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It’s a fact as well-known as water being wet that Min Yoongi hates mornings. He hates the lethargicness of waking up, the temporary lack of complete motor control, the slowness of his sleep-drunk mind as it attempts to power up again after a six-hour long reboot session. Truly, mornings are the devil’s work; he feels like one of those old desktop computers from the early 90s, the ones that would take at least ten minutes to reach even the log-in screen; slow and useless, and frustrating.
A thick groan works its way up his throat as he listens to his alarm, the consistent beeps sounding from somewhere across his bedroom. He cracks an eye open and glares up into the ceiling, cursing himself for being smart enough to not keep the alarm clock next to his bed; he would’ve reflexively turned it off within a millisecond of the first beep if it had been within his reach.
Yoongi contemplates just lying there and learning to block out the sound of his alarm, but decides against it; not only does he have to get ready for work, his neighbors might actually mistake the beeping for a fire alarm and call the fire department over, and getting yelled at by angry firemen is definitely not something Yoongi wants to experience.
Once was more than enough.
So he forces himself to get up, swinging his feet to the floor and pausing for a moment before standing, taking a few seconds to rub at his eyes and swallow thickly, grimacing at the disgusting taste in his mouth. “Fuckin’ hell,” is the first thing he says on this Monday morning, foreseeing a lovely fucking day and an even lovelier fucking week.
He almost falls asleep in the shower, the spray of warm water coaxing his muscles to relax, and he resists it only by tugging extra sharply at his hair while rubbing shampoo into it. He considers, for a moment, to change the water temperature to cold to give his body a shock to jumpstart his functions, but no, he’s not that desperate.
When he finally stumbles into the kitchen to brew the day’s first cup of coffee, he’s got half an hour before he has to be at his office. He turns on the kettle and reaches for the remote, leaning past the kitchen doorway to turn on the TV to listen to the news in the background while he goes about preparing breakfast. Which is almost non-existent, really; Yoongi is very rarely hungry in the mornings, but just like with alcohol, one needs something in the stomach to balance a strong drink.
By the time he sits down to eat his tiny sandwich and drink his disgustingly black coffee - with not a trace of sugar or milk - there’s only one segment left of the morning news, and Yoongi taps on the remote a few times to turn up the volume.
“Good morning, Gwangju! This is Seogu’s Morning News, I’m Park Jimin, and you’re watching Monday’s weekly weather report!”
Okay, so maybe there’s one thing he doesn’t hate about mornings.
Not for the first time, Yoongi catches himself wondering how someone can sound so goddamn chipper at half past six in the morning. It really shouldn’t be a thing, but then again, neither should the weatherman’s smile, or his face, or his giggles, or even his voice in general. None of him should be a thing, really, though that would undoubtedly leave Yoongi to suffer through his mornings without any sort of silver lining.
Park Jimin, the weatherman of a small, local news agency, is one of the most awe-inspiring people Yoongi has ever seen in his life. He’s been working at the morning news for four months or so, and in that time, he’s managed to charm the everliving fuck out of Min Yoongi, renowned morning-hater. Jimin is bright and cheerful, with hair that changes color every month - it’s pink at the moment, a pretty, smooth pink, the color of cherry blossoms - and a smile that can probably melt ice in the dead of winter. He has round cheeks and innocent eyes that crinkle cutely every damn time he smiles, and then there’s that little giggle of his that makes Yoongi’s heart do a stupid flop every single time he hears it.
No, he is not smitten by the local weatherman. Absolutely not.
“We’re really lucky with the weather this spring,” Jimin is saying brightly, looking so casual in a pair of black jeans and an oversized blue-green sweater that keeps threatening to fall over his hands and hide his short fingers. The weatherman doesn’t seem to notice, smiling as he gestures over the CGI map behind him. “We didn’t have any rain last week, and that seems to be the case now as well. Apart from a light drizzle on Thursday, we’ll be having clear skies and sunshine!”
Yoongi nods to himself before taking a sip of coffee, glad to hear he won’t be needing an umbrella until later in the week; Namjoon had somehow managed to snap his in in half during his visit on Saturday, almost impaling himself in the process.
“The temperature’s going up as well, which I’m really thankful for,” Jimin continues in a sing-song voice, looking like it’s the best news he’s ever heard as the map behind him shifts into a weather list of the week’s temperatures. “I bought these ridiculously cute shorts that I can’t wait to wear, but it’s still a bit too chilly for that. Maybe in a few weeks!”
Yoongi snorts and almost rolls his eyes at the bit of personal information that slips into the weatherman’s reading; it’s a habit of Jimin’s, going off on a short tangent whenever he talks about the weather, bringing up things from his personal life seemingly without thinking twice as long as it has something to do with the weather.
Yoongi makes a conscious effort to not picture the weatherman in whatever ridiculously cute shorts he’d mentioned.
“Also, there’s this new bingsu place next to the 7-Eleven on Geumhwa-ro that’s really good,” Jimin chirps, clapping his hands together twice while an almost dreamy smile graces his lips. “I tried their kiwi-mango bingsu yesterday and it was so delicious!” He emits one of his little giggles and looks directly into the camera. “You should try it as well, today’s a perfect day for bingsu; we’re gonna be sitting at a steady fifteen degrees with a light breeze all day, so give yourself a treat to start the week!”
Yoongi’s immediate thought is that he should definitely check out this new bingsu place. Then he remembers he doesn’t like sweet things, and groans into his coffee cup.
He does not have a crush on the local weatherman. Not even a teeny tiny one.
By the time he’s eaten his sandwich and drank his coffee, Park Jimin is done reading the weather and is saying goodbye to their watchers, his smile almost blindingly bright. “That’s all for today,” he chirps, holding up his hands to form little hearts with his thumbs and index fingers. “My name is Park Jimin, this was Monday’s weekly weather report at Seogu’s Morning News! See you tomorrow morning!”
He waves at the camera one last time before the program ends, and Yoongi turns off the TV.
Ten minutes, a simple ten minutes of listening to the weatherman go about his job works wonders for Yoongi’s terrible morning mood, and so, just like on almost every day over the past four months, he finds himself in as close to a good mood as he can get as he walks out the door and heads to work.
-
That good mood lasts for a grand total of fifteen minutes before it’s squashed down into the ground like a poor, helpless ant under the heel of someone’s boot, a metaphor which is almost comically relevant as Yoongi is caught in the heaviest, most vicious downpour he’s seen in a while.
The rain appears like lightning out of clear skies, quite literally; one second it’s warm and sunny with barely a cloud in sight, then that one cloud multiplies faster than bunnies in spring and drops three weeks worth of accumulated humidity on top of an unsuspecting Yoongi.
“Shove a fucking fuckstick up your ass, what the actual fuck,” he hisses as he runs down the street, having nothing to use as an umbrella apart from his briefcase, which is thankfully empty on any vitally important documents. It works well enough to keep the rain out of his eyes, but his thin jacket is quickly becoming completely soaked through, the wetness spreading to his sweater and onwards to his shirt. “Jesus fucking Christ, where the fuck was this on the news?”
He spots a bus stop halfway down the street and scurries in under its small roof, pressing himself flat against the glass wall of it to ensure he’s properly out of reach of the rain. He’s out of breath and panting and feeling downright miserable in wet shoes, wet clothes, just about wet everything, and he has half a mind to throw even more profanities at the sky, for no other reason than to make himself feel better.
“Fuck’s sake,” he grits out as he sets his briefcase down on the little bench, grimacing as the simple movement makes his drenched clothes shift uncomfortably against his skin. Gingerly, he grabs the collar of his sweater to try and peel it off his neck…
… only to end up almost choking himself when someone charges straight into his back and slams him flat against the bus stop’s glass wall, trapping his hand against his throat and cutting off his airways for three whole seconds.
“Oh my god, sorry!” a voice squeaks from behind him before the weight against his back disappears and he can stagger back and actually breathe again. He sucks in a heavy inhale on instinct and the sudden rush of air triggers a fit of coughing so intense he has to lean forward, massaging his throat all the while and blinking back the tears that had sprung to his eyes out of nothing but pure shock. “I-I’m so sorry, ah, it was an accident, oh god, sorry!”
Yoongi completely ignores the ramble of apologies in favor of regaining his composure; the easier he can breathe, the more prominent his frustration becomes, escalating like a pot of water being brought to a boil, and when he straightens up again, he’s just about ready to blow a fuse and send the poor bastard straight to a psychiatrist’s office for the emotional trauma of being cussed the fuck out by Min Yoongi.
He turns on the heel and parts his lips and is just about to yell a string of profanities at whomever was stupid enough to not use their goddamn eyes and watch where they’re running, but then his gaze lands on hair as pink as cherry blossoms, wet and plastered to the forehead of a beautiful face with innocent eyes and round cheeks, flushed from exertion. The boy is almost doubled over, leaning forward with his hands braced against his knees as he pants heavily, struggling to catch his breath after running so hard to get out of the rain, and when he raises one of his hands to run it through his drenched hair, Yoongi notices his fingers are quite short.
Then the boy raises his eyes and looks up at him, and Yoongi’s heart does that stupid little flop, only it’s not so little this time.
Holy shit.
If he thought Park Jimin was good-looking on TV, it’s absolutely nothing compared to how he looks in real life. Especially when he’s just been caught in the rain; droplets of water trailing down the flushed skin of his face, down along the side of his neck and over his collarbones before slipping under the collar of his blue-green sweater. The boy is breathing heavily, air gusting past open, plump lips, and the way his eyes almost shimmer as they look up at Yoongi makes it exceedingly difficult for Yoongi to remember how to breathe.
Fuck.
Finally, Park Jimin exhales sharply and stands up straight, and Yoongi vaguely notices they’re about the same height. “I’m so sorry, sir,” the weatherman says in high-pitched urgency and bows his head, and thank god for that, because Yoongi’s jaw dropped at the sound of Jimin’s voice and he’s fairly certain he looks like a bloody idiot. “I was trying to get out of the rain and I didn’t watch where I was going.” Yoongi snaps his mouth shut when Jimin straightens up again, and there’s genuine concern in the weatherman’s eyes as he looks at him. “I’m really sorry,” he says, his tone softening. “Are you okay?”
It takes Yoongi’s brain a moment to realize he’s just been asked a question and needs to reply somehow. But how? What do you say to someone you may or may not have been absolutely smitten by since the first time they appeared on TV? To someone who’s even more breathtakingly pretty in person? To someone who’s both beautiful and sexy at the same time?
“You lied.”
Good fucking job, you absolute dumbass, Min Yoongi.
“Huh?” Park Jimin blinks in confusion at his words, and Yoongi notices he’s nervously fiddling with the hem of his sweater. “I-I’m sorry?” he says uncertainly, and the way his voice lilts into a question at the end makes Yoongi’s heart melt.
And his brain too, apparently, because next thing he knows, he’s rambling like a fucking idiot, saying the first things that pop into his unfiltered head. “You said there would be sunshine,” he says, his voice unintentionally accusing. “Like half an hour ago, you said it. That it’d be sunny today. It’s not. It’s raining. So you lied. About the weather, you… you lied.”
Never has he hated himself more.
He really can’t blame the weatherman for his absolutely dumbfounded expression, eyes wide and lips parted in silent shock as he stares at Yoongi, looking like he’s contemplating whether it’d be less painful to just run right back out into the rain rather than stay here. Jimin closes his lips and swallows, and Yoongi tries, he really does try to not look at the way the boy’s adam’s apple bobs with the movement.
And then Jimin smiles, and surely the heavens are just as awestruck by the radiance of it as Yoongi, for the rain stops falling and the clouds disappear as quickly as they’d come, drifting away to let the sun bask the two of them in its light.
“You watch my show,” the weatherman says cheerfully, looking so utterly overjoyed, his eyes sparkling before they crinkle up as he giggles.
Somewhere in the far back of Yoongi’s mind, he realizes that the sun’s warm rays don’t hold a candle to Park Jimin’s smile. “Oh. Oh, I get it now,” he breathes out without quite realizing what it is he’s saying. “It’s you. You’re the sunshine.”
There’s a beat of absolute silence before the weatherman’s cheeks explode with a deep red color, the blush spreading all the way to the tips of his ears, dusting his skin in a darker shade than his hair. “I-I, you, I, u-um,” he stutters, his voice thin as he quickly lowers his eyes to stare at his hands, which are busy nervously fiddling with the hem of his sweater. “I, um, wow, o-okay, uh…” He quickly lick his lips before squeaking out, “M-my name’s Park Jimin, I-”
“No.” Yoongi doesn’t quite know what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, but for some reason, some unthinkable reason, he interrupts the weatherman’s introduction by holding up a finger in front of his face. “No no, you’re not Park Jimin,” he says, his mind foggy to his own words. “You’re sunshine, and that’s final.”
It’s not until Jimin emits a sputtering sound and his blush intensifies to the point he looks like he’s seconds from passing out that it actually hits Yoongi, what he’s been saying, and his eyes widen in horror and he brings the hand he’d held up to his eyes, so utterly mortified he actually feels a need to hide his face. “Oh god,” he presses out, his voice uncharacteristically meek. “Oh god, I mean, uh, that’s not what I was gonna say, fuck, I mean shit, I mean, uh-”
He promptly cuts himself off when he feels a tug at his sleeve, and he takes a breath before lowering his hand, feeling his heart do a somersault at the sight of Park Jimin looking back at him with a shy smile on his lips, his gaze nervously fluttering when their eyes meet. “What,” the weatherman begins, but he stops and presses his lips together when he realizes his voice is so quiet it’s barely audible. “What… what’s your name?”
It’s really not a difficult question, but if one took a peek inside Yoongi’s head at that moment, one would think Jimin had just asked him to multiply the distance from Earth to the moon with the radius of the sun before dividing it by the atomic number of helium. He just gawks at the weatherman for several seconds, caught in an almost paralytic daze, a full-body lockdown that doesn’t break until Jimin adds, very quietly, “If you call me sunshine, I should at least know your name.”
Jesus tap-dancing Christ.
Yoongi can almost hear his own brain short circuit, but perhaps that’s a good thing, because next thing he knows, he’s clearing his throat and mumbling, “Min Yoongi,” without sounding like he’s got the entire bus stop shoved up his ass. “My name… my name’s Min Yoongi.”
He silently wonders how he’s still alive as he watches Jimin mouth his name to himself, as if to test it; he’s fairly certain his heart has overworked itself so hard at this point, it’s gonna fail any second now.
The weatherman seems to make a decision, nodding to himself before making a brave attempt at meeting Yoongi’s gaze. “U-um, listen,” he says, and the hand that’s still holding onto Yoongi’s sleeve tightens its grip just a fraction. “This… this is kinda weird to ask of someone you just met, b-but I think you’re kinda cute when you ramble, s-so, um…” His face gradually turns redder and redder as he speaks and he somehow ends up talking to Yoongi’s collarbones, failing his mission to look him in the eyes. “Y-you wanna go get bingsu with me?” Jimin asks, looking like he’s about to combust into flames. “I-I mean, if you’re not busy or anything.”
For the second time that day, Yoongi remembers he doesn’t like sweet things. But, when Park Jimin, the cute weatherman whom Yoongi definitely has a crush on, asks him to go have shaved ice with toppings that’ll melt your teeth, all the while blushing like mad and hiding a smile brighter than the sun, well, Yoongi figures he can make an exception.
Very carefully, with a hand that trembles more than he’d like to admit, he reaches up and pokes Jimin’s forehead to coax him into raising his face and looking at him, and he takes a deep, calming breath before nodding his head. “Okay, sunshine,” he says quietly, and while he isn't quite sure from where he pulls the courage to call the weatherman that again, it's all worth it at the sight of his face lighting up in delight, looking so ridiculously happy that even Yoongi fails to fight off the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. “Let’s go get bingsu.”