Chapter Text
The year is 1927. City, New York. It’s been several hours since Min Yoongi’s arrival, but as he strolls along dirt roads and alleyways, expensive cars zooming by his hair’s length in a flash of careless laughter and shimmering pearls, he’s already noticed that the entire city seems to have one, particular commonality among them. From the scandalous whispers that echoed through the halls of his new—but temporary—apartment to the quiet murmurs of the people shuffling down the streets,
the name on everybody’s lips, is ‘Kim Seokjin’.
“Kim Seokjin is hosting another one of his parties tonight, up by Courtesy Bay.”
“Long Island? Why drive up that far when there’s plenty of other clubs in the city?”
“Because it’s simply necessary , or haven’t you heard?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of Kim Seokjin, I’m sure everybody has. But I’ve got no clue what him or his parties look like.”
“Talk of the town says, no one’s ever even seen Kim Seokjin before. Can you imagine that? Hundreds of crashers, speeding through those tall, metal gates night after night, yet no one’s ever met the host?”
“Makes me wonder whether the fella’s a real person, after all.”
To say that this public commotion caught the attention of an otherwise indifferent Min Yoongi, would’ve been the understatement of the century.
Or two.
The thing about Yoongi is, he’s been here, there, and practically everywhere. He's seen the world in its most riveting moments in time and watched as different cultures transformed themselves through decades of societal change and reform. He was there when the greatest economic downturn of the 20th century lead to a profound increase in unemployment and crime rates, and he was there to witness the media outbreak that followed the attempted assassination of a president who once authorized the bombings of two Japanese cities during the second World War.
Those were terrifying times to live in.
But one of the more memorable experiences in Yoongi’s life—one that left the most significant impact on his perception of people and the world around him—was when he observed a crowd of civil rights protesters as they marched along one of the largest-scale social movements in Western history.
Min Yoongi is a spontaneous time traveler. And at the age of twenty-two, he’s already been at it for a total of four, long years.
At this point, the initial excitement of being transported into a new time and place each day had long since disappeared from Yoongi’s tired mind. It had become a tedious routine for him. Everyday: control+c, control+v. An inescapable cycle that repeats itself over and over again until it finally strips Yoongi raw of his will to continue living.
He goes through the same, tiresome process everyday: wake up, find out where he is— when he is—then try to get through the day as invisibly as possible. It’s better for both parties, Yoongi thinks, for the locals and for himself. Since he can never stay in one place for longer than twenty-four hours at a time, it would be much easier for everyone if he drew little attention to himself; or preferably, none at all.
Every day, Min Yoongi wakes up in a place where no one knows his name, and every night, Min Yoongi falls asleep with the same, sense of loneliness that’s plagued his soul for the last four years.
Control+c.
Control+v.
This truly is his greatest curse.
Spontaneous time travel had been passed down his bloodline for generations, ever since his great-great-grandfather pissed off some witch back in the 1900's (Yoongi didn’t care much for the details), but all he knows, is that every man in the Min family who ever lived to see the dawn of their eighteenth birthday would have to suffer the curse of spontaneous time travel for the rest of their lives. Because of this, Yoongi had always been extra careful about the idea of emotional attachment. His father, who only appeared to him three times in his entire life, made sure to remind him about it each time he miraculously stopped by.
“You’re turning eighteen in a few months, Yoongi. It's time to reflect upon everything that I’ve taught you ever since you were a child.”
“Yes, father,” a seventeen-year-old Min Yoongi diligently replies, “I’ve written it all down, and I've remembered to read over it every night before bed.”
“Good, son. Good. I won’t have you make the same mistakes,” His father says, squeezing his shoulders firmly, “I won’t have you suffer the way that I did.”
“Father, if I may ask,” Yoongi whispers. He waits for his father’s nod of approval before he continues, “What happened to you? Why did you….suffer?”
“I—” his father’s voice falters, hands dropping to his sides, “My emotions took control of me, Yoongi. I let myself become weak, and I let myself have hope. Each night, I went to bed praying that I’d wake up here, with you and your mother by my side, and that—” the man shakes his head in defeat, “that unrealistic daydream is what destroyed me, son.”
Yoongi stares back, emotionless, at the man in front of him. A father who has been absent from the most crucial years of his adolescent life and the person responsible for the tears that wet his mother’s pillow each and every night. How did this family become so broken?
“Don’t worry, father,” Yoongi finally says, “I won’t let my emotions take control of me.”
“No, you won’t.” His father reaffirms, “Everything will be under your control. Except—”
“Yes?”
“Except for the time travel.”
Yoongi tilts his head, eyes filled with curiosity, “Why is that?”
“Because,” his father explains, “This curse is more powerful than any of us can fathom, son. It isn’t a battle that we should fight. Not only will we lose, but there will be consequences for our actions as well.”
“What consequences, father?”
His father looks away, eyebrows knit tight, “I’m sorry, son, but even I cannot give you an answer to that question.”
And without knowing what could possibly happen, Yoongi decided never to try his chances at fighting a curse that cannot be fought.
But even if he is doomed to an eternity of loneliness and solitude, Yoongi still believes that there are perks to living life only one day at a time. An example, is the fact that his identity is completely unknown to the locals (for the majority of the time, at least), which means that he can literally do whatever the hell he wants; even illegal things, if those didn’t challenge his morality so much.
So tonight, as Yoongi walks himself up towards the gates of New York’s most elitist party scene, he immediately knows that blending in will be as easy as stealing a bottle of high-class whiskey from one of the host's open bars. That’s the good thing about large parties, Yoongi guesses, there’s absolutely no chance of an intimate encounter. He can passively go about his night like the invisible man that he must be, without the anxiety of catching any unnecessary attention from anyone else.
At this point, to get roaring drunk off expensive champagne will only be a bonus.
The inside of the mansion is nothing like Yoongi had ever imagined before in his life. He almost feels like he's being transported into another time and place for the second time that day. To an alternate universe where colorful lights illuminated the world and a thousand racing heartbeats danced together to the sound of exploding fireworks, booming and crackling in the soundtrack of the night. A mashup of heavy jazz and walking bass resonated through his limbs, spreading positive vibrations into his bloodstream and down the lengths of his shivering spine. There are underwater dancers, swimmers, acrobats, leaping up and around the glass-top center stage, as stuntmen blazed rings of fire from tall columns positioned in each corner of the room and contortionists hung themselves upside down from trapezes high above the crystal chandelier. It was a carnival of diamonds and pearls, a sea of flapper girls and rich men in expensive suits. And the noisy chitter-chatter, dripping from everybody’s lips like pure, liquid gold, is about none other than the repetitive, meaningless talk of pride, and money, and a name that had been running through Yoongi's mind all day long,
'Kim Seokjin'
“How old do you reckon our host is, that Kim Seokjin fella?”
“Kim Seokjin? I hear he’s quite young! No more than thirty, if I had to guess.”
“I’ve always thought of him as an old, ragged man. A bloke with too much money to spend. Why else would he throw such extravagant parties night after night?”
“And never bother showing his face!”
“Someone told me that Kim Seokjin was once a soldier in The Great War.”
“Maybe that’s why he refuses to show himself, then? The man is probably covered from head to toe in hideous scars.”
Yoongi clears his throat, “Maybe he just doesn’t wanna party with a room full of gossipy low lifes.” he interrupts.
The giggling stops. One of the girls snaps her head around, facing him, “Excuse me?” she barks.
“You heard me,” Yoongi says, voice harsh, “stop spewing trash about other people when you don’t even know them personally.”
“And who are you ?” the girl snickers, earning a few laughs from the rest of her posse, “Do you perhaps, know this Kim Seokjin, then? Personally?”
The girl is a little taller than Yoongi, especially since she's perched on top of those flapper heels of hers. But he broadens his shoulders and stands his ground, glaring up at her with daggers in his eyes.
“What a waste of time,” the girl mutters. She rolls her eyes at Yoongi and waves her posse towards the opposite direction, "Come on, girls. They're opening a new bottle of bubbly!"
The posse leaves with a series of high-pitched shrills, “More giggle water!” they screamed in unison.
Yoongi sighs.
In all honesty, Yoongi doesn’t even know why he felt the need to stand up for a random stranger like that. Does he know this Kim Seokjin personally? No. No, he doesn’t. But Yoongi simply couldn’t hold his silence while these asshats talked badly about someone they haven’t even met. How can people be so quick to find faults in others when they’ve yet to discover who they really are?
Yoongi is so done with parties.
He’s about to head towards the exit when his eyes catch sight of a familiar object, sitting idly in one of the rooms on the left side of the hall. Yoongi cranes his neck for a better look, hands pushing gently at the door as he takes a tiptoed step inside. He immediately feels his spirits lift as his eyes take in the sight of a beautiful, brown piano, standing elegantly underneath a dim chandelier in the center of the room.
The room itself appears to be some sort of study, with walls covered in rows upon rows of leather-bound books and a quiet, orange flame flickering in the fireplace by the corner.
Yoongi’s feet mindlessly take him towards the piano, one after the other, and before he realizes, he’s already sitting down on its soft, leather seat. As always, Yoongi goes through a routine of circling his wrists and stretching out his fingers; a quick warm-up before he runs them carefully along the wooden edge of the piano. It’s sort of like a greeting to him, or a polite way of introducing himself to the piano as he asks for its permission to let him play. The corners of Yoongi's lips curl into a smile as his hands move up towards the individual keys, adrenaline rushing through his veins when his fingertips picked up the familiar, cold tingle of the keys’ surface.
He begins slowly, with a smooth but upbeat jazz song that immediately slaps a drunken, lovestruck grin onto his face. It’s always easy for Yoongi to get lost in his music, and that’s exactly what he allows himself to feel. He continues playing, increasing the volume with a slight crescendo as he presses onto the keys with more confidence than earlier. Yoongi closes his eyes and lifts his face up towards the light of the chandelier, allowing his headspace to be filled with the beautiful melody of classical jazz. And for the slightest moment, for a few, precious seconds in time, Yoongi lets himself forget about where he is— when he is—and who he’s forced to be.
“I’ve never heard a tune like that before.” Someone speaks up from behind.
Yoongi stops mid-song and snaps his head towards the newcomer.
Standing on the far side of the room, tall and poised in all his splendor, is a fair-skinned man whose face is hidden behind grey shadows. He’s dressed from head-to-toe in elegant, navy-blue silk, a perfectly tailored suit that’s decorated with a quirky splash of red, peeking from the folds of his jacket’s pocket square. The man flashes Yoongi a bright smile as he makes his way towards the piano, radiating charm and wealth with every long-legged stride, yet carrying the weight of it all so effortlessly on those broad shoulders of his.
Yoongi can see him much clearer now, stopping only a few meters away. The softness of his face suggests that he isn’t much older than Yoongi himself, but something about the stranger’s eyes tells him otherwise. Those big, almond-shaped eyes, swimming with a darkness as intense as the night sky, mysterious and brooding, yet inkling with an undeniable touch of sadness. Yoongi recognizes it in an instant, the traces of a man who's been through hell and back. It's the eyes of a person whose naivety had been tainted by the horrors of the real world from a very young age.
It's the same look that greets Yoongi every morning in the mirror when he wakes up.
The man hands Yoongi a glass of clear, golden liquid—whiskey—and Yoongi politely accepts.
“I’d be surprised if you have,” is what he replies.
The man’s smile drops by the slightest shift of a muscle, his brown eyes calm but indubitably inquisitive. Something about the way that he looks at Yoongi makes him feel like the other man may have recognized him. It isn't possible, Yoongi thinks, because no one in this era knows who he is. But before he can ask, the man speaks up again,
“I like your hair,” he says.
“Huh,” Yoongi utters, taken aback. “My hair?”
“It’s black.”
“So is yours.”
“But I’ve always had black hair.” The man chuckles under his breath, “unlike you.”
Yoongi cocks his head to the right, slightly intrigued, “How’d you figure that out?” he asked.
The man studies Yoongi for another second or two, eyes piercing into his as if searching for a treasure that’s hidden deep within the caverns of his skull. When he looks away, eyes dark and misty, his trembling lips mumble a quiet “It’s simply too black to be natural.” An excuse that didn’t sound plausible by the least.
"Oh," Yoongi gasps as realization finally hits him, “you’re him, aren’t you? The one the people are raving on about.” He stands up and crosses his arms over his chest victoriously, “You’re Kim Seokjin.”
“The one and only,” Seokjin confirms, bowing his head in humble manner. There's a sad smile on his lips as he reaches out to clink his glass with Yoongi’s. A moment of hesitation, then the two simultaneously take a sip of their alcohol.
“And you,” Seokjin adds, “are the one and only, Min Yoongi.”
Yoongi almost chokes on his drink, “How did you—“
“Relax. What kind of host would I be if I didn’t get myself acquainted with each and every one of my guests?” Seokjin asks.
“But I never gave my name to anyone.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“But—”
“Tell me about the song, the one you were playing a minute ago.” Seokjin interrupts, guiding Yoongi back towards the piano, “When is it from?”
“When is it from?” Yoongi asks, dumbfounded.
“Yes, what year is it from?” Seokjin asks again, “It sounds like jazz, but also very foreign.”
“It’s,” Yoongi pauses, throwing another quick glance at the strange man sitting on his right. He ponders whether he should try his chances, play along and tell him about the secret of his messed up life. He’s just so sick and tired of all the lying. Of making up stories to explain where he’s from and what he’s doing in each time and place. After keeping the truth to himself for years, maybe Yoongi just wants someone to talk to.
So he does.
“It’s an original,” Yoongi explains, “composed in the 21st century.”
Seokjin raises his brows, “The 21st century,” he echoes.
“Yep.”
“So, the future?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi replies, tone indifferent, “it's from the future."
He glances to his right again, waiting cautiously to observe the reaction on Seokjin’s face. He prays to the liquor gods that the other man is buzzed enough to believe just about anything he hears. Then, calm and collected as ever, Seokjin raises his glass and takes another quick sip of the whiskey. Good, Yoongi thinks. Good. Let the giggle water work its magic.
“Well, tell me about it,” Seokjin simply says as he settles his drink down and takes a seat beside Yoongi on the piano chair, “Tell me about the future, Yoongichi.”
Yoongichi. Something about the nickname triggers a kind of heaviness deep within the pits of Yoongi's chest. This unsettling feeling between his ribs, is it sadness, is it longing? Yoongi doesn't know. All he knows, is that it isn't just the name that’s making him feel this way, but it’s something in the tone of Seokjin’s voice as well. The way he pronounces the name, the way he utters each syllable, even the fact that he said it to Yoongi so casually. Something about all of this is hauntingly familiar.
“Mr. Kim, I—“
“Please, call me Jin.” Seokjin interrupts, the darkness in his eyes softening like a clearing in the clouds, “All my close friends call me Jin.”
♬
Talking to Seokjin turned out to be easier than Yoongi expected, to say the least. Their immediate connection is nothing less than natural. It almost feels like falling back into old habits, like returning to a place after being away for a so long or meeting an old friend again after years and years of being separated. Yoongi finds this sudden turn of events to be incredibly odd. He’s never been the type to feel comfortable when talking to strangers for the first time, but with Seokjin, he constantly finds himself pausing between rambles just to apologize to the other for hogging the conversation too much. And Kim Seokjin, this strange and mysterious man who hung onto Yoongi’s every word like they were the greatest secrets of the universe, simply laughed it off and told him it was alright.
It felt nice, Yoongi had to admit to himself. Sitting in the quiet of this study with Seokjin by his side as the booming party music echoed in the distance. It’s been a long, long time since anyone has given Yoongi this kind of unwavering, undivided attention, and for however long this moment shall last, Yoongi already feels a sense of gratefulness for it.
“Teach me something on the piano, Yoongichi.” Seokjin says as he places his hands on top of the keys, “I want to learn something new and exciting.”
“Hmm,” Yoongi hums, flipping through the infinite pages of musical sheets stored inside of his mind, “alright, let’s go with one of my favorites.”
He reaches for Seokjin’s left hand, but before touching him, asks, “May I?”
Seokjin's jaw immediately drops in fake, dramatic awe, “Wow, Mr. Min. What a gentleman you are!” He lets out an airy laugh while pretending to clutch at his own chest, “I’m positively swooning over here.”
“Shut up.” Yoongi snorts, although laughing a bit himself, “And put your fingers on these three keys,” he instructs.
Yoongi lines his fingers on top of Seokjin’s, the contact of skin burning pleasantly to the touch. He gently presses onto Seokjin’s fingers, which then press onto the keys of the piano, creating the sound of a single chord.
Seokjin smiles at the perfect harmony.
“Which chord is this?” He asks.
“G major,” Yoongi replies, before moving their hands to another set of keys, “and this one, is A major.”
He removes his hand from Seokjin’s, somewhat disheartened by the loss of contact, and watches as the other man attempts to remember the two chords on his own.
“I think I’ve got it,” Seokjin announces with a playful grin, “teach me more, maestro. ”
“Patience, grasshopper.” Yoongi teases, “Let’s try this out together first, shall we?”
Yoongi places his right hand on the piano, and Seokjin, his left.
“You start, and I’ll follow.” Yoongi instructs.
They stay like that for hours, with Yoongi playing his soft and quiet melodies as Seokjin accompanies with a bolder harmony on his left hand. A few times, Yoongi would get distracted by the proximity of their bodies. When Seokjin’s broad shoulder bumps against his smaller frame and their fingers brush ever so slightly as they passed each other along the black and white keys of the piano. And Yoongi can tell that Seokjin notices his tension when it happens, for the other man constantly plays the wrong notes just to divert Yoongi's attention from it all.
Yoongi can also tell that Seokjin enjoys teasing him a little too much.
And although Yoongi acts like he’s annoyed of the other for repetitively messing up the song, he’s actually quite thankful for Seokjin's efforts to ease the situation and make it more comfortable for the both of them.
“From now on, this will be one of my most favorite songs as well.” Seokjin states as he closes the piano and leans an elbow against it’s fall board, “What is the title of the piece?” he asks, looking up at Yoongi with curious eyes.
“So Far Away.” Yoongi answers, biting down on a smile, “it’s an original.”
Seokjin blinks once, eyes widening, “Did you compose this, Yoongichi?”
Yoongi nods once, bashful. He tries his best to avoid eye contact with the other as a warm blush gradually creeps across his face, “I wrote it when I was 18.”
Seokjin frowns, “And how old are you now?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two….” Seokjin repeats, voice choked up in his throat. He awkwardly straightens up before throwing back another quick swig of his whiskey. And if Yoongi had looked away for a second, he would’ve missed the speck of sadness, glistening in the other man’s eyes.
“Are you alright, Jin?” he asks, “did I say something wrong?”
“N-no,” Seokjin whispers, fingers fidgeting with the precipitation on his glass, “No, don’t worry about it.”
“Are you sure—”
“Tell me more about your music, Yoongichi.” Seokjin interrupts, again. He finishes his drink in one big gulp and turns around to face Yoongi once more, “What made you write this song?”
Yoongi is startled by the glaring redness in Seokjin’s eyes, welled up, but absent of any tears. Maybe it’s nothing, he thinks to himself, maybe it’s just the alcohol.
“I write,” Yoongi pauses, carefully picking out his next words, “I write music because it's the only outlet that I have.”
Seokjin nods, listening intently as always.
“My thoughts and feelings, my emotions….I don’t have anyone to talk to about stuff like that.”
“So what were you thinking about when you wrote So Far Away?” Seokjin asks.
"The day I wrote that song, I remember being sick.” Yoongi looks up, recalling the memory, “I woke up feeling like my insides were being crushed by this invisible, cement weight. Suffocating, hard to breathe. I was in so much pain, I couldn’t even leave the bed.”
“Were you scared?” Seokjin asks as he reaches over and places his hand a daring millimeter away from Yoongi's.
“I thought I was going to die, Jin.” Yoongi replies, dry laughter escaping through his lips, “But no, no, I wasn’t scared.”
He brings his hand over to Seokjin's and languidly laces their fingers together, “I’ve never been afraid of dying, you know?” Yoongi explains as he rubs comforting circles on top of Seokjin’s hand. He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe he just wanted to, or maybe it’s his way of apologizing to the other for making him listen to his awful life stories. “Everyone I’ve ever loved, I was forced to leave behind many years ago. Family, friends. To them, my existence is already nothing more than a distant memory.”
“That’s not true, Yoongichi." Seokjin says, voice gentle and reassuring. "I’m sure they’re all waiting for you, no matter how long it's been.”
“I doubt that.” Yoongi replies with another dry laugh, “Their lives are much better without someone like me in it. And when I think about it like that, I feel happier about being away from the people that I love.”
“But, what about you?” Seokjin asks, eyes colored with concern.
“Me?” Yoongi utters, “I’m a traveler, Jin. Always jumping from one place to another, always on the move. Maybe that’s the reason why I wrote So Far Away, you know?” He explains, "Whether it be someone or somewhere, I'm always longing for a place to call home."
Seokjin hums, "I think I understand."
"But with this lifestyle of mine, what with moving around and all, I know it’s not possible.” Yoongi chuckles. He suddenly feels his eyes brimming with tears, “That’s why I play the piano, you know? Because no matter where I go, if I can find a piano for myself to play, then the melody will always bring me home.”
“Because it’s the only constant thing in your life.” Seokjin comments.
Yoongi nods. He hides his face from the other as tears begin to tumble down the sides of his cheeks.
“Time and distance, those things are merely man made concepts, Yoongichi.” Seokjin whispers, touching gently at Yoongi’s chin and turning him back to face him once more, “The measuring of time and distance only depends on the perception of the measurer.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Think about jazz music, Yoongichi. Think about broken time.”
“Broken time,” Yoongi repeats, "you've heard of that?"
“I have,” Seokjin smiles, “An old friend told me all about it, many, many years ago."
Yoongi blinks in surprise, "Well, your friend is certainly an intellectual."
Seokjin breaks into an open-mouthed laugh, "Like you can't even imagine."
His unique, squeaky laugh and that goofy smile on his face, even the stoic Min Yoongi can’t help but join in on the giggles.
"So, what about broken time?" Yoongi asks as the air between them finally calms.
"Think about its role in jazz music. When musicians divert from the original tempo and create this unique, improvised time of their own. That's broken time, isn't it? I don't think it's any different from real life at all.” Seokjin explains.
Yoongi only stares back in awe, fascinated by the mind of a man that he’s only known for a few hours.
“It’s up to us how we choose to measure time." Seokjin continues, "For example, you told me that playing the piano reminds you of home, because it's the same no matter how much time has passed. And when you're with your piano, it's like time doesn't even exist, am I right?"
“I—” Yoongi stutters, an old memory flashing in the back of his mind, “The first piano I ever played was a brown piano, just like this one,” he says. “It stood in the corner of my childhood home, right by the windows.”
“Your mother taught you.” Seokjin says, as if it isn’t a question, as if he already knows the answer.
“She did,” Yoongi replies, voice threatening to break for the second time, “and everytime I came across a brown piano, I'd suddenly feel the years melting away, bit by bit. I'd feel like a kid all over again, young and naive, thinking that I’ve got this great big future ahead of me.”
“You must’ve been a cute kid, Yoongichi. I wonder what happened.” Seokjin teases.
Yoongi smacks his shoulder playfully.
“I guess you were right about the concept of time,” Yoongi sighs, grinning softly at the other, “some things are important enough to create broken time for."
“Yes, they are.” Seokjin agrees. He brushes a tear away from Yoongi’s cheek, and is about to retract his hand when Yoongi abruptly grabs hold of his wrist.
“Jin,” Yoongi calls, voice low. Their faces are so close to one another now, foreheads barely an inch apart.
“Yes, Yoongichi?” Seokjin asks. At this distance, Yoongi can almost taste the whiskey off of Seokjin’s breath.
“Can I,” Yoongi gulps, biting on his lower lip to stop it from quivering. “Can you—”
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Seokjin whispers as he moves in closer, the tips of their nose brushing timidly against one another.
“Can you,”
“Hmm?”
“C-can you tell me what time it is?” Yoongi splurts.
“What—” Seokjin moves back, startled by the question. He hurriedly fishes a pocket watch out of his suit jacket and flips it open, “11:52pm,” he answers.
“We don’t have much time,” the two say in unison. They stare at each other for a moment, Seokjin with his eyes blown wide and Yoongi with nothing but bland confusion in his.
‘We don’t have much time.’
What an odd feeling it is to hear this statement uttered from someone else's lips.
Usually, it was always Yoongi who said this to others, mostly quick friends and temporary acquaintances that he'd made throughout the decades he's time travelled to. But what made Seokjin say this exact same thing back to him? This entire night, despite the fact that Yoongi spoke honestly to the other about many aspects of his life, not once did he mention that he was a time traveler, or that his time would run out everyday at the strike of midnight. Is it possible that Seokjin knows about his curse? Or has he met someone else like Yoongi before?
“Hey, why did you—”
“I have to show you something!” Seokjin suddenly yells. He grabs Yoongi’s wrist and tugs him towards a pair of giant glass doors on the opposite side of the study. The doors led to a beautiful, outdoor balcony with a panoramic view of New York City's skyline sitting underneath the vast expanse of the miraculous blanket of stars.
“Some people you know for years, but never feel a connection with,” Seokjin starts, panting from the run, “And some people, you meet for only a few hours, minutes, seconds—barely a sliver in time—but you already know that they’re going to occupy a special place in your heart for the rest of your life.”
Seokjin reaches for Yoongi’s hands and grasps them firmly between his own, “I met someone like that, once upon a time, and I held him in my arms as we lay together underneath the view of a million, shimmering stars.” His eyes are misty as he speaks, sadness and loss swimming circles in those clouded, dark-brown orbs, “And even though I lost him shortly after, I’ve always come back to gaze upon these stars whenever I'm missing him. Because this,” Seokjin gestures at the twinkling stars above, “this, reminds me that no matter where he is, and no matter how long it’s been, he’ll always be looking at the same night sky as me.”
“Jin….” Yoongi whispers, eyes wide with worry as he carefully wipes the tears away from the other man’s cheek.
“And I also know that when he and I finally reunite again, under these same stars, it will feel as if no time has passed.” Seokjin sniffles, choking on a sob, "Because in my heart, I've created my own kind of broken time for him. A time and place that exists beyond the constraints of this cruel world, a time and place where we can finally be together once more."
"Jin, breathe." Yoongi responds, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, “W-why are you telling me this?” He asks.
“Because, Yoongichi. We had the privilege of meeting each other on this one, magnificent night, and we shared between us something that even the luckiest of people might only come across once in their entire lifetime.”
Seokjin steps forward and pulls Yoongi into a hug, startling him, “No matter where you go, and no matter the number of years that's put between us, I want you to remember this moment, standing here, underneath the stars with me.”
"Jin, I—"
“Promise me you won’t forget.”
“Why?” Yoongi asks, pulling away from the other.
“I don’t want you to forget this night.” Seokjin sobs as broken tears finally tumble from his eyes, “Please, not again….”
Yoongi frowns at those words, “Not again? What do you mean, not again?” he demands.
“Just promise me!” Seokjin orders, hands gripping tightly onto Yoongi’s waist, “Please, Yoongi. Promise me you won’t forget.”
“Okay, okay, I p-promise.” Yoongi stammers. Unsure of what to do next, he gives Seokjin's hands a reassuring squeeze.
“Okay,” Seokjin exhales, slowly releasing Yoongi from his death grip, “Okay, thank you.”
“Kim Seokjin,” Yoongi asks, eager for the truth, “by any chance, have we met before?”
Seokjin doesn’t reply.
“I don’t understand what’s happening, but,” Yoongi reaches up to caress the other’s cheek, “something about this feels so, so familiar.”
"I know," Seokjin whispers, "I know."
That’s when Yoongi begins to feel it. The same drowsiness that takes hold of his body night after night, signaling his inevitable time of departure. He can already feel his consciousness slipping away, tired mind gradually falling into a dreamlike state where no time nor place exists. But before he loses all his strength, Yoongi decides to surge forward and pull Seokjin in for one last kiss.
Some things are unexplainable, and some feelings are unexplainable as well. But in that moment, kissing Seokjin felt like the only thing left to do.
As Yoongi’s body descends into a whirlwind of dark and smokey clouds, his senses gradually sealed shut by a scream of eerie silence, he can still feel the warmth of Seokjin’s cheeks nuzzled within his palms, and the intoxicating taste of his lips, lingering on Yoongi's tongue like the ghost of a forgotton memory.
And in the blink of an eye, the world around him completely vanishes into nothing.