Chapter Text
The August sun was beating down on Yoongi where he stood outside a huge, very old brick building, and he could have sworn he was baking inside his clothes. His father was standing ahead of him, speaking quickly and quietly to a man Yoongi had never seen before and would most likely never see again. He couldn’t really remember why he accompanied his father on this visit; did he even listen when he was telling Yoongi about it in the car? Something about profiting off an underground drug circulation on a college campus. Or maybe it was guns? He didn’t care to recall. All he could think about was the sweat rolling down his temple and the collar of his dress shirt all but suffocating him in the heat. The drone of his father’s voice lulled him into a familiar state of disinterest and he swore in that moment, he hated his life.
Of course, he knew that wasn’t the case.
Yoongi couldn’t hate his life. He wanted for nothing; he had Rolexes and perfectly tailored suits and enough designer clothes to last him the rest of his adult life. His mother loved and doted on him like he was made of gold (as he might well be, seeing as he was her only son) and his father, the richest gang leader in all of Seoul, had enough money at his fingertips to buy him a Lamborghini if Yoongi only asked. He ate only the best meat from the highest end restaurants, drank fragrant champagnes, and slept in a bed so big and so soft that he often dreamt of floating through clouds or cotton candy.
No, Yoongi absolutely did not hate his life… except for when he watched his father’s goons undress his mother with their eyes, when he saw his father pocket yellow bottles of Valium and Adderall, when prostitutes curled their fingers under his chin as he waited outside of meeting rooms for his father to finish up deals. They belonged to his father’s clients, mostly, the ones that dealt skin and pornography. They knew who he was, son of Min Daeyong, heir to his father’s empire, and their glinting eyes held nothing but the desire to have him for his money, his title, the only price they had to pay in return being their bodies. They knew nothing about him, like how he drank his coffee or if he preferred a firm or soft mattress. They knew only his name, his face, and how much he was worth. Yoongi had grown relatively accustomed to them over the years, but there was hardly a time where their breath on his neck didn’t make his blood run cold, his pulse quicken with discomfort. They gathered in twos and threes, their fingertips trailing over the shoulder pads of his suit, whispering to him the things they could do to make him feel good. He had learned to hold his tongue and keep his eyes straight ahead.
Yoongi thanked whatever god there was that he didn’t have to experience that on this particularly steaming day. There weren’t many other humans on the campus around them, save one or two students lounging under trees or riding bikes along the sidewalks. He couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy seeing them in t-shirts and shorts, earbuds tucked into their ears, not burdened with the pending doom of inheriting a domain. Nearing 23 years of age, Yoongi imagined often what it would be like to attend a college like this one, to have friends that didn’t consist of the stuck-up children of his father’s allies and competitors. He’d always completed school online, all of his extra time dedicated to apprenticeship under his father to prepare for the day he took over. Thinking of this now, Yoongi nearly rolled his eyes and recalled again that he may hate his life.
Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he turned his head slightly. Two boys had begun wrestling on the lawn in front of the building, their grunts and giggles audible even from Yoongi’s distance from them. One was small and quick, a flash of vivid pink hair and black clothing. The other boy was larger in proportion, dwarfing the first boy but very obviously getting his ass kicked. As he watched, the smaller boy ended up pinning his opponent down, short arms straining against the struggle. Pressed against the grass, the other boy was kicking his long legs in protest. Yoongi couldn’t help but think he looked like a child throwing a fit about not getting what he wants. They exchanged a few words Yoongi couldn’t hear before the smaller boy let his friend up, who in turn, pushed the other’s shoulder in a coy way. He was compelled to keep watching them, but he suddenly heard his father’s voice saying his name. He turned, but not before making eye contact with the taller boy across the lawn. He was in the process of pulling a red cap out of the back pocket of his jeans, pushing his dark hair back before placing it on his head backwards to showcase his strong eyebrows. Their gazes locked for the quickest of moments, but Yoongi could only feel a strong pull towards the boy, an urge to talk to him. An urge that Yoongi rarely feels.
“Mr. Park and I will be taking a moment to talk privately,” Yoongi’s father said, his severe eyes locking on his son. Yoongi delivered a curt nod, momentarily wondering why they felt the need to talk in private when he hadn’t even been listening.
“There’s air conditioning and a water fountain in the theater,” Mr. Park said, his tone considerably more conversational than Mr. Min’s, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the brick building behind them. “You look a bit… warm.”
Yoongi felt a slight blush building in his face as he wiped at his temple with the back of his hand. “Thank you, sir,” Yoongi said in response, giving a quick bow as the two men walked towards a more isolated area. Yoongi shifted his weight between his feet for a few moments, resisting the urge to look in the direction of the two boys across the lawn. He looked up at the building—a theater—and decided he would much rather be standing in an air conditioned space rather than under the beating sun. He dared to take a glance in the direction of the boys from before, but they had gone. Yoongi heaved a sigh, unsure of why he felt disappointed, and made his way up the cement steps of the theater.
Opening the glass doors and feeling the cold air hit his face, Yoongi was sure he’d never felt such relief. He stepped all the way inside, slipping his suit jacket off, throwing it over his shoulder, and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to let his skin breathe. The lobby of the theater was eccentric, with an elaborately patterned magenta and gold carpet. There were a few red leather chairs scattered here and there, accented with gold studs along the seams of the cushions. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside but him. It was completely silent. Yoongi was alone, and he started to feel a bit more comfortable.
It wasn’t that Yoongi was anti-social. He just much preferred his own company over the company of anyone else in his life, which mostly consisted of businessmen, drug dealers, prostitutes, and murderers. His closest friend was his mother, soft and caring with a tinkling laugh and gentle hands. He would take her over anyone, any day.
The sweat on Yoongi’s neck was beginning to dry as he wandered around the lobby, letting his fingers trail over the leather of the chairs and tracing the patterns of the carpet with the toe of his shoe. There were a pair of double doors nearby which undoubtedly led into the theater itself, and although the thought of a water fountain was tempting, he felt more intrigued to push the doors open and explore the building further.
The actual theater was smaller than Yoongi expected, with no more than 20 or 30 rows of seats lined before the stage rose up. Most of the lights were on, giving the place a welcoming glow. He walked along the aisles, touching the faux velvet of the seats and breathing in the cool, somewhat stale air. It was quiet inside the theater too, and Yoongi couldn’t help but feel like he was the only person in the world. He could hear his heartbeat in the silence, the sound of his lungs taking in and letting go of air. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt held in place like this, all because there was no one talking in his ear, telling him where to go or what to say. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling through his nose once before opening his eyes and breathing out. He scanned the stage once, but ended up doing a double take when he saw what stood in the front corner of the space near the long velvet curtains. He inched closer, past the front row of seats.
The piano was a deep brown of some wood that Yoongi couldn’t name. It stood on four small wheels that looked worn down after years of use, and he wondered how they were still holding the piano up. Its keys were a shade of off-white and fading black, but all of them were present. It was square-shaped and blocky, unlike most pianos Yoongi had played in his lifetime. The word YAMAHA was printed in English letters along the wood above the keys, and he wondered if it was a Japanese or a Western piano. A simple bench of the same color sat pushed underneath, framing the three gold pedals at the base. His fingers started to itch as he examined the piano from where he stood at the foot of the stage. The edge of it stopped at his hips, and he felt the unbearable urge to heave himself onto the stage. So he did.
When he stood up straight on the stage, he’d never felt so tall. Yoongi was small for a man for his age (thanks to his mother), but there on the stage, he was up high enough to see every seat in the theater and the double doors at the back. A sense of triumph swelled in his chest before he turned to look at the piano. He let his fingers trail along the keys, not heavy enough to play any notes but just so that the keys shifted a little under his touch. It had been a long time since he’d touched a piano, especially one as used as this one. He paused, looking over his shoulder at the empty seats and then towards the wings of the stage. He was alone. He clumsily pulled the bench out from under the piano and settled himself onto it, his feet automatically resting on the pedals as he sat. His hands hovered over the keys, anticipation making the air around him thick, and he exhaled before finally pressing his fingers down.
The first time Yoongi touched a piano, he was five years old. His mother had taken him to visit their family in Daegu, his aunts and uncles and grandparents. They’d stayed in his mother’s parents’ house that week, and in the foyer had stood the most magnificent instrument Yoongi had ever laid his eyes on. The piano had seemed to be made of marble, smooth and white and so, so soft. Yoongi remembered walking a circle around it, his hands molding to its curves and slipping so easily over the surface. He’d begged his grandmother to let him touch the keys, and she’d told him he could if he played them very softly. She’d lifted him onto the matching white bench and he felt at home there with his fingers pressing on the keys one by one, the sound they emitted giving Yoongi goosebumps down to his toes. For months after that visit, he’d begged his mother to buy him a piano so he could learn to play. Eventually, his mother convinced his father to buy a small Grand piano for Yoongi to put in his room. They hired someone to give him lessons, and by the time was thirteen, Yoongi was playing original arrangements of Mozart and Beethoven. He never felt more alive anywhere than he did when he was sat at his piano. It felt like he was made to be there, like his fingers were extensions of the instrument itself. As he grew older, his father encouraged him to switch his focus from his piano to the family business. His mother loved to see him play, but she knew what her husband said, went. His teacher was let go and the piano replaced with a large mahogany writing desk. Yoongi was not one to hold grudges, but he would never forgive his father for getting rid of his piano. It had been his very first love, torn away far too soon. Sometimes on the weekends, Yoongi would trek alone to a piano and organ store on the outskirts of Seoul to play the instruments there, to let his mind wander and his body settle into the familiar comfort of a bench.
Now, in the theater, with his eyes closed, Yoongi imagined he was in his grandparents’ house, playing that huge white piano. His fingers slipped into the familiar melody of Für Elise, one of the first songs he ever learned the original arrangement of. His feet pressed the pedals with practiced ease, and his habit of rocking his head side to side as he played showed itself. He hadn’t played this piece in what seemed like years, but his muscles remembered every chord, every grace note, and despite his short fingers, he could reach every octave leap. Momentarily, his mind jumped to his father, who was probably wondering where he was, but the moment passed and Yoongi continued to get lost in the clear, crisp notes that the piano sang to him.
The song wound down and Yoongi sighed, content, as he played the last note. It echoed beautifully in the empty theater, and he reveled in the way the note floated, faded, and disappeared. There was a moment of silence before the sound of a single pair of hands applauding cut through the air. Yoongi jumped at the noise, whipping around to see the boy in the backwards red cap from outside sitting in the front row of seats, clapping his hands together loudly. His mouth was spread in a square grin that relayed pure joy. Yoongi could only blush, standing up from the bench to give an awkward bow. The boy’s smile widened, if possible, and he got to his feet.
“That was really something,” he said to Yoongi, walking forward to lean his elbows on the edge of the stage. “I know Beethoven wrote that but if you told me you did, I think I’d believe you.”
Yoongi accepted the compliment with a shrug of his shoulders. “If you play something enough times, you can make it your own,” he said to the boy, hopping off the stage. Up close, he was taller than Yoongi thought originally, and he almost had to look up at the boy to make eye contact with him. In the light of the theater, his eyes were a deep brown, almost the same color as the wood of the piano on the stage. The boy held out one huge hand to Yoongi, who took it with some caution.
“Taehyung,” he introduced himself, “Sophomore saxophonist.”
“That’s a tongue twister,” Yoongi mumbled. “Do you rehearse that?”
Taehyung let go of his hand, nodding, and winked. Yoongi felt his heart do something akin to flutter and forgot he hadn’t said his own name yet.
“Yoongi,” he said. “Pianist, I guess.”
Taehyung took a step back to study him. Yoongi felt strangely vulnerable and tried not to shift his weight in discomfort.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” Taehyung finally said. “Are you new? A transfer?”
Yoongi shook his head. “Oh I, uh, don’t go to school here,” he replied. “I’m here on business with my father and got…” He paused to find the right word. “Distracted.”
Taehyung cocked one thick eyebrow. “Business, eh? Oh yeah, I did you see out standing out there with those two old dudes in the suits.” A smile betrayed Yoongi as he heard his father described as an ‘old dude.’ “You here to buy something?” The boy leaned in closer to Yoongi as if he were telling a secret. “I could find you plenty of things to buy here.” He winked again, and Yoongi forgot to breathe.
“N-not that kind of business,” Yoongi stammered, realizing halfway through the sentence that it most likely was, in fact, that kind of business. But he wouldn’t tell Taehyung that.
“Oh,” the other boy said, rather deflated.
There was a brief silence between them, the cool air of the theater seeming to settle. Yoongi chewed on the inside of his cheek, looking anywhere but up at Taehyung. He was about to speak up and say he had to go find his father, but the other boy beat him to it.
“You could buy that piano,” Taehyung said, the deep timbre of his voice echoing a bit. Yoongi raised his eyebrows, turning his head to look at the piano. “It used to belong to the dance department but they bought a new one last week.” Taehyung waved a hand in the air noncommittally. “Something about upgrading. That thing is as old as me.”
“It’s for sale?” Yoongi asked, looking back up to Taehyung.
The boy nodded with a crooked grin. “They were just gonna toss it, but Jimin said that would have been a crime.”
Yoongi didn’t know who Jimin was, but he decided to agree with him. “How much?” he asked with a bit too much urgency, and Taehyung deadpanned.
“Uh, I’m not sure, really,” he replied, patting his pockets. “I can call Jimin and ask.”
Yoongi mumbled a thanks and watched Taehyung retrieve his phone, tap the screen a few times, a press it to his ear. It rang only once before there was a voice on the other end.
“Yah, Jimin,” Taehyung lilted. “How much is that piano your director is getting rid of?” The voice spoke back for a few moments, Taehyung listening carefully. “There’s a guy here who wants to buy it.” He paused as Jimin spoke again, quickly. “I’m not sure, I just found him playing it and asked if he wanted it.” Another pause. “Yeah, he was pretty good, actually.” Yoongi bowed his head at the compliment, trying to hide a smile. It had been years since someone praised his playing. Taehyung rolled his eyes as Jimin chattered at him through the phone. “I told you I wasn’t going back there… No, I’m in the theater.”
“Oh good!” A voice sounded simultaneously from the phone and from the back of the theater. Yoongi and Taehyung both turned at the noise. The other boy from before, the one with the pink hair, was pushing through the double doors, holding a gym bag in one hand and his phone in the other. “I’ve been looking all over for you!” He pushed the phone into his pocket and hurried down the aisle towards them, his feet hardly making a sound on the carpet. Jimin was shorter than Taehyung by a landslide but somehow taller than Yoongi, and his vibrant hair was so puffed up at the moment that it added about an inch. He wore all black, exercise shorts and a loose tank top that showcased his slender, toned arms. Yoongi put two and two together from what Taehyung had said before and realized Jimin was a dancer, and sure looked the part. Everything about the boy screamed grace, and as he gave Yoongi a once over, Jimin cracked a radiating smile.
“So you wanna buy the piano?” the boy asked, his voice smooth and light. Yoongi nodded, making easy eye contact with him.
“I’ve been looking for a piano for a while,” Yoongi said, which wasn’t entirely untrue. He’d been wanting to buy a new piano for years, but he wasn’t sure how to bring it up to his father, and he certainly wasn’t going to do it without his permission.
“Well, you ended up in the right place,” Jimin said, dropping his gym bag on the floor by his feet. Taehyung had gotten distracted by a piece of lint in Jimin’s hair and was in the process of fishing it out. Yoongi glanced at him, amused, as Jimin spoke. “Our ballet director just bought a new Grand last week for barre work and tried to trash that one.” He nodded towards the piano on stage. “I told him he’d probably go to music hell for doing it so he gave it to the theatre kids, who will most likely use it as a prop and never touch the poor thing.” He was speaking about the piano as if it had feelings, and Yoongi could only soften at that. “They agreed to sell it if we split profits.”
“What are you asking for it?” Yoongi inquired, leaning onto the edge of the stage. Taehyung had finally pulled the lint out of his friend’s hair and flicked it away.
“I think we decided on 500,000 won,” Jimin replied. “But we could always—”
“Deal.” Yoongi didn’t remember giving himself permission to agree.
Jimin’s eyes widened a bit at Yoongi’s immediate response, but he let out a giggle. “Well alright then,” he said. “That was a lot easier than I thought it would be.” Jimin looked up at Taehyung, who had a pleased smile on his face. “Jinyoung will be thrilled.”
“Glad I could help,” Yoongi said absently, a mix of excitement and anxiety bubbling in his stomach. How was he going to explain to his father that he agreed to buy a piano? How was he even going to get it home?
Taehyung hopped up onto the stage and draped himself over the piano bench dramatically. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, old friend,” he said, his voice dripping with feigned sadness. “It seems like we just met, and yet… it also feels like years have passed between us.” Yoongi saw Jimin put a hand on his hip and heave a sigh, muttering something that sounded like ‘drama queen.’ Taehyung broke his performance to ask Yoongi how old he was.
“I’ll be 23 in a month,” he replied.
Taehyung resumed his monologue quickly. “Don’t worry, Yoongi-hyung will take good care of you.” He let his fingers linger on the keys, playing a few of them clumsily. Yoongi winced at the chord. “Won’t you?” He looked at Yoongi expectantly for an answer. Jimin gave Yoongi a nudge with his elbow, encouraging him to play along. Yoongi froze for a moment before lifting his right hand and marking an x on the fabric of his shirt, right over his heart.
“Cross my heart.”
Taehyung smiled that wide grin, the one he’d given Yoongi as he clapped for him seated in the front row of seats. Yoongi was again struck with the strong pull towards Taehyung, the urge to talk to him, know him. He blinked a few times as the other boy turned back to the piano, cooing at it and playing tinkling notes on the higher octaves. Beside Yoongi, Jimin watched his friend with fondness, shaking his head so his parted pink locks shifted.
“He’s so bad at piano,” he whispered.
Yoongi scoffed. “Anyone can play the piano with enough practice.”
Jimin cocked an eyebrow at him in a challenge. “Ever seen a saxophonist play the piano?”
Yoongi shook his head.
“Let’s keep it that way. C’mon Taetae!” he called. “Let’s go tell Jinyoung we sold his piano.”
Taehyung jumped to his feet and made his way back to Yoongi and Jimin, hopping back onto the carpet with a grunt. “So how are you getting this home with you?” he asked Yoongi, cocking his head to one side. Yoongi exhaled, running a hand through his hair and looking hopelessly at the piano.
“No idea.”
At that moment, Yoongi heard his father’s voice travel through the theater. He snapped his head up and saw him standing at the double doors looking rather disgruntled and impatient. “There you are!” he said, his bellowing voice too loud to Yoongi’s ears in this space. “The car is waiting for us.”
Yoongi looked at Taehyung and Jimin and felt a sensation similar to when one has to close a book just as it’s starting to get interesting. He pulled his suit jacket from over his shoulder and put it on, leaning in so only they could hear him.
“I’ll be back here at noon on Saturday,” he said. The boys both nodded. “I’ll have the money and we can figure out getting the thing home with me.” He started to walk away, and Jimin offered him an enthusiastic wave, while Taehyung watched him go with curiosity, lifting one huge hand in farewell. He returned their goodbyes with a nod of his head, and mentally kicked himself because it probably seemed rude. As he walked, he could hear the mix of Taehyung’s deep voice and Jimin’s higher register, but couldn’t make out what they said. He heard Taehyung laugh and couldn’t help but smile at the noise.
When he reached his father’s side, Yoongi apologized for disappearing. His father simply turned and made his way to the front door of the theater, saying something about finishing up the deal with Mr. Park and how they had another meeting to attend in less than an hour. Yoongi felt himself deflate and wanted nothing more than to stay and listen to Taehyung talk to that piano.
He glanced over his shoulder one more time as he descended down the steps of the theater. He could see Jimin and Taehyung in the lobby through the windows of the building, making their way out as well. Taehyung caught his gaze through the glass mid-sentence and stopped speaking for a second to shoot him a smile and another short wave. Yoongi smiled back, something he very rarely did. And it felt nice.
****
That night, Yoongi dreamed of the theater and the piano.
It was a full house, and he could hear the low drone of conversation from the audience where he stood backstage. He was wearing a suit, but he didn’t feel suffocated in it like he usually did. No, this time, he felt excited. The piano sat in the middle of the stage, the spotlight reflecting slightly off the white keys. The piano didn’t look any newer or shinier than it had since the first time Yoongi saw it (in fact, it looked just as old), but there was something prouder about it somehow—as if it knew it was about to be played.
The crowd in the seats quieted down suddenly, and Yoongi gulped. It was time. He took a slow breath in and walked forward, towards the piano. He slipped easily into the bench, and any anxiety he’d had before shrunk some. He positioned his hands on the keys, anticipation gripping his heart, and played the first chord.
He wasn’t sure what he was playing. He didn’t remember choosing this piece, didn’t remember practicing it, yet his fingers were dancing across the length of the piano with ease, as if he’d been playing this piece his whole life. As if he’d written it himself. He closed his eyes at one point, letting his head drift side to side as he played. The song surrounded him, filled his ears and floated up and out over the audience. Yoongi was sure his heart had begun to beat in time with the music, and he smiled to himself.
As quickly as it had started, the song ended. Yoongi played the last lingering note and let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. There was a beat of silence before the crowd burst into applause, and Yoongi felt a heated blush creeping up his neck as he opened his eyes. He got to his feet and faced the filled seats, bowing once at the waist. When he straightened up, he saw a familiar face in the front row, darkened a bit by the bright spotlight in his eyes.
Taehyung was on his feet, clapping with enthusiasm unmatched by anyone in the audience surrounding him. The younger boy was wearing a suit as well, and Yoongi couldn’t help but think he looked very, very handsome. They made eye contact and Taehyung smiled that million watt smile. Yoongi’s heart hopped a little in his chest, and he was sure it wasn’t from nerves.
Early morning sunlight filtered into Yoongi’s room when he opened his eyes. He thought he could still hear the roar of applause from the audience, but upon waking up a bit more, he realized it was the air conditioner working double time. He rolled over in his bed and heaved a sigh. His fingers were itching again, and he squeezed both hands into fists under the sheets. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on that piano.