareness sharpens, where the air seems to pause and wait.
Jimin looks at him.
Yoongi looks back.
Something shifts—not the bond, not the room. Just them.
Jimin’s expression is open, curious, a little soft around the edges. His eyes flick down, then back up, like he’s thinking through something in real time and hasn’t decided what to do about it yet.
Yoongi clears his throat. “Don’t sabotage my food.”
Jimin blinks, then laughs quietly. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” Jimin agrees, smiling.
They eat on the floor again, because somehow that’s become their thing. Plates balanced precariously, Tang weaving between them, rain tapping out a steady rhythm against the glass. Jimin talks about rehearsal—something that went right, something that didn’t. Yoongi listens, interjects occasionally, offers dry commentary that makes Jimin laugh with his whole body as usual.
At one point, Jimin leans back, bracing himself on his hands, and tips his head toward Yoongi.
“You ever think about how weird this is?” he asks.
Yoongi considers. “Define weird.”
“All of it,” Jimin says, gesturing vaguely. “The bond. Us. Tang. Your plants surviving despite my presence.”
“That last one is a miracle,” Yoongi agrees.
Jimin smiles, then sobers just a little. The bond flickers—thoughtful, quiet.
“I’m glad,” Jimin says, softly. “That it’s you.”
The words settle into Yoongi’s chest like something fragile and solid all at once.
He doesn’t answer right away.
He reaches out instead, nudging Jimin’s knee with his own. “You’re still not allowed to water the succulents.”
Jimin snorts. “I said I was glad it’s you, not that I’d learned.”
Later, when the dishes are done and the rain has eased into a quieter insistence, they end up on the couch. Jimin sprawls sideways this time, head resting against Yoongi’s shoulder without ceremony. Yoongi stiffens out of habit, then relaxes just as easily.
Tang curls up in the space between them, warm and solid.
The TV murmurs something neither of them is really watching.
Jimin shifts, adjusting until he’s comfortable, then sighs a deep, content sound. The bond echoes it gently, wraps it in something like reassurance.
Yoongi’s hand rests on the back of the couch, fingers brushing Jimin’s shoulder every so often when he moves. Each contact registers. Each one is familiar now, catalogued and accepted.
He thinks, not for the first time, about how long it took them to get here. About how carefully they circled each other. About the way the bond had always known, even when they didn’t.
“You’re quiet,” Jimin murmurs.
“Mm.”
“Thinking?”
“Always.”
“Dangerous.”
Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh.
Jimin tilts his head, looking up at him now, chin tipped just enough that their faces are closer than they usually are. Yoongi can see the faint freckle near Jimin’s eye, the soft curve of his mouth when he’s not talking.
The bond hums—anticipatory, gentle, curious.
“Hey,” Jimin says.
“Hey.”
“You’re staring.”
Yoongi doesn’t deny it. “You noticed.”
Jimin’s smile is small, almost shy. “I usually do.”
Something in Yoongi’s chest tightens.
He shifts slightly, angling toward Jimin without quite realising he’s done it. Jimin’s breath catches. Their knees touch. Their shoulders align.
The space between them narrows until it’s barely there at all.
Yoongi becomes acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of Jimin’s body against his side, the quiet rain, Tang’s slow breathing, the way the bond has gone very, very still, like it’s holding its breath.
Jimin’s gaze drops to Yoongi’s mouth.
Yoongi swallows.
“This okay?” he asks, voice low.
Jimin nods. Once. Firm.
“Yeah.”
That’s all it takes.
Yoongi leans in slowly, giving Jimin time to pull back, to change his mind. He doesn’t. Instead, Jimin lifts his chin just slightly, closing the last inch himself.
Their mouths meet.
It’s soft.
No urgency. No rush. Just the careful press of lips, warm and tentative, like they’re checking whether this is real. Jimin exhales against Yoongi’s mouth, a quiet sound that sends something warm spiralling through Yoongi’s chest.
The bond flares—bright, unmistakable, delighted.
Jimin’s hand comes up, fingers curling into the fabric of Yoongi’s hoodie like he needs the anchor. Yoongi responds without thinking, his hand sliding to Jimin’s waist, steady and sure.
The kiss deepens slowly, naturally. Jimin’s lips part, just a little, and Yoongi follows the invitation with reverent care. There’s no hurry here. Just exploration. Familiarity finding a new shape.
Jimin laughs softly into the kiss, the sound vibrating against Yoongi’s mouth.
“What?” Yoongi murmurs.
“This is—” Jimin kisses him again, quick and sweet. “—really nice.”
Yoongi smiles against his lips. “You’re distracting.”
“Good.”
They kiss again, longer this time. Jimin shifts, climbing partially into Yoongi’s lap without fully realising he’s done it. Yoongi’s arms wrap around him instinctively, holding him close.
Tang stirs, offended, then settles again with a huff.
When they finally pull back, Jimin rests his forehead against Yoongi’s, eyes closed, smiling like he’s just found something he’d been missing without knowing it.
“Wow,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees.
They sit there for a while, breathing in sync, the bond humming steadily between them—no spikes, no surprises. Just warmth. Just home.
Eventually, Jimin shifts, peeking at Yoongi through his lashes. “So.”
“So.”
“We’re… doing this now?”
Yoongi hums. “Seems that way.”
Jimin grins. “Good.”
He kisses Yoongi again, quick and playful, then pulls back just enough to add, “You’re still bossy, boyfriend.”
“Accurate, boyfriend.”
“And your plants still hate me, boyfriend.”
“Also accurate, boyfriend.”
Jimin laughs, curling back against him, perfectly at ease.
Outside, the rain finally stops.
Inside, Yoongi lets himself rest in the quiet certainty of it all—the bond, the kiss, the life they’re building piece by piece. No grand declarations. No rush.
Just this.
And for the first time, he doesn’t feel the need to brace for what comes next.
Because whatever it is, they’ll meet it together.
-fin