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It was like any other ordinary day, if you thought about it.
Well, it was your day off. You had two days off in a row, actually, which almost never happened, and that warranted being comfortable and attempting to have a life outside of work and the strange male that had taken residence in your guest bedroom.
Inhuman, you reminded yourself with a thrill that probably should have had more fear behind it. But Yoongi was Yoongi and ever since the day he had dropped that little tidbit about himself you had been… relieved? Maybe relieved. He wasn’t broken or defective or sick – only different. That you could understand. Endure. Cherish, even, because there was nothing wrong with celebrating differences. It made us all better people, your mother had told you.
The proper chill of Autumn had settled on the city. Bundled up in your favourite old, thick tweed coat you ventured out into the world and took a long walk in the park to watch the birds and put a penny in the fountain. Yoongi came along, sort of. Kind of. You turned around to check on him a few times, and no matter what, he was there – always there, lingering somewhere within sight – but too far to touch. He strode a hundred paces behind you, head down, demeanor quiet and indifferent. Nobody spared him a glance.
You felt bad, truthfully. The longer you walked, the worse you felt. You didn’t want him to feel obligated to join you, and you were almost certain he was not enjoying himself. You had no idea what made Yoongi happy, what could coerce him into smiling, even at just the corner of his mouth. Your simmering guilt peaked as you passed a children’s birthday party and laughed at the shrilly screaming and giggles that came from it before realizing Yoongi was probably dying somewhere behind you.
“Yoongi?”
The name had hardly fallen from your lips before he was there. Just… there. Your heart missed six beats and your breath stifled in the pit of your chest, eyes broad and stunned at the suddenness of his appearance. Yoongi went from taciturn to grimacing a second later at the own realization of what he’d done, and reached out a hand in an apologetic gesture, as if to stroke your arm, before retracting quickly and glancing away.
“You alright?” he sighed, obviously unhappy with himself and the situation.
“Y-yeah,” you mumbled back. God, you wished you could redo all this. “I’m fine. Sorry.”
Yoongi didn’t say anything to that.
You walked home in silence. If he knew something was wrong, he didn’t say it. Didn’t say anything. The soft cawing of crows in the distance was the only background to the wind and the occasional car passing by.
Back at home, he had gone straight to his room and you forlornly took off your coat. The dredges of contentment your walk had brought dissipated sure as sugar, ten minutes later you were in sweatpants and a sweater on the couch, idly finding a non-static channel that was playing re-runs of The Nanny.
The rest of the evening passed that way and then you went to bed.
At least, that was what you expected.
Three episodes in, almost dozing off, you were roused by the quiet creak of footsteps on the floor. He was walking to you with enough purpose to make noise, and blearily, you blinked and sat up, back cracking a few times in the process as you mumbled, “Yoong–?”
“Sorry for earlier,” he spoke swiftly. He was leaning over the couch as he did and before you could comprehend anything except the pretty caramel of his hair, the color of the falling leaves, his mouth covered yours and you briefly forgot how to think or breathe. Blistering warmth woke up every vein in your body and you gasped at the sensation, followed by your heart leaping into your throat, and then cold air met your lips as Yoongi withdrew.
You blinked, off-balance at the abruptness of it all, and nearly fell off the couch. He hovered for only a second longer before something like a ghost of a smile appeared, and then he was gone.